Fallen General's Omega (BL)-Chapter 280: Forever feels like

Noelle POV

The morning light pours into the room like honey—warm, golden, and slow. It paints the ivory walls in soft amber, glinting off the glass chandelier and casting shifting patterns across the carpet. I blink, once, then again, the sunlight coaxing me awake through the delicate curtains.

The room is quiet. Peaceful. Familiar.

I turn to my side, the silk sheets rustling softly beneath me.

There he is.

Thorne.

Asleep on his stomach, one arm curled under the pillow, the other stretched across my side of the bed like he was reaching for me in his dreams.The covers hang low on his hips, exposing the curve of his bare back, the strong lines of his shoulders.

His hair—golden and a bit too long now—spills over his forehead in soft waves. He’s started growing a beard, and though I teased him for it at first, I find I’ve come to love the way it frames his jaw, makes him look like a ’proper father’ figure, as he put it.

"A dignified Archon and father of three should have a beard," he’d said one day.

And I’d just stared at him.

Now I can’t imagine him without it.

His breathing is even. Calm.

Safe.

My hand reaches out instinctively, brushing his shoulder as I shift closer. I rest my cheek against his back, letting the warmth of him seep into my skin., his muscles relax under my weight. He grumbles something unintelligible but doesn’t stir.

I press a soft kiss to the nape of his neck.

This back—broad and strong—has always shielded the world from me. It’s where I learned what safety felt like. It’s where I first slept soundly. It’s where our children cling when they’re scared. This back is my sanctuary.

This man.

The man I love. This man I would die for.

He calls me his star, always with that quiet reverence, like I’m something fragile and celestial.

But the truth is, he is mine.

My shield. My foundation.

The man I once found half-dead in a crumbling house on a lonely hill now sleeps peacefully in our bed, surrounded by warmth and love, his arms the ones that hold everything together.

I snicker softly, thinking of how far we’ve come.

"What are you thinking about?" he mumbles, his voice gravelly with sleep.

"I can hear your mind. It’s really loud."

I smile against his skin.

"Wondering how much time we have before the twins come bursting in."

He lets out a long, suffering groan and buries his face deeper into the pillow.

I laugh quietly and run my fingers along the curve of his spine. He’s older now— not that old really, you would think he is half a step into the grave with how he says it, but really he is just a man in his 30s. But he complains more often about the pain in his knee, I suppose he’s not wrong. I will get him another cane, and restart those herbal mixtures he hates so much.

"You’re thinking too loud again," he mutters.

"Just admiring my husband," I murmur.

He rolls onto his side, the blankets shifting around his bare torso, and finally cracks open one eye—blue, sharp, sleepy, and still devastatingly beautiful.

"That’s dangerous," he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

"Might fall in love."

"Too late," I whisper back.

The corners of his lips lift in a crooked smile as he reaches out, fingers brushing back a strand of hair from my face. His touch is unhurried, admiring.

The pad of his thumb lingers against my cheekbone before slowly sliding down to trace the curve of my jaw.

"I love you," he says simply, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.

And it is.

"I know," I reply with a soft smile.

Because I do. I know it in every glance he gives me. Every action.

It’s in everything.

His thumb moves to my lips, brushing against the bottom one before rubbing it gently. His eyes darken just a shade, playful heat stirring in their depths.

"Up for some morning action?" he asks, voice dropping, a wicked edge sharpening his tone as he wiggles his eyebrows with all the grace of a cocky teenage boy.

I scoff and narrow my eyes.

"I don’t know. Can your body handle such strenuous activity, old man?"

That gets a dramatic gasp from him. "Old man?"

He leans closer, his large frame shifting until I feel the heat of his skin against mine. His lips graze mine—not quite a kiss, not yet—and I feel him smile against my mouth.

"I’ll show you what I can handle," he growls, before pressing his mouth to mine.

I laugh against his mouth, breathless and giddy.

Maybe this is what forever feels like.

*

It has come to my attention that Mirelle is simply... a very quiet child.

Or perhaps—more accurately—the twins are demons in the shape of toddlers.

I stare up at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded, hands limp at my sides as I lie flat on the floor like a man surrendering to fate.

The only sound in the room is the chirping, relentless, never-ending chatter of my four-year-olds. Which is why I’m currently praying to whatever god still has the misfortune of listening to me.

Are four-year-olds supposed to be like this?

I wouldn’t know. Mirelle was so quiet. So composed. She hardly spoke, never screamed, and glared anyone into submission with a single look.

You could have a full tea party beside her crib and she wouldn’t flinch. I thought, back then, parenting was easy, not so hard. freewebnσvel.cøm

I was a fool.

On my right, dressed like a burst of sunshine, is Thieran. Or as I like to call him in moments of despair—The Loud One.

He’s babbling to himself, or to me, or to the invisible god of mischief he’s likely descended from. His yellow shirt is already stained with juice and dirt, but that’s how he likes it.

As soon as he could form opinions, he declared war on anything remotely dull-colored. If it doesn’t hurt your eyes, he doesn’t want it.

And he’s drawn to mess like a moth to flame. He is chaos incarnate.

Niall, on the other hand—my sweet, sweet Niall—is an enabler. A gentle storm that always follows the bigger one.

If Thieran laughs, Niall laughs harder. If Thieran screams, Niall echoes him like a loyal warhorn.

If Thieran so much as sniffs with the threat of tears, Niall throws himself into dramatic sobbing like he’s auditioning for a tragic opera.

They’re both currently at either side of my head, braiding—no, tangling—my hair into what I can only describe as structural chaos.

I’m going to regret this later. I know I’ll spend an hour with detangling oil, tears in my eyes, and not even Thorne’s fingers will be able to save me. But right now? I don’t have the strength to stop them.

They’re humming. That’s the worst part. A happy little melody as they destroy me.

I glance up at the ceiling again.

I groan and melt further into the floor. Somewhere in the distance, I hear Thorne’s voice. He’s coming this way. Good. Let him suffer too.

He’s their father, after all.