it takes what feels like ages to get back on his feet. for the wounds to heal, the dust to settle. it’s really not hard, if you know the right people. if you have enough money. and he does. she should know better than anyone that dead men aren’t exactly what they seem.
he spends the better part of a the month just watching her. memorizing routines, jotting down names. at the end of the day, she never learns, does she? it’s amazing what you can find out with a charming smile and a sob story --- the ex who just wants to get her back, the brother who wants to surprise her. fuck, he gets into her apartment after the first night. he almost wishes he could have dragged it out longer, but she took everything from him. and by the end of two and a half weeks he can feel the itch beneath his skin.
he grabs his own glass as she speaks, severing the distance between them and coming to a stop a stool away from her. his head cants to the side, eyes narrowing just slightly to consider her. the CIA looks good on her. she looks confident. strong. and he supposes she owes most of that to him. without him, there was no frank. there was no closure to the rawlins case. there was nothing.
❝ maybe it is. ❞ his voice is deceptively soft, gaze roaming over her as he lets out a long sigh. his hand moves up slowly, fingers curling just beneath her chin as his thumb brushes over the now-healed scar on her cheek. ❝ you shouldn’t be day drinking, you know. shady place like this, you never know what kind of low life you might run into. ❞
