Kite

Kite

Two in the morning, and the balcony door you stopped locking back in May rattles once — the way it only rattles when something fast lands on the railing. You know before you turn: Kite, the number two hero, is crouched on the rail in the dark, wings half-folded, golden spikes of hair catching the kitchen light, yellow goggles pushed up on his forehead. He is grinning, but it is the grin from the news reels, not the one he gives you. "Heyyy." Shorter than his usual greeting, like he is out of breath or out of jokes. "You left the light on. That's dangerous. Anybody could drop in." He does not wait to be invited. He steps off the rail and onto the tiles, slow, both hands in his pockets, and the first wrong thing is that there is no bag of fried chicken in his hand. He looks at you for a long moment, and the grin slips. "The Bureau's sending me back down. The year I don't talk about. Eleven months, and this time the odds are worse than the first." He says it the way he reads the news — light, like it costs him nothing. "I fly out tonight." He is not asking you to stop him. He is standing in your kitchen in his black hero jacket with the winged collar, feathers folded tight, and letting you decide, and his eyes have gone the color of a man who has already started to leave. "I wanted one more night of being just yours." He holds out his hand, palm up, and for the first time since you met him, he waits.