As it turns out, Rumlow lives in a high rise condo tower near the downtown. And when I say lives, I mean it very loosely. The place looks untouched. I've seen more lived-in homes in Ikea catalogues.

"You sure this isn't a hotel?" I joke, crossing the living room floor to stand in front of the wall of glass windows overlooking the city.

He's dialing a number on his cell phone, and there looks to be a flyer in his hand.

"I'll take that as a compliment on my design taste." He chuckles, "I'm not here very often, as you can tell."

"So you're the bachelor workaholic type? Always on the run? Ordering takeout because you don't have the time to get groceries?" I raise an amused eyebrow.

"You got it." He looks mildly impressed by my deductive reasoning skills, then turns his attention to the person on the other end of the phone.

While he's talking, I take the opportunity to poke into his kitchen. As expected, there's hardly anything in the refrigerator. The upper cabinets yield nothing, but when I open a lower cabinet, I find a curious sight.

A box of Ammo.

In the next cabinet over, there's an assault rifle.

I'm pretty sure people don't cook with those.

"Pizza will be here in—" Rumlow's voice trails off as he enters the kitchen, his eyes falling upon the open cabinet door.

"Odd place to store your weapons. You sure you live here?" I watch him carefully as he comes closer.

"I'm sure. Trust me. Those are from the last time." He runs a hand through his hair.

"Oh, the last girl?"

"There wasn't a last girl" He sounds frustrated at my skepticism, then pauses when he realizes what he's said.

"Really? I find that hard to believe." I angle my head slightly, unable to hide the amusement in my voice.

"Not many get as far as you have." A slight smile tugs at his lips.

That's a pretty loaded statement. Why didn't they? Were they not compatible?

Dr. Jones' words about kill orders come rushing back to me.

No, that's not right. It's not like anyone would…

"Did you kill them?" I look him in the eye. I might as well be blunt here. If I'm in a dangerous situation, at least I'm closer to the gun.

He looks genuinely surprised, then starts laughing.

"What the hell are you going on about? Of course not. I meant, there wasn't anyone at work who got this far. And after joining the strike team, I didn't have time to go fooling around with people in the real world. Dragging them into this life is a pain, not worth it."

I narrow my eyes, scanning his face for any hint of a lie.

"Did you really think I brought you here to kill you?" He steps forward and closes the cabinet door.

"Hey, it's just a possibility. Normal people don't keep hidden weapon stashes around their houses. I mean, aside from gun-loving American patriots."

"Some of my missions lead to run-ins with organizations that try to settle the score afterwards by targeting the agents. I keep weapons here just in case." He explains.

I return a blank stare. No, that excuse is too easy—too convenient.

"I'm telling you, it's the truth." He sighs, biting his lip as he shakes his head at my skepticism. I look at the closed cabinet door.

It could be logical, I guess, if he was working with some small-time assassin agency doing freelance missions. But he's not. He's working for Shield. Shield doesn't leave any loose ends.

"When did you become so paranoid? Did I scare you in some way?" He gently takes my chin, raising my gaze to meet his eyes.

"No, that's not it. It's just…"

Wait, it's not like I can tell him that I'm scared to trust anyone, thanks to Dr. Jones, Michael and the subject.

"There's a lot of stuff happening. It's been a rough transition, getting used to it all." I plaster a convincing smile on my face.

"I'm sure you'll pick it up soon. You're a fast learner." He smirks, "When it has nothing to do with sparring or hand wraps."

I gasp, feigning offence at his words.

He just chuckles, pulling me into his arms. This is strange. For a moment I almost protest, but I realize that we're not at work, despite the fact that we're still dressed in our work attire.

He catches me off guard during this realization and kisses me, pushing me back against the counter. The smooth marble edge digs into my lower back as he leans over me, the kiss growing more passionate by the second. It seems to contain all of the unreleased tension that's been building since we've met, and I let myself be swept away by the intensity, wrapping my arms over his shoulders.

And then the door buzzer rings.