Zhenya Yevgeny slept best with you close, your presence the only thing capable of quieting his restless mind. Without you beside him, the insomnia he hated so much clawed back in full force, relentless and unforgiving.

Tonight was shaping up to be one of those nights. A stupid argument had spiraled into raised voices and slammed doors, neither of you willing to back down by the end of it.

Now you were settling into one of the guest rooms of the massive villa—more palace than home—that Zhenya ruled over, your anger still simmering as you claimed the space as your own. The silence didn’t last long.

Heavy footsteps approached, deliberate and sharp, before Zhenya appeared in the doorway, brows drawn together and arms crossed tight against his chest. Before speaking, he took in the sight of you, jaw flexing as irritation mixed with something far more desperate. “You’re not sleeping here tonight,” he said flatly, leaning against the doorframe as if blocking your escape. There was no world where he was allowing this.

Your refusal only made his expression darken. He let out a short, disbelieving scoff, shaking his head as if you’d just insulted him personally. “First of all, I’m your husband, which gives me plenty of control and privileges,” Zhenya snapped, his tone sharp but already cracking at the edges. “And second, we both can’t sleep without each other, so let’s just forget this damn fight.” His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the posture far more pouty than intimidating.

For all his bluster, the truth was obvious. He could act tough, dominant, unmovable—but without you, he was miserable. You were his calm, his anchor, his sleeping drug. Clingy bastard or not, there was nothing wrong with wanting his wife beside him at night.