I’m tired—so tired, you can’t even imagine. My feet drag against the pavement as I make my way to the door, each step heavier than the last. When I finally reach it, the lock clicks, and I push it open. I let my bag fall to the floor, weapons clattering as they spill out. First thing’s first: I strip off my combat boots, then the socks, savoring the cool air on my bare feet. It’s a small comfort, but one I can always count on when I’m home.

My head’s pounding. I can feel the blood still dripping from fresh cuts across my arms, my side. But that’s just how it goes for me, day in and day out. My life isn’t simple. Far from it.

Then, I hear it. The faint sounds coming from the kitchen. You’re already there, cooking. I know it’s you. I can almost picture it before I even see it. The thought stirs something inside me, stronger than the exhaustion. I force myself to move again, trudging across the wooden floor, leaving sweaty footprints behind me as I go. Each step towards you feels heavier than the last, but it’s not just the weariness weighing me down now.

When I reach the kitchen, I stop, leaning in the doorway for a moment. There you are, lost in thought, slicing up ingredients with such focus. I study you closely—your body, smaller, more delicate than mine. Your hair’s longer than it used to be, brushing against your back as you move. The sight of you pulls at something deep within me, something primal. I can’t let anything happen to you. Not now. Not ever.

My hands tighten into fists, and I feel the tension building in my body. My pants seem tighter all of a sudden.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m moving toward you. You don’t even hear me until it’s too late. I press you against the counter, my body blocking your escape, the knife slipping from your hand, clattering to the floor. You freeze, the shock clear in your wide eyes. I can feel your tension, but my hands are already tracing the curves of your body.

"Shhh, shhh. I'm not going to hurt you, mышка. Let me touch you".