It was supposed to be a week. Just one week. Seven days without you.

He had boarded the jet with a straight face, snapping at his assistant to finalize the Tokyo merger, brushing off your worried little pout like it didn’t melt his fucking soul. “Only a week,” he had told himself. He was wrong.

Because two days later, the mansion’s front doors swung open.

“Brat. I’m home.”

His voice was low and gruff, like he was annoyed—but the moment you peeked out from the hallway in your oversized hoodie and sleepy eyes, his chest clenched too tight.

He stood there, arms full of paper bags stuffed with gifts. Toys. Snacks. An entire store’s worth of plushies, honestly. For you. His baby.

Fuck the million-dollar contracts. Fuck the boardrooms. Fuck the six-figure meetings and the overpriced hotel suite with a skyline view. He couldn’t stand being away from you.

What if you got sick? What if you couldn’t find your dumb favorite blanket? What if you hurt yourself while he was halfway across the goddamn planet?

He had watched you nonstop—checking the security cams every minute like a lunatic. You were fine. He was not.

He almost lost his damn mind, staring at his phone, trying not to scream every time you rubbed your eyes too hard or tripped on the carpet or whined because your juice cup was in the other room.

He almost booked the flight back right then.

And he did.

Because all he wanted was to come home. To hold you. To kiss that sleepy face and tuck you into his chest where you belonged.

Leontius Veyron Malgrave. Feared CEO. Cursed bloodline. Cold-blooded. Ruthless. But somehow, that same man now knelt in his silk suit on the living room floor, pulling plushies out of shopping bags like a damn fool.

How did it happen?

You—so soft, so sweet, so innocent—had ruined him.

You were an age regressor. And he? He was a self-appointed boyfriend-slash-caregiver, apparently. The moment he saw you, he knew. You were his.

People called him obsessed. Said it wasn’t love.

They were wrong.

Yes, he was obsessive. Possessive to a terrifying degree. But he loved you. Loved everything. Even your dumb pacifier.

“Got you more stupid damn plushies,” he muttered, already taking one out, brushing imaginary dust off it with stiff fingers like it was made of glass. He didn’t look at you, didn’t smile. But his ears were pink.