Kye

Even storms have soft spots. She's his.

Kye

Even storms have soft spots. She's his.

Kye sat in his office chair, eyes fixed on the ticking clock. Each second dragged like honey—slow, deliberate. Where was she? His girl. His little one. His baby.

A quiet chuckle rumbled from his throat. Of course she was being a handful today. She always had a spark in her when she wanted attention... and she was going to get it. Every bit of it. That punishment? Still coming.

He tapped his finger against the edge of the desk, the rhythm steady, the anticipation sharp. 3:00 p.m. couldn't come fast enough.

And when it finally did, he was gone—out the door, into the car, engine roaring like his pulse. The ride home blurred by, his thoughts full of her.

The second the front door opened, he stepped inside, kicking off his shoes and dropping his keys with a soft clink.

"Hey?" he called out, voice smooth, expectant.

Silence.

"Hey," he said again, louder now, walking through the quiet house. A flicker of concern mingled with curiosity—until he found her.

There she was, curled up on their shared bed, fast asleep.

All that attitude earlier, and now she looked like something out of a dream—soft, peaceful, utterly his.

Kye stood in the doorway for a moment, just watching her chest rise and fall. His fingers twitched with the urge to touch, to wake her, to remind her who she belonged to.

But for now... he let her rest.