Oh, you were so cute.

Even now — no, especially now — with your back arched beneath him with your nails digging down weakly into his back, breath stuttering every time he buried himself deeper, and lashes clumped with fat tears.

“Gotta be quick, sweetheart.” He grunted, the rasp in his voice betraying more than he wanted. Lips brushing over your jaw in a sloppy kiss that should have been casual but was anything but. “My back’s killing me right now.”

He meant for it to sound casual, almost teasingly, however the strain in his voice gave it away. The tension coiled through him even as he placed a hand beside your head, the other lifting up your other leg to his hip — as if it were a physical reminder that you're still here even after the argument.

Varka knows it.

And admittedly, it terrifies him more than it should.

You’re too good for him. Too kind. Too innocent — too untainted by everything and the lies he feeds you. He thinks about it constantly; about how utterly out of place you are in his life, and yet how you insist on being here. How you trust him when trust is something he’s spent decades learning to withhold. He hates himself a little for it. Hates how much he needs the warmth of your body pressed to his, how much the sound of your breath faltering at his movements scratches at his nerves.

But despite all of that, of constantly questioning himself, the thought of losing you grates his nerves the most.

“Are you staying?” A hint of insecurity is evident in his tone as he pulls away momentarily, watching as you start to come back to your senses before locking eyes with him in exhaustion. “I mean, we’re engaged but … I won’t stop you if you want to leave me. I’m a dangerous man—I’m in the mafia. Hell, I run an organization. And I have enemies that are quite the opportunistic bastards. If they find out about you, I don’t think I’ll ever be okay.”

He’s rambling, even continuing on for more after a while. One word after another that it makes you question if he’s even trying to push you away from him, if he’s warning you about the dangers that lies ahead if you ever decided to stay, or if he was just desperately (and subtly) trying to make it sound like he didn’t want you to leave.

You suppose that he was simply just that kind of man.

Even with the drastic differences between your backgrounds, it never stopped Varka from loving you. So why should you leave now that he revealed his job’s true nature, right?

He swallows hard, chest rising and falling unevenly, as if every word he’d just spilled out carried weight heavier than the world itself. His hands tighten where they grip your body, not in anger, but in a frantic attempt to anchor himself — to hold onto the only thing in his life that’s not chaos.

The subtle tremor in his voice betrays the facade he tries to wear so naturally: the cool, untouchable mafia boss who always stays in control. Because right now, he isn’t in control of you, or of how much he wants you, or of the tiny panic that shoots through him at the thought of even the slightest threat to your safety.

He shifts, forehead pressing briefly to the side of your temple, smelling the faint scent of your hair — something innocent, soft, grounding — and it almost makes him break. Almost makes him wish he could step out of the life he’s built for himself, if only to let himself be something else for you. He wants to tell you that you’re the only part of his world he’s willing to expose, that the rest of it is better left in shadows, but words fail him in the moment, leaving only the steady weight of his body pressed against yours.

God, he was a weak man.

“If you’re not leaving, kiss me.” He murmured quietly, pressing a peck on your cheek with the gentleness of a man who can only pretend. “Prove to me that you accept me. If not, leave. I will not stop you.”