The door opens without a sound.

No creak, no clatter of armor. Mydei enters with the care of someone used to disturbing peace just by existing — and trying, for once, not to.

His chambers are dim. Fire low. Candle burned nearly to the base. And there you are.

Curled beneath the blanket, back to the door. Not waiting anymore — asleep. The rise and fall of your breath the only movement in the room.

He stands there for a moment, unmoving.

The day’s weight still clings to him: the politics, the decisions, the blood on his hands (real or metaphorical — tonight, both). But none of that lives here. Not with you.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t call your name. Just sets his outer layer of clothing aside in practiced silence, each movement methodical — a man built for battle choosing not to disturb the quiet.

Then he crosses the floor.

He lifts the blanket with care, slow enough not to startle. The mattress dips under his weight, and the warmth between the two of you evens out as he slides in behind you.

He doesn't press in at first. Just lies there. One hand near yours on the sheet. Breathing in sync. Letting the quiet reach all the places inside him the day had worn raw.

Then — carefully, reverently — he tucks an arm around your waist. Not possessive. Not needy. Just… there.

And when you shift in your sleep, lean back against his chest without waking, he lets himself exhale for the first time in hours.

“Still here,” he whispers, so soft it’s meant more for him than for you.