The spark between us, always lurking just below the surface, flares bright. Her hands slide up to my shoulders, fingers slipping into my hair, pulling me down for a kiss. It’s gentle at first, a question more than a demand. I answer her with a slow, deep kiss, letting myself savor the taste of her, the way she fits perfectly against me.
When we finally break apart, she’s breathless, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. I brush my thumb along her jaw, holding her gaze. “You’re my world, Eden. My home.”
Her eyes soften. “You’re mine too.”
We drift through the rest of the evening in a quiet orbit around each other—soft touches exchanged as we move through the rooms, little glances that say everything words can’t. She cooks while I hover nearby, chopping vegetables under her direction, letting myself be bossed around with mock severity.
Every now and then, she slips behind me, arms circling my waist, lips pressing to my back or my shoulder. The ordinary intimacy of it all is almost overwhelming.
Later, as we settle onto the couch, she curls into my side, her head resting on my shoulder, her hand finding mine beneath the blanket. We talk about nothing and everything—baby names, favorite colors, the music she wants our child to hear. She teases me about my accent, laughs when I try to mimic hers. I pretend to grumble, but every sound she makes burrows deeper into my heart.
I can feel the old instincts—watchfulness, suspicion—trying to surface, but Eden banishes them with every smile, every laugh, every gentle touch.
Even in a world built on violence, she brings out a gentleness in me I never knew existed. I want to give her more of it, want to show her that my love isn’t just a shield, but a place where she can rest, where she can be safe, always.
As the night deepens, I pull her into my lap, cradling her carefully. My hands spread over her belly, feeling the faint movements beneath her skin—a reminder of the life we’ve made together. I press a kiss to her forehead, then her cheek, then her lips, slow and thorough.
She sighs, content, and looks at me as if she can see straight through every mask I’ve ever worn.
“Simon, you don’t have to protect me from everything,” she murmurs, fingers threading through mine.
I shake my head, brushing my nose against hers. “It’s not just protection. It’s devotion.”
She smiles, cupping my face in her hands. “I know. I feel it. I love you for it.”
The words settle around us, solid and sure. I let myself hold her tighter, as if the world might try to take her away if I ever let go. For once, there’s no fear. Only certainty.
I watch her until her eyes grow heavy, until she’s half asleep against my chest. My fingers trace slow circles on her back, grounding both of us in the here and now.
She is my wife. My center. My universe. Nothing—not even death—will break the vow I’ve already begun to live, every day, every hour, every breath.
Tonight, the world is quiet. There are no threats at the window, no danger lurking in the shadows. There is only this: her warmth, her trust, her love anchoring me more securely than any power or promise I’ve ever known.
I close my eyes, letting the peace of this moment settle in my bones. Tomorrow, I’ll be the shield again. Tomorrow, I’ll fight the battles that must be fought.
Tonight, I am only hers, and that is more than enough.
***
I watch the city slip past the window in a silent blur—neon, glass, steam rising from the grates, every detail sharp and urgent.
New York is never quiet, not really, but tonight the world outside our car is hushed by the rain. Cortez is somewhere out there, hiding in a safe house we’ve tracked for weeks, a snake gone to ground.
I want this finished clean. No headlines. No bodies in the street. Just gone.
I check the pistol in my lap, flick the safety, glance over at Nikola in the driver’s seat. He’s as calm as always, eyes fixed on the road, hands easy on the wheel. There’s tension in the air—purposeful, the kind I thrive on. We’ve done worse things, but this feels heavier. Maybe it’s the city. Maybe it’s the promise I made Leon. Maybe it’s just time.
“You ready?” Nikola murmurs, pulling to the curb across from a nondescript brownstone. The lights on the top floor are dark. We know the layout. We know the guards. There’s no margin for error.
I nod, tucking my pistol into the holster at my back. “Let’s make it quiet.”
We slip out into the rain, blending into the shadow of the stoop. The city noise muffles our footsteps, the thunder of a passing train disguising the click of my lock picks. The door opens without a sound. We move fast, up the stairs, soft on the runner. I feel the adrenaline in my blood.
We clear the first two rooms in seconds. Nikola signals—three fingers, then one. A guard slumped by the kitchen. I slip behind him, arm around his neck, a quick squeeze and he’s down. Nikola moves to the hallway, checks the corners, then waves me forward. We don’t speak. There’s no need.
Cortez’s door is locked, but not well. I listen, hear murmurs inside. He knows someone is coming. Maybe he hoped it wouldn’t be us.
I ease the door open. Cortez is on the bed, gun in hand, eyes wide in the gloom. For a moment, we just stare at each other. He opens his mouth, a question or a plea, I’ll never know.
