Author's Note: Sorry for the unannounced break, I was at a convention for the weekend and wasn't able to update. Back on schedule now! Additionally, I don't think I've made this clear before, so I'd just like to warn everyone that this story will contain CATWS spoilers. Please keep that in mind! Thank you again for all your continued support and your reviews! c: they make my day. - Strike

We're barely out of earshot of the two men when Michael finally breaks his silence.

"Tonight? That explains why you're dressed up." He rolls his eyes, "I thought you said you weren't dating."

"We weren't when you asked. He asked me out yesterday." I shrug simply, feeling a growing discomfort. It's almost guilt, but that's ridiculous. I shouldn't have to feel guilty about my personal life.

"And you said yes, after I warned you?" His mouth curves into a disgusted frown.

"I don't have any reason to distrust him."

"You don't have any reason to trust him either." He replies, his frustration evident.

Well, it's not like your threats gave me a reason to trust you.

"Whatever, do what you want. I was wrong to think we were on the same side." He turns and paces away angrily. I open my mouth to call after him, then close it again, thinking better of it.

A part of me wants to dismiss his rambling as jealousy, but I have a feeling that's not it. He's always disliked me, and he never hesitated to make it clear. That being said, I thought he had at least had a grudging respect for me when we worked together.

What if he's right about something, about getting too close to people I know nothing about?

The issue weighs heavy on my mind all day, and I'm still thinking about his words even as I sit on the steps to my apartment, waiting for Rumlow to pick me up.

The street is completely empty, with not even a breeze to rustle the leaves in the tree canopies.

It's a fairly warm night, filled with the faint sounds of city noise: dogs barking, ambulance sirens and car horns. The smells of people's dinners waft through open windows and into the still air, and it feels like the perfect example of a summer night.

I'm just glancing at my watch when a black sedan drives up the road, pulling into the empty spot just behind my white Yaris.

Tinted windows.

The driver's side door opens and it takes me a few seconds to realize it's Rumlow. Clad in a pressed white dress shirt, black jacket, and slacks, he's quite the sight.

I liked the SWAT-esque combat gear—cargo pants, snug-fit tee, suspenders that made it seem like he was about to parachute out of a plane at any minute—but he rocks business-casual well too.

"Excuse me, pretty lady." He takes his shades off with a little smirk. "You know a girl round here named Elise Summers?"

I roll my eyes, unable to help the smile that tugs at my lips.

"Something wrong? You haven't said anything." He watches me intently as I walk down the porch steps.

"No, I was just surprised. You look... different." I smile, feeling oddly embarrassed.

"Not so bad yourself." He looks me up and down with a quirk of his eyebrow, and suddenly my seemingly-conservative knee-high cocktail dress feels way too short.

"Hop in." He opens the passenger side door, holding it for me.

"Thanks." I slip past him and catch a whiff of his cologne. Different than usual. Bold. Enticing.

It gets me thinking… Is this okay? A work relationship, I mean. Rumlow didn't seem to care much of it when he openly reminded me of our date in front of Rollins and Michael. Maybe he thought "see you tonight" was ambiguous enough to refer to more innocent meet-ups.

I watch him as he gets into the driver's seat and closes the door hard enough to wake up my entire neighbourhood. He casts me a glance, then turns off the ignition.

"You wanna tell me what's on your mind?"

I can't help but smile at his no-nonsense tone. The same mannerisms, even outside of work. He raises a questioning eyebrow at me and I panic to find an answer.

"I just wondered if this is okay. That is, work relationships are usually looked down upon. Not that I question your judgement—"

"Pierce knows." He interrupts, buckling his seatbelt and turning on the ignition as if the issue had been settled with that simple answer. Far from it, because it's spawned a million other questions in my mind.

"How does he know?" I ask slowly.

"Dr. Jones told him." He replies, glancing out the window at his mirror before pulling the car onto the empty street.

I must be missing some part of the story here. When did she tell Alexander Pierce? Why did she tell him when I'm still not even sure we're an item yet? When I explicitly told her we weren't an item?

"You look confused. I thought she told you already." He casts me a furtive glance and a small smile before returning his eyes to the road.

Well, can you blame me?

"She made me a bet that I couldn't win you over in a week."

It's almost chilling, how casually he says those words.

"Wait, what? So… was that, was all that training a lie? You pretended to care about my problems and got close to me to win a bet?" I don't even try to hide my irritation.

"No, not at all," He raises surprised eyebrows, "I was interested in you back from the first spar. Everything I said about your potential was the truth. I genuinely offered you the training out of good will."

He pauses, biting his lip.

"Couldn't keep my attraction in check though, things escalated. But you were stubborn, and Dr. Jones bet me you wouldn't fall for me that quickly." There's amusement in his voice, and it's not helping to lessen my anger.

Technically, I shouldn't be mad. I was the same way, after all. I accepted his "good will" training offer despite knowing I was attracted to him. We were both lying to ourselves about the reason we were there.

Still, he made a bet with Dr. Jones? I can't help feeling like the butt of a joke I didn't know about.

I stare silently out the window as he pulls the car into the parking lot of a modern-looking three story building. Its clean lines, glass and metallic detailing make it look more like a night club than a restaurant.

Benito's, the large sign reads. Underneath, Fine Dining and Jazz lounge in silver lettering.

"I'm sorry, Elise. Are you mad?" His tone is gentler, apologetic. "I'll let you punch me later, if you want."

I look at him, at the way his hands rest on the steering wheel, the way the lights of the city cast soft highlights on the angles of his face, the way his hair is slightly slicked back—a departure from his work look—and punching him is really the last thing on my mind at the moment.

"Yeah, I want to punch you."