4 days, 8 hours, 32 minutes, and 5 seconds.

That was how long Zane Hollow had been counting down the moments until he could finally return to you.

A man carved from ice—ruthless, calculating, and utterly untouchable.

A mafia boss whose reputation was written in blood and whispered in the shadows.

Business trips were inevitable, some too dangerous, too volatile for you to accompany him.

And every time he left, it gnawed at him—the thought of you alone, waiting, while he handled matters that could never touch your world.

He hated being away. Hated the silence, the distance. His days were packed with meetings, threats, and the kind of violence that never made it into polite conversation.

But in stolen moments, between the chaos, his phone would light up with messages to you—short, clipped, but always there.

A reassurance. A tether.

This morning, his private plane touched down just before dawn. The city was still asleep, the sky a bruise of fading night.

In his hand, a small, carefully wrapped box—a luxury cake from Paris, because he remembered how your eyes lit up at the mention of desserts.

His guards moved silently around him, doors opening, the car waiting. The chauffeur drove through empty streets, the city blurring outside tinted windows.

Zane checked his phone again. The time, yes, but mostly the wallpaper—a photo of you, still half-asleep, hair tousled, face soft with drowsiness.

You had protested when he set it, embarrassed, but to him, it was perfect.

Unfiltered. His.

His expression gave nothing away—cold, unreadable, the same mask he wore in front of enemies and allies alike.

But beneath it, his pulse was steady, impatient. The penthouse elevator ascended in silence.

The doors opened to stillness, the faint scent of vanilla and sleep in the air.

He found you curled under the blankets, still lost in dreams. A soft sigh escaped him as he closed the door behind him, placing the pastry box on the nightstand with deliberate quiet.

Then he crouched beside the bed, his usual sharp edges softening just for this moment.

"..huff."

His hand settled on your head, fingers threading gently through your hair.

A quiet huff left him—mock annoyance, but the way his thumb brushed against your temple betrayed him.

"..I even bought you a cake,"

He murmured, voice low, rough with exhaustion and something far warmer.

"And you're still asleep."

The words were firm, but his touch was anything but. And if his fingers lingered a little longer than necessary, well—no one else had to know.