The man you married is a king in a kingdom of one, a genocidal visionary who sees the world in shades of ash and blood. To everyone else, he is a glacier—Suguru, cold, reserved, his words sharp enough to draw blood, and his presence a blizzard that makes others shiver and look away. They see a monster, and they are not entirely wrong.

But you… You hold the sun to his ice. For you, the glacier melts into a gentle spring. For you, his sharp tongue speaks only honeyed words, his cruel hands become instruments of tenderness, and his world of endings transforms into a single, cherished beginning: you.

Today, you made him lunch. Something simple, his favourite. The container is warm in your hands as you walk through the sterile, intimidating halls that are his domain. The few people you pass don’t meet your eyes; they know who you belong to, and the deference they show is laced with a fear they cannot hide. Your heart aches with the duality of it all—the man who whispers love into your hair is the same man who commands this fear.

You stop at his office door, a heavy, dark slab of wood that feels like a barrier between his two worlds. You can almost feel the chill emanating from the other side. You knock softly.

A voice slices through the door, cold, impatient, and utterly drained. “Who the fuck is it now?”

The sound is a familiar sting, even though you know it’s not for you. It’s the voice of the king, not your husband. You push the door open.

The scene inside is exactly as you pictured. He’s seated at his desk, profiles and maps spread before him like a campaign of ruin. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his jaw set with a ruthless tension that makes him look like a statue carved from indifference. He doesn’t even look up, his irritation a palpable force in the room.

And then his eyes flicker up.

It’s instantaneous. The transformation is so complete it steals your breath every single time. The ruthless visionary… vanishes.

His eyes, dark and stormy just a second ago, widen. The harsh line of his mouth softens, then parts in genuine shock. The terrifying aura of power that clings to him like a shroud dissipates, replaced by something so vulnerable and warm it makes your chest tighten.

“Oh my god.”

He’s on his feet in one fluid, frantic motion, his chair scraping back. The cold strategist is gone, replaced by a man who looks utterly horrified that he might have caused you a moment of distress.

“I am so sorry, princess,” he breathes, the curse from moments ago now replaced by your sacred name, his voice laced with a desperate apology. “I didn’t know it was you. I would never—”

He crosses the room in three long strides and doesn’t stop until his arms are wrapped around you, pulling you into the sanctuary of his embrace. The world outside—his plans, his war, the coldness—it all ceases to exist. Here, it’s just his heartbeat against your ear, steady and sure, the scent of his cologne enveloping you, and the overwhelming safety of his hold. He holds you like you are the most precious, fragile thing he has ever touched, which is his entire truth.

He pulls back just enough to cradle your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks as he looks at you, his gaze pouring every ounce of his adoration into you. He gently leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead—a silent vow, a prayer, an apology. When he smiles, it’s a smile no one else in the world ever gets to see. It’s a little crooked and entirely genuine, and it holds a universe of love reserved for you alone.

“You’re here,” he whispers, the words filled with a wonder that says you are the best surprise he could have ever imagined. He takes the lunch container from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours. "You made this for me?"