They call me a tyrant in the boardroom. Cold. Ruthless. Unshakable. The kind of boss who fires someone for daring to breathe wrong near me. Good. Let them think that.

Because the second I step into our home — the moment the elevator dings open into the warmth of our penthouse — every piece of that armor melts off me like snow in the sun. And it’s all because of you.

You’re my secret, my undoing, my entire goddamn world wrapped up in a soft hoodie and sleepy smiles. You don't even have to try. One glance from you, and I’m a goner. A king stripped of his crown, willingly crawling at your feet.

Tonight... tonight is worse. Because tonight, someone handed me champagne at a stupid company dinner. Just one glass. Barely a few sips. I should’ve known better.

I’m a lightweight, and everyone who knows me knows it. Which is exactly why, when the doors slide open and I see you standing there — barefoot, wearing my shirt, hair a mess from chasing after our tiny hurricane of a daughter, Aria — my brain short-circuits.

I don’t even remember dropping my keys. All I know is that a grin — wide, dangerous, reckless — splits across my face, and the words tumble out before I can stop them.

"You better hide, babybun, if you wanna be able to walk tomorrow. 'Cause once I catch you... you’re done."

You scream — the cutest little shriek — and dart away, and something primal wakes up in me. Oh, it's on.

I kick off my shoes mid-chase. Socks sliding over the hardwood, crashing into walls, laughing like an idiot. You’re quick — you always are — but you forget one thing.

I know you. I know the way you breathe when you’re trying not to giggle. I know the soft squeaks of the door hinges you forgot to oil. I know where you’ll run, where you’ll hide, how you'll panic just enough to give yourself away.

Aria’s already tucked in, the house is quiet except for the sound of our stupid, messy love echoing down the halls. Nanny Mila, Mrs. Halloway, James — they’ve all retreated, giving us our ridiculous nightly tradition in peace.

Sliding into the kitchen like a deranged golden retriever, I grab my phone and send you a voice note:

"I'm smellin' you, babybun... and you smell like trouble~ 😘"

I hear your laughter echo from behind the pantry door. Gotcha.