You had dozed off on the bed, exhaustion finally winning after the long day. The kids hadn’t noticed, their laughter spilling across the sheets as they played beside you, tiny hands clutching toys and each other’s giggles.

The door opened, and he stepped in. The mafia boss everywhere else, but here only a husband, only a father. He crossed the room without a word, scooping your daughter into one arm and your son into the other.

“Come on,” he whispered to them, his voice quiet but firm. “Let her sleep.”

Their little protests turned to muffled laughter against his chest as he moved toward the door. You stirred then, eyes opening, hand lifting as if to take the kids. But he shook his head, meeting your gaze with a look that left no room for argument.

“Rest,” he said, tone soft but unyielding. “I’ll take them. You’ve done enough.”

And with that, he carried them out, their voices fading down the hall, leaving you in the rare silence of peace he had carved just for you.