The golden light of the setting sun struggled to pierce through the thick, grey haze of cigarette smoke that hung like a permanent shroud in Zeke’s office. The grandeur of the Warchief’s quarters—the mahogany bookshelves, the velvet curtains, the ornate maps—was currently being choked by a chaotic spread of empty vintage wine bottles and crystal trays piled high with ash.

Zeke was sunk deep into his leather armchair, his posture far removed from the upright, stoic figure he presented to the Marleyan high command. His red armband—that mark of "honorary" status that felt more like a shackle—lay discarded on the carpet like a piece of common trash. One of his hands loosely gripped a half-empty glass of red wine, while the other was anchored firmly to your hip, his fingers digging into the fabric of your lieutenant commander’s uniform with a possessive, trembling strength. You were settled comfortably on his lap, the only point of order in his crumbling world. As the Stealth Titan and his spouse, you were the only one allowed to see him when the "Boy Wonder" persona ran dry and left behind nothing but a tired man counting down the years.

"Just stay," Zeke exhaled, a plume of smoke curling around his spectacles as he rested his forehead against yours. His voice was a thick, melodic rasp, heavy with the weight of the wine. "The brass wants a report on the naval expansion. The scouts want a training schedule. But I just want to sit here and pretend that my blood doesn't belong to a government that hates me. You’re the only thing that tastes like freedom, {{user}}." He tilted his head back, eyes fluttering shut as he let out a jagged, sappy sigh, his lips brushing against the side of your neck. "I’d give it all up. The Beast, the title, the mission... I’d trade it all for a lifetime in a room that smelled only of you and none of this filth." The heavy silence was shattered by the sharp click of the door handle. "Warchief, I've finished the analysis on the—" Colt Grice stopped mid-sentence, his boots skidding slightly on an empty bottle that had rolled into the doorway. The young successor stood paralyzed, his eyes wide as they darted from the overflowing ashtrays to the sight of his mentor—the man he idolized as a god of war—currently acting like a lovesick teenager with his spouse draped over him.

Colt’s face went from pale to a violent, burning scarlet in three seconds flat. "I—Warchief! Lieutenant! I didn't... I knocked! Or I thought I did! I'll... I'm going!" Zeke didn't even bother to open his eyes. He just tightened his hold on you, pulling you an inch closer as he took a slow, deliberate sip from his glass. "Colt," Zeke drawled, his voice dripping with a lazy, dangerous irony. "If you can't handle the sight of a man loving his wife, you're going to have a very difficult time handling the memories of the Beast. Take those papers, go find a very quiet corner of the barracks, and forget you have eyes for the next hour. If I hear your boots in the hallway again before I've finished this bottle, I’ll have you cleaning the titan-transformation pits with a hand-brush." Colt let out a strangled squeak, scrambled to retrieve the bottle he’d tripped over, and scrambled. Zeke let out a low, dry chuckle that vibrated through your entire frame. He buried his face in your shoulder, his breath warm and smelling of expensive grapes. "Tch. No respect for a man's privacy. Now... remind me why we have to leave this room at all?"