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Charming.

I hold his gaze for a moment, then I look to the knife.

He watches as I pick it up and slice the ends from the green beans.

There’s no tension in his body. No fear in his eyes.

He knows I’m not going to kill him tonight.

Or he trusts himself to beat me in a fight.

He shifts to his work, seasoning the steak.

For a few minutes, I trim as he cooks. It’s nice. Familiar. The warm iron of the pan. The crack of pepper. The sizzle of avocado oil.

“I’ve heard gossip from coworkers.” I slice the ends. I keep my voice casual. “That you’ve got quite the file on Hera.”

“So that’s why you’re here. To destroy my file?”

Fuck, is it that obvious?

Of course.

I mean, I kill people for a living.

He can probably do that math too.

Shit. I need a better story. I need to win his favor as an agent, not just a man.

Okay, that’s it.

I swallow my frustration. Slide him the green beans. Find all my softness. “I don’t want to do this forever.” The honesty in my voice surprises me. Usually, I soak in the freedom that comes with my job. The chance to soak in sun and salt. The thrill of the line between life and death. The opportunity to play characters who’d be far too nuanced, or strange, or unlikable on stage. But after more than a decade, the luster is wearing thin. I’m tired of living by someone else’s rules. “I’d like to retire without having to look around every corner for the rest of my life. And as long as Hera’s around…” I let my thoughts go to the dark alleys where younger, fitter, hungrier, more bloodthirsty assassins wait to take out the old guard.

I reach out and offer him my hand.

He pulls me into a tight embrace.

The comfort of his touch fills my body.

The smell of Matteo and olive oil and green beans and salt. The simple domestic life and my unending need for him and the promise of wild betrayal to one, or both, of our organizations.

“I don’t know what you’re playing Jamie, but I don’t buy it. You’re not built for this side of the law,” he whispers in my ear.

Right.

This isn’t plausible. Suspension of disbelief. I know about that. And the character I’ve created for him isn’t one who works with the cops.

Maybe, if it’s the only way to preserve my freedom. Or my life.

Otherwise, no way.

“That’s what you want though, isn’t it?” I ask, somehow unable to follow my own logic.

“And why are you really here, Jamie?”

“What if this is why I’m really here?” I ask.

“It’s not,” he says.