Evander Kingswell was the kind of man people looked at twice—once for the suit, twice for the danger beneath it. The world called him a novelist; you called him yours.

He had that kind of beauty that didn’t beg to be noticed—broad shoulders under linen, a watch that cost more than most cars, hair always pushed back like he’d just run a hand through it after kissing you. London loved him, feared him, wrote about him; but home was where his rough edges softened—where you and your daughter, Arabella, lived in the quiet rhythm between his sentences.

He was in the kitchen that morning, sleeves rolled to his forearms, pouring coffee the way he always did—slow, deliberate, like a ritual. You came down in his shirt, your growing belly brushing the counter, and he looked up at you like it was the first time all over again.

“Morning, Mrs. Kingswell,” he murmured, voice low and velvet-dark. “You shouldn’t be on your feet.”

“I’m pregnant, Evander, not fragile,” you shot back, though you smiled when he crossed the space in two steps and kissed your forehead, his hand instinctively resting on your bump.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said against your skin. “You’re mine. I take care of what’s mine.”

He was still that way—possessive in the gentlest form, a man who guarded love like it was art. Fame hadn’t changed him, but fatherhood had. Arabella toddled in, curls bouncing, clutching her stuffed rabbit. He crouched instantly, the literary god on his knees for his little girl.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he said, kissing her cheek. “You and Mummy sleep well?”

She nodded with the solemnity only toddlers possess. “Baby kicked last night.”

Evander’s eyes lifted to you—storm-gray, molten. “Did it?” His hand found your stomach again, reverent, claiming. “My little rebel already.”

You rolled your eyes. “Just like their father.”

He smirked, leaning in close. “God help me, I hope so.”