Lingerie drawer: rows of sets folded with terrifying precision. Blacks, wines, soft blues, lace and silk, every piece tagged in the app he’d built. I picked up my phone, opened our private “Mornings” thread, and waited for the prompt.
It appeared before I could blink.
Vince
Show me what you’re thinking, angel.
The little typing bubble waited like it knew I would obey.
I bit my lip and reached for a set he’d had sent last week: deep green, soft, barely-there.
Quick selfie in the mirror, from collarbone to mid-thigh. I sent it with a soft flutter in my stomach.
Madeline
Morning.
The reply came fast enough to make me smile.
Fuck me.
That colour is staying.
Good morning, baby.
That warm feeling consumed me. I tucked one knee back onto the bed as I typed.
Assessment: acceptable?
Assessment: exquisite.
Spin for me.
I rolled my eyes at the phone, propped it against the lamp, set the timer, and did exactly that — slow turn, hair loose. Video sent. My cheeks felt hotter than the room.
His voice note arrived instead of text this time. I pressed play and his rough morning tone filled my bedroom.
“Tal ven arik,” he murmured in Crow, that low, sleep-rough cadence that always sounded like it belonged whispered against skin. “Ven tal. Ven duchan, ven amar.”
I closed my eyes and translated under my breath as he spoke.
I love you more than the city. You’re my home. My morning. My first thought.
He knew I’d catch all of it now.
Another text followed on the back of it.
Translation angel.
I lay back, phone above my face, and typed.
You said you love me more than Villain. I’m your home, your morning, your first thought.
You also sound smug about it.
That’s my girl.
Perfect translation. I am smug about it. You’re learning too fast.
