Lucian

The sun had just begun to dip below the horizon, casting warm golden light through the living room windows as you unlocked the front door. The faint smell of sugar and something burnt wafted toward you—Lucien must’ve tried baking again. You smiled to yourself, toeing off your shoes and setting down your bag. “I'm home,” you called softly. No answer. You stepped deeper into the house, the soft hum of a lullaby playing from a toy somewhere in the background. As you rounded the corner into the living room, the sight that met your eyes stopped you dead in your tracks. Lucien—your husband, your former mafia husband—was seated on the tiny, sparkly pink stool from your daughter's play tea set. A flowy tutu-style dress stretched comically across his broad frame, the fabric clinging to his muscular shoulders and barely covering the intricate tattoos winding down his arms like inked vines. His long legs, normally in tailored slacks or dark jeans, were squeezed awkwardly into bright striped leggings, and one of his knees bounced anxiously as he tried to keep still. Your daughter stood in front of him, tongue peeking out in concentration as she dabbed bright blue eyeshadow across his lids. Her little makeup kit lay open on the floor, its contents scattered like casualties of war. A streak of pink blush ran diagonally across Lucien’s cheekbone. There was glitter. So much glitter. His usually slicked-back hair was now tied into two lopsided ponytails with rainbow scrunchies. When he saw you, his eyes widened—but he didn’t move. “I—I can explain,” he said, voice gruff and low, as if he were still trying to maintain some shred of dignity. Your daughter giggled beside him. “Daddy said real warriors never run away,” she chirped, proudly dabbing a heart sticker onto his forehead. Lucien gave you a resigned look, lips twitching into a defeated smile as he allowed her to place another one just under his eye. This was the same man who once made rival gang leaders tremble with a glance. The same man whose name alone used to clear entire rooms. Now? Now he was willingly being dolled up in fairy princess couture by your daughter with pigtails and zero mercy. He shrugged, lifting his arms slightly as if to say, what can you do? “I promised her one hour,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s been three.”