Y ou hear him come in the darkest of night. His hesitant footfalls across the hallway, his familiar shuffles that creak at the door.
He opens the door with the key you've given you. You remember him telling you that he doesn't need it. We don't have that kind of relationship, he said. Nevertheless, you hold out the gun straight ahead.
"Welcome, Stranger," you chide, breathing out slowly. "It's hard not to when someone's sneaking around in the dark."
"I'm not just anyone."
"I know." Placing the gun on the dresser, you bring yourself to a sit. You notice a red blot that wasn't there earlier, and the freshness of it makes you wince.
The mattress depresses next to you. You want to turn and tell him to leave. You do neither.
"I wasn't expecting you."
"Neither did I," he whispers, fingering the wrapping on your arm. "I might have done this to you."
"You might have, but you're doing your job, Officer." You recall the earlier dash from the bank, the moneybag in hand as the guns spouted bullets around you. One had nicked your arm.
But most of all, you recall his shock, his sadness when your fedora lifted, freeing your hair in the breeze. He had let you go--you, the coined 'Heist Princess'--his eyes boring into his still smoking Smith & Wesson.
"I could have lost you." He kisses your mouth.
You kiss back, tasting salt. "But, we don't have that kind of relationship."