115 – Zander POV
Ivan falls asleep, leaning against my shoulder, his head nestled in the crook of my neck, his fingers still clutching mine like even in his dreams he's afraid to let go.
I glance down at him—peaceful, flushed from leftover adrenaline, his lashes soft against his cheeks. My chest tightens in the best way. Gods, I love him.
I chuckle quietly and shift to cradle him properly. His hold tightens for a second—reflexive—but he doesn't wake. Just burrows closer with a sleepy sound that sends warmth rushing through me.
Maksim, ever the silent observer, watches from the rearview mirror. I meet his gaze briefly and nod. He doesn't say anything, just gets out and opens the door for us like always.
I adjust Ivan gently and step out of the car, carrying him bridal-style. He's not particularly heavy, but even if he were, I'd carry him all the same. For as long as he'd let me.
I nod toward the doorman as we pass through the lobby, and he gives a knowing smile but says nothing. The building's quiet at this hour, city lights glittering through the tall glass windows. The elevator dings and I step inside, careful not to jostle Ivan.
By the time we reach the penthouse floor, the motion has lulled him deeper. His cheek is pressed to my collarbone now. He breathes in slow, even little exhales, and it's—gods—it's everything.
The moment the doors slide open, the lights in the entryway warm to life, golden and soft, casting gentle light over the space. Ivan stirs just a little at the change, but I hush him instinctively, adjusting him against my chest.
I carry him straight to the couch first.
Because despite everything—the fighting, the storming out, the chaos of that awful dinner—he would absolutely murder me if I let him fall asleep with his outside clothes on the bed.
I set him down carefully, brushing some hair from his forehead. He murmurs something, still half-asleep, as I start undoing the buttons of his shirt.
I take off his jacket, then his shoes, working quietly and gently, like he's made of glass. He shifts slightly but doesn't wake.
I grab one of my shirts—cotton, oversized, soft. Technically it's his now. Ivan insists they only count as "acceptable" if I've already worn them at least a month. I've started buying more just to meet that standard, and yes, they're all extremely comfortable.
I pull the shirt over his head, adjusting the sleeves. He'll hate the wrinkles tomorrow, but for now, he looks cozy. Soft. Mine.
Then I gently wipe off the remnants of his makeup, careful around his lashes and cheekbones. I've gotten good at this. Maybe too good. He mumbled once that if I ever stop loving him, I'd better not become a makeup artist for another omega.
Once he's all clean and comfortable, I scoop him up again and carry him to the bedroom. He doesn't even stir.
The lights in here come on low and warm, casting everything in a soft glow. I tuck him into the bed, pulling the blanket over him.
Then I strip out of my clothes—carelessly, this time—and crawl in beside him.
He moves toward me immediately in his sleep, a knee slung over my thigh, arm wrapping around my middle like instinct. I grin, shifting to accommodate him. I'm not going anywhere.
Ever.
And then I just... lie there.
Watching him.
I should sleep. We've both had a hell of a night. But I can't stop looking at him.
For years, I thought I'd be alone. That this life—the business, the suits, the estate, the weight of the Vale name—was all there was. But now?
Now I have this.
I press a kiss to his hair, then to the curve of his ear.
"I love you," I whisper, even though he can't hear me.
But I think he already knows.
He shifts slightly, nuzzling closer, and my heart does that stupid fluttering thing again.
I close my eyes, his scent wrapped around me, his body curled against mine.