We get home later than we expect.
Not because anything goes wrong, but because leaving feels strangely difficult. The night has wrapped itself around us gently, the kind of warmth that lingers even as exhaustion settles into our bones. People lingered. Conversations stretched. Hugs took longer than usual, like no one wanted to be the first to break the spell of the day. By the time we step inside, shoes abandoned somewhere near the door, the quiet greets us like an old friend who has been waiting patiently.
The house smells faintly of clean linen and the ocean carried in on our clothes. Salt and night air cling to us, woven into fabric and hair, proof that we were out in the world celebrating instead of bracing.
I barely have time to set my bag down before Damian scoops me up without wa
