Still,Always,Us.

Camille's POV They say money can't buy happiness. I disagree. Money bought me velvet sheets. A skyline view of Manhattan. And the privilege of waking up slow. It bought me peace. Space. A locked bedroom door. Time. And in this life? Time is the real flex. --- Sunlight poured through the tall windows - soft and golden - sliding over the marble floors and spilling across our bed like something out of a painting. It warmed my bare legs as I stretched under the weight of the duvet, slow and indulgent, letting the ache in my thighs remind me what last night felt like. A souvenir. One I never took for granted. --- Damien's arm was already draped around my waist. His palm resting low. Fingers spread like he was claiming something. Something sacred. He was always warm in the morning. Always still. And then - a kiss. Light. Lazy. Pressed to the back of my neck like a secret he wasn't ready to let go of. Like he had nowhere else to be. Which, of course, was a lie. "You're gonna be late," I murmured, voice still sleep-heavy. His lips didn't stop. "Meeting got postponed." "How convenient" I smirked. He shifted closer, voice brushing against my shoulder. "I decided making you come again was a better use of my morning." A soft laugh slipped out of me - warm, automatic. He was always like this. Composed in the public eye. Shameless in the sheets. I loved both versions. But this one? The one who whispered filth like prayers, who touched me like skin was scripture? This one was my favourite. "You do realize we have kids who wake up like they got bills to pay, right?" "They're with Lucy," he murmured. "And we're grown. With a locked door." His hand slid lower, nearing the sore, tender spot in my thigh. I flinched "Damien" I warned half-heartedly. But his hand just rested there. Like he had all the time in the world. "Camille" I rolled over slowly. Met his gaze. My hands pressed to his toned chest - warm, solid, scattered in ink. His tattoos ran up his arms, his neck, across his ribs, down his sides like stories he'd never fully told me. His locks were tied back beneath his durag. I still had my bonnet on. There was something about mornings like this - the softness. The intimacy. The way he looked at me that I didn't often notice. The infatuation. "Your eyes are so f*****g beautiful" He murmured softly, a mesmerised look in his eyes. "You always say that," I mumbled, blushing. Five years married, and he still acted like my eyes were rare, fascinating jewels, instead of just... me. "Because it's true," he said - simple, sure. I let the moment linger, then rolled away before he got any more ideas. I slipped out of bed, pulled on my robe, and padded across the cool marble. "Where you going?" His smirk audible in his voice. "If you think I'm kissing you with morning breath," I called, "you clearly forgot who you married." His chuckle followed me. Deep. Low. One that suggested that he did in fact remember who he married. "So I gotta wait for my greeting?" "Good morning, Damien," I sang from the bathroom, toothbrush already in hand. He showed up in the mirror a minute later. Shirtless. Barefoot. Sleepy-eyed and sin in human form. He didn't say anything, just grabbed his toothbrush like it was routine. Like we'd done this a hundred times. Because we had. --- "Have you checked our comments yet?" I asked, reaching for my cleanser. Pre-shower skincare. "When have I ever checked our socials without you?" he said, smirking. Eyes on me now. "Thought so," I murmured, pumping cleanser into my palm. "Come here." He raised a brow. "You're joining me. Might as well do it right." I stepped closer, hands lathered in foam - a gentle reminder of our slight height difference. "Down." "Baby-" "Down," I insisted, giving him the look. He sighed, but he obeyed - the way he always did when I took over like this. As soon as my hands touched his face, he relaxed. Closed his eyes. Leaned into it. Obediently. His skin was smooth - warm and clean and completely unfair. He barely used anything, but still looked like he belonged in a campaign. I massaged slow circles into his cheeks, then down his jaw. "You like this too much" He smirked. Eyes still closed. "I like your hands on me. Period." I smiled and whispered: "Good boy." He chuckled "We talked about that." "Talked about what?." "I'm 26, I think I'm far from a child." "Yeah? Well you always call me Mami" He smirked. "Most women respond with Papi" I lifted a brow. "Papi?" He leaned in, close enough to taste. "Try it." I tilted my head, kissed the corner of his mouth. "Fine then. Papi." He grinned. "Good girl." I laughed. "Touché" Damien's POV People know me in parts. Damien Khalil Roth. CEO of Roth Labs. Tech innovator. Investor. Father of twins. Husband to Camille Sinclair- Well. Camille Roth, now. Mine. Forever. They say passion fades. That love softens into routine. Comfort. But five years in, and I still couldn't keep my hands off her. Still watched her move like I did the first time - Backlit. Bold. Untouchable. Still loved her like a man starved. She's not a want for me. She's a need. Emails pinged from London and Singapore. Reminders that time zones don't care about fatherhood, or marriage, or mornings like this. But I kept glancing up from the screen. Because she was right there - Moving through the room like gravity bent toward her. Getting ready for a day she didn't really want to leave for. Camille only went to the office when something demanded her presence - Board meetings. Strategic pivots. Things she didn't trust anyone else to handle. And today? She was going in. Meaning something was brewing. Her curls were wild this morning. No blowout. No updo. Just natural. Soft, voluminous coils spiralling over her shoulders. Bangs teasing her lashes. She always tried to hide her eyes. Never made sense to me. One was an emerald green- clear, expensive, and vital. The other, a deep ocean blue - lethal, unnerving, yet calm. If her eyes were a painting, they'd be locked behind bulletproof glass. If they were music, they'd be R&B. Velvet. Soulful. Dangerous. "Damien?" "Hmm?" She turned from the mirror. "Is this okay for work?" Black tights. A fitted pencil skirt that knew exactly what it was doing. Cream-and-black blazer, cinched at the waist. Minimal cleavage - but enough to throw off a man's concentration. I stared. Bit my lip. "You look..." I shook my head, heat rising behind my eyes. "... dangerous, Camille." She blinked innocently. "Camille? Who's she?" I smirked. "Aren't you Camille?" She stepped closer. Smiled slow. "No, baby. It's wifey to you. Tu amor. Tu corazón. Tuya." I exhaled hard. This is what I get for marrying a woman half-Jamaican, half-Puerto Rican. Fire in so many languages. I ran a hand down my jaw. "You can't talk to me like that." "Why not?" she teased, brushing invisible lint from my shirt. "You gonna make me late?" "I might." I tilted her chin up, leaned in close. Her skin smelled like vanilla and trouble. "Behave yourself," she whispered. "I'll try." But we both knew I didn't mean it. I kissed her slowly - not for long. But deep enough to say I remember last night. Then - Knock. Knock. Tiny taps. Soft. Hesitant. Camille groaned. "It was just getting good." I chuckled. "Come in." Two small heads peeked through the door. Mia burst in first - bunny dragging behind her like a cape, curls bouncing, smile wide. She'd lost her bonnet. Again. Pyjamas: Innocent bunny print. Mood: total chaos. 100% her mother's child. "Daddy!" she squealed, launching into my arms like a missile. "Easy, Princess." I caught her in one arm and kissed her cheek. "Lucy said you're not leaving today! That true?" "Yep. I'm home." She squealed again - like her body couldn't hold that much joy. Milo followed behind - quiet, thoughtful, sketchbook clutched to his chest. His anime pyjamas were baggy as usual. Bonnet still on. Thank God. "Morning, big man," I said, nodding at him. "What you drawing?" He walked over slowly and opened the sketchbook. A lion. Red mane. Shoulders broad. Eyes that actually felt like something. "Mufasa?" I asked. He nodded, almost shy. He was only four, but I couldn't have drawn that at ten. "Looks powerful," I said. "Strong as hell. Just like you." His smile beamed across his face - soft, proud. Camille's smile, exactly. "Okay" Camille said brushing her skirt. She'd slipped on her heels. When had she done that? She crouched and kissed them both. "Mummy's heading out, okay?" Then she turned to me. I raised a brow. She giggled. "Take care of them for me," she said gently. "Even though we have a full staff and three nannies. And I know you'll probably be bus-" I cut her off with a kiss. The one I'd been waiting on all morning. Soft. Solid. Perfect. "In front of the kids?" she laughed. I shrugged. "They'll understand someday." She rolled her eyes, smacked my chest, and grabbed her bag. Camille Roth. Effortless. Composed. Every step confident. Fine ass. And then she was gone. Transitioned to Camille Roth: Entrepreneur. Influencer. And me? I was just Damien this morning. Damien the Daddy. Sweatpants. T-shirt. Remote work, playdates, cartoons, and afternoon snacks. The emails could wait. Because in our world - the kind built on ambition and time zones - the real luxury isn't money. It's time. And mornings like this? With my twins hanging off my shoulders and the scent of my wife still lingering on my skin? That's the kind of wealth I live for.