TRISTAN
It's a peaceful spring morning, the kind of day that feels like a soft breath, where the world moves a little slower, and everything seems to shimmer with quiet magic.
The air smells of rain and wildflowers, the grass damp beneath our feet, and the sun is just warm enough to chase away the lingering chill.
Olivia sits on the porch swing of our home, a modest yet elegant cabin at the edge of Howlcrest territory, her fingers lazily stroking Boyd's fur as he rests his massive head on her lap. His tail wags slowly, thumping against the wooden floorboards in a steady rhythm.
She's drinking tea, chamomile, I think, the steam curling in delicate spirals, and her hair glows in the soft light, a cascade of dark waves framing her face.
Gods, she's beautiful.
My mate. My wife. My Olivia.
