Chapter Text
The wig you were wearing was scratchy, and your sunglasses were so big, it made you look like an insect. If you lived anywhere else, you were sure people would think you looked ridiculous, but that was the great thing about LA; at worst people would think you were some C-list celebrity pretending not to want any attention.
As long as no one saw the gun you were carrying, you were good.
It had been about a week since you tried (and failed) to kill Holland March, and to be honest, it still kind of stung. Not just because you knew that you were good at your job, and it was kind of humiliating to fail at killing a man as killable as March, but also… your doubts about this job only grew bigger and bigger.
March was clearly a good man. He seemed nice, caring, had a daughter he adored, and did his job out of at least 20% obligation for the well-being of the people, which was more than most could say.
But that wasn’t even it; you had killed good people before. It was also that The Stripes had been going down a darker path than you could support. Back when you had first done a hit for Tiger, he had proudly shown you around his ‘headquarters’, as he called it. It was a shitty bar, with a couple of offices in the back of the house, where most of the shady stuff took place.
The men present had been dumbasses, most who you would gladly bump off, but the general vibe of the gang had been more like ‘a group of guys trying to prove that their dicks were bigger than they actually were’ and not ‘a group of guys selling women to the highest bidder’.
You could live with the knowledge that you were going to hell, but you couldn’t live knowing other women and girls were going through a living hell because of you.
You needed out, that much was clear.
The question was how; you had to be smart about it.
If you just up and left, Tiger would come looking for you. Not even because of your skill-set, but because he was an overgrown man-child who would not take well to his favorite toy gaining sentience and leaving him.
But if you did him one last favor, and then asked—or more likely, begged, because he was that kind of man—to be allowed to leave. There was a chance you’d be able to skip town. Maybe you’d even leave the cops some kind of evidence against The Stripes, hoping that the LAPD would for once do their job and help someone.
So, you would swallow your pride and morals one last time and kill Holland March. It was for the greater good after all—with the ‘greater good’ being… well, you not feeling this crushing guilt every hour of the day.
Which was why you were now hiding in some bushes, eyes trained on the bar sitting downhill, holding a Colt M1911 with a .45 caliber and a silencer already screwed onto it.
You didn’t feel great about this, but it was the only way—or at least that was what you kept on telling yourself.
March had now been in the bar for about two hours, and your legs were starting to cramp from the position you were sitting in. This was the third bar he had visited tonight, so, in a slightly better light, you were helping a clearly struggling man out of his alcoholism. Bright side and all that.
You hadn’t killed him until now, because firstly, you still stuck by your point that if he was going to die, he might as well have one last drink before it (and it wasn’t like he could puke the bullet out). And secondly, the previous bars had been a little too public, and you really didn’t want a bunch of people around for this, even with the silencer.
But this bar was perfect, and if his stumbling while entering it was any indication, March was also already way past tipsy. It was one of those off-the-highway bars, with a group of truckers and motorbikes permanently stationed in the parking lot, and toilets that would make you want to run and hide. That being said, it was the perfect spot for murder.
You tapped the barrel of your gun against your thigh impatiently. Your outfit, consisting of a red silk shirt, leather jacket, and black jeans shorts, had been cute when you left your place around noon, but now the light night-time breeze made goosebumps rise along your skin.
It was shortly after midnight, and the moon was standing bright and high in the sky. It could have been a romantic scene: the silver light shining down on you, the stars twinkling up above, but you were surrounded by empty plastic cups and something that you really, really tried to pretend wasn’t a used condom.
Yep, if he doesn’t walk out of this place in ten minutes, I’ll shoot myself, you thought, sighing.
As if he had heard you, just then March stepped out of the bar. He was moving slowly, nodding his head, throwing his car keys between his hands, and singing a song to himself that you couldn’t hear.
Before you had any chance to rethink it, you lifted your gun, pointing it at his head. He was getting closer to his car, so you took one steady breath, closed one eye, and put your finger on the trigger.
Just as you pulled the trigger, the keys slipped from between his fingers, and March ducked to pick them up. The bullet flew over his head, hitting the gravel about 20 feet behind him.
What the fuck?
March looked behind him, where the sound of the bullet hitting the ground came from, but whether it was his intoxication or him not realizing that it had been a shot fired at him, he didn’t immediately seek shelter. Instead, he got back up—almost falling down in the process—and then stumbled a couple of feet closer to the spot before seemingly changing his mind and turning back around.
He was once again trying to reach his car, so you needed to act quickly. But now your hands were shaking. What kind of cruel trick of the universe was this? Was this a sign not to go through with it?
No, it isn’t. You closed your eyes for a brief moment, taking another breath, albeit this one more shaky, trying to steady your hands. Do it now!
You closed one eye, aimed, and then pulled the trigger.
March hit the ground.
You turned around, walking to your bike.
You drove away with your hands still shaking, and your eyes just a little too glassy.
You did it, you killed Holland March.
────────
In honor of the late Holland March, you started drinking the second you got back to your apartment.
Tiger had gifted you a bottle of scotch a couple of months ago, not remembering—or more likely, caring—that you didn’t much like the taste of it. But tonight you didn’t care about the taste, you just wanted to float in peaceful oblivion for a while, pretending like you weren’t choking on your own guilt. You thought about starting to pack your stuff, but in the end stayed on your red velvet couch, drowning yourself in the malty taste of liquor.
You were about a quarter of the way through the bottle when your phone started ringing. Irritated, you looked at the yellow machine standing on the side table next to the couch. It was about 2 am so whoever was calling better have a damn good reason.
It’s probably Tiger asking me how it went. You reached over to grab the receiver, picking it up slowly and bringing it to your ear. Let’s get this over with.
“Yeah,” you answered the phone, trying your best to hide the slight slurring in your voice—the last thing you needed was Tiger knowing you were drunk.
“Uh, hey sweetheart. It’s Holland.”
Your heart dropped to the floor, and your chin right with it. You blinked, swallowed, and then blinked again.
“Hello?”
“What the fuck?” you yelled, throwing the receiver away from you. It landed on the other side of the couch, and out of the speakers you could hear March’s voice saying something you couldn’t make out over the blood rushing in your ears.
This couldn’t be real, right? Were you being haunted? Was this karma?
“Hello? Hello?” Your hearing came back slowly, and you could hear March’s stressed voice coming from the phone.
You hesitantly reached for the receiver, bringing it to your ear.
“Are you—”
“March?” you asked, cutting him off.
He stilled for a second before answering slowly, “Holland. But yeah, it’s me.”
“H—how are you… I mean,” you swallowed. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Are you? You sound a bit… off,” he said.
“No, yes, I’m fine. I—wait! How did you even get this number?” How are you even alive?
There came some rustling from March’s side, and you could hear him chuckle nervously. “Forgot that I’m a PI, doll?” He sounded a bit incoherent. Can ghosts also be drunk? “I, um, I might have contacted the AAA and bribed them for your contact information.” It appeared like you had underestimated March a bit. He seemed to grow antsy at your silence and cleared his throat. “Whoopsie?”
“It’s fine,” you said feebly. Was it? You weren’t sure. Your heart was still beating fast enough to make the room spin, and the alcohol coursing through your bloodstream certainly didn’t help. “Why are you calling?”
“I—something fucking crazy happened, and I don’t really know what to do now, and I kinda wanted to see you again,” he said in one breath, speaking almost too fast to comprehend.
“Now?” you asked.
“Yes. I know it’s late, but…”
“It’s okay, I’ll meet you.”
“Great,” he sounded relieved. “Good, awesome. You hungry? I know this diner that is open twenty-four hours.”
Not at all, but he could have asked you to meet him before the Hollywood Sign and you would have shown up within the hour. He told you where to meet him, and then you hung up, leaving you with the distinct feeling that something had gone very wrong.
Let’s go eat a late-night snack with a ghost.
────────
You pulled into the parking lot of Astro Family Restaurant and spotted March’s car straightaway. The sight of it left you a bit queasy, and as you got off your bike, you readjusted the gun hidden under your jacket.
While it was rather unlikely that March had come back as a zombie who was now luring you into a trap to eat you, you weren’t taking any chances. During the drive over, you had come to terms with the fact that the most likely version of events was that you had somehow missed March. It made sense, he didn’t sound shot, and while he wasn’t the brightest person you had ever met, he definitely wasn’t stupid enough not to seek medical attention if there was a bullet in him.
Still, you didn’t like it. You were good at your job. It was the one thing that had been keeping you company ever since you were a teenager. You had felt a gun in your grasp more often than another person’s hand. How could you have missed?
You shook your head and made your way into the diner.
When you opened the door, you were greeted by the smell of coffee and eggs. The sizzling of oil frying and low music hung in the air, lulling you into an almost dreamy state. You loved 24-hour places; they always had this nostalgic feeling about them.
A waitress greeted you from behind the wraparound counter with a quick nod and then pointed toward the many free spots along the counter and booths. You smiled at her halfheartedly, already searching for March.
You found him sitting in one of the bright orange booths, his back to you, head in his hands. You walked over. When he didn’t notice you right away, you knocked on the table next to his head. He jolted upward, hands grabbing for your arm. You let him do it—that only seemed fair after what had happened tonight.
“Jesus, s’just you, sweetheart.” He let go of you and put one hand on his chest, over his—still—beating heart.
“Hi,” you said and sat down on the bench opposite him. The upholstery made squeaky noises, and the table was slightly sticky when you placed your arms on it, but you didn’t care. Your eyes were fixed on Holland.
He looked a little worse for wear—hair ruffled, dark circles under his eyes, and clearly still inebriated—but it was a far cry from being a gory corpse in front of some bar. He had also changed his clothes for something more casual; it was the first time that you saw him wearing something other than a suit. He wore a red and brown striped short-sleeved shirt, half unbuttoned, revealing a white undershirt. There was a chain hanging from around his neck, mostly hidden behind his clothes. From previous investigating you knew that his wedding band was hanging from it. The indent of it was pressing against his shirt.
“Are you drunk?” March asked, shamelessly letting his eyes rove up and down you.
You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “Takes one to know one.”
He raised his hands. “Fair enough.”
The waitress from before approached your table, the clicking of her heels seamlessly blending into the background ambiance.
You and March both order coffee, and then after a moment of consideration, you also order a strawberry milkshake. You needed sugar. March looked surprised at that, but then asked for a vanilla one. The waitress left after that, leaving you to simmer in whatever both of you were caught up in.
March tapped the table a couple of times, fiddling with a tissue from the dispenser standing to his left. He ripped it into little bits and then looked up at you with wide eyes. “I think someone tried to kill me tonight.”
You had a good poker face—it was kind of a requirement in your line of work—but in that moment you could have sworn your expression froze in unease. You swallowed, hoping he was too drunk to wonder why you suddenly couldn’t meet his eyes. This was new territory; you had never before needed to have a conversation with someone after you tried to kill them.
“What makes you say that?” You asked, and then almost facepalmed because that was not how normal people reacted to someone telling them they were almost killed. “I mean, are you okay? What happened?”
If March was confused about your reaction, he didn’t show it. In fact, he looked ecstatic that you believed him at all. He sat up straighter, leaning forward a bit, lowering his voice. “I was out earlier, and the whole evening I could have sworn someone was following me.” Liar. He had no idea you were stalking him, that much was plainly obvious from his unconcerned behavior. “And then when I left this bar, suddenly I was being shot at.”
He looked at you intently, and you remembered that that was the kind of thing normal people were shocked over. You gasped dramatically, and March nodded gravely. “Yeah. I was able to dodge the first shot, but the second one hit me right in the chest.” He tapped his finger against his chest.
You stared at his finger and its position on his chest and then looked down at your own hands.
Your hands, which had been shaking badly earlier.
You bit down hard on your tongue, trying not to start screaming in frustration or slap yourself across the face. You had missed because your hands had been unsteady… you weren’t 18 anymore, something like that just shouldn’t happen.
This is humiliating, to say the least. If Tiger or any of the others ever found out about it, you’d never live it down.
Then you blinked, looking back at March with narrowed eyes. “Wait, so you were shot in the chest? Doesn’t look like it.”
“Yeah, here’s the fuckin’ twist.” March turned to his jacket, which was lying next to him in the booth, and started cramming in the left breast pocket. He pulled something out, placing it on the table between you.
It looked like a standard silver LAPD badge, the only distinction from a normal one being the harsh dent right in the center of it.
Everything clicked into place, and then immediately scattered again.
“Police badges aren’t bulletproof,” you said. March eyed you, surprised, and you pinched your thigh under the table. You should never have met up with him while drunk, you just couldn’t seem to shut up.
“It’s not a police badge,” March said. “Or, at least not a real one.”
The clicking of her heels announced the waitress before you saw her. She strode to your table, placed down your drinks, and then left, pointedly not looking at the (fake) badge.
March, however, had gone rigid at her sudden arrival. He watched every of her movements closely and only relaxed after she was back behind the counter.
“Everything alright?”
“What if whoever tried to kill me realizes that they haven’t succeeded, and comes to finish the job?”
Yeah, what fucking if?
“You think our waitress is a killer?”
“You never know.” March shrugged. “Don’t underestimate anyone. Women can be killers, too,” he said it like it was some kind of wise life lesson he had already learned. You didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.
Instead of answering him, you pulled your milkshake closer, bringing the straw to your mouth. The synthetic taste of strawberries filled your mouth, and you could have sworn it was the best thing you had ever tasted.
“Easy,” March said, chuckling and then reached for his own shake. “You’ll get brain freeze.”
“Hopefully,” you mumbled to yourself. You waited until he had taken his first sip, and then continued in a louder voice, “So, the badge is not real?”
“No, it isn’t. I got it a couple of years ago. It’s pretty helpful sometimes when people get a little prissy with information,” he said and ran a hand through his hair. “Anyway, most badges are made of either silver nickel or brass, but this one isn’t, it’s made of aluminum.”
“Aluminum is bulletproof,” you uttered, eyes fixated on the little silver badge.
“Exactly,” March said, a hint of surprise palpable in his voice.
“Oh my god.” You let your face fall into your hands, copying his earlier position. You should be more careful, but you were too tired and tipsy, and the situation was just too ridiculous. What were the chances that he just happened to own a fake badge made out of bulletproof material, and then carry it at the exact position you would accidentally shoot him?
“I know, right?” March scoffed, taking another sip of his shake. “It’s a fuckin’ miracle I’m still alive.”
You couldn’t do anything but nod sluggishly.
The next couple of minutes were spent in silence, both of you staring into nothing, consuming your drinks leisurely. Once you were done, March paid for both of you—you didn’t have the energy to argue with him about it.
You left the diner, walking side by side. There was a bench next to the parking lot, and without talking about it, you both stopped and sat down. March pulled out a packet of cigarettes, offering you one and then taking one himself. You patted your jacket looking for your lighter, but he had already taken out his, holding it up.
“Pretty ladies shouldn’t have to light their own smokes,” he said through the cigarette tucked between his lips.
You chuckled lightly, and he grinned at your amusement. After lighting both of your cigarettes, he tucked the lighter away. You took a long, slow drag, letting the nicotine stain your lungs for a bit before blowing it back out. The swirls of smoke met up with March’s as they made their way into the night.
“Why’d you call me?” you asked the question that had been burning on your mind ever since you were certain that he wasn’t a ghost, and instead just absurdly lucky.
“Hm?” March didn’t look at you, and you were quite certain he knew what you meant.
“After… what happened to you. Why call me of all people?”
“Will it surprise you if I say there aren’t that many people in my life?” He asked casually.
“You’re avoiding my question,” you said.
March closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, he was looking at you. He sighed, turning his head to the side so that the smoke he exhaled wouldn’t hit you. “Well, I sure as hell am not gonna tell my daughter that someone tried to kill her dad. She acts all tough, but after everything that happened with her mother… with my wife… I don’t ever want her to have to go through that again. I wasn’t very good back then when it happened, didn’t know how to deal with her grief and my own, and I kind of left her to deal with it herself. At least now she’d have Healy. He’s a good man, he loves her and would take care of her, I’m sure, but I don’t think she could bear it again. I’d do anything to make sure she’s alright.”
You didn’t notice that there was a tear running down your cheek until March gently wiped it away with his thumb. You turned away from him, breathing in shakily, and then taking another drag of your cigarette, trying to let the sharp taste numb you.
“Sorry,” you muttered, “It’s just… I lost my parents when I was young.” And now I’m going to inflict that same pain on some little girl.
“Shit, m’sorry.”
“It’s fine, continue. You still haven’t answered my question.”
March hesitated another moment but then started speaking again, “So that’s why I won’t tell Holly. I will tell Healy eventually. If I’m getting targeted, chances are he is too. But he always wants to immediately try to solve everything, and I really didn’t feel like investigating right now.” He shrugged, his intense blue eyes staring right into yours. “Just wanted some company.”
Your lips parted at the way he said it. So earnest, so easy. Your mouth was dry, but even if you could speak, there was nothing on your mind except for how pretty he looked bathed in the yellow light of the streetlamp standing nearby.
Slowly, he leaned in closer, and just as his lips brushed yours, you jolted back, standing up to create some distance between the two of you.
March’s eyebrows shot up, and he stumbled up as well. “Shit, fuck. Sorry, I’m sorry! I thought you wanted—”
“I do,” you said quickly. The last thing you wanted right now was for him to feel guilty. “I do, it’s just… it’s wrong. Fuck, March, it’s so wrong.”
“Wrong?” He tilted his head to the side, studying you. After a couple of seconds, his eyes widened, and he paled dramatically. “Oh my god.” He stumbled a couple of steps backward, and your heart momentarily stopped. He knows. “Oh my god.” He slumped over, hands on his knees, shoulders heaving. For a second, you were afraid that he’d throw up again. “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.” He looked back at you. “You’re a minor.”
“What?” you exclaimed. “No, I’m not!”
“You’re not?” March asked hesitantly, and at your frantic head-shaking, he let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank fuck. I thought—” he put a hand on his chest. “Fuckin’ hell, don’t scare me like that. I was about to call Healy on myself.”
“What the fuck is your issue, Holland?”
“I don’t know,” he said feebly. “I’m not good with ages, and you got all mysterious, sayin’ us kissing would be wrong. What was I supposed to think?”
“Anything but that.”
“Yeah, got it.”
You sighed, running a hand through your hair, and then started laughing. Things would be so much easier if he were a pedophile or a pervert, or if he simply hadn’t backed off when you pulled away but instead continued to try to kiss you. Then you could have killed him without issue. But, of course, he needed to be one of the maybe fifty decent men in LA.
March joined in your laughter hesitantly, clearly not quite understanding why you were laughing, but happy nonetheless.
“You’re a good man, March,” you said, throwing away your cigarette and walking over to your bike.
He followed your movements, confusion playing in his eyes. “Thanks, doll. But I told you to call me Holland.”
“I know,” you said, getting on your bike. You had made a decision and now needed to deal with it. “Goodbye, March.”
You drove off, leaving him behind for the second time in one night. Only this time you knew he was alive and well, and you also knew that it would stay that way.
You wouldn’t kill him.
You couldn’t kill him.
Whatever.
────────
Tiger’s office was—like always—filled with a mixture of embarrassing tiger memorabilia and a thick cloud of whatever aftershave he had talked himself into believing made up for his lack of personal hygiene. You had to try your best not to sneeze while waiting for him.
When he finally entered his office, he closed the door behind him just a little too loud, making sure that you heard it.
“So, baby, what brings you to me? I’m assuming the two dicks are done for,” he said, and sat down on the other side of the desk, on what could rightfully be described as a throne—talk about overcompensation.
You had thought a lot about what to say, ever since you made the decision last night not to kill March (and in turn, Healy). You had realized quickly that the best thing to do would be to try to convince Tiger that neither of them actually needed to be killed. Otherwise, even if you could somehow get out of your agreement, Tiger would just send another person after them.
“No, they’re not,” you said, and Tiger’s face fell. “I don’t think they need to be. If you ask me, they’re harmless, a little stupid. They definitely think they’re investigating something, but they’re far off from anything having to do with us.”
“You think so,” Tiger asked slowly.
“Yes.”
“Well,” Tiger took a heavy sip of his glass. The drink had been standing on his desk like that since before you entered his office, and you didn’t want to know how long it had been there. “Too bad I didn’t hire you to think, hm?”
You clenched your jaw, trying to keep still. He’d enjoy any outward signs that you were upset way too much. “You hired me to look into them and decide whether they were a danger. I did. They aren’t.”
Tiger clicked his tongue. “I disagree. Heard from a couple of my guys that they were sniffing ‘round some of my clubs, and the last thing I need right now is trouble. I want ‘em bumped off, now.”
You took a deep breath. “I get it, but—”
“No!” Tiger yelled, slamming his fist on the desk. “You tryin’ to fake me out, huh? Is that it, baby?”
“No, of course not.” It was only now that you realized how he was trembling, his pupils blown. He was tripping—there was no way he could be reasoned with in this state. His shoulders were heaving, and he looked ready to throw his glass. You needed to leave the room as quickly as possible.
There was one more thing you could do, but your stomach turned even at the thought of it.
You got up slowly, keeping your hands where he could see them. You made your way around the desk until you stood next to him. If you knew how to do one thing other than how to kill a man, it was how to make them putty in your hands.
You bit your lip, looking at Tiger with wide doe eyes. “It’s just… the whole killing thing…” you sighed, looking away timidly.
Tiger took hold of your wrist, and you let him pull you closer. “Yeah, baby?” He had calmed down considerably, now seeming very satisfied with himself.
“It’s kind of messin’ with me, y’know? I wanna be better than that,” you whispered and looked back at him, this time with your eyes shiny.
“You wanna be good?” Tiger asked, and from the way he was talking, you already knew what would come next. “You wanna be my good girl?”
Barf. Vomit. Puke. Eww. Eww. Eww!
You giggled a little, twirling a strand of your hair around your finger. “I mean… I don’t know. You’re just so…” Disgusting. Horrible. A miserable excuse for a human being. “Commanding.”
You weren’t sure if it was just because of whatever drug was making its way through his system, or if he was just genuinely so stupid, but he was eating up your every word, practically preening at your worship.
Your eyes very purposefully didn’t stray further down than his chest; you really didn’t need to know how much he liked this.
“Didn’t know you felt this way, baby,” he said in what he probably considered a sexy voice.
You shrugged one shoulder, your hand starting to caress the side of his face. “I was afraid you wouldn’t want me. After all, you could have anyone.”
“That’s true,” he chuckled, and if possible, his gaze darkened slightly, making shivers run down your spine. His hand landed on your ass, patting it a little too firm. You bit down harshly on your tongue, and the metallic taste of blood filled your mouth. “But you’re a special girl, so I’m sure something can be arranged.” He winked at you. “If you really don’t wanna do the killing thing anymore, then I can certainly find another job for you. Maybe something more fitting for such a pretty girl, if you catch my drift.”
You smiled widely. “That would be awesome.”
“Anything for you, baby.” His hand was still on your ass, and it took every morsel of self-control in you not to break his arm right there and then.
Suddenly, a knock came from the door, making Tiger sit up instinctively, his hand leaving you. Your shoulders dropped, and you closed your eyes momentarily.
“Ey, boss?” a voice came from behind the door, which you recognized as Petrol’s. “There’s some heat in the front.”
Tiger groaned, shooting you an almost apologetic look. “Gotta take care of some things, baby. Let me walk you out, and tomorrow we’ll discuss the more intimate parts of your new gig, alright?”
“Sure, whatever you say.” You tried your best to hide the relief evident in your voice.
Tiger got up, slung his arm around your waist in a possessive grasp, and then you two made your way out of his office. Petrol was waiting behind the door, his gaze instantly falling to where Tiger was holding on to you. Great, by the time you return tomorrow, half the city would know about this.
The hallways were too tight for three people to walk next to each other, so Petrol trailed behind you as you made your way to the front part of the building. Tiger’s bar was a shithole to say the least—just like all his establishments—and his clientele wasn’t much better.
It wasn’t a Friday night without some sort of fight, so it wasn’t unusual that the police would show up every now and then. The two officers stood out quite clearly against the usual scumbags hanging around the bar, but you didn’t pay them much more attention. The last thing you needed now was getting mixed up in whatever had gone down tonight. It was only when you heard a glass shatter that you turned back around.
Holland March and Jackson Healy were standing a couple of feet away from you.
Holland March was standing a couple of feet away from you.
Here.
In the bar.
Looking at you.
Looking at Tiger’s arm slung around you.
Glass shards and a puddle of whiskey at his feet, his hand still positioned as if he were holding onto something.
The room was tilting, the floor moving under your feet.
Tiger looked at March and Healy, unimpressed. “I’ll be with you in a sec, gentlemen.” He squeezed your waist, making you wince, and then continued leading you out of the bar.
Outside he said something to you, but truthfully, you didn’t hear a word. You just nodded, and then when he pressed his face closer to you, you only narrowly avoided his lips on yours.
Tiger then left, but you still couldn’t breathe.
Your mind was stuck on the man on the other side of the door.
Fuck.