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Chapter Text

And beyond them, across the metropolis, a daily blizzard of litter. As the two men pass, their eyes meet briefly, neutrally. The whites of the sweeper's eyes are fringed with egg-yellow shading to red along the lids. For a vertiginous moment Henry feels himself bound to the other man, as though on a seesaw with him, pinned to an axis that could tip them into each other's life.

—McEwan, Saturday

The contacts are hurting you when you blink now. The day is too long, and you want to use the toilet once you get home, and there are a million other trivial needs that you have to fulfill, because the work is demanding as always, and already, your free time will be over too soon. You could almost feel the relief when you get home, kick off your boots, change into something comfy while removing those goddamn contact lenses from your dry eyes. And pee. And shower. And reply some emails and then go to sleep. You’re so tired that you briefly consider skipping another day of washing your hair. You did buy some groceries on your way back home; would that good deed even out the small evil of not washing your hair? Between pondering and spacing out, you walk steadily with a slouchy gesture, but your pace is fast enough to not draw any unwanted attention. You’re one of the passersby, a common commuter in a big city, and everything about you shouts “ordinary”. There’s a focused look on your face, a stony and slightly irritated expression like anyone would wear when they don’t want to be bothered. How ironic that the most unordinary thing can always happen to people like you.

By contingency, a kerfuffle draws your attention. Normally you’d just walk straight past a narrow alleyway ignoring whatever hell is happening in there. But, somehow, you stop to see what’s going on. Maybe it’s because the spot is close to your apartment, and out of vigilance, you have the duty to check if anything might disturb your perfect little routine in the future. You don’t like surprises and changes, and you prefer to mentally prepare for things that might blow up.

It does blow up. You jump when, in the dark of the alley, there’s a crack noise, which is a cross between a whip and a sneeze. You’re digging your phone out of your back pocket to call the police, because as you walk further into the darkness, you see two people twisting on the ground. A male, and a female. The man sees what you’re doing and he points a gun at you. Ah so that’s what the sound is about. A gunshot. You stare dumbly at the whole scene when the woman, who seems wounded as she lies squirming on the ground, seizes the opportunity of the distracted man. Within a flash, she plunges a knife she’s hiding in her hand into the man’s neck. The man let out a choked gasp. You’ve never seen someone get stabbed in real life. It’s bewildering and a dream will feel more real. A thud comes through when the man hits the ground, and the woman with wavy hair grabs the gun from his hand and makes sure he’s dead by putting three more holes into his head.

Crouching on the floor, the stranger inspects her knife, which is bloody. Why? Oh, she’s just pulled it from the man’s throat. The actions are too violent that the sequences get rearranged in your head. You can’t tell if she twists the knife first or fires the gun or pulls out the knife or stares at you.

Her gaze pierces through your mental fog. “Have you called the police?”

You can’t find your voice. You shake your head.

The woman slumps. “That’s the first good news for today,” she murmurs in a sarcastic tone, wiping her blade on the man’s clothes and then searches his pocket.

“Are you hurt?” You ask. It seems to be a reasonable reaction, though none of this is reasonable.

The woman looks up at you slowly, like she’s taking you for the first time.

“Just go away, pretend that this doesn’t happen, will you?” She loses interest quickly, and gets back to her shady pocket-searching business. “I don’t want to deal with another body.”

“Fine.” You can’t hear yourself. You clear your throat and try again. “Fine,” you say in a louder voice. The woman ignores you. You turn, commanding your feet to function, with the stranger’s voice ringing in your head. Her accent is strong. She’s sparing your life, possibly because she had a pretty long day herself.

There’s a hiss and a cuss. You look back, and see the woman clasping her shoulder. Her body is curled up at a weird angle, as if she’s not comfortable moving.

“Uh, miss, are you sure you don’t need help? My place is just one block away from here.”

“Little girl, just go. Leave.” She’s used to giving orders, you can tell. Usually, you’ve no problem following orders because it’s what you do best. But it just goes against your conscience, a system of virtues and ethics you obey throughout your life. Sure, you’re a good citizen because you play by the book, because following rules is safer and easier. But you don’t avoid troubles like this, when there’s someone in dire need of help, when there’s death and more to come.

The stranger stands up. You don’t budge. She walks closer. The elongation of the gun’s muzzle reflects the streetlamp’s light when it’s pointed at you. It’s a gun with a silencer.

Then, the veil of darkness is lifted from the woman’s face when she walks into the light. She has a sculptured face, blue eyes, tall straight nose that has blood caking under her nostrils. Her hair is dark, wavy, and shoulder-length. Her upper lip is thinner than her bottom lip, and the side of her mouth is swollen. Her neck has a horizontal mark like she’s wearing a choker. But it isn’t, and from the looks of it, that seems to be a fresh choking mark. You can smell leather upholstery and deodorant from her. A traveler.

She smirks abruptly. You’ve no idea that a few muscles stretching and pulling on her face can make such a big difference. It’s not a creepy smirk, more like a challenging one. Seeing it feels like kissing your first love, receiving your first paycheck, or throwing dirt on your first casket. You are dizzy, struck with the stranger’s presence, as if she resembles everything that has just happened, and she’s coming after you like a grim reaper or a sister of fate, because you’ve made your choice to help.

“Lead the way, if you so insist.”

***

A scowl is etched onto the beautiful stranger’s features, like she’s perpetually unamused. But as you eased her into your space, offered whatever help you can provide, the look on her face cooled into an unfazed, unimpressed one. She has many injuries but none of them are lethal, the worst is a dislocated shoulder, and you fix it under her instruction. The rest, nothing a few icepacks and your first aid kit can’t treat.

Her frame is tiny after her coat is removed. Beneath her armor, a black shirt is tucked into what seems to be a tracksuit bottom, but they aren’t. They are trousers that fit her loosely so it will leave room for her to, presumably, kick a few asses. You wonder why you don’t regret taking in someone who looks like a mafia boss’s premium hitman. It’s an irrational choice, not the smartest one to be made, but still, if you went back, you would’ve done it again.

“What’s that smell?” The woman asks when you bring her water. She’s sitting on the side of the couch which is the closest to the door.

You sniff the air. “Oh. My boyfriend probably went to the fishmonger this morning. Maybe he did a bit of cooking when I was at work.”

She didn’t say thank you when she takes the glass. Her hand doesn’t shake when she drinks the water in one go. There’s mirth in her eyes. It’s distracting. It makes you doubt yourself, thinking that you shouldn’t have noted down the shape and size of her slender hands after she’s taken those gloves off. It’s inappropriate to ogle at strangers.

“Well,” there’s a velvety quality in her voice now that she’s hydrated, “either your boyfriend is gay, or you are.”

The surprise bubble up your throat and builds into barks of laughter.

“Is it that obvious?” You retrieve the glass, ignoring the gun that looks out of place on the living room table, and go for a refill. “My roommate has impeccable taste. Andy sets the bar high when it comes to indoor décor.”

You can feel her gaze trained on your back. You shouldn’t be so trustful towards a killer. Already you can picture her pouncing on you, sinking her butterfly knife into a tender spot, and the cold of the blade will be as unbearable as the pain. You leave yourself too open and too close at the same time. The stranger has called your bluff, destroying your false sense of security when you claimed that you have a partner.

“And what does Andy do?”

“Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that.”

“You’re all alone in this empty flat, aren’t you?”

You can’t answer. You’re drinking your water because you’re thirsty as hell. The stranger is sitting with her elbows resting on her knees. Her hair is tied up into a low ponytail because earlier, you needed to tend to her shoulder, and her hair was in the way. She is an easy fit into the stereotypical assassin category, her physique lean, her outfit all black, and there’s an emptiness in her expression, like a part of her is somewhere else, doing her dirty work or scheming, and another part of her is always alert. Alert and remote.

“My roommate isn’t coming back until about five in the morning. I can text him and say you’re crashing for a night.”

“You don’t know who I am.” The stranger stretches her legs, unhurried, testing her muscles. She’s hiding her discomfort and exhaustion. “No questions asked and you’re letting me stay?”

From the kitchen, you stare at her. She holds your gaze. She is a very attractive woman, and you have trouble telling her age. Sometimes she seems weather-beaten, then the next instant she looks ready to take three men down in a round.

“Look, lady, you saved me back then and I want to return the favor. You seem to have a busy schedule, and I’m just offering.”

“I didn’t save your life. It’s purely by chance,” she pauses, and cocks her head. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Nobody. I don’t have any ulterior motives.”

“A people-pleaser, then.”

“I was hoping for the look of someone with some resemblance of principles. Guess that’s a failure,” you joke. She raises an eyebrow.

“Nope. You’re very proud of your principles. I can see that,” she mutters. “Does it not bother you that I might murder you in your sleep?”

“Does it not bother you that I might poison the water you just drank?” You say, not missing a beat.

The stranger smirks. “Fair point.” The wicked smile suits her too well, for a second you forget about her identity and the danger it entails.

So no more blood is spilled under your roof. The night runs on the slim trust you invest in each other, and by the morning, she is gone. The only proof that she’s here is a note, scribbled in messy penmanship that says thanks for the painkiller, with a M signed at the very end.

You’re glad she only robbed your medical cabinet.

***

She does not pay your apartment a visit again, not after a few months, and the only warning is messages from your roommate.

On my way out, guess what I’ve found. YOUR GF. How can you not tell me about this secret underground romance?

You don't read him immediately, because you thought Andy’s probably talking about a stray animal. After texting back and forth for a while, you grow suspicious at his enthusiasm. Then you realize in horror that he's referring to M, the mysterious woman, who’s been going through your stuff and being unapologetic about it. In the end you have to go with the stranger's lie, and tell Andy that she is indeed, your new girlfriend. You don’t want him to worry.

She looks just like your type though. If you know what I mean.

You guffaw, and make a terrible pun about his job to serve the tea to his customers. You’re angry that M does this to you, but that anger dissipates. For crying out loud, it's her, all cloak-and-dagger, and it’s your fault if anything bad happens to Andy. You should be grateful that he seems to be ok.

That night when you’re back at home, there’s no one there, but you have a feeling that the suspect is never far from the crime scene. No wonder you feel watched when you don’t usually indulge in paranoia.

“It’s always the uptight girls that’s more fun to play with.”

There it is, the voice in your dreams. You rub your eyes, not accustomed to wake up so early on a Saturday morning. A blurry shadow congregates by your bed. You can’t tell who it is, and you want to sleep, so you murmur a protest and roll to the other side of the bed.

The next time you wake up, it’s in the afternoon, and you do not recall the incident once you start your morning routine, because on your way to the bathroom, you see someone lounging on the couch.

In your unruly state, you’re torn between ignoring or confronting the stranger.

“Who is it?” You call, caving in to curiosity.

“Apparently, your girlfriend at the moment.” The person drawls. It takes a minute for you to connect the dots because your brain is still fuzzy from sleep.

“Found anything here worth your while yet?” You ask gruffly. You deserve a good episode of morning tantrum.

“I found enough.” M sounds satisfied. You wonder what is keeping her here, if she so wished to leave when you took her in that night. You leave her be and do your thing, hoping the uninvited guest will still be there, so you can have a punching bag for your irritation.

She is.

“Why are you here?” You go up to her and cross your hands above your chest. “Are you here to finish the assignment?”

She looks at you up and down. Fuck. You should’ve put on a bra and a pair of pants.

“I want to see if you’re alright,” she says cryptically. “You did get involved with some bad people.”

You can’t tell if she’s lying. There’s some truth in it, but you suspect it’s more about seeing if you’re as innocent as your background check.

“I’m glad you’re not here to kill me. And that you’re still alive yourself,” you respond. The black top she’s wearing gives her a softer look. It’s a silk blouse, and she’s wearing a pair of slacks and…heels. As if she’s only finished a board meeting. “But please don’t wake me up when I’m sleeping. It gets me in a murderous mood.”

The stranger smiles. “Sounds like a challenge.”

You look away before her smile grows on you.

“And what do you mean by ‘uptight’?” You ask. You need caffeine. Right fucking now, before you turn into your alter-ego. You remember you left some in the fridge.

“It means that you’ve abstained from worldly pleasures. Took a vow of abstinence.”

“Oh, father, for I have sinned,” you say loudly when you realize you have to grind your coffee beans. You slam the door of the refrigerator. “So you think you know me based on the stuff you went through?”

“You’re the walking billboard of pent-up energy.”

Whatever.

“Do you want some coffee?” You take the jars of the coffee beans and wonder how to you like it today, light-medium or medium-dark roast. You should’ve never turned your back to a killer again, because the next thing you know, she’s snaked up to you, and you knock over a jar when you flinch away. M reaches the jar just in time to stop it from rolling off the counter, and set it straight. She’s wearing gloves. And she’s standing very, very close to you, so close that you can see the pores and lines on her face. Your next breaths come in a staccato rhythm. If you’re being honest with yourself, her popping into your life is like waking you up from a slumber you didn’t know you were in. But she doesn’t have to know about that.

M looks fresh and well-rested, compared to a few months before.

“Why, thank you, princess.” She smiles sweetly. Shit. You’ve said it out loud.

You swallow, and you’re sure she can hear the click in your throat. “It’s rude to trample on people’s boundaries.”

“My, are we discussing safe words now?” The stranger purrs, and you’re just not in the mood. The withdrawal-headache bomb is ticking, and you can feel it lurk, just on the back of your head.

“Listen, I’m not the shiniest person to be around with if I haven’t had any coffee in me,” you say to her pleadingly, “so mind if I take a rain check? I’d be very happy to let you haunt me, but just, not now. I’m sorry.”

M frowns. Storm is settling at the bottom of her eyes, and you remember how ruthless she was with her blade, and how she killed that man without hesitation, saving your life by mistake.

She draws back. “I don’t like unfinished business.”

But what business is there between the two of you? You’ve already tended to her wounds, let her stay the night to show her your gratitude. Your lives were never meant to cross, and you’ve paid your debt. Now you seem more heartless than a killer.

You massage your temple. “What does M stand for?”

“Why do you care?”

You cannot believe the rage in her voice. She has no right to be lashing out. It’s her who’s trespassing, and you feel like you’ve missed something crucial in your relationship, if there’s a relationship to begin with.

“I don’t, actually,” you confess, and her glare changes into something more like a gape. “After that night, I thought we were done. I had no clue of what I was getting into and I’ve misjudged the consequences.”

“I’m not—” M’s face flushes, and it’s such a nice color on her, despite the heated argument you’re having. She sets her jaw. “You’re unaffected by all this. Why is that?”

“Unaffected?” You’ve gathered your hand into a fist, massaging your scalp with your knuckles now. You’re anything but unaffected. “Don’t think so. I’ve had my share of freak-outs and nightmares, so thanks for that.”

She huffs. Then she’s getting her coat and bag. This time she’s wearing a violet-red leather coat, which looks illegally good on her. No one you know can pull off that color and style.

“Miranda,” she says out of the blue, not looking at you, and then she leaves.

***

How could you not be curious about Miranda? She is all you can think about when you’re not preoccupied with your work and responsibilities, late-night musings and a couple of dirty fantasies all starring her. Mi-ran-da. You like to roll the name over your tongue and feel for a second that you’re actually inside her body, using her mouth to say that name. You like to go over the brief interactions you have, and think about what you should’ve said instead, or you talk to a fake-Miranda in your head to make up for the last conversation you had. But the more you do those, the more you understand why she was upset. Nobody likes to be treated as an idea. You’ve viewed her with interest like a person would a natural disaster. Nobody likes to be treated as a freakshow. She hates your preconceived notion about her, and hates even more that you’re satisfied with it.

But doesn’t she have her version of you, too? Or why else would she think you’re more complicated than you are, by coming here, not once, but twice, when you’re probably the “boring good person” in her lingual, and she refuses to believe that? You honestly don’t think you’d see Miranda for the third time, despite your one-sided fixation on her. You’re just fixating on a misjudgment. That’s it.

Which is why, a month later, you nearly get a heart attack on Christmas eve. There shouldn’t be anyone in your apartment because your roommate is home with his family, and you’re prepared to have an empty space all to yourself. But as you get back, you find the door unlocked, and there’s no sign of a break-in.

“What the fuck? You’re not supposed to be here.” A voice accuses and you let out a curse word you don’t normally use, dropping all your files on the ground. A shadow moves in the dark, and you snap the lights on to see who it is.

Oh.

“Why…how…what are you doing here?” Standing in a puddle of your take-home works, you stare at Miranda, who’s probably mirroring your expression.

“Uh, because, Christmas?” There’s a trace of embarrassment beneath her indignation, as if she’s being caught red-handed for something.

Your mouth opens. And closes.

“Merry Christmas to you, too. It’s nice to see you.” You give her a smile and then bend down to collect the folders you dropped. “My family doesn’t celebrate Christmas like that. But they’re coming for a visit in a few days.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t be leaving them a body to collect, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she says dryly. But she sounds defensive instead of playful.

You look up at her. “No. I thought we’re friends now.”

“We are?”

You rise to her eye level and have no idea how to clear the air.

“Miranda, there’s something I need to say to you.” And you deflate, swallowing the reflected words upon the expectant look on her face. “You’re going to be disappointed if you stick around.”

Ok, that’s perfect. It just makes you seem insecure with serious abandonment and self-hatred issues.

“Disappointed as in…?” The intrigued look on her face doesn’t waver. Well done, you make it worse. You don’t like to open up, especially not to a stranger, but you have to, and it’s making you nauseous.

You rephrase. “My life is not as exciting as yours, but somehow you’re interested in…” you make an awkward gesture about the space between you two, almost dropping a file again, “…in this. So I just want you to know that it’s not like I’m not fascinated with who you are, it’s just that, we met and, maybe it’s better not to get too involved. I don’t have what you want.”

Your cheeks are on fire. You’re sweltering in your jacket and sweater and scarf. Miranda is doing a poor job suppressing her amusement. What have you done?

“It’s always the uptight girls,” she says finally. You groan, and walk past her to dump your things in your room. “You’re fascinated with me, that correct? You are obsessed.”

You are so done with her. “Fuck you.”

“Is that a threat? Or a promise?”

You re-emerge from the hall with fewer layers of clothes. You can’t remember the last time you’re this worked up. Your heart is racing in your ears. Miranda, who looks ridiculously fabulous like she has some dinner function to attend, who looks ridiculously out-of-place like that gun she once placed on your table, smirks at you, as she takes in your wild appearance. It’s ironic how she’s the one who keeps coming back, but she’s saying you’re the one being obsessed.

“You can’t come and go as you please. You don’t treat people like this.” You can hardly recognize your own voice. “I’m not a hobby for you to keep.”

It must have gotten lost in translation. What you’re trying to say is that Miranda should be more respectful and less willful. But when Miranda interprets the message, it turns into something like: I dare you to domesticate me into one of your hobbies.

There’s definitely something wrong with you when Miranda saunters up to you, and you just stand there in fear and anticipation. Gosh. Her makeup looks great. And she’s wearing perfume. And her lipstick makes you want to suck on her lower lip. You stop yourself right there from spiraling into more lude thoughts.

“The way you look at me is so fucking strange,” she says quietly. You can feel her breath tickling your face. And her warmth. “I don’t know what you’re trying to hide, or trying not to do.”

“Likewise,” you say, less angry when your emotions take a sharp turn. “But, again, I don’t think I have what you’re looking for.”

Her eyes narrow. “What am I looking for, little girl?”

Whether it’s the diminutive, or her stare that doesn’t go with the rest of her expression, you pivot towards her, and then, darkness.

Miranda’s lips. Her hands burning your skin. Between breaths when you come to the light for air, the devil with blue eyes is always there to press you back to the dark, where the inferno burns between your legs, and the only antidote is her claws, tearing through the fabric to reach where you want most. Someone is making the kind of whimpering sounds that’s pornographic, but then, when you realize you’re being pushed against the wall, and you can feel your wetness smearing onto your thighs, it’s you who’s making those embarrassing noises. You instantly try muffling them.

“I want to hear you,” her words buzz on the skin of your neck. Your knees go weak.

“Miranda wait,” it’s you who should stop pushing yourself onto her palm, “wait…it’s been a long time…I’ve never…”

“Never been fucked standing up?”

It’s difficult to process language when she’s stroking your most intimate area. And it’s even more difficult to say anything when she backs away to take stock of the situation. Her lipstick is completely smudged.

“It’s complicated,” you say.

A look flickers past Miranda’s face. She untangles from you, and leaves you breathless leaning on the wall.

Her face is a cool mask. She’s already reeling in her emotions. “I apologize.”

“No, it’s not you, I am just not very…fuck!” You are increasingly frustrated with yourself. Miranda looks surprised at your outburst. “I have trust issues and I don’t like to have sex with people I don’t know.”

“You said we’re friends.”

“Yes, no—yes Miranda we are friends.” You lean closer and whisper why you have problems with intimacy. You can’t look her in the eye while you explain yourself. It’s too naked, and as proud as you are, there’s still that sense of inferiority that won’t go away.

She ruminates. “Do you think this is all I want from you? Sex?”

At the prompt, your center throbs, reminding you how much you want Miranda to continue.

“Sex-related, at the very least.” You press your hand to your face and feel the cool of your palms. You’re still coming down from the arousal. “You know me, Miranda. You searched over my stuff. You said I’ve prohibited myself from fun. You know I’m a spoilsport. That’s the part where I don’t get. Why are you still here when I’m not going to be amusing you anytime soon?”

“Jesus, girl.” Miranda exhales. She wags a finger at you. “You, you’ve got some serious misconceptions about me.”

“For all I know you can be a serial killer or an assassin. And it’s not like I have your belongings to browse over.”

“Why don’t you just ask?” She says matter-of-factly, but with a raised voice, and there’s an edge to it. “The only thing you’ve ever asked me is my name. Oh, and asking me if I was injured. But that one doesn’t count, and neither are a bunch of other rhetorical questions.”

You blink a few times. “I asked why you’re here.”

“I’m dropping off a gift. It’s Christmas.” And it shifts again, the push-and-pull between you two. Her eyes soften. “It’s meant to be a surprise.”

The silence lasts for a while. By god, you don’t know what to feel or say. You’ve never met someone like Miranda before, and although she kills people, stalks you and scares you occasionally, she’s not a monster. She’s…you don’t know. A mystery.

Miranda starts to slip a pair of gloves on. “I’ve a flight to catch.”

“Wait! Your makeup—”

“I can fix it in the car.”

That’s that. She’s going. You gnaw at the inside of your cheek, feeling awful at yourself.

“Y/N,” she says firmly. You look up from staring at the carpet. Oh she’s not mad. “Wait till tomorrow to unwrap the present, yeah?”

In fact, Miranda’s expression looks gentle, even.

“Yeah. Sure,” you smile hesitantly. “Thanks.”

“Have a little Christmas spirit, for fuck’s sake.” And she’s off, leaving you all warm and tingly inside.

Chapter Text

That warm-and-tingly feeling doesn’t go away and you blame Miranda for psychologically manipulating you when, every time you drink your daily dose of energy, you can taste your Christmas present. It’s some expansive good shit, the coffee beans she bought you, and you drink it sparingly by mixing it into the crappy ones you have. It’s a clever move on Miranda’s part, because it reminds you of her each time you feel the caffeine kicks in. She becomes the synonym for happiness, elation and productivity. By the time you realize you’re addicted, it’s a little too late. But, it’s not like you don’t already go weak and helpless around predictably unpredictable people. Miranda was right. All that pent-up anxiety comes from your self-restraint. You resist for the sake of resisting. It’s how you keep yourself together, imposing a cilice belt of order on your body of life. Congratulations, you’re your very own totalitarian tyrant. And, perhaps, when you decided to take home an injured killer, it was also you, subconsciously, letting off some steam. Or you’d break.

Slowly, Miranda is breaking you from the inside out. Even Andy notices, who thought you two were “on a break”. You gave him a post-Christmas update that you’re in a weird place with her. He gave you a look of pity and said he understand, and you know he does, because he doesn’t try to lecture you. It’s one of your biggest pet peeves, getting opinions or feel-good experiences you’ve no desire to know. Now, all you want to know is when Miranda will be visiting you again.

The waiting is horrible. You’re getting your hopes up. The beans in the jar go down. One day, it becomes empty. So, you cope by taking another vow of abstinence, and as estimated, your days take a drastic plunge. You don’t know what’s more agonizing, the withdrawals, or the numbness of everyday experiences. There’s a constant itch under your skin, making you drowsy and irritated. You feel like an alien living in a shell, when every word spoken to you feels like it’s coming through water, and the city loses its vibrance, even if you see the same colors. Somehow, you think you deserve it. Bad habits are made to be broken.

“What is it with young people and substance codependency?”

Miranda. Holding two Styrofoam cups with cup sleeves. Are you dreaming? You’ve come to answer the rap at your door. Recently, you don’t know the difference between dreams and reality. Reality is hazy and so are dreams.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” She asks, glancing over your shoulder like she’s making sure you’re not having company. “I knocked instead of breaking and entering. There must be some credit earned.”

She shoves one of the cups into your hand when you let her in. The beverage is hot, and the sensation knocks some sense into you.

You close the door behind you. “How’d you know I’m trying to quit?”

“I’m watching over you. Well, not me in person, but, you get the gesture.” She waltzes into your living room. “And you’ve got that look on your face. I know people who are also trying to stay clean.” There’s a fond smile that lingers on her face, and it doesn’t make you jealous of whoever that is, it makes you feel…spent, over this entire fiasco.

So you take a large, passive-aggressive mouthful of your drink, and nearly spit it out if you didn’t swallow the sweetness down real quick.

“What?” Miranda looks wounded. “It’s decaf americano. Your go-to drink. From your favorite coffee shop!”

Grinning, you walk up to her. “I don’t know that you like matcha latte.” Making a deft swap, you get yourself the right cup. Miranda shrugs at the oversight. “And that you have other friends? Who also happens to be addicts? What are the odds.”

“That’s a bit much,” she grouses. “First you gag on my drink and then you disapprove of my lifestyle. What next?”

You are stifling a laugh as you take your drink. It’s perfect for a Saturday afternoon. The coffee is at the best temperature, where if you drink it too fast, your tongue will still get burned. Miranda sips her drink too, and you have this lively pause that you two have never shared before. You take the chance to observe her. Miranda looks relaxed, like there’s no man she needs to wrestle with and kill later. The sunshine goes easy on her profile, and she looks younger, which possibly has something to do with her hair. It seems longer when she’s not keeping the perm. Has she dyed her hair? Highlights? It’s the same dark chestnut brown. But there’s a shine to it that you appreciate.

It hits you suddenly how easy it is to become infatuated with her. And what are you, really? Not-quite-friends who almost fucked? It’s beyond your comprehension. But now you realize where that exhaustion is coming from. It’s stemming from your resistance towards Miranda.

“Wow, there’s an entire journey right there,” Miranda remarks, tipping her drink at your face. She has plopped down on the couch. Are you two just going to hang out, now?

“It’s good to see you. I thought the next time we meet is me tripping over your dead body, in some alley, next to beer cans and garbage.” Great. You sound super clingy. And immature. But without your brain functioning properly, your mouth has autonomy.

And it’s when you heard yourself that you know that, for the past few weeks, you were worried about Miranda.

Miranda has a funny look on her face. “That was my ex-boss sending two men in a row for me, because the first one was a total amateur, and the second one enjoyed his sloppy seconds too much.”

“Ex-boss?”

“We had some labor disputes. But worry not. He’s dead.” You widen your eyes. Miranda waves you off. “I can take care of myself. Or my assistant does, when she’s not busy bitching about a pay raise.”

“Glad to know,” you answer carefully, taking a seat next to her that’s close enough. You hear her make a loud sigh.

“Jesus Christ.” She shifts to face you and her knee brushes your thigh. You fight the urge to squirm away. “You say we’re friends, then you treat me like a plague. It’s really confusing.”

“I’m sorry. I really like you, so it’s confusing for me, too. And scary. Not that you are scary, uh, maybe a little, but I mean the whole situation in general.” You take a hasty gulp of your drink to distract yourself from your humiliation. Miranda is already taking things at your pace, and you're whining. Kudos.
But that funny look on Miranda changes into a half-smug, half-tender smile.

“Well, goddamn it. Don’t tease. Now I want to kiss you.” She takes a nonchalant sip of her drink while you melt into a pool of panic and disbelief and oh god she’s looking at you with a smirk meaning she enjoys watching you struggle.

“Is that a threat? Or a promise?” You ask, wishing that stealing Miranda’s line is your saving grace.

It’s not.

“You tell me,” says Miranda, setting down her drink like she’s just waiting for you to go at her. The air is charged with a different tension. The good kind. You put your drink on the table, too, and Miranda still doesn’t bat an eye.

Fuck it.

When you reach out and touch her hair—one of those guilty fantasies you indulge in—you’re stunned by how wide-awake you become, here, in this space-time with Miranda, and it makes you recalibrate yourself to accept her presence, because the mist that’s been clouding you is gone, like someone snapping their fingers in front of you to wake you up from hypnosis. The veil between you and the world vanishes. It’s only you, and her. You brush Miranda’s hair from her face, and you’re leaning in, and you can see the texture of her skin, and how you adore the lines across her face, weaving under her eyes and around her mouth. You caress the hollow of her cheek, and Miranda lets you, like she’s avoiding any sudden movement that might scare you away. She’s breathing evenly, which makes you aware of your own breaths coming out shallow.

You shorten the gap and Miranda’s eyes flutter close. Triumph fills your heart. That’s half the battle. You press your lips on top of hers, and close your eyes, and just feel the softness of her mouth, and the closeness of warmth, and joy. There’s no more fretting, or anxiety, just Miranda, who’s now moving against your lips, and you kiss her until you run out of breath. You need to do more cardio, that’s for sure. Because you want more, want to kiss her again when you draw away, and feel the electricity cackling under your skin, your face hot and your palms sweaty. She opens her eyes. The look on her face makes something in you snap. You charge forward to taste her for real. Mint and matcha and a tang that makes lose your cool, and it’s like you’re possessed. When your hands drift to Miranda’s waist, she doesn’t scold you. She makes a moan of encouragement when you find the small of her back, and a shiver goes through your body while her voice hums in your mouth. It’s insane how that brick of arousal slams into you, and you can’t help it, it’s been too long, and Miranda’s not helping when she cups your face like she wants to devour you whole and lick her fingers once she’s done.

But you can feel her hands on your shoulders, and she’s backing away. Naturally you chase her when she angles her face from your mouth.

“Y/N, stop…” She adds some weight to push you off. You stare into her glazed eyes, but you can’t focus very well. Your gaze drops to her swollen lips. You want to bite on it. “If we don’t stop now, I won’t be able to control myself,” she says throatily, and her accent is downright murdering you.

“Right,” you say, your voice rough from disuse. “Yes. Right. Of course.”

She clears her throat.

You shrink away.

Her fingers tap on her lap.

You wring your hands together.

“Miranda, do you want to—” “So I was thinking you may—”

Speaking at the same time, you look at each other.

“Ladies first,” she says.

“I want to take you out for dinner, or lunch, or the other way around, but I don’t think you live close by, or if you’re busy running an international crime syndicate—”
“That is so fucking weird,” says Miranda, who looks spooked, “Cecilia is using that term in the exact same words.”

“Who’s Cecilia?”

“A backstabbing motherfucker, who also happens to be my assistant.” Miranda shakes her head as if her anger will go away like that. “Doesn’t matter. Aye. Yes.”

“Yes?” You repeat, bemused. “And what were you saying before?”

“Same thing. Shit. I have to go.” Miranda grabs your face and plants a hurried kiss on your mouth, and then she’s deserting her drink and stepping over your legs to the door. You are shocked by the display of affection. “I’ll call you!”

You’re stupefied. It’s not until seconds later, with your mouth prickling with the sensation of Miranda’s pillowy lips, you start to giggle at everything that has happened, and the fact that of course Miranda knows your phone number. Just like she’s hired people to watch you. And she definitely has made a copy of the keys to your apartment.

***

She does call, the day after you found that matcha latte stinking in your fridge, and you threw it in the dumpster.

“Hello? Who—”

“Why’d you hang up on me?”

Hearing that Scottish lilt, you can’t help but smile. It’s no coincidence that Miranda chooses your lunch break to call you. It’s like she knows your schedule at the back of her hand. Now that you think of it, she must’ve memorized your routine.

“I thought you were a scammer.”

“Ouch. You hurt my feelings.” There’s a smile in her voice, too. “Oh fucking hell—” Miranda seems to be barking a slew of orders from a distance, something like can’t you morons see I’m in the middle of a call, and then she’s back. “Sorry, doll. Need an upgrade to the staff training program.”

“I’ve a feeling that’ll cost more than an arm and a leg.”

“Glad that I’m about to be a very wealthy olive farmer.”

You can’t tell if Miranda is serious or not, but you’ve noticed how she’s been sliding in personal information in your talks. However casual they are, they’re telling something.

“Sounds like an early retirement,” you comment.

“Retirement?”

You can form a vivid picture of her raising an eyebrow.

“Early,” you stress, feeling like the kind of heroine from old rom-com movies who’d curl the phone cord around their fingers while they flirt with whoever is on the other end of the line. “No more cool knife tricks when you’re pressing olives.”

“I’ve got several tricks up my sleeve,” she says in a tone like when she said she wanted to kiss you. While you’re recovering from that memory, she takes advantage of your silence. “Speaking of, I’m calling to ask if you’re interested in a house tour. It’s new, it’s got a pool, it’s adjacent to my farm, it’s the perfect package.”

It sounds too perfect, indeed. If you said yes, you wouldn’t have to jump through hoops to learn more about Miranda. So you bury your worries about taking shortcuts in a relationship and the consequences that ensue and the unsettling army of thoughts.

“Seems only fair, after all the trespassing in my flat.” You don’t usually use the word flat, but you mimic Miranda to tease her.

“Someone’s keeping score,” she says distractedly. “Why’s your roommate called Andy? That’s not his real name.”

“Please don’t tell me you have a big black folder specifically for our files.”

“I'm looking at them right now,” says Miranda.

You make a tut-tut noise but you don’t mean it. “It’s a movie reference. He calls me Dr. Hudson because I’d rather stay in on a Friday night. Looks like your reports need an upgrade, too.”

Miranda chuckles, and then she stops. “You might have to take a day off. The trip here is going to be quite cumbersome, and it’s inhumane to have you sleep on the plane when you go back.”

Do you have personal leaves saved just in case there’s a romantic adventure to embark on? Yes, yes you do. It’s going to have to do. Quid pro quo.

You answer before that unsettling feeling tugs you down. “You’ll send me the dates, right, sugar daddy?”

Miranda hums. “Don’t tempt me.”
The call is done. You two finish, and then you feel conflicted. From everything you’ve gathered so far, Miranda tends to push and push until you push back. And it’s ok because she’s not training your endurance, at least not on purpose. She’s learning your boundaries, and although you’ve won her trust and respect, you can’t rely on her anticipating your thought and feelings. So when do you speak up?

The sense of imbalance worsens when the day arrives, and you find that Miranda has sent a chauffeur to drive you to the airport, and then, ta-da, of fucking course she’s going to fly you to her home via private jet. Thankful that she’s not there to escort you to her estate, you compile your concerns in your head like knuckle-rolling a coin, forth and back, back and forth, until they lull you into a restless nap, and then you’re there before you can ask are we there yet. You’ve truly put yourself in a vulnerable state. You’re not allowed to bring your phone or any form of electronic device, so you’re as good as wearing a black plastic bag over your head while being shipped here. You know that Miranda spares no effort in making the trip as comfortable as it can be, and you’re desperately using this as a small vacation, but your guilty conscience is relentless. It’s not until you see Miranda’s villa and her waiting for you do you feel, for a brief second, that everything’s going to be fine.

Nope. It’s not. There’s even someone carrying your luggage for you.

“Please don’t sell me off to Cambodia,” you say as you walk up to Miranda, who’s wearing sunglasses and a sleeveless black top, and you can’t pay attention to the rest of her outfit because it’s the first time you get the visual of her toned arms. “The cost is going to outweigh the benefits,” you weakly finish your quip.

Miranda pushes up her sunglasses so that they rest on top of her head. Her eyes are incredibly blue in the sunlight.

She smiles. “Hmm, you’re of more value to me here.” It must be the sun getting into Miranda’s eyes, or she wouldn’t be staring at you the way like you mean to her more than you should. It’s a heavy look, filling you up until you feel that your insides are brimming out of your body, a fatal feeling similar to when Miranda decided to go home with you. Target, trigger, tomb. Who’s going to put the final nail in the coffin?

“Come on, princess. Time to show you around the palace.”

***

It’s not like the food isn't great, the place isn’t impressive, or your company isn’t unlawfully appealing. It’s not even learning that Miranda, Miranda Croft, owns a highly illegal business and that she’s using the farm as cover. It’s you, feeling out of place in her house, and exceedingly terrified of the future. Sure, you and her joke about birds in gilded cages and flirt with the idea of keeping you as a mistress. But as it sinks in, the joke gradually gets a bitter undertone, and the unspoken hangs as heavy as the look Miranda gave you when you got here and walked to her with open arms. Your sense of imbalance is coming from you walking on thin ice, because if this doesn’t work, it’s not going to end well, and there are a hundred ways it can go wrong. The problem is you can’t even imagine a happy outcome.

By the time you’ve gone through your nightly routine, you know you’ll be too jet-lagged to be falling asleep, and too agitated to read the book you brought. Miranda gives you plenty of space, so you become all alone in the empty guest room where the floor-to-ceiling glass makes you feel like an exhibitionist. Or that you’re just tired, and a bundle of nerves, and horny as hell because you’re not only approaching your period, you’re raw and throbbing after being around Miranda all day. You thought about getting off in the shower when you started to think about her incessant teasing, her intentionally unintentional touches on your hand, your shoulder, your back and your thigh, her walking too close to you and you could feel the vibrations of her dirty chuckles. But it just feels wrong to do it in a place you’re not familiar with. And what if Miranda has home security cameras set in your room? The idea makes you want to bang your head against the wall, because you’ve quite enough about all that exhibitionism daydreams. The idea also makes your mouth go dry. You’ve finished the bottled mineral water in your room, so, wearing your pjs—a nice word for an oversized t-shirt—you make your way downstairs to the kitchen, hoping for something that can quench your thirst.

Miranda’s voice is traveling from the terrace, which is on the other side, at the far end of the living room. She’s probably talking on the phone. Throughout the day, she seldom lay a finger on her phone, whether it was her not wanting to remind you that you’re entirely disconnected from the outside world, you’re at her mercy, or that Miranda simply wanted to be completely there for you. Either way, it’s really considerate, and you’re touched by her efforts.

You slip into the kitchen. It’s already squeaky clean after the chefs made you and Miranda dinner here. You drag a finger on the kitchen counter. It’s spotless, as if no one has ever used this place. Miranda said she’s been living out on a suitcase, so you guess this is relatively new for her, too, having a place to stay, letting her subordinates do her old dirty work. Is this her settling down, having a midlife awakening, or a lonely-on-the-top phase she’s going through? You stare at the smooth surface of the gigantic refrigerator, and recall the one in your apartment that has magnets sticking to it, attaching unpaid bills, cards and photos from distant relatives, the Polaroid picture featuring a god-awful haircut you once got, a whiteboard you and Andy compete to list down the best-worst grocery items; tidbits of life, marks that prove you did carve a niche out of this big, wide, harsh world, and that you’re in a place where it’s hard, it’s tiring, it’s cruel, but a place that you can proudly announce your claim.

An episode of existential crisis is not what you’re looking for in a fridge. You snap yourself out of it by swinging open the refrigerator door.

“I was wondering how long it’ll take you to open that.” It makes you jump, shouting a curse that brings a grin to Miranda’s face.

“Jesus fuck, don’t sneak up on me like that!”

Miranda is still dressed in the same clothes, a black top and black trousers, but she has kicked off her shoes, and tied her hair up to a ponytail. She looks weary, and you shouldn’t be blaming yourself for adding to her workload.

“What are you looking for?”

“Water.”

“How about a nightcap?”

“Miranda, you know I’m a cheap drunk.” You close the door because the chill is making your nipples poke against your t-shirt and you’re pretty sure Miranda can see their outline. “I practically demonstrated at dinner.”

Miranda laughs. “You did. You went so red.”

You pout at her, and she’s nudging you away from the fridge and opening it and grabbing a bottle of water that you swear that’s not there before.

“Thanks.”

She has handed you the drink wordlessly and her focus on you makes your heart pound. And it’s really bad timing because the cap refuses to budge, and you have to use a pinch of your shirt to help with the friction, because the cold bottle is sweating at room temperature. You can feel your shirt ride up, and you wonder if she can see your underwear now, because all the while Miranda is watching, and she’s standing pretty closely, and it’s unnerving and kind of exhilarating. The bottle opens, and you drink. Then you roll your eyes at yourself when, clumsy as you are and you never act well under pressure, you spill a little water down your chest. Though the spillage isn’t wide, your clothes still cling to you in a revealing way. And you’re not wearing anything underneath.

“Um, oops.” You nearly whimper when you see how Miranda is looking at you. “Maybe there’s alcohol in this.” You say lamely.

She pries the water from your hand and sets it on the counter. Her fingers are warmer than yours. It sends small electrical currents up your spine.

“Y/N, you understand that there’s absolutely no hurry for this. I can wine and dine you for as long as you’re not bored yet.” Miranda says, and her words make your legs wobbly, and there’s a rush of warmth that makes you feel very, very safe. “But right now, I just want to let you know how much I want to fuck you against this counter, and make you scream so loud that the guards outside will hear you.”

You grind your teeth together to prevent any noise from escaping. Miranda’s eyes are filled with lust, and it’s a mirror. You’re driven by the libido you don’t know you have and you take Miranda’s hand and guide her into your underwear. She gasps, or you both do, because you are soaked, and she feels like heaven or hell when she dips into your slit, drags a trail of juice up your clit, and then just leaves her hand there.

You’re impatient. “I’ve been like this all day,” you manage to say. The effect is instantaneous. It’s like you’ve shrunk and Miranda turns into the big bad wolf, all sharp teeth and appetite with an evil glint in her eyes.

“You have, haven’t you?” Miranda cups your center and your hips roll over to her. White-hot pleasure spurs from the contact, and you can feel your wetness slicking up her fingers. If she moved her hand, it’ll make slippery, watery sounds that echo in this wide, empty space. Ok but the kitchen. It’s a really exciting place, you’re tempted, but. It’s corny but you want your first time with Miranda at a slightly more refined location.

“There’s a spot you’ve missed to introduce, in the house tour,” you take her hand out and, inevitably, you rub your thighs together around emptiness. Not looking away from Miranda, you turn her hand until her palm is facing down, so you can lap up the mess you’ve made. Miranda looks pained, like she’s trying all her might to not finger-fuck your face now. “Will you show me your room? Or is there some John Doe in the bathtub.”

Miranda’s mouth twitches. You’re wondering if you’ve ruined the moment, but then, since you’re holding her hand next to your mouth, it’s quite convenient for her to grab your wrist and pull you alongside. You know where she’s taking you, and you’re burning with anticipation.

***

“Holy shit this is what, twice the size of…is that a jacuzzi? And you can overlook the entire—”

“Later,” she growls, and then you find yourself landing on a queen-sized—no, king-sized bed, bouncing on the mattress unceremoniously, and you wheeze out a laugh at the situation, but your laughter is cut short when Miranda climbs over you and oh she’s kissing you, and she’s a great kisser, and you had the audacity to be the one guiding her when you kissed her in your apartment?

“Why’re you so giggly?” She asks when she combs your hair from your neck and wastes no time to kiss the skin there. You angle your head to give her better access, all the while you’re panting, and rubbing onto her, and grinning to yourself. Miranda’s warm body on top of you makes you feel secure and helpless in the best way. You can feel how strong she is, her muscles flexing when she touches you. You can tell she’s conscious about keeping her movements gentle. The realization sends another wave of arousal to your core.

“Miranda I’m not made of eggshells,” you say, and you blush at your own voice because it sounds so breathy. Immediately she sucks in a patch of skin on your throat and gives you a harsh nibble as a sort of punishment. You make a horrific keening noise that you know will please Miranda very much.

She rises and sits on your pelvis and then slips her hand under your shirt, holding your waist.

“Do you want to leave this on?” It’s a neutral question, but her expression is not. Her face is darkened, like that night in the alleyway when she was still in the shadows, and you couldn’t see her features well. Plus ça change. But now the difference is that you’re comfortable enough to sit up and reach the back of your neck, then pull up your shirt by the collar. Cool air assuages your front, which is exposed to Miranda, and she’s drinking the sight of you in. You’re wearing nothing but a very soiled underwear. And You can feel a pulse there, beating in your center, and it’s making you flush all over.

“Lie back,” she says in a light tone. It’s not like how you fantasized it at all, the strokes and touches, because Miranda is here, with you, and the mere fact that she’s painstakingly taking the time to test where her open-mouthed kiss will make you whine the loudest, is going to make you come, fast. While she’s hovering over you, you can smell her perfume and shampoo and sunblock that just makes you go crazy-dizzy. Everything makes your head swoon. Drowning in a swirl of sensations, there’s one that stands out. A pressure has been there, steadily building low within you, and it scares you a bit because you’ve no idea what will happen if it explodes.

“No,” you grasp onto Miranda’s arm when she’s kissing her way down your stomach while she cups your breast with a hand. She stops to look up at you, and the look alone can kill you. It’s full of longing. And a few strands of her hair are falling and framing her face. Wild by nature, she’s still waiting for you.

You reach out and trace a finger over her lip. “Can you stay up here? I want to…” you can feel it, the pressure or some kind of foreign emotion threatening to break free, and you need Miranda close to protect you. “…I want to have you here, with me.”

Miranda answers by pressing a swift kiss on your knuckle, and then, she’s come back to you, fully dressed, while you’re fairly naked. You revel in how the fabric of her clothes meets your skin, and you feel tingles all over, and everywhere feels extra sensitive.

It’s like Miranda has done this a million times before, and there’s no nervousness, only caution and care for you as she studies your face, while she slides a hand into your underwear. You widen your legs for her, and arch up, and despite your effort, it’s still, woefully inadequate for what’s next.

Your heart is thumping so hard and so loud, they’re nearly ringing in your ears. Maybe you’re saying please Miranda please hurry but you’re not sure. Every fiber of your muscles has wound up tight. Your toes are curled. Miranda gathers you in her arm, and her fingers are stretching you, one, two, then you lose track, but it feels like your nerve endings are on fire, the way she’s rubbing you and curling her fingers with each thrust. There are words of encouragement, too. Miranda, whispering how beautiful you look and how badly she wants to see you come, and you cling to her until she is your focal point. An angel, or a devil, or both, because she’s the reflection of your desire, or how else would she know that you’re one breath away from orgasm?

“Let go for me, Y/N. I know you can, and you want to.” Already you can feel it course through you, flying into white bright colors beneath your eyelids, and you’re afraid to let go of all this pressure at once.

“No, please, don’t,” you beg, burying your face into the crook of her neck, “I can’t.”

“Why?” She asks. Her motions don’t stop. You’re aching. You hurt for a release. And it seems inevitable.

“I will break.” But you’re rocking to her like you’re rutting in heat. Your body is acting on its own accord. There’s a disconnection between you and your thoughts and emotions. You know you can’t stop it, it makes you want to cry, but the reasonable thing is to let go.

It seems to be a reasonable reaction, though none of this is reasonable.

“Then I’ll catch you, I promise,” says Miranda. Seeing the affection in her eyes hurls you across and you must’ve made a violent jerk or Miranda wouldn’t be using a leg to lock you down, and press you to her with a hand, or she wouldn’t be delivering all that pleasure into you. You’ve kept the voice bottled, but then, when she drives into you one last time, you can’t control yourself.

And you only know all this when you’re crashing down, and you hear yourself wailing. You have lost all control over your body and that pressure you are suppressing. Although you’ve got plenty of warning, it’s never been so much so sudden like this. You'll be thrashing free from Miranda if her grip isn't firm.

It becomes more bearable when the climax subsides. Miranda is saying it’s ok love it’s alright, over and over, petting your hair and brushing her hand on your heated cheeks, and you’re wondering why she is repeating herself, and why there’s a strange coolness on your face. Then you realize you’re sobbing. Miranda is wiping your tears away because you’re crying.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what this is,” you say between sniffles, and oh fuck it’s like there’s not only a faucet that has opened down there. Up here, your tears run freely. The last time you cried was when you accidentally tripped on the sidewalk and surrendered to the pain and reflexive tears. “This has never happened before. I’m sorry.” And you’re not even sad. It’s just a flood of everything that you don’t know is there.

“Like I said, it’s always the uptight girls who are more fun to play with,” Miranda says while brushing her lips over your tear-stained cheek. It makes you laugh. She smiles against your skin. The tension is broken. You search for her lips and then, you kiss her to convey the things you couldn’t put into words.

You fall asleep in Miranda’s arms, with a metallic taste in your mouth because you bit yourself when you tried to stay quiet.

Chapter Text

The evidence that you did take a leap of faith and visited Miranda, is the faint smell of her on you. It’s a combination of scents, mostly from the washing products she prepared for you. You also kept the note she left you the morning after, where she apologized for her absence, and signed off with that signature M. You aren’t too heartbroken over waking up to an empty bed. The original plan was for you to spend the night, then leave directly the next day. Although the trip back is horribly long, you’re secretly relieved that Miranda isn’t there. You don’t think you’d be able to handle any confrontation. You always leave yourself too open and too close at the same time. You’re glad she isn’t there to witness your moment of disorientation when you woke up, having forgotten where you were and how you got there, a momentary panicky thing. And as you let last night’s memory wash over you, you feel as if Miranda had cracked open something within you, and you’re glad she isn’t there, because you don’t want to let her know that.

You lick the cut in your mouth; also proof that last night wasn’t a feverish dream.

What the fuck are you doing? With her? For days she hasn’t called, hasn’t texted, and you feel stupid as if you’d done something wrong, a huge mistake that’s going to shame you for the rest of your life. One of your worst imaginings has come true. Perhaps it is for the best that you don’t get so involved with each other, since the beginning. Miranda can be fucking around with other people, and so could you, even if it’s not your habit to be having casual sex and Miranda knows that and still fucked you anyway. But you digress again. You really need to change your mentality. It’s really not a big deal. It’s for fun. It’s consensual. It’s not a transaction. You’re not obligated to give her anything even if she spent all that money and time and energy on you. She offered, you took, and you chose to, willingly.

Days turn to weeks and now, you move onto a different phase. You miss how brisk and self-absorbed and sharp-witted Miranda is, miss all the thrill she elicits from you, and miss how she has charmed you into her bed. No one has made you come this hard, ever, and between the danger and excitement, no one can make you feel this safe, too. So, it’s a cliché when after a month, you give in, and call the number Miranda used. You couldn’t tell if it’s the hollowness that sucker-punched your stomach, because you feel like you couldn’t breathe for a second, and there are tears swimming in your vision when a machine voice answers the number you're calling is not assigned.

Well, it’s all expected. A part of you is just gloating in schadenfreude while the rest of you are all too eager to shut the I-told-you-so voices in your head, and return to your old life. The cost of normalcy? Your hard-earned caffeine retreat. You start to drink coffee again, at first a cup a day, but then, as some sort of self-punishment or compensation or just to prove Miranda wrong about you being uptight, you start to take a cup in the morning, and one more in the afternoon. If your friends or colleagues notice anything strange, they don’t comment. Your behavior already seems erratic when you quit caffeine, and there was also you telling everyone you were going to disconnect a few days, because you went visiting Miranda.

So, the first thought that shoots through your head when you’re ambushed one day on the streets, isn’t the typical what the fuck is happening to me, but rather, I wonder if anyone will notice when I’m gone.

***

The plot is simple: the protagonist’s love interest gets kidnapped, so they’ll try everything to get to their loved ones. The romantic object would put up a fight, the villain will torture them but not too extreme, since the object will need to stay pretty and show a certain degree of steel. In the end, the protagonist will locate an abandoned warehouse, break in and kill all the bad guys, and save their lover. There will be romantic manifestos, pop-culture references in their banters, car chases and explosions and happily-ever-afters.

The reality is you got knocked out cold in the head when you took a detour to the grocery store, while you were heading home from work. It wasn’t the usual day you went shopping, and you wonder if that was what got you into this position. But, you aren’t sure of anything. From the brief moments of sobriety, you gather that you’re chained to a bed. A hard bed, without a mattress. There are IV bottles dripping fluids into your body, and your limbs feel like they’re filled with lead. The room is dark, with bright lights focusing on you so you can’t see the peripheries. There’s a camera in front of you, on a tripod, and other than that, there are people watching you. You don’t know how long you’re here. Could be a really short time. Time flows different when you’re constantly dreaming, waking up, and then falling unconscious again. Where’s the hero in this scenario? As you regain consciousness, you rather there’s none, because the back of your head hurts like a fucker, and with every bump of the—oh so you’re in a moving vehicle—car, the sore spot of your head hits against the bed. But it’s not that bed without a mattress. It’s a gurney, or a stretcher that the paramedics use. You try to move your head to one side, but your muscles don’t comply. Your head feels too heavy for your neck to move. You try to open your eyes.

“Oh good. She’s back with us.”

“Thank god.”

“Call the boss. She’s yay close to wiping out the whole team.”

“She threatens to kill me all the time. Mind you, I’m still taking care of her fucking cat.”

“Cecilia, you love cats.”

Cecilia. Why does that name sound familiar? You rack your brain. Your mind is a jumbled mess. You can’t multitask well when you’re also trying to eavesdrop, but it feels like you’ve sunken into your body, and you can’t come out. But you do recall who Cecilia is. She is Miranda’s assistant.

The small triumph gives you a boost of strength. You blink, your eyelids finally not glued to your eye sockets.

“Wh…” you try to speak, but your vocal cord hurts. You blink again. Your eyesight feels weird, too. You ache everywhere. There’s a heartbeat in your gums, and a foul taste in your mouth. You need water. “W…ummm…”

“Shit, babysitting is way above my pay grade.”

“Dunno. She doesn’t deserve this.” You can see an outline of a hand moving next to you, and then, something prickly pokes at your lips. “Poor kid,” the speaker says. You can’t see very well. Everything is made of blurry dots of light and dark.

“Careful. It’s Miranda’s property. You break it, you bought it,” says Cecilia.

You think it’s a straw because whoever is doing this is trying to part your lips with the tip. Your mouth is so dry that when you move your lips against the plastic, it hurts a little.

“I am well aware. It’s hell to pay.”

You can hear the grimace in the speaker’s voice, as if Miranda is a taboo word.

The straw is removed but you still want more water.

“Where are we going?” You ask. Your voice sounds like you just had a big cold. But you can finally move your head to avoid the spot that hurts whenever there’s a bump on the ride. Rejoice.

“Um, are we allowed to engage in direct contact with the asset?”

Cecilia snorts. “Have you just balked because I reminded you who she is?”

“Better safe than sorry.”

“Remind me, how long have you been, quote, unquote, identifying as a mercenary?”

“Hey!” You shout to get their attention. You can see better now. You’re in the backseat of a huge car, and there’s a woman driving in the front. A man is sitting next to you. He’s all geared up as if he’d just walked out of a blockbuster movie. “Has Miranda sent a two-person rescue team to get me out?”

The man laughs. Cecilla too.

“Kid’s got humor.”

“Honey, we have an entire fleet covering this car.”

You can see it now. There’s a black car that Cecilia is following.

“So there’s more at the back?” You ask, already knowing the answer. Miranda has sent a convoy to get you.

“You bet,” the man answers good-naturedly.

You are trying the muscles of your limbs, and you’re grateful when the man doesn’t try to help you get up. He’s only staring at you, it feels intrusive, but not in a disturbing way.

“What?” You ask. You can only do a side-glare because you’re too weak to get up.

“You’ve just been kidnapped, abused, heavily sedated, and still, cool as a cucumber.” Then the man grins suddenly. “You’re like, the opposite of Miranda.”

Abused?

“Was I videotaped? I saw a camera.” You feel real dread for the first time.

The man pales.

“Stop talking,” warns Cecilia. “Y/N, we’re dropping you off at one of Miranda’s bases. Think of it as a safe house. She’ll explain all this to you in due time.”

“Good luck,” as if he’s uneasy about your exchange, the man adds, “I’m sure she’s coming to you soon.”

Soon? So Miranda isn’t there in the base? Um, safe house?

“Stop. Talking.” Cecelia shoots daggers at the man by looking into the rearview mirror. And then she meets your eyes. You recognize something familiar there, similar to how the man looks at you. There’s a shared sense of curiosity, mixed with a bit of fear like seeing an extraterrestrial creature, but it’s mostly friendly interest and cautiousness.

It’s probably the kind of look you used to view Miranda. And it felt like such a long time ago you saw her.

***

It’s a small country house, but country houses won’t be having a dozen of armed guards, uniformed or in civilian get-ups, watching every exit—doors or windows—of the property. You’re told to rest on the second floor, but you’ve rested enough back there, haven’t you? There’s a guard standing by the staircase so whenever you want to use the bathroom, you have to stand in the hallway, point to the stall and look at them for permission. It doesn’t get less awkward by the third time. You’re so agitated that you want to flip out, but, based on the man’s reaction to Miranda in the car, you don’t think it’s a good idea. The guards are only doing their job and none of you want to be here. You don’t want to cause more trouble than you already have.

You change into the clothes they got for you, and take the time to sort out your thoughts. You’re oddly calm. Maybe it’s some kind of a defense mechanism. You don’t act out on most of the big events in your life. They creep on you afterward, attacking you at the least expected timings, and it’s when you’re usually alone, so no one sees you break. One of your close friends said that if you got slapped on one cheek, you’ll be waiting for the aggressor to slap the other, then ask them if they’re done.

Fuck, your friends and family. And your job. What are you going to tell them? The mundane should be the least you worry about. But you’re already making up an excuse for your disappearance.

There’s a swell at the back of your head. It hurts when you touch it, like a bruise. You’re guessing it’s the blow that knocked you unconscious, but it still can’t tell how long you were out. The rest of your body is fine, no bruises or cuts. You just feel hazy from the sedation.

They call you downstairs when it’s dark out, and give you hospital food. You’re not hungry for dinner, but your body needs the nutrients, so you eat without complaint. The guards begin to pull out when you dig in. You thought it was them giving you privacy, but it’s unlikely when you had to constantly say you got to go pee.

“Y/N.” A door slams. “How are you?” Enters Miranda like a storm. She’s wearing a black trench coat, like the one she was in the first night you met.

“I’m ok,” you say. “This apple tastes like wax, though.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Miranda asks, not really caring about any feedback. She stands in front of you like a caged animal, and you have a feeling if she could break you down for parts so she can examine the damage herself, she would.

“I think so. How long was I gone for?”

“Twelve hours. But when you’re abducted by that fucking pig—” Miranda clenches and stretches her hands, an exasperated smile plastered on her face. Her expression is close to a snarl or a scowl. “We were monitoring your route. It didn’t take long for us to make sure who we were dealing with. You were taken by one of my business associates. He demanded ransom but it was retribution for Victor. Ex-boss of mine. They had a father-son, mentor-student thing going on. Anyhow, long story short, he was tapping into our correspondences so I had to cut you off for your safety. I should’ve killed him sooner.”

“What happened to your hand?” You ask, noticing that instead of the gloves she usually wears, there are gauzes wrapped around her hands.

Miranda gives you a dark look. “I have anger issues.”

Yikes. “It’s kinda hot.”

Miranda scoffs. But she calms a little and takes the seat in front of you.

“I’m going to give it to you straight. There are two options for you. You can take a new identity…” Miranda draws a thing out of her pocket and slides it across the table. It’s a passport. “…and come with me. No one will dare to lay a finger on you. Or, you can go back, and I’ll try to make sure you’re safe.”

You eye the passport and make no attempt to reach for it. Your throat tightens. You drop the apple. You can no longer pretend you have any appetite.

“Miranda,” you stare levelly into her eyes, and they’re bloodshot. She looks like she hasn’t slept for a long time. It makes you say something impromptu. “If you’re a little bit crueler, and I greedier, it wouldn’t have to come to this.”

There’s no point to tell her about your worries anymore. You’ve lost the chance. The unspoken concern has reenacted itself into this very situation. A crime and a punishment. You chose to spend the night with Miranda, and this is the consequence of you taking shortcuts in your relationship.

“I see,” Miranda says in a quiet tone. “So we both know what your decision is.”

You want to writhe in pain, crack a joke, but you care about Miranda too much to do that.

“You were taped. I was told you want to see it,” Miranda speaks after a moment of heavy silence.

“Yes. I slept through it and I want to know what happened.” You can feel her getting angry again. But she’s doing her best to shield you from it. “Do you have a phone? I want to let them know I’m ok as soon as possible—”

“You are not ok!” Miranda yells. You wince. Involuntarily your hand shoots up to block what you think is an attack. But there’s none. “I’m sorry. Fucking hell. I shouldn’t have shouted.”

You lower your hand, and you don’t know who’s more mortified. The gravity of the circumstances is pressing. Although you miss Miranda terribly, you want to get away from her. You know she understands. What has happened is nobody’s fault.

“I’ll see to it that everything is arranged,” she says, defeated. “Once I send the tape to you, it’s going to be the only copy left.”

“Thank you.”

It’s a pregnant pause, as if you’re waiting for a Deus ex machina to salvage this mess. Miranda gives up the idea of a miracle first and stands up.

“Wait,” you say. it’s always you, waiting for her. And it’s always her that comes to you. But this time, you go to her when she’s stopped making her way to the door. You hug her waist and rest your head on her shoulder. Through layers of fabric, you can hear her heartbeats.

Miranda pulls you flush against her and you share an unhurried embrace, as if you both agree that this is a goodbye.

***

There’s no media coverage of your disappearance. Someone is keeping it tidy. You tidy up your end of a mess, too. And watch yourself in the tape. You never knew you look like that in that angle. It doesn’t feel real to be seeing yourself in a video, as if what has happened is done to another person. They didn’t do anything extreme, and you’re satisfied with it. The “abuse”, you reckon, is taking away your freedom and keeping you there in a dehumanized state. The rest you can live with, because you’re a survivor.

Your unexcused absence costs you your job. You find another shortly. You wonder if it’s Miranda behind it, pulling the strings, because she isn’t being subtle. You feel watched all the time. Andy tries to cheer you up and he doesn’t ask too many questions, so you spend quite some while in his bar, and meet women who have brown, shoulder-length hair, or women with sharp jawlines or cheekbones, or women with blue eyes. For a period of time it suffices.

***

The peace is a sham.

Your admiration for Miranda Croft comes from her elusiveness. Her admiration for you comes from your independence. The qualities you appreciate in each other will have to give if you were together. She’s fire and you’re water. You are reason, and logic, because you’ve always tried to do the right thing. But you’re so fucking tired of holding your end of the bargain. If the resisting is not going to hold, and the giving-in is not going to end well, what choices are there?

The peace is a sham or you wouldn’t be so ready to destroy this false façade of your life and take home a woman you just met, at a club you’d never went to, or had the desire to visit. It isn’t an act of self-destruction, but close enough. It’s an act of rebellion, toppling everything that you used to represent. Principles. Goodness and decency. Dullness.

Why are you still here when I’m not going to be amusing you anytime soon?

Jesus, girl. You, you’ve got some serious misconceptions about me.

You declutter those voices in your head by focusing on the task at hand, which is making the stranger come. You’re not going to let her touch you, because this rebellion has an expiration date, and it’s set to fail, when you are still your very own totalitarian tyrant. Your principles are made to be your armor and sword. But they’ve become your straitjacket and tether.

The stranger comes prettily but she’s not the one you want in your bed.

***

Miranda is like caffein. You need it and you should quit, or, at the very least, try to. But it has already poisoned your metabolism, and you need a cup or three every day. And if you could afford the damage it’s been doing to your body, why the hell not?

***

You walk past someone who you thought is her, and you almost turn around to check. You don’t. The scent is totally wrong. Miranda will never use perfumes that smell this tacky.

That night you dream of knives piercing into flesh, bones shattering, bullets firing from afar, broken glasses of red wine and blood spattering on olives. You wake with a start, desperately wanting to go back to your nightmare, because there’s no one to talk about it with, and you don’t think anyone will understand why you love it.

***

You bristle when you open the door to a familiar figure chilling on your living room’s couch. The devil is going to show up unannounced one day. You just don’t know when.

Miranda fits in, snugly, like she’s never left.

“I just got back from Iceland and,” she stuffs a hand into her pocket, “got you a little something. But don’t get too excited. I snatched it from a gift shop.”

The last thing she got you was a passport, a new life you could be living.

Your nostalgia grinds to a halt when you see Miranda’s face contorting in pain. She’s trying to sit straighter so she can reach into her trousers’ pocket. You notice her wound and the blood on her makeshift tourniquet.

“Your leg—”

“Took a bullet,” Miranda fishes out a keychain. She places it on the table. “A rescue plan went awry. All is good now, but a near-death experience, no less.”

“You do have the panache for rescuing damsels in distress,” you say. You ignore her protests, ignore her handsome, brutish manner and all her narcissistic charm, and study her. She’s wearing a leather blazer and a gray turtleneck. Earrings. Her hair is shorter, and there’s a curl to it that gives her a completely different look. Her cupid’s bow is more prominent, because her lipstick is a shade darker. Her nails are done, painted in black. She’s not the Miranda you know.

It feels as if a hand has plunged into your chest and squeezed your heart. “You look great.”

“Thanks, doll. I know I look like hell. Probably smell like one, too.”

“Are we going to catch up? Is that what we’re doing?” You ask.

Miranda slumps, the way like when the night you met and you told her you hadn’t called the cops.

“Aye, I shouldn’t be here.” She tries to get up, but you’ve got a better idea. Knowing that you have Miranda’s attention, you bring yourself to survey the trinket she brought you. It’s trashy souvenir, probably made in China. You put it down and turn to face her. She has sunk back to the couch to save her strength, even reclining a little. It must have been a long trip.

“Then why are you here?”

She purses her lips. “I need to see you.”

“No, because you miss the life you had,” you say, leaning forward, “it’s a relapse. You’re going to want to move on.” Your hands pinned the back of the couch, so that Miranda is trapped under you. But it’s only an illusion. You know how she strong is. If she wants to go, she can.

She stares up at you. “Like how you are moving on?” She challenges.

Even if Miranda’s unfresh makeup brings out all the lines and creases on her face, she still looks gorgeous. A picture so striking, you want to forget everything that has happened between you.

On her lap, her hands are relaxed. She never wears rings but now she’s wearing one. Her nail polish isn’t black; it’s deep blue. The color should be complimenting her eyes, but it brings out a discrepancy instead. Her eyes are bluer than ice, and the deep blue of her nails reminds you of darkness, or a fire so wild that its smoke can black out the blue sky. Miranda is more of a paradox than an enigma, and you always thought you enjoy solving her more than liking her for who she is. You are wrong. Or why will you push the hem of her blazer off her thigh, so you can survey the injury on her leg closely? You care, too much.

Miranda tied a silk scarf around the gunshot wound. You’re no expert, but if she has the leisure to pay you a visit, the shot shouldn’t be too serious. You skim over the scarf with your fingertip.

Miranda tenses up. “Y/N, what are you doing?”

You don’t know. You look at her for clues, and get the strangest idea that she wants you to hurt her. But you don’t want to, even if your thumb is ready to dig into her wound. Will she howl in pain? Will she fly into rage and kill you?

You pull back. “You need to leave and patch this up properly.”

“No,” Miranda seizes your wrist. “Go on. Finish what you started.”

You shake her off but she has you in an iron grip. “You’re hurt. I don’t like it.”

It strikes a nerve. Miranda’s eyes flash. “Then why are you fucking all those women?”

If you allow your emotions to win, it’s easy to believe that Miranda is accusing you that you lied to her about how you don’t sleep with strangers. But you’re getting ahead of yourself.

“Get your hand off me,” you hiss.

“You want to get back at me. Here I am.”

“Not everything is about you,” you finally free yourself, and the momentum makes you stumble a few steps away. “You’re obviously in pain. So am I.”

“So what the fuck?” She asks. “We’re obviously not over each other. What’s with the suffering, and why are we both acting like petulant children?”

“You’re saying that you have a solution to this.”

“I’m saying we can come up with a solution for this.”

You budge, maybe too easily. “Fine.”

You extend a hand to Miranda. She takes it and shuffles forward, shifting her weight to her legs. With a grunt, she leans onto you. You loop her hand over your shoulders, and she lets you, although she can very well hobble off herself. If this is not her yielding as well, you don’t know what is.

“Petulant children?” You repeat, your poker face breaking since she can’t see your expression when she’s using you as her crutch. You’re grinning. “Was Iceland some kind of a death wish because you want to spite me?”

“I can still strangle you with one leg.”

“And I can push you down the stairs.”

“Shush.”

***

You like classy stuff, and you like them simply because they look good. This vanity has saved you plenty of trouble. You’ve learned how not to romanticize people and make up boo-hoo stories of their past. But Miranda has grown into a case of her own. You want to get inside her head and know her logistics, know where all that anger is coming from, and learn why of all the plain Janes, she chooses you to go this far. That’s why when Miranda texts you with an unidentified number, you know you’ll be there no matter what address or date she picks. You’re back to the start, it seems. But to solve a problem, sometimes all you need is a reboot.

Miranda’s taste is classy, but it clashes with her own unpredictability when, after you wait in an empty hotel room for about ten minutes, the door suddenly opens. In comes a dark-haired woman, bloody and disheveled and doesn’t look anywhere near classy.

“Not mine,” Miranda declares before you can ask her about the blood on her shirt. The door clicks shut. Miranda puts down a pastry box and the box looks like it’s gone through a crossfire. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but I get agitated with something unfinished. Had to go through with it so I can focus when I’m with you.”

“Please tell me those aren’t cupcakes,” you laugh.

“What? How did you—”

“I don’t want to come empty-handed.” You flick the lid of the box you brought, which is placed right next to you. Miranda is so determined to untangle herself from her coat that she hadn’t seen it. “There was one in the fridge, back in your house? Which has chunks bitten off. I took a guess that you like it too much to finish it.”

“That’s sweet of you,” Miranda says. You preen.

“It’s sweet of you too, dealing with…” you make a gesture of her blood and grime, “…that, before we can talk.”

You share a smile. You realize you can breathe easier now under Miranda’s loaded look.

“Will you wait a wee bit?” Miranda points to the bathroom, deft fingers already working down the buttons of her shirt.

“Go ahead,” you snap your fingers at her clothes, “these look like they need to be specially dry-cleaned, though.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

You use a tissue or five to clean the cakebox Miranda brought. The content is miraculously intact. You thought about having a taste test first, but you want to share it with Miranda and argue that the ones you brought are tastier.

As Miranda showers, you stand by the window and look down at the streets. You’re anxious for what’s to come so you wouldn’t care if the city is burning tonight. You only wish that the glass can magically disappear so you’d fall into the traffic, and no more dreaded conversation with Miranda.

A certain look that Miranda gives you makes you feel special, even when you aren’t. Maybe normalcy is what she wants, and it’s why she picks you. But deep down, you fear you’re just an unfinished business, a novel obsession.

I can wine and dine you for as long as you’re not bored yet.

Bored. What to do then, when Miranda grows bored with you?

There’s a spring in her steps when she walks out of the bathroom. You can tell that Miranda is in a good mood. Clasped in a robe, hair wet, her face is scrubbed clean. It’s the first time you see her without makeup.

“You’re glowing. Is that how you keep such nice skin? Killing people?”

Miranda gives you a delighted hum. “I take my work very seriously and I’m proud of my craft.” Her tongue is stuck out between her lips when she tries to open your box of cupcakes, like she’s up to no good. “The secret is to occasionally bathe in the blood of young men.” Then she takes a large bite of the dessert, and moans. “Fuck this is good.”

Because her face is stuffed, all you can hear is ugg! yee-oo and you’re grinning so wide your cheeks hurt.

“Save a bite of that for me.”

“Get your own cupcake!” Miranda seems famished. As you approach her, you can catch whiffs of clean soap, and it makes you feel lightheaded and bubbly.

“I can’t possibly finish one myself. I need to watch my figure.”

“Right.”

“Hey unlike you I don’t have blood to bathe—” Miranda puts a bite-sized cupcake into your mouth before you finish that word. Your teeth graze her fingers. “Yum,” you say dumbly, the frosting dissolving on your tongue while your body warms. Miranda smirks because she knows what you’re remembering. But then she’s onto the next box, getting her second cupcake. Whatever she’s done before meeting you here, must’ve been quite the workout session. You split the cupcake, and the break catches you both off guard.

You search for things to say. “When you came over last time, I was so mean to you. You don’t deserve that. I’m sorry for being such a bitch.”

“Nah, I shouldn’t have invited myself in. And I wasn’t a ray of sunshine either.”

Those are fillers, empty apologies because you’re not sure what’s next.

“Y/N, there’s something I need to ask you.” Miranda watches you, and then she hesitates. “Why’re we still standing?”

You laugh nervously when you two take the loveseat. “I’m sure that’s not the question.”

“No.” A drop of water from Miranda’s hair rolls down the slope of her neck when she sits. “I want to ask you what you meant by, if I was crueler, and you were greedier.”

“Oh, that,” you’re embarrassed to hear your words quoted back to you. You feel like a naïve girl who thought she has wisdom to impart. But who are you, when you’re in the face of someone with a thousand guises? “But I assumed you got the message.”

“I’ve always known what decision you were going to make.”

“You do?”

“You’re not hard to figure out,” Miranda says tersely. It isn’t like criticism, though it makes your heart heavy. She has always been straightforward with you. “I treasure you and I hate to leave anything behind if I have the power to fix it.”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” you say quickly, but you feel faint hearing that I treasure you. “You have the power to do what you want. If you’re cruel, you could’ve bent everything your way.”

“But that’s not fixing. It’ll be destroying.”

“Yes. And if I’m more ambitious, less…cowardly, I would’ve picked the passport.”

“That’s not who you are,” Miranda says. “What you’re describing is a completely impossible scenario.”

“It’s what I meant to say when I was visiting you.” You sink your teeth into your lower lip hard. But the pain can’t stop it from quivering. “I just couldn’t see us happening.”

Miranda stares at you unblinkingly. “So that’s why you were acting like that. This has been troubling you for a while, hasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And you still don’t regret making that choice.”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re ready.”

“For what?”

“To admit that all your decisions have led you to this moment, now that you’re ready to go through with the third option.”

If the resisting is not going to hold, and the giving-in is not going to end well, what’s left is precisely this. You close your eyes, and feel tears flow down your cheek. A catharsis. You were waiting, if not to be pardoned, then at least for the guillotine to drop. You’ve been waiting to give in, waiting for all the other choices to exhaust themselves, waiting for your self-righteous principles to burn out and reveal a lie that’s not a lie: how is it self-deception if you know what you’re doing? You know you’ve been resisting for the sake of resisting, so that in the end, you’re left with one path, a path leading directly to Miranda.

“Why have you played along?” You ask, feeling ugly and exposed, like your plan is foolery and your concerns are all fake. But they’re real, or how will they drive you to this situation?

Miranda lets a small smile dance on her lips. “Why not? Our goal is the same. It’s the only way for you to exit in one piece.”

“It’s for my conscience to feel better.”

“Trust me,” Miranda’s smile turns a tad cruel, “you’ll adjust in no time, princess.”

She touches your face gently. You nuzzle into her hand and kiss her palm.

“Honestly there must be a dozen other people you know who can replace…” you trail off when Miranda places a finger on your mouth.

“You are my perfect choice,” she says, and cups your face, “I choose you, and I have no regrets.”

That fatal feeling floods into you once more. Since Miranda showed up in your life, every encounter you had was a test. She knows you’re not special, but you are special to her when you appear at the right place and the right time and make all the right choices. It’s no masterplan but a plan nonetheless, to slowly isolate yourself from your old life, so you can begin a new one. You couldn’t have done it without Miranda’s intervention, and she couldn’t have intervened without your resistance to submit.

Now, finally, you can.

“Is this where we go off into the sunset together?” You ask, feeling how good it is to let go. You smile at Miranda.

She catches you, as promised. “Not after I kiss you first.”

You’re beaming when Miranda leans into you and presses her lips on yours, and you have to stop smiling to commit to the kiss. After all this waiting, it’s not very difficult. She’s weaving her hands into your hair as you find her neck, and then you can feel her pulse thud under your fingertips, and she is so soft. You want more of her soft skin.

“Ow,” says Miranda when you part, “did you just bite my lip?” Her eyes are sparkly with mirth and surprise.

“I can kiss it better,” you say, using Miranda’s often unapologetic attitude against her, and sneak a light peck on her lips. “Will this do?”

“Since you’ve even dressed up for the occasion…” Miranda drags her gaze over you, “…it’ll suffice.”

Your cheeks feel hot. You did put on something nicer because you weren’t sure how this night will play out. You’ve prepared for the worst. If this was the last time you see each other, at least Miranda will remember you like this. But this isn’t a goodbye, and it makes you so happy that your heart aches. You’re having a hard time to believe that, after months and months and months, at long last, you can let Miranda have you without consequence. It fills you with lust and joy.

“You, however,” you say, quirking an eyebrow at Miranda’s bathrobe, “are woefully underdressed.”

Miranda copies your expression. “Would you rather I came out of the shower buck naked?”

And it backfires.

You lick your lips.

Miranda blinks.

You remember how soft her neck is.

She inhales a breath that’s deeper than usual.

There’s a gap in your memory, and you must’ve surged over to kiss Miranda, not in the let’s-kiss-and-make-up, sunshine and roses edition, but the I-want-to-fucking-taste-you way, and Miranda is still hungry after her cupcakes, and you’re not hungry for cupcakes when you search for her skin to touch. You have, as your hand slips under her robe and oh, you’re touching Miranda’s unclothed thigh. She jolts.

“Is this ok?” You ask, and even if you’re worried about being too forward, you’re amazed by how beautiful Miranda is, rosy cheeks, puffy lips and glassy eyes. “Sorry, I thought—”

“No, it’s…” Miranda puckers her mouth and chews the inside of her cheek. It’s not humiliation there, more like she’s carefully selecting her words. You’ve never seen her so detached and at the same time, so close to you. When she comes back, her face hardens into a haughty, self-satisfied look. You marvel at the transformation.

“I don’t usually allow people to touch me so intimately. It’s me who does most of the fucking.”

You know she feels your hand twitch on her thigh. She smirks. And then she stands up. You’re useless when you watch her disrobe.

Miranda unties the knot around her waist and her bathrobe falls open. You can either pick up your jaw or her robe from the floor. Miranda has tossed the bathrobe away like it’s she’s some supermodel doing a photoshoot.

“Miranda…what the f—how are you so toned?” You can see the freckles on her arms and down the valley of her breasts.

Miranda sits by the bed and crosses her legs demurely. Her shapely legs.

“A gal’s gotta stay employed,” she says, feigning modesty, but she’s leaning back with her hands supporting her upper body. “You’re looking at years of close-combat exercise and always enough protein in diets.”

You can see how sculptured she is, her collarbones protruding and you want to use your tongue to spell out your awe on the flat of her stomach.

“Will you let me touch you?” You blurt out. It’s funny how Miranda is the one being naked and you’re behaving like a blushing bride.

She beckons you over warmly. “I’ll be disappointed if you don’t.”

You bend down and kiss her. And it must be the devil that entices you to do it, when you say, “I was thinking about you the entire time when I was with the others.”

Ok. Why. The fuck. Would you say that.

Miranda pushes you away, and yes, you’ve brought it onto yourself when you recognize that fire coiling right under Miranda’s mask, ready to strike at all times, and you realize it excites you to see her all riled up and homicidal and trying hard to control that rage.

“Then kneel.” Her voice is cold, though there are flames dancing in her eyes.

“What?”

“I don’t like to repeat myself.”

You swallow, and drop the ground one knee after the other. The floor is carpeted, but it’s still hard against your knees, and you’re not used to this position.

Legs crossed like she’s royalty, Mirand watches you squirm. She enjoys seeing you beneath her, as if you’re about to grovel at her feet. You know, logically, you’ve done nothing wrong because you weren’t exclusive—but now you want to beg for her forgiveness and affection. You want to grovel, and make her like you again.

“I…I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” Miranda reaches for your chin and tilts your face by your jaw. Her fingers are digging harshly into your skin, but you love how it’s hurting you. “How do I know that you’re not some slut, chasing random women and just open your legs for any hand that’s willing to touch you?”

You whimper. She uses her thumb to draw the outline of your mouth and parts your lips. You can’t fathom the look on Miranda’s face. You act on instinct, sucking her thumb in, swirling your tongue over the pad of her finger, hoping that the eager-to-please can sway her.

It doesn’t.

“Look at you go,” Miranda’s voice is huskier now. “Aren’t you just so keen to use that mouth of yours.” Her expression is feral. You think there’ll be fangs if she bares her teeth.

“Please,” you warble a little because her thumb is still in your mouth, “please Miranda. Let me make it up to you.”

She gives a condescending look that says why-not like you’ve just asked her if she wants a cup of tea. It makes you feel hot and cold at the same time. Miranda takes her finger out your mouth, and then, wipes your drool on your face by dragging it across your cheek.

“I quite like you down here,” she mutters. She uncrosses her legs, and she grabs a fistful of your hair. It’s done so expertly you can barely feel the ache when your hair is tugged. You have an inkling where this is going, and if you look hard and long enough at Miranda, you know you’ll see that hidden concern. She’s being watchful, and you feel safe because she won’t do anything you don’t want to.

There’s a submissive side in everyone but, it seems to be your nature to be in Miranda’s thrall. When she tugs you closer like you’re a dog on a leash, you crawl on all fours, because you know it’ll displease her to stand up. You can feel the buzz in the air, heightened by the show you put on, a performance of you and Miranda from the start. The chemistry is perfect because there’s that mutual understanding, and the rhythm is there, too.

You can feel your saliva drying on your face. But when Miranda widens her legs, you know you’re going to get your face wet again, soon. She’s pink and glistening. You stifle a mewl, and feel your mouth water at the light musk of Miranda’s arousal.

“What is it?” Hearing that broken sound from you, Miranda lets go of your hair and caresses your cheek.

“May I taste you?” You ask between her legs, like you’ve been starving and the meal is within reach and if you’re polite enough, you can go in and be as ravenous as you want to. “Please?” You are taken aback by Miranda’s self-control. She is poised, so utterly unperturbed by her own state. She takes her time and makes you think she’s evaluating your offer.

“Stick out your tongue,” she says.

Fuck.

You must look obscene doing that or Miranda’s eyes wouldn’t turn so dark when she raises her hips over and holds you in place by your cheek and fuck she’s actually riding your face. Tasting the salty tang when Miranda uses your mouth like a personal fuck-toy is unbelievably sensual. You stare up at her, dazed, and see that Miranda is affected too despite her steady movements. Veins jump on her forehead. Her skin is flushed and you’re not sure if that’s the water from her hair or perspiration gleaming on her neck. The muscle is clenched in her jaw. She’s gnashing her teeth together, and with a hand supporting her weight, she grinds on your tongue from slit to clit.

No more devils; you have only yourself to blame this time when you follow that swollen nub of nerves when Miranda is rubbing downwards. Her pace is off because she jerks against your mouth. Your disobedience elicits a groan, which is cut short, and you want to hear more of that. Against better judgments, you start to lap up the abundance of juice, which, Miranda does not explicitly say you can. You hear a choked fuck and it gives you the incentive to ignore Miranda’s order and just dive in.

“Fucking…hell—!” Miranda cries in full volume when you grab her thighs and bury your mouth there. Her wetness gathers around your lips and you look into her eyes when you repeat broad circular licks, all enthusiasm and no grace at all. Miranda yelps, and then, you can feel her getting wetter, coating your chin. Her legs escape your hold and you can feel her calves on your back, her heels locking you while she smothers you with her vulva. You’ll gladly die like this, but at least after you make her come.

Miranda falls back to her elbows when you splay her open so you can suckle onto her clit while you tease her entrance with the tips of your fingers.

She lets out a guttural sound. “Y/N, inside me. Now.”

Miranda may seem to be the one taking charge but it’s you who’s been sneakily pushing the parameters. Her walls are velvety once you slide one finger into her slickness. She gives a full-body shudder when you blow a stream of air on her clit while you add another finger.

“More. And don’t fucking tease,” her threat finishes as a growl and if her breaths aren’t so jagged, you’d be intimidated.

“You’re so tight,” you say, your words humming into Miranda and she flutters around your digits. You thought she’s coming so you hastily put your mouth around her clit again, and holds her leg when you start fucking into her for real. Miranda’s thigh muscles flex. She’s fighting to stay still, her motions irregular as her hips rock onto you. You look up at her and find Miranda covering her own mouth with the back of her hand, the other hand gripping the sheets tightly. Maybe she’s biting her knuckles, you don’t know. All you know is how criminally delicious the sight is, and you want to eat her up. So you eat her out and fingerfuck her so piously that she buckles into you with force. If you weren’t anticipating her climax, you won’t be able to redouble your efforts and follow her straight into it. Miranda thrusts forward and you don’t relent when you feel her hand on the back of your head, pushing you into her or keeping you out, as if she’s so far gone she can’t decide.

So you stop keeping Miranda’s legs open and use that hand to hold her forearm. It’s more intimate when you’re proving not just pleasure, but also comfort and support. Miranda receives the gesture by moving her hand from your head to your hand on her arm.

You lace your hands together, fingers interlocked.

And Miranda is coming with her whole body tensed and you count one, two, three then she falls down and arches up with the most sensuous moan you’ve ever heard before, like she’s in pain and you’re the only one to relieve her from it, or like she’s begging don’t stop and you’re the only one who can read her mind.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” says Miranda in a lazy after-sex drawl, and she’s still weakly cramping around your fingers. She withdraws her hand so she can prop herself up. Her hair is half-dried, messy brown curls framing her face that still has a high blush. You thought you saw halo.

Miranda meets your gaze. “You’re no angel, are you?”

You hope not. Angels are boring and devils are so much fun. You answer Miranda by kissing the gunshot wound on her right—your left—thigh once you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Her wound is wrapped with a white bandage, and you’ve been careful to avoid that spot because you don’t want to hurt her.

Knees aching and jaw sore, you guess you’re going to have to compromise. The blue-eyed devil is smiling at you now, seductive and loving. Angel or not, you can only surrender when Miranda pulls you up just so she can push you, down.

Chapter Text

“You always leave that side too open and that’s ok, Y/N. Because—”

“—your dominant hand is the other side,” you finish the sentence, and moan with defeat. “I know!”

Your trainer smiles and helps you off the floor. “Don’t be so harsh on yourself, kid.”
“Is it normal that I feel sleepy?” You wipe the sweat from your eyebrows, and rub the spot that hit the mat, because you failed to block Xander, your trainer, the same bulky man who was in that van with you when you were rescued from being hostage, whose real name is Axel, but insists on you calling him Xander because he’s convinced that Axel sounds like asshole. You learned that whoever convinced him about it was gone. Xander said (joked?) that he had, good-naturedly, dealt with it like a mercenary would.

“Shit. I’ve pushed you too hard again,” he says. “How about we call it a day?”

“We’ve still got an hour till lunch break.”

“It’s a hand-to-hand combat crash course, not a—”

“—brash course,” you make a face at him. “It’s a bad one, Xander. Aren’t you worried that you’ll be held accountable if we fall behind? I’m nowhere close to sparring for real.”

His face crumples. “Can I count on you to put in a good word for me? So I can at least get a burial?”

You laugh. He respectfully looks away when you grab the back of your tank top and pull it over your head. Your sports bra is drenched, too.

“Schedule aside, do I look skinnier or what?” You haven’t lost many pounds, but after months of regular exercise and having “enough protein in diets”, your body feels different. You won’t go with agile, yet. But that stubborn lower back pain is gone.

Xander has his stare fixed on the roof. “She’s not gonna like me staring at you…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” you respond, feeling a sudden jab of irritation. Three sentences out of five you’re talking about Miranda Croft, and she’s not even home. Not until this weekend.

You’re aware of how you’ve been cussing like her now you’re living together. Back in Glasgow, we were taught that cursing is punctuation. Miranda’s voice feels like an imprint on you. Even if she’s constantly on the road, her presence lingers.

“Hey, you ok?”

“Yeah. Sorry, I zoned out.”

“Is everything alright between you two?”

You’re this close to answering something ridiculous like Miranda pays you to be my trainer, not my therapist. But you stop yourself just in time. Xander means well, and you don’t want to lose him as a friend. There’s no one in Miranda’s social circles you can trust, and it’s a price to pay when you chose to come with her. Sure, you haven’t completely cut ties with your oldest friends and family members. But if you can’t tell them a single truth about your status, they’re as good as none.

“You know what? You’re right. We should wrap.”

He gives you a salute that’s definitely not the one used in the military. “You’re the boss.”

***

Miranda is, of course, not going to dump you in a pack of wolves if you're finding a position to contribute to her “international crime syndicate”. The agreement is that you’re to receive a series of self-defense lessons—crash course as they say—before you enter her line of business. Impatient as you are, you can’t wait to dip a toe in Miranda’s world. When she is away, you study her case files for her “business associates”, and learn the best you can. Miranda knows you’re tampering with those “big black folders” in her study, so you don’t feel too bad about it. You even have a feeling that, whenever Miranda goes traveling again, she picks out the stuff for you to look into by placing them messily across the desk. And the Miranda you know keeps her things pristine.

After your morning lesson, you take a shower and feel less drowsy. You have yesterday’s dinner for lunch and then eat some more, so you can have the stomach for a double espresso. You want to get back to your reading, and get things done this afternoon.

Feeling the soreness catch up with your muscles, you stretch, yawning. You finish your coffee in one go, waiting for it to kick in as you flip open the folder by the bookmark. Lionfish. Victor. Bowden. Sokolov. Feliks. The words swim when you read them. The more you learn, the less you know about who Miranda is, and it’s a bitter thing to swallow no matter how happy you are with her. The happiness comes from the excitement, which comes from the not-knowing, which stems from your ignorance because you’re missing a fundamental part of who Miranda is. What she does is a mystery, and that’s ok, you’re taking baby steps to piece the puzzles together. But it’s not helping you piece Miranda together. Is she deliberately keeping a distance, or is it just how she functions? You don’t know which is worse. Your sense of imbalance and insecurity used to be two separate entities. Now they are one. You’ve got yourself nailed onto one axis with Miranda, and your side of the seesaw is going up and up and your feet can’t touch the ground, because there’s Miranda on the far end, eyes dark and indecipherable and watching you like an abyss. Miranda is the shadowy pit that you’re bound to fall into from the sky.

Imagining the crash jolts you awake. You realize that you’ve been dozing off, and the espresso is doing nothing but churning your stomach. You drag yourself out of Miranda’s study with a tail between your legs.

You might as well take a nap.

Since no one is in the house, you take off your shorts and change into a tank top that you use as pajamas because it’s too short for you to wear to your training. Then you slip onto your side of the bed you and Miranda share.

Your last for like, thirty seconds, when you give in to your habit of grabbing her pillow, then bury your face into it while you curl around the softness. You can still smell her, a scent that’s richer than her shampoo, and it makes you feel calm. You close your eyes and pretend that Miranda is here. If, she’s really here, you know all your anxieties will evaporate within the first stroke of her hand on your hair. You can almost picture it, feeling the familiar weight of her next to you as she pets your hair, and kiss your forehead.

Gosh you miss her lips.

You summon the memory of the last time she kisses you like her life depends on it. You can almost feel the pressure of her mouth against yours. No. Backtrack. It’s the anticipation, the customary seconds before your lips touch, when your eyes lock and you can tell something has shifted on her face to that expression, one you’ve familiarized yourself with after sharing so many kisses. That look always causes passion to rush straight into your head like if you drink wine too fast. Sometimes Miranda caresses your face first, brushing your hair aside. Sometimes she starts on the junction where your jawline meets your ear, and lands a series of kisses from there to your lips. Her arm might drape around your neck, so she can hold you close while she kisses you, and when she does that, it makes you feel so comfortable and safe.

You’re aware of how the pillow is pressing on your center, and how your nipples feel sensitive against the fabric of your top. Really? The coffee is hyping you up now? You only want your fantasy to go on.

You can imagine Miranda’s low, dirty chuckles when you accidentally croon into her mouth. It always makes her more physical because you’re not very vocal at first. But she kisses you so artfully that once in every while, you even have to take care of your need after Miranda leaves for work. Miranda always knows what to do with her body, always confident and relaxed. When you show her your appreciation, her arm around your neck may become her clasping your jaw when she teases you, making you think she’s about to press the next kiss on your mouth. But she’s actually darting out her tongue to lick your bottom lip, and you’ll try to lean in for more, but then Miranda is still holding your face by your jaw so you’ve no choice but to wait. Sometimes Miranda will just leave you empty, admiring her handiwork of you all flushed and panting. Sometimes, ever so merciful, Miranda licks into your mouth while you catch her lips again.

Ok, you are finding yourself rocking a little onto the pillow, but you’re so sleepy that you don’t care. You have Miranda pampering you in your dream. In your dreamland, you become a little bolder, and ask Miranda for a quickie before she leaves. Really, princess? She’d smile deviously. Do you want everyone in the meeting to smell you when you come on my fingers?

You will beg for it. Miranda will have it no other way. Or, you can antagonize her by bluffing that whilst she’s gone, you’ll find a random guard outside and let them take turns fingering your wet cunt in the sun. Yes. That’ll do it. You can see Miranda losing her legendary control. Having witnessed her losing her cool a few times, you know where to look for the signs, if you weren’t so distracted by that glint in her blue eyes. The lines on the edges of her mouth would stiffen, turning downward, and more shadows would lurk on her face, as if on her command they’d strike and swallow you into the darkness.

Only this time, in your fantasy, she knows exactly what you’re doing.

You’re goading me to fuck you right now, aren’t you? She’d laugh in your heated face. Always so needy. Go ahead. Show me how wet you are.

You must be quite wet in reality. Lucid-dream-Miranda has her own mind now. You’ve lost control of the monster you created, and you love it when she’s pushing you against the wall after you touch yourself in front of her. You can almost feel the impact on your back, and the warmth spreading over your center when she cups you, and grind. The friction is not enough, even if the heel of her palm is rubbing your clit. Miranda holds you by the throat and pushes your head back, so she can suck on your neck, and then she fucking bites you. Pain roars down your spine and rushes into your lower abdomen. Yes. You jerk against her. More. You want Miranda to pinch you and bruise you, leaving marks all over you, and make you so sore that you can feel her the next day.

Miranda nips your earlobe and her warm breath sends tingles down your body. It feels so good. You’re so aroused, you feel dizzy. You’re floating in a sea of pleasure, with the waves washing over you but never pushing you to the shore. You want to reach it so much. You need to come.

You’re wakened by a strange sound, probably your own whine, but you’re too occupied by the pleasure that’s slowly building. There’s a hot mouth kissing your shoulder, and a weight on top of you that’s human-shaped. In your fogginess, everything is so dreamy and good. Skin-to-skin sensations travel through you, rising goosebumps, and you can feel your bare legs brush against the clothed ones. You blink slowly, trying to adjust to the light. A hand is crawling under your tank top, and then, fingers graze over your nipple, and clamp on the hardened tip. You let out a broken gasp when tiny explosions burst from the contact.

“I should come home more often, if I knew what I was missing.”

It’s a familiar voice with the raspy, laid-back register that always makes your bones hum with the spoken words. They rumble on your skin, and you realize it’s the voice was just in your dream. You’re temporarily thrown off. What’s happening? You were sleeping and you’re supposed to be alone in bed. Why’s there someone hovering over you?

The panic and confusion shoot adrenaline into you, and you’re wide awake. You bolster right up and feel your knee knocking into soft, unprotected tissues. You hear a gruntle, but you’ve got no time to think, it’s now or never, and you hook your legs onto the intruder’s calves and buck and flip.

Number one, the intruder makes no attempt to fight you and just lets you pin down the hands that might try to attack you.

Number two, you stare down, and find that you’re sitting on Miranda’s pelvis.

“Jesus god,” you say, beyond mortified. You scramble off her, and feel your breasts bouncing a little when you do that, and you realize your tank top has ridden up and your boobs are saying hello. You quickly pull the hem down, but the damage is done.

You peer at Miranda, and ask sheepishly, “Did I hurt you?”

Miranda winces as she sits up. “Guess those lessons paid off.”

You force a chuckle. “Xander’s going to be relieved to hear you say that.”

“Xander?” Miranda kneads her stomach. “Who’s that?”

“Oh, Axel. It’s what I call him. You sure you’re alright? I kicked pretty hard.” You reach out to Miranda but Miranda intercepts your hand.

“So, you’re using nicknames now.” She stares at you.

“Uh-huh. You could say that.” There are too many things going through your mind. Miranda is all dressed up, wearing that black blouse you secretly covet and a pair of gray slacks. It’s been one week or so since she left, and you miss her so much that it makes you nearly angry that she’s back, announced. But you’re also glad to see her, so much so you want to ignore the embarrassment of attacking her. “I didn’t know you were coming back early.”

You pause because Miranda’s grip tightens. You look at her questioningly.

“Did he get you all hot and bothered?”

“What? Ick. No, Miranda, why—”

“So it’s sheer happenstance that I came home to you humping on a pillow with a damp spot on your underwear?”

Your cheeks burn at how apt Miranda describes it. It’s not impossible, because you did put on a pair of gray cotton underwear, and you did get very aroused when you were falling asleep.

You’re conflicted. You love Miranda’s possessiveness, and you hate how she jumps to the conclusion that you’re not loyal to her. The matter is delicate because you know she’s serious about her assumption. You can see the darkness there, on her face, which is sexy in your dream but in real life, less sexy for what it entails.

Miranda sighs, and lets your hand go. “You’ve got that look on your face again.”

“What look?” You fight the urge to massage your wrist. You don’t want to be a brat but Miranda gripped you a little too hard.

“You do that when you bottled up instead of talking to me.”

“I’m just…processing so I don’t sound emotional or crazy.”

Miranda’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. “And you’re getting better at it, too.”

“At what?”

“Lying to me.”

You frown, because Miranda doesn’t look unhappy. She looks…pleased, and amused, even though you just opened a can of worms.

“I’m not cheating on you with a trainer you assigned.” How stupid is that. But then it clicks like lightbulbs shining above your head. Your insecurity, your sense of imbalance, and your behavior that Miranda has just pointed out. They’re all connected. “I think I’m not telling you everything because I’m afraid that, someday, you’ll leave.”

There. As simple as that. All your worries condensed into one reason, because it’s the source of it all. You worry that you’ll have no one to turn to if she leaves. You worry that because you can’t predict what Miranda will do, one day she’ll leave. It’s what got you angry today when you were training with Xander. You don’t like Miranda traveling across the country for so long, scared that she might not come back, and you don’t like yourself not-liking the situation when it’s a done deal. But you can’t help it. So there’s this repressed frustration towards your own fear and anxiety, one that you can’t tell her, because you’re afraid that she will leave.

“Y/N, you’re doing it again.” But Miranda’s eyes are soft. She backs herself to a pillow and stretches her leg out. “Come here,” she says, patting a spot in front of her. You gingerly move over on your hands and knees, not sure how she wants you, but thankfully, you don’t have to decide. Miranda guides you by the shoulder so you can nestle in with your back to her front, and she can hold your waist in this position. You make no mistake that she’s strong enough to shove you across her lap and spank an answer out of you. Not that she won’t make it enjoyable, though. But Miranda respects you enough to not do that. Yet.

“Comfortable?”

You answer with a purr because Miranda presses a kiss on the shell of your ear. You relish how her hands are curling protectively on your belly, and oh god she smells so fucking good, like just-killed-a-guy-and-coming-home-to-cuddle-you good. You want to weep because the pillow you were using could not compare.

“I really, really missed you, Miranda,” you can hear the shiver in your own voice. “And I’d always be happy that you’re back home early. I’m sorry if what I said or did earlier make you think—” you laugh, a nervous bark, “—that I was messing with someone else.”

“No, I know,” says Miranda. She’s caressing your hands by brushing the tips of her fingers from your hands to your forearms, then your arms to the back of your hands. You can also feel her hair that’s tickling your bare upper arm. “I was making sure, and now I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Truth is, I can’t promise you that I can stay forever, and I think you know that. It’s what makes you so restless, isn’t it?”

You nod jerkily. Miranda is more observant than you think.

“Do you know what this impasse means?” She asks. You can hear a smile in her voice, which is odd. “It means that this the time when, if I say I love you, you won’t run far, far away for dear life.”

It takes a minute for you to register—truly register—the meaning of that.

You shift and turn around, making Miranda’s hands fall away from your body. You need to see her face. Your heart is hammering in your throat and you don’t care what you look like right now. Frankly, you’re using all your self-control to not grab Miranda and shake her and scream say those three words again.

Traces of a crooked smile are on her face, but there’s also a faint furrow between her eyebrows. The look in her eyes is searing, like she’s scanning your face because she’s not certain how you’ll react. It’s the first time you see Miranda this…unsure, and you cannot believe this is the same woman you stumbled upon in an alleyway. As you put the two together, everything you’ve gone through rushes over you, and it feels as if you’re falling from that tip of the axis, falling straight into Miranda.

Then I’ll catch you, I promise.

The distance you felt between you two is gone with a whoosh. Miranda is here, lowering all her guards so she can cushion the impact when you crash into her. Now you understand it’s not Miranda keeping you out of reach. It’s her patiently waiting for the moment you reach out.

“I won’t,” you croak. “I won’t run away.” You cup her face, and map her features with your gaze. “Fuck,” you breathe in the aftershocks.

“Is that a good fuck or a bad fuck?”

You smile. “It’s a fuck, I love you, too.”

That lopsided smile is back on Miranda’s face, blooming, crow’s feet stretching from her eyes and the apples of her cheeks show. You’ve never seen her this happy and you can’t help but lean over and leaves a series of kisses on her nose, her eyelids, her cheeks, and the corner of her mouth because you can’t kiss Miranda properly, not when you’re both grinning wide.

“Fucking hell,” she whispers when she finds the nape of your neck, and bring you close so your forehead is touching hers. “I missed you,” she says, brushing her nose against yours. You feel like you’re melting into Miranda’s hands, and her touch is the only thing that’s holding you together so you don’t vaporize. You brush your nose over hers, too, and angles forward. Your lips connect and the kiss makes a small, airy sound that only you two can hear in your proximity.

“I’m impressed.”

“Hm?” You’re idly kissing her jaw to her chin.

“Your idea of a seduction,” Miranda says, placing her hands on your lap and stroking the skin there. “Did you really not know I was coming back? I texted.”

“Miranda, you need to stop texting me from burners.” You caress her thighs, too, when you draw away to look at her. “I’ve got that app, remember? It blocks suspicious calls? You told me to download it a couple of months back.”

Miranda sucks in her upper lip. “I did.”

“You did.”

You pretend that you’re not distracted by her touches on your thighs. You’re sensitive there, and it reminds you that your underwear must be soiled. You are still aroused, and Miranda is blatantly letting her gaze fall to your chest and your crotch then climb back up. Her attention feels like invisible touches over your body. You are self-conscious of your state of undress.

And it doesn’t help at all when Miranda is wearing your favorite silk blouse. She must’ve worn it on purpose, because you once gushed about how the fringe runs down the spread of the collar makes you want to lick a trail from her collarbone to her chest. You might have a fantasy or two starring it.

“Huh, so I was actually interrupting a nice dream,” Miranda says evenly, but her actions give her away when she traces a sliver of skin where your tank top meets your underwear. You hold onto her thigh so you don’t squirm or shiver. You can feel how your underwear is clinging to you. You don’t know how long Miranda will tease you with featherlike touches that’s basically torture, so you might as well get it over with.

“The pillow smells like you,” you play your last card. “So I…you know, l like to hold it as I fall asleep.”

That delights Miranda. Very much. She snakes her hand under your top and splays her palm on your tummy. Just a tad upwards to touch the outline of your breast.

But then her hand drifts to the side of your waist. “Would you tell me what you were dreaming about?” And then with terrible ease, she picks you up by the waist and leg and places you on her thigh. “I’m sure it’s not too much to ask. After all I did take a kick in the stomach.”

“You’re getting slow.” You want to grind against her thigh and ruin her trousers. You’re pretty sure Miranda has the same plan, but you’re not going down with a fight.

Her eyes sparkle. “Am I?”

“I was dreaming about you doing this to me.” You grab her hands and pin them over her head. Miranda smirks, and does nothing to break free. A wild animal is more dangerous caged.

She licks her lips, enjoying the visual. “And how about you?”

“I was touching myself.” You start to rock a little on her thigh. The strings of muscles pull, burning from your lower back down your hips. Your shoulders are a little sore, too, but they don’t get in your way of feeling how good it is when your clit is rubbing against Miranda’s clothed leg. With her watching, the arousal comes back tenfold, and you miscalculate your body’s endurance when you give a particular hard grind. You recoil when, along with the pleasure, the burn escalates into a twitch of pain. A prelude of a cramp. You instantly stop moving, because you know the feeling well. In the past months you’ve had a handful of it in training.

“What’s the matter?” Miranda is quick to steady you when you slouch. You try to relax your back muscle, stopping the cramp before it can happen.

“I’m really sore, back here,” you reach for a joint on your back, and you do it slow in case your movement triggers the cramp. “I did not get enough exercise before I signed up for this.”

“That’s not fair,” Miranda doesn’t sound like she’s reprimanding you. Her hand joins yours on that aching spot of your back. “It was a different life you—”

“Ah!” You give an indecent moan because you’re completely unprepared when Miranda massages your muscles with perfect pressure. “Sorry, that hurts so good.”

Miranda watches you with a bit of that wickedness when she does it again, and you clench your jaw to keep the sound in. You fail, when she finds another knot and works her knuckle into it.

“Fuck!” You double over, laughing. “It tickles.”

“I want to make you come, Y/N.” Miranda’s tone gets more serious. “But it’s going to be quite painful, if you’re sore all over.”

You swallow at the unveiled desire on Miranda’s face. But it’s the care and adoration there that makes you feel that everything is worth it, and you would’ve made the same choices if you went back in time.

“I bet you’ll enjoy it,” you joke as you maneuver to the center of the bed, and lie down. “You love to see me suffer.”

Miranda wastes no time ripping that underwear off you as if the existence of the cloth offends her.

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” says Miranda when she parts your legs and her expression foreshadows how she’s going to use her mouth. You throb. She reaches into her pocket and you’re so turned on you thought she’s getting a flip knife or a garrote wire. But it’s just a hair tie.

It doesn’t make Miranda less dangerous when she ties her hair up and bends over.

You’re all swollen and over-sensitive, so it’s painful when Miranda licks you because the stimulation is too much like being edged too long and the body gets confused about whether to orgasm or not. You try not to shift away or close your leg, and while you do that, you can feel that pain Miranda is talking about—you’re bound to get a cramp somewhere when you come, and the more you fear, the more excited you get.

“Harder, please,” you whimper, “more.”

“I might hurt you.”

“No you won’t. I’m—oh!—very close.”

“Yeah?” Miranda smiles approvingly, and does that trick with her tongue again while she adds another finger in you. You spasm while you adjust. “Lift up your top. I want to see you play with yourself.”

“Oh my…god!” You can barely comply when she starts to move her fingers, making those splat splat splat noises that penetrate your haze. You pull up your tank top and, with Miranda staring at you, roll your nipples over your thumbs and it sends pulses flying into your center. You imagine it’s Miranda’s fingers on you when you give yourself a hard pinch. You cry.

“Good girl. Do that for me again.”

You’re so wet, you must be dripping onto the sheets. You cast a helpless look at Miranda while you obey her, hoping it’ll bring you reprieve. But it does the opposite. The sensation zaps through you like static, and you’ve lost control of your hips when you struggle to get away from Miranda’s mouth and hands. But she’s too strong. And she’s pushing your legs up like folding you in half, so she can have you under with one hand, and the other busy fucking in and out of you.

Oh, she’s having a field day feeding that energy off you in your degrading position. You force your eyes open, and there is Miranda between your wide-open legs making wet, slurping sounds. You’re waiting for her to give you another command, because you can’t come otherwise, and the realization that you’re entirely at her mercy breaks that last subconscious resistance in you. You close your eyes and feel yourself go lax.

“I want you,” lick, plunge, “to count down,” twist, curl, “from five.” And her mouth is on you again. You start to do just that. You can only focus on one task now. Five. Miranda’s pace neither picks up or slows down. Four. She knows your body so well that it’s almost scary. You give a tremor on three, Miranda cracks you on two, and you come undone on one.

A white wall smashes in on you so hard that you can’t see. You open your mouth and you can’t make any noise. You’re pushed over and the suspension can’t have you escaping from the climax. It’s not purely a release; it’s a ricochet when your body winds up and lets fly like an arrow on a bow. The pleasure is so intense that you can’t breathe, not when you begin to come back down, and there’s pain ready for you as the muscles on your back smart as if you’re a fallen angel who got its wings plucked off. There are twinges in your shoulders, in your shins, even in your toes when you ride the waves, closer and closer, until you land, boneless, back to Miranda.

You whimper when her fingers slip out of you with a squelch.

“Poor thing,” she coos when she sets you down gently. You can feel the mattress dip, and you’re so gone you can’t even ask for a cuddle. You’re scared to move because you’re aching all over. You can feel your heart beating in your center, and you can feel your slick drying in the air. Your legs are open, and your tank top has your breasts exposed, too. You have no energy to fix your debauched state.

“Do you know how delicious you look?” Miranda reemerges. You open your droopy eyes and see her standing at the foot of the bed. You still can’t string a sentence together, and you end up making a mewling sound, which, you have no more bandwith to feel ashamed. It eggs Miranda on as she climbs into the bed like a slinky big cat, and you manage to swat her arm when she catches a drop of your arousal on your inner thigh, and licks her fingers clean. You glower at that display. Miranda grins.

“You’re so mean,” you say in an approximately normal voice that doesn’t sound well-fucked. “I hate you.”

“Come on now, princess.” Miranda joins your side and finally, she’s here to brush your hair from your sweaty neck and—nope, she’s still a big meanie when her hand wanders down your neck and finds the swell of your breast. She draws casual circles until your nipples perk, and you have to weakly grab her and stop her from starting round two. Your body can’t take it. “We need to work on this side,” Miranda says when she pulls you closer, and taps her fingers on where your hipbone slopes into your waist. “I remember when I used to get these, too.”

You realize she’s talking about the side of your body that hit the mat today. A few bruises are showing there, new ones adding onto fading old ones, and you claim them like they're prizes of hardwork. But what’s more captivating is the distant look on Miranda’s face, as if she’s reminiscing, which she never does. When she’s with you, she’s here, and nothing can take her focus away without paying a costly price.

You reach for her and kiss her softly on the lips. Miranda comes back to you by reciprocating with a few more kisses, falling like raindrops on your mouth, and you’ll always be parched for her. You drink her in, and you can taste your arousal in her mouth when you kiss her deeper. Before you do something about how her black blouse is contrasting her pale skin and freckles, you stop.

“Miranda,” you call, and she’s all ears. “I love you. And that means you’re going to answer a lot of questions.”

Miranda smiles. “You’ll bug the hell out of me, eh?” Then you know for sure she doesn’t mind when she cards her fingers into your hair, and maybe she’s been wanting you to just frigging ask about who and what she is, reach out, breach the distance.

Why don’t you just ask? The only thing you’ve ever asked me is my name.

Miranda Croft brings you close for another kiss while you practice your questions by mouthing them, over and over, on her lips.