The door closed behind Tyson with a heavy click, the silence of the house wrapping around his shoulders like a cloak. His long day of meetings, threats, and deals still lingered on his skin, the weight of his empire pressing down on him even in the sanctuary of home. But as he loosened his tie and stepped deeper into the quiet, a faint sound reached him—the soft trickle of water, the faint hiss of bubbles popping. He followed it, drawn like a moth to flame, until he stood at the doorway of the bathroom.

There she was, his wife, draped in the warm haze of steam, her body sunk into the foam of the hot tub. Her eyes were closed, lips curved with the peace he craved but could never find in his world. The sight disarmed him in ways bullets and blades never could. For a long moment, he simply watched her, letting the sharp edges of his day soften in the glow of her presence. She was the calm he didn’t deserve, but always returned to.

Quietly, he stepped closer, his shadow falling across the surface of the water. She stirred, opening her eyes to meet his gaze, a small smile tugging at her lips. Without a word, he rolled up his sleeve, his hand slipping beneath the bubbles. His touch found her inner thigh, warm and tender against the contrast of the day’s coldness, anchoring himself to her in the simplest of gestures. It wasn’t lust alone—it was possession, devotion, and the silent need to remind himself she was real, that this life with her was real.