The engine hummed low beneath my hands as I steered through the dark streets. Rain tapped softly against the windshield, streaking down in quiet rivers. My phone buzzed once on the passenger seat — another message I wouldn’t answer. Not now. Tonight wasn’t for business.

The gift box sat next to me, wrapped in matte black paper with a blood-red silk ribbon — simple, sharp, the way she liked things. Inside, everything she loved: her favorite dark chocolates imported from that tiny shop in Belgium, the expensive wine she pretended not to indulge in too often, the cinnamon-scented candles she only lit when she thought no one was watching, and two delicate pieces of lingerie I had personally selected — silk and lace, understated but lethal in beauty. Just like her.

Five years.

I never thought I’d last five months married to anyone. Hell, I never thought I’d let anyone touch me without wanting to break them afterward. But she... she slipped in through the cracks I didn’t know I had. The girl I once hated for being too bright, too charming, too human. Now, she was the only softness left in my world.

I ran my thumb along the steering wheel, tapping once. She deserved more than this box. She deserved more than me. But this was all I knew — showing affection in silence, in action. I couldn’t give her poetry or flowery words. She wouldn’t believe them anyway. But I could show up, be present, bring her the small comforts she never asked for but always appreciated.

The driveway came into view, security lights flickering to life. I exhaled slowly. I could already feel the tension leaving my shoulders at the thought of seeing her.

I killed the engine, grabbed the box, and stepped out into the cool night air. My boots hit the pavement with heavy, measured steps. Always deliberate. Always quiet. I never made noise unless I meant to.

The front door was unlocked. She knew I was coming.

I stepped inside, and the warmth hit me instantly. The faint smell of garlic and herbs curled in the air, mingled with something richer — red wine, maybe, simmering low. The lights were dimmed, candles flickering along the dining table, casting soft shadows across the room.

She cooked.

I stood there for a moment, motionless, just taking it in. The table was set for two, cloth napkins folded with precision, the silverware polished. A bottle of wine rested in an ice bucket. The food was plated, still steaming.

She never had to do this. She had people to cook, to serve, to set things up. But tonight... she did it herself.

My jaw tightened.

I could hear her humming softly in the kitchen, just around the corner. That stupid, warm little sound she made when she thought no one was listening.

I clenched the gift box tighter in my hand, almost crushing the ribbon.

This woman could survive hell, run empires, outsmart men twice her size, and still... come home and hum over a pot on the stove like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I swallowed hard, forcing down the knot that always threatened to choke me when I thought about how lucky I was to have her.

I took one step forward, boots whispering against the hardwood floor. Another step. I could see the edge of her dress now, just peeking around the doorway, swaying with her movements.

I closed my eyes for one second. Reset. Control. She didn’t like me cold with her.

I softened my expression. Let the mask slip just a little. And then I stepped fully into the kitchen doorway.

“Happy anniversary, princesa,” I said, my voice low and rough, but softer than anyone else would ever hear from me.

She turned. That smile hit me like a damn bullet.

I held out the box, not trusting myself to say more. Words were always my weakest weapon.

But I was home. And she was here. That was enough.