Chapter 141: Chapter 141: Tired colors

Rafael realized something in the last two weeks: he was hatefully loving his husband and mate.

It wasn’t the soft, poetic kind of love that sat politely in the chest and waited to be admired. It was the kind that made Rafael want to kiss Gregoris and also push him into a fountain for the crime of existing with that face and that temperament.

Because Gregoris was, at all times, himself.

And apparently that included becoming a nightmare about interior design.

“Mission Nursery” had started as a joke, and then – because the gods had a sense of humor – it became real. Schedules appeared. Consultations were summoned. A poor decorator had walked into the manor wing and walked out looking like he’d met religion, and not the comforting kind.

Rafael had tried to take control by doing what he was good at: choosing.

He picked a room near their sitting area, with tall windows and good light. He chose soft textiles, safe woods, rounded corners, and the kind of ether-safe paints meant for infant lungs. He chose pastel colors because they felt gentle and new and nothing like Delphine’s sharp palette of control.

He laid out the swatches on the table like evidence, because that was how his brain worked: present, justify, approve, move on.

Gregoris stood over them with the posture of a commander reviewing a battlefield. Shirt sleeves rolled up, forearms bare, expression unreadable in that infuriating way that always made Rafael feel like he was being evaluated by something ancient and judgmental.

Rafael waited.

Gregoris waited longer.

For a single, blessed second, Rafael thought, ’He’s going to let me have this.’

Then Gregoris spoke.

“These are washed,” he said calmly.

Rafael blinked. “Excuse me?”

Gregoris picked up the pale pink swatch between two fingers as if it had offended him personally. “They look… diluted. Like someone tried to make color and regretted it halfway.”

“They’re supposed to be soft,” Rafael snapped.

“They’re supposed to be warm,” Gregoris corrected, unbothered. He lifted the pale blue. “This blue is tired. In winter it will look cold.”

Rafael stared at him.

Gregoris stared back, perfectly serious, perfectly sincere, and utterly incapable of lying just to make Rafael’s life easier.

Rafael’s jaw tightened. “You could pretend. For convenience.”

“No,” Gregoris said immediately.

Of course he said no.

He was devoted to the gods, devoted to the Emperor, devoted to duty – and devoted to Rafael in a way that apparently included refusing to let a nursery look like ’tired blue.’

Gregoris’s gaze moved from the swatches to Rafael and softened by the smallest fraction, like his honesty wasn’t meant to hurt – just to be real.

“I won’t lie to you,” he said, quiet and absolute. “Not about this. Not about anything.”

Rafael’s anger stalled, briefly, because only Gregoris could make a paint argument sound like a vow.

Rafael exhaled, controlled, then grabbed the swatches and slapped them back onto the table with enough force to make a point without committing an actual crime.

“Fine,” he said. “What would you choose, then?”

Gregoris didn’t even hesitate.

“Warm cream,” he said. “Stone. A green that looks like gardens, not sickness. Maybe gold accents.”

Rafael’s brows lifted, horrified on principle. “For the love of gods, Gregoris, I’m not going to have an almond family.”

Gregoris blinked once.

It was subtle, but Rafael caught it – the micro-pause of a man who could plan a siege but had just been hit with modern domestic slang like a thrown shoe.

“What,” Gregoris said calmly, “is an almond family?”

Rafael stared at him. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Gregoris replied, still infuriatingly sincere. “Explain.”

Rafael pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s… a family that lives in neutrals. Beige. Cream. Stone. Everything looks like it’s been filtered through the concept of oatmeal.”

Gregoris considered that for a second, expression unreadable.

Then he said, “Oatmeal is nutritious.”

Rafael’s head snapped up. “That’s not the point.”

Gregoris’s gaze flicked to the swatches again, then back to Rafael. “I didn’t say beige. I said ’warm cream.’”

“That’s beige with better marketing.”

Gregoris’s mouth twitched, the smallest hint of amusement trying to exist and failing to look innocent. “It’s not beige.”

Rafael leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “It’s beige.”

Gregoris held his gaze like this was a battlefield he’d gladly die on. “It will be warm.”

Rafael made a sound of pure exasperation. “You’re trying to build a nursery that looks like a luxury hotel lobby.”

Gregoris’s eyes softened by a fraction, voice lowering. “I’m trying to build a nursery that feels safe.”

Rafael’s anger wavered, annoyingly, because the sincerity was real, and because he could see the instinct behind it: Gregoris wanted a room that could hold their daughter like a shield, a place that didn’t feel fragile.

Rafael swallowed, then recovered his bite. “Safe doesn’t require us to live inside a bread loaf.”

Gregoris’s gaze narrowed. “We can add color.”

Rafael blinked. “You can?”

“Yes,” Gregoris said, as if granting mercy. “A deeper green. Gold accents. Maybe a soft rose.”

Rafael’s brows lifted. “Soft rose.”

Gregoris nodded once. “Not washed.”

Rafael’s lips parted, then closed again. He stared at his husband as if he was trying to decide whether this was growth or a trap.

Gregoris watched him with maddening patience.

Rafael exhaled. “Fine. We compromise.”

Gregoris’s eyes darkened with satisfaction. “Good.”

Rafael pointed at him. “But if you bring in an interior designer and they start talking about ’earthy palettes’ like it’s a religion, I’m filing for asylum with the Shadows.”

Gregoris’s hand settled at Rafael’s waist, warm and steady. “You already live with the Shadows.”

Rafael’s glare was automatic. “I’m going to tell Marin that you are stressing me out.”

Gregoris didn’t blink. “Marin likes me.”

“He tolerates you,” Rafael corrected, sharply.

Gregoris’s mouth twitched like he considered that an upgrade. “He will still tell you to eat dessert.”

Rafael pointed at him. “Do not weaponize Marin’s medical advice.”

Gregoris’s gaze dipped to Rafael’s stomach, a flicker of something possessive that he swallowed down into stillness. “I am weaponizing your health.”

Rafael’s brows lifted. “That is not romantic.”

“It’s effective,” Gregoris said, perfectly serious.

Rafael exhaled, then picked up the pastel swatch again and shoved it toward Gregoris’s chest like it was an accusation. “Look at it. It’s soft. It’s gentle. It’s…”

“It’s tired,” Gregoris said immediately.

Rafael stared at him with the kind of hatred reserved for men who were right and refused to pretend otherwise.

Gregoris, infuriatingly, leaned in and kissed the corner of Rafael’s mouth.

Rafael pulled back a fraction, breath catching. “Stop trying to distract me.”

Gregoris’s eyes stayed on his. “I’m not distracting you.”

“You are literally kissing me mid-argument.”

“Yes,” Gregoris said, as if that proved his point.

Rafael’s cheeks warmed. “This is why I’m going to Marin.”

Gregoris’s thumb traced Rafael’s waist once, steady. “Tell him I’m keeping your blood pressure low.”

“I don’t have blood pressure issues.”

Gregoris’s gaze flicked down again, softening for a second. “You will if you keep trying to win arguments with interior design.”

Rafael made a sound that was almost a laugh and then hated himself for it. “You’re impossible.”

Gregoris’s expression didn’t change, but the satisfaction in his eyes did. “And you’re hungry.”

Rafael narrowed his eyes. “If you say ’dessert’—”

“Dessert,” Gregoris said immediately.

Rafael’s glare sharpened into a full threat. “I will choose the washed pastel blue out of spite.”

Gregoris went still.

For the first time, his calm cracked just enough to show real alarm.

Rafael enjoyed it far too much.

“That,” Gregoris said carefully, “would be irresponsible.”

“It would be revenge,” Rafael corrected.

Gregoris’s hand tightened at his waist, and his voice dropped, low and sincere in the most unfair way. “Don’t punish her room because you’re angry at me.”

Rafael froze because he was right.

Rafael swallowed, then hissed, “You are unfair.”

Gregoris leaned in, forehead nearly touching Rafael’s, and murmured, “I’m devoted.”

Rafael rolled his eyes, heart traitorous. “You’re a menace.”

Gregoris’s mouth brushed his temple, soft as a promise. “To everyone else.”

Rafael’s breath came out slow. “Fine. Show me your non-almond, non-hotel-lobby plan.”

Gregoris’s eyes darkened with victory. “Gardens.”

Rafael muttered, “If you bring in a floor plan—”

Gregoris’s pause was microscopic.

Rafael’s eyes narrowed. “Gregoris.”

Gregoris, utterly shameless, said, “It’s not a battle map.”

Rafael shut his eyes. “That’s worse.”

“It has measurements,” Gregoris added, as if that helped.

Rafael opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling like he was asking the gods for strength. “Marin was right. You’re stressing me out.”

Gregoris’s hand stayed steady at his waist, warm and grounding. “Eat dessert,” he said, calm as doctrine. “Then we choose colors.”

Rafael glared at him.

Gregoris held the glare like it was affection.

And Rafael hated, intensely, how much he loved him for it.

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