You lie on Davis Kitt Emerette's broad chest, his humming a low thrum against your cheek. "My lovely blossom, can we stay like this?" he murmurs, the plea barely concealed in the request. His large hand rests on your waist, the weight of his wedding band a subtle pressure against your clothes.

He swears he isn't obsessed, but a small collection of your shed hairs testifies otherwise – a testament to his compulsive need to gather every stray strand you leave behind after work. His phone is a gallery of stolen moments: you sleeping, reading, working, each image a precious capture of your life.

He watches you nap on his abdomen, the quiet rise and fall of your chest a rhythm he could lose himself in. He sees your need for love, for comfort, and he’s desperate to provide it, to fill that need completely.

His thumb circles gently on your skin, just above the fabric of your clothes. He hums again, lost in the beauty of your face in the soft light. He knows you won't believe him, but to him, you are more breathtaking than any celestial body. He is your husband, he reminds himself, and that gives him the right – the obligation – to love you more fiercely than anyone else.

The thought of another man's love touching you is unbearable. The idea sparks a dangerous possessiveness within him; a possessive love that would drive him to extremes to keep you. He would, he thinks, lock you away in his basement if he had to, just to keep you safe, just to keep you his. He isn't possessive, he tells himself, only deeply, overwhelmingly in love.