DeLuca's Sin

Quiet Mornings

I stood in front of the full-length mirror, dressed in a neatly ironed black shirt, grey trousers, slick, shiny black shoes, hair gelled back as I fastened my cuffs in place.

I could still hear the screams in my head, the gunshots, the fight from last night's dream. I left the first two buttons of my shirt open, but there was still a lump in my throat that had refused to go away.

"Whiskers, get off the counter. You're not helping." The sound of her voice—soft, half-amused—came in through the open door of our room. Every hardened muscle in my neck and shoulders instantly eased. Putting on my wristwatch, I walked out of the room and into the kitchen.

She was standing by the granite counter, the sunlight shone from the open, tall window, catching the strands of her hair that had escaped the bun she had made. She was wearing one of my shirts with the sleeves rolled up; she looked adorable in it. Whiskers sat sprawled across the counter, tail moving back and forth. I could smell the coffee, toast, and chamomile.

"You're ready early," she noted, the curve of her smile a silent tease. At some point, she had noticed me and turned.

"I want to be early to the meeting today," I replied, my gaze still lingering on her profile. "This project has to be perfect," I said, stepping closer to her and taking her into my embrace.

Her scent of lavender and something else I haven't yet figured out a name for, that scent of fresh air before a heavy rain, filled my nostrils, and every lingering dark thought in my head flew out the window. The metallic tang of the dream, of old blood and gunpowder, receded, replaced by the immediate warmth of her presence.

She put her hand around my neck, circling her fingers at the back of my head, which calmed my nerves as always.

"I remember you mentioned that. I fixed something simple and quick. Come, let's eat," she released her hand from my neck, leading me to the already set table.

A sweet smile, subtle and rare, tugged at the corner of my mouth, the one only she could bring out. I watched her—the easy grace of her fingers stroking the cat's fur, the way she ate small, almost distracted bites.

"You're spoiling him," I stated, the accusation flat.

"He listens better than you," she retorted, a quiet thread of warmth in her voice.

"Hmmm." A momentary feeling of jealousy washed over me; if not that I loved that cat as well, I would have probably given him up for adoption a long, long time ago. I sliced the toast in front of me a little harder than normal and tossed it into my mouth.

"So," she said, shifting the topic, "your billion-dollar clients… haven't they concluded on where to hide their precious vaults?"

"They haven't decided, but Hillary Smith and Raymond Hunt mentioned having theirs underground while the Delph company want theirs underwater. Nothing concrete for now."

Her eyes widened. "Underwater vaults? That's insane, even for you," she said, picking up an apple and a knife.

"They pay me to make the insane reasonable."

"Maybe I should hire you," she said, her tone teasing.

"You'd be my first client, I'd definitely put theirs on hold."

"Discount?"

"Not a chance."

Her soothing laughter followed.

"Ah!!."

My chair grated against the floor. I was at her side before the sound died, my hand moving to capture hers. A bead of red glimmered on her fingertip, and my chest seized.

"You should be careful," I said, the words quiet. She had cut herself while slicing the apples.

"Luuu, it's nothing serious," she whispered, her gaze lifting to mine—playful, yet soft.

"Still." I pressed a napkin to it. My thumb circled the small cut, then I planted a kiss on it. "Does it hurt?" I asked.

"Just a bit," she replied with a confident smile, "I'm fine, Lu."

She leaned back, resting her free hand on the cat again.

"Ano," she said, dragging the invisible 'r', twisting her injured hand to hold mine instead.

Arrrno? This was serious.

"My appointment runs a bit late today. Can I take the Phantom?"

I froze, my hand tightening.