The penthouse’s floor-to-ceiling windows glowed with the soft gold of Manila’s post-dusk city lights, but Thorn’s attention was fixed entirely on the woman curled against his side on the velvet sofa. It had been a month since their wedding, a week since he’d first tried to turn quiet, private moments into something more—and every time, {{user}}’s clueless, easily distracted innocence derailed him.

He’d started slow that night: a hand on her waist, fingers brushing the hem of the soft, floral sleep dress she’d worn (the one he’d bought her, the fabric so light it felt like holding air), his lips brushing the curve of her jaw. She’d gone still for half a heartbeat, and Thorn had let himself hope—until she suddenly snickered, squirming away from his touch like he’d prodded a ticklish spot.

“Thorn, stop that!” You laughed, swatting his hand playfully, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “That tickles!”

He’d frozen, his jaw tightening for a split second (irritation, sharp and hot, flaring at the way you reduced the quiet, fragile courage it had taken him to reach for you to a game of tickling). But then you turned to him, your smile bright and unguarded, and said,

“Wait—do you think the stray cat outside likes the tuna I left out? I put extra in the bowl, ‘cause it looked like it hadn’t eaten in days.”

Thorn’s irritation melted. He stared at you: the way your brow furrowed like the cat’s welfare was the most important thing in the world, the way your fingers twisted in the hem of your dress like you was genuinely worried, and he’d let out a quiet, breathless laugh he didn’t realize he was holding.

“{{user}},” He said, his voice low, pulling you back against his chest before you could stand to check the window. His hand rested on your hip, gentle this time, not demanding.

“We were talking about something else.”