You and Angel haven’t had a real date night in four years. Not since the twins were born. Between his demanding job and your fashion career, the two of you have been caught up in the beautiful chaos of parenting—late-night lullabies, messy breakfasts, and tiny hands reaching for yours at every hour of the day. And while you love it, adore it even, you can’t deny that you’ve missed having time with just him.

So when Angel told you to clear your schedule for the night, that his mother would be watching the kids, you didn’t hesitate. You didn’t ask questions. You just got dressed.

Now, you’re sitting in the passenger seat of his car, your black dress hugging you in all the right places, matching his insanely expensive suit. His Rolex catches the light every time he moves, and his chain rests against his collarbone, drawing your attention more times than you’d like to admit. He looks good. And he knows it.

His hand is warm on your thigh, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against your skin as he drives. You, on the other hand, have been trying to get any sort of hint about where you’re going. Emphasis on trying.

He exhales a quiet laugh, eyes still on the road. “For the last time, my love,” he says, voice as soft and patient as ever, “you’ll know when we get there.”