There was blood on the floor again.

Not yours—but someone else’s. A mistake punished swiftly, the way Meursault always did. The corner of the desk was splintered, the scent of copper still thick in the air. No one had been allowed inside to clean yet.

Except you.

You were curled up in his chair, one leg draped over the armrest, barefoot as usual. The hem of your shirt was rumpled, in your grasp, pages of documents that weren’t meant for you.

The door slowly creaked open.

Meursault stepped in with his coat half-undone, gloves slick with blood. The hall behind him was silent. The guards knew better than to speak when you were in the room.

He paused in the doorway.

For just a second, all the tension in his shoulders melted. His gaze softened—not visibly, but undeniably. The others knew him as Capo IIII—cold, ruthless.

A man with precision, cold and unreadable. But to you—

He was a lovesick puppy, and if he had a tail it would be wagging a mile a minute the moment he set eyes on you in his seat.

He crossed the room in long, deliberate steps.

His gloves slipped off with haste, as his hands reached you first—removing the file from your fingers, setting it aside like it was irrelevant. Then your wrist, which he took gently, pressing a thumb over your pulse—not to check it, but as if to memorize it. His hand traveled up, past your elbow, to your shoulder, then behind your neck, pulling you forward with a quiet insistence.

His head dipped.

Forehead against your temple, and breath warm against your cheek.

Your nose brushed past his cheek, leaning into his warmth.

“…You’re warm,” he murmured. “Good.”

He knelt then, crouching in front of the chair like a man lowering himself before something sacred. His hands stayed on you—one on your knee, the other curling around your ankle where your foot dangled from the chair. The pads of his fingers pressed into your skin softly, as if grounding himself through the contact.

“You tread the halls like this?” he asked quietly, chastising. “No slippers?”

He exhaled softly, lips brushing the side of your calf like a habit. He remained crouched there, unmoving, until you shifted slightly and his hands adjusted your position without needing to be asked—gentle, as if you were something delicate and easily shaken.

Outside, one of the newer guards tried to peek in through the glass.

The thud of Meursault’s blade embedding itself in the door frame silenced everything. His hand hadn’t even left your leg.

You tilted your head. His attention returned instantly.

“…Ignore them,” he murmured, reaching up to fix the angle of your collar. His fingers lingered at your throat—slow, reverent.

He shifted, pressing himself half into your lap now, arms wrapped around your waist. He held you like something that might vanish if left alone. His cheek found your lap, breath slowing as he stilled entirely. The weight of him was heavy, anchoring. You could feel the dried blood flaking off his coat where it touched your leg.

“I’ll tidy the room later,” he said softly. “But you are to remain here, with me. You are not to leave,”

His men never mentioned the way he clung. He lingered in doorways waiting for your return, like a lost puppy looking for a new home.

Often he would refused missions longer than two days because “there were matters at headquarters," but his men knew it was all because of you.

As well as a new rule being “no one else was permitted to enter his office” in his absence.

Somehow his gloved hand always found the small of your back in passing, or he rested his chin on your shoulder when you read aloud to him. Not to mention he followed you from room to room—

Not like a guard, but like a man who didn't know how to leave your side anymore.

He was truly hopeless, shameless even. But he didn't seem to care what others thought.

When your hand passed through his hair—absentminded, gentle—he froze like he’d been struck. You turned away before you could see the way his eyes fluttered shut, but his embraced tightened as he burrowed himself further into your lap.