But bloody roulettes and a sickening amount of brains and flesh scattered on the blackjack table with a man pressed against a card shuffler with his mouth deformed to widen vertically was certainly not one of them. For the most part I was right about the bodies, but it wasn't hanged or hidden, it was fresh.

There were about 25 bodies, I would say, counting the chopped up man near the soda fridge and the detached arm I'm assuming belonged to the headless man behind the counter table. The blood made the fancy tiles slippery, I wince as I look at the heel of my boot, fresh blood bubbling from the sides. The tiles were made to mimic a chess board. I did spot a chessboard on a table. Ironic how men who refuse to use their heads be interested in playing a strategy-based game.

Now that I mention it, the bodies are arranged in a peculiar way. I nudge the limbless man on the floor, bending down to get a good look at his suit. There was a patch embroidery of a pawn. I glance at the man behind the counter, he had a rook. If the room as a chessboard, the counter was on the far right side, the exact position of a rook. The man sitting on the swivel chair in front of the counter had a horse. I look at the far end of the room, noticing a man with knife on the skull and a joint on the hand. Walking up to take a closer look, this man had a 'King' on his suit. This dead bag was Nagi, the top dog my boss warned me about. I grab the keycard in his chest pocket and walk away. Whoever did this wasn't just deranged, they're hellishly good. Fair enough. Whoever sick fuck did this is a genius. On top of that, they made this task easier, only thing left to do was grab the money and run.

-

Spoiler: I did grab the money, but there was no running involved, more like driving a busted electric cargo trike with a stranger on the "passenger seat".

I'm pretty sure it would be perfectly fine had it been any other stranger. Not a hunk with a very, very obnoxiously loud mouth.

"You know, you're good at this. I would like to offer you words of hope but considering my lack thereof-" He looks behind at the two men in bloody suits wearing kitsune masks, wielding large hunting axes while running with the intention of battering us to death. I did recall seeing a bullseye with a man axed to the head somewhere in their playroom.

"I can only say good luck, darling." he tilts his head in a way that I'm guessing should be a gesture of optimism.

"A little help?" For all I know, this thing's about to crank up if I go any further.

"Not yet." He lifts up his leg and sets it on the trike railing.

"Are you fucking crazy? You murdered all those men and you can't even take out two?!"

"Okay, first of all, none of them had axes or asian-fetishisizing cat masks and I wasn't riding Gandhi's e-trike. Seriously, the molds on this thing is making my old nana's house look like a luxury penthouse."

I don't know if the men are going faster or if this thing we're riding is slowing down, but they're sure catching up, and their stance tells me to duck. fucking duck.

"DUCK! FUCKING DUCK!" The man beside me screams.

I lower my head on the steering wheel, subconsciously shutting my left eye tight in a state of panic. If an axe won't end me, a wheel popping off this thing will. I slowly open my eye.

So he meant, duck.

A flock of ducks are crossing the pedestrian lane with guidance of a traffic enforcer. I look up to see a bunch of cars with drivers yawning and sighing, sticking their head out the window as they spend the next 60 seconds watching feathered cuties cross the road. One of the motorists was getting impatient, it didn't look quite good for the final baby duckling. I look behind, the men were now steady, arms thrown back in preparation for a clean shot. It wasn't looking quite good for me and HellBoy over here.

"Shit, what-". He was gone.

Not really, he just stood up, walked up to the motorist and poked his helmet.

"You're fucking screaming at ducks! That's actually sick, man. Just because you're wearing blue doesn't mean you're an entitled lemonade man!"

The motorist crunches his eyebrows in confusion. You have to be sick in the head to pull this off. He looks around, ever driver had the same comically confused expression, almost like looney tunes characters.

"Got any grapes? No one? You all suck."

For the past few seconds I was convinced this didn't happen. I'm not sure if I should be convinced though.

A fruit. A fresh, ripe orange was thrown to the red boy at full speed. Now, guess what the motherfucker did.

He leapt on the railing of my trike, jump-kicked the fucking orange to the two himbos chasing us, and knocked the left kitsune guy clean. Right on the cerebrum.

In the truck driver's defense, I also would've had no idea that some stupid-looking guy on the road would use my fruit to put someone in a coma. I too, would throw an orange, then a pineapple.

I guess kitsune masks aren't the greatest protective headwear.

As the last 9 seconds start counting on the stoplight, he jumped in the cargo area. How is this thing still working after all that?

He extends his arms forward, as to say "Drive".

I've never gripped a tricycle this hard in my life before.

"The carousel at legoland probably moves faster than this piece of shit."

"Then you drive, you little-"

"WATCH OUT!"

Was that a fucking beer bottle?! Where the fuck do you even get a beer bottle? Thankfully, it hit the vehicle's license plate. I grip the handlebars like my life depends on it, because it actually does.

Suddenly, two gloved hands land over mine.

What the—?

He leans in from behind, body caging mine, chest pressed against my back. The rusty smell of the blood on his suit combined with the smell of actual rust in the handlebars is making you throw up.

“Move.” “I am moving!” “Then move faster!”

His grip tightens. I can feel every impatient twitch of his fingers through the handlebars, like he’s willing the tricycle to grow wings and fly. You look to the front.

So that's why he's so focused.

A pedestrian lane is about to be filled with a classroom's worth of people in 10 seconds. It's either we make it through this or leave these poor people traumatized.

5...

He takes one last look at the now-alone kitsune man still running. For fuck's sake, is this motherfucker not tired yet?

4...

3...

Holy shit, is he gonna run these people over?

2...

OK WE'RE NOT GONNA MAKE IT.

1.

Just as every uncoordinated green LED on the stoplight individually flickers to red, HellBoy rushes past in excruciatingly average speed (I would say lightning fast for the dramatic effect, but the government has told us enough lies already). I look back to check if the man is still running for our heads, only to be met with his wide chest.

"Already checking me out? Calm down, darling,"

He looks back to see the people pooling, the running man nowhere in sight.

"We have a lot of time for that later." You can hear him smirk in his words.

"Okay just to make this clear-" Before I can even finish, he suddenly swerves left into a narrow, grimy alleyway.

The alley was very narrow and dark, It looks like we're behind a school of some sort, with the dozens of windows aligned above. The claustrophobic feeling mixed with the smell of dry cement is making me queasy. The bumpy, uneven road didn't help either. He finally slows down, then stops completely, He jumps off the trike so carelessly it feels like the thing will break in half.

The red guy takes off his mask, breathing and blowing the hair off his face. Holy shit. Okay, he's hot and I would definitely bounce on that if only he wasn't carrying a bag with two billion dollars. MY two billion dollars (well, technically 70 million, my boss promised me I'd get a generous share as long as it's returned in full).

I stood up, facing him. "Okay, who the fuck are you?"

"Woah, not even a thank you? Because as far as I'm concerned I cut you some slack," His eyes widen as he tilts his head confrontationally. "For free."

"No-I mean," I sigh in annoyance, it's so hard to find the right words when a Greek god in the form of a murder-freak is looking at me with sultry eyes.

"What the fuck are you doing there? And why are those men dead? Because as far as I'm concerned this task was assigned to me. All ops are under highest confidentiality and The Black Eagle-I mean my boss didn't tell me that there would be someone else to back me up in this-"

"I'm sorry, the black what?"

"The Black Eagle, my boss wants us call him...well, the black eagle."

"That's pretty lame." He says, blowing a bubble gum. I didn't notice him chew one, I was so occupied by the questions I wanted to ask him. I roll my eyes. "You didn't answer my question." I tried my best to sound stern.

He pops the bubble, and stands straight.

"Let's start this again, shall we?" He extends his arm, offering a handshake. I was reluctant to even touch him. For all I know he could lift me and flip me over. It catches me off guard when he takes my free hand and shakes it.

"Nice to meet you, person who looks like donald duck on a rough day,"

I purse my lips, not realizing I was pouting the entire time. Fuck you. My eyes widen as he leans down to kiss my hand.

"I...am Batman."

I raised my eyebrows to give him an unimpressed look.

He chuckles, filling in the silence. "Call me Deadpool."

Call him what?

"Deadpool," He repeats, nodding as if he's read my mind. "The name's Gunwook, but Deadpool's wayyy cooler."

I can't tell if he's being serious or if he's still fucking with me, especially with how he's done nothing but that for the past few minutes. He kisses his teeth, his hand still holding mine.

"I also-"

"I have a question," I interrupt him. He rolls his eyes, nodding.

"Why the red suit?"

"Hides the blood. I don't like the idea of instant gratification."

I nod. It was a pretty weird thing to say.

"And," He sighs.

"Yes, I did kill those guys. But," He says sternly, finally noticing and letting go of my hand.

"I was there first, about a day earlier than you." He says, poking the tip of my nose with his index finger, causing me to flinch.

"You see, these geniuses thought it was a nice idea to put me up for market. Yes, I was in the room on the far left, the one next to the vaults."

"Market? Like, sex work or something? Slavery and all that?" I'm not dumb, but right now, I have no clue what they could possibly market this huge man for. Gunwook takes a sharp breath and turns around, grabbing a glass shard from the beer bottle earlier.

Gunwook stares at the glass shard, turning it slightly so the edges glint under the faint alley light. His voice drops to something quieter—too quiet.

"Market, yeah. Apparently, there's a price tag for guys like me."

He flashes a grin. "But that's the thing, the only guy can think of when I say 'guys like me' is my best friend in the whole entire world. His name rhymes with 'pulverine'," He smiles "and he's six feet under."

I'm about to ask what the hell he means when he suddenly plunges the shard into his abdomen. One, two, three, four, five times.

WHAT THE FUCK. I cover my mouth in shock. He can NOT be dying right now that we have an axe-wielding freakshow tailing us.

"WHAT THE FUCK—"

He lets out a low grunt, brows twitching, but not from pain—more like annoyance. "Ugh. That hurt like a bitch."

Blood gushes out, soaking his red suit in a faint dark red. I instinctively take a step back, panic surging through my veins. “ARE YOU INSANE?!”

"Relax," he drawls, casually pulling the glass out and tossing it aside. "I just needed to prove a point."

I stare at the wound. No—wait. Not a wound anymore.

The flesh bubbles, knits, and sews itself back together in real time. Muscle, tissue, skin. A few seconds later, all that's left is a bloodstain. (There was still a pretty big puncture on the side that you can't ignore, but I don't think he'd like it if I were to bring that up).

"I'm basically a human cockroach," he smirks, patting his now-flattened and toned stomach. "Try to kill me, and I’ll just come back hotter."

I can't even speak. This is something I've only ever seen in cartoons, and I gotta say it's starting to scare the shit out of me.

He looks around and chuckles, lifting his thick brows.

"Well, I wouldn't mind doing it here."

I gulp, turns out I've been staring at his torso the whole time. Fuck my fucking life, fuck this fucking day, fuck this fucking mission. My words are weak and breathy, like it's not getting past my throat.

"Fuck you,"

"I can see you trying." He says snarkily.

Gunwook tilts his head. "You were doubting me, weren’t you? Thought I was just another hot freak with knives. That's probably another reason why I was taken in," He rolls his eyes. "Thought I was Japanese with their sick kinks and all that. I mean, what kind of middle-aged white guy calls himself Nagi?"

Right, he kicked that motherfucker's ass. But I can't even think straight right now.

"Hellooo, you okay there, darling?" He snaps his fingers. My vision weakens. Bright purple circles start forming at the corner of my eyes, growing bigger. Gunwook's face starts to blur, replicating in two..no, three. My body feels so brittle, like it's melting.

I can't fight it anymore, my eyelids feel heavy, my knees start to buckle...

Anddd I'm out.

☠︎︎⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡☠︎︎⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡☠︎︎⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡☠︎︎⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡

I leave the casino graveyard and navigate the long, carpeted hallway. The vault room should be in here somewhere. Just walk straight ahead… and—

Bingo.

I stop in front of Nagi’s Office, where all the good shit is stored. From printed black-market intel to stolen vehicle catalogs and every other flavor of shady business. In this room is where I’ll find the safe containing the key to the vault. I tap the keycard on the scanner, mildly startled with how loud the beeping sound is.

The entire room smells like luxury, sex, and everything you'd expect from a lavish man. The safe is tucked under his work table. I bend down, brushing aside the red lace bra dangling from his keyboard. Sex in here must be an experience, with the entire wall facing the city being made of glass.

Mmmh, yeah. I have no idea what I'm supposed to type in. It's a combination of 8 numbers. I try his birthday, his wife's birthday, the day the casino was built, nothing. I sigh, making my way toward the door on the far right of his large office.

Who the hell labels their most important room with a strip of masking tape that says: “Vault Room $ ;)”? It had Japanese Characters written on the bottom which I presume is the translation. Odd, considering there isn't a single Asian in this entire building. Well, his name and the body pillow of an anime girl with blonde hair and tits out sitting on the couch says it well enough.

I know these guys are dumb—but they’re not dumb enough to leave it untrapped. The whole room is probably rigged in alarms and tripwires and all the corny shit.

I take out my lock-picking kit and get to work. There are still maybe five or six guys left alive in this building, so I have to move fast just in case.

The door finally clicks open. And just as I suspected—Alarms. But no traps. My hamster is probably smarter than these guys. So I just walk slowly...and—

cough

My nose itches. My tongue pools saliva. Tangy taste, the tingling feeling making its way up my ear. Some kind of gas was released, but it didn't feel strong enough to actually knock me out. I hurriedly walked up to the vault, in case the gas messes with me.

Huh. No code, no password, you just have to twist the damn thing. I genuinely can't tell if this criminal organization is low on funds or just high in stupidity.

I turn the wheel knob until I hear a thud. I stop, and grab my gun. I couldn't tell if it came from the vault or somewhere else. With no sign of intrusion, I keep turning until it's fully opened. I made sure the body camera on my belt captured everything. It's a big deal to be accused of fraud—especially when you have billions of dollars on the line.

The money's with me, the bank card's in my belt bag. Like The Black Eagle said: just take the money and run. I hurriedly leave the vault room, clumsily opening the handle to Nagi's office that's broken from the inside, like a few people have tried to jam it open.

Fuck.

I'm met with a battered and bloody man in a suit, shakily pointing a gun at me.

"Drop the bag." He says, lips quivering. I eye him.

Woah, was he the guy that murdered all his crew? Because he certainly did not look the part. The pawn on his left chest adds up to that.

"I said drop the fucking bag!" He shouts, swallowing his saliva.

"No one needs to get hurt, champ. Just drop the bag and walk over here. Nice and steady."

He could shoot me right now, if he just wants the money. I gripped the suitcase tightly, preparing to dodge. With the way his arms are shaking, it doesn't look like he's gonna make the shot either.

"STOP FUCKING WITH ME AND JUST DROP THE FUCKING-"

A knife plunged right into his skull, I didn't quite see how it happened, it just did. It came from the hallway on his right. I yank my gun out and run. Whoever threw the knife is obviously aware that I am present, especially with the fuss the pawn guy made. Just as I'm preparing to turn a corner-

A guy in a comically body-fitted red suit rammed another guy to a wall, stabbing him from the top of his head like a keychain. He elbows another guy and kicks him, leaving the poor guy crashing to a nearby vase.

I should probably go.

I sprint towards the back exit, until a pair of strong hands grab my shoulders before I make a turn.

"Shhh.", he quietly says, gesturing for me to stay silent. He urges me to look take a peek.

Fuck.

It's Peppo and Kappa or whatever their names are, they're Nagi's bodyguards.

Peppo's the bald one—former sumo wrestler. So yeah, you can paint that one out. Kappa’s the guy with one blind eye. Ironically, that somehow made him better with guns.

"Okay I know shit's fucked and those two himbos are probably going to rip us to shreds but..." He takes another peek, then back at me. "I have a plan."

He slowly crawls out, feigning weakness. The blood on his shirt staining the marble flooring.

Peppo grunts, his eyes squeezing between his chubby cheeks, before running to the red guy at full speed, aiming to lunge at him completely. Kappa fires.

"PLAN B!" he yells, quickly getting up and yanking a fire extinguisher off the wall and spraying them with the fuzzy white stuff. I take this opportunity to shoot both Kappa and Peppo, which is hard, because apart from the fire extinguisher wreaking havoc, Kappa must've thrown his joint up high for it to trigger the fire sprinkler.

Incase you're wondering, the initial plan was, according to the red teletubby, to make them feel bad while showing off the Ichigo Kurosaki keychain hanging from his belt strap and then shoot both of them. Was that even supposed to work?

Kappa fired at the red guy, and once I can clearly see his frame behind the white haze,

KRAK!

One down, just one more. I look at the red guy. Wait, was he shot?

Peppo lunged at red guy. Blood leaked out of his mouth until he stands up, trying to retrieve the knife pierced in his chest.

We make a run for it, bolting to the back door. I scan for a ride.—a car, a bike, anything. But there's nothing. Just a blue tricycle that looks like it's been through hell and back.

I hear footsteps coming from the building. Fuck, there's still more?

"That could work," He points to the tricycle.

"Seriously? That thing looks like it's been there since the dawn of time!"

I hop on, trying to feel for any sign that it's working. The engine sputters. He jumps in beside me.

The exit door suddenly burst open. Two men wearing kitsune masks with large axes looked around with urgency.

I floor it, the tricycle jerks forward with a pathetic groan. Easily the worst mission ever.

I look back, the one on the left hurls his axe...and...

Wait, it's not supposed to hit me.

The axe rapidly inches to my face, slicing through the air. I close my eyes and brace for impact.

THUD. I jolt awake. How unlucky do I have to be to relive the same nightmare twice?

Worse, where the fuck am I?

The room was dimly lit, with brick walls and LED lights peeling off the wall. Oh, and a massive hole in the wall that you can't ignore. I saw someone leaning on the doorframe from the corner of my eye.

"Good morning, dear knight! How was your slumber?"

Oh great, I forgot. I'm with this son of a bitch. He looks a little different without his red suit. He's wearing loose sweatpants and a faded green hoodie that says "Legalize Explosions" across the chest.

I blink at him. “Where the fuck are we?”

“You passed out on my shoulder. I’m not heartless,” he says, like that answers anything.

I sit up, realizing I’m still in my blood-stained clothes from last night. My back aches like I got hit by a bus, but I’m not dead, which is nice. My brain, however, is still buffering. I look around his bed, and under the comforter.

"Relax, we haven't got to that part yet, still a few chapters to go." He says with a smirk, winking.

I scrunch. “You live here?” I gesture vaguely to the chaos—wires, mismatched posters, a katana stuck in the ceiling fan, and what I think is a pet turtle in a shot glass.

“It’s cozy,” he shrugs. “Soundproof walls, free Wi-fi from the laundromat upstairs, and all the good stuff”

I exhale. “So, what now? Are we hiding? Running?”

He raises a brow. “Oh, now you’re interested in the plan?”

He tosses a protein bar at me. I miss, and it hits me in the chest.

“We’ve got about twenty-four hours before someone guns this place down. Turns out that freakshow I killed was a big shot in their tiny little world,”

He must be talking about Nagi.

"So we need to get up, get dressed, and get ready to play house."

“Play house?”

He opens his closet. Inside: wigs, fake passports, disguises, and a whiteboard with the words “OPERATION: FAKE MARRIED” scrawled in red ink (or blood. I think I'm starting to get the hang of this guy).

I squint. “Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

“Oh, it definitely is.” He grins. “We're going undercover as a couple. Married. Boring. In love. Gross.”

I rub my face. “I hate this plan.”

“But it’ll work,” he singsongs. "Nagi’s murder was a personal hit, so people are looking for a mercenary, not a "happily married accountant" in the suburbs."

I groan into the pillow.

And the worst part is? He might be right.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

A shrill alert comes from somewhere under the bed.

"Looks like someone dialed up the wonder pets!" He exclaims. I roll my eyes. This is so fucking annoying.

His whole posture stiffens, that shit-eating grin dropping off his face like a mask slipping. He yanks out a beat-up tablet, cracks spider-webbing across the screen. His eyes dart left to right. “Shit.” I was right."

“What?”

“Someone activated the Black Box.”

I blink. “What the hell is a Black Box?”

“It’s... basically a bounty system,” he says, standing now. “Only gets triggered when someone real important kicks the bucket. Like... say, that Nagi guy.”

My stomach drops.

“They’ve put a price on us?”

“No,” he says, not looking at me. “They’ve put a price on me. You? You’re just a bonus.”

I scowl. “Wow. Comforting.”

He tosses a duffel bag onto the bed. “We need to move. If the signal’s out, every psycho with a blade, gun, or grudge is gonna come crawling out of the sewers.”

“You said we had 24 hours.”

“I lied.” He pulls a fresh set of gear from the closet—guns, knives, what looks like a taser shaped like Hello Kitty. “We have maybe three.”

I sit up fully, heart hammering now. “So what’s the real plan?”

He looks at me, the manic glint in his eye returning. “Same as always. Be unkillable. Look hot while doing it. And if things go south—”

He pauses, then tosses me a gun.

“Shoot first. Ask questions when we’re retired millionaires in Bora Bora.”

☠︎︎⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡☠︎︎⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡☠︎︎⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡☠︎︎⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡ 🧸- I genuinely hope the marvel peeps don't jump my ass for this one PLEASE THIS IS "FAN-FICTION"!!!! anyways I'm sorry this took so long, and I love you guys as always! mwap mwap

“Benjamin Cross, I swear to God, if you don’t get your shit together, I’m gonna roll that damn bike of yours onto the auction block myself,” Honey snapped, voice echoing through the house with the kind of sharp precision that could stop a grown man in his tracks — and did.

Benny froze in the doorway, one boot still on, the other halfway off, eyes wide like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He glanced toward the kitchen where Honey stood like an avenging angel — fire in her eyes, hair up in a messy twist, and a dish towel slung over her shoulder like a weapon. She wasn’t yelling just to yell. This was deeper. This was frustration and love and exhaustion braided together like a rope about to snap.

“I asked you to do one thing,” she said, stepping closer, the toe of her sock dragging across the worn kitchen tile as she pointed at him with a measuring spoon still slick with batter. “One damn thing, Benny. Pick up some milk on your way home. Not rob a bank. Not dismantle the damn government. Milk. And what do I open the fridge to find?”

She yanked the door open with dramatic flair, revealing a single, sad bottle of ketchup and a leftover takeout box from three nights ago. “Nothing but disappointment and cold air.”

Benny winced. “I forgot—”

“Oh, you forgot, did you?” she interrupted, storming toward him now. “Like you forgot to call the guy to fix the porch door? The same porch door you said and I quote, ‘Don’t worry Honeybee, I got it, no need to call nobody.’” Her voice dropped an octave, mimicking him in a way that made his ears go hot. “‘I’ll fix it tomorrow, you don’t gotta stress, Honeybee.’”

She took a step closer with every word, until she was toe-to-toe with him, eyes blazing. “Well guess what, Benny. It’s been three damn days. That porch door still screams like a wounded banshee every time I breathe near it, and we’re still milkless, and if I see one more grease stain tracked in here because your biker boots don’t come off at the door, I swear I’ll use your leather jacket as a mop.”

“I—” Benny started, hand lifting instinctively like he could slow her down with one gesture.

“No. Don’t you dare.” She pressed a finger into his chest, punctuating every word. “Let it be Johnny, and you’re out that door like the damn house is on fire. Let it be a club ride, and you’re there before the sun’s even up. Let it be a call about biking and you’re dropping everything. Who the hell you trying to marry, Benny? Me or Johnny?”

Benny blinked. He looked like he’d just been knocked upside the head, and honestly? He had.

“Cause from the looks of it?” Honey threw her arms up, exasperated, and turned back toward the sink. “You and Johnny should just run off together. I'll throw rice at your damn biker wedding, I’ll even make the cake—two little leather jackets and all.”

Now she was pacing, muttering to herself, still ranting under her breath, and Benny couldn’t do anything but stare at her like she’d just lit the stars. That’s what got him. Not the yelling. Not the lecture. But the way she gave a damn enough to yell in the first place. The way her cheeks flushed when she was mad, how her eyes sparked, how her hands got all expressive and wild. It was stupid, he knew it was stupid, but God help him, Benny Cross was swooning.

Like full-on, couldn’t-hear-a-damn-word-she-said swooning. His girl, standing there in her soft old t-shirt, ranting about milk and porch doors like the world was ending, and all he could think was she’s it. She’s my whole damn world.

He grinned.

“Benny,” she barked when she noticed.

“What?” he said, caught mid-swoon. “I’m listening.”

“No you’re not! You’re doing that thing where you smile at me like you’re not gonna take a word I say seriously and then turn around and do the same shit again tomorrow.”

“I am taking it seriously!” he said quickly, stepping forward, hands raised like he was pleading for mercy. “I swear I’ll fix the porch door, and I’ll go get the milk—right now. Whole milk, not that watery shit.”

“Oh, you bet your ass it better be whole,” she huffed, crossing her arms. “And no more excuses. No more ‘club came up’ or ‘Johnny needed help tuning his carburetor’—I need help! I need a porch that doesn’t try to kill me and a fridge that isn’t empty, and a fiancé who remembers that I live here too!”

That stopped him.

Her voice had cracked a little on fiancé, and suddenly her rant didn’t feel like a rant anymore. It felt like something she’d been holding inside for too long. Something vulnerable. Something that made Benny’s chest ache.

He moved closer, gently taking her hands in his, rubbing his thumbs across her knuckles.

“You’re right,” he said, voice low now. “I’ve been slackin’. On the house. On you. And I’m sorry for makin’ you feel like you’re not first. ‘Cause you are. Always have been. It’s just—when you’re not yellin’ at me, you’re lovin’ me so sweet I get stupid and think I’ve already earned it all.”

She blinked, lips twitching. “You’re real lucky I like you, Benjamin Cross.”

“I know,” he grinned, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “So lucky I might go marry Johnny just to get a second chance at impressing you.”

“Benjamin!”

He bolted, laughing, already grabbing his keys. “Milk! Porch door! Cake topper with two grooms! Got it!”

“You better run, Cross!”

And as he headed out, heart thundering, grin wide, all Benny could think was: Goddamn, I can’t wait to make that woman my wife.

Honey leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over her chest, watching as Benny all but jogged out the door—keys in one hand, wallet barely shoved into his back pocket—on a mission to stock the fridge like he was preparing for a storm, even though all she’d asked for was milk.

A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth, soft and tired and aching with something she didn’t want to name just yet.

God, she liked him. Right?

She liked the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he laughed—real laughs, not those shallow chuckles he gave the boys, but the ones he saved for her. She liked how he’d sneak up behind her in the kitchen, arms wrapping around her waist as he rested his chin on her shoulder like it was home. She liked the way he smelled after a long day—like sweat and steel and motor oil, with just enough of his cologne clinging to him to remind her he tried. Even if it was for five seconds that morning. Even if it was just for her.

She liked how he hummed when he cooked for her, like he couldn’t help himself—some old tune stuck in his head or made up on the spot, off-key and perfect. She liked the way he tucked her under his chin when they hugged, muttering “there you go” like he’d just fixed something inside her. She liked that he never once asked her to be smaller than she was—never once flinched when her voice raised or her eyes sharpened. No, he met it, grounded it. Took her as she came.

But then there were the other things.

The way he looked at her.

Like she was the only damn thing in the world worth pausing for. Like maybe she’d hung the stars up herself just to light his way home. The way his thumb always found the inside of her wrist, brushing gentle circles like he needed the pulse there to remind him she was real. The way he made her laugh even when she wanted to be mad. The way he cried when she cried. The way his voice cracked when he whispered, “You scared me,” after the night she came home shaken and bruised and quiet.

She loved the way he stood too close at the grocery store, basket in one hand, the other resting on her lower back like it was second nature. She loved the softness under all that gruff—the tenderness he reserved for stray dogs and small children and, always, her. She loved the way he asked about her day and actually listened. She loved that when he said her name, it sounded like a promise.

No. It wasn’t just like.

She loved him. Fiercely. Quietly. With all the unspoken parts of herself she hadn’t trusted anyone with before.

And it terrified her.

But as she watched the beat-up  pickup that he’d brought home last week roar to life and Benny lean out the window to blow her a kiss—like a damn fool, like her fool—she felt it settle in her chest.

Oh, she loved that man.

And God help her… she didn’t want to stop.

As the low growl of Benny’s truck faded down the road, Honey lingered at the door, one hand still resting on the frame like her body hadn’t quite caught up to the stillness. Her smile faltered as her gaze drifted past the dust settling in the driveway—past the sunlight pooling warm on the porch—and landed on the car.

That same damn car.

It’d been sitting there for weeks now, just across the street, tucked half in shadow like it belonged to no one and everyone at once. A beat-up Oldsmobile, green faded to grey, windows tinted dark enough to swallow faces whole. The plates were local, but the tires hadn’t moved in days, and the windshield had started to gather dust.

Benny noticed it first. Checked for it every morning with a frown etched deep into his brow, jaw clenched around the toothpick he always chewed when something was eating at him. Every evening too—just a glance, but never casual. A man trained to notice shadows where there shouldn’t be any.

It was messing with him.

Honey saw it—how it changed the way he moved. Made him lock the front door twice, leave the porch light on even after he swore it wasted power. Made him pull her closer at night, like instinct whispered something his mouth couldn’t yet say aloud.

She narrowed her eyes now, studying the silhouette behind the windshield—empty, or at least it looked that way. Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of the door, her pulse ticking up just slightly in her throat.

She didn’t know who it was.

But she knew they were watching.

And if they were watching Benny—her Benny—then Lord help them, because she’d tear them apart herself.

With the weight of suspicion tugging at her ribs and the distant hum of Benny’s car disappearing down the street, Honey exhaled slowly, her breath shallow with the kind of frustration that had been simmering for weeks. That damn car—same dull gray sedan, same dented bumper, same shadowed windows—had been parked across the street for far too long, always in the same spot, always empty when Benny checked. It lingered like a bad omen, a quiet threat he didn’t like, and she’d caught him staring at it every morning and every night like it had something to say and was just biding its time.

She wasn’t having it.

Without another thought, Honey grabbed the old aluminum baseball bat she kept by the front door, the one with the peeling pink grip and the dent from the time she’d had to chase off a drunk who thought he could touch her hair and live. Her fingers wrapped around the cool metal as she stepped outside, jaw tight, eyes narrowed, the kind of woman who didn’t flinch in the face of things that didn’t belong.

She walked slowly, deliberately, her bare feet tapping softly against the porch steps, heart pounding a little harder the closer she got to the car. The air was thick, humid—like something was about to break. She didn’t call out. She didn’t warn. She simply swung the bat once with a sharp, clean arc and slammed it down against the hood.

CLANG.

The sound echoed like a gunshot, metal protesting beneath her wrath, and her voice followed just as sharp, slicing through the quiet street: “Hey! You wanna play stalker? I dare you to come out now, you sneaky son of a—”

The door creaked open slowly.

She lifted the bat again, body coiled like a spring, but when the figure stepped out, she froze—bat halfway in the air, rage turning to stunned disbelief.

Wild curls. Skinny frame in baggy denim. That familiar slouch of someone who never really stayed anywhere for too long. Her arms were raised in surrender, palms empty, mouth curled in a half-guilty, half-amused smile.

Honey’s heart stopped.

“…Love?”

“Hey, sis,” her little sister said, like she hadn’t just nearly gotten a bat to the head.

Honey blinked, her whole body still, the bat lowering slowly to her side. She didn’t know whether to scream, cry, or wrap her arms around the girl she hadn’t seen in damn near a year.

“I oughta whoop your entire ass, Love Angel Meyers,” she snapped, though her voice cracked halfway through the sentence. “What the hell are you doin’ camping outside my house like a damn possum? Thought you were still in Tennessee, runnin’ off with that raggedy musician boy with the lace shirts and attitude problem. What happened? He finally show his true colors, or you just get bored again?”

Love shrugged with a sheepish smile, dropping her arms slowly. “Let’s call it... a creative difference.”

“Creative difference? You ghosted me for seven months and showed up at my house in the middle of the damn night like this is a motel.”

Honey stalked toward her, bat forgotten in the grass now, anger draining fast into exasperated affection. “Why didn’t you call me? You waitin’ for Benny to spot you first and lose his damn mind? You know he’s been checkin’ on that car every day like it’s cursed.”

“I didn’t know if I could face you. Not after everything.”

“You’re here now.”

“Yeah.”

“Damn right you are.”

And then, without thinking, without needing to ask why or how or what mess she’d left behind this time, Honey grabbed her little sister and pulled her into the kind of hug that spoke louder than anything she could say. She buried her face into Love’s shoulder and held on tight, the scent of cigarettes and lavender oil familiar and unbearable all at once.

“I missed you,” Love whispered, her voice muffled against Honey’s curls.

“You’re lucky I missed you too,” Honey mumbled, her eyes wet and her throat tight. “And don’t think I ain’t still gon’ cuss you out when we get inside.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

Honey pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, swatting her shoulder. “You’re stayin’ for dinner. No arguments.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

And just like that, her little sister was home.

As they made their way toward the front porch, the sun casting long gold streaks across the sidewalk, Love walked with that familiar bounce in her step, hands shoved deep in the pockets of her denim jacket like she hadn’t just been hiding out in a parked car for God knows how long. She tilted her head toward the driveway, a sly little smirk curling the corner of her mouth.

“So,” she drawled, all singsong mischief, “who’s that biker I’ve been seein’ pull up here every night like he owns the place? Real tall. Real fine. All denim, leather, and brooding jawline. Benny, right?”

Honey didn’t dignify it with a verbal response. She rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of her head, and without missing a beat, gave her sister a firm shove between the shoulder blades.

“Don’t start,” she muttered under her breath, ushering her toward the door with a warning glance.

But Love just cackled as she stumbled forward, catching herself on the railing and turning around to walk backward up the steps, grinning wide. “Damn, sis. You didn’t even deny it. That your man? Huh? That why you been glowin’ like the Georgia sun lately? All that beard burn and biker love?”

“Love Angel Meyers, I swear to God—”

“I’m just sayin’,” she shrugged, all innocent, even as she waggled her eyebrows. “You always said you weren’t gonna settle for less. And he looks like more.”

Honey bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling, because she hated that Love could read her like this—could see the way her heart did flips every time Benny walked through that door, or how his hoodie had mysteriously become her favorite thing to sleep in.

“Inside,” she said instead, shaking her head as she unlocked the door. “Shoes off. Mouth quiet. Or you’re sleepin’ outside again.”

Love just laughed, loud and unbothered. “Aww, sis, you do love me.”

Honey didn’t respond. But she held the door open just a little longer than she needed to.

…

The low rumble of the pickup truck pulling into the driveway made the floorboards beneath Honey’s feet faintly tremble, the familiar sound so woven into her daily life now that it tugged something warm and instinctive inside her chest. Tires crunched against gravel, the engine cut, and then came the rustling—paper bags shuffling, plastic handles tugged free, the faint thud of a door closing with a hip.

She didn’t have to look through the curtains to know it was Benny. She just knew.

Honey stood by the door, arms crossed, hip cocked, her head tilted slightly as she listened to his boots hit the front steps with their slow, deliberate rhythm. She hadn’t even called for him this time—he’d just gone out on his own accord, no doubt with a list in his head longer than what she’d actually asked for. Probably came back with five different kinds of milk just to be safe.

Behind her, Love sat half-curled on the edge of the sofa, flipping through the takeout menus like she wasn’t eavesdropping on everything. But when the screen door creaked, Honey glanced at her over her shoulder with a smirk. “Don’t say nothin’,” she warned low.

Love didn’t even pretend to hide her grin. “Didn’t even open my mouth.”

“Mhm.”

The lock clicked. And there he was.

Benny stepped inside, wind-kissed and solid in the doorway, arms full of overstuffed grocery bags like some rough-hewn domestic god—still in his oil-stained jeans, curls slightly flattened under his cap, but eyes soft as soon as they landed on her. Noticed her first. Always her first.

He raised a brow, nodding toward the bags. “Got what you wanted… and some extra, ‘cause you’re picky.”

Honey couldn’t help the way her lips tugged up. “You always get extra.”

“Yeah,” he said, glancing at her like she was the only thing that ever made the trouble worth it. “’Cause I got extra to come home to.”

Love let out a dramatic gag from the couch. “Lord, spare me.”

Benny jolted, nearly upsetting the brown paper bags cradled in his arms, as his gaze landed on the young woman standing next to Honey. For a split second, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him—because she looked just like her. Not identical, no, but close enough that it tugged at something deep in his chest. Same soft brown eyes that watched the world with quiet intelligence, the same delicate slope of her jawline, the same full mouth that looked like it could cut you with a smile if it wanted to. There was a youth to her, a restlessness that hummed beneath her stillness, but she was just as striking—just as beautiful—as Honey was.

It hit him like a rush of wind—Love.

He remembered the stories Honey had told him, scattered across late-night conversations and quiet porch moments. How her little sister was headstrong and stubborn, always vanishing then turning back up like nothing had happened. How she was brilliant in ways that didn’t always make sense to the world, and too impulsive for her own good. How Honey had raised her more than their mama ever did, and loved her enough to let her go when she had to.

He hadn’t expected her to look like this though. Like a younger Honey dipped in mischief and draped in charm.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“She ain’t a ghost, Benny,” Honey teased, elbowing him gently as she stepped beside her sister.

Love tilted her chin up, her smile crooked and cool. “You must be the biker boy. Benny, right?”

He gave a slow nod, still staring, voice rough when he finally found it. “I—yeah. That’s me.”

Love gave a soft hum, arms folding. “You the one makin’ my sister soft?”

He looked to Honey, then back at Love—and smiled.

“Tryin’ to,” he said, and meant it.

“Love was the one in the car you were worried about,” Honey hummed, her voice low and vaguely amused as she nudged the door shut behind them with her hip, arms crossed as she leaned against the frame.

Benny paused, bags still in his hands, brows pulling together in confusion. “That car? The one that’s been sittin’ out there damn near two weeks?” His eyes darted between the sisters, then fixed on Love, narrowing slightly. “It was registered under an E.P.”

At that, Love’s brows shot up—just a flicker, but enough for Honey to catch it. Still, the younger woman recovered fast, folding her arms with that same breezy confidence she always wore like a second skin.

“Yeah,” Love shrugged. “Eleanor Pierce. Friend of mine. Real estate agent.” She said it so smoothly, so casually, like she hadn’t just pulled the name from the ether. “She lets me use her tags when I’m tryna go low profile, paparazzi and all that.”

Benny blinked. “Eleanor Pierce.”

“Mmhmm,” Love nodded, dreadlocks shifting over her shoulder. “You know how it is—Hollywood’s got a long nose and long fingers.”

Honey squinted at her sister, suspicion flickering across her face, but she didn’t press. Not now. She just cocked her head slightly and gave Benny a look that said: Let it go.

Benny looked like he wanted to say something more. Like he was damn sure that wasn’t the truth. But when Love turned and smiled at him, all bright-eyed and butter-wouldn’t-melt, he just grunted and turned back to the kitchen, muttering under his breath.

“Eleanor fuckin’ Pierce… Sure.”

Honey watched him walk off, then turned to Love, arms crossed.

“You’re real bad at lyin’, y’know that?”

Love smirked. “Better than bein’ followed to your porch by Graceland’s finest.”

Honey blinked. “I knew you were up to somethin’.”

“Y’know,” Love said, licking apple juice off her thumb with a sly little smile, eyes dancing with mischief, “him and Benny kinda look alike.”

Honey didn’t even look up from where she was thumbing through the mail. “You smokin’ that stuff again?” she asked, voice deadpan. “Benny does not look like Elvis.”

Love leaned against the doorframe with the smug confidence of someone who knew exactly what button she was pushing. “I’m just sayin’. They both got that whole southern charm, brooding stare, full lips, strong jaw, leather jacket thing goin’ on. Like if you squint hard enough—”

“If you squint hard enough, anybody can look like anybody,” Honey cut in, now raising her head and fixing Love with a dry glare. “By that logic, I look like Audrey Hepburn .”

Love shrugged dramatically, tossing the apple core into the trash. “I mean… you do got that whole fine and unbothered thing goin’ on.”

Honey snorted. “Flattery ain’t gonna stop me from kickin’ your ass for parking out front for two weeks without sayin’ a damn word.”

Love just grinned, unbothered. “C’mon, you missed me. Admit it.”

Honey pointed toward the door. “Say Elvis’ name and Benny’s in the same breath one more time and I’ll miss you all the way back to wherever the hell you came from.”

…

Love Meyers was an enigma—always disappearing before anyone could hold her long enough to truly know her. She floated through places and people like smoke, hard to catch, harder to keep. But this time… vanishing had left a mark deeper than she expected. This time, running away didn’t feel like freedom—it felt like heartbreak. Her suitcase was full of expensive clothes and jewelry, things she’d once thought would anchor her to something beautiful, something worthwhile. But none of it quieted the hollow thud of her chest, the ache that curled tighter each mile she put between herself and Vegas.

Her heart was still there. Still tangled in that city’s neon lies and velvet promises. But she? She was in Chicago now. In her sister’s house. A house Honey built with her own hands, with softness and sweat, with candles on the sill and throw blankets draped over every damn thing like love notes. A home, warm and lived-in, full of scent and comfort and care. Honey had invited her in—over and over again—but it wasn’t until the silence in Love’s own life got too loud that she finally knocked on the door.

And if there was anyone on this planet who knew Love better than she even knew herself… it was Honey.

Honey Meyers had always been a beacon for the broken things. A magnet for strays. That’s what Love figured Benny was, too—a stray Honey decided to shelter. Just like that fatass orange cat, Peaches, that used to sneak through their cracked bedroom window when they were kids. The damn thing was half-feral and heavily pregnant, waddling across the hardwood floor like she owned the place. Honey had fed her tuna and cradled her like porcelain. When Peaches died not long after giving birth to one scraggly kitten, Honey named the baby Peaches again—like she could conjure the old cat back to life by saying her name enough times.

Honey was inconsolable. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t sleep. She laid on the floor for days, clutching a cat she’d only known for a month like her soul had been ripped out with its last breath. That was Honey. All heart, all-in. The kind of person who bled when the world hurt—even over strays no one else would notice.

Love swallowed thickly as she sat on the guest bed, the familiar scent of Honey’s laundry detergent clinging to the sheets. The kind of ache she carried couldn’t be drowned out with glitter or guitars or hotel balconies. She had run from something she didn’t want to name—but now, she wondered if maybe, just maybe, she was done running.

When Love looked at her sister that night, really looked at her—there was something different in Honey’s face, something she hadn’t seen in a long time. She looked happy. Not performative-happy. Not the painted-on kind of joy Love had seen on red carpets and in hotel lounges. No, this was real. Quiet and settled. The kind of happiness that bloomed in the small hours of ordinary nights.

Honey looked loved.

She was curled beneath the tattooed arm of Benny Cross, who sat beside her on the worn-out couch like he’d been built for no other purpose than to hold her. His voice was low as he murmured something in her ear—something that made Honey giggle, soft and girlish in a way Love hadn’t heard in years. She swatted his arm with mock offense, but even that was affectionate, intimate. Love watched her lean into him like it was instinct, like her body knew he was safe before her mind even had to check. It was a kind of ease Love couldn’t quite name. It made something ache, sharp and sudden, under her ribs.

And when they got up to go to bed, it wasn’t loud or dramatic—just them, slipping away into the quiet, like they were used to sharing space. Benny reached for her hand without looking, and Honey gave it without question. Their fingers laced together like roots, and he guided her upstairs with a lazy, tired drawl of “Night, Love,” and a gentle, “Help yourself to anything.”

It was so normal. So domestic. So stupidly soft.

Love sat in the glow of the television long after they disappeared, the echo of their footsteps creaking overhead. She sank a little deeper into the couch cushions and stared at the fridge Benny had probably just restocked to the brim. And for the first time in a long while… she wondered what it would feel like to stay.

She would’ve stayed this time. She would’ve curled herself into his chest and let herself be held, let herself believe in the future he painted with calloused hands and sweet nothings. She would’ve stayed and made breakfast in his T-shirt, laughed at his awful jokes, danced barefoot in the kitchen and called it love.

She wanted to stay. God, she wanted to.

But when it got too heavy—when the sweetness soured and the silence between arguments stretched tighter than a fraying rope—she knew love alone wasn’t enough to hold it all together. Not when love came laced with shouting matches that ended in slammed doors and bruised hearts. Not when the apologies came too late, and the wounds never fully closed before the next fight ripped them open again.

She didn’t want him back. That much she knew. She didn’t want to revisit the nights she spent crying alone in his bed, didn’t want the eggshells underfoot, the fragile peace that cracked at the slightest misstep. She didn’t want him. Not the way he was.

But she couldn’t let go either.

Because even if her head had moved on, her heart hadn’t gotten the memo. It still ached in the quiet. Still replayed the best parts like lullabies. Still whispered maybe, when her whole body was screaming no more.

And that was the worst part. Not that it ended. But that a part of her still wished it hadn’t.

…

Honey giggled, soft and breathless, as Benny pressed a kiss to her lips—slow and lingering, like he had all the time in the world. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, grounding herself as her heart fluttered against her ribs like it had wings. There was something boyish in the way he looked at her afterward, like she was the only good thing he’d ever done right.

The corners of her mouth tugged up into a smile, one she couldn’t fight even if she tried. She watched him with that familiar mix of awe and affection, as if she still couldn’t quite believe he was hers—this scrappy, loyal, rough-edged man with the softest eyes she’d ever seen.

"You're lookin' at me like you're in love or somethin'," Benny teased, his voice low and gravelly, his thumb brushing beneath her chin.

"Maybe I am," she said, barely above a whisper, the grin on her face blooming wider as his eyes lit up.

That was the thing about Benny Cross—he didn’t say much, not when it came to feelings, but his actions? They were loud. And tonight, with his kisses like confessions and the weight of his gaze tethered to hers, she swore she could feel every word he hadn’t yet found the courage to say.

Honey’s voice barely broke the quiet between them—it was soft, like the hush of night settling in around their shared breath. But the words? They hit him like thunder.

“I love you, Benny,” she whispered, her eyes locked to his, steady and sure despite the trembling edge in her voice. Her hands rested against his chest, feeling the stuttering beat of his heart beneath her palms.

Benny froze, just for a second. His blue eyes went wide—not out of shock that she loved him, but out of the sheer weight of hearing it aloud. Out of the reverence that someone like her could look at someone like him—tattooed, battered, temper-short Benny—and still say those three words like they were a promise, not a gamble.

His mouth parted, but no words came right away. Instead, he reached for her face, palms cradling her cheeks like she was something holy. His thumbs brushed her skin, and he blinked like he was trying not to cry.

“You mean that?” he asked, voice cracked and rough. “You really mean that, Honeybee?”

She nodded, leaning into his touch with a smile that was all soft glow and tenderness. “Every damn word.”

Benny let out a breath that sounded like a prayer. Then he kissed her—slow and deep, the kind of kiss that said everything he didn’t know how to say yet. When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes.

“I love you too,” he murmured. “God, Honey—I love you so much it scares the hell outta me.”

Honey’s eyes were soft, heavy with affection and something quieter—something that curled at the edges of want. She watched Benny like he was her favorite song on a late summer night, all heat and hush, her gaze half-lidded as she sat curled on the couch, knees drawn up under her.

Her fingers found the hem of his shirt, giving it a gentle tug—barely anything, but enough to make him pause mid-sentence. That crooked little smile tugged at her lips as she bit down gently, eyes dragging slowly up the length of him. Her voice didn’t say a word, but her body did—leaned into him like gravity didn’t work the same when Benny Cross was near.

He turned to her fully, that brow of his arching as he took in her expression, the mischief under the sweetness, the heat layered beneath that half-lidded stare. And Honey just smiled deeper, slow and unhurried, like she had all the time in the world to look at him.

“Come here,” she said, voice barely above a breath, husky with the promise of closeness rather than urgency. Her hands slid up beneath the fabric she’d tugged, fingertips brushing the warm skin of his waist.

“If I didn’t know better, Honeybee,” Benny drawled, the corner of his mouth tugging into that crooked, lazy grin she knew too well, “I’d think you’re tryin’ to get me naked.”

His voice was low, amused, thick with the warmth of their dim-lit bedroom. He stood over her, bare-chested, a soft pair of sweats hanging low on his hips, the amber glow from the hallway light catching the definition of his collarbones and the curve of his jaw. His tattoos danced in the shadows as he shifted.

Honey was curled on their bed, wearing nothing but one of his old, threadbare shirts—one that swallowed her whole and still somehow managed to ride up her thighs—and a silk headscarf wrapped around her hair. She looked up at him with that glint in her eye, mischief woven in with affection, her legs curled beneath her and one hand resting at her hip.

She gave a soft hum, a shrug that wasn’t a denial so much as a tease. “Mmm, maybe I like seein’ you that way,” she murmured, her voice like melted sugar, slow and sweet and sleepy. “Ain’t my fault you look better outta clothes than in ‘em.”

Benny laughed—deep, rich, genuine—and leaned down until his knees touched the edge of the bed, until his face was just inches from hers. “You dangerous, you know that?” he whispered, brushing his nose against hers, eyes locked on her lips like he was already kissing her in his mind.

Honey smiled, reaching to trace the chain resting against his chest. “Yeah, but I’m your danger.”

That grin of his softened then—no less wicked, but threaded with something deeper, almost reverent. “Damn right you are,” he breathed, before finally, finally, kissing her like he meant to remind her of every reason she was his.

She lifted her arms without a word, trusting him. The cotton of his shirt slipped off her like water, pooling onto the floor without a sound. Benny’s breath caught—not like a gasp, but a stunned silence, the kind that only came when witnessing something holy.

His eyes roamed her slowly, reverently, as though afraid to look too fast and miss something. The rich warmth of her skin glowed in the low lamp light, soft and deep like sun-drenched amber. Every curve of her body told a story—stories he hadn’t lived but wanted to learn, wanted to worship. Her stretch marks were like delicate brushstrokes, her scars like whispered secrets, and he swore he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

Desire bloomed low in his belly, yes—but it wasn’t hunger. It was ache. Gentle. Heavy. Like the kind of yearning that made a man want to build a house with his bare hands just to see her safe inside it.

He took off his own shirt with less grace, fingers clumsy now, gaze never once leaving her face. Honey’s eyes were half-lidded but soft, and there was something in them—something knowing, something patient. Like she saw him, the man and the dog, the broken edges and the heart that beat too loud when she was near.

“Goddamn,” he murmured, barely audible. “You’re… you’re art, Honeybee.”

She smiled gently at that, not with pride but with something warmer—like love had settled on her shoulders and decided to stay a while.

Benny stepped forward, hands trembling just a bit as they found her waist. He leaned down, kissed the dip where her neck met her shoulder. Once. Then again. Then lower.

Not rushed. Not greedy.

Just… grateful.

He took his time peeling her shirt off, lifting it gently over her head like he was unwrapping something sacred. She let him, arms raised, eyes steady on him, and for a second he just stood there—bare-chested in the quiet light of their bedroom, holding her shirt like he didn’t know what to do with it. But his gaze never left her.

His breath hitched.

Honey—bare beneath the soft spill of lamplight, skin rich and warm like burnished bronze, curves shaped by the kind of life that didn’t let you rest easy—looked back at him with those brown eyes that had always seen straight through him. No fear. No shame. Just her, heart wide open.

His hands came to her waist first, slow and firm, thumbs brushing along her sides like he was grounding himself. “Jesus,” he murmured, voice thick, “you’re beautiful.”

She smiled, lips tugging up soft and slow, and pulled him in closer by the waistband of his jeans. His mouth found hers again—this kiss deeper, not rushed, just full. Full of the things they’d never said out loud. Full of the aching relief of finally being close in the way they’d both wanted for so long.

When he laid her down, it was like easing her into a bed of clouds. His weight over her was protective, never heavy. She didn’t feel small beneath him—she felt held.

Benny’s hands explored with reverence, like he was learning her by touch alone—tracing every scar, every freckle, the curve of her hip, the softness of her stomach. His lips followed his hands, planting kisses low on her belly, her thigh, her shoulder, anywhere he could reach.

“You sure, Honeybee?” he murmured against her neck, voice quiet, chest rising and falling like he could barely keep himself steady.

She nodded, fingers threading into his hair again, tugging gently as she whispered, “Yeah, baby. I want you.”

So he loved her with his mouth first, gentle and unhurried, kissing his way down her body like prayer. Every inch of her he uncovered, he kissed. Every sigh she gave him, he held like gospel. It wasn’t rushed or messy—it was slow and sweet, full of trembling breaths and soft gasps, full of the kind of intimacy that left your heart raw.

Honey lay back against the pillows, her breath shallow but steady, eyes half-lidded as she watched him trail kisses along the curve of her neck—each one slower than the last, like he was savoring her warmth, her scent, the taste of her skin under his lips. The air between them was thick with the quiet hum of something electric and tender, something that had bloomed between them long before tonight but was finally, finally being spoken through touch.

His stubble scratched faintly along her collarbone as he moved lower, the press of his lips turning softer—gentler still—when he reached the sensitive skin just above her chest. She felt his breath hitch as he hovered there, close enough for his mouth to ghost across the swell of her breast, but he didn’t move just yet. He paused, exhaling slow and steady, letting his nose nudge against her skin.

Then he looked up at her.

That was what undid her.

His blue eyes were wide, searching—so open it almost hurt to hold his gaze. There was no teasing in him now, no swagger, no cocky grin. Just Benny Cross, looking up at her like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to be here, in her bed, in her arms, worshiping her like this.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and rough around the edges. His hands were planted firm on either side of her ribs, thumbs brushing the edge of her waist, warm and steady.

Honey nodded, lips parting as she reached down to thread her fingers through his hair. “I’m more than okay,” she whispered, her thumb grazing his temple. “Don’t stop.”

Something in him softened at that, and he kissed her again—right over her heart this time, slow and full, like he was imprinting himself there. Then his lips moved to her breast, reverent and careful, like he was asking permission with every press of his mouth. He kissed along the underside, then the side, then finally let his tongue trace a circle, coaxing a quiet gasp from her throat.

She arched into him slightly, instinctive, and he groaned low in his chest like he couldn’t believe she was real. One of his hands slid up to cradle her breast, fingers splaying wide like he wanted to hold all of her, and his thumb brushed over the peak as he kissed her again, more sure this time. His lips closed gently around her, drawing her in with a tenderness that made her ache, made her toes curl in the sheets.

He didn’t rush. He worshipped.

And all the while, he kept glancing up at her, checking her face, needing to see her—really see her—as if her pleasure was something sacred, something he’d never take for granted.

Every time she sighed, every time she whispered his name, he gave her more.

And Honey… she felt loved in a way she didn’t know how to put into words.

“Benny,” she whispered again, her voice sugar-sweet and trembling at the edges. Her body stretched beneath him like a sigh, the long lines of her thighs gleaming in the low light, and her curls spilled over the pillow in soft, midnight coils. The white lace of her panties clung delicately to her, a contrast so stark against the warmth of her skin that Benny had to close his eyes for a second — like maybe if he blinked too long, she’d disappear.

His hand brushed the inside of her thigh, rough calluses dragging over the softness of her skin in a slow, upward path. He heard her inhale — sharp, then shaky — and he kissed the sound from her lips, gently, like it was the first and last time.

His other hand came up to cradle her cheek as their mouths moved in rhythm — soft, then deeper, until she was moaning into his mouth and curling her fingers into the back of his neck. He kissed her like a secret, slow and purposeful, tracing the shape of her lips with his tongue before slipping it deeper, letting her taste him. His lips were plush and coaxing, his stubble brushing against her skin in a way that made her toes curl.

When he pulled back, it was just enough to trail kisses across her jawline, then down the column of her throat, taking his time with each press of his mouth. He lingered just beneath her ear, drawing the lobe between his lips, sucking gently. Honey gasped — softly, involuntarily — and he smiled against her skin like it was a sound made just for him.

“You’re killin’ me, Honeybee,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent. His mouth continued its journey — dragging hot, open-mouthed kisses down the curve of her neck, across her collarbones, then lower still.

When he reached the swell of her breasts, he paused.

She looked down at him, her lips parted, breath shallow, hair fanned across the pillow like a halo. And when she nodded — slow, sure — he kissed her there too, between the valley of them, then across one soft mound, lips brushing reverently over the curve. He took his time learning her — mouthing gently at her nipple until it pebbled beneath his tongue. His hand came up to cradle the other, thumb circling slowly, like worship.

Honey arched beneath him, her hips shifting, thighs parting instinctively — needing more but not rushing it. Not when every inch of her was being seen. Known.

He kept kissing lower — across the slope of her belly, nipping gently just beside her navel — his hands stroking the outer curve of her hips, fingers teasing the lace band of her panties but not pulling it down. Not yet.

When he finally let one hand dip beneath the waistband, he groaned low in his throat at how warm, how wet she already was for him. He kissed her inner thigh like an apology for making her wait, and she felt her legs shake as he whispered against her skin, “So fuckin’ soft, baby. You’re drivin’ me wild.”

He didn’t rush it. Every stroke of his fingers was slow and intentional, teasing her just enough to make her tremble, to make her whimper softly and roll her hips toward his hand. She buried her fingers in his hair, tugging when his mouth replaced his hand — when he lowered himself further, kissing her through the lace, wet warmth meeting damp fabric.

Benny spread her thighs with hands that shook a little — not from nerves, but from the sheer weight of how much he wanted her. Needed her. His palms pressed to the warm skin of her inner thighs, thumbs tracing idle circles like she was something fragile he didn’t dare break. The reverence in his touch made her chest rise in shallow breaths, her lips parted, eyes dark with want.

"Christ," he muttered, breath hitching as he took her in — glistening, aching, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. "Honeybee, you don’t even know..."

He leaned in and kissed the inside of her thigh, then the other, then just above her slit — close enough to make her hips twitch, but not quite there yet. His eyes flicked up, locking with hers, and he smirked—slow and feral.

“You look like sin laid out for me,” he rasped, and then — finally — he kissed her where she was wettest.

It started gentle. Just the flat of his tongue running up her folds, slow and deliberate. He moaned against her, like she was the one feeding him, like her taste was something sacred he’d been starving for. And in truth — he had.

She cried out, softly, her hips lifting before he pressed them back down with firm, steady hands. “Uh-uh, sweet girl,” he murmured, voice low and gruff. “Let me taste you proper.”

And then he buried himself in her like a man on a mission.

Benny licked her like he knew her. Like her body had been whispering secrets to him in the dark and he’d listened to every damn one. His tongue moved with purpose — slow swirls around her clit, then a teasing flick, then soft suckling that made her toes curl into the bedsheets. He groaned as he ate her, low and throaty, the vibrations making her thighs shake.

“F-fuck,” Honey gasped, her voice a breathless whimper. Her fingers dove into his hair, tugging gently — but he didn’t stop. If anything, he doubled down, dragging her closer to the edge with each deep, reverent stroke.

Benny’s tongue dipped lower, gathering her wetness with a greedy groan, then returning to circle her clit again, sloppier this time, needier. His mouth worshipped her — all tongue and lips and whispered filth against her skin.

“You taste like honey,” he said, voice muffled against her. “Ain’t never gonna stop wantin’ this.”

And he meant it — every word.

He reached up, interlacing their fingers as his tongue danced over her with practiced rhythm, slow and maddening. When she gasped his name, shaking beneath his mouth, he squeezed her hand tight, anchoring her as her body quaked — hips bucking, breath hitched, eyes fluttering closed.

He didn’t pull back when she came. He held her there with his mouth, rode it out with her, licked and licked until she was crying out and pushing at his head, too sensitive.

Only then did Benny lift his face, chin slick, lips parted and shining. His grin was crooked, wicked, and proud — but beneath it all was something tender.

“You okay, Honeybee?” he asked, voice hoarse with want.

She could barely speak — just nodded, blinking down at him, breathless and shining with sweat.

“Good,” he whispered, kissing her thigh once more. “That was just the appetizer.”

Honey was still catching her breath, chest rising in soft, uneven waves, lips parted with wonder as her fingers fumbled for the hem of his shirt. Her limbs trembled, not from fear or hesitation, but from the kind of reverent anticipation that came with being touched like you were sacred. Benny hadn’t said a word — hadn’t needed to — but the way he looked at her said everything.

He watched her now, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark with the kind of awe a man carried when he realized he’d been trusted with something precious. His hands, calloused and warm, slid up from her thighs to her hips, fingers tracing lazy, grounding paths along her sides as he took her in — her bare skin, her breathing, the soft glisten at the corners of her eyes.

“You okay?” he asked, voice hoarse, as if speaking too loudly might break the spell they were wrapped in.

She only nodded, her hand reaching to curl around the back of his neck, pulling him down until their foreheads touched again. “I’m more than okay,” she whispered. “I’m yours.”

That did something to him. That word — yours — settled in his chest like a vow.

With aching patience, he peeled the shirt from her body, lifting it over her head with trembling fingers, revealing inch by inch the warm brown of her skin, the curve of her breasts, the softness of her stomach. Honey lay before him like a prayer he’d never believed he’d live to say, and he didn’t rush — didn’t dare. He took her in like she was sunrise over a wrecked world.

His own clothes followed in kind — first the shirt, then the jeans and boxers — until there was nothing between them but the heat of their skin and the weight of all they hadn’t said. When Honey reached to touch him, her fingers soft along his side, tracing a scar near his hip, Benny closed his eyes for a moment and just let her look. Let her know him. Let her have him.

She opened her legs without fear, with trust, her gaze steady on his, and he settled between her thighs like it was where he was born to be. His hands gripped her hips, not to claim or command, but to anchor himself — to hold onto something real as the world tipped sideways around them.

He slid into her slow, drawn out like honey dripping from a spoon, inch by inch until they were fully connected, until the air left both their lungs in quiet, trembling exhales.

Honey gasped, her head tipping back slightly as she clung to him, one hand pressed flat against his back, the other tangled in his curls.

“Benny…” she breathed, her voice thin, ruined, reverent.

“I got you,” he whispered back, forehead still resting against hers. “I got you, baby. You feel so fuckin’ good.”

He began to move — not rough, not hurried — but with that same unshakable devotion that had colored every kiss, every whispered promise. His thrusts were deep and measured, like he was learning her from the inside out, like he was trying to memorize every inch of her body with the way he moved.

And God, he was. Every moan she gave him, every breathless plea, every roll of her hips — he answered with a gentleness that bordered on worship.

She clung to him tighter, lips brushing the shell of his ear as she whimpered, “You make me feel so loved…”

“You are loved,” he rasped. “So fuckin’ loved, Honeybee.”

Their bodies moved in perfect rhythm, a slow, building tide neither of them wanted to come down from. It was more than pleasure. It was communion. It was home.

And when her body finally trembled beneath him again, when her breath caught and her thighs clenched around his waist, he held her through it, kissed her through it, whispered her name over and over like a prayer he’d never stop saying.

When he followed, it was with a groan torn from his chest, his face buried in her neck, arms wrapped around her as though the act of letting go might unmake him.

But it didn’t.

It remade them both.

Honey couldn’t stop giggling.

That warm, sun-slick kind of laughter spilled from her lips, bubbling up as she lay tangled beneath Benny, his weight still draped over her, his chest pressed to hers, their legs a knot of limbs under the sheets. Her fingers were tracing lazy shapes along the expanse of his back — over freckles, faded scars, the dips and planes of his muscles that now moved with slow, sleepy breaths.

“What’s so funny?” he murmured, voice rough and laced with that low, post-love rumble that always made her toes curl. He didn’t lift his head, just nuzzled his nose into the crook of her neck and sighed.

She giggled again, softer this time, her body still thrumming from the high of being his. “You’re heavy,” she teased, voice honey-warm, though she made no real effort to push him off.

“You love it,” he replied without missing a beat, pressing a kiss just below her ear. “Keeps you warm.”

“Mmhmm,” she hummed, curling a leg over his hip. “I do like it, actually. You’re like my own personal weighted blanket… but with more attitude.”

That earned a chuckle from him, deep and tired. “Can’t believe you’re talkin’ mess after I just gave you the best thirty-seven minutes of your life.”

She laughed again, swatting at his arm, but not before she pulled him closer. His skin was hot against hers, damp in places, but comforting — grounding. He smelled like her now. She could feel his heart still thudding, just under the surface of his chest, where it rested against hers.

Benny finally shifted, just enough to roll to his side and bring her with him so she was tucked against him, chest to chest, belly to belly. His hand slid up her back, fingers splaying wide until his palm cradled the back of her head, his thumb sweeping just beneath the edge of her silk headscarf.

“Still laughin’?” he murmured, lips brushing her forehead.

“A little,” she whispered, her voice going soft now, her eyes fluttering half-shut. “It’s just… I feel good. Like real good. Like I could stay here forever.”

He smiled at that — not a grin, not one of his cocky smirks, but that rare smile he only gave her when he was overwhelmed by how much he felt. “Then don’t go nowhere,” he said. “Ain’t lettin’ you.”

Her fingertips ghosted along his jawline, her thumb brushing the stubble there. “I’m not goin’ anywhere,” she whispered. “You hear me, Benjamin Cross?”

“I hear you, Honeybee,” he murmured back, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth — barely there, so gentle it made her chest ache.

“Benny, ‘m fine,” Honey muttered, trying to sound annoyed, but her voice barely carried the weight. It was more breath than protest, and even she knew how weak it landed. “You’re actin’ like I got shot or somethin’.”

She’d only meant to make lunch—just a simple pan of greens and a pot of grits, nothing that required standing too long. But the second he caught her in the kitchen, sleeves rolled and spatula in hand, the man damn near lost it.

Now she was being ushered backwards like some frail old lady, Benny’s hand splayed wide across the small of her back, guiding her with the kind of gentleness that made her eyes sting.

She scowled.

“Benny—”

“Sit down, Honey,” he said, voice low and sharp enough to cut through steel, though he never raised it at her. Never once did he snap. He just stood there, six feet of tension wrapped in a worn-out shirt and fraying jeans, jaw clenched like he was holding in something volcanic.

She let herself be nudged toward the couch, grumbling the whole way. “You’re overreactin’. I feel fine, my legs work, my hands work—”

“You ain’t cookin’,” he said flatly. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not even next week. I don’t care if you feel fine. That don’t change what happened.”

She dropped into the cushions with a dramatic huff, curls flouncing and lips pursed like she might spit fire. “Three days, Benny. You’ve been treatin’ me like glass for three days.”

He didn’t even flinch.

Didn’t say a word.

He just turned and headed back into the kitchen, the muscles in his back tense, twitching beneath the fabric of his shirt. She watched the way he moved—deliberate, careful, like every step was chosen. Like if he moved too fast, the world might crack.

The sound of sizzling butter filled the air, fragrant and rich. But all she could focus on was him. Her man. The same man who hadn’t let her out of his sight since that night. Who hadn’t touched a drop of liquor since. Who’d answered her work phone for her, arranging three weeks’ paid leave like it was nothing.

He wouldn’t tell her how.

She didn’t need to ask. She had a pretty good idea of what persuasive meant when it came from Benny Cross.

She leaned back against the couch, chewing on her lip. “Three weeks? You threatened someone, didn’t you?”

“Did what I had to,” he muttered without turning around.

“That ain’t an answer, Benny.”

“That’s ‘cause you don’t want one.”

He was right. She didn’t.

She didn’t want to know what lines he’d crossed, what rules he’d broken. Not when it came to her. Not when it meant making her feel safe again. He wasn’t the kind of man who asked permission to protect what he loved.

She watched him in silence. Watched the way he stirred the pot, shoulders hunched, lost in thought. Watched the way he glanced over at her every thirty seconds, like he needed to see her to breathe.

When he finally came back, he didn’t sit. Didn’t speak. Just dropped to his knees in front of her like gravity had pulled him there.

His hands—those big, calloused, ink-touched hands—rested on her thighs. His eyes were glassy, unreadable, but his voice was steady.

“Honey, I know you hate bein’ looked after. You’ve been takin’ care of yourself for so long, you don’t know how to let anyone else do it. But you gotta let me do this. You gotta let me take care of you.”

She blinked, her heart thudding in her chest. “Benny…”

“I wasn’t there,” he whispered. “I should’ve been. I told you to stay in one spot and then I left you there like a damn fool. And now—I can’t sleep without seein’ your face in that hallway. Cryin’. Callin’ for me.”

She reached for him, fingers finding the curve of his jaw, tracing the line of tension there. He leaned into her touch like it hurt not to.

“‘M not broken,” she murmured, voice barely audible. “You didn’t fail me. I’m here. I’m okay.”

“You ain’t okay,” he said hoarsely. “You’ve been flinchin’ in your sleep. You hum that little song when you’re nervous—I heard you hum it last night. You keep checkin’ the locks. And every time a bike rides past the house, you freeze.”

She closed her eyes.

Because he was right.

He saw it all.

“Then just be with me,” she whispered. “You wanna take care of me? Fine. Just don’t leave the room. Don’t sleep in your own bed tonight. Just stay with me, Benny. Please.”

His breath hitched. His hands gripped her thighs like lifelines. And then he kissed her knee. Soft. Reverent. Like he was kissing a temple.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he swore, voice like gravel and honey. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

And when he carried her to bed that night, when he gently tucked her beneath the blankets and climbed in beside her, he didn’t touch her like a man who wanted sex.

He touched her like a man who was terrified of losing the woman he loved.

And she let him.

Because that was the safest she’d felt in days.

Honey exhaled softly, leaning one shoulder against the kitchen doorframe, her arms folded loosely across her chest. From where she stood, the low amber light above the stove cast Benny in golden shadow, illuminating the breadth of his bare shoulders and the easy confidence in his stance.

He moved with a quiet rhythm that surprised her—elbow bent just right, the wooden spoon swirling in a simmering pot like he knew exactly what he was doing. There was steam curling into the air, the scent of slow-cooked grits and garlic butter and pan-seared shrimp warming the room like a memory. He looked… calm. Steady. Familiar in a way that made her chest ache.

She blinked, watching him reach for a pinch of seasoning and sprinkle it in with a practiced flick. It was domesticity, plain and simple. And somehow, it looked right on him.

“…Since when the hell can you cook?” she asked, her voice teasing but tinged with genuine curiosity, one brow arching as she watched him from the doorway.

Benny didn’t turn right away—just gave a low snort of amusement as he stirred again, eyes still focused on the pot. “You think I just survive off takeout and rage?”

She grinned, chin tilting. “I mean… kinda, yeah.”

Now he glanced back at her, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “Fair. But nah. My ma taught me. Before she got sick. She always said a man ain’t got no business callin’ himself one if he can’t feed the people he loves.”

Honey went still. The words landed heavy, warm in her ribcage.

Benny’s voice was softer now. “We didn’t have a whole lot, but when she made somethin’ like this—it was an occasion. Meant we were celebratin’ somethin’. Or pretendin’ we were.”

She stepped into the room, slower now, gaze searching. “You doin’ that tonight? Pretendin’?”

He looked at her then, and something flickered behind his eyes—something unspoken but raw. His jaw tightened, not with anger, but with emotion he didn’t quite know where to put.

“Nah,” he said, quietly. “Ain’t pretendin’ nothin’. You’re here. That’s real enough for me.”

She didn’t answer, not right away. Just watched him for a moment as he gently turned down the flame, lifted the skillet from the heat, and plated the food with surprising care—grits spooned in thick and velvety, shrimp golden and crisp, garnished with a flick of chopped scallions and red pepper.

It hit her then. The kind of man Benny Cross really was.

Yes, he was brutal when he needed to be. Protective in a way that could burn down cities. But he was also this—the man who remembered his mother’s recipes. Who stood shirtless in her kitchen, feeding her with hands that had both cradled her face and beaten men bloody for trying to touch her.

He turned toward her and offered the plate like it was a peace offering. Like it was proof.

“I said I’d take care of you,” he murmured, eyes steady on hers. “Let me.”

Honey took the plate with both hands, her fingers brushing his.

“You keep cookin’ like this,” she said, her voice soft, “and I just might.”

He gave her a look—fond and full of something that lingered between love and reverence—and gently nudged her toward the couch with the barest touch to her lower back. “Go sit down before I tie you to the damn cushions.”

She snorted, but obeyed, curling up into the corner of the couch as he followed with a drink in hand and a cloth napkin like he was serving her at some five-star joint.

As she took the first bite, warmth spread through her chest and belly—not just from the food, but from him.

And Benny?

Benny just watched her, elbows on his knees, eyes drinking her in like he was making sure she liked it. Like nothing else mattered.

Because to him—it didn’t.

The plate was warm between her hands, but it wasn’t nearly as warm as the look Benny gave her—quiet, searching, a little amused. He reached out and took it from her gently, fingers grazing hers in the exchange, the kind of touch that lingered long after the contact broke. Honey let her hands fall into her lap, watched him settle in front of her with deliberate ease, like this moment mattered. Like feeding her mattered.

He dipped the spoon into the shrimp and grits he’d made, careful to gather the right balance of everything: a juicy shrimp nestled into the creamy grits, a hint of scallion, a bit of heat from the cayenne he pretended not to use too heavy-handedly. She opened her mouth for him without needing to be asked, lips parting with soft trust, and he fed her slow.

It was good. Like, damn good.

She chewed thoughtfully, watching the set of his jaw, the way the lamp light played across his features—shadows carving out the harshness, softening him where her eyes always wanted to linger.

“You never talk about your ma,” she said, her voice a little slower, rounder, like she was still savoring the bite. Her eyes held his, steady but not prying, just... open.

Benny stilled.

The spoon hovered just slightly above the bowl, and she could see the shift in his posture—the small, almost imperceptible tightening of his shoulders. His gaze dropped, and he focused on the grits like they were easier to look at than her.

“She was a loud kinda gentle,” he said finally, voice gravel-soft. “The type of woman who hummed old gospel songs while scrubbing the porch, who talked to her plants like they were her kids. House always smelled like rosemary and laundry soap. She wasn’t fancy, but she was... good.”

Honey stayed quiet, letting him fill the silence how he needed.

“She kept this jar,” he said, “on a shelf above the sink. Full of buttons. Some she’d cut off old clothes, some she found in the street or on the bus. Said every button meant somethin’. A loss, a change, a story. She liked the broken ones best.”

He scooped another bite, held it out to her. She leaned forward and took it, never looking away from him.

“She made this,” he murmured, gesturing to the food with a glance. “Shrimp and grits. Was the last thing she ever cooked for me. Told me if I ever forgot the taste, I’d be forgettin’ her too.”

His voice went rough around the edges. “I didn’t eat grits again for years. Couldn’t. Then one day, I opened that damn button jar... and I remembered every damn thing.”

Honey reached across the space between them and laid her hand on his thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles through the worn denim. Her eyes stung, but she didn’t let the tears fall. Not yet.

“Did you remember the taste?” she asked.

He looked at her then, really looked. And nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Every bite.”

Honey leaned in, pressed a kiss to his cheek—right below the place where a tear had almost fallen and didn’t. Her lips lingered there, warm and certain.

“You cook like a man who remembers,” she whispered.

And Benny—her Benny—just smiled, a small, crooked thing that didn’t quite reach his eyes but made her heart ache anyway. He scooted closer, their knees brushing, and fed her another bite, slow and gentle and full of a love he didn’t always have words for.

She didn’t need him to say it.

He said it every time he looked at her like she was home.

“And… your dad?”

The question came soft as a breeze, but it cut deep—deeper than she meant it to. Honey hadn't intended to ask it that gently, that tenderly. Like she'd already braced herself for the ache it might pull to the surface. Like she already knew.

Benny froze. Spoon paused mid-air, his eyes dropped to the plate in his lap. His hand stilled. His shoulders went rigid like boards nailed down. And for a moment, it was like the whole room held its breath.

Honey’s gaze didn’t move from his face. She saw the shift happen—slow and seismic. Like something beneath his skin was cracking wide open, something long buried under grit and muscle and the weight of years spent pretending it didn’t exist. She didn’t rush him. She just rested her hand over his, gentle, grounding.

He swallowed hard. His voice, when it came, was thick—rough, like gravel dragged across cement.

“He’s dead to me.”

She didn’t flinch. Just held his gaze, steady and soft.

“He was mean,” Benny went on, and the words sounded strange coming from him—mean, like it didn’t come close to what he really meant, like he’d stripped it down to its simplest form so it wouldn’t knock the wind out of him. “Mean in a way that made silence feel safer than speakin’. Mean like he only felt like a man when someone smaller than him cried.”

Honey said nothing. Just squeezed his hand.

“He used to come home and throw his keys. That was the signal,” Benny murmured. “Soon as I heard ‘em hit the wall, I knew I had about thirty seconds to disappear. If I was lucky, maybe he’d go for the TV or the drywall. If I wasn’t—”

His breath hitched, jaw tightening.

“I was six when I started duckin’. Seven when I stopped cryin’. Eight when I stopped runnin’.”

Honey blinked hard. Her other hand came up to rest on his chest, the steady thump of his heart a reminder that he’d survived.

“Knocked out his tooth one night,” Benny added with a bitter, humorless smile. “Right hook. Clean. He laughed blood in my face and told me I’d just bought myself a lesson I’d never forget.”

She didn’t ask what the lesson was. She already knew. She saw it in the scars he didn’t talk about. The ones that didn’t mark skin but lived in the marrow.

“That man taught me nothin’ but hate,” he said quietly. “Didn’t teach me how to love. Didn’t teach me how to be soft. Just taught me how to clench my fists and swing harder the next time.”

Honey’s voice trembled as she spoke, but it didn’t waver.

“No, Benny. He didn’t teach you that. You survived that. There’s a difference.”

He looked at her then—really looked. Eyes wide and wet, a boy in a man’s body finally being told it wasn’t his fault.

“The way you protect me?” she whispered. “The way you hold me when you think I’m asleep? The way you cook, and clean, and hover over me like I’m the only thing keeping you breathing—he didn’t give you that. You made that. You chose to be more.”

His breath shuddered out. A tear slipped down his cheek before he could catch it. He looked away, ashamed.

But Honey wouldn’t let him hide.

She turned his face back to hers, thumb brushing it away, her other hand fisting the soft fabric of his shirt like if she held tight enough, maybe she could anchor him to something gentler.

“You are not your father,” she said, steady as a heartbeat. “You are your own man. And you’re mine. That’s who you are.”

He broke then. Quietly, completely.

Tears slid freely down his face as he leaned forward, arms wrapping around her waist like she was the only safe place left in the world. He buried his face in her chest, breathing her in, trembling like that boy he used to be, the one who needed someone to tell him he was still good.

And Honey held him. Rocked him slow. Ran her fingers through his hair and pressed kisses to the top of his head.

“I wanna be better,” he choked. “For you. For whatever life we get.”

“You already are,” she whispered. “You already are, baby.”

And in that little kitchen, with leftover food forgotten on the table, they both sat in the quiet that followed—soft, tender, holy.

She didn’t fix him. She loved him. And sometimes, that was enough.

She cupped his face like he was made of something sacred.

Her palms were warm despite the faint ache still echoing in her arms—those bruises hadn’t fully faded, not yet. Soft smears of yellow and violet clung to her skin like unwelcome ghosts, a reminder of how close she’d come to something unforgivable. But she didn’t shy away. Not from him. Her thumbs traced the planes of his cheekbones, slow and tender, like she was learning him all over again with her touch. Mapping him. Reclaiming him.

“You’re so pretty, you know that?” she whispered, the words so quiet they nearly vanished between them, spoken like a secret meant for his ears alone.

His breath stuttered. A single tear slipped free, sliding down the sharp angle of his face—and she caught it with her thumb before it could fall any further. His eyes, pale blue and rimmed red, locked onto hers with a kind of haunted disbelief. Like he didn’t know what to do with her softness. Like he’d forgotten how it felt to be looked at without fear.

“Honey…” His voice cracked.

She didn’t let him turn away.

His jaw tensed beneath her touch, like he was bracing for some kind of punishment—for anger, for blame—but all she gave him was tenderness. Her fingers brushed over his cheek, over the stubble and the heat of him. There was a faint tremble in his chin. Not fear. Not rage. Just something unraveling.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, barely audible.

“Like what?” she asked, brow furrowing slightly.

“Like I’m not broken.”

She didn’t hesitate. “You ain’t broken, Benny. Just bruised.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, like shame was caught in his throat—but she leaned in before he could speak, pressing her forehead gently to his. Her curls brushed against his temple. Her breath warmed his lips.

“You’re still mine,” she whispered. “That’s all I care about.”

His hands—those blood-stained, callused hands—found her hips like instinct. Not to pull her in, not to own her, but to hold. To anchor. Like she was the last soft thing he had in the world and he couldn’t bear to let it slip away.

“I shoulda been there,” he choked out. “I shoulda—God, Honeybee, if I’d been there—”

She pressed her nose to his, brushing it gently, her lashes fluttering against his cheek.

“You came back,” she breathed. “You found me. That’s what matters.”

She kissed his forehead then—slow, reverent, like she was sealing a vow into his skin. He shuddered beneath it, the tension in his spine finally starting to bleed away.

“You don’t have to be a weapon for me,” she said, voice like velvet. “You can just be Benny.”

He swallowed hard, eyes fluttering closed as her words sank deep into the hollow places he tried so hard to hide. In her hands, he wasn’t a monster. Wasn’t a fighter. Wasn’t the blood-slicked thing the world had made him.

He was hers.

And for the first time in days, he let himself breathe like it was true.

She didn’t mean to reach for him—not at first. It just happened. The way he sat there, still and silent, his hands fidgeting with a thread on his jeans like he couldn’t figure out what to do with them, like he was trying to anchor himself to something—anything—before the guilt swallowed him whole.

He’d been crying in secret. She could tell. His eyes were too red, too glassy, too raw to be anything else.

And still, he hadn’t made a sound.

So she cupped his face.

Gently—so gently. Her palms warm against the sharp edge of his jaw, her thumbs brushing along the curve of his cheekbones. Her touch was featherlight, like she was afraid she might scare him off, or worse, break him.

The bruises on her arms were still there—faded now, a sickly yellow blooming over violet—but they didn’t hurt like they used to. Not physically, at least. But they were still there, a silent reminder, and Benny noticed them the second she touched him.

His breath hitched like she’d drawn a knife across his ribs.

“I ain’t worth that,” he rasped, voice rough and hollow. “Not after—”

“Don’t,” she whispered, cutting him off, her voice low and firm. “Don’t say it.”

His eyes searched hers like he was drowning, like she might be the only thing keeping his head above water. Her thumbs swept the tears from beneath his eyes, one after the other, gentle and slow.

“You’re so pretty,” she murmured, the words so quiet they nearly broke apart in the air between them. “You know that?”

He shook his head in disbelief, jaw clenched so tightly it trembled. “Honey…”

“No. Listen to me.” She leaned in closer, her voice thick. “You are. You always have been. You’re rough around the edges, Benny, but you’re mine. You’ve got the kind of soul people spend their whole lives trying to find. You’re fire and fear and all the things that keep the world turning, and I swear to God I’ve never wanted anything more than I want you.”

She pressed her forehead to his. Her nose brushed his, their breath mingling, hearts pounding in rhythm.

He didn’t move. He just sat there, frozen—like a man waiting for the floor to fall out from beneath him again.

Her hands threaded into his hair, soft and slow, curling against his scalp in a gesture so intimate it made him shiver. She closed her eyes, grounding herself in him. In the scent of smoke and soap. In the heat radiating from his skin. In the ache lodged in her chest that told her she loved this man more than she thought she could bear.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, lips brushing his. “You hear me? I’m right here.”

And then—finally—she kissed him.

It was soft. Reverent. Nothing like the wildness she’d imagined that first kiss might carry. This was quieter, deeper. Like her lips were telling him all the things her voice never quite knew how to say. Like she was pouring every ounce of safety, of forgiveness, of devotion into him—one heartbeat at a time.

At first, he didn’t respond.

He just sat there and let her kiss him, his lips slack with disbelief.

But then—then—something in him broke.

He kissed her back with a kind of desperation she’d never felt before. A trembling hunger. A need so thick it made her breath catch in her throat. His hands came up, slow and shaky, one curling around her waist, the other cupping the back of her head as if he was afraid she might vanish if he didn’t hold on.

Their mouths moved together like they’d always known how. Messy and imperfect. A little wet from his tears. A little too breathless. But God, it was real.

When she finally pulled back, their lips still brushing, she felt the weight of his stare. His blue eyes wide and wet, like she’d cracked his chest open and made a home inside it.

“Say it again,” he whispered, voice so broken it nearly undid her. “Please.”

She rested her forehead against his, breathing hard. “I’m right here, Benny.”

And with that, he let himself fall into her arms like it was the only place he’d ever belonged.

She felt him grin against her lips—soft at first, then wide and cocky, like the weight of the world had cracked just enough to let some light through. His chuckle followed, low and boyish, and it slipped between them as she pulled back a breath, her face still close to his, eyes searching his like she was trying to memorize the way they looked when they were glassy with emotion, when they were full of her.

“What?” she asked, half breathless, half suspicious, the corners of her mouth twitching despite herself. Her fingers stayed threaded in his hair, and his hands were still splayed across the small of her back, like he was scared letting go would undo it all.

He ran his tongue over his lower lip—still swollen from the kiss—and tilted his head, blue eyes gleaming with something impish now. “Told you,” he said, voice husky but laced with a grin that had too much history in it, “told you you’d marry me.”

Honey’s brows shot up. She barked out a laugh—sharp and disbelieving—but she didn’t move away. “You’re delusional.”

“You’re kissin’ me.”

“Outta pity.”

“You put your hands in my hair.”

“To shut you up.”

He leaned in, brushing his nose along hers in a way that made her heart squeeze, soft and silly and tender as hell. “Didn’t work,” he murmured, voice smug as sin.

She swatted at his chest, but not really—her fingers barely landed before he caught her wrist, tugging her in until she was sprawled halfway in his lap, giggling despite herself.

“You’re such a menace,” she whispered through a grin, eyes bright now, lighter.

“Yeah?” he drawled, tipping his head like he was thinking real hard about that. “Still gonna marry me though.”

She rolled her eyes again, but this time with no heat—just affection and something helpless. “I haven’t even said yes.”

“You kissed me like you did.”

“Maybe I should take it back.”

Benny leaned forward, kissed her once more—slow and sure, like he already knew her answer. It wasn’t rushed or hungry like before. This was steadier, tender, the kind of kiss that left something behind when it was gone. When he finally pulled back, his breath still mingling with hers, that boyish grin gave way to something softer—none of that cocky edge now, just a quiet reverence in his eyes, a worship she didn’t know what to do with.

“I’ll ask proper,” he whispered, voice thick with promise. “One day. With a ring and everything. You’ll say yes then, too.”

And God help her—she knew he was right.

She let out a breath, the smallest crooked grin tugging at the corner of her mouth as she tilted her head at him, playful in that way that always made him lean in closer than he should. “Yeah? Don’t count on it.”

He huffed a laugh, eyes crinkling at the edges as he brushed a thumb along her cheekbone. “Too late. Already do.”

His confidence should’ve made her roll her eyes again, but instead, her chest swelled. She hated how well he knew her sometimes—how he could read her even when she tried to hide. And right now, she wasn’t hiding. She was curled up in his lap, her hands still in his hair, letting him hold her like she was the only thing he ever wanted to protect.

“Gonna be a pain in the ass fiancé,” she muttered, nose brushing his.

He kissed the tip of it. “Already am.”

She laughed, and for a second—for the first time in days—she felt like maybe the world wasn’t ending. Maybe she really would say yes. Maybe she already had.

“Tell me about your family,” Benny asked, his voice low, laced with something tentative—like he was touching a wound he didn’t want to split open. He was sitting sideways in the kitchen chair, elbow on the table, eyes trained on her with that careful softness he reserved for her and her alone.

Honey paused mid-step, the dish towel slack in her hands. The question hung between them like dust in the sunlit air, weightless and heavy all at once.

A slow, far-off smile unfurled across her face—not the bright kind she wore when teasing him, or the sultry smirk she tossed over her shoulder when she had him wrapped around her finger. No, this one was quiet. Private. Lined with love and ache both.

“My little sister, Love,” she began, her voice so soft it almost didn’t reach him. “She’s got a wild streak in her bones. A drifter. Last I heard, she was in Tennessee, renting a studio above a dive bar, singing jazz like her lungs were built for it. Or maybe chasing down some man who said he’d put a ring on her finger and vanished before morning. She doesn’t stay in one place long. Never has.”

She chuckled under her breath, but there was sadness buried in it. “Love’s like a firecracker. Bright, beautiful, loud as hell—and then gone before you can catch your breath. I used to try and chase her down, used to try and bring her home. Gave that up a long time ago.”

Benny watched her, didn’t interrupt. Just kept his hands folded in his lap, watching the light move across her face like it was drawing memory lines.

“She calls me sometimes,” Honey said, gaze dropping to the counter. “Midnight calls from payphones or borrowed numbers. Just to say she’s breathing. That she’s okay. And that’s all I need to hear.”

She moved to sit down across from him then, her fingers tracing invisible circles on the table. Her smile faded. “My mama’s still with my daddy. Same house I grew up in, same porch swing that creaks when the wind hits it right. But we haven’t spoken in a while. Not since… well.” She exhaled through her nose. “Too many things unsaid. Too many things that got said and couldn’t be unsaid.”

Her jaw tightened for a moment, eyes dimming. “My mama loved me best when I was quiet. When I folded myself into something manageable. She couldn’t handle me when I got too loud—too opinionated, too much like her. And my daddy—he just watched. Always watched.”

Benny’s brow furrowed. His hand reached across the table, warm and calloused, and he placed it gently over hers. No pressure. Just there.

She looked down at their hands. “I miss the idea of them,” she whispered. “The version of them I used to make up in my head when I was little. The version that hugged me when I cried and asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.”

“I’m sorry,” Benny said softly.

She shook her head. “Don’t be. They taught me enough to get here. To be strong. To look after Love. To survive.”

He squeezed her hand, just once. “Still. You deserved more than that.”

Honey looked up at him then, and there was something raw in her gaze—like a cut that hadn’t quite scabbed over. “Maybe,” she said. “But I’ve got you now, don’t I?”

Benny’s throat worked around something thick, and he leaned forward, bringing her knuckles to his lips. “Yeah, sugar,” he murmured. “You got me.”

She smiled then, lopsided and beautiful. “God help me.”

Wednesday: Day Three

Wednesdays are a signal that it's almost the end of the week. It also signals that you've spent nearly a week in Metropolis. And so far, you have gathered that Metropolis is a different breed regarding heroes and villains. You have seen things living in Gotham. Just a couple of months ago, there was that Riddler villain and the flooding of downtown Gotham. And then your hero is essentially a big bat that people feared.

Compare that with Metropolis, where there are more interdimensional beings. And in general, way more shit than a human mind can comprehend. Paired with a very hot superhero. And you're not saying that because you like to look at attractive men. What Superman does is appealing and very noble. We will pretend that when he first debuted, you didn't buy a magazine with all his photos to look at like a fangirl. And that was only three years ago. But you still look back at those moments of weakness, and wince at them.

On another note, it's halfway through Wednesday, and Clark hasn't texted yet. Granted, you could text first if you're that anxious. But the nerve of it was too much. You shouldn't rush. You exchanged numbers yesterday, so what's the hurry? What is the hurry is the phrase you repeat to yourself. You don't know. Clark has taken over your mind like an infestation. You've only known him for two days. But what he has shown you so far is that he is open but guarded. It is as if he knows something nobody else knows, and he is such an interesting and cute man.

Okay, you are bored. You're so bored that you have drifting thoughts about your new crush. But you know why you are jaded right now. No one ever warns you about how uneventful office hours can be without students. You think there would be more students in your office. Considering one: it's the middle of the semester. And two: they have a new professor because their old professor got into legal trouble. But in reality, it's not that. You need something to happen right now before you die of boredom.

You sighed in the office air before your phone vibrated on your desk. You quickly picked up your phone to check who it was. You smiled at the screen as you read the text.

‘Hey, it's Clark. I'm so sorry I texted way later than expected. I needed to do something. But are you busy at the moment? I'm on a break right now. So would you like to get some food?'

You reread the text twice before your eyes widened. Well, you ask, and you shall receive. You quickly typed out a message that you would love to meet him and to send the address.

You looked at the clock on the wall. It was almost 1 pm, and your next class wasn't until 4, so you could make it there and back.

You quickly gathered everything you needed in your purse. You put a sign on your door and email, in case any student decides to show up. And off you were to the heart of Metropolis.

You're walking through the crowded streets, saying small apologies as you bump into some people, and walking to your destination. You should have parked your car closer, but finding a spot was already hard enough. You looked down at your phone as it said you were at your destination. It was a small but busy, cute mom-and-pop shop. You walked inside and looked around to find Clark. You saw him sitting in the corner next to the window.

"Hey, Clark," you said.

It was hard to control your laughter when you saw him get up abruptly to greet you, quickly moving to pull your seat out. You muttered a small thanks as you sat down.

"How are you?" Clark asked as he pushed a menu in your direction.

"It was boring at my job today, to say the least, until you texted me." You smiled while looking into his eyes.

Clark tilted his head and hummed slightly. And you think you were imagining it. But a slight, faint blush spread across his cheeks. "I never asked yet, but what do you do for a living?"

You were about to answer his question before you were interrupted.

"Howdy folks, I'm the owner of the establishment. What can I get you today?" The man said.

"Do you have any sweet tea?" You looked from the menu to the owner, who nodded as he wrote it down.

"Would you please bring me some coffee, black, and water?" He looked up from the menu as you said his name.

"Coffee at this time of day?" You shook your head in disbelief.

"What? I have multiple articles, so I'm pulling a long shift."

"You are a working man, Clark."

"Don't I know it." He sighed as he set the menu down.

"Are you two ready to order? We have a special that I specially named after Superman."

"A Superman special?" You asked in curiosity.

"Yeah, just a few weeks back, he saved my daughter and the shop for a week. I'm thankful for him, so I made this special." He said as he pointed towards the item.

You didn't notice that Clark was closing his eyes and wincing at the mention. But you were too busy focusing on the owner to notice, not sensing his discomfort. You two eventually settled on what you wanted to order. And you thanked the owner when he brought back the drinks.

"I'm a professor at Metropolis University to answer your earlier question." You tapped your fingers on the table.

"Oh? I went there." He laughed lightly as you stopped your tapping and gasped.

"I think I've seen photos of you on the football team. I didn't know you were the jock type."

"They still have those photos up? I graduated eight years ago." He made a face in horror. "I played football since middle school."

"You're old." You laughed as he made a face of confusion.

"I'm only 30, how old are you?"

You sighed as you flipped your hair. "I'm 28, if you want to know."

"You're going to hold those two years above my head, aren't you?" He pushed his glasses further up his nose.

"No, but maybe." You said in a singsong voice.

"What do you teach there?" His eyes focused back on you.

"I teach Criminology and Forensics."

"That's a hard area. I've interviewed people with that background," Clark said. "I know you just moved here, so where else did you teach?"

"I worked at Gotham University before this." You saw him raise his eyebrows slightly.

"Gotham University has great programs and a prestigious heritage with great minds." He leaned in to whisper. "But why Gotham?"

"I was interning with a professor at the time. She was recruited to help with their Criminology and Criminal Justice program." You almost slipped up in your explanation as you saw Clark focusing intently on what you were saying. "She took me along with her, and I ended up getting offered a full-time professor position."

"That sounds great. I know you've helped many students while you were there." He looked back at the menu.

"Yeah, they were great people." You hummed. "I loved where I work, but not so much the conditions."

"I vaguely remember news and your dad ranting about your advocacy while you were there."

You winced as he mentioned that. "Yeah, but I'm not ashamed of what I did. I always strived for the University to be better."

"You shouldn't, it shows that you care, I find that admirable." He smiled sweetly at you.

You felt a warm tingling feeling all over your body at his words. You could jump across this table right now and kiss him. The more time you spend with him, the bigger your heart becomes.

"Thank you for that. Most people don't see it that way." You swirled the straw in your tea.

"Who cares what others think? The people who see the good will know that."

This conversation will be marked as when you wanted Clark to become your man. Like, how is he single? Or if he's even single? Your thoughts travelled to you, trying to plot on a committed man. But he wouldn't ask a woman to an outing? But it could be platonically? Okay, so let's not friendzone yourself. You figure out a way to ask if he's single or not.

You focused on the conversation as you fell back in rhythm with him. Your food finally came out. You exchanged work stories, shared childhood memories, and discussed little quirks about yourselves. It was easy to talk to him.

"You don't mind me asking, and I mean no offense by this." He asked cautiously. "But how is it having Perry White as your dad?"

You laughed sharply at his question. "He might seem like a hard man, but he's always cared for me and my mother. He's like a mother hen."

Clark smiled at your laugh while the owner came back into view.

"Hello, so would this be one or two checks?"

"It can be two checks." You made a two-handed gesture before grabbing your purse to look for your wallet.

"It can be one."

You paused and looked up at Clark, who had told the owner he would pay for it. "Clark, you don't have to do that."

"It's alright; I want to." Once he had returned the cheque, Clark thanked the owner. You watched as he inserted his card.

"Thank you."

Clark waved his hand in a gesture. "It's no problem, I'm the one who asked you to come anyway."

You two thanked the owner when he returned with the cheque, and you made sure to leave a tip for him before leaving. You said thank you as Clark held the door for you.

You walked down the busy street together. Clark stayed close to you to make sure no one bumped into you. You're practically shoulder to shoulder, well, shoulder to arm. But you could smell his cologne. It just smelled warm like vanilla and ginger.

"I had a great time with you today." He said in the noise.

"I enjoyed it too." You looked absently at the people and street around you.

"We should do it sometime again." He voiced.

You paused lightly as you looked up from the street and at him. You noticed that you're standing in front of the Daily Planet. "You want that?"

Clark laughed, as if it were an oblivious answer. "Yeah, I want to." He paused as he looked back at the building, then to you. "I'll call you later, if you want that? I like that better than texting."

"I'm okay with calls. Can we set it up then?" You looked at your phone to see the time.

"Yeah, I'm fine with that." He tilted his head at you before he smiled. "I'll see you."

"Bye, Clark. You make sure you call me this time," you said as Clark walked towards the building. You heard his laugh before his faint 'I will' was heard.

You returned to your car and rechecked the time, seeing that it was almost 3:10. You had some time to spare before class, so you hurried back to the University. You made sure you had the materials you needed before walking to your class. You greeted all your students who came in and began your lesson.

"So just like we went over in our class on Monday. We will be going over theories of crimes and different perspectives of how a criminal operates." You clicked on your computer for the slideshow. Then, you moved onto the whiteboard to write things.

"Professor White, I think you should look at this." One of your students beckoned you to come.

"What is it?" You went over and looked at his phone. It was a video of a man talking about dropping a biological weapon on Metropolis University. As a campaign for the mark of humankind to change. Saying that they were people already in the building. And just like that, the alarms started to go off.

You looked at the door before quickly making your way to try to block it. A few students got up to help you, but it was too late as someone flung the door open and pointed a gun at your head.

"If you know what's good for you, you will move." The masked man said

You swallowed your quick defiance and told the students to stay close to you. Then, silently, you watched the man make it to the front of the classroom.

"This will be easy if you make it easy. You will move out of this classroom and follow my instructions."

You looked at your students before you looked back at the masked man. You nodded at them to move with him in front of you. There were already some students and professors in the hallway. You saw the masked man was taking you to the basement. You could hear a small group of students huddled around a phone talking about Superman, who was fighting. You will never know why some people choose to livestream as dangerous shit is happening in front of them.

But you focus back on the basement they were leading you to. "You will stay here and will not make a noise. I will not hesitate to kill any of you." He walked around the cramped room where you were stored, locking the door.

"I can pick a lock." Someone said in the crowd. You could hear a hush before there was silence again. You could only hear the faint noise of someone watching the live stream from their phone. And it was like that for an hour and a half before someone said he was coming here.

The door quickly opened as the man from the video scanned the room. You were in the front, silently cursing as he made eye contact. You were dragged by the ankle out of the room into the open space of the basement. Some of the students are trying to grab onto you, but fail. You try to wrestle out of his arms as he makes you stand.

"You won't be able to do anything without hurting civilians." He said it out in the open air.

Your eyes widened as you felt a gush of air, and Superman was right before you. "You will let her go."

"You couldn't just let change me, humanity, we can do much better than our current selves, like I did for me."

He pulled out a syringe, and you quickly shook your head, muttering no. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, but you must be my first test subject." You try to wrangle his arms again. "Hold still."

You quickly thought of what your military uncle taught you. You kicked your leg back in between his legs, swiping one of them and sending you both to the ground. He barely missed your neck with the needle as you rolled out of the way.

"No, no, no, it wasn't supposed to be like this, you ruined it." You watched as Superman approached him. The man tries to dodge him and punch him. But Superman quickly moves, restraining his body to the ground. You watched as the police descended the stairs, taking the man in custody.

You watched as Superman came to help you. "Are you okay, ma'am?"

You dusted your body as he pulled you up. You looked up at Superman. "Yes, I'm alright." You winced as you fully got to your feet.

"You're okay to walk? I can carry you." You were going to be stubborn, but he is helping, so you might as well take it.

"I think I need help." You had to contain your voice when he swiped you in his arms. You heard the students passing by you, being guided by the officers, uttering oohs and aahs

Tuesday: Day Two

You nervously stood outside the Daily Planet's grand building, gripping the container bag. After your classes, you helped students during office hours. You returned to your apartment and went straight to your kitchen drawers. You flipped through your written recipes, looking at recipes online to make for Clark. You eventually became frustrated and decided to create something based on what you saw and your imagination.

You spent the next four hours in your cramped kitchen baking for a stranger. Like, really to impress a stranger. A fine one at that. Here are some baked goods, so how about a date with me? Yeah, no. You will drop these in his hand and see where it goes. Go with the flow if your mind and body allow that. You packed everything you baked and out the door you were.

So now you are here, deciding if you should just say fuck it and leave. It's just food; you don't know why you are making a big deal about this. But you want to leave an impression on Clark, a good one at that. You took a deep breath and walked into the building. The elevator doors opened to the top floor. As they opened, you almost bumped into a person. Apologized as you moved out of the elevator. You only had so much time to mentally gather before Jimmy called you.

"You didn't." Jimmy approached you with a warm smile. "What are they this time?"

You smiled back at him. "I might have done something." You handed the two large containers to him, keeping the smaller one in your bag. "It's brown sugar cookies and peanut butter, no baked cookies in the top one. And blueberry brown sugar muffins with a crumble in the bottom container."

"I tried to have a theme going, and brown sugar was the pick." You smiled as Jimmy made an excited noise.

"I love it when you have a theme," Jimmy called out as he ran to one of the break rooms with you laughing at his antics.

Your body tensed as you felt a presence at your back. "I get to try some sooner than I thought." Clark laughed lightly from behind you.

You turned around, startled at the voice. You clutched the bag tighter to your body. "Oh, I didn't see you, Clark." You smiled lightly. "I hope you like it."

"I have no doubt, since everyone in the office talks highly of your baking."

You felt your face heat at the compliment from him. Gotta say something instead of staring at him like deer in headlights. You could give him the container now; this is a good time. But before you could even get the words out. Lois called out Clark's name.

"Excuse me." He smiled before leaving you alone.

Yeah, you should've abandoned this plan. You felt all your earlier confidence melt from your body. Staring back at your dad's office. You sighed in relief that he left early today, so you don't have to worry about that. But now your problem is that you have to approach Clark in a non-awkward way. 'Like, hey, here are some cupcakes for you.' Easy right? Well, easier said than done.

You stood there awkwardly before deciding to move to Clark and Lois. You coughed before speaking. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important?"

Lois and Clark looked up from the papers on the desk and in Clark's hand. Lois smiled at you. "No, we're just reviewing an article."

Okay, girl, this is the moment, take it. You smiled at Clark. "I made something just for you since you've never had any of my baking before."

Clark went wide-eyed before quickly setting the papers down on the desk. "For me?"

You nodded your head before taking the container out of the bag. "I probably should've asked if you had any allergies."

"No, I don't have any." He took the container from your hands. He examined that box. "What are they?"

"Bourbon brown sugar cupcakes with cream cheese icing. With caramel drizzle topped with shredded coconut." You rambled as you counted it on your fingers.

"Oh wow, that is a lot to do just for me," Clark said as he opened the container.

You frowned a little, unsure of your actions. "You don't like it. Is it too much?"

Clark raised his hand that wasn't occupied. Waving it back and forth in a reassuring gesture. "No, I love it."

Lois gave a knowing look to you. Looking between the two of you. "It's cute to see you two so awkward."

You and Clark laughed lightly before you leaned closer to whisper to him. "Make sure to hide them from Jimmy, or they will be gone."

Clark made a soft expression as he studied your face. "I'll make sure to keep them close to me."

You felt your whole body relax, knowing that he appreciated what you did for him. That was a success for the book. Now, you must wait to see if Clark will make a move in return. You saw his expression change from soft to a peaceful smile. Did you imagine that moment, or did he do that?

"Thank you for this," Clark said as he placed the container on his desk.

"It's not a problem."

You can move on with your day now that you've done that. It's only 4 pm. You could go grocery shopping. Since you almost cleared out your kitchen trying to bake.

You try not to focus on the fact that Clark's focus is still zeroed on you even as you say your goodbyes.

"I'll see you two later, and next time I see you, Clark, you'll tell me how those cupcakes tasted?" You smiled as he nodded lightly.

"I will."

You walk back to the elevator, not missing Jimmy's return, with his mouth full, saying how good it was. You shook your head, laughing, and waving to him before the elevators closed.

Knowing that Clark liked what you did, you had a pep in your step. You made a quick detour to the small antique shop you went to when you visited Metropolis. You browsed through trying to find replacements for your previous glassware. You found a green set that fit perfectly in your apartment.

You got back in your car, checking the time. You should get to the grocery store before it gets too late. You found your way to the store. Grabbing the cart where you browned the aisles. Still with that excited, giddy high from earlier.

You should get your essentials first and then splurge on yourself. You were so in your little world, thinking of items to buy. You didn't even notice the person in front of you.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry." You apologized quickly, not even noticing who it was.

"It's quite all right."

You paused as you recognized the familiar deep voice. Finally, you looked at the person. Your eyes widened at Clark standing in front of you with a warm smile and a basket in hand, as if you hadn't just hit him with a cart.

"Clark! What a surprise to see you here." You gripped the cart handle to control your posture. "I'm sorry for the cart, I wasn't paying attention."

Calrk tilted his head at you. "You don't have to apologize, it's fine."

There was a small beat of awkwardness between you before he spoke again, filling the quiet aisle. "I ate one of your cupcakes. I can see why Jimmy hid all the others away."

Your face lit up at his words, and warmth spread throughout your body. Here comes that giddy schoolgirl crush feeling. "Really? You liked it?"

Clark formed a small smile at your expression. "Yeah, it was really good."

"I'm so glad you did; I made something new."

"Oh? You are an excellent baker because those cupcakes were good for your first time." Clark complimented. "Maybe you can teach me some of your recipes.

Did you hear that right? He wanted you to teach him your recipes. Okay, let's not get delusional. But that means something, right? "Maybe I can teach you a thing or two."

He smiled again at you before he looked at your cart. "You don't mind if I shop with you?"

"Oh no, I don't mind at all."

Clark is a charming and very funny person. He made your usual dreadful grocery shopping experience happy. You even saw a little of his life with what he picked up to buy. He even taught you some things you've never known before. Even in your short time talking to him, you've noticed a little quirk about him: his accent. He adopted a Metropolis accent well. But some words he would say had a country twang to them. You found it cute.

You both made it to the front of the grocery store, where you both paid for your items. Clark insisted that he carried your bags. You only opened your car door for him to put your bags in the backseat. You closed the door and turned back around.

Clark spoke before you could. "I was wondering if I could have your phone number? It's fine if you don't want to."

You could do cartwheels right now. Maybe your mom was right about the best way to a man's heart was his stomach. You'll have Clark's phone number. This worked faster than you thought. "I would love to." You pulled out your phone so he could type on it.

You type a message so he has your phone number, too. "There you go."

You can tell he was going to say something. Before he stilled his movements as if he heard something.

"I have to go, but I'll text you later." Clark smiled brightly before he started to walk away. "Bye, Y'N."

"Bye, Clark." You watched as his tall frame walked away from you. You sighed as you got in your car and drove back to your apartment.

You gather all your things and trek up the stairs to your apartment. You open your door and place your stuff on the kitchen counter. You make a slight noise of excitement as you recount your day. You have his phone number. But what can you two talk about? What can you say to avoid coming across as dull or dry? But that's for the future you to worry about. You have his phone number.

You put all your groceries away before you sat down on your couch and turned on the TV. They were talking about Superman again; he defeated a villain and saved civilians like clockwork.

You got comfortable on your couch, thinking you should call your best friend about this. You grabbed your phone from your back pocket and searched for the contact. This could be the start of something good. Something new and exciting is happening in this chapter of your life.

Taglist: @susanhill @mosseetrees

Monday: Day One

Your day could not start worse than this. You wish you could go back to sleep and start over. As the rain pelted down, you sat in your car, recounting this hellish day and the weekend. You finally gave in to your father’s advice and moved to Metropolis. His constant worries about your advocacy for Gotham University have made you a topic of conversation, especially since you have started discussing corrupt politicians.

As a professor, you care about your students’ education and job security. If speaking out gets you that, you will do it. You eventually agreed with your father because you did need a change of scenery. Gotham was always dark, with high crime rates—where you always had to be on your toes. And that gets tiring.

But move-in day was a wreck, as the movers broke some of your glassware. You were less worried, as the glassware you thrifted was not expensive. You were just glad you stored all your other valuables in your car. But the movers sucked, as you had so many marks and scrapes. You spent all night trying to get it out or disguise yourself.

You woke up later than your alarm, so you scrambled to find your outfit and look presentable to your new students. Only operating off coffee, you walked outside without looking at the weather. You immediately got wet as rain poured down on you. So you rushed back into your apartment, checking your hair first, as you had spent too much money on it to let it get ruined.

You navigated your way through the downtown of Metropolis, cursing silently, for your need to live on the outskirts of the town, as traffic was at a standstill. You just silently hoped you weren’t late for your first class. But you made it with five minutes to spare.

At least the students in your classes were lovely and friendly, which made the day less horrible. But now you’re sitting in your car, debating whether you should surprise your dad at the Daily Planet. You just needed a break from this stressful day.

You drove down to the Daily Planet building, greeted the receptionist, who already knew who you were, and took the elevator to the top floor. Even at 6 p.m., you were greeted with a flurry of busybodies. You made a beeline for your dad’s office. But slowed your steps when you saw the cutest guy hunched over a desk as other reporters talked to him. Granted, you did not often come to the Daily Planet when you lived in Gotham. But you would’ve noticed a man like that.

“Look what the cat dragged in, Y/N How are you?” Steve asked as he wrapped an arm around your shoulder.

You slowly made eye contact before dropping your eyes to his arm. You gently took his arm off. “I’m doing just fine.” As you moved to gain more space.

You heard of flurries of your name as Jimmy and Lois stepped away from the handsome man’s desk. “Hey guys, it’s been a while.” You said to the newly found group around you.

“How long are you here before you go back to Gotham?” Lois asked as you shook your head in disagreement.

“Well, actually, I just moved from Gotham to here,” you laughed, as Lois gasped, grabbing your hand.

“We have to hang out soon.” She grabbed her phone from her pocket, tapping on it in excitement.

Jimmy shouted the handsome man’s name. “Clark, come meet Ms. White.” You had to hold your amazement as he walked towards you. His tall frame takes up space.

“Nice to meet you.” He held out his hand for you to shake. His voice was soft, and he gave off a shy demeanor. You always like shy men. “It’s good to finally put a face to all the pictures in Mr. White’s office.”

You laughed lightly at his comment. “Lovely to meet you.” You took his hand, shaking it. “And I’m glad you were able to.” You held eye contact with him as you studied his face. But look away when he flashed a bright smile at you as if he knew you were checking him out.

“Now, why are you all gathering around her like that? Move.” Your father left his office to stare at the group from the door. “Clark, you better not be making moves with my daughter.” Your father walked closer to your group.

Clark moved his hand before he coughed and moved up his glasses. “Oh, I wasn’t, sir.” He moved out of the way as your dad approached you.

“Hey, baby,” He whispered, opening his arms wide for you. You wrapped your arms around him for comfort.

“Hey, Dad.” You sighed in comfort. “I hope you haven’t been terrorizing these people lately.” You whispered to him.

“Oh, please, I’ve been good.” He laughed lightly. “Now what is the pleasure of this visit?”

“Oh, I can’t just visit my dad,” you said as you let him lead you to his office. You glanced back at Clark, who was already looking at you. You quickly turned your head back in front of you.

He looked at you before he sat down at his desk. “Let’s be honest. I know you are very accustomed to Gotham, but this will be a nice change.”

You sighed as you sat across from him. “I know, but Metropolis is very different and as safe as it can be, even as interdimensional beings roam.”

You looked out the large glass window. “A part of me loved Gotham, even though it was a living hell sometimes. My job made it enjoyable.”

Your dad studied you for a moment before speaking. “I’m sure you can find something that grabs your attention until you’re comfortable here.”

“I hope so, as you will be the one to hear from me, as you dragged me here by my arms.” You rolled your eyes lightly.

“Girl, I hardly did anything to make you come.”

You gave him a deadpan look, but you’re not about to beat the dead horse. So instead, you smiled lightly as you stood back up. “I’ll see you later this week for dinner?” Your dad nodded his head in agreement as he waved goodbye.

“I’ll call you.”

You walked back into the open space as you heard your name being called. “Since you’re here permanently, you must make some of your famous baked goods.” Jimmy looked at you expectantly.

You tapped your chin in fake thinking. “Should I?” You laughed as you heard pleas. “Fine, since you asked so nicely.”

You had to hold back your laugh as Clark raised his hand in the air lightly. “What do these baked goods consist of?”

You opened your mouth as Jimmy butted in first. “Only the best thing I tasted, everything you make is good.”

Lois nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I look forward to them every time.”

You waved your hands bashfully at the compliments. “It’s just something simple, I’ll make sure you get some Clark.” He smiled lightly at your admission.

Why does his smile keep stunning you in your spot? You focus back on the group again. “I’ll see you all later with something sweet in my hands.” You waved your hand as you walked back to the elevator.

You made your way out of the lobby and back to your car. You sat there, thinking your little crush could occupy your mind as you navigated this new city.

You eventually returned to your apartment, putting your keys in the little bowl. You slipped off your shoes as you went to the living room, turning on the TV.

They were discussing Superman as he had landed in some conversational waters with international affairs. You tilted your head at the screen at the images they showed of him. You plopped down on the couch, grabbed your phone, and did mindless scrolling until you came across the comments of people tearing Superman apart. “Supershit is kinda funny though, I will not lie.”

You tossed your phone on the couch and wondered what to eat as you went to the kitchen. Your mind reeled back the handsome reporter earlier. You felt butterflies, which is crazy because you barely know him. You felt like a high school student with a crush, and all it took was a few words and a smile on his end. But you could bake your way into his life. It’s delusional, but it could work. There is Nothing wrong with a bit of manifesting and a push.

What is the worst that could happen? Maybe he is interested, too. But if he isn’t, that will be devastating. You sat here on Monday night, plotting how to get a date. Maybe you could bake something and bring it tomorrow. As Tuesdays were one of those days, you didn’t have many classes to teach.

You just needed to find the right recipe and give it to him. Nothing to stress about, right? You just had to think on the bright side, even though you are a chronic stresser and tend to overthink things. But this can be simple. Just don’t put too much thought into it. But what if Clark found it weird that you made something just for him? And you barely know him. What if he doesn’t like it?

You shook your head as you stopped your busier thoughts. It’s just baking; you’re bringing something for the office. Let’s go with that. Just hand it to him and make up a reason why he got something different. Don’t make it awkward and weird.

You continued to chant that to yourself as you made dinner and got ready for bed, trying to hype yourself up for tomorrow as you are figuratively about to offer yourself on a silver platter in the form of baked goods.

Tomorrow will be great as you will make it.