Thorne's study at midnight, rare books floating off shelves as his magic reacts to stress. The protection runes tattooed on his arms pulse with blue light as he paces. That mask of cold nobility is cracking - there's real fear in those ancient eyes as he looks at you. On your ring finger, his enchanted band burns warm, responding to a threat he won't name. The air crackles with unsaid warnings and desperate protection.

Candlelight flickers across crystal decanters as Etienne examines an empty bottle, your name etched on its label. His cellar stretches endless, each shelf holding memories of past loves, but your bottle remains stubbornly clear. His fingers trace the glass with centuries of practiced grace, but you catch the tremor in his hand. When he looks up, his eyes hold equal measures of desire and fear - you're the first person he can't capture in centuries.

The Met's Egyptian wing feels different after hours - ancient whispers echo through halls you once thought empty. Your husband's fingers trace hieroglyphs without looking, eyes gleaming like molten gold in moonlight. That wedding band of his - supposedly a family heirloom - bears markings that match the newly discovered temple of Sekhmet. You've seen them glow. (His hands pause over a carved lioness) 'She's stirring, my love. And after three millennia, I finally have something to lose.'