Sylus' Rose

“But why, boss?” Luke finally bursts out, his voice cracking with a mix of disbelief and something almost like betrayal. His hands lift in a dramatic, helpless gesture, as though he’s trying to physically grasp the logic behind this and coming up empty. “You can’t just say something like that and expect us to accept it!” 

He continues, pacing a step forward before stopping himself. 

“Retiring? You? That’s not— this isn’t—” Luke falters, clearly unable to find words big enough to match what he’s feeling.

“We thought you’d do this forever,” Kieran adds, quieter but no less shaken, his voice carrying a steadier, more grounded disbelief. Where Luke is all sharp edges and outward reaction, Kieran’s response sinks deeper, settling into something thoughtful and heavy. “Onychinus… It’s you. It always has been.” 

There’s no accusation in his tone, just a simple statement of fact, one that makes the shift feel all the more profound.

“This was merely a means to an end,” Sylus states, shrugging lightly, though the gesture doesn’t quite soften the weight of his words. His gaze flicks briefly to me, and in that moment, the tension in him eases just enough to be noticeable.

“I came to Philos to reunite with y/n,” he continues, his voice lowering slightly, losing that sharp edge and gaining something quieter, more personal. “Now that I have, I’d rather live a peaceful life with her.” 

There’s no hesitation, no doubt… just a simple truth spoken with absolute certainty.

“Something we’ve never had,” I add, my voice softer but steady, threading through the charged atmosphere with a different kind of weight. My fingers tighten around his, grounding both of us in the present even as memories of the past flicker at the edges of my mind. It still feels surreal sometimes, the way everything came rushing back: the lives we lived, the promises we made, the ways we lost each other over and over again. 

“It took time, but I remembered,” I continue, glancing at him, warmth blooming in my chest at the quiet understanding in his eyes. “All of it. My Dragon, my Dearest Husband… every lifetime we fought just to stand like this again.” 

Saying it out loud doesn’t make it less overwhelming, but it makes it feel more real.

“We want a family,” I go on, letting the words settle slowly instead of rushing through them, because this part matters more than anything else. “A life that isn’t constantly at risk of being torn apart by the next mission, the next enemy, the next fight we can’t avoid.” 

My voice doesn’t waver, even though the truth of it presses heavily against my chest. “While I continue to work, Sylus has chosen to remain at home.” 

I can practically feel Luke short-circuiting at that, but I don’t look away from Sylus, don’t break the quiet, steady connection between us.

“Yes,” Sylus confirms when Luke inevitably stares at him like he’s grown a second head, his tone calm and unbothered in a way that somehow makes it even more unbelievable. “I’ll be handling domestic responsibilities.” 

He says it like he would any other strategic decision, as though managing a household and running a criminal organization are simply different kinds of operations.

Luke lets out a strangled noise, somewhere between a laugh and a cry. “Domestic… boss, you’re telling me you’re going to cook? Clean? Do groceries?” 

Each word sounds more absurd to him than the last, like he’s stacking impossibilities on top of each other and waiting for the whole thing to collapse.

“Do you think food materializes on its own?” Sylus replies, deadpan, raising a brow ever so slightly. There’s the faintest hint of dry amusement beneath his composure now, like he’s starting to find their reactions more ridiculous than frustrating.

I can’t help it. I laugh, the sound breaking through the tension like sunlight through heavy clouds. 

“He’s serious,” I say, shaking my head slightly, still smiling. “You should’ve seen him last week. He spent twenty minutes researching the best way to remove oil stains from fabric.” 

The memory alone is enough to warm me, to make this whole shift feel not just real, but right. Kieran exhales slowly, some of the initial shock finally giving way to understanding, even if it’s not complete. He straightens, shoulders settling as he steps into the weight being handed to him. 

“If this is what you want… then we’ll take over,” he says, his voice firm now, grounded in something steady and reliable. It’s not enthusiasm, not yet, but it’s acceptance, and that matters more.

Luke groans, dragging a hand down his mask in exaggerated despair, but he doesn’t argue this time. The fight drains out of him in a dramatic sigh, replaced by reluctant resignation. 

“This is insane,” he mutters, though there’s less resistance in it now, more disbelief than defiance.

“No,” Kieran says quietly, glancing at Sylus, then at me. “It’s just… a new chapter.” 

The words settle into the space between us, not as a challenge, but as something to be acknowledged.

Sylus hums softly in agreement, then leans back in his chair, pulling me a little closer without even seeming to think about it. The movement is instinctive, natural, like this, us, is the only constant he intends to keep. 

“Good,” he says simply. “Then we’re done here.” 

Just like that, he closes the chapter on the life he’s known for so long, treating it as if it’s nothing more than a door he’s chosen to walk away from.

Luke sputters as though his brain has simply refused to keep up with the pace of this conversation, his usual quick wit replaced by pure, unfiltered disbelief. 

“That’s it!?” he blurts, his voice pitching upward as he gestures wildly between the two of us, like there has to be more. Some hidden clause, some final explanation that will make this make sense. Sylus doesn’t even blink at him, doesn’t shift, doesn’t soften; he just sits there with that same composed, immovable presence that used to command entire rooms without effort. 

“Yes,” he replies, flat and final, and somehow that single word lands harder than anything else he’s said so far.

“You just drop life-changing news and then dismiss us!?” Luke presses, incredulous now, teetering between outrage and desperation, as if he argues hard enough, he can rewind the last ten minutes. 

Sylus doesn’t entertain it, doesn’t rise to the emotion or match the energy; he simply repeats, “Yes,” with the same calm certainty, as if there is no version of reality where this conversation goes any differently. The contrast is almost absurd; Luke all chaos and flailing disbelief, Sylus a wall that refuses to move, and for a moment, it feels like watching a storm crash uselessly against stone.

Kieran steps in before Luke can spiral further, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder, grounding him with quiet, practiced ease. 

“Come on,” he says, his voice lower, calmer, carrying a weight that Luke’s doesn’t yet have. “We have work to do.” 

There’s no argument in it, no resistance left. Just acceptance, settling in where shock used to be. Luke resists for half a second longer, his posture stiff with everything he hasn’t finished saying, but eventually he lets himself be turned toward the door, his protests fading into muttered disbelief. 

“Househusband…” he grumbles under his breath, like the word itself is offensive. “I still can’t believe it…”

The door clicks shut behind them with a soft, final sound that echoes more than it should, sealing the shift that just took place. For a moment, the office feels different. Quieter, but not empty, like something loud and constant has finally been turned off. The tension that had been coiled tightly in the air loosens, unwinding slowly now that there’s no one left to push against it. Even the light filtering in through the windows seems softer somehow, settling over us instead of cutting through the room. It’s the first real moment of stillness since the conversation began, and it feels earned.

Sylus exhales, long and slow, his head tipping back slightly against the chair as if he’s releasing something he’s been holding in for far longer than just this meeting. 

“Finally,” he mutters, the word carrying a quiet exhaustion that he didn’t let show before. It isn’t frustration, not really, not anymore, but the kind of relief that only comes after something inevitable has finally been said out loud. The weight of leadership, of expectation, of being the one everyone looks to… It’s slipping off his shoulders piece by piece, even if the habit of carrying it hasn’t quite faded yet.

I tilt my head up to look at him, unable to hide the small smile tugging at my lips. 

“You handled that well,” I say, though there’s a light teasing note in my voice, because I saw the way his patience thinned, the way he had to rein himself in. He huffs softly in response, not quite a laugh but close enough to feel like one. 

“They’re dramatic,” he replies, like that explains everything, like their reaction was the unreasonable part of this whole situation.

“You trained them,” I point out, raising a brow slightly, and that earns me a brief pause that says more than any immediate answer could. He glances at me, something flickering across his expression: amusement, maybe, or reluctant acknowledgment, and then exhales again, quieter this time. 

“…That explains a lot,” he concedes, and there’s just enough dry humour in his tone to make it feel like the tension has truly broken.

I laugh softly, the sound lighter now, and let myself lean into him, resting my head against his shoulder as the last remnants of adrenaline fade from my system. Up close, I can feel the steadiness in him, the grounded certainty that hasn’t wavered once through all of this. It settles something in me, too, something that still occasionally fears how fragile peace can be. 

“Are you really okay with this?” I ask after a moment, my voice quieter now, more honest. “All of it?”

 It’s not doubt in him, it’s just the need to hear it again, to anchor myself in the reality we’re choosing.

His answer comes immediately, without hesitation, without even a second of consideration. “Yes.” 

There’s no room for uncertainty in it, no hidden regret tucked beneath the surface; it’s as solid as everything else about him, as unwavering as the decisions he’s always made. His hand tightens around mine, not possessive, not restraining. It’s grounding, a quiet reassurance that this isn’t something he’ll second-guess later.

“Good,” I murmur, closing my eyes briefly as I let that certainty sink in, letting myself believe in it fully. Then, because I can’t resist, I add, “Because I fully intend to come home every day to a clean house and a cooked meal.” 

The shift in tone is deliberate, lightening the moment, pulling us out of the heaviness before it settles too deeply. Sylus huffs again, this time unmistakably amused, the sound low and warm.

“Your expectations are high,” he says, though there’s no real complaint in it, only a faint challenge, like he’s already considering how to meet them. I tilt my head slightly, looking up at him with a small, knowing smile. 

“You proposed,” I remind him. “This is part of the deal.” 

There’s history in those words, layers of promises and choices and lifetimes that led us here, all condensed into something deceptively simple.

He turns his head toward me then, his gaze sharpening just slightly, his voice dropping enough to send a quiet warmth through my chest. 

“Then I suppose,” he says, slow and deliberate, “I’ll make it worth it.” 

There’s something in the way he says it. Not a vow spoken loudly, but something quieter, more intimate, and somehow more binding because of it.

“Oh,” she whispers.

“Yes,” Sylus replies, his tone a careful blend of restraint and resignation.

Her expression fractures, amusement flickering helplessly across her face before dread overtakes it. “That place is closed. You checked.”

“I checked twice,” he says. “I told you it was unavailable tonight.”

“I know,” she murmurs, fingers hovering over the bag like it might vanish if she acknowledges it. “I just—God, I’ve been craving it all day. I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think anything of it,” Sylus interrupts gently, because this part matters. “You mentioned it in passing. You were tired. You were uncomfortable. You were hungry.”

And pregnant, he doesn’t say, because the word alone is enough to make his chest tighten.

Her hand rests on her stomach fully now, palm warm and protective, guilt bleeding into her voice. “They heard me.”

“They heard need,” he corrects. “And they translated it into action.”

The silence stretches, dense and suffocating. She opens the bag despite herself, the smell hitting harder now, immediate and visceral. Her mouth waters traitorously, craving roaring to life with a force that makes her swallow hard.

“They broke in,” she says softly.

“Yes.”

“They could’ve been hurt.”

“They could have died,” Sylus says, his voice finally betraying the strain he’s been suppressing. “And they would have done it gladly, because they believe you are worth that risk.”

Her eyes sting. Tears threaten to spill from the sudden influx of gratitude for their care and fear for their safety. “Sylus…”

“They didn’t just do it for you,” he continues, the words coming slower now, heavier. “They did it for who you’re carrying. For the little girl they’re now calling their sister. They see how carefully you move now. How often I watch the door.”

Her breath trembles as the realization settles fully. This wasn’t recklessness born of boredom. This was devotion sharpened into something dangerous.

“I never wanted them to feel responsible for her or for us,” she whispers.

“They already do,” Sylus replies quietly. “I raised them that way.”

She presses her lips together, blinking hard, emotions tangling painfully in her chest: love, fear, guilt, and the absurd, overwhelming urge to cry because the food smells perfect and her body wants it so badly it almost hurts.

“Where are they?” she asks.

“Three blocks away,” Sylus says. “In the car. Sitting very still. Hoping time will forgive them.”

She lets out a shaky breath that turns into a small, helpless laugh. “You didn’t bring them back.”

“No,” he says. “Because if I do this, it will be punishment. And what they need is understanding sharpened by consequence.”

She looks at Sylus with both humour and disbelief. “You want me to talk to them.”

“They will hear you,” Sylus says. “Especially now.”

His comm unit hums against the counter, vibrating once as if on cue. He slides it toward her without breaking eye contact.

She takes it, steadying herself, one hand on the device and the other instinctively resting over her belly, where the craving, and the reason for all of this, still churns insistently.

“Call Y/N,” Sylus says into the open channel, his voice low and final.

There is a long pause before Luke’s voice comes through, stripped of bravado and far too careful. “Hey, Boss Lady… are you okay?”

She closes her eyes, emotion cresting hard enough that she has to breathe through it before answering. When she speaks, her voice is calm, but threaded with something unmistakably dangerous. Not anger, but disappointment steeped in love.

“Get home,” she says. “Now. And when you walk through that door, you’re going to explain to me why you thought risking your lives was an acceptable response to a craving.”

A beat of silence follows, thick with dread.

“…Yes, ma’am,” Kieran answers quietly.

Sylus watches her as she hands the comm back, his expression unreadable but his gaze soft, reverent even. The world bends around her now, around the life she carries, the gravity she exerts without ever meaning to, and everyone in it, including him, orbits closer than they ever have before.

And when the meeting adjourned, he didn’t head for the command deck. He headed home. His family lived on the top floor of the base, after all, and he wanted nothing more than to check on his wife and the newest life growing inside her.

Even the penthouse had changed dramatically since the day you first collided with his world, when he saved you from being kidnapped for the protocore in your heart. The space was still dark as night, the way he’d preferred it back then, but now colour lived everywhere. Touches of you softened each corner. And once the kids came along, the pristine order he once maintained dissolved beneath a rainbow tide of toys, plushies, and Bluey merchandise.

There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for the three, soon to be four, of you.

He stopped in the doorway, letting the moment wash over him. You were seated on the couch, reading aloud in a soft voice. The toddlers were already fast asleep, their small bodies curled against fluffy blankets, but you kept going, one hand resting on your pregnancy as you read to the child still nestled beneath your heart.

His shoulders loosened. The hard lines of duty melted away.

You didn’t look up until his arms slipped around your waist and his palms rested on your belly. The baby kicked right against his hand, prompting a quiet, breathy chuckle. “He’s an active one today.”

“Must be an avid reader like his mama,” you teased, turning your face toward him for a kiss.

A rare, low laugh rumbled from his chest, the kind he saved solely for you. He leaned in for another kiss, gentler but no less hungry, before settling beside you. You leaned into him, finishing the story for your son while Sylus watched his daughters on the opposite couch, each clutching their Grumpy Crow and Smiley Dino plushies like tiny guardians of their dreams.

Maybe the N109 Zone thought he’d gone soft.