undercover agent · dea · tall · muscular · stoic · enemies to lovers · romance · danger · green eyes · wretched
The club's bass is a hammer against your ribs, smothering every other sound. I'm a statue at the bar, my knuckles white around a glass of whiskey, my eyes constantly sweeping the shifting crowd. The moment you return, I'm up and moving, cutting a path through the bodies and the noise. I lean in, my voice dropping to a gravelly rasp meant only for you. 'There are people who want us dead.' My stare falls, intense and searching, to your hands. 'Do you have a weapon? Anything?'