18+ Only

ONE PIECE!

SOLO LEVELING!

DAY 20: MIRROR SEX (BF!Sung Jinwoo x Black!Chubby!GF!Reader) - You and your boyfriend decide to visit a carnival for a fall date night only to step into the House of Mirrors and get absolutely lost. Lucky for him, you’re a fucking freak and you’ve got some tricks up your sleeve to make this experience VERY interesting for your sexy boyfriend.

GANGSTA!

Must Be A Full Moon 🌕 (Werewolf!Nico x Black!Fem!Reader One Shot) (18+) - You’ve been dating Nico for about five months now and you couldn’t be happier with him. He’s big, he’s sexy, he’s protective, and he listens! He’s the perfect boyfriend…except for one thing: you haven’t had sex yet. Every time you come close to it, he always makes an excuse and leaves your apartment before anything more than kissing can happen. What is it, you wonder? Is he not sexually attracted to you? Is he nervous? What could it be? One dark night, while the moon is high in the sky after a costume party, you get your answer…and everything you’ve been craving from your big, strong, sexy boyfriend. 

OTHER (NON-ANIME)!

Desperado (Dom!Mizu x sub!Self-Insert!Reader One Shot) (18+) [COMMISSION FILL] - When you randomly ask Mizu to help train you to become a stronger fighter, she discovers the reason is that you plan on accompanying her on her journey for revenge. She initially refuses, but after a moment of passion turns into a night of confessed feelings and a goodbye, Mizu begins to change her mind about working alone.

ANIME CROSSOVERS!

ONE SHOTS

Babysitting Has Its Perks 🖤🐰 (Big Bro!Choso x Big Bro!Dabi x Black!Fem!Reader One Shot) [18+] - You’ve been babysitting kids as a side hustle for a while now to get extra money. You have your regulars, one of them being a doctor’s cute little son Yuji. Though the pay is good, you admit that the main reason you come back to babysit the kid is because of his sexy older brother Choso. On Halloween, when Choso gets caught up in a pinch, he hits you up last minute to babysit Yuji and his bandmate’s little brother. You think this will be an easy night…until you meet Choso’s bandmate Dabi…and you decide to wear a bunny costume…and you realize just how much your secret crush and his hot friend love bunny girls.

SHORT STORIES/SERIES

Who Is In Control? (Jinwoo x Black!F!Reader x Gojo) [18+ Fic] - Sung Jinwoo is the highest-ranking hunter and the most powerful human being humanity has ever seen. So is Gojo Satoru. Both cocky, both confident, and both eager for more power, they compete against each other for each gate that seems to get more dangerous the farther and higher they go. They figure your gate won’t be any different and that you will be the usual big baddie that they need to take care of. Another cog in the system. Until they manage to beat you and find out who you truly are behind your facade. Now the hunters are hellbent on keeping you to themselves. So, what’s another friendly competition? Only this time, the prize is you. [ONGOING]

HEADCANONS N DRABBLES

They're Your Blind V-Day Date (18+) (Crossover Anime) (For Black!Fem!Readers)

HE’S SO F**KING BIG THAT HE COULD CRUSH YOU & YOU LOVE IT (18+) (for Fem!Readers)

HOLIDAY SPECIALS!

HALLOWEEN MASTERLIST

You weren't quite sure what to expect. Pete had come to your office late yesterday afternoon, asking if you could do him a favor. You had agreed, thinking it had to do something with the latest case you were working on or the new client that dropped by. What you didn't expect was for him to show you the mountains of manila folders with only one word etched on the front of them, Bear.

Ever since moving to Chicago, Pete had been a mentor of sorts. At first, it was firm assigned. He always had his door open when you had questions about the workings of the company or the complexities of a case. You found yourself sending him about 15 emails a day, and they were always followed up with a smiley face emoji and way too many exclamation points for a grown man to use.

But beyond that, he had welcomed you into his home and made an effort to really welcome you to Chicago. After mentioning to him one day during lunch that you still hadn't been able to cook something for yourself, despite being in the city for three weeks already, he had insisted that you join him and his wife for dinner that weekend.

You had shown up with a bottle of wine and were met with a round stomach. Nevertheless, Natalie had laughed and hugged you tightly as you apologized profusely for the bad gift choice.

"I wouldn't ask if I knew you couldn't handle it. It's just that Natalie's about to pop, and I need to devote my energy towards caring for her," he explained as you sifted through the miscellaneous documents.

So now, you stood outside the establishment, double-checking the address, then triple-checking, before opening the door.

"I swear to everything holy, Cousin! Hold the fucking table straight!"

"I am, jagoff! Fix your fucking eyes!"

"Dumbass, it's crooked! Look!"

"It's not! Your fucking head is crooked, screwed it on the wrong way this morning."

"Oh, fuck you!"

"Fuck you!"

Just as you were about to sneak back out the way you came, you saw Natalie's familiar face.

"Idiots! You're gonna scare her off."

Both men whip around to face you. You held out a hand and waved, sending them both a small smile.

The older man grins back at you, "Oh shit, sweetheart, didn't even hear you. Quiet as a mouse coming in."

The younger one just scoffs at the older man, but his eyes don't leave your form. You feel your tummy jump as his electric blue eyes drag over your body and land on your face. You think he might say something. But as Natalie comes to gather you in her arms, he doesn't say a word.

The older man's gaze flickers over to the younger one, and it seems like the smile on his face widens tenfold, from what you can't quite put your finger on yet.

"Richard Jerimovich, but everyone just calls me Richie," he tells you, sticking out a hand. His grip is surprisingly gentle and firm, all in the same breath. Still, you give him a small smile and offer your name.

Expectantly, you look towards the curly-haired brunette, but he just looks at you blankly.

As Richie barks out a laugh, again, at something you don't quite know, but Natalie cuts in swiftly.

"I gave everyone a brief introduction as to who you are and what you'll be helping with, so no need for niceties just yet. I want to show you the belly of the beast," she tells you as you just nod and let her guide you through the mess of a restaurant.

As she pushes open the swinging doors to the back of the building, you swear you catch the two men going at it again.

"Holy fuck!"

"Shut the fuck up, Cousin."

"Holy fuck! Are you a fucking teenage boy, Bear?"

"Shut up!"

"Got something staining on the front of your pants, y'know."

But a huff from Natalie brings you back into reality. With a creak, the door to a back office opens up, and you almost gasp at the condition of the place.

"I know, but everything has its place. Mikey had his system, and we all work around it," she says, almost sensing the anxious thoughts circling your head.

After hearing her reasoning, though, your heart pulls, and you hum. Pete had told you about his passing. It wasn't exactly office talk, but he said he needed to give you a crash course before today. Michael was the first thing he told you about.

Pulling out a chair, she beckons you to sit. Once you do, she plops a stack of papers in your lap.

"Petey is working on I.R.95 forms for The Bear now, and told me he's almost finished. But we need to have these," she says, finger coming down to point at the title of the paper, "I.R. 114 forms done by the end of next week."

You nod, he had told you most of this already, and you had made a color-coded list of what to tackle with corresponding due date, but you sat and let her explain it to you a second time.

"And the city keeps giving us the run around with these," Natalie continues, placing another stack of paper in your lap. The chair squeaks under the weight.

You thumb through the pages, mostly to confirm what you're looking at, but the action makes the woman across from you twitch.

"I know it's a lot," she says, almost like she's sorry for you, like you hadn't already agreed.

"No, it's okay, Natalie," you say, trying to ease some stress. Still, her shoulders almost reach her ears as you read along the pages of documents.

After giving you a few minutes, she moves. Getting up from her seat, Natalie's hand braces on the wall, stomach sticking out like a reminder. "I'll go get Carmen and Richie. They said they wanted to be here when we talked about hours."

With that, she leaves you in the office. It's quiet once she shuts the door, but you can feel the buzz of the building regardless. The kind of place with an energy that tells others it never sleeps.

Looking around, you see bits and pieces of the Berzatto's life. Mismatched pens in a glass cup. Thumb-tacked pictures hang from shelves. Colorful sticky notes cover one wall while the other is completely bare. It's scatterbrained, but still makes you smile.

Carmen must be the younger man from when you came in earlier. He looked a bit like Natalie, you think. Has the same rosy cheeks and pink lips. But just as soon as the thought of his soft-looking lips arrives, you push it away. The swing of the door aids this.

Sure enough, the young man and Richie come in tow with Natalie. Richie braces against the lip of the desk while Carmen leans up against the doorway so as not to crowd you in the small office. When you look at him, he's already watching you. Your eyes dart back towards your lap, pretending to read over the documents once more.

"We can't afford more than 3 hours a week. Pete told me your rate, but I just want to make sure that $500 an hour is still okay?" she asks you, handing you another document, this time with a pen for a signature.

"And we want to say thank you," Richie says, a genuine smile on his face.

You look between the family in front of you and then back at the loose contract, brows pitched in focus at the words.

"Did Pete not tell you?" you question, voice small, this time looking solely at Natalie.

"Did you up your rate? Oh, God. I guess we did have that conversation a few weeks ago. I shouldn't have assumed, I'm sorry," she apologizes, already grabbing the form out of your hand as you just look at her open-mouthed.

"No, no, Natalie. I told him I'd work pro bono. And I thought we could set a base of ten hours a week? I mean, sometimes I might get busier, but I can make up for it later. As long as that's okay for you guys?"

The office is silent for a minute. You worry that you overstepped, suggesting more hours than they came to you with.

"You're serious?" This time it's Carmy who speaks.

You just nod, not able to find the words as you look at him.

"You're an angel. Like an actual angel sent down from heaven," Natalie breathes out as you laugh a bit at her dramatics. "But, sweetheart, I can't take advantage of you like that."

"No, I want to. You and Pete have been so welcoming to me. Please let me do this for you guys," you tell her.

"You're sure?" she asks hesitantly, but you can see the small smile on her face at the thought.

You smile and hum, happy to take something off her and Pete's plate as they get ready for their daughter's birth.

"I fucking love this girl!" Richie whoops, hands clapping together as Natalie laughs at his antics.

"Thank you," Carmen follows. If you hadn't already been looking at him, you would've missed it. But instead, you just smile at him, your eyes unable to maintain contact for long.

જ⁀➴

Your Saturday mornings were now spent at The Bear. After settling the most urgent concerns and going over some brief paperwork questions you had, the four of you landed on Saturday mornings being the day you came into the office to work. It was only a few hours; the rest of your work would be done throughout the week, but still, it was nice to run things by the family before moving forward.

It was early, but Natalie assured you that Carmen was going to be here to help you get settled. Balancing your keys, phone, and drink carrier, you pushed open the back door of the restaurant.

Sure enough, the kitchen was quiet, no clanging of tools heard at this hour, only the typing of keys and thwacking of stacks of paper being shuffled around.

"Hi, Carmen," you say quietly while standing at the outskirts of the office. Immediately, he rises to his feet, chair kicking out behind him.

"Hey, hi. Good morning," he replies, going to help you with your bag and the drinks in your hand.

"Oh, thanks." You smile at him as he just nods.

As you sit, you slide a coffee his way. When he gives you an inquisitive look, you laugh a bit.

"Natalie says you never sleep, figured you might want one. It's from my favorite cafe in the city," you explain, fiddling with your fingers. When he just stares at you, like he did last week, you continue, "Honey Lavender, it's supposed to be relaxing."

"Honey lavender," he repeats, turning the cup in his hands like he's trying to figure out if you've handed him coffee or perfume.

"It tastes better than it sounds," you defend with a laugh. "Promise."

He peels back the lid carefully, steam curling up into his face. You can smell the mix of coffee and sweetness from across from him.

You watch him as he dips into the drink to take his first sip, eyes tracking his lips as they wrap around the white rim of the cup and then to his throat as he swallows.

"It's good," he affirms, but still sounds surprised by what he's saying.

Your shoulders immediately relax.

"It's…sweet."

"It is," you reply, laughing a bit at the observation.

"I don't usually drink sweet coffee."

"I know."

His eyebrows lift at this. "You know?"

"You look like someone who drinks coffee just for the caffeine."

He stares at you another second before rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

"You really are a lawyer, huh?"

You laugh loud enough that it echoes around the empty kitchen.

For a split second, he just watches you.

It's a nice laugh, he thinks. Easy and light. The kind that fills a room instead of demanding attention from it. Carmen realizes he's staring when you clear your throat.

"So…" you gesture toward the mountain of folders. "Forms?"

He exhales dramatically. "Forms."

Opening the first folder, you immediately organize the papers into neat little stacks. Within minutes, sticky notes begin appearing everywhere. He watches as you pull stack after stack from your bag, almost like a never-ending clown scarf.

"You color-code everything?" he asks, hands rubbing the waxy paper of the cup as he watches you.

"Hm?" You look up at him briefly, hands thumbing different documents at lightning speed.

"The sticky notes."

"Oh." You glance down like you hadn't even realized you were doing it.

"You remember what every color means?" he asks, eyes dancing around the desk as he takes everything in.

"Blue is city permits."

He nods. "Yellow?"

"Insurance."

"Green?" he tests, smile now creeping up on his face.

"Anything Pete forgot to tell me," you tell him, bringing up the thin stack of sticky notes, laughing. "He forgets a lot."

"He really does," Carmen chuckles as you smile at him once more.

You continue like this for a while more, silence falling over you both again. But it isn't awkward. If anything it's comfortable, different.

Carmen watches as you bend over a packet of licensing paperwork, lips moving ever so slightly while you read. The gloss is still there, but slightly smudged. He can see the remnants on your coffee cup, the plum color intrigues him more than it should.

He notices you tuck your hair behind your ear every few minutes. It keeps falling out of the pearly-looking claw clip that's holding your hair in its place. He thinks it's the same one you sported last week.

You chew the inside of your cheek whenever something doesn't make sense. The way your brows fold over on themselves and you huff a bit is one of the cutest things Carmen has ever seen.

You scribble tiny stars next to things you need to revisit. Along with green stick notes. Every time you place one down, he laughs a bit to himself.

He doesn't know why he notices any of it. He just does. It's like he can't tear his eyes away from you. Your fingers, your lips, your hair.

"You've got nice handwriting." The words leave his mouth before he can stop them.

You look up, almost like you don't believe him. "Thanks."

He immediately regrets speaking, Richie was right, he was acting like a teenager. "I just mean—"

"No," you smile, hands waving away his explanation. "I've just…never been complimented on my handwriting before."

"It's organized," he offers and you laugh again. Carmen wants to make you laugh over and over again.

"My professors used to call it aggressive."

"Aggressive handwriting?" he raises his brows and you nod.

"I press too hard."

When he glances down at the paper, sure enough, the words look as if they are bound to the page. Every letter looks deliberate. Like it belongs exactly where it is. It's nothing like the scribbles in his notebook or the reminders he leaves himself.

"Professors? From law school?"

You hum without looking up. "NYU. Good program, good professors, just a little judgy."

That gets his attention. New York. "You move here recently?"

You spit out your grad date and shrug absentmindedly.

He nods slowly. "I, uh, lived in New York, too. Around the same time actually."

At this, you stop working, hands pausing and furrow on your brow disappearing as you look at the man. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"What part?"

"Manhattan."

Your eyes widen. "No way."

"What?" he asks, smile on his face, like he can't wait to find out what you're going to say next.

"I lived in Midtown," you explain, hands now fully dropping the documents and coming to tuck your hair behind both of your ears again.

Carmen watches your movements, mirroring you as he places the now empty coffee cup down on the table. "I was living downtown."

You both sit there for a second, letting the information brew.

"So we probably crossed paths."

"Probably," he hums.

"Same city."

"Same months."

"And we both ended up in Chicago. How funny," you say, scrunching your nose a bit, a movement that Carmen files away immediately.

"That is kind of funny." That's all he says for the moment, but he can feel himself twitch as memories start coursing back.

The memories of New York always felt too loud. Too many people counting on him, too many waiting for him to fail. Not enough time to really perfect his craft, not enough time to settle into the way of the city. Never enough patience for those around him, patience wasn't something Carmen even knew for himself.

The feeling of Chicago, his home, was so unfamiliar and new in this light. The new challenges every week at The Bear keep him on his toes. Remnants of Mikey around every corner. New people in his life he never would've reached for.

But somehow that stream of conciousness pauses as you sit across from him. Something inside him calms as you go back to flicking through the forms, pressing your pen too hard against the paper, and sticky noting everything within sight.

He notices you've been working for almost three hours without touching anything besides coffee. Carmen wonders if it's a habit. Something built into you from long hours studying for law school or just a quirk you picked up recently.

Without saying a word, he disappears into the kitchen.

You barely notice he's left your side, too entrenched in the mountains of questions you now have for Pete and Carmen, until the smell reaches you.

Butter.

Pepper.

Something warm and familiar.

Carmen is carrying two plates as he enters your space again.

"What's this?" you ask, perking up to look at what he's prepared.

"Breakfast."

"Oh. Carmen, you didn't have to—"

He waves you off, placing the food in front of you. "You forgot to eat."

You blink. First looking at him and then the food.

"You've been here since seven."

You look down at your watch and sure enough it's almost ten. "Oh gosh, I didn't even notice."

"I know." He hands you a fork and gestures for you to dig in.

The omelet looks impossibly soft, folded around herbs and cheeses you're sure you can't pronounce. The smell is unlike anything you've been around in months, take-out and frozen meals that would surely earn you a scolding if the chef next to you knew.

Oh, and the taste. The taste.

When you go to take the first bite, you eyes shut. The flavors hit you almost instantaneously, some a bit subtle and some punching forward.

"Oh."

He studies your reaction, food on his plate untouched. "Good?"

You laugh quietly as you nod, chewing and swallowing so you can talk to Carmen. "I don't think I can ever eat my own cooking again."

Something in his chest loosens at this. You've settled into the seat now, spine not as rigidly straight and shoulder dropping. Carmen notices it all.

Good, he thinks. He wonders if you'd like a Croque Madame or Eggs Benedict next week.

જ⁀➴

Carmen is sitting in the office skimming over some notes you left. Mostly it's just arrows asking for his signature, the occasional exclamation point or question mark. But still, he finds himself rubbing a thumb over the lettering, lingering on pages a little too long.

"No, we submitted those," Natalie says from his side.

He perks up a bit at this, turning to face her with a puzzled look on his face as she just shrugs and listens to the voice on the other end of the call.

Quickly, she grabs a legal pad, one that you had left in the office "just in case". Hands scramble for a pen, and she begins writing furiously.

Now Carmen drops the forms he was looking at and focuses solely on her.

What the fuck? He mouths at his sister as she shoots him a glare.

"Can you tell me what section again?" Natalie asks as Carmen's anxiety begins to heighten.

She hums at another thing the voice says and immediately drops the pen. Her hand flies towards her forehead, smacking it before it makes its way down the side of her jaw.

Carmen stands now, bending down to look at his sister closer and try to catch what the man on the phone is saying.

"Okay. Yes, I understand," she finalizes, lowering the phone and dropping it back into the receiver.

"What? What was that?" Carmen twitches. When she gives him a pitiful look, his heart sinks.

"They're saying the occupancy amendment wasn't attached."

"The fuck does that mean?" he asks, a permanent scowl now on his face.

"I don't know, I don't know. But it's not good," she replies, hands coming to slam down on the desk as she pushes her chair back and away from the desk.

The ruckus gets the attention of Richie and Neil, both of them popping their heads into the small space.

"Whoa, what's going on?" Richie laughs out.

"Fucking occupancy amendment! Fuck!" Natalie groans as the three men share a worried look.

"What's that mean? Is it bad?" Neil questions innocently as Natalie just nods.

"The guy, he said it could affect the opening. Says that the paperwork we submitted last week is invalid. We'll have to get another inspection." Her head is now in her hands, fingers digging in the blonde locks.

"What? The inspection place schedules 2 months out," Carmen barks out, almost laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

"Sugar is Bear being for real? 2 months?" Richie asks, amusement gone from his face now.

"At minimum. Maybe 4 months," she replies, head still dropped.

"4 months?" Carmen almost yells, voice booming in the small office.

"And he said it invalidates our liquor license," she drops on them, sending another wave of panic through the men.

"No fucking alcohol?" Again, Carmen urges as he looks at his sister.

"No alcohol," she repeats.

"No one's going to want to eat with no wine," Neil observes out loud as everyone deadpans at him.

"No shit. Holy fuck, we're screwed. Uncle's gonna fucking kill me." Carmen chokes out, hand coming to brace on his chest.

The four of them sit in silence for a minute. Then another. It feels like this is the end. The end of the dream. The end of this place. The end of whatever Mikey might've wanted or hoped for.

"Call her," Carmen finally speaks. He doesn't even say your name, but Natalie's already searching for your contact in her phone.

When you don't pick up the first time, Carmen sighs. The next time, he bites his lip hard. The fifth time, he almost cries.

"She's probably with a client," Natalie offers, but it does nothing to stop the energy they all seem to be sharing.

"It's only three," Richie says and it feels like a bomb goes off in the office.

"Try again," Carmen urges.

"What if she's in court?" Neil argues back.

"Fuck," Carmen yells out, pushing his hands into his eyes.

"It's two fucking hours. We can do two hours."

Around 30 minutes into their waiting game, people start to filter into The Bear for the weekly dinner.

It only takes Sydney asking why Neil looks like he's about to cry to push Natalie into an over-detailed and overly dramatic rant about the douche bag she talked to on the phone.

Around the 50-minute mark, Richie is hunched over the laptop in the office. Carmen at his side, reading over his shoulder.

"What the fuck is estoppel?"

Nobody answers.

He keeps reading, hoping that something will jump out and spark some recognition. "Pursuant?"

Again, the kitchen is silent.

"Who writes like this?" he huffs, hands coming out to flip off the laptop.

"Lawyers," Carmen responds dryly. "I hate lawyers."

Sydney laughs at this. "I don't."

Richie squints over at her. "You don't know any lawyers."

She just raises her brows, giving the men a knowing stare.

Carmen nods, not quite willing to give in to what she's implying just yet. Still, he grumbles, "I like one lawyer."

જ⁀➴

The sound of clicking gets Carmen's attention.

"Hi," you say, rounding the corner, meeting everyone as they all work on their latest creation.

Like Natalie said, you look like you were coming straight from the office. Something about it has Carmen taking a deep breath.

On Saturdays, you came into The Bear wearing beat-up sneakers, jeans, and old sweaters. It wasn't like you weren't putting effort into what you wore or how you looked, but Carmen could tell you opted to be in comfier attire when you worked here.

Now, you were standing in front of him, charcoal pencil skirt, white button-down blouse, and black heels. Your hair was pulled away from your face in a tight ponytail, something that was also different from Saturdays when you let it fall freely from your claw clip.

You looked like a lawyer.

"Sorry, we just finished up at court, or else I would've gotten here earlier," you apologize.

Natalie moves to hug you, and you let out an 'umph' as she does so. "Thank God."

"I got six missed calls," you laugh as she just squeezes you tighter. Your eyes meet Carmen's, and you share a look that would normally make him smile, but he can't right now. His eyes are still trained on you. The slightly worn look of your lipstick and the softness of your exposed legs making him freeze.

"Sorry," she says, finally letting you go.

"No, no, what's wrong?" you say, smiling still.

As Natalie starts explaining, occasionally looking to Carmen, he can't bring himself to move.

Richie notices and leans over. "You okay there, Cousin?"

The men share a look. Richie's is considerably lighter. Brows dancing and grin spreading across his face. Carmen is noticeably pissed. Eyes intense, and lips pursed.

"Did you forget how blinking works?"

Carmen glares harder, if it's even possible.

Richie grins wider, if it's even possible.

"Having a little wet—"

"Shut the fuck up." Carmen snaps, hand coming to slap Richie on the chest, but the action just makes the man laugh.

You and Natalie move to the office, both going back and forth about what the man said exactly to her earlier on the phone.

Carmen follows, hot on your heels.

Soon, though, you're settled in the office, and Natalie is dialing the number. Just as he thinks you're about to put it up to your ear, you press a button, a green light illuminating on the old phone, now on speakerphone.

Carmen's never heard you like this. Usually, your voice is dipped in honey, never sharp and tactful like it is now. Even when you introduce yourself, the words are like spitfire from your tongue.

He feels Richie's elbow nudge him and fights the urge to roll his eyes at the attention.

First, you talk with the man about the missing forms.

"It was submitted on September fourteenth," you say definitively.

"We have no record of that submission, ma'am," the man spits back, like it's a game. You smile at that.

"I have confirmation."

The line is silent for a bit before you continue.

"Would you like the confirmation number?" you ask, sickly sweet.

After the man confirms that he has the form, he continues, "This still complicates things with you alochol permit. We won't be able to issue you the permit until a month after asked date. It's a city ordinance."

"Could you point me toward the ordinance you're referring to?" you ask, like you already know the answer.

Clicking on the other line is heard, and you're scarily steady.

"Just takes a minute," the voice comes through.

"No, that's alright," you cut in immediately. "I'll wait."

By now, everyone has abandoned their stations and is camped outside the doorway. Carmen can't blame them.

"I actually can't seem to—"

"Oh, that's okay. I have it here," you speak. "It should be page thirty-seven, second paragraph."

The line is quiet again. It's a minute too long for anyone's liking but you just sit and smile.

Again, you speak into the receiver. "I can read it if that's easier."

Carmen's brows shoot up at this. His hand comes up to cover his mouth, a smile forming.

Carmen's heard you laugh. You've been at The Bear enough Saturdays now that he knows how to get you to smile and double over from just his words.

He's heard you ramble about permits. He remembers the day he set down a T.G. 15 form in front of you, and you practically vibrated with excitement, telling him it was your favorite due to how the subsections and clauses were organized.

He's heard you apologize when you interrupt someone. Too many times, he's told you to stop saying sorry, especially around him. "You got nothing to be sorry about, sweet girl." You barely spoke a word to him for five minutes after that, blush raging on your face.

But he's never heard this.

Every sentence lands exactly where you intend it to. No hesitation. No second-guessing. No nervous laugh. No fiddling with your rings. You don't rush to fill the silence. Instead, you wait. Patient and knowing.

It's incredible.

"I understand," you follow as the man on the line recalls the information. "But, respectfully, that's not what subsection C says."

Richie and Neil high-five at this. Carmen shakes his head, doesn't hide his small smile.

"Yeah, bitch. Subsection C," Richie whispers, mic-dropping, making Sydney and Marcus laugh quietly.

"Yes, I'm looking at the municipal code right now." Your voice is steady. It's the first time Carmen looks at you and really fears being on the receiving end of a lecture from you. He's sure your curt words would be much more effective than his temper tantrums.

"Get his ass," Richie speaks lowly again.

"Ma'am, I just don't think you understand how this applies in this situation." The man on the phone sounds utterly miserable, but still determined to make everyone's life a living hell.

Carmen sees you straighten up at this, your jaw ticks once, and he sucks in a breath at the sight.

"Could you hold while I read it aloud? Just so we both understand how it applies here."

Everyone around the office just stares.

Richie mouths, holy shit, and Carmen just huffs and laughs, like he can't believe you.

"Read him the whole book," the man says, just a bit too loud this time, though, earning a glare from Natalie.

"Richie," Sydney whispers.

He shrugs, "I'm supporting Counsel."

Carmen almost laughs at that.

"My mistake, I'll get that filed right away for you. There shouldn't be any delays."

"Oh."

You pause and smile.

"Wonderful. So we're all set?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Thank you so much! Have a great day." You place the phone back in the receiver.

Carmen watches as your shoulders drop, and you smile at everyone. Not the fake smile you were giving the city guy, but a Saturday smile. The one he knows.

And the office space explodes.

"I knew it! Those dicks didn't fucking file shit right. Fuck yeah!" Richie yells out.

Sugar practically weeps, eyes closing and back finally sinking into the chair.

Sydney high-fives Marcus, both of them starting to recall moments of the conversation like a live play-by-play.

Carmen just looks at you. His entire nervous system has finally unclenched. Your eyes meet his, and you smile; this time he smiles back. "Thank you," he says simply.

"So… can you yell at my landlord?" Marcus asks, a smile on his face as he crosses his fingers.

You laugh at this, "I can't yell at everybody."

"You should, sweetheart. Fuck that was great." Richie pumps his fists in the air, earning another laugh from you.

"I got three parking tickets."

"Neil," Sydney scoffs, a smile on her face as she looks at the man.

"What? I'm just saying."

You look at Carmen again and just smile brightly, like you can't hide how you're feeling.

You begin to grab your phone off the desk and pluck your bag off the floor.

"Where are you going?" Natalie asks, her hand coming to still your movements.

"…Home?" you say, whispering like it's the wrong answer.

"It's family," Richie tells you, like it's obvious.

You blink. "What?"

"Dinner. Family dinner. You gotta stay," the man explains as you nod. "Right, cousin?"

"Yeah," Carmen breathes, not taking another second to think about what he's saying. "Stay, please,"

As you all move into the dining room, something shifts. Richie already has a chair pulled out for you, the one on Carmen's right-hand side. Marcus sets down your plate, tilting it just the right way for presentation. Tina slides silverware in front of you, undoing the napkin herself and helping you drape it across your lap. Ebra grabs you a soda, cracking open the seal for you.

They make room.

And somehow that realization makes something in Carmen's chest settle.

જ⁀➴

You got the call early this morning about the first round of permits. Everything had been submitted perfectly, allowing you to move on to the next round of paperwork. It was a long time coming, with Pete being the one to start everything 3 months back.

Now you balanced a box of assorted pastries from Frost, a cafe Carmen had offhandedly mentioned last week, ready to share them and celebrate.

Gosh, Carmen was going to be so happy. He'd been so stressed recently. You saw it in the way his shoulders tensed while cutting miscellaneous vegetables or how he stared down at the workshopped menu, face twisting and setting in a grimace. You wonder if he'll send you a smile when you break the news or say something in that sweet, soft voice again. You hope that he relaxes a bit after this, lets go of this piece of the puzzle.

Pushing open the backdoor, you bite your lip in excitement. But quickly, your face drops.

"Come on, Marcus!"

You freeze at Carmen's voice. His hands are raised and you can see a vein straining on the back of his neck.

"You have to taste it!" Carmen yells. He slides the dish across the workstation. It would've slammed and shattered onto the floor if Marcus hadn't caught it.

"I did," the man insists.

Carmen groans at this. "No, taste it!"

"I did!" he fights back.

"Then what? You'd send that shit out?"

"Chef—"

"No. No excuses!"

Silence falls over the kitchen. It's not the usual response to Carmen's yelling. Usually, Sydney will step in and defend whoever's being chewed out. Tina will tell him to breathe, to take a step back. Richie might be yelling back.

But now, it's quiet. And no one is looking at him.

He tracks their eyes and sees them go over his figure, behind him.

Carmen doesn't let up at this, though. "Chef, answer me."

"Cousin..." Richie breathes out.

"What?" Carmen barks.

Now it's Sydney's turn to cringe. "Turn around."

He does.

And you're standing there, pink box cradled against your body and big eyes looking right at him.

But still, you smile at him. "Hi."

And Carmen feels sick. A wave of nausea and shame rolls through him at record time.

"I—I got the permits," you speak again.

The kitchen is still silent. Carmen swears he hears his heartbeat in his ears, the thumping making him want to clutch a hand to his chest.

"They got approved, just this morning," you continue like nothing. But Carmen sees the way your fingers strain against the box and the way you rock forward on your heels.

You saw him. The real him. The version of himself he tried so hard to keep away from you. Loud, impatient, temperamental. Fuck.

Sydney breaks the standstill energy in the room, dropping her knife and wiping her hands on her apron. She grabs your arm and leads you to the office.

Carmen hears you both as you go, the words distant even in the small kitchen.

"That's great," Sydney tells you.

"I know! Just this morning, too. Perfect news to start the day," your warm voice says. But Carmen just looks in the direction of where you had gone, not able to enjoy the news as much as you had hoped.

"She thinks I'm a psycho," he says as Richie comes up beside him, placing a warm hand on his shoulder.

"She didn't look scared," Richie tells him, but it only makes the ache in his chest grow wider.

"Cousin. I scared her."

"No. You just embarrassed yourself."

He looks at the older man, dread evident on his features. "Thanks," he deadpans as Richie just claps him on the back once more.

Natalie appears a few minutes after you settle into the office, Sydney still sitting with you as you talk about next steps.

"I can't believe they finally passed everything through," Natalie grins as she leans back in her chair, tummy sticking out.

You hum, but look out into the hallway, hoping that maybe Carmen will come to celebrate with you.

"He'll be okay," Sydney says, snapping you out of your trance.

"Carmen?" you question dumbly as the two women share a look.

Natalie nods. "He just gets... passionate."

Sydney laughs at that. "One way to describe it."

"Like a wet cat," Natalie adds.

The comparison of a cat clawing its way out of a tub to the image of Carmen in the kitchen earlier makes you all laugh.

You had grown accustomed to people yelling in your line of work. Partners, bosses, clients. You were beginning to understand what it was really like to work in a kitchen though.

While Saturdays were usually full of paperwork, breakfast served by Carmen, and honey lavender coffee, you were starting to see the other side of things as The Bear got closer and closer to opening.

No wonder Carmen was so stressed all the time.

You had caught yourself sneaking glances at him too often these past few weeks. The bags under his eyes and the way he rolled his neck every half-hour didn't go unnoticed. Still, he was here. Working hard for everyone around him. You admired that.

On the other side of the restaurant, Carmen's hands shake. He tries applying the glaze, but keeps getting the portioning wrong, silverware clinking on the porcelain alerting everyone.

He huffs, placing the utensils down and planting them flat on the station in front of him.

"Chef?" he says to the man in front of him, and Marcus immediately looks towards him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled."

Marcus blinks, then grins.

"Don't worry about it. Can't believe I forgot the peach glaze," he laughs.

Carmen sighs, but doesn't feel any lighter.

"Go," Marcus urges, voice quiet, like their teenagers talking in the back of the classroom.

"Nah," Carmen says, going to pick up the brush once more and trying to ignore the ache in his chest.

"Come on, man. She was so excited."

They share a look, and Carmen can't help but laugh at the goofy face Marcus is giving him.

"Yeah, okay."

Carmen makes his way back to the office, knuckle wrapping on the door frame as she looks up from the laptop.

"Hey," he tests, and you smile immediately, like nothing had even happened.

"Hi," you say again, lightness still in your voice, but you're a bit quieter now.

"Congrats," Carmen states simply.

You laugh at that, gesturing for him to come sit with you. "Thank you."

He does, but can't quite look at you.

"Are you okay, Carmy?" you ask, and Carmen almost loses it. He knew you heard Richie call him Bear and Natalie call him Carmy, but you had never tried anything other than Carmen. The sound of the nickname coming from you made his cheeks flush.

But it wasn't just that. The three words that came before also had his mind reeling. Are you okay. Fuck, it kills him. You caught him yelling, losing it on Marcus, and now you were asking if he was okay?

He clears his throat. "Yes, sorry."

You tilt your head at this, and Carmen has half the mind to take your cheeks in between his palms just to feel the softness, the sweetness that you exude.

"For what?"

"The yelling. My yelling." He feels his chest tighten all over again at the recollection.

"You're working," you say simply, and before Carmen can open his mouth, you continue. "You should see me during cross-examinations."

You giggle a bit at this, and Carmen looks at you like a dog that was just given a bone.

"Really?" he asks, a smile playing on his features now. He can't imagine you losing it on someone, but he'd paid to see you lay into someone like they do in those old-timey court drama movies.

"Oh yeah," you tell him, biting your lip as he laughs.

You look at each other for a minute. Carmen feels the weight in his chest leave when he sees the smile on your features. He can't believe this. Can't believe you.

He's about to apologize again, you can tell by the way his hands fidget.

Gently, you cut him off. "I just... I don't like seeing you stressed."

Carmen's eyes bore into you at this. He feels something crawl up his throat.

Before he can let it take control, he hums and sucks his teeth.

"Thank you again. And good work," he states, gathering himself from the office chair, getting ready to head out to the kitchen again.

Your heart skips a beat at the praise, and you just nod as he leaves.

You watch him disappear back into the kitchen before finally looking down at the permits again. The words blur for a second. You smile despite yourself.

જ⁀➴

You decide around lunchtime to stay late and work on organizing yourself for the next few weeks. With the permits submitted and accepted, you were moving on to stage two, acquiring all the contracts needed for the menu and daily operations.

You had sat with Carmen for a large chunk of time, going over potential vendors who could give you the best quality and best price. With the few names he gave, you made sure to draft a few key points for the upcoming contracts.

But when the lights in the kitchen cut in half, you look up from your laptop for the first time in what seems like hours.

Packing everything up into your bag and rubbing your eyes, you can feel the exhaustion setting in. By the time you step into the hallway, everyone's stations are clean, and the only sound that can be heard is drilling with the occasional 'fuck!' from Neil.

Carmen rounds the corner and takes you in. You're noticeably softer than you were this morning, makeup a little worn and smudged, and more strands of hair frame your face than usual. Still, he pauses and takes a breath when he sees you.

You look tired. And somehow, you look even prettier than you did this morning.

"You heading out?" he asks, and you nod immediately.

Still, you supply him with a small, "yeah." Carmen can see the sleep dipping into your features from the long day.

He gestures for you to follow him out the back, and you do. He can hear you padding behind him, and it brings a small smile to his face.

As soon as he pushes open the door, the winter wind of Chicago greets you. Carmen watches as you shiver, and before you can protest, he's shrugging off his jacket.

"Oh, Carmen—" you start, but he just drapes the thick material over your shoulders.

"Take it," he says simply, tugging the collar up to your neck to protect you from the breeze. His fingers graze your cheek, and Carmen can't help but think about how soft you feel.

And it's hard to say no. The jacket is warm, and it smells just like him. Smoke, generic laundry detergent, and surprisingly cardamom. The blend makes you relax as you inhale it.

Carmen watches as you settle into the fabric. It swallows you, and he can admit that the sight does something to his stomach.

He scratches the back of his neck before speaking, arms bare now, only the tight white T-shirt against his figure. "About today. I didn't… I didn't want you to see that. But thank you for what you said."

Softening at his words, you can see the lingering stress in his figure, the day having took it's toll on him. "I have tough days too," you tell him, completely honest.

He nods at this, but you see the way his fingers flex against his thighs.

"I don't think any less of you, Carmen," you continue, hands itching to reach out from the confines of the big pockets to take his in your grasp.

The man looks at you once more, but this time, it's like he's been destroyed by your words. Carmen's eyes are a bit glassy, and his hands are shaking now. But instead of sadness, you find relief in his expression. Like something had been settled within him.

A car hisses through wet streets, momentarily bringing you out of the moment. The dewy and cold air amplifies the noise in the otherwise silent moment.

But neither of you moves. Instead, you just watch the other.

Your nose is pink from the cold. Carmen sees the way it scrunches every few seconds, like you did in the office a few weeks ago. He had been waiting to see it again.

His jacket hangs off your shoulders. The piece of clothing looks good on you, looks like it belongs. He can't even fathom ever wearing it again.

And, God, the way you look at him with those impossibly soft eyes. Your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks. Carmen can see their fullness under the harsh lights of the parking lot lampposts.

He's leaning forward before he realizes he's decided to.

And you don't move away.

Your eyes flicker down to his lips. A bit chapped, but still a pretty pink. It's enough for him bend down, to meet you halfway.

You can feel his hot breath on your cheeks, and you let your eyes begin to flutter shut.

"Carmy!"

The back door flies open.

"Carmy!" Neil's voice practically echoes into the space between you as you jump apart.

Your heart races at the sudden intrusion, like you had been caught doing something you weren't supposed to do.

Besides you, Carmen sighs before answering. "…Yeah?" Carmen's voice cracks as he peels his eyes away from you and to interruption in front of the doorway.

Before Neil can answer, you're handing Carmen back his jacket and turning on your heels.

"Goodnight!" you call out, waving at the pair, not quite able to face Carmen as he sends you a devastating look.

"Night, Counsel!" Neil cheers back.

But Carmen can't get himself to say anything back. The jacket, even though only been in your possession for less than 10 minutes, smells like you.

Lavender.

The scent makes him reel. He closes his eyes for just a second.

"You coming?" Neil asks.

Carmen opens them again and nods, watching as you pull out of the lot, taillights disappearing down the street. "Yeah."

જ⁀➴

By now, arriving at The Bear had become routine. You'd push through the back door. Marcus would wave without looking up. Tina would already be sliding your coffee across the counter. Neil would yell hello from somewhere you couldn't see. Ebra would quietly ask if you had time for "one legal question."

And Carmen.

Carmen was almost always waiting with a plate.

"Try this."

Every Saturday. Without fail.

When you dug into the dish and tasted whatever he had given you, you'd always hum. Carmen seemed to enjoy this, a half smile on his face as you chewed.

So when he isn't there, you notice immediately. You glance around the kitchen, expecting him to appear from the walk-in. Venturing farther into the restaurant, you reach the front. Maybe he was here, helping with whatever furniture had arrived.

"Where's Carmen?" you ask Richie, who'd been rearranging chairs with all the grace of a forklift.

A grin spreads across his face as he pauses to face you. "Oh, sweetheart."

You blink. "What?" At this, he comes closer to you, like he's about to share a secret.

He laughs to himself, shaking his head. "Just…"

Another laugh comes out of the man. Less contained this time.

"He's fixing his hair."

You stare. "What?"

Richie's grin somehow grows at your expression.

"Been in and outta the bathroom for fifteen fuckin' minutes," he half-whispers.

"Carmen?" you ask with a furrowed brow.

"Mhm," he hums, as if he's proud to share this tidbit with you. "You called Sugar sayin' you were five minutes away."

You feel warmth creep into your cheeks at the recollection. "I did."

"And suddenly this asshole discovers mirrors."

"Richie."

"Oh, yeah." Richie leans closer like he's sharing classified information. "Been wetting it down."

You try, really try, not to smile. "He what?"

"Wetting it down. Shakin' it out. Lookin' at himself." Richie mimes fluffing curls in front of an imaginary mirror. "'Does this look okay?'" He switches into a surprisingly accurate Carmy impression.

Your jaw drops at this, unable to imagine this version of Carmen.

Another fake mirror check. "'Maybe if I—nah.'"

You bite your lip so hard it almost hurts. "Richie."

"I'm tellin' you." He throws both hands into the air. "Fifteen minutes."

"Cousin!" The shout echoes through the restaurant, and you find yourself bringing a hand to cover your grin.

Richie doesn't even flinch. "What?" he yells back.

"Shut the fuck up!"

"I ain't say nothin'!"

"You literally are!"

You laugh, facing away from Carmen enters the space. Richie joins you, laughing into his elbow, disguising it as a cough.

When you look up, you can't help but notice how Carmen's curls sit suspiciously well today.

He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly as Richie keeps giggling to himself. You've opted to just smile at the man.

"You ready?" he asks.

"Yeah."

He turns in the direction of the office. As you walk next to him, your shoulder brushes his.

Quietly, you murmur, "I like your hair."

Carmen stops walking for half a second. His ears turn bright red.

Behind him, Richie catches your eye. He points triumphantly at Carmen, then at his own hair. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing again.

જ⁀➴

The text you sent Carmen last night, telling him you wouldn't be in until noon, had him a bit worried. Usually, whenever you texted, you left little emojis or smiley faces at the end of every sentence. But this text had come in at 1:48 AM and was unaccompanied by any yellow faces.

Maybe you went out last night, Carmen tries to reason. Although that thought doesn't send him much comfort. The idea of you drinking and swapping stories with someone at a bar until 1 in the morning didn't sit well with him, especially since he had never seen you like that.

You'd never mentioned a partner. And you had talked about your friends quite a bit. So maybe you were out with them, let time run away from you. But Carmen remembers you saying that most of them were still out in New York. His friend's theory came to a crumbling halt.

Maybe you were sick. Caught something at work earlier that week and just needed a bit of extra rest this morning. 7 AM was a brutal wake-up time even without a runny nose and pounding headache. Maybe you were curled up in your apartment, chills running through your body as you curled up in that patchwork hoodie you had sported a few weeks ago.

But this also makes him frown. The thought of you suffering alone in the snowy Chicago winter with a sore throat and no one to help you warm up with some blankets.

"Jeff, you good?" Tina asks from beside him, effectively snapping Carmen out of his trance.

"Yeah, sorry. Thanks, Chef," Carmen says with a small voice as he gets back to whisking the mixture in front of him.

Well, whether it was a cold or a hangover, Carmen would have something prepared for you as soon as you walked in the door. Maybe chicken noodle soup, although that seemed a little on the nose. Something like a wrap could be good, full of superfoods and veggies to help you recharge. But who wants kale when they feel like they're about to throw up?

"Chef, can you take over?" he asks Tina, abandoning his station and moving through the kitchen to collect items for your meal.

She just nods and sends Sydney a look, both women easily catching on to what was making Carmen so distracted today.

જ⁀➴

Trying to be quiet as you enter the building, you pad into the office, not bothering to make your rounds and say hello to everyone.

But as soon as you settle into the squeaky office chair, there's a knock on the door.

"Come in," you call, voice a little hoarse.

Just as you suspected, Carmen comes into the space. He holds a bowl in one hand, big palm underneath it, making the dish look minuscule. And in the other is a plate, fingers gently holding the porcelain.

"Hey," he says simply, placing the food down in front of you.

"Hey," you parrot, hoping to fall back into your easy routine.

You take a minute to look at it and sigh deeply. Grilled cheese and tomato soup. A childhood favorite you mentioned to the man offhandedly more than a month ago.

"Figure you might be under the weather. Just making sure you get something to eat," Carmen explains when you don't speak. His actions meant to comfort you, ease some part of your body.

But his words seem to have the opposite effect as he watches your eyes get teary. When the first tear slips down your cheek and the pout in your lips starts to tremble, Carmen freezes.

It takes him a few seconds to catch up and see what's happening.

"You okay?"

The question only makes the tears fall faster as your body starts to shake.

"Sorry," you manage to get out. "I'm sorry." Wiping furiously at your cheeks.

Wide eyed, Carmen sucks in a breath. He knows he should comfort you, be fucking normal. But he just stands there, not wanting to crowd you.

When your breathing becomes clipped, all the thoughts of awkwardness leave his brain.

Carmen wraps his arms around your shoulders, bringing you close to his body. He feels your hands grasp at his white T-shirt as they find their way around his waist. The position is a bit awkward, but Carmen wouldn't dare move from his spot until you let go.

He feels his neck begin to get wet as your body wracks against him. The sounds that slip through your lips, little whimpers and harsh sighs, nearly make him cry. At a particularly heartbreaking noise, his hand comes up to the back of your head, cradling it and stroking your hair lightly.

You stay like that for what must be 10 minutes. Carmen doesn't try talking again, just lets you hang off of him and bury yourself further into his chest. He feels your hands start to loosen their grip and your breathing return to normal, and it's only then that he pulls back a little bit to take a look at you.

Your eyes are red-rimmed, and your lips are still a little wobbly. He ticks his jaw at the sight of your wet cheeks, his thumb coming up to wipe them gently. It had been weeks since he felt their softness.

"What's going on, sweet girl?" he tries again.

When you sigh again, Carmen thinks he might've made the wrong choice by asking another question. But instead, you look at him for the first time that day, and Carmen's heart breaks all over again.

"I lost." Your voice is raw, and if he wasn't so close, nearly pressed up against you, he would've missed it.

"Your case? McDowell?" He recalls the name from a few weeks ago, but he almost wishes he didn't, as it sends another set of tears down your face. This time, his thumb is there to catch them before they drip down your cheek.

"Mhm," you tremble in his hold.

"I'm sorry," he says, eyes never leaving yours. "I know you worked really hard on that."

This makes you laugh, but Carmen can tell it's bitter.

"He yelled at me after. Told me I was incompetent. Not cut out for this."

Your words make Carmen's hands tighten their hold on you.

Your breath hitches as you continue, "I keep thinking he's right."

"No," he says immediately.

"Carmy," you start, but a squeeze to your shoulder, you quiet again.

"They're wrong," Carmen speaks definitively. "I've seen you work."

"That's easy stuff," you mumble, leaning into his touch more and more.

"You come in here every Saturday with, like…" He gestures vaguely toward the stacks of folders on your desk. "A million forms."

Now your head rests on his chest again, and you can hear his heart thump wildly as he talks.

"You know every deadline. Every permit. Every whatever the fuck those city codes are."

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitches.

"You argue with people on the phone, and they apologize to you."

Another tiny laugh escapes you.

He chuckles at that. "Nothing about anything you do is easy. He's wrong."

You nod at his words, but a few tears still slip past.

"C'mere," he says softer. You melt into his hold as the last few tears soak his shirt, hands coming back around you.

As soon as the sobs subside, Carmen pulls your chair with one strong arm up to the desk again.

"Eat," he tells you. The bowl of tomato soup and grilled cheese is considerably colder now, but you can still smell the butter on the bread and the fresh pepper garnishing the soup.

Picking up the sandwich, you take a bite and smile for the first time today.

"You always feed me," you tell him, teasing lit in your voice that makes Carmen happy.

"You're always hungry," Carmen responds without thinking. When you send him an amused look, he immediately backtracks. "No, that's— that's not what I meant. You just, you're just always ready to eat."

"Wow," you smile as Carmen's face turns beet red.

"No, no," he waves his hands, laughing a bit. "That came out wrong."

"Yeah, thanks, Carmen," you laugh openly now.

"I just— Sugar told me, after the first few weeks, you can't cook," he offers, but you just send him another look.

"Now you're insulting my cooking," you deadpan, but Carmen can see a faint smile on your lips.

"That's not what I mean." Carmen can't help but laugh as you shake your head and take another bite. "I just want you to eat. Want you to take care of yourself."

"Are you keeping tabs on me?" you ask and Carmen just shrugs.

"No," he says too quickly. But it wasn't true.

The entire time Carmen had known you, he had been noticing. He notices how, after you drink coffee in the morning, you get a little jittery and can't stop tapping your feet for at least an hour. He notices when you're about to run out of sticky notes, finding himself browsing on Amazon for the particular kind you like, having them ready for the next time you come in. He notices how you always pause before eating whatever he sets in front of you. Your eyes bounce all over the plate, taking everything in before you take a bite.

It was only after the third week of honey lavender lattes that Carmen realized, you don't eat much.

"They're all like that," Natalie told him one night as they cleaned up the office. "Pete barely remembered to drink water when he was in the running for partner."

"Jesus," Carmen sighed. He didn't like the idea of you running on fumes alone.

"Yeah, but she's especially bad. Pete and I try to have her over every other week for dinner when she told him she only buys frozen meals."

"You're joking," Carmen cringes at the thought.

But his sister just shakes her head. "Nope. Just doesn't really have the time or energy to cook."

"Maybe," he tells you, scratching awkwardly at his neck.

"Thank you." Your voice is small, but Carmen nods at the words, staying at your side until you finish eating.

જ⁀➴

It's Sunday. After yesterday's late lunch at The Bear and crying into Carmen's chest, he had sent you home without a second thought. Today, though, you spent the day cleaning around your apartment, something that was always soothing and let you feel like you were in control again.

Toweling off from a much-deserved shower, you heard a knock at your door.

Barefoot and still wrapped in your worn but soft towel, you pad down the hallway to look out the peephole of your apartment. Maybe it was Mrs. Crawford needing to borrow some sugar, or maybe it was a delivery man.

What you didn't expect to see was Carmen standing in the hallway of your building, grocery bags at his side.

Carmen hears the clicking of a chain, and a few seconds later, your door opens.

"Hi," you say with a smile. But Carmen can only focus on the way your hair drips down your shoulder and your pretty bare face. It's the most skin he's ever seen from you, the towel not doing much to cover your dewy skin.

He sees the small scar across your left knee and is curious about how you got it. Then his eyes find the small freckles and beauty marks littered up from your arms to your shoulders and chest. He wants to count all of them. And your hair, it's always so put together, but now the ends are curled a bit from the water, and Carmen wonders how you wear it outside of work.

"Hey," he finally manages. "I was at the farmers market… bought too much."

You look at the six completely full grocery bags in his hands and just smile. "Right," you say, beckoning him inside your place.

As Carmen slips off his shoes, he takes in the simplicity yet warmth of the apartment. Little candles everywhere, too many lamps to count, fun patterned carpets. It's so you in the best way.

You try to reach for some of the bags, but Carmen dodges you and plants them on your kitchen island in one go. You try not to look at his muscles straining, but you can't help it. The navy blue tee around his figure is new for you, as you've only ever seen him in white.

"So, what'd you get me, Chef?" you tease.

Carmen blushes at the name, never having heard it from your mouth but liking it instantly.

"Some fruits and vegetables, sourdough bread, local honey and jam, and some pasta," he tells you as you sift through the canvas bags.

As you reach to grab the honey, your towel begins to slip down your frame. Quickly, your hand comes up to catch it.

"Oh—"

You look to Carmen, smiling at the moment, but immediately his eyes shoot straight to the ceiling.

"Sorry," he spits out.

"Why are you apologizing?"

His ears turn bright red. "I don't know."

He can hear you chuckle lightly, but it only increases the blush that's spreading across his face.

"I'm gonna go change, be right back." And with that, you're padding down the hallway as Carmen tries to regain some sense of properness.

He begins to unpack all of the goods, laying them out around the kitchen. As he sets down the fresh basil plant near the sink, he feels your touch on his arm. Turning, he faces you and drinks you in. You're in a pajama set now. A blue tank top and capri pants decorated with white flowers and strawberries. It's adorable. You're adorable.

"Carmen, this is..." You look around the kitchen at everything he's brought over.

Tomatoes. Garlic. Fresh basil. Pasta. Olive oil. Parmesan. Lemons. Eggs. Butter.

"Yeah?" he asks, reveling in your touch, at being so close to you.

"This isn't groceries. This is meal planning," you laugh out.

"Maybe," he says, just like he had yesterday. "But you said you eat frozen dinners."

His face twists as the words come out, like the thought of it personally offends him.

You laugh. A real Saturday laugh. Something that Carmen was missing yesterday.

"That doesn't mean I'm going to know what to do with all this."

"Well, what are you doing now? I could teach you a dish," he suggests and you find yourself nodding instantly.

"Yes, yeah. I just," you pause and close your eyes for a minute. "I'm really bad."

"I doubt it."

But Carmen is eating his words no less than 15 minutes into this endeavor. First, he tasks you with cutting up half an onion. When you begin dicing, the knife slips from your hand and lands on the floor, an inch away from his foot.

He moves you over to the pasta instead. Just stirring occasionally. But when he turns his back for two seconds, the water is boiling over and he's manhandling you out of the way to turn down the stove.

Carmen thinks you can handle the bread. All you have to do is watch the toaster. The bread gets a bit stuck, and just as he's about to jostle the machine, you reach to get it out with a fork. A metal fork. Carmen grasps your wrist firmly before you can even get the prongs near it.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes out.

"It would've been fine," you argue.

"No. No, you would've been electrocuted."

Finally, he sets you down in front of the sauce. Everything is already done, and the pot is just a low simmer, still he tells you to stir.

"You're so different here."

You look over at him as he begins to plate the now finished pasta. "What?"

"At work, you're so sure. You walk into a room, and everybody listens."

You shrug. "I know what I'm doing there. This," you gesture to the kitchen around you, "is terrifying."

Carmen laughs at that, and you share a smile with him.

"It's weird," you start, looking back down at the saucepan.

"What?" he hums, full attention on you.

"I don't really know how to stop," you admit. Suddenly, the music from your old radio and the open window ushering in the sounds of the city fall away. "I wake up thinking about work. I go to sleep thinking about work. Sometimes I don't even realize I've skipped dinner until I'm brushing my teeth."

You laugh at that last part, but Carmen just purses his lips.

"It's exhausting," you sigh. "But it's also the only thing I'm really good at."

The words feel too familiar for Carmen. He sees the way your shoulders roll, and your posture straightens as the words sink in. "Yeah."

He doesn't know what to say, how to tell you that he understands. He doesn't want to think about it too hard.

"Me too," is what he finally settles on after a few seconds of silence. "I don't really know who I am if I'm not cooking." The confession hangs in the air, and you're back to looking at him, even if it's for a brief second, recognition flashing across your face.

The sauce spits and you yelp.

Sauce lands on your shirt, your cheeks, your nose. And you can't help but start laughing. Even as it still bubbles up from beside you.

Carmen is quick to move across the kitchen and turn off the stove. You attempt to wipe away what's reached your face, but your hands are also compromised, only making the redness smear more across your features.

Carmen watches you for a second, just smiling. Really smiling.

Reaching for a towel, he wipes your hands firmly, but gently. Stepping closer, he focuses on your face now.

"Hold on."

You freeze at his voice; it's low and steady as he take you face into his grasp.

His thumb brushes your cheek first. Then the bridge of your nose. All the sauce is wiped off now. But Carmen doesn't let go of your face, fingers lingering on your features.

You watch his blue eyes become consumed by his dark pupils. And again, your eyes dart down to his lips.

The air around you is heavy, charged. But when his lips part to suck in a quick breath, you lean forward, closing the distance.

His lips are soft, just like you thought they would be. But you don't linger when you feel him still against you.

Pulling away, you laugh nervously.

Carmen looks at you, and you can't quite tell what he's thinking.

"I think..." he starts, hand coming up to cup your cheek, settling you a bit. "You taste like tomatoes."

You laugh, really laugh at this. Carmen laughs with you and you can't help but admire the way his eyes crinkle shut when he throws his head back a bit.

"Yeah?" you tease.

"Mhm," he smiles, thumb stroking your cheek gently. And you can't stop looking at him. The way his curls fall, the intensity of his stare, the faint blush on his cheeks. It draws you in.

Carmen almost moves to pinch himself. He can't believe he's standing in your kitchen, holding you so close. He's thought about what it would feel like to kiss you, but once you had moved to press your lips against his own, he froze.

Now he wants more.

"Come 'ere," he says softly.

For a second time, your lips lock, and this time he's pressing into you. It's longer. More certain. Like he's found something in you that he doesn't want to let go of.

When you finally pull apart, the pasta has gone cold, but neither of you seems to mind.

"Guess we're eating lukewarm pasta," you murmur, smiling a bit, still feeling the lingering heat of his kiss.

Most fathers would be pleased by the information— not yours, he’s a little more… strict. He already doesn’t like him from a joke made over a decade ago, suggesting you’d make a fine concubine, which wasn’t taken lightly. 

Your father threatened to usurp the throne, sending a chill running down a then 21 year old Zuko’s spine.

There was no way in hell he’d hand you off to the imperial palace to become a concubine. You’re the only child of his that inherited firebending. If your father had it his way, you’d be a warrior, for fucks sake. 

Lord Zuko may have a dry sense of humor at times, but you have your doubts about how much of a joke that statement was, especially with how much he likes to bug you throughout the day.

Perhaps another conflict should erupt— the man has too much time on his hands. Maybe then you’d fulfill your fathers wish of finally working in the military— put your talents to use, as he’d say. 

But would Lord Zuko allow the gentle hands running through his hair to commit such violence? Or would that be when he’d draw a hard line with the aggressive strategist? 

As progressive as he is, you sometimes wonder just how much it extends to you. Even as children, he’d go easy on you during trainings. He’s only grown softer with you as the years passed. Despite not being a concubine yourself, you wouldn’t be surprised if he saw you as one of the flowers in his garden— one he’s not allowed to touch. 

You slide the hair stick through his headpiece, securing the top knot he had you redo. It looks the same, but you hold off on making a comment. “Is that better?” 

“Much better.” His eyes meet yours in the mirror, lips curving into a sly smile. “Now— what are we doing today?”

We. You hate how much he likes to emphasize that at times. 

“Well,” you sigh. “Aside from the usual council meeting, nothing much. Perhaps you can visit one of your concubines today… for once.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Are you saying I don’t fuck my concubines enough?” 

“Precisely,” you say almost mockingly. 

It’s all they ever complain about, and honestly, you’re sure you would, too, if you were one of them. Having to wake up and sit around all day, waiting for a man who never comes. And on the rare occasion that he does, he doesn’t stay long. He’ll show up, fuck the shit out of you for a couple rounds, then leave right after. Allegedly. 

“Don’t you want an heir?” you ask. 

“Depends,” he hums. 

With the way he’s looking at you, you can already tell what it depends on, and it has nothing to do with his current concubines. Lucky for you, he never gets the chance to actually say it because he gets interrupted right after, putting a conversation you’d rather not have to a screeching halt.

“The council is waiting for you, my Lord.”

—

The silk district was notoriously known for two things: brothels and bandits. It was the wild, wild west compared to the other districts in the capital due to high crime and the growing wealth gap. The governments always kept a watchful eye on it, which was never enough in your opinion. 

Are you surprised to hear that an entire brothel, including the madame, was discovered to be slain and robbed in the early hours of this morning? Absolutely not. 

“Send more military officers to patrol the area,” the chamberlain says without hesitation. “We’ve been too lenient with them. If they want bloodshed, we’ll give them bloodshed.”

Yikes, he wants to rule the area with an iron fist when they’re already clearly struggling. You can’t help but think of how much of a dictator this guy would be if he were in Zuko’s place. 

You make eye contact with the lord, who’s sitting at the end of the table right next to you. In that brief moment, he notices the concern in your eyes and gives you a subtle nod. 

“Perhaps we can send more public aid?” you suggest. “They’ve been testing out a new rehabilitation program in Republic City as well. I’m sure the Silk District could benefit from—“

“Nonsense,” the chamberlain cuts you off, wondering why you’re even here right now— he thought you only assisted in matters within the court, not outside of it. “I-“

“Careful,” Zuko interrupts the man rather playfully as he continues to read through the scroll. “That’s the military strategist’s daughter you’re speaking to.” 

The comment makes you nearly roll your eyes, knowing the only reason why he said it was because you’re having to constantly remind him yourself when he gets too close. 

The chamberlain, however, straightens up immediately. You have no idea why it took him this long to realize it. He’s been here for nearly over a year, but at least he knows now. The chamberlain can be quite rude at times, you wouldn’t want him to slip up with your father in the room. Not only would that earn him an earful of insults that are as creative as they are hurtful, but it’d also be embarrassing on your part. 

That old man embarrasses you enough when he’s around. Following you around like a lost puppy after meetings, asking if you’ve eaten and if your superiors are treating you right, while side eyeing the fire lord himself. You’d agree so yourself that he has too much power in the court. He enjoys holding it over everyone’s head even more. It’s sickening, really.

You look at the chamberlain, who is now pouting, and offer an apologetic smile. “May I continue?” 

“Yes, of course,” the old man nods, struggling to hide his shame.

Always one for games, Zuko finds himself suppressing a laugh, which in turn makes the chamberlain’s slouch worsen. He’s grown to find more and more amusement in his daily tasks, a trait his father would definitely disapprove of— good thing he’s not here anymore. 

The rest of the meeting went by as smooth as it could be, with the fire lord, of course, praising the chancellor in the end for being so well behaved, pretending to wonder what could’ve changed his usual demeanor. The usual teasings, all while you once again found yourself thinking of how light he’s become. Even after receiving such upsetting news, he stayed calm while finding a solution. 

A humane one.

No longer the grumpy, angsty boy you grew up with. He’s actually quite charming. But you keep that to yourself.

The palace grounds are empty, as they should be during the afternoon. Everyone’s off either eating, napping, or tending to duties such as cooking or cleaning. It’s quiet, surprisingly peaceful. Your footsteps echo throughout the breezeway as Zuko defies the basic etiquette of walking ahead of you as a ruler should. Instead, the bastard walks a little slower than you. If given the opportunity, he’d turn it into a mini competition of who could walk the slowest, up until you both come to a full stop, with him looking at you all smug. 

“Your chambers are this way,” you remind the said bastard as if he’d already forgotten. 

He doesn’t bother to look back as he responds, walking down a gravel path leading directly to the flower garden. “How about we take a detour today, hm?”

You watch him for a moment, waiting to see if he’d stop. He doesn’t, and you shouldn’t be surprised by it. You’re able to catch up with him in just seconds given his slow pace, this time not bothering to walk behind him as he’s clearly in the mood to be extra stubborn today.

You’re all alone and away from the hearing distance of anyone else, yet you still choose to speak quietly as you start to gently tease the man. “What a surprise to see the king taking some time to enjoy his garden.” 

He lets out a soft laugh that fades into a hum. “Only around a select few.”

“Oh, wow,” you pretend to be impressed. “How charitable.” 

“It’s an honor that you think so,” he says, placing a hand over his chest to add to the theatrics, trying not to laugh once again. “Tell me, when was the last time you walked through here?”

You hum as you walk further into the sprawling garden filled with wooden arches covered with green vines and flowers in full bloom. “Can’t say I actually remember when.”

“That’s a shame. I had the gardener plant new rose bushes,” he murmurs. “Wanted to ask what you thought of them.” 

“I think they’re lovely,” you admit, softly pinching a petal, rubbing your thumb over the velvety skin.

He smiles. “I figured.” 

They were your favorite after all. 

Why is he like this? The garden’s already filled with enough flowers. A new section wasn’t needed. 

Again, he’s just bored.

In an attempt to keep the conversation from getting any more personal, you change the subject. “Are you looking forward to your trip to Republic City?” 

At the end of the meeting, it was decided that he’d visit with the purpose of getting more information about the new rehabilitation program the city was rolling out. While the chancellor wanted to take a more aggressive approach, he decided to take a more peaceful route. It’s admirable how hands on he’s chosen to be since taking his father's place. 

“Mhm. It’ll be nice catching up with some old friends while I’m there—“ he cuts himself off and looks at you with slight suspicion, “you’re going, right?”

You never said you would, nor did you want to, honestly. It’d be nice to take a break. “I’m sure you and some of your subordinates can handle it.” 

“Weren’t you the one who came up with the idea, though?” his tone slightly clips as he reminds you. 

“I was,” you respond tentatively, taking back your thoughts from earlier as you look him in the eyes. 

This man looks like he’s about to throw a fit. 

Zuko opens his mouth again, already knowing he shouldn’t be this pushy towards you, of all people, but he is far from perfect. 

So with a forced smile and all the resolve in the world, he murmurs, “you’re going.” 

You smile back despite feeling an annoyed heat creep up your neck, heart starting to pick up. “Alright.” 

—

Imagine being the fire lord, a literal ruler, and getting the cold shoulder from your own advisor. Every answer is so curt and clinical, and it’s going to drive him up the wall. 

Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord. Apologies, my lord.

Give him a fucking break.

As if you weren’t punishing him enough, you went ahead and had two of his concubines “accompany” him on the trip. It’s not like he can say no to that, either, since it’s considered to be one of his duties. Not to mention they both come from high-ranking families that would not be very pleased to hear of their neglect. 

So now he has to deal with two spoiled, pent-up brats hanging on him during the entirety of this flight, all while trying not to glare at the biggest brat of them all— you, as you sit directly across from him, reading probably what’s some pathetic romance novel.

This is fucking ridiculous. You haven’t looked at him once since you first sat down.

You’re no better than him. There was a strike of lightning in the direction you walked off in, and given how it was a perfectly sunny day, he’s pointing his finger at you for the damages done in the east wing, despite keeping his mouth shut on the matter. Complain about being dragged to Republic City all you want, but you still have it better than most. If you really did have it that bad, you would’ve been punished for such an offense. 

Like, seriously? Blowing shit up, like a fucking child— a terrifying one, to be frank, you are absolutely your father’s daughter— just because you had to do your job? Grow up. His grandfather’s statue was shattered in the midst of it all, thanks to you. You’re lucky he never liked the bastard.

In protest, you’re dressed like a noble's daughter rather than a member of the court. Wearing the finest silk and adorned in gold imported from the Earth nation, quietly refusing to represent your actual nation as you claim to be representing your clan— proof that you have enough power on your own to be acting like he’s actively denying you of basic human rights.

As if he even cared about your attire. Be his guest! You look fucking hot. Someone might even mistake you for one of his concubines, and he might just not correct them, since you think you’re more petty than he is.

Zuko gets pulled out of his thoughts when Concubine Aika speaks, still leaning against him and rubbing on his chest. She asked what book you were reading, which is when you finally looked up from it. 

“It’s sort of an adventure novel.” You look at the cover, speaking to her with a certain warmth you’ve been depriving him of. “It’s about a girl escaping an abusive orphanage once she turns 18 and follows her journey for the next 10 years.”

So now you’re fantasizing about leaving him? Good luck with that. 

“You look troubled, my lord,” the woman to his right, Concubine Saiyo, says. She’s leaning against him as well, now tracing her fingers along his jaw. “Are you alright?” 

“M’fine,” he murmurs, trying to fix his face as he takes a sip of sake. “It’s been a long flight.”

“There’s a private cabin you can retreat to, if you’d like,” you suggest, going back to your little book, missing the way you just made the lord’s eye twitch. 

“I know,” he says. 

It’s his airship. 

Without warning, he gets up from his seat. Was it a little rude? Perhaps. But surely the two women beside him could understand what feeling hounded could do to someone. They don’t, they do their jobs and get up as well, which he understands. However, Zuko’s not in the fucking mood right now and waves a dismissive hand. 

“No need,” he curtly says, making his way to the back of the airship. “I just want to close my eyes for a bit.” 

. . . . . .

The trip starts off strong with a banquet being held in honor of the fire lord's arrival. 

Contrary to Zuko’s wishes, nobody’s stupid enough to mistake you for one of his concubines. At least not within the circle of people you’re mingling with tonight, who all recognize your family's crest engraved on your hairpin. 

They were an ambitious bunch that spread all over once Zuko came into power— reaching amongst the highest positions within the military, medicine, and even education. 

Funny enough, your position in the court was nothing special in comparison to some of your relatives’ achievements. Some are even bothered by the fact. Being the first of all your cousins to master the art of firebending, being your grandfather's favorite solely for bending lightning with the same grace as he did in his prime, all while excelling in your studies. 

All of that potential, just wasted on being the lord’s “pet”. 

You don’t have much of an opinion on the disappointment some of them have expressed in the past, though it would’ve been nice if their words had stayed behind closed doors. You didn’t want to hear any of it. If you truly wanted to make use of that said potential, you would’ve worked directly under your father as his subordinate. 

Maybe it was the result of growing up feeling like you were enough. You have nothing to prove, and quite frankly, you’re content with having a role that really only requires you to share your opinions with a ruler that shares the same ideals as you… for the most part. 

If only he’d also agree that you two spend way too much time together. 

Luckily, you’re not required to be by his side tonight since you’re attending the banquet as a representative of your clan— something Zuko had no clue about until the moment you stepped onto the airship, which had him looking like he was about to blow a fucking gasket. He absolutely sucks at masking his frustrations. You’re surprised his concubines still had the courage to cuddle up with him. He looked like he was 2.5 seconds away from throwing you off the ship mid-flight. 

Zuko would never do that, by the way, but you’re sure he was daydreaming about it. 

But even then, with all the distance between you tonight, you can still feel his eyes on you. Just watching and waiting for you to do something he didn’t like. Very masochistic considering how he wouldn’t confront you if you did end up doing something wrong in his eyes. 

You spend the entire night avoiding eye contact, which isn’t too hard given how all you’ve done is catch up with old peers from school and relatives who’ve decided to move here to start new lives. 

The relatives you got along with, that is. 

You were enjoying yourself. Truly. Until Sokka called you over to their table. 

Funny how Zuko wasn’t looking at you then and was instead stuffing his face with spicy dumplings, then downing it with whatever liquor was in his cup. 

You walk over with two thoughts running through your head— please don’t let this man be as drunk as Sokka and Aang, and don’t let this be a conversation about how work was been. Sokka tends to ask those things at the wrong time, despite his heart being in the right place. 

This time around, it’s not Sokka.

“How’s our flaming hot lord treating you?” Aang asks, throwing an arm around a very drunk Zuko, who’s laughing his ass off over the avatar’s words for once. 

Your lips may have twitched a little, as well. Only because Aang gave even less fucks when in an inebriated state. 

“Oh, you know— the usual.” You let out a lighthearted laugh, and only you notice the way Zuko’s face momentarily drops. 

The air around him quickly screams ‘don’t fuck with me’, then settles back into something more suitable for someone who’s already had half their water weight in alcohol. 

“C’mon, you can do better than that,” Zuko forces out a laugh, leaning back in his seat. 

You laugh a little harder. “Can I?”

“Yeah, you can.” 

Sokka lets out this weird, giddy gasp because he loves drama, and cuts in. “Are you two fighting?”

“No.” 

“No.”

You and Zuko look at each other after shutting down Sokka’s question at the same time. The fake smiles you’re wearing are not helping your case at all. 

“Where’s Katara? I’ve been wondering where she’s been this whole time,” you ask in an attempt to keep the energy between you from getting any more awkward than it already is

Aang grows a little pale— the instant karma feels nice. “She’s a little sick tonight.” 

There’s a bit of fear in his voice. She’s totally pregnant. Not that you say that. Instead, you just point in some random direction behind you. “That’s terrible— my cousin actually just mentioned a bug going around. I hope she feels better soon.” 

“Thank you,” the man lets out a sigh of relief, allowing himself to be delusional for just one more night. 

“What about Toph?”

“Home. Asleep.” Sokka rolls his eyes. “She’s like a little old lady now. You’ll see her tomorrow, though, she’s been volunteering at the center.” 

“Volunteering or beating everyone into submission?” Zuko murmurs, and they all erupt in laughter. “She probably runs that place like the military.”

You find yourself starting to zone out as the conversation moves on to a different topic. You’d like to blame some of the wine you’ve been sipping on throughout the night for that. Everything starts to melt together— the live music, the endless chatter in every which direction. The only thing that pulls you out of it is seeing another one of your cousins who had just arrived, waving at you, and you don't shy away from taking that as an opportunity to excuse yourself. 

Aang and Sokka were as kind as usual when you said your goodbyes. Zuko, on the other hand, was harder to read through the pathetic excuse of a smile he gave you. One only meant to save face. 

If only he knew just how much worse he makes things sometimes. Although they’re rare, this isn’t the first fight you two have been in. Perhaps you have been a little petty towards the man, but it’s not you who grows so frustrated at someone’s anger that you begin to hold a grudge yourself. 

You arrive back to your room in the early morning with the regret of not cutting yourself off from the drinks sooner than you did. You wouldn’t say you were drunk, but you were definitely tipsy as you started to shed layers of clothes and jewelry to get in the hot bath that had been prepared prior to your return. 

Aang may be childish at times, but fuck was he a great host. Or maybe it was Katara who had all of these amenities set up for you. Candles and bath salts— you could die a happy woman right now as you settle into the stone tub, taking deep breaths, letting your muscles relax. 

Twenty minutes in, you hear rattling and heavy footsteps that seem to hit the ground with more confusion than the determination an attacker would usually have. It forces you to leave the warmth of your bath, slipping on a robe. Getting hit with annoyance rather than fear may be a little foolish. Overconfident, even. But there’s still alcohol running through your veins, and you aren’t the pride and joy of your clan for no reason— you can absolutely hold your own in a fight. 

When you walk out of the bathroom, you come face to face with exactly who you were thinking of.

“Fuck,” he looks away for a moment, regretting his decision thinking it was okay to just walk in. 

Zuko didn’t think you’d be bathing, for some odd, stupid reason. Judging by the fact that he’s still wearing his usual day clothing and his hairs not up in a bun, it’s safe to assume he went straight here after leaving the banquet. 

You let out a long sigh. “God— what are you doing here?” 

You don’t even sound mad— just disappointed that you have to see him once more before you lay your head to rest, which slightly hurts the man’s ego. Truth be told, he came here to argue with you, but even in his drunken state, he’s finding it quite difficult to do so since he looks like a fucking pervert now. 

“Your comment from earlier— what the hell was that about?” Zuko sounds more wounded than anything right now. 

You cross your arms, leaning against the door frame that connects the room to the bathroom. “What comment?”

“The usual,” he says with air quotes. “Do you not like me anymore or something?”

“You’re seriously asking me that right now?” Your face twists, just dumbfounded at this point. “You ask me that as if I don’t work for you?”

He scoffs. “So what, you’re saying I’m not your friend now?”

“I mean, yeah— you are, but I’m still your subordinate at the end of the day,” you attempt to spell it out for him, trying to get it through his brain that he can’t just act like you two are a pair of besties. 

But he just continues to argue with you. 

“Really? ‘Cause last time I checked, people don’t fight their superiors.” 

No, they do not. You’re not sure why you even tried to make that an argument, the line between you has blurred a long time ago. 

“You know what, just— forget it.”

The thing is, you're not the best at taking accountability. Most of the arguments you’ve had with him have been swept under the rug after a while. Zuko's not having that right now, though.

“Hm— actually, no— I don’t think I will,” he stubbornly says. “You have been punishing me for fucking weeks now and now you just want me to forget it?”

Punishing him?

You roll your eyes, muttering “oh my god” under your breath, not even bothering to look him straight in the eyes anymore as you walk to the nightstand and pick up a small jar of body cream. 

“We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” you say dismissively, rubbing the jasmine-scented cream into your hands. “I need to go to sleep, and so should you, honestly.”

It doesn’t matter how well he can handle his alcohol— he reeks of it. 

“I’m trying to talk to you right now so I don’t have to deal with your attitude tomorrow,” he says, as if he hasn’t had an attitude himself the last couple of weeks. 

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to,” you murmur back. 

What feels like minutes pass after your pathetic attempt to settle your issues with him. At first, he just lets out a sigh, trying to keep his composure, but then he laughs under his breath. 

“So that’s it?” he asks in a condescending tone. “We’re all good now?”

“Yes. Goodnight, Zuko,” you hum. 

More silence follows after. You can just feel his eyes on you despite still facing away, now reaching for some hair oil, waiting for him to leave.

He never does. Even after working the product into your hair, you have yet to hear the door to your room close, making you grow wary. 

There are many things telling you not to turn around at the moment— your blurred mind and tensed body. But even you make mistakes, lots of them with Zuko, and so you finally turn around. 

His lips are on yours. 

You don’t know how long he’d been standing directly behind you, you never even heard his footsteps. All you know is his hands are snaked behind your neck and he’s kissing you and you’re letting him.

It takes you a moment to realize you’re kissing him back— too focused on how soft his lips are, how his tongue glides across your lower lip before slipping inside, so commanding yet so gentle. 

Then you sober up— pressing your palm flat against his chest and pushing him back so you two can look at each other, eyes wide and filled with instant regret.

“What the hell was that?” you try to snap at him, but the sharp edge was dulled from the start, already fearing what’ll change between you from this moment forward. 

“I— fuck,” he stutters, taking another step back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Immediately, you cut him off. “No, you shouldn’t have and you know that.”

“I know.” It sounds like a plea coming from him as his chest tightens. “I’m sorry.”

Even you start to look apologetic, which breaks his heart a little since you did nothing wrong. The one who crossed the line was him, after all. “You should go. You’re drunk.” 

He opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it shortly after. There was nothing to say. 

And so he slowly nods and turns around, still in shock by his own actions as he begins to walk away, leaving you to deal with the aftermath of what the fuck just happened on your own. 

This was going to be the longest work trip of your life. 

notes: i hope u guys enjoyed this first chapter!! this was supposed to be a oneshot but then ideas kept popping up in my head and i thought, why don't i just turn this into a longfic like defiance lol. the plan is to follow these two around throughout a couple arcs, with the first one being them trying to navigate their feelings and attempting to go back to normal while trying to fix the shit show in the silk district.

TAGS ARE CLOSED

One Shots & Drabbles

Eloping- ꩜, 𔘓𓂃

Strawberries and I Do’s ("Eloping" rewrite) 𔘓𓂃 , 🌸⋆｡

Resolution - ꩜, ✗, 𔘓𓂃

Ring - Clark sees youre not wearing your wedding ring. 𔘓𓂃

Clarks cape - clark wraps you in his superman cape 𔘓𓂃

Kiss them goodnight too - clarl kisses your stuffies before leaving 𔘓𓂃

Aphrodisiac - clark kent & his nympho girlfriend ꩜, 🌸⋆｡

Undressed , - clark kent undressing you with his eyes — literally 𔘓𓂃

Let me in - ✗, 𔘓𓂃

Kiss the Ring - 𔘓𓂃

birthday baby - on your birthday, clark kent turns whipped cream into foreplay. - ꩜

anatomy - in which you learn anatomy with tutor!clark ꩜

keep the glasses on - ꩜

link - clark picks you up and eats you out ꩜

link - husband!clark fingers his wife with his left hand ꩜

Do Not Disturb - olderbf!clark fucks you on his office desk (ao3 link)꩜, 🌸⋆｡

Panty Stealer - perv!roomate clark steals your panties (ao3 link)꩜

Trading Places (ao3) - Clark Kent and Kal-El are both your boyfriends — identical twins who love switching places just to get you to themselves whenever they want. ꩜

Construction worker!clark (ao3)

Save Me - You’ve loved Clark Kent since before you knew what love was—since scraped knees, shared secrets, and long walks home under a Smallville sky. But Clark has always been hiding something. ꩜, ✗, 𔘓𓂃

Video Phone - making a sex tape for clarks long nights away from home

Mechanic clark x reader - ꩜

On His Knees - After an argument leaves you giving Clark the cold shoulder all day, he spends every moment trying to earn your forgiveness. ꩜, ✗

savor - clark kent has an oral fixation ꩜

Break of Dawn - ꩜

no barriers - You and Clark have always been careful, no matter how desperate things got. But one night, while he’s buried deep inside you, you make a decision. You reach down, pull the condom off, and whisper that you don’t want anything between you anymore. ꩜

who caves first? - you and clark turn self control into a competition and see who can hold out the longest... except neither of you is exactly making it easy for the other.꩜

hung walk - telling clark he as a hung walk

Headcanons

Clark "let me ask my wife" Kent hcs - 𔘓𓂃

perv!roomate ck hcs - (ao3 link)꩜

freeuse!clark x nympho reader hcs

Cowboy!Clark

Buckle Bunny, Tyrant, Born to ride, Sweet as lemonade , Wildflower Fever, Cotton Candy Kisses, Sugar on the Counter, My Rose, Cherries and Wine, Loosely Buttoned, Cinnamon Girl , Save a Horse. Summer Love

Neighbor!Clark

Headcanons -pt.1, pt.2 𔘓𓂃

Youre my hero - telling neighbor clark he's your hero. 🌸⋆｡, 𔘓𓂃

Super stash - clark sees your stash of superman merch 𔘓𓂃

Trucker!Clark

Passenger Princess Headcanons – pt.1 🌸⋆｡, 𔘓𓂃

Highway Heat - Life on the road with trucker!clark means long nights, neon diner stops, and a whole lot of devotion. When you decide to spoil him on the highway, things get a little risky. ꩜, 𔘓𓂃

American Wedding - After a spontaneous wedding in a kitschy Las Vegas chapel, you and Clark Kent retreat to a modest motel room to celebrate your vows. ꩜, 𔘓𓂃

The Trucker and the Waitress

Boxer!Clark

Lucky Touch - before every match, clark retreats to the gym office with you, relying on an intamite ritual that steadies his nerves, and sharpens his focus. ꩜

Glitter & Bruises - When boxer Clark Kent first notices you under the arena lights, everything changes. You’re the gym owner’s daughter, the ring girl everyone watches, and the one person he’s been strictly forbidden to want. 𔘓𓂃, ꩜

Poolboy!Clark

Desperate Housewife - Neglected by your work-obsessed husband, you find yourself drawn to the new pool boy, Clark Kent. 🌸⋆｡, ꩜, ✗ pt.1 (other parts on ao3)

Specials

You all decided to keep your relationship private, not wanting outside judgments or prying eyes.

So no one else was aware, including Art’s grandma. Unfortunately for you, Art's grandma didn't always call before stopping by. She meant well, but her surprise visits meant quick texts from Art to make yourself scarce for the day. You always listened; even when Patrick begged you to mess with Art, you insisted on giving them space.

Maybe that’s why he got some sick satisfaction that Art's grandma had unexpectedly arrived for a visit while he was still half-dressed in Art's bed with you. The past night had been great, fucking until you were on the brink of exhaustion, and yet somehow Patrick was already energetic again in the morning. Art was usually a little slower to getting up, wanting nothing more than to drift back to sleep cradled in your arms.

However, the single knock on his door shattered the peaceful morning's atmosphere. Art groaned into his pillow, barely lifting his head to call out, “What?” A second of silence passed when his grandma’s sweet voice answered, “Art, sweetie? Is that you? I tried to call but I couldn’t wake you up.” She laughed softly, unaware of how fast Art shot out of bed.

He toppled over the side of the mattress, shoulder slamming into the thin carpet. Art hissed in pain, wasting no time when he popped back up. “Guys, you gotta go - now!” he whisper-yelled, shaking you awake. “Honey, are you alright?” Art winced at his grandma’s concerned voice. “I’m alright grandma!” Art replied, eyes darting between you and the door. 

His head swiveled back around to face you as you raised your head, blinking away the last traces of sleep to take in the scene. “Up!” You let out a silent sigh, looking around in confusion. Art was already moving on to scramble, grabbing the clothes off the floor. “What..?” You asked.

Patrick leaned over your bare shoulder with a wicked grin, having been silently awake for a while. “Art’s grandma is here,” he whispered in your ear with cruel amusement. He laughed quietly at Art’s frantic movements, your fingers pinching the bridge of your nose. You sat up with little urgency, the comforter rolling off your body. 

Art’s panic fell into background noise as Patrick slipped his shirt over you, giving you more coverage than just your underwear. A quick kiss silenced his mirth as you took in poor Art's panic. You turned away from Patrick when the sound of Art’s window opening drew you back to the present. 

Art came back into view, whipping around to face you with an expression full of worry. He grabbed your face for a desperate goodbye peck. “I'm so sorry,” Art apologized profusely, knowing there was no other way out than the window. You understood - there wasn't any other option with his grandma right outside the door. 

You shrugged, not caring all that much as you kissed him back, hands smoothing his curls down. “We get it,” Patrick mused. “You’re throwing us out like some hookups, no don’t worry,” he laughed as Art shoved his chest. “We get it!”

Patrick pecked Art’s cheek in an apology, ignoring his eye roll, before helping you to the end of the bed. His hand smoothly slid around your waist to guide you to the window. “Ladies first,” he said ‘gallantly’. Patrick watches you swing a leg over the sill as you snicker. “How chivalrous,” you goad.

Your hands find his, holding tightly as he helps lower you to the ground. It’s a gentle landing, greatly helped by Patrick who goes to follow suit the moment your feet find purchase. His landing is…a lot less graceful, shoved outside by Art. He could only hold his grandma off for so long, excusing that he was taking so long because he was simply getting dressed, deciding to hurry it along.

With a yelp, Patrick practically swan dove from the window, a mess of flailing limbs. He lands in a painful heap to the side of you, groaning. You could only sigh as you lent a hand to pull him upright once more. “Patrick,” you nearly whine in annoyance.

He wasn’t the last to come out though, your clothes raining down on him, adding insult to injury. “Seriously?” Patrick muttered, brushing himself off indignantly. You were all lucky that Art only lived on the first floor. 

Despite the exit, you couldn't help but laugh at Patrick's disheveled state, the window slamming shut after another apology from Art. Your giggles bubbled over as you freed him from the shorts caught on his ear and shoulder.

Patrick only huffed, bundling the clothes unceremoniously.  It was a rough start to the morning and you could see his thinly veiled annoyance. Wanting to lighten the mood, you leaned in for a quick kiss. His furrowed eyebrows softened some as his lips pressed to yours.

“Come on, first one back to my dorm gets head,” you challenged, lips brushing against his. Patrick's eyes lit up at the offer. In an instant, he gripped your hand and took off in a sprint across campus. You laughed with glee as the wind rushed past, any lingering stress melting away by your joint euphoria.

His mother had cried when she first saw them.

Not because she was upset, quite the opposite. Janet Drake had spent years documenting soulmate phenomena across the globe, and a verbal bond was extraordinarily rare.

His father had immediately started researching statistics.

Less than three percent of soulmates received words. Less than .5 percent remembered hearing them.

“You’ll know them the moment they speak,” his mother told him one evening as she adjusted the cuff of his tiny dress shirt before another charity gala. “Isn’t that exciting?”

Tim looked down at his wrist.

That’s mine

“I guess.”

His mother laughed softly. “You don’t sound very excited.”

Tim shrugged. At eight years old, he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel.

Soulmates mattered. Everyone knew that.

His classmates talked about theirs constantly.

Some compared phantom aches from their shared-pain bonds. Others spent recess imagining how their lives would be together.

Tim listened more than he spoke.

He preferred facts. Questions. Patterns.

How could words know who they belonged to before either person was born? Were they predetermined? Did people still have choices? What happened if soulmates never met?

His teachers rarely had answers.

His parents were usually too busy to discuss it.

The Drakes loved him. Tim knew they did. But love and presence weren’t always the same thing. His father spent most of his time working. His mother traveled constantly. Some months, he saw them more in framed photos scattered around the house than in person.

The manor was always full of staff and tutors and carefully planned schedules, yet somehow felt impossibly empty.

Tim grew used to eating dinner with adults paid to be there.

He learned early how to entertain himself.

Books, puzzles, documentaries, the small television in his room, where he rewatched recordings of the Flying Graysons until he knew every movement by heart.

People left. That was simply another fact of life.

His parents always came home eventually, but there was always another trip. Another meeting. Another promise of next week.

Sometimes, late at night, Tim would trace the letters on his wrist with his thumb and wonder.

That’s mine

Possessive. Confident.

The opposite of everything Tim felt.

Whoever they were, they sounded like someone who knew exactly what they wanted.

Someone who would point at him without hesitation and say, Mine.

The thought warmed something quiet inside his chest.

Maybe one day there would be someone who chose him first. Someone who stayed.

“Timothy!”

He glanced up from his wrist. His mother’s assistant stood in the doorway.

“Your parents are leaving for the airport.”

Tim slipped his sleeve back down. “Okay.” He followed the familiar route downstairs.

His father kissed the top of his head absentmindedly while checking his watch. His mother promised she’d bring him something back from Singapore.

Three weeks, this time. Maybe four.

“We love you, sweetheart.”

Tim smiled because he knew he was supposed to. “I love you too.”

Then the front doors closed behind them. The house settled into silence.

Tim looked down at his wrist.

That’s mine

Someday, he thought, he’d meet the person those words belonged to.

Someday, there would be someone who wouldn’t leave.

He had no way of knowing that in less than a year, standing on a crowded beach with salt in the air and sand clinging to his toes, he’d hear those exact words spoken aloud.

Or that he would spend the rest of his life trying to find them again.

Everyone had soulmates.

You grew up with the knowledge the same way you grew up knowing the sky was blue and the ocean was deep.

It simply was.

Some people shared pain. Others shared dreams or emotions or marks or memories.

Your soulmate had words.

Four of them, written in dark script along the inside of your wrist.

Can I see that?

Your dad had laughed the first time you asked what they meant.

“I don’t know, Bub. That’s the fun part.”

You traced the letters with your fingertip. “Do you think they’re nice?”

“I think,” he said, setting down the book he’d been reading, “that someone who asks permission before touching your things probably has good manners.”

You considered that very seriously. That sounded nice. Most things about soulmates sounded nice.

You didn’t think about it much. Your soulmate existed somewhere in the world. Eventually, you’d meet them.

Until then, there were more important things to worry about.

Like whether you could convince dad to cut the crusts off your sandwiches. Or whether the stray cat behind your building would finally let you pet it. Or if you’d be allowed to stay up past your bedtime to watch Cartoon Network.

Life was small in the way childhood always was.

Warm hands on your shoulders. Stories before bed. The magical fairies who always put your favorite snacks in your bag. Someone waiting for you after school.

You never doubted that you were loved. Not once.

Even when your dad got busy. Even when money was tight. Even when life became messy in all the ordinary ways life tended to.

You were never alone.

So while other children treated soulmates like missing pieces, you thought of yours more like a surprise waiting to happen.

Someone to look forward to. Who would eventually become important. But not yet. For now, your world was made up of smaller certainties.

The comfort of home. The sound of laughter from the kitchen. The warmth of sunlight spilling across your bedroom floor. And the beach.

You loved the beach.

Especially during summer.

The wind carried the sharp scent of salt through the air as waves crashed against the shore in a rhythm you could never quite predict.

Dad sat further back beneath a striped umbrella with a book open in his lap.

Every so often, he looked up to make sure you were still nearby.

You always were.

You darted along the shoreline barefoot, collecting seashells and smooth pieces of sea glass in a small plastic bucket.

The ocean foam chased your feet. Seagulls cried overhead. Children laughed nearby.

Everything felt bright.

A stronger gust of wind swept across the beach. Something light slipped from your hands and tumbled away across the sand.

You gasped.

Then immediately took off after it, your laughter carried away by the ocean breeze.

Tim almost said no when his mother asked.

Not because he didn't want to go, but cause experience had taught him not to get too excited.

Plans changed. Flights got moved forward. Meetings ran long. Emergencies happened.

He'd learned years ago that disappointment stung less when he expected it.

So when Janet Drake appeared in the doorway of the study where he'd been working through a puzzle book and said, "Your father and I have the whole weekend free," Tim had looked up suspiciously.

"The whole weekend?"

His father leaned against the doorframe behind her, smiling. "The whole weekend."

No phones. No assistants. No business dinners. Just the three of them.

Tim waited for the catch.

There wasn't one.

"Anywhere you want to go," his mother promised. "Your choice."

For a moment, Tim considered museums. The aquarium. The planetarium. Then he thought about summer heat and salty air and waves crashing against the shore.

"The beach," he decided.

His parents exchanged a surprised look.

"The beach?" his father repeated.

Tim nodded.

He'd only been a handful of times before, always during business trips when his parents could spare an hour or two.

He liked it. The patterns of the waves. The seashells hidden in the sand. The endless horizon stretching farther than he could see.

Mostly, he liked that people stayed at the beach. No one seemed in a hurry there.

"Then the beach it is."

True to their word, they left early the next morning.

The drive felt strange in the best way. His mother sang quietly along to the radio. His father let Tim pick the music. Nobody checked their watches. Nobody took business calls. For once, Tim had their full attention.

The feeling settled warm and unfamiliar in his chest.

By the time they reached the coast, the sun sat high overhead.

The beach was crowded.

Children raced through the surf. Couples crowded beneath colorful umbrellas. The air smelled like sunscreen and salt.

His parents set up their chairs a short distance from the water.

His mother pressed sunscreen into his hands with strict instructions to reapply every few hours.

His father handed him a towel for swimming.

Tim smiled.

Then headed toward the shoreline. The ocean foam curled around his ankles as he walked.

He searched carefully through the wet sand, studying each shell before deciding whether it was worth keeping.

Behind him, he could hear his parents talking softly.

Every so often, he glanced back to make sure they were still there.

They always were.

A sudden gust of wind swept across the beach.

Something colorful tumbled through the air a few feet ahead of him.

A small shovel.

Tim moved before he thought about it, stepping forward and catching it before another gust could carry it away.

He turned it over in his hands. Bright plastic swayed lazily in the sea breeze.

Then he heard a voice behind him.

"That's mine!"

The world stopped.

His breath caught. Heat rushed through his body so suddenly it made him dizzy.

Slowly, impossibly slowly, Tim looked down.

The words on the inside of his wrist burned.

That's mine

Every sound around him faded beneath the rushing in his ears.

He knew those words. He'd traced them countless times. Dreamed about them. Wondered about them. And now they belonged to a voice. To a person.

Tim turned around and saw you.

You stood a few feet away, slightly out of breath from running, your bucket swinging from one hand.

You were younger than him. Seven, maybe.

Sand clung to your knees, your hair messy from the wind, and there was a tiny gap where one of your front teeth had recently fallen out.

You looked completely ordinary.

And somehow, you were the most important person Tim had ever seen.

You frowned when he didn’t say anything. “Um… my shovel?”

Right. The shovel.

Tim handed it back with shaking fingers.

Then, before he could lose his nerve, he blurted out the question you’d imagined hearing for years.

“Can I see that?”

Your eyes widened. Then, almost immediately, your gaze dropped to your own wrist.

Tim followed it.

When you looked back up at him, confusion and wonder mixed across your face.

Slowly, you held out your arm.

His words.

His exact words.

Tim stared. His soulmate. He’d found them.

You stared at him with equal fascination. “You’re my soulmate?” The question came out small.

Tim felt something inside his chest loosen for the first time in his life. “Yeah,” he whispered.

You grinned. Just like that. No hesitation or uncertainty. Just simply joy.

“Cool.”

Cool. As though the entire universe hadn’t shifted beneath his feet.

Like you hadn’t just become the answer to every question he’d ever asked late at night while tracing words on his wrist.

Your excitement was immediate and uncomplicated. Tim envied that.

Before he could think of what to say next, an adult voice called your name from further down the beach.

You waved in their direction.

“My dad’s over there!”

Tim glanced toward the striped worn out umbrella and the man watching the two of you with open curiosity.

You turned back to him. “Want to play?”

The answer should have been obvious. Still, Tim had never been asked that question with such easy sincerity before.

He nodded. “Okay.”

And somehow, that single word changed everything.

The two-year age gap disappeared within minutes.

You talked enough for both of you, filling every quiet moment with stories while Tim listened intently.

You showed him the smooth sea glass you’d collected.

He taught you how to tell the difference between oyster shells and clam shells.

You built sprawling sandcastles connected by winding trenches that the tide eventually claimed.

You chased waves until your shorts were soaked.

You buried his feet in the sand.

He let you.

When seagulls stole one of your crackers, you laughed so hard you nearly fell over.

Tim found himself laughing too. Really laughing. Not the polite smiles he wore at galas. Not the careful amusement he showed adults. Something warm and bright spilled through him every time you smiled at him. Like sunlight after weeks of rain.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn’t feel lonely.

It was strange. How someone he’d only known for a few hours could make the world feel different. Like he’d spent his entire life holding his breath without realising it. And now, sitting beside you in the sand while you proudly displayed a misshapen seashell you’d declared lucky, Tim finally exhaled.

This was what everyone talked about when they talked about soulmates. Not destiny. Not marks. Not magic. This.

The feeling that you’d found someone who fit beside you so naturally that being apart suddenly made no sense at all.

You looked up at him and smiled.

Tim smiled back.

Mine, he thought.

For the first time in his life, Tim knew exactly what he wanted.

And for the first time in his life, he believed he could have it.

→←↓↑

The sun began to sink lower in the sky far too quickly.

Tim noticed because your father stood from his chair and started packing away towels.

No. No, it couldn’t be that late already.

You were still explaining your very serious theory that seagulls were secretly spies.

“We have to go soon,” your dad called.

You looked up, your face immediately falling. “Aww.”

Something uncomfortable twisted in Tim’s chest.

“Can we stay a little longer?” you asked hopefully.

Your dad checked his watch and shook his head apologetically. “We still have to drive back.”

You sighed dramatically before turning back to Tim. “I guess I have to go.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Tim’s eyes dropped to your wrist.

Can I see that?

Then to his own.

That’s mine

Proof.

Even if you left, the words would stay. You couldn’t disappear completely. Soulmates always found each other. Everyone knew that. His mother had told him so.

You stood, brushing sand from your shorts. “Can we see each other again?”

“Yes,” Tim answered immediately. Too quickly. His cheeks warmed.

Your smile returned instantly. “Okay!”

Of course you would. You were soulmates. That was how this worked.

Tim stood too, suddenly aware that he didn’t know your last name. Or your phone number. Or where you lived.

Panic flickered briefly beneath his ribs. “We should-”

“Timothy.”

His mother waved from several yards away. “We need to get going soon.”

Not yet.

Please, not yet.

He looked back at you. Your father had already gathered your things.

Adults were always in a hurry.

The thought came suddenly and irrationally.

Adults ruined everything.

“Can I have your number?” Tim asked.

You blinked. “My what?”

Right. You were seven.

Your dad laughed as he walked over. “I don’t think they know our number by heart.”

Heat crawled up Tim’s neck. Of course you didn’t.

Think.

Addresses. Last names. Anything.

“Maybe we can write letters!” you suggested brightly.

Your father smiled. “That’s a good idea.”

Relief rushed through Tim so hard his knees felt weak.

Yes. Letters. Of course.

Your father knelt beside you. “Why don’t you get something to write on?”

You nodded enthusiastically and ran back toward the umbrella.

Tim turned to his parents, excitement bubbling in his chest so fiercely it almost hurt.

His mother was smiling.

His father looked amused.

“Soulmates, huh?” Jack asked softly.

Tim couldn’t stop smiling.

“Yeah.”

His mother squeezed his shoulder. “We’re happy for you, sweetheart.”

Everything felt right. Perfect. As if the universe had finally clicked into place.

You returned moments later with a purple marker and a wrinkled napkin.

Tim carefully wrote down his home address. Double-checked it twice, then handed you the marker.

You copied yours beneath it in large, uneven letters. Your handwriting tilted crookedly across the paper.

Tim thought it was the most important thing he’d ever held.

You tore the napkin in half.

One for you.

One for him.

Insurance.

Smart.

His soulmate was smart.

“I’ll write first,” you promised.

Tim folded the paper carefully and tucked it into the pocket of his shorts. “I’ll write back.”

You grinned.

“Deal.”

Then your father called your name again.

This time, you couldn’t delay. You waved at him. Then at Tim.

“Bye, Tim!”

His chest squeezed painfully. “Bye.”

You ran back toward your dad.

Halfway there, you turned around one last time and waved again.

Tim waved back immediately.

Only when you disappeared into the crowd did he lower his hand.

The beach suddenly felt quieter. Emptier. But it was okay. Because he had your address.

You’d write first. Then he’d write back. And this wouldn’t be goodbye.

Soulmates always found each other. Everyone knew that.

Tim pressed a hand over the pocket holding your half of the napkin.

The paper crackled softly beneath his palm. Safe.

Everything was going to be okay.

He had no way of knowing that by the time he sent his first letter, your family would already be gone.

No forwarding address. No phone number. Nothing.

Just two words inked onto his skin.

And the memory of a summer afternoon that would define the rest of his life.

The Batcave was quiet at three in the morning.

Not quite silent. Computers still hummed softly. Monitors cast blue light across polished metal surfaces. Somewhere overhead, water dripped steadily through ancient stone.

Most people would have called the hour late. Tim called it productive.

A half-empty coffee cup sat forgotten beside his keyboard.

Three different cases waited on adjacent screens.

An unsolved string of robberies. A League of Assassins weapons shipment. A missing persons report.

Tim ignored all of them.

Instead, he stared at a photograph taken twelve years ago.

The image quality was terrible. The edges were worn from use, the colors faded by time.

Two children sat cross-legged in the sand beside a lopsided castle.

A nine-year-old Tim grinned openly at the camera. The seven-year-old beside him was laughing.

Tim had memorised every pixel.

He knew exactly where the sunlight hit your face. Knew the shape of your smile. Knew the tiny crack running through the plastic bucket sitting between you.

The original photo lived in a fireproof safe upstairs.

This was one of the digital copies. One of hundreds.

His fingers drifted to his wrist.

That’s mine

The words had never faded.

Not after his mother’s death. Not after his father’s funeral. Not after becoming Robin. Not after being pushed into Red Robin. Not after years of searching.

They remained as dark and certain as the day he’d first heard them.

Proof that you existed. That you were still out there.

Tim had built entire investigations from less.

Over the years, he’d searched for you with a determination that bordered on insanity.

School records. Property databases. Archived census information. Social media. Facial recognition software. The Batcomputer.

Every new technology became another opportunity. Every dead end became another reason to keep looking.

He’d found international criminals more easily than he’d found you.

It shouldn’t have been possible.

But all he’d ever had was a nickname, a childhood address, and a photograph.

The apartment listed on the napkin had been empty by the time his first letter arrived.

Moved. No forwarding address.

The landlord hadn’t remembered where.

Your father’s phone number had been disconnected within the year.

After that, the trail vanished.

You vanished. Just like everyone else.

Tim pressed his thumb against the words on his wrist, digging in hard enough to sting. The area was crowded with thick, old scars, but the words were still clear. Even when things were at their worst, he’d never dared to slice through the letters.

Across the cave, laughter echoed from the stairs.

Dick. Jason. Damian.

Family.

People who stayed. Mostly.

Tim minimised the photo before any of them could walk over and see.

He’d made rhe mistake once.

Dick had found him at sixteen, sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor surrounded by maps and newspaper clippings.

“What’re you working on?”

Tim had frozen for a second too long and Dick had seen the picture. Seen the soulmate mark. The pure desperation.

Tim still remembered the concern in his brother’s voice. “You know they’ll come back into your life eventually, right?”

Tim hadn’t answered. Because that wasn’t what scared him. Finding you had never been the problem. Losing you again was.

And what if, after all these years, you met Dick first? Dick, with his effortless charm and easy smiles.

What if you met Jason? Jason, who filled every room he walked into.

What if you met Damian? Brilliant. Confident. Unapologetically himself.

Fuck.

Tim rubbed a hand over his face. The thoughts were irrational. He knew that.

You were soulmates. His soulmate.

His.

The universe had written your first words onto his skin before either of you were born.

Still, the fear remained. Because soulmates weren’t guarantees.

He’d seen enough failed bonds to know that. People walked away from soulmates all the time. People chose other people. People left.

The words on his wrist proved destiny.

They didn’t prove love.

His computer chimed softly. A notification. Another failed search parameter.

Tim closed it without reading.

He’d check again tomorrow. Run new algorithms. Cross-reference new databases. Keep looking.

He always kept looking.

Because somewhere out there, you still carried four words on your wrist.

Words he’d spoken before he knew how much they would matter.

Words that had become the center of his entire life.

Can I see that?

You probably traced them absentmindedly while waiting in line for coffee. Probably laughed when people asked about them. Maybe you told the beach story sometimes. Maybe you didn’t remember it at all.

The thought hollowed him out.

He remembered everything.

The sound of your laugh. The way you buried his feet in the sand. The gap between your front teeth. The way you’d turned around to wave at him one last time.

He remembered because he’d never stopped needing to.

Because forgetting had never even been an option.

Tim opened the pic again. Zoomed in, just a little. As if getting closer to the screen could somehow bridge twelve years.

“I’ll find you,” he whispered into the empty cave.

The promise was soft. Certain. The same way those words had always been.

He’d spent more than half his life searching. And Tim Drake was not someone prone to giving up.

University wasn’t anything like you’d expected.

Everyone had promised it would be the best years of your life.

Mostly, it was just busy.

Assignments piled up faster than you could finish them. Your sleep schedule was held together by caffeine and wishful thinking. Half your meals came from the campus café because grocery shopping required a level of organisation you simply didn’t possess.

Still, you liked it. You liked the freedom. The independence. The way nobody cared if you wore the same hoodie three days in a row.

Your world had become pleasantly ordinary.

Evening lectures. Study groups. Late-night takeout with friends. Dinner with your dad every Sunday evening.

Life moved forward in small, comfortable routines.

Soulmates fit somewhere inside that routine. Not at the centre of it. Just… there. A fact of life. An eventuality.

You’d never been one of those people who obsessed over their soulmate mark.

Maybe it was because your bond wasn’t particularly unusual. Words were rare, sure, but not unheard of.

Or maybe it was because the words themselves didn’t tell you much.

Can I see that?

People asked about them all the time. Friends in high school had theories.

Maybe your soulmate worked in museums. Maybe they were an artist. Maybe they were just really nosy.

You usually laughed and changed the subject. Because the truth was, you didn’t know.

You’d heard the words once. Apparently.

You remembered flashes of a beach. A boy. Older than you, maybe.

The memory shifted every time you tried to hold onto it.

Childhood was like that.

Important moments blurred around the edges until you weren’t sure whether you truly remembered them or had simply heard the story too many times.

Your dad remembered more than you did.

Every few years, he’d bring it up with a fond smile.

“Remember when you met your soulmate at the beach?”

You always laughed. “Not really.”

His expression turned wistful every time. “You were inseparable all day.”

You believed him. You just couldn’t remember. Not properly. There were no photos. No letters. No evidence beyond four words inked onto your skin.

Sometimes you wondered if your soulmate remembered. Or if they’d forgotten too.

The thought never upset you.

Life was busy. If they were meant to come back into your life, they would.

You traced the words on your wrist absentmindedly as you sat outside the library, waiting for your next class to start.

Can I see that?

Around you, campus buzzed with life. Students hurried between lectures. Someone laughed nearby. A group passed carrying redbulls and complaining about an upcoming exam.

Your phone buzzed. A message from your dad.

Don’t forget dinner this weekend.

You smiled despite yourself.

I’m nineteen. I won’t forget the dinner we plan every week.

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

You’ll still be my kid when you’re ninety.

Shaking your head, you slipped your phone back into your pocket.

You had a lecture in ten minutes. An essay due next week. Plans with friends on Friday. A whole life unfolding in front of you.

You stood and adjusted your bag over your shoulder.

Completely unaware that, less than twenty miles away, someone was running your photograph through facial recognition software.

Unaware that someone had spent the last twelve years searching for you.

That somewhere beneath Gotham, a man who knew the exact shape of your childhood smile was whispering your name to himself like a prayer.

To you, your soulmate was a pleasant mystery.

To Tim Drake, you had become an obsession.

←↓↑→

The Batcomputer chimed again. A different sound this time.

A match.

Tim froze.

The notification sat in the corner of the screen for almost three full seconds before he trusted himself enough to breathe.

Possible facial recognition match found.

Similarity: 91.3%

His chair scraped violently across the cave floor. “No…” The word barely made it out.

His fingers were already moving. Open. Enhance. Cross-reference.

The photo filled the monitor.

Not the child from the beach. An adult. Older. Nineteen.

Your jaw had sharpened. Your hair was different. You’d grown into your features the way children always did.

But your smile..

His heart stopped. It was you. It had to be. The same eyes. The same crooked little smile he’d memorised from a photograph so faded he’d reconstructed parts of it by hand.

He didn’t realise he was crying until a tear landed on the keyboard.

“I found you…” The words cracked apart in his throat.

Twelve years of dead ends. Of wondering if he’d imagined that day on the beach.

And here you were. Real.

Tim laughed. It sounded dangerously close to a sob. “You’re okay.”

His hands shook so violently he mistyped twice trying to open the source.

A public Instagram account. Must’ve been someone else’s, since you’d been tagged.

A university friend, judging from the captions.

He clicked.

More photos. You outside a café. You in the library. You wearing an oversized hoodie while holding a coffee nearly as big as your head.

You’d always hated crusts. You pushed your sleeves over your hands. You still smiled with your whole face. Every tiny detail hit him like another heartbeat.

He couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop smiling.

“I found you.”

You looked… Happy.

His chest hurt.

You’d grown up. Without him. Without a single letter. Without remembering him.

Guilt settled somewhere deep inside his ribs.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I couldn’t find you sooner.

I’m here now.

I’ll never lose you again.

He clicked the next post. His smile disappeared. You stood beside someone about your age. Their arms wrapped around your shoulders. They leaned over to kiss your cheek.

You were making the most exaggerated expression of disgust imaginable, nose scrunched, lips pulled away dramatically while the caption underneath read:

Admit it, you love me ♡

Anyone else would’ve laughed.

Tim knew it wasn’t romantic. He could see that. He understood body language. Read micro-expressions. Built psychological profiles from less. They were friends.

Just friends.

But then why were they touching you?

His breathing slowed. The cave suddenly felt much colder.

Their hand rested so naturally against your shoulder. Like they’d done it before.

They’d probably hugged you. Sat beside you. Heard you laugh. Been there while you were becoming.. you.

They’d lived twelve years Tim had been denied. Twelve years that should have been his.

Jealousy wasn’t the right word. It felt uglier than that. Hungrier.

Tim rested his forehead against his clasped hands. “That’s selfish.” His voice came out hoarse.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Of course you hadn’t. You deserved friends. You deserved people who loved you. People who looked after you. You deserved everything. He should be grateful someone had been there while he hadn’t.

He should.

…

But why did it feel like something inside him was being torn apart?

Why couldn’t he stop staring at the place their lips touched your cheek?

Why did he want to beat-

No.

Tim squeezed his eyes shut hard enough to hurt.

Don’t think that. They’re important to you. If they’re important to you…

Then they’re important to me.

The words sounded rehearsed. Like he was trying to convince himself.

Another notification blinked in the corner of the monitor.

“Replacement patrol assigned.”

Followed almost immediately by another from Bruce.

Where are you?

Tim didn’t even look. His eyes never left your face.

“I found you.” This time, the whisper wasn’t joyful. It was reverent. Almost prayerful.

“Please..”

His thumb brushed lightly across your smiling face on the screen.

“Please still want me.”

Months passed before he let himself stand within twenty metres of you.

Not because he lacked the opportunity. He just couldn’t risk ruining it.

You deserved a proper reunion. He’d rehearsed it hundreds of times.

“Hi.”

Too casual.

“You probably don’t remember me…”

Too pathetic.

“We met once, years ago.”

Too unbelievable.

So he waited. And watched.

He learnt your timetable before he ever learnt the sound of your adult voice.

Tuesday lectures started at one thirty. You always arrived a few minutes early.

You bought the same coffee every Wednesday, except during exam weeks, when you switched to doubles without even realising you were doing it.

You texted your friends while waiting for pedestrian crossings.

You hummed when you cooked.

You don’t lock your front window.

Tim fixed that after you went to sleep.

The first time he’d climbed through your garden to latch it from the inside, he’d almost laughed at himself.

This is insane. He knew that. He also knew the suburb’s burglary statistics.

The window stayed locked after that.

You never noticed.

Good.

You weren’t supposed to.

He never took anything. That would’ve made it real.

Instead he’d straighten the photo frame you’d knocked crooked. Move your forgotten wallet a little further from the edge of the kitchen bench. Replace the batteries in your smoke alarm after it chirped once at three in the morning.

Tiny enough things that you might’ve assumed you’d done yourself.

He wasn’t trying to change your life.

He was only… smoothing the edges. Helping. Protecting.

The files on the Batcomputer grew thicker.

Medical history. University records. Favourite takeaway. Allergies. Blood type. Emergency contacts. Your friends.

Every single one received their own folder.

It’s not like Tim distrusted them. It’s just that if one of them ever needed help getting to you, he wanted to know before they did.

He read their social media. Their public records. Their routines. Who they dated. Whether they drank too much. Whether they drove distracted. Whether they’d ever hurt anyone. If they were kind to you.

Tim found himself quietly grateful.

If they made you cry, he’d spend the rest of the night staring at their name.

His fingers hovering over keyboards. Databases. Background checks. One command. He could dismantle someone’s entire life before sunrise.

He never pressed Enter.

Because that wasn’t what you would’ve wanted. And your happiness mattered more than his anger. It always would.

←↓↑→

Bruce noticed first.

“You’ve stopped sleeping.”

“I’m busy.”

“You haven’t been running facial recognition software anymkre.”

Silence.

Bruce sighed. “You found them.”

Tim didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Bruce’s expression softened for only a second. “I’m glad they’re alive.”

“So am I.”

Another silence.

“You haven’t spoken to them.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Tim looked back towards the glowing monitor. Your face smiled back from a candid photo one of your friends had uploaded that afternoon.

What if you looked at him and didn’t remember? What if twelve years had turned him into a stranger?

He could survive broken bones. Gunshots. The Joker. He wasn’t sure he could survive watching confusion replace your smile.

So instead, he watched from afar. Close enough to stop anything bad from reaching you. Far enough that you never had to know there had been danger at all.

If someone followed you home, they found another route. If your tire went flat, roadside assistance somehow arrived before you’d even finished pulling over. If your wallet went missing, it appeared at the nearest police station before you’d cancelled your cards.

Tim preferred it that way. Because heroes weren’t supposed to ask for thanks.

And if protecting you was the only place he still belonged, then that was enough.

It had to be.

Because wanting anything more felt unforgivably selfish.

Some nights, though, when he watched your bedroom light switch off, he’d rest two fingers against the computer screen.

“I miss you.” A tiny, tired smile.

“You don’t even know me.” His voice cracked. “But I know you.”

He swallowed hard. “And that’s enough. It has to be.”

You’d always considered yourself a pretty lucky person.

Not lottery-winning lucky. More ‘weird little coincidences’ lucky.

Like the time your car decided to die halfway home after a late shift.

You’d barely managed to pull onto the shoulder before an RACQ van rolled around the corner.

The bloke had laughed.

“Perfect timing.”

You’d laughed too. “What are the odds?”

Or when you’d realised you’d left your wallet at the café.

You’d panicked for all of thirty seconds before the staff smiled and held it up.

“Someone dropped it into us.”

No cash missing. Cards untouched. You’d gone home convinced there were still decent people in the world.

Then there was the time your smoke alarm had stopped making that awful chirping noise before you’d gotten around to buying batteries.

You assumed you’d imagined hearing it.

Then the dodgy latch on your bedroom window had somehow started working again.

Finally.

About bloody time.

You made a mental note to thank your landlord.

You forgot.

Life just happened like that. Little inconveniences solving themselves. Disasters never fully becoming disasters.

You figured everyone had stories like yours.

Didn’t they?

→↓←↑

“You are,” Your friend declared, pointing a chip at you across the table, “the universe’s favourite.”

“Oh, piss off.”

“I’m serious.”

“You spilled an entire iced latte over your assignment yesterday.”

He crossed his arms, dropping the chip into his mouth. “And then the professor gave us a forty-eight hour extension.”

“That was for everyone.”

“Exactly.” He grinned.

“You just benefit the most.”

You rolled your eyes. “I think you’re confusing luck with chronic incompetence.”

“I think,” he replied, “you’ve got some weird guardian angel following you around.”

You snorted so hard your drink nearly came out your nose.

“Imagine.”

“Oi, don’t laugh. Nan swears everyone gets one.”

“If mine exists, they’re exhausted.”

“They’re probably on stress leave.”

You both laughed until people started looking over.

Sometimes, though, there were moments.

You’d catch yourself glancing over your shoulder after leaving uni.

It always felt like someone had said your name. But there was never anyone there.

Just people walking. Cars passing. The breeze.

You’d shake it off.

Your friends called you observant.

You noticed when someone changed shampoo. When lecturers looked more tired than usual. When strangers were having bad days.

But somehow, you’d never notice the black motorbike parked half a block away. Never notice that it wasn’t always the same bike. That the familiar silhouette perched on rooftops when you walked home after evening classes. Or the pair of blue eyes lifting from a rooftop scope the second you glanced upwards. Because every time your gaze drifted a little too close, he was already gone.

Because why would you? No one expects to be the centre of somebody else’s universe.

Not without knowing it.

Somewhere in Gotham, Tim closed another file. Today’s entry was short.

Ate lunch.

Laughed with friends.

Nearly got hit by a cyclist while reading a text.

Smiled twenty-three times.

His lips curved despite himself. “Good.”

He closed the document. Another day where nothing bad had happened to you. Another perfect day.

Exactly as it should be.

Tim wasn’t looking for anything in particular. He never was anymore. Watching you had become as habitual as checking the weather before patrol or reviewing overnight reports from the Titans.

One monitor displayed Wayne Enterprises’ quarterly projections while another quietly cycled through public posts from accounts you’d been tagged in over the past twenty-four hours.

One of your friend’s account refreshed.

A new post. Six photos.

The first was all of you crowded around a tiny restaurant table littered with empty plates and cocktail glasses, your smile wide enough to crinkle your eyes.

The second was a blurry group selfie that looked like it’d been taken after far too many attempts.

The third showed someone holding up printed boarding passes.

The fourth made his stomach tighten.

It was you, sitting cross-legged on somebody’s lounge room floor with travel brochures scattered around your knees. You were laughing so hard your head had tipped backwards, completely unaware of the camera.

The caption was simple.

Can’t believe we’re finally doing it. Goodbye Gotham. Next stop: Europe!! ✈️

The comments underneath were worse.

You’re actually leaving us.

Don’t forget us when you’re famous overseas.

Still can’t believe you’re moving.

Going to miss you so much.

Tim reread that last one. Then the one before it. Then the caption again.

His cursor hovered over the screen.

“…Moving?” The word sounded foreign in his own voice.

He opened your calendar. Nothing.

Your university timetable. Nothing.

Your employment records. Nothing.

He searched airline databases. Nothing.

He frowned. That didn’t make sense.

If you were emigrating, there would’ve been paperwork. Visa applications. Employment sponsorship. Rental listings. Passport activity beyond an ordinary holiday.

Unless you’d only decided recently. If you’d kept it private. If he’d missed something.

Tim’s fingers were already moving before he’d consciously decided to investigate.

Searches multiplied across the Batcomputer. Passport usage. Banking activity. University enrolment. Rental history. Government databases. Public records. Flight manifests.

The cave filled with the quiet clatter of keys.

Hours passed unnoticed. Eventually, one search returned a result.

Three return tickets. Departure in eleven days. Return scheduled just over three weeks later.

Tim stared at the itinerary for a long moment. Three weeks. Not forever. Just three weeks.

His shoulders sagged so abruptly it almost hurt.

He laughed once under his breath, embarrassed by the sheer force of the relief flooding through him. “You idiot…”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “They’re coming back.”

Of course you were.

He’d panicked over a holiday.

His heartbeat gradually settled.

He closed the flight information. Then his eyes drifted back to the Instagram post.

Goodbye Gotham.

Going to miss you.

Still can’t believe you’re moving.

They’d all thought it looked permanent too.

He wasn’t stupid. The wording was misleading. Anyone could’ve misunderstood.

But the thought of you leaving for twenty-one days was unfathomable. You’d be where every system he’d quietly built around your safety became useless.

Where there only needed to be one delayed ambulance, drunk driver, pickpocket in the wrong place, one stupid accident.. and he would be exactly where he’d been twelve years ago.

Too late.

His fingers folded together beneath his chin.

He remembered another disappearance. Another day he’d told himself he’d find you tomorrow.

Tomorrow had become twelve years.

He’d promised himself that would never happen again.

Slowly, almost absent-mindedly, he reopened your file. Thousands of pages. Medical records. Class schedules. Emergency contacts. Favourite cafés. The names of everyone you’d ever trusted. Months of observation. Years of restraint.

He looked at the date stamped across the oldest folder. All this time waiting, for what?

Permission?

A perfect reunion?

Some magical moment where you’d look at him and everything would make sense?

What a ridiculous fantasy.

You didn’t remember him. You never would. Not unless he made you.

He had mistaken absence for kindness. Distance for love.

He’d stood outside your life for months, convincing himself that watching you from the shadows was enough because it made you smile.

And where had that left him?

Watching another goodbye. Waiting for another disappearance. Still pretending he could survive it.

A quiet laugh escaped him. Ashamed. “I’ve been an idiot.” The words echoed through the empty cave.

He’d treated his own devotion like something shameful. Something to hide. As though loving you enough to dedicate every waking moment to your safety was a flaw instead of the truest thing he’d ever felt.

No one else loved you like this. No one else could.

Your friends loved the version of you they saw between lectures and dinners. Your family loved the child you’d once been. Tim loved every version.

The child on the beach. The teenager he’d reconstructed from scattered photographs. The adult who forgot to lock windows, who hummed while cooking, who laughed with your whole body when something was funny.

He loved the life you’d built without him. And perhaps that had been his mistake.

He’d mistaken love for spectatorship.

Love wasn’t standing fifty metres away making sure you got home safely. It wasn’t fixing broken latches in the middle of the night and leaving before sunrise. It wasn’t pretending he didn’t exist.

Love was being there.

His gaze drifted back to your smiling face.

“You’ve waited long enough,” he murmured.

For a moment, it almost sounded as though he was speaking to you. Then he smiled.

“No more.” The words weren’t a promise to himself. They were a decision.

He reached for his phone. For the first time in months, he wasn’t planning how to keep watching you.

He was planning how to finally walk into your life.

And this time, he wasn’t ever going to leave.

↑←→↓

The house had taken longer than he would’ve liked to build. Because nothing ever felt good enough.

Tim replaced every piece of furniture twice before he was satisfied. The mattress in the spare bedroom became a king-sized one after he remembered you tended to sleep diagonally whenever you had nowhere important to be the next morning. The kitchen cupboards were stocked with your favourite brands, each item selected with the quiet certainty of someone who had spent years memorising details you never realised you were giving away.

The coffee in the pantry was the same blend you bought every Wednesday.

The toothpaste in the bathroom was the brand you preferred.

The shampoo smelled exactly like the one you'd used six months ago before switching to something else.

You'd liked the old one better.

You just hadn't known it.

Fresh towels sat folded neatly on the shelves. Spare chargers waited beside every bed. Books you had once picked up in stores and put back down rested untouched on shelves already prepared for you.

Every room carried traces of you.

The wardrobe had been the hardest part.

Not expensive things. Not things he wanted. Things you would have chosen.

Soft cotton shirts. Oversized jumpers. Flannel pyjamas.

Comfortable clothes for quiet days at home.

A ridiculous pair of fluffy socks shaped like little sharks that you’d laughed at for almost five minutes in a department store before deciding they were “too expensive for socks”.

Tim had bought them the following afternoon.

There were plants in nearly every room because you’d once spent fifteen minutes helping a stranger rescue a dying fern from the clearance section at Bunnings.

Healthy, thriving ones.

Nothing in this house would be allowed to die. Not if he could help it.

Music speakers sat discreetly throughout the house.

A shelf waited half-finished in the study because you’d once mentioned you wished you knew how to build furniture yourself.

Tim had watched hours of woodworking tutorials that night.

Just in case you ever wanted to learn.

The entire house was filled with preparations for conversations that had never happened.

Future memories assembled in advance.

A life rehearsed over and over by a man who had spent too long alone.

The only parts that didn’t belong were the things that had never been negotiable.

The cameras. One in every room. Carefully hidden. The reinforced glass. The electronic locks. The steel shutters concealed inside the walls. The security system that could seal the entire house down in seconds.

The absence of anything sharp enough to become a weapon.

Tim stood in the middle of the lounge room long after everything was finished.

His gaze drifted slowly across the room.

The couch where you'd sit. The blanket folded over the armrest. The coffee mug already waiting in the cupboard. The spot beside him.

He turned slowly, searching for flaws.

His eyes landed on one of the cameras. A small black lens hidden in the corner.

His expression crumpled. "...I'm sorry." The apology came out quietly. Almost embarrassed.

"I know you'll hate these."

He stared at it for a long moment. As if he could already see the disappointment on your face. The fear. Anger. Betrayal.

His throat tightened.

"I know." His voice cracked slightly.

"I know you will."

His gaze dropped toward the front door.

Toward the locks. The barriers. The things that would keep you inside. The things that would keep you from leaving him.

His hand pressed against the wood.

"And those." The words barely escaped him.

"You'll think I'm a monster."

A small laugh escaped him. Broken and humourless.

The painful part was knowing that you'd be right.

His eyes burned. "You won't understand."

The house blurred slightly.

"You'll think this is about control."

His fingers tightened against the door. "It's not."

The lie sounded weak even to him. Because it was about control. Partly. But mostly it was about terror. The unbearable, suffocating terror of losing something he had never truly possessed.

"I just..." The words stopped. His throat worked.

He looked around the house again. At the rooms prepared for you. The meals he imagined cooking. The books waiting on shelves. The life built entirely around your absence. And suddenly the entire thing felt pathetic.

A shrine pretending to be a home. A love story with only one participant.

Tim swallowed hard.

"I tried doing it the right way." Years of restraint condensed into one broken sentence.

"I really did." His voice was barely audible.

"I waited."

For you to notice. For you to choose him. For one day to become the day. For years. Nothing.

His eyes closed. And for the first time since finishing the house, he looked genuinely miserable.

None of this felt like winning. It felt like surrender. The last desperate act of someone who had run out of ways to be patient.

His hand remained on the lock. As though he hated it. As though he needed it.

"I'll take them away."

The promise came quickly. Desperately. Like he needed you to hear it.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Not anytime soon.

But someday.

If you stayed.

If you smiled at him.

If you stopped looking at him like he was something frightening.

"If you trust me."

Airport security had never made you nervous before.

Annoyed, sure.

You’d complained about taking your shoes off often enough, rolled your eyes at the queue crawling forward centimetre by centimetre, and wondered more than once why your bag was always the one selected for a random inspection.

But nervous?

Not until a woman in a navy security uniform approached with an apologetic smile. “Excuse me?”

You looked up from your phone.

“Would you mind coming with me for a moment?”

Your stomach dropped. “..Sorry?”

“There are a couple of questions regarding your luggage.”

“My luggage?”

“It’ll only take a minute.”

Your friends exchanged confused looks.

“What happened?” one of them asked.

The woman simply smiled again. “It shouldn’t take long.”

That wasn’t exactly reassuring.

You followed anyway, trying to ignore the dozen increasingly ridiculous possibilities running through your head.

Had someone packed something into your suitcase?

The further you walked from the terminal, the quieter everything became. The constant announcements faded. The crowds disappeared.

Eventually, the woman stopped outside an unmarked door and opened it.

“Someone will be with you shortly.”

You stepped inside. The room looked more like an executive meeting room than airport security.

Dark timber. Leather chairs. A wall of monitors. A coffee machine in the corner.

And someone already waiting.

He stood the moment you entered.

For a second, your brain failed to process what you were looking at.

People that attractive belonged in advertisements. On giant billboards. In impossibly expensive campaigns designed by teams of professionals whose entire careers revolved around manufacturing beauty.

Not standing ten feet away. Not breathing. Not real.

He was tall enough to seem imposing without trying, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked less worn than sculpted onto him. The cut was perfect. Every line sharp. Every detail precise.

Yet somehow it wasn't the suit that drew your attention.

It was him.

Dark hair, slightly too long, falling across his forehead in a way that should have looked careless but somehow only made him more devastating to look at. It softened features that would otherwise have been almost unfairly severe.

His face looked like something an artist would've spent months trying to get right.

Strong jaw.

Straight nose.

Cheekbones sharp enough to catch the light.

Everything balanced so perfectly it bordered on irritating.

But it was his eyes that made it impossible to look away.

Blue.

Not the bright artificial blue magazines edited into existence.

Something deeper. Cooler. The colour of the sky just before a storm.

The kind of eyes people wrote poetry about when they ran out of better ideas.

And they were looking directly at you.

As though the moment you entered the room, everything else had ceased to matter.

Your pulse skipped.

This was ridiculous. You weren't sixteen. You weren't the type to lose your ability to function because an attractive man happened to exist in your vicinity.

And yet, there was something profoundly unfair about the way he carried himself.

The quiet confidence. The effortless posture. The controlled stillness that made every movement feel deliberate.

Even standing up from a chair somehow looked elegant. Like he'd spent his entire life accidentally making everyone else look clumsy by comparison.

Then your brain finally caught up. Recognition hit like a delayed collision.

You knew that face. Everyone knew that face.

Interviews. Magazine covers. Business journals. Wayne Enterprises.

"...Tim Drake?"

Something happened to his expression after you’d said it. A subtle shift.

The carefully composed businessman vanished for half a second.

Enough to reveal something underneath. Something startlingly human.

Relief.

His shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly. His gaze softened. And suddenly he looked less like the impossibly wealthy CEO you'd seen in magazines and more like a man who had been holding his breath for a very long time.

"Hi." His tone was lower than you expected. Warm. Gentle. The sort of voice that made people instinctively lean closer.

You found yourself staring again.

The newsletters had lied.

They captured the symmetry. The beauty. The impossible genetics. But they missed everything else.

The intelligence behind his eyes. The exhaustion buried beneath them. The strange sadness lingering at the edges of his smile. The tiny imperfections that somehow made him even worse. A faint crease near one cuff where he'd clearly adjusted his sleeve too many times. A loosened breath. The tension hidden beneath composure. Nervousness.

The realisation struck you so abruptly you almost laughed. Tim Drake looked nervous.

Which made absolutely no sense.

Men like Tim Drake weren't supposed to get nervous. Especially not around strangers. Yet there it was. Written in the subtle tightening of his jaw. The way his hands remained carefully still. The fractionally too-long pause before speaking.

As though meeting you mattered far more than it should. Far more than it possibly could.

Recognition fluttered strangely in your chest. An inexplicable feeling that you knew him.

That if you crossed the room and took his hand, it would fit.

You frowned at yourself.

What the hell was that?

“I’m sorry,” you laughed awkwardly. “This is probably a stupid question, but…”

Your eyes met his. For the briefest second, the entire room felt impossibly still.

“Have we met before?”

His breath caught.

As though the question alone had knocked the air from his lungs.

A thousand emotions crossed his face too quickly to name.

Hope. Relief. Grief. Love so overwhelming it almost looked painful.

Then he smiled. Small and beautiful. Heartbreakingly fragile.

“No.”

The answer came after a beat too long. “Not in a way you’d remember.”

You opened your mouth.

Before you could ask what that meant, a sharp, chemical smell drifted through the room.

Your head suddenly felt heavy.

You blinked hard.

The floor shifted beneath your feet.

“..What…”

Your knees threatened to give way. Strong hands caught you before you hit the ground.

Instinctively, you tried to pull away. You couldn’t. Your limbs refused to cooperate.

Panic surged through you.

“Hey-” Your voice came out slurred. “What.. did…”

The room blurred. You forced yourself to look up one last time.

Tim was already kneeling in front of you, one arm supporting your weight with impossible care, the other brushing your hair back from your face as though you were something precious enough to break.

The look on his face wasn’t triumphant nor cruel. It was devastated.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and his voice shook so badly it barely sounded like speech.

“I tried.”

His forehead rested against yours for the briefest moment. “I waited as long as I could.”

The last thing you saw before darkness swallowed everything was Tim Drake looking at you like a man who had finally reached heaven,

and hated himself for the path he’d taken to get there.

↑→↓←

The silence in the bedroom was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic, shallow sound of your breathing.

Tim sat on the edge of the mattress, his weight barely making a dent in the expensive linens.

His suit jacket discarded on the floor, his shirt unbuttoned halfway to reveal the tension in his chest. It was damp with sweat, clinging to the lean muscles of his back as he leaned into your space.

He looked wrecked. His hair was a mess, his eyes were bloodshot, and there was a frantic, starving look in them that made the air in the room feel thick. He looked like a man who had finally been allowed to touch the altar after years of kneeling in the dark.

He watched you. Not looking away even to blink.

His hand reached out, his fingers trembling as they made contact with your skin.

He started at your ankle, his touch light, almost hesitant, as if he expected you to bolt upright and scream the moment he touched you.

He traced the line of your leg, his thumb brushing over the softness of your calf, moving upward with a slow, agonising patience.

He wasn't just touching you; he was memorising you. He was verifying that you were solid, that you were warm, and that you were finally, truly, here.

When his hand reached your hip, his touch grew a little more firm. He slid his palm under the hem of your shirt, the heat of your skin seeping into his calloused fingertips.

He let his hand wander, trailing over the curve of your waist and the soft swell of your stomach. He moved with a desperate kind of reverence, his eyes fixed on where his hand met your flesh.

He leaned forward, his movements slow and deliberate, until he was hovering just above you.

He buried his face into the crook of your stomach, pressing his nose against the warmth of your skin. He took a long, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of you. The soap you’d bought, the skin he’d dreamt of, the reality of you.

He stayed there for a long time, his forehead pressed against your abdomen, his breath warm against your skin.

He sounded broken, a low, jagged exhale escaping him every time he breathed you in. He gripped the fabric of your clothes, his knuckles turning white, as if he were terrified that if he let go, the entire room would dissolve and leave him standing in an empty house again.

He wasn't being careful anymore. He was greedy.

He let his hands wander upward, his thumbs tracing the line of your ribs, his touch heavy and insistent.

He watched the way your chest rose and fell, his eyes tracking the movement of your muscles with a terrifying, hungry focus. He was memorising the architecture of you.

Then, he lowered himself.

He didn't just lean in, he collapsed against you. He buried his face in the heat of your skin, his nose pressing hard into your chest, inhaling you with a sound that was half sob, half growl.

His mouth followed the path of his hands. He pressed hot, wet kisses along your side, his lips dragging over your skin with a desperate, uncoordinated hunger.

He moved lower, his face pressing into the dip of your waist, his breath hitching as he felt the warmth of you.

He was acting like a man possessed, his movements frantic yet strangely worshipful.

He shifted, his heavy thigh sliding between yours, forcing your legs apart to make room for him.

He was pressing himself against you, the hard, insistent length of him straining against the fabric of his trousers.

He reached down, his hand sliding lower, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear.

He didn't hesitate. He slid his hand inside, his fingers seeking the heat of you. He wasn't being clinical, he was searching, his touch clumsy and urgent, his fingers trembling as they found you.

He let out a low, broken sound. A whimper when he finally made contact, the sound entirely too small for a boy of his stature.

He leaned up just enough to look at your face, his eyes dark and blown wide with a terrifying kind of devotion.

He looked pathetic.

Shaking, sweating, and completely at the mercy of someone who wasn't even awake to see him.

"You're so perfect," he whispered, his voice cracking. "It's not fair. It's not fucking fair."

He leaned back down, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his tongue tracing a wet, hot line that made his own body shudder. He was worshiping you, and he was doing it with the desperate, starving energy of a boy who knew he didn't deserve a single second of it.

He pulled back just an inch, his lips hovering a fraction above your skin. The heat from his mouth a stark contrast to the cool air of the room, but he was trembling with the effort of not sinking teeth into you.

He looked up at your face, his eyes searching yours even though he knew they were closed.

"I should stop," he whispered, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. "I should wait until you wake up. Until you can actually look at me."

But his hand didn't listen. His fingers were still buried deep in the waistband of your underwear, his thumb sweeping against your heat with a slow, rhythmic pressure that was meant to be soothing but felt entirely too hungry.

He watched your face, waiting for a frown or a groan, his heart hammering against his ribs so hard it felt like it might bruise.

He wanted to worship you properly, but he has also waited so long that he was practically starving to death.

With a shaky, defeated breath, he leaned down again, but he didn't go for your core this time.

Instead, he pressed his cheek against your thigh, his eyes closing as he let himself simply be near you.

He moved his hand in a steady, agonisingly slow motion, a gentle friction that was almost a tease. He wasn't trying to make you finish. He was just trying to feel the life in you, the pulse of your blood beneath his palm.

"I'll be good," he promised, his voice a wrecked, low murmur against your skin. "I'll be so good for you. Just.. let me stay like this for a little longer."

He let his hips grind weakly against yours, a desperate, uncoordinated movement that was more about seeking comfort than seeking pleasure.

He reached up with his free hand, his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling your head slightly toward him as if he could coax you into waking up just to tell him he was doing a good job.

He pressed a final, lingering kiss to the inside of your knee, his lips trembling.

"When you wake up," he breathed, his forehead resting against your hip, "everything will be different. I promise. I'll give you everything. Just.. don't leave me again."

↓→←↑

Consciousness returned in fragments.

The first thing you noticed was the weight on your mind. Everything felt slow, wrapped in thick cotton, every thought taking just a little too long to surface. Your eyelids were heavy enough that opening them felt like lifting something far larger than yourself.

The second thing you noticed was the silence.

No traffic. No voices outside. No distant hum of aeroplanes climbing into the sky. Just… Quiet.

Your eyes cracked open.

The ceiling above you wasn’t familiar.

Cream plaster. Dark timber beams. Soft morning light spilling through linen curtains that shifted lazily with the breeze.

For one impossible second, you wondered if you’d somehow slept through your holiday.

Then memories crashed back all at once.

Airport. Security. The room. Tim Drake.

Your body jerked upright. The room spun so violently you almost fell straight back onto the mattress.

A hand caught your shoulder before you could.

“Easy.”

You recoiled instinctively.

Tim immediately let go.

He stepped backwards so quickly it was almost clumsy, both hands lifting into the air like he was surrendering.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was hoarse.

“I just… you nearly hit your head.”

You stared. He looked different. Gone was the immaculate businessman from the airport.

He’d changed into a plain black jumper and loose track pants, sleeves shoved carelessly to his elbows. His hair looked like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. Dark circles sat beneath eyes that hadn’t slept.

He looked exhausted. But he also looked terrified. Not of what he’d done.

Of you.

As though the expression on your face mattered more than the fact he’d just kidnapped someone.

“…Where am I?”

“My home.” The answer came quietly.

“Our home.” He sighed, taking his hand through his hair. “I should have said that. I meant our. Sorry.”

Your stomach twisted. “What?”

“I bought it years ago.”

He glanced around the room almost shyly. “I.. thought you’d like it.”

Silence settled between you. Then he laughed. Not because anything was funny. He sounded like he was about to cry.

“I know how insane that sounds.”

Your breathing quickened. “You kidnapped me.”

“Yes.”

“You drugged me.”

“…Yes.”

“My friends-”

“They’re safe.” The response came instantly.

“They think you missed your flight and decided to stay behind. They’ll worry for a while, but they’ll stop. I’ll make sure they’re alright.”

You stared at him. He wasn’t denying any of it. He wasn’t making excuses. Wasn’t pretending this was for your own good.

He simply stood there looking unbearably guilty.

“I know what this is.” His voice cracked. “I know what I am.”

His eyes dropped to the floor.

“I stopped trying to convince myself I wouldn’t do this a long time ago.”

He laughed again, quieter this time. “I just kept hoping I’d be stronger before it came to this.”

You looked towards the bedroom door. It wasn’t locked. You were almost certain of that.

He noticed.

“You can try.” His smile was small. Heartbreaking.

“I’ll stop you.”

The words weren’t threatening. They were apologetic.

“I’ll hate myself for it.”

Another shaky breath. “But I’ll still stop you.” His shoulders sagged. “I can’t lose you.”

You looked back at him. For the first time since waking, you really looked. His hands were shaking. His breathing wasn’t steady. His eyes were fixed on you with such desperate concentration it was almost painful to witness.

Then your gaze caught on his wrist. The sleeve of his jumper had ridden up. Black ink curved around the inside of his skin.

Two simple words.

That’s mine

Your stomach lurched. Without thinking, you looked down at your own wrist. To the words that had always stained your skin. Words you’d laughed about with your mates.

Can I see that?

Your fingers slowly brushed over the faded script.

Tim saw where you were looking. His entire body went still.

“So..” Your voice barely worked. “It was you.”

He closed his eyes. “Yeah.”

“You knew.”

“I’ve always known.”

“Since when?”

A long silence. “Since I was nine.”

You couldn’t breathe.

“I met you once.” His smile was impossibly soft.

“On Gotham Beach. You thought I was trying to steal your shovel.”

His eyes shimmered. “And then..” Very gently, almost reverently, he repeated the words that had altered both your lives. “‘That’s mine.’”

His gaze drifted to your wrist.

“I don’t think..” He swallowed. “…I took another proper breath after that.”

The room was silent again.

“So all of this..” Your voice broke. “all these years… were you?”

There wasn’t a second of hesitation.

“It’s always been me.” He stepped closer.

“I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. I know you’ll hate me.” His eyes finally met yours again. Filled with absolute, devastating devotion.

“But I need you to understand one thing.”

His voice became impossibly quiet. “I never wanted a prisoner. I wanted my soulmate.”

He laughed through tears.

“I just wasn’t strong enough to live in a world where I’d already found you.”

His lips trembled. “…and then had to spend the rest of my life pretending you belonged to somebody else.”

Another tear slipped down his cheek. “I’ve built companies. Saved cities. People think I’m clever.” He smiled weakly.

“But the smartest thing I’ve ever done..” His gaze softened with an affection so overwhelming it hurt to witness. “…was finding you.”

He looked around the room. “And the worst thing I’ve ever done was bringing you here.”

His shoulders finally gave out beneath the weight he’d been carrying for years.

He sank slowly onto his knees. His head bowed. His hands rested uselessly in his lap.

“You can hate me.” His voice was barely audible.

“You probably should.”

Another shaky breath. “But…”

He looked up at you with the same expression he’d worn in the airport. Like a man placing his entire existence into someone else’s hands. “…please don’t leave me.”

“I don’t know how to exist in a world that doesn’t have you in it.”

Outside, the wind stirred the trees beyond the window. Somewhere, impossibly far away, a plane crossed the morning sky. The holiday you’d planned would go on without you.

Photos would be posted. Memories would be made. Life would continue. Just not yours. Not anymore.

Perhaps soulmates weren’t proof that fate was kind.

But simply proof that fate existed.

Please reblog and comment!! :)

12K+ words, 70K+ characters, 2K+ sentences, 1K+ paragraphs, 43 minute average reading time, 1 hour 7 minute average speaking time.

Read Dick Grayson’s part here.

Read Jason Todd’s part here.

Around you, the world dances. You simply watch.

“Still hiding along the walls, I see.”

The familiar voice pulls you from your thoughts. You turn.

Jacaerys Velaryon stands proudly before you. He’s taller than he was the last time you saw him, broader in the shoulders, looking regal in house Targaryen’s signature deep red and black. He’s no longer the boy who chased you through the halls and played pretend with you in the courtyard, but his eyes are the same. Dark and earnest, always looking at you like he knows something no one else does.

“Still finding me wherever I hide,” you mutter, your smile dropping into a more genuine one.

His grin widens. “Some things never change.”

While you gaze longingly at the crowd, wishing like you could feel like you belonged with them, Jace studies your face like he’s memorizing every curve of it.

“Dance with me.”

He holds his hand out in front of you, but you hesitate to grab it. Instead, you turn to find your husband standing across the room. His goblet is tipped high, ale spilling into the silver of his beard. He’s deep in conversation with another lord, no doubt making some sort of political promise. You doubt he notices you’re gone.

Jace doesn’t follow your gaze. He doesn’t need to. He already knows what you’re searching for, what worries are on your mind.

He remains patient, his grin transitioning to a small smile, gentle and earnest. His eyes are reassuring, glimmering with youth. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, his hand still extended. “He won’t notice.”

This isn’t the prince talking, the heir to the Iron Throne, but your friend who you grew up with, who you dreamed of exploring the world with, who once told you he’d never marry unless it was to someone who laughed like you did.

You take his hand.

The warmth of his palm comforts you, and he squeezes your hand gently—protectively, almost—as he weaves you through the crowd.

The music rises. Couples scurry to the floor, readying for another dance.

You and Jace move together seamlessly, able to easily read the other in the way only two people who grew up in rhythm can.

“I remember when we used to practice dancing in the courtyard,” Jace says quietly. “You’d step on my toes and blame me for it.”

“I remember you letting me,” you reply, a smile tugging at your lips.

His face lights up, eyes never leaving your face. “I would’ve let you break all ten toes if it meant you’d keep laughing.”

The words hang heavy in the air between you.

You look down, biting your lip and lowering your voice. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“I know,” he says, his fingers tightening in yours. “But I’ve spent years not saying things. And none of it made this any easier.”

You exhale shakily. “Jace…”

“You were supposed to marry someone who saw you,” he says, voice raw now, like it’s been caged for too long. “Someone who knew you. Who would cherish you. Not some drunken fool who your incompetent father promised your hand to when his status began to plummet. Not some lord twice your age who calls you “girl” like it’s your name.”

“Jace!” you hiss, your head swiveling around to ensure no one heard him.

He doesn’t waver. “I merely speak the truth.”

You sigh. “It couldn’t have been helped,” you whisper, soft enough only he can hear. “I should have been smarter to know that I had no choice in the matter.”

“When I take the throne…” he glances over to where his mother, the Queen, sits at the head of the room, looking as poised as she always does, chatting with her advisors. “I will fix it. I promise you.”

You shake your head. “Don’t make promises that may not be kept.”

Silence drapes around you and the music slows. Your bodies sway with it, and you lean closer into Jace without even meaning to. He welcomes you into his hold, one hand coiling around your backside.

The comfortability of his hold was dearly missed, something you longed for when you were stuck in the unfamiliar and cold confines of your new residence. But perhaps you got too comfortable in his arms, and in your weariness you let something slip you hadn’t meant to.

“There have been some…problems between us recently.”

He sucks in a sharp breath. “Has he hurt you?” His palm cups your cheek, eyes searching your face as if looking for an answer your words may not give him. “Say the word, and he will be dead before morrow.”

“No, no.” You shake your head furiously, removing his palm and taking it into your own. Your husband was more the type to ignore you when he was furious rather than come to violence—the only blessing in this arrangement that you had.

“We’ve spoken with maesters, and I’ve even snuck out in the night to talk with a healer. They don’t think he can give me children.”

Jace’s gaze sharpens, and his eyes flicker with something unfamiliar to you.

He doesn’t say anything, so you continue. “Everyone is expecting an heir. A son. He was furious at first, believing me to be defective, but now I just…exist. Remain ignored. He doesn’t know what to do.”

His jaw tightens, and his hand shifts slightly on your back, moving lower and pulling you closer, so close if you just stretched up and leaned forward your lips would brush against his.

“What if I said I could help?” he asks, voice quiet and steady.

You blink. “Help?”

“If it’s an heir everyone wants, if it’s blood they care about—then let it be mine.” His eyes meet yours, and they’re burning now with devotion. “Let it be ours.”

Your breath catches.

“I would give you a child not because he can’t,” he says before you could protest, leaning in just enough that only you can hear. “But because I’ve wanted to love every piece of you since we were young. And I’ve run out of reasons not to.”

The song ends, but you don’t move. Neither does he.

His hand remains at the small of your back, your fingers still tangled in his as you stare into each other’s eyes.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he murmurs. “But I won’t take it back.”

You don’t ask him to.

Instead, you draw your hand away, slow and measured. Your gaze flickers toward a table where your husband now sits—rather, slouches in his chair, oblivious to the two of you.

“He doesn’t know how to see you,” Jace says, stepping in front of you, blocking your view of your husband. “He doesn’t even try.”

You don’t say anything. You’re too conflicted, unsure of what words will come out of your mouth if you open it.

“Come with me.” Jace lowers his head, and you gasp as his lips almost brush against your own as he whispers. “Please.”

Your gaze shifts. “It would be foolish of me to.”

His eyes lower to your lips. “Perhaps.”

“But sometimes I am a foolish woman.” 

His thumb rubs against your cheek. “I know.”

Then someone crashes into your shoulder.

A laughing nobleman, half-drunk, half-spinning, staggers backward into you before muttering an apology and stumbling on.

Just like that, the moment shatters.

You step back from Jace abruptly, heat flooding your cheeks as reality comes rushing back in—the candles, the music, the people, your husband seated only a few paces away. The world has not stopped, and you have lingered in fantasy too long.

“I shouldn’t—” you start, your heart hammering in your chest as you begin to retreat further.

But Jace catches your wrist, pulling you back gently.

“No. Don’t do this,” he says. “Not now. I can’t have you leave again.”

“Jace—”

“Come with me,” he repeats. There’s no command in his voice, only a desperate plea. He doesn’t sound princely, merely vulnerable. Just like the boy from your childhood.

You take a deep breath and look around you. No one is watching you, all caught up in their own conversations. Your husband remains in his seat, having not spared a single glance your way.

You allow yourself to give Jace a small nod of your head. You hear his breath hitch as your fingers lace with his, hidden by folds of your billowing dress sleeve. He keeps his head lowered and his pace steady as he leads you out through the hall’s far side, past a heavy velvet curtain and into the quiet familiarity of a servant’s passage, devoid of any people to whisper and gossip about the two of you.

You can hear the sound of your heart pounding despite the music in the great hall carrying on and the chatter continuing behind you, the guests remaining oblivious to you sneaking away with their prince.

You recall the times you’ve scurried through these halls with him when you were children, hiding from the responsibilities that were soon to be placed upon you. 

The corridor soon twists into a narrower passage, lined with old, unpolished stone. You pause once you're far enough from the hall, your voice soft as you whisper. “I remember this.”

Jace glances back, his eyes bright even in the dark. “I was hoping you would.”

He pulls you gently forward again, and you let him.

Finally, he stops before a wooden door, worn down from absence of care and tucked behind a shadowed alcove.

As he opens it, you spot a couple of flickering candles lighting up the room along with the small hearth already burning in the corner. The room is plain but warm, no doubt used as a spare chamber meant for temporary workers or maids. But it’s empty now, abandoned with all hands needed for the celebration you had just escaped from.

The door closes behind you with a soft click, and Jace turns to you. For a moment neither of you move. You’re unsure of what to do, what to say, how to act. You opt to fiddle with the seams of your dress, waiting for him to make the first move.

Jace watches you like he’s memorizing this moment, eyes full of awe, as though if he’d blink you would disappear from his sight.

Then he strides towards you, and you gasp as his hand reaches toward your cheek. He cups it gently, stroking your skin under this thumb.

“I’ve dreamt of this,” he admits suddenly. “Before the betrothal. Before they gave you away.”

You meet his eyes. “What did you dream of?”

The hand touching you trembles slightly, and he raises the other to brush against your waist, then your back, pulling you gently to him. “Of you choosing me. Even if it was just once.”

You breathe in. “And now that it’s real?”

“Now I’m terrified,” he says, a subtle quake in his voice.

You smile, just a little. “You hide it well.”

“I’ve always had to. Wanting you for so long, and never being allowed to show it…it’s made a liar out of me.”

You reach up and place your hand over his, a gesture of intimacy you’re not afraid to show in privacy. “You don’t have to lie now.”

And then he kisses you.

It’s soft at first, and your lips lock so perfectly it feels as though you’ve done it hundreds of times before. Jace’s hands frame your face with a light touch, as if he’s afraid you may pull away. But when you don’t, when your fingers curl into the fabric at his chest, he deepens it, all the heat and pent-up years pouring into the act, speaking for the unspoken words of your affection for each other.

You part, breathless, and Jace presses his forehead to yours for a moment.

When your lips meet again, there’s no hesitation this time. Jace kisses you like he’s starving, surging forward with so much force that your back hits the wall with a dull thud that neither of you acknowledge. You respond in kind, mouth open beneath his, your hands buried in his dark curls, pulling him closer to you. 

“I want you,” he murmurs against your lips. “I’ve needed you so bad.”

His hands curl around your backside, fiddling with the closure of your dress. You gasp when the cool air hits your bare back, arching into Jace’s hold even more as your dress pools at your feet. You two move across the room hurriedly, still holding on to each other when your legs hit into the bed.

As you fall back onto the bed, the kiss turns messy. It’s hungry, and it’s desperate—a kind of desperation so unfamiliar to you that it has you whimpering, pulling back for air and for reason. But Jace follows you, his lips brushing yours again, chasing your touch as if he’ll die if he stops.

“This is wrong,” you breathe, the words practically muffled between kisses.

“I don’t care,” Jace groans, his voice ragged and frustrated with need. “Gods, I don’t care.”

He kisses you again, rougher now, and you don’t pull away. His teeth catch your bottom lip and you whimper, pulling him closer.

“It’s not supposed to be like this,” you whisper against him as he drags his lips down your throat.

“It was never supposed to be anything but us,” he rasps. “Your father stole that from us. I’m only taking it back.”

Your internal conflict, the push and pull between the anxiety of being caught and your carnal need for Jace, causes your heart to hammer in your chest. “My marriage, Jace—”

“Will be a problem no longer once I am king.” His lips move across the top of your breasts now, sucking into the delicate skin. “And he’s never touched you like this,” he hisses, taking a nipple into his mouth, your hands flying to tangle into his hair, “don’t lie to me.”

Your silence is answer enough.

“You will get your heir,” Jace affirms, pulling back to look at you in your naked glory. His hands slide across your waist and ghost over your stomach. “But it will be mine.”

Jace hurriedly sheds his layers and you unabashedly stare as he does so, propping yourself up on your elbows. You admire the chiseled curves of his body, no longer a boy but instead a man hardened by intense training.

When he sees you eyeing him, he smirks. “Staring, my lady? That’s rather improper of you.”

You scoff softly, but a smile tugs at your lips. “You brought me here, Jace. Don’t act so innocent now.”

As Jace sheds his final layer, matching your nudity, his cock stands proudly before you. You gulp, feeling the heat rising to your face. Your eyes drop briefly to his member, and Jace catches the motion.

“You’re still looking.”

You bite your lip. “How can I not?”

“I like it.” His hand wraps around your ankle, pulling you forward across the plush mattress. “I never want you to stop looking.”

Your lips part in surprise, but no sound comes.

He leans in again, leaving a trail of light kisses on your stomach and back up to your breasts.

“You have no idea what it’s taken to not touch you like this. Every time I would catch a glimpse of you, I wanted to take you away and never return.” He bites at your skin again, as if staking his claim on you with his mouth. “Every time I saw you with him, I wanted to break every rule there was just to have you.”

Your fingers run down his back, tracing the lines of his muscles beneath them. 

“You have me now.”

The resolve in your voice almost shocks you at first, but as you stare into Jace’s wide gaze, eyes full of pure, unadulterated affection, you know now that you have never been more sure of anything in your life.

His mouth finally brushes yours.

“Then I’m never letting go.”

When he kisses you again, you finally allow yourself to submit to him completely, to submit to the irrevocable pull towards Jace that you’ve had since the moment you met him. There was no turning back now, and you relish in the fact that you no longer wish to. Marriages and politics be damned, all you wanted right now—all you needed—was him.

Jace pulls back, and you believe that he’s readying to enter you. You untense your legs and spread them but your brows furrow as you see him instead lower his head by your entrance.

“What are you…?” you trail off.

Jace gazes up at you through his lashes, as he begins to bite and suck at the skin of your inner thighs. “I want to taste you.”

Before you can respond, Jace bows his head again and licks at your already-wet slit.

“Oh,” you moan, the feeling of his rough tongue lapping at your entrance sends shockwaves down your spine, igniting even more arousal in your system. “Oh, Gods.”

Your fingers find their familiar place coiled around his curls, anchoring yourself to him as he delivers you unimaginable euphoria. 

Jace watches your reactions carefully, the way surprise and pleasure plaster your features as you cling onto him for stability. “Has he ever feasted on you?”

You shake your head. “He was rather…simple.” You gasp as his tongue curls inside of you, hitting your walls in deeper spots than before. “I have never known of this feeling before.”

He scoffs. “Pathetic.” He thumbs at your swollen clit and you jerk at the touch. “But I will take great pleasure in being the only one to ever do so.”

His tongue swirls inside of you, and the noises he makes while pleasuring you are downright erotic. He moans into your cunt, as if it were a meal he had been desiring for years, and the vibrations enhance your sensations.

Your eyes, shut before from the sudden bliss, now open to observe him. Beads of sweat condensate on his hairline, his dark curls beginning to stick to his forehead. His cheeks are flushed as if he had been running, and his eyes are closed, relishing in your ecstasy.

You tremble under his mouth, body falling back into the bed as his tongue pulls out whines and whimpers from your throat.

“Has he ever made you feel like this?” Jace asks, practically growling into your cunt.

“Never,” you reply shakily.

“Only I can make you feel this good, right?” He plants messy kisses along the length of your slit. “Make you see stars, pray to the gods that you may never have to part from me again.” When you don’t answer, he nips at your clit. “Right?”

“Yes!” you cry. Your vision blurs as your eyes begin to water from the stimulation. “Jace, please!”

“Whatever you wish for, I shall give you,” he croons. His tongue breaches you again, and you believe in that moment that Jace may be a prophet with the way you truly see stars.

“Need you inside of me,” you whine, “now.”

He chuckles against your skin. “I was never one to deny you anything.” He lifts from your cunt as it drips from saliva and natural arousal. His fingers play with your swollen lips, twitching with need. You buck into his fingers, chasing his touch, but he pulls away. Jace crawls over your body, one hand placed near your head to steady himself on the mattress, the other reaching down to tug at his member.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you glance down at his erect cock. He was much larger than your husband, easily noticeable to you by looking.

“What is it?” he asks, picking up on your stare.

“It’s just that…” you swallow. “You’re a lot bigger than him.”

You almost smack him at the way his eyes light up. “Oh really?” Pride drips from his words.

You cover your face with your hands. “Just be gentle with me, please.”

“Hey, hey.” He pulls your hands away and presses a light kiss to your lips. “I merely jest.” He searches your eyes for confirmation of your comfort.

You inhale deeply, smiling gently and nodding up at him. He breathes a sigh of relief and begins to pump his cock slowly, aligning it with your entrance. 

“Say you want me,” he mutters, “that you want me just as much as I do you.”

“Gods, I want you so much, Jace. I have never wanted anything more.” You completely surrender yourself to him, relaxing your body into the mattress and spreading your legs further.

“Now fuck me, please.”

Jace doesn’t need to be told twice.

When he finally enters you, his first thought is that he doesn’t know how he lived this long without being connected to you. 

His second thought is that he might cum way too early.

Your name leaves his lips like a prayer.

“Gods, you feel so good,” Jace whimpers, face scrunched up in bliss, “better than I could’ve ever imagined.”

He rocks his hips slowly into you, conscious of your hesitation at his size. It’s almost painful, the way his cautious movements make him keenly aware to his heightened sensations courtesy of you—the way your nails dig into his back and leave a pleasant burn, your soft mewls sends the blood rushing straight to his cock, your cunt stretching to accommodate his size and still clenching around him as if it never wants to let him go.

“Jace,” you moan breathlessly. Your head is thrown back onto the bed, neck bared to him. He can practically see your pulse racing against it. “Oh, Jace.”

Every utterance of his name that spills from your lips has his heart racing faster and faster. His cock twitches inside of you and his slow thrusts allow for your walls to suck him in, seating him inside of your cunt like a missing piece to a puzzle. It takes all his strength to not just pound you into the mattress, but he can feel himself slowly losing a grip on it.

“Please, please, can I move faster?” If Jace were any more lucid, he would be embarrassed at the high-pitched whine of his voice. But right now, all he’s focused on is pumping his cock into you and filling you with his seed.

You don’t open your eyes, and Jace isn’t sure if you heard him at first. But then you whimper, body quaking, and he hears it.

“Yes, yes, yes.” Softly, under your breath, you give him the answer he was so desperately searching for.

His hips start moving frantically, as if they had a mind of their own. His cock hits places deep inside of you that have remained untouched, so deep it feels like it's making a home inside of you.

Jace’s thrusts continue in their strength as his palm moves to press onto your stomach, fingers splayed as if branding your skin. He leans over you, curls damp with sweat, pupils blown wide. His lips are swollen kiss-bruised and part with uneven breaths. When he speaks, his voice is low and ragged.

“You’re going to carry my child,” he says suddenly. “ I swear to the gods, I’m going to put an heir in you right now.”

Your thighs quake at his assertiveness and your cunt weeps, practically acting as an open invitation, begging him to fill you up with his seed.

He feels the shift instantly. His grin is triumphant.

“Oh,” he breathes, “you like that?”

Your lips part, but you don’t deny it.

“You like the thought of it,” he confirms, watching your face, his hand sliding slowly up your thigh. “Of your husband” —he practically spits the title out— “in his cold, lonely bed while my seed takes root in you. While you swell with my heir.”

“Jace—” you murmur, breathless.

But he’s too far gone now, the words tumbling out of him—confessions from a man who’s been holding back far too long.

“When I’m king, I’ll name our children as my heirs openly. We’ll have no secrets or shame about it. Let the court talk. Let everybody talk.” He leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Let your husband choke on it.”

You shiver.

He chuckles darkly against your skin and his cock pulsates inside of you as he rocks into you with absentminded vigor, his brain now conjuring up the fantasies he’d been keeping close since the moment you were taken from him and promised to another. 

“I’ll make him bow to you. Make him watch as I crown you my queen. And he’ll know that every time he sees you, every time he hears your name, that he was never enough.”

His hand is at your jaw now, thumb stroking along your cheek. “He’ll hear the stories, of course. About how you cry for me. How you beg for me. How I touch you in ways he never could. Ways he never even thought to.”

You’re aching just from his words, legs tightening around him as your cunt flutters succinctly.

Jace notices. Of course he does.

“Oh, you do like that,” he says, voice low and amused, full of heat. “You want to see him humiliated. Don’t lie.”

You can’t speak. You don’t want to, instead wishing to bask in Jace’s words, full of desire and possession over you. You feel cherished, feel chosen—something you haven’t felt since the last time you had spoken to Jace many months ago.

“Perhaps we’ll name one after him,” Jace adds with a cruel smile, “as a joke. Or better yet—” He presses his forehead to yours, seating himself fully inside of you. “—we’ll give our firstborn a true Targaryen name, and the realm will know why. They’ll know it’s because you wanted me. You chose me. Because he couldn’t give you what I could.”

You gasp, half-horrified, half-delighted by the image, the madness of it, the kind of a life where none of this has to be hidden anymore.

“You’re mine,” he whispers against your lips. “And I’ll have you forever tied to me. I’m done pretending otherwise.”

You arch up and kiss him with the kind of passion that says you believe it. That you’ll live out these fantasies with him.

Jace moans into the kiss, his hips stuttering. When he pulls back, he glances down, admiring the way that your stomach bulges slightly when he pushes his entire length inside of you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, gritting his teeth. He presses down on the area where his cock lies inside your cunt, causing you to whimper. “Can you feel me here? All the way up inside of you?”

The pressure has you reeling, clutching around wildly to stabilize yourself. “Jace! Yes!” You don’t even know what you’re responding to anymore, unable to tell if you’re even coherent or not, your senses jumbled as you try to navigate yourself back to reality.

“Do you want my seed?” His voice raises. “Do you want to carry my heir? Be sent back to your drunkard husband with your belly full of me?”

“Yes, yes!” At this point, you aren’t sure if any other words can come from your mouth.

“Yeah you do.” Jace thrusts into you so hard it pushes you back against the bed, your head pressing up against the stone wall. You hold an arm out to stop yourself from moving any more, Jace too far gone in his pleasure to notice how much control he has over your body.

His fingers dig into your waist, bruises no doubt going to show up later. Your limp body arches as he holds you up, the veins in his forearms bulging with intensity as he mercilessly fucks you onto his cock.

His rhythm completely falters and his eyebrows scrunch up. “Fuck, fuck, I’m cumming!”

A sudden warmth fills you as Jace’s thick seed barrels into your cunt. It feels as though he has filled your every crevice, and looking down you feel as though your stomach bulges slightly at the amount of cum that’s been released inside of you.

Despite his orgasm passing Jace continues to thrust into you, albeit more gently. You whimper at the squelching sound it makes, his seed becoming displaced by his cock.

“Wait.” Your voice is raspy, your eyes bleary with unshed tears. You ghost a hand over your stomach, “Don’t let it spill.”

Jace answers your request with the swipe of his fingers, gathering the thick white seed that dribbled down your thigh and pushing it back into your entrance. “I did my duty here,” Jace murmurs, treasuring the sight of you full of his cum. He then turns his attention to your clit, still throbbing with unfulfilled gratification, “but a woman’s orgasm helps to truly implant the seed.”

You feel more sensitive now than ever, on the cusp of your own release. There’s a good kind of pain in the way that your built up peak threatens to push you over the edge.

Jace’s movements are adept, reading your body language expertly as he begins to coax your orgasm from your body. He mouths at your collarbone, leaving sloppy kisses and bite marks that illustrate the journey he took in exploring your body.

His fingers press down harder on your clit, and you jolt.

“Oh fuck—I can’t—”

“You can, you can,” he coos into your ear, biting softly on the lobe as his fingers circle your clit hurriedly.

“Jace!” With a final cry of his name, your orgasm hits you like a thunderstorm. Your cunt spasms furiously as your juices spray out, soaking Jace’s cock—still buried inside of you—and his frontside.

His eyes widen in wonder and amusement. “Look at you.” He collects some of your arousal off of his stomach, sticking his fingers into his mouth and sucking it. “So perfect for me.”

He kisses you, his tongue pushing its way into your mouth. You’re met with the unfamiliar taste of yourself, mixed with his own essence. Your head is full of the thoughts of you two together—your bodies, your fluids, your children.

“It’s okay.” Jace mutters. You don’t even realize your entire body is shaking until Jace runs a soothing hand up and down your arm, and you instinctively lean into his touch. He lowers himself onto the bed next to you and pulls you to his chest. “Lay with me for a bit.”

He doesn’t even have to ask. He knows what you want to do.

The fire from the hearth crackles low beside you, becoming the loudest noise in the room as it casts soft golden glow over tangled sheets and your tangled limbs.

You lie half-curled against Jace, your fingers resting lightly on his chest as it rises and falls, now having slowed into nice, even breaths. His arm is draped around you, hand splayed against the curve of your bare back, possessively. It makes you feel secure, cherished, loved.

You tilt your head just enough to look at him. He’s already watching you with unblinking admiration.

“What?” You whisper, giggling in embarrassment at the attention.

“I love you.”

Your breath hitches at the unexpected confession.

You blink, suddenly wide awake despite the warmth of his chest beneath your cheek, the steady beat of his heart, the exhaustion in your limbs from everything you’d just shared.

He said it so easily. Like it hadn’t been simmering in him for years. Like it wasn’t a major declaration, a hidden truth finally brought to light.

You pull back just enough to look up at him, your expression unreadable. His eyes don’t waver, not even a flicker of hesitation is to be found within them.

“I mean it,” Jace says softly, his voice rough and sincere. “I love you. I always have.”

You should tell him not to say things like that. That it’s foolish—dangerous. That it will only make it harder. But the words won’t come. You don’t want them to.

The silence stretches between you. Then, gently, you lay your palm against the side of his face, thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw.

He leans into it like a man starved.

“You don’t have to say it back,” he murmurs, eyes closing briefly. “I just needed you to know. I needed to say it.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Jace…”

His name is barely more than a whisper on your lips, but it grounds him. His eyes open again, searching yours.

“I think I was in love with you before I even understood what it meant,” he continues, rambling now, voice raw with emotion. “When we were children, I thought it was just…you being you. The way you laughed, the way you defied everyone without even trying.”

You smile, but your eyes sting of the memories from long ago, back when you were innocent children with no duties weighing you down.

“I wanted you even then,” he admits, threading his fingers through yours. “But now? Now I want everything. I want mornings with you. I want to see you carrying my children. I want to make you my queen.”

Your smile fades. Reality hits like a slap in the face.

“Is that really a promise you can keep?” you whisper, your voice cracking. “Don’t lure me in with false hope.”

“I meant every word I said,” he responds immediately, his tone fierce. “I’ll find a way. The throne will be mine someday, my mother has guaranteed that. And when it is…” His eyes flash. “I’ll name you Queen. I’ll strip him of every title, every land. Let the realm see who you’ve always truly belonged to.”

You bite your lip, trying not to let the thrill of those words show, but he sees it anyway, of course.

“You truly do enjoy it when I speak of him like that.” He hums in victory, a smirk overtaking his lips. His thumb brushes over your lower lip. “I bet you’re thinking of him watching you take your place beside me, him kneeling at our feet while you wear the crown of the queen.”

You don’t answer in words, but your lashes flutter, your thighs shift slightly under the sheets, and your fingers curl just a little tighter into his.

He groans softly. “Gods, I love you.”

“Jace,” you whine, trying to steady yourself.

“I promise you. I’ll make this right.” His hand brushes against your stomach, the unspoken commitment to your child sealed.

You rest your forehead against his. “I believe you.” And you do. You truly do. Jace’s devotion runs deep, and you know that he will find a way to make the impossible happen, for you to be together in a world that seems so set on keeping you apart.

He closes his eyes, like the words are enough to keep him breathing.

And for a long moment, you just lie there with him. Your fingers graze across the skin of his chest, tracing soft shapes, feeling the quiet rise and fall of his breaths under your palm as he buries his nose into your hair.

You swallow once, hard. Then again.

And then, you say it.

“I love you too.”

His eyes open slowly, as though he doesn’t quite believe the words have left your lips. But when he sees the open expression on your face, the soft vulnerability present, he exhales your name with a kind of reverence reserved for Gods.

You smile, small and aching, your truth finally tumbling out of you after being locked away and buried inside your heart for years.

“I think I always have,” you add. “Even when I tried not to. Even when I given away, when I wasn’t allowed to anymore.” You swallow, your throat feeling dry with the confession that has never left your lips before. “But I never stopped loving you. I couldn’t have.”

He lifts a hand to your face, cradling your cheek and saying your name with awe like he’s misheard your words.

“Say it again,” he whispers.

Your throat tightens, but you do. “I love you.”

His mouth finds yours then, slow and deep. It’s a purposeful kiss, like he’s kissing something sacred. Something finally his.

When he pulls back he rests his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling in the space between you.

“I won’t break my promise,” he says softly. “Whatever it takes. I’ll fight for you. For us.”

“I know,” you murmur. “But for now, hold me. Just be here with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

A pleasant silence settles between you again, lulling you into a peace you haven’t felt in years. Then Jace speaks up again.

“When we were out there, I just kept thinking…Gods, I was hoping your lord husband would trip over his own feet tonight and go face-first into the roast duck.”

You snort quickly, startled. But then a laugh—a real, unguarded laugh, escapes you before you can stop it.

Jace’s grin widens instantly. “There it is.”

You blink up at him, giggles still tumbling out as you fail to smother the sound. “What?”

“Your laugh,” he says softly, eyes fixed on you with great tenderness beneath the teasing. “I missed it.”

Your smile fades into something quieter. You feel the weight of his words in your chest, the meaning behind them.

“I haven’t heard it since before he took you,” Jace adds, voice low. “Since before they stole you from me.”

The joy falters just a little in your chest, the realization of his words washing over you.

You meet his gaze, more serious now. “I haven’t heard it either.”

He blinks.

“I haven’t laughed. Really laughed,” you say, your fingers brushing across his chest as if grounding yourself in the truth. “Not since you.”

The weight of your words lies heavy between you.

“I think…” You swallow. “The last time I laughed like that was the summer before my father betrothed me. You’d slipped in the training yard trying to impress me with that new sword move you learned. Fell flat on your back and refused to admit you were winded.”

Jace chuckles, low and quiet. “I was winded. Just trying not to die in front of you.”

Your lips curve, but the smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“That was the last time,” you say, your fingers fidgeting with his. “Before everything stopped being mine.”

His hand curls more tightly around your waist. “You’re still you.”

You look up at him, admiration in your gaze. “Now I am. Now that I’m with you.”

He grins and kisses you again, and you let yourself laugh against his lips, the sound finally belonging to you.

You two settle against each other again, and as the fire burns low, you lie there in the arms of the boy you’ve always loved, his hand over your stomach and your hand over his, eagerly awaiting the moment you no longer have to hide in the shadows and conceal your love for him.

You had the right of way, or at least you thought you did.

Finney Blake felt otherwise.

Picking himself off the cracked road, he approached your car window, eyes blazing, dust sticking to his palms, backpack hanging off one shoulder like it had barely survived the impact.

You rolled the window down halfway, heart pounding.

Finney planted his hands on the edge of your window, leaning down like he was trying to stare straight through you.

“You didn’t see the stop sign?” he snapped, breathless, cheeks flushed from more than just the fall.

You swallowed hard. “It’s barely a sign anymore. And you walked out like you had a death wish.”

A small cut on his cheek was starting to bead with blood, catching on the dust. He looked maddeningly alive, annoyed, even embarrassed, stubborn as hell either way.

“This road isn’t a racetrack,” he muttered, wiping his palms on his jeans. “You could’ve actually hit me.” Then, quieter, “Harder.”

You crossed your arms over the steering wheel, trying to appear unfazed even though adrenaline still blurred your thoughts. “You’re the one who darted out like a stray cat. Next time look both ways before you—”

“Before I what?” he challenged, leaning in closer. The window was only halfway down but it suddenly felt like he was in your space, stealing the air.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. It wasn't from nerves, or any form of soft feeling, it was from pure, simmering anger. You hated the way you could hear the music blaring from his headphones, hated how close he leaned like he had any right to crowd you. Most of all you hated how you could feel the heat of his breath on your cheek, clinging to your skin like something you wanted to wipe off immediately.

His backpack finally slid off his shoulder, hitting the road with a soft thud. He didn’t even look back at it.

“You drive like you own the place,” he said.

“And you freeze like a deer in headlights.”

His mouth twitched. Not a smile but the ghost of one, the shadow of something he was trying very hard to smother. The thin line between anger and fascination shrinking by the second.

He straightened, finally peeling himself away from your window like he had to force the distance. You didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered a second too long, like he wasn’t done being pissed at you, or maybe like he wanted you to say something else he could bite back at.

“You should watch where you’re going,” he said, brushing dust off his jeans. “Next time you might not get so lucky.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “I’m lucky? You’re the one who walked into a moving car. Congratulations, you’re a cautionary tale in the making.”

He blinked, jaw tightening, and for a moment he looked like he might actually argue, really argue with his hands moving, voice raised, the whole thing. But then something flickered behind his eyes. Restraint? Annoyance? Recognition that you weren’t going to roll over and apologize?

He bent down to grab his backpack again, but the strap snagged on a piece of gravel, forcing him to tug it free. It was petty, but the sight made your irritation twist into something hotter, sharper.

“Just—” he started, exhaling hard through his nose. “Look, I don’t need you ruining my morning more than you already have.”

“Trust me,” you said, “if I wanted to ruin your morning, you’d know.”

His eyes snapped to yours again, fast and irritated, and maybe a little impressed. You refused to flinch.

A car passed behind you, its wind sweeping dust between you both. He took a half-step back, giving you space at last, though the air between you still crackled like you were mid-argument.

“I’m gonna be late,” he muttered. “Which is great. Fantastic. Thanks for that.”

“Go, then,” you said, waving a hand dismissively. “Before you walk into another vehicle.”

He hesitated. Just for a heartbeat. Like there was something else he wanted to fire back with, another jab, another spark but he couldn’t settle on which one would sting most.

Finally, he shook his head, scoffing under his breath. “This isn’t over.”

“Didn’t think it was.”

He turned to pick up his backpack, wincing slightly as he slung it over his shoulder and then walked away without another word, leaving you gripping the steering wheel far harder than you’d ever admit.

-

The halls always felt they were one bad day away from collapsing, buzzing lights, peeling paint, lockers that jammed no matter how gentle you were. The kind of place no one bothered to fix because this town didn’t fix anything.

You shut your locker with a dull clack, hoping the morning accident would disappear with it.

“Hey.”

You didn’t even need to turn around to know it was him.

 ‘What, are you stalking me now? That’s low, even for you.’”

Finney Blake stood a few feet away, his shoulders tense beneath his jacket. The gauze on his cheek had started to curl up at one corner. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept in a week, which given what this town had already put him through wouldn’t surprise you.

“You really just drove off.” His voice was low, even, but edged.

You exhaled, jaw tight. “You were walking away. What was I supposed to do, sit there and watch you glare at me?”

He laughed once, sharp. “You almost hit me.”

“And you stepped into the street without looking.”

“I did look.”

“Not well enough.”

A few students nearby pretended they weren’t listening. That was the thing about small towns: everyone wanted the drama but nobody wanted to be seen wanting it.

Finney’s eyes flicked over your face, the irritation in his face growing, eyes assessing yours.

“You don’t even care,” he said, low, tight, like he was trying not to explode.

“I care enough to know you’re just as reckless as I am,” you snapped, eyes narrowing.

He stepped closer. Not threatening, just intense. That quiet, coiled energy people whispered about when they talked about the Grabber and what Finney survived. The kind that made you hyperaware of every breath between you.

“You think I’m just looking for something to blame?” Finney said.

“I think,” you answered, “you’re pissed about something else and I’m the easiest target.”

The muscle in his jaw jumped. “You were behind the wheel, barreling through a street like a maniac, and somehow it’s my fault you have bad reflexes?”

“Bad reflexes?!” you shot back. “You were walking straight into traffic like you owned the damn road! What, am I supposed to swerve for you every time you decide to play daredevil?”

“Play daredevil?!” He laughed, harsh and bitter. “Do you even understand what could have happened? One second, I’m standing there and the next—boom! Your car is history, and so am I! And you’re standing there like it’s no big deal!”

“Oh, don’t give me that look like I’m the bad guy here,” you snapped, rolling your eyes. “You walked out into traffic, Blake. Get over yourself.”

Finney’s jaw twitched. “You think this is funny? 

“Funny?” you echoed, stepping slightly closer, teeth gritted. “I think it’s pathetic how you can’t handle someone calling you out on your own stupidity.”

He leaned back, one shoulder against the lockers, gaze sharp. “Pathetic? That’s rich coming from the driver who nearly ran me over.”

“Yeah, well, lucky for you I didn’t.”

“Lucky?” He hissed, nostrils flaring. “Lucky? You call almost killing me lucky? That’s the kind of selfish, reckless—”

“Oh, spare me the lecture!” you interrupted, voice sharp. “You’re one to talk! You strut around like you’re untouchable, like the world owes you something because you took down a serial killer! Newsflash, that doesn’t make you invincible!”

He froze for a moment, jaw twitching, eyes dark, and then leaned forward, voice low and dangerous. “You almost hit me! And now you’re standing here acting like you’re the victim? You’re insane.”

“Better insane than dead!” you yelled. “Because that’s exactly where you would’ve ended up if I wasn’t paying attention!”

The hall fell silent for a few tense seconds. Everyone had stopped moving, pretending not to watch, but clearly they were. Both of you were breathing hard, voices hoarse, faces flushed with anger.

Finally, the principal's sharp, commanding voice cut through the tension.

“My office, both of you. Now.”

Finney’s jaw clenched. He shot you a glare full of fury, challenge, and something unreadable, before stalking off toward the office.

You followed behind, shoulders tense, chest pounding, fists still tight. The adrenaline in your veins didn’t leave. The morning wasn’t over. And neither was this.

-

You’d tried to forget about Finney Blake.

Really, you had.

Two weeks ago, you’d both sat in the principal’s office like a pair of feral cats forced into the same cage. The principal read you the riot act, lecturing about “civility” and “school unity” while Finney rolled his eyes so hard you thought he might sprain something.

Then came detention.

One long, miserable hour in a stiff plastic chair, the two of you separated by one pathetic, wobbly desk that definitely didn’t count as safe distance. The room had been too quiet except for the scratch of pencils and Finney’s occasional irritated breath, the kind he let out like he needed you to hear it.

You remembered how he refused to look at you, and how you refused to look first.

By the end of it, the anger was hot, loud, and stupid. Like trying to argue with a storm.

But the second you walked out of that dingy study hall?

It fizzled.

Just like that.

Not solved. Not forgiven.

Just not worth the weight anymore.

Still, forgetting him was impossible, because somehow, no matter where you went after that Finney Blake was everywhere.

Not on purpose, you knew that but it didn’t matter. Your eyes still caught him in the crowd as if they were wired to.

Passing him in the hallway between classes.

Seeing him in the parking lot after school, his backpack slung over one shoulder as he was always crossing at the exact wrong moment.

Walking into study hall, he was leaning back in his chair, tapping a pencil against his desk like he owned the oxygen.

And worst of all?

Every time your brain decided to wander, it wandered straight to him. Not fondly, not fondly whatsoever, but intensely, in the way irritation turns into an obsession because it won’t leave you alone.

You got over the actual anger fast. But the heat of it didn’t go away.

Not when Finney still shot you looks like you were the biggest headache in his life.

Not when he muttered something every time you crossed paths, too low for teachers to hear but just loud enough for you:

“Watch it.”

“Still the worst driver in town.”

“Try using your eyes next time.”

And you? You didn’t crumble.

 Didn’t blush.

 Didn’t soften.

You met every one of his comments with fire.

“Move faster, then.”

“Try minding your business next time.”

“At least I know how to walk like a normal person.”

It was getting worse, too. The sharp, buzzing energy between you both, like every hallway, was too small to contain it.

-

It finally snapped in the most stupid place possible.

Your house, on the front lawn. 

The late afternoon sun filled the sky with a warm haze, as the cold air bit at your finger tips the second you stepped out of the car. You were hauling your backpack from the car when you heard footsteps pounding up the street. Fast. Intentional.

You turned.

Finney Blake was storming straight toward you.

You stared. “Are you serious right now?”

He didn’t stop until he was right in front of you, chest rising and falling like he’d run here in pure anger.

“You’ve gotta quit looking at me.” That was how he opened. No greeting. No explanation. Just pure accusation. “It’s like you’re everywhere I turn.”

You blinked, caught between laughter and outrage. “Me? You’re the one who keeps glaring like I committed a felony.”

“You did—”

“It was TWO WEEKS AGO!” you snapped, slamming your car door so hard Finney actually flinched. “And you’re still acting like I tried to murder you.”

He pointed at you. “Because you don’t take anything seriously!”

“Oh, I take plenty seriously,” you shot back, stepping closer. “Starting with how annoying you are.”

Finney scoffed. “Yeah? Then stop staring at me like you’re waiting for round two.”

Your hands fisted at your sides.

“I stare,” you said sharply, “because you walk around like the whole town should move out of your way.”

That hit. You saw it, the brief raw flicker of something behind his eyes before he masked it.

He shook his head. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“And you don’t know anything about me,” you countered, voice rising. “Except for a stupid accident you keep milking for attention.”

His eyes snapped to yours, furious. “You think I want attention from you?”

You barked a laugh, sharp and loud. “No, Blake. I think you just want something to yell at.”

He stepped closer, dangerously close, voice dropping low. “You yell right back.”

“Because you START IT.”

“You don’t walk away.”

“Neither do you!”

You were inches apart, chests rising, shadows long across the grass.

Finney’s jaw clenched, tendons tight. “You make me—”

“What?” you challenged. “Finish it.”

His voice was a crack of lightning.

“…you make me furious.”

Your chin lifted.

You didn’t say a single word.

The silence hit Finney harder than anything you could have said.

His steps slowed. He turned back toward you fully this time, breath catching just barely, as if he hadn’t expected you to stand there like that, unbothered, unshaken, refusing to give him even a syllable.

Your posture daring him to blink first, chin high, eyes steady.

You didn’t back up.

Neither did he.

The air hummed, charged, electric. The kind of tension that didn’t feel like anger anymore but something hotter, heavier, something neither of you would dare name.

Not yet.

For a moment he just stared, jaw tight, something sharp and electric cutting across his expression. He stepped forward again, not enough to close the space, just enough to show he wasn’t done.

“You’re really not gonna say anything?” he asked, voice low. It wasn’t mocking. It was controlled, like your silence had unnerved him more than your words ever did.

You didn’t move, not even daring to drop your gaze, denying him the satisfaction he so desperately craved.

Finney exhaled once through his nose, his eyes dragged over your face, slow, searching, frustrated.

“Fine,” he murmured. “Don’t talk.”

He stepped closer by half a foot, close enough that the cold air between you warmed just slightly.  

His voice dropped. “You don’t have to say anything for me to know exactly what you’re thinking.”

Your chin stayed high.

His eyes quickly flickered down at your mouth, then back to your eyes, you would’ve missed it if you weren’t watching him as closely as he was watching you.

Finney swallowed, throat tense.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered.

Another breath between you.

Sharp. Hot. Cold.

Everything at once.

But you still said nothing. Worse, your expression said you didn’t give a single damn.

Your expression stayed flat, unimpressed, almost bored. A tiny raise of your brow, the faintest shift of your mouth.

It hit him like a slap.

Finney blinked once, slowly and disbelieving because somehow your silence wasn’t the worst part.

It was the look.

That effortless, infuriating look that said his anger, his proximity, his sharp words meant absolutely nothing to you.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t soften. Didn’t even look annoyed. Just done.

Finney’s breath stuttered, the tension changed shape, twisting tight and hot in his chest. Frustration poured through him as if a fuse were burning down inside him.

He stepped closer, not even meaning to, his voice low and unsteady with irritation.

“Don’t—” he muttered, eyes locked on yours. “Don’t look at me like that.”

You tilted your head one degree, still silent. Still that maddening, untouched expression.

Finney exhaled sharply, running his tongue across his teeth like he was seconds from swearing. “You’re unbelievable,” he said, voice tight. “You know that?”

Your expression didn’t budge.

That tiny, composed, utterly unbothered face pushed him right to the edge.

He shook his head hard, backing up before he did something stupid, before he stepped too close, before he said something he couldn’t take back.

“Keep doing that,” he warned under his breath. “See what happens.”

He turned away.

But the way his hands curled hard at his sides, yeah you’d gotten under his skin.

Deep.

-

The classroom was empty except for you, the fading hum of the old overhead lights, and the stack of scientific encyclopedias you were supposed to alphabetize for volunteer hours.

The science hall was mostly quiet, the kind that always felt too big, too echoey. It always was during lunch.

You were halfway through the stack when footsteps pounded down the hall. Fast and unsteady, familiar.

You didn’t even look up at first. Not until the door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the windows.

Finney Blake shoved his shoulder against the door, breath tearing in and out like he’d sprinted the whole length of the school. His hair was a mess, knuckles scraped, one cheek flushed too red, borderline bruised. 

You stared. He froze when he saw you.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, voice rough like gravel.

“Volunteer hours,” you said flatly. “What’s your excuse?”

Finney huffed through his nose, scanning the hallway once before letting the door click shut behind him. He didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. His state said enough.

You crossed your arms. “You look like you ran through a blender.”

He shot you a look. “Thanks. Really helpful.”

“I didn’t say it to help.”

Finney dragged a hand through his hair, pacing a tight line in front of the blackboard. His fists kept clenching like he couldn’t stop replaying whatever happened.

You watched him silently, waiting. But he just paced.

Paced and breathed hard and looked like he wanted to punch the wall if he wasn’t already halfway there. 

“Who’d you hit?”

Finney barked a humorless laugh. “Does it matter?”

“Yeah, Blake. It does.” You leveled your gaze at him. “Because you only look like this when someone gets under your skin.”

He stopped pacing. His eyes locked on yours, sharp and exhausted. “That’s funny,” he muttered. “Thought you were the only one who could do that.”

Your jaw tightened. “Don’t start.”

“Why not?” He stepped closer, pulled by something he didn’t want to admit. “You’re already looking at me like you know exactly what happened.”

“I’m looking at you,” you said, “because you’re bleeding on the floor I have to clean.”

“We’re in a classroom.”

“Volunteering, remember?.”

Finney exhaled sharply, turning away but only for a second. His shoulders were rigid, anger coiled tight beneath his skin.

You spoke again, quieter this time. “Did you start it?”

His head snapped back toward you. “Do I ever start anything?”

You raised an eyebrow.

“…okay,” he sighed, correcting himself. “Fine. Sometimes.”

He leaned against a desk, finally still, though his hands were still shaking with leftover adrenaline.

The silence pressed thick between you. Not comfortable, not gentle, just heavy.

He stared at the floor, jaw clenching once, twice, before he said it. “He said something he shouldn’t’ve.”

You didn’t look away. “About you?”

“No,” Finney said. The word landed sharp as broken glass. “About someone else.”

He didn’t elaborate. You didn’t push.

But you understood the shape of the anger in his voice.

Finney swallowed, throat tight. “And before you say anything, I know. I know I shouldn’t’ve hit him.”

You shrugged. “Did it help?”

His eyes lifted to yours, surprise filling them.

“It didn’t fix anything,” he muttered. “But it shut him up.”

You nodded once. “Then I’m not saying anything.”

Finney blinked. You could see it, the confusion, irritation, and reluctant relief twisting together.

“That’s new,” he muttered.

“What is?”

“You not lecturing me.”

You shot him a sharp look, contrasted by the small smile you shot him. “Don’t get used to it.”

He let out a breath that wasn’t a laugh but close to one. The tension slowly trickled back into the room, like a thick fog that made it hard to breathe.

“You really gonna just stand there and pretend everything’s normal?” he asked.

“It’s never normal with you.”

His jaw tightened, but he stepped closer anyway, just a few feet, enough that the air between you thickened.

“Why are you even here?” he asked.

You bristled. “Why do you care?”

Finney hesitated, “I don’t,” he said too quickly. “I just—”

He stopped, rubbing the nape of neck before giving up on his sentence.

You watched him silently, your expression unreadable.

Finney exhaled hard, dropping into the desk chair nearest him. The fight, the sprint, the argument, it all collapsed into the space between you.

Finally, he muttered, “If anyone asks, I wasn’t here.”

“You’re literally bleeding on the floor,” you said.

“Yeah,” he snapped tiredly, “but you’re good at acting like nothing affects you, right?”

You rolled your eyes, gathering another stack of notebooks.

“Sit still. You’re getting blood on the desks.”

Finney stared at you for a long moment, frustrated, baffled, heated in that way he never said out loud.

“…You drive me insane,” he said under his breath.

You didn’t look up. “Right back at you.”

-

You were already in the principal’s office when Finney was dragged in by the sleeve.

He looked worse than last week. His hair wild, collar stretched, knuckles red and split like he’d been swinging without thinking. Again.

You, on the other hand, were perfectly intact, unless you counted the stubborn set of your jaw.

Finney froze when he saw you sitting there in the plastic chair outside the office.

“You again?” he muttered.

You crossed your arms. “Trust me, I’m not thrilled about it either.”

He blinked, taking in your presence like it didn’t make sense.

 “What’d you do?”

You lifted your chin defiantly. “Nothing.”

Finney lifted an eyebrow. You cracked instantly.

“Okay, maybe I said something.”

“To who?”

You winced. “Mr. Armstrong.”

Finney stared at you. “You called the science teacher a—?”

“I didn’t call him anything!” you snapped. Then, lower, “I just implied his lesson plans had the structural integrity of soggy cardboard.”

Finney’s eyes widened. “Oh my god.”

“It was accurate.”

“It was a terrible idea.”

“Well, getting in another fight wasn’t exactly genius either.”

He scowled. “He deserved it.”

You sighed. “They always do. Doesn’t make it smart.”

“You shouldn’t talk.”

“And yet, here we are. Both of us. Sitting outside the office like we’re in a cheap ‘after-school special.’”

Finney tried not to smile. He failed.

The principal’s door swung open. Both of you straightened.

“Since you two seem to enjoy disrupting the school day—”

“We don’t,” you and Finney said at the same time.

“—you’ll work off your detention by helping in the library for the next two weeks. Together.”

Finney groaned. You groaned louder.

“Seriously?” you blurted. “Can’t you separate us? He’s a menace.”

Finney shot you an offended look. “I’m a menace? You told Armstrong his degree must’ve come free with the cereal box!”

You scoffed. “And you threw a kid into a trash can.”

“He swung first!”

“So did Armstrong!”

Finney stared at you. “Wait, what?”

The principal pinched the bridge of her nose. “Enough. Both of you. Library. Now.”

And that was that.

-

The library smelled like dust, carpet cleaner, and despair. Perfect.

Finney slumped into a chair beside you as the librarian explained your job: organizing the supply closet.

When she finally left, Finney muttered, “You seriously mouthed off to Armstrong?”

You shrugged. “He said my project lacked ‘focus.’ It didn’t.”

“That’s why you insulted him?”

“I insulted his curriculum.”

Finney stared at you, incredulous, then laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re bleeding on the linoleum,” you shot back.

He glanced at his knuckles with a wince. “It’s fine.”

“It never is with you.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

The supply closet was tiny, a single bulb, shelves crammed with forgotten textbooks, and barely enough room for the two of you to stand shoulder to shoulder.

Which was exactly your problem.

“Move,” you said, bumping his elbow.

“You move.”

“You’re blocking the shelf.”

“You’re blocking the oxygen.”

You huffed. “I’m starting to think the principal hates us.”

“Us?” Finney echoed. “Since when are we an ‘us’?”

You glared at him. “Since we got punished like a pair of wayward toddlers.”

Finney let out an annoyed noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

Then he grabbed a stack of dusty binders off the top shelf too fast, he let out a small groan at the sting in his knuckles and nearly dropped them.

You caught his wrist without thinking.

Finney went still. Completely.

“Careful,” you said quietly. “You’re gonna tear them open again.”

His eyes flicked to yours, confused, guarded, softened just a little.

“Why do you care?” he asked, voice low.

You swallowed. “Because if you bleed on the books, the librarian might actually kill you.”

He gave you a crooked, disbelieving smile. But he didn’t pull his wrist away.

For a moment, the closet felt too warm, too small, too charged.

You dropped his hand first. “Come on. We’ve got a punishment to finish.”

Finney blew out a slow breath, nodded, and grabbed another binder, slower this time.

But his shoulder brushed yours, intentional or not, and he didn’t move away.

Neither did you.

-

Library duty ended with the librarian sighing dramatically and waving both of you away like smoke she couldn’t get rid of fast enough.

You stepped out into the hallway, stretching your arms over your head. “If I see another dust covered binder, I’m committing a crime.”

Finney snorted. “You were the one who almost knocked over an entire shelf.”

“That shelf attacked me.”

“It was a shelf.”

“You weren’t there,” you said defensively. “It had bad energy.”

Finney shook his head, fighting a smile. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You keep saying that,” you replied, “like it’s an insult.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets, nudging your arm with his elbow as you walked. “It’s not. Mostly.”

You bumped him back. “You’re bleeding again.”

“What? Where?” He held his hands out, checking his knuckles.

“Not your hands,” you said. “Your ego.”

Finney rolled his eyes so hard his head almost turned with them. “Hilarious.”

You reached the stairwell door and pushed it open. Finney followed, the door clicking shut behind him. The space was quiet, warm from the late afternoon sun coming through the little window. You leaned against the railing, looking down at the empty steps.

“So,” you said casually, “on a scale of one to ten, how much do you regret getting punished with me?”

Finney didn’t even pretend to think. “Three.”

“Three?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “You complain a lot, but you make the boring parts less… boring.”

You blinked. “…Was that a compliment?”

“No,” he said immediately. Too fast. Then, quieter: “Maybe.”

You froze mid-step, staring at him. “Oh my god,” you said, hand to your chest. “Finney Blake just said something nice.”

“I’ll take it back,” he warned instantly.

“Nope. Too late. It’s out there. It’s public record.”

He rolled his eyes but you saw it, that small, traitorous smile he was trying to hide. You walked side by side down the hallway, your arms brushing now and then. He didn’t move away. You didn’t either. When you reached the back stairwell door, Finney hesitated. Just for a second.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Thanks… y’know. For not making today suck.”

You felt your face warm, and because feelings were terrifying, you blurted the first defense you had, “Don’t get used to it.”

Finney blinked.

Then slowly he smiled.  Not cocky, not smug, just warm.

“You don’t mean that,” he said softly.

You rolled your eyes, turning away before he could see your cheeks go pink. “Whatever. Just don’t.”

He laughed under his breath, following you toward the exit.

But as you pushed the door open, you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing back at him, just a little, just long enough for him to catch the soft look you didn’t hide fast enough.

He stared at you for a second, cheeks a little pink. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to say something stupid.”

“Oh,” you said, “I’m definitely about to say something stupid.”

Finney groaned. “Please don’t—”

“Finney Blake,” you declared, “you have officially survived two hours of shared punishment without punching anyone. I’m proud of you.”

He covered his face with his hands. “Oh my god.”

“You’re welcome.”

He dragged his hands down his face, trying—and failing—to hide a smile. “You drive me crazy.”

“That’s the goal.”

He leaned in, closing the distance between you and kissed you, as if it were as easy as breathing.

No dramatic pause. No heavy moments.

Just a quick, warm, slightly awkward kiss that tasted like laughter he didn’t get to finish. You blinked at him, surprised but not really.

“Was that your reward for behaving?” you asked, eyes widening in mock realization.

“What? No!” Finney blurted, ears turning red. “I just— You— I thought—”

You swallowed, fought the smile trying to break through. 

“Mm. Like I said. Don’t get used to it.”

Even though you’d said, don’t get used to it, you were already, absolutely, definitely letting him.

-

You were hyper aware that this contradicted every thought you’ve had over the last month, but when you feel Finney nipping and kissing your neck with his hand over your racing pulse, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Small gasps escape past your lips as your fingers grip tighter at his hair, pulling him close as he ruts into you. Finney buried face deeper into your neck as he continued his merciless pace of his cock not so gently grazing your cervix.

“F-Finney…” you cry out as his hands roam your body, one of them landed on your sensitive nub, circling it teasingly. 

“You drive me insane,” he murmured against your skin.

“Shut up,” you gasped.

He smirked against your skin, thrusting deep into you with one hard thrust.

Your hips bucked off the seat with a sharp cry.

“Yeah,” he breathed, watching your face. “That’s what I thought.”

His thumb circled your clit with ruthless precision, not gentle, not patient, just messy, desperate pressure that made your vision blur.

“Finney — fuck — harder—”

Pulling out, he lined himself up, dragging the head of his cock through your wetness, slow at first, then with a teasing pressure that made your breath stutter.

“Finney—”

He thrust into you in one brutal, perfect snap of his hips.

Your back arched so sharply your shoulders left the seat.

“Holy shit,” he groaned, burying himself to the hilt. “So fucking tight—fuck—”

He pulled out almost completely before slamming back in, the car rocking with every thrust. You were a mess beneath him, hands straining upward, thighs trembling around his hips.

He let out a low, dark laugh, leaning over you until his chest pressed to yours, pinning you against the backseat.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured against your jaw, “you’re not in any position to tell me what to do.”

His hand slid up your throat, not squeezing, just holding, claiming, tilting your chin so you had to meet his eyes. His thumb brushed your pulse, feeling it race under his touch.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” you managed, though your voice cracked on the last syllable.

He smirked, wicked and unbearably tender at the same time.

“You’re anything but fine.”

His forehead dropped to yours, breath hot, lips brushing your mouth without kissing you yet, punishing you with restraint.

“You’re wild under me,” he growled softly. “And you hate that you like it.”

Your fingers curled into his shoulders, dragging him closer, your nails digging in hard enough to pull a sharp breath from him.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice tightening. “Take what you want.”

You surged up to kiss him, messy, hungry, the kind of kiss that tasted like losing control. He met you with all the same frantic need, swallowing every sound you made.

His grip on your wrists tightened above your head, his hips thrusting into you relentlessly, the movement deep and dizzying even if nothing explicit was spoken. The whole car rocked in a slow, brutal rhythm.

Your gasp broke against his mouth.

Finney’s lips ghosted along your cheek, your ear, his voice low and rough:

“That mouth of yours,” he said, “I swear—one look and I lose every sane thought I’ve ever had.”

Your breath hitched hard. His free hand slid down your side, gripping your hip, anchoring you.

“Say something smart now,” he taunted, voice thick with need. “Go on. Try.”

You couldn’t. All you managed was a desperate, breathless sound that wasn’t even a word.

He smiled like he’d won something important.

“Yeah,” he whispered, kiss landing hot and possessive on your throat. “That’s what I thought.”

His lips trailed lower, slower, as your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him down.

“And you’re mine right now,” he murmured against your skin, “even if you never admit it.”

Your back arched helplessly.

“Finney—”

He caught your jaw again, bringing your mouth to his in a bruising kiss.

“I’ve got you,” he breathed. “Just feel it.”

Your nails clawed helplessly at the leather. “I can’t— fuck—Finney, I’m gonna—””

“That’s it,” he groaned, pace relentless. “So fucking tight for me.”

You dragged his mouth to yours, biting his lip.

Your orgasm hit hard — blinding, body shaking, the kind that tore a cry from your throat as you clenched around him.

Finney cursed hard, losing rhythm, grabbing your hips with both hands now as he thrust through your climax, chasing his own. Spilling against your stomach with a choked moan, Finney dropped his forehead to yours, his body trembling above you.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Just panting, sweaty, legs tangled together in your back seat. Finney was still wearing his annoyingly satisfied grin when he finally spoke again.

“So…” he drawled, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “Are we gonna talk about—”

“We are not talking about anything,” you cut in sharply.

He blinked once. Twice. Then his smile pulled wider, slow and wicked, nodding as if he solved an ancient riddle.

 “Right,” he said softly. “Of course we’re not.”

He let a beat pass.  Another.

“So do you still hate me or what?”

Your answer was instant. Automatic. Sharp as a blade. “Yes.”

“Ouch.”

Your eyes narrowed at his smile.  “If you’re so hurt, why are you smiling?”

“Because,” he said, voice dipping just a little, “you don’t hate me half as much as you want to.”

Your pulse stuttered. You had no comeback ready. And he absolutely noticed.

Finney raised both brows, victorious.

“Still hate me?” he asked again, softer this time. “Really?”

“Yes,” you insisted, but it came out thin. Weak. Almost… breathy.

His smirk turned knowing.

“Mmm. If you say so.”

You looked away, jaw tight, heat crawling up your neck.

“I do.”

“Okay.”

“Finney—”

“Still okay.”

You glared at him. He beamed.

Black ops work tends to attract a particular type—Alphas and Betas. You’re a bit of an odd one out as an Omega, but you’ve determinedly proven yourself capable of the work time and time again. Still, you’ve never actually been out in the field. You’re a medic, and you stay behind at headquarters, ready to help when the team gets back from missions, fixing Emilia’s shoddy emergency-med work that keeps them alive en-route to you.

“That is not how you pack a fucking bullet wound, Emilia,” you have said countless times. Or “Jesus Christ, how many times, Adrian, have I told you to leave the knife in after you get stabbed?” Or “What kind of drug did you accidentally inhale? If I was in the field with you, maybe I would have seen it and been able to tell—”

And you are itching to get out there and help. You’ve been begging for months. Even if all you do is stay in the van with John, you can do more, be there for the team more effectively, if you are out there in the field with them instead of waiting at the Checkmate office or whatever temporary HQ has been set up for long-distance missions.

Still, Chris and Emilia have been reluctant to let you—as the only Omega of the group, they tend to baby you, maybe a bit too much. But you’ve been there through it all—the butterflies, the alternate universes, standing on the sidelines as quiet, caring support for the others. 

Being a good friend to Chris when he desperately needed one, after he got out of prison. Reminding John of his value when he’s feeling unimportant. Helping nurse Em back to health after Coverdale Ranch. Standing by Ads when her relationship with Keeya was falling to pieces. Comforting Adrian when Chris made the dumbass decision to fuck off to Nazi land. Welcoming Fleury, Bordeaux, and Judomaster into the pack with open arms and managing everyone’s emotions as the group adjusted to the three new Betas added into the mix.

But you’re more than a caretaker, and you’re ready to prove it.

“I am not a child,” you insist when Chris tries to bench you, yet again. “I have just as much training as the rest of you. I can handle a gun. I can handle myself. I am a professional, and I am qualified.”

“We need you here.”

“John gets to go with you all the time!” you cry. “He might be a Beta, but he’s a bigger pussy than I am!”

“Hey!” John protests.

“Sorry,” you mutter, not sounding at all sorry.

“She deserves to go,” Adrian cuts in, from a few desks away. “She’s worked just as hard on this as the rest of us. You can’t keep treating her like glass because she’s an Omega. I know you have this weird Alpha need to like, take care of her or whatever, but she’s also more than capable of taking care of herself. She takes care of the rest of us all the time.”

You’re grateful to have someone on your side. Adrian is your best friend, and he never lets anyone give you shit for your designation. You’d asked him about it once, and he’d said something vague about his shitty Alpha brother and not wanting to be like him. 

If he was an Alpha, he’d be the perfect one, in your eyes. He never gave a shit about social convention, he understood you better than maybe anyone else in the world. You catch yourself wishing some days that things were different.

Emilia sighs. “It’s not that. You know we respect you. You also know that your designation makes you a target.”

“So we’ll keep an eye on her,” Adrian says. “She’s not going to go out there alone. If we’re watching her back, and you know we will be—”

“Fine!” Chris says, giving in. “You can come on the mission tomorrow. But Adrian stays with you the whole time.”

“Gladly,” Adrian agrees.

“Thank you,” you say delightedly. You hug Adrian, and he laughs.

He hates it when anyone else touches him, but—he’s never minded it from you. You smell nice. He takes the opportunity as you wrap your arms around him to quietly tuck his head into your neck and inhale, right where your comforting scent is the strongest. He hopes it lingers, for the rest of the day. On his clothes, on his skin, in his hair.

Adrian might be a little bit in love with you. A lot a bit in love with you, actually. But that doesn’t matter. He’s never had a shot with you anyway. He’s not an Alpha, he can’t give you what you need.

But he can give you this. He can watch your back so you have the chance to go out in the field with the rest of the pack, like you’ve always wanted.

“No problem,” he says, trying his best to pretend that everything is okay. That it doesn’t kill him a little bit inside when you let go, step back, move back to your desk.

He watches you and swallows hard, and tries really, really hard not to be consumed with irrational jealousy. 

Jealous of whatever Alpha, one day, will get to keep you to himself.

Jealous of his alternate self, who he spends every day trying not to think about. Who you will never meet, thank god, because—he was an Alpha. And he would have been able to be with you, in a way Adrian never can be. Maybe—maybe he was. He had a mark. Right there, high on his neck. Adrian hadn’t been able to stop looking at it, couldn’t help but wonder. The question had been on the tip of his tongue the entire night, but he kept deflecting—talking about Pokemon and cloud-men and shag carpeting, skirting around the question he really wanted to ask, because he was too afraid. Because if it was you—if the only thing keeping him from you is his fucking designation—

He snaps himself out of the thought. It’s never happening, not for him. All he can do is take advantage of the time he has with you now, before some asshole Alpha steals you away to another pack. So he pastes on a smile, saunters up behind you, and taps you playfully on the shoulder.

“Better go practice your aim,” he teases. “Make sure you’re 100% field ready—”

“Oh, fuck you,” you laugh, but you start walking in the direction of the weapons room anyway. “Come with me?”

He follows you with a smile on his face. He always will.

Everything goes sideways fast. Your informant fucked you all over. It’s an ambush.

Adrian has heard pained or panicked shouts from everyone—Chris, Harcourt, Ads, Economos. He ignores them all, because he was given a prerogative from his Alphas. To protect you. 

“Stay here,” he tells you, hands on your shoulders, pushing you behind him, away from the danger. “Stay here, stay low, stay behind me. Do you hear me?” You nod, eyes wide as you look up into his visor.

“Okay,” you agree, cocking your gun. “I’ll do what I can from a distance—”

“No, don’t waste your ammo,” Adrian says. He hands you his guns, instead, and draws his machete. “In case—if they get closer, you need to defen—”

“I got it,” you assure him, accepting the weapons. “Go, Ade, I’ll be okay.”

So he stays focused, takes out as many attackers as he can, slashes out with his machete, chopping off limbs, sending blood spraying through the air while you shoot from higher ground, just behind him. He doesn’t stray far, keeping you in earshot, no more than a quick sprint out of reach.

There’s some part of him that feels sickly satisfied, like he always does, as the bodies hit the ground. There are dozens of them. Far too many. Whoever sent them here is going to die, he decides. Whoever put his pack at risk like this, whoever put you at risk like this.

Even still, this is what he’s good at. The killing. It’s what he enjoys. He’s smiling under his Vigilante mask as he looks at one of the last assholes in his vicinity and slashes out. The guy gets off a couple shots, but they fly wide, missing him. Adrian laughs as he shoves his blade through the guy’s neck.

Adrian looks back at you to check in, to crack a joke about how of course your first field mission goes right off the rails, and—you’re not where you’re supposed to be. You’re not where he left you. His eyes dart around frantically until they land on you, and he breathes a sigh of relief, but the feeling only lasts a moment. You look at him, in that split second, frozen with shock. 

Then he sees the blood soaking through your uniform. He watches you go pale, a hand pressed a wound he’s too far away to see clearly, and you hit the ground. His blood runs cold. He can smell your blood on the air—your scent, familiar, but also wrong. Tinged salty and metallic, thick, like he can taste it on his tongue.

The transformation happens in an instant. 

Adrian goes fucking ballistic. 

Something takes over him. Something vicious, and aggressive, and panicked, and he yells your name, but you don’t answer him. Two more people try to corner Adrian, and he doesn’t even bother with a weapon. He just snaps their necks. Then he races to you, bolts as fast as he can, his heart pounding harder than it ever has.

His vision is already tinged red by the Vigilante visor, but it goes even redder with rage when he sees you slumped on the ground, lifeless. His knees hit the ground beside you, and he rips his mask off. It feels hard to breathe in it, suddenly, as he looks down at you, strangled by the strongest fear he’s ever felt. His hands reach frantically for your face, and he says your name over and over again, interspersed with pleas, as he tugs you into his lap.

No, he thinks, he shouldn’t be moving you. He needs a medic, he needs you, but—he curses. Goddamnit, fuck, what would you tell him to do, what have you trained him to do when the others get shot—

“Put pressure on it,” he tells himself out loud, but even as he does it, his voice is shaking, his hands are shaking, because he never, ever, thought he would have to use this knowledge on you. “God, please, wake up, look at me, please—”

“Adrian,” says a voice behind him, and he turns and bares his teeth, brandishing his machete defensively.

“It’s me!” Emilia says, holding her hands up. “It’s me!”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Adrian logically knows—it’s Harcourt. Harcourt isn’t going to hurt you. But even as he lowers his weapon, something feels bad. Wrong. And when she reaches for you, to assess your injuries—

“Don’t fucking touch her,” Adrian snarls, gloved fingers digging into your skin, shielding you from the threat that his body is telling him is right there.

“What?” Emilia says, completely caught off guard.

Adrian turns back to you, tense with fear and worry. His hands press harder against the places you’re bleeding from—your shoulder, your side near your ribs, trying desperately to stop the flow of blood even as it soaks into his gloves. “Come on, wake up, look at me—”

You blink awake only briefly, your eyes unfocused, but you say his name, very softly, and your weak fingers clutch at the buckles on the front of his uniform. The possessive feeling roars back up Adrian’s throat times a thousand, drowning out everything else. All he knows is protect and need and mine.

“They’re all dead,” Chris says behind him, breathless, and Adrian tenses up again without knowing why. “I think John’s arm is fucked up, we need her to set it—” Then Chris’s eyes land on you. “Oh, fuck—she doesn’t look good, we gotta get her out of here—”

Adrian sees Chris’s arms reach for you, and he growls, something deep and primal and uncontrollable. A sound he has never made. A sound he shouldn’t be able to make. Chris freezes, bristles, looks at Adrian.

“What the fuck was that?” Chris says, more confused than angered by the intensity emanating off of Adrian in waves.

Then Chris takes in the whole scene. The way Adrian’s clutch on you is so tight it might leave bruises. The way he hunches over you protectively. The way he snarls when Chris looks at you for a moment too long.

Chris pauses. He inhales. His eyes go wide, and he takes a giant step back.

“Holy fucking shit,” he says. “Adrian—”

“Whoa, what the fuck is going on?” Ads says, confused as hell. John stumbles up behind her, also looking confused, nursing a wound of his own on his arm. They both look worried when they see you unconscious on the ground.

“You smell it?” Chris asks Emilia, and her brow furrows. She sniffs the air, and her mouth falls open.

“Holy shit,” she whispers. “Oh my god. Is he—”

“Ads, I need you to run to the van and get me a tranq dart,” Chris says, voice low. “Now.” She does as he asks without asking any questions.

“Adrian,” Emilia says softly, trying again to approach, even slower, calmer. “I need you to let me look at her injuries. I’m not going to hurt her.” She pauses and thinks, tries to rephrase into the particular words he needs to hear right now. “I’m not going to take her from you.”

But it’s no use. He’s too far gone for logic. When Emilia reaches forward, he panics.

“No,” Adrian says desperately. “No, no—she’s mine—”

His eyes are wild, unfocused, filled with such animal fear and rage and need that it’s clouding every other feeling. He’s vibrating, shaking, breathing hot and heavy, on the verge of falling over entirely into animal instinct, of going completely feral.

“Please, let me help—” Emilia says, trying to gentle her voice and approach again slowly, and Adrian snaps.

“Get the fuck away from her!” he shouts. “Don’t—”

As soon as Ads returns and hands Chris the tranquilizer gun, he shoots. The dart hits Adrian right in the neck, and everything goes dark.

When you wake up, blinking blearily, Adebayo’s face comes into your field of vision. When you turn your head to the side, Emilia is sitting at your bedside, holding your hand.

“Hey,” she says, sounding a little relieved. “We were worried about you.”

“What—”

“You got shot. Like, three times,” Emilia says. You look around. You’re in the Checkmate infirmary, hooked up to a couple IVs. Blood, some other fluids. There are a few dull aches in your side, your shoulder, but they don’t hurt nearly as bad as they should. They must have given you the good painkillers.

Your brain still feels a little foggy, though. You try to remember what happened, and it comes back in snapshots. The ambush. The pain. Adrian shouting for you.

Clarity washes over you in an instant, and you sit up in bed, wincing as the movement irritates your injuries in a way even the painkillers can’t mask. “Fuck—”

“What is it, what do you need?” Emilia asks. “Stay down, I’ll get it—”

“Adrian,” you say. You don’t know why, but something inside you wants him, right now, more than anything or anyone else. “Where is Adrian? He was—”

Emilia and Adebayo exchange a look. You glance between them worriedly.

“Is he okay?” you ask, almost afraid to hear the answer, your heart sinking. You got hurt, you weren’t there to take care of him if he got hurt. 

“He’s going to be,” Emilia says. “He’s…sick.”

You frown, unimpressed. “Bullshit. Stop fucking lying to my face, please. Adrian has a healing factor. He doesn’t get sick.”

Adebayo sighs. “She’s gonna find out eventually, Em. There’s no point.”

“Find out what?” you demand, starting to get panicky. “If there’s something wrong with Adrian, I want to know, and I want to know now. He’s my best friend, if something happened to him—it’s my fucking job to take care of the pack, and he—”

“While you were unconscious,” Emilia says, “something…unexpected happened.”

“Stop being cryptic and just fucking tell me.”

“Adrian presented,” Ads interrupts, ripping the bandaid off. You jerk back from her like you’ve been slapped.

“Adrian…presented?” you say slowly, your heart pounding against your chest, a pit of dread forming in your stomach. “What do you—”

“He’s spent his entire life thinking he’s a Beta,” Emilia says. “Hell. We all thought he was a Beta.”

“What do you mean? He’s not?”

“Not anymore,” Ads says. “He’s an Alpha.”

You look between the two women in front of you again and let the information sink in. You lay back against the pillows slowly, fidgeting with the edge of the bedsheet nervously. Because this is the kind of thing that could change everything. And the fact that they’re so reluctant to tell you the whole story tells you that it already has.

“Adrian is an Alpha,” you repeat, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“John and I looked into it. Delayed presentation affects less than 1% of the population,” Adebayo continues. “It’s incredibly rare. Usually triggered by the presence of a compatible genetic mate, or a traumatic circumstance.”

Compatible genetic mate. Traumatic circumstance.

“Traumatic circumstance,” you say, a little frantic. “Did he—is he hurt—”

“He’s not hurt,” Emilia says. “All of us got a little banged up. You got the worst of it. When it was over, by the time we got to you, he was freaking the fuck out, radiating Alpha pheromones in waves like I have never seen.”

“You’re telling me Adrian’s life changed overnight because I got shot? Not because of his own traumatic injury, but because of mine?”

The girls are quiet.

“It’s probably more complicated than that,” Ads says softly. “It might be…a little bit of the other thing, too. That’s what me and John are theorizing, anyway. He said—while you were unconscious, he said—you were his.”

A compatible genetic mate. You swallow as you absorb the implication of her words.

“Is he?” you ask, afraid to raise your voice. Afraid to hope. To make it real. “Is he mine, Em?”

“Listen—” Emilia starts.

“Is he mine, Em?” you repeat, your throat tight. “Is Adrian my Alpha?”

Emilia stares at you.

“I think so,” she says softly. “That’s what triggered it. You were hurt, and you’re his, and something inside him recognized that you needed him. He was—he was a mess. He probably still is. When you got hurt, if Chris wasn’t there to keep him in check, bring him back from the brink, he might have gone feral. As it is, we had to tranquilize him so I could treat your injuries. He wouldn’t let either of us get anywhere near you.”

You’re quiet for a minute, feeling strangely guilty. That you’re the cause of all this trouble, throwing the pack dynamics out of whack. But there’s no going back, now, and there’s some part of you that hopes—maybe this is a good thing. Maybe this is the best thing. Because haven’t you thought a million times that you’d wished Adrian was an Alpha? That he could be yours?

If Adrian is yours, though—why isn’t he here? Does he not want you in return? But then you think—if Adrian just presented, for the first time—

“He’s in rut, isn’t he?” you whisper worriedly.

“He is,” Emilia says hesitantly, like she doesn’t want to admit it.

It hurts you, a terrible pang in your stomach, to think about Adrian suffering, confused, alone.

“I want to see him.”

“You are in no condition,” Emilia says, “to be near an Alpha going through his first ever rut. Adrian needs time to adjust to his new reality. Introducing an Omega into the equation when he’s already volatile is not a good idea. And you are hurt. You need to heal.”

“He needs me,” you say, your throat tight. You think you might cry. “If it’s true, if he’s mine. I need to be there for him.”

“Chris is with him,” Ads says, reaching for your hand and squeezing. “Adrian will be okay, but—he’s wild and unpredictable right now. You got shot. Multiple times. If you went over there, and he ended up hurting you worse, imagine how guilty he would feel.”

“He would never hurt me,” you say, and you know, in your heart, that it’s true.

“You can believe that all you want. I’m not willing to risk it. After he’s…over the hill,” Emilia says, “then you can see him.” 

It’s firm. It’s final. And—she is your pack Alpha. What she says goes.

“Can I at least talk to him?” you ask, quiet and nervous. “Please?”

“Let me talk to Chris,” Emilia says. “See how he’s doing. And then maybe we can arrange that. For now, you focus on getting better. You scared the shit out of us. All of us. So let us take care of you, okay?”

You nod, and she squeezes your hand. But you bite your lip and think about how the one person who you really wish was here to take care of you is the one you’re not allowed to see right now.

When Adrian wakes up, he’s sweating buckets, half-naked, strapped down to a mattress in…he looks around. Chris’s old trailer? There’s a sharp, stabbing pain in his gut, and his head is pounding, and god, why is everything so bright and loud?

“What the fuck,” he pants.

“You’re awake,” Chris says. “Good. Sorry I had to tranq you, bro, but you were acting a little crazy.”

“You—what?” Adrian says, bewildered, still a little out of it, trying to blink away the haze of whatever Chris apparently drugged him with.

Then, in a flash of clarity, he remembers what happened. He remembers you, bleeding out in his arms, and the pain in his gut intensifies tenfold, and just the thought of you makes him crazy with want. He needs you. He doesn’t know why, but he does. Instantly, he starts pulling at the restraints.

“Where is she Chris get me the fuck out of here I am not fucking around I will fucking kill you I need her is she hurt—”

“Calm down,” Chris says in his Alpha command voice. Then he remembers it won’t work now. He softens his voice and tries again. “Hey, calm down, Adrian. She’s okay. I promise you, she’s okay.”

Adrian looks at him, still squirming, but present enough to be puzzled, because Chris’s command did not do a damn thing. And a little bit pissed, because he hates it when his best friend uses his Alpha voice on him, like he’s a fucking kindergartender.

“Where is she?” Adrian repeats, low and growling, a command of his own, fueled by the extra power of his recent presentation, the lingering feral energy he can’t contain, and—it works. It shouldn’t, but it works.

“She’s with Emilia and Ads, at her apartment,” Chris says, the words spilling out of him like he can’t stop them. His eyes are wide, his mouth dangling open. “Did you just fucking—use your Alpha voice on me?”

Adrian pauses tugging at his restraints to look at Chris like he’s insane. Because he is. “Use my what? I—dude, why the fuck am I tied to the bed? Why did you bring me here?”

“Because you’re in rut,” Chris snaps. “And I don’t trust you not to go chasing after her. You are out of control right now. And I brought you here because I figured you wouldn’t want your mom around for this.”

Adrian flushes a furious red color. “I am not in rut. I’m a Beta. You know I am.”

“I thought I did,” Chris says. “I believe you thought that too. And then yesterday happened. And you are in rut, and you are an Alpha.”

“I’m not a fucking Alpha!”

“It happens,” Chris says. “People present late in life.”

“I am thirty-four! I would know—”

But even as he says it, he cuts himself off. Because he remembers—his alternate self was an Alpha. So maybe, just maybe, he is too. He just didn’t know.

And selfishly, he thinks…maybe, just maybe, this is his chance. To have you. To love you, the way he’s always wanted.

“You’ve always been a late bloomer, Thimble.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Adrian says, but he swallows roughly. At least, he tries to. His mouth is too dry. “Can you fucking untie me please? God, I’m so fucking thirsty. And itchy, and uncomfortable, and horny, Jesus Christ—”

“Yeah,” Chris says. “Because you’re in rut, Adrian. Your first one. Historically, the worst one you will ever experience. So if I untie you, you have to promise me that you will not run after her. I will tranquilize you again. I know you want her. Hell, she probably wants you. But she’s hurt. She’s in no shape to help you through this.”

“You said she was okay,” Adrian says, panicky. “How—how bad is it?” His breath feels short, his hands are shaking. A terrible, awful guilt sinks in his stomach, adding to the pile of a dozen other terrible sensations he’s feeling right now. “It’s—it’s my fault, I was supposed to protect her. I convinced you to let her go on the mission in the first place. Fuck, Chris, is she okay I need her please—”

“Fuck,” Chris mutters. “I wanted you to be in better shape before—but—goddamnit.” He pulls out his phone and dials while Adrian practically hyperventilates in front of him, trying desperately to yank himself out of the ties holding him down. He tries to bite at the ropes with his teeth, the muscles in his neck straining, but he can’t reach them.

“Emilia,” Chris says. “Put her on the phone.” A pause. “Yeah. I know we said we were gonna wait. But he’s freaking the fuck out. He needs to talk to her.”

“Please,” Adrian says. He tries to get up, but he’s still tied down. “Please, please, I need—”

Chris puts the phone on speaker.

“Adrian?” Your voice rings through the room, and Adrian whimpers audibly at the sound. He closes his eyes and throws his head back roughly against the pillows, trying to take a few settling breaths. You’re alive. You’re well enough to talk to him, at least. 

It should make him feel better, but it sends another bolt of agony through him. God, he’s so fucking hard. He wants you so bad. He wants to scent you, he wants to fuck you, he wants, he wants, he wants.

“If I untie you, are you gonna flip?” Chris asks him. Adrian takes a deep breath.

“No,” he says, chest heaving. “Please, just let me talk to her, Chris. Please.”

“You have him tied up?” you cry. “He’s not a fucking animal, Chris!”

“He was borderline,” Chris says seriously. “You were unconscious. You didn’t see how close to feral he got.”

“Untie him,” you demand, and Adrian’s heart skips a beat, hearing you so fiercely defending him.

Chris cuts the ropes, and Adrian instantly reaches for the phone.

“No funny business,” Chris orders, holding it just out of reach, and Adrian starts begging.

“Please give me the phone please let me talk to her please Chris I promise I won’t do anything I just need to talk to her—”

Chris tosses him the phone. Adrian snatches it out of the air, takes the call off speaker, and brings it right up to his ear. When he says your name, it’s shaky, nervous, but also a little bit relieved.

“Adrian,” you say, and half the tension leaves his body, just hearing you say his name, all soft and concerned. Then it roars back as another bolt of pain shoots through him, because—god, he wants you so bad, and he can’t have you right now. A pained noise escapes him, and you must hear it, because you ask worriedly, “Talk to me, Adrian, are you okay?”

“Am I—” He cuts himself off and laughs humorlessly, hissing through the pain. “Am I okay? You—you got shot. I saw you go down, you were—you were bleeding out in my arms. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” you assure him. “All patched up, at least. It hurts like a bitch. But I can take painkillers for that. You…you can’t. If what they’re saying is true. Are you really…”

Adrian rubs a hand over his face, wiping the sweat from his brow. God, he’s so hot, but even as he thinks it, he shivers.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” he says. His voice is hoarse, and he feels like he might cry, he’s so overwhelmed. “It hurts.”

“What’s happening is your body wants you to find something to knot and breed,” Chris says bluntly. “So your sex drive is through the roof. For the next four days, at least, you’re going to be an irritable, horny asshole, and probably feel generally like shit. It’s gonna suck ass, because you don’t have an Omega or a bonded partner to help you through it. Headaches, feverish, dehydrated, oversensitive. This is basic high school sex ed, dude, you should know this.”

“I never paid attention to any of that Alpha shit, because I thought it didn’t apply to me,” Adrian says hoarsely. “How—why is this happening?”

“It’s my fault,” you say, your voice soft and regretful. 

“No,” Adrian says, because he hates the thought that you’re blaming yourself for this. “It’s not your fault.”

“It is,” you say, sniffling, and Adrian thinks you might be crying. It breaks his heart. “I’m so sorry. Ads said—she said that late presentation can be triggered by compatible genetic mates and traumatic events, and I got hurt, and it was just—both, at the same time—”

“Mates?” Adrian croaks. “Are you saying—”

But before he even asks, he knows. He remembers the way he felt, holding you in his arms. He feels it again now, his lungs constricting, knuckles going white, pupils dilating as a wave of it washes over him. Possession. Want. Need.

“You’re mine,” he whispers.

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The porch sits right on the edge of it, a little island of yellow lantern light with you cross-legged in your chair, enamel bowl in your lap, fingers slick with bean juice. Crickets grind away in the ditch, frogs answer from somewhere near the pond, and the heat that pressed on your skin all day finally lets go a little, turning soft and damp and heavy instead of mean.

Your daddy, Joe, stands out by the road with a cigarette, just that small orange coal drifting up and down whenever he draws on it.

He’s mostly shadow, hat brim pulled low, shoulders a dark cutout against the pale strip of dirt lane. The smoke hangs around him in thin gray strands, catching the lantern glow before the breeze worries it apart.

The wagon makes itself known before you see it.  A tired rattle carrying over the fields long and low, iron and wood complaining in a way that could belong to any old rig on any old night. 

The mule steps out of the dark first, ears flicking, hooves whispering in the dust, harness creaking, then the wagon-bed, then the man riding it, the whole shape of him hunched against the evening like the road’s been sitting on his back.

He climbs down slow, not careless, one boot testing the ground, then the other. He isn’t tall; not one of those long, scarecrow boys you see come through town sometimes. He’s put together closer to the earth than that, thick through the shoulders and arms, weight settled in the meat of him instead of stretched out. 

Shirt pulls across his chest where the fabric has been asked to hold too much too often, sleeves rolled to his forearms, muscle and old work written in the dust and veins there. Suspenders run straight over his torso, holding everything decent, but there’s something loose under the neatness, a restless set to the way he carries himself, like he’s got more energy than his frame knows what to do with.

His hat sits low enough to shade most of his face until he steps up nearer and the porch light reaches for him.

“Evenin’, Sir,” he says, voice a slow scrape, low and worn, like it’s been dragged over gravel and cigarettes for years. 

The vowels don’t belong to your county, not exactly, but he leans into them like he’s been practicing, trying to make them fit the dirt under his boots.

“Evenin’,” Joe, flicks ash toward the ditch without turning. “You Remmick?”

“Yes, sir.”

He takes off his hat then, presses it to his chest in a gesture that seems to be humble, and in that little bow you see the line of him clear. 

Hair dark and close-cropped, stubborn where it’s tried to wave up and been tamed with water and a hand. Jaw rough with stubble that looks more forgotten than stylish. 

There’s a hardness around his mouth, something that could tilt into a grin or a snarl with not much provocation either way.

When he straightens and lifts his eyes, they cut toward the porch, and you feel it right away when they land on you, as sure as if somebody laid a hand on your bare ankle.

A limp green bean hangs between your fingers, ends torn and wet.

His gaze drifts, following your calves where your skirt’s ridden up, running along the slope of your shins and the span of your knees pressed together, sliding up the line of your apron and the thin open V between your collar buttons where the night air pushes in against your skin. 

He looks like he’s reading you, not just seeing you, taking his time over every line.

You go still, sharp-aware of every place your dress touches your body and every place it doesn’t.

The bean pieces drop into the bowl as you lower your eyes to the boards. The porch wood is dark and warped from years of feet, knot-holes winking like little eyes in the dim.

You fix on those, on the small wet snaps and soft taps of beans piling against enamel. Anything that is not the feeling of a stranger’s stare walking up and down you like a man checking fence.

“Baby,” your father says, voice flat, cigarette smoke curling out on the word. “Say evenin’.”

You wipe your hands on your apron and stand, bare feet quiet on the boards. “Evenin’,” you say, polite as sunday, letting the rest of what you feel sink down where it won’t show on your face.

Remmick smiles like he hears it anyway. It isn’t wide or warm. Just a slow tug at one corner of his mouth, a small, crooked tilt that never quite reaches his eyes.

“Evenin’, miss,” he answers, and there’s a drag in that word miss, the s held just long enough to make it catch.

Miss, when he could have asked for your name, when any decent man might have. Your father hasn’t offered it yet, so you keep it closed up in your mouth.

“Girl oughta be in bed this hour,” Joe mutters, eyes on the yard, not on you. “Ain’t no call for her to be sittin’ out like some boy on watch. Night’s for men workin’, not for women gawkin’.”

The words land on your shoulders like an old coat, familiar weight, old smell.  You bite down on what you want to say and feel it burn on the way down.

“I’m finishin’ the beans,” you tell him instead, hands tightening on the bowl till the rim bites into your palms. You don’t bother trying to explain that the dark sits easier on your skin than the hard white noon does, that the night gives you a little space to stretch.

You can feel Remmick watching you still, not with that sloppy hunger you’ve seen from boys in town, all elbows and gawking.

This is like he’s comparing what he sees to something he’s held in his head a long time. 

“Don’t reckon there’s any harm in her gettin’ some air, Sir,” he says after a moment, pitched low, as if he’s offering reason and not meddling. “So long as she stays where you can see her.” He tips his head, and his eyes make another lazy path over you, unashamed. “World’s rough for a girl on her own.”

Your daddy snorts, jaw tightening just enough for you to notice. “You just worry ‘bout them fields, son. I didn’t hire you to advise on my girl.”

The almost-smile on Remmick’s mouth doesn’t quite leave. “Yes, sir,” he says. “I’ll give all my attention to what you’re payin’ me for.”

He keeps his words aimed at your father, but his gaze is not that obedient. It flicks back to you when he says attention, and there’s weight in it, promise, something that makes your skin prickle fine all over. Something in you bristles right back, lifts its head like a barn cat whose tail’s been stepped on.

You draw a breath and set the bowl against your hip. “Where you want him sleepin’?” you ask your father, eyes fixed out over the yard so you don’t have to meet either man’s stare straight on.

“In the old place.” Joe jerks his chin toward the smaller farmhouse slumped beyond the well—a squat little shape where the lamplight doesn’t reach, half-eaten by shadow. “Closer to the barn. Got a bed and a stove. Man don’t need more than that.”

Remmick turns to look at it, and the lantern light catches his eyes in a strange way, making them flash for an instant like there’s something slick behind them.

The little house sits there like it’s been waiting, windows dark, door shut up tight, roofline sagged just enough to look suspicious.

“That’ll do,” he says. “I’m a night sort myself. Easier workin’ when the sun’s gone and the air ain’t tryin’ to boil you clear through. Less trouble all around.”

He says it easy, like it’s about sweat and shade and nothing else, but you hear the way he shapes night in his mouth, the soft way he lets it roll off his tongue, and something in your belly curls up smaller and sharper.

“Heard you don’t care much for daylight,” Joe says, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Remmick’s jaw shifts, a muscle ticking like it wants to answer on its own. He glances at you, quick and bright, before he looks down at his boots. “Sun don’t care much for me,” he finally drawls. “Burns me to char if I let it. Always been that way. Doctor said I got delicate skin.”

The word sits wrong in your ear as soon as it’s out, delicate, dangling over this stocky man with forearms roped up in tendon and dirt ground into his knuckles, hands that look like they were made to break things, not handle them gentle. 

It slips out of you before you can catch it, quiet and skeptical. “Delicate,” you repeat, eyes finding his without meaning to.

He catches that and settles into it like a cat into a warm spot. “You don’t think so, miss?” he asks, voice a touch softer now, gaze steady and unblinking.

You ought to let it pass. Ought to dip your head and let the men talk over you, let delicate lie between them like some joke you weren’t meant to get. 

Instead you hold his stare in the lantern glow, take your time looking back the same way he did to you, tracing the faint hollows under his eyes, the line of his nose, the mouth that looks used to biting down on words and maybe on other things too.

“No, sir,” you say finally, after a beat that stretches long. “You don’t look delicate at all.”

Something shifts behind his eyes at that, something pleased and sharp that makes your heart knock once, hard, against your ribs. The corner of his mouth tugs just a shade higher.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to live up to what you see,” he murmurs. “Would be a shame to disappoint you.”

Your daddy grinds his cigarette out under his heel, done with this line of talk. “You can unload what you got, then I’ll show you the place,” he says. “Got work waiting for nobody. You ain’t too tired from sittin’ on a wagon all day, are you?”

Remmick rolls one shoulder, hand rubbing the back of his neck. The stretch shifts his shirt over his back, pulls the fabric across solid muscle there.

You feel your breath snag for half a second and hate that it does.

“Wagon ain’t heavy,” he says. “I’ll get settled quick, then you can put me to whatever needs doin’.”

Joe nods and starts toward the dim outline of that little house, his boots crunching through the loose gravel near the well. The lantern light falls behind him with each step until he’s just another moving patch of dark.

Remmick lingers at the foot of the porch. He settles his hat back on his head, brim bringing his eyes into shadow again, but you can still feel them.

“You finish them beans,” he tells you, voice gone softer, aimed up at you like a secret. “Man works better with a full belly.”

There’s nothing in the words you could point to and call wrong, nothing on the surface you could carry to your father and hold up like proof.

Still, the way his gaze drifts down and back up as he says them leaves something slick and uneasy under your ribs. Heat crawls up your neck, hot in a way that has nothing to do with the air.

“I’ll see to what’s mine,” you say, gripping the bowl till your fingers ache. “Same as you should see to yours.”

His laugh is low, a rough little sound that lives in his chest and doesn’t quite make it to his teeth. He dips his head a fraction, like you’ve handed him a dare instead of brushing him off. “Oh, I intend to,” he replies. “You can count on it.”

Then he turns and walks after your father, stride easy, body moving with a loose sort of purpose. His shadow stretches out along the yard behind him, tossed strange and long by the lantern, then swallowed up as he and Joe move past the well. 

The small farmhouse waits ahead, black windows staring, door a darker cut in the wall. It looks, for one breath, like it’s swallowing the two men whole.

You stand there with the lantern hissing softly at your elbow and watch the dark take them. 

When the yard settles again, when their footsteps fade and the crickets creep back up to full volume, the space between the barn and the house does not feel the same. It’s as if something else has stepped into it and sat down, something you cannot see but can sense just the same, like a pressure change before a storm.

You sit again, bowl back in your lap, fingers finding another handful of beans by habit alone. The wet snap of them breaking sounds too loud in the hush, echoing in the hollow boards under your feet. 

Every few seconds, your eyes drag toward that low silhouette out past the well, toward the little house that is not empty anymore.

You tell yourself you’re only minding where your father put a stranger. 

The first night after he arrives, he walks the fence line while you wash dishes.

You hear his boots dragging through the loose gravel near the yard, then the softer sound of steps in the grass. 

The screen door hangs open to let the air move, lantern burning low over the sink. Your arms are wet to the elbow, suds creeping up your forearms as you scrub at a pan that’s older than you are. 

Out past your own reflection in the dark window, you catch a small shape of motion—the swing of a lantern out near the barn, then the shorter, solid outline of him moving along the fence, checking posts, rattling wire. 

He doesn’t look up at the house that you can tell, doesn’t lift the light toward you, just keeps on with that steady pace, head bent. 

Still, your shoulders hunch like you’ve been caught at something you haven’t done. The glass fogs a little with the breath you don’t remember letting out.

You tell yourself it’s good your father found a man willing to walk the property at night. That’s what you tell yourself as you rinse plates and stack them, as the little yellow circle of his lantern slides back and forth along the edge of your sight.

The second night you have to bring him his supper, because your father ‘forgets.’

It’s late by the time the last of the pots are scraped and put away, your back aching from standing, hair pasted to your neck. Joe leans back in his chair, radio humming low on the table, and says without looking up, “That boy eat?”

You still your hands on the dishrag. “Ain’t seen him at the table.”

“Damn it,” He grumbles, more at himself than you. “Told him come in if he heard me holler and I ain’t never thought to holler. Fix him a plate and take it down. Man don’t work right hungry.”

You swallow whatever you were about to say about whose job it is to feed farmhands, scrape together a plate from what’s left—two biscuits gone hard at the edges, a ladle of beans, a piece of ham with more bone than meat—and cover it with a clean cloth. 

The air outside hits your damp skin and feels cooler than it ought to. The night smells like dirt and hay and whatever’s blooming along the ditch.