Chapter Text
“Think fast.”
You feel it before you can make sense of it, you always do. The hairs on the back of your neck raise on end, a shiver runs down your spine, and your body moves on its own volition. You lean to the side and watch as the tennis ball careens over your shoulder and bounces off the wall in front of you. You catch it on the way back.
“If you really want to catch me off guard,” you say, “you should probably try not warning me before you throw.”
It’s a slow day at Sports Supply, which means that in between you and your coworker Casper restocking shelves with hockey pucks and boxing wraps and adding up the day’s earnings, you have plenty of time to mess around. By messing around, you mean Casper constantly trying to get the best of your reflexes when you're supposed to be cleaning.
Casper shakes his head, a lopsided grin having spread over his face.
“It’s uncanny,” he says as you toss the tennis back to him and return to your task of wiping down the counter. “I’ll never get used to it.”
“Maybe focus on sorting the tennis balls instead of throwing them at me,” you chide.
Casper huffs and plunges his arm into the crate.
To be honest, you’ll never get used to it either. Your whole life you’ve gotten lucky with your reflexes. It's like your body has a mind of its own, driving you just shy of harm at any given moment. Working in a sporting goods store has provided you plenty of opportunities to exercise your little ability, ducking out of the way of a stray ball here, maneuvering through a busy store full of customers without knocking into anyone there. Casper had picked up on your avoidant tendencies over time, and even since then has dedicated himself to testing them.
“We should put up a sign,” Casper complains from the crate of tennis balls. “Really simple but passive aggressive. ‘Please return merchandise to its proper location,’ a.k.a. don’t chuck the foam tennis balls in with the regular ones.”
“Like that would help,” you say wistfully.
Your focus has drifted from wiping down the counter to the tiny television hanging in the far top corner of the store, playing the news on mute. It’s some story about a political scandal involving Wilson Fisk.
“That guy’s bad news,” Casper grumbles, still elbow deep in the crate of tennis balls.
The public perception of Wilson Fisk was pretty positive, but there had been rumors swirling in online blog posts and hidden corners of social media, people claiming that he wasn’t anything like he seemed, that he had a darkness simmering just beneath the crisp contours of his well-pressed suits. Casper was a regular on these forums, and he was always going on about horrible accusations people posted.
“Maybe you’re spending too much time on your phone,” you reply. “It doesn’t seem like he’s done anything particularly wrong.”
“I don’t know,” Casper says. “With that whole stint in jail? He has to be up to something. Makes me uneasy.”
You watch a clip of Fisk getting ushered through a crowd of reporters by a legion of FBI Agents. To be honest, you didn’t know what to make of all of it. The breakneck speed of the news cycle in combination with your busy day-to-day life had numbed you over the years. Part of you wishes you had the time and patience to comb through the various news sources like Casper does.
“Got it,” Casper says. He pulls the red foam tennis ball free from the pile. “Knew I saw that kid drop it in.”
He tosses the ball into its proper bin and stands up, brushing off his hands.
“That should do it for inventory,” he says. “You good closing up?”
“Sure,” you reply.
You turn off the television and get to work closing up shop. It’s a system you know well, entering the earnings, putting the cash away in the safe, doing a final scan of the displays. All that’s left is taking out the trash, turning the lights off and the alarm on, and locking up.
You haul the garbage bag from behind the counter and make your way out the back door towards the dumpster. It was a stroke of luck that came with the location of the store, getting to put your garbage in a dumpster instead of out on the street. A light breeze brushes over your face as you step outside, slightly cool with the setting sun.
You’ve taken no more than two steps outside before you stop dead in your tracks.
No. No way.
It has to be some kind of cruel coincidence. While you recognize him instantly, the scene unfolding before you couldn’t be farther from the image you’ve grown accustomed to on the news.
There’s the usual shiny black car parked a few feet away, the usual handful of agents flanking him. And in the center of it all is Wilson Fisk, face contorted with rage into a horrifying snarl, beating a man sprawled out on the ground beneath him.
Your brain scrambles to make sense of the brutality on display. Blood spatters the pavement as Fisk’s hands pound into the man over and over again, until his face is barely a face anymore. Terror freezes you in place, but you can’t tear your eyes away. Right now, you can’t help but believe every awful accusation you’ve ever heard about Wilson Fisk, from Casper or elsewhere.
Eventually it's too much to bear and your eyes drift, only to immediately lock with those of the FBI agent standing next to him.
The agent was unassuming enough at first, but now that his eyes are on you it’s hard to focus on anything else. He’s strikingly handsome, but in an intimidating sort of way. There’s a severity to the sculpted planes of his face, and he’s got a stare to match, a dark brown glare that’s equal parts scorching and ice cold. He’s focused on you, zeroed in on the target, and something simmers beneath the surface, something you can’t quite place.
Goosebumps raise over your arms and your stomach flutters, half anxious, half flustered. Your brain is screaming at you to get the hell out of there, but your feet remain frozen on the ground. You can’t bring yourself to look away from the agent.
His head tilts to the side and the corner of his mouth tugs upwards into the subtlest of grins. Is it excitement? Whatever it is, now that he’s spotted you you can’t help but wonder if it’ll be your blood painting the pavement next.
Eyes still trained on you, the agent leans in to whisper something in Wilson Fisk’s ear. Your body finally jolts back into action, your reflexes coming to save the day again. In an instant you’ve spun out of sight and slipped back inside of the shop, heart pounding, garbage bag left forgotten in the alley. You lock the door behind you, but it does little to soothe your racing mind.
What the hell do you do? Call the police? If an FBI agent stood next to Fisk without stepping in, then odds are the police aren’t going to be much help.
You slump back against the door. Even with the plane of metal separating the two of you, you can’t shake the pummeling weight of that agent’s gaze.
You always rely on yourself to keep out of harm’s way. Now, you might as well have planted yourself right in its path, and you don’t know if you’ll be able to evade it when it comes for you.
- - -
It’s an apprehensive evening, to say the least. By the time you return to your apartment you’ve managed to stop your hands from shaking. The golden haze of sunset pours through the window as you sling your bag onto the kitchen counter. Just the act of changing out of your work clothes and into an oversized t-shirt and pajama shorts helps, it’s like you’ve peeled the experiences of the day away and reemerged.
You do your best to fall into the usual post-work routine of making dinner and winding down from the day. After scavenging around your fridge and pantry, you pull together a box of rotini, a jar of tomato sauce, some mozzarella, and some frozen peas. The only thing you’re out of that you need is salt. With a sigh, you slip on the pair of flip-flops you keep by the door. You lock your door behind you and walk over to your neighbor Kendra’s apartment around the corner. Even for a trip that was a couple feet away, you can never be too careful.
You knock on Kendra’s door and hear the shuffle of her footsteps inside.
“Good evening,” she greets you, smiling wide. Her eyes crinkle at the edges.
Kendra has been friendly to you since the moment you moved in. She’s an older woman, maybe in her sixties, and a New Yorker through and through. She had welcomed you to the building with a plate of cookies and some pointed tips on how to get by in the big city. Since then, you’ve made a habit of stopping by her place every once and a white to chat, and you can always rely on her to have extra ingredients when your own cabinets turn up empty.
“Do you have any salt I can borrow?” you ask.
“Of course,” she replies.
Moments later, you’re making the trek back to your apartment, canister of salt in hand.
Watching the water boil on the stove, the last of the stress dissipates from your body. Maybe you had gotten all worked up over nothing, and the agent hadn’t mentioned you at all. Wilson Fisk probably has more important things to worry about than a sport’s shop employee taking out the trash.
You set the bowl of food and a fork onto your coffee table. It won’t be a true post-work dinner if you don’t eat in front of the TV. But first, you’re going to return Kendra’s salt.
You slip on your flip-flops and lock your door behind you before bringing the canister back to her apartment.
“That was quick,” Kendra says as you hand it back to her. “What are you making?”
“Pasta,” you reply. “I needed it for the water.”
“Of course. Got to make it as salty as the ocean, they say.”
“Yep. Thank you for the favor, I owe you one.”
Kendra smiles.
“No trouble at all. Have a good night.”
You give a quick wave goodbye and duck back down the hallway. Your stomach rumbles in anticipation for your pasta. You’d combined all the ingredients together in the pot after draining the pasta, a sure-fire way to defrost the peas and get the cheese melty at the same time. But the instant you get to your front door your stomach drops, the hunger whisked away to make room for a creeping unease.
Your door is ajar. Did you really not lock it? You dig around in the pocket of your shorts and frown. Sure enough, the key is there. You wouldn’t have picked it up without using it, right?
Slowly, you make your way inside the apartment, shutting the door securely behind you. Everything looks as it should, but you can’t shake the queasy feeling in your gut. Your arms prickle with goosebumps, and your muscles tense. It’s the same feeling you usually get before your body ducks out of harm’s way, there’s nothing to duck away from. Nothing comes at you.
You take a few more slow steps into your apartment before turning around. And that’s when you see him.
It’s a man, tall, lithe, clad in a maroon leather suit. The ensemble sparks recognition in you, but you don’t know from where. Maybe it’s from another one of Casper’s stories, about the rise in suited vigilantes fighting crime, seemingly one for every borough in the city. But even if that was the case, the pieces aren’t adding up. Despite the mask covering most of the man's face, you recognize the sharpness of his jaw, the sly grin pulling at the corner of his lip in an instant.
It’s the agent from earlier, no doubt about it. He’s even more imposing up close. If he’s the one of these so-called crime fighters and stands by while Wilson Fisk beats a man to death, you’re fucked.
You want to scream but your throat immediately goes dry, constricting in on itself and making any kind of speech impossible.
“You know why I’m here,” he says. His voice is deep, a little gravely. It resonates in your bones.
Maybe you can hype up the feigned innocence, try to play into his sympathy. He is human, after all. So you decide to play dumb.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, adding some sweetness to your voice.
You add a lash bat for good measure, but he gives you nothing in return, expression remaining as severe as ever. His hand moves down to caress one of the two batons hanging at his hips.
Your mind races. Aside from the batons, he doesn’t appear to have any weapons on him, but that almost makes it worse. Out of all the ways to go, you’d take a bullet over a beating any day of the week.
“Are you going to kill me?” you ask. The question comes out small and meek, hanging in the air.
He takes a step forward and you back away on instinct.
“I’m here to make sure you keep quiet,” he replies. “If that’s what it takes, so be it.”
You take another step back but this time he doesn’t match you, just watches as you back up against the far wall, trying to put as much distance between the two of you as possible. He then turns his attention to the surroundings, perusing his way through your apartment like he owns the place.
“I swear I won’t say anything to anyone,” you say. “Really. As far as I’m concerned I just took out the trash. Didn’t see a thing.”
“Groveling isn’t going to get you anywhere,” the agent says. He trails a gloved finger along the edge of your bookshelf, surveying the various knick-knacks you’ve got on display.
Fine. If groveling won’t work, maybe guilting will.
“You were there,” you say, mustering up all the disdain you can. “Standing by, doing nothing as he killed that man with his bare hands.”
The agent shrugs nonchalantly.
“That’s none of my concern.”
You scoff.
“So what, you’re his lapdog, then?”
The agent picks up a spherical blue paperweight from your bookshelf.
“I prefer the term right hand man.”
He rolls the paper weight over in his hand, the blue swirls in the glass glinting in the light.
“Be careful with that," you cry out.
The agent turns towards you, tilting his head in curiosity.
“I… I put a lot of work into it,” you grumble.
He tosses the paper weight up into the air and catches it.
“You made this?” he asks, an air of humor to his voice.
“Glass blowing seminar in college,” you reply.
He smiles.
“You’re full of surprises.”
You feel it before you can make sense of it. Your spine arcs to the left and your knees bend, and the next thing you know the paperweight whizzes past your ear and shatters against the wall, raining glass onto the ground at your feet.
The fresh dent in your wall reveals the sheer force it was thrown with, and you can’t help but gape. If that had hit your head you’d at best be severely concussed. At worst?
You look up at the agent, unable to speak. It seems that’s the case for him as well. He just stares at you, completely silent, mouth hanging open a little. He looks… befuddled? Puzzled? It’s a far cry from the assured smirk from before.
“I missed,” he says quietly.
“Yes,” you confirm, voice wobbling a bit.
You really liked that paperweight, but you can’t even get mad because he’s already swiping another object off the shelf, a plaster tiger figurine you found at Goodwill.
He rears back whip-quick, and instantly the figurine is careening towards you, aimed right at your forehead. You duck out of the way and hear it smash against the wall. Shards of plaster tinkle down onto the ground at your ankles.
“ Again?” he demands. Anger and confusion swarm through his voice, and his jaw is clenched so tightly his teeth practically grind together.
Maybe it’s stupid, but you feel your terror slipping away. If throwing things at you is all he’s got, then maybe you’ll make it out alive tonight after all. If you were a random person off the street you’d be dead meat by now. But you're not a random person off the street. You’re the worst possible opponent this man could face in a fight.
“You’re not going to hit me,” you say.
The agent glares down at his hands, turning them over to examine his palms. He flexes his fingers, and you hear the faint crackle of his knuckles.
“You don’t understand,” he says. “I don’t miss.”
“Yeah you do,” you say. You glance down at the shards of glass and plaster around your feet. “You just did. Twice.”
“No.”
He’s grabbing books now, and soon enough a hailstorm of paper, leather, and cardboard rains down around you. You drop to the ground and roll out of the way, finding sanctuary behind your kitchen counter.
Tucked well enough out of harm’s way, you now notice a slight throbbing sensation emanating from your cheek. You reach up and gently caress it with your finger. It pulls away slicked with blood. You must’ve rolled over a stray shard of plaster or something. Assessing the rest of your body, you’re glad to find that aside from that one nick, you don’t have a scratch on you.
The torrential downpour of books has stopped. Now, the room is eerily quiet. All you can hear is your own shallow, labored breaths as you stare at the floor. You expect to pick up a sound from the agent, a tossed-out taunt, the tramp of his boots against the floor. But you get nothing. It’s like he isn’t even in your apartment anymore. Some naïve part of you wonders if he gave up and left, but it’s more likely he’s just biding his time. You turn around and slowly rise up, peeking over the counter to get a sense of where he is
The second your eyes meet the living room your body ducks down again, and a millisecond later there’s a wet crash of something colliding against your stove. You whip around to find your dinner thoroughly decimated in front of you. Noodles and peas scatter at your feet, along with a heap of pottery shards that once resembled a bowl.
That’s it. Breaking into your apartment with murderous intent was one thing, but he didn’t have to be so damn messy about it. You worked hard to get your apartment looking half-decent and decorated, and you’ve had enough of him wrecking your shit.
“Alright, that’s enough!” you declare.
You shoot to your feet and storm around the counter, fully ready to wring the agent’s neck if it’s the last thing you do. Before you can take a step towards him his wrist flicks in your direction once again, and you remember the one object on the coffee table that hadn’t just crashed into your stove.
Seconds stretch to a snail’s pace as the fork careens towards you, turning over itself in the air, on a warpath aimed right at your eyeball.
You squeeze your eyes shut, preparing for impact. Maybe you overestimated yourself, and this time he finally beat you to it, threw at just the right moment, so fast even you couldn’t evade. You let out a breath, ready for the fork to hit at any moment. Another eternity seems to pass in the darkness, and a strange calmness washes over you. You can barely feel your body, can hardly sense your feet against the floor, your clothes on your skin. You might be moving, you don’t know.
But the moment of impact never comes. No pain erupts in your skull, no blood drips, nothing at all. Slowly, you blink your eyes open and you can’t help but gasp at the sight before you.
Your hand has snatched the fork out of clean air, catching it mere inches from your face. Your mouth falls open in shock.
“Holy. Shit.”
You turn over the fork in your fingers like you’ve never seen one before.
You’ve never called what you had a power, it had only ever felt like a spark of luck. But then again, all those times had been mundane little occurrences, whisking out of the way of people on the sidewalk, catching a glass that was about to topple to the ground. This feels completely different.
Your whole body buzzes like you’ve had one too many shots of espresso. Your skin feels warm and your blood feels cold, every nerve acutely at the ready. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt. You feel powerful.
Before you can even come to terms with what you’ve just done, the agent is right in front of you, looming, teeth bared, hands clenched into fists at his side.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he snarls.
“I told you you weren’t going to hit me,” you say. You toss the fork onto the counter. “Not for a lack of trying, it seems.”
You expect some snide retort or a fist through your windpipe, but you get neither. Instead, he hauls you away from the counter and drives you back against the wall. Pain rushes down your spine and you wince as he presses a warning hand against the base of your throat.
The confidence of the previous moment has officially passed. You’re scared shitless again. Without the advantage of distance you feel completely helpless, trapped in his hands. While the hand at your throat doesn’t squeeze, it could start at any second.
But the agent doesn’t move. He just chews at his lower lip, motionless, as if contemplating you. Despite the terror clawing through your body, making your head spin and your heart pound, you can’t help but do the same to him. He looks a lot less angry than you expected. The raging fire from moments earlier has settled into a blazing curiosity.
“It’s not me,” he finally says.
“Wha-?”
“It’s you ,” he continues. “I’ve never missed a shot in my life. Anyone else would be dead by now, but you…”
The hand on your throat presses down just a little bit harder, holding you in place beneath his gaze. You stare into the red shields that cover his eyes, masking his expression.
“There’s something up with you,” he says. “You’re like…”
His words fall off into frenzied silence, searching your face for a clue, a sign, an answer.
“I’m like you,” you reply.
“You’re like me.”
It seems like every day the headlines shout about some new hero that’s emerged, gifted with special abilities. But for every costumed vigilante with bulletproof skin or an iron fist, there are the people with talents that can go under the radar. Skills that are just a little too acute to pass off as a stroke of luck, but not noticeable enough to elicit a spectacle. There are people, just regular, everyday people who go about their lives taking a little bit of magic along with them. People like you. People like him.
“Who the hell are you?” he asks.
His hand moves from your throat, venturing upwards to caress your face. His thumb traces over the scratch on your cheek. Heat immediately rushes to your face in response. It's gentle, careful. In another context, it might even be romantic.
It’s over far too quickly. In a moment his hand has lowered to settle on your shoulder, the leather of his glove is heavy through your shirt. His face is so close and you can’t stop staring, at the light shade of stubble on his jaw, at the rosy curl of his lips just inches out of reach. You wish you could see his eyes, but even with the shields in the way you can sense the intensity of his stare reaming over you, leaving no spot unsearched. His fingertips dig into your shoulder, so hard it aches, but you hardly feel it.
Any lingering panic inside of you makes way for a new sensation, a dark sparkle in the pit of your stomach that might be just as dangerous. The lingering flush in your face has spread all over your body, a balmy film emerging on the back of your neck. Your heart hammers in your chest, every nerve singing. Your instincts scream in protest, telling you that now is the time to squirm free, to dodge his hold.
You don’t listen to them.
Out of everyone in a city of millions, it’s impossible to believe that the two of you have found each other like this. It’s like you’re two halves of a magnet being held just out of reach of one another, polar opposites struggling against each other, or else destined to collide at full force. The pull is undeniable, the attraction so strong that you just need a push, just a little bit more, and then…
You feel it before you can make sense of it. It’s warm and sudden and harsh. It’s his mouth on yours.
The kiss is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. It’s raw and chaotic and forceful. His touch is rough, it feels like he’s still trying to fight with you in a way. His hands grip tight to your shoulders, keeping them pinned back against the wall. He wedges one of his knees between your thighs, bringing his torso flush to yours.
His presence is overwhelming, flooding your senses with sparring sensations. confusion and fear and intrigue and adrenaline and above all else pleasure.
Adrenaline bolts through you and you gnash against him, teeth raking over his lips. The agent lets out a strangled gasp and your tongue slips forward to explore his mouth. Your mouth floods with a heady metallic taste. It might be blood, his or yours, you don’t know. All you know is you want more, more-
Suddenly, a knock sounds from the front door. The two of you freeze in place, faces just inches apart.
“Are you okay in there?” A familiar voice drifts from outside your apartment, warm with well-intended concern.
Oh my god. Kendra.
The agent backs away from you and you nearly collapse without anything to support yourself. Your hand absentmindedly rises to trace your lips, tingling from the force of the kiss. You can’t help but tremble. Your skin practically buzzes, shoulders still carrying the weight of his hands.
Never in your life have you been kissed like that, let alone by a stranger, and especially by someone that was trying to kill you mere moments before.
Kendra knocks again, forcing you back into the moment at hand.
The agent tilts his head towards the door.
“Take care of it,” he says, voice so low it’s practically a whisper. For a second all you can focus on is how swollen his lips are from the force of the kiss.
“Now,” he says, more stern than before. His hand dips down to the batons at his belt.
“You’re not going to hit me,” you mutter as you push past him, taking care to pick your way over the shards dispersed all over the floor.
Even if you were stupid enough to try and make a run for it, it’s not worth it if it means getting Kendra involved.
As you approach your front door, you do your best to smooth out your hair and clothes. You turn the handle and open the door just as far as you need to pop your face out.
Kendra stands right outside your door. She smiles at you, eyebrows knit together with worry.
“Are you alright in there?” she asks. “I thought I heard a crash.”
“Everything’s fine,” you reply. “I just got clumsy. Dropped my pasta pot.”
“Oh,” Kendra says. “Well then. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Thanks.”
You force an easygoing smile, but Kendra doesn’t look fully convinced.
Your heart thumps in your chest, and you wonder for a moment if it’s so loud that she can hear it. You internally beg her to not ask any more questions, to get this over with as quickly as possible.
“It’s strange,” Kendra finally says. “I never took you for a clumsy one.”
“We all have our moments,” you counter.
She eyes you warily.
“Well then. Have a good night. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Have a good night,” you echo.
You watch as she makes her way down the hall, back retreating around the corner to her apartment. You shut the door behind you and let out a breath of relief.
“She seems nice.” The proximity of the agent’s voice makes you jump and you whirl around to find him right behind you. “You were smart to leave her out of this.”
As the tension of the moment dwindles, your mind returns to what exactly the two of you had been up to before Kendra interrupted.
“It’s your fault for making all the noise,” you sputter. “You’re a terrible hitman. Is this usually how you go about threatening people? By breaking their shit and making out with them?”
The agent seems taken aback by your outburst.
“No,” he says. “This… this is a first.”
His head tilts to the side and the corner of his mouth tugs upwards, the same subtle grin you noticed earlier, in the alley. Equal parts threatening and beckoning.
“Did it work,” he asks, “or should I try again?”
If you could see his eyes you’re sure they’d look the same as they did then, zeroed in on the target, in for the kill. With that the ache between your thighs roars back to attention.
“I don’t think it did.”
You close the gap between you with a single stride and grab the back of his head, guiding his face towards yours once again. Hands on his hips, you maneuver him back and shove him down on the couch. You straddle his lap, the slight pressure alleviating some of the ache building at the apex. You moan in response and he takes the opportunity to drive down even harder than before. You barely get a second to catch your breath before his tongue plunges forward to claim your mouth.
The leather of the agent’s suit is slightly rough against your fingertips as you drag your hands down his chest. For a moment, you wish that you could push it out of the way, replace the cool, impersonal feel of the fabric with the soft warmth of skin. But you can’t deny that the presence of the suit adds to the thrill, a reminder of what he’s there to do, and what he’s doing in spite of it.
The agent slips his hands under your t-shirt to trace the contours of your torso. You keen against his touch, burying your face in the crook of his neck to muffle the sound that pours from you. He takes the opportunity to rove his lips over your neck, raking his teeth over your pulse point. You shudder against him, bearing down harder with your hips. The throb between your thighs has returned with a vengeance, so intense you feel like you might burst.
You feel his teeth on your skin as he smiles against the column of your throat.
“Has it been a while?” he asks.
You grind down once more to find that he's gotten fully hard now, bulge straining against the fabric of his suit.
“I could ask you the same thing,” you shoot back.
You don’t care anymore. Whatever happens now, it can’t get any weirder than what’s already happened. And it feels so good to be so close to someone. After a lifetime of evading things, it’s refreshing to crash headfirst into something dangerous with reckless abandon.
His hands move up to cup your breasts. Your back arches at the sensation of rough leather against your nipples, and you feel them pebbling beneath his waiting palms. His thumbs raise to nudge against them and you sink your teeth into the fabric that covers his neck. You wish you could tear the suit away, leave a bruise on him to match the ones he’s surely left on you.
Instead, you focus on chasing the pleasure rising between your thighs. You rock your hips back and forth against him, eventually falling into a steady rhythm. The agent picks up on your pace, rising to meet each movement. It makes the sensation all the more acute. You’re so wet at this point you can feel your shorts clinging to your skin.
You consider shedding them, and your underwear along with them. Would your arousal show up on the suit? The thought of it is too much, he’s too much.
“You…” you trail off, hardly even able to breathe. Your mind swirls with too many questions to count. “Who the hell are you?”
You can feel the intensity ratcheting up within you, but you know you won’t be able to reach your peak, not like this. You need more, and you’re willing to go there, if he wants to.
“I don’t think…” His breath stutters against the shell of your ear. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to say.”
He pulls away suddenly.
“We need to stop,” he says. “I can’t be gone for too long. It’ll be suspicious.”
At that, the dreamy clouds of lust part, and the reality of the situation hits you like a ton of bricks. You untangle your limbs from his and fall back against the couch, unable to do anything up but sit there and staring up at the ceiling, dazed and delirious. You do your best to take slow, even breaths, to ease your racing heart.
“Get out of town,” the agent says, voice pulling you from your trace. You look up to find him already on his feet, pacing by your front door.
“What?”
“Get out of town,” he repeats. “Lay low for a while. And not a word about any of this to anyone. Ever.”
“Okay.”
“As far as I’m concerned you’re not that big a problem,” he continues. He rubs at his jaw with his hand and throws a glance towards the window. The lit windows of the city glitter in the distance. “But if you decide to spill you’ll be seeing me again, and it will be to kill you.”
You chuckle.
“You’ll have to resort to something other than throwing things.”
“I’m being serious right now,” he says, and the intensity of his voice makes your blood run cold. “I won’t want to, but I will do it. Do you understand?”
Any trace of levity is gone, and in that moment you believe him. Even after everything. You gulp and give him a single nod.
“I understand,” you say.
He walks back over to you and cups your cheek in his hand, thumb skating across your lower lip. You gaze up at him.
“I think you might be the only person I’ve ever met who could match me,” he says, a trace of melancholy in his voice.
“Same here,” you reply. “All that being said, I hope I never see you again. For both our sakes.”
He leans in, and your breath hitches in your chest.
“Leave as soon as you can,” he says, voice low in your ear.
And then, in the blink of an eye, he’s gone, the sound of the door shutting behind him the only clue he was ever there.
Well, almost. You look at your apartment, at the aftermath of what just happened. Various objects from your bookshelf have been knocked to the ground. Bits of plaster, paper, and glass are scattered across the floor. Your wall is dented in multiple spots. It looks like a hurricane just tore through, leaving a landlord’s nightmare in its wake.
You take a deep breath and close your eyes, allowing the last of your bearings to fall into place. If it weren’t for the mess and the ache in your muscles, you’d almost think that everything had been some type of fucked-up wet dream.
But you don’t have time to worry about that right now. Now, you’ve got to do what the agent said, you’ve got to get the hell out of town. Your instincts kick back into gear and your body lurches into motion, beelining to your room to pack a to-go bag.
You meant what you said. You really hope there won’t be a next time. But you have to admit, if there ever is, you’ll be looking forward to it, just a little. Just to see him again, whoever he is.
Even if you don’t know his name, you just might understand him a little too well.