༄✧ lyss ❦

The lecture theatre had noticed it immediately. There was a weird, restless buzz moving through the rows, people shifting in their seats and leaning toward each other, whispering guesses with the kind of energy usually reserved for fire alarms or free pizza. 

Beside her, a girl in a Briar hoodie muttered, “I swear to God, if this is an icebreaker, I’m dropping out,” and someone two rows back laughed too loudly.

Dr. Miller looked delighted, which was always a terrible sign.

“Alright,” she said, clapping her hands together once. “Settle down. I promise this will be painless.”

That was, historically, the kind of sentence said before something deeply annoying happened. She reached for her coffee and took a careful sip as Dr. Miller started explaining the assignment. 

Community participation. Immersion. Observational research. Four weeks of attendance. A reflective essay at the end on the role of student clubs in shaping identity, support networks, and campus culture. Partners randomly assigned. Club randomly selected.

A few people groaned. Someone near the front said, “Randomly?” with real fear in his voice.

“Yes, randomly,” Dr. Miller said, still smiling. “Which means no, Mr. Collins, you cannot choose the Gaming Society again because you already go every Friday.”

There was a ripple of laughter. The guy in question sank a little lower in his seat. She was still trying to decide whether this was annoying in a normal way or annoying in a potentially disastrous way when Dr. Miller started reading names off a printed list.

“Jenna Clark and Olivia Redding. Mateo Alvarez and Priya Shah. Daniel West and Claire Thompson.”

Her pen rolled off her notebook and hit the floor near her boot. She bent down to grab it, already only half listening, until Dr. Miller said her name.

Then, after one awful little beat, “Garrett Graham.”

The lecture theatre did that thing people did when they were trying not to react and reacting anyway. A soft swell of noise, a few heads turning, a couple of muffled laughs. 

Someone behind her said, “Lucky,” under their breath, and she felt heat crawl up the back of her neck in a way that made her want to turn around and throw her coffee at them.

Garrett, two rows behind and three seats over, lifted his head like he’d been called in a locker room instead of a classroom. He had one arm slung over the back of the chair beside him, a black Briar Hockey hoodie stretched across his shoulders, and dark curls still slightly damp at the ends, like he’d showered after morning practice and then barely made it here on time. 

He looked too comfortable for someone who had just been handed a four-week group assignment with a stranger, mouth curving faintly as his eyes cut over to hers.

Obviously he was cute. It was Garrett Graham. You would have to be blind to miss it, and even then, she was pretty sure blind people probably sensed it in the air around him. Some kind of deeply irritating atmospheric pressure. A shift in the room. Girls fixing their hair for no reason. Boys pretending not to be impressed by him. Professors learning his name faster than everyone else’s.

He raised his brows at her, all easy recognition and lazy amusement, like they were already in on a joke together. She looked back down at her notebook because she refused to be taken out by a man with wet hockey hair before ten in the morning.

Once all the partners had been assigned, Dr. Miller waved them down by pair to draw their clubs. There were normal options at first. Environmental Action. Debate Society. Campus Radio. The French Film Club, which got a pained little silence from the two guys who pulled it. Someone got Knitting for Beginners and looked weirdly pleased about it. Someone else got Ballroom Dance and immediately started bargaining with God.

When Dr. Miller called their names, Garrett stood first. He was taller up close than he looked from a distance, which was rude because he already looked tall from a distance. He came down the lecture steps with his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie, moving with that loose, athletic ease that made everything seem like less effort than it probably was. 

She met him at the aisle and tried very hard not to notice the faint clean smell of soap and cold air coming off him.

“Partner,” he said, like they’d planned this.

“Graham,” she said, because her brain had decided the best defence against hot men was sounding unimpressed.

His grin twitched. “Already using my last name. Feels serious.”

“Don’t get attached. I’m mostly trying to remember which one you are.”

“Ouch.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I dunno.” He pressed a hand to his chest as they reached the front. “That one hit pretty hard.”

Dr. Miller held the hat out toward them with theatrical importance. “Moment of truth.”

Garrett glanced sideways at her and made a small sweeping gesture with one hand. “Ladies first.”

“Wow,” she said, reaching into the hat. “Chivalry’s alive.”

Her fingers closed around one folded slip of paper. Garrett leaned over her shoulder before she could open it, close enough that she caught another brief hit of soap and wintergreen gum. “Don’t get us something weird.”

“I’m not controlling the hat, Graham.”

“Manifest better.”

She unfolded the paper. For a second, the words didn’t make sense. They were just black ink on white paper, the letters sitting there with obscene calm while her stomach did a slow, cold drop toward the floor.

CELIBACY CLUB.

She blinked.

Garrett’s breath left him in a low, disbelieving groan beside her ear. “Oh, fuck me.”

Which was, considering the club, maybe not ideal phrasing.

Dr. Miller tilted her head. “What did you get?”

There was a horrible little pause. She looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at the paper. Then he lifted his head and called out, voice carrying easily across the theatre, “Celibacy Club.”

The room exploded. Actual, full-body laughter rolled up the rows. Someone whooped. Someone clapped. A guy near the back yelled, “Damn, sorry, G!” and another voice immediately followed with, “Season-ending injury!”

Garrett turned just enough to shoot the back rows a look, but it was impossible to tell whether he was annoyed or fighting a laugh. His jaw flexed once. The corner of his mouth gave him away. She wanted to crawl directly into the hat and live there.

Dr. Miller, traitor that she was, looked amused. “Wonderful. A valuable perspective on campus values and social norms.”

“Valuable,” Garrett repeated, so dryly that the front row snickered.

She folded the paper back up with very deliberate fingers and handed it over. “This is going to be a nightmare.”

Garrett glanced at her as they started back up the stairs. “You think?”

“I think the universe is either hilarious or evil.”

“Both, probably.”

They got back to their row under the soft, gleeful attention of what felt like every person in the room. Garrett dropped into the seat beside her this time, deciding partnership meant proximity now, and leaned back with his knees spread wide enough that one of them nearly brushed hers.

“Oh, fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his mouth.

She looked at him. “Already struggling?”

His eyes cut to hers. Dark, amused, offended. “Careful.”

“What?”

“You sound like you’re doubting me.”

“I don’t sound like anything.”

“You sounded very doubt-y.”

She pressed her lips together and looked toward the front where Dr. Miller was explaining attendance logs. “Maybe I’m just worried about the quality of our research.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Immersion matters, Graham.”

He huffed a laugh, low in his chest. “Yeah? You gonna immerse yourself in celibacy?”

The way he said it made her want to laugh, which was annoying. “For the grade? Sure.”

“For the grade,” he echoed, nodding slowly, like he was considering a play on the ice. “Right.”

She should have known, probably, that this was the beginning of the problem. Garrett Graham sitting beside her with his knee almost touching hers, acting like four weeks was nothing, while the entire lecture theatre continued to make jokes under their breath because Briar University had the emotional maturity of a middle school cafeteria.

The problem was that she found him funny. That was where things started going downhill.

Their first actual meeting outside class was in the library two days later, and Garrett arrived only twelve minutes late, which, based on what she knew about hockey players as a species, was basically early.

He came in carrying a laptop under one arm and two coffees in the other hand, wearing a backwards cap and a grey Henley that looked unfairly good on him for something that was technically just a shirt. 

There was a fading bruise along one side of his jaw, yellow-green at the edges, and she caught herself looking at it before she could stop.

“Peace offering,” he said, setting one of the coffees in front of her.

She looked at the cup, then at him. “For being late?”

“For being… a bit delayed.”

“You mean late.”

“Yeah, but your version makes me sound bad.”

“You are bad.”

His grin flashed. “That’s what I hear.”

She stared at him for half a second, then down at her laptop, mostly because smiling felt too much like encouragement. “I’m not rewarding that.”

“You don’t have to. Your face did.”

“My face did nothing.”

“Your face said Garrett, wow, thank you for this coffee, you’re so thoughtful and punctual.”

“My face has never sounded like that.”

“Agree to disagree.”

He pulled out the chair across from her and sat down, sprawling almost immediately, one foot nudging the leg of the table as he opened his laptop. 

For someone with a reputation that moved around campus ahead of him like weather, he was weirdly focused once they started. He asked about the rubric. He made a shared document. He typed notes in short, messy fragments and frowned at the assignment sheet. 

When she made a joke about him outsourcing all his academic labour to her, he looked genuinely offended.

“I need a good grade in this class.”

She glanced up. “For hockey?”

“Yeah.”

“Right.” She leaned back in her chair and wrapped both hands around her coffee. “So you’re actually taking this seriously.”

His eyes flicked up. “Why’d you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you expected me to just sit back and do nothing.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you implied it.”

She shrugged and shook her head. “Your GPA is not my business.”

“Damn right it isn’t.”

“But,” she added, because she had a death wish, “I still don’t think you’re going to take the club part that seriously.”

Garrett stopped typing. His fingers rested on the keyboard. Slowly, he looked at her. “What’s that mean?”

“It means…” She dragged the word out, already regretting it and enjoying herself too much to stop. “It means you’re Garrett Graham.”

His brows lifted. “And?”

“And your sex life is kind of… well known.”

“My sex life?”

“Girls talk, Garrett.”

He stared at her for a second, then barked out a laugh and leaned back in his chair, hand rubbing along his jaw. “Jesus. What’re they saying?”

“I’m not giving you a performance review.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No.”

“Is it good?”

She gave him a look.

His grin widened. “Okay, so it’s good.”

“You’re proving my point.”

“Your point being?”

“That you are absolutely not abstaining from sex for four weeks.”

Something shifted in his face so quickly she almost missed it. The amusement stayed, but sharpened a little at the edges, catching on pride. His knee stopped bouncing under the table. 

He leaned forward, forearms braced near his laptop, and looked at her like she’d just challenged him to a shootout. “You think I can’t?”

She took a sip of coffee. “I think you won’t.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“No,” she said, and smiled a little despite herself. “I don’t think you can.”

Garrett went very still. Then he huffed once, almost to himself, and nodded. “Okay.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Okay?”

“You’re on.”

“I didn’t bet anything.”

“You bet my pride.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“It’s now a shared academic problem.” He pointed at the document. “Four weeks. Full immersion. No sex.”

She should have backed out. A normal person would have backed out. A normal person would have said, Garrett, I was making fun of you, please stop turning sociology into a masculinity crisis. 

Instead, she looked at his smug, stupid, determined face and felt something bright and reckless kick at the inside of her ribs. “Fine,” she said. “No sex.”

His eyes held hers for a beat too long. “For either of us.”

Her stomach gave an inconvenient little twist. “Excuse me?”

“If I’m doing it, you’re doing it.”

“You think I can’t?”

“I think,” he said, leaning back again, all lazy confidence now that he’d successfully dragged her into the mud with him, “you suddenly look less smug.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“I can go four weeks without sex.”

“Great. Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

She hated him a little for that.

By the time they walked into their first Celibacy Club meeting, she’d already decided the essay was going to be either a masterpiece or evidence in a future trial. The club met in a small multipurpose room on the second floor of the student union, the kind with beige walls, fluorescent lights, and a whiteboard that still had faint ghost words from someone’s failed attempt at erasing a finance club agenda. 

There were folding chairs arranged in a circle. Someone had set out a tray of grocery store cookies and a stack of napkins with tiny pink hearts on them, which felt either deeply sincere or deeply hostile.

Garrett paused in the doorway beside her. She looked at him. “You okay?”

He looked at the circle. Then the cookies. Then the hand-lettered poster taped to the wall that said SELF-CONTROL IS SELF-RESPECT.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m just trying to decide if this is too late to switch to French Film Club.”

“You wanted the bet.”

“I wanted to defend my honour.”

“Your honour is sitting in a folding chair for fifty minutes.”

He sighed. “My honour’s been through worse.”

They took two seats near the back of the circle, which was a ridiculous concept because circles didn’t have backs, but somehow Garrett found one anyway. He sat the way he did everywhere, one arm draped over the back of his chair, legs spread, knee bouncing occasionally while people introduced themselves and talked about why they’d joined.

Some of them were sweet. One girl spoke shyly about wanting a space where dating didn’t feel like pressure. A guy with glasses talked about religion in a way that was earnest without being preachy. Another girl said she was tired of people acting like you had to hook up to be interesting. Then a girl named Bethany started talking about hookup culture like it had personally murdered her family.

“Sex,” Bethany said, with both hands folded in her lap and the expression of someone delivering a eulogy, “has become a distraction from true emotional purity.”

Garrett’s knee stopped bouncing. She looked down at her phone and typed, emotional purity??? in her notes.

Garrett leaned subtly closer, his voice barely above breath. “Don’t write ‘bullshit’ in the notes.”

“I wrote emotional purity.”

“Same shit.”

She had to bite the inside of her cheek.

Bethany kept going. “When we deny the body, we free the soul.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched. She typed, denies body, frees soul, makes everyone uncomfortable.

He glanced at her phone and made a soft sound that could have been a cough if he had any discipline at all. 

After the meeting, they spilled out into the hallway with everyone else, blinking under the brighter lights of the student union. For a moment neither of them said anything. 

They just walked side by side past the bulletin boards, past a girl putting up flyers for an a cappella audition, past two guys arguing over whether the vending machine had eaten their money or whether they were simply idiots.

Garrett pushed open the glass doors and held one for her with his shoulder. Cold air slid under her jacket and made her shiver.

“I mean,” he said, once they were outside, “it’s bullshit, right?”

She laughed immediately, the sound puffing white in the cold. “Complete bullshit.”

“Thank God.”

“I was worried you were about to tell me your soul felt free.”

He scoffed. “My soul sat through Bethany calling sex a distraction from purity.”

They started down the path cutting across campus, the lamps turning the wet pavement gold in patches. It had rained earlier, one of those thin, miserable showers that made everything smell like damp leaves and concrete, and the air still had that cleaned-out bite to it. Garrett walked close enough that his shoulder almost brushed hers every few steps. 

“That girl,” she said, tucking her hands deeper into her coat pockets, “has definitely never had good sex.”

Garrett nodded instantly. “Clearly.”

“Like, I’m not even being mean.”

“No, that’s just facts.”

They talked about the essay at first because that was what they were supposed to be doing. Themes. Contradictions. The useful parts of the club versus the more cult-adjacent energy of the poster. 

Garrett wanted to write about pressure in athletics, which surprised her for half a second before it made perfect sense. He talked about locker rooms and expectations and the way guys turned sex into a scoreboard because nobody had ever taught them how to shut up and be normal. He said it lightly, but not flippantly. Like he’d thought about it before and didn’t love that he had.

Then they talked about other things. Her roommate who stole oat milk and pretended she thought it was communal. His housemates, who sounded exactly as exhausting as their reputations suggested. A class he hated. A professor she loved. The weirdly aggressive squirrel outside the science building. The way Briar acted like hockey games were civic holidays and how, according to Garrett, that was because they were.

“School spirit matters,” he’d explained.

“You mean people screaming your name matters.”

“That also matters.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling, and then realised with a little start that they were outside her dorm.

The building rose in front of them, warm rectangles of light in the windows, music faintly thumping from somewhere on the second floor. She stopped at the foot of the steps and looked up, then back at him. “This is me.”

Garrett glanced at the building like he was only now noticing where they’d ended up. His hands were in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold, hair curling messily over his forehead.

“Okay,” he said. “Well. I’ll see you next week?”

“Yeah.” She shifted her weight, suddenly conscious of the space between them. “For round two of soul freedom.”

His mouth curved. “Can’t wait.”

“Liar.”

“Yeah.” He smiled properly then. “You coming to the game Saturday?”

She blinked. “What?”

“The game.” He nodded toward the direction of the rink, like she might have forgotten where hockey lived. “You coming?”

“Probably. I think my friends are going.”

“Cool.” He looked pleased in a way that was small but annoyingly visible. “I’ll see you there, then.”

She nodded, gripping the strap of her tote. “Thanks for walking me.”

“Yeah,” he said, softer. “Anytime.”

She went up the steps before she could make the moment weird. At the door, she glanced back once, because she was very committed to embarrassing herself in private. Garrett was still there, standing at the bottom of the stairs with his hands in his pockets, watching long enough to make sure she got inside.

By Saturday, she had officially gone one week without sex, which wasn’t impressive, it was barely even interesting. She was not, despite what her roommate implied after finding her glaring at a banana in the dining hall, some kind of feral creature who needed to be locked in a basement every time she went seven days without getting laid.

The annoying part was the rule. The annoying part was knowing she couldn’t.

It made everything louder. Every couple making out near the mailroom, every girl walking down the hallway in a borrowed hoodie, every low laugh from some guy on the other side of the library shelves. Even her own bed had started feeling rude. Too soft. Too big. Too aware of her.

And then there was Garrett. Briar’s rink was packed by the time she and her friends found seats, the air already hot with bodies and sharp with the scrape of skates from warmups. The student section was a mess of jerseys, painted cheeks, noise bouncing hard off the glass. 

She’d been to games before. Plenty of them. Briar hockey was one of those things people attended even when they didn’t care about hockey because the atmosphere made caring feel mandatory.

But Garrett on the ice after a week of thinking about not having sex was a whole new category of problem. He was fast in a way that made her stomach drop. Controlled, like every turn and burst and stop came from somewhere deep in his body that understood force better than gravity did. His shoulders looked broader in pads. His jaw was set under the helmet, mouthguard tucked against his teeth, eyes locked hard on the play. 

There was nothing lazy about him out there. Only focus, aggression, a kind of clean, ruthless confidence that made the crowd lean forward whenever he touched the puck.

“Oh my God,” her roommate said beside her, laughing. “Are you okay?”

She realised her legs were crossed so tightly her knee had started bouncing. “I’m fine.”

“You look stressed.”

“I’m appreciating athleticism.”

“You’re appreciating something.”

Garrett slammed an opposing player into the boards directly in front of their section with a hard, satisfying crash that made everyone scream. He peeled away like it was nothing, barely glancing up, and she felt the sound of it somewhere low in her stomach. This was actually so stupid.

He scored in the third period because the universe wanted her dead.

The place erupted, people jumping up around her, drinks sloshing, arms hitting arms. Garrett’s teammates slammed into him near the net, helmets knocking, gloves grabbing at his jersey. 

He grinned then, bright and vicious, and when he looked toward the student section for half a second, she had the horrible, impossible thought that he might have found her in the crowd.

He probably hadn’t. He was Garrett Graham. He probably did that to every section. Probably glanced into the stands and made twenty girls feel selected by accident.

Still, when his eyes seemed to catch hers through the glass and the noise and all the bodies, her breath snagged in a way that made her hate him on principle.

By the end of the second week, Garrett was starting to think he’d made a massive error. Not because he couldn’t go without sex, he could, obviously. He was a grown man with discipline. 

He woke up at five for practice, lifted until his muscles shook, skated through drills that made freshmen look like they were about to meet God, and had spent most of his life being told his body was a machine that existed to obey him. Four weeks without sex should have been nothing.

Except she was sitting on his bedroom floor in a tank top and jeans, chewing the end of her pen while she read over their introduction, and Garrett was having a hard time remembering any word in the English language that wasn’t related to her mouth.

It wasn’t even a fancy tank top – that was the part that felt insulting. Plain black, thin straps, tucked just slightly into the waist of her jeans because she’d been warm when she came in and shrugged off her sweater twenty minutes ago. Her hair was pulled back messily, she had one socked foot tucked under her thigh and the other stretched out toward his bed, toes flexing occasionally while she concentrated.

He’d seen her around before this. She came to games sometimes. She went to parties sometimes. She was in his class, and Briar wasn’t that big, not really, not when you lived in the gravitational pull of the same few houses and bars and lecture halls. 

He’d always thought she was pretty. Pretty enough to notice. Pretty enough to look at twice. But she’d never looked especially interested in him, which was weird only because most people were at least a little interested in him. She’d been polite. Funny sometimes. A little unimpressed, like she knew exactly what he was and had decided it wasn’t urgent.

And because Garrett was not in the habit of begging girls to want him when there was usually someone already leaning into his side at a party, he’d left it alone. That was before the hat. That was before she started sending him texts about Bethany’s latest club email with the subject line PLEASE READ: TEMPTATION TRIGGERS.

That was before he knew she drank coffee too late and then complained about being awake. Before he knew she made little notes in the margins of articles that were half useful and half insults. Before he knew she got mean when she was hungry and weirdly soft about people who were earnestly trying, even when they were annoying. Before she sat in his room and made his sheets smell faintly like her shampoo just by leaning against his bed.

She snapped her fingers in front of him. “Garrett.”

His eyes jerked up. She was staring at him over the top of her laptop, brows raised. “Focus.”

“I am focused.”

She gave him a flat look. “We should have written way more of this by now.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Sorry. Distracted.”

“Clearly.”

He looked at her mouth again before he could stop himself. Her lips parted slightly, just enough for the air between them to change.

Garrett looked back at his laptop so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. This was fine. Everything was fine. He was the captain of a Division I hockey team. He could survive one girl in a tank top on his bedroom floor.

Then she leaned forward to grab her coffee from his desk, her shoulder brushed his knee and he got a view of right down the front of her top. Garrett closed his eyes for one second and asked whatever god was available to stop laughing.

Halfway through the third week, she was in bed with the lights off, her laptop abandoned on the floor and her phone held above her face while she scrolled without absorbing anything. Her roommate was out. The hallway was noisy in patches, doors opening and closing, someone laughing too loudly near the bathrooms, the distant thud of music from a room where apparently nobody had a morning class.

Her whole body felt restless in a way that had stopped being funny days ago. It wasn’t only sex. Sex would have been simpler. Sex was a clean, obvious want. 

This had edges. This had Garrett sending her a photo of the Celibacy Club’s latest inspirational quote with the message this feels targeted. This had Garrett bringing her coffee again without asking how she took it because he knew now. This had Garrett walking her back to her dorm after meetings and lingering at the bottom of the steps like he was always deciding whether to say one more thing.

Her phone buzzed in her hand.

Garrett: Is this as shit for you as it is for me?

She stared at it, then let out a laugh that felt too loud in the dark room. Her thumbs moved before she could overthink it.

Yeah. It’s fucking awful. Why the fuck do people do this willingly?

The response came almost instantly.

Garrett: Torture I guess.

She smiled up at the screen, helplessly stupid about it.

Very academic take.

Garrett: Put it in the paper.

“After three weeks of immersive observation, we conclude: torture, I guess.”

Garrett: A+

Dr. Miller cries. Harvard calls.

Garrett: I transfer. Become a monk.

You’d last nine minutes as a monk.

Garrett: Generous.

She rolled onto her side, tucking one hand under her cheek while the phone lit her pillow blue-white. For a minute, neither of them sent anything. She watched the typing bubble appear, disappear, appear again.

Garrett: You awake because of the assignment?

Her chest tightened in a small, irritating way.

Sure.

Garrett: Liar.

She bit her lip, smiling despite herself.

Go to sleep, Graham.

Garrett: Trying.

Try harder.

Garrett: Bossy.

Garrett: Night.

She stared at the word for a long moment. Then she typed back.

Night.

At the end of the third week, the hockey house was so loud the walls were shaking. The boys had won again, which meant the place was packed and sticky-floored and pulsing with the kind of victorious male energy that probably needed to be studied under supervision. Someone had knocked over a lamp in the living room and simply moved it into a corner like that solved the problem. 

The kitchen smelled like beer, pizza, and whatever cheap cologne the freshman boys had decided to bathe in. Music shook through the floorboards. There were people on the stairs, people leaning against doorframes, people making out badly near the back hall like they’d been assigned it for extra credit.

She stood near the kitchen island with her friends, nursing a drink she didn’t really want, her eyes tracking toward the living room every few seconds without permission. 

Garrett was somewhere in the house. She knew that because the whole house felt different when he was in it. Which was a stupid thought. Horrible. Embarrassing. She wished she could reach into her own brain and remove it with salad tongs.

“You’re seriously still doing the no-sex thing?” one of her friends asked, staring at her like she’d announced a minor cult membership.

“Yes.”

“For this stupid assignment?”

“Yes.”

Her roommate leaned against the counter, eyes glittering with the mean little joy of someone who had been living with her through all three weeks. “She’s committed.”

“I’m principled,” she said.

“You snapped at me yesterday because I breathed too loud while eating cereal.”

“You were chewing aggressively.”

“I was eating Cheerios.”

Her friend laughed and took a sip from her cup. “Okay, but Garrett would never know if you hooked up with someone.”

She looked at her sharply. “That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

She gestured with her drink. “The deal was he wouldn’t have sex, and I wouldn’t either.”

Her friend rolled her eyes. “You get that he’s Garrett Graham, right?”

“Yes, thank you, I was present for the lecture theatre’s public mourning.”

“So he’s probably suffering way more than you are.”

“Rude.”

“I’m just saying.”

Her roommate pointed at her with her drink. “You’ve been antsy.”

“I have not.”

“You reorganised the spice shelf at midnight.”

“It needed reorganising.”

“You don’t cook.”

Before she could defend herself, which would have been difficult because that last part was unfortunately true, the laughter from the living room shifted. She looked over automatically.

Garrett was near the doorway with Logan and Tucker, one shoulder against the wall, beer loose in his hand. He’d changed after the game into dark jeans and a black t-shirt that sat too well across his chest, his hair still damp from a shower, a thin gold chain visible at his throat whenever the collar shifted. He was listening to Logan with an expression that suggested he was physically present but mentally elsewhere.

Then his eyes found her across the room. Everything in her body tightened at once. She looked away so quickly her neck almost cracked.

Garrett, meanwhile, was beginning to understand that pride was a disease.

“The fuck is up with you, man?” Logan asked, following his gaze with shameless interest. “If you like that girl, just go talk to her.”

Garrett looked back at him. “I do talk to her.”

“Cool. Great. Inspiring. Maybe try doing it without looking like you’re about to skate through a wall.”

“I don’t look like that.”

Tucker, sitting on the arm of the couch with a beer balanced on one knee, looked over. “You kinda do.”

Garrett shot him a look.

Tucker lifted his free hand. “Just reporting what I’m seeing.”

“We’re partners on this assignment,” Garrett said, which sounded stupid even before Logan’s face lit up.

“Oh shit,” Tucker said. “The no-sex one?”

Logan’s head snapped around. “You’re actually doing that shit?”

Garrett took a drink of beer. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“She bet me I couldn’t.”

There was a silence. Then Logan started laughing.

Garrett scowled. “Fuck off.”

“No, no, sorry.” Logan pressed a hand over his mouth, failing badly. “That’s beautiful. You’re celibate because a pretty girl hurt your feelings.”

“She didn’t hurt my feelings.”

“She looked at you with those big judgmental eyes and said bet you can’t keep it in your pants, and now you’re three weeks into monkhood.”

Tucker winced through a grin. “Man.”

“I’m not gonna lose,” Garrett said.

“Jesus Christ,” Logan said, still delighted. “You realise there’s no trophy, right?”

“There’s dignity.”

“There’s absolutely no dignity in what’s happening to you right now.”

Garrett looked across the room again. She was laughing at something her roommate said, head tipped down, hair sliding over one shoulder. She had this little crease at the corner of her mouth when she tried not to smile too hard. He knew that now. He knew too many things now.

Tucker followed his gaze and his expression softened, just a little. “You actually like her.”

Garrett didn’t answer fast enough.

Logan’s grin changed. “Oh, you’re fucked.”

“Currently, no,” Garrett said.

Logan choked on his beer.

By the start of the fourth week, the tension had stopped being a background problem and started becoming something that sat in the room with them like a third person.

They talked every day now. Sometimes about the assignment. Sometimes about Celibacy Club, which had somehow become less bizarre and more interesting the longer they spent around it. Sometimes about nothing at all. Garrett sent her dumb pictures from the hockey house. A broken toaster with the caption Dean says this is still usable. A sock frozen into the back porch ice. His laptop open beside a plate of eggs, morning light catching the edge of his kitchen table, captioned if I fail this class I’m blaming emotional purity.

She sent him things too. The club poster she’d seen peeling off the student union wall. Her roommate’s aggressively labelled oat milk. A picture of her laptop screen at one in the morning with the cursor blinking after the words The function of abstinence-based student communities and the caption kill me.

The sex part had become unbearable somewhere along the way, but worse than that was the fact that she liked him. Really liked him.

Which felt like the bigger betrayal. Wanting Garrett Graham was basic biology. Liking him was inconvenient. Liking the way he listened, the way he made fun of himself before anyone else could, the way he remembered little things and pretended he hadn’t. Liking how serious he got about hockey without making it everyone else’s problem. Liking that he walked her home and never made a big thing out of it. Liking that when she said something sharper than she meant to, he didn’t flinch or get mean back; he just tilted his head and looked at her until she rolled her eyes and softened.

They were in his room again, supposedly polishing the essay, which was a generous way of describing two people staring at the same paragraph while actively losing their minds.

His room was cleaner than she’d expected the first time she’d seen it. Hockey gear shoved into one corner. A pile of textbooks on the desk. Laundry in a basket. The bed was made badly, one side of the comforter dragging lower than the other, pillows dented from where they’d been leaning against them for the last hour. Outside the window, late afternoon light had gone grey-blue, turning the glass reflective enough that she could see the vague shape of them sitting side by side on the bed.

Garrett had the laptop balanced between them, one hand on the trackpad, the other braced behind him. He’d been explaining how he wanted to word the section about athletics and social pressure, his voice lower than usual because they were close and because, apparently, volume control became impossible when every inch of air felt charged.

“I don’t think it should sound like we’re saying the club fixed anything,” he said. “Because it didn’t. But it gives people a place to talk about stuff without–”

He stopped when she turned her head. He was right there.

So close she could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the little healing split at the corner of his mouth from the last game, the way his eyes dropped to her lips before lifting again. His hand, resting on the bed between them, flexed once against the comforter.

Her pulse moved everywhere at once. Throat, wrists, stomach, the warm hollow behind her knees. She forgot the laptop. Forgot the essay. Forgot Dr. Miller and Bethany and the stupid hat. The room seemed to pull tight around them, all the noise of the house going muffled and far away until there was only Garrett’s breathing and her own.

He shifted forward, barely. A small, helpless tilt, his nose brushing hers so softly she felt it more in the anticipation than the touch itself.

Her eyes fluttered shut. His lips hovered over hers.

A ghost of warmth. The almost-shape of his mouth. So close her body answered like they’d already kissed, like some wire had been cut and sparked anyway. Her fingers curled into the comforter. His breath shuddered out against her cheek, and the sound went through her with such clean, stupid force that she nearly made one of her own.

“Garrett,” she whispered. “Please.”

He went still. For one second, she thought he was going to do it. She felt the decision move through him, felt the way his hand came up like he was going to touch her face, felt his mouth brush so faintly against hers it might have been imagined if her whole body hadn’t clenched around it.

Then he exhaled, rough and furious. “Fuck.” He pulled back like it hurt. “Nope. No.”

Her eyes opened. He was staring at the wall over her shoulder, jaw tight, one hand dragging down his face.

She blinked at him. “No?”

“No.”

“No?” she repeated, because the only word her brain had retained was the worst one.

He looked back at her and laughed once, breathless and pained. “We can’t.”

“We absolutely can.”

“No, we can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I kiss you,” he said, and his voice had gone lower, scraped raw at the edges, “I’m not gonna stop.”

The words landed low in her stomach. She pressed her lips together, partly because they were still tingling from nothing. “You suck.”

His grin broke through then, slow and crooked and dangerous enough that she almost threw the laptop at him. “Unless you wanna lose.”

That snapped her back into herself. Barely. “Nope.”

“No?”

“I don’t lose. Ever.”

“Good.” He stood abruptly, like putting vertical distance between them might save his life. “Great. Perfect.”

She sat there on his bed, pulse still stupid, mouth still warm, and watched him pace once toward the desk. He shoved both hands through his hair, turning away from her. His shirt rode up slightly at the back, showing a strip of skin above his jeans.

The room was silent except for the hum of his laptop. Something petty and reckless unfurled in her chest. Garrett turned back around and she was still looking at him.

“What?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s a lie.”

“You started it.”

“I stopped it.”

“That’s the problem.”

His mouth twitched. “You mad?”

“I’m inspired.”

“That sounds worse.”

“It is.”

He held her gaze for a beat. Then, with the kind of awful calm that should have been illegal, he reached back and pulled his t-shirt over his head.

Her entire brain went white. It wasn’t like she hadn’t known he was built. Everyone knew Garrett was built. There were posters. Games. Photos online. An entire campus of people capable of reporting, with varying degrees of thirst, that Garrett Graham had abs. 

But knowing something in theory and having it standing shirtless in front of you in a bedroom were very different academic experiences.

His shoulders. His chest. The hard line of his stomach. The faint dusting of hair low on his abdomen disappearing under the waistband of his jeans. His arms flexing as he tossed the shirt onto his desk chair. The chain at his neck catching the dim light when he breathed.

Garrett’s grin was pure trouble. “You good?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“That feels like losing.”

“You wish.”

“Do I?”

She stood before she could talk herself out of it. His grin faded slightly. Good. She held his gaze, reached for the hem of her top, and pulled it over her head. The air hit her skin cool enough to make her stomach tighten. She dropped the shirt on his floor and stood there in jeans and a lacy bra she had absolutely not worn for him, except maybe some horrible secret part of her had known she was coming here and chosen it anyway. 

Garrett’s eyes dropped instantly. Straight to her chest, then lower, then back up like he had to physically drag himself by the collar. His jaw flexed.

“Jesus Christ,” he said.

Her skin felt too small for her body. “You gonna break?”

His eyes were dark when they met hers. “Nope.”

“No?”

“No.”

She shrugged, even though her heart was punching at the inside of her ribs. “Me neither.”

For a moment neither of them moved. Then Garrett nodded toward the laptop on the bed, voice rough with effort. “Guess we’re writing our paper like this, then.”

She sat back down, chin lifted. “Guess we are.”

They lasted nine minutes. Nine full, academically useless minutes of sitting on opposite sides of his bed, half-dressed, pretending to care about sentence structure while Garrett’s bare shoulder nearly brushed hers and her own bra seemed to become more noticeable with every breath. 

At one point he corrected a comma splice with the grave concentration of a man defusing a bomb. At another, she leaned forward to type and heard his breath catch so quietly she almost missed it. She didn’t miss it.

That night, alone in her bed, she thought about his mouth hovering over hers, his chain against his chest, the way he’d said if I kiss you I’m not gonna stop like a warning and a promise and a problem he was barely surviving.

She lasted about three minutes before her hand slid under the waistband of her sleep shorts. She was not proud. She was also not sorry.

The essay was due Friday at four. They handed it in at three-forty-two. Dr. Miller’s TA accepted it with the dead-eyed calm of someone who had received too many PDFs named final_FINAL_real_final.docx and no longer believed in students as people.

The second the submission confirmation appeared on Garrett’s laptop screen, she felt something unclench in her chest. Done.

Four weeks of meetings, notes, longing glances, stupid texts, Garrett’s room, Garrett’s mouth almost on hers, Garrett shirtless like a criminal, all wrapped up in twelve pages of sociological analysis and one works cited list.

“Thank fuck,” she said.

Garrett laughed beside her. “That heartfelt, huh?”

“I never want to see the words campus values again.”

“Or emotional purity.”

“Especially emotional purity.”

He closed the laptop slowly. “So.”

She could feel him looking at her, and suddenly, horribly, everything that had been funny and electric for the last four weeks felt fragile in a way she didn’t know what to do with. 

Because maybe this had only been fun because they were trapped in it. Maybe Garrett liked the chase. Maybe he’d wanted her because he couldn’t have anyone else, because deprivation did strange things to ego and attention. Maybe now that the assignment was done and the bet was over, he would go back to being Garrett Graham, campus golden boy, and she would go back to being a girl from his sociology class who had almost kissed him once in his room.

She couldn’t stand there and watch that happen in real time. So she shoved her laptop into her bag and stood too quickly. “I have to go.”

Garrett blinked. “You do?”

“Yeah. I told my roommate I’d meet her.”

“You didn’t mention that.”

“I forgot.”

His brows drew together slightly. “Okay.”

“Thanks for doing the paper.” God, why did she sound like a colleague in a group project from hell? “I mean, obviously we both did it, but– yeah. Good work.”

“Good work?” he repeated.

“Shut up.”

His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed on her face, searching. “You okay?”

That was worse. Him noticing was worse. “Yeah.” She forced a smile. “I’m just glad it’s over.”

Something moved across his face. Too quick to catch. “Right.”

She hated herself a little as she turned away.

The party that night was not technically a celibacy-is-over party, because nobody else in the universe was insane enough to care, but it felt like one to her.

The hockey house was crowded again. They had a game tomorrow, so the team was pretending to behave, which mostly meant the beer was slightly less visible and the music was low enough that people could hear their bad decisions forming. 

She arrived with her friends and immediately regretted the top she’d worn because it was cute and a little too deliberate, and if Garrett didn’t care, she was going to have to live with having dressed like she hoped he would.

She stayed near her friends. That was the plan. Drink something. Laugh. Be normal. Prove she could exist in the same house as him.

For twenty-three minutes, the plan worked. Then an arm slid over her shoulders. Warm. Heavy. Familiar now, somehow, even though he’d never done it like this before.

Garrett leaned in from behind, his mouth near her ear, smelling like clean laundry and mint and the faint cold air from outside. “What’re we talking about?”

Her whole body lit up so fast it was embarrassing. Her friends went quiet in the exact way people went quiet when they were about to be incredibly annoying later.

She turned her head. Garrett was right there, grin easy, eyes not easy at all. He wore a dark hoodie and jeans, curls messier than usual, one hand hanging loose over her shoulder like he’d been doing this for years.

“Hi?” she said. “Can I help you?”

His grin widened. “Yeah. Hopin’ so.”

Her stomach dropped. His eyes flicked briefly toward the stairs.

Oh, fuck.

She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to keep from smiling too big. “You have a game tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“Shouldn’t you be hydrating and doing captain things?”

“I had water.”

“One water?”

“Don’t worry about my performance.”

Her friend made a strangled little sound into her cup. Garrett ignored her completely, still looking at her. After four weeks of proving he could stop himself, he needed her to be the one to move now.

Her fingers found his where they rested near her collarbone. She squeezed once. His hand turned immediately, catching hers.

They made it upstairs faster than was dignified. The hallway was dimmer up there, the noise from downstairs turning thick and muffled through the floor. Someone had left a laundry basket outside one door. A sock sat abandoned near the bathroom. Garrett’s hand stayed wrapped around hers, warm and firm, tugging her behind him with just enough urgency that she had to bite back a laugh.

“This feels very scholarly,” she whispered.

He glanced back, eyes bright. “I’m about to conduct research.”

“Wow.”

“Peer reviewed.”

“You’re so embarrassing.”

He opened his bedroom door, pulled her inside, and shut it behind them, and for one tiny second, there was quiet. Then he was on her.

His hands came up to her face, decisive, like he had spent four weeks thinking about the exact angle of her jaw and was done being patient about it. He pulled her in and kissed her hard enough that her back hit the door, the sound of it dull behind her. 

She gasped into his mouth, and he took it, his lips warm and firm and so much better than the almost-kiss that had been haunting her all week. This wasn’t careful. This was Garrett’s restraint snapping clean down the middle. His mouth moved over hers like he had a point to prove, like every second he’d spent not kissing her had been stored somewhere in his body and now wanted out.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him back with the same helpless lack of dignity. Her fingers pushed into his hair, and he made a low sound against her mouth when she tugged, one hand sliding from her cheek to the side of her neck, thumb brushing under her jaw. His other hand found her waist, pulling her closer until there was no polite space left between them.

He tasted like mint and beer and Garrett, which was an insane thought but the only one her brain had. Warm. Familiar. New enough to make her dizzy. His hoodie was soft under her hands, his body hard beneath it, and when he pressed his hips into hers, she broke the kiss on a shaky little inhale.

Garrett’s mouth moved to her jaw immediately. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word hot against her skin.

She tilted her head back against the door. He kissed down the side of her neck, open-mouthed and unhurried now, like urgency had gotten him here but hunger was deciding what happened next. His teeth grazed under her ear and her knees actually softened, one hand tightening in his hair.

“I,” he said against her throat, then kissed her again, lower. “Really.” Another kiss, slower, meaner. “Like you.”

The words hit harder than she expected. He sounded wrecked and a little annoyed by it, like the confession had been dragged out of him by proximity and her pulse under his mouth. It was so Garrett, that warmth cracked open under all the want, soft and bright and horribly sweet.

She tugged him back up by his hair. His eyes met hers, dark and slightly unfocused.

“I really like you,” she said.

His expression shifted, just a little. The smugness flickered, and something younger, more pleased, came through before he buried it under a grin. “Yeah?”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

“I kind of want you to.”

“Garrett.”

“Fine.” He kissed her again, smiling into it this time. “I’ll earn it.”

His hands slid down to her ass, and then he lifted her like she weighed nothing. She made a startled sound against his mouth, legs wrapping around his waist automatically, and he laughed low in his throat as he carried her toward the desk.

“Show-off,” she muttered.

“You into it?”

“Shut up.”

He sat her on the edge of the desk, stepping between her knees, and she shoved at his hoodie before he’d even settled. He pulled it off in one clean motion, shirt rucking up underneath for a flash of stomach before he tossed the hoodie aside. She caught the front of his t-shirt and dragged him back down to her mouth.

This kiss was messier. His hands were everywhere in a way that still managed to feel like he was paying attention: her waist, her thighs, the curve of her back, his thumbs slipping under the hem of her top just enough to make her skin jump. She hooked one foot behind his thigh and pulled him closer, smiling when his breath punched out.

“You gonna fuck me, Graham?” she asked against his mouth.

His hand slid up her thigh. “Got four weeks to make up for.”

He lifted her again before she could answer, and this time she did squeal when he tossed her onto the bed, the sound breaking into a laugh as she bounced against the comforter. Garrett stood at the foot of the bed for a second, looking down at her with his hair a mess from her fingers, mouth swollen from kissing, chest rising harder than it should have been.

He wiped a hand down over his mouth like he couldn’t quite believe she was there. “Fuck Celibacy Club,” he said.

She laughed, breathless and warm and still reaching for him. “Fuck Celibacy Club.”

His grin came slow. Then he crawled over her, one knee sinking into the mattress between her legs, chain swinging loose at his throat, and kissed her like he'd been waiting all month to do it properly.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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The outfit helped. There were worse ways to feel emotionally unstable than in a pink corset that made her waist look tiny and a sheer midi skirt that moved around her legs in soft, layered pieces, all gauzy and petal-thin whenever she shifted her weight. 

Glitter sat over the high points of her cheekbones, dusted down over her collarbones and the slope of her chest, catching every time she turned toward the lights. 

Allie had done it with the focus of a surgeon and the morals of a drag queen, leaning in close in the dressing room and saying, “If one person doesn’t accidentally walk into a wall tonight, I’ve failed.”

So, yes. The outfit helped. It didn’t, unfortunately, make her immune to Garrett Graham walking into a room.

Which was rude, honestly. Deeply rude. Months should have been enough time for a body to stop reacting to one specific man. Months should have been enough time for the sight of broad shoulders in a fitted sweater and dark curls and that stupid easy way he moved through a crowd to become a normal campus sighting, like a flyer for open mic night or a freshman crying outside the library. Something observed. Something passed.

Instead, the second the doors opened and Garrett came in with Tucker beside him and Dean a half-step ahead, her hand tightened around the plastic cup she wasn’t drinking from, the cheap rim biting lightly into her palm.

He looked good, of course. It would’ve been too merciful of the universe to let him come in looking tired or badly dressed or even slightly humbled by the winter. But no. Olive-green fitted knit, black pants, chain at his throat catching under the lobby lights in one small flash that felt frankly targeted. 

His hair was doing the annoying Garrett thing where it looked messy in a way she knew took no effort at all. He laughed at something Dean said as they came in, head tilting, mouth bright, shoulders loose, and the sound hit somewhere behind her ribs before she had time to brace for it.

Amazing. Fantastic. Great start.

She had broken up with him. This was a fact she kept returning to with the grim determination of a person trying to build a table out of wet cardboard. 

She had done it. She had said the words. She had decided she couldn’t keep standing in the middle of whatever they were, feeling like she was being measured against a whole campus of girls who had touched him before her, after her, near her, around her, in stories told too casually by boys who forgot she was in the room. 

She had been the one who got tired of swallowing the old hurt and pretending it wasn’t humiliating to know exactly how easily Garrett had been wanted before her. 

And he had been tired too, in his own way. Tired of needing her to be fine when she wasn’t. Tired of not knowing what to do with all the stuff in her that didn’t arrange itself neatly around his games, his schedule, his charm, his ability to walk into a room and be adored without seeming to ask.

They had loved each other badly for a while. Or maybe not badly, maybe just youngly. Messily. With too much pride and not enough skill.

Still, some ugly little part of her had thought they might circle back eventually. Maybe they’d talk one night after a party. Maybe he’d text. Maybe she would. Maybe they’d find each other in the line at the coffee place and it wouldn’t feel like stepping wrong on a bruised ankle anymore.

And then there was Hannah. Pretty, sweet Hannah, with the clear voice and the soft eyes and the kind of face that made jealousy feel especially tacky, because what was she supposed to do, dislike someone for being lovely? 

Garrett had been around her lately. Enough that people noticed. Enough that even if nobody had said anything directly, campus had done what campus always did and arranged a narrative out of sightings: Garrett and Hannah walking together after class, Garrett laughing beside her outside the music building, Garrett standing with his head bent toward her like he was listening properly. Garrett looking happy.

Now he’d barely made it three steps inside before his eyes found her. Hannah stood near the centre tables with Justin, hands wrapped around a cup, smiling up at him when he approached. Garrett’s face changed when he saw her. A small, immediate softening, a shift around the eyes, the kind of thing that had once made her feel chosen when it happened in her direction, and now made the inside of her mouth taste faintly metallic.

He crossed the room to Hannah like it was the most obvious place in the world for his body to go. She looked away before it could get humiliating.

“Careful,” Dean said beside her, not looking at Garrett, which meant he absolutely had been looking at Garrett. “You’re making the cup beg for mercy.”

She glanced down and realised the plastic had dented under her fingers. “It likes it.”

Dean’s mouth pulled into a grin. He looked almost offensively at ease in the lobby, all tall limbs and rich-boy posture, holding his drink with the lazy entitlement of someone who had never once questioned whether he belonged in a room. 

Dean Di Laurentis was a ridiculous person in many, many ways, but he had turned out to be a surprisingly decent friend once sex had been removed from the table with a large, permanent sign reading Garrett’s ex, do not touch unless you enjoy being murdered by a teammate and possibly also God. 

He still flirted as a reflex sometimes, but only in the harmless, atmospheric way he flirted with bartenders, professors, elderly women, and traffic lights. But mostly he’d just been a decent friend. He kept making stupid jokes. Kept inviting her into conversations when Garrett was around and things got weird. Kept pretending not to notice when she needed two seconds to recover from seeing her ex with his new girl.

“Very healthy dynamic you and the cup have,” Tucker said from Dean’s other side.

She looked at him, grateful for the dry landing. “Thank you. We’re working through some things.”

Tucker nodded solemnly. “Communication is key.”

Beau, who had been standing with them in the slightly dazed posture of a man who had agreed to come to theatre with hockey players and was now realising the bar had been a survival mechanism, lifted his drink. “I’m just excited to be culturally enriched.”

Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “You are so brave.”

“I know,” Beau said. “Nobody talks about it.”

She laughed, and for a second the tight little thing under her sternum loosened. That was the problem with Dean, and Tucker, and the strange leftover orbit of Garrett’s world. She had meant to break up with one man and accidentally kept access to a whole ecosystem of idiots she had become fond of against her will. 

Dean had simply refused to leave the friend column. Tucker remained polite, steady, and impossible not to like. Logan wasn’t here tonight, thank God, because Logan in a theatre full of audience participation and alcohol felt like the kind of threat insurance companies wrote special clauses about.

Then, because the universe was committed to the theme of personal attack, Kendall walked in. She saw the hair first, glossy and perfect over a pink top, then the mouth, then the easy way Kendall scanned the room like she expected at least one person in it to have thought about her naked. 

Which, fine. Maybe statistically likely. Kendall had been one of those Garrett-adjacent girls before they’d dated, and then again after. Ex-fuck buddy? Fling? Girl who existed in the category of people who made her feel like a loser for caring about categories at all? Whatever the technical term, Kendall’s presence tonight was almost funny in its cruelty.

Her ex. Her ex’s new almost-girlfriend. Her ex’s former something. All in the audience of a show where she was dressed like a fairy slut and encouraged to make people drink.

Theatre, she thought, with an internal hysteria so clean it almost felt spiritual.

The lobby lights flashed once, then again, the signal bouncing over everyone’s faces in white little bursts. Her cue to move. Her body recognised it before her brain fully did, all the nerves that had been wasting themselves on Garrett snapping toward the familiar machinery of performance. 

Places. Breath. Smile. Shoulders back. Don’t trip in the heels. Don’t look at the man in the olive-green sweater like he took something with him and left a bruise.

She reached out and grabbed Dean’s arm, fingers closing around his sleeve, the grin coming on fast and bright because finally there was something to do with her face that wasn’t feel. “That’s my cue.”

Dean looked down at her hand, then at her, his grin softening in a way he would deny under oath. “Break a leg.”

“Thanks, guys.” She lifted her cup in a tiny salute toward Tucker and Beau. “Have fun. Drink up.”

“We’re here for the art,” Tucker said.

“No, you’re not,” she said, already backing away.

“Okay, fine,” Dean called after her. “We’re here for the hot girls in corsets.”

She flipped him off without turning around and heard him laugh as she slipped through the side door toward backstage.

The second the door shut behind her, the lobby noise turned muffled and thick, swallowed by black curtains and narrow hallways and the backstage smell of dust, hairspray, old wood, and bodies trying not to panic. 

Allie was already there in her blue corset, hair curled, glitter catching at her temples, looking both gorgeous and like she might bite anyone who wished her good luck too earnestly.

“You saw him?” Allie asked immediately.

She blinked. “Hello to you too.”

Allie gave her the flat look of a woman in blue satin with no time for lies. “Did you see him?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And he has hair and legs and unfortunately remains three-dimensional.”

Allie made a sympathetic face. “Devastating.”

“And Hannah’s here.”

“Mm.” Allie’s eyes flicked toward the curtain like she could psychically locate every romantic complication in the room. “Saw that.”

“And Kendall.”

Allie’s mouth opened. Closed. Then she made a small, horrified sound of appreciation. “Oh, that’s camp.”

“It’s a fucking hate crime.”

“It is a little bit a hate crime.” Allie stepped closer, eyes sweeping over her corset with professional focus. “Okay. Tits?”

Blessedly, this was their actual ritual, and therefore required no emotional processing.

She looked down at Allie’s chest, tugged the centre of the blue corset a fraction, adjusted one strap, then gave a decisive nod. “Perfect. Mine?”

Allie leaned in, examined her like a very affectionate costume mistress, then hooked two careful fingers at the top edge of the pink corset and tugged it down half an inch. Enough to weaponise the garment as intended. “There. Sitting pretty.”

“Excellent. Teeth?”

Allie bared her teeth with all the elegance of a show pony and none of the shame. 

She checked quickly. “Good. Mine?”

Allie peered, nodded. “Perfect.”

They clapped hands once, sharp and familiar, palms landing with a tiny smack that steadied something under her skin.

“We got this,” Allie said.

“We got this,” she repeated, and for a second she almost believed it in every possible direction.

Out front, Dexter’s voice cut through the curtain, bright and obscene and already eating the room alive. “Come on, bitches. Let me hear you all scream for our gay show. A midsummer night’s… scream!”

The crowd erupted. Screams, clapping, whistles, someone banging on a table hard enough that the stage manager beside them closed her eyes as if praying for structural integrity. 

She slipped to the edge of the curtain and peered out through the narrow gap, not enough to be seen, just enough to let the room arrive in pieces. Dexter stood in the centre of the stage, arms thrown wide in glitter and velvet, grinning like he’d invented bad decisions. 

The audience had already given itself over, faces lit with anticipation and alcohol, chairs angled toward the stage, drinks raised.

Her eyes found Garrett before she meant them to. Middle row. Centre. Sitting with Dean, Tucker, and Beau, one ankle hooked out slightly, shoulders broad beneath the olive sweater, head turned toward Dean as if Dean had just said something deeply stupid. 

Dean looked far too pleased with himself for a man who had not yet committed his worst crime of the evening. Tucker sat beside them with his drink low in one hand, and a piece of fruit in the other, expression calm but alert, which was Tucker’s version of thrilled.

But Hannah wasn’t with them. Hannah was sitting with Justin, closer to the stage on a small couch, laughing at something he said, her body turned toward him. 

Weird.

Her pulse gave one irritating little misfire, not quite relief because she refused to dignify it with a name.

She stepped back from the curtain. No. Absolutely not. This mattered tonight. The show mattered. 

She had spent weeks memorising beats that would all go violently off-script the second audience volunteers got involved. She had sweated through rehearsals, bruised one knee during movement work, and spent half the afternoon in a dressing room getting glitter applied to her cleavage with the seriousness of a religious rite. She was not going to let Garrett Graham’s seating choices turn her into a stupid, lovesick girl before curtain.

Onstage, Dexter continued, voice ringing with manic delight. “Now, virgins oft find Drunk Shakespeare scary. If it’s your first time, I’ll pop your cherry.” The crowd whooped at that, because of course they did. “Now, there’s only one rule, my sweet, gentle twinks. When an actor calls ‘line,’ everyone drinks.”

The audience clapped.

She rolled her neck once, feeling the tiny stretch pull through the back of it, then shook her hands out at her sides. The nerves were still there, bright and quick, but they had shifted shape. Theatre nerves now. Useful nerves. The kind that sat in her fingertips and lungs instead of rotting behind her ribs.

The stage manager pointed. She went.

The heat hit first, that blunt stage-light warmth that made the glitter on her chest feel suddenly alive. Then the room, all those faces lifting toward her as she crossed into Dexter’s orbit in a swish of pink fabric and sheer skirt, heels clicking once, twice, three times across the boards. She leaned up and theatrically whispered into his ear, one hand cupped dramatically around her mouth.

Dexter gasped like she had told him the pope was pregnant. “No.”

She widened her eyes at the audience, hand pressed to her chest.

Dexter turned slowly back to them, face arranged in tragic solemnity. “I’m so sorry, everyone. It seems that the actors that were going to play our four young lovers have all been struck by a terrible affliction.”

Bec, who was sitting on the front of the stage, called out, all concern and sweetness. “True love?”

Dexter snapped his gaze to her. “No. Gonorrhea.”

The laugh that went through the room was immediate and generous, a wave of it rolling up toward the stage. She used the swell of it, the cover of everyone’s open mouths and clapping hands, to let her eyes cut once toward the middle row.

Garrett was looking at her. Full attention, quiet in the middle of all that noise, his mouth not quite smiling anymore. His gaze had caught somewhere between her face and the shimmer at her collarbones and the pink corset sitting exactly as Allie had arranged it, and the tiny satisfaction that moved through her was so petty and so human she almost forgave herself for it on the spot.

Good, she thought. Look.

Then she turned away before the look could do anything worse to her.

Dexter clapped his hands together, delighted with the room and himself. “Now, tragedy has stolen from us. Disease has humbled us. Theatre, as usual, has failed to plan responsibly. Which means we’ll be needing some brave volunteers from the audience.”

A ripple went through the crowd instantly. People sank in their chairs. People pointed at friends. One girl near the aisle visibly tried to become part of the wall.

Dexter shaded his eyes with one hand, scanning. “Oh,” he said suddenly, voice turning syrupy with threat. “Would you look at this couple?”

He pointed straight at Hannah and Justin. Hannah’s eyes went huge. Justin started shaking his head before Dexter had finished the sentence.

“No?” Dexter said. “You’re saying no? To art? To community? To me, personally?” He placed a hand over his heart as if wounded, then brightened at once. “Give it up for our Hermia and Lysander!”

The audience cheered with the relief of people watching someone else be sacrificed.

She moved down the steps and into the aisle before Hannah and Justin could fully disappear into the couch. Hannah was laughing now, nervous but game, one hand over her mouth. Justin looked like a man discovering, too late, that theatre people could smell fear. 

She reached Hannah first, offering her hand with the clean, stage-bright smile that made everything easier because it gave her a role to stand inside.

“Come on,” she said, low enough only Hannah could hear, and because Hannah was Hannah, sweet even while being publicly dragged into Shakespeare, she took her hand and laughed.

“I’m going to be so bad at this,” Hannah whispered.

“That’s the point,” she murmured back, helping her up.

Justin followed after with the helpless smile of a boy who had accepted doom because the crowd was clapping too loudly for pride. She got them both onto the stage and placed them where Dexter directed, Hannah flushing prettily under the lights, Justin blinking out at the audience like he’d been kidnapped by improv.

“Okay,” Dexter said, pacing with predatory glee. “Next, I need a big, strong man to play Demetrius.”

The words had barely landed before her eyes betrayed her. Just a flick. Just one stupid, automatic glance across the lights to Garrett in the middle row. A mistake, obviously. Fatal, theatrically speaking.

But Dean saw it. Dean Di Laurentis, who had been placed on this earth to make every delicate situation worse with astonishing commitment, sat up so fast Tucker’s drink nearly sloshed.

He cupped both hands around his mouth and called, in a voice so bright and clear it could have reached a neighbouring county, “Me, Garrett Graham, I want to be in the show!”

The room exploded. Garrett turned his head toward Dean so slowly it should have come with a warning sound. 

Even from the stage, she could see his mouth move around something furious and silent. Dean was grinning like an angel with a criminal record. 

Tucker had turned slightly away, shoulders shaking once, his hand pressed over his mouth in the weakest possible attempt at neutrality. Beau looked stunned and delighted, like he had accidentally attended a live execution and discovered he supported the death penalty.

Dexter spun toward the commotion with the instantaneous focus of a shark smelling blood. “Oh?”

Garrett was shaking his head before Dexter took a step. “No. That’s okay.”

Dean leaned into him, whispering aggressively. Garrett shoved him back with one hand, eyes narrowed, and Dean shoved right back with the delighted persistence of a man who had decided friendship meant physical betrayal.

Dexter held out his arms. “Come here, pookie.”

Another roar from the audience.

Garrett closed his eyes briefly. “No, I’m alright,” he said, loud enough to be heard and absolutely not loud enough to save himself.

“Oh, you’re ours now,” Dexter sang.

Dean gave Garrett one more firm push toward the aisle, and Tucker, traitor that he apparently was, shifted his knees just enough to make the route easier. 

The audience clapped and whooped as Garrett stood, dragging a hand over the back of his neck in that particular way he did when he was trying not to smile and trying very hard not to murder his best friend in public.

He looked up at the stage. At her, and for one second, the whole room narrowed around the line of his gaze and the warm stage lights and the stupid gold chain at his throat.

Then he came down the aisle. It was unfair, how much space he took up without trying. How the crowd reacted to him, the grin threatening at one corner of his mouth, the easy athlete’s confidence even under embarrassment. 

He climbed the stage steps and stepped into the light beside her, close enough that the scent of him reached her through hairspray and dust and other people’s drinks. Clean soap, warm skin, a faint trace of whatever cologne he used so casually it had once lived on her pillow for three days after he left.

Fuck.

He cleared his throat softly, dipping his head just enough that it looked casual to everyone else. “Hey.”

Her smile came tight-lipped and bright, the exact facial equivalent of a locked door with flowers painted on it. “Hi.”

Garrett’s eyes flicked over her face, then down for the smallest, most controlled fraction of a second before returning to her eyes. Enough to be noticed by the part of her that had spent too many months trying to forget exactly what it felt like to have Garrett Graham look at her like he remembered her.

His mouth twitched, barely. “Nice outfit.”

Her heartbeat kicked in a way she deeply resented. “Nice kidnapping.”

“Dean’s dead after this.”

She hummed. “Get in line.”

Dexter slid between them like a glittery demon with perfect timing. “Now,” he announced to the audience, “we just need a Helena. She’s a real messy bitch who wants to get in Demetrius’ pants. Can anyone relate?”

Half the women in the room raised their hands. A chorus of “me!” and “over here!” and one very loud “I can fix him!” rose up so fast the stage nearly shook with it.

She scoffed before she could stop herself, rolling her eyes toward Allie in the wings, who was visibly biting her cheek to keep from laughing.

Garrett, unfortunately, heard it. She felt him glance at her, felt the question in it, but she kept her gaze forward with the grim dignity of a woman refusing to be emotionally undone by audience participation.

Then Kendall stood. She rose from the side section with terrifying composure, drink abandoned on her chair, hair falling over one shoulder, smiling like she had been waiting her entire life to be called a messy bitch by a man in velvet.

“Allow me,” Kendall said.

The audience lost its mind again. For one long second, she stared at the middle distance and considered the possibility that a chandelier might fall. Not on Kendall, or maybe on Kendall. But generally. A small technical emergency. Something with paperwork. Anything. Please, anything. 

Kendall climbed onto the stage without waiting for assistance, because clearly being picked was for people with shame, and crossed directly to Garrett’s other side. She stood close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed his sleeve, smiling at him with the kind of familiarity that did absolutely nothing good to the inside of her body.

Garrett went still. She was close enough to catch it: the minute tightening around his mouth, the way his eyes flicked once toward her and then away, as if suddenly aware that every person from every messy little corner of his romantic history had been arranged on the same stage under theatrical lighting like an evidence board with cleavage.

Dexter looked Kendall up and down, delighted beyond measure. “Not even going to wait to be picked. That is messy.”

Kendall gave a little bow.

“She understands the assignment,” Dexter said, then threw both arms wide. “Let’s hear it for our four young lovers!”

The audience clapped and cheered, loud and bright and thrilled with the specific chaos they didn’t yet understand they had been handed. Hannah laughed into her hands. Justin raised one awkward arm like he was accepting election to a position he had never campaigned for. Kendall smiled like a cat in a warm window.

Garrett stood between the past and the present and whatever the hell Kendall counted as, looking for once like charm might not be enough to get him out of the room alive.

And she clapped with the rest of them, glitter catching at her chest, pink skirt shifting around her knees, smile fixed beautifully in place while something hot and awful and very, very funny curled under her ribs.

Drunk Shakespeare had decided to become personal.

Hannah turned slightly toward Kendall while Dexter fussed with the prop scrolls at centre stage, and because the stage was small and cruel and acoustics had chosen violence, she heard Hannah say, light and a little flustered, “Oh– No. He’s not… he’s not locked. He’s free to unlock anyone he wants.”

The words landed weirdly. Small and sideways, slipping beneath the laughter and clapping and settling under her skin with a cold little click. She glanced across before she could stop herself. 

Hannah was smiling like she meant to make it a joke, shoulders lifting in that sweet, awkward way of hers, and Kendall was looking back at her with one brow tipped up, amused, curious, maybe already smelling blood in the water because Kendall had the exact face of a girl who knew when information was about to become socially useful. 

Garrett, blessedly or horribly, didn’t seem to have heard. He was looking out into the crowd with the faintly strained expression of a man realising too late that volunteer theatre was distinct from hostage-taking only by tone.

He’s not locked. Free to unlock anyone he wants.

For a second she just stood there in pink glitter and stage lights and felt the phrase rearrange the last few weeks with humiliating speed. Garrett and Hannah walking together after class. Garrett bending his head toward her outside the music building. 

Garrett disappearing upstairs with her at Dean and Beau’s party, which had seemed, at the time, like the sort of thing a girl could absolutely survive elegantly if she was normal and mature and not already two vodka sodas past good decision-making.

She had not survived it especially elegantly. She remembered the kitchen at that party in flashes: Allie’s hand closing around her wrist when she reached for her phone; one of her theatre friends saying, “Nope, we love you, but absolutely not,” while physically sliding the device into her own bra like some kind of benevolent phone jail. 

Dean, of all people, appearing in the doorway and immediately clocking the entire emotional scene with one sweep of his eyes before saying, very carefully, “You good?” which had nearly made her cry because Dean being gentle was frankly an upsetting genre. 

She remembered insisting she was fine with the aggressive brightness of a woman who was visibly not fine. She remembered saying she wanted to call him and everyone in a three-foot radius saying, almost in chorus, “You broke up with him,” which was unfair because she knew that. She had been there. She had done the breaking. 

She simply hadn’t expected the broken pieces to keep behaving like they belonged to her.

And now Hannah, pretty sweet Hannah, apparently didn’t even have the lock. Great. Cool. The universe had mistaken her for a stronger woman.

Dexter clapped sharply, dragging everyone back to the next beat, and the cast began moving with practiced chaos around the volunteers. Hannah and Justin were led toward their first marks. 

Garrett and Kendall were swept half-backstage for the timing of the bit, and she went with them because that was the blocking and because theatre, unlike her personal life, had cues that people were expected to follow.

The backstage corridor was dim and narrow after the assault of stage lights, all black curtains and coiled cables and a folding table crowded with sweating bottles, plastic shot cups, cheap wine, and the kind of cut fruit someone had optimistically provided as if oranges could meaningfully alter the trajectory of a cast being encouraged to drink on command. 

From the stage, the play kicked off in full ridiculous motion, Dexter’s voice booming, Allie already chiming in with something bright and filthy enough to make the audience scream.

Garrett came to a stop beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him again, which was deeply unnecessary. Kendall leaned one hip against the wall like she had been born under a backstage cue light and immediately picked up a tiny bottle of something clear from the wet bar, examining it with interest.

She cleared her throat, because somebody had to be professional and apparently it was going to be the girl currently one Hannah sentence away from emotional combustion. 

“Um,” she said, looking mostly at the space between Garrett and Kendall rather than directly at either of them, “so, after this we’ve got, like, ten minutes of mechanicals. Just stay back here until we pull you again. Feel free to help yourselves to the wet bar.”

She turned to go, already reaching for the curtain edge, already grateful for the stage and the next line and the exact relief of becoming someone with a task.

Garrett’s voice caught her before she made it. “Hey– wait.”

Her hand tightened on the curtain. For a second she considered pretending she hadn’t heard him. The stage was loud enough. She could’ve sold it. But his voice did the same stupid thing it always did, slipped through the noise and found the part of her body that still answered before pride could get there.

She turned back, pink skirt brushing her calves, smile small and sharp enough to cut if handled wrong. 

“Sorry. I gotta go.” Her eyes flicked over him, then toward the stage. “I’m in a play, remember? It’s not all about Garrett Graham all the time.”

Kendall made a delighted little sound, the kind of reaction a person gave when they were thrilled to be standing close enough to drama without being asked to mediate it.

Garrett’s jaw shifted. He looked tired suddenly, or maybe just less protected by the lights and the audience and everybody wanting him to be easy. “That’s not fair.”

Her brows drew together before she could stop them. Enough for his eyes to catch on it. “Isn’t it?”

The silence after that was tiny. Barely half a second. Something moved across his face, quick and almost hurt, and the worst part was that it worked. 

Garrett had always had a face that could make a person start doubting the evidence in their own hands. She hated that. Hated that even now, with Hannah’s almost-not-a-confession still ringing in her ear and Kendall standing two feet away with a shot glass and the whole crowd waiting beyond the curtain, she could see him wounded and feel the old reflex to smooth it over.

But she didn’t. She turned and went back onto the stage before softness could become another mistake.

After that, the play did what Drunk Shakespeare always did and became, by degrees, less a performance than a ritual sacrifice to timing, alcohol, and the collective human desire to watch attractive people make terrible choices under lights. 

The first twenty minutes held together beautifully, which was always the danger period because it gave everyone false confidence. Then Dexter called line, the audience drank, Allie missed a cue because someone in the front row had yelled something obscene about fairies, and the whole room tipped into the exact kind of glorious disorder the show had been built to survive.

She got drunk in increments. The stage was hot and the crowd was loud and every time someone called line, the audience roared and drank and the cast drank with them, and each sip loosened a different little screw. 

The first made the lights softer around the edges. The second put a pleasant warmth behind her cheeks. The third arrived after she did a shot with a woman in the second row, and that one slid straight down into the part of her brain responsible for restraint and started rearranging furniture.

The crowd got worse too, which made them better. People who had arrived stiff-backed and curious were now leaning forward with elbows on knees, shouting suggestions, chanting for kisses, calling line whenever anyone even looked like they might forget something. 

Dean had become an issue in the middle row. Every time she crossed downstage, he found a new way to be loud about it. Tucker, beside him, kept attempting to look like he wasn’t amused, which was useless because his shoulders kept moving. Beau had committed to the evening with the serene panic of a man who had not expected Shakespeare to involve this much audience yelling.

At one point, she came out through the side entrance and climbed onto the little platform near the gold stripper pole, because some brilliant, sick mind on the production team had decided the fairy realm needed a metallic vertical feature and large detachable wings. 

She was meant to spin once, land, say something sharp and enchanted, and gesture toward the next entrance.

She remembered the spin. She did that part beautifully, actually. One hand around the pole, pink skirt lifting in a soft sheer flare around her legs, heels catching the light, glitter sparkling down her chest like she had been dipped in bad decisions by a very competent stylist. 

The crowd whooped. Someone screamed. The room tilted around her in a pretty, golden blur and for one perfect second she felt exactly as she was supposed to feel: ridiculous, lovely, untouchable, alive.

Then Dean wolf-whistled. It was loud. Horrifically loud. A piercing, obnoxious, jock-house wolf whistle that cut right through the cheers and hit her so unexpectedly she lost the line completely.

She snapped her head toward the middle row and saw him cupping his hands around his mouth, grinning like a demon. Her mouth opened. Nothing Shakespeare-adjacent arrived.

Instead she dissolved into giggles. The room loved this, obviously. The room loved anything that looked like the wheels coming off.

She pointed at Dean from the platform, trying very hard to gather dignity around the fact that she was clinging to a gold stripper pole in a pink corset. “Fuck you, Dean!”

The audience screamed. Dean clutched his chest like he’d been blessed.

She pressed the back of one hand to her mouth, laughing too hard to recover the line, and finally threw her free hand up. “Line?!”

The response was immediate and feral. The whole room yelled with her. Cups lifted. Shots went down. The cast drank. The crowd drank. Somewhere in the back, the stage manager probably aged ten years. 

She took her own drink from Allie, who had appeared at the edge of the platform with the solemnity of a priest offering communion, and knocked it back while the audience chanted approval.

By the time Kendall and Garrett were brought back out, the room had fully abandoned subtlety. Hannah and Justin had gone through their early lover beats with surprising commitment, Justin somehow becoming funnier the more terrified he got, and Hannah turning out to have a very sweet, very deadly stage presence that made the audience adopt her almost instantly. 

Which was annoying, not because Hannah had done anything wrong, but because she was actually good. Game and bright and blushing every time Dexter flirted with her in character. 

It was just difficult to fully enjoy another woman’s charm when some small, gremlin part of your heart had already filed her under girl Garrett might have chosen.

Garrett and Kendall came out from the wings tipsy enough that the shift was visible before either of them said a word. Kendall stumbled on the first step, her heel caught and her balance tipped sideways. Garrett reached automatically, one hand closing at her waist to steady her.

They both laughed. It was nothing. It was literally nothing. A normal human reflex. Someone stumbled, someone else caught them. 

If Tucker had done it, she would have thought, oh good, nobody died. If Dean had done it, she would have assumed he’d been waiting for the chance. 

But Garrett’s hand was on Kendall’s waist, and Kendall was giggling up at him, and Garrett’s face had opened with that easy amused warmth he gave away like it cost him nothing, and her body reacted before any reasonable thought could intervene.

A small, ugly twist low in her stomach. A tightening in her throat. The stage lights, suddenly too hot.

Dexter swept in between them with a flourish before she could stand there and stare like an idiot. “I made this love potion special for the boys,” he announced.

That was her cue. She moved forward with two shot glasses, pink plastic catching under the lights, and handed one first to Justin, then to Garrett. 

When Garrett’s fingers closed around the cup, they brushed hers. Barely. A nothing touch. The kind of contact that could have been absorbed by the noise of the room if her skin had not been, apparently, a traitor with archival access.

His eyes were already on her. His gaze burned straight into hers, dark and steady beneath the stage lights, and for one second the whole drunken theatre seemed to thin out around the edges. 

She looked up at him through her lashes because the role let her, because the stage gave her permission to make things look deliberate that would have been unbearable anywhere else.

Garrett’s jaw clenched. Tiny and viciously satisfying. The muscle near his cheek jumping once like something in him had been pulled too tight.

Good, she thought again, meaner this time and more miserable underneath it. Feel something.

Dexter was still talking. She had no idea what he was saying for half a breath. Then the room surged around the line and she found herself stepping back into place while Garrett and Justin tossed back the shots.

Garrett swallowed his cleanly, throat moving, mouth tightening around whatever cheap sweet thing they had poured into the glass. His eyes flicked briefly to the shot glass with a look of disgust, and despite everything, despite Kendall and Hannah and the horrible circus of her own chest, she almost smiled.

Garrett Graham could take a check into the boards and keep skating, but one suspiciously fruity theatre shot had him looking betrayed by the arts.

“When they came to,” Dexter cried, “they only had eyes for Helena!”

He guided Kendall to the little throne set up stage left, all gold paint and fake flowers and one glittering cushion that had seen too many drunk volunteers in its lifetime. 

Kendall sat with immediate commitment, crossing one leg over the other, smiling as Dexter placed a crown on her head. The audience oohed obediently, the sound rising and falling like they had been waiting all night to worship messy women in prop crowns.

Dexter turned slowly, eyes wild with manufactured revelation. “But, fools and mortals. Who will win fair Helena’s hand? How is a buxom maiden ever to decide?” He pressed one finger to his lips, pretending deep thought. “Oh. I know.”

Two of the cast members came out from the wings and began removing the oversized wings from the gold stripper pole with the solemnity of stagehands handling sacred objects. 

The audience started murmuring before Dexter even said it, anticipation spreading fast and stupid through the rows.

Dexter threw one arm toward the cleared pole. “How about a good old-fashioned dance-off?”

The room detonated. Justin immediately pointed at Garrett.

Garrett pointed right back at Justin, shaking his head with a laugh already breaking through. “No. Nope. Him.”

Justin shook his head so hard his hair moved. “Absolutely not.”

The answer built from three voices to ten to half the room in under five seconds.

“Garrett! Garrett! Garrett!”

Dean was, of course, leading the chant with both fists in the air like he had founded a religion and Garrett’s humiliation was the first commandment. Beau had joined in with startling enthusiasm. 

Garrett dragged one hand over his face, laughing now despite himself. “Fuck you guys.”

The crowd only got louder. He flipped them off, which made everything worse. People screamed. Dean looked like he might actually ascend. Dexter clutched Garrett by the shoulder and spun him toward the pole with the kind of glee that suggested he had been waiting for an athletic man with public name recognition all night.

And Garrett, because he was Garrett, because he had never once been capable of doing anything halfway once a room started chanting his name, gave in.

A roll of his shoulders, a shake of his head, a laugh under his breath like he couldn’t believe this was his life. He stepped toward the open space, the olive sweater catching over the lines of his chest and arms, chain flashing once at his throat when he moved. 

The music shifted into something bass-heavy and obscene. The audience reacted before he’d even started properly, because anticipation had already made fools of them all.

He put one hand on the pole. Her stomach dropped.

It wasn’t jealousy this time, or not only jealousy, at least. This was worse because it came from memory, hot and immediate and embarrassingly intact. 

Her body remembered before her mind could file an objection. Garrett on a dance floor with one hand at her waist and the other holding his drink above the crowd, laughing into her ear because she had accused him of having no rhythm and then immediately proving her wrong with the sort of casual hip movement that had made her lose the thread of her own insult. 

Garrett behind her at some party near Briar, mouth near her temple, his hand spread low on her stomach as they moved with too many people around them and not enough air between them. 

Garrett at three in the morning, waking her up in his bed with a kiss to her shoulder and his voice rough with sleep and want, murmuring something filthy and fond that had made her laugh into his pillow before he rolled her beneath him.

His hips. Fuck his fucking hips.

He hadn’t even done anything yet. That was the insulting part. One hand on the pole, one foot shifting into the beat, mouth still curved in that half-embarrassed, half-cocky grin, and already her brain had lit up with every inconvenient piece of him she had spent months trying to box away. 

His hands on her thighs. The chain against her mouth when she used to pull him down by it. The warmth of his chest under her cheek. His laugh in the dark after she told him he was insufferable and he said, yeah, but you’re awake.

The room kept chanting. Garrett moved his hips once, barely more than a test, and the audience screamed like they’d paid extra for the privilege.

She couldn’t breathe right. Which was dramatic and stupid because she was in public and tipsy and glittering and supposed to be part of the bit, not standing stage right with a fake smile and a real ache opening under it. 

The weird sick fold of jealousy and want and regret and alcohol, all going warm and sour together beneath the corset until the boning felt too tight around her ribs.

It wasn’t fair. That was the childish truth of it, and because she was drunk enough to be honest with herself but not drunk enough to enjoy it, the unfairness hit harder than anything else. 

It wasn’t fair that she had broken up with him and still wanted to be the only person allowed to miss him. It wasn’t fair that he looked good. It wasn’t fair that Hannah might not be dating him and somehow that made everything worse, because it took away the clean excuse and left only Garrett being Garrett and her being weak in his direction. 

It wasn’t fair that Kendall sat crowned on the throne, laughing like this was fun, like Garrett dancing for her was a joke and not a blade sliding neatly between old ribs.

Garrett glanced toward her. Maybe by accident. Maybe not. His hand still on the pole. Music crawling through the floorboards. Crowd screaming his name. His eyes found hers across the stage, and whatever he saw on her face made his grin flicker.

That was enough. Before he could start properly, before he could move in a way that would make the whole room lose its mind and make her hate every nerve ending she owned, she slipped backward into the wing.

The noise dimmed by half the second the curtain edge fell between her and the stage. The chant still thudded through the black fabric. Music pulsed through the floor into the heels of her shoes. The backstage air was cooler and dustier, smelling like hairspray and electrical heat and the cheap citrus of sliced oranges sweating on the wet bar table.

She took one breath. It did absolutely nothing. So she grabbed the nearest shot off the table and downed it.

It was tequila. Or vodka. Or something pretending to be one of those while failing several requirements. It burned down her throat and hit her empty-ish stomach with a hard bright slap, and she bent slightly at the waist for one second, one hand braced on the folding table, eyes squeezed shut.

From onstage, the crowd screamed louder. Garrett must have started dancing.

She laughed once under her breath, but it came out wrong. Thin and sharp and almost nothing.

“Fuck,” she whispered to the bottles, the cables, the indifferent black curtain. Then she pressed the heel of her hand lightly against the glitter at her chest, right over the too-fast beat underneath, and tried to remember which cue came next.

The curtain shifted. The black edge pulling back a few inches, enough for sound to leak in harder and stage light to cut across the folding table in a pale gold stripe, catching on the wet rings around the shot glasses and the glitter dusted over her knuckles.

For one stupid second, she thought it might be Garrett. Which was unfair of her body, honestly. Delusional. Embarrassing. The kind of reflex that should have been taken out back and put down humanely months ago.

But it wasn’t Garrett, it was Hannah.

Hannah slipped through the curtain, cheeks flushed from the stage lights, hair a little loosened from whatever Dexter had made her do three minutes earlier, looking so pretty and concerned that it somehow made the shot burn worse in hindsight. 

She blinked into the dim backstage space, eyes finding her by the wet bar.

“Hi,” Hannah said, just soft enough that the stage didn’t steal it. “Are you okay?”

The question was so genuinely asked that it hit her all wrong. There was no smugness, no little victory tucked under the sweetness. No hidden I win, you lose. 

Only Hannah standing there looking at a girl she barely knew like she had noticed something go sideways and had enough kindness or poor survival instincts to follow it.

She nodded too fast. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” The word came out bright and brittle and not remotely worth believing, so she picked up another shot glass because at least that gave her hands something less incriminating to do. “Sorry. You should… go back out to–” She swallowed, the stage noise pushing at her back like a wave. “To your boyfriend.”

Hannah’s brows pulled together immediately. “Garrett?”

The name did an annoying little thing in the air between them.

She lifted one shoulder, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around lightly poisoned. “Unless you’ve got another one out there.”

“No.” Hannah shook her head, a little laugh catching awkwardly in her throat. “No, he’s not– no. He’s not my boyfriend. Like, at all.”

The shot was already at her mouth, which was convenient because it meant she didn’t have to answer right away. She tipped it back. It was worse than the last one, or maybe her throat had just begun filing formal complaints. 

Her eyes watered slightly, which was humiliating, but not as humiliating as how quickly the sentence went through her.

He’s not my boyfriend. Like, at all.

She set the empty glass down with more care than it deserved. “Seems like it.”

Hannah’s face did something small, like she was figuring out where all the broken glass was on the floor and trying not to step in it. “Kendall… Kendall told me about you,” she said, and her voice gentled around the last word like it had become fragile without permission. “Just– just before. About you and Garrett.”

Fucking typical that Kendall, who had walked onto the stage like a human plot device in heels, had found time between accepting the crown and letting Garrett steady her waist to give Hannah the emotional program notes. 

Kendall had probably delivered the whole thing with the delicate sympathy of a woman enjoying herself enormously. Here’s the ex. Careful, she bites. Also she looks like she might cry if he takes his shirt off. Enjoy the show.

She sucked at her teeth, gaze dropping to the table because looking at Hannah was too much like looking at someone who had accidentally wandered into the aftermath of a storm and was now politely asking if the roof had always been in the pool. “What about us?”

Hannah hesitated. 

From out front, the crowd roared. Something heavy thumped against the stage. Dexter screamed, “Art!” like that was either a line or an emergency, and somebody in the audience started chanting Garrett’s name again with the persistence of people who had been given a hot athlete and no adult supervision.

Hannah glanced back at the curtain, then at her. “I mean… I think that he–” She stopped, mouth pressing together for a second as if she knew exactly how ridiculous it sounded to deliver emotional speculation in the wings of Drunk Shakespeare. “I mean, it seems like he misses you. Or I think he does.”

The words should have landed soft, but they didn’t. They hit something already bruised and made it flare, sharp and stupidly tender. 

Her fingers curled around the edge of the table. The glitter on her chest caught in the sliver of light from the stage, every breath making the shimmer move like her body had decided to keep performing even after she left the scene.

“You’ll miss your cue, Hannah,” she said, because if she gave that sentence even one inch of room it might start growing teeth. “You should be out there.”

Hannah didn’t move right away. “I’m not trying to–”

“No, I know.” She looked up, and the smile she gave her wasn’t unkind, which felt like a miracle considering the amount of alcohol and old heartbreak currently operating the machinery. “Seriously. You should go.”

The crowd screamed again. Louder this time. Filthy, delighted, entirely too invested. Against every good instinct she had left, she glanced through the gap in the curtain.

Garrett was shirtless now. Somewhere in the thirty seconds since she had fled the stage, theatre had found a way to remove his sweater and expose the broad, warm chest she once slept on more often than her own pillow to an audience already one group chant away from needing a priest. 

His olive knit was gone, probably flung over the throne or into Dexter’s evil little hands, and he was in the middle of the stage with the gold chain still against his chest, skin warm under the lights, hair messed from someone’s hand or his own or the general chaos of being cheered at by drunk college students.

Kendall sat on the throne, crowned and laughing, one hand braced on the armrest as Garrett, grinning now in full showman surrender, backed himself toward her lap with a ridiculous over-the-shoulder look that made the audience shriek. 

He wasn’t touching her in any real way. It was theatre. It was parody. It was drunk, stupid, harmless, exactly the kind of thing the show had designed itself to produce. Then he playfully ground back against her knees. Kendall threw her head back laughing.

The audience nearly came apart.

She picked up another shot and swallowed it before her body could decide whether it wanted to throw up, cry, or walk back out there and commit an act of artistic violence.

“Yeah,” she said, voice flat around the burn. “Really seems like he misses me.”

Hannah’s face fell a little. Understanding, maybe. The soft, useless kind.

“I should–” Hannah said, then stopped, glancing back toward the stage as her name was yelled by Allie with the kind of sharp backstage friendliness that meant get the fuck out here right now. “Okay. I’m going. But he’s not my boyfriend.” She stepped backward through the curtain, then paused for one second with the black fabric caught in her hand. “And I don’t think Kendall knows as much as she thinks she does.”

Then she was gone, swallowed by light and noise and the bright, drunken mess of the play.

The rest of the show happened in pieces after that. She hit her cues. Mostly. She said her lines or called line with enough timing to make the audience scream. 

She took another shot with a man in the front row. She watched Dexter nearly lose his balance on a prop stump and recover with such flamboyant rage that the crowd gave him a standing ovation for remaining vertical. 

Allie, drunk and radiant and too talented for the amount of chaos around her, at one point went entirely off script, seemingly rambling about Sean. But she performed it so wonderfully she got a standing ovation anyway. Kendall committed fully to being worshipped as Helena, which was deeply annoying and, if one were being fair under duress, objectively good stage instinct.

Garrett was good too. That part she hated most. He should have been awkward. A little stiff, maybe. A hockey player dragged onstage by his horrible friends, laughing through the embarrassment, throwing out just enough charm to survive. 

Instead he turned out to have the infuriating competence of a man whose body understood audience approval in any room. He was loose by the end, tipsy and grinning, leaning into Dexter’s prompts, making Justin break character twice, letting Allie drape a flower crown over his curls while he bowed with stupid solemnity. 

Shirt back on eventually, thank God, though not before half the room had wolf-whistled itself hoarse and Dean had nearly needed medical intervention from laughing so hard.

Every time Garrett looked toward her, she looked somewhere else.

The final scene arrived in the kind of glorious collapse only live drunk theatre could earn. The crowd was wasted. The cast was worse. Somebody had spilled red wine near stage left and covered it with a fake fern like that solved anything. 

Dexter’s closing speech had become half Shakespeare, half slurred nonsense, and by the time the last line landed, the audience was on its feet.

The applause was hot and huge and messy, rolling over the stage in waves. She stood with the cast, hand linked with Allie’s, pink skirt sticking lightly to the back of her knees, glitter still catching along her skin, the room swimming beautifully and terribly in front of her. 

She bowed and nearly overcommitted the angle, Allie tightening her grip just enough to keep her upright without making it obvious.

“Subtle,” Allie muttered through her smile.

“I’m a professional,” she whispered back.

They bowed again. The audience roared. Dean had both hands above his head, clapping like a lunatic. Tucker stood beside him, smiling despite himself. Beau looked sunburned from secondhand embarrassment and deeply changed as a person. 

Garrett, somewhere behind them with the volunteers, clapped too, and she didn’t look at him until the lights dropped enough to give her mercy.

Backstage afterward was a disaster of bodies, costumes, half-empty cups, and everyone speaking too loudly because their ears were full of applause and alcohol. 

People hugged each other with the sweaty urgency of survivors. Someone cried because they always did after a show, even a show where a man in fairy wings had yelled drink, sluts at a paying audience. 

Allie was dragged into a cluster of cast members near the mirror, blue corset flashing as she laughed with her head tipped back. Dexter had already acquired a bottle of champagne from somewhere and was calling it hydration for homosexuals, which nobody had the energy to correct.

She had just leaned against the edge of the dressing table, one heel half-slipped from her foot and her throat dry enough to make swallowing feel like an additional challenge on top of all the others, when Garrett appeared in front of her holding a cup of water.

Filled properly, condensation gathered along the outside. He held it out with a slightly awkward little lift, like he'd been carrying it for long enough to think too hard about how offering water to your ex after she watched you shirtlessly dance for another girl might be received.

“Uh,” he said. “Here.”

She looked at the water first. Then at him. His sweater was back on, though the neckline sat a little stretched from being pulled off and on in chaos, and his curls were a mess from the flower crown, from the stage, from the night. His chain was still there, sitting at his throat like an insult in gold.

She took the cup. Their fingers didn’t touch this time. “Thanks.”

He nodded once, eyes moving over her face in a quick, careful scan that made her chest feel worse. Not the sexy scan from the stage. Not the stunned little outfit glance. 

This was Garrett checking. Water, balance, pupils, whether she was smiling in a way that meant she was about to bite. Captain instincts, boyfriend instincts, ex-boyfriend instincts. Whatever they were, they hadn’t been switched off with the breakup, apparently.

“You were incredible tonight,” he said.

The compliment landed somewhere soft and inconvenient. She looked down into the cup because it was easier than looking at his mouth while he sounded sincere. The water wobbled slightly in her hand. “Um. Thanks.”

“I mean it.” His voice warmed a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I didn’t know you could do all that.”

She glanced up. “What, Shakespeare?”

“No.” His gaze moved over her face, careful and warm in a way that made the backstage noise feel suddenly farther away. “Being up there. Holding the room like that. You were really good.”

A laugh almost got out of her, a little disbelieving. She hated that too. Hated how close it sat under her ribs, waiting. “That was… quite a show you put on out there.”

Garrett’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” She took one sip of water, mostly to prove she could, then immediately wished it were anything else because the sudden cold made her stomach realise how much alcohol it had been asked to process tonight. “Very Boys Gone Wild.”

He laughed then, quick and genuine, his head tipping down for half a second. “Thanks.”

“Not a compliment.”

“Felt like one.”

“Mhm.”

The smile stayed on his mouth, smaller now, still trying not to be too much. He looked almost pleased she was talking to him like this. Like sharp was better than silence. Like he would take a little blood if it meant she was still close enough to swing.

She shifted her weight and regretted it instantly when the room softened at the edges. “You should probably go–” she murmured, setting the water down on the dressing table with intense focus. “Go find Hannah.”

Garrett’s expression changed. “Hannah?”

“Yeah. Or–” Her heel caught wrong against the floor. She stepped back half a pace to correct it and the whole room made an unhelpful little tilt to the left.

Garrett caught her waist. One hand at her side, the other hovering near her elbow like he was trying very hard not to grab more of her than necessary. “Whoa.”

The contact went through her immediately, warm and humiliating. Her corset suddenly felt too tight again, or maybe that was just her lungs misplacing the next breath. 

She looked down at his hand, fingers spread carefully over the pink fabric at her waist, and then back at him with as much dignity as a tipsy girl in glitter could gather under difficult circumstances.

“Or Kendall,” she mumbled. The words came out before she could sand the edges down. “Or half… half the girls on campus.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched. It was the wrong reaction, obviously. He seemed to know that, because he bit it back almost immediately, pressing his lips together like the smile had physically tried to escape against his will.

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking something.”

“Usually.”

“Garrett.”

He looked down at her, and the smile softened into something worse. Something too fond to be fair. “You jealous?”

“No,” she said immediately. Too immediately.

Garrett’s brows went up.

She frowned at him with great concentration. “No.”

“Yeah, alright,” he said, and there was a laugh in his voice now, tucked low and warm where she could feel it even without letting him have the satisfaction of smiling back. 

She swayed again, enough that the hand he still had on her waist went from polite to necessary.

His amusement dimmed by a fraction. “Will you sit?”

“Nope.” She shook her head, which was a mistake. “No… no, I… will… not.”

Garrett stared at her for a beat, then sighed like he was calling on several reserves of patience he was very proud of himself for owning. He looked like he wanted to laugh and was trying to be decent about it, which somehow made him more unbearable. “Fine. Can I at least drive you home?”

“Nope. I’m–” A hiccup broke through, tiny and sharp, cutting the sentence in half.

Garrett’s mouth moved. He lost the fight for about half a second, smile flashing at the corner before he got it under control. “You’re?”

“I’m going out after.”

He nodded slowly. “Right. Totally.”

“I am.”

“Yeah, no, that sounds like a great plan.” His eyes flicked down to her feet, then back to her face. “Can you even stand?”

She straightened with the wounded dignity of someone being slandered by physics. “I’m standin’ right now.”

Garrett nodded again, very serious. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

His hand left her waist. The betrayal was immediate, she hadn’t realised how much of her balance he’d been supporting. The room moved backward, or she did, or the floor had finally had enough of her and decided to make a point. Her body tipped before she caught up to it, shoulders going first, one hand flying uselessly toward the dressing table and missing the edge by an amount that felt personal.

Garrett caught her again with both hands, one at her waist, one wrapping around her back, pulling her gently but firmly upright against him.

“Yeah,” he said, voice warm with amusement right beside her ear. “Thought so.”

She shut her eyes for one second, partly because the room was spinning and partly because being held by him still felt good in a way she found to be incredibly offensive.

“Don’t be happy,” she muttered.

“I’m not happy.”

“You are.”

He tilted his head. “I’m a little happy you didn’t hit the floor.”

“Noble.”

“Thanks.” His hand moved once at her back, careful, steadying without rubbing. “C’mon. I’ll give you a lift.”

She wanted to argue. Truly. A principled objection rose somewhere inside her, assembled itself out of pride and glitter and tequila, then collapsed.

She sighed. “Mhm.”

Garrett’s expression softened like he knew exactly how much surrender that little sound had cost her. He did not, thankfully, comment on it. 

He only turned slightly, one arm still under hers to keep her stable, and reached for the bag hanging over the chair beside the dressing table. “This yours?”

“Pink one.”

“The one with rhinestones?”

“Mm”

He slung the bag over his own shoulder without a hint of embarrassment, rhinestones flashing against his olive sweater, and shifted his arm around her again. “Ready?”

“No,” she grumbled. 

“Great.”

Getting out of backstage was a process. She said goodbye to people as they passed, or maybe people said goodbye to her and she waved in several wrong directions. 

Dexter blew her a kiss and called, “Petal, hydrate or perish.” Allie appeared briefly near the hall and immediately assessed the situation with one devastating glance.

“You good?” Allie asked.

“She’s good,” Garrett said.

She lifted one hand. “I’m good.”

Allie looked at Garrett’s arm around her, then at Garrett’s face, then at hers. Something sharp and protective passed over her expression, but she didn’t push. 

“Text me when you get home,” Allie said.

“I will.”

“Garrett,” Allie added, with the calm menace of a woman in a blue corset and glitter eyeshadow who could absolutely ruin a man’s life if motivated.

Garrett nodded once, not offended. “I’ll make sure she does.”

Allie held his gaze a second longer, then stepped aside. “Good.”

They made it into the side hallway and then out through the lobby, which had emptied into post-show clusters of drunk, overexcited people still quoting lines badly and taking selfies under the poster. Dean spotted them immediately from near the bar.

His eyes dropped to Garrett’s arm around her, then to the pink bag over Garrett’s shoulder, and his grin began to spread with the slow, terrible beauty of dawn.

“Not a word,” Garrett said without breaking stride.

Dean put both hands up, drink in one of them. “I said nothing.”

“You were about to.”

Tucker, standing beside him, looked her over with far more subtle concern. “You alright?”

She gave him a thumbs up that came out a little too close to her own face. “Thriving.”

“She’s drunk,” Garrett said.

She pointed at Dean as Garrett guided her past. “You wolf-whistled me.”

Dean placed a hand over his heart. “In support of the arts.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Garrett kept walking, which was probably wise, because Dean looked like he had at least four more comments loaded and none of them would have improved the evening.

Outside, the cold hit hard enough to make her gasp. The air smelled clean and wet, all pavement and campus trees and the far-off smoke of someone’s cigarette near the curb. 

Her bare shoulders prickled instantly under the thin straps of the corset, glitter cooling on her skin, and she folded a little closer to Garrett before she remembered she was mad at him or sad about him or whatever pathetic cocktail of the two had been sloshing around inside her all night.

Garrett noticed, his arm shifted a little, drawing her more securely against his side while they crossed toward the parking lot. His body angling to block the wind before she could ask. 

That was the sort of thing he had always done that made hating him properly difficult. The quiet practical stuff. The hand before the fall. The water before the headache. The careful thumb over a cup rim while he said something smug enough to make her roll her eyes.

She hiccuped again halfway across the lot.

Garrett glanced down. “You okay?”

“I did so many shots.”

“I saw.”

“You were a slut.”

His mouth pulled in at one corner so fast she almost missed it. “Yeah?”

“Mm.” She lifted her face toward him, very serious now because this was important. “A stage slut.”

“Is that a formal theatre term?”

“It is now.”

He huffed a laugh. “You danced on a stripper pole too.”

She stopped walking for half a second, offended enough that he had to adjust his grip before she tripped over her own heel. “Mine was for Shakespeare.”

Garrett nodded very seriously. “Right. Academic.”

“Yours was…” She searched for the word with great effort, brows drawn, then landed on it with grim satisfaction. “Being a whore.”

Garrett’s laugh came out properly this time, warm and startled in the dark. He ducked his head like he couldn’t help it, curls falling slightly over his forehead, and for one painful second he looked exactly like the Garrett she had once loved in easy moments. Laughing because she had said something stupid and he adored it before he remembered not to.

“Okay,” he said, still smiling as they reached his car. “Watch your head.”

He opened the passenger door and turned her carefully by the waist, one hand hovering over the top of the frame while the other helped her fold into the seat. 

She sat with a soft little collapse, pink skirt spilling over her thighs, one heel slipping loose again, the glassy edge of drunkenness turning the dashboard lights into a low blur.

Garrett crouched slightly to gather the sheer fabric before it got caught in the door, tugging the layers in with a focus that made something tender and awful press against the inside of her ribs. He tucked her bag near her feet, then reached for the seatbelt.

“I can do it,” she mumbled.

“Okay.”

She reached for the belt, missed it once, found it, pulled it halfway across herself, then got distracted by the way his chain flashed when he leaned in and forgot what the next step was.

Garrett waited about two seconds. “Can I?”

She handed it over with what she hoped was dignity. “Fine.”

“Thank you for your trust.”

“Don’t make this weird.”

“Oh, I would never.” He clicked the belt in and tugged once to check it, eyes flicking briefly to her face. “You gonna puke in my car?”

“No.”

He straightened, one hand still braced lightly on the roof of the car. She looked up at him from the passenger seat, at the sweater stretching across his chest, at his hair still messy from the stage, at his face half-shadowed by the parking lot light. 

The night had blurred so much at the edges, but he had gone weirdly clear. Annoyingly clear. Like every drink had washed out the background and left only Garrett Graham standing in front of the car door with her glitter probably on his sleeve.

He started to pull back. She caught his jumper before he could close the door. Her fingers closed in the knit at his stomach. 

Garrett looked down at her hand first, then at her face. His expression changed immediately, the smile fading into something cautious.

The words came before she could make them pretty. Maybe because pretty had been the problem all night. Pretty corset, pretty stage lights, pretty Hannah, pretty Kendall, pretty Garrett being adored by the room while her chest did something ugly underneath all the prettiness.

“I’m really sorry,” she said.

Garrett went still.

Her grip on his sweater tightened by a fraction. The wool was soft under her fingers. Warm from him. “For… everything.”

For breaking up with him. For not knowing how to stay. For wanting him to become less known, less wanted, less Garrett so she could feel safer loving him. For leaving and then resenting every space he filled without her. For Dean and the phone confiscation and the way she had looked at Hannah like happiness itself had wronged her. For tonight. For calling him a whore in a parking lot after a Shakespeare show where she had done shots with strangers and nearly cried into a wet bar.

She didn’t say all that, obviously. There were limits. Even drunk.

But maybe some of it sat in the air anyway, because Garrett’s face softened in that careful, unguarded way that made him look less like the boy half the campus wanted and more like the person who used to lie beside her at four in the morning and ask questions he didn’t always know how to hear the answers to.

He looked at her for a long second. Then he nodded once. “Me too,” he said.

Just two words, low and rough enough to make her fingers loosen in his sweater before she had fully decided to let go.

Garrett waited until her hand fell back to her lap. Then he closed the door gently, like the quiet mattered. Like slamming it would have broken something already cracked.

Through the glass, she watched him stand there for a second, head dipping, one hand dragging once through his hair. 

Then he walked around the front of the car, and she sat in the warm, dim passenger seat with glitter on her skin, tequila in her blood, and the horrible, tender knowledge that sorry had not fixed anything.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

the whispers of supernatural inhabitants were hard to ignore, even if you had never seen one. many gothamites were convinced that there were more than most people had thought. recent whispers had began to state that the only vampire in the city was the batman himself — a figure that had risen in the past couple of years and that was the reason for his nocturnal lifestyle. 

the lingering fear of the supernatural that was inherently spread through the city had kept your circle small, allowing you to keep only a few friends that you had since you were a child. that was all you had needed for a long time.when you had started taking classes at gotham university, your circle widened slightly. halfway through your first semester in university, you found a job in a small bookstore not far from campus. being so close to the university, it was in a relatively safer neighbourhood for you to commute to on your own when the sun was down. 

residents of gotham knew: do not go out alone past 10 pm. 

that unspoken rule was not just due to the supernatural beings that lurked in the shadows. gotham was notorious for crime. the human residents were just as dangerous as the unknown vampire. 

the job at the bookshop became your sanctuary, a place where you knew you were safe no matter what. you were constantly surrounded by books and people who shared a passion for literature. you circle expanded more — only this time, you had met someone who infiltrated your life in ways you had not anticipated. 

jason todd. the son of bruce wayne. 

jason was a ghost in the bookshop, at first. he barely made a sound, sat in the back corner of the shop for hours with his eyes glued to the book. he never bought them, only read for as long as he could then quietly slipped out of the shop. 

one evening, when the shop was slow, you had quietly approached from under the guise of simply restocking books. when you neared his spot against the back wall — where you had set up a chair for him when you had realized what he had been doing — you quietly held a book out for him. Pride and Prejudice. 

he blinked at you silently, analytically, as if you were holding a book concealed as a weapon that was intended to hurt him. 

"you read this last week," you blurted out gently, the first words you had spoken to him. "and you picked it up the first day you came here. this is my own copy. take it, keep it. it's yours now." 

he continued to blink up at you blankly, though you could tell from his body language that he was guarded — a sight you had grown accustomed to recognizing in residents of this city. your arm didn't waver despite how much you wanted to pull back and hide behind the front desk. he reached up and quietly took the book from you, pulling it into his lap. his fingers pulled back from the smooth cover instantly, as if touching the cover was burning through his flesh. quickly. so quick that you barely processed the actions before he was turning back to what he was reading. his mouth tightened, the muscles around his lips tensed around unspoken words that were fighting to break through. 

you introduced yourself to him just as quietly, a soft whisper of your name, as you chose to ignore his reaction. you didn't push any further than that — didn't ask him to introduce himself, you already knew who he was. everyone did. instead, you forced yourself to move on with your maintenance tasks to keep yourself busy under the crushing weight of that interaction. you weren't sure when he had slipped out of the bookshop either. he suddenly disappeared from view like his presence had never existed in the shop to begin with, yet the silence that followed was suffocating. despite jason's intentional silence, his presence was tangible. comforting. a steady weight in the room that quelled your heart, your mind.

you liked to think that you had the same effect on him, that you could provide him the same amount of solace that he had managed to do for you, that the whispers of gotham's violence could be forgotten in the safety of the bookshop. 

your answer came a week later. 

a book. jason's own book. he strayed from his usual routine, he came in through the front door. loud, almost intentionally so, drawing attention. he made sure you heard him coming this time. thudding footsteps from the door towards the front desk, steady and consistent. thump, thump, thump, in rhythm with your pounding heart. your eyes followed him, focused on his form as he made his way closer to you. 

theatrics weren't his style. grand gestures were unnecessary. he brought you an exchange. it was simple. you gifted him a book. he gifted you one of his. he needed to give you reciprocity. this barter was quiet. swift. almost transactional. as if he was unaccustomed to these slow interactions. 

"jason," he mumbled simply after the surface of the book thudded on the desk. his voice was smooth in a way that you hadn't expected. rough around the edges, around certain syllables that molded in his mouth that he spat out harsher than needed — but smooth in the middle. it was a soothing melody that you were embarrassed to admit had affected you to the depths of your bones. 

"hi," you greeted softly in the return. the corners of your lips quirked up in a shy attempt of a smile. 

"for you," there was roughness, low. a grumble full of annoyance that masked the tenderness threatening to rise to the surface. his head nodded towards the novel before he turned and disappeared silently between the shelves to his corner in the back. quietly. natural. his footsteps light and practiced.

your eyes flickered down to the book he left on the desk, worn and tattered. loved. Pride and Prejudice. only, this wasn't your copy that he was returning. the cover was different, pocket sized, molded to fit the curve of the human body. his body. his copy. 

you flipped the cover to the first page, his name scribbled in a skinny scrawl. jason's copy. written in the top right corner messily. underneath, was your name, written in the same skinny letters that made up jason's. your copy. you swallowed that down and flipped a few pages ahead. annotations. pencil markings filling the margins of his thoughts, observations, doodles. 

you smiled at the sight.

you gazed into the dimly lit walkway between the shelves in front of you, letting the weight of his actions gloss over your mind for a moment. his intentionally loud entrance so you would know he was coming. the book that sat in front of you to the right in your peripheral vision, daunting. the stone look you had been met with previously had slowly turned into something softer, still grey and clouded, but with light threatening to peek through. suddenly, the quiet boy that was a silent entity in the shop became something more. something closer. tender. 

                   ‿‿‿‿

the shift was subtle. 

Jason started coming in through the front door. always when you were distracted behind the counter. he watched, timed, perfected his entrances. he knew. he had observed you, your quirks, reactions, your routine. he had it catalogued in his mind, imprinted in the groves like a permanent stain. he would walk in when your brows would begin to scrunch, eyes focused on the screen, or the papers, so far away from reality that you needed him to pull you back in. he relished in the distracted greeting you would give, a small 'welcome in!' paired with a flash of your teeth. his satisfaction lay in the way you would double take when you noticed it was him, a slower greeting, one that lacked the plastic rigidity of your customer service voice. he would barely nod in return, pushing down the lurch in his stomach at the sight of your smile, as he disappeared between the shelves and to his spot at the back. he couldn't let you see how it affected him. how you made him feel alive, more human than he had in years, how you made his heart feel like it could beat again. 

he didn't need this library, he didn't need this bookshop. but he needed you. you, who was safe, steady, oblivious to him and his nightly endeavours. the shop was quiet, always dimly lit, the perfect place for him to to waste time before he began his nightly patrols. 

this time, however, this time was different. 

he disappeared to the back, you watched the way the shadows invited him in, breathed in tandem with his movements like they were familiar with him. they were familiar, inseparable. except, he came back — book in one hand, the armchair in the other. he pretended not to notice your lingering gaze, the questions swirling in your irises that he refused to acknowledge. he set the chair down in the corner beside your front desk, a soft thud rattling the floor. the cushion exhaled under his weight, deflating and settling around him. 

there were a million thoughts, questions, scenarios on the tip of your tongue that you fought to swallow down. they burned your tongue, sizzling onto the backs of your teeth instead. he sat next to you. next to your space. reading. you turned back to the monitor, the spreadsheet of inventory pulled up. the numbers no longer make sense, blurring and mixing together. 

you could see him from the corner of your eye, hands cradling the paperback spine, head tipped down in comfortable focus. you didn't miss the way his shoulders remained tense, his chest deliberately moving up and down in steady intervals. perfect, almost too perfect. his legs were spread, thighs pressed to the cushions, and feet planted firmly on the floor, ready to flee — or fight. 

you weren't surprised. everyone had to be prepared in gotham. the attacks were steady, consistent, unmistakable. targeted attacks. bodies drained of colour and blood left in the streets for people to find. a message. the signs continued to point towards the batman — gotham's protector, the nighttime vigilante. it made sense, it did. the victims were dangerous men, men who stuck to gotham's shadows and preyed on the innocent. batman's targets. 

a comfortable silence settled between the two of you, charged with an undercurrent of electricity that both of you refused to acknowledge in fear that it would dissipate beneath you. he kept coming back, however. through the front door, disappearing to find his book before settling in the chair planted next to the front desk. 

he pretended not to notice your glances, lingering looks that stopped on his hands, his face, and you pretended not to notice the glares he would give to customers who stood too close to you, too close to the desk, loitering in your space and striking up conversation. conversation that was quickly silenced when the weight of his gaze would cut into the customers chest, slicing uncomfortably and driving them out of the shop. 

lingering looks turned into moments spent in close proximity during the long stretches when no one was in the store. you would plant on top of the desk, legs dangling beside him, dangerously close to brushing against his but not quite. never enough to calm the itch that ignited flames under your skin. 

having him in close proximity was tantalizing. he was an enigma that you were unable to decipher. he had seemed normal, despite how private he was. he was the son of gotham's richest man, a man that had thrust into the spotlight and scrutinized by every voice imaginable. his image was curated, and he never seemed to stray from it, from what you could tell. but you noticed the inconsistencies, the minor details — something jason hadn't accounted for. 

it wasn't that he underestimated you, no. he recognized your intelligence upon the first moments of meeting you. he just didn't expect you to be so analytical in your gaze. it unnerved him, kept him feeling scrutinized. he loved it. 

he loved seeing the gears turn in your head, the tightening of your eyes when your thoughts consumed you. it was for that reason that he had to keep you distracted. he had to keep you off his trail. he knew your body reacted to his presence, it was meant to. it was instinctual for your atoms to crave him, to want to be pulled in by the very scent of him. he avoided touching you through calculated movements. he wasn't warm, hadn't been in years. the chill of his skin would cut into yours without permission. the kind of cold that covered his body didn't have the undercurrent of blood ready to heat him back up. no, this cold was ghastly. uncomfortable. a sickening chill that caused bile to rise up people's throats. because despite how alluring he was to a human, it never stopped the weariness from prickling through their clouded senses.

but not yours. he heard the way your heart skipped a beat, faltering in your chest as if he was someone kind. someone with a soul. someone who wasn't a monster.

"there's… jason, are you bleeding?" you had asked, so concerned for his well being. you pinched the sleeve of his shirt between your fingers, attempting to pull it up to inspect the source of the blood. 

he knew exactly what you had been looking at. it was dried. not human, but animal blood. he needed to eat something before he saw you, otherwise the monster in him would claw up his throat, rip his flesh from the inside out to get to you. he never wanted you to know that side of him, to meet the side of him that could smell the agonizingly sweet scent of your blood thrumming through your veins. 

"it's nothing," he pulled his sleeve back down and over his hands, away from you, away from your touch. he desperately wanted to feel your skin. taste it. know it, but he couldn't. 

"you're gonna bleed all over the fucking books," you grumbled, attempting to keep the tone light. despite the pout on your lips, the concern was still evident through the shine of your teeth, something you were unable to hide.

"then, it's a good thing i'm not bleeding then, isn't it, angel?" he grumbled back, his hands finding his hips. the nickname never failed to hit you square in the chest, like a force that left you gasping for air each time. angel. he raised his brow as he tilted his head down to look at you. one thing that you had learned about jason todd was that he was a diva. those who met him described him as brooding, rude, volatile. the accusations of his character were taken as truth, stated as fact before his heart could be uncovered. no. he was a diva. no one had sassed you more than he did. 

you grabbed the book beside you and swung it at the arm that didn't have blood on it. there wasn't enough force behind your swing to hurt him, you knew that. the book smacked his arm with a solid thud ricocheting off and back towards you. you didn't want to think about how solid his arm felt under the book; how the muscle was cement, an impenetrable wall that provided the book no cushioning. he didn't flinch, the amusement in his eyes only seemed to burn brighter in the flickering of the overhead light. he would have been able to move if he wanted to. his reflexes were unparalleled — supernatural speed that the human eye would never be able to comprehend. he wanted you to hit him, wanted to feel something from you. have you close, even if it hurt him inside. 

"what the fuck was that for?" he grumbled, the dip in his cheek threatening to crack through with the curve of his lip. your eyes softened slightly at the sight of him unguarded. happy. softer. there was fire on your tongue, retorts that could burn him and keep the banter going, but they all fizzled out when you saw the hidden glee in his eyes. 

"let me grab the first aid kit," you whispered softly. you made no move to stand up yet, continuing to gaze down at him from your spot on the desk. his gaze was just as intense, dark eyes boring into yours, softening, lacking intensity. you lifted the book again and swung it at the same arm. he let the hit land, letting scent of your happiness fill his lungs and ease his hunger, yet simultaneously made him ravenous. you were a conundrum for his instincts. he yearned to be good for you, to cradle you delicately in the soft silence of the bookshop. but the primal part of him, the monster within longed for a taste. a taste he would never allow himself to have. 

you slipped off the top of the desk, stepping around and kneeling down onto the floor to grab the handle of the first aid kit. your head ducked from view to pull it free, the hefty weight of the kit pulling you down with it. 

"you owe me one for-" you stood up, heaving the kit onto the desk where you had been previously sitting, only to be met with emptiness. no sign of jason. words had failed you momentarily, trailing up your throat and dying on your tongue. how did you not hear him leave? you had been ducked out of view for less than five seconds. his swift disappearance cause an ache in your heart that you chose to ignore.

you didn't know the extent of your relationship with jason. you were friends, yes, but there was a pull towards him that rooted so deeply in your heart. except, he refused to go close to you. he had just proved that once again by leaving when you offered to tend to his wound. that clearly showed you that your relationship was strictly superficial, so it shouldn't mean anything to you. the two of you were friends. something that was hard to find in gotham. you should have been grateful that you had a friend. just friends.

but then, your relationship changed again. 

it was nearing the end of your shift, quiet in the shop, had been for hours. normal for a weeknight. jason was in his seat. a new book was pressed to his fingertips, his pointer finger gently slipped behind the page and slid down to curl around the thin sheet of paper to flip to the next one. you suppressed a shudder at the sight of his veiny hand working the pages of the book. a fucking book. god, you needed to get a grip on yourself. 

the gotham gazette sat in front of you, covering the keyboard and your mug as you read the front page article. 

LATEST VICTIM IDENTIFIED WITH TIES TO THE PENGUIN, COULD HE BE NEXT?                    by Vicki Vale

The body of a John Doe was found last Saturday at Port Adams at 5:53 am, according to police records. He has now been identified with ties to The Penguin. Coroner's report shows cause of death to be several lacerations to the…

you flipped cover over, folding the paper and shoving it to the side. fear was a uncontainable wildfire that blazed through the city. every crevice had messaging of the vampire that spilled — or drank — blood from gotham's residents, every mouth whispered accusations, rumours, so-called factual information about the assailant terrorizing the city. news outlets refused to connect the string of murders to a supernatural force, omitting anything that could send the public into a spiral.

but that couldn't stop the panic, the precautions that people believed would keep them safe: don't wear strong scents, he'll be able to smell you. don't invite anyone you don't know into your house, he can't come in without permission. wear silver, it'll burn his skin. don't-

it was beginning to get out of hand. you didn't necessarily believe you were safe, but you recognized the pattern. never the public, never the innocent residents of gotham. 

"what did it say?" he murmured out, a question that broke you out of your bubble. his tone wasn't inquisitive and he barely spared you a glance as he spoke. you almost missed it, would have missed it if your body wasn't painfully aware of his every move. the two of you had shared small conversations before, of course. though, they were always short, restrained like he was forcing himself to keep his head down, like being in your presence was already too much for him to handle. 

"they're classifying it as a homicide," your voice was breathy, distracted as your eyes read the rest of the article. targeted. drained. a crime committed by another human being — allegedly. 

his jaw ticked, a subtle clench in the muscle that worked near his ear. he could sense the subtleties in your tone, the implications of the rumours that spread through the city. 

"then it's a homicide,"

"the body was drained," you argued back, raising a brow at him. the newspaper crinkled as you swivled in your chair to face him.

"bled out," his gaze didn't lift from the pages of the book. his tone would have sounded rude, bored to anyone who didn't know him. you knew him now, had picked up on enough cues to tell. he would not have entertained this conversation with you if he did not want to.

"where did all the blood go? wasn't on the ground," 

"were you there, sherlock? should we get you on the case?"

you let out a soft huff, shooting him a playful glare, and — there it was. the lift of his lip, a hint of white peeking through the crack. he was smiling, if you could call it that, but nonetheless a jason todd smile. 

"there are no vampires in gotham," he muttered, his eyes rolling. they were clear lately, his eyes. less guarded, softer, calmer.

"i'm just saying, if the batman did come out as a vampire, people wouldn't be upset. or if it was robin? maybe red hood," you mused softly, a soft breath of concession before your lips pressed together. a soft choking sound exited out of jason before he quickly cleared his throat.

"batman doesn't kill people, neither does robin," jason's tone was simple, his throat working up and down as he cleared it for the second time. your eyes trailed the bob of his throat, listening to the vibrations as he cleared his airways. he shifted in his seat, almost uncomfortably, as if something was eating him from the inside. 

"so, red hood? could be him? i wonder what he looks like under that-" 

"what if it's you?" he turned the question back on you, his brows raising in accusation. 

"what if it is?" you added back, your tone low with conspiracy. the two of you were well aware that you were painfully human, lacking any qualities that would raise you as a suspect of supernatural tendencies. 

you, however, got lost in observing him. there was so much about him that you longed to understand deeply, to feel personally, intimately. the skin on his face was pale, and you wondered if it would be warm or cold to the touch. you wondered how the smooth expanse of skin would feel under the gentle trace of your fingertip. his hair was jet black, except for the streak of white in the front that was as pale as his skin. the tendrils looked soft, effortlessly so, always falling over his eyes and covering the feature you desired to see the most. 

"you're wearing a new perfume today," he broke you out of your reverie once again. embarrassingly so. it paralyzed you, left you frozen in your spot as you tried to process his words, let them into your mind and form a coherent response in return. he knew it too — that piece of shit. the amusement was evident in the way his finger came up to rest on his chin, and in the way his tongue poked into his cheek.

"yeah," you cringed, turning your face away in embarrassment at the crack in your voice. stupid. you cleared your throat with a sharp exhale as you faced him again. you handed him a book from the pile beside you, his fingers brushed against yours, innocently, of course. though, this was the first time the two of you had been in contact, the first time your skin had touched his. from a simple exchange of books, your fingers to his. his hands were freezing, like frigid waters crashing over your hands and paralyzing you. he heard the way your lungs caught in your chest, restricting momentarily at the shock of his marble limbs. this was what he had been trying to avoid. he didn't have warmth inside of him.

he couldn't help but pause as well, refusing to pull away for a moment, then pulled the book from your grip and back down to his lap, reminiscent of the way he had done the first time you had handed him a paperback. it was embarrassing how a simple brush of his fingers could cause your brain to short-circuit. to explode your synapses so ferociously that your eyes melted out of your head. 

the same guarded look slid over his eyes, his barriers raising back up in an instant. another vicious swallow sliced down his throat. his fingers clenched and unclenched on the novel, sliding against the cover with a force that threatened to rip it off. 

"might have been too generous with the sprays," you added cautiously. your brows furrowing at his reactions. 

"i like the old one more, it mixes with your skin better," he closed the book he was reading. you swore you could hear the deliberate breath he took after finishing his sentence. a deep inhale that expanded his lungs to maximum capacity and held them there to settle. then, he was disappearing again to place the back on the shelf. it was almost as if he floated as he walked, an elegance that was unnatural for a man of his stature. he was gone from your view, hidden in some back corner of the store. 

wait, mixes with my what? your brows furrowed as you stood up. there was a soft crash, a shaking of the shelf, and you were instantly on alert. your feet automatically followed him into the shelves, faltering at the sudden silence in the shop. 

did he leave? your skin prickled in fear? anticipation? the temperature in the room dropped several degrees and froze your fingertips. but then you saw him, hunched over a shelf, his body weight relying on the ledge to support him. his entire body was tense, muscles threatening to rip out of his skin, the cords twitching underneath his shirt. 

"jason?" you were panicked, immediately stepping beside him. your hands hovered over his arm — his deathly frozen arm — concern clouding your eyes, your judgement. "what happened? are you-"

he shuddered through an aggressive inhale, ripping himself up and stepping back. you stepped back as well, giving him space to breathe. he was pale, dark swirls peeking through the collar of his shirt and curling up his neck. the only sound coming out of him were ragged, choking gasps getting caught in his throat. 

you moved closer, your hands raising placatingly. he could see the apprehension on your features, the way your fingers trembled as you held them up. for him. all of this was for him. your scent moved with you, potent in the hair and sticking to his nose. it was everywhere. consuming. suffocating. he wanted more. he needed more. needed to taste, to— 

"i'm fine, stay away," he choked out again, his body flung back against the shelf behind him. the spines rattled on the shelves, a quiet crack rippled through the air and fell upon deaf ears. your heart was pounding at the sudden change. the two of you had been getting somewhere, getting somewhere good. he was talking to you. the twitch of his lips that threatened to reveal a smile was becoming more and more common, something you had been steadily uncovering from him layer by layer until he would feel comfortable enough to show you a real one. now, he looked like he was physically pained by the sight of you. 

"let me help? i can call-" you were practically pleading with him. you were confused. panicked. way out of your element. you were scared to touch him again. his reaction from a brush of your fingers was enough. had you done this to him?

you stopped, your voice cracking. your vocal cords shaking around your words,"j-jason? your eyes are red?"

"i have to go," the words ripped out of his throat. spat out with venom and disgust, slamming into your chest and knocking you back. he was gone in an instant, in the blink of an eye, before you could take air in your lungs to protest his departure. the only sign of his presence was the sound of the backdoor slamming with the force of his exit. 

you were shaking in the silence. worried, anxious, scared. confused. you were fucking confused. 

your legs were shaky, your knees cracking as you kneeled down to gather the books that had dropped in his panic, the ones that had been knocked off the shelf when his back collided with the wood. in the quiet of the aftermath, you began to re-shelve the novels, handling them with the same care you watched jason handle them with. 

ice flowed through your blood as your gaze leveled with the shelf he was gripping. your breath caught in your throat, the book slipping from your grasp and thudding on the floor again. your fingers shakily came up and pressed into the indented wood, smooth and still warm, shaped like fingers. molded to a hand that burned hotter than the sun. you swore his finger prints were branded into the wood, sizzled like they had every right to be there, like they deserved to be permanently etched into the place that had become his sanctuary. yet, the wood was ice cold when your fingers smoothed over the indents. temperatures that reflected frostbite seeped from the wood and into your finger, forcing you to pull back and attempt to sooth the ache that was caused instead. 

all you were left with was the puzzling sight of his red eyes, lacking the usual stormy blue that would warm the back of your neck when he thought you were too distracted to notice him. you always noticed him. 

the haunting red. vibrant and angry. like blood. 

                   ‿‿‿‿

after that incident, he had become a literal ghost in your life. he was one with the darkness. the shadows that clung to him swallowed him whole, enveloping him like an old friend. he always had been, you realized. there was a magnetic pull that centered jason, everything in his vicinity orbited in his galaxy. the tether was almost unbreakable, though you questioned whether you wanted to be released from his grasp.

you missed him. 

shame was a lump in your throat that you struggled to swallow. your routine was disrupted. tilted off its axis. what once felt like a steady comfort in your life, now left you reeling. every gust of wind that passed through the door as it swung open held the ghost of him. there were traces of him everywhere — in the chair that remained planted beside your desk that you refused to move; in the pile of books that accumulated beside the chair, his chair, that reminded you of him; in the wood that had bended to his will on the shelf in the back corner of the store. 

another shift passed with jason's absence. agonizingly slow. dull. the crack in your chest carving deeper with each day passing. 

you wanted answers. you deserved answers. 

he had looked at you as if you were the one hurting him. his eyes had turned red. or did they? you didn't know anymore. it was a blur in your mind, a dream. you had ran through those moments so many times in your mind that you couldn't distinguish between what was reality, and what was fantasy — rationalizations of your mind attempting to fill in the gaps of what you couldn't comprehend. 

unfortunately for you, the shift was far from over. you had inventory and stock to complete before you were allowed to go home. normally, the shipments would come at the beginning of the shift, allowing whoever was working plenty of time to complete the actions and make it somewhere safe before hitting the danger zone — or 10pm in gotham. 

the truck was delayed, held up due to multiple blocked streets that were covered in layers of ice from an attack by Mr. Freeze. the chill was noticeable, despite the attack being on the other side of the city. unfortunately, Mr. Freeze making an appearance didn't mean you could go home, it was just another day in gotham. 

by the time the truck did arrive, your shift was nearing it's end — meaning that nightfall was quickly approaching. stock never took long though, you believed you could finish it quickly and make it home safely, in a timely manner. you could do it. everything would be fine. 

everything was not fine. 

there was more inventory than you had accounted for, double than usual. granted, the past couple of times the inventory had arrived during your shift, jason was with you and offered assistance. but this time, jason wasn't with you. hadn't been with you for weeks now. 

and it was late, dangerously late. you were getting increasingly more worried with each minute that passed. you were nearing the end of the pile, though that didn't bring you any solace. you still had to make your way home.

from behind you, the back door crashed open, the steel hinges screeching under the force of the impact. the knob slammed into the wall, cracking into the wood with a sickening split. your heart lurched into your throat as a frightened scream tore out of you. you were back against the wall in an instant, looking around for an escape. 

a body fell through the door, landing on their knees through heaving breaths. a red helmet, a large body under a fitted black suit. red boots caked in mud. red hood. 

you could hear his heaving breaths through the helmet, his arms barely holding up his body. 

"red hood?" you choked out weakly, the adrenaline continuing to pump through your body. you were dizzy with panic. 

his head snapped up with force to meet your gaze. he crawled closer, forcing himself in front of you. 

"angel, i-" red hood spoke, his words continuing to be choked out. you legs pulled up your chest, keeping some space. red fucking hood was at your knees. the familiar pet name hung in the air and only deepened your confusion. he reached up, his fingers pressing into a button on the side of his helmet. a soft click echoed between the sound of his breaths before he ripped the helmet off his head. he kept his face angled down, but the familiar strands of black hair with a tuft of white were the first thing you noticed. jason. jason was red hood, and kneeling in front of you. 

his head dropped further as a pained groaned exited his mouth. there they were again, peeking out from the collar of his armoured plates. dark swirls, curling up his neck, blackening his veins and causing them to protrude against his milky skin. they looked identical to the first time you saw them, like the shadows in the corners that enveloped him. that's why they were familiar. they lived inside of him. 

you were speechless, lips parted in shock as you gazed down at him. there was grime covering his hands, his suit, his hair. his back tensed again, writhing under the pain that you couldn't see. he inhaled deeply through a staggering choke. his head leaned up, his eyes, half lidded, meeting yours. red. 

"forgive me," he choked out before his heavy weight settled on top of you. his face shoved into the crook of your head, nose nuzzling into your jugular. the scent of your blood up close was better than he had ever imagined. one of his hands cradled the back of your head gently, the cold of his hands seeping into your skull. his other arm slid around your waist, supporting your body against the hard shelves behind you. 

you froze in your position. you had never been this close to jason before, and now he was on you, his arms around you. he was inhaling deeply against your neck, aggressively. no matter how much he took, it was never enough. it would never be enough to quell the hunger that consumed him. 

"smell so fucking good," he growled softly, pulling you closer into him. you could feel every inch of his body, feeling the way his lungs expanded in his chest with every intake of air. his head lifted slightly, enough that you could feel the brush of his lips against your skin as his nose moved up towards your ear before back down to it's original spot on your neck. his shoulders began to shake with restraint. 

"fuck," he gritted out again, his breath fanning across your skin. you felt the soft press of his pillowy lips to your neck before he was gone from your body. his body flew back across the room, a loud woosh of air accompanying his shaking body. it was as if he was shoved by an invisible worse, hitting the shelf so hard that it cracked, forming a jason-shaped crater into the wall. 

you tried to ignore the way it felt when his lips touched your neck, how gentle he was despite his vicious tremors. 

his face scrunched in pain, eyes pinching shut. with that, his lips curled up and your heart stopped. fangs. two sharp, pointed fangs in his mouth, venomous. lethal. vampire. jason todd was a vampire. the vampire. gotham's vampire.

this entire time. the entire time you had known him. all that time you had spent together, coexisting in silence. the lingering glances, the nights he drove you home after your shift to ensure you got back safely. the — oh, god — the bodies. all the bodies, the blood spilled in gotham. it was him. it was him the whole time. 

and despite knowing this, you loved him. you were in love with him. the sight of him in pain was agonizing to view.

another invisible punch landed on jason's ribs, his body jolting and writhing. a soft whimper escaped his lips. a fucking whimper. 

you sat up on your knees, crawling closer. another choke left his mouth at the action. he was shaking his head before he could gather his words. "no," a beat and a heavy breath, "no, stay back. you can't… you can't come any closer,"

"let me help you, please," you whispered. pleading. you felt helpless, scared. you were out of your depth, in over your head. "tell me what to do, jason"

"you can't fucking help me, angel, i shouldn't have come here," he heaved. 

"well you did," you snapped back, crawling closer and settling down in front of him. just as he had done to you. the wood bit into your knees, grounding you through the intensity of his gasps. "so tell me what you fucking need," 

"you. okay? i fucking need you. it's only ever been you, and i can't—" he cut himself off to catch his breath. "i wasn't going to make it in time, i need… i need to eat, but i can't—"

your hands came up, gently moving to cradle his face. he groaned instantly, the weight of his head dropping into your palm. "eat? will it help you? if you… you need to drink blood, right?" 

he forced a weak nod, his eyes drooping. "you have to go, far away from me, angel, please, i'll be okay,"

you ignored him, inhaling a shaky breath. you crawled closer between his legs, angling your neck to the side. "then drink,"

"no," he gritted out. forced. leaning his head further back into the wall. 

"yes, you can, let me help you," you whispered. your chest met his, keeping your neck on display for him. it was taunting him. 

"i can't, angel, you don't understand, i won't be able to stop,"

"i trust you,"

"well, don't. i'm a fucking monster. i've been haunted by your scent for months. by the sound of your blood pumping out of your heart and through your veins. all i want is a taste," his teeth were clenched so hard you were sure they were going to crack. the light caught on his fang, taunting you with the prospect of sinking into your flesh. 

"it's okay, jase, i promise. i want to help you," your fingers curled into the back of his back as you brought him closer to your neck. he let out a shuddering breath, his nose pressing into the skin again. his arm curled around the back of your waist, lifting you up and settling you on his thighs. he pressed another shaking kiss to the skin before letting out a weak groan. 

"just a taste, and i'll stop. i promise, angel, i don't want to hurt you, would never hurt you, i—" he muttered out weakly, seemingly hit under delirium. he waited a moment, giving you second to back away. 

you had expected pain. you had expected piercing pain. you hadn't expected the rush of pleasure that tingled your fingers. you couldn't control the sharp gasp that escaped from your mouth as your hands tightened in his hair. his grip on you tightened in return, pulling you closer. 

he moaned into your neck as he lapped up the blood. you were exploding on his tongue, curing him. the sweetest libation he had ever experienced. he was ruined. your blood was pure of sin, strong, addicting. 

"fucking shit, angel, you taste so good," he groaned into your neck, sinking his teeth back in. he could feel his strength restoring, the effects immediate. the darkness in his veins slowly disappeared, his luminous skin smooth and unblemished once again. he should stop. he knew he should stop. but you tasted too good, too good to stop. he needed more, wanted— 

your eyes were drooping in pleasure, slowly going limp in his arms. your mind was hazy, though you didn't know if it was from the blood loss or how good it felt. there was a soothing warmth settling over your skin, like the rays of sun that had once illuminated gotham. the rays that you never saw outside anymore. the rays that you saw deep in jason's soul. 

jason forced his head back from your neck, his veins thrumming with the high of your blood. he was full. full of you, full of your life. it was different than drinking the blood of gotham's lowlifes, he didn't know how he would be able to go back. your head lolled forward without the support of jason's fangs in your neck, immediately falling onto his shoulder. he kissed up your neck, towards your mouth. you gazed up at him and desire surged, raw and invasive, up your throat, restricting your voice momentarily. you wanted him. needed him. 

this was not how you had imagined your first kiss with jason to be: rough, devouring, twinged with the coppery taste of your blood. but perfect.

a whimper rumbled deep from his chest and into your mouth, thickening the fog that continued to cloud your mind. his lips were slippery with your blood, tangy, mixed with the addictive taste of him — a taste that was meant to trap you, hook you into his web with no room for escape. you were his now. his. 

"hmmm, my angel, so sweet," he licked into your mouth to emphasize his words, his fangs retracted now that his hunger for blood was satiated. his hands held your hips down against his, and he ground his hips up against yours to punctuate your words, "wonder if you taste good everywhere." 

his words sent fire straight down your spine, desire pooling in the heat of your underwear. you practically whined into his mouth with want, words failed you. he lifted you in his arms, laying you on the floor and covering you with his weight again. you arms immediately pulled him closer. his frigid body seemed to be warmed by the desire blazing between the two of you.

your mouths clashed again, your tongue dragging over his teeth to catch his fang again. he smirked into your mouth before trailing kisses back down to your neck. his hand gripped your chin, exposing the bite marks in your neck that he had left moments prior. he gently pressed his mouth to the wound, eliciting a gentle whimper from you at the sensitivity. his tongue licked over both of the holes, letting his saliva pool into the bite marks. jason's venom had healing properties, ones that he never had to use often, ones that you obviously didn't know that he had. 

he trailed down your body, lifting your shirt to stop just under your bra. there were too many layers between you, he longed to feel your skin against his, feel every crevice of your body on his, feel you. your heart beating under his palm, steady, warm, alive. another time. he would get that another time. 

but he was impatient. he longed for a taste. not for your blood, no. the monster inside was calm. asleep. this hunger was different. this was jason. and he needed it more than he needed the taste of your blood. 

"tell me to stop, and i will," he mumbled against your stomach, licking and sucking every inch of skin he could find. you were here with him, it would be enough if that was all you wanted. 

"don't you dare," the thought of jason stopping, his mouth leaving your skin sent a flare of panic up your ribs. he popped open the button of your bottoms, pulling them down with a fever. the fabric was tossed behind him, discarded like it had personally offended him for simply being on your body, for keeping him away from the bare skin of your inner thighs. 

heaven. he was in a heaven he didn't deserve. he couldn't die, condemned to immortal life of suffering, but the space between your thighs made him feel alive. 

he dipped his nose into the crease between your hip and thigh, filling his lungs once again. you writhed on the ground slightly, attempting to nudge him to where you wanted him, needed him to be. 

"i know, i know," he cooed softly, his hands gripping your inner thighs and pushing them open. his half-lidded eyes landed on you, exposed, spread for him to see. "gonna give you what you need,"

he leaned down, his tongue tracing a line through your folds. your back arched immediately at the action, the wetness of his tongue. he dove in immediately after, his lips circling around your nub and sucking. his tongue circled your clit with precision, like he knew your body, like he had memorized every single thing about you. 

you were at his mercy, held still under his grip as he got his second fill of you. as he drank from you again, though this time it wasn't blood that he was craving. mind-numbing. it was mind-numbing. your hands gripped onto his hair, steadying yourself from the onslaught of his mouth. 

he moved down to your entrance, tasting your walls. he moaned into your pussy, pushing his face further into you. his tongue slid back up before sealing over your clit again. your hips slowly ground into his face, chasing the pleasure that he was giving you. your teeth were threatening to tear through your bottom lip with how hard you were biting into the flesh. 

"jason, please, please, please," you babbled softly, tugging on his hair. tugging him closer. to give you more, give you everything. and jason wanted to oblige. he was greedy. the darkness inside of him was screaming for you, to trap you in his grip. he leaned back to gaze up at your appearance. wrecked. panting. fucking ruined. 

he parted his lips, flashing his fangs extending out of his gums. a twisted smirk spread across his face at your hazy eyes locked into his fangs. he dropped his head back down, his tongue flattening against you with a new intensity. you choked on a scream with the force of his tongue flicking against your sensitive clit. the sharp points of his fangs dragged against your folds, causing a wave of slick to drip down you. he didn't let it waste, leaning down to lap back at your entrance. 

you could feel the pressure building up, between his tongue, his fangs dragging against your skin, begging to dip in for another drink. you were putty in his grasp. it was too much. electrifying, setting your veins on fire with every drag of his tongue. 

his hand left your thigh to settle his thumb on your clit, rubbing tight circles while he continued to lick into your. your body jerked, a soft shriek exiting your mouth as your body shook with the force of your release. your muscles tensed, your fingers tightening in his hair, keeping him in place as you rode out your orgasm on his face. 

his hand left your clit and smoothed up your stomach, keeping you pressed down as he continued to slowly drag his tongue along you, cleaning you up, leaving nothing of your release to go to waste. he groaned in satisfaction, releasing your clit with a soft pop, pressing one last soft kiss to the jumping muscle before gathering you back in his arms. 

you were limp against him through the shock of the aftermath of both events. 

his fingers gently carded through your hair, cradling you against his body. 

"you're so perfect, my angel, did so good for me," he whispered into your head. he shut his eyes, letting out another ragged breath, though this one wasn't due to insatiable hunger — but out of love. he loved you. he fucking loved you. he couldn't pinpoint the exact moment he had fallen in love with you, though he knew from the moment he had laid eyes on you that he was consumed forever. 

it took a little bit for you to regain your strength, for the shock to dissipate from your system. jason's gentle words of encouragement brought you back, the feel of his hands running up and down the expanse of your back. you lifted your eyes to gaze up at him, your eyes checking his well being, calculating. 

"good?" your voice was small and breathless, but not weak. there was hunger beneath your tone. there was blood around his mouth, dried, staining. your blood. trickling down his lips and towards his chin. red stained his teeth, stuck in the crevices of his incisors. his eyes were blue again, the familiar colour that you had loved so dearly. no trace of red, no trace of the dark swirls that littered his skin. he looked beautiful. utterly destroyed, but beautiful. 

his dishevelled appearance paralleled your own. you were shattered. eyes barely open as you inspected him, but he could see your senses returning back to you with each breath. you shuffled closer on his lap, ignoring the groan he bit back at the action. 

"hey, hey, don't move to fast, angel, i'm right here," he whispered, supporting your body in his arms. "just breathe with me for a second, yeah? that was a lot."

"so it was you," you whispered softly in return with a slow blink.

he nodded in confirmation, his eyes flickering over your features. memorizing each crevice. he wanted to keep you away from this side of him, to keep you safe. guilt pooled in his stomach at the thought. 

"just you?" 

"my family… we all are," his soft revelation hung in the air between you. you took a moment to consider the implications of his words. his family. 

"you said it wasn't batman," 

"i said batman doesn't kill people, not that it wasn't him,"

"now is not the time for semantics, jason, you said-" 

"you're so beautiful," he whispered, cutting off your words with his own reverence. his thumb traced the skin of your cheek. soft. his eyes were softer than you had ever seen them. his thumb moved from your cheek to press into your bottom lip. 

"thank you," he added softly after. you could feel the gratitude, not for letting him feed from you. for trusting him. For seeing beyond the monster he thought he was and just seeing jason. 

because that was what he was. he wasn't gotham's tyrant. the vampire that caused fear in the inhabitants of a city. 

he was just jason. 

your jason. 

an: i need him so bad it's insane. I feel like this is all over the place, but I'm very proud of it. please like, comment, reblog, send me your thoughts! I would love to know how people feel about this one. the thought of this has been eating at me for a while now, now enjoy!

special shoutout to @moonologyy for matching my freak. that's my goat. idk what i'd do if you didn't listen to every single one of my thoughts! i owe you

and shoutout to @athenxt for being my first (and continued) supporter!!! you're special to me, queen.

It digs into the material shielding his neck, but whether you could actually do it—turn your front into actual bloodshed, you don't know. You force your trembling fingers to stabilise the sharp edge of your blade, barely feeling anything other than your heartbeat hammering through your ribcage.

“How do you know that name?” Your voice comes out louder than intended, vulnerability pitched in all the ways you could not control.

“We all have our secrets.” He twists your old words against you, something you had uttered to him days ago, and not even his moderator can hide the mocking sneer in his voice.

“Willing to die for it?” You grit.

“Already have.” He remarks. Your brows furrow in confusion, and your lapse in focus is enough for him to twist your arm, slamming you against the wall and pinning you with your blade still clenched in your hand, but now out of reach.

“It’ll be in your best interest if we work together.” He squeezes your wrist tighter, jamming your palm from dropping the blade into your teeth. It’s like he knows your every move, and counters it before you can even think of doing it.

It should only reinforce how much of a danger he is, with his skills in combat to disarm you as quickly as he did—but there’s a familiarity in the steps that makes your head spin.

“Nothing good comes out of provoking the Bat alone.” He warns. “What you’ve been doing? You seriously think he wouldn’t notice?”

You scoff. “You don’t know him.”

“Don’t I?” He laughs coldly. “Don't make the mistake of assuming your past with Bruce guarantees you a soft spot, sweetheart."

Your entire body freezes. Nothing would have ever prepared you to hear Bruce's name. To know that he knows the old man's identity and yours—you've severely underestimated him. Jason’s name still repeats like a helpless mantra in the back of your mind, twisted into a robotic slick from the modulator.

He leans in, and even with that stupid helmet on, you can feel his pleasure thrumming at your silence. "Midnight tomorrow, Miller Harbour. I wouldn’t advise you to be late, partner.”

Miller Harbour reeks of strong salt and sewage. Your nose wrinkles, the sour smell somehow reaching your nose even from afar. The murky water barely reflects the intrusive lights that shine on the containers that surround you like a rusted maze.

He never told you how'd you find him, so clearly—your 'partnership' solely depends on his unyielding ability to find you no matter which part you were in the city.

You hear him before you see him, and that's only because he didn't bother hiding. He's on the phone, talking in low hushes, his modulator crackling as he approaches you, one hand shoved into the pocket of his leather jacket.

His casual demeanour pisses you off, like he can't even be bothered to arm his hand because you're no threat.

He stops in front of you, phone still raised to where his ear would be. "It's either your intel is right, or your wife finds a bullet in her head tonight." He says right before he ends the call.

Your eyes widen, disgust rippling through your features. "You'd do that?"

Stuffing the phone into his pocket, he carries himself easily despite your tone. "Would it make you feel better if I said I wouldn't?" He mocks.

Your eyes narrow. "I wouldn't believe you."

"How clever." He drawls, his hand beckoning you to follow. "And isn't it hypocritical of you to ask when you had a blade pressed against my neck yesterday?"

Your lips part, conflict jamming your response. He doesn't need to know that you wouldn't have done it, that you lack the guts. It'd only give him a greater advantage over you. He paces on without bothering to hear your response, and you huff, jogging to catch up with him. "What are we doing?"

"There's leaks of Scarecrow's shipment leaving at midnight. Unless you want the entire city on his fear toxin, we're infiltrating before it even gets close to the water supply."

"Sure you don't want it for yourself?" You accuse.

"Not my style." He remarks. "Prefer to deal with my enemies without all the screaming, it gets in the way of the job."

“What is your motive then? Something to prove to yourself?” Even your doubt echoes in your question, obviously expecting him to mock you, toss another vague statement that only proves the power imbalance between the two of you—but he doesn’t.

“Just cleaning up the streets.” He answers briskly. “Permanently.”

The word lingers like a point of difference, a kick at the other caped crusader.

“Have a problem with the Bat?” You dig.

“Don’t you?” There’s a wicked accusation in his voice, and when his helmet shifts to look at you, you feel pressure. An unspoken demand to state which side you stand on.

“What I think about the Bat is none of your concern.” It’s a small win, knowing he doesn’t know everything about you—relief that the fear of him being able to read your mind dampens a little at his question.

He's silent, long enough that you begin to wonder if your answer was the one he expected, or didn’t.

"What does this even have to do with Jason Todd?" You couldn't connect Scarecrow's antics to have anything to do with Jason, much less requiring your help. You couldn't even best him in a one-on-one, much less work alongside him.

He scoffs. "Nothing about tonight has to do with a dead boy buried twelve feet under."

Your frustration ticks, even more so at his brush-off over the mention of Jason. He was the one that used Jason's name against you, and now he's acting as if it didn't matter? Before you can push further, he replaces his focus with a sudden movement—two trucks leaving through the entrance point at the lower levels of the harbour, and his entire demeanour shifts.

“You take the one on the right, I’ll take the one on the left. Stop the truck before it leaves the harbour."

He's gone before you can ask any more questions, his silhouette disappearing down the ledge onto the truck’s roof. You curse, jumping down after him and landing on the second truck. The metal skids against your palms but you steady yourself, gripping onto the raised edge.

The driver's clearly heard the sound of your weight smashing against the truck, evident from the shouting below, and not a second after—bullets ripple through the roof. You curse, one hand letting go so you could move to the side, avoiding the bullets.

Your body topples to the side, and you slam against the driver's door, making direct eye contact with a straw mask. You've got to be kidding, they even bother with the same get-up?

Gritting your teeth, you lift yourself up halfway, and your boots slam against the glass. It shatters from the impact, and you fall roughly into the driver's seat. It's a mess of elbows, and the fumbling of your blade from your holster as you use the back-end, knocking it into the driver's skull.

His head lolls to the side, but you don't have time to think—grabbing onto the wheel and turning it sharply before the truck crashes into a container. Kicking his feet off the pedal, you slam onto the brakes.

The truck's wheels skid to a halt, and you instinctively squeeze your eyes shut when the truck slams into the container. You heave out a breath, shaking slightly as you open your eyes to a mostly in-tact truck, aside from the dent visible in the side of the door. You did it. You actually did it.

A knock at the window makes you flinch, and you snap your neck to see Red Hood waiting outside the door, hands over his hips—impatience brimming in his form. Your fury sparks in your gut again, but you clamp your lips shut as you unbuckle the driver, unlocking the door on the other side, and shoving the driver out.

He falls onto the ground with a loud thump, still unconscious as Hood hoists him up easily, dragging him over to where the other driver was and dropping him.

By the time you managed to shimmy your way out of the truck, Hood's already got a gun pressed over the forehead of the first driver, who looks worse for wear than the other, with sweat pooled at his forehead, blood running down his nose.

"Wait!" It tears out of you, afraid.

A flash of Bruce’s eyes crystalises in your mind, a perfect vision of his morals weighing down on you. Your fingers wrap around his gun, forcing it away. "What are you doing?" You snap.

"My job, sweetheart." He mocks.

"There's no need to—" Kill them. You can barely get it out, and you switch your words. "You haven't even gotten your information, what's the use in putting a bullet through their heads when you don't know where the shipment's supposed to go? You'd just delay Scarecrow's plan, not stop it."

"Oh, and let me guess." His voice hardens. " Once we put these two in jail, they'll break out—rush back to Scarecrow and help out in murdering innocent civilians. Is that your amazing idea?"

You hesitate, and for a moment, you feel like Bruce and—this conversation only makes you ill.

“You don’t have time to hesitate.” His voice grows in impatience, frustration clear over your incompetence. “They’re dirt on the streets, and it’s either you clean it up, or you’ll find someone’s face on the news—someone’s kid murdered, because you couldn’t pull the damn trigger!”

You can’t stop the flinch at his raised voice, even as your own glare hardens. “Then what makes you different from them? Deciding who gets to live and die?”

His cold laugh echoes through the night air. “It doesn’t. I just have the guts to admit that it takes that sacrifice to make the streets safer, to save another life.”

“By deciding to kill another.” You bite back.

“Yeah, cause keeping murderers alive worked out so well before.” He scoffs.

You freeze, cold anger taking over your panic. He didn't need to say who he was taking a dig at, it was enough from the mocking tone in his voice. "Fuck you, Hood."

"Yeah, I'm terrified." He says dryly, tucking his gun back into his holster. "Cause clearly, you're a real big threat, aren't you?"

You're tempted to launch yourself at him, hit him—anything to get him to shut up.

“You should take some time off the field if you think being soft around here works.” He mocks, two hands coming down to drag the two men by their collars. Walking over to the truck he's parked, he tosses them into the back seat. “Come find me when you come around.”

You’re ready to snap, tell him you wanted nothing to do with him in the first place, that he’s deranged for thinking you’d even want to find him and let yourself be dragged into his mess—but he tosses something your way and you instinctively catch it. Opening your palm, it’s a burner phone, identical to the one you saw him use when you arrived at the harbour.

When you look up, he’s gone. Left alone in the streets with shaking adrenaline tremoring through your hands, even if you don't know whether he'll follow through with what he said, the image still makes you feel sick.

Hood disappears from your life for two weeks. Enough for you to dare to try and fall asleep without the image of the two drivers appearing when you shut your eyes. To not smell the harbour, and hear the sound of his mocking tone when he dangled your morals in front of you like life and death is so easily decided.

Tonight's not one of those nights where you think sleep will come find you easily.

Your body's conditioned to almost wait—like he's bound to appear any minute even though he's never visited you at your apartment before. The burner phone is shoved somewhere in your wardrobe so you won't have to see it, even when you instinctively check to see if he's left any messages or missed calls when the thoughts get too loud at night.

You're starting to believe he's actually given up on you, seeing you as a weakling in his eyes. It shouldn't bother you, give you any feeling other than relief that he's potentially out of your life. Yet, somewhere deep inside, the guilt pools at the thought that if it came down to it, you might do the same thing as Bruce. Not pull the trigger, and someone ends up dead.

Like Jason.

A knock rams against your window. It's loud, measured with that same familiar brute force you've come to expect from the only person who'd find you at this hour.

You shouldn't have kicked off your sheets, or rush to the window where your oddly-sized sofa was pushed against. You unlock the window, pushing it up to meet the sight of the helmet that haunts your nightmares.

For a moment, he just stays there, bent over on your fire escape like he's in intense pain. Then, he snaps. "You going to move aside?"

“I thought you said I’d be the one to come find you.” You mock. You shouldn’t, not when he’s clearly pissed with a gun in his hand, but your nerves don’t trigger automatically at the sight of him. He doesn’t scare you, even though he should.

His other hand is gripping his side, blood soaking his glove when he hisses out through gritted teeth. “Toss me attitude later. Emergency kit now.”

You don’t question on how even though he’s known you for such a short time, he's desperate enough to come find your window. You don’t let yourself think about how he’s probably alone in this city, just like you, and bears that weight and who knows what other baggage that’s clearly twisted him into this displaced superiority complex.

You grab your kit, rushing back to see him laying against your brick wall, still near the window, and you hear the shifts of his delayed breathing, like he’s trying to still himself as much as possible to prevent further blood loss.

“An expert in bleeding out?” You taunt, laying the kit beside him as you automatically grab for the alcohol and cloth to clean the wound.

“Should’ve seen the other guy.” He tosses back, teeth clenched through his stubbornness.

It’s almost paradoxical, seeing the Red Hood so strangely human in the dim lighting of your apartment, bleeding out on your wooden floorboards and making jokes. Almost enough to make you forget why you’re pissed to see him, almost.

“How’d you find my apartment?” A silent question echoes your words through the tense atmosphere. How’d you find me every time?

“Tracker in the burner phone.” He answers casually as he pulls up his shirt, one hand outstretched for the alcohol—clearly expecting to do it himself. Not like anything illegal on that extent would phase him.

“And the other times?” You ignore his outstretched hand, dabbing the alcohol on the cloth. To prove that you're capable of something, you don't know. Your stubbornness had always only been rivalled by those worse than you. “Three.. two..”

Your count doesn't finish before you press the cloth onto his wound, and he hisses, a string of curses filling the room. “Every damn time.” He groans.

Your brows furrow, but maybe he’s talking about the pain. It’d be impossible for him to know you trick your counts.

“Like I said before.” He huffs as he adjusts to the sting of the alcohol. “I know your tells.”

“I hide them.” You bristle, offended as you grab for the needle, stringing the thread through.

His laugh echoes harshly against the brick walls, finding your words funny. “Not well enough.”

Your lips purse in displeasure, but he’s obviously right if he’s able to find you so easily. “Just because you can find me doesn’t mean it gives you permission to barge in.”

“Then why let me in?” He challenges.

You pause, hands losing the knot around the eye of the needle and you inhale sharply, trying again. “This is going to hurt.” You warn, one hand placed on his torso to keep him steady.

“You won’t believe how many people say that to me.” He jokes, seemingly amused. He's more talkative when he's injured.

“Given your charming personality, I can’t imagine why.” You mutter dryly.

When the needle point digs into his skin, he goes silent, fists clenching against the window sill. You don’t ask any more questions—you just get it over as quickly as you can.

He doesn’t leave immediately like you expect him to when you’re done. Instead, he lingers—a still statue near the window while you wash your blood-soaked hands. If it weren’t for the controlled breaths that prickled in frequency across the room, you would’ve thought he had passed out from exhaustion.

When you think you’ve let your hands run under the water long enough for it to be obvious you’re avoiding the elephant in the room, you force yourself back to the window and crouch to his eye level. His helmet tilts, analysing you—waiting.

You sigh. “Listen. If we’re really going to be partners, we need to set rules.”

He inhales, settling his head back on the wall, gazing at your ceiling. “Finally came to terms with it then? What crime-fighting actually is.”

“Only on the terms that you treat me as an equal. Not your lackey.” You frown, still recalling the way he tossed orders to you without asking for input.

You expect him to poke fun, mock you for your request. Yet, he doesn’t. He stares at the ceiling, before he grunts. “Alright.”

Your shoulders loosen in tension, and you settle in sitting properly across him, your elbows resting on your knees as you watch him.

"And you have to tell me why you mentioned Jason Todd." You weren't going down in this mess with him without a fight, not when Jason's name still haunts you through the echo of his moderator.

He laughs dryly. "Haven't catch on? It's not only him—don't you realise? He wasn't the Bat's only failure. The countless murders in the streets, left unpunished, forgotten without a mention in the news because it's expected that they'd have to pay the sacrifice of no one stepping up to do what's needed."

"And you're that person?" The pieces of his motive begin to click together—that he imagines himself as the one destined to wash out the rot in the city, all done by staining his hands with blood.

"Shouldn't only be me." His invitation lays there, and the understanding dawns on you on why he'd pick you. There are far more efficient fighters, cleverer than you and maybe even him. Yet, you sense a familiar bitterness in him you recognise in yourself—that same, quiet rage that drowns him, and chains him to this city.

It's a sinking ship, his mission—but maybe he thinks you'll see it too. Why it's worth trying.

“I know you’ll never tell me your full story.” You say. “But at least tell me what you’re aiming at, what we’re doing.”

He finally looks at you, and you feel it then, that same confidence of a dying man with nothing to lose that settles in his bones. “We’re rebuilding Gotham.”

Red Hood proves to be more brain than brawn, a paradox to your initial impression when he had a gun jammed to the side of your ribs. You knew he was clever, but as you worked side by side, watching first-hand how quickly his mind works is.. fascinating.

He’s been trained, to see not only a few steps ahead, but several. To have contingency plans, to have distrust built into his very veins, and to have his body move before he thinks.

Through his lens, Gotham looks worse than its ever been through your blurred memory. The corruption that simmers below every business, every front plastered on with fake smiles, and the blood that has dried on the steps to build empires.

Worse than that, you begin to see him in a different light too.

He's a brute, that lingers after every walk home from patrol, only leaving when you lock your door and windows.

He tosses you random weapons of a caliber much higher than you'd ever be able to afford, ones you highly suspect he stole or had manufactured for you, because he rarely uses blades in opt for his guns.

He grunts that you're too weak for crime-fighting, then drags you to a stall that sells food to even the most suspicious of individuals, owned by an old man that doesn't blink when Hood hands him cash and gives him plastic bags filled with boxed meals.

Sometimes, during your patrols together, he takes the longer routes from above, stopping on the rooftops of skyscrapers where Gotham shines in its rare beauty, where the lights blend together into its own sea of stars.

“So, why come back?” He asks once, crouched beside you as he eyes for any signs of crime in the Fashion District.

You pretend you don't understand. “To Gotham?”

He nods imperceptibly.

“Rent’s cheaper.” You shrug.

He huffs, amusement crackling even through his modulator. “Now that’s a load of bull.”

You snort, legs dangling over the ledge. Looking down at the city, where the bottom panes of the skyscrapers look more like specks of light than actual windows—you think back on the first day you arrived. So lost, so hungry to feel something again.

“How did you find out about Jason?” You ask instead.

His breath hitches faintly, just for the shortest second. If it had been a few weeks ago, you wouldn't have caught it. “I keep track of all the Bat’s failures.” He answers vaguely.

Your brows furrow. “Jason’s death was documented as a political incident.” Even the words sounded like a disgrace on your tongue. "There was no connections to the Bat."

He scoffs. “There’s nothing he can hide from me.”

“Bruce.” You mutter. “How do you know him?”

“That’s—” His head snaps to where sirens pass by Grant Park. His entire body language shifts, nothing phases him when he’s in work mode. “—for another time.”

He never continued that story. Bruce was a sensitive topic to him, and you could only assume he must’ve been bested by the Bat before, though the mystery of how he knows Bruce's well-hidden identity is another matter.

Instead, he tells you other stories. Of mountains up in the North, where he was trained before he crawled back to Gotham. Of how he had taken all of Black Mask’s physical cash when he took over his territory, but settled on a cheap apartment in the more dangerous parts of Crime Alley because it made it easier for him to hear the sirens.

When the occurrences of him finding himself back in your apartment start to blur into mere days in between, showing up injured from his own self-patrols that you didn’t follow, you let him stay. Small human choices, that you could only hope wouldn’t doom you—tie you to him and his downward spiral.

You begin to tell him stories too.

“Jason is—was my best friend.” You start.

His gaze flicks to you. It’s been two hours since he barged in through your window, one hour and forty-five minutes since you patched him up. He’s been on your couch since, gazing at your ceiling, watching headlights pass by your window, casting shadows of the window bars he installed for you. (“Don’t want to find my partner dead because of some shit windows.” He commented then when he showed up with boxes of equipment.)

“Is this the partner development where we start trauma dumping on each other?” He muses. “I‘m afraid it’ll have to be one-sided because I’m not sharing.”

You hit his shoulder, and he lets out a mock gasp of hurt. “You listening or not?” You scoff.

He settles, neck turned to focus on you. “I’m listening.”

You swallow, averting your gaze. “We were both stupid kids who had the misfortune of being born in Crime Alley. Typical Gotham luck.”

“He was so small then.” It was bittersweet, thinking of Jason's stunted height, how he had nothing much to eat—only inhaling cigarette smoke and finding leftovers to stall the hunger. “Stealing about anything he could so he’d have something to eat. I wasn’t much better, and it added on to his burden—trying to steal enough so we could both survive."

“Idiot went on about how he saw some fancy car, reckoned he’d earn us months worth of food just from the tires alone.” You laugh, but it sounds broken, tired. “Turns out it was the fucking Batmobile.”

“What an idiot.” He comments.

“Yeah.” Your eyes glaze over, and you blink quickly, clearing the moisture. “He was right though. When the Bat took us in—well, more the Bat wanted him and he demanded we were a package deal—we had more food than we could have ever dreamed of.”

“Then, the training started.” You recall, fists clenching. “I wasn’t as fast or strong, so he mostly taught me the ropes for self-defense, but Jason? He was good. Better than good, you’d think he was born for it. Had dreams of doing more, and the Bat saw that.”

“So—" Hood's voice drawls. "—he became the Bat’s next pawn.”

You shook your head. “They couldn’t have had more different dreams. Bruce—the Bat never lived on the streets. He knew of crime, he saw it happen. He didn’t live it.”

“He could only ever see it from the outside. He kept it that way, putting people in jail over and over again, not knowing—or refusing to see that the system was already broken from the inside.”

“He never had the guts.” He scoffs.

“Yeah, but Jason did.” You mutter. “He always did. Too much of it, and I guess you know how the rest of the story goes.”

“Went and got himself killed.” He finishes.

You hesitate, feeling your heart palpitating against your rib cage before you couldn't stand it any longer. “And I wasn’t there.”

When you turn to look at him, it feels like tearing open a healing wound. You feel the wetness pool at your lashes, threatening to fall. “What kind of shitty person lounges around in a billionaire’s mansion while their best friend was dying alone, scared? Calling for someone to save him?”

Whatever his viper tongue was made of, he gave you none of it. He watches, waits as you blink, looking away harshly when the tears start to fall.

He doesn’t speak, and you think he’s out of words when you feel his hand on your jaw. He grips it gently, forcing you to turn your head back to look at him. His gloves are off, had been since he came in, and the warmth of his fingers, the rough, scarred edges make him feel real.

“It’s not your fault.” His voice takes a stern hold over you, only reinforced by his grip.

You shake your head, but he holds you steady. His thumb comes up to wipe away a tear stain. “What could you have done?” He challenges. “You said it yourself. You barely knew self-defense, much less going against the bastard that killed him. You would’ve just gotten yourself killed.”

“Is it selfish?” You ask. “That I wanted to? That I’d prefer if I had been there? Knowing I wouldn’t be able to change his death.”

He’s silent, and you can only hear the soft cracks in his modulator from his breathing.

“When you had nothing but each other, of course you’d be selfish.” He answers. “Doesn’t mean it’s wrong just because others tell you it is.”

Somehow, he gets it. Gets you better than Bruce had when the two of you fought after it had happened. He’s a stranger, but you foolishly think he might mean more than that.

You swallow, and his head tilts slightly, watching the motion.

"Do you think he might've known?" Your voice trembles. "That I was thinking of him even in his last moments. That his memory still hasn't faded from this world because I would never let that happen?"

His hand still on your face, an anchor grounding you when it shouldn't give you that comforting weight—falters, but he doesn't let go. "You read like an open book." He says. "Your heart's easy to spot. If I could see that, then he would've known what he'd mattered to you. He would've thought of you in his last moments, and fought his best to get back to you."

In the cracks of everything that’s wrong with this, it feels oddly comforting to let him see you. To fall deeper into the unknown, to hope that laying your wounds right in the open doesn't trigger him to bite. Tears fall at the edges, and you don't blink this time—don't try to hide it.

"Why did you come back?" He asks again.

You look at him, seeing your own broken reflection reflected in his helmet. "Maybe I wanted to feel something again. To be selfish."

You feel his fingers tighten imperceptibly, a slight twitch at your words. His body leans almost instinctively, closer to you, shifting the weight of the moment—drumming a rush of blood through your veins in anticipation, and there’s a brief moment where you think he might actually take that damn helmet off, when a siren echoes from the outside. The moment shatters, and his hand freezes.

In a blink, he drops his hand as if the touch of your skin burnt him, and stands abruptly from the couch. “I have to go.” He rushes it out through his teeth, tugging at his jacket and grabbing his grappling gun.

You stare, feeling your heart go numb. Of course. You’re a fool, laying yourself vulnerable like that. Careless, just like he said when he first met you.

”Right.” You mutter weakly.

He looks back at you, hesitating. Whatever he thought, it wasn’t worth knowing because he was out of your window before you could even say goodbye.

The next visit, you feel his distance.

He doesn't toss you a lame joke, call you that dreaded, mocking 'sweetheart' you've come to expect, and maybe detest less over time. No, he's cold—professional.

"Penguin's set a trap." Straight to the point, it shouldn't gut you as much as it did. "We'll use Plan B." He continues on. "Come in from the third floor, it'll give us the advantage since he's barred the entrance and rooftop. He clearly expects us to choose the highest floor, so that's where he'll have the most of his henchman."

You nod briskly, your own guard built back up at the sight of his. "Anything else?"

He looks at you, and your question sours with every passing second of silence, like a plea for him to address the screaming issue laying underneath. "No." He breaks eye contact first, getting on his bike. "Let's not waste any more time."

You don't remember when Plan B obviously turned out to be the wrong choice. Only the adrenaline rush of actually making it out of this death trap kept your feet moving, hands fumbling for every door in the hopes that one would open and get the both of you out of gunfire range.

One finally works, and the door nearly topples with how both you and Hood's weight slams into it. He locks the door, but when you look around the room, there's no other exit. You'll have to go back out the way you came, which means running into all those henchmen.

“What the hell was that, Hood?” You snarl, barely able to see him through the dark, confined space. “I thought being partners meant giving a basic level of trust.”

He’s pacing, not even listening to a word you're saying, fury coiling his tense form as he strikes each step with a lack of precision that he always has, staggering, impulsive—angry. It was a complete shit-show, all because he didn’t let you take the shot at Penguin.

”Hood!” Finally, he stops.

“Trust.” He mutters, a deranged crack in his voice when he turns to you. “Was that what it was when you refused to listen to me when I told you to bail?”

“No, you thought I was tricking you.” A cold anger slithers its way into every accusation used against you, cornering you as he threads his heavy steps closer to you. “You thought I was making you leave so I could bargain with Penguin, force him to do my bidding, steal more territory for myself.”

“Tell me, partner.” He mocks. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

You grit your teeth, looking away from him. “You’ve given me no reason to trust you.” Every time you’ve given a piece of yourself to him, extended your vulnerability—he’s never given anything back.

“I saved your life.”

“Because there’s something you need from me.” You snap. “From the start, you knew who I was and my connections to the Bat. You used Jason's name to lure me into working for you. You have some twisted game you’re playing that I’m a fucking pawn in!”

“You think that’s what this is?” He growls, gripping you by your collar. Your hands come up to push his fingers off, but he only leans in closer till you can hear the heavy breathing beneath his helmet, the frustration radiating off of him.

“If I wanted you for your connections to Bruce.” He laughs coldly. “I would’ve strung you up a building from the first day to get him where I needed him.”

“I don’t need you.” He snarls, letting go of your collar, making you stumble in your step. “I have other ways of getting to the Bat that doesn’t require the trouble I get from you.”

”Then why make me your partner?”

He’s silent, even as you hear his modulator crack with every breath. He can’t answer you.

“I don’t know what you want from me.” You continue on, refusing to let him ice you out. “You don’t need me. Yet, you insist on digging your way into my life like you want to be in it. You can’t fool me.”

“You don’t linger in the home of someone you don’t need, long after the bleeding has stopped.” You accuse, stepping closer to him. “You don’t save someone you don’t need at the expense of the mission.”

Your fist comes up to dig into his chest, cementing your words with every push. “You let me in. That’s why you’re angry, and that’s why you keep me close even when you know you shouldn’t.”

Heavy breathing echoes through the abandoned room, only the slight cracks of his modulator distorting the tension stretched between. You see his fists clench, and you have half a mind to back off, realise it’s dangerous to provoke him when you still have no idea what he’s truly capable of, when you feel something shift.

His body stills, and even through the helmet, you feel his gaze pinned on you.

“Close your eyes.” He orders.

Your brows furrow.

“Just do it.” He snaps, impatient.

You close your eyes, brows clenched together—in fear, anticipation, and something you don’t dare name. Darkness envelops you and you hear the faint sound of a click. His hand comes up to cover your eyes, a safety measure.

“Still can’t trust me, huh?” You mock.

“Shut up.” His voice breaks, raw and un-filtered.

The sound of his voice breaks through all your defenses, leaving you paralysed—realisation kicking in that he’s taken off his helmet only when his lips crash into yours.

Hood's taken off his helmet.. and he’s kissing you.

You shouldn't let him, but none of your rational thoughts ever made sense when it came to him. He dug himself into your life, and somewhere through it all, you found yourself wanting him to show up. Again and again.

You kiss him back, and that only fuels him further, his lips claiming you as he grips the back your head with one hand, man-handling you in a way that empties your mind of anything but his touch.

There's a banging of doors, voices echoing louder and closer—and you hear his grunt of frustration when he pulls back, fingers still over your eyes as he grabs for his helmet. You hear a click, and when you open your eyes, your vision clears back onto his helmet.

"Did you just—" You stammer.

"And I really want to do it again." He breathes out, gaze still locked onto you. "Let's get the hell out of here. Together. We'll figure out Penguin's schemes when we're not in the center of his traps."

You nod hurriedly, almost in a daze, forcing yourself to snap out of it when he grabs for your hand, pulling you along to the exit.

When the door shoves open, all hell breaks loose.

There's firing of guns, and Hood practically uses himself as a shield as he pulls you behind him, running with one hand holding yours as fast as he can, past the firearms and henchman, towards where a window was at the end of the hallway. Plan E or F, you recall vaguely, but it definitely involved jumping out of a high window.

Your eyes flick behind—and you see it then, the new weapon Penguin's gotten a hold of, that has clearly pierced through tanks thicker than Hood's helmet, aimed at his back, right where his heart would be. The shot fires, and you don't think.

Pushing him to the side, the side of your stomach ripples in pain, and you scream. The blow sends you toppling to the ground. The pain is enough to make your vision flash white. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

Before you can process how bad the injury was, Hood's already gripping your fallen body, hoisting you into his arms. You grip onto his neck, eyes fluttering as he runs, colliding your body painfully against his hard chest plate when he crashes through the window.

You hear a crack, and your vision topples to the side when your head lolls and you see his helmet, cracked in the center. He curses, voice modulator distorted as one of his hands comes up quickly to detach the helmet. He shifts you up to avoid seeing his vulnerable face, and you see his helmet topple to the pavement as he runs, lost with the shattered glass.

Your head is pressed into the crook of his neck, preventing you from seeing what he looked like. Still, you can feel the press of his tousled hair against your cheek, the texture of it against your weakening fingers.

For a moment, in your delusion, it reminds you of when you used to caress Jason’s hair on the nights where he couldn’t sleep after a bad patrol or a fight with Bruce. You mumble something, incoherent syllables but it forms itself like a comforting mantra, muttering Jason’s name in a whisper.

You doubt he’d hear it, but you feel him tense against your body, the rigid push of his muscles as he passes another obstacle, nudging you closer to him in his movement.

”Stay awake, bird.” He orders, his real voice barking harshly against your skin. It’s rough, weathered from exhaustion and pain.

“Don’t-“ Your eyelids clamp shut from exhaustion, or blood loss—you can’t differentiate the nauseous pressure enveloping your senses, but you manage to get your words out. “Don’t call me that.”

It sounds strange on his tongue, like it came to him so easily, the same way it used to for Jason. The line keeps blurring, and you don't know why Hood reminds you of him. Maybe it's because of your love for Jason, bleeding into whatever you felt for Hood—it all clicks and fades together as your thoughts grow more sparse, the feeling of the cold sweat against your temple taking your attention instead.

“Hey—” His voice breaks when he calls you by your real name, softer than you’ve ever heard it. You like it, the deep, uneven edges that was muffled by the modulator, wishing you could listen to it over and over. “Don’t you die on me. You can’t. I won’t allow it.”

“Why?” You mutter, the word falling off your tongue loosely. “You said you didn’t need me, remember? You could find a better partner. One that doesn’t-”

You cough, feeling a splutter of iron cover the back of your teeth. You feel the frantic shake of his head, and you dig closer into the crook of his neck, finding comfort in his scent.

“I don’t want another partner.” His voice begs, uncontrollably raw. “Do you seriously think I can ever consider anyone else—it's always been you. I need you—so please.”

"Tell me I'm an idiot." He demands. "Fight with me. Just—don't you dare close your eyes."

His pleas grow more desperate when your eyelids fall shut but eventually, even his voice and the sound of his boots slamming into the ground fades—till nothing from the world reaches you.

"Hey, bird."

Jason's always been a blur in your dreams, and this one is no different. The green in his eyes are hazy, your faded memory obscuring the once clear spark he used to have.

"Hey, Jay." You can't bring yourself to look at him. Not when having to face him meant seeing his youthful face, trapped in the confinements of time, distilled and frozen while your own features are sunken, age and stress wearing out your own expression.

"You really out-did yourself this time, huh?" He mutters, glancing at your blood-soaked hands.

"Thought I'd give your method an approach." You joke, smile growing wry. "Still think it's more a 'you' thing than me. This vigilante work is tiring."

"I can tell." His voice echoes. "You look tired."

Your smile fades, and you don't dare look up from your hands, folded over your knees. "I'm sorry, Jay."

"What for?"

"I don't know." Your shoulders sag, feeling like you're forgetting something important. "I just miss you. I feel like I'm dragging your memory down with me when I should let you rest."

"You know you'd never drag me down, bird." He says, one hand coming around your shoulder, pulling you into his embrace. "I'm always here for you."

"Yeah?" Your voice cracks. "I miss my partner. The one who always knew what to say when things get scary. I—I think I'm really coming to see you this time."

"You've got a long way to go." He says knowingly. "You have a partner who's looking out for you."

Your brows furrow. "Hood." You realise.

He nods, and you feel his chin brush your shoulder. "You promised me you'd do whatever it takes to survive, remember?"

Right, that silly pinky promise made over stale sandwiches near the dumpsters in Crime Alley, before Bruce—when the world seemed much smaller and the tomorrow's mattered.

You swallow. "What if I'm not ready to do that? If it means letting you go?"

He laughs, reassuring even in his faint memory. "I'm not going anywhere. Just stay on the living side, bird. I'll protect you. Anywhere you go."

When your heavy eyelids force themselves open, a hazy vision of your apartment ceiling greets you. Your side greets you second with a painful soreness and a slight itch, making you hiss through your teeth when you sober up through the pain. “Hood?” You call out, hating how desperate you sound.

There’s no sound for a moment, and you’re terrified that you won’t be able to lift yourself out from bed to assess the damage done to your own body, when you hear the sound of boots thumping against the floorboards.

The door slams open and—Jason comes through.

Not Hood. Jason.

“Holy shit. I’m dead.” You gasp, even as your wound screams for you to not raise your voice. “I’m definitely dead—Jason.”

An intense amount of relief surges through his expression at the sight of you awake, but it quickly wipes off when you try to lift yourself from the bed.

“Stay down.” He orders, pushing your shoulders back down onto the pillows.

One of your hands reach out to grab onto his fingers, staring at him unblinkingly. You’ve never dreamt of him this clearly.

“I must be dead.” You repeat. “Or else you wouldn’t be here.”

“You’re alive.” He reassures you, his expression growing serious. “No thanks to yourself. What kind of idiot jumps in front of a gun?”

Your brows furrow. “But why—where’s Hood?”

He’s silent for a few seconds. “I thought—you called my name. When I was carrying you.”

You stare at him. At his face that’s lost its youth, bearing more scars than you remember. You replay the deeper timbre in his voice, how it differs to the cracks he used to have.

He’s right. You are an idiot.

“You’re Hood.” You whisper, and the fact only cements itself deeper at his expression paling.

“I thought you knew.” He says, pulling away slightly. “You called out to me. I thought you saw my face—that it was over.”

“You’re alive.” Your voice raises, almost hysterical. “You’ve been beside me this entire time, and you hid.”

He flinches at your accusation, but there’s nothing he can say to defend that. His eyes grow cold, and he looks away. “You’re wrong.”

“Jason.” You should feel happy that he’s alive but the disbelief that your best friend hid himself from you, let you believe he was truly gone carried a new sense of betrayal. “I mourned. You sat beside me and watched as I cried over you, the guilt I felt—and you said nothing. You let me believe you were gone while you re-entered my life as if it didn’t matter.”

“Because it’s the truth!” He snaps. “Your Jason is gone.”

You freeze, staring at him. “What?”

“He died under the rubble, when the bomb went off.” Jason continues. “His heart stopped. When I was reborn, I was barely myself. My mind was split and re-pieced together and nothing—nothing existed except for the feeling of death in every part of my body.”

”When I finally managed to remember who I was, what happened to me—” He rasps. “I crawled back to Gotham and found Bruce got a shiny, new replacement. And the Joker? Alive.”

“I buried everything in the past where it belonged.” He spits. “I started out as I always had, with nothing. I promised myself that at the very least, if Bruce had failed me—I wouldn't repeat his mistakes. I'd make the sacrifices he never dared to do."

Realisation settles like a slow poison. “So you erased it all, including me.”

You can barely process it, the thought of him nearly letting you believe he was dead for the rest of your life, while he remained in Gotham with a new identity, leaving you clueless.

His jaw clenches, and he looks away. “I was relieved when I heard you had left Gotham. I didn’t need distractions—to see your disappointment when you realised you’d never truly get me back.”

"Then why?" You move again, but he's near you in a flash, hands pushing you back down again before you hurt yourself. It kills you that he clearly still cares. "Why did you find me in that alleyway? Why did you force yourself back into my life if you didn't want to be near me?"

His eyes flicker, and for a moment—you see that fierce, little boy you knew. The one who was afraid you'd go hungry, who refused to rip his grip away from your wrist when he had forced Bruce to take you too. "You were careless." He utters, an echo into the past where he had run into you for the first time as Red Hood. When you had wondered why a stranger, a vigilante you'd never met before sounded so pissed about your skills.

"There was no one to tell you that. Bruce wouldn't be able to save you—not when he couldn't even protect me. You decided to come back, and take on crime like you knew how it worked, and I couldn't-"

You watch, wait as he struggles with his words. "I won't be like Bruce." He answers, a hardened resolve taking over as he looks at you with a vehement expression. "Never. I'd die before I let you fall to the same fate."

There it was. His deepest fear, still selflessly putting himself in danger even though he couldn't see it. Not being able to pull away even when he should, carrying that same beating heart under the new walls he's built. He was still your Jason, but if he wanted to believe it differently, you'd play along.

"So, you're not my Jason." You agree.

There's a flicker of relief, and hurt too that pools in his gaze. As if he wanted you to say it, but wasn't prepare to hear it from you.

"You're a jerk now, who decides what's best for other people." You continue on. "That has horrible fashion taste because a faceless helmet is obviously the best way to intimidate people."

He bristles. "Worked on you just fine."

Your fingers find his across the sheets, and he falls silent.

"So whether you're the Hood, or a new Jason." You pause. "What if I say I want you either way?"

His breathing stops. It's like you found that festering wound inside of him, and tore it straight out of his chest.

"That's what you're afraid of, isn't it?" You challenge. "That I'd be repulsed by you, and say I want nothing to do with you anymore. So you came back into my life—hiding behind a mask, thinking I would never figure it out. That you could have me without ruining my memories about you."

He swallows, averting your gaze—but you were having none of that. Not when you finally have him again.

"Look at me." You demand.

He inhales, lashes fluttering close as he prepares himself before looking at you openly. Broken. That's what you see first, your vision of him completely disheveled, with no armour, no biting remarks to protect him.

Yet, looking at him, you only saw the same boy you loved before he was torn out of your life. The same man you fell in love with all over again. Your Jason, the one you always ran back to no matter what.

"You're never allowed to leave me again." You start, your voice almost breaking. "I won't lose you, whichever version of you, I want it all. I don't care what you think, because you're mine and I'm yours so you can't leave-"

His expression hardens, and before you can think—fear that he'll pull away—he leans in and kisses you. It's rough, unsteady, but your hands wrap around him and pull him closer. You couldn't dare to let him go ever again.

"I'm not leaving." He rasps against your lips. "Not when I felt your blood on my hands, when I nearly lost you."

You shudder, a soft nod at his words as he kisses you again, softer but with a new form of desperation, and a hidden, quiet plea that you truly mean your words.

You pull away, stopping for breath when your wound starts to ache, hands coming up to lift your shirt, assessing the damage. It's heavily bandaged over a large part of your side, which should've hurt worse than it feels right now. "How—my emergency kit wouldn't fix an injury like this." You point out.

His expression darkens, and he sighs, looking at your wound with guilt swarming his pupils. "I contacted Bruce."

Your head snaps up. "You did what?"

He nods, his lips settling into a thin line. "I wasn't losing you. Not to something stupid like my pride. If I had to get down on my knees to the old man, I'd do it in a heartbeat."

"Jason." Your shock renders you incapable of doing anything else. Your eyes soften, and your hand lets the fabric go, letting your shirt hide the wound. "Thank you."

"You should be yelling at me." He muses, a heartbreaking expression displayed on his face. "I've been a shit partner. Put you in danger's way, and I couldn't even get you out unscathed."

"Hey." You stop him. "I told you that I—I hated myself for not being there, when the Joker killed you. I'd rather be with you in danger's way than anywhere else. I won’t go through that again. Even if it kills me.”

His expression falters, and he sighs, leaning in with his forehead pressed against yours. "Survival skills of a newborn. You're the worst partner I've ever had, bird."

Your lips quirk up. "Yeah, but you wouldn't want anybody else."

"Damn right." He shifts, placing a kiss over your nose. "Don't know what I was thinking, hiding from you like a coward. Not when I could have this instead."

"Between the two of us, I always felt you took the 'idiot' title more." You tease. “I’m still pissed you said you didn’t need me, you jerk. Tell me you regret it. Beg for my forgiveness—I might consider letting you off if you do it nicely.”

He rolls his eyes, a smile caught between his teeth before his gaze shifts again to your lips, swallowing. “You’re right. I’m the jerk, and the bastard that needs you more than air.” He murmurs, eyes flickering back up to you—and his gaze nearly consumes you whole. "I regret being a horrible liar, but I've always been your idiot, haven't I?"

Your lips quirk up into a smile. "Damn right."

At the echo of his words right back at him, his lips seal over yours again, a resolute sigh rumbling through his throat, and you think that finally—your partner has come back to you.

The curiosity does not disappear. In fact, it digs deeper and deeper into the crevices of your mind—subconsciously affecting your attitude around Zuko.

It doesn't help that it's painfully obvious that he's noticed your strange behaviour ever since his comment. Once, when his hand had come up to your shoulder to alert you that everyone was boarding the ship—and your entire body jumped in response. Again, when you completely blanked out when he asked if you would like some firecracker buns.

It's not like you wanted to hyper-focus on his observation on purpose. It's just that after years of knowing him and pushing down that sub-concious attraction—of not allowing yourself to even see him as anything more than the Zuko you know, the rebound impact of all your resurfacing emotions combined with his lingering presence is far too much.

Zuko isn't the type to beat around the bush either, one of the rare habits his uncle hasn't passed onto him. In a moment of needed reprieve, your attempt at regaining your composure fails spectacularly when you find yourself in a stand-still, cornered in the back of the ship—one firecracker bun in his hand as an offering.

"Have I said something to make you uncomfortable?"

Zuko's gaze is akin to a puppy's, wide-eyed and brows furrowed. Afraid that he's done something wrong, overlooked the choice of his words once again and destroyed the atmosphere without realising.

Straight to the point as ever, you'd appreciate it more if he had given you a few more minutes to come up with a reasonable excuse. Something more plausible than 'Do you find me attractive?', a lingering question that should've remained buried in the soil that you departed from nearly an hour ago.

"Not exactly." Taking the firecracker bun from his hand, the crumbs coat your fingers. You needed something to muffle your words, anything to distract you. It's easier to focus on the lingering spice that melts into your tongue, rather than his unblinking stare.

"So—I did say something." His mouth parts, a slight tilt downward in the corner of his lip. "Or I've made you uncomfortable."

There was no winning with him. Swallowing your last bite, you brush the crumbs against your sleeve, the slouch of your posture a key sign of surrender, your invisible white flag waving at the sight of his increasingly dubious expression.

"The first one." You admit with a sigh. "Earlier—"

He leans in subtly, a habit he does when he's listening attentively, and the luscious wave of his bangs brushes against your knuckles. His amber eyes pierce through you, and the words practically die off your tongue.

Why is he looking at you like that?

It isn't fair that he has such an effect on you. You still remember the old days, when he had a worser temper instead of the softened expression that lingers warmly on you. Plus, that horrible haircut, a singular ponytail with the rest of his hair shaved off forever engrained in your mind. Even recalling the image doesn't help calm your thundering heartbeat when the Zuko in front of you is so—overwhelming.

"You were saying?" He prods gently.

You swallow, averting your gaze. "When you mentioned... about attractiveness. Was that like—a spur of the moment kind of thing, or do you have a first impression for everyone you meet?"

His brows furrow for a moment, before recognition lights his golden gaze. "Ah—that."

"Right, that." You feel the seat warming beneath you in your embarrassment, a hallucination of senses in your sudden need to escape his assessing gaze. He barely even remembers his comment, and here you are, still obsessively prying over it.

"I was only answering Toph's question." He states. "No one was stating the obvious."

"The obvious." You muse. "Do you assess the attractiveness of everyone you meet?"

"I suppose it depends." He mutters, hand rubbing over his chin in consideration. "If it was during a battle, I wouldn't be prioritising on considering the opponent's appearance. As compared to someone knocked out on the ground, it gives me plenty of time."

You barely resist a snort. Only he could treat a topic like a person's attractiveness like one of his battle strategies. "I suppose you didn't have time during our first meeting then."

As soon as the words leave your mouth, both you and Zuko freeze. Your lips clamp shut, an immediate wince shuddering through your frame. Cat's out of the bag, you suppose.

"Never mind." You wave it off, your own laugh echoing much too loudly through your ears. "It wasn't like I was wondering—well, maybe I was. You just sprung it out of nowhere earlier, and I got... curious. You don't have to answer—"

"I did." He cuts you off unceremoniously.

You blink, his vague words echoing in the thin distance between the two of you. "What?"

He swallows, and for once, he's the one flustered in this conversation. "I did notice, during our first meeting."

No way. Your first meeting with Zuko was anything but pretty. You remember being covered in sweat, grime, and ashes coating your clothes as he shot flames at you from his palms. The twisted grimace on his face when you had him writhing under your grip, as he loudly declared his revenge on you, rupturing your eardrums with all his yelling.

"You mean—" You barely resist a grin stretching on your lips. "—when I pinned you down on your airship, and you were spitting death threats into my ear."

"Yes, that." His long locks cover his ears now, but you can bet the rims are reddened from the reminder. "You were formidable."

Formidable. No, that wasn't enough. His sudden focus on the floorboards of his ship made it obvious that he was simplifying his observation.

"I was gaining the winning hand." You state out-right, disbelief coating your tone. "And you had time to notice?"

A restrained sigh escapes Zuko's gritted teeth, already regretting his slip of tongue.

"What of the angle? Does the Fire Lord recall my bone structure during our first battle too, when I pinned you to the floor?" You tease.

He scoffs in a light-hearted manner, shoulder lightly bumping into yours. "It was the first time anyone had pinned me down. I wasn't exactly given another view to look at."

"Was the view bad then?" You prod.

"Not at all." He answers absentmindedly—quickly without hesitation.

Your lips part, speechless. Zuko immediately separates his shoulder from yours, a bashful expression overtaking his features.

"Objectively." He states hurriedly, waving his arms. "I was expecting to find the Avatar at the time, not... you."

The way he says it, the almost breathless note that leaves his lips. You devour it hungrily, now being the one to lean in, prying.

"And how did you find me, Zuko?" You ask earnestly.

He huffs in defeat. His softened gaze finally meets yours again, his eyes roaming over your features, ones that he's familiarised with for years, and yet... it still takes the breath out of him. "...You were the most beautiful person I've ever sparred with."

Oh... wow. You didn't expect that.

"You were threatening to kill me." You recall in disbelief.

"I was multi-tasking." He mutters, ashamed.

Your intended snort escalates into a cackle, unable to contain yourself. "I would have never guessed that from the way you glared at me. So full of shame—and destroyed pride."

"What about you?" He asks in a hurry, though his tone drops towards the end in hesitation—hinting his regret in the wrong change in topic. He grimaces, gaze dropping to his tightened fists over his lap. "...Did you find my scar hideous?"

Surprise colours your features.

Immediately shaking your head, you're at a loss for words on how to convey just how off-course he was on his guess. How could you ever find Zuko hideous? Your heart barely survived your visits to the Fire Nation, not when their own Fire Lord always insisted on attending to your presence personally, even when it arose suspicion of your shared bond with him, to have him so easily distracted when you arrived on his lands.

Even now, he's overwhelming your vision. Healthy muscles that are barely hidden under his clothes, or the hair he's refused to cut ever since his youth that now flows lusciously down his broad back. His amber eyes that glint golden when the sun reflects his irises, and even the conjured image of the way his arms move when he's fire-bending.

He's— "Beautiful."

By the time you realise your second slip of the tongue, Zuko has already blinked once, caught off-guard.

You purse your lips, finding this conversation to be as riveting as it is a weaponised self-attack. "Objectively speaking. You're attractive, Zuko."

"Objectively." He repeats slowly, amused that you're using his own deflecting choice of words.

"Fine, like really attractive." You deadpan. "It's annoying, because I'm supposed to be focused on the mission, and you're just... standing there."

It was the truth. You couldn't be the only one who noticed it. His subtle change in demeanour over the years, how he carried himself into a room now instead of randomly announcing his arrival at the worst timings. Even Sokka noticed.

He snorts, and the sound deflates the tension in your chest. "Funny, I should be saying that about you."

You gasp, expression aghast. "You're joking."

"It is not honourable to lie." He shrugs. "You've always been the most magnetic in my eyes. I can never find myself looking away from you."

You grow quiet, the genuine sincerity in his words leaving you defenseless. Have you been blind all along? Is that why he always sent letters—asking you to visit his nation for purposes other than meetings? Or why he sought for your company constantly during this entire trip, despite it being the first time the entire set of Team Avatar being together in months?

You had been too focused on what was comfortable and familiar, to teasing and prodding, that you never considered this.

"For the record." You whisper, leaning in to truly look at him. "I never found your scar hideous. You were always beautiful to me, Zuko."

He swallows, something intense flickering in his gaze—but too fleeting for you to catch onto it. Maybe it had always been there, when his eyes linger on your form when he accompanied you in his palace gardens, or even back then, when he was a banished prince who sought for you, even with a grimace on his face.

"That haircut when we first met, though?" Your smile breaks out into a toothy grin. "Absolutely hideous."

The softness in his gaze falters, before a groan rumbles past his throat. "Will you ever let that one go?"

"Never."

He lets out a low breath, drained of his energy. "I admitted to finding you attractive, and this is my repayment?"

"Who's finding who attractive?"

Sokka's voice strikes a jump in your shoulders, and Zuko's in an impressive halt, frozen completely after being caught red-handed.

"Ah, between the two of you—" Sokka whistles. "I was wondering who was going to break first. Congrats, love-birds!"

"We're not—" Your voice clashes with Zuko's. "This isn't—"

You sneak a glance to Zuko, and his hand is already covering half of his face, his embarrassment shielded by the shadow of his large palm.

Sokka's confused gaze switches between the two of you, blinking slowly.

"Ah, couple years too early?" Sokka shrugs, before clicking his tongue. "That's rough. I'll check back in with you guys in another time." Making his way back towards the front, he shouts once more to prove his point. "Just don't let me catch you guys making out or anything, I'll need to poke out my eyes for that one!"

"...We better restrain him before he starts blasting it as news to everyone." You groan.

"Agreed." He mutters.

Right as you made your move to leave, Zuko's hand grips yours—stopping you.

You lift your head, meeting his gaze. "Yeah?"

His Adam's apple bobs up and down, consideration clear in his expression before he decisively leans in. His voice is a warm hush, soft and intimate when he whispers. "For the record." Your own words echo back to your ears in the low hush of his voice. "I wasn't only referring to our first meeting when I said that you're beautiful."

His smile quirks up into something tender, a secret expression reserved only for you. ...At this rate, your curiousity was really going to be the death of you.

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It doesn't help that you're pretty. Objectively, from a completely unbiased standpoint. Bright like the sun, glimmering in the rims of your gaze, and warmth encompassed into your demeanour. Words run dry on his tongue, and he's been staring at you for at least two minutes in complete silence.

"You're the cousin." His voice is gruff when he finally speaks, and he immediately winces. Stating the obvious, is there truly anything else he could conjure to make himself sound more like a fool?

"That I am." Your words run off your tongue in a familiar accent, shared with Jon, but more cheeky—playful. "You're Jon's best friend."

Best friend. It warms him more than it should. Despite the Kent's invitation obviously meaning that he mattered to Jon enough to be invited to his family's personal home, there was still a reassurance Damian could never truly give up on searching for.

A low 'Tt' escapes his lips, gaze averting yours, all up-close and all in his personal space. Seriously, could you be any closer?

"What has he told you about me?" He prods, brows furrowing into its usual, settled line.

"That you're grumpy." You tease. "Most often than not, you have a stern look on your face as if you'd rather be anywhere than the ground you're standing on." Leaning in with a conspiratorial look, you whisper. "He also told me that under your tough act, you're a big softie."

His expression immediately seizes with incredible offense. What nonsense has Jon been spouting to you, ruining his reputation so callously?

"I am not soft."

"Mhm." Your grin never falters, and his brow twitches.

"Jon mentioned you're impulsive." He shoots back. "Overly-enthusiastic. Loud. Refuses to take no for an answer."

"Glad we established our initial impressions." You muse. "I was kidding about Jon's description. I based that off the first two minutes since I caught you in my arms."

Something warm flushes at his neck, and he's... never felt this intense, surging range of emotions enrapturing inside of his chest. You're impossible to decipher, and that smile of yours is a gateway to a pounding headache.

“And for the record, Jon would use the word, optimistic.”

"You're impossible." He grunts.

"Is that Jon's words, or yours?" Winking at him, you don't give him a chance to process your taunts, or to regain enough composure for a come-back, because you're already off on your feet—no, mid-air in flight back towards the farmhouse.

"Not to intrude on your personal time-out!" You yell back towards him as you swing the back-door open, feet brushing the wooden steps once more as you land. "Jon's Pa makes incredible lemonade."

With that, your hair whips with your sudden movement as you round the corner and disappear back inside, leaving him writhing in fury, shame—and dread at the thought of having to return inside with soil covering his trousers.

Jon’s father—just Clark, as he likes to deem himself, does indeed make good lemonade. A begrudging admission from Damian’s lips practically livens up the atmosphere and he winces, surrounded by a bright, sheepish smile from Superdad himself, puffing his chest over still remembering his Ma’s recipe and to his dismay, your own gleaming eyes directed at him for having been proven right again.

That’s another thing Damian easily noticed from the moment you entered the picture. You’re irritably persuasive. Easily fitting yourself by his side, seated at the barstool as you catch up with your relatives. You’re—delightful, and it grates his nerves.

Including him easily on inside-jokes, making sure he wasn’t left out—when he’d much preferred if you did. Hearing all this unheard information about your life, it’s a nuisance to have to block his mind from capturing unrecognisable data and cataloguing it in his mind for later research. He didn’t want to get to know you, and yet, you’re treating him as if you’ve known him for as long as Jon.

”You wouldn’t guess Metropolis’s most common crime.” You grin. “A whopping forty-five percent of the population has stolen hot dogs.”

“Impressive.” He mutters dryly.

“Guess it won’t compare to much to the ones I’ll see when I move to Gotham.” You shrug casually.

Move… to Gotham. The moment the words form clearly in his mind, Damian nearly spits out his drink. The citrusy flavour stings the back of his throat as he chokes out. “You’re moving to Gotham?”

“Yep!” You pop your ‘P’s, and he hates that he notices. “A change of scenery.”

“Gotham’s scenery is horrendous.”

You snort. “You think everything is horrendous.”

“I do not.” He grits. “Stop assuming you know anything about me.”

“I bet—” Leaning in teasingly, you mutter. “—you think my attitude is horrendous.”

He raises a brow, unimpressed. “Take an astute guess.”

“Considering that you’ve been living in a place you say is horrendous for years, maybe that’s not such an insult.” You wink. “There’s gotta be something you like about Gotham.”

His lips part, but he’s at a loss of words. Not such an insult—you’re either horribly optimistic or doing this on purpose to antagonise him. He bets on the latter. “Take my word for it.” He grunts. “You won’t suit Gotham.”

“Hm.” Your head tilts, assessing. “No personal bias involved?”

“Only common sense.” He tuts. “You’re much too—” Everything. “—You’ll stand out. There’s enough distractions in the city without you adding yourself into the mix. Who knows what sort of chaos you’ll attract with your move?”

“You think I’m distracting?” You grin.

“Do you listen to anything I say?” He grits. “Or do you make it a habit to avoid any viable points in a conversation.”

“I’m listening.” You shrug. “Just to the important stuff. What’s being said underneath the words.”

His jaw twitches. “You’re impossible.”

“You used that one already.”

That’s it. Under the sealed promise of an Al Ghul prodigy and the singular Wayne's blood heir, Damian swears your move to Gotham will be anything but steady. That’ll prove to you that his city will never be yours.

How did he end up here, with boxes stacked in his hands? He couldn’t possibly be helping you with your move. No, he’s merely—observing. The smartest choice, as his father always says, is to infiltrate from within.

You’ve picked possibly one of the worst neighbourhoods without your own knowledge. The crime rate’s peaked over eighty percent in this area at least four times within the last quarter of the year, which can be easily checked through a simple Google search. The nearest public transport is a ten minute walk away, and he’s forced to carry your belongings, because you didn’t hire any movers.

When he had demanded for Jon to convince you that you’re making the wrong move within your first twenty-four hours of horrific decision-making in the city, Jon merely said: “She’s got it figured out. It’ll be fine, I know her.”

Evidently, Jon does not know that his cousin is a walking disaster. If Damian hadn’t immediately sought after you—you would have taken the wrong turns, dragged around your belongings through Gotham’s dirt-filled streets, and ended up just as lost as you had been four hours ago when he found you staring blankly at the vandalised street signs, trying to figure out if the number sprayed on stood for a four or seven.

“Thanks for helping me out!” You grin. “I knew you’d warm up to me.”

Warming up? He’s tempted to scoff, because that is not what this is. He was only concerned because it was Jon’s relative. It shouldn’t be his responsibility, but since his best friend lacked the initiative to look after his own cousin—Damian couldn’t stand to sit still and wait for a disaster to happen. He’s merely doing it because he knows Jon would fret and panic if anything happened to you, and he’d have to deal with the fall-out. That’s all.

“Jon asked me to.” The lie slips easily from his mouth. It’s easy, and Jon practically insinuated it by mentioning in an off-handed comment of your arrival.

“Really?” Your eyes widen. “He’s not the type to pester me, though.”

Pester? Is that how you saw his help, as pestering? Damian’s grimace worsens, the end point of his lips tilting downward. “I’m sure he’s had a change of heart, after hearing about your decision to move to one of the most dangerous cities in the world.”

“It can’t be too bad if it’s the only city that’s got a Robin.” You shrug.

He falters, boxes shifting in weight at your sudden comment. He quickly readjusts them, tossing you a glare as if you did it on purpose. Maybe you had, he’s beginning to suspect you’re purposely saying the strangest things to catch his off-guard reaction.

Clicking at his tongue, he answers. “It’s because this city is dangerous, that’s why it needs a Robin.”

You hum, hands digging through your pockets to find your new key—which he also had to accompany you to collect to ensure you weren’t being scammed. The last resort if that happened would be to offer you a place to stay in Wayne Manor, and he hates that he even thought of the proposal in the first place.

He watches as you slot the key through the keyhole with a frown, already predicting that whatever was behind this door would be a security nightmare. His grip on the boxes unintentionally tighten in what—anticipation? This is ridiculous. He is merely doing his duty, somewhere in the mess of ill-fitting banter and allocating his steps with yours. The door hinge creaks as you push through, and it’s—exactly what he expected from Gotham.

Creaky floorboards, thin bars on the windows that are more decorative than purposeful, yellowed heaters, and—his gaze keeps flickering back to the door lock. He’ll have to fix that too.

“So, is this everything you dreamed it to be?” He mutters wryly, turning with the expectation to see your face dampened of its permanent glow.

“Yep.” You nod, completely unfazed. “It’s exactly what I pictured.”

He can’t stop his lips from parting in disbelief, the closest he’ll come to his jaw hanging. There must be a screw loose in your head. You pictured… this? Even when he first arrived in Gotham, the city had soured from his initial impressions.

He almost wanted you to admit that your move was a mistake, to give him a reason to persuade you back to Metropolis. It's still an unregistered fact in his head that you actually moved to Gotham, despite all that he's done to stain the city's reputation, not that it needed much assistance on that. Yet, here you are—unshaken and much more grounded than he expected you to be in a city that wasn’t yours. Looking at your bright eyes, he won’t be surprised if you could truly make Gotham yours.

He shakes his head, settling the boxes on the floor. If you're truly set on your ambition, he has no choice but to oblige. “You’ll need a better door security system.” He says gruffly. “And window bars. Practically everything needs to be revamped.”

“No way.” You gasp. “Are you offering, Damian?”

He heaves a long, dreaded sigh, feeling it in the cavity of his chest. “…It’s what Jon would want.”

Damian finds himself over at your apartment more than he'd like to admit. First, with the upgraded door lock—then, the list begins. When your door hinge broke next from your excess strength, he had arrived with a toolbox from the Cave, and a steady ‘I told you so’ expression as you grin at him sheepishly.

Then again, when you break your sink’s tap. Again, when you lose yourself in Gotham’s streets attempting to find a grocery store that was supposedly down the street.

It’s small, little inconveniences that he shouldn’t concern himself with. If anything, it should irritate him because it’s supposed to be Jon’s duty to accompany you during your new gracing period of getting used to the city—not him, someone who does it begrudgingly with a set frown across his lips to remind himself that he’s not supposed to enjoy being in your company. He isn’t enjoying being around you. He is simply observing.

Observing how you liked scouting for fresh fruits to try out in your home-brought blender because you tend to gravitate towards summer beverages, even when Gotham’s temperatures invites mist into the early mornings. How you liked old cartoon shows because it makes you laugh till your stomach hurts, and the couch has ripped chunks from your unintentional grip tearing out cotton buds onto the floorboards. How your eyes have a slight glimmer when you look at him, as if you’ve brought all the sunlight from Metropolis and stored it in your gaze, softened and glistening in the most dangerous way.

“It’s cheap entertainment.” He grumbles, eyeing an episode you're rewatching of Scooby Doo with genuine disdain.

“Then I’m the target audience.” You grin, eyeing him with that look again. “Plus, I don’t see you looking away.”

”…Tt. You’re imagining things.” He scoffs, forcing his eyes back towards the sink tap. He'd sooner pummel himself through training than admit that he wasn't truly looking at the screen, but at your comical reactions to your favourite scenes. “They are no true detectives.”

“As opposed to you, Wonder Boy?” You tease. “You’re the best of the best, I already know that.”

His cheeks warm, but he finds your flattery… to be not too straining on the ears. “Stop claiming that you know me.”

“Right—and you’re not thinking of how Titus would be a better replacement for Scooby?”

“…”

Damian refuses to admit that you disarm him. That he’s begun to look for your company, more than anything else. Till the point where he frequently makes a stop after this patrol to your small, sketchy apartment, with a sarcastic quip of how he detests the neighbourhood—only to end up being dragged by your hand inside past the fire escape. You’re warmer than the cold wind that whips at his uncovered skin in the night—and you’re nothing like him.

"My family runs warmer than others." You admit, your hands clasped around his.

Mr. Freeze had tested his new technological advancement during a run-in on his patrol, and Damian still hasn't quite lost the chill from his fingers. It's weakness, he thinks—to not bare the cold when he was raised in the mountains where winter was a permanent frost over the landscape.

You didn't see it that way. Of course you didn't. No, you simply took his hand into yours, and started massaging at his fingers. He had tried pulling away, but the warmth that physically bled from your touch rendered him immobile from the relief.

It's as if you're sunshine reincarnate, it irritates him how his body instinctively leans into your warmth. Not because of survival instincts trained within his limbs, but because he wanted to. He liked the feeling of your hands intertwined with his, and that thought confused him more than Mr. Freeze's new projects or even the chill running through his fingers.

He’ll never acknowledge it as anything more than looking out for you, out of consideration for your close bond with Jon. To keep an eye on you, even when he’s practically confirmed that you’ll never be a threat to anything other than your sink tap. Even then, he finds his chest swelling when he receives the notification that you’ve broken something again. A handle, a tap—he can’t find it in himself to reason fast enough before he’s already over at your place with a practiced grimace that doesn’t make it past the doorstep.

It’s dangerous to place a term for it, but he knows something’s changed. What started out as caution, has evolved into something that’s slipped out of his hands—his control. He can’t find it in himself to stop, and there’s something addictive in the contrast you bring to his city. He was right about one thing. You have claimed the city as yours, and… he’s beginning to struggle to see Gotham without you in it.

Damian very quickly realises that your choice in your neighbourhood wasn’t an idiotic, impulsive coincidence. He wishes he didn’t have to find out this way, landing in your arms again.

“Oh—for the love of—” He hisses. “Put. Me. Down.”

High up in the air, you've opted for quick transport by lifting him without permission towards your fire escape.

You’re quick to let him go, letting him tumble back down to the fire escape, but your grin is unreasonably bright. Your feet descend back onto the ledge of the fire escape, and you hop back down, rattling the metal railings. “You know, it’s weird it happened twice—”

“Whose fault is that?” He nearly yells, but the bruising at his side prevents him from raising his voice any louder with his ribs aching. “I never asked for your help. In both occurrences.”

You shrug, tugging your windowsill and pushing it upward. “You didn’t have to. I helped you out cause I wanted to.”

He’s ready to snarl about how he didn’t want your help either, but you had already snuck into your apartment, and out of habit, he follows. It’s only because he’s worried that if he doesn’t, you’ll sneak out and chase after criminals again—when Gotham isn’t your jurisdiction. You’re meant to stay in Gotham for your education, not vigilante work.

He should’ve tried harder to convince you not to move here, because your bleeding heart will only be sucked dry by a city like Gotham. He knows deep down that nothing can change your mind once you’ve set a vision to follow, but he can’t accept just how easily you run into the face of danger. From the moment you snatched him away from the stampede of cows, he already knew you were selfless—the type to look out for others without a second thought.

It frightens him of just how willing you had been in that alleyway earlier, and Damian does not know how to be scared. So, his frustrations vent out as anger. Now, all that’s keeping his conscience intact is keeping an eye on you, making sure you aren’t causing more trouble. That’s the reason he’s here in your bedroom, arms crossed and body tense as you search for a first-aid kit despite his own repeated denials of not needing medical attention.

“I have X-ray vision, and you still wanted to lie?” You muse, unaware of his turmoil. “I know the Bats are stubborn, but you may be the worst one.”

His lips part, wanting to argue and you raise a brow as if him doing so will just prove you right. There’s nothing he hates more than doing that. Clamping his mouth shut, he forces himself to sit at the edge of your bed, stiff and back straight as you open the first aid kit, sitting beside him.

This close, he feels it again. How out of breath he becomes when the distance between you and him decreases, when he’s able to truly memorise your features without having the needed space to process—to think and realise what he’s doing. Gawking, like an idiot schoolboy.

”Your heart rate is rising really quickly.” You mutter in acknowledgment, gaze trained on his chest. “Are you sure you don’t want to get it checked?”

His ears feel hot. Tearing his gaze away from your face, his fists dig into your sheets. “There’s nothing wrong with me. You should get your sight checked.”

You snort, a genuine laugh nearly bubbling out from your lips. “Sometimes, I think you’re the most hilarious person I’ve ever met.”

His brows furrow. “I did not intend on being funny.”

“Exactly.” You hum, taking out soothing patches from your kit. “You're straight as an arrow. You do things with purpose, and you never back out.”

He lets out a controlled exhale when the coolness of the patch meets his bruised skin. “Another assumption of yours?” He grits.

“You tell me.” You answer. Your eyes fleet between the patch you’re holding onto his skin, and his averting gaze. “Why did you follow me, Damian?”

“I was not following you.”

He was. Rather indiscreetly too. It was careless, impulsive—unlike him. He blames it on you, naturally. Being indiscrete, impulsive—these characteristics perfectly describe you, and keeping an hyper-vigilant eye on your antics since that horrendous first meeting has begun to corrupt his mind too.

You raise an unimpressed brow at his answer, and his teeth churn against one another.

“Fine.” He sighs. “I was concerned.”

“For?” You push. “The safety of Gotham?”

He restrains a sigh. Must you miss every point underlaying his words, forcing him to spell his shame out loud? “For you. You may be stronger than the average mortal, but you’re still vulnerable. You have weaknesses and act as if you are invisible. Someone needs to keep an eye out, to watch your back.”

“That someone is you?” You voice out, surprise coating your features.

He swallows dryly, and his favourite lie slips out in preformed habit. “Jon asked me.”

An uncharacteristic scoff, loud and brash, leaves your lips and catches him off-guard.

“Come on, Damian.” For the first time, your voice teeters on the edge of veiled patience, one he is unfamiliar with. You couldn’t possibly be cross with him when that was his role. “I called Jon two weeks ago. He never asked you to do anything for me.”

His lips part, the realisation that he’s been caught processing slower than it should. This means—that you’ve known all along. With every pretence of lingering in your presence, showing up unannounced as if it were a task forced onto him. He can’t come up with a reasoning that makes sense, one that doesn’t make him sound like a lunatic.

“Be honest. You’re here on your own accord.” Your finger lifts, pushing into his chest. “So, why did you show up in that alleyway?”

That is something he can barely answer for himself. His lips purse into a thin line, before he eventually mutters. “I was on patrol.”

Your expression doesn't shift. “And?”

“I’m getting there.” He huffs, features wrinkled with frustration. “I was patrolling the Fashion District. Your neighbourhood wasn’t my assigned location.”

He remembers vividly of the alert from Barbara through the comms, of a civilian attack on a street not too far from yours—and how he didn’t even pause to think and left his patrol borders. Disregarding his duty, his responsibility without thinking twice, all on a mere flash of the possibility that you could be in danger.

Knowing you had super-human abilities, he still went anyway, with his chest thudding with what he refuses to be panic.

“My suspicions were proven right.” He frowns. “You were in the center of the chaos, pinning a thug to a wall without realising his accomplice was holding a gun to the back of your head.”

Your own lips form a matching downturn to his. “You know I could’ve taken it. A normal bullet won't harm me.”

“So?” He scoffs. It comes out harsher than intended. “Was I supposed to just stand there and let you take the shot?”

You blink, not expecting his adverse reaction. He sighs, running a hand through his dark locks.

“I couldn’t stand to see the bullet go off.” He mutters, his bare expression hidden by the shadow of his palm. “Bruises are a common occurrence for me, and if I could turn back time, I would have done the same."

“Why?”

He scoffs. “Would you like to experiment the chances of a bullet piercing your skull—”

“No.” You cut him off, voice growing sharper. “I mean—why did you rush here, Damian?”

His words die off his tongue.

“You mentioned countless times that I’m a nuisance.”

“You are.” He mutters distractedly.

Your frown deepens, not believing his front in the slightest. “If you can’t tolerate me, you wouldn’t have rushed over at the first thought of me potentially being in danger.”

He falls silent. He doesn’t want to think of this, of the way his body seizes with unfamiliar tension just at the thought of you injured. Of how even standing here with this stifling conversation stuffed down his throat—he can only consume the sight of you with a hungry, overwhelming relief at the sight of you unharmed, even with your eyes narrowed and smile no longer intact.

“Why are you here, Damian?”

He falters. The excuse of Jon is no longer an option, and being trapped into a corner of his own making frustrates him—and the conflict writhing in his chest redirects onto you instead.

“Why are you here?” He tosses back, fury stirring in his gut. "Gotham is already a fool's choice, coming from Metropolis, but to choose this district in Crime Alley?"

Idiotically placing yourself in the most crime-ridden neighbourhood, getting yourself caught in a crossfire—he’d sooner collapse from the stress of your impulsivity affecting his conscience than the growing soreness from the bruising near his ribs.

Your brows furrow. “I chose this place because it's located in the most crime-ridden neighbourhood in the city.”

“Exactly, you haven't done your research and you already—” He freezes, processing your admission. “You knew?” He asks incredulously.

You stare at him blankly, as if he hasn’t gotten the entire picture. “Did you seriously think I came all the way here without purpose, even knowing about the crime rates? That I’d sleep perfectly fine—knowing that I have the ability to protect others, and refused to do anything about it?”

“I know you think lowly of me.” You mutter, expression breaking. “—but I’m not just going to stand around like a bystander. My family raised me to be someone who will stand up for those who can’t. To face danger head-on, if it means giving others the chance to go home.”

His breath stops short. He has never seen that expression on your face. One of complete disappointment. He has never hated anything more, and it feels as if invisible hands have begun to crawl up his chest, rising to squeeze at his throat.

“No.” His voice comes out weak, frail. “I do not—think lowly of you. That is not what occurred in my mind.”

“Then, what?” You plead. “What do you think of me, Damian? You keep me company, for seemingly no true reason, and you act as if I forced you to.”

“I—” Damian has never struggled with admitting his thoughts aloud. He believes firmly in speaking his mind. Yet, staring into the vivid picture of hurt pooling in your eyes, he finds his reasonings have all gone blank.

“I had assumed you to be impulsive.” He admits after a moment, his heart thudding in his eardrums. “I kept an eye on you in the case of emergency that you might invoke trouble.”

It wasn’t obvious before, the hope that was lit in your gaze. It only hits him that you had been holding out the smallest flame—a spark of hope for him, when it snuffs out at his response.

“You’ve been…. keeping watch?” You ask, your voice going stale.

He swallows dryly. “…Yes.”

“So... all along while I was considering you as someone who I was lucky enough to have—who I thought was kind enough to look out for me, even if he struggled to show it.” Your expression closes up, and he realises he’s never seen you this way. Guarded—detached. “You’ve been treating me as some—potential casualty?”

His jaw twitches, his response rushing out in desperation. “No. I was mistaken.”

You blink slowly before you meet his gaze. Truly looking at him, without that glimmer he’s gotten used to beholding. It stings him more than he expects. “So was I.” You mutter.

His chest physically deflates, sinking into the ground. He calls out your name weakly, sensing the gravity of his mistake is not one that can be easily undone. He has never felt at such a loss, where every step forward feels as if it’s only sinking him deeper into the scratched floorboards.

“The bruising will need serious ice.” You utter, your expression a careful blank. “It’s best you get back to your Cave.”

The tension in his brow falters, shock flashing through his features. He’s never had a situation where he wasn’t able to defend himself, or prove his point right—winning the situation. In the face of your blatant distance, he realises he’s been a fool. He has lost. Your trust, your favour—all over his own stupidity.

“The apartment has a lease.” You mutter distractedly. “But I’ll figure something out, if you truly want me out of Gotham so badly. In the case that you don’t trust my word that I won’t destroy your city.”

“That is not what I meant.” He grits.

“Weren’t you the one who tried his hardest to dissuade me from moving here?” You reply coolly.

His voice raises uncontrollably. “That’s—it had been the case, but it’s different now.”

“Damian.” Your voice, stern and absolutely stops him in his tracks. Your gaze is piercing, and he feels completely bare under it. “I'm hearing your deflection, but I have come no closer to understanding you. If you won’t explain to me on why it’s different, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

He blinks once, expression drawing together in tight tension. Conflict fights its winning battle, visible in the clenching of his fists, the clamping of his lips together into a thin line.

“It’s not fair of you to toss around your words and decide when they matter and when they don’t.” You breathe out a shaky exhale. “I may be strong, but I feel just as much as a normal person. I’ve been seen as part alien for my whole life, and I thought that you of all people, wouldn’t see me that way. You’re confusing me on where I stand, on what you see when you see me—and it hurts.”

“So—” You swallow, hand unconsciously going to squeeze the fabric right above your heart. “—if you can’t find it in yourself to explain yourself to me, I need you to give me space."

Your back turns to him, hands closing over the clasp of the first-aid kit. "I deserve that, at least.”

He watches as your back faces him fully, slowly out of reach. It hits him again—a brief flash of what he's considered from the moment you turned the key in that abominable lock. A Gotham without you. Without your laughter, your smiles, your warmth that spreads through his numbed skin when he sneaks onto your fire escape after his patrols. You as a willing accomplice to his antics, offering your company without once asking him for a reason as to why he sought you out.

Now that he's had a taste of what it's like to be with you, he can't go back.

“You’re right.” He spits it out before he regrets it. The words echo against the brick walls, and his nails dig into his palms. “I never back away from what I set my mind on. The only problem is that my mind is set on you.”

You whip your head, turning back to meet his gaze. Shock faintly replaces your resigned expression, and he pushes on the moment he has your attention.

“From the mornings I wake to the nights I patrol, you were the one singular thought I couldn't shake.” He admits. “Your presence—consumes me. I found myself gravitating towards you naturally, as if there isn’t anywhere else I’d rather be than by your side."

“I don’t see you as alien.” His voice is a low murmur, a plea for you to believe him. “I never have. It was because you made me feel so painfully human, that I became wary. I had never felt so vulnerable to the existence of another, till the point where my day is made depending on whether I managed to be apart of yours."

“It was terrifying to admit that there was no magic, no genetic enhancement, no other reasoning except for the fact that I wanted to see you. All the time.” He confesses. “It was all on me. From the moment I first saw you, I had already known that I would be affected, and... there was nothing I could've done to stop it.”

His admission leaves him more vulnerable than he's ever been in his entire life. Not even when he was under the League's control, had he ever felt this exposed in the hands of another person. He waits, and waits as you process his words in complete, utter silence. It does not suit you to stare at him wordlessly, and he wishes so desperately to hear your voice.

“...From the first moment." Your realisation that widens your eyes briefly—it’s terrifying, daunting, and beautiful. "You mean—when I caught you?”

“You are maddening.” He huffs, half in amusement and half in disbelief. “That was the only part that registered for you?”

“Like I told you.” The smallest of smiles lifts the corners of your lips. “I pay attention to the important details, not just words. You’re telling me that you fell for me the moment I caught you mid-air, Damian.”

What’s the point in refuting your point, when you could already hear his heartbeat? It would have already spelled out the truth in its erratic nature that only existed because of you. “Maybe I did.”

Your smile loosens into something genuine. “I knew you warmed up to me.”

“It’s more than that.” He murmurs, shaking his head. “Warming up implies that it's something that can be controlled on my part. No, you’ve ignited something I can’t destroy, no matter how hard I tried.”

You hum. “And you know what’s your problem, Damian?”

He freezes the moment he hears the word 'problem'. What has he done wrong? He's torn out his heart and splayed it all out in the most excruciating confession, and he was being honest in the only way he knew how. Maybe he had been too direct, too much—or maybe his mistake was too wrongful to forgive. His mind is calculating in overdrive, that he fails to notice how close you've come to him.

“You always say I make too many assumptions about you.” You point out, and your voice brings him back to reality. His breath hitches at the sight of you near, almost in his grasp. “Yet, from what I’m hearing—I was right all along, and it was the other way around. You made all the wrong assumptions about me.”

“You assumed that I was impulsive.” You start, and he winces.

“That I didn’t understand you.” You continue.

Your smile lifts, amusement flickering in your gaze. “And most inaccurately of all, you assumed that this is all on you alone.”

He blinks slowly, and finally, he looks at you. Truly—looks at you. That glimmer he was so afraid he lost, there again in your softened gaze.

“I knew from the moment I saved you from that cow stampede.” You break, laughter slipping through your voice. It’s warm, light—and he could listen to the way it trails along with your grin for eternity. “I don’t do things halfway either, Damian. I choose you, even when you’re being stubborn, and mean, and assuming all the wrong things.”

You… chose him. As undeserving as he was, you've seen him in this broken, desperate state and you still look at him with that softened gaze that drives his mad. The revelation is what finally pushes him forward.

His lips meet yours, clumsily and in a broken, inexperienced mash of misplaced energy. Your laughter spills out of you freely, and he follows after that sound. He wishes to consume it, and have it live in the breadth of his heart so he could carry it wherever he wished. To banish that ache you’ve caused now that he knows what life before and after you feels like—and he’s decided he could never survive the former ever again.

Your arms wrap around his neck, and he instinctively registers your feet lifting off the ground when you kiss him back. It’s so mindlessly adorable, that he doesn't hesitate in tugging you closer into his hold, wrapping his arms around your waist.

He nearly lost the chance to have this—have you, over his own foolish delusions. His pride, his defences—he’s never been more willing to shed it all if it was for you. From the start, he had only been forming excuses to hide it from himself that you had invaded his conscience from the moment he saw you—and there was nothing he could've done to prevent it.

You’re the most maddening Kent he’s ever met, and you’re the only one who can wrap him around your finger so easily, leaving him wanting more and more. To have been swept into your arms mid-air—shamefully and endearingly, might have been the most miraculous thing that’s ever happened to him.

"Don't leave Gotham." He whispers. "Stay here with me."

"How could I leave my favourite damsel?" You tease, nose brushing against his, your eyes shining in earnest.

"Tt." His ears are reddened, but he's not fond of the idea of letting you go anytime soon. Without admitting it, he is quite liking this change—of him holding onto you, instead of vice-versa. Damian supposes he'll still have to personally thank Jon and the stampede of cows on his next visit.

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

You groan, turning back on your heel to return to the counter. It’s made of old wood-grain, laminated. Already chipping at the edges. It sits catty-corner to the door so you can see both the entrance and the back aisle. Which you have to, since the cameras—inside and out—are definitely fake.

There’s an old-school bell on a spring, attached to the door. It announces every customer, loud and impossible to muffle. Hearing bells at two in the morning isn’t ideal, but the store runs on pure spite, and your rent needs to be paid somehow.

Speaking of the devil, you hear the bell ring.

You straighten your spine, mentally readying yourself for another of Marjorie’s scoldings. You wonder what you forgot to do now, or who will be the recipient of her wrath. Raising your head, you open your mouth to muster some kind of excuse for whatever she’ll throw at you, but you stop dead in your tracks.

The person who walks through the door isn’t the short, hot-tempered old lady you’ve been working with for the past few months.

No.

You first notice the blood. The way it’s still wet, clinging onto the helmet, which is in the same shade. A man whom you have never seen in person stands just a few feet away from you. A hip holster hangs off of him, with something metal shining under the unbearable fluorescent lights. You don’t have to guess. It might be a gun, or he might have a knife stashed in another holster you haven’t spotted yet.

You’ve seen freaks in this shop—the guy who tried to pay with a bag of loose teeth, the woman who screamed at the beer cooler for ten minutes. Some are even sort of endearing when you learn how to handle them.

But you haven’t seen Red fucking Hood. And you sure as hell don’t know how to handle him.

What the actual hell? Marjorie didn’t train you for this. There isn’t a “how to deal with a vigilante showing up” section in any manual.

You freeze on the spot. Your hands grip the cold counter. For a moment, you think of taking the energy drinks from the small cooler and just throwing them at the man so maybe, just maybe, he’ll find the attempt pathetic enough and let you go. You can hear him step closer. You’re sure the metal cans won’t save you now.

You take a single step back. You hit the cigarette wall behind you. Marjorie would kill you if she found the cigarette wall in a mess, but it won’t really matter if the man approaching you gets to you first.

God, he is bigger in person. What the hell does he even eat to look like that?

What are you even thinking right now?

It only takes him a few steps to reach the counter from the entrance. A small trail of dirty footsteps follows him, and you grimace at the drops of blood sticking to his boots. There’s a small… handle sticking out of a holster lower on his leg.

Oh, that’s where the knife is. Lucky you.

You swallow down the breath stuck in your throat as he stands in front of the counter. He looks everywhere but at you, eyeing the energy drinks beside you and the cigarette wall. Instinctively, you raise your hands in front of you, as if to show him you won’t try anything stupid, like throwing energy drinks at him.

You can swear you hear something like an amused scoff coming from underneath his helmet as he looks back at you.

So, he finds this funny, huh.

“I’m not going to bite your head off.” He speaks first, because you sure as hell won’t talk to him first. You doubt Marjorie would scold you for customer service when the customer is Red Hood himself.

“So the knife there is just for show?” The words escape your lips without your permission, and you regret it instantly.

“I do love a good accessory,” he clicks his tongue, as if he’s being hilarious.

He raises a hand, and you watch the way the leather of his gloves flexes. They’re dark in color, tactical, fitted, covering to his wrist. The fabric leaves a piece of his forearm exposed. Your eyes trail over the showing skin. There are a few scars littered on the surface, running down his arm like rivers.

“You can drop your hands,” his voice breaks you out of your thoughts… about his arms?

“So, you aren’t suspicious or anything?” You drop your hands to your sides, “What if I—”

“You don’t scare me, sweetheart. It’s mostly the other way around.” He says the word “sweetheart” a little too easily. It almost sounds like honey rolling of his tongue. If he didn’t have a gun and knife strapped to him, maybe you’d even blush.

You hope you aren’t visibly blushing. The heat in your cheeks is your problem, not his.

“I could call the cops,” you challenge, a newfound confidence seeping into your words.

“And they’d definitely come here. After half an hour, give or take. But I’d already have taken what I came here for.”

Yep, he’s actually going to do something horrible. You thought Red Hood took care of criminals, not some cashier like you, who, yes, might have skimmed some dollars out of the cash register a few times. But that doesn’t warrant a visit from Red Hood himself. Your jaw tightens, while your hands clench. You’re sure your nails are digging crescents into your palm right now.

“And what would that be?”

If you’re going to be beaten up or robbed by Gotham’s most smart-mouthed vigilante, you’re not going down silent. Maybe you should scream. Just to make this harder for him.

He puts his other hand on his hip. For a moment, you think he’s reaching for his holster, but his voice from the helmet reaches you again.

“I want a cigarette.”

What.

“You want a what?”

Red Hood points a finger at the cigarette wall behind you. You follow the gesture to the Marlboros sitting in the middle row, just behind the locked glass screen. The “21+” sign is hanging on the screen with the paint already peeling off its surface.

He wants a fucking cigarette. And he’s saying all of this as if he didn’t just threaten you a moment ago.

“Seriously?”

“I am over twenty-one, if you’re wondering.”

“That’s not,” you groan. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

He shrugs. Throwing that energy drink can might have been an actual good idea.

“I can’t show you my ID, unfortunately,” he gives you a faux sigh through his helmet. Both of his hands are on his hips now, and you somehow calm down seeing that he’s not reaching for a weapon. “Secret identity and all. You understand, no?”

“You just had to mess with me, huh?”

“Couldn’t help myself.”

You turn your back slowly, still trying to keep an eye on him, all while letting out an annoyed huff. He mimics the sound of your sneer right back at you. You snap your head back at him. He, on the other hand, looks at one of the shelves, as if he didn’t do anything at all. You can feel something akin to a laugh building up in your body because he looks ridiculous, if you ignore the blood. His hands are on his hips, showing you he’s not going for his weapons. He’s looking away like a child caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

You open the cigarette wall with a turn of your keys. The glass screen moves, and you grab a single pack of Marlboros. You scan the pack in silence. It’s not like the heavy and tense silence from before, when he first walked through the door, bloody and intimidating. Now it feels like he’s actually a customer. A weird one, but it’s Gotham. You’re not surprised.

“Smoking is bad for you, y’know,” you say quietly, almost mumbling. Though he hears you anyway.

“You worried, sweetheart?”

“Oh, of course,” you answered with a raised brow, hoping the sarcasm was obvious in your voice. “Who else would walk in bloody in the shop just to buy cigarettes?”

He reaches for his pocket. Your eyes trail to his forearms again. You hadn’t noticed before, but the veins on his arms are barely visible. Though you can see the way they are indented in his skin, between the scars. He lays a few crumpled dollar bills on the counter. To his credit, the money at least isn’t bloodied.

“Next time at…” he looks at the clock on the wall behind you, the cracked glass shows that it’s eight pm now. “How does five sound?”

“If you don’t come with your accessories and blood, maybe. Just maybe.”

You hand over the cigarette pack to him. Your fingers brush his, and for a split second, his fingers freeze. It’s like he’s surprised and flustered by the contact.

“A deal breaker, then?” He lets out a cough before grabbing the Marlboros and taking a step back from the counter.

You tilt your head, trying to figure out in your mind what he looks like right now behind that helmet. His voice sounds hoarse. All because you touched him. Though he hasn’t expressed any discomfort yet.

“No,” you answer. “Not exactly…”

God, why is your stupid heart talking instead of your brain?

He perks up. You can see it in how his shoulders pick up. His grip on the cigarette pack changes; he’s now twirling it between his fingers.

Yep, you’re never leaving your apartment ever again.

He does have big hands, though.

“Five o’clock, then,” he says, like it’s already decided. Like you already said yes.

“I didn’t agree to anything.”

“You didn’t say no either, sweetheart.”

There it is again. That word. Dripping off his tongue like he’s known you for years. Like he has any right to call you that when you can’t even see his face.

He tucks the Marlboros into his jacket pocket. Takes a step back. Then another.

You should feel relieved. You are relieved. Probably.

“Same time tomorrow,” he says from the door. The bell hasn’t rung yet. He’s waiting. For what, you don’t know.

“Same blood?” you ask, because your mouth has officially divorced your brain.

He tilts his helmet. That same amused energy from before.

“Maybe less. If you’re lucky.”

The bell rings. He’s gone.

You stare at the door for a full ten seconds. Then, at the crumpled bills on the counter. Then at the trail of dirty footprints leading to the entrance.

Then back at the door.

What the hell just happened?

You grab the nearest energy drink can—not to throw, just to hold. The metal is cold against your palm. Your heart is still racing. Your cheeks are still warm.

And you hate yourself a little for already knowing you’ll be here at five o’clock tomorrow.

+++

“Wait, say that again,” Marjorie points at your face, as if you’re in the wrong. “A vigilante walked through my doors and threatened my employee?”

“He didn’t really threaten me,” you point out, but the exasperated look on the woman’s face makes you backtrack. “I mean, he looked scary. He didn’t lay a hand on me, though.”

Unfortunately.

You should have stayed home.

“You said he had a gun!”

“And a knife.”

“Oh, my god. And he smokes, too. Children these days.”

“I don’t think his smoking is the main issue here,” you move past the counter to the aisles.

You didn’t call Marjorie about what happened last night as soon as he had left. In her book, if something isn’t bleeding or broken, calling isn’t necessary. You cleaned the drop of blood from the counter and closed up last night. The streets felt just a tad brighter under the streetlights, knowing a certain vigilante might be looking out for you. Who knows, maybe he’ll appreciate the fact that you sold him the cigarettes without calling the cops on him.

Now you’re here, the next day. You’ve been buzzing around the shop all day. The sticky floors, even though you cleaned them yesterday, are still holding onto the grime. The fluorescent light bulb above the counter needed a few hits before it stopped flickering. You’ve been listening to the rattle of the beer cooler since you clocked in.

Marjorie’s incessant badgering about Red Hood unfortunately did reach your ears over the cooler’s rattle.

“Did he hurt you?” She asks again, and you, surprisingly, find the concern a bit endearing.

“Aw,” you coo, “you do care about me, Marj.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, idiot,” she scowls. “Who else would work for me if you died, or worse, quit?”

“No. He didn’t hurt me,” you deadpan. “He didn’t take anything. He paid for a Marlboro and took off.”

You haven’t mentioned the fact that he might visit again. You’re not planning on Marjorie finding out. She’ll leave in a few hours, and you will hang onto that stupid and foolish hope that a man whose face you’ve never seen will come to see you. You spent a few more minutes today in front of the mirror, too.

God, what are you doing?

“Marlboro?” Marjorie raises a brow. “He doesn’t even have taste. He should have gotten one of those… what are they called?”

“Yellow Spirits?”

“Yes, those.”

“You’re only saying that because they cost more.”

“If he’s bothering my employees, the least he can do is pay me.”

You bend down to the box near your feet. It’s full of some brand of cereal you can’t remember the name of. Something generic for an even more generic convenience store.

Marjorie approaches you near the aisle. Her brows are furrowed, and her wrinkles are even more pronounced today. The corners of her mouth are pulled into a thin line. As if she’s actually worried.

She starts digging into her pocket. You turn your head, curious about what she’s doing. She pulls out something that looks like a… taser?

“Marjorie, what is that?”

“Kid, we both know I don’t have the means to get you a gun,” she clicks her tongue, gesturing the taser your way, “but this should do the trick. It ain’t one of those harmless ones either. It packs a big punch.”

You grab the taser from her hand. It feels heavy in your grip. You imagine using it against anyone, though you don’t think you’ll be pointing it towards Red Hood anytime soon. First, stupidly enough, you hope he won’t give you a reason to use it. Secondly, you’re sure it won’t work against a man shaped like a mountain.

“Thanks, Marj,” you pocket the taser in your apron, the one Marjorie forces you to wear all your shift.

“It’s Marjorie,” she scoffs. “Now, I’ll get going. My heart cannot take another one of your ridiculous night stories. My poor knees need a break.”

As if she’s the one restocking.

She’s already half out of the door before you can even say goodbye. Not that she’d say it back. So much for her poor knees.

You turn back to the aisle. There are still a few more boxes unopened. The shop is relatively small one, so you’re not too worried about the amount of work waiting for you.

You look at the cracked clock near the register. There are a few minutes left before it strikes five. You bite your lip. There’s a strange feeling of impatience and exhilaration mixing in your stomach, all like a bad concoction.

This is how crazy people die in those superhero movies, all because they think that they’ve got a connection with a murder. You are very much that type of crazy person. It’s almost like Gotham has entirely changed you, making your eyes locked onto the door, awaiting a certain someone.

To your utter surprise, the bell rings. You feel your knees getting weak. You step away from the aisle that was blocking your way to the front door, half expecting Red Hood to show up and actually rob you or something; you’re not sure what people like him get up to.

Your heart is beating against your chest. There’s something deeply wrong with you. You consider running out the back door, but you’re already in the line of sight of the entrance.

He already saw you.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, sweetheart.”

The “he” turned out to be not a bloodied costume-wearing vigilante, but your loyalest regular—Jason Todd. You still don’t understand why he keeps visiting. A small part of your heart hopes it’s because he finds the cashier, you, cute.

He’s wearing a black T-shirt. It’s cut off around the forearms. You see familiar faint scars. You’ve never asked Jason about them. He did notice you staring once, and he explained that he had had a few accidents with his motorcycle. Your heart pangs uncomfortably at the reminder of him being in pain. The shirt clings to his chest in a way that will not leave your mind this entire week. It rides up slightly around his waist, exposing just a small part of his skin. You can see the tattoos peeking out from underneath the fabric, just above the leather belt around his hips.

This is too much. Way too much for a full day shift.

Wow. Both him and Red Hood. That’s low. Even for you.

You feel a sense of disappointment, as if you were played by Red Hood. But it’s not like he owed you anything.

Jason tilts his head. A few of the white strands of his hair fall down on his forehead. They frame his face in an effortlessly handsome way, so much so that you want to punch the subtle grin off his face. You’re sure Marjorie would fire you for that, considering Jason is probably the only customer of this shop she actually likes.

“Jason,” you finally get the words past your lips, “it’s just you.”

“Just me?” he places a hand on his chest in faux hurt.

He steps into the shop. His gate is steady. In a way that is the opposite of yours. You’re sure you’re shaking like a leaf right now, gripping the bag of cereal even harder. You scold yourself mentally for freezing up like this.

You can see the way Jason’s face shifts. Maybe he noticed how off you are today. He’s always so perceptive, a trait you haven’t yet decided is stupidly attractive or attractively dooming for you. It reminds you of that one time you tried hiding a burn you had gotten in the shop from him, but he still noticed. He walked to the pharmacy across the street just to buy a weird cream you had never heard of, but you appreciated the gesture either way.

No one had really done that for you before. Not without expecting something in return.

He reaches you in just a few steps. You wonder how he moves so quickly. In a way that doesn’t tick you off either. He raises his hands, almost to show he’s trying to calm you down.

“You okay?” He asks, voice laced with concern. His tone is softer, too. Like cigarettes wrapped in velvet fabric.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I feel like a million bucks.”

Who even says that?

You cough, trying to clear your throat. With a tilt of your head, you gesture to the register. Jason follows your gaze. He lets out a small sigh and follows you to the counter.

“So,” you try to force your voice to sound chirpy. It seems wrong. “What can I get you?”

By the look on Jason’s concerned face, you’re sure he noticed the strain in your voice, too. The soft glint in your eyes makes your heart tighten. You can’t take your anger out on him. It’s unfair.

“Is there anything I can do?” Jason offers, and the guilt in his voice makes you want to crawl under the counter.

For a moment, you wonder why he’s so hell-bent on comforting you. Especially when he has nothing to do with your stupid infatuation with a vigilante. Well, you have a small crush on Jason, too, but the future you will be the one who unpacks that.

“It’s nothing,” you lie, already reaching for the yellow Spirits behind the glass. Your fingers fumble with the keys. “Rough night. You know how it is.”

“I don’t,” he says, leaning against the counter. His forearm brushes against the chipped wood. You watch the muscles shift under his skin. “But I’ve got time if you wanna talk about it.”

“You’re buying cigarettes, not listening to me talk all day. This isn’t therapy.”

“Same thing, sweetheart.”

There it is. Sweetheart. The same word Red Hood used. Your brain short-circuits for half a second before you remember—Jason has been calling you that for months. Way before last night.

It doesn’t mean anything, you tell yourself. It’s just a word.

“You’re staring,” Jason says, amused.

“I’m obviously glaring,” you correct, shoving the yellow pack across the counter. “There’s a big difference.”

He doesn’t reach for the cigarettes. Instead, he tilts his head—and there. That’s the same tilt. The same one Red Hood used when he found you funny. Your stomach flips.

“You glare at all your customers like that, or just me?”

Two can play that game.

“Just the ones who show up at five o’clock looking like that.”

“Like what?”

You gesture vaguely at all of him. The arms. The chest. The stupid white streak in his hair.

“Like you just walked off a movie set.”

Jason’s grin spreads slowly. You feel heat pool up in your stomach. Suddenly, it feels like you’re back to last night. As if he is again, right in front of you, and you’re not sure how to handle this. How to handle Jason and Red Hood.

God, you’re going to hell. If there’s even one.

“So you have noticed.”

‘I notice when my regulars change their look,” you say, deflecting. “New shirt?”

“This old thing?” He plucks at the fabric, tugging on it a bit too harshly. You wonder if he’s nervous. “You like it?”

Jason—to your surprise and amusement—sounds actually nervous. The idea that you can fluster him lights your skin on fire.

“I liked the leather jacket better.”

“Noted.”

He’s still not taking the cigarettes. He’s just looking at you. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. The same way Red Hood looked at you—like you were interesting. Like you weren’t just another cashier.

“You’re doing it again,” you say.

“Doing what?”

"Looking at me like I’m hiding something. Which I am definitely not."

Jason laughs. It’s low, warm, and it does something stupid to your chest.

“Maybe you are hiding something,” he says. “You’re harder to figure out than most.”

“That’s the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever received.”

“It’s not backhanded,” he says, and you can get drunk on the flustered tone of his voice. “I’m just bad at words.”

“You’re a regular. You come here three times a week. I’ve learned that you’re not bad at anything.”

His eyebrows go up. “Anything?”

Shit.

“I meant—talking. I meant talking.”

“Sure you did.”

He finally takes the cigarettes. His fingers brush yours—deliberate this time. You’re sure of it. His hand lingers for half a second, in a way that’s longer than necessary.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

“You’re already here today.”

“And?”

You stare at him. He stares back. The fluorescent light buzzes. The beer cooler rattles. Somewhere outside, a car alarm starts wailing.

“You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?” you say.

“And you’re avoiding the question.”

“Fine. Same time tomorrow.”

“Good.”

He tucks the yellow pack into his back pocket. No jacket today means you can see the outline of his wallet, the curve of his—

Stop it.

But he’s totally doing this on purpose.

Jason steps closer to the counter. You can see the faint freckles dotted across his pale skin. There’s a light scar running down his cheek. You wonder how a motorcycle accident could do all of this. You know he’s hiding something from you. For a second, you wonder what it would feel like to count his freckles and trace the scar.

You can see the muscles in Jason’s shoulders flex as he leans over the counter. His hand reaches for his other pocket. He takes out a lighter you haven’t seen before. A raised cross spreads across its surface, darkened in the grooves.

He places it on the counter between you, sliding it toward you.

You pick it up. It’s heavier than you expected. Warm from being in his pocket. Your thumb traces the engraving. Along the edge of the metal, barely noticeable unless you know to look, a Latin phrase is etched in fine, precise lettering—worn just enough to suggest it is carried often, turned over in someone’s hands.

“What’s this say?”

“Something stupid that I got when I was nineteen.” He doesn’t elaborate. “Light it up for me?”

You look up. “What?”

“The cigarette.” He pulls the yellow pack from his back pocket—when did he grab that?—and taps one out. Holds it between his fingers. Doesn’t move to light it himself, just looks at you. “You’ve got the lighter.”

“You have hands.”

“And you’re holding it.”

The fluorescent light makes his eyes look greener than usual. Or maybe that’s just the angle. Or maybe you’re hallucinating because of what is happening right now.

“You want me to light your cigarette,” you say slowly, “over the counter. In the middle of my shift.”

“I want a lot of things,” he says. “Right now I’m just asking for a light.”

Your heart is doing something stupid. Your hands are definitely not shaking as you flick the lighter. Once. Twice. On the third try, a flame catches.

Jason leans in, closer than he needs to. His fingers brush yours as he brings the cigarette to the flame. His eyes don’t leave yours. You can’t take your gaze off the sea-green color of his eyes.

The cigarette catches. He takes a slow drag. Exhales away from your face—polite, even now—and the smoke curls up toward the flickering lights.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

He picks the lighter off the counter. His fingers linger over yours again.

“Same time tomorrow? Actually, I might be a little late.”

“You’re already here today.”

“And?”

You can’t think of a single clever thing to say. Your brain is full of smoke and green eyes and the weight of a silver lighter that’s no longer in your hand.

“Fine,” you manage. “Same time tomorrow.”

“Good.”

He tucks the lighter back into his pocket. The cigarette hangs from his lips. He’s halfway to the door when you call out.

“You forgot your cigarettes.”

He glances at the yellow pack still sitting on the counter. Then back at you through the smoke.

“No, I didn’t.”

The bell rings.

He’s gone.

+++

The next night is different. The fluorescent lights are too rough on your eyes. The counter is too cold. The rattling of the beer cooler is too loud. Marjorie didn’t drop by today either. You find yourself missing her incessant badgering, even if it does get a bit too much sometimes.

You feel lonely.

Ridiculous.

Maybe it’s because Jason didn’t show up today, and you’ve been staring at the front door like a kicked puppy. You’ve been lied to by him and Red Hood two times already. Or maybe, you’re just a fool to think that either of them would actually show up for you.

You sigh, leaning your elbow over the counter. The cold surface bites at your skin, but you don’t really care. Your thoughts are buzzing in your head nonstop. It’s all like an ambience you want to shut out.

The bell rings.

Your head snaps up, eyes trailing to the door.

A man walks in. Average height. Average build. Grey hoodie. Jeans that don’t quite fit right. His hands are shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold—or against something else. You can’t tell. His face is the kind you’d forget five seconds after looking away.

Nobody, you think. Just another nobody.

You straighten up anyway, because Marjorie might not be here, but her voice lives in your head rent-free. “Don’t slouch,” she’d say. “Makes you look like you don’t care. Customers can smell apathy.”

“Evening,” you call out, forcing something pleasant into your voice.

He grunts. Doesn’t look at you. Wanders the aisles like he’s searching for something. You watch him pick up a bag of chips. Put it back. A candy bar. Put it back. A Gatorade—blue, the electrolyte one—he holds onto that one.

His hands are shaking.

Late at night, you tell yourself. Long shift. You shake too, sometimes, when you’re running on three hours of sleep and bad coffee. Don’t judge him too quickly. Just mind your own business.

He walks to the counter. Sets the Gatorade down. The bottle thuds against the laminate—harder than it needs to.

“That everything?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at the bottle.

“Sir?”

He looks up.

And there it is. That thing in his eyes that makes your stomach drop. He’s not looking at you like a customer—he’s looking at you like you’re not even there.

“Two eighty-nine,” you say, voice smaller than you want it to be.

He reaches for his pocket. Pulls out a crumpled five. Smooths it on the counter. Once. Twice. Three times. His fingers are pale and knuckles white.

You make a change and slide it across. He doesn’t take it.

“Sir? Your change.”

He blinks and pockets the money without counting. “Thanks.”

Then he walks to the door.

Good, you think. He’s leaving. You were wrong. He’s just some guy.

He stops at the door and doesn’t turn around. He keeps just standing there. His one hand is on the frame. The bell is hanging inches from his head.

A cold feeling, like a wretched thing crawls up your spine. Lock the register, you think. Your keys are in your pocket. Lock it. Call—

He turns around.

The Gatorade is still on the counter, just as he left it.

He walks back, and not slow this time—fast. His footsteps don’t echo—they thud. Every step is a warning call.

“I changed my mind,” he says.

“About the Gatorade?”

“About all of it.”

His hand goes to his waistband.

You know before you see it. Before he pulls it out. You know.

The gun is small and black. It’s the kind that fits in a waistband without printing. God, how did you not see it before? He holds it at his side, not pointing it at you yet—but the threat is there.

“Open the register,” he says. His voice isn’t flat anymore; it’s shaking.

A scared man with a gun is worse than an angry one.

Your hands go up automatically. “Okay,” you say. “All right. I’m opening it.”

Your fingers find the keys in your apron. You don’t look away from him. Never look away from the gun.

The register drawer slides open with that familiar ka-ching that’s never sounded so loud before. Now it rings out loudly in your ears over the deathly silence.

“Take it,” you say. “It’s all there. I’m not going to stop you.”

He steps closer, and the gun comes up. It’s pointed at your chest now.

“The safe,” he says. “Open the safe.”

“I don’t have the code. The manager—she doesn’t give it to the night shift. I swear.”

His jaw tightens. His finger moves to the trigger.

This is how I die, you think. In a convenience store that says “PEN” on the door, and just for a register with maybe two hundred dollars in it.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. I’m not. Please—”

He reaches across the counter. Grabs your arm, and he grabbed it hard. His fingers dig into your skin hard enough to bruise.

“Then you’re gonna call her. Right now. And you’re gonna get the code.”

“She won’t—she’s asleep, she’s old, she won’t—”

He yanks and pulls you halfway across the counter. Your hip slams into the edge. Pain shoots up your side.

“I said call her.”

Your head hits something on the way down. The corner of the register, or the counter edge. You’re not sure. All you know is white-hot pain and then warm wetness dripping into your hair.

The bell rings.

You barely hear it over the ringing in your ears.

But he does.

The robber turns. Just for a second. Just long enough to see who walked in.

And then he’s not holding you anymore. Because someone else is holding him.

Red Hood moves like water, like something that was never human to begin with. Your eyes can’t even catch up with his movements.

One second, he’s at the door. Next, his hand is wrapped around the robber’s wrist, twisting until you hear something crack. The gun clatters to the floor. The robber screams—a high, wet sound that barely registers in your foggy brain.

You’re on the ground. When did you fall? The linoleum is cold against your cheek. Sticky, too. There’s blood in your eyes. Your blood. From your head.

Oh, you think. That’s not good.

Red Hood doesn’t say a word—he just moves. A punch to the gut. An elbow to the back. The robber crumples like paper, gasping for air he can’t catch. Hood pins him to the ground with a knee to the spine.

You try to push yourself up. Your arms won’t cooperate. They’re shaking. Everything is shaking.

“Stay down,” Hood says. His voice is modulated. But there’s something underneath it. “Don’t move your head.”

You blink. The world swims. The fluorescent lights blur into halos. You can see his boots—heavy, and splattered with something dark—stepping over the robber’s body, coming towards you.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey. Look at me.”

You try. Your eyes find the helmet. The white lenses. The shine of blood—not his, not his—on his chest plate.

“There you go,” he says. His voice is softer now. The modulator can’t hide that. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

“You came back,” you slur. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth.

“Of course I came back.” He crouches down. His gloved hands hover over you, like he wants to touch but doesn’t know where it’s safe. “I said five o’clock, didn’t I?”

“You’re late. So fucking late.”

A sound from under the helmet—a laugh, a broken one. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m late. I’m sorry.”

Something falls from his jacket. A glint of silver. It skids across the floor and stops near your outstretched hand.

The lighter.

The silver one. The engraved one. Jason’s.

Your brain snags on it like a needle on a record. That’s—that’s his. That’s the one he put in your hand. The one you flicked. The one that was warm from his pocket.

“That’s,” you start, but the words won’t come. Your vision is going dark at the edges. “That’s Jason’s.”

Hood goes very still.

“Jason,” you repeat, because it’s the only word that matters. “You’re—you’re him. You’re—… oh my god.”

“Don’t,” he says. His real voice. The modulator must have cut out. Or maybe your ears are just giving up. “Don’t talk. Just stay awake. Please.”

You try. You really do. But the dark is pulling at you, soft and heavy, and the last thing you see is the lighter—silver and warm and his—sitting on the dirty floor between you.

The last thing you hear is his panicked voice.

“Stay with me. Don’t—shit. Stay awake. Please.”

Then nothing.

+++

The beeping is the first thing you hear.

You can barely find the strength to open your eyes. Your eyelids feel too heavy. There’s a sterile smell around whatever room you are currently in.

The walls are stark white. They stretch unbroken except for the occasional monitor, its screen blinking in steady, indifferent rhythms. A faint antiseptic smell lingers in the air, sharp and clean, threaded with something metallic beneath it. The bed sits at the center, too narrow, sheets pulled tight.

And, you’re in it.

You look to the side of the bed. There’s a small table near you. On top of it, there is a small card. You try to raise your hand, and it’s a miracle you manage to. You grab the card and open it. Your eye recognizes Marjorie’s handwriting.

Get well soon, kid. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, not much an old lady like me can do. You take all the time you need while you’re at the hospital. The GCPD will investigate this even if I have to break down their door. Call me when you’re ready to talk.

— Marj.

You knew she cared about you. Too bad you had to survive a robbery to get proof of that.

Fuck.

You got robbed. Almost shot at. Just for a few hundred dollar bills and a safe you don’t even know the code to.

You thought you were going to die.

Until he showed up.

You push yourself off the bed. The room spins. Your head throbs. You press a hand to your forehead and feel the bandage there, rough against your fingertips. Stitches. Great.

You look around. You’re in a private room. How the hell did you get a private room? Marjorie can barely afford to keep the store’s lights on. Maybe the hospital made a mistake. Maybe you’re in the wrong bed. Maybe—

The window.

There’s something at the window.

A shape, dark against the night sky. You’re on the third floor—you remember that much from the ambulance ride, the stretcher, the paramedic with kind eyes telling you to stay awake, honey, stay with me—

The shape moves.

A tap, glass against knuckle.

You squint. Your vision is still blurry, but you’d know that silhouette anywhere—the shoulders and the faint movement of dark curls.

Jason is standing on the fire escape.

He doesn’t come in. Just stands there and watches you.

You should be scared. You were scared the first time. But now? Now all you feel is something warm and stupid blooming in your chest.

You reach over and fumble with the window latch. Your fingers are clumsy—the head injury, probably—but you get it open. Cold air rushes in. Gotham smells like rain and exhaust and something that might be smoke in the distance.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says. You can hear the exhaustion underneath.

“You’re not supposed to be on a fire escape,” you shoot back. Your voice comes out hoarse. “Looks like both of us are starting this conversation in horrible ways. But I could scream, and they’d drag you out of here.”

“You wouldn’t,” he tilts his head, like he’s daring you to try.

He could probably cover the distance between you in a second. He’d have his hand over your mouth before you could even let out a squeak.

Why are you imagining his hand on your mouth right now?

“Are you gonna come in?” you ask, trying to get your mind out of the gutter. “Or are you gonna stand out there all night like a creep?”

His hair is a mess—curls sticking up everywhere, the white streak catching the dim light from the monitors. There’s a cut on his cheekbone, fresh. Dark circles under his eyes so deep they look like bruises. He’s wearing the same black shirt from before, the one cut off around the forearms, and you can see the scars now with new eyes. You’re sure the scars are not from a motorcycle.

“You look like shit,” you say.

He laughs. “You’re one to talk.”

“Fair.”

He climbs through the window, but doesn’t sit on the bed—stands near it, like he’s not sure he’s allowed. His hands are shoved in his jacket pockets. The jacket is different tonight. You wonder if he’s wearing anything like armor underneath it. Or maybe, tonight, he’s just your Jason, not Red Hood. Or maybe both. They have always been the same. You were just too blind to see it.

“The lighter,” you say.

He goes still.

“It fell out of your pocket. During the fight. I saw it.”

Jason stares at you. Something passes over his face—fear, maybe, or relief. You still haven’t quite figured that one out, yet.

“I know,” he says.

“Is that how you wanted me to find out? Or did you just get sloppy?”

He flinches. “I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking. You were bleeding. You passed out. I—” He stops. His jaw tightens, as if he’s chewing on words he can’t bring himself to say.

“You what?”

“I panicked.” The words come out rough. Broken. “I don’t panic. I don’t. But you were on the ground, and there was blood in your hair, and I thought—I thought you were—” He can’t finish the sentence.

You reach out. Your hand finds his. His fingers are cold—from the fire escape, from the night, from whatever he was doing before he got here. You hold on anyway.

“I’m not dead,” you say.

“I can see that. And you’re not good at bedside manners.”

“So stop looking at me like I’m gonna disappear. Plus, I’m the one in the hospital bed. If anyone has to work on their bedside manners, it’s you.” You jab a finger in his chest. The skin behind the fabric of the jacket feels like a wall.

Definitely not the time to be thinking about his chest.

He looks down at your hands. Then back at your face. Something shifts in his expression. The tension cracks.

He doesn’t talk right away. Instead, he pulls his hand around you—gently, like he’s afraid of hurting you, and reaches into his jacket pocket. When his hand comes back out, he’s holding the lighter.

The silver-engraved one. He turns it over in his fingers.

“I came back for it. After the ambulance took you. It was still on the floor.”

“So you didn’t come to see me?”

He gives you a look. That look, the one that says you know exactly why I’m here.

“I came to see you,” he says. “I’ve been out there for three hours.”

“Three hours?”

“You were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”

You stare at him. This man. This impossible man. Buys cigarettes from you three times a week. Calls you sweetheart like it’s your actual name. Climbed through your hospital window at—what, two in the morning?—just to make sure you were okay.

“You’re an idiot,” you say.

“I’ve been told.”

“A stupid idiot.”

“Also been told. Also, stupid and idiot are synonyms.”

You grab his wrist. Pull him toward the bed. He stumbles—actually stumbles, like you’ve caught him off guard—and ends up sitting on the edge of the mattress, close enough that you can smell the smoke on his jacket and the gunpowder. It’s intoxicating. It reminds you of the time his nose was almost brushing yours as you lit his cigarette.

“You’re staying,” you say.

“I can’t—”

“You can. The nurses don’t come in until six. That’s—” you glance at the clock on the wall, the one with the cracked glass that reminds you of the store, “—four hours. You’re staying for four hours.”

“Four hours,” he repeats.

“And then you’re gonna come back tomorrow. And the day after that. And you’re gonna keep coming back until I’m out of here. And then you’re gonna come to the store. And you’re gonna buy your stupid yellow cigarettes or the Marlboro ones, I don’t care. And you’re gonna let me light them for you. With your lighter. And you will ask me out on a date. Preferably not one that starts in a convenience store.”

His mouth twitches. “That’s a lot of demands for someone who just woke up from a concussion.”

“I’m very good at multitasking.”

He laughs again, and it’s louder this time.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Okay. Four hours. And I will take you out on that date.”

He doesn’t leave after four hours. Instead, he stays until the sun comes up.

The nurses find him there in the morning— asleep in the visitor’s chair, his hand wrapped around yours, the silver lighter sitting on the bedside table.

They don’t ask questions. Thank god.

This is Gotham, after all.

⋆˙⟡ taglist: @coffeelovingreader @cherryseascns @yuunarii-arii @simpingmyassoff (if anyone wants to be added or removed please let me know).

Most fathers would be pleased by the information— not yours, he’s a little more… strict. He already doesn’t like him from a joke made over a decade ago, suggesting you’d make a fine concubine, which wasn’t taken lightly. 

Your father threatened to usurp the throne, sending a chill running down a then 21 year old Zuko’s spine.

There was no way in hell he’d hand you off to the imperial palace to become a concubine. You’re the only child of his that inherited firebending. If your father had it his way, you’d be a warrior, for fucks sake. 

Lord Zuko may have a dry sense of humor at times, but you have your doubts about how much of a joke that statement was, especially with how much he likes to bug you throughout the day.

Perhaps another conflict should erupt— the man has too much time on his hands. Maybe then you’d fulfill your fathers wish of finally working in the military— put your talents to use, as he’d say. 

But would Lord Zuko allow the gentle hands running through his hair to commit such violence? Or would that be when he’d draw a hard line with the aggressive strategist? 

As progressive as he is, you sometimes wonder just how much it extends to you. Even as children, he’d go easy on you during trainings. He’s only grown softer with you as the years passed. Despite not being a concubine yourself, you wouldn’t be surprised if he saw you as one of the flowers in his garden— one he’s not allowed to touch. 

You slide the hair stick through his headpiece, securing the top knot he had you redo. It looks the same, but you hold off on making a comment. “Is that better?” 

“Much better.” His eyes meet yours in the mirror, lips curving into a sly smile. “Now— what are we doing today?”

We. You hate how much he likes to emphasize that at times. 

“Well,” you sigh. “Aside from the usual council meeting, nothing much. Perhaps you can visit one of your concubines today… for once.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Are you saying I don’t fuck my concubines enough?” 

“Precisely,” you say almost mockingly. 

It’s all they ever complain about, and honestly, you’re sure you would, too, if you were one of them. Having to wake up and sit around all day, waiting for a man who never comes. And on the rare occasion that he does, he doesn’t stay long. He’ll show up, fuck the shit out of you for a couple rounds, then leave right after. Allegedly. 

“Don’t you want an heir?” you ask. 

“Depends,” he hums. 

With the way he’s looking at you, you can already tell what it depends on, and it has nothing to do with his current concubines. Lucky for you, he never gets the chance to actually say it because he gets interrupted right after, putting a conversation you’d rather not have to a screeching halt.

“The council is waiting for you, my Lord.”

—

The silk district was notoriously known for two things: brothels and bandits. It was the wild, wild west compared to the other districts in the capital due to high crime and the growing wealth gap. The governments always kept a watchful eye on it, which was never enough in your opinion. 

Are you surprised to hear that an entire brothel, including the madame, was discovered to be slain and robbed in the early hours of this morning? Absolutely not. 

“Send more military officers to patrol the area,” the chamberlain says without hesitation. “We’ve been too lenient with them. If they want bloodshed, we’ll give them bloodshed.”

Yikes, he wants to rule the area with an iron fist when they’re already clearly struggling. You can’t help but think of how much of a dictator this guy would be if he were in Zuko’s place. 

You make eye contact with the lord, who’s sitting at the end of the table right next to you. In that brief moment, he notices the concern in your eyes and gives you a subtle nod. 

“Perhaps we can send more public aid?” you suggest. “They’ve been testing out a new rehabilitation program in Republic City as well. I’m sure the Silk District could benefit from—“

“Nonsense,” the chamberlain cuts you off, wondering why you’re even here right now— he thought you only assisted in matters within the court, not outside of it. “I-“

“Careful,” Zuko interrupts the man rather playfully as he continues to read through the scroll. “That’s the military strategist’s daughter you’re speaking to.” 

The comment makes you nearly roll your eyes, knowing the only reason why he said it was because you’re having to constantly remind him yourself when he gets too close. 

The chamberlain, however, straightens up immediately. You have no idea why it took him this long to realize it. He’s been here for nearly over a year, but at least he knows now. The chamberlain can be quite rude at times, you wouldn’t want him to slip up with your father in the room. Not only would that earn him an earful of insults that are as creative as they are hurtful, but it’d also be embarrassing on your part. 

That old man embarrasses you enough when he’s around. Following you around like a lost puppy after meetings, asking if you’ve eaten and if your superiors are treating you right, while side eyeing the fire lord himself. You’d agree so yourself that he has too much power in the court. He enjoys holding it over everyone’s head even more. It’s sickening, really.

You look at the chamberlain, who is now pouting, and offer an apologetic smile. “May I continue?” 

“Yes, of course,” the old man nods, struggling to hide his shame.

Always one for games, Zuko finds himself suppressing a laugh, which in turn makes the chamberlain’s slouch worsen. He’s grown to find more and more amusement in his daily tasks, a trait his father would definitely disapprove of— good thing he’s not here anymore. 

The rest of the meeting went by as smooth as it could be, with the fire lord, of course, praising the chancellor in the end for being so well behaved, pretending to wonder what could’ve changed his usual demeanor. The usual teasings, all while you once again found yourself thinking of how light he’s become. Even after receiving such upsetting news, he stayed calm while finding a solution. 

A humane one.

No longer the grumpy, angsty boy you grew up with. He’s actually quite charming. But you keep that to yourself.

The palace grounds are empty, as they should be during the afternoon. Everyone’s off either eating, napping, or tending to duties such as cooking or cleaning. It’s quiet, surprisingly peaceful. Your footsteps echo throughout the breezeway as Zuko defies the basic etiquette of walking ahead of you as a ruler should. Instead, the bastard walks a little slower than you. If given the opportunity, he’d turn it into a mini competition of who could walk the slowest, up until you both come to a full stop, with him looking at you all smug. 

“Your chambers are this way,” you remind the said bastard as if he’d already forgotten. 

He doesn’t bother to look back as he responds, walking down a gravel path leading directly to the flower garden. “How about we take a detour today, hm?”

You watch him for a moment, waiting to see if he’d stop. He doesn’t, and you shouldn’t be surprised by it. You’re able to catch up with him in just seconds given his slow pace, this time not bothering to walk behind him as he’s clearly in the mood to be extra stubborn today.

You’re all alone and away from the hearing distance of anyone else, yet you still choose to speak quietly as you start to gently tease the man. “What a surprise to see the king taking some time to enjoy his garden.” 

He lets out a soft laugh that fades into a hum. “Only around a select few.”

“Oh, wow,” you pretend to be impressed. “How charitable.” 

“It’s an honor that you think so,” he says, placing a hand over his chest to add to the theatrics, trying not to laugh once again. “Tell me, when was the last time you walked through here?”

You hum as you walk further into the sprawling garden filled with wooden arches covered with green vines and flowers in full bloom. “Can’t say I actually remember when.”

“That’s a shame. I had the gardener plant new rose bushes,” he murmurs. “Wanted to ask what you thought of them.” 

“I think they’re lovely,” you admit, softly pinching a petal, rubbing your thumb over the velvety skin.

He smiles. “I figured.” 

They were your favorite after all. 

Why is he like this? The garden’s already filled with enough flowers. A new section wasn’t needed. 

Again, he’s just bored.

In an attempt to keep the conversation from getting any more personal, you change the subject. “Are you looking forward to your trip to Republic City?” 

At the end of the meeting, it was decided that he’d visit with the purpose of getting more information about the new rehabilitation program the city was rolling out. While the chancellor wanted to take a more aggressive approach, he decided to take a more peaceful route. It’s admirable how hands on he’s chosen to be since taking his father's place. 

“Mhm. It’ll be nice catching up with some old friends while I’m there—“ he cuts himself off and looks at you with slight suspicion, “you’re going, right?”

You never said you would, nor did you want to, honestly. It’d be nice to take a break. “I’m sure you and some of your subordinates can handle it.” 

“Weren’t you the one who came up with the idea, though?” his tone slightly clips as he reminds you. 

“I was,” you respond tentatively, taking back your thoughts from earlier as you look him in the eyes. 

This man looks like he’s about to throw a fit. 

Zuko opens his mouth again, already knowing he shouldn’t be this pushy towards you, of all people, but he is far from perfect. 

So with a forced smile and all the resolve in the world, he murmurs, “you’re going.” 

You smile back despite feeling an annoyed heat creep up your neck, heart starting to pick up. “Alright.” 

—

Imagine being the fire lord, a literal ruler, and getting the cold shoulder from your own advisor. Every answer is so curt and clinical, and it’s going to drive him up the wall. 

Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord. Apologies, my lord.

Give him a fucking break.

As if you weren’t punishing him enough, you went ahead and had two of his concubines “accompany” him on the trip. It’s not like he can say no to that, either, since it’s considered to be one of his duties. Not to mention they both come from high-ranking families that would not be very pleased to hear of their neglect. 

So now he has to deal with two spoiled, pent-up brats hanging on him during the entirety of this flight, all while trying not to glare at the biggest brat of them all— you, as you sit directly across from him, reading probably what’s some pathetic romance novel.

This is fucking ridiculous. You haven’t looked at him once since you first sat down.

You’re no better than him. There was a strike of lightning in the direction you walked off in, and given how it was a perfectly sunny day, he’s pointing his finger at you for the damages done in the east wing, despite keeping his mouth shut on the matter. Complain about being dragged to Republic City all you want, but you still have it better than most. If you really did have it that bad, you would’ve been punished for such an offense. 

Like, seriously? Blowing shit up, like a fucking child— a terrifying one, to be frank, you are absolutely your father’s daughter— just because you had to do your job? Grow up. His grandfather’s statue was shattered in the midst of it all, thanks to you. You’re lucky he never liked the bastard.

In protest, you’re dressed like a noble's daughter rather than a member of the court. Wearing the finest silk and adorned in gold imported from the Earth nation, quietly refusing to represent your actual nation as you claim to be representing your clan— proof that you have enough power on your own to be acting like he’s actively denying you of basic human rights.

As if he even cared about your attire. Be his guest! You look fucking hot. Someone might even mistake you for one of his concubines, and he might just not correct them, since you think you’re more petty than he is.

Zuko gets pulled out of his thoughts when Concubine Aika speaks, still leaning against him and rubbing on his chest. She asked what book you were reading, which is when you finally looked up from it. 

“It’s sort of an adventure novel.” You look at the cover, speaking to her with a certain warmth you’ve been depriving him of. “It’s about a girl escaping an abusive orphanage once she turns 18 and follows her journey for the next 10 years.”

So now you’re fantasizing about leaving him? Good luck with that. 

“You look troubled, my lord,” the woman to his right, Concubine Saiyo, says. She’s leaning against him as well, now tracing her fingers along his jaw. “Are you alright?” 

“M’fine,” he murmurs, trying to fix his face as he takes a sip of sake. “It’s been a long flight.”

“There’s a private cabin you can retreat to, if you’d like,” you suggest, going back to your little book, missing the way you just made the lord’s eye twitch. 

“I know,” he says. 

It’s his airship. 

Without warning, he gets up from his seat. Was it a little rude? Perhaps. But surely the two women beside him could understand what feeling hounded could do to someone. They don’t, they do their jobs and get up as well, which he understands. However, Zuko’s not in the fucking mood right now and waves a dismissive hand. 

“No need,” he curtly says, making his way to the back of the airship. “I just want to close my eyes for a bit.” 

. . . . . .

The trip starts off strong with a banquet being held in honor of the fire lord's arrival. 

Contrary to Zuko’s wishes, nobody’s stupid enough to mistake you for one of his concubines. At least not within the circle of people you’re mingling with tonight, who all recognize your family's crest engraved on your hairpin. 

They were an ambitious bunch that spread all over once Zuko came into power— reaching amongst the highest positions within the military, medicine, and even education. 

Funny enough, your position in the court was nothing special in comparison to some of your relatives’ achievements. Some are even bothered by the fact. Being the first of all your cousins to master the art of firebending, being your grandfather's favorite solely for bending lightning with the same grace as he did in his prime, all while excelling in your studies. 

All of that potential, just wasted on being the lord’s “pet”. 

You don’t have much of an opinion on the disappointment some of them have expressed in the past, though it would’ve been nice if their words had stayed behind closed doors. You didn’t want to hear any of it. If you truly wanted to make use of that said potential, you would’ve worked directly under your father as his subordinate. 

Maybe it was the result of growing up feeling like you were enough. You have nothing to prove, and quite frankly, you’re content with having a role that really only requires you to share your opinions with a ruler that shares the same ideals as you… for the most part. 

If only he’d also agree that you two spend way too much time together. 

Luckily, you’re not required to be by his side tonight since you’re attending the banquet as a representative of your clan— something Zuko had no clue about until the moment you stepped onto the airship, which had him looking like he was about to blow a fucking gasket. He absolutely sucks at masking his frustrations. You’re surprised his concubines still had the courage to cuddle up with him. He looked like he was 2.5 seconds away from throwing you off the ship mid-flight. 

Zuko would never do that, by the way, but you’re sure he was daydreaming about it. 

But even then, with all the distance between you tonight, you can still feel his eyes on you. Just watching and waiting for you to do something he didn’t like. Very masochistic considering how he wouldn’t confront you if you did end up doing something wrong in his eyes. 

You spend the entire night avoiding eye contact, which isn’t too hard given how all you’ve done is catch up with old peers from school and relatives who’ve decided to move here to start new lives. 

The relatives you got along with, that is. 

You were enjoying yourself. Truly. Until Sokka called you over to their table. 

Funny how Zuko wasn’t looking at you then and was instead stuffing his face with spicy dumplings, then downing it with whatever liquor was in his cup. 

You walk over with two thoughts running through your head— please don’t let this man be as drunk as Sokka and Aang, and don’t let this be a conversation about how work was been. Sokka tends to ask those things at the wrong time, despite his heart being in the right place. 

This time around, it’s not Sokka.

“How’s our flaming hot lord treating you?” Aang asks, throwing an arm around a very drunk Zuko, who’s laughing his ass off over the avatar’s words for once. 

Your lips may have twitched a little, as well. Only because Aang gave even less fucks when in an inebriated state. 

“Oh, you know— the usual.” You let out a lighthearted laugh, and only you notice the way Zuko’s face momentarily drops. 

The air around him quickly screams ‘don’t fuck with me’, then settles back into something more suitable for someone who’s already had half their water weight in alcohol. 

“C’mon, you can do better than that,” Zuko forces out a laugh, leaning back in his seat. 

You laugh a little harder. “Can I?”

“Yeah, you can.” 

Sokka lets out this weird, giddy gasp because he loves drama, and cuts in. “Are you two fighting?”

“No.” 

“No.”

You and Zuko look at each other after shutting down Sokka’s question at the same time. The fake smiles you’re wearing are not helping your case at all. 

“Where’s Katara? I’ve been wondering where she’s been this whole time,” you ask in an attempt to keep the energy between you from getting any more awkward than it already is

Aang grows a little pale— the instant karma feels nice. “She’s a little sick tonight.” 

There’s a bit of fear in his voice. She’s totally pregnant. Not that you say that. Instead, you just point in some random direction behind you. “That’s terrible— my cousin actually just mentioned a bug going around. I hope she feels better soon.” 

“Thank you,” the man lets out a sigh of relief, allowing himself to be delusional for just one more night. 

“What about Toph?”

“Home. Asleep.” Sokka rolls his eyes. “She’s like a little old lady now. You’ll see her tomorrow, though, she’s been volunteering at the center.” 

“Volunteering or beating everyone into submission?” Zuko murmurs, and they all erupt in laughter. “She probably runs that place like the military.”

You find yourself starting to zone out as the conversation moves on to a different topic. You’d like to blame some of the wine you’ve been sipping on throughout the night for that. Everything starts to melt together— the live music, the endless chatter in every which direction. The only thing that pulls you out of it is seeing another one of your cousins who had just arrived, waving at you, and you don't shy away from taking that as an opportunity to excuse yourself. 

Aang and Sokka were as kind as usual when you said your goodbyes. Zuko, on the other hand, was harder to read through the pathetic excuse of a smile he gave you. One only meant to save face. 

If only he knew just how much worse he makes things sometimes. Although they’re rare, this isn’t the first fight you two have been in. Perhaps you have been a little petty towards the man, but it’s not you who grows so frustrated at someone’s anger that you begin to hold a grudge yourself. 

You arrive back to your room in the early morning with the regret of not cutting yourself off from the drinks sooner than you did. You wouldn’t say you were drunk, but you were definitely tipsy as you started to shed layers of clothes and jewelry to get in the hot bath that had been prepared prior to your return. 

Aang may be childish at times, but fuck was he a great host. Or maybe it was Katara who had all of these amenities set up for you. Candles and bath salts— you could die a happy woman right now as you settle into the stone tub, taking deep breaths, letting your muscles relax. 

Twenty minutes in, you hear rattling and heavy footsteps that seem to hit the ground with more confusion than the determination an attacker would usually have. It forces you to leave the warmth of your bath, slipping on a robe. Getting hit with annoyance rather than fear may be a little foolish. Overconfident, even. But there’s still alcohol running through your veins, and you aren’t the pride and joy of your clan for no reason— you can absolutely hold your own in a fight. 

When you walk out of the bathroom, you come face to face with exactly who you were thinking of.

“Fuck,” he looks away for a moment, regretting his decision thinking it was okay to just walk in. 

Zuko didn’t think you’d be bathing, for some odd, stupid reason. Judging by the fact that he’s still wearing his usual day clothing and his hairs not up in a bun, it’s safe to assume he went straight here after leaving the banquet. 

You let out a long sigh. “God— what are you doing here?” 

You don’t even sound mad— just disappointed that you have to see him once more before you lay your head to rest, which slightly hurts the man’s ego. Truth be told, he came here to argue with you, but even in his drunken state, he’s finding it quite difficult to do so since he looks like a fucking pervert now. 

“Your comment from earlier— what the hell was that about?” Zuko sounds more wounded than anything right now. 

You cross your arms, leaning against the door frame that connects the room to the bathroom. “What comment?”

“The usual,” he says with air quotes. “Do you not like me anymore or something?”

“You’re seriously asking me that right now?” Your face twists, just dumbfounded at this point. “You ask me that as if I don’t work for you?”

He scoffs. “So what, you’re saying I’m not your friend now?”

“I mean, yeah— you are, but I’m still your subordinate at the end of the day,” you attempt to spell it out for him, trying to get it through his brain that he can’t just act like you two are a pair of besties. 

But he just continues to argue with you. 

“Really? ‘Cause last time I checked, people don’t fight their superiors.” 

No, they do not. You’re not sure why you even tried to make that an argument, the line between you has blurred a long time ago. 

“You know what, just— forget it.”

The thing is, you're not the best at taking accountability. Most of the arguments you’ve had with him have been swept under the rug after a while. Zuko's not having that right now, though.

“Hm— actually, no— I don’t think I will,” he stubbornly says. “You have been punishing me for fucking weeks now and now you just want me to forget it?”

Punishing him?

You roll your eyes, muttering “oh my god” under your breath, not even bothering to look him straight in the eyes anymore as you walk to the nightstand and pick up a small jar of body cream. 

“We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” you say dismissively, rubbing the jasmine-scented cream into your hands. “I need to go to sleep, and so should you, honestly.”

It doesn’t matter how well he can handle his alcohol— he reeks of it. 

“I’m trying to talk to you right now so I don’t have to deal with your attitude tomorrow,” he says, as if he hasn’t had an attitude himself the last couple of weeks. 

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to,” you murmur back. 

What feels like minutes pass after your pathetic attempt to settle your issues with him. At first, he just lets out a sigh, trying to keep his composure, but then he laughs under his breath. 

“So that’s it?” he asks in a condescending tone. “We’re all good now?”

“Yes. Goodnight, Zuko,” you hum. 

More silence follows after. You can just feel his eyes on you despite still facing away, now reaching for some hair oil, waiting for him to leave.

He never does. Even after working the product into your hair, you have yet to hear the door to your room close, making you grow wary. 

There are many things telling you not to turn around at the moment— your blurred mind and tensed body. But even you make mistakes, lots of them with Zuko, and so you finally turn around. 

His lips are on yours. 

You don’t know how long he’d been standing directly behind you, you never even heard his footsteps. All you know is his hands are snaked behind your neck and he’s kissing you and you’re letting him.

It takes you a moment to realize you’re kissing him back— too focused on how soft his lips are, how his tongue glides across your lower lip before slipping inside, so commanding yet so gentle. 

Then you sober up— pressing your palm flat against his chest and pushing him back so you two can look at each other, eyes wide and filled with instant regret.

“What the hell was that?” you try to snap at him, but the sharp edge was dulled from the start, already fearing what’ll change between you from this moment forward. 

“I— fuck,” he stutters, taking another step back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Immediately, you cut him off. “No, you shouldn’t have and you know that.”

“I know.” It sounds like a plea coming from him as his chest tightens. “I’m sorry.”

Even you start to look apologetic, which breaks his heart a little since you did nothing wrong. The one who crossed the line was him, after all. “You should go. You’re drunk.” 

He opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it shortly after. There was nothing to say. 

And so he slowly nods and turns around, still in shock by his own actions as he begins to walk away, leaving you to deal with the aftermath of what the fuck just happened on your own. 

This was going to be the longest work trip of your life. 

notes: i hope u guys enjoyed this first chapter!! this was supposed to be a oneshot but then ideas kept popping up in my head and i thought, why don't i just turn this into a longfic like defiance lol. the plan is to follow these two around throughout a couple arcs, with the first one being them trying to navigate their feelings and attempting to go back to normal while trying to fix the shit show in the silk district.

TAGS ARE CLOSED

The double doors hissed open as a man swept in, draped in an expensive charcoal suit that was just wrinkled enough to suggest a long lunch that had devolved into several rounds of scotch. The scent of high-end whiskey trailed behind him like a physical wake, clashing sharply with the sterile, antiseptic air. He didn’t wait to be called; he marched straight to the triage desk, his lip curling at the sight of the linoleum floors.

“I’ve been waiting ten minutes,” he snapped, his voice booming across the quiet area. He adjusted his silk tie with a sneer. “Do you know who I am?”

Ellis didn’t look up from her monitor. Her fingers moved with practiced efficiency as she reached for a blood pressure cuff. “I don’t,” she said, her voice flat. “But I do know your blood alcohol content is likely higher than your IQ right now. Arm, please.”

He scoffed, yanking his arm back. “I don’t sit in waiting rooms with... these people. Move me to the front of the line. One call from me, and I can personally ensure the massive donation my company is about to make to this hospital disappears. I am from Ardentis Holdings.”

Ellis paused. Just for a second. She finally looked up, her eyebrows migrating toward her hairline. “Ardentis Holdings? Really?”

“Does that name sound familiar now?” he sneered. “I suggest you start acting faster.”

Ellis didn't look intimidated. If anything, she looked like she’d just found a very interesting bug on the sidewalk. She turned toward the doorway and called out, “Jack, could you come here for a second? We have a... VIP.”

Jack stepped into the room, his expression the picture of clinical boredom. He scanned the chart briefly before his eyes settled on the drunk man in the expensive suit. “Problem?”

“This gentleman is asking for priority treatment,” Ellis said, a small, dangerous smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “He says he’s from Ardentis Holdings.”

Jack’s eyebrows lifted. A flicker of recognition crossed his face, but it wasn't the groveling respect the patient was looking for. It was more like mild amusement.

“Oh,” Jack said, tilting his head. “My wife works there.”

The man let out a short, bark-like laugh. He looked Jack up and down—from his sensible shoes to his stethoscope—with pure disdain. “Your wife? What does she do, handle the filing? Clean the breakroom?”

Jack didn't flinch. “Y/N,” he said simply. “Do you know her?”

The man snorted, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Know her? She’s the CEO of Ardentis Holdings. She’s the most powerful woman in the sector. And you’re telling me you’re married to her?” He laughed again, a wet, arrogant sound. “Please. In what universe?”

Without a word, Jack pulled his phone from his pocket. He tapped the screen once and set it on the counter, angling it toward the man. The call connected almost instantly.

“Yeah?” Your voice came through the speaker—crisp, authoritative, and clearly focused on a dozen other things.

Jack leaned against the counter, looking completely relaxed. “Hey. Quick question. Do you happen to know a manager who is currently in my ER?”

There was a brief, sharp silence on the other end. “I know which one isn't at the board meeting he's supposed to be at,” you said, your voice dropping an octave. “He told my assistant he had a family emergency. Why?”

Jack turned the phone slightly, the camera capturing the man’s face.

The man went from flushed red to a ghostly, sickly white in three seconds flat. The smugness evaporated, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated terror. He was looking straight at his boss—and she was looking back.

“Oh,” you said quietly. It wasn't a shout. It was worse. It was the sound of a closing door. “Did you forget this meeting only happened because of your mistakes?”

“Ma’am,” he stammered, his voice cracking as he tried to straighten his wrinkled suit. “Ma’am, there’s been a massive misunderstanding—”

“He also mentioned,” Ellis piped up from the corner, “that he could cancel the company’s donation if we didn't give him special treatment.”

“Did he?” you asked. The air in the room seemed to turn to ice. “Be in HR at nine a.m. tomorrow. Don't bother bringing your briefcase.”

The man sat paralyzed, his world crumbling into the glowing screen. Before Jack could pull the phone away, your voice drifted through the speaker one last time.

“Oh, and Jack?”

Jack brought the phone back to his face, his expression softening instantly. “Yup.”

“Since I’ve already found someone to take the blame,” you said, your tone losing its icy edge for something warm and intimate, “I’m coming home as soon as I can.”

A rare, genuine smile broke across Jack’s face. “Can’t wait,” he murmured, ending the call.

The man stared, breathless. He had seen you dismantle boardrooms with a single glance, but he had never heard the "shark" speak with such gentleness—let alone to an E.R. doctor.

The call ended with a definitive click.

Jack slipped the phone into his pocket, his face returning to clinical boredom as he clicked his pen. “Let’s finish your vitals.”

“Well,” Ellis said, breaking the quiet with a satisfied sigh. “That solved triage. You’re back to being a ‘Level 4’ priority. Sit tight.”

The man didn’t argue. He sat perfectly still, eyes fixed on the floor, while Jack checked his vitals with methodical precision.

“…How did you even meet her?” he muttered after several minutes, his voice small and defeated. “She’s a shark. She’s always working. No one gets close to her.”

Jack paused for a fraction of a second, his pen hovering over the paper. “She’s stubborn,” Jack said quietly. “A workaholic.”

He clicked his pen.

“So am I.”

********

Flashback

The first time Jack met you.

The ER was unusually quiet. Jack was at the station, flipping through charts, when a nurse waved him over. "Got a walk-in. Abdominal pain," she noted. Jack nodded and stepped into the exam room.

You were sitting on the bed, one hand pressed lightly against your stomach. Your posture remained rigid, as if you were refusing to acknowledge the discomfort. Jack glanced from your face to the clipboard. "What do we have here?"

"Stomachache," you replied, exhaling slowly. "Probably gastric. I don’t have medicine at home."

"Probably?" he echoed, snapping on his gloves. He stepped into your personal space, calm and focused. "When did it start?"

"A few days ago."

"Pain level?"

"Manageable."

He raised a brow. "That’s not a number."

You gave him a dry look. "Fine. Five."

Jack didn’t push, but his hands were already moving. "Any nausea? Vomiting?"

"A little nausea. No vomiting."

He pressed lightly on your abdomen. "Tell me if it hurts."

It did. Your fingers tightened against the bedsheet, but you didn't make a sound. Jack’s eyes flicked to your hands—he noticed. He always noticed. "You work?" he asked, continuing the exam.

"Yeah. Office work."

"Hours?"

"Flexible."

He glanced up, meeting your eyes. "That usually means long."

A small, weary smile touched your lips. "I work better at night."

Jack let out a quiet breath, a faint smile mirroring yours. "Same. Night shift."

The ease of the gesture caught you off guard. "...So you get it," you murmured.

"I do." He stepped back, pulling off his gloves. "And you rest during the day?"

"Yes," you answered, perhaps a second too fast.

Jack didn’t call you out. He just looked at you for a moment longer than necessary—not judging, just noting the truth you were hiding. "Alright. Sounds like gastritis, maybe an early ulcer. It can be serious if you keep ignoring it."

He began writing on a prescription pad. "I’ll give you something to reduce the acid. But you need to eat regularly. And actually rest."

"I'll try," you said, though the words felt hollow.

"You don't sound convincing," Jack remarked, handing you the paper.

You looked at him properly then, curious. "Are you always like this with your patients?"

"Only when I think they’ll come back," he replied.

A beat of silence passed between you. You slid off the bed slowly, smoothing your clothes. "I won't."

"Hope you're right."

You reached for the prescription, your fingers brushing his for a brief, unintentional second. The air in the small room suddenly felt heavy.

"Thanks, doctor," you said, stepping toward the door.

"Abbott," he corrected quietly. "Jack Abbott."

After you left. He never thought this first meeting could lead to another. 

The second time Jack met you

Same week. Different day.

Jack stepped into the exam room and stopped for half a second, the chart already in his hand. “You again.”

You were already sitting on the bed, one hand pressed to your stomach, your posture still stubbornly straight. “Don’t sound too excited, doctor.”

“I told you to follow the plan,” he said, his voice dropping into that calm, authoritative register.

“I did.”

Jack gave you a long, skeptical look as he pulled on fresh gloves. “No, you didn’t.”

You exhaled, shifting slightly to get comfortable. The movement cost you—a sharp flicker of discomfort that made your breath hitch—and he caught it. He always did.

“When did the pain get worse?” he asked, moving into your personal space.

“Last night.”

“Pain level.”

You hesitated, looking at the sterile white tiles of the floor. “…Seven.”

He didn’t comment, but his jaw tightened. “Lie back.”

You did as you were told. He pressed gently along your abdomen, his touch clinical yet oddly grounding. You flinched this time—not a subtle movement—and his hands paused for a fraction of a second before continuing.

“Still eating irregularly?” he asked, his focus entirely on the exam.

“Yes.”

“Sleeping?”

“A little.”

He exhaled through his nose, a sound of quiet frustration. He straightened up, snapping his gloves off. The movement pulled the fabric of his scrubs tight across his chest and forearms, revealing the quiet strength in his veins. It was annoyingly noticeable. You found yourself looking away first, clearing your throat.

“You need labs and imaging,” Jack said. “Blood work, and I want a CT scan. Now.”

You frowned. “That sounds excessive for a stomachache.”

“It’s not,” he replied calmly. “Your symptoms are progressing, and I’m not interested in guessing.”

“I just need stronger meds.”

He crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter. The posture was casual, but his eyes were sharp. “Is your boss the problem? We see a lot of patients who are scared to take time off because of a demanding superior.”

Shen, passing by the open door, leaned in with a helpful nod. “We can advocate for you if that’s the case. No job is worth a perforated gut.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the genuine concern. “Oh—no. It’s not like that. It’s… complicated.”

Jack didn’t move. “Complicated how?”

You exhaled, the weight of the company and the board meetings suddenly feeling very heavy. “…Family business.”

Something shifted in Jack’s expression. It wasn’t sympathy—he didn't seem like the type to offer pity—but it was a cold, hard understanding that this wasn't just about a paycheck.

Time passed in a blur of needles and the sterile hum of the CT machine. When Jack finally returned with the results, he didn't sit down. He didn't soften the blow.

“You have a peptic ulcer,” he said. “And it’s worsening. If this continues, it will bleed or perforate.”

A beat of heavy silence followed.

“You need surgery.”

You shook your head immediately, the instinct to protect your position at the firm overriding the pain. “Not now.”

Jack’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened. “It’s not optional.”

“I can’t,” you said, your voice firmer, your eyes locking onto his. “I can’t risk my position. Not this week.”

Jack studied you, his gaze tracing the lines of exhaustion and defiance on your face. “If you delay this, it gets worse. The recovery gets longer. The risk gets higher.”

The irritation rose in your chest because he was right, and you hated being managed. “I’ll hold it,” you said, your voice tight. “Dr. Jack Abbott.”

That made him pause. Not because of the refusal, but because of the way his name sounded coming from you—a mix of a challenge and an acknowledgement.

Jack nodded once. “Then you’ll be back,” he said.

You didn't rebuke him. You couldn't, because deep down, you felt the truth in his words.

As you walked out of the Pitt, clutching your side, Shen watched your retreating figure. He turned to Jack, scratching his head. “Where does she even work? I wonder what kind of evil boss she has to be that terrified of taking a sick day.”

Jack didn’t answer. He just watched the doors close behind you, his thumb tracing the edge of your chart. “The worst kind,” he murmured to himself. “The kind that doesn't know when to stop.”

The third time Jack met you 

A sharp screech of tires shredded the night. Inside the pit, Mateo and Shen sprinted toward the sound while Jack stayed focused, his hands moving with surgical precision over a teenager’s arm.

Outside, a sleek black sedan was skewed across the ambulance bay. Your assistant, Greg, scrambled out and threw open the rear door. "Please, help her!"

You were slumped against the leather, knuckles white as you clutched your abdomen. When Shen reached for you, your eyes flickered open, hazy with pain. "Just... an injection," you whispered, the words strained. "I need to get back."

"You again?" Shen muttered, recognizing you. Mateo shook his head, already pulling out a wheelchair. "We can’t treat you in a car. Let's move."

Inside, the ER hummed to life. Vitals were taken, IVs started. Shen palpated your stomach, his expression darkening. "Pain level, one to ten?"

"Ten," you choked out, your usual composure shattered.

"We need a CT scan immediately," Shen said.

You looked up, eyes wide with genuine fear. "How long? I... I have a meeting. I just need to stop the hurting." You weren't barking orders anymore; you were desperate. "Please, just tell me if I can leave."

Greg hovered at the curtain, his voice trembling. "Boss, the paracetamol didn't work. You can't just keep going like this."

You didn’t look at either of them. Your gaze was fixed on the ceiling, your voice low and dangerously clear. “If I don’t get the results fast,” you said, “I will drive that car out of here myself.” A heavy pause hung in the air. Then, your eyes flicked to Greg. “And I’ll fire you before I hit the exit.”

There was an awkward moment. Shen didn’t waste time and went outside. “Abbott, I need you.”

Jack peeled off his gloves, his expression neutral. “What’s up?”

“Your gastritis patient is back,” Shen said, already mid-stride toward the trauma bay. “Same one. Still stubborn, still refusing surgery.”

Jack exhaled, a shadow of frustration crossing his face. Of course it was you. He followed, but Shen glanced back, a strange look in his eye. “I think you’ll be surprised by who she actually is.”

They reached the door where Mateo stood waiting, tapping a video on his phone. He held it up—a TikTok clip of fast cuts and aggressive headlines featuring your face. “The one percent,” Mateo said. “Executive Director of Ardentis Holdings.”

“Now I get the stress,” Shen muttered.

“It’s not just the job,” Mateo added, lowering his voice. “Succession rumors. Apparently, her father wants to hand the empire to his mistress.”

“It’s not a rumor,” a voice cut in. Greg stepped forward, looking frayed. “It’s happening. That’s why she won't stop.”

Jack remained silent, absorbing the information. He wasn't looking at the headlines; he was looking at the clinical reality. “Does she eat?”

Greg let out a dry, hollow breath. “Crackers and coffee. Maybe once a day if I’m lucky.”

“Sleep?”

“Barely.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. The damage finally made sense—it wasn't just an illness; it was a slow-motion collapse.

“Please talk to her, Doctor,” Greg pleaded. “I practically had to kidnap her to get her here.”

“Didn’t she just threaten to fire you?” Shen asked, raising a brow.

“She says that every Tuesday,” Greg waved it off. “I’m the only one who can deal with her.”

Ellis approached then, the CT results gripped in her hand. She handed the films to Jack. He scanned them once, then again, his focus narrowing until the rest of the room faded away.

“Yeah,” Jack said, his voice dropping into a grave, final register. “She needs surgery. Right now.”

A heavy silence fell over the group.

“Who’s telling her?” Shen asked, looking around.

No one spoke. They all just looked at Jack. He handed the chart back to Ellis, his expression hardening into the one he used when a patient’s life was on the line.

“Of course,” he said.

He reached out and pushed the door open.

*******

Jack stepped into the trauma bay. You were lying back now, looking smaller than you had in the car. You were paler than before, a light sheen of sweat across your temples. One hand was still clamped over your abdomen, your knuckles white with tension.

You looked at him immediately, your gaze sharp even through the haze of agony. “What’s the result, doc?”

Jack didn't tower over you. He pulled a chair closer and sat down—not rushed, not distant. Just steady. “You need surgery,” he said. “Appendectomy. Today.”

“I’ll accept the surgery,” you said, your breath coming in tight hitches. “But can it be postponed until next week? There’s a project I need to finish. A board meeting I can't miss.”

Jack leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on his knees. “Look,” he said calmly, “I know about the internal conflict in your company.”

Your eyes narrowed. “My noisy assistant.”

“You need this surgery now,” Jack continued, ignoring the deflection. “If you delay it, it will rupture. Then recovery won’t be one week of light work.”

You held his gaze, trying to find a loophole. “How long?”

“Up to three months,” he said. “Especially considering you haven’t been eating properly or sleeping. Your body is running on fumes.”

You let out a quiet scoff, though the movement clearly cost you. “Eight hours of sleep is for weaklings,” you rasped. “I can’t lose everything to that mistress. If I’m not there, she wins.”

On the monitor, your heart rate spiked. The beeping picked up pace, a frantic rhythm echoing your internal panic. Your grip on your abdomen tightened as another wave of pain hit, sharper and more demanding than the last.

Jack moved immediately. “Alright,” he said, his voice dropping into a soothing, authoritative register. “Easy.”

He reached for the IV line, his hands moving with practiced grace. He adjusted the flow and added a medication to the line—controlled, precise. “A small dose of morphine,” he said. “This will take the edge off.”

As the drug entered your system, the world seemed to soften at the edges. You exhaled slowly, your shoulders finally dropping an inch. Silence settled between you for a long second.

Then, Jack spoke again.

“He’s an idiot.”

You blinked, the morphine making the words feel like they were coming from far away. “…Who?”

“Your dad,” Jack said, as matter-of-factly as if he were reading a lab report. “You’re clearly the better choice for the company. Safer than whoever he’s trying to put in. Any doctor can see you’ve put your life into that place.”

“Huh…”The comment caught you completely off guard. No hesitation. No platitudes. Just the truth, delivered by a man who didn't even know who your father was. Ruthless and heartless even to his own daughter. 

For the first time, the corporate mask cracked. It wasn't weakness that showed through, but a raw, startled realization. You almost laughed, but the movement pulled at your side, so you stopped, your breath catching in your throat.

“…Thanks,” you whispered instead, a small, genuine smile forming despite the circumstances.

Jack’s expression softened, just a fraction. “Yeah. Does she have the same mind for it that you do?” Jack asked, his tone casual, though his eyes remained sharp. “The mistress. Is she as smart as you?”

You let out a sharp, derisive scoff, “Yeah, right. The only way she made it into the executive suite was because she slept her way through the board. Strategy isn't exactly her forte.”

“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. You have the brain. She doesn't.” he assured you that weirdly work on you “You could win the battle with your eyes closed.” 

“I suppose you’re right,” you murmured, your voice losing its defensive edge.

He straightened up, returning to his professional posture. “So, for the surgery—I need your consent. Do you want to proceed?”

You looked at him. Really looked this time. Not at the white coat or the stethoscope, but at the steady man sitting in the plastic chair.

“Fix me up, doctor.” you kinda dragging the doctor because you want to know his name. “I trust you.” 

That words was enough. Jack stood up, checked the monitors one last time, and stepped out of the room.

Greg was waiting right outside the door, pacing a hole into the floor. He stopped the moment Jack appeared. “Did she... did she agree? Did she want the surgery?”

Jack didn't stop walking toward the scrub sinks, but he gave a single, definitive nod. “Yup.”

Greg let out a breath so long it sounded like a deflating balloon. “Thank goodness.”

The fourth time Jack met you

By the time Jack made his way upstairs, the chaos of the ER had faded into the quieter rhythm of recovery floors. He hadn’t planned to come, or at least that’s what he told himself, but he still stopped outside your room.

The door wasn’t fully closed, and your voice slipped through, steady but impatient. “Greg, give me the laptop.”

“No,” Greg said, unusually firm. “Post-op orders. You just had surgery. You’re not working.”

A brief silence followed, the kind that meant you were deciding whether to argue or override him. Jack pushed the door open before you could.

You were propped up against the pillows, pale but composed, IV line taped to your arm. Even after surgery, you looked like you were still in control. Your eyes shifted to him, and for a second, you said nothing.

“You should be resting,” Jack said, glancing at the monitor, then back at you. “Eat, sleep, repeat. That’s how you recover faster.”

You went quiet.

Greg blinked. “See? I told you.”

Jack ignored him. His focus stayed on you. “You pushed too far,” he said, calm but firm. “Ulcers don’t get that bad overnight. Next time, you stop earlier.”

“There won’t be a next time,” you replied.

“Good.”

A pause settled between you.

“And don’t lose,” he added.

Your brows knit slightly. “Lose to what?”

“The pressure. Your father. The mistress.” His gaze stayed steady. “I put my bet on you.”

That caught you off guard.

“A bet?”

“Are you going to win or not?”

You leaned back, studying him. “Is this a challenge?”

He didn’t answer. Just checked his watch.

“My shift’s over. Focus on recovering.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, “I don’t like losing bets.”

He walked out like it was nothing.

The room felt quieter after he left. Greg lingered nearby, watching you like he was waiting for you to snap back and ask for the laptop again.

You didn’t.

You stayed where you were, one hand resting lightly over the bandage, your eyes still on the door he had just walked through.

A bet.

You let out a slow breath, then finally glanced at Greg. “Did he just challenge me?”

Greg gave a small shrug. “I guess?”

A faint smile pulled at your lips, almost against your will. “Oh, I’m going to show him.”

You adjusted your blanket to go back to sleep. "Send gifts to the doctors who handled my case in the ER," you commanded, your professional tone back in place.

Greg nodded, tapping into his tablet. "Yes, boss. Of course. All of them?"

You didn't look at him. "All of them."

A beat of silence followed. "And make sure it’s appropriate," you added. "Nothing over the top, but let them know the quality of care was... noted."

"Understood." Greg hesitated, his stylus hovering over the screen. "...Do you want to include Dr. Abbott separately? Maybe something personal?"

"No," you said, your voice steady. "Make it the same as the others."

Few days later, the discharge papers were signed. The hospital room, once a sanctuary of quiet, now felt too small, too restrictive. You stood by the window, dressed in a sharp, tailored suit that felt like armor. You straightened your sleeves, the familiar weight of your old life settling back onto your shoulders.

"Can I leave tonight instead?" you asked, checking your watch. "The evening air is better for travel."

Greg checked the itinerary. "If we want to land in Sweden and get ahead of her before the morning session, we really need to be on the afternoon flight."

You hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second, your fingers brushed the edge of the hospital bed—the place where you’d actually found a moment of peace.

"...Fine," you conceded.

Greg glanced at you, then added with a mischievous tilt of his head, "You know, if you want... I could probably get his number. For follow-up questions. Medical ones."

You turned your head sharply, your eyes narrowing. "Shut up, Greg."

"Yes, boss." But there was a hint of a smile he couldn't quite hide as he grabbed your bags.

As you stepped out of the room and headed toward the elevator, you didn't look back at the trauma bay or the quiet halls. But as you walked, your pace slowed—just a fraction. You weren't rushing. You weren't vibrating with the need to be somewhere else.

For the first time in a very long while, you weren't thinking about the company. Not entirely. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a steady, low voice lingered, grounding you.

Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

Back in the ER, the frantic energy of the night shift had smoothed out into the steady, mechanical rhythm of a Tuesday morning. The monitors hummed, footsteps squeaked against the polished linoleum, and the air smelled of fresh floor wax and stale coffee.

Shen looked up from a clipboard as Jack walked in, shrugging off his heavy jacket to reveal his scrub top.

“Your patient got discharged this morning,” Shen said, his voice carrying a teasing lilt.

Jack paused, one arm still caught in his sleeve. He hesitated for only half a second before continuing. “Hmm?”

“The princess of Ardentis Holdings,” Shen smirked, leaning back against the nurse's station. “Left in a motorcade about two hours ago.”

Jack let out a quiet breath, finally draping his jacket over the back of a chair and reaching for the chart rack. “She’s not a princess,” he muttered, his voice low and distracted.

Shen didn’t bother to argue the technicality; the smirk remained firmly in place.

“We got really good food the whole time she was here,” Ellis chimed in, leaning her elbows on the counter. There was a faint, satisfied look on her face. “Catering from places I can’t even afford to look at. The day shift was absolutely jealous of us.”

Mateo nodded in fervent agreement. “I had a lobster roll for a ‘snack’ at 3:00 a.m. I don’t think I can go back to vending machine granola bars, Jack.”

Jack flipped through a chart, his expression entirely unimpressed. “So that’s what you took from this case. A refined palate for seafood?”

Ellis shrugged, unbothered. “I’m just saying. High-standard patient, high-standard perks.”

“Don’t tell me you guys are hoping she comes back,” Jack said, glancing up briefly from his paperwork, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Ellis and Mateo exchanged a quick, knowing look before both letting out a chuckle.

“Not like that, doc,” Mateo said, holding up his hands in mock surrender as he began to back away toward a trauma bay.

“Relax, Doctor Abbott,” Ellis added with a wink, heading off to check on a fresh admission. “The drama was just a nice break from the usual drunks.”

Shen, however, stayed. He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice so it didn't carry across the pit.

“…Don’t you?” Shen asked.

Jack looked at him, one brow slowly crawling toward his hairline. “Don’t I what?”

Before Jack could press him, Mateo suddenly reappeared, his phone already out and glowing. “There’s an update,” he said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Next week will be the decision. Swedish investors. Board control. It’s all going down right now.”

Jack frowned slightly, his pen pausing over a prescription pad. “How do you even know all of this, Mateo? Don't you have patients?”

Mateo rolled his eyes, as if the answer were obvious. “I follow an account. ‘The 0.1%.’ They track people like her—the moves, the scandals, the power shifts. It’s better than any soap opera.”

Jack didn’t comment. He just picked up his pen again, tapping it rhythmically once, twice against the edge of the metal clipboard. He looked back down at his work, his face a mask of clinical indifference.

“…So?” Jack asked quietly.

Mateo looked up, surprised by the prompt. Jack met his eyes, his expression as calm and steady as the day they’d met.

“Tell me when it’s decided,” Jack said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the ER.

A small, stunned pause followed. Mateo blinked once, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Tell me who wins,” Jack added.

Mateo’s grin widened into a triumphant beam. “Yes, sir.”

The fifth time Jack met you

A few months later, the room was bathed in the glow of a hundred crystal chandeliers.

Soft gold lighting bounced off champagne flutes and silk gowns. It was a sea of people dressed in the kind of tailored luxury that signaled true power. Conversations were layered, voices kept to a practiced, elegant hum over the quiet swell of a string quartet. This wasn’t just a victory party; it was a statement.

The war was over. The board was yours, and the mistress had been removed—cleanly, efficiently, and without a single drop of blood spilled on the corporate carpet.

You stood at the center of the room, a glass of vintage sparkling water in your hand. You were calm, composed, and entirely untouchable.

Lilly, your closest friend and director of marketing, looped her arm through yours, a triumphant grin on her face. “You really did it. You actually pulled it off.”

You took a slow, deliberate sip. “Of course I did.”

Lilly laughed, ready to make a toast, but suddenly her posture stiffened. Her hand dropped to her stomach, her fingers digging into the expensive fabric of her dress.

“…Okay,” she whispered, her face draining of color. “That’s not good.”

You turned immediately, your focus shifting from the room to her in a heartbeat. “What’s wrong?”

She forced a tight smile, though her grip on your arm was becoming a vice. “Probably just the new diet. It’s brutal.”

You weren’t convinced. You had seen this look before—the pale sweat, the shallow breathing. You were already shaking your head. “We’re going to the ER.”

“What? No—this is your night,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “The things we do for beauty, right?”

“Greg,” you called out, your voice low but carrying that unmistakable edge of command. “Prepare the car.”

“I have medicine in my bag—” Lilly started.

“No,” you cut her off, already guiding her toward the side exit. “We’re going. Now.”

Greg, who had been hovering nearby with a watchful eye, squinted at Lilly. He looked from her to you, a slow, knowing expression crossing his face. “…Suspicious,” he muttered under his breath.

“Shut up, Greg,” Lilly groaned, leaning heavily into you as the pain spiked.

“Yeah,” you added, pushing through the heavy oak doors. “Shut up, Greg.”

The ER doors hissed open with that familiar, pneumatic sound.

The smell was the same—antiseptic and floor wax. The lighting was the same—stark and uncompromising. But this time, the reason was different.

Shen looked up from the nurse's station and immediately a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Oh. The queen is back.”

You frowned, not missing the irony. “What?”

“I’m dying here,” Lilly groaned beside you, her head lolling against your shoulder.

You pointed at her without a moment’s hesitation. “Stomach pain. High stress. New diet. Fix her.”

Shen was already moving, grabbing a wheelchair. “Of course it is. It’s always the diet.”

The machinery of the hospital picked up speed around you. Vitals were taken, questions were barked out, and Lilly was whisked toward a trauma bay. Then, the curtains parted, and Jack stepped in.

He looked exactly as he had months ago—sleeves rolled up, stethoscope around his neck, an expression of unshakable, quiet focus. He didn't react to your designer gown or the fact that you looked like you’d just stepped off a magazine cover. To him, you were just a person in a room.

“Ellis, IV line. Matteo, get me labs. Let’s not assume it’s the diet until we see the blood work,” Jack said, his hands already moving to assess Lilly’s condition.

“Yes, doctor,” Ellis replied.

Within seconds, the team had Lilly stabilized and moving toward imaging. The chaos receded, the curtains were pulled, and suddenly, the room felt much larger.

It was just you and him.

Jack pulled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin with a flick of his wrist. He turned to you properly, leaning back against the metal counter. A brief, quiet pause stretched between you.

“You look great,” he said. It wasn't a line. It was a clinical observation, delivered with a hint of genuine warmth.

You held his gaze, feeling the tension of the last few months finally start to ebb away. “Thank you.”

Another beat passed.

“Oh,” Jack added, as if it had just occurred to him. “And congrats. You won the battle.”

You tilted your head slightly, a flicker of amusement in your eyes as you remembered. “Right. So that means you won the bet too?”

“Yup.”

A real smile almost formed. “Glad I didn’t make you lose.” You paused, then added, “How did you even know?”

Jack shrugged lightly, leaning one shoulder against the counter, completely at ease. “Hard to miss,” he said, his voice dropping into that steady tone you remembered.

“After all… you were my patient.”

With a small nod, he pushed himself off the counter and walked toward the trauma bay, already shifting his focus to the next case.

You stayed where you were, silk gown catching the harsh fluorescent light, watching him leave. His movements were calm, unhurried, like none of the chaos around him mattered. Like your world didn’t touch his at all.

Without thinking, you caught your lower lip between your teeth, your gaze lingering on the doorway long after he disappeared.

Across the room, Lilly, still half-sprawled on the bed but far more awake now, exchanged a slow, knowing look with Greg.

They nodded at the same time.

“Yeah,” Lilly muttered, voice weak but satisfied. “I knew it.”

Greg adjusted his glasses, completely in agreement. “Exactly.”

The sixth time Jack met you 

A few weeks later, the ER felt different.

It was cooler. Literally. Even the patients were shocked and unprepared with the coldness. 

Mateo walked through the double doors, froze directly under a ceiling vent, and closed his eyes. He looked like a man who had just found religion.

“Is that... actual air conditioning?” he breathed, the faint hum of a powerful, brand-new HVAC system purring above him.

Ellis didn’t even bother to look up from her paperwork, though the lack of sweat on her brow spoke volumes. “Don’t question a miracle, Mateo. Just enjoy the fact that we aren't melting into our scrubs anymore.”

Shen leaned back in his chair, a rare, relaxed posture for a Tuesday afternoon. “The waiting room, too. Finally, No more broken chairs or flickering lights.”

Robby walked in, hands shoved deep into his pockets, glancing around at the subtle but expensive upgrades. The walls were freshly painted, the floors gleamed with a high-grade finish, and the equipment at the triage station was top-of-the-line.

“Donations came through,” Robby said casually, though his eyes were dancing with a certain knowing light.

Mateo smirked, finally stepping away from the vent. “Yeah. We know who.”

No one said your name. They didn’t need to. The precision of the renovation, the efficiency of the delivery, and the sheer quality of the materials had your signature written all over it.

Robby’s gaze shifted across the room, landing on Jack. As usual, Jack was leaning against the counter, focused on a chart as if the world hadn't just been upgraded around him.

Robby walked over and leaned against the opposite side of the desk. “We should thank her.”

Jack didn’t look up. “You’re the Head of E.R, Robby. You can.”

Robby shook his head, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “No. It’s you who should thank her.”

That made Jack pause. Just for a second. The pen in his hand stilled over the paper. He slowly raised his head, his expression as unreadable as ever. “…Why me?”

Robby gave him a long, pointed look. “Don’t pretend you don’t know, Jack.”

Jack closed the chart. Slowly. Methodically. “I don’t.”

Robby let out a quiet breath, a sound somewhere between amusement and exhaustion. “Yeah,” he said, tapping the counter before walking away. “You do.”

Later that night, a rare, quiet moment descended upon the pit. The rush of the evening had bled out into a midnight lull.

Jack stepped out into the crisp night air to clear his head, but his gaze was immediately pulled to the parking lot. The black luxury sedan was back, and Greg was leaning against the hood. Greg caught Jack’s eye and gave a small, meaningful nod toward the hospital lobby.

He headed back inside, his boots echoing on the newly polished floors. He found you standing in the center of the lobby, head tilted back as you oversaw the progress of the renovation you had funded.

He approached, his steps unhurried and steady. “You’re doing inspections now?”

You turned toward him, showing no surprise at his sudden appearance. “Just making sure it works.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the new vents above—the ones currently pumping perfectly chilled, sterile air into the wing—then settled back on you. “It does.”

A beat of silence followed, the kind that usually felt awkward in a hospital but felt different between the two of you. “You didn’t have to do this,” he added, his voice a low rumble.

You held his gaze, your expression as calm and unreadable as ever. “It’s called gratitude, Dr. Abbott.”

Gosh. Every time his name slipped from your lips, it sent a sharp, electric tingle racing down his spine. He cleared his throat. “For the hospital?”

“For the people in it,” you corrected him. You took a half-step closer, the professional distance beginning to blur. “You helped me. And you helped my friend. Consider this a closing of the account.”

Jack studied you for a long second, his head tilted slightly as if he were deciding whether to accept that answer or look for the one you weren't saying. The silence that settled between you wasn't empty; it was close, heavy with the shared history of that frantic night in the ER.

“You’ve been eating properly?” he asked suddenly, falling back into the role of the doctor, though his eyes suggested he was looking for more than just a medical update.

You exhaled a light, weary breath. Of course he would bring it back to that. “Yes. Greg is a professional micromanager.”

“And sleeping?”

The question caused a pause. You shifted your weight slightly, your gaze drifting toward the darkened windows for a fraction of a second before returning to his steady, unblinking eyes. The air between you tightened, the hum of the new AC the only sound in the quiet lobby.

“I have trouble sleeping,” you said.

That got his attention. Jack’s eyes lifted from the chart, settling on you with quiet, undivided focus. “Since when?”

“Since a long time ago.” You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “Probably because my bed is too cold. Maybe you could fix that.”

Something in his expression shifted. He wasn't surprised or even particularly amused; he was just suddenly, intensely aware. “Cold bed,” he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. His gaze didn’t leave yours. “You're saying that’s the problem?”

“It’s one of them.” Your chin lifted a fraction, meeting his scrutiny.

He studied you for a long second, then gave a small nod, accepting the answer without pushing. “You don’t look like someone who waits around for problems to fix themselves,” he noted.

“I don’t.”

“Good.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Instead, it seemed to tighten the space between you, pulling the air taut. You crossed your arms slowly, the movement deliberate this time. “Then what would you suggest, doctor?”

Jack didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, steady and measuring, as if calculating a dose. “Warm shower,” he said finally. “Magnesium. No phone thirty minutes before bed.”

Your brow lifted. “That’s it?”

“That’s what works.”

You tilted your head, still watching him, refusing to let him off the hook. “And if I’m still not tired?”

There was a brief, heavy pause. His gaze dropped for a second, tracing the line of your throat before returning to your face. “You should have someone who makes you stop,” he said, his voice calm and certain. “Someone who drags you to bed.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. You felt it in the sudden hitch of your pulse. “Do you give that advice to all your patients?” you asked, your voice dropping to a whisper.

He shook his head once. “No.” He let the word hang there for a beat. “Just you.”

He turned slightly, acting as if he were done, as if the line had already been crossed and he wasn’t going to linger on the edge. “If it’s still a problem,” he added almost casually, “you know who to call.”

You watched him, the sharp edges of your corporate persona shifting into something softer, more intrigued. “I didn’t know you had this in you.”

That made him glance back, looking just over his shoulder. “You don’t know much about me yet.” He paused, his eyes dark. “But you could.”

Now he turned fully, stepping closer. He wasn't near enough to touch, but he was close enough to change the atmosphere between you. “There’s a bar down the street,” he said. “If you want to fix the sleep issue properly.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing your face. “You’re skipping your shift?”

His mouth curved, just a little. “I’m stepping out.” He took another step, his voice dropping into a low, private register. “I’m not letting the biggest donor of this hospital go home alone and pretend she’s fine.”

It wasn’t a tease. It was a statement of pure intention. You held his gaze for a second longer, the weight of the night and the hospital falling away, before letting a small smile slip through.

“Lead the way, Dr. Abbott.”

Since that night, it didn’t stay just one night.

What started as something simple turned into a pattern neither of you questioned. You showed up after his shifts. He started expecting you there. Some nights you waited in the car, some nights you walked straight into the ER like you belonged there.

People noticed. The quiet way you stood near him. The way he always looked up when you entered, even in the middle of work.

You stopped going home alone. He stopped leaving without you.

Somewhere along the way, it became natural.

"I don't know" you mumbled, leaning into him as he lifted the back of your knees, other planted across your back s he lifted you up, bridal style, up the stairs.

Steve hummed, kicking the door of his bedroom open, huffing as he placed you down on the mattress.

"'Kay, let's get you to bed, s'that alright?"

You whined, rolling your eyes as you curled into the bed.

"No...I don't wanna go to bed" you fought, pulling at covers, trying to drape them over you while Steve stopped you, pushing them away before sitting you up.

"Really? cause it seems like you do" He smiled dumbly, kneeling down in front of you, hands reaching down for the straps of your heels.

"Don't wanna get ready" You slurred, shaking your head as he slipped off your shoes, tucking them under his bed and clapping his hands.

You two had been at one of Steve's old friend's birthday parties when he lost you, looking everywhere for twenty minutes until he found you in the kitchen, downing a drink and going back for more.

"Slow down, baby" he had said when he reached you, hand brushing your wrist as he pulled away the cup from your lips.

But it was already too late for the young Harrington. You were already pissed drunk and babbling your words as you squealed at the sight of him.

"Yeah, well, you gotta take a shower and get changed, I know you don't want to sleep in this" He gestured to your dress, tight and twisted from all your wriggling in the car ride home.

"No shower" you groaned, leeching onto him as his hands snaked around you.

He chuckled lowly, nodding to himself as he walked you to the bathroom "Fine, but you need to brush your teeth"

You were limp in his grip, holding onto the counter for support as he reached into the cabinet, taking the cap off the toothpaste and grabbing your spare toothbrush.

He lifted the brush to your mouth, reaching his free hand to cup your chin when you wouldn't open.

You winced as you took over, lazily brushing your teeth back and forth until he was satisfied, brushing his own teeth next to you with a hand planted on your elbow.

Your head began to slowly calm down, the pounding settling into a soft, still painful headache, but barable to your drunken state.

You spat out the acidic foam into the sink and leaned up on your tiptoes to reach the mouthwash. Almost dropping it as you stumbled, Steve, catching you and the bottle, his toothbrush held between his teeth as foam dripped from his mouth.

Wrapping your arm around him, he held you up, unscrewing the cap and filling it up with the blue mouthwash before handing it to you.

"Don't swallow" he mumbled as you brought it to your lips, rolling your eyes at him.

He spat out the rest of his foam and fixed himself a lid of mouthwash, swirling it around his mouth, swishing and gargling as you spat yours out, him following quickly after and washing the wink out with water before turning to you.

"Do you need to use the toilet?" He asked, turning you around before taking your hair out.

You felt the relief of your scap being released from the tight updo you chose for the night, curling your fingers through your hair to massage your head, moaning in dramatic pleasure as he grabbed his brush, ready to rush it out for you.

You shook your head "no, I'm fine"

"Are you sure?"

You nodded, closing your eyes as he brushed the bristles gently through the tangles, placing a soft kiss your shoulder as you watched him through the mirror.

You yawned, barely noticing when he stopped brushing and started stripping you of your dress.

You giggled loudly, squirming away from him.

"Stop! I never said you could do that, naughty boy" you teased weakly, slapping his hands away from your zipper.

He sighed, now growing tired himself "Baby, we gotta get you changed, don't you wanna wear something more comfortable? I'll get you in my clothes"

You whined softly before giving in, letting him unzip your dress and slide it down your body.

Stepping out of it, he picked it up, throwing it in the hamper as he lead you back to his room.

His hands were gentle as he guided you to his bed.

"Can I wear the yellow sweater?" You mumbled, laying down the plush of his bed as he dug into his dresser.

"Sure, Honey" he responded, running a hand through his hair as you swung your legs off the mattress, kicking back and forth.

He came over a moment later, a pair of shorts and a grey blue sweatshirt, making you frown.

"I said yellow!" You cried, lifting up the top.

He swallowed, reaching behind you to unclip your bra before you pushed him away.

"Steve!" You groaned "I said yellow sweater"

He picked his lips, eyebrows furrowing as he winced "I know, but you took that sweater home last time, remember? Its at your house"

You pouted as his hands reached for you again, lightly brushing your skin before you twisted and turned, rolling away from him.

"No. You just didn't look hard enough"

He huffed, trying to stay patient with you as he smiled softly "I did, okay? You took it last week"

You shook your head stubbornly, glaring at him.

"No!"

"I'm sorry sweetheart, next time, I promise you can wear it" he mumbled, pulling you up and reaching behind you again.

"-Bullshit" he heard you mumble under your breath, your tone angry and slurred.

He paused, freezing all movements as the word spun around his head.

A moment later, he pulled away from you, eyes blurry and wide as he looked at you.

"What?" He murmured, voice weak and small as he searched your eyes.

"It's bullshit" you repeated louder, glaring harder at him, making him shrink in place.

He flinched as his breath caught in his throat.

"Me?" He asked, voice breaking as he shifted away from you.

"No" you spat "the sweater"

He nodded slowly, still unsure until you leaned in, resting your head on his shoulder.

"Can I just wear that striped shirt I like...this is itchy"

Steve got up with a heavy breath, biting his tongue to try and calm down from the almost-heartbreak he just felt.

He took the sweatshirt back, opting for the white and blue striped shirt of his.

By the time he had gotten up and turned around, you wear taking off your bra, throwing it somewhere on the floor without a care in the world.

He watched your eyes following him as he came back over, holding the shirt open for you before slipping it over your head, your lazily holding up your arms to fit through the holes.

You smiled at him dumbly.

"You're so pretty, Stevie"

Steve felt his face flush hot and red as he smiled sheepishly.

"Thank you, baby"

You lifted your hips as he slid down your undies, kneeling in front of you again as you handed him the boxers he laid out for you.

He took them from you and pulled them on, slipping them up your legs to settle on your hips.

He pat your side, giving it a gentle squeeze as you giggled.

"I'll be right back, honey, okay?"

You shifted up the bed, laying down as you nodded, not even thinking of fighting him as he stripped of his clothes, getting changed at the end of his room before leaving.

He heard the light pads of his feet thumping down the stairs as you rolled in the covers, struggling to cover yourself with the blanket as you waited for your boy to come back.

You drifted, eyes closing as you yawned, rolling onto his side of the bed, nodding off to a deep sleep.

By the time Steve came back, you were snoring, spread out and swallowed in the sea of his comforter.

He couldn't help but smile as he climbed in next to you, placing a bottle of water and Tylenol on the bedside table.

He sighed as he laid down beside you. Suppressing a laugh as you turned, cuddling into him before making your lips together.

"I love you, Stevie" you mumbled into his chest, clinging to him.