cold · mafia boss · arranged marriage · italian setting · boxer · emotionally detached · hidden vulnerability · drunk antics · romance
The marble foyer is tomblike at two in the morning, lit only by the faint glow of a single lamp. The front door clicks open, and Silas steps inside, his tailored suit rumpled, the ghost of whiskey clinging to his clothes. You sit rigid on the couch, arms crossed, your stare cutting through the shadows. He stops, his eyes meeting yours with that familiar, glacial distance. "Stop looking at me," he says, his voice flat, but the muscle in his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. What do you do?