04 You Should Leave

About two weeks had passed since the museum night.

Neither of them reached out. He told himself he was resetting. She told herself she wasn't going to chase a man who didn't text back. Two different silences, same result.

She finished her last week at work. She said goodbye to her colleague at the corner after farewell dinner. She didn't notice the black car parked across the street.

Vincent sat in the driver's seat, engine off. He'd told himself he was just passing through before tonight's dangerous job. A dry run before tonight's job—no intention of disturbing her, of knocking on her door, not even of letting her know he was here.

Then he saw her laugh goodbye to her colleagues. Saw the wind catch her coat.

He put his hand on the key. He meant to turn it.

He didn't.

He sat in the dark for another minute.

Then he opened the door.

The knock startled her. She opened the door in her pajamas,"Hi..."

"Passing by," he said.

"You've gotten bolder." She leaned against the doorframe."Who passes by someone's place at nearly ten at night without saying anything?"

"I knocked." His tone was unchanged.

"You haven't been in touch much lately," she said.

"You haven't either."

They chatted about the trivial things of the past two weeks,but not too much. Neither of them touched the core question—why didn't you reach out, why didn't I dare.

"I should go."

She grabbed her keys."Come on. I'll walk you to your car."

They walked downstairs in silence. Not awkward— more like both of them had things they wanted to say but didn't know how. She kept stealing glances at his profile. He kept his eyes forward.

"So," she said as they reached the curb,"two weeks of radio silence, and you show up at my door at ten o'clock to tell me you're 'passing by.'" She leaned against a lamppost, arms crossed."That's either very romantic or very weird."

He was about to answer— she saw it, the way his lips parted—

His car was parked at the curb. She was about to say something else when his body shifted. Not toward her. Past her.

His gaze flicked to something behind her— a shadow detaching from the van parked three cars down. His body tensed. She saw it happen in his face before she understood what she was seeing.

"Vincent—"

The man lunged. Fast. But Vincent was faster. He caught the wrist mid-strike, twisted. The crack was audible. The knife clattered to the asphalt. And then the man's other arm was around her throat.

His hand went to his hip—

And the man grabbed her.

An arm locked around her neck. A second blade pressed against her throat. The man was breathing hard, his injured arm hanging useless."You should have tied up your loose ends cleaner, Vincent."

Vincent stood where he was. Hand near his hip. Didn't draw.

"Let her go. Now."

The man's blade pressed deeper. She felt a sting.

Then Vincent moved.

In the next several seconds he executed a movement she would never fully understand for the rest of her life—extremely brief, extremely fast, extremely silent, like lightning that made no sound. The man holding her made a dull thud behind her back.

And then she collapsed—not from any attack, her legs had simply lost all their strength.

Before she hit the ground an arm caught her at the waist, and Vincent pulled her entire body against one side of his own

"Don't look." His voice held no inflection whatsoever."Breathe. You're okay."

She grabbed his coat. Her hands came away wet. She looked down.

Blood. Not hers.

"Jesus.." Her hands were shaking so hard she couldn't make a fist.

Vincent's eyes swept the parking lot—left, right, back to the body on the ground—before they landed on her. His hands found her shoulders.

"Look at me." His voice was low, steady."Breathe. You're okay."

She grabbed his coat. Her hands came away wet. She looked down. Blood. Not hers.

"It's not mine," he said, answering the question before she could ask it."But there may be more of them. I have work to finish." His grip on her shoulders tightened, just for a second."Go inside. Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone."

"Vincent..." Her legs wouldn't move.

"Gaby. Go. Now."

She took a step. Then another.

Then she stopped. Looked down at her hands. The blood was still wet. Her breath started coming too fast.

"I can't." Her voice cracked."I can't go up there alone. Please. Don't leave me like this."

He stared at her. She saw the calculation behind his eyes— the risk, the exposure, everything he'd lose if someone saw them together, the job waiting for him that he was almost late for.

Then he said—his voice extremely low, extremely short—"Get in the car."

"This one is dangerous. One mistake—and you're out. No questions."

She bit her lip and turned her face toward the window. Outside, the desolate highway was washed by streetlamps receding one after another.

She stared at her hands the whole drive. The blood was drying—brownish red, flaking at the edges. She couldn't stop looking at it.

He drove in silence. His knuckles were white on the wheel.

The car stopped in an industrial area— abandoned warehouses, no lights. He killed the engine.

"Don't move." He paused, his hand on the door."If you hear anything that's not me— get in the driver's seat and go. Keys are in the ignition."

Then he was gone.

He was gone before she could answer.

She sat in the darkness, shaking. The blood had dried on her fingers— brownish red, flaking. She couldn't stop staring at it. Couldn't stop seeing his face when he'd said"this one is dangerous".

A minute passed. Five. Ten.

Then she heard it.

Footsteps on gravel. A door opening somewhere in the dark. Muffled voices— too low to make out the words. Then a pause. And Three gunshots.

She clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming.

Silence. Minutes that felt like hours.

Then the driver's door opened. He slid into the seat. His hands were steady. His face was unreadable. But there was fresh blood on his shirt— not his, she could tell now, the way he moved, no wince— and his knuckles were raw.

"Done."

He started the engine and drove.

She didn't ask what"done" meant. She already knew it.

The car stopped outside an old motel. Dust. Dead weeds. A flickering sign missing half its letters.

The room was bare.

He got out first. Circled the room— Checked the window lock. Checked the bathroom. Looked under the bed. Dragged the single armchair to face the door, back to the wall.

"Clear."

He locked the door.

"Lie down," he said."You need rest."

"What about you."

"I need to clean up."

He went into the bathroom and cleaned the blood on his clothes and hands, as skillfully as if he had done it a thousand times.

And then he sit on the armchair. There was a dead silence in the air, and he stole a few glances at her in the dim light.

She lay on the bed, curled on her side, watching his unmoving silhouette. She had almost died tonight. Maybe so did he.

Then she saw it. A thin line of blood seeping from beneath the cuff of his shirtsleeve.

"You're hurt."

"A scratch."

"Let me see."

She crawl to his knee before he admits .

She carefully rolled up his cuff and saw a shallow cut— Not deep. But the blood hadn't fully clotted. She went to the bathroom, found a damp towel, dug a band-aid from the side pocket of her bag— she always carried band-aids, and knelt back down.

She used the edge of the towel to gently wipe away the blood. The sting made the tendon in his forearm jump. He didn't pull away. Just let out a low sigh.

"Do you always do this," she said quietly."Get hurt and not say anything."

And he says nothing.

She set the towel aside and smoothed the band-aid down with her thumb.

She felt it— the tears coming. Not crying. Not sobbing. Just... leaking. Her eyes welling up on their own, and she didn't blink, staring down at the fresh cut on his arm and the old scars layered beneath it. Scars she couldn't date. Couldn't trace to any specific year or job.

He lifted his right hand and closed it around her wrist."Don't cry for me." He said in an almost warning tone."I've had worse."

She looked up at him. Her vision blurred.

"That's exactly why I'm crying"

His jaw tightened. His hand didn't let go.

"You wash blood off your hands like it's nothing," she said."You check every room like you expect someone to be waiting. You shoot people and your hands didn't even shake."

He said nothing.

"How many," she said quietly.

"What."

"How many times have you been cut. Stabbed. Shot."

He didn't answer.

"That many," she said.

"Too many."

She looked down at the scar on his forearm—the one that was already fading.

"You know what I keep thinking about? You didn't hesitate. Not once. He had a knife. You didn't even pause." She looked up."What kind of life teaches someone to move like that before they've had time to be afraid?"

He pulled his wrist free. Not hard. Just... out. Then he stood up and walked to the window. Turned his back to her.

"The kind you don't come back from."

She didn't answer. She just looked at him.

"You know what I am," he said from behind her.

"I know."

"Then don't—" He stopped.

She turned around."Don't what? Don't look at you like you're human? Don't put a band-aid on your arm? Don't sit here in this shitty motel room with a man who kills people for a living and still feel safer than I've felt in years?"

His jaw tightened."You don't mean that."

"I don't say things I don't mean."

"Enough." He stood up from the chair. Took a step toward her. Then stopped, as if he'd hit an invisible wall.

" Go to sleep," he said." I'll take you home in the morning."

"No, you won't."

"Gaby—"

"You're going to leave before I wake up. You're going to disappear for another two weeks. And then you're going to show up at my door again like nothing happened, and we're going to do this whole dance again, and I'm tired." Her voice cracked.

"I'm so tired of waiting for you to stop deciding what I can handle."

He stared at her. His chest rose and fell once. Twice.

"You don't know what you're asking for."

"Then show me."

He didn't move. Neither did she.

Then he closed the distance between them in two steps. His hand came up to her jaw— not gentle. Not rough either. Firm. Certain. He tilted her face up to his.

"You want to know what you're asking for?" His voice was low, controlled, but she could feel the tension in his fingers."I killed two men tonight. I'll kill more tomorrow. People are going to come looking for me. And if they find you—" He stopped. Swallowed."I don't get to keep things. Every time I've.."

She cut him off. Her lips brushed the corner of his mouth—not a kiss, exactly. A question.

"I'm not a thing," she whispered.

His body went rigid. For one breath. Two.

Then his hand slid to the back of her neck. His forehead dropped to hers. She could feel his breath—uneven now, the first crack she'd seen all night.

"You shouldn't be here," he said. His voice was hoarse, frayed at the edges.

"I know."

"I can't promise you anything."

"I know."

His grip on the back of her neck tightened—not in demand, but in surrender. Like he'd been holding on to something for years and had finally let go.

His thumb grazing her cheek as he returns the kiss with a tenderness that belies his violent nature.

The restraint breaks.

"Don't make me regret this." His free hand moves to her waist, pulling her a fraction closer.

"Then don't."

And he deepens the kiss. Harder, more aggressive this time. The other hand caught her waist and pulled her against him.

He walked her backward until her shoulders hit the wall. One hand braced beside her head; the other slid into her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. His body pressed her into the peeling wallpaper, and she felt everything he'd been refusing to feel— the hunger, the fear, the loneliness, the want.

She pulled at his shirt. He let her take it off. Her hands found his shoulders, his chest, the scars she'd seen but never touched. He shivered under her fingers— just once— and then his mouth was on her throat, her collarbone, the hollow beneath her jaw.

"Gaby." Her name, broken against her skin.

His hands found the hem of her shirt.

His eyes moved over her— not hungry. Searching. Like he was memorizing something he'd never expected to see.

"You're sure," he said. Not a question. Almost a warning.

"I'm."

He lifted her— one arm under her thighs— and carried her to the bed. The springs creaked under their weight. He braced himself above her, silver hair falling across his brow, chest heaving.

He looked down at her for few seconds . Then he lowered his head to her shoulder, his forehead pressing into the curve of her neck.

His mouth found her ear."You asked for this," he whispered.

"I do."

His hand slid along. She gasped. He watched her face— watched every reaction, cataloging, learning— and something in his eyes shifted. Darkened.

He pulled back just enough to look at her."Tell me to stop."

"I won't."

"Gaby."

"I won't."

He kissed her again. And this time, he didn't hold back.

His hands moved with purpose now, no hesitation, and she felt the shift— the control giving way to something rawer. Something possessive.

He caught her wrists and pinned them above her head. His mouth traced down her throat, her chest, the soft skin beneath her ribs. She arched into him, and he made a sound— low, almost a growl.

He kissed her— hard, deep, demanding, and she cried out against his mouth. He swallowed the sound.

"Say my name," he said.

"Vincent."

"Again."

"Vincent—"

She gasped. He froze, his forehead pressed to hers, breathing ragged.

Outside the window, the highway sank into the deepest stratum of the night.

The sky wasn't fully light yet. Gray-blue dawn seeped through the gap in the curtains.

He lay beside her, one hand still resting on her waist. His eyes were open. He was watching her sleep.

For a moment— a long, dangerous moment— he didn't move.

Then he withdrew his hand slowly. Rose. Picked up his shirt and began to put it on.

She woke. She watched his back as he buttoned up-the muscles of his shoulders still suspended between sleep and alertness, but his movements already restored to their usual precision.

He didn't turn around.

"You should leave."

His voice was flat. Practiced.