He is a loaded gun.
The cold steel like efficiency of his mind mechanically weighing relevance, testing the balance until the hammer of revelation drops. Until the final pound of pressure is applied, and his insight is fired, ripping through the speculation, the suspicions. Striking at the heart with lethal precision, devastating accuracy. Right on target.
He is a knife.
The silky glamour of his voice is seducing, capturing attention. His words are mesmerising, distracting as his razor like wit slices, layer after layer, exposing vulnerability. Until the final twist, the fatal wound.
He is a blunt object.
Broad shoulders and bulky frame bulldozing through physical challenges. Blatant disregard bludgeoning through bureaucracy. Pig headed determination, single minded focus breaking through barriers; persistence beating down resistance.
He is a bomb.
The ever present threat. Fuse lit by deadbeat dads, timer triggered by abused innocents. The unbearable expectation of explosion, tension building in the uncertainty of the timing, in the target. The destructive power of the full impact of his rage, the catastrophic aftermath.
She has negotiated her way carefully through the scope of his arsenal. Her life of tough knocks and cop training Kevlar against his assault on her heart. She has neutralised the threat, disarmed him. But in her complacency, she has forgotten...
He is a tripwire.
She falls.