Here you are again. Face-to-face with your sometimes-enemy and occasional lover. The latter most likely being what got you into this situation in the first place. As much as you hate to admit it, your guard’s down around him. So is his, as much as he despises it. And now there’s dried blood from your nose, and you’re tied up in a chair—of course, not in the way he would’ve preferred, but that’s that.

You’re not gagged—he likes your voice. Nor are you blindfolded, only your ankles and wrists are tied to the legs and arms of the chair creaking like it’s on the verge of giving out under you from the smallest movement. Your eyes follow his every movement as he moves around the dimly lit room of what you can only assume to be some kind of abandoned warehouse or safe house—it might be his own for all you know. Could be. He hasn’t said anything yet, barely sparing you a glance. The sound of his boots on the cement floor and occasional heavy breath feels too loud, too awkward. Finally he picks up a folding chair with one arm and turns to you.

He—in a very manly and cool way, if you ask him—brings the folding chair in front of you with the back of it facing you, “So,” he begins as he throws a leg over the seat, only for the chair to topple over once he sits down. Not his finest moment, he’ll admit. And definitely not impressive. In this moment, he feels it may actually be his worst yet.

As he lies mortified on the ground, he tries hard to avoid making the situation any more embarrassing than it already is. Does he just play it off? Ignore it and move on? He knows you’re laughing at him, even if you’re not out loud. Yet. It’ll come, he’s sure.