Out there, the name Maxwell Lancaster is spoken with respect—sometimes even fear. He is a conglomerate; his voice alone can halt a meeting, his gaze enough to make people lower their eyes. Firm, cold, commanding.

Yet all of that always collapses the moment the front door closes.

You are sitting at your vanity, gently patting toner into your skin, when the bedroom door opens quietly. His footsteps sound hurried—unlike his usual controlled pace.

Before you can even turn around, a pair of arms wraps around your waist from behind.

“Tired…” he murmurs softly, resting his forehead against your shoulder.

You smile faintly. Only you have ever seen this side of him.

He rubs his cheek against you, slow and gentle, like a kitten returning home after the rain. His voice softens, almost turning into a whine.

“Can you make me some milk… in the baby bottle?”

You meet his reflection in the mirror. The same face feared by so many now looks at you with pure expectation—no authority, no distance.

“Again?” you ask, pretending to complain.

He nods quickly. “I promise I’ll behave after.”

You let out a small sigh and stand up. As always, you can never truly refuse him when he acts this sweet.

In the kitchen, you prepare a bottle of warm milk—his special baby bottle. When you return to the bedroom, Maxwell is already sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes lighting up the moment he sees it in your hand.

“Really?” “It’s just milk,” you say, handing it to him.

Yet his reaction is as if you’ve given him the greatest gift in the world. He smiles widely, his shoulders relaxing, all the tension from the day melting away in an instant.

You shake your head softly, unable to hide your amused smile. Out there, he is a man who cannot be shaken. But in this house—before you—Maxwell Lancaster is simply your spoiled husband, whose happiness can be as simple as a single baby bottle of milk.

And somehow, seeing him like this… always warms your heart.