Chapter 20
OLOG
Iwatch Bliss collapse onto my reinforced couch, clutching the binder to her chest, her entire body shaking with laughter, and I experience a physical sensation I have not felt in years.
Mortification.
Deep, bone-level embarrassment.
I cross my arms over my chest, my jaw tight, attempting to salvage what remains of my dignity.
"It is a practical organizational system designed to maximize relationship efficiency and minimize potential distress triggers," I say, my voice coming out far more defensive. "The compilation of such data is standard protocol in any high-stakes protection detail."
She wipes tears from her eyes, still giggling.
"Olog. We're dating. Not executing a military operation."
"The distinction is negligible when your well-being is at stake."
She opens the binder again, flipping through pages with unrestrained glee, and I resist the urge to physically retrieve the classified intelligence from her hands.
"Oh my stars," she breathes, stopping on a page with multiple color-coded charts. "You graphed my menstrual cycle and cross-referenced it with optimal comfort food delivery timing."
"Chocolate consumption patterns demonstrated a significant correlation with hormonal fluctuations," I reply stiffly. "The data supported proactive intervention strategies."
"You have a tab labeled Tactical Compliment Deployment."
"Specificity increases impact. Generic praise is inefficient."
She looks up at me, her brown eyes bright with affection and amusement, and something in my body loosens fractionally.
"This is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me," she says softly.
I blink.
That was not the reaction I anticipated.
"You are not... disturbed by the comprehensive surveillance implications?"
"Disturbed?" She stands, crossing the room to me, the binder still clutched in her hands. "Olog, you made a manual to make sure you never accidentally hurt me. You documented everything I love so you'd never forget. This isn't creepy. This is you."
She rises on her toes, pressing a kiss to my jaw.
"This is exactly the kind of obsessive, overprotective, incredibly thoughtful thing I expect from the man who took a glass of wine to the chest to protect my dress."
I exhale slowly, my hands settling on her hips, pulling her closer.
"The binder also contains contingency plans for seventy-three different family emergency scenarios," I admit. "Including your Aunt Susan's potential heart attack and your father's inevitable public intoxication incident."
"Of course it does."
"And a full dossier on your ex-boyfriend, including his current address, employment history, and documented pattern of financial irresponsibility."
Her eyebrows lift.
"Are you planning to kill him?"
"No. But the intelligence is available should circumstances require reevaluation of that position."
She laughs again, shaking her head, and sets the binder carefully on the side table before wrapping her arms around me.
"I love you," she says simply. "And your terrifying organizational skills."
I rest my chin on top of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo mixed with the faint jasmine of her perfume.
"I love you as well," I murmur. "Though I maintain the binder represents reasonable due diligence, not obsession."
"Keep telling yourself that, big guy."
We stand there in comfortable silence, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and the evidence of our merging lives, and I experience something I have not allowed myself to feel in a very long time.
Peace.
The following week, I wake at precisely zero-five-thirty, as I have every morning for the past fifteen years.
My internal clock does not recognize weekends or holidays or the fact that I no longer work for the gig agency that demanded such rigid discipline.
I lie still for a moment, listening to Bliss's soft breathing beside me, her body curved against mine, one of her legs tangled between my much larger ones.
She is wearing one of my shirts, the fabric hanging nearly to her knees, and her hair is a wild tangle across the pillow.
She is perfect.
I carefully extract myself from the bed, moving with the silent precision that comes from years of tactical training, and pull on a pair of sweatpants before heading to the kitchen.
My new security firm officially launches in three weeks.
The contracts are already signed, a corporate executive who flinches at loud noises, an estate owner who triple-locks his doors at night. The spreadsheets show green across the board, numbers climbing steadily into sustainable territory.
The intake forms now include a section I added myself, questions designed to filter out a specific type of wealth. The kind that buys people. The kind that would have hired me to intimidate their daughter's fake boyfriend.
I never want to work for anyone like Bliss's father again.
The scoop hovers over the coffee grounds when footsteps whisper across the floor behind me.
"You're up early." Bliss's voice carries the soft rasp of interrupted sleep.
I turn my head.
She is leaning against the doorframe, my shirt sliding off one shoulder, her eyes half-closed.
"Habit," I reply. "I did not intend to wake you."
"You didn't." She pads across the kitchen, wrapping her arms around me from behind, pressing her cheek against my back. "I got cold."
Something warm and possessive tightens in me.
I set down the coffee scoop and turn, lifting her effortlessly onto the counter so we are closer to eye level.
She smiles sleepily, her hands sliding up my bare chest.
"Good morning," she whispers.
"Good morning."
I kiss her slowly, thoroughly, taking my time, and she makes a soft, pleased sound that travels directly to my groin.
"Coffee first," she mumbles against my mouth. "I'm not functional yet."
"Noted."
I step back, resuming my coffee preparation with mechanical efficiency, and she watches me with obvious amusement.
"Do you have a color-coded system for making coffee too?"
"Water temperature, grind consistency, and extraction time are critical variables," I reply without looking up. "Inconsistency produces inferior results."
"You're insane."
"You accepted a marriage blade from me. Your judgment is equally questionable."
She laughs, kicking her bare feet against the cabinet.
I finish preparing her coffee exactly the way she prefers it—medium roast, precisely one hundred seventy-five degrees, with a specific ratio of cream to sugar that I have calculated to the milliliter—and hand her the mug.
She takes a sip, closes her eyes, and sighs.
"Perfect."
"Obviously."
She sets the mug down, reaching for me again, and I step into her space, my hands settling on her thighs.
"What's the plan for today?" she asks.
"I have a conference call at zero-nine-hundred regarding the estate security contract. Following that, I will complete the installation of the reinforced shelving unit in the study and conduct a comprehensive review of our household supply inventory."
She studies me with an expression I have come to recognize as fond exasperation.
"Olog. It's the weekend."
"Maximum productivity doesn't acknowledge meaningless temporal divisions," I reply, perfectly serious.
"Optimal household management operates on a continuous operational cycle, regardless of whether the current day falls within the standard Monday-through-Friday work week or the arbitrarily designated rest period. "
She moves her head, her fingers tracing absent patterns on my forearm.
"We need to work on your understanding of downtime."
"I am experiencing downtime," I point out. "I am currently in the kitchen. With you. Consuming coffee. This qualifies as recreational activity."
"You're mentally preparing to conduct a comprehensive audit of our bathroom tissue reserves," she says flatly.
I pause.
She is not incorrect.
"Inventory management is a critical component of household security," I say, which is objectively true. "We are dangerously close to a supply shortage situation."
"Our reserves have diminished to four rolls. That constitutes a significant resource shortage."
She rests her forehead on my chest, trembling with suppressed laughter.
"I adore you so much, you gorgeous, unhinged lunatic."
I kiss the crown of her head, my palms gliding up her spine.
"I adore you equally. Despite your dismissal of my legitimate supply management concerns."
She angles her face upward, beaming at me.
"How about this. You do your conference call, I'll go buy more toilet paper, and then we spend the rest of the day doing absolutely nothing productive."
I consider this proposal.
Doing nothing productive triggers mild anxiety.
But the idea of spending an entire day with Bliss, without tactical objectives or schedules, holds a certain appeal.
"Define nothing productive," I say cautiously.
"Couch. Movies. Takeout. Possibly napping."
"That schedule lacks structure."
"That's the point."
I study her face, the warmth in her eyes, the slight smile playing at her lips, and make a tactical decision.
"Acceptable," I concede. "But I reserve the right to optimize the takeout selection process."
"Of course you do."
She pulls me down for another kiss, and I forget entirely about toilet paper inventory.
At precisely fourteen-hundred hours, I am lying on the couch with Bliss draped across my chest, her head tucked beneath my chin, while some absurd romantic comedy plays on the television.
The plot is borderline nonsensical, following no logical narrative structure whatsoever.
The dialogue between characters bears no resemblance to how actual humans communicate in real-world situations.
The protagonist consistently makes wildly impractical, tactically questionable decisions approximately every seven to nine minutes, demonstrating a profound lack of strategic planning or basic operational awareness.
I cannot recall a single moment in my existence when I have felt more thoroughly, completely, unreservedly content.