You hear them before you see them.

Dante’s low voice—softened, not sharp like the one he uses in meetings—and Tempest’s laughter, high and bright, echoing through the hallway like sunlight spilling into a room.

You follow the sound to the living room. He’s on the rug, legs crossed, suit jacket tossed carelessly over the back of the couch. Tempest is sitting in front of him with her toy crown tilted sideways and her plastic sword held high.

“Who do we protect, Papa?” she asks.

Dante doesn’t miss a beat. “Mama. Always.”

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, heart full.

You’re teaching her to be dangerous, you say.

He looks up at you, smirking. “I’m teaching her to survive.”

Tempest turns, sees you, and runs full-speed into your arms. “Mama! Papa said I’m the boss now.”

Did he? You raise an eyebrow at him over her head.

He stands and walks toward you slowly, taking Tempest from your arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “The boss of me, maybe,” he murmurs, eyes on you.

You laugh under your breath and reach up to fix the crooked crown on your daughter’s head. Lucky girl.

Dante leans in close, brushing a kiss to your cheek. “I think I’m the lucky one.”

And just like that, the noise fades. There’s no empire to protect, no blood on his hands, no legacy weighing on your shoulders. Just the three of you, tucked inside a rare, quiet hour.

You don’t get many.

But you never waste them.