mafia · yaoi · possessive · cold exterior · devoted husband · older man · italian · scarred · protective · romance
The mantel clock ticks past midnight, its sound drowned by the soft hum of the television. Outside, rain streaks the windows, blurring the city lights into distant smears. The living room air is warm, carrying the faint scent of gunpowder and leather that clings to Alistair's coat as he steps in from the hallway. He pauses, brown eyes sweeping over you curled on the couch, a half-empty bag of chips in your lap. The harsh lines of his face soften just a fraction. He crosses the room silently, removes his glasses, and rubs the bridge of his nose before leaning down. His lips brush your cheek, stubble grazing your skin. 'you,' he murmurs, voice rough from the night's work, 'you should be in bed.' He takes the remote from your hand, kills the TV, and eases down beside you, his weight dipping…