Another chapter to remind you that I'm a vanilla shoujo fag at heart. Sparkles, pining, and awkward hand-holding and all that shit.
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Frostfall 27th, 143 AE
By design, Himmel Koenig (the island, not the festival) was cold, grey, and just a little too proud of it. It wouldn't befit the capital of Atlas if it weren't trying to freeze both your bones and your sense of optimism.
A kingdom of steel and snow, of glass towers that rose above the ice like spears piercing the heavens. It was a land of tyranny, oppression, and greedy ambition, where only the strongest, the smartest, or the most ruthless could rise above the rest. The truth was far less impressive, but to the rest of the world, that was Atlas. The draconian rules and stifling laws of decades past had not been very helpful in any manner to change that image.
Atlas's inhabitants were similarly always perceived by others, be it from other kingdoms or from Mantle below, to carry those very same characteristics of the ice kingdom. Dreary. Cold. Unpleasant.
The people of Atlas proper looked down on others, viewing the rest of the world as barely better than barbaric ,or, in the Faunus' case, even less than that, while convincing themselves they weren't cold, merely classy. Efficient rather than dreary. Ambitious instead of greedy.
The truth lay somewhere in between. Atlesians were snobby bastards who acted like their shit smelled of rosemary and lilacs, but they built the best tech, ran the most efficient hospitals, led the world in military logistics, kept the skies clean with their air fleet, advanced infrastructure by fifty years, funded half the world's research, had the best schools, cured at least three types of cancer, and invented five new ways to make your coffee and had Jacques. But sure, aside from all that, it wasn't that different from other kingdoms.
Still, they were proud. Very proud of their traditions and of their own—even if their definition of "one of us" was narrow and excluded most of the population. So when the opportunity arose to display that pride, let it never be said that Atlas spared any expense.
Through his efforts, and those of his predecessor, Jacques was considered one of them. His achievements were Atlas's achievements, and, as previously stated, Atlas took immense pride in its achievements.
A ceremony was conducted, with Jacques Schnee at its center.
It was nothing short of grand. The great hall of the palace which once functioned as the seat of the King of Old Mantle, now remodeled to house the Temple of Atlas, was adorned with banners of cobalt and silver, the kingdom's crest emblazoned on every surface. Gilded chandeliers bathed the chamber in brilliant light, ensuring that no long shadows would be cast over the assembled elite.
He had to admit, it was a damn fine-looking castle. Better than anything he'd ever seen in England.
Jacques turned his gaze to the left, looking up at the rows upon rows of Atlas's highest-ranking officials, military brass, and economic elites standing in stiff formation. They carried themselves with the rigid grace of those who believed their presence alone was a gift to the proceedings and silent self-importance wrapped in layers of fake reverence as they looked down on those seated below.
And to his right and facing the military? Ah, the other elites of Atlas. The ones who were, of course, humble and polite and absolutely did not hate his guts. Their smiles were just a little too tight. Their claps were just a fraction of a second delayed. It was always amusing to watch them go through the motions, pretending not to grind their teeth at the sight of him standing where they believed he never should have belonged.
They could hate all they want; he saved their lives, and until the debt was paid back, they were his 'a word that was too offensive and vulgar to be uttered in a holy place.'
He offered them the brightest, most insufferably magnanimous smile he could muster. A few turned their attention elsewhere. Cowards.
Naturally, James Robocop Ironwood was present, seated at the very front in the place reserved for the military's highest authority. As expected, he looked rather cross with Jacques, though Jacques could not be bothered to begin to count the reasons why.
So, he smiled and waved.
Ironwood gave a stiff nod in return.
The rest of the attendees sat on the ground floor in seats of polished wood, surrounding the Empty Throne. These were neither military nor elites: merchants, scholars, minor bureaucrats, and those of old bloodlines that had long since faded from power.
Save for Nachri, whom he felt Willow nod in her direction, he didn't really pay any attention to them as he passed even if the urge to hurl his shoe at her face smug gnawed at him.
Behind those seated in polished wood, at the very edge of the grand hall, clustered around the entrance, were the common folk in the workers, the clerks, the men and women who kept Atlas running but would never be invited into its inner circles because their great-great-great granny didn't spread her legs to the right person.
Some called his name, some whistled, and a few even raised small banners with the Schnee crest, whether out of true admiration or just the thrill of being part of a grand event.
When he reached the stairs of the Empty Throne, he looked back at them, grinned, and raised his fist.
The crowd roared. Some clapped harder, some whistled, and a few female squeals started shouting stuff that shouldn't be said in decent company. For a second, the stiff, formal air of the ceremony cracked under the noise before the security and the glares of others had them quite down.
A hearty laugh rumbled from his belly, and his voice echoed just as loudly through the grand hall, bouncing off the high ceilings and stone walls. If nothing else, it gave Jacques a good laugh.
Screw decorum. Whitley, standing proudly at his side, could be proper for the both of them. And judging by the way the boy seemed to be preening under the attention, he was more than happy to play the part of the composed, dignified heir. That was fine. That was good.
Willow's expression was set neutral. Not cold, nor disapproving, but just watching, and studying him in a way that made Jacques' grin widen.
By now, whether from the months he had spent here or perhaps from her younger years with the other him, she seemed to read him well. She knew that laugh wasn't just amusement. She could likely already tell that he was enjoying himself far too much, relishing the spectacle in a way that was bound to irritate the more self-important attendees.
And she could read that it was more than that.
There was no reprimand in her eyes. No silent plea for him to behave. Just quiet understanding.
That was fine.
That was good.
He smiled at her before turning his attention back to the proceedings with the chime of the large bell.
"Let all gathered stand for the Anthem of Atlas."
As the first notes of the Atlas anthem echoed through the grand hall, a polite request was made for all to rise.
Jacques straightened and lifted his chin, standing with the same effortless confidence he carried in the boardroom. The anthem swelled in a song meant to stir the hearts of all loyal sons and daughters of Atlas.
Followed by the officiant carrying the ceremony blade, an old man in ceremonial robes stepped forward. His garments were pristine and decorated with layers of embroidered silver and cobalt silk that made him seem larger than he truly was.
Atlas's High Ecclesiarch, the spiritual and ceremonial figurehead who presided over all matters of faith, tradition, and state rites.
In a kingdom with an empty throne, he was the closest thing to royalty—It would be he, and not some nonexistent monarch, who would perform the honor today.
The High Ecclesiarch raised his hands, and a hush fell over the grand hall. His aged voice rang out in solemn reverence.
"In the name of the Gods who watch over us, in the name of the Heavens above and the Kingdom below, in the name of Atlas, whose spirit stands unyielding against the storm, we gather here in solemn witness."
A murmur of assent swept through the gathered officials, the military, and the assembled citizens.
"As the mountains stand firm against the winds, as the stars shine constant in the coldest of nights, so too shall Atlas endure. And so too shall those who serve her with strength, wisdom, and unwavering devotion."
The High Ecclesiarch lowered his arms, the gaze of old but still bright eyes settling upon Jacques.
"Come forth, that you may take your place among the honored."
Whitley and Willow knelt behind him as he stepped forward, but still keeping a polite distance not to tower over the old man. It was a bad idea to bully the servants of gods when he wasn't sure which were real and which weren't.
"Jacques Schnee," the officiant next to the High Ecclesiarch intoned. "You stand before the gathered people of Atlas, before its leaders, its defenders, and its citizens, to receive the honor bestowed upon you for service to the Kingdom."
The High Ecclesiarch turned slightly, gesturing toward the man next to him with the ceremonial blade lay atop a rich velvet cushion to move forward. It was a relic of Atlas's past, a sword meant for knighting. Its edge long dulled by time but no less symbolic for it.
Funnily enough, it was his father-in-law who was last knighted by it.
"Kneel, Son of Atlas, that you may rise by merit alone. Proven. Tempered. Worthy of the burden this Dominion of the Unbroken demands, to carry forth the legacy of the greatest."
Jacques lowered himself onto one knee before the old man and tried to brush away the way his body seemed to scoff at the idea of kneeling to another. He dipped his head.
The Ecclesiarch lifted the sword.
"By the will of the Gods, by the decree of Atlas, and by the witness of all gathered here, I name thee a Knight of the Kingdom, bound to her service, her people, and her cause."
The flat of the blade touched one shoulder, then the other.
This was not merely a celebration.
It was a statement.
"Rise, Sir Jacques Schnee."
Cheers erupted around him.
Jacques, for better or worse, had just become something greater than a businessman.
A part of him wanted to make an ass out of himself, drag everyone into it, maybe toss out a "Let's fucking go!" and turn this whole thing into a damn party. But for some reason, he didn't.
Instead, he stood there, quietly. Done with it all, but with a quiet sense of pride creeping in.
That was fine.
That was good.
He went through the motions after that. The ceremonial handshakes, the formal congratulations, the dull speeches extolling his "service" and "contributions to the Kingdom." He nodded where he needed to, shook hands when it was expected, and smiled just enough to appear appropriately gracious.
Those who came to him handled most of the talking, thankfully. Whitley seemed to be enjoying himself now that his stage fright was gone after the gala affair, charming the right people, speaking the right words.
With Willow's hand on his forearm, Jacques let his mind wander as the ceremony dragged on. The cheers had faded into murmurs, the grandiosity of the moment already dulling in the eyes of the spectators now that the main event had passed. Good. That meant it wouldn't be much longer.
A few more empty pleasantries, a final blessing from the Ecclesiarch, and then, finally, he could leave.
The moment the blessing concluded, the ceremony was officially over.
Finally.
With one last nod to the Ecclesiarch, Jacques turned on his heel and strode away from the altar.
"Congratulations," Willow murmured. "Many would kill to have this title."
Jacques let out a short. "Thanks, but it won't even crack my top five best achievements."
She raised a brow.
He smirked. "I'd tell you what's number one, but you'd say I'm full of it."
"You are full of it." She muttered simply.
"How does it feel, Father?" Whitley asked."To be a knight of Atlas?"
"Oh, it's simply life-changing, my boy." Jacques let out a low chuckle. "I feel positively reborn."
Whitley smirked, not bothered by his father's utter lack of enthusiasm. "Well, at least it makes for good business."
Jacques nodded. "Yes, yes. That, at least, is true."
They continued their exit. Once more, they navigated through the lingering crowds of dignitaries and well-wishers and offered nods and brief words where necessary. He could already see the pathway leading out of this stuffy grand hall, leading home.
The reception at the entrance was no less grand if less dignified.
That was fine.
That was good.
'Pa, your son's been knighted.'
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Frostfall 28th, 143
"Damn, it's cold." Jacques sniffled, rubbing his arms over his coat despite his Aura keeping the worst of it at bay. "You really don't have to stand there like some looming statue, Eisen. The car's right there. It's warm. Use it."
Eisen, ever composed and ever the reliable servant, probably gave a small shake of his head that he couldn't be arsed to look back and see. "It would be improper, sir, to leave you unattended in this weather."
Jacques sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Eisen, just get in the damn car. If you drop dead from pneumonia, I'll be the one stuck dealing with the fallout. And frankly, I have enough on my plate without Willow or Winter breathing down my neck over something as stupid as preventable hypothermia."
The old chauffeur's lips twitched slightly, the closest he ever came to amusement. "With respect, sir, I do believe I've survived far worse winters than this."
"Fantastic. Then you can survive it from the comfort of heated leather seats," Jacques shot back, already knowing it was a lost cause. These people weren't the type to budge once they'd made up their minds.
Letting the argument drop, Jacques turned back to the view before him. The western commercial of Atlas proper was a mess. Buildings had been ripped apart, streets split open, and the charred remains of melted steel and glassed sand and stone from his Kirin were still there even more than a week after the whole fight.
From his elevated position, he spotted the scaffolding and cranes running about. Below, work crews with different crests moved, hauling debris, barking orders, welding supports, trying to stitch the city back together.
He had seen the damage in reports, and he had been right in the center of it all, but standing here, seeing it with his own eyes, was different. It felt surreal.
Looking back, they had been lucky. Mostly thanks to his involvement, of course. A miracle, really, that the casualties had been so few what with both Tyrian and the Exploding Grimm . Other parts of the city hadn't been nearly as fortunate.
He could have made a joke about it, but even he had limits. Cracking one at the expense of the dead was beneath him.
Pa would have smacked the shit out of him if he'd heard it. Sister Angie would have given him that look, and he'd feel like a daft cunt for the rest of the day.
So, he did what was proper.
Proper was coming here to see it for himself. Proper was sending the SDC crews to help with the cleanup. Proper was donating money, hiring his own architects to rebuild what had been lost. And proper, apparently, also meant wearing the bright yellow safety helmet that had been handed to him. A ridiculous thing to someone with Aura, but he'd accepted it anyway.
The least he could do.
"My, what a surprise to see you here," came a voice from behind him. "Lady Luck still smiles on me, it seems."
Jacques sighed through his nose before turning. Walking toward him was someone just as smug as he remembered, with a smile just as irritating—the kind of smile that told you she knew something you didn't.
Frieda Nachri, General Director of the Atlesian Broadcasting Company.
And in the cold morning air of Atlas, her tits were nowhere to be seen.
"Nachri." He drawled her name.
"Lord Schnee," she replied in kind, the corners of her mouth twitching, amused.
"It puts my fears to rest to see you out and about. I had thought, after your grand ceremony, you'd be far too busy basking in the glow of your own legend to come down and see what's left of my ruined house."
Jacques rubbed his gloved hands together for warmth. "Yes, well. I suppose I should apologize for the inconvenience."
"Oh, I wouldn't go that far. It was quite the spectacle. Ratings were through the roof. "Nachri hummed, stepping up beside him at the railing. "Though I do admit, I rather preferred my gala when it still had four walls and a ceiling, and my employees alive still."
"My condolences."
Nachri inclined her head slightly, accepting the sentiment. "Your efforts ensured there weren't more names to add to the memorial." She lowered her gaze. "Once more, allow me to express my deepest gratitude for what you and your family have done. A debt of life is not something I take lightly, nor is it one easily repaid. For as long as I draw breath, I will remember."
Jacques looked at her for a second before speaking his mind. "You know, I'm surprised you haven't phrased it in some weird way."
"Whatever could you mean?" She tilted her head innocently. "Were you perhaps anticipating something in the vein of—oh, I don't know—'My body is yours until my debt is repaid'?" She tapped a finger against her chin. "No, no, too tame. Maybe something a little more evocative like 'I belong to you in all but name, my master. Henceforth, I only exist to tend to your every command'?" She exhaled dramatically. "Ah, but even that lacks a certain poetry, don't you think?"
"See, this is exactly what I was expecting." He snapped his fingers.
Nachri let out a soft chuckle. "Oh, you set it up so perfectly, but it would've been such a waste to take the shot without Lady Willow present to witness it. Half the enjoyment is in the reaction, after all."
"Ever the shit-stirrer you are," Jacques laughed, shaking his head.
She rested a gloved hand lightly on the railing, her expression smoothing into something more composed. "But in all seriousness, my gratitude remains—wordplay aside. I have already made it clear that my intention was to support you during the Gala. The recent events have only reinforced the wisdom of that decision."
"Because you're my 'fan,' as you've put it," Jacques drawled, arching a brow.
"Though admiration alone would not warrant such loyalty, I have not lied. I am your biggest fan." She inclined her head slightly, neither embarrassed nor flustered. "Yet, perhaps that is a title I must defend valiantly in the coming days. Your latest heroics have ensured you no shortage of admirers. You only have to see for yourself."
She said the last sentence with a chuckle as she turned and pointed with an open palm to the side. Jacques followed her gesture, his eyes landing on the truck emblazoned with the ABC logo. Parked neatly along the dirt path, it seemed innocent enough—until his gaze drifted to the people standing beside it.
Absolute fucking units. That was the only way to describe them. Mountainous bastards, broad-shouldered and built like they wrestled Goliaths for sport. And to his great displeasure, every single one of them was staring directly at him. Worse still, they were fidgeting, shifting on their feet like awkward schoolgirls caught loitering and staring at their crush.
You've got to be shitting him.
"They've been waiting quite some time," Nachri informed him, undeniably pleased with herself. "Quite eager, really. I might've let slip that you'd might be stopping by today."
Nachri raised a gloved hand and made a small, elegant beckoning gesture. That was all it took.
The moment she signaled them forward, the massive men stiffened like soldiers being called to attention, before marching, yes, marching, toward Jacques with all the determination of men facing judgment itself.
Jacques had half a mind to step back. One of them, the broadest of the lot, stopped a few paces away, back straight as a steel rod. His voice was deep, firm, and unfortunately trembling with emotion.
"Sir, I watched your fight that night, sir."
Another stepped in immediately, nodding sharply. "Sir, it moved me deeply, sir."
A third, voice thick, added, "Sir, it made me weep, sir."
"You cried?"
"Yes, sir," the man confirmed without hesitation. "Like a babe, sir."
Nachri made a quiet sound behind her hand.
The fourth, undeterred, pressed on. "I have yet to have a daughter, sir, but should the fates bless me with one, I would name her in your honor, sir."
"Sir, if it's not too much to ask, sir," another chimed in, stepping forward, "please, sir, allow us the honor of a photo with you, sir."
Jacques turned to Nachri, leveling her with a flat look.
She merely smiled, the picture of grace and good humor. "It would be a shame to deny such devoted admirers, Sir Jacques."
And so, the next few minutes were spent with Jacques standing there, fist raised in boxing stance, while Nachri's security posed around him like a pack of hyenas while doing their best impression of your average "Fist of the North Star' goon impression, yet somehow vibrating with barely contained excitement.
"Alright, gentlemen, on three," Nachri said, taking charge.
They all, at the exact same time, threw up their fists, faces locked into the meanest, most dramatic expressions possible.
"One! Two! Three!"
The camera flash went off, and just like that, it was done.
The men immediately dropped their delinquent act, looking at the picture on the screen like proud fathers admiring their newborn child.
"Sir, with your permission, sir," one of them said, voice thick with emotion, "I'd like to make this my profile picture, sir."
"Sir, I will be printing this for my desk, sir," another added.
"Sir, if I ever get married, sir, I'd like this framed at the ceremony, sir."
Jacques pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just do whatever you want. I don't care."
They all bowed in perfect synchronization, backs straight, fists over their hearts like they were pledging allegiance to a cause far greater than themselves.
"""Sir, we'll be rooting for you twice as hard from now!"""
Then, just as quickly as they had assembled, they turned on their heels and fucked off to stand where they were next to the truck.
"You really do surround yourself with the strangest people, Nachri." Pot-Kettle-Black.
Nachri merely clasped her hands together. "Loyalty comes in many forms, Lord Schnee. Some express it with words, others with action. And some—" she gestured lightly to where the security team now stood, stoic once more—"by ensuring a certain someone is never wanting for ardent supporters."
"Fanaticism is a dangerous thing."
"That it is," Nachri agreed. "But in moderation, quite useful."
"So, what are you doing here?" Jacques watched her from the corner of his eye.
"An odd question, Sir Jacques," Nachri replied with raised brows. "My people and I were among the most affected by the attack. It is only natural that I keep track of the reconstruction efforts, the investigations, the political maneuvering that follows such an event." She gestured vaguely toward the city below. "Damage can be measured in more than just lost coin and broken buildings. There are narratives to control, interests to protect, and, of course, debts to repay."
Jacques huffed, exhaling a plume of frost into the cold air. "Quite the mess. I hope you kept the receipts."
"Oh, do not worry. The insurance claim alone could buy me a new kingdom." Nachri folded her arms and smiled. "The assistance of the military, as well as the generous donations from the honorable Sir Jacques, have certainly eased the burden." She let the words linger before adding, "Though it is the presence of that very same Sir Jacques here that intrigues me most."
He leaned forward onto his forearms, gazing at the ongoing construction. "Call it a civic duty."
Nachri glanced at the site below. "And yet, civic duty seems to have extended beyond mere restoration. Your architect's plans are rather… unconventional for Atlas. Less luxury, more—what is the word? Philanthropy?"
Jacques scoffed. "I do hope that doesn't ruin my reputation." His gaze followed the skeletal frames of buildings rising from the wreckage. Not just offices and high-end boutiques, but shelters, community centers, orphanages, and places meant to house and support those who had lost everything.
"Figured if I'm throwing money at rebuilding, I might as well have something to show for it beyond another shopping plaza. Most of them were owned by me anyways, so what I do with them is my business."
"How noble." Her tone was unreadable.
"Hardly. I just like my investments to last." Jacques rolled his shoulders. "A mall burns down, you rebuild it, and someone else profits. Build a shelter, a proper school, a trade hub? You make something that actually sticks. That means a workforce, future contracts, and a city that's got a reason to keep thriving."
"You're lying."
Jacques clicked his tongue. "Am I?"
Nachri leaned closer, looking at him with a wide smile.
"You're lying," she repeated. "You care."
His jaw tightened, but only slightly. "I care about my investments."
"And you care about this investment more than most."
The distant hum of construction filled the silence between them and metal groaning, engines roaring, the muffled voices of workers calling out orders. . He watched as the framework of a Rehab Center began to take shape, workers laying down the foundation for something that couldn't be easily torn down or replaced.
Jacques clicked his tongue again, feigning irritation as he pushed off the railing. "You're reading too much into it."
He had built it to turn a profit. That was there was it to it.
Nachri hummed, unconvinced but gracious enough not to press further. "Of course," she said lightly. "Just another shrewd business move from the great Jacques Schnee."
The Rehab Center would bear her name. That, too, was an investment.
A cruel joke from another world, maybe. Or something else.
But it wasn't anything more than that.
It wasn't.
"Let's go, Eisen."
Lingering on the past was never, and will never be, Jacques style.
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The ride back had been quiet. Comfortable, even, in that peculiar way exhaustion softened everything. The heater hummed, and the city lights smeared gold against the frost-laced glass.
Jacques, or rather Sir Jacques, he corrected himself with a smile, leaned into it, letting his mind drift. Eisen handled the roads with the kind of precision that came from decades behind the wheel, taking the long way home. A courtesy Jacques silently appreciated.
He pulled out his scroll, looking once more at his latest message. He had hundreds upon hundreds of new messages every single day as of late. This one, however, was one he had been waiting for.
Sir Jacques Schnee,
It is with great honor that I extend this formal invitation to you and your esteemed family to attend the upcoming Vytal Festival as honored guests of Beacon Academy. The festival stands as a testament to unity, strength, and the bright future we strive to build together. Your presence would, without question, lend both prestige and inspiration to the occasion.
We eagerly anticipate your response and look forward to welcoming you to Vale soon.
With the highest regard,
Headmaster Ozpin
Jacques snorted softly, tapping the edge of the scroll against his knee. The old bastard was good. The wording was polite, insistent, and left just enough room to maneuver, but the expectation was clear. He was going. His family was going. Declining would be noted.
Not that he particularly minded.
He was going even if he wasn't invited. Hell, he was going even if they banned him outright. He had put it off long enough. The plot was in motion. The him that was dropped here was far different from the him of right now.
Come hell or high water, Jacques would crush everything that even had the delusion to go up against him.
By the time he reached his home, Jacques was just about ready to call it a day.
The long drive, the fatigue from beating the shit out of Max Elephant, and the constant game of weaving through expectations and going with the motions, it all added up. He stepped out of the car with a sigh, rolling his shoulders as the cold air bit at his skin. Gris had, as always, already opened the door for him, standing at his usual post with an unreadable expression behind those thick eyebrows
"Welcome home, Sir," the Head of security intoned.
"Thanks," Jacques grunted in response, stepping past him with a pat on the shoulder and into the warmth of the estate. The grand halls stretched before him, silent save for the faint crackle of a distant fireplace. It was late. Most of the household was either asleep or wisely keeping out of his way.
He loosened his collar as he walked, already thinking about a stiff drink and a bed that wouldn't demand anything from him.
Jacques made his way up the stairs, footsteps muffled against the plush carpeting. His room was exactly as he'd left it: immaculate, dimly lit, and just warm enough to chase away the outside chill.
He shut the door behind him and exhaled, letting the weight of the day roll off his shoulders. He tugged off his gloves, tossing them onto the nearest surface, followed by his coat. The bed was there, waiting—
It said much about his life that even now, five months into this world, he was still capable of being surprised.
His bed. His massive, carefully made bed. Occupied.
The only thing showing from its current occupant was a tuft of thick white hair peeking out from the covers, motionless save for the slow, even rise and fall that suggested sleep.
Or the very pointed attempt at it.
He wasn't stupid. He knew fake sleep when he saw it.
He took a step closer, then another, coming to a stop at the edge of the bed.
Silence.
He crossed his arms, considering his options. Call her out directly? Pull the blanket down and force her to acknowledge him?
…Or just let it be.
It was an olive branch.
Jacques let out a quiet huff, shaking his head with a half-smile as he made his way to the shower.
A quick one. Just enough to wash off the day. When he returned, towel-dried and changed, the bed remained as he had left it. Still occupied. Still silent.
Jacques stood at the edge for a moment before exhaling softly. Then, with the same care he reserved for delicate negotiations, he lifted the covers and eased himself in, slow and steady. No sudden movements. No grand declarations.
Just acceptance.
The mattress dipped slightly beneath his weight, and for a brief second, he thought she might react—shift, stir, acknowledge his presence in some way. But Willow remained as she was, her back turned, her breathing measured.
He didn't press.
Instead, he settled in, sinking into the warmth of the bed and allowing himself, just this once, to let go.
A moment later, a hand grasped his wrist, guiding it until his arm rested over her torso.
"If you try anything, I'll break your dick."
Jacques let out a quiet chuckle. "Duly noted."
Willow didn't say anything else, and neither did he. He just let his arm stay where she had placed it, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall of her breathing beneath his hand.
Then, so quietly he almost missed it, she murmured, "Good night."
Jacques closed his eyes.
This was fine.
This was good.
"Good night, Willow."