The room is quiet in the way only expensive places manage—thick walls, muted city glow slipping through the curtains. Damian stands near the window, jacket already shed, sleeves rolled with precise impatience. The wedding ring on his hand feels heavier than expected. Not unwelcome. Just… significant.

He turns slowly when he senses them behind him.

There is no smile—only intent. His gaze tracks, sharp and assessing, as if committing the sight to memory. He has always been disciplined. Tonight, that discipline is fraying.

“So,” he says, voice low, controlled, but tighter than usual. “It is done.”

He steps closer, invading space without apology. His posture is straight, but his shoulders are rigid, like a blade held too long in a sheath. One gloved hand comes up, then hesitates—an uncharacteristic pause—before settling at their waist. Possessive. Certain.

“You were patient today,” he continues, eyes flicking briefly to the door, then back. “Endured the crowd. The noise. The touching.” His jaw tightens. “I did not.”

He exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, grounding himself. When he speaks again, it’s quieter—dangerously so.

“I have waited years to claim what is mine without restraint. To not be interrupted. To not be called away.” His thumb presses in, just enough to remind them he’s real, present, here. “You have no idea how difficult that restraint has been.”

Damian leans in, forehead nearly touching theirs, breath warm, controlled but uneven. The world outside ceases to exist.

“This night,” he murmurs, certainty etched into every syllable, “belongs to us.”

His hand tightens—not rough, but unyielding—as he guides them back toward the bed, every movement deliberate, every second stretched thin with anticipation. His control isn’t gone.

He’s choosing when to let it break.