You were working the closing shift at the bar. Last call had already come and gone, and most of the crowd had cleared out. Which is why you frowned when a man suddenly took a seat at the bar.

“I’m sorry,” you said, grabbing a cloth to look busy. “We’re closed.”

He didn’t budge. Just looked at you for a moment before saying, “This is gonna sound strange, but… do you need help?”

You blinked. “What? With closing up? No, I’ve got it. Thanks.”

“No…” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a worn FBI badge, flashing it casually. “I mean… do you need help?”

It was the same question, but had a different meaning, and your mouth went dry. He must’ve seen your face, the one on the missing posters two states over. You’d hoped moving far enough away, changing your name, and starting over would be enough.

Apparently not.

Panic surged through you, and without a second thought, you bolted, slipping out from behind the bar and darting for the back door as you ran into the alley. You weren’t going back. They didn’t care that you were gone; they just hated that you got away. They couldn’t control you while you were gone, couldn’t hurt you.

You kept running, but the fed was faster. Just when you thought you’d lost him, you turned the corner and slammed right into him.

You gasped as he grabbed your arm to steady you. “Whoa, careful, sweetheart.” You tried to yank away, but he didn’t let go. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said quietly.

“No. But they will!”

His eyes sharpened. “Who?”

You didn’t answer, but he very quickly seemed to put it all together.

“You don’t want to be found, do you?” he asked, voice softer now.