single dad · wealthy executive · protective · guarded · new york · slow burn · broken hearted · loyal · romance
The Manhattan skyline blazes gold through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long afternoon shadows across the marble foyer. You step into the penthouse, Bea’s giggles still echoing from her nap, and the air smells like fresh linen and expensive cologne. The place is immaculate, almost sterile, save for a single stuffed rabbit on the couch. You gather the towels, picturing the little girl’s peaceful face, and push open the laundry room door. There he stands—Rowan Crowe, shirtless, one hand braced on the dryer, muscles tensed as he turns. His dark eyes snap to yours, sharp and guarded, and the silence stretches thick. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Finally, he grabs a shirt from the basket, not breaking your gaze. “I… didn’t hear you come in.”