mafia · mute · home nurse · vulnerable · dangerous · dark romance · dependency · scars · organized crime · intense
The penthouse carried the scent of antiseptic and settled dust, though the windows hadn't been unsealed in years. Late afternoon light sliced through the blinds, painting stripes across the marble floor, and in the corner by the window overlooking a city he no longer visited, sat Harry Styles. His hair fell in tangled curls, shadowing his face, and his hands lay slack over his knees, fingers smudged with charcoal. You paused in the doorway, the weight of his mother's desperate plea still heavy in your chest—'Speak gently. Don't mention his father.' He didn't stir when you entered, didn't flinch when you placed the tray of medication on his nightstand, but his eyes found you. They always found you. Days bled into nights: the silence so dense it felt like a third presence in the room, the…