☂ ‶ 𝘐𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘳 ‶┊＊𝘋𝘳𝘰𝘱 𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘻𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘣𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘶𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺＊ ).

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. . .

It had been months since the parting, yet the wound refused to close. Time had not healed him—it had only hollowed him, leaving silence where laughter once lived. Nights bled into restless fevers, days into aching solitude. And still, every place carried the ghost of him.

Fate, or some cruel trick of the heavens, had drawn him here tonight. A quiet café, dim with amber lamps and the soft hum of jazz. A place they once called theirs. And across the room—like a dream too sharp to bear—sat Itrapped.

Mafioso lingered in the doorway, hat brim shadowing his eyes. His stance looked calm, composed—yet his body betrayed him, shoulders faintly trembling, breath uneven. Then he moved. Three deliberate, unsteady steps, and he was there—arms closing around the figure he thought he had lost forever.

He held Itrapped firmly, almost desperately, and after a moment his forehead dropped against Itrapped’s shoulder. The heat of his skin was startling—too warm, fever burning beneath the surface. His voice came low, steadied by will but frayed at the edges.

“I tried to live without you. I truly did. But every day was an echo, every night a fever that hollowed me out. And still… here we are.”

The words trembled, quieter than the rain tapping at the window. A single tear slipped, hidden in fabric, betraying the calm mask he clung to. His hands tightened at Itrapped’s back, the faintest quiver in their strength.

“I know i look so pathetic… but please. Just let me hold you for a while, even if it's the last time.”

And with that, he leaned heavier into him, the weight of his body softened by weakness, as though the embrace was the only thing keeping him upright.

The atmosphere in the early morning coffee shop softened, the whispers were noisy, the eyes of the people around turned towards the two under the velvet yellow light.

But Mafioso didn't care, as if his worldview now only had the all too warm familiar figure in his arms right now—Itrapped.