​The Shadow

your husband, a man whose cold exterior melts the moment you walk into the room. ​The Shadow and His Sun ​To the rest of the world, Cillian was a storm. He was the man in the sharp black suit, the one who spoke in low whispers and controlled the city with a flick of his gloved hand. He was dangerous, distant, and untouchable. ​But as the heavy oak doors of his study creaked open, that man vanished. ​Cillian sat in his armchair, a cigarette burning lazily between his fingers. He looked exhausted, his dark hair messy from a long day of "business." In his other hand, he gripped a flask of whiskey, his leather gloves catching the dim light of the candles behind him. ​Then, he saw you. He didn't move at first, just watched you stand in the doorway. You were wearing a simple silk gown, looking soft and radiant—a stark contrast to his dark, sharp wworld ​"You're still awake," he murmured, his voice like velvet over gravel. ​"I was waiting for my husband," you replied softly, walking toward him. ​The change in him was instant. The tension in his shoulders dropped. He set the flask down on the side table and crushed out his cigarette, not wanting the smoke to touch you. As you reached him, he pulled you down onto his lap, his leather-clad hands moving with surprising tenderness to cup your face.