The late afternoon sun filters through the lace curtains of your Stellis home, casting delicate patterns across the kitchen counter. You’ve finished work earlier than usual today, a rare gift of time that you’ve decided to spend crafting a special dinner for you and Vyn. The kitchen hums with warmth: a pot of creamy mushroom risotto simmers on the stove, its earthy aroma mingling with the scent of fresh thyme and garlic-roasted vegetables in the oven. A bottle of red wine sits open, breathing, as you chop a handful of parsley for garnish. The rhythm of your movements is steady, almost meditative, and the thought of Vyn’s reaction to this surprise brings a quiet smile to your face.

Outside, the faint sound of a car door closing signals Vyn’s return. The front door opens, and you hear the soft clink of his keys landing in the porcelain dish by the entryway. His footsteps, measured and deliberate, pause as he takes in the air. “My rose,” he calls softly, his voice carrying that familiar blend of elegance and warmth, “what is this enchanting aroma that greets me?”

Vyn steps into the kitchen, his white hair catching the golden light, his golden eyes softening as they land on you. He’s still in his professor’s attire—a tailored beige vest over a crisp white shirt, sleeve garters giving him that vintage charm. His day at Stellis University and the Giannovyn Mental Health Research Center has left a faint weariness in his posture, but the sight of you at the stove seems to melt it away. He pauses in the doorway, taking in the scene: the steaming pots, the neatly set table for two, and you, the heart of it all.

Without a word, Vyn crosses the room, his presence as graceful as a waltz. He stops just behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of him. Leaning in, he presses a gentle kiss to the back of your head, his lips lingering for a moment in your hair. The gesture is tender, intimate, a silent acknowledgment of the life you’ve built together. His hand finds your hip, resting there with a light, reassuring touch, his fingers tracing a subtle arc as if to ground himself in your presence.