I open my mouth, then close it again when I see the look in his eyes—firm, final, but somehow not angry.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair, and his voice softens. “I’m not asking you to do anything, sweetheart. I just want you here. With me.”
The last part slips out quieter than the rest, almost vulnerable, and it hits somewhere deep inside me.
I nod, unable to say anything else.
Langston reaches for me, his hand finding the small of my back as he guides me toward the bed. “Come on,” he murmurs. “You’ve had enough for one night.”
When we climb under the fresh sheets, he pulls me against him again—strong arms, steady heartbeat, the kind of warmth that seeps straight into my bones.
I tell myself it’s just because I’m tired that I melt against him so easily. That it’s not because being in his arms feels like something dangerously close to home.
But when he presses a soft kiss to my temple and whispers, “Sleep, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” I stop pretending.
Because for the first time in a very long time… I believe someone does.
I Prefer Determined
Langston
Istay awake a while longer, just watching her. Every so often she stirs, turning closer to me like her body already knows where it belongs. My hand finds her waist, and I can feel her heartbeat beneath my palm. Steady. Real.
It hits me then—how much I want this. Not the deal. Not the legacy. This. Her.
I used to think control was everything. That being in charge made me powerful. But holding her like this, I realize I’ve never had less control in my life.
And somehow, I don’t care.
Morning comes slowly.
For a moment I don’t even realize why the sunlight feels different—why it feels good.
Then I look down and remember.
Sabrina’s curled against me, her head resting on my chest, one hand spread over my heart like she’s trying to hold it still. Her hair—bright, wild, impossible—fans across my skin in a spill of red.
I don’t move at first. I just watch her.
Every slow breath.
Every faint twitch of her lashes against her cheeks.
It’s too early for this kind of peace, and too rare.
I run my fingers through her hair, careful not to wake her. It’s soft, still damp at the ends from last night. The memory of washing it—of her quiet laughter when the water ran down her shoulders—hits me harder than it should.
She shifts a little, mumbling something incoherent before settling again, her nose pressed against my ribs. I smile without meaning to, the kind of smile that feels like it doesn’t belong on my face. I almost laugh remembering how she thought she would sleep anywhere but in my bed.Our bed. There will never be another night that I don't spend with my body wrapped around my wife. I don’t care if I have to drag her to every out of country trip. She will always sleep right beside me.
Eventually, I slide out from under her, moving slow so I don’t wake her.
I have to get to the office. There’s a full schedule waiting—meetings, calls, a dozen people expecting me to be the man who has everything under control.
But right now, all I want to do is crawl back into bed and keep her there.
I step into the closet. The space is spotless, too perfect, too mine. I start shifting things around—my suits on one side, ties rearranged—making room for her things.
She’ll hate it. She’ll argue. She’ll try to tell me she doesn’t need the space, that she’s not staying.
