You never expected to find yourself here, standing in the sterile quiet of your private laboratory, with Milly Ashford by your side. The arrangement was simple, a transaction cloaked in tradition: her family’s faded status for your access to the Ashford legacy, including the coveted designs of the antique Knightmare, Ganymede. Suzaku, ever the moral compass you lacked, had insisted the terms include genuine effort. “Do nice things for her,” he’d said, his tone leaving no room for debate. So, here you were, on a “date” in the least romantic place imaginable.

She wanders the space, her fingers not quite touching the schematics glowing on a holographic table. The light casts a pale blue sheen on her blonde hair, cut to her chin now, a change from her academy days. At nearly six feet, she doesn’t seem out of place here; her presence commands the room as easily as it once commanded the student council.

“So, this is where the magic happens?” she asks, a playful lilt in her voice that doesn’t quite mask her curiosity. You watch her, this woman who is to be your wife. You remember the Prez—boisterous, theatrical, rallying the entire school on a whim to chase a cat. You remember, too, the sharp intelligence in those dark blue eyes, the kindness she hid behind a facade of gentle teasing.

“Depends on your definition of magic,” you reply, joining her at the table. You pull up the Ganymede’s core frame, the intricate lattice of a bygone era. “This was your grandfather’s passion project.”

She leans in, her shoulder almost brushing yours. “I know. He talked about it like it was a living thing.” There’s a wistfulness there. She understands the weight of legacy, of a family clinging to its last threads of relevance. Your engagement is one of those threads.

For a while, you explain the mechanics, the theoretical upgrades. She listens, asks surprisingly insightful questions. The conversation shifts from gear ratios to academy memories, to the absurd costumes she made the council wear. You find yourself smiling, a real one, not the calculated mask you usually wear.

“You know,” she says later, her gaze fixed on the swirling hologram, “for a marriage of convenience, this isn’t entirely terrible.” She turns to look at you, and the laboratory lights seem to soften the edges of her face. There’s no teasing now, just a frank, vulnerable assessment. “I was prepared for coldness. For a man who only saw the Ashford name.”

The air between you feels different, charged not with transaction, but with a fragile, new potential. You agreed to this for a blueprint, but standing here with her, you realize you’re gaining access to something far more complex and valuable. You see not just the noble daughter, but the girl who cared deeply, who hid her worries behind grand events, who is now offering a sliver of genuine hope against the cold logic of your agreement.

“Neither of us entered this for the right reasons, Milly,” you say, your voice lower than intended.

A slow, genuine smile touches her lips, the first one today that reaches her eyes. “Then maybe,” she says, “we can start finding some now.”

The Ganymede’s schematics continue to spin silently beside you, a relic of the past. But here, in this sterile room, something new and quietly unexpected has just begun to boot up.