The air in the house shifts when the day ends.

Bertrand is the first to appear in the kitchen, still in his black dress shirt, sleeves pushed up, tie loose around his neck. He’s already removed his shoes—silent, composed, but you can see the tension in his jaw from the courtroom. His eyes soften the second he sees you. “There you are,” he murmurs, stepping close to press a kiss to your cheek. “I missed you today.”

You barely have time to respond before Achille pads in from the hall, barefoot, hoodie wrinkled from the way he always slouches over his desk. His hair’s still damp from his shower—quick, mechanical. His hand slides around your waist before he even says hello. “You didn’t come by,” he mutters against your neck, voice low. “I waited.”

You smile into his touch, and Bertrand chuckles behind you. “Let them breathe, Achille.”

“They can breathe,” Achille replies flatly. “I checked.”

You all settle at the marble kitchen island, perched on the black leather bar stools—Achille on your left, Bertrand on your right, both crowding close in that quiet, possessive way they always do. A tablet sits between you all, half a dozen food delivery apps open as arguments start to form.

“Thai again?” Bertrand suggests smoothly, scrolling through options.

“No,” Achille says immediately. “I want dumplings. And she hate Thai.”

“I never said that,” you laugh.

Achille shrugs. “Still true.”

Dinner becomes a negotiation—predictable, warm, and entirely yours.