Malvor did not sleep.
Not really.
He watched the night pass in slow-motion silence, every hour dragging across the ceiling like a thought he couldn't chase down.
But when Arbor's first rays of faux-sunlight spilled through the curtains soft and golden. Like a stage cue, he rose from the bed like smoke.
She didn't stir.
Peaceful. Not the brittle kind. Real rest. No twitching hands. No furrowed brow. Just her, finally still.
It hit him like a prayer answered.
So he did what he knew. What he always did when the world was too much and words weren't enough.
He made coffee.
Not just coffee, her coffee.
Triple shot. Iced. Sweet, but not toothache sweet. A whisper of hazelnut. A swirl of caramel. The kind of drink that said I see you better than any poem.
And because he was, on rare and terrifying occasions, thoughtful, he tapped the foam and whispered.
A heart bloomed.
Lopsided. Just like her favorite mug. Beside it, a tiny spiral of chaos curled in the milk, his signature smirk.
He placed it on a tray like it was holy and carried it back to their room.
She was sitting up now, blinking slow, hair a battlefield, sleep still clinging to her face like the night refused to let go.
He knelt beside her, coffee first.
She took a sip.
Paused.
And then, miracle of miracles, a smile broke through.
Soft. Real. Quiet.
She raised her hands and formed a heart with her fingers.
He melted on the spot.
"Okay," he whispered. "Today is a no-world day. No gods. No trauma. Just... blanket-based architecture."
Her brow arched, sleepy but amused.
He grinned like a lunatic. "We are building a fort. A real one. A legendary one. Architects will weep."
And they did.
With Arbor's dramatic flair, of course, the living room transformed into a cathedral of cozy. Towers of pillows. Cascading quilts. Lights that shimmered like stardust.
Stars floated overhead.
Firefly lanterns winked from the corners.
The floor became a sea of velvet and faux-fur, plush and deep, like they could sink into it and never hit bottom.
At its center: the throne.
A couch-heap monstrosity of squishy cushions, absurdly oversized and perfectly ridiculous.
To Malvor, it was sanctuary.
To her?
A welcome distraction.
He wanted this to be sacred.
She just needed to not think for a while.
Above them, the projector sparked to life—already queued.
Chronicles of the Crystal Phoenix: Part VII – Blood Moon Ascending.
It was awful.
Stiff acting. A villain so bejeweled he clinked when he walked. Effects that belonged in a courtroom, not a theater.
And it was perfect.
They didn't speak—she couldn't—but their eyes did all the talking.
Annie clutched a pillow to her chest and mimed a gasp as Sir Bladefist died in a blaze of pixelated betrayal.
Malvor buried his face in his hands, groaning like it physically hurt.
When the dragon crash-landed like a drunk goat on roller skates, they reenacted it in slow motion. Arms flailing. Faces contorted. Pure melodrama.
It was nonsense.
It was everything.
Midway through, she curled into his side.
He stilled.
Her laughter softened. Her breath slowed.
He looked down—
—and she was asleep.
Just like that.
No twitching. No nightmares. Just... sleep.
He didn't move.
He draped a blanket over her shoulders, kissed her temple, and whispered,
"Sleep, my star."
Because for once, she could.
She didn't stir for hours.
The movie ended in a sea of pixelated embers, the projector fading into drifting constellations. The fort dimmed, lights twinkling like lullabies.
He didn't move.
Held her as the hours melted away. Her cheek against his chest, one hand tangled in his shirt, the other tracing mindless shapes on his ribs.
He counted her breaths.
Each one a victory.
He watched her sleep, heart thudding with a strange ache he didn't recognize, not worry, not lust. Something quieter. Sharper. She looked so peaceful in the fortress he built, and some traitorous part of him wondered, was this enough? Would it ever be enough? Foam hearts and pizza nights? He didn't want to save her. He just didn't want to fall behind.
When she finally stirred, lashes fluttering, fingers twitching, he brushed her temple with his thumb.
"Hey, Star Shine," he whispered. "You hungry?"
She nodded, still in the haze between sleep and reality, and signed:
Food.
He grinned like a man summoned to his divine purpose.
"Coming right up."
With a snap and a muttered, "Extra grease, maximum cheese," a pyramid of mortal pizza boxes appeared, steaming like forbidden magic.
Pineapple and jalapeños.
Pepperoni with pickles.
Triple cheese.
And something... suspicious. Wet. Possibly aquatic. Possibly cursed.
Annie blinked at the boxes. Gave him a look.
You monster.
He popped the lid off one with a flourish. "You said food. I heard, 'regret on cardboard.'"
She smirked. Just a little. But it was there.
They sank deeper into the fort, thighs as tables, napkins conjured from thin air, pizza slices like blessings.
The next movie flickered to life:
Starlight Dominion: The Reckoning.
Cue orchestral fanfare.
Malvor's name glowed across the screen like divine graffiti.
She blinked. Then looked at him. Then back at the screen.
There he was. In formal robes.
Which vanished the moment he started monologuing.
He was shirtless.
Impressively, unnecessarily shirtless.
She pointed. At the screen. At him. Back again.
He chewed his pizza innocently. "Bold creative choice. The director had a vision."
She signed: Was the vision just abs?
"Exactly."
She rolled her eyes but leaned into him again.
By the time the credits rolled, backed by a sweeping anthem about love, honor, and the electoral process, she was smiling.
Not just her lips.
Her eyes.
And for Malvor, that beat any climax a plot could offer.