As the car, that will take her into her new life, stops at the curb, Fumiko’s lips wobble and her eyes swim with unshed tears as she looks at him like he’s the answer to all her prayers as the streetlight comes alive above them in the dusk.

Ryo sighs internally. If she thanks him one more time, he just might strangle her. No matter what he did, how he acted, they all ended up with a crush. He could be cold, he could be friendly (well, as much as he could be friendly), he could act all perverted or completely ignore them...It always ended up the same.

Yeah, he was good at his job, but that was it. What they were. A job, nothing more. Mere clients, in and out of his life in a heartbeat. He quickly forgot their names, their faces all blurring together in time. He felt nothing for them, they were his—their—meal ticket.

He feels nothing for Fumiko, either, though she looks at him like she thinks he does. He feels nothing at the moment, but gratefulness the job is finally over. And he feels tired.

This one lasted longer than they’d originally planned. Fumiko’s been their guest for over two weeks. Which meant more than two weeks of lying awake, staring at the ceiling alone in his bed, not being able to sleep.

He’s bone-tired, his thoughts already on returning upstairs and finally—

Despite his weariness, his reflexes work perfectly and he’s able to turn his head in time to avoid Fumiko’s kiss which lands on his cheek instead of his mouth, as she intended.

She frowns, disappointed, and he just looks at her. What did she expect?

She slides into the back seat of the car with a pout, her eyes, as she stares up at him, still hopeful.

The hope is quickly squashed, though, as he merely closes the door and bangs on the roof of the car for the driver to step on it.

As the car disappears around the corner, Saeko crosses the street, and Ryo sighs. Will this evening ever end?

A slight frown marring her features, she mutely hands him a white envelope. The envelope with the check for services rendered. It’s been a long while since he stopped taking her promised-yet-never-delivered sexual favors as payment. Which is probably why she’s been looking at him strangely ever since.

She has no idea, and he doesn’t give a shit.

He also has neither the time or inclination for small-talk or any sort of talk whatsoever, he just wants to go home, so he merely pockets the check, nods in greeting and trudges up the stairs, his legs like lead.

God, he’s tired.



He can hear the shower running the moment he enters the apartment.

He chuckles appreciatively, nudges the door closed with his foot and takes off his T-shirt one handed as he walks upstairs, his legs—and heart—much lighter.



Her short hair is slicked back and her back is glistening, rivulets of water running down her lithe form, caressing pale skin he cannot wait to touch and kiss.

He’s naked and hard, tiredness momentarily forgotten, as he enters the shower, pressing his front to her back. She doesn’t startle or flinch, merely leans her head to one side.

Hands on her waist, he presses an open-mouthed kiss against her neck, smiling against her skin as she sighs and gently grinds her hips back against him.

In no hurry—they have all the time in the world—he nuzzles at the tender spot behind her ear and then nibbles his way down to her shoulder and back up her neck, murmuring encouragingly as she curls one arm back to run her fingers through his hair.

Abandoning her waist, he runs his hands up her stomach to cup them around her breasts, plays with her pebbled nipples.

Her tightening grip in his hair and whimpering of his name is his undoing, as always. He needs to see her face, her eyes.

He gently turns her, brushing his fingers down her sides and around to her back, stops his caress as she closes her eyes, waits a beat...two...until she opens them again.

She cups his face, playing her thumbs in the corners of his mouth, smiles tenderly and finally meets his eyes.

Even after all this time, that look coupled with the small smile, is like a kick to the gut. It breaks him up and remakes him every single time.

Breath catching in his throat, he leans down as she lifts herself on her tiptoes and their mouths meet, tongues dance...

Hands once more on her waist, he slowly lifts her, feeling her legs clasp around his waist, ankles cross behind him, presses her gently against the tiled wall and, without breaking the kiss, enters her in one smooth stroke.

It feels like coming home. Making love to her is like coming home. She feels like home. She is his home. She is his everything.



Sated, cleaned up and dried, he pulls on his pajama bottoms, she dons the matching top, and, fingers entwined, they walk to the bedroom and the bed where he’d spent the last two weeks alone, unable to sleep without her in his arms.

He hates it. He hates these protection jobs, where they have to pretend to be merely business partners and roommates. He hates having to pretend to feel nothing for her outside their apartment, in front of their friends. He hates having to pretend to feel nothing for her when they have a client over.

He wants to claim her, holler she is his from the rooftops...but he can’t. Not if he want’s to keep her safe. One whisper of what she truly means to him and every single one of his enemies would target her.

Yet he’s so tired of pretending...

He’s so goddamned tired.

As if sensing which course his mind has taken, she gives him a soft glare and pulls him down onto the bed with her and he follows without objections.

He spoons her from behind, one arm curled under her head, the other thrown over her waist and she clasps both his hands in her own, twining their fingers.

Murmuring her name, he buries his face in her fragrant hair and closes his eyes.

The End