You had been training for a triathalon for a while. Something to get you active and out of the house––so when you found a triathlon meant to raise funds for MS research, you jumped at it. In your training, you’d seen a tall, dark-haired man doing laps at the same Y you went to. Today, he was running the park, same as you.

You trailed behind him for a while, until he stopped to catch his breath. Just as winded, you stop behind him.

“Jeez, I hope you’re training for something, or do you just do sprints for fun?” You ask him breathlessly.

“No, I’m uh…I’m trying to do this triathlon in February.” He replies, broad shoulders heaving with heavy breaths.

“Oh yeah, the FBI one. You’re an agent.” You breathe, smiling softly. He pauses. “Yeah, it is the FBI one.” He replies after a moment, eyes locked on you, almost analytically.