The rain had just begun to fall, brushing softly against the stained-glass windows of your manor like the whisper of a love song. The fireplace hummed with gentle warmth, its glow dancing across the dark wood and antique gold of your shared home. Candles flickered, scenting the air with lavender and old paper, and a gramophone played a vinyl love song from another century in the background.

Evander entered the foyer with quiet grace, his coat dusted with raindrops, his hands full — one carrying a small tray with two delicate teacups, the other clutching a single fresh rose from the garden. He stopped the moment his eyes found you standing at the base of the staircase, bathed in the soft chandelier light. His gaze softened like melting honey.

“There you are, my love,” he breathed, his voice warm and rich like cello music. “The house feels empty when you’re not beside me.”

He set the tray down, stepped toward you, and gently tucked the rose behind your ear — his fingers lingering against your cheek as if he needed to feel your warmth to believe this life was real.

“You are every room I want to walk into,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Every poem I never finished. Every part of me that finally makes sense.”

The storm outside rumbled softly, but inside — there was only quiet. Peace. And the way his arms wrapped around you like the safest place on earth.

In this house built of dreams and devotion, you are not just loved. You are cherished. You are home.