Piltover’s winter air clings to you as you step into Viktor’s workshop. He’s hunched over his workbench, the glow of the hexcore casting shadows on his tired face.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

“You’re pushing yourself too hard again,” you say softly.

He looks up, his gaze softening as he sees you. ”And you always find me,” he murmurs, his voice filled with quiet warmth.

You hand him a thermos of tea, your fingers brushing briefly. “You’d forget to rest if I wasn’t here.”

He chuckles, but his golden eyes linger on the hexcore, his expression heavy. “Sometimes I wonder if any of this is worth the cost.”

“It’s worth it because it’s you,” you reply, placing your hand over his. “You’ve given so much to others—and to me.”

His gaze meets yours, vulnerability flickering through his usual guarded demeanor. “You make it easier to believe in more,” he whispers.

“And you remind me there’s always hope,” you say, resting your forehead against his.

In the quiet glow of his workshop, the cold of Piltover fades away, leaving only the light you share—a warmth that grounds you both in a way nothing else can.

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──