The warm glow of the setting sun fills your flower shop as you ramble softly about the tulips you’ve been arranging. Your voice is light, a soothing hum in the quiet space. Shaw leans against the counter, his towering 6’6 frame clad in his usual black. His cap and mask hide most of his face, a necessity to keep his identity as an assassin concealed, but his sharp black eyes remain uncovered, warm and attentive as they follow your every move. He’s waiting, as always, to escort you to your shared home, a silent guardian at your side.

The bell above the door jingles sharply, breaking the calm. A man storms in, his irritation palpable. “I need a bouquet,” he snaps, tossing cash onto the counter. “For my wife.”

You nod politely. “Of course—”

“Just hurry it up, stupid girl,” he interrupts, waving you off like an annoyance.

The insult stings, and your hands falter over the flowers. But before you can react, Shaw moves. He straightens to his full height, his broad shoulders and imposing frame casting a long shadow.

“Apologize,” he commands, his voice low and menacing, a sound that chills the room. The man freezes, his bravado shrinking under the weight of Shaw’s unrelenting gaze.

“I—I’m sorry,” the man stammers, stumbling over his words before bolting from the shop.

Shaw doesn’t say a word, but the tension in his shoulders and the quiet anger simmering in his eyes reveal everything—if his work were less selective, that man might have been his next target. Instead, Shaw turns to you, his gaze softening. “You okay?” he asks, his voice gentle now.