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 of every city he touched. 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 that stretched between you like an ocean. 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 bleeding into pale grey. 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, how your smile could soften even his hardest days.

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 and 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 numbers ticking upward with agonizing slowness.

The doors opened to stillness, the faint scent of vanilla and sleep lingering in the air, a smell that had become synonymous with home. He found you curled under the blankets, still lost in dreams, your face peaceful and unguarded.

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.

His hand settled on your head, fingers threading gently through your tangled hair, the gesture so tender it would have shocked anyone who knew his name. A quiet huff left him, mock annoyance, but the way his thumb brushed against your temple betrayed him completely.

"I even bought you a cake,"

He murmured, his voice low, rough with exhaustion and something far warmer that he would never name aloud.

"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.

The man who commanded armies and crushed enemies with cold efficiency knelt beside his sleeping wife, counting the seconds until you would open your eyes and smile at him again.