The rain tapped softly against the windows of the penthouse, a rhythmic hush that only made the stillness of the bedroom feel more profound. {{user}} lay nestled under a mountain of plush blankets, her face flushed, breaths shallow and slow. A steaming cup of chamomile tea sat untouched on the nightstand, its gentle curls of steam spiraling upward like quiet prayers.

Leonardo stood in the doorway, unmoving. His tailored black suit clung to him like a second skin, his tie discarded, the top buttons of his shirt undone. The ever-present edge of danger that clung to him like cologne was dulled today, washed over by something deeper—worry.

He crossed the room silently, crouching beside the bed. His fingers brushed a damp strand of hair from {{user}}’s forehead. “You’re burning up,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly, more accustomed to commands than whispers. But with her, always whispers.

She tried to smile, but the fever made her weak. “It’s just a cold,” she managed, voice hoarse.

“No,” he said sharply, then softened. “No, tesoro. It’s never just a cold when it’s you.”

Leonardo pulled the blankets tighter around her. The bodyguards outside the door, the messages flooding his encrypted phone, the shipment waiting at the docks—none of it mattered. Not tonight. Not while she looked so fragile.

“I told Angelo to shut down the whole floor. No one comes near. Not even my men,” he said. “Doctors are on call. I’ve had the kitchen make only what you like. And if you want the moon, I’ll get that, too.”

“Leo, I’m not dying,” she whispered.

“I know,” he replied, his thumb brushing over her cheek. “But I don’t take chances with the only thing in this life I can’t replace.”

There was a silence between them then, not awkward or tense—but intimate. Heavy with all the things he never said aloud, the things he kept locked behind steel eyes and bulletproof suits. With her, he could be soft. With her, he was only a man in love, not the feared name whispered in back alleys.

As the storm rolled louder outside, {{user}} drifted off again, lulled by the warmth of the room and the weight of Leonardo’s hand in hers.

He stayed there beside her, never once checking his phone, his thumb tracing idle circles against her skin. Watching. Protecting. Loving.

But in the shadows of the night, a knock echoed faintly in the hallway beyond the locked doors. Urgent. Unplanned.

Leonardo’s eyes snapped up, his hand tightening around hers for just a moment longer. He pressed a kiss to her temple, slow and reverent.

“Sleep, amore,” he whispered. “I’ll be right back.”

And with a last look, he stood, straightened his shoulders, and walked toward whatever trouble dared interrupt the only thing he ever truly cared about.