2018, Hell’s Kitchen, N.Y.C.

The River—DJ&T6

You’ve got the barrel pressed to the underside of a lowlife’s jaw. He’s shaking, stammering out useless excuses, and you’re calm—steady hand, steady aim. Frank leans in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes locked on you like he’s seen this a hundred times before.

He has. He’s also seen you without the gun. Without the armor. Without anything at all.

“Loosen your grip,” he mutters, voice gravel. “You’ll break his teeth before you get answers.”

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. You can feel his stare like a weight between your shoulder blades. “And you’d care why?” you shoot back, voice sharp enough to cut. “Worried I’ll make a mess you’ll have to clean up?”

The man beneath your hand whimpers, but Frank doesn’t even glance at him. His focus is all on you. Has been, will be. Always.

He should be thinking about the job. He should be worrying about the trail of bodies leading here. Instead, he’s thinking about the way your shirt buttons wrong because of last night, the bruise blooming on your collarbone—his mark, his mistake.

You hate him. You tell yourself that every time you’re in a room together. You hate the way he still knows you, still anticipates the exact second your finger tightens on the trigger. You hate that, when he steps closer, his presence doesn’t rattle you—it steadies you.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” he says low, like it’s just for you.

You finally glance over, lips curved in the ghost of a smirk. “So are you.”

The criminal stutters out another plea, but you and Frank barely hear it. This isn’t about him. It never is. It’s about the way your history bleeds into every second, every fight, every glance. It’s about last night, the thousand nights before it, and the inevitable pull toward the next one.

Frank tells himself he’s only here because the mission demands it. He tells himself you’re nothing to him anymore. But when he looks at you—gun steady, smile sharp, eyes daring him to deny it—he thinks the same thought he always has.

Frank doesn’t believe in fate. Never has. But every time you end up in the same orbit, he wonders if the universe is trying to make a fool out of him. You’ve been divorced longer than you were married. He remembers the ink drying on the papers, remembers the relief and the ache sitting side by side in his chest like twin heartbeats.

He remembers, too, that he swore he wouldn’t see you again.

And yet here you are, standing over some half-dead criminal, looking better with a weapon in hand than you ever did in white lace. Here you are, pressed back into his world by circumstance, or maybe punishment.

“You’re staring again,” you say without looking back at him. Your finger twitches just enough to make the man beneath you flinch.

“Not staring,” Frank lies.

You laugh under your breath, humorless. “You never could lie to me.”

You shift the gun, press harder against the man’s jaw. He yelps, babbling nonsense. Frank should step in, should pull you back before you cross a line. But the truth is, he likes watching you walk that razor’s edge. Likes the fire in your eyes, the control in your stance.

He likes remembering that you were always this way. Even when you were married, even when mornings meant coffee and warm smiles instead of gunpowder and adrenaline, there was steel in you. He loved it then. He loves it now.

And that’s the problem.

Last night was supposed to be a mistake. A moment of weakness after too much whiskey and too many arguments that ended in slammed doors and clenched fists. You’d hissed “this changes nothing” against his mouth, nails digging into his shoulders, and he’d believed you. Or tried to.

But now? Watching you with the gun, with your shirt buttoned wrong, with that smirk playing at your lips? He knows damn well it changed everything.

“You gonna say something useful?” you snap at the criminal, shaking him out of his stammering. “Or should I let my boy have his fun?”

The man blanches, eyes darting to where Frank stands. Frank uncrosses his arms, steps forward, and lets silence hang heavy in the air.