Breakdown Ch 05 12

CHAPTER FIVE: The Unmasking

Part I - James

"You don't dress like a metalhead."

Morrigan's voice cut through the alley like a flick of a knife--quiet, smooth, deliberate.

James glanced over at her, unsure if it was a challenge or a statement of fact. Maybe both.

"No," he said. "I guess I don't."

She took a drag, eyes never leaving him.

"You don't look like one either."

He exhaled slowly, letting the words settle instead of scrambling to defend himself. This wasn't some drunk stranger at a bar. This was her.

And he wanted to answer her.

"I used to think about it a lot," he said. "About how I should look, what I should wear. Thought maybe if I wore the right shit, people would take me seriously."

Morrigan didn't say a word. Just watched, smoke curling around her like a veil.

"But I never went all in," he admitted. "Never dyed my hair. Never pierced anything. No tattoos. No spikes. No band shirts plastered all over me."

She raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

James leaned back against the wall, the chill of the brick soaking through his jacket.

"I didn't want to be labeled," he said. "Didn't want to be the guy people looked at and thought, oh, he must be angry, he must be broken, he must be one of them."

He let out a humorless laugh.

"I already felt like an outsider. I didn't want to look like one too."

He paused, thumb rubbing the edge of his lighter.

"And my job doesn't exactly make it easy to show up in a battle vest and boots."

Morrigan flicked ash to the ground. "What do you do?"

He glanced at her, then back out at the alley wall.

"I'm a junior partner at a law firm."

She raised an eyebrow, just slightly.

"That's... unexpected."

He shrugged, downplaying it. "Clean-cut pays the bills."

She was impressed. She didn't say it--but he could see it in the way her eyes narrowed, just for a second. The tiniest flicker of surprise before her face settled back into that unreadable smirk.

"So I stayed quiet," James continued. "Kept the music in my headphones. Kept it to myself. Let people think I was just some average guy. Easier that way."

He looked over at her, half-expecting a smirk. A jab. A joke.

But she was still. Listening.

And that made it easier to go on.

"It was like--if I didn't look the part, maybe I wouldn't be treated like the stereotype," he said. "You know? The burnout. The weirdo. The freak. I didn't want to be stared at. I didn't want to be laughed at behind my back."

She nodded once. Not in pity. Not in approval. Just noted.

James swallowed. "But eventually, I started to feel like I was hiding something that mattered to me. Something that made me feel alive. And I hated that more than being judged."

Another pause.

Morrigan crushed her cigarette under her heel with a slow twist, then pulled out another. Lit it in silence.

He didn't interrupt her.

She took a long drag, exhaled, then asked, "So why now?"

James tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

"Why this show? Why tonight?"

He didn't answer right away. Just stared at the end of her cigarette, watching the ember flare and dim like a heartbeat.

"Because I was tired of being invisible," he said finally. "And I was hoping maybe someone else would see me."

She looked at him again, and this time the silence felt heavier. Measured.

And then, finally:

"I see you."

Three words.

That was all she gave.

But to James, it felt like everything.

Part II -- Morrigan

She'd seen the vest when he walked in.

Worn denim. Black. Faded patches, rough stitches. Not a poser's piece. A real one--used, lived-in. That vest didn't scream for attention. It meant something.

So when she told him he didn't look like a metalhead, it wasn't a lie.

It was a test.

Because yeah, he had the vest. But everything else? Neatly cut hair. Clean face. No ink. No chains. He wore it all quiet, like armor turned inward. Like he didn't want anyone to ask why he wore it in the first place.

That intrigued her.

So she asked.

And he gave her more than most ever did.

He didn't flinch. Didn't deflect. Just talked.

"I didn't want to be labeled," he said. "Didn't want to be the guy people looked at and thought, oh, he must be angry, he must be broken, he must be one of them."

Morrigan exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching it drift into the alley air. His words hit harder than she expected.

"I already felt like an outsider," he continued. "I didn't want to look like one too."

That one dug in. She didn't flinch, but it rattled something in her chest anyway.

"And my job doesn't exactly make it easy to show up in a battle vest and boots."

She glanced at him, tone casual. "What do you do?"

He hesitated--barely--but then answered.

"I'm a junior partner at a law firm."

Morrigan blinked once, letting that settle.

A fucking lawyer?

She didn't let it show. Just took another drag like it was nothing.

But it wasn't nothing.

It was impressive. Not the title--she didn't give a shit about that--but the way he said it. No ego. No brag. Just truth.

A guy like him, with that body and that face, and he had a brain too?

She should've felt threatened.

Instead, she felt her thighs press together.

"Unexpected," she said lightly, flicking ash toward the curb.

He shrugged like it didn't mean much. "Clean-cut pays the bills."

She didn't laugh, didn't compliment him. But inside, her mind was spinning--rewriting the assumptions she'd made about him the second she saw the boots and vest.

A lawyer.

And not some smug, cocky prick about it, either.

Just... real.

He wasn't telling her this to impress her. He wasn't flexing or fishing.

He was just peeling something back.

That was rare.

And a little dangerous.

She listened as he talked about keeping the music tucked close, not flaunted. About keeping his love for the scene private because it felt sacred, not performative.

He didn't want to prove he belonged.

He just wanted to feel like he did.

And then he said it.

"I was hoping someone else would see me."

Morrigan blinked. Slow. Controlled. But inside, something shifted.

Recognition. Unwelcome. Sharp.

She didn't like that feeling.

She'd built herself to be unseen unless she wanted to be. She knew how to take attention, to own it, bend it, crush it if necessary--but this?

This was someone offering it.

Quietly. Earnestly.

And the worst part?

She understood it.

More than she wanted to admit.

She smoked slower. Focused on the taste, the burn. Anything to keep her grounded while her pulse clawed its way a little higher.

She could've left it there.

Could've said nothing, flicked the conversation away like ash.

But she didn't.

"I see you."

The words came out level. Smooth. But she felt them hit like a fist to the ribs.

James turned to look at her. She didn't meet his gaze.

Couldn't. Not right away.

She was always the one who looked. Who saw. Who chose.

Letting him feel seen--genuinely--wasn't something she did.

But she had.

And that scared her more than it should have.

She pulled a drag, slower this time. Exhaled like it meant nothing.

But inside?

She hated how true it had felt.

Not because she regretted saying it.

But because she knew it meant something.

Because Morrigan didn't give pieces of herself.

She took.

But right now, standing in this grimy alley with smoke in her lungs and truth bleeding out of her mouth, she knew she'd just given him a piece anyway.

And maybe... maybe she wasn't sure she wanted it back.

CHAPTER SIX: Pressure and Pulse

Part I -- James

James didn't know how close two people could stand without touching before the tension became a living thing.

But this had to be it.

The alley was cold, but he barely felt it. Every nerve in his body was lit up, skin prickling under his jacket like she'd already run her hands over him--even though she hadn't.

Not even once.

She'd said she saw him.

And now she was waiting.

Testing him.

He watched the way she smoked, slow and lazy, like the cigarette was just an excuse to have something between her lips. Her eyes never left him. Not entirely. They drifted, sure--but always came back. Tracking. Studying.

It wasn't just attraction.

It was sizing up prey.

James didn't shrink from it.

He leaned into it.

"So," he said, keeping his voice low, steady, "is this usually how it goes?"

Morrigan cocked a brow. "How what goes?"

"You find a guy. Stare through his skull. Peel him open in a back alley. Then disappear before he figures out if he's being seduced or interrogated."

A slow smile crept across her lips.

"Who says it can't be both?"

His throat went dry, but he didn't let it show.

"You planning to disappear?"

"Maybe."

"You always this cruel?"

Her smirk deepened. "You always this slow?"

The breath caught in his chest.

He stepped forward--not close enough to close the gap, but enough to feel the air shift between them. Her eyes tracked him like crosshairs. She didn't step back. Didn't even blink.

He swallowed.

"What do you want from me?"

She tilted her head like a curious animal. "That's the wrong question."

"Yeah?" he asked. "What's the right one?"

She took another drag. Exhaled through her nose. "What do you want from me?"

James held her gaze, pulse pounding.

"I think," he said, voice barely audible, "I want to know how long you can keep this up."

"Keep what up?" she asked, lips curved just slightly.

"This. The teasing. The heat. The way you circle like you're going to pounce--but don't."

She blew smoke out the side of her mouth. "You think I'm teasing?"

"I think," he said, stepping just slightly closer, "you know exactly what you're doing."

She didn't respond right away.

And then--she laughed.

Low. Dark. Delicious.

"Oh, James," she murmured. "You have no idea."

She leaned in--not touching, not even brushing--but close enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek.

And then she whispered:

"I'm not circling."

His breath hitched.

"I'm watching."

Another beat.

"And when I decide to take something, I don't ask."

Then she leaned back, cool as ever, like she hadn't just melted him where he stood.

James exhaled through his nose, heart trying to punch through his ribs.

"Then what are you waiting for?" he asked.

Her grin was wicked. "For you to beg."

He chuckled, heat pulsing low in his gut.

"That's never gonna happen."

"Mm," she hummed, finishing her cigarette and flicking the butt to the concrete. "We'll see."

The tension didn't drop.

It tightened.

James stayed where he was, the space between them thinner than breath. The only thing louder than the silence was the drumbeat of his own pulse.

She didn't move.

Neither did he.

But everything in him wanted to.

And maybe--just maybe--that's exactly what she wanted too.

Part II -- Morrion of his jaw where his mouth wanted to move but digan

He was cracking.

Not breaking. Not shattering. Cracking--just enough to let the heat pour through.

Morrigan could see it in the way James stood. That perfect stillness that came not from calm,

but from restraint. From the pressure building behind his eyes, in his chest, in the low tensidn't dare without purpose.

He didn't touch her.

Smart.

Because if he had, she wasn't sure whether she'd slap him... or pull him closer.

And that uncertainty?

That was the real thrill.

He'd started to get bold. Asking questions. Tossing challenges like matches, trying to see which one would light her up. She admired that. Most men folded under her stare. He was standing taller, even as she peeled him apart.

"So," he'd said, cool and curious, "is this how it usually goes?"

Morrigan had let him dance through the rest of the words. The flirting. The challenge. She didn't interrupt. She let the rope unspool.

And then she tugged.

Who says it can't be both?

That was when he leaned in.

Just a little.

But she felt it.

He didn't get too close. Still no touch. Not a single finger, not a brush of fabric. But she could feel the shift in the air between them. Like a current humming between two wires, vibrating just shy of a spark.

He asked what she wanted.

Wrong question.

She flipped it. And his answer?

Exactly what she'd hoped for.

"I think I want to know how long you can keep this up."

She could've laughed right there, but she didn't.

Instead, she fed it back to him in doses--heat coiled behind careful words.

"You think I'm teasing?"

She wasn't.

She was hunting.

Morrigan moved in, just enough for her breath to kiss his skin, and whispered the truth. That she wasn't circling.

She was watching.

And when she wanted something?

She took it.

Always had.

Always would.

But him?

James was different.

She didn't know what exactly had made her hold back. Maybe the look in his eyes--equal parts fire and ache. Maybe the way he carried himself--this quiet strength layered over a boy who didn't yet know how much power he actually had.

Or maybe it was the way he didn't beg.

Not yet.

But God, she could taste how close he was.

She told him as much.

Said she was waiting for it. Watching him wind tighter, his breath coming shallow, his hands still buried in his jacket pockets like they were the only thing keeping him from unraveling.

And then he'd said:

"That's never gonna happen."

It almost made her laugh.

So she said, "We'll see."

And they stood there in the alley. Silent. Frozen. And yet--

Boiling.

Every second ticked by like a drop of hot wax sliding down skin. The urge to move. To touch. To claim something already within reach--it was all there. Thick in the air. Tangling between them like smoke.

She didn't move.

He didn't either.

But she saw the flicker in his eyes.

The flash of what he wanted.

And what he was holding back.

It was intoxicating.

So she let it hang.

She didn't chase. She didn't offer.

She just was.

And if he wanted more?

He'd have to survive the burn.

HAPTER SEVEN: Strike the Match

Part I -- James

He wasn't ready for her to move.

He'd grown used to her stillness--coiled, calculating, always in control. But when Morrigan pushed off the wall, her boot echoing sharp against the concrete, everything inside James froze.

She didn't say a word.

She just moved.

Fast.

The next thing he knew, his back was slammed against the brick, hard enough to punch the breath out of him. The impact was rough--jarring--but not cruel. It wasn't violence. It was possession.

Her hands were flat against his chest, pinning him in place. Her body pressed to his, curves molding to muscle, her breath hot on his face. Their lips were inches apart. Closer than ever. Almost enough to feel.

His hands tensed at his sides. He didn't move them. Didn't try to touch her. Not without permission.

Her eyes burned into his.

"You've got this quiet thing going on," she murmured, voice low and dark, "like you're just standing there, letting me take the lead."

James swallowed.

"But I can feel it, James."

Her hips pressed in just slightly, just enough to make his legs tremble.

"That tension. That heat. You're shaking with it, aren't you?"

He exhaled sharply. "You're not exactly helping."

She grinned--feral, hungry.

"Good."

One hand slid upward, knuckles grazing his collarbone through his shirt before settling just beneath his throat, fingers splayed wide like she could feel his pulse without even touching bare skin.

"You like this?" she whispered.

James met her eyes. "You know I do."

"Then why haven't you touched me?"

His breath hitched. "Because I think if I do, I won't stop."

Her smile twisted into something wicked.

"You say that like it's a threat."

He didn't respond. Couldn't. Every part of him was locked up. Breathing hurt. Thinking was impossible. She was everywhere. Her body crushed against his. Her scent--smoke, leather, Morrigan--filled his head. Her voice, her presence, her heat.

She leaned in closer, her lips brushing the corner of his mouth--not a kiss, not even contact, just a promise.

"You want to be a good boy, James?" she whispered.

His knees nearly buckled.

"Y-yeah."

"Then stay right there. Don't. Move."

She leaned back just an inch, eyes scanning his face like she was drinking in every second of his unraveling.

"You're so close to breaking," she murmured. "I can taste it."

And then he did.

Not with words. Not with touch. Just a shudder. A deep, guttural exhale that came from somewhere he hadn't reached in years. It escaped him before he could stop it.

That was his crack.

That was the moment he gave in.

Morrigan smiled--slow and sharp like a knife sliding from its sheath.

"There it is," she said. "That's what I wanted."

And just like that--

She stepped back.

The absence of her body hit him like cold water. His spine still throbbed from the wall. His chest heaved with unspent heat. But she was already turning, already walking away.

And then--

BOOM.

The wall behind him shook with the opening riff of the headline act. The music surged, loud and wild, as the crowd inside roared to life.

Morrigan looked over her shoulder one last time, eyes glinting under the dim alley light.

"Time to go," she said, calm as ever.

Then she slipped inside, disappearing into the dark.

James stayed pinned to the wall by nothing but memory.

Still burning.

Still aching.

And knowing one thing for certain:

She had him.

Part II - Morrigan

He wasn't ready when she moved.

That made it better.

Morrigan pushed off the wall without warning. Her boots struck the pavement hard and fast as she closed the distance between them, and before he could react, she slammed him against the brick. Full force. Spine to stone. Her palms flattened on his chest, and she felt the jolt shoot through him on impact.

He didn't resist.

Didn't speak.

Didn't breathe for a second.

Perfect.

She pressed into him--body to body, flush and hot, her mouth a breath away from his. Their faces aligned like magnets on the edge of snap. And still, she didn't touch more than she had to.

But God, she could feel him.

He was so tense. Held together with pride and control and that sweet, trembling restraint he didn't even realize he wore like armor.

Her voice came low. Dark. Designed to ruin.

"You've got this quiet thing going on," she murmured, watching every twitch in his jaw, "like you're just standing there, letting me take the lead."

His pulse jumped against her hand.

"But I can feel it, James."

She shifted her hips just enough to brush his.

"That tension. That heat. You're shaking with it, aren't you?"

He exhaled, sharp and involuntary. Good.

"You're not exactly helping," he muttered.

She grinned. Slow. Feral.

"Good."

Her hand slid up--deliberate, slow--knuckles grazing over fabric until her fingers rested just below his throat. Not choking. Not holding.

Just claiming.

"You like this?" she asked, knowing the answer.

His eyes locked on hers. "You know I do."

"Then why haven't you touched me?"

His breath hitched. That one got him.

"Because I think if I do, I won't stop."

She licked her lips. Oh, she loved that answer.

"You say that like it's a threat."

She watched him lock down every urge in his body. He was holding back so hard she could taste it in the air between them.

So she leaned in--closer than she had any right to--her mouth hovering near his, not touching,

not kissing, just taunting.

"You want to be a good boy, James?"

That nearly broke him.

"Y-yeah."

"Then stay right there. Don't. Move."