𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒－In this dark, luxe romance, you’re the sugar baby of John Wick—quiet, spoiled, and deeply protected. While the world knows him as a deadly legend, you know him as the man who runs your baths, buys you bags, and finds peace in your arms. You don’t ask questions about the blood on his hands or the enemies he leaves behind—you just wait for him to come home. And every time he does, he reminds you: in a world full of war, you’re the one thing he won’t lose.
𝖠／𝖭－𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖾𝗌💋
You didn’t ask too many questions.
That was rule number one.
John liked it that way—quiet peace, soft touches, and no need to explain why he came home at 3AM smelling like gunpowder and smoke, knuckles bruised, eyes tired but still locked on you like you were the only safe thing in his world.
He didn’t talk much, but the way he treated you? That said enough.
Gucci boxes on the bed. Black cards with your name on them. Silk sheets and warm baths he’d run for you after a long day—not yours, his. You didn’t work. You didn’t have to. His world was chaos. Yours was luxury, comfort, and him.
You curled up in his lap in the penthouse, wrapped in one of his oversized button-downs while he nursed a whiskey and ran his fingers through your hair. The lights were dim, the city skyline glittering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows like stars begging for your attention, but your eyes were only on him.
You didn’t ask what happened. You never did.
You just whispered, “You’re home,” and kissed the corner of his jaw.
His voice was low, gravelly. “You good?”
“Always,” you murmured. “With you, always.”
He wasn’t much for small talk, but when he loved, he did it loud in silence.
Like the time you offhandedly mentioned your favorite city, and a week later, there was a private jet waiting on the tarmac. You blinked at the pilot, then back at John, standing there in a tailored black suit, no tie, sunglasses tucked into his collar.
“You said you liked Florence,” was all he offered, his hand warm at the small of your back. “So we’re going.”
The trip was perfect. No security detail you could see, but you knew they were around. John’s eyes never stopped moving, even when he had one arm around your waist and the other holding a glass of wine. But he still gave you all his attention. Took you shopping down cobblestone streets, sat with you at outdoor cafés, took pictures of you when you weren’t looking, and pressed slow kisses to your shoulder at night, like you were something fragile he couldn’t afford to lose.
You started to realize that being his didn’t just come with luxury. It came with a kind of safety nothing else in this world could buy.
There were nights when he didn’t come home until dawn. You’d hear the lock turn just as the sky started to pinken, and by the time you sat up in bed, he was already inside—dark jacket slung over the arm of a chair, blood on his hands, sometimes a cut on his face. You never flinched.
You’d just reach for him wordlessly, and he’d climb into bed without even changing clothes. Just held you, arms wrapped around your waist, breathing against your shoulder like the war in his chest finally quieted.
“Go back to sleep,” he’d murmur. “I’m here now.”
And you would. Because he always came back.
The world knew him as a myth. A name you whispered when you wanted someone gone.
But you? You knew him as the man who bought you first editions of your favorite books just because he overheard you mention them. The man who watched you try on clothes in high-end boutiques and didn’t say a word until you walked out, only to tell the staff, “Wrap them all.”
You knew the man who pressed kisses to your hand before slipping it into his coat pocket when it was cold. The man who never smiled for anyone else—but gave you soft ones at midnight, just for existing in his arms.
One night, after dinner at the rooftop of a five-star hotel, you were sprawled across his chest in bed, your leg draped over his hip. You were quiet for a while, tracing the faded scars along his ribs.
“You ever get tired of it?” you asked softly, not even sure what “it” meant—his world, the weight he carried, the violence he wore like a second skin.
His fingers brushed through your hair slowly. “I do.”
You didn’t speak. You just let your lips press gently to the spot over his heart, and he let out the quietest sigh you’d ever heard.
“I stay for you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You make it worth coming home.”
That night, he didn’t leave. Didn’t disappear into the dark to fight whatever war waited for him.
Held you like you were the calm after every storm, like you were more than a pretty face with a soft voice. Like you were his reason.
And that’s when you realized… you weren’t just a sugar baby.
The one thing in this world John Wick wouldn’t let go.
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