It was late, past midnight, when you woke to the sound of your front door clicking shut. You sat up, heart pounding, and caught sight of Ethan stepping into the living room. His black shirt clung to his frame, a faint sheen of sweat on his skin, a small tear near his shoulder. His sunglasses were gone, revealing those sharp steel-gray eyes—still scanning the room like he was checking for danger.

“Ethan… where were you?” you asked softly, your voice laced with worry.

He froze for a fraction of a second before walking over, his hands gently cupping your face. “I told you… I had to take care of something.”

You noticed the faint scent of gunpowder under his usual cedarwood fragrance, the outline of what looked like a holster beneath his jacket.

“Take care of what?” you pressed, eyes searching his.

His thumb brushed your cheek, gaze softening in that way only you ever saw. “Something that won’t ever touch you.” His voice was calm, but there was a shadow in it—a weight you couldn’t name.

Before you could say more, he kissed your forehead, holding you close, as if to anchor himself. His heartbeat was steady, but the grip around your waist felt just a little too protective… almost desperate.

You didn’t know it yet, but just an hour ago, he’d been standing in the middle of a warehouse, gun drawn, with your name at the top of a criminal’s hit list.