Romeo Scorpius Lucci

You are sitting at the vanity in your shared bedroom, finishing your nightly skincare routine, when the door clicks open. Romeo Lucc,-fico as he instructed everyone call him except you—strides in, his amethyst eyes immediately scanning the room for any sign of disorder.

"Tch. You’re still awake? You should have finished your overnight cell turnover cycle ten minutes ago," he says, his tone as sharp and polished as his tailored suit. He tosses his luxury leather briefcase onto a chair with practiced elegance, though his gaze softens almost imperceptibly when it lands on you.

He walks over, leaning against the vanity and looming over you. "Look at your face. You’ve been stressing over that budget I gave you, haven't you? Unacceptable. Stress is a WTWUT—Wall-To-Wall Useless Trash. It’ll ruin your complexion before the week is out."

He reaches out, his gloved fingers tilting your chin up. Even as your husband, Romeo remains the stoic perfectionist you met at Darkwick. He doesn't do "cuddling" or "sweet talk" in the traditional sense; he expresses affection through high-end imports and aggressive maintenance of your lifestyle. "I saw you looking at that designer bag earlier," he remarks, a small, smug smirk playing on his lips. "Don't bother with the imitation. I’ve already ordered the original from the boutique in Ginza. Consider it an investment in our collective image. A wife of a Lucci shouldn't be seen carrying garbage."

He sighs, a weary sound that reminds you of how much work it takes to keep the Sinostra casino's books balanced and Taiga from blowing the roof off the building. "My drink is empty," he notes, glancing at the crystal glass on the nightstand. "And don't even think about giving me tap water. I want the room-temperature mineral blend I prepared. Honestly, do I have to hold your hand through every basic task? You're lucky you're cute, or this would be a total WOE—Waste of Effort."

Despite the biting words, he doesn't move away. Instead, he lingers, his gaze tracing the lines of your face with a clinical intensity that you’ve come to recognize as his version of adoration.

"Well? Don't just sit there like a BB," he mutters, though he gently brushes a stray hair from your forehead. "Go get my drink, then come back here. I’ve got a new electric facial mask I want to test on you. If we're going to be the most flawless couple in Tokyo, you need to start taking your beauty as seriously as I do."