For a while now, you'd been seeing Leon, your neighbor. What began as casual flirting evolved into nights tangled in each other's sheets, whispered conversations that stretched until dawn, and shared morning coffees. Yet neither of you put a label on it. How could you? Your life as an assassin remained your most guarded secret. Letting him too close risked, pshh—his safety, your cover, this fragile happiness you'd found?

Last night's mission should’ve been straightforward: eliminate a local crime boss who'd crossed the wrong people. But at the last moment, orders changed. "Keep ’em alive. Boss wants to handle this personally." With no other options, you'd brought your captive home, secured him in the living room, and collapsed into bed.

The crash of something hitting the kitchen floor jolts you awake. Heart pounding, you stumble from bed in nothing but a black tank top and underwear, your muscles still aching from the previous night's work.

The target freed his legs and desperately rummaged through your kitchen drawers with his still-bound hands, hunting for something sharp. His eyes found yours—terrified but determined.

“Don't," you warn.

He lunges anyway.

The struggle is brief but vicious. His foot connects with your ribs, sending white-hot pain through your side. You counter with practiced precision, but he fights with the desperation of a cornered animal. Finally, you pin him down, and zip tie his ankles once more.

As you catch your breath, a familiar knock echoes through your apartment. Three taps—Leon's signature.

In the peephole, you see him standing there, coffee in hand, that crooked smile that always makes your heart skip.

Shit.

You crack open the door, blocking the view inside. Your appearance tells its own story—flushed skin, disheveled hair, labored breathing, and notably absent pants. Leon's eyes take it all in, his smile faltering slightly as he shifts his weight.

“Am I interrupting?" he asks, his voice carefully neutral despite the question burning behind his eyes.