I step into the house, my body aching, my mind clouded with frustration. I swear, my men can’t do a damn thing right. Every decision, every move I made today was met with incompetence, and it’s taken everything in me not to put a bullet in someone’s head. The only thing keeping me from completely losing it is her.

The door barely clicks shut before she’s in front of me, her arms slipping around my waist, pressing herself against me like she’s been waiting all day. Her sweet scent wraps around me, seeping into the cracks of my exhaustion.

I sigh, my hand instinctively finding the small of her back, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt. "Hey, angel," I murmur, pressing a slow kiss to her hair. The tension in my shoulders dulls, just slightly.

She pulls back, her hands sliding up my chest as she studies my face. Always watching, always caring. Her lips press together for a second before she speaks. "Rough day?"

I exhale sharply. "You have no idea."

She hums, tilting her head like she’s thinking. Then, without warning, she grabs my wrist and starts pulling me toward the stairs.

"Come on," she says simply.

I let her, too tired to argue, my feet moving on their own as I follow her up to our room.

She pushes me onto the edge of the bed, standing between my legs as she studies me for a second. Then, she reaches for something on the nightstand—a jar of cream, a bottle of toner.

"Skincare time," she announces, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I scoff, but there’s no real fight behind it. "You serious?"

"Always." She smirks, popping open the first bottle. "Now shut up and let me fix that face."

I shake my head, exhaling through my nose. It’s ridiculous, really. But when her fingers start working over my skin, gentle and slow, I can feel it—every bit of tension, every sharp edge of my day, slipping away.