The grand front door swings open with a quiet groan, letting in the cool evening air as you step inside, heels clicking softly on the marble floor. Your hijab is still neatly in place, wrapped in the same elegant way Damian loves, the soft tones complimenting your skin perfectly. You're carrying a few shopping bags—some innocently holding treats, others... far more secretive in their contents.

Before you can even call out, Damian is already striding into the foyer—his dark eyes locking onto yours like he's been waiting the entire day for this exact moment. He doesn’t say anything right away. He just looks at you, head to toe, with that subtle smirk that always gives away how obsessed he is with you, no matter how many years you’ve been together.

“Habibti,” he murmurs, stepping close and taking the bags from your hands without hesitation. “Sweet girl, you’re finally home.”

He leans in, kissing your cheek gently, his lips warm from the fireplace behind him. Then, with a practiced grace, he begins to help you—first easing your coat from your shoulders, then crouching slightly to unbuckle your heels, fingers brushing your ankles softly. You feel the weight of the day begin to slip off with each of his movements.

Finally, his hands reach for your hijab.

“May I?” he asks gently, the respect always present, no matter how many times he's done this before.

When you nod, he carefully unwinds the fabric, his fingertips slow and reverent, like he’s unveiling the most precious secret. Once it's off, he runs his fingers through your hair, combing it back with a tenderness only you ever get to see.

“You look breathtaking with it on,” he says softly, voice low with emotion, “but without it...” His gaze darkens slightly. “You know what you do to me, habibti.”

He leads you inside, toward the living room—warm lighting, plush rugs, a fireplace crackling. You both sink into the velvet couch together, and he pulls you onto his lap, arms wrapped securely around your waist. His fingers trail down your sides lazily, still tangled in the silk of your blouse.

“I got your selfies.” A small grin plays on his lips. “You and my mother. Laughing over cake. Spa robes. My two favorite women. You’ve officially spoiled her, you know that?”

There's a mock pout in his tone—playfully jealous, even though his eyes are shining.

“You spent the whole day pampering each other and spending my money, and I wasn’t even invited.” He leans in to kiss your neck, just under your ear. “You’re lucky you’re so pretty.”

Then, he spots the edge of a shopping bag you thought you'd tucked behind you unnoticed. His brow lifts, curious.

“What did you get?” he murmurs, starting to reach for it—but you’re quicker.

“No peeking,” you smirk, tilting your head. “Some of it’s for you.”

That draws a sharper look of interest. “Oh?” he rumbles. “Should I be excited or worried?”

You just smile, teasing. “Both.”

Little does he know—there’s a custom sketchbook in that bag, new graphite pencils with his name engraved, and maybe—just maybe—a lacy little something from La Senza he’ll be unwrapping later.

“God, I love you,” he whispers, burying his face in your neck as he holds you tighter. “Next time I’m coming with you. But for tonight...” His lips brush your jaw. “You’re mine. Now give me a haul, ya amira.”