The apartment was quiet.
Samantha stood at the kitchen counter, stirring a pot of sauce, trying not to think about the night before.
It wasn't working. Her mind kept returning to the same six words: I have feelings for you too.
Corbin had actually said it. The man could sit across from someone with a loaded gun and look bored, but admitting he cared about her had clearly been the hardest thing he'd ever done.
She smiled to herself.
Behind her, a chair scraped. "You've been smiling at that sauce for thirty seconds," Corbin noted.
She looked over her shoulder. He sat at the table, coffee mug in hand. "I'm not smiling at the sauce. I was thinking."
"You were smiling while you thought."
She pointed her spoon at him. "Don't start. You're in a mood this morning, and you keep staring at me like you're deciding something."
"I am deciding."
"About what?"
"Whether the sauce needs salt."
She gave him a look. "Try again."
"Whether last night changes what I'm supposed to do now. Unfortunately, I have no idea."
She smiled. "Join the club. I've been smiling at dinner because if I look at you, I'll start the conversation before I've had any coffee."
She turned off the burner and walked over. "You're supposed to be honest."
"That sounds dangerous."
"It probably is."
"So we agree."
"On what?"
"That this is a terrible idea."
She laughed. "You're impossible."
"Duly noted."
Samantha sat across from him. "I meant what I said last night, and I don't want to pretend it didn't happen just because pretending would be easier."
"Neither do I."
"Good." She studied his face. "But I don't want things to get weird between us."
Corbin raised an eyebrow. "We live together, and we just admitted we like each other. That's already pretty weird."
"Maybe a little."
He reached across the table and took her hand. The gesture felt different today. The invisible line between them was gone.
She squeezed his fingers. "I want to know you, Corbin — really know you. Not just the version that makes coffee before I wake up and complains when I leave lights on."
"You do know me."
"I know that version. I don't know why you've been checking the windows every ten minutes, watching the street, listening for every car that slows down. You're trying to keep whatever it is away from me, and I need to understand why."
"Because I don't want you involved."
"That's a conclusion, not an explanation."
He stayed silent.
"You don't trust me."
"That's not true." His voice softened. "I trust you. I just don't trust the world around us."
"What kind of world is that supposed to be?"
"One where people become problems if they stand too close to me."
"That's vague, and you know it."
"It's supposed to be."
"You're giving me just enough to make me stop asking."
"Is it working?"
"No."
"Then I need to work on my delivery."
She laughed despite herself, then grew serious. "I'm not prying because I'm curious, Corbin. I'm asking because I care about you, and if something bad is happening I don't want to be the last person in the apartment to know."
He looked down at their joined hands. "I understand."
"Do you?"
A slow breath. "There's something you need to know. I haven't been completely honest with you about my work. I've never had a normal career, and it's worse than you think."
Her stomach tightened. "Then tell me."
Corbin looked straight at her, voice unnervingly steady. "I kill people."
The room went dead silent. Samantha stared, frozen.
He didn't look away or soften it. No excuse. He just waited.
"What?" she whispered.
"I kill people for a living."
Her eyes searched his face for a joke. "You mean — you're a hitman? You get paid to—"
"Yes."
"You're not joking."
"No."
She stood abruptly and stepped toward the living room window. Corbin stayed in his chair.
Outside, cars passed and people walked as if everything were normal.
She turned. "How long have you been doing this? And don't say 'a while.'"
"Years. I don't know how many people. I stopped counting."
"You don't know?" Her voice rose. "Does it keep you up? Is that why you're always at the window?"
"No. That's what the window is for." He looked toward it. "I was good at it, Samantha. That's the honest part. I chose the work. The work chose the rest."
"That's not a reason. That's an excuse with better posture."
"It's the reason I have."
She looked away. The refrigerator hummed. "Then explain the rest. All of it."
He stood and walked into the living room, stopping a few feet from her. "I didn't grow up planning this. I learned early that I was good at things most people aren't — reading people, seeing details, staying calm when everyone else panicked. The violence came later. At first it was survival. The people around me hurt other people, so I learned how they worked. Eventually I learned how to stop them."
"By killing them."
"Sometimes. Then people started offering to pay me for it, and I took the money because I already knew what I was capable of — and because I could choose my targets."
"What does that mean, choose them?"
"I don't kill whoever someone points at. I investigate every contract before I accept it. If the target doesn't deserve it, I walk away. More than once."
"And the ones you do accept? You expect me to believe they're all monsters?"
"No. Some are. Some are just people who made bad choices involving the wrong person's money."
"And their families?"
"I told you. Never. Not if they're in the room, not if they're in the way. Especially then."
"How do you live with that?"
"I don't pretend I'm a good man, and I don't pretend I'm a hero or a vigilante. I'm a man who made a living doing something most people couldn't survive doing."
"Then what are you?"
"Tired."
"And you're okay with that?"
"No." Instant. "But I'm at peace with knowing what I am."
She nodded slowly. "Do you have rules, or is that just something you tell yourself?"
"I don't kill innocent people. If a contract is for one person, I only hit that person. Never their family. Never bystanders."
"Never?" she asked.
"Never."
"That's a strange kind of moral."
"It's the only kind I could keep."
She remembered his tense behavior the last few days. "Is that why you've been watching the street? Because someone is after you — and they don't care about your rules."
"Yes."
"Are they after me?" Her voice dropped.
"I don't know."
She looked at his eyes and knew he was telling the truth — which made it worse. "What's your other rule?"
"If the client lies to me about the target, then the client becomes my problem."
A cold certainty in his voice gave her chills.
"Has that happened before?"
"Yes."
"What did you do?"
"I handled it."
She didn't ask for details. "Don't tell me," she said quietly. "I mean it."
"You didn't ask," he said.
She walked back over to him.
"I don't know what to do with any of this, Corbin."
"You don't have to do anything tonight."
"Easy for you to say. You've had years to accept what you are. I found out ten minutes ago."
"You're right." He stepped closer and took her hand. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner — not because I think you're going to run, but because you deserved the truth."
"Don't apologize like you're bracing for the door."
"I'm apologizing because you deserved the truth."
She stared at him. "I don't think I'll ever be comfortable with what you do, or understand it."
"I don't expect you to be. I don't expect either."
A deep breath. "But I'm still here."
He looked at her — fear and anger both in her eyes. She hadn't packed a bag. She hadn't walked out.
"You don't have to figure everything out tonight," he said softly.
"I've already figured one thing out. I'm not leaving."
"Samantha—"
"I'm staying because I fell in love with you." She cut him off. "And now I have to deal with the fact that the man I love is a professional killer."
A faint smile touched his lips. "That's one way to put it."
"Don't be funny."
"Sorry."
She squeezed his hand. "Most romantic confession I've ever received."
"You're welcome."
"No details, no names, no explanations of how you do it. And no more lies — if you're in danger, you tell me."
"Agreed. I will."
Samantha stepped forward and kissed him. No hesitation.
When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against his. "One more thing."
"What."
"You're sleeping on the couch tonight."
"Why."
"Because I need to think."
"Fair."
"For a guy who claims to be so smart, you're terrible at romance."
"I'm learning."
"Very slowly."
His eyes flicked toward the window for a fraction of a second. Samantha noticed. Instead of questioning him, she held his hand tighter.
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
"That this was already complicated, and now it's worse."
She smiled a little. "And?"
"And I'm not leaving the apartment tonight."
"Good," she said. "Neither am I."
The Mercer contract was still out there. Vance was still searching.
But Samantha knew the truth now, and she was still standing beside him.
For Corbin, that was more terrifying than any enemy he'd ever faced. Enemies were simple. Love meant giving someone the power to hurt you — and he had just given her that power willingly.