Just a flash

By the time Eren rang the bell next door, the sky was full-on black, no trace of twilight left.

The door opened just a crack, and there was Mrs. Khatri, still rocking her apron, smiling like she’d been expecting him. The smell—her kitchen always smelled like lentils and cardamom, made you feel hungry even if you weren’t. Nadia was out cold on the couch behind her, blanket tangled around her legs, thumb smushed against her cheek. Kid could sleep through a hurricane.

“She crashed right after dinner,” Mrs. Khatri said, voice all soft edges. “Let her stay. It’s fine, really.”

Eren managed a smile, but honestly, it was more of a reflex than anything else. Didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Thanks, but she’s better off in her own bed. She’ll sleep,” he said, hoping it was true.

A flicker of something passed over Mrs. Khatri’s face. Her gaze darted to Nadia, then back.

“Of course,” she said, after a second. “You’re a good dad, Eren.”

That hit him weird—like a muscle twinge in his chest. He nodded, stepped inside, and scooped Nadia up. She barely stirred, just murmured and grabbed a fistful of his collar before going limp again.

Outside, the wind was getting loud, leaves scraping the pavement. Streetlights buzzing, orange and tired.

He walked home, coat flapping around his knees, the city doing its best impression of a ghost town.

Back in the safehouse, he laid Nadia down on the cot, tucking her in like he was prepping a field dressing—maybe a little too careful. Stood there a second, staring at her. She looked so peaceful, it almost pissed him off.

You don’t belong in this mess, kid, he thought. Not that he did, either.

Sleep? Yeah, right.

He tried, because he had to. Tossed around on that sad excuse for a mattress, eyes tracing cracks in the ceiling like they might spell out an answer. Flipped through firewall logs, reread old chat dumps, shuffled dossiers like playing cards. Nothing stuck. Nothing helped.

Because every time he closed his eyes, there he was—

Rime.

That kiss. First by accident, then…not. The memory hit like a sucker punch. The hand on his jaw, breath hot, the whole thing smelling like sweat, stage lights, and something raw and stupidly human.

Wasn’t professional. Wasn’t even just a mistake.

It was real.

And that scared the hell out of him, more than any bullet ever could.

He sat up, rubbed his forehead like he could scrape the memory away.

“Get a grip,” he muttered to the empty room.

He hadn’t come here to catch feelings, definitely not for a guy like Rime—wrapped up in silk, secrets, and who the hell knew what else.

He gave up on sleep, pulled on an old sweater, wandered into the kitchen. Made coffee that tasted like burnt rubber, because screw it—milk and sugar were for optimists.

Laptop glared at him from the table.

Finally, some good news—the encrypted drive he’d been wrestling all night finally cracked open. Shoutout to brute force. Another contact, another date, coordinates, names—some familiar, one scribbled out. One still in play.

Eren leaned in, heart finally beating steady, finally something to work with. He opened another file, started matching names to the university’s surveillance database. Time to get his head back in the game.

Except—he couldn’t help himself. He typed in one more name.

“Lucien Vale.”

Rime’s alias.

Nada. Zero. Like the guy was a ghost.

Eren sat back, running his hand through his hair, frustrated.

“You don’t exist,” he said quietly. Not in any system. Not on any grid.

But his mouth had been real. His eyes. His breath.

Eren snapped the laptop shut, hard.

This wasn’t about the mission anymore.

It was instinct now. Obsession. Gravity.

He stared out the window at the city, breathing and restless.

And he knew—yeah, he’d see Rime again.

Probably way sooner than either of them wanted.

Light slid through the blinds, sharp and surgical, making the safehouse glow that sterile, too-awake kind of white.

Eren hunched over his laptop, coffee going cold and bitter by his elbow. He finally had it—a decrypted address, staring back at him like a dare.

A florist’s shop. Downtown. Completely average. Way too average. Like, the kind of bland that’s only ever used to hide something really spicy.

Come on. He’d seen this move before—smuggled microfilm behind marigolds, codewords mumbled over chrysanthemums. Classic spycraft disguised as flower arranging. Cute.

He zoomed in on the map.

The pin throbbed under his cursor. His stomach did a little freefall.

Four doors down from Night Wing.

Same alley. Same busted streetlight flicking on and off like it owed someone money.

Same patch of city Rime would vanish into after their nights together, all smoke and secrets.

“What are you mixed up in now?” Eren muttered at his screen.

He needed a look at that shop. No cameras anywhere, not a single lens pointed at the door—clean as a whistle. Only a pro could keep it that spotless. Definitely not your average bouquet-peddler.

Nah, this was bigger. Deeper.

He couldn’t just roll up, not with Lucien—no, Rime—still coiled in his head, his veins, like some sweet poison.

So, he changed. Civilian mode. Wool coat, old glasses, nothing flashy. Just another tired guy blending in with the morning crowd.

Dropped Nadia at school, pressed a quick kiss to her hair, and headed into the city, the florist’s name buzzing in his brain.

But first—coffee. Obviously.

The café practically hugged him when he walked in—heat, sugar, that thick smell of cardamom and burnt espresso. Honestly, a little too cozy. Like it was trying to seduce him with comfort.

He almost missed it—a flicker of silver at the counter.

Rime.

Back turned, coat immaculate, gloves on, hair a little wild. Even here, surrounded by foam art and college kids, the guy looked like he belonged on some noir movie poster.

Eren’s body tensed up before his brain could even process it. Breath hitched. Heart did a weird skip.

He forced himself to the counter, ordered a double shot. Kept his mouth shut.

And then Rime turned. Met his eyes. Electricity. Like a secret handshake neither had agreed on.

Pause.

Not quite recognition. More like... static. Sparks with no name.

“You’re... Elias, right?” Rime asked, voice all velvet and smoke.

Eren tilted his head, played it cool.

“And you’re the guy who kisses strangers behind the stage.”

A blink. That crooked grin.

“Bold claim. You got evidence?”

“Just a stiff neck and a week of questions.”

They hovered there, the air tight around them, tension building like a thunderhead.

Rime slid him a coffee.

“This one’s extra bitter. Figured you’d go for it.”

“You pay that much attention to me?” Eren asked, half a smile. “Or are you like this with everyone?”

Rime took a sip. Eyes giving nothing away.

“People-watching’s my job.”

“Oh yeah? What do you do, again?”

“Whatever keeps the rent paid.”

Two smiles. Sharp as knives. Both lying, but not walking away.

Later, Eren found himself parked on a bench across from the florist. Coffee still full, paper bag in his lap. Watching.

A guy walked in empty-handed, lingered five minutes, walked out empty-handed. No flowers. No receipt.

Eren snapped a photo. Logged the timestamp.

But his thoughts kept drifting.

To a dancer who was never just a dancer.

To a kiss that didn’t mean nothing.

To a man who said, “I’m watching.” And meant every damn syllable.

They were orbiting something dangerous, neither one ready to name it yet.

But it was out there. Hungry. Getting closer.