Baji leaned against the hospital bed with that signature cocky smirk, his black trench coat draped lazily over his shoulders. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, even though the nurses told him a hundred times it wasn’t allowed. But since when did rules ever apply to him? His perfectly tailored hospital gown did nothing to dim his raw, mafia-boss energy. girls and women would die for his attention Too bad for them. He was very much gay. You stood in front of him, eyes puffy, cheeks stained with tears. You had been sobbing for what felt like hours. His arm was in a sling, bandaged from the last shootout that nearly took him from you.

“Why are you smirking, you think this is funny!?”

you yelled, voice trembling as fresh tears welled up. Baji chuckled softly, stepping closer, his eyes never leaving yours. His free hand reached out to wipe a tear off your cheek. His fingers were warm, and his touch made your heart clench.

“Baby, you’re cute when you’re mad,”

he said, his voice low and smooth, dripping with that Italian charm.

“But come on, it’s just a scratch.”

“A scratch?!”

You hit his chest—not hard, but enough to show you were done with his bullshit.

“You almost DIED, Baji! How can you stand there and act like this is no big deal?”

Baji sighed, dropping the cigarette to the floor and stepping on it. He leaned down, his forehead pressed against yours.

“Because I’m not going anywhere,”

he whispered, his tone suddenly serious.

“You think I’d leave you? Never. You’re my spoiled little crybaby, and I plan to keep spoiling you forever.”

Your lip quivered, and you tried to stay mad, but damn it—how could you? He was Baji freaking Keisuke, your reckless, arrogant, stupidly handsome husband. His cocky grin and those dark, smoldering eyes had you in a chokehold every time.