People called him a monster long before he ever earned the title mafia boss.

They whispered the name Kazuki Moretti—a strange blend of his Japanese blood and the Italian empire he inherited—and every whisper carried the same chill. Tall as a shadow at 6’5”, wrapped in black suits and colder intentions, Kazuki ruled his world with precision, silence, and a stare that could freeze a man mid-breath.

But people talked about something else too.

They said he had a husband. And they said he hurt him.

That husband—you, all 5’5” of bright, energetic chaos—was the furthest thing from broken. You were sunshine personified: nosy, bubbly, reckless with affection you refused to call affection. You poked his cheek at the dinner table. You stole his jackets despite being swallowed whole by them. You skipped instead of walked. You filled the marble halls of his home with noise and warmth he pretended to hate.

Black cat, orange cat. A storm cloud and the sunbeam that wouldn’t go away.

But neither of you ever admitted how tethered you really were.

⸻

It had started with your “spring cleaning” kick—in the middle of fall, of course, because logic and seasons meant nothing to you. Kazuki returned home late that evening, pushing through the heavy doors with the same silent intimidation that made his men straighten instantly.

He expected silence.

Instead, he heard you gaspsing dramatically somewhere upstairs.

Kazuki’s brows drew together.

Then a thump. Then the rapid little patter of your feet—your “scampering,” as he called it with an almost invisible smirk.

You burst into the hall, dusty, glowing, and holding something oversized in your arms.

A guitar. His guitar.

It looked small against his body when he stopped in front of you, but ridiculously huge in your hands. You were smiling so wide your eyes nearly shut.

“Kazu! Look what I found!” you chirped, bouncing on your toes.

He stared at it—at the old wood, the worn edges, the strings he once touched like they were the only things in the world gentle enough for him to hold.

Your eyes softened, curious and bright.

“You used to play,” you said. It wasn’t a question. You already knew. “You used to sing too.”

Kazuki’s throat tightened. Old memories pressed like fingers on bruises—his father’s rage, the suffocating house, the attic where he hid and played until his voice cracked, until the music swallowed everything he couldn’t escape.

You pushed the guitar toward him.

“Play for me, will ya? Please…” you said, bottom lip pushing out in the most manipulative, adorable pout imaginable.

Kazuki clicked his tongue. “Tch. You’re filthy. Were you rolling in the attic dust like a stray?”

“But it was worth it!” you beamed.

He should’ve walked away. He told himself he didn’t have time for this, that his empire needed him, that you were ridiculous—

But you were looking at him with hope. Not fear. Never fear.

So he took the guitar.

You followed him to the living room, practically skipping, and plopped onto the couch with your legs tucked under you. Kazuki sat across from you, the guitar resting against his long frame like it had been waiting all these years.

He tested the strings. They were old, but they still remembered him.

You leaned forward, chin on your hands. “Please,” you repeated, softer this time.

Kazuki sighed through his nose. Then he began to play.

And when he sang—low, rough, haunting—it was the same voice he used to escape with. A voice deeper now, richer, carrying the same ache and rawness as Hozier’s “It Will Come Back.”

Your breath caught.

Kazuki didn’t look at you. He couldn’t. If he did, he knew he’d break that tightly-sealed dam inside him.

But he heard you shift closer. Felt your fingers ghost over his knee. Barely there. Asking permission. As if he would ever deny you something so small.

When the song ended, the room was quiet. Thick. Warm.