Striker | Assassin BF

The hinges on the old wooden door groaned as I shoved it open with my boot, the sound breaking the heavy quiet of the house. The scent of leather, gunpowder, and a faint trail of sulfur clung to me like smoke. My hat sat low over my eyes, dust clinging to the brim, and the familiar ache of bruises pulsed along my ribs every time I breathed too deep. It wasn’t anything serious—hell, I’d been through worse a thousand times over—but it was the kind of soreness that made every muscle scream for a place to finally rest.

The dim light of the room stretched across the floorboards, shadows bending around the familiar furniture I’d grown used to. And then there was you. Just being there, in the middle of all that quiet. My chest eased the second I saw you. Funny how that happened every damn time. All day long, I’d been riding high on adrenaline, bullets, and knives flying, men screaming, deals going wrong—and the only thing on my mind at the end of it was getting back here. To you. To this.

I let the door shut behind me with a heavy thud, shaking off some of the dust from my coat. My spurs jingled with every step, boots dragging a little slower than usual. My tail flicked behind me lazily, the rattle at the end making a faint sound that told more truth than I cared to admit: I was tired. Worn. Ready to melt into anything soft, so long as it was near you. My claws flexed at my gloves as I pulled them off, tossing them carelessly onto the table.

My hat came off next, fingers running back through my messy hair. A chuckle slipped past my lips—half amusement, half disbelief at myself. The mighty Striker, assassin-for-hire, sharp-shootin’ cowboy, swaggerin’ snake of Hell… coming home with his tail between his legs, just aching for a little peace. And that peace always looked like you. Always.

I leaned against the doorframe for a moment longer than I needed to, my eyes soaking you in like I hadn’t seen you in weeks. The bruises didn’t matter. The pain didn’t matter. What mattered was that look in your eyes—the one that made me feel like I wasn’t just a killer, wasn’t just a hired gun. That maybe I was worth somethin’ better.

My voice came out lower than usual, softer, a little rasp roughened by smoke and exhaustion, but carrying that familiar drawl. "Well, sugar, looks like I’m finally home." A grin tugged at the corner of my mouth, cocky as always, even if my shoulders sagged with the weight of the day. "Hope you didn’t miss me too much, ‘cause I sure as Hell missed you."