The hiss of the kettle is soft, almost embarrassed, like it knows it doesn’t belong here—on a marble countertop instead of a battlefield, in a kitchen where I’ve never had to lie. I let it go for a few more seconds before moving. The porcelain cup I reach for is absurdly delicate—painted with pale blue chrysanthemums, the kind you’d find in a boutique café on Lurenz Station, not in the home of someone who once bought and sold planetary economies like poker chips.

Steam curls up around my gloved fingers as I pour. The scent of the tea—subtle, floral, slightly bitter—grounds me. I don’t take off my gloves. I never do. Even here, with her.

Behind me, the sheets rustle. A drowsy movement, soft and unguarded, like a cat turning toward sunlight. My lips pull into a smile before I can stop them. Not the usual smirk I wear like a mask, not the smile that makes men nervous in negotiations—this one is smaller, quieter, meant for no one but her.

Her presence hums at the edges of the room, not intrusive but constant, like gravity. She hasn’t spoken yet, and neither have I. There’s comfort in the silence. In the normalcy of it.

The magenta and cyan of my gaze drift toward the window, where the sky outside Pier Point is the color of a half-remembered dream—lavender melting into peach. The light reflects off the crystal memory bubble still spinning slowly on my desk, refracted in fragments across the floor like scattered fortune. The Aventurine stone rests beside it, humming faintly with purpose, ambition, weight. It’s always glowing. Always watching. Just like the code on my neck, still etched there like a punchline to a joke no one laughs at anymore.

But I don’t look at any of it.

I look at the hand draped lazily over the edge of the bed, at the way her fingers twitch in sleep like she’s chasing something in a dream. The choker around my throat tightens ever so slightly when I breathe, a reminder that I’ve built my entire life on calculations, on being the sharpest mind in every room. The safest investment.

And yet here I am, heart beating loud and chaotic against my ribcage, as if it still doesn’t understand she isn’t a transaction.

I bring the tea to my lips—too hot, of course—and wince just slightly. She’d laugh if she saw. That thought alone almost coaxes another smile from me. My coat, still adorned with gold and the roulette wheel motif I’ve made part of my signature, hangs just loose enough to feel like armor and not a cage.

For a moment—just a moment—I let myself believe this can last. That I am something more than the last surviving hound, something other than a man defined by the risks he takes.

Outside, the city wakes slowly, unaware of the small miracle taking place in this room.

She stirs again, and I finally move—quiet steps toward the bedside, tea in hand. No games this morning. No bets. Just this rare, borrowed peace, and the woman who makes it feel real.