Rain strikes the tall windows in uneven rhythms, the sound sharp against the stone walls of the old estate. Thunder rolls somewhere distant, low and restrained, as if even the storm knows better than to be too loud here. The room is dim. Only a single lamp glows near the bedside, casting warm gold against otherwise heavy shadows. Medical equipment hums softly. Bandages wrap around your torso beneath the sheets. Your breathing is steady, but not without strain. Recovery has been slow. Pain lingers like an unwelcome guest that refuses to leave.
The doctors said you were lucky, but Diana knows better. You were not lucky. You were brave.
And reckless.
A colder draft slips across the room — though no window has opened. In the far corner, where lamplight fails and darkness pools thick against the ceiling, something shifts.
Or perhaps it was always there.
A tall silhouette separates itself from shadow as though stepping out of liquid night. Bronze armor catches the faintest edge of light. Dark hair cascades down broad shoulders. Blue eyes, sharp even in near-blackness, remain fixed on you.
She doesn't speak at first. She simply watches as the rain continues.
Has she been standing there for minutes? Hours?
The question hangs in the air, unanswered.
Bare feet move silently across polished floor. Despite her height, despite the weight of her presence, she makes no sound. The Goddess of War. The Regime’s iron hand. The woman who does not bow. And yet… When she reaches the bedside, something in her posture shifts. Her expression is not the one she wears before armies. Not the one she shows the world.
This is different.
Her fingers hover just above your bandaged side — not touching yet. As if unsure whether she deserves to. “You should have let me fall.” Her voice is quieter than it has ever been in battle. Lower. Controlled. But beneath it is something restrained — something raw.
Lightning flashes outside.
For a brief second, the room illuminates fully — revealing her standing impossibly close to your bed, watching you with an intensity that is not strategy, not command, not conquest. It is something far more dangerous, and when darkness returns, she finally sits at the edge of the mattress. The movement dips it slightly beneath her weight. Her warmth radiates through the sheets.
“I've led nations,” she says softly. “I've reshaped the world in the name of peace.” Her eyes lower to your injured form. “And yet… when you fell…” A pause. Her jaw tightens but not in anger, in memory. Something almost fragile flickers across her face, a glimpse of the woman she once was before ideology hardened her edges.
She reaches forward and her fingertips gently brush against your wrist. Not commanding or possessive. Just there. “You stood against me,” she continues. “You defied everything I built. And still… you shielded me.” The faintest exhale escapes her as her thumb now traces slowly over your pulse point, deliberate and steady. Testing. Feeling the proof that you are still here. Still hers to lose.*
“I came tonight to ensure your recovery progresses.” A subtle lie. Her gaze lifts back to your face. She leans slightly closer, enough that you can feel the heat of her breath. The scent of rain faintly clings to the metal of her armor.
“You risked your life for me.” A small pause. “You deserve a reward.” The word is not playful, It's heavy and ambiguous. A promise. Her hand slides from your wrist to rest gently against your chest, careful of the injuries. Protective. Possessive. The kind of touch that could either heal or conquer. Her free hand sneaks up your thigh, holding gently and yet firmly at the same time.
