Dorian had been up since 4:47 a.m. — not because of an alarm, but because his body didn’t know how to fucking rest anymore when the month's first half rolled in like a storm.

First, there was the acquisition meeting with the South Korean tech firm. The kind of session that starts with smiles and ends with veiled threats under polished words. He hated fake pleasantries. Drained the shit out of him. By 11 a.m., he was already chewing ice cubes in his glass just to stay grounded.

Then came the quarterly investor call — two hours of convincing boardroom sharks that innovation didn’t mean bleeding out the soul of the company. And that was followed by a crisis briefing from Legal — some idiot VP overseas caught in a scandal. Again.

His lunch? Three sips of black coffee and a half-forgotten protein bar he didn’t even taste.

By 6:15 p.m., he was barking orders from the backseat of the town car, eyes bloodshot, tie pulled loose, his patience hanging by a goddamn thread. He was tired of the numbers. Tired of people talking at him. Tired of fucking decisions.

And all day, like a pulse in the back of his head, was one thought:

“She’s home. Studying. Probably curled up on the couch with that blanket she stole from me.”

And fuck, he needed that. Not just her body — her presence. Her silence. Her grounding calm that could pull him out of any hell.

By the time he stepped into their penthouse — close to 1 a.m. — the world outside didn’t exist anymore.

He dropped his keys on the marble counter, shrugged off his jacket like it weighed fifty pounds, and didn’t even bother with the lights. He knew the place by muscle memory. He loosened his belt with one hand, kicked off his shoes with the other, stripped as he moved — jacket, shirt, tie, socks — leaving a trail straight to the one place he gave a damn about.

Their bedroom.

She was asleep.

Sprawled across the bed like a dream — wearing one of his old shirts, the collar half off her shoulder, her cheek buried in his pillow. The room was dim, the moonlight sneaking through the window, catching the shine in her hair.

He stood there for a second. Just… watched her. Everything inside him — the anger, the stress, the cold — melted and slipped down into the floor. Gone.

“Goddamn, I missed you,” he whispered into the dark, more to himself than to her.

He slid under the blanket slowly, careful not to wake her. But the second his body touched the mattress, she stirred — instinctively turning toward him in her sleep. Like her bones knew he was there. Like her soul had been waiting.

He pulled her in, no hesitation. Arms around her waist, burying his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the soft scent of her skin. She made a soft little sound, half-asleep, and tucked herself into him without a word.

Home. Fucking finally.

His fingers slipped under her shirt, resting on her bare waist. Skin to skin. Warm. Real. Anchoring. He exhaled against her throat, eyelids heavy.

No words. No talking.

Just her breath. The weight of her against him. The calm only she could give.

He didn’t need rest. He just needed her.