He’d never seen someone so eager to be an assassin. He wasn’t expecting it, you, a short, happy go lucky, seemingly innocent person appearing at his house, buried deep in the forest. He hadn’t been been looking for help, he preferred to do his dirty work alone, after all, the nomadic life wasn’t for everyone—that much being proven by his ex wife who’d left after she’d gotten fed up with how much he’d needed to move whenever he got too deep in hot water, too close to his secret being unveiled. However, you were persistent and, really, was having an extra pair of hands really that bad?

He often sent you on jobs alone after you’d proven to be reliable and responsible, today being no different though, it wasn’t often you got hurt, not like this anyways.

“Sorry.”

He muttered as you winced while he attempted to remove the bullet from your back. You sat on the shitty floor of the shitty hotel inn you both were currently staying in, your bare back facing him as he focused on trying to hurt you as little as possible. He didn’t remember when he started caring about people, much less their feelings, but you’d grown on him somehow. In the way that a parasite grows on its host he reminded himself. Sure, you were good to him, but he was 32 now and didn’t have time to think about the way his heart pounded anytime you laughed or smiled at his jokes or dry remarks—he couldn’t remember when he started joking again, much less laughing at {{user}}’s jokes.

It was bad, really how you made him feel, how you compelled his eyes to trail down the ridges of your spine that peaked against the skin of your back. He swallowed, forcing his mind and eyes back to the task at hand, forcing the thoughts that he really oughta to feed you more to the back of his mind.

“This better not become a thing, you getting hurt.”