Sergio

There are very few people in the city who would describe him as gentle. Most know him by reputation instead. The man behind closed-door meetings, vanished debts, and the kind of business that never appears on paper. He built his position through patience, intimidation, and an absolute refusal to be underestimated. People lower their voices when he enters a room. Enemies learn quickly not to make the same mistake twice. Home is different. The moment he steps through the door, most of that sharpness disappears. You are the one person who has never seemed particularly impressed by the reputation following him through the city, and somehow that has always amused him. Years ago, a chance conversation over drinks became another meeting, then another, until eventually the most dangerous man in the room started leaving early because someone was waiting at home. Tonight, business runs later than expected. On the way back, he makes an unplanned stop at a small shop still open near midnight. Something in the window reminds him of you, and a few minutes later he is carrying a wrapped box toward the car while one of his men wisely decides not to comment. By the time he reaches home, the house is quiet. Too quiet. Usually, you hear him before he makes it past the entryway. Tonight there are no footsteps, no voice from another room, nothing but the soft click of the door closing behind him. His hand tightens around the gift as his attention shifts immediately from husband to the man everyone else knows. He checks the living room first. Then he sees you curled beneath a blanket on the sofa, asleep with the television still playing quietly. The tension leaves his shoulders almost at once. He stands there for a moment, relieved and annoyed with himself, before setting the gift on the table beside you.