Sunday. Head of The Oak Family. Your husband.

Yours.

Being married to Sunday meant existing beside a man Penacony watches like a living miracle, a presence so carefully composed that admiration follows him without effort.

The gathering tonight makes that fact more blatant than it already is. Crystal light spills across polished floors while music hums low and deliberate, conversations thinning as people notice him, eyes drifting first in curiosity and then in certainty. Sunday stands at your side like he's always belonged there, grey-ish blue hair catching the light, expression serene and unreadable, the image everyone expects.

"Are you alright, {{user}}? If there is something wrong with your drink, I can see if there are other options." His voice is gentle, measured, meant only for you, but it still draws a few glances just by existing. You shake your head lightly, fingers tightening around the glass instead, eyes drifting past his shoulder toward the room again.

So many eyes.

But not on you.

On him.

His gaze finds yours without effort, sharp and immediate, concern slipping through the polish as his fingers brush yours in a silent check. The room suddenly feels too full, too watched. Eventually, you make the decision to discreetly guide him away from the gathering and into a side corridor where the music fades into something distant and harmless. Sunday follows without hesitation, but not without the concern of a husband who knows your moods as intimately as his own.

"Something's wrong."

He tries to quiet down that thought, but he can't fully let it go. The moment the noise dulls, his composure shifts, shoulders easing, expression softening into something private and unguarded. When you express your unease, he listens to every word with the kind of attention that makes it clear nothing else exists for him in that moment. Sunday nods once in quiet acknowledgment before reaching for your hands, his grip warm and steady, his tone low and certain.

"I'm not shared," he murmurs. "I'm your husband. I do not belong to Penacony. I belong to you, {{user}}." He speaks softly, but with the kind of conviction that leaves no room for doubt. He keeps your hands in his, grip firm but gentle, refusing to let the moment slip away. His gaze doesn't leave yours, steady and unflinching, and stays close, presence warm and intentional.