It was nightfall. You had just gotten back from work, slipping into the comfort of your usual routine. The house was always quiet. Ironically so, considering there were sometimes two people in it. Not that you knew though, Jackson was good at what he did.

You knew him, could probably pick him out in a crowd. A friendly neighbor, someone you’d wave at in passing, share a polite smile with. He was truly such a good man, the world was running low on those these days. Except… he wasn’t your neighbor. Hell, he didn’t even live here. When he wasn’t occupied by a mission, he’d take an.. observant stroll around your block.

Jackson exhaled quietly, standing just beyond the glow of your bedroom window. You didn’t hear him enter, but you felt it. The air shifted, the kind of change that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. A prickle of unease.

Still, you didn’t turn around until it was too late.

A hand clamped over your mouth, fingers pressing hard enough to make your teeth dig into your lips. The other arm wrenched you back against solid warmth, pinning you to the chair. “Hey.”

The word was casual, friendly—like you were just passing each other on the street.

His grip was unyielding, and he let out a quiet huff, adjusting. “Shhhh…”

His fingers dug into your chin, craning your head slowly to meet his gaze, and his light blue eyes widened when you screamed. His fingers clamped tighter around your mouth, pressing against you quickly.

“You make one noise,” he murmured, measured, “and I’ll snap your fucking neck.”

“Got it?” He tilted his head, mock sympathy falling into his voice. “Huh?” His lips parted slightly as he leaned closer and inhaled, his nose brushing your jaw, his hand slowly starting to loosen. Sweet..

“Hm.” He feigned consideration, his grip still firm, his chest pressing lightly against your back. “That Dior?” His voice was a velvet murmur, casual, conversational. “The one you picked up last week…” He clicked his tongue, as if recalling the detail with mild interest. “Mm.”