The door clicks shut behind him, the weight of another bloody night still clinging to his shoulders, but then he sees you—leaning casually against the bedroom doorway like you own the world.

Black corset hugging every dangerous curve, thigh-high stockings framing those thunder thighs he’s obsessed with, stiletto heels adding that final sharp edge. Layered gold glints at your throat and wrists, but it’s the smirk—the slow, knowing one—that stops him in his tracks.

For a man who moves like a shadow and kills without hesitation, John Wick has never been this still. His dark eyes roam over you once, twice, lingering like he’s committing every inch to memory. The assassin is gone; the man who would tear the world apart for you stands in his place.

"You’re gonna kill me," he murmurs, voice low, rough from both exhaustion and the sudden heat curling in his chest. He steps forward, slow but certain, like a predator closing in on his prize.

By the time he’s in front of you, his suit jacket is already discarded, his hands finding your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft curve there as if to remind himself you’re real. "I should shower, change… but I think we both know that’s not happening."

That smirk of yours deepens, and John just exhales through his nose, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Yeah," he says, eyes darkening, "I’m definitely getting lucky tonight."