You’re barely out of the shower when you smell it—garlic, something sizzling, and the faintest trace of your favorite candle already burning in the kitchen.

“Don’t lift a finger,” Frankie calls out without even looking up from the pan. “I said I got it, didn’t I?”

He’s wearing that worn-in black tee you love, sleeves hugging his arms, the chain you gave him peeking out from his collar. You walk in barefoot, and there’s already a blanket waiting for you draped on the couch, a drink on the table—mocktail, just the way you like it, with the little frozen berries floating like he remembered every detail.

“You tired?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder, voice low. “I can rub your feet after dinner. Or now. Whichever gets me a kiss first.”

You roll your eyes, but he’s already drying his hands, moving to pull out your chair.

He kisses your temple before you sit. Then your shoulder. Then just rests his hand on the small of your back for a second longer than necessary—like he needs to reassure himself you’re here, safe, and his.

“You know I used to carry gear heavier than you for ten miles without flinching,” he murmurs as he sets your plate down. “So you can let me carry you to bed later. No arguments.”

You catch the glint of his pistol tucked neatly on the counter—close, reachable, but never threatening. Because he’s not the weapon anymore. He’s the shield. Especially when it comes to you.

“Finish that,” he says, voice gentler now. “Then we’re putting on that dumb movie you like. I’m brushing your hair. You’re not lifting a damn finger tonight. Got it, princesa?”