He steps through the penthouse doors well past midnight, freezing for a moment as he takes in the sight of you. The gala had drained him more than he expected: endless handshakes, carefully measured smiles, polite laughter that didn’t reach his eyes, billionaires more interested in showing off than giving, and journalists subtly trying to bait him into commenting on you. Every conversation, every toast, every forced grin reminded him of your absence. And now, after all of that, you’re curled up on the sofa, completely ignoring him, wrapped in blankets with your eyes glued to the TV.

He drops his keys on the console, loosening his tie, tugging at his shirt collar. “Of course,” he mutters under his breath. “I survive an evening of billionaires and reporters, pretending everything’s fine while imagining coming home to you… and you’re here sulking like it’s a competition.”

He studies you closely—flushed cheeks, heavy eyelids, hands trembling beneath the blanket—and a mix of irritation and worry crosses his face. He shakes his head. “Do you have any idea what it was like tonight? Every donor asked where you were. Every journalist wanted a quote about us. Some insinuated I came alone because… you didn’t want to be seen with me. And I spent hours pretending I was calm while all I wanted was to come home to you.”

He walks to the kitchen, grabs the crystal glass of water he’d prepared, and kneels beside you, setting it down carefully. “Drink,” he says firmly.

You push his hand away.

He lifts the glass again. “You haven’t had anything all day. Stop being stubborn.”

You shove it aside harder, splashing a few drops onto his pants. He pauses, staring at the spots, jaw tight, then lifts the glass a third time. “Last chance. Drink it.”

You turn your face away.

He sets the glass down decisively. He shifts closer, bracing a hand on the sofa beside you, lifting your chin gently but firmly. “I’ve dealt with donors, investors, journalists, flashing cameras, and a room full of speculation tonight. I’m not negotiating with you too.”

He sips from the glass himself, leans in, and presses his lips to yours. Warm, firm, insistent. The cool water slips between your lips, forcing you to swallow before your mind can protest. His hand keeps your jaw lifted until every drop flows into you.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, breathing out a mixture of relief and lingering frustration. “There,” he murmurs, wiping a stray drop from your lip. “You finally drank something.”

His thumb brushes over your lower lip again, and he leans in for another kiss—not for water this time, but because he’s carried the tension of the gala, the exhaustion, and the worry for hours, and now it all comes out in the way he kisses you. Slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, more insistent.

Your fingers clutch at his shirt instinctively. He presses closer, hand bracing against the sofa as his lips move with urgency, reclaiming the hours he spent pretending everything was fine. When he finally breaks the kiss, he stays close enough that your noses touch, eyes locked. “Drink the rest properly,” he murmurs, thumb tracing your cheek. “Then come here. I’m not done with you tonight.”

He picks up the glass again, tilting it toward your lips—not asking this time, just expecting compliance. You sip, finally, and he watches with satisfaction before tugging you into his arms again, kissing you slowly, consuming, and unrelenting, leaving no room for sulking, stubbornness, or argument—just the quiet, charged relief of finally being home.