drumroll please...

_

Y/N 💥

Monday, 8:56pm

_

HE HAS ONE DAY LEFT.

I spent the past two days avoiding him at all costs, making sure Millie covered any traces I left when I would leave the compound. I wasn't messing around anymore, I was waiting.

And he was almost out of time.

I'd decided to form a habit of covering my tattoo with gauze, making sure not even an accidental shift of my sleeve would let someone see it. I was offended that day—he saw something he shouldn't have, and diminished my reason to hide it—so I was doing everything in my power to make him pay.

And to think I almost saw him differently that day.

I thought—for a second—that maybe I didn't hate him. Not as much as I should, that is. In a week I needled him, teasing and ridiculing his pathetic excuses, but then I realized that he stopped chasing me. It was like he didn't want to. So I went to his house, made him actually fight back, and thought that would fill the bored hole in my heart.

But it didn't.

It only made it grow.

"Don't be ridiculous," Millie said, shutting her computer, "you must have been mistaken, there's no way you could have liked Louis Partridge."

It was quiet in the compound, just the two of us sitting in my room with our gazes low and broken. For the last few days, I'd noticed her acting strange whenever I'd bring the boy up, and I wasn't sure why. She seemed tense just by hearing his name.

"It was strange, Mills," I explained, "for a moment I didn't feel like we hated each other."

"He's tricking you," she said curtly.

"He wouldn't do that."

"And you know that how?" She said, "don't go soft on him, [y/n], remember where both you and he came from."

"I know."

"And tomorrow you have to kill him."

Maybe it was because I'd never met such a dumb, violating, rude, arrogant, socially unaware, ruggedly handsome, brute before, so I was only interested in him because I wanted to figure him out like a science experiment. Find what nuts and bolts made up such an awful person, and see what he'd do if someone was to push all of his buttons.

But that wasn't entirely true.

Somehow.

Being isolated most of my life took a toll on how I interact and read people socially, so it is harder for me to know what everyone else thinks of me. I've learned not to care. But now I find myself caring what he thinks.

The sod.

"You hate him," Millie said, looking me sharply in the eyes, "don't forget that."

I nodded my head. "I won't."

"Good, now get some rest."

I watched as she left my room, flicking off the lights and disappearing down the hall. But I didn't want to rest, I wanted to understand. I wanted to know why I can't figure out what I'm feeling, and if he feels it too. I had to learn. I had to ask.

I had to find him.

Waiting till I heard the door to Millie's room shut, I put my spontaneous plan into action. Making sure my tattoo was fully covered, I grabbed my boots from the corner of the room, slipping on my jean jacket as I slowly creaked open my door.

I knew which places to step so as to not make a noise in the hallway. I trusted Millie, but she was dead set on completing my task to kill Louis, so she wouldn't approve of me going to see him for questions. I just wanted to know. The truth, if there was one.

And in the darkening night of London, I left the Ash Compound hidden underneath the River Thames, knowing where to go. I'd been watching him for a week now. I knew he stayed late nights at the SIS, and I knew he'd leave through the front door because he didn't give a damn about people seeing him. Was it arrogance? Maybe I should ask him that too.

So I waited, sticking to the shadows of the courtyard as time ticked past, watching the figures of Agents and Intels move through the glass windows of the building.

And finally, he walked out.

Hovering behind a lamp post, I didn't blink, even as he stopped in the middle of the pavement, adjusting the tie of his suit as he cleared his throat. He knew I was there. I didn't care. I'd been avoiding him since that night in the trailer park, and he knew I was still mad about what he'd done, but he knew he'd see me again at one point.

"You can't keep calling on me when you're bored, Ash," he said, his eyes fixed on me, "we shouldn't be like this."

I scoffed under my breath. "Don't be hypocritical."

"Excuse me?"

"I can call on you whenever I want, because you always show up anyways," I frowned, "and besides, I just want to get a good look at a man who'll die tomorrow."

He didn't say anything, shoving his hands into his pockets and taking a slow step towards me.

Just like the first time we met, he wore an arrogant expression that made him seem like he was better than everyone else. It didn't work on me—I had seen the person he truly was underneath—so I knew better than to believe anything he did. My heart squeezed with hatred.

I hated everything about him, because he was completely and utterly incapable of being a person with value. He did nothing but stand there like a poised cardboard cut out, and I was growing tired of toying around with him. It was getting repetitive—fight, argue, chase after each other, escape, start all over again—and I was beginning to think we forgot the real reason we were here.

"I don't believe you," he asked, crossing his arms against his chest as he leaned against the metal doorway, "why are you really here?"

I shrugged. "Does there have to be a reason?"

"There's always a reason."

"Give me a good one then," I said, "why do you think?"

"Honestly? I think it's because you have no one else to call."

Those words hit me like a stake to the heart. I wondered if he really meant it, or if he was purposely using the knowledge that my parents didn't care for me as a weapon. Both options were sick.

"Take that back," I spat out, stepping out from the shadows.

He narrowed his eyes. "Why should I take back the truth?"

"I told you to take it back," I grimaced, whipping out my knife, "I don't care what the hell you think of me, but I don't need your damn pity, Partridge."

"So you admit you're lonely?"

"Shut the hell up."

I saw something flicker in his eyes when I held out my dagger, and I knew he was remembering the recent past. The scar I cut into his cheek was still there, red and raw in the dim haze we stood in, a mark of ownership from me. It was supposed to make him scared of me, but he didn't seem to get the message. He kept talking.

"No, it makes perfect sense," he said, cocking a brow, "you've been calling me hypocritical, when this entire time it was you who couldn't let me go."

I clenched my jaw. "Watch what you say to me."

"You'd message me late at night, because you were lonely, isn't that right?"

"I told you to watch what you say."

"Who would have thought?" He laughed under his breath, "the small-minded [y/n] Ash tried to show the world who she was, but they just went back to forgetting she existed."

And in that moment, I couldn't believe I ever thought there was anything but hate for him. He was spiteful, he was terrible, and maybe those strange moments I thought were the start of something different, were really just lies. I played mind games with him, and he played them back.

"Does it hurt to be forgotten?" He continued, taking another step forward.

My heart stung. "Stop it."

"You'll always be alone, Ash, because that's all you know."

"I told you to stop!" I yelled, lunging at him.

My knife was gripped in my hand, and I had my eyes on his heart as I attempted to strike. The things he said—no, none of it was true, it couldn't be true—it made me want to rip the world into pieces until there was nothing left.

Swiftly dodging my attack, Louis rolled his eyes, grabbing my wrist and pulling me back in front of him. He had snatched the dagger out of my hand before I could regain my balance.

"I know you, [y/n]," he said, throwing the weapon off to the side, "I know how you fight now."

I ignored him, grabbing the collar of his shirt and shoving him up against the wall of a nearby building. He didn't resist.

"Fight me like the Agent you are, Partridge," I spat out, anger seeping out of my soul, "don't be a damn coward."

"Was that supposed to hurt me?" He said, cocking a brow, "I can take an insult, unlike you."

"Fight me," I said again through gritted teeth.

There was a moment where he looked like he wanted to shake his head, but then something flickered in his eyes. I recognized it immediately. It was the look of arrogance I had seen on him since the first second we met. A part of me missed the glimmer in his eyes, but hated it all the same. He'd grown to be so dull, acting like a statue of morals and peace, but I didn't want that.

I loved it when we fought.

And I wanted him to fight again.

I just needed to push the right buttons, and thankfully I knew them all. I saw the jealousy in his eyes whenever I brought up his partner. It was questionable of intent, but it was true. I'd use it.

"This is why I always liked William better than you," I said, letting go of his collar, "he wouldn't hesitate, because he's better than you'll ever be."

Louis' eyes darkened. "You'll regret saying that, Ash."

"You can't make me regret anything," I spat out, turning on my heels, "you're a waste of time, Partridge."

I was ready to leave him standing in the street alone, isolated in a way that he deserved, but it seemed my last words set off the bomb in the man's brain. I saw it ticking away in there, waiting for the right thing to set it off, and it did.

Grabbing the back of my shirt, he pulled me backwards, wrapping his arm around my neck when I crashed against his chest. He was fighting again. Even though he was attempting to knock me out through a Choke Out, I couldn't help but smile in amusement. I got what I wanted.

"Don't you ever compare me to William again," he said sharply, his lips right beside my ear, "you hear me?"

I smirked. "Loud and clear."

Grabbing the side of his arm, I used the force of my body to push him off me, freeing my throat from nearly suffocating. Louis stumbled back, and I didn't hesitate to send my fist flying into his cheekbone at the first chance I had. Right in the mouth.

But he only laughed at that, lifting his finger up to his tongue to sense the bitter taste of blood.

"Weak punch," he said, "barely made a cut."

"Then why are you bleeding?"

"Why doesn't it hurt?"

"Because you pretend it doesn't," I seethed, "you always think you're better than everyone else, don't you, Partridge."

I went for another punch, but he caught my fist in his hand and moved it off to the side.

"That's because I am better than everyone else," he said.

And before I could think up a quick-witted response, he grabbed my waist, used his hand to break my standing, and flipped me onto the cold pavement beneath him. The back of my head nearly smashed against the concrete, but I caught myself before it happened.

I found myself staring into hazel-eyes for a split second.

Just like last time.

"Do you really hate me, Darling?" He asked, "tell me the truth."

I kneed him in the gut. "I call you Darling."

But this time he seemed to be prepared, because even though I sent my knee crashing into his stomach, he didn't flinch. He didn't falter his grip. He just hovered above me, smirking.

Lifting my hand, I tried to throw another hit towards him, but he caught it again. He always did. I expected him to use it against me in whatever way he could, trying to get an advantage in the fight, but he didn't.

Instead, in the sweltering air of London, he stopped.

He stopped fighting, his eyes trained onto mine as he tried to catch his breath.

"What are you doing, Partridge?" I scowled, "tired?"

He didn't respond, and instead just stared at me more. I hated his expression—it was something I hadn't seen before, and I couldn't read it.

"So you give up?" I spat out, "I thought you were better than this, Louis."

"Ash," he said sharply.

"Bloody coward, I always knew you were never up for it."

"Ash, stop talking."

"Pathetic as usual, Partridge, you just never change do you—"

Before I could finish my sentence, his hand was on the back of my neck, and his lips crashed against mine like the clash of two planets. I felt like my brain had exploded into bits, and I couldn't move my body. All I could do was feel; feel the way his hands slid against the nape of my neck and into the strands of my hair, and feel the way he pressed our mouths together like it was the one thing he'd been waiting for this whole time.

Had he been waiting for it?

Was I waiting for it?

It wasn't until he pulled away that I realized I was frozen still. I hadn't kissed back, mainly because I was in complete and utter shock, and the dim in his eyes told me he thought it was because he crossed a dangerous line.

And he did.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I don't—I, I'm so sorry—"

But I didn't care.

"Louis," I said, pulling him back, "just shut the hell up."

I didn't want to think any more, I just wanted to feel alive. I wanted to feel the way he felt against me, because it was like lighting the last match in the world. I felt like I'd never get the chance to burn again. So I let myself forget the world around me, and I let myself break the rules that separated us. I kept kissing him.

But when he flipped me onto my back, I rolled my eyes. I never liked it when he was above me, because I knew his arrogant mind would make him think he was better than me.

"I still hate you," I reminded him, pulling away.

He smirked. "If this is what hate is, I don't mind it at all."

And for the first time, I felt the fire that fueled my anger burn out, and I was left with nothing but happiness. Bliss. Peace. Something I couldn't describe.

I hadn't felt that in a long time.