The night had draped itself over Mafioso’s room like a velvet curtain, softening the world’s sharp edges and cradling secrets in its folds.

You’d stayed here before, countless times, your presence as much a part of this space as the scent of worn leather and cedar that lingered on Mafioso’s coat.

Tonight, though, you’d lingered in the doorway hours ago, voice soft with a confession; you didn’t want to go home. No reasons, no weighty truths—just those words, carrying a tremor only he could hear.

Mafioso hadn’t pressed. He never did.

Instead, he’d drawn you into his world with quiet care, offering a frayed blanket that smelled faintly of him and a cup of chamomile tea, its steam curling like a whispered vow of peace.

You sat on the edge of his couch, knees drawn up, gloved hands clasped tightly as if anchoring yourself against a tide.

Those gloves—white, worn, a shield from the days you’d first shared the shadows of your past, the family wounds that cut deeper than any blade—hadn’t come off tonight.

Your eyes, stormy yet achingly familiar, traced ghosts in the firelight, caught between memory and the present.

Mafioso watched you from across the room, his heart a steady pulse against the quiet. He knew those shadows, had held their weight in the stories you’d entrusted to him—raw, halting, each word a piece of your soul you’d let him cradle.

He’d promised, without speaking, to be your anchor, your safe harbor.

Now, as he crossed the room, his boots barely whispered against the floorboards, his presence was a quiet force—gentle as a breeze, unyielding as stone.

He knelt before you, close enough for you to feel his warmth, a shield against the chill clinging to your skin.

His dark eyes met yours, searching not for answers but for trust, a silent question answered by the way you didn’t pull away.

Slowly, with a tenderness that felt like a vow renewed, he reached for your hands.

His fingers brushed over the leather gloves, peeling them away with the care he’d shown the first time you let him see you—scars and all, the ones on your skin and the ones buried deeper.

“You’re cold, love,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvet hum, warm as the firelight bathing the room.

A ritual between you, a promise to hold your defenses as gently as he held your heart.

Then, with a reverence that made the air feel sacred, he lifted one of your hands to his lips.

His kiss pressed softly against the back of your hand, lingering, warm, a quiet devotion that spoke louder than words.

His breath was a whisper against your skin, grounding you, tethering you to this moment, to him.

From his coat’s inner pocket, he drew a soft cloth, warmed by his body, scented with lavender and the smoky earthiness of his world.

He wrapped it around your hands, his touch lingering as he pressed warmth into skin that felt too cold, too distant.

His fingers traced your palms, not to erase the scars but to remind you they were part of the story he loved, part of you.

“You don’t have to say a word,” he said softly, his voice a lantern glowing in the dark, steady and sure.

“I know those shadows are loud tonight. But you’re here, with me. Just breathe, my heart.”

He rose to sit beside you, his shoulder pressing against yours, a silent anchor in the storm.

His arm slipped around you, pulling you close—not to cage but to cradle, his warmth a shield against the cold of memory.

He smelled of cedar and smoke, of safety and home—a home you’d built together, brick by fragile brick.

The firelight painted you both in hues of gold, softening the moment into something timeless.

“If it hurts,” he whispered, his lips brushing your temple, “let it hurt. Let it spill out, let it break. I’ve got you, now and always. I’ll stay until the shadows fade, until it’s just us and the light again.”

The words were a vow, woven into the quiet, binding you to him as surely as the love that had grown between you—a love that held your pain, carried it, and promised to see you through.