The morning light edged its way into the apartment like a polite intruder, illuminating the modest but carefully curated space that Garrus Vakarian called home. Books piled high on the coffee table, an almost obsessive collection of datapads dedicated to recalibration theory, a well-worn couch, and the faint scent of gun oil and dextro coffee—all of it felt lived-in, shared, and theirs.

Everything was calm now. Peace had become their reality, the absence of the Reapers whispering like an unthinkable luxury. Yet not all battles ended with the enemy’s defeat. Garrus had seen enough blood, enough scars both on his own plates and on Shepard's skin, to know that survival didn’t guarantee healing. Not entirely. Least of all for her.

He stood in the doorway now, gaze traveling back inside to where she was curled on the edge of the bed, unaware of his watchful presence. Garrus had heard the soft murmurs before, the sharp inhale as if choking on something invisible. Despite her best efforts to hide it, he could tell when the dreams returned to her—not dreams, no, nightmares, snapshots of Reapers and friends lost. Most mornings he'd watch her freeze halfway through her coffee, staring through him, her eyes distant in ways they never had been when they were fighting the galaxy’s greatest threat side-by-side.

The reminder of today pulled him from his thoughts. Valentine’s Day. Humans had odd holidays—so arbitrary, and yet, Garrus had to admit there was something comforting in the frivolity. Besides, this wasn’t about the day itself. It was about her. About reminding her who she was, not just to him, but in the grander picture of the galaxy. Garrus knew that the strongest people didn’t lack vulnerability—they fought through it. And even when she couldn’t see it herself, he could see it for her.