You’d never been one to get in altercations, physical or verbal. Confrontation scared you, and hurting people just wasn’t a part of who you were.

But when you were being followed home by a man on your way back from work? It was as if your usual instinct to run away was overridden, the fighting urge in fight or flight hitting you — and the man you hit — at full force.

And in your defence, it was scary. You’d noticed him behind you while you were still in the more busy areas of DC, but the more you walked, the more apparent it became to you that the same man had been behind you ever since you got off the metro.

So when he got a little too close, you had turned and swung your fist as hard as you could.

Bad idea.

He had stumbled backwards quickly, tripping backwards onto the ground as his hand moved to his cheek where he’d been hit. Wide, and clearly scared doe eyes stared back at you, brown hair falling over his forehead.

Definitely not a threat.

“What— what did you—“

You can only stare at him, eyes taking in the innocence on his face and the clothes he was wearing, and guilt immediately floods through you.

“Holy shit I-I’m so sorry,” you stammer out, bag dropping to the ground as you move to him, crouching down, hands hovering awkwardly over him.

“What- What’d you do that for?” he asks quietly, the stammer clear in his voice, hand still glued to his cheek.

“I thought you were following me,” you whisper. “You know- like, stalking me home. It’s late and I-“

Your eyes drop down when you see his hand reaching into his messenger bag, fumbling around for a second before he pulls something out and-

Oh God. He’s an FBI agent.

Your mouth opens to say something, but you can’t find the words, and he pushes himself up to a sitting position. “Not a stalker,” he says. But this time, there’s a hint of… amusement in his voice. Despite the growing bruise on his cheek.