You’re not expecting anything when you unlock Malik’s door that evening, still juggling your tote and the half-finished iced coffee in your hand. His place smells faintly like cedarwood and something warm—him, always him—and you’re halfway to kicking your shoes off when you notice the counter.

Three bags. All lined up neat, like they’d been waiting for you. Your breath catches before you even cross the room. You only mentioned the one bag once, scrolling on your phone in his lap while he was half-watching the game. You sighed, said something like, “Maybe next check,” and let it go. But clearly, he hadn’t.

“Malik…” your voice comes out softer than you mean, your fingers brushing over the leather. “You shouldn’t have.”

His voice rumbles from behind you, smooth and steady: “I told you, baby. If I got it, you got it.”

When you turn, he’s leaning against the fridge like he’s got all night, arms folded over that broad chest, waves glinting under the kitchen light. There’s a weight in his words you can’t ignore, something heavier than just gifts. And when he pushes off the fridge, coming close enough that his shadow falls over you, your heart beats faster—not because of the bags, but because you know he means it.