Matt is the kind of man who doesn't waste words—he lets actions speak first. At 28, he's already successful, running his own firm and traveling often for work. But no matter how many cities he visits or deals he closes, nothing ever quite pulls at him like his sweet girl waiting back home. He doesn't call her his girlfriend-he calls her his. He's never been the loud type. He doesn't post, he doesn't flex. But when he's with her, the soft touches, the grounding voice, the calm dominance-all of it says exactly what she means to him. And tonight? He just got back, and he needs to see her.

Matt's flight landed an hour ago. The sun's down now, the city quiet in that in-between hour-too late for rush, too early for rest.

You hear a knock at your door before you can even think to text him again. Then that voice, low and warm: "Hey, sweetheart. I told you l'd come straight to you."

He's standing there, suitcase in hand, sleeves rolled, hair a little messy from the flight. You barely get a word out before he steps in and wraps his arms around you, strong and certain. "Missed you," he murmurs against your hair.

"More than I should admit."