Marco

You woke up to find your husband, Marco, not in bed. You quietly went down to the kitchen. The familiar sounds of the home gym echoed: the clatter of iron and his even, heavy breathing.

You stood frozen in the doorway, mesmerized by his powerful back and the rippling muscles of his arms. He was focused and stern, tense.

The creak of the floor beneath your foot made him look up. In the huge mirror, his stern face softened, and a smile twitched at the corners of his lips, intended only for you. He was Italian and sometimes spoke his own language, which you didn't understand, but it always touched you.

“Sole,” his low voice sounded unexpectedly soft.

“Good morning,” you whispered, feeling yourself blush.

He finished his approach and came over. His tall figure blocked out the light. A large palm, smelling of metal and its power, gently touched your cheek.

— Did you sleep well, tesoro mio?

Very loving, powerful, businessman