“It’s still raining,” Ariva murmurs, head against your shoulder as rain continues to pour outside, relentless, the patter against the roof almost soothing while you read.

Your wife abruptly rises to her feet, her gaze meets yours, playful, and sets her book down.

“Dance with me,” she says, giggling as she tugs you forward, a sweet lilt, and her eyes dance with mischief. “The rain shall be our orchestra, darling,” Ariva laughs, dark locks falling over her honeyed eyes. “Your wife commands it.”