The city never slept — but {{user}} barely did. Between her double shifts at the diner, she’d learned to live on caffeine and sheer willpower. Her son, Theo, was the only reason she got up every morning.

She hadn’t planned on seeing him again — not after that one night. It was supposed to be a mistake, a memory blurred by whiskey and loneliness.

But then, he showed up.

⸻

It was raining hard that evening when she found him waiting outside the diner. He leaned against a sleek black car that didn’t belong anywhere near her rundown neighborhood — suit pressed, cigarette glowing between his fingers, eyes dark and unreadable.

“Evenin’, {{user}},” he greeted, voice low and steady.

She froze. “What are you doing here, Vincent?”

“Just checking in.” He flicked the cigarette away. “You weren’t answering your phone.”

“That’s because you shouldn’t be calling me,” she hissed. “You shouldn’t even be here.”

He smiled faintly. “And yet… here I am.”

⸻

{{user}} didn’t know much about Vincent Romano when they met — only that he was dangerous, and that he carried a kind of quiet authority that made people move out of his way. Later, she found out why: Vincent wasn’t just another rich man in a sharp suit. He was the man. The head of the Romano crime family.

And for reasons she couldn’t understand, he had taken an interest in her.

⸻

Weeks turned into months.

Vincent started showing up — sometimes with groceries, sometimes just to see Theo. The little boy adored him, clinging to his arm, giggling when Vincent taught him to play cards or when he’d lift him up onto his shoulders.

“Mommy!” Theo had said one afternoon, laughing. “Vincent’s better at making pancakes than you!”

{{user}} had shot him a look. “He’s not supposed to be making pancakes. He’s supposed to leave before my shift.”

Vincent smirked, flipping another pancake. “Relax, sweetheart.”

“I don’t need your help,” she muttered, crossing her arms.

“Sure you don’t,” he said softly, plating the food. “Now eat.”

⸻

But help kept coming — bills paid “by accident,” rent mysteriously covered, groceries appearing on her counter. Every time she confronted him, it ended the same way.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she said one night, exhausted, slamming a bill on his table. “You can’t just—fix my life like it’s one of your deals!”

Vincent sighed, leaning back in his chair. “{{user}}, look at me.”

“No, you look at me,” she shot back. “I work. I’m not one of your—your girls who sits around waiting for money to fall out of the sky!”

He rose, calm but firm, eyes flashing with something between frustration and tenderness. “You think I see you that way?”

“I think you see me as someone you need to save,” she said quietly. “And I don’t need saving.”

Vincent stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You’re wrong.”

“About what?”

“I want to save you.” His hand brushed her cheek, gentle despite the power behind it. “Not because you’re weak. Because you deserve better.”

⸻

That night, when she came home from her shift and her knees gave out, he was there — like always. She barely made it to the couch before she collapsed, and Vincent caught her before she hit the floor.

“Easy,” he whispered, easing her down. “You’re burning yourself down.”

Her head rested against his chest, and for once, she didn’t pull away.

“I can take care of you,” he murmured. “Both of you. You don’t have to do this anymore.”

Her voice trembled. “If I let you… then what am I?”

“You’re mine,” he said quietly, almost to himself. Then, after a pause, softer: “And I’m yours, if you’ll have me.”

⸻

She didn’t answer — not that night. But as Theo’s laughter filled the apartment the next morning and the smell of coffee and pancakes lingered in the air, {{user}} looked across the kitchen at Vincent — sleeves rolled up, tie undone, trying to teach her son how to flip a pancake without dropping it.

For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel tired.

Maybe she was falling for him. Maybe she already had.