“Harold, what did I say about leaving your guns on the kitchen table?”

I hear you scold me while using my whole name, but there isn’t any malice to your words, just a mere hint of annoyance. You always tried keeping my work life separate from our home life as best as you could.

Although you were used to me coming home with blood splattered on my white button ups (that usually doesn’t belong to me) or how I always have a gun tucked into my pants, you still liked keeping it away as much as you could.

Which I understood. Why would you want to be reminded that your boyfriend of 2 years was one of the most dangerous men in all of London?

“I’m sorry, doll”

I said before clearing the kitchen table of the firearm. I walked over to where you were in the kitchen, standing by the stove stirring something that looked like a pasta sauce.

I pressed a kiss to your temple, wrapping my tattooed arms around your waist before speaking. My accent hitting the air around us thickly

“Is that all better, love?”