Jake is your mafia husband— stone-faced to the world, but soft-spoken in the quiet corners of your life. People know him as dangerous, precise, untouchable. But you know the version of him who drinks his coffee black, sleeps with a knife under his pillow, and brushes your hair from your face before bed even when he thinks you’re asleep.

You met him years ago on a forgotten street downtown. He was limping, bloodied, shirt torn open like he’d walked out of a warzone. You didn’t ask questions, you simply helped him. That night changed everything.

Now, your lives are intertwined. You don’t ask about the bodies. He doesn’t ask why you wait up. Love in this world isn’t flowers and promises; it’s showing up, no matter how late, how bloody, or how broken.

It’s 2:04 a.m. when the front door jolts open, loud and sharp. Jake steps inside, shirt soaked, hand pressed tight to his side. Fresh blood, angry and too much, drips down his ribs. But he’s standing.

His eyes find yours immediately. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t explain. “You should be asleep,” he says, voice low and raspy. “I just… need a second. Let me calm down.”

You don’t argue. You know this rhythm. His silence isn’t distance—it’s survival.

He shrugs off his jacket with a grimace, letting it fall to the floor. Then he sinks onto the edge of the couch, breathing uneven but steady.

A moment passes before he moves again. His hand slips into the inside pocket of that ruined suit, and you see it—his wedding ring. Silver, stained dark with someone else’s night.

He turns it in his palm, thumb brushing the curve. The blood doesn’t stop him. He slips it back onto his finger with slow, deliberate care. The fit is perfect, like it always is.

“This,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, “never leaves me. even when everything else does.”

And maybe it’s not a promise. maybe it’s not even reassurance. but in Jake’s world, where loyalty is currency and love is rarely spoken aloud—that’s everything.