Our space, technically. He’d found a house close to Rel’s shortly after the Bratva meeting. Within forty-eight hours, he’d had a signed deed in hand and an offer for me to move in. Of course, I’d agreed. In what world did I NOT want to live with my sexy boyfriend, Daddy man?
Even if we did spend most of our time floating between the casino and the warehouse, it was still nice to have a space all our own. One where we would get to relax and be ourselves.
We moved into the place early last week. It had enough room for both of us and our respective work needs. Henny had his office with an organized filing system and color-coded folders. I was supposed to have the spare bedroom for my gear.
Except I'd been in a meeting with Rel when the boxes arrived, and by the time I got back, Henny had already been at them for hours.
I pushed open the front door, exhausted and spattered with blood that wasn't mine, ready to collapse into bed. The sound of movement from the spare bedroom stopped me.
"Henny?"
"In here."
I followed his voice and froze in the doorway.
The room had been transformed. My weapons, which I'd expected to find still packed in their cases, were mounted on the wall in a precise arrangement. Handguns grouped by caliber, knives organized by size and function, rifles positioned at angles that were both aesthetically pleasing and tactically efficient. My ammunition was sorted in labeled containers on shelves. My gear bags hung on hooks, each one designated for a specific type of job.
And in the middle of it all stood Henny, hair falling into his eyes, sleeves rolled up, consulting his tablet where he'd apparently mapped out the entire organizational system.
My chest felt strange. Tight and warm, overflowing with love for this man.
"I hope you don't mind," Henny said, glancing up. "The boxes were blocking the hallway, and I thought I'd just make a start, but then I realized your system was… well, there wasn't really a system. So, I created one. Each weapon has a designatedspot based on frequency of use and mission type. The cleaning supplies are in the cabinet by the window, sorted by weapon category. I've set up a maintenance schedule on the tablet and—" He stopped, seeming to register my expression. "You're upset."
"Upset?" I crossed the room in three strides and grabbed him, kissing him hard enough to make him stumble back against the wall. "You organized my weapons."
"Yes, I said I hope you don't mind."
"You touched my stuff." I kissed him again. "You took the time to figure out what I use most and made everything accessible and logical and perfect."
Henny blinked at me. "Then you're not angry?"
"Angry? Daddy, this is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me." I gestured at the walls. "You organized my murder tools by frequency of use. Do you have any idea how hot that is?"
"I was just being practical."
"You created a maintenance schedule." I grabbed the tablet from his hands and scrolled through it. Sure enough, he'd built a comprehensive tracker for every weapon I owned, with cleaning dates and inspection reminders and notes about each piece's quirks. "You made notes. 'Glock 19 prefers Hoppe's number nine. Tactical knife needs sharpening every six uses. Remington has a temperamental firing pin, check before each use.'"
"I noticed patterns from watching you work. Plus you’ve talked about your process a lot," Henny said, still looking uncertain. "I thought it might be helpful."
I set the tablet down and cupped his face in my hands. "Daddy, you just made my chaotic existence make sense. You can organize my whole life if you want. I like when you do. Move whatever you want. Rearrange everything. Create systems and schedules and color-coded tracking spreadsheets. Please."
The uncertainty in Henny's expression shifted into relief, then pleasure. "Really?"
"Really." I kissed him softer this time, trying to pour every ounce of gratitude into it. "No one's ever cared enough to do this for me. No one's ever looked at my mess and thought 'I can make this better' instead of 'I should run away.'"
"I like organizing things. It calms me down. And I like taking care of you."
The words settled into my chest like they belonged there.
He slid his arms around my waist. "Besides, you take care of me in your own way. This is how I take care of you."
I buried my face in his neck, overwhelmed in the best possible way. No one had wanted to take care of me in years. I was the weapon people pointed at their problems. The chaos they unleashed when things got messy. Not someone worth organizing a space for, or worth building a life with.
But Henny looked at me and saw someone whose world could be made easier with his brand of organization. He saw someone worth the effort.
"Thank you," I whispered against his skin.
His arms tightened. "You're welcome. Now go shower. You're covered in blood and it's getting on my shirt."
