Mint's army raided the Agency.

Our numbers had no choice. I told Mr. Toe that we should have enlisted regular armed forces. We aren't security guards. We're field agents.

They were nice, though, the guys told me, as much as an invading army can be nice. They smashed a few skulls, but only those who were too loud.

Mint probably told them to avoid casualties.

What a wimp.

If I turned against the Agency, and God knows I'd have quite a few reasons to do that, I'd want them dead. All of them. But, first of all, Mr. Toe. Now that I'm forced to stay away from the whole branch, every day feels like a gulp of fresh air.

I have a life. Who would have thought? I'm able to maintain a normal relationship. Okay, it's not normal because there's Gabriel, but one of us, and the nature of the relationship can be called that with a bit of stretch.

She's coming over tonight. I invited her. Not to my regular place, the one I use for everyday, mundane things, like sleeping and fucking. To my safe one. My real place, the secret one I own for security reasons. My shelter, where I return to relax. My sanctuary, where I can be myself.

No one has ever been here, only me.

I'm a bit nervous. It doesn't feel like I'm letting someone enter my personal space. It feels like letting someone in my body.

When she knocks on the door, I flinch. It's a surprising sound here.

She's wearing a mousy brown dress. Her hair is her usual terrible cut, worn exclusively by girls under ten, but even in that age group only by those with an awfully strict mother. Yet, she looks unusually radiant. She probably knows what this night means to me. Even she must have a grasp of basic human emotions.

"How did the Agency fare against Mint?" she asks, instead of a greeting.

"Not very well," I admit. "But you don't seem terribly worried for us, do you?"

"You weren't there." She grins. "And the formula wasn't there, either. So I failed to find a factor to worry about."

"How do you know that? You—"

"I know. I can't know that. I find your penchant for repetition somewhat sexy, Duke."

"You predicted that Mint would attack the Agency," I snort. "You never said anything about the location of the formula."

"You never asked about it, Duke. By the way, why would you?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"You have it," she sighs, sounding a bit indignant.

"How do you know that? You—"

"Duke. I'm the woman who knows things, remember?"

"Okay," I mumble. "It seems I forgot it."

"I don't know where you keep it, though, so you might want to tell me."

"I can't do that."

"But we work together, don't we, Duke?"

"We do." I nod for emphasis. "And I can't imagine my life without this... um... work. But it's something I can't tell you."

"You invited me here, though. And there's a 72% chance that you keep the documentation here, Duke."

I feel relief washing over me. I've been worried that this matter will come between us, and now, she solved it, without my effort. It's the most logical conclusion; it's not her fault that it's not true.

I feel so grateful to her for letting me off the hook that I hug her tightly on instinct.

She goes rigid, but only for a moment. Then, she breathes out, against my chest, and her muscles relax.

"I wish I had a way," I murmur into her hair, "to help you when you become agitated. To be with you without being with you. Because hugging you or taking your hand only makes your symptoms worse, right?"

"I don't need help, Duke. I know how to handle those situations, and I'm learning to handle them even better."

"Your coping mechanism is perfect," I tell her, "but I feel so ineffective just standing there and watching you."

"You should develop a coping mechanism, too, then. It seems to be your problem, not mine."

"Okay. Or, maybe we could introduce a code word," I push on. "Like, a safe word, you know. To make sure that when you say it, I don't touch you."

"That sounds a bit forced, Duke. What if we just—"

"It could be managua, for a change. To make sure that I can remember it."

She laughs and rubs her forehead to my chest. Damn, it feels heavenly.

"This way," I go on, "I could be with you without—"

"Without talking too much, Duke," she interrupts me, looking up to face me, putting her hands on my cheeks.

I take the hint. I shut up immediately.

"Don't move," she instructs me. "I got you."

"Copy that," I squeeze out.

"Don't talk."

I nod. It feels so natural to do what she says. I don't need to think. I don't need to try. I'm taken care of.

"Don't breathe," she directs.

I hold my breath. I don't need to breathe, anyway. All I need is to feel her hands on my face. Those hands will lead me to safety, without a doubt.

She stands on tiptoe and kisses me.

Her tongue touches my lips, stops for a second, and ventures forth.

It's the weirdest kiss ever. It feels as if my mouth was a cup she tries to drink from. Yet, it makes me lightheaded. Not sure if it's the lack of oxygen or her mouth, but I feel my knees going weak.

I take her in my arms, and I close my eyes.

"Breathe, Duke." Her voice is piercing through my bliss. "Breathe, please! It wasn't a command for an eternity."

I breathe in. She allows me time to steady myself, and she kisses me again.

Damn, I feel like swooning again. It's not the oxygen, then. It's her.

"We can take a break if you need it, Duke," she says with a kind smile.

I can't help but laugh. She's so cheeky without even noticing that she's being cheeky. I know she meant it literally.

"No one has ever told me that before," I whisper in her ear.

"Is that a good thing?"

I laugh again and kiss her forehead.

"Back to my mouth, Duke," she commands me. "No time to waste."

"Roger."

"I need to practice kissing," she goes on. "I practiced how to walk holding hands with Nicole, but kissing is so much harder."

"Why?" I ask her, circling her mouth with my thumb.

"It's a bit disgusting, you know. I'm not a big fan of bodily fluids. But I'm determined to get used to them."

"Nice. But what do you mean by practicing? Practice means that you want to use it later, right? Well, this is not a drill, baby. This is the mission."

I feel her tensing up a little in my arms.

"Okay, let's call it practice, then," I agree quickly. "It changes nothing."

"I can offer something in exchange, too. For example, we can practice how to resist my commands. I tell you to do something, and you don't do it. That would make your life easier, right?"

I chuckle, kissing her again.

"The thing is," I whisper, "I don't want to resist you at all. The last thing I want is to resist you, actually."

She stares at me wide-eyed. I take her hand, and I lead her to the bedroom. Very slowly, taking her condition into account, making sure that the new situation won't trigger a meltdown.

"Because," I go on, goading her gently in the direction of the bed, "I know very well that you won't do me harm. You always look after those who are yours, right? And I am yours. So—"

She stops abruptly, interrupting my monologue.

"Aren't you a bit conflicted, Duke?"

"Well, I am," I admit. "But you're not under tutelage, so—"

She laughs.

"Exactly. That's a very good example. You know, I'm not who you think I am. I'm certainly not the way you imagined me, gentle, caring, ethereal, beautiful, and other bullshit. But I'm not this person either you're talking to now. I'm not an imbecile."

"I—"

"You think of an angel. And you see a weirdo."

Her voice has the usual impassionate, almost mechanical tone, but her comment leaves me speechless.

"It's called cognitive dissonance, Duke. It's not nice. That's why I'm asking you: aren't you a bit conflicted?"

I take a deep breath, but the right words to set things straight still elude me. I can't leave it at that, though. Not with her. I've been waiting for this moment for half of my life.

"I love you," I confess.

"You love Gabriel. It's not your fault, those were formative years indeed, and—"

"Why is that a problem?" I interrupt her. "I'm yours. I'm here."

"I told you already, Duke."

"What?" I ask, with an alarming amount of desperation in my voice.

"I'm not Gabriel."