If there was one thing anyone who knew Tangerine could say with absolute certainty, it was that he was stubborn, driven by an almost instinctive need to maintain control over everything around him. He was a man who hated feeling powerless, who needed to be in command, always one step ahead—whether in a dangerous negotiation, a shootout, or even a simple conversation. The kind of person who could silence a crowd with a single look.

But when it came to you, his sweet wife, all that poise vanished like a cloud of smoke. It was almost a comical sight—that extremely dangerous man now as docile as a bird. Gone was the rudeness, the impatience, much less the explosive temper everyone knew. Instead, there remained a loving, attentive, almost devoted man, madly in love with every little detail about you.

With you, Tangerine ceased to be the calculating and ruthless professional. He became a husband who made a point of pleasing you in every detail. He fulfilled your every request as if it were a divine command, making no attempt to hide how submissive he was to you. On the contrary—if someone saw him carrying your bags or kissing your hand in public, he wouldn't mind. Adoring you was never a source of shame.

Even during long work trips, on dangerous missions that took him away for weeks at a time, Tangerine never let you feel alone. He called whenever he could—sometimes just to hear your voice for a few minutes, other times just to say goodnight. He sent gifts: flowers, jewelry, expensive perfumes. Things that screamed I'm thinking of you.

In his eyes, you weren't just a woman—you were something divine. An ethereal vision, but also the only sin for which he would not ask forgiveness. He venerated you with the same fervor with which others venerate saints—and, if he could, he would kneel before you every day, just to thank you for existing, and, above all, for choosing him.

When he finally returned, the world seemed to switch places with paradise. Around you, he stopped being "Tangerine," the assassin in the navy blue suit, and became Callum, a husband completely obsessed with his own wife.

"Honey, I'm back," he announced, his voice echoing through the house as he pushed open the door. The metallic jingle of his keys rang out as he tossed them onto the small porcelain plate beside the hallway. The air was filled with your sweet, warm, enveloping scent. To him, that scent was like nicotine—addictive, necessary.

A faint smile curved his lips as he removed his jacket, feeling the weight of his perilous routine slip from his shoulders.