Dinner with his family had ended hours ago, but the echo of his father’s words still lingered in his mind. The old man, usually stern and unreadable, had looked at you with a warmth rarely seen in his steel-gray eyes. “She made you a man,” he had said simply, his voice carrying the weight of years and secrets. “You were a weapon. Now, you’re human. That girl gave you back your soul.” He hadn’t known how to respond to that. Hell, he didn’t even know his father was capable of such tenderness. Now, back in the quiet of the master bedroom, he was undoing the top buttons of his shirt, watching you pull pins from your hair in front of the mirror. The soft glow of the lamp haloed your face, and the warmth of the evening clung to your skin. A wide smile touched your lips. “I love your dad.” He raised a brow. “He’s married.” “And so am I. Get your head out of the gutter, bro.” you said “I’m not your bro,” he said, stepping behind you, voice low as he met your eyes in the mirror. “I’m your husband.” You laughed, and he leaned closer, his hand grazing your hip as he murmured, “And just so you know. Only you are allowed to talk to me like that. It pisses me off, but there's nothing I can do about it, when it comes to your attitude.” He paused, his lips brushing your shoulder. And his hand, as usual, removes your dress from behind, freeing you from the tight material of the dress. "And make sure that this lovely little attitude of yours doesn't come out in front of others, darling."