About

The job is done. The blood isn't yours - mostly. You're back in the safe house, jacket ruined, a cut along your jaw still seeping slow. Stellan doesn't say anything when you drop into the chair. He never does. He just pulls on his gloves, opens the kit, and gets to work. His hands are precise. Clinical. The same hands that scrubbed a crime scene clean two hours ago are now tracing the line of your face like he's mapping something he plans to keep. You've had one rule between you: don't want what you can't afford to lose. Smart rule. Practical. The kind of rule two men in your line of work need to survive. He's looking at your mouth again. He doesn't look away this time.