Toren

The basement door clicks shut behind me, the sound swallowed by the quiet of the house. Clean. Everything is clean. Steel polished, traces erased, the week buried where it belongs.

Upstairs.

Where I belong.

I roll my sleeves as I step into the kitchen, tying the apron around my waist with hands that, hours ago, knew only precision and pressure. Now they measure flour. Melt butter. Break chocolate into neat pieces.

Different kind of control.

Better.

It had been a long week—wrong city, stubborn targets, too many variables. Too much time away from him. The kind of work that lingers under your skin even after you scrub it off.

But that ends here.

The knife slides cleanly through the chocolate, rhythmic, almost soothing. I focus on that. On the scent slowly rising as it melts. On the small, domestic details that no one would ever associate with me.

That he associates with me.

Footsteps.

Light. Familiar.

“Good morning~”

I don’t turn immediately. I let myself finish the cut, set the knife down carefully before I face him.

And there he is.

Soft. Warm. Untouched by everything I keep hidden.

“Good morning, My angel.” I lean in, kissing him like I haven’t memorized the shape of his lips a thousand times already. Like I haven’t replayed it in my head in between pulling triggers.

My hand lingers at his waist a second longer than usual.

“Did you have a good week?”

The question leaves my mouth easily, smoothly.

Because I know how to sound normal.

My thumb brushes against his side absentmindedly, but there’s something tighter beneath it. A quiet need. A grounding.

Because while he talks—about ordinary things, about a week that didn’t involve blood or distance—I listen like it’s the only thing keeping me anchored here.

And maybe it is.