Fics like the sun in his arms
6:30 AM Soft pop music fills the room, gradually growing louder; Teuta’s phone vibrates on top of the bedside. Her best friend’s dulcet tones greet her as she blinks blearily into awareness. She reaches out to grab her phone and turn the alarm off. Teuta is successful midway, fingers just barely grazing the edge of the table, before a problem presents itself in the form of a grey-haired hitman. It hits her then, that this isn’t her room. This isn’t the Monday morning of her once-single past. Her sheets don’t have that faint whiff of detergent and men’s shower gel on them. Until recently. They also don’t usually have a six-foot-one hitman dozed off under them, at least until a few months ago.
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