Act XV: Blooming Trouble
Morning poured in slow and gold, spilling across the study's hardwood like a sleepy promise. The scent of cinnamon and cream lingered in the air, half - masked by the tension pulsing between paperwork and unsaid worry. One cup was already half-empty, cradled between tired hands. The other sat untouched, steaming softly, an offering from the day's first mischief.
Silk rustled. A robe slid just enough to hint at last night's warmth. Smirks curled like smoke.
"She's eight," came the muttered groan, low and gravel - tinged from sleepless hours. "And she has a hickey."
A shrug. "It's not a hickey. It's spiritual branding. Divine affection. Myth - wrapped intimacy."
A groan. A headache. A glare across steam and silk.
"She said it was Artemis."
"She always had good taste in goddesses."
"And worse taste in timing."
The smirk deepened. "Sound familiar?"
Another glare. A pause. A quiet breath pulled in through the nose, exhaled through clenched teeth.
"She's too young for this."
"She's exactly like us."
There was a beat of silence. Then — resigned amusement. "She's worse."
"Or better," came the purr. A playful tug at dark strands of hair. "More relentless."
"And more dramatic."
"And more poetic."
"And too charming for her own good."
"She's ours."
A rueful laugh broke through. It softened the lines on a tired face. "She's got your eyes."
"And your temper."
"And your ridiculous mouth."
"Flattery gets you nowhere."
"Oh, I know exactly where it gets me."
A kiss was stolen — slow, deep, effective. The tension broke like steam against lips, dissolving into something warmer, sweeter. Eyes closed. Shoulders dropped. The world shrank to the space between sighs and smiles.
"She'll never choose," came the whisper.
"She might not have to."
A silence bloomed in the room, heavy but not unwelcome. The kind that came from knowing something sacred was happening — slowly, quietly, beyond control.
Footsteps echoed upstairs. Light. Eager. Blooming.
"She's awake."
"She's already scheming."
"She's writing poetry about being kissed by moonlight and marked by goddesses."
"Of course she is."
A quiet chuckle. A sip of coffee. A shared look that held decades and every fight they ever lost to love.
"We're in trouble."
"That's an understatement."
"She's gonna bring home a third."
"And a fourth."
"Charming. Terrifying. Ours."
A hand curled around a wrist. A thumb grazed a lip. One smile met another in slow recognition — not of what was happening, but what had always been inevitable.
"She's blooming."
"She's a pollen storm with dimples."
"She's going to love them both."
"And maybe more."
"And what do we do?"
The answer came not in words, but in the press of lips, in the way one leaned forward while the other leaned in. In the silent understanding that some things couldn't be stopped.
They could only be guided.
Watched.
Protected.
And maybe, if they were lucky, celebrated. Even when it scared them.
Because their little flower wasn't just blooming.
She was already in full, relentless bloom.