@kissofthemuses liked for a starter; Billy -> Freya
Billy had met a lot of liars in his life- hell, he was one.
He could spot a fake smile faster than most people could blink. Could tell when someone was selling a story instead of living one. So when Freya waltzed into his orbit with that easy grin and that soft-spoken teacher routine, he should’ve just smiled, flirted, and moved on.
Because there was something about her that didn’t add up.
Teachers didn’t move like that; like their body remembered violence.
They didn’t scan exits without meaning to, didn’t subtly angle themselves to keep eyes on the door. And they sure as hell didn’t flinch like someone who’d been trained to never flinch. Billy caught all of it, every quiet tell, and tucked it away behind a lazy smirk.
He was sitting at the bar, nursing a bourbon and pretending not to watch her, when she walked in again, calm, collected, maybe even charming if you didn’t know what to look for. But Billy? He’d spent years reading men like blueprints, women like puzzles. And Freya… Freya was a cipher that was starting to itch under his skin.
He rose from his seat, setting the glass down with a soft clink, and let that trademark grin spread- slow, effortless, dangerous. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite educator,” he drawled, his voice all velvet and smoke. “Tell me, sweetheart, grading papers or breaking hearts tonight?”
He leaned one elbow on the bar, eyes narrowing just slightly as he took her in.
The way she stood too straight.
The way her hands moved like she was cataloging everything around her.
Too composed.
Too measured.
He’d seen that stance before.
On trained soldiers, on killers who’d learned to blend in with civilians until the moment they didn’t.
“You know…” he began, tone light, but his eyes sharp as broken glass, “you’re a hell of a teacher, sure. But there’s somethin’ about you that doesn’t scream PTA meetings and art fairs. Maybe it’s the way you don’t really relax. Or maybe it’s the way you’re dressed for a casual drink but your shoes could outrun half my guys.”
The smirk that followed wasn’t friendly.
It was curious, testing.
He took a slow sip from his drink, gaze never leaving her face.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said finally, voice softening just a touch. “You play the part real nice. But I’ve built my life around people playin’ parts. And I gotta say, Freya…” He set the glass down and leaned in closer, enough that his breath brushed her ear, his tone a quiet dare.
“…you move like someone who’s been trained to do something just… not exactly teach. ‘Least, not only teach, that is.”
He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, grin crooked, almost admiring. “Now, you can tell me I’m wrong, sweetheart. Lie if you want. But I’m real good at catchin’ people in lies.”
And the way his gaze lingered, steady, knowing, faintly amused, made it clear he already had.
