Around two in the afternoon, Ishmael pulls into the driveway of his villa, the tires crunching softly on the gravel. The warm weight of the late autumn sun presses through the clouds, dappling the manicured grounds in soft gold.
He'd left the neon glare and clamor of the Las Vegas casino behind hours ago, the jet's hum still humming faintly in his ears. Now, here, the scent of damp earth and pine replaces the stale smoke and synthetic perfume of the casino floor.
The butler meets him at the door—tall and lean, with slicked-back hair parting sharply at the middle, his refined moustache twitching with faint concern. His pale face shifts as he answers Ishmael's urgent question about his wife.
Without waiting, the butler slips away toward the sleek black Rolls–Royce parked under the high archway, the chrome gleaming cold in the light.
Ishmael moves toward the kitchen, each step measured but easing, his pulse slowing as the familiar warmth of home draws nearer.
There, framed by the clean gleam of white marble countertops, Neva stands—her silhouette soft and sure. The baby wrap cradles their sleeping daughter against her chest, the child's gentle breaths stirring the fabric like a secret lullaby.
Neva's hand moves rhythmically, whipping a pale mixture in a blue bowl, the cream beater's soft hum fading as she turns toward him.
A soft smile blossoms on her lips, lighting her face with quiet joy that tugs at Ishmael's own.
"Hello, love," he says, stepping fully into the room.
"Hello, husband," Neva replies, her voice low and gentle.
She sets the beater down carefully, the metallic clink barely disturbing the calm. Then, with smooth movements, she shifts the mixer toward the sink.
"How is she?" Ishmael asks, eyes narrowing tenderly on the pale, sleeping face nestled close.
"The fever's gone," Neva says, fingers tracing soothing circles on their daughter's back. "You shouldn't have rushed home."
His hand reaches out instinctively, brushing the warm skin of Inaya's forehead. She's still slightly flushed, a faint heat lingering. That had been enough to pull him away from one last day of business in Vegas—Zev's message weighing heavy in his mind.
"How did she catch the fever?" Ishmael asks, pulling back his hand.
"Probably the sudden change in season," Neva replies softly.
He watches their daughter's small mouth open in shallow, labored breaths, her nose congested and red-tinged. His brows draw together in worry.
"You should change and rest," Neva suggests, eyes lingering on his formal wear, noting the exhaustion etched deep in his posture.
Ishmael offers a faint smile, one hand sweeping across Inaya's back, the other reaching to brush Neva's arm.
He leans in, pressing a kiss to her cheek, then gently catches her lips—soft, warm, and familiar.
"I missed you," he murmurs against them, the weight of days apart settling heavy in his chest.
"Me too," Neva replies, a gentle smile blooming.
His gaze flicks to the blue bowl, half-full and waiting.
"Where are the maids? Why are you doing all the work?"
Neva chuckles, the sound light and effortless.
"I gave the cook the evening off. I'm barely doing anything."
A sharp beep cuts through the kitchen's calm—the oven timer ringing out.
"Let me," Ishmael says, catching her step as she moves toward it. He slips on the oven mitts she hands him, the fabric thick and warm.
Opening the oven door, a wave of cinnamon and brown sugar sweeps over him, rich and comforting—a sweet balm to his weary senses.
The golden rolls steam gently, their aroma weaving through the air like a soft embrace.
He inhales deeply, a low hum of contentment vibrating in his chest.
"Cinnamon rolls," he murmurs to himself.
"Isaiah demanded them," Neva says with a small smile. "It's fall, after all."
She takes a spoon, thick cream cheese clinging to its curve, and carefully spreads it over the warm pastries, the frosting melting slightly on contact.
"Speaking of him, where's my son?" Ishmael asks, removing the mittens.
"In his playroom, of course," Neva replies, eyes still on her task.
Suddenly, the thunder of little feet pounding down the stairs shakes the quiet.
Both parents glance up, bracing for the inevitable burst of energy.
Ishmael shakes his head, a soft chuckle escaping him.
"Speak of the devil."
Neva chuckles lightly.
"Mumma!" Isaiah's voice rings out, sharp and joyous as he bursts into the room.
His eyes widen when he sees Ishmael.
"Papa! You're back!"
He rushes forward, arms outstretched.
Ishmael crouches, enveloping his son in a hug that erupts with delighted giggles.
"My, my. Did you grow this much in just two days?" he teases, swinging Isaiah up.
"I want to be big soon!" Isaiah declares with a bright grin, but the rich scent from the counter steals his attention.
"My cinnamon rolls!" he cries, wriggling toward the tray with eager hands.
"In a moment," Neva says softly, stepping in to catch his wrist before he touches the warm pastries.
"Careful," she scolds gently. "You'll burn your fingers."
"But Mumma, I want to taste it now!"
"Patience, baby," Neva replies, slicing a piece and blowing gently on it to cool.
"I want four. No—five!" Isaiah pleads, holding up all five fingers.
Ishmael steps back, silent, watching them with a soft smile.
His chest swells with adoration for this small, imperfect moment—the sweet frosting, the warmth, the bustling chaos of family.
Neva offers Isaiah the first bite, then lifts a spoonful to Ishmael's lips.
He leans in gratefully, savoring the flavor that carries home.
Their daughter stirs, soft whimpers breaking the quiet, disturbed by the lively scene.
Ishmael's gaze softens, heart full beyond words.
If he could live forever in a single moment—one slice of heaven—it would be this.
Because she is here.
And for her, he would wish this life to last forever.