She saw you in a storm cloud...

They’d spent a month here, training together. Guns, knives, hand-to-hand. It was a lot of long days of frustration on her part and prideful amusement on his. Buck was patient as he taught her everything he’d learned in his time as a soldier and thereafter. He was cool and calculated and never wavered no matter how many times she failed.

He’s younger than her by a few years but he’s always felt much older. More experienced. Skilled. And in a lot of ways, he is. But she likes to think she taught him things too. Like how to be a friend. Only he’s lost a bit of his training on that along the way.

“I thought Wes taught you to shoot,” an accented voice comes from the dark. Wes. She hasn’t heard her brother called that in ages. Maybe Buck hasn’t forgotten completely that they were all cordial once.

She leans against the car and peers out into the darkness where his voice came from. She imagines they lock eyes. “You taught me to shoot better. Remember?”

Buck emerges from the night like a black panther stalking its prey, his features shadowed by the street lamp. “No, Teresa, I taught you how to follow orders without attachment or delay,” he corrects, voice pure ice.

“Does he know you’re here?”

“No.”

That surprises her. That means he’s taken it upon himself to meet without conferring with the man he serves. Perhaps that means he’s willing to hear her out. “I’d like to talk to Wilson.”

He chuckles darkly. “I fear the mayor is not in the head space for speaking with anyone at the moment.”

“Have I ever asked you for anything, Buck? Truly.” She waits for the small relaxation of his shoulders that tells her he’s listening. “I need you to get me in the room with him. That’s it. Whatever happens after that happens. But you know the Task Force will kill me if I’m alone.”

He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “And you’ll do what, once you’re in the room?”

“Fix my mistake,” she answers and means it in more ways than he’ll ever know.

“This is very bad timing.”

“I’m aware.”

“I don’t think you are.”

She pushes off the car and walks toward him until she’s only a few feet away. “You can check me for weapons if you want. I don’t have any. I’m coming to you vulnerable. I only want a chance to make things right.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“One conversation.”

“No.”

“Do you remember when we’d go to that rundown Mexican restaurant after throwing lessons?” She doesn’t expect an answer so she continues, “Or that time you drove me upstate to that garden with all the butterflies for my birthday?”

He frowns.

“These are my memories of you Buck. Can you imagine how many I have with Vanessa? A lifetime. I’ve spent nearly the last twenty years working for Wilson.” She watches the way he holds himself, so poised and rigid. It’s an act. She’s heard him laugh and sing along to ABBA on the radio. “How old were we when we met, huh?”

He sighs.

“Come on. How old?”

“Early twenties, I believe.”

“So you’ve known me for a long time.”

He clears his throat impatiently. “Does this trip down memory lane have a point?” he asks, pursing his lips.

“My point is that, in all that time, I have never slipped. You know me. All I want is the chance to work up the ranks again.”

Her cheeks heat remembering the day in the mayor's office when Daniel pledged his undying loyalty to Fisk at her suggestion. She’s not so sure it will work for her the same way it worked for him. Fisk has never been one to break women down into working machines for him, it’s always been men. He’d done it to many before Daniel and she’s sure if he lives long enough he’ll do it to many after him. Fisk never had to do the breaking with her, she came to him and James already missing a piece of herself that they filled. Until she met Daniel. He saved her and now she has to do the same for him.

Buck steps forward and assesses her like he does before he hits someone. She’s sure he thinks about it. “He will never take you back.”

“Let him decide then. And say it to my face.”

A long silence stretches between them. He stares at her with dead eyes and she knows that if he wanted to he could draw his gun and end everything now.

It degrades her to ask him for help, even if it is the only means to the end she so badly wants, but she will not stoop to begging. Not even for this. “He will need someone familiar and female now that she’s gone, Buck. Someone who knows that softer side of him.”

There’s a weird glint in his eye then and she can’t quite read him. “He doesn’t need you.”

“You won’t be able to handle what he’s about to become. Not on your own. Let me help you.”

He scoffs.

“You will need me.”

“No,” he almost growls, face just a little too close for comfort.

This is the end of the road then. There are only two ways the rest of this night plays out. One, she gets in her stolen car and goes back to Daniel’s, wakes him up, and they flee as fast as they can. Or two, Buck puts a bullet in the back of her head as soon as she turns around.

“The queen is dead and the king sits in his castle contemplating all the ways he can make everyone else pay,” she tells him softly. “You’re not a knight, Buck. You’re an executioner. And if anything were to happen to you, he could find another one of those anywhere. They flock to him, don’t they?”

His eyes are dangerous as they bore into her but something in them tells her she’s struck a nerve. Sure, he eventually replaced James after many failed attempts to find the right fit but it’s never really been his place. Not the same way.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to do something for yourself?”

He steps an inch closer and the turbulence inside him seems to quiet, the harsh lines of his face softening. “I did something for myself once,” he says gently, like he means just between us.

She takes a step back. What does that mean? What the fuck does he mean by that? Her mind floods with memory after memory like an overflowing filing cabinet. She blinks, confused. His hand comes down on her shoulder and she jumps.

“Get in your car and leave before I have to do something for him.”

Stumbling backward, she catches her elbow on the side mirror and almost knocks it off. She scrambles into the car and twists the key. Buck watches, unmoving and unemotive as the engine roars to life and she peels out of the lot.

On her way back into the city, she catches someone tailing her. The dark sky has faded into a dusky blue that’s slowly gaining brightness. It’s how she notices the car behind her with no headlights. They don’t want to be seen but morning has other ideas.

The streets aren’t packed yet this early so it’s easy to drive without stopping very often. She tries not to alert whoever is behind her that she’s on to them. But eventually they’ll realize she’s aimless in direction and trying to lose them.

Eventually becomes right now.

The car behind her abandons pretending to not be following and revs its engine, speeding up. She does the same.

They fly through the dark rain-slicked streets, splashing through puddles and dodging other drivers. When Teresa checks the rearview mirror, there’s another vehicle gaining on her now. The Task Force van.

Goddamn it.

Her cellphone feels like a lead weight in her hoodie pocket. She didn’t tell Daniel she was leaving, she didn’t want him to worry, but now she regrets ever stepping foot out his door. She contemplates calling him. This could be the last time they ever speak. She wants to tell him, say the words so he will know. She didn’t abandon him. He’s the love of her life.

The van rams into her bumper and she swerves and catches the curb. In that second, she decides that if she can survive a gut shot from that jackass Powell, then she can survive this. She is not dying today.

Taking a hard right turn, she fishtails and takes off down a narrow side road. The van doesn’t turn but the other car does. They’ll try to cut her off at the next street. But they won’t get the chance.

Her foot slams the break.

The car rams into hers from behind. Metal crunching and tires squealing fills the cab with a loud shock that disorients her more than the movement as she braces, tensing against the seat to avoid whiplash. Jolting tingles spread down through her limbs and her injured side twinges from the impact.

For a moment, she sits there dazed, trying to unwrap her aching, stiff fingers from the steering wheel. A bitter metallic taste floods her mouth. Adrenaline. Good, she’s gonna need it.

She kicks the door open and stumbles out. Smoke fills the street and the smell of some kind of oil is thick in the air. The driver of the other car is young and she thinks she recognizes him. He’s slumped over in the front seat, a ribbon of blood streaking his temple, and when he starts to rouse, she bolts.

There’s not many places to go or hide but she bought a few extra minutes of time. She runs, not exactly knowing where she’s going.

From the other street she watches as the Task Force van drives by, searching for her and whoever was in the other car. When they see the crash, they roar down the alley and turn around.

Every limb shakes as she scoots along one of the buildings and crams herself behind a dumpster. The smell of trash makes her nauseous and rain from the eaves above her is soaking her shoulders but this is her only option.

The Task Force van drives by again and she ducks. Footfalls pass the alley and then return again. They get closer and closer until they stop right in front of where she’s hiding. Water dripping from the gutter masks her frantic breathing and she’s so still she can feel her bones rattling from the tremble of fight-or-flight.

“Tomallio.” A walkie-talkie crackles and she jumps.

“I don’t see her, sir.”

A voice that sounds a hell of a lot like Powell’s comes through the speaker again. “Stay in the area. We’ll get alerts for stolen cars if she’s stupid enough to jack one. The bitch can’t have gotten far.”

There’s only two options here—wait it out until they move on or fight this Tomallio kid. She doesn’t want to do either. She wants to still be sunken into the soft fibers of Daniel’s bed, her body entwined with his. But she fucked up yet again. She should’ve waited until the morning and took Daniel on the run. But no, she wanted to do something completely reckless to get at Fisk.

She doesn’t know it yet, won’t for approximately 72 hours, but this is the risk that changes everything.

Days pass. Two torturous sunrises and sunsets.

She’s gone again. No note. No word. No sign of life. His cycle of confusion and grief begins again.

Daniel sits in his apartment.

He’s alone.

She watches with a faint disorientation as the boy she’s here to see rushes inside the building like he’s in a hurry. Maybe he’s just heard about the mayor's wife. She’ll give him some time to process before she bothers him. Give herself some time to process too.

Vanessa was a friend at one point, wasn’t she? Maybe the only friend she’s ever had. They’d sipped cocktails together in Italy and gushed over art in the museums of Paris. They bonded through clothes and food and literature and opera. And she’d seen the woman cry over Wilson, though she always tried to hide it, when times were difficult. Which was often. Teresa was there, for all of it. She remembers everything.

A man like Wilson Fisk could never be who he is without the woman beside him. Now that she’s gone, the city of New York is about to meet a different beast.

Teresa takes a deep breath and decides it’s time to face the beast of her own making. She exits the car, sneaks down the alley and takes the back fire escape to the roof. Her face would definitely get flagged at the door and she doesn’t have time to mess with that. She picks the lock at the entrance on the roof and takes the stairwell until she finds Daniel’s floor. He’s practically the only tenant so it’s not a risk removing her hood in the hallway. If there’s cameras, it won’t matter, she’ll be gone again before anyone thinks to check.

Her hand shakes as she raises it to knock. For a moment she’s paralyzed by uncertainty. There’s still time to leave and not ruin his night even more. She didn’t think this through.

Hell, she didn’t think any of this through. Contacting Matt, helping the Resistance, all in the false belief that it would somehow protect Daniel. It would’ve, if she got rid of Fisk once and for all, she couldn’t do it alone. Now no one else is willing to do what needs to be done and the big man has more power than ever.

Her side complains with a dull ache. She wants to sleep for a whole year but she has to follow through. There is no other option.

The sound is hollow when she knocks, like the apartment is empty, and seconds later when the door opens she finds that it practically is. Except for the boy standing in front of her, looking drained beyond belief.

He stares. Blinks sleepily. Stares some more, like this isn’t happening.

“Are you going to let me in?”

He smells fresh and woody when he raises his arm and rubs the back of his head, hair still damp from a recent shower. She wants to soak it in but his tone disrupts the craving. “Why should I?”

She thinks about it but there's only one answer. “Because you want to.”

There’s barely a breath of hesitation before he moves out of the doorway and lets her come inside. The heat of his body follows close behind as he lets her lead down the hall to his expansive open-concept kitchen and living room. The click of her boots echoes in the high ceilings. City lights sparkle beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows and it makes her feel like they’re so far away from everything.

When she turns around, Daniel’s standing close, at arms length. She breathes in just to smell him, feel his air in her lungs. She’s missed him so badly that it’s only the fear of him pushing her away that keeps her from lunging at him.

He slides his hands into the pockets of his gray sweats and leans back on his heels like he knows she wants to reach out. The stance says don’t touch me. He looks older somehow, softer around the middle. “Where’ve you been?”

She can’t think. Everything about him consumes her until she’s standing there with a tremble in her being and not a single thought but how to get him to let her hold him again. “Around,” is all she can manage.

“Yeah?” He scoffs. “Well, you should’ve stayed gone. If you were smart, you would’ve.” Something about the way he says it feels loaded, like he wants to tell her more if she’d just ask.

“Maybe I’m not as smart as you think I am.”

“You’re not anything I thought you were.” She doesn’t have time to process the way that cuts her before he’s storming off toward the kitchen like he’s trying to get away from her. “I mean, Daredevil? Really? How long were you working for him?”

“Working for him?” She follows him and watches with a tightness in her chest as he pulls malt whiskey and a cup down from the shelf.

He won't look at her. He pops the top and she grabs his wrist before he can pour it. “Fuck.” He slams the bottle down and invades her personal space. She sees him up close for the first time. Has he been crying?

“Daniel,” she says and wants so badly to touch him.

“Do you know what this fuckin’ means?” His cheeks flush but he holds her stare, eyes hard like he’s never been so pissed in his life. “You’re against me.”

That earns him a shocked chuckle.

“Don’t fuckin’ laugh at me!” He looks absolutely unthreatening even as he tries to curl his lip at her. “Because you came back here and now I have to protect you just like I have to protect . . .”

“Who do you protect, Daniel?” she asks, voice calm even though she feels the venom. Her unspoken name hangs in the air between them. And it’s just confirmation that Daniel’s the one that’s been leaking stuff to City Without Fear. “Yeah. You know what kind of man he is now, don’t you?”

His chest deflates, shoulders sagging as he slumps against the island counter.

“Can I tell you something I haven’t said out loud to anyone?”

He stares for a moment then nods.

“I want him dead. Not resigned, not imprisoned.” She steps forward so he’s forced to look her in the eye, to hear her. “I was in the room when Daredevil almost killed him once. I thought he’d want the chance to do it again but I was wrong. He wants justice, not revenge.”

“You want revenge?”

“I want my life.”

Daniel frowns, not quite understanding what she means.

“Wilson does what he does. What he did to me, to you, to Benjamin Poindexter, and to Buck. What he probably did to my brother, too, at some point. I wanted to believe that he was the sun, that we all revolved around him, because it feels good to be chosen. But he’s not the sun. He’s a black hole.” She puts her hand on Daniel’s shoulder then because she can see he’s started to hide inside himself. “I want you to have your life. I’m not going to let him take it.”

“You . . . you can’t . . .”

“I can’t what? Kill him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t watch you die! You know him.” He says hysterically. “You know him. And I can’t . . .” He sucks in a breath and sniffles, pushing her away weakly. “You can’t die.”

She doesn’t know what to say. There’s always the possibility but that's not what he means. He means don’t leave me. She tries to cup his face and he slaps her hand away.

“Christ, I’m so fuckin’ stupid. I mean, is that all I am? A gullible loser. For Fisk, for BB, for you . . .” He turns his wobbling chin away, trying to hide again. “This is my life now.”

“No.” She forces him to look at her, thumb on his chin. “It’s my fault. I should’ve never let you go back to his office after the first leak. I should’ve let him fire you.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because I’m selfish, Daniel. And I liked having you around.” She tries to brush the hair off his forehead but he turns away. “It’s okay if you don’t like me anymore for that.”

His head snaps toward her. “You were my first. No matter how bad I want to not like you, I don’t get a choice!” The words sting as he trades his anger for pain but she understands. “You fucked me up. For life. Happy?”

“No.”

Tears welling in his eyes glisten with the far off city lights. “I’m not a good boy anymore.”

“That’s okay.”

“No . . .” His voice breaks. “It’s not.”

She captures him in her arms before he can inevitably flee and he sinks into her embrace like he’s been waiting for her to force this since she walked in. And he weeps, openly, into her bosom, and clings to her for dear life. She ignores the pain flaring in her side and holds him tight.

There’s something wrong. Something beyond what’s already broken between them. It terrifies her what Fisk could’ve done to him in six months. It makes her sick.

“Come on,” she says gently, pulling him around the counter and toward the couch. She slumps onto the cushions and pulls him down onto her. His face nuzzles back into the wet spot he’s made on her hoodie with his tears. “What happened?” she asks, knowing there’s something he’s not telling her.

“I feel like I’ve lived a whole life since you’ve been gone,” he mumbles.

“Me too.”

The height of his outburst has started to come down. He breathes heavily against her now, a small tremor in his shoulders. “I’ve done things,” he says so quietly she almost misses it. “I wish you would have been there.”

She can’t speak.

For the last six months she has loved him and missed him and feared that they would never be in the same room again. He’s hurt and she can’t do anything to fix that any more than she can fix her own pain. All she can do is hold him and run her fingers through his hair until he’s still and breathing normally again.

It’s almost surreal, being tangled on the couch together, her boy in her arms again. The relief is like no other she’s ever known. He’s still alive. Maybe even still hers.

Eventually, he sits up and lounges against the back of the couch with his elbow, hanging his hand over the cushion to pick at the seam. She scoots up into the cushion herself and lays her hand over his. She doesn’t want to stop touching him.

“What happened?” she asks, rubbing a circle over his wrist.

He stares at the small sliver of space between their folded legs. “What do you mean?”

“You said you’ve done things.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

Shaking his head, he moves so his legs dangle over the edge of the couch and lets his head fall back. “No. None of this matters. You don’t need to baby me. We barely even knew each other before, right?” He shifts his head to look at her. “I mean, did you know my birthday’s in three days?”

She closes her eyes and takes her hand away to lean against it. “No, I didn’t.”

“Do you even know how old I am?”

“Of course, I do.” She tries to give him a smile but she feels the way it falters. “You’re going to be twenty seven. Do you know how old I am or when my birthday is?”

He sighs in defeat. “No.”

She smiles and this time it feels a little stronger. “I want to know you, Daniel. And if you want to know me then I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“How will I know it’s not a lie?”

“When have I lied to you?”

“You said you weren’t married.”

That catches her off guard. “What?” she bursts out in confusion.

“You told me you weren’t married. I dunno, maybe you’re not with him now, but your last name used to be Wesley like your brother’s.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

She laughs and reaches to squeeze his hand. “I changed it because I wanted something that was mine. I had a step father with the last name Hawke so . . .” Another laugh tumbles out. “I’ve never been married. Never been engaged. I haven’t even had a committed relationship.”

When he looks at her, his eyes are wet again. He’s not ready to let her lighten the mood. “You lied when you said you wouldn’t leave me.”

She wants to explain why. She wants to tell him that he doesn’t understand, that it was only meant to be for a little while. To protect him. But he’s right and she knew it when she left. “Yeah,” she agrees and now she can’t look at him. “I lied.”

“Are you gonna leave again?”

“I don’t want to.”

“But?”

“There’s some things I need to figure out first.” Things he won’t like, things that put her in danger. She wants to tell him she will never leave him again but it would be another lie. She plans to do it again tonight. “We can talk about it if you want in the morning but we should get some sleep.”

He sighs heavily and turns her hand over where she’s had it lain over his. His fingertip rubs over her palm. “Mrs. Fisk died.”

“Yeah.”

“The mayor couldn’t protect her from Bullseye. Him. The biggest, most powerful guy I’ve ever seen. Not even with his Task Force there. And I’m fuckin’ nobody. I don’t even own a gun. So how am I supposed to protect you from him?”

“You don’t have to worry about that. Bullseye isn’t after me.”

“Not Bullseye. Fisk.”

Oh, so he does get it—that this is everyone against the big man. What has he done to him to make him so scared now, when just the night before he was cheering for him in the ring?

“I don’t think he’s going to hurt me,” she says, hoping it prompts him to finally tell her.

“Yes. He will. Your name is on the list Buck gave me. People to turn in. People he wants locked up or worse.” Daniel rubs the back of his head and looks at her like he’s about to be sick. His eyes unfocus like he’s thinking about something and then it comes out of his mouth like he’s too late to stop it. “I buried a body with Buck.”

It hits her like a log truck. She didn’t think he’d gotten this far into things in such a short amount of time. She worked up in Fisk’s empire for nearly a decade before he let her touch anything remotely close to things that could put him in prison. It isn’t a promotion, a show of trust, this was Daniel’s test.

“When?”

He looks away, voice soft and shy when he answers. “Today.”

She can’t breathe. The icy prick of terror and the heat of rage strike a battle inside her. She could’ve stopped it if she’d talked to him at the hospital. “Baby . . .” She surges across the couch and hovers over him, wanting nothing but to pull him into her lap and hold him forever. But she doesn’t embrace him, not yet. He’s too stiff, too expressionless. A single tear rolls down his cheek when she takes both sides of his face and forces him to look at her.

“I . . . I can’t be burying you,” he whimpers.

“Listen to me,” she says, willing her own voice not to shake. “We’re going to be okay. It’s gonna be you and me at the end of all of this. You and me. Understand?”

“You can’t know that.”

“Do you trust me?”

His pretty pink lips twist to the side, his big brown eyes glistening as he looks up at her. “I do.”

“I promise, Daniel,” she whispers, letting her forehead rest against his. “You and me.”

He’s quiet for a long time, eyes closed, hands roaming her thighs mindlessly like it’s something to center him, keep him focused. She doesn’t have to ask to know that he’s taking it all in. Being close, together again, it’s overwhelming in a way, but it’s also a gentle comfort. He is her person. She is his. That’s how she knows that they will make it out of this.

When he’s gotten enough of the moment, he pulls back and holds her hands. “Can we go to bed? Not like . . . that. Just lay with me and talk. And you can stay over.” His voice is already thick with exhaustion and it makes his accent that much more prominent.

“Yeah,” she says without hesitation even though she will have to leave him soon enough.

He looks at her lips then back to her eyes and then her lips again. It’s quite obvious what he’s contemplating and maybe it’s because he’s too tired to hide it or he’s hoping she makes the move instead. They’re both cross legged, sitting toward each other on the couch, knees touching. He’s close enough that she could lean in if she wanted. And now she’s looking at his lips too, his precious little Cupid’s bow.

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

He swallows. “No.”

“Oh.” Her smile forms, uninvited.

“I’m scared if you do, I’m gonna wake up from this dream and you’ll be gone.”

She brushes his hair back, admiring his boyishly handsome face, then drags a finger down his temple to his soft jaw. Her thumb reaches over to tease his bottom lip. “Then let’s go to bed.”

His bed is the most comfortable thing Teresa’s lain on in months. Their bodies sprawl, half-undressed, across the plush mattress, twisted in the sheets and fitted together like perfect halves of something broken. His heavy build is warm against her side where he’s curled into her armpit, his arm slung over her abdomen, fingers dancing against the fabric of her tank top. He’s getting sleepy but he won’t admit it. And she is wide awake, debating.

“Can we talk about something normal?” he asks, eyelashes tickling her shoulder as he blinks.

“Like what?”

“We can get to know each other.”

She pets his hair and smiles. “What do you want to know?”

He hums. “Cats or dogs?”

Her laugh shakes them both. Of course, she’ll oblige and answer his silly questions if it means not thinking of things that remind her of what they’re both avoiding. “What if I like both?”

“Nah, you gotta choose one.”

“Dogs.”

“Agreed.”

It goes on this way for some time, learning the basics like you would at a childhood sleepover. It’s effective in keeping her mind occupied though so she doesn’t mind how mundane and inconsequential the questions are.

They agree that a run down Italian restaurant called Vito’s is their favorite street corner cuisine. Agree that relish is a must have hotdog condiment. That green is the best color. Summer is the best season. And Vietnam war era rock is the best kind of music. They disagree on sports and which place in the city sells the best coffee. And it makes her laugh when he randomly tells her how much he loved stickers as a kid. “Still do actually,” he admits and she smiles so hard her cheeks hurt.

The subject of school comes up and she tells him about her straight A’s, the junior high soccer team she got kicked off of for fighting another girl, her short and failed run as an art club leader, and how she bailed on college. His answer is shorter because he’s half asleep. He’d participated in the speech and debate team, and wrestling, and won awards for each in several competitions but he tells her almost like he’s embarrassed and not at all to brag.

“I did a lot of after school stuff,” he says quietly. “Mostly because I didn’t wanna go home.”

There’s something hiding in that confession but she decides not to pry.

They talk about movies and books and he has to explain what’s so great about podcasts. She isn’t convinced but he’s enthusiastic enough that she promises to try his favorite—some kind of personal development motivational thing. She thinks it’s quite cute.

“Tell me about your parents?” she finally asks. She’s always been curious and she has some suspicions they weren't the greatest.

His sigh says everything. She expects it to be a forbidden topic tonight until he says, “My dad was a firefighter.”

“Wow.” She notes the was immediately and doesn’t push.

“I used to think he was cool when I was a kid. He was there on 9/11. People always told me he was a hero but they didn’t know the asshole that used to push me into walls when he got too drunk to pretend to be a dad.”

Her stomach drops and she tries not to make it about herself, about how much it kills her to hear that his dad was abusive, but she can’t help it. “He hurt you?”

“Until I got taller and bigger than him. Got Ma’s family’s genes is what he’d say instead of trying it. I wouldn’t have fought back.” He shifts like he’s uncomfortable but he doesn’t move away from her, just keeps clinging like he needs an anchor. “He was in and out of jail until he was just in. He used to write when I was a teenager but the letters got shorter and shorter until he stopped writing at all. And I gave up trying.”

“Where is he now?”

“I dunno. Still there probably.”

She can’t bear to hear anymore. She doesn’t ask what prison he’s in either because she’d have to pay him a visit or call an old friend about a job. “What about your mom?” she asks to cool her temper boiling.

“Still in Staten.”

“What is she like?” She hopes for a better answer.

“Strict. I had to be the man of the house, ya know, even before my dad left. She’s a nag. Constantly picking on me for something, half the time I wasn’t even paying attention to what.” He lets out a rough breath. “She pressured me. To get outta there, be better. And when I did, she resented me for it. For leavin’ her. She didn’t think I could do it. She thinks her own son is a loser. I guess I sorta am.”

She shoots up, Daniel rolling into the empty space. “No, you aren’t.”

He looks up at her. “You mad?” The gears turn in his head—he thinks it’s about the loser comment. But she can’t hide her tears and he realizes it’s more. “I’m fine. It’s whatever.”

“It’s not whatever.” She leans down and kisses his nose. “You’re so special to me, Daniel. I can’t think of anyone treating you like that.”

He stares at her for a moment, like no one has ever told him something like that. He’s quiet before he smiles up at her. “Well, what were your parents like?”

Teresa laughs. Okay, she’ll let it go for now. “My mom was fun for the most part but I don’t think I really knew her. She was turning tricks when she got pregnant with me, I guess James’s dad was a frequent client here. Certainly didn’t know him.”

He pulls her back to lie against him and throws his fuzzy thigh over hers. “Keep going.”

“We moved a lot when I was a kid. Michigan, Pennsylvania, wherever she had relatives that would have us. She had a lot of boyfriends that were more like sugar daddies but because of them we got to go on big shopping sprees every weekend. She loved clothes.”

“What happened to her?”

“She got sick when I was about eleven, lung cancer. I was fifteen when she died. Jimmy Hawke was the longest relationship she ever had, they were off and on since I was a baby. The closest thing I knew to a dad. He almost took me in after she died but James found out that I was an orphan and the rest is history.”

“You didn’t know him before?”

“No.”

“How is that . . .”

“He wooed the powers that be. I’m not sure why he even wanted me. Maybe he was lonely.”

They both fall silent at that. Enough reminiscing for tonight. “Tell me a good story,” she says and pets his head when he rests it back on her shoulder.

He tells her about a Christmas when his uncle Joe got drunk and broke through the screen door at his Ma’s house trying to steal the dinner turkey. In return she tells him about a Thanksgiving she spent snowed-in with Jimmy at his old house in Michigan.

Daniel starts to doze off and so she gives him a little more room and tells him to sleep.

“Keep talking,” he grumbles. “I like your voice.”

So she does. It doesn’t take him long to pass out completely after the day he’s had and soon enough his heavy breathing turns to soft snores. She lies on her back, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sweet sounds of his slumber. The heat that radiates off him is like a furnace and she wants to sink into it and sleep forever. But she can’t. She has to follow through.

Careful not to wake her boy, she slides slowly out of the bed and grabs her jeans and hoodie from the floor. Then she tiptoes out of the room and slips on her clothes.

In the early morning dark of the apartment, her flip phone’s screen almost blinds her. But she manages enough to type in the familiar number and her message before she can think better of it. She hits send.

Meet me where you taught me to shoot - T.

“Are you sure this is even necessary? I mean, I get that it’s the Mayor’s office and everything, but we’re a little bit above that.”

“We are sure, but we work alongside our local government. The tower is in New York, and our heroes are working or residing in New York. The mayor has every right to know about it. Besides, his new… anti-vigilante-whatever directly affects our Avengers.”

“Isn’t Mr. Charles in from Washington, though? Why can’t he make sure that things are handled?”

“I don’t think you understand what it is that Mr. Charles does.”

“And what-”

“Don’t worry about it.”

You sighed as Val brushed off your concerns again, something that she had become frighteningly good at as of late.

Ever since the formation of the New Avengers, things had changed. Her workload had gotten a lot busier, so just having Mel to assist her and represent her when she couldn’t be bothered to appear someone wasn’t working out. She had more budget from the government now, and more wiggle room. But she also had a handful of new responsibilities, and while her most senior assistant was given more Avenger-level tasks, you were being delegated to the tasks that were more street-level.

Mainly, right now, dealing with the new Mayor.

Mayor Fisk had been strongly against vigilantes before he took office, and it was clear that he wasn’t going to go soft on them. The extent of what it was that he was planning, exactly, was yet to be seen. But he wasn’t someone whom anyone could take lightly. Wilson Fisk was a serious threat to anyone who dared to cross him. But you had yet to do such a thing.

The issue, really, wasn’t that you were going to cross him. It wasn’t that Val was going to cross him. It was more jurisdictional. The New Avengers were in New York, and they handled some street-level crime in New York. While all of their activities were sanctioned by the government in the same way that the police would be if they were sent to handle the same thing, there were some nuances to it that the police didn’t have to deal with. The main concern being that they weren’t the police.

All or most of them had been somewhat adjacent to vigilantes in the past. People with darker lives than the former Avengers would ever let on. People who had done bad things and gone against the grain, who saved the city without being sanctioned to do so. In fact, all they had been sanctioned to do was die because their mere existence was entirely illegal.

They weren’t sent by the police, and sometimes they weren’t sent by anyone at all. Sometimes they just-so-happened to see something happen and stop to make sure that no one got her. It was harmless, really. But it looked so similar to the actions that a vigilante might take that it made Fisk’s new policies worrisome.

Granted, even with the New Avengers being in New York, they were still above the Mayor. They were contracted by the government. Approved by the government. Being an Avenger was never something that the government frowned upon, even if the new team was somewhat unpopular when compared to the old team. And, at the end of the day, any action taken against them by Fisk or anyone like him would be met with swift punishment. You understood that, and Val understood that, but she needed to be sure that Wilson Fisk understood it, too.

Even so, you didn’t want to talk to the man.

From everything that Val had said, you should expect him to be present. It was a meeting in the lower-level of the tower, somewhere closed off from the public. The point of meeting here was for it to make a scene, though. She wanted people to see the Mayor walking into the tower, and she wanted to have assurance that he understood that people knew that this conversation happened when she announced to the public that there would be no allowed action to be taken against her Avengers.

What choice did you have, really?

If Val wanted you to meet with Mayor Fisk, then you were going to meet with Mayor Fisk. And if he gauged your eyeballs out with his thumbs because he decided that he didn’t like the way that you spoke to him, then you figured it was a good thing that she had planned everything out so meticulously, so people would know that he had been the last person to see you alive when he walked into the tower.

You were painfully, outwardly nervous when you sat down in the meeting room. It was some small office that seemed entirely unused by now. You kept your eyes trained on the door, waiting for the moment that someone walked through. The moment that the big, bald, angry man who often sounded like he needed a cough drop walked through that door would be the worst moment of your life. But you needed to be ready for it, you needed to be prepared for this.

But the moment the door opened, you weren’t met with the sight of Wilson Fisk.

The man who walked in was pretty young, and he had a full head of hair. He seemed to be around your age, with eyes full of life and a soft smile on his lips that you knew you wouldn’t have seen if he were Wilson Fisk with a facelift and a wig on. No. This wasn’t Wilson Fisk, but he was… probably behind this guy, right?

You looked behind him, tilting your head as you stood up. You pressed onto your toes slightly just to peek further without moving from where you were standing. You couldn’t see anyone else in the hallway, no one lingering behind him, and when he shut the door, you were alone.

“You’re not Mayor Fisk.”

“Are you sure? I’ve heard he looks different in person.”

The man didn’t sound like him, either. He had a slight accent; clearly, he was born and raised in the area. He had a little bit of a lisp when he spoke that you found slightly disarming and wholly adorable if you chose to linger on it for too long. But he definitely wasn’t Wilson Fisk.

“Daniel Blake, I was sent to represent the Mayor’s Office. I must say, you don’t look like Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, either.”

You felt a bit more at ease with how he joked around a bit, loosening your grip on your manila folder and setting it down so you could reach your hand out. His hand was warm, but his shake was firm. You gave him your name as you let out the breath that you had been holding for far too long.

“Ms. Fontaine was quite certain that the Mayor himself would be joining me for this conversation, so you must excuse my confusion.”

“No need to apologize. Mayor Fisk sends his apologies that he couldn’t make it in person. I hope seeing me wasn’t too disappointing.”

“Oh, no, it was a relief.”

Partially. Val wanted a picture of the Mayor entering, but instead, she was going to have a picture of a twenty-something male entering the building who happened to be representing the Mayor’s office, but didn’t outwardly look like the Mayor in any meaningful way. It wasn’t the photo that she wanted, and it would shift her plans slightly. But she was a smart woman, so you hoped and assumed that she had plans within plans that would make the lack of Wilson Fisk okay for what she needed.

When you sat down across from him, he watched as you opened the folder that you had brought with you.

“So… why did she request this meeting, exactly?” Daniel questioned, taking the folder from you while you tried (and failed) to get a good read on him. He had to be close to you in age, meaning that you were both probably working pretty hard to be where you were right now. But he also seemed a bit different than you. Not entirely serious, he was definitely still just a person. But he seemed motivated differently, almost colder, but not in a way that made him scary.

“The Anti-Vigilante Task Force has become a concern for us, which you should hopefully be able to understand.” You clarified, folding your hands over each other in your lap as you watched him look over the file. It was a formality, giving a brief description of the New Avengers that you were certain he already had, fluffing up what they had done, and mainly making it clear on each and every page that this was a document that was approved by the United States government.

“I can understand that, granted, your New Avengers aren’t Vigilantes, I hope.”

“They’re not; only one of them even formerly fits that description.” Ava Starr, or Ghost, could almost be considered a vigilante, but not really.

Every bit of work that any of them had done was for Valentina. They had never been civilians taking matters into their own hands; they were merely doing shadowy, highly illegal work for someone who worked for the government. Even so, Starr had been doing what she needed to do in order to make her own life easy; even she wouldn’t fit under that umbrella.

“Still, there are some grey areas here that Ms. Fontaine is worried will be exploited if they’re not addressed properly. The New Avengers, as you’ll see if you flip to the third page, are officially sanctioned by and approved of by the United States government. Therefore, any work that they do, whether in New York or elsewhere, is officially sanctioned by the government even if they’re acting on their own free-will.”

“The Mayor’s office understands this, yes.”

“And, even if the lines do look blurred in any capacity, Ms. Fontaine would like to maintain that the New Avengers are allowed to complete actions without the explicit request of the government or other entities. So, if Yelena Belova decides to rescue a cat from a tree, she is acting within her rights as a representation of the New Avengers, regardless of whether or not she had to beat up a civilian who put said cat in the tree.”

“Now what kind of sicko would put a cat in a tree, just shameful.”

“Right. So, anyway-”

You caught it, the flicker of a smile on the corner of his lips, because you had gotten a bit caught up that he was still being a tad bit light-hearted. Everything you were saying was rehearsed, overly legal. You had been ready to talk to Fisk, and essentially giving yourself a legally-binding script was the only thing that you could think of that wouldn’t leave you feeling overwhelmed and shaky. But this wasn’t Fisk, and you didn’t have to be nervous around Daniel… you hoped.

“Basically, all she wants is to make sure that the Mayor’s office understands that there will be consequences if the New Avengers are impeded in any way.” You finally finished, your voice a bit quieter when he looked up at you from the papers on the table. “But she kind of needed his signature, so you can keep that file unless you really are Wilson Fisk with a facelift and a really good wig.”

“Pretty sure I’m still Daniel Blake,” he joked, closing the file as he kept his gaze on you. “I can see to it that this file gets back to him, but none of this will be an issue. Aren’t the Avengers dealing with some space thing now, anyway?”

“Mm, kinda. They think so, but they don’t really know.” You explained, leaning back in the seat. You were a bit more relaxed now that you had spit everything out. “There’s something going on, I guess a planet was almost eaten, or something, and some other planets were eaten, and there's some guy or whatever- I don’t know, that’s more like… Avenger stuff.”

“But you work with them, don’t you? That’s pretty cool. I mean, they’re not like the good Avengers-”

“They’re great!”

“No, yeah, I’m sure. But come on, you don’t remember seeing all six of the original Avengers on TV when we were kids? I know you’re from here, you talk like it.”

“Yeah, ‘course I remember. Pretty sure more than just New Yorkers remember the battle, though. The world almost ended.”

“Oh, for sure. But we used to go to meet up there all the time, it was like a monument even though half of Hell's Kitchen was destroyed.” Daniel seemed a bit calmer, too, like he enjoyed having someone normal and around his own age to talk to. You had Mel, you had someone who you could trust and talk to at work. You wondered if it wasn’t like that over at the Mayor’s office. “I remember this one time, this girl named Stacy left during a field trip just to stare at the sight. But then we lost her, and it ruined the trip. Actually-”

“Wait, wait. Where did you-Stacy Anderson? Like… the one who had braces for what felt like the entire time she was in school? Did you go to school with me?”

“Shit, no way-yeah, she’s still got those braces, I swear she’s still got ‘em.”

Your fingers tapped as you thought. Finally, it clicked. Daniel Blake, the Italian boy with a little bit of a lisp. He was never in your class; your school was pretty large, so it wasn’t like you really knew everyone well. But you went to school with him for pretty much the entire time you were in school.

“Holy shit, you’re the one who got suspended because someone kept making fun of you and saying ‘Gabagool’ every time you talked about lunch. I remember you!”

“That kid was fucking annoying, let me make that clear. I’d beat his ass on the playground again if I saw him now. I’d take him out just to find a playground so I could beat his ass on the swingset again.”

You laughed as you tried remembering it. It had all been so long ago, but you knew that you remembered him now. He had always been cute to you, but he looked better now than he ever did. His hair was soft and well-maintained. His face was warm, even if it was a little unwelcoming, his eyes pretty and easy to get lost in. He had changed, but he was still the same in many ways.

That was why you never talked to him, though. You had a big school with little overlap, and actually talking to the guy that you thought was cute wasn’t something that you had to do, so it wasn’t something that you did. It made you too nervous, and you didn’t like to make yourself nervous if you didn’t have to.

But now you were sitting across from him, talking about high school like you weren’t in the middle of a meeting about some very important business that pertained to both of your bosses. Maybe that should be more of a concern for you; maybe you should be thinking about Val and the fact that Wilson Fisk was a rather evil man who was working for. But the only thing that you could think about was the fact that you knew this man, even if you hadn’t realized until just now that you knew him.

“Man, I’m glad he sent me instead of Buck. You would have hated Buck. I mean, he’s kinda cool but so serious most of the time.”

Daniel calmed down a bit, his fingers toying with a pen that he was holding. He looked as youthful as he should look at his age when he was laughing, not weighed down too much by the pressure of everything that he had to deal with working under someone like the Mayor. He looked a bit more carefree than he had when he had walked into the room.

“I’m glad he sent you too, I was fucking terrified to meet him. Like… petrified.”

“Buck?”

“What? No, I don’t know who that is. Fisk.”

“Oh, right, that makes more sense.”

“And I’m happy to see you, it’s been forever. I didn’t recognize you at first.”

It had been about seven years since you had last seen Daniel. You were pretty sure that you graduated together, but things had been difficult at that time. The Blip had taken half of your classmates pretty close to then, and at that time, you had no way of knowing that they were going to come back. It was a pretty scary time, so you remembered him a bit better from then. There were fewer of you, and everyone spent a lot more time talking to each other about what had happened and who they had lost.

Those who hadn’t been blipped had lost people. Some had been students who were displaced, others teachers who lost their families. People all around you were suffering, and there were support groups around the school to try to make sense of it all for all of you. But it was difficult. It was so fresh. And when they all came back, you were long past really remembering where you were when it all happened. It was like you wanted to forget that time, so if you had talked to Daniel around then, you didn’t really remember it.

You’d talked to a lot of people back then. You felt like you needed to, you felt like talking to people was the best way to move on from what you had experienced. Maybe you had talked to him, maybe you had comforted him, or vice versa. But the odds of either of you remembering any of that were low at best. No one really wanted to remember the worst period of their lives.

He had been halfway through talking to you about how he ended up where he was before your phone started ringing on the table. Val. Presumably irritated that Fisk had sent someone in his stead, she didn’t get the picture that she wanted of him entering the building.

“I have to take this, one second.”

“Yeah, I should probably call someone, too.”

You stood up to answer the phone, holding your hand over it as you talked quietly in one corner of the room while Daniel spoke in the other corner of the room to someone on his end. Maybe Fisk, maybe that Buck guy that he had been talking about earlier.

“He didn’t come?”

“He sent someone in his place, I’m not sure why. Can we still work with this?”

“Sure, yes. I thought of other ways to make this work, but I need those papers signed by the end of tomorrow.”

You tapped your finger anxiously against the phone while Val spoke. She was still talking about what you were dealing with right now, but there was something else on her mind, too. Another job that she was going to have you working on that afternoon. She wanted you to make sure that everything was alright with some brand partner that had stopped selling the flavor of drink that had been themed around the New Avengers. The contact hadn’t expired, so she wanted more time with it.

That was your least favorite part of the job, really. The boring corporate work, the conversations with people who didn’t really want to be talking to you any more than you wanted to be talking to them. But if Val said that it was something that you needed to do, then you supposed that it was something that you needed to do.

“I’ll get it done, and I’ll have the signature to you tomorrow.”

She let you go as you moved back over to the table, watching as Daniel was collecting everything that he needed.

“They’re sending me out somewhere, but uh, you should keep in touch. Do you have my number?”

“No, I-um-here.” You handed him your phone, letting him program his number into it. You smile softly as he hands it back to you, looking at the little emojis that he had added next to his name. It wasn’t professional, but it didn’t need to be. “I’m gonna need to collect those papers from you tomorrow. I mean, you can keep the informational ones, I just need the signature ones.”

“Yeah, we can-you wanna meet for lunch, or something? We can hand them off over lunch instead of meeting in this stuffy little room.”

“This room is newly renovated, for your information.” It was. Small and stuffy, but brand new and unused by anyone else. Not a lot of the building had been explored just yet since Valentina changed everything around once she took over. The entire building was massive, and there was nothing but room for people and things that hadn’t been filled yet. “But yeah, lunch. Just text me where.”

With that, he left, and you were left wondering if you were delusional in thinking that something more than just a professional relationship might come of that interaction. Even if you were, though, you weren’t against listening to more bubbly music on your phone as you got through your day. You couldn’t stop straying your thoughts to him. It was as if he knew it, too. He seemed to message you just as you were thinking about him a bit too much, because you were certainly texting about more than just work and where you were going to meet up to hand over some signed papers tomorrow afternoon.

“Wait, so you’re going on a date with this guy?”

Mel was in your apartment that night, talking to you about how Val had been having her do all day while you were working on the lighter things that she had been doing before you got involved with it. Granted, you wouldn’t call Mayor Fisk one of the easier things that anyone could be working on.

“Well, no, not a date. I mean, we’re getting lunch, but we’re just exchanging paperwork.”

Her eyes drifted to your phone as it lit up with his name, another message from him, even though it was around ten at night.

“There’s no way he’s messaging you about work this late.”

“Maybe he is. He’s a workaholic.” You argued, but as you actually opened the message to respond, it was just a continuation of the conversation that you had been having about one memory from school that you thought about every other day, like it was your own personal Roman Empire. “I mean, it’s about Bart Thompson blowing chunks in his tenth-grade chemistry experiment. But… you know, that’s not… romantic.”

“No, it’s not. But you’re talking like you’re in the talking stages of getting together. And you know him, and you said he’s cute.”

“I said I thought he was cute in middle school.”

“And you don’t think he’s cute now?”

You cleared your throat as you replied to the message, pointedly not answering what Mel had asked you. But your silence spoke volumes. You did still think that he wa cute. You liked him a bit better now than you did then, if you were being honest with yourself. But you didn’t want to admit something like that out loud.

“Whatever, just have lunch with him and if it goes well, ask him to dinner.”

“Mel-”

“What?”

“I’m not just going to ask him to dinner, I never even said that I wanted something like that.”

“You didn’t need to. Just trust me.”

You did.

You trusted Mel very much.

When the next day came around, you spent more time on your outfit and makeup than you did on most days. You perfumed well, lotioned well, and when it came time for lunch, you were nervous. You felt almost out of place in the diner that you had chosen to go to. The perfectly manicured business attire didn’t really fit the old, rundown place. But your face lit up when Daniel walked in. Even when he was handing you the file, and especially when he sat across from you and started talking like it was nothing.

It struck you after roughly half an hour that you could have just met at an office. You didn’t have to do the handoff like this; it didn’t even have to be exclusively the two of you doing it. But you wanted to meet like this. At a diner, with him, talking to him about some show that you had watched when you were younger, while you drank a cherry milkshake. It did feel like a date, Mel wasn’t wrong about that, and you did like talking to him. He was funny, and he was sweet, and he was easy to be around.

You were disappointed when your lunch break ended, disappointed that you had to part ways. But you let it happen. You let yourself stand up and start to walk away, let him collect his things, and say something about how he’d text you to finish the conversation. That was platonic; it was all so platonic. But you couldn’t help but notice some smaller things.

The way he lingered, the way he seemed to be eager to continue the conversations that you were having. The way that his eyes skimmed over your face while you spoke was like the most interesting thing that he had seen in a long time. But you noticed, too, that he was a bit sheepish. Too nervous to make a move, even if some part of him may have wanted to.

“Hey, Daniel?” You turned back after you’d walked out of the diner, chasing him across the street once you realized that Mel had been entirely too correct about your love life for your liking.

“Yeah? Wait, did you run through oncoming traffic?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“But-”

“Will you go to dinner with me? Like, not during work? Actual dinner.”

“Like a date?”

“Yes.”

“You want to go out with me?”

“I do.”

“Shit-yeah, of course. Yeah-I almost asked you to prom, you know, before prom got… cancelled.”

That it did. Prom had been very much cancelled as a result of a blip. No one really wanted to go. But you were surprised that it was something that had ever crossed his mind.

“I didn’t even know you knew that I existed in high school.”

“I knew, I always knew-I just-I was too nervous to ask.”

Like he had been just now, like you almost were. But you weren’t nervous now, and the blush on his cheeks made you smile. Leaning up, you pretty a quick kiss to his cheek before backing away. “Call me, we’ll pick a time and a place. I gotta go before Val kills me, though.”

He turns onto his back, still asleep, and his thick, naked upper body is so warm when she slides in next to him. It makes her shiver deliciously having come out of the cool spring weather. He breathes deeply but doesn’t snore and is so still she thinks he must die when he sleeps only to rise again seven or eight hours later. So she allows herself to get comfortable.

She’d taken her heels off at the front door for this reason and chose a wrap dress so she wouldn’t be hindered by restrictive fabric. Although, she doesn’t plan to do all that much, other than surprise him with the knowledge of waking up to her in his bed. It won’t become a habit—if she can help it—but it is very nice to tease.

There’s certainly a bit of a lapse in her self control, she admits, because she shouldn’t even do this once. And she really shouldn’t peek under the covers to see if Daniel’s lower half is as nude as the top. Disappointingly, it’s not. She shouldn’t walk her fingertips over his arm to rouse him either. But in his bed, there is no should or shouldn’t. There is only what she wants.

He turns slightly, almost waking. This new position brings new sights and she has to bite her lip to keep from making any noise. His chest is covered in dark hair. It makes her giggle because for some reason she’d figured he couldn’t grow any. The covers shift and she follows the hair down his stomach. The throb between her legs starts early. There must be a God, because otherwise, how did she get this blessed?

He makes a muffled mewling noise and turns toward her. His heat is almost suffocating under the covers but she wants to curl up in it and fade away. Damn it, maybe this will become a habit. A very bad, very addicting habit. But she supposes she might as well enjoy it.

There’s a peaceful look on his face and for a moment she can envision how he looked as a child. His hair is a mess across the pillow, pink lips slightly open, and the view of him alone causes some great feeling to swell in Teresa’s chest. Something she can’t name. Something that isn’t just attraction. A new feeling, a scary one.

She ignores it and brushes the locks of hair off his forehead gently. Then reaches down and runs her knuckles across his chest, thumb over his nipple. Her hands must be cold because he stirs at that feeling. His eyes flutter open and she does it again.

“Whatdaya—how,” he mumbles, trying to grasp onto reality. His face scrunches up and he looks so adorable she chuckles at him. “You’re not in my bed.”

She pets his chest and arm as he stares at her, still coming around. “I am in your bed.”

“Oh.” His lids slowly flutter and fall closed and he moves closer under the covers. “That’s good. I like that.” His eyes shoot open. “I’m naked.”

A laugh breaks free. “Not completely.”

He makes a face. “You checked? How long have you been here?”

“Only a few minutes.”

“Why are you here? In my bed, I mean. Not to sound ungrateful because I don’t mind.” He cringes at his own rambling. “I’m just curious.”

“Curious. That’s a good word. Maybe that’s the answer.” She sits and gathers her dress up, pushing him onto his back and slinging a leg over his hips. “But you’re gonna have to get a better security system if little ol’ me is able to break in.”

He’s gone completely silent and looks uncomfortably stiff like he’s trying not to move.

“You okay?” she asks, smiling because she knows. The heat of his body seeps through her clothes and the hottest part is between her legs, in the shape of something suggestive, right against the two pieces of thin fabric that separate them. “Am I ruining your beauty sleep?”

He trembles, not breathing. “No, ma’am.”

She settles a little, slowly easing her weight onto the blatant arousal between them. They both take a shuddering breath as she lines her cleft perfectly against him. He’s extremely hot and hard through the barrier of their underwear.

His hands fly to her hips. “No,” he whines.

“No?” She laughs, reveling in the way he jumps and throbs right against her center. It makes her throb too, soaking the little patch of fabric between them.

“Please, don’t make me—holy shit—” He moans as she rolls her hips. “Don’t make me come in my boxers again. Please. I can—”

She puts her finger to his lips. “I didn’t make you do anything, Mr. Blake. Buuut . . . That does sound very tempting.”

The second she begins to move, his mouth is open and bargaining. “Please. Anywhere you want. Anywhere!” But she doesn’t stop, holding him down by the shoulders, tormenting him with the rhythm of her hips and the lure of how close the wet haven of her body is to his aching erection. “Please, not, not . . . I’ll—ohmygod—please—Anything! I’ll do anything you want. I promise. I’ll make you come instead. I will eat your pussy so good. Oh, Christ, please! I promise!”

She slaps a hand over his mouth and slows despite loving the way those dirty words come unfiltered from his pretty lips. “You’re that close already?”

“No, I just . . .” But his cheeks betray him, blood blooming into his face instantly.

“Aw.” She leans down and kisses him, her dark hair falling around them like a veil. “Does that feel good?”

“Yes,” he answers on a hiccuped breath.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?”

“I . . . I’ve done . . .”

She grins against his lips before sitting up and letting herself sink back over his hardness. She knows the answer but wants to hear it anyway. “Tell me.”

“I mean, I don’t know. I’ve had, like, handjobs or whatever. I’ve touched a girl before, sorta. And I’ve had my mouth on a woman . . . You, I mean. I had my mouth on you.” He shakes underneath her, hardly able to breathe for his own rambling and the constant pressure over his cock. “But I can keep up. I can do it any way that you like it, if you tell me how.”

Oh, yes. The boy is very astute. And she knew she was his first the very second his tongue touched the tender flesh between her legs. Men who’ve had it all are never eager to please. But she never imagined she’d get to be his first in more ways than one. Now that she knows she has to savor it and take things slow for him.

She draws her fingertips over his chest. “Would you like to take my instructions, Daniel?”

His cock jerks as if answering. “Hell yeah,” he says so softly she almost misses it.

The bed sways as she throws off the blanket and swings her leg over the side to stand. She pulls him up with her and mourns the loss of contact between her legs. This’ll be as much a torture for her as it will be for him.

All she wants to do is reach out to the tented front of his boxers and tug him to completion. Ruin those underwear, she wants to say, come for me like you did, untouched. But she must have some self discipline. More fun comes to those who wait.

He stands there confused, hands lifted slightly like he wants to touch her. And boy, does she want to let him. Too bad. She has other plans.

“Where’s your bathroom?”

“Uh, that door there.” He points.

She slips her hand into his and leads him to it. When she pushes open the door, she’s amazed at how spacious it actually is—much larger than her own despite his place being mostly unimpressive. White tile lines the wall all the way into the shower and the glossy tub is huge, cut in half by a pane of glass. This’ll be perfect. Some day she’s going to come back to take a nice long soak in this gorgeous place. But right now, all she wants is her boy naked and in the shower.

She turns and goes for his underwear, dipping her fingers under the waistband and squeezing his ass. He laughs and falls into her a little but groans when she does it again.

“Let’s get you out of these,” she says.

“You helping me?” He laughs again. “Feels like you’re just stalling.”

She takes them down quickly, sinking onto her knee. With lips nearly touching his leaking tip, she looks up. “Maybe you’re impatient.”

He sucks in a breath, shaking his head.

“You didn’t mention whether you’d had a woman in this position before.” She blows along his shaft as she leans in to kiss his stomach. Her hands roam up his shaking calves to his thick thighs. If he thinks she’s teasing him, she’s really only teasing herself. “Have you, Daniel?”

“I . . . I haven’t.”

“So you’ve never ever been inside a woman?”

“No.”

Teresa stands, licking her lips as she devours him with her eyes. She would’ve lost her edge if she let herself taste him. She would’ve folded and let him take her right here on the edge of the sink. The fun would be lost to both of their impatience. Sometimes it’s good to look and not touch. Yet.

“Okay,” she says with another hum. “You can get in the shower.”

He glances at the stall and half smirks, half furrows his brow. Knowing him he’s thinking about bending her over and having her up against the glass but he will be doing no such thing. He trips out of the boxers hooked at his ankles and climbs into the tub.

“Turn on the water,” she tells him.

There isn’t an ounce of hesitation in his movements. He turns the tap and a generous spray shoots from the silver head above him. It hits his shoulder, rivulets running down his chest and soaking the hair. Down, down the water flows and her eyes follow the droplets to the evidence of how aroused he is.

He waits, patient and still. But she can’t stop staring and admiring his beautiful, thick body. Her nails dig into her own thighs to stop herself from moving.

“You aren’t joining me,” he says in realization instead of questioning.

“No, Daniel.” She strides over and sits on the edge of the tub, leaning back against the tiled wall to get comfortable and stretch out. “I want to watch.”

“Is this because . . . I almost came?”

She smiles but she’s surprised. “You think this is punishment?”

He looks down and scratches the back of his head. Warm water sprinkles over her legs with the movement of his arm. It feels nice. So she gives in halfway, putting one foot in the tub so she’s straddling the edge, and starts working open the knot at the front of her dress. Daniel watches, abandoning his borderline pout for aroused intrigue.

They meet eyes and she decides maybe he deserves a little something. “Do you want to undo this for me?” she asks, playing with the long strings that keep the dress closed and decent.

He nods, coming to kneel in front of her. His wet body drips all over her but she doesn’t care, she brought a change of clothes for the shooting range anyway. And the way he’s getting her soaked is having the same effect between her legs. She’d love to give in so very badly.

His shaking fingers fumble with the tie. “Can I touch you when it’s off?” he asks, pulling the loops apart so forcibly she’s yanked toward him.

Oh, he’s eager.

“It will be open, not off,” she gives him a non-answer to see what he does.

He glances up as he undoes the last loop. “But I’m getting you all wet,” he says, practically salivating with anticipation.

“Yes, you are.”

He looks up again and licks his lips. “Can I please kiss your pussy again?”

“No.” She shakes her head, smiling. “You can open my dress but my panties stay on.”

The edge of his mouth turns up slightly and she knows he’s about to lose his good boy privileges before he even speaks. “I could still kiss you with your panties on.”

She runs her fingers into his hair and tugs a little. “No. I said I want to watch, not feel.”

A crease appears between his brows but he nods. Slowly, with the hesitance of someone trying not to rouse a sleeping tiger, he unlaces the two strings and sets them aside. The fabric parts slightly on its own, revealing a sliver of skin between her breasts, down her stomach, to the stark white of her panties. His hands are unmoving, probably because he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to help it along or touch her.

She leans back against the tiled wall and spreads her legs apart, drawing the fabric away with it. It opens like a robe, inching away until more and more of her is bared to his unfed gaze. She lets him look, relishing the way he can’t find a place to put his eyes.

“What do you want, Daniel?”

He sighs heavily. “Can I please touch you?”

“Where?”

“Anywhere you want me to.”

“Where do you want to touch me?”

“Your tits, uh, your . . . your breasts.”

Teresa tries not to laugh. He seems dumbfounded by his own simple guy brain but it’s adorable so she doesn’t discipline him for it. “With your mouth or your hands?”

He smiles bashfully, cheeks pretty pink. “Both.” He remembers his manners. “Please.”

She cracks a smile. Might as well have a little fun. “Go nuts.”

He laughs on the descent to her chest, open mouthed and greedy as he kisses the bottom of her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her bosom. He grabs a handful of her breast and she shivers as his cool, wet fingers squeeze and caress. Then his warm, slick mouth finds the other side and she comes undone.

Her head falls back against the wall and she arches into the feeling of him hungrily pressing his face against her. She moans as his tongue slides over her nipple and he answers with a moan of his own. It’s as if he wants her pleasure more, like he can't help but feel it when she voices her enjoyment of something he’s doing to her. That alone makes her hum dreamily again.

He pins the tip of her nipple between his fingers and massages her with one hand, while the other hand toys with the elastic of her underwear at her hip. His mouth moves in unison with his undulating grasp on the other breast, kissing and licking. The sensations make her stomach free fall and the unattended center of her arousal pulsates ravenously.

“Oh, yes,” she mewls, thinking how easily he could make her come if he so much as brushed a knuckle against her right now. But she doesn’t clue him in. She likes to ride the wave as it builds, going nowhere but always rising.

He sucks her sensitive bud a little harder and pulls away with an audible noise. They both groan excitedly at that.

He pulls in a lungful of air. “Does it feel good?”

“You make me feel very good, Daniel.”

He keeps his eyes on hers as he dips his head back down and wiggles his tongue over her tender nipple.

“Yes,” she whines, wrapping her fingers around his hair. She tugs and his lips latch around her, suckling. “Good boy. Oh, God, yes, Daniel. Don’t stop. You’re so good at this.”

His eyes roll back in his head as his lids close and he lets out a sound like he’s been kicked in the stomach. But it doesn’t deter him one bit from the service he’s providing.

“You’re so handsome, loving on me like this,” she whispers, moving to caress his face and nape of his neck. She’s losing her mind. “My sweet boy. So good.”

He whimpers and tries exceedingly hard to earn more moans, more praises. And he does. Everything he does is perfect.

Her sex throbs until it aches. She wants him inside her so bad she’s willing to break all her rules. But one thing keeps her from doing it—she wants him to give his virginity somewhere safe and warm and special. This isn’t it. So it has to end before one more of his beautiful sounds turns her into the version of Teresa who caves.

She tugs him by his hair until he releases her and comes away with a glossy wet mouth. “Okay, get off. You’re wasting water.”

He blinks at her and is slow to stand. His cock looks so pathetically and painfully unused, the flushed tip weeping, that she feels sort of bad for it. But she needs a minute to come down.

“Wash your hair,” she tells him.

He makes a humph kind of noise as he moves backward into the stream and tilts his head back. His neck looks delicious. Hell, his entire body does. It’s no help with the high still buzzing through her from his mouth on her. Watching was supposed to be the goal and now the watching is torture.

He lathers his hands with shampoo and she shudders as he lifts his arms to scrub his scalp—even his damn armpits are keeping her turned on. She’s sure her panties are soaked through by now. But she keeps watching, an ultimate test of control, as he rinses and repeats the motion with the conditioner.

When he’s done he shakes his hands, wipes the water out of his eyes, and frowns. “You know what, my dick hurts. I successfully kept my shit together this time but it’s . . . very hard.”

She laughs. “I never said you couldn’t touch yourself.”

He sighs heavily. “You’re torturing me.”

“I’m sorry. Am I being mean?” Her voice dips into seductress territory. His eyes fall from her lips to between her legs. “What are you looking at, Daniel?”

“The best thing I’ve ever tasted.” His voice turns from eager to frustrated when he adds, “The place I’m dying to be inside of.”

Her depths clench around nothing, yearning, aching. “You can have that. Someday. But you gotta listen to me first.”

For a moment, she thinks he may be done with behaving. She thinks he might be fed up with the humiliation of standing here in front of her, naked and so hard he’s about to cry about it. It seems he only needs a minute to recover from that lapse of sudden rebellion. But his voice is still bratty when he says, “Whatever you say.”

“That’s a cute tone on you.”

He smiles incredulously. “I am simply awaiting instruction, mistress.”

She lets out a cackle at that. “Oh, okay. Then you can wash your body now, my servant.”

To her surprise, he actually grabs the bar of soap and does exactly as she says. At this point she doesn’t care if it’s spite or obedience, she’s impressed. She watches with a swell of pride and admiration in her chest as he soaps his entire body, never breaking eye contact.

“Rinse off,” she demands.

“Yes, ma’am.” Still, his eyes remain on hers.

Once she’s decided he’s had enough, she relaxes against the cool tiled wall and takes a deep breath. “Touch yourself, baby. Show me how you get off when you’re alone.”

He sighs, defeat and relief both coloring his features. She knows how badly he wants it to be her hands on him instead. In time, sweet Daniel, she thinks, I will give you everything you want.

“May I make one request?”

His voice is so precious she has to comply or she’ll combust. “Yes, you may.”

“Please, do it with me.” He wraps his fingers around himself and does one slow tug. “I wanna watch you too, not just imagine it for the millionth time.”

There is no need to think about it but she wants him to wait. She hums and sways her leg back and forth, pretending to ponder his request. When she looks up at him, he’s breathing shallowly, trying so damn hard to be patient.

“Do you want my panties on or off?”

He nearly shakes as he makes another pull off that gorgeous cock. “Off,” he says, then quickly adds, “Please.”

The room is filled with steam so her skin is moist when she lifts up and rolls her panties down her thighs. Daniel watches with an intensity she’s never seen on another man. His hand moves languidly, fingers barely curled around his length. It has her pausing momentarily on her way getting out of her underwear. He’s so beautiful it hurts and she knows he has absolutely no clue.

With her back against the wall again, she angles herself toward him so he can see what he asked for and he doesn’t take his eyes off of her for a second. He’s been a good sport about everything so far so she decides to loosen the reins a little.

“What do you want me to do?” she asks, running a hand down her stomach.

His gaze moves back and forth from her face to between her legs. “You want me to tell you?”

“Yes.” She laughs.

He swallows harshly and steps forward, wasting no time. “Take your left hand and play with your tits,” he says, eyes wild as they search for a place to focus and can’t find one. She has to smile, it sounds so silly coming from him, yet the dirty command makes her tingle. She goes to touch herself. “My left,” he corrects.

“Oh, of course. My bad.” She switches to her right hand and squeezes each breast for him. “Like this?”

The pace of his tugging quickens, which is an answer enough without his words. “Fuck yes. Holy shit . . . You are so fuckin’ hot.”

A little thrill goes through her that this alone has him worked up. “And what would you have me do with this hand, Mr. Blake,” she teases, drumming her fingers over her lower belly.

He looks at her as if he’s forgotten it’s his choice and seems overwhelmed by possibility. “Uh . . . Suck your fingers and then . . .” He must lose his train of thought when she does exactly that, his eyes going glassy at the mere sight of her with her fingers in her mouth.

The whole broad frame of his body trembles and the hand on his cock tightens. Sleepy, approving eyes bore into hers suddenly. “Rub your pussy for me, Teresa.”

Oh. Kay. This is a Daniel she’s never met. His request is firm but not at all dominant. The ‘for me’ sounds more like a plea than a demand. Coming from his sweet mouth it’s all desperation. And she does it, all for him.

She sighs shakily and presses her fingers over her wet sex, spreading herself and finding the swollen bundle of nerves that keeps throbbing miserably from lack of attention. The first touch almost hurts and it makes her whine. With two fingers, she draws lazy circles over the most sensitive part of herself and bites back the sounds that want to break free at how good it feels to finally let go.

Daniel goes with her rhythm, trying to match every move. He groans on each pull. It’s almost too much for her to bear—those thick thighs tensing to hold him upright, the hair on his chest and stomach darkened by the water, the muscles in his arm working as he strokes himself. His other hand slides over his stomach and down to cup his sac. It’s the most arousing thing she’s ever seen in her life.

Her head falls back against the wall with a thud and she keens like she’s in heat. Her sex feels raw and overstimulated but she can’t stop, won’t stop from doing what he wants. It works her up knowing how hard this is going to make him come. As predicted, Daniel moans in response and she can hear the sounds of his wet cock in his hand now.

“Please,” he rasps, panting. “Put your—oh, Christ, fuck—put your fingers inside.”

Her head swims as she slides her hand down and takes two digits no problem. There’s never been a time in her life she’s done that on the first try. “God, Daniel, you’d love how this feels.”

His hand stutters. “I can’t wait.”

She keeps her eyes locked on his as she pumps her fingers in and out, her other hand grasping her breast roughly. Her back arches against the slick tile and she cants her hips forward so he gets even more visual access.

He moans like he’s about to go off like a gun and his fist tightens so hard on the next few strokes his knuckles turn white.

“Careful with my cock,” she blurts, thinking selfishly, only I get to bully that beautiful part of you.

“Then tell your cock not to come yet,” he says breathlessly, holding the base with one hand and tugging with the other.

It strikes her then that he’s edging himself and it has her clenching around her own fingers. His thighs shake from the force of his self control. Without warning her own will snaps. The feeling erupts until she sees white and she just keeps coming and coming in quivering waves, crying out again and again.

When her eyes open, she finds him standing so still, both hands wrapped around himself, his poor florid cockhead dripping hopelessly. Every inch of him shakes and shudders like he’s about to lose himself to the pleasure before he’s ready.

“Please,” is all he says and she’s off the edge of the tub before she can even form a thought.

She wraps an arm around his neck and pushes him back into the warm spray of the shower and against the shower wall. Her dress is drenched instantly and the weight of it molds her against him. Her other hand pries his rigid fingers away from himself.

“Are you going to learn to be nice to my cock?” She brushes her lips against his and he chases her mouth for a kiss. “Tell me with your words, Daniel.”

“Yes,” he agrees desperately, eyes closed, still waiting for her to put her mouth on him. “I’ll be good to your cock from now on. Promise.”

“You promise to be a good boy?”

“Yes. I do. Please.”

She takes him in her hand and he hisses at the contact. He’s so overstimulated this will be easier than breathing for both of them. Very slowly she begins to stroke him, pulsating the loop she’s made with her fingers up and down the hard stalk jutting from his body. He shivers and groans, head tilting back and forth like he can’t control the way his body moves anymore.

“Fuck, oh, fuck.” He takes harsh and uneven breaths and trembles so violently she’s afraid he’ll collapse. But she doesn’t stop. “Please . . . Please . . . Please . . .” he starts repeating the mantra over and over, dissolving into whimpers.

“Move into my hand, Daniel,” she whispers and licks the water from his neck before sucking the skin. “You’re doing so good. Go ahead, baby, let yourself come.”

“Ah . . . Shit,” he gasps and moans woefully. “No, I . . . Fuck, I don’t want . . . Oh, God.”

She’s completely fascinated, damn near drugged, by the sight of him fighting it. His face is screwed up in pain but also pleasure and it shocks her to see actual tears rolling down his cheeks. It turns her into another person.

She caresses his face, wiping away his tears. “Look at me,” she tells him and waits until he does. His teary sparkling eyes stab her right through. Oh, look at her pretty boy. “Relax. All I want is for you to let go now. I don’t need you to last. Will you do that for me?”

He nods. Even his open mouth trembles. And as her hand begins to quicken, his hips follow suit. “That’s good. Fuck my hand. Just like that,” she coaches and he leans his head back against the tiles but keeps those heavy eyes on hers. His mouth stays open in one continuous whimper as they work together to get him there.

The fight leaves him and the rush of his orgasm comes quick, mounting fast under her fingers until his rigid flesh is pulsating and tightening. The seconds tick by and she waits for the perfect moment.

“Come for me.”

His hips jerk his cock through her fist in one swift motion and she feels warmth spatter across her stomach. He sobs, his head falling back as he humps into her hand. She looks down and moans herself. The desperate, idle thrusting makes her dizzy with want and it takes everything in her not to ruin his orgasm.

He comes to and grabs the sides of her face, kissing her and moaning into her mouth. If it were any other time he’d need to be disciplined but right now she allows it. Because she wants it too. He kisses her until she is breathless and needy again.

When he pulls away and looks between them, he grunts unhappily. “I didn’t mean to get it on you,” he says, voice sleepy and worn. “I’m sorry.”

She ruffles his wet hair back off his face. “It’s alright, handsome.” He closes his eyes and leans into the comfort of her caress. “In a minute, you can go get dressed. I’ll wash off.”

He hangs his head against her shoulder, still catching his breath, then looks at her longingly with those sweet puppydog eyes.

“What is it?”

“You’re . . . I dunno.”

“Am I overwhelming you?” she asks seriously. She doesn’t want to push his boundaries too far and she hasn't been that good about recognizing where his line is yet.

“Not in a bad way.” He heaves a sigh. “I’ve just never . . .”

“I know.” She smiles and rubs his cheek with her knuckles. “You tell me if I’m too much.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not.”

“But you will tell me if I am,” she demands instead of asking. He nods swiftly. “Daniel.”

“Yes,” he all but whimpers.

“I think you redeemed yourself.”

He lets out a rough laugh. “Yeah, I did.”

“Yes, you did.”

Another laugh tumbles out of him as he leans his head back and closes his eyes. This is a big deal for him so she just leans in and kisses on his neck, running her hands up and down his body as a way to bring him back to reality softly. She won’t rush him because he deserves the aftercare.

She’s been in that sort of headspace before and it can be emotional. Extremely exhausting as well. That’s why she prefers the inverse. The hand that guides instead of the one who follows. Although, she feels his weariness. They’ve done something that binds them, that changes them, and it’ll hit her later, the responsibility of that.

“Go get dressed,” she finally tells him.

He rinses and grabs a towel from the rack. While he dries off, he watches her through the glass. She strips off her dress and hands it to him. He stares. “You are so fuckin’ gorgeous.”

She shakes her head with a laugh and shoos him. “Go. Get. Dressed.”

“I’m going!” He raises his hands in mock surrender and pads out of the bathroom with the towel around his waist and a giddy smile on his face.

Her own smile fades as he leaves her alone in the running shower. This is the most her that she’s ever felt and the simplicity is new. Nothing this good has ever come easy and when it did there was always a catch. She could pretend that they’re only having fun, that it all comes down to sex, but it would be a lie. She has feelings for Daniel. And whatever they are, they scare her.

She rinses off and pats dry with one of his towels before throwing it and her underwear into his laundry basket. When she peeks into his room, he isn’t there. His phone is buzzing on the nightstand so she picks it up. A notification reads LAUNDRY. Well, the basket was full so she’ll have to add that to the list of to-dos today.

When he doesn’t return fast enough, she ventures out into the apartment. They meet in the middle. He’s dressed now in some black joggers and a Steely Dan t-shirt.

“You’re . . . naked in my hallway,” he says with a huge grin.

“I will continue to be naked unless you go out to my car and grab my bag.” His smile is contagious so she lets her own form. She pokes his chest where a year is printed on the shirt. “You weren’t even alive in ‘93, were you?”

He smirks. “I have a lot of old shirts. They’re vintage. Kinda like you.” Before she can even react, he’s sprinting away from her and out the door, laughing his ass off.

If it were anyone else she’d have to kill them but instead, she stands there naked and cold and laughing in disbelief.

When he comes back in with her duffle, he looks like he’s trying not to laugh but also a little guilty. “I didn’t mean that,” he offers and extends the bag to her as he looks her up and down. “You’re gonna punish me for it, aren’t you?”

She takes the bag and narrows her eyes. “Hmm. Define punish.”

“To cause suffering for a crime or to enforce disciplinary action,” he jokes but he’s not laughing. He nods solemnly. “I deserve it.”

She smiles and puts her arm around his neck, leading him back into the bedroom. He humphs like he’s about to get spanked and has accepted it. It almost makes her cackle. “Okay, Mr. Blake, it’s laundry day,” she says, and lets go of him. “Gather everything up while I get dressed.”

He’s confused until he sees his phone flashing. “This isn’t a punishment though, this is a responsibility.”

Now she laughs. “I never said I was going to punish you. Do you want me to?”

“No. Nope. You’re a fuckin’ goddess and I am totally unworthy of even being in your presence,” he says without a beat. And somehow she knows he means that.

Sheila tries to have faith in him. Mayor Fisk seems to trust him. But it’s all just a show, isn’t it? He knows the right things to say, the right ways to weasel his way out if he’s in a tough spot. It’s not exactly lying or manipulation, it’s self preservation, and right about now, he’s starting to wonder how long he can keep it up. Someone once told him to just own his shit but he’s promised himself to forget her.

Steam rises from his skillet as he sautées onions in butter. Hours ago he’d invited BB over with the front of editing her latest report and now he’s preparing probably the world's most pretentious meal to impress a girl. A girl who doesn’t like him—tolerates is even a stretch. But he can’t help himself, he does it anyway, all while knowing what he’ll have to accuse her of when she gets there.

He stirs his food, watches the spoon move back and forth across the pan as if it’s not in his own hand. And for the first time today his brain echoes another voice instead of Mayor Fisk’s.

I like watching you eat.

His heart thumps wildly remembering Teresa that night—the way she brushed the hair off his forehead, the way she wiped his chin, the way she sucked his fingers into her mouth. Suddenly he can no longer see what he’s doing. He blinks and feels a hot tear roll down his cheek. His shirt sleeve is rough when he angrily swipes it away.

He doesn’t want this stupid fancy coq au vin, pommes du moutard, and haricots vert that he’s making for someone who has done nothing but use him. He wants Teresa’s fuckin’ egg franken-sandwich with its dripping mayo and hot sauce bullshit. And her hands. God, he wants her hands. He misses the way they feel when she caresses his face with a gentleness reserved only for him.

But there’s no room for this ache anymore, there’s only burying it as deep as he can shove and hoping it doesn’t spew out of him the second he thinks about her for too long.

BB shows up a little late. In fact, by the time she finally arrives, he’s already plated the food and rehearsed what he’s gonna say over and over. He seats her. Pours her wine. Does a good show at thanking her for the help in winning a position with the Mayor that he’s utterly failing to maintain. It’s all as planned.

“I didn't know you could cook,” she says and it stings a little.

It’s not really a sore spot, he knows pretty well by now he doesn’t give anyone the impression he’s good at much. “I can’t. But I just read the directions, did what they said. Hopefully, it’s alright,” he says, and finds himself rambling. “I got no clue about the wine, but it was . . . It was expensive, so hopefully it’s good.”

He waits for her to try it, sipping his wine and holding his breath. He can’t take a bite until she does.

“Shit. Daniel, this is great. Wow.”

He wants to say ‘don’t sound so surprised’ but what comes out is, “Good. I’m, uh . . . I’m glad you like it.” It sounds hollow even to his own ears. “‘Cause we got some things to figure out.”

BB’s face slowly settles, any smile she might’ve had leaving quicker than it came. She knows she’s been caught.

“You know what that is?” he asks, taking the City Without Fear card Fisk had given him earlier from his pocket and sliding it across the table.

“Yeah. Some crazy shit. A weird mask with Daredevil on the boat?” She tries to act casual but she’s not fooling him.

“That video, it came from inside the Mayor’s office. Maybe even off my laptop.”

“Okay.” She laughs nervously. “What are you asking me here?”

“Don't fuck with me, BB.” He can’t believe he’s still doing this. And the sad thing is, he wants to believe this was some innocent mistake, that she’s not really fucking him over again. “You burned me bad with that Mayor Garbage leak.”

“Okay. That was then, and this is now. It’s not me, seriously.”

“I get it. You’re a journalist, I’m a schmuck from Staten. Fuck me or whatever. But if you are leaking stuff, anything, stop. It’s no game.” Part of him feels bad for accusing her when it’s probably his fault, too. It’s a weird feeling, wanting to protect someone who hasn’t done the same for you. But he caves, like he always does, to that itch inside him that just wants to let it go. It is what it is. “You could get hurt. We could get hurt.”

“You’re scared of him, aren’t you?”

That catches him off guard. And for some reason he thinks of Teresa’s last words to him before she left him standing in that room by himself—be a good boy. At the time it felt like a goodbye but right now it feels like a warning.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you were,” BB says and sighs. “I mean, you had to have asked yourself, what if the rumors are true? About Gallo? About my uncle?”

He can’t hear this. He won’t. Because if those rumors are even half true then that means all this anger he’s had for Teresa was for nothing and he’s completely missed what was right in front of him. If Fisk is behind those deaths then maybe he killed her too.

“Come on, BB,” he forces out. He can’t look it in the eye, not now. So he pushes it down, down as far as it’ll go even if it breaks him. “I mean, life is good.” Even as he says it, he knows it’s a lie. And that makes him vulnerable to the truth trying to claw right back up and out of his poorly constructed filing system. “I don't know, like, integrity can cost. Sometimes, it’s better not to know, or to ask.”

BB’s shoulders slump as she sits back in her chair. It’s like all she can see is just some fucking loser who’s gotten too in over his head, her pitying eyes say as much. And she’s not wrong.

“If you are leaking stuff . . . Just stop. Please,” he says, defeated. Then promises himself, for the umpteenth time, he’s never gonna beg her or anyone else ever again.

For the rest of the week, Daniel decides to throw himself into his work. It’s all that he can do not to think about his dinner with BB and the way she wants to expose Fisk for things she really knows nothing about. But then again, neither does he. He doesn’t want to know. He has to stay on course.

Mission of the day: make friends with Buck. Things have been lonely the last six months and it’s only natural he’d get close to the guy, right? They’re both loyal to the mayor and Buck’s been working with Fisk for, like, ever. So maybe he has some advice on how to navigate this whole thing, a way to weed out the negative talk and misinformation.

Buck stands rigidly in Daniel’s shoebox of an office and Daniel tries so hard to make him laugh. But no. Not a crack. He is successful at getting the Englishman to try a bite of his hotdog, though, and it takes true restraint not to outright make fun of the way he cautiously fits his mouth around the mysterious street meat.

“Not bad.”

“I told you. What's up?”

“What do you know about the governor?”

Daniel’s done his research. Turns out the broad is boring as fuck. And he tells Buck this, albeit with a little more flare than usual. “She’s like a nun with a machine gun. Played the game perfectly for decades. She’s not gonna drop a stitch now.”

“Everyone’s got something to hide,” Buck replies with a side eye.

Well, he’s got that covered too. Get the Lieutenant Governor ripped and find out what it is that makes Marge McCaffrey dirty. Buck doesn’t seem to believe he’s got the chops so Daniel does a little flattering and offers himself up to be the young Padawan in need of some teaching. The Governor isn’t the only person he’s been researching. Maybe Buck’s got some tips on how to handle his interrogation of the LT-Gov.

He comes over to where Daniel’s reclining in his office chair and leans over the desk. “How high are you right now?”

“No, I’m . . .” Daniel swallows. Kay, reel it back in, man. “I’m not high . . . right now.”

Buck takes the very awkward moment to remind him that he should be figuring out who is behind City Without Fear. Which he promises to get on right away. Even though deep down he knows, and he wants to forget or ignore for as long as he can.

“Whoever is mocking the mayor must be punished, correct?”

“Of course.” He speaks up, hearing and feeling himself cower under Buck’s penetrating stare. “Yes, of course. I promise that I’ll figure out who it is.”

Buck stays there, almost hanging over him like an intimidation tactic—and maybe it is—then he backs up. “Great.” He stands, fixes his suit button, and strides toward the door, confident and expensive looking. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he says as he turns on his heel.

He takes a white folded paper from his pocket and slides it across the desk.

“What is this?”

“A list of people to be aware of.”

Daniel flips it open and frowns. “You just gave me one yesterday.”

“This is an updated list to reflect the current state of things.”

He looks it over. Same names as last time. Matthew Murdock. Karen Page. Benjamin Poindexter. Vigilante. Vigilante. Vigilante. Why is he giving him this? He stops dead when he gets there and looks up. “Buck . . . Teresa Hawke?”

“Yes.” Buck watches him like he’s waiting for a bigger reaction. “She severed her ties to us and is now believed to be working with those who oppose us.”

Daniel tries not to move or talk too fast. He doesn’t want to give away what this means to him. This is the first real confirmation that Teresa is alive and still in New York. And it also means Fisk lied to him. “All due respect . . . That doesn’t make any sense.”

“One might refer to her as a turncoat.” He looks at him as if to say does that surprise you? A challenge to get him to reveal what he really thinks of this new piece of information, to reveal that no matter what he does, the feelings he has for her won’t die. “You understand, don’t you, Daniel?”

“Yeah. Totally.”

Writeblr • writer type: pantser ✧ genre: romance, erotica ✧ sub genres: post apocalyptic, dystopian, suspense, crime, new adult, paranormal ✧ rating: mature/explicit ✧ tropes & themes: plus size characters, enemies to lovers, characters finding themselves, age gap, found family, living is more than surviving ✧

History • I’ve been writing since I can remember but seriously started getting into the craft about nine years ago. In that time I have finished five significant works, between procrastination and burnout: Sid (43,397 words) ✧ The Secrets of Cranerise Valley (32,173 words) ✧ Coming of Age (100,863 words) ✧ Sweet Dreams (94,095 words) ✧ The Night We Met (181,988 words)

Goals • I don’t plan to publish. Writing is my joy and if I can continue to create worlds, characters and stories consistently, that would be my ultimate dream. I’d love to make friends in the community who share that love of creation and writing (who may also enjoy the romance genre).

I also write fanfiction for multiple fandoms when I’m not working on my original stories and love to talk about anything fandom and fanfic writing related as well.

Daniel Blake is one of the most overconfident, cocky, assholes you’ve ever met. But his entire self worth relies on the opinions of others. Creating this… odd dynamic between you two. His attitude and incessant need for your approval mixed with your pure distain for his entire personality was enough to drive everyone around you insane.

Your constant bickering and inability to have a conversation without talking in circles was genuinely one of the worst things about the day to day in that office. But somewhere between your arguments you ended up with his face stuffed between your thighs, your back propped up against shelving in a random hallway broom closet as he devoured you.

“So… fuckin good…” Daniel groaned, muffled agains you as he attempted to catch his breath slightly before your hand met his hair, tugging him back against your needy wetness as you muttered-

“Shut up…” you manage to get out between jagged breaths, barely above a whisper. Feeling him groan against you as you tug at his hair, further ruining his already dishevelled appearance- a problem neither of you seemed to care about as he delved back into you with what seemed like carnal desperation.

His free hand pawing at your thighs and ass as the other slides down, peeling his face away as he slides two fingers into your dripping cunt. His mouths attention now fully on your clit, desperate and puffy as he licks and sucks at it, small whines escaping him as he does. Your back arches up further, grip tightening around his brunette locks as he draws you closer and closer to your impending orgasm. Curling his fingers into just the right way to send you over the edge.

“Fuck Danny I’m gonna-“ You attempt to warn before your orgasm crashes over you, your body writhing with pleasure as you grind up into Daniel’s face, desperate for more stimulation as his fingers and mouth continue to work you through your climax. Your tugs at his hair doubling in roughness, causing him to let out a broken moan, his movements stuttering for a moment before slowing and stopping completely as you come down from your high.

As Daniel finally peels himself away from your heat, lowering you down- both of you still shaking from the encounter -you look down, noticing a small wet patch on the crotch of his pants, causing his face to turn bête red.

“I think I got a- uhh… little carried away…” He chuckles, trying to seem nonchalant but failing miserably as he looks up at you with almost pathetic doe eyes, causing you to let out a breathy laugh.

It hadn’t started like something that could last. 

That was the first thing you told yourself back when he was just a name Meadow Soprano mentioned in passing. A father who called too much or not at all, who spoiled her in ways that made you roll your eyes. You were her TA at Columbia, still figuring yourself out, still clinging to the idea that right and wrong had clean lines.

In the beginning, it had been all heat and impulse. Late nights. Quick decisions. The kind of urgency that doesn’t leave room for consequences. Tony would show up when he could, unannounced more often than not, and you let him in every single time. You didn’t ask too many questions as to where he’d been, if Carmela knew about your affair. And to be frank, you didn’t want the answers. It had started as a brief fling that should’ve meant nothing. A dinner after the next fling because you were both hungry. A conversation in the after glow that lingered a little too long.

That should have been it.

It wasn’t.

Tony had started to ask more about your work. He listened. Really listened. About your research, your dry jokes, the little details you usually glossed over talking with anyone else. He laughed when you caught him off guard, called you a “fuckin’ Millennial,” shaking his head like he didn’t get you, even as he kept looking at you like he wanted to. Then he’d asked about your family, your childhood, the tiny things you barely noticed. And he treated the memories like they mattered. Like you mattered. You told yourself it was nothing, and at first it was easy to keep it that way, to compartmentalise your life out there, and your affair with Tony Soprano behind closed doors. 

But even that didn’t last. 

It changed so quietly. Not all at once, and not in any way you could point to and name. The way he stopped wanting to leave so quickly. The way he’d linger in your apartment doorway on his way out. Suddenly his presence didn’t feel so temporary anymore, even when it was supposed to. 

And without either of you ever really saying it out loud, his presence started to seep into the apartment. A shirt of his ended up draped over the back of your office chair, like he’d taken it off without thinking and never quite got around to taking it with him again. It looked wrong there at first, too big, too dark, too expensive against all the soft pastels and careful order of your space. Sure, you’d slipped it on a few times, late at night when the apartment got cold, just until the heating kicked in, or you finally caught up with the laundry. Easy excuses. But it stayed. Not because you forgot, but because it smelled like him.

And in the bathroom, tucked behind your skincare and neatly lined bottles, his cologne sits in its heavy glass bottle. It feels out of place among your things, too manly, too dark, all musk and weight where yours is softer, petals and jasmine. Some nights you catch yourself reaching for it without thinking, fingers brushing of the cool glass, a quiet press at your wrist, and then your throat, just enough that it lingers faintly when you move, like it’s decided to stay a little while with you

It lingers there, in the air, long after he’s gone. 

In the fabric of your towels. 

In the sheets you twist yourself into at night.

To you.

You notice his things the most when he’s gone. The quiet shifts and settles differently. And when you move through the apartment, past his shirt, his cologne, the small traces he leaves behind, you start to understand something you haven’t quite said out loud yet.

He doesn’t belong here. But somehow he’s everywhere now.

Of course, Carmela Soprano existed in everything he didn’t say. All the parts of him that don’t make it to you. In the hushed calls he takes outside. In the nights he can’t stay. In the careful absence of promises he never quite makes, your birthday, that movie you mentioned once, the exhibition you booked and quietly stopped expecting him to come to.

You understood that.

You told yourself you accepted it.

This was what it was between you. 

It was contained, defined by its limits.

And yet it isn’t.

Because there were moments that didn’t fit inside those boundaries. The way he looks at you in the mornings before the day catches up with him. The way his hand finds yours like it already knows where it’s going. The quiet stretches where he isn’t performing anything for anyone, just existing there with you. Those are the moments that undo you, because they feel real in a way you can’t quite make fit anywhere else.

Too real for something that wasn’t supposed to be.

Sunday mornings with Tony Soprano feel softer than the rest of the world allows him to be. He’s already awake when you stir, propped up against your headboard, one arm slung lazily behind his head, the other draped heavy across your waist. The TV hums low in the background, some History Channel special on WWI he isn’t really watching, though his attention keeps drifting back to you anyway.

It always does in these moments.

“Bout time, Sleeping Beauty” he murmurs when you start to wake, his voice rough with sleep and something warmer underneath from the night before.

You don’t open your eyes right away, just make a quiet sound in response and nuzzle closer into his chest, away from the strip of sunlight slipping through the curtains. His hand finds you immediately, settling at your side like it’s been there all along, thumb moving in slow, absent circles that feel more instinct than thought.

“You’re up early,” you mumble.

He lets out a soft huff of a quiet laugh. “Early? It’s almost ten.”

“That’s early for a Sunday.”

“For you, maybe.”

When you finally look up at him, squinting a little against the light, he’s already watching you. Not even pretending otherwise. There’s something unguarded in it, softened around the edges in a way you don’t see anywhere else.

“What?” you ask.

He gives a small shake of his head, like he’s caught himself, and drifts his gaze back toward the TV. “Nothin’,” he says, but it doesn’t land convincingly. After a beat, his hand comes up, brushing a stray piece of hair from your face, fingers lingering just a second longer than they need to. “You just… you look good like this.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Like what? Half asleep?”

“Yeah,” he smirks, eyes flicking back to you, “Less mouth on you.”

You let out a quiet laugh, nudging him lightly with your elbow, but he just scoops you up closer in response, arm tightening around your waist like he’s decided he’s not done with yet.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, already pulling you in.

His mouth finds yours without urgency, just a slow, familiar kiss that belongs to a Sunday morning more than anything else. It’s not about heat this time, not like last night, just closeness. He lingers, like he’s got nowhere else to be, like this moment isn’t something he has to step out of.

When he pulls back, his hand stays at your jaw, calloused thumb brushing your cheek in an unthinking, steady motion.

“You sleep okay?” he asks.

“Mhm. You?”

“Better here.”

It’s said so casually, but it sits heavier than that.

You study him for a second, then smile faintly, “You always say that when you stay over.”

“Yeah?” he gives a small shrug, gaze drifting away again like it’s easier than holding yours. “I mean it. Your place is quieter. No bullshit from Carm or AJ.” A beat. “Don’t get used to it.”

You don’t push.

Instead, you shift down slightly, resting your chin against his chest, tracing the pad of your index finger along the edge of his tiger tattoo, ink faint and smudged with age. He watches your hand for a moment, then catches it without thinking, lacing your fingers together and bringing them up to his lips.

It’s an absent gesture. Thoughtless.

That’s what makes it feel like something.

“Hungry?” he asks after a beat.

“A little.”

“I could order us somethin’.”

“You say that every time,” you tease, lightly swatting at his chest. “And then you complain about whatever place you picked.”

“That’s ‘cause nobody knows how to cook fuckin’ eggs right anymore,” he grumbles. “It’s all eggs and avocado toast with overnight oats and all that shit.”

You smile, narrowing your eyes at him. “You could try.”

He gives you a look. “What, you want me in there makin’ a mess of your kitchen?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, but there’s no real fight in it. His hand slides down your arm again, slow and warm. It was a constant with him, small touches.

A hand at your waist. Fingers brushing your back. Always something.

You tilt your head, watching him with interest now, toying lightly with his fingers where they’re still tangled with yours. “You don’t have to go anywhere today?”

He shakes his head, looking down at you through his eyelashes in a way that makes something in your chest ache. “Not right away.”

That means something.

You feel it in the way he doesn’t move to get up, doesn’t reach for his phone, doesn’t start mentally leaving before he’s even gone. In the way he just stays, settling deeper into the bed, pulling you with him into the mess of sheets like the rest of the world can wait.

“Good,” you say softly.

His brown eyes flick back to yours, and for a second, something quieter passes between you something that doesn’t quite get spoken. Then it breaks, easy as ever, with that familiar smirk tugging at his mouth as he nudges your leg with his.

“What, you got big plans for me?”

“Maybe.” You grin, biting your lip, eyes locked to his.

“Oh yeah?” His hand slides to your hip, squeezing lightly. “Should I be worried?”

“Definitely.”

That low chuckle of his follows right away, like you knew it would. He leans in again, kissing you slower this time, unhurried. Familiar. Easy.

He doesn’t pull far when he speaks again, voice dropped lower, almost teasing against your mouth. “‘Definitely’, huh? That’s all I get?” His forehead hovers close to yours, fingers tightening just slightly at your hip like he’s anchoring you there.

Suddenly Tony grabs your thighs with those large hands of his, flipping you over onto his lap in one practiced movement so you’re riding his lap. You squeal, half laughter, half protest as he settles you there, pulling you flush against him. 

“Tony!”

“Mm,” he hums, like he’s not listening.

You wriggle just slightly to tease him back and the reaction is immediate, his hand tightening at your waist, a low growl slipping out of him, half warning, half something else entirely. His eyes rake over your naked body. “You’re pushin’ it, sweetheart” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

His hands roam, sliding up to cup and squeeze at your ass. The teasing melts into something heavier as his fingers slide over the small of your back, tracing slow, deliberate patterns. Then he leans in, lips ghosting along your jawline, then the curve of your neck, lingering just long enough that your breath catches. And when you tilt your head back slightly into him, he lets out a low groan tugging you flush against him again. 

Then a boyish and mischievous glint flashes in his eyes, before he pushes up on his forearms, mouth claiming yours hungrily, his tongue licking into your mouth with ease. His eyes find yours mid-kiss, dark and unguarded, like he’s trying to tell you something he can’t quite say. You feel it anyway. The weight of him. The quiet certainty of wanting you without him ever having to spell it out.

And somehow, that’s enough. 

Every touch, every kiss, speaks a language you’ve learned without words over the last few months, the same one that keeps pulling you back to him, again and again.

His hands travel lower, fingers threading around your hips to grind you against him, his mouth tracing every line he can reach. Your soft gaps fill the air of your bedroom as you tease yourself on the thick length of him stirring beneath you. Your hips find a sensual rhythm, rocking slow circles over his cock, against the sweet spot between your legs. 

He lets out a low groan which you capture in your mouth and throat, the hardness of him pressing up insistently against the wet heat of you. “That feel good?” He pants up against your mouth, “Your big plans involve this?” he growls, reaching between your bodies to drive his thick cock home into you. He doesn’t tease, it wasn’t his style after all, sliding up into your heat with one slick pump, the stretch of him drawing a broken whine from your lips. 

“Yeah? Now ride it, baby.”

Each pump of him into you makes the bed creak, the wooden headboard crashing into the thin wall of your apartment. And when he reaches up to link your fingers with his either side of his head, the shift in angle has you seeing stars as his cock bullies into your g-spot, hard and fast. 

It really was a wonder he hadn’t broken your shitty IKEA bedframe by now.

It wasn’t long before you were there, again, third round in 24 hours, blissfully spent and spread on top of him, in what had become an all-too-familiar rhythm.

You come back to yourself slowly, pressed against him in the quiet aftermath, chest to chest, the room dim and still except for the distant hum of the city outside your window. His arm stays draped heavy across your waist, his fingers moving in slow, absent lines along your back. He presses lazily kisses into your hair, lingering a second longer each time, and for a moment, all of the teasing, all the desire, collapses into a stillness. 

He doesn’t need to say anything. 

Neither do you. 

The bed shifts softly beneath you, a quiet protest with every small movement, while the city outside carries on as if nothing has changed, as if nothing ever does. But here, in the dim stillness of your apartment, it feels like there’s a version of him that only exists in this space.

Your Tony.

And that’s the part that settles in hardest when everything else goes still.

He wasn’t yours. 

And he never would be.

It’s later, after coffee has gone cold in its cups and been left half-forgotten on the counter, after the two of you have drifted in and out of conversation in front of the TV without really watching it.

The mood shifts before anything is said.

You’re perched at the breakfast bar by the window, glasses slipping slightly down your nose, his shirt hanging loose over your shoulders, falling just far enough to hint at skin beneath. Your hair is wild from the morning, tousled and soft, the exact way you know Tony likes. Papers are spread out in front of you, half-finished notes and numbers you’ve been avoiding all week. 

He’s in the armchair behind you, unusually still. A cigar sits between his fingers, unlit, forgotten.

“What’s all that?” he asks at last. 

“Nothing,” you say lightly exhaling through your nose, nibbling at the end of your pen before scribbling again. “Just… life.”

That earns you a look. A real one. The kind that sees through things.

He leans forward to snatch one of the papers before you can stop him, eyes scanning it once, then again, his jaw tightening almost instantly.

“Student loans?” he mutters.

You let out a small sigh. “Tony-”

“How much?”

“It’s handled.”

“That ain’t what I asked.”

There’s a shift in the room now. Subtle, but familiar.  You can feel the room tilt the way it always does when he decides something matters. Or when something pisses him off.

You hesitate just long enough for a not so subtle frown to etch into his features.

“C’mon,” he pressed, voice lower now. “What are we talkin’ here?”

You tell him, quietly. Like it doesn’t weigh on you as much as it does.

Tony leans back and exhales through his nose, already shaking his head with that familiar, determined look settling in. He was so used to getting his way and it drove you up the fucking wall. 

“That’s nothin’,” he sniffs rubbing at his chin in thought. “I could take care of that tomorrow.”

And there it is. Simple. Certain. Just like he’s offering to pick up dinner on the way home, not changing the shape of your entire life. .

You soften your voice. “Tony…”

“No, I’m serious.” He insistently gestures with the paper flapping about, the idea of me paying for anything like that irritating him. “Why are you even stressin’ about this? I make a call, it’s gone.”

You look at him then, really look at him. 

At the expectation beneath the offer. It isn't just confidence, it isn't even arrogance exactly. It’s something much more complicated than that. Something tied up in how he understands care. How, for him, love looks like removal of burden. He’s offering you safety in the only language he fully trusts. Through money.

“I know you could,” you say gently, reaching out to brush your fingers along his jaw, grounding him for a second without pushing.

“Then what’s the problem?” he shoots back, quick now, frustration flickering through the concern. “I’m tellin’ you, it’s done. One call.”

You take a breath, steadying yourself, and meet his eyes head-on.

“I don’t want you to.”

The silence that follows is immediate. Not dramatic or loud. Not explosive as you’d seen with him before after a long day. Just… final.

He stares at you like he didn’t hear it right at first, hand on his hip and eyebrows raised. “Don’t want me to,” he repeats, slower this time, rougher around the edges. Testing it. 

“It’s mine,” you explain, softer but firmer now. “I’ll handle it.”

“That’s stupid,” he says automatically, but there’s no bite behind it yet. Just confusion and disbelief. “I’m serious, Y/N, it’s stupid.” Then it builds. “Why would you wanna carry that?” His voice raises, not angry yet but strained. “Huh? I’m sittin’ right here, I can fix it. Why carry it?”

You stand your ground again, meeting his gaze steadily. “Because it matters to me.”

He exhales, jaw working, like he’s trying to chew through a knot he doesn’t know how to untangle. And just for a second, the weight in his eyes softens. Frustration and care tangled together, impossible to separate.

Hurt.

“What, you don’t trust me or somethin’?” he asks, he asks, voice rough but quieter than before.

“That’s not it,” you say at once, stepping closer, hands coming up to his face without thinking, steadying him the way you always seem to.

“Then what?” His eyes stay on you, searching, refusing to let it go even as his voice roughens again. You don’t look away.

“I don’t want to be with you because of what you can fix.”

It lands between you.

You see it happen, the way his expression tightens first, then stills, like something in him has been caught mid-motion. For a moment, there’s a shadow there, quick and quiet, and then he looks away, jaw locking once again.

“I ain’t sayin’ that’s what this is,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

“I know that, Tony…” you reply steadily, thumbs brushing slow, grounding circles along his cheeks, keeping him here with you..

“Then why-”

“Because I want this,” you cut in gently, gesturing between you both, “to be about us. Not that. Not money.”

He leans back slightly, not fully pulling away, but enough to break the spell of your hands on him. His own hand drags over his face, slow, like he’s trying to reset, like the weight of it is settling deep in his chest. 

“Unbelievable.” he mutters at last, barging out of the front door.

You don’t push it. 

You’ve learned when not to.

—

The next night he stays over, he’s different. 

There’s a tension in him when he pulls you into bed, something unspoken sitting just beneath the surface. His hands still find you like they always do, and he fucks you hard, but his mind feels elsewhere, just out of reach.

And now, after, it’s quiet. 

You’re tucked against him, skin still warm, your head resting just below his collarbone. The room is quiet in that heavy, post-midnight way, everything slowed down and softened at the edges. His breathing was shallow, evening out slowly, but you can tell he’s not asleep.

Neither of you are.

His fingers move along your side in slow, absent strokes. Up. Down. Up again. The same rhythm he falls into when something’s working through him that he hasn’t decided how to say out loud yet.

You tilt your head slightly, glancing up at him in the dark. “You’re quiet.”

“Yeah?” he mutters, twisting a strand of your hair with his finger absentmindedly. 

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze stays fixed somewhere above you, jaw tightening and loosening in small tells you’re starting to recognise too well.

You rest your head against his chest, listening to his heart. It was thumping hard, and not just from fucking you.

“You’re mad at me,” you murmur.

“I’m not mad,” he answers immediately.

You tilt your head up, giving him a shrewd, sceptical look.

He lets out a breath through his nose. “Alright,” he admits after a beat. “I’m a little mad.”

“Why?”

He shifts, clearly irritated at the question, like he doesn’t have the words lined up the way he wants them. “I’m tryin’ to do somethin’ good for you here,” he says. “You won’t let me.”

“I am letting you,” you reply softly. “Just… not like that.”

He scoffs, but there’s no real conviction in it. “You always make things harder than they gotta be,” he mutters.  I don’t get that.”

“Maybe,” you admit, shifting slightly closer to him, your voice still even. “But with this I need it to be mine.”

He goes quiet again. For a long moment, all you hear is the low hum of the TV in the other room, the city outside, distant and uncaring. Then, more quietly than before, “I don’t like it.”

You glance back up at him. “You dealin’ with all that.” That’s the truth of it. It isn’t anger. Not anymore. It’s something closer to unease and something far more personal.

You feel it settle between you, different from before. Warmer. Heavier in a way that pulls you in instead of pushing you away. You shift closer without thinking, your hand resting flat over his chest. 

“I’m not struggling or anything,” you say gently. “I’m working.”

He lets out a breath, like that difference matters more than he expected. 

“And you don’t gotta prove nothin’ to me,” he says after a beat, rough around the edges again, like he’s trying to steady himself.

“I’m not proving anything to you,” you say. “I’m just… being me.”

Another pause. Then, softer, “You really wouldn’t take it?” he asks. 

You shake your head against him answering immediately. “No.”

A beat.

“Not even a little?”

You smile faintly. “Not even a little.”

Tony lets out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh that breaks the tension. His hand, which had been resting loosely on your arm, tightens slightly, pulling you closer. His thumb brushes absentmindedly against your skin.

“I mean it,” he continues abruptly, looking down at you now. There’s something unsettled in his expression. “That kinda thing… most people, they don’t even think twice.”

“I’m not most people.”

He lets out another breathy laugh at that, still trying to reconcile it.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’m startin’ to figure that out.”

Your fingers trace lightly against him, grounding, steady. “Does it really bother you that much?”

He hesitates. You feel it in the way his chest rises under your hand before he answers,  “…Yeah,” he admits finally. “A little.”

You shift just enough to look up at him properly. “Why?”

He looks at you for a long moment, like the answer’s there but he doesn’t quite want to hand it over. “Because,” he starts, then stops, shaking his head faintly. “I dunno. It’s just-” He exhales sharply, frustration bleeding through, “I’m used to bein’ able to do things,” he says. “Fix things. Make stuff… easier.”

His hand moves slightly between you, vague, searching for the right shape of what he means. “And with you,” He pauses again, jaw tightening. “You don’t… want that.”

“I want you,” you admit quietly, the words soft against his chest.

His eyes drop to yours right away, searching your face like he’s trying to understand what exactly you’ve just given him. Like he’s not sure where to put it. There’s a long pause.

“Yeah,” he says finally, quieter now. “But why?”

It’s not dismissive. It’s genuine and more fragile than anything he’s ever said to you before. The simplicity makes your chest ache once again. 

You hold his gaze. “Because it’s you.”

He lets out a small, incredulous laugh, like that answer doesn’t make sense in the world he knows. “You got any idea,” he murmurs, “what I usually gotta bring to the table for people to stick around?”

You don’t answer.

Because you don’t need to.

His hand tightens slightly at your waist to pull you closer to his side. “I mean, Jesus,” he goes on, quieter now, “you’re sittin’ here turnin’ down- what, a clean slate? No stress, no nothin’, tens of thousand of dollars, and-”

“I wouldn’t be turning you down,” you interrupt gently. “Just the money.”

“Same thing, ain’t it?”

“No. Not in the slightest.”

He looks at you again, and that boyish look which attracted you to him in the first place starts to slip through the cracks again. He could be so uncertain at times, like a little boy. 

“That’s what I don’t get,” he admits.

You reach up without thinking, brushing your fingers along his jaw, softening the tension there.

“You don’t have to get it,” you say. “Just… believe me.”

Another pause. His eyes drop briefly to your hand, then back to your face.

“I do believe you,” he says, quieter than before. “That’s the problem.”

You blink slightly. “How is that a problem?”

He huffs a faint breath, almost a laugh but it doesn’t quite make it there. “Because it means…” He trails off, searching for the words. “It means you’re here. For me.”

You soften further, shifting closer, your leg brushing his as your hand slides to the back of his neck, “I am.” you say simply. 

“You know,” he says after a while, voice lower now, “most people wouldn’t say no to an offer like that..”

“I know.”

“They’d jump at it.”

“I know.”

He turns his head, looking down at you in the dim light of the room, streetlights catching in his eyes so they glow warm, almost amber. There’s something different in his expression now. Less guarded and searching yours with a vulnerability you weren’t used to with him.

“You didn’t.”

You meet his gaze without flinching. “No, I didn’t.”

A beat stretches between you. Then another. His large hand comes up, brushing your hair back from your face. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t tease it away like he normally would. Just lingers, fingers threading through your hair in steady, absent strokes, memorising the feeling.

“You really don’t care about that stuff,” he says quietly.

You shake your head slightly against his gentle strokes. “Not the way you think.”

Something in him softens in a way that’s almost imperceptible, but you feel it in the way he’s touching your face. He studies you like he’s trying to understand something new. Something he didn’t expect to find here with you in this dingy NY apartment, or in that dusty classroom at Columbia.

“Y’know,” he starts, then stops. His thumb lingers against your cheek, paused.

“I…” he tries again, voice rougher now.

And then- nothing.

The words don’t come.

Instead, he exhales, shakes his head slightly, like he’s frustrated with himself, and leans in to capture your lips.

His kiss takes your breath the second it happens. One second you’re there, the next your thoughts don’t quite line up anymore, like your body’s already answered and your mind is a beat behind. His hand is already at your waist, steady and familiar, pulling you in with an ease that feels earned. There’s history in his touch, the arguments that never fully resolved, the quiet moments where he stayed longer than he needed to, the way he always seemed to come back to you. It all sits underneath the way he holds you now, shaping it without either of you having to explain anything.

His mouth meets yours warm and unhurried, and the first thing it gives you isn’t urgency, it’s certainty. A simple, unspoken set of three words you both weren’t ready to hear. The taste of him, coffee, smoke, and something distinctly Tony, lands softly and stays there, grounding and unsteady all at once, like it settles you even as it makes your heart race faster and faster.

Your fingers slip into the back of his neck and he exhales into the kiss, low and quiet, the sound disappearing between you. His grip at your waist tightens just slightly, holding you closer without rushing anything, just keeping you exactly where you already are.

Your forehead brushes his for a second when you both pause for breath, too close to really separate, and there’s this awareness of him that sits everywhere at once: the warmth of his skin, the faint scrape of stubble against you when he kisses you, the way your own body leans into him before you’ve even decided to. Somewhere in it, his mouth curves faintly against yours, a small, unguarded smile that you feel before you see it. It doesn’t feel staged or thought through, and somewhere in that smile, there’s this quiet sense that neither of you is pretending this is casual anymore, even if nothing’s been said out loud.

Later, when you’re tucked against him in the early hours of the morning, he presses a quiet kiss into your hair.

“You’re good for me,” he murmurs.

It isn’t ‘I love you.’

It’s the closest thing he’s given you, and maybe the closest he knows how to give.

And in the dark of the room, laying in his arms, you let yourself believe that this, whatever it is, is enough.

Sorry for the delay on this update, life got a bit in the way, but I’m really glad to finally be able to share this chapter with you all. Thank you so much for your patience and for reading, it genuinely means a lot.

You tell a boy he looks good in a warm plaid one time and suddenly his entire wardrobe's full of it.

You pick the one closest to you and throw it on. You button it up and wonder why you weren't wearing one of your own; it's cold and rainy out, and this feels so much better than the t-shirt that's currently dripping soup down the drain.

You roll up the sleeves as you leave the mayor's office, with the intention of washing your shirt before the grease globs soak in, but you run smack into Daniel on the way out.

"Shit, sorr… that's my shirt."

"Correct," you acknowledge.

"Why are you wearing my shirt?"

"Lunchtime casualty," you roll your eyes. "Mine got soaked in The Great Can-Opener Battle. I'll go home and get another one when the rain slacks up and give you this back."

"It's okay," he says quickly. "You can keep it."

"I have had most of my shots, you know," you sigh in annoyance. "I'll wash it before I give it back."

"No, that's…" He swallows. "It looks better on you than it does on me."

"Does it, though?" you ask without thinking.

You stare at each other as an awkward silence settles around you.

"Lemme go wash that shirt and get lunch back on track," you mumble, slipping past him in the doorway.

"I gotta… uh, do a thing, then I'll be in to help," he says, ducking into his office and closing the door.

Count your days, Campell's Soup Company.