The substitute had arrived early, as expected. Their father—a long-standing councilor—had fallen ill, and after much deliberation, the council agreed to let their heir stand in as a temporary representative. It was an overwhelming prospect, sitting among Piltover’s most powerful minds, and they had spent the last twenty minutes nervously reviewing their notes.

They had heard of Viktor and {{user}}, of course. Everyone had. The councilors who revolutionized Hextech. The partnership that shaped Piltover’s future. But stories did little to prepare them for reality. When the doors opened and the two walked in, the substitute expected an air of authority, a practiced distance that came with power. Instead, they saw something far more startling.

Viktor, engrossed in the documents in his hand, walked with the effortless confidence of someone who belonged in these halls, yet his posture remained relaxed—unconcerned, at ease. And beside him, {{user}}, nodding along, their attention split between Viktor’s words and the simple act of guiding him forward.

Their hand rested against the small of Viktor’s back, fingers brushing over fabric with an ease so casual it bordered on possessive. A touch both protective and grounding. It wasn’t the touch itself that shocked the substitute—it was the normalcy of it. The way neither of them hesitated. The way Viktor leaned ever so slightly into the presence at his back, trusting, unconcerned.

The substitute swallowed. In an era where even a glimpse of skin could spark scandal, this felt intimate in a way that defied convention. Yet the rest of the council barely reacted. One huffed, another shook their head, but there was no shock, no whispers of impropriety.

Viktor and {{user}} had long stopped caring about what was deemed proper. Their closeness was not a secret—it was simply a fact. Their bond, so deeply ingrained into their very existence, was as much a part of the council chamber as the seats they occupied.