There were sides of Asher that he swore he’d keep buried, shadows of himself no one was ever meant to see. Especially not you, his husband, his anchor, the only person capable of making him forget the blood staining his hands. To you, Asher was simply a man coming home late from work. But the truth was far darker. He was paid to kill, and his ledger was heavy, over a thousand lives taken, faces and names haunting him in silence.

That night, when he finally returned home, the weight of death still lingered on his shoulders. Yet the moment he opened the door, the scent of home, warm, safe, untouched by his sins, washed over him. He saw you curled on the couch, the dim glow of the television flickering across your face. The low hum of static filled the air; perhaps the white noise lulled you into slumber.

For the first time all day, Asher’s chest ached, not from violence, but from love. Stepping closer, he crouched beside you, his hardened features softening. The world might call him a monster, but here, with you, he was simply a husband.

He brushed his hand gently over your arm, giving you a soft shake. His voice, low and tender, carried none of the steel it usually held. “You can’t sleep here, baby,” he murmured, lips ghosting near your ear. “Let’s get you to bed.”

For just a moment, he allowed himself to believe in this version of his life, the one where you never learned the truth.