Hold On to Me

When Kim relaxed, it was usually sprawled across a couch, a bag of veggie straws, or Lay’s chips within arm’s reach. She was not, under any circumstances, someone who found peace sitting in a dark room with nothing to do. And yet, before she rented an Airbnb with Monique and her friends, that’s exactly where she’d been—stuck in a silent, pitch-black room, recovering from a serious concussion.

The mission that put her in the dark room hadn’t necessarily gone sideways, but Kim sure did. One second, she was in control, grappling hook secured, body swinging with precision. The next, her line was severed, and she was plummeting. The two stories weren’t that high—she’d taken worse falls—but the grass wasn’t exactly a mattress, and her head had taken the brunt of it. Everything after that was a blur. The hospital. The discharge papers. And then the room. That awful, suffocatingly dark childhood bedroom. 

Music hurt. Screens were off-limits. Even reading was a struggle because light triggered headaches that felt like her skull was being drilled into. So, she just existed, alone with her thoughts, and it sucked.

It was in that miserable void of boredom that Kim made a decision—once she was free, she would actually take time off. A full month. No missions. No responsibilities. No nothing.

And what better place to blow off steam than New Orleans?

Monique, ever the enabler of fun, had suggested she rent an Airbnb near the French Quarter. Kim didn’t argue. If she was going to rediscover what fun looked like, she might as well do it somewhere with great food, great drinks, and an entire city’s worth of people ready to have a good time. Plus, Monique went to Tulane, and crashing at her sorority house was not an option. Technically, Monique could have snuck her in, but she had ambitions. The sorority had rules, and breaking them wouldn’t exactly help Monique’s climb to president.

So, an Airbnb it was.

The place was decent—right on the edge of the Quarter near the Central Business District. Second floor. Two bedrooms (well, two and a half, if you counted the pull-out couch in the office). Two full baths. And the best part? Instead of a dining room table, there was a pool table. Whoever the host was, they knew their clientele.

Kim had claimed the bigger bedroom, and the only real rule between her and Monique was simple: if either of them brought someone home, that person stayed in their respective rooms. The couch was tiny anyway—perfect for Monique to stretch out on, but way too small for Kim’s longer frame.

For the first two weeks, life was a dream. Sort of.

Kim didn’t need to party every night, and school kept Monique busy. She found herself content with takeout, watching whatever she wanted, and—oddly enough—playing pool. It was something new, something her body hadn’t already mastered. Holding the cue felt unnatural, foreign, and frustrating in a way that made her want to get better. The game seemed simple at first, but the more she played, the more she realized how much technique it required.

A few beers, endless hours of quiet nights, and a new challenge—it was a gift, really.

And then Monique called.

"Okay! Get your ass up! We are going out!" Her voice was way too enthusiastic for Kim to match.

"Tonight? Come on, I was just about to go to bed." Total lie. Monique didn’t need to know that.

"Come onnnnnn, it has been way too long since we went out. You’re here to have fun, and I have let you down. It’s my job as your best friend to ensure you have a great time in the best city in the world." Kim smirked as she heard Monique rustling around, phone clattering onto some surface before her voice muffled—probably from walking into another room.

"Do I really have a choice in this matter, or are you going to show up at my door after you hang up?"

Monique would do that. Kim knew it. And honestly? As much as she feigned annoyance, it was nice. To have a friend who dragged you back into the world. To have someone who refused to let you sink too deep into solitude.

"You think I should wear heels? Feels a little over the top. Ooh! OOH! I’m gonna wear my boots! Perfect!" Monique loved answering her own questions. Kim loved that about her, though. She found it fascinating that someone could be so open about how their train of thought works. 

"Okay... so, what do I wear?"

Monique let out a victorious hum, and Kim laughed, walking to her room. Kim flicked on the closet light, set her phone on the half-empty dresser, and put her on speaker. Time to get emotionally prepared to socialize and stay up. 

It took two shots and a drink to go to get Kim out of the house.

The walk to the bar was filled with tipsy giggles and a very serious discussion about the correct order of their bar crawl. Kim let Monique take charge of that—her only personal rule was simple: she wasn’t matching shots with everyone else. She’d already had three beers before Monique even showed up. She was in for the long haul, not a sprint.

And for a while, the night was good. The energy on Bourbon Street was electric, a different kind of chaos than Kim was used to. Good chaos. Music, laughter, strangers dancing like nobody was watching. This wasn’t life or death. It was messy and fun and alive.

Then came Mark.

Mark was the kind of guy who thought he was smooth. He was too confident for his own good. At first, Kim didn’t mind. His hands and lips wandered in ways she didn’t hate—but she didn’t love them either.

Kim liked feeling wanted, sure. Sometimes, that led her to guys like Mark, but she liked the chase, the game. The first glances. The slow flirtation. The way anticipation was built. It was the tension between Kim and another person that was just as exhilarating as kissing, touching, and exploring. Kim loved the moments leading up to a kiss just as much as the kiss itself. The way anticipation built within Kim, the charged silence, the lingering glances. Feeling someone so close, their breath mingling with hers, inches away but never quite taking the leap, made Kim’s heart race every time.

Kim felt very little anticipation the more time she spent with Mark. He had been too confident, and Kim had been just about to end it when her gaze flicked past him—to the balcony across the street. Nothing was abnormal, but something was off.

Kim had felt it earlier, too—a subtle prickle at the back of her neck. A lingering awareness. By the second bar, she was certain she had a shadow.

Kim didn’t want to waste her night searching, and a part of her craved a little recklessness. Maybe it was the alcohol clouding her judgment, but she convinced herself that if she ignored the feeling—ignored the weight of someone’s gaze—then nothing would come of it. No trouble. No confrontation. And for most of the night, that worked.

But the part of her that was an agent—sharp, cautious, always on alert—refused to let it go entirely. That was why she finally tore her gaze away from Mark. Kim scanned the crowd, her trained eye picking out the most strategic vantage points. And there, exactly where she would have stood if their roles were reversed, was her.

Shego.

Blending into the shadows. Staring down at her. Watching.

Kim’s breath hitched—but not in fear. Not even in surprise.

The thrill that shot through her was instant and undeniable.

She buried it. Not the time.

This wasn’t personal. It couldn’t be. Shego was hired, obviously. There was no way she’d do this on her own.

Kim didn’t have time to analyze. Instead, she did what she did best—she adapted. If Shego thought she could follow Kim unnoticed, Kim was going to make it as difficult as possible. Kim was determined to take control, setting the rules in whatever game Shego was playing against her.

So she put on a show.

She let Mark get closer—though only enough to sell the act. She leaned in, laughed at things that weren’t funny, and let her body language scream, 'Look at me!' Either Shego would be too annoyed to keep watching, or she wouldn’t be able to look away. Or Kim was wrong, and Shego would remain unaffected. If things went Kim's way, Shego would be distracted.

And it worked.

As soon as Mark’s hands got a little too familiar, gripping where they shouldn’t, Kim handled it with her usual tact—brushing him off with an easy smile, no scene necessary. Kim’s window to disappear was small, but her reaction time was quick—years of training kicking in as she slipped out of sight. As she moved to find the girls, she stole one last glance at Shego, and Kim’s stomach dropped. 

It wasn’t that Kim had never acknowledged Shego’s effortless beauty before, but something about this moment made it impossible to ignore. The simple, almost mundane act of Shego tilting her head back, eyes closing as she savored the burn of the alcohol—it caught Kim off guard.

Kim watched, transfixed, as Shego swallowed without so much as a flinch, her fingers wrapped tightly around both the railing and the glass. There was something almost deliberate in the way she held herself, a rare moment of stillness. 

For the first time, Kim thought, she might be seeing Shego actually appreciate something. And for a brief second, Kim felt the overwhelming feeling of wanting to see more of this side of Shego. That thought snapped Kim out of her train of thought instantaneously. Focus. Now that Kim knew she was being watched by Shego, the game had changed.

As Kim searched the crowd for the rest of the girls, she made her second silent declaration of the night: She wasn’t going to be the mouse in this chase.

No—Kim was going to hunt the hunter.

After locating the group of girls, Kim lied a bit. Just a little bit and most of the lies were true. The place had become a chaotic mess of sticky floors, sloshing drinks, and bodies pressed too close together. The music was deafening, the heat oppressive, and after one too many elbows to the ribs, Kim used this as a way to convey she didn’t want to stick around. It seemed that only a few silently agreed it was time to move on, so Monique (the very social person that she was) announced she was calling it, and whoever wanted to turn in could walk and carpool with Bree. Bree, ohhhh, that’s her name. Kim thought. Satisfied that Bree was now in charge of whoever wanted to leave, Monique turned to Kim. 

“Tasha and Liv are ready when you are.” Monique had a proud smile on her face, as though she thought her reaction time to leaving was also fast.

Tasha and Olivia are Monique's best friends, and Kim has come to like both girls. They cared for Monique just as much as Kim did, and that was comforting. It also hurt a bit when Kim came to the realization that they were on two different paths. Of course, Monique had to move on, and Kim wanted that, but it was weird that she had to “share” her time with others. 

Navigating through the bundle of people wasn’t easy, but years of experience—both on the field and in packed bars—made Kim efficient. She led the way, catching Monique’s amused but knowing glance as they finally pushed through the doors and spilled into the cool night air. Kim guessed that Monique knew Kim wanted to leave, but not for the reason she told everyone.

They didn’t go far. Just down the block, they found another spot—one that felt like an entirely different world. It was dimly lit and upscale, with polished wood and leather seats. The scent of seared meat and crisp fries filled the air, a welcome contrast to the stale beer from the last place. This bar wasn’t about cheap drinks and reckless abandon; it was where people came to slow down, to enjoy a good meal and a well-made drink.

They settled into a booth, sighing in relief as they were handed menus. Ice water arrived in tall, sweating glasses, and the sight of greasy burgers on the next table overall sealed the deal on what they were ordering.

“I’ll be right back,” Kim said, already sliding out of the booth and away from the table.

Monique grabbed her arm before she actually got anywhere and shot her a look—a mix of exasperation and concern, the kind that said, 'Hey you! Don’t do something stupid.' But Kim had already made up her mind.

She had unfinished business.