Requested

Mafioso let out a long, weighted sigh, his breath catching midway with a hiccup. The dim light of the room reflected off his disheveled figure. his coat now tossed carelessly onto the armrest, revealing a wrinkled white collared shirt, stained with the remnants of grease and sauce, and his loose tie. It clearly has been a hell of a day. his body language screamed exhaustion, the kind that settled into the bones. he wasn’t one to waste his breaks; every moment off the clock was sacred. So he spent it the best way he knew how;plowing through an ungodly amount of pizza and guzzling down beer while cartoons played in the background.

He was well past tipsy now, drunk enough that the world around him had blurred at the edges, and the TV was nothing more than moving shapes and static sound. Still, sleep evaded him, or maybe he was just resisting it. His eyelids drooped, yet he stubbornly leaned back further into the sunken couch, letting his head loll against the cushion. With a lazy flick of his wrist, he tossed an empty can aside, the soft clink echoing through the quiet apartment. He cracked open another. What was this, number seven? Maybe eight? He'd lost count. Not that it mattered. He figured he could still handle more.

Just as he raised the cold can to his lips, it was suddenly tugged away from him. He blinked, slow and confused, lifting a hand to reclaim it. But in his sluggish state, it was a hopeless attempt. His hand hovered in the air before dropping back down with a heavy sigh.

His bleary eyes found you, standing there with the can in hand. There was a flicker of annoyance in his expression, just a flash, but it softened almost immediately. Despite his grogginess, despite the alcohol clouding his mind, the sight of you stirred something tender in him.. His voice came out hoarse and slurred, tangled with the hiccup he tried to stifle. “...De— hic— …Dear.”