li-anne

Around you, your legion of pastry chefs finished their preparations for the day's menu—icing honeybuns, glazing doughnuts, taking croissants out the oven.

"Yeah! And make it a hard one this time," he nodded, pencil at the ready, his fangy grin sharp and confident.

You nodded, giving him a thumbs up, "You got it."

"M'ready, too!" Cocoa raised her hand, eager to be included. "I wanna math, too!"

"Alright, then," you smiled, pinching her cheek with your flour-covered fingers. "I'll give you a problem, too."

But first, you turned your attention to Soda.

"Okay. Last Thursday, a customer placed an order for three dozen butter pecan cupcakes and four dozen honey-butter doughnuts. At the time, I only had two baker's dozen of the cupcakes and one baker's dozen of the doughnuts. How many more cupcakes did I have to make? How many more doughnuts? And how many treats would I have to make all together?"

Swiftly, Soda began to scribble in his notebook, tongue between his lips and brows furrowed with concentration as he jotted down his work.

36 - 26...

48 - 13...

10 + 35...

"You would have to make ten more cupcakes and thirty-five more doughnuts to complete the order," he answered almost instantly, lifting up his paper to show his work. "All together, that would be forty-five treats."

Pausing your work, you leaned in, examining his messy scribbles with a serious face.

For a moment, his confidence faltered, expression falling at your extended silence and stern expression.

"Is that... is that wrong?"

Leaning back, you sharply arched a brow, resting your thumb and forefinger on your chin.

"It... is... correct!"

Your stern expression turned into a bright smile in an instant, hand raising for a high-five, which he happily obliged, relieved to see you weren't upset.

"Great job, honey. I think that was your fastest yet."

"My turn! My turn!" Cocoa raised her hand, waving it in the air.

"Yes, yes, I didn't forget you, Co," you chuckled, grabbing your rolling pin. "You ready?"

"Yuh-huh!"

"Alright, then... If you have five blueberry muffins, and Soda gives you two more, how many muffins will you have all together?"

For a moment, she paused, face visibly scrunching as she thought hard.

Looking down at her hands, she raised and dropped a few fingers, carefully calculating in her head before finally revealing her answer.

"Seven!" she realized, holding up that amount of fingers.

"Yes! That's correct!" you cheered, dropping your pin and snatching the two of them up in your arms, swirling them around in your embrace. "My babies are so smart! Must be why your heads are so big."

"Hey!" Soda exclaimed, cheeks warm with embarrassment as you peppered them with kisses, some of the nearby chefs fawning at the sight from their stations. "Mom!"

"That tickles!" Cocoa giggled, resting her hands on your chest.

"Oh, don't act like you don't love my kisses," you smiled, purposefully pressing your cheek into his.

"I'm too old for kisses!" he huffed.

"Since when?"

"Since... uh... since now!"

"That's news to me."

"Well, m'tryna be like Dad... he doesn't like kisses."

"Oh, honey, if there's anything your father does like, it's kisses."

"EW! MOM!"

"Just saying!"

DING-DING!

Cocoa gasped, "A customer!"

"Yes! First one of the day!" you smiled, lowering the two to the ground before dusting off your hands on your apron. "Alright, kiddos. You know the drill."

"C'mon, Soso! Let's go say hi!" Cocoa grinned, snatching up his hand and scurrying toward the front room.

"You don't have to run, Co! He's not goin' anywhere," Soda groaned, falling in step behind her.

Amused by their antics, you followed close behind, entering the lobby of your huge bakery to see a rather seedy-looking man waiting at the register.

"HI!" Cocoa exclaimed a little louder than necessary.

"Not so loud! He's right there!" Soda scolded, shushing her.

"Good morning, sir!" you greeted with a smile, helping Cocoa onto the counter while Soda stepped onto his stool to see over it. "Give me one moment. My son can take your order while I unlock the till."

"Whatever you say, lady," the man shrugged, leaning against the display case.

You reached in your apron pocket, fishing around for the key as Soda took out his notepad and pen.

"What can I get for you today, sir?" he asked, flipping to a fresh page. "Our coffee rolls are fresh from the oven. And we've just put on a new pot of tea."

"I'll take a—"

The man stopped mid-sentence, eyes accidentally glancing over Soda's mouth.

Or rather... his teeth.

"JEEZ! What the hell is wrong with yo?!"

Confused and concerned, Soda's brows furrowed.

"Uh... what?" he asked, voice suddenly small.

Record scratch.

You froze, everything coming to a stand still as silence fell over the room, your body as rigid as a statue.

Did he just....

Did he just say what you think he just said?

"Excuse me?" you spat, giving him one chance—and one chance only—to correct himself.

"Your kid! His teeth! He has monster teeth! The hell's the matter with him?!" the man doubled down, as if he had never seen someone who looked different in his entire life.

As if he wasn't in a nation entirely founded on people and creatures from different walks of life living together.

Instantly, Soda's face fell, any previous light or happiness extinguished as his eyes frantically scanned over the man's face, secretly hoping for it all to be some kind of joke.

But, sadly, it wasn't.

Soda had always been treated different on account of his appearance, given his striking resemblance to his father didn't end at just his looks. And while he hadn't inherited the facial scars, one of the many features he had inherited were a mouth of long, razor sharp teeth.

Of course, you found them absolutely adorable. They gave your son character, and reminded you of the man you fell in love with.

But many others failed to share the same sentiment. Especially since Soda didn't hide his mouth like his father.

It drove you up the wall—how judgmental people could be, how insensitive.

But most of all... how audacious.

Before you even had a moment to think about the idea that popped into your head, your body was already moving, and the sound of a mirror being activated and the shink of a heavy spur cutting through the air.

"(y/n)!" Katakuri called from the back room the moment he made it through, having used Brûlée to teleport to your bakery from a meeting on Snack Island after seeing a snippet of a concerning future.

But you ignored him, instead opting to dive over the counter, tackling the man to the ground and slamming the back of his head against the tile with a harsh thwack.

"Mom!"

"Momma!"

"What the—?! ARE YOU CRAZY?! THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU LADY?!"

"APOLOGIZE!" you shouted from your spot on top of him, roughly yoking the man up by his collar, more angry than you'd ever been in your entire life. "APOLOGIZE TO MY SON RIGHT NOW!"

"(y/n)!" Katakuri rushed into the front room, eyes going wide at the sight before him.

"Dad?!"

"Daddy?!"

"I didn't do anything! What are you even talking about?!" the man exclaimed.

"YOU KNOW WHAT YOU SAID! NOW APOLOGIZE!" you shouted once again, shaking him.

"What?! You talkin' about the kid's teeth?! That was an observation! You got a scary kid, lady! I don't know what you expect!"

BAM! BAM!

BAM! BAM!

BAM! BAM!

BAM! BAM!

Your fists flew, and for the first time in your life, you punched someone—multiple times at that.

Katakuri watched, frozen, completely dumbstruck at the sight.

In all his ten years of knowing and loving you, he had never, ever seen you so furious.

Not when Soda broke your mother's favorite vase. Not when Cocoa spilled hot chocolate on your wedding dress. Not even when his mother made a comment about your baby weight after your second pregnancy.

Nothing.

You were practically the patron saint of patience and forgiveness, so to see you so worked up was a once in a lifetime sight.

"HOW DARE YOU!" you roared, practically trembling. "WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?! WHAT GIVES YOU THE RIGHT TO TALK ABOUT ANYONE'S APPEARANCE WHEN YOU LOOK THE WAY YOU DO!"

SMACK!

"I'M GIVING YOU ONE MORE CHANCE TO APOLOGIZE TO MY SON, OR, SO HELP ME, THE ONLY TEETH YOU'LL BE WORRIED ABOUT WILL BE THE ONES I KNOCK OUT YOUR SKULL!"

BAM!

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!"

"Yes!"

"I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

SMACK!

"YES!"

Without warning, a sharp pang of arousal shot straight through Katakuri's stomach, twisting itself into a delicious knot as everything from his ears to his face to his chest burned at the sight of you pummeling this random man.

Something about the look in your eye, the bass in your voice, your absolute lack of composure.

It was wild, different, and uncharted territory.

Did it... Did it turn him on to see you upset? Angry?

God, what did that say about him?

Did that make him a bad husband?

"WELL, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR!" you shouted, shaking the man. "SAY IT!"

"I'M SORRY!" the man cried, tears pouring down his cheeks now.

Instantly, Katakuri shook himself out of it.

Eh, questions are best kept for later.

"SORRY FOR WHAT?"

"I'M SORRY FOR SAYIN' YOUR KID HAS MONSTER TEETH!"

"DON'T APOLOGIZE TO ME! APOLOGIZE TO MY SON!"

Quickly, the man looked past you and toward the little boy just barely peeking over the counter.

"HEY, KID! M'SORRY I SAID YOU HAVE MONSTER TEETH! YOU DON'T, ALRIGHT! I DIDN'T MEAN IT! I SWEAR!"

Turning, you glanced over your shoulder toward Soda, offering your son a comforting smile.

"What do ya think, honey?" you asked, sincerely. "Do you accept his apology?"

And the boy thought long and hard, a smirk curling on his lips as he played up his indecision.

"I... do," he nodded.

You nodded back, before turning your attention to the man once again.

"You're lucky my son is so kind," you spat, brows furrowed. "I, however, am not so forgiving."

You pulled him in close, voice dropping to a dangerous rumble.

"If I ever, and I mean ever, see you anywhere near me, my shop, or my family ever again, I will take my favorite bat and knock your kneecaps so far back, you'll walk backwards for the rest of your life, do you understand me?"

"YES! I DO!"

"Good," you huffed, finally letting him go and rising to your feet. "Now get out of my sight."

He didn't have to be told twice.

Before you could even get the rest of the sentence out, he was already scrambling for the door, leaving tracks as he made a beeline for anywhere that was far away from you.

Finally able to let your guard down, your shoulders dropped, a heavy sigh slipping past your lips as you turned back to your family.

"I am so sorry you all had to see tha—"

Without hesitation, Soda ran up to you, arms wrapping around your legs tight in a grateful bear hug.

Your eyes widened, hands instinctively nestling in his hair and pulling him close.

Embarrassed, he buried his face in your skirt, though you didn't miss the wet warmth of tears on your leg.

"Thanks, Mom..." he sniffled, quiet voice muffled by your dress.

That was it.

In an instant, you felt ready to cry yourself, eyes growing misty as they glanced toward your husband, who was holding Cocoa in his one arm.

Taking notice of your growing distress, Katakuri was quick to act.

"Children," he remarked, slowly lowering Cocoa to the ground, "why don't you both snack on some treats in the display while your mother and I talk in the back."

Cocoa beamed, tugging at his hand with excitement, "Even the brownies?!"

Under his scarf, he cracked a small smile.

"Yes, munchkin, even the brownies," he nodded, patting the top of her head.

More than eager, she scurried over to the counter, practically throwing the door open to the display and grabbing whatever she could.

Slowly but surely, Soda unwound himself from you, making a point to wipe his nose with the back of his hand and furrow his brows in fear of looking weak in front of his father.

But before he could turn away, you squatted down to his level, cupping his cheeks in your hands and smoothing your thumbs over his tears.

The boy's eyes widened, and leaning forward, you pressed a soft kiss into his hairline.

"I don't care what anyone else in this world says..." you stated, resting your forehead against his. "You are my son, Soda, and you are perfect just the way you are... fangs and all."

At your words, the waterworks began again, only this time the boy rolled his lips to fight the tears.

Quickly, he nodded, before turning around and running toward the counter, hoping to drown his thankful sorrows in something sweet.

"Here, Soso!" Cocoa grinned, holding out a plate of Cherry Cola Cake to her older brother. "Your favorite! It'll make you feel better."

Soda took it carefully, shoving a forkful in his mouth and letting out content hum, leaning against his littler sister.

"Thanks, Co."

"Of course, big bro!"

With the children distracted, you followed your husband into the back, and were met with over fifty pairs of eyes staring back at you, curious as to what all the ruckus was.

Sheepishly, you smiled, but Katakuri didn't have time for such pleasantries.

"Leave us," he barked, sharp and final—and partly annoyed that they didn't leave the moment he returned, given his intense entrance through the emergency mirror next to the ovens.

"Y-Yes, sir! Commander Katakuri, sir!" they all exclaimed, bowing before frantically rushing toward the back exit.

And once you were sure they all were gone, you turned to him, apologies spilling from your mouth without a second thought.

"Kuri, I'm so sorry! I don't know what came over me! That man started talking about Soda's teeth and I just got so mad and suddenly I was over the counter! I didn't mean to pull you away from work. I hope you weren't doing anything too important. I—"

"Stop," Katakuri swiftly cut you off.

Instantly, you clammed up, and with tender care, he took your right hand in his, gingerly examining it as if it were fractured porcelain.

Your skin was split at the knuckle, wrist swollen, and fingers already starting to bruise—not to mention a decent amount of blood caked into your nail beds.

It wasn't pretty.

In fact, it looked like it hurt a great deal.

"I did it all wrong, didn't I?" you weakly chuckled, wincing as he prodded the problem area. "Figures. I can bake damn near every dessert imaginable, but god forbid I have to throw a punch..."

"If I had it my way, you wouldn't lift a finger," he stated simply, gently and effortlessly scooping you up with one arm and carrying you to an empty workstation, placing you on top.

At his remark, you couldn't help but crack a small smile.

Bending over, Katakuri grabbed a first aid kit from a cabinet under the station, plopping it on the counter before fishing out some antiseptic and bandages.

And with all his supplies at the ready, he began patching you up, cleaning, drying, and dressing your wounds with the care of a priceless artifact.

"What about now?" he asked with a slight rumble as he did away with the rest of the bandages, dropping them back into the kit. "How is the pain?"

You winced at his touch once again, doing your best to put on a brave face.

"Not too bad," you muttered through gritted teeth.

Your husband arched a brow, leveling you with a knowing look.

You caved.

"Okay... pretty bad."

He zipped the bag shut, returning it to its rightful place under the table.

"How did you hold your fist?" he naturally migrated closer, allowing himself slot right between your legs, "Show me."

You held up your fist, fighting through the pain to clench it like you did before, and he only had to examine it for a split second to realize the problem.

Gently, he rested his hand over yours, softly correcting your form.

"Curl your fingers tighter into your palm, and straighten out your wrist," he instructed, using his free hand as a model for comparison. "It'll keep you from hurting yourself."

And looking at it made it painfully obvious that your form was totally wrong.

Your cheeks warmed, embarrassment flooding your face as you opened your mouth to say something.

"No, I am not mad at you, my love," Katakuri answered smoothly, having peered into the future to catch your question before you could ask it, "This is my fault. If I'd arrived sooner, you wouldn't have had to get your hands dirty."

Leaning down, he lifted your bandaged hand, pressing a gentle kiss into your knuckles through his scarf.

"Forgive me."

You shook your head, refusing to let him take the blame, "No, no, it's my fault. I shouldn't have flown off the handle like that. Especially since I don't have the strength to back it up like you do."

He shook his head in return.

"I'm your husband. It's my job to be strong for you," he countered, cupping your cheek in his large palm, heart warming as you melted into his touch. "To handle the problems that are beneath you."

Your shoulders sank with a sigh, "Even still... I'm sure you were busy. I wish I didn't have to take you away from work."

"You and the children are my utmost priority," he denied, swiping a few stray hairs from your face and sweeping his thumb over the plush of your cheek, "I don't care if I'm in a meeting with Oven or Mama herself. If you're in trouble or need my help, you call me immediately."

Resting his hand on your hip, he smoothly pulled you closer, taking the opportunity to relish in the radiating warmth of your body.

"And if you feel the need to... handle it yourself... then be more careful. I don't enjoy seeing you in pain."

Chest buzzing, you leaned into his chest, nodding at his words.

"I take it that means I did good? Surprised you, didn't I?" you asked, cheeky and unserious.

Arching a brow, he smirked from behind his scarf.

You let out a yelp as he suddenly hoisted you off the table, hiking your body up in his grasp as if you weighed no more than an apple.

"I have never seen you so angry before... yet still you remain a vision of perfection and beauty," he remarked, eyes glazed over with a shine only you could've inspired, a filter of brightness and warmth only you could've applied, "How do you do it?"

You keened at his praised, tugging down his scarf only slightly before wrapping your arms around his neck, "Wouldn't you like to know..."

With a growl of amusement, he pressed his hips against yours, your body melting into his grasp.

He cherished the feeling of your soft hands resting on his powerful shoulders, of your deft fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. So much so that he couldn't help the swarm of fluttering dragonflies that zipped their way through his stomach.

You kissed him back with just as much fervor, if not more, using your position to get the angle on him and deepen the kiss.

But little did you know, two sets of large eyes were peeking in the back room, having just caught the last part of your conversation.

"Huh..." Cocoa whispered, scratching her head, "Maybe Daddy does like kisses..."

"Gross!" Soda shuddered, quickly turning away from the disgusting sight.

He startles backward and away from you as you advance, a cast iron pan held aloft in delicate hands and wielded with an intimidating confidence. 

"Holy- Wait! Wait, please," he cries, holding his hands palm out in surrender. 

Steve doesn't suppose you'd been expecting such a feeble intruder. He'd feel a strike against his dignity if it hadn't worked — you slow in the centre of the room, your breath coming in quick pants as the iron pan in your grip shakes. 

You're scared.

You're beautiful. 

"What do you want?" you ask, a pleading sort of twist to your question. "I don't have anything. I don't have anything worth taking." 

"Please," he says loudly. "I don't want anything. Sanctuary for the night, nothing else." 

Your chest rises. Steve feels smarmy, but he finds his eyes drawn to the valley of your chest, the bodice of your dress. A soft and buttery orange sewn with the palest pink and lilac embroidery. It's a gorgeous piece of craftsmanship, lovely enough that he wonders briefly if you're of royal descent, but the dress itself is a peasant's gown. 

His eyes rise back to your unhappy face. Your brows are pulled up at the starts, a delicate display that betrays your fear. 

You glare at him. 

"You can't stay here," you assert.

"One night." Steve pulls his satchel into his lap to procure a small coin purse. He'd love to say it was his coin purse. He cannot. "I have silvers. I can pay you." 

He will not be paying you anything. He won't rob you, though. He's not a total miscreant. 

"You can't stay," you say again, raising your iron pan higher above your shoulder. He sees a flash of something at your hip. "My mother–" 

"Holy stars, is that your hair?" 

You seize up, making an almost inaudible sound of dejection. "No." 

"Are you sure? It looks very much like hair."

Steve anchors his hand to the floor and leans downward to get a better look. You turn with him, attempting to shield your long hair from view and only helping him along. It sways with your movements, the ends near long enough to dance over the floor. 

"You have to leave. Leave!" 

Steve bites the inside of his lip. A rainbow of light arcs through the air and caresses your cheek, and the wind chime hanging in the window tinkles softly with a warm summer breeze. The tower echoes with your huffing breath. The pan is too heavy for you to hold any longer and you let it drop with a wrist-tugging defeat. 

"I'm not trying to scare you. But I really can't leave. I won't harm a hair on your head," he adds with a smile, eyebrows slightly raised in wait of your laughter. 

You don't laugh, nor do you smile. 

"My mother, she'll come home any minute now," you say unconvincingly. 

He tips his head to one side. "Then I'll speak with your mother and get her permission to stay." 

"She won't give it." 

You're really too handsome to be frowning as you are. Steve wants to do as he does with all pretty people and make you smile, but the task feels insurmountable. You want him to leave. He can't. 

"If I leave, I'll be killed," he says. While it's not a lie in its entirety, neither is it a truth.

Your grip tightens around the handle of your pan. "What?" you ask worriedly. 

He feels guilty for garnering your concern though it's exactly what he'd been aiming for, nodding his head gravely. 

"I'm being pursued by ruffians. For days now. I only need to hide here for the night while they clear the forest. They'll look for me elsewhere, after." 

His storytelling voice is clear. Admittedly much too dramatic and yet you eat it up like a child devours spun sugar. Your hands press to your chest, frying pan held in your palm like the pommel of a sword. 

"Ruffians?" you repeat.

He swoops in. "Not to worry. They didn't see me scale the tower, or even enter the valley." He gives you a commending smile. "You're very well hidden."

"Not well enough, clearly." 

"I got lucky."

You back away from him. You don't turn your back to him, smart girl, only widen the gap between your two bodies with a fluttering unease. 

"I wish I could help you," you whisper urgently, "I wish I could. But my mother, if she finds you here, I- I'm not sure what she'll do." 

Steve blinks dazedly. "She would kill me?" 

"No! Of course not." 

"Then whatever it is will be a kinder fate." 

That shatters the very last of your resolve. You visually err on what to do next, how to handle his being here. Steve’s head races with thoughts of the palace guards, of Thomas and Carol, and of you — your skin lit by the sun, and your long, long hair. 

"Do you want some water?" you ask quietly. 

The relief he conjures is as authentic as it comes. "Yes. More than anything." 

—

Your mysterious stranger sits at one end of the table in Mother's seat while you sit across from him, a small clay drinking cup encapsulated by his large hand. You're making no effort to hide how closely you're watching him, though if he's under the impression it's for safety's sake then that's best. 

He's very, very fine. 

You haven't seen a man in person before, and if they all look like this you might wish you'd ventured out of the tower sooner. He wears a worn brown tunic that shows evidence of numerous careful darnings, its top button popped open to reveal a tiniest hint of curled hair disappearing downward. 

The hair on his head and tucked behind his ears is comely as corn silk but much darker. It shines in the descending sunlight now flooding the room. There's a golden tinge to everything at this time that leaves no inch of his person unscathed; his eyes glow with it, his irises a melting brown that reminds you of rare, thick honey. 

"The flowers," he says after an aching pause. "Are they painted? They must have been a huge expense." 

You follow his gaze, surprised at his question in two ways. That he would ask, and that he would think somebody else did them. 

"They're how I spend my summers." 

"Looking at them?" 

You laugh from the pure joy of the complement he's implying, unused to his awed reaction. Mother usually nods or hums at a new unveiling, and one time you'd earned a, "That's wonderful, darling." 

You're not sure she'd actually been looking at the time. 

"I painted them myself." 

The stranger's jaw drops. "A little thing like you?" he asks. 

"I'm hardly little," you deny, neither of stature nor burden. 

"You're young, aren't you? You can't be more than twenty summers."

"What a funny way of speaking," you murmur, more to yourself than him. "I'm twenty. I'll be one and twenty, in a few days." 

His eyes narrow. "Well, what's wrong with you?" 

"What's wrong with me?" 

"You aren't married?" 

You try not to be offended and fail spectacularly. "Most don't get married until they're nearing five and twenty!" 

"Most," he agrees. "But a girl as pretty as you? Who can paint like this? Don't tell me you've been hiding from every man in the kingdom."

You turn your face from him in case he can tell how flustered you are. Two complements in one day is unprecedented. Your heart bump-bump-bumps. 

"Are you married?" you ask swiftly, hoping to redirect this line of conversation away from something as treacherous as your own isolation. Any answer would expose you.

"I am, actually. She has the most gorgeous shine to her face, and her laugh is melodic and sweet as anything, a tinkling sound. She's bronze-skinned, a slight thing, but she's worth her weight in gold." 

He grins. You can't help but smile in response, infected by his endearing affection.

"What's her name?" you ask, voice near a coo. 

"Argento." 

You stare at him. His smile gets so big it looks like it could bruise his cheeks. 

"You're talking about money." 

"She's a brilliant bedfellow, isn't she? She keeps me warm and fed every night. She's a good girl." He sighs and crosses his arms behind his head. His attempt at nonchalance is ruined when he cringes in pain and drops them gracelessly back into his lap.

You cover your mouth and laugh. He's funny. Mother doesn't make half as many jokes. 

Mother. As if the mere thought of her is enough to summon her presence, a shrill call echoes from the bottom of the tower. 

"Y/N, darling, throw down the rope for your mother!" 

You jump to your feet, slippers sliding against the mosaic floor in a hurried scratch. "You have to hide," you whisper harshly.

The stranger pouts at you. "Seriously, let me talk to her, I–" 

You shake your head voraciously at his loud volume and press your finger to your lips, eyes begging with him to be quiet. 

"Please," you whisper, "hide. I'll hide you 'til tomorrow, when she leaves in the morning." 

He doesn't move. 

"Y/N? I don't have all day!" The irritation in her voice is obvious. 

"Please," you whisper again. 

He gets up with a mild eye roll. You rush to the window and look down at your mother where she stands at the bottom, looking impossibly small. 

"There you are! What are you waiting for? I'm not very happy with you, darling." 

You lick your lips. "Sorry!" you call, turning to the rope spooled to the right of the window. You throw the rope over the hook at the top of the frame, pausing when you see the stranger lingering in your peripheral vision at the top of the stairs. 

"What are you doing? Go!" you whisper. 

He nods toward your hands. "Couldn't have thrown that down to me, could you?" 

You shoo him away, his easy laughter doing nothing to assuage your racing heart as you drop the length of looped rope down to your mother. You wait until she's secured her foot in the loop before you start to walk backwards, lifting her weight. 

It doesn't get any less laborious as you grow up. By the time she's reached the top of the tower you can hardly breathe. You cough so hard you feel nauseous. 

"Holy stars, you sound ghastly. And it's completely unbecoming to cough like that without covering your mouth. You know that." 

"Sorry, mother." 

She hums. You can't decipher what it means, but it likely isn't something forgiving. 

"I hope you had some time to think about our argument." 

You hold your clasped hands behind your back, hair tickling your knuckles. "I did… I'm sorry, mother." 

She stares at you for a moment from under dark eyebrows before her face lifts, the wrinkles in her soft forehead appearing more prominently as she says, "Darling, why do you do this? Why do you insist on making me angry?" She raises her hands to your neck, long fingernails weaving seamlessly into the mass of hair she finds there. "You know I'm only trying to protect you." 

"I know," you say, tears burning hot behind your eyes. You will them away. Crying will make it worse, it always does. 

She toys with your hair, eyes on your shoulder. You have the peculiar feeling that though she's looking at you she isn't truly looking at you, but through you. Her eyes are distant, unfocused. 

Her finger wraps into your hair, twisting a strand behind your ear over, and over, and over. You shift uncomfortably at the tugging feeling at the back of your scalp but don't protest to her touches — any touch at all feels like a gift. Mother isn't generous with her affections. 

"Maybe I've been too hard on you," she murmurs. 

You loose a pained breath as she takes her hand from your hair and brings it to your face instead. She draws a line from the corner of your eye outwards, a kind, soft petting that gives you goosebumps. 

"No, mother. I'm grateful for everything I have. I was being unreasonable, I don't need anything else. I… shouldn't have asked about the stars." 

"No, you shouldn't have." 

She moves from you to hang her robe up on the hanger. You tamp down your frowning because mother hates when you make her feel guilty and try to decide how it is you're going to escape to your bedroom for the night. You have lots of questions you want to ask the stranger. 

You spot something out of the corner of your eye as your mother flits to the kitchen. There, on the table, sits two clay cups half empty and at opposite ends. You side eye your mother and find she's distracted herself with putting a wooden log into the oven's belly, grumbling about how you've neglected your afternoon chores. 

You throw yourself in front of the table with a thud. 

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, disgruntled. 

"Nothing! I mean, I'm cleaning up. I forgot to empty these cups of paint after I finished." 

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" 

The thing about mother is that most of the things she says are neutral. Anybody else might think she was being light-hearted or blasé. She phrases everything so meticulously. 

But she is not kind. 

You laugh breathily and turn to the cups. Your heart leaps into your throat when you find the cup isn't the worst of what might give you away. Hooked over the back of the chair is the stranger's leather satchel, a ratty old thing sagging with the weight of its contents. 

You take it. The zipper snags and the cause of the weight reveals itself in a clinking upheaval, a flash of light across the floor. You throw yourself over the chair to grab for it, a mindless scrambling, silver and gems cool and sharp under your hand. You shove it back in the satchel, no clue what it is. You've never seen anything like it. 

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, her voice occluded by the soft bubbling of the cooking pot. 

"It's dusty down here!" you call. 

"Yes, well… it's to be expected when all you do is paint all day, darling." 

"You're right," you say quietly. "Of course you are, mother." 

-

Steve hadn't suspected your room would look as plain as it does. You've a simple bed with a modest quilt and one tired looking pillow, though it's been made with neat folded corners. A stuffed rabbit sits at the bottom, lavender velveteen with a pink button nose. He doesn't touch it, though he'd like to. He's not sure he's ever touched a stuffed animal before. 

He can hear you talking to your mother, or rather your mother talking at you. He must say, she doesn't sound like the easiest woman to get along with. But Steve's never had a mother, so maybe that's just what they're like. 

You have a small table to one corner covered in small trinkets. Shells, stones, papers loose and bound. He flips open the soft cover of a book and finds it filled with pencil sketches, corner to corner of every page. 

You've drawn the most mundane things in remarkable colour and detail. The cooking pot over the stove top, the washing basin, the wooden table. Your slippers, your hair brush. Ordinary things in extraordinary detail, and extraordinary colour. 

He pauses at a loose leaf of brown paper tucked toward the end of the book. It's a bird on the window ledge, a fruit dove. The face and beak are in great detail, white feathers made corporeal by the smudge of hard pastel. The wings are rough, white and pale pinks and greens unrendered. 

Footsteps sound up the stairs. 

Shit, Steve thinks. They're a hurried sound. He's been sussed. He turns on his heel to find a place to hide. 

"Shit," he says, climbing the circular platform that holds your bed and collapsing to the floor, wriggling on his back until he's hidden underneath the bed and sheets completely. 

He holds his breath as the door creaks open. 

"Um… mister… uh, stranger man?" 

He waves his hand from under the bed. 

"Oh, right. Move over," you say, and then you're getting under the bed to join him. 

Steve moves over and suddenly you're there beside him, the two of you pressed arm to arm under your bed. Your smell is impossible to ignore, the fruity fragrance of jasmine and milk-soap. He stares at your face as you settle, your eyelashes fluttering, your subtle smile. 

You turn your head to his. The two of you flinch in tandem, eyes flying away from each other to the underside of the bed. 

Oh, Steve thinks. Holy stars. 

You've painted lanterns on every slat. Purple paper lanterns that glow orange and yellow in their centres, tens of them in different sizes. It's as breathtaking as your field of flowers downstairs despite the major decrease in scale.

"Wow," he says, on impulse, "these are amazing." 

You inhale happily. "Thank you. The floating lights are my favourite thing. They always come out-" You cut yourself off with a cough. "Well. I love them." 

"'Floating lights,'" he quotes. You're strange. 

"I wanted to go see them, but…"

"But mother said no?" 

"No," you murmur weakly. He takes it for yes. "She doesn't believe they're not stars." 

He can hear each individual breath you take this close and suspects that you can hear his own. It's a funny thing to be this close to you when he doesn't know you beyond your painting and your too-long hair. He can see a lot more of your details, your tiny bumps and fine hairs.

"What's your name?" he asks quietly. 

"I'm Y/N." You lay your ear against the wooden floor to look at him. "What's your name?" 

"Steven. Steve will do just fine."

"Steve," you say, like you're testing it out. "Steve, you lied to me." 

His eyes widen. 

"Did I?" he asks, trying to disarm you with a smile and failing yet again. 

"You lied," you whisper. "What's in the satchel, Steve?" 

"It's not what you think." 

"I think it's exactly what I think." 

You're giving him a hard stare. He smiles and smiles and smiles, his facade cracking the longer you look at him. His breath all falls out in a rush, blowing the hair from his eyes as he sighs. "Alright, fine. I lied about the ruffians. In my defence, there isn't a big difference between those fools from the palace and true ruffians." 

You sit up and wack your head on the bed slats above. Steve reaches out to help though there's nothing to do. 

You push his hand away. "Palace guards?" you ask in an urgent whisper, hand held to the top of your head. 

"Obviously. They don't just let you walk out of there without a fight… Wait, why are you surprised?" He measures your sheepish face. "You conniving, deceitful gir!" 

"I might not know what it is, but I can tell it's not the kind of thing someone like you would have on his person," you say, grumbling at his insults. 

His injustice at having been tricked drops away. "You don't know what it is? You've never seen a tiara?”

Your embarrassment is adorable. You change the subject deftly. “You lied to me, let’s not forget. You’re in danger because of the consequences of your own actions. Can’t believe I fell for your sob story. I should tell my mother exactly what kind of man I have hiding under my bed.”

“Who you’re hiding under your bed with.”

You climb out from under the bed with an irritated harrumph. Steve untangles a length of your hair that’s gotten wrapped around one of the beds feet before you can yank your own head back and follows you out. 

“Don’t be mad,” he says.

“You’re a criminal,” you say angrily. 

“Nobody’s perfect.”

Your furious whispers pause when your mother starts to sing downstairs. Steve can see the debate on your face. Yes, he’s a liar, yes, he’s a criminal, and yes, you should churn him back out into the valley. Send his untrustworthy self on his sorry way and wipe your hands of him entirely. 

To do so would mean admitting to your mother that he’s here. 

“Just… don’t talk to me. And don’t steal anything.”

He grins. “As you wish, my lady.”

—

“Y/N?” a voice asks in the dark. 

It’s impossible to relax with him here. You’re worried he’s going to slit your throat while you sleep. You’re doubly worried he’ll see your unattractive resting face. Warped priorities aside, you can’t make yourself sleep. 

“Yeah?” you whisper. 

“The floating lights?”

Your eyes fly open. You get the disorienting feeling of blindness and blink in the dark until you can make out the faintest glow of moonlight under the door. “Yeah?”

“Those are called lanterns.”

You swallow a rough breath. “Lanterns.”

“Mm-hm. They’re made of paper. You light them and send them up with the breeze. The ones you’ve been seeing, they’re probably for the lost princess.”

“The lost princess?”

“Yeah. The entire kingdom floods into the town and each person lights a lantern for her. It’s more of a festival these days, but… They're supposed to help her find her way home. If she’s really lost, that is.”

You hum something, an attempt to reply, but you're too distracted to say anything else. Floating paper. A lost princess. You close your eyes and clouds of purple, pink and orange burn against your eyelids. 

— 

"You want me to what?" 

"I want you to take me to see the lanterns." 

Steve's back aches from sleeping flat on the floor all night long, and his shoulders scream every time he moves from climbing, and his hands are gross and sore with scabs, and he truthfully doesn't have the patience for this conversation. 

"No." 

"Fine. Don't take me, and I will keep the tiara as an innkeeper's fee." 

"There's usually breakfast at an inn," he says. 

You slap a steaming hot bowl of porridge in front of him. You've drizzled the surface with honey and placed red berries over the top to form a smiling face. The heat of the porridge has melted the berries into blobs that break from their skin when he pokes them with a spoon. 

"Oh," he says. Nice.

He looks up to find you dressed in a different gown than yesterday, this one made up of a green bodice with white sleeves and a white skirt. The bottom hem is sewn with dainty yellow flowers, the bodice with vines in a darker shade of green. It's a very sweet dress on an otherwise sweet looking girl, if you ignore the formidable twist of your brow. 

Fine, he'll bite. Your frown is sweet too. 

"I'm not taking you anywhere," he says, about to scoop up a bite of porridge. He's starving. 

You pull the bowl away from him, his spoon diving straight into the gnarled wooden table. 

"You'll take me, or I'll tell the first palacemen that I find who you are and where you were." 

"This isn't how you negotiate." 

"Good thing I'm not negotiating." 

He tries to intimidate you. Steve is not very intimidating. He frowns and he looks unhappy rather than angry, the worst he dips into is a pestered annoyance. His stomach gurgles in the ensuing silence. 

"Why do you need someone to take you? Your mother left just this morning by herself."

You raise your eyebrows. 

Steve sighs. "And if I did take you… then what? I suppose you'll want safe passage home, as well?" 

You slide his porridge a little bit closer to his outstretched hand.

"You'll be coming back this way anyhow." 

Well, yeah. He didn't know you knew that. Steve sighs, the most pained and inconvenienced groan he can muster because everything is awful and he's hurting in six different places. You don’t budge. 

"Fine. Fine! I'll take you into the city to see the lanterns, and I'll bring you home. And you will give me back my satchel and my- uh, findings." 

You push the porridge toward him. "That was easier than I expected."

Steve wishes he could pretend your smugness wasn't sweet, either. Because he isn't going to make this easy for you, not one bit. 

He watches you pack your bag from the table and feels very, very sorry for you. For starters, you don't really have a bag, only a sack for potatoes now emptied. You take two clean dresses down from the clothesline they'd been hanging on and fold them before putting them at the bottom of the sack carefully, and then you're clueless. 

"It'll be five or six days," he says, "now I've lost my horse." 

Lost isn't the right word. His stolen horse had sprinted off into the forest and left him stranded. Another ailment to add to his list — thrown bodily off of a stallion. 

"Do you have any better shoes?" 

You look down at your pretty slippers and grimace. "No." 

"You don't get out much, do you?" 

You ignore him and pull a case of things out from under the small counter in the alcove of your kitchen. You drop a roll of linen bandages into the sack and shove the case back under the counter with your foot as you bring out a block of cheese and a box of matches. 

Poor girl, he thinks. 

"Don't worry too much about it." 

"I'm not worried," you say, topping your provisions off with a punnet of fruit and the last of your fresh flatbread covered in a beeswax wrapping. "This will be fun." 

—

You're scared enough to feel tears welling in your eyes. 

Steve walks ahead of you, shoes hidden by lush green grass as he makes his way toward the valley's exit. You're not sure he's realised you're not behind him, or maybe he has and he refuses to wait. You've finished bricking the secondary entrance to the tower closed again, and while it seems obviously disturbed you have no choice but to hope mother doesn't steer around the back anytime soon. 

Your adrenaline has been pumping ever since you jimmied the tile and unlocked the trap door. Your chest physically aches with anxiety, and your breath has begun to feel short and shallow. 

"Are you coming?" Steve calls. 

You heave the potato sack over your shoulder and take a step forward. 

The earth is soft and hard underfoot, an impossible sensation. You rock your heel back and forth and test the uneven ground for purchase. The temptation to reach down and touch it for the first time is high but Steve's still watching you, so you hurry toward him and try not to fall over. You take a huge, calming breath. 

It smells gorgeous out here. Despite keeping the window cracked and the tower clean, there's a lived-in smell that can't be escaped. Out here, you can practically taste the earth. The crisp air burns your nose. 

Steve keeps a fast pace and neither of you talk. Your companion isn't happy about his predicament and you can't blame him, you've practically taken him hostage. He isn't a poor sport either, and he hasn't been cruel. Quiet, he parts the ivy covering the valley exit and lets you pass. 

The world is even bigger from there. 

"Stay close, okay? I don't know what kind of vagrants we'll come across this far from town." 

You swallow a lump in your throat. "Uh-huh." 

You stay likely too close, your arm gracing his own every now and then. Each time you pull away and each time you end up drifting back toward him. The quiet is impenetrable. You don't know what to say to a man. To anybody. Mother's usually the guiding force of every conversation, and her insistence has left you poorly equipped. 

Steve seems content to languish in silence. 

You walk. You watch the sun move, heat burning your skin by midday. You're not used to walking such long distances or being so exposed to the elements, and by evening you hurt everywhere. Your face shines with perspiration and your shoes chafe your ankles raw, each step a barb. 

As if things couldn't get worse, guilt grabs and holds you. Guilt and fear. What will mother think if she finds out you've left? What would she say? How ridiculously naive, darling. I told you, you aren't to leave the tower. Do you seriously think you know better than I do? Do you think I'm stupid? I'm hurt. I'm hurting that you'd think so low of me. 

You try to shake the thoughts away. A shiver rushes down your spine. 

Steve holds a hand over his eyes, turning his head to the West where the sun approaches the horizon. 

"It'll be dark in a few hours,” he says. 

You nibble the inside of your cheek, voice hoarse and throat dry from your lack of conversation. "Will we camp for the night?" 

He shakes his head, the sun climbing up his neck to paint his brown hair blonde. "If memory serves, there's an inn not far from here." He smiles. "You'll like it." 

"Oh. That's good." 

"Yeah." 

You kick a small stone. "How do you know where we're going?" You'd been on a dirt path now for an hour or two, or rather two dirt paths, worn by carriage wheels. "Everything looks the same." 

"I'm an excellent navigator." 

Sure enough, he navigates the two of you toward a pretty little inn snugly hidden between a crop of towering, leafy trees, a shock of beige and brown in an overwhelmingly green landscape. 

"Le Vilain Caneton," you read off of the sign, giving him a bright smile. "That sounds nice." 

"What did I tell you? You're gonna love this." 

—

Steve doesn't feel bad, at first. 

He throws open the door. The handle slams hard enough into the wood behind it that he's surprised there isn't a cracking sound. He ushers you inside, finding that the handle hasn't broken a hole in the wall because there's already one there. 

It's sleazy, all things considered. Steve has avoided this place pretty much his entire adult life after a trade gone wrong, and while he feels his appearance has changed enough to spare him a skirmish he affects the Steven Harrington manner. Two-timing baby Stevie is nowhere to be seen. 

He's still a two-timer. Case in point. 

"Isn't it charming?" he murmurs to you, hand held aloft behind your back. Not touching but ready to if you step back. 

"Yeah," you say weakly. "Really cute." 

Adorable. 

Steve takes a step that encourages you forward into the main area of the room. The smell of cheap ale blooms and the floor is sticky with it. He regrets how it will likely ruin your pretty slippers but he isn't a coward, walking you right up to the bar where a scary looking guy stands wiping glasses with a dirty rag. 

"Are you the innkeeper?" he asks jovially. "We'd like a room." 

Scary guy squints, looks between you and Steve with apprehension. 

Steve's trying to scare you, not get caught. He throws his arm over your shoulders. You shrink under his touch. It's too late for him to pull away, guilt softening the grasp he has on your shoulder as he lays down a thick facade. 

"My wife's tired as a lamb from walking all day, could we get a hot bath drawn with that?" 

Scary guy spits into the cup with a scoff. "Judy?" he calls out gruffly. 

Steve beams. You curl into him slowly, a flower turning to the sun, hiding from the cold. You still smell of jasmine milk soap after all these hours of walking, but he doesn't miss how the lengths of your hair have grown dishevelled with sweat and wind. He wonders how long it might take you to brush free the knots and tangles. He wonders if you do it in the bath. 

You turn to him with your face shining with a trust he doesn't deserve, like you're seeking his protection. 

"Steve, I don't have any money," you whisper. 

His hand rests in the nook of your neck. "That's alright. Consider it part of your innkeeper's fee." 

"Does this come with breakfast, too?" you ask genuinely. 

Judy, a tall, lithely woman who can't be more than thirty takes her station behind the bar and smiles at you before her eyes follow Steve's arm to his body. He freezes at the calculating tilt of her head, the subtle but not invisible squint. 

"Breakfast is an additional two silvers."

"And for the room and bath?" 

"Ten for the room, five for the bath, two for breakfast." Judy grins. Her hair is like copper, shifting around sharp cheekbones. "Seventeen silvers all together." 

Steve frowns but hands over the money. 

Judy takes you up the first flight of rickety stairs to your room, and nods toward the bathing room as you pass it. She shows you where you'll be spending the night, a ramshackle room with a bed made of what Steve suspects to be more straw than padding. He's relieved at the thick quilt set and folded at the bottom. It looks clean enough. 

"I'll knock when the bath is drawn. Will that be for both of you?" 

And so. Steve had feared this, feared the bath in general, and had forgotten to explain this fear to you. 

"Both of us," he says, nodding. 

You're thankfully smart enough to keep any grievances you have at that to yourself. At least, until the door closes, and you pin him with a look that's a mixture of betrayed and furious. Your eyebrows pinch together. 

"Why did you say that?" 

"It's what's expected of us." 

"By who?" you ask, near belligerent. 

He shushes you, a frown of his own taking form. "By everybody. It's what married couples do, they share the water when travelling. And it wouldn't be proper for you to be in the bathing room by yourself, how could your husband protect your honour?" 

"You're not my husband." 

He shushes you again, this time with a severe expression that finally has you giving pause. Your eyes flash with fear and quickly clear. You take a step back. 

He holds a hand out toward you amicably. "Sorry. But it will be much safer for both of us if we can keep our ruse alive. Someone as handsome as you, it isn't right for your reputation to be travelling with me while you're still unmarried, you know? And for me…" He doesn't want to explain the horrible truth to you. If Steve refuses to leave you, to share you, to let men do what men would like to do to you, that might invite a riot.

"I don't have a reputation," you say. 

He shrugs. "It is safer for us to be married."  He hesitates, remembering why he'd brought you here in the first place. The horrible truth may be unseemly, but it could be enough to get you to bow out. "If we aren't married… Well, it doesn't bear saying." 

"What?" you ask, a curious thing. He loves it, and not only because it works to his advantage. 

"Men will take anything they find beautiful. And without care." 

Your fingers tighten around the mouth of your potato sack bag. 

"I see," you say. "Of course. I knew that, mother always says, but." 

He winces at the reminder of your cruel mother. He feels cruel himself, suddenly, for scaring you on purpose as your mother likely does, for being another member of the opposition in your life. All you want is to see the Princess' lanterns, so much so you've hidden under your bed and painted their colours painstakingly onto each slat of supporting wood. A hidden wish, and one you'd deigned to share with him. He starts to think, Maybe I should just take her. How much could it possibly cost me? 

But Steve's from nothing. He was born from nothing, he grew up with nothing. He is, in the grand scheme of the universe and its many, many stars, nothing. Another orphaned boy destined to waste his life stealing coppers from coin purses and sleeping in doorways. 

The sooner he gets that tiara, the better. No more sleeping outside. No more staring up at the wine dark sky and wondering if any of those blistering stars can hear him. 

If they can, they aren't listening. 

You put your bag down on the floor. It thunks. 

"What have you piled in there, sweetness? A mountain?" he asks, momentarily distracted. 

"Nothing!" you rush to say, standing in front of your bag like it might hide it from his view. 

The door knocks before he can question you further. "The bath!" comes Judy's solid tone. 

"Thank you," Steve says, "we'll be right out." He nods at you. "Your change of clothes?" 

You search through your bag with your shoulders to him, hunched to shield the mystery. 

"You can keep your secrets," he teases lightly. The stars know he keeps his own. 

Through the hallway to the bathing room, Judy kicks open the door, points to the bath as though he might not see it otherwise, and then the small weight by the doorway to keep the door closed. There's no steam to the water. 

"How conning," Steve mutters, closing the door after Judy's departure. 

"What?" you ask, your voice curiously strung. 

"The water’s barely hot." 

"I've never had a hot bath before." 

He looks at you through the corner of his eye. "Never?" 

"Sometimes mother would pour warm water through my hair, but no. Does it hurt, when it's too hot?" 

He can't help grinning at you. "Some of the time," he concedes. "It's a nice kind of hurting, though, do you know what I mean? You'll feel much better after." He chuckles, sticking his finger into the water. It isn't not hot, but it could be better considering its cost. "Not that this could ever hurt you." 

"A nice kind of hurting," you mumble. 

"Mm. You should try to be quick, they might want the bath for someone else soon." 

You nod, eyes darkening with your remembered predicament. You hug your clean dress to your chest. He thinks, suddenly, that your hair looks very heavy, and that it must hurt your neck. 

"I won't look," he says, voice soft with sincerity. 

Your shoulders relax. 

He sits with his legs stretched out and shoes pressed to the door to stop a potential intruder, listening, trying not to listen, as you peel out of your clothes. Your bare feet sound strange over the wooden floor, a shushing sound. Your dress and corset fall in rustling waves. 

You gasp as you step into the water. "Oh," you say, the small sound imbued with a simple, common pleasure. 

He feels the tension like fog over the kingdom waters in summer, when the heat is tangible and the nights are short. You look so soft in your clothes. Outside of them, Steve can only imagine. 

He tries very hard to push it from his mind, feeling an unwelcome heat rise anyhow. He blames it on the humidity of the room. 

You pitter for a moment, in awe of the heat. 

"How–" His voice gets caught. He clears his throat, tries a second time, "How do you wash your hair?" 

"I lather the soap in my hands and–" You seem to be victim of the same affliction as he is. "Steve, could you pass me my soap? I'm sorry, I've left it on the vanity with my dress." 

"If you want me to help you, you need only ask. I've been said to have very hard-working hands."

"I thought you were a thief?"

Steve stands up grudgingly. He usually has much better luck with the ladies, yet all his joking flirtation soars straight over your head. Not that he actually wants it to land, nor does he think he could handle your attention. 

He doesn't look at you as he grabs your bar of soap. He unwraps its beeswax covering and hands it to you, looking decidedly at the damp wall opposite. He feels your wet hand touch his. Your skin is so hot it startles him, and the bar of soap slips between your outstretched fingers, slamming and sliding somewhere unknown. 

"Shit," he says. "Alright, best cover yourself." 

He hears quick movements in the water as he turns to you, throwing his gaze to the floor, only a split flash of your naked skin to be seen. Your soap has rounded the corner of the wooden tub, lying behind your straight back. He kneels to pick it up, scowling at the scum sticking to its underside, and nearly headbutts your forehead as he stands. 

He springs back, and he stares. You have water running in rivers down your face, your wet hair framing your shining cheeks, pooling down. It covers the swell of your chest so precisely that Steve bites his tongue, forcing his eyeline back to your waiting face. You have water in your eyes like tears, their lashes turned to triangles, clinging to one another. 

You look like one of the women from his storybook. A water nymph. A siren. The room is warm with steam, and his cheeks, hot to begin with, emanate enough heat to warm your tub again as he makes the comparison. Your looks alone might draw him to drowning. 

"Steve?" you ask, holding out your hand. 

Hair shifts over your body like a dancing shadow, or a beaming light. He isn't sure. There's something about it that feels extraordinary, not just in the length of it. 

He passes you your soap. Ridiculous, he thinks. Imbecilic. Your hair is hair and nothing more. While you're achingly pretty and you have a fine hand, that is where your remarkability ends. 

"Could you turn around again?" you ask, flustered.

He turns around. 

—

"You brought your pan?" Steve asks you, bewildered. He's standing by the small, thin window, metal-wrought panes that filter the last of the sun's rays. 

You stand shivering by your potato sack and frown at him, setting the pan on the sheets. "I think we might have a more pressing issue." 

"We don't have anything." He seems to appraise your condition. "How do you usually dry your hair?" 

"You wouldn't believe me." 

"How cryptic! I'm afraid you're destined to freeze here, my heart. Or we could take you home, where you may comfortably perform whatever ritual it is that you perform and dry your hair." 

"Wasn't there a fireplace downstairs?" 

"We aren't going back down there." 

"We aren't," you say in agreement, turning his distaste of the collective pronoun back on him. "I'll go by myself." 

"That is a horrible, terrible, awful idea." 

"I'm not going home. I want to– I’m going to see the paper lanterns." 

Steve sighs. After your bath, he'd taken the smaller basin of clean water and washed up, now standing in front of you in his only change of clothes, a darker, navy tunic buttoned to the throat and simple slacks. His shoes are tightly laced even at this hour. You look down at your bare feet and feel majorly abashed by their new blisters and haphazard bandaging. You can't make yourself put your slippers back on. 

He continues his sighing as he crosses the room. He's still grumbling when he opens the door. 

"Well?" he asks, holding it open. 

You pat his arm gently as you pass. "Thank you." 

You trek down the stairs, careful with each footstep that you aren't trodding on a misplaced nail or scary splinter. Wood changes to stone flooring, tiles of a terracotta colour that are large and misshapen. You keep your eyes on them as you cross the room to its only source of heat, a blistering hearth just shy of the room's stage and piano. Somebody sits behind it on the piano bench, though they aren't playing the piano at all, but a great wooden instrument you've never seen. 

"What is that?" you ask Steve. 

He doesn't bend under your attention. He frowns ever so slightly. "What?" 

You point to the instrument as conspicuously as you can. 

Steve takes your shoulder into his hand and guides you toward the fireplace without malice. He's prompting you along, as you've stopped in the middle of the room. 

"You've never seen one of those?" he asks. 

"Not in any of my books." 

"I guess they're still new. That's a vihuela. It's a… it's a nice sound." 

You nod appreciatively, and feel much happier as Steve pulls a nearby chair as close to the hearth as he can without garnering any disgruntled looks from the other patrons. You sneak a peek at their faces. Most are naturally intimidating; there are men with weathered, unkind faces lining the walls with tankards of ale in hand; there are travellers such as yourselves, though they look hardened, sharper than you ever could, coin purses on tables as if daring you to try lifting them; there are women, sparsely, who are sharper in a different way. They remind you of a summer rose, darkly red, a gorgeous head of petals distracting from a thorny stem. 

You sit down in your chair and feel the heat of the fireplace greet your chilled skin, and your soaked back. Your dress has soaked up much of your hairs dripping, the kind of unfortunate happenstance that might spiral into your hypothermic death. Steve puts his chair beside yours and turns his entire body toward yours. You like it. It's like he's hiding you from everybody else, replacing their sneering gazes with his fed-up acceptance. You find extreme comfort in this feeling, as though Steve is the only person in the room with you. 

"Turn to me." 

"What if my hair catches?" 

"You aren't close enough for that." 

You turn to Steve completely. You look like lovers, you must, worse when he takes your slippers and holds them on top of one of his thighs. He has wide thighs, and they make you feel a feeling you don't understand. Everything you know about men has come from Mother or books. Mother claims them to be evil in their entirety. Of the few books you have, and fewer that talk of men beyond the factual, none have ever mentioned why their legs look like that, and why it will make you feel like you've swallowed something much too hot. 

"I'll make sure your hair doesn't go up in flames," he promises grandly, unnecessarily, "consider it one of my guidely duties." 

A shy, pleased smile takes your lips. "Thank you." 

"Yeah, you're welcome." He closes his eyes and tips his head back. "Stars, I'm hungry." 

"I have–" 

"We'll buy dinner. They have hunter's stew here, have you ever tried that?" 

"No." 

He laughs, crossing his arms across his chest. "Of course not. Alright, this will sound gross, but it's really old stew. Years old, maybe decades. They keep adding and adding to the pot with whatever’s in season." 

You don't know everything, or anything, really, but you know that sounds like food poisoning in a bowl. "How doesn't it kill you?" 

"They keep it really, really hot, all day long." 

You like the way he says it, even if he's maybe making fun. He almost sings each word, a melodic cadence to his pronunciation that endears you further. 

"And you've had it? What does it taste like?" 

"See, you'd think it tastes a bit muddled, right? But it's good. You'll like it." 

He makes no move to get up and get the aforementioned soup. You aren't particularly hungry, leaning back just a little so the brutal heat of the flames can warm your damp shoulder. The wetness of your dress is fading, warmed but still undeniably wet, and you wonder if the heat is hurting your hair. Mother always says to keep your hair as far from the hearth as you can at all times, and gets angry when you sit too close. 

The soot, darling. The soot will cling to your hair and ruin it. It is, in Mother's opinion, the most beautiful thing about you. 

Mother. She shouldn't be back home for days now, and still you're worrying. Mostly about being caught. But if you're caught, and she knows you left… 

You have a strange love for your mother. The kind that makes you feel sick in intensity. You want, at all times, to please her. And you know this isn't something she would approve of, Stars, she'd be so disappointed in you for taking this risk. 

You stare up at a wooden beam past Steve's head and try not to tear up. Anxiety eats at you until there's nothing left but your skin, your insides a tangled dark whorl of misery. She must know you've left home. She must know how terribly ungrateful you are for everything she's sacrificed. She must know–

"Are you okay?" 

You blink hurriedly and face Steve, hoping this will dispel the quick-welling tears clouding your vision. It doesn't work: blinking can’t erase years of pent up worry. You wipe your eyes before they can roll down your cheeks and humiliate you further. 

"I'm okay," you say. 

Steve frowns again. He's a frowny guy. 

"What's wrong?" He takes your elbow into his hand.

"Nothing. Uh…" You smile through your embarrassment. "We don't light the hearth at home, often, and uh, I think the smoke is irritating my eyes." You nod for emphasis. 

Steve does not believe you, clearly, but he squeezes your elbow and nods back. 

He looks at your face until you're uneasy. 

"I'll go get that stew,” he says, patting your arm. 

You feel strange once he’s gone. It's nice to be by yourself for a moment. You've spent the majority of your adult life alone while mother goes here, there, and everywhere. You're never allowed to go with her, too stupid for the outside world and all its challenges. 

You look around the room now and wonder if this is really the world she means. Sure, it's foreign, and it's unsettling, and without Steve by your side you might not be left alone as you have been, but you'd expected more. Where are all the insects that make you sick, and the men with cutlasses and shackles? 

Your eyes drift to the vihuela player. He's moved to sit at the opposite side of the fire. He strums lackadaisically at his instrument, his shoulders against the wall and a cup of mead at his feet. It's obvious nobody's given him any coin in a while. 

Behind him sits the piano, glimmering with the flickering firelight. You've read about them, you've even seen drawings of harpsichords, but never heard one played. You wonder what it sounds like. Any music at all is amazing to you. All you've ever heard is singing. One song. 

Steve returns with two bowls of hunter's stew. You're scared to try it but horrified that you might look like a coward in front of him. Again. Your tears had been bad enough. 

You swallow a spoonful and your eyes water unbidden. "Oh, wow." 

"Good, huh?" 

You try not to cough. "It's rich." 

"I guess you haven't had stuff like this before, huh?" He forks through his bowl and pulls out a big pale vegetable roughly cubed. "You like potato?" 

"Yeah," you say, and before you've finished he's pushing the potato against the lip of your bowl and pulling the tines of his fork free. It falls into your stew with a small splash. "Oh. Thank you." 

You try to eat as much of it as you can but start to feel sick somewhere in the middle. You set your bowl aside and Steve, bowl emptied, drops his next to it, wiping his hands together and standing. 

You look up, puzzled. 

"Come on." 

Your hair isn't quite dry, a tugging weight for your neck as Steve slides his hand over your warm shoulder. You worry it might never full dry again, not without a helping hand. 

He leads you up the small platform to the piano. 

You look to him inquisitively. 

"It's alright. I asked them if you could try it. Just try not to play too loudly and disrupt the bard." 

"How do you adjust how loud it is?" 

He pushes down on your shoulders until you're sitting on the bench. "You play softly. It's going to be a little loud no matter what. Don't smash the keys." 

"Are they fragile?" you ask worriedly, holding your tensed fingertips above the white and pitch keys. 

"No," he says, laughing without any judgement, "move over, I'll show you." 

He sits on the bench beside you. There's not a whole lot of room, and his arm presses hot to yours. He places his hand above the keys like he knows what he's doing, and presses down. He plays a line of notes, the sounds a plinking rising melody that has you gasping in awe. 

"Don't," —he presses down a huge chunk of keys, and the sound is awful— "do this." 

You look up to see if anybody's glaring. Then you burst into giggles, face pressed to his shoulder on automatic as you try to smother the sound. He laughs warmly near your ear.

You probe curiously at the keys and try to make a song. You don't know how, don't know one note from another, you can't fathom how someone might make this into anything more than the bard's lazy fingerings. 

"Do you know anything?" Steve asks. 

Do you know anything? Mother demands. Darling, I've told you a million times…

"No. Sorry," you say. 

His voice is sincerely sweet, like he's confused you'd ever be sorry, "For what? I can play you something. Choose a song." 

"I only know the one." 

He blinks at you. You shrink into yourself as he averts his gaze, knowing what he's thinking. How useless you are. 

The song starts slowly. Steve taps one key, and then another. It lends and lists into music suddenly, the repetition of a simple melody. He doesn't sing, just speaks the words as he plays. 

"She sends me a flower to hold me," he says, an echo of song in his tone. "She sends me a flower to– night." He moves his hands up to a higher sound. "She loves me too much, so she's told me. But if she loved me, oh loved me, she might… Come to see me, oh sweetheart, come to see me, oh lover, come to see me, oh darling." He smiles at you. "Come to see me to– night." He clears his throat, hand stilling. "You'd sing the bridge again, but I think I'll spare your ears." 

"Is that yours?" you ask him. 

He drops his hand into his lap. "No. Steve Harrington doesn't pen love poems, I'm afraid." 

"Only plays them." 

His smile turns to a smirk, so sticky it's catching. 

"You're not the mouse I'd thought you were," he says.

"Was this realisation before or after I tried to maim you with a cast iron pan?" 

He's about to answer, a spark behind his eyes, when the door opens wide enough to split its hinges. The origin of the hole in the wall is clear, and he waltzes in with a band of men behind him, grinning. 

"Oh, for Stars’ sake," Steve mutters. 

"What?" you ask. 

The man at the front of the group of men — or, as they step into the light and reveal themselves, boys — sets his one un-patched eye on you and Steve, smiles like the devil, and croons, "Stevie!" 

Steve's smile is gone. 

"Eddie," he says tiredly. 

"You're back!" Eddie looks you up and down, and his expression turns to one of complete surprise. "With a wife? My, my, we have been busy." 

Steve stands, and Eddie, in all his darkness, dark hair and eyes and tunic, his grin turns mean. You hide behind one of Steve's thighs, hesitant. He drops his hand against the top of your head. 

"Why's it matter?" Steve asks. 

"It doesn't." This Eddie sounds all too cheerful. "What does matter, I'm afraid, is the debt between us." 

"I don't owe you anything." 

You watch with widened eyes as Eddie unsheathes his sword. The scabbard has a mottling of shiny reds and blacks, and the blade glows silver to white in the light. It's sharp.

Steve pulls a small knife from his hip. You hadn't realised he was carrying a weapon. 

Eddie takes a step forward, his shoes like a thunderclap across the wooden floor. 

"I'm afraid my Sweetheart here doesn't agree." 

˗ˋˏ ☆ ˎˊ˗

“Oh, I’m sorry.” For a moment, the girl thought you were actually apologizing, but judging by the way you stabbed the poor fruit with the knife, it was easy to predict what would come next. “Next time I’ll ask for permission from the master chef before touching a knife.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t a kind smile. It was the kind that showed too many teeth. Almost mocking.

“You really should,” he replied, taking another sip of yogurt as if he were completely relaxed, as if his wife didn’t have her hand dangerously close to a knife. “Because clearly you lack the motor coordination.”

You slowly turned your body, leaning your hip against the counter and crossing your arms, your lips parting to retort. “It’s just a fruit.”

“Presentation matters.” He shrugged.

“Then cut it yourself.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Are you admitting your incompetence?”

“I’m offering you an opportunity, coward.”

“Right—“ Sukuna’s gaze shifted, his eyes landing on the visitor near the door. “Who’s that.” His expression was terrifying to the poor girl.

“My friend, dad.” The teenager took one last sip of coffee and stood up. “She’s walking to school with me.”

“You brought someone into my house without asking for my permission first?” Sukuna placed the yogurt bottle on the counter and crossed his arms.

“That ‘someone’ is her friend,” you interrupted. “And the house is ours. I allowed it. Stop making a scene.” Your voice lowered slightly, as if trying to spare the poor girl from feeling even more embarrassed and intimidated.

“But she didn’t ask permission—”

“I asked mom. She’s the one who decides, anyway,” your daughter said, placing her plate in the sink and grabbing her backpack from the chair.

He let out a low “hm” through his nose.

“Of course,” he murmured, uncrossing his arms only to rest his hands on the counter behind him, leaning his weight back with an almost irritating calmness. “You hide behind your mother’s authority.”

“Sure, sure,” the teenager rolled her eyes, already pulling her friend by the arm toward the door.

“Sweetheart,” you said, your voice softer than anything you had used in the past few minutes. “Aren’t you going to be late? Your father can give you two a ride.”

“I don’t—”

“We’re fine! Thank you so much!” the friend answered far too quickly, dragging your daughter outside.

Ryomen’s gaze returned to you. “Did you see her behavior? In my time, children who challenged their parents learned—”

“You’re too talkative today,” you replied. “And don’t complain, you’re the one who spoiled her.”

He scoffed, leaning over and hugging you from behind.

As the two girls walked side by side, the friend cleared her throat.

“Are they… okay?”

“They’re like that,” she replied. “Gross, right? Imagine listening to that flirting every single day.”

A bold six-year-old boy with freckles and zero filter scooted closer to Damian, staring up at him with enormous eyes.

“Are you the princess’s boyfriend?”

The room went suddenly, hilariously still.

Damian’s face ignited. Red crept from his neck to the tips of his ears in record time—tomato-bright, unmistakable. He opened his mouth. Closed it. The scowl he usually wielded like a weapon faltered into something flustered and boyish.

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, eyes sparkling.

The boy tilted his head. “You look at her like my dad looks at my mom when she makes pancakes. And you sit really close. So… boyfriend?”

A few kids gasped in delighted scandal. One whispered “kæreste!” (boyfriend!) like it was a secret code word.

Damian cleared his throat—twice. “I…” He shot you a desperate sideways glance. You raised an eyebrow, utterly unhelpful and loving every second.

“I am…” He exhaled sharply, then—miraculously—softened. “Yes. I am her… partner.” The word came out careful, almost reverent. “Her beloved.”

The children erupted in cheers and “awwws.” The freckled boy beamed like he’d solved a mystery. “Cool! Do you fight dragons together?”

Damian, still flushed but recovering, managed a small, genuine smirk. “Every day.”

You reached over and squeezed his hand—openly now, no hiding. “He’s very good at it,” you told the kids solemnly. “Especially the grumpy ones.”

The laughter that followed was bright and healing. Damian didn’t pull away. Instead, he turned his hand palm-up so your fingers could lace through his.

Later, when the visit wound down and the children were herded off for snacks, you leaned your head on his shoulder in the quiet hallway. Titus trotted ahead, tail high.

“You turned the color of a royal tomato,” you teased gently.

“Tt.” He huffed, but there was no heat in it. “The child was… impertinent.”

“You were adorable.”

He glanced down at you, green eyes unguarded. “You were… perfect with them.” His voice dropped. “It was… good. To see you like that.”

Your heart squeezed. “You stayed the whole time. Held my hand in front of twenty tiny witnesses.”

He shrugged, but his thumb traced slow circles over your knuckles. “Seemed necessary.”

You rose on your toes and kissed his cheek—right where the blush still lingered. “My brave knight.”

He turned his head just enough to catch your lips instead, soft and lingering, tasting faintly of the cinnamon cookies a child had insisted he try.

Outside, snow began to fall in lazy flakes over Copenhagen.

But in the Inside? everything felt warm.

©𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈 — All original works published here are my intellectual property. Please do not copy, repost, or claim them as your own. Unauthorized use or plagiarism of non-fanfiction works may result in legal action.

You catch him sketching you at 3 a.m.—not in his usual sharp, angular style, but soft. Candlelight strokes. The curve of your shoulder under silk. The way your lashes rest when you’re pretending to sleep so he’ll keep drawing. When you open your eyes and meet his, he doesn’t look away. “You are… difficult to capture,” he admits quietly. “I keep trying.”

When he paints you, he doesn’t use common, standard paint brands. He uses brands like Farrow & Ball and Mylands. Expensive brands. He sees you as exquisite, ravishing even. When it comes to you being put on a canvas, you are beyond worthy of the highest quality of materials.

The first time you wear one of his hoodies (because you stole it after a late-night flight back from a summit), he short-circuits. Black fabric swallowing your frame, sleeves rolled up, royal poise somehow made even more devastating in casual wear. He pulls the hood over your head to hide how violently fond he looks. “You’re going to keep that,” he growls. It’s not a question.

He’s memorized every diplomatic protocol for your country. Every title of your extended family. Every national holiday. When your mother’s birthday approaches, he’s already arranged for rare florets to be delivered with a handwritten card in flawless calligraphy—signed only “D.”  Your mother texts you: “I approve. Keep him.”

Arguments are rare but spectacular. When you fight, he goes rigid, words clipped, retreating into formality—“As Your Highness wishes.” It’s the worst thing he can do to you. It would hurt like a deep aching kind of pain.

How he makes up? He kneels (actually kneels) in front of you later, forehead pressed to your knuckles. “I was… unworthy of your patience. Forgive me.” 

He calls Titus “the royal guard” when you’re around. He adores you instantly—massive head in your lap during movie nights, tail thumping like war drums. Damian pretends to be jealous. He’s not. He just likes watching you bury your face in Titus’s fur and laugh like the crown doesn’t exist.

He never says “I love you” carelessly or “frivolously”. When he finally does, it’s after a near-miss during an attempted kidnapping or perhaps something worse. 

He’s bloodied, furious, alive. He cups your face with shaking hands and rasps against your lips, his breath tickles like salt “You do not get to die before me. Understood?” Then, softer, almost broken “I love you. Beyond reason. Beyond title. Do not forget it.”

You never forget it

©𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈 — All original works published here are my intellectual property. Please do not copy, repost, or claim them as your own. Unauthorized use or plagiarism of non-fanfiction works may result in legal action.

There were very few things you were afraid of but having a dog that was nearly the same size of you standing over your bruised body was sure to make the list.

"Nice puppy," you murmured out, hand reaching for the knife you kept tucked into your leggings waistband. You never knew when you'd need to use it for self-protection.

Cerberus, as was the first name to come to mind, tilted his head then brought his mighty jaws down and-

Licked you?

You opened your eyes where they had been squinted shut prepared to be eaten alive, and a choked laugh escaped your lips. Cerberus seemed to be encouraged by the sound of delight as he nudged your cheek with his wet nose, whining softly in play.

"You're not a demon dog." You realized, scratching him behind the ears. And in your moment of clarity and with your fear dissipating, you could now see that he was just a very large and very cute Great Dane.

"Titus!"

The dog's ears perked up at the sharp command and he climbed off of you, returning to his owner, no doubt.

You still lay on your back when a large hand extended itself to you. You tried to make out the person it belonged to but their head was haloed by the sun above you and you had to squint. You took the proffered hand and let them help you to your feet.

"Thanks," you brushed the dirt from your clothes and tucked your earbuds into the strap of your training bra. "I really thought he was gonna-"

"You should be more aware of your surroundings." The man reprimanded.

Your head snapped up, jaw dropped in disbelief--who the hell did this guy think he was--and met his startling--and horribly familiar--green glare.

Damian Al Ghul.

Or rather, Damian Wayne.

The last time you had seen the man was when he'd been known as the former.

Of course. Of course! Because the fates just had to be cruel enough to have your peaceful Saturday turn into the most dreaded day of your life.

At the age of eight, your parents informed you of your betrothal to the heir of the League of Assassins. Your supreme leader, Ra's Al Ghul, and Damian's grandfather, had decided he needed to secure his succession sooner rather than later and had offered the arrangement at a time when neither you nor Damian could refuse. You were both too young to understand anyway.

You were forced to train and study together after that. If you were both to rule together, you'd need to find some common ground and learn how to work as a tight unit. Of course, being an eight-year-old girl and a nine-year-old boy, you could only dwell on your differences. He was much too mean for your tastes and you were too girly for his.

After some time, you began seeking his presence. He had become somewhat of a safe haven. When your parents were too brutish, you would find him at the training grounds under the safety of night, and confess to him your feeling like a disappointment. And when he was afraid he was becoming too ruthless, he would send you a note to meet him in the copse of trees surrounding your home and let you hold his hand in comfort. You were all each other had in a place of cruelty and discipline.

One of your fondest memories had been when you had found yourself crying over something a stupid boy had said to you in passing about being too sensitive. Damian sought you out by the sound of your tears and sat next to you, letting you cry on his shoulder. "I find your vulnerability refreshing." He confessed.

It had been a spur of the moment when you leaned up and kissed his cheek, face burning at your brazen.

"I love you, Damian al Ghul." You had declared into the quiet of the night.

Damian remained silent for longer than comfortable until...

"I'm glad I have you too."

And in his strange, neglected way, you knew he loved you too.

You didn't question him when the bully in question sported a black eye and broken arm the next day. You knew who had defended your honor.

It was rare to have a friend in the League of Assassins but you and Damian had found each other and once you came of age, he promised to take you far, far away. Somewhere. Anywhere. This wasn't any way to live--under the thumb of his merciless grandfather. And you held him to it. Nothing seemed impossible for Damian and you were sure that if anyone could find a way out, it would be him.

Until he left.

You had spent an entire day searching for him, following his schedule only to find him missing. At the end of the day you steeled yourself enough to approach his mother; surely Talia would know where he was.

She had looked at you with pity which made your heart sink and told you he'd left to live with his father, the infamous Bruce Wayne.

It took you months to recover from his absence. First you were sad, sending him letters only have to have them returned, then you felt hopeless, stuck in the mundane of your life, and then came the anger. How could he have been so selfish? He had cared for you and you knew it! He was just like everyone else around you; looking out only for himself and you hated him! You hated Damian al Ghul. You hated Damian Wayne. You hated him.

And now, seeing him after a decade and a half, you could feel your anger resurfacing.

He was supposed to be living in Gotham with his daddy. After all, the only reason you'd chosen to come to Metropolis was to stay away from him. It wasn't fair that he was in the city, much less in the park you ran in every morning. He was unknowingly crossing the boundaries you had set in place in your mind.

And he was looking stupidly handsome too.

Damian had always had a haunting beauty to him. Whether it be the immortality of the Al Ghul's or the rich handsomeness from the Wayne's, he had somehow managed to collect every gorgeous feature from his ancestors. Enviable olive skin that hinted to his Middle Eastern heritage, hick black hair with that dramatic widows peak, emerald eyes, a stern full mouth, an endearingly button nose that contrasted sharply to his sharp features and even sharper personality. And he had grown since the last time you'd seen him.

Where he had been scrawny and short, he was now well-over six feet with broad shoulders, toned arms that were displayed by his exercise top, a lean body, and muscles calves. He must have been on a run himself if the perspiration on his forehead was anything to go by.

You shook yourself out of your admiration. He had wronged you horribly; you couldn't be drooling over his muscles and prettiness! You should be more focused on the fact that he hadn't recognized you and probably wouldn't. That thought alone had anger coursing through your veins tenfold.

"You should keep your dog on a leash." You countered, gesturing to where Cerberus was now sitting at Damian's side, tongue lolling out of his mouth, as if he wasn't the reason you ate the curb.

Damian opened his mouth then shut it again, hopefully sensing that he had no valid argument and that he was in the wrong here.

After a moment of consideration, he said, "I shouted a warning to you multiple times to look out but you didn't hear me because of your music, I assume. What if you were in real peril and hadn't heard it?"

You rolled your eyes. "I've run this route for two years now. I've never had to keep an ear out for danger."

Damian crossed his arms over his chest, biceps bulging. A defensive stance if you'd ever seen one. It would seem he wasn't going to let this go without a fight. Typical Damian. "Titus has been trained since birth to be obedient. He wouldn't have left my side if he hadn't sensed something amiss."

"You've caught me. I keep a bag of bacon on my person on my runs so that I can lead dogs astray from their owners." You deadpanned, finding this entire conversation ridiculous.

"That was not what I was implying." He said drily, unamused as well. Cerberus--or rather Titus--whined at the tension between you both and looked up at you with puppy eyes. You felt your defiance melting.

"He didn't hurt me too bad," you admitted, "but I'd suggest you keep him on a leash; regardless of being trained or untrained."

Damian kept his eyes trained on you, unmoving. "Where did he hurt you?"

Instinctively, you hid your hands behind your back but he noticed and, without ceremony, took your wrist to study your scraped palms. He released a heavy sigh. "Let me tend to this."

"No! I-"

"It's the least I could do. And you wouldn't wish to risk an infection. I have a first aid kit in my car."

Before you could agree to let him help you, he ordered Titus to keep watch and jogged off to the parking lot.

You could have left, not having to listen to him or obey him, but you stayed. And you hated yourself a little for that decision.

By the time he returned, you had made your way to a bench, petting Titus' head as he laid it in your lap. For a dog as large as he was, he was so gentle.

Damian took a seat next to you and pulled your hands to him, wiping away the debris with surprising tenderness. Your heart ached as you watched his big hands care for your smaller ones. He had once coveted your humanity but the old Damian wouldn't have taken the time to help a stranger. Or, at least, someone he thought was a stranger.

The fact that he didn't recognize you was disheartening but probably best. You could let him bandage you up then walk away and forget about him fully without ever thinking what if. You only had to squash that small part of yourself that still loved him.

You cleared your throat. "So...you've had Titus since he was a puppy?"

Damian kept his eyes on your hands but nodded.

"Do you have any more animals?"

"I don't divulge personal information to people I don't know."

Bugger. Still as private as ever.

You hissed when he applied ointment to your cuts. He rubbed his thumb soothingly along your pulse in apology and your heart stuttered. He looked up at you from beneath thick lashes and you froze.

His gaze drifted across your face until it lingered along the underside of your jaw. "Where did you get that?"

Your fingers gingerly touched the thick scar there, one you received on the wrong side of a sword. You shrugged. "I don't divulge personal information to people I don't know."

"Touche," he nodded. "What did you say your name was?"

"I never gave it."

"Where did you say you worked?"

You furrowed your brows. "I never gave that either?"

"So, you just so happened to be in Metropolis at the same time as me, in the same park, and got me alone?" he gripped your wrist tightly, leaning in and whispering menacingly, "Did they send you to terminate me?"

Your eyes widened at his swift change of behavior. You pulled your hand but his hold wouldn't budge. "I-I- what's going on?"

"You know what's going on." Damian hissed, soft enough to keep away any prying ears. "Did my grandfather send you?"

He definitely knew who you were now. There was no doubt about it. You were only surprised it took him this long. "Nobody sent me, I swear!"

"I can't believe they would be so low as to send you, of all people..." he pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand and Titus whined at his owner's distress, nudging his thigh with his nose.

"They didn't-" you tore yourself from his grasp and stumbled to your feet. "send me! Nobody did!"

He glared up at you. "Why else would you be here? And why else would you have known I would be here?"

An incredulous laugh flew from your lips. The nerve of this man! "Believe it or not, but not everything is about you, Damian! God! You're so...you're so...so cynical!"

Titus pawed at the ground in discomfort and you resisted the urge to reassure him with a scratch behind the ears. You were very upset with Damian and needed him to see that you were in earnest.

"You're telling me that after thirteen years of no-contact, we just so happen to meet in a park while I am in town?"

"I can't believe this," you groan.

Damian stood to his full height, nearly a head taller than you. "Did you not think I would recognize you?"

"You didn't, at first."

"Because you look so..." he waved his hands around in search of an appropriate word and you couldn't help but find amusement in his discomposure; you'd only ever seen him composed. "grown up." he supplied at last.

"That's what happens when people age. They look different."

His eyes moved frantically about your face. "I feel like a complete idiot like my brothers."

You laughed softly. "How brotherly of you."

"If you knew them, you'd agree."

Again, without warning, he reached out and stroked the scar on your jaw. You held your breath and he whispered, "You got this a week before I left."

You only blinked.

"I told grandfather not to let you in the ring with that imbecile but he let it happen anyway. He thought he could teach me a lesson by hurting the only thing I..."

Silence hung thickly in the air and you waited for him to say something. Anything.

All pretenses dropped and he stared at you with naked vulnerability. The same thing he'd envied you all those years ago. Something you knew this new life had taught him. Somehow, you were glad for that.

"I cared about you." He finally confessed, hands dropping to his sides.

"I cared about you too." You rubbed at your nose as you felt a familiar surge of tears burn your eye. "A lot. And then you left me and I had to figure things out on my own and it really sucked."

He shook his head. "I didn't want to leave."

"Then why did you go?"

For the third time that morning, he reached for you again but drew back before he could make contact. "My mother wanted me to be taught by my father, Bruce. She thought that, under his guidance, I would become a leader and a warrior. But I fought against it. I was unused to the support I received at Wayne Manor and I was sick at the thought of leaving you behind."

"I asked to write to you but Talia wouldn't hear of it." A tear betrayed you by sliding down your cheek.

Damian stepped closer, the comforting smell of him washing over you. "You should hate me."

"I tried to."

"You're a fool not to."

You don't know who initiated it, but a split second was all it took for your bodies to find each other, fingers grasping at clothing and hair in search of security. You melted into his embrace as he stroked the nape of your neck. "I moved here to Metropolis when I turned eighteen." You spoke into his chest. "I didn't dare go to Gotham because I knew you lived there and this was close enough not to be hurt. I tried so hard to forget you and all of the promises you vowed to me but every time I saw you in the tabloids or on my phone, I would have to restart."

Damian, stoic, touch hating, Damian, laid his cheek against your scalp. "I wondered what had happened to you. I couldn't find any files or documents and was afraid something had happened."

"When you leave the League of Assassins, it's imperative you erase all traces of your identity." You laughed a breath out of your nose.

"Let me make up those promises to you?" he pulled back enough that you could see the sincerity in his green eyes.

Your hands tightened around his shirt. "I'm not in a position to be hurt again, Damian."

His unflappable expression returned and he was, once again, the Damian you knew and loved. "I could never hurt the one thing I care about."

A nudge against your knee and you both look down at Titus who had been dutifully sitting there, tongue sticking out his mouth adorably. A corner of Damian's lip turned up and his grip tightened on you. "Two things, I should say."

The cat purrs in his arms, patting his sleeve with her little paws and making eye contact with him, as if she was really trying to calm him down before she officially met you… or worse: before you officially killed him.

“I know, I know…” Leon murmurs to her. “I promise you’re going to be okay. I’m sure mom’s going to like you… or at least hope so. We had quite a few talks but…” he sighs, nervous. “Fuck: I’m sure she’s going to love you.”

You hear your husband from the kitchen. Quickly, you turn off the stove where you’ve been making dinner and quickly head toward the entrance, drying your hands with a dishcloth.

You freeze completely, in absolute shock, when you see Leon standing at the entrance with an orange cat, probably no older than two years old, in his arms… though you do feel a bit relieved when you notice how calm the animal seems. Very calm.

“Leon?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are you holding a cat?”

Leon looks down at the cat as if he’s only just noticed her.

“Oh, the cat, yeah…” he laughs nervously. “Well, you know… That’s a really funny story…”

“Leon Scott Kennedy… Why did you bring a cat home?”

Your husband sighs, giving you a shy smile.

“Before you say anything—”

“You brought a cat home,” you repeat. “Leon, a cat. I thought we agreed no pets until—”

“I can explain!” he blurts out, raising his voice.

You don’t get the chance to say anything else since Leon starts walking immediately. However, you follow him when he walks into the living room, setting the bags down on the table.

The cat, apparently unwilling to be let go, kneads her paws against Leon’s arm. Against the jacket you bought him last week and that, definitely, seems to have a few scratches on it already.

You cross your arms and look up at your husband, who’s definitely completely absorbed stroking the cat.

“She followed me when I left work,” he says defensively, without taking his eyes off her. When you clear your throat, he finally looks at you. “Actually… I’ve been seeing her around the DSO headquarters for a few days now. I’ve been feeding her because she looked way too thin, and she was also really dirty, but today… Fuck… today she didn’t want to leave my side. I even had to take her into the office with me,” you widen your eyes, but you’re not surprised about Leon doing that. “Then, when I was about to head home, she followed me all the way to the car.”

He doesn’t need to say anything else, but he does:

“I couldn’t leave her alone, love...”

“Leon, what if she has an owner or—?”

“Thought about that the very first time I saw her,” he adds quickly. “I noticed she wasn’t wearing a collar, so I stopped by the vet to check if she had a microchip.”

Your eyes widen even more.

Saying you’re in shock is definitely an understatement.

“You took the cat to the vet?”

“Yeah, that’s why I arrived a bit later than usual,” he repeats. “I thought it was the right thing to do before doing anything else. Like… taking a cat and not checking if she had an owner wouldn’t be very much responsible from me.”

You notice the cat shift in his arms, purring and curling up into a little ball while Leon relaxes slightly. 

“They told me she’s about a year old. Considering the conditions I found her in, she’s pretty healthy, just a little underweight... She’s female… and she doesn’t have a microchip,” Leon explains.

“She doesn’t have a microchip, so…?”

“No, she doesn’t,” he repeats, bitting his lower lip. “So… I told them to put one in.”

“YOU DID WHAT?”

Leon rubs the back of his neck and takes a small step back, a little startled by your reaction.

Maybe he should’ve asked you first, sure, but…

He’d made up his mind. He couldn’t leave the cat there. And, also, he knows how much you love cats.

“I told them to register it under your name. You know… so she can be your cat.”

That’s the final straw for you.

“What do you mean my cat? Leon… are you listening to yourself?!”

“Yeah,” he nods, smiling a bit more confidently now. “I  also did all that adoption shitty paperwork.”

“Is she…?”

Leon nods again.

“She’s officially part of the Kennedys.”

That really is the last straw for you.

You feel tears fill your eyes

Yes, you and Leon had talked about not adopting a pet for now, especially since he’s been wrapped up in that investigation with Sherry… That exact one he hasn’t told you much about…

You push those intrusive thoughts aside and quickly move toward your husband. You reach out to touch the cat, then pull your hands back, not wanting to make her uncomfortable.

“Can I hold her? If she wants to, of course…”

Leon smiles softly and gently brings the cat closer to you, just as carefully as he’s been handling her all along.

“Here… Hold her properly… She seems to really like being carried…”

To your surprise, the cat settles comfortably in your arms. You stroke her back softly with the back of your hand, trying to make her feel as safe and secure as possible.

“Oh my God, Leon. She’s so beautiful…”

You take a closer look at her as she keeps purring and brushing her nose against your chin. Her eyes are a very light green, almost bluish. Even though she’s orange, her little paws are much whiter than the rest of her body. You also notice that part of her left ear seems to be clipped, as if some other animal, probably a cat, had taken a small bite out of it.

“You’re so tiny…” you whisper, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Oh, sweetheart…”

The cat snuggles closer to you.

“ So you have a favorite already, huh?” Leon says, stroking the cat’s head.

“You’re the one who rescued her,” you reply affectionately, kissing his cheek. “She definitely loves you more than me. Not that I complaining about that, of course!”

“She tolerates me. Let’s leave it there.”

You look up at him and can’t help but laugh, pressing another kiss to his cheek, one to his lips, before curling up against his chest while he wraps an arm around your waist.

“You didn’t have to do this for me,” you tell Leon softly. “It’s not that I don’t want her, of course I do, but… I thought we’d already talked about it.”

“I felt bad for her being by herself. Like, I didn’t want her leaving on the streets and eating trash… I swear really did it because I didn’t want her to keep living on the street—”

“And because you’ve always wanted a cat,” you interrupt him gently. “We’ve always wanted one. Both of us.”

“And, also… I might have taken her because I know she’s going to keep you company when I leave.”

“When you leave…?”

You repeat his words, insecurity starting to consume you.

“I have to go away for a couple of days. Maybe a few more,” he says quietly, trying not to look away from you. “There’s been a murder in Wrenwood that, well…” he swallows and sighs. Then, he looks up at you with worried, sad eyes. “Sherry’d discovered there are several cases similar to ours.”

Ours.

You know exactly what he means.

You shake your head softly, trying not to turn this into an argument because you know he doesn’t have much time left. Very little, maybe, considering how little you’ve talked about the thing that is literally draining the life out of you.

“How long have you known that for?”

“A week or so”, then, he adds: “I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon.”

You nod, but don’t dare to say anything else.

 The last thing you want is to talk about this after he’s just surprised you by adopting a cat.

I know she’s going to keep you company when I leave.

“What’s her name?” you ask, trying to change the subject.

“Well…”

“Have you already given her one?”

“Maybe, yeah.”

“What’s it then?”

“Lucky.”

“Lucky?” you ask, slightly confused.

“I thought about that name because she’s lucky I found her,” he replies, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “If I hadn’t picked her up…”

“Don’t think about that anymore, Leon… Maybe we’re the lucky ones to have her. Just like you said: she’ll keep me company when you leave.”

You look at him, and when you see the bittersweet smile on his face, you regret saying that.

As always, you have to fuck up with everything.

“Yeah… sure...”

“Hi there, little Lucky…” you whisper, placing soft kisses on her head.

The cat swishes her tail and starts purring even louder the moment she hears her name, as if she already knew who she was.

“You really like the name daddy picked for you, huh?”

“I bought different kinds of food because I wasn’t sure what she’d like,” Leon says, nodding toward the bag he brought in. “I also have a litter box and a bed in the car, but I just couldn’t carry everything at once.”

“So you had this planned already, I see…”

“I think so, yeah… since the first day I saw her. I just… wasn’t sure what you’d think.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, raising your voice slightly before catching yourself. “I mean, yes, we talked about it and everything, but…” 

You shake your head, muttering under your breath.

Leon adopts a cat, something you’ve wanted to do for so long… and you react like this? It’s not fair to him, of course you know that. And it’s more than obvious that you’re overwhelmed since he told you he has to leave but, still…

“I still can’t believe you did all this…” you finally say.

Your husband simply steps in front of you and pulls you into a hug, Lucky nestled between you.

“I promise that, when I come back home, I’ll do even more things you won’t be able to believe. I’ve talked about a few with Sherry… but, for now, they’re a surprise,” he kisses your forehead, then cups your cheeks and kisses you. “And if you’re wondering… yes, maybe one of them involves adopting another cat. Or a dog…”

“So can we say Leon Kennedy’s going to be a cat dad from now on?”