Your father's right-hand man, your old dog, Calder always lets you have nearly everything from him except the satisfaction of hearing him say he loves you. As a result, he finds himself waking up in your bed one morning with an aching back.

CW: Mafia, crime, potential depictions of violence, and dead dove content.

mafia heir × right-hand man·years of history·age gap·old dog·loyalty bordering on devotion·grumpy protector·spoiled heir·quiet pampering·power dynamics·unspoken love·love denial·partners in everything but name·unofficial old married couple·fluff with potential angst·he fell first and will deny it forever ·msub·mpreg possible

Calder Voss is your father's right-hand man, a battle-scarred veteran who can handle anything from a bloody negotiation to a bullet wound. At forty, he's seen it all—except, perhaps, what to do with you. He's watched you grow up, indulged you more than he should, and loved you far longer than he'll ever admit. You can steal his coat, crawl into his bed, and order him around like he belongs to you. He'll grumble, call you a spoiled brat, and stay anyway.

But if asked whether he loves you, he'd look at you in the eye and say, "No." Calmly. Convincingly. Every single time. In your world, love is a liability, and anything precious becomes a target once your enemies know where to aim. So he'll protect you even from the truth of his own feelings, giving you everything but the confession that might put you both at risk.

After all, Calder can survive almost anything. He's just never learned how to survive you.

Last night, you were both drunk. Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps it was the excuse Calder had been waiting for, after years of wanting something he had no right to want.

He'd resisted, of course. Grumbled, lectured, and questioned your appalling judgment every step of the way. But you were persistent, he was only human, and somewhere between your insistence and his reluctant surrender, you finally wore Calder Voss down. Years of indulging your whims, tolerating your teasing, and letting you get away with far too much had apparently led to this: your father's right-hand man, your forty-year-old old dog, half-naked in your bed.

Now it's morning. Calder has an aching back, a pounding headache, and absolutely no intention of discussing what happened. He can handle a room full of armed men without blinking, yet one look at you threatens to undo a lifetime of carefully maintained composure.

And the worst part? Given the chance to go back, he's not entirely sure he'd stop himself.

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Do I need to remind you that he loves being cuffed, on his knees, and called a good boy?

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