#paulkellerman

The safehouse is dead quiet.

Rain taps against the boarded windows, and the only sound inside is the scrape of Michael’s pen across a worn city map. Lincoln leans over his shoulder, reviewing the layout for the Steadman operation. They’re focused. Tense. Obsessed with every detail.

You should be right there with them.

But you’re not.

You’re sitting on the arm of a busted couch, arms crossed over your chest, watching the man standing across the room.

Kellerman.

He’s leaning against the wall near the door, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on nothing. But you know better. He’s not looking because he’s trying not to look at you. You feel it- The heaviness, the awareness...the heat.

You shouldn’t have come here tonight, not with him in the room, definitely not after what happened, and certainly not after the way he touched you like he was never going to let go.

Your thoughts race to the night before...

⸻

You knock once.

There’s no answer — just the sound of muffled movement inside, followed by the click of a lock disengaging. The door swings open. Paul Kellerman stares at you like he’s already said no and knows it won’t matter.

He’s shirtless. His slacks are unbuttoned at the top, like he’d just gotten out of the shower or had given up on sleep entirely. You don’t look away, and neither does he.

“You lost, sweetheart?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“You got a brother two doors down. Why not bother him?”

You fold your arms, “Because he doesn’t look at me like you do.”

That stops him cold. Something flickers in his expression. Caution. Guilt. Hunger. All fighting for space behind his eyes.

“I shouldn’t,” he mutters. “I know that.”

“I didn’t ask what you should do,” you say softly.

His chest rises slowly, like he’s bracing himself for impact.

“You think I’m going to be sweet?” he says, voice dipping low as he steps back, leaving the door open for you to enter. “You knock on this door, you walk in, you know what it means.”

You walk inside anyway and shut the door behind you.

He doesn’t move until your fingers brush his chest — slowly, then with purpose. His hand shoots out to catch your wrist.

“If we do this,” he says, “you’ll wear me like a bruise.”

You whisper, “Good.”

That’s when the control snaps. He kisses you like it’s punishment. Like he hates himself for craving you this much. Your back hits the wall and his hands are already under your shirt, palms hot and steady, mapping your skin like he’s been imagining this for weeks.

You moan into his mouth as he lifts you onto the dresser without warning, standing between your legs, tugging at your waistband.

“You’re not scared of me?” he rasps.

“I’m scared of how much I want this,” you whisper.

His smile is wicked, “Then you’re not scared enough.”

He presses his mouth to your throat, biting and sucking, and you arch into him, breathless and shaking, fingers tangled in his hair. Every place he touches burns. Every word he murmurs between kisses wrecks you, “I’ll ruin you", he warns.

“You already have.”

⸻

The room feels smaller than it did earlier—stifling, thick with everything left unsaid. The rain hammers against the boarded-up windows, a relentless beat that presses on your nerves. Michael’s hunched over the table, tracing routes and contingencies on the worn map. Lincoln’s quiet but restless, shifting weight from one foot to the other, his eyes sharp, watching.

You sit on the edge of the couch, arms wrapped tight around yourself, trying to will down the storm brewing inside your chest. Your gaze flickers to Paul Kellerman, who leans against the far wall like he owns the place—calm, collected, but with a dark edge to his watchful eyes fixed on you.

Michael doesn’t look up. He’s miles away, caught in the labyrinth of plans and odds and dangers that define your lives now. There’s too much to worry about to notice anything else.

But Kellerman does, he notices everything.

Without thinking, he steps closer—too close—and his hand brushes against the small of your back, lingering for just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Your breath stutters.

Michael’s head snaps up like he’s been hit with an electric shock, “Keep your hands off her,” he growls, voice tight and low, but laced with a warning sharp enough to cut glass.

Kellerman slowly lifts his hand, a dark smirk playing on his lips like this is a game he’s been waiting to play. “Too late,” he says, cold, almost amused.

Michael blinks—once, twice—his mind racing to catch up. His body freezes as the weight of those words crashes over him like a tidal wave.

You swallow hard, heart pounding so loud you think it might burst your ribs.

Michael shakes his head, struggling for words, for control, but it slips away, replaced by a raw, desperate anger. “You don’t get to touch her. Not like that. Not ever.”

Kellerman meets his gaze without flinching, “I already did.”

The room falls silent again. The rain outside a quiet drum beneath the storm roaring inside.

And you realize—everything has changed.