Selene's POV
The night we went at a restaurant to enjoy a bit.
The restaurant glowed like a lantern against the dusky street, its windows fogged with warmth and laughter. Inside, we were seated around a circular table near the back, tucked beneath strings of fairy lights and the gentle hum of jazz. The scent of spices, baked cheese, and roasted herbs wrapped around us like a familiar embrace.
Antonio pulled out my chair before taking the one beside me, close enough that our knees brushed beneath the table. Across from us, Ayra and Eliot sat comfortably tucked into each other's presence—he whispered something in her ear, and she smiled without even glancing his way. Mira and Amara sat at the end, already arguing about dessert, their energy youthful and contagious.
We ordered a little of everything. Pizzas with paper-thin crusts, truffle ravioli, grilled vegetables soaked in olive oil, buttered garlic prawns, and a lemon thyme risotto I couldn't stop stealing bites of from Antonio's plate.
"Remember when we used to sneak out for fries and milkshakes at midnight?" Ayra laughed, wiping a dab of cream from Eliot's nose.
"Now we're dining like royalty," Eliot replied with a dramatic lift of his fork.
Antonio turned to me, his voice quieter, meant just for us. "Do you ever think about where we'll be in a few years?"
I met his gaze, the candlelight dancing in the amber flecks of his eyes. "All the time," I whispered. "I imagine a home with wide windows, you humming in the kitchen… maybe even a dog snoring by our feet."
He smiled, slow and deep. "And I see you designing in the sunroom, barefoot, distracted by our child's giggles."
My heart skipped, cheeks warming at the unspoken dreams. Across the table, Ayra was saying something similar—only louder.
"I don't know what the future looks like," she admitted. "But I know who I want in it. This stubborn man who steals my coffee and sings off-key."
Eliot grinned. "I wasn't expecting someone like you. But now I can't picture my days without you."
Mira leaned in, eyes wide. "Do you think I'll meet someone like that one day?"
"You will," I said gently. "Someone who sees your soul, not just your smile."
"And makes you feel safe and free at once," Antonio added.
Amara chimed in, "Someone who dances terribly but tries anyway?"
We all laughed.
The waiter brought chocolate mousse and crème brûlée. We passed spoons around, stole bites from one another's plates, and let ourselves be full—not just from food, but from hope.
Outside, the city shimmered. Inside, we whispered promises and painted futures across candlelit faces.
And in that moment, we weren't just lovers or friends.
We were a family dreaming together.
The morning light filtered through the gauzy curtains of our apartment's living room, casting soft patterns on the wooden floor. The laughter from last night still lingered in the cushions, in the faint scent of vanilla and coffee from Ayra's candles, and in the warmth that refused to fade from my chest.
We hadn't slept much—too full of joy and thoughts of what came next. Ayra was still in her pajamas, curled up on the sofa with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Eliot sat at her feet, sketching something quietly in his notebook—perhaps an idea for her next boutique line.
Antonio had just returned from picking up breakfast—fresh croissants, sweet strawberries, and hot chocolate. As he entered, Mira and Amara trailed behind him, already digging into the paper bags.
"Future talk, part two?" Ayra asked, raising an eyebrow as she bit into a flaky pastry.
Antonio placed the drinks on the table and took the spot beside me. "We never really finished," he said, looking at me with that glimmer that always made my heart feel too big for my ribs.
I took a sip of warm chocolate, then said, "I want a space where I can design freely. A studio filled with messy fabrics, sketches pinned everywhere, and my name stitched into the soul of everything I create."
Ayra nodded. "And I want my boutique to grow, but still feel personal. Like someone walks in and feels seen, not just styled."
Eliot closed his sketchbook. "I want to open a gallery someday," he said, eyes focused. "Something small and meaningful. Art that tells stories like ours. Raw and honest."
Antonio turned to me, brushing a crumb from my lip. "And I want us to have a place that feels like home, no matter what storms come. A life not built on perfection, but on presence. I'll handle the coffee, you handle the charm."
Mira chimed in, "I want to travel. To see everything, meet everyone."
"And I want to dance," Amara added with a grin. "All over the world."
Ayra looked at them both with pride. "Then you'll do it. And we'll be there cheering from front row seats."
There was a beat of silence, the kind that doesn't feel empty, only full of quiet dreams.
"I think," I said softly, "our futures aren't just what we plan. They're what we protect. The people we choose to walk beside."
Antonio reached for my hand. "Then I'll walk beside you every step. And when you run, I'll keep up."
Ayra smirked. "And when she stumbles, we'll all catch her."
"Even if we trip too," Eliot said with a laugh.
The sun rose higher, golden across the walls, and we sat there—not rushing, not fearing—just letting the moment hold us.
We were still young. Still learning. Still blooming.
But our roots were deep.
And the future? It felt closer than ever.