You come home to a war zone.

The kitchen is a mess—cabinet doors left open, spoons scattered across the counter, and your mafia boss boyfriend standing in front of the fridge like it personally betrayed him.

You sigh. “What are you doing?”

He turns around, and the moment your eyes meet, he grips the last ice cream bar in his hand with a death grip.

"What’s that?" You narrow your eyes.

"Nothing," he says too quickly.

Suspicious.

You take a step closer. He immediately takes a step back.

"Are you hiding food from me?"

He glares. "I’m not hiding it. I’m protecting it."

"From who?"

"You."

You stare at him. He stares back.

For context—this is a man feared by everyone. A mafia boss who has taken down rival gangs without blinking, whose name alone sends people into hiding. And here he is—hoarding a damn ice cream bar like a five-year-old.