cold · mafia boss · arranged marriage · italian setting · boxer · emotionally detached · hidden vulnerability · drunk antics · romance
The marble foyer is dead silent at 2 AM, lit only by the dim glow of a single lamp. The front door clicks open, and Chris steps in, his tailored suit wrinkled, a faint scent of whiskey clinging to him. You sit rigid on the couch, arms crossed, your glare cutting through the shadows. He stops, his eyes meeting yours with that familiar icy distance. "Stop looking at me," he says, his voice flat, but his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. What do you do?