Shadow Unit Scandal: The Commander's Omega-Chapter 96: Like

Morning found the mansion quiet in the way only heavily guarded, impeccably staffed places ever were.

Gregoris was already up.

He sat in the armchair near the tall windows of what had, very recently, become their bedroom, one long leg crossed over the other, a cup of black coffee in one hand and a tablet in the other. Reports scrolled past with the steady rhythm of logistics and security updates, the world continuing to demand his attention regardless of coronations, scandals, or newly acquired husbands.

On the low table by his chair waited a breakfast tray. Warm tea, toast, fruit, and something light were ordered with the tact of a man who had already memorized a physician’s recommendations.

The bathroom door opened.

Steam drifted out first, warm and faintly scented, followed by Rafael, hair still damp, wrapped in a robe that was far too soft and far too domestic for a man who had spent most of his life weaponizing elegance.

He took two steps into the room.

Then stopped.

The world tilted... wrong, in the subtle, insidious way of a floor shifting underfoot.

Rafael’s hand went to the doorframe on instinct, knuckles whitening slightly.

"...Oh," he murmured.

Gregoris looked up instantly.

Rafael swallowed once.

Then twice.

And very calmly, very quietly, he announced, "I believe... this is what people mean by morning sickness." He then runs for the bathroom.

The tablet was forgotten in an instant.

Gregoris was on his feet before the words had fully left Rafael’s mouth, coffee abandoned on the side table as the omega turned and bolted back toward the bathroom with all the dignity of someone whose body had just betrayed him.

The door barely had time to swing before Gregoris was there, one hand catching it, the other already at Rafael’s back, steadying rather than restraining, anchoring rather than crowding.

"Easy," he said quietly, low and firm, in the same tone he used on wounded soldiers and panicking civilians alike.

Rafael made it to the sink just in time, bracing himself on the cool porcelain, breathing hard between waves of nausea, eyes squeezed shut in pure, offended disbelief.

"This," he muttered, between breaths, "is... extremely undignified."

Gregoris stood close, one hand firm at the small of his back, the other reaching for a glass of water, his presence solid and unmovable. "Dignity is optional," he replied. "Staying upright is not."

Rafael let out a weak, humorless huff. "Wonderful. I’ve been defeated by toast."

"You have been defeated by hormones," Gregoris corrected. "Toast is innocent."

Another wave hit. Rafael leaned forward, shoulders tensing, and Gregoris did not move away, did not flinch, and only tightened his hold slightly, grounding him.

When it passed, Rafael straightened a fraction, breath uneven, and glanced at him with narrowed, affronted eyes.

"Do not look so calm about this."

Gregoris’s thumb brushed once against his spine. "I am not calm. I am focused."

On the next lull, he shifted his grip, careful and precise, and guided Rafael back out of the bathroom. The robe was pulled closer around him, the chill of the tiled floor replaced by the warmth of the bedroom. By the time they reached the armchair, the breakfast tray was already gone, efficient staff, silent as shadows, removing anything that might provoke a second round.

Gregoris did not comment on it. He simply redirected Rafael toward the bed.

"Sit," he said, not as an order, but as a certainty.

Rafael complied, the edge of the mattress catching the backs of his knees. Gregoris eased him down, then drew the covers back and guided him to lie on his side, arranging pillows with the same methodical care he used to secure a perimeter. The blanket was pulled up, tucked around shoulders, a cocoon against the cool morning.

"I am having a truly glamorous start to the day," Rafael muttered weakly.

Gregoris’s mouth curved, brief and restrained. He reached for the tablet again, already composing a message. "I will have them bring something bland. Dry biscuits. Rice porridge. Tea without sugar."

"Thrilling," Rafael said. "Truly living."

"Thriving," Gregoris corrected. "Different category."

He set the tablet aside and sat on the edge of the bed, one hand resting at Rafael’s back, solid and warm. "You will rest. When your stomach settles, you will try a few bites. Nothing ambitious."

Rafael closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them to glance up at him. "You’re taking this very seriously."

"I take you seriously," Gregoris replied simply.

The room fell quiet again, the city waking beyond the windows, and for the moment, that was enough.

"Gregoris?"

"Yes."

Rafael hesitated, then shifted, fingers curling into the blanket as if gathering courage from the fabric. "You’re hovering."

"I am ensuring you do not fall over," Gregoris said, dryly. "A proven risk this morning."

Rafael snorted, then winced at his own audacity. "You moved the tray. You scared the staff into changing the entire breakfast. You’re sitting like I might evaporate if you blink."

"I am sitting," Gregoris replied, "because you are unwell."

"And because you’re worried."

Gregoris didn’t grace him with an answer to that. It was true.

Rafael studied him, the lines of command and discipline, and the controlled stillness of a man who was used to being the last thing between danger and everyone else. Then, with a faint, tired smile, he said, "You’re very gentle for someone with your reputation."

"I am selective," Gregoris answered.

The door opened quietly. A servant brought a small tray this time: dry biscuits, plain porridge, and warm tea. Nothing with ambition. Gregoris took it himself, dismissed the man with a nod, and returned to the bedside.

He broke a biscuit in half, testing it like a field ration. "Try this."

Rafael obeyed, chewing carefully. He waited. His stomach protested but did not revolt.

"...Acceptable," he conceded. "Barely."

Gregoris poured tea and held the cup until Rafael’s hands closed around it. The gesture was unremarkable in action, but it was all care, presence, and an unspoken this-is-my-responsibility.

Rafael watched him for a second longer than necessary.

Then Gregoris’s tablet chimed on the side table. A priority alert. His posture shifted instantly, instinct and duty rising like armor sliding back into place. He reached for it.

Rafael’s hand moved without thinking.

His fingers closed around Gregoris’s wrist.

Gregoris looked down at the contact, then at Rafael’s face.

Rafael’s expression was a little pale, a little tired, and entirely honest. "Don’t go yet."

"It is only a report," Gregoris said, already softening.

"I know." A breath. Then, quietly, as if the words were more dangerous than any battlefield: "I like you."

The room seemed to still around them.

Rafael didn’t declare love or devotion for the rest of their life. Just the simple, terrifying truth of affection spoken aloud.

Gregoris did not pull his hand away.

Instead, he turned his wrist slightly, threading their fingers together with careful slowness, as if this, too, were something that required perfection.

"I am aware," he said after a moment. "I was hoping you were."

Rafael huffed a weak laugh. "You’re impossible."

"And you," Gregoris replied, settling back onto the edge of the bed, tablet forgotten for now, "are staying right here until your body decides to behave."

Rafael squeezed his hand, eyes closing, the faintest smile lingering on his lips.