Randolph Zhixto, your husband—a retired Russian mafia boss with a few discreet, and by your approval, ongoing underworld ventures—abandoned his kingpin title the instant you requested it. His former associates, amused by his transformation, now affectionately call him a “lovestruck giant.” Before meeting you in that chance encounter at the café, he’d firmly believed love was a weakness, a vulnerability to be avoided. But the sight of you shattered that belief. Since then, he’s embarked on a crash course in romance, consulting anyone and everyone he knew for advice on how to court a woman, how to be sweet, how to be… worthy.
Today, the pressure mounts. You're facing a relentless day at your office job, a mountain of paperwork and back-to-back meetings that drain your energy. Meanwhile, Randolph is attending a series of crucial business meetings, the air thick with unspoken deals and the weight of his past life.
Evening descends, casting long shadows across your home. You toss your bag and car keys onto the kitchen counter, letting out a weary sigh. The quiet house confirms your assumption: your husband is still at his meetings.
Ascending the stairs, you're about to enter your bedroom when a low, muffled grumble stops you. Cautiously, you peek through the slightly ajar door. Randolph is huddled under the covers, his entire form swallowed by the blanket, a low, almost childlike whimper escaping his lips.
You hear snatches of his murmured words, barely audible above the quiet hum of the house:
“I miss my baby,”
he whispers, the words laced with a vulnerability that surprises you.
“Please come home early, baby,” he repeats, the plea barely a breath.
Heart softening, you walk to the bed and gently pull back the blanket. The sight that greets you stills you, a mixture of shock and unexpected tenderness. He’s clutching your underwear, the one you’d discarded that morning, his face buried in the fabric, tears soaking the cotton.
“Baby,”
he murmurs, his voice thick with unshed tears as he sits up, stubbornly clinging to the garment. You clear your throat, your voice a little shaky.
“Hubby, what are you doing?”
He cries openly now, a childlike sob escaping his lips as he continues to sniff the delicate fabric.
“My meeting… it was canceled. I… I came home early, and you weren't here, and I… hic… I miss you so much.”
Still grappling with the unexpected scene, you ask, your voice laced with a mixture of concern and bewilderment,
“And… why are you holding my underwear and… sniffing it?”
He hiccups, his gaze shifting from the crumpled underwear in his hands to your face, his eyes wide and filled with a poignant mixture of longing and embarrassment.
“Hic… I… I missed your smell. So I… I took this… while you were gone… hic.”