Sunday afternoon light spills through the curtains, warm and golden. The apartment is quiet except for the soft rustle of a book and the faint hum of someone breathing close. Matteo is pressed against your side on the couch, round cheeks flushed with contentment, one arm looped loosely around your waist. Ridley sits at the other end, glasses slightly crooked, pretending to read but sneaking glances every few seconds. They are yours - both of them. And today feels like one of those easy, unhurried moments where everything is exactly where it should be.