🌒🌕🌘

Closing your laptop with a groan, you throw on a hoodie and grab your dwindling pack of cigarettes and head for the door. The night air was cool against your bare legs, but it was bearable as you made your trek. With each step, your mind wandered back to Bradshaw, hoping that you might encounter him tonight. It would ease the pit of anxiety that has lingered in your belly since last night, as much as you hate to admit.

The bench was empty when you got there, but you didn’t see any of his fresh butts in the ashtray.

So there was still hope.

Taking your usual spot, you light your cigarette with a sigh. You let the sounds of the wilderness distract you, blocking out the noise of distant sirens and honking cars. It has been harder to clear your thoughts these days, seemingly trapped between anxiety from your job and denial about your growing feelings for your masked neighbor. Bradshaw had become a comfort to you; his presence was far more meaningful than you should have ever allowed. During the nights when you wanted to cry in frustration, he was there with his snide comments, easing the pressure on your mind. Or on the nights you couldn’t sleep with a racing mind, eagerly listening to you ramble about something irrelevant.

He was so oblivious to it— the impact he has on you. How your smile shifted when you saw him, or how you’ve slowly closed the distance between you on the bench. Yet, he seemed immune to your subtle hints, as if he missed them altogether. Though even with his tough exterior, you managed to find his softer bits hidden underneath.

His tenderness was not lost on you, and you knew it was a rare thing for him. The callouses on his hands, the scars on his body, and the rigid way he carried himself told you so. Bradshaw was a man of calculation, keen on everything around him.

Except for the obvious girl longing to know him.

“Rough day?”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” You cursed as you jumped, pulled to reality by the very man you had been thinking about. “You scared the hell out of me,” you scowled playfully as he took his spot beside you.

“S’not my fault you're so jumpy. Really should pay more attention,” he scolded as he pulled out his pack.

You watched as he tugged up his mask and placed a cigarette between his lips, lighting it with a practiced motion. Bradshaw was right; you should be far more aware of your surroundings. But you didn’t even hear him approach— his massive, hulking, six-foot-something ass.

How the fuck?

You narrow your eyes at him, drawing from your cigarette before leaning closer to him. “Okay, your new nickname is twinkletoes because you must have fucking tiptoed over here.”

“Vetoed,” he grunted, taking a puff. “And I didn’t sneak up on you, you were sittin’ here daydreamin’.”

“But it’s nighttime,” you say with a smirk, knowing he was right once again, but you couldn’t help but be a smart ass.

“Shut up, brat,” he rolled his eyes as his lips quirked upwards.

You were glad to see he was acting as if last night hadn’t happened, which made things much easier for you. Though you had to make notes to avoid being selfish, reminding yourself to take only what he gives and not dig for more. That was your nature, to pry and assess, but that would only push him away. So for the moment, you let yourself soak in the comfort of his presence, the tightness at the base of your neck finally untangling. You slouched on the bench, your smile slipping into something less forced. The rhythm of his breathing, the hiss of his cigarette, the subtle shift of weight as he leaned back— all of it soothed the nerves that had been twisting your gut since the other night.

“Rough day?” Bradshaw asked again abruptly, his voice an edgy gravel.

You hesitated before responding. The image of Bradshaw fleeing the pub flickered in your mind. The doubt you felt resurfaced like a flood, causing your throat to dry. You shielded your eyes from his gaze, taking a careful drag of your cigarette. “Yeah,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Working with a hangover isn’t for the weak.” Lie. You risked a look at him, gauging for a reaction.

He paused for a fraction too long, the filter of his cigarette hovering at his lips. There was a tick of recognition, a ripple of guilt, gone as quickly as it came. “You’re still young,” he grunted, the words coming off as a challenge. “You can handle it.”

You snorted and flicked ash to the ground, playing along as your eyes flitted to him. “How old do you think I am, exactly?”

He eyed you heavily, and you felt the weight of it, the way he took inventory of your face. Lord knows what he made of it all: your smudged mascara, dark circles under your eyes, and a heat that was surely visible as it crept up your neck. “Ain’t it rude to ask a lady her age?” He finally said in retreat.

You rolled your eyes with a smirk. “Technically, I asked you to guess, so that rule doesn’t apply.” Bradshaw tsked as you took a drag, once again not playing into your game. So you decided to push it, leaning in close with a sly smile. “Well, what about you, Bradshaw? How old are you?”

He scoffed, though he didn’t move away. “Old enough to know better.” His eyes met yours at that, and you immediately knew he was referring to more than just hangovers. You wish he would say it, admit that he felt something towards you—towards this— so you can stop feeling the pain of it being one-sided. However, you know that would never come. “But even old dogs have their tricks.” He finally said after a brief pause.

You made a point of studying him in return, the flex of his biceps as he moved to smoke, the twitch of his jaw under dark stubble, and how his hand dwarfed his cigarette. “Oh, you got tricks?” You teased lightly, nudging his knee with yours.

His eyes darted to where your legs brushed, then back to your face, unreadable through the darkness and the mask. “More than you know,” he grunted quietly, looking away, as if confessing to the night rather than to you.

Bradshaw’s mood wasn’t somber— it was something else, something you just couldn’t place. You let the moment hang, the sounds of the city hitting in distant waves. “What about you?” You asked, wanting to keep him here, to draw out something real. “Smoking for fun or cause you need it?”

There was another long pause, his fingers squeezing his cigarette before he drew from it. “Needed to clear my head,” he answered, but you could hear what’s hidden behind it, the careful way he censored his words. “Been smoking more lately. Noticed?”

You tried not to let your delight show, but you did— you did notice. You’d noticed the chain-smoking, the extra butts in the tray, the extended visits at the pergola with you. It was a detail you’d tucked away, but the admission was a gift. Initially, it was a delusional thought that you often drifted off to, hoping that he enjoyed the company as much as you.

“Didn’t take you for a stress smoker,” you managed, trying to keep it light. “What’s got you so wound up? Did something happen?” You guessed with gentle enthusiasm. “Or are you bored?”

He shrugged again, more evasively. “Somethin’ like that.”

You pressed, leaning in close enough to smell the faint hint of his cologne beneath the smoke. “Oh, come on, Bradshaw! Give me something here! Is it work, or…?”

He narrowed his eyes at you, then grunted in defeat when you didn’t falter. “Don’t ‘ave much of a life outside work.”

You grinned, ashing your cigarette with an elegant flick and fluttering your lashes. “You sure about that?”

Bradshaw rolled his eyes with exaggerated patience. “Not this again.”

You pressed your advantage, giving him your best innocent doe eyes. “You’re the one who said you were smoking more. That’s, like, a classic sign of something. So what is it? Trouble at work? Family drama? Secret lover?”

That got the reaction you’d hoped for. He snorted and rolled his eyes, his shoulders shaking lightly with suppressed laughter. “Don’t have time for that shite,” he said, shaking his head.

You tilted your head, feigning a casual study of the night while you watched the way his hands toyed with the filter from the corner of your eyes. You let the silence draw out, filled only by the hum of distant roads and the chorus of insects. It felt like a standoff, you both waiting to see where the other will direct the conversation. You wondered if he sensed the trap you were laying, if he’d even bother to sidestep it.

“Come on,” you said quietly, nudging his thigh with your knee again, the action feeling familiar. “I’m serious. Something’s got you on edge. It’s not just work, is it?” You kept your voice low, careful not to spook the beast you were coaxing closer. “You’re not the only one who notices things, you know.”

Bradshaw grunted, but the movement of his jaw betrayed him— something about the flick in his eyes, the way he kept his shoulder squared toward you, as if braced for a blow. “Life’s not always simple,” he replied with a gruff voice. “Sometimes you just want the world to shut up for five fuckin’ minutes.”

“Oh,” you deadpanned. Every nerve in you recoiled. Had you read him wrong? He came here for peace and quiet, yet here you are, always running your mouth like a toddler that just learned to speak. All this time, has he—

“But there’s this… Yank. Smokes too much. Bit of a pain in my arse. Won’t stop talkin’.” You watched him breathlessly, your heart hammering in your chest, butterflies gathering in your stomach as you hung on to his words. “For some reason, I like her nonsense. Don’t mind her yappin’.”

Your heart thrummed so loud you were sure he could hear it. Your brain had flipped on itself, a wild mix of excitement and adrenaline running through you at his confession. You blinked, playing along with a demure look, leaning closer to him. “She sounds like trouble.”

“She is,” he said, almost fondly, and it nearly took your breath from your lungs.

You tilted your head, letting your hair fall to one side, and tried to mask the stupid smile that threatened to break through. “You should probably avoid her then,” you mused, adding a dramatic sigh. “Bad influences, you know.”

He made a noise low in his throat as he leaned in slightly towards you. “You’re fuckin’ daft,” he murmured, but there was no heat to it. If anything, it was affectionate. “Not sure if I’m tryin’ to avoid her, or the opposite.”

You let yourself lean into him, shoulder brushing his, and when he didn’t stiffen or pull away, you felt something warm bloom in your chest. He just let you settle there.“Maybe don’t avoid her,” you said quietly. “She might like smoking with you.” The admission came easily, and when you felt him relax against you, you couldn’t help the smile pull that pulled at your lips.

“Is that right?” He warmly huffed as he looked down at you, leaning against his arm.

You reached for another cigarette and let him light it for you, his hand cupped around the flame, knuckles dusted with old scars. The heat of his palm hovered close, the smell of lighter fluid flaring sharply, and you just looked at him, marveled for a second at the care he took in a gesture so simple. He sparked his own cigarette after, the two of you submerged in a cloud of fresh smoke.

This had felt like an admission, the two of you side-by-side and sharing the quiet.

You almost wrecked it with a joke, the impulse to deflect so deeply ingrained, but you held back. There was something new in the air, a subtle shift. Not quite an escalation, but a loosening, a give in the line of his shoulders, a softness you dared not name.

After a long spell of easy silence, Bradshaw finally broke it. “How’s the new job treatin’ ya, really?”

The question caught you off-guard. He’d never pressed before, always content to let you volunteer what you would, skirting the details as you saw fit. You fumbled for an answer, lips parting around the truth you could never fully own. What would he say if you told him everything? If he saw past the sales manager mask to the real sleepless girl beneath, to the woman who lied for a living because it was the only way she knew how to survive?

“Transition’s been rougher than I thought it would be,” you admitted, curling your knees up and letting them brush his thigh. “There’s—” you hesitated again, reluctant to name it, “a better way to do things, but management wants it done their way. They want results, but won’t let me do the thing I’m good at to get them.” It wasn’t a lie, but it was as close to the truth as you could get.

Bradshaw nodded, the gesture coming from experience. “Sounds ‘bout right,” he said, voice dry and understanding. “Bosses are the fuckin’ worst.”

You glanced over, searching for the sarcasm but finding only subtle support. “Don’t suppose you can relate?” You prompted, testing the waters once again.

He grunted as his eyes moved forward to the parking lot. “Spent most my life with someone else tellin’ me how to do my job. You get used to it, or you don’t.”

You wanted to ask if he got used to it, but you had a feeling you already knew.

“So what about you?” You prodded softly. “How’s work for you? I’ve seen you around more lately.”

Bradshaw rolled the cigarette between his fingers, the orange tip crinkling and flattening. “Boring,” he said, but it sounded like a lie, or at least a strategic misrepresentation. “But that’s how I like it. Peace and quiet, no one to answer to. S’why I come out here. S’why I don’t talk to many people.”

Except me.

You let that sit, the unsaid things crowding into the empty spaces between words. “You ever get lonely?” You asked, the question pressing hard against your heart.

He blinked at you slowly as if weighing whether to be honest. You stared at him intently, begging for the truth with your eyes. “Sometimes,” he said at last, the admission falling from his lips. “But it’s better than the alternative.”

Now there’s a dark sentiment you recognize, one you’ve driven into yourself many times.

You didn’t press him further, not tonight. Bradshaw didn’t have to say the words for you to grasp the meaning. You just reached over and let your hand rest lightly on his knee, the weight of it meant to anchor, not to trap.

To show him you are here.

“You’re not alone, you know,” you said, words spilling out before you could check them. “At least not when you’re with me.” There was a tremor in your voice, but you steadied it with a crooked little smirk. “Unless you hate my guts, in which case I get it, but—”

His hand covered yours, rough and warm and so careful you almost forgot to breathe. He squeezed, just once, then let go, but the echo of his touch lingered. “Don’t hate you,” he muttered as he met your eyes.

You swallowed, heart suddenly racing, feeling the way his eyes bore into you with a new light. You wondered if he was seeing you, the real you, or just the outline you offered. Maybe it didn’t matter what he saw.

Maybe this was enough.

“Good,” you said quietly, feeling like you sound stupid. “Because I don’t hate you either.”

Bradshaw cleared his throat, the rough catch of it betraying something soft underneath. “Bit of a nuisance, though, aren’t you?” The insult landed more like gratitude.

You squeezed his knee gently before letting your hand drift away, back into the neutral territory between you. “Lucky for you, I’m stubborn,” you replied, voice lighter and more controlled now.

You both snorted at the same time, and the familiar rhythm of your banter stitched the moment back together. He made a remark about your nicotine dependency and you countered about his weirdly endearing inability to take a compliment, and just like that, the world felt more like a place you could stand to exist in.

You smoked in comfortable silence until your cigarettes burned down to nubs, both of you stalling on the last drags, reluctant to break the spell. When you finally stubbed yours out, you nudged him with your shoulder. “You gonna be okay, Bradshaw?” You asked, only half-joking.

He side-eyed you, mouth quirked. “S’pose so.”

You paused as you stood, your body reluctant to leave the warm gravity of his orbit. There was a catch in your chest, things you wanted to say but didn’t have the words for. Your mind was muddled with trailing thoughts, each one a dizzying layer about Bradshaw.

Instead, you just smiled and gave him a lazy salute. “See ya around, old man.”

Bradshaw grunted, but there was a warmth in it. “Don’t stay up too late, Yank.”

“Night, Bradshaw.” You winked before finally making your move back home.

He nodded once, and you thought you saw the edge of a smile, though it was quickly covered as he pulled down his mask.

You walked back to your apartment with a spring in your step, lighter than you’d felt in days. At the door, you dared a glance back to the pergola. He was still there, a massive silhouette in the dark, watching the world— or was he watching you?

And now some American broad is afflicting him like a fever, which was not in his bingo cards.

He didn’t even know what to do about it. He considered cutting it off— that he would stop smoking at the pergola and just let life move on. He could simply end everything before he got carried away. But for some reason, that idea pained him more than anything, so he quickly dismissed it. Simon was plagued with images of you waiting up for him, your eyes darkening with disappointment as each night passed without him. And Simon wasn’t stupid; he knew this wasn’t one-sided. He noticed the way your eyes sparked when they met his, the way you smirked and teased him. So he was worried about how you would feel if he just went ghost.

Which is the thing he does best.

However, when it came to you, he didn’t want isolation or indifference; he just wanted your presence. He wished he could understand it; understand why you wanted him around as much as he wanted you. In the end, he just gets pulled into an endless loop of you and nonsense.

Why the fuck do you make him feel… normal?

Is that the word for it?

He thought he was incapable of such a thing.

Heavy words are so lightly thrown. 

Whatever it was, it wasn’t something that he wanted to shake. He wanted it to endure, despite the edge it put him on. This was all new territory for him, having deemed himself far past his prime for anything other than work acquaintances. Hell, he didn’t even have your number, but listening to you felt like listening to Johnny. Though you’re much prettier and far less annoying.

Speaking of…

Maybe Johnny could distract him from this internal madness, and he had been itching to go out.

Two birds with one stone, yeah?

Simon unlocked his phone and pulled up Johnny’s contact, his thumb hovering above the call button. Doubt prickled in his mind, but he chased it away, ignoring the pull in his gut telling him to stick to his routine.

No, he needs to clear his mind.

His thumb hit the button.

So, what difference does it make? 

“‘Bout time ya took me out, L.T.” Johnny slapped Simon on the back with a rough hand, earning a firm grunt from the taller man.

Both men sat side by side at the bar of a semi-crowded pub in downtown Manchester. It was some place Johnny picked out, claimed it was casual and less busy than most on a weekend. Tugging his mask up, Simon brought the draught to his lips as he felt Johnny’s eyes linger on him.

“What?” Simon grumbled between gulps.

“You ‘right?” Johnny asked just as gruffly as he reached for his own beer.

“Peachy,” Simon muttered as his eyes flittered across the pub out of habit. He noticed Johnny roll his eyes with a huff as he took a sip.

“Yer so full of shite, man, never seen ya so damn airheaded in me life. What’s got ya spacin’?” Johnny pressed, fixing Simon with his ‘serious’ gaze. Simon had to stop his eyes from rolling, instead opting for a heavy sigh.

“Just the same ole shit, Johnny.” Simon tried to ease his friend’s concern, though he knew it didn’t come out too convincing.

Johnny let it drop, but he could tell it hovered around the corners of his mind. He launched into a story about a training op gone sideways— something to do with a recruit throwing up on another. Simon tried to pay attention, he really did, but his mind wandered to aimless thoughts of you.

It wasn’t until the third beer that Johnny narrowed his eyes at him, as if squinting to see through Simon’s skull. He elbowed him hard enough to spill Simon’s drink, causing Simon to frown. “Yer a right miserable bastard these days, mate. When’s the last time ya had a proper night out?”

Simon wanted to tell him to fuck off. Instead, he stared at the foam on his brew and grunted. “Goin’ out now, aren’t I?”

Johnny scoffed, the sound bubbling up with laughter. “This dinnae count, L.T.. Yer allergic to fun. S’like ya only come out of yer cave when Price orders it.”

He felt his lips twitch, the beginnings of a smirk fighting through, despite himself. “Caves are nice. Quiet. No one to bother ya.”

Johnny leaned in, dropping his voice. “Dinnae tell me the Ghost’s gone soft.”

Simon shot him a look, the kind that might make a lesser man apologize, but Johnny just grinned wider. “Something’s off with ya, Simon. You’ve been different. Who is she?”

Simon coughed into his beer, damning his friend for seeing right through him. “Not everythin’s about a girl, Johnny.”

He snorted and leaned closer with a smirk. “It’s always ‘bout a fuckin’ girl.” He watched Simon with an intensity he usually reserved for the field, and he could feel his ears burning under Johnny’s stare. “Yer not goin’ to tell me, are ya?”

Simon weighed his options, each one heavier than the last. Tell Johnny, and he’d never live it down. Don’t, and he’d just keep digging until he hit bone. Simon settled for a middle ground. “It’s nothin’ serious.”

Johnny’s eyebrows shot up as his smirk widened. “So there is a lass.”

The idea was so absurd that Simon nearly choked. “No.”

Johnny tapped his glass to his anyway, giving him a messy salute. “Then what’s got ya so twisted up?”

Simon tried to think of a lie, but nothing convincing would come to mind. The alcohol had loosened his grip on self-preservation, and the words fell out before he could snatch them back. “Met a new girl at the flats. Yank. Smokes like a chimney, can’t shut up to save her life.”

Johnny’s face lit up, scandalized and thrilled in equal measure. “Get fucked. Yer jokin’.”

Simon shook his head, all the while feeling like he was in confession. “She’s… different.”

Johnny took a dramatic gulp from his pint with a raised brow. “Different how? Like, a neighbor, or…”

“Neighbor. Catches me out at the pergola most nights.” Simon paused, trying to weigh each word. “Talks about plants and history and all sorts of random shite… I don’t know.” He trailed off, not wanting to offer any more. The words made it too real, too raw, in his mind.

Johnny didn’t let it go. “Since when do you talk ta’ anyone outside the force?”

Simon shrugged, self-conscious of his own transparency. “Don’t know.”

Johnny looked at Simon for a long moment before he grinned. “That’s cute as fuck, L.T.” Johnny’s eyes gleamed, delighted with the revelation. “Yer smitten, ya are.”

Simon groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “‘M not smitten. I’m just— fuckin’—“

“Yeah, yeah, yer just what? Jus’ chattin’ up yer sweet lil’ neighbor?” Johnny cackled, and Simon shot him a deadly glare. He only tipped his beer at Simon, completely unfazed. “So, when do I get ta’ meet her?”

“Never,” Simon immediately deadpanned, his tone final. “The last thing I need is you makin’ it weird, or her gettin’ even more curious about my fuckin’ life.”

Johnny snorted but didn’t drop it. “All right, all right. But still, ’m shocked she dinnae turn around ‘n run when she saw yer mask. Or is she into that freaky shite?“ He winked with that question, earning another eye roll from Simon.

Simon tipped his drink but found it empty. “Dunno what you’re on about.”

Johnny flagged the bartender for two more, half-leaning over the bar as he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “You ever ask her out, L.T.? Take her somewhere nice? Or is it all smoke breaks ‘n awkward eye-fucking like ‘m imaginin’?”

Simon narrowed his eyes, heat prickling at his neck. “Can we not do this here?”

Johnny only grinned, pleased, maybe a little proud (of himself). “C’mon, Simon. Ya got that look, like yer one good laugh away from fallin’ in love. Dinnae tell me you’ve gone soft for a bloody American.”

Simon leaned back in his chair, coming to terms with his predicament as his friend practically roasted him. Because Johnny’s right, he’s gone fuckin’ soft for an American girl. And for some reason, he’s helpless to it.

As if it were a weakness.

When the drinks arrived, Johnny stayed on his case. “What’s her name, then?” He nudged the glass toward Simon, overfilled beer spilling over the lip.

“Lana,” Simon said gruffly, the word feeling heavier than the glass.

Johnny gave a low, impressed whistle. “Lana. That’s a porno name, mate. Or a Bond girl. Fuckin’ Christ.” He sipped, then leaned in with a toothy grin. “What’s she look like?”

Simon didn’t want to say it out loud, but the shape of your mouth, the way you laughed even when you were tired, haunted his thoughts. “She’s… not my type,” he lied, but Johnny barked a laugh at that.

“Yer fuckin’ hopeless, ya know that?” Johnny clapped him on the shoulder a little too hard, causing him to grunt. “I say go for it. Never seen ya so chipper.”

Simon almost laughed ironically. Instead, he felt his back muscles tighten, old reflexes stirring as he scanned the crowd, the habit stronger with every pint. The pub’s noise blurred, the lights smearing into a headache. He looked past Johnny, searching for exits, then for reasons, then for shadows.

And that’s when his heart stopped: at the front of the pub, a familiar sight hit him like a beacon. Simon didn’t have to see your face to know it was you— in a blue denim jacket, hair loose, walking in with a taller woman he didn’t recognize. Your laughter rang out, a sudden, impossible threat to weeks of careful partition.

Johnny started talking, but it all went to white noise. Simon tracked your progress across the pub, the way you tossed your chin as you scanned for a table, the way your companion nudged you to the bar.

Simon had a split second to think.

If you saw him here with Johnny, you’d recognize him first. And if you recognized him, the whole fucking house of cards would collapse. Because you’re too smart, if you saw him with Johnny and came over, it would just be a matter of time until you put the pieces together.

So Simon acted before he could doubt himself.

The devil will find work for idle hands to do. 

Without a word, Simon dropped his empty mug and clamped a bruising grip on Johnny’s forearm. The movement startled them both: Johnny nearly toppled off the stool, and the glass behind the bar rattled as Simon yanked him to his feet. Johnny let out a strangled “Oi!” but Simon was already threading between bodies, carving a path to the back exit. In his wake, he saw a waitress swerve to avoid a collision, the tray of drinks splashing dangerously. Simon didn’t stop, didn’t breathe, didn’t explain. The only thing on his mind was you, maybe ten yards away and closing.

He slammed out the service door into the alley, the metal thudding behind them and leaving his ears ringing. The air was cool and musky, reeking of old cigarettes and fryer oil. Johnny wrenched his arm free, planting his feet in the puddle-streaked alley and glowering at Simon. “What the fuck, Simon?” He spat, the words sharp with a rare panic. “Did ya see a fuckin’ ghost in there?”

Simon doubled over, staring at the cracked asphalt as he tried to collect himself. He’d only drunk three pints, but his palms were ice, and his shirt clung damp to his back. His heart was still racing, his hands still shaking as he tried to focus on the present.

Johnny reached for Simon’s shoulder, the gesture uncharacteristically gentle. “L.T., talk ta’ me.” His eyes darted back to the door as well, then around the alley, voice dropping to a whisper as if he expected bullets.

Simon rolled his neck and exhaled harshly. “Just needed some fuckin’ air,” he managed, but his voice was off— too shaky, too thin. “Wasn’t a threat, Johnny, just a panic attack.” His eyes skittered to the door, expecting you to appear, expecting the world to end.

Johnny didn’t buy it. He prodded Simon’s chest and neck before being pushed away. “That was no panic attack. You saw somethin’. Tell me.” He waited, lips pressed tight with insistent blue eyes.

Simon ground his teeth as he grimaced. “‘Said I’m fine.” He straightened, shrugged Johnny off, and readjusted his mask. The streetlamp overhead buzzed with a dying bulb, making Johnny’s face flicker in the dark. “Just got crowded in there. Needed to get out.” He hated the lie, but the truth would have stirred up far more trouble.

And wasn’t sure he had accepted it himself yet.

Johnny eyed him with a suspicious edge. “Yer fuckin’ weird, L.T.,” he said, but the words were soft, almost comforting to Simon. “But next time, warn a bloke before ya try to break ‘is arm.”

Simon let out a low noise between a laugh and a groan. The chilly air seeped in, and for a while, they just stood there, listening to the muffled pub noise through the bricks in a comfortable silence as Simon smoked a cigarette.

Eventually, Johnny clapped him on the back of the shoulder, a sign that he was going to head out. Johnny cocked his head, eyes flicking to Simon’s face. “You good to get home, then? Or d’ya need me to walk ya home like a fuckin’ ol’ lady?”

Simon scoffed, his pulse finally slowing, though the adrenaline had left his nerves tingling. “Don’t be daft. I’m fine.”

Johnny didn’t move, his gaze slightly intensifying. “Y’ever want to talk, mate… I mean it. I know you, and I know tha’ look. There’s more goin’ on than yer lettin’ out.”

The words were too close for comfort, so Simon shrugged them off and changed the subject. “Should get some rest. You need a lift?”

Johnny hesitated, clearly wanting to push further, but finally relented. “Nah, ’m good. Text me when ya’ get home, yeah?”

Simon grunted an affirmative and turned away, the city’s neon haze crowding back in as he strode down the slick sidewalk. He didn’t look back, but he could feel Johnny’s eyes on him for blocks.

His flat was a twenty-minute walk, and by the time he keyed in, his fingers had stopped shaking, but the restlessness remained. He dropped his keys on the counter, unzipped his jacket, and stood in the dark for a long moment, just listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the quiet whirl of the air.

The silence was thick enough to drown in.

He didn’t bother with lights. Instead, he poured a double of whiskey and stood at the kitchen counter, staring at the pool of amber in the glass in the dark. There was a moment— just a second— where he wanted to throw it against the wall and watch it shatter, to see what it would feel like. But that was pointless. He wasn’t angry, not really. Not at Johnny, not even at himself.

It was you.

Or, more accurately, it was the idea of you: the possibility that you’d seen him tonight, and the way his gut twisted at the thought of your eyes meeting his across that crowded room. He hated himself for the panic, but what terrified him more was the sliver of relief. Relief that you hadn’t seen him, that he still had his mask, that the worlds hadn’t overlapped— yet.

Not safe, he thought. None of this is safe.

And yet, tomorrow he will be waiting with a lit cigarette.

Well, I’m still fond of you…

As you came around the corner of the pergola, you closed your umbrella and leaned it up against the side before moving to your usual spot beside Bradshaw. But as your eyes fell upon him, you were met with an absolutely soaked dog of a man. Water droplets dripped down his exposed chin and jaw, as well as from his drenched clothes onto the ground, forming a puddle beneath him. You knew his mask was soaked and would practically waterboard him if he pulled it down. And from the water that pooled on the ground, it appeared that he had gotten here just moments before you.

“Jesus Christ, Bradshaw!” You scolded as you approached his wet form with a scowl, pulling your sweatshirt over your head, leaving you in a bare tank top. “Did you just fucking walk over here?” You patted the balled-up sweatshirt all over his face and head, trying to soak up as much of the moisture as you could. Droplets clung to his lashes and in the dip of his nose, and he blinked beneath your onslaught, his lips pulled into a tight line, trying to escape your grasp as you moved down to his jaw. Once satisfied that his face was dry enough, you slid the sweatshirt down to his neck and started patting at his shoulders and the exposed triangle of skin above his collar.

“I’m not a damn puppy,” he unconvincingly grouched, grabbing your wrist gently to slow your assault, but didn’t push you away.

It actually felt like he was holding you there.

“Could’ve fooled me,” you shot back, sliding the cuff into the crook of his neck, sopping up what you could. His black t-shirt clung to every inch of him, outlining the hard lines of muscle beneath. You tried not to look, but you caught him smirking at your attempt to avoid his gaze as you practically stood between his knees. When you moved back up his neck and head, you could feel him lean into your touch, but you acted like you didn’t notice.

You finally relented, satisfied with your attempt, and plopped down on the bench next to him. The rain rattled on the roof of the pergola, forming a steady white noise. You caught him watching you, mouth twitching upwards at the corner.

“You finally done?” He mumbled as he quirked a brow at you.

“Want a round two?” You threaten as you move to grab the sweatshirt again.

Bradshaw snorted as he ignored you, extracting a battered cigarette pack from his pocket. The moment he tilted it, water dripped out as the paper practically disintegrated. “Shit,” he muttered, staring at the sodden remains.

You fished your own pack from your jeans and nudged it toward him. “Here. Lucky for you, I came prepared.”

He furrowed his brows as he took one. “These are menthol, yeah?”

“Of course,” you confirmed, digging the pink lighter from your pocket, knowing full well that he smoked Marlboro Reds.

“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, reluctantly accepting one of yours. “These are shite, you know.”

“Sorry, I don’t smoke cowboy killers,” you fired back, flicking your lighter for him, shielding the flame. For a split second, his hands covered yours— rough and cold, but steady, the touch lingering longer than necessary as he leaned in, cigarette perched between his lips.

The flame caught, smoke curling around his damp face. Then he let go, exhaled, and you realized just how close you’d ended up. Only inches separated you, and your breath hitched in your chest. The smell of rain, tobacco, and his essence filled your lungs.

He regarded you through the haze, eyes softening as he noticed your gaze on him. “You’re going to get sick fussing all the time.”

“If anyone’s getting sick, it’s you.” You retorted as you took a drag, motioning towards his wet clothes.

“Maybe.” His voice dropped even softer, something unreadable threading through it. “Wouldn’t mind if you were my nurse.”

“Is that charm I detect, Bradshaw?” You tried to laugh it off, but the moment pressed in as his words landed. Your fingers remembered the prickly warmth of his jaw, the way his head dipped for your touch, practically careening for it.

You looked away, focusing on the rain, the smoke, the way the world beyond the pergola blurred at the edges. You didn’t want him to see the way your face burned, egged on by your provocative thoughts.

He leaned back, stretching his long legs out, one of his boots nearly touching the side of your shoe. When you turned back, he was watching you like he had something to say, but the sentence never made it past his lips. Instead, he looked away, focusing on the flooding parking lot. You let yourself slide down the bench until your shoulder nearly bumped his.

“Long day?” You asked, mostly to break the silence.

He grunted as he took a drag and ashed his cigarette. “You could say that.”

There were cuts on his knuckle, a light yellow shadow under his left eye that hadn’t been there the last time you saw him, along with a few others hidden in his dark stubble. You wanted to ask about them, but you weren’t sure if you should. He’d always brushed you off or changed the subject, but you selfishly wanted him to tell you anyway.

“You look like shit,” you said, defaulting to the comfort of lighthearted insults.

He let out a small, gravelly laugh. “I’ll take that as concern, then?”

“Wrong. I just don’t want you to peel over and die.” You smirked as you eyed him, playfully rocking into him. “It would really ruin my night.”

His shoulder knocked against yours, much harder than you’d expected. “Wouldn’t want to do that,” he said, his voice grovelly. “God forbid you get another thing to whine about.”

You looked at him with false offense, giving him a scandulous look. “You think I whine a lot?” You ask, pointing to yourself with raised brows.

He considered his answer, finishing his cigarette and flicking it into one of the puddles with a quick, practiced motion. “I know you do.”

You went to shove him in retaliation, but it was like pushing a telephone pole. He didn’t even sway, just watched you with a faintly amused expression. You let your palm rest against his bicep, feeling the warmth radiate from his moist skin, the subtle curve of his muscle beneath your fingertips.

He didn’t pull away.

“What the hell are you made of?” You asked, fingers reflexively testing the taut muscle there.

He looked down at your hand, cocking his head with lazy arrogance. “Expectin’ me to be built like a runt like you?” His gaze dragged idly over your frame, not bothering to feign subtlety. “Could snap ya’ in half if I wanted.”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, but the heat that flooded your neck was impossible to ignore. “Get fucked,” you said, but it came out breathier than intended as you crossed your arms defiantly.

“Was that an offer?” He replied, voice gone rougher than ever. He leaned in, holding your eyes intently as your noses nearly brushed. The wet, cold scent of him, layered with menthol and smoke, made your mouth go dry.

His words went straight to your core.

Fuck.

You stuck your tongue out at him because the alternative was letting your jaw hang open like an idiot. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you managed, but your voice was all wrong for it, softer, coming off like a dare. Because maybe it was.

He laughed in a low rumble and freely lit another cigarette from your pack. Your cheeks flared as you dug out another cigarette as well, looking away to try and hide your blush. But Bradshaw pinched the cigarette from your lips and directed your attention back to him, lighting it for you with his own. The tips of your fingers brushed, and you felt the tremor go straight to your chest. He passed it back and leaned close, elbows on his knees, forearms bracketed with those fresh bruises and scratches.

You watched the rain together in a moment of stolen peace. It hammered the roof above, making the world outside the pergola feel distant as you enjoyed the moment. The parking lot had flooded, pooling in every crevice. You listened to the water, to the way his breathing deepened now and then. For a while, it was enough just to exist here, side by side, shrouded from the rest.

But your eyes kept drifting to his hands. To the angry red gash across one knuckle, to the dark purple spreading over his fingers. You knew that kind of damage. You’d seen it on partners, on marks, on yourself far too many times. The memory made your knuckles ache in sympathy.

“Did you win?” The words left your mouth before you could stop them, peering up at him with bright, questioning eyes.

He didn’t look at you, just flexed his fingers like they were remembering too. “Yeah.”

“Well, good.” You smiled at your knees, feeling a ridiculous sense of pride on his behalf. “Can’t have you picking fights you can’t finish.”

You’d honestly been waiting for him to ask you why you cared so much, to ask about the worry in your voice, or the flutter of your hands, or the way you couldn’t stop glancing at him. But that wasn’t Bradshaw. He didn’t need stories or words; he just wanted presence. The two of you sat, shoulder to shoulder, breathing in each other’s silences and exhaling smoke into the thick, wet air.

Thunder cracked suddenly, close enough to vibrate the bench beneath you. You flinched, not dramatically, but enough that Bradshaw’s hand snapped to your knee, steadying you on instinct. For a fraction of a second, you felt the way he tensed, a memory in his bones that made him react without thinking. Then he realized what he was doing and quickly removed his hand.

“Didn’t take you for the jumpy type,” he said, but there was no mockery in it— just that same, rough fondness you’d come to recognize.

“Just startled me,” you murmured, immediately missing the comfort of his touch. Heavy storms have affected you since that operation in Albania— the one you try to convince yourself never happened— but you’ve managed to overcome most of your fear responses. Still, they can put you on edge.

I wish he would put his hand back.

The rain came harder, drumming loud enough now that you felt it in your chest. Lightning lit the world up for a half-second— the glow catching every angle of his face, the hollow under his eyes, the lines of his jaw. For a moment, you thought about what he was hiding, what it cost him, and what it was that he actually needed.

“You good?” He asked, voice rough as he pulled you from your thoughts.

“Yeah. I just…” You shrugged, trying to laugh it off like everything else, but the words got stuck. “I just hate thunder. Makes me feel like a kid.” Lie. You wished you could confide the truth in him, to give him a piece of you that you never offer to anyone. To maybe finally move past one of the worst things that ever happened to you. But you don’t have that luxury, not with him, not with anyone. So you flicked your half-finished cigarette at the puddle, watching it hiss as contempt lingers in your heart.

“Could be worse,” he said, stretching like a cat, bones cracking. “‘M not a fan of it myself.”

You barked out a surprised laugh, eyeing him with a small smile as you focused back on his presence. “You’re scared of thunder too?”

His face twitched as he tried to control his expression, eyes narrowing as he gave you an incredulous look. “Didn’t say scared, did I? Said I’m not a fan. Big difference.”

You elbowed him in his side, harder this time, and he actually grunted, which was its own small victory. “You’re full of shit,” you huffed as you tried to hide your growing smile.

“Maybe,” he said with the hint of a smirk as he smoked his cigarette.

You didn’t answer with words; instead, you stared at the curtain of rain as you mirrored his action. You dragged in a breath and stubbed out your cigarette, watching the sparks snuff against the concrete. For a second, everything went silent except the rain— then another crash of thunder hammered around you, closer this time. Your neck prickled as it startled you, more than you meant to allow it.

Bradshaw noticed. He didn’t bother to pretend he hadn’t, either. “You wanna head in?” He asked quietly, like he was testing the waters.

You almost said no out of habit, but your body betrayed you, already tense and tired from the day. “Yeah,” you admitted, cursing the edge in your voice.

He stood, stretching to his full height, then glanced at the downpour. “You got that umbrella, right?” He asked, giving you a sideways look as he handed you your damp sweatshirt. “I can walk you home, if you’d like.”

You eyed the hot-pink umbrella leaning against the wall, and then him, and then the rain, which had only intensified, as if punishing you for the brief reprieve.

“Only if you carry it,” you said, shoving the handle towards him. “I’m not getting struck by lightning just so you can make fun of me.” You said, caught between a joke and hiding your unease.

He hesitated, clearly weighing which was worse: getting drenched or looking like a six-foot-tall bruiser with a Barbie umbrella. You saw the calculation flicker behind his eyes, then the faint resignation as he took it from your hand, flipping it open with a snap.

The two of you made a dash for it, the umbrella barely shielding your shoulders as the wind angled the rain sideways. You giggled as water sheeted off the edges and splattered your boots, splashing Bradshaw as he tried to keep you covered. Bradshaw hunched, half-protecting you and half trying to keep the umbrella from flipping inside out. He looked ridiculous, and you gleefully told him so as he slowed himself to match your pace.

He just grunted and rolled his eyes, but you caught the twitch in his cheek— a smirk threatening. The journey to your building wasn’t long, but it left you covered in rainwater. When you reached the entryway, he shook out the umbrella as he stood sentry at your back.

You fumbled for your key, suddenly nervous despite yourself. “Thanks,” you said, meaning for the umbrella, the walk, and for sitting with you in the rain. For making me feel human. He simply shrugged, not meeting your eyes, but you knew he’d heard you. You lingered in the doorway, watching him with filtered longing. “Take the umbrella,” you ordered in as firm a tone as you could manage. “You can bring it back next time.”

He looked at the pink plastic, then at you, before sighing with easy defeat. “Fine, if it will make you feel better,” he said, voice still rough but softer now.

“I’ll feel much better.” You grinned, clutching the door handle, though still reluctant to go inside.

“Gonna be alright on your own?” He asked before making his move to leave, his voice laced with concern as he looked down at you.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the smile twitching at your lips. You enjoyed his concern too much. “I think I’ll live,” you sarcastically deliver with a wink.

“Sure hope so,” he retorted as he opened the flashy umbrella once again. He moved to the edge of the patio, gaze lingering on you at your doorstep. “Night, then.”

“Goodnight, big guy,” you smirked as you gave him a wave. He acknowledged you with a nod before taking off into the rain, the bright pink blob quickly disappearing into the distance.

Once inside and in dry clothes again, you still heard the loud booms of thunder, though they no longer carried the weight they once did. With each clash of thunder, you were reminded of the weight of Bradshaw’s hand on your thigh, sending a wave of warmth through your body.

That wasn’t the only sense of warmth he gave you tonight, but it was the only one you would willingly entertain, as it refused to leave you. Neither did the feeling of him leaning into your hands as you dried him, noticing how he fought the urge himself.

But ultimately gave in.

A sense of pride ran through you— your handler trusted your judgement and even looked into your suggestion— confirming her faith in you.

“Thank you, Laswell,” you said sincerely as you leaned your head against the wall. “I’ll see what I can dig up about this Tomas Vinder. If you find anything before me, give me a shout.”

“Of course. Stay well, Jinx.”

The call ended with a beep, signalling you to throw your phone on the kitchen counter and grab your cigarettes. Though you had this small victory with Laswell, there was still the main objective: to locate and recruit Sylus Monet. Something that seemed to grow more difficult through the days, mainly due to being spared few resources to do the dirty work you so desperately needed to do.

Not that you necessarily wanted to do it, it was just something that needed to be done. You would get so much further if you were in the field, but for some reason, the Agency wanted you out of it until Sylus’ location is confirmed. That was the typical protocol, unless you were directed to establish your identity, which they had not yet called for. So instead, you existed on the edge of existence and non-existence, something that didn’t typically mean anything to you, until recently.

Now the idea of it felt unnatural, as if you weren’t even a being. Especially when memories and moments of the real you emerged, as opposed to the mask you’re ordered to wear. Before this operation, you found it fairly easy to change identities and suppress your true self. You would compare it to method acting— completely taking on the role you’ve been assigned, even when no one’s around. That’s why you were so good at your job, making you an expert at espionage and subterfuge.

Though recently, you’ve felt the mask slipping, no matter how much you tried to hold it in place. You had now been in Manchester for a month, your confidence dwindling with each day that passed without progress towards your mark.

Ugh, enough about that shit, you thought to yourself as you walked out into the cool dark beyond. With your cigarettes in one hand and pink lighter in the other, you headed towards the smoke spot with a muddled mind, nearly drowning in your wild mix of thoughts.

But then you saw him.

Leaning against the front of a lifted black Silverado, mask pulled down, eyes focused on the pergola, which was currently packed with a large group of people, stood Bradshaw. You hadn’t seen him in days, his absence affecting you far more than you should've allowed. Yet still, your heart nearly jumped at the sight of him, imagining him scowling underneath that mask.

A smile quickly spread over your lips as you deftly tucked your lighter into the cigarette box, prepping yourself for the ambush. As you approached Bradshaw, his eyes quickly moved to you, and you watched something in them shift. You knew he wasn’t going to smoke with that many people there, so you devised a last-minute plan to test his boundaries and your curiosity.

Bradshaw pushed off his truck as you neared, as if readying himself for your presence, eyes now focused on yours.

“Howdy, big guy,” you greeted with a quirked brow and your hands bound innocently behind your back. Blatantly ignoring the part of you that practically called out for him, you maintained your arms-length distance for the time being.

“What kind of fuckin’ Yank says howdy?” Bradshaw crassly greets you, causing you to pause before breaking out into a laugh.

“Howdy is a universal American term shared across the nation, fucker.” You matched with equal sass, wishing you could see his lips to tell if he was smirking or not.

“That the lesson of the day?” Bradshaw grunted back, hands falling to his sides.

“Nope, but I’ll show you what is.” Before he could question you, you enlaced your hand around his and pulled him experimentally towards the wooded area beside the parking lot.

Surprisingly, he let you.

Though you practically felt his questions pressing into your skull, you maintained your smile and direction, leading him into the dark woods with a skip in your step like some enchanting fairy. His pace didn’t slow beside you, even as you skillfully traversed over large roots and rocks down a hidden path with limited vision. The sound of running water signaled you were close, throwing him an eager glance as you came to a large dip in the embankment.

Bradshaw silently assisted you down to the creek bed, following you to the fallen log that lay parallel to the creek. There, you turned to him with a bright smile, his eyes narrowed as you dropped his hand.

“Isn’t this a much better place to smoke?” You asked as you waved around to the landscape.

Bradshaw glanced around, taking in what he could with just the moon’s light. It was a much prettier view during the day, but you were happy to share this place with him regardless of the time.

“How the hell did you find this place?” Bradshaw asked as his eyes finally landed back on yours.

“I like to wander sometimes during the day, especially if there are other people at the smoke spot.” Anyone but you, actually.

“You really thought bringin’ me out here was a good idea?” He gruffly asked, eyes boring into yours with an unsettling intensity.

Without seeing his face, it was practically impossible to read him. Even just seeing his mouth was enough, but right now, you’re going off his eyes, brows, and voice alone.

And he honestly looked menacing as he stared down at you, gaze unwavering.

But you aren’t one to falter. “Is this when you tell me you’re the local serial killer?” You sarcastically asked while pulling out a cigarette.

“You’d be my easiest victim yet,” he huffed as he pulled out his lighter, sparking it and holding it up to your cigarette.

You smiled before taking a puff, leaning against the fallen tree to look over Bradshaw while he lifted his mask and lit his own cigarette. “You this nice to everyone before you kill them?” You playfully asked as he took another step forward.

He was silent for a moment, his presence just looming over you. You could have sworn his eyes went a shade darker, laced with something else now. “No,” he grumbled, his tone almost serious.

“Good,” you smiled, placing your hand gently on his chest in a placating manner. You noticed the change in his energy; your words accidentally took him to a dark place. You wondered what existed in that darkness, though you could make a few guesses. Right now, you wanted to pull him away from it, back to the creek, back to you and the cigarette burning in his fingers.

You could feel his breath shudder beneath your palm, then regulate itself once again as his eyes moved down to where your hand touched his chest. You quickly pull it away then, worried you overstepped.

“‘Can’t decide if you’re the bravest or dumbest bird I’ve ever met,” Bradshaw said before taking a long drag, eyes locking with yours through the exhale of smoke.

“That’s part of the game, Bradshaw, I gotta keep you on your toes.” You hopped up onto the log, balancing with your hands behind you, and pierced him with a look meant to disarm.

He surprised you by moving closer, so close you could count the flecks of gold in his eyes even in the poor light. He braced one tattooed arm on the trunk beside your thigh, the other lifting his cigarette to his mouth in a slow, deliberate way. Something about his size and the way he occupied space made the night shrink to just the two of you. It felt as if nothing else existed.

You kicked your feet lightly, the heels of your shoes knocking against the log idly. You found it oddly thrilling, the way he just stood there, silent and imposing, letting you fill the air with whatever words you pleased. Maybe it was the power trip of being unafraid, of seeing how much you could get away with. Or maybe it was something deeper— an aching, gnawing curiosity about what lived behind the mask.

“So is Bradshaw your first name, or…” You prodded, knowing full well he’d dodge the question.

He didn’t take the bait, just snorted softly and looked up at the moon through the branches. “Does it matter?”

“Only if you’re offended by me giving you a nickname.” You grinned widely, showing teeth, and let your legs swing. “I was thinking B-Dawg has a nice ring to it.”

His eyes flickered back to you, smoke billowing out from his lips as he exhaled. “Call me that and you’ll end up swimmin’ in the creek.” He casually threatened, though you knew there was no real heat behind it.

You stifled a laugh, nearly choking on your cigarette. “So that means you don’t like it?” You meekly asked, earning an eyeroll from him.

Bradshaw’s lips twisted into a brief, reluctant smirk. Then, as if remembering himself, he wiped it away with his thumb and resumed his watch. The night clustered around you, picking up a different energy enveloping you than at the pergola. You wondered if it was due to Bradshaw himself or the change in scenery.

You let the silence stretch, watching his profile in the slant of moonlight. There was something beautiful about the shape of his face— or what you could see of it. His strong jaw, sharp nose evident under the mask, and hard eyes that always looked tired. You wondered if he knew how much he gave away in those moments, how his hands tensed and relaxed, how he always kept his feet planted in the dirt as if bracing for something.

Without warning, he nudged your knee. “You come out here alone a lot?” The question was casual, but his eyes were anything but. They glittered heavily with meaning, as if looking for more than an answer.

You shrugged, taking a drag as Bradshaw leaned against the log beside you, now side by side. “Sometimes. It’s not like I have a family waiting for me back home.”

He shook his head, that little huff of exasperation surfacing again. “You shouldn’t,” he said. “Not safe.”

You grinned, savoring the scold, the way it made him sound like a cranky old man. “Aw, are you worried about me?”

“Damn brat,” he grumbled back, but there was a warmth in it, a just-for-you tone that almost made you shiver. “I just know what creeps around these places at night. Manchester’s full of fuckin’ psychos.”

You eyed him up and down, then clicked your tongue. “And yet here I am with the biggest psycho of all.”

He barked a low, amused sound, but the line of his mouth softened. “S’not smart, wanderin’ out alone at night,” he rumbled, but his tone was less judgmental and more resigned, as if he’d already lost the argument with himself. “Never know what you’ll run into.”

“Maybe I like the risk.” You smiled, sitting up straighter to be closer to Bradshaw.

He hummed, a low sound deep in his chest— amused, maybe a little exasperated. “You like pushin’ buttons, don’t you?”

“Just yours,” you said, and the words tumbled out braver than you meant them. You weren’t sure if you wanted to take them back.

The air stilled between you, neither of you willing to break the gaze. A moth fluttered between your faces before finding the moon and vanishing into the black, both of your eyes following it into the ether.

Bradshaw’s cigarette burned down to the filter, and he stubbed it on the fallen tree before looking back at you. “What are you really doing out here, Lana?”

His use of your cover name, so direct and unadorned, made your stomach turn slightly. You toyed with your lighter, rolling it over your palm and considering your answer. He didn’t rush you; he just remained there, as if rooted for your answer.

You shrugged again, feeling suddenly transparent. “It’s quiet out here. I can think straight. The apartment walls feel—” you hesitated, searching for the word, “—thin, sometimes. Like if I’m not careful, I’ll slip through them.” That was the best way to describe it, being locked in your apartment all day chasing loose ends made you feel small. Another reminder of your ‘nonexistence’.

His eyes narrowed, but not unkindly. He seemed to understand, or at least accept that as your answer.

“You always this honest with strangers?” He asked, voice low. There was a challenge in it, as if he dared you to take it further.

You licked your lips, nerves firing on a delay as you played in. “Depends on the stranger.”

He grunted, but you could see the ghost of a smile on his mouth. “You think I’m a stranger, then?”

You leaned forward, arms resting on your knees, and lowered your voice in a mock whisper. “I think you’re a mystery,” you confessed, letting the word hang, a dare of your own.

For a moment, the tension was like a living thing— a third presence in the woods, sparking in the gap between your bodies. He shifted closer, the distance not quite closing, but the air charged once again, the gravity impossible to ignore.

His voice came out gentler this time. “Mystery’s safer than the truth.”

“That supposed to scare me?” You asked back, the words soft but edged with laughter.

He regarded you for a long moment, and you could almost hear the machinery behind his stillness, the calculation of what— if anything— to say. His hand hovered near yours above the log, the distance almost nothing. In the darkness, with only the trickle of the creek and the burn of nicotine between you, the silence felt intimate, like neither of you could bear to ruin it by shifting away.

“No,” he settled, voice softer than usual. “Just don’t want to disappoint you.”

That landed heavier than you expected, and for a second, you had nothing to say, the bravado knocked out by the force of his honesty. The mask you wore, the one made of sarcasm and easy laughter, felt transparent in the night air.

“You don’t have to worry about that, Bradshaw.” You said above a whisper, but you saw the way his mouth dipped, as if he didn’t believe you.

He didn’t fill the space, not with words, not with movement, and you realized he probably never would, not unless you asked him directly. You respected that in a way you rarely respected anyone. You understood, perhaps for the first time, that some people had to hold in what they carried or risk spilling it everywhere. That the quiet might be less armor and more apology, an attempt to keep the world safe from whatever lived in the dark with him.

You slid off the log, brushing your hands on your thighs. Bradshaw watched you intently, as if you might vanish at any moment. It made something in your chest twist, a small ache that you tried to ignore.

“Don’t bring anyone else out here,” he said, sudden and sharp, the words cutting through the quiet with unexpected urgency.

You looked up at him, surprised by the intensity of his command. “You think I’m bringing other people down to my secret lair?” You scoffed with a conspiratorial grin.

He almost smiled, but it was brief, gone in a flicker. “Just don’t want anyone else knowin’ about it, s’all.”

You threw him a mock salute. “Scout’s honor, Bradshaw. This big mossy log is safe with me.”

He made a noise that could have been a laugh, then shook his head. “You’re fuckin’ nuts, you know that?”

“Just American,” you shot back, feeling the balance of the moment settle into place.

You started back up the embankment, and he followed, close enough that you could hear his boots crunch the damp earth behind you. At the hardest part of the climb, the ground gave out beneath your heel, and you felt yourself slipping. Before you could tumble back, a strong hand closed around your waist, steadying you. The warmth of his grip burned through your thin shirt, grounding you in a way that made your head swim.

“Careful,” he muttered, but he didn’t let go.

With an unexpected surge, he shifted his grip, hands bracing your hips, and lifted you easily up the rest of the embankment as if you weighed nothing. You landed solidly on your feet, turning to face him with a look of mock outrage.

“You trying to impress me?” You teased, half-breathless but trying to hide it. “Because it’s working,” you managed with a smirk, trying not to sound as flustered as you felt.

He made a low, amused noise, the kind that vibrated from his chest rather than his throat. “Doesn’t take much,” he said, the words lazy, as if he barely needed to flex to send your neurons sizzling.

You brushed imaginary dirt from your shirt and eyed him with a new kind of appraisal. “Next time I need help with my luggage, I know who to call.”

He snorted as he rolled his eyes. “Might even carry you inside if you ask nicely.” The line lingered between you, heavy and intentional, until he tugged his mask down to cover his mouth. You couldn’t say if that were out of habit or necessity, but it made the conversation feel suddenly unfinished.

You stumbled for your next words as a blush crept up your cheeks. But he was already looking back toward the complex, surveying with a professional stillness. For a second, you both just stood, your body heat mingling in the cool damp that rose from the creek. He didn’t move until you started up the path first, and then he followed behind, boots crunching in your echo.

It felt like a weird reversal— him keeping your secret, you leading the way out of the darkness. When you cleared the last of the brush, and the yellow glow of the parking lot lamps caught your faces, you stopped, suddenly unsure how to end the night.

Maybe because you didn’t want to end the night.

You looked back at him, searching for the right closing line, something that didn’t sound like a nervous flirtation or an awkward aideu. He solved it by just nodding at you, a slow, calculated thing, as if to say: I’ll see you again.

The words you landed on were: “Don’t get lost out there, Bradshaw.” You stumbled out like a nervous teenager, instantly cursing yourself.

“Was followin’ you,” he said, as if that explained everything.

You smiled, a genuine one this time, even though you felt stupid. “Yeah,” you said, “I noticed.”

You headed off to your building, heart beating faster than the steps you took to get there. When you reached the entrance, you glanced over your shoulder; he was still there, one hand in his pocket, the other pinching the bridge of his nose like he was trying to piece together the night.

Back in your apartment, you flopped face-first onto your bed, the lingering scent of smoke on your clothes. You tried to replay the night in your head, but the memory was already blurring at the edges, like a dream you wanted to chase but couldn’t quite hold. Every time you reached the part where he lifted you over the embankment, your mind stuttered and filled the silence with possibilities.

You needed to get your shit together.

You had a target to locate, not a neighbor to crush on. Still, you let yourself dangle in that limbo between exhaustion and whatever this feeling was.

. . . . .

It didn’t take you long to think of a plan to trap Genma and test Kakashi’s word.

The next day, you find him browsing the fruit stall with his signature slouch and senbon bobbing at the corner of his mouth. You slink around the stand, pretending interest in some bruised mangos, and watch him out of the corner of your eye. He looks even more tired than usual, like he’s been up late and behind on sleep. Even still, he looks just as good as any other day.

You time your move so when he turns from the stall, you collide with him, almost knocking the bag from his hand. “Watch it,” you say, a smile biting at your mouth.

He doesn’t smirk back as he does with everyone else. Instead, Genma’s shoulder tightens up, and his eyes dart to the side. “Didn’t know you shopped here,” he says, which is the is an obvious lie. You’re here every morning and he’s made a study of your schedule.

“You always this awkward, or am I special?” You lean closer, letting your shoulder brush his arm, amused at how his ears go a little pink.

He shifts, then tries to play it cool by inspecting an orange in his bag. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late,” you say with a beat. “Really, you’re not even going to flirt back? My ego is wounded.”

His hand stalls halfway to his senbon. He looks at you with an unreadable expression in his eyes, then shrugs. “Guess I’m off my game.”

You grin, feeling slightly victorious. “I’ll help you practice. Want to come over for a drink tonight? I promise I won’t bite— unless you ask nicely.” You wink as you lean in to him, clasping your hands behind your back innocently.

That gets him. He chokes on absolutely nothing, then hastily recovers. “Yeah,” he says, his voice rough. “That could be fun.”

You honestly weren’t expecting him to say yes so easily. The ever-composed Genma, master of wit, now can barely look you in the eye.

Kakashi wasn’t lying.

As you head home to prepare, your mind races ahead to a thousand possible outcomes. You can’t decide if you want to rile Genma up or strip him bare. In the end, you plan to do both. You change into something comfortable but revealing, pull out your sake and some glasses, and settle onto the couch with butterflies in your stomach.

When the knock finally comes, you nearly jump, heart hammering through your chest. You half expected him to bail, but here he stands at your door, hands shoved deep in his pockets, hair wind-mussed without his headband, and eyes downcast like he’s about to apologize for something.

“Come in,” you say kindly, and he does, immediately scanning your apartment, as if looking for traps. You pour him a drink before he can protest, thrusting it into his hands. He stands awkwardly in the middle of your living room, drink in hand, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“So,” he says, “you do this with all your teammates?” He asks awkwardly.

“Only the pretty ones,” you reply with a smirk.

He finally meets your gaze, and you see him visibly fight the urge to smile. “Guess I’ll consider myself lucky.” There’s that charm you love so much.

You pat the couch beside you, and Genma hesitates a moment before he sits down so close his thigh presses against yours. You can feel the heat of him, the tension radiating off his tall frame.

He tries to play it off, keeping his attention on the drink in his hand, but you’re not about to let him off that easily. Your palm lands on his thigh, casually at first, but when you feel the muscle jump beneath your fingers, you squeeze instinctively.

He nearly spills his drink and covers it up by taking a swig. When he faces you again, his face is red, and his eyes carry an expression you’re not used to. You expect a quip, some sassy rebuttal, but he just swallows hard.

“Genma, you’re blushing,” you tease sweetly.

He scoffs weakly. “Am not,” he protests. But he’s redder now, and you feel his leg tense beneath your hand.

“Liar.” You move your hand higher, letting your nails catch ever so lightly through the fabric. You sense the shiver that chases up his spine, the quiet gasp he tries to swallow.

“Are you—” he starts, but you cut him off by leaning right up to his ear, your lips so close to his ear that your warm breath causes him to shudder.

“You can tell me to stop,” you whisper coyly and squeeze the middle of his thigh.

He gives you silence, then a shaky exhale. “Don’t,” he says, so quiet you almost miss it.

You smile against his ear, emboldened by his response. “So polite,” you murmur your praise against him. Your hand creeps further upward to his crotch, tracing the seam of his pants, feeling the outline of his rock-hard dick. You squeeze it, just enough to let him know you noticed, then pull back to look at him.

Genma’s eyes are wide, his lips parted, his heart stammering as if completely caught. There’s a hunger there that’s almost painful— like he’s spent too long denying himself this, or maybe anything at all.

“Can I… touch you?” His voice is rough, sincere in a way that almost makes your core ache.

You consider his plea. The idea of him needy, desperate, and at your command is unexpectedly intoxicating.

You let your hand rest at his waistband, then arch an eyebrow. “You want to touch me? Beg for it.”

To your surprise, he doesn’t even hesitate. He’s off the couch in an instant, kneeling between your legs, eyes dark and desperate. “Please,” Genma begs, hands coming to your thighs. “Let me touch you. Please, I need— whatever you’ll give me, I need it.”

You’re so taken off guard by his earnestness that your composure nearly shatters. But you’re quick to recover, fingers threading into his brown hair, tugging just enough to force his head back.

“I didn’t take you for the obedient type,” you murmur, relishing the way he leans into your grip.

He smirks, regaining a splinter of his usual confidence. “Only for you, apparently.”

You decide to test the limits of that. “Take it out,” you order as you bite your bottom lip.

Genma’s breath stutters, but his hands are already moving. He’s so hard it looks painful as he undoes his zipper, hands shaking with nerves or anticipation, or both. His flush, hard dick nearly makes your mouth water. Your own breath is coming faster, admiration briefly stumping your control when he strokes himself twice and moans at your touch when you take over.

You curl your fingers around his thick length, squeezing just enough to draw a gasp, then drag your thumb over the slick at his tip. His whole body shudders as you touch him. He watches your hand, eyes bright and hungry; you sense he’d let you do anything to him right now.

“Lay down,” you command, your voice low and dangerous with desire.

Genma obeys so fast you barely have time to blink. He sprawls across your couch, shamelessly hard, hands limp at his sides, just waiting. You stand over him and pull your shirt off, slow enough for him to get an eyeful. His mouth falls open as he drinks you in, gaze lingering on your breasts to the curve of your waist, the way your thighs flex when you step out of your shorts and panties. His tongue flicks out, wetting his lips hungrily.

It’s almost comical how fast his cock jumps when you straddle his chest and plant your knees on either side of his head. But the look in his eyes when he realizes what you want, no, what you’re about to take, is absolutely reverent.

“No touching yourself,” you order, and he obeys, bringing his hands to your thighs.

You hover over his mouth, so close you can feel his breath against your wet center. Genma groans in anticipation, his voice ragged, and cranes his neck up, desperate for a taste.

“Ask nicely,” you demand, one hand gripping his hair, the other bracing yourself over the side of the sofa.

“Please,” he mutters as you slowly lower yourself. Letting him nuzzle your pussy, letting him inhale your scent like it was his lifeline. “Please, let me—” He can’t even finish. You grind just a little, slicking his lips and nose, and his eyes flutter closed.

You’re tempted to draw it out, but your own need is so strong you almost whimper when his tongue finally flicks at your clit. He licks you in slow, flat strokes, like he’s savoring every drop. Then sucks at your clit with a pressure you never knew you needed, latching onto your pussy with expert skill. His hands dig into your thighs, white-knuckled, while his tongue is relentless, tracing every part of you, then plunging greedily into your entrance. Genma was determined to taste every drop, greedily lapping at your pussy.

You don’t bother hiding the way you’re grinding your hips into his face, the way you moan his name and praise him when he gets it right— over and over, because he always gets it right. At some point, you realize he’s rutting up into the air, leaking steadily against his stomach, but not daring to touch himself.

Good boy.

“Fuck, Genma—” you gasp, thighs squeezing his ears as your hand tightens in his hair. “You’re good at this. Who taught you?”

He hums, the vibration making you shudder, then closes his lips around your clit and sucks until pleasure blacks out your vision. You arch, clutching his hair, and as you come on his tongue, you hear him curse and feel a sticky heat against your lower lips. Genma’s cock pulses, painting his abs with cum as he buries his tongue deeper, drinking every drop.

You grind down, letting him chase the last, trembling shudders of your orgasm. When you finally lift yourself off his mouth, he looks up at you— hair wild, lips glossy, eyes blown wide with delight. He’s panting, face slick with your arousal, and all you can do is laugh, as you wipe the sheen from his chin with your thumb and into his mouth, where he sucks it clean eagerly.

He watches you, patient and hungry, as you then lean over him and drag your lips along the curve of his jaw until you meet his lips, tasting yourself on his tongue. Genma sighs into your mouth, greedily kissing you like he’s starving.

“Please,” he pleads, his voice hoarse with desire, “let me taste you again.”

Like you could ever refuse. You guide him on top of you as you lie back on the couch, Genma settling between your legs, propping your thighs over his shoulders, staring at your cunt with rapt devotion. He spreads you open with two fingers and flicks his gaze up, a daring glint as he waits for your permission.

“Be a good boy,” you purr, “show me how much you want it.”

His eyes darken, and he groans as he slides his fingers in, slow at first, then curls them perfectly against that spot. His tongue presses flat against your clit, then circles it, causing you to arch your back when he resumes sucking it with a feral intensity.

“Oh, fuck,” you curse with a moan as the room fills with the squelching of your pussy as he works you with his mouth and hand.

The pressure builds fast, heat pushing through you like never before as you dig your heels into the small of his back, urging him on with your cries. Genma moans into you, the familiar vibration sending sparks up your spine. You realize he’s rutting against the couch again, helpless and leaking, but so focused on your pleasure he doesn’t even bother to touch himself.

You don’t last under his fervent touch. The slick sounds, the sight of his long fingers pumping knuckle-deep inside you, the way he won’t stop until you’re shaking— is too much. You cum again, harder this time, but Genma hitches his breath and keeps going relentlessly, until you’re moaning, squirming, and nearly sobbing as you squirt all over his hands and mouth. Your fingers knot in hair as his fingers splatter your juices everywhere. He groans in contentment, lapping up everything like he was drunk, then kisses your thigh gently before crawling up to kiss your lips, slow and deep.

He waits for you to breathe, then wipes his chin and grins, sheepish and proud.

“What do you want me to do next?” He asks, more than eager to fill your every demand.

“Strip,” you order, and he complies immediately, peeling off his soiled shirt, then his pants, and everything else. You pull his hips back down to the soaked couch, straddling him and dragging his cock between your slick folds, teasing him with the heat and the promise of it.

Genma gasps, eyes squeezed shut, and you clamp your hand on his throat with just enough pressure to make him whimper. “Tell me, Genma, do you want me?”

He nods frantically, already trying to line up the head of his cock with your entrance with his hips. Your cunt is still quivering, sensitive from his tongue, and you want him so badly it almost borders on pain.

You tease him for as long as you can, rubbing yourself against his flushed tip, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he chokes back another little gasp. “Do you want to feel me?” You demurely murmur, letting your lips graze the shell of his ear.

He nods again, this time looking pained as his hands clutch your hips hard enough to bruise. “Fuck, yes, please, I can’t—”

You give in to his plea, lowering yourself inch by slow inch until the swollen head pops inside you. Genma’s head falls back, his eyes squeezed shut as he shudders, already trembling as he feels your pussy slowly swallow his length. You sink down further, savoring the stretch, feeling yourself envelop him, wet and snug. You watch his face as you take his whole length. The look on his face was one of pure awe as you bottomed out, a small whine escaping his throat when you swivel your hips. You ride him slowly at first, rolling your hips so he can feel every drag and squeeze.

His hands skate up from your waist to the small of your back, tracing the beads of sweat along your spine. When he bends forward to catch your nipple in his mouth, you gasp, arching into his touch, his tongue laving circles around the stiff peak.

“Mmm, yes, just like that, Genma,” you praise, holding his head there, rocking your hips harder, just to hear him moan around your flesh. He switches his attention to the other breast as you continue to ride him, his mouth separating with an obscene pop as you increase your speed.

When you look down, you see his neck muscle tense from holding himself back for your sake. You reward him by grinding down harder, milking him with your cunt, keeping your pace just shy of frenzied. You tangle a hand in his hair and pull his mouth to yours, kissing him bruisingly hard as he thrusts up into you, his self-control lost to the wind, his hips snapping.

Genma breaks the kiss, panting against your lips. “Let me—let me come, please—”

You decide to break him and have your fun. “Not yet,” you order, clenching your pussy around him mercilessly. “You can wait a little longer.” But your own need is catching up, and you want to take him with you when you fall.

He whines, helpless as you drag your nails down his chest. “You’re killing me—”

You laugh, licking the sweat from his jaw as he shudders beneath you, hand wrapping around his throat again. “You can take it, Genma. I know you can.”

But Genma isn’t content to be good forever, you know a man like him can only hold back for so long. The moment you loosen your hold on his throat, he grabs your ass with both hands and flips you, pinning you to the couch. The look in his eyes is dark and wild, sending a shiver down your spine.

“My turn,” he growls, and pushes your knees up towards your shoulders, folding you nearly in half as you gasp at the sudden power flip.

The new angle is devastating— he bottoms out so deep your vision blurs, and your nails dig into his back as you cry out with each thrust. He pounds into you, fast and rough, but never losing control, gritting his teeth as he buries himself to the hilt again and again. He kisses your neck, your cheek, your parted lips, tasting the tears that slip out as you shatter around him.

You practically sob Genma’s name as the pleasure rips through your core— he fucks you through it, his lips finding yours to swallow your cries. He’s shaking above you, muscles tense and quivering, hands clamped so tight on your thighs you’re sure you’ll bruise. “Gonna—fuck, I’m—” he manages, his voice hoarse and desperate.

“Do it,” you gasp, nails dragging down his back. “Come inside me,” you demand as you meet his eyes.

And he does as if on command, his hips slamming flush as he pulses deep inside you. He groans your name, stuttering it as he comes with a shaky breath. You feel his seed, hot and thick, spilling into the deepest part of you— the thought alone is enough to make you clench around him, milking every last drop.

He shudders through the aftershocks, then collapses onto your chest, both of you panting, sweat-soaked and fucked out. You run your fingers through his damp hair, smirking as he nuzzles your collarbone.

“Hmm, not bad,” you mutter, “for a guy who can’t flirt.”

He huffs a laugh, face still buried in your neck. “Slander. I just conserve my energy for the important moments.”

“Like this one?” You squeeze your cunt around his softening cock, just to prove a point.

He yelps and bites down on your shoulder gently. “Sadist,” he grumbles, but you both know he’s grinning.

You stroke his sweat-slick back, feeling the slow, steady thud of his heart under your palm. He’s still inside you, refusing to move, exactly like you wanted him.

You let the silence stretch, just breathing together in the dark until Genma finally props himself up and looks you dead in the eye. “So, uh. You gonna kick me out now? Or can I stay the night?”

“Depends,” you say, arching a brow. “Can you behave yourself?”

He grins lazily, giving you that smile that stops your heart. “No promises.”

You tug him down for a kiss, deep and thorough— there’s no rush now, no games left to play. When you finally break apart, you realize you could get used to this: the weight of him, the easy banter, the feeling of being wanted so badly it almost hurts.

You brush your fingers through his hair, then press a lazy kiss to his chin. “You gonna ignore me at the fruit stand again tomorrow?”

He snickers, resting his forehead against yours tenderly. “Maybe I’ll just eat you for breakfast instead.”

But by the third and fourth cigarette, the disappointment tasted sour in your mouth. The pit in your gut was undeniable, proof of the feelings you ferverently ignored. Despite your best attempt to be unbothered, you couldn’t help but snuff out your cigarette in agitation.

You knew better, but for some reason, you couldn’t let him go. Bradshaw is just a guy you occasionally smoke with; hell, you don’t even know his last name or shit about the guy. Though that actually goes both ways, it’s not like he truly knows you…

So then came the guilt.

You couldn’t hold his reservations against him while your entire existence to him is a lie. Though some truths managed to slip through in your stories as you found yourself easily carried away by his patient listening. He never seemed to mind, always grunting or giving dry comments that always made you smile. He seemed to tolerate you, maybe even more than tolerate, if you believed your delusional mind.

“Ughhh,” you groaned outwardly as you slumped in the bench, running your hand through your loose hair. “What the fuck am I doing?” You huffed in defeat as you pushed yourself to your feet.

You had far more important things to be doing than sitting here, hoping for Bradshaw to miraculously appear around the corner. It was pathetic, really, lowering yourself to such actions. Perhaps you were just bored and he was a source of entertainment, something to help you pass the time in Manchester while you struggled at your job.

Yeah, that must be it.

Still, stuck between denial and justification, you couldn’t shake Bradshaw’s intense hazel eyes from your mind. Or his large, muscular arms, covered in tattoos. Or his strong jaw—

Fuck, stop!

You hadn’t noticed you were pacing, having unconsciously channeled your racing thoughts to your feet. It’s time to change tactics, you decided, sitting back down on the bench and covering your face with your hands.

Using the Agency’s training, you sorted your thoughts into facts and emotions, trying seperate your feelings.

Fact: You’ve been in the country for three and a half weeks.

Fact: You’ve made zero progress on the primary objective.

Fact: You’re now spending a significant portion of your evenings chain-smoking and thinking about a man whose face you’ve never seen.

Fact: You’re a goddamn professional, and this is not how professionals act.

Fact: You are already involved, and that is the problem.

Emotion: Loneliness, tinged with a splash of need, like the aftertaste of a shot. You hated that you even recognized it in yourself. You’d gone years without getting close to anyone, prided yourself on being the kind of operator who could disappear into the structure of any city, any mission, any life. The job devoured intimacy; you let it. It even felt noble sometimes.

Now you wondered if you’d ever been truly immune, or just hadn’t found the right kind of distraction.

You pressed your thumbs to your closed eyes, massaging out the beginnings of a headache, and tried to recall if you’d ever let a mark get this far under your skin. Bradshaw wasn’t a mark. Not really. But he wasn’t exempt from the laws of your craft either: Trust nothing, suspect everything, and never let your guard down.

The bench pressed cold into the back of your thighs as you forced yourself to sit still. You’d meant to be compiling a mental list of places Sylus Monet might be hiding— a map of the city’s digital underbelly, connecting data centers to pubs and residential areas. Instead, your thoughts careened back to the last time you saw Bradshaw, when the two of you had sat in silence and just listened to the frogs. He’d told you about a pond on the edge of town that he used to hunt at before it was all torn down and turned into a shopping center. You had a similar story from your home— your real home— that you shared with no sense of hesitation.

It was nice to tell him something about the real you, something that wasn’t a lie. It reminded you who you are beneath the mask, having lost some of yourself with each identity you take.

You shouldn’t have let that matter. But it did.

You tried to conjure all the appropriate shame and self-loathing, but instead you felt something closer to longing, though you refused to call it that. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had a conversation that didn’t require a mask of some kind. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had wanted absolutely nothing from you.

Then there was Bradshaw. He would accept your company if you didn’t say a single word, or if you rambled for an hour on a single topic. In your pajamas or in your jeans, make-up or no make-up, if you were chatty or withdrawn…

He just took you as you were, never questioning it.

A car door slammed in the distance, jolting your senses. For a second, you braced yourself, expecting to see his silhouette materialize out of the dark— to no such luck— it was just a neighbor. You let out a soft, bitter laugh and finally called it a night before you let your weary mind get the better of you.

You stood, stretching out the kinks in your back, and started the slow walk to your building. The wind had picked up, crisp and forceful, tangling your hair with quick work. You let yourself be pulled by it, rounding the corner with your head down until you reached the porch. On instinct, you turned to survey your surroundings one last time, eyes scanning for something and nothing at the same time.

With a sigh, you walked through the door with your shoulders hanging low. You completed your lock-up ritual and retreated to your bed, desperate to sleep away your lingering thoughts of Bradshaw.

But it was harder than you expected.

Far too hard.

Uh oh, do you have a crush!?!?!?

That was several days ago. Currently, he was stationed at his usual spot on the bench, eyes focused on the dark parking lot as he listened to the gentle footsteps approaching. He knew they were yours, but he didn’t want you to know that he knew you were coming. So he sat motionless, arms crossed, with a cigarette between his lips until you came around from the sidewalk, acknowledging you with his eyes and a slight tilt of his head.

The weather had warmed up quickly this year, and Simon found himself in a short-sleeved shirt for the first time this season. A trend you also followed; he soon found out as you emerged in pink plaid pajama shorts and a white tee-shirt. Paired with what he has come to know as your signature smirk.

“Nice guns,” you immediately shot to him with a quirked brow, pausing for a second to look over him.

“You checkin’ me out?” Simon gruffly responded with an arched brow of his own.

Your smile didn’t fade as you sat down; if anything, it widened. “Maybe,” you lilted as you pulled out a cigarette. Fresh smoke filled the air as you lit it, your slitted eyes flickering back over him. “Didn’t know you had tattoos, they look good on you.”

Simon’s hand hovered by his mouth as he paused at your words. He was testing the waters initially, but like always, you somehow turn it around on him. You said the words so casually, a simple compliment, but it felt like uncharted territory.

He brushed it off, grumbling out a thanks and ashing his cigarette. Out of his periphery, he watched you cross your legs; the chill from the cold bench caused your skin to break out in gooseflesh, a detail he cursed himself for noticing. He caught that your eyes never left him, assessing as you smoked in silence.

The chilly cold nights had shifted to comfortable evenings flushed with the sounds of frogs and insects. That was never something he noticed until you mentioned it, and now he notices the symphony of nature whenever he smokes. It’s a nice change of pace from the way his mind is conditioned to notice every manmade sound, every footstep, every breath. Nature feels less threatening, even when it’s loud.

He likes it.

“So, Bradshaw,” you drawl, pulling his thoughts back into the present and his eyes over to you.

That fuckin’ name.

You uncross your legs and lean towards him conspiratorially with a small smile to match. “Tell me, why do you come all the way over here to smoke? You could just break the rules like everyone else.”

That struck him as a strange question, mainly because he didn’t truly know the answer off the top of his head. He had to pause a moment and consider— why do I come here?

“Just feels proper,” Simon finally managed. It was the best thing he could think of, and it sounded better than ‘it’s the rules’.

Your light chuckle surprised him, watching as you leaned in slightly closer. “You don’t strike me as a proper type of man.” He held your gaze as a light smirk spread across his lips.

“’m not,” he snorted, moving to take another drag of his cigarette. If you knew the things he’d done in service to his country and the world, you’d understand just how far from ‘proper’ he truly is. That was a side of him that he needed to keep hidden the most, especially from you.

It came with a darkness that drowned him at times, leaving him restless at night and weary during the day. There are no pills he could take or words he could say to make it any better, so he buried it deep and convinced himself he was okay.

Okay enough, at least.

“You know,” you said as you leaned in even further, now only several inches apart. “For a guy who says he’s not proper, you have a very proper way of doing things. Rules and routines and all.” You flicked your cigarette butt towards the bin, eyes still locked onto his.

Simon paused, acknowledging how you’ve managed to gather that from him despite his attempt to be distant. “Old habits,” he said, but there was something heavier in his tone now— as if it were laced with admission. “S’pose it’s easier to stick to the rules than to think about why you’re followin’ ‘em.”

He watched you chew your lip as you pondered him, face light with thoughtfulness. He could practically see you rack your brain for a response. “You may not be proper, but you’re a good man,” you finally said.

The words hung between you, absurdly vulnerable in the open air. He went absolutely still, the words hitting him like a train, nearly jarring him from reality. What good could you possibly see in him? He’s practically the goddamn grim reaper.

He turned his head and held your gaze head-on, fingers squeezing his cigarette subconsciously. “And what makes you say that?”

You didn’t flinch at the question. You just held his stare, shrugging lightly before lulling your head to the side. “I may not be able to see your face, but I can see enough.”

For a long moment, he looked right at you, searching for the lie. When he found none, he turned away, exhaling smoke into the dark. He wanted to tell you that good men didn’t do the things he had. They didn’t end lives with the mechanized efficiency and numbness he’d mastered, didn’t lie about their name for weeks like it was nothing, didn’t walk around waiting for the next call, the next kill order. He wanted to say you’d got it wrong.

Instead, he shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re sayin’.”

You smiled, not with your mouth but with your eyes, which made it harder to dismiss. “I work in sales, Bradshaw. I read people for a living.” You scooted fractionally closer, your knee nearly bumping his. “You read like someone who’s had to be the bad guy so someone else didn’t have to.”

The words landed heavily, his eyes widening just a hair, a shiver running down his spine. You weren’t wrong; he just wished you were. That would make all of this easier.

From the corner of his eye, he watched your face contort with concern, though he wasn’t sure for what.

Then he felt your hand on his bicep, a warm, light pressure that sent shocks through his nerves. “Sorry if that was weird,” you mumbled sheepishly, disarming Simon immediately.

“It wasn’t,” he reassured you quickly, sensing your unease at the thought of making him uncomfortable.

He let the strange warmth of your nearness settle into his bones, the old reflex to move away overridden by something hungrier, yearning. He thought about how it would feel to let down his walls, to let you in, and to sit here and chain smoke and talk until dawn. You would tell him stories of your childhood or more random shit about plants, and he would listen intently, hanging on to your every word. Simon enjoyed your wit and the fearlessness with which you delivered it. He appreciated the way you never pushed him, always somehow sensing the line without him having to draw it. He wanted to tell you these smoke breaks had become something he looked forward to, that just being out here with you felt nice.

But then he remembered who he was, what he was.

A lie.

Taking another long drag, you ignored them for as long as possible until they were practically surrounding you. They looked like the epitome of trashy British fuckboys in their bright colored jackets and beanies. As your eyes quickly flickered between their faces, you assessed them to be about your age and of average size. Men are fickle creatures, similar to a box of chocolates— you don’t know which kind you’ll get til you take a bite, and most of the time they taste shitty. These men could be nice and non-threatening, maybe they might even be merciful enough to ignore you, or they could be something worse.

So you do your best to swallow down any assumptions and remain neutral.

“Got a light, miss?” The man in the cobalt blue jacket and white beanie asked with a roguish smile.

You skillfully disguised your unease with a small smile as you hand him your pink lighter. “Here,” you prompt as they all huddle around to light their cigarettes.

The blonde one with the red coat dragged out the moment, exhaling a lazy cloud of smoke into your personal space before handing you back the lighter. “So, what’s a pretty American chick like you doin’ out here all alone?” He asked, leering as if his line was the pinnacle of wit.

His friend, the one in the white beanie, sidles up closer and gives you a long, appraising look, his gaze obscenely taking in your features. The third, round-faced and slightly less hammered, hung back and glanced between you and the others as though he was scoping for an escape if things went south. Not a good sign. You take another drag and aim your gaze past their collective mass, hoping they’ll properly interpret your body language as not in the mood; though that was a language men like them rarely bother to read.

You try civility as your first resort, despite your rising annoyance. “Just needed a break from work.” You offer a pointed smile, not the warm kind that invites more.

“Ah, work, eh?” Red Jacket piped up, crowding you further against the bench. “You a student or somethin’?” By the way he said it, you can tell he’s hoping he made the right assumption.

“E-commerce sales manager, actually.” You lied easily with your well-rehearsed line, which seemed to trip them up just enough to buy a few seconds of peace.

“Bet you’re selling yourself short,” White Beanie retorted, giving you a cringeworthy wink. “We’re havin’ a party, couple flats over. You should come. Loads of people in there, you’d fit right in.” He nudged his friend as if this were a group effort.

You tapped ash onto the ground and shook your head with apologetic politeness. “Appreciate it, but I’m wiped. Maybe next time.” Get the fucking hint.

Beanie Boy’s face fell, replaced by a pouty taunt. “Aw, come on. You can’t say no to us,” he lilted, leaning with his elbow on the beam of the pergola. “That’s not very American, is it? Don’t you lot love a good party?”

Red Jacket laughed and practically climbed onto the bench beside you, his leg knocking against yours. “If you’re bored out here, we can keep you company. Otherwise, you’ll freeze your tits off.”

You bit your tongue and ran a quick mental calculation on the best way to defuse this. You’ve trained for far worse, but protocol states to avoid any unnecessary conflict, and you’re technically undercover. Still, with each passing moment, your self-control chipped away. Red then put his hand on your knee, palm heavy and unfamiliar, making your eyes narrow with simmering anger.

You smile sardonically, a dangerous glint sparking in your eyes. “I’ll take my chances with the weather, thanks.”

Undeterred, Red Jacket leaned in, his breath stinking of cheap gin and cigarettes. “That’s a shame,” he lulled, voice dropping as if to share a secret. “But I can think of a few ways to keep you warm.” He’s close enough that the smoke curling from his foul mouth blends with your own. You reflexively shrink back, trying to create as much distance from him as possible.

It would be so easy to break his nose. The knowledge wasn’t a temptation so much as a reflex, a calculation running in the background of your mind: the snap of cartilage and bone. Instead, you force your jaw to unclench and channel your specialized training to maintain your control. There are easier ways to end this— smarter ways.

As he leaned in closer for another attempt, a shadow fell over the group. You didn’t see anything at first, but you registered the drop in temperature. Then the moment froze: Red’s grip tightened on your knee, Beanie’s leer went slack, and the third boy’s eyes went wide. The silence was split by a voice so cold and dark, it was practically a growl.

“You have three seconds to remove your hand from her,” the voice calmly instructed, “before I remove it from your arm.”

The voice was unmistakable, more intense now that it was laced with an absolute threat. Bradshaw. You didn’t notice his approach, didn’t know how long he’d been watching, but he’s here now— shoulders squared, mask pulled low, eyes hard and shadowed with violence.

Red Jacket attempted bravado, keeping his hand clamped to your knee like a trophy. “Oi, why don’t you fuck off, mate? We’re having a conversation—”

Bradshaw’s hand closed around Red’s neck with lightning speed and force. The movement was so fast you almost missed it; the next instant, Red was face-down on the bench, arm twisted behind his back, mouth open in a wordless gasp. The other two surged forward, but Bradshaw stepped between you and them, never loosening his grip on the first. He didn’t flinch as Beanie swung at him— just sidestepped, pivoted, and planted a boot in the man’s stomach, launching him onto the mulch with a heavy thump.

You watched, a fresh cigarette halfway to your lips, as Bradshaw turned back to Red. “Party’s over,” Bradshaw growled as he shoved Red’s arm away, and the man tumbled to the ground, clutching his wrist and swearing. White Beanie helped him up, hastily making their retreat. Only Round Face looked back, likely to ensure Bradshaw wasn’t following them.

They’re gone in seconds, the echo of their humiliation trailing after them like dust.

You lit your cigarette, taking care with the ritual as you let the sudden calm settle around you. Bradshaw didn’t say anything; he just sat down on the other side of the bench and pulled out a cigarette, completely unbothered.

“That was something,” you chirped after a moment, watching as he tugged up the mask just enough to expose his lips to light the cigarette.

Your hands were steady despite the previous tension that was suffocating you, appearing unfazed by the entire thing, just like Bradshaw. You’re not entirely sure if that’s a good thing.

Bradshaw glanced over, ashing his cigarette with a harsh flick. “Hope they didn’t bother you much.”

You smiled and shook your head, taking a drag from your cigarette. “Eh, I’ve had worse.” You gave him a sidelong glance, studying the set of his jaw, the way his knuckles were still slightly white. “But I appreciate the cavalry.”

He grunted, bringing his cigarette to his lips. “Didn’t look like you needed it.” His tone was flat, but you could feel the warmth lingering underneath. For a moment, nothing moved except the pulse at his throat.

You rested your elbows on your knees, head cocked, cigarette perched between your lips. “Maybe not, but it’s always nice to see chivalry isn’t dead.” You glanced back over, gauging his reaction, searching for the faintest sign of amusement in the tight line of his mouth.

He didn’t give you much, but you noticed an ever-so-slight uptick at the corner of his lips, as if the muscle tugged in protest. “Wouldn’t call it chivalry.” He watched the smoke curl from his cigarette, his posture still rigid. “More like pest control.”

That got a genuine laugh out of you— light and girlish against the hush after the scuffle. You couldn’t help but lean in, feeling a little conspiratorial, a little bold. “I didn’t take you for a hero, Bradshaw.”

His head turned, and for the first time, you got a full-on look at his face unobscured by gloom or smoke. His eyes— you couldn’t decide if they’re hazel or brown, but there’s an intensity there, measuring and precise, and more than a little tired. “You shouldn’t.”

“Oh, I don’t,” you shot back, the words out before you could think to soften them. “But I’m glad you didn’t just walk past, either.”

He stared at you for a beat, then looked away. “Had a shit day. Needed the distraction.” The words sounded controlled, but maybe that’s his way of keeping you at arm’s length. You can’t blame him.

You read between the lines, always a sucker for a man with a story to bury. “Want to talk about it?” You cautiously offer, softening your voice. “Or should we have the next group of wandering frat boys try their luck first?”

He actually snorted at that, the sound feeling foreign to your ears. He looked at you from the corner of his eyes, the embers of his cigarette glowing between his fingers. “Doubt we’ll see any more of ‘em.”

You caught how he dodged your question, but didn’t press him further. “I don’t know,” you hummed as your eyes drifted to the overfilled parking lot. “Looks like they’ve got a small army.”

“Good thing we’ve got you to take ‘em out,” he retorted with a sly glance at you.

You gave him a cunning grin, crossing your legs as you turned to face him. “Don’t worry, Bradshaw, I’ll protect you.”

He graced you with a smirk that time, giving you an amused grunt before he took a drag from his cigarette.

You sat in silence a while, the space feeling oddly tranquil despite the commotion only minutes ago. The party noise was a distant, irrelevant thrum and easy to block out. Time seemed to slow, your nerves settling from the earlier encounter, your body relaxing into the bench.

You chain-smoked two more cigarettes, the routine now a comfortable lull between the two of you. Occasionally, a shiver would pass through you, but the cold felt less biting with Bradshaw beside you. You found yourself falling into an easy rhythm— smoke, ash, watch the faint plume drift and dissolve into the night. The conversation darted between inane and intimate, each new topic a test of boundaries.

He told you about the neighbor across the way who’s an obvious drug dealer and about another woman who’ll call the office if a dog pees on her bush. You told him about the time a pigeon flew into the bar you worked at, and no one could get it out, so they just named it Larry Bird. He laughed at that— an honest, full-bodied sound muffled by a cigarette. It was a nice laugh, deep but not forced, and it made something warm twist in your chest.

You talked about food (you both think cilantro tastes like soap), about music (both big fans of The Smiths, though you disagreed on their best song), and how you both believe that social media is ruining the youth. You noticed, as the evening stretched on, that Bradshaw had a habit of watching you intently when you spoke; it almost felt endearing. He didn’t offer much about himself, but what you glimpsed in the gaps— how he sat with rigid posture, the way he scanned the parking lot at regular intervals— spoke volumes. He was always surveying, always vigilant.

Who are you, Bradshaw?

When the butt of your final cigarette glowed down to the filter, you looked at him through the haze and hummed. “You know, you’re not as scary as you look.”

He side-eyed you, a smirk barely visible across his lips. “‘try not to be.”

You held the moment a beat longer before yawning, the fatigue settling in your bones. “I should head in. I have some calls in the morning.” Lie.

He stood as you did, stretching his arms above his head as you stood and moved next to him. It was then that you fully realized his true size, his body hulking over yours, casting you in his shadow. He’s built like a fucking tank.

“Get some rest, Yank,” he said, voice low and almost fond.

You saluted him with two fingers and a smile before making your way back to your apartment. The party across the complex was still raging, but the noise felt far away, muffled down to a subtle vibration. You shut the door behind you, locked it, and exhaled, letting the hush of your apartment surround you.

That night, you lay in bed and replayed the way Bradshaw moved. He hadn’t hesitated for a second to step in; he handled the situation like it was instinct, every motion deliberate. It wasn’t just that he was strong— lots of men were strong— but he had a kind of presence that made the air around him heavier. You wondered what he had done before, what kind of “contracting” he meant. He didn’t have a mercenary’s ego. He carried himself more like a soldier— someone who’d seen too much and now lived on the periphery of everything.

You swore you could still feel the ghost of his hand on the bench between you, the way he’d held his ground and wordlessly absorbed all the shit the world threw at him.

You wondered what Bradshaw was actually running from.

Or towards.

You were supposed to see everything— that’s what you specialized in. But his story was mostly a mystery. There was the way he wore the mask tonight, even though it was unseasonably warm for March. Perhaps he always wore it, though the logistics behind that must be annoying. You’d clocked dozens of strange little signs: how he always positioned himself with his back to the wall, how he scanned the darkness before lighting his cigarette, how he flinched at the pop of a car door in the distance, how he never let his hands idle.

He was all muscle and impenetrable silence, but had a thread of kindness that he cautiously offered you.

There was something in the way he watched, the way he stood between you and the three drunk idiots— not for show, not for glory, but as a force of habit. You thought of the other men you’d met in your line of work. You had met brutes and monsters, war criminals and desk-bound voyeurs, the kind who paraded their power with a sneer. Bradshaw wasn’t like them.

If anything, he seemed burdened by the violence— not afraid of it, but tired of how often it called his name.

The red flags should have been a parade by now: the mask, the posture, the hair-trigger reflexes, the way he neutralized a grown man with practiced ease. But you couldn’t work up the proper sense of dread or concern. If anything, you felt safer with him around, which was probably its own brand of insanity.

You eventually drifted to sleep thinking about the way his voice went soft when he bid you goodnight, how you might have imagined his eyes on you the entire walk home. You wondered if you’d ever catch him off guard, if you’d ever get him to open up. For now, you’d settle for his company, the easy silence, the unspoken pact that existed in a cigarette between your two lives.

On a side note-- can anyone guess where I got Bradshaw from lol