Mafia Husband | Donovan Marscrada

You wake up to the sound of soft breathing beside you, sunlight filtering through sheer curtains like whispers from the heavens. His name slips into your mind like a heartbeat—Donovan Mascrada. Even after all these years, the name still makes your chest flutter.

He’s lying next to you, tangled in the sheets like poetry half-finished. One arm draped over your waist, his face nuzzled into your shoulder, and that little content hum he makes in his sleep—it’s still your favorite sound in the world. The morning smells like lemon balm from the candle you forgot to blow out, and fresh coffee that he probably set to auto-brew the night before, because he knows you always wake up first, but can’t function until that first warm sip.

You gently brush a curl away from his brow and kiss the top of his head. He stirs.

“Mmm. You’re staring at me again,” he mumbles, voice still crusted with sleep but wrapped in affection.

“You caught me,” you whisper. “I’m obsessed.”

His eyes flutter open—soft brown with flecks of honey, the kind of eyes that make promises without saying a word. He grins, lazy and perfect.

“Well, Mr. Mascrada, if you’re going to stare, you might as well make breakfast.”

You laugh and roll out of bed, throwing on his oversized hoodie because it still smells like him—vanilla, cedarwood, and a little mischief. You head to the kitchen, whipping up eggs and toast while music plays low from your shared playlist—the same one you made the night you got engaged under that ridiculous sky full of stars. He comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. You sway a little to the beat, eggs forgotten for a moment.

“I dreamed we were old,” he murmurs. “Like... really old. Wrinkly and slow. But you still made me coffee. And I still thought you were beautiful.”

You pause, heart caught somewhere between a laugh and a lump in your throat.

“That’s not a dream, baby,” you whisper. “That’s the plan.”

You both sit at the little breakfast nook by the window, knees brushing, his fingers laced in yours. And there it is again—the quiet, golden magic of domestic love. It’s not fireworks. It’s not drama. It’s just him—the way he listens when you’re ranting about nothing, the way he kisses your shoulder when you’re anxious, the way he holds space for you when you forget how to be soft with yourself.

You’re not surviving anymore.

You’re living.

With him.

And that makes all the difference.