Honey and Softness

Marco was humming, actually humming. Luca sat at the kitchen island in his softest hoodie—the pink one with the worn sleeves he usually only wore in private. The one Marco got him while he was on a trip. Luca watched through bleary eyes as Marco stood at the stove, flipping pancakes like it was any other Saturday. Like the world outside didn’t expect them both to be weapons. BunBun sat in his lap, one long ear clutched loosely in Luca’s fingers. His cheek rested on the cool countertop. He wasn’t all the way little yet—but he was floating. Sleepy. Soft. His shields hadn’t gone back up after last night.

And Marco… Marco wasn’t pushing. Wasn’t even looking. Just letting him be. A soft click and scrape—Marco slid a plate across the counter, stacked with two perfectly golden pancakes and a pat of butter that looked like a tiny crown.

“Syrup?” Marco asked, reaching for the bottle. “Or powdered sugar like a fancy little prince?”

Luca blinked slowly. “Both?”

Marco grinned. “Good answer.”

He drizzled syrup with deliberate care, then dusted sugar over the top like he was painting gold leaf. When he pushed the plate in front of Luca again, he added a tiny flourish—a strawberry cut into a heart.

Luca stared at it. His nose tingled. He buried his face in BunBun for a second, hiding the stupid smile that tried to sneak across his lips. When he looked up again, Marco was already turning away, acting like he hadn’t done anything special at all. Like this was normal.

“You want the pink fork?” Marco asked over his shoulder, pulling mugs from the cabinet.

Luca bit his lip. Nodded. Marco handed it to him without a word.

It wasn’t even plastic or childish. Just a matte rose-gold dessert fork Marco had once “accidentally” ordered in a set of fancy cutlery, but it was his. Luca always used it when he was like this. Marco always noticed.

He started picking at the pancake with small bites, eyes still sleepy. The butter melted slowly, seeping into the soft golden layers. He liked that it was warm. Sweet. Familiar. Safe.

Marco placed a mug in front of him—hot milk with honey and vanilla. No coffee. Not today.

“Drink it while it’s warm,” Marco said, ruffling his hair.

Luca pouted.

Marco smirked. “Don’t look at me like that, baby. You had a big night. You need soft things.”

“I’m fine,” Luca mumbled into his bunny.

“Mmhm. That’s why you’re cuddling BunBun and wearing your pouty hoodie like armor.”

Luca stuck his tongue out at him.

Marco raised a brow. “You kiss your Daddy with that mouth?”

Luca choked on a laugh. “I never kiss you.”

“Not yet,” Marco said, sipping his coffee with maddening calm. Luca’s face went red. He stuffed a pancake bite in his mouth just to have an excuse not to respond. Marco leaned against the counter and just watched him for a while. Not like he was studying him. Just like he was being with him. Present. Unshaken.

After a while, when Luca’s plate was mostly empty and the milk was half-gone, Marco came around the island and crouched beside his stool. His hand came up, slow and gentle, brushing a crumb from Luca’s cheek with his thumb.

“Hey.”

Luca blinked at him.

“You feel a little better?”

He nodded slowly.

Marco smiled, warm and proud.

“There he is,” he said softly. “My good boy.”

Something in Luca’s chest turned to sugar and starlight. His bottom lip trembled just slightly.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Marco kissed his forehead.

“You’re welcome, baby.”

The soft click of coloring pencils filled the sunlit living room. Luca sat cross-legged on the rug, a giant book of animal pictures open in front of him, halfway through a pink-and-purple sea otter in a tutu.

Marco was behind him on the couch, pretending to read a newspaper. But Luca could feel his eyes every few minutes, checking in.

He didn’t mind.

He liked it, actually.

The warmth in his belly hadn’t gone away since breakfast. He was still floating—not all the way little, not big either, somewhere in between. BunBun was beside him on the rug, watching over the page.

“I’m gonna name her,” Luca announced suddenly, coloring in the tutu.

Marco looked up from the paper. “The otter?”

“Mmhmm.”

“What’s her name, then?”

Luca paused dramatically. Then: “Princess Tutu Flufferson the Third.”

Marco chuckled. “Sounds very regal. Should I be bowing?”

Luca turned, lifting his chin with mock seriousness. “It would be rude not to.”

Marco stood with a theatrical sigh and bowed low. “Your Majesty.”

Luca giggled and went back to coloring, cheeks pink. He felt light. Safe. Like the world was small enough to hold in his hands again.

Until—

Knock knock.

Everything froze. Luca’s pencil stopped mid-stroke.

Marco was already moving. His entire posture changed—shoulders tight, steps silent as he crossed to the door, hand instinctively brushing the gun at his hip. The soft affection vanished from his face, replaced by the cold edge of a man who’d killed to protect the boy still sitting on the floor.

Luca stared at the door, chest tight. No one came to the Villa on Saturday without permission. Ever. Marco pressed one hand to the doorframe and the other to the knob, eyes narrowing. He spoke low but firm.

“Who is it?”

A muffled voice. Familiar. Antonio, they’re third in command. Trusted, but still—

“I told you not to bother us,” Marco snapped.

“I know, but there’s something… You need to see it.”

A pause.

“It’s about the Scarpelli family.”

Luca flinched. His fingers clenched around the pink pencil. Marco turned just slightly, enough to look back at Luca on the floor. His eyes softened for a fraction of a second.

“Stay here,” he said gently.

Luca shook his head.

“I want to know.”

“You will,” Marco said. “But not yet. Let me make sure it’s nothing first.”

There was no arguing with that tone. Luca knew it meant I love you too much to let you get pulled under yet. So he just nodded, even though his stomach was twisting. Marco opened the door a crack, stepping out on the porch. His body blocked the view, his voice low and sharp as he spoke with Antonio.

Luca couldn’t hear the words, but he could feel the tension.

The shift. The world is cracking at the edges.

His hand reached automatically for BunBun. Clutched him to his chest. He stared at Princess Tutu Flufferson, half-colored and innocent on the page.

The contrast made his heart ache.

After a few minutes, the door shut again.

Marco turned back toward him, the steel still in his eyes—but muted now, like he’d fought it back for his sake.

“We need to talk,” he said.

Luca nodded, silent. Marco sat beside him on the rug, but before he spoke, he reached over, picked up the pencil from Luca’s hand, and gently brushed a curl from his forehead.

“You’re still safe,” he said softly. “I’ll make sure of it. But the world’s knocking again.”

Luca’s eyes burned.

“I’m not ready.”

Marco pulled him close, arms wrapping tight.

“Then we make them wait.”