Matthew did not sleep.
He lay in bed beside Vinny, eyes open in the dark, listening to the soft rhythm of his husband's breathing and the faint hum of the baby monitor on the nightstand.
Three hours.
That was how long he had stared at the ceiling.
Not because he was afraid.
But because he was calculating.
War was never emotional.
It was structural.
And the name spoken in the basement the night before wasn't just a threat.
It was architecture shifting beneath him.
Noah's father.
A ghost with influence.
A strategist who preferred distance to confrontation.
A man who didn't send soldiers to win.
He sent messages.
The guard at dinner wasn't meant to succeed.
He was meant to measure response time.
To watch who moved first.
To observe who protected what.
And Noah had moved first.
Matthew turned his head slightly.
Vinny stirred beside him, fingers brushing his arm lazily.
"You're loud when you think," Vinny murmured, eyes still closed.
