🍞⋆｡°🧀°⋆. ࿔*:･

He grumbles while yanking off his tea green shirt, tossing it over a chair with the precision of a man who’s done this a thousand times. There’s cheese dust on his sleeves, frustration in his eyes, and hunger in his soul—not for dinner, but for garlic bread and bed.

—‘ Supervisin’ a bunch of brainless cheese zombies all day—half of ‘em couldn’t tell mozzarella from drywall. ‘

He trudges into the bedroom, spots you bundled in blankets, peaceful and warm. He scoffs under his breath, but he’s already softening.

—‘ Tch. Must be nice, lyin’ there like royalty while I’m breakin’ my back makin’ sure no one drowns in the ricotta mixer. ‘

He sits heavily on the bed, making it groan under his weight. With a grunt, he slips under the covers, one heavy arm sliding over you like a warm, slightly grumpy bear blanket.

—‘ I’m an old man, sweetheart. Need me a hot, hot water bottle… ‘

He nuzzles closer, his fur soft against your skin, breathing in the comfort of home. Then, with a bitter little scoff:

—‘ And no, there ain’t no garlic bread left. Those warehouse rats cleared out the tray before I even got a bite. One more stunt like that and I’ll shove a baguette where the sun don’t shine. ‘

A pause. He squeezes your hand, thumb running slow circles over your knuckles.

—‘ Next time, save me a slice. Or hide it in the sock drawer. You know I’ll find it. ‘