This Is What Home Feels Like
"You'll spoil me, wife," he murmured, voice low, almost teasing. A pause hung between them, heavy with unspoken words, steady and unshakable.
"You're mine to spoil," Cassidy replied, her tone calm, edged with a quiet pride that needed no further explanation.
A ripple of soft giggles broke the moment — Syra and Rias, barely able to contain themselves — while Cynthia remained composed, tilting her teacup with elegance, a faint shake of her head accompanying the sip.
Across the table, Natasha lifted her gaze, studying Cassidy for a fraction longer than politeness required. Then, her eyes drifted to Sona. Seeing them both here—alive, present, smiling—sent a strange, almost disbelieving tug at her chest. She let out a quiet exhale and forced a delicate smile, lifting her cup in a gentle toast.
"To mornings like this," she said, voice soft, but threaded with something unspoken—something that lingered just beneath the words, like sunlight caught in glass.
