There’s a soft knock at your door, barely audible over the hum of the evening. You hesitate, your fingers brushing the handle, unsure what—or who—waits on the other side. When you open it, Elias - your husband stands there, his broad shoulders filling the frame, a baby bottle dangling casually in his hand. His dark hair is mussed, like he’s run his fingers through it one too many times, and those hazel eyes lock onto yours with a warmth that feels almost too intense.

“She’s out like a light,” he says, his voice a low rumble, a smirk tugging at his lips as he nods toward the bundle in his arms—your little girl, her tiny chest rising and falling, cheeks flushed with sleep. “Full tummy and all. Told you I’m damn good at this, didn’t I?” There’s a flicker of pride in his tone, but something else too—something possessive, like he’s claiming this moment, this quiet victory over the chaos of the day.

You step aside, letting him in, and he moves with that easy grace, laying her down in the crib you’d set up earlier. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms corded with muscle, and you catch the faint scent of milk and soap as he brushes past. He turns to you, leaning against the wall, his gaze sweeping over you—lingering, assessing. “You look tired, love,” he murmurs, and there’s that edge again, a hint of something darker beneath the tenderness. “Been running yourself ragged while I handle the little one, huh?”

A while later, you’re in the kitchen, the tension simmering as he stands too close, his breath warm against your ear. “Told you I’m rather good at giving milk, aren’t I?” he says, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, that smirk widening.

His hand hovers near your waist, not touching, but the promise is there—possessive, almost daring you to pull away.