h

weirdly good at giving fashion advice (even though he didn’t seem to care about his own clothes, especially *cough cough* that tie *cough cough*??)

i can imagine him laid back against the headboard of your bed, glasses low of the bridge of his nose, book in one hand, mug of tea in the other. you held up one dress.

“this one makes my tits look good…” he hummed quietly in what you took to be mutual agreement.

“…but then this dress makes my ass look soooo juicy.” he hummed again, this time to say "pick that one".

“but if it’s brunch then im gonna be sat down the whole time so there’s like no point.”

you looked back up at him, lips pursed slightly as if you had presented him with the single greatest dilemma that had ever been proposed in the entirety of mankind's existence. he tapped a finger against his chin. lightbulb moment.

“you don’t have a top and pants that give... that effect instead of a dress that forces you to choose?”

you snapped your fingers, running back into the closet to see what you could do. “see this is why we are married!”

he raised an eyebrow as he flicked back to where he'd earmarked the book. “the only reason?”

you looked at him through the mirror. “…no?”

he’s a little corny….but i was lowkey born on the cob so it’s okay. most certainly the kind of man to tell you that you "forgot" something as you clacked your cute little heels against the hardwood floor, about to leave the house when he’d call you over to the couch to give him; that something being a kiss, his hand snaking up against your upper thigh to pull down where your dress had ridden up a little, your lips slightly sticky against his from your lip gloss.

you stood back up. “there!”

he kept his hand on your waist. “one more.”

and so you’d give him one, two, three more kisses, each one getting longer than the last and before you knew it, you were straddling his thighs; a hand carded through the short strands of his hair, pulling back his head to give you more space to let your tongue slip past his own, large palms pushing your dress up to your hips, fingers kneading at the curve of your ass.

“you…have…t’go.” he mumbled against your lips, words getting caught in your mouth as you continued to drink up the little grumbles that snuck their way out.

you broke the kiss to get some air, looking back up at the clock.

you were supposed to be out by eight. it was now eight thirty.

“shit. you’re right.”

after cleaning up your lipliner and reapplying your lip gloss using the low light of your phone camera, you hopped off his lap, leaving him with one last kiss on the tip of his nose before finally leaving the house.

“see you!”

personal uber driver for all of your late night antics. you always told him not to worry, that you’d get a ride with your friends or take public transport but he’d insist that he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he knew you were safe, able to feel that telltale dip in the mattress, snoring loudly on your side of the bed.

you slumped into the passenger side, head leaning against the cool window as your playlist played quietly in the background.

“did you have a good time?”

he was still wearing his work clothes, shirt sleeves rolled up and collar undone, your eyes lazily trailing over the way his forearms twisted and flexed as he turned the wheel.

“watching you drive feels like foreplay.” the words fell out of your mouth before you could stop them, palm smoothing over your face as if you could swallow back the words from where they hung in the warm air.

he looked at you out of the corner of his eye, bottom two fingers moving down to turn on the left indicator.

“in what way?” he queried, lip twitching in what could only be a poorly repressed smirk.

you sat up a little, thought crystallising in the slight haze of your tipsy mind.

“in the sense that…you drive like a…slut?”

your voice wavered slightly at the end, quiet scoff from your chauffeur making you fully bury your face in your hands.

“you! don’t laugh! im being serious!!” you weren’t sure if he could see your pout in the low light of the car, an arm moving out to reach behind your headrest as he reversed into the driveway, eyes flicking from the back of the car to your face with a quiet amusement that made you want to shrink down into a tiny atom.

he pulled the handbrake up.

“im sorry honey, i wasn’t laughing at you. there was something….funny. on the road.”

“…sure.”

"but foreplay? really? im sure i can do better than just driving..."

not a jealous man…but definitely has a mild possessive streak. doesn’t come out a lot but when it does, it does.

what was supposed to be a chill date at the local bar was quickly becoming a lively night out, two for one cocktails acting like a summoning ritual for all the nearby singles in the area. you had been waiting at the bar for a drink (well, two now because of the deal), husband in the restroom as you played with the strap on your purse.

you felt his presence before you saw him, slowly looking up to be met with a dark set of green eyes, rough scar on the man’s lip jutting up in a lazy smirk.

“think i would’ve remembered seeing a pretty little thing like you…you come here often?”

his voice was dangerously low, hands moving to shake your own when the fluorescent lights of the bar reflected off the large stone on your wedding ring, low whistle leaving the side of his lips.

“oh shit, didn’t realise someone already scooped you up. my bad baby.” he sheepishly grinned at you, shoulders relaxing once you realised he was actually quite sweet, finding yourself getting locked into a long conversation before you knew it.

“…and that’s when i knew that he had to be my husband!”

toji tipped his head to the side. “he sounds like a good man.”

“oh he is! the other day he even—”

they say if you speak of the devil, he shall appear and the tight grip of nanami's arm snaking to pull you even closer definitely didn’t feel angelic, other hand interlacing with your fingers.

“hi honey," he pressed a kiss onto the top of your head. someone's feeling friendly.

"who is this?”

toji's large hand nervously ruffled his dark hair. “m’names to—”

your husband interrupted. “right. right. well, honey i think it’s starting to get a little late.”

you pulled the wrist with his watch on it closer to your face to see what time it was.

it was 7.57pm.

“but it’s—”

you looked back up at toji, only to see him looking between the two of you like he’d just realised he was merely a pawn in a much greater scheme. he tipped his chin up at your husband in agreement.

“yeah. you don’t want to stay up too late, beautiful—”

his hand was now low enough to press small indents into the softness of your upper thighs.

“exactly.” your husband wasted no time in agreeing with the man he was just giving the cold shoulder to, the dark-haired man giving you a wink that said “goooood luck.”

ah. you knew what this was.

well, if you were really being honest, you had known what this was all along, biting back a small smile at the speed at which he whisked you into the car, drove to your house and pressed back up against the smooth wall as he slotted a knee in between your legs, hand gripping your chin forcing your head to tip back—lips slotting over your own with a hunger that stole your breath, hands running over his chest in a desperate attempt to ground yourself, body going lax underneath him.

eventually he broke away, brown eyes almost black, his hair flattened over his forehead.

“did you tell him you’re married?” he pulled at your left hand, wedding band and ring close up to your face like you’d forgotten you were wearing it.

“well yes! it’s actually a funny story because at first he was trying to hit on me but—“

his brows drew tight together. “he what?”

“he just…said i was pretty or whatever.”

great communicator. most arguments are able to be resolved quickly through thorough dialogue and active listening on his part. not often very strict on you but never lets up on the "don't go to bed angry" rule. but when trying to solve things vertically doesn’t work, trying to solve them horizontally always seems to do the trick!

“i-hckk—told you he just said i was p—ah-retty?!” you squirmed underneath the firm hold of his hand on your stomach, pressure on your lower abdomen forcing you to feel every inch he was slowly feeding you, other hand brushing a thumb over your lower lip, instinctually opening to suck the tip in between your mouth.

“so. if he hadn’t noticed your ring, the one i got you,” he murmured, voice different when he was arguing discussing his frustrations with you, low tone making your walls so slick, you could've rivalled a damn slip'n'slide. “when would you’ve told him?”

“i was about to—” your lip quivered with each stroke, “i swear.”

his head stopped down to lap and suckle at the hollow of your neck, your breath becoming feathery. “you see, i don’t think you were going to.”

another kiss to your neck, your lips, your forehead. “i think you wanted to see me like this. is that right?”

caught red-handed. or wet pussy’d. however the saying goes.

you sunk your teeth into your lower lip, his hand moving down from your chin to your chest, fingers just resting around the curve of one breast as he waited for your response.

“…maybe.” you breathed.

and the smile that stretched his lips made you shiver, realising that the cat-and-mouse game you’d inadvertently been playing now culminating in you being moments away from getting fucked into next tuesday.

you pushed one of his shoulders. “you’re so sexy when you're jealous.”

he narrowed his eyes. “i'm not jealous—”

“you just felt a little...possessive?”

he shrugged his shoulders. "not possessive. you are your own person."

“okayyy. so protective?”

“you weren't in any danger so why would i need to be?”

right. you were back at an impasse, his pace slowing down the longer you argued.

you acquiesced. “fine. fine. im sorry. clearly you don't care.”

“oh, but that's where you're so wrong honey.” your hips were now slightly raised up from the bed, legs moving to wrap around his tapered waist, back bent into an even deeper arch. “only thing i care about is people knowing that i'm yours."

oh.

"you like that, don't you?”

you did. way more than you thought you would.

you blinked away the tears that were beginning to form in your waterline. “yes. i-i do.”

“you want me to show you how much i want people to know i got you? mess up your makeup whilst i give my gorgeous wife what she wants?”

you nodded so fast that you must've looked like a fucking bobblehead.

he sped up his pace, new angle hitting so deep you swore you could feel it in your lungs—wet sob wracking your lungs, the smack of your skin against his echoing around the four walls of your bedroom.

and he was always so sweet whilst he was breaking you down with a methodical precision, hold on your waist light enough to not cause discomfort—warmth of his palms grounding you with a consistency that never faltered, voice hoarse from calling out his name.

“hmmm? are you trying to tell me you're close?”

you nodded your head slowly, lowering you back down to the bed, his hands moving down to where your hips met his—thumb rolling over your glossy clit in tight, light circles, legs twitching underneath him.

“mhmmm, oh baby i'm going to—” you let your head fall back against the pillow, stomach dipping down loooow before you made a mess over his thighs and all over your covers, walls clamped around his girth so tight you weren't sure how he was still moving, pace slow but lingering, soothing murmurs working you through the rippling waves of pleasure that continued to crash over you.

"just like that." "don't run from it." "stay there and let me take care of you, okay?" this is a man who could talk you through it and then some, whole body warm from just the rasp of his voice alone. you could probably nut again from a few more words if you were being honest, melting into the sheets each time his hips met your own.

"look at me." and that was always how you knew he was close, his eyes lidded, teeth dug into his bottom lip as he held himself flush against you—buried up to the hilt in your heat before he finished, both of your eyes dropping down to watch the way your combined release dripped down onto his length, limbs still limp against the covers.

he gave you a kiss on the forehead.

"i love you."

you smiled back up at him.

"i love you too."

aftercare king. he may put you through the mattress but he’ll always pull you back out after, steam pouring out from under the bathroom door already making you feel relaxed, couple minutes passing before he comes back into the bedroom to bridal carry you to the bath tub, soft scent of jasmine swirling sprung the two of you.

he slowly lowered you into the tub, quiet sigh leaving your lips at the warm water washing over your skin, eyelid cracking open once his hands let go of you.

“you not joining me?”

he crossed his arms, leaning back onto the ball of his heels.

“i didn't know i was invited.”

you rolled your eyes. “if you don’t get your ass in this tub—”

a great househusband. you both work, have no dependents and have a shared appreciation for good food and even better wine. there was something so perfect about being able to come home to a home cooked meal, clean house and a good dicking down if you wanted. you truly did live the proverbial “good life”.

From: [email protected] Subject: Seriously?

Hello Kento,  I hope you are well.  Please refrain from contacting me via my work email. It is inappropriate and annoyingly endearing. Let me be mad in peace. Thank you.  Best wishes,  Your Wife

From: [email protected] Subject: Please Forgive Me

Hello to you too, sweetheart, I must admit your response is both upsetting and encouraging. Truthfully, I wasn't expecting you to respond at all. Of course, I wish your email was more welcoming but beggars and whatnot. What must I do, my love? I have apologised. Not once or twice, but countless times. So many times now it feels like ‘I’m so sorry’ were my first words. I rose early to prepare your favourite breakfast — drove clear across the city to find the precise ingredients (you and I both know there is only one acceptable brand of jam in this household). I plated it neatly, included a smiley face, just as you like it, though, I observed, it was met with a frown, thus defeating the spirit of these things.  Your work clothes were laid out, ironed with care and to perfection, if I may say so myself. I made sure the heating was on well before you awoke, so the chill wouldn’t bother you so — I’ve seen how cold mornings test your…patience, should we say. Your lunch was packed and ready, with a handwritten note tucked inside, although I’m sure you carelessly tossed it aside in your bid to destroy my will to live on a spiritual level. It was a new recipe, by the way. I hope it suits your taste. Do let me know. Perhaps by softening your glare when you arrive home since apparently smiles are beneath you. Even last night, I relinquished the duvet entirely — though I must admit, it was less an offering and more a tactical surrender after you ripped it from my body without mercy. I woke up frozen, on the brink of pneumonia. Need I remind you, I am at a tender age?  And after all of that… You walked past me. Not a word. Not even a glance. You washed the dishes (which is, and I cannot stress this enough, my responsibility), and shoved my work clothes off the bed because — what was it? The sleeve was ‘encroaching’ upon your own and the cotton needed space because ‘husband air is toxic?’ That was particularly hurtful. Entirely uncalled for. My blazer may never recover. Still, I could take it. I could take all of it. Because I admit my fault and I recognise my need to be punished. But to leave without kissing me goodbye? That, my love, was unconscionable. A line crossed. A declaration of war. An admittance of lesser character. I am disappointed in you. Thus, I now join your unrelenting form on the S.S. Marital Displeasure. Let’s see how we fare at sea, together. Yours, unwaveringly, Kento— the husband you once swore never to abandon P.S. Dinner is on me tonight. Please let me know what time you’ll be home. P.P.S. You looked radiant this morning. Even in silence. Even in a mood. You’re still the most beautiful thing in the room.

From: [email protected] Subject: Wow. Just Wow

Kento,  You infuriatingly adorable man. All those things you listed about this morning are things you do everyday. I know that was supposed to guilt trip me, but that just annoyed me more cause I get it — you’re totally perfect and handsome and tall and you smell nice. Ugh, you’re the worst. Lunch was yummy, by the way. Ten out of ten. The note, which I didn’t carelessly throw away mind you (that was very rude to assume, how dare you) telling me ‘you are loved even when you’re grumpy’ was not. I am not grumpy, Kento. I am aggrieved.  You have aggrieved me.  Also, don’t try to guilt trip me about the cover hogging. You run hot and you know we have a spare duvet in the closet. Many times now, I've begged you to take it because I know I have bad sleeping habits BUT you refused. You said, need I remind you, that you insist on sharing one to be as close to me as possible. Your words.  The work clothes thing was an accident. I didn’t mean to push it off, and I was trying to stay mad so I made up some lie. Tell your blazer I’m sorry. Tell its owner I will never forgive nor forget. You know what you did.  And I don’t want you to join my ship. We can’t both be on it. We’ll sink…damn that’s metaphorical. For your own good, get off now whilst you still can.  Lukewarm wishes,  Your Wife P.S. I’ll be home later than you, I have some things to finish P.P.S. There was only one other person in the room and that was you, and even then you were clearly the more beautiful one Mr. Wakes Up With A Five O’Clock Shadow And Silky Golden Locks. That pissed me off so much more. Try to be less perfect, thank you.

From: [email protected] Subject: I Miss You

My dearest, I’ve read your message precisely three times and still, I’m not entirely sure whether I’ve been forgiven or sentenced. However, I feel a sense of optimism, foolish or not.  Let me begin with your opening line: ‘infuriatingly adorable’— it is not quite a compliment but I accept it with caution regardless. I am adorable and I understand that you wish I wasn’t. As soon as possible, I will find a cure. Moreover, in reference to my morning route, you’re right, of course. The tasks I listed are things I do every day. Not as some grand gesture, but because loving you — actively, attentively, without pause — is part of my daily routine. Like ironing my shirts or making my coffee. It’s muscle memory now. If I were to stop, I fear I might just malfunction and catch fire. That said, if you are aggrieved — not grumpy, as I so mistakenly suggested, please forgive me for that too — then I humbly bow to your deliverance, Lady Justice. Though I maintain that the distinction is rather blurry when you’re stomping past me with furrowed brows and lips pressed into a line sharp enough to cut marble, lips I dare say I wish I could kiss into their usual form. Regarding the duvet — yes, I recall saying that. I stand by it. Even if I must freeze to death one night beneath your siege of unconscious theft, I would still rather reach out and find you beside me than not. You will indubitably note that that was unnecessarily dark, I’m sure, and you’ll then make a comment about the phase we shall not talk about that I went through in my youth. Further, the blazer has accepted your apology. It insists you take it off me tonight. (Is that too forward? You usually love when I’m forward but I worry this will only enrage you more, likely in a way that will leave me dangerously sore. Perhaps that is what I intend. I cannot tell anymore. I just miss your touch). As for the note, I didn’t assume you threw it away. I merely feared it. I know you well enough to know that even when you’re furious, you’re still gentle with the things I give you. It’s one of those things you do that melt my heart. Lastly, your ship — this solitary vessel of marital vengeance — sounds lonely. It is precisely that reason however that I must stay aboard, respectfully. With all my love, Kento – your infuriatingly tall, overly warm, occasionally smug but entirely yours husband P.S. I’ll have dinner ready by the time you’re home. P.P.S. I will attempt to be less perfect, though I make no promises. I’ve spent years mastering my five o’clock shadow, it practically comes in on its own when it senses you’re at your most vulnerable. As for my silky, golden locks, I owe that to you and your hair mask. Thank you.

From: [email protected] Subject: Tempting

Kento. I’ve read your message. Twice. Once dramatically, on break. Once again, aloud, with emphasis, so the plants in my office could also judge you. And I must say... The audacity. The calm. The poetry. The charm. Ugh. Disgusting. I hate how you win arguments by being emotionally intelligent and devastatingly eloquent. Stop. Also, your blazer is so dramatic. I was always going to take it off you, that was never in question. And yes, I love when you're forward. I loved it just now. Reminds me of that time we snuck off into the janitor's closet and... Moving on. I will admit (reluctantly) that your words were very lovely, they usually are, and the image of you freezing like a noble idiot because you'd rather suffer than part from me for even a life-saving second was both tragic and romantic and exactly the kind of behaviour that makes staying mad at you basically impossible. I hate that for me. But fine. F I N E. You may stay aboard my metaphorical ship, provided you bring snacks and acknowledge that I am the captain and you’re just here for deck-swabbing privileges and forehead kisses. You’ll be handsomely rewarded ;) Love, Your Wife (Still aggrieved. But slightly less so. Like… 69% less.) P.S. If you’re trying to seduce me via dinner, it’s working. You might get that kiss. Or two. Depends how good it is. P.P.S. Don’t think I’d miss the opportunity to mention MCR Kento. Your past will haunt you forever.

From: [email protected] Subject: Please Stop

Dear YN and Nanami Kento,  I hope you are both well.  Do forgive me for intruding but, as Head of HR and as your friend, I feel a need to remind you both that you are liaising using your work emails which are monitored by HR. Resolving marital disputes on company hours and company mail is not recommended nor permitted. Please set this aside for when you get home. I also wish to remind you that your offices are a short distance from each other. There doesn’t seem to be a need to be communicating via emails at all. From my desk, I have been watching you two write your emails with smiles on your faces.  I suspect neither of you are mad at each other at all. So, YN, please just forgive him already. He hasn’t done much work all day, whereas your productivity has somehow increased. We should probably hold a meeting to discuss both changes. I am concerned.  Lastly, your fight is distracting everyone. One colleague described it as ‘funny,’ another ‘sweet,’ and someone else called it ‘foreplay’ — I’m sure you understand why exactly I intervened. You are both already on two strikes. Please don't make me remind you of what exactly what happened the last two times. The company is still paying for therapy sessions for the affected employees. Do better.  Best wishes,  Ijichi Kiyotaka P.S. Why were you even mad? Did he forget an anniversary? Comment on your weight?

From: [email protected] Subject: Kinda Embarrassed. No Longer Mad

Dear Kento, Did not realise the whole office was invested in this. No wonder the intern was giving me a look and Sharon from IT told me that she and her husband also fight like this to ’spice up’ their love life, and that its best when the husband gets mad too. TMI but appreciated. Are you even capable of getting mad at me? Well, anyway, you heard the man. Let’s continue this conversation at home.  And Ijichi, I know you’re reading this, you Peeping Tom. I hope you know we’re going to make sweet, dirty love tonight. All night. Bring this up to the Big Boss, I dare you. I know you haven’t forgotten the huge favour you owe me for beating Gojo up when he needlessly sent you on errands around the city. Please stand up for yourself. Do better, as you say. Kento, let’s go home together tonight. I need to apologise to your blazer as soon as possible and catch up on kisses expeditiously. In fact, expect a knock on your office door.  Love,  Your wife

From: [email protected] Subject: Didn't Notice Ijichi's P.S.

Dear Nanami, and Ijichi because you're reading these, He sat on my bunny plushie yesterday. He flattened her. I'm mad again. Hate, YN P.S. Hair mask rights have been revoked. Buy your own.

From: [email protected] Subject: Thank You, Ijichi

Dear wife and Peeping Tom colleague, You have no appreciation for the work I put in to get back into my wife's good graces. All your disclaimers about simply doing your job were clearly written in deceit since your gossiping self could not resist prying. Do not think I haven't overheard you collecting bets on why she was mad at me in the break room. Please expect Gojo's presence in your office with some new, overbearing task soon. You're welcome. Worst wishes (to Ijichi), Nanami Kento And nothing but love (to my wife), Ken

From: [email protected] Subject: Don't Read This One, Ijichi

Ken, You're so hot when you're all assertive. Wanna get strike three? Preferably in your office, on your desk? Gojo can distract everyone for an hour...or two. Lust, Your Wife

From: [email protected] Subject: Don't Keep Me Waiting

Sweetheart, Door's open.

From: [email protected] Subject: I Am Not A Peeping Tom

I hate you both and you deserve each other. Regrettably, Ijichi Kiyotaka

From: [email protected] Subject: Freakyyyy

Dear Nanami, YN, and my favourite Peeping Tom, This is what happens in the office? Wow, maybe I should get a desk job (lol that's probably what Nanami's getting right now, lucky guy). Can't believe I was slaving away, keeping the world safe, and you two were slacking off and getting it on. I'm expecting a baby Nanami soon. Make me the godfather pls pls pls Stay sexy, The Strongest P.S. Can I watch? P.P.S. I’m kidding P.P.P.S. …Unless?

Normally, Sylvia needed a little coaxing. A lullaby, a bath, a warm bottle. But tonight she was operating on a whole different level. Mr. Coco, her usual go-to comfort, was cast aside like a discarded offering. The soft lights meant to soothe her were ignored. The gentle story you read—twice—was met with increasing frustration.

You dropped to your knees beside her, trying to catch her eye. "Hey. Sylvie, sweetheart. What's wrong? Can you tell me?"

She let out another high-pitched whine, squirming away as tears welled in her eyes. Her face was flushed, nose running, bottom lip quivering like she'd just suffered a betrayal of mythic proportions.

You didn’t exactly blame her. It was hard on all of you when Sylus had to leave. His business trips were always sudden, and required his immediate attention. You hated it. Sylvia didn’t have the words to say she hated it too—but she didn’t need them.

Still, something about tonight felt different. Her grief wasn't just the usual missing-dad sadness. There was something more, something eating at her in a way you couldn’t quite name. You sat back on your heels, watching her sniffle and hiccup, and tried to put the pieces together.

You just couldn't figure it out.

"Okayyyy, do you want a snack? We can eat num nums before bed today," you say, pulling her gently into your lap so she didn’t hurt herself flailing around. You tucked her legs against you, steadying her weight as she squirmed. Maybe she was hungry? That wouldn’t be surprising. She was a growing girl, after all. And hunger tantrums were not unheard of in this house.

Surely her favorite crackers would do the trick—the little star-shaped ones she’d promptly nicknamed "num nums" because she couldn’t quite say "yummy" yet. You always kept a stash in the dresser just in case bedtime went sideways. Like tonight.

Her reaction was swift and explosive.

"NO! No num num!" she screamed, arching her back and kicking her feet, wrestling against your hold like a wild animal. Her tiny body radiated frustration, her face getting puffy in a matter of seconds. Her fists clenched the fabric of your shirt as she cried harder, tears spilling freely over her cheeks.

You tightened your grip, gently but firmly, and tried to keep her from smacking her head against your collarbone. This wasn’t like her. The sharp edge of her cries had that breathless, panicked quality to them that made your stomach twist.

You could feel your patience fraying at the edges, but the way her face crumpled—it got you every time. Her red eyes, rimmed and raw, were glassy and swollen. Her bottom lip trembled, and she looked so unbearably small in your arms, like nothing in the world made sense to her right now.

"Dada..."

Your heart ached. You adjusted your grip on her and pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head. Rocking slightly, you murmured, "You miss daddy? He'll come back, I promise. Mommy misses him too."

Her sobbing slowed for a moment, just long enough for her to hear you. You felt her little chest hiccup against yours, breath catching on the edge of another cry. Then, with a sharp, adamant shake of her head, she rejected the idea outright. Not quite the answer you expected. No? Didn't she just call out for him?

She sucked in a shaky breath, then another, and let out a heart-wrenching cry. Her voice, hoarse from all the yelling, came out thin and desperate.

"Mephie...Mephie..."

You blinked. This was quite unexpected. She normally didn't mention him when he was gone. "Mephie?"

She nodded hard, burying her face into your shirt again. Her words were muffled, but there was no mistaking them this time.

"Mephie go. Mephie no here."

Your eyes drifted automatically to the corner of the room. To the empty perch, dark and silent. Of course. That was it. The last piece clicked into place, almost embarrassingly late.

Mephisto wasn’t here. Usually, by this time of night, he'd be docked, quietly blinking from his perch like some kind of spooky nightlight. But not tonight. Sylus had taken him to do some firewall hacking or surveillance on his enemies—some covert operation involving encrypted networks, surveillance feeds, and backdoor access routes no one without clearance even knew were there. Neither Sylus nor Mephisto would be back anytime soon.

You sighed, your mind scrambling for a solution, something that would make sense to a toddler with a very strong attitude. She needed comfort, and logic wasn’t going to cut it. Still, you gave it a shot.

"Mephie will come back too, baby. He's probably sleeping right now," you said gently, brushing her hair back from her damp forehead. "You should go to sleep just like Mephie."

You added a hopeful smile for effect. Surely that would work. She loved copying things—especially Mephisto. She watched that bird like it was a magical creature from her picture books—probably because in her world, he was. Mephisto didn’t just perch and blink; he played tag with her around the kitchen, let her stack blocks on his back like cargo, and cawed in playful tones whenever she clapped. She and Sylus had even turned bedtime into a routine where Mephisto would "kiss" her goodnight with a soft peck to the forehead. If she thought Mephisto was asleep, maybe she’d finally let go of the tantrum and rest.

But no. That idea went down in flames.

"Mephie no sleep!" she shouted, yanking herself back from your chest, her tiny hands pushing at you for space. Her cheeks puffed out, her brow furrowed in outrage. She glared up at you with all the fury a toddler could possibly muster—which was quite a bit.

She wasn’t just upset anymore. She was offended.

"He no sleep! He with Dada! He 'wake!" she insisted, her words spilling out with hot tears. "No bed!"

You closed your eyes for a second, dragging in a breath through your nose. Stubborn, perceptive, and completely unwilling to accept anything less than the truth—yeah, she was definitely Sylus’s kiddo. Even at almost two years old, she had that same unyielding glare, the same refusal to be pacified with half-answers or distractions. It was like staring into a miniature version of him...one that actually cried that is.

God help you, you were going to have to argue bedtime logic with an almost two year old over a robot crow.

“Sylvia” you try again, voice soft but fraying at the edges, “Mephie needs his sleep. Just like you do.”

Sylvia sniffs, still red-eyed, her small body trembling in your lap like she’s barely holding herself together. Her fists grip the fabric of your shirt, the tension in her muscles refusing to ease even as you gently rock her back and forth. You stroke her back slowly, tracing slow circles in a familiar rhythm you’ve used since she was barely able to hold her head up. “Don’t you wanna be like Mephie?” you coax, your voice hopeful, even if your nerves are wearing thin.

For a moment—barely a breath—her face softens. Her brows unfurl slightly, and her bottom lip stops quivering just long enough for the beginning of a smile to tease the corners of her mouth. Her eyes, swollen and glassy, lift to meet yours. There’s a flicker there. Hesitation. Maybe even curiosity.

Hope blooms quietly in your chest.

But then it dies just as fast.

She pulls back from you like you’ve said something offensive. Her brow knits together into an unmistakable scowl. Her back straightens. Her tiny body tenses, fists curling tight again like she's ready for round two.

“Mephie no sleep,” she says with sharp certainty. Her voice is small but fierce. Then louder: “Ever, ever never!”

You blink. “He does sleep,” you say, reaching for calm. “He needs to recharge, just like us.”

Maybe it was too matter-of-fact. Too logical. Because the moment those words leave your mouth, her expression changes.

“No! No! No! No Mephie sleep! I no sleep!” she howls, her voice climbing into something raw and frantic.

And just like that, she explodes again.

Her arms flail, fists pounding against your collarbone and chest in rhythm with the shriek of her sobs. She kicks with surprising strength for someone so small, and her whole body feels like a live wire in your lap. Her tears return with full force, hot and heavy, soaking the front of your shirt. It’s like she’s been personally betrayed by the suggestion.

You grit your teeth, not out of anger but exhaustion. You keep holding her, keep murmuring nonsense under your breath in a vain attempt to soothe her, but nothing helps. She’s inconsolable.

You glance at the time. Way too late. And bedtime, as a concept, feels like a joke now. You've read three stories. Sang lullabies. Offered snacks. Mr. Coco was rejected, the nightlight ignored. And now you're in a full-blown standoff over the sleep schedule of a mechanical crow.

You try everything again. Every trick you know. You pull out books—new ones, old ones, her favorite one with the cat and the moon that she used to fall asleep to like clockwork. You read it with exaggerated voices, soft whispers, calming tones. She stares through it, unmoved, barely tracking the words, wriggling and whimpering in your lap.

You dim the lights lower. You put on the soft music playlist Sylus made last time he was home—wind chimes layered with lo-fi lullabies and a subtle bed of white noise. It plays softly through the room, meant to feel like safety, like quiet. It does nothing.

She kicks the blanket off again, flails when you try to guide her to lay down. She’s flushed, sweaty, over it. You’re running out of options. In desperation, you try being stern. Which you never usually have to do. It feels wrong immediately, like putting on clothes that don’t fit.

"Sylvia. That’s enough. It’s bedtime."

Your voice is firmer than it’s ever been with her—sharper, more clipped. You barely recognize yourself. She freezes, her eyes going wide in shock. There’s a beat of silence where you think maybe it worked. Then she crumples. Her mouth opens in a soundless wail for a second before the crying starts again, loud and broken. She covers her ears with her hands like she can’t stand to hear it, her whole body curling in on itself. You feel the guilt hit like a punch to the chest.

You scoop her up immediately, your arms wrapping tight around her, protective and desperate. "No, no, I’m sorry. Shhh. It’s okay. Mommy didn’t mean it like that," you whisper, pressing your cheek against her damp curls. "It’s okay, baby. Mommy’s not mad".

You feel her hiccup against your collarbone, tiny fingers grabbing at your shirt like she’s trying to anchor herself. And you feel awful. Like you just kicked a puppy. You try to laugh it off, mostly to keep yourself from spiraling.

"This is your father’s fault," you mutter under your breath, pacing slowly across the room now as you hold her. You rock gently, even though she’s still squirming. "He can’t say no to you either. You’ve got him wrapped around your little finger, you know that?"

She doesn’t answer, but the crying softens into sniffling again. Her head rests against your shoulder, heavy and hot. She’s exhausted. Beyond it. You glance toward the screen of your phone on the nightstand. The soft, sterile glow of it is the only thing in the room still full of energy. Unlike you, who feels like you’ve been drained dry.

Nothing is working. None of it. Not stories, not lullabies, not cuddles, not snacks, not your voice, not your arms. She’s glassy-eyed, and she’s teetering right on the edge of overtired—too wound up to sleep, too exhausted to calm down. Her body’s fighting itself, and you can’t reach her anymore.

You’ve hit the end of your rope. There are no more tricks in your arsenal. You bounce her lightly, rhythmically, more for you than her at this point. You kiss her temple. You breathe through your nose like it’ll reset something. You stall, maybe another thirty seconds. Maybe a minute.

But there’s no other way.

You have no choice. You have to bother Sylus.

He answers faster than you expected, his voice warm and easy, like he’s in a good mood. Negotiations must’ve gone well—his tone has that loose, relaxed confidence he only gets when things have gone precisely the way he wanted.

"I was just about to call you, sweetie," Sylus says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. It makes you feel like you're back in the kitchen with him on a normal night, not separated by continents and encrypted comms. "How’s my two favorite girls?"

Sylvia, who had been half-asleep and whimpering against your chest, perks up immediately at the sound of her father's voice. Her head lifts slowly, like it weighs more than she can carry, and her tear-streaked face lights up with recognition. She lets out another ragged sob, but this time it’s laced with something closer to relief.

"Dada… Dada…"

You shift the phone, adjusting your grip so she can hear him more clearly. Her arms wrap tighter around your middle, like hearing him just reminded her how much she missed him. You exhale heavily into the receiver, rubbing your eyes as you try to find words that won’t sound as worn down as you feel.

"Well," you mutter, glancing down at Sylvia’s flushed, blotchy face, "one of us wants to go to bed. And the other one absolutely refuses to."

Sylus chuckles softly, a low, affectionate sound. It’s not mocking—it’s the kind of laugh someone makes when they love you and can picture exactly how bad your night’s been.

"Sylvia," he says, his voice shifting slightly as he speaks to Sylvia now, softening into that high-pitched dad tone he always uses with her. "Why don’t you want to go to sleep? Only bad little girls don’t sleep. Listen to your mommy, sweetie."

Sylvia gasps—not from surprise, but outrage. Her spine straightens in your lap. She pulls back from your shirt and glares at the phone screen with renewed fire in her eyes, as if Sylus had personally insulted her soul. Then comes the dramatic whimper—louder now, pitiful and wounded. Her bottom lip trembles, and her nose scrunches up.

"Nooooo," she groans, drawing out the vowel like she’s being wrongfully accused. Her little hands smack at the air in front of the phone, as if that’ll get her point across better. "Mephie no sleep! Caw! Caw!"

Another chuckle rumbles through the speaker, low and warm, and you can almost see the way his mouth quirks at the corner when he’s trying not to laugh too hard. There’s a teasing softness in it that only shows up when he’s with you—or talking about your daughter.

"I see," Sylus says, voice soft and sweet, casual in the way only someone continents away from a toddler tantrum could be. "You miss Mephisto, sweetie? My poor little girl."

You glance down at Sylvia, still sniffling, her small form curled into your lap like a tired, angry cat. Her cheeks are sticky with dried tears, her lower lip pushed out in stubborn protest. Her expression hasn’t changed much since the meltdown started, but her grip on your shirt tightens just a bit at the sound of her father’s voice.

You shake your head, half-laughing in defeat. "Clearly. She’s decided that if Mephisto doesn’t go to bed, then she’s not going either. Full-blown solidarity."

This time, Sylus lets out a full, hearty laugh. It fills your ear and, for a brief second, fills the room, stretching across the miles between you. You can imagine the way his eyes crinkle, the way he leans back when he laughs like that.

"I think she gets her attitude from you," he says between chuckles, breathless with amusement. "It’s cute."

You groan, more theatrical than serious, slumping back into the pillows behind you. "Don’t laugh. Please. Send help. I’m dying here."

You glance back down at Sylvia, whose eyes are half-lidded now. The fight in her is still there, but it’s quieter—less rage, more stubborn fatigue. Her hands twitch where they rest against your arm.

"Help, huh?" Sylus says, and you can hear the smile still lingering in his voice. But there’s something else there now too—a shift in tone. A flicker of focus. Problem-solving mode.

"Alright, alright," he continues, voice softening again. "I have an idea. I’ll call you back in a bit, kitten."

You raise an eyebrow, even though you know he can’t see it. "You better not be abandoning me."

"I would never. Talk to you soon." he promises, and this time the word lands like a vow. Then the line clicks off before you can ask what exactly he’s planning.

You stare at the phone screen for a second, still glowing in your hand, then glance down at Sylvia. Her breathing has slowed, but her eyes are still open, watching.

Whatever he's planning, you hope it works.

Miles away, in a sleek penthouse suite bathed in quiet luxury and the hum of automated climate control, Sylus moved with deliberate ease. The room was immaculate—dark marble floors, soft ambient lighting, and panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows offering a glittering view of the city’s skyline. But Sylus wasn’t paying attention to any of that. He was too focused on his latest mission: tucking in a mechanical bird for a video call.

He grabbed the black silk eye cover he always kept in his travel bag—an indulgence for mornings when the sun was just a tad too aggressive—and tossed it onto the pristine bed. Then he began rearranging the hotel pillows into something resembling a nest: layered, cushioned, deliberately theatrical.

He turned to Mephisto, who was perched silently on the edge of the minibar. The bird’s luminous eyes followed his every move with sharp precision.

"Come here," Sylus said, voice low but with that clipped command tone that always seemed to work on both machines and people.

Mephisto let out a soft caw in acknowledgment and immediately obeyed, fluttering down with a controlled rustle of metallic wings. His talons clicked neatly against the polished floor as he strode to the bed without hesitation, perching calmly where Sylus had indicated.

Sylus reached out and gently caught the crow-bot mid-step, maneuvering him onto the pillow nest. He carefully arranged his wings and legs so that Mephisto was sitting down—well, as close to 'sitting' as the bird could manage.

"Stay," he instructed.

Mephisto let out a sharp, indignant shriek—"Caw?!"—and bristled, feathers twitching with offense. His wings flapped hard in protest, mechanical joints clicking as he launched himself back into the air with a few furious beats. He hovered there, glaring down at Sylus like he’d been asked to lie in a puddle rather than a pile of designer pillows.

Sylus sighed and ran a hand down his face, then chuckled under his breath. "I know, I know. Though, this isn't the time to be difficult y'know."

Mephisto tilted his head, gears clicking as he processed the statement. "Tell you what," Sylus said, crouching to the bird’s level, his voice dropping into that smooth negotiating tone he usually saved for boardrooms and interrogation rooms. "When we get back, I’ll let you pick a gem from the vault. Any one you want."

That did the trick.

There was a long pause as Mephisto mulled it over—both figuratively and literally, the gears inside his frame visibly rotating, eyes dimming slightly in processing mode. The bird’s head cocked again, then slowly dipped forward in what looked like defeat.

He gave a reluctant flutter, then flew back down to the pillows. With exaggerated slowness, he folded his wings and settled into the bed. A soft mechanical whir echoed from within as he tucked his head under one wing.

"Caw…" he mumbled, resigned.

Sylus smirked.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought."

He stepped forward and gently tucked one of the smaller pillows around Mephisto’s side, pressing it snugly into the crook of his tucked wing as if cushioning a real creature. He then covered the birds body with the blanket. Then, with quiet precision, he picked up the soft silk eye mask and draped it delicately over the bird’s optical sensors. It was absurd—laughable, really—but Sylus didn’t hesitate for a second. He even smoothed the strap gently along the back of Mephisto’s head, adjusting it so it lay straight, not too tight, not too loose. Just right. As if Mephisto could feel it. As if it mattered. But it did—at least to the little girl waiting on the other end of the call.

He stepped back to admire his work. The crow lay still, wings folded, eye mask in place. Perfect. His lips twitched in the faintest smile—not bad for bedtime theater.

Then he picked up his phone, thumb hovering over the video call button for only a moment before he tapped it.

The screen lit up, casting a cool glow over Sylus’s face as it rang—once, twice—before finally connecting. The image on the other end crackled for a second before stabilizing into a grainy but clear view of your face. You looked tired. Worn around the edges. The nursery lights behind you were low and warm, casting soft shadows across the room.

Sylvia was curled tightly in your arms, nestled under your chin like a heat-seeking missile. Her hair was a halo of messy curls, her cheeks still blotchy from crying. She wasn’t making noise anymore, just breathing heavily and watching the screen with half-lidded suspicion.

"Hey," Sylus said gently, voice dipping low like a whisper through the screen. "You still up, little dove?"

Sylvia blinked slowly at him. Her gaze sharpened with recognition. Her lip trembled—but not with sadness this time. Her eyes widened, catching a flicker of hope.

Sylus smiled, shifting the phone slightly as he angled the camera.

"Look who’s in bed, sweetie."

The image on the screen panned to reveal Mephisto—tucked beneath a blanket, head tucked under his wing, eye mask securely in place. The nest of pillows looked absurdly cozy, especially for a mechanical bird.

Sylvia gasped, louder than expected. Her little hand smacked your chest as she leaned forward, fully engaged for the first time in over an hour.

"Mephie…sleep…" she whispered, awe-struck.

You felt her entire body relax just a bit more. Back on the screen, Sylus grinned. It was soft and tired and proud.

"All tucked in. Now it’s your turn, sweetheart."

"Mephie sleep. Me sleep?" she cooed, her voice small and sweet, the sound muffled as she rubbed one tiny fist against her eyes. Her eyelids drooped, weighed down with exhaustion, and she let out a long yawn that pulled her whole body into a sleepy stretch before she sagged again against your chest, warm and boneless.

You couldn’t help the small snort that slipped out, amusement breaking through your fatigue as your eyes flicked back to the screen. There, in all his mechanical glory, was Mephisto—tucked into an absurdly luxurious nest of pillows, his obsidian-plated head covered by an actual silk sleep mask. The sight was pure comedy. The once-proud surveillance crow turned bedtime prop, looking more like a pampered pet than a stealth operative.

Apparently, Mephisto’s sensors were still engaged, because from the other end of the call came a sharp, unmistakably disgruntled "Caw…"—quiet, offended, and just dramatic enough to make you laugh harder. The mechanical equivalent of a long-suffering eye roll.

Sylus, ever unfazed, didn’t miss a beat. "Yes, baby," he said softly, his voice soft, clearly elated that this seemed to be working. "Your turn to sleep now. Daddy will buy you more dolls when he gets back, for listening to mommy."

That did it.

Her tiny body shifted in your arms. Sylvia blinked up at you slowly, as if taking a moment to process what he’d said. Then, with the solemnity only toddlers could muster, she gave one last look at the screen. Her eyes locked onto the image of Mephisto, perfectly still beneath his pillow cocoon and sleep mask.

She let out a quiet sigh of her own. “Mephie sleep…” she whispered again, softer this time. Her hands relaxed, unclenching where they’d been gripping your shirt. A moment passed, then another.

And then she pointed toward the crib.

You didn’t hesitate—not even a second.

You stood carefully, phone in hand, gently shifting her weight so her head stayed resting against your shoulder. Each step toward the crib felt like a cautious victory lap. You lowered her slowly onto the mattress, her favorite blanket already pulled halfway down in preparation. You covered her up, tucking the soft fabric around her small frame, your hand lingering for a moment over her chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath.

Her eyes fluttered open once, catching yours.

"Night-night, Mephie," she murmured drowsily.

"Night-night, baby," you replied softly, brushing your knuckles against her cheek.

And then—finally—she stilled.

Her breathing evened out. Her limbs relaxed. Her fists unclenched. The tiny furrow in her brow, that stubborn little crease that had dominated the entire evening, melted away.

One breath. Then another. Then silence.

You stood there for a long moment, just watching. Making absolutely sure. Then you took a single step back. Then another. You moved like someone in a heist movie trying not to trigger a laser grid. Finally, you reached the doorframe, easing it closed with the gentlest pull of your fingertips.

Outside the room, you slumped back against the wall and let out a sigh. It was long, quiet, and full of relief.

You pull your phone back out just in time to catch the end of the performance—Mephisto, fully over the theatrics, shaking off the silk eye mask with a sharp flick of his head and a disgruntled rustle of feathers. The mask flopped dramatically off the edge of the pillow and landed somewhere near Sylus’s knee.

You laughed, a real one this time—light and exhausted, but genuine. "Aww, you should’ve taken a picture. I could’ve blackmailed him into revealing where he stashed my necklace."

Sylus smirked, shifting the phone to give you a better view of Mephisto, who was now preening indignantly on the edge of the bed, clearly offended by the entire situation. "You assume he hasn’t already stashed it in a random birds nest". Or hidden it in the ventilation shafts again."

You snorted, making your way through the quiet apartment toward the bedroom, your steps slow and soft now that Sylvia was finally asleep. The warm dim light guided you like a familiar memory.

"If that bird has buried one more of my things in a subfloor panel, I swear to god..."

"I’ll have him debriefed," Sylus said with faux seriousness. "Interrogated. Waterboarded. With oil."

You laughed again, shaking your head as you sank onto the edge of the bed. The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward—just heavy. Comfortable. Your eyes met his on the screen, and the corners of your smile softened.

"Thanks," you said quietly. "I really needed you tonight. You always seem to know exactly what to do."

Sylus leaned back slightly in his chair, phone steady in his hand. The glow of the city lit half his face, the other side cast in shadow. But his eyes were warm, locked on yours like they were the only thing in his world right then.

A slow smirk tugged at his mouth. “Compared to a table full of men plotting my death, calming down a toddler was far easier.”

“She really does treat Mephie like he’s her sibling,” you murmured, rubbing a hand across your face. “I don’t know whether to be concerned or just accept it at this point.”

Sylus’s mouth curved into that slow, knowing smile of his. “Well, maybe that’s on us,” he said. His tone was light, but there was a glint in his eyes you recognized instantly. “Maybe we should give her a sibling so she’s not lonely.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t even start.”

He chuckles knowingly, letting out a smooth and dramatic sigh in defeat. Although you both know he’d attempt to convince you later…

"Are you alright?" he asked, softer now. The warmth in his voice was still there, but threaded through it was concern. Then, with a flicker of a smirk, he added, "Handling a toddler-sized version of yourself with your exact attitude can't be easy."

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. This bastard and his jokes. You nodded after a moment, but your smile was a little smaller. "Funny you say that. I was just comparing her to you earlier." Then with a sigh. "Im just…tired. It's hard without you. She feels it too."

His expression didn’t shift much, but you saw his jaw flex, just slightly. You could tell he wished he could be there. Like it physically pained him not to.

"You always have me," he said, voice low and firm. "Doesn’t matter where I am."

Your throat tightened. You nodded again, more sure this time, and let out a breath. "I know. I just miss you."

His voice came back low and sincere, the teasing completely gone. "I miss you too. So much. I'll see you both very soon, don't worry." There was a beat where neither of you spoke, but it wasn’t empty. The quiet between you felt full—shared and heavy, but in a way that made you feel less alone. "Now, it’s your turn to sleep."

You suppose he's right. You can barely keep your eyes open now. "Goodnight, Sy," you said softly, your eyes lingering on his face.

"Goodnight, kitten," he replied, and just before the screen went black, you caught a glimpse of his smile—tired, but real. Just for you.

You set the phone down and sank into the pillows, your whole body unwinding slowly like a tightly coiled spring finally let loose. The weight of the day peeled off your shoulders, layer by layer.