River leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, the leather of his jacket creaking softly with the shift of his weight. His gray eyes tracked your every move from beneath the loose fall of black bangs, unreadable, but sharp. Always sharp.

He’d worn the uniform you liked — fitted black tee stretched over lean muscle and dark jeans hugging his hips. The tattoos inked along his throat and arms stood out stark against pale skin.

You looked up from the paperwork at last, pen tapping idly against your lip. There was an ease to the way you leaned back in the chair, an arrogance to the way you held his gaze, like you thought you knew him.

You didn’t.

You tilted your head. "You’ve been quiet all night."

River’s lips tugged into something close to a smirk, though it never touched his eyes. "Long day." Long life. Two years of playing this role. Two years of dragging himself deeper and deeper until even he wasn’t sure where the act stopped. But tonight — tonight it was over.

The silence stretched again, and you let it, as you often did. He waited for the moment you’d stand. You always stood when you felt the shift in a room. You’d feel it soon.

When you finally did rise from your chair, your hand drifted lazily toward the top drawer, the one that held the pistol you never let sit too far from reach. That was his cue. River moved fast.

By the time the drawer clicked open, he was already there catching your wrist in a bruising grip. The chair scraped backward as you twisted, but he’d spent years learning the rhythm of violence, and yours wasn’t hard to follow. You fought. Hard. Fast. Dirty. Just like he knew you would.

But he’d prepared for this — played it over in his head too many times. His weight crashed you both back against the desk, scattering papers and glass, the sharp scent of spilled scotch cutting through the air as the glass toppled and shattered on the floor.

"Quit struggling," he growled, voice low. His body pinned yours to the desk, one knee between yours.