It’s not him that you can’t stop looking at; it’s his soldiers. They’re dressed head to toe in black tactical gear, mercenary’s more than anything. They’re his soldiers, under his command, escorting him while he breaks into your place.

“I barely even know you, I don’t even know your last name.” He can hear your heart racing, he can smell the nervous sweat that rolls down the back of your neck.

“Graves,” he turns toward you, a smirk hidden behind his mask, “our last name is Graves, darlin’.”