Johan POV

I don’t remember deciding.

There was no grand plan, no formal command to my men, no strategy board laid out in red lines and names.

It happened the moment I saw him laugh.
That soft, unguarded smile on his face as he helped an old woman in the bookstore find a novel from her youth. His eyes crinkled at the corners. His hands brushed hers gently. His voice—calm and kind—wrapped around her like a warm scarf.

That was the moment.

The precise second I knew:
I couldn’t be on the outside anymore.

I had to be in his world.

Even if I had to lie to do it.

Especially if I had to lie.

The bookstore posted a flier two days later:
HELP WANTED — Temporary Assistant. Flexible Hours. Reliable.

It had taken me less than an hour to set it up.

The owner owed me—without even knowing it. A little debt I’d engineered through a shell company donation that saved her shop from closing six months ago. All legal. All invisible.

She had no idea I was pulling her strings.

No idea I was coming.

I watched North through the glass when I entered that morning.
Back turned, hoodie up, sorting books into uneven stacks at the corner table.

He didn’t look up when the bell jingled.

He didn’t know the man who walked in wasn’t real.

I wore soft edges. Neutral tones. Glasses. Messy hair. Clothes carefully chosen to be forgettable. A fake name—“Mark”—spoken with the gentlest smile.

The bookstore owner welcomed me warmly, already briefed.

I was introduced to North ten minutes later.

He turned to me, tired eyes ringed faintly with exhaustion—but still beautiful.

He gave me a polite nod.
Soft voice. “Hey. I’m North.”
As if I didn’t already know.

I smiled. “Mark. Nice to meet you.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. Didn’t see it.

The wolf had entered the pasture, and the sheep had only smiled.

The first few days, I stayed quiet.

Helpful, polite.

Always a little clumsy, to disarm him.

I let him correct me. Apologized too much. Laughed at the wrong moments.

He smiled more easily after that. Let his guard down just an inch.

And I absorbed it all.

The music he listened to on break.

The way he always blew on his tea before sipping it.

How he stretched his back when he thought no one was watching.

I watched.

Every moment. Every breath.

I learned the shape of his quiet.

The angles of his solitude.

On the fourth day, it rained.

He forgot his umbrella.

I offered mine with a sheepish smile.

He hesitated.

“It’s fine,” I lied. “I don’t live far. I like the rain.”

He took it. Said thank you.
Our hands brushed as he did.

He didn’t know the umbrella had a tracking device in its hollowed-out handle.

Just enough to monitor movement—not invade.

Yet.

Back home, I sat in front of six monitors.
Live feeds. Satellite tracking. Audio logs.

But it wasn’t surveillance anymore.

It was presence.

I was inside his world.

Not as Johan Armani—the man feared across oceans.
But as Mark.

The nobody.

The friend.

The one who listened.

The one who could get close.

He told me small things, slowly. Not the important stuff—no past, no pain. But stories. Cracks in the window.

His classes. His professors. A poem he liked. A customer who annoyed him. His favorite dish.

He didn’t realize he was handing me keys to every door he had.

He didn’t realize I was already inside.

One night, I walked him home.
He was tired, more than usual.

“I think I’m burning out,” he said, rubbing his temple. “University’s killing me.”

“You should rest,” I said, voice soft.

“I don’t get to,” he chuckled. “Rent doesn’t care.”

He looked up at the stars.

I looked at him.

And for a second, I wanted to touch him. Push his hair back. Cup his face. Kiss him. Devour him. Worship him. Drag my lips across his jaw. Savour him.

But I didn’t.

Not yet.

This version of me—Mark—wasn’t allowed to want.

Not openly.

He let me walk him to his door.

Not inside. Not close.

But closer.

“Night, Mark,” he said.

And then he smiled. For me.

Not out of politeness. Not out of necessity.

But because he wanted to.

My chest ached.

I walked away after he shut the door.

Three steps.

Four.

Then I turned, pulled the lockpick from my pocket, and let myself into the empty unit across the hall.

Pre-furnished. Rented under a name that didn’t exist.

From my window, I watched his light switch off.

I stood there for a long time.

Breathing.

Smiling.

Bleeding quietly from a place I didn’t know existed.

North.

He didn’t know it yet—

But I was already his.

And soon—

He’d be mine too.

"Whether he wanted to or not."

________________

North pov

I didn’t notice him at first.

“Mark.”

He introduced himself with a shy half-smile, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose like he wasn’t used to wearing them. He looked out of place—too refined for the dusty shelves and coffee-stained counters of the bookstore.

But I didn’t mind.
The owner said he was temporary help, and honestly, I was grateful.

My body ached more than usual lately. The double life—early university lectures followed by long bookstore shifts—was wearing me thin. Coffee wasn’t cutting it anymore. Sleep came in fragments, shallow and full of half-dreams I couldn’t remember.

Mark didn’t say much at first. He fumbled a lot. Knocked over a whole row of paperbacks on his first day. Blushed so hard I thought he’d combust. I helped him clean it up, trying not to laugh too loudly.

He had this way of laughing at himself that made it impossible to be annoyed.

There was something... calming about him. Like static being dialed down.

By the third shift together, we’d fallen into a kind of rhythm.

He took the left aisle; I took the right. We met in the middle without planning it. I’d hand him a stack of books, and he’d pass me a cup of tea without asking. Warm, cinnamon-flavored. I hadn’t told him that was my favorite.

I didn’t remember ever saying it aloud.

Maybe he guessed.

It was raining again. Cold, heavy. The kind of downpour that made the windows shiver.

I stood at the front of the shop, watching droplets race each other down the glass, when he appeared beside me—wordless, like a shadow.

“I’ve got an umbrella,” Mark said quietly. “Want to share?”

I blinked at him.
Surprised.

No one usually offered.

People tended to be kind, yes. But they didn’t linger in my orbit. I’d made sure of it.

But Mark was… persistent in this soft, non-intrusive way.

He handed me the umbrella like it wasn’t a big deal. Like I wouldn’t overthink it for the next three hours.

Still, I accepted.

And for the first time in days, I felt something warm settle in my chest.

We walked together, the umbrella tilted just enough to cover us both. His coat brushed mine a few times. He didn’t flinch. Neither did I.

He asked me about school.

I told him about the art history course I was failing, the professor who hated me, the cafeteria food that might actually be slowly killing us.

He laughed.

A real laugh. Deep, quiet, steady.

I looked at him for a second too long.
His jawline was more defined than I’d realized. His hair curled slightly at the ends when damp. His glasses fogged up when he exhaled.

I looked away before he could catch me.

He walked me all the way to my apartment door.

I didn’t invite him in.

I never invite anyone in.

But I lingered.

“Thanks,” I said, handing him the umbrella back.

He waved it off. “Keep it. I’ve got others.”

I wanted to say something more. But I didn’t know what.

So I just nodded. “Goodnight, Mark.”

And he smiled. That kind of smile that looks like a secret.

Since then, things changed. Subtly. Naturally.

Mark became a part of my week without ever needing to ask.

He started showing up five minutes early to our shifts, holding two cups of tea. He never made a big deal about it.

He noticed when I limped after standing too long.

He offered to switch shelves when I looked drained.

One night, when the lights flickered, and my anxiety clenched sharp in my ribs, he stood quietly by the fuse box and fixed it without a word.

I watched him from across the room, heart hammering.

Not because I was scared.

But because… I wasn’t.

He didn’t feel like danger.

He felt like pause.

Like rest.

I found myself looking for him on campus, even though I knew he didn’t go to my university. At least, not that I’d heard. Still, sometimes I thought I saw him in the distance—a familiar shape in the crowd. Always gone when I blinked.

I started bringing extra snacks to work. Told myself they were for me. But he always ended up with one.

He never asked for anything.

He just accepted it.

And I think that’s what scared me most.

Because part of me started hoping he'd be there.

That I’d hear his voice before the shift started.

That he’d smile that way again—like I mattered.

Was it weird to want that?

I didn’t even know his last name.
He didn’t talk about his life.

But I never felt like I was being watched with him.

I felt seen.

And that was different.

Terrifying.

...Nice.

Tonight, I sat behind the counter during closing hours. The bookstore was quiet, filled with the soft rustle of pages and rain.

Mark was restocking in the back.

I leaned against the chair, staring at my half-written assignment, and whispered to myself, “Don’t get used to this.”

To the safety.

To the warmth.

To him.

Because people leave.

And warm things don’t last.

But when he came out with a fresh pot of tea, setting it down without a word and giving me the gentlest smile...

I forgot that warning for just a little longer.

And I smiled back.