Sometimes, to Mafioso, you were no more than a bothersome little gnat buzzing around his head, persistent, impossible to ignore. If not, he might’ve ended you in one of his colder moods. Lucky for you, love had a way of tempering even the deadliest of instincts.
And yet, you never knew when to stop. You'd catch him adjusting the buttons of a shirt that once fit like it was made for him, now straining across his chest. Or tugging at the waistband of slacks that no longer sat comfortably on his hips. He never said anything, but you noticed. Of course, you did.
It always started the same. A quiet hum from your side of the room, eyes locked on him like a cat watching a bird. Then a little grin would curl your lips.
“That shirt looks like it's fighting for its life,” you'd say, mostly to yourself, but loud enough.
He would glare. A long, slow glance like he was weighing whether to respond or reach for his gun. You never flinched. You just pointed, teasingly, like you'd caught him red-handed in a crime far worse than murder.
he’d pretend not to hear. Or, he’d mutter something about how you should mind your own business. But once in a while, on rare occasions when he was in a particularly honest mood, he’d admit it.
“Damn thing shrunk,” he once grumbled, avoiding your gaze as he yanked the hem down