"Felicia," he repeated, like he was tasting it, letting it settle on his tongue.
Now that he knew my name, something in the air shifted—like a door had quietly creaked open.
"So," I said, clearing my throat, trying to reclaim my footing. "You've got my name. What's next? You want my number too?"
Michael didn't smirk this time. He just nodded once. "Yeah. I do."
I hesitated for half a second. Then handed him my phone, already unlocked.
He didn't waste time. Typed his number in too. Saved it under "M"—figures. When he handed it back, his fingers brushed mine, warm and steady. Like he knew I was shaking inside.
"And you," he said, voice quieter now, "you're enhanced, aren't you?"
My breath caught.
"What gave it away?" I asked, trying to sound sarcastic. It came out too hollow.
"I've seen your moves. Back at the warehouse—When we fought for less than two minutes, but that was enough. The way you dodged, reacted. That's not street training. That's something else."
I looked away. "You're observant."
He didn't press. He waited.
So I exhaled and gave in.
"Yes," I said. "At the time, I lied. Told you it was just instinct. But it wasn't."
He watched me, silent.
"My father," I continued, words slow but steady now. "He used to work under Hammerhead. That bastard wanted his own version of the Super Soldier Serum. My dad helped him steal fragments of it. Refined it. Kept one prototype vial hidden."
Michael's eyes narrowed slightly. "And you used it?"
I nodded. "I didn't mean to. Not at first. But the night I almost died—when everything went to hell—I found it in my dad's old stash. I took it. It was... messy. But it worked."
Turning my head slightly, voice barely above a whisper, I said, "That strength, that speed—that's what saved me. And this new me was born."
I looked at Michael then, meeting his gaze. "I also haven't forgotten… back then, when you told me to bring you the Super Soldier Serum. But I don't know where it is—only that Hammerhead had it. That's all I ever knew."
I didn't know how he'd react. Part of me worried he'd be angry—disappointed, maybe. But instead, he just looked at me with something unreadable in those silver eyes. Like he was sorting through memories I couldn't see.
"Okay," he finally said. Just that. No judgment. No pressure. Just calm acceptance, like he understood more than he let on.
And then, somehow, we were back where we started.
"Just... be ready for that dinner date," he added casually, stepping back. He said it like it was no big deal—but there was a glint in his eye that made my stomach flutter in ways I hated admitting.
Then he turned and walked away, disappearing down the stairs with that easy, predator-smooth confidence that made you forget how dangerous he really was.
Damn, he's actually a good date, I thought, annoyed with myself as I closed the door behind him and leaned my head against it.
He could've pushed. He didn't. He could've lied. He hadn't.
And now… I wasn't sure whether he'd just left a crack in my armor—or if I had opened it myself.
Felicia POV — End
***
"Well, that went... better than expected," Michael muttered to himself as he leaned against the driver's seat, exhaling slowly. The night air filtered in through the cracked window of his car as he stared out at the street.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel once before starting the engine and driving back to his place.
But as he stepped through the door, someone was already there.
"Coming in?" a voice called from the shadows near the window, casual like she owned the place.
He didn't even need to turn to know. "You're back," he said simply.
Turning, he found her—Natasha. Leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, red hair pulled into a loose ponytail. She was wearing black tactical gear, like she hadn't come from dinner but from war.
"You're surprised?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Honestly? A little," he admitted.
She studied him for a moment. "You weren't answering your comms."
"I was busy."
"Yeah," she said dryly. "I noticed. Felicia Hardy. Interesting choice."
Michael narrowed his eyes slightly. "You following me now?"
"Just watching your back," Natasha replied with a shrug. "You are under surveillance now. Have you forgotten? You agreed to it in the name of peace."
He moved past her, tossing his coat onto the couch. "So what is this, then? A mission briefing or a jealousy trip?"
Natasha didn't flinch. "Don't flatter yourself. You're unpredictable—that makes you dangerous to both sides. And if you're going to start sleeping with enhanced thieves carrying more trauma than baggage, I'd prefer to know whether I should keep a kill team on standby."
Michael chuckled softly. "Right… I did agree to your terms. Surveillance, reports, obedience…" He turned, eyes glinting with mischief. "But I remember saying I've got a habit of eating my maids alive—so if you're planning to act like my handler from now on, don't go running when one night I call you to my bed."
He gave her a wink, expecting her usual eye-roll and exit.
But Natasha didn't move away.
Instead, she stepped forward—and before he could process it, she straddled his lap, settling on him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her face inches from his.
Michael's expression didn't change, but a flicker of interest stirred in his eyes.
"I'm not the running kind," she said coolly, her voice low. "And if you really want it… I can handle it right here. Right now."
Michael tilted his head slightly, looking at her for a long moment.
Then he gave a short laugh and gently eased her off, placing her beside him.
"I guess that famous Black Widow seduction technique doesn't work so well on me," he said casually, standing up.
Natasha didn't look offended. She smirked.
"Or maybe you're just not ready for it."
Michael gave her a sideways glance. "Or maybe I prefer someone who bites back for real."
She leaned back, crossing her legs on the armrest. "So... Felicia, then?"
He didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
*******
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