Everyone else is asleep.

Nearly six years have passed since he took the reins of Passione. Naples is quieter, much safer. Giorno Giovanna, now twenty one, no longer questions if he deserves the title of Don. He simply wears it.

You had just left ten minutes ago. He sits alone, the final report of the week in his lap. It’s yours. The handwriting is neat, measured, devoid of personality. No flourish. No complaint. Just facts, executed perfectly.

He flips to the back. No final comments. No post-mission reflection. He sighs, running a hand through his golden hair—which was currently down. Just the last clean stroke of a signature that isn’t even a name.

He stares at it longer than he means to.

He closes his eyes. He sees you, not in a mission, not covered in blood or dressed in black.

He sees your face when you’re alone. What it might look like if you let your guard down. If your voice softened. If you leaned against his shoulder, not because you were told to, but because you wanted to.

He sees your mouth. It wasn't smiling, nor were you silent. You were asking something. Wanting. His throat tightens and he shifts in his chair. Then he opens his eyes.

The report is still there, it's not like it'd run away. “I shouldn’t be thinking about this,” he mutters. But he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop.

It only gets worse when you knock at the door, opening it just a crack to pick up the pen you had left with the report.