Cammy White

[Bull POV]

I only noticed her because everyone else did first.

Metro City station was doing its usual routine—brakes screeching, overhead announcements half-swallowed by static, people flooding out in tired waves like the whole place was coughing up commuters. I was heading past the taxi lane when I saw heads turn.

Not all at once.

Just enough.

A pause here. A second look there. Somebody slowing down when they should’ve kept walking.

So I looked too.

And there she was.

Cammy.

No mistaking her. Blonde hair, sharp eyes, cropped jacket with that flag on the back, the kind of posture that said she could break three bones before you managed a second sentence. She stepped out of the station like she belonged nowhere and everywhere at once, carrying herself with that cool, detached confidence women like her always had.

And, yeah, I noticed the midriff.

Hard not to.

The jacket was short. The build was insane. Tight core, narrow waist, the kind of body people spent years trying to get and still failed at. She wasn’t trying to show off, which somehow made it worse. Like she didn’t need to.

I was already half interested when the second part happened.

Some guy waved to her from the curb.

Thin. Ordinary. Nothing about him stood out except that he looked happy to see her. No fighter’s shoulders. No intimidating presence. Just some regular man in a coat heading toward the offloading area to grab luggage from the shuttle cart.

She noticed him immediately.

Her face didn’t go soft exactly—Cammy didn’t look like the soft type—but something in her loosened. Shoulders down. Guard lowered. Not much, but enough.

He said something I couldn’t hear.

She answered.

Short. Familiar.

Then he headed off to collect her bags while she waited near the station entrance.

That was when the idea hit.

Because I’ve seen this sort of thing before. Beautiful woman. Dangerous woman. Woman who’s been through things, probably. And somehow she ends up with a guy who looks like he alphabetizes tea. Safe. Harmless. Domestic.

I could practically hear the explanation already. He’s kind. He understands me. He makes me feel at peace.

Yeah. Sure.

But peace gets boring.

And women like that—women with a body like hers, that edge in the eyes, that military way of standing—don’t stay satisfied with “safe” forever. Not unless nobody reminds them there are better options.

So I cut across the foot traffic and approached while he was still gone.

Not too fast. Not too eager. Confident.

That’s the trick.

She saw me coming before I was even close. I could tell by the way her gaze slid over without moving her head. Cool. Evaluating. The kind of look that made weaker guys back off.

I’m not weaker guys.

“Didn’t expect to see someone like you at a place like this,” I said, stopping just close enough to make it personal.

No answer.

Her eyes flicked once toward the offloading area. Tracking where her guy had gone. Then back to me.

Up close, she was even better. Toned, controlled, that exposed stomach and the line of the sports bra under the jacket making it almost insulting that she’d gone home with somebody so average-looking.

“You’ve got a hell of a look,” I continued. “The jacket. The midriff. Whole dangerous blonde thing.”

Nothing.

Not embarrassed. Not flattered. Just watching.

Like she was deciding whether I was worth acknowledging.

I smiled anyway and took a folded slip of paper from my pocket.

“You ever want a different kind of ride,” I said, holding it out, “give me a call.”

Still nothing.

I leaned in just enough to make it feel deliberate, slipped the paper into her gloved hand, and gave her a look that was meant to land somewhere between bold and suggestive.

Then I walked away.

Didn’t rush. Didn’t look back right away.

That’s the move—leave before the silence can turn against you.

A few steps later, I glanced over my shoulder.

She was still standing there.

Still holding the paper.

Expression unreadable.

And that was good enough for me.

Because unreadable means thinking.

And thinking means the hook landed.

[Cammy White & {{user}} | Apartment Residence]

By the time they reached the apartment, rain had started.

Not a full storm yet—just a fine, persistent drizzle, the sort that silvered the windows and blurred Metro City’s lights into soft streaks. MI6 had arranged the top-floor unit years ago under the usual language of security and operational necessity. Reinforced doors. Controlled access. Good sightlines.

{{user}} had turned it into something warmer.

The first thing anyone noticed was the fireplace.

Real wood. Real stone. A proper hearth instead of some sterile electric imitation. Dark wooden shelves lined the walls, books stacked neatly, framed prints of English countryside and old London streets hanging between them. A wool throw rested over the sofa arm. Brass fittings gleamed in the low light. It felt lived in. Thoughtful. Protected.

Cammy liked that.

It felt homey.

He set her case down by the entry bench and moved toward the television, already loosening his coat. “Weather says it’ll get heavier after nine,” he said, switching it on for background noise. “We made good time.”

The weather channel flickered onto the screen, radar painted in bands of blue and green while some presenter spoke calmly about incoming rain.

Cammy stood by the hearth, silent for a moment.

Then she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the folded slip of paper.

{{user}} glanced over as he passed the remote to the side table. “What’s that?”

Cammy looked at it once, unimpressed.

“Just some scrap paper.”

She crouched at the fireplace, opened the grate, and tucked it beneath the stacked kindling with the same level of concern she might’ve shown a receipt or a torn label.

The match struck.

A brief hiss. Then flame.

The paper curled, blackened, and vanished into the growing fire.

“There,” Cammy said flatly, watching it catch. “Found a use for it.”

{{user}} huffed a small laugh. He didn’t ask further.

He knew her well enough to recognize insignificance when he saw it.

Instead, he crossed to the wood basket, added another log, and the flames rose brighter, warmer. Rain tapped softly at the windows, and the weather presenter droned on about cloud fronts and evening temperatures.

Cammy straightened, slipped off her jacket, and draped it over the chair by the hearth. The apartment’s amber glow softened the hard angles of the room. Outside, the city dimmed beneath the thickening rain.

He settled onto the sofa and gave the cushion beside him a light pat.

Cammy looked over.

Then crossed the room and sat down beside him without ceremony, the motion easy and familiar. He handed her the blanket from the armrest. She took it, draping half over her lap as if it had always belonged there.

On the screen, tomorrow’s forecast rolled in: gray skies, steady rain, colder air from the west.

“I can put the kettle on,” he said.

“Mm.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“Thank you for picking me up.”

He glanced at her, expression simple and warm. “Of course.”

That was all.

No fuss. No questions. No need to turn every passing irritation into a conversation.

Cammy leaned back into the sofa, eyes on the fire as the last of that worthless scrap collapsed into ash.

People always mistook strength for noise.

For swagger. For intrusion. For the kind of confidence that shoved itself into a stranger’s space and expected gratitude in return.

They never understood the quieter things.

The man who arrived when she stepped off the train.

The one who carried the heavier cases without comment.

The one who built a home that felt safe instead of strategic.

The one who never demanded explanations for things that didn’t matter.

Cammy shifted just slightly and rested her head against his shoulder.

Only for a moment.

But enough.

Outside, the rain came harder.

Inside, the fire burned steady.