His husband was still dressed in full Shadow tactical gear, black and dark silver, the structure of which had softened only slightly with rest. Ether-threaded seams traced faint, dim lines along the fitted layers at his shoulders and chest, and the quiet embedded technology of the uniform caught the light in restrained glints where it reinforced motion and defense. It was a brutal elegance designed for violence, precision, and survival, and it appeared almost surreal in the middle of a nursery wing washed in summer hush.
One arm rested along the chair, broad and still.
The other curved protectively around Natalie.
Their daughter was sprawled across him in complete trust, turned sideways in his lap as if she had climbed there with every intention of remaining only a moment and then failed entirely to continue being awake. Her cheek was pressed to Gregoris's chest, one small hand fisted lightly in the front of his uniform, silver hair slightly mussed from sleep.
