"It's why you hurt and think everything sucks; the redcoats are planning an invasion."

"And how do you fucking know this?"

"I know you," he shrugs, even though you're practically lying on top of him.

"How." It's not a question. It's a demand.

"I keep track of these things."

"Why."

"Because I care about you."

You're not sure whether to raise hell or cry.

Dammit. He's right.

"And uh…" You swallow hard, on the verge of tears now. "How long have you been keeping track of these things?"

He goes quiet, like he's either calculating or wondering if he should lie.

"Couple years," he answers.

"Hm," you hum, nuzzling into his side a little.

"Are you mad?"

"No," you breathe. "Just surprised."

You lie there for a moment, head spinning as you process this information. Why would a guy bother tracking a girl's cycle?

"Is it so you knew when to avoid me?" you ask.

"What?" he exclaims, body tensing under yours. "No!"

"'Cause I'd understand if it was," you sigh.

"It was… for other reasons." He squirms. This must be good.

"And what are those other reasons, Nicholas A?" you ask in a teasing tone.

He's nervous. You can feel it. What reason would he have to be nervous?

"Nick," you prod.

He swallows.

"It's because when you were hemorrhaging, you'd let me cuddle with you."

"What?" you breathe.

"When you were hurting on movie night, you'd either lie in my lap or let me lie behind you and put my hand on your belly," he admits. "For the warmth. So I uh… I read some of Mom's magazines and started taking notes and I figured out when things were happening."

"You really did that for me?" you ask, on the verge of a My Girl era meltdown.

"One could argue that it was for me," he chuckles, holding you a little tighter. "I kinda looked forward to it. Not to you hurting, but you letting me cuddle with you."

There it goes. The dam breaks, the tears fall, and you cling desperately to the sweetest person you've ever met.

"Don't cry," he begs, rolling to his side and holding you to his chest. "It'd only be sad if I didn't get the girl in the end. And I got her."

"Yeah, you did," you attempt to say, but it comes out as a wet and unintelligible sob that he laughs at.

"It's okay," he assures you. "We're together now."

You are. You're being held tightly by the love of your life. Your other half. The person who knows you better than anyone else... even yourself.

"We should've been together forever." At least you can make words sound like words now.

"We were," he responds. "It's just… more now."

You nod against him, unwilling to let go of your favorite person in the world. He keeps holding on too, and after the tears have stopped leaking, you have something to confess.

"Nick?"

"Hm?" he hums.

"I wouldn't have stopped you."

"Stopped me from doing what?"

"If you'd tried to cuddle with me when I wasn't hemorrhaging," you clarify. "I wouldn't have stopped you."

A beat.

"Well now you tell me," he laughs.

“Fuck.”

You throw your eyeliner pencil in the sink in frustration as you take in your reflection in the mirror.  You’ve always been content with the bare minimum when it came to makeup, though tonight you’re resolute in making an extra effort.   Or, at least, you were.  You curl your lip in disgust as you survey the thick, crooked black swipe along your right upper eyelid that is comically unlike the left, despite your best efforts.  You dab another cotton ball in the tub of Noxzema on your tiny vanity, and rub your eye furiously to erase the mistake and try again.

You silently curse yourself for even attempting this.  Eddie probably puts eyeliner on better than you.

You halt your aggressive cotton ball scrubbing, eyes narrowing at your reflection in confusion.  Uh, where the fuck did that intrusive little thought come from? 

A soft knock at the bathroom door snaps you out of your reverie.  “Hey, it’s me.  Can I come in?”

You soften as you hear your sister’s sweet voice.  “Yeah, it’s open.”

The door opens slowly, and you shuffle away in the cramped space so it doesn’t knock into your elbow.  Max’s bright blue eyes meet your reflection in the mirror, and her face falters slightly between amusement and alarm. 

“Holy shit, sis.  What the hell happened to your face?”

“Nice, Max,” you snort sardonically, adding the cotton ball to the ever-growing pile of rejection in the sink.  You sigh heavily.  “I’m not cut out for eyeliner, apparently.  I know you’re surprised.”  Your mouth turns up slightly in a smirk.

Max tilts her head to the side.  “And what is it that you think you need eyeliner for?”

“Um, nothing really." You try to keep your voice even.  "Just going to go see a band tonight. ”

“What?  Where?” Her surprise is evident.

“The Hideout.  It’s no big deal.”

“It’s a Tuesday night.”

“I know.”

Max crosses her arms, waiting for you to elaborate.  You wipe some stray face cream from your cheek and turn towards her.  “Eddie’s band is playing, and I’m going to go watch.”

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, though it’s a touch of enthusiasm you hear in her reply.  “Really.  Not Munson’s band, but Eddie Munson’s band, huh?”  She puts some extra emphasis on his first name.

You shrug nonchalantly.  “Like I said.  No big deal.”

“It’s just interesting,” Max continues knowingly, “that you’ve been in here for the past hour—” your eyes go wide at the false accusation—“slathering yourself in grungy makeup just to go see Eddie Munson rock out with his little band on a freaking weeknight.  I dunno.  Sounds like a big deal to me.”

“That’s presumptuous of you.”

Max snorts.  “That skirt says otherwise.”

You groan.  “Maaax!”  You tug at the maroon and black plaid skirt self-consciously as you turn towards yourself in the mirror once more.  “Crap.  Am I trying too hard?”

She chuckles and squeezes her way in the bathroom, shooing you towards the toilet.  You close the lid and sit down as she fishes the eyeliner pencil out of the sink.  “No, I’m just giving you shit.  You actually look really hot.” 

You’re pleasantly surprised at the compliment.  “Oh.  Really?”

“He’d be nuts not to—”

“Nah, nah, no, Max.  Nuh uh.  That isn’t what this about.” Max quirks a disbelieving eyebrow at you as your explanation of the events of the last week come out in a rush.  “It's not!  I went to Eddie like, a week ago to see if he and his band would take some of the stuff I wrote and make them into songs.   They went for it and I think they’re going to play one of them tonight in their set.  That’s why I’m going.”

Max’s face softens as she pops a hip against the sink.  “You showed him the notebook?”

Max is the only other person that’s ever read it.  “Yep.”

“And he didn’t go running for the hills?”

You bark a flat laugh.  “Told me it was ‘fucking metal, Mayfield,’” your voice tries its best to imitate Eddie’s.

Max giggles as she twists the cap from the liner.  Oh, you love that sound.  “Figures,” she reasons.  “Here, let me.”

You draw your face away from her hands, certainly touched Max would offer to help, but a little wary of her expertise.  “You know what you’re doing with that?”

“No.  But neither do you,” she smarts back, and you both chuckle softly as Max reaches over to surprisingly finish your look better than you both thought possible. 

“Steady hands, I guess.” Max tries to make it a joke, but there’s an unintended sorrow in her eyes from what her words imply.

“Hey,” you start, voice thick with threatening emotion.  “There’s a song in there for you.  It’s arguably for everyone in our little, um... party, but it’s especially yours.  One of these days, I want you to hear it, okay?”

“Is it ‘fucking metal,’ like Eddie says?”

“Oh, god, don’t say fuck,” you admonish with a groan.  You pull your little sister into a hug.  “It’s the most metal.  It had to be, to be for you.”

“You’re cheesy,” Max mutters into your chest.

“You love it.”

“I really don’t.”

You know she does.

About an hour later, you’re riding in the backseat of Steve’s car as he drives you and Robin to the Hideout.  You’ve already endured several comments about your look: Steve’s being largely concerned and unimpressed while Robin’s take a more suggestive route.

“Are you sure we’re just going there to hear a Mayfield Original, as performed by Corroded Coffin?  Because I think your whole ensemble screams, ‘Eddie, please eye-fuck me from the stage.’”

“ROBIN!” you and Steve exclaim.

She chuckles and defensively holds her hands up in front of her. “Hey.  I’m just saying.”

You cross your arms over your chest and pout as self-doubt begins to creep in.  That’s not how you wanted to look tonight at all.  Steve flicks his eyes to the rearview mirror to watch you brood out the window.  “You do look… different.  Good different.”  Bless the man, he's trying. “I’m just trying to look the part,” you grumble to the window.

“The part of a rockstar goddess songwriter?  Yeah, girl.  You nailed it,” Robin turns to give you two thumbs up.  You can’t help but preen at her words.

“Wait, these are rock songs you wrote?” Robin’s inference startles Steve.

"Uh, yeah," you reply.

“Right, Steve, because Eddie Munson totally gives off ABBA cover band vibes,” Robin snickers.

“I like ABBA,” Steve mutters, and you and Robin can’t help but chuckle in spite of your poor friend.  He’s a bit slow on the uptake at times, but as you’ve both seen, before… he’s present when it counts.

You throw him a bone.  “And ABBA likes you, Steve.  As do I for coming with me, tonight.  I really am glad you’re both here.”

“Of course.  So is this the song you wrote about me?” His reflected eyebrows wiggle at you.

You bite your burgundy-stained bottom lip.  “Ah, no.  This one’s a bit, um… dark.  Don’t judge too harshly, okay?”

Robin’s blue-green eyes are deep with compassion as they meet yours.  “Sweet lady, we would never.”

She doesn’t even have to throw a look or an elbow at Steve, as he replies on his own in kind.   “Yeah. Exactly what Rob said.” You drive in comfortable silence for a few moments before Steve speaks up over the radio.  “So, it’s really going to be nothing like ABBA, huh?”

You belt out a good-natured groan before it melts with Robin’s laughter as Steve maneuvers his sedan into the parking lot of the Hideout.

Steve parks the car, and then escorts you and Robin into the bar.  The Hideout is a part of a large, brick building that houses several different establishments: a small check-into-cash office on one end and a small appliance repair shop on the other.  The dingy plexiglass sign brandishing the bar’s name over the door is half burnt-out, illuminating only the HIDE and half of an overflowing pint glass.  You inwardly smile to yourself as you walk inside.  This is exactly what you pictured the venue to be for Eddie Munson’s ABBA cover band.

Steve holds the door open for you and Robin.  Directly in front of you is a long, polished bar that runs longitudinally away from you, curving at the front and then again at the very end.  Fluorescent green lighting is strung around the mirror behind the bar, and it does well to illuminate the rows and rows of liquor that flank the mirror.  You notice that below the counter where the mirror and rows of liquor bottles rest is another set of shelves with more liquor, outlined in that same green backlight.

It tracks; living in a place like Hawkins would necessitate an endless supply of booze.

The smell of sticky spilt beer and stale smoke invades your nostrils as you survey the rest of the bar.  Several high top tables are scattered haphazardly in the room that houses the main bar.  The adjoining room is larger, longer than it is wide, and it has more tables along a continuous wooden booth along the back wall.  More tables with barstools dot throughout the room, two TVs are questionably set up in the corners (you’d bet that they don’t work), and a ratty pool table is situated in the middle.  At the front of the room is Eddie with the band.  His back to you, guitar slung over his broad shoulders, hands flailing about wildly.  His bandmates are able to translate as they mill about the tiny makeshift stage that you’re pretty sure is just a bunch of 2x6s and plywood.  Hell, Eddie was probably the one to make it.

Steve breaks off from your group to grab sodas from the bar.  You all decided on the way over that you wouldn’t attract attention to yourselves at your inaugural visit to the Hideout.  You wanted to be able to return, especially if all went well tonight.

You and Robin claim a high top table near the back and you watch intently as Eddie finishes setting up.  Gareth and Jeff have taken their places opposite each other on Eddie’s flanks, and Grant’s drum set is crammed along the back of the platform.  You incline your head curiously as you notice a small keyboard on a wobbly stand next to Grant.  You hadn’t noticed that at practice last night.

You turn to say something to Robin when Steve arrives hurriedly at the table, precariously balancing the pint glasses in his hands before nearly dropping them on the table.  He seats himself next to you, sliding your drink in front of you.

“I made sure the bartender washed the glasses before he put anything in them,” Steve says with a frown.

Robin mutters, “Of course you did,” before taking a drink.  You won’t tell him, but you’re sort of grateful he did.

Whining feedback startles all three of your attentions to the stage, where you find Eddie’s intense brown eyes already on you.  A Cheshire-cat like grin sweeps across his face as he locks his gaze with you, and he loudly addresses the crowd.

Well, he addresses you three and the four other patrons at the bar.

“We’re Corroded Coffin, and we’d like to welcome some new faces with us tonight,” he nods toward your table.  “Are you all ready to rock?!”

Steve groans at Eddie’s antics, and you elbow him sharply in his side.  He tosses a charming smile your way, feigning annoyance. 

The familiar chords of Metallica’s Ride the Lightning blare from the amplifiers and Steve jolts at your side.  “Oh, my god, it’s so loud!” he leans in close to yell over the music.  “I think my ears are bleeding!”

You nudge him harder and take a sip of your soda.  “Stop and just wait for the ABBA.”

Steve guffaws and elbows you back, and you can’t help but feel the fluttering of nerves in anticipation of the band’s set list.  It’s not like they’re playing at the Garden, but they might as well be with how your palms have gone clammy as you watch Eddie slay the particularly complicated chords of the song.

Robin leans in to speak, and you mirror her to meet her halfway.  “Um, Mayfield, they’re actually really good.”

“Right?!” you nod in agreement.  Robin’s choppy locks are swaying back and forth as she bobs her head to the rhythm.  You start to relax a bit. 

The Hideout is treated to two more heavy metal songs, one you recognize as a Dio song (but you’re unsure of the name) and one that you’ve never heard before.  Eddie’s gritty voice finishes the song with a flourish, and he harmonizes with Gareth before Grant slams on the drums for the finale.  You clap loudly as the song ends, and Eddie inclines his chin toward you with a smirk.  His hair is plastered to his head in stringy, sweaty strands, barely held in place by his rolled black bandana.  His chest heaves with the exertion of their performance so far, and the silence that hangs as the chords fade makes you nervous that maybe they won’t play Nightmare after all.

The corners of your mouth turn down just slightly, and you don’t notice as Grant takes an adapter and plugs it in to the small Casio keyboard.  Eddie’s lips meet the microphone and he calls your attention back to him on stage.

“We have one final song for you guys tonight.  It’s an original song, written by the wickedly lovely siren in the little red skirt you see sitting at that table right over there.”  He points his index and middle fingers at you and curls a crooked grin as he appreciates your cheeks flush from the attention. 

Not that anyone but Steve and Robin were paying attention, but you don’t care about that right now.  Your wide eyes are locked on Eddie’s as your heart hammers in your chest.

This is it.

“This one's called Nightmare. Enjoy it, you assholes!”

Robin cackles.  “I think I might like him,” she states, leaning back slightly to catch your gaze with a wry smile.

All at once, the song begins, but it’s different this time.  You see Jeff on the Casio, playing those same haunting lullaby-like notes from before, but they sound so much more intense and sinister coming from the keyboard.  Your mouth drops open at the change; you absolutely love it.  Robin grins and reaches a finger over to your chin to push your open mouth back closed.  You bite your lip and giggle.

Eddie only has eyes for you and your reactions as he and Gareth begin the malevolent guitar intro that mirrors the lullaby.  You hear Robin gasps an "Oh!" and you can’t help the smile that curls on your lips.  Eddie looks staggeringly wicked as his raspy voice screams into the microphone,

Nightmaaare!

Gareth and Jeff are quick to reply with background vocals, Now your nightmare comes to life

Dragged you down below, down to the devil’s show To be his guest forever, Peace of mind is less than never Hate to twist your mind, but God ain't on your side An old acquaintance severed, Burn the world your last endeavor

The tempo increases just slightly and Eddie’s lips curl around the microphone as he grits, Flesh is burning, you can smell it in the air 'Cause men like you have such an easy soul to steal, steal So stand in line while they ink numbers in your head You're now a slave until the end of time here Nothing stops the madness turning! Haunting, yearning, pull the trigger!

Steve’s mouth is gaping as Eddie and Gareth harmonize the chorus.  The familiar melody has you humming along, another round and you’ll be able to sing along.  The very thought of that makes your senses tingle.  This is real, now.  It’s actually real.

You should've known the price of evil And it hurts to know that you belong here, yeah Ooh… Eddie’s grin is positively manic as he shakes his head to punctuate the hook: It's your FUCKIN’ nightmare!

The breathy yelp you let out is as involuntary as the goosebumps that spread from your arms to your toes.  Eddie seems to wait a fraction of a second to gauge your reaction while Jeff and Gareth chant their background vocals,

While your nightmare comes to life Your wide, genuine smile tells him all as you mouth, YES!

Eddie, like the menace that he is, fucking chuckles into the microphone before launching into the second verse, Can't wake up in sweat, 'cause it ain't over yet Still dancin' with your demons, victim of your own creation Beyond the will to fight, where all that's wrong is right Where hate don't need a reason, loathing self-assassination You've been lied to just to rape you of your sight And now they have the nerve to tell you how to feel, feel So sedated as they medicate your brain And while you slowly go insane they tell you Given with the best intentions! Help you with your complications!

You’re up out of your chair now, right hand open and punching the air in time as you sing along with the chorus,

You should've known the price of evil And it hurts to know that you belong here, yeah No one to call, everybody to fear Your tragic fate is looking so clear, yeah Oooh,

It’s your fuckin’ nightmare!

Eddie closes his eyes and launches into the guitar solo, and Robin finds your hand, her eyes wild with emotion.  “Oh, I—you wrote this, Mayfield?”

You nod, biting your lip.

You look to Steve, whose eyes are wide as saucers and he blinks a couple of times before throwing his arm around your shoulders and pulls you briefly into a side-hug. “I’m not sure what they’re saying half the time, but that chorus…”

A frenzied bubble of glee bursts from your lips, and Robin stutters, tripping over her words.  “It’s so real,” she scream whispers, and gives your hand a squeeze.  You hold tight to her as the band begins the bridge.

Fight!  Fight!  Not to fail!  Fail!  Not to fall, fall Or you'll end up like the others Die!  Die!  Die again!  Die!  Drenched in sin, sin With no respect for another Oh

Eddie’s wicked smile is back as he tosses his head, the messy mane of curls flying around him as he finishes a complicated guitar riff, and he growls his favorite four lines, Down! Down!  Feel the fire! Fire!  Feel the hate, hate Your pain is what we desire Lost!  Lost!  Hit the wall!  Wall!  Watch you crawl, crawl Such a replaceable liar

You hear Robin gasp again, and you’re about to squeeze her hand that you’re still holding, when you notice an abrupt change in pitch, tone and tempo of the song that was not there yesterday.

Eddie is singing directly, and only, to you.  You’re lost in his beautiful obsidian eyes as his grainy voice transforms to something hauntingly soulful, more melodic; and it positively roots you to the spot.

Your hand grips Robin’s like a vise.

And I know you hear their voices, calling from above And I know they may seem real, these signals of love But our life's made up of choices, some without appeal

Your bottom lip trembles slightly with the overwhelming weight of the words of Eddie’s surprise lyrics.  It abruptly pierces your resolve and you’re dangerously close to breaking, especially as Eddie croons the next line, They took for granted your soul

God, who is this man in front of you?  How does he know what secrets lie deep within you like this?

And, then, the maniacal smirk is back as his gravelly voice returns as he tells you, And it's ours now to steal As your nightmare comes to life

You half gasp, half cackle at his choice of words. 

He’s right; only you think your already soul’s been stolen, transaction complete, ownership transferring from the real and imagined horrors of the Upside Down to the front man of Corroded fucking Coffin.  Who could have known?

Even Robin is up with you, body swaying with yours as the familiar words of the chorus leave your lips,

You should've known the price of evil And it hurts to know that you belong here, yeah No one to call, everybody to fear Your tragic fate is looking so clear, yeah Oooh,

It’s your fuckin’ nightmare!

The reverberations of the amplifiers ring around the grimy walls of the bar for a few moments before Eddie quickly unplugs his guitar before slinging it over his back.  In an unnaturally athletic move, he jumps from the stage and crosses swiftly over to your table.  You’re already rounding it as he reaches you, and you fling yourself into his awaiting arms.  Your chest is heaving and you’re caught between laughing and crying, all of these long-repressed emotions boil to the surface and you’re forced to handle all of them at once.

Normally, this would send you spiraling.  Instead, you’re grounded in Eddie’s arms.  You’ll unpack that later, for sure; but for now, you cling to him, holding him tightly, trying to convey the level of your gratitude in the ferocity of your embrace. 

Eddie chuckles softly into your hair as one of his hands comes up to thread through your thick strands, securing your head against his chest.  “Did we do all right then, sweetheart?”

A thrill runs down your spine as you angle your face up at him.  “Fucking metal, Munson.”

The Beginning ✨

Next Chapter ➡️

“Miss Hawke will give you the details. I’m afraid this is all the time I have to speak until we’re in person. Goodbye, Daniel.”

“Uh, yeah, goodbye, sir.”

The line clicks off and Daniel immediately jumps out of bed, nearly throwing his phone across the room with his comforter. He pads around in his underwear, looking for his good pair of socks he’d kicked off last night. He’ll forget them if he has to. Christ, he hopes he has a clean suit. The closet thankfully provides one last hanger with the appropriate threads.

He finds his socks, sniffs them, shrugs and heads off toward the bathroom. “Siri, set a reminder for laundry tomorrow.”

The robotic voice chirps back a confirmation.

It’s been hard to keep on top of these things. He tries to stop by a laundromat every week, but every week has turned into two weeks and a new habit of acquainting air freshener with his cologne. At least he still showers regularly, that’s a sacrifice he isn’t willing to make. Besides, when you come home from work hard all the time, it’s easier to jizz down a drain than it is to have to change your sheets.

He thinks of Teresa and now he’s hard before work too.

What the hell is he reporting to her for—isn’t she, like, the person who picks up the mayor’s laundry? He laughs to himself as he steps into the hot stream of the shower. Maybe he should have her pick up his laundry too while she’s at it.

He’s gotten his routine down to a science now. Three minutes to wash himself, two and a half to brush his teeth and gargle, then five minutes to fix his hair and get dressed. By that time he’s hungry and he’ll eat whatever he can find, which is usually cold left over pizza or an apple that’s starting to go soft and gritty. Then it’s out the door to catch a cab.

Today, he finds he doesn’t have the time to cook or even eat because he took up his three minutes jerking off. He was only trying to save himself the embarrassment of a raging boner later when he has the displeasure of seeing Miss Hawke’s ass in whatever dress she’ll be teasing him in. He sighs and opens the front door.

Someone is standing there and it startles him so bad he yells, nearly slamming the door in their face.

“Jesus.” Teresa starts laughing. “That was the girliest scream I have ever heard.”

He doubles over, panting. “You—fuck me—you could have—holy shit.” He holds his chest so his heart doesn’t escape. “I think you just killed me.”

She steps inside, long bare legs stopping right in front of his face. “If that’s all it takes, I’m scared of what's gonna happen to you when I make good on my promise.”

He looks up at her, still slightly bent. “Well, you’ve stalled for so long now the anticipation has worn off. I think I’ll be fine.”

When he stands fully, she’s staring at him, clearly not thrilled with what he just said. Good. If she can make him sweat, two can play at that game. And shit, he wishes it were the truth, but nothing about the wait has changed how he feels. She’s right, if she ever finishes what she started, it’s gonna kill him. It’s gonna ruin him forever.

“Let’s go,” she says, and turns heel.

He can’t tell if it feels good or absolutely terrifying knowing he’s pissed her off. Either way, he’s a little scared of the consequences.

Once they’re in her car, the silence starts to worry him. He needs to ask about the new development in their working relationship but now all he can think about is possibly having fucked up the chance of ever getting his reward. He doesn’t deserve it anyway. Not now. Shit. He’s totally gone and done it again—opened his big fat mouth. What is the matter with him?

They both speak at the same time.

“You go first,” he says, hoping that gets him some points.

“I was going to ask if you’ve had breakfast.”

He swallows harshly. For some reason he feels ashamed to answer. “No.”

“You can’t work on an empty stomach,” she says simply and switches lanes. He starts to protest. They will be late because of him. “Fisk will understand.”

It doesn't matter whether that’s true or not, he decides to take her word for it. To trust her. Because he wants to be good for her and he’s starving, in more ways than one again.

They stop at a diner called Madge’s, close to City Hall, with a sign in the front window that shows support for Fisk in big red letters. He wonders if that’s why Teresa chose it until they’re inside and an elderly waitress by the register calls out to her by name.

“What’ll it be, hon? Table for two?”

“The bar’s fine, Madge,” Teresa says, taking Daniel’s sweaty hand and dragging him over to the red vinyl stools at the counter.

He pats his pockets before hopping onto the stool beside her. “I don’t have my wallet.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

He leans against the bar, shaking a hand through his hair, suddenly stabbed by anxiety. “I’ll pay you back. Just gimme your Cash App or whatever. I’m good for it.”

Her eyes are almost gray in this lighting and it makes her look much less severe. Almost soft. She reaches over to his hand on the counter and squeezes it. “It’s okay. I got it.”

“Seriously. I’m not totally broke.”

“I believe you.” She chuckles, furrowing her brow at him. “What’s the matter? You don’t want a sugar mama?”

He goes still and feels the sweat already beading around his shirt collar. The fabric seems to tighten uncomfortably and his pulse picks up, beating rapidly against the front button.

“Take a joke, Mr. Blake.” Her eyes go wide in concern when he just gulps at her. “Look, I offered so I’m paying. You can take me out to dinner if you want.”

He relaxes a little at the flirtation in her suggestion but his nerves don’t quite settle. Why is he freaking out? Jesus, it’s fuckin’ hot in here. He feels disgusting and self conscious and pathetic. There’s no way he deserves to be here with her right now. The waitress comes over and he swears she can see how out of his league Teresa is. Hell, he probably looks like her little brother or something.

“What can I get for you two?”

“Joe’s Breakfast Platter,” Teresa answers. “And coffee.”

They both look at him. “Uh, same as her.” He waits for the waitress to leave and shrugs nervously. “I’ve never been here before.”

She smiles. “Hope you like hot sauce on your eggs.”

“I can dig hot sauce on my eggs.”

They exchange a look—one that seems like an inside joke or an expression they’ve could’ve shared a thousand times in another life. It feels theirs. The very first mundane interaction that feels purely him and her. It calms him instantly. This could be it. This could be the beginning of something more, and oddly, it soothes him more than it scares him.

Madge brings their platters a few minutes later and he inspects them. Eggs with hot sauce, as mentioned, fill most of the plate while the rest is covered with toast, bacon, avocado and a fruit cup. He’s never been as hungry as he is at this moment. He pops a bite into his mouth and closes his eyes, savoring the kick of spices. “Okay, I can really dig hot sauce on my eggs.”

Teresa fixes her coffee with two creams and three sugars. “I wonder what else I could get you to try,” she says almost entirely to herself but the meaning is loud and clear.

He wants to tell her that she could get him to do anything but thinks better of it. They’re starting to be normal outside of whatever sexual back and forth they have going on. He’d like to keep things friendly, he likes the way it feels just as much as when she’s touching him. And it excites him to think they could have both.

“Fisk called me this morning. He said I’m reporting to you now.” He decides to get to the bottom of this new development instead of focusing on how beautiful she is and how badly he’s starting to need her. “I guess I just don’t really know what that means,” he continues around a bite of toast.

“Well, I’ll be training you, so it’s not really a report. I’ll be observing how well you’re doing and then I’ll be the one reporting to Fisk.”

His heart thumps a little harder at that. “Training me how?”

“Have you ever used a gun?”

He whips his head to look at her. “What?”

“Have you?”

“No . . . I thought you were his errand girl or whatever.”

She smiles. “I’ve done a lot of jobs for the mayor, Daniel. Not just errands. Back when I was a freshman in college, my brother got me a job washing Fisk’s fancy cars. He had a garage full. I mean ten or fifteen. Way too expensive for me to have been touching. But I got really good at detailing.”

Daniel laughs softly. He likes when she tries to be funny.

“Then I was doing deliveries and other things. He likes having someone permanent he can trust, someone loyal. I loved being part of that. My brother loved it.” She looks off, an unreadable emotion in her face. “But some of it can be dangerous, you said so yourself. That’s why I’ll show you how to shoot and you won’t have to worry when it comes to protecting what you care about.”

He doesn’t quite know what he’s feeling except for this weird swelling in his chest. “Was this his idea?”

“It was a mutual agreement.”

That doesn’t answer his question but he’ll settle. She sips her coffee slowly and watches him. What is she looking for?

“I was like you once. Just starting. I’ve done every job you can think of for Fisk.”

Every job? He hates his perverted pea sized brain because it immediately goes in the gutter. There’s a bad taste in his mouth as he imagines her bent over the mayor's desk. He hopes and prays she doesn’t mean any kind of sexual job but he can’t help thinking of it. And then for whatever reason, he thinks of her and Buck, and that makes him red hot with rage.

He takes a sip of his coffee and tries to hold on to the feeling of interest it brings him to know he could get to where she is, that she’s going to help him do it. And he clings to the idea that they’re alike in some way.

“So will you let me?” she asks, smiling sweetly. “Teach you to shoot.”

“Totally. That’d be cool.”

They finish their meal and even though it makes Daniel feel like less of a man, Teresa pays. Then they leave and he has too much on his mind the rest of their ride to speak. She doesn’t seem to mind and puts the radio on softly, humming along to some song he doesn’t recognize. It soothes him, stopping him from thinking about too many questions or unknowns in this whole thing. He listens to her voice like the ticking of a metronome and almost falls asleep in her passenger seat before they arrive.

Once they’re stopped for good, he yawns and straightens to look at her. She’s so damn beautiful. How did he get so lucky? And unlucky. He has no idea how the hell he's gonna manage this. He wants to be Fisk’s guy, to succeed, and make a name for himself, but Teresa is distracting. What if he wants her more?

“Can I see your phone?” She holds out her hand as if there’s no other answer to be had than yes. He complies and hands it over after unlocking it. She does something, typing, and then stops. “Why is there porn open on your browser?”

“What!” He snatches his phone back.

“I’m kidding.” She laughs, playfully tapping his arm. “I was putting my number in, dipshit.”

She really is going to be the death of him.

Teresa can hear Fisk’s voice rising even beyond the door to his office. She stands in front of it, almost as a guard, knowing he’d hate for anyone else to be snooping on his private conversation. But he’s louder than he thinks, and anyone walking by could hear now. Luckily, it’s only her alone in the hallway.

She enters abruptly, because she’s tired of eavesdropping and would rather be in on it directly. The mayor and Buck both shoot daggers at her the second she enters unannounced.

“Sorry. I must be interrupting,” she says.

“Yes, you are,” Fisk grits, looking back out the window.

“I’ll be quick then. I wanted to be sure I wasn’t overstepping if I take Daniel to the range later. It won’t take long.”

Buck shakes his head with a quiet laugh. “This couldn’t have waited?”

Fisk stands to his full six-foot-four and adjusts his suit. “Yes, that’s fine, Teresa.”

There’s a ticking in her jaw that she can’t tame. She knows she heard the faint name dropping—Daredevil is back—and she’s being left out of the loop purposefully because of a stupid promise to her brother. One she feels pretty confident never really took place. Not that she cares about some vigilante in a red suit anyway, but it’s important to him. The great Wilson Fisk, Mayor of New York. The man she’s given up normal life for. The man she’s starting to question. The man she’s starting to loathe.

Her interests have begun to shift and now a new target of priority forms as her scope falls on herself—the only person she’s never put first. Maybe it’s time she spoke up.

“Sir, I mean no disrespect when I say this,” she starts and waits for him to look her in the eye. He does quickly, already full of anger and curiosity at how far she’s going to go. “I hope you haven’t forgotten where I stood when you first discovered the devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Because I would be by your side again if you needed me there.”

He breathes deeply for a moment, dark eyes penetrating her weakening armor. Then with no reaction he says, “You both are dismissed.”

Without another word, she turns on her heel and strides out the door. Buck follows, nearly having to jog to catch up with her. She doesn’t understand why exactly but she’s running. It’s something she hasn’t done since she was a child. She has to get as far away from Fisk as possible and fast.

Buck meets her at the elevator and his eyes bore into her as she presses the button over and over. “Don’t be upset you’ve lost your notch on the totem pole,” he says, accent increasingly irritating with every word. “You’ll always be his special little Teresa Wesley.”

The elevator doors open and she rushes inside, elbowing him out of the way so he can’t follow. All she hears is his shocked laughter and the blood pumping in her ears as the doors clang shut.

“What if I don’t want to learn to shoot?”

James stops cleaning his gun for a moment to look at her. His glasses have fallen down his nose a bit and she giggles a bit triumphantly at that. He normally looks so put together but every time she’s with him for longer than ten minutes, she wears him to shreds. It’s the one personal joy she has.

“This is how I protect you. So you can quit whining now.” He reassembles his glock and it echoes in the cement storage room. “You’re going to have to get used to how I do things. You’re my responsibility now and what I say goes.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She rolls her eyes and leans back against the metal chair. “So I’ll learn how to shoot. Doesn’t mean I have to be exactly like you.”

“Better me than our father.”

“I could go to fashion school, you know. Or art. Or music. Oh, I forgot, you don’t like music.”

He laughs tightly. “That’s what I mean. You’re too much like our father for your own good. He was a dreamer. Reckless. That’s how you got here. I’m not going to let you waste your time.”

She hates when he brings up their shared blood. Mr. Wesley was never her father, she didn’t even know him. She had a dad once and James took her away from him.

But fine. He can say whatever he wants to because she’s still going to college. And she’ll do whatever she wants. In fact, she’ll start a band. A rock band. She’ll do everything under the sun to rebel against his rigid ways. Hell, she’ll start feeding the homeless. See how he likes that.

“Teresa,” he says irritably. “Do what I’ve shown you.”

She takes the gun and snaps the pieces back together with as much efficiency as him. She will admit she’s gotten pretty good at it.

“Good. Load it.”

She does.

“Again.”

In the quiet, she does as her brother says, over and over until the callusses on her fingertips have been rubbed raw. She wants to go home but there's no home to go back to anymore. This is it. James and this horrible, stuffy room. It doesn’t matter that he gives an allowance or nice things. Nothing feels hers.

“I could just go live with my mom,” she whispers to herself but loud enough for James to hear. It’s been a while since they’ve fought. Maybe she’s asking for it. Maybe she wants to scream and cry.

He cocks his head. “Ah, yes. At the cemetery?” he mocks.

She looks up, chin quivering. She hates herself for it. This weakness, this hopelessness. “Wouldn’t it be easier for you if I was dead?”

“Likely, yes.” He adjusts his tie. “Load the gun again.”

Teresa spends the rest of the day licking her wounds. If there’s a shadowy corner of the room, she’s found it to hide in. There’s no way she can teach Daniel anything when she’s like this.

It happens every once in a while, when she’s forced to take a trip down memory lane. Her mood turns sour and there’s no fixing it until it wears itself out. James never apologized for what he said when she was sixteen and still bright eyed. She sometimes wonders if it was him who made her cold or if she’s only a byproduct of the generations before her—borderline psychopathic and unworthy of love.

She feels that degenerate trait rear its ugly head when she’s on her way to the mayor's office only to find the one and only BB Urich leaving it. There’s a ridiculous and unreasonable anger she has toward her after what she did to Daniel. For almost getting him fired or unintentionally worse. She doesn’t actually wish harm on the poor girl, she wants Daniel to have friends, even if this is the one he chooses. But that ticking in her jaw hasn’t left all day and the unbalanced side of her is seeing threats where there are none.

When their eyes meet, BB looks away, rushing to get out of there. What the hell did Fisk say to her? Another wave of anger, and now jealousy, washes through her. How can he talk to her and not me? she thinks, blindly hurt.

She pushes open the door and stomps inside, ready to finally have it out with the big man. But he’s not at all who she finds.

“Is that what you’re doing? Thought you had a more important job.”

He smiles. When another waiter passes, he grabs the glass from her hand and replaces it with a fresh one from the tray.

“It would be nice to be reminded there’s actually a person in that beautiful shell, Miss Hawke,” he says, but there doesn’t seem to be any intention behind it. More of an observation. Doesn’t he realize the same could go for him?

Before she can think of a smart reply, he takes off, turning only for a second to wink over his shoulder then disappears into the crowd.

Before the campaign, everything was different. The parts they played, the familiarity of their relationship. Now she’s Miss Hawke instead of Teresa and she’s had to get used to sirs and ma’ams and the whole script of the thing. It’s exhausting.

The room seems to shrink on her and her legs become restless, unrooted. On the opposite corner of the room there’s an exit, so she makes her way toward it quickly. It will be easy for her to slip out if she wants to but she’s not ready to make a break for it just yet. She’s still waiting on someone.

Vanessa finds her next. She’s wearing the dark green gown Teresa picked out and it looks excellent on her. There is no wonder why the mayor is head over heels for the gorgeous brunette. Vanessa is beautiful in a classic, regal way. A way that makes Teresa feel inadequate in comparison.

“I’m so happy you could come,” she says in her smooth accent. “Are the earrings too bold?”

Teresa laughs. “I’m sure you could wear a trash bag, Mrs. Fisk, and still look just as stunning.” There’s that awful, plastic script again. It’s Mrs. Fisk, when she used to be simply Vanessa.

“You flatter me.”

“It’s well deserved.”

Vanessa links her arm around Teresa’s and takes her across the room, toward the mayor. “For our next adventure to the boutique, I think you should pick something out for yourself.” She looks her up and down. Teresa’s wearing one of her work dresses. It’s black, peplum style, from Macy’s. Nothing special. “I, of course, will still want your help with my own dress. But I think you would look wonderful in something designer.”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs.

“My treat.” Vanessa looks at her under her lashes, batting them promisingly. At least someone is still treating her like old times.

Teresa laughs. “I couldn’t.”

“I’m offering!”

They reach Mayor Fisk and Vanessa trades Teresa’s arm for his. “Wilson, wouldn’t Miss Hawke look lovely in Hermés for the inaugural ball?”

“Hm? Yes, of course,” he gruffs, distracted.

Heat comes to Teresa’s cheeks, no doubt turning them pink. She hopes her makeup is truly as full coverage as advertised. Being the center of attention has never been a good feeling for her, no matter if Fisk is just agreeing to agree with his wife. She already longs to sink back into the shadowy corners and observe the party from there. But she doesn’t want to be rude, so she follows her employers through the room, smiling politely when people glance at her, but she’s purely decorative at this point, making no effort to be a salesman for Fisk’s passion project.

They’re about to make their way into another room full of money bags, as Buck called them, when the person she’s been waiting for arrives with the aforementioned right-hand man.

Daniel ruffles his hair then slicks it back as he strides toward them on a heavy step. He looks pale. Something is wrong, she can tell immediately and everything in her wants to go to him. It’s out of character, strange and wildly inappropriate but it’s consuming, eating her whole. She wants to ask if something has happened but Buck shoulder checks her as he passes, jostling her out of the way.

Mayor Fisk turns as if shocked by the hand on his shoulder. And for some odd reason, Buck looks to Daniel to provide the answer.

“There’s something you need to see,” he says, and bows his head.

Teresa’s pulse spikes. No . . . Did he do something else? Did he fuck up again so soon? Is this the mistake that unleashes what Fisk is truly capable of? Her heart leaps into her throat and she can’t breathe. Please, not him.

“Daniel,” she bursts, and they meet eyes.

Fisk puts a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll return in a moment. Keep Vanessa company, will you?”

Air expels from her lungs with the compliant answer she’s used to. “Yes, sir.”

In the shadowy cab of the SUV, Daniel flips through disturbing pictures of the crime scene for Mayor Fisk on his tablet. This sicko serial killer has been painting murals with his victims blood and now it seems his art is mocking the police. Daniel’s stomach churns as each photo reveals more detail.

Two women lie slumped against a brick, gore-graffitied wall, with their eyes gone. And for some weird reason, he thinks of the club and Teresa in that silver dress. He thinks of her being left like garbage as a message for the cops or the mayor. The image in his head is horrible—her lying there, covered in red, her beautiful glacier-blue eyes gouged out.

He looks away from the screen. The thoughts scare him. The pictures make him want to vomit. If this is part of his job then he’s starting to question it. Even more so when Fisk speaks.

“We can use this.”

Teresa follows Vanessa around until her feet start to hurt inside her heels. She forgot this pair always rubs the back of her ankle raw. Doesn’t matter either way though, her body is on high alert. Besides being overstimulated from conversation and the cheap fabric of her dress, whatever is going on with Daniel concerns her.

Thankfully it doesn’t take them hours to return to the party because she would have resorted to heavy contemplation and what-if-spirals. But it doesn’t make her feel better that when she sees him coming down the hall, Daniel is paler than before.

The mayor takes his wife back on his arm and Buck eventually minds his business so Teresa takes the moment to grab Daniel by the arm and lead him away.

“Where are we going?” he asks, but his voice is off, not excited like he might be if his head was in the place it usually is.

She doesn’t answer, dragging him down the hall until she finds a utility closet, opening the door swiftly. It isn’t only so they can talk in private, she needs the quiet to refocus. Electricity buzzes when she pulls the string for the hanging bulb light. Then she shuts them in together.

There’s a flicker in his eye beyond the questioning look he has stapled to his face. Ah, he is still thinking about their moment in her car. She has to ignore the fact that she promised him later because right now is not the time.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“Daniel.”

His shoulders slump under her demand. “You know how they’ve been finding bodies and stuff. Weird graffiti.”

She nods. “There’s a serial killer.”

“The feds sent some pictures of this guy's newest work.” He swallows hard, grimacing like he’s remembering them now. “I don’t know what it was about it. Like, I’ve seen some shit. I just . . . What if it was someone I knew, you know?”

He looks so defeated, which is an odd thing to be in this situation. She expects disgust or horror, and there's some of that too, but defeat is new. Maybe he’s thinking about whether or not he's capable of saving people. His sad brown eyes stick her straight in the heart.

There’s nothing to do then but hold him. She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him against her slow and soft. It takes him a second to calibrate before his hands slide hesitantly over her hips and around her lower back.

“No one should have to see that.” She reaches up and pets the back of his head. “I’m sorry you did.”

He sighs like she let out a pin that was holding in all his tension and he relaxes against her. “I can’t imagine if something like that happened to you.”

His words honestly shake her. Because this isn’t some dumb, horny kid being sorry to see her go for the simple reason that he hasn’t had his penis in her yet. It’s different. He sounds . . . She has no idea. No one has ever said that to her before. Maybe he has the same sick worry that she does about him. That something could happen and she’d realize too late what it actually meant having him in her life.

Something is happening between them.

No. It’s too early to make that call.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says, comforting him anyway. “Promise.”

Daniel pulls away like she bit him and her arms fall to her sides. “You can’t promise something like that. I’m starting to notice this job is more dangerous than I thought it’d be. That there is way more to it, working for Fisk. And if you get in the middle of something and you . . .” He can’t say it and she doesn’t make him.

The pictures he saw must’ve really rattled him. Normally she’d tease him about it, make him feel like he’s silly for worrying, but he’s starting to catch on. And Fisk is starting to let him in on things.

“I dunno,” he continues. “Maybe I’m whipped. Maybe I care about you. Either way, if something happened to you, I’d be crushed. You know . . .”

Her body feels a thousand degrees and ice cold at the same time. She shivers, reaching back out to touch him, and until she gets ahold of his shoulders again, she isn’t sure if it’s to ground herself or to comfort him. This time he surges forward to meet her, wrapping his thick arms around her waist.

He nuzzles into her neck, lips wet against her skin. “I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”

“We don’t have to,” she whispers, trying to control her impulses.

“I don’t wanna think.”

When he pulls away to look at her, his eyes are half-lidded. The look that signals what he’s about to do. His hand goes for her face, and before he’s even gotten there, he’s leaning in with his eyes closed.

She seizes his throat and his eyes shoot open. “Ask me nicely first.”

He gasps unevenly. “May I . . . kiss you?” She holds his stare. At least he’s proper, but she’s waiting for the word that sounds so pretty from his mouth. And like sweet perfection, he doesn’t waste a second. “Please,” he breathes out, desperately.

Hesitantly, she moves forward, allowing herself the satisfaction of feeling for the first time in a long time. Lets herself press into him, seeking warmth and the weight of another body against hers. It’s almost too much.

They move into each other slowly, arms tangling and untangling until they’re slotted together without room for a thing between them. She brushes her lips against his mouth, testing, teasing, sending tingles down her own body as well as his. She feels the way he shivers.

Her belly tightens. It’s been too damn long since she’s felt someone wanting her like this. His hips shift, seeking the juncture of her legs but the skirt of her dress restricts him and they both let out a frustrated sound at that.

“Kiss me,” she says, fingers in his hair, tugging.

Daniel moans into it, his mouth engulfing hers. It’s messy and intense and she is driven to moaning herself as his tongue slides against hers. She puts a hand around his throat again and sucks his bottom lip as she pulls away to look at him.

His sleepy eyes dart everywhere he can look, panting hard, his cheeks and ears and neck all red from how bad he wants her.

The hand around his throat seems to have a mind of his own as it travels up to grip his chin. She sticks out her tongue to lick his lips and he does the same, chasing her as she retreats. Then she drops back into another kiss, open mouthed, wet, and hard.

His thick hands travel down her back to cup her ass. He pulls her against him, squeezing, and she can feel his hard cock pressed to her abdomen. She advances into the excitement. God, she could come undone right here. Her moan is broken as she rubs against him, eagerly pursuing the friction.

This has to stop but it feels too damn good.

She has to stop.

She has to.

He breaks free of her bruising kiss and nips at her jaw, following the underside until he’s settling into the curve of her neck, licking her sweat and sucking the skin. One of his hands slips between them, sliding up her thigh to knead gently. Her hips jerk at the sensation. He’s so close to touching her and she’d be done for if he did. She’s so wet, they could do it right here in the closet without a worry in the world.

His other hand comes up and paws at her breast, stroking her nipple through the thin fabric of her dress. Thank God it’s so cheap. Her head falls back. There’s no stopping herself from letting this one weak moan go.

“Oh, fuck,” Daniel groans, his breath coming out in a steady rhythm against the slick stripe he’s made up her neck. “Can I touch you? Please. Christ, I need to touch you.”

Damn it.

They have to stop. She really has to. She has to stop him now because if she doesn’t she’s going to let him do exactly what he’s asking.

“We can’t do this here,” she says, out of breath, and already hating herself for it. For once she’d like to be reckless, to let him slip his fingers inside her and get her off.

He laughs awkwardly as he pulls back. “I didn’t think so.” His cheeks are still cute and pink from kissing and his slight humiliation. “Not that I wasn’t wishing,” he adds quietly.

She can’t hide her smile. “Next time we’re alone and in private, I swear I will give you what I’ve been promising. How about that?”

He gives her a hopeful look.

Her brain seems to turn back on and she realizes she’s making it too easy on him. “On one condition.”

He shakes his head, still dazed. “Totally.”

The stipulation is born of pure dominance and a ridiculous, baseless jealousy that she cannot let go on further. If it wasn’t enough dragging him into the closet, if it wasn’t enough showing him a different side of her, or putting her hands on him in that cab, then let it be known now that she is staking her claim.

“You have to stop letting Miss Urich take advantage of you,” she says in a whisper, in a voice he’s only heard when her hand is around his erection. Only she gets to take advantage.

He swallows. “Yeah. Yes. Already past that.”

“Are you sure?”

He nods, almost too eagerly. He wants his reward but that’s about the only motivation. She doesn’t expect he’ll drop contact altogether with BB, in fact she doesn’t want him to. He needs a friend his age. He needs someone outside of this circle he’s quickly falling into with Fisk. Teresa wants him to have that. But she wants to be sure that she’s the only place he comes when he wants . . . a reward.

“I want you to succeed,” she coos, combing his hair back and caressing his flushed face. “I want to see you become the man that Mayor Fisk thinks you can be. I already see it, Daniel. You’re gonna move up and it’ll be all because you owned your shit and because you’re so loyal.”

He listens intently, nodding like he’s claiming the words as subliminal affirmations.

She embraces him fully and his weight presses against her, heavy and warm, as if he’s sinking into the feeling. He sighs, lips on her throat. And the praise comes out of her unfiltered and raw. “You’re such a good boy.”

With a groan, he nuzzles into her neck. “I don’t wanna leave this closet.”

Neither does she. But she doesn’t give either of them the satisfaction of saying so. Instead, she pulls away and straightens his clothes like a mother would her son's first prom suit.

He chews his inner cheek. “I could come to your place later.”

She chuckles. He will have to take care of that tempting arousal all by himself. “You will go home, eat something moderately healthy, take a shower, and then get some sleep. Alright?”

He raises a brow. “Is that an order?”

“Yes, Daniel. That’s an order.”

Gracie Mansion is dark when Teresa finds Mayor Fisk in the dining room. He’d asked her to meet him and said they needed to talk after she got back to the party with Daniel. She worries that someone saw them leave the closet after their moment, there are eyes everywhere after all. And some of those eyes are set out to destroy what Fisk is building.

“You wanted to see me,” she says, hands clasped in front of her as she makes her way down alongside the table toward him at the head.

“Yes,” he says, no indication of what about.

She’s unable to read him and it scares her. Maybe she’s losing her touch, living on borrowed rest since the campaign began. Or maybe, more likely, she’s been distracted. Which is concerning. Normally she’s in tune with Fisk, she has been for a time longer than she can measure. Only recently has that connection started to slip.

“Have a seat.” He gestures to the chair and waits for her, folding his arms. Once she’s seated, he smiles gently but it doesn’t meet his eyes. “Vanessa told me earlier that she talked to you about a new wardrobe.”

This is what he wanted to see her about? The fact that he’s out growing his clothes? Vanessa was vague about it but with this newly assigned stylist gig, she supposes it's in the job description to dress him too. “Uh, yes, sir. I’ll look around and bring some catalogues for you to look at. Would you prefer I bring them here or the office?”

“Here,” he says simply.

“Of course.”

“And if you could schedule an appointment with a tailor . . . Someone we’ve worked with before.”

“Yes. I’ll check with Sheila first thing tomorrow to see when will be a good time.”

“Thank you, Teresa,” he says with a heavy sigh.

It turns out the fundraiser hadn’t gone as well as they’d all hoped. It seems Fisk is getting tired and a bit in over his head. It would be a lot for anybody but it’s a whole other world for someone like him. He isn’t used to not getting what he wants in his preferred time frame. Though, he’s never been one to back down. Neither has Teresa.

It’s felt lately that she’s been demoted entirely to the errand girl for clothing rather than an actual asset to Fisk’s empire. She’s been many things for him over the years but this has reduced her to near nothing. It pains her to feel so useless. “Sir,” she starts, cautiously. “I want to know what Daniel and Buck came to see you about.”

“It was nothing.”

“Wilson,” she says, using his name because she’s tired of the charades. It’s almost insulting having to call him sir or Mayor or even Fisk, when Wilson is what she called him for years before she worked for him, when she was a girl. “Please don’t edge me out.”

He softens only slightly. “It’s nothing for you to concern yourself with.”

“It’s about the killer. Muse.” She doesn’t miss the way he almost snarls, thinking someone has told her when they weren’t supposed to. And she supposes they did but she keeps Daniel’s name out of her mouth. “It’s the only thing I can think of that would make Buck so tense. And the poor Blake kid looked sick. I don’t understand why you don’t talk to me about these things anymore.”

He frowns. “Your brother would want you to be kept free from the burden of these things now that you can be.”

She almost laughs. That was never a problem when he tried to turn her into her brother after he died. So why start now? “I’m capable of handling things myself and you know that.”

When things had gone badly for Wilson, when he’d been imprisoned, Teresa was the one to follow Vanessa to Europe. It was thought that no one would suspect a female bodyguard—they could pose as friends on a trip and no one would bat an eye. Except Vanessa was never friendly then. She was hurt and lonely and they both missed Wilson so it wasn’t hard for Teresa to understand and let it go.

At one time or another, she’d been a friend to him. A confidant. She’d left an entire life behind to fill a hole the great James Wesley created when he got himself shot to death. He kept her to replace her brother, someone she could never live up to. There were others too but they always fell through. She was the only one who stayed. And maybe part of that was because Wilson was all she had left of James and she all Wilson had left. Their only true connection now is the grief her brother left behind.

“Your brother would want to see you safe. I have to honor that,” he says but it feels hollow. And untrue. “In this new life endeavor, I can secure that as a promise. You do not have to see the ugly side of things anymore.”

Her throat is tight but before she lets herself get emotional, she swallows it down and says, “It’s too hard for me. I can’t be nothing.”

“You are not nothing, Teresa. Not to me.” He reaches out and places a hand over hers where they’re clasped and resting on her knees. He seems to understand exactly what she means. Whether it’s because he knows her or because he himself misses the thrill of his old life. Yet she gets the strange urge to pull away. “What position would you have me put you in?”

It doesn’t seem like he wants her anywhere near fixing level, so she leaves that to Buck. Although there isn’t much else for her to do, that doesn’t involve some kind of risk. That’s when she thinks of the only thing that she’s been thinking about for days.

“I could mentor. I could mentor Daniel Blake. Make sure he’s not going off script.”

Her heart pounds and she hopes Fisk doesn’t question it. It’s much more than just her budding need to direct Daniel in every sense, to conquer, and attract or arouse him. It’s also the attachment forming, the one that has her scared of losing him to the ugly side of this job. If she can coach him, be his master for all intents and purposes, then she can stop what happened to her brother from happening to him. Which in many ways would be worse. Daniel is innocent.

“Mentoring someone is . . . not as easy as it seems.” Fisk leans back in his chair and sighs. “But I see the boy means something to you.” Of course he can tell. She waits with bated breath. “So . . . you want him?”

Her ability to read what he means by that is gone. She has no idea what he’s truly asking and the question feels loaded, like a gun, her answer being the thing that does or doesn’t pull his trigger. Maybe the answer is yes regardless of the meaning, but she decides to play things safe and reiterate where her loyalties lie. She knows better. “I can make him ours, sir.”

“Then you have my permission.”

"Long day?" you ask.

"Yeah. And there was a wreck just outside of town, traffic was backed up for miles," he sighs, lifting his head. If his grandma wasn't in the room, he'd probably be curled up in your lap by now. Instead, he looks at the cookie tin on the chair between you and Betty. "What are we lookin' at?"

"Old pictures," you smile, reaching for the tin and depositing it in his lap.

"Where'd these come from?"

"Found 'em in the hall closet," Betty says, rocking in her chair. "Someone enjoys my stories."

She winks at you, and you smile.

"Someone hasn't heard every single one twice a day since fuckin' birth," Joe grumbles.

"Someone better watch his mouth," she warns. "Or I'm going to put him over my knee."

Joe rolls his eyes and starts flipping through the pictures.

"That one's my favorite," you smile, resting your chin on his shoulder. It's Joe as a baby, all dressed up in a little sailor suit, arms crossed and face scrunched and clearly mad about it.

He groans in embarrassment and quickly moves on.

"Woah," he says, holding up a pin-up-quality picture of a woman in a swimsuit. "Who's the babe?"

"That's your grandma," you grin.

"Shut up," he scoffs.

"Betty," you call in reinforcements. "He doesn't believe me."

"Which one?" she asks, squinting toward the tin and looking for the picture in question.

Joe reluctantly holds it up and shows her, and she grins evilly.

"The babe is me, sweetheart," she says sweetly. "Before children ruined my body and my life."

Joe shudders and drops it back in the tin, leaning forward to deposit the whole thing on the coffee table. He's seen enough.

"Did you want me to recreate it?" she asks. "We can go shopping for a new bathing suit tomorrow if you want!"

"Oh my God," Joe groans, hiding his face in his hands.

"Honey, you'll help me try it on, right?" she smirks.

"Of course, Grandma Betty!" you grin.

"I can't take this anymore," Joe groans, getting up and shuffling toward the bathroom to take a shower.

"Don't you go gettin' all hot and bothered in there on my account!" Betty calls.

"OH MY GOD!" he yells, slamming the door behind him.

You and Betty cackle together.

You're still unpacking. You've been putting it off for over a week now, and you decided this morning that you needed to finish. You don't want any more cardboard in your dang house.

Your home, in North Carolina, which you share with the love of your life. Everything is several times bigger than the California apartment you'd spent the last several years in, and the rent is less. Decor is a little sparse at the moment, but you'll get around to that later.

Travis loves his new bedroom, and was delighted to find that Mac had already put up a bunk bed when he arrived. "For when Waylon comes to visit," he'd explained. You repaid him for this unexpected kindness by helping him break in the new mattress in the master bedroom. And the shower. And the dresser. And the walk-in closet.

You were really, really happy about starting your happily ever after.

Plus, you have a back yard, and a patio to sit on, and it's so quiet you can hear crickets and frogs at night. You love it here.

You finally get to the door, and open it to reveal a tiny woman with big hair in a tight floral dress.

"HI!" she beams. "I'm Dallas! I know our official appointment's not until next week, but I was in the neighborhood, and I just had to meet you! Gosh, you're just the prettiest little thing. Derrick's a lucky man!"

"…our appointment?" you ask, having no idea who this woman is or why she's here or what's in the folder tucked under her arm.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she laughs. "I'm Jason's wife, the wedding planner!"

You remember a mention of a Jason somewhere on the base, but… wait, wedding planner?!

"Oh," you smile and nod, like you were even a little bit prepared for this. Right. Manners. "Nice to meet you! Uh, would you like to come in?"

"I can only stay a minute," she informs you, marching past in her impossibly high heels that match the flowers on her dress perfectly. She makes a beeline for the sofa. She's wearing expensive perfume that isn't completely horrible.

"Would you like something to drink? We have water, soda, lemonade…"

"Lemonade sounds amazing!" she says, unpacking a bunch of papers from her folder and lining them up on the coffee table.

You hesitate for a second, watching in horror, and then turn and scurry toward the kitchen. Travis stands just inside his bedroom, out of her sight, with a puzzled look on his face. You shrug and proceed to the kitchen, where you pour her a glass of lemonade.

"Thank you!" she smiles a little too widely when you place the glass on a coaster within her reach. "Is it fresh-squeezed?"

It's Kool-Aid, but there's no way you're telling her that.

"I haven't had time to unpack all of my kitchen gadgets yet," you reply apologetically. It's not a lie.

"That's alright," she smiles, taking an obligatory sip. "Yum! So I'm not going to get into any specifics today, I just wanted to meet you and give you a few things to think about before we officially kick things into gear. Do you have a theme in mind?"

Is not marriage the theme of a wedding?

"No," you say quietly.

"That's alright, there are endless options that we can explore later! Have you given any thought to the guest list?"

You know two people in this state, and you'd like them both to be there.

"Not really," you answer.

"Derrick implied that you wanted a small wedding, is that right?"

"Yes," you answer, quickly this time.

"Good! So we're thinking of a guest list around fifty?"

"Fifty?!" you ask, a little too loudly.

"A small wedding is typically around fifty guests," she says, shuffling papers like she's unbothered by your outburst. "The last wedding I planned went all out, and there were over two hundred!"

Two hundred guests at a wedding? You're going to pass out. Don't ask. Do not ask.

"Just out of curiosity, what might an over-two-hundred guest wedding cost?"

You weren't supposed to ask, dammit.

She stops shuffling papers and smiles at you in a way that makes your hair stand up.

"Larger weddings tend to run between $100k and $300k, depending on the choices of the bride and groom."

Yeah, you're gonna pass out.

"Which brings us to our budget! Did you have a number in mind?"

What is the current price of a marriage license in this state, you wonder?

"Uh… we haven't talked about that yet."

"That's alright, I know your man's making the big bucks now that he's just moved up a rank." She winks, and you do your best not to recoil. "For a small wedding with about fifty guests, you can expect to spend between $10k and $50k, depending on your choices."

You nod like you're not screaming inside.

"Now, I can't stay long," she reminds you, and it comes with relief. The pleasantness of that first whiff of perfume has passed. Now it smells sour, and it's getting harder to breathe. You'd like her to finish up and move on so you can go scream into a pillow. "But I wanted to drop off some papers. This is a list of decisions you'll have to make; themes and colors and whatnot. This one is a checklist of all the things you'll have to do before the big day; this one's more fun, as it's about shopping and invitations. This is my contract, which we'll all sign at the end of our first meeting next week. And this is my business card! Call or text me any time, day or night, and I'll be there!"

You nod, taking it all in.

"Okay," you eventually choke out through the cloud of perfume. "We'll look over everything tonight and talk about it."

"Great!" she says, standing and leaving a tree's worth of wedding nonsense on your coffee table. "It was so nice to meet you!"

"You too!" you lie, coming out of your shocked state and giving her the enthusiasm she requires. "Thank you for stopping by, you've given us lots to think about!"

"Of course!" she smiles, her dazzling white teeth catching the sun and nearly blinding you. "I'll see you soon!"

No, she won't.

"Have a great rest of your day!" you say instead.

"Thank you, honey! You too!"

She gets in her shiny Mercedes, waves, and backs out of your driveway.

You close the door and lean against it. And then go open a window.

"What was that?" Travis asks.

"A wedding planner," you answer, picking up the glass of lemonade she'd taken one sip from.

"A wedding planner?" he questions.

"Yup," you sigh, dumping it in the sink.

He gives you A Look.

"I know," you sigh again. "I'll talk to him tonight."

You can't avoid it any more. You have to talk to Mac about the wedding you don't really want to have.

You got through dinner without mentioning it.

You're sitting on the patio, watching the sun go down, next to Mac. The love of your life. Your fiancé. The man you want to spend the rest of your life with. Who, somehow, you cannot figure out how to discuss the wedding with.

"So…" You blow out a long, slow breath. "I met Dallas today."

"Shit," he says quickly, angling himself to face you on the little loveseat that the previous owners left behind. There's panic in his eyes. "Look, I didn't send her. I happened to mention that my fiancée was finally here, and one of the guys mentioned that his wife was a wedding planner, and I said cool, and he asked for contact info, and I maybe agreed that we'd go to dinner with them next week. But it was supposed to be just a feeling-out-this-thing mission. I didn't know she was just gonna show up."

You respond to his frantic rambling with a blink. His shoulders slump, and his head drops.

"So what I'm hearing is that we need to have a serious talk about a wedding."

"Fuck," he breathes. He looks up, eyes pleading.

"I know," you sigh. You both want this. Of course you want to marry your best friend and spend the rest of your lives together. But talking about the actual wedding part hasn't been easy. "I know you want a wedding. A real one, not just signing papers in the courthouse. Which, honestly, would be fine by me. But I'd like to know why."

"Why what?"

"Why do you want a big wedding, Mac?"

He stares blankly, and then the wheels start turning too fast. You reach for his hands, take them with a supportive squeeze, and he stares down at them.

"I wanted to do things right," he sighs. "I know you and Shawn didn't have a real wedding. I wanted you to have something good to remember this time. Because you deserve it."

All this is about Shawn?

"Shawn and I got married on paper, then he threw a big party to celebrate," you remember. "Invited everyone in the apartment building. I sat on the bedroom floor with my baby, keeping a blanket over his ears to protect him from the noise of the wedding reception I didn't attend."

Mac stares at you with pity in his eyes.

"Tell me about yours," you request.

His eyes fall to your hands again. He strokes the back of them with his thumbs.

"I married Annie in a church," he sighs. "Her church. Her and her mom planned everything. Place was full of people who'd known her all her life. Marrying some outsider with a crazy spinster mom who brought nothing but chaos to the ceremony. Felt like I didn't belong there."

"At your own wedding?" you ask, heart aching, when he stops talking. He nods.

"That one was cheap, at least," he sighs. "It was a potluck kind of deal, reception was at the church too. Church ladies can cook. Stephanie… she had other ideas. Everything had to be big, and shiny, and new. And I went right along with it, because I thought it would make her happy. Turns out, she slept with 6/8 groomsmen, and I was still paying off the wedding when I signed the divorce papers."

If you ever see her again, you're going to rip off all her fingernails and poke her eyes out with them.

Mac takes a deep breath and continues.

"And the third one was over before it hit the twenty-four hour mark," he sighs. "So clearly, I fucking suck at this. We can have whatever kind of wedding you want. I don't care."

"Yeah, you do," you sniffle. "This is as much of a do-over for you as it is for me."

Your eyes meet, and you hold his gaze. This is the last wedding either of you will ever have. You are going to have a loving, lasting marriage, and it's gonna start with a beautiful ceremony that you plan together.

"I love you," you breathe. "And I will marry you, any time, any place. This is our wedding, and you're right: we're gonna do it right this time. We're gonna make every decision together, and it's gonna be perfect for us."

"I don't even know where to start," Mac admits.

"She gave me some checklists," you sniffle again. "Hang on."

You go back inside and pull out the papers you'd hidden away in a drawer, bringing them back to him. He skims them, clearly as horrified as you were.

"You have to plan a year in advance?!" he finally asks, looking up at you. "We might not even be here in a year!"

"Which is why I propose that we fire our wedding planner and do everything ourselves," you smile.

"We can't fire her if we never hired her," he chuckles.

"Oh, she seems to think this is a done-deal," you inform him. "A small wedding, featuring about fifty guests, should run us between $10k and $50k, by the way. Depending on our choices."

Mac blinks.

"Depending on our choices," you repeat. "So, for example, I choose not to have a wedding planner."

He laughs.

"Look," you sigh, reaching for the year-long to-do list. You circle a few things. "This is the stuff we have to do. Officiant, marriage license, wedding bands. Mark three things you want in a wedding, and I'll do the same. We don't need all the bullshit, baby. We're not doing this for in-laws or Instagram. We're doing this for us. We get to pick what's important."

Mac leans over and kisses you, long and deep, then turns his attention to the checklist.

He circles a few things and hands it back to you.

You'll need a venue and a wedding dress.

"Just two?" you ask.

"Courthouse doesn't sound appealing to me," he shrugs.

"And a wedding dress?" you smile.

"I know that probably should've been one of yours," he sighs, shifting down in his seat so he prop his feet on the coffee table. It's the most relaxed he's looked since you started this conversation. "But I really, really want to see you in a wedding dress."

"Oh yeah?" you grin.

Mac nods.

You take the pen from him and add a cake and a day-of note.

"What's a day-of note?" he asks.

"I had to look it up," you laugh. You did. You spent most of your afternoon searching online for things on this list that you'd never even heard of. What the hell is a wedding stakeholder? Why would you need wedding insurance? How many damn photographers does one wedding need?!

"Well?" he prompts.

"You know how the bride and groom aren't supposed to see each other before the wedding?"

"Yeah."

"We'd write each other letters and open them that morning instead," you explain, angling yourself toward him and resting your elbow on the back of the loveseat. You wrote so many letters to each other while he was overseas, this would be a piece of cake. Which will be Travis's favorite part of the wedding.

Mac smiles. Is he getting misty?

"I thought we could do that instead of writing our own vows," you say gently, drifting your fingers through his close-cropped hair. "Takes the pressure off. Makes the ceremony go faster. Keeps things private."

"What needs to stay private?" Mac asks. "Everyone can see how much I love you."

"Yes, but do they need to hear that I promise to never stop smoking your pole like you smoked that cigar on my back porch?"

Mac, caught completely off guard during your serious discussion, lets out a high-pitched cackle and then falls into a fit of giggles. You laugh and wait for him to recover. He wipes away tears before he's done.

"Okay," he wheezes, "Private notes and standard vows. Sold."

"Yep," you grin. "So we need a location, an officiant, a marriage license, wedding bands, a dress, letters, and a cake. Anything else?"

"Just us," he says.

"And the kid," you grin.

"There's no one else you'd want to invite?"

"Mac, I know three people in this state, and I have to call one tomorrow and inform her that her services will not be needed."

He chuckles, but stares. It's unsettling.

"You don't want anybody else?" he asks. "Not relatives, or friends from back home, or Team Waylon?"

"Why, did you want to invite your mom?" you counter.

"Hell no," Mac scoffs. "She still doesn't know about #3."

"So your mother is going to think I'm your third wife?"

His spirits sink, as they often do when his mom is brought up.

"Don't worry," you whisper, leaning in to kiss his forehead. "I'm gonna be your last wife. That's all she needs to know."

"The Final Boss," he grins.

"Buckle up, buttercup," you tease. "You're not ever getting past me."

"Good," he breathes, coming in for a kiss.