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Something twists sharply inside my chest. The thought of something happening to him hits me harder than I expect. It’s not just the normal reaction anyone would have to the idea of death. It’s not just sympathy or concern.

It feels like… heartache. Real, frightening heartache.

“What is going to happen to you?” I ask quickly.

He shrugs one shoulder, too casually for my liking. “The kind of life I lead, death is—”

“Don’t.”

The word flies out of my mouth before he can finish. I step toward him, my pulse racing.

“Don’t say that,” I insist, my voice trembling slightly. “Promise me you won’t get yourself killed. Promise me you’ll always come back home to me.”

The moment the words leave my lips, I freeze.

He looks surprised. And honestly… so am I.

The room goes quiet. He studies my face like he’s seeing something new there, something he didn’t expect to find.

“And here I thought you hated me,” he says softly.

I shake my head quickly, scrambling for an explanation.

“I meant Anya, she’s come to like you,” I say, a little too fast. “She—she’s attached to you.”

His gaze softens, but there’s still that knowing look in his eyes. He lifts his hands and gently cups my face, his palms warm against my cheeks.

“I promise,” he says quietly. “I will always come home to you and our daughter.”

The certainty in his voice settles something inside me. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

He steps back slightly. “So what do you think of your office? Do you like it?”

I blink, still trying to process everything, and begin to walk around the room. “It’s… impressive,” I admit.

Then a thought crosses my mind, and I turn back to him. “What if I don’t want to work here?” I ask carefully. “Will you force me to?”

“No,” he says without hesitation, surprising me. “You can go back to your former job if that’s what you want.”

“Oh.”

That answer catches me off guard. I glance around again, letting my fingers trail lightly along the back of the chair.

“It’s a nice place,” I say slowly. “I like it.”

Then another realization hits me. I turn back to him, narrowing my eyes slightly.

“If you already had this office for me,” I ask, “why did we get into an argument this morning about me going back to work?”

He raises a brow.

“Point of correction,” he says calmly. “It was because you didn’t want protection.”

I cross my arms. “That argument could have been avoided if you had just told me about this place.”

Instead of answering, he steps closer. He crowds into my space, that familiar heat rolling off him.

“And where’s the fun in that?” he murmurs.