bella

Quite frankly, he didn’t have time for that. He knew something else must be coming. If the Riddler was wanting to speak to him, it had to be important. He thought about calling Cassie on the way there, just to make sure that she had made it to Gotham Square Garden okay and that she was being vigilant. He opted not to: hearing her voice right now would just distract him more. Besides, he didn’t know if she was still angry with him.

As the door lifted on the glass of the visitation room, he didn’t flinch. He stared at the man that had dubbed himself as the Riddler, a round-faced, near dewey-eyed man wearing the same clear-framed glasses as he had worn with the mask. He couldn’t get around the fact that this was the man that had killed at least four other people. The man that had almost killed her.

Without the mask, Edward Nashton seemed small. Weak. The only evidence that he was the same man he had watched get arrested earlier that night was the cut on his cheekbone. He understood why he had taken on such a threatening persona to commit such acts. He had needed to in order to actually scare people. Behind the glass, he looked like nothing. Now he was just a small, pathetic man in shackles.

Nashton smiled at him, almost like he was greeting an old friend. It made Bruce’s stomach turn. How could someone smile like that after committing such heinous acts?

He held his hands up to show the Batman the shackles he was being restrained with. “I told you I’d see you in hell.”

Bruce had to restrain himself. Did he think he was funny? “What do you want from me?”

“Want?” Nashton stared at him dreamily. “If only you knew how long I’ve been waiting for this day. For this moment. I’ve been invisible my whole life. I guess I won’t be anymore, will I?” He paused, almost as if he was proud of himself. “They’ll remember me now. They’ll remember both of us.”

He had learned his lesson from the other night with the Joker: he didn’t want to entertain the delusions of a mad man. The light in Nashton’s eyes shifted before he spoke again, almost as if the Riddler had possessed him to start playing games again. The next two words out of his mouth sent shivers down his spine.

“Bruce… Wayne.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat, his eyes flicking to the camera in the corner of the room. Hearing his own name felt like a gunshot. Don’t react. Surely his life was over, right? He could only imagine what reality lay outside those metal doors: Bruce getting perp-walked in handcuffs to a holding cell and his identity revealed, and Alfred and Cassie would have no time to escape.

“Bruce…”

He tried not to let it affect him, tried not to show that that was his fucking name as Nashton repeated it slowly. The Riddler was obviously obsessed with Bruce Wayne too—maybe he had a chance of making it out of this.

“Wayne.” 

Fuck.

Nashton exhaled deeply as his lips quirked upward, almost like he was satisfied with himself. “You know, I was there that day. The day the great Thomas Wayne announced he was running for mayor, made all those promises. Well, a week later he was dead, and everybody just forgot about us. All they could talk about was poor Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne, the orphan. Orphan.” He shook his head frustratedly, like what he was talking about had plagued him his entire life. “Living in some tower over the park isn’t being an orphan. Looking down on everyone, with all that money. Don’t you tell me.” He pushed his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose. “Do you know what being an orphan is?”

Apparently not.

“It’s thirty kids to a room. Twelve years old and already a drophead, numbing the pain. You wake up screaming with rats chewing your fingers. And every winter one of the babies dies because it’s so cold. But, oh no!” He smacked his lips as he investigated the masked man that stood in front of him. “Let’s talk about the billionaire with the lying, dead daddy, because at least the money makes it go down easy. Doesn’t it, Bruce…?”

Bruce’s eyes glazed over.

“Wayne.”

He knows.

“He’s the only one we didn’t get.”

Wait, what the fuck? He looked back up at the man behind the glass, almost relieved. Did he not know that Bruce Wayne and the Batman were the same person? If he didn’t, why the fuck was he so obsessed with both of… well, him?

“But we got the rest of ‘em, didn’t we? All those slick, sleazy, phony pricks.” He took a step closer to Nashton, finally stepping out of the shadows. “God, look at you. Your mask is amazing. I wish you could’ve seen me in mine.”

Bruce thought it strange he said that like Bruce hadn’t seen the multiple videos he put out on the internet, but he didn’t dare speak on it. He couldn’t give him any edge after he had just survived whatever the fuck that was. 

“Ain’t it funny? All everyone wants to do is unmask you, but they’re missing the point. You and I both know, I’m looking at the real you right now. My mask allowed me to be myself, completely. No shame, no limits.”

Bruce clenched his fists. Nothing terrified him more than no limits. “Why did you write me?”

“What do you mean?”

“All those cards.”

“I told you, we’ve been doing this together. You’re a part of this.”

“We didn’t do anything together.”

“We did!” Nashton said softly, trying to convince him of their partnership. “What did we just do? I asked you to bring him into the light, and you did. We’re such a good team.”

“We’re not a team. I don’t kill people.”

“I’d never kill an innocent person,” Nashton said quickly, almost defensively. “Why do you think I let you save Cassie Montclair?”

He froze. “You what?”

Nashton nodded, almost like he was proud of himself. “Why do you think there wasn’t a card at Montclair Tower? She was the clue.”

Bruce couldn’t breathe. Somehow this was worse than hearing Nashton say his own name back to him. 

“I thought for years that she was just like the rest of her family: selfish, corrupt, profiting off of Gotham’s pain. It wasn’t until I saw her with my own eyes helping people like us with no thanks, no recognition that I knew she was different. Just that morning, she challenged that prick she called a brother to stop lying.” 

Bruce’s mouth went dry. This psychopath was in the same room as her that day?

“From that moment on, I knew, without a doubt, that she wanted the same thing as us: vengeance. I helped her when I revealed the truth about her family. I gave her the truth because I knew she could handle it. I knew you’d see it that way too. You saved her before, you should save her again, and you did. When you saved her the other night, I knew you were understanding my messages clearly.”

For a moment, Bruce saw red. What he felt was something deeper than anger, something he didn’t know how to put into words but knew burned. 

He thought about how he had barely gotten her out in time. That if he was just a few minutes further away, she probably wouldn’t be alive right now. What if he had never met Selina and knew that Graham was guilty in some way? What if Cassie hadn’t gotten the chance to call him that night? The questions churned in his head, all of the what-ifs that he could possibly synthesize ending in the same way: burying her next to her brother this week. 

His teeth ground together so hard he thought they’d break. His voice dropped low, cold, almost strangled. “You used an innocent person as a test?”

“I had to make sure you could be trusted, and see? You passed! If it wasn’t for you, I never could have gotten Carmine Falcone out of there. I–I’m not physical. My strength is up here. I mean, I had all the pieces, I had the answers, but I didn’t know how to make them listen.” He stood, almost in wonder as he spoke. “You gave me that.”

“I gave you nothing.”

“You showed me what was possible,” he said, his hands pressed against the glass. “You showed me all it takes is fear and a little focused violence. You inspired me.”

“You’re out of your goddamn mind.”

Nashton’s eyes fell, almost as if he couldn’t believe what he had just heard. “What?”

“This is all in your head. You’re sick, twisted.” “How can you say that?”

“You think you’ll be remembered? You’re a pathetic psychopath, begging for attention.” “No.”

“You’re gonna die… alone in Arkham! A nobody!”

As the Batman spoke, the Riddler repeated the word “no” over and over again, screaming as he spiraled. “This is not how this was supposed to go!” He screamed more before speaking again. “I had it all planned out! We were gonna be safe here! We could watch the whole thing together!”

With that, Bruce’s heart sank to his stomach. “Watch what?”

“Everything!”

He didn’t speak, only reduced to watching Nashton as he paced. There was something missing. He knew before coming to Arkham that this wasn’t over, but he figured that the missing piece was his identity. Whatever he was dealing with now was something else entirely.

“It was all there,” Nashton said, his voice calm again. Too calm, almost. “You mean, you didn’t figure it out?” 

His blood went cold. Words failed him. He couldn’t move. Figure what out?

Nashton gasped slowly, his excitement returning. “Oh, you’re really not as smart as I thought you were. I guess I gave you too much credit.”

His heart stalled. “What have you done?”

“What’s black and blue and dead all over?” Nashton asked. “YYYYou… if you think you can stop what’s coming.”

His heart rate started to pick up as he stared at the man in front of him, moving toward the glass. “What have you done?”

He only stared at him with a sinister off-putting smile as he began to sing “Ave Maria,” the same Schubert arrangement that the orphan boys’ choir sang at his father’s campaign announcement.

Bruce punched the glass as he shouted, “What have you done!”

Nashton continued to sing, his face turning more sinister.

“What have you done!”

He punched the glass a couple more times, but he knew it was no use. If he was going to find out what the Riddler was going to unleash upon the city, he would have to figure it out himself before it was too late.

Cassie had never been to an election before.

She didn’t know what she was expecting, but she certainly didn’t think it would be as tame as it was. Outside the rotunda, the press still hummed with excitement. She could still hear the reporters yelling for those who came inside in hope of just one second of recognition. Inside, last minute changes to decorations were made, speeches were being rehearsed, and technicians ran around to keep things on time and in check.

Cassie stood off to the side, wanting to stay out of the way. While she was one of Bella Reàl’s personal guests, she didn’t want to become a problem. Because of that, she felt so out of place. Despite giving her unwavering support—and any potential funding she might need for her campaign—she still didn’t completely understand Bella. Maybe because she wasn’t part of the government. Maybe because she wasn’t like Bruce or her brother. Maybe because she hadn’t publicly abandoned the city when it needed someone there for it.

Cassie knew she should have been appreciative for recognition, for the opportunity to have an ally for once in that godforsaken city. Right now, though, she was just tired and really wanted to go to bed—that or have a cup of coffee.

“Ms. Montclair?”

She turned around to find Don Mitchell’s wife, a woman who she had never spoken to directly. Cassie hadn’t spoken to her at the funeral simply because the car with Gil Colson inside had come before she had had a chance to. Now that she was seeing her up close, she noticed how nice she looked, how pretty she was. For someone grieving the loss of her husband, she looked quite put together. Despite that, she could see the sadness in her eyes. She was mourning, too.

“Sorry,” she said whenever she saw the confused look in Cassie’s eyes. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, it’s okay. You’re not interrupting anything,” Cassie replied, forcing a soft smile. “How can I help you?”

“We just wanted to say thank you for the other day.” When Cassie’s eyebrows furrowed, she said, “Sorry, I’m Don’s wife.”

Cassie’s expression softened. “Of course. I’m—”

“I know who you are,” she said, but she immediately added, “Sorry, I just meant… I recognize you. I feel like I’ve known you for years.”

“Right,” Cassie said, her voice a little thin.

Cassie finally saw the boy that stood behind his mother, the same boy she had seen at the funeral who reminded her so much of a young Bruce. He seemed somewhat nervous considering he wouldn’t come out from behind his mother, but he didn’t seem scared. He almost seemed starstruck.

“This is my son.” She gestured to the boy behind her. “You can say hi, baby.”

Cassie smiled at him, crouching slightly to meet his level. “Hi, what’s your name?”

The boy stared at her, almost like he didn’t know what to say. “Henry.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Cassie.” She stuck out her hand to him as if he was an official person, which made him more shy.

“Are you not going to tell her what you told me?” his mother coaxed.

When he visibly hesitated again, she hummed a chuckle. “It’s okay. I don’t bite, promise.”

Whenever he laughed, a baby smile cracked from him, then he looked to the floor then back up. “I just… wanted to say something.”

Cassie waited, giving him time to formulate his thoughts.

“At my dad’s funeral,” he said, “when that car came in…”

Cassie’s stomach dropped, but she tried to keep her smile for the sake of the young boy in front of her.

“I was so scared. I couldn’t move. But your friend, he grabbed me and saved me before I could get hurt.”

His mother placed a hand on his shoulder, almost as if to steady him.

“My mom said you and your friend are important,” he said. “That if I ever saw you again, I should call you Ms. Montclair and Mr. Wayne. Is that true?”

Cassie chuckled. She didn’t know if she would consider herself famous, but she would take that over rich spoiled brat. “I don’t know about Bruce, but I can tell you that you and your mom can both call me Cassie. You have special permission. I’m sure Bruce would feel the same way.”

Henry brightened. “I didn’t get to thank him for saving me, but I want to. I thought he would be here tonight with you.”

Cassie gave a faint smile. “I thought so too.”

Henry frowned. “Is he okay? Is he hurt?”

“He’s okay,” she assured him gently. “He just… has some things he has to take care of.”

“Can you tell him thank you for me?” he asked, a glimmer of hope in his eye. “Please?”

“Of course.”

“Pinky promise?”

“Henry—”

Before his mother could protest anymore, Cassie held out her pinky to him in solidarity. “Pinky promise.”

Whenever they shook on it, he nodded and smiled. Without another word, he bolted toward the refreshments table to help himself to the candy there, narrowly missing a stagehand. Cassie hummed with amusement, suppressing a laugh.

The woman looked at Cassie almost as if she was investigating her before she spoke again. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Cassie asked, somewhat confused.

“For entertaining him. I haven’t seen him smile since—” She stopped herself, almost as if she had to. “Thank you for coming the other day, too. I didn’t get to speak with you before… well, you know.”

Cassie grimaced. Before the district attorney barreled into your husband’s funeral and almost killed your child. Yeah, I know.

  “I know none of this has been easy for you either, considering…” “Yeah,” she said softly. “I’ve been better, honestly, but I think we all feel that way.”

“You have no idea what you do for this city,” Mrs. Mitchell said. “Despite everything going on, you two are all I’ve heard about for days. I never thought I’d owe anything to Bruce Wayne, but he saved my son’s life. You stopped me from risking mine. I don’t know how to repay either of you.”

Cassie smiled faintly. “Maybe I can work something out so Henry can thank him in person. It’s the least I can do, and I’m sure Bruce would be willing if I talked to him.”

“I think my son would like that.” The woman’s lip curved upward. “You know, you’re lucky to have someone like that. There are few men who would run into the line of fire to save someone the way your boyfriend did the other day.”

Cassie’s jaw dropped, unsure how to respond. “Oh, he’s not my… we–we’re not—”

She cut herself off when Mrs. Mitchell smiled knowingly, her tone kind. “Sweetheart, you don’t need to explain. We all know.”

Heat rushed to Cassie’s cheeks, and she shook her head, flustered. “But—”

“It’s all right,” Mrs. Mitchell said firmly, though her tone stayed soft. “Just take care of each other, okay? Stay safe.”

Without another word, she joined her son at the refreshments table not too far away. Cassie stood rooted for a moment, still somewhat unsettled from someone actually calling Bruce her boyfriend to her face and meaning it. Despite her embarrassment, she couldn’t help but feel a certain sadness.

Bruce should have been here.

Realistically, he didn’t owe anyone anything. He’d made his public appearance for the year just a couple days ago. Alfred was still in the hospital. He was actively working with the police as the Batman. He was already doing so much without thanks—somehow, though, Cassie didn’t think it was enough. Bruce wasn’t doing enough.

That boy remembered him. He remembered that Bruce Wayne had saved his life, not some vigilante on the streets at night. Just from that alone, Cassie knew that Bruce could do more, at least as himself. That he should do more despite his nightly escapades, because that was his true legacy. Despite knowing that for herself, she knew Bruce would never realize that.

“Ms. Montclair.” Cassie turned around to find Bella Reál walking toward her, holding her hand out to her. “Thank you for coming.”

Cassie took her hand, forcing a smile back. “Please, after everything, it’s Cassie. Thanks for the invitation.”

“I take it Mr. Wayne couldn’t squeeze the election in?”

She dropped her smile. “No, uh… He sends his regrets.”

“Such a shame,” Bella said. “I was hoping to finish the conversation we started at the memorial. I never realized how impossible he would be to reach.”

“I’ll talk to him about setting up a meeting with you,” Cassie said quickly. “He’s a busy guy, but… I’ll make him find the time.”

Bella chuckled. “He should consider putting you on his payroll, considering how often it seems you’re forced to be his secretary.”

Cassie hummed a laugh. “In his defense, the past few days have been quite… difficult for him, as you can imagine.”

She nodded, seeming to understand. “Yes, I was sorry to hear about his butler. How is he?”

“He’s awake and talking now, luckily, from what I was told,” Cassie said. “It was quite, uh… scary there for a bit.”

Before Bella could reply, a woman with a clipboard and a headset walked over to them, her eyes skipping over Cassie to look at the woman next to her. “Ms. Reál, we’re ready for you.”

“I’ll be there in a second.” She turned back to look at Cassie. “I’ve asked Mrs. Mitchell and her son to join me on stage. It would be a great pleasure to have you there with me, too.”

Cassie smiled. “Sure, if you’ll have me.”

With that, she followed her to the stage as Bella was introduced as the new mayor-elect of Gotham City. 

Bruce knew that this was a god-awful, horrible idea. That, however, wasn’t enough to stop him from actually doing it.

He had tried calling Cassie on the way back to the Riddler’s apartment, but of course, she hadn’t answered him. He told himself it didn’t mean anything. That she wasn’t dead already. That she was still at Gotham Square Garden for the election, maybe busy, maybe surrounded by too much noise to hear the phone or simply unable to because of the celebration happening now. He clung to that thought like a lifeline. If she was still there, if she was in that building, she was in danger. He had to figure out what Nashton had planned. He had to keep Gotham safe. Her safe. Otherwise, he would just lose everything he had spent most of his life working toward.

That was how he justified breaking into an active crime scene.

His tactical knife sliced cleanly through the evidence seal on the apartment door. Plastic gave way under his grip, the sound loud in the silence. He stepped inside with purpose, the beam of his flashlight sweeping across the room. Bruce looked at the kitchen cabinet where Nashton had taped up two polaroids of him with and without his mask on—creepy. He had to find what he missed. He had to. Every second wasted felt like Cassie’s life slipping further out of his reach. 

“Hey!” a voice barked.

Bruce spun around, blinding light hitting him full in the face, and for a second, he thought a trigger would follow.

Martinez stood in front of him, jaw set and gun pointed at him. “What are you doing in here?”

Bruce didn’t answer him, only shining his flashlight in his face in return. Martinez finally lowered his gun, making Bruce turn away and continue looking for any sign of a potential onslaught on Gotham City. He picked up the murder weapon used to kill Don Mitchell, investigating it more closely. The metal instrument gleamed dully in the light. It truly was a strange choice in murder weapon. Why would Nashton use such a thing unless it was important somehow?

“Hey, man, I don’t think that you should be touching that,” Martinez said, moving toward him.

Bruce narrowed his eyes at him before setting it back down on the table.

“Boy, this guy’s a real nutjob, huh? Killing Mitchell with a friggin’ carpet tool.”

Bruce looked back at him, not realizing that that was what the object was. He shined the flashlight in his face like that would make him talk more.

Martinez squinted, tilting his head down as to avoid the light. “My uncle’s a… He’s an installer. You know, it’s a… Oh, you know. It’s a… a tucker.”

For the first time in hours, a flicker of relief brushed his mind as he pulled the tucker out of the evidence bag. He had never been so happy to talk to a cop other than Gordon before. He held the tucker in his hand, investigating it more closely. Mitchell’s blood on the sharp edge of the tool didn’t do much for his nerves.

Without thinking much more about it, he moved the chair out of the way from the desk and looked down at the carpet on the floor. Surely this was what this was for. This was why Nashton had killed the mayor with something as strange as a carpet tool. 

Martinez made an uneasy sound, but he wasn’t brave enough to actually stop him.

Bruce shoved the chair away from the desk, the scrape of wood against the floor loud in the apartment’s stillness. He crouched low, every muscle in his body coiled, and pressed the tool to the edge of the carpet.

“Hey, woah, woah, woah, woah, woah! What are you doing?” Martinez said, alarmed. When Bruce kept tearing up the carpet, he became more stressed. “What are you doing!”

Bruce ignored him. The wood splintered as he pried it up. The carpet ripped free in jagged tears. Martinez hovered uselessly, hands twitching like he might intervene but never quite daring. When Bruce ripped up the last of the carpet, Martinez could only stare at what had been left below it. He moved closer to the imprint on the floor, Bruce moving next to him. Carved into the floor was a map of Gotham with seven glowing dots where the seawall might have been, the message A REAL CHANGE embedded into it. 

Bruce’s pulse thundered in his ears. 

Bruce immediately remembered the encrypted video on the computer from earlier. Maybe that was the password to watch it. He moved fast, boot heels pounding against the floor as he reached the Riddler’s computer. He typed in the message, his hands barely trembling, Martinez standing behind him. The password was correct: they both watched in anticipation as the video began to play.

At first, it almost looked pathetic. Nashton, in his mask, sat in front of a webcam like he was a regular, run-of-the-mill streamer. On the right-hand side were various commenters, but Bruce was much more focused on the man in the video.

“Hey guys,” Nashton said, waving at the camera. “Uh, thanks for all the comments, and uh, a special thanks to everyone for the tips on detonators.”

Martinez muttered, “Detonators?” under his breath, but Bruce barely heard him.

“I just want to say this will be my last post for a little while, and, uh… what this community has meant to me these weeks, these months, let’s just say none of us… is alone anymore. Okay?”

“Jesus,” Martinez muttered to himself.

“Tomorrow’s Election Day,” Nashton said, laughing in joy. “And Bella Reàl will win. She promised real change. But we know the truth, don’t we?” Nashton moved closer to the camera, picking it up and putting it in his face. “You’ve seen Gotham’s true face now. Together, we’ve unmasked it. Its corruption, its perversion, masquerarding under the guise of renewal. But unmasking is not enough.”

Nashton flipped his camera around to show the same place on the floor that Bruce and Martinez had just uncovered.

“The day of judgment is finally upon us.” 

No.

“And now it is time for retribution.” As Nashton still spoke on the video, Bruce and Martinez turned around to face the same spot on the floor, shining over it with a flashlight. “I’ve parked seven vans all along the city seawall. And on the big night—” 

Bruce stared in horror at the glowing dots on the floor. No, no, no—

“—they will go boom.”

As if on cue, Bruce and Martinez turned their heads to look at an explosion from outside the window, an orange flame glowing bright. Bruce ran toward the window, poking his head outside of it to get a better look as another blast followed. Bruce could only watch as more explosions occurred along the seawall, already causing various breaches and water to flow onto the roads.

Bruce turned back to the video in horror, still listening to Nashton’s message.

“When the vans blow, the flooding will happen so fast, evacuation will not be an option. Those who are not washed away will race through the streets in terror.”

Bruce couldn’t breathe as his chest seized. “Call Gordon.”

“Yeah,” Martinez stammered, almost frozen in fear before reaching for his phone. “Y–Yeah. Yeah.”

Despite the mask obscuring Nashton’s face onscreen, he could still sense his smile. “As breaking news hits higher ground in Gotham Square Garden, celebrations will turn to panic, as the venue becomes the city’s shelter of last resort, and that’s where all of you come in.”

Bruce’s eyes darted to the scrolling comments. He wanted to vomit. What gauge? What caliber? Rifles are good. Don’t forget your Cling Wrap! They weren’t just angered spectators. They were ready. Armed. Waiting. Hungry. He had been so focused on catching the Riddler he hadn’t given thought to an army breeding from him.

“Now, when the time arrives, I will already be unmasked. The pigs will have me in their custody, but that’s okay,” Nashton reassured his audience. “Because then it will be your turn. You’ll be there, waiting.” 

Bruce’s entire body went cold. He could already imagine what was going on at Gotham Square Garden. If Cassie truly was there, she wasn’t safe. None of them were safe. They were all going to get assassinated by the Riddler’s followers before they could even drown in the flood.

“It’s time for the lies to finally end. False promises of renewal? Change?” Nashton asked, voice becoming increasingly distorted. “We’ll give them a real, real change now. We’ve spent our lives in this wretched place, suffering! Wondering, ‘Why us?’ Now they will spend their last moments wondering, ‘Whyyyyy them!’”

“I can’t get through!” Martinez’s voice cracked, panicked. “The lines are down!”

When he looked up, the Batman was already gone, vanishing as if he had never been inside the apartment in the first place, only the echo of sirens screaming across the city remaining. 

As Bella walked to the podium, the other three stood behind her on her right, a few city council members on the left. As Cassie sat down, she tucked her clutch under her thigh, the loop still wrapped around her wrist.

Despite it being the reason she was there in the first place, Cassie couldn’t focus on her speech. It wasn’t like she hadn’t heard most of the information before. When she originally heard about her campaign, she found Bella Reál admirable. She wanted to eliminate the corruption that ran rampant in Gotham, just like Bruce. She had heard her platform before and didn’t think it was completely horrible that she couldn’t focus on the physical words she was saying now: she already knew full well what Bella Reál was capable of. Besides, how could she focus with all that buzzing her phone was currently doing in her clutch?

Her heart sank. She had put her phone on silent before she had gotten out of the car. If it was buzzing this much, something must have been wrong, so horribly wrong. As much as she wanted to check it, she had to ignore it. There was nothing she could do about it right now. The multiple cameras currently pointed at the stage would catch the action and she didn’t want to be disrespectful—that and she would never hear the end of it from Twitter. 

Despite that, her heart was racing. Why won’t it stop?

Cassie’s mind ran at a hundred miles per hour trying to figure out what it could have been. Maybe Alfred had suddenly gotten worse. Maybe something was wrong with Bruce and he was trying to get ahold of her. Maybe the police wanted to talk to her again about her and her brother’s case. 

She hadn’t expected, however, the large crash in the middle of Bella Reál’s acceptance speech, then seven booms that seemed to shake the entire city as her phone finally fell silent.

next chapter

the instant hollis walks thru the door, you're hot on his heels. he should've known something was up. you're first of all smoking a cig of all things on the couch, sitting criss-cross, kinda hunched over like you're stressed. the instant the doors opens, u get up and make ur way into the foyer where he stands below u. above, u stand on the marble stairs, watching him unlace off his over-the-top boots. he finishes, then ascends the staircase, and ur so pissed off that the sight of him slowly coming to tower over you makes you seethe — it’s like he’s arguing with u without saying a word, proving his point through your height difference (which he has no control over, but still).

"hey, princess," he mutters, pulling u into a hug, kissing the top of your head. you wrap your arms around his waist, hugging him back. "hey, babe," you murmur back. you draw back just a little, reaching up and extending the cig to him without looking at him. he accepts it automatically, like it's muscle memory, and u falter back into his arms.

u guys stay like that, embracing each other. his big hand caresses your head absently, fingers dragging slow through your hair, the other soothing down ur back. "missed u all night," he says, blowing the smoke overtop ur head. you feel the air shift by, and u smile, tilting around with him back n' forth. "yeah? how was the after? looked super fun." that should’ve been his sign one. but he lies.

"chill," he says easily. "fans everywhere, as always. ryan wouldn’t stop talking to random girls, nate freestyled some fire shit live. everybody was fuckin’ with us, it was fun as hell."

you nod, flat, like you're filing it away. "that sounds nice, baby." "was." he responds gently. u let the silence and rocking proceed for a few seconds longer before u stop, hands clutching him like a vice, like you’re bracing yourself for impact before the storm you’ll wage.

“watchu been doin all night, why’re u up so late? hope you’re not waitin on me again,” hollis croons lightly, voice endeared and loving.

it’s so cruel. he drags your loving actions—ones harmful to yourself in veneration of him back out like proof of his care for you, when really he’s checking. making sure you’ll be asleep by the time he comes home. asleep enough not to ask questions. asleep enough not to notice things like the floral, sweet, girly scent on him right now. fresh, too. not his signature musky expensive cologne.

“been up thinkin’ about you, holli.” you answer.

“yeah?” he smiles, and u can hear it in his voice, already tilted like he knows where this is going.

"mhm.. thinking ’bout you lots, baby."

he releases a low, throaty hum when he feels your nails rake down his back the way he likes. “what, what you been thinking about?” he asks, voice lower now, hands sliding down to encase your ass within them softly.

"been thinkin’ bout that girl on you in roman’s live. who the fuck was that slut you were with, hollis?"

it goes dead silent. he freezes so hard he doesn't even exhale his smoke — at least not that you feel or hear, and his hands quit moving over your ass too. you step back, plucking the cigarette from out of his mouth and looking up at him, straight into his eyes.

"talk. and don’t fucking lie to me."

"lie to you? what're u talkin' about, beautiful?" he bluffs nervously, blowing his bangs out of his face with smoke as if to subconsciously obscure his lying face.

you giggle indignantly, shaking your head, half amused at his cowardess, half annoyed at how transparently he's playing dumb. you retreat back into the living room, scooping your duffel bag of items from the couch, ready to book it. if you stay any longer, you know where this will go. his evasion is enough of an answer, and you decide u don't even wanna know the dumbass details if he can't be straight with you upfront.

he blocks ur way, stepping into your path deliberately, "w-wait, hey, fuck are u going?"

"move, hollis," you snap, trying to step around him. "nah, bro, where do you think you're going?" he asks, bringing both hands down on your shoulders, pinning you in place.

"I said MOVE! get your fuckin' hands off me." you push him away, sending your duffel bag onto the floor by consequence. quickly, he kicks it behind him, sending it down the small stairset he's blocking.

"shit, u said talk, right? u gonna fuckin' let me?" he contends, voice suddenly authorative in a way that feels scarily controlled.

you close ur eyes, exhaling frustratedly but trying to keep reign of yourself so as to not get emotional. he knows exactly what to say the instant ur emotions become visible — he's used to it, after all. he's all you've ever had, the only guy you've loved, the only person who gets you.

"hollis," you say firmly, "I…I made up my mind, clearly," you add, gesturing toward your bag, "before I asked you to talk. Nothing you say is gonna change that. we're not doing this again."

"she didn’t mean anything," he says quickly, and you feel your chest squeeze in pain at that partial revelation.

"holy shit, hollis, just get out of my way, I don't — I can't — " you stumble forward, fight or flight kicking in and trying to push past him, but the instant he reaches out to stop u again, locking you in his embrace, you recoil hard, heart hammering.

"i hate you, you fucking asshole! touch me with the same hands you used on her, are you fucking crazy?!" you pound on his chest, breathing hard, chest rising and falling as anger and pain swirl within it.

"i only want you, alright? i'm a fucking idiot, and she was just something stupid I did, baby, I was so fucking high, but i'm here. i’m here with you, okay? I don't want anything to do with her, I'm so sorry, I—" he drops to his knees, clutching ur waist, looking up at you. his eyes are soft, twinkling with tears, and his eyeliner smears faintly beneath them.

"why, Hollis?" u ask, crying despite yourself now, twisting ur face away ashamedly. "I love you more than anything, baby, I swear on my life," he promises, kissing ur stomach. "I swear on everything I am. I dunno what the fuck I'd do without you. nothing matters if I don't got you — i'd burn my fuckin' life down before I let you walk away."

"why do you always do this?" you choke, wiping at your face even though it doesn’t help. "do you have any idea how fucking stupid I look? my friends look at me like I’m pathetic, Hollis. like I’m some girl who won’t leave no matter how many times you humiliate her. I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I bend and bend and bend for you and every time, you do some dumb shit like this and I’m the one left trying to glue myself back together."

he shakes his head fast, hands tightening like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. "its not like that, baby, its not— im just around all these fuckin’ people who don’t know nothin’ about me, and when I get fucked up and i’m out there and everybody’s tellin’ me who I am, I start believin’ it. nd I can’t stop myself. I—I do fucked up shit and then I come home feelin’ worse about myself, and it’s like the more I hate myself, the more I keep fuckin’ up. But you— you’re not part of that. You never were. You’re real."

you let out a broken laugh. "that’s the problem. you treat me like I’m something you can always come back to. like I’ll just be here, no matter what you do."

he looks up at you again, desperate now. "you've seen me so fucked up, like… really. trippin’, messy, all of it. and you still loved me. you've seen my soul, for real. I don't got that with anybody else and I don't want it. I just want you. I just love you, I fuckin' love you." he rants earnestly, smushing his face into ur stomach. u feel his tears, a further silent plea and weight of his guilt. and you still can't help but cave. you've both seen each other at your rawest, been thru so much together, and he's right — even if u get a guy who treats u better, who's Mr. perfect, he'll never EVER love or accept u fully like Hollis does.

never reach those emotional places with u, those mental places. it'd just never be the same — that part of you would always be missing.

reluctantly, u snake ur hands into his hair. "you’re gonna ruin me one day," you say quietly, resigned. "I know," he admits, voice breaking. "and you're the worst boyfriend ever," "I know," he cries into you, clutching you tighter like you’re all he has left. and in a way, u are. "I deserve somebody better than you," "I know, baby." he nods weakly, looking up at u like he's bracing for you to finally walk away. "i'm sorry," he whispers. you shake your head, refusing to look at him, and he kisses down your thighs. "i'm sorry," he muffles between each kiss.

his hands make quick work of your shorts, raking them down your legs slowly. u puff on the cig detachedly, watching him. "i'm so so sorry," he murmurs, "please, let me show u how fuckin sorry I am" he begs, spreading ur leg to slide over his shoulder, pressing you lightly against the wall.

he rubs at u through ur panties and immediately hooks a finger inside, dipping it into your cunt testingly. "fuck, please... wanna taste u, baby, want my girl's pussy to suffocate me."

you shiver against him. when he talks demeaningly, acts demeaningly, it's your temporary solution to how low he makes u feel. counterintuitively, it'll make u feel worse later, and you know it, but your relationship is built on these fucked patterns anyway, so u decide the future pain is worth it. "don't deserve it, holli."

"i don't," he shakes his head knowingly, ashamed.

"no, you don't, you deserve the type of girls you fuck with—all these fuckin' whores. you don't deserve everything I am. deserve all these groupie bitches — ur just like them."

"i'm a fuckup, just like the girls I run to," he admits quietly.

"yeah you are. mhm." you nod slowly, hands tightening at the root of his hair, tugging, forcing him to nod along with you, a bitter smile tugging at your lips.

"i don't deserve your pussy," he says, looking right at you, all shame and messed‑up pain in his eyes, like it’s really killing him to say it.

"no. and look at you? you're fucking crying at my feet for it. you're so miserable inside u fuck these sluts to try and feel something, prove you're the guy, and then come home and beg at your girlfriend's feet to eat her pussy. you're disgusting, 2hollis. you're such a fucking joke." you sneer, using his stage-name, that fake, performative persona to really demean him and expose his shame to his own self-loathing.

''fine,'' you say coolly, shrugging like it’s nothing. "do what you always do. make yourself feel better while acting like a fuckin' pussy."

"thank you," he says softly, "thank u for giving me your cunt."

and fuck, is he what he so nicely eats. he whines and whimpers loudly as he licks through your folds, big hands gripping your ass tight and rocking u forward over his face, encouraging you to abuse his tongue.

he keeps his mouth on you, eyes locked up on yours like he's scared to look away, like you'll disappear. he's a mess about it, breathing all fucked, sloppy with it, way too desperate and rushed. the faint sheen of his tears, the torment and shame in his eye — for once, you believe him. it's not an act, not the stage shit, not the cool persona. it's just ugly and real. he's broken in that quiet, embarrassing way, like he never figured out how to be famous and still be the same loser he's always been — and he hates himself for it.

he really fuckin' hates himself, as per what you feel. he's eating u so good it takes everything in you to not moan, not to give him that satisfaction. but the cig is buzzing ur head, ur standing up right, getting absolutely fucked on by his tongue, and you don't know how much more of it you can silently take.

his jaw is fucking relentless, smacking against your thigh with how hard his tongue thrashes against your clit. it's all wet, warm, and noisy, interpolated with the sounds of his gentle, tearful whines. his nose, resting right at your mound, huffs air over it, with hollis subconsciously attempting to catch his breath, each shallow and short. he's losing air fast, but he doesn't stop. can't. he just holds u closer, tight, so damn desperate, like if he lets go, you'll go, and he ticks his head sideways to delve in even harder, vaccuming your clit into his hungry mouth and trapping it between his soft, pink, slicked-up lips, sucking and sucking and working his jaw.

you let a soft moan slip out when the ridges of his teeth unintentionally nibble at your clit, the sudden sting of pleasure caused by the graze of his teeth shooting through your nerves, giving the final push needed to lose yourself.

you lose all reserve and hold his head still as you rut against his face, using him like he's nothing but a fucktoy, just there for you. you moan out, and automatically, with half your head still active, pull ur top up and squish at ur tit whilst you rock against him, and almost think just by the look on his face and the groans he's releasing, that he came with you. by the time you pull him out to finally breathe, there's slick on his jaw, nose, and cheekbones. yours.

you grin pleasedly. "don't bother washing that off tonight." "then i'll have to give u another one before ur show tomorrow. let whatever hoe u try to fuck with taste me."

"no other girls, baby, no — never, I swear," he avows solemnly. you scoff upsetly, "why stop now? you don't wanna share me with your girls, baby?" you feign sadness, pouting. he shakes his head. "want u to m-myself," he moans out as u start rubbing over him with your foot, the tent in his pants visible.

"too bad. while you're performing, know what i'm gonna do? i'm gonna go out, bring a guy back, and i'm gonna fuck him on our bed."

he goes still, like the words knock the air clean out of him. "…don’t, baby, please" he pleads, voice trembling with pleasure and fear all at once.

"only okay when you do it, hm?" you tisk.

he starts sobbing, shaking all over, choking out, "I-I’m such a fuckin’ loser, baby… I don’t deserve you… I love you, I swear, I swear I love you more than anything…" he presses kisses to your knees and calf as your foot keeps nudging his swollen cock, toenails scratching at his tip teasingly through his pants, the leather scraping loudly with each movement.

"shut up, 2. you look disgusting like this. get on your knees and crawl to the bedroom." you order, and he does just that, so fuckin' ridiculously.

you let him get his headstart, and when u get moving, u kick him aside on your way past, fully naked, ass jiggling with each step, smoking a cigarette, hair beautiful and blown out from the wildness of your ride on his face. what else could he have possibly dreamed for? you couldn't believe he'd possibly let himself kneel over anybody else but the goddess you were.

you examined yourself in the mirror, posing, serving angles as he reached the doorway, getting up hesitantly. despite the height difference, in that moment he felt so much smaller than you in every way. and despite the fact that everything in the house — your entire closet, the beauty products lining the vanity, all of it — was paid for by him, he felt like nothing next to the goddess you were. "get on the bed. pants and boxers off," you command, and he obeys instantly. he waits for you, eyes wide, tears drying in faint streaks down his face.

his dick stands perfectly stiff, twitching as he watches you, eager. you feel his eyes drifting over you, head to toe, then back to your face as you pose in the mirror, keenly aware hes watching every move.

"you're forgetting something," you remind him, and he stares back at you lostly, the visible heartbreak in his eyes turning you on ridiculously. "where the hell is your condom at?" he throws his head back messily, worn-thin and flustered. "c’mon, princess, I-I—" he stammers, and you narrow your eyes at him sharply, silently daring him to fight u about it, all it takes for him to scramble, picking up his jeans and fishing into the back pocket for one. You watch him fit it on, gritting his teeth sensitively the instant his hand makes contact with his reddened, sensitive dick.

"want me to fuck you, loser?" he trembles, tortured by this helplessness, hand coming up to your waist to steady you. "off, hands off me." you warn. "sorry, baby." he drops his hand quickly, trembling. "for touching me or for cheating on me?" fuck, you're obsessed—love how many laps ur running around his head. he's so distraught and wrecked, and it breaks his brain every time. "what's it gonna take?" he pleads, staring into your eyes trying to gauge where you actually stand with him. "i'll change, I swear, but how do I make you forgive me?" - "think you'll get me another car? fill up my closet again? buy me and my girls a trip? think all of that will make me forget?" you ease his tip inside u and he wails out messily. "ohh, shit, baby… ohh, oh my god." he moans, throwing his head back, mouth agape.

you swivel your hips messily, bouncing on the tip of his length. the squelching sound of your cunt against the plastic log his cock is is loud, sloshing, and wet. he's so hard u feel his veins even through the rubber, and you breathe out to disguise your pleasure.

"fuck me back, holli. fuck your princess back like it's the last time you get to." you taunt him, and he starts shaking his head, hips bucking up into you despite himself. "no, no, no, no, baby" he whimpers. "yes, holli," u moan into his ear, hands twisting into his hair. he starts tearing up once again immediately, hands planted on your waist, bringing u up & down messily and repeatedly. "give it your all for me, baby, make your little princess feel good." "I love you, baby, I love you," he cries, eyes shut in ecstasy and simultaneous desperation.

with his eyes glazed, your face buried in his neck pressing hard, his dick slips out of you a few times, clumsily. he feels incredibly good for no reason and u guys find the perfect rhythm to fuck each other at. you resolve to flip over — riding him reverse cowgirl, your ass smacking against his hipbones each time u come down, sliding and grinding against him. he moans, grabbing onto it, touching u everywhere, drowning in pleasure and your glory. his brain floods him with panic about how he’s about to lose all of this. he fights to keep his eyes open and watch in case this really is the last time, the challenge made impossible with the tears blurring his vision. you reckon that must be the wet smear on his fingers, his tears, when he grabs at the nape of your neck, twisting you around so you can face him and allow him to implant this image in his mind. you moan out loudly in that moment, speeding up your pace atop him — his tearful, pained expression serving as true stimulation to you. he’s so gorgeous as he cries, feeding the insecure part of you that aches for his reciprocated pain, and your head runs wild at his visage of suffering.

you caress his balls while rocking down fully on him, and he breaks into whimpers, his broken sounds like a full-on wail. he reels you in flat over him, hand wrapped around your throat, other around your stomach, arms tight as he holds you to him.

he clamps his legs over yours, keeping them nice and open as he ruts into your cunt madly, kissing your cheek, sucking at your neck, one hand gripping at your tit. his hips buck crazy fast. "i'm sorry," he whimpers, "i'm so fuckin' sorry."

you moan loudly, taking him, chasing every inch when it leaves. it's like your bodies won't nd can't disconnect — he's pushing up into your guts and you're rutting down to chase after his length once it briefly retracts, fighting through his strong grip to be able to do so. you're actually magnetized to each-other. your toes sting from all the stimulation; he's effectively in your every sense fully absorbed, filling everything up completely. "anythin' you want, princess, just tell me baby, i'll give it to you. i'll do it for you."

you don't respond, just moan messily, and it aggravates both him (and his hips), which become even more furious, like he' s trying to poke you into talking to him. "talk to me, baby, please," he pleads, voice shaky and yearning. You ignore him, panting, lost in the haze of it all as he moves even faster, moaning at his increased pace. "can I kiss you?" he begs airlessly, voice cutely quivering and still somehow managing to piss you off. "no, 2, just—just shut up," you finally snap, giving him a sharp shake of your head, one he can really feel with every movement pressing against his grip on your throat.

he grunts and moans out. "ur drivin' me crazy, baby, pleaseee" he slurs, fucked out beyond reckoning, holding you tight, sweat slicked and messy.

you arch your hips down, wedging his cock in the depths of your pussy, so deep inside you feel every inch of him scratching those itches of pleasure in your core. "fuck, I'm gonna cum," you announce breathlessly, "right there, stay right there and go harder, gonna cum on your fat dick." you shout, and he listens instantly, burrowing himself deep, pounding in instead of giving u those frantic, erratically good strokes.

"tell me you’re a loser," you demand menacingly, right in his ear, "say it."

“i’m a loser. i should've never fucked it up, you're the only girl I want, baby. you’re so gorgeous, so outta my league,” he praises, hand coming down to fiddle with your throbbing clit, completely focused on your pleasure.

"know how many guys want you, i’m so lucky you're actually mine." your whole body is electric with pleasure at his acknowledgment of the power you wield over him. your mind runs fantasies of fucking another guy on the scene, somebody he hates, and sending him the tape. you picture how heartbroken he'd be, how he'd probably drop songs about you for years, and how you'd play it while getting ready, detached. ultimately, though — you doubt he'd ever break up with you even if that were the case. you guys just love each other too much and too wrong.

"can’t believe I have to let this dick go" you say sweetly, "maybe I should keep you around just for this, hm? just for this big fucking cock. fucks me so good — wonder if any of the other guys are gonna fuck me better."

"don’t say that, please… don’t," he chokes out, tears spilling down his pretty face.

"want you to keep me around forever, wanna marry you, princess. want you to have our babies." you look down between your legs, watching his fingers work at your clit relentlessly, all slicked up and shiny. you come undone without warning, and shudder violently, pussy clenching and spasming around him as you scream, moaning loudly, provoking him to spill right after you. he grits his teeth and sobs, cumming a bucket load, all over and into nothing but his protection. "fuck… baby," he whimpers smally, and you wind your hips slowly against him, riding out your orgasm greedily for a tad bit until you settle. you guys stay intertwined like that for a long minute, maybe longer, neither moving nor speaking, just existing in the aftermath. it's quieter now. the calm after the storm.

"you alright?" hollis asks softly, kissing ur cheek, voice careful and timid. you guys are so real now, stripped down completely. you press your face into his chest, silent. "I don't know."

and you’re drowning in his black hoodie that smells like clove cigarettes and the vanilla candle he pretends he doesn’t light when he misses you.

He stops in the middle of the sidewalk just to watch the snow land in your hair.

“You look like a snow globe,” he says, voice soft, no smirk, no stage voice. Just Roman.

You roll your eyes, but he’s already closing the distance, cupping your cold cheeks with his warmer hands and kissing you slow and sweet right there under the streetlight. The city keeps moving around you ,cars, people, holiday music leaking from storefronts, but he kisses you like the world narrowed to exactly this spot.

One kiss turns into three, then seven, then you lose count because he keeps chasing your mouth every time you pull away to breathe. His nose is cold against yours, but his lips are warm, gentle, like he’s scared you’ll melt if he presses too hard.

“Roman,” you laugh into his mouth, “we’re blocking the sidewalk.”

“Don’t care,” he mumbles, kissing the corner of your lips, your cheek, the tip of your frozen nose. “Been gone three weeks. I have kisses in arrears.”

He really does.

Every step back to the loft is punctuated by another one: against the brick wall outside the record store, in the elevator when the doors close, against the hallway wall the second you’re inside because he can’t wait until the door fully shuts.

By the time you kick off your boots, he’s kissed you so much your lips are swollen and you’re both breathless and giggling like teenagers.

He shrugs off the puffy jacket, tosses it somewhere, then just stands there in the living room looking at you like he’s trying to memorize the way the fairy lights reflect in your eyes.

“C’mere,” he whispers.

You go.

He pulls you down onto the couch, arranges you so you’re half in his lap, legs tangled, his hands sliding up under the hoodie to rest warm against your back. Then he starts again: slow, deep kisses that taste like the peppermint mocha you shared, like home, like every love song he’s never released because they felt too honest.

He kisses your top lip, then the bottom, then both at once. Pulls back just enough to watch your eyes flutter before he dives back in. When you sigh into his mouth he makes this tiny broken sound and kisses you harder, like he’s trying to crawl inside the feeling.

Minutes or hours pass; time is irrelevant.

His fingers trace the compass rose tattoo on his wrist (the one he got six months ago after you fell asleep on his chest on a red-eye flight and he decided north would always be wherever you were).

“I missed you so stupid much,” he says between kisses, voice cracking just a little. “Every city sucked without you waiting at the end of it.”

You kiss the words off his lips before he can apologize for getting soft.

He kisses your forehead, your temples, the spot just below your ear that makes you shiver. Then your mouth again, slower this time, like he’s savoring. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, smearing away a tiny snowflake that followed you inside.

Eventually the kisses turn lazy: little pecks, lingering presses, mouths barely moving, just breathing the same air. He tucks your hair behind your ear and kisses the shell of it, whispering, “Te amo, te amo, te amo,” until the words lose shape and just become warmth against your skin.

You fall asleep like that: tangled on the couch, snow falling outside, his lips brushing yours every time either of you shifts even slightly. When you wake up hours later, the fairy lights are still on, the hoodie is halfway off both of you, and he’s kissing your collarbone like he never stopped.

“Hi,” he murmurs against your skin, sleepy and smiling.

“Hi,” you whisper back.

He kisses you again: soft, sweet, endless.

Outside, Chicago keeps snowing.

Inside, Roman Leal kisses you like the world can wait.

—

The snow turns into a full-blown blizzard sometime after midnight.

Power flickers once, twice, then dies completely. The fairy lights go dark, the heat clicks off, and the loft is suddenly, perfectly quiet except for the wind howling against the windows and Roman’s soft laugh in the dark.

“Great,” he whispers, lips still brushing yours. “Even the city wants us stuck together.”

You feel him shift, reaching blindly until he finds the thick knit blanket on the back of the couch. He drapes it over both of you like a tent, then pulls you tighter against his chest.

“Body heat,” he says, very serious. “Survival rules.”

You’re both still half-dressed from earlier, hoodie rucked up, his T-shirt lost somewhere between the couch cushions, sweatpants barely hanging on. His skin is furnace-hot against yours. He slides one cold hand under your shirt just to make you squeak, then leaves it there, palm flat over your heart.

“Still beating for me?” he asks, voice low.

“Always.”

He rewards you with the slowest kiss yet: barely moving, just the soft press of lips, over and over, like he’s counting heartbeats with his mouth. When he finally pulls back an inch, his nose bumps yours.

“I wrote something,” he says into the dark. “On the plane from Lisbon. Didn’t finish it. Too scared it was too much.”

You wait.

He starts humming, soft, no beat, just melody. Then words, barely above a whisper, Spanish first, then English, voice cracking on every high note because he’s singing against your lips.

“Si el mundo se apaga, todavía tengo tu luz…

If the whole world goes dark, I still got your light…

Left to right, every night, you’re my only north…

Compass rose on my wrist, baby, it don’t point nowhere but you…”

He stops when his voice wobbles. You feel the wet on your cheek and realize it’s not yours.

“Roman,” you breathe.

“I know,” he laughs, embarrassed. “I’m a walking cliché right now. Famous guy writes sappy love song in the dark. Sue me.”

You kiss him to shut him up, deep this time, licking into his mouth until he’s trembling. When you pull back, you whisper against his lips, “Sing the rest.”

So he does. The whole song, three verses, a bridge that breaks your heart, a chorus that’s just your name repeated like a prayer. He sings it unplugged, unfiltered, fingers tangled in yours under the blanket, lips brushing yours on every breath.

By the time he finishes, you’re both crying quietly and smiling like idiots.

“Track twelve,” he says, voice hoarse. “No title yet. Just… you.”

You kiss him again, slow, grateful, endless. The kind of kiss that says everything words can’t. He makes this soft wrecked sound and rolls you underneath him, blanket cocooning you both, snow piling up against the windows like the world is trying to keep everyone else out.

Hours blur.

He kisses every inch of your face like he’s mapping it: eyelids, cheekbones, the tip of your nose, the tiny scar on your jaw you got when you were seven. Then lower, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone, the spot between your breasts where his head fits perfectly. Every kiss is gentle, reverent, like he’s saying thank you for existing.

You fall asleep with his lips against your pulse.

You wake up to him kissing your knuckles one by one, whispering “mine” after each.

The power’s still out. The city is buried. Neither of you move to check your phones.

At some point he carries you to his bed, blanket and all, lays you down, crawls in after you. The sheets are cold; he warms them with his body, curling around you from behind, lips pressed to the back of your neck.

“I’m canceling Berlin,” he mumbles into your skin.

“You can’t cancel Berlin.”

“Watch me. I’ll fake laryngitis. Or food poisoning. Or sudden religious conversion.”

You laugh, turn in his arms so you’re face to face again. Moonlight through the window paints silver across his cheekbones.

“Stay three days,” you bargain. “Then I’ll fly out for New Year’s Eve. We’ll kiss at midnight in whatever city you’re in.”

He considers this, then kisses you soft and filthy just to seal the deal.

“Three days,” he agrees. “But I’m not letting you out of this bed for seventy-one of the seventy-two hours.”

You pretend to think about it. He seals the negotiation by sliding his thigh between yours and kissing you until you forget how numbers work.

Morning comes grey and hushed. Snow still falling. The loft is freezing, but under three blankets and Roman’s arms, you’re sweating.

He wakes you with kisses to your shoulder blades, murmuring “Buenos días, mi vida” like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

You spend the entire day like that: kissing lazy and slow, talking about nothing and everything, ordering delivery that never arrives because the roads are closed, eating cold leftover pizza straight from the box between kisses that taste like pepperoni and forever.

At 11:11 PM, because of course he notices, he pulls you into the living room, wraps you both in the same blanket, and slow-dances with you to absolutely no music. Just the sound of your breathing and the snow tapping the windows.

He sings the chorus of the unfinished song into your hair, swaying left to right, left to right.

When midnight hits, he kisses you like it’s New Year’s Eve already.

“Best snow day of my life,” he whispers against your lips.

You smile into the kiss. “It’s not over yet.”

He grins, wicked and soft at the same time, and carries you back to bed.

Outside, Chicago is silent under feet of snow.

Inside, Roman Leal kisses you like tomorrow doesn’t exist.

—

Day two of the blizzard and the city is officially shut down.

No flights, no trains, no Ubers, no label calls getting through. Roman’s manager has been texting SOS emojis for twelve hours; Roman turned his phone off and hid it in a cereal box.

It’s the longest he’s been unreachable since he was seventeen.

You wake up to the smell of burnt toast and his off-key humming. He’s in the kitchen wearing nothing but grey sweatpants and one of your scrunchies around his wrist like a trophy, attempting to make breakfast with whatever didn’t require electricity. There’s a pan of slightly charred eggs, two mugs of instant coffee that somehow taste perfect, and a single sad clementine he’s peeled into a perfect rose on your plate.

He looks up when you shuffle in wearing his hoodie again, this time with nothing underneath, and his whole face goes soft.

“Morning, beautiful,” he says, like he’s never seen anything better in his life.

You steal the clementine rose and kiss him slow, tasting smoke and coffee and him. He backs you against the counter without breaking the kiss, hands sliding up under the hoodie to find bare skin.

“Breakfast can wait,” he murmurs against your lips.

Breakfast waits three hours.

After, you eat cold eggs straight from the pan while sitting on the kitchen floor, legs tangled, feeding each other bites between kisses that still feel brand new. He licks salt off your bottom lip and laughs when you steal the last piece of toast.

The power’s still out, so you build a blanket fort in the living room like children. Fairy lights run on batteries now, casting gold over his cheekbones while he lies on his back and pulls you on top of him.

He spends an hour just kissing your wrists, your palms, the inside of your elbow, every place he says he missed when he was on stage and couldn’t touch you. When he gets to the tiny freckle on your ring finger he stops, eyes going wide.

“One day,” he whispers, pressing his lips there like a vow, “I’m putting something here that never comes off.”

Your heart flips so hard you have to hide your face in his neck. He feels it, kisses your hair, and holds you tighter.

Later, you find an old acoustic guitar in the closet, one he swears he doesn’t play anymore. He tunes it by ear in the dark, then plays the love song again, fuller this time, harmonies and all. Halfway through he forgets the words because he’s too busy watching your face.

You end up straddling his lap on the couch, guitar pushed aside, kissing him quiet while snow taps the windows like it’s keeping time.

He teaches you the chorus in Spanish, lips brushing yours on every syllable.

You teach him how to say “I’m never leaving” in your language, which is just kissing him until you’re both breathless and laughing into each other’s mouths.

At 4 PM the sun finally breaks through for twenty minutes, weak winter light pouring gold across the floor. You lie in it like cats, tangled naked under the blanket, his head on your stomach while you play with his curls.

He traces the compass rose tattoo again and again.

“You know why I got it pointing sideways?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head.

“Because north isn’t a place. It’s a person. And she moves. So I made it follow.”

You have to kiss him after that or you’ll actually start crying.

Night falls early. You light every candle in the apartment, mostly half-melted ones from past girlfriends he never threw out, until the loft glows soft and orange. He finds a tiny Bluetooth speaker with 4% battery and puts on the slowest playlist he’s ever made, boleros, old Bad Bunny love songs, Frank Ocean, and one unreleased demo that’s literally just him whispering your name over piano.

You dance in the candlelight, barefoot, his hands on your waist, your cheek against his chest. He sings along to every song, voice low, lips in your hair.

When the speaker dies, he keeps singing anyway, making up Spanish lyrics about snow and second chances and the way your laugh fixes every broken thing inside him.

You fall asleep on the rug, surrounded by melted wax and empty coffee mugs, his arms locked around you like the world might try to take you while he’s not looking.

At 3:33 AM, you wake up to him kissing your shoulder, whispering, “Still here. Still mine. Still north.”

You roll over, kiss him slow and sleepy, and fall back under.

Day three dawns the same: quiet, white, perfect.

The city starts digging out. Phones buzz back to life. Reality knocks.

Roman answers exactly one call, his abuela FaceTiming to make sure he’s alive. She sees you in the background wearing his hoodie, hair a mess, hickeys blooming on your neck, and immediately starts crying happy tears and demanding nietos.

He laughs, kisses your temple, tells her “Pronto, abuela, te lo prometo,” and hangs up before his manager can get through.

Then he turns his phone off again, crawls back into the blanket fort, and kisses you like the world can wait another lifetime.

Eventually you’ll have to leave. Berlin, Miami, the album, the tour, life.

But for now, the snow keeps falling.

The candles keep burning.

And Roman Leal kisses you like every second is borrowed and he’s planning to keep them all.

—

The third morning is still dark when you wake up to Roman’s mouth on your neck and his hand already between your thighs.

He’s hard against your hip, breath hot, voice wrecked from sleep and three days of kissing you raw.

“Couldn’t wait anymore,” he whispers, sliding one finger inside you slow, curling just right. “Been hard since you moaned in your sleep twenty minutes ago.”

You arch into him, gasping his name. The loft is freezing, power still out, blankets kicked to the floor sometime in the night, but his skin is burning.

He adds a second finger, thumb circling your clit, kissing you deep and messy while he works you open. When you’re dripping and shaking he pulls back just enough to watch your face.

“Tell me,” he says, voice rough. “Tell me you want me inside you right now.”

You barely get the words out before he’s rolling on top of you, pushing your thighs apart with his knees, sliding in slow and bare, both of you too far gone to care about anything but this.

He groans into your neck when he bottoms out, stays still for a second just breathing, forehead pressed to yours.

“Fuck, you feel like home,” he whispers, and then he starts moving, long, deep strokes that hit every spot you didn’t know you had.

The candles from last night are still flickering, throwing gold across his back, his shoulders, the sweat starting to bead along his spine. You drag your nails down his skin and he shivers, hips snapping harder.

He kisses you through every thrust: open-mouthed, desperate, swallowing every sound you make. When you get close he slows down on purpose, teasing, until you’re begging against his lips.

“Roman, please—”

“Please what, bebé?” He pulls almost all the way out, then sinks back in torturously slow. “Tell me in Spanish.”

You choke on the words, too gone to care that your accent is terrible. “Por favor, más duro, te necesito—”

That does it.

He fucks you like the world’s ending: one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding between you to rub tight circles on your clit. You come with his name ripped out of you, clenching around him so hard his rhythm stutters.

He follows seconds later, burying himself deep and coming with a broken moan against your throat, hips jerking through it, filling you up until you’re both shaking.

After, he doesn’t pull out. Just collapses on top of you, face in your neck, kissing the sweat there like he’s thanking you.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours.

Eventually he softens and slips out, but he still doesn’t move far, just rolls you both so you’re on his chest, legs tangled, his hands stroking your back like he’s calming a spooked animal.

“Still north,” he murmurs into your hair, voice hoarse. “Always north.”

You kiss the compass rose on his wrist, then his mouth, soft, slow, tasting like both of you.

Round two happens in the shower an hour later, when the hot water finally flickers back on for exactly twelve glorious minutes. He presses you against the tile, lifts one of your legs over his hip, and slides back in like he never left. Water streams over both of you; he kisses you through every thrust until the pipes go cold and you’re coming again, muffling your cries in his shoulder.

Round three is lazy on the couch at dusk: you riding him slow while snow falls past the window, his hands on your hips guiding the rhythm, lips never leaving yours. He comes with your name on his tongue and tears in his eyes again.

Round four is in bed at 2 AM, face-to-face, legs hooked together, moving so slow it barely counts as moving, more like breathing each other in. He whispers “te amo” every time he’s fully inside you, like it’s a prayer and a promise.

By the time actual morning comes on day four, you’re both wrecked: lips swollen, necks covered in marks, sheets ruined, voices gone from moaning and laughing and singing made-up love songs into each other’s mouths.

The city is digging out. Phones are blowing up. Flights are being rebooked.

Roman kisses you one last time, soft, lingering, like he’s sealing something, and whispers against your lips:

“Three days turned into ninety-six hours. Best tour break of my life.”

You smile, kiss the compass rose tattoo, then his mouth again.

“Worth every canceled show,” you tell him.

He grins, wicked and wrecked and so in love it hurts.

“Left to right, mi vida,” he says. “And every direction after that.”

The snow finally stops falling.

The world starts moving again.

But inside the loft, Roman Leal keeps kissing you like time still belongs to just the two of you.

And for a little while longer, it does.

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