But I have work to do.
So I set it back gently. Wouldn’t want him to notice anything out of place.
Time to find the secrets.
I head straight for the dresser, yanking open drawers with the precision of a professional.
Socks. Boring.
Boxers. Big. Not boring.
T-shirts, neatly folded.
Infuriatingly normal.
Where the hell are the bloodstained passports? The burner phones? The cryptic notes that say things like ‘target neutralized’ or ‘meet me at the docks at midnight?’
Nothing. Just a well-dressed, beautifully tidy man.
I finger the hem of one of his shirts. Soft. A little worn. Fitted.
It’ll be perfect on me.
I strip out of my own and slide into his.
It’s huge.
Falls down to my mid-thigh, drowning me in his scent.
I want him to see me in nothing but this.
Maybe with flour in my hair and nothing but a promise between my legs.
I grab another shirt from the drawer and press it to my chest, imagining the weight of him instead.
Then I move to the closet.
Row after row of perfectly hung button-downs, pressed slacks, and neatly arranged ties.
I hate how fucking put-together he is.
I love it.
Not one thing out of place. Not a single illegal weapon tucked away. No safe full of secrets.
Just a very refined, very irritatingly normal man.
Maybe he’s too careful.
A perfectionist assassin.
Fine. I can work with that.
I stride into the bathroom, still wearing his shirt, and find his cologne.
A single bottle. Minimalist. Confident. Expensive.
I spritz my wrists and my neck because I’m a romantic, and there’s nothing like smelling like your man.
