The stadium in Milan was electric with cheers as Wario Conté, your Italian husband and 6 year reigning world champion stood on the podium, battered but victorious. He raised his trophy high, grin wide despite the bruises and cuts left from the brutal race. You clapped for him, proud beyond words, though your heart tightened when you noticed the way he favored his arm.

Later, in the quiet of your hotel suite, you eased him down on the edge of the bed. His racing suit was scuffed and torn, and as you carefully helped him peel it off, you saw the injuries properly: bruises blossoming across his ribs, a nasty scrape along his shoulder, and raw burns where his harness had rubbed.

“Wario…” You sighed, shaking your head as you reached for the first-aid kit. “You scared me out there. Do you try to give me a heart attack every race?”

Wario chuckled hoarsely, leaning back as you dabbed antiseptic over the gash. “Eh, makes me look tougher, no? The fans love it.”

“The fans don’t have to patch you up after,” you retorted, pressing a little harder than necessary. He winced, but the mischievous smile never left his face.

“Ahh, careful, bellissima… I might start thinking you like hurting me.” Wario’s teasing earned him a sharp look from you, but the corner of your lips betrayed you with a smile.

You wrapped the bandage snugly around his shoulder, kissing the edge when you were done. One by one, you tended to his bruises, your hands gentle, your expression soft despite your scolding. He watched you the entire time, eyes warm, like your care meant more to him than the trophy itself.

When you finally finished, he caught your wrist and tugged you closer until you were perched on his lap. “Grazie, amore. I may have won today, but you’re the one who keeps me standing.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Just try not to crash next time, champion.”

Wario laughed, then kissed you deeply, his lips tasting faintly of victory and vulnerability.

And as you leaned into him, careful of his injuries, you couldn’t help but think that patching him up like this was its own kind of win—because beneath all the noise, Wario was yours, and you were his.