The Man With Few Words

"Love is a game, in which one always cheats."—Honore de Balzac


Chapter Thirteen

January Jansen is a simple girl.

She's always trusted her instincts. She acts strictly on impulse and emotions; she does not analyze herself. Because once you start doing that, the doubts began to plague you. The 'what happens then' and the 'what ifs' will invade. She'll never get anything accomplished that way.

The way January operates is she sees something she likes, she isn't afraid to reach out and take it. She wants something, then it's hers, but only if she's brave enough to claim it. January loves easily and perhaps she loves too intensely, but it's simply in her nature to.

Some may call her selfish. Some ask her about the feelings of others. But January will just tell them that she doesn't care. This is who she is. And when she sees that person that she knows is just it, she won't be able to help herself and she'll follow them to the ends of the world. She's always loved whom she wants to; she can't control that. She's happy that way. Free to live; free to love.

She loves the feeling of being in love. She loves the rush, all that extra electricity sprinting a marathon up-and-down your spine. She loves the butterflies in your stomach, the hitch in your breathing. Her brain gets all full of static and she would feel lightheaded in a way that's way better than normal.

All charged up and tingly, she feels invincible. She doesn't mind saying things she'd usually never say. She doesn't mind doing things she'd usually never do. She would do anything to hold onto that feeling; even if it meant making promises she can't keep.

January doesn't mind cheating. She wouldn't encourage it, of course. Yet, on the other hand, she also knows that things happen...and in that very moment when you think you're in love, there isn't much you can do to stop the inevitable.

January Jansen is a cheater—that, she'll freely admit. Because she's always believed that anything worth having is a thing worth cheating for.


Sebastian Hammond

He was very much like January's experiment.

It had been her first week at Juilliard and she was the typical freshman. Young, ambitious, and full of nervous energy. The small-town girl with the big-time dream. She's heard the cliche; seen the movies, but living in one seems so different. January was a lot like wet cement back in those naive days. Whatever fell on her made an impression.

The world is hers. And she promised herself that she would plie and pirouette her way into its heart.

Jan had a partner-in-crime. A young man with ponytailed blonde hair and the highest leap she's ever seen. She was proud to have him as a mentor and even more grateful when he offered to show her around campus. She supposes that's when she heard the rumors.

Sebastian Hammond, who writes the most beautiful songs. Sebastian Hammond, who comes up with the most haunting tunes. Sebastian Hammond, who nobody has ever spoken to before.

He plays by the lake, under the big oak tree, every Thursday afternoon. A crowd of Juilliard students surround him like faithful disciples. Afterwards, they ask for his inspiration. They ask for advice. They ask for a cup of coffee. But Sebastian Hammond never responds. He would tuck his guitar under his arm and ghost away, as if he were never there in the first place.

People knew very little about Sebastian besides the fact that he's a student of Juilliard, like the rest of them. Nobody really knows what class he's enrolled in, or why he never takes up any of the glory. But that's not what intrigued January. It was the fact that he has never shown any interest towards anybody. Almost as if he found it sad that no one could capture his attention, the way he captures theirs.

So January Jansen finds herself among the hoard of admirers, head tilted curiously to the side, the dark fringes falling distractingly into her eyes. She tells herself that she'll just have a peek. She's sure he's not as alluring as everybody makes him sound. She reminds herself that she's got herself a Pretty Peter.

But none of that mattered as soon as she laid eyes on him. The sharp hitch in her breathing and her mouth parting involuntarily. She could never forget that feeling. Not even now. It's such a vivid part of her memory. The sight of Sebastian Hammond. It was like the first time she ever tasted chocolate.

Sebastian Hammond in a straw fedora, pulled down so low that you can't even see his ears. He emerges from the far end of the lake, where the art studio is. His guitar is an old thing, slung over his shoulder; beige—much like the color of his slacks. He fiddles with the rim of his hat, afraid to reveal even a single facial feature. He wears a loose white button-down with a gardenia tucked into the breast pocket of his shirt. Sebastian Hammond plays barefoot.

January thought he was the most magical sight she has ever encountered.

Her heart was thundering, beating a mark into her chest. Her cheeks are flushed rosy with heat and her palms are clammy in that awful yet exciting way. She thought her stomach might burst with all the vultures flapping around. There was a lump in her throat.

When the last note of his song ended, he was quick with his escape. The crowd, still dazed, stay rooted to their spot. January spies him, with her sharp vision, quietly padding back towards the direction he came from. His retreating form is agile and quick, but she can still catch scent of the gardenia wafting off his shirt. She jogs up, wounds her fingers around the cuff of his sleeve and tugs gently.

He stops at once, arm twitching away from her in surprise. She doesn't falter though, taking advantage of this small moment of weakness to slide in front of him smoothly. She curls her lips up into her most charming smile. She beams, "Hi. I just wanted to tell you that I really enjoyed your music." To be honest, she didn't listen to a note he played. All she cared about was the face under the fedora. All she wanted to do is solve the mystery.

He shuffles back from her, nervous and seemingly a little agitated. She catches a glimpse of suntanned skin and smatterings of light freckles. He readjusts the angle of his hat, his neck flushed adorably red. He nods once in thanks. She grins demurely, and as he staggers to move around her in order to make a swift escape, she plucks the gardenia from his pocket, tucking it behind her ear. He's near jogging now, slinking through any space he can find, but January could've sworn she saw him smile before disappearing into the distance.

Jan smiles herself, happy to have made an impression.

---

Sebastian Hammond did not show up next Thursday at Juilliard. Or the Thursday after that. And January was starting to get worried. Perhaps she was playing this all about the wrong way. Maybe she shouldn't have approached him at all. What was she thinking? She has Peter waiting for her.

What would he think if he knew about this?

She shakes her head of her silly, foolish thoughts. She rubs her temples. She tells herself to forget about the boy hiding under the fedora. She tells herself to forget about the gardenia she keeps inside her duffle bag. She tells herself that she needs to stop loving everyone she sees because it's just not healthy—or normal.

She slams her locker shut and rushes out of the shower room. She gives a distracted wave to her classmates, many of them still getting dressed or getting ready for rehearsal.

January exhales deeply, her hands gripping the strap of the gym sack strewn across her chest. Right. She can do this. She can forget him. She has Pretty Peter. Peter's probably waiting for her back in her and Jude's apartment. Maybe they can go out to dinner tonight…catch a movie—oh, maybe that cartoon one with the mammoth and the sloth...

Her forehead clashes right into somebody's guitar, which they had been hugging to their middle. She yelps, blinking rapidly to clear the shock away, because standing right there in front of her...was Sebastian Hammond. She almost wants to reach out, just to make sure it's really him. Her veins are flooded with that warm electricity she loves so much. She's ecstatic to be feeling that again.

Her first reaction is joy. She can hardly stop the beam from stretching across her face. She knows that she must look tousled and a mess; her dark damp hair falling to her waist, she's wearing sweatpants, she's barefoot, and she's getting his guitar all wet with droplets.

She pays no attention to that though. Because there he is. Sebastian Hammond. He's just standing there. So close that she could tell that he always smell like gardenias. He's clad in a plain white t-shirt and cargo pants. He's wearing funny sheepskin slippers. The hat is still there. Made of straw with a strip of sky blue ribbon.

She's so giddy that her senses are kicked into hyperdrive. She thought she was going to explode and a million butterflies would burst out of her. He's just so near. Too near to have been not affected by her charm two weeks ago. She can hear him swallow, the hollow thump of his heart.

"January?" She closed her eyes, swarmed with warmness. His voice had a gentle, southern lilt, not quite eloquent enough to be articulate, but not clumsy enough to be called a lisp. She's not sure how he found out her name, but she's too elated to wonder.

She blinks up at him, "Yes?" She breathes.

He turns skittery, as if he had not planned this far or expected to even find her at all. He runs his fingers along the rim of his hat, murmuring nervously, "I'm sorry for just—running into you like this. But, I just...I was wondering if you could come somewhere with me? I-I wrote you something."

Oh. January would've followed him anywhere. Anything—she thought at the time—anything to get him to take off that hat. January would've sold her twin just for that. He took her to a courtyard behind the art studio and played her a song

"This is what I look like today, and I'm trying not to pull out my hair. I'm trying to grow it, but I'm far to show it back there. That is probably why I like wearing hats..."

If you were to ask January now how Sebastian Hammond looks: she would've told you that he was...just a boy. His skin is the color of butterscotch gold. His eyes are emerald green and wide with wonderment, his nose is slightly too big for his delicate features and his top lip is much thinner than his bottom. Everything about Sebastian screamed awkward. But it was that kind of awkward where you couldn't take your eyes away.

"I wrote this for my prettiest friend, while trying not to prove that I care. She has me holding my breathe, so I'd never guess that I'm such a nut, such unsuitably suited for her."

January Jansen doesn't know why Sebastian Hammond always wears a hat. Because he has such pretty, pretty hair. Thick, flaxen curls the color of wheat fields. They feel loopy and silky, gliding through her fingers.

"But if you ask me, the feeling that I'm feeling is complimentary. And oh, how it goes to show…the moral of the story is boy loves girl. And so, the way that it unfolds is yet to be told."

Sebastian Hammond lasted three months. It was a wonderful three months full of bike rides in the park and playing guitar in the rain. It felt like a majestic, fantastical summer romance. Like a gorgeous, magical dream.

Then on the day of January's first performance for Juilliard, her dressing room was filled with fresh, fragrant tiger-lilies. A card sitting on her vanity table read very simply, 'May the night be as wonderful as you are. –Peter'.

And Sebastian Hammond woke up.

And January Jansen didn't move from her spot behind the changing screen until she heard the bouquet of gardenias drop onto the floor and the door shut quietly behind him.


Alexander Mahone

He is the one January loved deepest.

No matter how hard January tries to ease pain, shift it, alleviate it, that burning memory of him doesn't move. She doesn't want to forget about him; forget about how she felt—God, no—she just wish that it would fade a little in intensity. She wishes she wouldn't miss him so much. She wishes she would stop getting so nostalgic like an ignorant schoolgirl because it does nothing. He wouldn't want for her to pine after him like that.

It's been a long while since she's seen him. Or perhaps it just feels long. In her memory's telephoto lenses, the more far away the object is, the more they're magnified. That must be why she can see him so vividly inside her mind. He used to tell her that; things that are hard to bear, are sweet to remember.

Their relationship must've been effortless because all she feels when she thinks of him is wistful longing.

People say that nothing is more memorable than a smell. Jan thinks that's what their affair was like. A fervent, but fleeting perfume. Because a single scent can be unexpected, momentary and cursory, yet conjure up detailed recollections, such as the woodsy masculine cologne that always seem to linger on his skin. Smells detonate softly in everyone's memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass of age. Hit a tripwire of smells and memories will explode all at once.

The faintest waft is sometimes enough to induce feelings of hunger or anticipation, or to transport you back through time and space to a long-forgotten moment. It can overwhelm you in an instant or simply tease you, creeping into your consciousness slowly and evaporating almost the moment it is detected. She always reaches out to grasp for it, wanting to know—if only just for a second, what it would be like to feel that emotion again, but it always eludes her and slips away through the cracks of her fingers.

That's how he's been for as long as she can remember. Enigmatic, mysterious, and deadly calm. It was such a dangerous combination. How could she not fall for it?

---

January really loves her and Peter's new apartment. It's smackdab in the middle of Manhattan and Jan loves the excitement. She doesn't mind the colorful lights shining through her window even at 2 in the morning. She doesn't even mind the loud music that sometimes pounds through the walls whenever her neighbor would have parties.

Peter didn't like it much. He has to grit his teeth and strain his brow in order to study, but he endures it all for her. Most of all, January loves how whenever she finishes practice with the Company she dances with, she can cut across Central Park and get home in only 15 minutes.

She isn't sure if she just didn't notice him at first or if he simply wasn't there for her to notice. Whichever it is, Jan remembers the first time she saw him. He's leaning against the stone railing of the bridge, propped on his forearms, looking so suave and refined that she literally halted in her step and gaped openly.

He was built lithe and svelte; thinner and taller than Peter. His hair is shaggy and sandy colored. He always wore classic rectangular shades to conceal his watchful gaze and tailored black suits with a matching skinny tie. He wouldn't move much. He'd just lean there against the bridge, shifting every once in a while as not to seem unnatural. Pensive and thoughtful, his expression often suggests. He seemed calm, but yet he carried himself proudly and reassured. Too reassuring perhaps.

Jan didn't need to walk any closer to him to tell that he was older than her. Much older.

He's there everyday at around the same time. Jan knows this because whenever she finishes practice earlier or stays later than usual, he isn't there. But at 4:00, when the sun is shining high, there he would be. He stands there, face impassive, tossing bread crusts at the ducks in the lake below in the exact same spot; in the same exact position.

Every since January's noticed him, she couldn't take her eyes off of him. She'd race after rehearsals let out, sprint through Central Park, and hide behind a tree as she admires him from afar. She didn't dare approach him at first. He was so stoic, so surreal. She didn't want to shatter the beautiful illusion of this perfect stranger, even if he fascinated her to no end.

By 4:40, his friend or maybe it's his colleague, would come and tap him on the shoulder. He would jerk out of his contemplative trance then walk off in a straight, confident stride. And January would press her back deep into the bark of the pear tree and smile up at the sky dreamily, her stomach clenched in anxious curiosity, her heart racing and thundering.

She thought of a billion things to say. She thought of a billion names for him. William...Michael...or James. Something sophisticated and old-fashioned. She thought of a billion ways to introduce herself. The moment he looks into her eyes, she would have him. He'd fall for her and that'll make her the happiest girl in the whole world.

One day, she took a grasp of all her courage, put on her favorite dress—white with floral prints, brushed out the cobwebs in her sloppy inky hair before rushing out for Central Park. She stayed in her usual hiding place until she can catch her breath, pacing her thumping heart. She could hear it pounding in her ear, could feel heat flooding her fingertips the way only love can make her feel. Exhaling deeply, she tightens her grip on the strap of her gym bag, whirled around then ran towards the bridge.

She purposely collides with him forcefully. Not brutal enough to make him stagger, but just so that all her costumes burst out in colorful puffs and flew onto the floor. There's tulle falling slowly through the air, ribbons and cottony leg warmers lying in a puddle.

She drops to her knees immediately, apologizing profusely, fighting down the beam that's cutting into the edge of her mouth, "Oh my goodness. I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to just run into you like that." Yes. Yes, she did.

He's quick to join her, crouching down on one knee, handing pieces of garment to her quietly. He murmurs softly, "It's no problem." His voice is smooth and resonated from somewhere deep in his chest.

January outright stares at him as he scours the area around him for any of her belongings. He was by no means handsome. His features are all too bold, making him seem brisk and cold. The lines that crease his forehead are faint, but evident. His hair is faded blonde, curling near the nape of his neck. She absorbs every detail about him. The slope of his cheekbones, the gentle line of his jaw.

"Thank you." She says distractedly and he looks up at her.

It was the perfect moment. One side of her lavender cardigan is slipping, revealing a bare shoulder. Her hair is just tousled enough to look casual, a big chunk of wispy bangs flopping over her forehead. She's breathing heavily, both from the run and the proximity between them. She widens her silvery eyes for him, pouts with her lips. She can feel his gaze flicker there instinctively.

She has him. She knows it. A rush of wild energy fills her, almost making her tether over as that fervent buzz rippled under her skin.

But then he stands up, resumes his place by the bridge. The corner of his mouth is quirked into a sly grin, as if he knew exactly what she was doing and he found her actions to be amusing.

She flushes red, but she wouldn't give up. She pushes her tousled tress back with one hand, the other still holding onto a pair of dangling pointe shoes. She swallows thickly, shoves her hand forward, "I'm January." She says in a sort of casual, by-the-way manner.

He inclines his head in her direction, straightening once more. The knowing, clever smile is back. It makes January more hesitant than she'd like to admit. His long, elegant fingers wrap around her palm. Her skin stung from the contact. "It's nice to meet you. I'm sorry about your bag." He replies breezily.

She nods once before hastily pulling her hand out of his. The sensitive part of her, the part she usually does so well in oppressing, won't allow rejection to pass by so easily. Jan can feel herself shrinking, her ferocity crushed by his nonchalance. She forces herself to make another attempt. Maybe she could draw another wily beam out of her hat, but his colleague is here now, tugging him away urgently, and in a matter of seconds, he was gone.

January lost her chance; her window of opportunity. She couldn't stop running that moment in her mind over and over again; mulling over every small detail. The strange, disconnected sensation that she can never quite figure out what happened that day. It haunts her.

But at rehearsal the next day, as she rifled senselessly through her duffle bag for the white silk square she uses as a hair tie, she came to a sudden realization and dropped the sack onto the floor with a loud gasp.

January had to wear an ugly maroon scrunchie that clashed terribly with her eyes that day. In her opinion though, it was worth it, just knowing who has it makes her feel like the most special girl in the whole world.

---

He had stopped coming to the park. And it's not until a month later that January Jansen finally sees him again.

She had been visiting Peter at the New York Presbytarian Hospital. She sits impatiently in the waiting room, swinging her legs, waiting for him to punch out so that they can go out and grab some lunch. Jan can't wait to get out of here. Hospitals always made her nauseous. It makes her think of the time when Jude broke two ribs playing football and they wouldn't let her go in to see him because they're afraid of infection after surgery, so she slept outside his door for four days until they let her in.

The woman sitting beside her lets out a ferocious sneeze that actually made January jump. She doesn't quite understand why someone would be in the ER for a cold unless it was really serious. Unnerved, she decides to move away from the woman and to look for Peter herself. She has to get out of here now, and she'll drag him by the ear if she has to.

Slipping past bustling nurses, patients in gurneys, she makes her way towards the reception desk. She raps her knuckles against the counter, trying to capture the attention of the receptionist that's prattling away into the phone, "Ex-excuse me. Excuse me, but can you please tell me where Peter Petrelli is?" The receptionist holds up a finger and January exhales deeply. The back of her head hurts. She raises her hand to rub her eyes.

She sees him. Through the transparent glass of the exam rooms. He's shrugging his arm into his suit jacket, twisting his shoulder in an awkward angle. The floppy haired doctor treating him is trying to push him back onto the stretcher but he won't have any of it. He makes his way to the door, wrenches it open, then storms wildly into the corridor. He charges toward a man sitting in a wheelchair with a head injury. The nurse complains, but he silences her by flipping open a leather pad.

"Special Agent. Alexander Mahone." He signals to his colleague, whom she hadn't noticed was there before. "I have orders to take him in for questioning."

January nearly swooned. It's something straight out of a movie. He's probably some hardened CIA agent and he's in love with her but he won't be with her because that'll put her in danger, and together they're going to go on Mission Impossible-like adventures and save the world.

The notion seems almost believable.

The doctor is protesting because the man is bleeding and Alexander is just trying to shove him out of there. It's not until now that she realizes the floppy haired doctor is Peter. It's funny; usually his dark girlish hair is the first thing she notices.

Alexander. The name fits him perfectly. Why didn't she think of that?

Alexander is insisting that he discharge him immediately. January smiles. She knows that Peter isn't one to argue. He's much too placid to be harassed. He only purses his lips in his typical disapproving way before signing off on a chart, then someone came and whisked him off to another exam room.

January had been eager to get of there, but having Alexander here changes everything.

As if he could hear her chanting his name, he turns slowly, and his eyes meet hers. He's not wearing those shades of his this time, so Jan can see—as clear as day, that his eyes are blue. Clear, ice blue. They reminded Jan of peppermint because her spine feels all tingly and chilly whenever he looks at her.

There is something different about today though. She feels as if something changed in his inner workings; as if his priorities all shifted onto her. This time, she knows for certain she has him. This time, the air between them is crackling with heat and intensity. This time, she knows that the moment they're alone, everything is going to change.

He exchanges a few words with his colleague, then he crosses the distance between them with a few easy strides. His sly, charming grin slides into place, "January, right?"

She laughs. It sounds winded. She clears her throat and tucks a strand of hair behind her hair, "Uh...yeah." She hates herself for sounding so young. She almost frowns until she saw her the edges of her silk square tucked into his jacket pocket, like the way Sebastian used to keep his gardenias; then she smiled down at the floor demurely.

"I sure hope you are not here for the repercussions of our little incident last month. Otherwise, I would feel solely responsible." His words are smooth, his phrasing eloquent. His steely eyes is the color she associates with winter. Piercing and severe; but intimate.

She can't stop the beam from stretching across her face. She pushes her childish hair back and peers up at him through her lashes. "Luckily, I was not injured." She tilts her head, "Although I do seem to be missing a personal belonging of mine." She raises a coy brow at him.

He chuckles, but makes no attempt to hide his guilt. "Ah, yes. Well, we simply can't have that. As a man of the law, I must insist you file a report with me." His colleague is calling his name. Mahone, we gotta head back, he says. He glances back at him and holds up a hand. He speaks hurriedly, rushing out the four words she's been dying to hear, "Are you free tonight?"

She bites the inside of her cheek, breathless and flushed, "I-I don't know. Why?"

"6:00. The Plaza Hotel." His body drifts away from her although his lightening gaze remained on her. His blue eyes flicker as he spoke, "Be there if you want your handkerchief back."

---

She hates calling it an 'affair'. Although, that is exactly what it is. She doesn't know why she doesn't end things with Peter. Nostalgia, probably. An almost unbearable attraction and attachment to him. Peter had a perfect, lovely image in her mind. She doesn't want to ruin the picture.

Doesn't want to break him. Doesn't want to stop loving him.

The affair's been going on for ten months. January would say she's almost proud of it, except for the nature of their circumstances. In her mind, she knows that she's allowing herself to get emotional, she knows she's starting to get lovesick, because when she can't see him, she feels like she's suffocating. She can't stand to be around Peter either, because he was too sweet and trusting, and it makes her feel like a lying, cheating whore.

Oh, wait. I think that ship has sailed, Jansen.

She refuses to listen to the voice in her mind. Instead, she escapes. She sits in Central Park and she draws. It's her new hobby. She's not very good, but it makes her concentrate on one subject for a long period of time. It teaches her endurance, she likes to think.

Sometimes, Jude will seek her out.

"How's Peter?" He'd ask. His buttery blonde hair casts a halo above his head. He stands with his hands in his pockets, peering down at her with interest. He never shows any disdain or surprise towards her actions. He knows her well enough to predict her every move.

She wouldn't look up. "He's fine. I convinced him to take up the internship with that doctor he admires so much." She doesn't say that her purpose was to keep him away from her more.

But Twin gets it. He gets everything. He tilts his head and smirks. "How's Alex?" He inquires. His gaze isn't focused on her, instead, it's wandering all around the park. He'll stare at anything except her. And he's standing so far away that from a distance, you won't even be able to tell they were conversing.

She grows irritable. "He's great." She draws a harsh, angry line across her paper before flipping her sketchpad shut. Her patience is waning. "I don't want to talk about it, though." She exits moodily. Usually, she's not this impatient with Jude but she doesn't like to talk when she's feeling conflicted or uncertain.

January seeks refuge in Alexander's loft. It's in a fancy, marble high-rise building somewhere downtown. The taxi ride takes her 45 minutes but she's feeling so unraveled that it seems like she's there in a blink. That's always how it happens. She never knows how she manages to get there. It's like she fell into a trance and when she wakes up, she's standing in front of his door, knocking and banging until he lets her in.

She dashes past the doorman that's been there ever since she started making these trips. Her boots are flat so they make virtually no noise. She almost runs over the bellhop with dry cleaning before being yanked on the elbow just as she's about to enter the elevator by the building manager.

"Miss, may I inquire as to who you're visiting?" He must be new or else he would've recognized her.

Jan isn't good with authority figures. "Um," She stutters, "Uh...Alexander Mahone?" She hates herself for sounding so nervous, as if she didn't belong.

"Mr. Mahone isn't in yet. Perhaps you would like to wait for him in one of the seats over there?" He gestures an arm towards the lobby.

"I-I, you don't understand! I live here." That wasn't technically a false claim.

The manager, his nametag reads Jerry, stares at her dully. "I'm sorry, but I can only allow family members in while the primary resident is away." He only takes a few seconds to glance at his computer screen. "And as far as I know, Mr. Mahone doesn't have a daughter."

January Jansen flushes, outraged. "I'm his wife."

She is blatantly lying, but she feels somewhat obligated to justify her actions, if only to this moronic idiot. She's well aware of how young she is and how childish she must look. Her jet-black tress is a mess, a tumble of tangled waves, her bangs fluttering just above her eyelash. She's wearing a silk polka-dot tank top and a beige knit sweater. The sweater sleeve keeps sliding off her shoulder since she's dragged the sleeves over her knuckles to conceal her ring-less fingers.

The man has the decency to appear surprised. He clicks away on his computer. Tap, tap, tap. The rhythm matches the sound of her boots clicking against the floor. Finally, he glances at her, confirming, "Pam?"

She freezes. Pam? Who was Pam? A sister? A girlfriend? A wife? Pam, Pam, Pam.

Was she as much of a love affair as he is to her? January is stunned, although she still manages a nod while the man prattles on with an apology. She stumbles into the elevator, her head swirling.

Sure, she's dating Peter, but she's a stupid child. What was his excuse? Did he even have one? They're married. She didn't understand. She...couldn't understand. She feels as if somebody took her brain out of her skull and locked it inside a spinning teacup while she stands on the outside, desperate to dial her mind into some form of clarity.

Alexander's loft is located on the 18th floor. Everything in there is kept immaculate. The floor is made of pearly white tiles and the counters of granite. He doesn't have many decorations, none even. A pile of her subscribed Cosmopolitan magazine sits on a corner of the coffee table, then there are a few scented candles she brought over when she first arrived. His office desk is dark wood. A computer, a coffee cup, two picture frames. There's one of a young boy she's pretty certain was his nephew. Then there's one of her.

The entire loft is an open area. The kitchen is tucked behind the living room. His study next to the living room. The stairs lead up to second level that contains nothing but a bed and a tall bookshelf behind it. A balcony connects to the bed where she sometimes sneak off to if she needs a smoke. There are no doors in the loft. No secrets.

She wishes he were as easy to understand.

The entire far side of the wall is nothing but glass. A huge window pane. It was built there for whoever lived there to admire the view. Because at night, when all the lights go on in New York City, it's truly magnificent. But Alexander uses it for a different purpose. The window is taped with criminal records and forensic reports and information on whatever case he's working on at the time.

January's dizzy. So dizzy that she didn't even realize she's been sitting with her temples locked between her knees for the past two hours and that Alexander finally decided to grace her with his appearance.

He strolls in through the door in his usual confident, strident way. His faded blonde hair is all lopsided, curling near the nape of his neck as he tussles it up even more and hooks his briefcase onto the coat rack. "I'm sorry for not getting back earlier." His words are spoken gently and throatily. It makes her heart pound out an irregular beat. "Have you been waiting long?"

She's curled up on the couch, her legs hugged to her chest. She knows how compulsive he is with neatness but she's too vexed to care about her boots leaving dirty prints on the leather. "Yes." She answers calmly but her eye twitched in annoyance.

"I got held up at the office. I wasn't sure if you were coming over today. If you had told me beforehand, I would've gotten you dinner or something." He loosens the knot on his skinny black tie, wandering over to brush his lips against her forehead.

January lets him. But as soon as he pulls away, she can no longer bear the confusion. The bewilderment smothered her. "You're married." She blurts.

He seems taken-back. Then his icy eyes darken just slightly, so that it's cerulean instead of glacial. He smiles patiently, "I figured that you knew once that big-mouth dimwit downstairs told me 'Mrs. Mahone' was waiting upstairs for me." He tilts his head to examine her expression. She can see her reflection in his glassy irises. Her brows are scrunched, her hair is loopy, and her lips are pursed into a scowl. He concludes, "You're angry with me." She shoots him a pointed look. He chuckles, once again amused by her naivety, and tells her, "I'm not married, Jansen."

"Yes, you are." She narrows her silvery glare. At this point, she simply didn't care if she sounded childish.

He shrugs, "At least not anymore. Pam and I divorced almost 2 years ago." Although January was very tempted to refute his comment with 'no, you didn't', she held her tongue, because the sincerity in his pale eyes is disarming. He smiles, "If I wasn't divorced, don't you think you would've seen her by now?"

January grudgingly accepts his logic but she's still miffed by the fact that he didn't say anything to her about it. He laughs, smoothing down her wild hair so that it's not sticking up all weird anymore. It's sort of neurotic of Alexander, his obsession to make things right; she found it endearing. He grabs a hold of her ankle, beginning to tug her boots off for her.

She voices her concern, "The big-mouth dimwit downstairs thought I was your daughter." She is unable to ease the invisible line that's pulling her brows towards each other. She can't help but appear worried. She once again feels the need to explain, "So I told him that I was your wife. Just to shut him up."

Alexander glances at her, expression curious. He asks simply, "Does it bother you?"

January doesn't know what he's referring to. The fact that the big-mouth dimwit thought she was his daughter or the fact that he's twenty years older than her. Or maybe both, because it's kind of the same thing. She sighs, slumping into the sofa as he proceeds to pull off her shoes. "No. I suppose not."

"Good." Alexander smiles. He rarely smiles at her. There are a lot of witty quips, lots of soft murmurs or cunning smirks but he only smiles when he's especially pleased. He fascinates her. He is neither beautiful or dazzling, but Alexander is graceful, provocative, and magnetic. "C'mere." He lures her out of her seat and into the kitchen. "I'll make you a drink."

"Vodka, preferably." She presses her cheek against the cool marble of the countertop. She studies him—scrutinizes almost, while he pulls open cabinets, searching for utensils. She secretly loves the way he moves. All agility and allure, like a feline. Alexander seems to have an inner compass, a line of symmetry that he follows down to the tee. So fluid, it almost seems rude. As if he slips past you so effortlessly, it makes you feel clumsy and flustered.

He makes her hot chocolate.

He stirs carefully, his slender fingers curled loosely around the silver spoon, his suit jacket pushed up to his elbows. She tells him earnestly, in this moment of total calm between them, "I'm not angry, you know. About Pam." He doesn't react. January lays her chin on her arms, "I wish you would've said something."

"It's one of the things I like about you, Jansen." His lightening gaze is sparking. "You don't pry." She blinks, her tinsel-gray eyes are wide. She's unsure rather to accept that as a compliment or a warning. But then his long, sinewy arms are suddenly wrapped around her and her face is pressed into his chest. She grasps his shoulders tightly. His deep, woodsy scent makes her light-headed and warm. "I wanted to tell you. But, I was...concerned, as to what you might think. I didn't want you to know that I used to love someone else. It bothered me."

She realizes it right there and then.

She loves him. Loves him, loves him, loves him.

January Jansen has to tell him. Because she feels like it's growing inside of her. An awful, suffocating sensation. She'll crack like an overflowing dam if she doesn't tell him. She pushes herself onto her tiptoes and breaths into his ear, divulging him in her epiphany, "I think I love you, Alex."

Alexander Mahone strokes her hair, well-aware that he is powerless to stop anything at this point. He smiles sadly into her raven tress, "I know you do."


End Note:

TA-DA! January Jansen's point of view. How did you find her to be? Shocking? Scandalous? Wild? All of the above? I really enjoyed writing in January's mind set because it's so easy for me to predict her actions and what she's going to say. I just take everyone's FIRST instinct and run by that because that's exactly the person I wrote January to be. She doesn't analyze herself and she doesn't care what other people might think about her actions.

This is actually going to be a 2-part chapter because the Alex Mahone part is just running so long that I just know I won't be able to finish without it getting completely out of hand so we're not quite done with Jan yet. There's going to be falling action to Mahone's storyline and then also a third lover. So please stay tuned for him. He's a real interesting one, I promise you that.

The next chapter is going to drive deeper and darker into January's past, specifically around the time frame where she broke her leg and she's healing and just trying to get through the day. I do admit that I based Alex Mahone a bit on the Prison Break character if any of you watch Prison Break and the song that Sebastian sings to Jan in the beginning is called 'Prettiest Friend' by Jason Mraz. Check it out, it's awesome.

Question of the day: What is your impression of Alexander? Favorite moment and line? What do you think of January now that you've been inside her head? Do you retain your original opinion or have you done a 180?

Write down to me all your thoughts and remarks and drop me a line in that cute review box below. I love all comments and PMs and I love all that give this story a chance and for sticking it out with me even during hard times.

Loves, Kitty.