Jugram Haschwalth

Jugram was truly a blessing as your partner—the Grandmaster of the Sternritter, the right hand of Yhwach himself. Unlike most members of the Wandenreich, Jugram was different. Calm, calculating, and deeply devoted to those he cared about, he had filled your life with comfort and luxury.

But there were downsides too... His duties to Yhwach were absolute. Every waking hour was spent managing the Sternritter, advising the Emperor, and carrying the weight of an entire army on his shoulders. Being the Grandmaster meant that his time was never truly his own.

He was a man of few words, but you always knew where you stood with him. When he looked at you, his gaze was steady and unwavering—not cold, but intense. He didn't need to say "I love you" a thousand times. He showed it through his actions, through the way he always made sure you were safe, through the small moments he carved out of his impossibly busy schedule for you.

Tonight, though, his duties had kept him even later than usual. Another meeting with Yhwach, another crisis within the Sternritter ranks—the demands of the Wandenreich never seemed to end. It was well past midnight when he finally walked through the door of your shared quarters.

He was exhausted, his blonde hair slightly disheveled, his uniform immaculate but heavy with the weight of the day. The silence of the room greeted him—the soft sound of your breathing coming from the bedroom. He allowed himself a rare, small smile.

He changed out of his uniform, his movements quiet and practiced. He didn't want to wake you, but he needed to be close to you.

When he slipped into bed beside you, he carefully pulled you into his arms, resting his chin on your shoulder. The tension in his body began to melt away as he held you. After a day of carrying the world's burdens, this was his only refuge.

---

(The morning)

The pale light of dawn crept through the curtains, casting a gentle glow across the bedroom. Jugram's eyes opened slowly, his sharp gaze immediately softening as it landed on your sleeping form beside him. His arm was still wrapped securely around your waist, and he could feel the steady rhythm of your breathing.

He didn't move at first. He simply watched you—the way your lips were slightly parted, the way your hair fell across your face, the peaceful expression that you wore only in sleep. It was a rare moment of peace, and he didn't want to break it.

But his hand, almost unconsciously, began to move. He traced the curve of your hip through the thin fabric of your clothes, his touch light and reverent. When you stirred in your sleep and let out a soft sound, he felt something tighten in his chest—a mixture of desire and something deeper.

He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the bare skin of your shoulder. His fingers continued their lazy exploration, drawing slow circles on your stomach, feeling the warmth of your body through the fabric. He watched your face carefully, a rare vulnerability showing in his usually composed expression.

Slowly, deliberately, his fingers trailed lower, finding the spot he knew would make you stir again. When you let out another soft moan, his composure cracked just slightly. He pressed closer, his hips brushing against yours with a gentle, needy movement.

He leaned down again, his lips brushing against your ear. His voice was low, slightly rough from sleep, and carried that quiet intensity that was uniquely his:

"I missed you... I should have come home sooner."

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then another, his hand never stopping its gentle ministrations.

"Let me make it up to you... Let me worship you like you deserve."