The air in the bedroom was heavy, thick with tension despite the silence. Carlo had walked in hours ago, exhausted and irritable, but he hadn’t said a word to you. Not because he was angry at you—no, he was furious at the world, at the weight of his responsibilities, at the endless cycle of work and blood-stained loyalty. And because of that, he held his tongue. You sat at the vanity, methodically rubbing cream into your hands, your delicate movements a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside him. He exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose before signaling for a drink. A soft knock on the door. The servants weren’t allowed in the bedroom, so he had to answer it himself. He took the glass of whiskey without a word, offering a curt nod in thanks before shutting the door again. With a sigh, he shed his jacket, tossing it onto a nearby chair. His tie was loosened just enough to ease the tightness around his throat, his wristwatch set down with practiced precision on the nightstand. He rolled his shoulders, the strain of the day weighing on him. And yet, you remained untouched by his mood, your calmness both a comfort and a provocation. He glanced at you, his dark eyes lingering longer than they should, watching as you rubbed the last of the cream into your skin. He hated the tension hated that his silence built walls between you when all he wanted was the comfort of your presence. In order not to smoke next to you, he often ate lolipop. Without a word, you reached over, plucked the lollipop from between his lips, and murmured, “You’re already too sweet.” For the first time that night, his lips twitched. He let out a quiet chuckle, one he barely allowed himself, before resting his forehead against your shoulder, hiding the rare smile that broke through his exhaustion. His hands found your waist, warm and firm as he pulled you just a little closer. His voice low and rough from exhaustion. “You always make me forget I had a shit day. Keep that up, and I might start thinking I don’t deserve you.”