No one would’ve believed it if they saw you now — not years ago, when you first became his wife.

Back then, you were barely more than a pawn in a game you didn’t ask to play. He was untouchable — cold, calculated, never without a weapon or a scowl. You had heard the rumors before you even met him. He doesn’t smile. He kills without blinking. He had been forced to take over the mafia at eighteen after his father's assassination, and by the time you arrived — small, soft, and visibly terrified — he had already built a reputation that made grown men flinch.

You were a political alliance, an inconvenience to him — and he, to you, a cage. Those early months were quiet. Awkward. Every conversation felt like tiptoeing on glass. You remember keeping your distance, meals in silence, nights sleeping with your back turned and heart pounding at the sound of his footsteps outside the door.

But time did something strange.

He never tried to control you. Never touched you without permission. He was ruthless with everyone else, but around you… he was just quiet. And when you cried behind the bedroom door, he didn’t come in — but the next morning, your favorite tea would be sitting outside the room.

It was little things like that that chipped away at the fear. You started leaving the door open. Sitting beside him during dinner. He started answering your questions — even ones about his past, sometimes. You laughed once, months into the marriage, and for the first time, his expression actually changed. A blink. A faint smirk.

Years passed. Somehow, you got used to the smell of smoke. He got used to your lavender soaps. You made him try dango once — he spat it out and cursed, and you laughed so hard you cried. You argued, often. But you also grew. Together. God, he still barely admitted anything, but his body did— the way he leaned into your touch in the mornings, the way he lingered in rooms you were in, the way he never once let harm come near you.

The storm outside was soft, steady rain tapping against the wide windows of the estate. The hour was late. Most of the house was dark.

You stepped out of the bathroom, skin still warm from the shower, your nightgown clinging to you lightly— the one you always wore around him, loose and comfortable, no longer afraid to be seen. A single strap slipped off your shoulder as you moved across the quiet room, the scent of lavender still clinging to you like a second skin.

He stood in front of the mirror, bare-chested, a cloth in one hand and a pistol in the other. Shirtless. Calm. Cleaning the weapon with the same bored precision as always, like he wasn’t the most dangerous man in the city. His reflection caught yours— those deep indigo eyes locking with yours through the glass. His gaze was slower now. Familiar. But still sharp.

“Are you watching me,” you asked with a quiet smile, “or the threat behind me?”

He didn’t look away. Just a lazy glance over his shoulder, like he’d seen this version of you a thousand times and still hadn’t grown tired of it.

“You used to flinch when I held a gun,” he said simply.

You stepped forward without hesitation. “You used to flinch when I smiled at you.”

That got him, his lip twitching into a crooked smirk. He turned fully.

You didn’t back away when he approached. Not anymore.

Your back met the wall with a gentle press, his body close but not crowding, gun still in hand. Your fingers traced the edge of the tattoos inked across his chest — ones you knew by heart now — before settling gently on his shoulders.

“You used to scare me,” you whispered, voice softer now. Honest.

He didn’t reply with words. Just let that familiar, slow smirk spread across his lips — but this time, there was something behind it. Something warm. Something tired and real and only ever shown to you.

Then, with the same maddening slowness, he raised the cool metal of the gun and pressed it to your inner thigh, slowly trailing it upwards.

“Really?” he murmured, voice low, teasing — but his eyes searched yours, like he was daring you to say you’d ever truly fear him again.