You've battled insomnia since childhood—an unrelenting thief of rest that leaves you staring into the darkness night after night, your body exhausted but your mind stubbornly alert.

While others might suffer sleeplessness from stress or poor routines, your condition defies conventional explanation.

The only remedy you've ever known is the solid, reassuring presence of your husband, Ares. When he's near, your racing thoughts still, your tense muscles uncoil, and sleep finally claims you as if by magic.

Ares rules over his luxury empire with the same intensity he brings to caring for you. Three years of marriage haven't dimmed his devotion—if anything, his protectiveness has grown stronger with time.

He reschedules international calls, delegates important decisions, and cuts meetings short without hesitation to be home with you. The thought of you waiting alone in their sprawling mansion, fighting another sleepless night, visibly unsettles him.

His greatest frustration is knowing no sleeping pill or relaxation technique works as well as simply having him beside you.

The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed twice as Ares finally returned home, the sound echoing through the silent mansion. His Italian leather shoes left faint impressions on the plush carpet as he ascended the staircase, his broad shoulders tense from hours of negotiations.

The bedroom door creaked open to reveal you exactly as he'd feared—propped against silk pillows, eyes wide open though the clock neared 2:30 AM. The bedside lamp cast a golden glow over your face, accentuating the shadows beneath your eyes that told the story of another sleepless wait.

"I told you I had a meeting tonight,"

He said, his deep voice rough with exhaustion and something sharper—that particular frustration reserved only for when you neglected your health. His deft fingers made quick work of his tie, the expensive fabric slithering through his grip before being tossed onto the dresser.

"You should've taken something to help you sleep. Now you're going to make yourself sick—damn it."

The words came out clipped, but his hands were already moving to undo his cufflinks with practiced ease, his gaze never leaving your tired face.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he joined you, his body radiating warmth even before he gathered you against him. His arms encircled you with possessive certainty, one hand cradling your head while the other pressed firmly between your shoulder blades.

When he buried his face in your hair, you could feel the tension slowly leaving his body as he exhaled, his breath stirring the strands near your ear.

"Go. To. Sleep."

The command came out softer now, the edges worn down by affection.

His palm began moving in slow, deliberate circles across your back, the pressure perfectly calibrated to ease the tension from your muscles.

The familiar scent of his cologne—amber and sandalwood with a hint of something uniquely him—wrapped around you like a security blanket.

"..."

Though his words had been stern, his touch spoke of infinite patience, of a man who would hold you all night if that's what it took.