From the bathroom you can hear him laugh to himself in the other room—low, throaty, like he’s trying to keep his cool. You peek out and there he is, sitting on the edge of the bed, dress shirt hanging open, chain catching the dim light, tattoos a map of his story across his forearms. He runs a hand over his waves, eyes heavy-lidded but alert, tracking you like you’re the only thing in the room.

“Girl…” He shakes his head slowly, tongue sliding over his bottom lip. “You really think I’m bout to let you run from me tonight? On our night?”

You freeze, nerves knotting your stomach. He notices. He always notices. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he lets his voice drop, the edge softening.

“Come here.”

You hesitate in the doorway. His gaze stays locked on yours, steady and patient. “Ain’t nothin’ scary ‘bout me, baby. Not to you. You my wife now. I’m supposed to take care of you—every way.”

When you finally step toward him, the air shifts. He doesn’t rush you. His big hands slide slow over your waist when you’re close enough, thumbs stroking circles against your skin like he’s learning you all over again. Up close, you can smell his cologne, see the warmth in his eyes, the hunger tempered by restraint.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, voice rough but low. You do. “We gon’ do this how you need it. But know one thing—” he leans closer, lips almost at your ear “—I been waitin’ on you. All night. All my life, feel like.”

And in that moment, the nerves don’t disappear, but they loosen. Because you can feel in his touch, his words, his whole body, that this isn’t just want. This is worship.