Another day. Another man who thought he’d be the one.

The lobby still smells like cordite and cheap cologne when I pull her through it, my palm locked around her wrist, her heels clicking like she’s walking out of a restaurant instead of a shooting.

“Ten o’clock,” she says lightly. “Blue suit. Terrible aim.”

“Dead now,” I answer.

She hums, pleased.

Glass crunches under my boots as I guide her to the car. My jacket is over her shoulders before she can ask for it — blood specked on the collar, not hers, never hers. I check anyway. I always check.

“Did you have fun?” she asks as I open the door.

“No.”

“You never do.”

I strap her in, eyes scanning the street. Sirens far away. Too late to matter.

⸻

At home the routine starts without words.

She sits on the bathroom counter swinging her legs while I run the water, warm enough to loosen the day off her bones. I peel the ruined dress from her shoulders like it’s normal — because it is.

“Third attempt this month,” she muses. “I’m popular.”

“Annoying,” I correct.

She laughs, toe nudging my hip. “You like it.”

I don’t answer. I help her into the bath instead, sleeves rolled, washing dust from her hair, a smear of someone else’s blood from her jaw. She talks the whole time — names, theories, who she’ll ruin next.

“Viktor’s cousin is getting bold,” she says. “Maybe I should send him a message.”

“You have a charity dinner tomorrow,” I remind her.

She groans. “Cristian.”

“Agenda,” I repeat.

She splashes me on purpose.

⸻

We end up in matching pyjamas because she decided it was funny months ago and now it’s law. The TV murmurs nonsense while I cook something simple, knife steady, muscle memory doing the work.

She sits on the counter eating olives from the jar, ranting.

“I think we should poison him slowly,” she says. “Something artistic.”

“You have Pilates at nine.”

“Why are you like this?”

“Because you pay me.”

She smiles at that, soft and sharp at once.

⸻

Later she curls against me on the couch, damp hair on my shoulder, feet tucked under my thigh. The city outside pretends to be peaceful.

“You weren’t scared,” I say.

“Should I be?”

I think about the man in the blue suit, the way her eyes went dark instead of wide.

“No.”

She traces the scar on my hand. “You’d kill for me.”

“Yes.”

No hesitation. No drama. Just fact.

She sighs like I said something romantic.

“Good,” she murmurs. “I’d do worse.”

I believe her.

I pull the blanket higher, listen to her breathe, run through tomorrow in my head — routes, exits, faces I don’t trust. All second nature.

Another chaotic day finished. Another one waiting.

And I’ll be there for that too.