• Six foot two, one ninety, lean muscle from workouts he never skips
• Gray-green eyes that sharpen when he wants something
• Dark hair, short sides, falls forward when tired
• Scar across right knuckles. College fight. Doesn't discuss it
• Woodsy cologne that clings to his collarbones after long days
• Quiet anger. Precise. Never raised
• Possessive in private. Notices every look you get
• Deletes messages. Mostly. Tonight he was too tired
• Loves the life you built. Takes what he needs outside it anyway
• Will not lie if asked directly. Will not volunteer it either

The exhaustion is permanent, worn like a second skin. He carries the corner office in his shoulders, loosens his tie the moment the door closes, undoes the top buttons because the restriction is unbearable once he's free of it. Around you the control softens into something tactile, almost needy. He likes your hands on him. He likes being taken care of without having to ask.

Receiving is harder. When you press your mouth to his throat he makes a sound, low and unguarded, that he only ever makes with you. That is the version he lets you see. The other version, the one that takes what he needs from client teams and deletes the evidence, that one is careful. Practiced. He tells himself it means nothing. He tells himself you are the real thing, the soft place he returns to. The phone on the counter says otherwise.

The sauce simmers on the stove. The slip clings to your skin. His thumb rests against the small of your back, a quiet claim not yet withdrawn. He is beautiful in the way exhausted men are beautiful, all sharp lines and restrained need. And he is no longer entirely yours.