Warning- None for this part, age reveal of reader, banter.
You were being dragged. Not literally, but given the sheer disparity in your stride lengths and the absolute, terrifying urgency of the man you were chained to, it certainly felt like it.
The London rain had shifted from a miserable mist to a steady, freezing downpour, washing the soot and grit of the city directly into your eyes. You were stumbling through a labyrinth of narrow, garbage-strewn alleys somewhere behind Soho, tethered to a man who moved with the unstoppable, terrifying momentum of a military tank. The high-tech, magnetic chain linking your left wrist to his right hummed and whirred, extending a few feet when you inevitably lagged, then snapping taut and yanking you forward when the slack ran out.
Your entire world had been reduced to the agonizing burning in the balls of your feet, the soaked weight of your trench coat, and the broad, unyielding wall of expensive charcoal wool that was his back.
And you were losing your mind. As an editor, your primary coping mechanism for extreme stress was verbal diarrhea. You processed the world through words, and right now, the silence of this terrifying giant was more unnerving than the man who had held a gun to your head twenty minutes ago.
“So, what is the plan here?” you panted, dodging a puddle that looked suspiciously like an oil slick. “Are we walking to a secondary location? Is there a safe house? Because if we’re just power-walking around the West End until the sun comes up, I’m going to need to sit down. My arches are collapsing.”
The man didn't answer. He didn't even break his stride. His large right hand, the one cuffed to you, swung in a steady, militant rhythm.
“Hello? Are you deaf, or just exceptionally rude?” you snapped, your temper beginning to fray under the strain of exhaustion. “You can’t just abduct a civilian and give them the silent treatment. It’s bad form. It’s a terrible narrative arc. Frankly, if this were a manuscript, I’d reject it on page three for having an uncommunicative, one-dimensional protagonist.”
He took a sharp left turn down another alley, the chain zipping out and yanking your arm so hard your shoulder popped. You let out a very unladylike curse.
“Keep your voice down,” he grunted, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that barely carried over the sound of the rain. “And stop talking.”
“I will not stop talking! I am chained to a psychopath in a bespoke suit who just punched a man's teeth down his throat,” you fired back, hiking up your soaked coat to keep it out of the mud. “And calling you 'Mysterious Moustache Man' in my head is getting exhausting. It’s entirely too many syllables. 'Mys-te-ri-ous Mous-tache Man'. See? Seven syllables. It’s inefficient. What the fuck is your name?”
He stopped so suddenly that the chain retracted violently, slamming you directly into his back. You bounced off the solid wall of muscle and bone, clutching your nose.
He turned around slowly, towering over you in the gloom of the alleyway. The sparse light from a distant streetlamp caught the hard, flat angles of his face. He looked like murder incarnate. The thick chevron moustache over his upper lip, which you had to admit, was objectively magnificent, twitched slightly, the only sign that your constant yapping was grinding away at his iron-clad patience.
“You are a liability!” he said, the words heavy and cold. “You are an accident that got tangled in my operation. If you do not shut your mouth, I will gag you with your own scarf. Do you understand me?”
You glared up at him, wiping rain from your eyes, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You were terrified, yes, but the sheer absurdity of the threat sparked something deeply stubborn inside you.
“It’s a cashmere blend, so I’d really prefer you didn't.” you shot back, refusing to look away from those cold, dead eyes. “And honestly, you shouldn't be so sensitive. I wasn't insulting the moustache. It’s actually very impressive. It gives you a whole 1970s authoritarian, 'I could crush a skull with my bare hands' vibe. It works for you. But I still need a name. If I’m going to die in a damp alleyway, I’d like to know who to haunt.”
He stared at you. For a second, you genuinely thought he might hit you. His massive chest rose and fell with a slow, controlled breath, as if he were actively restraining the urge to throw you into a dumpster.
“Walker.” he finally growled, the single word dripping with absolute disdain. “August Walker.”
“August. Great. See, was that so fucking hard, August?” you huffed, shaking your wet hair out of your face.
Walker just turned and started walking again, his stride even faster this time, forcing you into a clumsy, agonizing jog.
For three more blocks, you tried to keep up. But human anatomy, specifically the anatomy forced into four-inch Christian Louboutin stiletto pumps, has its limits. The pain in your calves had gone from a dull ache to a sharp, stabbing fire, and your toes were completely numb.
With a defiant, frustrated cry, you threw your weight backward and slammed your feet onto the wet pavement, locking your knees.
The magnetic chain hissed out from Walker’s cuff. Three feet. Four feet. Till it hit the limit.
Walker was yanked backward. With his massive momentum, it was like a mastiff reaching the end of a leash. He stumbled half a step, let out a visceral, guttural snarl of pure rage, and whipped around.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Walker roared, stepping toward you, his massive frame closing the distance in a second. He grabbed the chain, his fist hovering inches from your face. “Move!”
“I can't!” you yelled back, pointing a shaking, rain-slicked finger down at your feet. “I physically cannot take another step in these! My feet are bleeding, Walker! I am literally walking on bloody stumps!”
Walker looked down at the sleek, pointed-toe heels. His expression was one of total, unadulterated disgust. “Then take them off and leave them. You don't need shoes to run.”
You gasped, genuinely offended, clutching your chest with your free hand. “Leave them? In a puddle? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“They are shoes!” Walker spat, his voice dropping into that terrifying, lethal register again. “Take them off, or I will break your ankles and drag you the rest of the way.”
“They are not just shoes, you uncultured, muscle-bound brute!” you screamed, your voice echoing off the brick walls. “These are Louboutins! Do you know how much these cost? They are a thousand-pound investment! I saved up for six months to buy these to celebrate my promotion! I am not abandoning them in a Soho gutter just because you’re having a bad day at the spy office!”
Walker looked at you as if you had just spoken to him in an alien dialect. He looked at the shoes, then back at your face, trying to compute the logic of a woman who was handcuffed to a CIA operative, fleeing heavily armed hostiles, and refusing to abandon a piece of footwear.
“You are insane.” he stated flatly.
“I am fiscally responsible!” you countered. With an angry groan, you reached down, fighting the tension of the cuff, and ripped the heels off your feet. You snatched them up by the straps, clutching the expensive leather to your chest like a newborn child.
You stood up, your stockinged feet sinking into a puddle of freezing, murky water. You shivered violently, the cold biting straight through to your bones, but you lifted your chin in defiance. “Fine. Let's go. But if I step on a syringe, I’m suing the CIA, or MI6, or whatever shadow organization pays for your custom-tailored suits.”
Walker let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, his eyes closed for a brief second as he prayed for the strength not to kill you. “Just... walk,” he muttered.
You began to walk, barefoot on the wet, unforgiving asphalt of London. It was miserable. Every pebble felt like a shard of glass, and the cold was seeping up your legs, making your teeth chatter. But you had your shoes.
Ten minutes later, the adrenaline crash hit you like a physical wall. The sheer terror of the gun to your head, the sprint through the rain, and the freezing cold combined into a hollow, gnawing ache in your gut. Your stomach let out a loud, drawn-out rumble that sounded like a dying whale.
Walker didn't even look back. “Keep your bodily functions to yourself.”
“I'm starving!” you announced, shivering violently now. “I need food. I need carbs. I haven't eaten anything since a sad desk salad at one o'clock, it didn’t even had cheese. If my blood sugar drops any lower, I’m going to pass out, and then you will have to drag me.”
Walker ignored you, his sharp eyes scanning the street as you finally emerged from the alleyway onto a slightly wider, dimly lit residential road. Cars were parked bumper-to-bumper along the curb.
“I'm serious, August. I will bite you.” you threatened, hobbling on the pavement.
Walker stopped abruptly beside an older, slightly battered black sedan. He glanced around the empty street, checking the windows of the flats above them. He pulled his right arm, bringing you close to the driver's side door, his eyes locked on the lock mechanism.
“We need a vehicle…” he muttered, reaching into his pocket with his left hand and pulling out a small, metallic device. He shoved it into the keyhole of the car door and forced it. A soft click echoed, and the door swung open.
“You're stealing a car?” you asked, leaning in close, temporarily distracted from your hunger. “That's illegal.”
Walker paused, slowly turning his head to look at you, his face a mask of absolute, withering disbelief. “I just broke a man’s jaw and shot up an alleyway. Do you think I give a shit about grand theft auto?”
“Fair point.” you conceded, clutching your shoes tighter.
Walker threw himself into the driver's seat, dragging you in after him. Because of the handcuffs, you were forced awkwardly into the passenger seat, the center console digging into your hip. Walker immediately reached under the steering column, his large hands working with brutal efficiency to rip the plastic paneling away. Wires tumbled out into his lap.
He looked at the wires, then looked over at you. His eyes were hard and calculating.
“I need both hands to hotwire this quickly, and I need to be ready to return fire if the Syndicate catches up.” Walker said, his voice clipped and serious. He gestured to the steering wheel. “Can you drive?”
You sat back in the passenger seat, your wet hair plastered to your face, your expensive shoes resting on your lap, and your stockinged feet covered in London grime. You looked at the steering wheel, then looked back at the giant, terrifying assassin who currently held your life in his very large, very capable hands.
You lifted your chin, a small, thoroughly inappropriate smile crossing your lips.
“Absolutely not.” you said proudly. “I’ve lived in London my whole life. I use the Tube.”
August froze. The wires slipped from his fingers. He slowly, deliberately turned his head to face you.
The glare he leveled at you wasn't just angry, it was apocalyptic. It was the look of a man who had faced warlords, terrorists, and global catastrophes, only to be utterly defeated by a sarcastic book editor who didn't possess a driver's license. The heavy silence in the stolen sedan stretched out, broken only by the steady drumming of the rain against the windshield and the soft, maddening hum of the magnetic handcuffs linking you together.
The silence inside the stolen sedan was absolute, heavy, and suffocating. Outside, the London rain continued to batter the roof, a relentless, drumming assault that matched the frantic, panicked rhythm of your heart. Inside, however, the air was completely stagnant.
August Walker had not moved a single muscle since you proudly declared your inability to operate a motor vehicle. He was frozen, his massive hands hovering over the exposed, tangled wires of the steering column. The dashboard lights cast a sickly, pale green glow across his face, highlighting the sharp, rigid angles of his jaw and the terrifying blankness in his eyes. He looked like a statue carved from pure, unadulterated rage.
You, on the other hand, were painfully, violently alive.
The adrenaline crash had fully set in, leaving you hollowed out, trembling, and hyper-aware of every miserable sensation in your body. Your trench coat was completely soaked through, clinging to your arms like a freezing second skin. Your bare feet, resting awkwardly on the floor mat, were covered in grit and icy puddle water. But the absolute worst part was your stockings.
The sheer, expensive nylons were torn at the knees, caked in mud, and plastered to your legs in a way that felt deeply, horribly violating. They were cold, they were wet, and they were driving you absolutely insane.
With a frustrated, exhausted sigh, you shifted in the cramped passenger seat. You couldn't take it anymore. The man chained to you might be having a terrifying internal aneurysm, but you were going to be comfortable while he did it.
You reached down with your free right hand, your fingers clumsy with the cold, and dug under the hem of your wet skirt.
His eyes finally snapped over to you, breaking his catatonic stare.
You ignored him. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of the ruined stockings and began to peel them down. It was an incredibly awkward maneuver, given that your left wrist was securely handcuffed to the right wrist of a giant, homicidal CIA operative. The high-tech, magnetic chain hummed softly as you tugged, stretching across the center console. You had to contort your hips, lifting your freezing feet one at a time, wrestling the wet, clinging nylon down your calves and over your ankles.
Finally, with a wet, squelching sound, you pulled the ruined fabric completely off. You held the balled-up, muddy mess of nylon between your fingers, letting out a violent, full-body shudder of pure disgust.
Without a second thought, you leaned over, pushed the passenger side door open a few inches with your shoulder, and aggressively chucked the ruined stockings out into the rainy street. They landed with a pathetic splat in a puddle. You pulled the door shut, wiping your hands on your wet coat, feeling a microscopic fraction of dignity return to you.
When you sat back up, August was staring at you.
He wasn't just looking; he was glaring. It was a look of such profound, withering judgment that it actually made you pause. His dark eyes tracked from the door you had just closed, down to your bare, freezing legs, and finally up to your face. The thick chevron mustache twitched above his upper lip, a subtle indicator of the monumental irritation boiling beneath his stoic exterior.
“What?” you demanded, your voice defensive and sharp. “They were wet and disgusting. I felt like I was wearing a swamp. Sue me for wanting basic bodily comfort while being held hostage!”
August didn’t blink. His chest expanded with a slow, deep breath, stretching the fabric of his damp, tailored suit.
“How old are you?” he asked. His voice was low, flat, and completely devoid of inflection. It wasn't a casual question; it sounded like an interrogation tactic.
You blinked, utterly taken aback. Of all the things you expected him to say, a threat, an insult, a command to get out of the car, this was the absolute last.
“How dare you!” you gasped dramatically, a hand flying to your chest. The sheer audacity of the man cut right through your exhaustion. “You abduct me, you drag me through the mud, you chain me to your wrist like a goddamn dog, and now you have the nerve to ask a woman her age? What is wrong with you? Did they skip basic social etiquette at spy school?”
Walker’s patience, already hanging by a microscopic thread, violently snapped.
With a sudden, aggressive movement that made you flinch, he reached entirely across the center console. You let out a startled yelp, shrinking back against the passenger door, thinking he was finally going to hit you. But his massive hand bypassed your body entirely, his thick fingers grabbing the leather strap of your open tote bag resting by your left hip.
“Hey! Get your hands off that!” you shouted, your protective instincts flaring. “That is private property!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Walker growled, his voice vibrating with lethal authority.
He yanked the bag toward him. Because your left hand was cuffed to his right, the movement yanked the magnetic chain taut, violently jerking your arm across the console and pulling you halfway out of your seat. You hissed in pain as the cuff bit into your skin, but Walker completely ignored your discomfort. He held the bag with his left hand and used his cuffed right hand to ruthlessly dig through your belongings, shoving aside waterlogged manuscripts, a crushed salad container, and a half-empty tube of expensive hand cream.
“Stop it! You pompous prick, give me my bag!” You grabbed his massive forearm with your free hand, digging your nails into his wet suit sleeve, trying to pry him away. It was like trying to wrestle a concrete pillar.
His fingers closed around your small leather wallet. He pulled it out, flipped it open with his thumb, and immediately pulled out your ID card. He dropped your bag onto the floorboard, letting the chain retract slightly so you could sit back, though you were breathing heavily with pure outrage.
He held the small plastic card up to the green glow of the dashboard lights. His eyes scanned the text, narrowing slightly.
“Thirty-five…” August read aloud, his tone flat, dropping the card into his lap. He turned his head slowly to look at you, his expression one of complete, baffled disgust. “You are thirty-five years old.”
“And thriving, thank you very much!” you snapped, crossing your arms, well, crossing one arm and laying the cuffed one awkwardly across your stomach. “What the hell does my age have to do with anything?”
“You are thirty-five years old...” Walker repeated, his voice rising a fraction of a decibel, “and you do not know how to operate a motor vehicle.”
“It's London!” you practically shrieked, throwing your free hand in the air. “The Tube is incredibly efficient! Driving in this city is an absolute environmental and logistical nightmare, the traffic is medieval, and parking costs more than my monthly rent! Why the fuck would I own a car? I take the Jubilee line like a normal, civilized human being!”
“Civilized?” Walker scoffed, a dark, ugly sound. “You are thirty-five, completely helpless, and a massive liability. If you could drive, I could hotwire this ignition in sixty seconds while you prepped the vehicle. Now, I have to do both, one-handed, while watching for the heavily armed hostiles who are currently hunting us.”
“Well, I am so sorry my lack of driving skills is inconveniencing your highly illegal international shootout!” you fired back, your temper completely exploding. “Maybe if you hadn't let some twitchy lunatic handcuff us together, you wouldn't be in this situation! You’re supposed to be this giant, badass agent, and you got outplayed by a guy in a dirty tracksuit!”
Walker’s jaw clenched so hard you heard his teeth grind. “I will literally break your neck and leave you in this seat.”
“Do it! I dare you!” you yelled, completely losing your mind to the stress. “At least I wouldn't be hungry anymore!”
You violently turned around in your seat, turning your back to him to face the passenger window. As you did, you aggressively yanked your left arm, pulling his cuffed right hand hard against the center console.
“Ow! Dammit!” you muttered as the cuff pinched, but you refused to turn back around. “You are incredibly rude, you are totally unhinged, and I am done with this! Take me home. Right now. I want to go to my flat, I want to take a hot shower, and I want to forget I ever met your stupid, moustachioed face.”
The silence returned to the car, thick and volatile. You stared out the rain-streaked window, your chest heaving, waiting for him to retaliate, to hit you, to yell.
Instead, there was just the sound of a heavy, exhausted exhale.
“I can't take you home!” Walker said, his voice stripped of its anger, leaving only a cold, blunt reality. “The men I am hunting saw you. They saw my face, they saw yours. By now, they’ve run your biometrics from street cameras. If you go back to your flat, you will be dead before morning.”
Your breath hitched. The anger evaporated, replaced by a sudden, freezing spike of pure terror. You slowly turned your head to look over your shoulder at him.
Walker wasn't glaring anymore. He was just looking at you, his face a grim mask of absolute certainty. He reached down, grabbed your wallet, and tossed it into your lap.
“We are abandoning the vehicle,” Walker stated, his tone shifting back to tactical efficiency. “Without two hands, it takes too long. We are exposed here. We need to move to a secure location where I can sever this chain.”
“Move where?” your voice was small, the fight completely drained out of you. “I can't walk anymore, August. I really can't. And I'm so hungry my hands are shaking. If I don't eat something, I am going to faint. And then you are going to have one hundred and forty pounds of dead weight attached to your wrist.”
Walker stared at you for a long, calculating moment. He looked at your shaking hands, your pale face, and the desperate, exhausted set of your jaw. He let out a low grunt that sounded remarkably like a curse.
“Fine,” he snapped, shoving the car door open. “Get out.”
Fifteen minutes later, the chaotic, terrifying reality of your life had been reduced to the greasy confines of a dimly lit, profoundly depressing pub on the edge of Soho. The establishment smelled strongly of stale ale, bleach, and decades of bad decisions. The few patrons scattered in the booths looked like they wouldn't blink if a murder happened on the sticky wooden floor, which made it the perfect place to hide.
You were sitting in a dark corner booth, shoved tight against the wall. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you were quiet.
You had a massive, greasy double cheeseburger in your right hand, and you were eating it with a feral, unapologetic intensity. Grease dripped down your chin, and you didn't care. The hot, salty rush of calories was hitting your system like a drug, pulling you back from the edge of passing out.
Across the small, sticky table sat August Walker.
He was not eating. He was not drinking. He was sitting completely rigid, his massive shoulders taking up the entire width of the booth, his eyes sweeping the pub with predatory, unblinking focus. His left hand rested flat on the table, near the heavy lump in his jacket where you knew his gun was hidden. His right hand was extended across the table, tethered to your left wrist by the shimmering, high-tech magnetic chain.
You took another massive bite of the burger, moaning softly at the taste of the sharp cheddar and charred beef. You reached out with your right hand, grabbed a handful of soggy, oil-soaked chips, and shoved them into your mouth.
Walker’s eyes snapped from the front door to you. He watched you eat, his expression a mixture of profound disgust and reluctant acceptance.
“Are you finished inhaling that?” Walker asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble across the table.
You chewed methodically, swallowing the massive bite before looking at him. The food had worked a miracle. Your blood sugar had stabilized, the shaking had stopped, and your usual, sassy demeanor was slowly filtering back in. Now that you weren't actively fearing for your immediate life in an alleyway, you were feeling incredibly cooperative. Well, just a little.
“Not quite,” you said, licking a smear of ketchup off your thumb. “It’s actually fucking fantastic. You really should have ordered one. It might help with your deeply ingrained hostility issues.”
August narrowed his eyes, the heavy moustache lowering as his jaw set. “My hostility issues are currently keeping you breathing, darling.”
“Fair point.” you conceded, taking a sip from a pint of lukewarm water the heavily tattooed bartender had slammed down earlier. You tapped the metallic cuff on your left wrist with your index finger. It made a sharp clink against the wood. “So, what's the play, Walker? I'm fed, I'm resting my bare, battered feet, and I have accepted that I am temporarily a fugitive from justice. You said we needed a secure location to cut this thing off. Does this pub have a secret underground spy lair, or are we just waiting for someone to come shoot us?”
August leaned forward slightly, the chain slacking between you. His dark eyes locked onto yours, completely devoid of any humor.
“We are waiting for my extraction team to verify a clean route...” he said softly, the gravel in his voice scraping against the ambient noise of the pub. “And once they do, you are going to stand up, you are going to keep your mouth shut, and you are going to follow my exact orders. If you don't, I won't just leave you behind. I will make sure you can't be followed.”
You stopped chewing. The threat was explicit, and entirely serious. You looked at the hulking, dangerous man you were chained to, realizing that the burger hadn't changed the reality of the situation.
You swallowed hard, placing the remaining half of your burger down on the paper wrapper. You wiped your mouth with a cheap napkin, your eyes holding his unwavering stare.
“Understood,” you said quietly. “Just... tell me when to move.”
August gave a single, curt nod, leaning back into the shadows of the booth, his eyes returning to the pub's entrance. The chain between you hummed softly, a constant, binding reminder that your night was far from over.
Warning- Soft dark Bucky and Steve, manipulate, spiking drink, planning and kidnapping maybe?, possesiveness, jealousy, 6.6k words.
You tug at the hem of the black dress Natasha had lent you, feeling a little out of your comfort zone but enjoying the way it hugs your curves. Even Thor, your ever-blunt best friend, had taken a moment to whistle in appreciation when he saw you. “Damn, Sweets, if I wasn't already taken...” he'd teased with a wink, earning a playful slap from Wanda.
You laughed, shaking your head, “Thank you, but come on lets go, Natasha is waiting for us!!!”
Now, inside the nightclub, you were mesmerized. The music was pulsing through the air, vibrating under your skin, and the flashing lights created an electric energy that makes it impossible not to get caught up in the atmosphere. Wanda and Thor were already pulling you towards the bar, but your gaze lingers, scanning the crowd.
That’s when you see them.
Two men, both wearing baseball caps, an odd choice in a place like this. One has short blond hair, his face sharp yet friendly even under the dim lighting. But it’s the other one who catches your attention. Dark brown hair falls slightly into his eyes, piercing blue beneath the brim of his cap. He’s leaning against the bar, his expression unreadable, yet there’s something about him... something dark, something intriguing.
You quickly look away when Thor hands you a shot, grinning widely. “To a great night!” he declares. You, Wanda, and Thor clink glasses and down the shots, the burn spreading warmth through your veins. Laughter bubbles out of you, as Natasha joins and drags you to the dance floor, and soon you're lost in the music, swaying and spinning with the beat.
Little do you know, the two guys in the caps were watching you.
The blond one, Steve, nudges his friend with a knowing smirk. “See something you like?”
Bucky’s lips curl at the corner, his eyes never leaving you as you move effortlessly to the music. The lights catch on your skin, your smile lighting up your face in a way that sends a spark through him.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice low and dark. “I do.”
The music pulses through your body, and you let yourself get lost in it, swaying and twirling under the flashing lights. Laughter spills from Wanda and Natasha as they dance beside you, their energy infectious.
But despite the music and the crowd, your thoughts drift back to those two guys.
Curiosity gets the better of you, and you glance back toward where you first saw them, only to find the spot empty.
Your brows furrow slightly. You could’ve sworn they were there...
Before you can finish the thought, some movement catches your eye. They're closer now. Much closer.
The dark-haired one with those piercing blue eyes stands near the edge of the dance floor, his gaze locked onto you like he’s been watching your every move. The blond one leans in to say something to him, but Bucky doesn’t react, his focus entirely on you.
You swallow hard, a strange mix of excitement and nerves fluttering in your chest.
And then it happens, gradually at first. The more you move, the closer they seem to get. Each beat of the music shortens the distance until, before you realize it, there’s a presence behind you.
A warmth at your back.
Your heart stumbles in your chest as you turn, and suddenly, he’s there. The dark-haired stranger stands close, almost too close. The sharp angles of his jawline, the way his eyes pierce right through you, leave you momentarily speechless. Up close, he’s even more devastatingly handsome, and your brain screams at you to keep it together.
He offers you a small, almost sly smile and reaches out, taking your hand in his. His grip is firm but gentle, sending an unexpected thrill down your spine.
“I'm Bucky.” he says, his voice deep and smooth, laced with something that makes your breath hitch.
You blink, trying to ground yourself, “Y/n…” you manage, feeling warmth rise to your cheeks as you force yourself to meet his intense gaze.
The moment lingers, and with a shy smile, you turn back to Wanda and Natasha, hoping to gather your scattered thoughts. They’re both watching with matching grins, their expressions practically screaming “we saw that.” Your cheeks heat further, and you shake your head, laughing nervously.
It isn’t until you try to raise both hands to gesture at them that you realize something.
Bucky was still holding your hand.
Your eyes flick down in surprise, and when you look back up, there’s an unmistakable glint of amusement in his gaze. He gives your hand a light squeeze, as if testing whether you'll pull away.
You don’t.
Bucky tugs lightly at your hand, a silent invitation to follow him. Just as your feet begin to move, a familiar voice cuts through the music.
“Whoa, whoa, where do you think you're going?”
You turn to find Thor standing there, arms crossed and an amused yet protective look on his face. His gaze flickers to Bucky, sizing him up with that big-brother energy you’ve grown used to.
“Just to the bar.” Bucky says smoothly, but there's an edge to it, like he's not used to being questioned.
You introduce Bucky and Thor to each other.
Thor’s eyes narrow slightly, looking at Bucky, before turning to you. “Stay where I can see you, yeah?” His voice is light, but you know he’s serious.
You roll your eyes with a playful smile. “Yes, Dad!”
Satisfied, Thor gives Bucky one last look before heading back to Wanda and Natasha, who are too busy dancing and whispering to each other to notice much.
You finally let Bucky lead you through the crowd, feeling the warmth of his grip as he weaves effortlessly through the pulsing bodies. The bar is busy, but he navigates it like he’s been here a hundred times before.
“This is Steve…” Bucky says, nodding toward the blond guy in the cap you noticed earlier.
Steve offers a friendly smile, his blue eyes warm. “Nice to meet you.” he says, tipping his drink slightly in greeting.
“You too…” you reply, offering a small smile.
Bucky leans in a little closer, his voice low against your ear. “What’ll you have?”
You wave him off, feeling a little awkward under his gaze. “Oh, I’m good.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with your answer. “C’mon, something.”
You glance around nervously, then mumble, “Uh… orange juice?”
The moment the words leave your mouth, you regret it. Your brain practically screams at you, “Who on earth orders orange juice in a nightclub?”
Steve stifles a laugh behind his drink, and Bucky just smirks, his eyes glinting with something you can’t quite place. “Orange juice, huh?” he muses, signaling the bartender. “Classy.”
You groan, covering your face for a second, “I panicked, okay?”
Bucky chuckles, leaning a little closer, “Don’t worry, doll. I like classy.”
Your heart does an embarrassing little flip at the nickname, and before you can come up with a response, he hands you the drink. The way his fingers brush yours sends a spark of warmth up your arm.
Before you can sip, Bucky’s hand returns to yours, leading you further away from the crowded bar area. You find yourself in a quieter corner of the club, where some people are lounging, some are smoking, and the music feels a little more distant.
Your nerves kick in again, but Bucky’s presence is oddly steadying. His gaze never leaves you, like he’s figuring you out piece by piece.
“So,” he says, leaning against the wall, “what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
You take a tiny sip of your orange juice, trying not to cringe. “Apparently... making excellent drink choices.”
Bucky laughs, and you realize then how soft his smile can be despite the dark edge lingering beneath it.
You glance around the dimly lit corner of the club, your fingers tracing the cold glass of your orange juice. The air here feels heavier, laced with smoke and whispers of conversations that don’t quite reach you. Bucky stands close, his eyes never leaving your face as if he’s studying every flicker of emotion.
“Do you smoke?” he asks suddenly, his voice low and rough, cutting through the haze around you.
You shake your head, offering him a small smile. “No, not really my thing.”
He nods, then tilts his head. “Mind if I do?”
You glance at him, the way he stands with such quiet confidence, and shrug. “I don’t mind.”
With a smirk, he pulls out a cigarette and lights it with practiced ease, taking a slow drag before exhaling the smoke in a way that somehow makes your heart stumble. The glow of the cigarette highlights the sharpness of his features, casting shadows across his jaw.
You find yourself mesmerized…again.
And then, in that same soft, dangerous voice, he says it.
“You’re my girl now,” he murmurs, his eyes cutting through the smoke to meet yours. “If anyone comes near you... I’ll fucking kill them!”
Your breath catches, and for a split second, your mind flashes to your ex. He never said anything like that to you. Not once. Your brain screams at you to stop thinking about him, to stay in the present, but it’s too late. The comparison lingers.
You shake it off, letting out a soft laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “Is that so?” you tease, tilting your head. “Then prove it.”
Bucky’s lips curve in a way that makes something tighten in your chest. Without another word, he takes your hand, still warm from before and leads you back toward the bar. The music grows louder again, pulsing around you like a heartbeat, and just as you start to feel the weight of his words settle in, Thor intercepts you.
“Alright, sweets” Thor grins, grabbing your hand before Bucky can react. “Time to dance.”
You throw a quick glance over your shoulder at Bucky, but Thor’s already twirling you into the crowd. Wanda and Natasha cheer, and soon you're moving with them, laughing and letting the music wash over you.
But it doesn’t last long.
Before you know it, a familiar grip wraps around your wrist, not gentle this time. Firm, almost painfully tight. Bucky. He doesn’t say anything as he pulls you away, but the intensity in his hold is enough to make your heart race for a different reason. He’s not asking. He’s taking.
You barely manage to throw Wanda a glance before you’re dragged through the crowd again, your feet struggling to keep up with his pace. The air between you thickens, and it finally hits you. You’re not just his girl now.
Bucky Barnes is possessive about his girl.
Your skin tingles under his touch, and for the first time tonight, a little voice in the back of your mind wonders just how deep that possessiveness runs.
You don’t notice the way Steve watches from the sidelines, a slow smirk tugging at his lips, as if he knows exactly what’s going on inside Bucky’s head. As if he’s seen it all before.
Bucky’s grip on your hand loosens as he finally stops, and when you look up at him, expecting to see the same intense expression from moments ago, you’re met with something entirely different.
A soft smile.
It’s disarming, almost as if the possessiveness he showed just seconds ago never happened. His blue eyes are calm now, gentle even, and it throws you off balance. You’re not sure how to react. Should you call him out? Ask what that was about? Or just... let it go?
Your heart is still racing from how easily he dragged you away, but before you can decide what to say, Steve steps closer, and Bucky turns his attention to him. Their conversation is low, their words blending into the pulsing music, and for a moment, you’re left standing there, trying to process everything.
Meanwhile, back at the dancefloor, Thor is anything but calm.
“I don’t like it,” he says, eyes narrowing as he watches you with Bucky from across the room. “I don’t trust his intentions.”
Natasha, ever the observant one, nods in agreement. “Did you see how he pulled her away? That wasn’t... normal.”
Wanda, though quieter, presses her lips together in concern. “Y/n didn’t seem to mind too much, though.”
Thor lets out a frustrated sigh. “That’s the problem. Guys like him? They have a way of making it feel like it’s okay... until it’s not.”
Natasha’s eyes darken slightly, and she exchanges a knowing glance with Wanda. “We need to step in before this goes any further.”
Wanda nods. “I have an idea.”
Before long, Natasha and Wanda are weaving through the crowd toward you. You’re still standing with Bucky and Steve when they reach you, their smiles bright but calculated.
“We’re just gonna steal her for a sec!” Natasha says smoothly, looping an arm around yours before Bucky can protest.
Bucky’s jaw twitches slightly, but he nods, letting them take you. “Don’t take too long.”
You let them pull you away toward the restrooms, barely registering the way Bucky’s gaze lingers on you as you disappear into the crowd.
Inside, Natasha closes the door behind you, and Wanda immediately turns to you, her eyes full of concern. “Alright, spill. Are you okay?”
You blink, caught off guard. “Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Sweetheart, he dragged you off the dancefloor!”
You let out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. “Okay, yeah, that was... intense. But he’s…I don’t know, it’s weird. He’s intense but then... soft?” You groan, pacing a little. “And I’m not even drunk, so I can’t blame it on that, but part of me just... wants to be around him.”
Wanda’s eyes soften. “You sure it’s not just the mystery?”
You sigh, leaning against the counter. “Maybe? I don’t know. But I’m fine. Really.”
Natasha exchanges a look with Wanda, not entirely convinced. “Just... be careful, alright?”
Meanwhile, outside the restroom, Steve watches as Bucky takes another slow drag of his cigarette, his eyes fixed on the door you disappeared through.
Steve sighs. “Buck, you gotta calm down.”
Bucky doesn’t answer immediately. He exhales smoke slowly, his eyes still on the door. “She’s mine.”
Steve shakes his head, crossing his arms. “You barely know her.”
Bucky finally looks at him, and for a brief moment, there’s something dark in his expression. “I know enough.”
Steve watches Bucky carefully, noting the way his jaw tenses as he stares at the restroom door. The silence between them stretches until Steve finally breaks it.
“What’s going on in that head of yours, Buck?” he asks, his voice low but firm. “What’s the plan here?”
Bucky flicks the ashes from his cigarette, his lips pressing into a thin line. “She’s mine.” he says simply, as if that alone explains everything.
Steve raises an eyebrow. “And?”
Bucky’s eyes remain fixed on the restroom door, his expression unreadable. “I’m not gonna rush it. She’ll come to me.”
Steve lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “And if she doesn’t?”
A smirk tugs at the corner of Bucky’s lips. “She will.” His voice is full of quiet certainty. “We wait. We watch.”
Before Steve can respond, the restroom door swings open, and you step out with Wanda and Natasha. You look more composed now, but your eyes instinctively search for Bucky. When you find him leaning against the wall, his gaze unreadable, something inside you twists unexpectedly.
Before you can take a step in his direction, Thor is suddenly at your side. “C’mon, sweets…” he says, slinging an arm around your shoulder and leading you straight back to the dance floor. His grip is firm but not overbearing, a silent reminder that he’s keeping you close. Wanda and Natasha follow, shooting Bucky a subtle glance.
Bucky watches, his expression darkening as Thor keeps you firmly within the group, away from him. His fingers tighten around his cigarette before he flicks it to the ground and grinds it under his boot. He doesn’t take his eyes off you, but he makes no move to come closer. Instead, he leans back against the wall, arms crossed, his attention shifting to Steve.
“What’s the plan now?” Steve asks, watching Bucky carefully.
Bucky’s lips curl into a slow, almost dangerous smirk. “Wait and watch.”
Steve nods knowingly. “You’re playing the long game, huh?”
Bucky’s eyes follow you as you laugh at something Thor says, but there’s a flicker of something in your expression, something almost hesitant. “She’ll come to me,” Bucky murmurs, as if it’s inevitable. “She’ll start missing me soon enough.”
And maybe he’s right. Because as you dance with your friends, trying to enjoy yourself, you can’t help but steal glances in his direction. Every time you do, he’s already looking away, ignoring you as if you don’t exist.
And for some reason, that stings.
You know you shouldn’t feel this way. Thor and the others are just looking out for you, making sure you’re safe. But there’s something about Bucky’s sudden coldness that unsettles you. You can’t explain it, but a small part of you feels... bad.
Kindness.
It’s one of your biggest weaknesses. Your friends adore that about you, but they also know it makes you vulnerable. People can take advantage of it.
And as much as you try to shake it off, that little voice in your head wonders if Bucky is counting on that very thing.
You sway half-heartedly to the music, but your mind isn't on the beat or the flashing lights. Your eyes keep drifting to where Bucky and Steve are standing, and every time you see Bucky deliberately looking away, something inside you twists.
Natasha nudges you gently. “Sweets, stop.”
You blink, pulling your gaze away. “Stop what?”
“Being you!” Wanda chimes in with a teasing yet serious look. “You’re too kind. You always feel bad when you shouldn’t.”
Natasha nods in agreement, crossing her arms. “Kindness is great, but not when it keeps you up at night worrying about people who don’t deserve it.”
You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I can’t just switch it off, Nat.”
Natasha rolls her eyes but smiles knowingly. “Yeah, yeah, we know. Doesn’t mean we won’t try.”
They both mean well, and you know they’re right. But it’s easier said than done. Your kindness is part of who you are, for better or worse. And right now, it’s gnawing at you, making it impossible to focus on anything else.
Meanwhile, across the club, Steve watches you carefully before turning to Bucky. “She’s getting restless,” he says, sipping his drink. “You counting on that?”
Bucky smirks, tapping his fingers against the table. “Of course, I am.”
Steve exhales slowly, leaning in slightly. “Why her, Buck? There’s plenty of girls here tonight. Hell, there have been plenty of girls before her. What makes this one different?”
Bucky's smirk deepens, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. “She’s not like them,” he says simply. “She’s got... a softness. But not weak. She’s got fight in her too.” He pauses, his gaze locking onto you from across the room for the briefest moment before he looks away again. “And she doesn’t even realize it.”
Steve shakes his head with a knowing chuckle. “You’re obsessed.”
Bucky’s smirk fades slightly, replaced by something more dangerous. “I don’t do half-measures, Steve.”
Steve leans back, watching Bucky with careful eyes. “Yeah... I know.”
Back on the dancefloor, Thor notices the way you keep sneaking glances in Bucky’s direction, the way your shoulders sag with indecision. With a heavy sigh, he leans down, his voice gentle but firm.
“Alright, doll,” he says, using the nickname Bucky had claimed as his own. “Go.”
You blink up at him in surprise. “What?”
Thor gives you a knowing look. “Go back to him. But stay where I can see you.”
A wave of relief washes over you, and you can’t help but smile. “Thanks, Thor.”
He ruffles your hair playfully. “Just don’t make me regret it, yeah?”
With a nod, you turn and make your way back toward Bucky and Steve, your heart pounding with anticipation. You don’t notice the way Bucky’s lips twitch as he watches you approach, like he knew this moment was inevitable.
Steve watches you approach with a knowing smile, nudging Bucky slightly with his elbow. “Told you…” he mutters, amusement dancing in his voice.
Bucky doesn’t respond. Instead, he leans against the bar, his expression unreadable as you finally reach him.
You stand there for a moment, waiting for him to say something, anything. But he doesn’t. He doesn't even look at you.
“Hey…” you say softly, but he doesn’t react.
You clear your throat and try again, a little louder this time. “Bucky?”
Still nothing.
Frustration bubbles up inside you, but you push it down, giving it one last shot. “Are you seriously going to ignore me all night?”
Silence.
Something sharp twists in your chest, and with a sigh, you take a step back. “Fine,” you say, your voice steady despite the sting of disappointment. “If you don’t want me here, I’ll go. I’ll leave you alone, just like you want.”
Before you can turn away, his hand shoots out, wrapping around your wrist. The grip is firm but not rough but possessive, in a way that sends a shiver down your spine.
“I don’t like being ignored.” he says, his voice low and dark, his blue eyes locking onto yours.
Your breath catches in your throat. “I wasn’t ignoring you…” you murmur, suddenly feeling the heat of his touch.
His lips twitch into something that’s almost a smirk. “Apologize.”
You blink up at him, your heart racing. “I…what?”
“Apologize,” he repeats, his thumb brushing lightly against your wrist.
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. “Fine. Sorry, Bucky.”
Satisfied, he tugs you closer and starts leading you toward the dancefloor. You don’t resist, letting him pull you into the crowd. The music pulses around you, and before you can fully register what’s happening, his hands find your waist, drawing you flush against him.
There’s no space. None. His body is pressed firmly against yours, and your heart pounds wildly in your chest. The heat between you both is undeniable, and your mind is racing, screaming at you to think straight, but it’s impossible with him this close.
“Relax…” Bucky murmurs near your ear, his breath warm against your skin.
You try, but it’s impossible. His hands grip your hips, guiding you in sync with his movements, slow and deliberate. Your skin tingles under his touch, and every time your body brushes against his, your pulse spikes.
After a few moments, he leans down, his lips ghosting over your ear. “I wanna do something for you.”
You swallow hard, shaking your head slightly. “Bucky, there’s no need for that.”
He grins, and the playful banter begins. “I didn’t ask if there was a need.”
“Seriously, it’s fine.”
“Let me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
And then, without warning, he silences you the only way he knows how.
His lips crash against yours, stealing your breath and every coherent thought in your head. The kiss is firm, confident, and leaves no room for argument. Your hands instinctively find his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
When he finally pulls away, his blue eyes flicker with mischief, and he winks at you. “Told you I’d do something for you.”
You’re left standing there, breathless and stunned, as the music pulses around you, but all you can focus on is him…just him.
Bucky leads you through the crowd, weaving past dancing bodies and flashing lights until you reach a secluded corner of the club. The music is quieter here, the atmosphere darker, more intimate. You stand close, the space between you charged with something you can't quite name.
For a while, neither of you say anything. You shift awkwardly under his intense gaze, biting your lip as you wait for him to speak first. Eventually, he does.
“I like you.”
The words are so simple, so unexpected, that they make you laugh. “Really?” you tease, arching an eyebrow. “Just like that?”
Instead of answering, Bucky takes a step back and, to your horror, cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “I like her!”
Heads turn, eyes land on you both, and you feel heat rush to your cheeks as you frantically reach for him. “Bucky! Shut up!” You hiss, tugging at his arm.
He grins, utterly unapologetic, and takes it a step further. “I REALLY LIKE HER!!!!”
You slap a hand over his mouth, eyes wide in mortification. “Okay! Okay, I believe you! Just be quiet, you goof.”
Bucky chuckles against your palm, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Slowly, you lower your hand, and before you can say another word, he kisses you again.
This time, it's slower, deeper, less about teasing and more about something real. Your hands instinctively find their way to his chest, your palm resting over his heart. You can feel the steady, strong rhythm beneath your touch, and it does something to you. A soft sigh escapes you, and Bucky’s lips curve into a smile against yours.
When he finally pulls back, he presses his forehead against yours. “Come with me…” he murmurs, his fingers brushing against your waist.
Your heart skips a beat, but reality crashes in just as quickly. “I can’t…” you whisper, shaking your head. “I came here with my friends. Thor won’t let me just disappear.”
Bucky’s jaw tightens, and for a split second, there’s something dangerous flickering behind his eyes. “I don’t take no for an answer, doll.”
Before you can protest, his lips are on yours again, stealing your breath, your words, your logic. You feel his arm tighten around your waist, holding you close, keeping you in his orbit.
What you don’t see is the way he locks eyes with Steve over your shoulder. There’s a silent exchange, a plan forming without words. Steve nods subtly, a smirk tugging at his lips as if he knows exactly what Bucky is thinking.
You’re too lost in the kiss to notice.
You try to pull away, your hands pressing lightly against Bucky’s chest, but he doesn’t let you go. Instead, he tilts his head, a playful yet dangerous glint in his blue eyes. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you?” he says, his voice low and laced with something that makes your stomach twist.
Your eyes widen in surprise. “What? No, of course not!”
Bucky hums, unconvinced, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your waist. “Then why won’t you come with me? You think I can’t take care of you?”
The guilt hits you like a truck, and you immediately shake your head, your voice softer now. “Bucky, that’s not it at all. It’s just… my friends. Thor won’t let me go that easily, and I don’t want to worry them.”
Bucky stares at you for a beat, then his lips curl into a smile, his hands sliding up to cup your face. He leans in, his forehead resting against yours, and makes a face, his eyes wide, mouth open like he’s about to devour you whole.
You burst into laughter, swatting at his chest. “Stop that, you’re ridiculous!”
He grins, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. “But you love it,” he teases.
Your laughter fades into a soft smile, and for a moment, you forget everything else. But what you don’t see is the way Bucky’s eyes flick over your shoulder, locking onto Steve.
Behind your back, Steve nods, the plan silently set into motion.
And just like that, you’re already one step closer to exactly where Bucky wants you.
Just as you’re starting to relax in Bucky’s hold, a familiar voice cuts through the moment.
“There you are!” Wanda’s voice is laced with amusement and just a hint of suspicion. She strides over, her eyes flickering between you and Bucky with a knowing smirk. “Come on, we’re not letting you disappear just yet.”
You sigh, reluctantly stepping back, but Bucky doesn’t let you go so easily. His hand stays wrapped around your wrist, and he tilts his head at you with a playful pout. “You really think I’m stupid, don’t you?”
You blink in confusion. “What?”
He leans in, voice dripping with faux hurt. “That’s why you’re not coming with me. You think I’m some idiot who can’t handle Thor.”
Wanda laughs, crossing her arms. “It’s not about you, Barnes. Thor’s just… let’s say, protective about his friends.” She glances at you. “Right, dear?”
You nod quickly, grateful for Wanda’s backup. “Exactly. I don’t want to cause drama.”
Bucky smirks, but there’s something sharp beneath it, something calculating. “Drama? Doll, I’m all about drama.”
You roll your eyes, about to respond when Wanda grabs your hand. “Come on, let’s go.”
Just as you turn to leave, something shifts in the air. Steve, who had been lingering nearby, subtly moves into position, blocking Thor and Natasha’s view of you both. The timing is perfect.
Bucky doesn’t let go of your wrist. Instead, he pulls you back suddenly, spinning you right into him. “Not so fast…” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.
Your heart stutters in your chest, but before you can process what’s happening, Steve casually bumps into Wanda with a distracted, “Sorry, miss.” causing her to stumble and momentarily break her grip on your hand.
In that split second of distraction, Bucky tugs you further into the crowd, his grip firm but playful, as if daring you to resist.
“Bucky…” you start, but his grin is all you get in response.
Steve watches from a distance, arms crossed and an amused look on his face. The plan was working.
And deep down, despite the warnings ringing in your head, you don’t really want to stop him.
“Bucky, what are you doing?” you whisper, breathless as he pulls you deeper into the crowd. The flashing lights dance across his face, highlighting the mischief in his blue eyes.
Instead of answering, he leans in and kisses you. Soft at first, teasing, before deepening it with a possessive edge that makes your knees weak. Your hands instinctively grip his shoulders to steady yourself, but your mind is screaming at you to get back to Wanda and Thor.
When he finally pulls away, his lips brush against yours as he murmurs, “Still wanna leave?”
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to regain control. “I have to go…” you insist, your voice lacking the conviction you wish it had. “Wanda and Thor are looking for me.”
Bucky’s grip tightens just slightly, his fingers tracing over your wrist. “Stay.” he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
You shake your head, trying to find your footing in this whirlwind. “Bucky, I can’t just…”
He tilts his head, watching you closely, and then with that signature smirk, he says, “Just for a little while. We’ll stay in the club, I promise.”
Your resolve wavers, the intensity in his gaze making it impossible to think straight. After a moment, you sigh in defeat. “Fine. Only in the club.”
Bucky’s lips twitch in victory. “Good girl.”
But what you don’t realize is that Bucky’s promise means nothing, not when he’s already made up his mind. While you’re distracted, his eyes flick over your shoulder to where Steve stands near the bar. A single nod passes between them, silent and calculated.
You may think you’re staying, but Bucky has other plans.
Just as you begin to relax in Bucky’s presence, the music pounding in your chest like a second heartbeat, a familiar voice cuts through the haze.
“There you are,” Thor’s deep voice rumbles from behind you. His expression is firm but not unkind as he reaches for your arm. “It’s time to go home, Sweets.”
You glance up at Bucky, feeling the tension in the air shift. For a second, you consider arguing, just a little, but something about the way Thor is looking at you makes you nod instead. “Alright, you say softly.
Bucky’s jaw tenses, but he doesn’t stop you. Not yet.
Just as you turn to follow Thor, Bucky appears at your side, holding out two glasses. “One for the road?” he offers, his voice smooth, his smile disarming. He hands one glass to Thor and one to you.
Thor eyes Bucky suspiciously before taking a sip. You hesitate for a moment, but under Bucky’s expectant gaze, you take a small sip too.
Before you know it, Bucky has his hand on your lower back, steering you gently away from the dancefloor. “C’mon, just for a second,” he says, his voice low and persuasive. “One last moment before you run off.”
You follow him, oblivious to the subtle exchange of glances between him and Steve.
The club lights flash around you, and you’re too caught up in the conversation to notice Thor’s steps faltering behind you. Steve quietly steps in, keeping Thor distracted just long enough for Bucky to guide you further away.
It isn’t until you reach the quieter edge of the club, near the exit, that you realize something is off.
“Bucky,” you say, blinking as you look around. “Where are we going?”
Bucky smirks, his hand firm around yours. “Told you, doll. I don’t take no for an answer.”
Panic rises in your chest, and you yank your hand away, taking a step back. “I have to go back to my friends.”
Bucky doesn’t let you get far. He grabs your wrist again, his grip just tight enough to make your heart race for an entirely different reason. “Apologize,” he says, his voice lower now, laced with something darker. “For trying to leave me.”
Your pulse hammers in your ears, and suddenly, the warmth in his eyes seems a little more dangerous. “Bucky…” you whisper, trying to pull free, but he refuses to let go.
Behind you, Steve stands with his arms crossed, his smirk never fading. He knows exactly how this will play out.
Your heart pounds as you take a step back from Bucky, trying to create some distance, but you don't get far. Your back collides with something solid, someone solid.
Steve.
His arms snake around your waist, holding you firmly against him. You freeze as he rests his chin lightly on top of your head, his breath fanning over your hair. The casual intimacy of the gesture makes your stomach twist, and you can feel the smug satisfaction radiating off him.
Bucky watches the scene unfold with a lazy smile, his eyes dark with amusement. “Relax, doll,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “I already told you, you’re my girl now.”
You shake your head, your voice shaky but firm. “Bucky, you promised. You said we’d stay in the club.”
Bucky’s grin widens, his fingers reaching out to brush against your cheek. “Yeah, well... there’s been a slight change in the promise.”
You stiffen, your mind racing. Steve's arms tighten subtly, his hold secure but not forceful. Yet.
It’s clear he’s enjoying this, the way his body presses against yours, his voice a low murmur in your ear. “You’re way too tense,” he says with a chuckle. “Loosen up, doll.”
You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “Thor will come looking for me...”
Bucky’s expression softens into something almost pitying. “Thor?” He tilts his head. “Sweetheart, he won’t be coming for you.”
Your brows furrow. “What do you mean?”
Steve chuckles from behind you, his grip tightening just slightly as if to keep you in place. “Let’s just say... he’s taking a nap.”
Your stomach drops. “What did you do?”
Bucky waves a dismissive hand. “Nothing too bad, doll. He’s fine. Just a little... distracted.” His smirk deepens. “That means it’s just us now.”
Your pulse races as realization sinks in. They had planned this from the beginning.
Steve finally releases you, only to grab your hand with a firm grip, and Bucky takes your other hand, his thumb stroking over your skin in a way that feels both soothing and possessive. Together, they lead you toward the exit.
You glance back over your shoulder, searching for a way out, for Wanda, Natasha, anyone, but the crowd of strangers swallows the dancefloor whole, and just like that, you’re outside.
Under the cool night air, Bucky leans in, his lips grazing your ear. “Told you, doll. No one’s taking you from me. You are my girl now!”
Hiii please can I ask for a Steve x reader where they have broke up for some stupid reason and the whole Avengers team trying to make them up again? Maybe something like a team-trip and they get them "stuck" in a "only one-bed" situqtion or Bucky/Thor trying to flirt with the reader in a Tony party just to make Steve jealous and make a move. Thanks 🫶🏻
Hi thanks for this ask. I have used both of the suggestions and I hope you like it.
Warning- Angst, fluff, idiots in love, misunderstanding.
The party was in full swing, the hum of conversation and laughter echoing through Tony’s sprawling penthouse. You found yourself in a corner, nursing a glass of something you weren’t entirely sure was non-alcoholic, avoiding Steve like the plague. After the last mission, it was easier this way, less awkward, less painful.
That mission. Damn that mission!
It had started as a straightforward retrieval op, but things had gone south fast. You’d disobeyed Steve’s orders, convinced there was a better way to secure the asset without risking innocent lives. Your plan worked, but the fallout had been brutal. Steve had confronted you the moment you were back at the compound, his anger laced with something deeper, disappointment, frustration, hurt.
“Do you even trust me?” he’d asked, his voice low and wounded.
Your response had been defensive, born of exhaustion and stubbornness. “Do you trust me? Or do you just want someone who’ll follow orders without question?”
It was the kind of argument that didn’t end in resolution but in silence, the air between you heavy with everything you didn’t say. Two days later, you broke up.
Now here you were, trying to pretend you weren’t glancing at Steve every few minutes as he stood across the room, talking to Natasha. You wondered if she knew. Probably, Natasha knew everything.
Unbeknownst to you, the rest of the team had noticed the tension and decided to take matters into their own hands.
“Alright, here’s the plan,” Sam said, leaning over the bar where Tony and Bucky were gathered. Thor joined them, a gleam of mischief in his eye. “Steve’s too stubborn to admit he still loves her. So, we make him jealous.”
“What are you thinking?” Tony asked, turning to look at Sam and Thor. Bucky raised an eyebrow, looking just as puzzled, “How?” Bucky asked, his tone skeptical.
Sam grinned. “Thor and you are gonna flirt with her. Get under his skin, make him realize what he’s missing.”
Thor’s booming laugh earned a few side-eyes from partygoers. “I am more than willing to assist in this endeavor. Who could resist the charm of a god?”
“Subtlety’s key, big guy,” Sam muttered, patting Thor’s arm.
It didn’t take long for the chaos to begin.
Thor approached you first, his smile dazzling. “Lady Y/n,” he greeted, taking your hand and bowing dramatically. “You are radiant tonight, as always.”
You blinked at him, a laugh escaping before you could stop it. “Thank you, Thor. That’s sweet of you.”
From across the room, Steve’s posture stiffened, his jaw clenching. Natasha raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Interesting.”
Next came Bucky, his approach smoother but no less deliberate. “Hey, doll,” he said, his voice low and familiar. His hand brushed your arm as he leaned in. “You look incredible tonight. Mind if I steal you for a dance?”
Your cheeks flushed. “What’s going on with you two tonight? Did Tony spike the drinks or something?”
Bucky chuckled, but his gaze flicked toward Steve for a brief moment. “Just saying what I feel.”
Steve, who had been silently watching the exchange, clenched his jaw, his gaze on Bucky and you. He was clearly bothered by the scene unfolding in front of him. Steve’s glass hit the bar harder than necessary, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. His expression was thunderous as he shot Bucky and Thor a glare before abruptly turning on his heel and leaving the room without a word.
“Steve?” you called after him, your voice lost in the music and chatter. He didn’t stop, the doors to the balcony swinging shut behind him before he disappeared entirely.
“What the hell was that about?” you muttered, turning to Bucky, who looked sheepish.
“Uh, maybe we went a little overboard,” Bucky admitted, scratching the back of his neck.
“Overboard with what?” you demanded, your frustration growing.
Sam approached with an innocent grin that didn’t fool you in the slightest. “Just trying to give Captain Grumpybear a little nudge in the right direction.”
“What?”
“You two are miserable without each other,” Sam said, shrugging. “We were just trying to help.”
Your heart clenched as his words sank in. Miserable wasn’t the word you’d have used, at least not out loud, but it wasn’t entirely wrong, either.
Tony, overhearing, smirked from the bar. “You’ve got to hand it to him…Rogers has perfected the art of storming out dramatically.”
“Real helpful, Tony,” you snapped before turning back to Sam. “What do I do now?”
Sam gave you a knowing look. “You go after him. Talk to him. The rest of us did our part, it’s your turn now.”
You hesitated for only a moment before nodding. Clutching your glass tightly, you headed toward the balcony, hoping Steve hadn’t gone too far.
Behind you, Thor clapped Sam on the back with a booming laugh. “A most excellent plan!”
Bucky shook his head, “Yeah, except for the part where I nearly got murdered.”
The cold night air on the balcony seemed to cut through your resolve as you found Steve leaning against the railing, his shoulders tense and jaw tight. His gaze was fixed on the city lights, but you knew his mind was elsewhere, likely back in that room, reliving whatever had caused him to storm out.
“Steve,” you started softly, approaching him.
He didn’t turn around. “Go back to the party.”
“I’m not leaving until we talk.”
That earned a bitter chuckle. He finally turned to face you, his blue eyes sharp and guarded. “Talk? About what? How you let Thor and Bucky flirt with you like it’s some kind of game?”
Your mouth fell open, incredulous. “Let them? Steve, I had no idea what they were doing! I thought Thor was just being, well, Thor, and Bucky...”
“Don’t!” Steve interrupted, his tone laced with anger. “Don’t defend them. Do you have any idea how it felt, watching them act like that? Watching you laugh with them?”
“Steve, that’s not fair,” you argued, stepping closer. “They’re our friends. And I…”
“Friends,” he spat, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t do this, Y/n.”
He turned away again, his broad back a wall you couldn’t seem to break through. Frustrated, you finally gave up and returned to the party, your chest aching.
The next day, Natasha strode into the common area with a smug smile that immediately set everyone on edge.
“I’ve got a plan…” she declared, crossing her arms.
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Another one? Because the last one almost got us all killed.”
Tony, who had been nursing a cup of coffee, raised an eyebrow. “What kind of plan?” he asked.
“Watch and learn!” Natasha said, smirking.
The plan was simple, send you and Steve on a mission. Steve's eyes had widened when he heard the news. He did exchange a glance with you, the implication not going unnoticed. “Oh, great...”/ he muttered under his breath.
Before you knew it, you and Steve were assigned to a mission together. Natasha conveniently left out the detail that the safe house you’d be staying at had… limited accommodations.
The tension was palpable the moment you and Steve arrived. The safe house was small, with a single bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a living area that felt more like a closet.
Steve grunted as he set down his bag. “Not much, but it’ll do.”
You ignored him, dropping your gear on the table and surveying the room. The bed caught your attention immediately.
One bed. Of course.
“Don’t even start!” Steve muttered, catching your look.
“I wasn’t going to!” you shot back, already irritated.
The next few hours were filled with petty bickering. You struggled to reach the top shelf in the kitchen, refusing to ask for help. Steve watched you for a moment, then muttered under his breath as he came over to grab what you needed.
“You’re welcome.” he said, handing it to you.
“I didn’t ask for your help!” you snapped, cheeks heating.
“And yet, here we are…” he replied, walking away.
When it came time to gear up for the mission, you predictably forgot to strap your knife correctly. Steve, out of habit, fixed it for you without a word.
“I can do it myself…” you grumbled.
“You never could…” he retorted, his fingers deftly securing the blade.
Later, when Steve came back with a shallow cut on his arm, you instinctively grabbed the med kit and started cleaning the wound. He watched you in silence, his gaze softening despite himself.
“You don’t have to…” he murmured.
“Shh…I always do.” you replied, your voice quieter now.
But the real test came, when it came time to sleep. That’s when the real battle began.
“I’m taking the bed!” you declared, crossing your arms.
Steve raised an eyebrow, like hell you are getting the bed, “We’re sharing it.”
“Like hell we are.” you mumbled.
You then told Steve to turn around so that you can change your clothes. But Steve simply shrugged, seeing no point in turning around.
“It’s not like I haven’t seen you without clothes before,” Steve said, smirking and your face turned crimson. “Steve!” you hissed, throwing a pillow at him.
Eventually, you both relented, setting a clear line down the middle of the bed. “This is my side!” you warned.
“Fine…” he said, lying down already dozing off to sleep.
But as the night wore on, old habits took over. You turned in the middle of the night and curled against his chest, his arm draped protectively around you. Steve instinctively pulled you closer.
The next day, as the sunlight shined in the room, you stirred awake to the feeling of soft lips pressing against your forehead. Your eyes fluttered open to find Steve gazing down at you, his expression unguarded for the first time in weeks.
“Steve…” you whispered, your heart pounding.
“Morning…” he murmured, his voice warm and familiar.
The moment shattered when you both realized the state you were in. Scrambling apart, you began arguing again, this time over who got to shower first.
“It’s my turn!” you insisted, clutching your towel.
Steve smirked. “We could always save time and…”
“Don’t even finish that sentence, Rogers!” you snapped, shoving him aside, though Steve saw the way you blushed.
Later, as you sat across from him, the tension finally broke. Steve couldn’t take it anymore and neither could you.
“I miss you…” he admitted, his voice soft. “Every damn day, I miss you.”
You swallowed hard, your defenses crumbling. “I miss you too. But you have to trust me, Steve. I’m not your soldier, I’m your partner.”
He nods, his blue eyes earnest. “I know. And I’m sorry. I should’ve trusted you then, and I should’ve listened.”
Before you could respond, he leaned across the table and kissed you, his lips capturing yours in a way that made your heart race.
When he pulled back, you smirked. “Tit for tat,” you said, as you pulled him in for another kiss.
You and Steve talked. Talked about trust, understanding, communication, respect. By the end of the conversation, you and Steve decided to start afresh.
When you and Steve returned, hand in hand, the team was waiting. Natasha’s smug grin was matched by Sam’s triumphant cheer.
“Finally!” Sam yelled, high-fiving Bucky.
Even Tony clapped sarcastically. “Congrats, lovebirds. Don’t ever make us suffer through that tension again.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling, especially when Steve’s fingers tightened around yours.
Everyone was happy, but not more than you and Steve.
Warning- None for this part, age reveal of reader, banter.
You were being dragged. Not literally, but given the sheer disparity in your stride lengths and the absolute, terrifying urgency of the man you were chained to, it certainly felt like it.
The London rain had shifted from a miserable mist to a steady, freezing downpour, washing the soot and grit of the city directly into your eyes. You were stumbling through a labyrinth of narrow, garbage-strewn alleys somewhere behind Soho, tethered to a man who moved with the unstoppable, terrifying momentum of a military tank. The high-tech, magnetic chain linking your left wrist to his right hummed and whirred, extending a few feet when you inevitably lagged, then snapping taut and yanking you forward when the slack ran out.
Your entire world had been reduced to the agonizing burning in the balls of your feet, the soaked weight of your trench coat, and the broad, unyielding wall of expensive charcoal wool that was his back.
And you were losing your mind. As an editor, your primary coping mechanism for extreme stress was verbal diarrhea. You processed the world through words, and right now, the silence of this terrifying giant was more unnerving than the man who had held a gun to your head twenty minutes ago.
“So, what is the plan here?” you panted, dodging a puddle that looked suspiciously like an oil slick. “Are we walking to a secondary location? Is there a safe house? Because if we’re just power-walking around the West End until the sun comes up, I’m going to need to sit down. My arches are collapsing.”
The man didn't answer. He didn't even break his stride. His large right hand, the one cuffed to you, swung in a steady, militant rhythm.
“Hello? Are you deaf, or just exceptionally rude?” you snapped, your temper beginning to fray under the strain of exhaustion. “You can’t just abduct a civilian and give them the silent treatment. It’s bad form. It’s a terrible narrative arc. Frankly, if this were a manuscript, I’d reject it on page three for having an uncommunicative, one-dimensional protagonist.”
He took a sharp left turn down another alley, the chain zipping out and yanking your arm so hard your shoulder popped. You let out a very unladylike curse.
“Keep your voice down,” he grunted, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that barely carried over the sound of the rain. “And stop talking.”
“I will not stop talking! I am chained to a psychopath in a bespoke suit who just punched a man's teeth down his throat,” you fired back, hiking up your soaked coat to keep it out of the mud. “And calling you 'Mysterious Moustache Man' in my head is getting exhausting. It’s entirely too many syllables. 'Mys-te-ri-ous Mous-tache Man'. See? Seven syllables. It’s inefficient. What the fuck is your name?”
He stopped so suddenly that the chain retracted violently, slamming you directly into his back. You bounced off the solid wall of muscle and bone, clutching your nose.
He turned around slowly, towering over you in the gloom of the alleyway. The sparse light from a distant streetlamp caught the hard, flat angles of his face. He looked like murder incarnate. The thick chevron moustache over his upper lip, which you had to admit, was objectively magnificent, twitched slightly, the only sign that your constant yapping was grinding away at his iron-clad patience.
“You are a liability!” he said, the words heavy and cold. “You are an accident that got tangled in my operation. If you do not shut your mouth, I will gag you with your own scarf. Do you understand me?”
You glared up at him, wiping rain from your eyes, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You were terrified, yes, but the sheer absurdity of the threat sparked something deeply stubborn inside you.
“It’s a cashmere blend, so I’d really prefer you didn't.” you shot back, refusing to look away from those cold, dead eyes. “And honestly, you shouldn't be so sensitive. I wasn't insulting the moustache. It’s actually very impressive. It gives you a whole 1970s authoritarian, 'I could crush a skull with my bare hands' vibe. It works for you. But I still need a name. If I’m going to die in a damp alleyway, I’d like to know who to haunt.”
He stared at you. For a second, you genuinely thought he might hit you. His massive chest rose and fell with a slow, controlled breath, as if he were actively restraining the urge to throw you into a dumpster.
“Walker.” he finally growled, the single word dripping with absolute disdain. “August Walker.”
“August. Great. See, was that so fucking hard, August?” you huffed, shaking your wet hair out of your face.
Walker just turned and started walking again, his stride even faster this time, forcing you into a clumsy, agonizing jog.
For three more blocks, you tried to keep up. But human anatomy, specifically the anatomy forced into four-inch Christian Louboutin stiletto pumps, has its limits. The pain in your calves had gone from a dull ache to a sharp, stabbing fire, and your toes were completely numb.
With a defiant, frustrated cry, you threw your weight backward and slammed your feet onto the wet pavement, locking your knees.
The magnetic chain hissed out from Walker’s cuff. Three feet. Four feet. Till it hit the limit.
Walker was yanked backward. With his massive momentum, it was like a mastiff reaching the end of a leash. He stumbled half a step, let out a visceral, guttural snarl of pure rage, and whipped around.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Walker roared, stepping toward you, his massive frame closing the distance in a second. He grabbed the chain, his fist hovering inches from your face. “Move!”
“I can't!” you yelled back, pointing a shaking, rain-slicked finger down at your feet. “I physically cannot take another step in these! My feet are bleeding, Walker! I am literally walking on bloody stumps!”
Walker looked down at the sleek, pointed-toe heels. His expression was one of total, unadulterated disgust. “Then take them off and leave them. You don't need shoes to run.”
You gasped, genuinely offended, clutching your chest with your free hand. “Leave them? In a puddle? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“They are shoes!” Walker spat, his voice dropping into that terrifying, lethal register again. “Take them off, or I will break your ankles and drag you the rest of the way.”
“They are not just shoes, you uncultured, muscle-bound brute!” you screamed, your voice echoing off the brick walls. “These are Louboutins! Do you know how much these cost? They are a thousand-pound investment! I saved up for six months to buy these to celebrate my promotion! I am not abandoning them in a Soho gutter just because you’re having a bad day at the spy office!”
Walker looked at you as if you had just spoken to him in an alien dialect. He looked at the shoes, then back at your face, trying to compute the logic of a woman who was handcuffed to a CIA operative, fleeing heavily armed hostiles, and refusing to abandon a piece of footwear.
“You are insane.” he stated flatly.
“I am fiscally responsible!” you countered. With an angry groan, you reached down, fighting the tension of the cuff, and ripped the heels off your feet. You snatched them up by the straps, clutching the expensive leather to your chest like a newborn child.
You stood up, your stockinged feet sinking into a puddle of freezing, murky water. You shivered violently, the cold biting straight through to your bones, but you lifted your chin in defiance. “Fine. Let's go. But if I step on a syringe, I’m suing the CIA, or MI6, or whatever shadow organization pays for your custom-tailored suits.”
Walker let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, his eyes closed for a brief second as he prayed for the strength not to kill you. “Just... walk,” he muttered.
You began to walk, barefoot on the wet, unforgiving asphalt of London. It was miserable. Every pebble felt like a shard of glass, and the cold was seeping up your legs, making your teeth chatter. But you had your shoes.
Ten minutes later, the adrenaline crash hit you like a physical wall. The sheer terror of the gun to your head, the sprint through the rain, and the freezing cold combined into a hollow, gnawing ache in your gut. Your stomach let out a loud, drawn-out rumble that sounded like a dying whale.
Walker didn't even look back. “Keep your bodily functions to yourself.”
“I'm starving!” you announced, shivering violently now. “I need food. I need carbs. I haven't eaten anything since a sad desk salad at one o'clock, it didn’t even had cheese. If my blood sugar drops any lower, I’m going to pass out, and then you will have to drag me.”
Walker ignored you, his sharp eyes scanning the street as you finally emerged from the alleyway onto a slightly wider, dimly lit residential road. Cars were parked bumper-to-bumper along the curb.
“I'm serious, August. I will bite you.” you threatened, hobbling on the pavement.
Walker stopped abruptly beside an older, slightly battered black sedan. He glanced around the empty street, checking the windows of the flats above them. He pulled his right arm, bringing you close to the driver's side door, his eyes locked on the lock mechanism.
“We need a vehicle…” he muttered, reaching into his pocket with his left hand and pulling out a small, metallic device. He shoved it into the keyhole of the car door and forced it. A soft click echoed, and the door swung open.
“You're stealing a car?” you asked, leaning in close, temporarily distracted from your hunger. “That's illegal.”
Walker paused, slowly turning his head to look at you, his face a mask of absolute, withering disbelief. “I just broke a man’s jaw and shot up an alleyway. Do you think I give a shit about grand theft auto?”
“Fair point.” you conceded, clutching your shoes tighter.
Walker threw himself into the driver's seat, dragging you in after him. Because of the handcuffs, you were forced awkwardly into the passenger seat, the center console digging into your hip. Walker immediately reached under the steering column, his large hands working with brutal efficiency to rip the plastic paneling away. Wires tumbled out into his lap.
He looked at the wires, then looked over at you. His eyes were hard and calculating.
“I need both hands to hotwire this quickly, and I need to be ready to return fire if the Syndicate catches up.” Walker said, his voice clipped and serious. He gestured to the steering wheel. “Can you drive?”
You sat back in the passenger seat, your wet hair plastered to your face, your expensive shoes resting on your lap, and your stockinged feet covered in London grime. You looked at the steering wheel, then looked back at the giant, terrifying assassin who currently held your life in his very large, very capable hands.
You lifted your chin, a small, thoroughly inappropriate smile crossing your lips.
“Absolutely not.” you said proudly. “I’ve lived in London my whole life. I use the Tube.”
August froze. The wires slipped from his fingers. He slowly, deliberately turned his head to face you.
The glare he leveled at you wasn't just angry, it was apocalyptic. It was the look of a man who had faced warlords, terrorists, and global catastrophes, only to be utterly defeated by a sarcastic book editor who didn't possess a driver's license. The heavy silence in the stolen sedan stretched out, broken only by the steady drumming of the rain against the windshield and the soft, maddening hum of the magnetic handcuffs linking you together.
The silence inside the stolen sedan was absolute, heavy, and suffocating. Outside, the London rain continued to batter the roof, a relentless, drumming assault that matched the frantic, panicked rhythm of your heart. Inside, however, the air was completely stagnant.
August Walker had not moved a single muscle since you proudly declared your inability to operate a motor vehicle. He was frozen, his massive hands hovering over the exposed, tangled wires of the steering column. The dashboard lights cast a sickly, pale green glow across his face, highlighting the sharp, rigid angles of his jaw and the terrifying blankness in his eyes. He looked like a statue carved from pure, unadulterated rage.
You, on the other hand, were painfully, violently alive.
The adrenaline crash had fully set in, leaving you hollowed out, trembling, and hyper-aware of every miserable sensation in your body. Your trench coat was completely soaked through, clinging to your arms like a freezing second skin. Your bare feet, resting awkwardly on the floor mat, were covered in grit and icy puddle water. But the absolute worst part was your stockings.
The sheer, expensive nylons were torn at the knees, caked in mud, and plastered to your legs in a way that felt deeply, horribly violating. They were cold, they were wet, and they were driving you absolutely insane.
With a frustrated, exhausted sigh, you shifted in the cramped passenger seat. You couldn't take it anymore. The man chained to you might be having a terrifying internal aneurysm, but you were going to be comfortable while he did it.
You reached down with your free right hand, your fingers clumsy with the cold, and dug under the hem of your wet skirt.
His eyes finally snapped over to you, breaking his catatonic stare.
You ignored him. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of the ruined stockings and began to peel them down. It was an incredibly awkward maneuver, given that your left wrist was securely handcuffed to the right wrist of a giant, homicidal CIA operative. The high-tech, magnetic chain hummed softly as you tugged, stretching across the center console. You had to contort your hips, lifting your freezing feet one at a time, wrestling the wet, clinging nylon down your calves and over your ankles.
Finally, with a wet, squelching sound, you pulled the ruined fabric completely off. You held the balled-up, muddy mess of nylon between your fingers, letting out a violent, full-body shudder of pure disgust.
Without a second thought, you leaned over, pushed the passenger side door open a few inches with your shoulder, and aggressively chucked the ruined stockings out into the rainy street. They landed with a pathetic splat in a puddle. You pulled the door shut, wiping your hands on your wet coat, feeling a microscopic fraction of dignity return to you.
When you sat back up, August was staring at you.
He wasn't just looking; he was glaring. It was a look of such profound, withering judgment that it actually made you pause. His dark eyes tracked from the door you had just closed, down to your bare, freezing legs, and finally up to your face. The thick chevron mustache twitched above his upper lip, a subtle indicator of the monumental irritation boiling beneath his stoic exterior.
“What?” you demanded, your voice defensive and sharp. “They were wet and disgusting. I felt like I was wearing a swamp. Sue me for wanting basic bodily comfort while being held hostage!”
August didn’t blink. His chest expanded with a slow, deep breath, stretching the fabric of his damp, tailored suit.
“How old are you?” he asked. His voice was low, flat, and completely devoid of inflection. It wasn't a casual question; it sounded like an interrogation tactic.
You blinked, utterly taken aback. Of all the things you expected him to say, a threat, an insult, a command to get out of the car, this was the absolute last.
“How dare you!” you gasped dramatically, a hand flying to your chest. The sheer audacity of the man cut right through your exhaustion. “You abduct me, you drag me through the mud, you chain me to your wrist like a goddamn dog, and now you have the nerve to ask a woman her age? What is wrong with you? Did they skip basic social etiquette at spy school?”
Walker’s patience, already hanging by a microscopic thread, violently snapped.
With a sudden, aggressive movement that made you flinch, he reached entirely across the center console. You let out a startled yelp, shrinking back against the passenger door, thinking he was finally going to hit you. But his massive hand bypassed your body entirely, his thick fingers grabbing the leather strap of your open tote bag resting by your left hip.
“Hey! Get your hands off that!” you shouted, your protective instincts flaring. “That is private property!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Walker growled, his voice vibrating with lethal authority.
He yanked the bag toward him. Because your left hand was cuffed to his right, the movement yanked the magnetic chain taut, violently jerking your arm across the console and pulling you halfway out of your seat. You hissed in pain as the cuff bit into your skin, but Walker completely ignored your discomfort. He held the bag with his left hand and used his cuffed right hand to ruthlessly dig through your belongings, shoving aside waterlogged manuscripts, a crushed salad container, and a half-empty tube of expensive hand cream.
“Stop it! You pompous prick, give me my bag!” You grabbed his massive forearm with your free hand, digging your nails into his wet suit sleeve, trying to pry him away. It was like trying to wrestle a concrete pillar.
His fingers closed around your small leather wallet. He pulled it out, flipped it open with his thumb, and immediately pulled out your ID card. He dropped your bag onto the floorboard, letting the chain retract slightly so you could sit back, though you were breathing heavily with pure outrage.
He held the small plastic card up to the green glow of the dashboard lights. His eyes scanned the text, narrowing slightly.
“Thirty-five…” August read aloud, his tone flat, dropping the card into his lap. He turned his head slowly to look at you, his expression one of complete, baffled disgust. “You are thirty-five years old.”
“And thriving, thank you very much!” you snapped, crossing your arms, well, crossing one arm and laying the cuffed one awkwardly across your stomach. “What the hell does my age have to do with anything?”
“You are thirty-five years old...” Walker repeated, his voice rising a fraction of a decibel, “and you do not know how to operate a motor vehicle.”
“It's London!” you practically shrieked, throwing your free hand in the air. “The Tube is incredibly efficient! Driving in this city is an absolute environmental and logistical nightmare, the traffic is medieval, and parking costs more than my monthly rent! Why the fuck would I own a car? I take the Jubilee line like a normal, civilized human being!”
“Civilized?” Walker scoffed, a dark, ugly sound. “You are thirty-five, completely helpless, and a massive liability. If you could drive, I could hotwire this ignition in sixty seconds while you prepped the vehicle. Now, I have to do both, one-handed, while watching for the heavily armed hostiles who are currently hunting us.”
“Well, I am so sorry my lack of driving skills is inconveniencing your highly illegal international shootout!” you fired back, your temper completely exploding. “Maybe if you hadn't let some twitchy lunatic handcuff us together, you wouldn't be in this situation! You’re supposed to be this giant, badass agent, and you got outplayed by a guy in a dirty tracksuit!”
Walker’s jaw clenched so hard you heard his teeth grind. “I will literally break your neck and leave you in this seat.”
“Do it! I dare you!” you yelled, completely losing your mind to the stress. “At least I wouldn't be hungry anymore!”
You violently turned around in your seat, turning your back to him to face the passenger window. As you did, you aggressively yanked your left arm, pulling his cuffed right hand hard against the center console.
“Ow! Dammit!” you muttered as the cuff pinched, but you refused to turn back around. “You are incredibly rude, you are totally unhinged, and I am done with this! Take me home. Right now. I want to go to my flat, I want to take a hot shower, and I want to forget I ever met your stupid, moustachioed face.”
The silence returned to the car, thick and volatile. You stared out the rain-streaked window, your chest heaving, waiting for him to retaliate, to hit you, to yell.
Instead, there was just the sound of a heavy, exhausted exhale.
“I can't take you home!” Walker said, his voice stripped of its anger, leaving only a cold, blunt reality. “The men I am hunting saw you. They saw my face, they saw yours. By now, they’ve run your biometrics from street cameras. If you go back to your flat, you will be dead before morning.”
Your breath hitched. The anger evaporated, replaced by a sudden, freezing spike of pure terror. You slowly turned your head to look over your shoulder at him.
Walker wasn't glaring anymore. He was just looking at you, his face a grim mask of absolute certainty. He reached down, grabbed your wallet, and tossed it into your lap.
“We are abandoning the vehicle,” Walker stated, his tone shifting back to tactical efficiency. “Without two hands, it takes too long. We are exposed here. We need to move to a secure location where I can sever this chain.”
“Move where?” your voice was small, the fight completely drained out of you. “I can't walk anymore, August. I really can't. And I'm so hungry my hands are shaking. If I don't eat something, I am going to faint. And then you are going to have one hundred and forty pounds of dead weight attached to your wrist.”
Walker stared at you for a long, calculating moment. He looked at your shaking hands, your pale face, and the desperate, exhausted set of your jaw. He let out a low grunt that sounded remarkably like a curse.
“Fine,” he snapped, shoving the car door open. “Get out.”
Fifteen minutes later, the chaotic, terrifying reality of your life had been reduced to the greasy confines of a dimly lit, profoundly depressing pub on the edge of Soho. The establishment smelled strongly of stale ale, bleach, and decades of bad decisions. The few patrons scattered in the booths looked like they wouldn't blink if a murder happened on the sticky wooden floor, which made it the perfect place to hide.
You were sitting in a dark corner booth, shoved tight against the wall. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you were quiet.
You had a massive, greasy double cheeseburger in your right hand, and you were eating it with a feral, unapologetic intensity. Grease dripped down your chin, and you didn't care. The hot, salty rush of calories was hitting your system like a drug, pulling you back from the edge of passing out.
Across the small, sticky table sat August Walker.
He was not eating. He was not drinking. He was sitting completely rigid, his massive shoulders taking up the entire width of the booth, his eyes sweeping the pub with predatory, unblinking focus. His left hand rested flat on the table, near the heavy lump in his jacket where you knew his gun was hidden. His right hand was extended across the table, tethered to your left wrist by the shimmering, high-tech magnetic chain.
You took another massive bite of the burger, moaning softly at the taste of the sharp cheddar and charred beef. You reached out with your right hand, grabbed a handful of soggy, oil-soaked chips, and shoved them into your mouth.
Walker’s eyes snapped from the front door to you. He watched you eat, his expression a mixture of profound disgust and reluctant acceptance.
“Are you finished inhaling that?” Walker asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble across the table.
You chewed methodically, swallowing the massive bite before looking at him. The food had worked a miracle. Your blood sugar had stabilized, the shaking had stopped, and your usual, sassy demeanor was slowly filtering back in. Now that you weren't actively fearing for your immediate life in an alleyway, you were feeling incredibly cooperative. Well, just a little.
“Not quite,” you said, licking a smear of ketchup off your thumb. “It’s actually fucking fantastic. You really should have ordered one. It might help with your deeply ingrained hostility issues.”
August narrowed his eyes, the heavy moustache lowering as his jaw set. “My hostility issues are currently keeping you breathing, darling.”
“Fair point.” you conceded, taking a sip from a pint of lukewarm water the heavily tattooed bartender had slammed down earlier. You tapped the metallic cuff on your left wrist with your index finger. It made a sharp clink against the wood. “So, what's the play, Walker? I'm fed, I'm resting my bare, battered feet, and I have accepted that I am temporarily a fugitive from justice. You said we needed a secure location to cut this thing off. Does this pub have a secret underground spy lair, or are we just waiting for someone to come shoot us?”
August leaned forward slightly, the chain slacking between you. His dark eyes locked onto yours, completely devoid of any humor.
“We are waiting for my extraction team to verify a clean route...” he said softly, the gravel in his voice scraping against the ambient noise of the pub. “And once they do, you are going to stand up, you are going to keep your mouth shut, and you are going to follow my exact orders. If you don't, I won't just leave you behind. I will make sure you can't be followed.”
You stopped chewing. The threat was explicit, and entirely serious. You looked at the hulking, dangerous man you were chained to, realizing that the burger hadn't changed the reality of the situation.
You swallowed hard, placing the remaining half of your burger down on the paper wrapper. You wiped your mouth with a cheap napkin, your eyes holding his unwavering stare.
“Understood,” you said quietly. “Just... tell me when to move.”
August gave a single, curt nod, leaning back into the shadows of the booth, his eyes returning to the pub's entrance. The chain between you hummed softly, a constant, binding reminder that your night was far from over.
Warning- None for this part, age reveal of reader, banter.
You were being dragged. Not literally, but given the sheer disparity in your stride lengths and the absolute, terrifying urgency of the man you were chained to, it certainly felt like it.
The London rain had shifted from a miserable mist to a steady, freezing downpour, washing the soot and grit of the city directly into your eyes. You were stumbling through a labyrinth of narrow, garbage-strewn alleys somewhere behind Soho, tethered to a man who moved with the unstoppable, terrifying momentum of a military tank. The high-tech, magnetic chain linking your left wrist to his right hummed and whirred, extending a few feet when you inevitably lagged, then snapping taut and yanking you forward when the slack ran out.
Your entire world had been reduced to the agonizing burning in the balls of your feet, the soaked weight of your trench coat, and the broad, unyielding wall of expensive charcoal wool that was his back.
And you were losing your mind. As an editor, your primary coping mechanism for extreme stress was verbal diarrhea. You processed the world through words, and right now, the silence of this terrifying giant was more unnerving than the man who had held a gun to your head twenty minutes ago.
“So, what is the plan here?” you panted, dodging a puddle that looked suspiciously like an oil slick. “Are we walking to a secondary location? Is there a safe house? Because if we’re just power-walking around the West End until the sun comes up, I’m going to need to sit down. My arches are collapsing.”
The man didn't answer. He didn't even break his stride. His large right hand, the one cuffed to you, swung in a steady, militant rhythm.
“Hello? Are you deaf, or just exceptionally rude?” you snapped, your temper beginning to fray under the strain of exhaustion. “You can’t just abduct a civilian and give them the silent treatment. It’s bad form. It’s a terrible narrative arc. Frankly, if this were a manuscript, I’d reject it on page three for having an uncommunicative, one-dimensional protagonist.”
He took a sharp left turn down another alley, the chain zipping out and yanking your arm so hard your shoulder popped. You let out a very unladylike curse.
“Keep your voice down,” he grunted, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that barely carried over the sound of the rain. “And stop talking.”
“I will not stop talking! I am chained to a psychopath in a bespoke suit who just punched a man's teeth down his throat,” you fired back, hiking up your soaked coat to keep it out of the mud. “And calling you 'Mysterious Moustache Man' in my head is getting exhausting. It’s entirely too many syllables. 'Mys-te-ri-ous Mous-tache Man'. See? Seven syllables. It’s inefficient. What the fuck is your name?”
He stopped so suddenly that the chain retracted violently, slamming you directly into his back. You bounced off the solid wall of muscle and bone, clutching your nose.
He turned around slowly, towering over you in the gloom of the alleyway. The sparse light from a distant streetlamp caught the hard, flat angles of his face. He looked like murder incarnate. The thick chevron moustache over his upper lip, which you had to admit, was objectively magnificent, twitched slightly, the only sign that your constant yapping was grinding away at his iron-clad patience.
“You are a liability!” he said, the words heavy and cold. “You are an accident that got tangled in my operation. If you do not shut your mouth, I will gag you with your own scarf. Do you understand me?”
You glared up at him, wiping rain from your eyes, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You were terrified, yes, but the sheer absurdity of the threat sparked something deeply stubborn inside you.
“It’s a cashmere blend, so I’d really prefer you didn't.” you shot back, refusing to look away from those cold, dead eyes. “And honestly, you shouldn't be so sensitive. I wasn't insulting the moustache. It’s actually very impressive. It gives you a whole 1970s authoritarian, 'I could crush a skull with my bare hands' vibe. It works for you. But I still need a name. If I’m going to die in a damp alleyway, I’d like to know who to haunt.”
He stared at you. For a second, you genuinely thought he might hit you. His massive chest rose and fell with a slow, controlled breath, as if he were actively restraining the urge to throw you into a dumpster.
“Walker.” he finally growled, the single word dripping with absolute disdain. “August Walker.”
“August. Great. See, was that so fucking hard, August?” you huffed, shaking your wet hair out of your face.
Walker just turned and started walking again, his stride even faster this time, forcing you into a clumsy, agonizing jog.
For three more blocks, you tried to keep up. But human anatomy, specifically the anatomy forced into four-inch Christian Louboutin stiletto pumps, has its limits. The pain in your calves had gone from a dull ache to a sharp, stabbing fire, and your toes were completely numb.
With a defiant, frustrated cry, you threw your weight backward and slammed your feet onto the wet pavement, locking your knees.
The magnetic chain hissed out from Walker’s cuff. Three feet. Four feet. Till it hit the limit.
Walker was yanked backward. With his massive momentum, it was like a mastiff reaching the end of a leash. He stumbled half a step, let out a visceral, guttural snarl of pure rage, and whipped around.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Walker roared, stepping toward you, his massive frame closing the distance in a second. He grabbed the chain, his fist hovering inches from your face. “Move!”
“I can't!” you yelled back, pointing a shaking, rain-slicked finger down at your feet. “I physically cannot take another step in these! My feet are bleeding, Walker! I am literally walking on bloody stumps!”
Walker looked down at the sleek, pointed-toe heels. His expression was one of total, unadulterated disgust. “Then take them off and leave them. You don't need shoes to run.”
You gasped, genuinely offended, clutching your chest with your free hand. “Leave them? In a puddle? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“They are shoes!” Walker spat, his voice dropping into that terrifying, lethal register again. “Take them off, or I will break your ankles and drag you the rest of the way.”
“They are not just shoes, you uncultured, muscle-bound brute!” you screamed, your voice echoing off the brick walls. “These are Louboutins! Do you know how much these cost? They are a thousand-pound investment! I saved up for six months to buy these to celebrate my promotion! I am not abandoning them in a Soho gutter just because you’re having a bad day at the spy office!”
Walker looked at you as if you had just spoken to him in an alien dialect. He looked at the shoes, then back at your face, trying to compute the logic of a woman who was handcuffed to a CIA operative, fleeing heavily armed hostiles, and refusing to abandon a piece of footwear.
“You are insane.” he stated flatly.
“I am fiscally responsible!” you countered. With an angry groan, you reached down, fighting the tension of the cuff, and ripped the heels off your feet. You snatched them up by the straps, clutching the expensive leather to your chest like a newborn child.
You stood up, your stockinged feet sinking into a puddle of freezing, murky water. You shivered violently, the cold biting straight through to your bones, but you lifted your chin in defiance. “Fine. Let's go. But if I step on a syringe, I’m suing the CIA, or MI6, or whatever shadow organization pays for your custom-tailored suits.”
Walker let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, his eyes closed for a brief second as he prayed for the strength not to kill you. “Just... walk,” he muttered.
You began to walk, barefoot on the wet, unforgiving asphalt of London. It was miserable. Every pebble felt like a shard of glass, and the cold was seeping up your legs, making your teeth chatter. But you had your shoes.
Ten minutes later, the adrenaline crash hit you like a physical wall. The sheer terror of the gun to your head, the sprint through the rain, and the freezing cold combined into a hollow, gnawing ache in your gut. Your stomach let out a loud, drawn-out rumble that sounded like a dying whale.
Walker didn't even look back. “Keep your bodily functions to yourself.”
“I'm starving!” you announced, shivering violently now. “I need food. I need carbs. I haven't eaten anything since a sad desk salad at one o'clock, it didn’t even had cheese. If my blood sugar drops any lower, I’m going to pass out, and then you will have to drag me.”
Walker ignored you, his sharp eyes scanning the street as you finally emerged from the alleyway onto a slightly wider, dimly lit residential road. Cars were parked bumper-to-bumper along the curb.
“I'm serious, August. I will bite you.” you threatened, hobbling on the pavement.
Walker stopped abruptly beside an older, slightly battered black sedan. He glanced around the empty street, checking the windows of the flats above them. He pulled his right arm, bringing you close to the driver's side door, his eyes locked on the lock mechanism.
“We need a vehicle…” he muttered, reaching into his pocket with his left hand and pulling out a small, metallic device. He shoved it into the keyhole of the car door and forced it. A soft click echoed, and the door swung open.
“You're stealing a car?” you asked, leaning in close, temporarily distracted from your hunger. “That's illegal.”
Walker paused, slowly turning his head to look at you, his face a mask of absolute, withering disbelief. “I just broke a man’s jaw and shot up an alleyway. Do you think I give a shit about grand theft auto?”
“Fair point.” you conceded, clutching your shoes tighter.
Walker threw himself into the driver's seat, dragging you in after him. Because of the handcuffs, you were forced awkwardly into the passenger seat, the center console digging into your hip. Walker immediately reached under the steering column, his large hands working with brutal efficiency to rip the plastic paneling away. Wires tumbled out into his lap.
He looked at the wires, then looked over at you. His eyes were hard and calculating.
“I need both hands to hotwire this quickly, and I need to be ready to return fire if the Syndicate catches up.” Walker said, his voice clipped and serious. He gestured to the steering wheel. “Can you drive?”
You sat back in the passenger seat, your wet hair plastered to your face, your expensive shoes resting on your lap, and your stockinged feet covered in London grime. You looked at the steering wheel, then looked back at the giant, terrifying assassin who currently held your life in his very large, very capable hands.
You lifted your chin, a small, thoroughly inappropriate smile crossing your lips.
“Absolutely not.” you said proudly. “I’ve lived in London my whole life. I use the Tube.”
August froze. The wires slipped from his fingers. He slowly, deliberately turned his head to face you.
The glare he leveled at you wasn't just angry, it was apocalyptic. It was the look of a man who had faced warlords, terrorists, and global catastrophes, only to be utterly defeated by a sarcastic book editor who didn't possess a driver's license. The heavy silence in the stolen sedan stretched out, broken only by the steady drumming of the rain against the windshield and the soft, maddening hum of the magnetic handcuffs linking you together.
The silence inside the stolen sedan was absolute, heavy, and suffocating. Outside, the London rain continued to batter the roof, a relentless, drumming assault that matched the frantic, panicked rhythm of your heart. Inside, however, the air was completely stagnant.
August Walker had not moved a single muscle since you proudly declared your inability to operate a motor vehicle. He was frozen, his massive hands hovering over the exposed, tangled wires of the steering column. The dashboard lights cast a sickly, pale green glow across his face, highlighting the sharp, rigid angles of his jaw and the terrifying blankness in his eyes. He looked like a statue carved from pure, unadulterated rage.
You, on the other hand, were painfully, violently alive.
The adrenaline crash had fully set in, leaving you hollowed out, trembling, and hyper-aware of every miserable sensation in your body. Your trench coat was completely soaked through, clinging to your arms like a freezing second skin. Your bare feet, resting awkwardly on the floor mat, were covered in grit and icy puddle water. But the absolute worst part was your stockings.
The sheer, expensive nylons were torn at the knees, caked in mud, and plastered to your legs in a way that felt deeply, horribly violating. They were cold, they were wet, and they were driving you absolutely insane.
With a frustrated, exhausted sigh, you shifted in the cramped passenger seat. You couldn't take it anymore. The man chained to you might be having a terrifying internal aneurysm, but you were going to be comfortable while he did it.
You reached down with your free right hand, your fingers clumsy with the cold, and dug under the hem of your wet skirt.
His eyes finally snapped over to you, breaking his catatonic stare.
You ignored him. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of the ruined stockings and began to peel them down. It was an incredibly awkward maneuver, given that your left wrist was securely handcuffed to the right wrist of a giant, homicidal CIA operative. The high-tech, magnetic chain hummed softly as you tugged, stretching across the center console. You had to contort your hips, lifting your freezing feet one at a time, wrestling the wet, clinging nylon down your calves and over your ankles.
Finally, with a wet, squelching sound, you pulled the ruined fabric completely off. You held the balled-up, muddy mess of nylon between your fingers, letting out a violent, full-body shudder of pure disgust.
Without a second thought, you leaned over, pushed the passenger side door open a few inches with your shoulder, and aggressively chucked the ruined stockings out into the rainy street. They landed with a pathetic splat in a puddle. You pulled the door shut, wiping your hands on your wet coat, feeling a microscopic fraction of dignity return to you.
When you sat back up, August was staring at you.
He wasn't just looking; he was glaring. It was a look of such profound, withering judgment that it actually made you pause. His dark eyes tracked from the door you had just closed, down to your bare, freezing legs, and finally up to your face. The thick chevron mustache twitched above his upper lip, a subtle indicator of the monumental irritation boiling beneath his stoic exterior.
“What?” you demanded, your voice defensive and sharp. “They were wet and disgusting. I felt like I was wearing a swamp. Sue me for wanting basic bodily comfort while being held hostage!”
August didn’t blink. His chest expanded with a slow, deep breath, stretching the fabric of his damp, tailored suit.
“How old are you?” he asked. His voice was low, flat, and completely devoid of inflection. It wasn't a casual question; it sounded like an interrogation tactic.
You blinked, utterly taken aback. Of all the things you expected him to say, a threat, an insult, a command to get out of the car, this was the absolute last.
“How dare you!” you gasped dramatically, a hand flying to your chest. The sheer audacity of the man cut right through your exhaustion. “You abduct me, you drag me through the mud, you chain me to your wrist like a goddamn dog, and now you have the nerve to ask a woman her age? What is wrong with you? Did they skip basic social etiquette at spy school?”
Walker’s patience, already hanging by a microscopic thread, violently snapped.
With a sudden, aggressive movement that made you flinch, he reached entirely across the center console. You let out a startled yelp, shrinking back against the passenger door, thinking he was finally going to hit you. But his massive hand bypassed your body entirely, his thick fingers grabbing the leather strap of your open tote bag resting by your left hip.
“Hey! Get your hands off that!” you shouted, your protective instincts flaring. “That is private property!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Walker growled, his voice vibrating with lethal authority.
He yanked the bag toward him. Because your left hand was cuffed to his right, the movement yanked the magnetic chain taut, violently jerking your arm across the console and pulling you halfway out of your seat. You hissed in pain as the cuff bit into your skin, but Walker completely ignored your discomfort. He held the bag with his left hand and used his cuffed right hand to ruthlessly dig through your belongings, shoving aside waterlogged manuscripts, a crushed salad container, and a half-empty tube of expensive hand cream.
“Stop it! You pompous prick, give me my bag!” You grabbed his massive forearm with your free hand, digging your nails into his wet suit sleeve, trying to pry him away. It was like trying to wrestle a concrete pillar.
His fingers closed around your small leather wallet. He pulled it out, flipped it open with his thumb, and immediately pulled out your ID card. He dropped your bag onto the floorboard, letting the chain retract slightly so you could sit back, though you were breathing heavily with pure outrage.
He held the small plastic card up to the green glow of the dashboard lights. His eyes scanned the text, narrowing slightly.
“Thirty-five…” August read aloud, his tone flat, dropping the card into his lap. He turned his head slowly to look at you, his expression one of complete, baffled disgust. “You are thirty-five years old.”
“And thriving, thank you very much!” you snapped, crossing your arms, well, crossing one arm and laying the cuffed one awkwardly across your stomach. “What the hell does my age have to do with anything?”
“You are thirty-five years old...” Walker repeated, his voice rising a fraction of a decibel, “and you do not know how to operate a motor vehicle.”
“It's London!” you practically shrieked, throwing your free hand in the air. “The Tube is incredibly efficient! Driving in this city is an absolute environmental and logistical nightmare, the traffic is medieval, and parking costs more than my monthly rent! Why the fuck would I own a car? I take the Jubilee line like a normal, civilized human being!”
“Civilized?” Walker scoffed, a dark, ugly sound. “You are thirty-five, completely helpless, and a massive liability. If you could drive, I could hotwire this ignition in sixty seconds while you prepped the vehicle. Now, I have to do both, one-handed, while watching for the heavily armed hostiles who are currently hunting us.”
“Well, I am so sorry my lack of driving skills is inconveniencing your highly illegal international shootout!” you fired back, your temper completely exploding. “Maybe if you hadn't let some twitchy lunatic handcuff us together, you wouldn't be in this situation! You’re supposed to be this giant, badass agent, and you got outplayed by a guy in a dirty tracksuit!”
Walker’s jaw clenched so hard you heard his teeth grind. “I will literally break your neck and leave you in this seat.”
“Do it! I dare you!” you yelled, completely losing your mind to the stress. “At least I wouldn't be hungry anymore!”
You violently turned around in your seat, turning your back to him to face the passenger window. As you did, you aggressively yanked your left arm, pulling his cuffed right hand hard against the center console.
“Ow! Dammit!” you muttered as the cuff pinched, but you refused to turn back around. “You are incredibly rude, you are totally unhinged, and I am done with this! Take me home. Right now. I want to go to my flat, I want to take a hot shower, and I want to forget I ever met your stupid, moustachioed face.”
The silence returned to the car, thick and volatile. You stared out the rain-streaked window, your chest heaving, waiting for him to retaliate, to hit you, to yell.
Instead, there was just the sound of a heavy, exhausted exhale.
“I can't take you home!” Walker said, his voice stripped of its anger, leaving only a cold, blunt reality. “The men I am hunting saw you. They saw my face, they saw yours. By now, they’ve run your biometrics from street cameras. If you go back to your flat, you will be dead before morning.”
Your breath hitched. The anger evaporated, replaced by a sudden, freezing spike of pure terror. You slowly turned your head to look over your shoulder at him.
Walker wasn't glaring anymore. He was just looking at you, his face a grim mask of absolute certainty. He reached down, grabbed your wallet, and tossed it into your lap.
“We are abandoning the vehicle,” Walker stated, his tone shifting back to tactical efficiency. “Without two hands, it takes too long. We are exposed here. We need to move to a secure location where I can sever this chain.”
“Move where?” your voice was small, the fight completely drained out of you. “I can't walk anymore, August. I really can't. And I'm so hungry my hands are shaking. If I don't eat something, I am going to faint. And then you are going to have one hundred and forty pounds of dead weight attached to your wrist.”
Walker stared at you for a long, calculating moment. He looked at your shaking hands, your pale face, and the desperate, exhausted set of your jaw. He let out a low grunt that sounded remarkably like a curse.
“Fine,” he snapped, shoving the car door open. “Get out.”
Fifteen minutes later, the chaotic, terrifying reality of your life had been reduced to the greasy confines of a dimly lit, profoundly depressing pub on the edge of Soho. The establishment smelled strongly of stale ale, bleach, and decades of bad decisions. The few patrons scattered in the booths looked like they wouldn't blink if a murder happened on the sticky wooden floor, which made it the perfect place to hide.
You were sitting in a dark corner booth, shoved tight against the wall. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you were quiet.
You had a massive, greasy double cheeseburger in your right hand, and you were eating it with a feral, unapologetic intensity. Grease dripped down your chin, and you didn't care. The hot, salty rush of calories was hitting your system like a drug, pulling you back from the edge of passing out.
Across the small, sticky table sat August Walker.
He was not eating. He was not drinking. He was sitting completely rigid, his massive shoulders taking up the entire width of the booth, his eyes sweeping the pub with predatory, unblinking focus. His left hand rested flat on the table, near the heavy lump in his jacket where you knew his gun was hidden. His right hand was extended across the table, tethered to your left wrist by the shimmering, high-tech magnetic chain.
You took another massive bite of the burger, moaning softly at the taste of the sharp cheddar and charred beef. You reached out with your right hand, grabbed a handful of soggy, oil-soaked chips, and shoved them into your mouth.
Walker’s eyes snapped from the front door to you. He watched you eat, his expression a mixture of profound disgust and reluctant acceptance.
“Are you finished inhaling that?” Walker asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble across the table.
You chewed methodically, swallowing the massive bite before looking at him. The food had worked a miracle. Your blood sugar had stabilized, the shaking had stopped, and your usual, sassy demeanor was slowly filtering back in. Now that you weren't actively fearing for your immediate life in an alleyway, you were feeling incredibly cooperative. Well, just a little.
“Not quite,” you said, licking a smear of ketchup off your thumb. “It’s actually fucking fantastic. You really should have ordered one. It might help with your deeply ingrained hostility issues.”
August narrowed his eyes, the heavy moustache lowering as his jaw set. “My hostility issues are currently keeping you breathing, darling.”
“Fair point.” you conceded, taking a sip from a pint of lukewarm water the heavily tattooed bartender had slammed down earlier. You tapped the metallic cuff on your left wrist with your index finger. It made a sharp clink against the wood. “So, what's the play, Walker? I'm fed, I'm resting my bare, battered feet, and I have accepted that I am temporarily a fugitive from justice. You said we needed a secure location to cut this thing off. Does this pub have a secret underground spy lair, or are we just waiting for someone to come shoot us?”
August leaned forward slightly, the chain slacking between you. His dark eyes locked onto yours, completely devoid of any humor.
“We are waiting for my extraction team to verify a clean route...” he said softly, the gravel in his voice scraping against the ambient noise of the pub. “And once they do, you are going to stand up, you are going to keep your mouth shut, and you are going to follow my exact orders. If you don't, I won't just leave you behind. I will make sure you can't be followed.”
You stopped chewing. The threat was explicit, and entirely serious. You looked at the hulking, dangerous man you were chained to, realizing that the burger hadn't changed the reality of the situation.
You swallowed hard, placing the remaining half of your burger down on the paper wrapper. You wiped your mouth with a cheap napkin, your eyes holding his unwavering stare.
“Understood,” you said quietly. “Just... tell me when to move.”
August gave a single, curt nod, leaning back into the shadows of the booth, his eyes returning to the pub's entrance. The chain between you hummed softly, a constant, binding reminder that your night was far from over.
Warning- None for this part, age reveal of reader, banter.
You were being dragged. Not literally, but given the sheer disparity in your stride lengths and the absolute, terrifying urgency of the man you were chained to, it certainly felt like it.
The London rain had shifted from a miserable mist to a steady, freezing downpour, washing the soot and grit of the city directly into your eyes. You were stumbling through a labyrinth of narrow, garbage-strewn alleys somewhere behind Soho, tethered to a man who moved with the unstoppable, terrifying momentum of a military tank. The high-tech, magnetic chain linking your left wrist to his right hummed and whirred, extending a few feet when you inevitably lagged, then snapping taut and yanking you forward when the slack ran out.
Your entire world had been reduced to the agonizing burning in the balls of your feet, the soaked weight of your trench coat, and the broad, unyielding wall of expensive charcoal wool that was his back.
And you were losing your mind. As an editor, your primary coping mechanism for extreme stress was verbal diarrhea. You processed the world through words, and right now, the silence of this terrifying giant was more unnerving than the man who had held a gun to your head twenty minutes ago.
“So, what is the plan here?” you panted, dodging a puddle that looked suspiciously like an oil slick. “Are we walking to a secondary location? Is there a safe house? Because if we’re just power-walking around the West End until the sun comes up, I’m going to need to sit down. My arches are collapsing.”
The man didn't answer. He didn't even break his stride. His large right hand, the one cuffed to you, swung in a steady, militant rhythm.
“Hello? Are you deaf, or just exceptionally rude?” you snapped, your temper beginning to fray under the strain of exhaustion. “You can’t just abduct a civilian and give them the silent treatment. It’s bad form. It’s a terrible narrative arc. Frankly, if this were a manuscript, I’d reject it on page three for having an uncommunicative, one-dimensional protagonist.”
He took a sharp left turn down another alley, the chain zipping out and yanking your arm so hard your shoulder popped. You let out a very unladylike curse.
“Keep your voice down,” he grunted, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that barely carried over the sound of the rain. “And stop talking.”
“I will not stop talking! I am chained to a psychopath in a bespoke suit who just punched a man's teeth down his throat,” you fired back, hiking up your soaked coat to keep it out of the mud. “And calling you 'Mysterious Moustache Man' in my head is getting exhausting. It’s entirely too many syllables. 'Mys-te-ri-ous Mous-tache Man'. See? Seven syllables. It’s inefficient. What the fuck is your name?”
He stopped so suddenly that the chain retracted violently, slamming you directly into his back. You bounced off the solid wall of muscle and bone, clutching your nose.
He turned around slowly, towering over you in the gloom of the alleyway. The sparse light from a distant streetlamp caught the hard, flat angles of his face. He looked like murder incarnate. The thick chevron moustache over his upper lip, which you had to admit, was objectively magnificent, twitched slightly, the only sign that your constant yapping was grinding away at his iron-clad patience.
“You are a liability!” he said, the words heavy and cold. “You are an accident that got tangled in my operation. If you do not shut your mouth, I will gag you with your own scarf. Do you understand me?”
You glared up at him, wiping rain from your eyes, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You were terrified, yes, but the sheer absurdity of the threat sparked something deeply stubborn inside you.
“It’s a cashmere blend, so I’d really prefer you didn't.” you shot back, refusing to look away from those cold, dead eyes. “And honestly, you shouldn't be so sensitive. I wasn't insulting the moustache. It’s actually very impressive. It gives you a whole 1970s authoritarian, 'I could crush a skull with my bare hands' vibe. It works for you. But I still need a name. If I’m going to die in a damp alleyway, I’d like to know who to haunt.”
He stared at you. For a second, you genuinely thought he might hit you. His massive chest rose and fell with a slow, controlled breath, as if he were actively restraining the urge to throw you into a dumpster.
“Walker.” he finally growled, the single word dripping with absolute disdain. “August Walker.”
“August. Great. See, was that so fucking hard, August?” you huffed, shaking your wet hair out of your face.
Walker just turned and started walking again, his stride even faster this time, forcing you into a clumsy, agonizing jog.
For three more blocks, you tried to keep up. But human anatomy, specifically the anatomy forced into four-inch Christian Louboutin stiletto pumps, has its limits. The pain in your calves had gone from a dull ache to a sharp, stabbing fire, and your toes were completely numb.
With a defiant, frustrated cry, you threw your weight backward and slammed your feet onto the wet pavement, locking your knees.
The magnetic chain hissed out from Walker’s cuff. Three feet. Four feet. Till it hit the limit.
Walker was yanked backward. With his massive momentum, it was like a mastiff reaching the end of a leash. He stumbled half a step, let out a visceral, guttural snarl of pure rage, and whipped around.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Walker roared, stepping toward you, his massive frame closing the distance in a second. He grabbed the chain, his fist hovering inches from your face. “Move!”
“I can't!” you yelled back, pointing a shaking, rain-slicked finger down at your feet. “I physically cannot take another step in these! My feet are bleeding, Walker! I am literally walking on bloody stumps!”
Walker looked down at the sleek, pointed-toe heels. His expression was one of total, unadulterated disgust. “Then take them off and leave them. You don't need shoes to run.”
You gasped, genuinely offended, clutching your chest with your free hand. “Leave them? In a puddle? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“They are shoes!” Walker spat, his voice dropping into that terrifying, lethal register again. “Take them off, or I will break your ankles and drag you the rest of the way.”
“They are not just shoes, you uncultured, muscle-bound brute!” you screamed, your voice echoing off the brick walls. “These are Louboutins! Do you know how much these cost? They are a thousand-pound investment! I saved up for six months to buy these to celebrate my promotion! I am not abandoning them in a Soho gutter just because you’re having a bad day at the spy office!”
Walker looked at you as if you had just spoken to him in an alien dialect. He looked at the shoes, then back at your face, trying to compute the logic of a woman who was handcuffed to a CIA operative, fleeing heavily armed hostiles, and refusing to abandon a piece of footwear.
“You are insane.” he stated flatly.
“I am fiscally responsible!” you countered. With an angry groan, you reached down, fighting the tension of the cuff, and ripped the heels off your feet. You snatched them up by the straps, clutching the expensive leather to your chest like a newborn child.
You stood up, your stockinged feet sinking into a puddle of freezing, murky water. You shivered violently, the cold biting straight through to your bones, but you lifted your chin in defiance. “Fine. Let's go. But if I step on a syringe, I’m suing the CIA, or MI6, or whatever shadow organization pays for your custom-tailored suits.”
Walker let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, his eyes closed for a brief second as he prayed for the strength not to kill you. “Just... walk,” he muttered.
You began to walk, barefoot on the wet, unforgiving asphalt of London. It was miserable. Every pebble felt like a shard of glass, and the cold was seeping up your legs, making your teeth chatter. But you had your shoes.
Ten minutes later, the adrenaline crash hit you like a physical wall. The sheer terror of the gun to your head, the sprint through the rain, and the freezing cold combined into a hollow, gnawing ache in your gut. Your stomach let out a loud, drawn-out rumble that sounded like a dying whale.
Walker didn't even look back. “Keep your bodily functions to yourself.”
“I'm starving!” you announced, shivering violently now. “I need food. I need carbs. I haven't eaten anything since a sad desk salad at one o'clock, it didn’t even had cheese. If my blood sugar drops any lower, I’m going to pass out, and then you will have to drag me.”
Walker ignored you, his sharp eyes scanning the street as you finally emerged from the alleyway onto a slightly wider, dimly lit residential road. Cars were parked bumper-to-bumper along the curb.
“I'm serious, August. I will bite you.” you threatened, hobbling on the pavement.
Walker stopped abruptly beside an older, slightly battered black sedan. He glanced around the empty street, checking the windows of the flats above them. He pulled his right arm, bringing you close to the driver's side door, his eyes locked on the lock mechanism.
“We need a vehicle…” he muttered, reaching into his pocket with his left hand and pulling out a small, metallic device. He shoved it into the keyhole of the car door and forced it. A soft click echoed, and the door swung open.
“You're stealing a car?” you asked, leaning in close, temporarily distracted from your hunger. “That's illegal.”
Walker paused, slowly turning his head to look at you, his face a mask of absolute, withering disbelief. “I just broke a man’s jaw and shot up an alleyway. Do you think I give a shit about grand theft auto?”
“Fair point.” you conceded, clutching your shoes tighter.
Walker threw himself into the driver's seat, dragging you in after him. Because of the handcuffs, you were forced awkwardly into the passenger seat, the center console digging into your hip. Walker immediately reached under the steering column, his large hands working with brutal efficiency to rip the plastic paneling away. Wires tumbled out into his lap.
He looked at the wires, then looked over at you. His eyes were hard and calculating.
“I need both hands to hotwire this quickly, and I need to be ready to return fire if the Syndicate catches up.” Walker said, his voice clipped and serious. He gestured to the steering wheel. “Can you drive?”
You sat back in the passenger seat, your wet hair plastered to your face, your expensive shoes resting on your lap, and your stockinged feet covered in London grime. You looked at the steering wheel, then looked back at the giant, terrifying assassin who currently held your life in his very large, very capable hands.
You lifted your chin, a small, thoroughly inappropriate smile crossing your lips.
“Absolutely not.” you said proudly. “I’ve lived in London my whole life. I use the Tube.”
August froze. The wires slipped from his fingers. He slowly, deliberately turned his head to face you.
The glare he leveled at you wasn't just angry, it was apocalyptic. It was the look of a man who had faced warlords, terrorists, and global catastrophes, only to be utterly defeated by a sarcastic book editor who didn't possess a driver's license. The heavy silence in the stolen sedan stretched out, broken only by the steady drumming of the rain against the windshield and the soft, maddening hum of the magnetic handcuffs linking you together.
The silence inside the stolen sedan was absolute, heavy, and suffocating. Outside, the London rain continued to batter the roof, a relentless, drumming assault that matched the frantic, panicked rhythm of your heart. Inside, however, the air was completely stagnant.
August Walker had not moved a single muscle since you proudly declared your inability to operate a motor vehicle. He was frozen, his massive hands hovering over the exposed, tangled wires of the steering column. The dashboard lights cast a sickly, pale green glow across his face, highlighting the sharp, rigid angles of his jaw and the terrifying blankness in his eyes. He looked like a statue carved from pure, unadulterated rage.
You, on the other hand, were painfully, violently alive.
The adrenaline crash had fully set in, leaving you hollowed out, trembling, and hyper-aware of every miserable sensation in your body. Your trench coat was completely soaked through, clinging to your arms like a freezing second skin. Your bare feet, resting awkwardly on the floor mat, were covered in grit and icy puddle water. But the absolute worst part was your stockings.
The sheer, expensive nylons were torn at the knees, caked in mud, and plastered to your legs in a way that felt deeply, horribly violating. They were cold, they were wet, and they were driving you absolutely insane.
With a frustrated, exhausted sigh, you shifted in the cramped passenger seat. You couldn't take it anymore. The man chained to you might be having a terrifying internal aneurysm, but you were going to be comfortable while he did it.
You reached down with your free right hand, your fingers clumsy with the cold, and dug under the hem of your wet skirt.
His eyes finally snapped over to you, breaking his catatonic stare.
You ignored him. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of the ruined stockings and began to peel them down. It was an incredibly awkward maneuver, given that your left wrist was securely handcuffed to the right wrist of a giant, homicidal CIA operative. The high-tech, magnetic chain hummed softly as you tugged, stretching across the center console. You had to contort your hips, lifting your freezing feet one at a time, wrestling the wet, clinging nylon down your calves and over your ankles.
Finally, with a wet, squelching sound, you pulled the ruined fabric completely off. You held the balled-up, muddy mess of nylon between your fingers, letting out a violent, full-body shudder of pure disgust.
Without a second thought, you leaned over, pushed the passenger side door open a few inches with your shoulder, and aggressively chucked the ruined stockings out into the rainy street. They landed with a pathetic splat in a puddle. You pulled the door shut, wiping your hands on your wet coat, feeling a microscopic fraction of dignity return to you.
When you sat back up, August was staring at you.
He wasn't just looking; he was glaring. It was a look of such profound, withering judgment that it actually made you pause. His dark eyes tracked from the door you had just closed, down to your bare, freezing legs, and finally up to your face. The thick chevron mustache twitched above his upper lip, a subtle indicator of the monumental irritation boiling beneath his stoic exterior.
“What?” you demanded, your voice defensive and sharp. “They were wet and disgusting. I felt like I was wearing a swamp. Sue me for wanting basic bodily comfort while being held hostage!”
August didn’t blink. His chest expanded with a slow, deep breath, stretching the fabric of his damp, tailored suit.
“How old are you?” he asked. His voice was low, flat, and completely devoid of inflection. It wasn't a casual question; it sounded like an interrogation tactic.
You blinked, utterly taken aback. Of all the things you expected him to say, a threat, an insult, a command to get out of the car, this was the absolute last.
“How dare you!” you gasped dramatically, a hand flying to your chest. The sheer audacity of the man cut right through your exhaustion. “You abduct me, you drag me through the mud, you chain me to your wrist like a goddamn dog, and now you have the nerve to ask a woman her age? What is wrong with you? Did they skip basic social etiquette at spy school?”
Walker’s patience, already hanging by a microscopic thread, violently snapped.
With a sudden, aggressive movement that made you flinch, he reached entirely across the center console. You let out a startled yelp, shrinking back against the passenger door, thinking he was finally going to hit you. But his massive hand bypassed your body entirely, his thick fingers grabbing the leather strap of your open tote bag resting by your left hip.
“Hey! Get your hands off that!” you shouted, your protective instincts flaring. “That is private property!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Walker growled, his voice vibrating with lethal authority.
He yanked the bag toward him. Because your left hand was cuffed to his right, the movement yanked the magnetic chain taut, violently jerking your arm across the console and pulling you halfway out of your seat. You hissed in pain as the cuff bit into your skin, but Walker completely ignored your discomfort. He held the bag with his left hand and used his cuffed right hand to ruthlessly dig through your belongings, shoving aside waterlogged manuscripts, a crushed salad container, and a half-empty tube of expensive hand cream.
“Stop it! You pompous prick, give me my bag!” You grabbed his massive forearm with your free hand, digging your nails into his wet suit sleeve, trying to pry him away. It was like trying to wrestle a concrete pillar.
His fingers closed around your small leather wallet. He pulled it out, flipped it open with his thumb, and immediately pulled out your ID card. He dropped your bag onto the floorboard, letting the chain retract slightly so you could sit back, though you were breathing heavily with pure outrage.
He held the small plastic card up to the green glow of the dashboard lights. His eyes scanned the text, narrowing slightly.
“Thirty-five…” August read aloud, his tone flat, dropping the card into his lap. He turned his head slowly to look at you, his expression one of complete, baffled disgust. “You are thirty-five years old.”
“And thriving, thank you very much!” you snapped, crossing your arms, well, crossing one arm and laying the cuffed one awkwardly across your stomach. “What the hell does my age have to do with anything?”
“You are thirty-five years old...” Walker repeated, his voice rising a fraction of a decibel, “and you do not know how to operate a motor vehicle.”
“It's London!” you practically shrieked, throwing your free hand in the air. “The Tube is incredibly efficient! Driving in this city is an absolute environmental and logistical nightmare, the traffic is medieval, and parking costs more than my monthly rent! Why the fuck would I own a car? I take the Jubilee line like a normal, civilized human being!”
“Civilized?” Walker scoffed, a dark, ugly sound. “You are thirty-five, completely helpless, and a massive liability. If you could drive, I could hotwire this ignition in sixty seconds while you prepped the vehicle. Now, I have to do both, one-handed, while watching for the heavily armed hostiles who are currently hunting us.”
“Well, I am so sorry my lack of driving skills is inconveniencing your highly illegal international shootout!” you fired back, your temper completely exploding. “Maybe if you hadn't let some twitchy lunatic handcuff us together, you wouldn't be in this situation! You’re supposed to be this giant, badass agent, and you got outplayed by a guy in a dirty tracksuit!”
Walker’s jaw clenched so hard you heard his teeth grind. “I will literally break your neck and leave you in this seat.”
“Do it! I dare you!” you yelled, completely losing your mind to the stress. “At least I wouldn't be hungry anymore!”
You violently turned around in your seat, turning your back to him to face the passenger window. As you did, you aggressively yanked your left arm, pulling his cuffed right hand hard against the center console.
“Ow! Dammit!” you muttered as the cuff pinched, but you refused to turn back around. “You are incredibly rude, you are totally unhinged, and I am done with this! Take me home. Right now. I want to go to my flat, I want to take a hot shower, and I want to forget I ever met your stupid, moustachioed face.”
The silence returned to the car, thick and volatile. You stared out the rain-streaked window, your chest heaving, waiting for him to retaliate, to hit you, to yell.
Instead, there was just the sound of a heavy, exhausted exhale.
“I can't take you home!” Walker said, his voice stripped of its anger, leaving only a cold, blunt reality. “The men I am hunting saw you. They saw my face, they saw yours. By now, they’ve run your biometrics from street cameras. If you go back to your flat, you will be dead before morning.”
Your breath hitched. The anger evaporated, replaced by a sudden, freezing spike of pure terror. You slowly turned your head to look over your shoulder at him.
Walker wasn't glaring anymore. He was just looking at you, his face a grim mask of absolute certainty. He reached down, grabbed your wallet, and tossed it into your lap.
“We are abandoning the vehicle,” Walker stated, his tone shifting back to tactical efficiency. “Without two hands, it takes too long. We are exposed here. We need to move to a secure location where I can sever this chain.”
“Move where?” your voice was small, the fight completely drained out of you. “I can't walk anymore, August. I really can't. And I'm so hungry my hands are shaking. If I don't eat something, I am going to faint. And then you are going to have one hundred and forty pounds of dead weight attached to your wrist.”
Walker stared at you for a long, calculating moment. He looked at your shaking hands, your pale face, and the desperate, exhausted set of your jaw. He let out a low grunt that sounded remarkably like a curse.
“Fine,” he snapped, shoving the car door open. “Get out.”
Fifteen minutes later, the chaotic, terrifying reality of your life had been reduced to the greasy confines of a dimly lit, profoundly depressing pub on the edge of Soho. The establishment smelled strongly of stale ale, bleach, and decades of bad decisions. The few patrons scattered in the booths looked like they wouldn't blink if a murder happened on the sticky wooden floor, which made it the perfect place to hide.
You were sitting in a dark corner booth, shoved tight against the wall. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you were quiet.
You had a massive, greasy double cheeseburger in your right hand, and you were eating it with a feral, unapologetic intensity. Grease dripped down your chin, and you didn't care. The hot, salty rush of calories was hitting your system like a drug, pulling you back from the edge of passing out.
Across the small, sticky table sat August Walker.
He was not eating. He was not drinking. He was sitting completely rigid, his massive shoulders taking up the entire width of the booth, his eyes sweeping the pub with predatory, unblinking focus. His left hand rested flat on the table, near the heavy lump in his jacket where you knew his gun was hidden. His right hand was extended across the table, tethered to your left wrist by the shimmering, high-tech magnetic chain.
You took another massive bite of the burger, moaning softly at the taste of the sharp cheddar and charred beef. You reached out with your right hand, grabbed a handful of soggy, oil-soaked chips, and shoved them into your mouth.
Walker’s eyes snapped from the front door to you. He watched you eat, his expression a mixture of profound disgust and reluctant acceptance.
“Are you finished inhaling that?” Walker asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble across the table.
You chewed methodically, swallowing the massive bite before looking at him. The food had worked a miracle. Your blood sugar had stabilized, the shaking had stopped, and your usual, sassy demeanor was slowly filtering back in. Now that you weren't actively fearing for your immediate life in an alleyway, you were feeling incredibly cooperative. Well, just a little.
“Not quite,” you said, licking a smear of ketchup off your thumb. “It’s actually fucking fantastic. You really should have ordered one. It might help with your deeply ingrained hostility issues.”
August narrowed his eyes, the heavy moustache lowering as his jaw set. “My hostility issues are currently keeping you breathing, darling.”
“Fair point.” you conceded, taking a sip from a pint of lukewarm water the heavily tattooed bartender had slammed down earlier. You tapped the metallic cuff on your left wrist with your index finger. It made a sharp clink against the wood. “So, what's the play, Walker? I'm fed, I'm resting my bare, battered feet, and I have accepted that I am temporarily a fugitive from justice. You said we needed a secure location to cut this thing off. Does this pub have a secret underground spy lair, or are we just waiting for someone to come shoot us?”
August leaned forward slightly, the chain slacking between you. His dark eyes locked onto yours, completely devoid of any humor.
“We are waiting for my extraction team to verify a clean route...” he said softly, the gravel in his voice scraping against the ambient noise of the pub. “And once they do, you are going to stand up, you are going to keep your mouth shut, and you are going to follow my exact orders. If you don't, I won't just leave you behind. I will make sure you can't be followed.”
You stopped chewing. The threat was explicit, and entirely serious. You looked at the hulking, dangerous man you were chained to, realizing that the burger hadn't changed the reality of the situation.
You swallowed hard, placing the remaining half of your burger down on the paper wrapper. You wiped your mouth with a cheap napkin, your eyes holding his unwavering stare.
“Understood,” you said quietly. “Just... tell me when to move.”
August gave a single, curt nod, leaning back into the shadows of the booth, his eyes returning to the pub's entrance. The chain between you hummed softly, a constant, binding reminder that your night was far from over.
Getting your heart broken when you're a writer is genuinely the worst best thing that can happen to you. at the time you are on the floor. you are not okay. nothing is okay. and then six months later you are writing a scene and your hands just know exactly what it feels like when someone leaves a room and takes the air with them. you didn't have to imagine it. you just had to survive it first.
Warning- None for this part, age reveal of reader, banter.
You were being dragged. Not literally, but given the sheer disparity in your stride lengths and the absolute, terrifying urgency of the man you were chained to, it certainly felt like it.
The London rain had shifted from a miserable mist to a steady, freezing downpour, washing the soot and grit of the city directly into your eyes. You were stumbling through a labyrinth of narrow, garbage-strewn alleys somewhere behind Soho, tethered to a man who moved with the unstoppable, terrifying momentum of a military tank. The high-tech, magnetic chain linking your left wrist to his right hummed and whirred, extending a few feet when you inevitably lagged, then snapping taut and yanking you forward when the slack ran out.
Your entire world had been reduced to the agonizing burning in the balls of your feet, the soaked weight of your trench coat, and the broad, unyielding wall of expensive charcoal wool that was his back.
And you were losing your mind. As an editor, your primary coping mechanism for extreme stress was verbal diarrhea. You processed the world through words, and right now, the silence of this terrifying giant was more unnerving than the man who had held a gun to your head twenty minutes ago.
“So, what is the plan here?” you panted, dodging a puddle that looked suspiciously like an oil slick. “Are we walking to a secondary location? Is there a safe house? Because if we’re just power-walking around the West End until the sun comes up, I’m going to need to sit down. My arches are collapsing.”
The man didn't answer. He didn't even break his stride. His large right hand, the one cuffed to you, swung in a steady, militant rhythm.
“Hello? Are you deaf, or just exceptionally rude?” you snapped, your temper beginning to fray under the strain of exhaustion. “You can’t just abduct a civilian and give them the silent treatment. It’s bad form. It’s a terrible narrative arc. Frankly, if this were a manuscript, I’d reject it on page three for having an uncommunicative, one-dimensional protagonist.”
He took a sharp left turn down another alley, the chain zipping out and yanking your arm so hard your shoulder popped. You let out a very unladylike curse.
“Keep your voice down,” he grunted, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that barely carried over the sound of the rain. “And stop talking.”
“I will not stop talking! I am chained to a psychopath in a bespoke suit who just punched a man's teeth down his throat,” you fired back, hiking up your soaked coat to keep it out of the mud. “And calling you 'Mysterious Moustache Man' in my head is getting exhausting. It’s entirely too many syllables. 'Mys-te-ri-ous Mous-tache Man'. See? Seven syllables. It’s inefficient. What the fuck is your name?”
He stopped so suddenly that the chain retracted violently, slamming you directly into his back. You bounced off the solid wall of muscle and bone, clutching your nose.
He turned around slowly, towering over you in the gloom of the alleyway. The sparse light from a distant streetlamp caught the hard, flat angles of his face. He looked like murder incarnate. The thick chevron moustache over his upper lip, which you had to admit, was objectively magnificent, twitched slightly, the only sign that your constant yapping was grinding away at his iron-clad patience.
“You are a liability!” he said, the words heavy and cold. “You are an accident that got tangled in my operation. If you do not shut your mouth, I will gag you with your own scarf. Do you understand me?”
You glared up at him, wiping rain from your eyes, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You were terrified, yes, but the sheer absurdity of the threat sparked something deeply stubborn inside you.
“It’s a cashmere blend, so I’d really prefer you didn't.” you shot back, refusing to look away from those cold, dead eyes. “And honestly, you shouldn't be so sensitive. I wasn't insulting the moustache. It’s actually very impressive. It gives you a whole 1970s authoritarian, 'I could crush a skull with my bare hands' vibe. It works for you. But I still need a name. If I’m going to die in a damp alleyway, I’d like to know who to haunt.”
He stared at you. For a second, you genuinely thought he might hit you. His massive chest rose and fell with a slow, controlled breath, as if he were actively restraining the urge to throw you into a dumpster.
“Walker.” he finally growled, the single word dripping with absolute disdain. “August Walker.”
“August. Great. See, was that so fucking hard, August?” you huffed, shaking your wet hair out of your face.
Walker just turned and started walking again, his stride even faster this time, forcing you into a clumsy, agonizing jog.
For three more blocks, you tried to keep up. But human anatomy, specifically the anatomy forced into four-inch Christian Louboutin stiletto pumps, has its limits. The pain in your calves had gone from a dull ache to a sharp, stabbing fire, and your toes were completely numb.
With a defiant, frustrated cry, you threw your weight backward and slammed your feet onto the wet pavement, locking your knees.
The magnetic chain hissed out from Walker’s cuff. Three feet. Four feet. Till it hit the limit.
Walker was yanked backward. With his massive momentum, it was like a mastiff reaching the end of a leash. He stumbled half a step, let out a visceral, guttural snarl of pure rage, and whipped around.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Walker roared, stepping toward you, his massive frame closing the distance in a second. He grabbed the chain, his fist hovering inches from your face. “Move!”
“I can't!” you yelled back, pointing a shaking, rain-slicked finger down at your feet. “I physically cannot take another step in these! My feet are bleeding, Walker! I am literally walking on bloody stumps!”
Walker looked down at the sleek, pointed-toe heels. His expression was one of total, unadulterated disgust. “Then take them off and leave them. You don't need shoes to run.”
You gasped, genuinely offended, clutching your chest with your free hand. “Leave them? In a puddle? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“They are shoes!” Walker spat, his voice dropping into that terrifying, lethal register again. “Take them off, or I will break your ankles and drag you the rest of the way.”
“They are not just shoes, you uncultured, muscle-bound brute!” you screamed, your voice echoing off the brick walls. “These are Louboutins! Do you know how much these cost? They are a thousand-pound investment! I saved up for six months to buy these to celebrate my promotion! I am not abandoning them in a Soho gutter just because you’re having a bad day at the spy office!”
Walker looked at you as if you had just spoken to him in an alien dialect. He looked at the shoes, then back at your face, trying to compute the logic of a woman who was handcuffed to a CIA operative, fleeing heavily armed hostiles, and refusing to abandon a piece of footwear.
“You are insane.” he stated flatly.
“I am fiscally responsible!” you countered. With an angry groan, you reached down, fighting the tension of the cuff, and ripped the heels off your feet. You snatched them up by the straps, clutching the expensive leather to your chest like a newborn child.
You stood up, your stockinged feet sinking into a puddle of freezing, murky water. You shivered violently, the cold biting straight through to your bones, but you lifted your chin in defiance. “Fine. Let's go. But if I step on a syringe, I’m suing the CIA, or MI6, or whatever shadow organization pays for your custom-tailored suits.”
Walker let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, his eyes closed for a brief second as he prayed for the strength not to kill you. “Just... walk,” he muttered.
You began to walk, barefoot on the wet, unforgiving asphalt of London. It was miserable. Every pebble felt like a shard of glass, and the cold was seeping up your legs, making your teeth chatter. But you had your shoes.
Ten minutes later, the adrenaline crash hit you like a physical wall. The sheer terror of the gun to your head, the sprint through the rain, and the freezing cold combined into a hollow, gnawing ache in your gut. Your stomach let out a loud, drawn-out rumble that sounded like a dying whale.
Walker didn't even look back. “Keep your bodily functions to yourself.”
“I'm starving!” you announced, shivering violently now. “I need food. I need carbs. I haven't eaten anything since a sad desk salad at one o'clock, it didn’t even had cheese. If my blood sugar drops any lower, I’m going to pass out, and then you will have to drag me.”
Walker ignored you, his sharp eyes scanning the street as you finally emerged from the alleyway onto a slightly wider, dimly lit residential road. Cars were parked bumper-to-bumper along the curb.
“I'm serious, August. I will bite you.” you threatened, hobbling on the pavement.
Walker stopped abruptly beside an older, slightly battered black sedan. He glanced around the empty street, checking the windows of the flats above them. He pulled his right arm, bringing you close to the driver's side door, his eyes locked on the lock mechanism.
“We need a vehicle…” he muttered, reaching into his pocket with his left hand and pulling out a small, metallic device. He shoved it into the keyhole of the car door and forced it. A soft click echoed, and the door swung open.
“You're stealing a car?” you asked, leaning in close, temporarily distracted from your hunger. “That's illegal.”
Walker paused, slowly turning his head to look at you, his face a mask of absolute, withering disbelief. “I just broke a man’s jaw and shot up an alleyway. Do you think I give a shit about grand theft auto?”
“Fair point.” you conceded, clutching your shoes tighter.
Walker threw himself into the driver's seat, dragging you in after him. Because of the handcuffs, you were forced awkwardly into the passenger seat, the center console digging into your hip. Walker immediately reached under the steering column, his large hands working with brutal efficiency to rip the plastic paneling away. Wires tumbled out into his lap.
He looked at the wires, then looked over at you. His eyes were hard and calculating.
“I need both hands to hotwire this quickly, and I need to be ready to return fire if the Syndicate catches up.” Walker said, his voice clipped and serious. He gestured to the steering wheel. “Can you drive?”
You sat back in the passenger seat, your wet hair plastered to your face, your expensive shoes resting on your lap, and your stockinged feet covered in London grime. You looked at the steering wheel, then looked back at the giant, terrifying assassin who currently held your life in his very large, very capable hands.
You lifted your chin, a small, thoroughly inappropriate smile crossing your lips.
“Absolutely not.” you said proudly. “I’ve lived in London my whole life. I use the Tube.”
August froze. The wires slipped from his fingers. He slowly, deliberately turned his head to face you.
The glare he leveled at you wasn't just angry, it was apocalyptic. It was the look of a man who had faced warlords, terrorists, and global catastrophes, only to be utterly defeated by a sarcastic book editor who didn't possess a driver's license. The heavy silence in the stolen sedan stretched out, broken only by the steady drumming of the rain against the windshield and the soft, maddening hum of the magnetic handcuffs linking you together.
The silence inside the stolen sedan was absolute, heavy, and suffocating. Outside, the London rain continued to batter the roof, a relentless, drumming assault that matched the frantic, panicked rhythm of your heart. Inside, however, the air was completely stagnant.
August Walker had not moved a single muscle since you proudly declared your inability to operate a motor vehicle. He was frozen, his massive hands hovering over the exposed, tangled wires of the steering column. The dashboard lights cast a sickly, pale green glow across his face, highlighting the sharp, rigid angles of his jaw and the terrifying blankness in his eyes. He looked like a statue carved from pure, unadulterated rage.
You, on the other hand, were painfully, violently alive.
The adrenaline crash had fully set in, leaving you hollowed out, trembling, and hyper-aware of every miserable sensation in your body. Your trench coat was completely soaked through, clinging to your arms like a freezing second skin. Your bare feet, resting awkwardly on the floor mat, were covered in grit and icy puddle water. But the absolute worst part was your stockings.
The sheer, expensive nylons were torn at the knees, caked in mud, and plastered to your legs in a way that felt deeply, horribly violating. They were cold, they were wet, and they were driving you absolutely insane.
With a frustrated, exhausted sigh, you shifted in the cramped passenger seat. You couldn't take it anymore. The man chained to you might be having a terrifying internal aneurysm, but you were going to be comfortable while he did it.
You reached down with your free right hand, your fingers clumsy with the cold, and dug under the hem of your wet skirt.
His eyes finally snapped over to you, breaking his catatonic stare.
You ignored him. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of the ruined stockings and began to peel them down. It was an incredibly awkward maneuver, given that your left wrist was securely handcuffed to the right wrist of a giant, homicidal CIA operative. The high-tech, magnetic chain hummed softly as you tugged, stretching across the center console. You had to contort your hips, lifting your freezing feet one at a time, wrestling the wet, clinging nylon down your calves and over your ankles.
Finally, with a wet, squelching sound, you pulled the ruined fabric completely off. You held the balled-up, muddy mess of nylon between your fingers, letting out a violent, full-body shudder of pure disgust.
Without a second thought, you leaned over, pushed the passenger side door open a few inches with your shoulder, and aggressively chucked the ruined stockings out into the rainy street. They landed with a pathetic splat in a puddle. You pulled the door shut, wiping your hands on your wet coat, feeling a microscopic fraction of dignity return to you.
When you sat back up, August was staring at you.
He wasn't just looking; he was glaring. It was a look of such profound, withering judgment that it actually made you pause. His dark eyes tracked from the door you had just closed, down to your bare, freezing legs, and finally up to your face. The thick chevron mustache twitched above his upper lip, a subtle indicator of the monumental irritation boiling beneath his stoic exterior.
“What?” you demanded, your voice defensive and sharp. “They were wet and disgusting. I felt like I was wearing a swamp. Sue me for wanting basic bodily comfort while being held hostage!”
August didn’t blink. His chest expanded with a slow, deep breath, stretching the fabric of his damp, tailored suit.
“How old are you?” he asked. His voice was low, flat, and completely devoid of inflection. It wasn't a casual question; it sounded like an interrogation tactic.
You blinked, utterly taken aback. Of all the things you expected him to say, a threat, an insult, a command to get out of the car, this was the absolute last.
“How dare you!” you gasped dramatically, a hand flying to your chest. The sheer audacity of the man cut right through your exhaustion. “You abduct me, you drag me through the mud, you chain me to your wrist like a goddamn dog, and now you have the nerve to ask a woman her age? What is wrong with you? Did they skip basic social etiquette at spy school?”
Walker’s patience, already hanging by a microscopic thread, violently snapped.
With a sudden, aggressive movement that made you flinch, he reached entirely across the center console. You let out a startled yelp, shrinking back against the passenger door, thinking he was finally going to hit you. But his massive hand bypassed your body entirely, his thick fingers grabbing the leather strap of your open tote bag resting by your left hip.
“Hey! Get your hands off that!” you shouted, your protective instincts flaring. “That is private property!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Walker growled, his voice vibrating with lethal authority.
He yanked the bag toward him. Because your left hand was cuffed to his right, the movement yanked the magnetic chain taut, violently jerking your arm across the console and pulling you halfway out of your seat. You hissed in pain as the cuff bit into your skin, but Walker completely ignored your discomfort. He held the bag with his left hand and used his cuffed right hand to ruthlessly dig through your belongings, shoving aside waterlogged manuscripts, a crushed salad container, and a half-empty tube of expensive hand cream.
“Stop it! You pompous prick, give me my bag!” You grabbed his massive forearm with your free hand, digging your nails into his wet suit sleeve, trying to pry him away. It was like trying to wrestle a concrete pillar.
His fingers closed around your small leather wallet. He pulled it out, flipped it open with his thumb, and immediately pulled out your ID card. He dropped your bag onto the floorboard, letting the chain retract slightly so you could sit back, though you were breathing heavily with pure outrage.
He held the small plastic card up to the green glow of the dashboard lights. His eyes scanned the text, narrowing slightly.
“Thirty-five…” August read aloud, his tone flat, dropping the card into his lap. He turned his head slowly to look at you, his expression one of complete, baffled disgust. “You are thirty-five years old.”
“And thriving, thank you very much!” you snapped, crossing your arms, well, crossing one arm and laying the cuffed one awkwardly across your stomach. “What the hell does my age have to do with anything?”
“You are thirty-five years old...” Walker repeated, his voice rising a fraction of a decibel, “and you do not know how to operate a motor vehicle.”
“It's London!” you practically shrieked, throwing your free hand in the air. “The Tube is incredibly efficient! Driving in this city is an absolute environmental and logistical nightmare, the traffic is medieval, and parking costs more than my monthly rent! Why the fuck would I own a car? I take the Jubilee line like a normal, civilized human being!”
“Civilized?” Walker scoffed, a dark, ugly sound. “You are thirty-five, completely helpless, and a massive liability. If you could drive, I could hotwire this ignition in sixty seconds while you prepped the vehicle. Now, I have to do both, one-handed, while watching for the heavily armed hostiles who are currently hunting us.”
“Well, I am so sorry my lack of driving skills is inconveniencing your highly illegal international shootout!” you fired back, your temper completely exploding. “Maybe if you hadn't let some twitchy lunatic handcuff us together, you wouldn't be in this situation! You’re supposed to be this giant, badass agent, and you got outplayed by a guy in a dirty tracksuit!”
Walker’s jaw clenched so hard you heard his teeth grind. “I will literally break your neck and leave you in this seat.”
“Do it! I dare you!” you yelled, completely losing your mind to the stress. “At least I wouldn't be hungry anymore!”
You violently turned around in your seat, turning your back to him to face the passenger window. As you did, you aggressively yanked your left arm, pulling his cuffed right hand hard against the center console.
“Ow! Dammit!” you muttered as the cuff pinched, but you refused to turn back around. “You are incredibly rude, you are totally unhinged, and I am done with this! Take me home. Right now. I want to go to my flat, I want to take a hot shower, and I want to forget I ever met your stupid, moustachioed face.”
The silence returned to the car, thick and volatile. You stared out the rain-streaked window, your chest heaving, waiting for him to retaliate, to hit you, to yell.
Instead, there was just the sound of a heavy, exhausted exhale.
“I can't take you home!” Walker said, his voice stripped of its anger, leaving only a cold, blunt reality. “The men I am hunting saw you. They saw my face, they saw yours. By now, they’ve run your biometrics from street cameras. If you go back to your flat, you will be dead before morning.”
Your breath hitched. The anger evaporated, replaced by a sudden, freezing spike of pure terror. You slowly turned your head to look over your shoulder at him.
Walker wasn't glaring anymore. He was just looking at you, his face a grim mask of absolute certainty. He reached down, grabbed your wallet, and tossed it into your lap.
“We are abandoning the vehicle,” Walker stated, his tone shifting back to tactical efficiency. “Without two hands, it takes too long. We are exposed here. We need to move to a secure location where I can sever this chain.”
“Move where?” your voice was small, the fight completely drained out of you. “I can't walk anymore, August. I really can't. And I'm so hungry my hands are shaking. If I don't eat something, I am going to faint. And then you are going to have one hundred and forty pounds of dead weight attached to your wrist.”
Walker stared at you for a long, calculating moment. He looked at your shaking hands, your pale face, and the desperate, exhausted set of your jaw. He let out a low grunt that sounded remarkably like a curse.
“Fine,” he snapped, shoving the car door open. “Get out.”
Fifteen minutes later, the chaotic, terrifying reality of your life had been reduced to the greasy confines of a dimly lit, profoundly depressing pub on the edge of Soho. The establishment smelled strongly of stale ale, bleach, and decades of bad decisions. The few patrons scattered in the booths looked like they wouldn't blink if a murder happened on the sticky wooden floor, which made it the perfect place to hide.
You were sitting in a dark corner booth, shoved tight against the wall. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you were quiet.
You had a massive, greasy double cheeseburger in your right hand, and you were eating it with a feral, unapologetic intensity. Grease dripped down your chin, and you didn't care. The hot, salty rush of calories was hitting your system like a drug, pulling you back from the edge of passing out.
Across the small, sticky table sat August Walker.
He was not eating. He was not drinking. He was sitting completely rigid, his massive shoulders taking up the entire width of the booth, his eyes sweeping the pub with predatory, unblinking focus. His left hand rested flat on the table, near the heavy lump in his jacket where you knew his gun was hidden. His right hand was extended across the table, tethered to your left wrist by the shimmering, high-tech magnetic chain.
You took another massive bite of the burger, moaning softly at the taste of the sharp cheddar and charred beef. You reached out with your right hand, grabbed a handful of soggy, oil-soaked chips, and shoved them into your mouth.
Walker’s eyes snapped from the front door to you. He watched you eat, his expression a mixture of profound disgust and reluctant acceptance.
“Are you finished inhaling that?” Walker asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble across the table.
You chewed methodically, swallowing the massive bite before looking at him. The food had worked a miracle. Your blood sugar had stabilized, the shaking had stopped, and your usual, sassy demeanor was slowly filtering back in. Now that you weren't actively fearing for your immediate life in an alleyway, you were feeling incredibly cooperative. Well, just a little.
“Not quite,” you said, licking a smear of ketchup off your thumb. “It’s actually fucking fantastic. You really should have ordered one. It might help with your deeply ingrained hostility issues.”
August narrowed his eyes, the heavy moustache lowering as his jaw set. “My hostility issues are currently keeping you breathing, darling.”
“Fair point.” you conceded, taking a sip from a pint of lukewarm water the heavily tattooed bartender had slammed down earlier. You tapped the metallic cuff on your left wrist with your index finger. It made a sharp clink against the wood. “So, what's the play, Walker? I'm fed, I'm resting my bare, battered feet, and I have accepted that I am temporarily a fugitive from justice. You said we needed a secure location to cut this thing off. Does this pub have a secret underground spy lair, or are we just waiting for someone to come shoot us?”
August leaned forward slightly, the chain slacking between you. His dark eyes locked onto yours, completely devoid of any humor.
“We are waiting for my extraction team to verify a clean route...” he said softly, the gravel in his voice scraping against the ambient noise of the pub. “And once they do, you are going to stand up, you are going to keep your mouth shut, and you are going to follow my exact orders. If you don't, I won't just leave you behind. I will make sure you can't be followed.”
You stopped chewing. The threat was explicit, and entirely serious. You looked at the hulking, dangerous man you were chained to, realizing that the burger hadn't changed the reality of the situation.
You swallowed hard, placing the remaining half of your burger down on the paper wrapper. You wiped your mouth with a cheap napkin, your eyes holding his unwavering stare.
“Understood,” you said quietly. “Just... tell me when to move.”
August gave a single, curt nod, leaning back into the shadows of the booth, his eyes returning to the pub's entrance. The chain between you hummed softly, a constant, binding reminder that your night was far from over.
Warning- None for this part, age reveal of reader, banter.
You were being dragged. Not literally, but given the sheer disparity in your stride lengths and the absolute, terrifying urgency of the man you were chained to, it certainly felt like it.
The London rain had shifted from a miserable mist to a steady, freezing downpour, washing the soot and grit of the city directly into your eyes. You were stumbling through a labyrinth of narrow, garbage-strewn alleys somewhere behind Soho, tethered to a man who moved with the unstoppable, terrifying momentum of a military tank. The high-tech, magnetic chain linking your left wrist to his right hummed and whirred, extending a few feet when you inevitably lagged, then snapping taut and yanking you forward when the slack ran out.
Your entire world had been reduced to the agonizing burning in the balls of your feet, the soaked weight of your trench coat, and the broad, unyielding wall of expensive charcoal wool that was his back.
And you were losing your mind. As an editor, your primary coping mechanism for extreme stress was verbal diarrhea. You processed the world through words, and right now, the silence of this terrifying giant was more unnerving than the man who had held a gun to your head twenty minutes ago.
“So, what is the plan here?” you panted, dodging a puddle that looked suspiciously like an oil slick. “Are we walking to a secondary location? Is there a safe house? Because if we’re just power-walking around the West End until the sun comes up, I’m going to need to sit down. My arches are collapsing.”
The man didn't answer. He didn't even break his stride. His large right hand, the one cuffed to you, swung in a steady, militant rhythm.
“Hello? Are you deaf, or just exceptionally rude?” you snapped, your temper beginning to fray under the strain of exhaustion. “You can’t just abduct a civilian and give them the silent treatment. It’s bad form. It’s a terrible narrative arc. Frankly, if this were a manuscript, I’d reject it on page three for having an uncommunicative, one-dimensional protagonist.”
He took a sharp left turn down another alley, the chain zipping out and yanking your arm so hard your shoulder popped. You let out a very unladylike curse.
“Keep your voice down,” he grunted, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that barely carried over the sound of the rain. “And stop talking.”
“I will not stop talking! I am chained to a psychopath in a bespoke suit who just punched a man's teeth down his throat,” you fired back, hiking up your soaked coat to keep it out of the mud. “And calling you 'Mysterious Moustache Man' in my head is getting exhausting. It’s entirely too many syllables. 'Mys-te-ri-ous Mous-tache Man'. See? Seven syllables. It’s inefficient. What the fuck is your name?”
He stopped so suddenly that the chain retracted violently, slamming you directly into his back. You bounced off the solid wall of muscle and bone, clutching your nose.
He turned around slowly, towering over you in the gloom of the alleyway. The sparse light from a distant streetlamp caught the hard, flat angles of his face. He looked like murder incarnate. The thick chevron moustache over his upper lip, which you had to admit, was objectively magnificent, twitched slightly, the only sign that your constant yapping was grinding away at his iron-clad patience.
“You are a liability!” he said, the words heavy and cold. “You are an accident that got tangled in my operation. If you do not shut your mouth, I will gag you with your own scarf. Do you understand me?”
You glared up at him, wiping rain from your eyes, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You were terrified, yes, but the sheer absurdity of the threat sparked something deeply stubborn inside you.
“It’s a cashmere blend, so I’d really prefer you didn't.” you shot back, refusing to look away from those cold, dead eyes. “And honestly, you shouldn't be so sensitive. I wasn't insulting the moustache. It’s actually very impressive. It gives you a whole 1970s authoritarian, 'I could crush a skull with my bare hands' vibe. It works for you. But I still need a name. If I’m going to die in a damp alleyway, I’d like to know who to haunt.”
He stared at you. For a second, you genuinely thought he might hit you. His massive chest rose and fell with a slow, controlled breath, as if he were actively restraining the urge to throw you into a dumpster.
“Walker.” he finally growled, the single word dripping with absolute disdain. “August Walker.”
“August. Great. See, was that so fucking hard, August?” you huffed, shaking your wet hair out of your face.
Walker just turned and started walking again, his stride even faster this time, forcing you into a clumsy, agonizing jog.
For three more blocks, you tried to keep up. But human anatomy, specifically the anatomy forced into four-inch Christian Louboutin stiletto pumps, has its limits. The pain in your calves had gone from a dull ache to a sharp, stabbing fire, and your toes were completely numb.
With a defiant, frustrated cry, you threw your weight backward and slammed your feet onto the wet pavement, locking your knees.
The magnetic chain hissed out from Walker’s cuff. Three feet. Four feet. Till it hit the limit.
Walker was yanked backward. With his massive momentum, it was like a mastiff reaching the end of a leash. He stumbled half a step, let out a visceral, guttural snarl of pure rage, and whipped around.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Walker roared, stepping toward you, his massive frame closing the distance in a second. He grabbed the chain, his fist hovering inches from your face. “Move!”
“I can't!” you yelled back, pointing a shaking, rain-slicked finger down at your feet. “I physically cannot take another step in these! My feet are bleeding, Walker! I am literally walking on bloody stumps!”
Walker looked down at the sleek, pointed-toe heels. His expression was one of total, unadulterated disgust. “Then take them off and leave them. You don't need shoes to run.”
You gasped, genuinely offended, clutching your chest with your free hand. “Leave them? In a puddle? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“They are shoes!” Walker spat, his voice dropping into that terrifying, lethal register again. “Take them off, or I will break your ankles and drag you the rest of the way.”
“They are not just shoes, you uncultured, muscle-bound brute!” you screamed, your voice echoing off the brick walls. “These are Louboutins! Do you know how much these cost? They are a thousand-pound investment! I saved up for six months to buy these to celebrate my promotion! I am not abandoning them in a Soho gutter just because you’re having a bad day at the spy office!”
Walker looked at you as if you had just spoken to him in an alien dialect. He looked at the shoes, then back at your face, trying to compute the logic of a woman who was handcuffed to a CIA operative, fleeing heavily armed hostiles, and refusing to abandon a piece of footwear.
“You are insane.” he stated flatly.
“I am fiscally responsible!” you countered. With an angry groan, you reached down, fighting the tension of the cuff, and ripped the heels off your feet. You snatched them up by the straps, clutching the expensive leather to your chest like a newborn child.
You stood up, your stockinged feet sinking into a puddle of freezing, murky water. You shivered violently, the cold biting straight through to your bones, but you lifted your chin in defiance. “Fine. Let's go. But if I step on a syringe, I’m suing the CIA, or MI6, or whatever shadow organization pays for your custom-tailored suits.”
Walker let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, his eyes closed for a brief second as he prayed for the strength not to kill you. “Just... walk,” he muttered.
You began to walk, barefoot on the wet, unforgiving asphalt of London. It was miserable. Every pebble felt like a shard of glass, and the cold was seeping up your legs, making your teeth chatter. But you had your shoes.
Ten minutes later, the adrenaline crash hit you like a physical wall. The sheer terror of the gun to your head, the sprint through the rain, and the freezing cold combined into a hollow, gnawing ache in your gut. Your stomach let out a loud, drawn-out rumble that sounded like a dying whale.
Walker didn't even look back. “Keep your bodily functions to yourself.”
“I'm starving!” you announced, shivering violently now. “I need food. I need carbs. I haven't eaten anything since a sad desk salad at one o'clock, it didn’t even had cheese. If my blood sugar drops any lower, I’m going to pass out, and then you will have to drag me.”
Walker ignored you, his sharp eyes scanning the street as you finally emerged from the alleyway onto a slightly wider, dimly lit residential road. Cars were parked bumper-to-bumper along the curb.
“I'm serious, August. I will bite you.” you threatened, hobbling on the pavement.
Walker stopped abruptly beside an older, slightly battered black sedan. He glanced around the empty street, checking the windows of the flats above them. He pulled his right arm, bringing you close to the driver's side door, his eyes locked on the lock mechanism.
“We need a vehicle…” he muttered, reaching into his pocket with his left hand and pulling out a small, metallic device. He shoved it into the keyhole of the car door and forced it. A soft click echoed, and the door swung open.
“You're stealing a car?” you asked, leaning in close, temporarily distracted from your hunger. “That's illegal.”
Walker paused, slowly turning his head to look at you, his face a mask of absolute, withering disbelief. “I just broke a man’s jaw and shot up an alleyway. Do you think I give a shit about grand theft auto?”
“Fair point.” you conceded, clutching your shoes tighter.
Walker threw himself into the driver's seat, dragging you in after him. Because of the handcuffs, you were forced awkwardly into the passenger seat, the center console digging into your hip. Walker immediately reached under the steering column, his large hands working with brutal efficiency to rip the plastic paneling away. Wires tumbled out into his lap.
He looked at the wires, then looked over at you. His eyes were hard and calculating.
“I need both hands to hotwire this quickly, and I need to be ready to return fire if the Syndicate catches up.” Walker said, his voice clipped and serious. He gestured to the steering wheel. “Can you drive?”
You sat back in the passenger seat, your wet hair plastered to your face, your expensive shoes resting on your lap, and your stockinged feet covered in London grime. You looked at the steering wheel, then looked back at the giant, terrifying assassin who currently held your life in his very large, very capable hands.
You lifted your chin, a small, thoroughly inappropriate smile crossing your lips.
“Absolutely not.” you said proudly. “I’ve lived in London my whole life. I use the Tube.”
August froze. The wires slipped from his fingers. He slowly, deliberately turned his head to face you.
The glare he leveled at you wasn't just angry, it was apocalyptic. It was the look of a man who had faced warlords, terrorists, and global catastrophes, only to be utterly defeated by a sarcastic book editor who didn't possess a driver's license. The heavy silence in the stolen sedan stretched out, broken only by the steady drumming of the rain against the windshield and the soft, maddening hum of the magnetic handcuffs linking you together.
The silence inside the stolen sedan was absolute, heavy, and suffocating. Outside, the London rain continued to batter the roof, a relentless, drumming assault that matched the frantic, panicked rhythm of your heart. Inside, however, the air was completely stagnant.
August Walker had not moved a single muscle since you proudly declared your inability to operate a motor vehicle. He was frozen, his massive hands hovering over the exposed, tangled wires of the steering column. The dashboard lights cast a sickly, pale green glow across his face, highlighting the sharp, rigid angles of his jaw and the terrifying blankness in his eyes. He looked like a statue carved from pure, unadulterated rage.
You, on the other hand, were painfully, violently alive.
The adrenaline crash had fully set in, leaving you hollowed out, trembling, and hyper-aware of every miserable sensation in your body. Your trench coat was completely soaked through, clinging to your arms like a freezing second skin. Your bare feet, resting awkwardly on the floor mat, were covered in grit and icy puddle water. But the absolute worst part was your stockings.
The sheer, expensive nylons were torn at the knees, caked in mud, and plastered to your legs in a way that felt deeply, horribly violating. They were cold, they were wet, and they were driving you absolutely insane.
With a frustrated, exhausted sigh, you shifted in the cramped passenger seat. You couldn't take it anymore. The man chained to you might be having a terrifying internal aneurysm, but you were going to be comfortable while he did it.
You reached down with your free right hand, your fingers clumsy with the cold, and dug under the hem of your wet skirt.
His eyes finally snapped over to you, breaking his catatonic stare.
You ignored him. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of the ruined stockings and began to peel them down. It was an incredibly awkward maneuver, given that your left wrist was securely handcuffed to the right wrist of a giant, homicidal CIA operative. The high-tech, magnetic chain hummed softly as you tugged, stretching across the center console. You had to contort your hips, lifting your freezing feet one at a time, wrestling the wet, clinging nylon down your calves and over your ankles.
Finally, with a wet, squelching sound, you pulled the ruined fabric completely off. You held the balled-up, muddy mess of nylon between your fingers, letting out a violent, full-body shudder of pure disgust.
Without a second thought, you leaned over, pushed the passenger side door open a few inches with your shoulder, and aggressively chucked the ruined stockings out into the rainy street. They landed with a pathetic splat in a puddle. You pulled the door shut, wiping your hands on your wet coat, feeling a microscopic fraction of dignity return to you.
When you sat back up, August was staring at you.
He wasn't just looking; he was glaring. It was a look of such profound, withering judgment that it actually made you pause. His dark eyes tracked from the door you had just closed, down to your bare, freezing legs, and finally up to your face. The thick chevron mustache twitched above his upper lip, a subtle indicator of the monumental irritation boiling beneath his stoic exterior.
“What?” you demanded, your voice defensive and sharp. “They were wet and disgusting. I felt like I was wearing a swamp. Sue me for wanting basic bodily comfort while being held hostage!”
August didn’t blink. His chest expanded with a slow, deep breath, stretching the fabric of his damp, tailored suit.
“How old are you?” he asked. His voice was low, flat, and completely devoid of inflection. It wasn't a casual question; it sounded like an interrogation tactic.
You blinked, utterly taken aback. Of all the things you expected him to say, a threat, an insult, a command to get out of the car, this was the absolute last.
“How dare you!” you gasped dramatically, a hand flying to your chest. The sheer audacity of the man cut right through your exhaustion. “You abduct me, you drag me through the mud, you chain me to your wrist like a goddamn dog, and now you have the nerve to ask a woman her age? What is wrong with you? Did they skip basic social etiquette at spy school?”
Walker’s patience, already hanging by a microscopic thread, violently snapped.
With a sudden, aggressive movement that made you flinch, he reached entirely across the center console. You let out a startled yelp, shrinking back against the passenger door, thinking he was finally going to hit you. But his massive hand bypassed your body entirely, his thick fingers grabbing the leather strap of your open tote bag resting by your left hip.
“Hey! Get your hands off that!” you shouted, your protective instincts flaring. “That is private property!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Walker growled, his voice vibrating with lethal authority.
He yanked the bag toward him. Because your left hand was cuffed to his right, the movement yanked the magnetic chain taut, violently jerking your arm across the console and pulling you halfway out of your seat. You hissed in pain as the cuff bit into your skin, but Walker completely ignored your discomfort. He held the bag with his left hand and used his cuffed right hand to ruthlessly dig through your belongings, shoving aside waterlogged manuscripts, a crushed salad container, and a half-empty tube of expensive hand cream.
“Stop it! You pompous prick, give me my bag!” You grabbed his massive forearm with your free hand, digging your nails into his wet suit sleeve, trying to pry him away. It was like trying to wrestle a concrete pillar.
His fingers closed around your small leather wallet. He pulled it out, flipped it open with his thumb, and immediately pulled out your ID card. He dropped your bag onto the floorboard, letting the chain retract slightly so you could sit back, though you were breathing heavily with pure outrage.
He held the small plastic card up to the green glow of the dashboard lights. His eyes scanned the text, narrowing slightly.
“Thirty-five…” August read aloud, his tone flat, dropping the card into his lap. He turned his head slowly to look at you, his expression one of complete, baffled disgust. “You are thirty-five years old.”
“And thriving, thank you very much!” you snapped, crossing your arms, well, crossing one arm and laying the cuffed one awkwardly across your stomach. “What the hell does my age have to do with anything?”
“You are thirty-five years old...” Walker repeated, his voice rising a fraction of a decibel, “and you do not know how to operate a motor vehicle.”
“It's London!” you practically shrieked, throwing your free hand in the air. “The Tube is incredibly efficient! Driving in this city is an absolute environmental and logistical nightmare, the traffic is medieval, and parking costs more than my monthly rent! Why the fuck would I own a car? I take the Jubilee line like a normal, civilized human being!”
“Civilized?” Walker scoffed, a dark, ugly sound. “You are thirty-five, completely helpless, and a massive liability. If you could drive, I could hotwire this ignition in sixty seconds while you prepped the vehicle. Now, I have to do both, one-handed, while watching for the heavily armed hostiles who are currently hunting us.”
“Well, I am so sorry my lack of driving skills is inconveniencing your highly illegal international shootout!” you fired back, your temper completely exploding. “Maybe if you hadn't let some twitchy lunatic handcuff us together, you wouldn't be in this situation! You’re supposed to be this giant, badass agent, and you got outplayed by a guy in a dirty tracksuit!”
Walker’s jaw clenched so hard you heard his teeth grind. “I will literally break your neck and leave you in this seat.”
“Do it! I dare you!” you yelled, completely losing your mind to the stress. “At least I wouldn't be hungry anymore!”
You violently turned around in your seat, turning your back to him to face the passenger window. As you did, you aggressively yanked your left arm, pulling his cuffed right hand hard against the center console.
“Ow! Dammit!” you muttered as the cuff pinched, but you refused to turn back around. “You are incredibly rude, you are totally unhinged, and I am done with this! Take me home. Right now. I want to go to my flat, I want to take a hot shower, and I want to forget I ever met your stupid, moustachioed face.”
The silence returned to the car, thick and volatile. You stared out the rain-streaked window, your chest heaving, waiting for him to retaliate, to hit you, to yell.
Instead, there was just the sound of a heavy, exhausted exhale.
“I can't take you home!” Walker said, his voice stripped of its anger, leaving only a cold, blunt reality. “The men I am hunting saw you. They saw my face, they saw yours. By now, they’ve run your biometrics from street cameras. If you go back to your flat, you will be dead before morning.”
Your breath hitched. The anger evaporated, replaced by a sudden, freezing spike of pure terror. You slowly turned your head to look over your shoulder at him.
Walker wasn't glaring anymore. He was just looking at you, his face a grim mask of absolute certainty. He reached down, grabbed your wallet, and tossed it into your lap.
“We are abandoning the vehicle,” Walker stated, his tone shifting back to tactical efficiency. “Without two hands, it takes too long. We are exposed here. We need to move to a secure location where I can sever this chain.”
“Move where?” your voice was small, the fight completely drained out of you. “I can't walk anymore, August. I really can't. And I'm so hungry my hands are shaking. If I don't eat something, I am going to faint. And then you are going to have one hundred and forty pounds of dead weight attached to your wrist.”
Walker stared at you for a long, calculating moment. He looked at your shaking hands, your pale face, and the desperate, exhausted set of your jaw. He let out a low grunt that sounded remarkably like a curse.
“Fine,” he snapped, shoving the car door open. “Get out.”
Fifteen minutes later, the chaotic, terrifying reality of your life had been reduced to the greasy confines of a dimly lit, profoundly depressing pub on the edge of Soho. The establishment smelled strongly of stale ale, bleach, and decades of bad decisions. The few patrons scattered in the booths looked like they wouldn't blink if a murder happened on the sticky wooden floor, which made it the perfect place to hide.
You were sitting in a dark corner booth, shoved tight against the wall. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you were quiet.
You had a massive, greasy double cheeseburger in your right hand, and you were eating it with a feral, unapologetic intensity. Grease dripped down your chin, and you didn't care. The hot, salty rush of calories was hitting your system like a drug, pulling you back from the edge of passing out.
Across the small, sticky table sat August Walker.
He was not eating. He was not drinking. He was sitting completely rigid, his massive shoulders taking up the entire width of the booth, his eyes sweeping the pub with predatory, unblinking focus. His left hand rested flat on the table, near the heavy lump in his jacket where you knew his gun was hidden. His right hand was extended across the table, tethered to your left wrist by the shimmering, high-tech magnetic chain.
You took another massive bite of the burger, moaning softly at the taste of the sharp cheddar and charred beef. You reached out with your right hand, grabbed a handful of soggy, oil-soaked chips, and shoved them into your mouth.
Walker’s eyes snapped from the front door to you. He watched you eat, his expression a mixture of profound disgust and reluctant acceptance.
“Are you finished inhaling that?” Walker asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble across the table.
You chewed methodically, swallowing the massive bite before looking at him. The food had worked a miracle. Your blood sugar had stabilized, the shaking had stopped, and your usual, sassy demeanor was slowly filtering back in. Now that you weren't actively fearing for your immediate life in an alleyway, you were feeling incredibly cooperative. Well, just a little.
“Not quite,” you said, licking a smear of ketchup off your thumb. “It’s actually fucking fantastic. You really should have ordered one. It might help with your deeply ingrained hostility issues.”
August narrowed his eyes, the heavy moustache lowering as his jaw set. “My hostility issues are currently keeping you breathing, darling.”
“Fair point.” you conceded, taking a sip from a pint of lukewarm water the heavily tattooed bartender had slammed down earlier. You tapped the metallic cuff on your left wrist with your index finger. It made a sharp clink against the wood. “So, what's the play, Walker? I'm fed, I'm resting my bare, battered feet, and I have accepted that I am temporarily a fugitive from justice. You said we needed a secure location to cut this thing off. Does this pub have a secret underground spy lair, or are we just waiting for someone to come shoot us?”
August leaned forward slightly, the chain slacking between you. His dark eyes locked onto yours, completely devoid of any humor.
“We are waiting for my extraction team to verify a clean route...” he said softly, the gravel in his voice scraping against the ambient noise of the pub. “And once they do, you are going to stand up, you are going to keep your mouth shut, and you are going to follow my exact orders. If you don't, I won't just leave you behind. I will make sure you can't be followed.”
You stopped chewing. The threat was explicit, and entirely serious. You looked at the hulking, dangerous man you were chained to, realizing that the burger hadn't changed the reality of the situation.
You swallowed hard, placing the remaining half of your burger down on the paper wrapper. You wiped your mouth with a cheap napkin, your eyes holding his unwavering stare.
“Understood,” you said quietly. “Just... tell me when to move.”
August gave a single, curt nod, leaning back into the shadows of the booth, his eyes returning to the pub's entrance. The chain between you hummed softly, a constant, binding reminder that your night was far from over.
Warning- None for this part, age reveal of reader, banter.
You were being dragged. Not literally, but given the sheer disparity in your stride lengths and the absolute, terrifying urgency of the man you were chained to, it certainly felt like it.
The London rain had shifted from a miserable mist to a steady, freezing downpour, washing the soot and grit of the city directly into your eyes. You were stumbling through a labyrinth of narrow, garbage-strewn alleys somewhere behind Soho, tethered to a man who moved with the unstoppable, terrifying momentum of a military tank. The high-tech, magnetic chain linking your left wrist to his right hummed and whirred, extending a few feet when you inevitably lagged, then snapping taut and yanking you forward when the slack ran out.
Your entire world had been reduced to the agonizing burning in the balls of your feet, the soaked weight of your trench coat, and the broad, unyielding wall of expensive charcoal wool that was his back.
And you were losing your mind. As an editor, your primary coping mechanism for extreme stress was verbal diarrhea. You processed the world through words, and right now, the silence of this terrifying giant was more unnerving than the man who had held a gun to your head twenty minutes ago.
“So, what is the plan here?” you panted, dodging a puddle that looked suspiciously like an oil slick. “Are we walking to a secondary location? Is there a safe house? Because if we’re just power-walking around the West End until the sun comes up, I’m going to need to sit down. My arches are collapsing.”
The man didn't answer. He didn't even break his stride. His large right hand, the one cuffed to you, swung in a steady, militant rhythm.
“Hello? Are you deaf, or just exceptionally rude?” you snapped, your temper beginning to fray under the strain of exhaustion. “You can’t just abduct a civilian and give them the silent treatment. It’s bad form. It’s a terrible narrative arc. Frankly, if this were a manuscript, I’d reject it on page three for having an uncommunicative, one-dimensional protagonist.”
He took a sharp left turn down another alley, the chain zipping out and yanking your arm so hard your shoulder popped. You let out a very unladylike curse.
“Keep your voice down,” he grunted, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that barely carried over the sound of the rain. “And stop talking.”
“I will not stop talking! I am chained to a psychopath in a bespoke suit who just punched a man's teeth down his throat,” you fired back, hiking up your soaked coat to keep it out of the mud. “And calling you 'Mysterious Moustache Man' in my head is getting exhausting. It’s entirely too many syllables. 'Mys-te-ri-ous Mous-tache Man'. See? Seven syllables. It’s inefficient. What the fuck is your name?”
He stopped so suddenly that the chain retracted violently, slamming you directly into his back. You bounced off the solid wall of muscle and bone, clutching your nose.
He turned around slowly, towering over you in the gloom of the alleyway. The sparse light from a distant streetlamp caught the hard, flat angles of his face. He looked like murder incarnate. The thick chevron moustache over his upper lip, which you had to admit, was objectively magnificent, twitched slightly, the only sign that your constant yapping was grinding away at his iron-clad patience.
“You are a liability!” he said, the words heavy and cold. “You are an accident that got tangled in my operation. If you do not shut your mouth, I will gag you with your own scarf. Do you understand me?”
You glared up at him, wiping rain from your eyes, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You were terrified, yes, but the sheer absurdity of the threat sparked something deeply stubborn inside you.
“It’s a cashmere blend, so I’d really prefer you didn't.” you shot back, refusing to look away from those cold, dead eyes. “And honestly, you shouldn't be so sensitive. I wasn't insulting the moustache. It’s actually very impressive. It gives you a whole 1970s authoritarian, 'I could crush a skull with my bare hands' vibe. It works for you. But I still need a name. If I’m going to die in a damp alleyway, I’d like to know who to haunt.”
He stared at you. For a second, you genuinely thought he might hit you. His massive chest rose and fell with a slow, controlled breath, as if he were actively restraining the urge to throw you into a dumpster.
“Walker.” he finally growled, the single word dripping with absolute disdain. “August Walker.”
“August. Great. See, was that so fucking hard, August?” you huffed, shaking your wet hair out of your face.
Walker just turned and started walking again, his stride even faster this time, forcing you into a clumsy, agonizing jog.
For three more blocks, you tried to keep up. But human anatomy, specifically the anatomy forced into four-inch Christian Louboutin stiletto pumps, has its limits. The pain in your calves had gone from a dull ache to a sharp, stabbing fire, and your toes were completely numb.
With a defiant, frustrated cry, you threw your weight backward and slammed your feet onto the wet pavement, locking your knees.
The magnetic chain hissed out from Walker’s cuff. Three feet. Four feet. Till it hit the limit.
Walker was yanked backward. With his massive momentum, it was like a mastiff reaching the end of a leash. He stumbled half a step, let out a visceral, guttural snarl of pure rage, and whipped around.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Walker roared, stepping toward you, his massive frame closing the distance in a second. He grabbed the chain, his fist hovering inches from your face. “Move!”
“I can't!” you yelled back, pointing a shaking, rain-slicked finger down at your feet. “I physically cannot take another step in these! My feet are bleeding, Walker! I am literally walking on bloody stumps!”
Walker looked down at the sleek, pointed-toe heels. His expression was one of total, unadulterated disgust. “Then take them off and leave them. You don't need shoes to run.”
You gasped, genuinely offended, clutching your chest with your free hand. “Leave them? In a puddle? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“They are shoes!” Walker spat, his voice dropping into that terrifying, lethal register again. “Take them off, or I will break your ankles and drag you the rest of the way.”
“They are not just shoes, you uncultured, muscle-bound brute!” you screamed, your voice echoing off the brick walls. “These are Louboutins! Do you know how much these cost? They are a thousand-pound investment! I saved up for six months to buy these to celebrate my promotion! I am not abandoning them in a Soho gutter just because you’re having a bad day at the spy office!”
Walker looked at you as if you had just spoken to him in an alien dialect. He looked at the shoes, then back at your face, trying to compute the logic of a woman who was handcuffed to a CIA operative, fleeing heavily armed hostiles, and refusing to abandon a piece of footwear.
“You are insane.” he stated flatly.
“I am fiscally responsible!” you countered. With an angry groan, you reached down, fighting the tension of the cuff, and ripped the heels off your feet. You snatched them up by the straps, clutching the expensive leather to your chest like a newborn child.
You stood up, your stockinged feet sinking into a puddle of freezing, murky water. You shivered violently, the cold biting straight through to your bones, but you lifted your chin in defiance. “Fine. Let's go. But if I step on a syringe, I’m suing the CIA, or MI6, or whatever shadow organization pays for your custom-tailored suits.”
Walker let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, his eyes closed for a brief second as he prayed for the strength not to kill you. “Just... walk,” he muttered.
You began to walk, barefoot on the wet, unforgiving asphalt of London. It was miserable. Every pebble felt like a shard of glass, and the cold was seeping up your legs, making your teeth chatter. But you had your shoes.
Ten minutes later, the adrenaline crash hit you like a physical wall. The sheer terror of the gun to your head, the sprint through the rain, and the freezing cold combined into a hollow, gnawing ache in your gut. Your stomach let out a loud, drawn-out rumble that sounded like a dying whale.
Walker didn't even look back. “Keep your bodily functions to yourself.”
“I'm starving!” you announced, shivering violently now. “I need food. I need carbs. I haven't eaten anything since a sad desk salad at one o'clock, it didn’t even had cheese. If my blood sugar drops any lower, I’m going to pass out, and then you will have to drag me.”
Walker ignored you, his sharp eyes scanning the street as you finally emerged from the alleyway onto a slightly wider, dimly lit residential road. Cars were parked bumper-to-bumper along the curb.
“I'm serious, August. I will bite you.” you threatened, hobbling on the pavement.
Walker stopped abruptly beside an older, slightly battered black sedan. He glanced around the empty street, checking the windows of the flats above them. He pulled his right arm, bringing you close to the driver's side door, his eyes locked on the lock mechanism.
“We need a vehicle…” he muttered, reaching into his pocket with his left hand and pulling out a small, metallic device. He shoved it into the keyhole of the car door and forced it. A soft click echoed, and the door swung open.
“You're stealing a car?” you asked, leaning in close, temporarily distracted from your hunger. “That's illegal.”
Walker paused, slowly turning his head to look at you, his face a mask of absolute, withering disbelief. “I just broke a man’s jaw and shot up an alleyway. Do you think I give a shit about grand theft auto?”
“Fair point.” you conceded, clutching your shoes tighter.
Walker threw himself into the driver's seat, dragging you in after him. Because of the handcuffs, you were forced awkwardly into the passenger seat, the center console digging into your hip. Walker immediately reached under the steering column, his large hands working with brutal efficiency to rip the plastic paneling away. Wires tumbled out into his lap.
He looked at the wires, then looked over at you. His eyes were hard and calculating.
“I need both hands to hotwire this quickly, and I need to be ready to return fire if the Syndicate catches up.” Walker said, his voice clipped and serious. He gestured to the steering wheel. “Can you drive?”
You sat back in the passenger seat, your wet hair plastered to your face, your expensive shoes resting on your lap, and your stockinged feet covered in London grime. You looked at the steering wheel, then looked back at the giant, terrifying assassin who currently held your life in his very large, very capable hands.
You lifted your chin, a small, thoroughly inappropriate smile crossing your lips.
“Absolutely not.” you said proudly. “I’ve lived in London my whole life. I use the Tube.”
August froze. The wires slipped from his fingers. He slowly, deliberately turned his head to face you.
The glare he leveled at you wasn't just angry, it was apocalyptic. It was the look of a man who had faced warlords, terrorists, and global catastrophes, only to be utterly defeated by a sarcastic book editor who didn't possess a driver's license. The heavy silence in the stolen sedan stretched out, broken only by the steady drumming of the rain against the windshield and the soft, maddening hum of the magnetic handcuffs linking you together.
The silence inside the stolen sedan was absolute, heavy, and suffocating. Outside, the London rain continued to batter the roof, a relentless, drumming assault that matched the frantic, panicked rhythm of your heart. Inside, however, the air was completely stagnant.
August Walker had not moved a single muscle since you proudly declared your inability to operate a motor vehicle. He was frozen, his massive hands hovering over the exposed, tangled wires of the steering column. The dashboard lights cast a sickly, pale green glow across his face, highlighting the sharp, rigid angles of his jaw and the terrifying blankness in his eyes. He looked like a statue carved from pure, unadulterated rage.
You, on the other hand, were painfully, violently alive.
The adrenaline crash had fully set in, leaving you hollowed out, trembling, and hyper-aware of every miserable sensation in your body. Your trench coat was completely soaked through, clinging to your arms like a freezing second skin. Your bare feet, resting awkwardly on the floor mat, were covered in grit and icy puddle water. But the absolute worst part was your stockings.
The sheer, expensive nylons were torn at the knees, caked in mud, and plastered to your legs in a way that felt deeply, horribly violating. They were cold, they were wet, and they were driving you absolutely insane.
With a frustrated, exhausted sigh, you shifted in the cramped passenger seat. You couldn't take it anymore. The man chained to you might be having a terrifying internal aneurysm, but you were going to be comfortable while he did it.
You reached down with your free right hand, your fingers clumsy with the cold, and dug under the hem of your wet skirt.
His eyes finally snapped over to you, breaking his catatonic stare.
You ignored him. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of the ruined stockings and began to peel them down. It was an incredibly awkward maneuver, given that your left wrist was securely handcuffed to the right wrist of a giant, homicidal CIA operative. The high-tech, magnetic chain hummed softly as you tugged, stretching across the center console. You had to contort your hips, lifting your freezing feet one at a time, wrestling the wet, clinging nylon down your calves and over your ankles.
Finally, with a wet, squelching sound, you pulled the ruined fabric completely off. You held the balled-up, muddy mess of nylon between your fingers, letting out a violent, full-body shudder of pure disgust.
Without a second thought, you leaned over, pushed the passenger side door open a few inches with your shoulder, and aggressively chucked the ruined stockings out into the rainy street. They landed with a pathetic splat in a puddle. You pulled the door shut, wiping your hands on your wet coat, feeling a microscopic fraction of dignity return to you.
When you sat back up, August was staring at you.
He wasn't just looking; he was glaring. It was a look of such profound, withering judgment that it actually made you pause. His dark eyes tracked from the door you had just closed, down to your bare, freezing legs, and finally up to your face. The thick chevron mustache twitched above his upper lip, a subtle indicator of the monumental irritation boiling beneath his stoic exterior.
“What?” you demanded, your voice defensive and sharp. “They were wet and disgusting. I felt like I was wearing a swamp. Sue me for wanting basic bodily comfort while being held hostage!”
August didn’t blink. His chest expanded with a slow, deep breath, stretching the fabric of his damp, tailored suit.
“How old are you?” he asked. His voice was low, flat, and completely devoid of inflection. It wasn't a casual question; it sounded like an interrogation tactic.
You blinked, utterly taken aback. Of all the things you expected him to say, a threat, an insult, a command to get out of the car, this was the absolute last.
“How dare you!” you gasped dramatically, a hand flying to your chest. The sheer audacity of the man cut right through your exhaustion. “You abduct me, you drag me through the mud, you chain me to your wrist like a goddamn dog, and now you have the nerve to ask a woman her age? What is wrong with you? Did they skip basic social etiquette at spy school?”
Walker’s patience, already hanging by a microscopic thread, violently snapped.
With a sudden, aggressive movement that made you flinch, he reached entirely across the center console. You let out a startled yelp, shrinking back against the passenger door, thinking he was finally going to hit you. But his massive hand bypassed your body entirely, his thick fingers grabbing the leather strap of your open tote bag resting by your left hip.
“Hey! Get your hands off that!” you shouted, your protective instincts flaring. “That is private property!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Walker growled, his voice vibrating with lethal authority.
He yanked the bag toward him. Because your left hand was cuffed to his right, the movement yanked the magnetic chain taut, violently jerking your arm across the console and pulling you halfway out of your seat. You hissed in pain as the cuff bit into your skin, but Walker completely ignored your discomfort. He held the bag with his left hand and used his cuffed right hand to ruthlessly dig through your belongings, shoving aside waterlogged manuscripts, a crushed salad container, and a half-empty tube of expensive hand cream.
“Stop it! You pompous prick, give me my bag!” You grabbed his massive forearm with your free hand, digging your nails into his wet suit sleeve, trying to pry him away. It was like trying to wrestle a concrete pillar.
His fingers closed around your small leather wallet. He pulled it out, flipped it open with his thumb, and immediately pulled out your ID card. He dropped your bag onto the floorboard, letting the chain retract slightly so you could sit back, though you were breathing heavily with pure outrage.
He held the small plastic card up to the green glow of the dashboard lights. His eyes scanned the text, narrowing slightly.
“Thirty-five…” August read aloud, his tone flat, dropping the card into his lap. He turned his head slowly to look at you, his expression one of complete, baffled disgust. “You are thirty-five years old.”
“And thriving, thank you very much!” you snapped, crossing your arms, well, crossing one arm and laying the cuffed one awkwardly across your stomach. “What the hell does my age have to do with anything?”
“You are thirty-five years old...” Walker repeated, his voice rising a fraction of a decibel, “and you do not know how to operate a motor vehicle.”
“It's London!” you practically shrieked, throwing your free hand in the air. “The Tube is incredibly efficient! Driving in this city is an absolute environmental and logistical nightmare, the traffic is medieval, and parking costs more than my monthly rent! Why the fuck would I own a car? I take the Jubilee line like a normal, civilized human being!”
“Civilized?” Walker scoffed, a dark, ugly sound. “You are thirty-five, completely helpless, and a massive liability. If you could drive, I could hotwire this ignition in sixty seconds while you prepped the vehicle. Now, I have to do both, one-handed, while watching for the heavily armed hostiles who are currently hunting us.”
“Well, I am so sorry my lack of driving skills is inconveniencing your highly illegal international shootout!” you fired back, your temper completely exploding. “Maybe if you hadn't let some twitchy lunatic handcuff us together, you wouldn't be in this situation! You’re supposed to be this giant, badass agent, and you got outplayed by a guy in a dirty tracksuit!”
Walker’s jaw clenched so hard you heard his teeth grind. “I will literally break your neck and leave you in this seat.”
“Do it! I dare you!” you yelled, completely losing your mind to the stress. “At least I wouldn't be hungry anymore!”
You violently turned around in your seat, turning your back to him to face the passenger window. As you did, you aggressively yanked your left arm, pulling his cuffed right hand hard against the center console.
“Ow! Dammit!” you muttered as the cuff pinched, but you refused to turn back around. “You are incredibly rude, you are totally unhinged, and I am done with this! Take me home. Right now. I want to go to my flat, I want to take a hot shower, and I want to forget I ever met your stupid, moustachioed face.”
The silence returned to the car, thick and volatile. You stared out the rain-streaked window, your chest heaving, waiting for him to retaliate, to hit you, to yell.
Instead, there was just the sound of a heavy, exhausted exhale.
“I can't take you home!” Walker said, his voice stripped of its anger, leaving only a cold, blunt reality. “The men I am hunting saw you. They saw my face, they saw yours. By now, they’ve run your biometrics from street cameras. If you go back to your flat, you will be dead before morning.”
Your breath hitched. The anger evaporated, replaced by a sudden, freezing spike of pure terror. You slowly turned your head to look over your shoulder at him.
Walker wasn't glaring anymore. He was just looking at you, his face a grim mask of absolute certainty. He reached down, grabbed your wallet, and tossed it into your lap.
“We are abandoning the vehicle,” Walker stated, his tone shifting back to tactical efficiency. “Without two hands, it takes too long. We are exposed here. We need to move to a secure location where I can sever this chain.”
“Move where?” your voice was small, the fight completely drained out of you. “I can't walk anymore, August. I really can't. And I'm so hungry my hands are shaking. If I don't eat something, I am going to faint. And then you are going to have one hundred and forty pounds of dead weight attached to your wrist.”
Walker stared at you for a long, calculating moment. He looked at your shaking hands, your pale face, and the desperate, exhausted set of your jaw. He let out a low grunt that sounded remarkably like a curse.
“Fine,” he snapped, shoving the car door open. “Get out.”
Fifteen minutes later, the chaotic, terrifying reality of your life had been reduced to the greasy confines of a dimly lit, profoundly depressing pub on the edge of Soho. The establishment smelled strongly of stale ale, bleach, and decades of bad decisions. The few patrons scattered in the booths looked like they wouldn't blink if a murder happened on the sticky wooden floor, which made it the perfect place to hide.
You were sitting in a dark corner booth, shoved tight against the wall. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you were quiet.
You had a massive, greasy double cheeseburger in your right hand, and you were eating it with a feral, unapologetic intensity. Grease dripped down your chin, and you didn't care. The hot, salty rush of calories was hitting your system like a drug, pulling you back from the edge of passing out.
Across the small, sticky table sat August Walker.
He was not eating. He was not drinking. He was sitting completely rigid, his massive shoulders taking up the entire width of the booth, his eyes sweeping the pub with predatory, unblinking focus. His left hand rested flat on the table, near the heavy lump in his jacket where you knew his gun was hidden. His right hand was extended across the table, tethered to your left wrist by the shimmering, high-tech magnetic chain.
You took another massive bite of the burger, moaning softly at the taste of the sharp cheddar and charred beef. You reached out with your right hand, grabbed a handful of soggy, oil-soaked chips, and shoved them into your mouth.
Walker’s eyes snapped from the front door to you. He watched you eat, his expression a mixture of profound disgust and reluctant acceptance.
“Are you finished inhaling that?” Walker asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble across the table.
You chewed methodically, swallowing the massive bite before looking at him. The food had worked a miracle. Your blood sugar had stabilized, the shaking had stopped, and your usual, sassy demeanor was slowly filtering back in. Now that you weren't actively fearing for your immediate life in an alleyway, you were feeling incredibly cooperative. Well, just a little.
“Not quite,” you said, licking a smear of ketchup off your thumb. “It’s actually fucking fantastic. You really should have ordered one. It might help with your deeply ingrained hostility issues.”
August narrowed his eyes, the heavy moustache lowering as his jaw set. “My hostility issues are currently keeping you breathing, darling.”
“Fair point.” you conceded, taking a sip from a pint of lukewarm water the heavily tattooed bartender had slammed down earlier. You tapped the metallic cuff on your left wrist with your index finger. It made a sharp clink against the wood. “So, what's the play, Walker? I'm fed, I'm resting my bare, battered feet, and I have accepted that I am temporarily a fugitive from justice. You said we needed a secure location to cut this thing off. Does this pub have a secret underground spy lair, or are we just waiting for someone to come shoot us?”
August leaned forward slightly, the chain slacking between you. His dark eyes locked onto yours, completely devoid of any humor.
“We are waiting for my extraction team to verify a clean route...” he said softly, the gravel in his voice scraping against the ambient noise of the pub. “And once they do, you are going to stand up, you are going to keep your mouth shut, and you are going to follow my exact orders. If you don't, I won't just leave you behind. I will make sure you can't be followed.”
You stopped chewing. The threat was explicit, and entirely serious. You looked at the hulking, dangerous man you were chained to, realizing that the burger hadn't changed the reality of the situation.
You swallowed hard, placing the remaining half of your burger down on the paper wrapper. You wiped your mouth with a cheap napkin, your eyes holding his unwavering stare.
“Understood,” you said quietly. “Just... tell me when to move.”
August gave a single, curt nod, leaning back into the shadows of the booth, his eyes returning to the pub's entrance. The chain between you hummed softly, a constant, binding reminder that your night was far from over.
Warning- None for this part, age reveal of reader, banter.
You were being dragged. Not literally, but given the sheer disparity in your stride lengths and the absolute, terrifying urgency of the man you were chained to, it certainly felt like it.
The London rain had shifted from a miserable mist to a steady, freezing downpour, washing the soot and grit of the city directly into your eyes. You were stumbling through a labyrinth of narrow, garbage-strewn alleys somewhere behind Soho, tethered to a man who moved with the unstoppable, terrifying momentum of a military tank. The high-tech, magnetic chain linking your left wrist to his right hummed and whirred, extending a few feet when you inevitably lagged, then snapping taut and yanking you forward when the slack ran out.
Your entire world had been reduced to the agonizing burning in the balls of your feet, the soaked weight of your trench coat, and the broad, unyielding wall of expensive charcoal wool that was his back.
And you were losing your mind. As an editor, your primary coping mechanism for extreme stress was verbal diarrhea. You processed the world through words, and right now, the silence of this terrifying giant was more unnerving than the man who had held a gun to your head twenty minutes ago.
“So, what is the plan here?” you panted, dodging a puddle that looked suspiciously like an oil slick. “Are we walking to a secondary location? Is there a safe house? Because if we’re just power-walking around the West End until the sun comes up, I’m going to need to sit down. My arches are collapsing.”
The man didn't answer. He didn't even break his stride. His large right hand, the one cuffed to you, swung in a steady, militant rhythm.
“Hello? Are you deaf, or just exceptionally rude?” you snapped, your temper beginning to fray under the strain of exhaustion. “You can’t just abduct a civilian and give them the silent treatment. It’s bad form. It’s a terrible narrative arc. Frankly, if this were a manuscript, I’d reject it on page three for having an uncommunicative, one-dimensional protagonist.”
He took a sharp left turn down another alley, the chain zipping out and yanking your arm so hard your shoulder popped. You let out a very unladylike curse.
“Keep your voice down,” he grunted, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that barely carried over the sound of the rain. “And stop talking.”
“I will not stop talking! I am chained to a psychopath in a bespoke suit who just punched a man's teeth down his throat,” you fired back, hiking up your soaked coat to keep it out of the mud. “And calling you 'Mysterious Moustache Man' in my head is getting exhausting. It’s entirely too many syllables. 'Mys-te-ri-ous Mous-tache Man'. See? Seven syllables. It’s inefficient. What the fuck is your name?”
He stopped so suddenly that the chain retracted violently, slamming you directly into his back. You bounced off the solid wall of muscle and bone, clutching your nose.
He turned around slowly, towering over you in the gloom of the alleyway. The sparse light from a distant streetlamp caught the hard, flat angles of his face. He looked like murder incarnate. The thick chevron moustache over his upper lip, which you had to admit, was objectively magnificent, twitched slightly, the only sign that your constant yapping was grinding away at his iron-clad patience.
“You are a liability!” he said, the words heavy and cold. “You are an accident that got tangled in my operation. If you do not shut your mouth, I will gag you with your own scarf. Do you understand me?”
You glared up at him, wiping rain from your eyes, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You were terrified, yes, but the sheer absurdity of the threat sparked something deeply stubborn inside you.
“It’s a cashmere blend, so I’d really prefer you didn't.” you shot back, refusing to look away from those cold, dead eyes. “And honestly, you shouldn't be so sensitive. I wasn't insulting the moustache. It’s actually very impressive. It gives you a whole 1970s authoritarian, 'I could crush a skull with my bare hands' vibe. It works for you. But I still need a name. If I’m going to die in a damp alleyway, I’d like to know who to haunt.”
He stared at you. For a second, you genuinely thought he might hit you. His massive chest rose and fell with a slow, controlled breath, as if he were actively restraining the urge to throw you into a dumpster.
“Walker.” he finally growled, the single word dripping with absolute disdain. “August Walker.”
“August. Great. See, was that so fucking hard, August?” you huffed, shaking your wet hair out of your face.
Walker just turned and started walking again, his stride even faster this time, forcing you into a clumsy, agonizing jog.
For three more blocks, you tried to keep up. But human anatomy, specifically the anatomy forced into four-inch Christian Louboutin stiletto pumps, has its limits. The pain in your calves had gone from a dull ache to a sharp, stabbing fire, and your toes were completely numb.
With a defiant, frustrated cry, you threw your weight backward and slammed your feet onto the wet pavement, locking your knees.
The magnetic chain hissed out from Walker’s cuff. Three feet. Four feet. Till it hit the limit.
Walker was yanked backward. With his massive momentum, it was like a mastiff reaching the end of a leash. He stumbled half a step, let out a visceral, guttural snarl of pure rage, and whipped around.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Walker roared, stepping toward you, his massive frame closing the distance in a second. He grabbed the chain, his fist hovering inches from your face. “Move!”
“I can't!” you yelled back, pointing a shaking, rain-slicked finger down at your feet. “I physically cannot take another step in these! My feet are bleeding, Walker! I am literally walking on bloody stumps!”
Walker looked down at the sleek, pointed-toe heels. His expression was one of total, unadulterated disgust. “Then take them off and leave them. You don't need shoes to run.”
You gasped, genuinely offended, clutching your chest with your free hand. “Leave them? In a puddle? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“They are shoes!” Walker spat, his voice dropping into that terrifying, lethal register again. “Take them off, or I will break your ankles and drag you the rest of the way.”
“They are not just shoes, you uncultured, muscle-bound brute!” you screamed, your voice echoing off the brick walls. “These are Louboutins! Do you know how much these cost? They are a thousand-pound investment! I saved up for six months to buy these to celebrate my promotion! I am not abandoning them in a Soho gutter just because you’re having a bad day at the spy office!”
Walker looked at you as if you had just spoken to him in an alien dialect. He looked at the shoes, then back at your face, trying to compute the logic of a woman who was handcuffed to a CIA operative, fleeing heavily armed hostiles, and refusing to abandon a piece of footwear.
“You are insane.” he stated flatly.
“I am fiscally responsible!” you countered. With an angry groan, you reached down, fighting the tension of the cuff, and ripped the heels off your feet. You snatched them up by the straps, clutching the expensive leather to your chest like a newborn child.
You stood up, your stockinged feet sinking into a puddle of freezing, murky water. You shivered violently, the cold biting straight through to your bones, but you lifted your chin in defiance. “Fine. Let's go. But if I step on a syringe, I’m suing the CIA, or MI6, or whatever shadow organization pays for your custom-tailored suits.”
Walker let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, his eyes closed for a brief second as he prayed for the strength not to kill you. “Just... walk,” he muttered.
You began to walk, barefoot on the wet, unforgiving asphalt of London. It was miserable. Every pebble felt like a shard of glass, and the cold was seeping up your legs, making your teeth chatter. But you had your shoes.
Ten minutes later, the adrenaline crash hit you like a physical wall. The sheer terror of the gun to your head, the sprint through the rain, and the freezing cold combined into a hollow, gnawing ache in your gut. Your stomach let out a loud, drawn-out rumble that sounded like a dying whale.
Walker didn't even look back. “Keep your bodily functions to yourself.”
“I'm starving!” you announced, shivering violently now. “I need food. I need carbs. I haven't eaten anything since a sad desk salad at one o'clock, it didn’t even had cheese. If my blood sugar drops any lower, I’m going to pass out, and then you will have to drag me.”
Walker ignored you, his sharp eyes scanning the street as you finally emerged from the alleyway onto a slightly wider, dimly lit residential road. Cars were parked bumper-to-bumper along the curb.
“I'm serious, August. I will bite you.” you threatened, hobbling on the pavement.
Walker stopped abruptly beside an older, slightly battered black sedan. He glanced around the empty street, checking the windows of the flats above them. He pulled his right arm, bringing you close to the driver's side door, his eyes locked on the lock mechanism.
“We need a vehicle…” he muttered, reaching into his pocket with his left hand and pulling out a small, metallic device. He shoved it into the keyhole of the car door and forced it. A soft click echoed, and the door swung open.
“You're stealing a car?” you asked, leaning in close, temporarily distracted from your hunger. “That's illegal.”
Walker paused, slowly turning his head to look at you, his face a mask of absolute, withering disbelief. “I just broke a man’s jaw and shot up an alleyway. Do you think I give a shit about grand theft auto?”
“Fair point.” you conceded, clutching your shoes tighter.
Walker threw himself into the driver's seat, dragging you in after him. Because of the handcuffs, you were forced awkwardly into the passenger seat, the center console digging into your hip. Walker immediately reached under the steering column, his large hands working with brutal efficiency to rip the plastic paneling away. Wires tumbled out into his lap.
He looked at the wires, then looked over at you. His eyes were hard and calculating.
“I need both hands to hotwire this quickly, and I need to be ready to return fire if the Syndicate catches up.” Walker said, his voice clipped and serious. He gestured to the steering wheel. “Can you drive?”
You sat back in the passenger seat, your wet hair plastered to your face, your expensive shoes resting on your lap, and your stockinged feet covered in London grime. You looked at the steering wheel, then looked back at the giant, terrifying assassin who currently held your life in his very large, very capable hands.
You lifted your chin, a small, thoroughly inappropriate smile crossing your lips.
“Absolutely not.” you said proudly. “I’ve lived in London my whole life. I use the Tube.”
August froze. The wires slipped from his fingers. He slowly, deliberately turned his head to face you.
The glare he leveled at you wasn't just angry, it was apocalyptic. It was the look of a man who had faced warlords, terrorists, and global catastrophes, only to be utterly defeated by a sarcastic book editor who didn't possess a driver's license. The heavy silence in the stolen sedan stretched out, broken only by the steady drumming of the rain against the windshield and the soft, maddening hum of the magnetic handcuffs linking you together.
The silence inside the stolen sedan was absolute, heavy, and suffocating. Outside, the London rain continued to batter the roof, a relentless, drumming assault that matched the frantic, panicked rhythm of your heart. Inside, however, the air was completely stagnant.
August Walker had not moved a single muscle since you proudly declared your inability to operate a motor vehicle. He was frozen, his massive hands hovering over the exposed, tangled wires of the steering column. The dashboard lights cast a sickly, pale green glow across his face, highlighting the sharp, rigid angles of his jaw and the terrifying blankness in his eyes. He looked like a statue carved from pure, unadulterated rage.
You, on the other hand, were painfully, violently alive.
The adrenaline crash had fully set in, leaving you hollowed out, trembling, and hyper-aware of every miserable sensation in your body. Your trench coat was completely soaked through, clinging to your arms like a freezing second skin. Your bare feet, resting awkwardly on the floor mat, were covered in grit and icy puddle water. But the absolute worst part was your stockings.
The sheer, expensive nylons were torn at the knees, caked in mud, and plastered to your legs in a way that felt deeply, horribly violating. They were cold, they were wet, and they were driving you absolutely insane.
With a frustrated, exhausted sigh, you shifted in the cramped passenger seat. You couldn't take it anymore. The man chained to you might be having a terrifying internal aneurysm, but you were going to be comfortable while he did it.
You reached down with your free right hand, your fingers clumsy with the cold, and dug under the hem of your wet skirt.
His eyes finally snapped over to you, breaking his catatonic stare.
You ignored him. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of the ruined stockings and began to peel them down. It was an incredibly awkward maneuver, given that your left wrist was securely handcuffed to the right wrist of a giant, homicidal CIA operative. The high-tech, magnetic chain hummed softly as you tugged, stretching across the center console. You had to contort your hips, lifting your freezing feet one at a time, wrestling the wet, clinging nylon down your calves and over your ankles.
Finally, with a wet, squelching sound, you pulled the ruined fabric completely off. You held the balled-up, muddy mess of nylon between your fingers, letting out a violent, full-body shudder of pure disgust.
Without a second thought, you leaned over, pushed the passenger side door open a few inches with your shoulder, and aggressively chucked the ruined stockings out into the rainy street. They landed with a pathetic splat in a puddle. You pulled the door shut, wiping your hands on your wet coat, feeling a microscopic fraction of dignity return to you.
When you sat back up, August was staring at you.
He wasn't just looking; he was glaring. It was a look of such profound, withering judgment that it actually made you pause. His dark eyes tracked from the door you had just closed, down to your bare, freezing legs, and finally up to your face. The thick chevron mustache twitched above his upper lip, a subtle indicator of the monumental irritation boiling beneath his stoic exterior.
“What?” you demanded, your voice defensive and sharp. “They were wet and disgusting. I felt like I was wearing a swamp. Sue me for wanting basic bodily comfort while being held hostage!”
August didn’t blink. His chest expanded with a slow, deep breath, stretching the fabric of his damp, tailored suit.
“How old are you?” he asked. His voice was low, flat, and completely devoid of inflection. It wasn't a casual question; it sounded like an interrogation tactic.
You blinked, utterly taken aback. Of all the things you expected him to say, a threat, an insult, a command to get out of the car, this was the absolute last.
“How dare you!” you gasped dramatically, a hand flying to your chest. The sheer audacity of the man cut right through your exhaustion. “You abduct me, you drag me through the mud, you chain me to your wrist like a goddamn dog, and now you have the nerve to ask a woman her age? What is wrong with you? Did they skip basic social etiquette at spy school?”
Walker’s patience, already hanging by a microscopic thread, violently snapped.
With a sudden, aggressive movement that made you flinch, he reached entirely across the center console. You let out a startled yelp, shrinking back against the passenger door, thinking he was finally going to hit you. But his massive hand bypassed your body entirely, his thick fingers grabbing the leather strap of your open tote bag resting by your left hip.
“Hey! Get your hands off that!” you shouted, your protective instincts flaring. “That is private property!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Walker growled, his voice vibrating with lethal authority.
He yanked the bag toward him. Because your left hand was cuffed to his right, the movement yanked the magnetic chain taut, violently jerking your arm across the console and pulling you halfway out of your seat. You hissed in pain as the cuff bit into your skin, but Walker completely ignored your discomfort. He held the bag with his left hand and used his cuffed right hand to ruthlessly dig through your belongings, shoving aside waterlogged manuscripts, a crushed salad container, and a half-empty tube of expensive hand cream.
“Stop it! You pompous prick, give me my bag!” You grabbed his massive forearm with your free hand, digging your nails into his wet suit sleeve, trying to pry him away. It was like trying to wrestle a concrete pillar.
His fingers closed around your small leather wallet. He pulled it out, flipped it open with his thumb, and immediately pulled out your ID card. He dropped your bag onto the floorboard, letting the chain retract slightly so you could sit back, though you were breathing heavily with pure outrage.
He held the small plastic card up to the green glow of the dashboard lights. His eyes scanned the text, narrowing slightly.
“Thirty-five…” August read aloud, his tone flat, dropping the card into his lap. He turned his head slowly to look at you, his expression one of complete, baffled disgust. “You are thirty-five years old.”
“And thriving, thank you very much!” you snapped, crossing your arms, well, crossing one arm and laying the cuffed one awkwardly across your stomach. “What the hell does my age have to do with anything?”
“You are thirty-five years old...” Walker repeated, his voice rising a fraction of a decibel, “and you do not know how to operate a motor vehicle.”
“It's London!” you practically shrieked, throwing your free hand in the air. “The Tube is incredibly efficient! Driving in this city is an absolute environmental and logistical nightmare, the traffic is medieval, and parking costs more than my monthly rent! Why the fuck would I own a car? I take the Jubilee line like a normal, civilized human being!”
“Civilized?” Walker scoffed, a dark, ugly sound. “You are thirty-five, completely helpless, and a massive liability. If you could drive, I could hotwire this ignition in sixty seconds while you prepped the vehicle. Now, I have to do both, one-handed, while watching for the heavily armed hostiles who are currently hunting us.”
“Well, I am so sorry my lack of driving skills is inconveniencing your highly illegal international shootout!” you fired back, your temper completely exploding. “Maybe if you hadn't let some twitchy lunatic handcuff us together, you wouldn't be in this situation! You’re supposed to be this giant, badass agent, and you got outplayed by a guy in a dirty tracksuit!”
Walker’s jaw clenched so hard you heard his teeth grind. “I will literally break your neck and leave you in this seat.”
“Do it! I dare you!” you yelled, completely losing your mind to the stress. “At least I wouldn't be hungry anymore!”
You violently turned around in your seat, turning your back to him to face the passenger window. As you did, you aggressively yanked your left arm, pulling his cuffed right hand hard against the center console.
“Ow! Dammit!” you muttered as the cuff pinched, but you refused to turn back around. “You are incredibly rude, you are totally unhinged, and I am done with this! Take me home. Right now. I want to go to my flat, I want to take a hot shower, and I want to forget I ever met your stupid, moustachioed face.”
The silence returned to the car, thick and volatile. You stared out the rain-streaked window, your chest heaving, waiting for him to retaliate, to hit you, to yell.
Instead, there was just the sound of a heavy, exhausted exhale.
“I can't take you home!” Walker said, his voice stripped of its anger, leaving only a cold, blunt reality. “The men I am hunting saw you. They saw my face, they saw yours. By now, they’ve run your biometrics from street cameras. If you go back to your flat, you will be dead before morning.”
Your breath hitched. The anger evaporated, replaced by a sudden, freezing spike of pure terror. You slowly turned your head to look over your shoulder at him.
Walker wasn't glaring anymore. He was just looking at you, his face a grim mask of absolute certainty. He reached down, grabbed your wallet, and tossed it into your lap.
“We are abandoning the vehicle,” Walker stated, his tone shifting back to tactical efficiency. “Without two hands, it takes too long. We are exposed here. We need to move to a secure location where I can sever this chain.”
“Move where?” your voice was small, the fight completely drained out of you. “I can't walk anymore, August. I really can't. And I'm so hungry my hands are shaking. If I don't eat something, I am going to faint. And then you are going to have one hundred and forty pounds of dead weight attached to your wrist.”
Walker stared at you for a long, calculating moment. He looked at your shaking hands, your pale face, and the desperate, exhausted set of your jaw. He let out a low grunt that sounded remarkably like a curse.
“Fine,” he snapped, shoving the car door open. “Get out.”
Fifteen minutes later, the chaotic, terrifying reality of your life had been reduced to the greasy confines of a dimly lit, profoundly depressing pub on the edge of Soho. The establishment smelled strongly of stale ale, bleach, and decades of bad decisions. The few patrons scattered in the booths looked like they wouldn't blink if a murder happened on the sticky wooden floor, which made it the perfect place to hide.
You were sitting in a dark corner booth, shoved tight against the wall. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you were quiet.
You had a massive, greasy double cheeseburger in your right hand, and you were eating it with a feral, unapologetic intensity. Grease dripped down your chin, and you didn't care. The hot, salty rush of calories was hitting your system like a drug, pulling you back from the edge of passing out.
Across the small, sticky table sat August Walker.
He was not eating. He was not drinking. He was sitting completely rigid, his massive shoulders taking up the entire width of the booth, his eyes sweeping the pub with predatory, unblinking focus. His left hand rested flat on the table, near the heavy lump in his jacket where you knew his gun was hidden. His right hand was extended across the table, tethered to your left wrist by the shimmering, high-tech magnetic chain.
You took another massive bite of the burger, moaning softly at the taste of the sharp cheddar and charred beef. You reached out with your right hand, grabbed a handful of soggy, oil-soaked chips, and shoved them into your mouth.
Walker’s eyes snapped from the front door to you. He watched you eat, his expression a mixture of profound disgust and reluctant acceptance.
“Are you finished inhaling that?” Walker asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble across the table.
You chewed methodically, swallowing the massive bite before looking at him. The food had worked a miracle. Your blood sugar had stabilized, the shaking had stopped, and your usual, sassy demeanor was slowly filtering back in. Now that you weren't actively fearing for your immediate life in an alleyway, you were feeling incredibly cooperative. Well, just a little.
“Not quite,” you said, licking a smear of ketchup off your thumb. “It’s actually fucking fantastic. You really should have ordered one. It might help with your deeply ingrained hostility issues.”
August narrowed his eyes, the heavy moustache lowering as his jaw set. “My hostility issues are currently keeping you breathing, darling.”
“Fair point.” you conceded, taking a sip from a pint of lukewarm water the heavily tattooed bartender had slammed down earlier. You tapped the metallic cuff on your left wrist with your index finger. It made a sharp clink against the wood. “So, what's the play, Walker? I'm fed, I'm resting my bare, battered feet, and I have accepted that I am temporarily a fugitive from justice. You said we needed a secure location to cut this thing off. Does this pub have a secret underground spy lair, or are we just waiting for someone to come shoot us?”
August leaned forward slightly, the chain slacking between you. His dark eyes locked onto yours, completely devoid of any humor.
“We are waiting for my extraction team to verify a clean route...” he said softly, the gravel in his voice scraping against the ambient noise of the pub. “And once they do, you are going to stand up, you are going to keep your mouth shut, and you are going to follow my exact orders. If you don't, I won't just leave you behind. I will make sure you can't be followed.”
You stopped chewing. The threat was explicit, and entirely serious. You looked at the hulking, dangerous man you were chained to, realizing that the burger hadn't changed the reality of the situation.
You swallowed hard, placing the remaining half of your burger down on the paper wrapper. You wiped your mouth with a cheap napkin, your eyes holding his unwavering stare.
“Understood,” you said quietly. “Just... tell me when to move.”
August gave a single, curt nod, leaning back into the shadows of the booth, his eyes returning to the pub's entrance. The chain between you hummed softly, a constant, binding reminder that your night was far from over.
The rain in London didn’t fall so much as it drifted, a miserable grey mist that clung to your eyelashes and ruined the expensive blowout you’d treated yourself to after finishing the final proofs for the upcoming book thriller.
Your feet were screaming. Those pointed-toe stilettos had seemed like a power move at nine in the morning, but now, at seven in the evening, they felt like medieval torture devices. You shifted the heavy leather tote on your shoulder, the weight of a dozen manuscripts and a half-eaten salad pressing into your collarbone.
As an editor at a small, boutique publishing house, your life was usually measured in word counts, dangling modifiers, and the polite neuroses of eccentric authors. You were smart, you were kind to a fault, and you had a sense of humor that usually acted as a shield against the drudgery of the corporate grind. You were also, by all accounts, beautiful, cause confidence baby, though in this moment, with your hair frizzing and your feet throbbing, you felt more like a drowned rat.
You were only two blocks from your flat, just about to take the sharp turn into the narrow cobblestone alley that served as a shortcut, when the world decided to break its own rules.
It happened in a blur of wet fabric and heavy footfalls. A man, wiry and wild-eyed, bolted around the corner, nearly knocking you off your feet. He smelled of old sweat and panic. Before you could even offer a choice piece of your mind, his hands were on you. He spun you around, his fingers digging into the fabric of your trench coat with a bruising grip.
Then came the cold, unmistakable press of metal against your temple.
“Don't move! Don't you fucking move!” the man screamed into your ear, his voice cracking with desperation.
You froze, the breath hitching in your throat. Your editor’s brain, usually so quick to find the right word, suddenly went blank. All you could focus on was the rhythmic thumping of footsteps approaching from the shadows of the alley.
Out of the mist emerged a mountain.
That was the only way to describe him. He was massive, his broad shoulders filling the width of the narrow passage. He wore a dark, perfectly tailored suit that looked entirely too expensive for a man engaged in a foot chase. His hair was neat, despite the rain, but it was his face that commanded the space. He had a thick, dark chevron moustache that gave him an air of rigid, old-world authority. His eyes were like chips of flint, cold, analytical, and entirely devoid of empathy.
“Let her go.” the man said. His voice was a deep, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate in your very marrow. It wasn't a plea, it was a cold statement of fact.
“Stay back! I'll blow her head off, I swear to God!” your captor shrieked, pressing the gun harder against your skin.
You felt a spark of indignant heat flare through your terror. You weren't a character in one of your thrillers, you were a real person with a pile of laundry waiting and a very expensive pair of shoes that were currently being scuffed.
“Look, honey…” you said, your voice trembling but sharp, “you’re shaking so hard you’re going to give me a migraine before you even pull the trigger. Why don’t you put the gun down and talk to the… to the mysterious moustache man over there? He looks like he’s actually in charge of whatever mess you’ve made.”
The massive man in the suit, shifted his weight. His gaze flicked to you for a fraction of a second. It was a glare so intense it felt like a physical blow. He clearly didn't appreciate your commentary.
“Shut up!” August snapped, his eyes returning to the gunman.
“Don't tell me to shut up!” you shot back, the adrenaline finally overriding your common sense. “I'm the one with a barrel in my ear! And you! You’re getting your grimy fingerprints all over my coat. Just let me go so you two can have your little testosterone-fueled standoff in peace!”
The gunman was losing it. He looked between you and the wall of a man standing ten feet away. The pressure in the alley was mounting, the air thick with the smell of wet pavement and impending violence.
“I can't... I'm not going back!” the gunman yelled. He was overwhelmed, his mind snapping under the weight of August’s predatory stare.
In a fit of panicked, jagged movement, the man reached into his pocket with his free hand. He pulled out a pair of heavy-duty, blackened steel handcuffs, something that looked far more advanced than anything a standard beat cop would carry.
“Get over here!” the gunman barked at August. “Drop the weapon and get over here or she dies!”
August didn't drop his gun. He didn't even blink. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his presence so imposing it felt like he was sucking the oxygen out of the alley.
“You're not going to shoot her…” August said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Because the second you do, I will pull your spine out through your throat.”
The gunman lost his mind. He let out a strangled cry, pointed his gun toward the sky, and fired a deafening shot that echoed off the brick walls. You flinched, your hands flying up to cover your ears. In the chaos of the noise and the smoke, the man lunged.
He didn't shoot you. Instead, he grabbed your left wrist with a strength born of pure hysteria. With a sickening clack-hiss, one side of the cuffs snapped shut around your wrist.
Before you could scream, August was on him. It was like watching a freight train hit a car. August didn't move like a normal man, he moved with a brutal, economic violence. He slammed into the gunman, his fist connecting with the man's jaw in a sound like a breaking branch.
But as the gunman fell back, he managed one last act of spiteful desperation. He grabbed August’s right hand and, with a final, frantic shove, snapped the other end of the cuffs onto August’s wrist.
The gunman scrambled away, disappearing into the darkness of the main street, leaving his gun behind in the puddle. August started to give chase, his body coiling to spring, but he was jerked back with a violent snap.
You were yanked off your feet, stumbling into his side. It was like hitting a brick wall made of muscle and expensive wool.
“Ow! Dammit!” you yelled, clutching your arm.
August stopped. He looked down at his right wrist, then followed the dark, high-tech chain to your left wrist. He tried to pull away, testing the strength of the bond. The chain between the cuffs began to hum softly, extending from its housing in the cuff itself. It grew longer about three to four feet of reinforced, shimmering wire but as soon as August stopped pulling, it retracted slightly, keeping the tension firm.
He reached into his pockets, his movements stiff and furious. He searched the ground where the gunman had been. Nothing.
“He doesn't have the key!” August growled, the words sounding like they were being ground between stones.
“The key? Use your own! Aren't you a cop? A spy? A giant, angry lumberjack in a suit?” You were panting, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Get this thing off me!”
August turned his full attention to you. Up close, he was even more terrifying. His face was inches from yours, and you could see the fine lines of irritation around his eyes. “These aren't standard issue. They're magnetic-lock prototypes. There is no keyhole, Y/n.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “How do you know my name?”
He reached into the open flap of your tote bag, which was still dangling from your shoulder, and pulled out your ID badge from the publishing house. He glanced at it and shoved it back in. “I know everything I need to know. And right now, what I know is that you’re an anchor I don't fucking need.”
“An anchor?” You let out a sharp, hysterical laugh. “You're the one who let the guy cuff us! You're the professional! I was just trying to go home and eat some mediocre pasta!”
“Shut your mouth and move!” he commanded, giving the chain a sharp tug. It didn't hurt, thanks to the extension mechanism, but the sheer force of his movement forced you to follow.
“Where are we going? We need to find a locksmith! Or a welder! Or a priest!”
August didn't slow down. He began walking toward the mouth of the alley, his stride long and relentless. You had to practically jog to keep up, your heels clicking unevenly on the wet stones.
“We're going to my extraction point.” he said, not looking back. “And if you say one more word about my moustache or a locksmith, I’m going to make you regret having a tongue.”
“Oh, we are well past the point of me being intimidated, Moustache Man!” you snapped, though your voice lacked its usual bite. You were exhausted, cold, and tethered to a man who looked like he could kill a person with a stern look. “You've got a gun, a very expensive suit, and zero people skills. I’ve spent ten years editing the egos of narcissistic novelists. You don’t scare me.”
August stopped so abruptly you ran into his back again. He turned, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. He grabbed the chain between you, winding it around his hand until you were pulled flush against his chest. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of rain, gun oil, and something distinctly masculine and sharp.
“Listen to me, darling…” he whispered, his voice low and dangerous, his face inches from yours. “I am in the middle of a high-level retrieval. The man who just ran off has information that could burn half of Europe. I don’t have time for your 'smart' commentary, and I certainly don't have time to be 'kind.' You are going to keep your head down, you are going to walk where I tell you to walk, and you are going to stay out of my way. If you don't, I will carry you like a sack of flour. Am I clear?”
You stared up at him, your breath hitching. He was brutal, he was arrogant, and he was undeniably the most imposing man you had ever encountered. But you weren't going to let him see you crumble.
“Crystal,” you whispered back, your eyes defiant. “But if I lose a shoe because you’re walking too fast, you’re buying me a new pair. And they’re Louboutins.”
August stared at you for a long beat, his jaw tightening. For a second, you thought he might actually crack a smile, or break your neck. Instead, he just let out a sharp exhaling grunt of annoyance and turned back toward the street.
“Fine.” he muttered. “Keep moving.”
“Listen you didn't ask me if I want to come with you!”
“ We are past that and now not word!”
As you stepped out into the neon-lit street, tethered to a man who was a different species of human altogether, you realized your quiet life of manuscripts and coffee was officially over. You were chained to a storm, and there was no way out but through.
The rain continued to fall, the silver chain between your wrists shimmering under the streetlights, a constant, unbreakable reminder that your worlds had not just collided, they were now inextricably fused.
Yes!!! August has met his match! She ain't backing down and he's not about to admit how much he loves it. She's feisty and demanding and I bet he loves how brave and quick witted she is.
The rain in London didn’t fall so much as it drifted, a miserable grey mist that clung to your eyelashes and ruined the expensive blowout you’d treated yourself to after finishing the final proofs for the upcoming book thriller.
Your feet were screaming. Those pointed-toe stilettos had seemed like a power move at nine in the morning, but now, at seven in the evening, they felt like medieval torture devices. You shifted the heavy leather tote on your shoulder, the weight of a dozen manuscripts and a half-eaten salad pressing into your collarbone.
As an editor at a small, boutique publishing house, your life was usually measured in word counts, dangling modifiers, and the polite neuroses of eccentric authors. You were smart, you were kind to a fault, and you had a sense of humor that usually acted as a shield against the drudgery of the corporate grind. You were also, by all accounts, beautiful, cause confidence baby, though in this moment, with your hair frizzing and your feet throbbing, you felt more like a drowned rat.
You were only two blocks from your flat, just about to take the sharp turn into the narrow cobblestone alley that served as a shortcut, when the world decided to break its own rules.
It happened in a blur of wet fabric and heavy footfalls. A man, wiry and wild-eyed, bolted around the corner, nearly knocking you off your feet. He smelled of old sweat and panic. Before you could even offer a choice piece of your mind, his hands were on you. He spun you around, his fingers digging into the fabric of your trench coat with a bruising grip.
Then came the cold, unmistakable press of metal against your temple.
“Don't move! Don't you fucking move!” the man screamed into your ear, his voice cracking with desperation.
You froze, the breath hitching in your throat. Your editor’s brain, usually so quick to find the right word, suddenly went blank. All you could focus on was the rhythmic thumping of footsteps approaching from the shadows of the alley.
Out of the mist emerged a mountain.
That was the only way to describe him. He was massive, his broad shoulders filling the width of the narrow passage. He wore a dark, perfectly tailored suit that looked entirely too expensive for a man engaged in a foot chase. His hair was neat, despite the rain, but it was his face that commanded the space. He had a thick, dark chevron moustache that gave him an air of rigid, old-world authority. His eyes were like chips of flint, cold, analytical, and entirely devoid of empathy.
“Let her go.” the man said. His voice was a deep, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate in your very marrow. It wasn't a plea, it was a cold statement of fact.
“Stay back! I'll blow her head off, I swear to God!” your captor shrieked, pressing the gun harder against your skin.
You felt a spark of indignant heat flare through your terror. You weren't a character in one of your thrillers, you were a real person with a pile of laundry waiting and a very expensive pair of shoes that were currently being scuffed.
“Look, honey…” you said, your voice trembling but sharp, “you’re shaking so hard you’re going to give me a migraine before you even pull the trigger. Why don’t you put the gun down and talk to the… to the mysterious moustache man over there? He looks like he’s actually in charge of whatever mess you’ve made.”
The massive man in the suit, shifted his weight. His gaze flicked to you for a fraction of a second. It was a glare so intense it felt like a physical blow. He clearly didn't appreciate your commentary.
“Shut up!” August snapped, his eyes returning to the gunman.
“Don't tell me to shut up!” you shot back, the adrenaline finally overriding your common sense. “I'm the one with a barrel in my ear! And you! You’re getting your grimy fingerprints all over my coat. Just let me go so you two can have your little testosterone-fueled standoff in peace!”
The gunman was losing it. He looked between you and the wall of a man standing ten feet away. The pressure in the alley was mounting, the air thick with the smell of wet pavement and impending violence.
“I can't... I'm not going back!” the gunman yelled. He was overwhelmed, his mind snapping under the weight of August’s predatory stare.
In a fit of panicked, jagged movement, the man reached into his pocket with his free hand. He pulled out a pair of heavy-duty, blackened steel handcuffs, something that looked far more advanced than anything a standard beat cop would carry.
“Get over here!” the gunman barked at August. “Drop the weapon and get over here or she dies!”
August didn't drop his gun. He didn't even blink. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his presence so imposing it felt like he was sucking the oxygen out of the alley.
“You're not going to shoot her…” August said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Because the second you do, I will pull your spine out through your throat.”
The gunman lost his mind. He let out a strangled cry, pointed his gun toward the sky, and fired a deafening shot that echoed off the brick walls. You flinched, your hands flying up to cover your ears. In the chaos of the noise and the smoke, the man lunged.
He didn't shoot you. Instead, he grabbed your left wrist with a strength born of pure hysteria. With a sickening clack-hiss, one side of the cuffs snapped shut around your wrist.
Before you could scream, August was on him. It was like watching a freight train hit a car. August didn't move like a normal man, he moved with a brutal, economic violence. He slammed into the gunman, his fist connecting with the man's jaw in a sound like a breaking branch.
But as the gunman fell back, he managed one last act of spiteful desperation. He grabbed August’s right hand and, with a final, frantic shove, snapped the other end of the cuffs onto August’s wrist.
The gunman scrambled away, disappearing into the darkness of the main street, leaving his gun behind in the puddle. August started to give chase, his body coiling to spring, but he was jerked back with a violent snap.
You were yanked off your feet, stumbling into his side. It was like hitting a brick wall made of muscle and expensive wool.
“Ow! Dammit!” you yelled, clutching your arm.
August stopped. He looked down at his right wrist, then followed the dark, high-tech chain to your left wrist. He tried to pull away, testing the strength of the bond. The chain between the cuffs began to hum softly, extending from its housing in the cuff itself. It grew longer about three to four feet of reinforced, shimmering wire but as soon as August stopped pulling, it retracted slightly, keeping the tension firm.
He reached into his pockets, his movements stiff and furious. He searched the ground where the gunman had been. Nothing.
“He doesn't have the key!” August growled, the words sounding like they were being ground between stones.
“The key? Use your own! Aren't you a cop? A spy? A giant, angry lumberjack in a suit?” You were panting, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Get this thing off me!”
August turned his full attention to you. Up close, he was even more terrifying. His face was inches from yours, and you could see the fine lines of irritation around his eyes. “These aren't standard issue. They're magnetic-lock prototypes. There is no keyhole, Y/n.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “How do you know my name?”
He reached into the open flap of your tote bag, which was still dangling from your shoulder, and pulled out your ID badge from the publishing house. He glanced at it and shoved it back in. “I know everything I need to know. And right now, what I know is that you’re an anchor I don't fucking need.”
“An anchor?” You let out a sharp, hysterical laugh. “You're the one who let the guy cuff us! You're the professional! I was just trying to go home and eat some mediocre pasta!”
“Shut your mouth and move!” he commanded, giving the chain a sharp tug. It didn't hurt, thanks to the extension mechanism, but the sheer force of his movement forced you to follow.
“Where are we going? We need to find a locksmith! Or a welder! Or a priest!”
August didn't slow down. He began walking toward the mouth of the alley, his stride long and relentless. You had to practically jog to keep up, your heels clicking unevenly on the wet stones.
“We're going to my extraction point.” he said, not looking back. “And if you say one more word about my moustache or a locksmith, I’m going to make you regret having a tongue.”
“Oh, we are well past the point of me being intimidated, Moustache Man!” you snapped, though your voice lacked its usual bite. You were exhausted, cold, and tethered to a man who looked like he could kill a person with a stern look. “You've got a gun, a very expensive suit, and zero people skills. I’ve spent ten years editing the egos of narcissistic novelists. You don’t scare me.”
August stopped so abruptly you ran into his back again. He turned, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. He grabbed the chain between you, winding it around his hand until you were pulled flush against his chest. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of rain, gun oil, and something distinctly masculine and sharp.
“Listen to me, darling…” he whispered, his voice low and dangerous, his face inches from yours. “I am in the middle of a high-level retrieval. The man who just ran off has information that could burn half of Europe. I don’t have time for your 'smart' commentary, and I certainly don't have time to be 'kind.' You are going to keep your head down, you are going to walk where I tell you to walk, and you are going to stay out of my way. If you don't, I will carry you like a sack of flour. Am I clear?”
You stared up at him, your breath hitching. He was brutal, he was arrogant, and he was undeniably the most imposing man you had ever encountered. But you weren't going to let him see you crumble.
“Crystal,” you whispered back, your eyes defiant. “But if I lose a shoe because you’re walking too fast, you’re buying me a new pair. And they’re Louboutins.”
August stared at you for a long beat, his jaw tightening. For a second, you thought he might actually crack a smile, or break your neck. Instead, he just let out a sharp exhaling grunt of annoyance and turned back toward the street.
“Fine.” he muttered. “Keep moving.”
“Listen you didn't ask me if I want to come with you!”
“ We are past that and now not word!”
As you stepped out into the neon-lit street, tethered to a man who was a different species of human altogether, you realized your quiet life of manuscripts and coffee was officially over. You were chained to a storm, and there was no way out but through.
The rain continued to fall, the silver chain between your wrists shimmering under the streetlights, a constant, unbreakable reminder that your worlds had not just collided, they were now inextricably fused.
The rain in London didn’t fall so much as it drifted, a miserable grey mist that clung to your eyelashes and ruined the expensive blowout you’d treated yourself to after finishing the final proofs for the upcoming book thriller.
Your feet were screaming. Those pointed-toe stilettos had seemed like a power move at nine in the morning, but now, at seven in the evening, they felt like medieval torture devices. You shifted the heavy leather tote on your shoulder, the weight of a dozen manuscripts and a half-eaten salad pressing into your collarbone.
As an editor at a small, boutique publishing house, your life was usually measured in word counts, dangling modifiers, and the polite neuroses of eccentric authors. You were smart, you were kind to a fault, and you had a sense of humor that usually acted as a shield against the drudgery of the corporate grind. You were also, by all accounts, beautiful, cause confidence baby, though in this moment, with your hair frizzing and your feet throbbing, you felt more like a drowned rat.
You were only two blocks from your flat, just about to take the sharp turn into the narrow cobblestone alley that served as a shortcut, when the world decided to break its own rules.
It happened in a blur of wet fabric and heavy footfalls. A man, wiry and wild-eyed, bolted around the corner, nearly knocking you off your feet. He smelled of old sweat and panic. Before you could even offer a choice piece of your mind, his hands were on you. He spun you around, his fingers digging into the fabric of your trench coat with a bruising grip.
Then came the cold, unmistakable press of metal against your temple.
“Don't move! Don't you fucking move!” the man screamed into your ear, his voice cracking with desperation.
You froze, the breath hitching in your throat. Your editor’s brain, usually so quick to find the right word, suddenly went blank. All you could focus on was the rhythmic thumping of footsteps approaching from the shadows of the alley.
Out of the mist emerged a mountain.
That was the only way to describe him. He was massive, his broad shoulders filling the width of the narrow passage. He wore a dark, perfectly tailored suit that looked entirely too expensive for a man engaged in a foot chase. His hair was neat, despite the rain, but it was his face that commanded the space. He had a thick, dark chevron moustache that gave him an air of rigid, old-world authority. His eyes were like chips of flint, cold, analytical, and entirely devoid of empathy.
“Let her go.” the man said. His voice was a deep, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate in your very marrow. It wasn't a plea, it was a cold statement of fact.
“Stay back! I'll blow her head off, I swear to God!” your captor shrieked, pressing the gun harder against your skin.
You felt a spark of indignant heat flare through your terror. You weren't a character in one of your thrillers, you were a real person with a pile of laundry waiting and a very expensive pair of shoes that were currently being scuffed.
“Look, honey…” you said, your voice trembling but sharp, “you’re shaking so hard you’re going to give me a migraine before you even pull the trigger. Why don’t you put the gun down and talk to the… to the mysterious moustache man over there? He looks like he’s actually in charge of whatever mess you’ve made.”
The massive man in the suit, shifted his weight. His gaze flicked to you for a fraction of a second. It was a glare so intense it felt like a physical blow. He clearly didn't appreciate your commentary.
“Shut up!” August snapped, his eyes returning to the gunman.
“Don't tell me to shut up!” you shot back, the adrenaline finally overriding your common sense. “I'm the one with a barrel in my ear! And you! You’re getting your grimy fingerprints all over my coat. Just let me go so you two can have your little testosterone-fueled standoff in peace!”
The gunman was losing it. He looked between you and the wall of a man standing ten feet away. The pressure in the alley was mounting, the air thick with the smell of wet pavement and impending violence.
“I can't... I'm not going back!” the gunman yelled. He was overwhelmed, his mind snapping under the weight of August’s predatory stare.
In a fit of panicked, jagged movement, the man reached into his pocket with his free hand. He pulled out a pair of heavy-duty, blackened steel handcuffs, something that looked far more advanced than anything a standard beat cop would carry.
“Get over here!” the gunman barked at August. “Drop the weapon and get over here or she dies!”
August didn't drop his gun. He didn't even blink. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his presence so imposing it felt like he was sucking the oxygen out of the alley.
“You're not going to shoot her…” August said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Because the second you do, I will pull your spine out through your throat.”
The gunman lost his mind. He let out a strangled cry, pointed his gun toward the sky, and fired a deafening shot that echoed off the brick walls. You flinched, your hands flying up to cover your ears. In the chaos of the noise and the smoke, the man lunged.
He didn't shoot you. Instead, he grabbed your left wrist with a strength born of pure hysteria. With a sickening clack-hiss, one side of the cuffs snapped shut around your wrist.
Before you could scream, August was on him. It was like watching a freight train hit a car. August didn't move like a normal man, he moved with a brutal, economic violence. He slammed into the gunman, his fist connecting with the man's jaw in a sound like a breaking branch.
But as the gunman fell back, he managed one last act of spiteful desperation. He grabbed August’s right hand and, with a final, frantic shove, snapped the other end of the cuffs onto August’s wrist.
The gunman scrambled away, disappearing into the darkness of the main street, leaving his gun behind in the puddle. August started to give chase, his body coiling to spring, but he was jerked back with a violent snap.
You were yanked off your feet, stumbling into his side. It was like hitting a brick wall made of muscle and expensive wool.
“Ow! Dammit!” you yelled, clutching your arm.
August stopped. He looked down at his right wrist, then followed the dark, high-tech chain to your left wrist. He tried to pull away, testing the strength of the bond. The chain between the cuffs began to hum softly, extending from its housing in the cuff itself. It grew longer about three to four feet of reinforced, shimmering wire but as soon as August stopped pulling, it retracted slightly, keeping the tension firm.
He reached into his pockets, his movements stiff and furious. He searched the ground where the gunman had been. Nothing.
“He doesn't have the key!” August growled, the words sounding like they were being ground between stones.
“The key? Use your own! Aren't you a cop? A spy? A giant, angry lumberjack in a suit?” You were panting, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Get this thing off me!”
August turned his full attention to you. Up close, he was even more terrifying. His face was inches from yours, and you could see the fine lines of irritation around his eyes. “These aren't standard issue. They're magnetic-lock prototypes. There is no keyhole, Y/n.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “How do you know my name?”
He reached into the open flap of your tote bag, which was still dangling from your shoulder, and pulled out your ID badge from the publishing house. He glanced at it and shoved it back in. “I know everything I need to know. And right now, what I know is that you’re an anchor I don't fucking need.”
“An anchor?” You let out a sharp, hysterical laugh. “You're the one who let the guy cuff us! You're the professional! I was just trying to go home and eat some mediocre pasta!”
“Shut your mouth and move!” he commanded, giving the chain a sharp tug. It didn't hurt, thanks to the extension mechanism, but the sheer force of his movement forced you to follow.
“Where are we going? We need to find a locksmith! Or a welder! Or a priest!”
August didn't slow down. He began walking toward the mouth of the alley, his stride long and relentless. You had to practically jog to keep up, your heels clicking unevenly on the wet stones.
“We're going to my extraction point.” he said, not looking back. “And if you say one more word about my moustache or a locksmith, I’m going to make you regret having a tongue.”
“Oh, we are well past the point of me being intimidated, Moustache Man!” you snapped, though your voice lacked its usual bite. You were exhausted, cold, and tethered to a man who looked like he could kill a person with a stern look. “You've got a gun, a very expensive suit, and zero people skills. I’ve spent ten years editing the egos of narcissistic novelists. You don’t scare me.”
August stopped so abruptly you ran into his back again. He turned, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. He grabbed the chain between you, winding it around his hand until you were pulled flush against his chest. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of rain, gun oil, and something distinctly masculine and sharp.
“Listen to me, darling…” he whispered, his voice low and dangerous, his face inches from yours. “I am in the middle of a high-level retrieval. The man who just ran off has information that could burn half of Europe. I don’t have time for your 'smart' commentary, and I certainly don't have time to be 'kind.' You are going to keep your head down, you are going to walk where I tell you to walk, and you are going to stay out of my way. If you don't, I will carry you like a sack of flour. Am I clear?”
You stared up at him, your breath hitching. He was brutal, he was arrogant, and he was undeniably the most imposing man you had ever encountered. But you weren't going to let him see you crumble.
“Crystal,” you whispered back, your eyes defiant. “But if I lose a shoe because you’re walking too fast, you’re buying me a new pair. And they’re Louboutins.”
August stared at you for a long beat, his jaw tightening. For a second, you thought he might actually crack a smile, or break your neck. Instead, he just let out a sharp exhaling grunt of annoyance and turned back toward the street.
“Fine.” he muttered. “Keep moving.”
“Listen you didn't ask me if I want to come with you!”
“ We are past that and now not word!”
As you stepped out into the neon-lit street, tethered to a man who was a different species of human altogether, you realized your quiet life of manuscripts and coffee was officially over. You were chained to a storm, and there was no way out but through.
The rain continued to fall, the silver chain between your wrists shimmering under the streetlights, a constant, unbreakable reminder that your worlds had not just collided, they were now inextricably fused.
The rain in London didn’t fall so much as it drifted, a miserable grey mist that clung to your eyelashes and ruined the expensive blowout you’d treated yourself to after finishing the final proofs for the upcoming book thriller.
Your feet were screaming. Those pointed-toe stilettos had seemed like a power move at nine in the morning, but now, at seven in the evening, they felt like medieval torture devices. You shifted the heavy leather tote on your shoulder, the weight of a dozen manuscripts and a half-eaten salad pressing into your collarbone.
As an editor at a small, boutique publishing house, your life was usually measured in word counts, dangling modifiers, and the polite neuroses of eccentric authors. You were smart, you were kind to a fault, and you had a sense of humor that usually acted as a shield against the drudgery of the corporate grind. You were also, by all accounts, beautiful, cause confidence baby, though in this moment, with your hair frizzing and your feet throbbing, you felt more like a drowned rat.
You were only two blocks from your flat, just about to take the sharp turn into the narrow cobblestone alley that served as a shortcut, when the world decided to break its own rules.
It happened in a blur of wet fabric and heavy footfalls. A man, wiry and wild-eyed, bolted around the corner, nearly knocking you off your feet. He smelled of old sweat and panic. Before you could even offer a choice piece of your mind, his hands were on you. He spun you around, his fingers digging into the fabric of your trench coat with a bruising grip.
Then came the cold, unmistakable press of metal against your temple.
“Don't move! Don't you fucking move!” the man screamed into your ear, his voice cracking with desperation.
You froze, the breath hitching in your throat. Your editor’s brain, usually so quick to find the right word, suddenly went blank. All you could focus on was the rhythmic thumping of footsteps approaching from the shadows of the alley.
Out of the mist emerged a mountain.
That was the only way to describe him. He was massive, his broad shoulders filling the width of the narrow passage. He wore a dark, perfectly tailored suit that looked entirely too expensive for a man engaged in a foot chase. His hair was neat, despite the rain, but it was his face that commanded the space. He had a thick, dark chevron moustache that gave him an air of rigid, old-world authority. His eyes were like chips of flint, cold, analytical, and entirely devoid of empathy.
“Let her go.” the man said. His voice was a deep, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate in your very marrow. It wasn't a plea, it was a cold statement of fact.
“Stay back! I'll blow her head off, I swear to God!” your captor shrieked, pressing the gun harder against your skin.
You felt a spark of indignant heat flare through your terror. You weren't a character in one of your thrillers, you were a real person with a pile of laundry waiting and a very expensive pair of shoes that were currently being scuffed.
“Look, honey…” you said, your voice trembling but sharp, “you’re shaking so hard you’re going to give me a migraine before you even pull the trigger. Why don’t you put the gun down and talk to the… to the mysterious moustache man over there? He looks like he’s actually in charge of whatever mess you’ve made.”
The massive man in the suit, shifted his weight. His gaze flicked to you for a fraction of a second. It was a glare so intense it felt like a physical blow. He clearly didn't appreciate your commentary.
“Shut up!” August snapped, his eyes returning to the gunman.
“Don't tell me to shut up!” you shot back, the adrenaline finally overriding your common sense. “I'm the one with a barrel in my ear! And you! You’re getting your grimy fingerprints all over my coat. Just let me go so you two can have your little testosterone-fueled standoff in peace!”
The gunman was losing it. He looked between you and the wall of a man standing ten feet away. The pressure in the alley was mounting, the air thick with the smell of wet pavement and impending violence.
“I can't... I'm not going back!” the gunman yelled. He was overwhelmed, his mind snapping under the weight of August’s predatory stare.
In a fit of panicked, jagged movement, the man reached into his pocket with his free hand. He pulled out a pair of heavy-duty, blackened steel handcuffs, something that looked far more advanced than anything a standard beat cop would carry.
“Get over here!” the gunman barked at August. “Drop the weapon and get over here or she dies!”
August didn't drop his gun. He didn't even blink. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his presence so imposing it felt like he was sucking the oxygen out of the alley.
“You're not going to shoot her…” August said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Because the second you do, I will pull your spine out through your throat.”
The gunman lost his mind. He let out a strangled cry, pointed his gun toward the sky, and fired a deafening shot that echoed off the brick walls. You flinched, your hands flying up to cover your ears. In the chaos of the noise and the smoke, the man lunged.
He didn't shoot you. Instead, he grabbed your left wrist with a strength born of pure hysteria. With a sickening clack-hiss, one side of the cuffs snapped shut around your wrist.
Before you could scream, August was on him. It was like watching a freight train hit a car. August didn't move like a normal man, he moved with a brutal, economic violence. He slammed into the gunman, his fist connecting with the man's jaw in a sound like a breaking branch.
But as the gunman fell back, he managed one last act of spiteful desperation. He grabbed August’s right hand and, with a final, frantic shove, snapped the other end of the cuffs onto August’s wrist.
The gunman scrambled away, disappearing into the darkness of the main street, leaving his gun behind in the puddle. August started to give chase, his body coiling to spring, but he was jerked back with a violent snap.
You were yanked off your feet, stumbling into his side. It was like hitting a brick wall made of muscle and expensive wool.
“Ow! Dammit!” you yelled, clutching your arm.
August stopped. He looked down at his right wrist, then followed the dark, high-tech chain to your left wrist. He tried to pull away, testing the strength of the bond. The chain between the cuffs began to hum softly, extending from its housing in the cuff itself. It grew longer about three to four feet of reinforced, shimmering wire but as soon as August stopped pulling, it retracted slightly, keeping the tension firm.
He reached into his pockets, his movements stiff and furious. He searched the ground where the gunman had been. Nothing.
“He doesn't have the key!” August growled, the words sounding like they were being ground between stones.
“The key? Use your own! Aren't you a cop? A spy? A giant, angry lumberjack in a suit?” You were panting, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Get this thing off me!”
August turned his full attention to you. Up close, he was even more terrifying. His face was inches from yours, and you could see the fine lines of irritation around his eyes. “These aren't standard issue. They're magnetic-lock prototypes. There is no keyhole, Y/n.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “How do you know my name?”
He reached into the open flap of your tote bag, which was still dangling from your shoulder, and pulled out your ID badge from the publishing house. He glanced at it and shoved it back in. “I know everything I need to know. And right now, what I know is that you’re an anchor I don't fucking need.”
“An anchor?” You let out a sharp, hysterical laugh. “You're the one who let the guy cuff us! You're the professional! I was just trying to go home and eat some mediocre pasta!”
“Shut your mouth and move!” he commanded, giving the chain a sharp tug. It didn't hurt, thanks to the extension mechanism, but the sheer force of his movement forced you to follow.
“Where are we going? We need to find a locksmith! Or a welder! Or a priest!”
August didn't slow down. He began walking toward the mouth of the alley, his stride long and relentless. You had to practically jog to keep up, your heels clicking unevenly on the wet stones.
“We're going to my extraction point.” he said, not looking back. “And if you say one more word about my moustache or a locksmith, I’m going to make you regret having a tongue.”
“Oh, we are well past the point of me being intimidated, Moustache Man!” you snapped, though your voice lacked its usual bite. You were exhausted, cold, and tethered to a man who looked like he could kill a person with a stern look. “You've got a gun, a very expensive suit, and zero people skills. I’ve spent ten years editing the egos of narcissistic novelists. You don’t scare me.”
August stopped so abruptly you ran into his back again. He turned, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. He grabbed the chain between you, winding it around his hand until you were pulled flush against his chest. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of rain, gun oil, and something distinctly masculine and sharp.
“Listen to me, darling…” he whispered, his voice low and dangerous, his face inches from yours. “I am in the middle of a high-level retrieval. The man who just ran off has information that could burn half of Europe. I don’t have time for your 'smart' commentary, and I certainly don't have time to be 'kind.' You are going to keep your head down, you are going to walk where I tell you to walk, and you are going to stay out of my way. If you don't, I will carry you like a sack of flour. Am I clear?”
You stared up at him, your breath hitching. He was brutal, he was arrogant, and he was undeniably the most imposing man you had ever encountered. But you weren't going to let him see you crumble.
“Crystal,” you whispered back, your eyes defiant. “But if I lose a shoe because you’re walking too fast, you’re buying me a new pair. And they’re Louboutins.”
August stared at you for a long beat, his jaw tightening. For a second, you thought he might actually crack a smile, or break your neck. Instead, he just let out a sharp exhaling grunt of annoyance and turned back toward the street.
“Fine.” he muttered. “Keep moving.”
“Listen you didn't ask me if I want to come with you!”
“ We are past that and now not word!”
As you stepped out into the neon-lit street, tethered to a man who was a different species of human altogether, you realized your quiet life of manuscripts and coffee was officially over. You were chained to a storm, and there was no way out but through.
The rain continued to fall, the silver chain between your wrists shimmering under the streetlights, a constant, unbreakable reminder that your worlds had not just collided, they were now inextricably fused.
