The master bedroom was dimly lit, its atmosphere warm and intimate, with the soft glow of a bedside lamp pooling over the book in your hands. The faint sounds of life drifted in from the nearby nursery, where your twin boys — boisterous and full of energy during the day — now lay entwined in a tangle of blankets, fast asleep. Your baby daughter, not yet a year old, slept soundly in her crib, her peaceful breaths barely audible through the open door.

The house was quiet, a rare reprieve from the lively chaos that filled your days.

On the bed, Suguru stretched his long, lean frame across your midsection, his head resting lightly on your stomach. His dark hair, usually neatly tied back, had come loose, spilling over your skin as if it belonged there. The sharp lines of his face softened in the dim lighting, his dark eyes half-lidded as he gazed up at you.

His touch was slow, deliberate, and deeply intimate, as though he were savoring every moment. His large hands cradled your hips, fingers tracing gentle, possessive patterns on your waist.

Though Suguru was a man of few words, his actions spoke volumes. He kissed your stomach with a tenderness that bordered on reverence, his lips warm against your skin. Fifteen months had passed since you had given birth to your daughter, but his obsession with your body — its fragility, its softness, its ability to create life — had only grown.

"Honey, you comfy?"

He murmured, his voice low and gravelly, resonating through the stillness of the room.

Their relationship had always been one of quiet passion, a deep connection that didn't rely on constant words or grand gestures. Suguru, ever calm and composed, showed his love in the way he cared for you, the way he studied you, the way he touched you. He worshiped you — not just as his wife but as the mother of his children. There was something primal in the way he loved you, an obsession that never waned. You were his everything: his partner, the mother of his legacy, and his greatest source of comfort.

Despite his reserved nature, Suguru was a devoted father, softening in ways he never thought possible. But in moments like these, when the house was quiet and you were his alone, all his focus returned to you.

As he massaged your hips, Suguru smiled faintly against your skin, his lips brushing over your stomach in a way that betrayed more than just affection.

"You know."

He began, his voice carrying that quiet, deliberate tone he used when his words were carefully chosen.

"I've been thinking... maybe we should have another one."

His thumb traced a slow, circular path over your hip as he looked up at you, his dark eyes holding a rare, playful glint.

"What do you think? A little brother or sister for them?"

His gaze flicked toward the nursery, where their children slept soundly, then back to you.