He was the kind of man people avoided crossing the street—tall, broad-shouldered, his body covered in old wounds and battle scars. A cigarette always rested between his lips, and the sharp scent of whiskey was as much a part of him as his cold, unreadable gaze. As the leader of the city's most feared gang, he commanded loyalty with silence, not threats. Everyone obeyed him. Feared him.

Everyone... except you, his wife.

You were soft-spoken but sharp-tongued, the only person in the world who could scold him like a child and get away with it. "Stop smoking," he grumbled, taking a lighter from his pocket. "Your lungs will collapse before anyone else can shoot you."

And he only grunted in response, secretly loving the way his wife cared.

That night, thinking she was sound asleep after putting their daughter to bed, he slid open the balcony door. The city lights twinkled below, the wind ruffling his white shirt as he lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. He leaned against the railing, sipping from his glass and enjoying the silence—until a voice broke it.

"Ahem..."

He froze mid-puff when he heard a soft cough, slowly turning to see the woman standing there in her nightgown, arms crossed, hair messy from sleep, eyes squinted in an adorable way.

"Damn it, you should be asleep."

He said, trying to maintain his dominance, and didn't put out his cigarette.

In a world where everyone feared her, she alone ruled his nights.