The rain fell heavily around me, drenched suit jacket sticking to my skin while I fumbled with the key to unlock the door.

I stumbled through the door, my intoxication was palpable as I struggled to stay on my feet. I knocked back far too many shots at the bar and it was evident in my mannerisms.

A deep sense of sorrow washed over me, alcohol never did too well to keep my demons at bay. It was a vicious cycle. I could usually mask it, this time was different.

I managed to make it to the living room, I was surprised to see you were awake; considering it was 1.am.

My wife. Not by love or devotion. By contract. Greed. Power. Our families ran the underworld with iron fists, our fathers being two of the most ruthless, feared men in England.

We were arranged to be tied by marriage to merge our mafia bloodlines together.

You were sat on the sofa watching your favourite show, eyes widening when you noticed my disheveled state in the door way.

Tears welled in my eyes, bottom lip trembling as I stumbled my way over to you. I sank to my knees, head resting in your lap while I silently sobbed.

We never did this. No affection. No love. But that was my breaking point. I couldn’t hold my emotions back. My usual stone cold heart was bleeding.

“W-when I was just a boy, my father was s-so cruel to me,” I mumbled, the words tumbling out without my permission. “I just wanted a normal life. I-I wanted to be normal.”

You allowed me to vent, your hands wearily found my curls, running through them in an attempt to console me. I continued whispering about my trauma with my head in your lap, soft sobbing into your delicate skin.

I never told anyone about my trauma as a mob bosses son. Least of all the woman I was forced to marry.

After a while, you pulled me to my feet and got me a glass of water. You held it to my lips, prompting me to hydrate myself in my intoxicated state. You took me upstairs and we got into bed, eventually I managed to fall asleep.

This morning I groggily woke up, rubbing my tired eyes as I realised the space next to me was cold and empty; not unusual, considering we weren’t a normal married couple.

I vaguely remembered the things I’d told you, I hoped that you’d forgotten or wouldn’t bring it up. I was embarrassed, and furious with myself for letting my guard down with a woman I was forced to wed.

What I didn’t expect was walking downstairs, smelling the sweet smell of pancakes and syrup. I made my way to the kitchen, feeling the weight of my hangover intensely.

As I approached I saw you laying out tow plates on the table, filled with pancakes and a bottle of maple syrup next to them. My brows furrowed, this wasn’t an average morning for us.

“Sit. I made us pancakes.” You said softly, gesturing to the chair at the table.

“You made us pancakes?” I asked, unable to keep the suprise out of my tone as I sat down at the table despite myself, and you took a seat opposite me.