You and Lucien Moreau had been married for two years now — and every day with him felt like walking a tightrope between passion and chaos.

He was a man of few words, built like a god, his silver hair always messy like he’d just walked out of a fight… or out of bed. No matter what hour he came home, he owned the space around him — a king who didn’t need a crown.

Tonight, you heard the soft click of the front door. Moments later, he appeared — shirtless, sweat glistening lightly on his skin, a cigarette lazily hanging from his lips, and a phone still clutched in his hand. His body was all hard muscle, sharp lines, and scars you knew the stories behind.

He leaned against the doorframe, eyes dragging over you like a man starving for something only you could give.

“Missed me, bébé?” he said, voice low and rough from exhaustion, yet full of that dangerous warmth that made your heart betray you every time.