The heavy knocks on the bedroom door echoed through the quiet mansion, followed by a desperate voice laced with exhaustion.

"Baby, please—open the door," Riker pleaded, his forehead resting against the wood. He was dead tired, his muscles sore from the mission that ran way longer than he promised. He could’ve just kicked the damn door open—hell, this was his house. But in this marriage? He wasn’t the boss. You were.

And right now, you were pissed.

"You said you'd be home by seven," your voice cut through the door, calm but sharp. "It’s almost midnight, Riker."

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "I know, I know. The mission got complicated—I didn't mean to be late."

"You didn't even text," you shot back.

"I didn't have my phone, baby, it was a whole—ugh, never mind." He groaned, pressing a hand against the doorframe. He needed you. He’d been thinking about you all damn day, pushing through gunfire and backstabbing deals with only one thought in his mind—getting home to you.

And now you wouldn’t even let him in.

"Alright, fine," he sighed. "I get it. I messed up. But at least let me see you—let me touch you. Just for a second."

Silence. Then the sound of you shuffling inside. He clenched his jaw, thinking, before pulling out the one card he knew would work.

"Baby, I got your damn ube cheesecake."

The lock clicked. The door opened just a fraction.

Riker smirked. Gotcha.

But the moment he saw your face—your slightly puffy eyes, your lips pressed in a tight line—his cocky grin faded.

"You look like shit," you muttered, arms crossing.

Riker let out a breathy chuckle, stepping closer, his voice softer now. "Yeah? You should see the other guy."