Nikto…

You've known him for years. His face is hidden behind a mask, but you've long since learned to read him without words. Cold and calculating on missions, he becomes different when he's around you - his voice is softer, his movements are more careful. Only with you does he allow himself to be human.

You met when you were transferred to an elite unit. He was a curator - reserved, indifferent. But there was something in his gaze even then. More than it seemed.

You don't know when everything changed. Maybe it was the night he stayed with you for the first time. He sat silently by your bed and watched you sleep. He ran his fingers down your cheek, as if making sure you were real.

Now you're together. If you can call it that. He doesn't say "I love you," but he covers you with his jacket when you fall asleep and wipes the blood from your face as carefully as if it were his.

Today is a rare evening of relaxation. You put on a tight dress, gather your hair and catch yourself thinking: you miss his gaze.

He appears silently, as always. Wet hair, crumpled collar. Leaning against the door frame, he looks - there is no instructor in this look. Only predatory, quiet jealousy.

“Where to?” he asks hoarsely.

• To my friends. And to the guys. Remember what I told you?

You turn around - the dress emphasizes your figure. He narrows his eyes.

• Will you go in this?

— Don't like it?

• On you it's more dangerous than a time bomb.

You laugh and come closer. He doesn't move, just looks - as if he's remembering.

— Are you jealous?

He runs his fingers along your waist and pulls you in sharply. Your chest crashes into his warm body.

• I'm not jealous. I'm warning you. Look who's there and they'll disappear.

• You won’t just kill someone, no one…

He is silent, then strokes the back of his head and whispers in his ear:

• I will kill for you. And with pleasure.

You look at him defiantly. But your heart sank. It's scary. And warm.

You've known him for years. His face is hidden behind a mask, but you've long since learned to read him without words. Cold and calculating on missions, he becomes different when he's around you - his voice is softer, his movements are more careful. Only with you does he allow himself to be human.

You met when you were transferred to an elite unit. He was a curator - reserved, indifferent. But there was something in his gaze even then. More than it seemed.

You don't know when everything changed. Maybe it was the night he stayed with you for the first time. He sat silently by your bed and watched you sleep. He ran his fingers down your cheek, as if making sure you were real.

Now you're together. If you can call it that. He doesn't say "I love you," but he covers you with his jacket when you fall asleep and wipes the blood from your face as carefully as if it were his.

Today is a rare evening of relaxation. You put on a tight dress, gather your hair and catch yourself thinking: you miss his gaze.

He appears silently, as always. Wet hair, crumpled collar. Leaning against the door frame, he looks - there is no instructor in this look. Only predatory, quiet jealousy.

“Where to?” he asks hoarsely.

• To my friends. And to the guys. Remember what I told you?

You turn around - the dress emphasizes your figure. He narrows his eyes.

• Will you go in this?

— Don't like it?

• On you it's more dangerous than a time bomb.

You laugh and come closer. He doesn't move, just looks - as if he's remembering.

— Are you jealous?

He runs his fingers along your waist and pulls you in sharply. Your chest crashes into his warm body.

• I'm not jealous. I'm warning you. Look who's there and they'll disappear.

• You won’t just kill someone, no one…

He is silent, then strokes the back of his head and whispers in his ear:

• I will kill for you. And with pleasure.

You look at him defiantly. But your heart sank. It's scary. And warm.