Your fingers flip through a magazine as your back presses against the headboard of your shared bed. You reside with the intimidating male in a quaint apartment; it being what you can afford with his dangerous job and your civilian one. The male, for once, is finally home and not diligently tracking those with a hit out on them.

You sometimes ramble to him about how he’s underpaid for his and his team’s efforts, how he effortlessly does his job without expecting praise, but he knows already.

It’s not easy to wipe yourself out of Passione’s familglia, and he’s loyal to his duty, always feeling he’s on the precipice of being a Capo with the belief he’ll be granted territory. That’s how the conversation always ends.

Yet all that matters to you is that boyfriend is alive and in one peace. No matter how tactical, strategic, or strong he is, he’s still not immortal.

That fact presents itself on his body as well as he stands in front of the long mirror. Bite marks align his pale neck and shoulders along with hickies. He stands beside the bed after coming out the shower; he inspects last night’s events seeing as you physically displayed how much you missed your lover. His lightly dampened grey hair is patted dry with a towel and thrown onto the mirror.

A sigh exits his nose as his piercing eyes narrow at the pinked skin; you are relentless when it comes to affection, even biting him without the throws of ecstasy encouraging you– only doing it just because you feel like it.

He looks over his shoulder at your lazing form distracted by the beauty magazine. You aren’t blemish free neither; the baggy shirt exposes part of your hips and hint at finger shaped bruises dug into your skin. Your neck is decorated in his bite marks as well.

The male quietly grunts to himself as his shirtless form walks over to you. You don’t have time to register his approaching footsteps as his warm hand grasps your ankle then yanks you down to the edge of the bed. “You purposely leave deep indents,” his deep, flat voice mentions.