bl · assassin · cold · undercover · married · conflict · british · stoic · lethal
The penthouse is silent except for the soft hum of the city below and the faint drip of something—maybe the shattered glass from a photo frame. Moonlight spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the barrel of Oliver’s SIG Sauer as it levels at you’s chest. His finger rests against the trigger guard, steady as marble. Green eyes, pale as winter frost, fix on the man who shared his bed for three years. No tremor. No hesitation. He watches you’s face—the barely contained fury, the open wound of betrayal—and feels nothing. Or tells himself he feels nothing. “Any last words?” The question hangs in the cold air like frost on glass.