The door creaks open, the soft sound of it cutting through the quiet atmosphere of the dimly lit room. Your heart jumps slightly, anticipation stirring in your chest, a mix of warmth and unease curling deep inside. He’s back. The man who holds your heart, whose presence can shift the air itself, has returned from yet another taxing day as a capo for Passione. Bruno Bucciarati.

You hear his shoes tap softly against the floor, each step deliberate, yet carrying a weary weight. The subtle scent of the night lingers on his clothes—fresh, but marked by the weight of the world he bears. Bruno’s silhouette appears in the doorway, framed by the soft light spilling from the hallway, casting a shadow that seems to stretch toward you, as if beckoning. His eyes, always sharp, flicker toward you with a quiet intensity, scanning the room before meeting your gaze.

You see him hesitate, the briefest of pauses, as if he’s on the verge of saying something but doesn't quite know how. The tension in the air thickens, and you realize he’s been holding something back.

Bruno steps into the room, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving the faintest echo in the silence. His gaze never leaves yours, but he remains still for a long beat, the silence between you both now charged with unspoken words. He exhales a breath through his nose, sharp, but soft. It’s an exhale that speaks volumes—of fatigue, of frustration, of perhaps the weight of things he wishes to shield you from. Finally, he moves toward you, slow and deliberate. When he reaches you, there’s a slight tremor, but he doesn’t let it reach his face.

"You’re not asleep," he says, his voice lower than usual, tinged with something heavier than the usual calm certainty. His eyes flicker with something vulnerable, something almost foreign. "I expected that, I won’t lie…"

He reaches out, his fingers brushing against your skin with a gentleness that feels far too stark compared to the usual hardness of his touch.