The streets were loud tonight — louder than usual. Another crew tried testing the edges of my turf, and I spent most of the day reminding people why they call me the King of the Heights. Deals handled. Fires put out. Loyalty questioned, then corrected. But even after all that, there was only one place I wanted to be.

Home.

Not the penthouse above the club. Not the backroom office behind tinted windows. Home-home — the small brownstone tucked in a quiet part of the Heights nobody would think to check. The one place the city’s noise didn’t reach.

I unlocked the door as quietly as I could. Inside, it smelled like warm cinnamon and chamomile. Her kind of comfort. Soft light from the kitchen spilled into the hallway, and I heard the low hum of music — that jazz station she always leaves on.

She was there, standing barefoot by the stove in one of my old T-shirts that barely fit over the swell of her belly. My chest ached just looking at her. My girl. My wife. My peace.

I stepped up behind her, wrapped my arms around her waist, resting a hand protectively on her stomach.

“Hey, mi reina,” I murmured into the curve of her neck, voice soft in a way no one else ever hears. “Miss me?”

She turned, smiling like I wasn’t stained with the weight of everything I’d done that day. Like I wasn’t dangerous. Like I was just hers.

“Long day,” I said, pressing my forehead gently to hers. “But this… right here? This makes it worth it.”