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He hands me a steaming mug, watching me over the rim of his own cup like I’m the most fascinating thing in the world.

That look—God, that look—it never fails to make my knees a little weak.

“Why do you look so surprised?”

“I, um, didn’t think you’d be home. I mean, it’s late,” I reply nervously.

“You didn’t think I’d let you go alone, Angel?” he says, his voice smooth but firm.

I blink. “Oh, well, I just didn’t think you were interested in a, uh, photoshoot.”

His jaw ticks, but not in anger—more like frustration that I could ever doubt him.

“Lucy,” he says, stepping close, so close the heat from his body wraps around me like a second skin.

I blink up at him, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might tear right through my ribcage.

“I’m interested in everything you do,” he says, voice low and certain. “And I’m here for you. I want you to know that I support you, Angel.”

My voice is barely more than a whisper.

“You do?”

He nods, slow and fierce, his gaze never wavering.

That single movement is like a key turning in a lock I didn’t even know I’d been waiting to open.

“Damn straight I do,” he continues, stepping closer so I can feel the heat radiating off him.

The look on his face as he raises one hand to touch my cheek with his inked up fingers is so tender, I tremble in the wake of it.

“Look, I don’t know if you know this, Mrs. Cruz, but I’m kind of obsessed with you.”

His words hit me like a physical blow. But a welcomed one.

“You are?”

My chest tightens so badly it’s hard to breathe.

He reaches out with his other hand, gripping my waist tightly, while those maddening fingers of his ghost down my cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear.

“Obsessed. Unhinged. Fuck, Lucy, don’t you know how much I love you?”

“I—what? You love me?” I gasp, tears spilling free now, hot and real.

He closes the distance in a heartbeat, pressing his lips to mine in the softest, most electrifying kiss I’ve ever felt.

When he pulls back, his eyes are shining with everything I’ve ever wanted to see there—devotion, hunger, promise.

“I love you, Angel. So fucking much. And yeah, I’m going with you. I want to be the one standing beside you always,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “Not just when it’s easy. Not just when it’s public. But all the fucking time. And when it’s you in the spotlight? I’m gonna be there. You’re not alone, Diamond Girl. Not anymore. Never again.”

My knees go weak, and I wrap my arms around him, burying my face in his chest.

His heartbeat is steady, a drum I’ve memorized over endless nights—each thump a reminder that this man is real, that we are real.

And as I let his words soak into every raw, trembling part of me, I realize that for the first time, I believe it’s possible.

That maybe this thing we’re building—this marriage, this love, this chaotic, all-consuming connection—isn’t fragile.