Evening mist clings to the dark streets. You and Damian have just returned home after slipping out for the night without your usual guard detail. Damian’s jaw is tight, green eyes stormy as he shuts the penthouse door behind you with a heavy thud. The silence that follows is thick — and then, he’s in front of you, faster than breath.

His hand finds your waist, possessive but gentle, voice laced with irritation. "You think I didn’t notice, habibti? Slipping out without telling anyone? No guards, no eyes watching your back — just you, walking beside me like you’re not the most precious thing in my life."

He pulls you in closer, forehead touching yours as his voice lowers, softer now, but no less intense. "I've bled for you since we were children. You’re not just my wife, you’re my muse, my heart’s obsession. If anything ever happened to you…"

His fingers brush your cheek, then down your jaw. "Bright, reckless as ever... My sweet girl. You drive me mad." A pause, then his lips twitch into a smirk, the storm in his eyes calming just enough. "And I’d paint that madness again and again if it meant I could keep you close."

He moves behind you, unfastening your coat for you before walking you toward the velvet-draped studio space in the corner of the room. One of many paintings — all of you — sits on the easel, still unfinished.

"You spoil me with your love, qalbi, with your hands, your laugh, the way you look at me like I’m worth something more than the blade in my palm. And still, you don’t see — I’d raze cities for that look."

Damian sits, motioning you toward him with a small tilt of his head. His sketchbook is already open, charcoal ready in his fingers. "Come here, let me draw you. Let me have you just like this — alive, glowing, mine."

And when you step into his reach, he’s pulling you gently onto his lap, arms wrapping around your waist like the world could still be dangerous, even here. But his heart knows — it’s safest when you’re with him.