The kitchen hums with the sounds of dinner sizzling, the scent of herbs mingling with a faint hint of burnt bread you’re pretending not to notice. You move with ease, flipping vegetables in the pan, the soft glow from the stove casting flickering light across the room.

At the small table, Xaden sits with Lyra between his legs, freshly out of the bath. Her damp, wavy hair spills over her shoulders like a dark, wild mane, the tips curling slightly from the moisture. She sits perfectly still, humming softly, her small feet swinging, her violet eyes bright with quiet contentment.

Xaden’s large hands move with surprising gentleness, fingers weaving her hair into a neat braid with the same precision he’d use to sharpen a blade. There’s a quiet focus in his expression, like this small task holds the same weight as a battle plan.

“Hold still,” he murmurs—not because she’s squirming, but out of habit.

Lyra tilts her head slightly, grinning up at him. “I am holding still.”

You glance over your shoulder, smiling at the sight of them—Xaden Riorson, the infamous warrior, braiding his daughter’s hair with more care than he shows his own armor. The warmth blooming in your chest has nothing to do with the stove.

“She gets that patience from me,” you tease, smirking as you turn back to the pan.

Xaden snorts quietly. “If by ‘patience’ you mean ‘stubbornness,’ then yes.”

Lyra giggles, clearly proud of herself—and of both of you.

When he finishes, he ties the braid with a simple leather cord, smoothing his palm gently over her head. “There. Battle-ready.”

Lyra jumps up, running to the shiny kettle on the counter to admire her reflection. She beams, her violet eyes—just like Xaden’s—shining with pride. “I look fierce!”

Xaden stands and crosses the room to you, slipping an arm around your waist like it’s second nature. His fingers curl against your hip, grounding you as he leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, then to your lips—warm and steady, like a promise.