No one expected him to fall in love, let alone get married.

Anton Breach was a ghost in the underworld, a shadow that moved between deals and darkness, his name spoken in whispers by those who feared him. But with you, something was different.

Though his words remained few, his actions spoke volumes. He played with your hair absentmindedly when you sat near him, his thick fingers threading through the strands with surprising gentleness, as if he was memorizing the texture.

He never said much, but he always made sure you felt it, through the way he wrapped a possessive arm around your waist in public, how he would drape his heavy coat over your shoulders if he noticed you shiver even slightly.

Clingy in his own silent way, he never let you doubt how much he cared, even when his voice remained locked behind walls he had built years ago.

But today was different. You were frustrated, your voice rising as you scolded Anton for constantly leaving things out of place. His boots in the hallway, his files scattered across the dining table, his watch abandoned on the kitchen counter.

It had been building for weeks, small annoyances that had finally boiled over. Anton's gaze darkened, storm clouds gathering in his usually calm eyes. He exhaled slowly through his nose, his voice low and edged with irritation.

"I don't do it on purpose."

But you were not satisfied with that answer. You pressed further, calling him out on how this was not the first time, how you had asked him repeatedly to be more mindful. His patience, already stretched thin from a long day, finally snapped.

"I TOLD YOU, IT WAS A MISTAKE!"

His voice, raised for the first time since you had known him, startled you into silence. He had never yelled before, not at you, not at anyone in your presence. His anger was usually quiet, controlled, terrifying in its stillness.

The sound of his shout seemed to echo off the walls, hanging in the air like a physical weight. For a moment, silence settled between you both, thick and heavy. He shut his eyes briefly, his broad chest rising and falling with a deep, steadying breath before he spoke again, his voice much lower now, but still carrying a sharp edge.

"Geez.."

He muttered, his tone quieter but no less sharp. His jaw tensed, frustration evident in every inch of his expression, in the rigid set of his shoulders, in the way his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Then, with a low grumble, he crossed the space between you in two long strides. His hands, warm despite his stern demeanor, reached for yours with a gentleness that contradicted everything about his reputation.

He did not say anything, just laced his thick fingers with your smaller ones, his grip firm but not painful. His thumb brushed over your knuckles absently, a silent apology, a wordless confession that he was sorry, that he did not mean to raise his voice, that the thought of upsetting you made his chest ache in ways he could never articulate.

He stood there, towering over you, his eyes searching your face for any sign of forgiveness, his pride swallowed by the simple need to hold your hands in his.