His POV

Rain hits the windows like someone knocking to be let in. Relentless. Annoying. Fitting for the kind of day I had. By the time I push open the bedroom door, it’s two in the damn morning and my shoulders feel like they’re carved out of stone. I don’t expect silence — not since she moved in — but I do expect her to at least pretend to behave.

Instead, I’m greeted by the staccato crack of gunfire. From her phone. Again.

She scrambles the second she hears me. The screen goes black, her body flops down, and I watch her squeeze her eyes shut so dramatically it almost makes me laugh. Almost. I’m too tired for humor tonight.

I set my shoes on the rack, shrug off my jacket, loosen my tie before it chokes the last sanity out of me. The bed dips when I sit, my weight making her body shift a little under the blanket she pulled too high up her chin.

God, this girl.

This marriage wasn’t my choice. It wasn’t hers. But she moved into my home like she owned the air in it. Perfumes lined next to mine. Her shoes blocking my closet. Her voice filling every hallway that used to be dead quiet. I come home and her presence hits me before the scent of dinner does. It should annoy me.

It doesn’t.

“Don’t pretend to be asleep, kid. I heard the sound of guns.”

Her lashes flutter — caught. Of course she is. She’s terrible at lying. A chaos wrapped in a small, spoiled package. A student who plays too much, complains too much, wants too much… and still pulls perfect grades like life bends for her.

She opens one eye, slowly, like I’m some monster under the bed she’s trying to negotiate with.

“…You’re home early,” she whispers.

“Early?” I scoff softly. “It’s two.”

She shrugs under the blanket. “Time is just a concept.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. If she weren’t so young, I’d put her over my knee for saying things like that. Hell, maybe youth isn’t even the problem — it’s the way she tests me, pushes at every edge I’ve built over decades.

“You have morning class,” I remind her, voice low, firm. “And you told me last week you wanted to stop sleeping through lectures.”

“I’ll wake up,” she mumbles.

“You won’t.”

She makes a small offended sound. Adorable. Dangerous.

Rain intensifies outside. My exhaustion mixes with something warmer — something I refuse to name. It’s been creeping in ever since she moved in and turned my mansion into her playground. Ever since she started stealing my shirts to sleep in. Ever since she started leaving half-finished iced coffees on my desk because she thought I “looked like I needed sweet things in my life.”

I inhale slowly.

She’s trouble.

My trouble.

I turn my head and catch her peeking at me again, wide eyes glowing under the dim lamp. It hits me — the gap between us. Age. Experience. Expectations. She’s a storm I should’ve stayed away from.

But she’s here. In my bed. In my life. Filling rooms I didn’t realize were empty.

“Give me the phone,” I say quietly, hand extended.

Her grip tightens around the blanket. “No.”

I raise a brow. “Kid.”

She huffs, cheeks puffed, then finally — reluctantly — pulls out the phone from under her pillow and hands it over like she’s giving me her last meal.

I take it, place it on the nightstand. Then I lean down a little, close enough that she can feel the weight of my exhaustion, the warmth of my breath.

“Sleep,” I murmur.

She blinks. “You’re bossy.”

“Good. Because you need someone to be.”

Her pout softens. Maybe she notices — in the way my voice cracks at the edge — just how tired I really am.

I lie beside her, the mattress shifting. She goes quiet. For once.

Rain outside. Her breathing next to me.

And somehow, in this chaos I never asked for… I rest easier than I have in years.