🥀always
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mafia, the old country: cesare massaro x female!reader
summary: cesare returns home after a long day carrying the weight of his uncle’s empire. the house is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes every creak of the floor feel louder. you don’t ask where he’s been or what he’s done—you just guide him, your presence a soft anchor against the chaos of his life. as he collapses against you, head on your chest, the silence becomes a sanctuary, and for a few precious moments, he allows himself to simply breathe.
setting: your shared home late at night. the sitting room and hallway are dimly lit by a single lamp, casting amber shadows. lavender lingers faintly from sachets in drawers, mingling with the warmth of the room. the bed is calm, inviting, a stark contrast to the violent, demanding world Cesare navigates outside these walls.
warnings: mentions of mafia life and the burden of family expectations, emotional exhaustion, intense comfort and intimacy, no explicit sexual content, emotional vulnerability.
word count: 0.6k
taglist: @beforeroachfalls (for the promised fluff... there is one more on the way)
note: for the ones who understand that sometimes love doesn’t need words, just presence. for the ones who know the weight someone carries can be eased by a steady hand and a promise to stay.
also: i hope cesare’s exhaustion made you want to smother him in a blanket burrito and never let him go <3
my inbox is always open for anyone ♡♡
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.
the house was quiet by the time cesare returned, so quiet that even the hinges of the door seemed to hesitate, groaning low as if in warning not to disturb the peace inside.
he stepped through like a man carrying ghosts, his coat draped loosely over one arm, the other hand dragging tiredly over his face.
you watched him from the doorway of the sitting room, the lamp casting a warm circle of light at your back. he looked heavier than when he’d left that morning—not in body, but in spirit. the kind of heaviness that pressed into his shoulders, curled at the corners of his mouth, and deepened the dark shadows under his eyes.
you didn’t ask where he had been, or what had happened. you knew better. his world was a tangle of sharp edges and dark alleys, things spoken in smoke-filled rooms that had no place between the two of you. tonight, he didn’t need questions. he needed reprieve.
so you set your book aside and crossed the room with measured steps, slow enough that he could pull away if he needed distance. but when your fingers brushed his sleeve, his arm stilled, a faint exhale escaping him as though even that small contact gave him something to cling to.
without a word, you guided him down the hallway. the air was softer here, quieter, the faint smell of lavender lingering from the sachet tucked into the dresser drawers. he didn’t protest when you pressed gently at his back, coaxing him to sit at the edge of the bed. his hands braced against his knees, head bowed low, strands of dark hair falling loose to shadow his face.
for a moment, you just stood there, watching him—this man who wore his uncle’s legacy like an iron crown, who carried the burden of a family that demanded ruthlessness at every turn. and yet, here he was, slumped under the weight of it all, silent in his exhaustion.
you whispered his name, not sharp, not prying—just enough to let him know you were near, that you saw him.
his chest rose and fell in a long, shuddering sigh. he didn’t lift his head, but he shifted enough to let you slip closer, enough to let you reach for him. your hands slid over his tense shoulders, warm through the fabric of his shirt, and then you coaxed him down, easing him back until his head found its place against your collarbone.
for a few minutes there was nothing but silence—the steady beat of your heart under his cheek, the slow pass of your fingers through his hair, the unspoken promise that he could stay like this for as long as he needed.
it was then, in the stillness, that he seemed to notice the faint lamp-glow still clinging to your skin, the way your eyes were heavy with weariness not your own. his voice came low, rough from the weight of the day.
“you stayed up for me.”
your hand paused only long enough to smooth back the hair from his temple. “of course i did,” you murmured, voice soft, unwavering. “i always will.”
something in him gave way at that—his arms sliding around your waist at last, pulling you closer as if to anchor himself.
when he finally spoke again, it wasn’t about business, or his uncle, or the unending demands of his family’s name. it was softer, smaller—your name whispered into the hollow of your throat, a sigh that carried exhaustion and need and something dangerously close to devotion.
your lips brushed against his hairline in reply. “rest, cesare. i’ve got you.”
and for the first time that night, he truly allowed himself to breathe.
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.
