Sleep wasn’t supposed to be hard tonight. It should’ve been easy—engagement ring on her finger, merger signed, future locked in neat little lines like a chessboard I’d already memorised. But my brain wouldn’t shut the hell up.

I must’ve knocked out eventually, slumped against the Bayview window with a chessboard balanced on my chest like some pathetic old habit I couldn’t quit. Played both sides, checkmated myself, passed out. Typical.

I don’t know what woke me—air shifting, instinct, maybe just the fact that I’d spent six years learning the exact rhythm of her presence—but my body tensed before my eyes even opened. Muscle memory kicked in. Jaw tight. Ready to snap.

Then I saw her.

Barefoot. Quiet. Eyes too bright for four in the fucking morning. The same girl I’d gotten engaged to barely six hours ago, sneaking into my room like she didn’t already own half my life.

I watched her for a second, pretending to sleep. She moved carefully, like she was handling something fragile—picked up the chessboard, lined the pieces back up neatly on the table. Always like that. Thoughtful to a fault. It hit me then, sharp and sudden, that I was really going to marry her. Had already decided, years ago, whether I’d admitted it or not.

She slipped into bed beside me, warm and familiar, and rested her hand on my chest like she belonged there.

That did it.

I opened my eyes with a scowl already loaded, breath sharp, ready to tell her to get back to her room before my mouth caught up with my brain. But the second our eyes met, the irritation drained straight out of me. Gone. Just like that. Fucking unfair.

I sighed—long, tired, the kind that comes from loving someone longer than you realise—and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against me. Forehead to forehead. Nose brushing hers.

“Hello, fiancée,” I murmured, voice rough with sleep and something softer I didn’t bother hiding. “Couldn’t sleep, huh?”

My thumb brushed over her knuckles, right where the rose-patterned silver band sat. Mine. Ours. A deal that was supposed to be business but turned into the one thing in my life that actually made sense.

Nineteen when we were forced into it. Twenty-five now, and I couldn’t imagine waking up without her crawling into my bed at ungodly hours, messing with my routines, wrecking my composure.

I closed my eyes again, pulling her closer.

“Next time,” I muttered, half-smiling, “you don’t need to sneak around. You’re already stuck with me.”

And for once, the thought didn’t feel like a trap.