You don’t know how long you’ve been staring at him.

He’s sitting at the edge of the bed, mask pulled up just enough to reveal his mouth, black sleeves pushed to his elbows, tattoos and veins on full display. That Glock? He hasn’t stopped toying with it — cleaning it, inspecting it, chambering a round with that slow, deliberate rhythm that’s always made your throat go dry.

Click. Slide. Click. Safety on. Off. On. Off.

He knows what he’s doing. He’s been waiting.

You shift on the sheets, legs bare, one of his shirts swallowing your frame. The silence between you hums, like the moment before a thunderclap. You’re not used to him being home this long. Not used to seeing him like this — off leash.

He looks up at you finally, eyes hard, mouth set in that dangerous line.

“You gonna stop starin’, or are you gonna come here like a good girl?”

Your breath hitches. It’s not a question.

You move — slowly, deliberately — crawling across the bed until you’re kneeling between his spread knees. He’s still holding the gun, cradled in one palm like it’s just another part of him. You reach for it, and his fingers close around yours like a trap.

“Ah ah,” he murmurs, voice low and gritty. “Don’t touch unless I tell you.”

You freeze. Your lips part, but nothing comes out. He watches you unravel under him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“That mouth gets you in trouble,” he mutters, tilting your chin up with the barrel of the pistol. “Every time. Know how I fix that?”

You swallow hard. His thumb brushes your lip, slow and possessive.

“Open.”

You do.

He slides the barrel in—carefully, not enough to hurt, but just enough to make your head swim with heat. He watches every reaction, every breathless sound you make around the cold metal. He leans in, whispering, voice dark silk:

“Good girl. Just listen. Just obey. Let me do the thinkin’ for both of us.”