18|𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚑|

Afternoon settled heavily across the estate in the hours after the note was found, the mansion no longer carrying the same carefully controlled elegance it usually held after one of your father’s events. Even though the staff still moved quietly through the hallways polishing silver, replacing flowers, and restoring every room back into impossible perfection, there was a tension lingering beneath the surface strong enough to feel in the air itself, spreading through the house like smoke no amount of money or marble could properly hide. People whispered now.

Not openly, because nobody employed by your father would ever risk openly discussing problems inside the house, but quietly enough that conversations stopped the second footsteps approached, eyes lowering immediately whenever you passed through a room. Security guards stood near entrances where there normally would have only been one person stationed, black vehicles lined the circular driveway outside the estate longer than usual, and every member of staff carried themselves with the same rigid unease that only appeared whenever your father’s business affairs began bleeding too far into the house itself. The note remained burned into the front of your mind no matter how hard you tried to focus on anything else.

Pretty girls die just as easily as their mothers…

The sentence echoed so violently inside your head that it became impossible to think around it.

You barely moved after leaving Ben’s room earlier that morning because every time you blinked, those words returned immediately alongside the growing horror of realizing how little you actually knew about your own family. By the time afternoon arrived, exhaustion sat heavily behind your eyes while the massive bedroom you had spent your entire life inside suddenly felt unfamiliar beneath the muted daylight filtering through the enormous windows. Every expensive object around you was beginning to resemble evidence of something uglier hiding underneath it all. You were never fond of all of this stuff, you just knew it kept your father happy so you were a true depiction of gratitude.

The antique vanity your mother once used before she died. The portraits hanging carefully along the walls. The pale silk bedding your father insisted be replaced every season despite the fact nobody except him cared enough to notice. Everything inside the room felt preserved rather than lived in, like the entire house had spent years desperately maintaining the illusion of perfection while something rotten quietly spread underneath it. You sat near the windows wrapped loosely in a cream cashmere robe while rain rolled softly against the glass outside, Manhattan hidden beneath a dull gray sky in the distance while fog settled low across the estate grounds below. Gardeners still worked despite the weather, tiny figures moving carefully between trimmed hedges while black umbrellas followed security near the front gates. It looked less like a home this afternoon. More like a fortress.

A knock sounded softly against your bedroom door before one of the maids stepped carefully inside carrying a tray with coffee and a late lunch arranged neatly across silver dishes. “Your father has asked for you downstairs immediately.” she said quietly while setting the tray onto the small sitting table near the fireplace. Your stomach tightened instantly. “Did he say why?”

“No, miss.” Of course he didn’t. The maid hesitated briefly afterward like she wanted to say something more before lowering her gaze instead and quietly leaving the room. You stared toward the closed door for several long seconds before finally standing. Every nerve inside your body already knew something had shifted.

By the time you made your way downstairs nearly twenty minutes later, the atmosphere inside the mansion had become even worse. Men in dark suits moved through the lower hallways speaking quietly into earpieces while several unfamiliar faces stood near the entrances to rooms that normally remained open without restriction. Staff avoided eye contact almost entirely now, disappearing quickly into side corridors whenever possible while your father’s voice carried faintly through the drawing room ahead. Sharp. Aggravated. You slowed slightly near the doorway before stepping inside. Your father stood near the fireplace with one hand pressed against the edge of the marble mantle while another man in a dark suit spoke quietly beside him. Papers covered nearly every surface inside the room, financial documents scattered across the coffee table while untouched whiskey sat near the crystal decanter your father usually reserved for guests important enough to impress.

Then there was Ben.

He stood near the windows overlooking the front gardens dressed entirely in black again, broad shoulders tense beneath the tailored fabric while one hand rested inside the pocket of his coat. Unlike everyone else inside the room, he looked perfectly calm. Which somehow only made everything worse. Your father noticed you immediately.

“There you are.”

The strain in his voice sounded sharper than normal. You crossed your arms tightly against yourself while stepping further into the room. “What’s going on?” Your father exchanged a brief glance with the man beside him before dismissing him entirely with a quiet nod. The second the door closed behind the other man, silence settled heavily through the room. Then your father turned fully toward you. “You’re leaving.” You blinked once. “What?”

“The estate is no longer secure enough for you to remain here.” The words landed heavily enough that for a second you genuinely thought you misheard him. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.” You stared at him in disbelief while anger immediately surged hotter beneath your chest. “So your solution is what exactly?” you asked sharply. “Lock me away somewhere until this all magically disappears?”

“This is not a discussion.”

“No, apparently nothing is lately.” Your father’s jaw tightened. “Enough.” The single word echoed sharply through the room. Ordinarily it would have ended the argument immediately because growing up around your father meant learning very quickly when to stop pushing, but this time frustration had already burned too far through your chest to disappear quietly. “You can’t just decide to uproot my entire life overnight because you suddenly realized your business is dangerous.” His expression darkened instantly. “My business has always been dangerous.” The honesty of the statement stunned you silent for half a second. Then your anger returned even stronger. “And yet somehow I’m only hearing about any of this now.”

“Because you were never supposed to.” You laughed softly then, though the sound carried absolutely no humor whatsoever. “That’s comforting.” Your father dragged one hand tiredly across his face before speaking again, calmer this time though no less firm. “You are leaving with Ben within the hour.” Your eyes immediately snapped toward Ben near the windows. He still had not spoken once. “You already agreed to this?” you asked sharply. Ben’s expression remained unreadable. “It’s my job.” The calmness in his voice only irritated you more. “Right, because apparently everyone in this house gets to decide what happens to me except me.”

“You’re acting like this is punishment,” your father replied coldly. “It is protection.”

“It feels exactly the same.” Your father ignored the comment entirely. “The penthouse has already been prepared.”

Prepared.

The word alone made your stomach twist unpleasantly. This had been planned. Probably before he even called you downstairs. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“You’ll remain there until I say otherwise.” The finality in his tone immediately told you arguing further would accomplish absolutely nothing. Still, resentment burned violently through your chest anyway because standing there listening to two men discuss where you would live like you were another problem needing management made humiliation settle sharply beneath your skin. “I’m not a child.”

“No,” your father answered quietly. “You’re leverage.” The room fell completely silent. Even Ben looked toward him then. You stared at your father while something cold slowly settled inside your chest because the statement sounded less emotional than factual, spoken with the same detached practicality he used during business meetings. Not daughter.

Leverage.

The realization hurt more than you wanted it to. Your father seemed to recognize it too a second later because exhaustion flickered briefly across his expression before he exhaled heavily through his nose. “This is temporary,” he added quieter now. “Once things stabilize, you can come home.”

Home.

The word barely felt accurate anymore. You looked away first because suddenly maintaining eye contact felt impossible. Outside the rain continued tapping softly against the enormous windows while distant thunder rolled low across the skyline beyond the estate grounds. “Fine.” you said finally, voice flat with exhaustion rather than agreement. Your father nodded once immediately like the conversation had now officially ended. “Pack what you need.” Then he turned away toward the papers scattered across the table again before either you or Ben moved. That hurt too. Not because you expected him to suddenly become emotional, but because part of you still thought maybe he would look at you differently while sending you away from the only home you had ever known. Instead he looked irritated. Distracted. Like this entire situation had become another problem interfering with business rather than his daughter being threatened inside his own house. Slowly, you turned toward the doorway again. Ben followed several seconds later.

The hallway outside remained quiet except for distant movement downstairs while gray afternoon light spilled across the marble floors beneath your feet. You walked several steps ahead of him without speaking, anger and humiliation twisting together violently inside your chest while the reality of everything finally began settling properly around you. You were being removed from the house. Hidden. Protected. Whatever word they wanted to use for it. Still, beneath all the anger sat fear you refused to acknowledge properly because the note downstairs had changed something fundamental inside you. For the first time in your life, the danger surrounding your father’s world no longer felt distant enough to ignore. Ben’s footsteps remained steady behind you until you reached the staircase leading toward the second floor. Then finally his voice broke the silence.

“You should start packing.” You stopped abruptly before turning sharply toward him. “Oh, now you talk.” His expression remained frustratingly calm. “You done fighting everybody yet?” The irritation in his voice instantly reignited your own. “You know what, I’m actually getting really tired of your attitude.” Ben raised one brow slightly. “My attitude?”

“Yes, your attitude.” you snapped while descending another step toward him. “You’ve spent the last two days acting like I’m some spoiled idiot who deserves every horrible thing happening around her simply because I grew up in this house.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you imply every single time you look at me.” Silence stretched briefly between both of you while distant voices echoed faintly through the lower hallway behind him. Then Ben sighed quietly through his nose. “You want honesty?” You crossed your arms tighter. “Clearly you’re going to give it anyway.” His jaw shifted slightly before he answered. “I’ve worked for families like yours for years,” he said evenly. “Rich men with blood all over their hands pretending money fixes everything while their kids walk around completely disconnected from reality.” The words hit sharply enough to make your chest tighten. “And you think I’m like that.”

“I thought you were.” The slight change in wording caught your attention immediately.

Thought.

Not think. Before you could properly respond, Ben continued. “But spoiled people don’t beg bodyguards not to tell their fathers they’re terrified.” Your breath caught slightly. The memory of earlier that morning returned instantly. Ben held your gaze steadily now, no mockery left in his expression this time. “And spoiled people usually don’t look more worried about their father than themselves after receiving death threats.” For several seconds you genuinely did not know what to say. Because somehow hearing him admit he may have been wrong unsettled you more than his insults ever had. The tension between both of you shifted strangely then, becoming quieter rather than hostile while rain continued falling softly outside the towering windows nearby. Finally you looked away first. “I still don’t want to leave.” Ben’s voice softened almost imperceptibly when he answered. “I know.” And somehow that simple response hurt worse than another argument would have.

The argument lingered heavily between both of you long after the conversation ended, settling into the silence that followed as you finally turned away from Ben and continued up the staircase toward your bedroom. Even without looking back, you could still feel his eyes following you as you climbed each marble step beneath the dim gray light filtering through the mansion windows, and somehow that awareness unsettled you more than you wanted to admit. The estate no longer sounded the same. Usually afternoons inside the house carried a kind of distant elegance to them, soft classical music drifting faintly through hidden speakers while staff moved carefully between rooms preparing dinner arrangements or fresh flowers for the evening. The mansion normally breathed with routine so polished it almost felt rehearsed.

Today everything felt strained. Phones rang constantly somewhere deeper inside the house while security moved between hallways in low urgent conversations, and every servant seemed tense enough that even the smallest sounds carried sharper than normal across the enormous rooms. By the time you reached your bedroom again, rain had started falling harder outside the windows overlooking the estate grounds, streaking silver against the glass while dark clouds swallowed most of the afternoon sunlight above Manhattan in the distance. You stood silently near the center of the room for several long moments before finally beginning to pack. At first the task felt strangely unreal. Your hands moved automatically through drawers and wardrobes lined with expensive clothing while your mind struggled to properly process the fact you were actually leaving the house. The room itself remained painfully beautiful despite everything unfolding around you, filled with pale cream walls, antique gold detailing, towering mirrors, and shelves lined with carefully curated books nobody ever touched anymore. Every object carried years of familiarity. Every object suddenly felt temporary. You folded clothes into one of the designer suitcases resting open across the chaise near your bed while distant thunder rolled softly outside, and for the first time since your father announced you were leaving, grief began settling quietly beneath your anger. Because despite everything wrong with this house, despite the lies and secrets and suffocating expectations attached to it, this place still held your entire life inside it. Your mother’s perfume still lingered faintly inside the dressing room she once used beside yours. The piano downstairs still carried fingerprints from evenings she used to play while your father listened beside the fire pretending he wasn’t watching her.

Even the gardens outside still bloomed exactly the way she designed them years ago before she died. Leaving suddenly felt less like protection. More like exile. A soft knock interrupted your thoughts before the bedroom door opened slowly again.One of the older housemaids stepped carefully inside carrying freshly folded coats over her arm.

“Your father asked me to bring these for the city.” she said quietly. You nodded faintly while taking them from her. “Thank you.” She hesitated afterward, gaze lowering briefly toward the suitcase before returning carefully toward your face. “Will you be gone long, miss?” The question tightened something painfully inside your chest. “I don’t know.” The maid offered a small sad smile before smoothing her hands together nervously. “We will miss you around the house.” That almost broke you. Not because the statement itself was emotional, but because she sounded genuinely sincere in a way nobody else inside the estate had all day. You swallowed carefully before answering. “I’ll miss you too.” The woman nodded softly before quietly excusing herself from the room again, leaving silence to settle once more around you. Outside the rain continued falling steadily against the windows while Manhattan disappeared almost entirely beneath the storm gathering across the skyline. By the time you finally carried your suitcase downstairs nearly an hour later, the atmosphere inside the mansion had only worsened. Two additional security guards now stood near the front entrance while your father argued quietly with someone over the phone inside his office nearby, frustration sharp enough in his voice to carry through partially closed doors.

Then there was Ben.

He stood waiting near the foyer dressed in a dark coat with one hand resting near the small earpiece tucked beside his ear, broad shoulders tense beneath the expensive black fabric while one of your suitcases already sat beside him near the entrance. His eyes lifted toward you immediately. “You ready?” The question felt absurd considering absolutely none of this had been your choice. Still, you nodded once anyway. Ben moved forward automatically before taking the heavier suitcase from your hand with practiced ease. You watched him briefly while pulling your coat tighter around yourself. “Thank you,” you muttered quietly. Something unreadable crossed his expression for half a second, almost like he had not expected politeness from you after earlier. Then he simply nodded toward the front doors. The cold afternoon air hit immediately the second the doors opened. Rain poured steadily across the circular driveway outside while black cars waited near the entrance with headlights glowing softly against wet pavement. Security moved quickly through the storm carrying luggage while umbrellas appeared almost instantly overhead the second you stepped outside. The estate looked enormous beneath the rain. Beautiful. Cold. Untouchable. You glanced back toward the house one final time before entering the car. Your father never came outside to say goodbye. That hurt more than you expected it to. 

The drive into Manhattan began almost entirely in silence. Rain rolled heavily against the windows beside you while the city slowly grew larger through the storm ahead, skyscrapers disappearing beneath low clouds while traffic lights reflected gold and red across soaked streets. Ben sat beside you in the backseat rather than the front, posture relaxed outwardly despite the constant sharp awareness in his eyes whenever the car slowed near intersections or crowded streets. One hand rested loosely near his phone while the other tapped absentmindedly against his knee every few minutes. You spent most of the drive staring out the window. Neither of you seemed particularly interested in forcing conversation after the argument earlier, though the silence itself no longer carried quite the same hostility it had before. Now it simply felt heavy. Tired. Eventually Ben spoke first without looking toward you.

“You didn’t complain once.” You frowned slightly before turning away from the rain covered glass. “What?”

“About leaving.” You blinked in confusion. “I argued about leaving.”

“Yeah,” he answered calmly, “but not about the house itself.” The observation caught you slightly off guard. Ben finally glanced toward you then. “Most girls raised like you would've spent the last hour pissed about losing luxury.” Something bitter almost made you laugh softly. “You think I care about chandeliers and marble staircases right now?” Ben shrugged lightly. “I thought you did.” There it was again.

Thought.

Past tense. You looked down briefly toward your hands resting together in your lap. “I’m more worried about everyone still there.” Ben’s brows furrowed faintly. “The staff?”

“And my father.” The answer seemed to genuinely surprise him. “He’s got security everywhere.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s okay.” Ben studied your face quietly for several seconds afterward before looking away again toward the storm outside. “You always worry about everybody else first?” The question sounded strangely genuine. You hesitated before answering. “Someone has to.” Silence settled between both of you again afterward, though this time it felt different somehow. Softer. The city slowly swallowed the scenery around you as the car moved deeper into Manhattan, towering buildings rising endlessly overhead while rain blurred neon signs and traffic lights together across crowded streets below. People hurried beneath umbrellas along sidewalks while expensive storefronts glowed warmly against the storm outside. Ordinarily Manhattan felt alive. Today it only felt distant. By the time the car finally pulled beneath the underground entrance of the penthouse building nearly an hour later, exhaustion had settled so heavily through your body that even standing felt difficult. The building itself towered impossibly high above the street, all dark glass and steel disappearing upward into the rainy skyline while security gates closed immediately behind the car once it entered the private underground garage. You stepped out slowly while staring upward.

“This is excessive.” Ben glanced briefly toward the surrounding security cameras. “That’s kind of the point.” The elevator ride upstairs remained painfully quiet. Gold mirrored walls reflected both of you back endlessly while soft instrumental music drifted faintly overhead, and standing trapped inside such a small space beside him suddenly made you hyperaware of everything. The rainwater still clinging faintly to his coat. The scent of cedar and expensive cologne lingering around him. The exhaustion shadowing beneath his eyes now that you stood close enough to notice properly. Neither of you spoke until the elevator doors finally opened directly into the penthouse itself. Then you stepped inside and stopped completely. The apartment was stunning in the emptiest possible way. Floor to ceiling windows wrapped around nearly every wall overlooking Manhattan beneath the storm outside while cold gray light spilled across polished dark floors and modern furniture clearly selected more for appearance than comfort. Expensive artwork hung carefully against black and cream walls while enormous open spaces stretched from room to room without a single trace of warmth anywhere inside them.

The place did not feel lived in. It felt prepared. Secured. Like somewhere designed specifically for hiding important people away from the world. You moved slowly further inside while taking everything in. The silence felt wrong immediately. No distant staff moving through hallways. No music. No life. Only rain against glass high above the city. Your chest tightened quietly. “This isn’t temporary,” you murmured before you could stop yourself. Ben looked toward you carefully. “What?” You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself while staring out across Manhattan below. “My father already had this ready.” The realization settled heavily between both of you. Because nobody prepares something this quickly. Nobody installs this much security overnight. Ben remained quiet for several seconds before finally answering carefully. “He’s trying to keep you alive.” The words should have comforted you. Instead they only made the apartment feel colder.

Later that evening the rain finally slowed outside the windows while darkness settled fully across Manhattan beneath thousands of city lights glowing endlessly below. You had barely unpacked. Most of your things still remained untouched inside suitcases near the bedroom because exhaustion had drained nearly every ounce of energy from your body by the time evening arrived. The penthouse still did not feel real. It felt like waiting. You wandered quietly toward the kitchen for water sometime after midnight only to stop slightly near the hallway entrance after noticing light spilling from the office near the back of the apartment. Ben sat alone inside. Several files remained spread across the desk while security footage played silently across one of the monitors nearby. His phone rested against his shoulder while he spoke quietly to someone, voice low enough that you only caught fragments of the conversation. “…doesn’t match the official report…”

Silence.

“…no, I’m telling you the timeline’s wrong…” Your stomach tightened instantly. Then came the sentence that stopped you completely. “Her mother’s death was never as clean as people claimed.” The blood drained slowly from your face while Ben continued listening silently on the other end of the call, completely unaware you stood frozen just outside the doorway. Something inside your chest twisted violently. Because suddenly the threat note downstairs no longer felt isolated. And for the first time in your life, you began realizing your mother’s death might not have been an accident at all. 

The words refused to leave your head even after you quietly stepped away from the office doorway and disappeared back into the darkened hallway before Ben could notice you standing there.

Her mother’s death was never as clean as people claimed.

The sentence repeated itself endlessly in your mind while you walked slowly through the silent penthouse, your pulse beginning to pound hard enough beneath your ribs that it almost hurt. Every emotion you had spent years carefully suppressing seemed to claw violently toward the surface all at once, dragging confusion, grief, anger, and fear together into something impossible to separate cleanly anymore. You reached your bedroom without fully remembering the walk there. The room itself looked exactly the same as it had several hours earlier when you abandoned unpacking halfway through exhaustion, though somehow the unfamiliarity of it all felt worse now in the darkness. Manhattan stretched endlessly outside the floor to ceiling windows beyond the bed, thousands of city lights glowing beneath low clouds while rain continued sliding softly against the glass in uneven streaks. The penthouse remained painfully quiet. No distant voices echoed through the hallways. No soft sounds of staff moving through the house somewhere nearby. No comfort. Only silence heavy enough to hear your own thoughts inside it. You sat carefully near the edge of the bed while staring out toward the skyline, fingers tightening unconsciously around the sleeves of the oversized sweater you had changed into earlier that evening. Sleep felt impossible now, not after overhearing Ben’s conversation and not after spending the entire day watching the life you thought you understood slowly begin unraveling in front of you. Because if your mother’s death had not been what everyone claimed it was, then what exactly had your father spent years hiding from you? The thought alone made nausea twist sharply through your stomach.

Growing up inside your father’s world meant learning very young how to ignore things that did not make sense because questioning too much only ever ended badly. You learned not to ask why certain men disappeared after arguments with your father, why security suddenly increased for weeks at a time, or why conversations stopped the second you entered certain rooms. But your mother had always been different. Warm where your father was cold. Gentle where he was sharp. She softened the house in ways you never fully appreciated until after she was gone. And now suddenly every memory surrounding her death felt distorted somehow, like looking at something beautiful through cracked glass. You pressed your palms hard against your eyes for several seconds while trying desperately to steady your breathing. This was ridiculous. You were exhausted, overwhelmed, emotionally drained, and probably reading too much into fragments of a conversation you were never supposed to overhear. Still, your chest refused to loosen. Eventually the silence inside your room became unbearable enough that staying there any longer felt impossible. You stood slowly before leaving the bedroom again. The hallway outside remained dimly lit by recessed lighting along the walls while soft shadows stretched across the polished dark floors beneath your feet. Somewhere deeper inside the apartment, faint jazz music played quietly enough to barely hear, blending softly with the distant sound of rain against the windows surrounding the penthouse.

You followed the sound almost absentmindedly toward the kitchen. The space opened beautifully beneath warm low lighting, all marble countertops and dark wood cabinetry polished so perfectly it barely looked used at all. Expensive bottles lined illuminated shelves near the far wall while Manhattan glittered endlessly beyond the windows wrapping around the entire room. Ben sat alone at the kitchen island. Several security monitors glowed softly across the marble counter in front of him while files and papers remained scattered beside a half empty glass of whiskey near his elbow. His phone rested nearby displaying names and numbers you could not fully make out from the doorway while one of the security feeds silently replayed footage from outside the estate. He looked tired. Not physically exhausted exactly, but worn down in a way that made him seem older beneath the dim kitchen lighting. You hesitated briefly near the entrance before stepping further inside. Ben looked up immediately. For half a second something sharp crossed his expression, pure instinctive alertness, before recognition softened it again almost instantly.

“You should be asleep.” The roughness in his voice sounded quieter than usual this late at night. You moved toward the counter slowly while wrapping your arms tighter around yourself against the cold air drifting faintly from the windows. “So should you.” One corner of his mouth twitched faintly. “Difference is I’m getting paid to stay awake.” Despite yourself, the comment almost made you smile.

Almost.

You reached for one of the glasses near the sink before filling it with water while silence settled lightly between both of you again. Normally his presence still carried enough tension to make your shoulders tighten automatically, but tonight exhaustion seemed to dull the sharper edges of everything. Or maybe you were simply too emotionally drained to keep fighting him properly anymore. Ben studied you quietly for a moment before speaking again. “You heard me earlier.” It was not phrased like a question. Your fingers tightened slightly around the glass. “Yes.” He sighed softly through his nose before leaning back slightly against the stool. “How much?” 

“Enough.” Ben’s jaw shifted faintly. You looked down toward the counter rather than directly at him while speaking quieter this time. “You think there’s something wrong with the story surrounding my mother’s death.” The kitchen fell silent again except for the rain outside. Ben did not answer immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded significantly more careful. “I think there are inconsistencies.” You laughed softly then, though the sound carried absolutely no humor. “That sounds like a very professional way of saying someone lied.” His eyes remained on you steadily. “In my line of work people usually do.” The honesty should not have surprised you anymore, yet somehow it still did. You took another sip of water before turning slightly toward the windows overlooking Manhattan below. The city looked beautiful from this high up. Cold. Distant. Untouchable.

“My father told me it was a robbery,” you said quietly after several seconds. “He said someone broke into the house while they were at one of our properties upstate and things got violent.” Ben remained silent, allowing you to continue. “I was sixteen,” you murmured while staring out at the endless lights below. “I remember everyone treating me like I would break apart if anyone said too much around me afterward, so eventually people just stopped mentioning her entirely.” Your throat tightened slightly. “The weird part is I don’t even remember asking questions after a while,” you admitted softly. “I think part of me knew nobody would answer honestly anyway.” The confession lingered heavily between both of you afterward. Ben leaned back slightly in his chair while watching you with an expression far more thoughtful than judgmental now. “You’ve spent a long time pretending things don’t bother you.” You looked toward him immediately. “You say that like it’s a choice.”

“Isn’t it?” Something inside your chest twisted sharply then because the question hit far closer than you wanted it to. Growing up in your father’s world meant emotions were weaknesses people exploited eventually. You learned very quickly how to smile through discomfort, stay quiet through arguments, and make yourself smaller whenever the atmosphere inside the house became dangerous enough to feel unpredictable. Vulnerability never survived long there. You set the glass down carefully before answering. “Sometimes pretending is easier.” Ben’s gaze lingered on you for several long seconds. “Easier for who?” You looked away first. That answer alone probably told him enough. Silence settled again afterward, though this time it no longer felt awkward.

The tension between both of you had shifted slowly throughout the day into something harder to define now, still sharp around the edges but softer underneath in ways neither of you seemed entirely prepared for. Ben reached toward the whiskey glass near him before pausing halfway.

“You want one?” You blinked once in surprise. “What?”

“Drink,” he clarified. “You look like you need one.” Under any other circumstances you probably would have refused immediately. Tonight you simply nodded. Ben stood before moving toward the liquor shelf nearby while you watched him quietly across the kitchen. Even something as simple as pouring whiskey somehow looked controlled when he did it, every movement steady and deliberate beneath the warm lighting surrounding the room. He handed the glass toward you carefully once he returned. Your fingers brushed his briefly while taking it. The contact lasted less than a second. Still, something about it unsettled you slightly. You took a small sip before wincing faintly at the burn. Ben noticed immediately. “Definitely rich.” You narrowed your eyes toward him. “Oh my God, do you ever stop?” A low laugh escaped him unexpectedly then, rough and quiet beneath the sound of the rain outside. The sound surprised you enough that you momentarily forgot your own irritation. Because for the first time since meeting him, Ben actually looked relaxed. Not guarded. Not sharp. Just tired. And strangely human. “You know,” you muttered while leaning lightly against the marble counter, “you’re significantly less unbearable at two in the morning.”

“Careful doll,” he replied dryly. “Might actually be admitting you find me tolerable.” Despite everything weighing on your chest, a small smile finally appeared before you could stop it. Ben noticed. Of course he noticed. Something unreadable shifted briefly across his expression then before his attention dropped lower suddenly toward your wrist. The smile disappeared from his face instantly. “What happened there?” You frowned slightly before following his gaze downward. Dark bruising had already begun forming faintly along the inside of your wrist where your father grabbed you earlier that afternoon during the argument downstairs. You had forgotten about it entirely until now. Instinctively, you pulled your sleeve down further. “It’s nothing.” Ben’s expression hardened immediately. “That doesn’t look like nothing.”

“It was an accident.” The lie sounded weak even to your own ears. His jaw tightened subtly while his eyes remained fixed on the bruising still partially visible beneath your sleeve. “Your father did that.” Not a question. You swallowed carefully before looking away. “He was stressed.” The silence that followed felt heavier than anything else shared between you all night. When you finally looked back toward Ben again, something inside his expression had changed entirely. Not anger exactly. Something quieter. More unsettling. Because suddenly he no longer looked at your father the same way. “You defended him fast,” he said carefully. “He’s my father.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.” You stared down into the amber liquid inside your glass while your chest tightened painfully again. “You don’t understand how he gets when things spiral,” you murmured softly. “Ever since my mother died, it’s like he’s constantly waiting for everything around him to collapse.”

Ben remained quiet.

“He wasn’t always like this,” you continued before you could stop yourself. “When I was younger he used to actually laugh sometimes. He used to take us out on his boat during summers and let my mother pick terrible music just because it annoyed him.” A faint sad smile crossed your face briefly at the memory. “Now it feels like he barely sees anything except problems.” The vulnerability in your voice embarrassed you almost immediately afterward. You looked away quickly while gripping the glass tighter. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you any of this.” Ben answered quietly. “Because nobody else listens.” The simplicity of the statement hit painfully hard. Your throat tightened unexpectedly while silence settled heavily between both of you again. Because the worst part was realizing he was right. People listened to your father. People listened to your family name. Nobody actually listened to you. Ben watched you carefully for several moments afterward before speaking again, his voice lower this time. “You’re not what I thought you were.” You laughed softly without humor. “And what exactly did you think I was?”

“A spoiled Manhattan princess too sheltered to notice the blood keeping her life comfortable.” The honesty should have offended you. Instead it only made your chest ache strangely because at least he admitted it openly now. “And now?” Ben hesitated. That alone surprised you more than the answer itself would have. “Now I think you spent most of your life trapped inside something you never asked for.” The words settled so deeply inside your chest it almost hurt to breathe afterward. Because nobody had ever said it aloud before. Not once. Everyone either envied your life or feared your family, but nobody ever looked at you and acknowledged how lonely it actually was beneath all the luxury. You stared at him quietly across the kitchen while rain continued sliding against the windows surrounding the penthouse. Then softly, almost without thinking, you asked: “Why do you care?” Ben looked caught off guard by the question. For several seconds he said nothing. Then finally he exhaled quietly through his nose before leaning back slightly against the counter.

“At first I didn’t,” he admitted honestly. “I thought this was another job protecting another rich girl too blind to realize what her family really was.” You looked down briefly. “But now?” His eyes held yours steadily then. “Now I think somebody’s been failing you for a very long time.” Emotion rose unexpectedly sharp inside your chest at the statement, enough that you immediately looked away again before he could notice how badly it affected you. The penthouse suddenly felt less cold than it had earlier somehow. Not warm exactly. But quieter. Safer. And that realization terrified you slightly because trusting people inside your world usually ended badly.

Still, somewhere between the late hour, the exhaustion, and the honesty settling between both of you, the walls you spent years carefully building around yourself had begun cracking open in ways you no longer fully knew how to stop. Ben glanced once more toward the bruising hidden beneath your sleeve before his expression hardened subtly again. Something protective settled there now beneath the calmness. Something personal. And for the first time since he accepted the job, you realized Ben was no longer protecting you simply because someone paid him to. He was beginning to care whether he wanted to or not. Which was infinitely more dangerous for both of you than either of you fully understood yet.

Part 4-05/06

A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed this part, as much as I enjoyed writing it!!! pls lmk if you would like to be added to the taglist!!!

perm tags: @jjjenx14 @globetrotter28 @cranberrysauce666 @cunningtalismanmechanism @biancalinkas @morphineh @itfeltlikeak1ss 

Morning settled differently across the estate after nights like the one before, because even though the house remained just as immaculate as it always had beneath the pale glow of early sunlight, there was something strangely hollow about it once the guests disappeared and the performance finally ended. The silence that followed your father’s parties never felt peaceful so much as exhausted, lingering heavily through enormous hallways and empty sitting rooms while staff quietly moved throughout the house restoring everything back to perfection before the rest of Manhattan woke up. By the time you entered your father’s office later that morning, the mansion already looked untouched by the chaos of the previous evening.

Fresh flowers had replaced the arrangements beginning to wilt from the heat of the ballroom, crystal glasses had disappeared entirely from the dining room, and every polished surface reflected soft golden light spilling through the enormous windows overlooking the grounds. Somewhere downstairs, distant piano music drifted faintly through the house from hidden speakers your father insisted made the estate feel “alive,” though most days it only made everything feel more artificial. Your father sat behind his desk when you stepped inside, dressed perfectly as always despite the exhaustion visible beneath his eyes, while Ben stood several feet behind the chair positioned across from the desk with his arms folded loosely across his chest. The sight of him there instantly irritated you.

Not because he had technically done anything wrong yet that morning, but because his presence already felt invasive in a way you could not explain properly. He looked entirely out of place inside your father’s office surrounded by antique bookshelves, dark mahogany walls, and oil paintings older than the city itself, dressed in black while sunlight filtered sharply across the room behind him. Everything about your home screamed carefully preserved elegance while Ben looked like the exact opposite of refinement, rough around the edges in a way that felt intentional rather than accidental. Your father gestured toward the chair across from him.

“Sit.”

You obeyed reluctantly while feeling Ben’s attention shift subtly toward you the second you moved closer. The office smelled faintly of leather, old paper, and expensive cigars your father rarely smoked anymore but still kept stored inside a carved wooden box resting near the corner of his desk. Massive windows stretched across the far wall overlooking the gardens outside while shelves lined with books climbed almost entirely to the ceiling, interrupted only by framed photographs of family members long dead and business associates your father respected enough to display publicly. The room had always intimidated people. That was probably intentional too. Your father folded his hands carefully across the desk before speaking. “I wanted to discuss yesterday evening.” Immediately your stomach tightened. You tried not to glance toward Ben behind you. “I already told you,” you answered carefully, “I can handle myself.”

“This conversation is no longer about whether you think you can.” The calmness in his tone instantly told you the decision had already been made long before you entered the office. Your jaw tightened. “Then what exactly is this conversation about?” Your father’s gaze remained steady on yours. “Due to the current state of business affairs, your security is no longer negotiable.” The wording alone made unease settle coldly inside your chest. “Security.”

“Yes.” You leaned back slightly in the chair. “You’re seriously assigning me a bodyguard full time?”

“Not assigning,” your father corrected quietly. “Protecting.” You almost laughed. “Those are literally the same thing.”

“No,” he answered calmly. “They are not.” Silence stretched heavily through the office for several seconds while sunlight flickered softly against polished wood around the room. Then your father continued. “Ben will remain with you at all times until further notice.” You blinked once in disbelief. “At all times?”

“Yes.”

“That’s insane.”

“It’s necessary.” You turned immediately toward Ben then, frustration flaring hotter beneath your skin now that the reality of the situation finally settled properly inside your chest. “I barely know him.” Ben’s expression remained completely unreadable. “You’re not supposed to know me,” he replied evenly. “You’re supposed to listen.” The bluntness in his voice only irritated you more. “That’s easy for you to say when you’re not the one suddenly being followed around twenty four hours a day.” Your father spoke before Ben could. “This is not up for discussion.” You looked back toward him sharply. “You can’t honestly expect me to just accept this without questions.”

“I expect you to understand the seriousness of the situation.”

“That’s difficult when nobody tells me anything.” A brief silence followed. Your father’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before he finally leaned back slightly in his chair. “There are people watching this family more closely than usual right now,” he said carefully. “People who may attempt to use you to get to me.” The words landed heavily enough to quiet some of your anger instantly. “And this is because of business?”

“Yes.”

You thought briefly about the conversation you overheard the night before near the bar, the mention of your mother, revenge, enemies, and the sickening implication hidden beneath all of it. Your throat suddenly felt tight again. “Is this connected to what happened to Mom?” The question lingered painfully in the room. Your father’s expression closed immediately. “Do not start that conversation.” The response alone felt like confirmation. You looked away first because suddenly holding eye contact felt impossible. Silence settled heavily through the office again while somewhere downstairs you faintly heard staff moving furniture back into place after the party. Finally your father spoke again. “You will cooperate with Ben,” he said firmly. “No arguments. No disappearing without notice. No leaving the property alone.” You stared at the floor briefly before exhaling slowly through your nose. Every instinct inside you wanted to fight harder against the arrangement because the idea of having someone constantly watching you felt suffocating in ways your father could never understand, but another part of you still could not shake the fear left behind from last night’s conversation. They already took his wife. You swallowed hard. “Fine.” you muttered quietly. Your father nodded once, clearly satisfied enough with the answer.

“Good.”

You stood from the chair immediately afterward because remaining inside the office any longer suddenly felt unbearable beneath both your father’s scrutiny and Ben’s silent presence lingering behind you. Then your father added one final thing before you reached the door. “Show him the house.” You paused. “What?”

“He needs to understand the property layout.” Of course he did. You glanced briefly toward Ben, whose expression remained frustratingly neutral despite the fact your entire life had apparently just become his responsibility. “Fine.” you repeated colder this time before reaching for the office door. Ben followed behind you almost immediately. The hallway outside remained quiet beneath the soft glow of morning light spilling through enormous windows lining the upper floor while staff moved discreetly through the house restoring everything back to perfection after the previous evening. A maid carrying fresh linens lowered her gaze respectfully while passing both of you near the staircase, and somewhere further downstairs came the faint clinking of dishes being reorganized in the dining room. You hated how normal everything looked despite how wrong everything suddenly felt. “This way,” you said flatly without bothering to look at him. Ben followed several steps behind while you led him through the east wing first, your heels echoing softly against polished floors beneath towering ceilings detailed with intricate crown molding imported from Europe decades before either of you were born.

“The house was built in the twenties,” you explained reluctantly while moving through another enormous hallway lined with family portraits. “Most of the original structure was preserved during renovations because my father hates modern architecture.” Ben glanced briefly toward one of the paintings.

“Clearly.”

The dry sarcasm in his voice made irritation flicker briefly through you again. You continued leading him through the estate anyway, pointing out rooms mechanically while trying not to focus too heavily on his silence trailing behind you like a shadow. The formal drawing room overlooked the front gardens through enormous arched windows framed by dark velvet curtains while antique furniture sat arranged perfectly around a marble fireplace nobody actually used anymore. The dining room stretched almost absurdly large beneath another crystal chandelier, long enough to comfortably seat dozens of guests during events while silver framed portraits lined the walls between sconces glowing softly against dark paneling. Ben barely reacted to any of it. Occasionally he gave a quiet scoff beneath his breath while observing something particularly excessive, but otherwise he remained almost entirely silent while following you through room after room.

The library occupied nearly half the west wing, filled floor to ceiling with bookshelves connected by rolling ladders and private alcoves overlooking the gardens outside. Your father spent most evenings there whenever he was actually home, usually drinking whiskey while pretending business had not entirely consumed him. “The study’s through there,” you explained while gesturing toward another set of doors near the back wall. “Nobody really uses it except him.” Ben glanced toward the closed doors briefly. “Figures.” You ignored the comment and continued walking.

Outside, the gardens stretched endlessly beneath the pale morning sunlight, trimmed hedges bordering stone pathways winding around fountains imported directly from Italy while white roses climbed carefully maintained trellises near the greenhouse at the far edge of the property. The estate grounds alone looked expensive enough to intimidate most people, filled with sculptures, private terraces, and perfectly maintained landscaping designed more for appearances than actual enjoyment. “The tennis court’s over there,” you said while pointing toward the far side of the gardens. “Nobody’s used it in years.” Ben looked toward it briefly before answering dryly, “Shocking.” You shot him an irritated look over your shoulder. “What exactly is your problem?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s clearly not true.” He said nothing after that. The garage sat detached near the back of the estate, large enough to hold more cars than most luxury dealerships. Vintage Aston Martins, blacked out SUVs, restored European classics, and sleek modern vehicles sat lined carefully across polished concrete floors beneath overhead lighting. Ben finally spoke again while glancing around. “Your father compensating for something?” You stopped walking immediately. “Oh my god, do you ever stop talking like an asshole?” That finally earned the faintest flicker of amusement across his face. “Not usually.” You stared at him for another second before continuing back toward the main house, annoyance simmering steadily hotter beneath your skin now. By the time you reached the indoor pool and ballroom wing nearly an hour later, your patience had almost completely disappeared. The ballroom looked eerie during daylight without guests filling it, enormous and silent beneath glittering chandeliers while sunlight spilled across polished floors where people had danced only hours earlier. Staff quietly dismantled floral arrangements near the stage while workers removed tables from the edges of the room, restoring everything back to emptiness. You moved past it toward the upstairs hallway where guest rooms lined both sides beneath dim golden sconces.

“Your room’s here,” you said finally while stopping outside one of the larger suites directly across from yours. “My father wanted you nearby.” Ben stepped past you into the room briefly, surveying the space with the same detached expression he had worn all morning. The suite itself looked more luxurious than most Manhattan apartments, furnished with dark wood, cream colored fabrics, antique lighting, and floor to ceiling windows overlooking the estate grounds below. Still he said nothing. Not even a thank you. You finally lost patience entirely. “Why do you barely say anything?” He looked back toward you from near the windows. “What?”

“You’ve spent the entire morning either staring at things like you hate them or making sarcastic comments every five minutes, and honestly I don’t understand what I did to deserve the attitude.” Ben studied you for several seconds before answering. “You exist.” Your expression hardened instantly. “That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.” The coldness in his voice caught you off guard. He leaned casually against the edge of the desk nearby before continuing. “All little rich girls are the same.” The words immediately made anger flare hot beneath your chest. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.”

“No,” you snapped sharply. “You assume enough.” Ben shrugged slightly. “Your father’s business is collapsing around him and you’re still walking around this place acting surprised the world isn’t perfect.” The comment hit harder than you expected. Mostly because somewhere beneath the cruelty, part of you worried he might genuinely believe it. Your jaw tightened painfully. “You know what?” you said coldly. “Dinner’s at seven. My father expects you there whether you like us or not.” Ben’s expression remained completely unreadable. “Noted.” You stepped backward toward the hallway. “And try not to insult anyone else for existing before then.” Then you shut the door harder than necessary and walked away before he could answer. The second you reached the staircase leading downstairs, a long breath finally escaped your lungs. Relief settled briefly through your chest now that you were no longer trapped inside another room alone with him and his constant judgment, because somehow Ben had managed to make you feel defensive inside your own home within less than twenty four hours of knowing him.

You descended the staircase slowly while morning sunlight spilled across marble floors below, illuminating the entrance hall in soft gold while maids quietly moved throughout the lower level cleaning the final remains of the previous evening’s event. Fresh flowers were being rearranged near the front doors while silver trays disappeared into the kitchen through side corridors, and near the west sitting room several staff members worked carefully around the bar area organizing bottles and polishing crystal glasses beneath the warm overhead lights. Everything looked calm again. Normal. You almost kept walking toward the dining room until something near the edge of the bar caught your attention. A folded piece of paper. At first it looked insignificant, left carelessly near the counter among half cleaned glasses and napkins. Then one of the maids noticed it too.

“Miss?” she asked uncertainly while reaching toward it. “I think this may belong to-”

Your name. Written clearly across the front in dark green ink. Every nerve inside your body suddenly tightened. Slowly, you stepped closer and took the paper from her hand. The maid looked confused. You barely noticed. Your fingers unfolded the note carefully while dread crawled coldly up your spine before you even finished opening it completely. The message inside was short. Unmistakably direct. 

Pretty girls die just as easily as their mothers...

For a moment the entire room went silent around you. Your heartbeat slammed violently against your ribs while nausea twisted sharply through your stomach, and suddenly the conversation from the previous night came rushing back all at once with horrifying clarity. They already took his wife. You stared at the paper so hard the words almost blurred beneath your vision. Cold fear settled heavily into your chest for the first time in your life because suddenly this no longer felt like overheard conversations or distant business problems hidden carefully away from you inside your father’s world. This felt real. Dangerously real. And somewhere upstairs, the man hired to protect you was probably the only person in the entire house who would not be surprised by that fact.

The note remained clutched tightly in your hand long after you left the bar area, the paper beginning to crumple slightly beneath your grip while your mind replayed the words over and over again with sickening clarity. Every hallway suddenly felt colder than before as you moved through the house, the enormous estate no longer carrying the same polished familiarity it always had growing up. Instead, the mansion felt watchful now, its towering ceilings and endless corridors seeming almost oppressive beneath the pale glow of early morning light while staff continued quietly restoring everything back to perfection around you, completely unaware that your entire sense of safety had shattered within the span of a few seconds.

Pretty girls die just as easily as their mothers...

The sentence echoed so violently inside your head that it became impossible to think around it. You had spent years forcing yourself not to question your mother’s death too deeply because whenever you tried, your father shut the conversation down before it could properly begin, insisting only that certain things were better left untouched. For most of your life you convinced yourself that maybe he was simply protecting you from grief, from details too painful to relive, but after overhearing those conversations the night before and now finding a threat directed specifically at you, something inside your chest had begun unraveling fast enough that breathing itself suddenly felt difficult. Your feet carried you upstairs almost automatically before you fully realized where you were going.

The second floor remained quiet beneath the soft wash of pale morning sunlight spilling through towering windows overlooking the estate grounds below while shadows stretched lazily across polished floors and antique runners. The house always looked strangely beautiful during the earliest hours of the day after parties ended, caught somewhere between exhaustion and elegance while maids moved quietly through distant hallways restoring everything back into flawless order before the rest of Manhattan fully woke up.

You stopped outside Ben’s room before you had the chance to reconsider.

For several seconds you simply stood there staring at the dark wooden door while anxiety twisted violently inside your stomach because suddenly showing him the note felt humiliating in a way you could not explain properly. Ben already viewed you like some sheltered rich girl incapable of handling reality, and part of you hated the idea of proving him right so quickly. Still, your hand lifted before fear could talk you out of it entirely. You knocked softly.

There was movement almost immediately from inside the room before the door opened several seconds later, revealing Ben standing beneath dim amber lighting still dressed in his fully black suit, one hand still resting against the doorframe while his expression shifted subtly the second he realized it was you standing there. 

“Well,” he drawled lightly, rough voice edged with dry amusement, “that didn’t take long.” Ordinarily the comment would have irritated you instantly. This time you barely reacted. Your head remained lowered slightly while your fingers tightened around the folded paper in your hand, and whatever expression crossed your face must have immediately told him something was wrong because the amusement faded almost as quickly as it appeared. Without speaking, you shoved the note toward him. Ben’s brows furrowed immediately before he took it carefully from your hand, unfolding the paper slowly while silence settled heavily between both of you. You watched the exact moment his entire demeanor changed.

It happened almost instantly. His shoulders straightened first, every trace of lazy casualness disappearing from his posture while his jaw tightened sharply beneath the dim lighting. Then his eyes moved across the words again more carefully, expression hardening in a way that suddenly made him look dangerous rather than merely intimidating. For the first time since meeting him, Ben did not look annoyed. He looked serious. Very serious. “When did you get this?” he asked quietly. “Downstairs,” you answered softly. “Near the bar.” His eyes lifted toward yours immediately. “Who touched it?”

“One of the maids picked it up first, but she didn’t open it.”

Ben nodded once before reaching automatically toward his phone resting on the desk near the windows. “He needs to know about this.” Panic surged through you immediately. “No.” The word escaped faster than you intended. Ben barely paused while unlocking the screen. “Your father should’ve been informed the second you found it.”

“I said no.” Before you fully thought through the action, your hand wrapped quickly around his wrist. The movement froze both of you instantly. For several long seconds neither of you spoke. You had not realized how close you stepped toward him until then. Close enough to notice the faint scent of cedar and expensive cologne lingering against his clothes, close enough to see exhaustion shadowing faintly beneath his eyes beneath the warm lighting spilling across the room. More importantly, close enough that he could probably see exactly how afraid you actually were. Because suddenly pretending felt impossible. Your grip around his wrist loosened slightly while your voice dropped quieter.

“Please don’t tell him.”

Ben studied your face carefully then, his gaze lingering long enough that discomfort twisted faintly through your chest because it felt like he was seeing something entirely different now compared to the spoiled image he seemed so convinced of before. “Why?” he asked finally. You swallowed hard. “Because if I tell him, he’ll spiral again.” The words sounded pathetic out loud. “He already barely sleeps,” you continued quietly while forcing yourself not to look away. “He’s paranoid constantly, he snaps at everyone around him, and ever since Mom died he’s been getting worse every year. If he sees this, he’ll lose his mind completely.” Ben remained silent. Your hand still rested lightly around his wrist. You became painfully aware of it after several more seconds passed. Slowly, you pulled your hand away. Something unreadable shifted briefly across his expression before he finally lowered the phone instead of dialing. Relief flooded through your chest so suddenly it almost made your knees weak.

“Thank you..” you whispered. Ben stared at the note again briefly before setting it carefully onto the desk beside him. Soft morning light filtered through the enormous windows behind him, illuminating the room in pale gold while shadows settled gently across the dark furniture surrounding both of you. The guest suite itself looked almost too elegant for someone like him, furnished with antique wood, cream colored fabrics, and floor to ceiling windows overlooking the estate grounds below where gardeners had already begun working among the hedges outside. Yet somehow Ben still looked entirely natural standing there. Like danger fit more comfortably inside luxury than you wanted it to.

“You overheard something last night,” he said eventually. Silence settled heavily between both of you. Ben’s expression darkened almost imperceptibly. “And now you think your mother was killed,” he said carefully. You laughed softly then, though the sound carried absolutely no humor whatsoever. “Honestly, I don’t even know what to think anymore.” The admission felt far too vulnerable. You hated it instantly. But strangely enough, Ben did not look judgmental this time. If anything, he looked thoughtful. “You really had no idea what your father was involved in?” he asked after a moment.

“My father made sure I never knew anything,” you answered bitterly while crossing your arms tightly against yourself. “I knew people feared him sometimes, and I knew he had enemies, but growing up in this family means learning very quickly not to ask questions nobody wants answered.” Ben nodded slowly like the response confirmed something for him. Then unexpectedly, he spoke again. “I could look into it.” You blinked once in confusion. “What?”

“Your mother’s death.” The room suddenly felt very still. Ben leaned lightly against the edge of the desk while continuing carefully. “I know people. I can ask questions quietly without it getting back to your father unless something serious turns up.” You stared at him for several seconds because the offer felt so completely unexpected that your brain almost struggled processing it properly. “Why would you do that?” His expression returned immediately toward something more detached. “Strictly business.” The response should not have disappointed you slightly. “My job is to keep you safe,” he continued evenly, “and preferably functional while I’m doing it. If finding answers helps with that, then it’s worth looking into.”

Functional.

The wording almost made you smile despite everything. Still, confusion lingered heavily inside your chest because this was the same man who spent most of the day acting irritated by your existence, yet now he stood in front of you offering help in a way that sounded almost genuine beneath the roughness of his voice. The pale morning sunlight through the windows behind him illuminated one side of his face softly while the warmer lamps inside the room cast shadows across the other, and for the first time since meeting him you noticed things you had not allowed yourself to before. The exhaustion hidden beneath his sharp composure. The faint silver threaded through his hair near his temples. The way his expression softened slightly whenever he stopped trying so hard to sound cold. It unsettled you more than it probably should have. Because suddenly Ben looked less like an arrogant stranger judging your life from the outside and more like someone carrying around far too much weight himself. You were beginning to see him differently. You were not entirely sure whether that was a good thing.

“You’d really do that?” you asked quietly. Ben shrugged one shoulder slightly. “If there’s something to find.” Something warm and uncomfortable twisted faintly inside your chest then, dangerously close to gratitude in a way you had not expected from him. “Thank you.” you said softly. For a moment neither of you spoke afterward. The silence that followed felt entirely different from the tense ones earlier that morning, less hostile somehow but infinitely more awkward because neither of you quite seemed to know what to do with the shift happening between you. Your eyes drifted briefly toward the note still resting on the desk. Ben noticed immediately.

“I’ll keep it,” he said quietly. “See if there’s anything useful on it.” You nodded once. Another silence followed.  Then finally you stepped backward slightly toward the doorway. “I should probably let you get settled.” Ben glanced briefly toward the half unpacked bag near the bed before looking back toward you again. “Probably.” Something about the faint dryness returning to his voice eased the tension slightly. You hesitated awkwardly near the door. “Well,” you murmured softly, “thank you again.” Ben held your gaze for another second longer than necessary before answering. “Don’t mention it.” You left before the conversation could become any stranger.

The hallway outside felt colder after the warmth of his room while pale sunlight stretched softly across polished floors leading back toward your side of the estate. Your heartbeat had finally begun slowing properly again, though anxiety still lingered heavily beneath your ribs alongside something newer and significantly more confusing. Because despite how frustrating Ben remained, despite his sarcasm and constant assumptions and the way he seemed determined to irritate you whenever possible, that conversation had revealed something entirely different underneath all of that.

And the worst part was realizing you wanted to understand it more.

Part 3-27/05

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this part, pls lmk if you would like to be added to the taglist!!

perm tags: @jjjenx14 @globetrotter28 @cranberrysauce666 @cunningtalismanmechanism @biancalinkas @morphineh @itfeltlikeak1ss 

The house had never truly felt like yours, even though one day your name would inevitably become attached to it in the same suffocating way generations before you had been tied to the estate, because despite how breathtaking people always claimed it was whenever they stepped through the front doors for the first time, there had always been something hollow about the place that no amount of wealth could soften. Guests spoke about the house with the same reverence people reserved for museums and historical landmarks, their voices lowering instinctively beneath towering painted ceilings imported from Italy decades before you were born while their eyes wandered across marble floors polished so perfectly that the crystal chandeliers overhead reflected across them like pools of liquid gold. The estate itself sat tucked far enough away from the rest of Manhattan that silence settled unnaturally over the grounds once the gates closed behind arriving cars, hidden behind wrought iron fencing, ancient trees wrapped in delicate white lights throughout every season, and security so discreetly placed around the property that most visitors never even noticed it existed.

Everything about the house screamed old money in the most intimidating way possible, not the kind of wealth people flaunted desperately through designer logos and social media attention, but the kind that had existed for generations and therefore never felt the need to prove itself to anyone. Imported artwork lined the walls beneath antique sconces glowing softly against dark wooden panels, fresh flowers were replaced every morning before the previous arrangements had the chance to wilt, and chefs moved through the industrial kitchen preparing elaborate meals for guests who would ultimately pick at the food more than they actually ate it. Every single detail within the estate had been perfected carefully over time until the entire place felt less like a home and more like a monument dedicated to power itself. Your father preferred it that way.

He liked permanence, tradition, and control in equal measure, and the house reflected all three perfectly.

“You’ll greet everyone personally tonight.”

His voice cut cleanly through the music and conversation drifting upward from downstairs while you stood beside him at the top of the grand staircase overlooking the entrance hall below, one hand resting lightly against the polished banister as black cars rolled steadily into the circular driveway outside. Women draped in diamonds stepped gracefully onto marble floors while men in perfectly tailored suits laughed loudly over glasses of whiskey older than most of the people serving it, and somewhere in the background a pianist played softly enough that the music blended seamlessly into the atmosphere rather than standing out from it. You glanced toward your father beside you, already knowing exactly what kind of evening this was going to become before he even continued speaking.

“I always greet everyone personally.” you replied carefully. “Yes,” he answered calmly while adjusting the cuff of his jacket, “but tonight I need more than politeness.” That immediately told you enough. Business. Everything in your family always circled back to business eventually, no matter how elegant the setting surrounding it happened to be. “There are people attending tonight who are considering partnerships with us,” your father continued while his eyes briefly shifted toward the front doors where another group of guests entered the house. “People whose trust matters greatly, and I expect you to make them feel comfortable while they’re here.” You swallowed the sigh threatening to rise in your throat because there was never any point arguing during conversations like these, especially not when your father had already decided exactly how the evening would unfold before either of you even stepped downstairs.

Appearances had always mattered more than anything else in your family. Appearances mattered when your mother died. Appearances mattered during the funeral where politicians offered carefully rehearsed condolences while reporters crowded outside the gates waiting for statements nobody in your family ever intended to give. Appearances mattered every single day afterward while your father slowly buried himself beneath grief, revenge, and business so completely that sometimes you barely recognized the man standing in front of you anymore. You looked back toward the crowd gathering downstairs beneath the warm glow of chandeliers, watching strangers drift through the entrance hall holding expensive drinks while pretending corruption did not exist within the very circles they occupied so comfortably. “Of course.” you said quietly. Your father seemed satisfied enough with the response because he rested a hand briefly against your shoulder before nodding toward the staircase stretching downward beneath you.

“You look beautiful tonight.” The words sounded less like affection and more like approval, which somehow made them feel heavier. The gown you wore had been selected earlier that afternoon by someone your father paid specifically to understand how wealthy women should present themselves publicly, black silk fitted elegantly enough to attract attention without appearing desperate for it, paired with understated diamond earrings and the necklace that had once belonged to your mother before it became another object preserved carefully inside the house after her death.

You hated wearing her jewelry, not because you disliked it, but because every piece felt like carrying around fragments of someone you could never get back no matter how tightly your father tried preserving her memory inside these walls.

“Go downstairs.” he told you softly.

And like always, you obeyed.

The staircase curved dramatically beneath your heels while conversations lowered subtly around your arrival, heads turning instinctively toward you the same way they always had for as long as you could remember. You had grown up surrounded by people wealthy enough to recognize one another instantly through posture, clothing, and surnames alone, and you already knew exactly what most of them saw whenever they looked at you. Privilege. Luxury. Perfection.

Another polished daughter raised carefully inside Manhattan’s elite circles. You smiled gracefully through introductions while guests kissed your cheeks and complimented how much older you looked now, how strikingly you resembled your mother, and how proud your father must be every time you entered a room. Every conversation eventually blurred into the next until they all sounded identical, filled with rehearsed observations and compliments nobody genuinely meant beneath layers of practiced sophistication.

“You look stunning tonight.”

“Your father speaks so highly of you.”

“You’ve become the image of your mother.”

You wanted to scream every time someone said that last one because nobody ever understood how exhausting it felt constantly being compared to someone whose absence still haunted every corner of your life, but instead you smiled politely because girls raised like you learned very early how to perform no matter how disconnected they actually felt inside. You let investors monopolize conversations while pretending interest in stories you barely listened to, laughed softly at jokes that were not remotely funny, and thanked women dripping in diamonds for compliments you had heard hundreds of times before. Nobody ever noticed how detached you truly were because nobody expected someone surrounded by luxury to be unhappy, and from the outside your life looked far too perfect for anybody to question whether you actually enjoyed living it.

Hours passed beneath the haze of expensive wine and low conversation before the pressure of constant socializing finally became too suffocating to tolerate any longer, so you excused yourself quietly and slipped upstairs toward the quieter side of the house before another stranger had the chance to ask whether your father planned on arranging your marriage anytime soon.

The second floor remained dimmer and far calmer than the chaos downstairs, with antique sconces casting soft golden light across thick carpets stretching beneath polished floors while enormous oil paintings stared down from the walls in ornate frames older than half the city itself. Generations of carefully preserved wealth looked back at you from every portrait lining the hallway, and despite how elegant each painting appeared, not a single person immortalized there had ever looked genuinely happy. You moved toward the secondary staircase near the library, intending to return downstairs through the less crowded side of the estate when you rounded the corner too quickly and collided directly into someone hard enough that the force nearly knocked you backwards completely. A hand closed firmly around your arm before you lost balance.

“Watch your step.”

The voice was low, rough, and entirely unimpressed. You looked up instantly, irritation flashing through you before embarrassment had the chance to settle in properly. The man standing in front of you looked nothing like the guests downstairs. He was taller than almost everyone you had spoken to that evening, broad shoulders outlined beneath dark clothing that looked practical instead of fashionable, with sharp eyes fixed on you in obvious annoyance rather than forced politeness. Faint stubble shadowed his jaw while strands of silver threaded subtly through his hair near his temples, and there was something about him that felt harsher than the carefully polished people crowding your father’s parties downstairs. Dangerous, maybe. Or perhaps simply honest in a way most wealthy men were not. Either way, he looked at you like you had personally inconvenienced him. “You were standing in the middle of the hallway,” you replied coldly while pulling your arm from his grip. “It was kind of difficult to avoid you.”

His gaze moved over you once, slow and completely unimpressed. “Then maybe pay attention next time.” The harshness in his tone caught you off guard because people rarely spoke to you that way, especially not inside your father’s house where most guests either tried too hard to impress you or avoided offending you entirely. This man looked like he could not possibly care less about either. Something about that irritated you instantly. “Maybe move next time.” you shot back. One corner of his mouth twitched slightly, though it looked more sarcastic than amused. “Yeah,” he muttered. “You definitely sound like a rich kid.” Your expression hardened immediately. “And you sound incredibly rude.” He leaned casually against the wall beside him, completely relaxed despite the tension beginning to sharpen between you.

“Occupational hazard.”

You opened your mouth to respond again when another voice interrupted sharply from further down the hallway.

“There you are.”

Your father approached quickly, relief crossing his face almost immediately when he noticed who you were standing beside. “I’m so glad you finally met Ben.” You blinked once in confusion.

Ben.

Before you had the chance to process the name properly, your father rested a hand against your shoulder and continued speaking casually.

“Ben will be keeping you safe for a while until I have some business matters sorted.” For several seconds all you could do was stare at him while embarrassment flooded through your chest so quickly it felt physical. A bodyguard. The man you had just argued with was apparently your bodyguard. Perfect. Beside you, Ben looked amused enough that you caught the faintest smirk tugging briefly at the corner of his mouth before he looked away again, like he already found the entire interaction entertaining. “I can protect myself.” you said tightly. Ben finally spoke again then, his voice dry enough to scrape directly against your nerves. “Based on what I’ve seen so far, probably not.”

Your eyes snapped toward him instantly while your father laughed lightly, completely unaware of how badly you wanted the floor beneath you to split open from humiliation.

“You’ll get along eventually,” your father said distractedly before turning toward Ben again. “Excuse us for a moment because there are people downstairs asking for introductions.” Ben nodded once. “Of course.” Then his gaze shifted back toward you briefly beneath the soft hallway lighting before he stepped aside to let both of you pass, his expression unreadable except for the unmistakable judgment sitting quietly behind it.

Cold.

Dismissive.

Like he had already figured you out completely within the span of five minutes, and standing there inside the same mansion everyone else envied from the outside, you realized with growing irritation that Ben saw you exactly the way the rest of Manhattan probably did. Spoiled. Privileged. Blind to the blood stained reality funding every luxurious detail surrounding your life. The worst part was knowing you could not entirely blame him for believing it because from the outside looking in, your family had spent years making sure the lie looked flawless.

By the time you returned downstairs, the party had somehow grown even louder and more suffocating than before, the atmosphere inside the house thickening beneath layers of expensive perfume, aged whiskey, low conversation, and laughter that sounded rehearsed the longer you listened to it. The entrance hall had become overcrowded with people drifting effortlessly between rooms carrying crystal glasses and perfectly practiced smiles while waiters moved carefully through the crowd balancing silver trays beneath chandeliers large enough to flood every polished surface in golden light. Somewhere near the piano room, a woman laughed too sharply at something a politician had said, the sound briefly cutting through the endless hum of conversation before dissolving back into the noise surrounding it, followed immediately by the clinking of glasses and another wave of empty praise exchanged between people who treated wealth like both entertainment and power.

Usually you could survive nights like this without issue because you had spent your entire life learning exactly how to move through rooms filled with influential people without ever truly engaging with any of them, but tonight something felt entirely different in a way you could not properly explain no matter how hard you tried to ignore it. Or maybe the difference simply had a name now.

Ben.

You hated how aware of him you suddenly were. Even while trying to focus on the conversations happening around you, you could still feel him somewhere nearby like an unwanted pressure sitting against the back of your neck, the constant awareness of someone observing too closely. Every time you moved between rooms, every time another guest stopped you for conversation, every time you forced yourself to smile politely at another joke you did not care enough to actually listen to, there remained a part of you painfully conscious of the fact that somewhere inside the house, Ben was watching. Not because he cared. That somehow would have been easier to tolerate. No, Ben watched you the way someone studied a situation they had already decided they disliked, cold and detached and entirely convinced he understood exactly what kind of person you were before you had even spoken more than a few sentences to him. You could practically see the assumptions sitting behind his eyes every time he looked at you. Spoiled. Sheltered. Another rich girl floating comfortably through a life funded by blood stained money without ever questioning where any of it came from.

The thought irritated you enough that by the time another older businessman stopped you near the dining room to begin an exhausting conversation about “family legacy” and investment opportunities, your patience had almost completely disappeared.

“You must feel incredibly lucky,” the man remarked while slowly swirling amber liquid around the bottom of his glass. “Your father built an extraordinary life for you.” You smiled automatically because years of conditioning made it impossible not to. “Yes.” you answered softly while ignoring the bitterness rising quietly inside your chest.

Lucky.

The word echoed unpleasantly around your mind long after the conversation finally ended. By midnight, the house had become unbearably warm from the number of people crowded inside it, heat gathering beneath expensive fabrics and dim lighting until every room felt smaller than it actually was. Conversations overlapped endlessly while soft piano music drifted through the hallways in elegant melodies that somehow only made the entire evening feel more artificial, and eventually the pressure of pretending became too exhausting to tolerate any longer. So you began avoiding people. Not obviously enough for anyone to notice because disappearing entirely during one of your father’s events would immediately raise questions you had no interest in answering, but subtly enough that your conversations became shorter, your smiles less convincing, and your movements quicker between rooms. You lingered near doorways instead of standing in the center of crowds, excused yourself before anyone could trap you in another painfully long discussion, and avoided eye contact whenever possible.

Still, no matter where you went, you felt watched. At one point while crossing the ballroom, your eyes lifted instinctively toward the staircase overlooking the lower level, and there he was. Ben stood near the balcony rail above the crowd dressed entirely in black, broad shoulders outlined sharply beneath dim golden lighting while his gaze moved slowly across the room below with the kind of alertness that made him look entirely separate from everyone else surrounding him. Unlike the guests drifting carelessly through the house pretending nothing ugly existed beneath Manhattan’s wealthiest circles, Ben looked aware of everything, every movement, every entrance, every conversation hidden beneath lowered voices and expensive smiles. Then his eyes landed directly on you. Even from across the room, the weight of his stare felt heavy enough to stop you in place for half a second longer than necessary. There was absolutely nothing soft about the way he looked at you. No admiration. No curiosity. Only observation. Like he was still trying to determine whether you were genuinely naive or simply pretending to be. You looked away first, and somehow the realization irritated you immediately afterward.

Needing distance from both the crowd and the growing anxiety tightening steadily inside your chest, you moved through the ballroom toward the bar positioned near the west sitting room where the noise became slightly quieter beneath softer lighting. Crystal glasses lined the marble counter while one of the bartenders poured champagne for a group of women laughing nearby, and thankfully most people seemed too distracted by their own conversations to notice when you slipped quietly onto one of the empty stools near the far end. “For once,” you murmured softly toward the bartender while resting one hand against the cool marble surface, “I would really appreciate something stronger than champagne.” The older man smiled knowingly before immediately reaching for a bottle without asking any further questions.

You exhaled slowly while waiting, finally allowing yourself a brief moment to breathe beneath the noise surrounding you. From this distance, the party almost looked beautiful in a detached sort of way, guests drifting through enormous rooms beneath chandelier light while music wrapped itself carefully around conversation like another decorative detail added to the evening. Everything looked effortless from the outside. Perfect. That had always been the problem with your family. Everything looked perfect from the outside. The bartender slid the glass toward you before moving away to help another guest, and you lifted it immediately, welcoming the sharp burn of whiskey against your throat more than you probably should have.

“He’s getting desperate.”

The unfamiliar voice cut through the noise around you so suddenly that your attention shifted instinctively toward the partially closed doorway beside the bar leading into one of the smaller private sitting rooms. You could not see clearly inside from where you sat, only faint shadows moving beyond the narrow opening in the door, but something about the tone alone made cold unease settle heavily inside your stomach. “He’s not desperate,” another man answered quietly from inside the room. “He’s angry.”

“Angry men make mistakes.” You should have ignored the conversation. You should have looked away immediately and returned to the party before hearing something you were clearly never meant to hear. Instead you remained perfectly still. “He already made mistakes,” the first voice continued. “That revenge bullshit after his wife died cost him more money than anybody expected.” Your grip tightened automatically around the glass in your hand.

Wife.

Mother.

The room suddenly felt too warm again. “He’s trying to recover it.”

“And dragging Manhattan into his mess while he does it.” A low scoff followed somewhere inside the room before the first voice spoke again. “They already took his wife. You really think his daughter stays untouchable forever?” Your stomach dropped so violently it almost hurt. For a moment you genuinely thought you might be sick. The glass trembled slightly between your fingers while the words repeated themselves endlessly inside your head. They already took his wife. His daughter stays untouchable. You could barely breathe suddenly, not because you fully understood what they meant, but because somewhere deep down you already did. Your father had enemies. Of course he did. You had always known that much.

But hearing strangers discuss your mother’s death so casually, like it belonged in the same category as money, revenge, and business deals, made something inside your chest tighten so sharply it became painful. You stood abruptly before the men inside the room could continue speaking, pulse hammering violently against your ribs while panic spread through you faster than logic could catch up to it. The hallway outside the bar suddenly felt too narrow. The music too loud. The people too close. You needed air. Distance. Anything. Your heels struck sharply against polished floors while voices blurred together around you, guests turning slightly as you passed through the crowd faster than before, though you barely noticed any of them because the only thing repeating inside your head was that sentence.

They already took his wife.

Your mother.

Your chest tightened harder.

Had she really been killed?

Not an accident.

Not random.

Killed.

The thought alone made nausea twist violently inside your stomach. You reached the staircase almost too quickly, gripping the banister harder than necessary while moving upward toward the quieter second floor, desperate to escape the suffocating noise downstairs before your breathing completely lost control. You barely noticed him until you nearly collided with him again. Ben stepped aside instantly at the top of the staircase, his eyes narrowing the second he properly saw your face, and for the first time since meeting him earlier that evening, his expression shifted completely. Not softer. But sharper. Alert in a way that immediately made it obvious he noticed far more than most people did. You tried moving past him immediately without speaking, but his voice stopped you halfway down the hallway. “What happened?” You kept walking. “Nothing.” The word came out too quickly, too strained to sound convincing. Behind you, footsteps followed almost immediately. You should not have been surprised. “I don’t think that’s true.” The sound of his voice closer behind you only made your pulse spike harder because suddenly the entire house felt wrong in a way it never had before, every hallway colder, every shadow heavier. You reached the far end of the corridor near the library before stopping abruptly beside one of the enormous windows overlooking the front grounds, gripping the edge of the windowsill tightly while trying to steady your breathing without humiliating yourself completely in front of him.

Outside, black cars still lined the driveway while lights glowed softly across the estate grounds, everything appearing painfully normal despite the chaos unraveling violently inside your head. Ben stopped several feet behind you. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then quietly, “What did you hear?” Your eyes closed briefly. Of course he knew. People like Ben noticed everything.

“I didn’t hear anything.” you answered automatically. “Right.” The sarcasm in his voice sounded quieter now, less mocking than before. You turned sharply toward him then, anger finally breaking through the panic flooding your chest. “Why does everyone keep acting like I’m incapable of understanding things?” Ben’s expression remained unreadable. “Depends what things you’re talking about.”

“My mother.” The words escaped before you could stop them. Something shifted almost imperceptibly across his face at the mention of her. You swallowed hard against the sickness still twisting violently inside you.

“I heard people downstairs talking about her,” you continued quietly, your voice unsteady despite how hard you tried controlling it. “Talking about revenge and money and-” You stopped abruptly because saying the words aloud suddenly made them feel horrifyingly real. Ben watched you carefully for several long seconds before finally speaking. “You shouldn’t listen to conversations that aren’t meant for you.” The response instantly made anger flare through the panic. “That’s your advice?”

“My advice,” he answered calmly, “is to stop wandering around this house alone while your father’s business falls apart around him.” The words hit harder than they probably should have. Your father’s business falls apart. So it was true. Something really was happening. You stared at him, searching desperately for answers he clearly had no intention of giving you. “You know something.” His jaw tightened slightly. “I know enough.”

“About my mother?”

Silence. That silence told you more than any answer possibly could have. Cold dread settled heavily inside your stomach. Ben looked briefly toward the staircase before returning his attention to you again, and for the first time all evening he seemed less irritated by your presence and more concerned by your reaction.

“You need to calm down.” The statement almost made you laugh. “Calm down?” you repeated softly in disbelief. “You expect me to calm down after hearing people talk about my mother like she was some kind of warning?” His expression hardened slightly again. “This isn’t the place for this conversation.”

“Then where is?”  Another silence stretched painfully between you while downstairs music continued drifting faintly upward through the mansion and laughter echoed somewhere below, completely detached from the tension thickening inside the hallway around both of you.

Finally Ben stepped closer, not enough to touch you, but enough that his presence suddenly felt impossible to ignore. “You really don’t know anything, do you?” The question landed somewhere deep enough to hurt because no, you didn’t. Your father had spent years keeping you carefully separated from every ugly part of the family business while simultaneously trapping you inside it, protecting you from truths you were apparently old enough to become collateral damage for but not old enough to actually understand. And standing there beneath dim golden lighting while panic and confusion twisted violently inside your chest, you realized how humiliating that truly was. Ben studied your expression for another second before exhaling quietly through his nose. Then his voice lowered. “Go to your room and stay there until your father finishes downstairs.” The order immediately reignited your frustration. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“No,” he replied evenly, “but your father is paying me to keep you alive, which gets significantly harder when you start overhearing conversations from people who absolutely do not care whether you’re standing nearby.” The bluntness of the statement stole the remaining breath from your lungs. Keep you alive. Not safe. Alive. The distinction mattered far too much. You stared at him while the reality of the night finally settled heavily around you piece by piece, and suddenly the mansion no longer felt elegant or familiar beneath the warm lighting and expensive decor. It felt dangerous.

And somehow the most unsettling part of all was realizing Ben had known that from the moment he walked through the front doors.

Part 2

A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed this one! Pls lmk if you like to be added to the taglist for this fic or my permanent taglist for all of my fics!!!

perm tags: @jjjenx14 @globetrotter28 @cranberrysauce666 @cunningtalismanmechanism @biancalinkas @morphineh @itfeltlikeak1ss 

Trope: enemies to lovers, forced proximity.

A/N: The start of a new series I am so excited, please lmk if you would like to be added to this series taglist or my permanent taglist for all my upcoming fics!!

The moodboard for this fic is here

Summary: Ben was never paid to care, only to protect. Known for working with Manhattan’s elite, he’s built his reputation on silence, precision, and brutally honest opinions no one wants to hear, so when he’s assigned to guard the daughter of a man tangled in money fraud and revenge, he expects nothing more than a spoiled, sheltered girl playing princess with money that isn’t truly hers, and at first glance, she fits perfectly: polished, quiet, untouchable, a liar. But what Ben doesn’t see is the truth beneath the surface, a girl trapped in a life she never chose, suffocating under a family built on blood, image, and the loss of her mother, a life she hates but hides for the sake of her father’s reputation, and she lets him believe every wrong assumption because it’s easier than being seen. When her father’s dealings grow more dangerous, Ben is ordered to take her away and keep her hidden in a penthouse on the outskirts of Manhattan, where separate rooms do nothing to ease the tension between them as he watches, judges, and continues to get her wrong until the truth begins to slip through, forcing him to realize the girl he was hired to protect was never who he thought she was, and by then it may already be too late to stay detached.

perm tags: @jjjenx14 @globetrotter28 @cranberrysauce666 @cunningtalismanmechanism @biancalinkas @morphineh @itfeltlikeak1ss

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3-27/05

Part 4-

The cold does not simply sit on your skin as something external that can be ignored or shaken off with time, but instead settles deep beneath it, threading its way through muscle and bone until it feels less like a sensation and more like a condition, something permanent, something that belongs to this place as much as the restraints cutting into your wrists and the dull, humming vibration of machinery hidden somewhere beyond the walls, and even before your thoughts begin to form into anything coherent your body recognizes it for what it is, recognizes exactly where you have been brought back to, because places like this never change and neither do the people who run them.

You do not open your eyes straight away, not because you are afraid of what you might see but because there is nothing here that you have not already lived through in some form, nothing here that has ever surprised you in a way that mattered, and for a brief, fragile moment you allow yourself to exist in that thin space between awareness and collapse where everything feels distant enough to ignore, where the weight pressing down on you has not yet fully settled into something unbearable. That moment does not last, because it never does in places like this, where even silence feels engineered, where every second is designed to lead somewhere specific, somewhere controlled, and the first thing that begins to drag you back into yourself is sound, low at first and indistinct before sharpening into something clearer as your awareness returns in uneven fragments, footsteps moving across the floor in a slow, deliberate pattern that suggests patience rather than urgency, confidence rather than uncertainty, the kind of presence that does not need to rush because it already holds all the control in the room.

Light follows soon after, pressing insistently against your closed eyelids until ignoring it becomes more effort than acknowledging it, and when you finally allow your vision to adjust the room comes into focus piece by piece, every surface too clean, too polished, too devoid of anything human to feel like a place where people exist rather than a place where they are processed, examined, broken down and rebuilt into something more useful. Your head feels heavy in a way that goes beyond simple exhaustion, your thoughts slow and disjointed as they attempt to gather themselves into something stable, and when you try to shift even slightly the sharp pull at your wrists reminds you immediately that movement is not something you are allowed, that whatever illusion of autonomy you had managed to cling to before everything fell apart has been stripped away entirely. Memory returns next, not gently but all at once, the image hitting with more force than anything else your body is currently processing, because it is not the pain or the exhaustion that lingers most clearly but that final moment before everything went dark, the metal shutter slamming down between you and him, the split second where neither of you had time to react properly, the look on his face through that reinforced glass as realization set in too late, raw and unfiltered in a way that did not belong to the version of him you had come to know, and the sound of his fists hitting the door again and again as if force alone might undo something designed specifically to withstand him. Your chest tightens involuntarily at the memory, your breath catching before you force it to steady, because holding onto that image feels dangerous now, feels like something they will take and twist if given the chance, something they will use to reshape your understanding of what happened, of what it meant, of what he chose.

A door opens somewhere behind you, the sound quiet but deliberate, and the shift in the room is immediate even before the footsteps begin, the air changing in that subtle, controlled way it always does when someone enters who does not need to prove their authority because it is already established, already reinforced by the structure itself. “Well,” the voice begins, smooth and measured, carrying the kind of calm that comes not from kindness but from certainty, from the knowledge that nothing in this room exists outside of their control, “this is not how we anticipated things unfolding.” You do not respond, not because you do not have anything to say but because you understand exactly how this works, because every word is something they can use, something they can turn, something they can reshape into leverage, and silence has always been the closest thing you have to resistance. They move around you rather than stopping directly in front of you, forcing your attention to track them without fully seeing them, forcing your awareness to remain slightly off balance, slightly unfocused, which is exactly where they want you.

“You were given a very simple directive,” they continue, their tone shifting just enough to introduce a sharper edge without losing that controlled calm, “maintain proximity, maintain influence, ensure stability, and in return you were compensated accordingly.” Your head tilts faintly, your gaze settling somewhere near the floor rather than following them, and when you finally speak your voice is rough, worn thin by everything your body has already been pushed through. “Funny,” you manage, the word dragging slightly, “don’t remember agreeing to come back here.”

There is a brief pause, not long but deliberate enough to register, followed by something that might almost be amusement if it held any warmth. “You never left,” they reply, the certainty in their voice settling into the space like something immovable, something that does not invite challenge, “you were simply… repositioned.” The first strike comes without warning, fast and precise, snapping your head to the side as the impact lands across your face, the force controlled rather than wild, designed to hurt without disrupting the overall condition of what they still consider an asset. Pain blooms immediately, sharp and disorienting, but you do not give them the reaction they are looking for, your body absorbing it as best it can, your breathing hitching only slightly before you force it back under control.

“Let’s not pretend this is unfamiliar territory,” they continue as if nothing has happened, as if this is simply part of a conversation rather than the foundation of it, “you have spent enough time on the other side of this to understand how it works.” Another strike follows, lower this time, driving into your ribs with enough force to pull the air from your lungs in a sharp, involuntary gasp, your body tensing against the restraints as the pain spreads outward in heavy waves. “Does it feel different now,” they ask, their tone almost curious, almost analytical, “being the subject rather than the instrument.”

You force your breathing to steady despite the way your chest protests, despite the way your vision flickers slightly at the edges, because losing control here is not something you can afford, because they are waiting for that moment.

“Where is he?” they ask then, the question slipping into the space between strikes with quiet inevitability. You don’t answer. Another blow lands, sharper this time, snapping your head back slightly as the taste of iron spreads across your tongue, grounding you in a way that is both unpleasant and necessary.

“Where.” they repeat, their patience thinning just enough to be noticeable.

“I don’t know.” you manage finally, because it is the truth, because anything else would only give them more to work with. Silence follows, heavier this time, filled with the weight of their assessment, their calculation of how best to proceed.

“That,” they say eventually, their voice softer now but no less controlled, “is disappointing.” Another blow lands, harder, enough to tilt your vision sideways for a moment before it rights itself again in uneven fragments. “He is our greatest success,” they continue, pacing again, their voice taking on that same measured cadence that makes everything sound like a lesson rather than an interrogation, “our most valuable creation, the foundation of everything we have built, and yet you believed he would abandon that for what, exactly.” They pause, not for emphasis but for effect. “For you?” The words land deeper than the strikes, threading into the spaces your defenses do not fully cover.

“He left,” they add, quieter now, almost conversational, “took what he needed and disappeared, exactly as expected.” Your fingers twitch weakly against the restraints, the movement small but noticeable. “That is what men like him do,” they continue, the tone softening into something that almost resembles sympathy but carries none of its sincerity, “they use what is available until it is no longer necessary, and then they move on without hesitation.” Another strike lands, but it barely registers this time. “He was never going to stay,” they say, the words threading into your thoughts with quiet precision, “and he certainly was never going to come back.” Your breathing stutters, just enough for them to notice.

“He is not like you,” they continue, “he is not something to be discarded, not something to be controlled through proximity or attachment, he is the result of decades of refinement, and you expected him to turn against that.” The room begins to blur at the edges, the strain of everything catching up with you, your vision dimming slightly as your body struggles to keep pace.

“He would never destroy what made him.” they finish quietly. The words echo. Repeat. Distort. And then they slip. The room dissolves gradually, not all at once but in layers, until what remains is something else entirely, something softer at first, something that feels almost unfamiliar in its warmth. 

Ben’s Pov:

Freedom does not feel the way it is supposed to, not in the way it had lived in the back of his mind for years as something sharp and clean and final, something that would snap into place the second the weight of Vought lifted off his shoulders, because instead it settles around him like something unfinished, something jagged at the edges that refuses to resolve into anything resembling relief, and the longer he stands there with the night stretched out in front of him, the more obvious it becomes that whatever this is, it is not the clean break he had imagined, not the victory he had been building toward in the quiet, restless parts of his mind where the idea of escape had always carried a kind of brutal clarity.

The city spreads out beneath him in endless layers of light and movement, distant sirens cutting through the low hum of traffic while neon reflections smear across glass and steel in a way that makes everything feel unreal, like a backdrop rather than something solid, something he can anchor himself to, and he finds himself staring at it without really seeing it, his focus slipping again and again toward something else entirely, something that refuses to stay buried no matter how many times he tries to shove it down beneath instinct and habit and the old, familiar instinct to keep moving forward without looking back.

His hand tightens around the edge of the rooftop he has stopped on, the concrete biting faintly into his palm as the pressure builds without him consciously deciding to apply it, a slow, creeping tension that has nowhere to go now that the immediate chaos has fallen away, now that there are no guards in front of him to hit, no walls left to break through, no immediate threat to focus on, because without that constant forward momentum there is nothing left to distract him from the one thing he has been avoiding since the moment that door came down. He exhales slowly, the breath leaving him heavier than it should, his chest tightening in a way that has nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with the way his thoughts keep circling back, dragging him toward that moment whether he wants it or not, replaying it with a clarity that feels almost deliberate, almost punishing in its precision. The sound comes first, sharp and sudden, the metallic grind of reinforced steel dropping into place with a finality that had not left room for hesitation or correction, followed immediately by something else, something that cuts through everything else with a clarity that still sits too close to the surface.

Your voice.

Not controlled, not calculated, not the version of you that knew exactly how to navigate Vought’s expectations or twist a situation just enough to survive it, but something raw and stripped back, something that had not been meant for anyone else to hear, least of all him, and the way it had cut through the noise had been enough to snap his attention away from everything else in an instant. He had turned too late.

He knows that now with a certainty that sits heavy in his chest, a realization that keeps replaying itself no matter how many times he tries to shift focus away from it, because the timing had been wrong by seconds, by inches, by just enough that it had mattered, and when he had looked up the door had already been halfway down, already closing off the space between you in a way that no amount of force could undo quickly enough. He can still see it, the image refusing to blur or fade no matter how much time passes, your figure on the other side of that narrowing gap, your movements slower than they should have been, your body already giving out in ways he had not fully registered in the moment because everything had been happening too fast, too loud, too chaotic for anything to land properly.

The bag sliding under the door.

That part sticks harder than anything else, the deliberate nature of it cutting through the panic in a way that had made something in his chest twist sharply, because it had not been a mistake, not something dropped or lost in the rush, but a choice, a decision made in the space of a second that had carried more weight than anything either of you had said out loud. He had hit the door before it fully closed, his hands slamming into reinforced metal with enough force to send a dull shock through the structure itself, but it had not been enough, not even close, because whatever Vought had built down there had been designed specifically to hold things like him back, to contain, to isolate, to separate, and for the first time in a long time he had felt something that did not sit comfortably in his chest. Not anger. Not yet. Something sharper. Something that had no outlet.

His jaw tightens now at the memory, his teeth grinding together slightly as he drags a hand back through his hair in a rough, impatient motion that does nothing to settle the restless energy building under his skin, because standing still like this feels wrong, feels unnatural in a way that makes his entire body want to move, to act, to do something that might shift the weight sitting in his chest into something more manageable.

He should leave.

The thought is clear, logical in a way that aligns perfectly with everything he has been conditioned to do, because this is what freedom looks like, this is what he had been pushing toward whether he admitted it or not, the chance to walk away from Vought with more leverage than he has ever had before, with more information, more control, more ability to dictate what comes next. He has everything he needs. He knows that. The bag sitting not far from where he dropped it is proof enough of that, filled with more than enough to make Vought bleed if he chooses to use it, enough to shift the balance in ways that would have been impossible before, enough to make this whole thing worth it in the most straightforward sense of the word.

And yet he has not moved.

Not really.

He had put distance between himself and the building on instinct, on habit, on the ingrained understanding that staying in one place for too long is a mistake, that survival means movement, means unpredictability, means never giving anyone the chance to catch up, but even now he has not gone far enough, has not committed fully to leaving in the way he knows he should. Because every time he tries to take that next step, every time he shifts his weight forward with the intention of actually putting distance between himself and what happened, something pulls him back, something catches in the back of his mind and refuses to let go. The thought of what they are doing to you right now settles in without permission, without warning, threading its way through everything else until it becomes impossible to ignore, because he knows exactly how Vought operates when something goes wrong, when control slips even slightly out of their grasp, when an asset becomes a liability rather than something predictable. He has seen it before. He has lived it. Rooms like that do not change. The methods do not change. Only the target does. His breathing shifts, just slightly, the rhythm uneven for a fraction of a second before he forces it back into something steady, something controlled, because letting that thought expand into something larger, something more detailed, feels like stepping into a space he is not entirely sure he can pull himself back out of. They will be asking questions. He knows that much without needing to see it.

They will want to know where he is, what he has, what the plan was, what you know, what you told him, what he told you, every angle dissected and pulled apart until there is nothing left that has not been examined from every possible direction.

And if you do not give them what they want..

His hand tightens again, the concrete beneath it cracking faintly under the pressure before he forces himself to ease off, the sound sharp in the otherwise quiet space around him. You have handled worse. The thought comes quickly, almost automatic, the part of him that has always relied on hard truths and practical assessments stepping in before anything else can take hold, because you are not weak, not fragile, not something that breaks easily under pressure, and he has seen enough of what you are capable of to know that whatever they are doing, you are not going down without a fight. But that does not mean you are winning. That does not mean you are okay. And that does not mean you are still there. That last thought hits harder than anything else, sharper, more immediate, because it introduces something he has been avoiding entirely, something that sits just outside the edges of his awareness until it suddenly isn’t, until it steps fully into focus in a way that makes his chest feel too tight, too restricted, like something is pressing down on it from the inside. He does not know if you are alive.

The realization settles in with a kind of finality that leaves no room for adjustment, no room for reinterpretation, because there is no information to counter it, no evidence to suggest otherwise, nothing but the memory of you on the other side of that door, already slipping, already fading in a way that had not matched the version of you he had come to understand. He exhales sharply, the sound rougher than he intends, his shoulders tensing before he forces them to drop again, because this is not how he operates, this is not how he thinks, not how he makes decisions, and letting himself get pulled into something like this feels wrong in a way that irritates more than it alarms. He should not care this much. The thought lands hard, almost aggressive in the way it pushes forward, as if stating it clearly enough might force it to become true, might override whatever is currently happening in his head. You were part of a job. An arrangement. A situation that had a clear beginning and a clear end. He knows that. He has always known that.

His jaw tightens again, the familiar edge of frustration creeping back in, not directed outward this time but inward, toward the part of himself that refuses to settle, refuses to accept the clean, simple version of events that would make this easier to process. Because it was not just that. Not anymore. Somewhere along the line, something had shifted, something subtle at first and then less so, something that had turned what should have been straightforward into something layered, something complicated in ways he had not fully acknowledged at the time because acknowledging it would have required him to stop, to look at it directly, to decide what it meant. And he does not like doing that. He prefers things simple. Clear. Defined. But this, this is not that. This is standing on a rooftop with everything he has ever wanted sitting within reach and realizing that it does not feel complete, does not feel finished, does not feel like anything he can walk away from without something unresolved dragging behind him.

The bag sits where he left it, untouched, waiting, full of everything that could tip the balance if used correctly, everything that could make this entire situation worth the cost in a way that aligns perfectly with the version of him that has always prioritized outcome over process. He looks at it for a long moment, his expression unreadable even to himself, before his gaze shifts back toward the direction he came from, toward the building that is no longer visible from where he stands but still feels close enough to matter. The city hums around him, indifferent, unchanged, moving forward without pause.

Your pov:

You are smaller, lighter, your hands free and unmarked, the air around you different in a way that feels wrong only because you have spent too long in places that feel nothing like this. There is laughter, real laughter, not sharp or mocking but light and unguarded, and your younger self stands in the center of it, her expression bright, her posture open in a way that feels almost foreign now. Something flickers between her fingers, small and uncertain but undeniably there, and the way she looks at it is not with fear but with wonder, with the belief that this might be something good.

“Look!” she says, her voice carrying that same unfiltered excitement. People watch her, they smile, they encourage, and for a moment everything feels right. Your chest tightens. The memory shifts. The warmth fades.

“Again.” someone says, their tone no longer gentle but firm, expectant. She hesitates, the flicker stuttering as uncertainty creeps in. Then she tries again. The energy spikes, too fast, too strong. The reaction changes instantly. Concern replaces encouragement. Then fear. Then distance. She looks up, confusion giving way to something else.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asks, her voice smaller now. No one answers the way she needs. They step back. They look at her differently. And something breaks. You feel it again, as if no time has passed. The realization settles in before she has the words for it. This is not a gift. It never was. Your throat tightens, your vision blurs, and the tears come before you can stop them, slipping down your face both in the memory and in the present.

“They won’t stay..” your younger self whispers, her voice breaking. “No one will.” The words echo, settling deep. And for a moment, you believe them. Completely. Because it fits. Because it explains everything. The silence stretches. The memory fractures. And then something tears through it, violent and abrupt, not part of the controlled environment around you but something else entirely, something raw and uncontained. Somewhere far from this room, far from the restraints and the calculated voices and the carefully constructed narrative being fed into your mind, something has broken loose in a way that does not align with anything they predicted. Because he is not running, he is not hiding, he is not doing what they said he would do. He is tearing through everything in his path, or at least you hope he is.

The memory fractures slowly rather than cleanly, as if whatever fragile thread had been holding it together is being pulled apart from the outside rather than allowed to settle on its own, and for a moment everything overlaps in a way that makes it impossible to tell where one reality ends and the other begins, your younger self’s voice echoing faintly through a space that no longer exists while something heavier, sharper forces its way back in, dragging you toward the present with a kind of inevitability that feels almost violent in its insistence. Sound comes first, not controlled or measured like before but chaotic, uneven, something tearing through the structure of the building with a force that does not belong to anything Vought designed, alarms blaring in jagged bursts that cut through the air while something deeper reverberates beneath it all, a low, concussive impact that shakes the walls hard enough to rattle the restraints holding you in place, and for a moment your brain refuses to process it properly because it does not fit with the pattern you have been forced into, does not align with the controlled cruelty of interrogation rooms and calculated pain.

Someone shouts.

Not at you, not this time, but across the room, their voice sharp with something that sounds dangerously close to panic, and that alone is enough to pull you further out of the haze, enough to force your awareness back into your body in uneven, disjointed pieces. The door does not open. It explodes inward. The force of it sends a shockwave through the room, splintered metal and debris scattering across the floor while the men inside barely have time to react before he is already moving, already inside, already tearing through the space with a kind of precision that feels almost secondary to the raw, unfiltered violence behind it.

For a second, you do not recognize him.

Not because you cannot see him clearly, but because the version of him standing in that doorway is stripped of everything performative, everything controlled, everything that usually sits between him and the rest of the world like a buffer, leaving behind something sharper, something more dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with image and everything to do with intent. His gaze finds you almost immediately. Everything else becomes irrelevant in that instant, the guards, the noise, the alarms still screaming somewhere overhead, none of it holds his attention the way you do, and there is a split second where something shifts in his expression, something that does not fully settle into anger or relief or anything easily defined before it hardens again into something far more familiar. Then he moves. Fast. Efficient. The first guard does not even get a full sentence out before he is down, the second barely manages to raise his weapon before it is ripped from his grip and turned against him with brutal efficiency, and the room collapses into chaos around you as he clears it piece by piece, leaving nothing standing that could slow him down for more than a second. By the time he reaches you, the noise has dulled into something distant, something that exists outside the immediate space you are trapped in, your vision still unsteady, your body slow to respond as everything struggles to catch up with what is happening.

“Hey,” he says, the word rougher than usual, edged with something that does not quite sound like anger, and his hands are on the restraints before you can respond, gripping the metal hard enough that it groans under the pressure. For a moment nothing happens. Then it gives. The first shackle snaps free, then the second, the sudden absence of tension sending a sharp jolt through your arms as circulation rushes back unevenly, your body not quite ready to support you as you sag forward slightly, your balance failing before you can correct it. He catches you before you hit the floor. Not gently, not carefully, but firmly enough to keep you upright, his grip solid as he steadies you without hesitation, without asking.

“You with me.” he mutters, his voice lower now, closer, and it takes you a second to realize he is actually waiting for an answer. Your head tilts slightly, your vision struggling to focus properly as you try to pull something coherent together.

“…took you long enough.” you manage eventually, the words slurred slightly at the edges but still carrying enough of their usual bite to land. Something shifts in his expression again, brief and unreadable before it disappears. “Yeah,” he replies, almost under his breath, “well, you look like shit.” You let out something that might have been a laugh if your body had the energy to follow through with it, but it fades quickly, replaced by the weight of everything pressing down again now that the immediate danger has shifted into something else. “We need to move.” he says, already adjusting his grip on you, already shifting his stance as if preparing to carry more of your weight whether you agree to it or not. You do not argue. There is no point.

The hallway beyond the room is worse than before, alarms flashing red against stark white walls while the remnants of whatever security had been in place scramble to respond to something they clearly had not anticipated, and he moves through it like none of it matters, like the resistance is nothing more than an inconvenience, something to be pushed aside rather than engaged with fully.

You lose track of time somewhere along the way.

The transitions blur together, one corridor bleeding into another, one impact blending into the next, your awareness slipping in and out as your body struggles to keep up with the pace he is forcing, the constant movement, the sharp turns, the moments where everything narrows down to nothing but the sound of his breathing and the solid, unyielding presence of him keeping you upright when your legs threaten to give out entirely. By the time you reach open air, the world feels distant in a way that makes everything slightly unreal, the cold hitting your skin in a way that should be grounding but instead feels muted, like it is happening somewhere just outside your ability to fully process it.

He does not stop. Not properly. Distance comes quickly, the building falling away behind you as he puts space between you and everything that just happened with a kind of urgency that does not leave room for hesitation, for second-guessing, for anything that might slow him down long enough for Vought to catch up. The place he eventually brings you to is not impressive. Not clean. Not safe in any conventional sense. It is an abandoned structure somewhere on the edge of the city, half-collapsed in places, the walls marked with signs of neglect and disuse that make it clear no one has cared about this space in a long time, and yet there is something about it that works, something about the isolation, the lack of attention, the absence of anything that might draw eyes to it.

He sets you down carefully this time, easing you onto a surface that is at least stable even if it is far from comfortable, his hands lingering for a second longer than necessary before he pulls back, his gaze moving over you quickly, assessing in a way that feels more instinctive than deliberate.

“Don’t pass out.” he says, already turning away before you can respond, already moving through the space as he starts pulling things together with a kind of rough efficiency that suggests he has done something like this before, even if the circumstances are different. You try to sit up properly. It does not go well. Your body protests immediately, your vision darkening at the edges as the strain hits harder than expected, your arms shaking slightly as you attempt to brace yourself against something solid.

“Yeah, don’t do that.” he mutters without looking at you, tossing something in your direction that lands just within reach, a bottle of water that you barely manage to grab before it rolls away. You take a slow sip, then another, your throat tight but functional enough to manage it, the small action grounding you slightly as your awareness begins to settle more firmly back into your body. He returns a moment later with something resembling a first aid kit, though it looks pieced together rather than official, the contents mismatched in a way that suggests it was assembled out of necessity rather than intention.

“Hold still.” he says, kneeling in front of you without waiting for agreement, his movements direct as he starts working through the visible damage, cleaning cuts, wrapping what needs wrapping, pressing down where the bleeding has not fully stopped. He is not gentle. But he is careful.

There is a difference.

You hiss slightly when he presses too hard against one of your ribs, your hand coming up instinctively to push him back, but he catches your wrist easily, holding it in place for just long enough to finish what he is doing before letting go. “Yeah,” he says under his breath, “that’s gonna hurt.”

“No shit.” you mutter, your voice still rough but steadier now, more present. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable. Not exactly. Just… there.

“We got what we needed.” he says eventually, gesturing vaguely toward the bag sitting off to the side, the weight of it heavier now that everything else has settled slightly. You glance at it, then back at him.

“And you didn’t run..” you say quietly, the words slipping out before you can decide whether you meant to say them at all. He snorts faintly, the sound low and dismissive in a way that does not quite match the way his shoulders tense slightly at the question. “Yeah,” he replies, “don’t make a thing out of it.” You huff out a breath that might almost be a laugh. “Too late.”

Another pause.

Then-

“You should’ve left me.” you say, the words quieter this time, heavier in a way that sits differently in the space between you. His head tilts slightly, his gaze sharpening as it locks onto yours. “Yeah,” he says, voice flat, “well, I didn’t.”

“That’s not exactly smart.” He leans back slightly, one hand dragging through his hair again as he exhales slowly, his eyes not leaving yours even as his expression shifts into something harder to read. “Since when do I do smart?” he mutters. You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary. Then look away.

“This is a bad idea,” you say after a moment, the words settling heavier than anything else you have said so far. He huffs out a short, humorless breath. “Yeah,” he agrees, “no shit.” Silence again.Thicker this time. “You’re not exactly stable,” you add, glancing back at him, the edge returning to your voice just enough to keep it from slipping into something softer. He smirks faintly at that, the expression more reflex than anything else. “And you get inside people’s heads and rip them apart,” he replies, tone just as dry, just as edged.

“Exactly.”

Another pause.

“So what,” he says, the words slower this time, more deliberate, “we’re just gonna pretend that means we don’t work.” You blink once, the question catching you slightly off guard despite everything else. “That’s not what I said.”

“Pretty close.”

You shake your head slightly, your hand dragging tiredly across your face as you try to push through the fog still lingering at the edges of your thoughts. “We’re not good for each other.” you say finally, the words settling into the space with a kind of quiet certainty. He watches you for a long moment.

“Yeah.” he says.

A beat.

“That’s kinda the point.” Something shifts. Subtle. But there. Because he is not arguing. Not pushing back. Not denying it. He is agreeing. And that should feel wrong. It probably does. But it doesn’t feel like enough to stop anything.

“Vought’s not gonna stop.” you say after a moment, your gaze drifting toward the bag again, toward everything sitting inside it, everything that could still go very wrong. “No,” he replies, following your line of sight briefly before looking back at you.

“They’re not.”

Another pause.

“We finish this,” he adds, quieter now, “we burn whatever’s left.”

“And then.” He shrugs slightly. “Then we disappear.” You let that settle. Let it sit. Let it mean what it means. “…and don’t come back,” you say.

“Yeah.” Silence again. But this time it feels different. Not empty. Not uncertain. Just… decided. You look at him again, really look this time, the exhaustion still there, the damage still visible, but something else underneath it now, something that has not been there before.

“You’re a terrible idea.” you mutter. He smirks faintly. “Likewise.” The space between you closes without either of you fully deciding to move. It just… happens. Slow at first. Then not. The tension that has been building, shifting, evolving from the moment this started finally tipping into something else, something that does not need to be explained or justified or even acknowledged out loud. His hand finds your jaw first, rough and steady, tilting your head just enough to line things up properly before he leans in, the movement direct, unhesitating, like everything else about him. The kiss is not soft. Not careful. It is sharp, immediate, carrying everything neither of you has said in a way that makes it impossible to pretend this is just another part of the act, just another piece of the performance you have both been playing. You respond just as quickly. Because of course you do. Because stopping now would require more control than either of you has left to give.

And maybe,

That’s exactly why it works.

A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed the final part of this series I tried to leave it to the interpretation for what happens next open!! There will be updates on the next series very very soon! In the mean time feel free to send in any requests you may have!!

perm tags: @jjjenx14 @globetrotter28 @cranberrysauce666 @cunningtalismanmechanism @biancalinkas @morphineh @itfeltlikeak1ss 

The night settles over the penthouse in a way that feels heavier than usual, the city stretched out below in a blur of lights and distant movement, everything alive and loud down there while up here it feels almost detached, like you’re watching it all through glass that keeps the noise out but lets the pressure seep in anyway, slow and constant, pressing against your skull in a way that never quite lets you relax. The balcony door is already open when you step out, the faint chill in the air cutting through the lingering heat of the day as you lean against the railing, pulling a cigarette from your pocket and lighting it with hands that are steadier than they were earlier, though not by much, the flame flickering briefly before you take a long drag, letting the smoke settle in your lungs as you exhale slowly into the night. The routine starting to become more natural than you’d like to admit. You hear him before you see him. The soft scrape of the door. The faint shift of weight behind you.

And then he’s there, moving past you without asking, without acknowledging you at first, like this has already become routine without either of you saying it out loud, like ending up in the same space at the same time is something neither of you is willing to question anymore. He leans his forearms against the railing beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brush, the scent of smoke following him as he pulls out a blunt, lighting it with practiced ease, the glow briefly illuminating the sharp lines of his face before fading again. For a while, neither of you speaks. The silence isn’t uncomfortable. It’s just… there. Thick, familiar, carrying everything that’s been building between you without either of you needing to address it directly. You take another drag, your gaze fixed on the city below. “We can’t keep doing this.” you say eventually, your voice quiet but steady, the words slipping out before you can overthink them. He exhales slowly, smoke drifting out into the night as he tilts his head slightly, not looking at you.

“Doing what.” You huff faintly, the corner of your mouth twitching despite yourself. “Pretending we’re not completely screwed.” That earns a quiet, almost amused breath from him, the sound low and rough as he finally glances sideways at you. “Speak for yourself,” he mutters. “I’ve been screwed since the forties.” You roll your eyes, though there’s no real bite behind it, just a tired kind of irritation that doesn’t quite reach the surface. “I’m serious.”

“Yeah,” he replies, taking another drag before tapping ash lazily over the edge of the balcony. “I can tell. You get that look.” You frown slightly, glancing at him. “What look.”

“The one where you start thinking too hard,” he says, his tone almost conversational, like he’s commenting on the weather instead of calling you out. “Usually ends with someone getting hurt.” You let out a quiet breath through your nose. “Helpful.” He shrugs. “You’re welcome.” There’s a pause, the quiet stretching again, though this time it feels different, more deliberate, like both of you are circling something neither wants to say outright. You take another drag, letting the smoke linger for a second before exhaling slowly. “They’re not going to let us walk away,” you say, your voice lower now, more grounded, less reactive than before. “Not with everything we know. Not with what we are.” He doesn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening slightly as he stares out over the city, the glow of his blunt flaring briefly as he inhales again. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Figured that.” You glance at him, studying the way his posture shifts just slightly, like he’s bracing for something even if he won’t admit it. “So what’s the plan?” He snorts faintly at that, shaking his head once as he exhales. “You’re asking me?”

“You’re the one who keeps saying you’ll handle it.” you shoot back, one brow lifting slightly as you turn toward him. “Figured you might actually have something.” He glances at you again, his gaze dragging over your face in that slow, assessing way that’s become annoyingly familiar, like he’s trying to decide if you’re serious or just pushing him. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I got something.” You wait. He doesn’t elaborate. You sigh, flicking ash over the edge. “Great. Glad we cleared that up.” That earns a faint smirk, the corner of his mouth pulling up slightly as he shifts just enough to face you more directly, one hand still resting on the railing behind you. “You always this impatient?” he asks, his tone lighter now, teasing in a way that feels almost out of place considering the conversation. “Only when I’m stuck with someone who thinks they’re mysterious instead of just unhelpful.” you reply easily, though your lips twitch slightly despite yourself. He huffs a quiet laugh at that, shaking his head.

“Careful,” he says, his voice dropping just a fraction as he leans in closer, not enough to crowd you completely but enough to make the shift noticeable. “Keep talking like that and people might start thinking you don’t like me.” You raise an eyebrow, taking a slow drag from your cigarette. “I don’t like you.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, his gaze flicking briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. “Could’ve fooled me.” You hold his gaze for a second longer than you should, the tension between you tightening slightly before you force yourself to look away, focusing back on the city instead. “Don’t read into it,” you mutter. “I’m just stuck with you.”

“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced, taking another drag before letting the smoke drift out slowly. “Funny way of showing it.” You scoff quietly, though there’s less heat behind it now, the edge dulled by something you don’t quite want to name. “Focus,” you say, pushing past it. “We need a plan.” He studies you for a second longer, like he’s deciding whether to keep pushing or let it go, before he exhales and shifts slightly, his tone changing just enough to signal he’s actually taking you seriously now. “They think they’ve got us locked down,” he says, his voice lower, more deliberate. “Contracts, surveillance, handlers, the whole deal.”

“They do have us locked down.” you point out. “Yeah,” he replies, glancing at you again. “So we make them think we’re not a problem.” You frown slightly. “We already do that.” He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “We play along. We don’t convince them.” Your eyes narrow slightly as you consider that. “Meaning.”

“Meaning we stop fighting it,” he continues, his tone steady now, more focused. “Give them exactly what they want. The relationship, the appearances, the whole damn show.” You let out a quiet breath, your grip tightening slightly on the cigarette between your fingers. “And then what.” He leans back slightly against the railing, one arm resting behind you again, close enough that you can feel the heat of him without actually touching. “Then we start taking things they don’t notice,” he says. “Information. Access. Anything we can use.” You glance at him again, your expression shifting as the pieces start to fall into place. “Leverage.”

“Exactly.” There’s a pause. Then. “And when we have enough?” you add slowly. His gaze locks onto yours again, something sharper settling in his expression. “We make them choose.”

“Between?”

“Letting us walk,” he says, his voice low, edged with something dangerous now, “or dealing with whatever we decide to do with what we’ve got.” The implication hangs there. Heavy. Real. You study him for a long moment, weighing it, turning it over in your head, every possible outcome flashing through your mind faster than you can fully process them. It’s risky. It’s messy. It could go very wrong. But, it’s something. “You’re insane.” you say finally, though there’s no real resistance behind it. He smirks faintly. “Yeah,” he replies. “You’re just figuring that out now?” You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly. “No,” you admit. “I just didn’t think you’d come up with something that might actually work.” That earns you a look, something almost amused flickering in his eyes. “Careful,” he murmurs. “Sounded almost like a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.” The tension shifts again, softer now but no less charged, the air between you thick with something that feels dangerously close to familiarity. You take another drag, your shoulder brushing his this time, light, accidental, or maybe not. Neither of you moves away. “Still doesn’t solve one problem.” you say after a moment, your voice quieter now. He glances at you. “What’s that?” You tilt your head slightly, meeting his gaze again. “They don’t let people like us go,” you say. “Not clean. Not easy.” His expression hardens slightly at that, something darker flickering beneath the surface. “Yeah,” he replies. “I know.” There’s a pause. Then you add, softer. “Then we make it harder for them to keep us.” He watches you for a second, something unreadable settling in his expression before he lets out a slow breath, nodding once. “Now you’re getting it.” You smirk faintly, the cigarette still balanced between your fingers as you lean back against the railing beside him, your shoulder pressing more firmly into his now without either of you acknowledging it.

“Don’t sound so proud,” you mutter. “You’re the one who said it first.”

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice dropping slightly as he leans just a fraction closer, his hand brushing briefly against your lower back like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t linger for half a second longer than it should. “But you’re the one catching up.” You roll your eyes, though the reaction feels weaker than it should, your breath catching slightly before you force it steady. “Keep talking,” you say dryly, “and I might start thinking you’re enjoying this.” He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound low, rough, as he takes another drag before exhaling slowly, the smoke drifting between you. “Maybe I am.” he murmurs. You glance at him again, one brow lifting slightly. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he replies easily. “But you’re still here.” You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary, the tension pulling tight again, balancing on that same edge it always seems to find. Then you look away first. “Just means I don’t have a better option.” you mutter. “Sure..” he says, clearly unconvinced. Neither of you pushes it further. Instead, you both fall back into that strange, shared silence again, the city stretching endlessly below you, the smoke curling lazily into the night air as the plan settles between you, unspoken but understood. It’s not safe. It’s not clean. It’s not guaranteed. But it’s something. And for the first time, you’re not facing it alone. Even if neither of you is willing to admit that out loud.

The shift in your dynamic does not arrive in a single, defining moment, nor does it come with any kind of clarity that either of you can point to and say that was when it stopped being fake, because what actually happens is far messier and far more dangerous than that, unfolding gradually through repetition, proximity, and the kind of shared tension that refuses to stay contained, until the lines blur so completely that neither of you can quite tell where the act ends and something else begins. It starts in ways that feel insignificant at first, so small and easily dismissed that even you don’t clock them as anything worth paying attention to, like the way you no longer hesitate before sitting beside him even when there is an entire room available, or how he stops making a show of closing the distance between you and simply does it without thinking, his hand finding your back or your arm or your waist with an ease that suggests habit rather than performance, as though your space has quietly become his space without either of you formally acknowledging the change.

One afternoon, in a staging room that has been dressed up to resemble something casual and inviting for the sake of an upcoming segment, the illusion begins to slip in a way that even Vought cannot ignore, because you are seated on a low couch with your legs crossed, half-listening to a production assistant ramble through instructions that you have heard too many times already, while he sprawls beside you with the same careless confidence he carries into every room, his arm draped lazily along the back of the couch behind your shoulders, his fingers tapping intermittently against the fabric in a rhythm that becomes increasingly irritating the longer it goes on. Without thinking about it, without even looking at him properly, you reach back and catch his hand mid-tap, your fingers wrapping around his wrist just firmly enough to still the movement, your voice low and unimpressed as you mutter for him to stop, because it is getting on your nerves, and the moment hangs there for a second longer than it should as his attention shifts fully onto you, his gaze dropping to where your hand rests against him before lifting back up to your face with a look that is far too aware for comfort. Instead of pulling away, he adjusts, turning his wrist slightly beneath your grip so that your fingers brush against his palm in a way that is entirely unnecessary and entirely intentional, the corner of his mouth lifting into something faintly amused as he points out that you are the one touching him now, which you dismiss without hesitation, because he was being irritating and that is the only thing that matters, even though neither of you makes any real effort to break the contact immediately.

Across the room, one of the handlers clears their throat in a way that is far too pointed to be subtle, reminding you both that the cameras are not yet rolling and that there is no need to maintain physical closeness until filming begins, but the suggestion falls flat the second it leaves their mouth, because you glance in their direction with nothing more than mild annoyance while he shifts even closer instead of pulling away, his arm dropping from the back of the couch to settle more solidly around your shoulders, drawing you in just enough to make it obvious that whatever this is, it is no longer something either of you is doing solely for an audience. You do not correct it, and that is what makes it worse. From that point on, it becomes increasingly difficult for anyone watching to separate what is staged from what is simply happening, because even when the cameras are off and the scripts are forgotten, the two of you continue to orbit each other in a way that feels far too natural to be entirely fabricated, slipping into patterns that mirror intimacy without ever naming it as such, your interactions laced with sharp remarks and dry humor that mask something far more complicated underneath.

During one of the longer interview days, when exhaustion has begun to wear down whatever restraint either of you might have had at the start, the shift becomes even more apparent, because you are seated side by side at a table while an interviewer asks the same recycled questions about your powers and your relationship, their voice fading into background noise as your attention drifts, only snapping back into focus when you feel his hand settle against your thigh beneath the table, his fingers pressing just firmly enough to be felt without drawing attention from anyone else in the room. You do not react in any way that would give it away, your posture remaining composed as you continue answering the question directed at you, but your hand moves without hesitation, sliding down to rest lightly against his wrist in a gesture that is not quite a push and not quite an acceptance, something ambiguous enough that it could be interpreted either way, and the subtle shift in his posture tells you that he notices, even if he does not call attention to it out loud. The exchange that follows is quiet, nearly invisible to anyone who is not paying close attention, your voices low enough that they do not carry beyond the space between you as he comments on your lack of reaction and you counter without missing a beat, the rhythm of it easy and familiar in a way that suggests you have fallen into this pattern more often than either of you would care to admit.

Somewhere off to the side, a handler gestures sharply, silently reminding you to keep your hands visible, but neither of you responds, and that silence says more than any deliberate act of defiance could have, because it makes it clear that whatever line they are trying to enforce no longer holds the same weight it used to. By the time you are moving through the halls between segments later that day, the shift has settled into something that feels almost routine, your conversations flowing without the sharp edges that once defined them, your proximity constant rather than situational, the small, almost unconscious ways in which you interact betraying just how much has changed without either of you formally acknowledging it.

A handler attempts to intervene at one point, stepping in with a carefully measured reminder that you are not currently being filmed and therefore do not need to maintain the same level of physical closeness, but the attempt is met with little more than dismissal, because neither of you adjusts your behavior in response, continuing forward as though the comment was never made, your silence acting as its own form of resistance.

Something that has slipped past their control without them noticing until it is already too late to easily undo. The moment that forces them to confront it directly comes during another rehearsal, when the two of you are seated together while a member of the PR team runs through a series of questions designed to reinforce the narrative they have built around your relationship, their tone increasingly strained as you both deviate from the expected responses in ways that are not dramatic enough to shut down but are noticeable enough to create tension in the room. When asked to describe your relationship, you answer without hesitation, calling it complicated in a way that is honest enough to feel real while still vague enough to avoid raising immediate concern, and he follows it up with his own comment, something about it being effective, which earns a quiet laugh from you that feels entirely unscripted, because it is. The exchange is brief, but it shifts the energy in the room in a way that cannot be ignored, the PR team exchanging glances as they try to regain control of the situation, only to be met with resistance that is not overtly aggressive but is firm enough to make it clear that neither of you is interested in playing along to the same extent as before. When someone attempts to remind you that the cameras are not currently rolling, the response they receive is not what they expect, because instead of adjusting your behavior, you question the necessity of doing so, pointing out that arguing would be far less convincing than whatever this is, and the logic behind it is difficult to refute without undermining the very narrative they are trying to maintain. He reinforces it without even needing to look at you, his tone casual but edged with something sharper as he suggests that this is what they wanted in the first place, leaving the handler momentarily at a loss for how to respond, because pushing further risks drawing attention to something they would rather keep under control.

By the time the day winds down and you return to the penthouse, the tension that has been building all day settles into something quieter but no less significant, the absence of cameras and handlers doing little to change the dynamic between you, because whatever has shifted is no longer dependent on being observed. You find yourselves on the balcony again, as you so often do, the city spread out below in a sea of light while the night air carries the faint traces of smoke between you, your shoulders brushing as you stand side by side, neither of you making any effort to create distance. The conversation that follows is softer than usual, less combative, though the edge never fully disappears, your words still laced with the same dry humor and underlying tension that has always defined your interactions, even as something else settles beneath it, something quieter and more difficult to name.

When you comment on the situation, pointing out that things are getting out of hand, the acknowledgment is not met with denial but with a kind of acceptance that feels almost inevitable, because neither of you has made any real attempt to stop it, and at this point, it is unclear whether either of you would even want to. The admission is not framed as something positive, nor is it treated as a problem that needs to be fixed, but rather as a fact that exists regardless of how either of you feels about it, and the lack of urgency in addressing it only reinforces the idea that this is something you have both, in your own ways, already accepted. When he asks if you are going to do anything about it, the answer comes easily, because the truth is simple, even if it is not particularly comfortable to acknowledge, and that truth is that you are not, because doing something about it would require confronting whatever this has become, and that is not something either of you seems particularly interested in doing.

The balcony still feels like the only place in the entire building where the air isn’t manufactured to suffocate you, where the noise of the city below bleeds upward just enough to blur the ever-present sense of surveillance into something distant and almost ignorable, and where standing beside him doesn’t feel like part of a performance designed for someone else’s benefit, even though deep down you both know that illusion is thinner than either of you would like to admit.

You lean against the railing with your elbows braced against the cool metal, cigarette balanced between your fingers as the ember glows softly in the dim light, and the skyline stretches endlessly in front of you, glass towers catching the last of the evening glow while traffic crawls far below in thin, glowing lines that look more like veins than roads, pulsing with movement that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with a world that neither of you has really been part of for a long time.  He steps up beside you without saying anything at first, the faint smell of smoke curling into the air as he exhales slowly, his posture relaxed in a way that looks casual but never really is, because even when he pretends to be at ease there is always something coiled underneath, something restless and volatile that never fully settles. For a while, the silence stretches, not empty but dense, filled with everything neither of you has figured out how to say without complicating things beyond repair, and it sits there between you like a live wire that neither of you is willing to touch first.

“We’re running out of time.” you say eventually, your voice low but steady, cutting through the quiet in a way that feels deliberate rather than impulsive, because you have been thinking about this all day, turning it over and over in your head until it stopped being a possibility and started becoming something inevitable. He doesn’t answer immediately, which is rare for him, and when he finally exhales another slow stream of smoke into the night, the movement feels more measured than usual, like he is choosing how much to give away.

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice rougher than before, edged with something that isn’t quite irritation but isn’t far from it either. “I figured.” You flick ash over the railing, watching it disappear into the dark below as your fingers tighten slightly around the cigarette, your mind already moving ahead, already mapping the angles and the risks and the ways this could fall apart if even one thing goes wrong. “They’re watching us more closely now,” you continue, your tone sharpening as you shift your weight slightly, turning just enough to glance at him out of the corner of your eye. “After what happened, after the stunt in the alley, after the numbers spiked the way they did-they’re not going to leave gaps like they were before.” He huffs quietly, something faintly amused threading through the sound even though the tension hasn’t left his shoulders.

“Then we don’t wait for them to close those gaps,” he replies, rolling his shoulder slightly as if trying to shake something off that refuses to let go. “We move before they figure out what we’re doing.” You turn your head fully now, studying him more carefully, noticing the way his jaw tightens just slightly when he thinks you aren’t looking, the way his grip on the blunt shifts as though he is grounding himself through something physical, something tangible.

“You’ve got something?” you say, not bothering to phrase it as a question because it doesn’t need to be one. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment there is something sharper there, something more focused than the usual careless arrogance he wears like armor. “Yeah,” he says simply. “I do.” The air changes then, subtly but unmistakably, as the conversation shifts from speculation into something real, something actionable, and you straighten slightly without even realizing you’re doing it, your attention narrowing as you wait. “Alright,” you say, voice quieter now but no less steady. “Talk.” He takes another drag, slower this time, letting the smoke sit for a moment before exhaling, his gaze drifting out over the city before snapping back to you with a focus that feels deliberate.

“Lower levels,” he starts, tone dropping slightly as if the walls themselves might be listening. “Restricted access. Labs, storage, archives, everything they don’t let anyone see unless they’re already owned.” Your stomach tightens at that, not because it surprises you but because it doesn’t. “You’ve been down there?” you say, watching him carefully. “Yeah,” he replies, his voice flattening slightly in a way that tells you there is more there than he is willing to unpack right now. “Long time ago.” You nod slowly, filing that away without pushing, because now isn’t the time for that conversation. “And you think we can get in?” you say, shifting your weight as your cigarette burns lower between your fingers. He glances at you again, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly, though there is no real humor behind it. “I know we can.” he answers, and the certainty in his tone makes something in your chest tighten, not entirely with doubt.

“Because..?” you prompt, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “Because they still think I’m predictable,” he says, shrugging one shoulder as though the idea itself is almost insulting. “And they think they’ve got you under control.” You let out a quiet breath, something sharper lingering behind it. “They’re not entirely wrong about that second part.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he replies immediately, stepping closer without fully realizing it, or maybe fully aware and not caring enough to stop himself. “We use it anyway.” You study him for another second, your mind moving quickly as you piece it together, tracing the path, the timing, the risks, the consequences.

“What’s the play?” you ask finally. He shifts his stance, leaning slightly against the railing as he looks back out over the city, though his attention clearly hasn’t left you. “We go in during the press circuit tomorrow,” he says, his voice steady now, more grounded. “They’ll have us moving between floors, handlers distracted, security stretched thin trying to keep everything clean for the cameras.” You nod slowly, following the logic.

“Diversion.” you murmur. “Exactly.” he replies. “And once we’re in?” you continue, your gaze narrowing slightly as you run through the next steps. He shrugs again, but this time there is something heavier behind it. “We take whatever we can,” he says. “Files, data, anything that gives us leverage. And if we can’t take it-”

“Then we burn it.” you finish quietly. His eyes flick back to yours, something approving passing through his expression before it disappears again. “Now you’re thinking.” The silence that follows is heavier, more deliberate, because this is the moment where it stops being hypothetical, where the line gets drawn and crossed in the same breath. You take a slow drag, letting the smoke fill your lungs before exhaling carefully, your gaze locked on his. “This goes wrong,” you say, your voice quieter now but carrying more weight, “we don’t walk away from it.” He steps closer again, the space between you narrowing until it feels almost intentional, almost like a challenge neither of you is backing away from. “Then we don’t let it go wrong.” he replies, his voice dropping slightly, rougher now. Your pulse stutters despite yourself, your breath catching just slightly as his presence presses closer, and you hate that your body reacts before your mind catches up. “You’re insane.” you say, though the edge in your voice has dulled.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his gaze not leaving yours. “And you’re still standing here.” You don’t move. Neither does he. The tension builds slowly, steadily, pulling tighter with every second that neither of you steps back, every second that neither of you pretends this is still just strategy and survival. “You keep looking at me like that,” he says quietly, his voice low enough that it barely carries beyond the space between you, “we’re gonna have a problem.” Your breath catches, your eyes flicking briefly to his mouth before snapping back up.

“You’re the one standing too close.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t move back. Instead, he leans in slowly, deliberately, giving you more than enough time to stop him, more than enough time to step away and pretend this never almost happened. You don’t. The cigarette slips from your fingers, forgotten, as your hand comes up instinctively, gripping the front of his shirt as if anchoring yourself to something solid before you can second guess it. The kiss hits like a collision rather than a choice, sharp and immediate and built on everything that has been simmering between you for far too long, tension and anger and something far more dangerous crashing together all at once as your breath catches and his hand finds your side, pulling you closer instead of pushing you away. It doesn’t last. It can’t. Because the second it happens, reality crashes back in just as hard. You pull back first, your chest rising too fast, your pulse hammering as you step away like the contact burned. “…that was a mistake..” you mutter, though it sounds more like you’re trying to convince yourself than him. He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair, his expression tightening as something unreadable flickers across his face before he forces it back under control.

“Yeah,” he says after a second. A pause. “Probably.” The silence that follows is heavier than anything before it. He steps back, putting space between you again, his gaze shifting away as if that somehow makes it easier. “We move tomorrow,” he says, his tone flattening back into something more controlled. “No hesitation.” You nod, even though your chest still feels tight. “Yeah.”

“Get some sleep.” You let out a quiet, humorless breath. “Not likely.” He glances at you once more, something unreadable in his expression. “Try anyway.” Then he’s gone.

The next day unfolds exactly the way Vought wants it to, at least on the surface, with cameras flashing and handlers directing every movement, every expression, every carefully crafted interaction designed to sell a narrative neither of you fully believes anymore, and yet beneath all of it there is something else moving, something hidden, something deliberate. You don’t look at him much, not after last night, not after crossing a line neither of you has figured out how to uncross, but you feel him constantly, a presence just within reach, just out of focus, like something your instincts refuse to ignore. The opportunity comes exactly where he said it would, in the brief, controlled chaos of movement between floors, where attention is split and security relies on routine rather than suspicion, and when he steps off the designated path without hesitation, you follow without thinking, your pace matching his as you slip into a corridor that is noticeably quieter, noticeably colder.

The deeper you go, the more the building changes, the polished public facade giving way to something more clinical, more sterile, something that feels far too familiar for comfort, and your chest tightens slightly as memories you would rather not revisit press at the edges of your mind.

A secured door stands ahead, reinforced, locked, exactly what you expected, and he doesn’t even pause before grabbing the handle and tearing it free with a sharp metallic crack that echoes far louder than either of you would like. “Subtle.” you mutter under your breath. “Shut up.” he replies, already stepping through. You follow immediately, your eyes scanning the room as you take it in, rows of files, terminals, data storage, everything Vought keeps buried where no one is supposed to see it.

“This is it.” you say quietly. “Then move.” he answers. You do. Fast. Focused. Your hands moving automatically as you pull files, access systems, download whatever you can before anyone realizes what’s happening, your mind already racing ahead, cataloging, prioritizing. Behind you, he paces, restless, his energy coiled tight as if he can feel something coming before it happens. “Something’s off.” he mutters. You don’t look up. “Yeah, we’re breaking into a secure facility, that tends to happen.”

“No,” he says, sharper now. “Listen.” You pause. And then you hear it. Footsteps. Not distant enough to ignore. Getting closer. Your stomach drops. “…we’ve got company.” He exhales slowly, something almost anticipatory settling into his posture. “Good.” You shoot him a look. “That’s not good.” He grins faintly, something dangerous flickering behind it. “Depends how you look at it.” The footsteps stop just outside the door. A beat.

It opens. And on the other side, lined up and ready, weapons raised with practiced precision, security waits for you like they knew exactly where you would be.

And this time, they didn’t miss. The door doesn’t just open.

It slams.

Metal hits the wall hard enough to echo through the room, the sharp crack cutting through the hum of machines and the quiet tension you’d been pretending wasn’t building, and in the span of a single breath the space shifts from controlled to hostile as armed security floods the doorway in a tight formation, weapons already raised, already aimed, already expecting resistance. They knew.

Not guessing, not reacting, waiting. Your stomach drops as the realization lands, cold and immediate, your grip tightening instinctively around the edge of the terminal as your mind races through options that are already collapsing before they fully form.

“Step away from the systems!” one of them barks, voice sharp, rehearsed, carrying the weight of someone who thinks they’re in control. You don’t move. Neither does he. For half a second everything hangs in place, suspended in that fragile space before something breaks, and then, he steps forward. It isn’t dramatic, isn’t loud, isn’t even rushed, but it is deliberate in a way that shifts the entire dynamic of the room, his body moving just enough to place himself between you and the line of weapons without looking back, without asking, without hesitation.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, almost bored despite the tension coiling underneath it. “That’s not gonna happen.” The first shot goes off before the words have fully settled. It doesn’t hit him.

It doesn’t matter. Because the second it happens, everything unravels. He moves faster than the eye can track, closing the distance in a blur of motion that turns controlled space into chaos as the first guard is sent crashing backward into the wall hard enough to leave a dent, the impact rattling the entire room while the others scramble to adjust, to compensate, to react to something they were prepared for in theory but not in reality.

You don’t think. You react. Your hand shoots out, grabbing his arm as he moves past you, fingers locking around his wrist with a force that surprises even you as instinct overrides hesitation, your power sparking to life the second your skin connects. For a split second, you hesitate. Because you know what comes next. Because you know what it does. Because you know how far it can go when you don’t hold it back. Then the second guard fires. And hesitation dies. Your grip tightens. Your mind pushes. The connection snaps into place violently, not a gentle intrusion but a forced collision as your power tears outward, not just into him but beyond him, reaching, stretching, latching onto every mind within reach with brutal precision, and suddenly, they’re not in control anymore. The room fractures. Not physically. Mentally. The guards stagger almost in unison, their formation breaking as something unseen slams into them from the inside, their focus shattering under the weight of memories they didn’t choose to relive, their breathing hitching as their grip on reality slips just enough to make them vulnerable. You don’t pick one memory. You don’t guide it. You let it flood. Fear. Pain. Regret. Every buried moment dragged to the surface at once, amplified, sharpened, forced into the forefront of their minds until it overwhelms everything else, until the room fills with the sound of gasps, choked curses, weapons clattering to the floor as hands fly to heads like they can physically push the thoughts back out.

“Jesus-” one of them chokes, dropping to his knees. Another stumbles blindly into the wall, his gun slipping from his grip as his vision fractures under the pressure. You feel it all. Every flicker. Every spike. Every break. It tears through you just as violently as it does them, your chest tightening as the strain hits hard and fast, your vision blurring slightly at the edges as your body struggles to keep up with the demand.

“Fuck,” he mutters somewhere to your left, his voice cutting through the noise as he turns, looking at you with something sharp in his expression, something between surprise and something darker. “You can do that?” Your jaw clenches as you hold the connection, your fingers digging into his arm harder than necessary.

“Didn’t say I liked it.” you rasp, your voice strained. The last guard drops. Silence crashes down in the aftermath, heavy and immediate, broken only by uneven breathing and the faint hum of machines that suddenly feels far too loud in the absence of everything else. You release him. The connection snaps. The room tilts. For a second, you think you might go down with it. He catches your arm before you do, his grip firm, steadying you without comment, his eyes still locked on you like he’s recalculating something he didn’t fully understand before.

“You good?” he asks, though it sounds less like concern and more like assessment. You pull your arm back, forcing yourself upright, forcing your breathing to even out despite the way your chest still feels too tight. “I’m fine.” you say, even though you’re not. He doesn’t argue. But he doesn’t look convinced either. “We don’t have time,” you add quickly, shaking off the last of the dizziness as your gaze snaps back to the terminals, to the files still open, still waiting. “More are coming.” As if on cue, distant alarms begin to sound, low at first, then rising in pitch as the system catches up to what just happened, red lights flickering faintly along the walls. He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair as he glances toward the door, then back to you.

“Then we don’t stay.” he says. You shake your head immediately. “No,” you cut in, your voice sharper now. “We don’t just walk away.” His brow furrows slightly.

“What are you-”

“We take it public,” you say, the words coming faster now as the idea locks into place fully, adrenaline sharpening your focus. “Everything we can grab- Compound V, the labs, what they did to you, what they made me do- we dump it all before they can bury it again.” There’s a beat. Then another. His expression shifts. Not resistance. Not hesitation. Something else.

“Burn them.” he says quietly. You meet his gaze. “Yeah.”

“Not just the files.” A flicker of something dangerous settles behind his eyes. “The whole damn thing.” Your pulse kicks up again, sharper this time, not from fear but from the weight of what that means, from the finality of it. No going back. No half measures.

“Then we move.” you say. And you do. Fast. You drop into the nearest terminal, your fingers flying across the keys as you bypass what little security you can, your mind moving quicker than your hands as you prioritize, compress, redirect, pushing data into external drives, into networks, onto your  hard drive.

Behind you, he moves like a storm contained in a human body, ripping through cabinets, tearing open locked storage units, pulling anything physical that might matter, anything that could be used, anything that could hurt them.

“What about this?” he calls, holding up a file. “Take it.” you answer without looking. He shoves everything he can into your duffle. Another alarm blares, louder now. Closer. Your chest tightens.

“Hurry.” you mutter. “I’m moving.” he snaps back, though there’s no real heat behind it. The first upload completes. Then another. You don’t stop. You can’t. Every second matters now.

“Almost-” 

Then the power cuts. The room plunges into dim emergency lighting, the terminals flickering as systems attempt to shut down, to isolate, to contain.

“Shit.” you breathe.

He looks toward the door again, tension snapping back into place instantly. “They’re here.” You don’t look. You grab the drives, yanking them free as the last of the data transfers, your heart hammering as you shove them into your bag.

“Go.” you say. He doesn’t argue. He grabs your arm this time, pulling you toward the exit just as footsteps thunder down the corridor, voices shouting orders, weapons being readied again. You don’t stop running. Not when the door bursts open behind you. Not when the first shot rings out. Not when he turns, grabbing a piece of broken metal and hurling it back hard enough to take someone down mid-charge. You run. Through corridors that blur together. Through alarms and flashing lights. Through the echo of something collapsing behind you as he doesn’t bother holding back anymore, his power tearing through anything in your way as containment gives way to destruction.

“Left!” he shouts. You follow. Another turn. Another corridor.

Another set of guards spills into the corridor ahead, their formation tighter now, more aggressive, their movements coordinated in a way that tells you Vought has stopped underestimating the situation, and before you can even fully process how many of them there are or how little room you have left to maneuver, he is already moving, already surging forward into them with that same relentless, unthinking force that has carried him through every obstacle so far. You try to keep up. You really do. But your body is starting to fail you in ways you can’t ignore anymore, your lungs burning with every breath, your legs heavier with each step, your vision flickering at the edges as the strain from your powers continues to claw at the inside of your skull, and the distance between you grows in increments that feel small at first and then suddenly aren’t. He doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t stop.

He crashes into the first guard with brutal efficiency, sending him slamming sideways into the wall, another one going down a second later as he barrels through them without hesitation, clearing a path forward that you can’t quite reach in time.

You push harder, forcing yourself forward, your hand lifting instinctively as your power lashes out again, weaker now, less controlled, just enough to stagger the guards closing in behind you, buying yourself seconds that slip through your fingers too quickly. The corridor stretches. He gets further ahead. Another turn. Another group of guards. Another collision you’re too far back to reach. Your breath stutters, uneven, your pace faltering for just a second too long as your body protests, as everything inside you starts to slow in ways that feel dangerously close to shutting down entirely.

And then, a sound cuts through everything. Loud. Mechanical. Wrong. Your head snaps up instinctively just as the ceiling ahead splits open and a reinforced metal shutter begins to drop, thick, heavy, moving fast enough that your stomach drops immediately because you already know how this ends. He’s too far ahead. He doesn’t see it. He doesn’t hear it. He keeps moving forward, already past the threshold as the shutter slams downward between you, cutting the space in half with a deafening crash that echoes through the corridor, the impact sending a sharp vibration through the floor beneath your feet as you stumble to a stop just inches from it.

The sound that tears out of you isn’t a word. It’s raw. Sharp. A scream that cuts through the noise, through the chaos, through everything. It reaches him. You see it. On the other side of the thick metal barrier, his head snaps up, his body turning immediately, his expression shifting in the split second it takes for him to realize what just happened. That you’re not there. That you didn’t make it through. The bag is already in your hands before your brain fully catches up, your fingers numb as you drop to your knees, shoving it toward the narrow gap at the bottom of the shutter, forcing it through with more urgency than strength as the fabric catches for a second before slipping across to the other side.

He sees it. His eyes drop to it. Then snap back up to you. You’re still on your knees. Your hand pressed flat against the cold metal. You feel the effects of the uranium door already start to set in. Your chest rising unevenly as your body starts to give out in ways you can’t stop anymore, the adrenaline draining too fast, leaving behind something hollow and heavy that settles deep in your bones. He moves instantly. Closing the distance to the door in seconds, his fist slamming against it hard enough to echo, once, twice, again, the sound loud and useless against something built to contain things far worse than him. Your vision flickers. Dark at the edges. Your arm trembles where it’s braced against the floor. You try to push yourself up. You don’t make it far. Your strength gives out halfway, your shoulder hitting the metal as you sag against it instead, your head dipping forward, your breath shallow, uneven, each inhale feeling thinner than the last. On the other side, he’s still hitting the door. Still shouting. You can’t hear the words properly through the barrier, but you don’t need to, because the sound of it alone is enough, the sharp edge of it cutting through even as everything else starts to fade. His hand slams against the small reinforced window, his face appearing behind the thick glass, his expression stripped down to something raw, something unfiltered as his eyes lock onto you.

You try to focus. Try to stay present. But it’s getting harder. Your body feels too heavy. Your limbs slow. Your fingers slacken slightly where they rest against the floor. Behind you, footsteps echo. Closer now. Voices. Commands. You don’t turn. You don’t have it in you. All you can see is him. On the other side. Still fighting something he can’t break. Still trying. Your vision dips again. This time it doesn’t come back fully. The edges stay dark. Your head lowers slightly, your forehead brushing the cold metal as your body sags further, your strength draining out of you in slow, unavoidable increments. On the other side, he hits the door again.

Harder.

Again.

Again.

The sound starts to blur. Everything does. The last thing that stays clear is him. Framed in that small window. Shouting. Banging against something that won’t give, and you,

Stop moving.

Part 7

A/N: I really hope you guys enjoyed this part, please lmk if you have any ideas for what you would like for the next series!!

perm tags: @jjjenx14 @globetrotter28 @cranberrysauce666 @cunningtalismanmechanism @biancalinkas @morphineh @itfeltlikeak1ss 

A few weeks is all it takes for something fake to start feeling structured, and that is somehow worse than chaos ever was, because chaos at least gives you something to react to, something unpredictable to push against, whereas this, this routine that Vought has built around the two of you feels calculated down to the smallest detail, every appearance, every staged interaction, every carefully curated moment designed to keep the public hooked on something that was never supposed to be real in the first place. The numbers have gone through the roof. You hear it constantly, from handlers, from executives, from the constant stream of assistants that orbit the two of you like you’re not people but investments, and the way they talk about it makes your skin crawl, because it is never about how you’re doing or whether this arrangement is sustainable, it is always about engagement, ratings, market value, the way your names trend together instead of separately, as if the success of the illusion somehow justifies everything underneath it.

So you adapt. Not together. But around each other. The penthouse becomes a space divided without ever needing to say it out loud, an unspoken agreement settling in that when the cameras are gone, when the handlers disappear and the scripts are no longer being forced into your hands, you keep your distance, you stay out of each other’s way unless there is something that actually needs to be said, something that matters beyond the performance. It works. Mostly. You avoid him in the mornings, timing your movements so that you are in the kitchen when he isn’t, taking your coffee out onto the balcony before he wakes up or long after he’s already disappeared into whatever part of the penthouse he claims as his own, and in return he does the same, the two of you orbiting the same space without colliding unless absolutely necessary. The only time that changes is when Vought forces it to. Press events. Interviews. Staged dates that feel more like controlled environments than anything remotely natural. And when those happen, the shift is immediate and seamless, like flipping a switch, the tension replaced with something that reads as chemistry to anyone watching, something sharp and charged that sells better than anything softer ever could.

But the second it’s over, you separate again. Because it’s easier that way. Safer. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. Tonight is different. Not because of Vought, not because of a scheduled appearance or some last-minute demand that drags you into the same space, but because neither of you bothered avoiding it this time, the quiet of the evening settling over the penthouse in a way that feels heavier than usual, the city stretching endlessly below as the lights flicker on one by one, the sky darkening into something deep and muted as the last traces of daylight disappear. The balcony door slides open with a soft sound, and the cool air hits you immediately, carrying the faint hum of the city up with it, distant traffic blending into something almost constant, almost soothing if you let yourself ignore what it actually is. You step out first. Cigarette already between your fingers, lighter flicking once, twice before catching, the flame briefly illuminating your face before you bring it up, inhaling slowly, letting the familiar burn settle into your lungs as you exhale into the open air, watching the smoke curl and disappear into the night.

For a moment, you think you’re alone. Then you hear it. The faint sound of a lighter. A second inhale. You don’t turn immediately. You don’t need to. You already know. He steps out a second later, the door sliding shut behind him as he moves with that same easy confidence that never really leaves him, even when he’s not performing for anyone, the blunt already lit between his fingers as he takes a slow drag, the ember glowing briefly before dimming again. He doesn’t acknowledge you right away.

Just leans back against the railing, one arm resting lazily as he looks out over the city, exhaling a steady stream of smoke that drifts upward and blends with yours, the two curling together in the space between you. For a while, neither of you speaks. It’s not uncomfortable. Not exactly. Just… quiet in a way that feels intentional.

“You’re out here more lately.” he says eventually, his voice low, roughened slightly by the smoke as he glances over at you without fully turning. You take another drag, slower this time, letting the nicotine settle before you respond. “Better than being inside.” you reply, your tone neutral, your gaze still fixed on the skyline rather than him. He hums softly, like he agrees, though whether he actually does or not is harder to tell.

“Got that thing tomorrow,” he adds after a moment, flicking ash over the side of the balcony, the movement casual. You glance at him briefly. “Press event.”

“Yeah,” he says, rolling his shoulders slightly, like the thought alone is enough to irritate him. “Another one.” You let out a quiet breath, shaking your head faintly. “They’re not slowing down anytime soon.” you mutter. “Didn’t expect them to.” There’s a pause.

Then, after a beat. “You ready for it?” he asks, his tone shifting slightly, not quite serious but not entirely careless either. You shrug one shoulder.

“Same as always.”

He watches you for a second longer this time, something more deliberate in the way his gaze lingers before he pushes off the railing slightly, closing some of the distance between you without making it obvious. “Same as always.” he repeats, quieter now, like he’s testing the words. You take another drag, exhaling slowly. “Smile, play nice, don’t kill anyone,” you say dryly. “Pretty standard.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh at that, the sound low and rough. “Yeah,” he mutters. “You’re real convincing.” You glance at him again, one brow lifting slightly. “Thought that was the point.”

“Maybe,” he says, taking another drag from the blunt, holding it for a second before exhaling, the smoke drifting toward you this time, slower, more deliberate. “Or maybe you’re just not trying hard enough.” You snort softly, shaking your head. “Or maybe you’re just high,” you shoot back, the words coming easy, familiar in a way that almost feels normal. That gets a reaction. Not immediate. But there. His mouth curves slightly at the corner, something sharper slipping into his expression as he takes another step closer, close enough now that you can feel the shift in the air between you, the faint heat of him cutting through the cool night air. “You think I don’t know what I’m saying.” he asks, his voice dropping just slightly, the edge of something more deliberate threading through it. You roll your eyes, though there’s less bite behind it than there should be.

“I think you’re talking shit.” you reply, taking another drag from your cigarette as if that ends the conversation. It doesn’t. Not even close. Because the next thing you know, his hand is on your lower back, firm and uninvited as he pulls you closer, the movement sudden enough to catch you off guard but not rough enough to feel like anything other than intentional, controlled.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, leaning in slightly, his voice close enough now that you can feel it rather than just hear it. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.” Your breath catches just for a second. Not enough for him to call it out. But enough.

“Let go.” you say, your voice steady even as your body tenses slightly, your cigarette still held loosely between your fingers. He doesn’t. Instead, he takes another slow drag from the blunt, holding it for a moment as his grip on you tightens just enough to keep you where you are before he leans in closer.

Then exhales.

The smoke hits you directly, warm and thick as it mixes with your own breath, the proximity making it impossible to avoid as it lingers between you, the space closing even further as he watches your reaction with that same lazy, knowing look. “Don’t seem that high.” he mutters, his voice low, edged with something that feels far too deliberate to be accidental. For a second, you just stare at him. Then you scoff, shaking your head as you lean back just enough to break the moment, even if his hand doesn’t move.

“You’re insufferable.” you mutter, though there’s less heat in it than there used to be. He grins slightly. “Yeah,” he says. “You keep saying that.” You take another drag, more to give yourself something to do than anything else, your gaze shifting back toward the city as you try to ignore the way his hand is still resting against your back, the weight of it grounding in a way you don’t entirely like. Or maybe you do. Which is worse.

The silence settles again, but it’s different now, charged in a way that wasn’t there before, something subtle shifting between the two of you that neither of you acknowledges out loud.

“You’re getting too comfortable.” you say after a moment, your tone quieter now, more measured. He hums softly. “Maybe,” he replies. “Or maybe you’re just not pushing me away as much.” Your jaw tightens slightly at that, but you don’t argue. Because he’s not wrong. And that is the problem. You flick ash over the edge of the balcony, your cigarette burning lower as you inhale again, slower this time, your thoughts catching up with the moment in a way that makes it harder to brush off.

“We’ve got a plan.” you remind him, your voice steady, grounding. “Yeah.” he says. “This doesn’t change anything.” He glances at you, something unreadable flickering in his expression before he looks back out at the city. “Didn’t say it did.” But he doesn’t move his hand. And neither do you. Which says more than either of you is willing to admit.

The shift from the quiet tension of the balcony to the overwhelming noise of the press event is immediate and jarring, like stepping out of something real and straight back into something manufactured, the air inside the venue thick with energy as voices overlap and cameras flash relentlessly, the crowd packed tightly behind barriers while Vought staff move like clockwork to keep everything controlled, polished, presentable.

You barely have time to adjust before you’re being ushered forward again, lights hitting your face, the familiar weight of attention settling over you as microphones are shoved closer and the noise sharpens into something more focused, more demanding, every question thrown like it matters more than anything else happening in the world.

“Over here!”

“What are your powers exactly?”

“How do you work together?”

“What makes you two compatible?”

You can feel him beside you before you even look, his presence steady and unbothered in a way that would almost be reassuring if you didn’t know better, if you hadn’t seen what sits underneath it when the cameras aren’t there to catch it. You step into position, shoulders squaring automatically as the handler signals the start of the Q&A, and just like that the act slides into place, your posture shifting, your expression smoothing into something controlled and composed, something that sells.

Questions start coming in faster now, one after the other, barely giving you time to think before answering, but that’s the point, Vought thrives on spontaneity that isn’t actually spontaneous, reactions that feel real but are practiced enough to stay safe.

“So- your abilities,” one fan calls out, voice shaking slightly with excitement. “What exactly can you do?” You hesitate for half a second, not enough to be noticeable to most people, but enough that he catches it, you know he does, because you can feel the slight shift beside you before you even respond.

“I work… mentally,” you say, choosing your words carefully, tone measured but casual enough to seem natural. “It’s more about control than anything physical.” There’s a murmur through the crowd at that, interest spiking instantly. “Control how?” You don’t answer right away. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, letting a faint smirk pull at your lips. “Depends who I’m dealing with.”

The reaction is immediate, a mix of excitement and curiosity rippling outward as more questions start flying, but before you can be pulled further into that line of questioning, attention shifts.

“What about you Soldier Boy, what’s it like working with her?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Interesting,” he says, his voice easy, almost amused as he glances at you, the look lingering just long enough to feel intentional. “She’s got a way of getting in your head.” The crowd laughs lightly, but there’s something underneath the comment that doesn’t quite land as a joke, something sharper that only you really catch. You shoot him a look, subtle but pointed. “Occupational hazard.” you reply. “Yeah,” he murmurs, just loud enough for the mic to pick up. “Something like that.” More laughter.

More flashing lights. Then, inevitably.

“What about your engagement?” The question cuts through everything else, louder somehow, more invasive, and you can feel the shift immediately, the way his posture changes slightly beside you, the way his arm moves before you even register it, sliding around your waist with practiced ease, pulling you just a fraction closer. It looks natural. Too natural. “Yeah,” he says, his tone smooth, confident, like he’s done this a thousand times before. “What about it?” The crowd leans in, cameras practically vibrating with anticipation. “How did you know she was the one?” You almost laugh. Almost.

Instead, you force your expression to stay steady, your body relaxing just enough into his hold to sell it, even as your jaw tightens slightly. He glances down at you, and for a split second the look is unreadable, something flickering there that doesn’t quite match the performance. “Just did,” he says finally, his voice lower now, less playful, something heavier slipping into it as his grip on you tightens just slightly, enough that only you feel it. “Sometimes you don’t need a reason.” The crowd eats it up. Of course they do. You tilt your head, forcing a small smile that feels convincing enough, even if it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“He’s full of shit.” you say lightly. More laughter. But you don’t pull away. And neither does he. The questions keep coming, circling around the same topics, your abilities, his past, your relationship, every answer carefully balanced between truth and fiction, every interaction measured in a way that feels exhausting if you think about it too long, so you don’t. You just play the part. Until it’s over.

The second you’re off stage, the shift is immediate, the noise dropping off as you’re guided through narrow back corridors lined with polished walls that reflect fragments of movement and light, the chaos of the crowd fading into something quieter, more controlled, though the tension doesn’t disappear with it, instead clinging to your skin like something stubborn that refuses to be shaken loose no matter how far you are from the cameras. You’re ushered into a green room with the same efficiency Vought applies to everything, the door shutting behind you with a soft but final click that cuts off the last of the noise, leaving behind a silence that feels too sudden, too complete, like stepping into a vacuum after being surrounded by sound for too long. You step inside first, exhaling slowly as you move toward the far wall, your hand already reaching into your pocket out of habit, fingers brushing against the familiar shape of a cigarette before you stop yourself, the memory of where you are settling in just enough to make you hesitate, irritation flickering briefly across your expression as you drop your hand again.

He follows a second later, the door slamming shut behind him harder than necessary, the sound echoing slightly in the enclosed space as he drags a hand through his hair, the movement rough, restless, like something under his skin hasn’t settled since the stage. “Jesus,” he mutters, pacing a few steps across the room before glancing at you, his jaw tight. “You’d think they’d run outta questions eventually.”

“They won’t,” you reply, leaning back against the wall, arms folding loosely across your chest as you watch him move. “Not while we’re still useful.” He huffs at that, a sharp sound that carries more irritation than amusement, but he doesn’t argue, and for a moment the silence settles again, thick but not entirely uncomfortable, just weighted with everything that hasn’t been said yet.

Then your focus shifts, the edge in your posture sharpening slightly as the reality of the situation pushes back in. “We need something,” you say, pushing off the wall as your tone turns more deliberate, more focused. “Information, leverage, anything we can actually use against them.” He slows, turning toward you fully now, his expression shifting from irritation to something more attentive, more engaged.

“During the interview,” he says, already following the thought. You nod once, pacing slowly as you piece it together. “They’ll be watching us, not themselves,” you continue, your voice steady as the plan takes shape. “We keep them distracted, push certain questions, maybe get someone talking off-script, something we can actually use later.” He watches you for a moment longer than necessary, his gaze steady, assessing, before he nods once, slow. “Not bad,” he admits, the edge in his voice dulled slightly now, replaced with something closer to consideration. You glance at him, one brow lifting faintly.

“Not bad?”

He steps closer, not abrupt, not careless, but deliberate, closing the distance between you in a way that feels intentional rather than accidental, his presence settling into your space without asking. “You’re smart,” he says, and the words come easier than you expect, less sarcasm, more truth than you’re used to hearing from him. “Like… actually smart.” You blink once, the compliment landing heavier than it should, something in your chest tightening slightly before you push it down. “Didn’t think you noticed.” you mutter. He shrugs faintly, but his gaze doesn’t leave yours. “I notice things.” he replies.

There’s a pause, one that stretches just long enough to feel like something is about to shift again. “Would’ve been interesting,” he adds, quieter now, his voice losing some of its usual bite, “if I’d met you sooner.” Something in you reacts to that before you can stop it, subtle but undeniable, and for a second neither of you moves, the space between you narrowing without either of you actively closing it, the air thickening with something unspoken. “You probably would’ve hated me.” you say, softer now, though there’s still a trace of edge beneath it. He exhales quietly, his hand lifting slightly before settling against your side, not forceful this time, not possessive, just there. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Maybe.” But there’s no conviction in it. Your gaze flicks briefly to his mouth before you catch yourself, your breath slowing as the moment stretches, tension coiling tighter, pulling you both toward something neither of you has acknowledged out loud.

He leans in, just enough. Not obvious. But unmistakable. “You gonna keep pretending this is all just for show,” he asks quietly, his voice low enough that it barely carries beyond the space between you. Your heartbeat stutters, sharp and sudden. “You’re still high..” you reply, though your voice doesn’t land as steady as you want it to. He smirks faintly, his hand shifting slightly, pulling you just a fraction closer. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “Then why aren’t you moving?” You don’t answer. Because you can’t. Because any answer you give crosses a line you’re not ready to deal with. The moment stretches, tightens,  balances right on the edge of something dangerous.

And then-

The door slams open hard enough to make you both flinch apart slightly, the tension snapping instantly as a handler storms in, clipboard clutched too tightly in her hand, her expression already strained. “Interview’s been cancelled,” she says quickly, her tone clipped, rushed, like she doesn’t have time for anything other than getting through this. “We need her.” Your stomach drops immediately. “For what?” you ask, even though the answer is already sitting heavy in your chest.

“There’s someone who isn’t cooperating,” she replies, barely looking at you. “We need her to-”

“No.”

The word cuts through the room before she can finish, and you don’t even need to look to know he’s already moving, already stepping forward. “No,” he repeats, sharper now, positioning himself slightly between you and the door. “We’ve got another interview lined up, you don’t just pull her out mid-”

“This isn’t up for discussion,” the handler snaps back, irritation flaring as she finally meets his gaze. “She’s required elsewhere.”

“You don’t get to just-”

“Yes, we do,” she cuts him off, her voice rising slightly as the tension spikes, the controlled professionalism slipping just enough to show the frustration underneath. “That’s how this works.”

“Not today it doesn’t,” he shoots back, his tone dropping lower, more dangerous, the edge in it enough to make the room feel smaller. You step forward slightly, your hand catching his arm, not forceful but enough to ground him for a second.

“Ben-” He doesn’t look at you. “Stay out of it.” he mutters under his breath, his attention locked on the handler. The argument escalates quickly after that, voices overlapping, the handler pushing back harder, him refusing to budge, the tension in the room tightening to the point where it feels like it might snap at any second.

“Get your manager in here,” he says finally, his voice sharp with authority, not a request but a demand. “Now.” The handler hesitates for half a second before stepping back, clearly weighing whether this is worth pushing further, before she turns sharply and steps out, the door slamming behind her again.

The silence that follows is heavier this time, thick with frustration and something else beneath it. You glance at him. “You need to calm down.” you say quietly. That earns you a look, sharp, immediate. “I don’t take orders.” he replies flatly. “I’m not ordering you.” you shoot back, your voice still controlled but tighter now. “I’m trying to stop you from making this worse.” He scoffs softly, but before he can respond, the door opens again. This time, your manager steps in.

Older, composed, his expression carefully neutral as his gaze moves between the two of you, already aware that something has gone wrong. “What seems to be the issue?” he asks smoothly. “She’s being pulled from scheduled press,” he says immediately, not even giving you a chance to speak. “Again.”

“She’s needed elsewhere.” the manager replies, his tone calm, practiced.

“For what.” he presses. The manager pauses briefly before answering. “For work.” The word lands heavier than it should. “Yeah,” he mutters, shaking his head slightly. “Funny how that keeps happening.” The manager’s gaze flicks to you briefly before returning to him. “This is not something you need to concern yourself with.”

“No,” he replies, his voice dropping, sharper now, “I think it is.” The tension spikes again. “She’s under contract.” the manager continues, his tone firm now. “When she’s needed, she goes.”

“And you just keep making her do this,” he snaps, frustration breaking through more clearly now, his hand gesturing toward you. “Over and over again like it’s nothing.”

“That’s her role-”

“Yeah?” he cuts in, his voice rising just slightly. “It’s not like you can just double her fucking money again, right?” The room goes completely still. The manager freezes. For a split second, something cracks in his expression, subtle but unmistakable, realization settling in as his gaze shifts slowly toward you. You feel it immediately. The shift. The understanding.

“She told you.” he says quietly. You don’t answer. You don’t need to. And just like that, everything changes. “Get security.” the manager says sharply, the calm gone now, replaced with something colder, more controlled. The door opens again almost immediately, guards stepping in, their presence filling the room with something heavy, something final. “Move her.” he orders. Hands grab your arms before you can react.

“Hey-” you start, twisting slightly as they pull you back. “Don’t-” he steps forward instantly, but more guards move between you, blocking him off. “Don’t touch her!” he snaps, the anger in his voice no longer contained. They don’t listen. They drag you anyway. You glance back once, and the look on his face is enough to stay with you.

The hallway feels colder. Not physically. But in a way that settles into your bones. They don’t handle you like before. Not like an asset. Not like something valuable. They handle you like something owned. Like something that doesn’t get a choice. Their grip is rougher now, fingers digging into your arms as they drag you forward, your steps stumbling slightly as you try to keep up.

“Move.”

“I am-”

“Faster.” The doors at the end of the hall open. And the second you step inside, you know. The room hasn’t changed. Not really. The same walls. The same lighting. The same suffocating familiarity that makes your chest tighten before anything has even happened yet. And then you see him. Strapped to the chair. Head hanging slightly before lifting weakly as you’re shoved forward, your balance catching just enough to keep you upright. Recognition hits instantly.

He’s the one from the setup. The one who played his part in the staged stunt, the one who helped sell the illusion to the public. And now, now he looks terrified. “I didn’t-” he starts, his voice shaking. “Save it.” one of them snaps. You shake your head slightly, stepping back. “No,” you say, your voice tight. “That’s not what this was supposed to be.”

“He’s been selling information,” the manager says coldly from behind you. “Everything we’ve done. Everything we’ve built.”

“That doesn’t-” you start, your chest tightening. “We’re not asking for information.” he cuts in. The words land wrong. Too clean. Too final. “We’re asking for compliance.” Your stomach drops. “No,” you say, louder now, stepping back again. “That’s not-”

“Do it.”

“I’m not-” A hand slams into you from the side. Hard enough to knock the breath out of your lungs. You hit the floor, pain flaring sharply through your side as you struggle to push yourself back up. “Do not make this difficult.” someone snaps above you. You cough, your vision blurring slightly as you try to steady yourself.

“I’m not killing him.” you manage. Another hit. This one is harder. Your head snaps to the side, the metallic taste of blood filling your mouth as you fall again, your body protesting the impact.

“Do it.” they repeat. You shake your head weakly. “I said do it.” The man in the chair is screaming now, his voice breaking as he pulls against the restraints, panic fully taking over.

“Please-please don’t-” Your hands tremble as you push yourself up again, your chest tight, your breath uneven. “I won’t-” Another strike. Everything goes white for a second. “Enough,” the manager snaps. “Get her up.” Hands grab you again, dragging you forward, forcing you upright, forcing you closer. “Do it.” he says, his voice quieter now, colder. You stare at the man. At the fear in his eyes. At the way he’s shaking. Your chest tightens. Your hand lifts. And this time-

You don’t stop it. Not because you want to. But because you don’t have a choice.

The hallway outside the room feels longer than it did when they dragged you in, the sterile lighting harsher now, each step unsteady as your body struggles to keep up with itself, your lungs still fighting to pull in enough air while the aftermath of your power clings stubbornly to your veins, darkened lines just barely visible beneath your skin as they slowly begin to recede, though not fast enough to ignore, not fast enough to forget. No one walks beside you this time. No guards gripping your arms, no handlers barking orders. They don’t need to. You did what they wanted. That’s all that matters.

By the time you reach the elevator, your reflection in the mirrored wall barely looks like you, blood smeared faintly at the corner of your mouth, bruising already starting to bloom along your jaw and collarbone where hands had been less than careful, your posture held together by nothing but stubbornness and the refusal to let yourself collapse in a place where someone might see it. The ride up is silent, the hum of the elevator the only thing filling the space as you lean back against the wall, closing your eyes for just a second, just long enough to try and steady the spinning in your head before the doors slide open again with a soft chime. The penthouse is quiet when you step inside. Too quiet. The kind of silence that immediately puts you on edge, your body tensing slightly despite the exhaustion dragging at every limb as the door shuts behind you with a muted click. For a second, you think maybe he isn’t there. Maybe he left. Maybe he doesn’t want to deal with whatever this is.

Movement. From the living room. You barely have time to register it before he’s there, stepping into view, his expression already shifting the second he sees you properly, whatever irritation or anger he had earlier dissolving into something sharper, more focused as his eyes drag over you, taking in every detail you hadn’t realized was so obvious. The blood. The bruises. The way your shoulders are too tight, your breathing just slightly off.

“What the hell-”

He crosses the room in a few long strides, closing the distance faster than you expect, his hand catching your arm, not rough, not like before, but firm enough to stop you from taking another step forward.

“The fuck happened to you?” he demands, his voice low but edged with something dangerous, something that has nothing to do with performance or cameras. You try to pull your arm free on instinct, your body reacting before your brain catches up. “I’m fine.” It comes out weaker than you intended. He doesn’t let go. “Doesn’t look like it.” His grip tightens slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you where you are as his gaze sharpens, narrowing in on the faint discoloration still lingering beneath your skin.

“What did they do.” Not a question. A demand. You let out a slow breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze despite the exhaustion dragging at you, the lingering adrenaline making everything feel just a little too sharp, too loud. “What do you think,” you snap back, your voice rough, defensive, the words coming out harsher than you intended but not enough to stop them. Something shifts in his expression at that. Not softer. But darker. His jaw tightens, his grip loosening just slightly as he studies you for another second before finally letting go, though he doesn’t step back, doesn’t give you space, his presence still crowding yours in a way that feels less suffocating now and more… grounding.

“They weren’t supposed to pull you like that,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, his hand dragging down his face in a sharp, frustrated motion. “We had something set up.”

“Yeah,” you reply, letting out a humorless breath as you push past him, your steps unsteady as you move further into the room. “They didn’t care.” He turns immediately, following you. “No shit.” You don’t answer that. Instead, you drop down onto the edge of the couch harder than you meant to, your body finally giving in just enough to let the exhaustion settle in properly, your elbows braced on your knees as you drag a hand through your hair, your fingers trembling faintly despite your attempt to steady them.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence stretches. Heavy.

Then-

“They made you do it again.” It’s not a question. You let out a slow breath, your shoulders tightening slightly as the memory hits harder now that you’re no longer in the room, no longer forced to focus on the task instead of the reality of it. “Yeah.” Another pause. Longer this time. “And,” he adds, his voice quieter now, more controlled but no less sharp, “you just let them?” Your head snaps up at that, irritation flaring instantly despite everything else weighing you down. “Excuse me?” He gestures toward you, frustration bleeding through now, raw and unfiltered. “You heard me.” Your laugh is short, bitter. “Right, because I had so many options in there.”

“You always have a choice,” he shoots back immediately, stepping closer again, his voice rising just enough to carry the edge of anger. “No,” you snap, pushing yourself up from the couch despite the way your body protests, the movement making your head spin for a second before you force it to steady. “You don’t get to say that.” His expression hardens. “Why not.”

“Because you’ve never been in that position.” you fire back, your voice sharper now, the exhaustion giving way to something more volatile. “You don’t know what it’s like to have them standing over you like that, treating you like you’re not even a person, like you’re just-just something they can use whenever they feel like it.”

“I’ve been used my whole goddamn life.” he snaps. “Not like that,” you cut in immediately, your voice rising despite yourself. “Not like this.” The words hang in the air between you, heavy and charged, neither of you backing down, neither willing to give the other ground. For a second, it looks like he’s about to argue again. Like he’s going to push back harder. But then, something shifts. Subtle. Barely there. His gaze flicks over you again, slower this time, more deliberate, taking in the details he might have missed before, the way your hands are still shaking slightly, the way your breathing hasn’t fully evened out, the faint, lingering darkness in your veins that hasn’t completely faded. “…they made you kill him,” he says finally, his voice lower now, the anger still there but edged with something else. You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

The silence is enough. His jaw tightens again, but this time it’s different, less explosive, more controlled, like he’s forcing himself to process it instead of react to it. “And you hated it,” he adds, quieter still. That’s what does it. Something in your chest twists sharply, the words hitting closer than anything else he’s said, because it’s not an accusation this time. It’s an observation. And it’s right. You let out a slow breath, your shoulders dropping just slightly as the fight drains out of you, replaced by something heavier. “They didn’t even want information,” you say, your voice rough now, quieter but no less strained. “They just… wanted it done.” He doesn’t respond immediately. Doesn’t interrupt. So you keep going.

“I tried to say no,” you add, your gaze dropping briefly to the floor before you force it back up. “They didn’t care.” Your throat tightens slightly, the memory of it pressing in harder now, the man’s voice, the way he’d been screaming, the way it had stopped so suddenly. “They never do.” The words come out quieter than everything else, almost lost in the space between you. But he hears them. Of course he does. For a long moment, neither of you speaks again. The tension is still there. Still sharp. But it’s shifted. Changed into something else. Something heavier. Something closer to understanding than either of you is comfortable with.

He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair again, the movement less frustrated this time and more… grounding, like he’s trying to steady himself in the same way you had been earlier. “…you should’ve fought harder.” he mutters, though there’s less bite to it now, less accusation. You let out a tired, humorless laugh. “Yeah,” you reply. “Next time I’ll just take on an entire room of armed security while they beat the shit out of me. That’ll go great.” He huffs slightly at that, the corner of his mouth twitching just enough to show he knows how ridiculous that sounds, even if he won’t admit it outright. “Still,” he says, quieter now. “Doesn’t mean you just… let them.” You shake your head, exhaustion dragging at you again as you sink back slightly, your body protesting the effort of standing. “You don’t get it,” you say, your voice softer now, not as sharp but no less firm. “Sometimes letting them is the only way to survive it.” That lands. You can see it. The way his expression shifts again, something in it tightening before settling into something harder to read, less reactive, more… aware.

For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. Not like before. Not like he’s assessing you or trying to figure you out. But like he’s actually seeing you. And maybe, for the first time- Understanding. He exhales slowly, his shoulders dropping just slightly as some of the tension bleeds out of him, though not all of it, not even close. “They don’t get to keep doing that,” he says finally, his voice low, steady in a way that feels more dangerous than when he was shouting. You blink slightly at that, caught off guard by the shift. “That’s… kind of how this works,” you reply, though your voice lacks the bite it had before. He shakes his head once, sharp. “No.” You let out a quiet breath. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“Watch me.” The confidence in it should annoy you. It should. But right now, it doesn’t. Instead, it settles somewhere in your chest in a way you’re not entirely comfortable with. You study him for a second, your head tilting slightly. “You’re serious.” “Yeah,” he replies simply. Another pause. “Next time they try that,” he mutters, his voice dropping just enough to carry the weight of it, his gaze locking onto yours with something steady, something certain, “they go through me first.” The words hang between you. Heavy. Real.

And for the first time since this all started, you believe him. Even if you’re not sure that makes things better. Even if you’re not sure it won’t just make everything worse. Because aligning yourself with someone like him. Someone that volatile, that unpredictable. Isn’t safe. It’s not smart. It’s not something you should trust.

And yet, standing there, bruised, exhausted, still shaking slightly from everything they forced you to do. It feels like the closest thing to being on the same side as someone you’ve had in a very long time. The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s loaded. With everything that’s changed. With everything that’s about to. And neither of you says anything else. Because you don’t need to. 

Not right now.

Part 6

A/N: Sorry this one has been so delayed so much has been going on, it's been hard to find time to write but I am trying believe me!! Pls lmk if you would like to be added to the taglist of this fic!!

perm tags: @jjjenx14 @globetrotter28 @cranberrysauce666 @cunningtalismanmechanism @biancalinkas @morphineh @itfeltlikeak1ss 

The next morning doesn’t arrive with any sense of calm or distance from what’s already happened, instead it crashes straight into motion before you’ve even had time to properly process the weight of the deal you signed, the memory of his hand around your throat, or the unsettling awareness of how easily your power had slipped into his mind the night before, because Vought, as always, wastes absolutely no time capitalizing on something the moment it starts gaining traction.

By the time you’re escorted into the media room, the atmosphere already feels different from before, thicker somehow, more charged, as though every person in the building is aware that something has shifted between you and Soldier Boy and is now waiting to see how far that shift can be pushed for profit. He’s already there, of course, slouched back in the chair like the entire setup is beneath him, boots planted wide and one arm draped lazily across the backrest, yet now that you’ve seen what sits beneath the surface, the posture reads less like ease and more like something carefully maintained, a performance he’s perfected over decades of being watched. His eyes lift the moment you step inside, dragging slowly over you in a way that feels more deliberate than before, more observant, less dismissive, as if he’s no longer just sizing you up but actively trying to figure you out. This time, you don’t hesitate.

Instead of taking the space you kept yesterday, you move directly toward the seat beside him and sit closer than necessary, letting your thigh brush his the second you settle, the contact intentional rather than accidental, a small but calculated decision that sends a subtle signal not just to him but to the people watching. You feel the reaction instantly. Not dramatic, not obvious, but there in the slight stillness of his body, in the way his attention sharpens just a fraction as he registers the change, even though you don’t look at him yet, keeping your focus forward like it doesn’t matter when, in reality, it matters more than anything. “Good,” the handler says almost immediately, her tone bright with barely contained satisfaction as she watches the interaction unfold exactly the way she wants it to, already tapping through data on her tablet. “The engagement announcement exceeded expectations, global traction, sustained engagement, and a significant spike after yesterday’s press conference.” You don’t respond, because none of that is surprising, not when you understand exactly how easily people consume this kind of narrative, how quickly they latch onto something that looks real even when it isn’t.

“Which means we escalate,” she continues, her voice sharpening slightly with purpose.

Beside you, Soldier Boy exhales through his nose in a slow, irritated breath, his fingers tapping once against the armrest as if he’s already bored of whatever comes next. “Yeah, figured you’d say that.”

“You’ll be doing a series of interviews this morning,” she says, ignoring the tone entirely, “followed by a controlled public appearance this afternoon, and then we’ll begin incorporating more organic interactions into your schedule.” You tilt your head slightly at that. “Organic.”

“A public date.” she clarifies. You don’t pause to think about it, don’t give him time to interrupt, because the decision has already been made long before this moment, sitting heavy in your mind alongside the number that hasn’t stopped replaying since you saw it.

“Fine.” The word lands clean and immediate, cutting off the argument before it can start. You feel him turn toward you sharply, the shift in his posture more noticeable this time as he leans forward slightly, clearly not expecting you to agree so easily.

“Hold on-” he starts. “I said fine.” you repeat, your tone even, controlled, leaving no space for debate. The handler smiles, relieved, as though she had been bracing for resistance and is pleasantly surprised to be spared it. “Excellent. We’ll arrange a high-visibility location with a managed press presence to maintain narrative control-”

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, dragging a hand down his face before looking back at you again, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies you more closely now. “You just gonna agree to everything now?” You finally turn your head, meeting his gaze without hesitation, holding it just long enough to make it clear that this isn’t accidental. “Got a problem with that?” There’s a brief pause, something unreadable flickering across his expression as he considers the shift, as though he’s trying to decide whether this is genuine or something else entirely, before he leans back again, slower this time.

“…nah,” he says eventually, though there’s an edge of skepticism that doesn’t disappear. “Long as I don’t gotta pretend to enjoy it.”

“You don’t,” you reply flatly. “You just have to not ruin it.” His mouth twitches faintly at that, something almost amused passing through his expression. “We’ll see about that.” The interview room feels even more suffocating than before, the heat from the lights settling against your skin in a way that feels artificial and invasive, the cameras already positioned and waiting, lenses trained on the exact spots you’re expected to occupy like everything about this moment has been decided long before you stepped inside. This time, you don’t wait for instruction. You move into position beside him and lean in just slightly before the cameras even start rolling, your shoulder brushing his arm, your hand briefly resting against his wrist in a way that looks natural enough to pass but deliberate enough to register. Again, you feel it, that small, involuntary reaction in him, the way his body stills for half a second before adjusting, before responding.

His arm shifts along the back of your chair, fingers hovering just close enough to your shoulder to imply contact without fully committing, a quieter version of the same boundary-pushing he’s been doing, only now it feels more measured, more aware. The cameras start, and the questions come quickly, layered one after another in a rhythm designed to keep you from thinking too long about your answers. You respond smoothly, your voice steady, slipping into the role with an ease that might almost feel natural if you didn’t know exactly how much of it was calculated, how much of it was driven by something far less innocent than what it looks like from the outside. Beside you, he doesn’t interrupt as much this time, but he watches you, his attention sharper, more focused, as though he’s tracking every small change in your behavior and trying to piece together what it means. Halfway through, he leans closer, his breath warm against your ear as his voice drops low enough that the microphones won’t pick it up.

“Smile,” he murmurs, the edge of something familiar slipping into his tone. “You look like you’re about to kill me.” You don’t turn your head, don’t give him the reaction he might be expecting. “Keep pushing,” you reply quietly, your voice just as controlled, “and I will.” There’s a brief pause. A flicker of something in his expression. Then he leans back again, a low, amused sound slipping out of him as he plays it off for the cameras, even though you know he felt it, the same way you felt the shift in him.

By the time the interview ends, the room is buzzing again, the handler already talking rapidly about numbers and reactions, but you don’t stay long enough to hear the rest of it, because the air feels too thick, too controlled, and you need space that doesn’t feel like it belongs to someone else. You slip out quietly, moving through the building until you find the back exit, pushing through the door and stepping into the alley where the air is colder, sharper, real in a way the inside never is. For a moment, you just stand there, letting the quiet settle around you, before reaching into your pocket and pulling out a cigarette, lighting it with steady hands and drawing in a slow breath that does more to ground you than anything else has all morning. The silence doesn’t last. “You look like you could use better company than that.” The voice cuts through the air from somewhere behind you, and you don’t need to turn to know exactly what kind of tone it carries, because you’ve heard it too many times before to mistake it for anything else. You exhale slowly, not acknowledging him. “Not interested.” you say, your voice flat, dismissive. That should be enough. It isn’t. Footsteps approach, closing the distance with an ease that suggests he doesn’t see any reason not to.

“Didn’t ask if you were,” he replies, stepping closer, too close, his presence pressing into your space like he thinks it belongs to him. “You don’t gotta play hard to get-” You turn then, slowly, your eyes meeting his with a steady, unimpressed look.

“Back up.” He smiles. Wrong move. “Or what?” The question hangs for less than a second before it’s answered. Because suddenly he’s gone. The impact is loud, violent, his body slamming into the far wall hard enough to echo through the alley before dropping to the ground in a stunned heap. You don’t even need to look to know who did it. The footsteps behind you are heavier this time, more deliberate. “Didn’t sound like she was interested.” Soldier Boy says, his voice low, edged with something that isn’t entirely casual. This isn’t for show. The man tries to scramble back, panic finally setting in as he looks between you, realizing too late exactly what he walked into.

“You’re going to kill him..” you say, your tone steady. “Not planning on it,” he replies, stepping forward anyway. “Just making a point.” You move before he can close the distance, stepping into his path and catching his wrist, stopping him before he can reach the man again. “Don’t.” He stops, but not because he wants to, his attention snapping to you immediately, sharp and focused. “You gonna stop me again?” he asks, quieter now, something darker threading through his voice. You don’t answer with words. You don’t need to.

Instead, you press lightly, controlled into his mind, just enough to disrupt, to ground, to pull him back from the edge without dragging him under. His body tenses. You feel the resistance. Then, slowly, he stills. The moment stretches just long enough for the man to take his chance, scrambling to his feet and disappearing out of the alley without looking back. You release him. And that’s when you hear it. The sharp, unmistakable click of a camera. Then another.

You both turn toward the mouth of the alley, where paparazzi stand with lenses raised, capturing everything, the shove, the tension, the way you’re standing between him and what he almost did. And just like that it isn’t private anymore. It’s exactly what Vought wanted.

The moment they usher you back through the corridors of Vought Tower, the shift from the chaotic, open air of the alley into the suffocating sterility of the building feels almost violent in its contrast, as though the world has been stripped of anything real and replaced with polished surfaces, controlled lighting, and the ever-present sense that every movement, every breath, every flicker of expression is being observed, recorded, and filed away for later use. The handler walks ahead of you at a brisk pace, heels striking sharply against the floor in a rhythm that feels impatient rather than composed, while two others trail behind as if they expect either you or Soldier Boy to suddenly become unpredictable again, which, given the last ten minutes, is not entirely unreasonable. You don’t wait to be told when to speak this time, because the frustration that had been simmering under your skin since the alley has only sharpened with every step back into this place, turning into something that demands to be said even if you know it will not be received the way it should be.

“You set that up,” you say, your voice cutting through the quiet of the hallway with a clarity that makes the handler slow slightly, even if she doesn’t stop outright. “You put me in a situation where I was exposed, surrounded, and then you act surprised when something goes wrong like it wasn’t inevitable.”

She exhales slowly, the sound measured, controlled, as though she is choosing her response carefully not because she cares about what you are saying but because she is deciding how best to contain it.

“That was not an intentional variable,” she replies, her tone polished to the point of sounding almost artificial, like something rehearsed too many times to feel genuine anymore.

“Bullshit,” you answer immediately, the word slipping out without hesitation, because you are far past the point of filtering yourself for their comfort. “You don’t make mistakes like that, not when there are cameras involved, not when there’s profit tied to every second of what we do.”

That makes her stop.

Not dramatically, not in a way that draws attention, but enough that the tension in her posture becomes visible, her shoulders tightening just slightly before she turns to face you properly, her expression composed but her eyes sharper than before.

“You’re overestimating the level of control we maintain in public spaces,” she says.

“And you’re underestimating how predictable this all is,” you shoot back, stepping closer without fully realizing it, your voice lowering but not softening. “You wanted a reaction, and you got one, and now you’re going to spin it like it was part of the plan.” Behind you, Soldier Boy lets out a quiet, humorless sound that might have been a laugh if there were anything remotely amusing about the situation, and when he speaks, his voice carries that same edge of irritation that has been simmering beneath the surface since the alley. “She’s not wrong,” he says, pushing past one of the handlers just enough to step into the conversation rather than remain behind it, his presence immediately shifting the balance of the space. “You people don’t leave shit like that to chance unless you’re hoping something happens.” The handler’s gaze flicks toward him, her composure tightening further now that she has two problems instead of one, and for a brief moment it becomes obvious that she had not planned for both of you to push back at the same time.

“This is not productive,” she replies, though her voice lacks the authority it carried earlier.

“No,” you say, the word coming quieter now but heavier, more deliberate, “what’s not productive is throwing me into situations like that and expecting me to just play along without question.” There is a pause, one that stretches just long enough for the underlying tension to settle into something heavier, something that feels like it is about to shift into something else entirely if someone doesn’t redirect it. “We will review security protocols moving forward,” she says finally, choosing the safest possible response, the kind that acknowledges the issue without admitting fault.

You let out a slow breath, shaking your head slightly, because it is exactly the kind of answer you expected and somehow still just as frustrating to hear out loud.

“You should have done that before,” you reply, your voice quieter now but no less firm. “And you’re still standing,” one of the executives interjects as you are ushered into a conference room, his tone smooth, almost dismissive, as though the outcome negates the risk entirely. That is the wrong thing to say. You feel it the second the words land, the way your patience snaps thin enough that it no longer holds. “Yeah,” you say, letting out a short, humorless breath as you step further into the room, “because you’re paying me enough to deal with it.”

The silence that follows is immediate and absolute, the kind that does not happen accidentally but instead drops into place with deliberate, suffocating weight as every person in the room processes what you just said.

You feel it before you see it.

The shift beside you.

The way Soldier Boy goes completely still, his presence sharpening in a way that feels almost dangerous, like something coiling tight beneath the surface.

“…paying you,” one of the executives repeats slowly, his voice carefully neutral in a way that only makes it more obvious that something has gone wrong.

You don’t respond.

There is nothing you can say that will pull that back. “Perhaps,” another executive cuts in quickly, his tone smoother, more controlled, “we should separate for a moment and continue this discussion privately.” The handlers move immediately, stepping between you and Soldier Boy with practiced efficiency, not aggressive enough to provoke but firm enough to make it clear that this is not a suggestion. He doesn’t like that. It shows in the way his posture shifts, in the way his gaze locks onto them with something darker than irritation flickering beneath the surface. “The hell does that mean,” he says, his voice dropping into something lower, rougher, the kind of tone that doesn’t ask for answers so much as demand them. “It’s standard procedure,” one of them replies carefully. “Bullshit,” he snaps, taking a step forward that makes the handler nearest him tense visibly. “You don’t split people up unless you’ve got something to hide.”

You don’t fight when they guide you out of the room, even though every instinct in your body tells you to stay, to hold your ground, to not let them control the situation any further than they already have, because you know exactly how this plays out if you resist and you do not have the energy for that fight right now. Behind you, his voice follows, louder now, sharper, edged with something that sounds dangerously close to anger. “What deal,” he demands, the words carrying through the space just before the door shuts. “What the hell did she mean by that.” The door closes before you hear the answer.

The room they take you to is smaller, quieter, and far more familiar than you would like it to be, the kind of space designed for conversations that are not meant to leave the walls they happen within, and the moment you step inside, the weight of what you have just done settles heavier in your chest. “You were explicitly instructed not to disclose the terms of the revised agreement,” one of them says immediately, his tone controlled but edged with something sharper beneath it. You let out a quiet breath, dragging a hand down your face as you sink into the chair across from them, the exhaustion finally catching up to you in a way that makes it harder to maintain the same level of defiance you walked in with. “Yeah,” you reply, your voice quieter now but no less honest, “I figured that out the second it came out of my mouth.”

“This complicates the arrangement.”

“It was already complicated,” you say, leaning back slightly, your gaze flicking toward the table rather than meeting theirs directly. “You just don’t like that he knows something’s off now.” There is a brief pause, a silent exchange between them that you do not need to see to understand, before one of them reaches forward and slides a folder across the table toward you. “We have another situation that requires your attention,” he says. You don’t open it immediately.

You already know.

“…what kind of situation.”

“A member of our financial department has been falsifying internal reports for personal gain,” he explains, his tone returning to that same detached professionalism that makes everything sound clinical, distant, unimportant. “We have confronted him, but he continues to deny any wrongdoing.” You let out a slow breath, your fingers resting against the edge of the folder without opening it. “And you want me to make him stop denying it.” you say.

“Yes.”

The simplicity of the answer makes something in your chest tighten. “And after that,” you continue, your voice quieter now, “what happens to him.” There is a pause, one that stretches just long enough to confirm what you already suspect before it is said out loud. “We cannot risk exposure.” You close your eyes briefly, the meaning settling into place with a weight that feels all too familiar, because you have heard it before, lived it before, and despite everything you told yourself about coming back here being different, about having some level of control this time, the reality is already proving otherwise.

The room they take you to next is colder, not in temperature but in purpose, the air feeling heavier the second you step inside and take in the sight of the man restrained in the chair, his entire body rigid with fear as his eyes lock onto you with desperate intensity, as though you are the last thing standing between him and whatever fate he has already started to imagine. “Please,” he starts immediately, his voice cracking under the strain, his hands pulling uselessly against the restraints as panic floods every movement. “I didn’t do anything, I swear, whatever they told you-” You don’t answer, because engaging would make this harder than it already is, and there is already too much weight sitting in your chest for you to afford that.

“Begin.” someone says behind you. The word lands like a trigger. You step forward slowly, each movement deliberate, your body heavy with resistance even as you know there is no version of this where you walk away from it. “I don’t want to do this.” you admit quietly, the truth slipping out before you can stop it. He nods frantically, desperation pouring out of him in uneven breaths. “I know, I know, please, I’ll tell you whatever you want, you don’t have to-” Your hand lifts, hovering for a brief second before making contact. The moment your skin meets his, your power surges forward without restraint, tearing into his mind with a force that is anything but gentle, dragging everything to the surface at once in a violent flood of memories and emotions that leave him no space to hide, no room to deny.

He screams.

The sound is raw, unfiltered, echoing through the room as his body jerks violently against the restraints, his mind forced open under the pressure as numbers, lies, and buried guilt unravel all at once, spilling into something undeniable.

“Stop,” he gasps, his voice breaking apart between breaths that come too fast to sustain him. “Please, I didn’t mean to-” You push deeper. Harder. The truth fractures and then snaps into place. “I did it,” he chokes out finally, the confession ripping free under the weight of your power. “I did it, I just needed the money, I wasn’t going to-please-” You release him. The silence that follows is suffocating. For a moment, nothing moves. Then the voice behind you cuts through it.

“Proceed.”

Your stomach drops. You shake your head slightly, your voice barely holding. “…don’t.”

“Proceed.”

There is no room for refusal. You feel it in the way the word lands. You close your eyes briefly, your hand trembling as you lift it again, the weight of what you are about to do pressing down hard enough to make your chest tighten. When you touch him this time, you do not hesitate. Because hesitation would break you. Your power surges again, but this time it is sharper, more concentrated, pushing past resistance and straight into something final, something that does not leave room for recovery or reversal, and as it takes hold you feel the strain immediately, not just in him but in yourself, like something inside your body is being pulled too far, stretched beyond what it was meant to handle. His body goes still. The room falls silent. And then it hits you.

Hard.

Your breath stutters, catching halfway through your lungs as if something has physically cut off the air, your chest tightening violently as your body struggles to compensate for the sudden drain, for the way your power has consumed more than it should have taken. Your hand drops back, but the damage has already been done. Your vision flickers. Darkens at the edges. And when you glance down, you see it. The veins beneath your skin, visible along your hands and creeping up your wrist, shifting into something wrong, something darker than they should be, the faint blue turning into an inky black that spreads slowly beneath the surface like spilled ink, a clear, physical sign of how much strain you’ve just forced your body under.

Your fingers tremble, not just from the aftermath but from the lack of oxygen clawing through your system, your lungs struggling to pull in enough air to stabilize you as each breath comes shallow and uneven, your chest rising too quickly, too sharply, like your body is trying to catch up with something it cannot keep pace with.

Tears blur your vision, spilling over before you can stop them, your body reacting to everything at once, the power, the strain, the reality of what you just did, as your knees threaten to give out beneath you. No one steps in. No one moves to help. Because this is expected. Because this is what you are.

You drag in a shaky breath, forcing your lungs to cooperate, forcing the air deeper even as it burns on the way down, your hands still trembling as the blackened veins slowly begin to recede, fading back into something more normal as your body fights to stabilize itself. When the worst of it passes, when the room finally stops spinning enough for you to focus, you lift your head slightly, your gaze drifting upward almost instinctively. Toward the observation window. And that’s when you see him. Standing on the other side of the glass. Completely still. Watching.

His expression is unreadable, stripped of the usual arrogance and careless detachment, leaving something far more difficult to interpret in its place as his eyes remain locked on you, taking in everything, the way you stand there shaking, the tears you haven’t wiped away, the aftermath of what you were just forced to do. And in that moment, without a single word being spoken, it becomes painfully clear that whatever distance existed between you before has been shattered completely. Because now he doesn’t just see what you can do. He sees what it costs you. And worse, He understands it.

The ride back to the penthouse stretches out in a silence that feels far too deliberate to be accidental, the kind that lingers in the space between you rather than simply existing, thick with everything that hasn’t been said and everything that now can’t be unsaid, the quiet hum of the elevator doing little to distract from the weight of it as you stand there beside him, close enough to feel the residual tension still radiating off him but not close enough to pretend there’s any comfort in it.

He doesn’t look at you, not once, and it becomes increasingly obvious that the absence of his attention is not indifference but restraint, the kind that sits tightly wound beneath the surface, waiting for a moment to either snap or settle, and you can’t quite tell which direction it’s going to go yet. By the time the doors slide open and the two of you step back into the penthouse, the space feels different than it had before, as though something intangible has shifted within it, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the floor while the city beyond the windows stretches endlessly outward, distant and detached from everything happening inside these walls, and for a brief moment you both linger near the entrance as if neither of you is entirely ready to step further into what comes next. He moves first, shrugging off his jacket with a sharp, careless motion that lacks the usual ease you’ve come to associate with him, tossing it somewhere behind him without looking as he drags a hand through his hair, the gesture rougher than necessary, like he’s trying to shake something off that refuses to let go.

You follow more slowly, closing the door behind you with a quiet click that echoes just enough to feel final, the sound settling into the silence like a marker that whatever happens next is contained entirely within this space. When he finally turns to face you, there is nothing relaxed about the look on his face, none of the lazy amusement or casual arrogance that usually defines him, only something sharper and more focused, something that feels like it has been building since the moment he watched you through that glass.

“That what they pay you for,” he asks, his voice low and rough, carrying an edge that hasn’t quite broken into anger but is close enough to feel dangerous, “or you just that good at it.”

The question lands heavier than it should, not because it’s cruel but because it hits too close to something you haven’t had the space to process yet, and for a moment you don’t answer, choosing instead to move further into the room, shrugging off your own jacket and setting it aside with slower, more deliberate movements that give you a second to steady yourself. “You saw it,” you reply finally, your voice quieter than usual, stripped of its usual bite in a way that feels unfamiliar even to you, “so what do you think.”

He exhales sharply, pacing a few steps before turning back toward you, his gaze lingering longer this time, more intent, as though he’s trying to read something beneath the surface rather than just react to what’s in front of him.

“I think you walked in there like it wasn’t your first time doing something like that,” he says, the words measured, not thrown out carelessly but placed with a kind of precision that makes them harder to brush off.

There is recognition in it, and that is what makes your chest tighten slightly.

You lean back against the counter, folding your arms loosely as if the posture might anchor you, even though your fingers still feel faintly unsteady if you focus on them too much, the memory of the strain lingering in your body in a way that hasn’t fully faded. “I didn’t know they were gonna make me do that again,” you admit, your voice lower now, the honesty slipping out before you can filter it. “Not like that.” He studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable but his attention unwavering, and you can practically see the moment he decides to believe you, even if only partially.

“And the rest of it,” he continues, his tone shifting slightly, less observational and more pointed now, “the part where you said they’re paying you.” There is no avoiding it now. You let out a slow breath, your gaze dropping briefly before lifting again to meet his, because if you’re going to say this, you’re not going to do it halfway. “You really wanna know,” you ask, even though you already know the answer.

“Yeah,” he replies without hesitation. A quiet, humorless laugh slips from you, more reflex than reaction, and you shake your head faintly before forcing yourself to say it. “They offered me more,” you say, your voice low enough that it feels almost like you’re trying to keep it contained within the space between you. “A lot more.” He doesn’t interrupt, which somehow makes it worse, the absence of reaction leaving too much room for the words to settle.

“For what,” he asks. You hesitate, but only for a second. “To make this real,” you admit, the words sitting wrong the moment they leave your mouth, “or at least real enough that it looks convincing.” The silence that follows stretches tight, and you push off the counter, pacing a few steps as the rest of it builds behind your teeth, refusing to stay contained. “They want you attached,” you continue, your voice gaining a slight edge now as frustration creeps back in, “because if you are, you’re easier to move, easier to control, easier to get out of their way without you tearing the whole place apart.” His jaw tightens, the reaction subtle but unmistakable. “They’re planning to relocate you,” you add, quieter now, the words heavier for it. “Somewhere remote, somewhere you can’t cause problems for them anymore.”

He doesn’t explode, doesn’t lash out the way you might have expected, but something in him shifts anyway, something darker that flickers just beneath the surface before he forces it back under control.

“And you took it.” he says. It isn’t a question. You nod once. “Yeah.” He exhales through his nose, something sharp and humorless slipping into the sound. “Course you did.” There’s an edge to it, not enough to cut deep but enough to sting, and your posture stiffens slightly in response. “Don’t.” you say quietly.

“Don’t what?” he pushes, stepping closer, his presence filling the space between you in a way that makes it harder to ignore the tension building again, “act like you didn’t sell into it.”

“You think I did it for them,” you snap, the frustration finally breaking through fully now, your voice sharper as you meet his gaze head-on, “you think I give a shit about playing along with their little story for fun.”

“Then why,” he demands, the question landing heavier this time, less accusatory and more pointed, like he actually wants an answer. Because he does. And that’s what makes it harder. “I just want out,” you say, the words quieter now but heavier, carrying more truth than anything else you’ve said so far. “That’s it. I want enough money to disappear somewhere they can’t touch me, can’t find me, can’t drag me back into this shit again.” You swallow, your throat tightening slightly as you force yourself to keep going. “I didn’t know they were gonna push me back into that,” you add, your hand lifting briefly in a vague gesture that doesn’t need explanation, “if I did, I wouldn’t have-”

You stop yourself, because the truth is messier than that, and you both know it. He watches you for a long moment, his gaze dropping briefly before returning to your face, and when he speaks again, his voice has shifted, the sharp edge dulled slightly into something quieter but no less intense. “You almost dropped,” he says, his attention flicking toward your hands, where the faint traces of what happened still linger beneath your skin if you know where to look. You shrug lightly, even though the movement feels heavier than it should. “I’m fine.”

“Didn’t look fine.” You let out a quiet breath, rolling your eyes slightly. “Didn’t ask.” He steps closer again, slower this time, his gaze still fixed on you in a way that feels less confrontational and more assessing, like he’s trying to understand something rather than challenge it.

“They pushed you too fucking far.” he says. It isn’t a question. And something about that, about the way he says it like it’s obvious, like it matters, makes something in your chest shift in a way you don’t entirely like. “Yeah,” you reply, your voice quieter now. “That’s kinda what they do.” He huffs out a quiet sound, something that almost resembles agreement, and for a moment the tension between you eases just enough to let something else settle in its place. You tilt your head slightly, studying him now.

“You getting soft on me, Ben,” you murmur, a faint edge of teasing slipping back into your tone. His eyes flick up immediately, narrowing slightly. “Don’t get it twisted,” he replies, though the bite behind it isn’t as sharp as it was before. “I’m not worried about you.”

“Sure,” you say, unconvinced, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly. “That’s why you’re still talking about it.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “Just don’t feel like dealing with you dropping on the floor again,” he mutters. “Pain in the ass.” You huff out a quiet laugh, the sound softer this time. “Right,” you say. “That’s all it is.” He doesn’t argue. The silence that follows is different now, still tense but no longer suffocating, something quieter threading through it that wasn’t there before.

“So,” you say after a moment, your gaze sharpening slightly as the thought returns, “you gonna tell them.” He frowns faintly. “About the deal.” He lets out a short breath. “No,” he says simply. “Not my problem.” There’s something deliberate in the way he says it, something that suggests more than the words themselves, but you don’t push it. Instead, you nod once. “Good.” You hesitate briefly, then continue, the idea forming more clearly now. “We could use it,” you add, your voice taking on a sharper edge again, something more focused. His eyes narrow slightly. “How.” You tilt your head, a faint, dangerous smirk tugging at your lips. “They think they’re in control,” you say. “So we let them think that, give them exactly what they want to see.” He watches you carefully. “And then.” Your smirk sharpens. “Then we fuck them over.” That gets a reaction, subtle but real, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly as something darker flickers in his expression.

“…I like that plan,” he mutters. “Of course you do,” you reply dryly. He shrugs. “Got a nice ring to it.” You roll your eyes, but there’s no real irritation behind it now. Just something lighter. More dangerous. He studies you again for a second before speaking. “So do I get the privilege of knowing who you are now or are you staying all mysterious?” he says. You blink.

“What.”

“If we’re doing this,” he continues, gesturing slightly between the two of you, “I’m not calling you “fiancé” the whole time.” You hesitate. It shouldn’t matter. But it does. “…yeah.” you say quietly. Then, after a beat, you tell him. The moment feels heavier than it should, like handing over something you’ve kept guarded for too long, and when he repeats it under his breath, testing the sound of it, something in your chest tightens just slightly before settling again. “Alright.” he says simply. You tilt your head, a faint smirk returning. “Look at that,” you murmur. “You’re learning.” He scoffs. “Don’t push it.” You grin faintly, letting your gaze linger on him for a second longer.

“Careful, Ben,” you add, the name coming easier now, more natural than before. “You might actually start liking me.” His eyes narrow slightly, something unreadable flickering there, but he doesn’t tell you to stop. “Yeah,” he mutters, his voice low. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” But he doesn’t walk away either.

And that, that says more than enough.

Part 5

A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter sorry it was late! lmk if you would like to be added to the taglistfor this series!! Also requests are open if you would like to send any of your ideas in feel free!!!

Perm tags: @jjjenx14 @globetrotter28 @cranberrysauce666 @cunningtalismanmechanism @biancalinkas @morphineh @itfeltlikeak1ss 

Morning comes slowly in the penthouse.

The sky outside the massive wall of windows is the dull color of wet concrete, thick clouds hanging low over the city as if they’ve settled there overnight and decided not to move. The early light that seeps through the glass is pale and cold, washing across the polished floors and smooth white walls until the entire apartment looks less like a home and more like an empty museum exhibit. Up this high, the city sounds different. Distant. Muted. Traffic becomes a soft, constant hum somewhere far below, broken occasionally by the faint wail of a siren weaving its way through the streets. The noise barely reaches the penthouse at all. Everything up here feels sealed off from the rest of the world.

Too quiet. Too controlled. The kind of silence that presses in on your ears if you let it. You wake slowly. Not with the usual groggy confusion of someone dragged out of deep sleep, but with the heavy awareness of someone who never really rested at all. Your eyes open reluctantly, blinking against the dull grey light filling the bedroom while your body stays exactly where it is, sunk deep into the mattress as if it weighs twice as much as it did yesterday. For a moment you just lie there. Your mind takes its time catching up. Your muscles ache faintly, the lingering tension of yesterday still locked into your shoulders and neck. Every part of you feels tired in a way that sleep didn’t even come close to fixing. This kind of exhaustion sits deeper than that. It settles in your bones. Your sleep had been shallow, fractured into uneasy stretches that barely counted as rest. Every time you drifted off, your brain dragged you right back into the same loops of memory before you could sink too far. Bright flashes. Camera lights exploding in your face. Reporters shouting questions you didn’t want to answer. And underneath all of that, the older memories clawing their way back to the surface the moment your guard dropped. Fluorescent lab lights humming overhead. Cold metal tables. The distant murmur of voices watching you from behind thick observation glass. You roll onto your back slowly, staring up at the smooth white ceiling above the bed. Your eyes burn slightly. Your chest still feels tight in that lingering way panic attacks sometimes leave behind, like your lungs haven’t quite remembered how to relax again. The events from the night before replay themselves in fragments. The panic. The crushing feeling in your chest as the past bled into the present without warning. And him. The moment that part of your brain keeps circling back to whether you want it to or not. You remember the way his hand closed around your wrist. Firm. Unexpected. Not violent exactly, but strong enough that your power had reacted before you even realized what was happening. For a split second, your mind had reached out automatically. Instinct. Defense. And for that brief, dangerous moment, he saw something. You remember it clearly. The flash in his expression when the connection happened. The subtle tightening around his eyes. Recognition. Confusion. Something sharper buried underneath it. Then it was gone. He’d pulled back immediately, brushing the entire moment aside like it meant absolutely nothing. Like he hadn’t just caught a glimpse of the worst parts of your head. Like he didn’t care. You sit up slowly, dragging a hand down your face as the weight of the thought presses against the back of your skull.

Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he really didn’t give a shit. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and sit there for a moment, elbows resting on your knees while the room settles around you. The massive windows across the far wall reflect the dull morning light back into the space, making the entire bedroom look pale and washed out. The penthouse still feels strange. Too big. Too empty. Too clean. It doesn’t feel like somewhere people actually live. It feels like somewhere people are placed. Stored.  Displayed. Your fingers absently trace the edge of the mattress while your mind drifts again, circling back to the same question. Did he actually see anything? Or was it too quick for him to understand what happened? The silence in the apartment stretches long enough that you start convincing yourself the moment didn’t matter at all. Then something breaks the quiet. A thud. The sound is heavy and sudden, echoing faintly through the hallway outside your bedroom. You freeze instantly. Your head turns toward the closed door. For a moment you stay perfectly still, listening carefully while the silence creeps back into place again. Nothing. No voices. No movement. Just the distant hum of the city far below. You start to relax. Then another sound follows. This one sharper. The dull crack of something solid hitting a wall. Your spine straightens immediately. That didn’t sound like something small falling over. That sounded like impact. Your eyes narrow slightly as you focus on the hallway beyond the bedroom door.

A few seconds pass. Then you hear it again. Not a crash this time. More like something being dragged slowly across the floor. Furniture scraping against hardwood. The sound is low, rough, deliberate. It travels faintly through the penthouse before stopping abruptly. Silence returns. You stay exactly where you are. Listening. Your breathing slows automatically as your body shifts into that familiar alertness you learned years ago in Vought’s training facilities. Every small sound becomes sharper. Every creak of the building settling. Every whisper of air moving through the vents. But nothing else follows. No voices. No footsteps. Just quiet. Eventually you exhale slowly and stand up from the bed. It’s probably nothing. The penthouse is huge. Old buildings make noise. Things settle. Shift. You repeat those explanations to yourself while you move toward the bathroom, trying to shake off the unease creeping up the back of your neck.

Still.

The memory of that sound lingers in the back of your mind while you brush your teeth, while you pull on clean clothes, while you run your fingers through your hair in the mirror. Something about it hadn’t sounded accidental. It sounded… angry. By the time you leave the bedroom and step into the hallway, the apartment is quiet again. Completely quiet. The massive living space stretches out in front of you just as cold and pristine as it had been the night before. Sunlight filters weakly through the windows, reflecting off polished surfaces and expensive furniture arranged in careful symmetry. Nothing looks disturbed. Nothing looks broken. No signs that anything had happened at all. If you hadn’t heard it yourself, you might have thought you imagined the entire thing. You hesitate for a moment longer, scanning the apartment one last time. Then you shake your head slightly and head toward the kitchen. You convince yourself it was nothing. Just a noise. Just the building settling. But the unease stays with you anyway. It sits quietly in the back of your mind while the morning drags forward. Waiting.

The dull morning light has spread further across the room now, stretching in pale bands across the dark floors and sleek furniture, but it doesn’t warm anything it touches. The sky outside is still a flat, lifeless grey, pressing down over the city and bleeding into the apartment through the endless glass windows. Everything looks the same. Perfect. Untouched. Too clean. You move toward the kitchen more out of habit than anything else, your body running on autopilot while your mind lags somewhere behind. The unease from earlier still sits low in your chest, quiet but persistent, like something you can’t quite shake.

The kitchen is as polished as the rest of the penthouse, marble countertops, stainless steel appliances, everything placed with the kind of precision that makes it feel like no one is actually meant to use it. You pull open a cupboard, grab the first thing that looks remotely edible, and set it down on the counter. It’s simple. Easy. Something you don’t have to think about. That’s the goal. Keep your hands busy. Keep your mind from drifting back. You move through the motions slowly, mechanically, pulling out a bowl, setting it down, reaching for something else, when the silence behind you shifts. A door opens somewhere down the hallway. You don’t turn around immediately. Instead, you pause, listening. Footsteps follow. Heavy. Unhurried.

They echo faintly against the hardwood floor as they move closer, each step deliberate in a way that makes the air feel tighter with every second. You pick up a knife. Not in a defensive way. Just… something to do with your hands. The footsteps don’t stop until they’re right behind you. Then they go quiet. You feel him before you see him. That presence. Solid. Close. You glance up slightly, catching his reflection in the polished surface of the cabinet in front of you.

Soldier Boy looks like he didn’t sleep much either.

His hair is slightly out of place, not styled the way it had been for the cameras yesterday.A black t-shirt hangs from his body, trying to contain his biceps in the short sleeves, paired with a pair of grey sweatpants, seeming like a poor excuse for this relic to appear more modern. There’s a faint crease between his brows that wasn’t there before, and his jaw is set tighter than usual, like he’s been clenching it for too long. He doesn’t look at you right away.

Instead, he moves past you, heading for the counter like you’re barely there. An empty bottle appears in his hand a second later, pulled from somewhere you hadn’t noticed before, and he sets it down with a dull clink against the marble. It’s already empty. Or close enough. You watch him from the corner of your eye while you go back to what you were doing, your hands continuing their slow, methodical movements. There’s something off about him. It’s subtle. But it’s there. The way his shoulders are held too tight beneath his shirt. The way his movements feel just slightly too controlled, like he’s forcing them to stay steady. Your gaze drops briefly to his hand. It’s resting against the edge of the counter. Clenched. Hard enough that the faint creak of the marble carries through the quiet kitchen if you listen closely. Your stomach tightens slightly. That sound from earlier. The one you’d tried to brush off. It settles back into your mind with a little more weight now. You turn your attention back to the food in front of you, trying to ignore it. Trying not to look at him again. The silence stretches.

Then-

“You got a meeting.” His voice cuts through the room without warning. Flat. Certain. Not even slightly curious. You pause, knife hovering mid-motion before you set it down slowly. “How do you know that?” He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t move much at all, really. Just stands there, staring at nothing in particular while the city stretches out beyond the windows behind him. For a second, you think he might ignore the question completely. Then his shoulders lift in a small, dismissive shrug. “Vought called.” Of course they did. You exhale quietly through your nose, wiping your hands against the edge of the counter before turning slightly toward him. He still hasn’t looked at you. Not properly. Just stands there, jaw tight, hand still braced against the marble like he’s holding himself in place. Like there’s something underneath the surface trying to break through. For a moment, you consider saying something else. Asking if he heard the same noise. About the way he looks like he hasn’t slept. About whatever the hell is going on in his head. But the thought dies before it even reaches your mouth. Not your problem. You turn back toward the counter instead, grabbing your things without another word. The air in the room feels heavier than it should. Tighter. Like it’s waiting for something. You don’t stick around long enough to find out what. A second later, you’re moving toward the door, leaving him standing there in the cold morning light. Behind you, the penthouse falls back into silence.

Vought Tower feels exactly the same as it always has, suffocating in its perfection.

Too bright in a way that never quite feels natural, too clean in a way that borders on unsettling, and far too controlled for anything inside it to be considered real. The moment you step through the glass doors, the outside world seems to collapse behind you as if it never existed in the first place, the dull grey sky and distant noise of the city swallowed whole by polished marble floors, artificial lighting, and the quiet, ever-present hum of a machine that never stops running.

Nothing here is accidental, and that has always been the most unnerving part. Everything is designed, curated, placed exactly where it needs to be in order to maintain the illusion that Vought is something stable, something necessary, something untouchable.

You don’t slow as you cross the lobby, your reflection moving alongside you in the mirrored walls while people weave around you in neat, efficient patterns, assistants glued to their tablets, security stationed like statues, employees who glance at you just long enough to recognize you before looking away again as if acknowledging you any further might somehow break protocol. They all know who you are. They just don’t acknowledge it. A handler intercepts you halfway across the floor without needing to be called, already turning on her heel before she even speaks, fully expecting you to follow without question. “Right this way.” Of course.

The elevator ride is short, quiet, and entirely too familiar, the kind of silence that doesn’t invite conversation so much as it discourages it completely, and the higher you go, the more the building shifts around you, the polished corporate façade giving way to something quieter, more insulated, where fewer people move through the halls and the presence of security becomes more noticeable, more intentional.

More secrets live up here.

By the time the doors slide open again, the air feels heavier, like it’s pressing down on your shoulders the moment you step out, and the handler leads you down a narrower hallway than the ones below, one that branches off into a section of the building you don’t remember seeing before, where the silence is sharper and the absence of movement feels deliberate rather than coincidental. She stops outside a closed door and gestures for you to go in, and you don’t hesitate, because hesitation is something Vought notices.

The meeting room is smaller than the others you’ve been in, and that is the first thing that sets something in your chest on edge, because smaller means private, and private means controlled in a way that public spaces never are. There are no glass walls here, no open view into the rest of the building, just solid surfaces and a single long table sitting beneath harsh overhead lighting that leaves nowhere for shadows to settle.

Three executives are already seated when you walk in.

You recognize them immediately, not because you know their names, but because you’ve seen their faces before, always standing just behind someone more important, always just out of focus enough to be overlooked while still holding more power than they ever let on. They’re waiting for you. Watching you. And the moment the door shuts behind you, sealing the room off completely, you notice it, the tension that clings to the air in subtle, almost invisible ways, in the way one of them presses his fingers briefly against the table before stilling them, in the way another avoids meeting your eyes for just a fraction too long, in the tightness of the smile the woman gives you when she finally looks up.

They’re nervous. That alone tells you this isn’t going to be simple. You don’t bother pretending otherwise, pulling out the chair across from them and dropping into it without waiting to be asked, leaning back slightly like you’ve done this a hundred times before, because you have, because this is familiar territory even if the specifics aren’t. “So,” you say, voice flat, uninterested in whatever polite introduction they might have planned. “What do you want.” They exchange a glance, quick and silent, before one of them reaches forward and slides a folder across the table toward you, stopping it just within your reach. You don’t touch it immediately. Instead, you let your gaze settle on them, waiting, because if they want something from you, they can be the ones to say it.

When none of them speak, you finally pull the folder closer and flip it open, your eyes scanning the contents quickly, skimming past the standard clauses and carefully worded conditions that all say the same thing in different ways until you reach the only part that actually matters.

The number. For a moment, your brain doesn’t process it correctly. Then it does. And something in your chest stills. It’s not a small increase, not a bonus disguised as generosity, not a slight adjustment to keep you cooperative. It’s double. Twice what you’re currently being paid, written in clean, undeniable numbers that sit on the page like they’ve been waiting for you to notice them. Your fingers rest against the paper as your eyes lift slowly back to the three of them, your expression unchanged even as something colder settles beneath your ribs.

“…what’s the catch.” The woman across from you smiles, but it’s tight, controlled, the kind of smile that exists purely for appearances rather than comfort. “We need you to deepen the relationship.” You stare at her for a second, then lean back slightly in your chair, one eyebrow lifting in quiet disbelief. “It’s already a fake engagement.” Your tone makes it clear exactly what you think of that. They glance at each other again, less subtle this time, and then the man on the left leans forward, folding his hands together as if grounding himself before he speaks. “We need him to fall for you.” The room goes still. Not empty. Heavy. You let out a short breath through your nose, leaning back further, your gaze moving between them as if waiting for one of them to break and admit this is some kind of joke. “You’re joking.” No one laughs. No one even smiles. That tells you everything you need to know. Your attention drops briefly back to the contract before lifting again, sharper this time.

“Explain.”

And they do, carefully, deliberately, choosing their words like each one matters more than it probably should. “Soldier Boy wasn’t supposed to come back,” the man says, his tone measured. “His reintroduction was… conditional.”

“Strict conditions,” another adds, picking up seamlessly. You don’t interrupt. You let them talk. “And now?” you ask after a moment, because you already know there’s more. “Now we have a problem.” They slide another file across the table, and this one is different immediately, messier, less polished, filled with things they didn’t bother dressing up. Photos. Reports. Internal documentation.

The first image is enough to tighten something in your jaw, a hallway torn apart, walls cracked, blood smeared across the floor in a way that doesn’t leave much to interpretation. The next shows what’s left of a Vought employee being carried out by a medical team, and the one after that is a training room reduced to something that barely resembles its original structure. You flip through them in silence, each page building on the last. “He’s unstable,” one of them says finally, the word carefully chosen, deliberately understated. You keep reading. “If he turns on us,” another voice adds, quieter now, “we can’t stop him.” That makes you pause, not because it surprises you, but because hearing them admit it out loud changes something. You close the file slowly and set it back down. “And you think I can.” They don’t treat it like a question. “We think,” the woman says carefully, “that if he becomes emotionally attached-” You let out a quiet, humorless laugh, cutting her off. “Emotionally attached.”

They ignore the tone. “-then he may be more cooperative.” There it is. You lean forward slightly, resting your arms on the table as you look directly at them, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “You want me to play girlfriend until he’s stupid enough to trust me.” No one corrects you. No one denies it. “And then what?” Another pause. Shorter this time. “We relocate him,” one of them says, the words clinical, detached, like they’re discussing logistics instead of a person. “Somewhere controlled. Isolated.”

“Off the grid,” another adds quietly. “Without incident.” Without a meltdown. Without bodies. Without headlines they can’t clean up. You glance down at the contract again, your fingers brushing the edge of the page, feeling the weight of the number sitting there.

“There is one more thing.” Your eyes lift again. The man shifts slightly in his chair, watching you carefully. “His name.” You frown faintly. “…what?”

“Not Soldier Boy,” he clarifies. “That’s branding.” A brief pause. “Ben.” The name lands differently than anything else they’ve said. Quieter. More human. “Benjamin,” the woman adds. “But he responds to Ben.” You don’t react immediately, but something about it lingers longer than it should, slipping past the surface and settling somewhere deeper whether you want it to or not. “We believe,” she continues, choosing her words carefully, “that using it may help establish a more personal dynamic.” Of course they do. They want you closer. Not just physically. Psychologically. Emotionally. You lean back again, exhaling slowly, your gaze drifting back down to the contract.

Ben.  

The name echoes faintly in your head, unwelcome and persistent. You tap your fingers once against the table. “And if he doesn’t fall for it?” Another glance passes between them. Colder this time. “Then we reassess.” You don’t ask what that means. You already know. Your attention settles on the contract one last time, the number staring back at you with all the weight of what it represents, more money than you’ve ever seen offered, more than enough to walk away from all of this for good if you play it right. Your fingers rest against the paper for a moment longer. Then you reach for the pen. No hesitation. No second thoughts. You sign. The scratch of ink against paper is quiet, but it feels louder than anything else in the room. Final. When you slide the contract back across the table, the shift in the room is immediate, subtle but unmistakable, the tension easing just enough to tell you they got exactly what they wanted. You stand without another word. No questions. No negotiation. The deal is done. And as you walk out, the name lingers again, quieter this time but heavier somehow.

Ben.

Not the symbol. Not the weapon. The man underneath. And as the door closes behind you, one thought settles in, sharp and unavoidable. That’s the part they need you to break. And it’s probably the part that’s going to break you right back.

The elevator ride down feels longer than it should, not because of the time it actually takes but because of the way the silence stretches, pressing in on you from all sides while your reflection stares back from every mirrored surface, sharp and controlled in a way that has long since become second nature, the kind of expression you learned to wear in places like this where even the smallest crack can be noticed, recorded, and used against you later. The quiet hum of the machinery fills the space, steady and mechanical, and for a moment it almost feels like you’re still part of it, like stepping into Vought Tower automatically slots you back into the role they built for you, no matter how long you’ve spent pretending you got out. Your hand drifts unconsciously toward your jacket, fingers brushing against the folded contract tucked safely inside, and the weight of it feels heavier than it should, as though the ink hasn’t just sealed a deal but locked something else into place that you won’t be able to shake off so easily.

When the doors finally slide open, you step back into the lobby without hesitation, moving through the space with the same detached awareness you arrived with, ignoring the way people subtly shift around you, the brief flickers of recognition that never quite turn into acknowledgment, the silent understanding that you exist within their world but not alongside them. Outside, the air is colder than you expect, the grey sky unchanged, heavy and unbroken as it stretches over the city, and for a brief moment it almost feels like nothing has moved at all, like the entire world is stuck in the same dull pause you walked into earlier. The car is already waiting, because of course it is, and you slide into the back seat without a word, the door shutting behind you with a muted finality that cuts you off from everything outside in an instant.

At first, you don’t think about anything, letting your head rest back slightly as the car pulls away from the curb, the movement smooth and controlled as the city begins to slide past the window in a blur of muted colors and indistinct shapes. It’s easier not to think, easier to let your mind go blank and sit in the quiet, but that never lasts long, not when there’s something sitting in the back of your head demanding attention. Eventually, your thoughts circle back to him. To what they told you. To what they expect you to do.

Soldier Boy.

The name doesn’t sit the same way anymore, not after everything you just heard, not after the way they talked about him like he’s a problem waiting to explode rather than a person who was ever meant to exist outside of their control. The version of him the public sees has always been carefully constructed, polished into something people can admire without ever questioning what sits beneath it, a symbol wrapped in patriotism and nostalgia, presented as something solid and dependable when the reality is anything but. War hero, American icon, the original supe, titles that were built for him, not by him, shaped and repeated until they became inseparable from his identity whether they were true or not.

But you know better.

You’ve always known better, because you’ve seen what Vought does behind closed doors, and you’ve lived through the kind of conditioning that turns people into something useful at the cost of everything else. The truth they bury under all that image is heavier, darker, filled with decades of violence that never get framed the way they actually happened, because violence is easy to sell when you dress it up as heroism and call it necessary.

He wasn’t made to be a hero. He was made to be effective. Everything else came later. And the more you think about it, the harder it becomes to ignore the uncomfortable realization that settles in alongside those thoughts, because the differences between you and him aren’t as clear as they should be. Vought built him. That part is undeniable. But they built you too, just in a different way, using different methods, shaping you into something quieter, something less visible but no less dangerous. You were trained in controlled environments, taught how to use your abilities with precision, how to get inside someone’s head and tear them apart piece by piece without ever leaving a mark on the outside, while he was thrown into open conflict, into situations where destruction was expected and even encouraged as long as it served the narrative they were trying to sell. Different tools, same intention. You shift slightly in your seat, your gaze drifting from the city outside to your faint reflection in the glass, barely visible now but still there, still watching.

Both of you were raised to hurt people, and no amount of rebranding or justification changes that fact, no matter how much Vought might try to frame it differently. You were taught to weaponize fear, to dig into the worst parts of someone’s mind and hold them there until they broke under the pressure, while he was taught to do it with force, to leave destruction behind in a way that couldn’t be ignored or hidden as easily. Two sides of the same system. Two outcomes that look different on the surface but lead back to the same place. The only real difference is what happened after.

Your jaw tightens slightly as that thought settles, heavier than the rest, because as much as you might hate admitting it, you managed to step away in a way he never did. It wasn’t clean, it wasn’t easy, and it sure as hell wasn’t complete, but you got far enough to breathe, far enough to exist outside of their immediate control, even if they still had ways of pulling you back when it suited them. You became smaller in their world.

Less important.

Something they could afford to let slip through the cracks until they needed you again. He never had that option. He stayed exactly where they put him, exactly what they made him, a symbol they couldn’t afford to lose and a weapon they never fully figured out how to control, which means every part of him was held onto tighter, shaped more aggressively, forced into something that served their needs whether it cost him anything or not. And now they want you to fix it. Your fingers curl slightly against your knee as the thought settles in, heavier than anything else that’s come before it, because what they’re asking isn’t simple manipulation, no matter how they try to frame it. They want you to reach past everything they built into him, past the image and the violence and whatever else is buried under decades of being treated like something less than human, and find whatever is left underneath.

If there is anything left. The name they gave you lingers in the back of your mind, quieter than everything else but impossible to ignore.

Ben.

It sounds wrong in a way you can’t quite explain, too normal, too human compared to everything else attached to him, and that alone makes it more dangerous than anything they put in that file. Because if there’s still a part of him that responds to that, a part that remembers being something other than what they turned him into, then this job isn’t just about control. It’s about getting close enough to see it. And as the car continues through the city, the buildings passing in a blur that barely registers anymore, one thought settles in with uncomfortable clarity, threading through everything else you’ve been trying not to think about. You might understand him more than you should. And that’s exactly what’s going to make this dangerous in ways Vought doesn’t even seem to fully grasp.

By the time the car pulls to a stop outside the penthouse, the sky has already darkened into something heavy and oppressive, the earlier grey settling into a deeper, more suffocating shade that hangs low over the city as though it is pressing everything beneath it into silence. You remain seated for a moment after the engine cuts, your gaze fixed on the entrance ahead while your thoughts continue circling the conversation you just walked out of, each detail replaying itself whether you want it to or not, the contract tucked into your jacket feeling less like an opportunity now and more like something binding, something that has quietly locked you into a situation that is going to demand far more than Vought ever bothered to say out loud.

When you finally step out of the car, the cool evening air hits your skin sharply enough to ground you, though it does little to ease the tension that has settled into your chest, because the unease from earlier hasn’t left, it has only grown, threading itself through everything else until it becomes impossible to ignore. The building lobby is as pristine and controlled as ever, but even that familiar artificial calm does nothing to dull the sense that something is off, and by the time you reach the elevator and begin the ascent back up to the penthouse, your body is already bracing for something you cannot quite name.

The hallway outside the apartment is dimmer than it should be, the lighting functional but distant, casting long shadows that stretch unevenly across the floor, and when you reach the door, your hand pauses briefly against the handle, a small moment of hesitation that you cannot entirely justify but do not ignore either. Still, you push past it, unlocking the door and stepping inside.

The darkness is immediate and complete in a way that feels wrong, not simply the absence of light but the absence of life, because there is no soft glow from the kitchen, no flicker from a television, no low hum of music filling the space, nothing to suggest that anyone has been occupying this place in any normal sense. The silence presses in the moment the door closes behind you, thick enough to feel, heavy enough to make your awareness sharpen instinctively as your eyes begin adjusting to the dim outlines of the room.

Something is wrong, and you know it without needing proof.

You take a slow step forward, your movements deliberate now, careful in a way that suggests your body has already made a decision your mind has yet to fully process, and as the shadows shift slightly with your movement, the stillness of the space becomes more noticeable rather than less. That is when you hear it.

A voice.

Low, rough, uneven, carrying from somewhere deeper in the apartment.

It is not directed at anyone, not shaped into conversation, but instead spills out in fragments, muttered under breath as though the words exist solely for the person speaking them, slipping in and out of clarity in a way that makes it difficult to grasp their meaning all at once. You remain still for a moment, listening, trying to piece together what is being said, but it comes through broken, disjointed, pieces of something larger that refuses to settle into anything coherent.

You move further into the apartment.

Each step is quieter than the last, your focus narrowing as the sound grows clearer, pulling you toward the center of the living space where the shadows begin to give way just enough for shapes to take form.

And then you see him.

Soldier Boy stands in the middle of the room, his figure partially outlined by the faint light filtering in through the massive windows, the city beyond barely visible through the darkness but enough to cast a dim glow across his skin. He is shirtless, his body slick with sweat that catches what little light there is, tracing the lines of muscle down his back and shoulders, each movement of his chest uneven as he drags in breath after breath that never seems to settle. The room around him is in ruins, not disordered in any casual sense but violently, deliberately destroyed, as though whatever happened here was not accidental but the result of something that could not be contained. A chair lies broken near the far wall, its legs splintered clean through, while the glass coffee table has been shattered at one corner, cracks running across its surface in jagged lines that reflect faint fragments of light. The wall itself bears a deep indentation, as if something struck it with enough force to leave a permanent mark, and the air carries a sharp, metallic edge beneath the lingering scent of sweat and something else you cannot quite name.

His breathing is wrong, too fast and uneven, each inhale pulling sharply, each exhale leaving just as quickly, as though his body has not yet realized that whatever he is reacting to is no longer happening, or perhaps never stopped happening at all.

When he shifts, just slightly, enough for you to catch a glimpse of his face, the unease in your chest tightens into something heavier, because his eyes are not focused on anything in this room. They are distant, unfixed, locked onto something that exists somewhere else entirely, something you cannot see but he clearly can.

The muttering continues, fragments slipping through more clearly now, names, commands, half-finished orders that break apart before they can fully form, and it becomes obvious that this is not speech but memory forcing its way out whether he wants it to or not.

You step forward carefully, your voice cutting into the space with measured caution.

“Soldier Boy-”

The reaction is instantaneous and violent in a way that leaves no room for adjustment, because the moment the name leaves your mouth, his entire body shifts, snapping toward you with a speed that feels less like movement and more like impact. One second he is across the room, and the next he is on you, the force of it slamming you back into the wall hard enough to rattle through your entire body, knocking the breath from your lungs before you even have time to react.

His hand closes around your throat, tight and unyielding, lifting you off the ground with a strength that makes resistance feel pointless the second you try it. Your feet leave the floor immediately, your hands coming up instinctively to grab at his wrist, your fingers digging in without effect as your body strains against a grip that does not so much as shift under your effort. The pressure tightens almost instantly, cutting off your air in a way that is both immediate and terrifyingly efficient, your lungs pulling in nothing as your chest rises uselessly against the lack of oxygen. Up close, his face is worse.

There is no recognition there, no awareness, only something wild, something fractured, something that has nothing to do with the present moment. “You shouldn’t be here.” His voice is low, edged with something dangerous that feels far removed from anything resembling control. “Who the hell sent you.” Your vision begins to blur at the edges, dark spots creeping in as the lack of air hits harder, faster, your grip on his wrist tightening even as your strength begins to falter, your body already starting to react to something it cannot fight its way out of. Your mind scrambles for something, anything, that might cut through whatever the hell he’s trapped in, because brute force isn’t going to work, not against him, not like this, and for a split second your thoughts flash back to the meeting, to the quiet, calculated way they handed you that one piece of information like it was nothing.

Ben.

The name hits your tongue before you can second guess it.

“Ben-” It comes out strained, broken by the pressure around your throat, but it’s enough. Everything stops. Not completely. But enough to matter. His grip tightens first. Reflex. Violent. His eyes snap fully to your face, and for the first time since he grabbed you, there is something sharp and present in them, something focused and dangerous in a completely different way than before.

“What the fuck did you just call me?” The shift in his voice is immediate, the distant edge gone, replaced by something colder, something grounded in the present in a way that feels just as threatening. Your fingers twitch against his wrist as you struggle for air, your chest tightening painfully as your lungs burn, but you force the word out again, quieter this time, more deliberate despite the strain.

“Ben-”

“Don’t,” he snaps, the word cutting through the space between you like a blade. His grip tightens again for half a second, just enough to remind you how easily he could crush your throat if he decided to, his expression twisting into something darker, something sharper, like the name itself has struck a nerve he doesn’t let anyone near.

“Don’t call me that.”

The reaction is immediate and real in a way nothing else has been so far, not the confusion, not the violence, not even the disorientation of whatever memory he was trapped in, and for a split second it throws everything off balance, the tension shifting into something more focused, more dangerous in a way that is harder to predict. And that is when your instincts kick in. Not because you want them to. But because you don’t have a choice. Your power lashes out.

It does not ease in or ask permission; it forces its way forward, slipping past the physical space between you and him and plunging straight into his mind with a sharpness that feels almost violent in itself. The shift is immediate, disorienting in a way that leaves no room for adjustment, because one moment you are in the penthouse and the next you are somewhere else entirely.

The noise hits first, overwhelming and mechanical in its precision, the echo of alarms and synthetic gunfire bouncing off sterile white walls that stretch endlessly into shadowed corners, each sound calibrated to make the body react, to force the muscles to tighten and the mind to fracture. Explosions aren’t random,  they’re controlled, measured bursts in a simulation chamber, each one meant to push him past instinct into sheer reflex, and every fraction of a second is recorded, monitored, analyzed. Lab technicians shout orders from behind reinforced glass, their voices clipped, emotionless, cold, telling him where to move, when to strike, when to react, and when he falters, when even a fraction of hesitation shows, the consequences are immediate, a blast of synthetic pain across his chest, a floor that shocks beneath his boots, a dangling weight to test grip and endurance, each moment engineered to break him, to reshape him into the weapon they wanted.

The smell is antiseptic at first, clean and sharp, clinging to the metallic tang of machinery, but it mixes quickly with sweat and blood, his and whoever else they throw into the trials with him, a brutal crucible of human bodies tested to exhaustion. The air is heavy, thick with ozone and disinfectant, stifling and inescapable, filling lungs that already feel too tight as every breath is timed, monitored, analyzed, pushed to limits that no ordinary human could endure.

Images slam into your mind next, not in sequence but in fractured, relentless flashes: him in the center of a room, restrained and stripped to test endurance; monitors flashing numbers that measure heart rate, reflexes, and nerve response; lab-coated figures circling like predators as he fights simulated enemies, mechanical limbs, armed drones, and humans alike, each “opponent” meant to test speed, accuracy, reaction time, pain threshold, mental focus, every move cataloged, every failure noted. Faces twist with calculated terror, screams and orders echoing against steel walls, all blending together in a blur, until the only thing left is the rhythm of survival, react, strike, survive, repeat.

Orders are shouted from behind glass, names assigned like inventory, commands designed to reduce identity to function, stripping away everything that isn’t performance. Each test is another layer of control, another measure to see how far he’ll go when pushed to the edge, and beneath it all, there is a fire, raw and unyielding, burning through the conditioning, a relentless survival instinct that neither Vought nor the endless tests can fully extinguish. Each trial leaves him more scarred, more precise, more dangerous, a weapon honed to the razor’s edge, but at the cost of something deeper, a mind stretched thin, a humanity chipped away in calculated increments until the hero everyone celebrated is nothing more than the sum of his tests, conditioned to obey, trained to kill, pushed to fight beyond the limit.

Rage.

Not controlled.

Not directed.

Just endless, burning, tearing through everything else until it becomes the only thing left. Your power pushes further without restraint, dragging more of it to the surface, forcing it into the open whether he wants it there or not, and for a moment it feels like too much, like you are being pulled under something you cannot hold onto, your veins slowly turning black as you push.

Then it stops.

Abruptly.

Violently.

Like something has been cut off midstream. You are back in the penthouse, back in your body, back in his grip, but something has shifted. His hand loosens. Only slightly, but enough. Air rushes back into your lungs in a sharp, painful inhale that leaves you gasping, your body jerking as it tries to recover, your vision snapping back into place in uneven fragments as the world steadies around you. His expression changes, not completely, but enough to matter, because there is something else in his eyes now, something that was not there before, something closer to awareness, to recognition, even if it is buried beneath layers of confusion and residual tension. His grip falters for half a second.

You take it.

Twisting sharply, you force yourself out of his hold, your feet hitting the ground hard as you stumble back, your hand flying to your throat as you drag in air that still does not feel like enough. The room falls silent again, except for your breathing and his, both uneven, both heavy, both struggling to settle. He stares at you, and this time there is something behind it, something present, something that suggests he knows exactly where he is now, even if he does not like it.  Your pulse is still racing, your body still tense, your mind trying to catch up with everything that just happened, because that was not just aggression, not just anger, but something deeper, something ingrained, something that has been sitting under the surface for far longer than Vought ever admitted. And as the silence stretches between you, thick with everything neither of you is saying, one thing becomes painfully clear. You didn’t just see his past. You just touched the part of him he refuses to let anyone name.

The room falls silent after the intensity of what just happened, the tension so thick it presses against the chest, and Soldier Boy doesn’t move immediately. Instead, he walks past the couch with a slow, deliberate rhythm, almost like he’s pacing off the residual storm in his mind. He doesn’t glance at you, doesn’t acknowledge the sweat on your brow or the slight tremor in your hands, only moves toward the floor-to-ceiling windows and slides open the balcony door with a metallic groan that echoes in the cavernous penthouse. The city sprawls below, indifferent to everything that just transpired inside, a glowing grid of lights under low clouds that mirror the storm of chaos he carries inside him.

He pulls a blunt from his pocket and lights it, inhaling deeply, smoke curling up toward the darkened sky, a ritual that seems to center him, something tactile to hang onto while his mind slowly untangles the wreckage of what just happened. You expect him to be alone out there, to brood, to isolate himself like he usually does, but the second you step onto the balcony behind him, cigarette already lit, the amber tip glowing faintly in the dark, you feel him stiffen. Not much, just a flicker of attention, the kind that says he notices but isn’t willing to show it fully.

You lean against the railing, smoke trailing in lazy spirals above your head. The night air is cold, carrying the sharp tang of rain on asphalt and the faint stink of exhaust from the city below. For a second, you simply exist side by side, the two of you separate yet tethered in some unspoken understanding. You can almost feel it, the faint recognition of another person who’s used vices as a way to control the chaos inside themselves, a way to breathe while the world burns both in your minds and around you. The city sprawls beneath you, a restless grid of flickering lights and traffic hum, but you barely notice it, lost instead in the tension that hums between you and the man leaning against the balcony railing, the blunt glowing faintly between his fingers. He exhales slowly, smoke curling upward, tracing lines in the air like a warning, a marker of territory.

“You know,” he starts, voice low, gravelly, carrying both irritation and curiosity, “that thing you did back there, dragging me through… whatever the hell that was, it’s not something I’m a fan of.” You take a long pull from your cigarette, letting the smoke fill your lungs before letting it escape slowly. “Not a fan?” you echo, voice calm, even though your chest still feels like it’s rattling in your ribcage. “You mean the part where you literally tried to crush my throat like I weighed nothing? That part?” He snorts, a short, sharp sound that carries both exasperation and something close to grudging recognition, though he’d never admit the latter. “Yeah. That. Not my favorite. It’s… weird. Makes me think too much about stuff I don’t want to think about.” His eyes flick toward you, sharp, calculating, and then back to the city below, as if the sight of you reminds him of the chaos that just unfolded inside the penthouse.

You lean casually on the railing, smoke curling lazily between your fingers. “Funny,” you say, “I’d say you’re the one giving me a reason to think. Don’t act like it didn’t happen, Ben. You attacked me, and now you’re whining about being inside your own head.”

His head snaps up at the name, eyes narrowing dangerously. “Don’t call me that,” he spits, voice sharp, almost a growl, “not now. Not ever. How the hell do you even know that?” He takes a step closer, stance rigid, jaw tight. “And the least you could do is tell me your name if you’re gonna throw mine around like it means something.”

You let a slow smirk creep across your face, embers glowing on the tip of your cigarette. “Oh, I could tell you,” you say evenly, “but why would I give you that kind of ammo? You don’t strike me as someone who’d handle it with… grace.” He flinches slightly at the tone, irritation flashing across his features, but he doesn’t move. “Grace? I don’t care about grace. I care about respect. I care about knowing who the hell I’m dealing with, not some faceless thing with a spark in her hands trying to make me dizzy.”

“Not my problem,” you say coolly, dragging in another slow pull of smoke. “You chose to get physical first. I responded. That’s the rule of survival, Ben, you act like a weapon, you get treated like one.” He lets out a low, humorless laugh, shaking his head slightly, the blunt glowing faintly in the dim light as he drags on it again. “Yeah? Well, congratulations. You’re a weapon. Weird, messy, intrusive. Can’t say I like it. Can’t say I trust it either. But… aware. I’m aware.” You tilt your head at him, letting the cigarette dangle from your fingers, eyes flicking over his tense posture. “Awareness works both ways,” you say, voice clipped. “I know what you are, Ben. Every scar, every twitch, every messy piece of rage you try to hide behind that swagger. I can feel it. Just don’t act surprised when I call you on it.” He grits his teeth, shoulders stiffening, jaw tight, and mutters under his breath, exhaling smoke toward the city, “Figures. Chaos follows me home, and now it’s got a name. And you won’t even give me yours. Great.”

You take another slow drag of your cigarette, watching the smoke curl into the night, the tension sharp and brittle between you. “Names are irrelevant,” you say quietly, almost teasing, almost dangerous. “I’m just… your problem for tonight.”

He slams a hand lightly against the railing, eyes narrowing, voice low and dangerous. “Problem or not, I don’t like being in the dark. Not even a little. Figure that out.”

The city hums below, indifferent, endless, sprawling, while the two of you stand on the balcony, side by side yet worlds apart, smoke drifting between you, tension wound tight and dangerous, unspoken threats and instincts flashing in every glance, every twitch of muscle, every inhale of smoke, the night stretching endlessly, heavy, raw, and unresolved, and neither of you willing to let the other forget it.

A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed this one! Pls lmk what you think!!

Part 4

Perm Tags:@jjjenx14 @globetrotter28 @cranberrysauce666 @cunningtalismanmechanism @biancalinkas @morphineh @itfeltlikeak1ss

The next morning arrives far too early, though the truth is you were never really asleep to begin with. The “temporary suite” Vought stuck you in overnight sits somewhere high up in the tower, buried among a cluster of identical luxury rooms meant for visiting heroes and executives who don’t want to bother with commuting home. It’s expensive in the kind of quiet, sterile way that makes your skin crawl, white furniture that looks untouched, a spotless marble bathroom that smells faintly of disinfectant, and blackout curtains so thick they swallow every trace of sunlight trying to sneak through the windows. Objectively, it’s the nicest place you’ve slept in for months. And somehow that makes it worse. Because rooms like this remind you too much of the places Vought raised you in. Everything is too clean. Too quiet. Too controlled.

There are no signs of life here, no clutter, no personal belongings, no evidence that anyone has ever relaxed in this space. It feels less like a place meant to be lived in and more like a showroom someone forgot to turn the lights off in. You’ve been lying awake staring at the ceiling for nearly an hour when the alarm on your phone finally goes off at six. The sound cuts sharply through the silence, loud enough to make you flinch even though you were already awake. You shut it off without looking. For a few seconds you remain exactly where you are, flat on your back against the pristine white sheets, staring up at the smooth plaster ceiling while the events of yesterday replay themselves in pieces. The meeting. The deal. The ring that now sits cold and heavy on your finger. And, of course, the man you’re apparently expected to marry.

You roll onto your side with a quiet curse, dragging a hand down your face as the weight of the situation settles deeper into your chest.

“Fantastic.” you mutter to the empty room. Across from the bed, your reflection stares back at you from the tall mirror mounted against the wall. You look exactly how you feel. Tired. Irritated. And dangerously close to punching the next person who says the word fiancée. Perfect. By the time a sharply dressed assistant knocks on your door at seven, you’ve already showered, pulled on the least offensive clothes Vought left in the wardrobe, and spent several minutes debating whether three cigarettes in one more is good for you. The knock comes again. Sharp. Efficient. “Media prep starts in twenty minutes.” a woman’s voice calls through the door. You drag the brush through your hair once more before answering. “Yeah,” you grunt. The word comes out flat and uninterested. It’s enough. When you open the door, the assistant waiting outside gives you a quick professional smile, the kind that clearly took years of corporate training to perfect. “Right this way.” You follow her through the polished hallways of Vought Tower, your footsteps echoing faintly against the marble floors while employees in expensive suits pass by in both directions. Some of them recognize you. You can tell by the subtle second glances. A few whisper to each other once they think you’re out of earshot. It’s already started. The story. The narrative. By the time you reach the media training room, you’re already exhausted.

The space looks exactly like something ripped straight out of a corporate nightmare. Bright studio lights hang from metal rigs overhead, casting harsh white light across the room. Two expensive-looking couches sit positioned neatly in front of a mock interview backdrop printed with Vought’s patriotic branding, while three cameras stand mounted on tripods facing the setup like silent observers. Around the edges of the room, a handful of PR staff hover with tablets and clipboards clutched to their chests, whispering to each other in low voices while they prepare for the rehearsal. The moment you step inside, one thing immediately grabs your attention. He’s already here. Leaning back across the couch like he owns the damn building. Boots kicked up on the coffee table. One arm draped lazily across the backrest.

A half-smoked joint balanced casually between two fingers. The faint smell of weed drifts through the room, mixing awkwardly with the artificial scent of the studio lights. Soldier Boy glances over when you walk in. His gaze travels slowly over you in that same lazy, assessing way you noticed yesterday, starting at your face before sliding down your body and back again like he’s evaluating a piece of equipment he hasn’t decided whether he wants to keep yet. “Well shit,” he mutters. “You clean up decent.”

You ignore him completely. Instead you walk past the cameras, past the hovering assistants, and drop down onto the far end of the couch opposite him without acknowledging the comment. A woman in a navy blazer standing near the cameras clears her throat loudly.

“Alright,” she says briskly. “Let’s get started.” Her tone suggests she’s already tired of the both of you. Soldier Boy doesn’t move from his sprawled position, but his eyes track you the entire time as you settle into the seat. Not subtle about it either. Just staring. You can feel it even when you’re not looking at him. The PR woman taps something on the tablet in her hands. “First things first,” she begins. “Your story.” You let out a quiet sigh. “Your love story,” she corrects sharply. The phrase makes your stomach twist. She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she just doesn’t care. “According to the narrative we’ve developed,” she continues, pacing slowly in front of the cameras, “you first met at a Vought charity gala last year, while soldier boy was keeping his identity undercover.” You glance sideways toward Soldier Boy. He raises one eyebrow. “Did we?” he asks. The woman doesn’t even look up from her tablet. “No,” she snaps. “But the public believes you did.” She taps the screen again. “You bonded over shared values. Patriotism. Service.” Soldier Boy snorts loudly. You nearly laugh before catching yourself. The woman continues speaking like neither of you made a sound.

“Over the following months you maintained contact privately. Your relationship deepened.” Soldier Boy slowly raises his hand like a bored student sitting in the back of a classroom. “Quick question.” The woman pinches the bridge of her nose. “Yes.” He tilts his head slightly. “When did we start fucking?” You choke on your breath so suddenly it actually hurts. The room goes dead silent. Several of the assistants stop typing. The PR woman stares at him for a long moment, her expression frozen somewhere between disbelief and deep professional regret.

“That will not be discussed publicly.” she says tightly. Soldier Boy grins. “Relax. Just trying to keep the timeline straight.” You mutter under your breath. “You’re insufferable.” He immediately leans closer, voice dropping low enough that only you hear it. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “you haven’t even seen insufferable yet.” The PR woman claps her hands sharply, breaking the moment. “Focus.” She gestures toward the cameras. “Sit closer.” You don’t move. She sighs heavily. “Please.” Before you can protest, Soldier Boy shifts slightly on the couch, sliding one arm across the backrest behind you. He doesn’t touch you. Not quite. But he’s close enough that you can feel the heat of him beside you. “Better?” he asks innocently. You glare at him. He smirks. The rehearsal begins. “Tell us how you met,” the PR woman prompts. You inhale slowly before starting the script. “We met at a Vought charity gala-”

“Bullshit,” Soldier Boy interrupts. Your eye twitches. He gestures lazily toward the cameras. “Real story’s way better.” The PR woman stiffens. “What real story?” Soldier Boy’s grin widens. “I saw her punch a guy in a parking lot.” Your head snaps toward him. “That never happened.” He shrugs. “Should’ve.” The cameras keep recording. The PR woman rubs her temples. “Please stick to the script.” You try again.

“We met at a charity-”

“God, that’s boring,” he mutters. His arm shifts again. This time it drops fully around your shoulders. You shove it off immediately. “Move.” He doesn’t. “Relax,” he says quietly. Your teeth grind together. The PR woman sighs again, clearly reconsidering every life choice that led her to this job. “We go live in 4 hours” That gets your attention instantly. “…what?” She nods. “Press conference.” You stare at her. “That soon?”

“Public interest is extremely high right now.” Of course it is. Beside you, Soldier Boy chuckles under his breath. “See?” he says lazily. “People love a good romance.” You elbow him in the ribs without looking. “Shut up.” He laughs openly. And the cameras keep recording every second of it.

When the rehearsal finally ends, the room empties quickly. Assistants begin packing up the cameras while the PR manager mutters instructions into her headset, already coordinating the next phase of the circus. Tablets disappear under arms, lights get switched off one by one, and the artificial brightness of the room dims into something softer. You stand first. You’ve had enough. Three hours of rehearsing a fake relationship with a man who refuses to follow a single instruction is more than enough to test your patience for the day. You push yourself off the couch, rolling your shoulders to shake off the tension that’s built up from sitting beside him for that long. The imprint of where his arm had been hovering around you still feels too warm, too close.

“Finally,” you mutter under your breath.

Soldier Boy doesn’t move immediately. He’s still leaning back like he’s completely at home, one boot resting on the edge of the coffee table while he watches the staff scatter around the room. One of the assistants approaches him cautiously.

“Sir, we’ll need you backstage in two hours for the press conference.” He glances at her without any real interest. “Yeah?” he says lazily. “You people ever hear of breakfast first?” The assistant stiffens slightly. “We can have something brought-”

“Beer.” he says. She blinks. “…beer?”

“Yeah,” he says, sitting up just enough to swing his boots off the table. “Cold one. Or three. Press conferences are boring as hell.” The assistant hesitates, clearly unsure if she’s allowed to argue with him. “Sir, this is a highly coordinated media appearance-” Soldier Boy stands up slowly, stretching his arms over his head like he just woke up from a nap instead of sitting through hours of PR coaching. His suit shifts with the movement, the leather creaking faintly as his shoulders roll. “Sweetheart,” he says flatly, “if I have to stand in front of a hundred reporters pretending I give a shit about public perception, I’m gonna need a drink.” The assistant looks like she’s about to have a nervous breakdown. You walk past both of them. “Good luck with that.” you say dryly. 

 Two hours later, the circus begins. You’re standing behind a thick stage curtain while the noise of the press crowd hums like an angry hive on the other side. Reporters pack the room beyond the stage, their voices overlapping into a chaotic blur of questions and shouted instructions while camera crews adjust their equipment. Flashbulbs pop occasionally even before the conference has started, the bursts of light leaking through the thin gap where the curtain meets the floor. The sound is overwhelming. Too loud. Too chaotic. It reminds you uncomfortably of the observation rooms Vought used during testing, dozens of people watching, recording, waiting to see how the subject performs. A Vought handler stands in front of you, fussing with the massive diamond ring sitting on your finger like it’s the centerpiece of the entire event. “Turn your hand slightly.” she murmurs. You do, reluctantly. The diamond catches the light immediately, sparkling in a way that’s probably meant to look romantic to anyone watching. Up close, it just looks ridiculous. Huge. Heavy. More like a shackle than jewelry. You stare down at it for a moment, flexing your fingers slightly as the handler adjusts the angle again.

“Smile.” she whispers. You don’t. Across from you, Soldier Boy looks like he’s about to walk into a bar fight rather than a press conference. He’s rolling his shoulders slowly, stretching the stiffness out of his arms while the collar of his suit shifts against his neck. At some point between rehearsal and now he’s gotten his hands on another drink that’s already half empty hanging loosely from his fingers. “You nervous?” he asks. You glance at him. “No.”

“Good.”

He tips the can back, finishing the last of whatever’s inside before holding it out for the nearest assistant to run up and grab it before it hits the floor. “Me neither.” A handler checks her watch. “Thirty seconds.” You inhale slowly, forcing your shoulders to relax. The muffled noise of the reporters grows louder as the moment approaches. Someone on the other side of the curtain is already speaking into a microphone, warming up the crowd. Your pulse ticks up slightly despite yourself. Not because of the cameras. Because you know the entire thing is a lie. And you’re about to sell it. The curtain parts. The noise hits instantly. A wall of sound crashes over you as the stage lights flare on, blindingly bright compared to the dim backstage area you just left. Cameras. Microphones. Dozens of reporters packed shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the stage. They erupt the second they see him. “Over here!”

“Soldier Boy!”

“Look this way!”

“Is the engagement real?” He doesn’t hesitate for even a second. Soldier Boy strides forward like he’s been doing this his entire life, completely comfortable under the avalanche of attention. The confidence rolling off him is almost ridiculous, like the noise and chaos are something he thrives on instead of tolerates. Which, judging by the grin already forming on his face, might actually be the case. You follow half a step behind. Flashbulbs explode around you. The press conference begins instantly. “Tell us how you met!” You open your mouth, ready to repeat the carefully rehearsed script the PR team spent all morning drilling into your head. But Soldier Boy beats you to it. “Funny story,” he says. Your stomach drops immediately. Because he’s smiling like he’s about to ruin everything. “We met when she kicked a guy’s ass in a parking lot.” The crowd laughs. The sound rolls through the room like a wave. Behind the cameras, several Vought handlers stiffen in visible panic. You elbow him sharply in the ribs. “Stick to the script,” you hiss under your breath. He leans toward the microphone. “What script?” The reporters eat it up. More questions fly from every direction.

“Are you two living together?”

“How long have you been dating?”

“Is the wedding date set yet?”

Soldier Boy leans against the podium like he’s chatting with friends at a bar instead of addressing national media. “Relax,” he says to the crowd. “We’re still figuring that part out.” You try to redirect. “We met at a charity event last year-”

“Yeah,” he cuts in casually. “One of those fancy ones with the tiny food.” More laughter. The PR team behind the cameras look like they’re seconds away from passing out. The questions keep coming. The flashes keep firing.

Then suddenly-

His arm wraps around your waist. The movement is quick and firm, pulling you against his side before you even have time to react. You stiffen instantly. “What are you-” Before the sentence can finish leaving your mouth, he turns and kisses you. Hard. Quick. Completely without warning. The entire room explodes. Flashbulbs detonate in a blinding storm of white light while reporters shout even louder than before. Someone near the front of the crowd actually cheers. Your brain freezes for half a second. Then instinct kicks in. You shove him away. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He laughs. Actually laughs. Behind the stage, a Vought handler is already whispering frantically into a phone.

“Engagement announcement is trending worldwide.” Soldier Boy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like the entire thing was just a casual joke. “Told you,” he says. “Ratings.” He leans slightly closer, voice low enough that only you hear it over the chaos. “Through the roof.”

By the time the press conference finally ends, your head feels like it’s full of broken glass. The noise had been relentless, reporters shouting questions over one another, camera flashes bursting in blinding waves, microphones shoved inches from your face while Vought handlers hovered just outside the frame like nervous stage directors. Somewhere in the chaos, someone had announced the engagement officially, someone else had passed around photos of the ring, and by the time you were ushered offstage again the internet was already exploding with headlines. You hadn’t heard half of it.

Mostly because you’d been too busy trying not to strangle the man standing next to you.

The backstage hallway is quieter when you’re finally pushed through it, though not by much. Staff members move quickly in every direction, whispering into headsets and clutching tablets while the press noise still echoes faintly through the walls. Someone is already talking about trending numbers and audience engagement, their voice filled with the kind of excited greed Vought employees seem to run on.

“Did you see the spike after the kiss?”

“Already breaking thirty million views-”

“Marketing’s going to love this-”

You stop walking abruptly.

Soldier Boy nearly walks into your back. You turn around sharply, fury finally boiling over. “What the hell was that?” He looks down at you with that same lazy amusement he’s been wearing all morning, completely unfazed by the anger in your voice. One hand rubs the back of his neck, like he’s genuinely confused about what the problem might be. “The kiss?” he asks casually. “Yes, the fucking kiss.” He shrugs. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.” Your hands curl into fists. “You didn’t think maybe you should ask first?” The grin that spreads across his face is slow and deeply irritating. “Where’s the fun in that?” For a moment you seriously consider hitting him. The thought must show on your face, because he laughs under his breath, the sound low and rough as he leans slightly closer. “Relax,” he murmurs, voice pitched just low enough that the nearby staff can’t hear it. “You’re supposed to look like you like me.”

“I don’t.”

“Feelings mutual, doll.” The hallway continues buzzing around you, but the space between the two of you feels strangely still. Soldier Boy studies you for a moment longer, head tilted slightly as though he’s trying to figure out what exactly Vought dragged back into his life. His gaze lingers a little too long on your face before drifting downward again in a slow, deliberate sweep that makes your skin crawl. Then he straightens. “Well,” he says, clapping his hands together once like the entire argument bored him already. “That went great.” You stare at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re uptight,” he replies easily, already turning away. “Guess we’ll balance each other out.” Before you can respond, a Vought handler appears at the end of the hallway and gestures impatiently. “Car’s waiting.” You follow because you don’t really have a choice.

The SUV waiting outside is black, sleek, and aggressively expensive in the way most Vought property tends to be. Its tinted windows reflect the bright afternoon sunlight while two security guards stand nearby like statues, scanning the surrounding street for photographers. As soon as the door opens, flashes start going off again. Paparazzi. Of course. Someone must have leaked the exit time because suddenly the sidewalk across the street is packed with cameras and reporters shouting questions across the barricades.

“Soldier Boy! Over here!”

“Is the engagement real?”

“How long have you been dating?”

Your jaw tightens. Soldier Boy, on the other hand, looks delighted. He throws an arm loosely around your shoulders as you step out of the building, pulling you against his side before you can react. The crowd immediately goes feral. More flashes. More shouting. You can practically feel the internet lighting up again.

“Smile.” he mutters under his breath. You grit your teeth. “If you don’t move your arm-” He squeezes slightly. “Relax. America’s watching.” The words are almost identical to what he said on stage earlier, and the way he says them now sends an unpleasant chill down your spine. You force a tight smile anyway. The cameras eat it up. The second the SUV door slams behind you, the performance drops. You shove his arm away so fast he barely has time to react. “Don’t touch me like that again.” He sprawls comfortably across the leather seat, completely unconcerned, stretching his long legs out while one arm drapes lazily along the backrest behind you. “You’re gonna have to get used to it.”

“No,” you say flatly. “I’m not.” He watches you for a moment, that same strange curiosity creeping back into his expression. The car pulls away from the curb, the chaos of cameras and shouting reporters fading behind tinted glass. For a while neither of you speaks. The city slides past the windows in streaks of steel and sunlight while the quiet inside the vehicle grows heavier by the minute. Eventually, you feel his eyes on you again. Not subtle. Not polite. Just openly staring. “What?” you snap without looking at him. He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees as he studies you more closely. “I’m trying to figure something out.”

“Try doing it silently.” His mouth twitches. “Why you?” The question hangs in the air. You stare straight ahead at the passing buildings outside the window. “Ask Vought.”

“I am.” Your fingers tap lightly against your knee, a habit you’ve never quite managed to break. He watches the movement. “You’re not just some random B-lister they dragged in for the cameras,” he continues slowly. “They picked you for a reason.” You stay silent. That seems to confirm his suspicion. The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “You mess with people’s heads.” Your eyes finally flick toward him. He catches the look instantly. “There it is.” Your stomach tightens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit.” His voice is calm, almost thoughtful as he leans back again. “You looked at me earlier in that meeting,” he says, tapping the side of his temple with one finger. “Felt like someone knocking around upstairs.” Your breath stills for half a second. You hadn’t meant to do that. It was barely even conscious, just the briefest brush of awareness, a reflex after years of being trained to read people whether you wanted to or not. Apparently it hadn’t gone unnoticed. Soldier Boy’s grin returns slowly. “Didn’t like what you saw?” You turn your head toward the window again. “Drop it.” He chuckles quietly. “Good,” he says. “Means if I piss you off you won’t try punching me.” The car turns sharply onto a new street. His voice lowers slightly.

“You’ll just ruin my brain.” The way he says it makes it impossible to tell whether he finds the idea threatening or fascinating. You suspect it might be both. Neither of you speaks for the rest of the drive.

The building they bring you to is enormous. Another Vought property, obviously, towering glass walls reflecting the sky while a private security gate slides open to let the SUV pass through. You tilt your head back slightly as the vehicle pulls into the underground garage, taking in the sheer size of the place. “Penthouse.” the driver announces from the front seat. Of course it is. Soldier Boy stretches lazily beside you, cracking his knuckles as though the entire day has been nothing more than a mild inconvenience. “Home sweet home.” The elevator ride up is quiet, though you can feel the tension coiling tighter the higher you go. By the time the doors finally slide open, you’re already exhausted. The penthouse is exactly what you expect. Huge. Expensive. Cold. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the far wall, offering a dizzying view of the city skyline while sleek modern furniture fills the massive living space. Everything looks carefully arranged, untouched, like a luxury showroom rather than a place anyone actually lives. You step inside slowly. Your single duffel bag sits awkwardly in your hand. Behind you, Soldier Boy walks in like he owns the place. Which, technically, he probably does now. He takes one slow look around the room before glancing back at you. “That all you brought?” You drop the bag on the floor. “Didn’t plan on staying long.” His eyebrows lift slightly. “You’re cute when you lie.” You turn toward him. “This is temporary.” He laughs under his breath, already wandering toward the massive window overlooking the city. “Yeah?” Your jaw tightens. He looks back over his shoulder. “You sure about that?” 

You don’t answer. Instead you grab the duffel again and head down the hallway branching off from the living room. “Rooms?” you ask. He gestures vaguely down the corridor without even looking. “Take whichever one isn’t mine.”

“…which one’s yours?”

“The big one.” Of course it is. You walk down the hall until you find a door halfway along and push it open.The room inside is enormous. A king-sized bed dominates the center of the space, covered in crisp white sheets that haven’t been slept in yet. A thick rug spreads across the floor, soft beneath your feet. Another wall of glass windows faces the city, the skyline stretching out endlessly beyond the dark frame. It’s beautiful. And completely impersonal. Like the rest of the penthouse, it feels less like a bedroom and more like a hotel suite waiting for a guest who hasn’t arrived yet. You drop your duffel bag onto the bed and shut the door behind you. For a while you move around the room in silence.

You take a shower first, letting the hot water run over your shoulders longer than necessary while the tension in your muscles slowly begins to loosen. The day had been endless, reporters screaming questions, camera flashes exploding in your face, Vought handlers whispering instructions every five seconds. Too many people. Too much noise. Too much Vought. When you finally step out of the bathroom, steam curling into the cooler air of the bedroom, the exhaustion hits you properly. You pull on a loose t-shirt and sweatpants from your bag and collapse onto the bed. The mattress sinks comfortably beneath your weight. For a moment you just lie there staring up at the ceiling, listening to the faint distant hum of the city outside the windows. Somewhere far below, a siren wails briefly before fading into the background noise of traffic. Up here everything feels strangely quiet. Too quiet. Your body is heavy with fatigue, the kind that seeps deep into your bones after a long day of forced composure. Every muscle aches faintly. Your eyes burn. You roll onto your side, pulling one of the pillows closer beneath your head. The city lights glow softly through the window, painting faint gold lines across the ceiling. Slowly, your breathing evens out. Your mind starts drifting. You’re just about to slip into sleep when the first flash hits. White light bursts behind your eyelids. Your brain tries to dismiss it as memory, a leftover image from the press conference earlier, but then another one comes.

Flash.

Then another.

Flash.

The darkness behind your eyes starts filling with bursts of light. Your breathing stutters. The flashes multiply rapidly, bright and blinding, each one followed by the echo of reporters shouting. “Over here!” “Look this way!” “Is the engagement real?” Your chest tightens. The sounds layer on top of each other until they blur together into a single overwhelming roar.

Flash.

Flash.

Flash.

But the lights begin changing. The sharp white bursts shift into something harsher. Colder. Fluorescent bulbs humming overhead. Your mind drags you somewhere deeper. Metal tables. Observation glass. The smell of antiseptic. Voices speaking calmly behind a wall while you sit under bright lights that never turn off. “Subject response increasing.”

“Continue the test.” Your heart begins racing. Your hands twitch against the sheets as your body starts reacting before your brain fully understands what’s happening. The memories keep stacking. The cameras from today. The lab lights from years ago. Reporters shouting. Scientists observing, innocent people being hurt by you. The sounds blend together until you can’t tell them apart anymore. Your breathing turns shallow. Too fast. Your lungs suddenly feel too small. You bolt upright in bed. Air catches halfway down your throat. Your heart slams violently against your ribs, pounding so hard it almost hurts. The room feels smaller. Too bright. Too quiet. Your vision flickers. “Fuck-” The word barely escapes your mouth as you drag a hand through your hair, trying to ground yourself in the present. You know this feeling. You hate this feeling. Your chest rises and falls too quickly while your brain tries to claw its way back to reality. Penthouse. Bedroom. New York. Not the lab. Not the cameras. But the panic keeps climbing anyway. Your fingers curl into the sheets. Your lungs refuse to slow down. Then the bedroom door swings open. You snap your head toward it. Soldier Boy stands in the doorway. For a moment he just watches you. His eyes sweep over the room, taking in the scene in one slow pass, your shaking hands tangled in the bedsheets, the uneven rise and fall of your chest, the tension locked into every muscle of your body like a wire pulled too tight. You look like you’re seconds from snapping. He doesn’t look concerned. If anything, he looks mildly irritated. “You gonna hyperventilate all night,” he says flatly, voice cutting clean through the silence, “or you planning on calming the hell down?” You jerk your head toward him, vision still hazy around the edges. “Get out.” The words come out strained. Breathless. He doesn’t move. Instead he leans one shoulder against the doorframe, folding his arms across his chest like he’s settling in to watch a show. “You’re loud,” he says. “Whole damn hallway sounds like you’re running laps.” 

“Not your problem.”

“Becomes my problem when I’m trying to sleep.” You try dragging in a slower breath. It doesn’t work. Your lungs still feel tight, like someone wrapped steel bands around your ribs and forgot to take them off. The room flickers at the edges of your vision, too bright one second, too dark the next. Another flash bursts behind your eyes. Not the bedroom. Not the penthouse. White lab lights. Metal table. Observation glass. Voices watching you like you’re something pinned to a board. Your hands start shaking harder. Soldier Boy exhales slowly through his nose. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. He pushes off the doorframe and walks a few steps into the room, boots heavy against the floor. “You done?” he asks. “Leave.” You barely hear yourself say it. The room isn’t the room anymore. It’s the lab again. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. “Subject response elevated.”

“Push further.” Your breathing breaks completely. A sharp inhale that never quite finishes. Your fingers dig into the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping you anchored to the bed. Soldier Boy’s patience snaps. “Alright, fuck this.” Before you can react he grabs your wrist. The contact is sudden. Firm. And the moment your skin touches his, something snaps. Your power reacts before you can stop it. The world fractures for half a second. And Soldier Boy sees it. Not the bedroom. Not the penthouse. He sees the room inside your head. Bright white lights burning into your eyes. Metal restraints digging into your wrists. Doctors standing behind thick glass walls while you sit shaking under endless observation. “Let’s see how long she lasts.”

“Continue.” The cold clinical voices echo around him. The panic. The fear. The endless flashing lights. The familiarity of it all. Then it’s gone. The connection breaks as quickly as it formed. Soldier Boy jerks his hand back slightly, his expression flickering for the briefest fraction of a second. Something darker passes through his eyes. Recognition. Then it disappears. Just as quickly as it came. He masks it instantly. Snorts like nothing happened. “Jesus,” he mutters under his breath. You barely notice. Your breathing is still out of control, chest heaving while your brain scrambles to climb its way back into the present. Soldier Boy reaches over and flips on the bedside lamp. Warm yellow light floods the room. You squint at the sudden brightness. “Christ,” he mutters, looking around the room like the whole situation is a massive inconvenience. “You’d think someone was trying to kill you.” You drag both hands down your face, fingers pressing hard into your eyes. “Just… go back to your room.” For a second he studies you more closely. Really looks this time. Then he snorts again, shaking his head slightly.

“Doll,” he says bluntly, “whatever the hell that was, get it under control.” Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?” He gestures vaguely toward you. “That whole shaking, can’t-breathe thing.” His voice isn’t sympathetic. If anything it sounds mildly annoyed. “You think the press is gonna go easy on you if they see that shit?” You stare at him. Still breathing hard. “I didn’t ask for your advice.”

“Didn’t say you did.” He turns toward the door. But pauses before stepping out. You’re still sitting there, shoulders tight, chest rising too quickly. For a moment he just watches you again. Then he jerks his chin slightly. “Try breathing slower.” Your brows pull together. “What?” He rolls his eyes like the concept should be obvious. “Nothing, just don’t fuck this up.” He says gruff as he goes to leave. You hesitate. But your lungs still feel like they’re on fire. So you try it. Slow inhale. Then exhale. Again. Your chest rises. Falls. The tightness begins loosening little by little. Soldier Boy watches for another second. Then nods toward the bed. “And maybe don’t scream like you’re getting tortured.” You glare weakly at him. “Real helpful.” He shrugs. “Hey.” Then he steps out. The door shuts behind him with a quiet click. The silence that settles afterward feels heavier than before. You sit there for a long time. Your breathing eventually slows. Your heartbeat steadies. Outside the massive windows, the city glows endlessly beneath the penthouse, traffic threading through the streets while neon lights burn against the night sky. Eventually you lie back down. The mattress sinks beneath you again. Your eyes stay open for a while. Listening. Waiting. Making sure the flashes don’t come back. When sleep finally takes you again, it’s shallow and uneasy.

And somewhere down the hallway, Soldier Boy’s door stays closed.

Part 3

A/N: Pls lmk what you guys thought and if you would like to be added to the taglist!!

perm tags: @jjjenx14 @globetrotter28 @cranberrysauce666 @cunningtalismanmechanism @biancalinkas @morphineh @itfeltlikeak1ss

The apartment smells faintly of damp carpet, stale smoke, and the kind of cheap cleaning spray that tries, and fails to convince you the place isn’t falling apart. You’ve lived in worse. But not by much. The radiator in the corner rattles like it’s dying, coughing out bursts of lukewarm air that barely reach the threadbare sofa across the room. Paint curls off the walls in thin flakes, revealing older layers beneath it like scars that never healed properly. The kitchen light flickers every few seconds, casting the cramped space in an uneven glow. Vought calls it temporary housing. You call it what it is. A box for things they don’t know what to do with anymore. You lean against the narrow kitchen counter, a chipped ceramic bowl balanced in one hand while the other absently scrapes a spoon through soggy cereal. The flakes dissolved minutes ago, floating limply in greyish milk that tastes vaguely like cardboard. It’s the cheapest brand you could find.

Not that Vought’s payment stretches very far these days. Not for someone like you. The spoon clinks against the bowl again. You chew mechanically, staring at nothing in particular as the television murmurs in the next room. The sound leaks through the doorway in a constant stream of corporate cheerfulness and background music designed to make everything seem better than it is. You swallow. Another bite. Another. Your life, reduced to this quiet, stale routine. The irony of it almost makes you laugh. A long time ago, someone told your parents you were going to be special. They’d said it with bright smiles and crisp suits, sitting across a polished glass table while sliding contracts forward like gifts. They’d talked about heroism, about service, about being part of something bigger. Classified operations. Elite training. Your parents had looked like they’d just won the lottery. You’d been too young to understand why the adults in the room seemed so excited about needles. The memory flashes briefly through your head and you crush it before it can linger. No point in digging through old ghosts. You take another bite of cereal. The milk has gone warm.

Perfect.

You step into the living room, bowl still in hand, and collapse onto the sagging couch with a tired exhale. The springs groan under your weight, the fabric worn thin enough in places that yellow foam pokes through.

Across from you, the TV glows against the dim room.

A smiling news anchor stares back.

“…another unfortunate incident earlier this afternoon,” the woman says brightly, the tone of her voice carefully measured, concerned but not too concerned. “Officials from Vought International have confirmed that the situation has been fully contained.”

You already know where this is going. Your spoon pauses halfway to your mouth. The screen cuts to footage of flashing lights and police barricades. A city block you vaguely recognize. Smoke curling into the sky from shattered storefronts. Then the familiar blue and gold logo fills the bottom corner of the screen.

Vought.

Of course.

“…sources close to the company state that members of The Seven were responding to a credible threat when the altercation occurred,” the anchor continues smoothly. “While there was some property damage, Vought representatives have assured the public that no civilians were seriously harmed.” You stare at the television. Your jaw tightens slowly. The spoon drops back into the bowl with a dull clink. “No civilians were seriously harmed,” you repeat under your breath.

Your eyes drift to the footage again. They’re showing carefully edited clips now. One of the heroes standing heroically in front of emergency vehicles. Another shaking hands with police officers. Smiles. Reassuring gestures. They don’t show the other footage. They never do. The screams. The panic. The moments when someone with godlike power forgets, or doesn’t care, that the people around them are made of fragile things like bone and skin. You’ve seen it before. More times than you can count. Your grip tightens around the bowl. Milk sloshes against the rim.

The news anchor keeps talking, praising Vought’s “rapid response” and “commitment to public safety.” Something hot and ugly curls in your chest. “Yeah,” you mutter. “Real committed.” The cereal suddenly tastes even worse. You shove the bowl onto the small coffee table in front of you, the chipped wood wobbling slightly under the weight. A drop of milk splashes onto the surface and slowly spreads into the cracks. The television continues its polished performance.

“…a spokesperson from Vought stated earlier today that their heroes remain dedicated to protecting the American people-”

“Bullshit.”

The word leaves your mouth flat and sharp. You lean forward, grabbing the remote from beside the couch. The plastic casing is cracked down the middle, the batteries inside barely holding on. Click. The channel changes. A sitcom laugh track bursts into the room, canned laughter echoing off the peeling walls. You sit back again, running a hand through your hair with a tired sigh. For a few seconds, you just stare at the screen. Then you reach into the pocket of your worn jacket draped over the arm of the couch and pull out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Your fingers move automatically. Tap one loose. Slide it between your lips. The lighter sparks on the second try. Flame blooms briefly in the dim apartment, warm orange reflecting in your eyes as you bring it to the cigarette’s tip. The paper crackles softly as it catches. You inhale. Smoke fills your lungs, rough and familiar. When you exhale, the grey cloud drifts upward toward the stained ceiling.

“Goddamn parasites.” you mutter.

The cigarette burns slowly between your fingers as you sink deeper into the couch cushions. Outside, somewhere beyond the thin apartment walls, traffic hums along the street. Distant sirens wail faintly in the background, a constant soundtrack to the city’s chaos. You barely notice anymore. Your eyes flick back to the television for a moment. The sitcom characters laugh and argue in a brightly lit kitchen that looks nothing like your own. Another drag of the cigarette. You hold the smoke in your lungs for a second longer than necessary before letting it out.

The room grows hazy.

“Vought,” you say under your breath, the word tasting bitter. You used to believe in them. Well. Not believe. But you’d thought there was a point to all of it. All the training. All the tests. All the sleepless nights spent under fluorescent lights while people with clipboards watched from behind glass. You close your eyes briefly.

A flicker of memory presses against the inside of your skull, sterile white hallways, the smell of antiseptic, a voice calmly instructing you to go deeper. You crush it before it can surface properly. Not tonight. Tonight you just want to sit in your shitty apartment and smoke in peace. The cigarette glows faintly in the dim room as you take another drag.

“Heroes,” you scoff quietly. The word feels like a joke. You glance around the apartment again. The peeling walls. The broken furniture. The thin layer of dust clinging to the windowsill. Vought’s idea of temporary housing for a former asset who didn’t quite turn out the way they’d hoped. Failed supe. The label had come later. Quietly. Like most things they didn’t want the public asking about. Your lips curl slightly. “Yeah,” you murmur to the empty room. “Real nice retirement plan.” Smoke drifts upward again, curling against the ceiling like lazy ghosts. And somewhere in the back of your mind, buried beneath layers of bitterness and exhaustion, the faintest whisper of anger continues to simmer. Because Vought might be done with you. But you’re not quite done hating them yet.

The sitcom laughter grates on your nerves after a while. At first it’s just background noise, something to fill the silence in the apartment. But after a few minutes the exaggerated cackling starts sounding hollow, like nails scraping over glass. You flick ash into an empty soda can sitting on the coffee table. The cigarette burns low between your fingers. On the TV, the characters are arguing about something stupid, who forgot to buy groceries, who left the door unlocked. The audience roars with laughter at a punchline you barely hear. Your jaw tightens. You glance toward the remote again. You told yourself you didn’t care. That whatever corporate lie Vought was peddling tonight wasn’t worth your attention. But the irritation lingers. It sits in your chest like a splinter. Because they always do this.

Always spin it.

Another destroyed street becomes “heroic intervention.” Another injured civilian becomes “collateral damage.” Another body becomes something the cameras simply never show. You drag deeply on the cigarette, the ember flaring red. “God, I hate them.” you mutter. The remote sits on the couch cushion beside you. You stare at it for a moment. Then, with an annoyed sigh, you grab it. “Fine,” you say to the empty room. “Let’s see what fresh bullshit you’re feeding everyone tonight.”

Click.

The sitcom vanishes. The news channel returns instantly, the same polished studio lighting and professional smiles waiting for you. But something’s different now. The tone has changed. The calm corporate narration is gone. A red banner stretches across the bottom of the screen.

BREAKING NEWS

Your eyes narrow slightly. The anchor’s expression looks carefully controlled now,excited, but trying very hard not to look too excited.

“…repeat, this is developing information,” she says, voice slightly tighter than before. “Vought International has just released a statement confirming that-” The camera cuts to shaky footage. A crowd gathered outside what looks like a military transport site. Flashing lights. Security vehicles. Reporters shouting questions. Then the words appear across the screen.

SOLDIER BOY CONFIRMED ALIVE

Your cigarette pauses halfway to your lips.

“…sources inside Vought have confirmed that the legendary hero-” You feel something cold slide down your spine.

“…Soldier Boy-previously believed to be missing for decades, has officially been recovered and returned to Vought custody earlier this evening.” The room goes very quiet. You stare at the television. The news continues, reporters speculating wildly about what this means for Vought, for the public, for the future of superhero operations. But you barely hear any of it. Because that name drags something unpleasant through your memory. Soldier Boy. Vought’s golden relic. Their all-American war hero. Their favorite propaganda poster. You remember the training videos. The speeches.

The footage they’d shown during your early years in the program, grainy clips of him punching through tanks, smiling for crowds, draped in red, white, and blue. Back then they’d talked about him like he was a god. Your cigarette burns forgotten between your fingers. “…Vought representatives have stated that the hero’s recovery marks a historic moment,” the anchor continues. “Many are calling it the return of one of the greatest symbols of American heroism-”

“Yeah,” you mutter darkly. “I’m sure.” Something about this feels wrong. Your instincts twitch. Because Vought doesn’t bring out old legends unless they’re planning something. You take another drag of your cigarette. The smoke burns harsher this time. The news keeps rolling, speculation piling on speculation.

Your phone rings. The sudden sound cuts through the apartment like a knife. You glance toward the small kitchen counter where the phone lies vibrating against the chipped surface. Unknown number. Of course it is. You stare at it for a moment. It rings again. Your first instinct is to ignore it. Most of the time unknown numbers mean one of three things: telemarketers, reporters fishing for interviews, or Vought interns pretending to do damage control. You don’t feel like dealing with any of those tonight. The phone rings again. And again. Your eyes flick back toward the TV. Soldier Boy’s old promotional photo flashes across the screen, square jaw, smug grin, shield resting against his shoulder. The irritation in your chest twists into something sharper. The phone keeps ringing. “Jesus Christ,” you mutter. You stand up slowly, grabbing the cigarette from between your fingers before it can drop ash onto the floor. The couch groans in relief as you rise. The phone vibrates against the counter again. You snatch it up with a sigh. “Yeah?” you answer flatly, not even bothering to check the caller ID. There’s a brief pause. Then a calm, professional voice speaks.

“Good evening.” its followed with your name being drawled out, questioning if it is you. You already hate them. Your eyes narrow slightly. “Depends,” you say, leaning against the counter. “Who’s asking?” Another short pause. “This is Vought International.” The cigarette nearly slips from your fingers. Your stomach drops. You don’t say anything for a moment. Because there are only two reasons Vought calls people like you. Neither of them is good.

“…we’d like to discuss a potential opportunity with you,” the voice continues smoothly. You bark out a short laugh. “No.” The word comes out instantly. Automatic. “Not interested.” You pull the phone away slightly, ready to hang up. “We’re prepared to reinstate your previous position.” Your thumb freezes over the screen. You bring the phone back to your ear slowly. “…you what?”

“Your former role within our special operations division.” Your jaw tightens.The cigarette smoke curls around your face as you stare blankly at the wall.

Images flicker briefly in the back of your mind, sterile white rooms, observation windows, the quiet hum of machinery.

“No,” you repeat.

Your voice is colder now. “Hard pass.”

“We understand your hesitation-”

“You understand nothing,” you cut in sharply.

Your grip tightens around the phone, as you force the end of your cigarette into your counter. “I walked away from that job for a reason.” Another pause. The voice on the other end doesn’t sound offended. If anything, they sound patient. Prepared. “We’re offering significant compensation.” You scoff. “Yeah? Let me guess. Hazard pay and a shiny new NDA?”

“Our offer is-”

They say the number. Your brain takes a second to process it. Then another. Because that number is absurd. Your eyebrows slowly rise. “…you’re joking.”

“We’re not.” Silence stretches across the line. “That’s a lot of money,” you say slowly. “Yes.” You stare at the cracked tile floor. Your brain runs through the possibilities automatically. Rent paid for years. A better apartment. Freedom from this shitty little box Vought stuck you in. “You’d need to return to Vought Tower.” the voice continues. Of course you would. “Attend a meeting tomorrow morning.” Your eyes drift toward the television again. Soldier Boy’s face flashes across the screen once more.

A new caption scrolls across the bottom: Vought preparing official press conference

Something in your chest tightens. “…what’s the catch?” you ask quietly. Another brief pause. “There would be one condition.” Of course there would. You close your eyes briefly. “Let me guess,” you mutter. “I sell my soul again.”

“Not exactly.” You wait. “…to maintain operational discretion, you would be expected to participate in a public relations arrangement.” Your brow furrows. “A what?”

“You would be engaged to Soldier Boy.” You stare at the phone like it just insulted your mother. “…I’m sorry?” Your voice comes out flat. “You want me to do what?”

Thirty minutes later, you’re standing in front of the bathroom mirror. The apartment still smells like smoke. You drag a brush through your hair with more force than necessary. “This is insane.” you mutter. But you’re already getting ready. Because that number keeps echoing in your head. And curiosity, damn it, curiosity is eating at you. You pull on a jacket, glancing once more at your reflection. Hard eyes. Harder expression. The kind of face that doesn’t scare easily anymore.“Just a meeting.” you tell yourself. Nothing more. An hour later, the towering glass structure of Vought International rises above the city skyline. It looks exactly the same as the day you left. Tall. Cold. Untouchable. You stand on the sidewalk across the street, staring up at it. Your stomach twists slightly. Memories flicker along the edges of your mind. Hallways. Training rooms. Observation windows. You shove them down. A gust of wind pushes through the street, tugging at your jacket. The massive Vought logo gleams high above the entrance. You take a slow breath. Then you step forward.

The lobby of Vought International looks exactly the way you remember it. Cold. Polished. Expensive in a way that feels almost mocking. Marble floors gleam under bright overhead lights, reflecting the massive Vought logo mounted behind the reception desk. Everything smells faintly of lemon polish and recycled air. Even the silence here feels curated,controlled, like every sound has been approved by a boardroom somewhere. You hate it instantly. Your boots echo faintly across the floor as you step inside. Security spots you immediately. Of course they do. Two guards straighten near the entrance scanners, their posture tightening when they recognize your face. One of them presses a finger to the small earpiece tucked behind his ear. You don’t slow down. Not until a sharply dressed assistant appears from a side hallway, walking toward you with the kind of corporate smile that never quite reaches the eyes. “Welcome back,” she says. The words make your stomach twist.

“Don’t get used to it.” you reply flatly. She doesn’t react. Just gestures politely toward the elevators. “This way.” You follow her in silence. The elevator ride feels longer than it probably is. The mirrored walls reflect your expression back at you from three different angles, jaw tight, shoulders stiff, eyes sharp and alert. Like you’re walking into enemy territory. Which, technically, you are. The elevator stops with a soft ding. The assistant leads you down a hallway lined with glass walls and framed photographs of smiling heroes shaking hands with politicians. The kind of propaganda Vought loves to display.

Your gaze lingers on none of it. Finally, she stops outside a sleek conference room. Two men in expensive suits sit inside. Waiting. She opens the door.

“Thank you for coming,” one of them says immediately. You step inside slowly. The room smells faintly like fresh coffee and expensive cologne. A long glass table sits between you and them, reflecting the overhead lights in sharp white streaks. You don’t sit. Instead, you fold your arms. “Let’s get something straight before we waste each other’s time.” you say bluntly. Both men exchange a quick glance. You continue. “I’m not here to play house with some walking propaganda poster.” One of the executives clears his throat. “This arrangement would be mutually beneficial-”

“No.”

Your voice cuts through the room like a knife. You step closer to the table. “I’ll consider the job,” you say, “but the engagement thing? Not happening.” The second executive leans forward slightly. “I’m afraid that aspect of the agreement is non-negotiable.” You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Then I guess we’re done here.” You turn slightly as if to leave. “That would be unfortunate,” the first man says calmly. You pause. “…because?” He folds his hands neatly on the table. “Because the individual in question has already agreed.” You turn back slowly. “…what?” The executive sighs, like a man explaining something obvious to a child. “We didn’t want him back.” That catches your attention. Your eyebrows draw together slightly.

“But circumstances changed,” he continues. “And now we’re faced with a rather delicate situation.” Your jaw tightens. “Meaning?” The man glances toward the window overlooking the city skyline. “Meaning Soldier Boy is… difficult to manage.”

“That’s a nice way of saying he’s unstable.” you mutter. Neither man denies it. “He’s powerful,” the second executive says carefully. “Unpredictable. And quite frankly, if he becomes dissatisfied, it’s entirely possible he could tear through half the city before we even manage to contain him.” Your stomach twists. “So your solution,” you say slowly, “is a fake engagement.”

“Public perception matters.” The first man gestures slightly with one hand. “If the public sees him reintegrating into society, settling down, forming relationships, it creates the narrative we need.”

“And you make money off the media circus,” you say. “Yes.” He doesn’t even bother pretending otherwise. “And he gets money,” the second man adds. “And… certain freedoms.”

“Meaning he gets whatever the hell he wants.” A small pause. “Within reason.” You stare at them. The anger rising in your chest feels almost familiar. Old. “Well congratulations,” you snap. “You found a brilliant solution.” Your hand slams lightly against the table. “You throw the unstable war relic a fiancée and hope he doesn’t start ripping heads off.”

“We’re not relying solely on hope.” You laugh bitterly. “Oh?”

“You.” The word hangs in the air. You blink. “…me?” The first executive nods calmly. “Your abilities make you uniquely qualified.” Your stomach sinks. Of course. “We believe that if his behavior becomes… problematic,” he continues, “you would be capable of defending yourself.” There it is. The real reason. You feel something inside your chest crack open. “Right.” you say quietly. “Your powers give you an advantage.”

“An advantage.”

The words echo back to you. Something ugly begins to boil under your skin. “You know,” you say slowly, “I shouldn’t even be like this.” The executives exchange another glance. Your voice sharpens. “I should’ve had a normal life.” Neither of them respond. That just makes the anger burn hotter. “You sold my parents a lie,” you continue. The words come faster now. “You told them their kid would grow up doing ‘hero work.’ Classified missions. Protecting people.” Your laugh is harsh. “Instead you stuck me in a lab and taught me how to crawl into someone’s head and tear it apart.” The room goes very quiet. “You trained me to torture people,” you snap. Your hands curl into fists. “And now you’re telling me the only reason you want me back is because you think I’m the best person to babysit your unstable poster boy?” Silence stretches.

Then, the conference room door swings open. “Babysit who?” The voice is deep. Lazy. Amused. Your spine goes rigid. Slowly, you turn. He fills the doorway like he owns the place. Tall. Broad-shouldered.

Wearing his renowned green suit, that looks older than half the furniture in the room. A faint cloud of smoke drifts around his head. A half-burned joint hangs casually from the corner of his mouth. His eyes sweep across the room. Then land on you. A slow grin spreads across his face. “Well,” he drawls. The joint bobs slightly when he speaks. “Guess that answers my question.” Your stomach drops. Because standing in the doorway is Soldier Boy. And he’s looking at you like he just found something entertaining.

“Which one of you corporate assholes ordered me a fiancée?” Neither executive speaks. You stare at him. He takes a long drag from the joint, smoke curling from his nose as he exhales. Then he pushes himself off the doorframe and strolls into the room like he has nowhere better to be. His boots thud lazily against the floor. “C’mon,” he says, glancing between the suits. “Don’t be shy.” His eyes flick back to you. A slow, shameless once-over. “Well?” he says. “Who’s the lucky lady?” You don’t move. Don’t look away. But something inside your chest tightens. Because this man is dangerous in a way that feels completely different from the sterile cruelty of Vought labs. He stops a few feet away. Tilts his head. “Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re the one?” Your eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He takes another drag. Shrugs lazily. “Thought they’d pick someone prettier.” Your jaw clenches instantly. “Thought they’d pick someone less pathetic.” you fire back. The executives stiffen slightly. Soldier Boy blinks. Then laughs. A rough, genuine sound.

“Well damn,” he says. “Got some teeth.” He flicks ash from the joint onto the floor without looking. Your arms cross over your chest. “You’re not my type.” you say flatly. He grins wider. “Sweetheart,” he says, voice dripping with smug amusement. “You ain’t mine either.” Smoke drifts between the two of you. The tension in the room thickens. He leans slightly closer. “Question is,” he says casually, “how good are you at pretending?” Your eyes stay locked on his. Cold. Unflinching. “Better than you.” you say. For a moment, neither of you move. Then Soldier Boy chuckles again.

“Yeah.” he murmurs, turning to address the rest of the room.

“This might actually be fun.” He takes another slow drag, eyes drifting back to you as he exhales a lazy stream of smoke. His gaze moves over you like he’s sizing up a new piece of equipment, interested, amused, and just a little too comfortable with the idea of owning the room. You don’t look away. Your jaw tightens, shoulders squaring as you hold his stare. Across the table, the executives shift awkwardly in their chairs, suddenly very interested in the paperwork in front of them. Neither of them interrupts. Soldier Boy smirks. “Look at that,” he says, nodding slightly toward you. “She’s glaring at me like she wants to stab me.” Your voice is flat. “Don’t tempt me.”

That only makes him grin wider. “Relax,” he says, flicking ash carelessly onto the polished floor. “If you were gonna try something, you’d have done it already.” Your fingers twitch slightly at your sides, but you don’t move. The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the building’s ventilation. He leans back against the conference table like he belongs there, joint still hanging from his mouth. “So,” he says casually, gesturing between the two of you with it. “This the big plan?”

One of the executives clears his throat. “As we were explaining-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Soldier Boy cuts in, waving him off. “Fake engagement. Cameras. Smiles. All that wholesome bullshit.” His eyes slide back to you again. “You gonna cry at the wedding too?” he asks. Your lip curls slightly. “You’re assuming there is a wedding.” He chuckles. “Fair point.” Another long look passes between you. Not friendly. Not even close. But neither of you backs down. Finally, Soldier Boy straightens, crushing the end of the joint against the glass table without asking. The faint smell of burnt weed lingers in the air. “Well,” he says, pushing away from the table. “Guess we better start practicing, huh?”

The executives immediately begin talking again, contracts, timelines, media statements, but their voices fade into background noise. Because Soldier Boy is still watching you. And something in that look tells you this arrangement is going to be a lot worse than just a fake engagement. You glance once toward the towering windows of Vought International, the city stretching far below. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life. Then Soldier Boy claps a heavy hand against your shoulder like you’re already his partner.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says with a crooked grin. “Let’s go make America fall in love.”

Your stomach sinks. And just like that, the deal is sealed.

Part 2

A/N: Pls lmk what you guys think, and if you would like to be added to the taglist!!

The awkward quiet that settles over the motel room after Sam’s teasing doesn’t disappear so much as it shifts shape, folding itself into the familiar routine that follows most hunts. The three of you move around each other with the strange, practiced rhythm, weapons spread out across beds and tabletops, jackets draped over chairs, the faint smell of gun oil and motel coffee mixing in the stale air. The sun has climbed higher now, thin light slipping through the uneven motel curtains and striping the carpet in pale gold bands.

Dean sits near the small table by the window with a handgun taken apart in front of him, his elbows braced against his knees as he focuses on sliding the pieces back together. His hands move automatically, muscle memory guiding every motion. He doesn’t have to look down most of the time, but he does anyway, like the task gives him something safe to focus on. You sit on the edge of the nearest bed, the demon blade resting across your palms while you slowly drag a cloth along the metal. The blade catches the light each time you move it, the reflection flashing briefly before fading again. Cleaning it isn’t strictly necessary, it’s already spotless, but the repetitive motion keeps your hands busy.

Sam sits on the bed closest to the door, laptop balanced against his knees. His hair is still a mess from sleep, sticking out in uneven directions as he scrolls through pages of research. The glow from the screen lights his face faintly, highlighting the small crease between his brows. For a while no one speaks. The room fills instead with small, ordinary sounds: the quiet metallic click as Dean locks a piece of the gun back into place, the soft scrape of fabric as you run the cloth along the blade, the low hum of the air conditioner rattling weakly in the wall unit. Outside, a car door slams somewhere in the parking lot and an engine starts, the noise fading quickly as it drives away. Sam scrolls again. Then again.

You glance up briefly, noticing how still he’s gotten. Normally he talks while he researches, reading things out loud or muttering half-formed thoughts as connections start to appear in his mind. But now he’s quiet in a different way. Focused. That kind of silence from Sam Winchester almost always means trouble. You wipe the blade once more before setting the cloth down. Across the room Dean finishes assembling the gun and checks the chamber before placing it carefully on the table beside him. He leans back slightly, stretching the tension from his shoulders. Sam exhales slowly. The sound is quiet, but it’s enough to make both you and Dean glance in his direction. Sam doesn’t look up immediately. His eyes stay locked on the laptop screen as if he’s reading the same line over again. Dean notices the shift too. “What?” he asks, voice casual but alert. Sam doesn’t answer right away.

Instead he scrolls again, fingers tapping lightly against the keyboard before he finally leans back slightly against the headboard. His expression isn’t panicked or confused, just thoughtful in that heavy way it gets when he’s putting together pieces that don’t quite fit.

“Sam,” Dean presses. Sam finally lifts his head. “I went back through everything from last night,” he says. Dean tilts his head slightly. “Okay.”

“The demon we exorcised,” Sam continues, turning the laptop slightly so the screen faces both of you. “The pattern of the farm attacks. What it said about her.” Your grip tightens slightly around the handle of the demon blade. Your name. Being passed around Hell. You hadn’t stopped thinking about that since the demon said it. You push the thought aside and stand slowly, carrying the blade over to the table so you can see the screen better. Your ribs protest faintly when you move, but you ignore it. Dean shifts slightly to give you room beside him. Sam scrolls down the page and taps the keyboard again.

“At first I thought it was just escalation,” he explains. “Demons getting active, moving between farms, causing chaos to draw attention away from something bigger.” Dean nods once. “That tracks.”

“It would,” Sam says. “If the farms were random.” You lean slightly closer to the screen. “They’re not?” you ask. Sam shakes his head. “That’s what I thought at first. But the more I looked at it, the more something started to feel off.” He pulls up a map. Several red markers appear scattered across the county. Dean squints slightly at the screen. “Looks like a bunch of farms.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “But look at the order.”

He taps the markers one by one.

“This one was hit first. Then this one. Then the one we checked yesterday morning.” You follow the pattern with your eyes. The farms form a loose line across the map. A slow trail cutting across the region. Dean leans forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees again. “Okay,” he says slowly. “So the demon was moving.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. Then he hesitates. Dean notices immediately. “What?” Sam glances up at you before answering.

“At first I thought the pattern pointed to another farm,” he says carefully. Your stomach tightens slightly. “But?” Sam taps the keyboard again and zooms the map out slightly. Another set of dots appears, different locations, marked in blue instead of red. Dean frowns. “What are those?” Sam gestures toward them. “Us.” The word hangs in the air. You blink. Dean stares at the screen. Sam exhales slowly.

“I mapped the farms against where we’ve been over the last few days,” he explains. “Motel locations, gas stations, the diner we stopped at yesterday morning.” The two sets of dots sit disturbingly close to each other. Not exactly overlapping. But close. Too close to ignore. Dean leans forward further now, eyes narrowing as he studies the screen. “You’re saying that demon was tracking us?” “Not exactly,” Sam says. “Then what?” Sam looks back at you again before answering. “More like it was narrowing in.” The implication hits you instantly. You feel your shoulders stiffen slightly. “On me..” you say quietly. Sam doesn’t immediately confirm it. But he doesn’t deny it either. Dean swears under his breath. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” Sam shakes his head slowly. “I don’t think so.”

You cross your arms slightly, leaning your weight against the edge of the table as your mind races through everything that happened the night before. The way the demon looked at you. The way it smiled when it said your name. Hell loves a story. And you’re becoming quite the bedtime tale. Your jaw tightens.

Dean pushes back from the table and stands, pacing once across the small motel room before stopping again near the foot of the bed. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s say that’s true.” Sam nods slowly.

“That demon recognized her,” Dean continues. “Said Hell was talking about her.”

“Right.”

“But why?” Sam glances down at the laptop again. “That’s the part I was trying to figure out.” He scrolls through another page. “So I started digging into something else.” Dean folds his arms. “What?” Sam looks at you again. “Your father’s deal.” The words hit like a dull punch to the chest. Your fingers tighten against the table edge. Dean notices the reaction immediately and glances at you briefly before looking back at Sam. “What about it?” he asks carefully. Sam leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he studies the information on the screen. “It wasn’t a normal deal.” You huff out a quiet, humorless breath. “Yeah,” you mutter. “I figured that part out.” Sam gives you a sympathetic look but keeps going.

“Most demonic contracts are simple,” he explains. “Someone asks for something- money, power, success, and the demon grants it in exchange for their soul in ten years.” Dean nods. “Basic crossroads deal.”

“Exactly,” Sam says. “But your father’s deal was different.” You stare down at the floor. You’ve heard the story enough times to know every ugly detail. He had loved your mother. Desperately. And when she didn’t return those feelings… He made a deal. A deal that forced her to fall in love with him. Sam continues quietly. “Deals that interfere with emotional autonomy, forcing someone to love someone else, changing the way someone feels, those are extremely rare.” Dean frowns slightly. “Why?” Sam taps the laptop screen lightly. “Because they’re unstable.” You look up again. “What do you mean?” Sam scrolls again before answering. “When a demon manipulates something like love or emotional choice, it weakens the foundation of the contract itself.” Dean tilts his head. “Weakens it how?” Sam pauses for a moment before explaining. “Think of a normal deal like a binding spell,” he says. “It works because the person agrees to it willingly. Their intent is part of what seals the contract.” You nod slowly. “That makes sense.”

“But when you remove genuine choice from the equation,” Sam continues, “the magic gets messy.” Dean leans against the wall now, arms still crossed. “Messy how?” Sam exhales slowly. “It creates loopholes.” The word hangs in the room. You feel a cold sensation creep slowly down your spine. “Loopholes?” Dean repeats. Sam nods. “In rare cases, when a contract is built on manipulated emotion, the magic binding the deal becomes unstable. It doesn’t break right away, but it leaves behind weak points in the structure.” You stare at the laptop screen. “Okay,” you say slowly. “But what does that have to do with me?” Sam hesitates. Then he scrolls further down the page. “Some of the older lore suggests those weak points can carry through bloodlines.” Your heart skips. “What?” Dean straightens slightly from the wall. “Run that by me again.” Sam glances between the two of you. “If a deal interferes with genuine emotional autonomy, sometimes the magic that holds it together leaves behind what some texts call a living anchor.” The words sink into the silence of the room. “A what?” Dean asks. “A living anchor.” Sam repeats. He gestures toward you. “Someone connected to the original deal who could theoretically alter or disrupt demonic contracts.” You stare at him. “That’s… not possible.” Sam gives a small, uneasy shrug. “I didn’t think so either.” Dean runs a hand through his hair. “So what are you saying?” he asks. Sam meets his eyes.

“I’m saying that if Hell figured out someone connected to that deal was still alive, someone actively hunting demons, they might see her as more than just another hunter.” The weight of his words settles slowly over the room. Dean looks at you. Then back at Sam. “They wouldn’t want her dead,” he says quietly. Sam nods once. “No.” Your stomach sinks. “They’d want to understand it,” Sam continues. “Control it. Figure out how the loophole works before someone else does.” You swallow hard. Images flash through your mind again. The demon’s smile. Your name on its tongue. Dean exhales slowly. “So when that thing said Hell was talking about her…”

“It probably wasn’t bluffing.” Sam says. The silence that follows feels heavier than anything that came before. You look down at your hands, noticing the faint tremor you hadn’t realized was there. Dean notices too. He pushes away from the wall and steps closer to you,his hand finding a comfortable spot on your lower back, his expression tightening. “Well,” he mutters. You glance up. His jaw is set, that familiar protective tension already settling into his shoulders. “Looks like we’ve got a bigger problem,” he says. Sam nods grimly. Because now the three of you understand the same thing at once. The demon last night wasn’t hunting cattle. It was hunting you. And if Sam’s theory is even close to correct, then it probably wasn’t working alone.

The silence that follows Sam’s explanation lingers in the motel room like a weight pressing down on the air, thick and uncomfortable, the kind that makes every small sound feel louder than it should be. For a moment none of you move. The implications of what Sam just said sit there between the three of you, heavy and impossible to ignore. Hell might not just know your name, it might actually want you. Dean exhales slowly through his nose before dragging a hand over his face, the movement rough and tired, like he’s trying to physically wipe away the conversation.

“Well,” he mutters, voice low. “That’s… fantastic.”

Sam shuts the laptop halfway but doesn’t close it completely, his fingers resting on the edge of the screen like he’s not done thinking yet. You straighten from where you were leaning against the table and push the thought down the same way you push down every other uncomfortable truth in this life. Worrying about Hell’s interest in you isn’t going to change anything right now.

“Okay,” you say, forcing your voice into something steady. “So what’s the plan?” Dean looks at you immediately. “The plan?” he repeats.

“Yeah,” you say. “We have one of those, right?” His jaw tightens slightly. “The plan,” he says carefully, “is we leave.” You blink. “That’s not a plan.”

“It is when something in Hell might be hunting you.” You cross your arms, leaning your hip back against the table. “So what, we just run?” Dean lifts a shoulder. “Call it strategic relocation.”

“Call it running,” you counter. Sam watches the two of you carefully, eyes moving between your faces like he’s tracking a tennis match. Dean shakes his head. “This isn’t a normal hunt,” he says. “If Hell’s sniffing around because of that contract loophole thing-”

“You don’t even know if that’s real.” you interrupt. Sam clears his throat quietly. “The lore does suggest-”

“Suggest,” you emphasize. “Not confirm.” Dean takes a step closer, his expression hardening. “You heard what the demon said last night.” You don’t respond. Because you did hear it. Hell loves a story. Your name is being passed around. The memory of the demon’s voice makes something cold twist in your stomach. Dean notices the moment your expression shifts, even if it’s only for half a second. His voice softens slightly. “Look,” he says, “all I’m saying is we don’t stick around waiting to see who shows up next.” You shake your head once. “No.” Dean’s brows knit together. “No?”

“No,” you repeat, pushing away from the table. “We don’t run.”

“This isn’t about pride.”

“It’s not pride.”

“Then what is it?” You hold his gaze evenly. “It’s a hunt.” Dean stares at you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re being serious. Sam finally leans back slightly on the bed. “She does have a point,” he says carefully. Dean turns toward him. “Oh, you’re taking her side now?”

“I’m not taking sides,” Sam says calmly. “I’m just saying if demons are actually looking for her, running isn’t going to solve the problem.” Dean huffs. “So what, we just sit here and wait for Hell’s welcome committee?” You shrug slightly. “Worked out fine for them last night.” Dean’s eyes flash with irritation. “Yeah, and you almost got your ribs broken again.”

“I handled it.”

“That’s not the point.” You open your mouth to argue, but before the words come out you step toward the chair to grab your jacket. Dean reaches out without thinking. His hand wraps around your forearm. You freeze. The contact isn’t rough, but it stops you instantly. Dean’s eyes drop to your side. “You’re still hurt,” he says quietly. “I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.” You try to pull your arm back. Dean doesn’t let go right away. “Dean.” He finally releases you, but his gaze lingers on your ribs. “You shouldn’t be pushing it.” You grab the jacket from the chair and shrug into it. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“It’s called existing,” you say dryly. Dean shakes his head, clearly unconvinced.

“You got stitched up less than fourty-eight hours ago.”

“And?”

“And you’re acting like nothing happened.” You roll your eyes. “Because nothing that bad happened.” Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re kidding.”

“Compared to some hunts? No.” Dean opens his mouth to respond but stops himself with a sharp exhale. Instead, he grabs the sleeve of your jacket and pulls it up slightly. You blink. “Dean-” He gently presses two fingers against your side where the stitches are under the fabric. Pain flares immediately. You suck in a sharp breath. Dean’s expression goes flat. “Yeah?” he says. You slap his hand away. “I said I’m fine.”

“You literally flinched.”

“You literally poked a stab wound.” Sam snorts quietly from the bed. You both turn toward him. “What?” he says innocently. Dean gestures vaguely between the two of you.“This.” Sam lifts his hands. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.” Sam grins faintly. You shake your head and grab your bag from the floor, rummaging inside for fresh ammunition just to give your hands something to do. Dean watches you for a second longer before grabbing another weapon from the table. The tension in the room hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s gotten worse. Not angry exactly. Just… charged. You pull a jacket sleeve straight, trying to ignore the way Dean keeps glancing at you like he’s checking that you’re still standing. Eventually you move toward the door to grab your boots. Dean steps around you at the same time. You collide. Not hard. But enough that his hand comes up automatically to steady you. Your palm lands against his chest. Both of you freeze. For a moment neither of you move. You’re suddenly very aware of how close he is. Of the faint smell of leather and coffee. Of the way his hand is still resting lightly on your arm. Your eyes lift. Dean’s already looking at you. There’s something in his expression that wasn’t there yesterday. Something quieter. Warmer. Your pulse jumps. From the corner of the room, Sam clears his throat loudly. Neither of you move. Sam sighs. “…Wow.” You both break apart instantly. Dean steps back like he just remembered how personal space works. You grab your boots off the floor. Sam closes his laptop slowly and looks between you. “So,” he says. Dean points at him immediately. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything yet.”

“You’re about to.” Sam tilts his head thoughtfully. “Should I come back later?” You feel heat creeping up your neck. Dean rubs the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in the floor. “Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.” Sam grins. The tension in the room doesn’t disappear. But somehow it feels a little less suffocating than it did a few minutes ago. Even if none of you are quite ready to admit why.

Sam stares at the laptop screen for another long minute after the room falls quiet again, his fingers moving quickly across the keyboard as he opens article after article, page after page of old lore forums, scanned books, and archived hunter notes. The glow of the screen reflects in his eyes while you and Dean hover nearby pretending not to watch him work, though the tension in the room makes it obvious that both of you are waiting for him to say something. Finally Sam stops typing. His expression shifts in a way that makes your stomach tighten immediately. “That’s not good,” he mutters. Dean looks up from the pistol he’s reloading. “That sentence has literally never been followed by anything good,” he says. “So just rip the band-aid off.” Sam turns the laptop toward both of you and points at a block of text on the screen. “It’s a ritual.” You lean forward slightly. “What kind of ritual?”

“One tied to contract manipulation,” Sam says. “Demons use it when they want to tamper with deals that have already been made.” Dean frowns. “Tamper how?”

“Change the outcome. Claim the soul earlier. Override clauses.” Your stomach drops a little. “And what does that have to do with me?” you ask quietly. Sam hesitates for a fraction of a second before answering. “It requires three things.” Dean’s shoulders tense immediately. “Let me guess,” he says flatly. “None of them are fun.” Sam ticks them off slowly. “First, the blood of someone tied to the original deal.” Your jaw tightens. “Second, a crossroads.” Dean swears under his breath. “And third,” Sam continues, voice quieter now, “the person connected to the deal has to be alive during the ritual.” The words hang in the air. You feel something cold slide down your spine. Dean pushes away from the table. “So the plan,” he says sharply, “is they grab her.” Sam nods grimly. “Alive.” Silence fills the room again. Then Dean snaps into motion. “Alright. That’s it. We’re not waiting around for them to try.” You cross your arms. “Dean-”

“No,” he cuts in, already grabbing his jacket. “Sam, where’s the nearest crossroads around here?” Sam turns the laptop back toward himself and starts typing again. “Give me a second…” You watch the two of them work, your pulse still thudding in your ears. If demons are planning that ritual, then they’re not just interested in you. They’re hunting you. Sam finally turns the screen around again. “Got one,” he says. “About three hours outside town. Old rural intersection. Barely used road.” Dean nods once. “Perfect.” You grab your boots from beside the bed and pull them on quickly. “Guess we’re going demon hunting.” Dean gives you a look that clearly says he hates the idea of you being involved in this part, but he doesn’t argue this time. He just grabs the keys off the table. “Let’s move.” A few minutes later the motel door slams shut behind the three of you, and the cool evening air hits your face as you walk across the cracked parking lot toward the Impala. The familiar black car sits under a flickering streetlight, quiet and waiting. 

You slide into the back seat while Sam climbs into the front, already reopening the laptop as soon as the door shuts behind him. The engine roars to life a second later, the low rumble filling the silence. For a while the only sounds in the car are the hum of the road and the faint clicking of Sam’s keyboard. Dean’s hands rest loosely on the wheel as he steers the Impala out of the parking lot and onto the dark highway. You stare out the window at the passing trees, trying not to think about demons planning rituals with your blood. Trying not to think about Hell knowing your name. After a few minutes, you feel it. That familiar sensation. Eyes on you. You glance slightly toward the rearview mirror. Dean looks away immediately. You raise an eyebrow. Thirty seconds later you feel it again. You glance up. Dean’s eyes flick back to the road a little too quickly. You sigh. “You’re staring again.” Dean doesn’t look at you. “I’m driving.”

“With your eyes in the mirror.” He scoffs. “Just checking the road behind us.” You lean back in your seat. “Sure you are.” From the front seat, Sam sighs loudly. Neither of you acknowledge him. A minute passes. Then two. Dean glances in the mirror again. This time you catch him instantly. Your eyebrow lifts slowly. Dean clears his throat and looks forward again. Sam slams the laptop shut with exaggerated force. “Okay,” he says. “I can’t do this.” Dean frowns slightly. “Do what?”

“This,” Sam repeats, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Whatever this is.” You glance back at him. “Sam-”

“Please either kiss or stop doing that.” Dean nearly swerves. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.” Dean shakes his head. “Dude, I am driving.”

“Yes,” Sam says patiently, “while staring at her in the mirror every thirty seconds.”

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.” You bite back a laugh. Dean notices immediately. “Oh, you think this is funny?” You shrug. “A little.” Dean huffs and turns his attention back to the road, but you can see the faint pink creeping up the back of his neck. Sam leans back against the seat again, clearly pleased with himself. “Thank you,” he mutters. “Now I can actually focus.” Dean grumbles under his breath. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re obvious.” Sam shoots back. You shake your head, staring out the window again as the headlights cut through the dark country road ahead. For a moment the car falls quiet again. Then Dean glances in the mirror. You catch him instantly. “Dean.” He sighs. “I hate both of you.”

The Impala rolls to a slow stop at the edge of the deserted crossroads just as the last light of evening fades into full darkness. The headlights cut across the empty intersection, illuminating cracked asphalt, tall grass bending in the wind, and a leaning wooden signpost that creaks faintly with every gust. Beyond the thin circle of light, fields stretch endlessly in every direction, swallowed by fog that is slowly creeping in across the ground like something alive. Dean kills the engine. For a moment none of you move. The sudden silence presses in around the car, thick and unnatural. Sam leans forward from the back seat, EMF meter already in his hand. The device gives a soft but steady whine as soon as he switches it on. “That’s… not subtle.” he mutters. Dean glances at the meter, then at the empty road ahead. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “They’ve definitely been here.”

You push the door open and step out onto the cold pavement. The air smells faintly burnt, like old smoke and something metallic underneath. The wind shifts and carries the scent again, sharper this time. Sulphur. Dean circles around the hood of the car, shotgun already in his hands while Sam joins you with the EMF meter buzzing louder the closer he gets to the intersection. The three of you move toward the centre of the crossroads cautiously, boots crunching against gravel and loose dirt scattered across the road. Then you see it. The ritual circle.

Someone has carved a large symbol directly into the asphalt, the grooves blackened and rough like they’ve been burned rather than cut. Around the circle sit the remains of dozens of melted candles, wax hardened in long dripping trails down the pavement. A few of them still smoulder faintly, sending thin threads of smoke curling into the night air. Dean swears under his breath. “We’re late.” Sam crouches beside the markings, running his fingers just above the scorched grooves without touching them. “This is definitely it,” he says. “Same symbols from the lore. Same structure.” Your stomach tightens as you take in the entire circle. “They already started it.”

“Or they’re about to,” Dean mutters. The wind shifts again. Then the temperature drops. Sharply. The EMF meter in Sam’s hand suddenly shrieks. Dean’s shotgun snaps upward instantly. “Get ready.” The fog thickens all around the crossroads, rolling across the ground until the road behind you disappears completely into white haze. And then the first body drops. It falls from nowhere, slamming onto the asphalt behind Sam with a heavy thud. You spin just in time to see black smoke pour into the corpse’s mouth. The man’s eyes snap open. Completely black. “Hello,” the demon says with a crooked grin. Then the rest arrive. Three more bodies stagger out of the fog, their movements jerky and unnatural as black smoke settles behind their eyes. Dean fires first. The shotgun blast echoes across the empty fields, the demon in front of him snapping backward as the demon-killing round punches straight through its chest. The body collapses instantly, smoke erupting from the wound as the demon is forced out. Another demon lunges toward Sam. You move before thinking, grabbing the knife from your belt and slashing the blade across its arm as it reaches for him. The demon recoils with a hiss, its black eyes flashing with fury before it swings back at you. The impact knocks you sideways across the road. You hit the ground hard, pain flaring briefly through your ribs where the stitches pull tight. Dean grabs the demon by the collar and slams it headfirst into the Impala’s hood.

“Hey!” he snaps. “Hands off.” The demon snarls and swings at him, but Dean fires again point blank. Black smoke explodes from the body. “Sam!” Dean shouts. “Circle!” Sam’s already moving, grabbing the bag of rock salt from the trunk and scattering it in a wide line across the road. Another demon charges you from behind. You twist just in time to duck under its swing and slam the butt of your knife into its jaw before driving the blade up under its ribs. The demon screams, smoke spilling from its mouth as the body collapses. For a few seconds the crossroads fall silent again except for the sound of all three of you breathing hard. Dean lowers the shotgun slowly. “That was too easy.” As if summoned by the words, a slow clapping sound echoes through the fog. “Well done.” A new figure steps into the intersection. This one moves differently. Calm. Controlled. The body it wears is that of a tall woman dressed in black, her dark hair pulled back neatly while her black eyes shine in the headlights of the Impala. Sam stiffens immediately. “Crossroads demon.” She smiles. “Oh sweetheart, I’m a little higher up the food chain than that.” Dean raises the shotgun again. “Then you’ll die just the same.” The demon barely glances at the weapon. “Relax, Dean Winchester,” she says lazily. “If we wanted you dead, we’d have done it already.” Dean freezes. Her black eyes slide slowly toward you. “There she is.” Your spine stiffens.

“That’s the one Hell’s been talking about.”

Dean steps slightly in front of you. “You’re not touching her.” The demon chuckles softly. “Oh, we’re not here to kill her.” Sam frowns. “Then why are you here?” The demon’s smile widens. “Because she’s valuable.” Before anyone can react, she lifts one hand casually. The air around Dean and Sam suddenly twists violently. Both of them are ripped off their feet and slammed backward into the invisible wall of pressure behind them. Dean crashes against it with a grunt, his arms pinned instantly against his sides like something is holding him there. “Dean!” you shout. Sam struggles beside him, his feet barely touching the ground as the unseen force crushes him against the same invisible barrier. The demon doesn’t even look at them. Her eyes stay fixed on you. “You, however,” she says softly, “are the real prize.” You tighten your grip on the knife. “Let them go.”

“Oh no,” she says calmly. “They stay right there.” Dean strains violently against the invisible force holding him, veins standing out along his neck. She steps closer to you, heels clicking softly against the road. “You have no idea how famous you are downstairs.” Your jaw tightens. “Yeah, I’m sure I’ve got a fan club.”

“Oh you do,” she says with a smile. “Hell loves a loophole.” Sam struggles harder behind her. “What ritual are you planning?” The demon glances back at him briefly. “Contract manipulation,” she says casually. “Very complicated. Very old magic.” Her gaze returns to you. “And you are the key ingredient.” You feel anger starting to burn through the fear. “Not happening.”

“Oh, it will,” she says. “Because you’re coming with us alive.” You take a slow step back. The demon sighs. “Don’t make this difficult.” She gestures again. A violent force slams into your chest and throws you across the asphalt. Your back hits the ground hard, knocking the air from your lungs. Dean roars in fury behind her. “Touch her again and I swear to God-” The demon flicks her wrist. Dean slams harder into the invisible restraint, the breath punched from his lungs. “Quiet.”  Your vision clears just as she begins walking toward you again. “You know,” she says thoughtfully, “I met your parents once.” Your chest tightens. “Your father,” she continues lightly, “is exactly where he belongs.” You push yourself to your feet slowly. “In Hell.” The demon tilts her head. “But your mother…” she adds. Something twists painfully in your stomach. “What about her?” The demon smiles. “She wasn’t quite as innocent as you think.” You freeze. “She chose the deal eventually,” the demon continues. “Maybe not at first. But she stayed.” Your grip tightens around the knife. “Shut up.”

“Love does strange things,” the demon says softly. “Shut up.”

“She did fall for him eventually.”

“Shut up!” The demon’s smile grows wider. “Just like you’re falling for him.” Your breath catches. Behind her, Dean stops struggling. The demon glances back briefly. “Oh yes,” she says casually. “We know all about that too.” Your face burns with anger. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” Her eyes flick briefly toward Dean, still pinned helplessly behind her. “He cares about you,” she says thoughtfully. “But not the way you think.” You feel something twist in your chest. “Stop talking.”

“He thinks you’re weak,” the demon says softly. Dean’s voice explodes behind her. “That’s a lie!” The demon raises one finger lazily. Dean slams harder against the invisible force, his words cut off with a choked grunt. “He thinks you slow them down,” she continues. You take a step forward. “He pities you.” Something inside you snaps. You charge. The demon looks almost amused as you rush toward her, knife raised. “Finally,” she murmurs. She lifts her hand again, sending another invisible wave crashing into you. But this time you’re ready. You roll with the impact instead of fighting it, twisting across the asphalt before launching yourself forward again. Your knife slashes across her arm. Black smoke hisses from the wound. Her smile falters. “Oh.” You don’t stop. Years of hunting take over as you attack again, striking faster this time, forcing her backward across the circle with every swing. The demon blocks two blows before your blade catches her across the ribs. She hisses. Behind her, Sam suddenly shouts. “Now!” Your head snaps toward him just as he manages to wrench one arm free from the invisible force long enough to throw something. A small metal flask lands in your hand. Holy water. You grin. The demon’s eyes widen. “Oh, that’s-” You throw it straight into her face. She screams. The sound tears through the night as the holy water burns across the demon’s skin. The invisible force holding Dean and Sam shatters instantly. Both of them drop hard onto the asphalt. Dean grabs the shotgun and fires before the demon can recover. The round hits her square in the chest. Black smoke erupts violently from the body as the demon is forced out in a screaming plume that vanishes into the fog. The corpse collapses. Silence crashes down across the crossroads again. You sway slightly on your feet as the adrenaline fades. Dean reaches you first. His hands grab your shoulders instantly. “Are you okay?” You nod once, still breathing hard. “Yeah.” Sam jogs over, looking equally shaken. “That… was insane.” Dean looks at you again, his voice softer now. “You fought her alone.” You shrug weakly. “Someone had to.” Dean pulls you into a tight hug before you can react. The sudden contact steals your breath. For a moment neither of you move. Then he pulls back slightly, his hands still on your arms. “That stuff she said,” he starts quickly. “About what I think-” You interrupt him. By kissing him. It’s not gentle. Not careful. It’s everything you didn’t say during the entire hunt crashing out all at once. Dean freezes completely. When you finally pull back, both of you are breathing hard. He stares at you in stunned silence. “You have any idea what you just did?” he asks hoarsely. You shake your head. “Nope.” Dean’s lips slowly curl into a crooked smile.

“…Good.”

Behind you, Sam clears his throat loudly. “Well,” he says. “I’m going to go pretend I didn’t see that.” He heads toward the Impala. Dean watches him leave before looking back at you again. The proud smirk spreading across his face makes heat rise instantly to yours. “You just kissed me..again, I’m sensing a theme here sweetheart.” he says. You stare at him. “…Yeah.”

“You initiated it.”

“Oh my god.” Dean chuckles. You turn toward the car quickly, trying to ignore the way Dean is still looking at you like the world just shifted under his feet. “We should go.” Dean lets out a quiet huff of a laugh, still leaning against the Impala like he has absolutely no intention of moving anytime soon. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “We probably should.” Neither of you move. The wind sweeps across the empty crossroads, rustling the tall grass at the side of the road while the last of the fog curls around your boots. Sam is at the trunk pretending to reorganize weapons, very obviously giving the two of you space. Dean straightens slightly. “So…” he says. You cross your arms defensively. “So.” A few seconds pass. Dean scratches the back of his neck, looking strangely uncertain for once. “That kiss,” he starts. You immediately groan. “Oh my god, can we not-”

“Nope,” he cuts in. “We’re definitely gonna talk about that.” You drop your gaze to the ground. “Look, it just… happened.” Dean raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, I noticed.” You glare at him.

“You were rambling.”

“I was apologizing.”

“You were spiraling.” He shrugs. “Fair.” Another pause settles between you. This one feels different. Heavier. Dean’s voice softens slightly when he speaks again. “You didn’t exactly look like you regretted it.” Your heart stumbles in your chest. You glance up at him. He’s watching you carefully now, that teasing smirk gone. This version of Dean is quieter. More serious. “I didn’t say I regretted it,” you say slowly. His eyebrows lift slightly. “No?” You shift your weight awkwardly. “No.” Dean lets out a quiet breath, almost like something just loosened inside his chest. “Good.” he says. Your eyes narrow slightly. “Why?” He hesitates. Dean Winchester hesitates. Which is honestly a little terrifying. “Because,” he says finally, “if you had said that was a mistake, I probably would’ve pretended I believed you.” You blink. “But I wouldn’t have.” he adds. Your heart starts beating faster. “Dean…” He takes a few slow steps toward you. “Look,” he says, running a hand through his hair, “we’ve been dancing around this for… what, months now?” You open your mouth to argue. Then close it. Because you both know it’s true. Dean gives a small half-smile. “You glare at any woman that flirts with me.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

“That’s not-”

“And I stare at you like an idiot every five minutes,” he continues. You sigh. “Sam pointed that out already.”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters. “Thanks for reminding me.” He stops a few feet in front of you now. Close. But not touching. “So maybe,” he says carefully, “we stop pretending none of this exists.” Your stomach flips. “And do what exactly?” Dean tilts his head slightly. “Well,” he says, “normally when two people kiss like that, the next step is they… I don’t know…” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Figure out what the hell they are.” You study him for a moment. “Are you asking me to define the relationship right now?” Dean winces. “When you say it like that it sounds terrifying.” You can’t help the small laugh that escapes. He smiles at the sound of it. “I’m serious though,” he says quietly. “I don’t want that to just be a one-time thing.” Your pulse jumps again. “You don’t?” “No.” You look down at the road for a second before speaking. “Hunting doesn’t exactly make relationships easy.” Dean huffs. “Yeah, well, nothing about our lives is easy.”

“That’s my point.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he says softly. You look up again. Dean’s expression is steady. Honest. “I’m not talking about some normal white-picket-fence thing,” he continues. “I’m talking about… us.” Your chest tightens slightly. “And what does ‘us’ look like?” Dean shrugs one shoulder. “We keep doing what we’ve been doing.”

“Hunting demons.”

“Saving people.”

“Arguing in motel rooms.”

“Exactly.” You fold your arms again. “That’s not exactly romantic.” Dean smiles slightly. “It’s our version of romantic.” That earns a quiet laugh from you. Then the silence returns. But this time it’s not uncomfortable. It’s thoughtful. Dean speaks again, softer. “I just want to know if that kiss meant something.” You hold his gaze for a long moment. Then nod. “It did.” Dean’s shoulders relax slightly. “Good.” “But,” you add quickly. He groans. “There’s always a but.”

“I’m serious,” you say. “If we do this… we do it properly.” Dean raises an eyebrow. “You planning to write up a contract?” You roll your eyes. “I mean we don’t pretend it’s nothing.” His expression softens again. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I can do that.” You step a little closer.

“So… what are we then?” Dean considers for a moment. Then a familiar smirk creeps back onto his face. “Well,” he says, “I guess we figure it out as we go along.” You laugh. “Deal.” He tilts his head slightly. “And maybe,” he adds, “we try that kissing thing again sometime.” Heat creeps up your neck again. “Maybe.” From the other side of the car, Sam’s voice suddenly cuts in. “I swear to God if you two start making out at the crossroads I’m leaving you here.” Dean doesn’t even look at him. “Relax, Sammy.” Sam slams the trunk shut. “Please just get in the car.” Dean finally opens the driver’s door, still wearing that ridiculously proud smirk. You slide into the passenger seat, staring straight ahead as the engine roars back to life. Dean glances at you once. Then reaches over and places a hand on your thigh.You could practically hear the eyeroll from the back seat from Sam. “I’m just glad I don’t have to watch you act like teenagers anymore.”

A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed this fic as much as I loved writing it!!! The first part of 'Under Contract' will be out soon for my new series I am starting!!

Taglist: @macnjacky @dulcillaa12 @applelovesposts @magic-sprinkled-daydreams @carson1gg @star-yawnznn @mylifeisanoxymoron21 @chi-raz @biancalinkas @ethicalcahinsyk

PART 1

PART 2

PART 3

PART 4

PART 5 PART 6

Part 7

You wake slowly, not with panic, but with that heavy, disoriented awareness that comes after a night your body hasn’t fully recovered from. The motel room is dim, curtains barely holding back the thin gray of early morning. The television is off now, the silence no longer softened by background noise, and for a moment you lie still, staring at the cracked ceiling as memory returns piece by piece.

The tech convention. The demon. The chair bolted to the floor. Its voice saying your name like it owned it. The way your ribs burned when it hit you. The shower. Dean’s steady hands keeping you upright when your legs wouldn’t cooperate. Your stomach tightens before you can stop it. You shift slightly and feel the cold space beside you. The blankets are rumpled, but the warmth is gone. You don’t know why you notice that. You don’t know why a flicker of something like disappointment rises in your chest, sharp and unwelcome. He hadn’t stayed there, not really. You’d both fallen asleep sitting up against the headboard, exhaustion dragging you under mid-conversation. At some point he must have eased you down onto the mattress and moved away.

You push yourself upright carefully, bracing your palm against the mattress as your ribs immediately protest. The stitches pull in a way that makes your vision blur at the edges, and you pause, breathing through it, refusing to make a sound even though no one is in the room to hear you. You have always been good at getting up without looking like it hurts.

When you finally stand, the room tilts slightly and you steady yourself against the nightstand, jaw clenched, waiting for the dizziness to pass. The bandage wrapped tight around your ribs feels restrictive, and your shoulder aches with a deep, throbbing reminder of the night before. You roll it once, experimentally, then stop when pain answers too sharply.

Voices drift through the thin bathroom door.

Low. Tense.

You don’t mean to listen, but you freeze instinctively when you recognize Dean’s voice.

“I’m telling you, Sam, it’s not a good idea.” There’s movement on the other side, someone pacing. Sam responds, calmer but firm.

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. I’m telling you you’re wrong.” Your breath slows, instinctively quieter. “She froze.” Dean says, and even through the door you can hear the edge in it. “She hesitated.” Sam corrects. “It’s the same thing.”

“It’s not.” You close your eyes briefly, the words settling heavier than the pain in your ribs.

“She got inside her own head,” Dean continues. “If this is another demon case, I’m not dragging her into that.”

Dragging.

You swallow. “You’re not dragging her anywhere,” Sam replies. “She walked into this on her own.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” There’s a long pause, and you can picture Dean running a hand through his hair, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the floor. “I don’t want to watch someone get torn apart because I didn’t step in when I should’ve.”

“That’s not what this is about.” Sam says quietly.

“It could be.” Another silence, thicker this time. “This about last night?” Sam asks. Your pulse jumps despite yourself. “What about it?” Dean snaps. “You nearly kissed her.” You stop breathing. “That’s not-”

“And then you literally showered together.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I just… she was hurt,” Dean says, voice lowering. “I wasn’t going to let her bleed out.”

“And that’s all it was?”

“Yes.” A beat passes. “You’re full of shit.” Sam says. “Shut up.”

“You’re trying to leave her behind because you’re scared.”

“I’m trying to leave her behind because demons know her name.”

“And that has nothing to do with how close you got?”

“It wasn’t close,” Dean insists, but there’s something defensive in it now. “I just felt bad for her.” The words land harder than they should.

Felt bad.

Of course.

You step away from the door before the sting has time to root itself deeper. You don’t give yourself space to examine why it bothers you. You have never needed anyone’s pity, and you’re not about to start now.

You move toward your bag and begin dressing, every motion deliberate. Pulling your shirt over your head sends a sharp burn across your ribs, and you pause halfway through, breathing through clenched teeth until the wave passes. When you tug your jeans on, your shoulder protests again, but you ignore it, straightening slowly in front of the mirror. You look pale, shadows under your eyes darker than usual, but you don’t look weak. You won’t. By the time you open the bathroom door, you’ve smoothed your expression into something neutral. Both of them look up. Dean’s gaze lands on you first, scanning automatically, assessing. You make sure you’re standing straight, no visible stiffness, no hesitation in your steps.

“Morning.” you say evenly. Sam studies you for a second longer than necessary. “You’re up.”

“Obviously.” Dean’s eyes narrow slightly. “You shouldn’t be pushing it.”

“I’m not.” The lie is effortless. Sam clears his throat. “There’s another case.” You lean against the dresser as if your ribs don’t feel like they’re wrapped in barbed wire. “Where?”

“Few states over,” Sam says, already reaching for his laptop. “Started three days ago. Cattle mutilations. Sudden crop failures. Electrical systems frying overnight.” You nod slowly. “Demon?”

“Possibly,” Sam replies. “There’s lore about lesser demons that create scarcity, famine, desperation. Makes it easier to push people into deals.” Dean’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Scarcity leads to crossroads activity.” you add, keeping your tone steady. He glances at you. “We don’t know that.”

“But it’s a lead?” you counter. Silence stretches between you. “I’m going.” you say finally. Dean’s shoulders tense. “You’re still healing.”

“I’ve hunted with worse.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” He looks like he wants to say something sharper, but Sam steps in. “We can argue in the car,” he says lightly. “It’s a six-hour drive.” Dean grabs his duffel and heads for the door, and you follow without giving him a chance to tell you otherwise. You take the backseat once you’re on the road, not because you have to but because the distance feels necessary. The Impala hums steadily beneath you as state lines blur past, and Sam flips open his laptop in the passenger seat.

“Reports started with livestock drained of blood,” he explains. “Precise incisions, no tracks. Then crops started rotting overnight. Entire fields.”

“Ritualistic?” you murmur. “Could be,” Sam agrees. “Or it’s building toward something bigger.” Dean adjusts the rearview mirror, and you know he’s checking on you even before your eyes meet briefly. You look away first.

“You sure you’re good?” he asks after a while. “I said I am.”

“You’re stiff.”

“It’s called sleeping in a cheap motel bed.” He exhales quietly but doesn’t push further. Sam closes his laptop partway. “Town’s about forty minutes out.” The air inside the car feels charged, words unspoken pressing against the silence. “You didn’t have to listen-” Dean says eventually. “I wasn’t trying to.”

“That’s not what I meant.” You meet his eyes in the mirror this time. “It sounded like you were planning to bench me.”

“I’m not benching you.”

“It sounded like it.” He hesitates, then says, “I don’t want you taking the hit alone if something goes sideways.”

“I don’t need shielding.”

“I know.” There’s a pause before he adds, quieter, “But I’m not wired to watch people I care about walk into hell without backup.” The words linger in the space between you. You look back out the window. “I don’t need pity.”

“It’s not pity.”

You don’t answer, because you’re not sure you believe him, and because part of you isn’t sure you want to. The welcome sign for the next state flashes past overhead as the Impala carries you forward, toward another case, another fight, and whatever unresolved thing is building between the three of you. You sit back against the seat, jaw set, ribs aching, determined that if there’s going to be another demon waiting, it won’t find you hesitating again.

They don’t talk much when they pull into the next town. It’s a bit bigger than the last one. Quieter. Wide stretches of flat farmland broken up by fencing and long dirt roads. The sky feels bigger out here, endless and pale, the kind of openness that makes you feel exposed rather than free.

The motel they grab is marginally better than the last one, faded blue doors instead of chipped brown, flower boxes that have seen better days, a neon sign that only flickers instead of sputters. Most importantly, when Sam asks for availability, the woman behind the counter tells them there’s a room with three beds. Dean visibly relaxes at that.

You pretend not to notice.

The room smells faintly of lemon cleaner and something older underneath it, but it’s spacious enough. Three queen beds line the walls, each with identical floral bedspreads. A table by the window. A bathroom tucked into the corner.

Your ribs ache from the drive, the vibration of the road settling into the stitched skin like a reminder. You drop your bag on the bed closest to the bathroom and move with controlled ease, refusing to stretch too far, refusing to let either of them see the careful calculations in every movement. Sam opens his laptop immediately, spreading files across the table. Dean tosses his duffel onto the bed across from yours and starts unzipping it.

“Crime scene’s about fifteen minutes out,” Sam says. “Local sheriff’s already flagged it as livestock mutilation, but no predators, no tracks. We flash badges, keep it simple.” You’re already reaching for your suit. You don’t miss the way Dean goes quiet when you pull the hanger free.

The tailored black jacket slides onto your shoulders like it was made for you, because it was. Crisp lines, sharp fit, structured enough to hide the bandage around your ribs without restricting movement. You button it carefully, smoothing the fabric down, adjusting the cuffs. When you glance up, Dean is staring. Not subtly. He blinks once, like he’s rebooting. You arch a brow. “Problem?” He clears his throat. “No.” Sam doesn’t even look up from his laptop. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Dean shoots him a look and grabs his own suit jacket, shoving his arms into it like he’s trying to distract himself. You turn back to the mirror before you let yourself react to whatever that expression was. You shouldn’t enjoy that reaction. You do anyway. The drive to the farm is short. Gravel crunches under the Impala’s tires as you pull up beside flashing sheriff lights and yellow tape fluttering lazily in the breeze. The smell hits immediately when you step out, iron and decay baked into warm air.

The cattle lie farther out in the field, covered partially with tarps now. Deputies move in slow circles, notebooks in hand. Sam takes the lead with the badges.

“FBI. Agents Morrison, Greene, and Carter.” he says smoothly. You keep your face neutral, professional. The sheriff, a sunburned man in his fifties, nods gratefully. “Glad someone’s taking this seriously.” You move through the field, crouching carefully when needed, eyes scanning for signs. The wounds are precise. Surgical almost. Bloodless. Dean’s jaw tightens when he sees it.

“Any witnesses?” Sam asks. Sheriff scratches his chin. “Farmer across the way heard something. Didn’t see much. Said the shopkeeper down at the farm store mentioned strange lights. But she doesn’t want anything to do with it.” You straighten slowly. “Strange lights?” you ask.

“Claims she saw black smoke out near the treeline after the cattle went down. Then this morning her produce smelled… off.” Dean and Sam exchange a glance. “Sulphur?” you ask evenly. Sheriff grimaces. “That’s the word she used.”

“And she doesn’t want to talk?” Sam presses.

“She’s shaken up. Told us she doesn’t want the spotlight.” You nod. “Understood. Where’s the shop?”

“Couple minutes down that road.” he says, pointing. You thank him and head back toward the Impala. Dean walks slightly ahead, tension in his shoulders. Sam glances at you briefly, like he’s checking your pace, but you’re steady. You ignore the burn in your ribs. The farm shop is exactly what you’d expect, white wooden siding, a faded sign reading “Fresh Produce & Good” a bell above the door that jingles when you step inside. The place smells faintly of earth and something sharper beneath it. A woman stands behind the counter, mid-twenties maybe, hair pulled back loosely. She looks up, wary. Sam opens his mouth to speak, but Dean steps forward first. He turns it on. That effortless, crooked smile. The softened voice. The relaxed posture.

“Afternoon,” he says, tone warm and easy. “Sorry to bother you. We’re just following up on some reports about the livestock.” Her shoulders ease a fraction. “I already told the sheriff I don’t want to be involved.”

“Totally get that,” Dean says gently. “We’re not here to drag you into anything. Just trying to make sure whatever’s out there doesn’t keep causing trouble.” You watch from a step back, arms crossed loosely. He leans on the counter slightly, close enough to feel personal but not intrusive. He asks about her morning. Her shop. Her routine. He laughs at something she says. Your stomach tightens. You don’t understand why. He’s working. This is what he does. He charms. It’s tactical. Necessary. So why does it feel like something’s twisting under your ribs that has nothing to do with stitches? You shift your weight. Sam glances at you. You realize you’re staring. You look away sharply.  Dean brushes a hand along the edge of the counter, voice dropping just enough to sound reassuring. “Black smoke, you said?” She nods. “Like it rolled across the field and then just… vanished.”

“And the smell this morning?”

“Sulphur. Strong enough I had to throw half my stock out.” Dean’s smile softens. “You did the right thing.” You grit your teeth. It’s ridiculous. He talks like that to everyone. You shouldn’t care. You look at Sam indicating to leave, you both excuse yourselves and start to look up while both of them pay barely any attention. You both step into the front of the impala, swinging the doors shut, your’s  unusually harder than normal, as he grabs his laptop looking for any more leads around any other farms.  Sam nudges you lightly with his elbow.  “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“You look like you want to punch something.” You blink. “I do not.” Sam’s mouth twitches. “Interesting.” You narrow your eyes. “What is?”

“Nothing.” You look up from the parked car into the front window of the farmshop. You see Dean laugh at something the shopkeeper says, low and warm. Your jaw tightens again. Sam follows your gaze. “Oh..” he says softly. You glance at him sharply. “Oh what?”

“Nothing.” he repeats, but his expression is far too knowing. You look back toward Dean. He’s leaning closer now, listening intently. The shopkeeper blushes slightly. Heat creeps up your neck unexpectedly. Before you can stop yourself, you mutter, “He lays it on thick.” Sam’s brows lift. “Does he?”

“It’s obvious.”

“He’s working.”

“Doesn’t mean he has to look like that while doing it.” Sam studies you. “And what does ‘like that’ mean?” You open your mouth. Close it. You don’t have an answer that doesn’t expose something you’re not ready to name.

Sam leans back against the Impala’s frontseat, folding his arms. “You know he does that because it’s effective, right?”

“I know.”

“And you also know he short-circuits every time you put that suit on.” Your head snaps toward him. “What?”

“He’s not subtle.” You stare at him.

“That’s not-”

“It is.” You look back at the shop window. Dean’s hand brushes the counter again. Something unfamiliar coils in your chest. Sharp. Possessive. You don’t like it. You don’t understand it. Sam’s voice is gentle. “You feel it too?” You swallow. “Feel what?” He doesn’t push further. Inside, Dean’s posture shifts slightly, more focused now. Less charm. More intent. A few minutes later, he steps back from the counter and heads toward the door.

You straighten instinctively, then climbing over the chairs into the back seat, as Sam slides over to the passengers side. He slides into the driver’s seat, expression serious now. “She saw it,” he says immediately. “Black smoke rolled through the field right after the cattle dropped.”

“And the produce?” Sam asks. “Sulphur. Strong. Enough to contaminate everything.” You nod slowly. “That’s not subtle.”

“No,” Dean agrees. “It’s escalating.” Sam flips his laptop open again. “Famine-type demon, maybe. Or something building toward a larger ritual.” Dean glances at you in the rearview mirror. “We’ll need to check the fields tonight.” You nod once. Focused now. The jealousy, or whatever it was, gets shoved down, buried beneath strategy and adrenaline. There’s work to do. And if this is another demon, you won’t hesitate this time.

The pattern becomes clear just before sunset. You and Sam sit cross-legged on opposite beds in the motel room, papers spread between you, laptop balanced precariously on his knee. Dean leans against the dresser, arms folded, watching the two of you work through the logic.

“Three farms hit in five days,” Sam says, tapping the screen. “Each one roughly six miles apart. Each one has a treeline bordering the property.”

“And each one lost livestock first,” you add, tracing the map with your finger. “Then the produce contamination.”

“Escalation.” Dean mutters. You nod. “It’s building something. Or marking territory.” You shift the map slightly. There’s one farm left in the rough circular pattern. Larger than the others. Isolated.

“If it’s following this radius,” you say slowly, “the next hit will be here.” Sam leans closer. “The Henderson property.” Dean pushes off the dresser. “Biggest farm in the area. More cattle. Bigger impact.”

“And it’s bordered by thick woodland,” you add. “Perfect place to manifest without being seen.” The sun outside the window dips lower, staining the horizon in bruised orange and purple. “It’ll come after dark.” Sam says. Dean looks at you. “We go in, set up before it does.” You’re already reaching for your jacket. 

Night settles heavy and humid over the fields by the time you pull onto the Henderson property. The farmhouse is dark, family likely staying with relatives after hearing about the previous attacks. Wind moves through the crops in long sighs. You feel it before you see it. That faint prickle at the base of your spine. Sam moves quickly, chalking a devil’s trap inside the barn where the cattle are penned. Dean salts the perimeter, muttering under his breath. You check the treeline, knife steady in your hand. The air shifts. Temperature drops sharply. You step back toward the barn just as the wind dies completely. Silence.

Black smoke coils between the trees. It slithers low along the ground, thick and oily, before rising slowly into the shape of a man. He looks normal at first glance. Mid-forties. Worn boots. Flannel shirt. His eyes are wrong. Flat. Too knowing. “Well,” he says conversationally, voice echoing slightly in the still air. “If it isn’t the Winchesters.” Dean steps forward instinctively. “You picked the wrong farm.” The demon’s gaze slides to you. It lingers. Recognition sparks there.

“Oh,” he breathes, smile widening. “You’re the one.” Your grip tightens on the shotgun. “The one what?” He tilts his head. “Your name’s being passed around.” Your stomach drops. Sam shifts closer to you. “Hell loves a story,” the demon continues lazily. “And you? You’re becoming quite the bedtime tale.” Dean’s jaw flexes. “Try me.” The demon ignores him. It keeps looking at you. “They say you scream just like your mother.” The words slice clean. You don’t react. Not outwardly. Dean stiffens beside you. “Careful.” The demon’s smile sharpens. “Your parents are exactly where they belong.” Your pulse pounds in your ears. “Especially her,” he adds softly. “Your mother fought so hard, didn’t she? Thought she could break a contract.” Sam murmurs your name under his breath, a warning. You don’t look away from the demon. “She begged,” it continues. “Screamed. Clawed. But deals are deals.” Your throat tightens painfully. You always resented your father. For his desperation. For making a deal just to force your mother to love him. For dragging her into something she never chose, for being born from pure lust, not love, you had no idea what real love even looked like.

But your mother, She hadn’t known. She hadn’t asked for it. She’d just loved you. The demon steps closer to the barn. “She fought to keep him when we came to collect,” it says almost fondly. “Ten years up. Payment due. She thought love was enough.” Your hands shake. Dean’s voice cuts through, sharp. “That’s enough.” The demon finally glances at him. “You,” it says thoughtfully. “You’re interesting too.” Before either of you can react, black smoke explodes forward.

It slams into Dean. He jerks violently, body arching back as the smoke pours into his mouth and nose. Slicing right on him upper chest. Where his tattoo sits. Sam shouts, lunging forward, but it’s too fast. Dean collapses to his knees. For a split second, there’s nothing. Then his head lifts. His eyes are black. Your heart stops. “Well,” Dean’s voice says, but it isn’t his. “This is cozy.” You don’t hesitate. You lunge forward, grabbing him by the collar, shoving him back toward the barn. “Trap!” you yell. Sam scrambles, pulling the barn doors wider as you drag Dean across the threshold. He fights you. Hard. He’s stronger like this. “You really think you matter?” the demon sneers through his mouth. “You freeze. You hesitate. You’re a liability.” You grit your teeth, forcing him over the chalk line. The moment his boots cross into the devil’s trap, he slams against invisible resistance, body jerking violently. Sam drops to his knees, pulling out the exorcism ritual. “Do it!” you shout. The demon laughs, dark and cruel. “Do you know what he thinks of you?” it whispers, Dean’s face inches from yours. “Weak. No good. A waste of space.” You flinch.

“He pities you. That’s why they drag you along. Charity case.”  Your grip tightens painfully on Dean’s jacket. “That’s not true.” Sam snaps, beginning the Latin. “Oh, but it is,” the demon croons. “He thinks you’ll get yourself killed.” Something inside you snaps. You surge forward without thinking, hands gripping Dean’s face. “Get out of him.” you snarl. The demon laughs again, but Sam’s voice rises louder now, the exorcism gaining momentum.

Dean’s body convulses.

“You’re nothing,” the demon spits. “Your father made a deal because no one would choose him. Your mother died screaming. And you’ll die the same.”

“Enough!” you roar. Sam’s voice crescendos, Latin sharp and commanding. Dean screams. Black smoke erupts violently from his mouth, thrashing against the boundaries of the trap before shooting upward and dissipating into the night air with a shriek. Silence crashes down. Dean collapses forward. You catch him instinctively. His weight hits you hard, knocking the breath from your lungs, but you don’t let him fall. “Dean.” you breathe. His eyes flutter open. Green. Not black. “Hey,” he rasps. Relief slams into you so hard your knees almost buckle. Sam stands slowly, chest heaving. “He’s out.” Dean blinks, disoriented, then winces. “Feels like I got hit by a truck.”

“You kinda did.” Sam mutters. You’re still holding him. His hand grips your jacket weakly. Your faces are inches apart. Breathing heavy. Shared air. For a moment, the world narrows to just this. Just the sound of his breath. Just the warmth of his skin under your hands. Sam clears his throat softly. “I’m gonna… check the perimeter.” You barely register him leaving. Dean swallows. “Did I-?” You shake your head quickly. “It wasn’t you.” His jaw tightens anyway. “What did it say?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He studies your face carefully. “I’d never-” he starts. You don’t let him finish. Because if he says the words out loud, if he denies them, it makes them real. Instead, you close the distance. Your hand slides up to the back of his neck. And you kiss him. It’s not tentative. It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s everything you’ve been swallowing for weeks. Frustration. Fear. Anger. Relief. His body goes rigid for half a second. Stunned. Then his hand comes up, gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. The kiss deepens, desperate and breathless. It’s messy. Real. When you finally pull back, you’re both breathing hard. Dean stares at you like he’s just been hit by lightning. “You-” he starts. You cut him off quietly. “Don’t.” His mouth closes. For a second, neither of you moves. Then you step back, putting space between you. “This doesn’t mean I’m not still mad at you.”  you say, voice steadier than you feel. A slow, crooked smirk tugs at his mouth despite everything. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” You shake your head slightly, heat rising in your cheeks. What the hell did you just do? Sam returns a moment later, pretending very hard not to look like he noticed anything.

“Guns are in the trunk.” he says casually. Dean straightens his jacket, rolling his shoulders like nothing monumental just happened. “Let’s get out of here.” The drive back to the motel is quieter than usual. Dean keeps one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting loosely near the gearshift. You sit in the passenger seat this time.

Neither of you looks at the other for too long. But when you do, There’s something new there. Something unspoken. Sam eventually drifts off in the backseat, exhaustion finally catching up with him. You stare out the window at the passing fields, your mind replaying the kiss over and over again. The heat of it. The way he held you. The way he looked at you afterward. You don’t know what it means. You don’t know what you’ve started. But you know you don’t regret it. Dean glances at you briefly. “You okay?” he asks quietly. You nod. “Yeah.” He studies the road again. A faint, proud smirk lingers at the corner of his mouth. You roll your eyes softly, but you can’t stop the small smile that follows. Back at the motel, the three of you move through the room in tired silence. Weapons get cleaned. Jackets get tossed aside. Shoes kicked off. You choose your own bed without comment. Dean doesn’t argue. He lies down on his. Sam turns off the lamp by the table. Darkness settles. You stare up at the ceiling, pulse still thrumming faintly. Across the room, you hear Dean shift once. You don’t look. Not tonight. But the air between the beds feels different now. Charged. Alive. And as sleep finally pulls you under, one thought loops quietly in your mind:

You have absolutely no idea what you’ve just done.

Part 8 FINAL PART

A/N: I hope you guys have enjoyed this chapter!! Pleae lmk if you would like to be added to the taglist or the new permanent taglist I am creating to be tagged in all of my future fics!!!

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