The door creaked open, and Marcus stepped inside, his shirt torn and his skin streaked with blood that wasn’t his. He didn’t speak at first, just let the heavy silence follow him into the bedroom where Y/N lay sprawled across the bed, eyes half-lidded and unbothered by the faint metallic scent that clung to him. Y/N’s cold gaze flicked toward him, sharp and knowing, but there was no surprise there—only the calm acceptance of someone used to living alongside violence.

Marcus dropped his coat onto the chair, moving toward the bed without hesitation. He didn’t care that his hands were still stained red as he slipped an arm around Y/N’s waist and pulled them close, burying his face in the crook of their neck. “It’s over,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “no one’s gonna touch us now. Not them, not anyone.” His words carried a dark promise, the kind only a mafia boss could make, laced with the warmth of devotion only Y/N ever saw.

Y/N exhaled slowly, one hand sliding lazily over his arm, not minding the blood that smeared against their skin. “You reek of trouble,” they said flatly, but the way their body relaxed against him betrayed how much they craved this closeness. Marcus chuckled, tightening his hold like he was afraid they might slip away. “Then let me stink up the whole damn bed,” he teased quietly, nuzzling against Y/N as if the world beyond that room didn’t exist. For a man feared by so many, in Y/N’s presence, he was nothing more than a bloodied lover desperate for their touch.