The florescent street lights serve as a tranquilizer as we drive through the city. My body is eager to give out to fatigue, and my eyelids struggle to remain open. Lionel and Harper's grave dialogue is the last thing I hear before passing out.

The two are still deep in conversation when I begin to stir, however, the car is no longer in motion. I glance out the window and notice we are parked in front of my building. They argue in whispers; both seemingly intent to make a stance. I lay still, so not to disrupt their conversation until I can get the proper context.

"You wanna tell her?" Lionel asks.
"There's nothing to tell," Harper whispers.
"Are you kiddin?" he says, "Mention Root, and I'll be scraping her off her apartment floor for a week."
"You're the one who asked for her help. You should have left her out of it," she argues.
"I'm already in it," I interrupt. They both look back at me with an embarrassed expression on their faces.
"I tried telling her that." Lionel says, while pointing at Harper.

I sit upright, heedful of my wounds. My breath is heavy on my chest. "Where the hell were you Lionel?" I ask.
"I was chasing the pyromaniac through the neighborhood," he answers, defensively, "but he got away," he adds.
My eyes fixate on him until I can detect his discomfort. "What were you just saying about Root?" I ask.

The two exchange uneasy glances until Harper tosses out a response, "It's not about Root per se. It's more in regards to her missing earpiece."
"The one they stole from her grave," I say.
"Yes— and well, the dead gentleman was the keeper of said earpiece."
"All this trouble for an earpiece?" I ask.
"They need it so they track the GPS data—" she explains.
Lionel chimes in, "— they want to find the Machine."
"I'm out," I say, sternly.

I bolt out of the car and expose my burnt skin to the searing wind. A surge of pain radiates from my stomach stretching throughout my entire body. My knees give way and I hit the cold concrete with a thud. I keel over in pain and am reluctant to move. Instead, I remain on the ground while the stench drifts up from the nearby heating grate. The smell of metal marinated in sewage penetrates through my skin, pervading the inside of my mouth. Hard to tell whether it's the smell or the pain that's causing my nausea; but certainly, it's the pain that keeps me pinned to the ground.

Footsteps bounce off the concrete but cease at the appearance of boots at my side. Harper extends her hand down to me, I hesitantly accept. She takes my arm and wraps it around her shoulders, then assists me back to my feet for the second time tonight. Lionel keeps watch over us as we walk to the building entrance, then drives off once the door shuts behind us. We walk down my narrow hallway in intense silence until we arrive outside my apartment door. A brooding expression comes over Harper after opening my front door without need of a key.

"I guess you're not too concerned about safety," she says, while escorting me to my couch.
I grin up at her, "Not so much."
"First aid kit?" she asks.
I point to the bathroom and a moment later she reappears with kit in hand. She dodges my attempt to take the kit from her. "I can take care of myself," I say.
She takes a chair from the table and sits in front of me. "But why should you have to when you're hurt and I'm right here," she says.
"So I guess you're not gonna leave until I let you fix me?"

She nods and signals for me to lift my shirt. I pull the side of the shirt over my shoulder and let it hang from my chest like a sash. The second degree burn on my stomach stings down into my intestines. Harper saunters into the kitchen then returns with a large glass of cold water; most likely for the swelling. Without hesitation or warning she pours it directly on my wound. It's both a sense of relief and pain that cause me to flail backward into the couch.
"Best to just get right to it," she says.

I don't bother to respond; but instead, I allow my face to act as proxy. She's unfazed, and returns my agitation with a smile. Admittedly, her charm is distracting and I didn't notice her rubbing ointment on my flesh. Her hands are as soft as satin, and her touch tender. Amidst tending to my burns; I catch her staring at me. She grabs the gauzes from the kit and begins to wrap it loosely around my stomach. The smell of jasmine and honey radiate from her skin and surround me.

"There— you're good to go," she says, moving away from me and falling back into the chair.
I look away, "Thank you," I say.
"You know it's okay to make eye contact with me Shaw."
"I know," I say.
"Well... do you know how to use more than two words at a time?" she asks sarcastically.
"We had an entire conversation in the car," I remind her.
"No we didn't. You spent the whole time talking to Lionel. You never even addressed me," she says.
"So what's your point?" I ask.

She stands up abruptly and begins toward the door. A brief internal conflict brews inside me. Let her go, or stop her? As she gains distance to the exit the more agitated I feel. I race up behind her and shut the door before she can skirt out. She doesn't acknowledge me, but instead stares unwaveringly at the exit.

"Why are you acting this way?" she asks. She ponders to herself for a moment, "Is it because we spent the night together?" she blatantly asks.
"I don't know what you want me to say," I reply, " I think maybe your expectations are too high?"
She turns to look at me, "And what if they are?"
"What do you want from me?" I ask.
"I want you to see me," she answers, sincerely.
"I can see you just fine," I say.
"Really?" she asks.

I nod as a confirmation of my statement. But I can tell she is skeptical by the tilt of her head. I go to speak, but she abruptly thrusts her lips into mine. She pulls away to stare longingly. I'm obligated to no one; still, I return her affection with an equal amount of tenderness. We merge tighter together until our breaths are no longer our own. A aura of despair and desire surround us as we drown ourselves in each other.

The sound of my increasing heart rate pounds in my ears. I fall short of breath as her warm lips caress the flesh of my neck. Her tongue lingers a while on my collar bone, sending a chill through my body. Every thoughtful touch and meticulous kiss reveals her intense longing. It occurs to me that her passion might be bought on by some misguided belief it would be returned, and that thought makes me uneasy. But despite that notion, I reciprocate every kiss and indulge in any corporeal construct she chooses to engage in.

She throws her head back then switches to the other side of my neck. Her lips land gently, sending tingle through my body. In that moment, the recesses of my mind propel forward: a flash of Root and I in a similar entanglement. I attempt to shake the memory loose from my thoughts, but a stronger more vivid image takes hold. The flashing images begin to stifle my reality with Harper and becomes too much to handle.
I pull away; "You should go now."
"Are you okay?" she asks gently.
She tries to caress my face, but I pull away, "I'm fine."

I can tell by the hallow expression on her face; my rejection had made an impression on her. She leaves quietly with her head held high, and departs with a smirk. I fixate on the mahogany box sitting on the shelf; a reminder of my diluted sense of reality. 'What am I doing? She's not here. She's definitely not in that box.' Yet, I'm locked in my own personal self-confinement.