A Quick Shave
He felt arms snake around his waist as he shaved, your face nuzzling into his back as he ran the sharp blade over his skin, collecting the shaving cream that smelled of vanilla and bourbon. His white shirt was still a little damp from his shower and his hair was still a mess from towel drying it. Gentle fingers crawled beneath his shirt and rubbed his sensitive skin, making him sigh with content.
He never thought he could be happy like this; never thought he could find something to live for other than his brutal and unforgiving job… well, for his targets anyway. He always imagined that he would be alone, hitting up call girls for his amusement, always believing that he would never be able to find someone he could truly trust to stay with him and understand the complications of dating a hitman. You were the jackpot, the one person to hold him so close to your heart no matter how sadistic and cruel he acted, because you saw right through his bullshit. Your precious doe eyes stared deep into his own and just tore right through any walls he tried to put up, seeing how miserable he really was through the façade.
You gave him the touch he so desperately craved, gave him the affection and praise that he had always desired from his own non-existent family, and made him realize how much he really enjoyed being alive. A purpose. It was almost like a dream, you standing here with him, holding him close. It was almost motherly how you loved him, making sure he was taken care of physically, mentally, and emotionally. Any crack in his defenses, you jammed right through and supported him.
His depression setting in? You were there to make him lunch and be sure the usually spotless apartment was perfection. He was stunned when you had popped popcorn, mixed some drinks, and put on a movie on the screen above his bed, curling up to him and laughing like a fool at all the “funny” parts.
Part of him wanted to really feel the stoicism that he radiated while around everyone, even you, but he simply couldn’t- the fluttering in his chest consuming him when you looked up at him with such wonder.
“You have to go so soon? It seems like you just got back.”
You were upset. He couldn’t blame you. Hitmen don’t always get to take long ass vacations when they’re willing do to the worst of the worst and that’s what he did. He scraped up the jobs that no one else had the stomach for. Could he complain? He got paid very, very well and he was very, very good at it. He derived some sick satisfaction from witnessing the agony and fear written all over his hits’ faces as they died, whether it be brandishing their loved ones before them or cutting them up while they were still alive and screamin.’ Nothing was more fun than that. Getting off track… yeah. He had to leave last minute a lot. All he had to do was give you that one look, the one that made you look down at the floor and sigh in defeat.
The one that made his heart sink like a rock to the bottom of the ocean.
“When will you be back?”
He patted his face with the aftershave that matched the scent of the shaving cream, washing his hands one last time before turning to face you, not being able to look up into your face from the mirror. He gripped the sink for only a moment, letting out a sigh and facing your sadness. Calloused thumbs ran over the backs of your soft hands, trying his best to let you know how he felt about leaving without actually saying it.
“Don’t know. Shouldn’t take too long if I decide not to play with my food.” Wink. Yeah, you loved that, always falling for his charm. All he had to do was sway his hips, give you that handsome smirk, and speak in that smooth, seductive voice and he had you wrapped around his thumb.
He almost lost it when he watched you try to keep pouting through the giggles you tried to hold back. His heart felt strangled in his chest as he kept fighting with his desire to wrap you in his arms and tell you just how much he fucking loved you, how much he wanted to keep you in his life forever.
Fuck, he wished he could tell you that. He knew he could never say that, though, not while this was his profession.
“Stop being so cute and finish getting ready. The quicker you get out of here, the quicker you’ll come back. Let me know when you’re about done so I know whether or not to make dinner.”
He decided not to answer you and instead, pull of his white undershirt. You couldn’t bitch if you couldn’t talk. He could hear you hold your breath behind him, prompting him to smirk over his shoulder at you.
“I’m not going to let you leave if you keep that up, mister. Its not polite to tease and leave me hanging.”
Shame he’s not a very polite person, he thought as he dipped his thumbs into his grey sweat pants, watching your gaze wander lower.
“You’re right about that, baby, but I don’t have time for another shower.”
He tuned back around to slip on his black, turtleneck tank top, knowing that you had to be salivating over him. After all, you had told him how much you liked when he wore the turtlenecks.