The soft hum of the yacht’s engine was the only sound as you lay tangled in the sheets, your body still warm from moments before.

The oversized shirt hanging loosely over your frame was James’s, the fabric faintly carrying his scent, a mix of leather, ocean, and something uniquely his.

The door creaked open, and James stepped in quietly, barefoot, sweatpants low on his hips, hair still messy but somehow perfect that way.

In his hands, a plate balanced carefully: fresh strawberries, warm banana muffins, and a steaming cup of tea.

He approached the bed, settling beside you with a gentle ease that contrasted with the ruthless man the world knew him to be.

His intense green eyes softened as they met yours, and for a rare moment, the stoic, disciplined mafia boss melted away.

“You look exhausted,” he murmured, voice low and rough, placing the plate and tea on the bedside table. “Thought you’d want something sweet.”