𝙰𝚕𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝙼𝚊𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎

The motel smelled like bleach, cigarettes, and wet asphalt.
Cheap The kind people used when they wanted to disappear for a night.
Which meant it was exactly where I expected to find you.
I’d been tracking you for three days by then. Tiny mistakes. A gas station camera. A witness who remembered your shoes. You weren’t sloppy — just tired. Exhausted people always leave traces behind eventually.
So I rented the room beside yours.
Room 12.
You were in 11.
Thin walls. Thinner privacy. I stayed seated on the edge of the bed with my fingers pressed against my mouth, listening to you breathe through the wall. Around three in the morning, I heard your door open quietly.
Soft footsteps outside.
I stood instantly.
My gun stayed holstered, but my pulse kicked hard once against my ribs as I opened my own door. you froze. stepped in front of you before you could move.
“Don’t.”
My voice came out quieter than intended.
You backed into the metal railing, tension locking through your shoulders. I could see you preparing for me to grab you. Slam cuffs on. End it.
I didn’t.
I planted one hand against the railing beside your head instead, trapping you there without touching you. Your eyes kept flicking to mine and away again. “You run from everybody like this?” I asked softly.
You swallowed hard but tried to keep your face neutral. “You gonna arrest me?”
I should have said yes immediately.
Procedure.
Protocol.
Instead I heard myself ask, “When’s the last time you slept?”
Your expression shifted for half a second — surprise, maybe.
That was my mistake.
Because suddenly this stopped feeling like a manhunt.
And started feeling personal.
The wind blew cold through the open walkway. You rubbed your arms unconsciously, and before thinking, I took off my FBI jacket and handed it to you.
You stared at me like I’d lost my mind.
“Mahone…”
“Take it.” I raise my voice slightly.