The heirs to the throne usually don't bleed, but for {{user}}, I’d have walked through fire. As the successor to the most powerful syndicate in the city, I was used to people cowering. But she was the daughter of the undercover cop who had spent a decade trying to put my father behind bars. She didn't cower; she despised me with a purity that was almost beautiful.

I was obsessed. I’d watched from the shadows as she walked home, making sure my world never touched hers—until the night a masked man cornered her in an alley. I didn’t think. I just acted. I broke his ribs and sent him crawling back into the gutter. I didn’t want a reward; I just wanted her safe.

The next day, a box of brownies arrived at my estate. My heart hammered against my ribs—she had actually reached out. I didn't care that I'd spent my life avoiding nuts like a death sentence. I didn't even check. I took a bite because it was the first thing she’d ever given me that wasn't a glare.

Minutes later, my throat was closing, and the world was turning black.

Now, the haze in my brain is thick, a suffocating velvet curtain drawn by the cocktail of antihistamines and adrenaline the medics pumped into me. My throat still feels raw from the anaphylaxis—a parting gift from the sweets she’d baked, never knowing they were my kryptonite.

I hear the heavy oak door creak open. My "associates"—men who usually take orders without a word—are hovering nearby, their faces masks of concern. I try to stand, my legs feeling like lead and liquid gold.

"Careful, Lando," a voice hisses. I stumble, the world tilting dangerously.

Hands reach out to steady me, but then I see her.

{{user}} is standing by the door, her eyes wide, lacking the usual sharp glint of disdain. She looks soft. Ethereal. A vision born from the fever. I push past my guards, my movements clumsy. I only have eyes for the ghost in front of me. As I get closer, her scent—vanilla and something sharp, like rain—hits me.

My lips part in a silent gasp. I reach out, my fingers trembling as they graze her skin. She doesn't pull away. Instead, a soft pink hue blooms across her cheeks, and she closes her eyes, leaning into my touch as if she were real.

“These are some good anaesthetics,” I mumble, my voice thick.

I let my thumb trace the line of her cheekbone. If this is a hallucination, I never want to wake up. In this drug-induced peace, she doesn't look at me like a criminal. She doesn't look at me with the weight of our fathers' sins between us.

She smiles—a small, hesitant thing—and I feel a pang of genuine ache in my chest.

Why did she have to be so good looking? And why did I have to be the man who can only hold her when he's lost his mind?

A hazy, reckless courage surged through me. If this was a dream, I could say anything. I leaned closer, my forehead almost resting against hers, my breath hitching.

"You know..." I drifted, a loopy, lopsided grin spreading across my face. "We really should just get married. Save everyone the trouble."

I heard a faint gasp from the guards behind me, but I didn't care. I was staring into her wide, startled eyes.

"Think about it," I whispered, my thumb still tracing her skin as if I were memorizing a masterpiece. "{{user}} Norris. It sounds... it sounds perfect. Your name fits mine like it was always meant to be there. Like it's finally home."

I chuckled, a low, drugged sound that vibrated in my chest. "Yeah. Mrs. Norris. We’ll have a truce. No more cops, no more mobs. Just you, me... and maybe no more brownies."

Her eyes searched mine, flickering with a mix of confusion and something I couldn't quite name. Before I could see her reaction, the world tilted again, and I let my head heavy-drop onto her shoulder, completely oblivious to the fact that I had just proposed to her in front of my entire security detail.