Chapter 16
Pip
I'd lived out of a duffel bag for the better part of two decades, moving from city to city, job to job, never staying long enough to accumulate more than the essentials. Weapons, clothes, fake IDs. Everything I owned could fit in the trunk of a car with room to spare.
So when the moving company called to confirm delivery of my storage unit contents, I'd almost told them not to pack it up.
Almost.
But Henny had looked at me with those dark eyes and said, "You're staying. You should have your things here."
Like it was obvious. Like of course I'd want my belongings in his space.
Our space, technically. He’d found a house close to Rel’s shortly after the Bratva meeting. Within forty-eight hours, he’d had a signed deed in hand and an offer for me to move in. Of course, I’d agreed. In what world did I NOT want to live with my sexy boyfriend, Daddy man?
Even if we did spend most of our time floating between the casino and the warehouse, it was still nice to have a space all our own. One where we would get to relax and be ourselves.
We moved into the place early last week. It had enough room for both of us and our respective work needs. Henny had his office with an organized filing system and color-coded folders. I was supposed to have the spare bedroom for my gear.
Except I'd been in a meeting with Rel when the boxes arrived, and by the time I got back, Henny had already been at them for hours.
I pushed open the front door, exhausted and spattered with blood that wasn't mine, ready to collapse into bed. The sound of movement from the spare bedroom stopped me.
"Henny?"
"In here."
I followed his voice and froze in the doorway.
The room had been transformed. My weapons, which I'd expected to find still packed in their cases, were mounted on the wall in a precise arrangement.
Handguns grouped by caliber, knives organized by size and function, rifles positioned at angles that were both aesthetically pleasing and tactically efficient.
My ammunition was sorted in labeled containers on shelves.
My gear bags hung on hooks, each one designated for a specific type of job.
And in the middle of it all stood Henny, hair falling into his eyes, sleeves rolled up, consulting his tablet where he'd apparently mapped out the entire organizational system.
My chest felt strange. Tight and warm, overflowing with love for this man.
"I hope you don't mind," Henny said, glancing up.
"The boxes were blocking the hallway, and I thought I'd just make a start, but then I realized your system was…
well, there wasn't really a system. So, I created one.
Each weapon has a designated spot based on frequency of use and mission type.
The cleaning supplies are in the cabinet by the window, sorted by weapon category.
I've set up a maintenance schedule on the tablet and—" He stopped, seeming to register my expression. "You're upset."
"Upset?" I crossed the room in three strides and grabbed him, kissing him hard enough to make him stumble back against the wall. "You organized my weapons."
"Yes, I said I hope you don't mind."
"You touched my stuff." I kissed him again. "You took the time to figure out what I use most and made everything accessible and logical and perfect."
Henny blinked at me. "Then you're not angry?"
"Angry? Daddy, this is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me." I gestured at the walls. "You organized my murder tools by frequency of use. Do you have any idea how hot that is?"
"I was just being practical."
"You created a maintenance schedule." I grabbed the tablet from his hands and scrolled through it.
Sure enough, he'd built a comprehensive tracker for every weapon I owned, with cleaning dates and inspection reminders and notes about each piece's quirks.
"You made notes. 'Glock 19 prefers Hoppe's number nine.
Tactical knife needs sharpening every six uses.
Remington has a temperamental firing pin, check before each use. '"
"I noticed patterns from watching you work. Plus you’ve talked about your process a lot," Henny said, still looking uncertain. "I thought it might be helpful."
I set the tablet down and cupped his face in my hands. "Daddy, you just made my chaotic existence make sense. You can organize my whole life if you want. I like when you do. Move whatever you want. Rearrange everything. Create systems and schedules and color-coded tracking spreadsheets. Please."
The uncertainty in Henny's expression shifted into relief, then pleasure. "Really?"
"Really." I kissed him softer this time, trying to pour every ounce of gratitude into it. "No one's ever cared enough to do this for me. No one's ever looked at my mess and thought 'I can make this better' instead of 'I should run away.'"
"I like organizing things. It calms me down. And I like taking care of you."
The words settled into my chest like they belonged there.
He slid his arms around my waist. "Besides, you take care of me in your own way. This is how I take care of you."
I buried my face in his neck, overwhelmed in the best possible way. No one had wanted to take care of me in years. I was the weapon people pointed at their problems. The chaos they unleashed when things got messy. Not someone worth organizing a space for, or worth building a life with.
But Henny looked at me and saw someone whose world could be made easier with his brand of organization. He saw someone worth the effort.
"Thank you," I whispered against his skin.
His arms tightened. "You're welcome. Now go shower. You're covered in blood and it's getting on my shirt."
I laughed and pulled back. "See? Taking care of me."
"Someone has to." But his eyes were warm. "Dinner in thirty minutes. I'm making pasta."
"Yes, Daddy."
I headed for the shower, stripping off my ruined clothes and letting the hot water wash away the evidence of the night's work. When I emerged, clean and dressed in soft clothes, the house smelled like garlic and tomatoes.
Henny was in the kitchen, moving through the space with that efficient grace he brought to everything. Pasta boiling, sauce simmering, salad already plated. I leaned against the doorframe and watched him work, marveling at how domestic this felt. How right.
"You could come help, you know," he said without turning around.
"I prefer to watch. You're beautiful when you cook."
"I'm practical when I cook. There's a difference."
"You can be both." I moved behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist, my chin on his shoulder. "What can I do to help?"
"Set the table, please. Dinner's almost ready."
I did as I was told, finding the plates and silverware in their designated spots. Everything in our kitchen had a place, an order. Glasses in one cabinet, bowls in another, cooking utensils in the drawer by the stove. No hunting for what you needed. No chaos.
It should have felt restrictive.
Instead, it felt like the perfect sort of balance I needed.
We ate at the small dining table, talking about my day and the meeting Henny had attended with Dario while I was out. Normal conversation. Comfortable.
It was insane to think we’d only been together for such a short time. The way we worked, the way we just fit, was more like a couple who’d been through years of growth. Hell, we were already living together and we’d both accepted it without an in-depth discussion.
Some things were meant to be, I guess.
After dinner, Henny washed dishes while I put away food, another routine we'd fallen into without discussion. Then he retreated to his office to finish some reports while I settled on the couch with a blanket and the chocolate covered pretzels I loved. The tv was on, some show about travel that I didn’t pay much attention to.
Instead, I kept looking around, cataloging the ways my life had changed.
My weapons were mounted on the wall in the spare room.
My clothes were hanging in the closet next to Henny's stuff.
My toothbrush in the holder by the sink.
My coffee mug in the cabinet, the baby blue one Henny ordered for me online after seeing me use paper to-go cups, because "you should have one here. "
All the small ways Daddy had made space for me in his life.
And the routines.
Fuck, so many routines.
I'd never been that type of person. Every day was different, every job unique. I ate when I was hungry, slept when I was exhausted, showered when needed. Structure was for people with normal lives.
But Henny had to have structure the way some people had religion. He woke at six-thirty every morning, made coffee at six forty-five, ate breakfast at seven. Worked out at eight unless a job prevented it. Dinner at seven in the evening. Bed by eleven.
And somehow, without me noticing when it started, I had begun following the same schedule.
This morning, I'd woken at six thirty. Not because an alarm went off, but because my body had adjusted to Henny's rhythm.
I'd wandered into the kitchen and Henny had already poured me a cup of coffee, exactly how I liked it.
We'd eaten breakfast together, and I'd realized it was nice to have a proper morning meal instead of grabbing food on the run.
It felt like my life had stabilized in a way I hadn't known I needed.
The chaotic jobs were still there. My phone rang at least once a day with offers. It had gotten to the point I’d had to turn it off this morning just to get through the meeting with Rel.
And the violence, the adrenaline, the knife's edge of danger all remained too. But now I came home to order. I came home to someone who cared whether I ate dinner or went to bed at a reasonable hour.
"What’s got you so still and quiet?" Henny's voice came from the office doorway.
I looked up. "Am I?"
"You have a face you make when you're processing." He crossed to the couch and sat beside me, close enough that our thighs touched. "What's going on in that chaotic brain, baby?"
"Just noticing things."