Ella

You saw it the moment his face shifted. Not rage, no, rage would have been human, hot, noisy, something that burned out. What moved through Damian was colder, private, a terrible kind of wonder, as if you had tried to carve out one of his ribs and wear it around your neck.

“You admit it,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “You already knew.”

“I wanted to hear you say it.”

The safehouse shrank around the words. Soap lingered on his skin, metal from the door, clean cotton, something sharp and stormlike clinging to him from wherever he’d been. A dark curl fell across his forehead, making him look younger for a moment, until you met his eyes. Nothing young there. Nothing soft. Nothing uncertain.

He looked devoted.

That was worse than hatred.

“Damian,” you tried, because his name had worked before, because some instinct in you remembered the way he had gone still when you said it, the way the sound had dragged something almost vulnerable through his face. But this time, his fingers tightened around your wrist, and the look he gave you made your throat close.

“No,” he said gently. “You don’t get to say my name like that after this.”

A thin, cold panic slid through you. “Like what?”

“Like you’re asking me to forgive you before you understand what you did.”

“What I did?” Your voice broke higher, incredulous and frightened. “You kidnapped me.”

“I brought you home.”

“This isn’t my home.”

His face softened.

It should not have terrified you, but it did. The softness was wrong; no doubt, no shame, no flicker of recognition that he stood in front of you in an underground room, your phone gone, your shoes hidden, three locks between you and the city. He looked at you like you had misunderstood the weather.

“It will be,” he said. “That is the point.”

You shook your head once, too fast, the motion barely more than a tremor. “You can’t actually believe that.”

“I don’t need belief.” His free hand rose. You flinched, but he only touched your face with two fingers, so lightly the gentleness felt obscene. “I have patience.”

You turned your face away from his hand.

The air shifted.

Damian’s expression went very, very still.

For a moment, there was only the blood in your ears and the low electrical purr of the walls. His hand hovered where your cheek had been, fingers curved, tenderness denied and left to rot. When he spoke, the words came slow, each one placed with surgical care.

“That was the second mistake.”

Your stomach dropped. “Second?”

“The first was trying to leave.” His eyes moved over you; bare feet, shaking legs, the shirt he’d given you because your own clothes were gone for washing, inspection, or whatever word he used for stealing pieces of your life and arranging them into obedience. “The second was pulling away when I was deciding to be kind.”

“You call this kind?”

“Yes.”

The answer came without hesitation.

Something inside you curled around the horror of that certainty.

Damian stepped closer. You backed into the door, metal cold through thin fabric at your spine. The keypad beside your shoulder blinked its small red light, useless as a dead star. He didn’t touch you, but caged you anyway, one hand braced against the wall, the other still holding your wrist. He lowered his face until his breath stirred the hair near your temple.

“You are going to learn the difference,” he whispered.

“Between what?”

“Between me being patient and me correcting you.”

Your skin prickled. “You said correction wasn’t pain.”

“It isn’t.” His mouth was close enough to your ear that every syllable felt like a hand sliding under your skin. “Pain is crude. Pain teaches panic. You already know how to panic.”

You hated that. Hated the quiet assessment in his voice. Hated that he had studied you enough to say it like a fact. Hated that your body, stupid frightened animal, had gone rigid and awake beneath his nearness, reading him in heat and breath and proximity while your mind screamed danger.

Worse, beneath the terror, a confused heat flickered low in your belly, shameful and unwanted. Your skin tingled with a response you could not control. Something traitorous in you tightened deep inside, hunger threading through the fear. You despised the way your body answered him, how it ached against your will, leaving you torn between mortification and longing.

“What are you going to do?” you asked.

Damian pulled back only enough to look at you.

There was a strange brightness in his eyes now. Not happiness. Not pleasure in any simple sense. It was a purpose, black and shining.

“I am going to remove the fantasy,” he said.

“What fantasy?”

“That there is anywhere for you to go.”

The words went through you like winter water.

“You are going to learn the difference between kindness and cruelty. You are going to learn the difference between when I am gentle and when I am angry.” His voice was low, almost a purr, but there was an edge to it, a razor’s sharpness that made you freeze.

“And you are going to learn very quickly that right now, I am being very, very kind.”

He pressed closer, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat of his body, the hard planes of his chest and abdomen. His free hand came up to cup your chin, fingers wrapping gently around your jaw as he tilted your head back, forcing you to meet his intense gaze.

“Now, listen carefully. I’m only going to explain this once.” His thumb brushed over your lower lip, a soft caress that belied the sternness in his eyes.

"Every time you pull away," he murmured, his thumb still tracing your lip, "I will pull you back twice as hard. Every time you try to run, I will chain you to my bed. Every time you speak against me, I will find a more... creative way to teach you silence."

His voice dropped lower, almost intimate now, a whisper against your ear. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

He made a low sound, almost pleased, as he watched the fear flicker in your eyes. He leaned back just enough to let the moment settle, then his hand slid from your chin to your throat, fingers curling there, careful but unyielding.

"Good girl." 

The praise landed cold, empty of warmth. His thumb lingered at your pulse, feeling the frantic beat beneath your skin.

"Now," he said softly, "let's make sure you understand compliance this time around."

His grip tightened, not enough to choke, just enough to remind you of his strength. His other hand found your wrist, steady and sure.

"When I tell you to do something, you do it immediately and without question. If I tell you to kneel, you kneel. If I tell you to strip, you strip. If I tell you to crawl, you crawl." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "Have I made myself clear?"

“Damian,” You wheeze out, but his hand stays where it is for a few more seconds, his eyes dark and calculating, searching your face for resistance. Then he releases, his hand falling away from your neck. 

The first breaths scraped your throat, sharp as glass.

“Come.”

There was nowhere left but him now.

You followed Damian back to the bed where you first woke, something cold twisting in your stomach.

Your gaze darted to where Damian waited, head tilted, watching.

He’s expecting something.

What?

“Your clothes.” Damian says.

“My what?” You repeat back, hoarsely? Maybe you heard him wrong. 

You hope you heard him wrong.

"Your clothes," Damian repeats, his voice flat and unreadable. He takes a step closer, his eyes dark and unwavering. "Take. Them. Off." He makes a small motion with his hand, indicating the shirt you're wearing, the only thing on your body now. "I said I was going to be kind. I am being kind by asking rather than tearing them away from you. Do not mistake my patience for leniency." His gaze drops pointedly to the hem of the shirt. "Now. Undress."

Your fingers shook on the hem of the shirt.

Humiliation burned, hot and raw. His hand at your throat lingered in your mind. You hesitated, just long enough for impatience to flicker across his face.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched you with that stillness, more frightening than any threat. The air pressed in, thick and close.

"If I have to do it myself," Damian said softly, his voice almost gentle, "it won't be kind anymore." His hands flexed slightly at his sides, as if preparing to reach out and grab the shirt himself. 

You knew what would happen if you didn’t move. He wouldn’t hesitate. Your heart hammered. Slowly, your shaking hands lifted the shirt, skin bared.

“Sit.” Damian says,

You know this part. The lessons have shaped you more than you’ll admit.

You sit at his feet, eyes lowered, shaking.

You have never felt more humiliated. Bare before a man who treats you like a pet. Like a thing.

A conquest.

Damian stood over you, calm and terrifying. Your nakedness meant nothing to him. You were something to be arranged, a possession finally in place. He reached out, fingers twisting in your hair, tilting your head back until your neck was bared and your eyes met his.

"Good," he murmured, the word devoid of affection, merely a marker of obedience achieved. "Humiliation is a teacher."

Damian's hand found the band of his sweatpants. Your eyes closed, bracing for what came next.

You heard the soft thud of clothes hitting the floor. When you opened your eyes, you saw him, hard beneath black boxers.

He stepped closer, filling your senses with his cologne: sandalwood, amber, oud. Heavy, almost nauseating.

Beneath it all, you caught something else.

Possessiveness.

Tears welled as the truth settled in. This was happening. This was your new reality.

His hand moved, slow and deliberate, and you whimpered. When you hesitated, his grip in your hair tightened, dragging your head back until you had to look up at him. The dominance, the satisfaction, the lack of remorse, something inside you cracked.

He pressed his thumb against your lips, forcing them apart. This was yours now.

Your lips parted, slow and mechanical, your body already learning its new role. Damian’s eyes flashed with approval. His hand left your hair for your jaw, guiding you, the other steady at your shoulder.

"Take me in," he commanded softly, his voice low and hypnotic. "Show me you're mine." His thumb pressed against your bottom lip again, pushing it down further. "All the way."

He watched your face twist, your cheeks hollow as you took him deep. He hit the back of your throat, made you gag, but you didn’t pull away. You took it, learning your place.

"That's it," He breathed out with a shudder, his hand in your hair tightening slightly. 

"You're doing so well." He pulled out a little, allowing you to breathe before he pushed back in, hitting that spot that made your eyes water. "Who do you belong to?"

His hand twisted in your hair, forcing your head back. Tears streaked your cheeks, his length filling your mouth.

"Who. Do. You. Belong. To." The words were sharp, demanding an answer. His hips began to move, fucking your face slow and deep, claiming you completely. "Say it with your mouth full." He pushed in harder, holding you there until you choked slightly before pulling out again. "Come on, Hayati. Say it."

You tried to form the words, garbled and wet, muffled by him. "Mmm-yours... Damian..." Saliva dripped down your chin, dignity gone. Damian groaned, the sound vibrating against your lips.

"Good," he murmured, easing his hips forward again, burying himself deeper. "Remember that feeling." He held your head still, taking his time. "Now, swallow."

His release came suddenly and hot, pulsing down your throat. He held your head, making you swallow, not letting anything escape.

The taste was bitter, salty, a reminder you belonged to him now. He groaned above you, emptying himself. When he finally pulled out, your lips were swollen, your mouth messy, your body shaking. He looked down, satisfied.

"Good girl."

He wiped the mess from your mouth with his thumb, cleaning you with a tenderness that chilled.

"Swallow it all," he murmured, watching your throat move. "Every drop belongs inside you." He tucked himself away, the moment gone cold. He looked down at you, naked and trembling. "Stand up."

Damian watched as you stood, his stare harsh and unrelenting.

“I hope this lesson has been enough for you to understand.” Damian says.

“This isn’t love, Damian,” you whisper out.

“You mistake me then,” Damian responds. You look up at him as your eyes meet.

“If not me, then someone else. If not here, then somewhere else. Gotham can’t have you. Gotham doesn’t deserve you.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Damian spoke again.

“I love you too much for this place to corrupt you.” Damian finishes, the words sitting heavy in your chest.

The words hung, heavy and close. Damian stepped in, eyes dark with something almost like pain.

"Don't confuse my methods with a lack of feeling," he said quietly, his voice dangerously soft. "This is protection. This is preservation. I am carving out a space for you where the city cannot touch what matters." His hand cupped your face, thumb brushing away fresh tears. "Gotham would eat you alive, turn your softness into something jagged and cruel."

“Perhaps I have been too harsh in my devotion.” Damian’s chest met your face, and you stumbled back, confused, but he kept walking you back until your knees hit the bed. You fell, landing hard on the mattress, the comforter soft beneath you. A stark contrast to the man who put it there.

“Open.” Damian says.

You open your mouth.

“No,” Damian corrects, pushing your thighs apart. Your heart drums in your ears, blood rushing everywhere, to your head, across your body, humiliatingly, down there.

Damian kneels, sinking to the floor as if he is about to begin prayer, kissing the inner parts of your upper thighs.

“I love you.” His voice is strained, as if the words were too much and not enough.

His lips trailed up your thigh, his hands pushing your legs wider. He was gentle now, nothing like he was a minute ago.

"I love you," he repeated, his voice muffled against your skin. His tongue flicked out, tasting you slowly, reverently, like he was worshipping something precious instead of taking it. 

Each kiss felt like an apology, each lick a promise. Love twisted into obsession."

Damian's mouth found your center, his tongue parting your folds and delving inside.

He was slow, deliberate, arms wrapped around your legs to keep you open.

He licked you slowly, tongue curling against your clit with gentle pressure.

"Stay because I love you," he murmured between licks, "Not because I'm keeping you captive." His fingers joined his mouth, sliding into you with ease, proving just how ready he'd made you earlier.

He looked up at you from between your thighs, his eyes filled with a raw intensity that was almost vulnerable. "I want you to choose me," he whispered against your sensitive flesh, his fingers curling inside you gently. "Not out of fear or obligation, but because you know I would burn Gotham down for you." His tongue circled your clit slowly, deliberately building pleasure instead of demanding it. "Stay with me willingly," he pleaded softly, almost breaking character in his desperation for genuine affection.

For a moment, you were caught between the ache he drew from your body and the chaos in your chest. Confusion warred with longing, a stubborn part of you resisting the comfort of his touch even as something deeper wanted to give in. Was it real, this tenderness? Or just another shape his devotion took to bind you tighter? You tried to catch your breath, furious at the tremor of need that moved through you alongside fear.

Your back arched, a broken moan escaping as his tongue worked you. Damian watched your face, grip tightening on your thighs. "Your body knows," he murmured, mouth sliding lower. "Even when your mind resists, this," two fingers pushed deeper, curling, "remembers who it belongs to." He bit your inner thigh, leaving a mark, then returned to you, focused and intent.

"Say my name when you come."

The orgasm hit, sudden and overwhelming.

You cried out his name, hips bucking against his mouth as you broke apart. Damian drank you in, licking through your climax, not missing a drop.

When you finally stilled, trembling, he crawled up your body, kissing every inch of skin. He hovered above you, eyes dark. "See?" he whispered. "You chose me even now." His lips brushed yours.

"You came apart calling my name," he breathed against your lips, his chest pressed warm against yours. His hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, an anchor, not a restraint. 

"That's what love sounds like." He kissed you softly, letting you taste yourself on his lips, and closed his eyes. "Stay with me, and I'll give you everything. Every cruel thing I've done in your name, every sin I carry, it will be worth it." His forehead rested against yours. "But leave me, and I'll follow.”

“Learn this if you learn nothing else, hayati: love is not freedom. Love is knowing when to obey the person who would burn the world before letting it touch you. ”

Then the woman in 3C cleared her throat.

It was not an ordinary throat clear. It was a declaration of war wearing pearls, the sort of sound produced by someone who had been storing disapproval in her chest since boarding and had finally decided the cabin deserved access to it. You looked up and found her turned just enough in her seat to face you without fully committing to the indignity of twisting around.

 She was elderly, elegant, and stiff-backed, with a silver bob sprayed into submission, coral lipstick, a cream cardigan buttoned over a pale blouse, and a handbag resting in her lap like a judgmental pet. Her eyes swept across Damian’s sketchbook, Jason’s jacket, Tim’s half-dead posture, Cass’s stillness, Duke’s watchful amusement, Dick’s easy charm, and finally settled on you with the hard little satisfaction of a woman who had found the person she intended to make responsible for her discomfort.

You knew that look. You had seen versions of it in school offices, charity events, grocery stores, hospital waiting rooms, and once in a museum where Damian had been accused of “lurking with intent” beside a Monet. It was the look people gave when they saw your family and decided love had exceeded the legal occupancy limit.

You gave her your politest smile. “Can I help you?”

“I certainly hope so,” she said.

Damian’s pencil paused against the page.

Dick leaned slightly into the aisle with that bright, well-meaning expression that made strangers believe diplomacy might survive the century. “Is something wrong, ma’am?”

The woman glanced at him, seemed briefly inconvenienced by the power of his face, then recovered. “I was speaking to the mother.”

Jason turned a page without looking up. “Which one? We rotate emotional support adults.”

“Jason,” you murmured.

The woman’s lips pinched. “That is exactly what I mean.”

You folded your hands in your lap because if you gave them nothing respectable to do, one might drift toward Damian’s wrist in warning or Jason’s shoulder in preemptive damage control. “What do you mean?”

“The noise,” she said. “The whispering, the constant shifting, the atmosphere.”

Duke blinked. “The atmosphere?”

“Yes,” she said, as if he had personally released a weather system into first class.

The bleakest part is that no one had been loud. The Wayne children in public could be many things, but when they needed to, they went quiet. Not normal quiet. Dangerous quiet. Rooftop quiet. The kind of quiet that makes sensible people check the exits and wonder why their instincts have started ringing little silver bells.

“I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable,” you said. “We’ll be mindful.”

“Mindful would have been arranging yourselves properly before boarding,” she replied, lifting her chin. “Children should not be scattered across the cabin like loose change.”

Jason’s eyes lifted over the top of his book.

The air changed almost imperceptibly, and a silk thread pulled tight. Dick’s smile stayed in place, but the warmth thinned at the edges. Cass’s gaze moved to the woman with calm precision. Duke straightened a little. Damian lowered his pencil, his mouth flattening into the expression he wore when deciding whether a person deserved mercy or a footnote.

“They’re in assigned seats,” you said.

“They’re practically surrounding people.”

“We do that,” Tim mumbled, still half-asleep. “Family tradition.”

Cass gently shut his laptop the rest of the way.

The woman stared at him. “Is he ill?”

“Sleep deprived,” Duke said. “Very tragic. Very Gotham.”

“Then perhaps he shouldn’t travel.”

Tim opened one eye. “I suggested cargo. Nobody listened.”

“Tim,” you said softly.

The woman seized on that tiny crack of chaos with visible satisfaction. “You see? Disrespectful. Dramatic. And that one looks as if he is about to start a fight.”

She pointed at Jason.

Jason looked down at himself, then around the cabin, as if searching for whatever violent criminal she could possibly mean. “Me?”

“You know it’s you,” Dick said quietly.

Jason placed one hand over his heart. “I’m reading Austen.”

“That does not comfort people the way you think it does,” Duke murmured.

The woman turned toward Damian next, apparently determined to catalog every offense by row and blood pressure. “And that one has been staring at me.”

Damian looked up slowly, and the temperature of the cabin seemed to drop by several degrees. “I have not. I have been drawing my dog.”

“You looked at me twice.”

“You were in my line of sight.”

“Damian,” you said.

His jaw tightened, but he looked back down. “Apologies.”

It sounded less like an apology and more like a royal pardon delivered under protest.

The woman clearly mistook your restraint for permission. Some people did that. They saw courtesy and decided it was an unlocked door; they saw motherhood and mistook softness for a public utility. “Large families like this always think the world should accommodate them,” she said, loudly enough now for the nearest passengers to hear, but not quite loudly enough to admit she wanted an audience.

“We paid for our seats too,” you replied.

“Yes, but you chose to bring this entire… assembly.”

Dick’s smile vanished.

It did not vanish dramatically. It simply left his face like a light being switched off.

“Assembly?” he repeated.

“Dick,” you murmured.

“I’m just checking the vocabulary.”

The woman looked at him, perhaps sensing for half a second that she had stepped onto a floorboard with teeth beneath it, but then her attention returned to you. You were always the safer battlefield. Bruce was too imposing, Jason too visibly unpleasant when provoked, Damian too sharp, Cass too unreadable, Tim too dangerous in proximity to electronics, Duke too watchful, and Dick too charming until he was suddenly not charming at all. 

But you looked like the mother, the soft one, the one expected to absorb the blow and turn it into an apology. And in truth, you were their stepmother. It was a title that knew how to wear armor and softness at the same time, and you had learned to hold both, whether the world recognized the difference or not.

“I understand wanting to give children opportunities,” she said, her voice sweet in the way spoiled milk might be sweet if it learned manners. “But some children simply aren’t suited for public spaces.”

Jason’s book closed.

Not loud. Loud would have been less threatening. He closes it with one finger still marking his place, slow and deliberate, and lifts his eyes.

“Careful,” he said.

The woman recoiled, one hand fluttering to her pearls. “Excuse me?”

You looked at him. “Jason.”

“What?” he said. “It’s good advice. Lots of sudden drops on planes.”

“We are not doing this.”

A flight attendant named Maribel appeared in the aisle with the cautious smile of a woman who had smelled smoke before the alarm had started screaming. “Is everything alright here?”

The old woman turned to her immediately. “I’m being harassed.”

Jason made a sound like his soul had tripped over furniture.

Dick leaned forward. “No, she isn’t.”

“She is,” Tim murmured. “Being disagreed with.”

“Not helpful,” Duke whispered.

Maribel looked between all of you with admirable professionalism. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I asked this woman to control her children, and they became rude and threatening.”

“Threatening?” Dick asked, and the word came out quieter than before.

“That one told me to be careful.” She pointed at Jason again.

Jason lifted a hand. “General safety reminder.”

“Please stop helping,” you told him.

“I have never helped once in my life.”

“That’s true,” Dick said.

“Do not defend my character right now.”

The woman turned back to you. “Are you going to allow this?”

Your smile thinned. “I’ve allowed a lot less than you think.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“I’m sorry if you feel disturbed,” you said, and though your voice stayed calm, you could feel your patience fraying beneath it, thread by thread. “But my children have done nothing to you.”

The words changed the cabin.

My children.

They were simple words, but they settled over the rows with a weight that made several of the kids go quiet in a different way. Dick’s expression softened for half a second, unguarded and young despite everything he had survived. Jason looked away, jaw working once as if the sentence had struck somewhere too private to acknowledge. Tim stared at his closed laptop. Cass’s gaze warmed with a softness that was nearly invisible unless you knew how to read her. Duke’s smile tucked itself away into something careful and touched. Damian’s pencil hovered above the page, unmoving.

The woman missed all of it, naturally.

“They’re not children,” she said. “Half of them are grown men.”

“Then stop tattling on them like they stole your crayons,” Jason muttered.

“Jason Peter Todd,” you said.

He winced. “That was unnecessary.”

The woman lifted her chin. “In my day, young people respected their elders.”

“In your day, planes had smoking sections,” Tim said, then looked immediately betrayed by his own mouth.

Duke covered his face with one hand.

Cass patted Tim’s arm.

The woman gasped. “Are you going to allow that?”

Tim looked at you with the doomed expression of a man who had wandered barefoot into a courtroom. “I may have over-participated.”

“You think?”

“Statistically, yes.”

The woman leaned back, offended dignity gathering around her like a shawl. “I don’t know what kind of household you run, but clearly these children have been given too much freedom.”

Your anger always arrives quietly. It isn’t fire, an explosion, or something that cracks through a room and demands attention. It gathers like weather over dark water, slow and heavy, giving people too many chances to mistake the horizon for peace.

“You can complain about the seats,” you said, voice low enough that the nearby rows had to fall silent to catch it. “You can complain about whispering, or atmosphere, or whatever else you’ve decided is unbearable about sitting near my family. But you will not talk about my children like they are burdens someone dragged onto this plane.”

The woman’s face stiffened. “I never said burdens.”

“You implied it.”

“I only meant,” she said, wearing a small, ugly smile now, “that it is generous of you to take on so many complicated young people. Though generosity does have limits.”

For a moment, no one moved.

The engines hummed beneath the floor. Sunlight flashed on the woman’s pearls. Damian went rigid beside you, and you felt the barely contained fury in him like a blade heating under cloth. Jason’s stare flattened into something cold. Dick’s hand tightened around the armrest. Tim was fully awake now, which was rarely a good sign. Cass became too still. Duke’s expression lost every trace of humor.

You reached over without looking and touched two fingers to Damian’s wrist.

“No,” you said softly. “It does not.”

Before the woman could answer, the cabin shifted.

You saw him first.

Bruce came through the curtain at the front of the plane with his dark hair slightly mussed, his suit jacket folded over one arm, his white shirt fitted across his shoulders in a way that made the aisle seem narrower by personal insult. He thanked the flight attendant near the galley, then walked back toward you with that quiet, controlled presence that made the world appear to straighten itself as he passed. No music swelled, no cape unfurled, no dramatic shadow fell across the cabin, though Jason would have paid actual money for all three. Bruce simply returned.

The woman turned because everyone else did.

Then she saw him.

And immediately went silent.

Not quiet. Silent.

It was the kind of silence that happened when someone realized the thunderstorm had a name, a jawline known to every gossip magazine in Gotham, and a very expensive watch.

Bruce stopped beside your row. His eyes moved over you first, always you first, and then over the children with a swift, practiced precision that missed nothing: Jason’s closed book, Damian’s clenched hands, Dick’s missing smile, Tim’s awake stare, Cass’s stillness, Duke’s sharpened expression, Maribel standing in the aisle with the fragile composure of a woman praying no one committed a felony at cruising altitude. Finally, he looked at the woman.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

His voice was polite, even, and dangerous as a locked door.

The woman swallowed. “Mr. Wayne.”

Jason leaned back in his seat, delighted in the way only Jason could be when consequences arrived wearing cufflinks. “You were asking where our father was, right?”

“Jason,” Dick whispered.

“No, I’m helping.”

Bruce did not look away from the woman. “Were you?”

Her mouth opened, then closed. “There was a small misunderstanding.”

“A small misunderstanding,” Bruce repeated.

He glanced at you. You lifted one shoulder in a tiny motion that told him both nothing and everything. You could handle it. You had handled it. But Bruce looked at the children again, and something in his expression cooled.

“My wife,” he said, “is usually the most patient person in any room.”

The woman tried to smile. “Yes, well…”

“So if she became impatient,” Bruce continued, “I assume there was a reason.”

The smile died.

Maribel looked down, clearly fighting for her life somewhere behind her professional expression.

The woman clutched her handbag. “I didn’t realize this was your family.”

Bruce’s gaze sharpened. “That should not have mattered.”

Jason looked as if Christmas had arrived early and brought legal counsel.

Damian looked like justice had descended in human form and found the seating satisfactory.

The woman stared at her lap. “Of course.”

Bruce turned slightly to Maribel. “Has my family caused any disruption?”

“No, Mr. Wayne,” Maribel said. “They’ve been respectful.”

Bruce looked back at the woman. “Then I trust there won’t be further issues.”

It sounded like trust.

It was not trust.

“No,” the woman said stiffly. “There won’t be.”

“Thank you.”

Bruce sat down beside you and took your hand as if he had not just folded the entire argument into a neat little coffin and slid it beneath the seat in front of him.

For several seconds, no one spoke.

Then Jason whispered, “Dad voice still works.”

Dick exhaled a laugh, shaky with relief. “That wasn’t even full dad voice.”

Tim leaned back in his seat. “Full dad voice requires a first and middle name.”

Damian sniffed. “Father did not need volume. His disappointment was sufficient.”

Duke nodded solemnly. “Artisanal disappointment.”

Cass signed something with one hand that you couldn’t see fully from your seat.

Dick choked.

“What did she say?” you asked.

Dick grinned. “She said Bruce has resting principal face.”

Bruce looked at Cass.

Cass looked back, serene and merciless.

His mouth twitched. “Not inaccurate.”

You finally let out a breath, only then noticing how much tension had settled in your shoulders, tucked there like a smuggled knife. Bruce’s thumb moves slowly over your knuckles, hidden beneath the armrest where only you can feel it.

“What happened?” he asked quietly.

“She had opinions,” you said.

“About?”

“Our atmosphere.”

Bruce glanced around the cabin. “Our atmosphere.”

“Yes. Apparently we travel with a weather system.”

Jason muttered, “Accurate.”

You lowered your voice. “She said generosity has limits.”

Bruce’s hand stilled.

Damian looked up, his chin lifting with sharp, wounded dignity. “She implied we were burdens.”

“Damian,” you said softly.

“It is relevant.”

Bruce went very quiet.

Then he looked at them one by one. Dick, Jason, Tim, Cass, Duke, Damian. His expression did not transform dramatically, because Bruce’s face had always been a locked house with only a few windows lit, but something deeper moved beneath it, something heavy and certain and fiercely held.

“None of you are burdens,” he said.

The sentence landed gently, and somehow that made it heavier.

Tim looked down. Cass’s eyes warmed. Duke swallowed. Jason’s jaw tightened as he stared hard at his book. Damian glared at his sketchbook with ferocious concentration. Dick smiled faintly, the kind of smile that looked like it had been stitched out of old hurt and gratitude.

Bruce’s voice stayed low. “Not to me. Not to your mother. Not ever.”

Your throat tightened before you could stop it, because even when a truth was known, there were moments when hearing it aloud made it real in a new place.

The woman in 3C sat so still she seemed to be trying to become upholstery.

Maribel returned with drinks a moment later, giving you a quiet look of solidarity as she stopped beside your row. “More water, Mrs. Wayne?”

“Yes, please.”

“Anything else?”

“Coffee,” Tim said at once.

“No,” you, Bruce, Dick, Jason, Duke, and Damian said together.

Tim looked betrayed. “I need it to live.”

“You need sleep to live,” you said.

“I’ve tried sleep. We’re incompatible, swiped left.”

Cass accepted the coffee Maribel had already poured and placed it on her own tray table, far from Tim’s reach.

Tim stared at her with hollow despair. “Cruelty from the quietest corner.”

Jason reopened his book. “This family hates innovation.”

“This family hates whatever happens when you drink airplane coffee after thirty hours awake,” Duke said.

“Thirty-one,” Tim corrected.

Bruce looked at him.

Tim closed his eyes. “Allegedly.”

Slowly, your family settles back into its shape. Dick makes Maribel laugh with something kind and easy. Cass watches the clouds like they’re speaking a language she almost understands. Duke quietly guesses which passengers are afraid of flying and keeps being right every time. Tim actually falls asleep, mouth slightly open, protected from caffeine by Cass and whatever higher power is on duty. Jason goes back to reading Austen with the grim focus of a man determined to win an argument with a woman who will never know she’s part of it. Damian finishes his drawing and, after a small hesitation, tears it carefully from the sketchbook and hands it to you.

You took it with both hands. Titus stood in the center of the page wearing a cape and a tiny cowl, one paw planted on a defeated vacuum cleaner.

“He looks brave,” you said.

“He is brave,” Damian replied.

“Is the vacuum cleaner dead?”

“Subdued.”

“Of course.”

Jason leaned over. “Can Titus have a gritty reboot?”

“No,” Damian said.

“I’m seeing rain, vengeance, tragic kibble trauma.”

“Titus already has depth.”

“He eats socks.”

“That is a layered flaw.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and Bruce’s hand tightened around yours, his thumb brushing once over your skin like punctuation.

The old woman did not turn around again.

After a while, when the cabin had settled into that soft middle-of-flight hush and the clouds beyond the windows stretched white and endless beneath the wing, you leaned forward just enough for your voice to reach her. “I hope the rest of the flight is more comfortable for you.”

She turned slightly, embarrassed and stiff, no longer sharp enough to cut with. “Thank you.”

You sat back.

Jason stared at you. “You’re too nice.”

“No,” you said. “I’m exactly nice enough.”

Bruce’s gaze warmed. “Yes, you are.”

Damian frowned. “She did not deserve courtesy.”

“Courtesy isn’t always about deserve,” you said, watching the clouds glow like pale silk beyond the window. “Sometimes it’s about who you want to be when someone else is small.”

Damian absorbed that with the deep displeasure of someone who had asked for ammunition and received a philosophy lesson.

Jason groaned softly. “Great. Moral improvement at thirty thousand feet.”

“Hydrate,” you told him. “It’ll pass.”

Bruce lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles, the gesture hidden from most of the cabin by the angle of his body, but not from you. His lips were warm against your skin, brief and old-fashioned and tender in a way that made your heart ache.

“You were magnificent,” he murmured.

“I was irritated.”

“Magnificently irritated.”

You smile despite yourself and look around at your family, scattered across the cabin just like the woman said. Loose change, she called them, or close enough. But she was wrong, the way people are always wrong when they mistake what they can count for what they can understand.

Not loose change, you thought.

A constellation.

Bright, stubborn, impossible stars, scattered across the dark and still belonging to the same sky.

It's shamelessly shining into your eye, the ring around his finger and how he was rubbing against it so slowly.

Wow, I need some alone time right now—

"Focus." he murmured under his breath, blank expression written all over his face as he caught you staring.

You bit back a loud, exasperated groan from leaving your lips and threw your head back, feeling a tinge of anxiety and also partially exposed as soon as he caught you staring at his hands.

This couldn't get more embarrassing, right?

"Is everything alright, Mrs. Wayne?"

"O-Of course... Everything is fine."

Everything was fine. You tried to cover your own flinch the second Damian's hand rested on top of your thigh under the table, fingers tapping a soft rhythm before it slid further.

Stop playing you breathed out shakily, hand grasping his wrist.

Make me he chuckled at your weak grip.

II. — SHIRTLESS SPARRING ,

It was actually part of your life now after you spent so many years being together with Damian Wayne, or sometimes, in moments like these, you preferred to call him Damian Al Ghul instead.

Not to forget, you don't even understand when it started to bug you so much. Because the first time you watched him sparr without a shirt, you were only grinning and cheering him on. And now it was bugging you immensely.

Bug you in not a necessarily bad way.

You are staring once again, watching how his body moved with fluidity and flawlessly within the air, manoeuvring in the silence and without breaking the rhythm.

Every step is a careful and planned out approach.

Every skill is polished throughout day and night since his childhood days.

He does not hesitate to move like the wind, lets himself get carried and follows it like a lifeline.

It takes a while until he breaks into sweat, the first droplets of them forming on his neck — gliding down his collarbone before it reached his chest. And you noticed that the entirety of him is well built.

His body is not a symbol of beauty but rather one of dedication and hard work, reaching the extreme and fulfilling the best someone can.

Your gaze wander from his toned chest to his arms, seeing the muscles flexing through his movements. His golden brown skin started to glisten under the trail of sweat that accompanied his body like a true companion.

"—Careful now before your eyes end up at the wrong place." he paused his training, gaze set on you.

The heat immediately rushed up to your neck as you got caught another time. "Is that so..?" you trailed off awkwardly and threw a towel into his direction that he caught in ease.

"I would be more than happy if you sparred with me." he wiped off the excess sweat with the towel, "I figured you might want to join."

Wrong, wrong buddy. You don't want to join in his sparring at all.

"You are always free to leave if this bores you."

Very wrong.

III. — INTIMIDATING HEIGHT DIFFERENCE ,

You do remember the days when you were the same height as him. Or hell, when you were a few centimetres taller than you. You remember how you were teasing the shit out of him.

Truth to be told? It was fun, seeing how he narrowed his eyes ever so slightly in annoyance. It was adorable to see him inwardly fuming, while telling you that you will see in the future.

It was nice while it lasted. The moment he was taller than you by an inch? You knew it was over for you. And he grew taller than you both had anticipated, standing almost a head taller than you. You have to crane your neck to meet his gaze — crane your fucking neck. It's the biggest humiliation of your whole life, entire existence but it's a loss you will forever cheer for since it makes you feel certain things.

"Hayati, you seem lost." you don't seem lost, you are lost — lost in the way the endearing term rolled off his tongue so easily, lost how he stares down at you. "Shall we move out of the busy hall?"

"No wait—I'm right where I want to be."  you choked out, almost tripping over your words.

Even if the room was filled with socialites and high rich people. But they didn't matter as you stood in the very corner of the room, all noises and background sounds.

The proximity draws you in unbearably hot, the way he gazes at you is making you sweat, he makes you nervous — makes you feel sixteen again when your crush has first developed. It was unfair, it was killing you.

Your lips formed a thin line as you suppressed a groan from leaving your throat, head falling forward and your forehead leaned against his shoulder, your grip around the glass tight.

"It's unfair. You are unfair, I hate it."

It enticed a chuckle out of him, voice low and rich — god, it made your knees weak.

Actually, you do know he doesn't do it intentionally. He doesn't even know what effect he has on you and this makes you tweak. You are so sure that you could bet your life on it.

He doesn’t do it intentionally.

Right, keep telling yourself that.

Yet the way he eyes you tells a different tale. It’s not the possessive and selfish kind of eyeing — but the one that forces you to tell the truth, that makes your heart stutter and your breath hitch.

“Stop.” you avert your gaze from him, heat leisurely crawling up to your head.

“Hmm?” there’s this underlying smugness under that hum, breaking you. “With what?”

“Staring—obviously.” you hissed before covering your face with both of your hands. “It’s so unfair!”

“Pray tell, what makes anything so unfair? You’ve been mentioning it since the very start.” he titled his head slightly.

“You—! You, you…”

“Lost your words? Poor you." the mock sympathy.

Silence settled, your eyes set on his fingers for a while, then drifting to the shirt that barely covered anything (it covered him whole) before they landed on his eyes.

“I noticed.” he whispered.

“N-Noticed what?” you played dumb.

Damian grasped your wrist before you could make an attempt to flee, fingers curling around your wrist and raising your hand towards his lips — leans close to your hands and sharp breath fanning against your skin.

A shiver ran down your spine at the cooling sensation.

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t smirk — nothing to feed your suspicions.

“Do not play coy now.” the gentle pressure of a touch, lips ghosting over your wrist.

“What…” you were looking everywhere but him.

“To be frank, I did not expect you to enjoy me in such an intimate way.”

“I do not..!”

“No need to be shy now.”

Suddenly — he pulled you close with one swift and steady movement, pressing your body close to his while his free hand snaked its way behind the small of your back, burying his face deep against your neck.

“Ack—!” you yelped out in surprise, hyperaware of every touch now.

The way he interlocked your fingers, the way he breathed down against your shoulder, the way he refused to let go.

“Shall we take it to secluded place, Habibti?”

© 2026 kumasakka — do not plagiarize , copy , modify , translate our work ⸝⸝

divider source — @cursed-carmine , @uzmacchiato ⸝⸝

author’s note — what if i open a taglist is someone interested erm or never mind haha also PLS i’ve been on a writing trip recently but only post short ass boring drabbles . yet lately? those damian wayne requests bring the longer fics out DAMN (sobs in i could never write a +5k wc fic) vro I wanna write about cass so bad she makes me giggle ⸝⸝

Like maybe he'd stumble a little when sneaking through your apartment window but who are you to critique an assassin’s stealth skills?

Maybe his breathing is a little ragged but you'd probably just assume the mission he came back from was a real work out.

It's not weird that he's looking at you like you’re an oasis and he's been roaming the desert for days. He always kinda looks at you like that so that wouldn't really tip you off either.

Sure, his post-mission kiss is more of a make out but he's never really been one for fleeting kisses, always more of a deep and lasting touches kinda guy. That's probably why he can't seem to stop his hands from roaming your body and slipping under your pj's.

Maybe you'd notice he's running a little hotter than usual but Damian always runs hot so it wouldn't be that strange.

He probably had a rough day at work and a rough night too so who are you to stop him from placing hot kisses all down your neck. Especially when he mumbles such sweet words against the skin.

“Ya Hayati, I missed you. Say you missed me too.”

Sure, maybe the way he undresses is a little more rushed than normal. Sure, maybe the look in his eyes when he undresses you is more desperate than usual but he's got a lot of feelings pent up in that tall, muscular body and sometimes he can only let them out in times like these so who are you to question it? Maybe you just conveniently ignore the fact that he's already hard and leaking.

Who are you to question the emphatic way he tastes you, how his hands trace your hips and thighs like they're sacred? Or how his sweet talk is especially chatty that night, breathlessly waxing poetic about how you're so good to him and how much he needs you.

"I need you so deeply it hurts me. It burns, Beloved."

Now, It's not odd how he stares into your eyes, hands intertwined while he pushes inside you. What is odd is just how vocal he is. Usually, he's the one teasing you for being loud but not tonight. You don't really notice though since his moans are still mostly drowned out by yours.

Ok, maybe after the third round (and counting) you should've suspected something was off but by that point you barely have the brain capacity to form a full sentence. He's hitting all the right spots, your hands are intertwined and he's looking at you with eyes fill of pure love.

It's only the next morning, when you wake up sweaty and aching all over, do you actually consider that maybe Damian wasn't acting completely himself.

Only to be confirmed when the man in question mumbles into your neck, thick with sleep and rough from the night before.

“You should thank Ivy yourself.”

Everyone noticed the shift.

They expected it much earlier actually but after you and Damian started dating nothing really changed about the way you interacted in public. You just acted like close friends, like you had since you were kids.

Then, all of a sudden, touches between you seemed to linger, conversations were being whispered into each others ears instead of just spoken, even eye contact seemed more intimate.

And the worst part was that Damian's siblings were forced to watch it all. It's not that they weren't happy for him, it was just weird seeing their moody, stick-up-the-ass baby brother be soft and even…loving?

It didn't take a house full of detectives to know why this sudden change could've occurred.

“They're fucking."

Multiple heads turn to Jason and he clarifies, “That's why they're acting so weird all of a sudden."

None of them have to ask who he's talking about.

“They’re just acting like a couple."

Duke comes to your defence. “Even though it really is... weird."

Everyone in the room sounds their agreements.

“It's getting worse than weird. It's getting disturbing. I caught them in the library." Jason grumbles, cringing at the memory.

It was a quiet, peaceful evening. You'd both spent a good two hours in comfortable silence until you got to a lull in your book and began to find staring at your boyfriend more interesting.

You shuffle closer on the comfy couch, gauging just how engrossed Damian is in his book. Without looking up, he slips an arm around your waist to bring you closer and you take that as a hint.

“What are you reading?" Damian flips the book closed to show you the cover.

“Poetry?"

He nods, his thumb rubbing at your side as you shuffle even closer.

“What are these?"

You point to the little sticky notes he has in some of the pages. Instead of answering, he turns to one of the pages and reads it out loud.

"هرگز نمیرد آن که دلش زنده شد به عشق ثبت است بر جریده عالم دوام ما"

"One whose heart has been revived by love can never die. Our everlastingness is engraved upon the cosmic scroll."

- Hafez

As he mutters the last word, you don't even try to hide the way you stare at him and he's just as subtle himself. You carefully lean in, so close you can feel his breath and you close the gap. He slides the book away to pull you onto his lap as the kiss grows deeper. Your hand on his cheek keeps him close as he pushes you down on the couch.

A sly whistle makes you both jump apart, turning to see Jason standing in the middle of the library.

“Well that's everlastingly engraved into my skull, thanks."

You avert your gaze, face hot and palms suddenly sweaty. Damian clicks his tongue and sneers,

“Always where you're not wanted, Todd."

Jason, not fazed at all by the harsh words, just shrugs his ridiculously large shoulders.

“I didn't say it wasn't romantic, little man. I just didn't need to see it."

Damian's so mad he just picks his book up, grabs your hand and storms out of the room.

“The library!" Jason emphasizes again.

Tim scoffs, “Please, we caught them in the theatre room."

“No way." Cass voices in amused disbelief and only gets a solemn nod from Steph.

You weren't trying to start something, you were just so warm and cozy in his arms. So content as the movie played on in front of you. You really didn't mean any harm when you just turned your head to the side and lightly kissed his neck.

But the way he tensed up a little at the touch, the way his breath hitched softly and his arm around you flexed at just the little kiss. You just had to do it again, and again and again. Your hand sliding up his chest to feel his heartbeat, your lips feeling his pulse right under his warm skin.

“Ya Hayati." He warned.

“I’m not doing anything.” Your words are muffled against his skin. "And if I was, no one ever comes in here anyway."

Apparently, that was all the convincing he needed. He brings your thigh over his waist, feeling up the fat there as he moves higher until his hand cups your ass. Whatever scene plays on the projector is forgotten as you suck love bites onto his neck, making him let out addicting sighs you just have to hear again. He pulls your hips closer, one hand on your ass, the other around your waist.

Just when Damian slips a hand up your shirt, the doors swing open and you hear a high-pitched screech.

“Is this what you do in here all the time!?”

Stephanie shouts and Tim makes a disgusted groaning sound from behind her.

Damian sighs, reluctantly letting you shuffle out of his hold and sit next to him, staring straight ahead with a guilty expression like you're being scolded by a parent.

“Get a room! You literally have a room!”

“Do you think they do that a lot in there?"

The others all make various faces of horror at Cass’s genuine question.

“Alfred, you've probably caught them more times than any of us have, right?"

The old man doesn't falter as he transfers more cookies and cakes from his silver tray to the table. He doesn't say anything for a while, he probably wanted to stay out of this particular conversation.

“While I am very happy for Master Damian and his lady…" The butler sets the last cupcake down. "I am also glad that they have chosen to journey out to the lady's dorm today for some…alone time, I presume.“

Your roommate said she'd be out all night at a party and you weren't going to let that once in a blue moon opportunity slip past.

So now you've got your boyfriend, sitting on the end of your bed with your thighs on either side of his and his face buried in your neck, sweetly kissing the bruises he leaves in his wake.

Your fingers lightly, card up from the base of his head into his dark hair. You feel him shiver, feel him let out a shaky breath against your skin, his fingers flexing on your hips.

It was so fascinating seeing how he reacted to you. It was like seeing him for the first time again, a whole new side of him. You've known each other since you were kids but suddenly there's so many new things to explore. What would happen if you touched here? Is he sensitive there? What sounds does he make when you touch there?

You gently push him down so he leans back with his elbows on the bed. Your hand swiftly slips under his shirt to drag your nails up his toned torso. His half lidded eyes watch as his abs flex under the soft touch and he tries not to move his hips too much. You start dragging your nails back down to the waistband of his pants, tracing his v-line.

And then a knock on the door frightens you so much, you would've fallen off the bed if Damian hadn't caught you.

“Hey, I know you said you'd be…busy but the function got cancelled so…"

You both heave a sorrowful sigh and you wordlessly shuffle off your bed.

“I have an idea."

Is all Damian mumbles while slipping his shoes on and plucking his keys from his pocket.

“So…what do we do about it?"

“The same thing we did with Master Bruce and Miss Kyle. We ignore it."

Steph and Tim give pained groans.

“Or we convince them to move out." Jason throws out into the room.

“You think Damian would ever live in a house that isn't a mansion?" Tim turns to Alfred to ask, "Didn't he call this place a hovel when he first came here?"

The older man hums. “He also said my cooking was atrocious."

Multiple gasps ring throughout the room.

You've been driving for about fifteen minutes when he brings the car to a stop. You sit up to get a good look at the incredible view in front of you and then realise where you are.

“A makeout point?"

You smugly ask, as if you aren't kicking your shoes off as you speak.

“There's no one here. The windows are tinted." He says, while pushing his seat back. “Unless you'd like to try the manor again?"

He barely gets to finish before you're clambering out of your seat and onto his lap. Your lips are on his once again and he pulls you closer so your hips meet through way too many layers of clothes and leans forward to press your back against the steering wheel.

The smell of leather is strong and the space is awkwardly tight but neither of you seem to mind that much, lost in the way the other tastes.

After some effort you push him back down on the seat and pull your sweatshirt off. You're not trying to waste anymore time and neither is he.

His hands clutch at your hips as he takes in the sight of you in the darkly lit car with only the city lights behind you. The look in his eyes matched with the dim lighting may be your new favourite thing. You unbutton his jeans and unzip them until there's nothing but his boxers keeping him away from you.

He sits up, trailing light kisses on the swell of your breast just above your bra as his fingers unbutton your jeans and pull them down so you can grind your heat against him with nothing but the thin material of your underwear between you.

You wonder if he can feel your wetness as you circle your hips, catching his every little noise and reaction. You just need to feel him, need to feel your bare skin against his, his hot, hard-

BZZZT BZZZT BZZZT

You both jump as the sound plays from the car's speakers. Looking towards the screen on the dash you both groan when you read,

“Father”

He sinks into the car seat, bringing you with him to lay on his chest.

“Maybe he's just checking in?" You mumble into his shoulder with false hope. Damian sighs and answers the call.

“I'm busy."

“I need you in the cave. Now."

You try not to sigh to loudly or move too much, convinced Bruce would somehow know exactly what you're doing by just the sound alone.

Damian squeezes your hip in a little apology and you nod into his neck as a show of understanding.

“I'll be there."

He hangs up the call and you awkwardly shuffle off his lap and into the passenger seat. Buttoning up your jeans as he does the same.

He starts the car and pulls away a little less skillfully than usual. You try not to think about the clear wet patch you saw on his boxers or the state of your panties as you slip your sweatshirt back on.

You stare at your lap instead, where your hands are clasped above your clenched thighs. He'll have to take a cold shower to get rid of his…problem, maybe you could use one too.

You gasp out loud at the brilliant idea and Damian looks over with confusion and a little worry.

“What?"

“Master Damian? Dinner is ready."

Everyone just got done with an important meeting in the cave and the dinner table is being set already. All participants are accounted for except two.

Alfred knocks on the door again and waits a moment before easing it open. He scans the empty room for the two missing guests and notices the closed bathroom door.

He then hears the shower running and some other noises he'd rather not have heard.

The old man slips out of the room rather quickly, making his way to the dining room.

“I suspect Master Damian and his lady will be late for dinner.”

Water drips down in-between where your naked bodies are pressed together.

Your back arches against the cold tile as he finally gives you everything you've been craving.

“The only thing worse than being away from you is having you constantly ripped right from my hands, Rouhi"

Your moans meld together and echo around you in the small space. You tip your head back, letting out a groan as he gives a particularly deep thrust. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders just to keep you grounded.

You push back against his thrusts, taking him as deep as you possibly can as his pace increases. Wet slapping sounds get drowned out by the shower stream as you pull him into a deep, messy kiss. Your legs hook around his hips to keep him close as you finally release all that pent up tension, your heat clenching down, taking everything he gives you and more. His hips stutter and his grip eases slightly, still keeping you as close as possible as you both come down. 

Once he's caught his breath, he leans back just enough to see your face, your head tipped back against the white tiles. His hands rubbing circles on your back and thigh where he holds you against the shower wall. 

“I found a place. In the city." He pauses, taking a breath while you process what he's saying.

"Do you want to move in with me?" You blink at him, stunned for a moment by how pretty he looks with his hair soaked, wet eyelashes batting at darker than usual cheeks.

You then realise he's waiting for an answer, as if it wasn't obvious. You give him a breathy, “Yeah, of course." and laugh a little, pushing up a strand of hair from his forehead as a relieved smile plays on his face.

The site makes your hips twitch and he sucks in a breath. You can feel him getting hard again inside you so you bring him into a wet kiss.

Your bodies start to slowly grind against each other, finding a new rhythm. You separate to mumble against his lips,

“Can we check it out tomorrow?”

That's how you got here, walking into the dining room twenty minutes late for dinner, hair still damp, cheeks still hot.

You take your seat and quietly thank Alfred for the food before digging in. There's an awkward silence that follows and you desperately try to ignore it. You feel Damian's foot nudge yours and can't help a little smile show through.

Damian clears his throat.

“We're moving out."

He announces to the table, as blunt as ever. There's a moment of silence before everyone reacts.

Stephanie, Tim, Jason and Duke all give various groans of “Thank God." and "Finally!“ while Alfred and Bruce share knowing looks with each other.

You'd be embarrassed if you weren't so very excited at the idea of living together with Damian, who doesn't react at all to his families dramatics, quietly eating his food in peace.

You smile down at your plate, chancing a glance up only to make eye contact with Cass, who quickly looks away, her cheeks a shade of pink you've never seen on her before.

It's then that you realise that Cass’s room is right next to Damian's which means her room shares a wall with his bathroom.

You give a pained sigh, looking back down at your food, you'll have to apologize to her later? Or maybe never bother her with your presence ever again?

You nudge Damian's foot with yours and he gives the slightest little smile. You vaguely hear Tim yell something like, “It's just weird!" but you're too busy staring at your boyfriend to really pay attention.

"Robin," his earpiece hisses, "pay attention."

But how can he?—when all he can think about is your eyes?

So pretty. His pretty girl. His beloved lover. Left pouting on the bed awaiting his return. Even when you know it might take him all night to get back to you.

Lord, he hates leaving you for patrol.

You were just so excited, giggling and batting your lashes at him as you flashed your nails and gushed, and all he could think about was the feeling of them raking down his back when he'd eventually take you to bed later that night.

But no, he had patrol.

And all he can think about during it is you.

"Something the matter, Little Wing?"

Grayson swings to perch by his side. Damian's jaw stays set.

"You don't look your usual self."

The younger man clicks his tongue—again, feeling that familiar scratch over his stomach, light and teasing and just screaming so much of you, that it sends a shiver straight down his spine.

"Hellooo? Earth to Robin."

"This isn't working," Damian tuts, ignoring his brother, "I can't think. I can't focus."

Not when the feeling of your nails is still on his mind.

"Why not, little bro?"

He speaks through gritted teeth, "She got her nails done."

And Grayson blinks. "Wh—? Oh." His brother's mouth parts, lips forming an 'o' before slowly curling to one side. "You like the scratch, huh?"

Damian's silence must be answer enough.

"You can go back to her, y'know? I can handle the Bat."

For a moment, Damian stays there, crouched at the corner of a rooftop overlooking the dull streets of Gotham as the city broods in darkness like she does every other night.

But then he thinks of you, of your whiney voice and your big, pleading eyes, and he finds himself slowly rising, grapple already in his hand as he shoots it towards a building and swings into the night.

He thinks Grayson yells something about enjoying himself. He's too caught up in the thought of your touch to care.

By the time he gets home, you're on the bed, phone in hand, the screen's glow hugging your face, your nails curled around its spine as you sit there so pretty, so patient, just waiting for him like you do every other night. His Beloved.

Your eyes go wide when he climbs through the window, frozen still, phone still in your hand, still wrapped up in your pretty pink acrylics. He near tosses it somewhere behind in his quest to get to you.

Legs on either side of him, nails digging into his shoulders; so close yet so far, still not quite touching him because of the irritating fabric of his suit—so he lays you down, all gentle and loving, anything for his Beloved, and wrestles with his shirt until he's in nothing but his pants and your eyes are raking down his abs.

He takes your hand and guides it to his stomach, curling your fingers just enough to have you scratching them along his skin.

The touch is electrifying. It's everything he's ever wanted and more, a groan leaking out his mouth, deep and shameless.

You're breathless as you whisper, "You're back."

And he's still groaning when he responds, "Just for you, Habibti. Only you."

Your fingers curl even more in your fluster. He groans again.

"What's this?" You hear from the doorway, the voice corrugated velvet, clothed with an undercurrent of curiosity.

You turn at the familiar sound, at the familiar, broad-shouldered figure that stands at the threshold of your shared room, looking at you. Admiring the disarray of bras, of corsets, of thongs and g-strings and pleasers that pool in crumpled heap at your feet.

Drinking in the delicious sight of you in a bedazzled number that still fits you like a charm. Watching the way that his eyes seem to darken in mercurial, ravenous fashion as they travel the length of you. At all the displayed, exposed skin that the outfit offers you, all the curves that are given visual access.

His hands, whether consciously or not, knuckle tightly enough that the white of the bone winks through.

"Taking a trip down memory lane," you smile as you turn to look at yourself in the wall-length mirror. Appraising how you stand, poised the way you used to when there was a pole in the center of the room. Rather than surrounded by the sumptuous luxury of Bruce Wayne's master bedroom.

You don't need to look into the reflection to confirm if Bruce is staring at you. His eyes are practically riveted on the meter of your body, taking starving eyefuls as though he'll never be afforded chance again.

"You remember this one?" You ask him in coy delivery, as though you didn't wear it in the glimmer of hope he might happen upon you in this outfit.

As though you cannot tell the blatant approval that draws in his eyes as he consumes the distance between you both with articulated, deliberate step. Like the panther pacing the perimeter of his enclosure to close in on prey.

"How could I forget?" He asks, his voice silken and lustrous in jagged manner. "You wore it the night we met."

"Oh, right," you return blithely, pertly. "Even if you weren't there for me."

You take pause in admirative means from the way that you still fill out the thong, the way that the rhinestones twinkle in the ample light of the room—to look at him. To watch the way he nears you, his hands already outstretched to take tactile purchase on you.

"Good thing I was, though," he returns, voice cool as his hand, rough, calloused—a man's hand—that palms the curve of your ass. That summons a grinning, open-mouthed shiver that falls freely from your lips. As his other hand drapes up to intertwine with yours from behind.

As his head bows in idle worship of the temple that is your body, to nose at the junction of your neck and shoulder. To plant lingering, needful kiss on the terrain of your skin.

"Or else I never would have met you," he murmurs into the minutiae of your body. His hand seizes in possessive manner over your ass, intertwines more deftly with your fingers—you gasp at the lustful aggression he meets you with.

"Yeah," you sigh as his mouth makes torturous, loitering trail up the column of your throat, "Put me out of a job when you busted my boss, though."

He sucks on your pulse with intention to make a bruise. You gasp, instinctively squirming away from the graze of teeth, the lave of his tongue—but he holds you steady.

Lets you adjust to the wet heat of his mouth as his hands finger at the near-nonexistent waistband of your thong. Wrapping it once, twice around the crooked knuckles of his forefinger and thumb.

When he pulls away, his voice is husky, it's wanting. You can't ignore the delicious pain blooming on the side of your neck—nor the tented bulge pressing against your ass.

"Good thing you caught my eye," Bruce whispers in the shell of your ear. You lean back against the implacable plane of his chest, feeling the rigid muscle of his body that holds you safe. Regarding the exhibition the two of you make as you are pulled flush against him, dwarfed in stature by the spread of his body that scalds with heat.

"Definitely," You agree as you sink your head back against the folds of his pressed suit, enjoying the scrape of the fabric against your body. Looking at him, watching you with such dogged intent.

"How about I put on a show for you?" You ask with a sly smile matched in parallel by the growth of his own pleased one. "For old time's sake?"

There's a growl that makes clear execution in the base of his throat. He leans down to press proprietary kiss to your cheek, enunciating the approval he has of this idea.

"I'd love that," He replies in your ear. "Do I get to touch?"

You laugh at the roguish twang in his voice, the gruff way his voice has levied itself low. "Only if you promise to be a gentleman."

He releases you finally, making you long for the grasp of him, the oasis of his body lent to yours.

"I promise," He returns lowly, taking slow, purposeful strides to the bed that the two of you share—his eyes trained upon you as he reclines. As he waits for his spouse to put on the exhibition that only he has the pleasure of savoring now.

"I'll hold you to that," You smile as you step to the forefront of his vision—and begin the routine that earned you Mr. Wayne in the first place.

It's clear from the way that he watches that you haven't lost him by any degree.

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In reality you had sent Simon a suggestive photo. More than just suggestive actually.

You were sat infront of a mirror. Legs spread wide open. No panties. All you had on was Simon’s go-to sleeping shirt, the hem was pulled up to expose your breast. Your face hidden behind your phone.

He only looked at the photo for a second. But through out the whole meeting all he could think about were your slick folds glistening in the picture.

Ma Kent snorted softly from across the table. “At this point, that baby’s probably ninety percent mashed potatoes.”

Clark looked entirely unashamed. “They will be a very healthy, growing baby.”

You bit back a smile.

That was the thing about Clark during your pregnancy, he hovered.

Did you need water? A pillow? Another blanket? Less blanket? A snack? Different snack? Did your back hurt? Were your feet swollen? Had you rested enough? Too much? Was the baby kicking enough? Too much?

The man treated your pregnancy like the world’s most important mission.

And it made him very, very easy to fluster.

And suddenly, sitting there at the table with Ma and Pa Kent, watching your husband lovingly shovel corn onto your plate like he was personally responsible for feeding both you and the baby, the idea struck.

You looked down at your half-full plate thoughtfully.

Then, very gently, you asked, “Clark… am I allowed to have some more?”

Clark didn’t even look up.

“Of course,” he said immediately, mouth still full, already spooning another helping onto your plate. “You barely ate any! Here, have more chicken too.”

You pressed your lips together. You continued carefully, in the smallest voice you could manage. “Are you sure?”

Clark blinked at you. “Sure about what?”

“That it’s okay for me to eat more?”

Clark stared at you for a long moment. Then looked at your plate. Then at you again.

“…Yes?” He sounded deeply confused.

You nodded solemnly, “Okay,” and resumed eating.

Clark reached for the biscuits.

“You want another one?”

“Yes please.”

“Here you go, my love.” He handed it over immediately.

You sighed as your prank failed, silently waiting for another opportunity.

-

Said opportunity was when Ma Kent brought out dessert.

Her specialty peach cobbler was still warm, the smell filling the kitchen instantly.

“Oh my goodness,” you sighed dramatically. “That smells amazing.”

Ma Kent smiled warmly. “Go on, honey, have some.”

You coached your face to look anxious, worried, then slowly turned toward Clark.

“…Am I allowed?”

The room went silent.

Clark froze with the serving spoon halfway in his hand.

Ma Kent blinked. Pa Kent’s expression changed immediately into a frown.

“Allowed?” Ma Kent repeated.

You looked down shyly. “Well… I just wanted to check first.”

Clark looked like his soul had briefly left his body.

“Why would you…what do you mean allowed?” 

You kept your face perfectly straight. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Upset me?” Clark nearly choked. “Why would it upset me?”

Ma Kent’s eyebrows shot up.

Pa Kent set down his fork, slowly and very carefully.

Clark turned toward you so quickly his chair squeaked against the floor.

“Honey, what are you talking about?”

You blinked innocently. “The cobbler.”

“The cobbler…”

“Yes.”

Ma Kent turned to Clark at the same time he looked at you incredulously.

“Clark,” she said carefully, “why would she need permission to eat dessert?”

“I—she doesn’t!” Clark’s brows were furrowed with concern, slowly feeling like he was unnecessarily put on the hot seat. “Why would you need my permission to eat cobbler?!”

You shrugged lightly. “Well, you may not want me to eat any more.”

Ma Kent slowly turned toward her son.

“Clark Joseph Kent.”

Clark’s eyes widened in immediate horror.

“No! No, no, no—Ma, I swear—”

Pa Kent crossed his arms.

Clark looked even more panicked.

“I have literally never stopped her from eating anything in her life! She eats whatever she wants, whenever she wants. I've actually been actively encouraging her to eat more because she sometimes forgets in the afternoon and the doctor said…" He caught himself, and looked back at you. "What is going on?”

You tilted your head. “But maybe you didn’t want me eating cobbler specifically?”

“Why would I not want you to?!”

Clark looked moments away from a full system shutdown.

“Honey,” he said frantically, stumbling over every word, “I have never, not once, told you what you can or can’t eat. Or do. Or wear. Or…anything!”

Ma Kent was now openly suspicious. “Clark…”

“No! Ma, listen to me—I swear, she does whatever she wants! Constantly! Happily! And I support her! Enthusiastically!”

You nodded thoughtfully. “That’s true.”

Clark pointed at you wildly. “See?!”

“But maybe secretly you don’t like how much I eat?”

Clark looked genuinely devastated.

“What?! No, Ma, Pa, listen to me. I’ve never told her not to do anything she wanted! Ever! If anything, she tells me what to do!”

He turned back to his parents, fully distressed now.

“I am not controlling! Right? I’m not controlling.”

Pa Kent finally spoke, voice low. “Son…”

Clark turned toward him in absolute panic. “Pa, I swear to God, I have never denied her anything in my entire life! I don't restrict her eating. I don't restrict ANYTHING! I don't tell her what to do. I would never." Clark's voice had taken on the slightly desperate quality of a man watching a small fire and patting his pockets for something to put it out with. "She has complete autonomy over everything. Every single thing. I've never once told her she couldn't eat or do or–"

"Clark," you said.

“--have anything she wanted, I mean she went through a period in the second trimester where she wanted a very specific brand of crackers at two in the morning and I flew forty minutes to three different stores to find them, I have the receipts, I can show you the receipts–”

“Clark.”

“--and I don't know what this is right now but I need everyone at this table to understand that I am not and have never been–”

“CLARK.”

He stopped his rambling.

He looked at you.

You were smiling. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Then suddenly you were laughing so hard you had to hold your stomach.

The entire table stared at you.

“Oh no,” Ma Kent whispered, already realizing.

You wheezed helplessly, tears gathering in your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I’m sorry…I was joking.”

Silence.

Clark blinked.

“…What?”

You covered your face, laughing harder. “It was a prank, baby.”

Clark stared. Ma Kent burst into laughter instantly.

Pa Kent leaned back in his chair.

Clark remained frozen. “You…”

“I’m sorry,” you laughed again. “You were just so easy to fluster.”

Clark looked deeply betrayed.

“I thought Pa was about to kill me.”

You grinned at Pa, “He was in on it,” you confessed, remembering how Pa chuckled gruffly when you told him about your plan.

Clark dropped back into his chair dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest.

“I cannot believe you.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek sweetly.

“I’m sorry I scared you, honey. You're a wonderful husband," you said. "Why do you still have the receipts?"

He put his arm around you, and you could feel him giving up on the wounded dignity, the whole structure of it just gently collapsing.

"Souvenirs," he said again, quieter, “I didn’t want to forget anything about your pregnancy. And so that I could show our baby that I would do anything for them.”

You smiled at him, cupping his cheek tenderly before giving him a kiss. Clark turned pink.

"Forty minutes,” he reminded you, “Three stores."

"I know."

"In the rain."

"It wasn't raining."

"It was drizzling." Clark sighed deeply. 

You laughed, then immediately reached for the cobbler.

Clark instinctively grabbed the serving spoon and loaded a giant portion onto your plate.

Everyone at the table burst into laughter again.

Clark looked around defensively.

“What? She’s eating for two.”

-

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At eighteen…

“College?!”

Your mother said the word the same way people announced terminal illnesses in old movies. One manicured hand pressed dramatically against her chest while the other gripped her wine glass hard enough to qualify as aggression.

You kept walking toward your bedroom anyway, dragging your heels across the polished hallway floors with all the enthusiasm of a woman marching toward a public execution.

“Your daughter wants to go to college,” she continued loudly to your father in the living room as though you had already disappeared entirely. “I told you we should’ve sent her to Paris like my mother did for me. Exposure to Europe could've fixed this.”

“There will be no college,” your father answered firmly before the ice in his drink even stopped clinking. “And there will be no Paris either. God forbid, that city has done enough damage to good families already. You came back from Paris with cigarettes, opinions and a taste for expensive shoes. I refuse to fund a sequel. She will court the young man we discussed and then she will get married.”

You closed your bedroom door softly before the sentence finished.

You had learned very young that slamming doors in your parents’ house only created longer conversations afterward. So instead you shut it quietly, leaned your back against the wood and closed your eyes while the noise of your life continued on the other side uninterrupted.

Outside your window, the city breathed. Cold air drifted through the curtains from the open fire escape window, carrying distant traffic, laughter from people walking somewhere below and the unbearable scent of freedom. Somewhere out there people were probably doing terrible things like choosing their own futures and eating dinner past seven-thirty without consequence.

You inhaled slowly, then exhaled, then inhaled again because breathing through emotional devastation counted as coping according to every women’s magazine ever printed.

You should’ve known bringing up college would end like this. Actually, you had known. You just kept hoping your parents might surprise you one day and accidentally develop humanity.

“Bad time?”

Clark’s voice floated quietly through the window and you jumped enough to nearly peel yourself off the door despite the fact this had become embarrassingly routine over the years.

Your eyes snapped toward the fire escape instantly.

Clark sat halfway through the open window frame looking unfairly comfortable there, broad shoulders hunched slightly beneath a plaid button up while moonlight caught against the familiar curve of his face and automatically, despite everything, you smiled…which felt medically concerning at this point.

You locked your bedroom door and crossed the room quickly to reach him.

“There’s no such thing as good timing around here,” you replied dryly.

Clark smiled softly and stood tall on the firescape. He then pushed the window open wider before offering you his hand like this was somehow a perfectly normal entrance method between teenagers and not the beginning of several future tabloid headlines.

You took it.

The second you climbed onto the fire escape and actually looked at him properly beneath the moonlight, your brows lifted. “Glasses?”

Clark blinked once before touching them instinctively.

He’d only been away at college for a month but somehow even that small distance had altered him slightly around the edges. You still spoke often on the phone, though never because you called first, Clark always called you. You told yourself it was healthier that way, less clingy and pathetic, easier for him to eventually fully leave if he needed to.

He still looked mostly like himself though, wearing jeans and plaid. A true farm boy-lead tragedy…your very own Romeo.

At this point you were fairly certain prolonged exposure throughout childhood had conditioned you into tolerating flannel psychologically, almost like a disease.

Meanwhile you looked exactly the same too. Matching lounge clothes, carefully styled hair but no dress tonight, just fluffy heeled slippers because even your relaxation footwear carried performance anxiety.

So really, the same people you had always been.

“Yeah.” Clark grinned shyly and slipped the glasses off briefly. “You like them?”

Your brows rose higher. “Are you asking me for fashion advice?”

Clark laughed under his breath. “The day will come but not today.” He glanced down at his shirt. “I don’t think I’m ready to let go of plaid yet.”

“I would never ask that of you,” you assured him solemnly. “Kansas would probably find a way to sue me specifically for it.”

Clark smiled wider and you felt your chest tighten at the sight of it before immediately pretending internally that nothing happened.

“They make you look…” You paused thoughtfully as Clark’s posture straightened imperceptibly. “Different.”

His face twisted with concern. “Good different or bad different?”

“Cute different,” you answered without thinking.

Silence settled between you as Clark looked at you…and you looked at Clark. Both your chests rose simultaneously while his lips parted slightly like he meant to say something dangerous to permanently alter your life at eighteen.

So naturally, you interrupted immediately. “Well,” you rushed onward, “given you didn’t use the front door tonight…or ever, I’m assuming you took the fast route here.”

Clark blinked once, visibly reorganizing his nervous system before nodding.

“Yeah.” The worry returned to his face. “You haven’t really been keeping up with our call schedule and I just…” He motioned vaguely toward your bedroom door. “I heard yelling.”

Clark had spent the last thirty minutes waiting outside on your fire escape hoping you’d eventually come while you suffered through dinner pretending your family dynamic qualified as normal.

Unfortunately for him, you had mentioned his name halfway through the meal and Clark Kent had never once succeeded at minding his own business where you were concerned…

“You’re not going to college, Y/n,” your mother had said while passing you the salad bowl with all the grace of a queen sentencing someone to death publicly. “That was never the plan. We already agreed on this.”

You took the bowl.

“Mama,” you answered carefully, “I was six when we discussed this and my biggest ambition at the time was becoming a princess.” You placed salad onto your plate aggressively. “I think we should maybe revisit the contract.”

“Maybe you need time off,” your mother suggested immediately. “An activity perhaps.”

Your face twisted instantly. “Time off from what?” you asked. “Tea at four? Waking up at nine every damn morning?”

Your mother gasped. That woman reacted to profanity like Victorian women reacted to tuberculosis. “Watch your mouth,” she hissed. “All those etiquette classes–”

“Fuck those etiquette classes.”

“Y/n!” your father barked while your mother looked moments away from fainting directly into the butter dish. If somebody yelled “whore” dramatically nearby, she probably would’ve died on the spot. You were definitely tempted to…no.

“Clearly they were a waste of money,” you muttered.

At that exact moment Zelda, your housekeeper, stepped beside you carrying the mashed potatoes.

You looked up at her. “Zelda, please tell me you didn’t smooth them too much tonight.” You sighed heavily. “I think I’d rather choke on potatoes than my words at this table.”

Your mother gasped again.

Your father dropped his silverware against his plate with a violent clatter while rubbing both hands slowly over his face. Meanwhile Zelda stood there completely expressionless because after so many years employed in your household, the woman had witnessed things far worse than profanity at dinner.

“You’re being dramatic,” your mother snapped.

“No,” you corrected calmly. “I’m being undereducated. Zelda?”

Zelda leaned down toward your ear with the stealth of a woman who had survived two decades employed by rich people and therefore understood the value of discreet alcoholism. “Don’t worry, Miss Y/n,” she whispered conspiratorially. “I have a bottle of something excellent hidden in the kitchen.”

Almost instantly, hope returned to your body.

“But no drinking on an empty stomach,” she added firmly before straightening again.

There it was, the closest thing you had ever experienced to maternal tenderness.

You smiled faintly as she disappeared back toward the kitchen and then turned once more toward your parents across the dining table. The chandelier overhead cast everything in warm gold light, expensive, polished and deeply suffocating. 

You inhaled carefully, then exhaled.

“Papa,” you began, forcing steadiness into your voice, “I want to go to college.” Your fingers tightened around your fork. “I don’t want to stay here.”

Your mother turned toward your father as if calling legal counsel. “Tell her–”

“I think it’s a good idea,” your father interrupted calmly.

You and your mother spoke at exactly the same time, eyes wide. “You do?”

Your father nodded once and your mother rose from her chair so abruptly the legs scraped violently across the hardwood floors. Somewhere in the distance a ghost probably clutched its pearls.

“Wonderful! Look what you made me do,” your mother snapped while storming toward the living room. “My mother is rolling in her grave. Years of etiquette lessons wasted because our daughter suddenly wants an education.”

You watched her leave before muttering under your breath, “If grandmama survived two wars and four husbands, I think she’ll survive me reading some books.”

Your father ignored that completely. “What would you study?”

The question stopped you cold. Your father had always known exactly who he was, a mathematical prodigy with a structured mind and straight path. He had probably emerged from the womb already calculating taxes recreationally.

You, unfortunately, had spent most of your life mastering posture and pretending that counted as purpose. Your breath caught slightly as you looked down at your plate.

“French literature maybe,” you answered carefully. “To meet Mama halfway.” You shrugged lightly. “And Russian too, why not? That sounds difficult enough to impress everyone at Christmas dinner.”

“No.”

You blinked as your father continued eating calmly.

“No?” you repeated, completely thrown.

Your mother reappeared in the doorway then, vindication radiating off her like perfume.

“If you’re going to study,” your father continued, “and I’m paying for it, then you’ll study something useful.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “Useful?” you repeated slowly. “You mean unlike me?”

“Y/n.”

“No, because I’m trying to understand.” You laughed once in genuine astonishment. “You want to marry me off to some entitled little parasite descended from generations of worse parasites and I’m the one who suddenly needs practical skills?”

“I’m not paying for university unless you choose a worthwhile field.”

“Oh, fascinating.” You nodded quickly. “So my future husband can waste oxygen professionally but I need to become economically viable. What year is this?!”

“Enough.”

“No, it’s actually not enough. Not even close.” Your voice rose before you could stop it. “Why can’t you be more like the Kents?”

Both your parents frowned immediately.

“He’s in Metropolis right now,” you continued, frustration spilling faster now. “Living his life and making choices. Nobody chained him to his parents’ dreams before he even understood what dreaming was and trust me, he would know.”

Your mother looked genuinely confused. “Who are the Kents?” she asked your father like you had invented them on the spot.

Your father shrugged once and you stared at them with parted lips and narrowed eyes.

“Smallville?” you repeated slowly. “Clark Kent? My best friend?” You pointed between the two of them. “Does that ring any bells?”

Your mother blinked. “I thought he was imaginary.”

You nearly dropped your fork. “You’ve met him multiple times!”

“When?” your father asked plainly.

“Where did you think I went every time I left the house for six hours?”

“For walks.” Your mother answered with a careless shrug.

Your jaw fell open. “In the ass crack of Kansas?” Even Zelda paused in the kitchen doorway at that one. “You genuinely thought I wandered into cornfields for fun?”

“It didn’t matter. You always came back,” your father answered simply and the sentence hit strangely harder than yelling would’ve.

You looked between them in complete disbelief. “Mama, papa…you’ve met him,” you insisted again.

Your mother turned sharply toward the kitchen. “Zelda?”

Zelda appeared instantly because unlike your parents, Zelda actually paid attention to your life. “Yes ma’am?”

“Have we met this…” Your mother motioned vaguely toward you. “Claire Kent?”

“It’s Clark,” you corrected loudly.

Zelda nodded. “He always comes for Miss Y/n’s birthdays,” she supplied helpfully.

Your mother paused. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” you echoed. “Oh.” You leaned back into your chair, suddenly exhausted. “He got accepted into Met U,” you continued more quietly. “He’s gonna become this incredible journalist and actually build something for himself.”

“I wouldn’t care if pigs flew tomorrow wearing little top hats and singing the national anthem,” your father said, voice dripping with disdain. “You are not going to Met U. The answer is no. Final. Humanity did not survive wars, depressions and your mother’s cooking just so you could throw your life away becoming some glorified typewriter girl or…or some ink-stained, idealistic little journalist chasing scandals and heartbreak in that godforsaken concrete jungle!”

The way he said it sounded offensive and something sharp twisted violently in your chest then. Before you realized it, your chair scraped backward and you were already standing but neither of your parents had stopped you.

Their voices faded behind you as you walked away from the dining room, then faded further still somewhere inside your mind where disappointment had started settling into something colder over the years.

Back on the fire escape, you blinked slowly and looked toward Clark again. “Claire’s a pretty name,” you considered lightly. “At least she got some of the letters correct.”

Clark laughed softly despite the concern still written all over his face. “Y/n, I’m so sorry.”

“Stop apologizing for them, Kent.” You waved him off. “I probably could’ve chosen a better moment to bring it up but…” You shrugged. “I’m running out of time.”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

You inhaled sharply. “Wait here.” Then you disappeared back into your bedroom before he could question you further.

Clark watched through the open window while you crossed quickly toward your vanity, dropped to your knees and yanked open the bottom drawer beneath piles of scarves and unopened perfume boxes. For a second he just watched you move around your room with that same restless energy you always carried whenever you were trying not to feel something too deeply.

You returned holding an envelope. You handed it toward him through the window but before even looking at it, Clark automatically steadied you by the waist while helping you climb back onto the fire escape safely.

The contact lingered slightly too long. It always did, even then.

Once your feet landed properly, Clark finally lowered his gaze toward the paper. He unfolded it carefully and read silently, then looked up so fast you almost laughed.

“Metropolis University…” he breathed. “Late admission…” His eyes scanned lower before widening completely. “Accepted with full costs covered.” His eyes snapped toward yours. “You got in?”

The excitement in his voice hit before the words fully settled and suddenly Clark had both arms around you, lifting you straight off the fire escape entirely while squeezing hard enough to rearrange several organs. “This is perfect–”

“You could also,” you wheezed, fighting for oxygen, “ease up a little before my eyeballs detach, file for independence and attend orientation without the rest of me.”

Clark dropped you back down instantly. “I’m sorry,” he blurted while checking your face with visible horror, one warm hand cupping your cheek gently like he genuinely expected structural damage. “I got too excited.”

You laughed breathlessly. “You didn’t squeeze that hard,” you admitted. “I’m messing with you.”

Clark still looked unconvinced.

You leaned back against the brick wall behind you and exhaled slowly. “I have two more days to answer them,” you admitted quietly. “After that they give the spot to someone else.” Clark stayed completely still listening to you. “I wanted my parents on board with the concept before telling them about it,” you continued. “But after tonight?” You shrugged lightly. “I’m an adult. They don’t get to decide every single thing for me forever.”

Then you pushed lightly against his shoulder. “You’re not the only one who gets to fly the coop.”

Clark looked at you for a long moment after and you could’ve sworn his eyes actually shined beneath the moonlight as he smiled. It was the kind of smile that had ruined you years ago, it made your stomach flip, your heart stutter and your brain forget every reason you had ever given yourself for keeping your distance. "The only way out is up."

His arms wrapped around you carefully, one around your waist and the other supporting your back as he pulled you flush against him, lifting effortlessly from the fire escape into the night sky.

The moon was bright above you, casting everything in silver and somewhere far below, the city hummed with the life you had temporarily escaped.

The last of the Talon’s customers finally spilled out into the street one stagger at a time, the door swinging shut behind them with tired little squeaks until silence began settling over the club in uneven patches. Without the crowd packed shoulder-to-shoulder inside it, the room suddenly looked smaller, sadder. The cigarette haze still lingered beneath the hanging lights and the entire place smelled like stale beer, sweat and the consequences of free speech.

The room looked wrecked in the aftermath of the night. Half-empty glasses cluttered tables, cocktail napkins stuck wetly to wood surfaces and a chair near the stage had somehow lost one leg entirely and leaned sadly against another table.

Meanwhile you sat at the bar with the tip basket overturned in front of you, bills spread carefully across the scratched counter while you counted them for what had to be the fourth time now because the number felt fake.

Behind you, chairs scraped loudly across the floor while Susie started cleaning up the room herself.

“You know,” she called out while dragging a mop bucket past the stage, “if you actually need money, I’d pay you a pretty penny to rinse out the communal throw-up bucket.”

You didn’t even look up from the stack of bills in your hands.

“I’d rather pay you not to have one.” You flattened a five-dollar bill against the counter. “Why not just let people throw up in the bathrooms like civilized alcoholics?”

Susie snorted somewhere behind you.

“Do you know how hard it is for somebody five drinks deep to hold their puke?” she asked. “They line up for the bathrooms, then they clog the pipes and suddenly the whole place smells like fermented regret.” She pointed toward the back hall. “And the bathrooms are too close to the stage. One bad overflow and I lose half the room.”

You grimaced. “What a lovely establishment you have here.”

“Not lovelier than you,” Susie replied in the exact same monotone voice.

She came around the counter then, wiping her hands on a rag before leaning over the money spread across the bar. Her eyes narrowed slightly at the stack growing beneath your fingers. Truthfully, she had never seen that much money come out of the Talon’s tip basket before…ever.

“How’s the counting going?” she asked suspiciously. “You’ve been staring at those bills for ten damn minutes. Do rich people not learn little numbers?”

You looked up slowly. “That’s hilarious.” You nodded. “You should try comedy sometime.”

“I said the same thing.” Susie deadpanned right back without missing a beat, leaning onto the counter. “What do we have?”

You counted once more just to make sure your rich upbringing hadn’t actually somehow sabotaged basic mathematics, gathered the final stack slowly and exhaled through your nose.

“Five hundred and twenty-one dollars.” You paused. “And some cents but honestly they feel a tad irrelevant right now.”

Even saying it out loud felt absurd and you could tell by the way Susie’s face tightened.

“A-are you sure?” she asked carefully, leaning closer instinctively. “And before you actually get offended, I’m really not trying to insult your intelligence here but–”

“It’s a lot,” you admitted quietly.

“Almost too much,” she agreed without missing a beat. 

You nodded slowly. If someone told you three hours ago that complete strangers would hand you over five hundred dollars after hearing about your emotional collapse and humidity issues, you probably would’ve recommended psychiatric evaluation.

Susie stared at the money another second before letting out a disbelieving huff through her nose. “Where the hell have you been all this time?” she demanded suddenly. “You were up there for maybe ten minutes.”

You considered that carefully. “Ten minutes is really long depending on the context.” 

“Not when people are screaming for an encore!” Susie pointed at you emphatically. “You hear me? An encore. In this place. Half these people don’t even clap when performers leave, they just ask for another beer.” She shook her head in disbelief. “This is your calling.”

You barked out a laugh.

“My calling?” You stared at her incredulously. “You think my purpose in life is exploiting my psychological decline in a shitty club with visible ceiling damage?” You glanced upward. “No offense.”

Susie waved dismissively toward the back. “It’d be stupid to get offended by that when there’s currently a bucket of vomit fermenting at the back of the room.”

You laughed despite yourself and looked back down at the money. “It was fun,” you admitted carefully. “But not five-hundred-dollars fun.”

“It was to them.” Susie pointed sharply toward the now empty room like the audience still sat there. “You’re the greatest accidental comic…honestly, comic in general that I’ve heard in my entire damn life.” Her eyes widened as she spoke, voice growing more animated the longer she looked at you. “And every drunk idiot in this disgusting room knew it too.”

She leaned both hands against the counter. “You’re gonna go far if you let this happen.”

You stared at her for a second without answering. The idea sounded absurd, impossible even and slightly humiliating and yet your ears still rang faintly with applause every time the room got quiet.

Susie grabbed your abandoned stack of résumés from beside the register and waved them in front of your face dramatically. “You see this? You forgot to write fucking hilarious on these.” She paused. “You reek of it.”

You instinctively lifted your arm discreetly and sniffed yourself. Thankfully you still smelled expensive…mostly. “I think that might just be the air in here.” You looked down and started reorganizing the money just to have something for your hands to do.

“I need you back,” Susie continued, completely ignoring that. “Every week. I want you on that stage.”

Your eyes drifted toward it automatically. You could still picture yourself standing there beneath the lights, sweating through your dress while strangers laughed hard enough to bend over tables. If you concentrated, you could actually still hear them.

“I wouldn’t even know what to talk about,” you admitted quietly. “I don’t know what triggers it.” You looked back at her. “What if my life stops being terrible and I run out of material?”

Susie barked out a laugh. “You seemed pretty damn ready both times.” She shrugged while stacking glasses loudly behind the bar. “The bits sound messy at first but somehow they all flow together. You jump from one thing to another but it still makes sense.” She pointed at you with an empty beer bottle. “So whatever psychotic process you’ve got going on in that head? Keep doing it.”

You shook your head slowly, still unconvinced.

“How do you write your jokes?”

“What jokes?”

She stared at you in frustration. “The Garrett thing,” she clarified, trying to physically reconstruct your set from memory. “The blue cheese smell, the unpaid child support, then the gambling stuff, then you threatening him with football bets while looking like…” She motioned vaguely toward your entire existence. “Like that.”

You looked down at your outfit instinctively. “Well-dressed?”

“Like somebody who should legally not know how to threaten people.”

You opened your mouth to interrupt but she kept going.

Susie continued talking faster now, hands moving wildly while she tried explaining what she’d witnessed. “And the unlady-like shit too. The laptop thing, the heels, the way you talk about all those rich people rules while actively breaking every single one of them in real time.” She shook her head hard. “I don’t fucking know! Everything connected somehow.” Her eyes widened. “And fuck, was I scared at first. I genuinely thought you were about to spiral into incoherent rambling, some rich girl hostage note halfway through.”

“That’s fair.”

“But then you’d pause at the exact right time.” She pointed again. “You let people think for half a second before dragging them somewhere even funnier.” Her voice lowered with genuine awe now. “One minute they’re laughing so hard I’m pretty sure somebody pissed themselves near table four, then suddenly you’ve got the whole room actually thinking about something before they start laughing again. You say all this completely unhinged stuff but there’s rhythm to it.”

You laughed softly at that and rubbed one hand over your face. “Susie…” You exhaled heavily. “That’s just my life.”

You said the word so seriously that it briefly softened her expression. This was your life, not material or a performance, those were years of thoughts finally spilling out somewhere people couldn’t interrupt them.

“I’m not writing jokes.” You shrugged lightly. “I’m impulsive,” Your fingers fiddled with one of the folded dollar bills. “And mouthy…I hold a lot in and eventually it needs somewhere to go before I explode in public or develop a stress-related disease elegant women get in period dramas.”

“Then, do that here,” Susie decided.

She leaned further across the counter as she spoke, elbows planted firmly against the sticky wood like physical proximity might somehow force the idea into your skull through sheer impact. For once there was no sarcasm cushioning her tone, no dry delivery flattening the sincerity out of her words to make them easier to survive, just certainty. Sharp and almost frantic beneath her exhaustion, burning visibly behind eyes still bright from what she had witnessed an hour earlier.

“Do it on a stage.”

You swallowed.

The room suddenly felt quieter. Well, not silent, the Talon would probably never know true silence after years of soaking drunken confessions directly into its walls like nicotine stains but quieter in the particular way places became once possibility entered them. Ironically, the hum of the old refrigerator behind the bar sounded louder now. So did the distant rattling pipes somewhere overhead, even the flickering neon beer signs buzzed with irritating clarity.

“This isn’t permanent,” you assured her quickly, though your voice frayed slightly around the edges anyway as your thoughts began outrunning one another again. “All of this…”

Your hand motioned vaguely around yourself, the club, the pile of money still spread across the counter and the applause lodged stubbornly somewhere inside your chest like a second heartbeat. Your life had simply derailed temporarily but that was all this was, temporary humiliation, temporary instability and temporary emotional collapse in front of strangers.

You would fix it, you had to.

Susie watched your face carefully for a long moment, studying your face carefully like she was trying to figure out whether you genuinely believed what you were saying or merely needed it badly enough to repeat it out loud. 

“You really mean there’s no jokes in there?” she asked finally.

You shook your head immediately. “Not one.”

Susie stared another second before asking more quietly, “You’re really gonna be homeless?”

The question landed strangely hard spoken aloud, not because you hadn’t already admitted it to yourself several dozen times throughout the day, but because hearing somebody else say it transformed the thought into something no longer abstract to shove aside between distractions.

At your small nod, Susie’s shoulders dropped.

“Fuck me,” she muttered under her breath, genuine sympathy slipping through. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not permanent, Susie.” You shrugged lightly despite the tightness beginning to spread through your chest again. “This is just…” You paused, searching for wording that sounded less terrifying than the truth. “Something I have to survive.”

Your eyes drifted toward the money again. “And I will.”

Susie lifted her gaze back to you slowly.

“I’m serious,” she said. “This business sucks. It’s exhausting, humiliating and half the people in it are functioning alcoholics with superiority complexes.” She pointed vaguely around the empty club. “Myself included on a deeply spiritual level.”

A faint smile pulled at your mouth.

“But what happened up there?” She shook her head once. “That wasn’t normal.”

You looked toward the stage once more. 

“It’s a fucking shame you can’t sit down here and watch yourself from the audience,” Susie continued.

You opened your mouth automatically but she cut you off before the objection even formed.

“And no, before you say anything, it has nothing to do with those ugly-ass lights making everybody sweat like sinners in church.”

A soft laugh escaped you despite yourself.

“You shine up there,” she said plainly. The sincerity of it made you glance away from her. “You could break this business wide open,” Susie continued, voice gaining momentum again now that she’d started. “The second you stepped onstage tonight it felt like an entirely new category appeared and suddenly everybody else looked outdated.”

Your brows furrowed faintly. “That sounds dramatic.”

“It is dramatic!” she barked instantly. “You’re dramatic. That’s part of the appeal.”

You rubbed tiredly at your temple while laughing under your breath.

“You’ve got the looks to pull in one crowd,” Susie continued, counting points aggressively on her fingers now, “and the actual life experience to connect with another one entirely.”

You blinked at her.

“It’s obvious nobody in this room has lived the way you have,” she said. “And you knew it too the second you started talking.”

Your fingers toyed absently with a folded dollar bill.

“I didn’t know who I was talking to,” you admitted quietly after a moment. “I got up there and suddenly everybody looked…” You searched briefly for the word. “Different from me.” You exhaled slowly through your nose. “Take away the alcohol, heartbreak and jealousy and honestly?” You shook your head slowly. “I felt like an outsider.”

Susie pointed at you immediately like she’d been waiting specifically for that sentence. “And that’s exactly why you fit.”

You looked back up at her.

“You walk into a room and make space for yourself,” she continued. “And you do it without apologizing for existing.” She tilted her head slightly. “How many comics have you seen?”

You shrugged slightly. “In person? None…I’ve seen videos online mostly.” You frowned thoughtfully. “People doing crowd work. Sometimes it’s funny.”

“It’s permanent,” Susie corrected immediately. “It might live on somebody’s page for two days but it lives online forever, that’s exactly why it loses its effect.” She pointed toward you again immediately after. “You won’t.”

A soft laugh escaped beneath your breath. “That’s insane.”

“No, listen to me.” Susie leaned even further across the counter now, completely consumed by the idea of you in a way that was beginning to feel mildly dangerous. “You walk around dressed like you’re trying to keep nineteen-fifties fashion alive all by yourself.”

“I do not.”

“With the dresses, the jewelry, the perfectly styled hair and those undergarments women used to wear that cut circulation directly off from the heart–”

“I don’t wear those.”

“Fine,” she snapped instantly. “But your entire vibe screams exclusivity.”

You stared blankly across the counter at her. “Oh, does it?”

“Yes!” She motioned aggressively toward your whole body now like your existence frustrated her. “You look like people should only be allowed to observe you from behind velvet ropes.”

Another tired laugh escaped you, softer this time. The adrenaline was finally beginning to leave your system now and everything around you had started taking on that strange, unreal softness exhaustion brought with it. The empty club, the money spread across the counter and Susie practically vibrating in front of you like a woman who had accidentally struck gold inside a dumpster.

“I am so unbelievably lost right now,” you admitted beneath your breath.

“And so will the audience be,” Susie replied without missing a beat. “That’s the magic.”

You blinked once.

“They’ll look at you and expect one thing,” she continued, “then suddenly you open your mouth and start talking about threatening landlords with heels and showering beside your stove.”

“I did not threaten him.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I merely implied violence,” you corrected calmly. “And it was barely directed at him specifically.” You paused thoughtfully. “I don’t condone what I did but I’m not sorry either.”

“Exactly.” Susie slapped the counter hard enough to startle you slightly. “Nobody sounds and looks like you simultaneously anymore!” The excitement in her voice had become almost feverish now, the kind that infected people once they became convinced they had discovered something first and wanted desperately to be right about it forever. “I’m telling you,” she insisted, pointing sharply toward you again, “I can make you a star.”

You shook your head, smiling awkwardly through the disbelief curling across your face.

“No, seriously.” She refused to let it go. “A real one too, not one of those television personalities everybody forgets about six months later once somebody younger starts screaming louder.”

Something in your chest tightened strangely at that.

“The kind people actually leave their houses for,” Susie continued. “The kind they line up around buildings to see because they can’t just find you sitting on their screens or shoved onto some streaming platform while they fold laundry.”

A warm and deeply frightening feeling curled low in your stomach then.

“You’re gonna become a fucking legend.”

You considered her entire speech for a moment, watching her as she stood behind the bar talking about your future like she had already lived it and came back with notes. The confidence was almost alarming because most people hesitated before making promises but Susie seemed physically incapable of it. She simply decided things were true and then marched toward them until reality either agreed or got out of the way.

You studied her face for another second before deciding you might as well humor her.

“And how exactly are you going to do that?” you asked, smiling despite yourself.

Susie shrugged as if the answer had been obvious from the start and you were the only person still trying to solve the puzzle. “For starters? No phones, just like at the Talon.” She pointed vaguely toward the empty room around you.

“We keep your image ephemeral. People hear about you, people talk about you but nobody gets to take you home in their pocket.” Her hands moved as she spoke. “When we eventually get you on television, the effect will be massive because nobody's seen you fifty times already while scrolling on the toilet.”

You laughed.

She continued anyway. “Your gigs become exclusive…you become exclusive.” She paused as she thought of what came with exclusivity. “No press either.”

“No press?”

“None.” She shook her head firmly. “Not until you're so big they have to beg for it.”

The certainty of it made you chuckle. “Shouldn't I earn that first?”

Susie looked at you like you had completely missed the point. The answer came soon after. “Let people believe you already have.”

You stared at her. Somewhere deep down, beneath the practical part of your brain currently worrying about rent, employment, housing and whether or not canned soup qualified as a sustainable lifestyle, another part couldn't help wondering what would happen if you believed her for a second, just long enough to imagine it.

You glanced down at the money still sitting on the counter. “How do we get there?”

“Easy.” That smile alone should've worried you. “I book you gigs. First here at the Talon…It's your home now.” She pointed toward the stage. “You feel comfortable here and the audience already likes you.”

Already liked you…it still sounded ridiculous.

“Then we move outward…to small shows in other clubs and bars.” She tapped the counter. “You get comfortable outside your little nest before we start throwing you into the deep end.”

You nodded slowly. “And how exactly are you planning to convince these places I'm worth giving a slot to?”

“I won't.” Susie reached into her pocket and pulled out a cigarette. You watched her slip it between her lips, watched the lighter spark and the end glow red. She inhaled the smoke and then exhaled before pointing the cigarette at you. “Because you will.”

A week later…

It was late by the time you arrived at the jazz club.

The city had taken on that strange nighttime glow where everything looked slightly more expensive than it actually was. Streetlights reflected off wet pavement as taxi horns echoed between buildings and a saxophone drifted faintly through the open door before you even stepped inside.

You had never been to a place like this before. It wasn't quite downtown but it wasn’t Midtown either which suited you perfectly because the odds of running into someone you knew dropped dramatically once you wandered outside the handful of neighborhoods your parents would’ve considered respectable.

You pulled your coat tighter against the evening chill before stepping inside. Warmth immediately wrapped around you as low conversation floated between tables and glasses clinked softly. A stand-up bass hummed somewhere near the stage and the entire room glowed beneath dim amber lights that made everyone look more attractive and significantly more interesting than they probably were.

You slipped between crowded tables, carefully navigating around chairs and half-finished drinks while shrugging your coat from your shoulders.

The room felt different from the Talon, socially smaller. People weren't here to get drunk, they were here to listen which felt infinitely more terrifying.

You spotted Susie almost instantly. She sat at the bar hunched over like a gargoyle guarding bad decisions, cigarette hanging lazily between her lips while she watched the comedian currently on stage.

You approached and leaned closer. “You told me the Talon came first.” The whisper came out halfway between a complaint and an accusation.

Susie barely looked at you as she exhaled smoke, then finally glanced sideways. Her eyes traveled down your outfit and up again, then down once more. “You're wearing gloves.”

You looked down at your hands as though you'd forgotten they were there. The cream-colored satin reached up to your elbows and was perfectly unnecessary. “Thought I'd try something different.” You flexed your fingers experimentally. “Feels excessive though.”

“It's perfect.” Susie pointed toward the empty stool beside her.

You slid onto it, only then did she give your entire outfit a second inspection. The cocktail dress was vintage, naturally, made of soft fabric and had a structured waist. The sort of silhouette that would've made your mother nostalgic for reasons she couldn't properly articulate.

You'd spent twenty minutes deciding whether the gloves were too much but now you were beginning to suspect they weren't enough.

“I have a friend,” Susie said, gesturing vaguely toward the stage as you both glanced toward the performer currently finishing his set. “He does the whole singing thing…He had a slot here tonight but couldn't make it.” Susie pointed at you. “So now it's yours.”

You turned slowly toward the room. The audience looked different from the Talon's crowd, better dressed and more formal. People sat quietly at tables instead of shouting over one another and drinks remained mostly untouched because they were actually paying attention to the person opposite them. It felt concerning.

You turned back toward Susie. “This was incredibly last minute.”

“Yep.”

“I'm exhausted.”

“Yep.”

“And it's late.”

“Yep.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So, it better be worth it.”

Susie shrugged one shoulder. The cigarette bobbed slightly as she spoke. “Well, you're here …which means you want it.”

The irritating part was that she said it with the confidence of somebody who already knew you were going to see this through.

“How’s the pay?” you asked, letting out a tired sigh. Your feet throbbed with every shift of weight, heels already biting into your heels like tiny vengeful demons, while your lower back ached from the cumulative events of the past few days.

Both sets of eyes stayed fixed on the comic currently wrapping up his set on stage. You realized with mild horror that you hadn’t heard a single genuine laugh since you walked in. The room felt like a morgue with a cover charge. “Don’t worry about the money…you have ten minutes. Make ‘em count.”

“You’ll sure win Manager of the Year with that speech,” you muttered dryly under your breath before leaning in closer, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I haven’t heard a single laugh in here and I’m seeing phones.” You pointed discreetly at the handful of glowing screens scattered throughout the dimly lit room, their owners half-hidden in the shadows like guilty teenagers.

“Who’s the manager between the both of us? Let me worry about it,” Susie insisted, arms crossed over her chest as sparse, polite clapping trickled through the crowd for the departing comic.

“Up next we have a very funny lady…” the presenter trailed off awkwardly, clearly unsure what to call you.

“Start worrying about how stiff the public looks,” you shot back, already rising from your seat. Half your body angled toward the stage while your face remained inches from Susie’s. “I’m pretty sure post-mortem spasms don’t include laughter.”

“You tell ‘em that.” She jerked her chin toward the stage. “Tits up!” she whisper-yelled as you stormed forward, the flowing skirt of your dress swirling dramatically around your legs with each purposeful step.

You stepped onto the stage with a plastered, megawatt smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. The audience was worse, much worse. These people weren’t drunk and loose, they were sober, impatient and already mentally checked out, waiting for the live music portion as it was the only reason they hadn’t left yet. Their eyes were glued to their phones, thumbs scrolling mindlessly while the occasional bored glance flicked your way.

Your gaze darted quickly to Susie near the bar. She was already scanning the crowd like a soldier preparing for war, her posture tense and ready.

You stepped closer to the microphone, wrapping your fingers around the stand before smoothly lifting it free. “Well, hello, hello, hello,” you purred, flashing another bright smile. “Who’s ready for some jazz?”

A polite smattering of applause rose, lifting a small sliver of the crushing stage anxiety off your chest. “Too bad you’re still gonna have to wait a short ten minutes,” you continued, pacing slowly across the small stage, hips swaying with the movement. “Well…long for those who are married to men.”

The women in the audience let out a ripple of genuine laughter, sharp and knowing.

“You would think their wives just asked them for a romantic night the way some of them just slumped forward…or to the left…or right,” you added, gesturing lazily at a few defeated-looking husbands in the front rows. “I’m guessing that says something about what keeps your pockets looking full and plump but I can’t quite put my finger on it…” More laughter erupted, warmer this time. “Their political parties! That’s it.” The room cracked open with louder laughter. “What? Did you guys think I got up here to talk about penises? Nobody needs to pay me to do that.”

Susie’s sharp eyes raked through the crowd like a predator. One man near the middle had already opened his camera app, lifting his phone with that smug, entitled expression of someone who thought rules didn’t apply to him. Before he could even frame the shot, Susie moved like lightning, hand shooting out and snatching the phone clean from his grip.

The guy started rising from his seat, complaint written all over his flushed face. “Hey, that was–”

“Sit down,” she bit out between gritted teeth, her voice low and dangerous enough to make several nearby heads turn. She held the phone up like a trophy, glaring at him until he slowly sank back into his chair, muttering under his breath.

You didn’t miss a beat, leaning into the mic with a little grin as the tension in the room shifted. “See that? That’s what we call enforcing the no-phone rule, ladies and gentlemen. My girl Susie over there doesn’t play. She’ll snatch your phones faster than your wives snatch the remote as they suggest couples therapy.” A fresh wave of laughter rolled through, louder now, the audience finally starting to wake up. “I respect it as they are sources of information you’d want to keep secret. I would know, my phone could’ve been in evidence about a week ago, at risk of being fondled by a cop who might’ve just thought it’s cute that I almost named my vibrator after a superhero…Long story.”

You let the laugh settle before continuing, your voice dropping into something sultrier, dirtier. “But seriously, put the phones away. Unless you’re planning on using the flashlight app to find my clit later, because fuck knows some of you need the help.” You winked at a table of women who howled with laughter. “I’m not here to be background noise while you doomscroll through your ex’s new girlfriend’s vacation pics, either. I’m here to trauma-dump for cash and emotional damages. So eyes up here or Susie’s gonna start collecting phones like my father collects reasons I shouldn't be allowed freedom.”

Susie smirked from the sidelines, arms crossed, clearly satisfied as another would-be photographer quickly lowered his device under her death stare.

You twirled the mic cord around your finger, feeding off the growing energy in the room like it was the only thing keeping you upright. “But let me tell you about my manager over there,” you said, gesturing grandly toward Susie with the mic. “She wants to run this place like it’s 1957…classy, elegant, with no phones, just pure, unfiltered entertainment. Of course, without all the casual racism and the part where women had to smile while their husbands treated them like decorative houseplants.”

The crowd chuckled, loosening up.

“You know, back when most of you would’ve been attentive enough to memorize your mistresses’ phone numbers instead of screenshotting the incriminating evidence like amateurs,” you added, your voice dripping with mock disapproval. “I mean, come on, fellas. At least have the decency to write it on your hand like a real degenerate. These days you’re out here leaving digital paper trails longer than your…” You let the pause hang just long enough for the dirty implication to land. “...attention span in bed. C’mon, guys focus!” You finished, earning a burst of loud, scandalized laughter from the women and a few guilty-looking coughs from the men. “Susie’s over here enforcing old performance rules while I’m trying to survive 2026 with a broken heart, a police record and dresses that cost more than my unpaid rent. The duality of a woman.”

You paced the small stage, hips swaying, the navy fabric catching the light with every step. “But I agree with the no-phone policy. My therapist says I overshare…and my arrest record says I overshare with props.” You leaned into the mic with a wicked grin. “Though between us, if I’m flashing anything tonight, it’s only because this dress is so tight I might need a crowbar and divine intervention to get out of it later. Any volunteers? Just promise you’ll tip big…”

The room erupted again, the laughter rolling louder, more genuinely. Susie stood near the bar with her arms crossed, a rare smirk tugging at her lips as she watched you work the crowd like you’d been doing this for years.

Back at the Talon…

You blinked at her words, the new responsibility of this hypothetical career settling on your shoulders.

“Okay, so about the material,” you started, sitting up straighter on the stool. “What happens when my life’s miraculously fixed and nothing’s funny anymore?”

You could almost see her rolling her eyes as she exhaled a slow drag from her cigarette, the smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. “You just don’t stop being funny,” she said flatly, tapping the ash off with a practiced flick. “You stop seeing the funny in things, so don’t. You’re talking about your present now but it’ll still be your life six months from now. You don’t wanna write jokes? Fine. Document what happens to you and find the funny in that…then exploit it on stage.”

You nodded slowly, letting her words settle in your chest. She had a point, a brutally practical, cigarette-scented point.

“But you have to work what’s around it,” she added, gesturing vaguely with the cigarette between her fingers, her expression somewhere between tough love and mild amusement at your obvious spiral.

Your brows furrowed, the weight of her vague instruction settling somewhere between confusion and irritation. “What’s around it?”

She shrugged, that casual, infuriating shrug of hers. “We have to polish a few things…” She paused, taking another slow drag, the tip of her cigarette glowing bright in the dim light of the empty club. “And you forgot to say your stage name.”

You blinked, genuinely racking your brain, trying to remember what had come out of your mouth during those ten minutes on stage. The set felt like a blur now from adrenaline, panic and that strange floating sensation that came from saying things you’d never admit to a therapist in front of strangers. “I don’t have a stage name.”

She chuckled, low and dry, like gravel under a slow tire. “You do and it has Mrs. in front of it.”

It took you a few seconds to pinpoint it, the memory surfacing like something awful rising from murky water. “No.” You shook your head firmly. “The name Mrs. Kent’s gotta go. If I’m doing this, I can’t keep it.”

“Why?” She asked, almost scandalized, her cigarette paused mid-air like she’d forgotten it was burning. “People loved it! I heard that name land.”

You let out a breathy huff, because in your mind, it was evident, obvious. “Because I’m not Mrs. Kent…and I know the real Mrs. Kent, she’s a very nice lady who makes excellent sweet tea and lives on a farm in Kansas.” The words came out sharper than intended, defensive in a way that surprised even you.

“Are you kidding me?” She stubbed out her cigarette with more force than necessary. “The first night you were here you seemed adamant about deserving that name.”

“Well common sense has a funny way of working when it comes to me…” You felt the weight of the past few days pressing down on your ribs. “It was clearly a joke.”

“You said you don’t do jokes.”

“Then it was a Freudian slip, Susie.” Your voice dropped, the fight draining out as quickly as it had flared. “I can’t keep it. If you make this happen I gotta find something else.” You held her gaze, willing her to understand. “This cannot reach his ears and trust me, it will… it’s just a matter of time but when it does, it can’t have his name attached to it.”

“You’re such a party pooper.” she murmured under her breath, but there was no real heat in it, more like a disappointed kid who’d just been told no cookies before dinner.

You smiled despite yourself, the tension in your shoulders loosening half a notch. “That’s very mature, thank you.”

“Could you please reconsider?” she tried and you caught the faintest hint of something vulnerable beneath her gruff exterior, like she’d already started building something in her head and didn't want to tear it down.

“I’m considering the whole thing, Susie.” You motioned between the both of you, the small distance across the counter feeling suddenly significant. “You seem convinced and that’s great but you barely know me. This currently sounds insane to me and it’s not a priority. I definitely couldn’t do it full time.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” you echoed, incredulous. “Did you forget the part where I’m not a comic? I’m unemployed and about to be homeless. I can’t think about this while sleeping outside. I need to figure out my life and then…I might be delusional enough to want this.”

Susie observed you in that way that made you feel like she was reading the fine print of your soul. “If you want something that’s yours,” she said slowly, each word intentional, “you might wanna jump on this.”

Something in her tone made your voice lower, the question slipping out before you could stop it. “What about you, Susie? Is working at the Talon not enough?”

She scoffed, turning away to get back to cleaning up, her movements brisk and mechanical. “It’s not permanent.” She repeated your own words back at you, throwing them over her shoulder. “I don’t want it to be…Years ago I pushed to have live music and artists on a stage I had to make myself.” She pointed toward the empty platform. “I’m not dying behind this counter with nothing to be proud of.”

“And you want that to be me?”

“Amongst other things.” She shrugged, that same casual motion but her eyes were sharper now, more intent. “You have talent…I grew up on this, on late night show recordings and vinyls of comics. I had an uncle who knew someone who knew someone who managed artists. I know what to look for and it’s flashing signs and lights when I look at you.”

“I know nothing about it.” The admission felt heavy, embarrassing in its honesty. “Not a single thing, Susie. And if it’s anything like I see online–”

“Don’t.” She cut you off, pointing a finger. “Unsee it. I’m telling you, if we're gonna make a place for ourselves in this business, it’ll be in a category where only you fit.” She said it with such certainty, such unwavering conviction, that you almost believed her.

You sighed as you let silence stretch, pulling out your phone from your purse and looking at the time. The screen glowed back at you, too bright, reminding you of the world waiting outside these walls. “It’s late…I should start heading home…given I still have one.”

She nodded, watching as you stood from the stool and gathered your belongings and résumés, her gaze tracking your movements like she was memorizing them. “You’ll think about it?”

“Sure, Susie…I’ll run it by my pillow and see where it stands on show business.” You collected the money from the counter and split it with quick, practiced fingers. “Your fifteen percent,” you said, handing her a portion.

“I told you that wasn't necessary.” She didn’t make a move to take the money from you, just stood there with her arms crossed, stubborn as ever.

Since she didn’t, you set the bills on the counter and tapped them once as a final punctuation. “Well someone needs to keep the lights on if I decide it’s worth coming back.” You smiled. “Night, Susie.”

“Night!” she called back as she watched you leave, feeling her eyes on your back until the door swung shut behind you.

You spent the next few days packing with no place to go.

The boxes piled up in corners you didn't even know your apartment had, cardboard mountains that seemed to multiply overnight no matter how many you taped shut and stacked against the walls. Your clothing racks stayed mostly untouched because you refused to fold anything that might crease, which meant half your wardrobe still hung suspended in judgment while you packed around them, shuffling sideways through your own home like a guest in someone else's disaster.

You tried your luck with your résumés downtown, the same desperate circuit you had walked a week ago, but now the rejection stung differently. Before, you had been exploring, testing the waters of employment like someone dipping a toe into cold water. Now you were drowning and every polite smile, every "we'll keep your resume on file," and every door that closed without an invitation felt like another brick tied to your ankles.

You found yourself unknowingly orbiting the Talon without making a move inside.

You walked past the neon sign twice on Tuesday, once on Wednesday and three times on Thursday. Each time you told yourself you were just passing through, just taking the long way back home, just clearing your head but your feet kept finding the same cracked sidewalk, the same dim hallway visible from the street and the same flickering light above the stairs that led down to Susie's kingdom of cheap drinks and questionable life choices.

You never went in. If you stepped through that door, you would have to talk to Susie and if you talked to Susie, she would ask about the stage and if she asked about the stage, you might say yes, and saying yes felt like admitting that your life had become something you needed to perform instead of something you needed to fix.

So you kept walking.

The week was ending in three days and you had no clear living situation. The boxes in your apartment proved that much, stacked in precarious towers that seemed to mock you every time you squeezed past them to reach the toilet. Your landlord Garrett had stopped returning your calls entirely, which you suspected had less to do with his schedule and more to do with the ten thousand dollar bet you had placed on his behalf.

You still had no job. The résumés had thinned out considerably, some handed directly to managers who smiled too politely, others abandoned on countertops when you realized nobody was actually reading them and at least three had been sacrificed to coffee rings during particularly discouraging interviews.

You had woken up early on Friday, before the sun had fully committed to rising, and dressed carefully in something that looked expensive without being your best. You needed to pay for the dress you had credited, the navy number with the pink details that had cost more than your first shitty car probably would have if you had ever owned one.

The money from that night at the Talon sat in your purse, along with some extra you had found while packing, crumpled bills tucked between the pages of books you hadn't opened in years, loose change rattling in coat pockets and one very crumpled twenty you discovered beneath your bed that you chose not to inspect too closely.

At least your debt was paid. You had handed over the cash to the saleswoman, who had smiled at you with something that looked almost like respect and collected the clothes they had been holding hostage.

Afterward, you forced yourself to walk back home carrying your paper bag, determined not to spend money on cabs you could barely afford.

Your heels clicked against the pavement in a rhythm that had become familiar over the past week. The city moved around you, indifferent, loud and exactly the same as it had been before your life collapsed, which was somehow both comforting and devastating.

You kept walking until your surroundings felt familiar, the buildings shifting from anonymous glass towers to storefronts you recognized, streets you had walked a hundred times before. 

You kept your head down as you passed Mrs. Alston's store, the way you had for days now, avoiding the window because you knew if you looked, you would see something you wanted and right now, wanting things was dangerous.

Left foot, right foot, left again…until your feet halted.

You didn't mean to stop. Your body simply decided for you, muscles locking up mid stride as your eyes lifted wide and landed on the sign at the door.

It read "Store closing soon" in block letters that looked too final, too much like an ending you hadn't been prepared for.

You alarmedly pushed inside, the bell above the door jangling with more force than you intended. The smell hit you immediately, that familiar combination of well taken care of vintage clothes and leather heels, dust, perfume and something that might have been cedar. It smelled like every good memory you had of shopping in this city, like the first time you had found a genuine 1950s cocktail dress in your size, like the afternoon Mrs. Alston had taught you how to spot authentic stitching versus reproduction.

"Mrs. Alston?" you called, your voice bouncing off the overflowing racks as you tried to locate her. The store was crowded, always had been, but now there was something desperate about the chaos, as if everything had been shoved aside to make room for goodbyes.

As well as she kept the store as organized as she could, overflowing was the right word. Dresses hung at odd angles, shoes sat in mismatched pairs waiting to be reunited and hats perched on every available surface like tiny spectators watching the slow collapse of an empire.

"Oh! I know that voice!"

Mrs. Alston emerged from the back room, her face lighting up in a way that made your chest ache. She was smaller than you remembered, though you weren't sure if she had actually shrunk or if you had simply been away long enough to forget. Her silver hair was pinned up in that same twist she had worn for years and her glasses sat slightly crooked on her nose, how they always were when she had been cataloguing.

"Dear, I just got in a collection of heels you will love." She grinned, already gesturing toward the back room with enthusiasm that seemed untouched by the sign on her door. "I just have to catalogue them and you will be the first to take a look."

She sold a bit of everything vintage and curated but her specialty was luxury shoes. That was why she was your shoe lady, the only person in Metropolis you trusted to find the perfect pair, the woman who taught you the difference between vintage and merely old. Her collection had expanded over the years to include clothes and accessories but the shoes remained her first love, and yours too.

You groaned, the sound escaping before you could stop it. "Don't tempt me."

She laughed as she walked back to the counter, her steps slower than they used to be and slightly uneven, which made you notice for the first time how much she leaned on the displays for balance. "I haven't seen you around in a while." She settled onto the stool behind the counter with a soft sigh, arranging her skirt around her. "What can I do for you?"

"For starters, how about not closing my favorite store?" you asked, pointing toward the sign out front with more desperation than you intended to show.

She groaned tiredly, shaking her head as she adjusted her glasses. "I didn't want to." The words came out heavy, weighed down by something that sounded like grief. "But age is catching up to me." She spread her hands on the counter, knuckles swollen and veins prominent beneath papery skin. "I can't stay open as long as I used to. My feet hurt and swell if I don't sit. If I am here organizing and cataloguing things, then I am not open and selling. And when I’m open and selling, I cannot keep up with the rest of it." She sighed, the sound rattling slightly in her chest. "My girls don't want to help. They have their own lives, their own families…I cannot blame them for not wanting to inherit a vintage store that barely breaks even. So we decided that I should close if I cannot keep up."

"I’ll help." The words came out before you thought about them, before you considered what you were offering or what it would mean. They simply appeared, fully formed and desperate, because the alternative was watching Mrs. Alston disappear from your life the way everything else seemed to be disappearing.

She blinked at you, her eyebrows rising above her crooked glasses.

"I know my vintage clothing and shoes." You stepped closer to the counter, your voice gaining confidence even as your stomach churned with the audacity of what you were suggesting. "I can be here six days a week or just take over when you need rest. It might be a biased opinion, but this store has potential. The sales aren't bad...I surely help by being your client, but I can help more by being your employee."

You set your purse and the bag with the clothes you had gotten back down on the counter, the paper crinkling softly. Your hands were shaking slightly which you noticed but you kept talking anyway because if you stopped, you might lose your nerve entirely.

"I can open an online store, that can surely help speed up things. When that’s up and running, by the time you decide to close the store and actually want to retire, the online store could keep working for you." You leaned forward, willing her to understand. "I do not currently have any more résumés on me and if you want to see one that badly, I can run up to Midtown and look in the diner's dumpster where I am sure I will find a copy of mine."

She blinked at your speech, her mouth opening slightly, then closing again. For a moment, you were certain you had overstepped, had pushed too hard, had ruined the one good thing you had left in this city. Then she chuckled, the sound warm and surprised and shook her head slowly. 

"I didn’t know you were looking for a job."

"I tried to avoid this street for as long as I could so I wouldn’t be tempted to spend more than I have." You admitted, your shoulders dropping slightly with relief. "I kinda cheated on you with another store but the point is you know me, and I know your store. I will not deceive you." You hesitated, your confidence faltering as the practical realities of your situation came crashing back. "I’ll just need you to show me the ropes."

You watched as she opened her mouth to speak and it hurt you to interrupt her so quickly, but there was one more thing she needed to know. One more piece of honesty you could not afford to leave unsaid.

"And I would need to be paid weekly." You added quietly, your voice dropping so low it barely carried across the counter. "At least until I figure out my living situation…which I rather not talk about."

Her smile spread across her face, slow and genuine, the kind of smile that made you feel like you had just been given something precious. "How soon can you start?"

You let out a sigh of relief so deep it felt like you had been holding your breath for days. Your shoulders dropped and the tension you had been carrying loosened its grip as you shrugged off your coat and draped it over the back of a nearby chair, ready to get to work.

It was criminally late when you got home.

The city had shifted into that strange, liminal hour where the streets belonged to nobody in particular. Taxis still ran but they seemed to move slower, their headlights cutting through the dark like weary eyes struggling to stay open. The bars had mostly let out, leaving behind clusters of people arguing about nothing on street corners, their laughter too loud and their balance too unsteady. You stepped around them carefully, body moving on autopilot while your mind drifted somewhere far above the sidewalk.

You were certain it took you thirty minutes to get up to your floor because you refused to take off your heels. The stairs stretched before you like a personal challenge, each flight longer than the last, each landing a small victory you celebrated only in your head. Your feet screamed at you with every step, your calves burned and somewhere around the fourth floor you had started making promises to your body that you knew you would not keep. Better shoes…more practical choices or flats, even though the thought made you wince.

You carried your purse, the bag with your clothes and another bag of something you had put together in the store. Your uniform, you had decided, though that was not entirely true. You had chosen it because it was a very rare vintage dress, the kind of piece that made your heart race when you found it hanging on a rack, with a fabric that whispered secrets about the woman who had worn it first. You told yourself it was practical, that you needed to look the part if you were going to sell vintage clothing to customers who valued authenticity but really, you just wanted to wear it and for the first time in weeks, you had let yourself want something without immediately talking yourself out of it.

You had never worked so much in your life before.

Your fingers were going to fall off, you were certain of it. Between color coding the inventory, recataloguing everything so it was not done by hand but on an actual computer,and learning the quirks of Mrs. Alston's ancient point of sale system, you had barely stopped moving since you got the job. Your back ached from bending over displays, your eyes burned from staring at spreadsheets and your throat was raw from talking to customers who wandered in to browse and left with armfuls of things they had not known they needed.

But you deemed yourself more than lucky.

Mrs. Alston had walked you through her books in the afternoon, showing you the numbers with a pride that made your chest swell. The amount each piece could bring was significant, especially the donations.

Old friends of hers brought in boxes of clothing they no longer wanted, friends of friends dropped off suitcases full of designer pieces they had inherited and did not appreciate, grandchildren cleared out attics and basements and delivered garbage bags full of treasure. Most of them did not know how valuable the pieces they were so excited to get rid of actually were. A 1960s Chanel suit, shoved into a plastic bin alongside holiday decorations, a pair of 1950s Ferragamo heels, scuffed and dusty but structurally perfect, tossed into a donation box because nobody recognized the name.

The pay was good…so good. Better than you had expected, better than you had dared to hope for when you walked through that door with nothing but desperation and a half formed plan and on top of your base salary, you would earn a commission for each sale. Every dress, every pair of shoes, every carefully curated accessory that walked out the door with a customer would put more money in your pocket. 

You were the only employee, which meant the commissions were yours alone, no fighting over customers!

You had made the website during your lunch break, hunched over Mrs. Alston's unused desktop computer while eating a sandwich you had picked up from the deli down the street. The template was clunky and the upload speeds were terrible but you had figured it out, piece by piece, typing product descriptions with one hand while checking how the formatting looked on the smaller screen of your phone.

You started taking pictures of the first things that needed to go, pieces that had been sitting in the back room for years, items that were beautiful but not quite rare enough to command top dollar. Decluttering the store was a priority, Mrs. Alston had explained, because you could not sell what people couldn’t see and right now, nobody could see anything through the chaos. So you photographed and listed, fingers moving automatically while your mind catalogued the next dozen items you wanted to feature.

You made social media accounts too. You posted photos of the store's best pieces, wrote captions that tried to capture the magic of finding something perfect in a pile of ordinary and followed every vintage account you could find. You needed to attract another public, Mrs. Alston had said, younger people who shopped online and cared about sustainability and wanted pieces that told a story. You agreed, even though you were not entirely sure how to reach them, when social media felt like a foreign language you were only beginning to learn.

The stairs loomed ahead of you, the familiar climb that had once seemed endless and now felt like the only constant in your life. You reached the bottom of the final flight, the one that would take you to your floor and stopped.

You took a deep breath, leaning against the railing as your chest rose and fell. Your legs trembled slightly beneath you, the muscles weak from exhaustion, the climb and the simple, overwhelming weight of the past several days. You were still so tempted to sit down and just sleep, right there on the cold, cracked stairs, head resting against the wall and bags clutched to your chest like pillows.

The hallways were still crowded, though the chaos had thinned slightly. At least four tenants had already left, their doors standing closed and quiet where there had once been noise, light and the sound of arguments spilling into the corridor but the remaining boxes still stacked against the walls, the furniture still pushed into corners, the lamps, rugs and framed photographs still waiting to be claimed by someone who had somewhere to go.

You were starting to close your eyes, to rest them just for a moment when a voice made you jump so hard you nearly dropped your bags.

"Finally."

Imogene groaned from her spot on the stairs and you lifted your head to find her sitting three steps above where you stood, her legs stretched out in front of her, arms crossed over her chest like she had been waiting for hours. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, the kind she only wore when she was too tired to do anything else and there was a crease on her cheek that suggested she had been resting her face against the railing.

"I have been knocking on your door like a maniac all day." She continued, her voice carrying that particular blend of exhaustion and indignation that only came from being ignored for hours. "Didn't you see my calls?"

You inhaled and exhaled, your body still trembling slightly from the surprise. "I didn’t." You flashed a tired smile, the expression feeling strange on your face after hours of concentrating on spreadsheets and product descriptions. "I’m sorry...but I have a job now." You lifted your bags with a shrug, the weight of them pulling at your shoulders. "I started today."

She descended the stairs rapidly, her own shoes clicking against them as she closed the distance between you. Without asking, she reached for your bags, pulling some of the weight from your arms and helping you up the last flight. Her presence beside you was warm and solid, and you leaned into it slightly, grateful for the support even if you were too tired to say so.

"And thanks to me, you have a place to live." Imogene said, her voice bright despite the hour. "That is, if you say yes."

"What?" The word came out slower than you intended, your brain struggling to process anything beyond the immediate reality of putting one foot in front of the other. You were so tired, the exhaustion made simple sentences feel like complex equations.

Once on your floor, the both of you stopped and faced each other. The hallway was dim, one of the overhead lights flickering somewhere behind you, casting long shadows across the worn carpet. Imogene's face was illuminated in soft, uneven patches, her smile bright enough to cut through the darkness.

She flashed you with that smile, one that had made you trust her the first day you met, the one that said she had good news and she was about to share it whether you were ready or not. "I found a place." She said the words like an announcement she had been waiting all day to deliver. "It has two bedrooms, a full bathroom and a living room where we can fit a couch." She paused, her expression shifting into something more conspiratorial. "Did I tell you about Archie?"

You blinked, your brain rifling through files it was too exhausted to properly access. "Your boyfriend Archie?"

"Yes." She smiled wider, if that was possible, her whole face lighting up at the name. "He is finishing his masters, and he has a job lined up here in Metropolis, so we will be moving in together...in six months." She drew out the words, letting them hang in the air between you, her eyes wide with expectation. "Which means..."

She trailed off, waiting for you to finish the sentence but in all honesty, all you could think about was how you were going to organize the scarves the next morning at the store. By color, certainly, that was the most visually appealing but length made sense too, so customers could easily find what they were looking for. Or fabric, because silk should not be stored next to wool, that was just common sense. What about all three? Was that too complicated? You could color code within length categories and then organize by fabric within those...

Imogene shook you, her hands gripping your shoulders and rattling you gently until your eyes focused back on her face. "You can move in with me!"

"Oh."

The syllable came out flat, insufficient, the kind of response that did not begin to capture the magnitude of what she was offering. Your brain struggled to catch up, to shift from scarves to roommates, from inventory management to the sudden, stunning realization that you might not have to sleep on the street after all.

"The apartment is downtown, which I know is not your style." Imogene continued, her words rushing out now that she had your attention. "Though it’s only three subway stations from Midtown, so I thought I would ask." She shrugged, suddenly self conscious, her confidence wavering for the first time since she had started speaking. "You have been so busy looking for a job that I didn’t know if you had time for the..."

Her voice cut off as you took her into a crushing hug.

You dropped what you’d been still holding to do it, letting them fall to the floor with a thud that echoed through the hallway. Your arms wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her close, holding on tighter than you probably should have, your face pressed into her shoulder. She smelled like lavender and coffee and the particular warmth of someone who had probably spent the day packing up more boxes and cleaning out closets.

"...rest." She finished, her voice muffled against your shoulder.

You both stood there in silence, you hugging her while your limbs felt heavy and your hands shook slightly from exhaustion and relief. The hallway was quiet around you except for the flickering light and the distant sound of a television somewhere below the only noise.

"I’ve never had a roommate." Imogene added, her voice smaller now, almost shy.

You stepped back, letting go of her, your arms falling to your sides. Your eyes were wet, you realized, though you were not sure when that had happened. You wiped at them quickly, hoping she had not noticed.

"I have." You said with a tired smile, the expression softer now, more genuine. "Well, something like it."

You thought of shared meals and borrowed sweatshirts and the particular rhythm of living alongside someone who knew you better than you knew yourself. You thought of mornings spent arguing about breakfast and evenings spent not arguing at all, just existing in the same space, breathing the same air, pretending you didn’t notice the way your heart sped up every time he walked into the room.

"I know it’s only six months." Imogene said, pulling you back to the present. "But you’ve already been packing, and..." She smiled again, softer this time. "It’s going to be great."

"Yes it will." You nodded, the words coming out firmer than you felt. You crouched, picked up your bags and dragged your heels to your door, each step heavier than the last as your bed was already calling to you from behind the worn wooden panels.

"I’ll send you the lease to your email." Imogene called quietly after you. "We can meet tomorrow after work to help you move your stuff." She paused, already planning and organizing. "What time do you get off?"

As you unlocked your door, key turning with a familiar click, you spoke behind your back. "We’re going to need more help than that." The door swung open, revealing the chaos of your apartment, the boxes, clothing racks and the narrow path you had carved through the mess. "I’ll give Ricky a call."

"Ricky?" Imogene's face scrunched up in confusion, nose wrinkling. "Bodega Ricky?"

"Yup." You said, pushing your door open wider and squeezing through the gap. Your hip caught on a stack of boxes, knocking them slightly askew but you didn’t have the energy to fix it. "Night."

The word came out under your breath, barely audible, as you closed the door behind you. The lock clicked into place, a small sound of finality that separated you from the hallway, from Imogene and the world outside.

You dropped your bags and your purse to the floor, before you collapsed on your bed.

The mattress groaned beneath you, springs protesting the sudden weight. Your face pressed into the pillow, arms sprawled out on either side and legs still hanging off the edge because you didn’t have the energy to pull them up. 

You did have a roommate once.

The thought drifted through your mind, unbidden and unwelcome, settling into your chest like a stone dropped into still water.

Life was so perfect back then…

At twenty…

You had already mastered the art of treating Clark's apartment like an extension of your own.

You exited your studio apartment with your toothbrush in your mouth, the bristles working against your teeth as you crossed the hallway. The floor was cold, how it always was in the mornings before the building's ancient radiator system remembered it was supposed to produce heat. You didn’t actually mind, you had stopped minding most things about this place, the thin walls, the unreliable hot water and the way the windows whistled when the wind picked up. It was yours for the time being, paid by your school and Clark was right next door, which made everything else tolerable.

You pushed open the door in front of yours, one that swung open without resistance because Clark had stopped locking it sometime during your first semester. He said it was because he forgot but you knew better. He left it open for you, the same way he left his closet open for your overflow of clothes and the same way he left space in his refrigerator for the things your tiny studio fridge could not hold.

You stepped inside his apartment, a bigger place that you knew well by now. You were halfway through your second year of university, which meant you had been doing this for nearly eighteen months, walking into his space like you belonged there, helping yourself to his things and occupying the corners he had cleared out for you without ever being asked.

His bathroom was at the end of the hall and your feet carried you there automatically, toothbrush still moving in slow, practiced circles. Steam curled under the door, warm and damp, carrying the smell of whatever soap he was using this week. Something herbal his mother probably sent him in a care package because Clark never bought things like that for himself.

You didn’t knock as you pushed the door open.

"Y/n." Clark started from behind the shower curtain, voice carrying that particular tone he used when he was pretending to be annoyed but was not quite pulling it off.

"Not looking!" You said the words around your toothbrush. You walked over to his bathroom counter, eyes scanning the organized chaos of his things until you found what you were looking for. His toothpaste sat beside the sink, the tube squeezed from the bottom like you’d taught him. "I’m out of toothpaste."

You put a dollop of it on your toothbrush, the minty paste cold against your tongue and didn’t bother going back to your apartment to finish brushing your teeth. Why would you? His sink was right there and so was his mirror.

Clark pushed the curtain open just enough to meet your eyes in the mirror.

His hair was wet, plastered to his forehead in dark curls and water dripped down his face in steady streams. His look was unsurprised at the sight of you in his space, you were in his apartment more than you were in your own and he had long since stopped questioning it.

"What." You said the word around the foam in your mouth, gesturing toward the door with your free hand as you continued brushing. "Are we still pretending you don’t leave the door open so I can do this?"

He blinked at you, water dripping from his eyelashes. "I’m in the middle of showering."

"And I’m brushing my teeth." You spit out the excess foam into his sink, the toothpaste swirling down the drain in white ribbons. You didn’t bother rinsing yet, head lifting to meet his eyes through the mirror. "What’s your point?"

"I’m naked."

The words hung in the air between you, simple and declarative. He wasn’t being provocative, nor was he trying to make you uncomfortable. He was simply stating a fact, the same way he might mention the weather, the score of a baseball game or the fact that you had left your lights on again.

You turned around to actually face him, your hand still moving your toothbrush in automatic circles. The curtain was pulled back just enough to give you a view of his shoulders, broad, wet and glistening under the harsh bathroom light. Soap bubbles clung to his skin in places, sliding down his biceps in slow motion and trailing over the curve of his chest. Water dripped from his jaw, from his collarbone and from the lines of muscle you had watched develop over the past year, changes so gradual you had almost missed them until suddenly you couldn’t look away.

He gripped the curtain tightly, holding it against his body to cover the rest, his knuckles white against the plastic.

"Right." You said, voice steady despite the way your heart had started beating faster. "I can see that." You tilted your head, considering him the way you might consider a painting in a museum, appreciative but detached. "Should I drop some one dollar bills and wait for the music to come on, or..."

A smile began spreading across your face before you could stop it, the expression breaking through your carefully maintained composure like sunlight through clouds. You could feel the warmth building in your cheeks but you didn’t look away, because looking away would mean admitting something you weren’t ready to admit.

Clark closed the curtain rapidly, the plastic swishing against the rod as he yanked it shut but not before you saw him blush, the color rising on his cheeks and spreading down his neck, disappearing beneath the water still streaming over his shoulders.

You laughed breathily around the foam in your mouth, the sound bright and entirely too pleased with yourself. You turned back to the mirror, catching your own foggy reflection, eyes bright and smile wide despite the toothpaste still coating your teeth.

"You give me a lot of shit about locking my door while you don’t lock yours." You spit again, the foam disappearing down the drain. "Make it make sense."

Behind you, you heard the water turn off, the sudden silence almost louder than the spray had been. You watched in the mirror as Clark's dripping wet arm reached out and grabbed a towel from the hook beside the shower. The fabric disappeared behind the curtain and you heard the rustle of him drying off efficiently.

Seconds later, he stepped out of the shower with the towel wrapped around his hips.

Water still clung to his chest, beading on his skin and trailing down his abdomen in paths that disappeared beneath the blue fabric. His hair was even darker when it was wet and it curled against his forehead in ways that made your fingers itch to push it back. He looked soft and hard at the same time, the contradictions of him somehow making more sense than anything else in your life.

"I think I can handle an intruder." He said, voice steady again now that he was covered. He reached for a smaller towel and started drying his hair, the motion ruffling the curls until they stood in every direction. "But I’m not around all of the time when you’re home."

You leaned down to rinse your mouth, cupping your hand under the faucet and bringing the water to your lips. The mint taste faded, replaced by the faint metallic flavor of the building's ancient pipes, the same taste you had gotten used to months ago. You straightened up and reached for the towel hanging on the rack beside the sink and wiped your mouth with the corner.

"Nope." You agreed, dropping the towel back onto the rack. "But you’re fast enough for me to pretend you are."

You left your toothbrush in the same cup where he kept his, the two of them standing side by side, your pink plastic nestled against his blue one. The sight of them together was so domestic it almost hurt, two toothbrushes in one cup, two lives tangled together in ways neither of you acknowledged yet.

You watched as Clark's eyes went down to the cup and back up at you. "You’re not gonna take that?"

You shrugged, the motion casual. "I’ll be back. I don’t get this month's stamps until next week."

The words landed between you heavily. Your parents had cut you off completely when they found out you enrolled at Metropolis University and the small amount of money you had saved had run out faster than you expected.

You could almost see how hard he was trying not to say it. His jaw tightened and lips pressed together as one hand gripped the towel at his hip while the other hung at his side, fingers curling into a loose fist. He was fighting with himself, you could tell, the same way he fought with every instinct that told him to fix things, to help and to save.

"Let me take you shopping." He said finally, the words careful. "Groceries….necessities. Anything you need."

You shook your head immediately, the refusal was almost reflexive by then. "I don’t need your help, Clark."

"Oh yeah?" His eyebrows lifted and something changed in his expression, the careful concern giving way to something lighter and teasing. "So what’s all the pink in my closet?"

He asked the question knowing the answer, knowing it would make you smile and break the tension that had settled between you. You watched your own smile spread across your face in the mirror, the expression softening the hard lines of your refusal.

You didn’t have enough space for your belongings in your student studio apartment, that much was true. The closet was barely big enough for your winter coats and your dresser had arrived with a missing drawer that you had never bothered to fix. Most of your things lived in Clark's apartment now, spread throughout his closets and drawers, your clothes hung beside his and shoes lined up inside his. Your presence was woven into the fabric of his space so completely that removing it would leave holes.

"Well that’s different." You shrugged. "Who wouldn’t want a big strong man protecting their growing vintage collection?"

Clark huffed something that might have been a laugh, the sound soft and warm in the small bathroom. His skin was still damp and the steam from the shower had fogged the edges of the mirror, blurring your reflection until you were both just shapes, just colors, just two people standing too close in a room that suddenly felt much smaller than it was.

"By the way." You added, remembering suddenly. "I’m getting a package tomorrow while I am taking my exams, so I’ll need you to sign off on it for me." You pointed at him, voice taking on a warning tone. "And be gentle. It’s silk."

His brows furrowed, the expression pulling his features into something between confusion and offense. "I’m not a brute."

"You sure are getting bigger." You pointed out, the words coming out softer than you intended, almost under your breath.

It was true. He had changed over the past year, filling out in ways that seemed almost impossible. His shoulders had broadened, his arms had thickened, and there was something different about the way he moved. It was almost like he was going through a second puberty, his body changing into something new while you watched, helpless to do anything but notice.

Your eyes almost widened at the situation. You were in his bathroom, still in your night dress with a tulle cover up, while he stood half naked, wet and larger than any man had any right to be. The towel around his hips sat low, dangerously so and you could see the line of hair disappearing beneath the fabric, could see the way his stomach tightened when he breathed.

"Physically." You cleared your throat, the sound too loud in the quiet bathroom. You pointed at your own face, then at his, trying to redirect the conversation somewhere safer. "You have some..."

You motioned vaguely at his jaw, where a dark shadow of stubble had appeared overnight. It was new, this facial hair, appearing in patches that made him look more mature. The stubble darkened his jawline, roughened the sharp angles of his face and you found yourself staring longer than you meant to…so it needed to go.

Clark looked in the mirror, touching his jaw with the tips of his fingers. The motion was almost absent, his attention already somewhere else, eyes focusing on something you couldn’t see.

You watched as his eyes glowed red and ducked immediately, body reacting before your brain caught up, dropping into a crouch beside the counter as soft lasers flashed from his eyes. 

The beams bounced off the mirror and back onto his skin, burning away the stubble in precise, controlled lines, making the hair disappear in small puffs of smoke.

"What the hell is wrong with you!?" You exclaimed from your crouched position, your heart pounding in your chest. "Next time give me a heads up or something."

The lasers stopped. The bathroom now smelled faintly of burnt hair and something ozone sharp that made your nose wrinkle. Clark looked down at you, his expression calm and unconcerned, as if he had not just nearly blinded you.

"Is it better?" He asked, completely ignoring your outburst.

You rose to your feet slowly, knees cracking from the sudden movement. You stared at his face, at the smooth skin where stubble had been moments before and at the complete lack of any evidence that he had just used his eyes as weapons.

You nodded. "Nice party trick." You smiled, the adrenaline still humming through your veins. "Almost took me out in the process, though."

You reached up before you could think better of it, placing your hands on his face. Your palms cupped his jaw, fingers spread across his cheeks and you turned his head gently from side to side, checking for missed spots, for patches of hair he hadn’t caught. His skin was smooth beneath your hands and you could feel the slight warmth of his jaw where the lasers had done their work.

"Is this why yesterday's bacon was burned?" You asked, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones without meaning to.

"Caramelized." He attempted, the word coming out softer than usual. His hand came up, the one that had been holding the towel and rested gently on your forearm. His touch was firm and warm, holding you there as your eyes traveled all over his face, cataloging the details you had somehow missed before.

"Charred." You corrected.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his jaw and into your hands. You gave him shit about burned bacon several times a week, complaining loudly about ruined breakfasts and wasted food but you knew exactly what he’d been doing. Whether it was saving a cat from a tree, preventing a car wreck or any of the other hundred things that occupied his time when he was not with you, you knew him. There were things you didn’t need him to explain.

Your eyes met his as his held yours.

The bathroom fell into silence, the only sound was the drip of water from the showerhead and the distant hum of the building's heating system finally kicking in. You were too aware of your hands on his face, too aware of the warmth of his skin and too aware of the way his thumb was moving in slow circles against your forearm.

You began slowly lowering your hands…as the sound of soft fabric pooling at his feet in a quiet heap broke the tension. 

Your eyes widened and his mirrored yours, trapped in a loop of mutual horror as he stood there naked, the towel abandoned on the tile floor between you.

"Keep your eyes up." He advised, voice strained and higher than usual.

"I..." You stuttered, your words catching in your throat. You could feel the heat spreading down your neck, burning in your chest. "They’re up."

"Keep them up." He insisted with what sounded a whole lot like desperation.

You tried very hard not to smile but failed. It tugged at your lips, threatening to break through and you bit the inside of your cheek in futile attempts to hold it back.

"I’ve..." You chuckled, the sound nervous and bright. "Always been interested in male anatomy."

"I’m sure." He nodded, his voice tight. "And I’ll...I don’t think I’m human enough for that."

He was getting redder by the second, the color spreading from his cheeks down his neck and lower where you couldn’t look. His hands hung at his sides, fingers twitching like he wanted to cover himself but couldn’t quite make himself move.

You chuckled again, the sound more confident this time. "Let me be the judge of that."

"You know where the door is."

"Rain check?" You asked, raising your eyebrows.

"Y-Yeah, sure." He nodded, holding your eyes, not looking away even though every instinct in him was probably screaming to do exactly that.

"Though I’m curious if you shave like that elsewhere..." You began, voice trailing off suggestively. Your eyes dropped for just a fraction of a second, then snapped back up when you remembered his warning.

"Y/n." He said firmly, voice dropping an octave. Something stirred lower, something he couldn’t control and the knowledge of it must have shown on his face because his eyes went wider and his jaw clenched.

"Yup. Okay, time to go!" You nodded, smile breaking through completely now. "I’ll see myself out."

You stepped backwards toward the door, eyes locked on his as your heels hit the tile in reverse. You didn’t look down or let your gaze wander. You kept your eyes on his, on the blush spreading across his cheeks and on the desperate hope in his expression that you would just leave already before this got any…harder.

You reached the door and slipped through it, pulling it closed behind you.

The hallway was cold, colder than the bathroom had been and you stood there for a moment with your back against it, heart pounding and hands shaking as your mind replayed every single second of what had just happened. You could still feel the warmth of his skin beneath your palms, could still see the water dripping down his chest and could still hear the way he had said your name.

You pushed off from the door and walked back to your studio apartment as calmly as you could.

Eventually quiet laughter began bubbling out, the sound muffled against your hand, because Clark was still standing naked in his bathroom with a rain check he probably did not know how to cash and you had never been more certain of anything in your life.

What followed was a week full of events.

Between moving out of your old apartment and moving into the new one with Imogene, you barely had time to breathe, let alone process everything that was happening. 

Ricky had shown up with his regulars and friends to help you move your things, a small army of bodega loyalists who complained about every box they carried but kept coming back for more. He had grumbled about the stairs and the weight of your clothing racks and the fact that you owned more shoes than anyone he had ever met but deep down, you could tell he was happy. 

You weren’t crying about Clark anymore and for Ricky, that was more than enough.

You were also so busy with work that you technically still hadn’t moved in. Your boxes sat in piles around Imogene's new apartment, waiting to be unpacked, while you spent your days at Mrs. Alston's store and your nights everywhere else. You slept on a mattress on the floor, surrounded by a few selected half opened boxes and clothes that needed to be hung and you were too exhausted to care about any of it.

But you hadn’t missed shooting that quick text to Clark with your new address.

You had typed it out during a break at the store, your fingers hovering over the screen longer than necessary while you tried to decide how to sign it. Finally, you had settled on something simple, something that felt like armor and confession all at once.

-A working girl.

You’d been proud of it. The words felt true and honest without being vulnerable, confident without being arrogant. You had a job that paid actual money, a side gig that paid well too and a future that didn’t depend on anyone else's charity.

You were sure somewhere in there, Clark was proud of you too.

Your set at the jazz club had gone well…better than well, if the crowd's reaction was anything to judge by. They had laughed in the right places and stayed quiet in the others and when you finished, the applause had rolled through the room like thunder. It had paid well too, enough for you to send back your bail money to Clark.

Thankfully…he had refused to take it.

You had tried to send it to him twice and both times he had refused with an earnest phone call. You had argued, of course, because arguing with Clark was practically a sport at this point but he hadn’t budged. So the money had sat in your account until you used some of it to pay the fine that came with your court date.

The court date had arrived in the mail three days after you started working at the store, the envelope crisp, official and deeply unwelcome. You had hired a lawyer, a no nonsense woman named Patricia who specialized in petty offenses and seemed entirely unimpressed by your explanation of what had happened that night. Together, you had pleaded guilty to a reduced charge, paid the fine and walked out of the courthouse with a record that would follow you for the next year and a lecture about better decision making.

You had taken the lecture and used the rest of the money to cover the lawyer's fees.

Now you lived closer to the Talon, which should have made things easier but somehow did not.

Your first working days had been so charged, so full of new information and new responsibilities, that you hadn’t had much time to think about your work nights. The stage felt like another life, something that happened to a different version of you, someone braver, more reckless and less concerned with consequences but you thought about that jazz club gig sometimes.

It happened when you were at the store, when customers trailed off describing a piece of clothing that you had already identified after the first three words. You would stand there, nodding along, waiting for them to finish and your mind would drift back to the stage, lights and microphone. To the way the crowd had leaned in when you spoke, hanging on every word like you were telling them something they needed to hear.

Things were going really good.

That was the thought that kept circling back, the one you returned to whenever you started to doubt. The store was picking up, the website was generating interest and Mrs. Alston had started looking at you with what might have been hope. The store’s social media accounts were growing, followers trickling in one by one and people had started messaging about specific pieces they had seen in your photos.

So when Susie called with a slot later that following week, you had eagerly accepted.

You didn’t hesitate or talked yourself out of it. You simply said yes, the word coming out before you could second guess it and hung up the phone with your heart pounding in your chest.

Now you were crossing the street toward the Talon and you absolutely couldn’t believe the noise.

The sound hit you before you even reached the sidewalk, a low thrum of voices and laughter that spilled out of the club's entrance and into the night. Clusters of people stood outside smoking, their faces illuminated by the glow of their phones and the flicker of lighters. 

It was unusual and so was the line in the hallway inside.

You stood there for a moment, frozen at the entry, watching as people filed past the tiny window where the same guy always sat. They were paying for entry, handing over bills and fishing coins out of their pockets and you watched as each person also turned in their phone, depositing it into a plastic bin before receiving a bracelet and moving inside.

You opened your purse automatically, already reaching for your wallet and calculating how much cash you had left.

"Y/n." The voice came in a loud whisper, cutting through the noise of the crowd. You looked up, trying to locate the sound. "Y/n!"

You looked around until your eyes met Susie's. She was already at your side, materializing out of the crowd like she had been waiting for you, hand closing around your arm before you could react.

"You picked the right night not to be fashionably late." She said, already pulling you forward, steering you toward the entrance.

You looked down at your dress as she walked you inside, skipping the line entirely. People turned to watch you pass, some curious, some annoyed and others already whispering to each other behind their hands. You ignored them, too busy trying to see yourself the way they must be seeing you.

The dress was deep red, a cocktail number courtesy of Mrs. Alston's store. The fabric was soft and it caught the light when you moved, shifting from crimson to burgundy to something darker. Now that you worked at the store, you could buy what you wanted at a very attractive price and if it was from the donation pile, it could almost be free. You were limited to two items per week, Mrs. Alston's only rule but it was still something, still more than you had ever hoped for.

"Do you not like what I’m wearing?" You asked as the both of you walked inside.

The club was even more packed than the sidewalk had suggested. Bodies pressed together at the bar, at the tables, in the corners where people had given up on finding seats and simply stood with drinks in hand, talking over each other's shoulders. The air was thick with smoke and perfume and the particular energy of a room that knew something important was about to happen.

"What?" Susie glanced back at you, her brow furrowed. "I didn’t say that. I’m saying I’m just glad you’re not late."

She kept pushing through the crowd, her shoulder clearing a path as she moved further inside and to the other side of the bar. People stepped aside for her, some annoyed, some amused, most just grateful to have someone else making the decisions.

"I’m never late." You swatted her hand away from your arm, though you kept following her. "And why are all these people here?"

The two of you finally stopped by a small room, a storage closet, near the back. There was a mirror on the wall, a chair and a table where you could leave your belongings. Susie pushed the door open and gestured for you to step inside.

You could finally see her face in the harsh light of the single bulb hanging overhead. She was grinning, wide eyed and she took you in with a look that was almost hungry.

"They’re here for you." She pointed at you, the gesture emphatic.

Your brows lifted. "For me?"

You watched as Susie nodded, the motion quick and excited, like she had been waiting all week to see your reaction. "I’ve had all week to let customers know you would be here tonight." She paused, her grin widening. "And that gig at the jazz club?" She excitedly hit your arm, harder than necessary.

"Ow!" You whispered, rubbing the spot.

"You did so fucking good." She continued, ignoring your complaint. "I don’t know what entitled prick ran his mouth to his friends since then, but look."

She pointed toward the booths along the far wall. From the distance, you could read reserved signs placed on several tables, marking them as off limits to the general crowd. People in expensive suits sat there, drinks in hand, their postures relaxed but their eyes alert. They looked like the kind of people who didn’t usually find themselves in places like the Talon, the kind of people who belonged in private clubs, rooftop bars and other spaces you had only read about.

"I had to make those myself." Susie added proudly. "I misspelled a few, but I still got the job done."

"Are you serious?" You asked, eyes going back to her.

She nodded, still grinning. Your gaze drifted to the entrance, where people were still filing in, still paying and handing over their phones. "And the people outside?"

"Jackie talked to them." Susie shrugged, as if this whole thing was normal. "They want to stay until the last minute to see if they can make it in."

You looked back at the room, at the bodies pressed together and at the energy crackling through the air like electricity before a storm. It was lively, more than you’d ever seen it and there was something in the atmosphere that made your skin prickle.

"I had to employ three more servers for tonight." Susie added, motioning toward the crowd.

Your brows furrowed as you tried to find the new faces, picking out unfamiliar people carrying trays of drinks, moving through the crowd with professional efficiency. "How are you going to pay for that?" You asked.

You had recently learned that the Talon was not exactly doing insanely well. The books were tight, the margins were thin and Susie had been operating on faith and stubbornness for longer than she probably wanted to admit.

She pointed at you. "Tonight, entry fee is thirty-five dollars."

"Thirty five?!" Your eyes widened, the number landing like a physical blow. "Susie, you’re fucking robbing people blind. I’m not worth that much."

She scoffed, waving away your concern like it was smoke. "Don’t worry. We’re only charging that to the people in suits and expensive coats." She gestured toward the booths, where the well dressed crowd sat. "They will be fine. For the rest, it has gone up to twenty but regulars stay at ten."

You tried to calculate in your head how much money that would make. The math swirled behind your eyes, numbers adding, multiplying and growing into an amount that made your stomach flip. Your official agreement with Susie from that night at the jazz club had remained at fifteen percent of your earnings. You had actually taken advantage of the lawyer you employed for your court date to craft an agreement between the two of you, a sort of contract until you decided if you were actually going to stick with this. It was just a precaution, Patricia had assured you, something to protect both parties while you figured out what you wanted.

The club would keep one hundred percent of the public's consumption, which had gotten five percent more expensive, not quite reaching Midtown bar prices, but a sizeable amount after a week of increased traffic. Susie would keep fifteen percent of entry fees and the rest was for you. For now, you didn’t want her to also pay you for your performance. This was your home, your testing ground and taking a cut of the door felt like enough.

"This place’s fucking bursting at the seams." Susie mused, looking out at the crowd with wonder.

"Please tell me you got rid of the communal bucket." You asked, your voice almost pleading.

She nodded, a smile spreading across her face. "Even called in a plumber to stay around all night, just in case."

You nodded back, the motion automatic, while the anxiety filtered in through the cracks in your composure. The room was full, the crowd was different and somewhere out there, people were paying thirty five dollars just to see you talk for twenty minutes.

"Should I change my set tonight?" You asked, voice quieter now and full of doubt. "Filter something out?"

This was a new cocktail of people, suits, regulars and curious strangers all mixed together. You didn’t know what they wanted, didn’t know what version of you would land best and you didn’t know if the usual jokes would work here.

Susie shook her head, turning to look at you properly. Her eyes traveled over your outfit, taking in the deep red dress that would definitely hold attention the minute you got on stage. You seemed less tired than the night at the jazz club, which showed that you were getting used to your new working life. The shadows under your eyes had faded, the tension in your shoulders had loosened and your posture was steadier with confidence.

"Nothing." She decided. "You get up there and give ‘em what you have." She paused, considering. "Will this be a collection of recycled stories or should I prepare to tackle you off the stage at some point?"

"Depends on how clean these floors are." You joked, then shrugged. "Whatever comes out. I’ve been writing a lot, but I don’t know how it’ll come out."

"Whatever it is, make sure they eat it up and beg for seconds." She nodded, pulling a cigarette pack from her pocket. She pulled one out, placing it between her lips and then lifted the package toward you. "Smoke?"

You shook your head.

"A drink?" She nudged you with her shoulder. "It’s on the house." When you did not immediately respond, she added, "Come on, say something. I don’t want you tense."

"I’m not tense."

"Oh, yes you are. You look like you have a stick up your ass." She lit her cigarette, the flame casting shadows across her face. She blew out smoke, the gray plume curling toward the ceiling. "I told you this would go fast." She paused, eyes drifting to the crowd. "The people in here have a sense of exclusivity. That’s what pays well." She turned to face you, her expression softening slightly. "This is all you."

"I’m good." You nodded, breathing in and out, trying to steady your heart. "Okay, I’ll take one…just to have something to do with my hands."

"Attagirl." She pulled out another cigarette and handed it to you. You took it, holding it between your fingers as you watched her light it. The tip glowed orange, the smoke curling up toward your face and you inhaled.

Once the smoke hit your lungs, you exhaled slowly, watching the gray cloud dissipate in the dim light. "But I am quitting after tonight." You murmured. “We really should've included a death clause in that contract…”

"Whatever rocks your boat." She shrugged, unbothered as she looked down at her watch. “I gotta tell them to start denying entry.”

“...’Cause it really feels like the kind of thing people remember right before dying.” You took another deep breath, the cigarette burning down between your fingers. "Is it just me or is the air getting thinner in here? Whatever you do, don’t tell my parents I loved them."

"Five minutes until you are up…You’re gonna be fine." Susie announced, already stepping away and disappearing back into the crowd. She turned back at the last moment, her eyes finding yours through the haze of smoke and bodies. "Tits up."

Then she fused into the crowd and disappeared, leaving you alone with your cigarette, your thoughts and the distant sound of a room full of people waiting to see what you would do next...

You took another slow drag from your cigarette, the smoke curling lazily around your fingers as you stepped out of the room and watched Jackie step onto the stage. The crowd quieted down almost instantly, the low hum of conversation fading as the spotlight hit him.

“You’ll soon be hearing many people presenting her as a very funny lady,” Jackie announced, his voice carrying through the packed room. “Truth is, you don’t know fun until you hear her and even then, the adjective will fall short. So I’ll let her do the heavy lifting…and when you see her at Carnegie Hall…if you can ever get tickets to that, just remember you saw her here first.” He extended his arm dramatically to the left side of the stage. “Please, give her a very warm welcome.”

The applause swelled, loud and enthusiastic, as he stepped off. You straightened your posture, gave yourself a firm little nod in the shadows and whispered under your breath, “Tits up.” Then you plastered on a bright, dangerous smile and walked onto the stage with purposeful, swaying steps. The applause grew even louder, crashing over you like a wave as you approached the mic.

“Why, thank you, Jackie,” you said animatedly into the microphone, your voice warm and playful. “Believe it or not, that’s the most I’ve heard him talk since this whole ordeal started.” Scattered laughter rippled through the crowd. You turned fully to face the audience, eyes sweeping over the sea of faces, of suits mixed with regulars, all packed shoulder to shoulder. “And look at you all. Now I’m told we’ve passed our occupancy level, so please everyone keep your hands where I can see them. I won’t be responsible for the people you impregnate tonight.”

Laughter erupted, sharper and louder than you expected from the first joke. You took a quick drag from your cigarette, exhaling smoke as the chuckles rolled on.

“Isn’t it funny how that’s how some of our grandparents told us we’d get pregnant?” you continued, pacing slowly. “Or more so your parents, depending on the age range here…I’m trying to be more inclusive.” The crowd chuckled warmly. “Meanwhile, some of them were dating their cousins and blaming TV for fucking us up.” More laughter burst forth, but a stern-looking older man in the very front row looked outright outraged. You pointed your cigarette at him with a grin. “Oh, don’t you worry, sir. I’ll only be up here for around twenty minutes, if I can help it, which is more than some of you last in bed. You’ll be hearing the word fuck a lot, and I see that the way out is as tight as a–” You paused, letting the implication hang as laughter erupted. “See? There’s a very funny joke here that could count as blasphemy, which I won’t say in case there are any nuns in here.”

You took another drag while pacing slowly across the stage, the deep red fabric of your dress catching the light with every movement as laughter built. “I’ve also broadened my horizons to a jazz club closer to Midtown…nothing too fancy, which still allowed me to say the word orgasm about four times.” You grinned as fresh laughter rolled through. “I say this because I’m seeing so many new faces tonight and I’m told you’re all here for me. Now, I’m fairly new to comedy, so the fact that so many of you knew my name and showed up just to see me on stage reminds me of this stalker I had in college…”

You shrugged, taking another pull from the cigarette before continuing with theatrical flair. “Long story short, I’m in love with my childhood best friend and he…well, he’s a man.” The crowd laughed knowingly. “And can’t see past this.” You gestured dramatically at your figure in the red dress. “Though now that I see it from this angle, maybe he’s scared of venturing into the darkness.” Louder laughter followed. “Might need a night light.”

You continued, voice dropping into something sultrier.

“Something amazing happens in the mind of someone who’s never felt the love of a parent when someone else shows some interest,” you said, pointing at the audience. “It’s what happened to me…I met this guy in one of the French classes I took in college…well, he met me. I still don’t know his name. Hell, he might even be here tonight.” People laughed, already looking around for him. “I very often got these cute notes in French…ones that made me feel like a buttered-up croissant.” You shimmed your shoulders playfully, earning wolf whistles and louder laughter. “Of course, in my mind I thought my best friend was writing them…so romantic, right? They went a little something like…Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?” Your French accent was spot-on. “And something that roughly translated to ‘I’d like to live in your skin until the both of us…rot?’” Your voice trailed off as you shrugged helplessly and the room burst into laughter.

You took a drag, letting the smoke curl as the laughter died down just enough.

“Now part of me believed this farm boy just didn’t know much about flirting, but honestly I should’ve begged someone to hit me in the head with a hard baguette for fooling myself. I should’ve known better given I’ve been around the guy on a farm… all of those ‘Attagirl’…” You dropped your voice into a sultry tone. “Or ‘You’re doing so fucking good’...without the ‘F’ word, of course, he doesn’t curse and ‘What a good girl’ as he fed his cows…I mean, it made me consider veganism for a while.” 

The room lost it and you simply waited as they clapped, cigarette between your fingers, smiling as the laughter peaked.

“Anyway, turns out he caught this guy following me home by following him. I can promise you, I’d never seen my best friend so angry. He held the guy by his arms and shook him and I turned around to see what all the screaming was and I was so…” You breathed dramatically, eyes wide. “Enamoured by how big his arms looked. I mean, I should’ve been scared but Oh! Quel homme!!” You almost moaned it, sending the crowd into fresh hysterics. “That’s French for “Oh, what a man!”…you know what else is French? The guillotine.” Laughter exploded again.

“So gentlemen, when you leave here tonight, be conscious of yourselves. Mr. Kent might not be around, but his Mrs. is…I will find you and punch you in the nose.” The laughter grew so loud it shook the room. “Now I’m not strong, but at the very least you’ll be very embarrassed that you got punched in the nose by a not-strong comic. You might get the last laugh…but just know it’ll be your last…ever.” 

You took one final drag, stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray on the stool beside you as the applause and laughter thundered.

You grinned, riding the wave. “I might not have a concealed carry permit, but nobody has ever looked under my skirt…And for context, my favorite toys have always been big, dark and automatic.”

The audience completely lost it. Howls of shocked laughter exploded across the room, while whistles pierced the air, mixed with groans of disbelief and genuine belly laughs that ricocheted off the walls like fireworks. A table of women in the middle nearly collapsed into each other, one of them slapping the table so hard her drink sloshed over the rim. Even some of the suited men in the reserved booths were red-faced, trying and failing to hide their amusement behind newly expensive cocktails. 

You lifted one hand in mock surrender, grinning through your own laughter. “I’m kidding,” you assured them, eyes sparkling under the stage lights. “Size isn’t important…” You let the pause stretch just long enough for the room to lean in, then delivered the punch with perfect timing. “But you know what is? Growth.”

The groan that rippled through the crowd was immediate and delicious. You groaned right along with them, dramatic and theatrical, clutching the mic stand like you were embarrassed by your own joke. “Tough luck for show-ers… it just takes away all of the fun.”

The laughter hit a new peak, loud, filthy and unrestrained. Several people were wiping tears from their eyes. A woman in the front row pointed at you with both hands, shouting “Yes, girl!” while her date looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. You let the wave of applause and laughter wash over you, feeding the adrenaline buzzing in your veins.

You paced a few steps, the deep red dress swirling dramatically around your legs, catching the light like liquid fire. The audience was eating out of your hand now, completely hooked.

After a minute, the laughter finally began to quiet down. You leaned into the mic with a playful smile, giving the crowd a moment to breathe.

“I promise I don’t always talk about penises and sex,” you said, raising a hand in mock innocence again. “I also talk about my parents…and running away from home for love. Now that I think about it, hosting comedy acts probably isn’t the greatest way to hide from them, but that’s a problem for another day!” You paused for the scattered chuckles. “Alright, let me think. Besides my rapidly growing criminal record, what else is new?...I got a new apartment.”

The crowd clapped and cheered enthusiastically. You grinned, nodding along. “Yes, I’ve moved out of Garrett’s building right after hearing him practically drop dead from the bet he lost…ten grand, which I may or may not be responsible for. Any lawyers in the house?” You scanned the room theatrically. “Obviously he called the police on me…who I love,” you added with heavy sarcasm. “Who historically can do no wrong. I mean, it took very little conversation with Garrett for them to decide he’s a gambling addict and that the nice little lady with the vintage dresses had absolutely nothing to do with his upcoming financial ruin.”

The audience laughed heartily, clearly enjoying your chaotic life updates.

“It’s too bad, really,” you continued, “because the best sleep I had all month was in a holding cell.” More laughter rippled through the room. “Also, I have a day job now too at a retail store.” You nodded proudly. “It’s fascinating, the different people you meet and how eager we all are to overshare what’s wrong in our lives. That’s exactly why I’m standing on this stage about to tell you how I eagerly encouraged a woman to divorce her husband of forty-five years…while he was just a few aisles away.”

The crowd groaned in delighted shock.

“Yeah, I know,” you said, wincing theatrically. “So, the store was pretty full and as I’m helping this lady at the counter, I noticed her eyeing one of our regulars…this nice, tall man with a salt-and-pepper beard I’d want to sit on.”

A collective gasp swept the room, followed by scandalized laughter. You quickly corrected yourself with wide eyes. “I mean, her! Or me! Hey, I might be a Mrs. up here, but unlike their marriage, this act won’t last long!”

The laughter swelled again. You rode the wave, pacing slowly across the stage.

“Anyway, she looked starstruck, so I told her, ‘He’s single, no kids…’ Obviously I omitted the part where he lives in Gotham, just in case she was more interested in what’s in his will.” You shrugged innocently as people howled. “I’m trying to keep true love alive! And she’s like, ‘Oh no, I can’t,’ and I’m like, ‘Yes you can!’ And she’s like, ‘No I can’t…’” You paused, eyes widening in realization. “That’s when I remembered she’s one of the ladies who comes in regularly just to talk shit about her husband in hopes of talking me out of an equally terrible marriage.”

Laughter erupted once more.

“So I looked her dead in the eyes and said, ‘Well, that doesn’t mean you can’t run to the end of your leash and bark!’”

The room exploded. People were clapping, laughing and some nearly falling over in their seats.

“Ladies, don’t let your awful husbands keep you from finding a boyfriend,” you declared, pointing across the crowd. “And for those with not-so-terrible husbands…my most sincere condolences.”

More laughter rolled through the room, warm and appreciative.

“I’m serious though, don’t let permanence dictate your life if that thing no longer serves a purpose. I’d be the first one to tell you that you need to experience things in the moment. Like fine wine…or a really expensive divorce.” You almost groaned the last part, earning another big laugh. “And I know this because she comes back every single day to update me on how it’s going. Just this morning she found out he cheated on her earlier in their marriage…on her Egyptian cotton sheets, which she paid for. She picked them out while he was busy ‘networking’ which nowadays is code for ‘ejaculating prematurely while thinking about stock options.’”

The crowd lost it again with a mix of shocked gasps and roaring laughter.

“I realize now that I’m single-handedly keeping lawyers in business while accidentally profiting off this woman’s divorce,” you added with a grin. “Because every time she comes in, she buys something new with their money and I earn commission. But I’m technically supporting the cause because by the time they split their assets, that poor man’s gonna own a recliner, half a toaster and several very expensive regrets while she’ll be draped in enough silk to survive winter without central heating.” 

The crowd roared with laughter, several women cheering loudly in solidarity.

You struck a dramatic superhero pose with a hand on your hip and your chest slightly forward. “I’m like Superman…but with better boobs.”

The room absolutely erupted in loud, delighted laughter mixed with whistles and applause. You held the pose for a beat, soaking it all in with a satisfied smirk before dropping it.

You raked your eyes over the room one last time, taking in the energy, the flushed faces and the genuine connection vibrating through the packed club.

“It’s very clear to me that as of this past week, my two new favorite F-words are financial freedom…and the fact that you all paid to be here is only encouraging this behavior.” You flashed a bright, grateful smile as fresh laughter spread. “Well, the laughs help too.”

With a satisfied little smile, you carefully placed the microphone back onto the stand, the motion final.

“You’ve been a wonderful audience, ladies and gentlemen. That’s it for me…I’m Mrs. Kent. Thank you and goodnight!”

The applause was thunderous. Loud, sustained and full of whistles, cheers and stomps. Several people stood up, the reserved booths included, as the entire room erupted in celebration. The sound vibrated through your chest, warm and victorious, as you gave a graceful little bow.

You remained on the stage for a few seconds, soaking in the applause as the sound washed over you in waves. The lights were bright and warm against your skin and somewhere in the back of the room, someone began whistling so loudly you could hear it over the thunder of clapping hands. You let yourself stand there just a moment longer, breathing it in, letting the noise settle into your bones like heat after being out in the cold too long.

Through the crowd, you saw Susie push her way toward the stage, her shoulders working against the press of bodies, her face lit up with something that looked almost like wonder. She reached the edge of the stage just as you began stepping down and people immediately surrounded you, congratulating you eagerly, shaking your hand, patting your shoulder and leaning in to say things you could not quite hear over the noise. A woman with bright red lipstick grabbed your arm and told you she had not laughed that hard in years while a man in a wrinkled suit pressed a business card into your palm and mouthed something about representation. You nodded, smiled and kept moving, kept pushing through, because Jackie had already taken the stage again and started introducing some loud music that made conversation nearly impossible.

"Follow me." Susie's voice cut through the noise and you didn’t argue.

You ducked into the small room where you had left your belongings. Your hands moved automatically, grabbing your purse and your coat, then you followed her out but instead of heading toward the bar, she turned left, pushing past a cluster of people who stepped aside when they saw her coming. A side door appeared in the wall, one you had never noticed before, hidden behind a curtain that looked like it had not been washed since the club opened. Susie pushed it open and stepped through and you followed her into the night.

"Did you see me up there?" The words spilled out of you before you could stop them, your voice high, bright and barely containing the energy thrumming through your veins. "It was better than drugs."

Susie snorted but she didn’t turn around.

"I mean, I haven’t done them in years but it feels like an opportunity." You were talking too fast, you knew that much, but you couldn’t seem to slow down. The adrenaline was still pumping, still buzzing under your skin and every word that came out of your mouth felt like it needed to be said immediately. "Oh, I actually need a drink."

The fresh air hit your face as you stepped fully outside, cold, sharp and sobering in a way that made you blink. The alley behind the Talon was narrow and dark, lit only by a single flickering bulb above the door and the distant glow of the street beyond. Trash bins lined the walls and somewhere nearby, water dripped steadily onto pavement.

"I need a drink so stiff I could blow it." You said and then Susie suddenly halted.

You did the same, stopping mid step, heel scraping against the cracked concrete. You turned to face her, still buzzing and grinning…until you read her face.

She was just staring at you with the most neutral expression you had ever seen, her mouth flat and eyes unblinking. For a moment, you thought she was angry or disappointed or maybe just exhausted from the chaos of the night but then her nose twitched and her eyes began to water, and you watched in growing horror as her composure cracked.

"Susie?" Your voice pitched higher, concern cutting through the last of your adrenaline high. "What the fuck?"

She covered her face with both hands, her shoulders shaking as she attempted not to cry. The sound that came out of her was somewhere between a laugh and a sob, muffled by her palms.

"You’re going to change my life." She sniffled, the words coming out thick and wet.

"Well..." You hesitated, caught off guard by the raw emotion on her face. "I...I sure can try."

It was not just your life you wanted to change, you realized. It was hers too. Susie had been here for years, stuck behind that bar, watching other people perform while she cleaned up after them and now she was standing in an alley with tears in her eyes, talking about your future like it was the only thing that mattered.

"Most comics take years to work up those first ten minutes." She shook her head as she met your eyes, her voice was thick with something that might have been wonder. "Let alone go on for twenty with random things that happened to them while creating a connection with the crowd…You did it in a month."

You shrugged, looking around at the dark alley, the dripping water and the single flickering bulb. The night was darker now than when you had arrived, the sky above the buildings a deep, endless black. "Feels like years to me."

She shook her head firmly. "You’re really good."

"Thank you, Susie." You said sincerely, letting out a sigh of relief that seemed to deflate in your chest. The tension you had been carrying all week, all month, all year, loosened slightly.

"No, Y/n." She stepped closer, her voice getting more emotional, eyes glossed over again. "You’re really fucking good."

Your eyes widened. "And you’re scaring me."

She sniffled again, wiping her tears with the back of her hand and straightening her posture. She rolled her shoulders back, lifted her chin and somehow managed to look almost composed again, despite the redness around her eyes. "It’s just allergies." She said, her voice steadier now. "Thank you for coming tonight…I know you’re busy..and unsure."

You breathed in and nodded, the cold air filling your lungs. "No, I think I needed this." The admission came out quieter than you intended, almost private. "Life’s gotten too serious lately."

Susie nodded, her attention caught by the noise spilling from the club behind her. The music was still playing and somewhere inside, people were still laughing and talking, still living inside the world you had created for them.

"I’ll call you tomorrow when the money’s counted ." She breathed, already starting for the door. "Go home, wash this success off, and...get fucked, I don't fucking know."

You laughed, the sound bright in the dark alley. This was definitely the kind of thing you could have celebrated with sex, the kind of high that begged for something physical to match it but right now, all you wanted was a shower, a pizza and about six hours of sleep until you needed to clock in for work.

"Susie?" You called back quietly.

She turned to face you, her hand on the door, silhouette framed by the dim light spilling out from inside. The two of you stared at each other across the narrow alley but you were not present at all. You were back on stage, hearing people laugh and applaud, feeling the warmth of the lights on your skin, riding the wave of something that felt gloriously close to purpose.

Susie hadn’t forced you to be here tonight. She wasn’t asking you to stay, either or to do it again in the following week…The problem was that you wanted her to.

"Tell me this is going to work." You instructed, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest.

You had six months.

Six months in Imogene's apartment before Archie finished his master's degree and moved in. Six months before you'd need somewhere else to live. Six months before the carefully assembled life raft you'd been floating on reached the end of its rope and after working with Mrs. Alston for a few weeks, the truth had become impossible to ignore.

Soon there wouldn't be mountains of donated clothing arriving every week. The website was already moving inventory faster than before while social media had people coming in specifically for pieces they'd seen online. The business was improving which meant eventually the racks would thin out.

Mrs. Alston would retire and that chapter would end too.

The store wasn’t a forever thing, so this had to be.

"It has to stick." You finally decided, the words coming out firmer than you felt. "I want it to stick."

For a moment Susie didn't answer, she simply looked at you, at this new version standing in front of her with tired eyes, aching feet and enough hope in her voice to make the whole thing terrifying.

Slowly, she nodded, trying very hard to look professional about it. It was her careful attempt at looking like a manager discussing business opportunities instead of a woman who'd just watched her future walk onto a stage and accidentally change both of their lives but her eyes gave her away. She was trying not to cry and was becoming increasingly aware she was losing the fight.

"Sure." She tried, the word was careful as if trying not to scare you away, trying not to push too hard, ask for too much and make you change your mind.

You shook your head. "No. I need you to be sure of it." Your voice dropped, the words coming out slower now, more deliberate. "That if I fall and there is just a stretch of space below, a void... that you will catch me."

She nodded and this time there was no hesitation. "I will dive right in, no doubts." She said it like a vow, like something she had been waiting to say. "If we go down, then we’ll go down together." She paused, something flickering across her face. "But we’re not all Superman."

You nodded, the word landing somewhere in your chest, settling into the space where your heart was still racing. She pushed the door open and walked back inside, the noise swallowing her up, and you stood there in the alley for a second, alone with the dripping water, the flickering light and the weight of everything you had just decided.

You fumbled to open your purse, fingers clumsy with adrenaline and cold and pulled out your phone. The screen glowed in the darkness and you tapped the one pinned contact without letting yourself think too much about it.

You pressed the device to your ear and listened to it ring…once.

You took in a deep breath, the air cold and sharp in your lungs. You exhaled slowly, watching your breath cloud in front of your face as your lips stretched into a gentle smile.

"Hi." You breathed, your voice softer, warmer. "Is it too late for a walk? I don’t want the night to end yet."

Maybe new beginnings only happened after endings…or maybe they happened the second you finally stopped running long enough to make that call.

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!