He spun on his heel and watched her slowly exit the car. She was dripping wet, soaked from the rain, and the moisture seemed to amplify her scent, until it hit him like hurricane.

She was cold - almost shivering with chills - and seemed miserable, her steps laden, and her normally graceful gait stiff. She was hunched over to the side, as if the weight of her luggage was dragging her down.

He must have made a sound because she suddenly glanced behind her. And when she noticed him standing in the stairwell, the smile she greeted him with lit up her face. As if his mere presence was enough to lift the gloom clinging to her.

"Matthew," she said, her voice warm and light. "Hi."

She turned to face him fully, water dripping from the ends of her hair onto the faded carpet underfoot. "Are you coming or going...?" she asked, cocking her head to stare at him in confusion.

He didn't blame her. He was frozen half-in, half-out of the doorway, gazing at her like a moron. He just couldn't quite believe she was here all of a sudden.

As if his thoughts earlier had conjured her.

He shook himself out of his stupor. "Um, coming," he lied, stepping into the hallway and allowing the door to swing shut behind him. He wasn't about to pass up this chance to talk to her.

"You seem awfully dry," she teased.

"Where have you been?" he blurted, trying to deflect her question. And because it was the mystery that had been driving him insane this past week.

She frowned at his accusatory tone. "What?"

He tried to sound more nonchalant. "It's just, you, um, haven't been around for a while..."

"Oh. I met up with some people I knew from school. Took a kind of...spontaneous vacation."

He studied her heartbeat. Her breathing. Both were steady.

There was no spike of adrenaline, no sweat beading on her skin. No signs of a lie.

She was telling the truth. She'd been on vacation.

Fucking vacation.

"Oh," he replied, following her as she walked slowly to her door. "Did you have fun?" he asked, at a loss for what else to say.

"Yes, actually. More than I expected. Got to catch up with old friends. Stayed in a lovely hotel. Drank too much."

Truth.

She hitched her bag up on her shoulder while she fished in her pocket for her keys. A tiny hiss of pain escaped her lips at the movement. A barely audible sound...but one that gave her away.

She was hurt.

He tilted his head, studying her closely while she unlocked her door. Beneath her perfume, and the damp rain soaking her clothes, he could smell a trace of copper in the air. It emanated from her right shoulder.

There was a wound there. One held together by sutures - he could hear the nylon fibres rubbing against the overlying bandage. There was also a patch of heat along her right flank and left thigh, where blood had pooled beneath the surface of her skin and deep within the muscles underneath.

Bruises. Lot of bruises.

More across the front of her throat, hidden beneath her scarf. The outline of a hand. No, two hands. Another over her jaw, covered by a chemical-smelling concealer.

And the scent of gunpowder lingered over her hands...

He jerked his head back in shock, his mouth snapping closed.

What the fuck had happened to her?

"Are you okay?" she asked, and he realised she was staring at him again.

"Um, yeah. Sorry. Are you okay?"

"What do you mean?"

I mean that you've been beaten and strangled!, Matt wanted to yell. But as much as he was desperate for answers, he couldn't exactly let her know that he could sense the wounds covering her battered body. So he opted for a different truth. "Um, I can hear your teeth chattering. You sound like you're freezing."

She laughed. "Yeah, I got soaked in the rain and probably resemble a drowned rat at the moment. I can't wait to jump in the shower and warm up."

It was a not-so-subtle hint that she wanted to get inside her apartment now, thank you very much. So Matt let her go. "Goodnight, then. It was, uh, nice to see you again."

She smiled. "You too." Then closed the door in his face.

———

Matt stood in the hallway for another few seconds, contemplating whether to go to Fogwell's as planned...or stay and listen for more clues as to what the fuck was going on with his neighbour.

It wasn't really a choice. He had to know more.

The time for 'benefit of the doubt' was over.

And all ethical considerations about invasion of privacy and spying were out the window now, as far as he was concerned. Either she was a criminal of some kind, in which case he needed to know in order to protect the people in his building...

Or she was a victim, in which case he needed to know in order to protect her.

He let himself back into his apartment and dropped his bag and raincoat on the floor. Then he leaned his back against his door and listened.

He heard her drop her own bag and shrug out of her jacket, the soaked leather slopping onto the hardwood floor. She kicked off her boots, the heavy-souled shoes making a thud as they landed. She rubbed her goose-bumped arms as she walked across the floor to the thermostat. He heard the click as she pressed the buttons to control the heating, but there was no whoosh of gas and flame as the boiler kicked in.

"No, no, no," he heard her mutter as she tried again.

Still nothing.

She quickly moved to the bathroom and twisted the dial for the shower. The water rushed through the pipes and through the shower-head, but no warmth rose from the stream. She put her hand under the flow, and groaned at the feel of the freezing cold liquid.

She had no heating.

No hot water.

He remembered the unopened bills he'd found the other day when he and Jessica had searched the apartment. Had one of them been a gas bill?

Obviously thinking the same thing, he heard her yank open the drawer containing the discarded mail. Then the tear as she opened the envelope. Followed by another groan. Louder this time. She stomped her bare foot on the ground. "Damn it, Calina. You call yourself smart, but you can't remember to pay the utility bill?"

She stood still for a few moments, obviously weighing her options.

Then she grabbed the bag she'd dropped earlier, opened the door to her apartment...

...and took the few steps across the hall to his.

———

Matthew answered on the third knock.

He was still wearing the faded, worn-in sweats and hoodie from before. The clothes looked wonderfully soft and rumpled...and warm.

He looked so warm.

And she was freezing her ass off.

Calina grasped her bag tighter with her almost-numb hands and greeted the man at the door for the second time tonight. "Hi. Again. I, uh, need a really big favour."

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"My apartment has no heating or hot water, and I'm, uh, about to die of hypothermia. Do you think I could maybe, um-" her voice choked off as a violent shiver raced through her body, jolting all her sore, bruised muscles at once.

She'd been exaggerating about the hypothermia...but she really did need to get warm and dry soon.

"Hey," he reached out to grasp her arm gently, pulling her into his apartment. "Come here." He rubbed his hands briskly over her chilled skin. "You really are freezing."

She nodded.

"Are you nodding?"

"Yes. S-s-sorry."

He smiled. "That's okay. Come on, let's get you warmed up."

He led her into the apartment, and she got her first look at his home. "Wow, this place is m-much bigger than m-m-mine."

"I'm sure yours is much nicer. I'm not exactly known for my decorating skills."

Neither was she. Her place wasn't really decorated, as much as it was just filled with random stuff. A throw pillow that she'd found in a market stall, the graphic pattern having caught her eye as she'd browsed; a mug with a picture of a corgi on it that had made her smile; clothes that she'd bought online that were now bulging out of her small closet. She was slowly surrounding herself with things that she liked, but her place didn't feel like a home yet.

Maybe one day it would.

"But my hot water works, if you want to take a shower," he continued, guiding her to the bathroom.

"Yes, p-please," she said.

He stepped back to let her enter the small room. "Take as long as you need. The towels are under the sink."

She paused on the threshold, suddenly feeling...shy?

She'd acted the part of the coy ingenue many times when the mission called for it. She knew how to fake the nervous laugh and the bashful looks, she'd just never actually felt it.

She was comfortable with her body. And she was not a virgin, by any stretch. As part of her infiltration work she'd often had to get...close...to people in order to gain their trust. To slyly pull down their walls and expose their secrets.

And nothing did that better than sex.

But she'd somehow managed to compartmentalise those encounters as separate from her true self. She - Calina - hadn't seduced the Danish Prime Minister's son, that had been her cover, the British exchange student Eloise Parker. Calina hadn't formed a relationship with the art dealer in Paris, that had been Petra Muller, the free-spirited photographer from Germany. Calina hadn't dated the SWORD agent, or the tech entrepreneur, or the CDC doctor - her different personas had. All as part of various missions. And all based on commands that she couldn't refuse.

But Calina was a novice when it came to the opposite sex. And faced with the prospect of undressing in the home of the man she was attracted to, in his darkened apartment, late at night, she was hit by an acute sense of vulnerability.

"Are you okay? Do you need something?" Matthew asked softly.

"I-I'm okay," she replied. And this time her stuttering had nothing to do with the cold.

She had no idea how to deal with her attraction to this man.

———

Matt made himself busy as the shower spluttered to life in the other room. He needed to distract himself from the sounds that were coming through the wall - too close and too loud for him to fully block out.

The splat of wet fabric hitting the tiled floor.

The gentle snick of a bra clasp.

The rasp of cotton underwear trailing down damp skin.

Shit. Stop it!

He shook his head and padded across to the radiator under the windows, making sure it was warm enough. Then he headed into the kitchen. He grabbed a pan and starting heating up some milk on the stove, then hunted in his cupboards for the tin of hot chocolate.

As he waited for the milk to warm, he snatched a beer out of the fridge and drank half the bottle in one gulp.

Don't listen, he warned himself, and don't even think about what's happening ten feet away...

Think about the fact that she disappeared for a week, and returned smelling like gunpowder and pain.

Think about the fact that she's lying about who she really is.

The hypocrisy wasn't lost on Matt. He hid his true nature from most of the world, and guarded his secrets carefully. But it didn't stop his need to know what Calina was hiding. It was one of the reasons he'd invited her into his home, despite the risks it posed if she turned out to be more villain than victim.

But only one of the reasons. The other had been her obvious misery as she'd stood shivering and wet on his doorstep.

He was cautious. Suspicious.

But he wasn't made of stone.

He'd just finished the second half of his beer when the bathroom door opened and a cloud of steam emerged. "Hey," he called, holding up his now empty drink. "Can I get you one of these, or I have some hot chocolate on the go if you'd prefer."

"Hot chocolate?"

"Yeah. No marshmallows or whipped cream, I'm afraid, but it'll help warm you up."

"I'll try the hot chocolate, please. But first..."

As her voice trailed off, he concentrated on her properly. Her hair was still wet, but smoothed back off her face to form a sleek veil reaching her mid back. Her skin temperature was no longer that of an ice cube, despite the lack of clothing...because she was wearing nothing but a towel.

And without the barrier of her clothes, her bruises stood out to him even more.

She was covered in them.

His fist clenched as he imagined the fight that must have ensued to cause those marks.

She took a few steps closer and he tried to school his face into a polite mask. "What do you need?" he asked.

She held up a white adhesive bandage. "I have a cut on my shoulder. The old bandage got wet and I can't quite reach to put this on. Would you mind...?"

"Sure," he said. "No problem."

He took the bandage from her and sat his bottle down on the countertop. She stepped closer, then turned, offering her back. He gently placed his left hand on her right shoulder, then ran his fingers across the nape of her neck, sweeping the thick, damp mass of her hair out of the way with the side of his palm. He felt her swallow sharply.

He moved his hand to carefully outline the area of stitches. It was a small cut, barely an inch wide. But it felt deep. Really deep. There were disposable sutures below the ones he could feel holding her muscle together.

"What happened?" he asked, as he carefully placed the fresh bandage over the top.

"Stupid drunken accident," she murmured. "I fell on a bottle and it broke."

Truth

But no, it wasn't the truth. This wasn't from broken glass. He knew all about wounds. Glass was jagged, and relatively blunt. It tore the skin as much as it cut through it. This wound was neat, the edges crisp.

She'd been struck by a knife, he was absolutely certain of it. And not just nicked or slashed.

She'd been stabbed. With force.

But the lie had tripped so easily across her tongue. There hadn't been a hint of dishonesty in her voice. No change in her breathing or pulse. Nothing to give her away.

She'd lied to him - straight to his face - and it had felt like the truth.

And that worried the hell out of him.

How could he trust anything she said, when he was blind to her lies?

He frowned as he smoothed the tape down, keeping the bandage in place. As he did so, his fingers swept over her spine...and her breath hitched. Goosebumps broke out on her soft skin, and she clutched the towel over her chest tighter in response.

Interesting.

So she could control her body when she lied, but not when she was touched. That suggested she was used to one a lot more than the other.

Something to think about another time - when she wasn't half naked in front of him.

With the dressing in place, he stepped away. "That, uh, must have hurt."

She shrugged. "I didn't feel it at the time. Too much vodka in my system." She looked over her shoulder. "Thank you, Matthew."

"Matt," he replied. "Call me, Matt."

———

Calina cradled the warm mug in her hands, and inhaled the lovely rich cocoa smell. She took an experimental sip and nearly moaned at the delicious taste. Why had she never tried hot chocolate before? All the times she'd indulged in flavoured lattes and frothy macchiatos at the Hideout, she'd never thought to try hot chocolate - she assumed it was just for children.

Even if that was the case, she'd be ordering them all the time now.

She curled her legs up onto the couch and burrowed further under the blanket that had been draped over the arm, careful not to jostle her drink. "Are you still cold?" Matthew asked.

Matthew.

Not Matt.

It didn't feel right to call him that. It was the name his friends used. The nickname that implied affection and trust and closeness.

She didn't deserve to call him that. Not when she was constantly lying to him.

And not when he looked at her sometimes with so much wariness and scepticism on his face. He suspected something was off with her - and she couldn't say she was surprised. She was finding it so difficult to stick to her cover story around him. She couldn't seem to sell the image of the vapid, aimless party girl.

Because she didn't want to.

She didn't want him to think of her like that. She wanted him to know Calina. The real Calina. The former mind-controlled spy/assassin/covert operative who was trying to find her place in the world.

But it was a pipe dream. She couldn't let anyone know who she really was. Especially a righteous, upstanding lawyer like Matthew, who might feel ethically and legally bound to report her for breaking the Sokovia Accords.

Besides, she'd only known him a month. No matter how much she felt she could trust him - and she did, despite the secrets of his own that he was obviously hiding - she needed to be careful. She'd promised the other Widows when she'd left that she wouldn't jeopardise their safety.

"A little," she answered. She'd changed into the comfiest, warmest clothes she could find in her luggage - a loose pair of jeans and sweater - but she had packed for Korea and the South Carolina coast. Not for a freakishly cold early autumn night in New York. "But I'll be okay. I'll finish my drink and then get out of your hair."

He took a seat on the armchair across from her, the neck of his second bottle of beer held loosely between two of his fingers. "Your apartment won't be any warmer than it was before. Just stay here tonight."

She bit her lip, feeling conflicted. She didn't want to return to her frigid, empty apartment. She liked his home. Yes, it was sparse and masculine and dark, but the gentle yellow glow that spilled through the arched windows gave it a sun-tinged warmth. The lived-in furniture was comfortable, and the heating actually worked.

Above all that, she liked spending time with the man opposite her.

But she wasn't used to accepting so much help. He barely knew her - was suspicious of her - but he had opened his home to her, asking nothing in return. That display of kindness was so alien to anything she'd ever known.

"I don't know...," she replied. "I don't want to be an imposition-"

"You're not, Calina. Just stay."

"Okay," she whispered. "Thank you. I know I've been saying that a lot tonight, but I really am grateful."

"It's my pleasure. Now let me get you something warmer to wear."

He placed his beer on the coffee table and walked towards his bedroom. For such a solidly-built man, he was surprisingly light on his feet, barely making a sound as he moved across the hardwood floor.

She sipped her drink as he rummaged in his wardrobe. He returned moments later with a large navy blue hoodie and a pair of thick socks. "Try these," he said.

"Thank you," she said automatically, and laughed.

"My pleasure," he repeated with a smile. His foot knocked against her bag as he made his way back to his chair.

"Oh, I'm sorry, let me move that." She reached down to grab the handles, but he beat her to it. He picked up the bag and shifted it onto the cushion next to her.

He grunted at the unexpected weight. "Did you bring home a bunch of bricks as a souvenir?"

She laughed. "No, its mostly filled with books."

"The ones you got from the library?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied. "And others." She'd found a used bookstore by the bus depot and had spent the hour before her departure browsing the shelves and choosing what to buy. She'd came away with a stack of trashy romances, crime thrillers and fantasy books, hoping to discover what kind of fiction she liked. She'd intended to start one of them on the bus home, but she'd peaked inside the astronomy text that she'd gotten from the library and had become hooked on that instead. "I was reading one on the journey back to New York."

"What's it about?"

"The physics of a theoretical framework called 'string theory'."

———

Matt blinked. That hadn't been the answer he was expecting. He thought she'd meant a novel, not a scientific text on...whatever that was. "String theory?"

"Yeah, the book's called The Elegant Universe. It posits that reality is made up of these tiny, infinitesimal strings - smaller than atoms and electrons - and when they vibrate they effect changes on the space around them. Some theoretical physicists think that string theory could unite the frameworks that underpin general relativity and quantum mechanics. You see, Einstein..."

As she talked she became more and more animated. The blanket slipped from her shoulders as she leaned forward to espouse about about gravitons and dimensions and black holes in an excited voice.

It was the most he'd ever heard her talk.

And it told him three things:

Firstly, that she was smart. Really smart. She was distilling complex mathematical concepts into layman's terms, after having only read about them a few hours ago.

Secondly, her backstory was a great heaping pile of bullshit. Someone with this much enthusiasm for learning and knowledge wouldn't have wasted her time in college partying and getting drunk.

And finally...he was attracted to her.

It may have started as pure chemistry. An uncontrollable physical reaction to a pleasing scent. But it was more than that now. He'd discovered an intelligent, passionate women beneath that superficial beauty...and he'd always had a weakness for those.

But he also had a weakness for morally questionable women. And he couldn't afford to get embroiled with another Elektra.

He needed to keep his distance from this one.

Luckily, a sudden yawn interrupted her explanation of Bosonic strings, providing him with the excuse to cut the evening short. "You must be exhausted after your journey."

"Yeah, 14 hours on a Greyhound was not fun."

"You took the Greyhound? Are you a masochist?"

She laughed. "I must be."

He stood up and gathered his beer bottle, downing the dregs of the liquid in the bottom. "Let me grab a pillow, then the bedroom's all yours."

She shook her head sharply. "No, I can't take your bed. You've already done so much tonight. The couch is fine."

"But you've been stuck on a bus for most of the day-"

"Which means I'm already stiff and sore," she interjected. "A night on the couch won't make a difference."

"I insist-"

"I insist harder."

He could tell by the firm tone of her voice that there would be no persuading her. "Okay."

"Okay," she agreed.

He grabbed a pillow from his room - and a couple of extra blankets for good measure - and started assembling a makeshift bed on the couch. As he did, she slipped on the clothes he'd brought her earlier. The sweatshirt swamped her thin frame, but she didn't seem to mind. She pulled the cuffs over her hands over her hands and wriggled her toes in the thick socks.

Trying to ignore the fact that she was wearing his clothes, he stepped away from the couch. "Goodnight, then," he said. "I'll see you in the morning."

"See you in the morning."

But he didn't.

He emerged from his room the next morning to an empty apartment and a neatly folded pile of blankets...with a scrap of paper resting on top.

He picked up the piece of paper - a page torn from an old book, judging by the smell - and swiped his fingers over it, wondering why she had left it. He frowned as he felt dozens of tiny holes that had been punched through the page. But his frown quickly disappeared as he realised what he was holding.

It was a note.

He flipped it over and traced his finger over the back of the holes, where the jagged edges of the punctured paper formed a message...

A message in Braille.