After dinner, I make my way to our room, the soft click of the door barely breaking the silence. The warm glow of the lamps is muted, blending with the silvery moonlight streaming through the large windows. Thorne stands there, framed by the gentle shimmer of the night, his broad shoulders relaxed for once, his focus entirely elsewhere.
In his arms, he cradles Mirelle, her tiny body snug against his chest. She's fast asleep, her soft breaths almost inaudible. Thorne's hand moves in a rhythmic, absent-minded motion, lightly tapping her back, a gesture so natural and tender it takes my breath away.
I pause by the door, unable to step further into the room just yet. The sight floors me. My husband, the man who carries an aura of relentless intensity and quiet danger, looks so serene, so unguarded in this moment. The sharp lines of his face, usually set in a scowl or stoic determination, soften under the moonlight, revealing a side of him few are lucky enough to see.
