stinky

Footsteps approach and you stiffen. You’ve run into a few agents here or there. They don’t really acknowledge you. Although a security guard asked to verify your badge.

The button on the microwave depresses and the door pops open. The growl in return assures you of the shadow in your peripheral’s identity. You glance over as Agent Walker examines the stuffed oxen.

“Hm.” He huffs and flips it over. “How long does this go for?”

“Oh, uh… ninety seconds. You can add thirty if it doesn’t warm enough.” You guide him, not thinking as you cross and punch in the numbers yourself.

“Great.” He puts the ox on the glass plate and shuts the door. You back up as he taps start. “Thanks.”

“Meeting went okay?” You ask.

His brow arches. He tilts his head and looks at you from the edge of his eye. “You’re on lunch.”

“Uh, yeah, sorry.” You back up. “Speaking of… I had a bit too much so if you’re hungry…” you open the fridge and take out a container. “I made some quinoa and salmon. You don’t even need to warm it up.”

He stares at the tupperware. You feel ready to melt. You’re doing too much. You set it on the counter.

“If you don’t, just… put it back in the fridge.” You shrug and grab the other from the middle shelf of the fridge.

He exhales but doesn’t say anything. That’s probably the best response you can hope for. You leave him and opt to find somewhere to eat outside. You stare at all the luxury electric cars and their handleless doors as you eat without tasting.

Walker, Andy. You feel like you’re hanging by a string with both. Each sliver of progress is met immediately with backslide. You stir the last few bites and scoop them up from the tilted container. You put the lid back on and delay your return with a stroll around the grounds.

“That’s prohibited.” A holler startles you. You stop and spin to face the man jabbing his finger at you. “What are you doing here? How’d a civilian get in here?” He snarls.

“No, I’m not– I work here. I was only going for a walk,” you fumble for your badge as you keep the container under your arm. “See.”

You approach the man as he sneers down his nose. He squints at your photo. “You don’t have the clearance level, ma’am.”

“Redfield,” A timbre rumbles from behind the large man. “Leave her be. She’s with me.”

The man, Redfield, juts out his chin and clucks. He turns slowly. “Walker.”

“Sunny as rainstorm.” Walker retorts as he approaches. “I told her to take her break. This place ever think of working on amenities?”

“Can’t remember the last time I saw you outside your office.” Redfield snorts.

“I’ve been cleared for field work so… we shouldn’t see much of each other. Thankfully.” August gestures you past the other man. “Don’t talk to my PA like that again.”

“Don’t let her wander where she doesn’t belong.”

“And what are you doing? Got nothing better to do than lurk?” Walker scoffs. “Come on, sweetheart.”

He beckons to you again. You obey. You try not to notice that word he used. Not ma’am, not lady, sweetheart? Hell, when’s the last time Andy used that word with you? Well, it’s probably not a good thing. If anything it’s condescending, demeaning. This is a workplace after all.

He turns and walks beside you. The other man grumbles. You chafe and grip the container between your hands.

“Sorry, I didn’t meant to–”

“Don’t worry about it. Chris always finds a reason.” He assures.

“Okay, um… yeah but I don’t wanna break the rules.”

“You didn’t. Worry about my rules.” He insists.

“Uh huh…” you hum uncertainly. Silence festers around you. “Your shoulder feel better?”

“Sure. It doesn’t feel like a nails lodge behind it. Was tryna stretch…” he trails off. “Not your worry.”

“Well… it kinda is. I’m your PA.”

“My shoulder isn’t CIA business.”

“Fair,” you accept.

He’s quiet again. You approach the doors and he swipes his badge first. He opens the door for you. He waits and follows you in. You cross the lobby to the elevators. He taps his badge again.

You step onto the elevator and stand beside him. He seems bigger in here. You teeter on your heels.

“Can you do me another favour?” He asks.

“Sure. That’s my job.” You chime.

“Cancel that meeting with Fowler. I don’t got the energy.”

💔

“Sending a girl to tell me to fuck myself, huh?” Fowler slaps the screen of the coffee machine. “Does he really think I want to deal with him either?”

“Maybe tomorrow–”

“Fuck it. I’ll send an email. He can read, right?” He chuckles.

“Sir.”

“Jesus. I feel bad for you. Guy’s a prick. Specially since that thing in Vienna.” He hits start on the machine.

You look at his hand and something else catches your attention. The container you offered Walker is empty, washed out, and set neatly against the wall, labelled with your name on a post-it. Well, at least someone enjoyed lunch.

“Right. I’ll have him check his mailbox.”

“Sure, honey. I know he’ll get right on it.” He pushes his jacket back as he grips his hips. He glances over at you. “Didn’t peg you as his type.”

You frown. “The director hired me–”

He laughs again. “Go. I don’t like my coffee with stress.”

You do just that. Most of the agents have that bluntness. That lack of patience. If it’s not urgent, it doesn’t matter.

You knock before you enter Walker’s office. He sits back sharply from holding his forehead. You don’t acknowledge it.

“Done. Meeting off.” You confirm as you near your chair and pull out your phone. There it is. An email already. Oh, it’s not from Nick.

You sit and squint at the screen. It’s not easy to read the layout on the small phone.

‘Confidential. Mission Brief.’

You have to put in your employee number just to view it. You review the information, much of it in lingo you don’t really understand. You sit up and find Walker looking at you.

“You’re going to Paris?” You say.

He taps his fingers on his armrest.

“You need a tablet. Or laptop.” He says.

You nod. “Thank you, sir. It would be helpful, but… Paris.”

“I’ll show you how to do the expense report. You can book the travel.” He stands up and checks his watch.

“Uh, okay, yes, sir.”

“Make sure you get two tickets. Business.” He insists as he marches to the door.

“Two?” You wonder as you watch him strut to the door.

“Can’t do much here when I’m there.” He grabs the handle and twists it.

It's strange to think that while your day has been completely atypical, his is just as it always is. Well, some things remain. You still have responsibilities. Lunch for tomorrow and dinner tonight. You'll make some for him too. Maybe this time he'll eat it.

By the time you're sitting and eating, you're barely hungry. You're exhausted and have another long day ahead of you. You eat slowly and tidy up before heading up for a shower and bed.

One thing remains starkly unaffected. The loneliness. Somehow you convinced yourself getting a job, getting an income, bringing something tangible to the marriage would change what you can never change; your husband. Why did you believe that?

But maybe it can change you. Maybe there's some meaning you can find beyond desperately wanting and trying to make Andy happy. You thought you had when you said I do but that was fleeting, that was a fantasy.

For the first time in a long time, you have no problem falling asleep. You usually toss and turn until you relent and end up on the couch watching mindless television until you doze off. Andy sneaks in past you and you wake up to get him his coffee in the morning.

It’s not exactly how you pictured marriage.

Andy wakes you up that night. Another abnormality. He rolls into bed with a sigh and jostles you as he tries to get comfortable. You get a waft of something. Like a candle? It’s not a bad scent, just unfamiliar.

“Hey,” you grumble sleepily. “How was work?”

“Long.” He growls and tugs the blanket. 

You wait. He doesn’t ask you the same. He’s probably tired…

You go silent and that restlessness returns. You’re wide awake now. His presence is oppressive. You almost feel like you’re crowding him. Like he’s disappointed to find you there.

You wait until he’s snoring to leave the bed. It’s all in your head. You just need to talk to him. That’s the problem. You never just get to sit and talk and connect.

You piece together a few hours of sleep before your alarm goes off. You make Andy’s coffee and your own. He comes down, already half-dressed, less his tie and jacket. He tastes his coffee.

“When’s the last time you descaled the machine?” He asks.

“Last week.” You say as you stir your own.

“You still putting sugar in yours?” He wonders.

Well, at least he’s chatty.

“No, just cream.”

“Hm,” he hums. Right, wrong answer.

“I made caesar salad for your lunch.” You point to the set of containers you pulled out; one for each of you.

“Caesar? You should try kale.” He says.

“I’ll add it to the list,” you say.

He sighs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“To the grocery list…” you realise how sarcastic that might have come off. “I’ll go after work on Friday–”

He grumbles again and takes another gulp of coffee. He puts the mug down and curls his lip. “I’ll stop by Brown’s on my way.”

He leaves you in the kitchen. You cling to the mention of the coffee shop. It’s just coffee. There’s nothing wrong with it. He never complained before.

You finish yours and rinse out the cup. He doesn’t come back for his. You go out as he’s at the front door, bag by his feet as he adjusts his tie in the entryway mirror. You approach him.

“Well, have a good day,” you say as you near him.

He flinches as you touch his sleeve. You hesitate. He looks at you, a harsh flicker in his eye.

“I just wanted to give you a kiss goodbye.” You say.

“Right. Sorry. Big case.” He exhales and bends. He offers his cheek. Oh. 

You peck it and pull back. “Love you.”

He goes back to tugging at his tie. “You think you can find me a new one in this colour.” He asks as he gives up. “Thanks.”

He grabs his bag and heads for the door. You stand dumbfounded. Did he not hear you?

You stare at the door as you listen to him go down the porch steps and get in his SUV. He drives off. You don’t have time to worry about him. It’s your second day and you can’t be late.

You go back to the kitchen to empty his unfinished coffee. You notice the containers. He didn’t take his. Is he doing this on purpose or is he really that distracted by work?

Well, you won’t let your efforts go to waste. You won’t have to make your lunch for tomorrow. You put one of the salads back in the fridge and go to put the other in your bag. You stare at the lid before you seal the zipper. He’s right, you should go for vinaigrette and kale. It’s less fat.

You’re not stupid. You know you’ve softened a bit around the middle and your thighs since your wedding. You don’t know that you could even lace up your gown anymore. You noticed you just hoped he hadn’t.

Well, now that you’re working, you’ll have a better routine. You’ll be moving more and won’t have as much time to snack out of boredom. Or at least, you don’t think Mr. Walker would be impressed by you standing around munching on your favourite sweets.

Mr. Walker clenches yet again but there's something different to the way he does it. He winces and his head tilts ever so slightly to one side before he straightens up. He wiggles his thick fingers and his shoulders dip slightly.

You don't mention it. You focus on not making a move. You're afraid to shatter the stillness. You feel as if you've become a part of the wall. An invisibility you know well.

He hasn't said a word. Hasn't even looked in your direction. He huffs at his screen, maybe growls in his chest. You can't help but assume you've been forced on him.

He sits back in his chair. The frame creaks beneath his burly figure. He really is a large man. He brushes his fingers over his stubble; you swear you can hear it in the silence.

His eyes drift up and he clucks. "Forgot about you..."

You have no response for that. It wouldn't be the first time. You shift on your soles.

"Anything I can do? Get some water? File something?" You offer.

His cheek dimples. He shakes his head. "It's not rocket science."

He pulls his screen closer again. He heaves a dark breath and his jaw pinches down. His lashes flutter and he taps the edge of the desk.

He brings his hand up a d wags it.

"One thing." He says and reaches to the draw at the front of his desk. He presses his thumb and it clicks. "Bring this to Fowler."

He takes out a small square... Thing. He places it on the corner of the desk. You slowly approach as slide it off the glass between your fingers.

"Fowler." You repeat.

"Upstairs." He says and pivots back to the screen.

Right. You let the item slip into the palm of your hand and close your fist. You turn and walk out of the room.

You suspect he might just be trying to get a break from you. It's awkward just standing there. He has one shadow, he doesn't need another... That's something Andy likes to say.

You shake off that thought. He can't be the only thing going on in your life. This should help, right? You won't feel so needy and he won't feel so needed.

You stop at the elevators. You check the app. You can't look anything up in the directory. All access is denied.

You go down to the main floor and back to the front desk. Sandy perks up and greets you. She remembers your name.

"Um, could you tell me where I can find Fowler?"

You ask.

"Agent Fowler? Well, sure." She smiles. She types on her slim keyboard. "He just got out of a briefing so hopefully he's in his office. 56-F0."

You memorise the number and thank her. She wishes you luck. Again. You'll take all you can get.

You flash your badge and keep it in your hand to swipe at the elevator. You go to the sixth floor this time. Makes sense.

You clip the card to your blazer again and slowly walk the halls. You take in every door plate, reciting the office number under your breath. You stop in front of 56-F0.

"Now, who's sending me pretty women?" A man drawls as he struts up from the other end of the hall.

You face him and blanch. It's flattering but not entirely appropriate. You squirm and bring your fist up.

"Are you Fowler?"

"Woah, if you're here to swing on me, better set your feet first." He scoffs as he nears. He stops right in front of you and crosses his arms, casually leaning on the wall.

"No, uh. Agent Walker." You turn your hand and open your fingers.

He peers down at the flat square and presses a wide fingertips onto it. He slips it from your palm and examines it. He sucks his teeth.

"Typical. Can't be bothered to get off his ox-sized ass." He pinches the square between his fingers. "But I'll take your pretty face over his."

You try not to show your discomfort. You don't think your hideous but the compliments feel so out of place; for more than the context. It's just not something you hear a lot.

"Well, um, there you go." You back up and drop your arm.

"So, why are you running around for August?" He asks.

It takes a moment to register who he means. A. Walker. August.

"Coordinating assistant." You answer plainly.

"Ah. Bringer of coffee." He grins. "They finally put a babysitter on his ass."

You shrug then cringe. You can hear Andy chiding you. When you do that, you look like a child.

"I'm there to support." You say.

He laughs again. "Cute. Well how about you go hold his hand and tell him I got the chip. I'll take care of it."

"Erm. Okay, thank you."

You spin awkwardly and walk away beneath his scrutiny. You exhale only as you turn the corner out of sight and get to the elevator. You tap your card and bounce on your feet.

You take your phone out on your single-floor descent. Nothing. No 'how's your first day?', no 'thinking of you'. Well, things can't change over night.

You find your way back to Walker's office door. You stand in front of it. Your phone buzzes in your blazer pocket. You slip it out.

It's the security app. Tracking in progess? You unlock your phone as the notification expands. Supervisory scan requested. You see a dot on a map. Right by 41-B6.

You lower your phone and knock.

"Get in here." Walker snarls from inside.

You enter and tuck your phone away. He puts his own face down. He glances at you then back at his monitor.

"Sir. I handed the chip over to Agent Fowler."

"One floor up. Shouldn't take that long." He girds.

"Understood." You accept. It probably shouldn't have.

You resume your post by the wall. He clears his throat. You fidget.

"Did you want any water?" You offer again.

He taps the screen, dragging his touch over it, and shifts in his seat.

"Water's fine."

You’re on the fold out bed that converts to a table in daylight. Your brother sleeps on the couch and your dad gets the only private room in the cluttered trailer. You sit up groggily as the hammering knock comes again; at the top right of the door.

“Police, open up. Now!” A voice barks.

Your feet tangle in the blanket as you scramble to obey. You nearly tip over the edge as you leave the ratty comforter hanging down to the floor. You garble dumbly as you try to straighten up yourself and your vision.

You look around. The couch is empty and your dad’s bedroom door is shut.

“Dad? Ricky?” You call out. Your voice is crisp not only from sleep but disuse. You can’t remember the last time you spoke so loudly. “Hey!”

No answer.

You stagger into the door and lean on it as you slide back the latch. It quakes as once more a fist batters at it. “PD. Open up now. Show your hands.”

You twist the latch and the door pushes open from the other side. You stumble as a light shines in your face. “Hands up. Show your hands. Palm out.”

You shakily do as you’re told. You don’t know what’s going on. The police come around but your dad or brother deals with them. You usually just hide. That’s all you ever do.

“Against the wall.” An officer grabs you and spins you into the closest wall. You whimper as he pins you there with his knee against the back of your legs and his elbow in your back.

Other shadows march in, aiming lights and barrels all around. The strip the foldout bed and flip it up roughly. You quiver as you try to see over your shoulder.

“Head forward.” The officer commands. “I’m searching the suspect in custody.”

You whine. Suspect?

The man gruffly grabs at your, hooking his arm around to claw at your shirt, down your chest across the back of your shoulders, down your sides. He kicks your feet apart as he searches for pockets and anything hidden in your stained jogging pants. Just three days of your sweat.

“She’s not one of them,” Another officer says. “Take it easy.”

“How do you know?”

“She’s fucking one or related,” another responds. “She’ll be questioned but no need for all tht.”

You shy away at the former suggestion. You would never. As pathetic as you are, still living with your family, you’re not that. No, no man ever wanted that from you.

“Grinton,” a taller officer approaches, “join in. I’ll take the witness.”

“Fine.”

“You find anything good, you’re welcome,” the second officer says. “I’ll write the commendation myself.”

“Pfft, whatever,” the man pushes off you and you whimper again. “Fucking desk jockeys.”

The first officer stomps away as the other lingers. “Hey, miss, let’s step outside, okay?”

He gestures you to the door aas the police continue to ransack the trailer. You descend the three steps to the ground in your bare feet. The officer follows you out.

“Come on, we’ll go by my vehicle.” He nudges you gently.

You nod and follow his thick finger to a big grey truck. He walks you over and directs you to stand by the side of the hood. He holsters his gun and goes to the back passenger door. He opens it to grab something then returns to you.

“Water,” he offers the bottle. You take it and murmur, “thank you.”

“No problem. Not a very peaceful awakening, huh?” He asks.

You shake your head as you try to uncap the water. Your mouth is gritty and dry. You can’t get a grip as you tremble. Your eyes drift over to the officers streaming in and out of the trailer.

“I’m Detective Marshall. I’m leading this investigation. You’re not under arrest right now but I am going to question you.” He pauses and watches you struggle with the bottle. He opens his hand. “Here.”

You hand it over. He cracks the seal easily and hands it back with the cap loosened. You take it off and drink slowly.

“I’m going to tell you your rights. Make sure you listen, miss.”

You nod and put the cap back on, hands unsteadily twisting it.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before we ask you any questions.” He stops and watches you. You nod again.  “You have the right to have a lawyer with you during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. If you decide to answer questions now without a lawyer present, you have the right to stop answering at any time.

“Knowing your rights, are you willing to answer my questions?”

You rock slightly then stop yourself. You don’t understand. Sure, your dad and Ricky get into some shady stuff; pot, drinking, and their scummy friends, but they never hurt no one.

“Uh, yes. I understand. Um, but I don’t know anything.” You utter.

He leans in, a curl falling forward. He’s tall and wide. He wears a black shirt under a black jacket, a holster across his shoulders and on his belt. His badge hangs around his neck. His blue eyes shine in the moonlight.

“Miss, you’re going to have to speak up. There’s a lot going on right now.” He girds.

“Ahm, sorry,” you clear your throat. “Um, um,” you squeeze the bottle and the lid pops off, water splashing out.

“Alright, miss, let’s get you sitting down.” He offers.

He motions you along the truck and opens the back passenger door. You see the case of bottles on the floor. He points you to the seat. You climb up awkwardly and sit sideways to face him, his hand on your elbow as he helps you.

“I… I understand. I can answer… try to.” You say louder but not more confident.

“Alright,” he says. “Everything is being recorded for your safety and mine,” he taps his chest and you notice the box attached to his gun harness. 

“Ok…” you sip again. His eyes follow the movement.

“What’s your name?” He asks. You answer barely, choking on the syllables. “How do you know Carlo….” he says your last name.

You blink. “He’s…” your lip trembles. “My dad…. Is he okay?”

He hums. “And Ricky….”

You bite your lip. You frown. “My brother,” you eke out.

“You reside here with them?”

“Yes, sir.” You gulp. “I… I clean up and I cook when I can. I just… I stay inside. I don’t… are they hurt?”

“We’ll get to that. Now, miss, I need you to focus on my questions. Can you do that?” He adds on your name, like he knows you.

“Yes, I’m trying. I’m sorry. I’m scared.”

“You don’t have to be scared, alright?” He assures. “When’s the last time you saw your dad or your brother?”

You shudder and sway. “This morning. Or… yes… I made coffee and Ricky didn’t like it. And dad, he… he was in a real bad mood. He didn’t even want his.” You bring a hand up to shakily rub your cheek. “Are they in trouble?”

“Miss, you answer my questions, okay?”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” you cower at the stone in his voice. “I didn’t mean to. I promise.”

He stares at you, his brow twitching. He takes a deep breath. Your eyes twinge with the heat of tears ready to spill over.

“No need for sorry. I’m not mad. These questions are for your safety. No one’s trying to hurt you or get you in trouble.”

You nod and gulp. “I just… I just… dad said not to talk to the police.”

“I’m sure he did,” he scoffs. “Alright. I think that’s enough for now. We’ll get you to the precinct and wrap this up there.”

“Oh? Am I… being arrested?” Your voice cracks.

“Detained. For further questioning.” He explains evenly. “I’m just gonna keep you out here in my truck, okay? You want the heat on? Some music?”

“I… I am a little cold,” you chatter and hug yourself. “Thank you, sir. Uh, Detective.”

🚨

You’re put in a room alone. It’s cold. You’re sat at a table. No shoes, no coat, still in your jogging pants and your dad’s old hole-pocked Budweiser shirt. You shiver and rub your arms.

The door opens and jars you. You hunch as you try to warm yourself. You don’t have a bra on. You hid your nipples behind your crossed arms.

Detective Marshall greets you by name. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” He comes in. “No one offered you a blanket?”

You glance over at him and shake your head.

“Christ.” He growls. He’s just a grizzly in the light. Thick hair, thick beard, thick shoulders. He doesn’t have his holsters or his guns now. That’s a little reassuring. “Alright, I’ll go get that. You want coffee or something?”

“No thank you. I don’t like coffee?”

“More water? Tea?” He suggests.

“Sir, I… I’m fine. Just cold. Thank you.”

“Alright. I’ll be back.”

He’s quick. As promised, he returns with a blanket. He drape it over your shoulders and you pull it snug around you. He sits across from you as he puts down a notebook and pen, alongside his phone.

“Alright. So, I think we shouldn’t have much more to go over tonight. You’ve been super helpful already. Really just looking to understand what your brother and dad have been up to the last few days.” He begins.

“Right, um, I don’t know much. I stay… home.” You slant your lips.

“You work?” He prompts. You shake your head and look down.

“But you said you do stuff at home. Sounds like you do put in work.”

“Yeah, that’s… that’s chore. No one else’ll do em.” You shrug.

“I’m not gonna sit here and beat around the bush with you, sweetie. Be very honest with me, do you know of any illegal activity your dad and brother might be involved with?” He asks.

You stare at the table. You push your thumbs together under the blanket. You don’t want to get them in trouble.

“I know you’re a good girl, huh?” He leans in, gripping the pen in his hand. His large hand with thick fingers, coarse hair on his knuckles. “You don’t want them to get hurt. I’m not looking to do that. We need to find them to help them.” He sniffs. “So you be honest because if you’re not, that’s an obstruction charge.”

“What? No, I…”

“Can’t be so quiet, sweetie.” He chides.

You sit up and look at him. Your cheeks pinch as you fight back tears.

“I know they smoke… uh pot. But I don’t know anything else.” You confess. “I hate the smell and… They tell me go out back when they got friends over.”

He scribbles on the paper.

“You know any of these friends names?” He asks.

You purse your lips and nod. You just want to go home. So you’ll answer his questions. Pot isn’t so bad. Certainly it could be worse.

🚨

“I think that’s about it.” Detective Marshall states. “We’ll just have you sign your statement and you’re free to go.” He closes the notebook. “It’ll take a couple to get it printed out but you can go wait in the hall.”

You nod and stand up. You look down and let the blanket fall off your shoulders. You fold it up and offer it to him. He stares at you, eyes scaling up and down.

“No shoes?” He drawls.

“No uh… no.”

“Hm, I can get you some sandals before you go. Jail issue but they’ll do you.” He says. “Keep the blanket. It’s frigid out.”

You dip your chin again. He leads you out and puts you in one of the chairs along the wall. You cling to the blanket and wait. You listen to the chatter of the officers, the printer skimming, and the snorts and coughs of other people waiting for questioning.

Marshall comes back and gives you a pair of socks and rubber grey sandals. “Sorry we don’t go anything else. They’re probably a bit big on ya.”

“That’s okay.” You stare at your knees.

“Alright, come up to the counter to sign your statement when you’re ready.” He leaves them in your lap.

You put on the socks and sandles, then flop up to the counter. You sign the printed statement as Marshall looms on the other side.

“You need a ride somewhere? It’s late.”

“Um… home?” You say. “If it’s not too much, I… I don’t got no money.”

“Home? You can’t go home. It’s an active crime scene.” He says.

Your eyes go wide. “What? I don’t got no where else.” You pout.

“No mom? Family?”

You shake your head.

“Friends?”

You bat your lashes as panic and fear floods your chest.

“Alright, alright, we can help you out. How about I call the shelter, see if they got any beds? If not, we’ll figure something out for the night, alright?”

“I… I… I’m sorry,” you rock as you squeeze the folded blanket. “I… I don’t know what to do.”

“Just go sit down and I’ll get it sorted for you,” he assures.

“Okay.” You sniffle and turn to shuffle back to the hard plastic chair.

“Walter, you’re such a sweet old teddy bear,” one of the officer says to him, getting only a growl in return.

🚨

“No beds,” Marshall stands in front of you as you get up. “But I got a place you can stay the night.”

“Oh, uh… I’m…”

“Sorry? Come on. You’re not the one who made this mess.” He tuts. “Here.” He offers you his jacket, the big black heavy one. “You’re tired. So am I.”

“I… thank you.” You hang your head.

He puts the jacket over your shoulders. He nudges you and ushers you along the fluorescent tinted hallways. A few times he has to scan his badge to get you through.

You come out into the cold night, your breath pluming frostily from your lips. He takes you to the same gray truck. Your sandal slips on the step as you try to get in and he catches you. He gets you in the seat and buckles you in. You press yourself away from him as you watch.

He chuckles. “Sorry, habit. I’m used to buckling people in.”

He backs up and shuts the door. You lay the blanket on your lap, your hands lost in the lengths of his sleeves. He gets in the driver’s side and turns the engine.

“You can close your eyes. It’s not far.”

You don’t. You watch the cones of the street lights and the black street. He makes a few turns and pulls into a town house. You peer around curiously.

“You’ll have to be quiet. Faye’ll be sleeping.” He says.

You look at him.

“My daughter. It’s ok. You’ll crash in my bed and I’ll take the couch so she’s not surprised.”

You nod. “Thank you, Detective. It’s… too nice.”

“Walter. This isn’t an interrogation,” he reaches to squeeze your shoulder. Before he pulls away, he pets your cheek softly. “Come on. Let’s get you in bed.”

He gets out and comes around to open your door. He brings you up the walkway and guides you inside. He uses his flashlight to take you through the dark into a bedroom at the end of the downstairs hallway.

He offers you some clean clothes; his. Made for a man bigger than most. He leaves them for you and suggest the shower in the bathroom attached to the room. You thank him and he leaves.

Alone, you don’t know what to you. You’re embarrassed. You’re lost. What do you do now? What’s going on with Ricky and your dad?

You change into his clothes and slip into bed. Despite your displacement, you drift off easily. You dream of the precinct and the cold walls and metal table.

You wake to humming sound. You can smell pine. A soapy scent. Your lashes flutter as you lift your head. The bathroom door is slightly open.

The thrumming stop as metal cranks. You listen to the soft noises that come after. The door opens with a puff of steam.

Detective Marshall, no, Walter, steps out. He has only a towel around his waist, the curls on his head shiny with dampness, and the hair on his body too. It’s thick and dark and goes from chest to stomach…

“Oh, sorry, did I wake you? I was trying not to.” He grips the towel tighter. It’s too small for him. “I’ll just grab some clothes and scram. I gotta get Faye to school.”

“I’m sorry. I can go.” You sit up. “What time is it?”

He shakes his head. “Early. Stay. We need to talk when I get back.”

“Oh, okay. Sorry.”

You lay back down and roll so your back is too him. You feel like you’ve seen something you shouldn’t and when you close your eyes, you see his body. Yikes.

🚨

When you hear Walter go, you get up. You change back into your own clothes and bring his out with you. The place is empty. It’s nice. A lot nicer than the trailer.

You sit by the front door, on the bench with the cubbies for shoes under it. You hear his truck and his footsteps before he enters. He grunts in surprise as he sees you. His hands are full; a tray of paper cups and a paper bag balanced in one.

“You’re awake.” He says. “I brought breakfast.”

“Oh, you don’t gotta… that’s… a lot.”

“Just BLTs. Little place the detectives love.” He says casually. “Come on, can’t let you go on an empty stomach.”

“I… thank you.”

You wring your hands. You don’t have a plan. You don’t have anywhere to go. So you won’t insist too much.

“I can take that stuff.” You offer.

“Sure, just through there to the right. We’ll eat at the table.” He hands over the food and drinks.

He comes in shortly after, sans his puffer coat and boots. He sits beside you. That’s close.

“Um, Mr… sir. Walter.” You say. “When can I go home?”

He puts a cup in front of you. “Hot chocolate.” He sifts in the paper bag. “You like cheese on your BLT? I got cheddar.”

“Walter?” You urge.

He sighs. “Not anytime soon. I’m sorry. But, I’ve been thinking it over. We can make room here.”

“You said something about a shelter–”

“You ever been to one?” He asks.

You shake your head.

“Even if you get a bed, you won’t get any sleep. Trust me. It’s not safe. Especially for someone like you.”

He unwraps the bagel sandwich and puts it in front of you.

“But…” you begin but have no true argument.

“Look. I know you're not involved in whatever your family got themselves into. Shit happens. Wrong place, wrong time. I talk to all sorts and I know when someone's lying.” He taps his finger on the wrapper. “I know you're not.” He slowly drags his hand away. “And I know you should eat.”

“I… thank you.” You sit back and look at the sandwich. It looks and smells so good.

“I saw the food in that place. Lack of.” He mutters. “You won't go hungry here.”

You say nothing. Ashamed.

“But one thing in return.” He glanced over and you shyly return his gaze. “Don't tell Faye how we know each other. Just tell her… you're an old friend.”

🚨

Faye is nice. Fifteen years old. Sarcastic to her father. Curious with you.

She asks who you are. You recite the lie but tell her your real name. She asks why you're friends with someone as crusty as her dad. You shrug. She laughs. He doesn't react.

She tells you about her friends and all the drama at her school. It's a good distraction. When you were her age, you did your best to stay out of that stuff. When it came your way, you were always the butt of the joke.

It’s a week and you’re still not sure. About where you’ll go next. About yourself. You still feel like an intruder in Walter’s life.

You make up for it by cleaning and cooking. You never asked and he never did either. You just started doing it to feel less lost.

Faye helps you that night with a simple dish. Pasta and chicken. The ingredients here are much nicer than at home. Is it still your home?

“So, I guess, I’m confused because I really like this person and they seem to like me too,” Faye says as she stirs the sauce. “I don’t know. What if I’m misreading?”

You give a gentle smile as you check the noodles. “Um, sorry, Faye, I… I wouldn’t be the best for… to know…” She leans in a little. You raise your voice. It’s a bad habit. Mumbling. “Um, I never really, you now, had a boyfriend or whatever…”

“No? Well, she wouldn’t be a boyfriend.” Faye says. You look at her, surprised. She hesitates. “Sorry, I said too much–”

“No, no. That’s great!” You assure her. “Is she pretty?”

“The prettiest,” she says. “And so bubbly but what if I’m too much of a bitch? What if I’m too sarcastic.”

“You never know unless you try, right?”

She quiet for a moment, tapping the wooden spoon to get the excess sauce off before putting it down. “But you never did. You said so.”

You shrug and look away. “Guess I never really had the… opportunity.”

“I’m… I didn’t mean, I–” she stammers.

“It’s okay. Really. It’s a choice.” You lie. Is it a choice when no one ever wanted you?

Another lull rises. The water spits as it boils around the noodles. You turn it down.

“Ladies,” Walter startles you. “Smells good in here.”

“Dad.” Faye spins. “You’re early.”

“I am?” He checks his watch. “I guess.”

“Hi,” you say quietly as you grab a strainer.

“Faye, why don’t you go chill. I’ll help finish up.” He insists.

“Sure. I gotta text Hera.” She slits out. You wonder if that’s the girl she told you about.

“Here,” Walter approaches and takes the strainer. “I’ll hold, you pour.”

He goes to the sink. You grab the pot of noodles and carefully approach. You pour out the steaming water to drain the pasta. You press against Walter as you do.

He dumps the dry noodles back into the pot and you put it back on the unlit burner. You stir the sauce as he sidles up next to you.

“Almost done. Think I can handle it.” You say.

He leans in. Oh, you’re mumbling again.

“No, it’s okay. You and Faye, seems like you’re getting along.”

You nod.

“That’s good. You know, her mom left when she was real young so…”

“I’m sorry for her.” You say.

“I think I do a good job. Or try to.” He says as he turns to watch you. You focus on the sauce, wondering if you should add more seasoning.

“So um, I overheard a little. Just you know, I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Oh?” You blanch.

“I’m happy she could tell you that. I guess I’m too much of an asshole for her to trust me like that.” He snorts.

“No, you’re not. You’re a good dad. A good guy.”

“I… can be,” he says. “But uh… were you just saying all that to make her feel better or…”

“What… do you mean?”

“You never… had a boyfriend?”

You sweat and not because of the stove. You shake your head.

“Never?” He asks again.

You put your face down and shake your head more vehemently.

“How’s that? As pretty as you are.”

“Walter,” you babble and put the spoon down. You turn away from him. “It’s not… you don’t have to…”

You try to walk away and he catches your arm. He pulls you back to face him. You hit his chest and look up at him. You squeak.

He stares down at you, hands firm around your arms. His breath plumes from his nose. He leans down.

“Let me kiss you. Just once.” He says quietly. “Then you can say you have.”

You gape at him. You don’t know what to do? If you say no, it would be so awkward, but what about if you say yes? What does it mean? Just once?

“Please,” his voice quivers. “Let me kiss you, sweetie.”

You squirm and swallow. “I don’t… I don’t know how.”

“Let me show you,” he leans down until you feel the graze of his lips. “It’s just a kiss.”

Just a kiss. That’s it. Don’t think too much.

“Okay…” you whisper.

He presses his lips to yours. You squeak. His tongue flicks across your lips and you twitch. He pokes and you let him in. You stand there dumbly as he smothers you, his hands squeezing tighter and tighter.

He pulls away at last. You’re both breathless. You put your head down and wipe his saliva away with the back of your hand. He rubs up and down your arms.

“Was it good?” He asks.

“Walter…” you croak and look up. You chew the hem of your sleeve, trying to hide behind it. “When can I go home?”

His eyes flash and his jaw tenses. His nostrils flare just a little.

“We haven’t found your family yet so… not today.” He drops his hands. He turns and grabs the wooden spoon to stir the sauce himself. “You don’t like it here?”

You frown. “No, I didn’t say but… I don’t belong.”

His cheek dimples. “Who said that?”

“No one, I just…” You trail off.

“If you asked, I’d tell you you do.” He says quietly. He turns off the burn and adds the sauce to the noodles. “You know where you don’t belong. In that dirty old trailer with criminals.” He snarls as he mixes the pasta. “I think I’ve taken damn good care of you.” He drops the spoon against the side of the pot and faces you. “Wouldn’t you say so?”

You look down.

“No, look at me. Tell me.” He commands.

You lift your head and peer up at him. “Yes, I… I like it here. You’ve been so nice and… I’m sorry.”

You look over at Nick. He’s slack against the back of the couch. You stare at him in the dim glow of the screen. His chest rises and falls evenly.

“Oh…” you smile to yourself. He must be exhausted. People say he’s in first and gone last. “Sorry.” You whisper and slide carefully to the edge of the couch. “Good night, sir.”

You stand and he suddenly snorts. He lurches forward and latches onto your wrist. You squeak in surprise.

“Ah, oh, sorry!” You eke out. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What….” his voice grits in his throat. “Why… Where are you going?”

“Um, sir… Nick,” you gently touch his knuckles. “You were sleeping and… the movies over.”

He clears his throat and sits forward. “I didn’t mean to…” He sniffs and keeps hold of you. “You’re just very… calming.”

You chuckle nervously. “Thank you, s–Nick. But you’re tired.” You brush the back of his hand. He lets you go.

“It’s late. You must be too.” He insists.

“A little.” You blink heavily. “I should head home. Get to bed.”

He turns his head until his neck cracks softly. He reaches over and picks up his phone. “It’s too late.”

“What? Traffic will be nothing–”

“When did you wake up?” He asks.

“What?”

“Today… yesterday? What time did you wake up?”

“Well, um… about seven-thirty or so.” You shrug.

“You know, they say it’s as dangerous to drive while overtired as it is to be under the influence.” He stands and you lean back on your heels.

“Well, erm, it’s very nice of you to worry but I’m okay.”

“I won’t be. I’ll worry.” He counters.

You laugh again. “That’s sweet.”

“It’s true.” He looks down at his phone. He presses his thumb to the screen and it unlocks. “Put your number in.” He flicks to an app and turns the cell to you.

“Um… okay.” You take the phone, your hand brushing his. You doubt he’ll ever need your number.

“Good.” He takes it back. “Now, lay down and get some sleep.”

You sway and pout. “Nick. I have my car– And it probably has a big ticket right on it.”

“Let me worry about that.” He grabs your shoulders and gently turns, guiding you around so your back is to the couch. “I kept you up. I appreciate you humouring my freshman film but you need sleep.”

“But…” you stop yourself as his grip on you tightens. You have to remind yourself who he is. “Okay. Thank you. I’ll…” you slip free of his grasp and sit lightly. “Try.”

“I got a blanket around here…” he turns and pulls out a rolled up blanket, still bound up in a paper sheath. You’ve seen a few around set with the studio’s logo on it.

“What about you? You need to sleep.” You say as he unfolds the blanket.

He snorts and spreads the throw over you. You twitch as he brushes your cheek with his fingertips and hums. “Don’t worry about me.” He cups your face. “Lay down. I am telling you to do this as the director on set. Now.”

You nod and slowly lean away from his touch. You lower yourself onto the couch and exhale. He lingers, looming over you as he checks his phone again.

“I got rewrites…” he mutters and drags his feet away. “I’ll check on you in a bit.”

You nod and hug yourself under the blanket. Despite the weight in your eyelids, you’re not sure you’ll sleep. You’re all frazzled by his demands.

“Thank you, Nick.” You murmur as he crosses the trailer.

He stops right by the table and peers back at you. “Need anything, ask.”

🎥

A bang wakes you with a start. You sit up and nearly throw yourself right off the couch. You look around, disoriented as you struggle to recall where you are. As it slowly comes back to you, you rub your temples as another thud comes, shaking the trailer.

Outside the curtains, the lot is lit up. You stand up and search around for your things. Your bag is where you left it. You sift around inside and flip it over. No! It’s almost noon!

Your heart jumps into your throat and you haul up the strap of your bag. Your shoes… You’ll just have to work in your day old clothes. Maybe no one will notice.

You pause and feel your face and hair. They might notice that. You back up and unlock your phone.

No one called. Maybe they just assumed you’re running behind. It’s all good.

You turn to the door and it opens as you reach for it. You almost grab right onto Nick’s shirts as he steps inside. He stops himself before he can collide with you.

“Morning,” he grins, as he lingers in the doorway.

“Sir. Nick!” You babble. “I… I’m late for work. I have to go find Leon–”

“I told him you’re taking the day.” He steps inside and you back up.

“What?” You utter.

Nick’s blue eyes flash and his brows lower, just a little. He pulls the door shut behind him and his cheek dimples.

“Sure. You need it. You were sleeping so heavy, I figured…”

“But… I can’t miss work. I need to pay my rent and my car payment and–”

“I’ll take care of it.” He says. “I got them to tear up the ticket on your windshield too.”

“You… did?” You blink and tip your chin slightly. “Thanks but… no, I should help–”

“I said I’ll take care of it.” His eyes narrow. He steps further inside and you back up. “Feels like you’re running away. Like… there’s something else. Someone else?”

You furrow your brows and shake your head. “Huh? I don’t know what you mean. I just… I would be in your way. I mean, you needa be on set–”

“We just finished the morning. Break time.” He herds you backwards into the trailer. “Lunch should be here soon.”

“Oh, I should let you eat. At least I should go home and change out of these.” You look down at the gravy stain on your shirt.

He taps your arm and points you to the table. You look past him and he moves into your view. You gulp and look up at him.

“Sit.” He orders.

You hesitate, only for a moment, then relent. He’s only being nice but it feels so… controlling. He’s just worried and you can’t fault him for that.

“I got something…” he goes into the next room as you sit at the table. He returns and hands you a shirt. A bluish grey button up. “Should do.”

“Oh, Nick, thanks. That’s… kind.”

“Don’t say but to me right now.” He warns.

You take the shirt and nod. A knock comes at the door before the silence can grow tense. He sits.

“Get in here.” He calls out.

His assistant enters with a tray, one of your coworkers behind her with another. They near and put down the food. Nick snaps his fingers and shooes them away. You thank them as they scurry out the door.

You look at him as he watches you. You glance down then up again. “Thanks, um, you didn’t have to… uh…”

You hear your mother leave for the day. She gets up early and you often think it’s because she doesn’t want to be around you. She never takes a day off and when she does, her vacations are somewhere far from you.

You can’t focus on anything. Books aren’t interesting enough to distract you; or Youtube; or games. It’s just you and inevitability.

When the knock comes, the three loud thumps that nearly make you jump on the floor, you’re shaking. You fight to keep control of yourself as your stand. Your knees are buckling. Your steps are slow and unsteady.

You use the wall to stay upright and drag your soles through the house. He knocks again. You don’t want him impatient. Not any more than he already is.

You fumble with the lock and open the door. He pushes from the other side and you stagger back. He steps inside and huffs. Crosses his arms and glares at you.

“Um, sir. Agent Walker,” you eke out. “Hel-lo.”

“The fuck are you doing?” He snarls.

“I… I don’t know. What should I– What do you want–”

“Did you do what I told you?” He asks tersely.

You look down and sway. “Yes, sir.”

“Let’s go.” He points past you.

You shudder and spin away from him. You can’t look at him. You’re too nervous. Too scared. He’s so big and mean, you don’t expect this to be anything but the same.

You go back to your room. He follows. As you get to the door, he grabs the back of your neck and marches you through. He kicks the door shut with his heel.

“You’re not wearing what I got you.” He squeezes then hurls you forward. “You don’t like my gifts? You wasting my money, girl?”

“No, sir. I– no. I didn’t know–”

He snaps his fingers to silence you.

“Shut the fuck up and get to it.”

“Yes, Agent Walker.”

You hurry over to your dresser where you hid the clothes. You hear him sniffing. He grunt.

“Cleaner than last time.” He comments.

“Yes, sir.”

He shushes you. You pull out the drawer and stare. Which one? Oh, who cares. Whatever you do will be wrong. You pull out the fuschia pink set. It’s bright but the butterflies on the straps are kind of pretty.

You face Walker. He paces around, his phone in hand as he squints at the screen. You look at the door. It hardly matters.

You put your back to him and focus on undressing. Your hands are clumsy through the trembling. You have to hold onto the corner of the dresser to lift your legs. You pull on the panties before you take off your shirt. The top is a bit confusing but you manage to untangle the straps.

You hook the back of the lingerie. The fabric is flowy around your stomach while the cups lift your tits high. You glance down at yourself and reach back to touch your naked cheeks.

“Hurry the fuck up,” he sneers.

You look over your shoulder as he tucks his phone in his jacket pocket. You turn all the way and force your arms straight. You hope it’s not that bad.

His eyes trawl up and down lazily. Your skin speckles with goosebumps. He sighs.

“Come here and undress me. Jesus fuck.” He makes the order sound like you should know what he wants.

You go to him but stop short. You hover your hands before him. Where do you start? The idea of touching him is just as terrifying as the reverse.

“Do it.” He pinches your side painfully. “You really are fucking stupid.”

You wince and touch the front of his jacket. He’s a lot bigger up close. You push on the lapels and he stands still as you roll the fabric back on his shoulders. You pull it down one side at a time, feeling the hint of his muscles beneath.

You catch the jacket before it can fall.

“Don’t let my shit touch the floor. It’s expensive.” He growls.

You take the jacket and hang it on your desk chair. You return to him. You look at his chest. You tug his tie and he twitches.

“Don’t fucking choke me.” He swats your cheek. You squeak.

“Sorry, Agent Walker, I never–”

He huffs and flips up his collar. He yanks the tie until it’s loose and lifts it over his head. He tosses it at you. You catch it and put it on your desk. 

You go back and unbutton his shirt. It’s more and more difficult as you get lower and lower. As you can see more of him; chest hair, muscle, more dark hair down his stomach…

You find his cuffs too tight to slip over his large hands. You shakily unbutton them and tug down his sleeves. You get his shirt off and try not to look at him.

You drape his shirt over the jacket on the chair and return a third time. You can’t make yourself do more. You stare at his belt then the floor.

He sits suddenly and kicks out his feet. “Shoes, socks, then pants.”

You nod. “Yes, sir.”

You get down to unlace his shoes. Leather and shining. It’s degrading to take them off, then his socks. You don’t feel like it’s beneath you though. This is as useful as you can be.

You stand and he does too. His forearms tense as he opens and closes his fists. His pants are… full. Your breath catches and you cough it out. He grabs your hands and puts them on his belt.

“Hurry the fuck up.”

You clasp onto his belt buckle. You pull and struggle to think your way through it. You finally flick back the stick and slide free the leather. Your hand brushes something hard. He hisses and twitches.

He grabs your jaw suddenly. You whimper and look up at him as you let go of his belt. He brings you to your toes.

“Sorry, Agent Walker. Sorry.” You apologise, thinking you hurt him.

“You got me fucking hard. Nasty little slut.”

You gulp and peer up at him in fright. “I’m sorry–”

“You fucking should be. I gotta train you up. Teach you how to be good.”

You bat your lashes. “What… what do I do, sir?”

“Shhhh,” he hushes you again and brings his other hand up to stroke your lips with his thumb. “Today, we’re gonna start working on obedience. That means I talk, you listen.”

You stare up at him. You can’t nod and you understand; you’re not too speak. He slowly lets you go. He looks down.

You brace yourself and reach for him again. You undo his fly, the button, then the zipper. You’re fingertips are buzzing.

The fabric slackens and your guide it down his thick legs. His boxers are bulging. He steps out of his pants and you put them with the rest of his clothes.

As you return to him, he wiggles his hips subtly, his erection brushing inside the boxers. You latch onto the elastic and try to pull down. They catch on his…dick. Be an adult! You chide yourself as he grunts and catches your wrists.

He guides you to stretch the elastic past his dick. His tip is throbbing and big. You think. It looks big to you. As you peel down the boxers you can’t help but gasp. You’ve been curious, seen things on the internet, but the comments say real men aren’t that long… well…

You tug his boxers to his ankles and once more he lifts his feet. He sits as you retreat to lay them on the desk. When you face him again, he points in front of him. You keep your eyes down.

He hums as you stop in before him. You flinch as he cups your tits and gropes roughly. He bounces them then drags his hands down. He stops at the top of the scalloped panties. He tugs them out and leans forward to look under the lace. He traces the edge along your thighs with his fingertips.

“Smooth.” He remarks. “Good girl.”

He drags his thumbs over the front of your panties then frames your hips with his large hands. He squeezes as you quiver. He chuckles.

“Get down on your knees.” He demands.

You look him in the face. His blue eyes flash. You lower yourself onto your knees and peer up at him. Fear lumps in your throat.

“Open your mouth,” he orders as he wraps his hand around his dick. He pumps it up then down. Tears crest long your eyelids and you open your lips. “Go on. Put it in.”

You lower your eyes and stare at his tip. You lean forward and stretch your lips around him. The saltiness of his skin makes you wince. You force your way past your disgust; not with him, with yourself. 

Your eyes rove up his body as you push further. His muscles are thick, his chest is thick and burly, his arms corded. He grabs the back of your head and forces in until he touches your throat.

“You’re gonna stay like this,” he says. “Until I say so.”

Your tears roll out at last and you sniff. He slaps your head lightly.

He parks against the curb across the street and snaps his fingers. “Out.” He commands.

You flinch and hit the button on the seat belt. You grab the door handle and pull. It doesn’t open. He clears his throat.

“Yes, Agent Walker,” you appease, too scared to look at him.

He jams his finger into a button and the locks click loudly. You open the door and stumble out, nearly tripping over the curb. You steady yourself as he gets out and stops around to the trunk. It’s just a small hatch that blends into the exterior of the sportscar.

He takes out the shopping bags and slams the lid.

“Inside. Now.”

You frown. What the heck?

You flit across the street. He follows at a measured pace. You go up the drive and onto the walk. You lead him to the front door.

He catches up and sighs. “Unlock it.”

You obey. You let him in, shaking with confusion and horror. What would your mother think if she knew?

You enter and take off your shoes out of habit. He doesn’t. He nudges you.

“Where’s your room?” He growls.

You gulp and keep going. The bags rustle. He’s right behind you.

Your hands tremble as you open your door. He shoves you in and snaps it shut behind him. He sniffs as he looks around. Your laundry is on the floor; anywhere but the hamper. And your bookshelves are a clutter of wrappers and misplaced items.

“It’s a fucking pig sty in here.” He snarls.

“Yes, Agent Walker. I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.”

You bend to gather up some clothes and he catches your shoulder. He pushes you again. You stumble back and stare at him. Your heart hammers behind your ears.

He drops the bags on the lump that is your chair. Beneath a wrinkled duvet and your pajamas, it’s there. You just can’t see it.

“This is how it works. You wash the lingerie. Don’t fucking ruin it. Read the labels. You use everything I got you. I want you clean. I want you to smell human.” He nears and pushes your head. You whimper.

“Get fucking naked.”

You bat your lashes and your eyes fill with tears. “Agent… Walker.” You croak. “I can’t–”

“You can’t do a lot of shit, that much is obvious. You can take off your fucking clothes.” He flicks your cheek. “Trust me that you don’t want me to.”

You wince and nod but it feels more like your head is bobbling. Your tug clumsily at your tee shirt. He turns away and goes to sift through the bags. Your stomach lurches and your throat lumps. You’re going to puke.

You swallow it down and swipe your shirt up over your head. The collar catches and you wrestle free of the cotton. You drop the shirt and look down. Your stomach isn’t like those women in movies. It’s not flat or toned. It’s just there.

You fumble with your fly and your legs buckle. What are you doing? Why is he doing this?

“Hurry the fuck up.” He demands.

You pop the button free and the zipper splits loudly. You push your jeans down and stand dumbly in the pool of denim. He huffs.

“Everything. Off!” He taps your cheek. It stings more than before.

You pull your bralet over your head. Your tits flop and you shiver. You feel him looking at you. As you reach to push down the elastic of your underwear, he palms your chest. You gasp.

“You’re wasting time,” he tweaks your nipple.

You yelp and roll your underwear down. You teeter and untangle from your pants. You strip everything off and choke on your breath. Your chest locks up and your head swells.

He reaches down and touches the hair on your pelvis. You step back and fall onto the bed. He tuts and snaps his fingers.

“Stand up. Feet apart.” He orders.

Your body is heavy and hard to move. Your fear surges and gives you the strength to listen. You get up and shift your feet apart.

He raises his hand and wiggles the small trimming kit in his hand. “I want it tidy. Not gone. Use a razor around the edges. Trim the length.”

You nod. He presses the kit to your chest. You take it. He clucks.

“Good girl,” he pushes a knuckle into your chin. “Trust me when I tell you, you don’t want to be bad.”

▪️

You believe Agent Walker. He leaves as quickly as he arrived. You’re so anxious you can’t sit down. You don’t know what to do but exactly what he says.

Cleaning your space has never been simple. There’s so much to deal with. The clothes, the dishes you forgot to put back, the garbage you tried to hide among the mess. Each layer just reveals how truly messed up you are. There’s something wrong with you to be able to live like this.

Maybe that’s why he’s doing this. Maybe you deserve this.

You hear your mother come home. You don’t usually go out to see her. She doesn’t want to see you. It’s better if she can forget you exist.

You clean through the evening. Even as you hear your mom going through her usual routine. She orders food, eats in front of the television with wine, and showers. After she’s in bed, you’re still working.

Even when the room is presentable, you’re not done. You don’t want to. It takes a whole hour to find your courage but you finally grab one of the bags. You read the labels on the underwear. They need to be hand-washed.

You sneak out as silently as you can and find a basin to use. You lock yourself in the bathroom with the laundry soap and work at each piece. Each swatch of lace or mesh is a reminder of Agent Walker. A harbinger of what’s to come.

You hang it all to dry in your room across the bottom of wire hangers. Then you take out the rest of the stuff. Lotions, soap, even some makeup. You take the trimming kit and examine it reluctantly. 

You’re embarrassed. No one ever saw you naked. No one touched you like Walker did, even for those few seconds. And you know he’s going to do more.

You go back to the washroom. This time you turn the shower on. You get in and follow the instructions on the bottles. Then you use the razor. It takes until the water’s cold for you to finish. You think? You’ve never done this before.

You jump as your mom bangs on the door. You crank off the showerhead.

“Go to sleep!” She barks through.

“Sorry, mom,” you call back. You already hear her stomping away.

You get out and dry off. It smells nice but your stomach is roiling. You take everything back to your room. If your mom finds it, she’ll ask questions.

You sit on your bed. You can’t settle down. Is Agent Walker coming back tomorrow? Is he going to wait?

He enters a shopfront with a black marquee and rosy lighting. You stop in the door as you realise what they sell. All around are large tables with drawers and mannequins clothed in next to nothing. Sheer mesh and dainty lace makes you want to evaporate into nothing.

He turns and curls his lips. You can tell by the way his dark mustache lifts at the corner. You hurry over to him and he sighs.

“Let me guess; cotton high-rise,” he scoffs.

You’re silent.

“I expect an answer when I ask you a question.” He snarls.

You wince. “Yes, Mister– Agent Walker.”

“Don’t be so fucking mopey. I’m doing you a favour.” He sniffs and lifts a pair of rose-coloured panties with glitter woven into the lace and scalloped edges. “I don’t see a line up.”

At first, you don’t know what he means. There are a few other customers milling about and one at the counter. Oh, he means for you. Yeah, no one.

“You got a lot of growing up to do. No job, no effort.” He picks out another pair; lilac with a bow on the vee front. You stare at them and shift. You’ve never worn anything like that. “Gotta start from scratch.”

“Yes, Mr. Walker.”

“That’s ‘thank you, Agent Walker.” He sneers and reaches to pinch your thigh. You yelp then smother it with your palm.

You peel your hand away and gulp, aware of several strangers looking in your direction. “Thank you, Agent Walker.”

“Thirty bucks a pair,” he huffs. 

“Agent Walker, it’s… I didn’t–”

“You didn’t ask. I’m giving. I’m doing you a favour.” He glares at you. “Do you understand that you’re a disaster? You’re nothing?”

You wilt and cross an arm across your chest. “I know that, Agent Walker.”

“This,” he jabs your stomach. “This is not attractive.”

You look down at your tee and chew your lip. You bring your thumb up to bite down on. Tears prick as you fight to hold them back.

“Go ahead and cry, girl. It might do something for me,” he grits and turns back to the shelves. “Pathetic.”

There’s nothing you can do, so you do just that. You stand there as he goes through the lingerie. You follow him around like a lost duckling and shy away as he touches a crotchless thong on one of the display forms. 

You sway back and forth and look around. The other women look like they belong. They are intent on shopping and picking out pieces on their own. You wouldn’t know where to start.

“Here,” Walker demands.

You realise you lost track of him in your meandering. You hurry over to him as he stands at a shelf of shiny bottles. He takes something labeled body shimmer and pops the cap. He sniffs the top. He hums. He shrugs and clutches it with the stack of panties.

He turns and clears his throat. You follow him to the counter. He drops it beside the register and reaches into his jacket.

“Hello, how are you doing today?” The cashier asks brightly.

He growls and you squirm. “Okay…” You answer quietly.

She looks between you and her smile flickers. She scans the tags on the panties as Walker slides out his credit car.

“Wait.” He pauses and taps the card on the counter. “She needs bras.”

“Sure, we have lots. I could show her a few–”

“She needs a fitting.” He says tersely. “Look at her.”

You blanch and the woman’s lips tug.

“Alright, I can help her with that. Let me just set your purchases aside.” She takes the panties and the shimmer and puts them behind the till.

She comes around and beckons to you. “I’m Hailey. I can help you get measured.”

You nod and shuffle away from Walker. She leads you back to a fitting room. You enter behind her and bounce nervously on the balls of your feet.

“Have you ever been fitted before?” She asks.

You shake your head.

“I can do it over your clothes if you’re more comfortable.” She offers.

You stare at her. It has to be right. You know that.

You shake your head again. You lift your tee shirt over your head and reveal the plain cotton bra underneath. No pads, no support, just flimsy.

“Oh, perfect. You can leave that on,” she says as she unwinds a measuring tape.

She has you lift your arms so she can wrap it around you. You stare at the wall as she pauses to write down the numbers. Your vision blurs as your mind folds in on herself.

“Got it,” she says.

You blink. You almost forgot where you were. You see yourself in the mirror and shiver. You grab your shirt and put it back on.

“Why don’t we go look at some styles?” She offers.

You nod and she leads you out. You trailer her back to the showroom and she brings you over to a display.

“These are on special. Buy one, get one half off.” She explains.

Walker saunters over. “That one.” He points.

Hailey looks at him then smiles. She turns and takes the red bra with the satiny padded cups. “It’s a lovely colour.” She says.

He drones flatly and shoulders past her. He grabs several other bras and shoves them at her. 

“All in her size.’

She takes them and he promptly spins and marches away. She looks at you. Her brows furrow and her lips straighten.

“Hon,” she steps closer as she lowers her voice. “Are you okay?”

Your lips part and your eyes round. “Get over here,” Walker demands bluntly.

“Yes, I am,” you like and quickly flit away.

She appears around the counter as you fidget. Walker grabs your arm. You stop. He lets go and huffs as Hailey continues to ring him up and pack the purchases in a bag.

Your heart begins to race and your blood boils at the sudden realisation. He wants you to wear those things. You’re not stupid. You know why women wear lingerie like that. It isn’t just for support…

Your stomach drops and you press your palms to your middle. You’re nauseous at the thought. You look at Walker. He hates you so much so why would he want that?

He pays with a swipe of his card. He snatches the bag without a word and grabs your wrist. He drags you across the store as your feet drag like lead.

He jerks you as you come out into the airy corridors of the plaza. “Hurry the fuck up.” He snarls.

“Sorry, sir. Agent Walker.” You squeak.

“Shut up. We got shit to do.”

He pulls you with him and you enter a shop that smells like a dozen different things. You look around at the cosmetics in tubes and tins and bottles. He lets go of you and tilt his head one way, than the other, each time, cracking his neck loudly.

“You,” he points to an associate. 

The woman approaches in her sleek black outfit. “Yes, sir. What can I help you find today?”

“Look at her.” He points and you cower. “Figure it out.”

He nudges you toward her and he stalks off. You frown. “Sorry…” you murmur.

“Mm,” she stares after Walker. “So, why don’t we start with the basics? Maybe some lotion? Oh and some lip balm. I have just the product that will fix those lips.”

You keep from teething your chapped lips and nod. You let her guide you around the shelves. You peek back over the shelves as Agent Walker stands against some shelves and grimaces at his cell phone.

Walker is in the entry way. He needs no invitation as he makes close examination of the artwork. Your mother bought that one-of-a-kind piece for a year’s worth of tuition. You flunked out anyway, right?

“It’s been seven minutes.” He growls as his puts his hands on his hips and faces you.

“Sorry, sir, er, Agent Walker, I–”

“I didn’t ask.” He points to the floor in front of him.

You tremble and slowly near him. He reaches out and pinches your ear. You squeal and he tugs your head sideways.

“First, when I give you a timeline, you follow it.” He lets go and you rub your ear. “Second, you take your punishment and be quiet about it.”

You suck in a tearful breath and flick your eyelashes through the singe. You pout and drop your hand. His nostrils flare and his lip curls.

“Come on. You’ve wasted enough of my time.”

“Wh–” You stop from asking the obvious. You seal your lips as your eyes round at him. His dark brow lifts and he angles his head. He clucks but doesn’t say anything.

He turns and opens the door. He points you out gruffly. You go out and he slams the door.

“Code,” he snarls.

You turn back and look at the keypad below the handle. You reach to put in the code and he smacks your hand away. “Tell me.”

You recite the six digits, doubting yourself as you do. You don’t often, if ever, go anywhere on your own. You think it’s right. The flash of green then red affirms your recollection. The door clicks loudly.

He nudges your shoulder and you turn down the stone steps. He’s right behind you as you head for the sleek black car. He must have a lot of money. You know your mother isn’t wanting for much in her job; Director and all.

He brushes by you, nearly sending you stumbling, and opens the passenger door. You shrink yourself down as you duck into the low car. The seat is at an angle that makes you uneasy; too far back to see much over the dash.

He snaps the door shut and marches around. You twiddle your fingers. If he hates you so much, for whatever reason he can hate a stranger, why is he doing all this?

You don’t dare ask any of that, even as horror fills your head. You really shouldn’t watch scary movies alone. You start to think of that one where the girl was trapped in the trunk of a car by that maniac. Well, this car doesn’t seem the kind to have spacious cargo.

“Stop.” He growls and clamps down on your hands. You still yourself and apologies. He grumbles.

He steers out of the long drive to the avenue. You stare through the tinted window. Your stomach is somersaulting. If you’d eaten anything, it would be coming right up.

He drives for a while as you contemplate your minor existence. If you didn’t come home, would your mom notice? It would take her a while at least. And she’d never expect one of her own. There’s a certain trust among agents. She doesn’t talk to you much but when it comes to work, she can go on and on.

He pulls up and parks. You look around. The buildings are vaguely familiar. Maybe? You don’t know.

You’re slightly less nervous that you’re not at some abandoned warehouse.

“Out.” He barks.

You obey, untangling yourself from the seatbelt awkwardly before you can get the door open. He’s already ahead of you. You trip over the curb as you follow him. You look around in confusion.

“Come on,” he goes to the double doors at the front of the plaza and opens one.

You scurry over and through. Once more, he’s almost on top of you. He catches up and grabs your wrist. He tugs you and shoves you toward a bench.

“Sit down.”

You sit and stare up at him. You peek around at the shoppers trawling along the aisles of the plaza. You squint at the storefronts then him.

“Watch.”

You nod and wait. He walks off. You watch him flag down a tall woman with beautiful hair. The kind with waves and varying shades of gold and honey.

She looks at him with a tilt of her head and stops. She bends one leg, her toe delicately twisting into the floor. She grins at him as he speaks. He touches her arm and she touches his. He hands over his phone and she takes it.

He gets closer, looming over her. She hands the cell phone back and lightly grazes his chest. She smiles again and bats her lashes. She struts toward you, completely oblivious to your existence, her complexion glowing with glee.

You fidget, uncomfortable. Why would he bring you here for that? He approaches and you slump as you look up. You shrug.

“Your turn,” he sits down next to you heavily.

“What?”

“What are the rules?” He snarls. “Go.” He leans forward, elbows on his legs and looks around. “That guy.” He points. “Go get his number.”

You blink rapidly and choke. “Huh?”

“I’m not asking.”

Your lip trembles and you search around desperately. You don’t like talking to strangers and you don’t even know where to begin with flirting or whatever. You clutch your hands in fists, nails digging into your palms.

“Agent Walker, I don’t know… how.”

“You have words. Go use them.” He snips. “You sure talk back enough.”

You swallow and stand stiffly. You bid away the tears and sniff. You walk shakily across the large tiles of the floor.  You near the man at the table. He’s probably your age. He’s wearing one of those college sweaters with the big letters.

You stop by the table as he scrolls on his phone, a large ice coffee in front of him. You freeze up and cough. He looks up and grimaces. You blink.

“Uh, hi…” you sputter.

His brows lower. He looks back at his phone. He scoffs.

“I uh… like your sweater–”

“Bro, go away,” he chortles without looking up.

You frown and step back. You look back at Walker. He angles his head.

“I just wanted to talk–”

“I said fuck off.” He puts down his phone and picks up the small white case next to his cup. He takes out an airpod and puts it in his ear. You nod and scuttle away.

You go back to Agent Walker. “Sorry, he–”

“Do you get it?” He stands as you near.

“Get… what?”

“Do you get how pathetic you are?” He asks.

Your eyes burn and your nose tingles. You nod. “Yes, I know.”

“And you understand that I’m not. That I’m better than you.” He sneers.

You nod and gulp, barely holding back tears.

“Do you?” He cups his hand by his ear.

You sniffle. “Yes, Agent Walker.”

People judge. People don’t care. Why would they? You’re not that interesting.

Your mom’s at work and you’re alone. That’s the way things always are and always have been. Even when you were a kid and she forced you to play volleyball or embarrass yourself at dance recitals to make friends. It never worked. You just ended up at home with no one to talk to.

You stare at your phone. It’s almost noon. Get up. Do something. Anything.

You blink and it feels good enough to keep your eyes closed. Sleep makes the time pass. It keeps the thoughts away. The ones that just repeat the truth over and over. You’re a waste of space.

The doorbell forces your eyes open. Your heartbeat leaps and you stare wide-eyed at the ceiling. It’s probably just the neighbour dropping off wrongly delivered mail again. They can leave it in the box.

It chimes again. You groan. You don’t want to get up and you definitely don’t want to deal with someone else.

You have to. You drag yourself off the mattress, the blankets slipping over the edge as you stand. You stagger out into the hallway. You go to the front door and hesitate. You’re a mess…

Oh well. It will be all of a five second interaction. There’s not much you can do to change yourself in that moment. You won’t be any less slobbish or awkward.

You turn back the lock and ease the door open an inch. You peer out and flinch as the door nearly hits your nose. The unannounced visitor pushes from the other side.

“Good afternoon,” his deep rumble shakes you like thunder. 

You cling to the door and look up at the burly man in his brown suit. His curls are thick but tidy, arranged just so. His thick mustache adds to his stoic detest and the shadow of stubble on his jaw defines it further. It’s your mother’s coworker.

“Oh, hi… uh, sir?” You murmur. Your mother’s at work. Shouldn’t he know that? “My mom–”

“Requested these case files.” He interjects.

“Um, okay.”

He holds out a metal case. You assume there’s a data card or something within. Encrypted for confidentiality. Your mother never talks to her work since it’s so top secret.

You reach out but he doesn’t hand it over.

“I can give it to her–”

“Can you?” He challenges.

You wince. “Hm?”

“Doesn’t seem like you do much. Just woke up, didn’t you?”

You frown. “I missed my alarm…”

“You look to the left when you lie.” He asserts and turns the case between his fingers.

“I… okay. I’ll tell her you were here–”

“Will you? What will you tell her about me?” He asks.

You shake your head and shrug. You’re confused. It’s like he’s accusing you of something but you can’t figure out what you did wrong.

“You want to know what she told me about you?” He sneers.

You blink as your cheeks scald hotly. You can’t speak. You can only imagine.

“Nothing.” He says flatly. “She never mentioned you. Not one hint of a daughter. To be honest, I wouldn’t be boasting either.”

“Sir, I… I’m sorry she’s not at home but…” your voice cracks.

“You can cry but it won’t change things. You should know that by now.” He scoffs. “She doesn’t need to say anything. I see it all.” He extends his arm and holds out the case. “Don’t lose it.” You put your palm out and he shoves it into your hand. “And you will call me Agent Walker. Nothing else.”

You take the case and pout. You don’t think you’ll be talking to him much. Hopefully.

You back up and push on the door. He catches it and steps forward. You cower as his size overwhelms your senses.

“Sir?”

He clears his throat and tilts his head.

“Agent Walker,” you babble.

His cheek dimples as he stares you down. He slowly peels his hand away from the door. He steps back on his heel.

“Good girl.”

He turns and stalks off. You watch his broad shoulders as you clutch the case against your chest. You didn’t do anything and yet that alone feels so wrong.

▪️

When your mom comes home, your stomach is doing somersaults. She isn’t entirely the warm and comforting parent you see in sitcoms or movies. She’s stringent and stern. She has expectations and you’ve never met a single one of them.

You emerge and find her sipping her wine with her tablet in hand. You stand in the doorway tentatively. Could you just leave the case on her desk?

“What is it?” She asks without looking over her shoulder.

You step through the wide archway and near the back of the sofa. You stand by the corner, just behind her shoulder.

“Your… coworker left this for you.”

You set the case on the armrest. She hums and slurps her wine. “Walker?”

“I think so. Yes.” You know it was him. You haven’t been able to wipe his demand from your mind. Agent Walker.

She doesn’t say anything else. You linger, thinking she might. The silence grows tense as she goes back to scrolling on her tablet. Right.

You go back to your room. Your stomach growls loudly. You’re hungry but too embarrassed and scared to go out and cook something.

You pull your laptop onto your lap and go back to mindlessly playing your simulator game. If your mom knew this is how you spend your time, she’d hate you even more than she already does. You can play pretend but can’t do anything real.

You don’t know what’s wrong with you. Why you’re not more like her. After all, when she was your age, she was just out of the academy.

Your haze of disassociation and pixelated illusion is broken by your mother’s voice. Her tone alone puts you on edge.

“Nothing. As usual.” She drones as she walks past your door. “Oh, I’ve said it many times. If her father didn’t leave her a healthy trust, she’d be out…”

Her voice trails off as she continues down to her bedroom. You close the laptop and slide it across the bed. You pull the blankets up around your ears as you curl into a ball.

Maybe if your dad was here, you’d have someone who cares.

▪️

You think you heard your mom getting ready for work. Your head is so bleary, you’re not sure what’s real and what isn’t. Each time you close your eyes, they stick and you sink into a sludge.

Time passes by the shift in light that slips in around the edges of your curtains. Your head pounds from idleness and too much sleep. You make yourself sit up and rub your temples.

You should do something today. There’s always more dishes. Or you can mop. The last time, your mom said the floors were streaky though. Or you could vacuum?

It’s not noon yet. That’s better than yesterday, isn’t it? You shuffle out to the kitchen and drop a bag of herbal tea in a mug. You wait for the water to boil as you yawn.

You jolt as thumping comes from the front of the house. You freeze and listen. It comes again. Rhythmic and determined. Why wouldn’t they just ring the bell? And who would it be?

You cross your arms and force yourself to follow the pounding to the front door. You stand on your toes to peek out the peephole. Huh? It’s all blacked out as if something’s covering it.

You unlock the door and cautiously open it. No. You’re dreaming. You pinch under your arm. Wake up.

“Sir?”

He blinks dully and curls his lip.

“Agent Walker.”

“That’s it, little girl. I know you didn’t forget,” he growls.

“Uh… I gave the thing to mom. My mom. Er, Maureen.” You explain.

“I know you did. Because what else do you have to do?” He looks you up and down. “Not laundry, it seems.”

You look down at yourself. Your lip trembles.

“Sorry, sir– Agent Walker. Did you need me to tell my mom something or–”

“I need you not to say a damn word to Maureen.” He grits as he steps closer. You back up and the door falls open. Your heart flutters. He didn’t ring the bell, otherwise, it would trigger the camera. “No, you’re going to keep that mouth closed.”

You stare at him, confused.

“What do you mean–”

He snaps his fingers and points in your face. “Uh uh. No questions.” He lightly taps your cheek. “I tell you what to do, you do it.”

You bat your lashes as your cheeks pinch. You bring your hands up to your chest and wring them. He sighs.

“You’re not going anywhere in that.” He tugs on the collar of your loose sweatshirt. “Five minutes.”

He shoves you and you stumble back. You gape at him in disbelief. As much as you want to, you know you can’t say no. 

You envy those who have something to work towards. Even just those who work. Maybe they aren’t doing anything particularly grand, but they have a purpose. They are needed.

It’s that needling fear that keeps you awake. Many say it’s laziness. It could be both. You don’t sleep, knowing who you are, seeing no way out, so you just don’t have the energy to try. And when you do try, nothing happens. You’re unnoticed. Forgotten.

Except when you want to be. You pour a bowl of cereal, the avalanche of dried flakes and oats raucous in the silence of the house. You look at the sink and sigh. You promised your mom you would at least get to those. Later…

You stand at the counter and eat. You wipe your chin as milk dribbles down and lands on your sweatshirt. There’s also a stain from the canned pasta you had last night. Is that the mustard from two days ago?

You’re a mess. You don’t finish the bowl. Your stomach ties up in shame and self-hatred. You dump the leftovers in the toilet and flush it down. You stop to mask the dingy sweatshirt in your mom’s perfume. Not much better.

You go back out and set your bowl by the sink. Dishes. You promised. You stand and stare.

It’s not that much, is it? Not an impossible task. You’re an adult. You do nothing else. You can do this little thing.

You sigh and pull up your sleeves. You turn on the faucet and hold your hand under until the temperature rises. You put the stopper in and place the dishes in the deep basin. You squirt in soap and watch the bubbles rise.

Your anxiety builds with the water level. It’s so stupid to feel this way over doing dishes. Just get it done with. You grab the sponge and set to work.

It’s your own mess, isn’t it? Your mom works late, eats in her car. Almost like she’s avoiding you. You wouldn’t blame her.

Her voice jars you as if your thoughts alone brought her into existence. Her keys jingle in the front door. You turn to check the time. It’s after six? You slept… all day? You didn’t realise when you dragged yourself out.

You cringe and focus on the dishes. She’ll be happy to see you working on them, right? You try not to make too much noise as you continues to yap. Work stuff. She must be on the phone.

You grab the hose and spray a pan. The water splashes back at you. You let go of the trigger and put the hose back. You let the pan sink back into the suds and turn to grab the dishtowel to dry your face.

“It shouldn’t take very long, I think. If Carlign would just listen, we wouldn’t–” Your mother saunters through the door and stops as she sees you. You keep the towel up, hiding half your face as her brows arch. “Oh.”

Your eyes round. She’s not alone. You fidget as you see a man behind her, but not all of him. His shoulder, his dark hairline.

“Hi, mom,” you lower the towel. “I’m just… cleaning.”

“Marvelous,” she says dryly, her lined lips drawing taut. “I’ve some work to finish here.”

“Oh, um, I can be quiet.” You assure her. “Sorry.”

“Yes, we’ll be in the dining room.” She intones flatly. “Walker.”

She sweeps through to the dining room. You take a step back as the large man trails her. He’s tall and burly and sports a thick line of hair over his lips. His blue eyes flick in your direction and narrow. You can tell by his lanyard he works with her at HQ.

You quickly turn and hide your nerves in the dishwater. You set the towel next to the sink and go back to scrubbing. You didn’t expect company. That must be obvious to everyone.

You set the last plate in the rack and carefully dry each dish. You set them away with precision, sure not to clink too loudly. When you’re done, you wipe up the water splashed on the counter and do a once over just to be sure.

You hang the towel and look around. Should you do more? Maybe a sweep? Oh, you don’t know. You should just go and hide. Your mother doesn’t need you making an impression on her coworker.

“Ahem,” the man clears his throat before you can flee. You glance over at him as he fills the doorframe. You blanch.

“Oh, hi… sir?” You murmur.

“Maureen wants wine,” he says tersely. You stare at him. You don’t touch the alcohol.

You nod and point to the rack against the wall. The bottom has little cubbies for each bottle, sorted by colour and region, and the upper shelves hold the crystal. He clucks.

You wait. He doesn’t move. You wring your hands and go to the rack. You glance at him but not for long. His gaze makes you want to shrink into nothing.

“Did she say what kind?” You asks.

“You’d know better than me what she likes.” He drawls. “Just bring it out to us. We’re busy.”

He spins and marches away. You wonder how much he knows. You can’t help but want to cry as you think about it. Does your mom tell everyone how you’re such a loser?

You grab a bottle and a glass and take it into the dining room. You tiptoe in as the man leans in to see your mom’s iPad screen. She speaks lowly as she points to it.

You set the wine and glass on her other side. She tilts her head and sighs.

“Bring another glass, girl.” She hisses.

“Oh, sorry–”

She shoots you a pointed look and you wince. You back up and scurry away. You retrieve a second glass and bring it out. You don’t say a word as you set it down. You realise then, it doesn’t match. Your mom shoos you away with a wave.

As you retreat, your eyes meet those of the man. He looks agitated. You’re sure he doesn’t relish working overtime. Or dealing with you.

You leave and shuffle through the kitchen without stopping. It must be a surprise. Your mom is so driven, so established, and so good at what she does. And you’re none of those things. You’re just a mess of a person and she has little tolerance for disorder.

▪️

You keep the volume on your laptop low. You’re not really paying attention as you can hear the drone of your mom and that man as they speak. Long spates of silence then some dialogue. You can’t parse out their words but you don’t want to either.

It always puts you on edge to have someone else in the house. As much as you avoid leaving your room and getting in the way, it still feels like an intrusion. You just can’t settle.

You yawn. It’s after nine and you’re tired already. Last night, you stayed up till three or so. It wasn’t on purpose.

You leave your laptop on your bed. You pace around restlessly. You don’t know why you do this. Wallow in your self-pity and do nothing.

Not nothing. You’ve been applying to jobs. You just don’t hear back or when you do, you’re not good enough. Well, you wouldn’t hire you either. Your resume is recycling at best.

He’s still there. You just want him to go. It’s your mom’s house, she invited him, it’s not your choice.

You stand at the door and listen. You slowly ease it back on the hinges and step into the hallway. You sneak down to the bathroom and lock yourself in.

You could try to sleep. You’ll give yourself another headache but you almost prefer it to consciousness. You flush then wash your hands. You look at your reflection. Not for long.

Chapped lips, oily skin; it’s just all wrong.

You dry your hands and open the door. As you emerge, a hand slaps onto the doorframe. You squeak and hit the other side of the frame with your back. That man stands glaring at you.

“Took your time.” He snarls.

“I… sorry. I didn’t… did you knock?” You fold your hands over your chest. You don’t have a bra on. Even in the billowy shirt, you’re all too aware.

He grunts and doesn’t answer. You sidle away from the door frame. He scowls. You don’t mention there’s a second bathroom. It wouldn’t be very polite.

You drag your feet away, peeking back several times as you feel his gaze. He watches with that grizzly glare. You stumble just outside your room and hide behind the door. You snap it a bit harder than you mean to.

You sit on the edge of the bed. The laptop continues to babble with the show you’re not paying attention to. You hang your head, cradling it as your heart races.

You cross your arms and he glances over at you. He approaches a weight bench and steps over it. His muscle shirt ripples an gives a glimpse of his buff peck.

He sits, straddling the bench and narrows his gaze at you. "All that tension, you're not doing yourself any favours. Come here. Need a spotter."

He reclines and reaches up to grip the bar. You get up and traipse over to him. "How can I spot you if I can't lift --"

"You don't need to. If I need it, you just need to guide the bar one way or another." He insists.

"Sure."

You go around him and stand just above his head. He grunts and lifts the bar off the rack. Your eyes wander to the weights. Is he friggin serious? He's lifting the equivalent of an SUV!

You watch him do his presses. His gritty breaths build a tempo and he decompresses with each descent. You look him over absently, not thinking.

His shirt lifts and shows his stomach. He's obviously got muscle but there's a little extra thickness around his middle. Well, you got the same, you guess.

You look down at his face as he continues his set. His eyes are on you but not your face. He quickly closes them. Hm.

You look down at your shirt. Nothing on it. You feel along it. The tight tank rode up a bit around your tummy. You fix it.

"Hey, you think I should just go home?" You wonder. "No offense, but I'm bored."

"Nope. We need to do debrief." He hooks the bar back on the rack. "Will you grab my water?"

You back up. You go and grab his bottle and bring it to him. "Don't worry, I used my good shoulder to lift," you chirp.

He takes the bottle and scowls. You gulp.

"Kidding. Sorry. I just... I have all this energy to get out." You say.

He hums flatly. He stands and you can smell his sweat. He lifts his shirt to be wipe his face. You dart your gaze away from his naked torso.

"I gotta do my cool down," he says as he drops the fabric. "Then I need to shower. I'll meet you in the courtyard."

You stare at him. All he does is order you around. You're starting to hate it. He worse than Brenda who used to supervise you at the skate shop.

"Alright. Sounds good."

"It's a nice day out." He says.

"Yeah," you agree begrudgingly and turn away.

You go to grab your bag. He tuts.

"Leave it."

You raise your hands and spin back. You lift your brows at him then go. You shake your head once you're out of site.

It'll take him a while. You find your way down to the kitchen space and peruse the selection. They have one of those fancy coffee machines you pay thousands just to have operational.

Hm. English toffee. That's new. And rare. You choose the flavoured cappuccino and wait.

You reach to rub your shoulder. It does hurt even if you want to be stubborn about it. You don't see why you couldn't do some cardio on the treadmill.

You're not going to argue. With Bucky, it's like trying to punch a brick wall. You'll only hurt yourself more.

You take your coffee out to the courtyard and claim one of the tables with an umbrella. This is what you worked for. To be a clinger on. To be baby sat.

Your lips move as you argue with yourself. It's better than the skate shop. Right?

A shadow blurs at the edge of your vision. You turn but find no one there. There's a window hallway inside that looks right onto the courtyard. It's a beautiful space but no one uses it.

You sip the cappuccino. Oh, that's good. You don't get it. You move your hand as if talking aloud. Salted caramel is good but English toffee, that's got a richness that can't compare.

The door behind you opens. Bucky emerges. You crane to see him and wince at the pull in your muscle. Oops.

You turn back and wait for him to come around. His hair is damp and you can smell his body soap. Old spice. Like him. Haha. Don't smirk.

He drops your bag and his on the bench along the left side of the table. He sits across from you with a tablet. He's back in his street clothes. He peels back the cover from the screen.

"Figure you can start helping with reports. Suits want 'em. Back in my day--" his complaint tapers off. He glances up at you as you slurp. "What is that?"

"Coffee." You say. "Want me to go grab you one?"

"Smells sugary."

"Oh uh, yeah," you frown. "It's a cappuccino."

"Ah, so not coffee," he snorts.

You're silent. You stare at him as you lower the cup.

"Who were you talking to?" He flicks around the tablet with his vibranium finger.

"Um... No one."

"Really?" His other hand reaches up to flip back his hair and it falls right back over his face. He huffs. "Looked like you were having quite the conversation."

You peek over at the windows. Of course it was him.

"Just myself. Er..."

He sits up and uses both hands to push back his wet hair. His jaw squares. "What?"

"Nothing, just... You ever thought of a braid or something. Keep that out of the way."

"Lost my hair tie," he shrugs.

"I should have one," you get up and drag your bag across the bench. "Right..." You unzip the top pouch. "Here."

"It's not a big deal," he says.

"Seems like it's a bit of a distraction." You argue.

"Whatever." He shrugs.

"So uh does whatever mean you want a braid or?"

He stares at you. "Get it over with. We gotta do this brief."

You frown. You're just trying to be nice. You go behind him and comb your fingers through his hair. A lot of women would love hair like this.

You twine it together expertly. You always were the one giving other people braids at the beach. Your own hair was never so easy.

You wind the band around and let the end of the braid fall. "There you are, sergeant." You drop back onto the bench across from him. "Let's get to work."

He reaches back to feel the braid. His cheek twitches. He sniffs and hovers his fingers over the tablet.

You dodge through the onslaught of pedestrians and apologise a deep 'hey, lady' thunders through at you. You quickly dip into the store and shield yourself with the door. You gasp and catch your breath, smiling at the associate nearest to you. The organic shop probably isn't the most exciting place to shop but it has most of the ingredients you need. Raw honey, tallow wax, essential oils...

You greet them with a small wave and 'hi' and turn to look at the shelves along the wall. They don't acknowledge you. Most people don't, not that you mind. You keep to yourself.

The door jingles and another customer enters. They pause by the door and look around. They might be lost. It's not unusual for one more person to wander in but usually they don't stay long.

He clears his throat and you do your best to focus on your list. You're going to need a basket. As you go to grab one from the stack, the man faces you. You shy away and stop short of latch onto one of the mesh baskets.

"Excuse me, miss," he holds up a familiar item; a red wallet with white polkadots. It's yours! "I think you dropped this."

"Oh, my, I did," you give a sheepish smile to his chest. He's an awfully big man. "Thank you."

"Yeah, no problem," he hands it over.

You accept it and hold it to your chest. You give a tiny shimmy, "thank you so so much!"

You dare to look up and meet his eyes. They're blue but reticent. He scratches his beard as he nods and backs up.

"I think I'm in your way," he grabs one of the baskets and offers it to you.

"Oh, no, but yes, thank you, I need one," you take it.

"Mm, yeah," he smooths out the tuft in his beard that he was pulling on. The hair is thick and coarse; the locks on his head are just as dense, pushed back away from the face, though his chin-length strands try to droop past his ears.

You put your head down and turn back to the shelves. He lingers, seemingly lost as he looks around. What's the odds that in a city like this someone would do something so nice? You look at the list again then peek over at him. He squints at a jar of sourdough starter.

"What do you use in your beard?" You ask then cover your mouth. "I'm sorry, that's not... polite, is it?"

He shrugs, "hm, I just use shampoo, I guess. Face wash?"

"Right. Well, it's pretty shiny." You scrunch up your face. "I'm sorry." You chew your lip in embarrassment. Your cheeks are ablaze. "I'm working on my beard oil. I make it. Um, sell it. But..."

"Beard oil," he repeats thoughtfully. "I don't... I guess maybe I should."

He touches his beard again, a crease between his brows.

"I don't meant to-- I... I'm not... it's cute. I mean. Suits you. I was just--" you show your teeth nervously. "I don't have a beard so..."

"Yeah," he agrees awkwardly and tucks his hair back behind his ears before it can fall forward.

"I ramble..." you drift off and face the shelves again. "I'll stop bothering you."

He inhales and backs up. He turns to the door then stops. You sense his gaze.

"It's a bit busy. Rush hour," he says. "You don't mind if I hide in here with you?"

You glance over. You shrug. "Um, yeah, sure. It's not my store. Not sure how interesting it is."

You fumble between the basket and your phone. You hum and scour the shelves with your eyes, scrunching your nose in concentration. He comes closer.

"What are you looking for?" He asks.

"Soybean oil."

"Soybean oil," he nods. "For..."

"Soap," you cheep.

"Ah. In my day, ma just used fat and lye."

You give his statement a thought. You've seen some recipes from way back. Like long ago. Almost a hundred years now. A lot of people prefer the gentler ingredients.

"Oh, that's cool that she made her own stuff," you muse as you take a canister and tap your spreadsheet to mark off that item.

"Yeah," you feel him trying to see the screen. "You're really organized."

"Can't forget anything," you say.

"Sure." He lurks and looks around before he focuses on you again. "I'm Steve, by the way."

You look at him. He's just as big as the last time you looked. His blue eyes seem uncertain. He can't be afraid of someone like you. You give your name.

"Nice to meet, you, Steve."

"You too," he agrees. "Can I help?"

"Oh, sure. What do you prefer? Rose or Gardenia?"

"Rose is nice," he says.

"I agree," you say and pluck up the small bottle.

"You said you sell stuff?"

"Sure do," you chime. You tuck the bottle into the basket. "You know, you don't have to pretend to care."

"What? I... I'm curious."

You eye him, "well, Steve, I'll believe you, but there's not much to be curious about."

His brows furrow, not so much in agitation, but intrigue. "The beard oil. How much?"

"Oh, you know, I could get you a sample from my hoard. Since you got me my wallet back. You don't have to do all that."

"I want to. I think you right," he runs his hands over his beard. "Needs a bit of taming."

You laugh, "looks good to me. Oh, you can try coconut oil. It's real easy and you can use it in your hair too."

"Coconut oil," he says. "I'll add it to the list. What about yours?"

"Soy wax," you look at your list. "I can use that for lots of things."

He lifts his heads, shoulders wide and straight, looking around on a mission. He strides around the rack behind him and you watch him search a shelf. He picks up two jars. He comes back to you. "Which do you prefer?" He holds up to two different sellers. You take the one in his left hand.

"Thank you," you grin.

"Next," he looks down at your phone.

"Jeez, you sure are helpful," you check again.

"They sell wicks. I need the long ones. Like this." You hold the basket and phone at a length.

He nods again, "on it."

You point him to the corner where they keep the candlemaking stuff and you go back to your own search. He's too quick for you. He has a hole bunch in hand. You have him put half in your basket and he takes the rest back.

Huh, looks like you made a friend.

🎀

Steve holds the door for you. It's so nice you thank him for what must be the dozenth time since you met. Maybe only even an hour ago.

As you get outside, you turn back to him, certain to keep away from the pedestrians who pay no heed to obstacles. "I can take that bag too."

He looks down as the door shuts behind him. "Pretty heavy," he says.

"Oh, I always do that. I forgot my little rolly bag," you shrug. "I can handle it."

"Wouldn't feel right letting you carry it all. Mrs. Rogers didn't raise a punk."

"Is that your mom? I bet she's nice too," you say. "It's alright, Steve. You've done enough. I owe you. My wallet would've been gone with the wind and I never coulda bought all this."

He stares at you, then once more peeks down at the fabric bag. You always bring the reusable; they're much stronger than the paper ones supplied in-store. He chews his lower lip.

"If you owe me, well, you wanna have a coffee? Together?" He asks.

You blink. That's so nice of him too.

"Coffee?" You press your lips together. You feel bad saying no. Not that you want to. It wouldn't be so bad to have someone to sit with. For once. "I don't drink it."

He nods, "tea? Hot chocolate? Water?"

You laugh.

"I'll have a cookie," you offer. "Um," you look up and down the street. "Where..."

"I saw a place. Never been in. Wanna give it a try?"

"Oh, cool. Yeah. I love new places, even if they're scary," you say.

"Here," he takes the other bag from your hands before you can argue. "It's a block back."

"Wait, Steve! I can carry that."

"Not if I'm around," he insists, "come on."

He rolls his shoulder in a gesture for you to follow. You huff and hop into motion. You walk next to him, wary of the oncoming people along the sidewalk. A man nearly bowls you over and you knock into Steve's elbow.

"Oof, I'm sorry."

"Get on the inside of me, doll," he says. "Used to be that people took their hat off when they passed a lady. Now they don't care if... well... you move."

He stops and lets you step across his path. He keeps you between him and the storefronts as he strides on undaunted. You wish you were as brave as him.

"Ah, there it is." He tilts his chin up.

You look ahead. You see the sign sticking out in the shape of a coffee cup.

"Oh, I see it," you hurdle ahead. "My turn."

You pull open the door as he follows. He stops to let another customer out before he enters. You follow him.

"There's a table," he nods.

You follow his gaze to the wall. You lead the way and he trails you. He puts the bags in one of the chairs.

"How about you sit?" He suggests. "What kind of cookie do you want?"

"Oh, Steve, uh," you pull out your wallet, "if they have oatmeal--"

"My treat." He insists.

"You can't do that," you argue.

"You gonna stop me?" He challenges. You gulp and blink at him. You don't think you could stop him from anything. He's quite the figure.

"I guess not." You murmur.

His expression softens, "hey, I'm kidding. I didn't... scare you, did I?"

"N-no," you force a smile. "I appreciate that. Thank you. Oatmeal. That's all."

"Alright. I'll be back." He turns and you see his shoulders rise and fall with a heavy breath.

You sit and jiggle your leg as you look around. You avoid the coffee shops, even the bakeries. They're always so busy. You are methodical in your ventures but today's seems to have gone off the rails. Not in the worst way. One time, you tried to take the subway and ended up lost in the rain.

There's women who look like they could be on a TV show with their fabulous dresses and perfect waves; a man in a suit with his laptop and a single earbud in, and an older couple near the door. There are many others in the line to get a treat of their own.

You turn in the chair and press your palms to the table. You stare at the wood between your hands. You feel the heat speckling over your scalp, that sense of suffocation burrowing into your chest, the voices swirling around you like a raging wind.

"Here," Steve interrupts your internal panic. He places a large cookie before you and mug. "They had this strawberry cream thing. No coffee."

You look at the pink concoction with a dark red swirl in the middle. "Mmmm," you lean forward to admire it. "Wow. It looks good."

He puts his own coffee down and moves the bags under the table. He sits and unzips his jacket to let the tension out of the fabric. You smile and pick up the cookie. You hide behind it.

"I can't eat this alone. It's as big as my face." You giggle. 

You break it in two and offer him half. He eyes it for a moment then accepts it with a thanks. You take a bite then round your eyes at him. He's staring. Oh no. Is that rude? You chew and swallow quickly.

"What?" You hide your mouth behind your hand.

"Nothing. It's just..." he glances around the shop. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" You make googly eyes and cross them. "Is there something on my nose?"

He snorts. "No. There's not." He sighs. "Just haven't had a nice quiet coffee in a while. It's nice."

Your brows pop up and you smile big. "I'm sorry I'm not a big coffee person. I tried it once and it made my belly gurgle."

"It's fine. Bad habit," he taps the handle of his mug with his index finger. "Are you gonna try that cup of sugar?"

"Not much better, is it?" You pick up the mug and blow over it. You put your lips over the brim and taste it cautiously. You hum. "Mm," you pull it away. "Delicious! This is a tummy ache worth having."