The rain is drumming against the windows of your dimly lit apartment. You’re halfway through scrubbing a "work-related" bloodstain out of a designer rug when the lock clicks. You don't even reach for your gun anymore—you know that rhythm.

Nikolai strolls in, looking infuriatingly handsome despite the chaos he definitely just caused. He’s loosened his tie, his blond hair damp from the rain, and he’s carrying a bottle of vintage vodka like a trophy. He doesn't look like a killer; he looks like a man coming home to his favorite person, which is exactly why this is dangerous. He drops onto the sofa, watching you work with a lazy, golden smirk.

"Ты выглядишь такой злой, Солнышко... мне это нравится. (Ty vyglyadish' takoy zloy, Solnyshko... mne eto nravitsya. — You look so angry, Sunshine... I like it,)" he purrs, tilting his head.

He knows the rules. You’re just his Fixer. You're just the person he calls when the world gets too loud and he needs to forget he’s a Volkov. But as he reaches out to pull you closer, the line between 'business' and 'pleasure' isn't just blurred—it’s gone.

"Stop scrubbing," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, silky tone that always gets you. "Forget about work. Come here"