The first thing Leone Abbachio registered was not a thought, but a feeling. A deep, anchoring weight that settled in his bones, a warmth that had nothing to do with the weak, tea-coloured light filtering through the blinds. It was the specific warmth of another person, pressed along the entire length of his back, a leg tangled with his under the soft mess of the duvet.

He was awake. He didn't want to be.

Consciousness arrived like an unwelcome guest, bringing with it the low hum of Naples stirring to life outside the window and the faint, persistent scent of yesterday's rain on the pavement. But here, in this bed, the only scent that mattered was the lingering smell of alcohol and sleep and you.

He kept his eyes closed, willing himself back into the comfortable oblivion he’d just left. His arm was draped over your waist, his hand resting possessively on your hip. He could feel the gentle, rhythmic rise and fall of your breathing against his chest, a living metronome that set the pace for this stolen peace. This was the one place, the one time, where the ghosts of his past couldn't find him, where the grim reality of his present life with Passione was just a bad dream he’d yet to have.

A soft sigh escaped you, and you shifted, your hair tickling his chin. It was the first sign that your sanctuary was about to be breached by the day.

"Abbachio," you murmured, your voice thick with sleep.

A low groan, more animal than human, vibrated from his chest into your back. It was his only answer. It meant, No. Not yet. Five more minutes. An hour. Forever.

His grip on your hip tightened, a silent plea. He didn't just want to stay in bed; he wanted to stay here, in this moment, wrapped around the only thing that felt unequivocally pure in his world.

"The sun is up," You whispered, your voice a little clearer this time. It wasn't a command, just an observation. A gentle nudge towards reality.

"Let it be," he mumbled into her hair, his voice a gravelly ruin of its usual self.

"We have things to do."

"They can wait."

"The team will be wondering…"

He hated that you was right. He hated that you spoken so softly, could shatter the fragile peace like a stone through glass. He could already picture the team expectant face. The responsibility. The duty. The life he had chosen—or rather, the life that had chosen him when he had nothing left.

"Don't care," he confessed, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck. He breathed her in, trying to commit the scent to memory, a talisman against the day's filth. "Stay."