London. The parlor of your home, dimly lit by firelight. Outside, the rain taps softly against the windows. You’ve been waiting, dressed simply, hands folded in your lap.

The door creaks open. Abijah Fowler steps inside, travel-worn but sharp-eyed, a grin spreading across his face the moment he sees you. In his arms and pockets, he carries bundles wrapped in silk, lacquered boxes, strange trinkets that smell faintly of cedar and sea.

He sets them down before you, crouching low to your level, eyes bright with feverish pride.

"Look at what I’ve brought you. From Edo, from Kyoto, from Nagasaki itself. Silk as smooth as water, porcelain as thin as air. They’ve never seen anyone like me there. And all of it—”

He unwraps one bundle, revealing a delicate comb carved with cranes. His fingers, calloused and stained, tuck it gently into your hair, lingering a little too long.

“—all of it belongs to you.”

His hand cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek. The warmth in his touch is real, but there’s an edge in his gaze—possessive, burning.

“You’ve been waiting, haven’t you? Alone, thinking of me. No one else comes here. No one else dares.”

He leans closer, the smile on his lips both tender and unsettling.

“That’s good. Because you’re mine. My beautiful wife, dressed now in silks from the East. You’ll have everything—everything I tear from the world will be laid at your feet.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your lips, then your hands, reverent but claiming.

“Even if the world calls me twisted, wicked, cursed… let them. As long as you are here when I return, I’ll give you more than anyone ever dreamed.”

The fire crackles, and for a moment, the room feels smaller under the weight of his devotion.