Shadow Unit Scandal: The Commander's Omega Chapter 141: Tired colors

Rafael realized sothing 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 cri of existing with that face and that temperant.

Because Gregoris was, at all tis, 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 beca real. Schedules appeared. Consultations were summoned. A poor decorator had walked into the manor wing and walked out looking like he’d t 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 ant 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 sothing ancient and judgntal.

Rafael waited.

Gregoris waited longer.

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

Then Gregoris spoke.

"These are washed," he said calmly.

Rafael blinked. "Excuse ?"

Gregoris picked up the pale pink swatch between two fingers as if it had offended him personally. "They look... diluted. Like soone 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 imdiately.

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 ant 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 argunt 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 cri.

"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 dostic 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 oatal."

Gregoris considered that for a second, expression unreadable.

Then he said, "Oatal 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 amusent 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 rcy. "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 out."

Gregoris didn’t blink. "Marin likes ."

"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 dical advice."

Gregoris’s gaze dipped to Rafael’s stomach, a flicker of sothing 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 imdiately.

Rafael stared at him with the kind of hatred reserved for n 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 ."

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

"You are literally kissing mid-argunt."

"Yes," Gregoris said, as if that proved his point.

Rafael’s cheeks ward. "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 argunts 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 imdiately.

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

Gregoris went still.

For the first ti, 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 ."

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 nace."

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

Rafael’s breath ca out slow. "Fine. Show 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 shaless, said, "It’s not a battle map."

Rafael shut his eyes. "That’s worse."

"It has asurents," 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 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.