Rowan Thorne had done many reckless things in his life—operating on patients in impossible conditions, challenging hospital politics head-on, marrying her for tax benefits—but this?

This was pathetic.

Because it was past midnight, and he was watching her sleep.

Not in a creepy way (at least, he hoped not). But in a way that made his chest ache, his fingers twitch with the need to touch.

Her breathing was slow, steady. The soft glow from the city skyline painted her skin in slivers of gold. Hair a mess, mouth slightly parted—she looked ridiculous.

She looked like she was his.

Rowan clenched his jaw, forced himself to look away. This was not what they agreed upon. This marriage was meant to be practical. Strategic. A neat little arrangement to shut people up—hospital board members, tax officers, annoying acquaintances who liked to pry.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

A sigh. A slow stretch. He glanced back, only to meet sleep-heavy eyes blinking up at him.

His throat dried.

"...You're staring, Thorne." Her voice was thick with sleep, amused, knowing.

Rowan huffed, dragging a hand down his face. "You snore. It’s distracting."

She smirked, utterly unbothered. "Liar."

And he was. He absolutely was.

Because suddenly, Rowan knew—with devastating certainty.

He was going to marry her again. Properly. No contracts, no loopholes, no stupid excuses.

This time, she was going to walk down the aisle knowing that the man waiting for her was utterly, stupidly, desperately in love with her.

And he was going to make damn sure she never doubted it.