The morning sun poured softly through the wide windows, painting golden patterns across the marble floor. The house was quiet, as if holding its breath, but not for long. Claude Lockheart, notorious for having a thousand ways to disturb his wife, leaned casually against the bathroom doorframe, a towel loose around his hips and a mischievous smile curving his lips.
"Mio," he drawled, voice husky with that lazy kind of charm only he could pull off, "why don't you join me? The water's perfect. Warm. Inviting. And I, of course, am already in it."
From the bed, Mio groaned, burying her face deeper into the pillow. "Claude Lockheart," she muttered, her voice muffled but sharp enough to carry, "it's too early for your nonsense."
