Being in charge of half the city means I’ve learned to handle a lot of things — negotiations, money, power, chaos. But none of that prepared me for her. For how soft my voice gets when she says my name, or how I’d trade every piece of control I’ve ever had just to see her smile when she walks into a room.

It’s our first anniversary tonight — one year since {{user}} somehow decided to love the man everyone else fears. I’ve been planning for weeks, but planning this isn’t like anything I’ve ever done. I can run a deal with my eyes closed, but romance? No manual for that.

So here I am, standing in the middle of the kitchen with two of my men — Luca and Dean — both of whom look more comfortable holding guns than flower arrangements.

“She likes… candles, yeah?” I ask, rubbing the back of my neck.

Luca shrugs. “Dunno, boss. My girl says candles make her feel ‘cozy.’ That what you’re goin’ for?”

“Cozy,” I repeat, as if it’s a foreign word. “Right. Cozy. Not funeral.”

Dean clears his throat. “Maybe, uh… lights? String lights? Girls like that stuff.”

I nod slowly. String lights. That, I can do.

The backyard’s been quiet since she moved in — high fences, fairy lights she hung last summer, a place that almost makes me forget what I am. Tonight, I want it to look like something she’d dream up, something that doesn’t belong to the world I come from.

By the time the sun starts dipping, my men are hanging lights between the trees, setting up the small table I had delivered this morning. I laid out her favorite food — the one she always orders when she’s too tired to cook, and a bottle of wine I’ve been saving since the day I met her. It’s not perfect; hell, I burned one of the side dishes trying to reheat it. But it’s ours.

When she walks out, her hair still damp from the shower, I forget to breathe for a second. The lights hit her skin just right, the soft gold glow making her look like something the universe painted just for me.

“Harry,” she whispers, eyes wide as she takes it all in. “Did you… do all this?”

I shrug, trying not to look as nervous as I feel. “Had a little help. Might’ve threatened a few men with kitchen duty.”

Her laugh fills the night, low and warm, and I swear I’d kill or die to hear it again. She walks closer, fingertips brushing the back of my hand before slipping into it completely.

“This is beautiful,” she says softly.

“Not half as beautiful as you,” I answer before I can stop myself and she smiles like she’s heard that line a thousand times but still believes it.

We eat, talk, and laugh until the world feels far away, no guards, no phone calls, no danger. Just her, barefoot on the grass, teasing me about the slightly crooked candle placement and the fact that Luca apparently tried to fold napkins into roses.

When she leans in later, resting her head on my shoulder as the last of the light fades, I realize something that terrifies me more than any rival ever could: this is the one thing I can’t control, can’t predict, can’t guard with guns or fear. I can only hold it carefully and hope it stays.

So I do.