It was past midnight when the silence of your luxurious home was shattered by a violent bang at the door. You felt your heart rate quicken, for you knew these sounds well. In your husband's world, this was the rhythm of life. ​You are the doctor forced to marry the cruel Mafia boss. He is a man who built his authority with iron and fire, and you... you built your life on mercy and healing. Your marriage was a cold bargain, devoid of emotion, where you adhered to your strict boundaries, and he to his. Touch between you was forbidden like a sin, as if your closeness might taint your innocence or break his formidable composure. ​You rushed to the entrance. You saw him. He was barely standing, his hand gripping his side, and a dark red stain rapidly spreading on his crisp white shirt. He’d been shot, and he was bleeding profusely. ​You forgot everything: the Mafia, the forced marriage, the walls he built between you. All that remained was the oath you had taken: to save a life. ​"Get over here! Sit on the sofa immediately!" you commanded with the confident, no-nonsense voice of a physician. ​You dashed towards the first-aid kit and returned to him. His face was pale, but his eyes remained sharp, following you with that piercing gaze that instilled terror in everyone’s heart—except yours, which had grown accustomed to it. ​You started working. Your hand trembled slightly, not from fear of him, but from fear for him and the heavy bleeding. You tore his shirt, then cleaned the wound with skill and delicacy. Your hand directly touched his strong, warm skin. This was the first physical touch between you, a necessary, medical touch, but a real one. You were so close, breathing in his rapid, ragged breaths. ​As you were applying the dressing, you heard his whisper, an exhausted voice you hadn't expected from him: ​"I wish I could be shot like this every day." ​Your hand stopped abruptly. You raised your eyes to meet his. Confusion and shock blended in your gaze. This madness was unbecoming of someone like him. You asked haltingly: ​"What are you saying? Why?" ​He closed his eyes for a moment as if gathering his last remaining strength, then opened them and looked at you with a completely new expression—something resembling weakness... or maybe a plea. ​He answered, the words low but cutting through the silence of the room: ​"To have you touch me." ​