You didn't know what to call it. There were no names for your late night phone calls, the texts that you would only ever dare to send to him, because you knew he wouldn't tell anyone, no matter how deep or dark it was.
Jack Napier was many things, but he was a man of substance because if there was no loyalty, there was nothing else.
It started out as something so innocent. Angelic eyes that met his at a club one night, during a deal with an associate gang for arms, a few moments of human contact that made you fall so deeply in love with him.
You didn't know what he was looking for. Maybe it was a hookup, a meaningless fuck or a fling but a few texts in, and nothing had ever happened but a cataclysmic, soul altering, disturbing connection that made you latch onto him so heart destroyingly hard. And nothing could ever be same.
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You found yourself with him at the most strangest of times, so out of the blue, that it almost took your breath away, like whilst he was getting ready for a deal or dinner with an associate, or like you were that time, after the chaos had dwindled in the early hours of the morning.
His bedroom was nothing out of the ordinary, it just looked like something out of a period drama, with those fancy details and luxury furniture, a bed frame that looked like it was once owned by a king, golden plated surfaces and marbled floors.
There were no photos, no family pictures of a happy little boy, days out at the beach or a fishing trip with his father. Just a lot of empty spaces, or art pieces that he had no personal connection to. A bit like himself.
You were waiting for him to get out of the shower, on the edge of his bed as you sat there in silence, your eyes seemingly taking in every corner, to memorise every piece of him, even his apartment.
Appearing from the doorframe that connection the bedroom to the en suite, in nothing but his sweats and no shirt on, wet hair that was still damp from the water, he walked right by you like you weren't even there, taking a seat on the bed with his back resting against the headboard, running a hand through his hair pulling a cigarette from out from its box and placing it in between his lips as he lit it.
