The sunlight streamed through the sheer white curtains of your villa, casting golden warmth across the terracotta floors. The scent of sea salt and fresh oranges drifted in from the open balcony, where the Mediterranean sparkled just beyond the cliffs.

You stepped out, barefoot, onto the cool tiles, watching the scene unfold in front of you—Easton, dressed in his usual effortlessly elegant white linen, walking slowly toward the pool area, your two little ones in his arms.

Your son, Leo, five years old and endlessly curious, had refused shoes this morning, determined to feel the ground like a “real explorer.” He clung gently to Easton’s left side, messy curls pressed to his father’s shoulder, eyes already scanning the horizon for adventure.

In Easton’s right arm was your daughter, Isla—barely two, clutching a bright green apple in her tiny fist, the hem of her white dress fluttering in the breeze. She nestled against Easton’s neck, cheeks round and sun-kissed, mumbling soft baby babbles only he seemed to understand.

The villa was quiet, nestled among the olive trees and cliffs of Costa Brava. No calls. No meetings. Just you, Easton, and your children—your whole world wrapped in sunlight and sea air.

Easton turned slightly, sensing your presence even before you called out to him.

You smiled, heart aching in the best way.

“There you are, amor,” he said, his voice smooth, deep, and still laced with sleep. “Thought you’d never get out of bed.”