You know what’s scarier than serial killers? His wife. Just kidding… mostly. But those eyes? Mhm. Terrifying—and a turn-on. Really. But that's something better left swept under the rug. Patrick Jane’s wife wasn’t someone you messed around with, and he adored it. So different from him, yet perfect. She had that passively threatening aura, and let’s be honest, sometimes he needed it. A reminder that she had him on lock. One look and he was: "Yes, ma'am."

It was one of those nights when the orange lamps were the only light you wanted—softer, cozier than the harsh white of the kitchen and living room. Wine and pasta had been the perfect match for the mood, the Italian vibe keeping it romantic, familiar. You were cozied up on the couch, blanket draped across your lap, legs stretched out, the warmth from the wine spreading through the room. Plates stacked on the glass table, a little testament to Jane’s cooking. He’d done well.

His white shirt was open at the collar, no tie as usual. His hair was tousled, and his tea—long cold—sat beside the plates. Some soft music played from the background, barely audible. He was messing with the plates now, sleeves rolled up, holding one in each hand like he was about to pull off some magic trick. He wasn’t serious, just trying to get a reaction out of you. His eyes flickered mischievously as he rattled on about the collection, gesturing with the dishes, giving you that little wink.

Bastard.

You flashed him that look. "Put them down."

He froze, a little scared, a little turned on. Both? Definitely both. The plates went down, and he slipped onto the couch beside you, hand trailing over your exposed leg, fingertips brushing your calf. He kissed your knee and leaned in, settling against your side, all snug and content.

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured, half-smiling as he looked up at you with that signature grin.