When I open my eyes, I'm met with the sight of Rumlow's sleeping face on the pillow beside me. It takes me a second to remember that he stayed the night.
I squint at the clock on the bedside table, and realize that it's just a quarter past 6 am. I free myself of his embrace without waking him, making my way quietly to the bathroom. After taking a shower, I brush my teeth and change, then head downstairs to check the mail.
Just bills, mostly, but there's also an issue of Scientific American Mind. I already received a copy of this issue last week, though. It's not uncommon for people to get duplicates, but it's never happened to me before.
I flip through the pages casually as I sit down at the breakfast bar, and a piece of card slips out, gliding smoothly to the floor beneath the table.
As I pick it up, I expect it to be one of those pull-out subscription tabs. It's not. It's a small note.
Be Careful Around Him.
The mere four words manage to send a frightening chill up my spine. I flip it over, but there's nothing on the back. I've never been very good at recognizing handwriting, but as far as I can tell, it's gender-ambiguous.
Who could have written me this note? Why couldn't they have been more specific as to who I'm supposed to be careful around? Did they mean Rumlow? Alexander Pierce? The Subject?
It has to be someone who knows that I'm subscribed to this magazine. After all, the issues are only delivered six times a year. I'm fairly sure that my colleagues in the Nikolav lab are the only ones who know I'm subscribed. We used to discuss the articles all the time.
It feels like Michael's ghost has returned from the grave to haunt me with paranoid warnings.
It must be Dr. Nikolav. He did meet Rumlow yesterday, after all. Did he sense something off about him? Did he recognize him from somewhere?
I hear footsteps upstairs.
Quickly, I fold the note up and slip it into the front pocket of my jeans. By the time Rumlow reaches the bottom of the stairs, I'm engrossed in an article about personality and genetics.
He crosses the kitchen floor, and when I glance up at him, he presses a tender kiss to my lips.
"Good morning." I smile, wondering what drove Dr. Nikolav to warn me about his man.
"Mornin'." He doesn't pay any attention to the magazine in my hands, "I've gotta run."
"You're not staying for breakfast?" I frown, and he smiles apologetically, placing his hands on my hips as he leans in.
"Next time." His whisper caresses my lips, and I part them slightly. He kisses me, pressing his body against mine, his scent mingling with the smell of shampoo and soap. I smile at the thought that he used my feminine-smelling bath products without a shred of shame.
"What are you laughing at?" He breaks away, pressing his forehead to mine.
"You smell very delicate today, Strike team captain." I tease.
"Shut it." His tone is serious, but I see the smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he turns away.
"I'll see you on Monday." He raises a hand as he steps into the foyer.
I listen to the sound of the door opening and closing again, and I feel grateful. For this. For him.
And maybe I shouldn't, I mean, given everything that's happened. I'd be an idiot if I tried to call this "love" when I barely know him. But I can't deny that I like him. He makes me feel beautiful, and safe, and special.
I just want to appreciate what we have, even if a part of me knows it might not be anything at all. I don't know Brock Rumlow, and I don't know whether this is all an act, or whether he actually cares about me. I don't know if Michael's death was really an accident or who I'm supposed to be careful around.
But at this moment, I don't want to care about those things. I just want to be happy.