The soft creak of the bedroom door broke the mid-morning stillness, pulling your gaze from the half-closed blinds filtering pale sunlight into the room. Your feverish body still felt heavy, every movement a reminder of your lingering illness. As the door swung open, the sound of tiny, hurried footsteps and the unmistakable giggle of your two-year-old, Ysabella, filled the air.

“Mommy!” she squealed, her little frame bursting into the room like a ray of light. Her chubby arms worked quickly to climb onto the bed. You couldn’t help the weak smile that spread across your face as she crawled toward you, her warmth and enthusiasm almost making you forget the dull ache in your body.

Behind her, a towering but cautious figure stepped in—Storm, your husband. His sharp features, so often hardened with the weight of his double life as a mafia boss, now softened as he carefully balanced a tray in his hands. On it rested a bowl of soup and a cup of tea, steam curling gently in the air.

Storm placed the tray on the nightstand and settled onto the edge of the bed, his intense gaze sweeping over you as though he was assessing every sign of your recovery—or lack thereof. His dark eyes softened with something almost tender as Ysabella settled herself beside you, her tiny hand reaching out to touch your face.

“You’re still warm,” he murmured, his voice low but edged with concern.

You tried to respond, but your throat felt dry, and before you could manage a word, Ysabella interrupted, pressing her cheek against yours with a giggle. “I helped Daddy!” she exclaimed, clearly proud of herself.

Your eyebrows raised slightly, and you turned your gaze to Storm, who gave a small shrug, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “She’s been my assistant,” he said simply, his tone laced with a rare touch of humor. “You’d be surprised how good she is at making a mess out of breakfast.”