Mundane

"Thorne, let me go," he protests softly, his voice halfhearted, his body still as if he knows I won't let him go.

Instead of loosening my grip, I hold him tighter, wrapping my arms securely around his waist as I lie sprawled across his lap. He sighs, resigned but indulgent, his fingers threading through my hair in slow, soothing motions.

"It feels like I'm raising two children," he mutters, but I can hear the warmth in his voice, the teasing smile I've come to treasure.

I don't respond, instead burying my face against him, soaking in his scent, his warmth, his presence. This is why I became a monster when he was taken from me—this connection, this quiet intimacy. He is my anchor, my peace, my everything. He is mine. No, I am his.

We stay like this for a few moments, wrapped in a bubble of calm. Just as I think I could stay like this forever, the soft, insistent cries of our daughter pierce the air, shattering the silence.