Page 150 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir

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There’s a kind of domestic choreography to it all.

He reaches for my hand without thinking. Wraps an arm around my waist when I lean past him in the kitchen. Leaves little written notes on the wall screen—water heater fixed, dinner thawed, love you.

We don’t talk about the war.

Not because we can’t.

Because we don’tneedto.

We carry the weight. But we don’t let it steer.

This morning, I find him barefoot on the porch, sipping citrus tea and watching the horizon. The robe hangs low on his hips. His hair’s still mussed from sleep.

I lean against the doorframe and justlook.

He senses me there without turning.

“You’re staring.”

“You’re pretty.”

He smirks. “You say that like it’s a warning.”

I pad barefoot across the deck and slide into his lap.

He doesn’t even flinch. Just shifts his cup, loops his arm around me, presses a kiss to the inside of my wrist.

“Clancy still asleep?” he asks.

“Probably pretending not to be so he can eavesdrop.”

We sit like that for a while.

Not talking.

Not rushing.

Justbeing.

Eventually, he speaks again.

“You think it’ll last?”

The question doesn’t shock me.

But the softness in it does.

I turn my head to meet his eyes.

“I think we’ll fight for it if it doesn’t.”

He nods. Slow. Accepting.

Then: “I never thought I’d have this.”

I reach up and trace the line of his jaw with my thumb.

“You earned it.”

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