High Stakes and Heartstrings

by d0u8l3f3d0r4

Summary:

Silly slice-of-life from Chance's POV
Mafioso is very overprotective

Chapter 1: Built For Chaos

I was sprawled across the couch, trying to convince Mafioso that a lazy Sunday at home was a perfectly valid life choice.

"No," Mafioso said, arms crossed, staring at me like I'd just announced I was going to set the couch on fire for fun "You need to get up."

"I'm not... I'm... okay," I said, flopping back dramatically. "This is my natural state. Perfectly functional. Peak performance."

He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Peak performance of what?"

"Couch occupation," I said, patting the empty space beside me. "You're welcome to join."

Mafioso didn't move. He just leaned slightly toward me, careful, measured. "I'll sit where I can see the door. Just in case... chaos finds us."

I grinned. "It already did."

Before he could ask what I meant, my phone buzzed. And like clockwork, the chaos began.

[Microwave Philosophers]

Shedletsky: Morning, chaos enthusiasts. Who's up for trouble?

Chance: Already up, already causing it.

007n7: Calculating probability of chaotic escalation... extremely high.

Two Time: The Spawn is watching.

Builderman: I built something. Probably fine.

John Doe: ...no comment.

Dusekkar: ...

Noob: ...I'm awake. Maybe.

Chance: And just like that, my Sunday's officially over.

Mafioso's hand hovered near mine, protective as ever. "You didn't invite them, did you?"

I shrugged. "I didn't un-invite them either."

He groaned. "Of course. Absolute chaos, as always."

Not long after, a knock at the door heralded the first physical intrusion. Builderman burst in, a toolbox in hand, grinning like he was about to launch a small revolution.

"I built something," he announced proudly. "It's... uh... safe, I think."

Mafioso groaned. "I did not sign up for this."

I hopped up and flopped back onto the couch dramatically. "See? Safe zone," I said, pointing to the space beside me.

Builderman crouched near the couch. "I may need some help with a wire."

Mafioso's hand twitched near mine, ready to intervene. "I'm literally going to sit here all day, staring at you two like a hawk."

I tossed him a grin. "Relax. You love it."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I do not. I just... keep you alive."

And there it was—the soft little tug in my chest. That's why I kept teasing him. That's why he hovered like a guardian angel with an intimidating glare.

Meanwhile, the group chat erupted further:

Shedletsky: We should start a betting pool. What will Chance break first?

Chance: Not funny.

007n7: Calculating... probability: extremely likely.

Two Time: Spawn loves this chaos.

Builderman: This is going perfectly.

John Doe: ...I'm worried.

Dusekkar: ...

Noob: ...I think I need coffee.

I glanced at Mafioso. He was glaring at my phone like it personally offended him. I grinned. "Relax. They're just... chaotic philosophers."

He didn't relax. He just wrapped an arm around me, pulling me slightly closer to his side of the couch. Protective, exasperated, adorable.

Builderman's "harmless contraption" was halfway assembled before it became slightly less harmless. A loose wire sparked, and I ducked dramatically while Mafioso swooped in like a panther.

"Nothing happened," I said, grinning as Mafioso pulled me to the other side of the couch.

"I did not want sparks near you," he muttered.

"I'm fine," I said. "It's thrilling! Adrenaline boosts creativity!"

He just shook his head. "You're impossible."

I sank back, phone buzzing constantly with updates from Microwave Philosophers. The group had started calling out "predictions" for what Builderman's contraption might break next.

Shedletsky: Chair? Table? Entire floor?

007n7: Calculating... catastrophic probability: moderate.

Two Time: The Spawn says "embrace the chaos."

John Doe: ...I've lost hope.

Dusekkar: ...

Noob: ...I think I need to sit down.

I leaned into Mafioso, who was muttering darkly about life choices. "See? Everyone's having fun," I whispered.

"Fun? This is a war zone," he muttered back.

I smiled. "You mean our little war zone."

He didn't reply but didn't move my arm either. That quiet, protective stillness said everything.

By the time Builderman had partially fixed the contraption and the minor chaos settled, we were both slumped on the couch, slightly disheveled, slightly exhilarated, and entirely content.

I glanced at Mafioso. "You know... chaos is kind of better with you watching my back."

He muttered something about "absolute madness," but the faint curve of his lips betrayed him.

I leaned closer. "Yeah. This is exactly where I want to be—chaos, friends, and you."

He exhaled a long, resigned sigh, but the pressure of his arm around me tightened just a fraction. I didn't need more words.

Outside, the group chat continued its usual chaos, but inside, I felt calm. For the first time that day, chaos felt like home.

Chapter 2: House Rules

Summary:

Mafioso makes rules for Chance to follow in their house

Notes:

i might make builderman leave soon because he's my 2nd least favourite forsaken survivor (i didn't include my least favourite)

Mafioso made a list.

That was how I knew things were about to get personal.

He didn’t announce it. He didn’t clear his throat or dramatically unfold a piece of paper like a villain in a movie. He just… produced it. From his jacket pocket. Like it had always been there. Like he’d been waiting.

I watched him, stretched out on the couch, legs draped over the armrest in a way he hated but tolerated because I smiled at him when he complained.

“What’s that?” I asked, already grinning.

He looked at me. Then at the paper. Then back at me, expression flat but eyes sharp. “Rules.”

I laughed. Out loud. “Rules?”

“Yes.”

“For what,” I said, sitting up a little, “existing?”

“For you,” he replied calmly.

That only made it funnier.

I swung my legs down and leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “Okay. Hit me. What terrible crimes have I committed now?”

He unfolded the paper. It was handwritten. Neat. Bullet-pointed.

Builderman poked his head out of the kitchen at that exact moment, holding a screwdriver and wearing the expression of a man who had just discovered a brand new way to violate several laws of physics. “Hey, quick question—”

Mafioso didn’t look away from the list. “You're not making any more contraptions.”

Builderman froze. “…I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“…Fair.”

He retreated slowly, like a guilty animal.

I pressed a hand to my chest. “See? I’m already being punished for things I haven’t even done yet.”

Mafioso ignored me.

“Rule one,” he said. “No standing on unstable furniture.”

I blinked. “…Define unstable.”

“Anything you are standing on.”

“That’s discriminatory.”

“Rule two. No accepting dares from Shedletsky.”

I scoffed. “That’s just good advice.”

“Rule three. No leaning out of windows.”

“That was one time.”

“And rule four,” he continued, finally looking at me again, “you tell me where you are going before you go.”

That one landed quieter than the rest.

I tilted my head, grin softening just a little. “You already know where I go.”

“Yes,” he said. “But I want you to say it.”

I opened my mouth to make a joke. Something flippant. Something easy.

Instead, Builderman reappeared, holding what looked like a toaster with wires taped to it.

“Good news,” he said cheerfully. “It’s probably harmless.”

Mafioso turned slowly.

“No,” he said.

Builderman frowned. “But—”

“No.”

I stood up. “Okay, but what if we don’t turn it on?”

“No.”

“What if we stand really far away?”

“No.”

“What if—”

“Chance.”

I stopped. Looked at him. He wasn’t angry. He never really was. He just had that look—the one that said he was already calculating outcomes I hadn’t even considered.

I raised my hands. “Alright, alright. Truce. The toaster lives to menace another day.”

Builderman sighed dramatically and wandered off again, muttering about unappreciated genius.

The group chat buzzed on my phone before the silence could settle.

I glanced down. Messages were already piling up. Shedletsky was encouraging Builderman. Two Time was asking if the toaster was “spawn-aligned.” 007n7 was demanding photos for analysis. Taph had sent a single, ominous “?”

I laughed under my breath.

Mafioso watched me, eyes flicking briefly to the phone, then back to my face.

“You enjoy this,” he said.

“Of course I do,” I replied. “It’s chaos. It’s home.”

His jaw tightened—not in disagreement, but in thought.

We ended up migrating to the kitchen, mostly because Builderman had abandoned a half-assembled disaster on the counter and Mafioso refused to leave it unattended. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, while I perched on a stool that absolutely violated rule one.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

I swung my feet idly. “You’re hovering.”

“I’m standing.”

“Emotionally hovering.”

He sighed. “You make it difficult not to.”

That made me pause.

I looked at him properly then. The way he positioned himself between me and the counter edge. The way his eyes tracked every movement, not with suspicion, but with care. Like he was bracing for impact that might never come.

I softened. “Hey. I’m okay.”

“I know,” he said. “I just prefer it when you stay that way.”

For a moment, the apartment felt smaller. Quieter. Like all the noise had pulled back to give us space.

Then Shedletsky sent a voice message to the group chat, yelling something about “controlled explosions,” and the spell shattered instantly.

I grinned again. “See? Perfectly safe.”

Mafioso huffed. “You define safety very loosely.”

“Yeah,” I said lightly. “But you’re still here.”

He didn’t argue that.

Later—after Builderman was forcibly separated from his tools, after 007n7 declared the toaster “a liability,” after Taph texted something that made Builderman visibly offended—we ended up back on the couch.

This time, Mafioso sat beside me instead of standing guard.

Progress.

I leaned into him without thinking. He stiffened for half a second, then relaxed, an arm settling around my shoulders like it belonged there.

I smiled into his jacket.

“Hey,” I murmured. “About the rules.”

“Yes?”

I tilted my head up to look at him. “I’ll try.”

His expression softened—just a fraction. Enough.

“That’s all I ask.”

The group chat buzzed again. More bad ideas. More collective braincell loss.

I stayed where I was.

Whatever chaos came next, I knew one thing for sure.

He’d be right there when it did

Chapter 3: Odds and Ends

Summary:

Cleaning up the mess made by Builderman, who has now been kicked out of Chance and Mafioso's house

Notes:

i just realised ive never, in any of my fanfics, published, unpublished or deleted, written people living in a house before now - i always use apartments

The apartment smelled faintly of burnt toast and coffee. Again. I grinned, surveying the minor wreckage Builderman had left behind yesterday—crumbs, a slightly scorched mug, and a chair that had been nudged suspiciously close to tipping. Not my problem today. My problem was picking my way through the chaos without losing my balance—or my dignity.

Mafioso was standing in the middle of the kitchen like a general overseeing a battlefield, arms crossed, eyes scanning every surface.

“You’re slow,” he said flatly.

“Am I?” I asked innocently, holding up a broom like a sword. “Or am I making a dramatic entrance into the delicate ballet of cleanliness?”

He didn’t answer. He never did when I was being ridiculous. Instead, he pointed at the chair I was eyeing warily.

“Move that before it collapses under you.”

I waved a hand dismissively. “The chair is fine. It’s built to withstand—”

The chair collapsed under the slightest pressure. I yelped and stumbled back. Mafioso sighed.

“I said move it.”

“Yes, you did,” I said, brushing myself off. “I just… I misinterpreted your strategic phrasing.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t correct me. I knew he wanted to. I could see it in the set of his jaw.

The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the old floorboards. Too quiet. I knocked over a mug while pretending to demonstrate how “safe” the chair really was. Water splashed, missed Mafioso’s shoes by an inch, and I grinned like a victorious hero.

He sighed, shaking his head, and muttered something about my imminent demise.

I laughed. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I am not enjoying this,” he said. And yet, his hand stayed near mine when I bent down to grab the mug. Protective. Obvious. Endearing.

My phone buzzed. I glanced down. Microwave Philosophers.

Shedletsky: Are you alive or has the apartment claimed you yet?

Two Time: Hope the Spawn approves of your cleaning techniques.

007n7: Make sure nothing collapses. I am monitoring.

Taph: …judging

I grinned, texting back.

Chance: Surviving. Slightly damp. Chaos levels acceptable.

Mafioso leaned over my shoulder. “You’re replying to them again?”

“Yes.” I held my phone up like it was an explanation. “They need updates. It’s protocol.”

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “They don’t need updates,” but he didn’t take my phone.

I turned my attention back to the mess, sweeping crumbs into a pile that looked impressively small—until I sneezed and sent half of them flying back onto the floor.

“Careful,” Mafioso said.

“Yes, sir,” I said, giving a mock salute.

Another buzz.

Two Time: Spawn deems your progress adequate. Keep chaos to tolerable levels.

“Does that make you nervous?” I asked Mafioso.

“No,” he said. But his eyes flicked to the floor, where the crumbs were now forming a small, chaotic arc.

“Yes, it does,” I said with a grin.

We laughed, quiet and soft, and then I knocked over a small container of sugar. Mafioso pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t know why I stay.”

“You stay,” I said, shrugging, “because you like watching me destroy your sense of calm.”

He didn’t answer, just leaned closer. Close enough for me to feel the warmth radiating off him, protective and steady and entirely too grounding for my chaotic energy.

I stepped back, still sweeping. “You ever wonder if they know we’re like this?”

“Like what?”

“Together.”

“Together,” he repeated slowly, voice flat but not unkind.

“Yes.” I gestured vaguely to the crumbs, the mug, the chair—everything. “Chaotic. Irritating. Slightly dangerous. But soft at the same time.”

His lips twitched. “Slightly dangerous is putting it mildly.”

I laughed again. “Says the man who hovered over a chair like it was about to explode.”

He didn’t argue. That was all the agreement I needed.

My phone buzzed again. Shedletsky had sent a voice message this time. I listened, laughing at his theatrical panicked screams about “critical crumb levels.”

“Do you always have to do this?” Mafioso asked.

“Do what?” I said, tilting my head innocently.

“Laugh at everything, even when it’s ridiculous,” he said, and there was a note of fondness in his voice.

I shrugged. “It’s called coping. You should try it sometime.”

He rolled his eyes, but I caught a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The kitchen was quiet again, just us and the minor chaos left behind by yesterday’s disasters. And yet, somehow, it didn’t feel like a mess. It felt like… home.

I put down the broom and leaned against the counter, closer to him than necessary. “Hey,” I murmured. “About yesterday…”

“Yes?” he said.

“I promise to try and follow the rules.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Try?”

“Well,” I said with a grin, “it’s still technically a challenge.”

He shook his head, but his hand found mine and squeezed gently. “I’ll allow it.”

I laughed softly, warmth filling my chest. “Good. Then chaos can continue—under supervision.”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. Just being there was enough.

And for the first time in a while, I felt like the chaos wasn’t mine to handle alone. It was ours.

I pulled my phone out one last time and sent a message to the group chat:

Chance: Chaos is being managed. All minor disasters contained. Survival rate: high.

Shedletsky: Still alive? I demand photographic proof.

Two Time: Spawn approves… cautiously.

007n7: I will be conducting post-event analysis.

Taph: …judging continues

I set the phone down. Mafioso leaned in and whispered, “You’re ridiculous.”

I smiled, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Yeah. But you like it.”

He didn’t respond verbally. He didn’t have to. He squeezed my hand. Held me close. Protected me. And somehow, in the middle of crumbs and minor chaos and a slightly wet floor, it was perfect.

 

Chapter 4: Evening Calm

Summary:

cutesy doublefedora moment <3

The house felt impossibly quiet after the day’s chaos. The kind of quiet where every small sound seemed to echo—the hum of the fridge, the faint rumble of cars outside, the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall. Normally, quiet made me fidget. It made my thoughts spiral. But tonight… it felt safe. Like the calm after a storm. A pause I didn’t know I’d needed.

Mafioso finally sat beside me on the couch. No hovering, no pacing, no sharp, scanning eyes. Just sitting. Close enough that his presence was comforting, not suffocating. I didn’t flinch when his arm brushed mine, didn’t pull away when he leaned back, letting the sofa cushions sink around us. The tension in my shoulders slowly unwound, and I realized I hadn’t noticed I’d been holding my breath all evening.

“You’ve been wound up all day,” he said quietly, voice low and calm, not teasing or accusing, just observing.

“I know,” I admitted, running a hand through my hair. “I… don’t always think things through. I just… do. And then chaos happens. Sometimes I think I like the chaos more than I like myself.”

He turned slightly to look at me, and I caught that softening in his gaze—something rare, something real. “I worry,” he said, almost inaudible. “All the time. About you. About… everything. But I don’t stop you. I just… stay. Because I want to. Because you trust me to be here.”

I blinked, because those words cut through me in a way I wasn’t expecting. “I do trust you,” I said, almost too quietly. “Completely.”

“And I trust you,” he replied, voice steady, unflinching. No teasing, no sarcasm, just honest truth. Words like that don’t need fanfare to matter—they just are. We sat together, not needing to fill the silence with jokes or commentary. Just two people sitting, letting the world fade outside our little bubble.

I leaned my head on his shoulder, letting the warmth sink in. “It’s nice… being calm with you,” I murmured.

“Yeah,” he replied, and for the first time all day, he let himself relax against me. The couch sagged slightly under our combined weight, but it didn’t matter. Nothing did.

My mind wandered, reflecting on the day. The laughter, the chaos, the little moments where I’d worried I’d gone too far. And yet, Mafioso had been there the whole time. Not stopping me, not scolding, just present. That realization hit harder than I expected. He didn’t hover because he wanted control. He stayed because I mattered to him. He stayed because he trusted me to handle myself—even if I made a mess along the way.

I let out a slow breath, feeling some of the tension in my chest dissolve. “You know,” I said, shifting slightly so I could look up at him, “I never realized how much I wanted this. Just… someone here. Not to control me, not to stop the chaos… just to stay.”

He smiled faintly, and it was the kind of smile that reached his eyes and softened the lines of worry etched there. “Most people don’t get it,” he said. “But you… I think you’ve always known.”

I chuckled softly, leaning back into the cushions, feeling absurdly content. “I guess I did. I guess I just never said it out loud.”

“You don’t have to,” he said, his voice low. “I know. That’s enough.”

We sat in silence again, letting the house’s warmth and the quiet settle around us. I watched the way the shadows moved across the walls as the lamps cast their gentle glow. Every small detail felt amplified in this calm: the faint hum of the refrigerator, the soft creak of the floorboards, even the way his fingers brushed mine occasionally. I felt anchored in a way I hadn’t in days.

“You ever think about… what happens if chaos isn’t harmless?” I asked after a while, my voice small, hesitant.

He looked at me, eyes serious. “Then we deal with it,” he said firmly. “Together.”

I smiled, because it felt right. Solid. Grounded. He wasn’t just saying it—he meant it. And I meant it back. No teasing, no jokes, just that quiet understanding that sometimes, all you needed was someone to stay.

I shifted closer, resting my head fully on his shoulder. “It’s strange… how comfortable this feels,” I murmured. “Even after everything today.”

“Because it’s us,” he said. “It’s always been us.”

I let the words sink in, feeling the weight of the day melt away. The spills, the frantic energy, the worry—they didn’t matter here. Not in this quiet space, not with him beside me. For once, I didn’t need chaos to feel alive. I just needed this. Him.

Eventually, the apartment grew darker, the soft hum of the city outside the only background noise. I felt safe. I felt seen. I felt… understood. And for once, the world’s chaos could wait.

I whispered, almost to myself, “Thank you… for staying.”

“You don’t have to,” he murmured back. “I want to. And I will.”

That was enough. That had to be enough.

The quiet stretched on, comforting and grounding. No chaos. No stress. Just two people, two hearts, and a calm that felt like home.

And I realized, as I drifted toward sleep leaning on him, that no matter what happened next—chaos or calm, laughter or tears—we’d face it together. Always.

 

Chapter 5: High Alert

Summary:

Chance and Mafioso take a trip to the casino

Notes:

I was posting this on wattpad and realised the word count on this chapter is 777

I swear, if I had a nickel for every time Mafioso hovered around me like I was a ticking bomb, I could probably buy the casino.

“Are you seriously checking the streetlights again?” I asked, slipping on my sneakers.

“I’m making sure you survive” he replied, voice flat, eyes scanning the sidewalk like it had personally insulted him.

I rolled my eyes, tugging my jacket tighter. “You do realize I can survive walking around the corner without a personal security detail, right?”

“You’ve survived worse,” he said, and I knew that wasn’t exactly comforting.

And yet… there was something reassuring in the way he stayed a single step behind me, silent but alert. I couldn’t even make a joke about it, because I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.

The air smelled like damp concrete and exhaust fumes, the kind of city evening that could be romantic or mildly suffocating depending on who you were with. With Mafioso here, it leaned somewhere dangerously close to romantic.

“Alright,” I said, waving my hand. “Let’s go inside before someone decides I’m suspicious and calls the cops for… what? Casual window-shopping?”

He followed without another word, shadowing me as I made my way into the tiny casino that had become my second home. The bright, fluorescent lights flickered overhead, the sound of slot machines humming a constant lullaby, and the faint scent of cheap perfume and stale chips hit me like a wall.

“Stay close,” Mafioso muttered, hand brushing against mine—not gripping, just… present.

I smiled. “I know, I know. I’ll try not to do anything too crazy.” Which was mostly true. Today.

I wandered through the rows of slot machines, letting my fingers hover over buttons, eyes scanning the flashing lights. I could feel Mafioso’s gaze following every twitch, every small movement I made.

“Do you trust me?” I asked suddenly, glancing up at him.

He froze for a fraction of a second. Then, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world: “Yes.”

I wanted to laugh. Wanted to throw my arms around him and never let go. Instead, I just leaned a little closer as we walked, the hum of the machines filling the space between our breaths.

Then it happened.

I was just about to pull the lever on a machine I’d been testing all week when a loud clatter echoed through the aisle. I had misjudged my elbow’s trajectory, and a nearby stack of poker chips wobbled precariously.

“Shit,” I muttered, eyes widening.

Mafioso’s hand shot out instinctively, steadying the top of the stack. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” I said, hands in the air. “I just… maybe moved too fast. Or… gravity hates me. One of those.”

He didn’t laugh, didn’t even smile. Just looked at me, expression sharp but not unkind. “Focus, Chance.”

I grinned sheepishly. “Focus. Got it.”

We made our way to a quieter corner of the casino, where I could indulge in my slightly unhealthy habit without alarming too many people. I fished out a small stack of chips, eyes glittering with mischief.

Mafioso’s gaze never left me, even as I slotted the first coin. “You know I don’t like this,” he said, voice low, just enough for me to hear.

“You know I don’t care,” I countered. And then, softer, quieter: “…I like that you worry, though.”

His head tilted slightly, not saying anything at first. Then: “I’ve never had a choice about it. You mean a lot. So I stay.”

And that, more than any small victory at the machines, made my chest tighten.

We played a few rounds, the machine clattering and chiming like a strange, electronic orchestra, and I could feel him beside me, steady and constant. Sometimes he’d nudge my elbow, sometimes just glance at the screen, but he never left.

I realized something: Mafioso didn’t try to stop me from doing the risky, slightly chaotic things I loved. He just stayed. Watchful, protective, quietly present. And somehow, that made all the difference.

Hours slipped by like minutes, the hum of the casino fading into a quiet rhythm. Eventually, we cashed out, slipping back into the night air. The streets were quieter now, the city holding its breath.

“See?” I said, tilting my head. “Nothing bad happened.”

He smirked faintly. “I did not relax for a single second.”

“Of course not,” I said. “I’d be bored if you did.”

A laugh escaped him—soft, almost human. He reached for my hand as we walked, thumb brushing over my knuckles. “Maybe next time, focus a little more on the calm.”

“Maybe,” I agreed. “But not too much.”

And as we headed home, side by side in the gentle glow of streetlights, I felt a quiet, unshakable certainty: chaos was inevitable, danger sometimes unavoidable—but this… this was exactly the kind of safe, warm chaos I wanted. With him. Always.

Chapter 6: Before the Stakes Rise

Summary:

cutesy doublefedora moments 🥰🥰

The house was quieter the next morning than Chance expected.

Not silent—nothing ever really was—but softer. The kind of quiet that didn’t demand attention, just existed around him like a held breath. Light filtered in through the half-open curtains, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. The clock on the wall ticked loud enough to be annoying if he focused on it too long.

Chance did not focus on it.

He was sprawled sideways on the couch, one leg hanging off, sock abandoned somewhere between here and the kitchen. He had woken up already buzzing, thoughts jumping ahead of themselves like they always did. Ideas. What-ifs. Plans that definitely did not need to be plans.

He tapped his fingers against the armrest, then stopped. Then started again.

From the kitchen came the low clink of a mug being set down.

Mafioso didn’t hover this morning.

That alone felt different.

Chance glanced toward the doorway, half-expecting him to be standing there already—arms crossed, watchful, tracking every movement like Chance might suddenly combust. Instead, Mafioso leaned against the counter, coffee in hand, jacket discarded over a chair like a normal person instead of a bodyguard on high alert.

It was… unsettling. In a good way. Maybe.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Mafioso said without looking over.

Chance snorted. “You can hear that?”

“No,” Mafioso replied calmly. “I can see it.”

Rude. Accurate, but rude.

Chance rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “I’m bored.”

“It’s nine in the morning.”

“Exactly.”

Mafioso finally looked over then, dark eyes flicking from Chance’s upside-down grin to the state of the living room. The mess from last night hadn’t been cleaned yet—not really. A blanket half-folded, empty glasses on the table, evidence of a house that had been lived in instead of monitored.

“You don’t need to do something every second,” Mafioso said.

Chance tilted his head. “Says who?”

“Says me.”

“Counterpoint,” Chance said, sitting up and gesturing vaguely. “What if I do, though.”

Mafioso sighed, but there was no sharpness to it. He crossed the room and sat down beside Chance instead of standing over him. That was new too. Close, but not looming. Present without pressure.

It made Chance’s chest feel weird in a way he didn’t immediately know what to do with.

“You’ve been wound up since yesterday,” Mafioso said quietly. “Why?”

Chance opened his mouth with a joke already loaded, ready to fire—

—and stopped.

He picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion instead.

“I dunno,” he said finally. “Stuff just… happens. And then people get mad. Or worried. Or both.” He shrugged, like that solved it. “I don’t mean for it to.”

“I know,” Mafioso said immediately.

Chance blinked. “You do?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation. No lecture. Just certainty.

Chance laughed, a little breathless. “You’re not supposed to agree that fast. That ruins my whole defense.”

Mafioso’s mouth twitched. “You don’t need one.”

That did it. That warm, unsettling feeling spread again, deeper this time.

Chance leaned back against the couch, eyes unfocused. “I don’t always think things through,” he admitted. “I just… go. And then I deal with the fallout after.”

“I know,” Mafioso repeated, softer.

There it was again. Not judgment. Not correction. Just knowing.

“I worry,” Mafioso continued, staring at his coffee like it might confess something. “Constantly. About where you are. Who you’re with. Whether you’ll be safe.” His grip tightened around the mug. “It doesn’t turn off.”

Chance looked at him properly now.

“Oh,” he said. Not joking. Not flippant. Just honest. “Is that… annoying?”

Mafioso huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yes.”

Chance grinned automatically, then sobered when Mafioso added, “But I’d rather worry than not be there.”

Something clicked.

Not snapped. Not shattered. Just… settled.

“You don’t try to stop me,” Chance said slowly. “You just—stay.”

Mafioso met his gaze. “Because you don’t need a cage. You need backup.”

Chance swallowed.

“And you trust me,” Mafioso said. “Even when you’re reckless.”

“Yeah,” Chance said, without thinking. “I do.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy in a good way, like a weighted blanket over something fragile.

Chance leaned sideways, shoulder bumping into Mafioso’s. Mafioso didn’t move away.

“Hey,” Chance said, quieter than usual. “Thanks. For… staying.”

Mafioso nudged him back, just as gentle. “Always.”

Later that night, the Microwave Philosophers chat lit up again.

Everyone was tired. The messages came slower, softer.

Less chaos. More honesty.

Someone complained about sleep schedules. Someone else sent a picture of burnt toast and called it symbolic. Nobody argued. Nobody pushed.

Chance typed one message, stared at it, then sent it.

glad we’re all here tbh

It got more reactions than he expected.

He set his phone down and leaned into Mafioso’s side, nuzzling into him, the noise of the day finally fading.

For now, the chaos was harmless.

For now, that was enough.

 

Chapter 7: Harmless, For Now

Summary:

Chance is spiralling all day

Notes:

i can't tell whether i've accidentally written Chance with adhd, anxiety, schizophrenia, or hysteria in this fic

There’s a special kind of quiet that only exists in the morning, and it’s the kind that makes you think too much.

I noticed it while staring at the ceiling, counting the faint cracks I’d already memorized, listening to the slow, steady sound of breathing beside me. Mafioso was still asleep—actually asleep, not pretending—and one arm was thrown over my waist like it had landed there by accident and decided to stay.

I didn’t move.

I probably should’ve. I had places to be. Things to do. Very important, extremely responsible things. But my brain was doing that thing where it spun itself into circles, replaying yesterday like it was trying to spot something it missed.

Nothing bad had happened.

That was the problem.

Eventually, Mafioso stirred, shifting just enough to tighten his grip for half a second before relaxing again. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused, then landed on me.

“You’re awake,” he said, voice low and rough with sleep.

“Have been,” I admitted.

He frowned—not sharply, just enough to show concern. “Why?”

I shrugged. “Didn’t feel like sleeping.”

That earned me a look. Not suspicious. Not angry. Just… attentive.

He pushed himself up on one elbow. “You okay?”

There it was. The question he always asked like he actually meant it.

“Yeah,” I said quickly. Then, after a beat, “I think so.”

He didn’t press. He never did. He just nodded, like that answer was enough for now, and leaned forward to press a quick kiss to my forehead. Casual. Familiar. Grounding in a way I still wasn’t used to.

“I’m making coffee,” he said. “You want some?”

“Always.”

The day unfolded like it had a script.

Coffee. A half-hearted plan to be productive. A message from the groupchat that made me laugh despite myself. The casino calling my name in that way it always did—subtle, convincing, pretending it wasn’t a problem.

I told Mafioso where I was going before he asked.

“I’ll be back later,” I said, already pulling on my jacket.

He watched me from the kitchen doorway. “Same place?”

I hesitated. Just barely.

“Yeah,” I said. “Same place.”

He nodded. “Text me when you get there.”

“I always do.”

“I know.”

That should’ve felt reassuring.

It didn’t.

The casino was exactly the same as it always was. Bright lights, no windows, the comforting illusion that time didn’t exist here. I slipped into it like a habit, like muscle memory, like something I’d done a thousand times without consequence.

I won a little. Lost a little. Stayed longer than I meant to.

When my phone buzzed, I checked it immediately.

Mafioso:
You good?

I glanced at the time and winced.
Me:
yeah
just got caught up

The reply came fast.

Mafioso:
Location?

I sent it. Same as always.

He didn’t respond right away.

That was new.

By the time I got home, the sun was already low, the sky turning orange in that dramatic way that made everything feel more important than it actually was. Mafioso was sitting on the couch, jacket still on, hands clasped loosely in front of him.

“You didn’t text when you left,” he said.

I froze halfway through kicking off my shoes. “I—thought I did.”

“You texted when you arrived,” he corrected. Calm. Even. “Not when you left.”

“Oh.” I laughed weakly. “Guess I forgot.”

He stood, crossing the room slowly. “You’ve been forgetting more lately.”

The words weren’t sharp, but they landed heavy.

“I’m fine,” I said automatically. “Really. I just—lost track of time.”

“I’m not saying you’re not fine,” he said. “I’m saying I worry.”

I opened my mouth, ready to deflect, joke, dodge—

And stopped.

Because he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t lecturing. He wasn’t trying to stop me from doing anything.

He was just… there. Steady. Waiting.

“I don’t mean to,” I said quietly. “Make you worry.”

“I know,” he replied. “But you do.”

We stood there for a moment, the space between us filled with things neither of us wanted to say out loud yet.

Finally, I exhaled. “I’ll try to be better about texting.”

He nodded. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Dinner was quieter than usual. Not tense—just thoughtful. Later, we ended up on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, some mindless show playing in the background neither of us was really watching.

My phone buzzed again.

The groupchat.

Same chaos. Same jokes. Same feeling of belonging that made my chest ache in a way I couldn’t quite place.

I smiled despite myself.

Mafioso glanced at my screen. “They okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Same as always.”

He leaned back, arm draping behind me. “Good.”

I rested my head against his shoulder, letting myself relax for the first time all day.

Nothing bad had happened.

Everything was still fine.

But as I stared at the flickering TV screen, a quiet thought settled in the back of my mind, unwelcome and persistent:

If this was the pattern—
how long before it stopped being harmless?

Chapter 8: High Stakes, Soft Edges

Summary:

Chance is very anxious about stuff that will literally never happen

I woke up to the sound of my own overthinking. Somehow, the sunlight streaming through the blinds felt accusatory, like it was judging me for all the “chaotic nonsense” I’d gotten up to lately. My brain had already gone through ten potential disasters before I even opened my eyes. Breakfast. What if I burned it? What if Mafioso hated me for using the wrong spoon? What if the cereal box staged a coup?

I groaned. Yes. Yes, I was spiraling.

Mafioso stirred beside me, eyes still half-closed. “You’re awake,” he murmured. Not accusing, just… observing.

“I am,” I said, voice a little tight. “And I have… things to worry about.”

He raised an eyebrow, fully awake now. “Such as?”

I waved vaguely at the kitchen. “Everything. Breakfast. Life. The inevitable apocalypse of cereal boxes.”

He chuckled, a slow, calm sound that did something weird to my chest. “It’s cereal. The apocalypse can wait.”

I wanted to argue, but he was already up and moving, deftly opening the cabinet and grabbing bowls. “You’re overthinking,” he said, sliding a bowl toward me. “Start here. We’ll work through the chaos, one bite at a time.”

I couldn’t help the small laugh that slipped out. Overthinking or not, he had a way of making the world feel manageable. Somehow, I still found a way to mess breakfast up. The cereal tipped over slightly, a small avalanche onto the counter.

“See?” I said, half proud, half horrified.

He looked at the mess, then at me, and shook his head with that patient smile. “It’s fine,” he said, sliding another bowl under the spill. “I’ve got this. You focus on eating.”

I focused. But only for a moment. Because then I noticed the milk carton wobbling dangerously. My anxiety tickled in my chest. “What if it spills?”

Mafioso’s hand was already steadying it. “It won’t,” he said simply. “Stop imagining disasters.”

I tried. Sort of. Mostly I just pretended disasters didn’t exist while secretly plotting every way the kitchen could explode.

Eventually, breakfast was made (mostly intact) and we decided to take a short walk. I needed to “clear my head,” which was my polite way of saying, “I need a change of scenery so I don’t combust internally.”

Outside, the air was fresh, but my brain kept racing. What if I tripped? What if someone saw me being anxious and judged me? What if a squirrel plotted revenge for the cookies I ate last week?

Mafioso stayed close, hand brushing mine now and then, a silent anchor. “Stop,” he said finally. “The only thing you need to think about is breathing. You’re fine.”

I wanted to argue. My thoughts protested. But his calm presence grounded me. Slowly, the world stopped threatening to explode, and I started noticing small things: the sunlight catching on a puddle, the sound of leaves in the breeze, the faint scent of baked bread from the bakery down the street.

“You’re… paying attention,” Mafioso noted, smiling at me.

“I am,” I admitted. “…Sort of.”

He nudged me gently. “You’re safe. With me. That’s what matters.”

I tried to let that sink in. Tried to let go of my mental chaos. Tried to feel okay without inventing a dozen catastrophes for the day. It was… hard, but for the first time in days, I wasn’t panicking.

When we got home, the evening stretched out quietly. I flopped onto the couch, feeling the tension slowly drip from my shoulders. Mafioso sat beside me, not hovering, not hovering at all, just… being there. Present. Calm. Solid.

“You know,” I said after a while, “I don’t always think things through.”

He tilted his head, giving me that look that made me feel like I could tell him anything. “I know. And I also know I’ll still be here, no matter what you do.”

I laughed softly, heart a little lighter. “I guess… I like that.”

“I like you,” he said simply, the words quiet but carrying everything.

We stayed like that for a while, letting the world pause around us. No chaos. No catastrophes. Just soft evening light and the knowledge that we had each other.

Eventually, I leaned my head on his shoulder, a small smile tugging at my lips. I could still feel the residue of anxiety, but it didn’t matter as much anymore. Because for once, chaos didn’t feel threatening. It felt manageable. Fun, even.

And Mafioso? He was steady through it all. Not controlling, not judging. Just there.

I closed my eyes. For now, that was enough.

Chapter 9: Balancing Acts

Summary:

Chance really needs to stop thinking before something angsty happens... (foreshadowing btw)

Mornings were supposed to be quiet. Peaceful. A time for coffee, light chatter, maybe a little music in the background. But of course, that’s not how mornings worked in my life.

I had a cup in my hand, Mafioso’s still-warm mug across from me, and a mind spiraling faster than I could keep up with. Did I pour too much milk? Did I stir it wrong? Did I remember to check the sugar? And if I didn’t, would it ruin the entire day?

Mafioso, naturally, seemed unbothered. He sat across the table, one eyebrow raised, leaning lazily against the counter. “You’re overthinking again,” he said, as if it were the simplest fact in the universe.

“I am not,” I insisted, too loudly. “I am… I am… cautiously evaluating outcomes. For safety. And flavor.”

He hummed, unimpressed. “Caution or panic?”

I had no answer.

The first tiny disaster of the day happened as I reached for a plate. It wobbled in my hand, sending a few crumbs skittering across the counter. My chest tightened instantly.

“See?” I whispered, staring at the floor as if the crumbs were the harbinger of total collapse.

Mafioso sighed. “It’s just crumbs, Chance.”

“Crumbs,” I repeated like it was a foreign word. “Just crumbs, and yet… catastrophic potential. For the universe. And our lives. And possibly the milk supply.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s fine. Relax.”

I didn’t relax. I never relaxed. Not when the universe—or apparently crumbs—were involved.

By mid-morning, I was spiraling. Every little thing set off a chain reaction in my mind. Did I check the fridge properly? Did I text Shed? Did Two Time mention that thing about… something? I couldn’t remember. Probably not. Probably catastrophic.

Mafioso stayed close, following my every movement without hovering too much, offering quiet reassurances, muttered corrections, and the occasional deadpan observation that only made me feel simultaneously grounded and more aware of my own panicking.

“You’re going to ruin the eggs,” I blurted, though nothing was actually happening.

“They’re fine,” he said, flipping them expertly with a single spatula. “You’re fine. Stop catastrophizing.”

“But what if—”

“Nope. Stop.”

Even with Mafioso’s grounding voice, my mind raced ahead. I imagined accidents, spilled coffee, angry neighbors, catastrophic cereal avalanches, minor kitchen fires… the list went on.

And then my phone buzzed.

“Hey, minor update from the field,” Shedletsky typed in the group chat, “Builderman’s contraption may or may not be leaking smoke, but it’s harmless. Probably.”

My chest skipped. Smoke. Harmless or not, my brain went into overdrive.

“Minor is the operative word,” I replied. “Everything is fine. Totally fine. For now.”

Mafioso gave me a side glance. “You’re not fine.”

“I am!” I protested. “I am… evaluating. Constantly. For safety.”

The day continued like this. Every minor noise, every misplaced object, every unexpected hum of the toaster set me off. And Mafioso? He just stayed. Calm. Unmoving. Protective in a way that was subtle but impossible to miss. He didn’t fix everything for me; he didn’t take over. He just… existed, a constant that grounded me in the middle of my storm.

By lunchtime, I finally dragged us outside for a quick walk to the corner store. Simple errands, something that should have been trivial. But my mind found complexity in everything: the angle of the sun, the way a car horn sounded too sharp, the potential for people to judge my shopping list.

“You’re tense,” he said quietly as we walked. I didn’t argue.

“I’m… cautious,” I mumbled. “For safety.”

He didn’t laugh, didn’t tease. Just nodded, hands in his pockets, walking with steady steps beside me. I felt slightly guilty for leaning so much on him, but couldn’t stop myself. I needed him here. Needed him to stay calm so I could pretend I was calm too.

By the time we returned, I was drained but still spiraling. Not out of control, just… overthinking everything. Mafioso led the way to the couch, finally sitting beside me instead of just standing there silently. I slumped beside him, not saying much, not needing to. His presence was enough.

The day closed with quiet chaos—the soft sound of our apartment settling, the faint hum of appliances, the occasional text buzzing from the group chat about harmless accidents and contraptions. I didn’t read them all. Couldn’t. Not today.

Mafioso draped an arm around me, pulling me slightly closer. I didn’t protest.

“You’re still spiraling,” he said softly.

“Maybe,” I admitted.

“Good,” he said. “Because I like knowing you trust me enough to. And because I’m not going anywhere.”

I swallowed, my throat tight. A mix of relief and anxiety swirling together. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For… being here. For… this.” I gestured vaguely at the apartment, at the chaos, at my panicked brain.

He smiled, half teasing, half sincere. “For letting me.”

And for a moment, despite the spirals, despite the anxiety, despite the minor catastrophes waiting to happen, it felt like we could handle it. Maybe not calmly. Maybe not perfectly. But together.

And that… was something

Chapter 10: A Gamble Too Far

Summary:

Chance makes Mafioso extremely worried

The neon lights of the casino buzzed and blinked, a constant hum that dug into my skull like a low-level migraine. I had promised Mafioso I’d check in, but… I didn’t. I didn’t want to. Not yet. Not until I’d crushed this streak of luck, not until I’d proven to myself I could handle it.

I didn’t notice how long I’d been here. The clinking of coins and the chatter of strangers had become background noise, a dull roar that insulated me from the thought of anyone else—Mafioso especially. I told myself it was fine, that I could handle hours here, that texting him was unnecessary because I wasn’t in danger. But the truth, buried under the flashing lights and spinning reels, was I wasn’t fine at all.

Somewhere along the way, I lost track of time. Each spin of the wheel, each hand dealt, absorbed me, and the worry in my chest dulled. My phone vibrated once, twice, and I ignored it. I knew who it was. Mafioso. His messages would be urgent, panicked even, and I wasn’t ready to face that. Not when I had a hot streak to ride, not when I needed to feel in control.

By the time I glanced at my phone, hours had passed. Fifteen messages. Twenty. Thirty. I didn’t even read them all. My chest tightened. He wasn’t just concerned. He was frantic.

“Where are you???”
“I can’t reach you. Please respond!”
“I’m coming for you if I have to!”

The pit in my stomach dropped. I hadn’t realized how much I depended on his calm, steady presence. And now I couldn’t reach him. I couldn’t tell him I was okay, because I didn’t feel okay. My hands shook as I realized I’d ignored him for hours, left him pacing at home, worrying, probably imagining every worst-case scenario.

I shoved my phone into my pocket, trying to push down the guilt and anxiety that rose like smoke through my chest. The bright lights of the casino mocked me, dizzying and relentless. The stakes felt higher than ever—not the money, not the games—but the fear of what I’d done, the fear of how I’d hurt him without meaning to.

I finally staggered to a quiet corner, leaning against a wall and letting the hum of the casino wash over me. My thoughts tumbled. What if he was angry? What if he thought I didn’t care? What if… what if he started to doubt me? My stomach twisted. He shouldn’t. He would never, but my brain didn’t care.

I sent one short text: “I’m here. Sorry. Won’t happen again.” And immediately felt it wasn’t enough. I didn’t want to text him while my hands were still shaking, while my mind was still racing. I wanted to be calm. I wanted to reassure him. I wanted to crawl home to him, but I was stuck here, trapped in my own chaos.

Hours later, when I finally stepped outside, the night had deepened. The cool air hit my face like a slap, but I welcomed it. It grounded me. I dialed him before I could even think better, my fingers shaking as I held the phone to my ear. The line clicked, and then—relief, panic, and tenderness collided.

“Maf… it’s me,” I said, voice rough.

“Where the hell have you been?” His voice was sharp, urgent, but beneath it, I could hear the strain of worry, the thing that had kept him awake, pacing, imagining every possible disaster.

“I… I didn’t check my phone. I got caught up.” My words sounded small even to me.

“You scared me.” His voice broke slightly. “Do you know how worried I was? How I thought I’d have to come get you?”

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“You can’t just—” he paused, swallowing the tension, “you can’t do that, Chance. Not again. Please. Don’t do it again.”

I leaned against a nearby wall, tears threatening my eyes. “I… I didn’t think. I just… I wanted to win. I thought I could handle it. But I didn’t think about you. And that was wrong.”

He was silent for a moment, then, softer, grounding: “I don’t care about the money. I don’t care about the streaks or the bets. I care about you. Don’t ever make me feel like this again.”

“I won’t,” I whispered, voice breaking slightly. “I promise.”

“You’re coming home?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll be waiting.”

And for the first time in hours, maybe days, I felt like I could breathe. Like the chaos didn’t own me, and like he wouldn’t stop holding me steady, even when I spun too fast for my own good.

As I walked back, the city lights stretched above me, indifferent and bright, and for the first time, I realized I wasn’t running from the world. I was running to him. And maybe, just maybe, that made all the difference

Chapter 11: Shopping Lists and Silent Math

Summary:

Chance and Mafioso go on a perfectly harmless shopping trip

Shopping with Mafioso should’ve been easy.

That was my first mistake—thinking anything involving me and a grocery store would ever qualify as easy.

The place was busy in that specific way that felt intentional, like the universe had personally scheduled everyone to be here at the same time. Carts bumped. Someone dropped a bottle of something glassy two aisles over. A kid was crying near the freezer section like it was a competitive sport.

Mafioso didn’t flinch.

He just adjusted the basket on his arm and moved slightly to the side, putting himself between me and the incoming chaos like it was instinct. Which it probably was. He navigated people with short nods and quiet “excuse me”s, never raising his voice, never stopping.

I trailed after him, hands shoved in my pockets, trying not to knock over a cardboard display of cereal shaped like a cartoon animal.

“Do we need more coffee?” I asked, mostly to prove I was participating.

“Yes,” Mafioso said immediately. “And rice. And the good pasta.”

“The expensive one?”

“The one that doesn’t dissolve if you look at it wrong.”

I grinned despite myself. “Okay, okay. I hear you.”

We made it halfway through the store before the first mishap.

A guy cut in front of us at the checkout line like the concept of waiting was a personal insult. I opened my mouth—already halfway into a joke, or a comment, or something impulsive and probably unnecessary.

Mafioso just put a hand on my wrist.

Not tight. Not warning. Just… there.

He leaned forward slightly. “Hey,” he said to the guy, calm as still water. “There’s a line.”

The guy scoffed, looked like he might argue—and then something in Mafioso’s expression made him rethink it. He muttered something under his breath and shuffled back to the end of the line.

Problem solved.

No drama. No raised voice. No aftermath.

I swallowed.

“See?” I said lightly. “Didn’t even have to roll dice.”

Mafioso glanced at me. “You shouldn’t have to.”

The words weren’t sharp. They weren’t even critical. But they landed heavier than they should’ve.

The next mishap was smaller. I dropped a box of tea. It burst open, little paper packets scattering like confetti. Before I could crouch down, Mafioso was already there, scooping them up, apologizing to the employee who rushed over, assuring them it was fine, it was handled.

I hovered uselessly, holding the basket.

“It’s okay,” I said, because that’s what you say. “I’ve got it.”

“I know,” Mafioso replied, already fixing it anyway.

By the time we reached the car, my head felt too loud for the quiet afternoon. Mafioso loaded the bags efficiently, double-checking fragile items, making sure nothing tipped.

I leaned against the car door and watched him.

He always did this. Handled things. Smoothed edges. Anticipated problems before they happened. Stayed calm while the world misbehaved.

I loved that about him.

I hated how small it made me feel.

“You good?” he asked, closing the trunk.

“Yeah,” I said automatically. Too fast. “Just tired.”

He studied me for a second longer than necessary, then nodded. “We can head home.”

The drive back was quiet. Not uncomfortable—just… blank. Like static without the noise.

At home, Mafioso put the groceries away while I lingered in the doorway, unsure what to do with my hands. Every so often I’d reach for something, only to realize he’d already taken care of it.

It wasn’t that he didn’t let me help.

It was that he never needed it.

That thought settled in my chest and refused to move.

Later, when we sat on the couch, his shoulder warm against mine, I tried to shake it off. This was normal. This was safe. This was good.

So why did I feel like excess baggage?

Mafioso flipped through something on his phone. “Tomorrow should be quiet,” he said. “No plans unless you want some.”

Quiet.

My brain latched onto the word like it was dangerous.

“Yeah,” I said. “Quiet’s good.”

He smiled faintly and leaned back, relaxed. At ease.

I watched the rise and fall of his breathing and did some silent math I didn’t like the answer to.

If he could handle everything—every problem, every mess, every interruption—what was I adding?

Noise?

Risk?

Another variable to manage?

The thought made my chest tighten.

Later, when he fell asleep beside me, peaceful and steady, I lay awake staring at the ceiling. The room felt too still. My thoughts paced like they were looking for an exit.

I told myself I was being dramatic. That this was nothing. That tomorrow I’d wake up and laugh about it.

Instead, I counted the hours.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, a familiar idea started tapping gently, patiently—like it knew I’d eventually open the door.

Chapter 12: The Empty Morning

Summary:

Chance is missing :0

Notes:

time for a random story that has nothing to do with this fic! so we had a virtual whole school assembly on friday to stop the spread of the flu (300 people in the school had it) and they were showing the slideshow on a zoom call and one of my friends was mentioned because he won an award and when he was mentioned one of my other friends shouted "THAT'S MY FATHER!" (its an inside joke) and he had to explain it to the person sat next to him

The apartment was too quiet.

Mafioso had woken up to the usual hum of the city outside, but something felt… off. He rolled over, expecting to find Chance tangled up next to him, murmuring something incoherent about last night’s game or breakfast plans. Instead, there was nothing. Just the empty space where Chance should have been.

“Where are you…?” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his eyes. He glanced at the clock. 8:17 a.m. Too early for a normal disappearance.

His phone was on the nightstand, screen dark. No messages. No missed calls. No notifications. Panic started to bubble in his chest, growing faster with every second he stared at the empty screen.

He threw the covers off, stumbled toward the group chat—Microwave Philosophers—and typed quickly:

Mafioso: Has anyone seen Chance this morning?
Two Time: Negative. Last I checked he was asleep.
Shedlord: Nope. He didn’t respond to my morning text either.
Ctrl Freak: Nada.
Doombean: Silent.

No reassuring replies. Nothing that made sense. Mafioso ran a hand through his hair, heart pounding. Why hadn’t he replied? Chance never left without letting someone know. Never.

Throwing on a jacket, he grabbed his keys and left the apartment, checking the places Chance frequented most. The corner café, where Chance’s “morning energy boost” drinks always awaited him. The small bookstore he lingered at for hours when he wanted to be alone. The park benches where Chance sometimes sat, letting the world pass him by. Every place was empty. Every person had no clue.

By late morning, Mafioso’s chest was tight, his hands trembling slightly. He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t stopped pacing. Every little noise—a car door slamming, a bicycle bell, a dog barking—made him jump, imagining Chance in danger somewhere, and him helpless to reach him.

He returned to the apartment, retracing his steps for the tenth time, hoping for some clue. Chance’s phone remained dark on the nightstand. He dialed again. No answer. He texted, his fingers shaking as he typed: Where are you? Are you okay? No reply.

The group chat had gone silent, everyone else as worried as him but unable to do anything from afar:

Mafioso: Did anyone check his usual spots?
Shedlord: I did. Nothing.
Doombean: Zilch.
Ctrl Freak: Checked. No sign.
Two Time: I’ve tried, but he’s… not responding.

Mafioso ran his hands over his face, pressing his forehead to the cool window pane, watching the city move below. Cars drove past, pedestrians chatted, life went on outside. But here, inside, every second felt like an eternity. His chest ached, a heavy, twisting pain that wouldn’t ease.

By the afternoon, he had exhausted every lead. The park, the café, the bookstore, even the corner shop where Chance sometimes lingered for snacks—all empty. Every minute that passed without news made him feel like the walls were closing in, the apartment shrinking around him.

He thought back to their arguments, to their teasing, to the chaotic nights filled with laughter. I should have made sure he was safe last night, he chastised himself silently, guilt gnawing at him. Every imagined scenario ran on loop in his head—Chance hurt, trapped, or lost. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t focus, couldn’t sit still.

As evening drew in, the city outside darkening, Mafioso remained restless. The apartment felt colder, emptier. Shadows stretched across the floor. He checked the nightstand again, almost hoping the phone would miraculously have a message, a text, anything.

Nothing.

He sank onto the couch, phone in hand, staring at the blank screen. He ran through all the worst-case scenarios again, imagining what might have happened if Chance had decided to take a risk at the casino or wandered too far. He tried to steady his breathing, tried to tell himself that Chance was smart, capable, careful. But all he could hear was the deafening silence.

Night fell fully, and Mafioso didn’t move. He stayed by the window, eyes tracking every passing shadow, listening for every noise. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, only that he would search until he found Chance. Until he knew that the person who meant more to him than anything was safe.

The first day had passed, and the worry only deepened. Mafioso didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, didn’t relax. All he could do was wait, watch, and hope that Chance would come home, that he would see him safe again.

And deep down, he knew—this was only the beginning.

Chapter 13: Frantic Measures

Summary:

Chance is still nowhere to be seen

The second day of Chance's disappearance dragged on like a storm cloud over everyone's heads. The city hummed with its usual rhythm outside, but inside Mafioso's house, time felt broken, warped by worry. He moved from window to window, phone in hand, staring at the streets as if Chance could suddenly appear out of thin air. Every passing car, every pedestrian, made his chest tighten.

He had already retraced every one of Chance's usual haunts. The café he frequently visited, the little park where he liked to feed birds, the bookstore where he sometimes lingered for hours—each place empty. Even the arcade wasn't enough to provide a distraction; the clatter of machines only reminded him of Chance's absence.

Mafioso's mind refused to rest. Each second spent away from tracking Chance was an eternity. He thought about the last time they'd been together, replaying every moment, every word. Had he missed something? Could he have stopped this? The questions looped endlessly.

Meanwhile, the rest of the group was scattered across town, doing what they could to help. Shedletsky and Two Time ran through the familiar streets, checking the usual hangouts and calling everyone who might have seen him. 007n7 scoured the tech stores, the libraries, and every spot Chance had ever shown a passing interest in. John Doe made repeated calls, only to hear the dreaded voicemail each time.

The group chat, Microwave Philosophers, became a tense stream of anxious updates.

Mafioso: Day 2. Still nothing. Anyone seen or heard from Chance?
Shedletsky: Checked the usual spots again. Nada.
007n7: Library, tech store, arcade... all clear.
John Doe: Tried calling. Straight to voicemail.
Two Time: This is unsettling.
Noob: Maybe he's... meditating?
Mafioso: Meditating for 36 hours straight? Doubtful.
Dusekkar: ...
Taph: ...
Mafioso: I'm going out again. Someone track his texts. Any activity?
Shedletsky: I'll set up a ping on his last location.
007n7: Running diagnostics on the usual signal paths.
John Doe: Still nothing from his phone.
Two Time: This... isn't right.

The conversation stalled, weighted by worry and uncertainty. Every minute without news felt like a small emergency, each silence a threat. Mafioso's stomach twisted as he imagined every scenario—Chance hurt, lost, or worse.

By mid-afternoon, Mafioso hadn't eaten. He couldn't bring himself to stop searching. His usual composure frayed with each passing hour. He went from place to place, retracing Chance's steps obsessively, while Shedletsky and Two Time tried to convince him to rest.

But Mafioso's mind wouldn't allow it. Every second away from his phone was another second Chance could be in danger.

At the muted hangout the group had tried to set up for themselves, the energy was drained. Conversation was cautious, muted. Every joke landed awkwardly, every laugh was cut short, replaced with silence. Even Noob's usual cheerfulness faltered.

John Doe: Maybe we're panicking too much.
Noob: Maybe... but it's Chance.
Shedletsky: If it were anyone else, we'd be more relaxed. But he's... he's different.
007n7: He wouldn't just disappear. Something's off.

Outside, the city continued without concern. Cars honked, people laughed, and the world marched on. Inside, Mafioso's mind was a storm of worry. He imagined every possible worst-case scenario. What if Chance had gone somewhere dangerous? What if he was hurt and couldn't call? What if he was completely exhausted and didn't realize it?

Night fell, but it brought no relief. Shadows stretched across the apartment, and the quiet became oppressive. Every small noise—keys dropping, a car passing by, a siren wailing—made him flinch. He paced the room, checked his phone repeatedly, and forced himself to go through the list of places Chance might be.

By late night, Mafioso's exhaustion was total. He hadn't eaten, barely moved from tracking every possible lead, and his thoughts had become a spiral of fear and anticipation. The city lights outside blurred as he stared at the street below, imagining every scenario, replaying every moment with Chance in his head.

And all the while, Chance remained oblivious. Somewhere in the neon haze of the high-stakes casino, cards shuffled, chips clattered, and lights flashed. Chance focused solely on the next hand, the next bet, the next thrill. He didn't check his phone. He didn't realize the panic he had caused or the worry he had unleashed.

By the time the city quieted, Mafioso finally sank into a chair, physically exhausted but mentally alert. Every shadow, every sound, every thought kept him on edge. And the worst part—he didn't know if tomorrow would bring relief or continue the spiral of fear.

The group chat, though mostly quiet now, hummed with unease in its own way. Messages sat unsent or unresponded to, each one a reminder of the weight of not knowing. And through it all, Mafioso held onto one certainty: he would find Chance, no matter what it took.

 

Chapter 14: The House Always Wins

Summary:

Everyone is getting more worried. Hopefully they find Chance soon (insert foreshadowing here)

The streets outside the casino glittered with neon lights and the promise of luck, but inside, time felt twisted, compressed, and relentless. At the high-stakes table, Chance’s shoulders slumped, his movements slow and mechanical. He barely registered the cards, barely noticed the piles of chips stacking and falling in front of him. His mind spun faster than the roulette wheel, but his body refused to respond with anything more than exhaustion.

Four days without proper rest had left their mark. The world felt distant, unreal. The only thing that mattered was the next hand, the next bet, the next fleeting rush. Water and food were afterthoughts; sleep was an impossible luxury. Time blurred into a haze of green felt and the metallic clink of chips.

Meanwhile, Mafioso hadn’t slept either. Not properly, not meaningfully. Each hour spent waiting for a message, any message, gnawed at him. He scrolled through his phone again, counting the hours since anyone had last heard from Chance. Three days. Seventy-two hours. Every scenario worse than the last played out in his mind. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t sit still.

“I need to know where he is,” Mafioso muttered to himself, pacing the apartment. His hands flexed and clenched; every instinct screamed that something was wrong, that Chance was in danger. He had called, messaged, scoured the group chat—but nobody knew. Nobody had seen him. Not Shedletsky. Not John Doe. Not Elliot. Not Noob. The silence was deafening.

Across town, the group was fractured by concern. Shedletsky had tried calling, texting, even asking around the usual haunts where Chance liked to gamble, but nothing. Builderman checked the usual online resources, noting the time difference between tables, the casino floors, and the hours they opened and closed. Two Time scrolled through social media, half-hoping for some trace, some post, anything that could hint at Chance’s location. 007n7 kept meticulous notes, tracking patterns, calculating probabilities, but all numbers led to a dead end.

In the casino, Chance finally leaned back, pressing his palms to his face. His vision blurred, and the pile of chips in front of him might as well have been mountains. He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t slept. He barely drank. His mind was frayed, spiraling—but the bets, the game, the relentless need to keep playing—it all mattered more than logic, more than his body, more than the concern he knew would be waiting for him somewhere.

The group chat, “Microwave Philosophers,” had exploded earlier that morning and had been active in waves since. Messages pinged relentlessly, a chorus of worry:

Shedletsky: Any news? Has anyone seen Chance today?
John Doe: Nothing. Checked his usual places. He's not there.
Builderman: I’ve been through the casino floors. He’s not at the regular spots.
Two Time: Checked social feeds. Nothing.
007n7: Tracking data… inconclusive.
Elliot: I can’t find him either. Not a trace.
Noob: I’ve tried calling. Texting. Nothing.

Each message amplified the tension. Mafioso, watching from his apartment, scrolled repeatedly, re-reading every line as if new information might appear magically. Sweat pricked at his temples. His hands were clammy, trembling slightly. “Where are you, damn it?” he whispered into the phone.

Time stretched painfully. Each minute that passed felt like an eternity. The group tried to coordinate, suggesting every possible location, calling every friend or contact Chance might have spoken to. But every lead came up empty.

Meanwhile, Chance pushed forward through the haze of exhaustion, telling himself it was fine. He could handle this. He always could. But his body was rebelling. His head spun. His vision blurred. And the isolation—the complete lack of response from anyone, the empty texts he ignored—felt like a wall pressing in on him.

Back in the apartment, Mafioso’s anxiety escalated. He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t slept. Each ping from the group chat tightened his chest. He imagined scenarios that ranged from “he’s tired and will be fine” to “he’s collapsed, unconscious, and I’ll never forgive myself.” He called, texted, paced, muttered, plotted routes, and asked people whenever he could if they'd seen him.

At the high-stakes table, Chance’s eyes drooped. His head felt heavy, his fingers numb. He blinked rapidly, forcing himself to focus. He needed the game. He needed to win. But the clarity of his exhaustion crept in. His limbs felt like lead. His vision doubled. For a fleeting second, he felt utterly alone. And in that moment, a flicker of worry crept in, not for the money, not for the table, but for the faces he loved—the people he’d ignored, the people who couldn’t find him, the people waiting, panicking, wondering if he was okay.

Mafioso, on the other hand, didn’t sleep. He didn’t rest. He didn’t leave the apartment. He moved between the window and the door, checking, pacing, imagining, calculating, fearing. The hours ticked by in agonizing slow motion. Every imagined accident, every possible danger, played out with horrifying clarity. He called once more, sent one more message, and then stared at the blank response, clenching his fists.

Hours passed. Time blurred. Chance barely registered the shift of the casino lights from evening to night. His body ached. His mind felt like it might snap. And yet, he played on.

Outside, Mafioso made plans, pacing. He would find him. He would get him. He would make sure he was safe. But for now, all he could do was wait, tortured by the silence, by the unknown, by the gnawing fear that each second might be the one that broke everything.

It was the longest day any of them had faced in years.

 

Chapter 15: All the Way Down

Summary:

Chance has been found 🥳🥳

By the fourth day, Chance no longer knew what time meant.

The casino didn’t help with that. It never did. There were no windows, no clocks he could see from the table, only the constant artificial glow and the rhythmic clatter of chips that had started to feel like a pulse. A cruel one. A heartbeat that wasn’t his, but had somehow replaced it.

He’d stopped keeping track of wins and losses sometime during the second night. Numbers blurred together now. Cards came and went. Chips stacked, vanished, reappeared. His hands moved on instinct alone, muscle memory carrying him through motions his mind was too tired to consciously follow.

He hadn’t slept. Not really. Every time his head dipped, every time his eyes closed for more than a second, adrenaline yanked him back upright like a cruel joke. He’d barely eaten—somewhere between yesterday and the day before, he’d tried to force down a vending machine sandwich and nearly gagged. Water came in small, infrequent sips, more out of obligation than thirst.

His body had been complaining for hours.

At first it was just the tremor in his hands, subtle enough to ignore. Then the dizziness, the way the room tilted if he leaned back too far. His vision swam now and then, spots of light flickering at the edges, but he blinked them away and stayed seated. Stayed playing.

He couldn’t leave. Not yet.

Leaving meant thinking. Thinking meant remembering the messages he hadn’t answered, the person he hadn’t gone home to, the silence he’d created and let stretch for days. As long as he stayed here, as long as the next hand existed, he didn’t have to face any of that.

So he stayed.

By the fourth day, even the dealer was watching him with open concern. Security passed by more often, slowing as they glanced at him. Someone offered him water. Someone else asked if he was okay.

“I’m fine,” Chance said automatically, his voice hoarse, barely recognizable as his own.

He wasn’t.

His head felt too heavy for his neck, like it might drag him forward onto the table if he stopped holding himself upright. His chest ached in a way that didn’t feel dramatic or sharp, just wrong—like something essential was being wrung dry.

The room tilted again.

This time, blinking didn’t fix it.

Chance reached for his chips and missed. His fingers closed on empty felt. He frowned, trying again, and the simple act sent a wave of dizziness crashing through him so hard his stomach lurched.

The dealer said his name.

He didn’t answer.

He tried to laugh it off, tried to make a joke—guess the house is winning today—but the words never made it out. His tongue felt thick, his mouth dry. The lights above him flared too bright, too white, burning into his eyes.

Then his hands started shaking in earnest.

Chance inhaled, a shallow, uneven breath, and immediately felt like he hadn’t gotten enough air. His heart was racing now, pounding against his ribs in a way that felt panicked and uncontrolled. He pressed a hand flat against the table, grounding himself, but the surface felt unreal beneath his palm, like it might vanish if he leaned on it too hard.

Okay. Okay. Just—stand up. Get some air. That’s all.

He pushed his chair back.

The world tipped sideways.

For a split second, he was aware of the sound of the chair scraping against the floor, of someone standing up abruptly nearby, of a voice saying, “Hey—”

Then his legs gave out.

Chance hit the floor hard.

The impact knocked the air from his lungs in a sharp, painful rush. The lights above him fractured into blinding shards. He tried to move, to push himself up, but his body didn’t respond. His arms felt numb, heavy, like they didn’t belong to him anymore.

The sounds around him blurred together—shouting, hurried footsteps, the scrape of chairs being shoved aside. Someone was kneeling next to him now, hands hovering, unsure where to touch.

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

Chance tried to answer. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His vision dimmed, tunneling inward, the edges of the world dissolving into black.

The last thing he was aware of was a hand gripping his shoulder and a voice, distant and urgent, saying his name again.

Then everything went dark.

When Chance didn’t respond, panic took over.

Security cleared the area fast, professional but tense. Someone called for medical assistance. Another person checked his pulse, then his breathing, relief flickering across their face when they confirmed both were still there.

As they searched his pockets for identification, his phone slipped free and clattered onto the floor.

The screen lit up on impact.

A dozen missed notifications filled it. Texts stacked on texts. Calls that hadn’t been answered.

One name appeared again and again.

Mafioso.

The staff member hesitated only briefly before picking up the phone. The lock screen was unprotected—Chance had never bothered with one. The most recent message was frantic enough that the decision was easy.

They hit call.

Mafioso had been awake for nearly forty-eight hours.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed when his phone rang, staring at the wall like it might finally give him an answer if he looked hard enough. Every worst-case scenario had already played out in his head a hundred times. Car accidents. Fights. Something darker he refused to name.

When he saw Chance’s name light up his screen, his heart leapt painfully into his throat.

“Chance?” he answered immediately, voice breaking on the name. “Where are you?”

“This isn’t Chance,” a stranger said, calm but serious. “My name is— I’m calling from the casino. Your number was the most recent contact.”

The room spun.

“What?” Mafioso breathed. “What do you mean the casino? Is he— is he there?”

There was a pause on the other end, just long enough to feel unbearable.

“He collapsed at one of the tables,” the voice said carefully. “He’s unconscious, but breathing. Paramedics are on the way.”

Mafioso was already moving.

“I’m coming,” he said, grabbing his keys with shaking hands. “I’m on my way right now.”

He didn’t remember the drive.

He didn’t remember parking.

He remembered running.

Chance came back to himself in fragments.

The hum of a car engine. The sensation of being lifted, carefully, gently. A familiar voice saying his name, over and over again, like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

“Chance. Hey. I’ve got you. You’re okay. I’m here.”

That voice broke through the fog more effectively than anything else.

His eyes fluttered open, unfocused. Everything hurt. Everything felt heavy. But there was warmth around him now, arms holding him close, hands steady and sure where his own body had failed.

“M… Mafioso?” he whispered, barely audible.

Mafioso exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead against Chance’s hair. “Yeah,” he said, voice thick. “Yeah. I’ve got you.”

Chance tried to smile. It didn’t quite work.

“I’m… sorry,” he murmured, before exhaustion dragged him under again.

Mafioso held him tighter.

“We’ll talk later,” he said softly, fiercely. “Right now, you’re coming home.”

And for the first time in four days, Chance finally did.

 

Chapter 16: Safe at Last

Summary:

Chance is finally safe
cutesy doublefedora fluff <3

The first thing Chance noticed when he woke up was the quiet. Not the kind of quiet that stretched lazily across a room like a Sunday morning, but the kind that hummed—full of presence, tension, and relief all at once. He blinked a few times, disoriented, the edges of his memory still hazy, the bright lights of the casino replaced by the soft, warm glow of a bedside lamp.

Mafioso was sitting beside him, leaning forward slightly, eyes trained on Chance with an intensity that made Chance’s chest tighten. The worry there was palpable, radiating in waves, and for a second, Chance felt like the weight of the last four days crashed back down on him.

“You’re awake,” Mafioso said immediately, voice low but tight, almost breaking with the kind of fear Chance had never heard directed at him before. “Finally… you have to tell me what happened. Why didn’t you answer? Where were you?”

Chance’s throat felt dry, every word a struggle. He swallowed. “I… I just… I wanted to keep going. I thought I could handle it.”

Mafioso’s hands went to Chance’s shoulders, gentle but firm. “You can handle a lot, but this… this isn’t something you have to handle alone. You never have to.” His voice softened, but the urgency didn’t fade. “Do you hear me? You don’t have to do this alone.”

Chance closed his eyes for a moment, letting the weight of those words sink in. The exhaustion clawed at him in waves—every sleepless night, every skipped meal, every moment of pretending he was fine when he wasn’t. “I… I didn’t mean to worry you. I just… I thought if I didn’t respond, it’d be easier. I'd be less of a burden.”

Mafioso exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding his breath for days. “You think you’re a burden? Chance, look at me. You’re not a burden. You’re not a problem. You’re… you’re the person I trust more than anyone. You’re mine. I’m not letting you go through this by yourself.”

Chance’s eyes pricked with tears, the tension in his chest unraveling a little. The raw honesty, the unyielding presence, the way Mafioso stayed calm yet fiercely protective—it all collided inside him. He wanted to laugh, cry, and collapse all at once. “I… I thought I could just fix it myself. I didn’t want to bother anyone. But… it didn’t work.”

Mafioso’s grip tightened, but only to anchor Chance, not to restrain him. “You’ve never had to fix it alone. You don’t ever have to.” His voice was gentle now, steady, a lifeline. “I was worried sick. Every second I didn’t know where you were, every second I imagined you getting hurt… I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think. And I… I just wanted to make sure you were safe.”

The tears came then, quiet and unstoppable, slipping down Chance’s cheeks. He leaned into Mafioso without thinking, letting himself be supported, letting someone else take care of him. “I… I didn’t realize…”

“You didn’t have to realize,” Mafioso whispered, pressing a soft kiss to Chance’s temple. “All you have to do is trust me. That’s enough.”

Chance hiccuped a laugh through his tears, the mixture of relief and embarrassment raw and immediate. “You’re… amazing. I don’t deserve—”

“You deserve every bit of care, every moment of worry, every ounce of me,” Mafioso interrupted gently. “You’re amazing, Chance. And you’re my responsibility to protect, to support, to love. Every part of you—even the chaos—doesn’t scare me. It’s yours. You’re mine, and I’ll always be here for you.”

Chance clung a little tighter, feeling the warmth and steadiness, the quiet strength of Mafioso holding him together when he’d almost fallen apart. He let himself breathe, allowed himself to feel, allowed himself to accept that he didn’t have to be invincible. He was allowed to be tired, scared, anxious—and loved anyway.

They stayed like that for a long time. Mafioso rubbed gentle circles along Chance’s back, whispered soft reassurances, and occasionally broke into small, teasing remarks about how ridiculous Chance was in the best way possible. “You really think you can sit at a high-stakes table for four days straight without sleep or food and get away with it?” Mafioso murmured, lips brushing Chance’s hairline. “I’m going to have to supervise your gambling from now on.”

Chance sniffled, a tiny, humor-tinged laugh escaping him. “I… I didn’t think anyone would notice.”

“I noticed,” Mafioso replied firmly. “And I’ll notice every time, whether it’s a small thing or a big mess. Because I care. About every part of you. Every chaotic, stubborn, beautiful part of you.”

The conversation softened into shared silence after a while. Chance rested his head on Mafioso’s shoulder, breathing steadying. Mafioso held him close, tracing patterns absentmindedly on his arm, letting the quiet speak volumes.

Chance thought about the last few days—the mistakes, the chaos, the fear—and realized something: he could still stumble, still spiral, still make impulsive choices. But he wasn’t alone. Mafioso would always be there, unwavering, calm, and loving, ready to catch him if he fell.

“I’m… glad I have you,” Chance whispered finally, his voice hoarse.

“And I’m glad you let me,” Mafioso replied softly. “You’re mine, Chance. Don’t forget it. Even in the chaos, even when you think you’re alone—you never are.”

Chance smiled through tears, leaning a little closer, the weight of worry and anxiety lifting off him in soft layers. He felt grounded, seen, safe. And in that moment, he knew the one place he truly belonged was here—in Mafioso’s arms, in the warmth of unwavering care, in the quiet aftermath of storms that didn’t destroy, but instead, built something stronger.

They stayed like that long after the world felt distant, long after Chance’s thoughts had untangled, until the only sounds were their slow, steady breaths and the soft beating of hearts echoing together. The chaos of the past days faded, replaced by something calm, something permanent. Something that felt like home.