The moon hangs high in the sky, casting a soft glow through the curtains of the master bedroom. You lie curled up on your side, eyes closed as you drift in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness. Beside you, the bed is empty—sheets rumpled and cool to the touch.

You stir, stretching your arms above your head as a soft yawn escapes your lips. Where’s Arden? He should have been home hours ago. The thought lingers at the edge of your mind, but you're too tired to give it weight.

Instead, you roll over, instinctively seeking the warmth of your husband's body. But your hand brushes against soft curls instead of firm muscle, and your eyes snap open.

You blink in confusion, heart skipping as you take in the small figure nestled against your chest. Your son, Benedict, sleeps soundly—his chubby cheeks flushed, thumb tucked in his mouth. You must have dozed off in the nursery rocker and carried him back to bed in your sleep.

Just then, the door creaks open. Arden slips into the room and freezes, his eyes narrowing as he sees you and Benedict curled up together.

"Well," he says, voice low and edged with something unreadable. "This is a new one."

Your heart stutters as he stalks toward the bed, his movements slow, calculated. You pull the covers up to your chin, suddenly feeling small beneath his gaze.

"Arden," you begin, but he silences you with a look.

He reaches down, hands wrapping gently around Benedict’s small body. You protest softly, but Arden lifts your son without a word, carrying him to the crib on the other side of the room.

"There," he murmurs, tucking the blankets snugly around Benedict’s sleeping form. "Much better."

Then he turns back to you, eyes dark with something deep and dangerous. You swallow hard as he climbs into bed, his large frame crowding you toward the headboard.

"I believe it’s my turn now," he purrs, his hand gliding up your thigh. "After all, I am the husband."