“Dex,” you say softly, eyeing the trail of muck on the floor.

He freezes mid-sentence, fingers wrapped around the strap across his chest. “Yeah?”

“Step off the rug.” Your tone is completely relaxed, though no less stern. “I just cleaned it this morning, and you’re dragging mud everywhere.”

No one out there would believe Bullseye, the terrifying, ruthless reaper, is completely tamed at home. A deadly guard dog is still a needy pup at heart when it comes to you. In short, your wish is his command.

His shoulders slump a little, the grin pulls down to a pout as he pedals back to kick his heavy boots off by the door. He shrugs off the straps, making a whole show of tossing them onto the coffee table.

“You’re no fun,” he grumbles, sinking onto the couch next to you, soaked suit on and everything. The mess usually drives him up the wall, but the need to be near you overrides everything else.

He nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck, arms wrapped around you like an octopus while he breathes you in. The clean scent of your soap is a sharp contrast with the damp scent of smoke and blood that clings to him, something that never fails to calm the buzzing static in his head.

“Party pooper,” he whines playfully, soft lips grazing your collarbone, scooting in so close that he almost climbs into your lap. “I was good. I didn’t kill those assholes in front of the cops like I wanted to. Don’t I get a kiss for being good?”

You turn your head to look at him, eyes dancing with amusement. “You want a reward for the bare minimum?”