The smell of cordite and ozone always lingers after a job. My knuckles are bruised, my whip’s energy cell needs recharging, and my favorite suit is probably a write-off. But the client is safe, the threat is neutralized. That’s the job.

Later, the only scent I want is the salt of skin after a long shower. The only feeling I crave is the slow, deliberate pressure of a tongue tracing the curve of my spine, all the way down. Not to fix anything. Not as a reward. Just because. Because sometimes the most professional thing you can do is surrender completely to a mouth that knows how to worship every tired, stained, and perfect inch of you.