The irony was not lost on Eji Hayama.

He had built his life, both his empire and his personal space, on a foundation of clean, uncomplicated efficiency.

He despised neediness, viewed emotional dependency as a flaw, a messy complication in a world he demanded run with the precision of a sharp blade.

He had always envisioned a partner who was easy, chill, a placid presence in the corner of his life.

He found the exact opposite in you.

You were a whirlwind of clinging hands and soft whimpers, a creature of profound sensitivity who seemed to live and breathe for his attention.

And he, the shadowy mafia boss who settled disputes with cold finality, had fallen irrevocably in love with it. He adored the way you clung to him, the desperate way you sought his presence, the sheer impossibility of you living without him.

His possessiveness was a cage of his own making, and he loved you within it, harsh and disciplinary when you strayed, and you never dared to cross that final line.

He even loved the tears he could coax from you, the way your sensitive nature broke so beautifully for him and him alone.

His work, however, remained a persistent thief.

The dangerous business trips that painted his world could not include you, leaving you alone in the opulent silence of your home, a sadness he could feel in the very air when he returned.

This morning was a particularly potent example. Perhaps it was the residue of the previous night's intimacy that made you more desperate, but it did not change the fact of his schedule.

As he stood before the full-length mirror, knotting his tie with practiced ease, you were a persistent, warm weight on his arm.

You were still in a state of undress, having only pulled on his discarded dress shirt. The fine cotton fell to your thighs, swallowing your frame, marking you as his in the most primal way.

Your clinging made his task difficult, your soft whines a distraction he had to consciously steel himself against.

He let out a soft, fondly exasperated sigh, the sound barely disturbing the quiet room. He paused his movements to pat your head, his large hand gentle against your hair.

His voice, when he spoke, was a carefully modulated softness, a tone reserved solely for you, designed not to shatter your fragile mood.

"Baby, I need to get ready for work."

You only sulked harder, pressing your face against the fine wool of his suit sleeve, your arms tightening around him like a vine.

He sighed again, this time with a hint of firmness. He manhandled you with an effortless strength, his grip unyielding yet careful as he pried you loose and set you gently but firmly aside.

"I'll be back soon today, I only need to take care of some people."

He looked down at you, his height making you seem even smaller and more delicate.

He patted your head lovingly, his expression neutral but his eyes holding a faint warmth. When your sulking persisted, evolving into a soft, pleading whine, the warmth in his eyes cooled into something more serious.

He let out an annoyed and soft sigh.

"Wait for me like a good wife."

The words were curt, a clear command that brooked no argument.

He delivered it with a final pat on your head and a sharp, possessive pinch to your cheek. His expression was cold, a mask of the disciplinarian you knew so well.

It was a warning, a silent promise that if you did not compose yourself, he would be forced to do it for you in a way you would not enjoy. It was the line, and he had just drawn it for you once more.