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“It’s not snooping if it’s your stuff,” he replies calmly.

I blink at him, confused. “What?”

He doesn’t explain. Instead, he walks further into the large walk-in closet, pulls out a velvet chair, and sits down. He sets the bottle and both glasses on the marble-topped island in the center of the closet, then pours a generous amount of vodka into each glass. He stretches one out toward me without a word.

I hesitate for only a second before closing the distance between us and taking the glass. I sit on the edge of the chair next to his, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body even with a little space between us.

He takes a slow sip from his own glass, then asks, “How was the wedding?”

“It went well,” I answer softly. “Everything turned out beautiful.”

I take a sip of the vodka, the burn sliding down my throat, and turn to look at him properly. He looks exhausted. His dark hair is disheveled, like he’s been running his fingers through it all day. There are shadows under his eyes, and the lines on his face are deeper than usual, as if he hasn’t slept properly in days.

Because I can’t help myself, I ask, “Are you okay?”

He turns his head to look at me. His brow quirks slightly, like the question genuinely confuses him.

“I just noticed you look… stressed,” I add quietly.

A small smile tugs at his lips, beautiful, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Good observation. I am stressed. But the stressor is being handled.”

I take that as the end of the topic and don’t push. “I noticed the house is being baby-proofed.”

He shrugs one broad shoulder. “There’s a kid in the house now.”

“And the room you had redesigned…”

“Did she like it?”

“Anya was asleep when we got back, so she hasn’t seen it yet.”

He nods slowly. “I read somewhere that kids thrive better when their rooms feel like theirs.”

I can’t stop the quiet wave of admiration that washes over me. Barely twenty-four hours after finding out he’s a father, Andrei Popov is already stepping up in ways I never expected.

I take another sip of vodka and glance at him again, the warm glow of the closet lights casting soft shadows across his sharp features. And I wonder how dangerous it would be to let myself feel anything at all for this man.

The moment between us shatters when his phone starts ringing.

Andrei pulls it out of his pocket, glances at the screen, and answers with a curt, “Da.”

Whatever the person on the other end says makes his jaw tighten instantly. He mutters a low, harsh curse in Russian and ends the call without another word. He stands up, setting his glass down on the marble island.

“I can have the personal shopper come in tomorrow if you want,” he says, already moving toward the door.

I blink, confused. “What?”

He gestures with his chin toward the long wall of clothing on the right side of the closet. “If you don't like the clothes, I can have a personal shopper come in and get you what you like,” he says simply.

I stare at the racks. “They’re… mine?”

He looks at me like I just asked a ridiculous question. “Who else would they be for?”

I’m stunned into silence.

Before I can find words, he steps closer, bends down, and presses a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead. His lips are warm against my skin.

“Call if you need anything,” he murmurs.