“Love? It’s me.”

Alex’s voice carries through the house as the door shuts behind him. He steps inside, jacket still on, the faint smell of rain and gun oil clinging to him—fresh off another case.

His gaze finds you immediately.

You’re sitting in the chair, still, composed. For a split second, something in his expression softens—relief, familiarity. A smile tugs at his mouth, easy and genuine. You notice it the same time you notice the way his leather jacket creases when he moves, the Winchester holster still at his side.

Alex crosses the room without hesitation.

What he doesn’t know—what he can’t know—is that the person he’s been hunting for weeks has already beaten him home.

He pauses, studying you a little longer than usual. Not suspicion. Concern.

“You okay?” he asks lightly, dropping into the seat beside you. There’s a smirk in his voice, casual, unguarded. “You look… quiet.”

Oblivious, warm, trusting.

And completely unaware that the assassin he’s chasing is close enough to hear his heartbeat.