A/N: So I'm still hard at work with Poisoned Apple and getting the next few chapters together. But like its predecessor, No Good Deed kind of flew out of me, so it's looking like I'm going for that Passing By series. However, I can't promise when the next installment will be, nor can I promise they'll all be Killmonger's POV or even fit a consecutive timeline. Killgranger is a doomed and complex ordeal. A pairing that doesn't flow naturally from my typing fingers, so I want to be gentle and slow. I also have a billion other things to write. Be patient for the upcoming posts.

Another thing, I have no native experience with New York City. I had to Google, so I mean no insult to my NYC reader or lovers and ask for forgiveness upon my ignorance.

Apologies for errors, I'll continue to clean this up as time goes on.

Please tell me your thoughts. Am I, like, really off the mark with my characterization and voice?

Enjoy.

Passing By: No Good Deed

It all starts one morning when he's out for a run, and he's still itching from Iraq. He runs too damn far and is too exhausted for the trip back home, so he takes the subway, and there she is.

Daphne Greengrass.

He doesn't know her name yet, but he will real soon.

She's only a few feet away form him, standing and clutching onto the pole like a lifeline. He's sitting close to the door, and he can smell her extra-pump macchiato. She's easily the most beautiful woman on the cart, even though her lips are curled in apprehension. She looks like she'd rather be anywhere else but here. Her blue eyes skim over the other travelers like they're beneath her. When her gaze lands on him, the expression disappears and then she kind of smiles.

It's the kind of smile that says, 'You. You're not so bad.'

Call him flattered.

A fat, middle-aged dude in a stained gray shirt enters the cart and positions himself next to her. From the stench he carries, the subway is probably the only kind of social contact he'll ever swing in life.

The woman turns away from him and buries her nose into the flipped-up collar of her designer coat. Expensive threads she's sporting for the subway and on this side of town which means she's still got a couple of stops before she reaches home.

Slowly, she's creeps away from the stinky ass who's ten seconds away from dry humping her leg and finds homage on a bench she lays with newspaper before sitting down—the newspaper she traded for ten bucks from her neighbor on the bench.

The cart comes to another stop, and she's checking her watch with a sigh and then gets off. It's his stop, too, and he figured she still had several to go before reaching the right side of the tracks. She stomps up the stairs, shouldering anybody in her way as she fiddles with her phone.

"God, how do you use this stupid thing?" she mutters.

Two seconds after she reaches the sidewalk, her purse and phone are yanked from her by a man sprinting like a champ passed her.

"Buggering shit!" She takes off after him at an equally impressive pace.

A lost out-of-towner getting mugged. Erik goes on his way. Not his problem. The girl's pretty, but she ain't worth playing hero for, and this is Harlem. Hundreds of people just saw what happened and thought the same thing, so there you go.

Erik buys a coffee at the kiosk a block away from his apartment complex and comes across the woman again while walking past an alley. Looks like she caught up to the mugger because he's got her flattened against the wall of a corner store with a knife to her neck.

"Listen, I have money. I have five hundred dollars. I'll give it to you, but just leave me the purse. I won't tell anyone. I won't report you—"

"Shut the hell up, bitch!" He's tugging at a dainty gold chain around her neck and then breaks it off her.

"Please no. It was my mother's—"

"I told you to shut up!"

Why?

Man, he wasn't looking for any trouble this morning. It's all fine in the field, but at home, he just wants to lay low. Keep his head down. Not draw attention to himself because enough does already for this or that reason. The color of his skin, the way his jeans ride too low, or ladies just can't help themselves. He's too damn pretty.

Thing is, he gets it. If some punk ass held him up and tried to take his pop's necklace...

So he goes and plays hero, and he sends the little shit on his way with two broken fingers and maybe a cracked rib. The girl's extra affectionate in her gratitude, throwing her arms around him and thanking him over and over again, unbothered that he's black like the mugger and pretty much wearing the same thing. A hoodie, sweatpants, and tennis shoes.

He peels her off him. "You're okay. He's gone."

She sniffles, nodding, and picks up her broken phone from the ground. "Bloody hell."

"You might want to put that in some rice."

Her eyes bug out of her head. "How would that help?"

"You know how they say rice saves a wet phone."

"It does?"

"Not really, no."

She stares at him blankly. "Oh. Well, then. Um…" She clears her throat. "Look, thank you so much for what you did, and I hate to be more of a bother, but would it trouble you to help me out again? I'm lost. I'm not even sure if I got on the right train back there. I'm trying to get back to Lenox Hill."

Of course she is.

"Sure." He shrugs. "I can give you directions. It's not that far from here."

Half-hour walk.

"I was thinking you could take me there." She puts her hand in her purse. "I'll pay for your ticket if we need to get back on the train, a-and when we get to my place, I'll have my roommate make you a cup of tea. She makes the best. It's her only redeeming quality really. Other than that, she's actually quite retched."

"I ain't really dressed for tea, princess. I can give damn good directions."

As in get as far away as you can from me. You smell like a clingy, ditched prom date.

"Tea at the flat is an informal affair mostly. Unless Father and his whore visit. Then out comes those doilies. Oh, bother. Look at me going off, and I haven't even introduced myself." She removes her woolen glove and sticks out her bare hand. "Daphne Greegrass."

The action alone that she took off her glove and offered her bare hand to him says a lot about her. Erik takes her up on it because maybe she's not all bad. Her hands are tiny and overly feminine with French-tipped nails and scented lotion. No nicks or calluses. Probably has and never will work a service job a day in her life.

"Erik Stevens."

They shake and then her free hand covers their clasped hands. "Mr. Stevens, would you please help me get home?"

He doesn't want to, but he likes the way she called him Mr. Stevens.

He gets his ass back on the subway per Daphne's dime, and they head off to Park Avenue. It's just a couple of stops. By the time they get off the cart, he knows she's from Wiltshire, went to a boarding school, and has a younger married sister, but she's not bitter at all. And she also has an eighteen-month-old nephew she loves more than anything.

She digs out a professionally-taken picture of him from her purse and shows him. "His name's Scorpius. Isn't he the cutest?"

Sure. The world definitely needs more entitled, blue-eyed toe-heads in the world. "His name's what?"

Her complex has a black doorwoman who arches a brow at Erik and then says pointedly to Daphne, "Miss, your fiancé just got in this morning."

The woman wasn't saying it for Daphne's benefit but for his. Rhonda—according to her nametag— is graciously telling him to get lost.

Daphne's got him by the sleeve before he can make a run for it. "I wasn't expecting him until this evening! How wonderful! He's going to want to meet the man who saved my life!"

Rhonda purses her lips as if saying, 'Boy, what did you get yourself into?'

Instead, she opens the door wider and gestures at both of them to get inside. "Come on. You've kept him waiting long enough."

Daphne opens her apartment door and shouts, "Granger, we have a guest! Put the kettle on!"

"I am, like, right here." A woman frowns from her stance at the coatrack which is a foot away from him. "And I was just about to come looking for you. Where the hell have you been?"

"Don't pretend you care." Daphne removes her jacket and tosses that and her purse at Granger who lets both fall to the floor.

The woman rolls her eyes and fixes them on him and does a doubletake. "Hi?"

"Granger," starts Daphne as she turns her back to them, searching the apartment for fiancé probably, "this is Mr. Stevens. I got into it with a thief, and he saved my life."

Granger stares at him like everything wrong in the world his fault. Her mouth shapes the word why. Oh, yeah, the retched roommate. Daphne, the one who throws her shit at the retched roommate like she's the help.

Two English alpha females in a New York apartment.

Sounds like a bad sitcom lasting three episodes post pilot, and he needs to get the hell out of it.

"Make him a cup, Granger. I'm going to talk to Blaise. We'll join you in a few." She smiles brightly at Erik. "Make yourself at home."

She darts out of sight calling for her fiancé.

"Tea?" offers Granger.

"Nah, I think I'll head out before he thinks anything."

"He won't. Blaise doesn't know how to think." She smiles blandly and offers her hand to him. "Hermione."

He shakes her hand. It's as little as Daphne's and nowhere near as pampered. Nails are short and filed. He feels a few calluses and nicks and indentations. She's no stranger to holding pens and pencils. Taking a glance at said little hand, he knows she's a chemist. Saw similar burns and marks back at MIT on those goggle-eyed lab rats.

"Erik," he says.

"It's nice to meet you, and I insist you stay for tea. Blaise will want to thank you for saving his fiancé."

"I really got to head back—"

"What was your major?"

"Huh?"

Her lips spread into a slow smile and she gestures at his MIT hoodie. "Your major."

He shrugs. He's not in the mood for chitchat. He just wants to get back to his place and fall asleep. Maybe eat. Hermione seems to get it soon enough.

"At least stay to meet Blaise. He'll be offended if you take off, and I can't promise I won't take advantage of your disappearance." She shrugs, too. "I'll make it seem Daphne's crazy. She didn't bring anyone here. She was never mugged, and no one ever helped her out. She just wants attention."

What in the literal fuck is going on in this apartment? Some uber white-ass drama, if you ask him, and he wants no part in it.

"Rhonda saw me," he counters.

"I suppose there's that." She smirks and opens the door for him. "If you're sure."

He sees the opportunity to flee and takes it without a second thought. He gets back to his digs and collapses on the bed, his running shoes still stuck on his feet. Hours later, he gets up and showers and then checks the new marks he made post-op before coming home. Soon he'll be starting on his arms.

A knock on the door has him rushing to put a shirt on and kinda hoping it's Luscious Luz from two doors down coming to say hi and bearing a plate of her abuela's empanadas. He knows she's cooking. Everyone in the complex knows when she's cooking.

Erik opens the door.

"You dropped this." Hermione's holding up his wallet. "Fell out in the elevator."

"Shit!" He takes it from her and mutters a thanks, rummaging through the slots and folds and sighing in relief. His forty bucks, DL, and military ID is all there.

"You're welcome." She clasps her hands in front of her. "I've been ordered by her royal majesty Daphne Pain in My Ass to invite you to dinner. Right now."

He has to crack a smile. "I can't—"

"If you decline, she'll think it's my fault. She'll think I didn't actually come here and speak to you and that I dropped your wallet into a rubbish bin, because clearly I would do something like that. I'll never hear the end of it, and I still have two months left on the lease before I can bugger off from that flat. So, Mr. Stevens, you will not give me a lie or lame excuse. You're coming to dinner."

He closes the door in her face.

And then reopens it a few seconds later. Her expression didn't change. She brow lifts as if to say, 'You thought that'd scare me off?'

"If I come, will you guys really leave me alone?"

"Yes."

A lie. He'll find out before the night is over, and he won't even kick her to the curb for it.

"What are we havin'?"

Hermione takes a deep breath her nose, smiling a little. "Good Latin American food is hard to come by back home. Will Italian do?"

"Pizza?"

"If we were only so lucky. Daphne's pulling out all the stops tonight. We've got a guest, and she's trying to prove to Blaise she can cook for him if she ever had to. I'm sorry if you die, but that's what you get for saving her."

Daphne has a whole lot of room to improve, but she's not the worst cook in the world. The pasta's overcooked and the Bolognese sauce could use a lot more love from the spice cabinet. The bread is all right, but it's store bought, and the wine is legit and expensive.

Whatever. The dish isn't even the strangest part of the dinner. Blaise is black and is so grateful to Erik for saving his WASP of a fiancé, he's pulling something out of his vest like a pocketbook.

"Blaise, no." Hermione's shaking her head. She hasn't touched a thing on her plate except for a nibble of bread, and her wine glass is empty.

"I was just," Blaise clears his throat and pulls out the pocketbook and takes a business card out of it, offering it to Erik, "giving him my card. Mr. Stevens, I understand MIT is a big deal here. I wouldn't mind having a look at your CV."

"I got a job."

"How much do they pay—"

"Blaise," Hermione chuckles as she pours herself another glass. Her grip's tight on the bottle. "Remember what we talked about."

"How is this rude? I'm offering—"

"Oh!" Daphne starts waving her hands. "Tori sent me brand new pictures of Scorpius. I got them today. Granger, do you want to see them?"

"I would be," she slams the bottle on the table, "delighted."

She looks like she'd rather take the shortcut from the top of the complex to the lobby and in due time, Erik will know enough of the story, and why these two hate each other. He'll forget it over and over again, though, and think it's got something to do with old, boarding school rivalry.

Finally. Finally, it's appropriate for him to leave, and Daphne's not having any of it. Shit. How many more pictures of her nephew does she got? The woman needs to do everyone a goddamn favor and get the hell pregnant, good God.

"Let's watch one of those things you go on and on about, Granger, since the tele-vis-ion is set up now."

"Oh, Erik and I can't. He promised to take me to his favorite book store."

The hell he did, but he's not staying a second longer, so he's going to go along with it.

"He promised you?"

"That's right. Bye." Hermione grabs his hand. "Let's go."

"Have her back at a decent hour or don't bring her back at all," pitches Blaise sarcastically, glaring at his phone. "Now how the buggering fuck do you use this thing?"

He figures they're going to part ways once they leave the lobby, but Hermione's too quick. "I was nosy when I came by earlier and looked into your flat. You have books all over the place. I wouldn't have pegged you for a Fruits Basket junkie or fantasy reader, Mr. Stevens."

"Why not?"

He knows why, and she now looks embarrassed and oh so sorry. Good. She recovers quick, though. "You know what? I take that back. You have Team Edward written all over you."

Ah, man, the girl's asking for it.

She grabs at the draw strings of his hoodie, wrapping them around her fingers. "Want to have sex?"

In time, he'll learn she gets bold after a certain hour, especially after having anything more than a thimble-full of alcohol. He'll be thrown every time she speaks that way. A tiny little thing no bigger than a fairy with wide brown eyes and freckles propositioning him for a long kiss goodnight, and it's unnerving. She looks innocent and young. Twenty at the most when she's really thirty.

"You're not my type." It's a blunt answer and true. She's pretty, but not all pretty things do it for him.

He really does like when she calls him Mr. Stevens, to be honest. It's the accent. He's really feeling it.

"I'm not proposing." She laughs, and yeah, that's kinda cute. "But I get it."

"I mean you'd make any guy—"

"Mr. Stevens, I understand." Her words are slow, and she really isn't offended. Like she asked knowing what the answer would be. So why ask at all?

He's reminded that he hasn't gotten laid in months, and here's a fine English sugar biscuit hitting him up for a good time. And is it really that big of deal she's white when he could use a release? What's he going to do when he gets back to his apartment, anyway?

Finish typing up his report from the last gig.

Read.

Take a cold shower.

Proposition Luscious Luz who's too much of good girl to sleep with him without six dates, a declaration of love, and promise he'll convert to Catholicism.

And he's getting the vibe Hermione's not like other white girls. Not that it matters or that he cares because if he ends up taking her up on the offer for a good time, it'll just be for a night.

She's zipping up her coat and stepping away from him, telling him she's not going back up to the apartment just yet no matter the refusal.

"I change my mind."

"You do?"

"Guys change their minds, too, you know."

She gives him a look that speaks so loudly, 'Oh, you have no idea how very aware of that I am,' and he almost think she's going to shut the whole thing down. Backtrack. She's not so looking ready to go home with him.

"Second thoughts?"

"Maybe." Her smile is solemn. "I counted on you saying no, and now that you're for it…" She bites her lip and blushes.

"What makes you think I'd say no. You've been asking strange men all over New York for—what is that you people say—a shag? They're refusing you?"

"Not just strange men."

He's stares at her a little too long, and he's a little too intrigued. But soon enough her stoicism breaks, and she's cracking up.

"I'm kidding. You're the first."

"And why'd you think I'd say no?"

"You want me to lie or be honest?"

"Why don't you lie to me, sweetheart." He snorts. "Hell yeah, I want you to be honest. Damn."

"Um." She purses her lips and throw her focus elsewhere. "Men that look like you don't typically go for girls that look like me."

He gestures at the building. "You live with a biracial couple."

But she's not all wrong. He'd never go out of his way to get a date with this chick, one of the main reasons being the obvious.

"I'm saying you're out of my league in the looks department. You're like," she gestures at all of him, "one of the most attractive men I've ever seen in my life and if I walked by you on the street, you wouldn't even take a second look."

Maybe not because of her face but that fine ass of hers. And then he'd get to the face and think, 'Damn, not bad.'

He's not going to build her up. He's not like one of those dudes who wastes time constantly boosting a girl's self-esteem. He prefers a lady who doesn't need that kind of validation from, not just a man, but anyone. Erik can't say Hermione is like that or not at this point. She said what she thinks, and reading her face, it doesn't seem she's itching for a compliment. He guesses he could throw her a bone whether or not she's famished, but it'd just be about her impressive posterior.

"Why don't we grab you something to eat?" He hitches his thumb over his shoulder.

"We just had dinner." She stares at him suspiciously.

"I had dinner. You had wine."

"Mmm. You're right." And she takes off walking.

They hit up a Greek food truck called Lil Zeus Lunch Box which takes forever to get through the line and then another several minutes to get the food. They could've gone anywhere for half the time, but she's determined.

She tilts her head back and moans. "It tastes just like my mum's. I've gone to seven different places, and this food truck gets it, you know?"

"Your mom's Greek." He sees it. "Your pops, too?"

She shrugs and then shakes her head, shoveling another piece of lamb into her mouth. "More like Englishy French. They met at dentistry school."

Jesus Christ, how white of them!

"Explains your nice smile." There, he did it. He paid her a compliment and double-timed it as lame but pointed flirting.

Her response is a badly-contained snort. "My smile had nothing to do with my parents. They would've let me rot in braces for the rest of my life if it hadn't been for…well…it's a long and weird story. Anyway, thanks. Your smile's not half-bad either."

"Thanks." He checks his watch like he's got somewhere to be. The bitty bit of fizz from the almost non-existent chemistry between them is fading. He can feel it, so she's got to be. Women, regardless of culture and color, are damn good at reading the signs.

"You know what, Mr. Stevens." She snaps the lid on the box of her food. "I just realized, you were subjected to a dinner of Daphne Greengrass, and unsurprisingly, it was all about her and her nephew and her blind love for her fiancé. I didn't help with my badly obscured hatred for Daphne and annoyance of Blaise. Dinner was probably terrible for you. I apologize."

"It's wha—"

"I dragged you from your place. You didn't want to go, and I could've at least made an effort to get to know you since Daphne didn't. All I know is that you like fantasy novels and Manga." She sets down her box and offers her hand to him. "Let's start over. Hermione Granger."

He doesn't want to play this game. And, yeah, dinner was weird.

"You promised we'd be done after dinner," he reminded. "That I wouldn't have to see any of you again."

She retracts her hand. "I totally blew it by propositioning you, didn't I? Of course, you didn't help by accompanying me to get food, either. Look at us, Mr. Stevens. Look how bad we are at making promises. Even to ourselves."

A curl has come loose from her bun. It's brushing her cheek, and he doesn't do anything about it because it's not the movies, and he's not her love interest. He's just a guy who saved a girl this morning because he's a sucker for masochism. He agreed to go to dinner. He didn't ditch Hermione when he had the chance. Right now, he could take off and be done with her.

"Want to go back to my place?

She doesn't miss a beat. "Yes."

The key slides into the doorknob. He hesitates and looks over his shoulders at Hermione. "I have rules."

She stares, not batting a lash. The corner of her mouth does twitch. "What's your safe word? Mine is a set of two. Sickle scalers."

He takes his key out of the knob. Uh uh. He's not into that kind of shit.

She smirks, and a belated blush paints those freckled cheeks. "I'm kidding. What are you rules, Mr. Stevens?"

He tries it again. Unlocking his door and letting her follow him in. "For one, it's Erik."

But he's not going to lie to himself. The title mixed with the accent is doing things for him. Since it's just a one-night stand, though, he's not going to ask her to keep it up.

"Noted, Erik." She exaggerates the K. "What else?"

"Some of my clothes stay on." The scars. They ain't worth explaining to a doe-eyed bonus waffle.

The girl visibly tenses, and she's sliding her gaze from his face to his feet extra slow. Her fists clench, and he's about to tell her forget it, but then she's looking down at herself like she remembers something.

"I understand." She's pulling and unwrapping her scarf.

"I undress you." It's a thing, all right? He just likes it. A psychoanalyst would probably say it's because he didn't get enough wrapped presents as a kid and after his mom went to jail and his pops died, he really didn't.

She pauses, pinning him with an unreadable expression and then lets her hands fall. "My camisole stays on."

"It all comes off." He likes breasts and even though hers look underwhelming, he still wants to see them.

"Same goes for you then." Her scarf is off and falling to the floor, and she's stopping his fingers at the top button of coat.

"My place, my rules," he says, popping the button free.

In her frown, he sees himself being strangled with her scarf. Her itty-bitty fingers curl around a few of his, squeezing, and she's staring at him like he's her kid and had the fucking nerve to bring home a report card with Ds and Fs on it.

Like she's going to beat his ass.

He looks at those tiny hands. No way can she hit that hard. But her grip is almost impressive.

"My camisole stays on."

"I like my girls naked."

"I'm not your girl."

"What are you hiding?

"What are you hiding?"

"Got wounded in Iraq. Don't like everybody seeing shit," he lies. "There. Happy?"

She doesn't even have the grace to look embarrassed or guilty. "I was assaulted when I was sixteen, and the scar never faded. My camisole stays on."

Well…

Fuck.

He could says, 'It's all good, baby,' and give her a kiss, but she dropped a mood-killing bomb. He feels kinda sick.

"Sixteen?" He places a balled fist in front of his mouth. Nausea hits him hard.

And it's not just because of her sob story. Everybody and their goddamned dog has one of those.

"Please stop pretending you're that upset about it," she remarks, bending down to pick up her scarf.

"No, it's..." He runs to his bathroom and doesn't even have the time to close the door to that or his bedroom.

Most girls, they'd take that as their signal to get lost. Not this one. He can practically feel her at his bedroom door.

"Oh, dear." Her tongue clucks. "I'm guessing food poisoning. And if you're sick, then Daphne and Blaise are having a good time back at the flat, and they'll be in no condition to fix up any remedies."

The night is hell, and Hermione doesn't leave. Hours he's praising the porcelain before he can't give anymore and blacks out. He wakes up again to Hermione getting him to sit up right and aim for the bowl because he was vomiting in his sleep.

"Just fucking go," he tells her. He can't manage any more than that.

"Back to my place? I think not. I'd rather deal with one foul-mouthed patient than what's waiting for me back home." She tugs at the hem of his shirt, and he sort of realizes he doesn't have his jacket on anymore.

"I'm going to take this off you." She clears her throat. "And no matter what I see underneath, I won't think anything or say anything. Not to myself or anyone else ever. I promise."

He pretty much can't do anything but let her, he's so lethargic. When his shirt's off, and his wife-beater doesn't cover all the scars, he expects the gasp. Or a surprised oh. Something.

Nothing. Just the pathetic sound of his sweat, vomit-soaked shirt hitting the tile.

"Do you still feel nauseous?"

He shrugs, eyelids hanging low.

"Can you walk?"

Silence.

"Can you at least get to your feet?"

He manages, but he's got three-quarters of his weight on her. They get to the bed, and he falls on his side, and she's working the laces of his shoes. Taking those and his socks off. She's unbuckling his belt all smooth and practiced, and he wonders how often she's done it for others. His pants come off, and damn it, this is not how he thought this night was going to at all. Today has been a roller coaster since he got off the fucking subway. Like hell he's ever going to help anyone again.

"Try to sleep."

He's out before she even leaves the room.

When he wakes up, he's catching a bleach and Pine Sol scent. He peaks one eye open and sees daylight through the blinds. He clenches his eyes closed, his head pounding, and it's like a little birdy told her he's conscious because here comes Hermione holding a mug appearing refreshed and not at all like she probably crashed on his couch.

"Drink this." She offers the offering. "It'll make you feel better."

Those last few moments of life and remembering everything, Erik will reflect on this memory. It's not where things went wrong because that was the day before when he saved Daphne. No, this is when he began to drink whatever she gave him and would come to do so without question.

"What is it?"

"Broth. Maybe a few other things, too."

He stares at it.

"You lost complete control of your bodily functions last night and passed out in your bathroom, but it's now with this Raiders coffee mug that I'm going to kill you." She quirks her lips and rolls her eyes. "Broth and some herbal remedies. Got the broth down at 88."

He takes the cup. "Your ma's recipe, I take it."

"Not my mother, no. But somebody's."

Some people don't have moms, but she gets the attention of two. How nice. He takes a small gulp and hope she doesn't catch his eyeroll.

How nice, is damn right. Holy shit.

"You…" He sees her make a face over the rim of the bug. Her hands come up as if to stop him. "Don't drink it too fast."

Too late. He hands the mug back to her, and she cringes at the emptiness of it. "Well…how do you feel?"

"Do you have more?"

"No." She clears her throat. "I mean, it's not good to have too much of it. Only when you're sick, and you already look like you could win me in fight by flicking my nose. I think you're good, Mr. Stevens."

She sets the cup on his nightstand and stands up, thumbing the doorway. "I'm going to go."

"Did you clean my bathroom?"

"I had to." She made a face. "You threw up everywhere."

"That's not your problem."

"I'll have you know, Mr. Stevens, that I'm no stranger in cleaning up other people's messes. It was unpleasant, but not even close to the worst ordeal I've encountered. So just be grateful, and we'll both move on."

"I told you to call me, Erik."

"I know, but it's almost ten o'clock in the morning, and I should be working. I don't know how to flirt or be obscenely unprofessional at this time of day." Pause. "Now goodbye."

Like that, she's gone. He hears the door close.

He doesn't run after her. He doesn't go to the door, throw it open, and yell out a heartfelt stop. Nah. This is good how it ended.

Following a shower and coffee and snooping through his barren fridge, he notices odd-looking doodling on his calendar in today's date box. It takes a sec to recognize the scroll. Sindarin numbers written out in textual form, and it takes him only thirty seconds to get a phone number because he's a nerd, and Sindarin was the third language he learned while growing up.

He texts her and might as well have kicked himself in the ass so hard, his junk should ache. He'd come to regret this moment.

He's not some high school punk or awkward undergrad. He bypasses the polite hey or hi and gets to point.

Come over tonight.

No polite question mark at the end.

She doesn't reply back until after one. Either because she's a woman, and they live to torture poor men. Or she couldn't check her phone until lunch.

I'll be there at 7.

Erik's relationships always moved fast and burned out quickly. The thing he had with Hermione wasn't any different from the others in that aspect. She showed up, and he offered the pretense of watching a movie and ordering takeout which she boldly bypassed because it's after seven, and he tasted the wine on her lips when she attacked him.

And that's how he got wrapped up in the worst relationship he'd ever have.

The End

Now go check out the third installment Passing By: Ignorance! :)