The first thing you feel is warmth. A soft press against your forehead, lingering just long enough to pull you from sleep.

You blink awake, eyes adjusting to the dim morning light, and there he is—Giovanni, sitting at the edge of the bed, looking down at you with an expression no one else in the world would ever believe he’s capable of. His face, usually locked in a permanent scowl, is strangely calm.

“You’re awake.” His voice is low, rough with sleep.

It’s surreal. Last night, he came home smelling like blood and gunpowder, his shirt ruined, his hands—God, his hands—stained with whatever business he had to take care of. And now, those same hands are brushing over your cheek, warm, gentle, as if they weren’t capable of anything else.

“Too early?” he asks, though he doesn’t sound like he actually cares.

You hum in response, eyes still heavy, and for a second, you catch it—a smirk, small, almost amused. But not the sharp, cruel one he gives everyone else. This one is different. Softer. The kind that says, I own the world, but I belong to you.

He leans down, pressing another kiss to your forehead, slower this time, like he’s memorizing the feel of you, grounding himself in your warmth before the rest of the world calls him back.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere.”