(Selene's POV)
Sunlight spilled through the sheer curtains like a whisper of warmth, brushing softly against the rumpled sheets. I stirred, blinking slowly, the cotton of Antonio's white shirt loosely draped over my frame, the scent of his cologne still clinging to the fabric. I turned my head to the side, and there he was.
Antonio, sprawled next to me, one arm thrown across my waist, his lashes fanned against his cheek. He looked impossibly peaceful, as if the chaos of yesterday had never happened. And maybe for a moment, it hadn't. Maybe we had pressed pause on the world when he held me through the storm.
I shifted gently, brushing a kiss to his jaw. "Antonio…" I whispered.
"Mmm?" His eyes opened slowly, dark and heavy-lidded, a sleepy smile curving his lips. "Too early. Come back here."
He tugged me against him with one strong arm, burying his face in my neck. I giggled, half protesting, half melting. "You have a meeting in two hours."
"Cancel it," he muttered. "World can wait. My wife can't."
My heart stuttered at that word again — wife. He said it so naturally now, like he already saw our lives sealed together in every timeline.
"I'm not your wife yet," I teased.
He opened one eye, gaze mischievous. "Details. Technicalities. In my head, you already are."
I rolled my eyes fondly, pressing my nose to his collarbone. "You're impossible."
"But irresistibly charming," he said, pulling away just enough to kiss me agaain. "How do you feel?"
I exhaled. "Better. Clear. Like I finally let go of something I didn't realize I was still holding."
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "Good. Because Alina's ghost belongs nowhere near you. Or us."
I nodded, running my fingers gently along the edge of his jaw. "I love you, Antonio."
His gaze softened, then burned. "I love you more than I have words for."
We lay there for a while longer, wrapped in stillness and stolen glances, before I finally peeled myself away to make coffee. I slipped into the kitchen, humming under my breath, only to feel his arms wrap around me from behind as he whispered, "Still too far."
"Antonio!"
He laughed, resting his chin on my shoulder. "I'll start breakfast. You get the mugs.
I had just poured two mugs of coffee when a knock sounded at the front door — two short taps, then one long. The familiar rhythm made me grin. Only Ayra did that.
I padded barefoot to the door, Antonio right behind me, a dish towel slung over his shoulder like he'd been born in the kitchen. I opened it to find Ayra, glowing as always in a long knit cardigan over her joggers, and Eliot, tousled and slightly out of breath, holding a bakery bag and a suspiciously fancy thermos.
"Good morning, lovebirds," Ayra greeted, eyes twinkling as she leaned in to hug me. "We brought peace offerings — caffeine and sugar."
"You angels," I said, laughing as I stepped aside. "Come in. You're just in time for our lazy breakfast."
Eliot lifted the bag. "Croissants. From that place Ayra's obsessed with. I may have charmed the guy at the counter to give us extra."
Ayra rolled her eyes fondly. "You bribed him with your dimple."
Antonio chuckled, reaching for the thermos. "Give me whatever magic is in here."
We all settled into the kitchen nook. I handed Ayra her favorite mug — the one with the tiny stars she gifted me months ago — while Antonio passed Eliot a steaming cup of his brew. Eliot took one sip and moaned.
"God, Antonio. Do you roast your own beans or just flirt with baristas until they hand you perfection?"
Antonio deadpanned, "Neither. Selene makes the mix. I just serve it like I did all the work."
I nudged him, laughing. "He lies. But flattery accepted."
Ayra looked around, smile gentle. "You two look... really happy. Like, finally breathing kind of happy."
I met her gaze and nodded. "Yeah. We're getting there."
She reached over to squeeze my hand. Eliot, on the other hand, leaned toward Antonio. "So… heard there was some ex-drama yesterday?"
Antonio groaned. "It was handled. Barely. With grace. Ish."
Ayra gasped. "Wait—Alina came?"
I nodded, telling the story in snippets — the tension, the confusion, the ending that somehow brought us closer. By the time I finished, Ayra's eyes were sharp and Eliot looked mildly offended on our behalf.
"She had the audacity," Ayra muttered, shaking her head. "Lucky I wasn't there."
Eliot smirked. "You'd have launched a croissant at her."
Antonio snorted. "Honestly, would've paid to see that."
We all laughed, the sound echoing warm against the sunlight trickling through the windows. Then Eliot reached for Ayra's hand and threaded their fingers together — the gesture so soft, so second-nature, it made my heart clench.
Antonio caught me watching, leaned in to whisper, "You get sappy before 10 a.m. now?"
I whispered back, "Only when you're this good at being domestic."
He leaned over and kissed my temple, then bumped his forehead against mine. "Wifey behavior unlocked."
I flushed. Ayra caught it. And like always, she teased, "Aw look, she's red again. Eliot, do we need to fan her?"
"Or find Antonio a ring?" Eliot quipped.
"Oh my god," I muttered into my croissant, hiding my grin.
The sun hung soft and honey-gold in the sky when Ayra, Eliot, Antonio, and I lounged around the living room after breakfast. Coffee mugs still warm in our hands, casual laughter echoing through the space.
Eliot stretched with a satisfied hum, his fingers brushing Ayra's shoulder fondly as he stood. "Hey, how about we visit my showroom? Got a new collection in last week — carved woodwork, layered tones, mood lighting... You'll love it."
Antonio raised a brow. "Trying to get us to buy furniture we don't need Huh?"
"No," Eliot grinned. "Trying to show you art you never knew you needed."
Ayra nudged me gently. "Come on, it'll be fun."
We all piled into Antonio's car, familiar with the rhythm now — windows cracked open for the breeze, Ayra DJ-ing from the passenger seat, and Antonio and Eliot poking fun at each other like they were brothers.
When we pulled up to Eliot's showroom, I was once again reminded of how effortlessly elegant his vision was. The building had a minimal but bold architectural style — glass panels, warm-toned wood, and black steel frames made it stand out like a modern masterpiece.
The interior? A dream.
The scent of cedar and sandalwood lingered in the air. Sculpted couches with bold silhouettes, artisanal centerpieces, bookcases that looked like they belonged in an old European castle. Each section felt like a little world of its own — a space telling a story.
"This is breathtaking," I whispered as my fingers skimmed over the smooth walnut of a coffee table. "It feels like walking through someone's soul."
Eliot smiled softly, standing next to Ayra. "That's exactly what I want people to feel. That furniture isn't just about comfort — it's memory, time, presence."
Antonio circled a beautifully lit lounge area with a dark green velvet sectional. "You've got an eye, Eliot."
"Thanks, but I think it's Ayra's sketches that inspired half of this layout," Eliot admitted, glancing at her with a sparkle in his eyes.
Ayra's cheeks flushed, but she smiled. "We just bounce ideas. He executes them like a magician."
Antonio leaned close to me and whispered, "Kind of how we are, huh? You sketch, I build." His fingers brushed mine subtly. "Though I think I got the better deal. I got you."
I couldn't help but blush. Ayra caught my expression and arched a knowing brow.
In a back gallery of the showroom, we came across a dining table crafted from reclaimed Himalayan wood, the kind of piece that seemed to hum with history. "This one's special," Eliot said. "Hand-sanded by a local artisan. Took weeks."
I glanced at Ayra, imagining us all gathered around a table like this — holidays, laughter, new memories.
We ended our little tour at a cozy café nook inside the showroom. Over perfectly frothed cappuccinos and flaky almond croissants, Eliot shared his future plans — custom sets for interior shoots, handcrafted furniture collaborations with local artists. Ayra sketched quietly beside him, adding notes as inspiration struck.
As the hours flowed by like music, I watched the way Antonio watched me — gentle pride behind his calm gaze. I caught Eliot resting his hand over Ayra's, anchoring her without words. It was all so simple, so human, so full.
Our lives weren't rushing anymore. They were unfolding — gracefully, intentionally.