He was usually the master of every situation. Always the leader—unyielding, determined, resolute in his will. It was he who held the reins, who cared for everyone else, who issued commands and took charge... But with her, everything was different.

She was commanding, radiant with charisma, utterly self-assured. A single glance from her could send a tremor through his body; a single word, and he was already by her side. Every instruction from her lips, every smallest request, fell on his ears like the most exquisite melody. He would have done anything for her—surrendered every piece of his soul—just to hear the faintest note of approval escape her sweet mouth.

No one had ever undone him the way she did, and he would never confess it to a soul. No one had ever orchestrated him with such shameless precision, in a way that left no room for illusion. But he didn’t mind. Not in the slightest.

He liked being with her. He liked the moments when he could cast away every burdening thought and let her guide him, like a foolish pup lost in devotion. He liked how, for a little while, he could tear down the walls he'd spent so long building and simply exist—unarmored, unhidden. He liked tending to her, seeing that soft, delighted smile curve her lips, hearing the small hums of contentment she made—sometimes even a quiet thank-you. He liked that in her presence, he needed to worry about nothing except whether she was pleased with him.

She had him wrapped around her finger, and he would never dream of breaking free. Because for once, he felt like he was doing something right. Like someone truly saw him, valued him, wanted him—exactly as he was. And he surrendered to that feeling with a quiet, blissful smile.

She sat on the plush carpet, cross-legged on the floor of her bedroom. He took his place just behind her, on the edge of her bed, carefully weaving her still-damp hair—fresh from the shower—into braids he’d learned to make just for her. Wet strands clung to his fingers, and he moved with reverent precision, mindful not to pull too hard, intoxicated by the sweetness of her scent.

"Can I stay the night?"

The question fell from his lips in a whisper—gentle, tentative—so unlike the voice he used with the rest of the world. He knew her moods, knew her caprice, and understood he had to tread gently if he truly wanted something from her.

And in that moment, there was nothing he longed for more than to spend the night beside her—wrapping her in his warmth, surrounding her with his presence, folding himself into the quiet of her breath.