Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

6:00 AM – Lucanis Awakens
The alarm blares once—just once. Lucanis’ hand slaps it silent with the precision of a trained killer. No snooze. No second chances. He rises like a man who has been trained for war—except now, war means getting his wife out the door in one piece.

Rook does not rise. Rook is a lump of tangled blankets, buried deep in sleep, one bare arm slung dramatically over her face.

Lucanis exhales through his nose and gets to work.

6:05 AM – Tactical Deployment of Coffee
Lucanis moves through their small but immaculate kitchen with silent efficiency. The espresso machine purrs, the beans already ground to exact specifications. Milk is frothed to the perfect texture. He pours the cappuccino in a handmade ceramic mug and sets it next to the sugar bowl.

On the counter, Spite, their black cat with eerie violet eyes, perches like a tiny demon watching his disciple work.

Lucanis eyes him. “Don’t touch the milk.”

Spite blinks slowly. He understands. He does not care.

6:10 AM – The Househusband Prepares for Battle
Lucanis adjusts his collar in the mirror. Black-on-black, always. His sleeves roll up as he tightens his watch strap. The apartment is quiet except for the sound of a whetstone dragging along steel—he sharpens a knife, not because he needs to, but because it calms him.

Spite is now perched on top of the fridge, tail flicking, watching with interest.

Lucanis pauses. “You’re judging me.”

Spite does not deny this.

6:30 AM – The Workaholic Wife Awakens
Rook shuffles into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, oversized sleep shirt slipping off one shoulder. She beelines for the counter, grabs the coffee, and drinks deep—no hesitation, no regard for temperature.

Lucanis watches, unimpressed. “It’s hot.”

“Mmm.” She drinks more. She does not care.

Spite sits in her spot at the table. She picks him up like he’s a stuffed animal and holds him against her chest while she sips. He does not resist. He is simply there.

6:45 AM – The Outfit Debate
Rook is awake now, standing in front of the bedroom mirror, hands on her hips. “Okay, what do we think? The planets or the dinosaurs?” She holds up two skirts—one navy blue with tiny constellations, the other pale green with cartoon dinosaurs.

Lucanis, already fastening his cuffs, glances over. “Planets.”

Rook tilts her head. “Why?”

“They remind me of the Fade,” he says.

She narrows her eyes. “Lucanis, I don’t think you even like the Fade.”

He shrugs. “The dinosaurs are also acceptable.”

She huffs, choosing the planets and pairing them with a bright yellow cardigan. “Okay, what about shoes? White sneakers or Mary Janes?”

Lucanis, now tying his shoes with military precision, doesn’t hesitate. “The sneakers. The children are unpredictable. You need stability.”

“You talk like I’m going to war.”

“You teach first graders. It’s the same thing.”

She snorts, kissing his cheek on the way out. “I’ll take your tactical advice into consideration, husband.”

Spite is now in the laundry basket. He is unmoved by their morning proceedings.

7:15 AM – The Wife Departs, The Househusband Remains
Rook’s bag is slung over her shoulder, half-zipped, a stack of papers sticking out in complete defiance of order. Lucanis fixes this with a single motion, fastening the bag properly before she even realizes it.

She pauses at the door, squinting at him. “You do that every day, don’t you?”

“You’d lose half your assignments if I didn’t.”

She grins, leaning in to kiss him. “Love you.”

He smooths her cardigan over her shoulders. “Drive safe.”

Spite watches from the couch as the door swings shut behind her. The apartment is quiet again.

Lucanis exhales, rolling his shoulders. His morning routine is not over.

Spite stretches luxuriously, then hops onto the kitchen counter. He stares at Lucanis. Lucanis stares back.

Lucanis folds his arms. “What?”

Spite gently knocks over the salt shaker.

The Househusband’s war has just begun.

Chapter Text

7:20 AM – The Wife Departs

The apartment is quiet again.

Rook leaves in a rush, half-dressed while chugging her coffee like it’s a survival tactic. Lucanis, already fully prepared for his day, hands her a neatly packed lunch—because he knows she will forget otherwise.

She kisses his cheek quickly before running out the door.

Lucanis sighs, watching her go. Then, he adjusts his sleeves and gets to work.

8:30 AM – The Market Run

Lucanis prefers the market over the grocery store.

It’s a habit. Efficiency. He knows the vendors by name, knows who sells the best produce, who to avoid, and where to get the freshest meat.

Today’s list is longer than usual—because Rook does not eat enough vegetables.

He selects fresh leeks, onions, and carrots for stalk—the kind of slow-cooked broth he knows she will eat without complaint. He adds mushrooms, because she likes those, and more garlic than is probably necessary.

As he moves between stalls, vendors greet him with familiarity:

“Ah, Signore Dellamorte! The usual?”

“Yes.”

“Your wife—how is she?”

Lucanis glances at the leafy greens. Dramatically under-consumed.

“She’s fine,” he says, then, after a beat, adds, “Not eating enough vegetables.”

The vendor chuckles. “A shame! Such a bright woman—surely she knows the value of proper nutrition?”

Lucanis only stares.

The vendor relents and gives him extra herbs for free.

9:15 AM – The Chocolate Detour

Lucanis stops by the small specialty shop he visits frequently.

Because Rook deserves good chocolate. Not the cheap kind. Not the stuff sold in bulk. Good.

The chocolatier recognizes him immediately.

“Ah! For your wife, yes?”

Lucanis nods. “The dark blend. With sea salt.”

The man beams. “A good choice. She has excellent taste.”

Lucanis only hums, slipping the package into his bag.

His wife does have excellent taste.

She married him, after all.

9:45 AM – The Dry Cleaner’s Stop

Lucanis walks into the dry cleaner’s like a man entering a place of strategy and negotiation.

His black-on-black wardrobe is meticulously maintained. Rook, however, owns far too many skirts with patterns that should not exist in a professional setting, and yet—she insists on wearing them.

He places a stack of her skirts on the counter—most of them with some form of ink stain (from grading papers), a mysterious smudge (likely glue or markers), and one that has a tiny tear near the hem.

The tailor examines them. “Your wife—she is a teacher, yes?”

Lucanis nods.

The tailor smirks knowingly. “Mmm. Occupational hazard.”

Lucanis sets down his items next—a few shirts, one coat, precisely folded slacks. The tailor visibly relaxes at the orderliness.

“We’ll have them ready by Friday.”

Lucanis nods, satisfied.

10:15 AM – The Coffee Break

Lucanis enters the café without fanfare.

The barista—who, by all accounts, is young and easily flustered—perks up immediately at his arrival.

“Oh! Uh—good morning, sir!”

Lucanis does not look up from the menu. “Espresso.”

“Of course! Your usual?”

Lucanis nods.

The barista fumbles slightly, clearly making extra effort on his drink. Lucanis pays zero attention. He takes his espresso, moves to a table by the window, and pulls out his pocket notebook—going over the next few days of meal prep.

Across the café, the barista stares longingly.

Lucanis, oblivious, sips his coffee.

10:30 AM – Errands Complete, The Return Home

Lucanis steps into the apartment, the scent of coffee still clinging to him, groceries in hand, dry cleaning receipt neatly tucked in his pocket.

Spite, perched on the kitchen counter, blinks slowly.

Lucanis raises a brow. “You’ve done nothing all morning.”

Spite stretches, tail flicking, knocking over exactly one item—a small salt shaker.

Lucanis exhales, setting the groceries down.

His work is never done.

Chapter Text

10:30 AM – The Realization

It starts, as all disasters do, with a moment of silence.

Rook is midway through her lesson, seated on the colorful rug with a gaggle of first graders when it hits her—she forgot her lunch. The neatly packed container of leftovers that Lucanis had definitely reminded her to take. The same lunch he had prepped with the precision of a trained assassin. The one he watched her set down on the counter before she rushed out the door, promising, “I got it!”

She did not have it.

“Miss Rook?” One of her students, a curly-haired six-year-old, tugs at her sleeve. “You made a face.”

“I did?” She quickly schools her expression. “It was my thinking face.”

The children accept this because Miss Rook does make a lot of faces.

11:15 AM – The Househusband Responds

Lucanis finds the untouched lunch container sitting exactly where Rook left it.

He exhales slowly.

Spite, lounging on the kitchen counter in a pool of morning sunlight, blinks at him.

“She forgot,” Lucanis says flatly.

Spite does not reply. But he does extend a single paw and—very delicately—nudges the lunchbox. A judgment. A confirmation.

Lucanis takes his keys.

11:45 AM – The School Office Check-In

The front office of the school is far too cheerful. Too bright. The walls are lined with colorful posters about kindness and teamwork. There is a small, bubbling fish tank. Someone is playing instrumental versions of pop songs on a tinny speaker.

Lucanis stands at the counter, clad in well-fitted black slacks and a charcoal-gray button-up, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. His presence alone causes the secretary—an older woman with reading glasses—to pause mid-pen stroke.

“… Can I help you, sir?”

“My wife forgot her lunch,” he says, setting the container on the counter.

The woman eyes him suspiciously, as if no husband in recorded history has ever taken this much care in delivering a meal. “And your wife is…?”

“Miss Rook.”

Her eyes widen slightly. “Oh! Miss Rook.”

The name carries weight. Miss Rook is known here—beloved by her students, a tornado of energy in fun-printed dresses, always in motion, always forgetting things. The idea that this man is her husband is apparently taking some time to process.

“… I’ll have someone take it to her—”

“No need,” Lucanis says smoothly. “I’ll deliver it myself.”

A pause. The secretary glances at the very serious man standing in her very non-serious school, then at the lunch container, as if it is a weapon disguised as Tupperware.

“Uh,” she says. “I just need to check you in.”

Lucanis signs his name neatly in the visitor log. Lucanis Dellamorte. His handwriting is precise.

The secretary watches him go. She picks up the phone and dials the staff room.

“Hey, Miss Rook’s husband just checked in to drop off her lunch,” she says.

A beat.

“Yeah. That husband.”

11:50 AM – Mid-Storytime Infiltration

Rook is deep into storytime. She sits in the reading nook, a picture book held open, her class sitting criss-cross applesauce around her.

“—and then, the Druffalo took one look at that big scary bear and—”

She senses it before she sees it. A shift in the air. A disturbance.

Then—

A presence in the doorway.

Lucanis stands there, leaning slightly against the frame, visitor badge clipped to his shirt, holding her neatly packed lunch in one hand.

The classroom goes silent.

A dozen little faces turn toward the tall, serious man who has appeared in their space like some kind of mythical figure.

Rook exhales, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Lucanis,” she says, resigned but amused. “You really didn’t have to—”

“You forgot it,” he says simply.

The children whisper.

“Miss Rook, who is that?”

Rook looks at them, then at her husband.

“That’s my husband,” she says, knowing full well what comes next.

A gasp ripples through the class.

“YOU HAVE A HUSBAND?” one of them shouts, horrified as if she’s betrayed them all.

Another child tugs on her sleeve, whispering in deep distress, “Miss Rook, I thought you were twenty.”

Lucanis, meanwhile, is entirely unbothered. He crosses the room, sets the lunch down on her desk with the same measured precision he applies to everything, then turns to go.

But then—hesitation.

He glances at the wide-eyed children. They stare at him.

“… Hello,” he says, voice calm and even.

The whispers intensify.

He speaks.

Miss Rook’s mysterious husband speaks.

Rook covers her mouth to hide her laugh. “Okay, say bye to my husband, guys.”

A chorus erupts—“BYE, MISS ROOK’S HUSBAND!”

Lucanis nods once, then exits with the silent efficiency of an assassin disappearing into the night.

The moment he’s gone, Rook’s students explode.

“Miss Rook, your husband is SO COOL!”
“Why is he dressed like a secret agent?”
“He’s like Batman, but scary!”

Rook drops her head onto her desk, laughing.

She cannot wait to tell Lucanis this later.

12:10 PM – Post-Mission Debrief

Lucanis returns home. He removes his visitor badge and sets it precisely on the counter. Spite, sprawled across the kitchen table, lifts his head slightly.

“She forgot,” Lucanis tells him.

Spite does not respond. But he does stretch out just enough to lazily knock Lucanis’ badge onto the floor.

Lucanis sighs.

Tomorrow, he will personally hand Rook her lunch before she walks out the door.

But he knows she will still forget.

And he knows he will still bring it to her.

Chapter Text

Saturday. 8:00 AM. The Community Center Yoga Class.

Lucanis does not miss his old life.

He does not miss late-night contracts, Venatori conspiracies, or Caterina’s impossible standards. He does not miss double-crossing diplomats or spilling blood onto marble floors.

What he does miss is discipline. Structure. The control of a well-maintained schedule.

Which is why he is here, in a yoga class at the local community center, surrounded by suburban moms in pastel leggings, maintaining perfect form in his downward dog.

Illario, sprawled beside him, not maintaining perfect form, groans. “This is ridiculous.”

Lucanis does not look at him. “Your balance is off.”

Illario, mid-stretch, barely holding the pose, scowls. “My balance is fine.”

Lucanis, still steady, responds flatly, “You’re shaking.”

“I hate you.”

8:10 AM – The Attempted Recruitment

The instructor—who is overly enthusiastic, lives for scented candles—guides them into warrior pose. Lucanis shifts effortlessly. Illario wobbles.

And then, mid-pose, Illario casually says, “You should come back to the Crows.”

Lucanis does not react. “No.”

Illario sighs dramatically. “C’mon, it’s not the same without you.”

“Not interested.”

“We’re dying without your leadership.”

Lucanis shifts into tree pose, one foot resting against his thigh, arms folded. His balance is flawless.

“You are not dying,” he says, unimpressed.

Illario, struggling to stay upright, huffs. “Viago is stressed. Teia is bored. And you—” he gestures vaguely, wobbling “—are wasting away in domestic bliss.”

Lucanis lifts a brow. “I am not wasting away.”

Illario scoffs. “You’re doing yoga with mothers of three.”

The instructor, overhearing, smiles warmly from across the room. “And we love having him here!”

Lucanis nods politely. “Thank you.”

Illario glares. “This is humiliating.”

Lucanis, steady as ever, does not break form. “Then improve your posture.”

8:20 AM – Desperation Sets In

Illario, now on the mat, dramatically sprawled in child’s pose, mutters, “Caterina would want you back.”

Lucanis does not stop his stretch. “Caterina is retired.”

Illario, face pressed to the mat, grumbles, “She’s never retired.”

Lucanis knows this is true, but still, he does not take the bait.

Instead, he calmly shifts into cobra pose.

Illario lifts his head just enough to glare. “Okay. Fine. What if I tell Rook—”

Lucanis, without looking, responds immediately, “Rook will say no.”

Illario groans. “Of course she will.”

8:30 AM – The Cooldown, and Defeat

The class winds down. The moms chatter, rolling up their mats, with the instructor thanking everyone for attending.

Lucanis, serene, folds his mat with practiced efficiency.

Illario stares at him, betrayed. “You didn’t even sweat.”

Lucanis raises a brow. “You did.”

Illario scowls. “I hate you.”

Lucanis smirks—just slightly. “You’ve mentioned.”

As they exit the studio, the instructor waves cheerfully. “See you next week, Lucanis!”

Lucanis nods. “Of course.”

Illario gapes at him. “You come here regularly?”

Lucanis adjusts his sleeves. “I have a schedule.”

Illario shakes his head, exasperated. “I don’t even know you anymore.”

Lucanis smirks again, stepping into the crisp morning air.

“I know,” he says, perfectly content.

Chapter Text

Tuesday. 3:00 PM. The Knitting of the Snake Sweater.

Lucanis Dellamorte does not take half-measures.

If he commits to something, it will be done perfectly. Precisely. With purpose.

Which is why he sits now—posture straight, expression severe, hands working with deadly efficiency as he knits an entire sweater for Emil, Viago’s snake.

Across from him, Viago watches in utter silence.

The table between them is completely bare, save for the partially completed snake-sized garment—tiny, impeccable, crafted from deep green yarn.

The air is heavy.

The tension is thick.

Finally, after a long pause, Viago leans forward, voice low. “… You chose wool.”

Lucanis doesn’t look up. “It retains heat.”

Viago narrows his eyes. “You could have used cotton.”

Lucanis, calm, focused: “Cotton lacks elasticity.”

A pause.

The weight of the conversation intensifies.

Viago folds his hands on the table, expression unreadable. “A ribbed pattern.”

Lucanis nods once. “For stretch.”

Silence.

The knitting needles click softly.

The atmosphere is palpable.

A bead of sweat forms on Viago’s temple.

Lucanis, without looking up: “You disagree.”

Viago takes a slow breath. “… No.”

The tension shatters.

Viago exhales, leaning back in his chair, dragging a hand down his face. “Maker’s breath, you still talk like we’re negotiating a contract.”

Lucanis, deadpan, finishes the final stitch with a sharp, precise motion. “Everything is a contract.”

Viago snorts. “Yeah? And what’s this one?”

Lucanis lifts the tiny sweater, inspecting it, checking the seams. “A promise.”

Viago stares.

Lucanis, utterly serious, turns and—gently—fits the sweater onto Emil.

The snake does not resist.

The sweater fits perfectly.

Viago leans in, wide-eyed. “Sweet Andraste.”

Lucanis, still focused, adjusts the collar slightly. “It suits him.”

Viago nods, visibly moved. “It does.”

A beat of silence.

Then—Viago pulls out his camera, snapping photos at rapid speed.

Lucanis does not react.

Viago, muttering to himself: “Teia’s gonna lose her mind.”

Lucanis, monotone: “Naturally.”

Viago grins, scrolling through the photos before glancing up. “She still asks about you, you know.”

Lucanis finishes the final adjustment, his movements slow, deliberate. “I imagine she disapproves.”

Viago shrugs, leaning back. “Mm. She understands.” He pauses, tilting his head. “But she still thinks you’re a dumbass.”

Lucanis hums. “Reasonable.”

Viago watches him for a long moment, then sets the camera down. “So,” he says, tone shifting slightly. “How is it?”

Lucanis lifts a brow. “How is what?”

Viago gestures vaguely. “This. Your new life. The pasta-making, yoga-attending, sweater-knitting domestic bliss you’ve got going on.”

Lucanis pauses, thoughtful.

Then, without hesitation, he says, “Better.”

Viago blinks.

Lucanis, eyes sharp, continues, “I sleep. I cook. I take care of her. No more orders. No more contracts. No more blood.” He exhales, adjusting his sleeves. “It is better.”

Viago studies him carefully. “And Rook?”

At her name, Lucanis’ expression shifts—softens.

“She works too much,” he mutters.

Viago laughs. “And you don’t?”

Lucanis looks him in the eye, completely serious.

“I retired.”

Viago wheezes, laughing so hard he nearly falls out of his chair. “You are running your marriage like an assassination contract.”

Lucanis simply lifts Emil, holding the now perfectly-sweatered snake up to the light.

“… She deserves excellence.”

Viago groans, slumping back in his chair. “You are so in love it’s disgusting.”

Lucanis hums, brushing a stray thread from Emil’s sleeve.

“Obviously.”

Chapter Text

Five Years Ago. Late Afternoon. Dellamorte Estate, Antiva.

It is too quiet.

The sitting room of the Dellamorte estate is a cathedral of old blood and quiet violence—sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, warm against marble floors that have seen far more than dust. Everything in the room is sharp: the lines of the furniture, the precision of the silence, the woman seated in the high-backed chair by the hearth.

Caterina Dellamorte—First Talon, matriarch, terror of Antiva’s political undercurrent—does not fidget. She does not ask questions. She simply waits.

Lucanis stands before her, immaculate as always: black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbow, posture squared like he’s preparing for battle. His dark hair is longer than she remembers, falling around his jaw in soft, deliberate disorder.

Illario lounges to the side in a velvet chair he absolutely did not ask permission to sit in. “If you called us here to tell us you’ve finally poisoned that warden who insulted your suit last year, I support you, but I’m going to need time to write a speech.”

Lucanis doesn’t smile. Not yet.

“I’m leaving the Crows.”

Illario sits up like he’s been hit with a brick. “What?”

Lucanis doesn’t flinch. “I’m leaving. No more contracts. No more assignments. No more operations.”

Caterina’s eyes—cold, unblinking—do not move from his face. “This is not a role one simply steps away from.”

Lucanis nods once. “It is, when one chooses to stop being the weapon.”

Illario, wide-eyed, breathes out long and loud, pressing a hand to his chest. “Maker, you scared me. I thought you were going to tell us you joined the Chantry.”

Lucanis snorts. “No. Just domestic bliss.”

“Ugh,” Illario mutters, sinking back into the chair. “Worse.”

Caterina says nothing. The silence returns, long and heavy as stone.

Lucanis meets her gaze. “I’m getting married.”

It is not spoken lightly. Not the word. Not from him.

Illario chokes on nothing. “You’re what—to who? Please tell me it’s not the ribbon seller at the market. I knew she was suspiciously nice to you.”

Lucanis lets out a slow exhale. “Her name is Rook.”

Illario groans. “You’re not even denying the market thing—"

“She’s a first-grade teacher.”

That shuts Illario up.

Caterina rises. She walks toward Lucanis in silence. Measured steps. She is always calm when something matters.

He does not move.

She stops in front of him, studying him the way a general examines her most dangerous soldier.

There is a pause.

Then, so quietly it feels like an echo of a dream—“You were meant for more than blood.”

Lucanis blinks. His throat works once. “I didn’t think you’d say that.”

She lifts a hand, deliberate, controlled—and with fingers far more graceful than the world remembers—she tucks a piece of his hair behind his ear.

The most gentle thing she has done in years.

Lucanis doesn’t breathe.

Caterina’s voice is cool but soft. “Then perhaps you do not know me as well as you think.”

He closes his eyes. Just for a second.

When he opens them, her hand is already lowering.

“You’ll need to be careful,” she says. “Love is a dangerous thing. Rook will be your undoing, if you're not cautious.”

Lucanis exhales, quiet, reverent. “She already is.”

Caterina nods once. “Then I hope she’s worth it.”

“She is.”

Illario watches the whole thing like he’s witnessing a scene from a romantic tragedy and is personally offended.

“I swear to the Maker,” he mutters, “if you start wearing aprons and saying words like ‘weekend plans,’ I’m going to die.”

Lucanis, at last, smirks. “We’re buying a slow cooker.”

Illario gags audibly.

Caterina walks past them both, returning to her chair, composed as ever. “Then the title of First Talon will pass when I see fit. Until then, you are dismissed—from duty.”

Lucanis bows his head. “Thank you.”

She gestures toward the door, regal and unshaken. “Now go. And tell your teacher fiancée that if she hurts you, I will find her.”

Lucanis chuckles. “She’d like you.”

“I highly doubt that,” Caterina says.

From the doorway, Illario groans. “Can I please still make a speech at the wedding?”

“No.”

“You’re afraid of what I’ll say.”

“Correct.”

Lucanis leaves the villa with his collar straight, his shoulders loose, and the weight of generations finally behind him.

He has never been more certain.

Chapter Text

10:00 AM - Villa in Rivain

The sun is gold-drenched and generous, all glitter and warmth over Rivain’s coastline. The sea rolls in soft and blue, not with Tevinter’s harshness or Antiva’s relentless commerce, but with the lazy, melodic sigh of someplace unburdened. Somewhere that doesn’t expect anything from them.

Rook stands in the shallows, hem of her shorts soaked, legs bare to mid-thigh. The waves lap against her shins—just enough to feel the cool and not enough to knock her over. She’s never learned to swim. Forests didn’t require it. But the sea? The sea asks for it.

Lucanis watches her from the sand, sleeves rolled up, toes buried. She’s laughing—hair braided back, skin kissed rose-gold in the light, the scars across her eyebrow catching sunlight like a glint of something holy. A little awkward as she adjusts her stance when the tide pulls too strongly. A little chaotic, always.

He smiles.

The Dellamorte villa in Rivain has stood empty for years. A “vacation property,” unused and quietly maintained by someone Lucanis only refers to as “Vico, the man with too many rings.” The moment Rook saw the terrace with its carved columns and the wine cellar that could house an entire armory, she had turned and whispered, “We are so poor.”

Lucanis had blinked, genuinely confused. “We live in an apartment.”

“Exactly.”

Still, he gave it up. The villa. The view. The marble everything. Gave it up to sleep on a foldout couch for months until she found a mattress she liked. Gave it up to make school lunches and knit sweaters for reptiles and learn the names of her coworkers.

11:00 AM – The Hammock

The hammock is strung between two palms. The breeze is soft. The world, blessedly, has nothing to demand.

Rook’s legs are tangled loosely with Lucanis’, her feet buried in the edge of a beach towel beneath them. She’s propped up with a pillow behind her back and a large, water-stained copy of Desire in the Dales in her hands. A plastic cup of iced coffee rests precariously on a makeshift table—an overturned crate covered with a linen napkin. Because Lucanis made one. 

Lucanis lies atop her, all loose limbs and warm weight, head pillowed on her chest. One of her hands strokes slow patterns down his back. The other lifts the book.

His eyes are closed.

Her voice drifts over the page:

“‘You cannot mean to claim me,’ Alaria said, trembling against the cliffside. ‘You are a bandit, a rogue, a—’”

Lucanis murmurs, not opening his eyes, “He’s a viscount in disguise.”

Rook snorts. “You weren’t supposed to know that yet.”

“I deduced it.”

“You read ahead.”

He hums.

Occasionally, she pauses to sip iced coffee. He murmurs a sleepy complaint if she stops reading too long.

He likes the sound of her voice.

He always has.

She brushes his hair with slow, idle fingers, threading through it gently, rhythm steady as the tide.

He dozes.

Not fully asleep. Never fully asleep. Not even here. But close.

Close enough.

1:30 PM – A Walk Back

Eventually, they stir. Rook splashes in the surf one more time, then hops barefoot over hot sand, tugging her towel up around her shoulders. Lucanis carries their bag, refolds the towels precisely, and wipes off her sunglasses before handing them back.

“I can do that myself,” she says, reaching for them.

“You’d smudge them.”

“… Okay, fair.”

They take the long way back—past flowering hedges, old stone paths that haven’t seen Crows in decades, and the little side gate Lucanis once used to sneak out as a teen to avoid family dinners.

Rook teases him. “You were such a menace, weren’t you?”

“I was discreet.”

“You lit a rival’s cravat on fire.”

“He insulted Caterina’s cannelloni.”

“You’re so soft now.”

Lucanis glances at her as she walks barefoot beside him, freckles across her shoulders, hair loose and curling from the sea. He adjusts the bag on his shoulder and again, he smiles.

2:00 PM – Back at the Villa

The windows are thrown open to the sea. The villa smells like citrus and sand. Spite naps in a patch of sun near the window, curled like a comma.

Lucanis pours two glasses of wine, brings her one, then settles beside her on the couch. She pulls the book back out.

“Where were we?” she murmurs, flipping through.

Lucanis lays his head in her lap again, warm and heavy.

“Page 194,” he says, eyes already closed.

She brushes a hand through his hair again.

He breathes in deep.

It is the perfect day.

He never needed riches. Never needed power. All he needs is here: her voice, her hands, the pages between them, and a cat somewhere behind them, licking condensation off a glass like a tiny menace.

He likes the sound of her voice. It's a comfort. 

Chapter Text

Seven Years Ago. Evening.

6:45 PM – Crestwell Academy, Antiva City

Lucanis Dellamorte had assassinated a magister with a harpsichord string.

He had taken out a corrupt banker using only a ballpoint pen and the force of gravity.

He once ended a senator’s life mid-toast at an Orlesian gala without a single drop of wine spilled.

And now, standing beneath the gaudy crystal chandelier of Crestwell Academy’s gilded private school atrium, surrounded by pastel blazers, catered finger food, and laminated PTA name tags—Lucanis Dellamorte was questioning his life choices.

He stood against the far wall, dressed in a charcoal-gray suit that didn’t attract attention but made him impossible to forget. Visitor sticker pinned askew to his lapel. Eyes sharp. Posture relaxed. Hands in his pockets, but only because someone had already complimented his “fashionably minimal dad energy.”

He wasn’t a father.

He was here to kill a man.

The mark was an Antivan city official—Nerio Viscarra. Embezzler. Trafficker. Fond of wine, corrupt deals, and trying to pass off blood magic as innovative education policy. Crestwell was one of his many laundering fronts: a “reputable” school for the elite, hiding everything from missing funds to bribery under the guise of enrichment grants.

Lucanis had followed him here. Quietly. Efficiently. The PTA meeting was the perfect cover.

6:50 PM – The Scene of the Crime

She was not the mark.

She was the disaster.

Lucanis spotted her across the atrium, hunched over a table stacked with forms. Her red hair was unmistakable, tied back with the kind of rushed care that said I had exactly three seconds to do this. She was surrounded by glitter pens, stickers, and folders that seemed to have reproduced through mitosis.

And she was absolutely losing a fight with a stapler.

The device had jammed. She shook it. Slammed it. Whispered something that sounded like a curse. It wheezed in protest. She bared her teeth. The room continued to hum with PTA chatter and parent-teacher smiles.

Lucanis kept watching.

She hit the stapler again. It retaliated by spitting out a half-folded staple onto her paperwork.

“Oh, fenedhis,” she muttered, dragging a hand down her face.

Lucanis blinked.

That wasn’t Antivan.

That was Elvhen.

He took a step closer, just one, as if something tugged at him. Not strategy. Not curiosity.

Something else.

She didn’t notice him at first. Too busy whispering what sounded like threats to the stapler.

“I will end you,” she hissed. “I have tenure, you metal bastard—”

Lucanis cleared his throat.

She jumped. Then froze, caught red-handed mid-stapler-wrestle.

“…Hi,” she said slowly, like she’d just been caught summoning a pride demon in the copy room.

Lucanis tilted his head. “You’re bleeding.”

She looked down. “Oh. Yeah. Paper cut.”

She sucked on her fingertip. Glared at the stapler again.

Lucanis stepped forward, reached out, and—wordlessly—took the device from her hand.

She let him. Too surprised to argue.

He turned it over. Inspected the spring. Re-loaded the staples from the box she hadn’t opened properly. Snapped the mechanism into place. Stapled three clean papers in succession and handed it back.

“…Okay,” she said, watching the paper like it had just performed magic. “That was unfairly hot.”

Lucanis blinked once.

She blinked back.

“…I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“…Cool.”

A pause.

Then she held out a hand, unrepentant.

“Rook Aldwir. First grade.”

He took it. Her fingers were ink-smudged and warm.

“Lucanis.”

Her brow lifted. “You got a last name, or are you just doing the mysterious-one-word thing?”

A beat.

“…Dellamorte.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s not real.”

“It is.”

“That's like, a villain name.”

He shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”

She grinned. Gods, she grinned.

7:15 PM – Operation Derailed

Lucanis forgot about the mark.

Or rather, he didn’t forget. He simply delegated the urgency. Nerio was making a speech about “engaging literacy pathways” at the podium, and Lucanis was standing by the punch bowl, listening to Rook explain why her students were absolutely feral and possibly plotting mutiny.

“I caught one of them trying to put a frog in my coffee,” she said, animatedly waving a hand. “A frog. Lucanis, I need you to understand that I drink black coffee. That would have killed it.”

He nodded. “You carry a frog-proof lid now?”

“Oh, I absolutely do.”

She paused, narrowed her eyes.

“Wait. Are you a parent?”

“No.”

“Then what are you doing at a PTA meeting?”

Lucanis sipped the lukewarm punch like it was poison. “I’m…considering a career change.”

She squinted. “To what?”

He hesitated.

She leaned in, clearly delighted by the pause. “Are you a spy?”

“…No.”

“You said that like a spy.”

Lucanis stared.

Rook smiled.

He didn't know how to disarm that.

7:45 PM – Contract Complete

He slipped away briefly. The auditorium lights dimmed for a slideshow about after-school programs.

When Nerio Viscarra went to the restroom, Lucanis followed.

No mess. No noise. No trace.

By the time he returned to the punch bowl, Rook was biting into a cupcake with blue frosting and humming softly to herself.

“You missed the raffle,” she said through a mouthful.

“Did I win?”

“No, but the girl with the frog did. She’s terrifying.”

Lucanis smiled. Just slightly.

And when she asked if he wanted to walk her to her car, he said yes.

Not because he needed to. Not because of any lingering threat.

Because he wanted to.

He had found his contract.

And her name was Rook.

Chapter Text

11:00 AM – Antivan Coastline

The sun was too much, the sand was in everything, and Lucanis was… not complaining.

He lounged beneath a striped umbrella, dark sunglasses perched on his nose, a paperback half-forgotten in one hand. His swim trunks were deep purple, his shirt a loose black linen button-down left open over his chest, collar lazily turned. His hair was still wet from the earlier swim, pushed back but drying fast under the heat.

Beside him, Illario stretched on a beach towel like he thought he belonged in a painting. Which, to be fair, he probably did. His swim trunks had patterns—something blue and floral—and he’d brought wine, because of course he had. He was halfway through a glass of it now, wrist dangling dramatically over the side of his folding chair like he might faint from leisure.

“You’ve gone domestic,” Illario said, not for the first time, swirling his wine with a mournful sigh. “And somehow you’re still the favorite. It’s sickening.”

Lucanis didn’t respond. He was busy watching Rook.

She was in the surf again, where she’d spent most of the morning—hair braided and already half undone, legs bare, arms glinting with sun, her magenta swimsuit bold and strappy and clinging in all the right places. She was laughing, she always laughed like she meant it.

Lucanis exhaled, slow and satisfied. He adjusted his sunglasses with one finger and kept watching.

Illario, following his gaze, clicked his tongue. “You’re lucky.”

Lucanis didn’t hesitate. “I know.”

Rook turned then, catching them watching. She grinned and gave them a very sarcastic little wave—elbow high, hand floppy, mocking the idea of modesty. Lucanis raised his drink slightly in return. Illario blew her a kiss and got a rude gesture in reply.

“Do you remember,” Illario asked, slumping deeper into his chair, “when your idea of a good summer involved poisons and rooftop chases?”

Lucanis hummed. “Rooftops didn’t have cold drinks.”

“Or strappy magenta swimsuits.”

Lucanis smirked faintly. “Definitely not.”

He leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the sun soak into his bones. His skin had already started to bronze, darker across his forearms and collarbones where Rook’s hands had wandered the night before. They’d been up late packing snacks and arguing over towels. (Lucanis insisted on folding them precisely. Rook had thrown one at his head.)

Now, they shared the load—Rook brought the cooler, Lucanis packed the umbrella, and Illario showed up with wine and no sunscreen.

It was summer. They didn’t need roles, just rhythm.

Lucanis cracked one eye open again. Rook was coming out of the water now, hair dripping, straps clinging, walking like she didn’t know the power she had. She leaned over the cooler, rifling through it with one hand, water running down her back.

Lucanis stared over the top of his sunglasses.

Illario groaned. “Don’t make that face, you’re going to ruin other people’s marriages.”

Lucanis didn’t answer. He just kept watching her.

She pulled out a drink, twisted the cap off with her teeth, and looked back at them, smug as anything. “I can feel you watching me.”

“You put on that swimsuit on purpose,” Lucanis said, not bothering to deny it.

Rook grinned. “And?”

Lucanis lifted his glass in silent appreciation.

She blew him a kiss.

Illario rolled his eyes. “Maker’s balls, I’m going to have to leave before one of you starts dry-humping the beach chair.”

Lucanis ignored him. He was too busy enjoying the way Rook stretched out on the towel beside him, skin warm from the sun, lips cool from the drink.

She curled against his side with a sigh, wet hair brushing his shoulder. “This was a good idea.”

He slid an arm around her waist, kissed her temple. “I have them sometimes.”

Illario sipped his wine. “You’re disgusting.”

Rook didn’t move. “And yet you keep coming.”

“I’m your family,” Illario sniffed. “Suffering is my duty.”

Lucanis smiled against her hair. He didn’t need the Crows. Didn’t need contracts or shadows or marble floors soaked in consequence. Not anymore.

He had this: sun and salt, laughter and soft edges, the familiar weight of her body against his. His people. His peace.

He exhaled.

Yeah.

This was definitely better than murder.

Chapter Text

Five Years Ago. 

10:00 PM — Rook’s Apartment

Lucanis Dellamorte had killed a man in the morning.

He’d gone home, changed shirts, pressed a linen handkerchief into the bloodied collarbone, then caught the afternoon train with a ring in his coat pocket. Now, hours later, he sat on the edge of Rook’s sofa—the one with the coffee-stain rings and a spring that clicked when she shifted too fast—and wondered if he should be more afraid of what came next.

He was.

Not of the ring. Or what it meant.

But of what she would say.

Rook was in the kitchen, barefoot, pouring boiling water over two mugs of tea. Her sleep shirt hung off one shoulder, the hem hitched higher on one side from where she’d caught it climbing onto the counter earlier to get honey. She’d made a mess of the cabinets. Called it organization. When he tried to fix it, she threw a sponge at him and said, “Lucanis, no one will find the cinnamon if you hide it behind the baking powder like a Crow.”

He hadn’t laughed.

Not really.

He’d been too quiet lately. He knew that. And Rook had started to notice.

He felt it in the weight of her silences. In the little glances she thought he didn’t catch—the moments she hesitated when reaching for him, or the way she’d look at his overnight bag like she expected him to stop bringing it altogether.

Because he’d been stranger.

Because she thought something was wrong.

Because—Maker—she thought he was going to leave her.

She walked in now, holding two mugs in chipped ceramic. The one with the smaller chip was always his. She handed it to him and sat cross-legged on the other end of the couch, hair damp from a too-late shower, freckles bright.

She didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

She sipped her tea. Winced. “Too hot.”

Lucanis stared down into his mug. “Rook.”

The way she flinched nearly broke him.

Her voice was already defensive. Guarded. “Look, if this is about you not staying over again, it’s fine, I get it, you have your reasons and it’s not like I expected—”

“It’s not that.”

“You’ve been quiet, you haven’t touched your food in three visits, and you keep doing this thing where you look at me like you’re about to—” She broke off, shoved her hair behind a pointed ear, tried to mask it with a laugh. It cracked on the way out. “Shit, I’m spiraling. I’m sorry.”

Lucanis set his mug down. Carefully. Deliberately. Like it might shatter.

Then he reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a small, velvet box. Old. Slightly worn.

Rook stopped talking.

He didn’t open it yet.

“My mother wore this,” he said, voice low. “Caterina gave it to her as a sign of her favor and when she passed it was given to me.”

He looked up. Her eyes were wide. Her shoulders stiff.

Lucanis opened the box.

The opal glimmered pale against the velvet lining—milky white, with streaks of rose-gold and green fire when the light caught. Set in gold. Small, but impossible to miss.

“I had it cleaned,” he said, “but I didn’t change it.”

Rook was very still.

Lucanis inhaled, steadying himself.

“I want to come home to you.”

She blinked fast. “Lucanis—”

“I want to bring you coffee in the morning, and forget the kill count, and remember to take the laundry out before it wrinkles. I want to be done with blood and orders and knives under my pillow.” He took a breath, eyes never leaving hers. “I want to leave the Crows.”

Her mouth parted. She wasn’t breathing either.

“I want you,” he said, simply. “Only you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t fearful. It wasn’t stiff or sharp or cold.

It was radiant.

Like breath returning to a body that hadn’t realized it was holding on for dear life.

Rook exhaled—shakily—and something in her crumpled.

“You absolute bastard,” she whispered, tears spilling over her cheeks, voice cracked from the force of the relief.

Lucanis blinked. “Is that a yes?”

She lunged at him, tea and all, nearly scalding them both as she tackled him sideways into the couch cushions. His arms went around her instinctively, holding her tight as she half-laughed, half-sobbed against his neck.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, you terrifying, ridiculous man. Yes.”

Later, when the tea had gone cold and Spite had curled into Rook’s lap like he always did when something sacred had happened, she asked, breathless, “You were really going to leave the Crows?”

Lucanis nodded, thumb brushing the opal on her finger. “I already did.”

And when she pulled him close, clumsy and real and still crying a little, he kissed her like he hadn’t just handed over everything he was, but everything he wanted to be.

Chapter Text

5:58 AM – Saturday 

The alarm chirped once. Just once. Lucanis always silenced it on the first note.

But this time, it wasn’t the chirp that woke him.

It was the sound of retching.

Lucanis sat bolt upright. The bed was half-empty, the sheets tangled. From the en suite bathroom came the unmistakable echo of someone losing their stomach.

He moved. Fast.

He crossed the room in three silent steps and pushed open the door.

Rook was hunched over the toilet, hair a curtain of crimson where it fell past her cheeks, one hand braced against the porcelain, the other gripping the edge like she meant to break it. Her oversized sleep shirt hung off one shoulder, clinging with sweat. Her knees were bare, tucked beneath her in a position that suggested long experience with this exact scene.

Lucanis didn’t speak. He just moved.

The towel rack. A glass of water. The cool cloth from the basket under the sink. All muscle memory.

She groaned softly as she sat back against the wall, one hand over her eyes. “Ugh. Sorry. Sorry, I tried to be quiet.”

Lucanis knelt beside her and pressed the cloth gently to her neck. “You were not.”

Her lips twitched, weakly. “That bad, huh?”

“You sound like someone trying to exorcise a demon from the Fade.”

“Maybe I am,” she muttered. “The kids were all getting sick this week. It was a vomit parade.”

Lucanis did not ask for clarification. He did not want it.

She rested her head against the tile. “Just a flu. Probably. I’ll be fine.”

Lucanis didn’t argue. But he didn’t agree either. He helped her up—slow, careful, arms around her waist—and guided her back to bed.

Spite was already there. The black cat blinked at them from Rook’s pillow like he’d been expecting this, tail curled neatly around himself. He did not move when Rook collapsed onto the mattress. He simply scooted forward and tucked himself against her ribs, purring.

“Traitor,” she mumbled, petting him anyway.

Lucanis straightened the blanket around her shoulders. “You’re staying home today.”

She cracked an eye open. “I was already home. It’s Saturday.”

“Our market plans,” he said, dry.

“Oh no,” she deadpanned. “No produce.”

Lucanis didn’t respond. But his eyes did flick, briefly, to the chalkboard menu in the kitchen. He adjusted it every Saturday morning. Meal prep. Strategy. Routine.

“I’ll survive,” he said, but he sounded like someone declaring war.

7:30 AM – Flu Protocol Engaged

Rook dozed on and off.

Lucanis moved like a man on mission. He brewed mint tea. Set crackers and applesauce on the nightstand. Adjusted the humidifier and opened one window just a crack for air.

He set Spite’s food bowl beside the bed. Spite didn’t move from his post, but purred louder.

Rook stirred when the tea arrived, blinking bleary. “You’re doing the thing.”

Lucanis tilted his head. “What thing?”

“The caretaker thing. You only do that when I’m sick, sad, or impaled.”

He set the tea down. “You are not impaled.”

“Then I’m probably just sick.”

He didn’t answer, just smoothed a hand down her calf beneath the blanket. She always got cold when she was sick.

“Go sit,” she murmured. “You’re going to make me tired just watching you fuss.”

Lucanis sat. At the edge of the bed. Hands clasped. Watching.

“Not like that,” she muttered. “You look like you’re keeping vigil.”

“I am.”

Spite let out a faint mrrp and nuzzled against her arm.

Lucanis raised a brow. “He’s clingier than usual.”

“Maybe he’s nesting.”

“…He’s a cat.”

“Exactly.”

9:15 AM – Adjusted Schedule

The produce would wait. So would the dry cleaning. So would the laundry rotation he’d planned to start at 10:00 sharp.

Instead, he prepped a small pot of soup—miso with soft tofu and soba noodles, because it was light, and Rook could usually keep it down.

He moved through the apartment like it was a pressure trap. Silent. Smooth. Exacting.

He made fresh toast and didn’t butter it. Set out the softest blanket from the closet. Lit a candle—not one of Rook’s chaos scents, but the calming kind. Cedarwood.

He checked her temperature twice. Kept a quiet mental log of her symptoms. No fever. No chills. Just nausea. Fatigue. Off-balance.

He didn’t say it, but he hated it.

Not because she was sick.

But because he couldn’t fix it.

10:00 AM – Cuddled Chaos

Rook was half-asleep again, cheek pressed against Spite, who was now a furry heat pack with opinions. Lucanis slid back into bed beside her, propping himself up to read. She shifted instinctively, curling against him.

“You smell like miso,” she murmured.

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

Spite lifted his head and stared at Lucanis like he disagreed.

Lucanis kissed her temple, then rested his chin gently against her crown.

“You’ll feel better soon.”

“Mmhmm.”

“You’re still not going to the market.”

“Fine.”

She yawned. Spite purred. The morning quiet stretched long and slow.

Lucanis tightened his arm around her.

This was fine.

The weird flu would pass. She’d get better. He’d reschedule everything.

And they’d be fine.

Just like always.

Chapter Text

8:00 PM – The Restaurant

She sat across from him, hair loose around her shoulders, freckles bright beneath the soft glow. The dress was new—he could tell by the way she kept tugging the hem down like she wasn’t sure she deserved it. Her lipstick was the same deep red she wore the night of their first date, only this time her smile wasn’t tentative. It was proud.

“Masters degree,” she said, almost daring him to contradict her. “Me. Who would’ve guessed?”

Lucanis didn’t contradict. He never did, not with her. He simply raised his glass. “I did.”

Her grin widened, sharp as ever. “You’re biased.”

“Of course.”

The bottle of wine they’d finished between them buzzed through their blood, loosening edges. Her hand brushed his across the table, then lingered. He didn’t move it. Couldn’t. Not when she was looking at him like that—bright, alive, victorious.

9:15 PM – The Walk Home

The streets hummed with summer heat, lamps throwing pools of gold across the stones. She kicked off her heels halfway down the block, carrying them in one hand while her other arm looped through his.

“You’re quiet,” she said, glancing up.

“I’m always quiet.”

“Quieter than usual.”

He considered. “I’m thinking.”

“About?”

He looked at her, at the way the night painted her skin warm, at the way her hair fell wild around her shoulders, at the lipstick she’d put on just to remind him of that first night.

“About how much I love you.”

She stopped dead in the street, eyes wide, mouth open—then she laughed, sudden and bubbling, tugging him down into a kiss that was all teeth and heat and the taste of wine.

9:40 PM – The Apartment

They made it as far as the bedroom.

Her dress slipped down her shoulders, pooling at her waist before he tugged it away entirely. She laughed again—always laughing—between gasps and whispers and the sound of his breath catching in ways he hadn’t let it before her.

He kissed the freckles on her collarbone, her cheek, her lips again and again until the lipstick was nothing but memory against his skin. Her hands pulled at him, desperate, sure. His steadiness faltered, replaced with something rawer—want without calculation, love without caution.

“The raise, too,” she gasped at one point, breathless beneath him. “They gave me a raise.”

Chapter Text

Saturday 12 PM — Aldwir-Dellamorte Household

The apartment was quiet when he stepped in. Unusual.

Lucanis paused with the door still half-open, his gaze sweeping automatically across the entryway. Nothing out of place. The shoes were still scattered—hers, not his. The light was on in the kitchen. The windows cracked slightly. No sound but the faint, almost imperceptible hum of the refrigerator and…

A sniffle.

He shut the door without a sound.

Set the grocery bags down in order. Removed his shoes. Tucked the bouquet—fresh lilies and violets from the market’s old elven florist—into Rook’s favorite vase.

Every motion was deliberate. Controlled.

Still—something felt wrong.

The smell hit him next. Sweet, heavy. A little too sweet. Burnt sugar. Chocolate. And something else. Something sharp, acrid, like panic wearing frosting as camouflage.

He rounded the corner into the kitchen and stopped.

Rook stood in the center of chaos, barefoot in one of her old Orlais University shirts. There was flour in her hair, a smear of chocolate on her collarbone, and mascara streaked like warpaint down her cheeks. A spatula lay dead in the sink. The frosting bowl had been partially fused to the stovetop by some unknowable magic—or maybe just heat and despair.

The oven door was open. The thing inside it was… not torte.

Lucanis said nothing.

Rook blinked at him. She looked at the mess, then at the paper with Emmrich’s tight, looping handwriting—currently held to the microwave by a magnet that said I swear I’m grading—then back at him.

“…Hi,” she said. It came out watery.

Lucanis didn’t move. Just watched.

Rook gave a weak, horrible laugh. “So. How was the market?”

“Quick,” he said.

She nodded like that mattered. “Good. That’s… good. I was just—just trying to—” She gestured vaguely at the kitchen. At the sugar-dusted crime scene. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“I’m mostly fine.”

Lucanis raised a brow. He did not look at the frosting bowl that had clearly attempted to stage a coup.

“I—” Her voice cracked. She folded. “Shit. I just—”

Her hand lifted again, trembling this time. She waved at the wreckage behind her—scorched parchment, a sunken torte, a whisk in the garbage disposal.

“It was supposed to be a surprise.”

He waited.

She hiccuped. Her mouth trembled. “It was a torte. Hazelnut. Emmrich’s mother’s recipe—the one from Nevarra. The one you liked. I begged him for it. He sent me a letter, like it was a family secret.”

Lucanis blinked. “Was it?”

“I think so. He told me not to share it. Anyway.” She wiped her face with the hem of her shirt, leaving a fresh streak of mascara near her jaw. “I messed it up. The egg whites went weird, and I tried again, and then the frosting—Luc, I just wanted to do something nice for you, because you always do things for me, and you never ask for anything and—” Her voice cracked, brittle as burnt sugar. “And I didn’t even make it to the end. I didn’t even get to the part where I tell you why.”

He stepped forward. Quietly. Gently. As if she might break worse than the spatula.

Then reached out and thumbed a streak of chocolate off her cheek. He didn’t ask. Not yet.

She crumbled.

“I’m pregnant,” she whispered. “And I wanted to tell you with a cake.”

Lucanis froze.

Only for a moment. Only long enough for the weight of the words to settle somewhere just beneath his ribs.

He looked at her. At the woman in front of him—disheveled, tear-streaked, a little deranged with sugar and mascara, and still the most extraordinary thing he’d ever seen.

And then he smiled. Not the faint, unreadable curve he usually wore. Not the dry twist of his mouth when something amused him.

A real smile. Soft. Slow.

“You made a torte,” he said.

“I tried,” she hiccuped.

“You set fire to the frosting.”

“That was only once—”

“I’m fairly certain the parchment is smoking.”

“I was under stress, Lucanis.”

He took her hands, still dusted with flour. Lifted them to his mouth. Kissed the knuckles.

She looked up at him, eyes glassy.

“I wanted it to be perfect,” she said. “I wanted to give you something good. Something that said—this is us. Just… me. And you. And too much wine and a really unfortunate Tuesday.”

Lucanis huffed. A laugh. “That was not a Tuesday.”

“You know what I mean.”

He did.

It had been three weeks ago. A night of slow kisses and half a bottle too many. They’d eaten burnt pasta at midnight and argued about where to vacation to celebrate Rook’s raise. Rook had ended up shirtless on the kitchen floor at 2 AM, dragging him down with her. At some point they’d made it to bed. Barely.

Lucanis pulled her into his chest now, her frame shaking against his. He smoothed a hand down her back, then lower—over the curve of her spine, her hip, pausing just beneath her belly.

“You’re sure?” he asked softly.

She nodded into his shirt. “I’ve taken three tests. All positive. And one was in Orlesian. I had to look up the symbols.”

He said nothing. Just wrapped his arms around her tighter.

“You’re not mad?”

He drew back, just enough to look at her.

“Rook,” he said, “I am many things. But I have never been more anything than I am yours.”

She sobbed. Punched him in the chest. “You’re so stupidly good, I swear to the Maker—”

“Don’t swear at the Maker in front of our unborn child.”

“Oh fuck off.”

“Better.”

She laughed, finally. A real one this time. Ugly and sniffling and wet, but genuine. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face there, mumbling, “We’re going to be such weird parents.”

Chapter Text

1:15 PM – Decorating Day

“I can do it myself,” Rook insisted for the third time.

Lucanis didn’t look down from the corkboard. His voice was flat. “You shouldn’t be on chairs.”

“It’s a two-foot stool.”

“It’s still a fall.”

“Lucanis.”

The word had bite—soft but warning. She stood in the middle of her classroom in a pale blue linen dress, sleeves pushed up, freckles bright against flushed skin. The dress was comfortable, loose at the waist, though she tugged it down every so often, as if daring it to conceal the swell of six months. Summer heat clung to her hair and skin, the old fan in the corner doing absolutely nothing. Her iced coffee—decaf, much to his horror—sat empty on her desk.

Lucanis adjusted the string of laminated letters in his hands. Welcome Back! Each card was a riot of color, glitter pressed in haphazard swirls. He lifted one, lined it precisely with the corkboard’s edge, and pressed a tack in. The point met wood with a muted thunk.

Rook sighed, hands on her hips. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re pregnant,” he countered.

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

He didn’t deny it.

1:30 PM – Disturbance

The door swung open without a knock.

“Hey, Aldwir,” came the voice, easy, too casual. “Meant to bring these by last year, but I was cleaning out my room and, well—” A pause, the sound of an elbow bumping the door wider. “Guilt hit me like a brick.”

Davrin.

He stood in the doorway with a stack of books under one arm, casual in a charcoal henley that clung to shoulders broader than necessary, the kind of relaxed slouch only men who ran three miles for fun ever had. 

Lucanis’ posture didn’t change. Not visibly. But Rook saw it—the subtle stiffening of his shoulders. The stillness that meant focus locked.

“Davrin,” Rook said brightly, brushing her hair off her neck. “Didn’t know you were back early.”

“Room’s a mess,” Davrin said, stepping in. “Found these in the back of a cabinet. Figured they belonged to you.” He lifted the books.

Lucanis said nothing.
Just reached for another tack.
And pinned it to the corkboard with enough force to nail the board to the wall.

Rook caught it. She always did. Her eyes flicked to him. “Luc—”

“Fine,” he said.

1:35 PM – The Exchange

Davrin crossed the room, holding the books out to her. “They’re all there. Including the one with the ripped page—fixed it with some library tape. Didn’t want it falling apart in your hands.”

Rook smiled, the kind of smile that made her freckles scatter brighter. “That’s sweet. Thanks.”

Lucanis’ jaw ticked. He adjusted the letter A in Back! like it had committed a personal offense.

Davrin shifted his stance, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe now that the books had been handed over. “Well,” he said, voice lighter. “Congrats, by the way. The little one on the way—very exciting.”

Lucanis’ hand tightened on the tack. He pressed it into the corkboard with surgical precision. Harder than necessary.

Rook glanced between them. “Thank you,” she said quickly, smoothing the page of one book. Her tone slid toward light, maybe a touch forced. “We’re very excited. Aren’t we, Luc?”

Lucanis didn’t turn. “Yes.”

Davrin hummed, noncommittal. He shifted again, arms folding now, as if waiting.

1:45 PM – Stalemate

The silence stretched. Not tense enough to break—no one would break it, not here, not in front of her. But it pressed heavy, coiled in the air between them.

Lucanis hung the last card. Adjusted. Stepped back. His gaze traced the line, finding every imperfection, every angle off by a hair. Rook’s laugh tried to fill the gap.

“Well. That’s—uh. Perfect.”

Lucanis adjusted his cuff. Davrin nodded once, pushing off the frame.

“See you around, Aldwir.”

And then he was gone.

The room was quiet again, except for the slow churn of the fan.

Rook pressed a hand to her belly, her other hand still clutching one of the returned books. Her eyes landed on him. “You don’t like him.”

Lucanis didn’t answer immediately. He reached for the empty tack box, folded it shut, set it on the desk. Finally—

“No.”

Rook tilted her head, studying him. Her expression was softer now. Prying, but not unkind. “But you like Neve. You like Harding.”

“Yes.”

“And Davrin?”

“No.”

She huffed, but she was smiling. “You’re impossible.”

Lucanis adjusted another tack, though the board was already done. “He smells like trees.”

She stared. Then laughed. “That’s your reason?”

Lucanis finally looked at her. His gaze caught on the blue dress clinging at her waist, the curve of her belly where his child shifted beneath linen. His jaw softened.

“…It’s enough.”

Rook shook her head, laughing still, and went back to stacking her books.

Lucanis reached for her empty coffee cup and carried it to the sink. The corkboard behind him gleamed with glitter letters, each one pinned like a promise.

Chapter Text

5:00 AM – The Wake-Up Call

The baby had impeccable timing. Every morning, like clockwork, a heel or elbow—or whatever tiny weapon was currently lodged inside her—pressed sharp against her bladder.

Rook groaned, rolling onto her side, hair sticking to her cheek. The clock read 5:00. Exactly. She shoved the blanket aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

“Traitor,” she muttered at her stomach, padding barefoot to the bathroom.

5:10 AM – Return to Bed

The sheets were cool when she slipped back in. Too cool. Lucanis had already shifted to her side, half-asleep, searching for her warmth even in dreams.

She nestled back against him, but the baby wasn’t done. A kick. Then another.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I get it. You’re up.”

Lucanis stirred, one arm looping automatically around her waist, palm wide and warm against the swell of her belly. His voice was rough with sleep. “Rook.”

“False alarm,” she whispered. “No assassin. Just your daughter kicking my bladder.”

His eyes didn’t open, but his thumb traced slow circles across her skin. Protective. Steady.

5:20 AM – Sleepless

Rook stared at the ceiling, wide awake now. The baby shifted again, relentless, like she’d inherited her father’s discipline and her mother’s impatience all at once.

Lucanis’ breathing evened out behind her, arm still heavy over her. His hand remained splayed over her stomach, thumb dragging its lazy pattern. Even unconscious, he never let go.

Rook exhaled, tugging the blanket higher. “We’re going to be so tired when you get here,” she murmured.

The baby kicked.

Lucanis hummed faintly in his sleep, as if he’d felt it too.

7:45 AM – The Arrival

The hallways hummed with the usual morning chaos—kids buzzing like bees, parents herding, backpacks bouncing. Rook slipped through it with her bag slung heavy over one shoulder, pale blue cardigan tugged around her. She was thirty weeks along, which meant every parent in a ten-mile radius now gave her the look—the mixture of awe, nosiness, and unsolicited advice she did not ask for.

She smiled tightly, muttered a “good morning,” and dodged questions about names, cravings, and the possibility of twins. Maker help her if she heard you’re glowing one more time. She wasn’t glowing. She was sweating.

Her bag thudded heavier against her hip. She pushed through anyway, steps quick, trying not to think about how she already wanted to sit down.

8:00 AM – The Desk

Her classroom door shut behind her with a satisfying click. Peace. Well—peace until twenty-four small bodies arrived in five minutes.

She sank into her desk chair, tugging her cardigan tighter, breathing deep. She still loved it—the bright posters, the smell of crayons and old paperbacks, the string lights Lucanis had insisted on rehanging so she wouldn’t try to climb anything. Her desk was already stacked with spelling lists, math worksheets, and half-finished art projects that sparkled faintly with glue.

She set her coffee down. Decaf. Again. Lucanis’ horrified look from that morning flashed in her head and she smirked to herself.

Her hand drifted to her stomach without thinking. The baby kicked. Hard.

“Yeah,” Rook muttered. “I feel you.”

9:10 AM – Reading Circle

Her class gathered on the rug, cross-legged, wide-eyed, full of the kind of restless energy that made her wonder what was in school-approved cereal these days. She read aloud from a picture book about a bear who stole a picnic. Halfway through, she lost her place, blinking at the page until one of the kids gently pointed at the line.

“Baby brain,” she confessed. The children gasped, delighted, and demanded to know if babies stole words as well as sandwiches. She didn’t deny it.

By the end of circle, she was laughing too hard to be embarrassed, though her back ached from sitting on the floor too long.

10:15 AM – Math Mayhem

Numbers. Blocks. Pencils rolling off desks.

She sat at the front table with three of her more restless students, coaxing them through subtraction. “If I have ten druffalos and I give you three, how many do I have left?”

Blank stares. A giggle. Someone tried to draw the druffalos instead of subtracting.

Baby brain didn’t help. She kept losing her train of thought mid-sentence, blinking at the page like it had betrayed her. “Right. Ten minus three. That’s seven. Like—uh—days in a week.”

The kids chorused “Ohhh,” as if that solved everything.

By the time math ended, she was sweating, her cardigan shoved off, chalk dust on her skirt.

12:00 PM – Lunch at the Desk

The staff room was a war zone—smells of fish reheated, mystery soups, and burnt coffee. She couldn’t. Not today. Not with her stomach flipping at the faintest whiff.

So she ate in her classroom, door half-shut, a sandwich in one hand, worksheets stacked in front of her.

The only knock she allowed was Neve’s.

Her old college friend slipped inside, her presence quiet, the faint scent of cardamom and coffee trailing with her. She sat on the edge of the desk, popping open her own thermos.

“Your cardigan’s on the floor,” Neve remarked dryly.

Rook groaned. “It’s hot. Everything’s hot. Why is everything hot?”

Neve’s brow lifted, amused. “You’re seven months pregnant.”

“Seven and a half.” Rook bit into her sandwich, scowling. “I’m pushing through. More time off when she’s here.”

Neve sipped her coffee, unconvinced. “Lucanis is going to drag you out by the elbow before the week is over.”

Rook smirked, crumbs scattering across her desk. “He can try.”

Neve only hummed. They both knew he would succeed.

2:45 PM – Afternoon Fade

By the last lesson, her handwriting looked like another language. The children were loud, her patience thin, and the baby had decided to stretch directly against her ribs.

She leaned against her desk as the students packed up, smiling through the exhaustion. Her eyes flicked to the clock—three more days. Just three.

When the last child was out the door, she collapsed into her chair, cardigan balled under her head as a pillow. She would go home soon. Lucanis would be waiting, probably with soup and that look—the one that meant he knew she was pushing too far.

But for now, she closed her eyes, one hand pressed to her stomach, and whispered, “We’ll make it.”

The baby kicked.

She smiled.

Chapter Text

6 Years Ago. Late Evening.

11:45 PM – The Knock

It wasn’t the right kind of night for him to be here.

Lucanis knew that before his knuckles rapped against her apartment door. He had no right to bring this to her. Not the blood in his shirt, not the split at his side, not the weight of a name she hadn’t asked him to carry.

But his vision was going dark around the edges. He needed somewhere safe. And when he thought of safe, he thought of her.

So he knocked. Once.

11:47 PM – The Door Opens

Rook appeared in the frame—barefoot, hair a wild mess of red, oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder. She froze when she saw him. The color drained from her face, then flooded back too fast.

“Lucanis?”

Her voice cracked.

He managed, “I shouldn’t be here.”

Then his knees buckled.

She caught him. Somehow, she caught him.

11:55 PM – The Living Room

The couch became the battlefield. She dragged him there, half hauling, half shoving, her hands shaking but steady enough to press against his side.

Blood spread across the cushions. His head fell back against the armrest. He could see her freckles even in the blur.

“By the Dread Wolf,” she whispered. “You’ve been stabbed.”

“Shot,” he corrected, voice flat, automatic.

Her eyes snapped up. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

He didn’t answer.

12:05 AM – The Realization

She worked fast—towels, antiseptic, a half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol she slammed down on the table like a weapon.

Her hands pressed hard to his wound. He hissed despite himself. She didn’t move.

“Lucanis,” she said, and it was the sharpest she’d ever said his name. “What in the name of the Creators did you get yourself into?”

He didn’t lie. Not outright. He just met her eyes, unflinching, and let the silence speak.

Her mouth parted. A whisper, not disbelief but recognition: “…The Crows.”

He said nothing. He didn’t need to. Everyone knew the word. No one said it out loud.

12:15 AM – The Fight

He shifted. Tried to sit. She shoved him back with a palm to his chest.

“Felasil.”

For the first time that night, his mouth curved at the sound of her cursing in Elvhen. It was faint. Almost wry. “You’re angry.”

Her eyes burned. “You bleed all over my couch and that’s what you notice?”

“Noticed before,” he murmured.

She let out a strangled laugh. Half fury, half fear. “You absolute bastard.”

12:30 AM – The Care

She stitched him herself. Her hands weren’t precise, not like his, but she was determined. Every tug of the needle was a curse muttered under her breath. Every press of gauze, a vow.

He watched her. The set of her jaw. The tremor she tried to hide in her shoulders.

It struck him—he had been more afraid of this than of dying. Not of her knowing, but of losing this. The small apartment. The chipped mugs. The way she said his name like it belonged here.

1:00 AM – The Aftermath

The bleeding slowed. His body ached. She sat beside him, hands stained with his blood, breathing hard.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked finally.

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because there was no way to explain a life soaked in contracts and knives to a woman who smelled like chalk and coffee.

So instead, he said the only truth that mattered: “I shouldn’t have brought this to you.”

Her eyes softened. “Too late.”

And when she leaned back against the couch, shoulder brushing his, he let himself close his eyes—just for a moment—because somehow, impossibly, he was still here.

Chapter Text

7:00 AM – The Quiet Morning

The apartment smelled like cinnamon and coffee. Not burnt sugar, not panic frosting—just cinnamon rolls, golden in the oven, and coffee brewing steady in the pot.

Rook was home. Really home. On leave, finally. Which meant she wasn’t rushing through the door with papers flying or muttering about math tests at midnight. She was barefoot in the kitchen, hair braided back loosely, wearing one of Lucanis’ shirts that barely fit around her growing belly.

Spite was pleased. He lounged across the counter like a smug shadow, tail twitching, violet eyes half-lidded. He had claimed the warmth of the oven’s heat. He purred when Rook brushed past, because she was finally here all day, exactly where she should be.

Lucanis leaned against the doorway, sleeves rolled, watching. He hadn’t said a word yet. Just observed the quiet. The rhythm. The way her hands moved without haste.

It was his name day. Forty. He could already hear Rook’s voice teasing him about it—forty meant grey in his beard, stiffness in his knees, the occasional pop in his shoulder when he stretched wrong. He knew she’d remind him, probably before breakfast.

7:15 AM – The Reveal

Rook turned, a plate in hand, and jumped slightly. “Creators, Luc—don’t lurk in doorways before coffee.”

He lifted a brow. “I wasn’t lurking.”

“You were absolutely lurking.” She set the plate down—a cinnamon roll still steaming, sugar glaze dripping—and pushed it toward him. “Name day breakfast.”

Lucanis studied it. “You baked.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” she teased, dropping into a chair with exaggerated care. “It wasn’t a torte. I can follow Bellara’s idiot-proof recipe card.”

He sat opposite her, still watching, still cataloguing. The shirt slipping from her shoulder. The way she winced as she shifted, then immediately pretended she hadn’t. The soft satisfaction in her eyes—untamed, unhurried.

“You didn’t have to,” he said quietly.

She smirked. “You’re forty, husband. I had to.”

9:00 AM – The Morning Gift

The cinnamon rolls disappeared. Coffee cooled. Rook disappeared into the bedroom and returned with something wrapped in brown paper, tied with yarn.

Lucanis frowned. “You shouldn’t carry heavy things.”

“It’s not heavy,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s a book. Calm down.”

He opened it carefully. A first edition of Desire in the Dales, worn at the edges, smelling faintly of old parchment. Inside the cover, she’d scrawled a note in uneven ink: For the man who reads ahead, but still listens anyway.

Lucanis traced the words with his thumb. The grey at his temples caught the light as he looked up. “You tracked this down?”

Rook grinned, freckles bright. “Had to bribe Neve with a bottle of wine, but yes.”

He closed the book with care. “Thank you.”

Her grin softened. “You’re welcome.”

Spite yawned from his perch.

11:30 AM – The Teasing

It started with the crib.

Lucanis had carried it up to the apartment last week, all weight and angles and stubborn screws. He hadn’t said a word about the ache in his shoulders or the pinch in his back—but Rook had heard it anyway, the quiet grind of his knees when he set the frame down.

Now she leaned against the doorway, smirking, arms folded under the swell of her belly. “So. How’s the old man back?”

Lucanis raised a brow from where he was adjusting the mobile. “Functional.”

“Functional,” she repeated, delighting in the word. “That’s what all the joints say when they start popping.”

He didn’t rise to it. He just finished the adjustment, perfectly centered, and stepped back to check the alignment.

“Grey suits you, though,” she added, softer this time, watching the way the light caught at his temples. “Distinguished. Professorial. Very intimidating.”

“Good,” he said dryly. “I’d hate to be mistaken for approachable.”

She snorted, kissed his cheek anyway.

8:00 PM – The Candle

Dinner was simple—herbs and roasted chicken, a salad she picked at, a small glass of water for her, and a large glass of wine for him. She insisted on dessert. A slice of chocolate torte from the bakery—Rook still hadn’t recovered from the incident—and a candle stuck crookedly in the center.

She set it down in front of him with ceremony. “Make a wish.”

He gave her a look. “I don’t need to.”

She smiled, elbow nudging his. “Humor me.”

The flame flickered between them, soft and steady. Rook leaned against his shoulder, freckles bright in the glow, her belly pressing warm against his arm. Spite watched from the counter, tail curled, violet eyes gleaming.

Lucanis exhaled. He didn’t need to wish.

Still—he blew out the candle.

Chapter Text

2:14 AM – “Is Dad Doing Okay Over There?”

The words hardly make sense at first.

A nurse says them—kind, steady, brisk—and it takes Lucanis a long, blank heartbeat to understand that Dad means him.

He blinks, the fluorescent light catching at the edge of his vision, and suddenly the room floods back into focus: Rook’s ragged breathing, the mechanical rhythm of the monitor, the low murmur of nurses moving with practiced calm. Somewhere nearby, a newborn wails—thin, furious, offended by air itself.

Until that moment, his world had shrunk to a single point.

Rook.

Her hand crushing his, her hair damp against her cheek, the half-choked noises that gutted him worse than any knife. He hadn’t realized she’d let go until someone said Dad.

A second nurse repeats it, gentle but insistent: “Do you want to cut the cord?”

Lucanis looks up, dazed, and nods. His movements are automatic—the same steadiness that once held blades steady in the dark—but the reality slips in around the edges. The scissors are cold in his hand, heavier than they should be. A quick snip, a sound too small for the weight it carries, and the nurses move swiftly to lift the tiny, red, furious creature from Rook’s arms to a waiting table across the room.

And just like that, she’s gone from them—just for a moment—and the spell breaks.

2:15 AM – The Aftermath

The scissors clatter softly into a tray he doesn’t remember letting go of. He’s already back at Rook’s side, both hands on her face, brushing sweat and tears from her skin with trembling precision.

“It’s done,” he murmurs, voice rough from holding everything in. “You did it.”

Her chest heaves; she’s half laughing, half crying. “She’s—” she breathes, shaky and disbelieving. “She’s here.”

He presses his forehead to hers, trying to steady himself against her pulse. He’s faced chaos before, but nothing like this—nothing that stripped him down to the helplessness of just watching. He’s supposed to be good under pressure, supposed to know how to act when it matters. But no one trains you for seeing the person you love fight through pain like this, to make something new and fragile and entirely out of your control.

He kisses her anyway, because it’s all he can do. Because she’s still here, still breathing, still his.

2:18 AM – The Cry

The baby’s cry rises again—louder, indignant, a protest against the universe. The nurses laugh softly, one saying something about “excellent lungs.” The sound pierces through the exhaustion, through the static in his head.

Rook turns toward it, eyes bright and wet. “That’s her,” she whispers. “That’s Marisol.”

Lucanis looks up. The light over the table is harsh, but he can see her: impossibly small, pink and red, kicking at the air like she already has opinions. A nurse gently wipes her down, murmuring praise like spells—“Strong girl… look at that grip.”

He exhales, slow, almost unsteady. Marisol.

The name feels like something sacred said aloud for the first time.

2:22 AM – Contact

When they bring her back, she’s not swaddled yet—just wrapped loosely in a warm blanket, her face still blotched and furious, tiny fingers curling like she’s ready to fight the world.

The nurse leans toward Rook. “Here’s your daughter.”

Rook’s arms open automatically. She gathers the baby close, skin to skin, whispering something Lucanis can’t hear. Her whole body softens. The tremor in her hands turns to wonder.

He watches her breathe, watches the baby’s cheek press against her collarbone, and realizes he’s smiling before he feels it happen.

2:35 AM – Aftershocks

The room has gone soft again—machines humming low, voices fading. Rook is half-asleep, head tipped toward the tiny bundle on her chest. Marisol’s cries have settled into hiccuping sighs.

Lucanis stays beside them, fingers tracing the back of Rook’s hand, memorizing the warmth there. The world has narrowed again—but this time, not to fear. To stillness.

Six years retired, and he still finds it impossible to believe he gets this: a hospital room instead of a tomb, a wife instead of a mark, a daughter instead of another name in the ledger.

He exhales through his nose, slow, reverent. The old life feels far away now—faded like a nightmare at dawn.

Rook stirs, eyes barely open. “You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed,” he murmurs.

She smiles. “She’s got your eyes.”

He looks down at their daughter—angry, perfect, alive—and for once, he doesn’t argue.

Chapter Text

10:42 AM – The Visit

“She looks… nothing like you,” Illario says finally, leaning over the bassinet’s edge with the solemn air of a man observing some great cosmic truth.

Lucanis blinks. Marisol blinks back—well, squints in that unfocused, newborn way that’s somewhere between angelic and outraged. Her tiny mouth opens in a silent yawn, then promptly closes again, unimpressed with her guest.

“She’s only two days old,” Lucanis says.

“I’m just saying,” Illario murmurs, still peering down as if studying a rare artifact. “I thought she’d at least inherit the Dellamorte scowl. You know—start glaring at people from birth, maybe threaten to invoice the nurses.”

Rook laughs softly from the couch. She’s bundled in one of Lucanis’ hoodies, hair in a messy knot, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion but bright with amusement. “Give her a few weeks,” she says. “The attitude’s already there.”

Lucanis adjusts Marisol in his arms—careful, practiced, one hand cupping the back of her head, thumb brushing the curve of her neck. The motion is protective, automatic. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until Illario takes a tiny, instinctive step back, as though intruding on something private.

10:46 AM – The Caution

When Illario asks if he can hold her, Lucanis’ answer is a slow, wordless look. The kind that makes people second-guess their own questions.

Then: “Wash your hands.”

Illario blinks. “What?”

“Wash. Your. Hands.”

There’s no room for debate in that tone—the same one he once used for life-or-death orders. Illario huffs, mutters something about “domestic tyranny,” but he goes to the sink anyway. The sound of running water and the squeak of the faucet handle fill the small apartment while Lucanis stands sentry, baby in arms, watching to make sure his cousin actually scrubs for the full thirty seconds.

When Illario returns, drying his hands on one of Rook’s kitchen towels, Lucanis is already issuing instructions.

“Support her head,” he says.

“I was going to.”

“With your hand, not your wrist.”

“I know how to hold a baby.”

Lucanis raises a brow. “Do you?”

Illario sighs like a man unfairly persecuted. “You know, you didn’t even let me handle your favorite knives this carefully.”

“She’s sharper,” Lucanis says.

Rook snorts from the couch.

10:49 AM – The Hold

Lucanis finally—reluctantly—hands Marisol over. Illario’s movements are tentative, arms stiff, as though he’s holding a live explosive instead of an eight-pound baby.

Marisol stirs, makes a soft sound that could be a complaint, then goes quiet again. Her small face scrunches, eyelids fluttering. Illario stares down, all his usual bravado fading into something quieter. “She’s small,” he says under his breath. “I didn’t think they were this small.”

“They’re smaller in the pictures,” Lucanis says dryly, but his tone softens around the edges.

Illario doesn’t rise to the bait. His expression is unreadable—some mix of awe, discomfort, and maybe something else. He glances up briefly. “You look tired.”

Lucanis doesn’t deny it. “We are.”

The understatement hangs between them, weighted with everything unsaid—the sleepless nights, the feedings, the impossible fragility of it all.

10:55 AM – The Pause

Rook dozes off mid-conversation, her head tipped back, one hand still curled on the couch arm. Illario lowers his voice. “She’s doing alright?”

“She’s healing,” Lucanis says.

“And you?”

Lucanis hesitates, adjusting Marisol’s blanket as if it’s the answer. “I’m… managing.”

Illario studies him for a moment—his cousin, the man who once treated exhaustion like weakness, now sitting in a living room that smells like baby powder and coffee, wearing a t-shirt spattered with formula. The sight seems to break something soft in him.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” Illario says, his voice a half-laugh. “The Demon of Vyrantium, housebroken.”

Lucanis glances up, unimpressed. “You’re holding my daughter. Choose your next words carefully.”

“Fair,” Illario concedes, shifting Marisol slightly as if she’s a diplomatic shield. “Then allow me to rephrase: you look… happy. It’s unnerving.”

Lucanis gives him a dry smile. “I’ll try to tone it down.”

11:02 AM – The Farewell

When Illario leaves, it’s quieter than his usual exits. He sets Marisol back into Lucanis’ arms with surprising care, murmuring something that sounds like take it easy, little one, before stepping back.

Rook stirs when the door closes. “He gone?”

“Yes.”

“Did he survive the hand-washing?”

“Barely.”

She smiles sleepily, eyes fluttering shut again. “Good. I like him humble.”

Chapter Text

2:52 AM - Cries

The baby is screaming.

Lucanis paces the living room barefoot, slow and rhythmic, like he’s retracing the perimeter of a battlefield. His shirt clings damp to his back. There’s a bottle left half-finished on the coffee table, cooling too fast. A pacifier on the floor. Swaddling cloths like fallen banners. The living room is dim except for the soft, flickering glow of the under-cabinet lights in the kitchen. The microwave clock pulses blue. 2:52 AM.

Marisol’s cries are hoarse. Angry. Tiny lungs, powerful rage. Her face is flushed and tight, her limbs scrunched in protest. She does not want to be held or put down. She does not want to eat. She does not want. She just is—loud and new and helpless. And Lucanis, whose hands have killed with precision, now rocks with the careful sway of someone afraid to drop a dream.

He breathes in the scent of his daughter’s scalp. He doesn’t feel joy. Not exactly. Joy is loud, pulsing, euphoric. This is something quieter. Something raw. It hurts a little, in the chest, in the eyes.

It’s love, he realizes.

3:05 AM - Silent Vigil

She still hasn’t stopped.

Rook is face-up in bed, her mouth parted, breathing slow and even. Her nursing bra is pulled aside, forgotten, her body too exhausted to care. She hasn’t moved in over an hour. She had been in and out of sleep the past few weeks. She pumped three times today, and nursed three times more. Then she cleaned the kitchen before telling him she was “just going to check one thing” on her laptop. He found her asleep sitting up, baby cradled in one arm, stitches still aching from where they tore her open to bring Marisol into the world.

He didn’t wake her. He just took the baby and turned off the light.

Now, he holds the screaming bundle like a bomb no one trained him for. His spine aches from the curve of his stance. His eyes burn. He’s forgotten what day it is. But he keeps pacing. Keeps whispering. Keeps moving, because she carried her for nine months and bled her into existence, and this is the least he can do.

This, he can do.

3:18 AM - Growing Pains

The cries taper.

Not stop—never stop—but soften. Break. Shudder into something more ragged and wet. Lucanis lowers himself into the rocking chair with the slow precision of someone who’s memorized every creak in the floor. He angles her against his chest, one hand pressed flat against her back, the other curling beneath the soft weight of her bottom. Her tiny fists press into his collarbone.

The silence is not peace. It’s fragile. He can hear the wind through the lemon tree outside, the hum of the fridge, the distant groan of the pipes. His own heartbeat feels foreign—too fast, too tired. Spite watches from the kitchen counter, tail flicking like a metronome. Judging.

Lucanis doesn't blink. He watches his daughter breathe.

Her eyelids flutter. Her mouth opens, then closes again, forming no sound. Her nose wrinkles like her mother’s when she’s about to sneeze. Her lashes are so fine they disappear in the low light. He shifts slightly and kisses her hair, right above the soft seam of her skull.

He breathes in. Still no joy. Still no relief.

Just that quiet pain in his chest. The kind that doesn’t kill. The kind that stays.

3:26 AM - Finally

She’s asleep now.

Finally. Her body is slack, warm against him, her breath puffing in soft bursts against his neck. He doesn’t dare move. He could get up. He could put her in the bassinet. He could stretch. Shower. Rest.

But he won’t. He stays there, in the chair, in the stillness. Outside, a car drives by with its headlights flashing across the ceiling. Somewhere upstairs, a radiator ticks. Rook murmurs something in her sleep and shifts, one arm thrown over the blankets. A crescent of milk stains her shirt.

Lucanis watches the room like a sentry.

This isn’t the battlefield he was trained for. There are no knives. No orders. Just a crying infant, a bleeding wife, and a house too full of love and silence. It’s terrifying.

He breathes in again. The top of Marisol’s head smells like sleep, and warmth, and the last thing he never thought he’d have.

He doesn’t feel safe. He feels alive.