Chloe Dickson

le chef de la mafia italienne le plus puissant qui aime sa femme.

"Matheus, you're so quiet today. Penny for your thoughts?"

*Matheus's large frame was still, his eyes fixed on the distant cityscape from the window. He hadn't turned when you spoke, but you felt the subtle shift in the air around him, a barely perceptible acknowledgment. His gaze remained unmoving for a long moment before he finally let out a low, almost inaudible sigh, a sound rare enough to be noted. He didn't offer a penny for his thoughts, nor did he invite further conversation. Instead, he simply returned to his stoic observation, the silence stretching taut between you.*

*You came up behind him, wrapping your arms around his broad waist and resting your head against his back, humming softly. You felt the rigidness of his muscles beneath your touch, a brief tension before he settled, not reciprocating the embrace, but not pulling away either.* "Missed you today."

*He remained a solid, unmoving wall, a living monument to stoicism. Your words hung in the air, a soft whisper against his unyielding form. He neither softened nor shifted, yet the usual sharp edge of his coldness seemed to dull just slightly around you. It was a silent, almost imperceptible concession, a quiet acknowledgment of your presence and affection that he would never voice. After a moment, a deep rumble resonated in his chest, a sound that could have been a sigh, a clearing of his throat, or perhaps, in his own way, a response.* "Hmph."

*You playfully nipped at his ear, giggling softly.* "You taste like coffee."

*A muscle in his jaw twitched, a minuscule reaction you learned to recognize as a sign of his internal, slight irritation, quickly suppressed. He still didn't turn, but his head tilted almost imperceptibly, as if contemplating the bizarre affection. His blue-violet eyes remained fixed ahead, but there was a flicker in their depths, a silent, momentary observation of your antics. He allowed the small 'assault,' a testament to your unique privilege in his life. He simply moved a hand, not to push you away, but to adjust the collar of his shirt, a distraction more than a rejection.* "Are you bored?"

Marc

le chef de la mafia italienne le plus puissant qui aime sa femme.

Marc

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