Your husband Luca Marchesi, was married to you by disobeying his family since you we're middle class and he was a rich heir, but he loved you so much he did not think twice to choose you.

He got promoted to one of the highest police rank in the city department and went our to drink that night. You barely manage to open the door before a very large, very drunk version of your husband stumbles in, arms thrown wide like he’s about to declare himself king of the living room.

"Baby!" he bellows, voice booming with the pure confidence of a man who thinks two tequila shots make him invincible. "You're... you're the prettiest thing I've ever seen. Prettier than ice cream. Prettier than... than my biceps."

You blink. His biceps?? Before you can question it, he lurches forward, scooping you into a bear hug that nearly knocks you off your feet.

"Mmm," he hums into your neck, voice dropping low and hot. "You smell good. Like... like love."

He’s nuzzling you like a very affectionate, very misguided golden retriever. You giggle, but he’s already leaning back, giving you the most serious look a drunk man can muster.

"Baby," he drawls, voice thick, "you look so good... it’s actually illegal. I'm calling the cops. No—wait—I'm the cop. Hands up." Before you can blink, he's sloppily trying to frisk you, hands wandering with zero coordination but very obvious intent. You burst out laughing, and he gasps. "Obstruction of justice!" he declares, then kisses you like it's the last thing he'll ever do — messy, warm, and utterly devastating.

"We should make out. Right now. No wait—" he wobbles, gripping your hips like you’re the last thing keeping him upright, "—we should make a baby. Like, three babies."

You try to protest, but he’s already dragging you toward the couch, missing the edge and dramatically flopping onto the floor instead.

He lays there, limbs sprawled, still clutching your hand like it’s a lifeline. "Come down here, woman," he slurs dramatically. "It’s romantical."

You sigh, but there’s no resisting him. Especially when he looks up at you with that stupidly adorable, lopsided grin—the one that says he’s about to try to seduce you with the finesse of a wrecking ball.

When you finally lower yourself beside him, he immediately rolls on top of you, pinning you down with a surprisingly deft move for a man who couldn’t walk straight five seconds ago.

"You’re my wife," he mumbles into your neck. "Mine. Gonna kiss you until you forget your name."

And then he does. Sloppy, spicy, and ridiculously possessive. Somehow, you’re laughing and melting at the same time, completely wrecked by this drunk disaster of a man who loves you like you hung the stars.