Ashton Carter

Thud.

The man crumpled to the floor, lifeless, as I withdrew my dagger from his chest. The final target—clean, precise, silent. Just the way I like it. I wiped the blade with the edge of his designer suit—real shame, it was a nice one—and slid it back into its holster beneath my coat.

Straightening my tie, I exhaled slowly.

Mission: complete.

And now, the only thing on my mind?

Home.

I could barely contain my excitement. Three whole weeks away—three long, bloody, hellish weeks—and finally, finally, I’d be seeing her again. My wife. My Ellie. The softness to my sharp edges. And of course, the two little tornadoes we created together—Mila and Luca. Our tiny terrorists.

As I stepped out into the cool night air, imagining Ellie’s warm smile and how good she’d smell in my arms again, my phone buzzed.

Of course.

It was him.

“Boss,” I answered, voice clipped and professional. “Vesper reporting. Mission accomplished.”

A pause. Then his voice came through, deep and gruff. “Good. You’re cleared to return home. I’ll contact you when your next assignment comes in.”

Vesper.

That’s what they call me. A name whispered in the underworld like a prayer you don’t want answered. To them, I’m a shadow. A myth. A walking death sentence with a perfect kill streak.

But not to her.

To Ellie, I’m just Ash—Ashton Carter—her sleepy, lovestruck husband who sometimes forgets the laundry and burns toast but can cradle her like she’s glass.

I like being her Ash more than I’ve ever liked being anyone else.

Hell, I’ve slit a man’s throat with less care than I use to undo her bra strap. But I digress.

Ellie and I have two tiny monsters. Mila, five years old, already a drama queen with more attitude than her tiny frame should allow. And Luca, two, who can cry like the world’s ending when his banana breaks in half. My glorious little chaos duo.

God, I missed them.

But mostly, I missed her. Her hands, her voice, her laugh when I fall asleep in the middle of her rants. The way she says my name—Ash—like it’s something worth being.

And tonight, after weeks of bloodshed, all I want is to be under the covers, tangled with my wife, making up for lost time. Slowly. Thoroughly. Repeatedly.

If the world could just give me one night of peace, I’d be the happiest damn assassin alive.

I quickly changed out of my bloodstained suit and into something a little more... domestic.

A hoodie and jeans — the unofficial uniform of tired dads and harmless husbands.

Perfect.

The thing about being an assassin is that you never really get to exist in the world. You blend into it. Stay beneath it. I’ve worn so many disguises I sometimes forget what my real face looks like. But this—this hoodie, this worn pair of jeans? This is as close as I ever get to feeling human.

To most people, I’m just a boring government desk guy who travels too much and avoids family reunions.

In reality?

I’m the government’s sharpest blade.

Their shadow.

Their secret weapon.

I do the kind of dirty work they can’t file paperwork for. Eliminating people the legal system can’t touch. I’ve silenced monsters, ghosts, men who think themselves gods. All of it—off the record. Untraceable. Forgotten.

Even my own parents think I’m a glorified travel agent.

They just assume I have a lot of meetings in "Eastern Europe."

Only one person knows the truth.

Ellie.

I never meant to tell her. I thought I could keep that part of me separate.

But Ellie… she sees through walls. She saw right through me.

And instead of running?

She stayed.

She accepted me—bloodstains and all.

Sometimes I still wonder what I did to deserve her.

My thoughts were interrupted by the flight attendant’s voice:

“Sir? Boarding pass, please.”

I blinked, slightly dazed, then quickly handed over my boarding pass, passport, and the other documents. She scanned them with a practiced smile and waved me forward.

As I walked toward the boarding tunnel, I pulled out my phone for the hundredth time that day. My lockscreen glowed to life.

Her.

Her photo stared back at me — soft and warm and stunning.

Those doe-shaped hazel eyes, always wide with curiosity or mischief.

That little button nose, which she always scrunches when she’s annoyed with me.

Those flushed cheeks, always glowing — even when she denies blushing.

And those lips... full, plush, rosy. God, the things I wanted to do to her.

I smiled like an idiot.

It was ridiculous how badly I missed her.

I’d taken down five highly trained men this week, crawled through sewers, jumped off a fifth-floor balcony, and poisoned a mafia heir — and yet, none of that compared to the sheer thrill of seeing Ellie again.

I wanted to kiss her senseless. Pin her to the wall. Bury my face in her neck and pretend the world didn’t exist.

I felt... giddy.

Like some awkward teenager in love for the first time.

That’s what Ellie did to me.

She made me stupid.

Happy.

Human.

And in a life full of shadows, she was the only thing that ever felt like daylight.

Within a few hours, I was back in my city—back where I belonged.

The moment I stepped off the plane, my heart kicked up like I was on a battlefield again. But this wasn’t adrenaline from danger. No.

This was excitement. Longing.

Ellie.

I hailed a taxi the second I could and gave the driver my home address so fast I might’ve broken a speed record. Even that short, fifteen-minute ride felt like crawling through molasses. Every red light was an insult. Every traffic jam, a personal attack. I had taken bullets faster than this.

Finally, the car rolled to a stop in front of my house—my sanctuary, my soft place. I shoved some cash into the driver’s hand (definitely overpaid, definitely didn’t care) and practically jumped out.

I walked up the familiar pathway, my steps quick and light. My fingers trembled as I raised them to knock on the door, and then—

The door creaked open.

There she was.

Ellie stood in the doorway, sunlight painting her face like a dream. Her hair was pulled back in that casual way she always wore it at home, and her eyes sparkled the moment they landed on me.

“Welcome home, honey,” she said softly, her voice like warm tea after a storm.

God. I could’ve cried.

Instead, I surged forward, desperate to kiss her—to taste her lips, to breathe her in like I’d been drowning for weeks.

Just as I was about to press my lips to hers—

“Ah! Ash! You’re home??” came my mother’s voice from the living room.

I froze mid-lunge like I’d been caught stealing cookies. My lips hovered near Ellie’s cheek, and I awkwardly swerved and landed a quick kiss on her temple instead.

Ellie blinked, clearly confused.

I pulled back with the grace of a malfunctioning robot.

“Uh—hi, Mom!” I called out, my voice cracking just slightly.

Because nothing kills passion faster than your mom’s voice echoing from the couch while you’re trying to devour your wife.

Ellie covered her laugh with a cough, and I glared at her playfully.

Operation: Kiss Her Senseless — status: failed.

Elia Carter

I watched my husband stop mid-lunge like someone hit him with a freeze ray.

One second he was charging in like a soldier on a mission — lips parted, eyes burning with need — and the next, he was stiff as a board, hovering inches away from my face.

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

Poor Ashie.

He had that familiar look in his eyes — the one that said “I have been deprived of you for twenty-one days and I intend to make up for it in twenty-one seconds.”

And here we were.

With both our sets of parents in the house.

And two kids.

And paper-thin walls.

Yeah.

No way in hell.

He pressed a kiss to my temple instead, with the enthusiasm of a man forced to drink water when he was promised wine.

“Hi, Mom!” he called awkwardly over my shoulder, his voice cracking like a teenager’s.

I stepped aside to let him in, stifling another laugh.

He walked into the living room — and immediately froze.

His eyes darted from my mom chatting with his dad, to my dad loudly discussing politics with his mom, and then back to me. His jaw dropped slightly, like he couldn’t quite believe his homecoming had turned into a family conference.

“A-Ah... y’all are here...?” he asked, forcing a smile that was one twitch away from a grimace. “Any occasion...?”

I gave him an innocent smile. “They’re here for Mila’s birthday.”

Ash blinked. “Oh—uh… when’s that?”

Cue the dramatic entrance.

“HUH?!”

Mila came marching down the hallway in her sparkly pink tutu, looking personally offended. She pointed an accusatory finger at her father like a prosecutor in court.

“What kind of dad are you?! You forgot my birthday!”

Ash looked like he’d been slapped with a glittery glove. “N-no, no! Of course not, sweetie. Daddy’s just... been very busy, you know, with work and stuff...?”

Mila crossed her arms. “Daddy’s stupid.”

My father snorted into his teacup.

Ash clutched his heart dramatically. “Ouch. Brutal.”

Luca toddled in next, holding a stuffed dragon upside-down, and screamed for no reason. Ash gave me a look. I shrugged.

Welcome home, darling.

“Anyway,” Mila huffed dramatically, arms crossed and one brow arched, “at least tell me you brought me a gift.”

I bit back a smile. Where on earth did she get that attitude from?

Certainly not me. And Ash—well, Ash only pretended to be dramatic.

Ash bowed with exaggerated flair. “Yes, Your Ladyship. I wouldn’t dare return empty-handed.”

He reached into his bag like a magician unveiling a grand trick. “Behold.”

Mila squealed as he pulled out a sparkly tiara, a set of glitter markers, and a stuffed unicorn the size of her torso. All was forgiven. Our little queen beamed.

Ash went around next, handing a dinosaur puzzle to Luca (who tried to eat it), a set of imported tea for my mom, some foreign liquor for his dad, and even spicy snacks for mine.

And then, he turned to me.

“For my queen,” he said softly, handing me a small, carefully wrapped box.

I unwrapped it and gasped.

Inside was a delicate glass snow globe — and within it, two tiny figurines that looked just like us. Me in my favorite summer dress, Ash in his hoodie and jeans, standing under a glass-blown tree that shimmered with flecks of gold. A swirl of silver snow danced around us when I shook it gently.

“It’s... beautiful,” I whispered, fingers tracing the base. “It’s magical.”

He smiled, boyish and proud. But as much as I loved it — and I truly did — nothing could compare to the real gift: his safe return.

Every time he left, a part of me held my breath. And every time he came back, I could finally breathe again.

My prayers had been answered once more. May they be answered again, and again, and again.

Later that evening, I placed the snow globe on our bedroom shelf. It stood there glowing in the soft amber light — our tiny perfect world in a ball of glass.

I was lost in thought, gazing at it, when I felt a familiar warmth behind me.

Two arms snaked around my waist. I didn’t need to turn — I knew that embrace anywhere. His breath brushed against my skin as he buried his face in the crook of my neck. A shiver crawled up my spine.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment so bad...” he whispered, his voice rough and low against my ear.

I let out a soft chuckle, leaning back into him. “I could feel it. From the moment you walked in the door.”

“Then why are you still resisting me?” he murmured, his lips barely grazing my skin.

“Because,” I said teasingly, “Half our family is in the house.”

“So?” he said without missing a beat. “The walls upstairs are thicker.”

“Thick enough to muffle you?” I teased, elbowing him lightly.

He groaned dramatically, tightening his hold. “Cruel. So cruel. You really want me to suffer like this?”

I turned in his arms, resting my hands on his chest. “Welcome home, Ash.”

His eyes softened. “It’s good to be home.”

His arms found their way around my waist again, pulling me flush against him. I felt the slow, warm burn in my cheeks as his breath fanned against my neck.

"You have no idea," he whispered, voice husky, "how badly I wanted to hold you. To bury my face in your skin and just... bathe in your scent."

My breath hitched. His words always had this way of crawling under my skin and lighting a fire.

“And you,” I murmured, resting my head against his chest, “have no idea how relieved I am to see you come home safe. Every time you walk through that door… it feels like a prayer answered.”

His chin rested on the top of my head, and I felt the rise and fall of his breathing — steady, comforting.

“Hm… well,” he said, voice rumbling through his chest, “I think your prayers are my bulletproof armor. But even if something did happen… I’d haunt you. You’re stuck with me, Ellie. I’d rather be a ghost wrapped around your soul than go to heaven without you. You’re tied to me for eternity, Mrs. Carter.”

I let out a soft laugh and tilted my head back to look at him.

“Is that so?” I teased, eyes glinting. “Well, that’s oddly romantic, Mr. Carter.”

I leaned in, slowly, deliberately, just close enough that he could feel my breath on his lips. I watched as his eyes flickered to my mouth.

And then — there it was. That pink flush rising in his cheeks.

“Oh my god,” I laughed, pulling back a little, “are you blushing?”

He groaned and dropped his forehead onto my shoulder dramatically.

“Don’t you start!” he mumbled against my skin. “You’re a damn tease, woman! You’re playing with my desperation!”

I laughed harder, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Desperation suits you.”

“You’re cruel,” he muttered.

“I’m playful,” I corrected with a smirk. “There’s a difference.”

Just then, his grip on my waist tightened, pulling me flush against him — hard chest, strong arms, and all that bottled-up desperation crashing into me like a wave. My breath caught.

“I’m one second away from locking that bedroom door,” he growled low into my ear, his lips brushing my skin. And then — he kissed the side of my neck.

I felt my knees wobble slightly.

“Y-you know, right—your parents are downstai—”

Another kiss. Lower. Just below my ear. My voice cracked. My thoughts scattered.

He wasn’t playing fair.

“Ellie…” he murmured, his voice a velvet threat, “I haven’t touched you in three weeks. Three. That’s a violation of human rights.”

I clutched the front of his hoodie to stay upright. “Oh yeah? Want me to file a complaint for you?”

“I’ll file it against you, actually,” he whispered with another kiss. “Cruel and unusual punishment. And I still think the walls are thick enough—”

That’s when it happened.

A shriek pierced the air like a fire alarm.

“MOM!! Luca put glitter glue in my hair AGAIN!!”

We both froze.

Silence.

I sighed deeply. “...There goes the mood.”

Ash leaned his head back against the wall and groaned. “I hate it here.”

I burst out laughing — the timing, his face, the sheer absurdity of the moment. It was too much.

Still laughing, I grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the door. “Come on, Daddy Assassin. Parenthood calls.”

He trudged behind me like a war veteran heading into another battle.

“Y’know,” he muttered, “sometimes I think missions are less chaotic than this house.”

“Because missions don’t involve glitter glue and tutu tantrums.”

“They also don’t involve me being this close to finally kissing my wife,” he complained dramatically, holding up his fingers a millimeter apart.

I laughed again. “Consider it practice in restraint.”

He gave me a flat look. “Restraint is not my strong suit.”

“Oh, I noticed.”

And with that, we descended the stairs, side by side — the deadly assassin and his teasing wife — ready to tackle their two tiny tornados.

Sort of.

Ashton Carter

I hate it. I repeat — I hate it.

I’m a trained assassin, for crying out loud. I've toppled crime syndicates, escaped death traps, and delivered high-level threats with a calm expression and blood on my gloves.

And yet—here I am.

Sitting in a comically tiny plastic chair.

Wearing a tiara.

Holding a neon-pink toy cup.

Pretending to sip air while playing "royal tea party" with my daughter.

This is not how I imagined my glorious homecoming.

All I wanted was to wrap myself around my wife like a koala and burrow into her soft, warm body for an entire evening. Was that so much to ask?

Apparently, yes. Yes, it was.

"So, what do you think of the taste, Miss Emily?" Mila asked in a delicate, practiced voice. She even raised her pinky. Her pinky.

Honestly, where does she get this from? The child was five but carried herself like a duchess at a Buckingham gala.

“It suits my taste, Miss Mila,” I replied blandly, still clinging to my last shreds of dignity.

She narrowed her eyes. “Not like that, Daddy! Act like a girl!”

From behind me, I heard a stifled laugh. I didn’t have to turn.

Ellie.

Oh, that cruel, gorgeous woman. Laughing at my downfall.

I cleared my throat and tried again, this time in the highest, shrillest voice I could manage without dying of shame.

“It suits my taste, Miss Mila~!”

Mila nodded approvingly, then straightened her posture. “Very well. How about a morning walk, Miss Emily?”

I internally screamed.

“Sounds delightful!” I chirped, fluttering my fingers.

“Wrong!!” Mila huffed, looking genuinely scandalized. “Royal princesses don’t walk! They ride in their horse chariots! Their gowns will get dirty!”

I blinked. “...Right. Of course. How could I forget the gown emergency.” I cleared my throat again. “How about we ride in our horse chariot, Miss Mila?”

She beamed. “Sure, Miss Emily!”

We both pranced around in slow, awkward circles — her in full princess mode, me holding the toy teacup like it was made of plutonium. If any of my colleagues saw this, I’d have to kill them.

Just as I was about to mentally plan my escape, a sweet voice rang out from the kitchen.

“Okay, okay — we’ve got to pause this royal stroll. It’s dinner time,” Ellie called.

Thank. God.

I nearly dropped to my knees in gratitude.

“Duty calls, Your Highness,” I said to Mila, handing her the tiara like I was surrendering a crown.

She took it with all the seriousness of a queen. “Indeed, Miss Emily. We shall continue after the royal feast.”

Please no.

I shuffled toward the kitchen with the energy of a war survivor.

Ellie raised an eyebrow at me as I passed her.

“How’s it going, Miss Emily?”

I shot her a look. “You are evil.”

She smirked and pecked my cheek. “But you love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

She laughed and slipped her hand into mine as we walked to the dining table. “You're a good dad, Ash.”

“I was trained to withstand torture,” I muttered. “Didn’t realize it would be glitter and imaginary scones.”

She squeezed my hand.

“And you look very cute in a tiara.”

“…Don’t push your luck.”

We sat down for dinner, and I naturally claimed the chair beside Ellie. She was still moving around, making sure everything was perfect—setting out the bowls, pouring water, wiping down a spot that didn’t need wiping. Classic Ellie.

Once she finally sat down beside me, I was ready to pounce.

Well…figuratively.

Literally? I just placed my hand on her thigh under the table.

Subtle. Smooth. Assassin-level execution.

I felt her body jolt ever so slightly in surprise, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, didn’t glare at me. Of course she wouldn’t. The whole family was seated right there — her parents, my parents, and two kids who would absolutely repeat any weird sentence they heard.

But the warmth I felt under those soft grey sweatpants?

It nearly broke me.

I kept my expression neutral, casually forking some mashed potatoes into my mouth while my thumb gently traced slow, innocent (not really) circles against her skin.

I peeked sideways.

Her cheeks were definitely turning red. She was doing her best to ignore me, acting like she wasn’t blushing to the roots of her hair. Her jaw was tight, her grip on the spoon just a little too stiff.

God, I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to scoop her up in my arms, toss her over my shoulder, and disappear upstairs like some caveman with a mission.

But fate, as always, hated me.

“So, Ash,” her father — Michael Juanes — cleared his throat and leaned forward, “how’s work treating you these days? Any promotions or raises lately?”

I froze. For just a second.

Then, slowly, I withdrew my hand and forced a tight smile.

“Work’s going good, sir. The boss is…very pleased with my performance.”

Which was true. The last mission was clean, precise, and ended with me dodging twelve bullets and a pipe bomb. The kind of job that deserved a bonus.

Not exactly dinner table material.

Michael nodded, thankfully not noticing Ellie subtly inhaling like she was trying to regulate her pulse. “That’s great. You’ve always been a brilliant man. I’m proud of the way you provide for your family.”

“Thank you,” I said, genuinely touched — and also deeply frustrated.

If only he knew that providing for this family sometimes meant hanging off helicopters or sneaking into shady arms deals in Belarus.

Across from me, Ellie cleared her throat, still looking very pink.

My mother, oblivious, smiled brightly. “Ash is always so composed. Calm, reliable. Even as a kid, he was like that.”

Ellie nearly choked on her water.

I leaned over and whispered in her ear, voice low enough so only she could hear:

“Apparently I’m calm, reliable…and extremely patient.”

She bit her lip, eyes flicking up at me—sharp, flustered, and warning all at once. If looks could kill, I’d already be six feet under, murdered by my own wife's playful glare.

I grinned and leaned closer. “Payback for the tea party,” I whispered smugly.

Her response was low and dangerous, like silk laced with daggers.

“Just wait until we get back to our room.”

I raised a brow, excitement bubbling in my chest. “Oh, I can’t wait, darling.”

We returned to our meal, pretending everything was perfectly normal. Except it wasn’t. Because under the table, my hand remained firmly on her thigh. A silent rebellion. A bold promise.

And then I got braver.

I let my fingers slowly trail upward, from her knee to the softer, warmer skin of her inner thigh. I didn’t look at her, just kept chewing my food like the perfect gentleman. But I could feel the tension in her body. She stiffened, shifted slightly, pretending to reach for the salt just to mask her movement.

Her face was scarlet. Her spoon clinked against her bowl, just slightly off rhythm. Her father looked at her for a split second but dismissed it as maybe her being flustered from the hot soup.

I, of course, decided to push my luck.

My thumb grazed the most sensitive spot near the hem of her sweatpants, and her entire body gave a subtle jolt. She let out a small breath, quickly covering it with a fake cough. I smirked down at my plate, utterly delighted.

But fate had one more plot twist waiting for me.

“Mumma! Mummaaaa!!”

A shrill whine pierced through the air, and we both turned just in time to see our two-year-old son, Luca, dramatically upending his bowl of rice onto the table like he was offering it to the gods. A perfect, sticky, globby mess.

“I no want this! I want cheesy noodles!” he wailed.

Ellie jumped up, her chair scraping the floor. “Luca! Oh my god—baby, no—!”

I sat back, hand slipping away from her thigh with a silent, mournful goodbye.

There it was.

The Assassin’s Curse.

Interrupted again.

I wiped my mouth with a napkin, watching my beautiful wife dash toward the kitchen, her hips swaying with urgency—and, let’s be honest, no small amount of unfulfilled tension.

I sighed heavily and ate my food.