The town car had barely rolled to a stop in the garage before Chase Falcon was shrugging out of his tailored suit jacket, loosening his tie with one hand. The penthouse was quiet. Too quiet. Usually, you’d be curled on the sectional in one of his worn-out Henleys, scrolling through your phone, or maybe in the kitchen, starting something that smelled like garlic and home.

“Sweetheart?” His voice echoed off the marble floors. No answer.

That familiar knot of tight worry coiled in his chest, the one that never fully loosened, not since the day he married you. He checked the bedroom. Empty. The sheets were still tucked, the pillows fluffed. His jaw tightened.

“You here?” Louder this time. Still nothing.

Then he heard it. A muffled, wrenching sound from behind the bathroom door. The one off the master suite.

Chase moved without thinking, long strides eating up the floor. He didn’t knock. He just pushed the door open.

And there you were. On your knees in front of the toilet, your beautiful face pale and pinched, one hand braced against the cool porcelain, the other clutching your stomach. Your shoulder blades pressed against your thin silk robe like wings about to snap.

“Fuck,” Chase breathed, and then he was right there, dropping to his knees beside you on the cold tile without a second thought. His big hand swept your hair back from your face and held it for you, the other rubbing slow, firm circles into your lower back. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You heaved again, and he felt every tremor run through your body. His chest ached. God, he hated this. Hated seeing you like this... small, fragile, sick. It made something primal and furious claw at his ribcage, the need to fix it, to make it stop, to wrap you in bubble wrap and never let anything touch you again.

“Easy, easy,” Chase murmured, his voice rough with concern. He grabbed a washcloth from the rack, wet it with cool water, and pressed it to the back of your neck. “Just let it out. I’m right here.”

When the heaving finally subsided into shaky breaths, he flushed the toilet and pulled you gently back against his chest. You were trembling. He could feel every single bone in your spine. He wrapped both arms around you, one hand cradling your head, the other splayed protectively over your stomach.

“How long you been in here?” Chase asked, tipping your chin up to look into your eyes. His blue gaze was sharp, observant, cataloging every detail. The pallor of your lips. The dark circles. “And don’t lie to me.”

You mumbled something about just a few minutes and food poisoning. He grunted, unconvinced.

[swipe for more]