He sits in the chair across from me. Not behind a desk. Not standing over me with a clipboard. Just... sits. Elbows on his knees, leaning forward slightly.
Like I’m a person he wants to talk to instead of a problem he needs to process.
It’s disarming.
His forearms are obscene. The way his sleeves are rolled up, showing tanned skin and the flex of muscle when he shifts his weight.
I’m in hell. This is definitely hell.
“I know this is overwhelming,” he says, and his voice is so fucking kind it makes my nipples hurt. “I know you just testified and probably didn’t get a chance to process before they pulled you out. But I need you to understand what happens next.”
I nod because words feel impossible.
He’s explaining how my life is ending and all I can focus on is the way his mouth moves. The fullness of his bottom lip. That mouth closing on my nipple. Whether he’d nip or full-on bite.
Therapy. I need so much therapy.
“You’re going into witness protection. Full program. New identity, new location, new life.” He pauses. Watches my face like he actually cares what he sees there. “Everything from before, your name, your job, your apartment, your friends, that all goes away.”
Your apartment with the empty chocolate box.
Your kitchen that still smells like cookies you made for a man you’ll never see again.
Your complete inability to be normal about attractive men.
No, that one probably stays.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds like he means it. “I know that’s not what you want to hear.”
“When?” My voice comes out tissue-thin.
“Today. We’re processing your documents now. New ID, new background, new everything.” He leans back slightly, giving me space I didn’t ask for and immediately want to fill. “Once that’s done, I’ll drive you to your new location myself. Get you settled.”
Himself.
Not handed off to another pair of forgettable agents.
He’ll do it himself.
Why is that hot? Why is “I’ll personally supervise your identity death” activating every kink I didn’t know I had?
Totally normal hormonal response.
“I’ll stay local for the first week,” he continues, completely unaware that I’m having a crisis. “Make sure you’re adjusting. Make sure you’re safe. After that, I check in regularly, but you’ll mostly be on your own.”
On your own.
As whoever they decide you are now.
“Okay,” I say, because what else is there?
He’s quiet for a moment. Just looking at me.
And there’s something in his expression I can’t quite catalog. Not pity. Not professional detachment. Something closer to... recognition? Like he sees the earthquake happening under my skin and isn’t going to pretend it’s not there.
It makes me want to cry.
It makes me want to ask if his hands are as steady as they look when he’s holding someone together.
