Meh.

Dean’s face changed the second he heard Sam’s voice. All the heat and hunger collapsing into something frantic, guilty and wrecked. For a heartbeat, he just stared at you with his hands still on your waist and his chest heaving like he’d run a mile. Then he let out a harsh, ragged breath and gently slid you off his lap. "Shit”, he whispered with his voice shaking. You tried not to shiver at the loss of him. Dean raked a hand through his hair. His face was flushed and his mouth still red from your kisses. He stood too fast and had to pause, one hand hovering awkwardly in front of his jeans, trying to hide the obvious and failing miserably. “Son of a—”, he muttered under his breath, shifting his hips as if that would help.

Another ring and Sam’s impatient voice: “Dean! Dude, I saw the Impala, c’mon! I´m freezing my ass off out here!”.

You hugged your knees to your chest, heart in your throat. You watched as Dean took another breath. His jaw was clenched, every muscle in his body screaming tension. He looked at you with guilt and longing and panic flickering behind his eyes. Finally, he gritted his teeth, turned for the door, and hesitated just long enough to adjust himself with one hand sneaking low.

The bell rang again, longer this time. Dean barked over his shoulder “Coming, Sam! Geez, give me a damn sec!”. He fumbled with the lock, hand still trembling, then opened the door a crack.

Sam stood on the porch in a soaked jacket and hair that was dripping in his eyes. He peered in, smiling, oblivious. “Took you long enough. You look like crap, man—”. Dean grunted, avoiding his gaze. “Long night. C’mon, get inside”.

Sam stepped in, shaking off his boots. He glanced around and smiled as he spotted you curled up on the couch. “Hey! Good to see you”, he said, dropping his duffel by the doo, befire he crossed the room and pulled you up off the couch into one of those bear hugs that only Sam Winchester could give. He smelled like rain and road salt, and he squeezed you a little tighter than he probably meant to.

You let out a breathy laugh, patting his back. “Easy, Sasquatch. Gonna break me”.

He let you go, grinning. “Sorry. It’s just been… way too long”. He looked you over, concern flickering in his eyes. “You doing okay?”.

You nodded, managing a half-smile. “Yeah. I mean, as okay as anyone gets around here”.

Sam’s gaze flicked to the kitchen, where Dean was noisily rummaging for another beer, still studiously avoiding the living room. Sam glanced back at you, lowering his voice a little. “When did Dean get here?”.

You swallowed, glancing at the wall that separated you from Dean. “Last night. He just… showed up out of nowhere”.

Sam’s brows furrowed with worry. “Was he… okay?”.

You hesitated, not sure how much to say. “He was in rough shape. Beat up pretty bad. I had to patch him up”. You dropped your voice even lower. “Bobby’s still out with Jodie. I didn’t want to bug them unless it got worse”.

Sam nodded, clearly concerned but not surprised. “That tracks. He’s been shutting me out for weeks”. He paused, worry flickering in his eyes. “Was it a hunt? Did he say?”.

You kept your voice low. “He wouldn’t say much. I think it went bad”.

Sam closed his eyes for a moment, sighing heavy. “Yeah… Hell did a number on him”. He shook his head, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Messed with his head. He’s not the same since he came back”.

You were biting your lip in worry, because the words hit harder than he knew. You kept seeing Dean’s face, wrecked and hungry, guilt flashing in his eyes. His hands on your skin. The taste of him on your lips. And now, all you could wonder was if it was really you he wanted at all. Or if you were just the closest thing he could grab, drowning and desperate for anything that felt alive. Was that all it was? Dean’s pain, looking for a place to go?

Sam didn’t notice your silence, or maybe he did and chose to let it sit. He just kept rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “He pushed me away. Said he needed space. But I don’t think he should be alone”.

You nodded, because you were not trusting yourself to answer.

Sam gave you a gentle but searching look. “You’ll let me know if it gets worse? Or if he needs—”. “Yeah”, you interrupted, voice just a little shaky. “I promise”.

He nodded, like he believed you, but his eyes lingered a beat longer, maybe wondering if you needed help, too. You managed a tired smile, mumbling something about needing some sleep and slipped away before he could say anything more.

Upstairs, in the safety of the dim hall, you leaned your forehead against the wall and let yourself breathe. You still tasted Dean’s kiss. Still felt the shape of his hands on your body, the ragged want in his voice, the way you’d melted for him. And you hated that a part of you, no matter how small, was afraid it didn’t mean anything real. That you were just an anchor in a storm, and when he was steady again, he’d let you go. You didn’t want to be just a lifeline. You wanted to be wanted.

For a long moment, you just stood there, caught between guilt and hope, the ache of wanting more than you were allowed to ask for.

Flashback

It was late spring, and Dean was home between hunts. Seventeen, impossibly cool in faded jeans and a Metallica shirt, like he didn’t even have to try. You’d been his shadow since morning. You followed him everywhere, fetched tools before he could ask for them and tried to copy the way he leaned beneath the hood of the car. You even drank your soda the way he did—one-handed, pinky sticking out slightly—just to see if he’d notice.

“Gimme the socket wrench, kid”, he called without looking up. You already had it waiting in your hand. Dean glanced over, grinned, and took it from you before ruffling your hair with the kind of warm, absent affection that made your heart pound hard enough that you were sure he had to hear it.

“Not bad”, he said. “You ever think about being a mechanic?”.

You shrugged, suddenly too shy to meet his eyes. “Maybe. If I get to work with you”.

He laughed, bright and easy. “Stick with me, you’ll learn all my secrets. Bobby says I’m the best damn driver in Sioux Falls”.

You beamed, heat rushing into your cheeks. You were just a kid, but that didn’t stop the butterflies. Dean was safe and wild all at once, and somehow he always knew exactly what to say to make you feel big instead of small.

Later that afternoon, you sat on the porch steps, picking at blades of grass while Dean sang quietly along to some Zeppelin song playing on the radio. Sunlight caught in his hair, turning the edges gold, and for one ridiculous second, you wanted to tell him he looked like one of the heroes from the stories Bobby used to read you when you were little. But you didn’t. Because you were twelve, and he was nineteen, and he called you kid and squirt and trouble.

And if your heart fluttered whenever he smiled at you, well— You told yourself it was only because he was Dean.

He wiped the grease from his hands onto his jeans, then tossed you a wink over his shoulder as he headed inside for lunch. “C’mon, Y/N! Food’s up. Last one to the table does dishes!”.

You bolted after him, barefoot and grinning, desperate to keep up, to stay close, to remain in his orbit for just a little longer.

Dean never noticed the way you watched him. He just kept you close. Like a little sister. Like a shadow he never wanted to lose.

You didn’t know what you wanted yet. Not really. You only knew that wherever Dean was, that was where you wanted to be.

Sunlight slanted across the cluttered kitchen table. No Sam this time; he was off at some summer camp. It was just you, Dean, and Bobby. Dean dropped into the chair beside you, your elbows bumping as you both reached for a plate. He only grinned and nudged you gently with his shoulder.

Bobby loaded up his own plate before eyeing the two of you with mock suspicion. “You gonna eat real food this time, or just potato chips and pie?”.

You copied Dean without even thinking about it, fork in your right hand, a generous scoop of mashed potatoes, carefully avoiding the pile of green beans Bobby tried to send your way. Dean didn’t notice. He was too busy drowning his roast in gravy. Bobby did. He hid a smirk behind his mug.

Dean took a bite, then flashed you a proud grin. “That’s how you do it, kid. Meat and potatoes. All you need”. You nodded solemnly and copied his exact bite, only for your nose to wrinkle when your eyes landed on the green beans again.

This time, Dean caught it. He leaned closer, lowering his voice as though he were about to let you in on classified information. “Just push ’em under the mashed potatoes”, he whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Works every time”.

Your face lit up and you did exactly that.

Bobby shook his head, but there was no real irritation in his voice. “Bad habits, Winchester. She’ll be following you right into trouble”.

Dean glanced over at you and winked. "She already does”.

Something squeezed pleasantly in your chest, and you ducked your head, suddenly very interested in your food. Your foot bumped his beneath the table—accidentally, maybe a little on purpose—and Dean nudged you right back without even looking.

It was easy with him. That effortless kind of affection that made it feel like you belonged right there beside him, no matter how small you sometimes felt.

-

You woke in the night to the sound of rain and stared at the ceiling. Down the hall, you could hear Sam’s gentle, even snore. Somewhere downstairs, a floorboard groaned. You pulled on a sweater, drifted down the hall and peered out the kitchen window.

Dean was outside, little more than a dark shape on the porch, barely visible through the storm. You watched him for a moment. His shoulders were hunched, his hands buried deep in his pockets as the rain blew sideways beneath the awning, catching in his hair and along the edges of his jacket. He was staring out into the rain like he was waiting for something to crawl out of the shadows and drag him under.

He couldn't stop replaying that night. Your lips against his. The closeness between you. The terrifying ease with which he'd forgotten every reason he was supposed to pull away.

He'd wanted it. That was the part he couldn't forgive himself for. You were Bobby's daughter. You'd spent years trailing after him, his shadow, someone he'd always thought of as family. Someone he was supposed to protect. Except none of it felt simple anymore. Not after he'd kissed you back.

Dean exhaled shakily and dragged a hand over his mouth. He should go inside. Pretend it hadn't happened. Pretend he could shove the whole thing into one of those locked rooms in his head and never look at it again.

But his feet wouldn't move, because pretending wouldn't change what he'd done. And it sure as hell wouldn't change the fact that some part of him still wanted to turn around.

Behind him, the kitchen light flicked on. Your silhouette appeared in the window. You stood on the other side of the glass, watching him through the rain. You didn't open the door. Didn't call his name. The old screen door remained between you, flimsy and useless and somehow feeling like the only boundary either of you had left.

When Dean finally glanced back, something twisted painfully in his chest. Part of him wanted you to come outside. Wanted to pull you close, feel your warmth against him, and pretend for five damn minutes that the world might let him keep something simply because he wanted it. The other part of him, the part that remembered promises, responsibility, all the lines he'd spent years telling himself he would never cross, wanted to stand in that rain until it washed the thought out of him completely.

Then Dean turned away. His shoulders settled into that stubborn, carved-from-stone posture you knew too well.

You understood. He didn't want you out there. So you let the curtain slip from your fingers. Shame burned through your chest, hot and nauseating as you stepped away from the window. Maybe Dean had really simply been alone for too long. Maybe the nightmares, the injuries, the things Hell had left buried beneath his skin had finally worn him thin enough that he'd reached for the first bit of warmth he could find. Maybe he'd needed something, anything, to remind himself he was still alive. And you'd been foolish enough to think it had meant something more.

You bit your lip until it hurt. Had you made everything worse? Had you pushed when you should have stopped? Had you become one more thing Dean had to carry? The thought made your stomach twist.

You hated yourself a little for wanting him. Hated the small, stubborn piece of hope inside you that still wanted him to turn around, walk back through that door, and tell you that you hadn't imagined it. That he wanted you too. But more than anything, you hated the idea that you'd made his life harder. Dean already carried too much. He already looked like a man trying not to drown. You couldn't stand the thought of being another weight tied around his ankle.

So you went upstairs. You crawled into bed and curled tightly beneath the covers, trying to chase away a cold that had nothing to do with the weather.

Maybe morning would make things clearer. Maybe daylight would put everything back where it belonged. Maybe the two of you would find your way back to whatever safe had been before this—or at least become good enough at pretending.

-

You barely slept. For hours, you lay staring at the ceiling, rehearsing what you would say when you finally saw Dean. You'd tell him it was okay. You'd tell him you understood. You'd promise to keep it between the two of you, to never mention it again if that was what he wanted. You'd find some way to make it easier for him. Or at least… less unbearable. You would forget. That was what you told yourself, anyway. You'd pretend it had never happened. Let Dean go back to being what he'd always been to you—impossible, untouchable, safely out of reach.

He deserved that. He deserved to breathe without you making everything heavier, without your feelings and your mistakes becoming one more thing he had to carry.

By morning, your eyes burned from exhaustion.

You finally dragged yourself out of bed and into the bathroom, splashing cold water over your face until the shock of it made you gasp. You shoved your hair into something that almost passed for presentable and stared at yourself in the mirror for a second longer than necessary.

You looked terrible and your heart wouldn't stop pounding. Still, you made yourself leave the room. You padded quietly down the hallway, already imagining Dean in the kitchen. He'd be hunched over a mug of coffee, probably pretending to read the newspaper like nothing had happened. Maybe he'd glance up when you walked in. Maybe there'd be an awkward second where neither of you knew what to say. And then you'd fix it. You'd make sure he knew he didn't have to worry.

But when you reached the kitchen, Dean wasn't there. Bobby and Sam sat at the table instead, their voices low beneath the soft clink of plates and silverware. Bobby looked tired, but relieved to be home.

You stopped in the doorway and your stomach went cold.

Bobby looked up first, his face breaking into a crooked, affectionate smile. “Mornin’, kid. Didn’t expect you up this early”. Sam grinned, his mood lighter now that Bobby was back. “Hey. You want eggs? Bobby made a mountain”.

You hovered in the doorway, searching the room with your eyes and trying not to sound desperate. “Where’s Dean?”.

Bobby and Sam both paused. Bobby shot Sam a look, then turned back to you, his voice gentler. “He left before sunrise. Said he needed to hit the road. Didn’t say much else”.

You felt the words like a punch to the chest. Gone. Just like that. Not a word. Not a note. Not even a good-bye.

Sam watched your face, concern flickering. “He didn’t say where. Just packed up and went. You know Dean… he gets itchy when he’s stuck too long in one place”.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. That sounds like him”.

Bobby eyed you a little longer, like he wanted to ask what he was missing, but he didn’t. Just poured another mug of coffee and pushed it your way.

You tried to smile, tried to act like it didn’t matter, tried to pretend you weren’t already breaking inside. You sat at the table, picking at your eggs, pretending not to notice the empty chair, pretending you could just erase the last twenty-four hours and start again. But you couldn’t forget.

-

A few weeks passed and you tried not to check your phone every night. Tried not to glance at the screen whenever it lit up, hoping for his name. A text. A call. Anything that might mean Dean was somewhere out there thinking about you too.

You told yourself you were giving him space. That was what he needed. What he deserved. But knowing that didn't make the silence hurt any less.

Every day that passed without a word from him left behind a dull little ache, settling somewhere beneath your ribs and refusing to leave.

Flashback

You were fourteen that summer, caught in that awkward, hopeful space between girl and woman. Your body was changing faster than you could keep up with. Your chest had grown the past few weeks, and every time you wore your usual shirts you felt exposed.

You’d finally saved enough for a real bra, not just a sports top. You’d hidden it away in a little bag, pink and soft and mortifying, crammed deep in your backpack where nobody could possibly find it. Except Dean was in the kitchen that afternoon, leaning against the counter, shoving half a cookie in his mouth and looking way too pleased with himself for someone who’d just stolen the last of Bobby’s stash.

You tried to sneak through, clutching your bag, cheeks already burning.

Dean clocked you immediately. He grinned, his eyes glinting with mischief as he swallowed. “What’s with the sneaky face, Y/N? You got beer in there?”.

You clutched the bag tighter, trying to keep your cool. “It’s nothing. Just laundry”.

He pushed off the counter, moving toward you with the swagger of someone who’d never once been embarrassed in his life. “Sure it is. Lemme see”.

“Dean, no—”, you yelped, but he was faster, long arms and quick reflexes on his side. He snatched the bag from your grip, holding it high out of reach as you jumped for it, mortified. “Whatcha got, huh?”, he teased, flipping the bag open, clearly expecting to really find a beer or maybe candy. Instead, his eyes landed on pink fabric and a tangle of straps. He went silent. You watched his brain stutter, mouth open in horror.

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. “Dean, give it back!”.

He closed the bag in a flash, cheeks turning red for the first time you could ever remember. “Oh. Oh—uh. Shit. Sorry, I—uh—here”. He shoved it back into your hands, suddenly unable to meet your eyes, ears turning pink. “Didn’t know it was, uh, girl stuff”.

You snatched the bag back and clutched it to your chest, your face burning. “It’s not— It’s just a—”. You couldn’t even finish the sentence.

Dean cleared his throat and immediately looked anywhere but at you. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t mean to—uh. Sorry”.

You rolled your eyes, still pink to the roots. “It´s fine, but… it’s just…”. You pulled the bra halfway out of the bag and gestured helplessly at the straps. “These stupid things. They’re either way too long or way too short. I’ve tried fixing them, like, a hundred times”.

Dean blinked. Then he stared at the straps with the same suspicious concentration he usually reserved for unfamiliar engine parts. “Those little plastic things move, right?”.

“Yes, Dean”.

“Okay. Just checking”.

Despite yourself, you laughed. Dean shoved his hands into his pockets, suddenly looking far less like the cocky Winchester you knew and much more like somebody who desperately wished Sam were here to deal with this instead. “I mean… how complicated can straps be?”. You gave him a flat look. Dean immediately grimaced. “Yeah, okay. Dumb question”.

“I watched a commercial and still couldn’t figure it out”.

“That’s because commercials lie”. You snorted.

For a moment, Dean studied the problem from a safe distance before reluctantly holding out his hand. “Give it here”. You raised an eyebrow. “The bra”, he clarified quickly. “Not while you’re wearing it. Obviously. Just let me see the straps”.

You handed it over and Dean held it at arm’s length like someone had passed him a suspicious piece of evidence. “Okay”, he muttered. “This looks basically like the adjuster on a backpack”.

“It is not a backpack”.

“I know that”.

“You’re holding it like one”.

“Do you want help or not?”. You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.

Dean fiddled with one of the sliders, pulling the fabric through carefully. “So… this way makes it shorter”.

“I think”.

“You think?”.

“I told you I don’t know!”.

“Fantastic. Blind leading the blind”.

A few seconds later, Dean handed it back with an expression of cautious triumph. “There. Try that”.

You disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door. A minute later, your frustrated groan carried into the hallway. “Dean!”.

“What?”.

“They’re worse!”.

There was a pause before you heard a very offended: “No way”.

“They’re practically falling off!”.

“I followed the system!”.

“What system?”.

Another pause. “My system”.

You cracked the bathroom door open just enough to stick your head through. “Your system sucks”.

Dean pointed accusingly at the door. “Hey, I fix cars, not underwear”.

“Can you try again?”.

He sighed dramatically and held out his hand.

You slipped one arm through the doorway and passed the bra back to him without opening the door any farther.

“Okay”, Dean muttered. “Attempt number two”. He adjusted the straps again while you waited behind the closed door. “Try now”.

You took it back and another minute passed. “Oh!”.

Dean straightened outside. “Oh good or oh bad?”.

“Good. I think”. You stepped out of the bathroom wearing the bra beneath a loose shirt, twisting awkwardly as you tried to see your own back in the mirror. “Dean?”.

He looked up from where he’d been waiting in the hallway. “What?”.

“Can you just check if the straps are sitting right? I can’t tell if they’re digging into my shoulders”.

Dean hesitated for half a second, then shrugged. “Yeah. Turn around”.

You turned your back to him and pulled your hair over one shoulder. The back of your shirt hung low enough that the straps were visible across your shoulders, but everything else was covered. Dean leaned closer, squinting at them, “Okay… left one looks fine”.

“And the other?”.

He hooked one finger beneath the edge of the strap near your shoulder and immediately frowned. “Yeah, that one’s way tighter”.

“I knew it”.

“Hold still”. He tugged gently at the little adjuster through the open back of your shirt, trying to loosen it without making you take everything off again. “That better?”.

You rolled your shoulder experimentally. “A little”.

Dean adjusted it once more. “There?”.

“Yeah. Perfect”.

And naturally, that was the exact moment Bobby came around the corner. He stopped. Dean was standing directly behind you, one hand near your shoulder, fiddling with a bra strap visible through the open back of your shirt.

Bobby stared. Dean looked at Bobby. You looked over your shoulder. And nobody said anything for one painfully long second.

Then Bobby's eyes narrowed. “Dean”.

Dean immediately stepped back and lifted both hands. “Not what it looks like”. Bobby's expression somehow got worse. Dean grimaced. “Yeah, okay, terrible choice of words”.

You turned around quickly. “Dad, he was fixing the strap”.

Bobby looked between you. “The strap”.

“Yes. It was cutting into my shoulder”, you explained. “I couldn’t reach the adjuster properly”.

Dean pointed toward your shoulder as though presenting evidence in court. “One was tighter than the other”.

Bobby stared at him and Dean slowly lowered his hand. “I'm gonna stop talking now”.

“That’d be smart”.

You groaned. “Dad”.

Bobby sighed and rubbed a hand down his face, some of the alarm finally leaving his expression and Dean visibly relaxed.

“Maybe next time you find yourself standing behind my daughter with your hands anywhere near her bra, take about three seconds to think about how that's gonna look when somebody walks around the corner”.

Dean glanced at you, then back at Bobby. “Yes Sir”.

Bobby shook his head and started down the hallway. “Both of you are gonna put me in an early grave”.

Dean waited until Bobby was several steps away before muttering, “For the record, the strap was definitely too tight”.

Without turning around, Bobby called back “Winchester”.

Dean shut his mouth and you bit down on a laugh.

-

The days blurred together for Dean. Case after case, motel after motel, rain-slicked highways and truck-stop coffee cooling in his hands. He’d let himself slide right back into old habits, hunting down anything with teeth and a heartbeat, filling the empty hours with work and whiskey and one-night stands that never quite touched the sides.

Woman after woman, name after name. The more he tried to lose himself in the taste of someone new, the more your memory stuck to him like salt on skin. Sometimes it was in the softness of a stranger’s hair, sometimes in the way a laugh echoed through a bar. Always, always it was your face. Smiling, pink-cheeked and looking up at him like he was worth saving.

He hated himself for it. Hated how good you had felt in his hands, how every touch, even the innocent ones, had burned themselves into his palms. He remembered the shiver of your skin, the way your breath had hitched when he leaned close. He remembered how you’d tasted, sweet and desperate and so much more than all the rough distractions he’d found in parking lots and hotel rooms since. Nothing worked. Nothing washed you out of him.

Sometimes he wondered if he'd broken you. If whatever had happened that night on Bobby's couch had hollowed something out inside you the same way it had him. The thought usually came late, when there was too much whiskey in his blood and not enough noise in the room to drown himself out.

Other nights were worse. Those were the nights when the darkness closed in and Hell came crawling back beneath his skin, when sleep meant screaming and waking wasn't much better. And on those nights, all Dean could think about was you. How safe he'd felt with you there. How, for once, breathing hadn't seemed so damn hard. How easy it had been to let himself stop fighting for a minute and simply want something. Want you.

He'd sworn he would stay away. For your sake as much as his own. He told himself you deserved better than whatever wreckage he'd brought back from Hell. Told himself Bobby would skin him alive if he ever found out. Told himself that eventually, if he stayed gone long enough, you'd be happier without him haunting the edges of your life.

It sounded reasonable. Almost noble, if he didn't think about it too hard. But Dean had never been very good at running from the things that mattered.

And he couldn't outrun you. Not really. Not for long. Because every time his phone buzzed against the nightstand, his hand moved before he could stop it. And every single time, some stupid, desperate part of him hoped it would be you.

Flashback

You were sixteen, barefoot on the porch in cut-off shorts and an short shirt, sprawled across the steps with a book in your lap and your hair tangled from the wind. Sam was here for a weekend, arguing with Bobby in the kitchen. Dean was half-listening, half-watching you through the open screen door, pretending to be more interested in the carburetor on the table than in the way you tucked your legs under yourself. He didn’t mean to stare. He didn’t mean to notice, not like that. You’d always been Bobby’s girl, his tagalong. But that day, your laugh was lower, your eyes lingered longer and something in Dean’s chest twisted up hard. He didn’t have words for it then. Didn’t recognize it as attraction. It just made him restless, hot under the collar, his jokes coming out sharper, his glances a little too long. It wasn’t until Bobby’s voice thundered behind him that he realized he’d been caught. “Dean”.

Dean nearly jumped, knocking a wrench off the table. Bobby stood behind him, arms crossed, eyes flat and dark as a thunderstorm. “You got somewhere else to look?”.

Dean bristled, defensiveness snapping up like armor. “Just keepin’ an eye out, Bobby. Place is full of rats lately”.

Bobby didn’t smile and didn’t move. “She’s sixteen, Dean”.

Dean looked away, his throat tightening. “I know”.

Bobby stepped closer. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped, quieter now, but hard enough to cut. “Don’t play dumb with me, boy. I know your type. I know your damn track record”. His jaw flexed. Anger sat plainly in the lines of his face, but underneath it was something heavier. Worry. “You so much as look at her the wrong way, you’re gone. You hear me?”.

Dean forced himself to meet Bobby’s eyes. For a second, the room seemed to shrink around him. He felt like a kid again; dirty sneakers, trouble written all over him, standing in front of someone who could see every bad decision before Dean even had the chance to make it.

“She’s off limits, Dean”, Bobby said. “Always will be. You get me?”.

Dean nodded. Shame burned hot beneath his skin, sharp enough to make him want to look away again. But somewhere beneath it, something stubborn had already begun to take root. He didn’t want to hurt you. He sure as hell didn’t want to hurt Bobby. But somewhere along the way, that instinct to protect you had started tangling itself around something else—something unfamiliar, something Dean wasn’t ready to look at too closely, much less put a name to. “Yeah”, he said quietly. “I get it”.

Bobby studied him for another long second, his stare sitting heavy on Dean’s chest. Then he clapped a hand against Dean’s shoulder. Not gently. “Good. Now go clean up. Lunch is on”.

Dean gave another short nod and bit the inside of his cheek, trying to shake off the conversation as he headed for the sink.

He told himself not to look back. Told himself there was nothing to look at. Still, his eyes drifted toward the porch. Toward you. And somewhere deep down, in the place he tried hardest not to listen to, Dean felt it. Something was changing. He just didn’t know what it was yet. And worse, he didn’t know how to stop it.

Outside, you caught him looking and only smiled. Easy and unaware. Completely unafraid.

-

The air was sharp with cold, every motel parking lot washed in the same dull winter gray. Dean sat hunched behind the wheel of the Impala, both hands wrapped around a Styrofoam cup of bad coffee. The radio played low beneath the hum of the heater while wind chased scraps of paper and plastic across the asphalt outside. He stared through the windshield and thought about nothing. Or tried to.

His phone buzzed against the passenger seat. Dean nearly ignored it. Nearly. But old habits died hard. He glanced at the screen.

Sam

His thumb hovered over the button for a second before he finally answered, his voice rough from too many nights without enough sleep.

“Yeah?”.

He could hear the smile in Sam’s voice when he answered, cautious but honest. “Hey, man”.

Dean dragged a hand over his mouth, eyes fixed on the windshield. “Hey, Sammy. You alright?”.

“I’m fine”, Sam said, in a way that made it sound almost true. “Just—checking in. Haven’t heard from you in a while”.

Dean grunted. “Been busy”.

A beat of silence followed.

“You gonna be busy for Christmas, too?”.

Dean said nothing. Something in his chest tightened and Sam took a breath. “Look, Bobby’s making dinner this year. And Y/N invited me”. A pause. “She’s, uh… been asking about you. Said you oughta come back, at least for a day”. Another pause. “You know how she gets”.

Dean closed his eyes. Yeah. He knew exactly how you got. He could picture you in Bobby’s kitchen, stubbornly determined to make the place feel warm and lived-in no matter who was missing. Probably stringing up decorations Bobby complained about while secretly leaving every single one exactly where you put it.

Your voice would be bright. Too bright. Like if you smiled hard enough, nobody would notice the empty chair.

Dean swallowed. “I dunno, man”.

“Dean”. Sam’s voice softened, but there was something firm beneath it. “It’s been weeks. You can’t keep running forever. Bobby’s getting worried. She—”. Sam stopped. Dean’s grip tightened around the coffee cup. “She what?”.

Another hesitation. “She misses you”.

Dean’s throat worked. Something raw threatened to climb its way out, and he shoved it back down before it could become anything he’d have to explain. “I’ll think about it”, he managed barely louder than a whisper.

“That’s all I’m asking. Just think about it”. His voice softened again. “It’s Christmas, Dean. We’re supposed to be together”.

Dean nodded even though Sam couldn’t see him. “Yeah”. He stared down at the steering wheel.

After they hung up, Dean stayed exactly where he was. The silence inside the Impala seemed louder than the radio now. His breath fogged faintly against the cold air leaking through the windows as he pictured you sitting at Bobby’s kitchen table. Stubborn and waiting.

Then he remembered your hand in his. Remembered being close to you, and how impossible it had felt to pull away once he'd let himself have even a second of it.

His chest tightened again. That was when the passenger door opened. Cold air rushed inside, followed by the blonde bartender from earlier—Candy or Mandy, Dean genuinely couldn't remember anymore. She slid into the seat with an easy grin, running a finger along his arm like she already knew exactly what kind of night he was looking for. “You ready?”, she asked, her voice syrup-sweet.

Dean looked at her. For half a second, he almost said no. Instead, he pulled together something resembling a smile. “Yeah”. He turned the key and shoved everything else somewhere deep enough that he wouldn't have to look at it. At least for a while.

He followed her directions out of town to a run-down apartment building with a busted elevator and hallways covered in carpet that smelled permanently of smoke.

Twenty minutes later, Dean sat on the edge of her mattress. The room was half-dark, her perfume heavy in the stale air. She was close, fingers working at his belt with practiced confidence, treating the whole thing like a game she'd played a hundred times before.

Dean let her. That was the problem. He just… let her. Because he wanted to feel something. Anything. Anything that wasn't guilt. Anything that wasn't wanting the wrong. Anything that wasn't the impossible mess he'd been carrying around for weeks.

She laughed softly at something he didn't hear, leaning closer and Dean felt absolutely nothing. He closed his eyes. Tried to remember what it was supposed to feel like to want this. Instead, his mind betrayed him. He saw you. Felt the warmth of you. Heard the way his name had sounded in your voice.

Dean's jaw tightened. He tried to shut it out. Tried to replace the memory with the woman in front of him. Couldn't. Because underneath all the noise, all the whiskey and motel rooms and strangers whose names he never bothered remembering, there was only that same hollow ache.

And when Dean closed his eyes, all he could see was you.

Still he let Candy or Mandy pull him closer, but he was a million miles away. No matter how he tried to chase it, the only thing he wanted was the one thing he could never have.

She tugged his jeans down just enough, freeing him from the confines of his boxers. He was already half-hard from the mechanical anticipation, veined and heavy in her hand. She wrapped her fingers around the base, giving a slow, teasing stroke that made him twitch, her grip firm but not too tight, like she’d done this a hundred times before. And hell, she probably had. “Damn”, she murmured, her breath hot against his skin, “you’re packing, aren’t you?”.

She licked her lips, painted red and glossy, before leaning in, her tongue flicking out to trace the underside of his shaft from base to tip. Dean’s hand found the back of her head, fingers threading into her bleach-blonde hair, not guiding yet, just holding on as she worked him over.

She was talented, no doubt about it, swirling her tongue around the head, sucking lightly at first, then deeper, her cheeks hollowing as she took him in inch by inch. The wet heat of her mouth enveloped him, her lips stretching around his girth, and she hummed low in her throat, the vibration shooting straight through him. She bobbed her head deliberately, saliva slicking him up as she twisted her hand in rhythm with her mouth, pumping what she couldn’t fit.

Dean groaned, his hips shifting involuntarily as she picked up the pace, slurping noisily, her free hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently while she deep-throated him like a pro. “Fuck”, he muttered, eyes squeezing shut, but even as the pleasure built, it felt distant, like he was watching it happen to someone else.

She gagged a little when she pushed too far, but she didn’t stop, pulling back only to dive in again, faster now. Dean’s fingers tightened in her hair, urging her on, but his mind was elsewhere.

It wasn’t enough. It never was.

He pulled her off him with a wet pop, her lips swollen and smeared, a string of saliva connecting them for a second before it broke. She looked up at him, eyes watering but grinning like she’d won a prize. “You want more?”, she purred, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Dean didn’t answer. He just hauled her up, rough, flipping her onto the bed face-down like she weighed nothing. She laughed, arching her back, ass up as she spread her legs, already shimmying out of her skirt and panties. “Yeah, baby, give it to me hard”.

He grabbed a condom from his wallet and rolled it on, positioning himself behind her. No foreplay, no tenderness; this was how he did it, how he always did it to take the edge off, to drown out the noise in his head. He gripped her hips, nails digging in, and thrust into her in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt in her.

He fucked her roughly, hips snapping forward, the room filling with the sounds of skin on skin, her moans turning into breathless pleas and his own detached grunts.

Twenty minutes later, Dean dressed in the half-light of that unfamiliar bedroom, the air thick with the scent of cheap perfume and sweat. Her soft laughter were echoing somewhere far behind him as she sprawled across tangled sheets. He barely heard her, barely felt the bruises on his hips or the scratch marks down his back. It all faded as soon as he pulled his jeans on, buckled his belt, and looked at himself in the mirror above her dresser. He didn’t see the usual cocky smirk that used to come after nights like this. He just saw someone tired. Someone haunted.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, jaw tight, the shame rising up to choke him. He’d thought it would help, just like every other time. He’d thought maybe, if he went hard enough or long enough, if he let someone else’s voice drown out your name in his head, he’d finally be able to forget the shape of you, the taste of your lips, the warmth of your hand in his. That the ache might fade.

But it never did. If anything, it just made it worse.

As he tossed the condom in the trash, zipped his jacket, and mumbled something half-hearted to the woman in bed, he felt emptier than before, like every time he tried to fill that void, it just carved him out a little more.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

You’d gotten used to Bobby’s place being full of noise. But tonight, it was just you. Bobby was somewhere up north with Jodie, knee-deep in some wendigo mess, and he’d trusted you to hold down the fort while they were gone. Not that you minded. You’d grown up surrounded by hunters and danger didn’t scare you the way it once had. But something about tonight felt…off.

Maybe it was the wind scratching at the windows like claws. Or the way your chest ached out of nowhere. Or maybe, just maybe, it was something else.

After midnight, a knock came. Or rather a few. One knock, two, then a pause. Then three more, faster.

You grabbed the shotgun from beside the door without thinking. Bobby had trained you better than to open up blind. You didn’t need to check the peephole though. You knew that rhythm. Knew it by heart.

You hadn’t seen him in over a year. Not really. Not face to face. He’d been a ghost slipping in and out of your orbit, always there when you weren’t, always gone when you came home. Like the two of you were on opposite sides of a revolving door.

Your heart stuttered. You hated that it still did that little jolt at the sound of his name in your head.

You opened the door and your breath caught. He looked like hell. Literally. Blood smeared across his jaw. Torn-up flannel clinging to his frame like it was the only thing holding him together. Cuts, deep and ugly ones on his neck and shoulder. One eye was bruised nearly shut. His knuckles were raw. And something in his eyes… You knew he’d been to Hell months ago. You’d heard the whispers from Bobby, scraps of worry he tried to keep from you. But nothing prepared you for the emptiness you saw staring back at you.

“Hey, kid”, Dean said, like it was any other night. Like he wasn’t bleeding out. You hated when he called you that now.

“You’re hurt”, you said quietly.

Dean blinked. Looked down like he was just now noticing the blood. “S’not bad”.

You raised an eyebrow, lips tugging downward as you glanced over the fresh blood dripping down his arm. “Not bad?”, you repeated, voice flat. “You’re leaving a crime scene on the porch, Dean”.

He huffed something close to a laugh, but it was hollow and breathy. Like it hurt to even pull that much emotion up. His shoulders slouched further. “Bobby around?”, he mumbled, eyes shifting past you into the house, as if he could summon him out of thin air.

“No”, you said, stepping aside so he could come in. “He’s helping Jodie. Wendigo hunt”.

Dean hesitated. Just for a second. The porch light cast a tired shadow across his face, catching the mess on his skin, the haunted tension carved into his expression. Then he sighed and limped past you into the house without another word. You shut the door behind him.

The air felt different the moment he was inside. Thicker somehow. You weren’t sure if it was the smell of blood or the quiet knowledge that you were suddenly alone in a house with Dean Winchester.

He dropped himself down onto the old couch with a grunt, his hand clutching his side. You watched from the hallway, heartbeat in your ears. Dean always carried weight when he walked into a room, but this time it was different. It wasn’t just the blood or the silence or the way he looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. It was the way he looked at you… or didn’t. Like he didn’t quite recognize what he was seeing. Like you weren’t a kid anymore and he didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

You moved without a word, grabbing the first aid kit from the hallway closet. You brought it into the living room, kneeling on the rug in front of Dean as you popped the case open. “Shirt off”, you said calm.

Dean arched a brow, but it wasn’t flirtatious, it was tired. Defensive. “You patching me up now?”, he muttered, and for a second his voice dipped into that gruff edge, that instinctive habit he had of teasing to avoid getting looked at too closely.

“Unless you’d rather wait a couple days for Bobby to get back and die of infection on his couch”, you shot back.

He smirked faintly but it didn’t reach his eyes. Then he started unbuttoning what was left of his flannel slowly, his fingers stiff and trembling slightly. You tried not to watch the way the fabric peeled back from his skin, revealing the bruises blooming across his ribs, the slices and scrapes that hadn’t yet scabbed over. But it was hard not to look. Not because of the injuries, but because it was him. There had always been something about Dean that made your chest ache, even when you were a teenager stealing glances from behind Bobby’s bookshelves. But now… Now it was worse.

He caught your eye for a second as you soaked a cloth in antiseptic. Just a second. But then the cloth touched his skin and he hissed under his breath, eyes flickering shut. “Son of a bitch”, he muttered.

“You’ve had worse”, you said softly. His lips twitched. “Doesn’t mean it tickles”.

You worked in silence for a few minutes, wiping blood away and cleaning the cuts. His breathing stayed shallow, jaw clenched every time you got too close to a deep one. You were careful but not gentle. Something about treating him like he’d break felt wrong. Dean Winchester didn’t break. But god, he looked like he already had.

“You look like you got hit by a semi”, you said, breaking the quiet.

“Kinda did”, he replied, staring up at the ceiling. “Demon was wearing a meat suit twice my size. Fast, too”.

“And you went in solo”, you guessed, voice low.

Dean didn’t answer right away. “I’m fine”, he said instead, which meant he wasn’t. Not even close.

You leaned back on your heels for a second, staring at him. “You know”, you said, “Bobby would kill you for pulling a stunt like that. Sam, too”.

Dean’s eyes flicked toward you again. There was something in them that wasn’t there before. A flicker of guilt. “Didn’t mean to show up on your watch”, he said after a long pause.

You looked down at the needle in your hand, thread already looped and waiting, and muttered, barely loud enough for the room to hear: “Yeah. You usually don’t anymore”. The words slipped out quieter than you intended, but you didn’t take them back. They hung there for a beat. And Dean heard them. You felt it in the shift of his posture and the way his jaw tensed. He sighed. It was soft, ragged around the edges. You thought maybe he was going to say something. Maybe even apologize. But… no.

“Hold still”, you murmured, scooting in closer as you positioned yourself to start stitching the deep gash across his lower abdomen. It had split open badly, needed to be done right.

You leaned in, forearms resting lightly across his thighs to steady your angle as you worked. Dean went still. Ridiculously still. Your hands moved automatically, focused on closing the wound, but you heard his breath hitched for just a second. Your brow furrowed without looking up. “You okay?”, you asked, almost absentmindedly, not catching what you’d just done to him.

Dean cleared his throat. “Peachy”, he said, voice tighter now. Rougher. He was trying to sound normal. Like nothing was going on. Like your arms weren’t pressed across the very place he was trying not to react to.

You didn’t notice. You were too focused on the wound, the needle, the way your hands moved like Bobby had taught you. You didn’t feel the shift in his body under you, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides. You didn’t catch the flicker in his expression, like he was trying to think about literally anything else except where you were touching him.

Dean Winchester had taken on hellhounds without flinching. But this? This was different. Because it was you. The little girl who used to trail behind him and Sam with dirt on your cheeks and questions on your tongue.

Except… you weren’t a little girl anymore.

And maybe that had been easier to forget when you were always gone, when you weren’t sitting between his legs, pressing your body against his while threading a needle through his skin like it was nothing.

He grunted when the stitch tugged a little too hard. You looked up quickly. “Sorry”, you said softly, eyes meeting his.

His lips parted like he was going to say something again, but no sound came out. There was a moment. Then Dean leaned back and turned his head slightly, jaw ticking. “So”, he said, voice gruff again. “How long’s Bobby gone for?”.

You blinked at the sudden topic shift but rolled with it. “Couple more days, maybe three”, you replied, tying off the final stitch. “Depends how messy it gets”. Dean nodded, still not looking at you.

You leaned back, finally finished. The wound was clean, sealed neatly. “There”, you said quietly. “Try not to rip it open again. Though I guess that’d be one way to get Bobby back faster”.

Dean chuckled dry. Still not meeting your eyes. “Guess I’ve got a habit of crashing the party”.

You stood, collecting the bloodied gauze and used needle. “Yeah”, you said under your breath, “you do”.

-

You finished cleaning up in the kitchen while Dean stayed on the couch, half-dozing, half-hovering between exhaustion and whatever darkness still clawed at the edges of his mind.

You’d made him a sandwich and left it on the coffee table in front of him. He hadn’t said thank you. He didn’t need to. The look in his eyes when you set it down, soft and too guarded to be grateful out loud, was more than enough.

“You should sleep”, you said, pulling a clean blanket from the hallway closet. “You look like hell”.

Dean quirked a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to argue. But he didn’t.

You tossed the blanket over him anyway, tucking it loosely around his middle like Bobby used to do when you were kids and maybe your fingers lingered a little longer than they should’ve against his chest. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t even blink. Just watched you, unreadable.

“Night, Dean”, you murmured, turning to go.

“Night, kid”.

That word again. Kid. But his voice cracked on it this time, just a little.

-

It was sometime after 3 a.m. when his voice woke you. “No, no—don’t—don’t—”.

You sat bolt upright, heart thudding before you slipped from bed without thinking. The hallway was dark, but you didn’t need light. You knew this house blind.

The sounds got louder as you neared the living room. Thrashing fabric, harsh gasps, a guttural noise that made your skin crawl. He was dreaming. No, not dreaming. Trapped.

You stood in the doorway for half a second, watching the way his body writhed beneath the blanket. Sweat soaked his hairline. His lips moved fast, too fast, whispering something you couldn’t make out. “Stop—please—no more—”.

You crossed the room in a blink, crouching beside the couch. “Dean”, you whispered, hand brushing his shoulder. “Dean, wake up. You’re dreaming—”. He jolted upright with a strangled gasp, eyes wild and chest heaving.

For a second he didn’t see you. His gaze was distant, feral. Somewhere else. Somewhere far worse than here. You froze, your fingers still resting on his bare skin where the blanket had slipped low. Then, slowly, his eyes found you. Focused. “Y/N”, he rasped, voice hoarse. His breath hitched again.

“I’m here”, you whispered, gently pushing some damp hair from his forehead. “You’re okay. You’re safe. It’s just me”.

Dean looked like he might collapse in on himself. You sat down beside him without asking. Just close enough that your knee brushed his. The room was cold, but his skin burned like a fever.

“I didn’t mean to—”, he started, then stopped. His voice broke. “Didn’t mean to wake you”.

“You didn’t”, you lied quietly. “It’s fine”. He went silent again.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye. The way he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. The tremble in his fingers. The way he looked like he’d rather die than let you see him like this. But you saw him anyway. And you didn’t flinch.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”, you asked, softer than before.

He shook his head. You nodded. You expected that.

You swallowed before speaking again, voice barely more than a breath. “Want me to stay?”.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the floor. But it didn’t mean what it usually meant. Dean had a way of saying no without saying go away. A way of pushing people out while screaming silently for someone — anyone — to just stay put. You’d grown up around him long enough to know the difference. He wasn’t turning you away. He just didn’t know how to ask.

So you didn’t move. Didn’t press. You just leaned back against the couch beside him, pulling your legs up under you, the edge of the blanket brushing your bare thighs. You crossed your arms loosely over your chest. Your presence wasn’t loud. It didn’t try to fix anything. It just was. That’s all he needed.

Eventually, Dean let out a breath. His shoulders slumped like something heavy had loosened inside him, just slightly. “You don’t gotta—”, he began, then trailed off. “Stay, I mean. I’m not… good company”.

You glanced over at him, watching his profile. The flicker in his jaw. The tension in his hands. You could’ve said a thousand things. You’re wrong. I want to. You don’t have to do this alone. But none of those would’ve worked on Dean. He didn’t respond to comfort. He responded to truth. So you just said: “I know”.

His head dipped slightly, almost like a nod. Or maybe he just couldn’t hold it up anymore. Another minute passed. The house was still again. Silent.

Then he shifted and leaned back against the couch, closer to you than before. His thigh brushed yours. His shoulder hovered just near enough that you could feel the heat of his skin radiating between you like a pulse. “I was back there”, he murmured after a long moment. “In the dream”.

Your chest tightened. He hadn’t talked about Hell. Bobby had warned you never to ask. Said it wasn’t something Dean could put into words, not really. But here he was. Cracked open. You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just let him say what he needed.

Dean swallowed hard, eyes locked ahead, unfocused. “It doesn’t ever go quiet in there. You think it will. That maybe the screaming gets dull after a while, or you go numb. But you don’t. You never do”. He shook his head, breathing through his nose like he was trying not to fall apart again.

You opened your mouth to say something, but Dean beat you to it. “Never mind”, he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Forget it”.

He sat a little straighter again, like whatever had just slipped out was already regretted. Like letting you see it, see him, had been a mistake. Classic Dean. You knew the pattern. Offer just enough to taste vulnerability, then rip it away before anyone could really see him bleed.

But you didn’t pull away. And you didn’t let him. “Too late”, you said softly.

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so bitter. Then he looked over at you and for a moment, his eyes were unreadable. Like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to apologize or crawl out of his own skin.

“Didn’t mean to… unload”, he said.

You smiled faintly, tilting your head just enough to catch his eye. “You always say that when you actually need to”, you replied gently.

He scoffed, eyes flicking away again. “That obvious, huh?”.

“Only to someone who’s been studying your grumpy ass since I was seven”.

That earned you the smallest twitch of his mouth. You leaned back against the couch cushion, still close, still steady, nudging his thigh lightly with your knee. “And don’t flatter yourself. I didn’t stay up because you’re special”, you teased, eyes narrowing just a little, mock-serious. “I just didn’t trust you not to bleed all over our couch in your sleep”.

Dean chuckled. There it was. That tiny crack in the armor.

“You always had a mouth on you”, he muttered.

“And you always needed someone to keep yours in check”, you fired back with a small shrug. “Balance”.

He looked at you again. This time longer. Something flickered in his expression. A memory, maybe. Or a thousand. You and him, always side by side in the back of Bobby’s yard. Shooting cans off fences. Researching hunts. Falling asleep on each other during movie nights no one remembered the ending to. You’d always had his back. Even when you were too small to be useful. Even when you had no business standing between him and danger. Especially then.

“You haven’t changed”, Dean said suddenly, voice low.

You raised a brow. “Thanks? Or…?”.

He smiled, but there was something sad in it. “Still trying to fix people who don’t want to be fixed”.

You paused at that, the tease in your chest faltering for a moment. “I’m not trying to fix you, Dean”.

He looked skeptical.

“I’m not”, you repeated, softer this time. “I just… I don’t like watching you carry this alone. You’ve always done that. Even when we were kids”.

Dean’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t speak. You weren’t sure if he couldn’t, or just didn’t know how. So you pressed on, gently. “Remember that black dog hunt? In Ohio? You and Sam were all banged up, and I brought you gas station burritos and patched up your hand with duct tape?”.

Dean huffed again, this time with more amusement. “Yeah. And then you passed out on the motel floor with a machete under your pillow”. You shrugged. “Well, someone had to keep you in line”.

He shook his head slowly, but the weight in his shoulders had eased. He looked at you again, and the way his eyes lingered made your stomach flutter, just once, before you crushed it down. It was the kind of look that felt too long for a friend. Too familiar for a stranger. Too old to be new. But not quite enough to be spoken out loud.

“Try to get some sleep,” you murmured, glancing down at the quiet tangle of your fingers still resting beside his on the couch. “I’ll be right here”.

-

The next morning, when you padded into the kitchen, it was like none of last night had happened.

Dean stood at the stove, one hand curled around a mug, the other flipping a slice of bacon in the pan. The radio was playing low in the background. And Dean? He was humming. Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t spilled pieces of Hell across your lap at 3 a.m. Like he hadn’t fallen asleep with your hand in his, breathing like it was the first real breath he’d taken in months.

You blinked, disoriented.

“Morning”, he said when he saw you. Easy. Light. The corner of his mouth tilted up just enough to look familiar. “Hope you’re hungry. Bacon’s not bad for expired meat”.

You leaned on the doorway, arms crossed. “Dean”, you said slowly, voice still thick with sleep, “you hate cooking”.

“Desperate times”, he replied, flashing you a grin. “Figured I owe you one for playing nurse last night”.

Your stomach twisted at the way he said them. So casual. Dismissive. Like that was all it had been. A scratch on the surface. A favor. Not the moment it really was.

You watched him for a second longer, then moved to the counter, grabbing a mug from the rack. “You okay?”, you asked carefully.

Dean took a sip of coffee and nodded. “Peachy”. Peachy. The same word he’d used the night before when he was bleeding and shaking and couldn’t meet your eyes.

You let out a quiet breath and poured your coffee. The silence between you felt different now. Not the soft, safe kind from last night. This one had edges. Walls.

“You slept okay?”, you asked, still trying.

“Like a rock”, he said, leaning back against the counter, sipping his coffee like it was any other morning. “Couch wasn’t as bad as I remembered”.

Liar.

You knew he’d woken up at least twice after you’d gone back to your room. You’d heard him pacing. Heard the floorboards creak beneath him. Dean Winchester, master of the emotional vanishing act.

You sat down at the table, watching him move like it was all fine, like he wasn’t wearing a fresh layer of armor. “Cool”, you said, trying to match his tone. “Good to know Hell-flashbacks come with breakfast now”.

Dean stilled, just a fraction. His hand tightened around the mug before he turned back to the bacon. “Told you not to worry about that”, he muttered.

“You didn’t tell me anything, Dean”, you replied, your voice calm, but firm. “You just shook your head and looked away”.

He didn’t respond. You let the silence stretch this time, let it thrum with everything he wasn’t saying. Everything he’d dumped into your hands and was now pretending didn’t exist.

Dean moved stiffly, plating the bacon and toast like it was a mission. He set it on the table in front of you with a half-smirk. “Eat up. Wouldn’t want Bobby to think I let you starve”.

You stared at the plate. Then up at him. And something in you tightened, frustration, maybe. Or that familiar ache that always came when Dean pretended too hard. When he built a wall and painted it to look like a smile. You wanted to dig. Just gently. Just enough to find the thread again, the one he’d let you hold last night. But before you could open your mouth— “I don’t wanna talk about it”, Dean cut in, tone low but pointed.

You blinked. “Didn’t realize I started talking about it”, you said, voice dry as you reached for your fork. “God forbid I speak in your general direction”.

Dean shot you a look over his mug. “Don’t start, Y/N”.

“Not starting”, you said sweetly. “Just sitting here, enjoying my ‘thank-you-for-saving-my-life’ breakfast in total silence like you clearly prefer”.

He exhaled through his nose, biting back a comment, while your eyes dropped to the front of his shirt. Your stomach flipped. “Dean”.

“What?”.

“You’re bleeding”.

He glanced down, frowning like he hadn’t even noticed. Maybe he hadn’t. A stain was blooming beneath the fresh stitches on his stomach. “Son of a bitch”, he muttered under his breath, pulling the hem of his shirt up to check the damage.

“Yeah, you think?”, you snapped, pushing back from the table.

“Don´t make a thing out of it.”

“Oh, right. God forbid anyone makes a thing out of you bleeding out”, you snapped again, already heading to grab the first aid kit. “Next time just say, ‘Hey Y/N, don’t mind the pool of blood I’m casually leaking all over your floor, I’m just emotionally repressed and physically incapable of asking for help.’ That cool?”.

“I said don’t start”, Dean growled, voice hardening.

“And I said shut the hell up and sit down before you rip open the rest of your gut”, you snapped right back, rounding the corner with the kit in hand.

Dean paused. Then sat. Muttering something under his breath that sounded like “Bossy little brat”.

You heard it. “You’re lucky I’m nice”, you said, dropping to your knees in front of him once more, yanking the kit open. “Otherwise I’d accidentally stitch your stupid mouth shut too”.

Dean huffed a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He lifted his shirt without comment. And just like that, despite the sarcasm, the snark, the deflection, there it was again. That closeness. That pulse between you.

The moment your fingers touched his skin, he flinched. Barely. More reflex than anything. But you felt it.

“You should’ve said something”, you murmured, voice softer now.

Dean didn’t answer. Just watched you as you peeled the gauze back gently, inspecting the damage.

“You can let me take care of you, you know”, you added, quieter. “It doesn’t make you weak”.

He didn´t answer. He just leaned back against the kitchen chair, shirt rucked up and bunched just below his chest, exposing the damage of a few reopened stitches and darkening bruises.

You tried to focus as you cleaned the area. But up close like this, it was hard to focus on anything but him.

His stomach was solid, soft in some places, firm in others. All strength built from years of fighting, layered with old scars and fresh damage.

You swallowed, trying not to look at the way the ridges of his lower abs dipped just under the waistband of his jeans, or the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath them. You focused on the wound. The thread. The way your fingers moved, careful and clean, steady even as your heartbeat kicked up like a war drum.

His skin was warm under your touch. Damp from the fever, but not hot enough to worry you. The bruise across his ribs had darkened overnight, blooming sickly purple and green. You traced the edge of it with feather-light fingers before wiping the area clean again.

Dean hissed through his teeth.

“Sorry”, you murmured.

“’s alright”, he muttered. “You’ve got soft hands. Doesn’t even hurt that bad”.

You tried to roll your eyes, but your stomach flipped instead. You dipped your head, hiding your face as you reached for the needle. But that just made you realize, thst the hem of your sleep shirt had crept up, brushing high across your hips. You hadn’t changed out of your nightwear. Your shorts were too small, your legs bare and now you were kneeling between Dean Winchester’s legs, with your face not even a foot from his very exposed stomach.

You froze, needle paused mid-air, suddenly hyper-aware of everything. Of the smell of his skin, the heat rolling off his body, the sound of his breath as it hitched slightly.

Your face flushed hot. Pink bloomed across your cheeks like wildfire and you cursed yourself silently, trying to will it away. Don’t let him notice. Don’t let him see you turning into a puddle because he exists.

Your fingers worked the thread carefully, closing the split stitch along the lower edge of the wound. You could feel his breath catch just once when your knuckles grazed lower, almost too low.

You didn’t mean to look up. But you did. And he was already watching you.

The air between you tightened.

You blinked first, focusing hard on the last stitch, breathing slow, trying not to think about how his skin felt under your palm, or the way your thighs were starting to tremble.

“Alright”, you said quietly, finishing the last knot. “That should hold. But you have to stop acting like you’re invincible”.

Dean didn’t move. Didn’t answer for a second. Then, softer than before: “You used to patch up my hand with duct tape and a juice box straw. When the hell’d you get this good?”.

You smiled, small, but real, still not meeting his eyes. “I grew up, Dean".

Silence. You could feel him looking at you again. Really looking. Like he hadn’t noticed before. Like he did now. But he said nothing. And neither did you.

-

Dean spent most of the day out in the yard with the Impala. You watched from the window for a while the November’s chill seeping through the old walls of Bobby’s house. You could barely feel your toes. And Dean? Out there in nothing but a flannel jacket and his stubborn pride.

Rain had started around noon. The Impala’s hood had been open since morning, tools spread out like surgical instruments on the workbench. That engine didn’t need another tune-up. Dean had already fixed it three times over. But he didn’t know what else to do.

Sam hadn’t been around for weeks. Dean had told him to give him space. And Bobby? He was still a full day and a half away, out on some supply run or small-town salt-and-burn, promising to check in when he could.

So that left just you. And the car. And the quiet.

Dean didn’t come in for lunch. Or the coffee you left by the back door. You didn’t push. If he needed space, he’d take it. He always had.

It was nearly seven when you finally heard the back door creak open. You were on the couch, a book in your lap that you’d reread the same paragraph of at least eight times. The rain tapped on the windows. The room smelled like old paper, gun oil, and the cinnamon tea you’d made an hour ago and forgotten.

Dean stepped inside, dripping rainwater, boots heavy on the floorboards. His jacket was soaked, hair damp, but he didn’t look cold. Just tired. Like the day had taken something out of him he hadn’t known he was holding.

He didn’t say anything at first. You looked up from your book, watching him with the same quiet curiosity you always had. Waiting to see if he'd open the door, or keep it locked.

Then, casually, like it didn’t matter, he cleared his throat. “You hungry?”.

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Why?”.

Dean shrugged one shoulder, too nonchalant. “Thinking about a drive. Town over’s got that crappy little burger joint. Fries so salty they’ll kill your arteries before the demon ever gets the chance”.

You blinked, a beat passing before you caught on. “You’re inviting me?”.

Dean glanced away, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “You don’t eat enough. And I’m bored”, he muttered.

You bit back your smile, letting it tug at the corner of your mouth instead. “You sure this isn’t just a cry for help disguised as a cheeseburger run?”.

He rolled his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. “Don’t make me regret it, kid”.

You stood, tugging on your hoodie and stepping into your boots by the door. “Fine”, you said, grabbing the car keys from the bowl by the shelf before tossing them lightly in his direction. “But I get to pick the music”.

Dean caught the keys one-handed, flashing a tired smirk. “In your dreams”.

-

The Impala roared to life beneath you. Rain streaked across the windshield and the heater kicked on just enough to start fogging the windows.

Dean adjusted the dial on the radio, flipping through a few static-heavy stations before settling on Zeppelin. His fingers tapped absently against the wheel, but his eyes stayed on the road.

You leaned your head against the cool glass, eyes watching the blur of trees and dark wet highway, then glanced sideways at him. The streetlights cast gold across his face in flashes — jawline sharp, hair still damp, lips set in that half-smirk he wore even when he wasn’t trying.

It was easy to remember younger Dean in moments like this. Softer around the edges. Less broken. Still that same fierce protector, though, always between you and the world like a damn wall.

“You remember that trip to Tulsa?”, you said suddenly, breaking the quiet.

Dean shot you a glance. “The one where you snuck six candy bars into the back seat and threw up on my boots?”.

You grinned. “That’s the one”.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “You were, like, what? Eleven?”.

“Ten”, you corrected. “And you didn’t have to wear those boots”.

“I had one pair!”, he groaned. “And I spent the next two hours trying to scrub out chocolate puke with windshield washer fluid because Bobby didn’t pack wet wipes”.

You laughed, full-bodied and warm, and for a second, the cold November air felt like summer again.

Dean glanced over at you, smile softer now. Real. “You were always around”, he said after a beat, quieter. “Little shadow. Every time I turned around, there you were”.

You shrugged, pretending to be casual. “You were cool. Later you had the car. The music. Knew how to shoot salt rounds and drive before you could legally drink. I wanted to be you”.

Dean snorted. “Bad role model, kid”.

“Best one I ever had”.

That earned you a glance. Something flickered in his eyes, something closer to gratitude, or maybe guilt. Like he didn’t believe he deserved the words, but he held onto them anyway.

You turned your head back toward the window. “Still remember the first time you treated me like a grown-up”, you said lightly, but your smile grew.

Dean raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”.

“Yeah. I got my first period, and you were the only one home”.

He groaned immediately. “Oh hell. Don’t”.

You laughed. “I was twelve! It was summer. Bobby was on a hunt, Sam was gone, and I swear you thought I was dying”.

“I did think you were dying!”, Dean exclaimed, trying not to smile. “You came outta the bathroom pale as a ghost, holding a bloody towel, and I thought something ripped you open”.

You clutched your stomach, laughing harder now. “You panicked! You made me lie down, brought me a bottle of Jack for the pain, and then locked yourself in the kitchen, trying to find out how to stop internal bleeding”.

Dean was red now. “In my defense, nobody told me you were old enough for that crap!”.

“I had boobs by then, Dean!”.

He groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m telling you, I was not qualified. I didn’t even know where Bobby kept the damn diapers. I ended up giving you gauze and saying ‘just… tape it, I guess?’”.

You were crying from laughter now, doubled over in the passenger seat, tears streaking down your cheeks.

Dean was laughing now too, full and breathless, hands tight on the wheel just to stay steady. “I was nineteen, Y/N!”, he wheezed. “I’d killed werewolves by then but nothing, nothing, prepared me for that bathroom horror show”.

The two of you dissolved into a mix of laughter and wheezing silence, the Impala rolling through the wet night as your shared history played like a slideshow between headlights.

And then, just as the laughter quieted, a silence settled between you. A gentle one.

You turned your head again, watching his profile in the dark. “You did good, Dean”, you said softly. “You always did”.

-

Dean wouldn’t let you eat in the Impala. Of course he wouldn’t. You could bleed on the upholstery, pass out half-dead in the backseat, or stash a cursed dagger under the floorboards, but get one drop of ketchup on the leather? Armageddon.

So he parked under the old bridge outside town, rain hammering heavy as the two of you unwrapped greasy bags of food, steam rising into the cold air.

You sat side by side on the hood, wrapped in your too-thin hoodie, sharing fries from a crumpled paper boat balanced between you. The bridge above gave you just enough shelter to stay dry, but the mist still clung to everything.

Dean, naturally, didn’t seem to feel the cold. He took a bite of his burger, leaned back on one elbow, and let the silence stretch.

You glanced over, watching the curve of his jaw flex as he chewed. He looked tired again. But not the kind of tired that sleep could fix.

You nudged his boot with yours. “You’re quiet”.

Dean shrugged, eyes still fixed out on the dark stretch of road beyond the bridge. “Just thinking”.

You took a sip of your soda. “Dangerous”. That earned you the barest curve of his mouth.

Another beat passed. You expected him to make a crack, something about the food or the weather or your taste in music. But instead, without looking at you, he said: “So, uh… you thinking about college?”.

You blinked, thrown. “What?”.

He finally looked at you, burger paused halfway to his mouth. “College. You know. Books. Parties. Whatever else kids your age are supposed to be doing”.

“I’m not a kid”.

“No, you’re not”, he said quietly.

You looked down at your lap, where your fingers were slowly unwrapping the edge of a napkin without realizing it. “Why are you asking?”, you said, trying to keep it light.

Dean shrugged again, a little too casual, a little too careless. “Just… figured you might want out, someday. You know. Normal life. Dating. Classes. Getting drunk on cheap beer and regretting it like everyone else your age”.

You stared at him for a second. It wasn’t just a question. Not from Dean. It never was. “You mean getting out”, you said softly. “Out of this life”.

He didn’t answer. Which was answer enough.

You leaned back beside him. “I used to think about it”, you said. “Back when I was younger. The normal life. Parties. Boys who didn’t carry switchblades in their pockets”.

Dean huffed a laugh. “Bet that didn’t last long”.

“Nope”, you smirked. “Got over it fast. Turns out I like this life better”.

You were quiet for a while. But eventually you mumbled: “I missed you”.

You didn’t mean for it to come out that soft, almost like a secret. But it was the truth. Raw and real and sitting in the middle of your ribs for the last year.

Dean didn’t move at first.

“I mean…”, you added quickly, trying to smooth over the sudden weight of it. “You were always gone. And when you weren’t, I was. Felt like the door was always swinging, just never at the same time”.

He nodded slowly, eyes on the horizon, jaw clenched. You couldn’t tell if he was mad, or trying not to feel something else. “Yeah”, he said. Almost too low to hear. “I noticed”.

He shifted a little, turning his head toward you. The rain had slowed to a mist, fog curling under the bridge like breath. You could barely make out his expression in the dark, but you didn’t have to see his eyes to feel them on you. “I didn’t do it on purpose”, Dean said finally. “Staying gone”.

You nodded. “I know”.

“After I got back… it just… everything felt off. Like I didn’t know where I was supposed to be anymore”.

You looked at him, heart thudding. “You were supposed to be here”, you said quietly. “You always were”.

He looked at you for a long time. You didn’t look away. And then, slowly, he reached for the paper boat between you and plucked a fry, flicking it at your shoulder. You gasped. “Did you just throw food at me?”.

Dean smirked, that cocky little half-smile finally creeping in. “Gotta break the tension somehow”.

You scoffed, grabbing a fry and launching it right back at him.

He caught it midair. Show-off. And for a second, things felt like they used to. Simple. Safe.

Before the nightmares. Before Hell. Before you both grew up too fast.

And yet… underneath the playfulness, something unspoken still curled between your ribs. You missed him. You still did. Even when he was sitting right beside you.

-

Dean had one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely in his lap. The drive-thru bags were empty now, crumpled and tossed into the backseat, forgotten. Your legs were pulled up on the seat, socked feet resting on the dash, much to Dean’s unspoken annoyance, but he didn’t say anything. He let you.

The quiet between you wasn’t awkward anymore. Not like before. It was the kind of silence that knew you. You watched the road for a while. Then him. The soft set of his jaw. The way his fingers tapped idly on the steering wheel in time with the song on the radio. His profile lit now and then by street lamps, flickering gold across his cheekbone, the scar near his chin catching the light.

“You always looked like a grown-up to me”, you said quietly, surprising even yourself.

Dean glanced at you, one brow raised. You shrugged, looking back out the window. “When I was a kid. You were nineteen, twenty. But you felt older. Like you knew what you were doing”.

He laughed softly. “Yeah, well. Joke’s on you. I didn’t have a damn clue”.

You smiled at that. “Still seemed like it”.

“You were just small”, he said, glancing over again. “Everything probably looked bigger”.

You shook your head, resting your chin on your knee now. “No… it wasn’t just that”.

Dean was quiet again, eyes on the road.

“It wasn’t fair, though”, you added, after a pause. “You didn’t get to be a kid. Not really”. His jaw tightened at that, just slightly. You hadn’t meant it to be heavy, but it was.

“I didn’t mind. Someone had to look out for Sammy. For you”.

“You still do”.

He nodded once, eyes still forward. “That’s the problem”.

You turned your head at that, watching him in profile. “Why is that a problem?”.

He didn’t look at you. Just kept driving. “Because sometimes I don’t know who I am outside of that”.

“You’re still you, Dean”, you said softly. “Even when you’re not protecting someone”.

He didn’t answer. But he blinked slowly, like maybe your words hit a part of him he hadn’t been willing to admit needed hearing.

You sat in that quiet a little longer, letting the mist fog the edges of the windshield.

Then, gently: “I used to pretend I was part of your team”, you said, a little smile tugging at your lips. “Back when I was a kid. Like I was this little secret Winchester nobody knew about”.

Dean’s eyes flicked toward you, warm. “You were part of the team. Hell, half the time you were the only one with enough brain cells to save our asses”.

You laughed. “You just needed someone to fix your spelling”.

“And keep you from running off to fight things twice your size”, he added, grinning now. “You had a knife that was bigger than your arm. I still have no idea where you got it”.

“I borrowed it from the kitchen”.

Dean shook his head, smiling into the darkness. “Yeah, that tracks”.

You watched him for a second longer, your heart tightening in your chest. Not from pain, but from everything else. From knowing him. From being known by him. From growing up in the shadow of his strength and realizing somewhere along the way, you’d started matching it with your own.

“I missed this”, you whispered.

Dean looked over, gaze soft. “Me too”.

-

Dean didn’t say anything as you got out of the car, just locked it behind you and walked up the steps with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. You followed silently, your hoodie pulled tight around your body, the scent of wet leaves and grease clinging to your skin.

Inside, the house was quiet. Still warm from earlier, but barely.

“I’m gonna hit the shower”, Dean mumbled, heading for the bathroom without waiting for a response.

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you, and leaned against the kitchen counter, fingers tracing the rim of your mug from this morning. It was strange, how easily everything had slid back into place, the way you both moved around each other without needing to ask where anything was. Like no time had passed at all.

But it had. So much had.

By the time Dean came back out, your heart was already beating a little faster. Not from nerves. Not entirely. Just from knowing he’d been thinking about you. Asking questions he didn’t want to ask. And you? You’d never been good at pretending, not with him.

You didn’t say anything, just brushed past him with a small, quiet smile, heading toward the bathroom for your turn under the hot water.

The shower helped. A little. Steam wrapped around your body like fog, easing the ache in your shoulders, washing away the chill of the night. But it didn’t clear your head. It didn’t erase the feel of him beside you on the hood of the Impala. Or the sound of his voice, deeper now.

You found Dean sitting on the couch, feet up, a beer in his hand and another set on the table beside him. The light was dim and his flannel sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, arms resting lazily over the back of the couch.

He held out the second beer without a word. You took it and sat down beside him.

The silence stretched again. You sipped slowly, the bottle cold against your fingertips, and watched the way his thumb rubbed across the edge of the label on his own. It was quiet. Peaceful even.

And then his hand brushed your knee. Accidental, maybe. But he didn’t move it. Neither did you.

You didn’t look at him, couldn’t, but your breath caught all the same. You felt him shift, just slightly, like he was trying to decide something. Like maybe he’d reached the end of pretending.

And then his fingers curled lightly around your knee. So damn warm. Your heart skipped.

You looked over, finally, and he was already watching you. Not in a brotherly way. Not anymore. There was something unspoken in his eyes, but it wasn’t confusion. It was recognition. Like he’d been trying not to see you for a long time. And now he couldn’t stop.

“You cold?”, he asked softly. His voice was lower now.

You nodded, maybe a little too fast.

Dean shifted again, closer this time, and pulled the throw blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over both of you without a word. His arm stayed behind you now. Your shoulder brushed his chest. His hand still rested on your knee.

The TV played something muted in the background, neither of you paying attention.

Dean’s palm slid a little, brushing higher over your thigh before he caught himself and stopped, pulling his hand back like the contact burned. He cleared his throat, eyes flicking to the beer bottle, the TV, anywhere but your face.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye, heart pounding. It was so quiet you could hear the clink of his ring against the glass as his hand tightened around the neck of the bottle. His jaw flexed. He looked guilty, almost, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Or something worse. “Sorry”, he muttered. “Didn’t mean—”. He didn’t finish, because you both knew he did mean it. Even if he didn’t want to.

You swallowed. You didn’t pull away. Didn’t say a word. Just let your fingers, trembling a little, slide beneath the edge of the blanket so they brushed lightly against his wrist.

Dean let out a shaky breath, not looking at you. For a moment, neither of you moved.

He tried to focus on the TV, on the bottle in his hand, on anything that would ground him back in the world where you were Bobby’s kid, younger than him, someone he was supposed to protect — not crave. But the need to feel something had been burning through him for months, lighting him up from the inside out. Usually he chased it with violence, or whiskey, or sex with strangers in town.

But this wasn’t any of those things. It was you. And that made it worse.

“Maybe we should…”, Dean started, voice thin, forced casual. “Maybe you should get some sleep”.

You didn’t let go of his wrist. “Maybe I’m fine right here”, you whispered.

Dean’s gaze dropped. His hand flexed under yours. He looked like he might get up, run, or maybe pull you into his lap and finally let go.

But he didn’t do either. Instead, he tried to laugh, but it came out hollow. “You know your dad would kill me if he saw us like this”, he said, still not quite meeting your eyes.

You smiled, soft and sad. “He’s not here”.

Dean’s knuckles brushed your thigh again, this time slower, more deliberate. Like he wanted to memorize the feeling, just in case he made himself stop.

For a second, the only sound was the rain outside, tapping against the window, and the quiet, ragged pace of his breathing.

He pressed his forehead to yours, close enough you could smell the beer and the warmth of his skin. “You’re off limits”, he whispered, the words trembling. “You always were”.

Your fingers traced the inside of his wrist, gentle but certain. “Does it feel that way?”.

Dean shook his head, eyes closing, pain and want written all over his face. “No”, he said, voice breaking just a little. “Not right now”.

You leaned in, your lips almost brushing his. You waited for him to pull back, to run, to do the right thing. One moment you were hovering, breaths mixing, your hand cradling Dean’s wrist, the next, his mouth was on yours. Warm, soft and desperate in a way that made the room spin.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. Not really. It was slow, yes, but hungry, all the need and longing and months (years) of not-touching crashing together. Dean tasted like beer and salt, his lips plush but unsteady, a shiver running through him every time you pressed closer.

His hand slid up your thigh, thumb tracing a line so reverent it made your knees weak. You moved instinctively, straddling his lap, legs bracketing his hips, arms curling around his neck. The blanket slipped away, forgotten, pooling at your backs as you melted into him.

Dean moaned softly into your mouth, the sound rough and deep and so damn needy, a sound you’d never heard from him before, a sound that made your skin flush hot. You felt his hands on your back, your waist, your legs. You felt everything. Especially the hard line of him pressing up between your thighs, through jeans and cotton and nothing but want.

You rocked your hips, barely thinking, just chasing the heat of his body and the low, broken sigh he let out against your lips. Dean’s hand slid beneath your sweatshirt, his palm splaying wide over your lower back, pulling you closer until your chest was flush against his.

He broke the kiss just long enough to suck in a breath, forehead pressed to yours, both of you shaking. “Damn it, Sweetheart…”, he whispered, voice ragged, hands trembling as they slid over your bare skin.

You shivered, pressing your nose to his jaw, breathing in the scent of him, the heat. You mouthed at the stubble on his neck, biting gently, desperate to leave a mark, to prove, even if just for a moment, that this was real.

Dean groaned, deep and desperate, rocking up against you, his erection hard beneath you. You whimpered, hips rolling, chasing friction. It was everything, all at once, years of waiting, years of not looking, years of knowing you were off limits but not caring, not now, not when it finally felt like the world could stop.

And then the doorbell rang. The sound was shrill, jarring. You both froze, breathless, lips still almost touching, your body pressed tight to his.

Dean’s eyes fluttered open, pupils blown, lips kiss-swollen and parted.

The bell rang again. Louder.

“Hey! Open up, it’s freezing out here!”.

Sam.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 2

-

The letter sat on your coffee table. Your name and the words “hereby tender my resignation” staring up at you. Your signature at the bottom looked shaky, like your hand had tried to change its mind halfway through. You were curled on the couch in your cat pajamas, little cartoon kittens all over them, utterly ridiculous for someone who’d spent the afternoon coming apart in a supe’s penthouse. Your hair was damp, your skin clean, but you still felt… wrong. Like you’d left parts of yourself behind in his hands, in that room and in the way his voice had sounded when he said this isn’t over.

You pulled your knees up to your chest and wrapped your arms around them, staring at the letter. Marmalade hopped up onto the cushion beside you, circled once, and flopped down with her back pressed to your thigh, purring like everything was fine.

“I can’t go back”, you whispered. “I can’t— I can’t be around him and pretend this is just… scheduling or stupid talking points”. Your heart stuttered, remembering the way his hips had moved.

If you quit now, maybe you could still be… normal. Take another PR job. Write bland press releases about soup or tech companies. Go back to being invisible. Forget that, for a few awful, perfect minutes, a man like him had looked at you like you were the only thing holding him together.

Your chest hurt. You pressed your forehead to your knees while your eyes were burning, and tried not to have a full-blown panic attack on your secondhand couch.

Tomorrow, you’d go to HR and put the letter down. Caldwell would be pissed, but he’d deal. Vought would assign someone else. Ben would… lose his shit. You knew that. But you wouldn’t have to see it. You could be gone.

You were in the middle of imagining exactly how badly he’d react when a knock came. A loud one. You jolted so hard Marmalade shot off the couch with her tail puffed and started sprinting under the coffee table. Your heart launched itself into your throat, because nobody knocked like that. Not your neighbors, not delivery guys. The door rattled in its frame, dust shivering down from the cheap molding. You stared at it frozen. Another round, even harder. “Open up”, his voice snapped through it. “Before I fucking kick it in”. You went cold. Then hot. Then both.

Your first instinct was to pretend you weren’t home. Lights off, TV off, dead silent. Maybe he’d think he got the wrong apartment. Maybe he’d— “Doll, I can hear you fucking panicking” he said very impatient. “And your cat too. Door. Now”.

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Oh my god”, you whispered to yourself.

He sounded like he was about two seconds from putting a you-shaped hole in the door. “Doll”, he barked and his knuckles hit the wood one more time. “Either you open this, or I’m remodeling your fucking hallway”.

You swallowed hard while walking to the door. Your fingers were fumbling with the chain before you finally got it free and eased the door open just enough to peek out. He took up the entire frame. He was still in the suit. The real suit. Soot streaked across his jaw. There was a smear of something darker drying on his collar and one forearm.

“Hi”, you managed, voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes swept over you in one quick pass. His mouth twitched, something almost like fondness flickering there before the other emotions shoved it aside. “You gonna let me in”, he said, “or you gonna make your neighbors hear this conversation?”.

That did it. The idea of Mrs. Flores from 3b hearing any of this through the stairwell made your skin crawl. You opened the door wider and stepped back. He brushed past you, bringing the smell of metal and sweat with him.

Up close, the damage looked worse. A thin tear in the fabric at his side, scorched edging. A spatter of dried red was on one thigh that definitely wasn’t his, because he was moving too easily for that.

“You’re hurt”, you blurted.

He looked down, then snorted. “This? Please. I’ve had hangnails worse than that”. He looked up again, eyes already scanning past you, into the room. “Where is it?”.

Your pulse jumped. “Where is what?”.

He gave you a look. “Your fucking love letter. Few too many big words. Smells like ink and shitty decisions”. You froze.

His gaze cut to the coffee table. To the single sheet of paper lying there. He didn’t go for it. Didn’t even move his feet, only his jaw tightened. “Thought so”, he said.

You suddenly wanted very badly to be back inside your own skin instead of standing there in cat pajamas in front of a bloody superhero looking at your resignation letter like it had personally insulted him.

“I… haven’t turned it in yet,” you said, defensive even to your own ears.

“Yeah, no shit”, he said. “Kinda hard to quit when you’re still busy shaking in your living room”.

You flinched. “How did you even—”.

“I know you".

You swallowed and wrapped your arms around yourself. “You shouldn’t be here”, you whispered. “You should be… resting. Or debriefing. Or whatever it is you do after…”. You gestured vaguely at the soot and cracked armor and blood.

He watched the movement, then shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll live”. His eyes pinned you in place. “You, on the other hand, were five minutes away from nuking my sanity, so. Priorities”.

Your throat closed. “Don’t say things like that”.

“Like what?”, he demanded. “Like I just ran through hell and the only thing spinning my head is the idea of you handing that in and disappearing? ‘Cause that’s the truth, sweetheart. Doesn’t get less true ‘cause it scares you”.

You swallowed, looking down at your feet. Your toes curled on the cold floor. “I can’t do… earlier”, you said quietly. “Not again. I can’t handle…”. You flushed hard, the memory of his hands, your own body, crashing over you. “…all of it. You. The job. The way it makes me feel”.

“The way what makes you feel”, he asked, stepping closer, “me touching you, or me not?”.

You went pink to your ears. “Ben”.

He stopped himself then, exhaling hard as if wrestling something back down. “Okay”, he said, rubbing a hand over his face, smearing soot a little more. “I’m not here to drag your cute little ass back and pick up where we left off”.

Your brain shorted. “You’re… not?”, you said suspicious.

He gave a short, half-wild laugh. “Trust me, I want to. But every time I get near you lately you look like you’re torn between kissing me and jumping out a fucking window”. His gaze softened just a fraction. “I’m not gonna push you ’til you break”.

“You keep saying that”, you whispered. “That you won’t hurt me. But you’re… you. You hurt people just by being in the room. You scare them. You scare me”.

He went very still at that. Not in the brittle explosive way you’d seen in other people before they yelled. This was colder and sadder. His jaw flexed like he’d just taken a hit. He looked away, to the peeling paint by your kitchen light switch, then to the IKEA bookshelf you’d put together crooked, anywhere but your face. “Yeah. I know”.

You shifted your weight. “That’s… kind of the problem”, you said softer. “I’m… not like you. I’m not built for… high-stakes anything. I do emails. PowerPoints. I talk to my cat”.

“You also walk into my suite when I’m coked out and pissed off and tell me no daytime talk shows”, he said. “Everyone else gets sent in with a team and exits pre-planned. You just… show up. Tiny and shaking and still standing”. His mouth pulled into a crooked not-smile. “Don’t sell yourself short”.

Your chest squeezed and you dropped your eyes, blinking hard. “It doesn’t feel like standing”, you whispered. “It feels like I’m going to fall apart all the time and you just… happen to be there when I do”.

“Yeah”, he said quietly. “And I kinda like being there, if that’s not obvious”. That didn’t help.

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself. “Which is exactly why I wrote that”, you said, nodding at the letter. “Because I can’t think straight around you anymore. I can’t tell where my job ends and… whatever this is begins. And if I screw up? People get hurt. You get hurt. I can’t have that on me”.

He studied you. “So your solution”, he said slowly, “is to run. Pretend the last weeks didn’t happen. Pretend I’ll just… go back to being the asshole in the suit who doesn’t listen to anyone”.

You fidgeted while your guilt started pricking. “You’d be safer that way”.

His laugh was short and grim. “Sweetheart, I have been unsafe since 1935". He shook his head. “Not lettin’ you blame yourself for shit I was already doing before you were born”.

“Then what do you want?”, you asked helpless. “Because I can’t be your… I don’t even know. I can’t be the only thing standing between you and a crater. That’s too much”.

He looked at you like he wanted to argue. Then he visibly forced himself to swallow it. “What I want”, he said finally, voice low, “is you not to disappear without giving this a fucking shot. A real one. Not this halfway professional-only bullshit where we pretend I’m just your calendar with muscles”.

Your heartbeat stuttered. “Ben—”.

“I know you’re scared”, he went on. “Hell, I’m fucking-… You think I like the idea that one little PR girl can get under my skin more than a goddamn rocket launcher?”. He huffed a humorless laugh. “It’s fuckin' pathetic”. He blew out a breath and finally closed the distance between you. When he was right in front of you, he stopped. “Alright”, he said. “You want the truth? Here it is. I don’t want a fucking Handler. I’ve had those. They were leashes. I want…”. He grimaced, like the word tasted strange. “I want you. And that messes with my head. So congratulations. You freak me out just as much as I freak you out. Happy?”.

You let out a small, helpless laugh. “No?”. He snorted. “Yeah. Me neither”.

Silence stretched.

You shifted your weight again, then forced yourself to look up at him. “What if I screw it up?", you asked. “What if I run, or… just can’t do it?”.

He shrugged one shoulder. “Then we slow down. Or we yell at each other and fuck. I dunno, doll, we figure it out. You don’t gotta have a five-year plan for this”.

You stared at him. “Since when do you believe in ‘figuring it out’?”.

He made a face. “Since someone started crying in my elevator and I realized I’d rather eat glass than make her do it again”. His eyes dropped, flicking briefly over your pajama pants. “Even when she’s dressed like a kindergarten field-trip chaperone”.

You glanced down at the cats with heated cheeks. “They’re comfortable”.

“Yeah”, he muttered, something warm in his tone, “I bet”.

You swallowed. Your heart was still racing, but it wasn’t pure panic now. It was… something else. Something that felt like standing on the edge of a pool, deciding whether or not to jump.

“You’re really not here to…”, you gestured vaguely, face heating, “…do anything?”.

His mouth twitched. “Didn’t say that”. At your alarmed look, he held up both hands. “I’m not here to push anything. Big difference. You want me to stay on the other side of the room, I will. You want a fucking hug, you get a hug. You wan´t me to pop that cherry? My fucking pleasure”.

Your gaze snagged on his hands, big and empty and strangely controlled. Your cheeks went even more pink. “…a hug sounds kind of nice”, you admitted quietly.

He went very still, like you’d said something much bigger. Then, carefully, he stepped in, wrapped his arms around you and pulled you against his chest, snug but not crushing, one hand splayed between your shoulder blades. You fit there obscenely well.

Up close like this, the smell of him was… a lot. Smoke and metal and sweat, that harsh tang of burnt concrete and something coppery underneath. It soaked into your clean skin, into your freshly showered hair, like he was overwriting the day whether you wanted him to or not.

“You know”, he rumbled eventually, voice vibrating through your ribs, “I did just get back from turning assholes into pavement art”.

You swallowed. “…I noticed”.

His hand slid a little lower between your shoulder blades. “Kinda unfair you’re all warm and clean and smellin’ like vanilla and I’m over here wearin’ whatever’s left of some guy’s spleen”.

You made a horrified noise into his shirt. “Ben”.

“What?”. You could hear the grin in his voice. “You wanted honesty”.

“You are getting me dirty”, you mumbled, pulling back half an inch and looking down at where his suit was pressed against your front. There were definitely new smudges on your cats now.

“Yeah”, he said utterly unbothered. “Best you’ve ever looked”.

Your face heated. “That is not a compliment”.

“Sure it is”. He tipped your chin up with a knuckle, meeting your eyes. Up close, you could see the streaks on his jaw, the tiny cut at his hairline, the tiredness thinking about settling in around his eyes but not quite there yet. “Means you’re mine”.

You opened your mouth, then shut it, caught somewhere between flustered and fond. “You’re disgusting”, you whispered.

He smirked. “And you let me in anyway. What’s that say about you, sprinkler?”.

“That I make poor choices”, you said under your breath.

He huffed a laugh and then you saw that flicker again, that quick little glance down at your pajama top, then back up like he was reminding himself not to push. “C’mere”, he said, loosening his hold just enough to look you over. “Before I’ll ruin your whole kitten parade”.

You glanced down at yourself. “Damage is done”.

“Nah”, he said. “This is just level one. You keep me in this suit much longer, you’re gonna need to burn the whole outfit”.

You grimaced and he chuckled, finally stepping back a little. His gaze flicked toward your bathroom, then back to you. “You got towels?”.

You blinked. “Yeah?”.

“Good”. He hooked a thumb under one cracked shoulder pad, testing it. “’Cause if I sit on your couch in this, it’s never recovering. So you might wanna let me de-gore first”.

The word made you wince. “Can you… please not phrase it like that”.

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll go… freshen up”. He said it in a horrible fake-posh accent.

Your brain short-circuited for a second at the implication of him in your bathroom, in your tiny apartment, taking off that suit— You shoved the image away before your cheeks could catch up.

“Clean towels are on the shelf. Please don’t break the shower”, you said while backing up a little to give him space.

“No promises”, he muttered, already angling toward the doorway. He paused as he passed you, eyes catching on the new smudges on your pajamas. “You look good messy, by the way”.

“Go wash off your… organs”, you whispereds shyly.

Eventually, while Ben was in the shower, you crossed to the coffee table on autopilot. The paper felt heavier than it should when you picked it up. All those words that had felt so certain this afternoon looked flimsy now. Premature. You thought about him in the elevator, saying 'I’m not gonna hurt you' like he meant it more than he’d meant anything in years. About tonight and the fact that he came straight from hell to your crappy apartment, because he couldn’t stand the idea of you leaving without a fight. You thought about how it had felt, just now, with his arms around you and the way your body had gone quiet for the first time all day.

Your fingers crumpled the top corner of the letter. “Okay”, you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else. “Okay”. You tore it and carried the pieces to the trash, dropped them in, and shut the lid. “Fine”, you muttered at the air. “We… figure it out”.

-

A few weeks later, your world had gotten… different. Ben was everywhere. Not just in the literal, he-takes-up-the-entire-room way, though he did. But everywhere in the ways you’d never let yourself imagine before. You woke up tangled with him, legs over his, his hand on your hip, Marmalade’s tail flicking against your bare calf because she was jealous of the space he took in your bed.

He’d spent exactly one day pretending to take things slow after your first time. One. After that, it was like a switch flipped in him, like once he’d tasted softness he realized he’d starved for it all his life.

He was greedy for you, and he didn’t care who saw. Not Vought, not your neighbors, not the city through your living room window.

But it wasn’t just you he was greedy for. He was greedy for every part of you. The way you blushed when he teased you, the way you’d hide your face in his shoulder after a compliment, the way your hands trembled when you touched yourself in front of him for the first time, shivering and wide-eyed and trying to be brave for him.

And when he figured out just how deep your self-consciousness went, how quickly you’d hide from yourself if he let you, he decided that was one thing he wasn’t going to let stand.

Which is how you ended up here.

In his bed, knees tucked under you, blanket bunched at your hips. Ben behind you, hands bracing your thighs apart, his body pressed flush to your back. The big standing mirror across from the foot of the bed caught every inch of you both.

You’d protested, but he hadn’t listened.

“Look”, he murmured with his lips rough on your ear and one hand splayed low on your belly. “You spend all this time thinkin’ you’re not enough, or not pretty. Look at you now. Look how fuckin’ gorgeous you are”.

You tried to duck your head, but his other hand caught your jaw, tilting your face toward the mirror. His eyes met yours in the glass, bright and hot and so unguarded it made you ache.

“Ben”, you whispered, mortified at the sight of yourself.

He only grinned, hungry and soft all at once. “That’s it. See? That’s mine".

His hand slid from your jaw down the line of your throat until his palm rested between your shoulder blades. “Down, sweetheart”, he murmured. “Hands and knees for me”.

Your breath hitched. You hesitated half a heartbeat, but the way he said it, like it was a privilege he was asking, made your arms fold almost on their own. You sank forward and the blanket slipped away while your palms pressed into the cool sheets. The mirror caught how your back arched, your breasts swaying slightly with the movement and your thighs trembling as you settled on your knees.

Ben moved with you, never breaking contact. One big hand stayed splayed across your lower back, while the other guided your hips until you were exactly where he wanted: ass up, face angled toward the glass, eyes wide and glassy with nerves and want. “There we go”, he praised while settling behind you.

The heat of him blanketed your back, his chest brushing your spine as he leaned over you, surrounding you completely. You could feel him against the curve of your ass, but he didn’t push in yet. He just let you feel him, let the anticipation coil tighter.

“Look at you”, he said again, softer this time, almost awed. His hands smoothed up your sides, thumbs tracing the dip of your waist and the swell of your hips. “Look how pretty you are like this. All soft and open for me”.

You whimpered, tried to drop your head, but his fingers were already threading through your hair, gentle but firm, tipping your face back toward the mirror. “Uh-uh. Eyes up, baby. You don’t get to hide from this”. His voice dropped. “Watch what I do to you. Watch how fucking perfect you look taking me”.

He shifted behind you, one hand sliding down to grip himself, dragging the thick length of him through your slick folds, coating himself in you. Every pass over your clit made your hips jerk, a broken little sound spilling from your throat. “Ben—”. It came out a plea, while you weren’t even sure what for.

“I know”, he soothed, leaning down to press a kiss between your shoulder blades, then another, open-mouthed and hot. “I’ve got you”.

He lined up, the thick head nudging at your entrance, and paused. Just long enough for you to feel the stretch before he even moved. “Eyes on the mirror”, he ordered, voice strained now, like holding still was costing him. “Want you to see the exact second I make you mine again”.

Then he pushed in. Slow, watching your face in the glass as he sank deep. Your mouth fell open on a silent cry, back arching sharper as he filled you inch by inch. The mirror showed everything: the way your thighs shook, the way your fingers clawed at the sheets and the way your body took him like it was made for it.

He groaned, bottoming out with a final roll of his hips that made you sob his name. “That’s it”, he rasped, both hands gripping your hips now, holding you steady. “Look at you. So fucking sweet, and you’re taking all of me”.

He drew back, almost all the way out, then slid home again, slow and deep, forcing you to watch every second. To watch the sight of him disappearing into you, the flushed, desperate girl in the mirror who didn’t look shy anymore, just undone and beautiful and his.

“Keep watching”, he growled, starting a steady rhythm while one hand slipped around to circle your clit in time with his thrusts. “Don’t you dare look away. I want you to see what I see every fucking time I’m inside you”. And you did. You couldn’t have looked away if you tried.

-

Three months later, the gala dress lived in the back of your closet in a garment bag that smelled faintly of his cologne. The diamonds came out only for cameras. The cardigans stayed. You wore both, your softness and your shine, depending on the day and what the world demanded.

Vought tried, of course. There were meetings with too many bullet points, memos about “optics”, a brief-but-memorable moment where Legal asked if you could “refrain from being seen breathing in photos with Soldier Boy”. You smiled, sent back edits, and stood at Ben’s shoulder anyway.

He learned, too. Not the PR stuff (God help anyone who tried), but you. How to say please without choking on it. How to pull back when your shoulders crept up to your ears. How to ask, quietly, “good?” when the color drained from your face, and how you’d nod (yes, slow down) until the room felt breathable again. He never stopped being himself. He was still brash, dangerous and so damn loud. But with you, there was a lane carved through all that noise that no one else got to use.

At home, the world got smaller in the best way. Marmalade made peace with the intruder and began sleeping on his sternum.

Work found a new equilibrium. You drafted statements with fewer apologies and more truth. He stopped torching rooms just to feel the heat.

You never turned in a resignation letter. You did, however, rewrite your job description in a way that made HR blink and then sign it because nobody wanted to be the one to tell Soldier Boy he couldn’t have the handler he’d finally started listening to.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

You barely slept. Instead you’d stared at the ceiling. When you did drift off, it was shallow and anxious with images looping in your head of your lips on his. Or the heat of his palm at your waist. The feel of him when your hand slipped lower ad the look on his face when you bolted.

You showered twice, because you couldn’t get the smell of him off your skin, no matter how hard you scrubbed. You had put the green dress back in the garment bag and folded the diamonds into a sock drawer.

For work you pulled on your favourite cardigan and a black skirt that hit below the knee. Nothing that hugged or shone or could be mistaken for “trying”.

During that, Marmalade watched you from the kitchen table, very judgmental and unimpressed. “Don’t look at me like that”, you muttered while buttering half a bagel. “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have—”. You cut yourself off, remembering the press of Ben’s lips and the way his hands had trembled when he held you. Your stomach twisted and you shoved the bagel aside.

Half an hour later, you got to Vought Tower early than Caldwell, earlier than the security desk was used to seeing you. You hid at your desk, answering emails, rescheduling Soldier Boy’s gym slot, triple-checking press releases, anything to stay busy, anything to avoid the memory of last night. Any time a bootstep echoed in the hall, your heart leapt and fell in the same second.

Eventually Trish’s bag hit her desk with a thud big enough to make your pens roll and you jump.

“Morning, sunshine”, she said, dropping into her chair across from you and immediately unlocking her computer with one hand while peeling off her coat with the other. “You look like you saw a ghost”.

You kept your eyes on your monitor. “Just… tired”.

She squinted at you. “You’re never this early. Did the museum call you in at dawn? Did he make you polish his shield or something?”.

Your brain helpfully chose that exact moment to flash you an image of your hand on something very much not his shield and heat shot up your neck. “No. It was just… a long night”.

“Aha”, Trish rolled herself closer. She lowered her voice. “Okay, enough. Spill. You went to the gala with him. I saw the pictures. You looked hot, by the way, don’t argue with me. So? Was he awful? Did he punch the VP? Did you have to tase him?”.

You swallowed, eyes glued to an email you weren’t reading. “He didn’t punch anybody”.

“That’s… honestly disappointing”, she said. “But good for Legal, I guess. Did he at least embarrass himself? I’ve got twenty bucks on ‘calls someone a fucking pussy’ at a charity event”.

“Not really”, you murmured.

Her eyes lit up. “And? You’re being weird, why are you being weird? Oh my God, did he hit on you? Like, actually, not just the usual harassment?”.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Only your fingers tightened on your mouse until it squeaked.

Trish’s jaw dropped. “No way”.

“Nothing happened”, you said quickly. Way too quickly.

She leaned all the way over her desk now, invading your personal space with zero shame. “Okay, now I know something happened. You get all pink whenever you lie”.

“I do not—”. Whatever you were about to deny died on your tongue, because the energy in the bullpen shifted all at once, like someone had flipped a breaker. The hum of conversation dipped, the keyboard clacking slowed. Even people who pretended they were too cool to care went still in that particular way that meant supe in the vicinity.

Bootsteps. Your whole body recognized them before your brain did.

Trish’s eyes widened over your shoulder. “Oh, shit”, she whispered. “There we go".

You didn’t turn. You stared at your inbox like if you clicked fast enough you could open a portal and fall through it.

He stopped at the end of the aisle. “Morning”, Ben said.

A couple of people actually flinched. You made yourself look up.

He wasn’t in full gear, but he might as well have been. Dark green tactical jacket over a fitted black shirt, dark pants and some heavy boots. No shield, no gloves. It was the softer version of the suit they put on posters, the one for “serious interviews” where they wanted him dangerous but not too dangerous.

His eyes were clear enough to tell you he hadn’t hit anything too hard this morning. His gaze landed on you and stayed there.

“Hi”, you managed, but your voice came out thinner than you liked.

Trish swiveled in her chair so fast it squeaked, pasting on a bright, professional smile. “Good morning, sir”.

Ben’s eyes slid to her for half a second. “Yeah”, he said. “You’re… the friend, right”.

Trish blinked. “Uh. Yes?”.

He hummed, filed that away, and promptly lost interest in her. His attention snapped back to you like it hadn’t actually left. “Didn’t see you upstairs yet”, he said way too casual.

You swallowed. “I, um… wanted to get through the late night emails”.

He let his gaze flick down and back up, taking in the cardigan and the way you were about three inches shorter without the heels. “Back to uniform, huh”, he said. “Shame”.

You felt your face get hot. “It’s… work”.

“Last night was work”, he countered easily. “This is… overtime”.

Trish made a strangled sound that might have been a suppressed laugh. Ben ignored it and leaned his hip against the corner of your desk, close enough that you could smell the familiar mix of smoke and cologne. “We got shit to go over”, he said.

You clung to that word like a lifeline. “Debrief. Right. I can send you a calendar invite for—”.

“Now”, he said.

Your heart misfired. “Now?”.

He tilted his head, studying your face. “You too busy, doll?”.

You opened your mouth. You had emails, drafts. A to-do list long enough to drown in. But none of that mattered. “No”, you whispered.

He straightened and pushed off your desk. “Then let’s go”. You hesitated with your fingers still on your keyboard.

He dropped his voice, leaning in just a fraction, close enough that only you could hear the next part. “You ran outta my car like I had a fucking bomb strapped to my dick”, he murmured. “We’re not pretendin’ that didn’t fucking happen”.

Your lungs forgot their job for a second. You darted a glance around. No one was close enough to hear, but they were close enough to watch and half the bullpen was doing a terrible job of pretending not to. And by now, Trish’s eyes were the size of dinner plates.

Ben straightened again. “Bring your little tablet, sweetheart. We’ll talk upstairs”.

You fumbled for your tablet, hit save on a document you hadn’t edited and stood on legs that felt like borrowed furniture. Ben stepped back just enough to let you out from behind the desk, then fell into step beside you without waiting to see if you’d keep up. You did. The alternative was… worse.

“Shit”, Trish mouthed as you passed. You wished you could disappear into your cardigan.

You walked side by side toward the elevator while you stared straight ahead. “We don’t… have to talk about it”, you said, barely above a whisper.

“Yeah”, he said. “We do”.

He hit the call button with two knuckles, and the elevator instantly slid open. Ben stepped inside, his broad frame filling the doorway as if it had been built around him. Then he turned just enough to glance back at you. His hand came out casually, as though he were simply steadying you as you crossed the gap, but his palm brushed the small of your back as you stepped past. Two women by the bullpen entrance sucked in matching little breaths, like they’d just seen something indecent. Their eyes went wide, one’s mouth actually dropped open a little.

You shuddered as Ben let his hand fall away, then hit the top-floor button. The doors slid shut, cutting off the murmur of voices outside. You stared straight ahead at the brushed metal panel, your reflection warped and pale with eyes too big. Your heart was racing. Not just fast, wild. Your chest hurt with it. Your palms were damp on the smooth plastic of the tablet. Your throat burned. And he could hear it. You knew he could hear it.

You tried to swallow it down. Tried to breathe quiet, even breaths like HR videos told you to. Instead, your lungs stuttered, catching on the tight, ugly knot of fear and humiliation and leftover heat in your chest.

What if he was mad? What if last night had just been another story for him, and now you’d messed up the only thing you were good at, your job? What if he decided you were more trouble than you were worth?

Your eyes blurred. No. No, no, not here. You blinked hard, looking up at the little red numbers ticking higher: 73, 74, 75. They doubled, smeared. You dragged in a breath that shook on the way out.

“Jesus”, he muttered, not unkindly. “You gonna fucking pass out on me?”.

You shook your head. It was all you could manage. If you opened your mouth, it wouldn’t be words that came out. It would be the panic sitting in your throat like a fist. Your fingers dug into the edge of your tablet. The air felt too thin and too thick at the same time.

“Hey”, he said. Just that. But your lungs locked. Every ugly what if slammed into you at once. What if he is mad. What if he does hurt you. What if you pushed too far and now you’re just another story, another body, another fun little incident report for PR to spin.

You pressed back against the wall without meaning to, shoulders flattening against cool metal. Your breath started coming faster, shorter, catching on the jagged edge of fear. Your eyes burned and the red numbers blurred again.

Whatever he’d been about to say died in his throat. “Whoa”, he said softer. “Hey. Look at me”.

Your gaze skittered sideways, then up, like it had been yanked on a string.

He wasn’t smirking. No lazy amusement, no mean little curl of his mouth. His brows were drawn together and his eyes sharp in a way that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with alarm. “You think I’m gonna hit you or somethin’?”, he asked low but weirdly careful.

You didn’t answer. But your body did. Your shoulders drew in even tighter, chin dipping, every muscle trying to make you smaller.

“Fuck”. He lifted his hand and you flinched so hard it made a tiny sound in the back of your throat. He froze with his hand still in the air, palm out like I surrender. “Okay”, he said, more to himself than to you. He dropped his hand deliberately, fingers spreading at his side. “Alright. I’m not touching you. Just listen”.

The elevator hummed past another floor. You stared at him with your chest shuddering, and tears finally spilling hot over your lower lashes.

“I’m not gonna fucking hurt you”, he said, enunciating each word like he was pushing it into your skull. “You hear me? I’m not mad. I don’t kill people for kissing me. That’s not a fucking thing”.

Your breath hitched. “You— you do kill people”.

“Yeah. Not you”.

He shifted his stance, bracing one hand against the opposite wall so the car rocked just barely. Not trapping you, he kept his arm high, giving you a clear path if you wanted it. Just grounding himself. “You think I’d drag you into my car, put diamonds on you, walk you around in front of every rich cocksucker in New York and then snap your neck over one little panic run?”, he asked, something rough and incredulous in his voice. “C’mon, doll. Give me a little credit”.

A wet, choked sound escaped you that might’ve been half a laugh, half a sob. You pressed your wrist to your mouth, mortified. His eyes tracked that and softened around the edges. "You’re really leakin’, huh”.

You sniffed, mortified. “I’m s-sorry, I just—”.

“Don’t apologize for cryin’”, he cut in, frowning like that was what offended him most. “You’re allowed to freak out, sprinkler”.

You blinked. “Sprin…kler?”.

His mouth twitched. “Yeah. Turn the pressure up a little and you start mistin’ everywhere”.

“That’s… a terrible nickname”, you managed.

“I didn’t say it was good branding”, he said. “But it fits”.

You huffed out a wet little almost-laugh and wiped under your eyes with the heel of your hand. Your mascara smudged on your skin and his gaze tracked it, mouth flattening like he wanted to go back downstairs and rearrange some jaws. He let out a breath instead. “Alright. Listen up, ‘cause I’m only sayin’ this once”.

You went still.

“I am not going to kill you”, he said, slow and clear, like he was reading cue cards. “Not for crying, not for panicking, not for kissing me, not for—”, his mouth ticked, “—grabbing my dick like you were checking if it came fucking standard”.

Heat detonated in your face. “Ben”, you choked mortified. “Please don’t— don’t say it like that”.

“What?”, he asked. “You want me to call it somethin’ else? ‘Equipment’? ‘Patriotic hardware’?”.

You made a strangled noise and tried to disappear into the elevator wall. “Can we not talk about your… anything… in confined spaces?”.

He watched you for a second, the way your fingers dug into the edge of your tablet. “Relax”, he said. “I’m messin’ with you. Mostly”.

“Mostly?”, you repeated weakly.

“Yeah. ’Cause I’m not gonna pretend it didn’t happen”, he said. “You touched me. I liked it". His eyes flicked over your face, your swollen eyelids, the wet flush on your cheeks. “But I’m sure as hell not gonna punish you for it”.

Your throat clenched around whatever you meant to say. “I just… I shouldn’t have—”.

“Why not?”, he cut in. “You wanted to”.

You stared at a spot over his shoulder. “That’s not the point”.

“Yeah, it is”, he said. “That’s exactly the point. You wanted to. I wanted you to. Nobody forced anybody. Nobody got fucking hurt. That’s what matters”.

You shook your head, a tiny, helpless gesture. “I’m your assistant”.

“And?”, he said. “You think the job description says ‘no touching dicks’? Pretty sure it just says ‘answer emails and keep the supe from saying fuck on air’”.

“Ben”, you whispered clearly overwhelmed.

He watched your eyes shine again and the way you bit down on your lower lip like you could hold everything in if you just tried hard enough. “Hey”, he said quietly. “Sprinkler”.

You sniffed, hating how the nickname made your chest ache and ease at the same time. “…yeah?”.

“I’m not mad”, he said. “You hearin’ me? You’re shaking like you think I’m about to rip your head off. Only thing that pissed me off last night was you running before I could ask if you were okay”.

Your vision blurred again. “I panicked”.

“I know”, he said. “I got the message when you bailed like your fucking ass was on fire”. You let out another tiny laugh.

The doors slid open on 87. He didn’t touch you this time. Just tipped his chin toward the hallway and waited until your feet remembered how to move. You stepped out and he followed.

Inside his suite you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Okay. He wasn’t mad. You weren’t dead. He’d said it, out loud, in full sentences. You’d survived the elevator. In your head, that was the end of it. So you moved automatically toward your usual spot, the armchair across from the couch, setting your tablet down on the coffee table.

You were halfway into your seat when his voice came from behind you. “So”.

You froze, half-perched on the edge of the chair. He didn’t sound done. You turned slightly. He was just inside the door, hands braced on his hips, watching you like you were a problem set he was determined to solve.

Your stomach dipped. “So…?”.

He jerked his chin in the vaguest possible gesture. “Was it the size?”.

Your brain blue-screened. “What?”.

He shrugged, casual in a way that wasn’t casual at all. “You kiss me, you crawl into my lap, you get a handful—”, his eyebrows twitched, “—then you go full cartoon dust cloud out the door. I’m connectin’ dots, sweetheart”.

Blood roared in your ears. “Ben”.

He ignored the warning in your tone, taking a few unhurried steps closer. “Look, if that’s what freaked you—kinda fair. I’ve scared grown women who knew what they were doin’”.

“Can you not—”, you pressed your palms over your face, “—say things like that”.

“Why?”, he asked. “I’m tryin’ to troubleshoot here”.

You dragged your hands down your face and left them over your mouth, like that might hold the words in. “It’s not just…”, you flapped one hand vaguely in his direction, “that”.

His brows tipped up. “Uh-huh”.

“It’s everything”, you blurted, staring at the tablet instead of him. “You. Me. My job. The… car. The fact that you’re—”, your voice dipped, “—you”.

“Try again”, he said. “Use the big girl words”.

You sucked in a breath. It tasted like dust and his cologne and your own nerves. “You’re a supe”, you said quietly. “You’re… big, and loud, and everyone’s afraid of you, and you don’t care. And I’m…”. Your throat tightened. “I’m not built for that”.

He snorted. “You been in the same building as me the last eight weeks? You’re the only one who doesn’t flinch outta my way”.

“I flinch all the time”, you argued.

“Yeah”, he said. “And then you stay”. That shut you up for a second. You twisted your fingers together in your lap.

“I’m your assistant”, you said finally. “I schedule your interviews. I bring you coffee. I’m supposed to be… safe. Background. Not…”. Heat crept up your neck. “…not climbing into your lap like I know what I’m doing”.

“You think I expected you to?”. His mouth tugged. “You damn near knocked my soul out of my body with those little training-wheel kisses”.

You made a strangled sound. “Please don’t call them that”.

“Point is, you’re not the problem”.

You laughed once. “I really think I am”.

“Why?”, he pressed. “’Cause you blush if someone says ‘fuck’ too close to your coffee? That’s not a flaw, doll. That’s just…”, he searched for the word, grimaced, “…how you’re wired”.

You hesitated. Your chest squeezed. “If it were just that”, you said slowly, “maybe it’d be… less terrifying. But it’s not. It’s everything. You’re not just some guy at a bar. You’re Soldier Boy”. The name tasted ridiculous and heavy at once. “And I’m the girl who makes your calendars color-coded. It’s—”. You broke off. “It’s stupid”, you muttered. “And I really, really don’t want to talk about it anymore”.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah, see, that’s the problem. You light a fuse and then you wanna walk away before it hits the charge”.

“I’m not—”, you started. “You are”, he said, but there wasn’t much heat in it. More… frustration. “You think I’m used to people freakin’ out before they really touch me? This is new. I’m tryin’ to figure out if it’s worth not… fucking this up”.

You dragged in a breath, steadier this time, and made yourself meet his eyes. “That’s exactly why”, you said softly. “Because if you get bored or annoyed or decide this was stupid, you’ll just… walk away. And I’ll still have to be here. With a job I need and a boss I can’t look at without remembering that I… that I climbed into his lap in a car like a… prostitute”.

His jaw clenched. “You’re not a prostitute”.

“That doesn’t change the math”, you said. “So I think—”. You swallowed. “I think we should keep it professional from now on”, you whispered.

He went still in that particular way you’d learned meant danger for other people. For you it just meant every ounce of focus came crashing down on your face. “Professional”, he repeated, flat.

You nodded with hands white-knuckled in your lap. “No… more of that. No touching. No kissing. No… whatever that was. Just work”.

His mouth did a strange little twitch, somewhere between a smirk and a flinch. “You’re really sayin’ that after you tried to crawl down my fucking throat last night”.

Your cheeks flared hot once more. “That’s why I’m saying it. It was a mistake. I can’t— I don’t want things to get messier than they already are”.

“So that’s it?”, he asked. “You freak out, you bolt, and the solution is you pretend you don’t want it and I pretend I don’t remember?”.

“Yes”, you said, too fast. “That’s exactly it. We can… move on. I can be useful without—”. “Without touching the fucking merchandise”, he cut in.

“That’s not funny”. “Not trying to be”, he snapped. Then bit it back, shutting his mouth like he’d almost let something slip he couldn’t afford.

You watched his throat work. His hands had curled into loose fists on his thighs. You could tell he was keeping his voice down on purpose. For you.

“Professional”, he said again, testing the shape of it in his mouth like it was a word in a language he didn’t speak. “You sure that’s what you want?”.

It was… the only thing that felt remotely safe, anyway. And also the last thing some traitorous part of you wanted. You nodded. “Yes”.

For a heartbeat, his ego flared across his face offended and wounded. No one said no to him. Not like this. His gaze darkened, heat flashing there, but it wasn’t desire this time. It was temper, bruised and coiling. He sucked in a breath and you saw the split second where he could choose to be the asshole the files said he was. But he didn’t. He exhaled slow instead, like it hurt. “Fine”, he said. “You want professional? You got it”.

Your chest loosened a fraction. “Okay. Thank you”.

-

Two weeks later, “professional” had turned into something weird and sideways.

You stuck to the rules. No more kisses. No more wandering hands. You never sat closer than one chair away in his suite if you could help it.

But your body did not stick to the rules. It betrayed you constantly.

A hand on the small of your back to steer you through a crowd? Your cheeks went hot. His thigh brushing yours on a studio couch? Your breath hitched. Him saying “good girl” when you got a network to agree to his terms? You had to pretend to cough so he wouldn’t hear how your heartbeat jumped.

If anything, it was worse than before. At least before you hadn’t known how his mouth felt.

He didn’t push. He didn’t touch more than he’d always touched. But he sure as hell didn’t keep his distance. If anything, he got clingier.

He wanted you in the gym when he did “controlled demos”, just in case PR had notes. He had you sit in on calls he didn’t need you for, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed while you did all the talking. He dragged you on a studio visit he could’ve done with three handlers and a driver, and then spent the ride back asking why the hell that anchor looked at you like that. He didn’t like people looking at you. You’d thought the Silvernet thing was a one-off. It wasn’t. Any time a supe’s eyes lingered a beat too long on your legs, or “accidentally” brushed your elbow and didn’t move fast enough, Ben moved. A look, a shoulder bump, a hand landing on your waist with casual precision—all it took. Space opened around you like a force field.

No one said anything directly. They didn’t have to. The bullpen did it for them. “Guaranteed, he’s fucking her”, someone from Legal whispered near the coffee machine one morning. “I heard she’s just there to keep him from losing it”, someone else said. "No one would fuck that", a third snorted.

You pretended not to hear. You got good at pretending.

-

One afternoon you lost track of time. You had four different email chains open, three drafts half-written and Caldwell on Slack sending you passive-aggressive “any update?” messages every twenty minutes about a press release Legal kept gutting. After lunch you’d told yourself you’d run upstairs in “just a sec”. “Just a sec” turned into an hour. Then ninety minutes.

You were buried enough that you didn’t feel the shift in the room until it was already too late. The bullpen noise thinned out, like always. “Uh oh”, Trish murmured under her breath. And you didn’t look up fast enough.

“Where the fuck have you been?”. His voice rolled over your shoulder, close enough that your skin prickled.

Your fingers froze over the keyboard. Slowly, like you were rewinding a horror movie, you turned.

He was standing at the end of your desk, one hand braced on the divider, the other on his hip.

“Hi”, you said, small. “I was just—”. “You were just not upstairs”, he said. “Again”.

You could feel your coworkers’ eyes ping-ponging between you and him. No one even pretended to work anymore. “I had emails”, you said swallowing. “Caldwell needed—”.

“Caldwell can send you an email in the morgue when his fucking heart gives out”, Ben cut in, rolling his eyes. “You’re supposed to come up after lunch”.

You tried again, keeping your voice small and careful. “Ben, I really just needed to finish—”. He huffed out something halfway between a laugh and a growl. “You really just needed to finish pretending you’re invisible”. His gaze swept across your desk. “You hiding from me now, sprinkler?”.

That nickname, said right there, in front of half the floor, made the blood drain from your face. “Please don’t call me that here”, you whispered.

He ignored that completely. “You got a whole tower full of handlers and PR hacks”, he said. “But when I ask where my girl is, nobody’s got an fucking answer”.

The words landed in the room with the force of a thrown grenade. My girl. Two people across from Legal made actual sounds, a sharp little inhale and a muffled “holy shit”. Trish’s head snapped up, mouth open in a silent scream of gossip. Even the guy from Comms dropped his water bottle.

You felt it like heat under your skin, blooming up your neck, spreading across your cheeks, even tingling at the tips of your ears. You could feel your own blush rising, full-force and impossible to hide. Your face was on fire.

Ben caught your blush. His gaze locked on your face, tracking the color as it crept up your cheeks, then down your neck. The way your throat worked as you swallowed, the way you shifted in your chair and tried to disappear behind your tablet.

And it hit him hard. Right there in the PR bullpen, with half the floor watching, the flush that spread across your skin went straight to his groin. So sudden it almost made him bite down on a curse. You were all wide eyes and trembling hands and he wanted you. Fiercely. Now. More than anything, he wanted to drag you out of that desk chair and into his lap, to bury his face in the heat of your neck and make you blush even deeper.

He could feel himself thickening in his jeans. He shifted his weight, jaw flexing, trying to will himself back under control. The last thing he needed was a tent in his pants in the middle of your office.

But you didn’t notice. You were too busy staring at the keyboard, trying to breathe, your lips parted on a sound that never made it out. Ben almost groaned out loud at just the sight of you like this, all flustered and pink.

And his patience, never the most stable thing to begin with, snapped. He leaned in, his voice pitched low. “Get the fuck up. Five minutes. My suite”.

It wasn’t a bark, but it was the closest he’d ever come to raising his voice at you. The tone vibrated down your spine, all grit and barely leashed hunger. The air between you felt electric, dangerous, charged with something that wasn’t anger but still made your nerves light up like a warning.

He didn’t wait for a reply. Just straightened, jaw tight, eyes lingering on your blush as if memorizing it for later and then he turned and stalked out.

The bullpen stayed silent for a second longer. You couldn’t move. Your mind spun, scrambling to parse what you’d done wrong, if this was it, if he’d finally lost patience, if you’d actually crossed some invisible line. You had no idea it was because you’d undone him so badly he could barely see straight.

Trish mouthed something at you, probably are you okay?, but your ears were still ringing. Your hands shook as you grabbed your tablet, eyes burning with humiliation, confusion and a wild pulse of heat you didn’t know what to do with.

You stepped inside his suite, pulse still skipping from the elevator ride, hands locked tight around your tablet. You weren’t sure what you expected. Maybe him barking orders or maybe cold silence, maybe another snapped command.

Ben’s eyes landed on your face, your blush still high, your lashes still wet from the rush and your mouth parted in some lost attempt at an apology. He just crossed the room, caught your chin and tipping your face up rough, but not unkind. His mouth came down on yours with a force that made your knees buckle, a hungry, desperate kind of kiss that told you everything words couldn’t. His hand dropped your tablet to the couch, the other sliding around your waist, hauling you up on your toes.

You whimpered soft, caught-off-guard. He groaned into your mouth, his body pressing you back against the door so you could feel every inch of him, especially the heavy heat of his cock straining against his jeans.

“Fuck”, he growled, voice muffled in your hair. “You’re killin’ me, you know that? Look at you—still blushing’. You have any idea what that does to me?”.

Your answer was another soft, desperate noise, fingers curling in his shirt for balance as he kissed you again, deeper, licking into your mouth like he couldn’t get enough. Every little shiver, every whimper, only seemed to stoke the fire in him. His hands growing hungrier and his restraint thinning with every breath you let out against his lips.

You tried to pull back, just a fraction, just enough to catch your breath and murmur the word bubbling up in your throat. “Ben, st—”. But the syllable dissolved into nothing as he shifted his hips, grinding forward with deliberate pressure, his dick pressing right against your clit through the thin layers of fabric between you. The sensation hit you, blooming into heat that made your whole body arch involuntarily. You’d never felt a someone else there before. The ridge of him rubbing exactly where you ached most. It was overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once, and instead of “stop”, what escaped your lips was a sweet, breathless moan that sounded nothing like protest.

Ben froze for a split second, his breath hot against your ear, then he let out a ragged chuckle. “Yeah? That’s what I thought”.

He rolled his hips again, slower this time, savoring the way you trembled, the way your fingers dug into his shoulders like you couldn’t decide if you wanted to push him away or pull him closer.

Three slow rolls of his hips and your knees nearly gave out. Your whole body locked up, trembling so hard he had to tighten the arm banded around your waist to keep you upright.

“For fuck´s sake", he rasped, voice shredded with raw awe. “You’re gonna come just like this, aren’t you? On my cock through your little skirt. Not even had me inside you yet”.

You whimpered mortified, heat flooding your face, and tried to turn it into the pillow of his shoulder, hiding. Your hands flew from his chest to cover your own mouth, like you could smother the sounds, like you could pretend this wasn’t happening, that you weren’t about to shatter in the entryway of his penthouse from nothing more than dry humping like a teenager.

But Ben wasn’t having it. He caught your wrists in one big hand and pinned them above your head against the door, gentle but immovable. His other hand slid down to grip your hip, angling you exactly where he wanted, forcing you to feel every inch of the next slow grind. “Look at me”, he ordered. When you shook your head, eyes squeezed shut, cheeks burning, he leaned in and dragged his open mouth up the column of your throat. “Baby. Look at me while you fall apart on my dick. Want to see those pretty eyes when you come for me”.

Another roll of his hips, harder, the seam of his pants catching just right, and you broke with a broken little cry you couldn’t hold back. Your whole body seized, thighs shaking, hips jerking helplessly against him as the orgasm tore through you.

He groaned like he was the one coming, forehead dropping to yours, watching every second of it, drinking in the way your lips parted, the way tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the intensity. “Fuck, that’s it”, he whispered wrecked. "So fucking sweet. Never seen anything more beautiful than you creaming your fucking panties just from this”.

You were still trembling in the aftershocks, hiding your face against his neck now, small and overwhelmed and trying to curl in on yourself. Your face was buried in the warm crook of his neck, heart hammering so hard you were sure he could feel it against his chest, when a few knocks cracked against the door right beside your head. “Soldier Boy!”. A man’s voice. “Sir, we’ve got a situation downtown. Multiple hostiles, possible supe involvement. You are requested".

You went rigid. The haze of your orgasm snapped. You were still pinned between Ben and the door with your skirt rucked up, thighs trembling and his cock still hard against your soaked panties. If anyone opened that door right now… You shoved at his chest with both hands, panic flooding every vein. “Ben—let me go, let me—”. He didn’t, not at first. His arms only tightened, a low growl rumbling in his throat like the interruption offended him. “Ben!”, you whispered, frantic, trying to wrench your wrists free. “They can’t see me like this. Please”. That got through. The muscle in his jaw flexed. Something raw and furious flashed across his face at the timing, at the world daring to drag him away the second he finally had you shaking in his arms.

Another knock, harder. “Sir! We have to move!”.

Ben’s forehead dropped to yours for one fierce, stolen second. “This isn’t over”, he said with his voice so low only you could hear the tremor in it. “Not even fucking close”. Then he stepped back, letting you slide down the door until your feet touched the floor. Your legs almost gave out, but he caught your elbow, steadying you while you frantically smoothed your skirt, wiped at your wet eyes and tried to look like a professional human being and not a girl who’d just come on Soldier Boy´s clothed dick thirty seconds ago. He yanked the door open.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 5

-

You’d watched three different YouTube tutorials before you trusted yourself not to burn a chunk of hair off. By the time you finished, the bathroom counter was a disaster with clips and bobby pins and the curling iron cord knotted around your straightener like they’d been fighting. But your hair fell in loose, soft waves around your shoulders. Not perfect, and sure not professional-salon glossy, but good.

You’d done your makeup twice. The first time you scrubbed it off because you looked like you were trying to cosplay someone else. The second time you kept it simple with liner, a bit of mascara and the kind of lipstick that was technically “nude” but actually made you look like you had lips.

The dress was the last thing. You’d waited until ten minutes before the car was due. The bracelet felt way too heavy on your wrist and the earrings itched a little. It felt just… unfamiliar. The shoes made you a full three inches taller and twice as unstable.

Eventually, you stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of your closet door. “It’s just one night”, you murmured and started smoothing your shaking hands down the dress. “You don’t have to… be her. You just have to look like her”.

Your phone buzzed on the dresser. The car had arrived. Your stomach dropped to somewhere near your knees.

You grabbed your clutch (tiny and borrowed from Trish) and did a last frantic check. Phone. Key. ID. Lipstick. Sanity. The last one was questionable.

“Hold the fort”, you told Marmalade. “Don’t let anyone steal my IKEA furniture”. She flicked her tail as if to say no promises.

You stepped out into the cool night air and there was the car already waiting at the curb. Sleek and black and glossy enough to reflect the streetlights. Not a limo, but close. The driver spotted you immediately, stepped out and walked around, opening the back door with professional smoothness. “Miss (Y/L/N)?", he asked. You nodded, throat too tight for words.

Then you saw Soldier Boy. He was already inside,sprawled on the far side of the back seat. For once, he wasn’t in the green suit or the training jacket or anything that could be remotely called “costume”.

All black. Black suit, clean lines, the fabric sitting on him like it had been cut with him in the room. Black shirt, top buttons undone. No tie. The beard was trimmed neat. His hair was pushed back, not quite tamed, like he’d run his hands through it right before the driver came up. Even from the sidewalk, you could see the faint dilation in his pupils.

He’d been looking at the opposite window, one arm thrown along the back of the seat, boredom and irritation in the line of his body. Then he looked at you. His gaze caught, dragged up and down in one long, unhurried sweep. For one heartbeat you forgot how to move.

His eyes tracked the dress first, because how could they not? The green against your skin. The neckline. The line of your waist. The glimpse of leg where the slit fell just so when you took a cautious step off the curb. Your hair around your shoulders. The diamonds flashing at your wrist. Something in his face went dark.

He straightened without meaning to. His breath stalled in his chest while a sudden, hot punch shoot low in his gut. The pleasant buzz in his system jumped. He shifted in his seat, just slightly, legs spreading a fraction wider like he needed room that hadn’t been a problem thirty seconds ago. His hand flexed once on the leather.

“Careful, miss”, the driver said, offering you a steadying hand as you navigated the last step in the heels. You nodded with eyes locked on the open door. The inside of the car felt like a mouth waiting to swallow you. You ducked your head automatically and slid in, trying not to flash too much leg, trying not to step on your own dress. The scent of his cologne hit you at the same time as the heavy warmth of his presence. Then the door shut with a soft thunk and the outside world cut off.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

“Hey”, you managed eventually, too quiet.

He was still looking at you. Really looking. Not the usual lazy up-and-down scan designed to make you squirm. This was slower, almost stunned, like he’d expected something and gotten something else instead. “Well, shit”, he said softly.

Your heart lurched. “Is… that… bad?”.

The corner of his mouth kicked up, but it wasn’t his usual smirk. This one was strained. “Not from where I’m sitting”, he said with his voice rough.

You shifted and let your fingers fidget with the clutch in your lap. “It’s… a lot”.

“Yeah”, he said, eyes dragging over you again, lingering at your throat, the line of your collarbones, the dip where the dress hugged in. “It is”.

You swallowed. “If it’s too much—”. “Too much for who?”, he cut in sharply.

“The donors”, you said. “PR. Caldwell. Whoever’s going to have a heart attack first”.

He snorted. “If Caldwell strokes out, that’s a bonus”.

You huffed a little laugh you didn’t mean to. It came out thin and shaky.

“You clean up nice, doll”, he said, and this time there was no bite in it. Just honesty, raw and unvarnished. He watched your hand smooth nervously over your thigh, the flash of skin where the slit eased open. His jaw flexed. He shifted again, subtle, trying to find a new way to sit that didn’t advertise exactly how much he appreciated his own purchase.

“You wear the diamonds”, he said, nodding at your wrist.

“I felt rude not to”, you said. “Since someone apparently emptied a small country’s GDP on my doorstep”.

He snorted. “Relax. I got money rotting in accounts I forgot about. Might as well spend it on something I feel like looking at”.

Heat flared under your skin. “Soldier Boy—”.

“Ben”, he said.

It threw you. “What?”.

He rolled his eyes and let them finally flicking up from the line of your legs to your face. “If we’re going to a fucking gala together, you can stop calling me my own brand name for five minutes. It’s Ben. Try not to make it awkward”.

You blinked. “Ben”, you echoed. The name felt… strange in your mouth. Softer and more human. Dangerous in a different way.

He watched your lips shape the syllable, something tight in his expression easing just a fraction. “Yeah”, he said quietly. “Like that”.

You looked away while your heart was tripping all over itself.

The car pulled into traffic, city lights streaking past the tinted windows. You were hyper-aware of the gap between you on the seat, the way his knee was a few inches from yours and the way your bare arm tingled where it hovered too close to his.

“You nervous?”, he asked after a minute.

You let out a breathless little laugh. “Terrified”.

“At least you’re honest”, he said. “Last girl they stuck on my arm told me she was ‘excited to network’. Thought she was gonna fucking piss herself when the president showed up”.

“I’m not… excited to network”, you said. “I’m just… trying not to fall on my face”.

“You won’t”. His tone was flat and certain.

“You can’t know that”.

He shifted, turning more toward you. In the low light, his eyes looked even darker. “I’ve seen you in those sad little flats”, he said. “You trip all the time. You always catch yourself”.

You blinked at him. “Have you… been watching me walk?”.

“You’re hard to miss”, he said simply.

You didn’t believe that, not really. But the way he said it made something in your chest do that molten-lava thing again.

His gaze dipped to where your fingers clenched around your clutch. “For real.. you okay?”, he asked. It came out gruffer than it probably sounded in his head.

You nodded too fast. “Yes. No. Maybe”.

“Fuck’s that supposed to mean?”, he asked, but there was no real bite to it.

“It means”, you said, staring straight ahead, “that this is a lot. I’m not used to being… looked at”.

“You get used to it”, he said.

“I don’t want to get used to it”, you blurted. “I just want to do my job and go home and hang out with my cat and not think about whether I’m… a ‘view’”.

One corner of his mouth twitched. “So you do have a cat”.

You glanced over, thrown by the shift. “I told you that”.

“Yeah, but you say a lotta shit when you’re nervous”, he said. “Could’ve been some sad metaphor”.

“It’s not a metaphor”, you muttered. “Her name’s Marmalade”.

He huffed a laugh. “Of course it is. Bet she’s real proud of you right now. Her little mom all dressed up like fucking dessert”.

You pressed your lips together, heat creeping up your neck. You could barely breathe. The inside of the car felt too warm. You tried to focus on anything except the dangerous way he was looking at you… and the fact that you’d let him.

Your knees pressed tighter together, the dress tugging a little higher on your thigh, and you forced yourself not to squirm. You stole a glance at him, meaning only to look at his face, but your gaze slipped, just for a second, down to his lap. That was a mistake. You saw the hard line straining against the dark fabric, the spread of his thighs. He wasn’t doing anything to hide it. If anything, he looked… satisfied.

You jerked your eyes back to your hands, twisting the strap of your clutch. You could feel him looking. You tried to say something, anything, but all that came out was a tiny, nervous laugh.

He leaned in, not close enough to touch, but close enough you could smell his cologne more strongly. “I can barely keep my hands to myself when you look at me like that”, he murmured. You swallowed while your pulse was hammering in your ears. “I’m not… looking at you”.

He laughed softly. “You’re lookin’, doll. Nothin’ wrong with that”. His knee nudged against yours, just enough to make you notice how much bigger he was, how much space he took up. You pressed yourself a little closer to the door, as if you could melt into the leather, as if that would help. But you didn’t ask him to stop. Didn’t ask him to move away. You just sat there, small and silent, trying not to look at his hands or his lap or the way his eyes burned when you finally met them again.

The car slowed, turning toward the curb. You realized with a jolt you were grateful for the interruption, grateful for the cool rush of night air when the driver opened the door.

Ben looked at you, mouth softening just a fraction. “Stay close, sweetheart”, he said. “Let ‘em stare. Just means I got the only thing in this city worth a damn on my arm tonight”.

When you stepped out, you barely had time to process the wall of sound, before his hand slid from the small of your back to your waist. Not a casual brush, not an accident. His fingers wrapped around you firmly, palm spreading over the side of your ribcage where the dress hugged tight. You went rigid.

“Easy”, he muttered low against your ear. The word vibrated more than you heard it. “I got you”.

Even in heels, you didn’t reach his shoulder. You were tucked in against him, the heat of his body bleeding through the suit fabric.

“Soldier Boy! Over here!”. “Soldier Boy give us a smile!”. “Who’s the girl?”.

The last one made something in him twitch. His fingers tightened minutely on your waist in a little possessive flex that squeezed a tiny, startled breath out of you. It left your lungs before you could catch it in a soft, involuntary sound that got snatched away by the noise. But not from him.

You felt his attention flick to you without him even looking. The corner of his mouth curled, not for the cameras, but for you. “Breathe, doll”, he said under his breath, lips barely moving.

You tried. You really did. You dragged air in past the tight band of your dress and his hand and the way his thumb was resting just under the curve of your ribs like he was checking every inhale. It still came out shallow and quick. You hoped the reporters would chalk it up to nerves, to being next to him, to the lights. At least they couldn’t hear how fast your heart was racing. But he could.

He leaned down, just a fraction, bringing his mouth nearer to your hair. To anyone else it looked like he was angling for a better shot. You felt the whisper of his breath against the shell of your ear. “Relax”, he murmured. “You look fuckin’ incredible. Only thing you’re gonna break out here is their brains”.

Heat shot down your spine. Your fingers tightened around your clutch hard enough to ache. You didn’t trust your voice, so you kept your attention fixed on some point ahead. One foot in front of the other. Don’t trip. Don’t throw up. Don’t think about his hand.

He moved you like he’d done this a thousand times. A gentle pressure at your waist turned you just so toward one bank of cameras; a subtle tug kept you from drifting back when the crowd pressed. Every time he shifted, you moved with him automatically, like the two of you were attached.

“Soldier Boy! Any comment on Stolers statement?”, someone shouted.

He snorted, a harsh puff of air that almost counted as a laugh. “Yeah”, he called back, loud enough for the nearest mics. “Guy’s a fucking pussy”.

Laughter. A ripple of delighted horror. You felt him straighten up, shoulders squaring, sliding easily into the version of himself the public thought they knew. But his hand never left you.

His thumb stroked once, absently, over the bare skin of your backside just above the waistband. The tiny drag of calloused skin made your breath catch in your throat.

He tipped his head just enough to glance down at you, eyes hooded. For a second you saw how careful he was being. How much effort it cost him not to haul you in closer, not to let the grip turn into something else.

“Soldier Boy, who’s your date?”, another voice yelled. He didn’t even glance at the guy. “Mine”, he said flatly.

Your head snapped up, while you heard the reaction ripple along the line. Murmurs, a few surprised laughs and lenses angling to get better shots of your face. You could feel yourself going pink. Your heart hammered against the cage of his fingers. “Ben”, you hissed under your breath, mortified.

He didn’t look down. His mouth barely moved. “What?”, he muttered. “You are. Tonight”.

“That’s not—”. “Let ‘em write their little storys”, he murmured. “Better they ask who you are than why I put a senator through a fucking wall”.

You nearly tripped. His hand tightened reflexively, hauling you back into balance without breaking stride. To anyone watching, it looked smooth. To you, it felt like your whole body was briefly suspended against him, only his grip keeping gravity from winning. You landed, breathless.

“See?”, he said, low. “You wobble, I catch you. Not a big deal”.

“Not a big—”, you whispered, “—you act like I’m not wearing three inches of death on my feet”.

“You are”, he said. “And you’re still fucking short. Funsize, actually”.

It was almost funny, if you hadn’t been in the middle of Vought’s PR machine, with all its rules and dress codes and talking points, cared so little about Soldier Boy as a person that nobody had even bothered to question why you, his assistant, the girl who wasn’t supposed to be in the shot, was glued to his side all night. Caldwell hadn’t texted. HR hadn’t panicked. Not one of the glossy, lacquered executives standing by the champagne bar even blinked at you in that dress.

As long as Ben didn’t blow up the building or end up trending on Twitter for sexual harassment, Vought didn’t give a damn who he had on his arm. You could’ve shown up in pajamas and as long as he didn’t detonate, the only thing that would’ve gotten you a call was if your cardigan had “Eat the Rich” embroidered on the back.

That knowledge hit you hard as the ballroom doors swung wide. The first blast of chilled air and perfume and music almost covered the spike of anxiety, but not quite.

You could do anything tonight and nobody would stop you. Or him.

Ben steered you easily through the lobby, never giving up his hold on you. People parted for him. Not like fans parting for a celebrity, and not even the way powerful people made space for someone richer. No, this was something colder. Fear disguised as etiquette. A little shudder of silence followed in his wake. You felt it in the way laughter dimmed as he passed, how conversation thinned at the edges.

He didn’t care. Not a bit. Didn’t drop his hand from your waist, didn’t temper his stride or slow down for anyone who wasn’t you. If someone made the mistake of looking at him too long, he looked right back, lazy and challenging, like he was daring them to try something stupid.

He leaned in as you passed a group of supes, his lips brushing your hair. “You see that?”, he murmured, a faint huff of amusement. “They’d rather piss themselves than say hello”.

You glanced sideways, catching the nervous half-smiles from a cluster of men in suits, all pretending not to flinch.

“Isn’t that… uncomfortable?”, you whispered. “Having everyone so—”. He grinned, feral. “Fuck no. Means I can actually breathe”. His thumb traced a slow, absent line along your waist, grounding you in a way you’d never admit. “Better scared than sniveling”.

At the edge of the room, you watched a pair of marketing directors you’d seen in meetings visibly debate coming over to “welcome” you both, only to turn away when Ben cocked an eyebrow. It was like you’d slipped inside a bubble, a perimeter nobody dared cross, enforced not by status but by the silent, teeth-baring edge of his presence.

But it wasn’t just the men. Women, too, sidestepped you both, but you felt their eyes. Some slid off you, cold and unreadable. Some lingered, subtle once-overs disguised as curiosity, their eyes flicking from your face to the neckline of your dress and back again.

A handful of them, the ones who knew you from the office, from elevator rides and awkward bathroom small talk, didn’t hide it at all. Pity. Their lips pressed in gentle, I-wouldn’t-wish-that-on-my-worst-enemy lines. One or two even shot you a silent, are you okay? look from across the floor, eyes round and full of concern you did not want.

Worse were the ones who weren’t scared. The ones with tight, hungry smiles. The ones who eyed Ben the way he was supposed to be eyed. Like a prize, a trophy and a story to brag about later.

You pressed your palm against Ben’s chest and felt muscle give under your fingers. “I have to use the bathroom”, you whispered with your head ducked low, not quite able to look at him.

He arched a brow, amusement flickering for half a second before he caught the tremor in your voice. “Yeah?”. His hand didn’t move from your waist, eyes searching your face. “Alright. C’mon”.

“I can go by myself”, you tried, but he was already steering you through the ballroom. Ben stopped just outside the corridor to the restrooms. He didn’t follow, he wasn’t that far gone, but he waited, close enough to block the view from anyone who might be watching.

As you walked from the toilet stall to the sinks and started washing your hands, you noticed two women on the other side. “…Did you see her?”, one stage-whispered, not bothering to lower her voice when you stepped in. “Why did he brought (Y/N) out of all”. The other snorted. “Right? If she makes it to midnight without crying, I’ll be shocked”.

You tried to ignore it, but your hands shook as you dried them. Your face in the mirror was too pale, eyes too big, makeup already threatening to run at the corners.

“She looks ridiculous”, the first went on. They laughed. One eyed your dress in the glass, taking inventory, lips pursing. “At least she finally got out of those ugly cardigans”.

You stared at your hands. “Excuse me”, you managed, slipping past them.

One caught your arm with fingers too-tight, too-friendly on your bare skin. “Honey”, she said, sweet as arsenic, “you really don´t belong here”.

You yanked your arm free, stumbling a little on the too-high heels. You ducked into a stall and shut the door, hands pressed to your chest, fighting for breath. You sat there, dress bunched in your lap, waiting for your pulse to slow.

The women’s laughter had faded into the clatter of their heels. You tried to steady yourself. Reminded yourself they didn’t matter. Reminded yourself you’d survived worse. But it still stung. Being so visibly out of place. Knowing that no matter how expensive the dress or real the diamonds, you still looked like the before photo next to the afters in a magazine.

You were trying to blink away the dampness at the corners of your eyes when you heard the unmistakable thunk of the heavy bathroom door swinging open much harder than usual. You froze.

Ben didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even check if the bathroom was empty. “Alright, which one are you in?”.

You stayed silent, mortified.

He sighed, not even pretending at patience. “Doll, don’t make me knock these goddamn doors down”. You squeezed your eyes shut as his knuckles rapped on your door. “C’mon, sweetheart. Out”.

“You can’t—this is the women’s—”. He just snorted. “What, you think anybody’s gonna throw me out?”. He leaned closer to the stall. His tone went softer, meant for you alone. “Let me in, or I’ll just break the fucking the lock”.

You relented, pushing the door open. Your eyes were bright, lashes wet. Ben’s face changed the instant he saw you. His own version of going soft, which just meant the angles of his jaw unclenched, the dangerous energy burning in his eyes redirected at anything but you. He crouched a little, bringing himself to your level. “Hey”, he said, his voice were rough with something that wasn’t anger. “You alright?”.

You shook your head, not trusting yourself to speak.

He reached out, gentle in a way nobody would believe if they saw it, and cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed your skin. “Let me guess”, he muttered, glancing at the door. “Office piranhas giving you shit?”.

You tried for a shrug, but it just made you smaller. He sighed, jaw tightening, but his thumb never stopped its slow, soothing arc. “You want me to throw ’em out a window?”. He wasn’t joking, you could hear it in the tone.

You let out a tiny, watery laugh. “No. I just…”. You trailed off, embarrassed. “I shouldn’t care. I know better. I just—”. “Yeah, you should care”, he said, cutting you off. “Means you’re not a dead-eyed bitch like the rest of ’em. Don’t ever apologize for that”. You blinked, not sure what to do with the sincerity in his voice.

He ducked his head, catching your gaze. “You listen to me, doll”, Ben said, his voice still rough but not unkind. “Those bitches out there? They wouldn’t last five minutes in my world. They see a girl like you and they think it’s fucking open season. But softness like yours… Most of ‘em lost it a long time ago, and they hate you for not trading yours in”.

You swallowed, trying to hold his stare but faltering, gaze dropping to his broad chest, anywhere but his eyes. He nudged your chin up with a finger, stubbornly gentle. “Hey. Look at me”.

You did, even if your cheeks were burning, even if your lip trembled. “I don´t fit in here Ben”.

He shrugged, still cradling your cheek. “Who gives a fuck about fitting in? Look at me”. He gestured at himself. “I was never made to fit in. Neither were you. Different’s better. Trust me”.

You found yourself smiling, just a little, because right now, it was impossible not to.

He grinned. “There’s that face. You save that for me, yeah? You want to cry in the bathroom, fine. You want to punch someone, fucking better. But don’t let ‘em steal your fuckin’ night”.

You blinked up at him. “Are you going to keep giving me pep talks in bathrooms?”.

He laughed, the sound echoing too loud against marble. “If that’s what it takes to keep you from hiding, fuck yeah. C’mon, doll”. He offered his arm, old-school, something halfway between a challenge and a dare. You hesitated just a second, then slid your hand through the crook of his elbow.

You stepped out of the bathroom with your hand tucked through Ben’s elbow, doing your best impression of someone who hadn’t just cried in a stall. Your chin was up, shoulders back. You could do this. You could fake it, if only for yourself, if only to get through the next hour.

You made it maybe five minutes before trouble found you.

The gala’s music had changed to something slower. People were pairing off for a few polite turns on the dance floor, but most were content to watch and gossip from the edge.

That was where a tall man with a deep, almost bronze tan and a thick mustache found you. He looked like he’d been poured into Armani at the last minute. A supe. You’d seen him on old posters in the Vought “museum”, grinning beside Soldier Boy. Silvernet, his name had been. Back in the day.

“Benjamin”, he drawled, appearing right in front of you both like he owned the carpet. His smile was just a little too sharp, eyes lingering on you in a way that made your skin prickle. “Didn’t expect to see you tied down tonight”.

Ben’s body went subtly tense under your hand, every muscle alert. You felt it through his suit. “Samuel”, Ben replied, voice flat. No fake warmth, no old-friends act. He kept you close, thumb absently brushing the side of your hand.

Silvrenet’s eyes were all over you, like he was weighing what Vought’s golden boy could pull now compared to the old days. “Didn’t think you were into dates, Ben. Usually you’d have half the room in a lap by now”. His gaze lingered on your neckline, then your lips.

You shifted closer into Ben without meaning to, the subtle shiver running through you not missed by either man. Ben’s grip on your waist tightened, a clear, silent fuck off that even someone with half a brain would understand.

“I’m not here for a reunion”, Ben said, deadly casual. “And she’s not here to be handed around”.

Silvernet’s grin faltered for just a second, surprised, amused, maybe a little insulted. “Since when did you start playing gatekeeper, old man? Relax, I just wanted a dance“.

Ben’s jaw flexed. “Try again”.

Silvernet lifted both hands, palms out like whoa, calm down, but the smirk stayed. “It’s a dance, man. Not a proposal”.

Ben’s arm tightened around your waist, slow, drawing you in until your hip was flush against his. “She said no”, Ben said, even though you hadn’t said anything. You realized then, he wasn’t going to give you the chance.

Silvernet let out a disbelieving scoff. “She didn’t even answer”.

“She doesn’t need to”, Ben shot back. “I answered”.

Silvernet blinked. Really looked between the two of you. “You serious?”, he asked, laugh dropping out of his voice. “Since when do you not share?”.

“Since it’s her”.

You felt your pulse thud in your wrists, your throat, everywhere. You didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe. Silvernet stared at Ben like he’d grown a second head. “You?”, Silvernet said to you, disbelief dripping. “Really? He’s playing house with you?”.

Ben´s hand leaving your waist long enough to grip Silvernet by the front of his designer suit. He didn’t lift him, but he pulled him in close. “You got something you wanna say”, Ben murmured, “say it to me. Not her”.

Silvernet swallowed, smirk gone completely. “Didn’t mean anything by it”.

“That’s the right fucking answer”, Ben said. “Now walk away before I decide to redecorate this place with your insides”.

-

Two hours later, the night had settled into a rhythm you didn’t totally hate.

Ben hadn’t killed anyone. You hadn’t cried again.

That was practically a fairy tale.

You’d done the rounds of donors, board members, one nauseating “fireside chat” with a tech CEO who kept calling Ben “buddy” and you “miss” without ever looking at your face. Ben had smirked, said a few outrageous things, and then ignored his cue cards so spectacularly you were pretty sure Caldwell was drinking straight from the bottle somewhere.

But the building was still standing. No one was bleeding. And your breathing had finally edged back into something that resembled normal. Your heart still skipped embarrassingly when Ben’s hand shifted on your back or when someone looked at you a second too long, but you weren’t white-knuckling your clutch anymore.

You were standing with him near one of the tall tables on the edge of the room, half-hidden from the worst of the crowd by a decorative pillar. Ben had braced one hand on the table, body angled toward you, his other resting possessively at the small of your back.

The band slid into another slow number. Couples drifted to the dance floor. You watched them for a moment.

Next to you, Ben huffed, almost under his breath. “Huh”.

You glanced up. “What?”.

He didn’t look at you. He was watching the dance floor, jaw grinding a little, thumb tapping an uneven rhythm against the table. “Nothin’. Just… weird”.

“What is?”.

His mouth twisted. “You didn’t ask”.

Your brows knit. “Ask… what?”.

He shrugged, faux-casual, eyes still stubbornly on the couples. “To dance”.

You blinked, thrown. “What?”.

“Usually”, he went on, words careless but edged with something that didn’t match, “by now I’ve had five different girls hanging off my arm dripping wet whining ‘dance with me, Soldier Boy’, like it’s gonna get ‘em a lifetime pass”. He snorted. “Always said no. Pain in the ass”.

You stared at him. “Okay…?”.

He shifted his weight, finally flicking a glance down at you. There was something almost… sulky in it. If you didn’t know better, you’d call it hurt. “You didn’t ask once”, he said. “Not even a little pathetic ‘oh, can we, please’. Nothin’”.

“You… wanted me to?”, you asked incredulous.

He scoffed. “That’s not what I said”.

You watched him, the way his mouth tightened, the way his fingers curled on the table. “It kind of is”.

He didn’t answer, which was as close to admission as you were going to get.

Your face warmed. You looked down at your empty glass, thumb tracing the rim. “I didn’t think you’d want to”, you said, honest and small. “Or, um… maybe couldn’t".

His expression did something strange. “You think I can’t dance?”.

Your cheeks went pink. “No, I—yes—I just… I mean, you’re not exactly the slow-dance type. I figured you’d hate it. Or maybe you just… wouldn’t know how?”.

He stared at you, deadpan, like he couldn’t decide if you were joking or just hopeless. “You think I don’t know how to dance?”. He leaned in a little, his voice dropping—part mock-offended, part genuinely surprised. “Sweetheart, I was cutting up USO floors before your grandma was in fucking pigtails. PR back then was real big on ‘charm the dames, sell the war bonds’”.

Your lips parted, half a smile forming. “Wait, really?”.

He smirked, just a little. “Yeah, really. They used to parade me through the fancy parties. Some general’s daughter, senator’s niece—half the time I didn’t even know who I was stepping on. I could do this drunk and concussed on cocaine”.

Your heart stuttered. For a second, you just stood there, caught in the odd, vulnerable sincerity of his gaze. “Okay”, you said, almost whispering. “So… do you want to?”.

He rolled his eyes, but there was something sheepish in the gesture. “I wouldn’t have brought it up if I didn’t”.

You set your empty glass down, suddenly shy and all too aware of the music drifting through the ballroom. “I’m… not very good. I’ll probably step on you”.

He offered his hand. “I’ll risk it”.

You slid your hand into his. He squeezed, just once, then led you out toward the edge of the dance floor.

It was awkward for half a second, your heels too tall, your balance too nervous. But Ben just settled his hand at your waist, right where it had been all night, and pulled you in, slow and sure.

The dance floor spun around you slow and steady, effortless under Ben’s guiding hand. You started to forget about the crowd, the cameras, the glossy Vought world that only cared about surfaces. With every turn, the room blurred, sharpening your focus until it was just his eyes, his breath and the warmth of his palm steady at your waist.

And then, in one turn, his hand slipped just a little lower. Innocent enough to play off as an accident, but deliberate enough that you felt the burn of it through the dress. His broad palm ghosted over the curve of your ass, not lingering, just a brief, claiming press that made you nearly stumble in your heels.

Ben didn’t smirk. Didn’t even look at you right away. But you felt the heat of his attention. His thumb tracing a slow circle at the small of your back, guiding you closer until there was barely any space between your chest and his.

“Easy”, he murmured against your hair. “Don’t want you tripping in those shoes. Couldn’t live with myself if you ended up flat on your pretty little ass”.

You felt your face flame, nerves sparking everywhere he touched. You tried to look away, but Ben only dipped his head lower, his stubble just barely grazing your temple, his lips so close you could feel the shape of his words.

“You got no idea, do you?”, he whispered, his tone gone rougher, lower. “What you look like right now. Got half the room thinkin’ about how sweet you’d sound if you moaned in their ear”. Your breath hitched. “Good thing you’re with me”, Ben went on, “or I’d have to start breakin’ fingers just to keep ‘em in line”.

He leaned in, pressing his mouth against the shell of your ear. You felt the warmth of his breath, the heat of his body, the solid, unmistakable intent in the set of his jaw. Then, just as the music swelled, he caught your earlobe gently between his teeth, a soft nip that sent a bolt of sensation down your spine and right between your thighs. Your heart thundered, every inch of you suddenly electric.

“God, you blush pretty”, he murmured, lips brushing your skin. “Bet you’d sound even prettier”. Your pulse stuttered, your body giving you away. You could feel the wetness blooming between your legs.

-

Later that evening, Ben noticed the way you shifted your weight and heard the tiny wince you didn’t quite hide. “Alright”, he muttered, leaning down so only you could hear it. “You did the fucking dog-and-pony. Time to go”.

You nodded, relief washing through you so fast your knees almost went weak. He kept his hand on your back all the way out.

The car was already waiting at the curb. The driver started to move, coming around to open the back door, but Ben beat him to it. “Got it”, he barked, giving the guy a look that made him freeze mid-step. Then he turned to you.

You weren’t used to this part. No one had ever opened a door for you like that, not really. Not like it meant something. He swung it open with an easy flick of his wrist and then… waited. One hand on the top of the frame, the other held out toward you, palm up.

“Careful”, he said. “Step, then slide. Don’t wanna rip my dress".

Your stomach did something wholly unhelpful. You slipped your hand into his and let him guide you down the last little drop, into the car. The slit in the dress pulled high over your thigh for a second and his gaze flicked down, lingered, then dragged back up with a tightness in his jaw that said he’d noticed and was pretending to behave.

You settled into the seat, smoothing your skirt. He shut the door gently. Not the careless slam you’d seen him give everything else. Then he walked around the back of the car and slid in beside you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The world felt… smaller in the darkened car. You could still feel the ghost of his hand at your back, the echo of his fingers brushing too low during that dance, the warm bite of his teeth on your ear. You risked a glance at him. He was already looking at you. “You did good tonight”, he said finally, voice low and rough from too many conversations and not enough filter.

You huffed a laugh, still a little dazed. “You didn’t blow anything up. Legal’s going to build you a shrine”.

He smirked at that, but it didn’t linger. His gaze dropped, tracing the line of your legs where the dress lay over them, the shimmer at your wrist, the soft waves of your hair over bare shoulders. “Can’t believe they said that shit to you”, he muttered, almost to himself.

The memory made your stomach twist. You looked down at your hands. “I’m used to it”, you said quietly. “People deciding what I am before they even know my name”. You swallowed. “You were… really gentle. Before. In the bathroom”.

He scoffed softly. “Don’t spread it around. Gotta keep up my fucking rep”.

You smiled, a thin, shaky thing. “Right. America’s First Asshole”.

“America’s First, America’s Best”, he corrected dryly, parroting the slogan. Then his mouth twitched. “Sometimes both”.

Your heart was beating harder now. You were suddenly, acutely aware of how close he was. You couldn’t stop thinking about the last hour. About his hand on your lower back, about the tight note in his voice when he told Silvernet he didn’t share anymore. You couldn’t stop thinking about his mouth at your ear, the soft nip of his teeth, the dirty little promises he hadn’t quite finished.

He heard the way your breath hitched and stuttered, felt the faint tremor in your hands on your lap, the rabbit-quick thrum under your ribs. Supe hearing made it unfair; he could read you like a metronome.

“Hey”, he murmured, shifting closer until his shoulder brushed yours, heat licking across the thin strip of bare skin at the top of your arm. “Breathe for me”.

You did. Tried. It didn’t help. He turned a fraction more, knees angling toward you, palm braced on the seat behind your hips so you were half-penned in by the breadth of him and the door. His voice dropped. “You look like you’re gonna break”.

Maybe you were. But not the way he thought.

Before he could say anything else, before you could think yourself out of it, you reached for his jacket, curled your fingers in the lapel, and pulled.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t neat. Your nose bumped his, your mouth landed a breath off target and slid into place on instinct. For a heartbeat he went still, surprised, like he’d been winding himself tight all night just to keep from doing exactly this. But then he answered you.

His hand came up, big and warm, cupping your cheek like he’d been starving for an excuse. The other settled at your waist, thumb finding the seam of the dress and holding there, firm, as if the only thing keeping him gentle was the feel of that fabric under his palm. He kissed you back like he meant it. Slow first, testing, then deeper when you didn’t flinch, when you chased him, soft and clumsy and honest.

You made a sound in your throat without meaning to. He swallowed it with a low groan, the kind that lived in the chest more than the mouth.

You didn’t know the rules to this game, didn’t have the map for where hands should go or how breaths should mingle, but instinct drove you forward anyway.

Your free hand found his chest, pressing your palm flat against the solid wall of him under that jacket, feeling the steady thud of his heart that matched the frantic one in your own.

He let out a ragged breath through his nose, his mouth parting yours with a gentleness that felt foreign on him. He was used to taking, to claiming without apology, but here he was, letting you lead this clumsy dance. Your kisses were soft, exploratory, like dipping toes into water you weren’t sure was safe. A brush here, a linger there, your tongue shyly tracing the seam of his lips without daring to push further. And fuck, it was undoing him.

He shifted under you, the leather of the seat creaking as his hips adjusted, trying to ease the growing ache between his legs. You had no idea. No clue that every innocent nip, every hesitant suckle at his bottom lip, was stoking a fire he’d been banking all night. His cock twitched in his pants, straining against the fabric, hard and insistent from the sheer sweetness of it all.

Women usually came at him bold, knowing, ready to play the part. But you? You were pure, unscripted want, and it hit him like a drug. “Sweetheart", he growled low, the word vibrating against your mouth as he pulled back just enough to speak, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “You’re killin’ me here”.

You blinked up at him, lips swollen and slick from the kiss, confusion flickering in your gaze. “Did I… do something wrong?”.

A rough laugh escaped him, more breath than sound, and he shook his head, thumb stroking your cheekbone. “No. Fuck no”. His other hand slid up your side. He could hear your pulse racing, feel the heat radiating off your skin, and it only made him harder, the pressure building to something almost painful. “You’re doin’ everything right. Too right”.

Emboldened, maybe by the rasp in his voice, or the way his body leaned into yours, you leaned in again, capturing his lips with a little more confidence this time. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly without meaning to, and he groaned outright, the sound muffled as he deepened the kiss.

His tongue finally swept in, coaxing yours into play, teaching without words. Slow strokes that made your head spin and your body arch toward him instinctively.

But in the heat of it, your hand seeking purchase, or maybe just more of him, slipped lower, brushing down his chest, over the taut ridges of his abdomen, and then… right against the hard, insistent bulge straining at the front of his pants. Massive and unyielding, like the rest of him. Your palm pressed flat for a split second before you registered it, the heat of him searing through the fabric.

You froze. Breath hitching sharp in your throat, a flush exploding across your cheeks like wildfire. Oh shit. Shit. What were you doing? This wasn’t just some guy, this was your client. You were his assistant, the one who scheduled his interviews, handled his bullshit and kept his secrets. And not just any client: Soldier Boy. The legend, the walking ego with a body count longer than your resume. The man who’d seen wars, women and worse, and here you were, pawing at him like a starry-eyed idiot in the back of a damn car.

Panic slammed into you like a freight train, your heart jackhammering so loud you swore he could hear it, hell, with his supe senses, you know he could. Your mind raced: What if this ruined everything? What if he laughed it off tomorrow, or worse, expected more? You weren’t built for this, whatever “this” was. You were the reliable one, the professional, not… not whatever desperate version of yourself had just climbed into his lap with kisses and wandering hands.

The car rolled to a smooth stop, the engine humming down as the driver announced quietly through the intercom, “We’ve arrived at your apartment, miss”.

Perfect timing. Or the worst. You didn’t wait to decide. You yanked back, scrambling for the door handle with fumbling fingers, your dress hiking up awkwardly as you twisted away. “I— I have to go”, you stammered, voice high and cracked, not daring to meet his eyes. The confusion on his face, mixed with that lingering heat, burned into your periphery, but you couldn’t stop. Couldn’t explain.

The door swung open to the cool night air and you bolted, heels clacking unevenly on the pavement as you fled toward your building. You didn’t look back, didn’t hear if he called after you, though part of you hoped he wouldn’t. The lobby door slammed shut behind you, and only then did you lean against the wall, breath coming in shaky gasps, cheeks still flaming. What had you just done?

Ben sat there in the back seat, the door still hanging open like a goddamn invitation to the night. Air rushed in, cool and mocking against his heated skin. His hand hovered mid-air where you’d been a second ago, fingers curling into a loose fist as if he could grab the ghost of you and pull it back. But you were gone. Fleeing up those steps like he’d lit a fire under your ass instead of in your veins. What the fuck?

He blinked, the haze of arousal clinging to him. His cock throbbed painfully against his zipper, hard as steel. It strained there as a reminder of just how far you’d pushed him with those sweet, fumbling kisses. He’d been ready to lay you out right there on the leather, to show you exactly who Soldier Boy was. But now? Now he was alone, fucking blue-balled and bewildered, with the car idling softly as the driver cleared his throat from the front.

Not once in his long, twisted life had a woman left him like that. Bolted like a spooked deer, leaving him hanging with nothing but the taste of her on his lips and a ache that bordered on fury. Sure, there’d been plenty of human women who’d sobbed and begged him to stop back in the day, when he took what he wanted without a second thought, their tears just background noise to the rush. But this? This was different. You hadn’t begged; you’d ignited him, teased him and then vanished.

He shifted, wincing at the friction against his pants, and let out a low, frustrated growl. “Drive”, he barked at the driver, slamming the door shut himself.

The car pulled away from the curb, but his mind stayed right there, replaying the feel of your hand brushing him and the way your breath hitched. Ben leaned back, head thumping against the seat.

-

Inside your apartment, Marmalade was already padding toward you, tail high, ready to greet you, until she saw your face. She stopped mid‑stride, head tilting, meowing once in a small, confused chirp.

You pressed your back to the door, hands shaking so hard you fumbled the deadbolt. Your pulse hadn’t slowed and your mouth still tasted like him. Your hands still felt the shape of his chest, the heat of him. And your palm… God. You squeezed your eyes shut. What did you do?

Your breath hitched in a tiny, broken gasp before you could swallow it down. You shook your head hard, like you could scatter the memory of his mouth and his hands.

Then you moved on autopilot toward the bedroom. Your fingers found the zipper of the dress, but they trembled, catching on the fabric again and again before it finally gave and the dress slid off your shoulders. You stepped out of it like you were stepping out of a crime scene.

“I’m so stupid”, you whispered into the empty room.

You weren’t angry. Not exactly. You weren’t regretful, either. You were terrified and confused and overwhelmed, everything crashing together in your chest until it hurt to breathe.

You sank onto the edge of your bed, hair falling around your face in soft waves you’d spent forty minutes curling and pressed your palms to your eyes. A few quiet tears slipped through your fingers. “I kissed him”, you whispered, like saying it out loud made it more ridiculous. “I kissed him. I touched him— oh God”. Your face burned hot again, even alone.

And he’d kissed you back. Gently. Like you mattered. That was the part that broke you all over again.

You drew your knees up, resting your forehead on them, breathing through the dizzy whirl of shame and longing and something else you didn’t have the courage to name.

Marmalade hopped onto the bed beside you, pressed her little body against your thigh and started purring like she could drown out your heartbeat. You curled a trembling hand around her. “I can’t go to work tomorrow”, you whispered into the quiet. “I can’t look at him”.

But you knew you would. Because you always did.

-

Meanwhile Ben didn’t remember the elevator ride up. Didn’t remember barking at the security guards in the lobby, or the way the glass doors slid open at the top floor like he was royalty and a prisoner all at once. By the time he stepped into the penthouse, he slammed the door a little harder than he meant to. The sound echoed, bouncing off marble and steel and that stupid chandelier.

He shrugged off the jacket, tossed it over the nearest chair. The dress shirt was next, buttons yanked loose. He was still half-hard, cursing under his breath as he kicked off his shoes. No amount of cold air or city noise could cool the ache left simmering under his skin.

His mind replayed the car ride on a loop. Your hands, uncertain but wanting, tugging him close. Your lips, soft, unpracticed but desperate for something you didn’t even have a name for. The way your hand had slid down, pressing right against the bulge straining at his pants so innocent it nearly killed him.

Then the panic. The bolt. The click of the door and the sudden absence, like he’d been sucker-punched with a ghost.

He cursed again, running a hand through his hair, pacing in front of the wall of glass that overlooked half of Manhattan. He could still smell you. The faintest trace of fear and excitement that wasn’t like any other woman he’d known.

He’d had hundreds. Thousands. He’d been begged, screamed at, sobbed on. Never—never—had he been left like this. On fire and wanting. Alone.

And not just with the hard-on. With the question: What the fuck did she do to me?

Ben grabbed a bottle off the minibar. He poured a glass, knocked it back, and felt nothing change. The ache was under his skin, not in his blood.

He slumped into the couch with the glass dangling from his fingers and his eyes fixed on the skyline he could barely see. The suite was too quiet. Too clean. He wanted to smash something, yell at someone, find a fight, but nothing would give him back the feeling of your mouth, your hands, the way you’d chased him with kisses like you were starved for something only he could give.

He remembered the look in your eyes, right before you ran. The fear wasn’t of him. Not really. It was bigger. Like you were afraid of losing yourself, or not being enough, or maybe, just maybe, wanting too much.

He drained another glass. “Fuck”, he muttered to the empty room.

Ben wasn’t built for softness. But he’d seen it in you. Tasted it. And now he wasn’t sure he could let it go.

He thought about tomorrow. He knew you’d hide. Try to pretend nothing happened. He knew you’d expect him to act like a bastard. But that wasn’t happening. Not anymore.

“You started this, sweetheart”, he murmured to the dark. “I’m not letting you run”.

And for the first time in years, Ben felt something almost new: Excitement.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 4

-

The next morning you overslept by ten minutes. Not enough to be a disaster, but enough that everything felt slightly off-kilter. Your coffee was a little too hot, the subway a little more crowded and your heartbeat a little too fast as you squeezed into the elevator with a dozen other Vought employees pretending they weren’t hungover, overworked, or both.

You’d grabbed clothes on autopilot. Another pencil skirt from the small rotation in your closet. Dark gray, this one. A simple white blouse you’d ironed on Sunday. The only heels you owned. They were black and not very high. They made you just tall enough to see over some people’s shoulders but not tall enough to twist an ankle.

It wasn’t until the elevator to the “museum” floors hummed up past eighty that you realized the skirt didn’t fit quite the way you remembered. You shifted your weight, the fabric pulling snug across your thighs. Had it always done that? Maybe you’d shrunk it in the wash. Or maybe you’d just never worn it with this blouse, the combination making the cut feel… different. More fitted. More… there.

You glanced at your reflection in the brushed steel. The heels changed your posture, tilting your hips, arching your back just a bit. The blouse, buttoned to a perfectly reasonable place, still seemed… bright. The white stood out against your skin and the dark skirt in a way your usual soft colors didn’t.

“It’s fine”, you murmured under your breath. “It’s work clothes. Nobody cares”.

The elevator chimed and you stepped out into the quiet hallway. You checked the time on your phone. 8:01. Caldwell had wanted “a quick morning touchpoint” before he had to talk to Legal at nine. The networks were circling the exclusive like sharks; you needed to know what you could actually promise before they smelled blood. You took a slow breath, adjusted the grip on your tablet, and walked to 87-C. The camera eye beside the door tracked your movement. You lifted your hand and knocked. You weren’t expecting it to actually do anything. You knew he was a supe. Enhanced strength, durability, blah blah blah. You’d seen the footage of him throwing trucks like toys. He also could probably hear your heartbeat from the other side of the door.

Locks thunked and your stomach dropped. The door swung inward and everything in your brain just… shorted out.

He was naked.

Not in underwear, not a towel. Nothing. Just skin and scars and a lot of muscle and absolutely zero fabric.

You registered broad shoulders, chest hair, the line of an old jagged scar sweeping across one rib, and then your survival instincts finally kicked in and you yanked your gaze up so hard your neck popped, staring somewhere in the vague area of his collarbone.

“Jesus Christ”, he rasped, voice rough with sleep and something else. “It’s eight in the fucking morning”. His eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils a little too blown for the time of day. He blinked at the hallway light.

You, meanwhile, were fairly sure you had forgotten how to exist. “I—I’m so sorry”, you stammered, every word tripping over the next. “I didn’t—I thought— I mean, Caldwell wanted me to—”. You could hear yourself babbling and couldn’t stop. Heat tore up your face so fast your ears burned. You tried to angle your body so your tablet was as much of a shield as possible, even though you weren’t the one missing clothes.

He squinted at you, then down the empty hallway, then back at you again. His gaze dropped for a second, taking in the pencil skirt, the white blouse and the heels. A slow, crooked grin curled his mouth. “Well, shit”, he said. “If I’d known you were bringing the church picnic outfit, I’d have put pants on”.

Your brain, unhelpfully, supplied a vivid image of him doing exactly that. You strangled it with extreme prejudice. “I should’ve— I’m early”, you blurted. “I can come back later. It’s fine. You should, um, sleep. Or… not—”.

He made a low sound that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been a groan. He wasn’t even trying to cover himself. Just leaning one arm on the doorframe like a guy on a porch in the suburbs, except for the part where there was absolutely nothing between his skin and the air.

You stared pointedly over his shoulder where a light fixture hummed faintly.

“You knock that soft”, he said, “you’re lucky I hear you at all. Half the chicks Vought sends up here would’ve been banging on the door with a shoe and wet lips by now”.

You made a strangled noise that was supposed to be some kind of polite laugh and came out like your soul trying to escape.

“Cute shoes, by the way”, he added, voice dipping. “Didn’t peg you for the ‘fuck-me heels’ type”.

“They’re not—”. You bit down on the rest mortified. “They’re just… shoes”.

“Yeah”. You could hear the smirk in his tone. “Sure they are”.

He sniffed once, sharp, and wiped under his nose with the back of his wrist. Not the frantic, jittery motion you’d seen yesterday. Just… casual. Maintained. The kind of adjustment that said whatever he’d done last night was still humming in his system.

“Are you high?”, you heard yourself ask before your brain could slap a hand over your own mouth.

His eyebrow arched. “You always this fucking forward before breakfast, doll?”.

“I just… we have a lot to go over today, and if you’re—”. “I’m fine”, he cut in. “Takes more than a little pick-me-up to knock me on my fucking ass”. You believed that. That was the problem.

He shifted his weight, the movement making you flinch automatically even though he hadn’t come any closer. Some part of you expected the door to slam in your face, or for him to bark at you to get lost. Instead he sighed, long-suffering, like you were a raincloud that had followed him home. “You gonna stand out there blushing ’til noon”, he asked, “or you gonna come in so I can put on some damn pants before security thinks I’m assaulting you?”.

You startled. “Right. Yes. Sorry. Um. Right”. You shuffled inside sideways, eyes glued to the floor. The suite smelled like stale beer, something stronger under it, and his cologne. The curtains were mostly shut. The TV was off this time, but the coffee table was still a mess.

He shut the door with a heavy thunk. You zeroed in on the nearest wall and tried very hard to think about nothing at all. “Relax”, he said again, like that was something people could do on command. “I’m not gonna flash you on purpose”.

You had the wild urge to ask if this counted as on purpose, but your tongue was currently attempting to tie itself into a noose. You heard him pad away across the carpet but you kept your eyes on the wall, tracing the pattern in the wallpaper like it was suddenly fascinating. A drawer slid open. Something soft flopped. Fabric rustled. He cursed under his breath something about laundry and Vought and “you’d think America’s First Hero would get a damn hamper”.

You risked a glance back. He had pulled on a pair of sweatpants and now scrubbed a hand over his face, yawning wide enough to crack his jaw. “See?”, he said, dropping onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees. “PG-13 again. You can stop looking like you’re about to pass out”.

You were still blushing so hard your whole body felt overheated. You adjusted your grip on the tablet with fingers shaking just enough to make the screen wobble. “I wasn’t— I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable”, you said, which was insane, given the circumstances.

He stared at you for a beat, then cackled. “Sweetheart”, he said, “if I was uncomfortable being naked, this fucking company would’ve gone bankrupt in ’84”.

You made another helpless little noise that wasn’t quite a laugh.

He took you in again, head tilted slightly. Your hair was pulled back neatly, but a piece was already slipping out to curl by your cheek. “Caldwell make you dress up?”, he asked.

You frowned, thrown by the question. “This is… how I always dress”.

“Yeah?”. His gaze lingered on the line where your blouse tucked into your waistband. “How’s that working out for you?”.

You weren’t sure what he meant. You weren’t sure you wanted to ask. Instead you clung to the one thing that made sense. “We have an update on the interview”. you said, your voice snapping back into professional mode with almost audible whiplash. “Three networks responded. One’s willing to agree to your conditions”.

-

An hour later, you were back at his door with your heart doing that stupid hummingbird thing again. The coffee cup tray shook faintly in your hands when you pressed your badge to the panel. The light blinked green and you knocked a little louder this time. Still soft by normal standards, but practically a shout compared to earlier.

“Yeah”, his voice came muffled from inside. “Door’s open”.

You eased it inward with your shoulder, careful not to tilt the tray. The suite smelled different now. Steam and soap had cut through the stale beer and old cologne, leaving everything warm and damp. The bathroom door was open, light spilling out, and that’s where you found him. He stood in front of the mirror with a towel slung around his hips, one hand braced on the sink, the other holding a buzzing trimmer to his jaw. Water still clung to his shoulders, rolling down over muscle and old scars. His hair was wet, pushed back off his face. He looked… almost cleaned up.

Your body seized up in the doorway like someone had unplugged you. “Oh”, you said, brilliant as ever.

He met your gaze in the mirror, eyes flicking from your face to the coffees and back. The corner of his mouth twitched. “You ever knock like you mean it”, he said, “you might actually surprise me, doll”.

“I did knock”, you protested weakly.

“Uh-huh”. He turned his head a fraction, checking the line of his beard. “You´re lucky I´m a supe. I hear a fucking mouse fart three floors down. Your little tap-tap-tap’s not exactly waking the dead. Remember that for your life”.

Your cheeks warmed. You edged farther into the room, trying to keep your eyes on the back of his head and not on the broad expanse of bare back in front of you. “I brought your coffee”, you said. “Black. No sugar, no cream. Double shot”.

He turned off the trimmer with a click and set it down on the counter. “You remember that”, he said, almost to himself, like he was testing the words out.

You swallowed. “You… said it yesterday. ‘Anything in it and you’ll throw that fucking gay ass drizzle shit at the wall’”.

“Sounds like me”. He reached for a hand towel, scrubbing it over his jaw to get rid of stray hairs. “Most people hear that and bring me some bullshit oat milk anyway. ‘For your heart, Soldier Boy’”.

His gaze dropped briefly, taking in how the pencil skirt hugged your hips when you leaned forward the tiniest bit. The heels made you just tall enough that your head would fit neatly under his chin if he stood behind you. You straightened so fast your spine twinged.

“Which one’s mine?”, he asked.

You pointed. “Left. The other’s for Caldwell. He’s in a meeting with Legal in twenty minutes. I’m supposed to bring him caffeine so he doesn’t have a stroke when I tell him you picked NCN”.

He stepped out of the bathroom, towel hitched carelessly with one hand, and reached for the cup you’d indicated. You had to tip the tray toward him and his fingers brushed yours as he closed them around the cardboard. You snatched your hand back like you’d touched a hot stove.

“Easy”, he said amused. “I don’t bite”.

You remembered him saying that yesterday. It had felt like a threat then. Now it just made your stomach do an unhelpful little flip.

“Outside the bed”, he added, after a beat. “Most of the time”. That didn’t help.

He took a long sip, eyes closing for a second. His throat worked as he swallowed. When he opened them again, he looked… fractionally less wrecked. “Huh”, he said. “You actually got it right”.

“That was… the assignment,” you said.

“Gold star for the good girl”, he said, like it was just the obvious thing to call you.

You pretended your face didn’t immediately go hot, while he watched you fidget with the edge of the tray. You were all soft edges with big eyes darting away from his, lips parted just enough to show you were biting back words you didn’t trust yourself to say. Sweet and small and delicate, without even trying. The way you stood there, shoulders hunched a little like you were trying to make yourself smaller in that fitted blouse and skirt, only made it worse. Or better, depending on how he looked at it. God, you were shy. Barely a peep out of you beyond the necessities and it was driving him fucking insane.

Most women threw themselves at him, all bold and brazen, but you? You hovered like a damn butterfly, too timid to land.

It made his blood run hot, stirring something he hadn’t felt in decades. Not since before the Russians turned him into a lab rat. His dick twitched under the towel, hardening just from watching you avoid his gaze, your cheeks flushing that pretty pink again.

He set the coffee down on the dresser, closer to you than necessary, and leaned in a fraction. The steam from the cup mingled with the leftover heat from his shower, wrapping around you both. “You gonna stand there all fucking day, or you got more errands to run for the suits?”.

You blinked up at him, finally meeting his eyes for a split second before dropping them to his chest. Bad move, because now you were staring at the water droplets tracing paths over his pecs, down to the V where the towel barely clung on. Your throat bobbed as you swallowed hard. “I… um. Caldwell’s waiting. I should—”.

He stepped closer, crowding you without touching, his voice dropping. “Or you stay and see if I really don’t bite”.

Your breath hitched and you clutched the tray tighter. You were so close he could smell your shampoo. Something clean and floral, nothing like the heavy perfumes the Vought bitches usually drowned themselves in. It made him want to bury his face in your neck, see if you tasted as sweet as you looked.

He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles grazed your jaw, and you froze, while your eyes went wide like a deer in headlights. Fuck, that innocence, or whatever it was, had him rock hard now while the towel doing a piss-poor job of hiding it. But he didn’t bother adjusting.

“You’re killing me here, doll”, he murmured, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “All quiet and cute. Makes a man think about all the ways he could make you… talk”.

Your lips parted, but again, no words came out. Just a soft, involuntary sound that went straight to his groin. He grinned and leaned in until his mouth was inches from yours. “Or maybe you like being watched. Like knowing what you’re doing to me right now”.

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. But your eyes flicked down, just for a second, and he knew you’d seen the bulge straining against the towel. Your face burned hotter, and he chuckled. “Yeah”, he said. “That’s what I thought”.

Just then, your phone shrieked from inside your bag, shattering the too-thick silence. You nearly dropped the tray as you scrambled to grab for it. “Shoot—sorry”, you breathed shaky as you fumbled for the device. Your hands shook so badly it took three tries to swipe the screen. You didn’t even bother checking the notification. You knew what it was: your alarm for Caldwell’s meeting. Ten minutes until you had to sell the plan you’d somehow wrangled out of Soldier Boy. An unfiltered, live NCN interview, no script, no pre-approval and no leash.

You glanced at him while every nerve in your body was still vibrating from the way his thumb had brushed your cheek and the way his eyes had darkened at the sight of your blush. He watched you with a smirk and arms crossed, a challenge in every line of his body. “Duty calls?”, he drawled, like the words were a private joke.

You nodded, your breath coming short. “I—I have to go. Caldwell—meeting—he’ll want the update”.

He cocked his head, looking you over in a unashamed way that had heat crawling up the back of your neck. “Tell him the hero’s ready for his fucking closeup”, he said with his voice dipped in sarcasm. “Just make sure he knows if anyone tries to muzzle me, the deal’s off”.

You nodded so fast you almost lost your balance in your heels. “Right. I’ll—um. I’ll be back before the car gets here for the studio”.

He didn’t move to let you pass, but he didn’t block you either. He just watched, towel tented, as you skirted around him. You barely breathed until you were through the door.

-

The interview itself was a blur of adrenaline and lights and the kind of panic that left your hands cold, your mouth dry and your heart doing laps in your chest. You barely remembered the questions or the host’s polite smile or the audience’s nervous laughter every time Soldier Boy said something not fit for primetime. He didn’t blow up, didn’t storm out. He even shot you a sidelong look in the middle of one answer, the tiniest tilt of his mouth that told you he knew exactly how much trouble he was causing. And somehow, somehow, it went well.

You texted Caldwell from the green room: He didn’t swear. Once. The reply was a single thumbs-up emoji, which might as well have been a Nobel Prize from Caldwell.

When it was over, the network wrangler hustled you both down through a service corridor and out into the street, past fans and a few hopeful journalists. Soldier Boy let you lead, which made your skin crawl in a way you didn’t have a name for. The company car was waiting at the curb. You slid into the back seat and Soldier Boy followed, folding himself into the space with a grunt while making the plush interior feel two sizes smaller than before. The door thunked shut, the driver checked the rearview—“Back to the tower?”—and you nodded, your voice small: “Please”.

You didn’t realize how close he was until the car merged into traffic, and you caught the weight of his stare from barely a foot away. Your shoulder almost brushed his. Every shift he made was magnified in the cramped silence. The slow spread of his thighs, the flex of muscle under his pants and the way his hand landed on the seat just behind your back.

You tried to focus on the passing city lights, pretending you didn’t notice his knee bump yours.

“So”, he rumbled, leaning in until you could smell his cologne. “Did I pass your little test?”.

You shook your head, smiling nervously. “It wasn’t… my test”.

“Could’ve fooled me”. He angled himself so he could watch your face, one eyebrow cocked, eyes shining green under the car’s dim lights. “Saw you out there. All stiff and nervous like I was gonna pull a fucking grenade out my ass on live TV”.

You swallowed. “You did fine. Nobody’s fired, so… that’s a win”.

He made a sound that might have been a laugh. “You’re shaking”, he observed. “Still scared of me, doll?”.

You pulled your arms tighter around your tablet. “Not scared”.

His hand slid a little closer on the seat, not touching you but close enough you felt the heat. His thigh pressed just barely into yours, as if he was seeing how much you’d tolerate before moving away.

-

A few weeks later, you’d stopped jumping every time your phone buzzed with his name. You still felt little spikes of adrenaline in your chest when SB lit up your screen, but you weren’t dropping things anymore. Progress.

In that time, you’d managed to keep him out of rehab, off the nightly news for the wrong reasons and only mildly canceled on social media. Twice. Which, for Vought, counted as a raging success.

There’d been another live interview. Two photo ops. A “surprise” visit to a veterans’ event you’d had to prep in twenty-four hours and a training session that ended with half the reinforced wall dented and you standing in the doorway pretending you weren’t watching him try not to come apart.

He swore constantly, talked like every sentence was dare and stared at you like you were something he hadn’t decided whether to break or keep yet. But he didn’t blow anything up. He didn’t walk off set. And when you were there with your soft voice, he always pulled back from the edge.

So, you were still here.

Trish had started calling you “The Supe Whisperer” behind your back. “You’re taming a nuclear bear”, she’d said over lunch one day with wide eyes. “Do you have a death wish?”.

You didn’t. Not even a little. You just… had a job. And for all his snarling and leering and lazy, filthy comments, Soldier Boy listened when you talked. Not always and not about everything. But enough that you’d learned the shape of his temper. Like the way it rose fast and ugly and then, if you said the right thing in the right tone, receded just a fraction.

You hated that you were starting to read him that well.

-

Today you were too early. You realized it when you stepped off the private elevator onto “his” floor and the hallway clock read 4:41. The debrief with Caldwell had ended ahead of schedule, Legal miraculously satisfied with his “just let him talk, what’s the worst that could happen” arrangement.

You could’ve gone back to your desk. Answered emails. Pretended you had boundaries. Instead, you found yourself walking toward 87-C.

You told yourself it was better to brief him today than tomorrow. That if you waited, he’d blow off the meeting or ignore the talking points or both. That this was you being proactive, not… whatever else it might look like.

You stopped at his door and pressed your badge to the panel. The little light blinked green. The camera eye watched you. You knocked, a little firmer than the first day. You didn’t get a verbal reply. But the door opened. He wasn’t naked this time. Just… half-dressed. Again. Dark jeans, button fly undone. Bare torso, skin still sheened with sweat, hair pushed back and damp. You wondered if he ever wore normal clothes all the way.

“Four fucking forty-something”, he said, squinting past you at the hallway clock like it had personally offended him. “You early or am I late?”.

You held up the folder a little. “Early. I can come back if you’re—”. “Relax, doll”, he cut in, stepping back from the doorway. “You already saw my dick swinging at eight a.m. once. Kinda hard to top that”.

You felt your face heat immediately. Your brain helpfully supplied the memory. You pushed it away. Hard. “I have tomorrow’s schedule”, you said, crossing the threshold. “And the notes from PR about the charity gala. Caldwell wants you to at least pretend to read them”.

“Caldwell can kiss my—”. He stopped himself, smirk tilting. “See? I’m learning. Using my fucking indoor voice”.

The suite was, surprisingly, less of a disaster than usual. There were still empty bottles on the coffee table, but fewer. The cracked TV was off. The curtains were half-open, letting late-afternoon light spill across the carpet in gold stripes.

You tried not to stare at the line of his spine as he walked ahead of you toward the couch. It was ridiculous, how aware you were of the space he took up. How small and breakable you felt next to that much… everything.

He flopped down onto the couch with one arm along the back and his legs sprawling. You took the armchair across from him, smoothing your skirt automatically before you sat. You perched on the edge instead of sinking back while you balanced your folder on your knees like a shield.

“Alright, sweetheart”, he said, nodding at the papers. “Hit me”.

You opened the folder. “Tomorrow: training at ten. Media availability at two. Charity gala at seven. Red carpet, photos, one short speech”.

“No”, he said immediately. “You want a speech, you write it and get some cocksucker in a tux to read it”. You didn’t bother pretending that wasn’t already Plan B. “And the guests?”, he asked, reaching for a bottle on the table and finding it empty. He made a face, dropped it back with a clink. “Who am I smiling at this time?”.

“Donors. Executives. And some celebrities”. You flipped a page. “They’re positioning it as ‘America’s First Gives Back’. Benefits Vought’s veteran outreach”.

He snorted. “Yeah. Bet all those guys living under overpasses feel real fucking good about me posing with canapés and plastic tits”.

Your stomach twisted. “You could… say something about that. If you wanted”.

He looked at you with one of his eyebrow raised. “On camera?”.

“On camera”, you said quietly.

“You trying to get me blacklisted from my own party?”.

“I’m just… saying you don’t have to follow the script”, you murmured. “Not exactly. People believe you more when you sound like… you”.

He watched you for a beat too long. You forced yourself not to look away, hands pressed flat against the folder so he wouldn’t see them shake.

“Careful”, he said finally. “Start talking like that, they’re gonna think I’ve rubbed off on you”.

Your face flamed. You dropped your eyes back to the papers, your teeth pressing into your lower lip.

“Relax”, he added softer. “You’re doing that fucking turtle thing again”.

You blinked. “What… turtle thing?”.

He mimicked you. Shoulders hunching, chin tucking down toward his chest, eyes going wide and darting away. It was a terrible impression and also… painfully accurate.

You let out a small, unwilling laugh. “I don’t do that”.

“Uh-huh”. His mouth quirked. “Next time I’ll get you a shell. Complete the look”.

You shook your head, looking back down at the schedule so he wouldn’t see the way your lips wanted to curl. “The dress code is formal”, you said. “They’ll send up a suit for you to try”.

He groaned. “They wanna put me in a fucking suit again? Thought the whole point of this comeback crap was ‘raw and authentic’”.

“Authentic with a bowtie”, you said before you could swallow the joke.

He stared at you. You panicked internally. Had you gone too far? Was that disrespectful? Was— He laughed. It burst out of him, short and loud and real. You felt it all the way in your chest. “See?”, he said. “Knew there was something under all that vanilla”.

You stared down at the folder, heartbeat skipping in ways that had nothing to do with fear. You’d gotten braver. You could admit that to yourself, at least. You still hovered, still second-guessed, still folded in on yourself whenever anyone raised their voice. But around him, something had… shifted. Maybe because he hadn’t thrown you out a window the first week. Maybe because you’d watched him stop himself, again and again, when he was looking at you.

He’d still said awful things. He still opened his mouth and let filth fall out just to see you blush. He still flouted every rule Vought tried to hand him. But he hadn’t directed that sharp, dangerous temper at you. Not once. He made the room feel unsafe and safer all at once, and you had no idea what that said about you.

You were flipping to the next page when he shifted on the couch.

“Stand up”, he said.

You blinked. “What?”,

He gestured with two fingers. “Up. Lemme see”.

You clutched the folder a little tighter. “See… what?”.

“The outfit”, he said, as if that were obvious. “You gonna wear that tomorrow?”.

You looked down at yourself. Same pencil skirt. Different cardigan. Soft pink this time, over a white camisole. Your heels were in your bag; you’d been at your desk most of the afternoon. “I hadn’t… thought that far ahead”, you admitted.

“Stand up”, he repeated.

You hesitated a second and then pushed to your feet, feeling absurdly like you were in line for inspection. Heat crept up your neck as you smoothed your hands down the front of your skirt.

He let his gaze travel. Slow and thorough. But it was different tonight. Less like he was trying to make you squirm for fun, more like he was cataloguing something for reasons he hadn’t decided to share. “Turn around”, he said.

“Soldier Boy—”.

“Relax, doll. I’m not asking you to strip and rub my dick. Just lemme see”.

You bit the inside of your cheek and did as he asked, turning in a small, awkward circle. The hem of your skirt tugged at your thighs. You fought the urge to tug it back down.

He made a thoughtful sound. “You got anything… dunno… sparkly?”.

You frowned over your shoulder at him. “Sparkly?”.

“It’s a gala”, he said. “They’re gonna throw you in some corner with the other office drones if you show up looking like you’re about to file their taxes”. His mouth tilted. “You got a dress? Something that doesn’t look like HR picked it out?”.

“I don’t… really go to parties”, you said, facing him again. “Or… own party dresses”.

“Figures”. He scratched his jaw, eyeing you like a problem he meant to solve. “What size are you?”.

Your face went nuclear. “I— I don’t—”.

He waved a hand, dismissive. “Forget it. I know already”.

You stared. “How would you… know already?”.

He gave you a look like you’d asked if water was wet. “Been lookin’ at tits longer than you’ve been alive. I can eyeball a size from across the damn room”.

That somehow made it worse. You opened your mouth, closed it again. Your fingers twitched against the folder, wanting something to hide behind. “I don’t need a dress”, you said quickly. “I’m staff. I’ll be in the back with the comms team—”.

“No”, he cut in sharp. “You’re not”. You blinked. “I’m… not?”.

He lounged back into the couch. “Already told ’em I’m not doing their little dog-and-pony show without my handler”. His mouth curled. “They wanted to stick me with some plastic-looking blonde from marketing for ‘optics’. I said no. I pick my own”.

Your heart stuttered. “Pick your own… what?”. His eyes dragged over you meaningfully. “Arm candy”.

The words hit you like a slap and a shove at the same time. “I—I’m not—”. You choked on the rest. Not arm candy. Not the type. Not for you.

He smirked. “Calm down. You won´t climb on my lap in front of the cameras. You stand there, look pretty, smile at the old rich assholes. They feel important, I don’t punch anybody. That’s what they call a win-win”.

“I don’t… look…”. The word pretty lodged in your throat like it didn’t belong there.

He snorted. “You got any idea how you looked on that live hit? Little blouse, big eyes, shaking like a leaf but still mouthing ‘no’ at me when I almost said ‘shit’?”. He shook his head. “You’re sweet, doll. That’s the job”.

You wanted to sink through the floor. “I’m not…”, you tried again, voice tiny. “That’s not… I’m not arm candy”.

He tilted his head. “No? What are you then?”.

“I’m your PR contact”, you said, clinging to the phrase like a lifeline. “I’m here to… manage your schedule. Help with messaging. Not—”. “Messaging”, he repeated dry. “That what they call it when they send you in to keep me from telling the truth?”.

You opened your mouth, then shut it again. It wasn’t that simple and you both knew it.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Look, doll. Vought’s gonna put somebody next to me tomorrow. They always do. Makes the pictures look balanced, like I’m not gonna fucking snap and start throwing tables”.

“That’s… graphic”, you muttered.

He ignored it. “Point is, I’d rather it be someone who doesn’t make me wanna drive my head through a fucking wall”.

You blinked. “And that’s… me”. He shrugged. “Could be worse”.

Somewhere inside, past the embarrassment and the panic and the little voice screaming this is wildly inappropriate, something warm flickered.

“I don’t know how to… do that”, you admitted, fingers worrying the edge of the folder. “Be… arm candy”.

He snorted. “You stand there and exist. You already do that just fine”.

“That’s not…”. You exhaled sharply, trying to put it into words. “I don’t go to galas. Or… parties. I don’t know where to look, or what to say, or who you’re supposed to shake hands with first. I’m going to mess it up”.

He watched you as you spiraled, the way your shoulders crept up, how you slowly folded in on yourself like you were trying to vanish between your cardigan and your skirt. Even more than usually.

“Hey”, he said, a little rougher. You looked up, startled. His eyes locked on yours. “You just gotta stay next to me and not run off when some asshole tries to corner you about brand synergy or whatever the fuck. I handle the rest”.

“That’s… not comforting”, you said, but your voice shook less.

He smirked. “I’ll be good”.

You raised an eyebrow before you could stop yourself. “You don’t… do good”.

That actually made him laugh. “Oh, you’re cute”. He reached for the bottle on the table again, remembered it was empty, and let his hand drop. For a second his wrist brushed his own knee, knuckles whitening like he wanted something in them… glass, a neck, anything. Then he looked back at you. “Listen, sweetheart”, he said. “I’ve spent decades in rooms like that. They’re all the same. Too much cologne, not enough spine. You just stick close, let me know if anyone says something that makes you wanna throw up in your own mouth. I’ll make ’em stop”.

There was something disturbingly comforting about the way he said it. Brutal and simple and absolute.

“Anyway”, he said, like you’d just agreed to a lunch order, “I’ll send one of the little assistants over to your place later with a dress”.

You blinked. “You’ll— what?”.

“A dress”, he repeated, slower, like he was checking for a language barrier. “Y’know. Pretty piece of fabric, makes donors open their wallets. I’ll pick one, they’ll drop it off. You put it on, we go smile for the cameras. Easy”.

Your brain kind of fuzzed out on I’ll pick one. “You’re… choosing my clothes now?”, you managed.

He smirked. “You say it like it’s a bad thing”.

“Because it is”, you said, before your self-preservation could kick in. “That’s not— you can’t just decide what I’m going to wear”.

His eyes flicked over you again, quick and unapologetic. “You’re doing a hell of a job deciding beige so far”.

Your cheeks burned. You glanced down at your skirt. “There’s nothing wrong with beige”.

“There is if you’re standing next to me”, he said.

You frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”.

He settled deeper into the couch, eyes dragging lazily down and back up like he had all the time in the world to make you squirm. “Means”, he said, “if I’ve gotta haul my sorry ass into a tux and stand under hot lights while rich assholes pretend they give a fuck about vets, the least they can give me is a decent view”.

You blinked. “A… view”.

“Don’t play dumb, doll”. His mouth ticked up. “You got a sweet little body under all those cardigans. Be a fucking shame not to show it off”.

Your brain tripped over sweet little body like it had hit black ice. You’d never thought of yourself that way. You knew what bodies looked like at Vought… tall, sculpted, all impossible curves and legs that went on forever. Starlight in her gold suit. The PR execs in their sleek dresses that never wrinkled, glossy hair and glossy smiles. You were… not that. Your chest was nothing to write home about, thighs that didn’t magically not touch, a stomach that was soft when you sat down. You bought padded bras and high-waisted skirts and lived in fabrics that draped more than they clung because it was easier not to think about whether anyone was looking. The idea of that being something to “show off” made your stomach do a weird, swoopy thing.

“There’s nothing… to show”, you muttered.

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, see, that’s where you’re full of fucking shit”.

Your head snapped up. “Excuse me?”.

He pointed at you with two fingers, casual, annoyingly sure of himself. “You think I don’t notice the way every guy in that bullpen suddenly finds a reason to walk past when you´re there? Or the intern who almost walked into a wall staring at your legs last week?”.

Heat slammed into your face. “He tripped”. “Yeah”, he said. “Over his own growing balls”.

You wanted to argue. To tell him he was wrong, that nobody noticed you, that half the time you felt like furniture with a badge. But you remembered the intern’s pink ears, the way he’d stammered out an apology without quite looking at you, and the words died in your throat. “It doesn’t matter what they’re looking at”, you said instead, too fast. “I’m there to work”.

“Sure you are”. He leaned forward a little, forearms on his knees. The motion brought him closer, shrinking the space between you. “But tomorrow night, you’re there to work for me. Which means I get to say no beige, no funeral clothes and no hiding behind some ugly-ass blazer”.

You looked down at your lap, picking at the edge of the folder, feeling shame coil even tighter in your chest. Ugly-ass blazer. You didn’t think you’d ever liked your wardrobe, but you hadn’t thought it was ugly. Not until he said it.

But of course Soldier Boy wasn’t about being gentle or soft or letting things down easy. He was a weapon. Made for war, not comfort. If something needed to be said, he said it. If it hurt, well, you were supposed to get stronger or get out of the way.

You swallowed and nodded, because arguing wouldn’t change anything, not with a man like him, not with years of learning how to take up less space. So you took a breath, made yourself let it go. There were emails to send, a cat waiting for you at home and a dress on the way that you’d probably hate but had to wear anyway. “Alright”, you said, voice steadier than you felt. “I’ll try whatever you send”.

He watched you closely, like he expected you to break or maybe hoped you wouldn’t. When you didn’t, when you just stood there, small and still but not running, his mouth ticked up at the corner. “Good girl”.

-

By the time you got home, your brain felt like it had been left in the microwave too long. You went through the motions on autopilot. Keys in the dish, shoes off by the door and bag dropped next to the couch. Marmalade trotted out from wherever she slept her afternoons away, tail high and rubbed shamelessly against your ankles. “Hey, menace”, you murmured, bending to scoop her up. She flopped into your arms like a sack of warm sand, purring obnoxiously loud. “You’re the only one who likes my cardigans”. She blinked slowly, smug and unconcerned.

You barely managed to shove a slice of toast into your mouth, when your buzzer went. You froze with crumbs on your fingers and Marmalade twining between your ankles like she’d been the one expecting company. You glanced at the clock above the microwave. 7:12 p.m. Nobody rang your bell at 7:12 p.m.

You wiped your hands on a dish towel and shuffled over to the intercom, thumb hesitating over the button. “…Hello?”, you said, voice doing that embarrassing little wobble.

“Vought delivery”, a bored male voice answered. “Signature required”.

Your stomach dropped. Right. You’d said yes. You buzzed him in.

A minute later there was a knock at your door. You checked the peephole out of habit. A guy in his twenties and windbreaker with the Vought logo over his heart. His expression said he’d rather be anywhere else but here.

You opened the door a crack, chain still on. “Yes?”.

He lifted an eyebrow, then held up a garment bag. It took up most of your doorway. Sleek black, thick plastic, the kind real people used when they traveled first class. In his other hand was a smaller branded shopping bag, the kind that meant trouble. “Delivery for…”, he glanced at the tag, mangling your last name, “from Wardrobe, per special request”.

“Special… request”, you echoed faintly.

He sighed. “Look, lady, I’m just the mule. You sign, I drop, I go back to pretending the seventieth floor doesn’t exist”.

You undid the chain and opened the door fully. The garment bag seemed to grow as he stepped in, the bottom nearly brushing your floor. “Um—just there is fine”, you said, backing up to let him lean it against the wall.

He set the black bag down with a grunt, then handed you a clipboard and a pen.

You looked at the line: your name, your address, the word WARDROBE and then, in a different handwriting, a note in the margin: SB – PERSONAL. Your pulse jumped.

You scribbled your signature before he could say anything. He handed you the smaller bag that was heavier than it looked.

You shut the door slowly and Marmalade immediately trotted over to investigate, nose pressing curiously against the garment bag.

“No”, you said. “Absolutely not. You are not claiming the most expensive thing I’ve ever touched as a scratching post”. You nudged her gently aside and eased the bag upright, fingers tracing the slick material. Your heart hammered absurdly hard for something as simple as opening a zipper. You pulled it down.

The dress inside wasn’t Vought wardrobe.

You knew that instantly. Not from the color or the shape, but from the way the fabric hung. It didn’t drape like polyester or synthetic satin. It fell in a clean, liquid line, the kind of weight that said the price tag had more digits than your rent.

You reached in with careful hands and eased it out. Dark green. At first glance it looked simple. No beading, no rhinestones, no obvious branding. But the cut— You swallowed. Thin straps. A neckline that wasn’t obscene, but wasn’t safe either, low enough you knew you’d be hyper-aware of every breath. The bodice nipped in at the waist, the skirt skimming over hips and thighs before flaring slightly just above the knee. There was a slit, a modest one, but still… a slit.

You caught sight of the tag. You recognized the name, even if you’d only seen it on red-carpet coverage and in the fashion pages you pretended not to read in the break room. You exhaled, a little weak. “Oh my God”.

You checked the other side of the bag on autopilot. No second option, no backup. Just this one dress. You knew in that moment Vought hadn’t paid for this. Caldwell would sooner burn the building down than sign off on this label for a handler.

You glanced at the smaller bag, your stomach sinking, already sure and still not ready. The box inside was matte black with that same designer logo stamped on top. Under it, nested in tissue paper, a thinner velvet case.

You opened the shoe box first. They were black and unmistakable: red lacquer flashing on the soles like a siren. The heel wasn’t insane, but it wasn’t modest either. They looked like the kind of shoes that could ruin your life and your ankles at the same time. You picked one up, thumb running over the arch, feeling a little faint.

Marmalade tried to rub her face against the heel. You yanked it back out of range. “Do you have any idea how much these cost?”, you whispered at her. “Because I don’t. But it’s a lot”. She blinked clearly unconcerned.

You set the shoe down like it was made of glass and reached for the velvet case with hands that were just barely steady. The clasp clicked open. Diamonds. Not the sparklier-than-usual cubic zirconia the Vought party stash used. Real ones. The bracelet lay in the little groove like it lived there, bright. Between were a matching pair of earrings.

There was a folded piece of Vought-branded paper. You hesitated, then unfolded it.

Try it on.

That was it. No name. No from Soldier Boy, no you’re welcome, no smiley face. Just three words that somehow felt like he was standing in the room.

You sat back on your heels on the living room rug with the dress pooled in your lap, diamonds winking from the coffee table, shoes on the floorboards and tried very hard not to freak out.

“This is insane”, you told the cat.

You stared at the dress again. The way the waist narrowed in. The thought of your body in this thing made your throat close.

This had to be from his own pocket. There was no way Vought signed off on this when wardrobe already had a sponsorship deal with some mid-tier designer who gave them ten red carpet looks for the price of one of these.

You were still staring at the diamonds like they might bite when your phone buzzed across the coffee table.

FaceTime: Trish

You considered not answering. You considered throwing the phone in the laundry basket and pretending you’d fallen asleep at 7:30 like someone with a head injury. Instead, you swiped accept.

Her face filled the screen. She took one look at you, at the garment bag behind you, at the way you were sitting on the rug like you’d been dropped there, and groaned.

“Oh my God, you look like someone just told you you’re drafted”, she said. “Is this about tomorrow? Are you panicking? Blink twice if you’re panicking”.

“I’m… fine”, you lied.

“You’re absolutely not”. Her gaze slid past you. “What´s in the bag?”.

You glanced over your shoulder. You lifted the phone, turned it so she could see the coffee table with the Louboutins and the velvet case.

“Holy shit.”

You gave her a small, helpless shrug.

“Is that—”, she leaned closer, squinting at the shoes, “those are red soles. Those are the ones I have to scroll past on Instagram because they make my bank account cry”.

You set the phone back down so she could see your face again. “There’s also this”, you said, holding up the velvet case and cracking it open.

Her eyes bugged. “Oh cool, love that for you. You’re about to get murdered and rolled into a Hudson River gift bag”.

“They’re real, right?”, you asked quietly. “They look… real”.

“They look illegal”, she said. “Okay, back up—did wardrobe send this, or did… he send this?”.

Your stomach twisted. “The shipping slip said SB – personal”, you admitted.

She slapped a hand over her facemask. “Oh my God. Oh my God. He bought you diamonds?”.

You winced. “When you say it like that I want to throw up”.

“Yeah, that’s fair”. She took a sip of wine through the little mouth gap in her mask. “Okay. Okay. Pros and cons. Pro: you are now the proud temporary owner of enough resale value to pay off your student loans. Con: it’s from a man who does cocaine for breakfast”.

You huffed a weak laugh. “I don’t think you’re helping”.

“Show me the dress”, she said laser-focused.

You hesitated, then stood, propping the phone up against the lamp base so she got a slightly skewed view of the room. You walked over, slipped the hanger off the hook, and turned.

Trish actually made a noise, somewhere between a gasp and a swear. “Okay”, she said, voice gone almost reverent. “Okay, that’s not a dress, that’s a weapon”.

“It’s missing… a lot of fabric”.

“It’s missing nothing it needs”, she countered. “Look at that waist. And the slit? And the color? You’re gonna look like a poisonous plant”.

“That’s not comforting”, you said.

“It’s the only kind of comforting I offer”, she replied. “Try it on”.

You froze. “Right now?”.

“Yes, right now. You think you’re gonna be less terrified if you wait until five minutes before the car gets here tomorrow?”.

She had a point. You hated that she had a point. You glanced at the closed bedroom door. “If it doesn’t fit, I’m going to spontaneously combust”.

“If it doesn’t fit, I’m marching down to Vought and shoving it up his—”. “Please do not finish that sentence”, you cut in.

She grinned. “Go. I’ll stay on. Angle me at the mirror. I will coach”.

You scooped up the dress and your phone, retreating to the bedroom with Marmalade trotting along, clearly pleased that the evening had turned into enrichment time.

You set the phone on your dresser, propped against a stack of old paperbacks so the front-facing camera caught most of the room. Trish gave you two thumbs-up from her tiny rectangle.

“Alright”, you muttered to yourself, to her and to the dress. “Here goes nothing”.

You shimmed out of your banana pajamas, folded them out of sheer muscle memory, and hung the dress on the closet door knob. Up close, it was even more obscene in its quality. The zipper glided under your hand without catching once. The lining felt cool and expensive and not at all like the fast-fashion dresses you’d tried on for office parties and put back on the rack because they made you feel like an overstuffed sausage.

You stepped into it carefully, one hand on the wall for balance. The fabric slid up your legs like water. You pulled the bodice into place, heart hammering, and reached back for the zipper, fingers fumbling.

“Need help?”, Trish’s voice floated over. “Do I need to order you one of those dressing maids off Etsy?”.

“I’m fine”, you grunted, lying. Your arms were shaking. The zipper inched up, inch by inch, the dress closing around you in a slow, inevitable hug.

It fit. You turned toward the mirror and forgot how to breathe.

The green made your skin look warmer, your eyes brighter. The neckline framed your collarbones, hint of cleavage that made your cheeks heat just looking at it. The waist actually looked like a waist, nipped in clean. The skirt skimmed your hips instead of clinging or hanging limp, and the slit flashed a teasing slice of thigh when you shifted your weight. Your legs looked… long. Not objectively. But longer than you’d ever seen them.

You squeezed your fists at your sides, feeling the unfamiliar absence of sleeves. Your arms were bare. Your shoulders were bare. There was nowhere to hide.

Trish was silent. Alarmingly silent.

“Say something”, you whispered.

Her hand came up, dragging the sheet mask a little askew. “Okay”, she said slowly. “Don’t freak out, but… you look hot”.

Your instinct was to laugh, deflect, protest. “No, I don’t. I look—”. “You look hot”, she repeated firmly. “Like, ‘who’s the mystery date and how did he pull that off’ hot”.

You stared at the mirror, at the little dip of your waist, the curve of your hips. At the way you weren’t… disappearing. “I feel naked”, you said.

“You’re covered from collarbone to knee”, she said. “You’re just not buried alive in knitwear. There’s a difference”.

You swallowed. Your throat felt tight. “What if they stare?”, you asked, voice small.

“They should!”, she said.

“I don’t know if I can do this”, you whispered.

Trish softened. “Hey”, she said. “Listen. You go, you stand next to America’s Most Traumatized Action Figure, you smile at some rich people, you eat a free canapé, and you go home. That’s it. You’re not there to impress them. You’re there because he didn’t want a plastic marketing bot. He wanted you. Cardigans, panic and all”.

Your chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with the dress. “He doesn’t… want me”, you said, heat crawling up your neck. “He wants a prop that doesn’t annoy him”.

“Sure”, she said unconvinced. “And I buy wine for the antioxidants”.

You looked at yourself again. At the way your shoulders curled in by habit, how your chin dipped, how your hands kept wanting to find something to clutch. You forced your shoulders back, just an inch. Lifted your chin. The reflection changed. Not completely. You were still small. Still soft. Still obviously someone who worked too much and slept too little and had a cat instead of a social life. But you didn’t look like you were apologizing for existing. You looked like someone who could, maybe, believe that a man like him might spend too much money on a dress and send it to your shitty apartment with two words and the expectation that you’d wear it because he’d said so.

“Okay”, you said again, barely audible.

“You’re gonna knock him on his handsome ass”, Trish said smug.

“Please don’t say that”, you said weakly. “He’ll take it as a challenge”.

She cackled. “True. Alright, twirl. Let me see the back”.

You did, feeling ridiculous, the slit flashing as you turned. The back dipped lower than you expected. You caught sight of the line of your spine, the slope of your shoulder blades. Vulnerable.

“Damn”, Trish muttered. “He is going to lose what’s left of his tiny mind”.

You flushed so hard you could feel your pulse in your ears. “He sees women like this all the time”.

“Yeah”, she said. “´But not in his clothes”.

You swallowed. “They’re not his clothes”.

She gave you a look. “You keep telling yourself that”.

Your phone buzzed in your hand. UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: You try it on or am I wasting my philanthropy here, doll?

You almost dropped the phone. Trish leaned in until her forehead nearly bonked the inside of your screen. “Is that him?”.

“Yes”, you hissed. “Shut up”.

YOU: Yes. It fits.

UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: Yeah?

You bit your lip. YOU: Yeah.

UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: Good. I bought it.

Your chest did that weird, traitor squeeze again.

YOU: You shouldn’t have spend money on me

UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: I wanted to.

You stared at that for a long, long second. Then, impulsively, before you could think better of it, you lifted the phone, switched to the front camera, and snapped the quickest photo you could. Just from the collarbone down, head cut off, no face. It showed the neckline, the green against your skin, the way the bodice fit. Your heart tried to escape through your ribs as you attached it.

YOU: So you know your “philanthropy” wasn’t wasted

Trish made a strangled, delighted sound. “You did not just—”. You did. It was gone. Delivered. You paced the length of your bedroom and back, nearly tripping over the cat as you waited for the dots. They popped up almost instantly. Stayed. Stayed.

UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: Jesus. UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: Yeah. That’ll do.

Your knees nearly gave out. You sank onto the edge of the bed, green fabric pooling around your thighs, phone clutched in your hand and your pulse roaring in your ears.

Trish was staring at you, mask askew, eyes wide. “Well?”, she demanded.

“He said…”. Your voice came out embarrassingly breathless. “He said ‘that’ll do’”.

She stared another second. Then burst into hysterical laughter. “Oh my God”, she wheezed. “He’s such an asshole. And you are so gone”.

“I am not”, you protested, but it sounded thin even to you.

She softened again, looking at you over the edge of her wine glass. “Just… be careful, okay? He’s a walking trauma factory with a pretty face and the highest bodycount in history. And I´m not talking about dead bodies”.

“I know”, you said quietly.

“And you’re… you”, she went on. “You apologize to chairs when you bump into them. You were not designed for… this”.

“I know”, you repeated.

But as you sat there in a dress bought by a man who’d once scared you so much you shook holding your tablet, feeling the weight of diamonds waiting on the coffee table and the echo of I wanted to in your chest, you also knew something else: You weren’t backing out. Not of the gala. Not of the car ride. Not of walking in next to him and pretending you weren’t terrified. You’d been small and safe and invisible for a long time.

Tomorrow night, for whatever twisted, dangerous reason, a volatile, exhausted, impossible man had decided you were going to be seen. And despite everything—despite knowing better—part of you wanted that. Wanted him to see you.

“All I have to do”, you whispered, more to yourself than to Trish, “is get through the night”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

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Part 3

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