"Fuck it." He forwent the towel and stripped, stepping into the shower and turning on a blast of hot water to wash away this rage at the world. He was lean, rangy and tough with a runner's build, and the water ran in rivulets down his whiplash of a frame. He scrubbed down, soap frothing at his touch and sloughing clean with a pass under the water. He was done too soon and rested his head against the warm tile as the last of the water gurgled down the drain.

At last, he convinced himself to move, shrugging into his robe and tying the belt in a loose knot. There was beer in the fridge, something was bound to be on TV, and he could always order something to eat if he still felt shitty later. The bathroom door creaked open, and he looked up, only to stumble back against the jamb at the sight of a brunette relaxing on his couch.

"Jesus Christ," he said, grabbing at his chest where his heart was hammering triple-time.

"Not quite," she said, her voice rich and musical. She was dressed in a smart suit, the skirt just a smidge off of being far too short. Long, elegant legs crossed at the knee were clad in dark stockings and ended in dainty feet that wore a classy pair of black pumps. All in all, it was a package guaranteed to make Michael squirm. Not that he didn't appreciate it; he just didn't appreciate her popping into his living room unannounced.

"Who are you, and what are you doing in my apartment?" he asked, edging for the phone.

"Don’t." He stopped moving towards the phone, even though she had no visible weapon. "All in good time, Michael, all in good time."