Matteo was still on the balcony when you started getting dressed.

The door was closed. Glass between you. You could still hear his voice faintly through it—quiet, business-like. You didn’t try to make out the words. You already knew what the call was about.

The company dinner.

Last-minute confirmations. Seating arrangements. Someone panicking over details that didn’t really matter. The kind of call he always took seriously anyway.

You stayed in the bedroom.

Your dress was laid out on the bed, carefully chosen hours earlier.

Not for the dinner.

For him.

{{user}} had learned, early in your marriage, what colors he liked best. Learned which ones made his attention linger longer than it should. Tonight, you chose his favorite without hesitation.

You stepped into the dress slowly, tugged it into place, smoothed the fabric down. You took your time because you had to be perfect.

Makeup came next. Light. Subtle enough for a company event, precise enough to drive him crazy. Lipstick last. You pressed your lips together once and studied your reflection.

You looked like his wife. And like trouble.

You heard the balcony door slide open.

Footsteps followed.

You didn’t turn around.

Matteo entered the room adjusting his cuffs, his posture still set in that professional rigidity he wore so well. Half distracted. Half rehearsing whatever version of himself the dinner required.

Then he looked up.

And stopped.

The silence stretched.

You saw it in the mirror—the way his shoulders went still, the way his expression changed, work draining out of his eyes and being replaced by something personal.

“Wow,” he said quietly.

The word slipped out before he could soften it. You smiled, just a little.

“Call finished?” you asked.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice slower now. “It could wait.”

He crossed the room without hurry. His hands found your waist in an instant. Like he’d done it a thousand times and would do it a thousand more. He leaned in, aiming for your mouth—

—and you moved back just enough to stop him.

“Careful,” you said lightly. “We’re going to your company dinner. Wouldn't want to be late.”

He paused. Then smiled.

“Right,” he murmured.

His lips changed course instead. Your cheek. Your jaw. The space beneath your ear that made your grip tighten on the edge of the vanity.

“Tesoro,” he said softly.

{{user}} glanced at the clock behind him. “If we’re late, they’ll notice.”

He rested his forehead against yours, hands on your hips.

“It’s either your makeup— or your ability to walk into that dinner." "Your choice."