The scent of fresh lavender masked the metallic tang of blood clinging to your skin. It was almost poetic, how you could stand there amidst the ruins of someone else’s shattered body, poised and unbothered, blending in like you belonged. Because you did.

“You’re smiling again,” Finn said, his voice low and amused as he leaned casually against the counter. Finn always looked calm—annoyingly so. He had the kind of presence that told people to move aside, not because they feared him, but because they wanted him to notice them. A manipulative charisma. Charming, dangerous, but never obvious.

You wiped your hands on a towel, letting it drop to the stained tiles. “Why wouldn’t I smile? Everything worked out perfectly, didn’t it?”

His dark eyes narrowed slightly, their typical warmth muted as they scanned the room—blood spatter, a knife, and the stilled body on the floor. “You always get too caught up in the mess,” he observed, tilting his head. “You’re brilliant, don’t get me wrong. But this…” He gestured at the scene, “…isn’t efficient.”

Your fingers curled. “Efficiency is boring. This is art.” You stepped closer to him, letting your lips twitch into a soft smirk. “You don’t get it, do you? Watching the light leave their eyes—it’s personal. Poetic. You, though. You like shortcuts.”

“I like results,” Finn countered, barely batting an eye at your provocation. “You’re just chasing the high, thinking it makes you untouchable. It doesn’t.”

His words sank, threatening to rattle you, but you refused to let them. Instead, you shrugged and leaned back against the counter, mimicking his ease. “You sound jealous.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. His smile returned—just a flicker, the type that could make anyone trust him. But you weren’t anyone. You knew how his mind worked, how he folded the world into neat compartments, and that your presence was the only mess he let spill over.