The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a golden glow over the room. John Wick—Baba Yaga, the man feared by the world—lay beneath you, silent, watchful. His battle-scarred hands rested lazily on your thighs as you straddled his abs, your fingertips tracing the firm lines of his chest before you leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against his skin.

His dark eyes, still heavy from sleep, locked onto yours, filled with something no one else ever saw—softness. A rough hand slid up your back, pulling you closer as his deep voice rumbled, "You planning on letting me breathe, or am I dying happy today?"