Trinket Goblin

The air was thick with salt and humidity, that particular heaviness that came with coastal evenings. Your skin felt sticky, and where your bare thighs pressed against Pope's jeans, you could feel the heat radiating between you. The sun had dipped below the horizon maybe twenty minutes ago, leaving behind streaks of pink and orange that were slowly fading to deep purple. A few early stars were beginning to prick through the darkening sky.

“This is perfect,” Pope murmured, his voice rumbling through his chest into your spine. His breath tickled your ear, warm and smelling faintly of weed and the mint gum he'd been chewing earlier. You felt him shift slightly beneath you, adjusting his position, and you became acutely aware of the solid warmth of his thighs, the way his body cradled yours.

“Mm-hmm.” You took another hit, held it, watching the smoke curl from your lips and dissipate into the salt air. Everything felt heightened, the sound of the waves was almost musical, each crash and retreat a perfect rhythm. The wicker chair creaked slightly as you both breathed, and you could hear the distant sound of someone's music playing down the beach, just a faint bass line carrying on the wind.

Pope's hands rested on the arms of the chair, his fingers drumming slightly to some internal beat. You noticed he was being very careful not to touch you, even though you were literally sitting in his lap. It was so Pope, respectful to the point of awkwardness, even in an intimate situation. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he was holding himself carefully still.

The weed was making you hyperaware of every sensation. The cotton of your tank top felt soft against your skin, and you weren't wearing a bra, hadn't bothered when Pope texted saying he was coming over. You could feel your nipples hardening slightly in the cooling evening air, and you wondered if he'd noticed. The thin fabric didn't hide much.

Your shorts were denim cutoffs, frayed at the edges, and they'd ridden up slightly when you'd settled into his lap. You could feel the rough texture of his jeans against the backs of your thighs, and the contrast between that roughness and the smooth warmth of his hands, even though he wasn't touching you, made you shiver slightly.

“You cold?” Pope asked immediately, his voice concerned.

“No,” you said, and your voice came out lower than you'd intended, almost husky. “Just... feeling good.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, and you felt him relax slightly behind you. “This is nice. I needed this. Been a crazy week.”

You hummed in agreement, taking another hit before passing the joint back to him. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, and even that small contact sent a little spark through you. The weed was definitely making you sensitive, making every touch feel more significant.

The ocean continued its endless rhythm, and you found yourself swaying slightly to it, your body moving in small circles. It was unconscious at first, just responding to the sound and the feeling of being high and relaxed. But then you became aware of it, aware of the way your ass was pressing against Pope's lap, the way the movement was creating friction between your bodies.

Pope's breath hitched slightly, and his hands tightened on the chair arms. You felt a little thrill run through you, he'd definitely noticed. You did it again, a little more deliberately this time, rolling your hips in a slow circle.

“You, uh...” Pope's voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat. “You good?”

“I'm great,” you said, and you let your head fall back against his shoulder, exposing the line of your throat. The movement pressed your body more firmly against his, and you felt him tense. “Really, really great.”

You could feel his heart beating faster against your back, could hear the slight change in his breathing. The joint had burned down to almost nothing, and he stubbed it out in the ashtray on the small table beside the chair. His hands returned immediately to the chair arms, gripping them like they were the only thing keeping him grounded.

You wiggled again, this time more obviously, grinding down slightly. The friction sent a pleasant tingle through your body, and you realized with a lazy, weed-hazed smile that you were getting turned on. The sensation was building slowly, a warm pressure between your legs that was becoming harder to ignore.

“Jesus,” Pope breathed, and you felt him shift beneath you, trying to adjust himself. That's when you felt it, the unmistakable hardness pressing against your ass. He was getting hard, and he was clearly embarrassed about it, trying to shift away without being obvious.

But there was nowhere for him to go, and every time he moved, it just created more friction, more awareness of his growing erection. You bit your lip, feeling a surge of arousal mixed with affection. He was trying so hard to be respectful, even as his body betrayed exactly what he was feeling.

“Andy.,” you said softly, turning your head so your lips were close to his ear. You could see his profile in the dim light, the strong line of his jaw, the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard. “It's okay.”

“What's okay?” he asked, his voice strained. “I'm not-I mean, I'm just-“

You wiggled again, deliberately this time, grinding down against the hardness you could feel pressing against you. He made a choked sound, somewhere between a gasp and a groan, and his hands finally left the chair arms, hovering uncertainly near your hips before returning to their safe position.

“You're so hard,” you murmured, and you felt him shudder. “I can feel you.”

“I'm sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn't mean to-you're just sitting there and you're so-and I can't help-fuck, I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry,” you said, and you pressed your nose against the side of his neck, inhaling the scent of him. He smelled like weed and ocean air and something distinctly Pope clean sweat and that expensive body wash he used, something woodsy and masculine. You let your lips brush against his skin, just barely, and felt him suck in a sharp breath.

His pulse was racing beneath your lips, and you could feel the heat of his skin. You kissed him again, a little more firmly this time, your lips pressing against the spot where his neck met his shoulder. His skin was slightly salty, and you let your tongue dart out, tasting him.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice rough and strained.

“Kissing you,” you said simply, doing it again. You dragged your lips up the column of his throat, feeling the vibration as he groaned. Your hands came up to rest on his thighs, and you felt the muscles tense beneath your palms.

“We're-we're high,” he said, like he was trying to convince himself of something. “And we're friends, and I don't want to-I don't want to take advantage or-“

“Andrew,” you interrupted, turning in his lap so you were straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips. The movement pressed your core directly against his erection, and you both gasped at the contact. His eyes were wide, pupils blown dark, and his lips were parted. He looked wrecked already, and you'd barely done anything. “I want this. Do you want this?”

“I-fuck-yes,” he admitted, his hands finally, finally coming to rest on your hips. His grip was tentative at first, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he held on too tight. “I've wanted this for so long, but I didn't think-I didn't know if you-“

You cut him off by rolling your hips against him, grinding down deliberately. The friction was delicious, the seam of your shorts pressing against your clit through your underwear, and you could feel how hard he was through his jeans. The layers of fabric between you were frustrating and arousing at the same time.

“Oh god,” Pope groaned, his head falling back against the chair. His hands tightened on your hips, and you could see him struggling with himself, wanting to pull you closer, wanting to maintain control. His neck was exposed, the tendons standing out, and you leaned forward to kiss along his throat.

You worked your way up to his jaw, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses, occasionally letting your teeth graze his skin. He was making these small sounds, almost whimpers, and each one sent a bolt of arousal straight through you. Your hands slid up his chest, feeling the warmth of him through his thin t-shirt, and you could feel his heart racing.

“You're killing me,” he breathed, and his hips jerked up involuntarily, seeking more friction. “You're actually killing me.”

“Good,” you murmured against his ear, then caught his earlobe between your teeth, tugging gently. He made a strangled sound, and his hands slid from your hips to your ass, gripping firmly. The touch sent electricity through you, and you ground down harder against him.

You could feel how wet you were getting, your underwear already damp, and the knowledge that he could probably feel it too through the layers of clothing made you even more aroused. You wanted him to know what he was doing to you, wanted him to feel how much you wanted this.

Your hands tangled in his hair, and you tugged slightly, angling his head so you could kiss along his jaw. He had a day or two of stubble, and the scratch of it against your lips was intoxicating. You kissed the corner of his mouth, teasing, and felt him turn his head, trying to capture your lips properly.

But you pulled back, smiling, and kissed down his neck instead. His hands were kneading your ass now, pulling you against him in a rhythm that matched the rolling of your hips. The friction was building, that pressure between your legs intensifying, and you knew if you kept this up you could probably come just from grinding against him.

“Please,” Pope groaned, and you weren't sure what he was begging for. “Please, I need-“

You kissed back up his neck, along his jaw, and finally pressed your lips to his. The kiss was immediately intense, all the pent-up tension exploding between you. His lips were soft and eager, if a little clumsy at first, but then he was kissing you back with increasing confidence, his tongue sliding against yours.

You moaned into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head, holding you to him. The kiss was deep and hungry, all teeth and tongue and breathless gasps. You could taste the weed on his tongue, and underneath that, something distinctly him.

Your hips were still moving, grinding against him in a steady rhythm, and you could feel him getting harder, if that was even possible. His jeans had to be painfully tight, and part of you wanted to reach down and free him, to feel him properly. But another part of you was enjoying this, the teasing, the building tension, the way he was completely losing control.

You broke the kiss to gasp for air, and immediately started kissing down his neck again. This time you didn't hold back, sucking hard enough to leave marks, wanting to see evidence of this tomorrow. He groaned, his hips bucking up hard, and you felt a surge of power at the response.

“Fuck, that feels so good,” he panted, his hands sliding under the hem of your tank top, finally touching bare skin. His palms were warm and slightly rough, and the touch sent shivers through you. He explored cautiously at first, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist, then growing bolder, sliding up your ribcage.

When his thumbs brushed the undersides of your breasts, you both froze for a moment. You weren't wearing a bra, and he clearly just realized it. His hands stilled, and you could practically hear him thinking, trying to decide if he should continue.

You made the decision for him, arching your back and pressing your breasts more firmly into his hands. “Touch me,” you breathed against his neck. “Please, Andy, touch me.”

His hands cupped your breasts, and you both moaned at the contact. His thumbs found your nipples, already hard and sensitive, and when he brushed over them, you gasped, your hips jerking against him. The dual sensation, his hands on your breasts, the friction against your clit, was almost overwhelming.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice rough with arousal. “So fucking good. I can't believe-I've thought about this so many times, but I never-“

“What did you think about?” you asked, genuinely curious. You rolled your hips in a particularly deliberate circle, and he groaned.

“This,” he said, his thumbs circling your nipples. “Touching you. Kissing you. I thought about, fuck, I thought about what you'd taste like, what sounds you'd make. I thought about making you come.”

His words sent a bolt of heat through you, and you kissed him again, hard and desperate. Your hands slid under his shirt, needing to feel his skin, and he helped you pull it up slightly.

His chest was muscular and tanned, muscles defined from physical work, and you ran your hands over him appreciatively. His skin was warm and smooth, and you could feel his heart racing beneath your palm. You dragged your nails lightly down his chest, and he shuddered, his hips bucking up hard.

“Inside,” you gasped against his mouth, the need becoming urgent. “We need to-bedroom-“

“Yeah, yeah okay,” he panted, and then you were both standing, stumbling, still kissing frantically. His hands were everywhere now, your waist, your ass, sliding up under your shirt to touch bare skin. You knocked into the doorframe, then the couch, giggling between kisses, drunk on him and the weed and the overwhelming need.

The journey to your bedroom felt like it took forever and no time at all. You were vaguely aware of moving through your apartment, of Pope's hands on you, of the way he kept stopping to press you against walls and kiss you deeper. At one point he lifted you, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, grinding against him as he carried you.

“Fuck, you're so hot,” he groaned against your neck, his hands gripping your ass to support you. “I can feel how wet you are, even through your shorts. Are you wet for me?”

“Yes,” you gasped, the dirty talk sending another surge of arousal through you. “So wet. I've been wet since I started grinding on you outside.”

He made a sound that was almost a growl, and then he was moving faster, carrying you the rest of the way to your bedroom. When you finally reached it, he set you down, and you started to pull away, intending to fall back onto the bed. But his hands tightened on your hips, stopping you.

“No, no, wait,” he said, slightly breathless, his lips swollen from kissing. “Don't-don't lay on the bed with those clothes.”

You blinked at him, confused and aroused and impatient. “What?”

“They smell like weed,” he explained, and his hands were already moving to the hem of your tank top, his fingers brushing against your skin. “Gonna get your bedsheets all dirty and smoky, and then you'll have to wash them, and-“

He pulled your shirt up and over your head, dropping it on the floor, still talking in that earnest, practical way that was so quintessentially Pope. Your breasts were exposed now, and you saw his eyes drop to them, his words faltering for a moment before he continued.

“-and that's a pain in the ass, you know? Better to just-“ His hands went to the button of your shorts, and you realized with a thrill that he was undressing you without even seeming to realize what he was doing. He was so focused on his explanation, on the logic of it, that he didn't notice the way your breath had quickened, the way you were watching him with heavy-lidded eyes.

“-take them off now, and then the sheets stay clean, and-“ He popped the button and slowly dragged down the zipper, his knuckles brushing against your lower belly. The touch made you shiver, and you saw him swallow hard, his throat working. “-you won't have to do laundry tomorrow, which is good because laundry sucks, and-“

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and started pulling them down, kneeling as he did so. The position put his face level with your hips, and you saw his eyes darken as more of your skin was revealed. You were wearing simple cotton underwear, nothing fancy, but they were damp with arousal, and you knew he could see it.

“-the detergent you use is expensive, I've seen it in your bathroom, so it's better to not waste it on sheets that don't really need washing, and-“ Your shorts hit the floor, and his hands skimmed up your thighs, thumbs brushing the edge of your underwear. His face was inches from your core, and you could feel his breath, warm against your skin.

He finally seemed to register what he was doing, his eyes traveling up your body, taking in your underwear, your bare breasts, the expanse of skin he'd just exposed. His hands were still on your thighs, and you could feel them trembling slightly.

“Oh,” he said, his voice rough and low. “Fuck.”

You reached behind you and hooked your thumbs into your underwear, slowly sliding them down. His eyes were locked on the movement, watching as you revealed yourself to him completely. When you stepped out of them, kicking them aside, you were completely naked, and he was still kneeling in front of you, fully dressed, staring at you like you were something holy.

“You were saying something about keeping the sheets clean?” you asked, your voice teasing.

His eyes snapped up to yours, and the heat in them made your breath catch. “I, uh... I forgot.”

“Andrew,” you said, reaching down to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his lower lip. “Your clothes smell like weed too.”

“That's-yeah, that's a good point,” he managed, and then you were pulling at his shirt, and he was helping you, yanking it over his head. You'd already seen his chest, but seeing it again in the better light of your bedroom made you appreciate it more, the muscle, the tan skin, the way his stomach tensed as you ran your hands over it.

You made quick work of his jeans, unbuttoning them and pushing them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, hard and flushed, and you wrapped your hand around it, stroking slowly. He made a choked sound, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, and his hands came up to grip your shoulders for balance.

He was hot and hard in your hand, and you could feel him throbbing, could see the bead of precum at the tip. You swiped your thumb over it, spreading it, and he groaned, his head falling forward to rest against your stomach.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he panted against your skin. “But if you keep doing that, I'm gonna come way too fast, and I want-I need to-“

“What do you need?” you asked, still stroking him slowly.

“I need to taste you,” he said, his voice muffled against your stomach. “I've thought about it so many times. Please, can I-“

“Yes,” you said immediately, and then he was guiding you backward to the bed, his hands on your hips. When the backs of your knees hit the mattress, you sat, then lay back, and he followed you down, settling between your legs.

For a moment, he just looked at you, his eyes roaming over your body with an intensity that made you feel exposed and desired at the same time. Then he leaned down and kissed your inner thigh, his lips soft and warm against your skin.

“You're so beautiful,” he murmured, kissing higher. “So fucking beautiful. I can't believe I get to do this.”

He kissed his way up your thigh, taking his time, and the anticipation was almost unbearable. When he finally reached your core, he paused, his breath hot against your wet flesh, and then he licked a long, slow stripe up your slit.

You gasped, your hips jerking, and he made a sound of satisfaction, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you in place. He licked again, more firmly this time, and then his tongue found your clit, circling it slowly.

“Oh god,” you moaned, your hands tangling in his hair. “Andy, that's-fuck-“

He was enthusiastic if a little inexperienced, but what he lacked in technique he made up for in eagerness. He experimented, paying attention to your reactions, learning what made you gasp and moan. When he sucked your clit into his mouth, your back arched off the bed, and he did it again, harder this time.

“Yes, like that,” you panted, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Just like that, don't stop-“

He didn't stop. He worked your clit with his mouth, alternating between sucking and licking, and then you felt his finger at your entrance, pressing in slowly. The stretch was delicious, and you moaned, your hips rolling against his face.

He added a second finger, curling them inside you, searching for that spot that would make you see stars. When he found it, you cried out, your whole body tensing, and he focused there, his fingers moving in a steady rhythm while his mouth continued its assault on your clit.

The pleasure built quickly, that familiar tension coiling in your lower belly. You were making sounds you'd be embarrassed about later, but right now you didn't care. All you cared about was the feeling of his mouth on you, his fingers inside you, the way he was completely focused on your pleasure.

“I'm close,” you gasped, and you felt him double his efforts, his fingers moving faster, his mouth more insistent. “Andy, I'm gonna-oh fuck, I'm-“

Your orgasm hit you like a wave, pleasure washing through you in pulses. Your inner walls clenched around his fingers, and you heard him groan against you, the vibration prolonging your climax. He worked you through it, only slowing when you started to squirm from oversensitivity.

When you could breathe again, you looked down at him. His face was flushed, his lips wet and swollen, and he looked at you with such satisfaction and desire that it made you want him all over again.

“Come here,” you said, pulling him up for a kiss. You could taste yourself on his lips, and it made you want him even more. “I need you inside me.”

“Condom,” he said, pulling back slightly. “Do you have-“

“Nightstand,” you gestured, and he reached over, fumbling in the drawer until he found one. You watched as he rolled it on, his hands slightly shaky, and then he was positioning himself between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

“Ready?” he asked, and you loved that he checked, even now, even when you were both desperate for it.

“Yes, fuck, yes-“

He pushed in slowly, and the stretch was perfect, filling you completely. You both groaned at the sensation, and he paused when he was fully seated inside you, his forehead dropping to yours. His arms were shaking slightly with the effort of holding still, and you could see the tension in his jaw.

“You feel so fucking good,” he breathed, his voice strained. “So tight and wet and perfect. I need a second or I'm gonna come right now.”

You clenched around him deliberately, and he made a choked sound, his hips jerking. “Don't-fuck-don't do that, I'm trying to-“

“Move,” you urged, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Andy, please move, I need-“

He pulled almost all the way out, then slid back in, and the friction was delicious. He started a slow rhythm, deep strokes that had you gasping, your nails digging into his shoulders. Each thrust hit something deep inside you, and you could feel the pleasure building again already.

“Harder,” you urged, and he obliged, his hips snapping forward with more force. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room along with your moans and his grunts. He shifted the angle slightly, and suddenly he was hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust.

“Oh god, right there, don't stop-“ You were babbling now, incoherent with pleasure, and he maintained that perfect angle, that perfect rhythm, driving you higher and higher.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, his face buried in your neck. “So fucking good. I've wanted this for so long. Wanted you for so long.”

His words sent a surge of emotion through you, mixing with the physical pleasure, and you pulled him down for a kiss. It was messy and desperate, all tongue and teeth, and you could feel him getting close, his rhythm starting to falter.

“Wait,” you said, pushing at his chest. “I want-can we-“

He pulled out, looking concerned. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” you assured him quickly. “I just want to be on top.”

His eyes darkened, and he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him. You straddled him, positioning yourself over his cock, and slowly sank down. From this angle, he went even deeper, and you both moaned at the sensation.

You started to move, rolling your hips in a slow grind, and his hands came up to grip your waist. From this position, he had a perfect view of your body, and you could see his eyes roaming over you, your breasts, your stomach, the place where your bodies were joined.

“Fuck, you're so hot,” he groaned, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts. “I love watching you ride me. I love seeing you take what you need.”

You increased your pace, bouncing on him now, and the pleasure was intense. You could feel him so deep, hitting all the right spots, and the friction against your clit was perfect. One of your hands came down to touch yourself, your fingers finding your clit, and Pope's eyes locked on the movement.

“That's so hot,” he panted, his hips thrusting up to meet yours. “Touch yourself. Make yourself come on my cock.”

The dirty talk was unexpected and incredibly arousing, and you rubbed your clit faster, chasing your orgasm. Pope's hands were on your hips now, helping you move, and you could feel him getting close, his cock throbbing inside you.

“I'm gonna come,” you gasped, your movements becoming erratic. “Andy, I'm-“

“Come for me,” he urged, his voice rough. “I want to feel you come. Want to feel you squeeze my cock.”

Your orgasm hit you hard, your whole body tensing, inner walls clenching around him rhythmically. The sensation triggered his own release, and he thrust up hard, groaning your name as he came. You could feel him pulsing inside you, and it prolonged your own pleasure, waves of sensation washing over you.

You collapsed forward onto his chest, both of you breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat. His arms came around you, holding you close, and you could feel his heart racing against your cheek.

For a long moment, you both just lay there, catching your breath, enjoying the afterglow. Then Pope carefully lifted you off him, disposing of the condom before pulling you back against his chest.

“That was...” he started, then trailed off, like he couldn't find the words.

“Yeah,” you agreed, pressing a kiss to his chest. “It really was.”

“I meant what I said,” he murmured, his fingers tracing patterns on your back. “About wanting you. This wasn't just... I mean, I really like you. Have for a while.”

You lifted your head to look at him, seeing the vulnerability in his eyes. “I really like you too,” you said softly. “This wasn't just a high hookup for me either.”

He smiled, that genuine, slightly awkward Pope smile that you loved, and pulled you in for a kiss. This one was slower, sweeter, full of promise.

“Stay,” you said when you broke apart. “Tonight. Stay with me.”

“Yeah,” he said, his arms tightening around you. “I'd like that.”

Outside, the ocean continued its endless rhythm, and inside, wrapped in Pope's arms, you felt perfectly, completely content. The high was starting to fade, but the feeling of rightness, of finally being where you were supposed to be, only grew stronger.

You dozed for a while, comfortable in the silence, but eventually you felt Pope stir beneath you. “Hey,” he said softly. “You awake?”

“Mmm,” you hummed, not quite ready to move.

“I was thinking...” he started, his hand sliding down your back to cup your ass. “We should probably shower. Get the weed smell off properly.”

You lifted your head, seeing the mischief in his eyes, and grinned. “Is that right?”

“Yeah,” he said, his hand squeezing gently. “Wouldn't want to smell like weed tomorrow. Very irresponsible.”

“So responsible of you,” you teased, sitting up. His eyes immediately dropped to your breasts, and you saw his cock twitch with interest. “Think you can go again?”

“With you?” he said, pulling you down for a kiss. “Definitely.”

The shower was long and steamy, full of soapy hands and slippery skin and Pope pressing you against the tile wall as he fucked you from behind, his hand over your mouth to muffle your moans. The water cascaded over you both, and when you came, it was with his name on your lips and his teeth on your shoulder.

Afterward, you dried off and climbed into bed properly, your sheets still clean just like Pope had wanted. He pulled you against him, your back to his chest, and you felt his lips press against your shoulder.

“This is perfect,” he murmured, echoing his words from earlier on the balcony.

And it was. It really, really was.

His heart hammers against his ribs in a frantic, unsteady rhythm that has nothing to do with athletic exertion. He walks the hallowed, clinically white halls, his PUMA sneakers squeaking softly on the polished floor. Every gleaming trophy in its glass case seems to mock him. Every larger-than-life photo of a past champion feels like a judgment.

He’s replayed the last few races in his mind a thousand times on the short drive over. Did he say something wrong in a debrief? Was there a clause in his contract he’d forgotten about? The car isn’t where it needs to be, but that’s not his fault. He’s been driving the absolute wheels off it, wringing performance from it that has no business existing. It has to be something else.

The door to the main conference room is slightly ajar. He pushes it open, the heavy wood swinging silently on its hinges.

And the room is not empty.

Seated at the far end of the impossibly long, gleaming mahogany table is a woman. No, not a woman. A girl, maybe? You look young. He can’t see your face properly, it’s angled down, illuminated by the soft glow of a tablet propped in front of you. Sunlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows catches in your hair, turning the strands into a halo of spun gold. You’re wearing a simple, cream-colored silk blouse and dark trousers. Elegant, but understated. Not the severe, high-fashion power suit of the usual corporate types who haunt these rooms.

He clears his throat.

You look up, and for a second, the air leaves his lungs. It’s not a dramatic, cinematic moment. It’s quieter, more profound. It’s the simple, jarring realization that he has never seen a face quite like yours before. It’s a composition of soft lines and sharp intelligence, your eyes — a deep, unreadable shade — holding his for a beat longer than is socially acceptable.

He blinks, recovering himself. New intern. Must be. Or maybe a junior marketing assistant, brought in to take notes. They’re always hiring bright young things from Bocconi University.

“Hello,” he says, his voice a little rougher than he intends. He strides into the room, dropping his phone and keys onto the table with a clatter. The sound echoes in the cavernous space.

“Hi,” you reply. Your voice is low, smooth. It holds a hint of an accent he can’t quite place, a musicality that makes the simple word sound like a melody.

He gestures vaguely towards the gleaming, state-of-the-art espresso machine in the corner of the room, a chrome beast that costs more than a decent road car. “Do you know how to work that thing?”

You follow his gaze. A small, almost imperceptible smile touches your lips. It’s not a mocking smile. It’s … amused. Curious. “I think I can figure it out.”

“Great.” He pulls out a chair, scraping it against the floor, and sinks into it. The anxiety is making him antsy, irritable. “An espresso, please. Doppio. No sugar.”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound like an order. Not really. It just comes out that way. He’s a man who lives his life in tenths of a second, a life of commands and instant responses. ‘Box, Charles, box.’ ‘Push now, push now.’ His request is just another line of code in a life run on efficient instructions.

From your perspective, the situation is almost comical. You’ve spent the last seventy-two hours in brutal, back-to-back meetings with lawyers and accountants, dissecting financial statements that could choke a supercomputer. You’ve been up since four this morning, preparing. The weight of your family’s legacy, a global empire built over four generations, rests squarely on your shoulders. You are here to negotiate the potential acquisition of one of the most iconic brands in human history.

And this man, this beautiful, anxious, impossibly famous man, thinks you’re here to fetch his coffee.

You could correct him. You could flash a sharp, cutting smile and introduce yourself, watch the dawning horror spread across his face. It would be easy. It might even be satisfying.

But where’s the fun in that?

Besides, there’s something about the raw tension radiating from him that intrigues you. He’s not just being arrogant. He’s terrified. You can see it in the way his jaw is clenched, the way his famous green-blue eyes keep darting towards the door. He’s a bundle of frayed nerves stuffed into a designer team-issue polo shirt.

So, you stand up. The silk of your blouse whispers against the leather of the chair. “Doppio, no sugar. Got it.”

Charles just nods, already lost in his phone, scrolling through motorsport news sites as if they might hold the answer to his impending doom. He doesn’t watch you walk to the machine. He doesn’t notice the quiet competence with which you operate it, the practiced movements that suggest you’ve made your own coffee a thousand times before. He just hears the comforting gurgle and hiss of the machine, the clink of ceramic.

You place the small, white cup and saucer on the polished table beside his elbow. The rich, dark aroma of the coffee wafts up, a stark contrast to the sterile air of the room.

“Thanks,” he mutters, not looking up. He picks up the cup, his long, artistic fingers — fingers that can tame a 1000-horsepower monster at 300 kilometers per hour — wrapping around the delicate handle. He takes a sip, the bitter liquid a familiar jolt to his system.

He risks a glance at you. You’ve returned to your seat at the head of the table, your attention back on your tablet. You look completely unbothered, as if serving coffee to distracted Formula 1 drivers is a perfectly normal part of your day.

The silence stretches. It’s awkward. He feels a prickle of something — maybe guilt? He was a little rude.

“Sorry,” he says, clearing his throat again. “I’m just … it’s been a long day.”

You finally look up from the tablet, your full attention on him. And when you do, he feels pinned in place. Your eyes are astonishingly perceptive. It feels like you can see right through the bravado, right to the frantic, panicked hamster running on a wheel in his brain.

“It’s not over yet,” you say softly.

The words hang in the air, cryptic and heavy. Before he can try to decipher them, the door swings open again.

John Elkann walks in, followed closely by Fred Vasseur. The shift in the room’s atmosphere is instantaneous. The air crackles with authority. John, with his patrician bearing and impeccably tailored suit, is the embodiment of quiet, immense power. Fred, by contrast, is a study in controlled chaos, his usual rumpled energy sharpened to a point.

Charles scrambles to his feet. “John. Fred.”

John gives him a curt, polite nod, but his focus, his entire attention, is on you. A warm, genuine smile spreads across his face, a sight so rare it’s like witnessing a solar eclipse.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice rich with Italian warmth. He bypasses Charles completely, walking to the head of the table where you are now rising gracefully from your chair. He takes your hand, bowing his head slightly to press a light kiss to your knuckles in a classic, courtly gesture. “It is a true pleasure to see you again. I trust your journey was comfortable?”

You smile back, a radiant, easy expression that transforms your entire face. “Perfectly, John. Thank you for accommodating us on such short notice.”

Fred is next, shaking your hand firmly. “Ms. Y/L/N. Welcome to Maranello. We are all very pleased you could make it.”

Charles stands frozen in place, a statue of dawning comprehension. The espresso cup feels slick in his suddenly sweaty palm. The gears in his brain are grinding, trying to connect the dots, but they’re moving through thick, syrupy dread. Y/N Y/L/N. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but he can’t place it. A sponsor? A new board member?

John finally turns to him, his expression now coolly professional. The warmth he showed you has vanished completely.

“Charles,” he says, his tone leaving no room for pleasantries. “Thank you for joining us. I believe you haven’t been formally introduced.”

Charles’s mouth is dry. He feels like a schoolboy called to the principal’s office.

John gestures from you to him. “Charles Leclerc, this is Y/N Y/L/N.”

There’s a beat of silence. Charles manages a tight, strangled nod. He still doesn’t get it. Who are you?

Fred decides to rip the bandage off.

“Ms. Y/L/N,” Fred says, his French accent thick, “is the CEO and Chairwoman of Y/L/N Holdings.”

The name clicks. Not from the business section of a newspaper, but from the high-octane world of finance and power that occasionally intersects with his own. Y/L/N Holdings. They aren’t just a company, they’re a modern dynasty. A colossal, family-run conglomerate with controlling stakes in everything from technology and pharmaceuticals to luxury fashion and green energy. They are spoken of in the same hushed, reverent tones as Berkshire Hathaway or LVMH. They don’t sponsor teams. They buy them. They buy the leagues the teams compete in.

Charles feels the blood drain from his face. Every drop. He feels light-headed, dizzy, as if he’s just stepped out of the cockpit after a 70-lap race in Singapore.

He looks at you. You, the woman he just ordered to get him an espresso. You, the head of one of the most powerful and influential private corporations on the planet.

And you are looking right back at him. Your expression is perfectly, maddeningly neutral, but he sees it. Deep in your eyes, there’s a flicker. A tiny, dancing spark of pure amusement.

He is so, so screwed.

“We are here today,” John continues, his voice a low drumbeat of doom, “to enter into preliminary discussions with Ms. Y/L/N about the future of Ferrari. All of it. The road cars, the brand, and, of course, Scuderia Ferrari.”

The room tilts on its axis. Charles physically grips the back of his chair to steady himself. Buy Ferrari? The idea is sacrilege. It’s unthinkable. Ferrari isn’t just a company; it’s a national treasure, an Italian institution. And this woman … this girl … she’s here to put a price tag on it.

His brain, which can process thousands of data points a minute during a race, is now stuck in a horrifying loop.

I told the potential new owner of the team to get me a coffee.

I told the woman who could soon be signing my paychecks to fetch me an espresso.

I treated her like an intern.

His career flashes before his eyes. The karting championships. The hard-won F2 title. The dream-come-true moment of signing with Ferrari. All of it, spiraling down the drain because he was too arrogant and too anxious to have a single shred of basic courtesy.

He’s going to be fired. No, worse. She won’t just fire him. She’ll make an example of him. He’ll be bought out of his contract and publicly humiliated. He’ll be forced to sign with Alpine. The thought is so horrifying it’s almost paralyzing. He can already picture the depressing blue and pink car, the endless midfield battles, the sheer, soul-crushing mediocrity of it all.

“Please, everyone, sit,” you say, your voice cutting smoothly through his internal spiral of terror.

John and Fred take their seats. Charles moves stiffly, mechanically, lowering himself back into his chair. He feels like a condemned man taking his place at his own trial. He risks another look at you. You’re arranging your tablet, your movements fluid and confident. You are completely in your element. You own this room. You might soon own him.

“Charles,” you say, your tone casual, as if the last five minutes haven’t just shattered his entire world.

He flinches, his head snapping up. “Yes?” The word comes out as a squeak.

You gesture towards the small white cup still sitting next to his hand. “How’s the espresso?”

The question is a stiletto, slid expertly between his ribs. It’s not an accusation. It’s a gentle, devastating reminder of his monumental blunder. John raises an eyebrow, a silent question passing between him and Fred. They have no idea what you’re talking about, but they can feel the sudden, specific tension radiating from their star driver.

Charles can’t breathe. His mind is a static-filled television screen. What is he supposed to say? ‘It’s great, thank you for your excellent service, Ms. Y/L/N, my potential future boss whom I have insulted beyond all repair’?

He looks at you, his eyes wide with a desperate, silent plea. Please don’t. Please don’t tell them.

A slow, secret smile finally breaks through your composure. It’s a breathtaking thing, a flash of warmth and mischief that lights up your face. You give him a tiny, almost imperceptible wink.

It’s not a reprieve. It’s a promise. I own you now.

“It’s … perfect,” Charles chokes out, his voice hoarse. “Thank you.”

You just nod, your smile vanishing as you turn your attention to John. “John, my team has reviewed the preliminary financials you sent over. I have some questions regarding the projected Q4 earnings for the automotive division before we move on to the Gestione Sportiva …”

The meeting begins. The words flow around Charles, a meaningless soup of financial jargon and corporate strategy. EBITDA, amortization, market capitalization, synergy. He hears none of it. All he can hear is the frantic thumping of his own heart and your voice, calm and authoritative, as you dissect the company he has dedicated his life to, piece by piece.

He sits there, trapped at the table, a ghost at the feast. He has to project an air of calm confidence, of being the franchise driver, the cornerstone of the team, while inside, he is screaming.

Every so often, your eyes drift from the financial reports and land on him. You don’t say a word to him. You don’t have to. The message is clear. He made a fatal error in judgment. He mistook the person with all the power in the room for the person with none.

And now, his future is in the hands of the woman he sent to get his coffee.

***

The drive back to his apartment is a twenty-minute exercise in controlled dissociation. Charles operates the vehicle on pure muscle memory, his mind a million miles away, replaying the meeting on a torturous, high-definition loop. The polite smile on John’s face. The concerned frown on Fred’s. And your eyes. Always, it comes back to your eyes, holding that glint of knowing amusement. That terrifying, brilliant spark that told him you saw everything.

He barely registers parking his car in the underground garage or taking the elevator up to his penthouse. The door to his apartment clicks shut behind him, and the sound reverberates in the sudden, oppressive silence.

His apartment is his sanctuary. A cool, minimalist space of clean lines, polished concrete floors, and vast windows that look out over the rolling hills of Emilia-Romagna. It’s a place of quiet and order, designed to soothe his perpetually overstimulated mind. A grand piano, a glossy black Yamaha, sits in the main living area, the only object that hints at the passion beneath his controlled exterior.

Today, the silence doesn’t soothe. It suffocates.

He doesn’t take off his shoes. He doesn’t put his keys in the bowl by the door. He paces. Back and forth, back and forth across the expensive rug, his phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip. His mind is a high-speed collision of worst-case scenarios.

He sees himself in a Haas, fighting for P17 with the kind of grim determination reserved for men whose dreams have died. He sees the pitying looks from his former colleagues, the triumphant smirks from his rivals. He sees the headlines: ‘LECLERC’S FERRARI DREAM ENDS IN MYSTERIOUS SPLIT.’

The wink. That tiny, devastating wink you gave him. It wasn’t a gesture of solidarity. It was a death sentence delivered with a smile. It said, ‘I know what you did, and I am going to enjoy this.’

He can’t take it anymore. He stabs at his phone screen, his fingers clumsy with panic. He starts a video conference, adding two numbers. Two faces pop onto the screen, one after the other.

First is Lorenzo. His face, a slightly softer, warmer version of Charles’s own, is etched with immediate concern. He’s clearly at home, a collage of photos held on by magnets visible on the refrigerator behind him. “Charles? What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Before he can answer, the second face appears. Nicolas Todt. His manager. His face is framed by the sterile white of an office, his expression sharp, analytical. He’s a man who deals in facts and contracts, not emotions. “Charles. This is unexpected. Is everything alright?”

Charles stops pacing and stares into the phone, his eyes wide and haunted. He runs a hand through his already messy hair.

“No, Nicolas. Everything is not alright,” he says, his voice tight and strained. “I need you to do something for me. Both of you.”

Lorenzo leans closer to his camera. “Anything, Charlou. What’s happened?”

Charles takes a deep, shaky breath, as if preparing to jump from a great height.

“I need you to start calling other teams,” he says, the words rushing out in a torrent. “Call Ayao Komatsu. Call James Vowles. Call anyone. I don’t care. Just find me a seat for next year. Any seat. I will drive a tractor if I have to, but my time at Ferrari is over.”

Silence.

Lorenzo and Nicolas exchange a bewildered look across the digital divide.

Lorenzo is the first to speak, his voice gentle, coaxing. “Okay, Charles, just … slow down. Breathe. What in God’s name are you talking about? You have a contract. A multi-year contract.”

“Contracts can be broken!” Charles almost yells, his voice cracking. He starts pacing again, the phone held out in front of him like a scanner sweeping a disaster zone. “There are clauses. Performance clauses, conduct clauses, clauses for bringing the brand into disrepute! I have probably violated all of them in the space of ten minutes!”

Nicolas’s eyes narrow. His professional calm is absolute, but Charles knows him well enough to see the flicker of genuine alarm. Nicolas deals with problems. For him to be alarmed, the problem must be monumental.

“Charles,” Nicolas says, his tone clipped and serious. “Stop talking about tractors and tell us exactly what happened. From the beginning.”

And so, he tells them. He recounts the cryptic email, the anxiety, walking into the empty conference room. He describes you. And then, he gets to the fatal moment.

“… so I asked her to get me an espresso.”

He says it flatly, the words tasting like poison.

Lorenzo’s mouth falls open. For a second, he looks like he might laugh, then he sees the sheer, unadulterated terror on his brother’s face, and the humor dies in his throat. “You … you asked her for a coffee? Charles, who is she?”

“She is Y/N Y/L/N,” Charles says, the name feeling like a curse. “She is the CEO of Y/L/N Holdings.”

Nicolas goes rigid. He says nothing. He doesn’t have to. The complete and utter stillness that comes over him is more terrifying than any outburst. He brings a hand to his mouth, his gaze distant. He is processing. Calculating. Running scenarios.

“Y/L/N Holdings,” Lorenzo repeats slowly, the name dawning on him. “The ones who just bought that biotech firm? And the fashion house? That Y/L/N Holdings?”

“The very same,” Charles says, his voice hollow. “And they are not here to buy a biotech firm, Lorenzo. They are here to buy Ferrari. The whole thing. John Elkann said it himself.”

A heavy, profound silence descends upon the call. Lorenzo just stares, speechless. Nicolas’s mind is clearly working at a thousand miles an hour.

“Mon Dieu,” Lorenzo finally breathes, summing up the situation with perfect, horrified simplicity.

“You see?” Charles cries, his voice rising with hysteria. “You see why it’s over? I didn’t just insult a sponsor. I insulted the potential new owner of the entire company! I treated her like a servant. And she knows it. When Elkann introduced us, she looked at me … and she winked. She is going to fire me. She will take one look at my contract and tear it into a million pieces. It will be her first act as owner. ‘Get the arrogant little Monegasque driver out of my sight.’ I can hear it already!”

Nicolas finally speaks, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Stop. Panicking.”

Charles stops, breathing heavily.

“First,” Nicolas says, holding up a finger. “You are not calling Haas. You are not calling Williams. You are the lead driver for Scuderia Ferrari, and we will not project that level of weakness and desperation. Is that clear?”

Charles nods mutely.

“Second,” Nicolas continues, his gaze intense. “Catastrophizing is a waste of energy. We have a situation. A … deeply unfortunate and incredibly stupid situation, but a situation nonetheless. And we will manage it.”

“How?” Charles demands. “How do you manage this? Do I send her a gift basket? What’s the protocol for offending a billionaire who is about to own you? Should the fruit be domestic or exotic?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Nicolas snaps, the first crack in his professional veneer. “This is not about gift baskets. This is about damage control and strategy.”

Lorenzo, recovering from his shock, shifts into his role as the practical older brother. “Okay. Okay. Nicolas is right. Panicking isn’t a plan. What did she do when you asked for the coffee?”

“She got it for me,” Charles whispers, the absurdity of it hitting him all over again.

“She just … said okay and made you an espresso?” Lorenzo asks, incredulous.

“Yes! No argument, no comment. She just did it. That’s what makes it so much worse! She was playing with me! It was a test, and I failed spectacularly.”

“Or,” Nicolas interjects, his mind piecing things together, “she has a sense of humor. Or she was amused by the absurdity of it. We have no data on her personality. We are operating blind.”

“So what do we do?” Charles asks, his voice small. He feels like a child again, looking to his older brother and his manager to fix a mess he’s made.

“We need to formulate an apology,” Nicolas states. “A direct, sincere, and immediate apology. This cannot wait. Every hour that passes makes you look more arrogant and unconcerned.”

“How?” Charles asks. “I don’t have her number. I can’t exactly send her a message on Instagram.”

“No,” Nicolas agrees. “This needs a more delicate touch. A formal letter is too cold. An email could be missed or feel impersonal. You need to do it in person.”

Charles recoils. “In person? No. No way. I can’t face her. She will just look at me with those eyes and I will simply … combust.”

“You will not combust,” Lorenzo says firmly. “You will act like a man and you will apologize. But Nicolas is right, it has to be handled carefully. You can’t just ambush her at her hotel. That’s stalker behavior.”

“We need to find out everything we can about her,” Nicolas says, already typing furiously on his computer, his eyes scanning a different screen. “I am looking at her professional profile now. Y/L/N Holdings is a private entity, famously secretive. But she has given a few interviews. Forbes, Wall Street Journal …”

“What do they say?” Charles asks, desperate for any insight.

“They say she is brilliant,” Nicolas reads, his tone grim. “A prodigy. Took over the family business at twenty-five after her father retired. Quadrupled its value in six years. Known for … ah. Here we go. ‘An unconventional but ruthless negotiation style.’ And here, another one calls her ‘the iron butterfly.’”

“The iron butterfly?” Lorenzo scoffs. “What does that even mean?”

“It means she is beautiful and delicate on the outside, but underneath she is made of steel,” Charles says miserably. “It means I am dead.”

“It means she is a serious businessperson who likely does not have time for the bruised ego of a racing driver,” Nicolas corrects him sharply. “Which could work for or against us. She might dismiss this as a trivial matter, or she might see you as an unprofessional liability.”

“So, what is the plan?” Lorenzo presses, bringing them back on track. “We need a concrete plan, right now.”

Nicolas leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. The strategist has taken over. “Okay. Here is what we do. Step one: Charles, you are going to write an apology. Not an email. A letter. On proper stationery. You will write it by hand.”

“By hand?” Charles balks. “My handwriting is terrible.”

“I don’t care if you have to write it in crayon,” Nicolas says. “It needs to be personal. It needs to show effort. You will take responsibility. You will not make excuses about being stressed or anxious. You will state that your behavior was unacceptable, and you are extremely sorry. Nothing more. No groveling. Just a clean, sincere apology.”

Lorenzo nods in agreement. “He’s right. It has to be genuine.”

“Step two,” Nicolas continues. “I will reach out to my contacts. I will find out where she is staying. Not to ambush her, but to have the letter delivered by a professional courier tomorrow morning. It will be the first thing she sees. It shows initiative.”

“And step three?” Charles asks, a tiny, fragile sliver of hope beginning to form amidst the wreckage of his panic.

“Step three is the most difficult,” Nicolas says, his eyes locking with Charles’s through the screen. “You need to find a way to speak with her. Face to face. The letter opens the door. You have to walk through it.”

“But how? When?”

“Fred,” Lorenzo suggests. “You could go through Fred. Ask him to set up a brief, five-minute meeting. Say you want to properly welcome her to the team.”

Nicolas considers this. “It’s a possibility. But it also signals to Fred that something is wrong. He will ask questions.”

“It’s better than the alternative, which is Charles hiding in his apartment until he is formally dismissed via courier,” Lorenzo argues.

“I hate this,” Charles groans, sinking onto his sofa and burying his face in his hands. “I feel like I’m in a nightmare.”

“You are not in a nightmare. You are in a crisis of your own making, and you will deal with it,” Nicolas says, his voice hard but not unkind. “Now, listen to me, Charles. This woman, this ‘iron butterfly,’ she did not get to where she is by being petty. People have likely made far worse mistakes around her than assuming she was an intern. Your saving grace here might be the sheer absurdity of the situation.”

“And the wink?” Charles asks, his voice muffled by his hands. “What about the wink?”

“The wink is a data point we cannot yet interpret,” Nicolas says. “It could be mockery. It could be amusement. It could be her telling you she knows she has you at a disadvantage. It doesn’t matter. Your course of action remains the same. Humility. Sincerity. Professionalism. You must show her that the man who asked for the coffee is not the real Charles Leclerc.”

The call continues for another hour. They debate the exact wording of the letter. They discuss potential scenarios for a face-to-face meeting. Lorenzo provides emotional support, reminding Charles of every other time he’s faced adversity and come out stronger. Nicolas provides the cold, hard strategy, a road map out of the disaster.

By the time they hang up, Charles feels … not good, but fractionally less terrified. The panic has receded from a tidal wave to a manageable, if still treacherous, current. He has a plan. A fragile, desperate plan, but a plan nonetheless.

He is left alone once more in the echoing silence of his apartment. The setting sun casts long, dramatic shadows across the room, painting the walls in hues of orange and blood red.

He walks over to a sleek, modern desk and pulls out a sheet of thick, cream-colored paper and a fountain pen. It feels archaic, like preparing for a duel. He stares at the blank page for a long, long time.

How do you apologize for an insult that was rooted in such a misjudgment of a person’s entire being? How do you write a letter to a woman who holds your entire future in the palm of her hand?

He uncaps the pen, the nib scratching softly as he begins to write.

Dear Ms. Y/L/N,

He stops. It feels too formal, too cold. He crumples up the paper, the sound aggressively loud in the quiet room. He takes another sheet.

Dear Y/N,

Too familiar. A fresh wave of anxiety washes over him. He feels completely and utterly out of his depth. He is a man who understands braking points, tire degradation, and the delicate art of a qualifying lap. He does not understand this.

He gets up from the desk and walks over to the grand piano. He sits on the bench, his fingers hovering over the keys. He begins to play. A sad, melancholic Chopin nocturne. The notes fill the room, a language he is fluent in, a way to express the complex, swirling storm of regret and fear inside him.

He plays for her, the unseen, unknown woman who single-handedly overturned his world. The iron butterfly. He plays, and wonders if you can be reasoned with. He plays, and wonders if you have any idea of the chaos you’ve unleashed.

He plays, and he hopes, with a desperation he has not felt since his very first race, that you are a person who knows how to forgive.

***

It takes him three nights and seventeen crumpled sheets of paper to write the letter.

Each failed attempt is a monument to his anxiety. One draft is too groveling, another too stiff and formal. One sounds like it was written by a lawyer, the next like a panicked text message. He is trying to distill the entire, complex storm of his regret and terror onto a single page, and the task feels impossible.

In the end, exhaustion wins. On the third night, sometime after 2 AM, with the melancholic echo of another Chopin nocturne still hanging in the air from his piano, he gives up on trying to be strategic. He just writes.

The final version is short, brutally honest, and devoid of excuses. He writes that his behavior was unprofessional and inexcusable. He writes that he was deeply embarrassed by his own arrogance. He writes, simply, that he was sorry. He signs it, ‘Charles Leclerc,’ his signature a barely legible scrawl.

The next morning, a professional courier in a crisp, unmarked uniform picks up the envelope. Charles watches from his window as the courier’s scooter disappears down the winding Maranello roads, carrying his fragile paper-and-ink peace offering.

And then, the waiting begins.

It is a unique form of torture. For the next seventy-two hours, his phone becomes a source of constant, tormenting hope and crushing disappointment. Every buzz, every notification, sends a jolt of pure adrenaline through his system. He checks his email every five minutes. He has tense, circular conversations with Nicolas and Lorenzo, who can offer nothing but strategic patience, a concept entirely foreign to a man who lives his life in milliseconds.

“Any news?” Lorenzo asks, for the tenth time, on Wednesday afternoon.

“Nothing,” Charles says, pacing a well-worn path in his living room rug. “Silence. Maybe she never got it. Maybe her assistant threw it away. Maybe she read it, laughed, and set it on fire.”

“Or,” Nicolas cuts in, his voice a dry, calming presence over the speakerphone, “she is an extremely busy woman negotiating a multi-billion-dollar corporate acquisition and has not had a spare moment to deal with a contrite racing driver. The silence is not necessarily a bad sign, Charles. A swift rejection would have been worse.”

The logic is sound, but it offers little comfort. The silence is a vacuum, and his anxiety rushes in to fill it with horrifying possibilities.

Finally, on Wednesday evening, an email appears. It is not from you. The sender is ‘Office of the CEO, Y/L/N Holdings.’ The subject line is simple: ‘Meeting: Y/N Y/L/N & C. Leclerc.’

His heart stops. His hands tremble as he opens it.

The body of the message is brutally efficient.

Mr. Leclerc,

Ms. Y/L/N can see you tomorrow, Thursday, at 4 PM.

Location: The Terrazza, Fiorano Circuit.

Please be prompt.

That’s it. No pleasantries. No acknowledgement of his letter. Just a time and a place.

“The Terrazza?” Lorenzo says when Charles reads it aloud to him and Nicolas. “What is that?”

“It’s the rooftop hospitality suite at the test track,” Charles explains, his mouth dry. “It’s private. Exclusive. You can see the entire circuit from up there.”

“A neutral ground,” Nicolas muses. “No, not neutral. She chose the location. It’s her ground now. She is setting the terms of the engagement. This is a power move.”

“So, what do I do?” Charles asks, his voice barely a whisper.

“You prepare,” Nicolas says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You will be calm. You will be professional. You will wear something smart, but not a suit. You will reiterate your apology once, briefly. You will not ramble. You will not make excuses. And then you will be quiet and let her speak. And Charles, I cannot stress this enough: you will not, under any circumstances, beg.”

***

The next day, at 3:45 PM, Charles is in a state of quiet, spiraling panic.

He stands in front of his wardrobe, having already discarded three perfectly acceptable outfits. He has rehearsed his opening line in the mirror a dozen times, and it sounds more stilted and unnatural with each repetition. Nicolas’s final words echo in his mind: ‘Do not beg. Project confidence. You are an asset, not a supplicant.’

It’s good advice. It’s also completely impossible to follow. He feels like a supplicant. He feels like a condemned prisoner walking to his own execution.

He finally settles on dark trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a soft, unstructured navy blue blazer. It feels like a costume. The clothes of a man who is calm and in control, a man he is pretending to be.

The walk from the main Gestione Sportiva building to the Fiorano trackside suites is short, but it feels like miles. The late afternoon sun is golden and warm, casting long shadows across the immaculate grounds. In the distance, he can hear the faint, high-pitched scream of a junior driver putting an older F1 car through its paces on the track. It’s a sound that has been the soundtrack to his entire life, a sound of comfort and purpose. Today, it sounds like a eulogy for his career.

He takes the private elevator up to the Terrazza. The doors slide open with a soft hiss, revealing a stunning, open-air space. Glass walls provide an uninterrupted panorama of the legendary circuit below, its asphalt ribbon winding through the green Italian landscape. There are tasteful arrangements of lounge furniture, a sleek outdoor bar, and at the far end, a small, shaded table for two.

You are already there.

You sit with your back to him, looking out over the track, a glass of sparkling water on the table in front of you. You’re wearing a simple, elegant black dress that leaves your shoulders bare. Your hair is tied back loosely, and the gentle breeze plays with a few escaped strands. You look serene, a portrait of effortless power.

He takes a breath, the air feeling thin and sharp in his lungs. Be calm. Be professional. Do not beg.

He walks towards you, his expensive leather shoes making no sound on the stone tiles.

“Ms. Y/L/N?” He says, his voice coming out as a rough croak.

You turn. Not with a start, but with a slow, deliberate grace, as if you sensed him approaching all along. Your eyes, the same unreadable shade he remembers from the conference room, meet his. Today, they hold no trace of the amusement he saw before. Your expression is perfectly, terrifyingly neutral.

“Charles,” you say. Your voice is as smooth and cool as the marble table between you. “Thank you for coming. Please, sit.”

He pulls out the chair opposite you and sits down, his movements stiff. He feels like a marionette with tangled strings. He clasps his hands in his lap to stop them from shaking.

“Thank you for meeting me,” he manages. “And, I, uh, I hope you received my letter.”

“I did,” you reply. You take a slow sip of your water, your gaze never leaving his face. “It was … concise.”

He can’t read your tone. Is ‘concise’ good? Is it a compliment, or is it a criticism, implying it wasn’t groveling enough? The ambiguity is killing him. Nicolas’s carefully crafted script evaporates from his mind, replaced by a wall of white noise.

“I just wanted to say again, in person,” he starts, the words stumbling over each other, “that I am truly, truly sorry. My behavior was … there is no excuse for it. It was arrogant, and unprofessional, and …”

“I see,” you say, cutting him off cleanly. You set your glass down with a soft click. The sound is like a gunshot in the tense silence.

This is it. The calm before the storm. He can see it in your cool, appraising gaze. You’re just letting him squirm before you deliver the final blow. You’re going to tell him his apology is noted, but insufficient. You’re going to talk about brand values and professional conduct. You’re going to fire him with the same detached efficiency with which you ordered a sparkling water.

His mind flashes again to Alpine. He pictures the blue car, the French flags, the perpetual, soul-crushing battle for nineteenth place. He imagines explaining it to his family, to his friends. The humiliation. The failure.

Nicolas’s voice in his head screams, ‘DO NOT BEG!’

But Nicolas isn’t here. Lorenzo isn’t here. It’s just him, and you, and the vast, terrifying expanse of his ruined future.

Logic abandons him. Strategy flees. All that is left is raw, primal fear.

In a single, fluid movement that is born of pure desperation, he pushes his chair back and drops to his knees on the stone floor beside the table.

The sound of his knees hitting the ground is shockingly loud.

He looks up at you, his face a mask of utter panic. “Please,” he says, and the word is a ragged, broken thing. “Please, I am begging you. I will do anything. I will take a pay cut. I will do every single sponsor event, I’ll even do the terrible ones with the awkward photo-shoots. I will be the first one at the factory and the last one to leave. Anything. Just … please.”

He can feel the hot sting of tears welling in his eyes, a humiliation so profound it makes him dizzy. He lowers his gaze to the floor, unable to look at you. His voice cracks, shrinking to a horrified whisper filled with a very specific, very personal dread.

“Please don’t make me drive for Alpine.”

The silence that follows is absolute. It stretches for an eternity. He can hear his own heart hammering in his ears. He waits for your gasp of shock, your cold dismissal, the sound of you getting up and walking away in disgust. He is prepared for anything except for the sound that comes next.

Laughter.

It starts as a choked gasp, a sudden burst of air. Then it blossoms. It’s not a smirk or a polite chuckle. It’s a genuine, unrestrained, musical laugh. It’s a sound of pure amusement, and it fills the quiet air of the Terrazza.

He slowly, cautiously, lifts his head.

You are leaning back in your chair, a hand covering your mouth, but your eyes are squeezed shut and your shoulders are shaking with mirth. The cool, intimidating CEO has vanished, replaced by someone who looks … human. The sound is so unexpected, so completely at odds with the execution he was expecting, that his brain short-circuits.

“Alpine?” You finally manage to get out between waves of laughter, your voice giddy. “You think I’m going to force you to drive for Alpine?”

He just stares, still on his knees, utterly bewildered.

You take a deep, calming breath, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of your eye. The laughter subsides, leaving a bright, warm smile on your face. It completely transforms you. The ‘iron butterfly’ is gone.

“Charles,” you say, your voice still sparkling with amusement. “Get up. You look ridiculous.”

He scrambles to his feet, his face burning with a mixture of humiliation and profound confusion. He sinks back into his chair, his mind reeling.

“I … I don’t understand,” he stammers.

“No, I don’t suppose you do,” you say, your smile softening. You lean forward, your expression turning serious, though the playful light remains in your eyes. “Let me be perfectly clear so you can stop having a nervous breakdown. I was never going to fire you.”

He blinks. “Never?”

“Never,” you confirm. “Charles, let’s put the coffee incident aside for a moment and think about this like a business. I am here to potentially acquire one of the most valuable brands on the planet. My number one objective is to increase its value. What do you think would happen to the value of Scuderia Ferrari, to the morale of the Tifosi, to the stability of the entire organization, if my very first act was to fire the most popular, most beloved Ferrari driver since Schumacher?”

You lay it out for him, your tone crisp and logical. “It would be a public relations catastrophe. The fans would revolt. The team would be demoralized. The media would have a field day. It would be the single stupidest, most self-destructive business decision I could possibly make. My job is to build empires, Charles, not set them on fire for my own personal amusement.”

Relief washes over him in a wave so powerful it almost knocks the breath out of him. It’s a physical sensation, a loosening of every muscle in his body he hadn’t even realized was clenched. He sags in his chair, the tension of the last four days draining out of him, leaving him feeling hollow and incredibly foolish.

“Oh,” is all he can manage to say.

“Yes. Oh,” you echo gently. You watch him for a moment, letting the reality sink in. You let him absorb the fact that his career-ending catastrophe was entirely a figment of his own panicked imagination.

“But …” you say, and the word hangs in the air, pulling his attention back into sharp focus. You lean forward slightly, a slow, intriguing smile playing on your lips. The pragmatic CEO is receding again, replaced by someone else, someone he can’t quite figure out.

“The letter was a nice touch,” you say, your voice dropping a little. “And this …” you make a vague, graceful gesture towards the spot on the floor where he was just kneeling, “… was certainly memorable. I appreciate a man who isn’t afraid of a grand gesture, even a deeply misguided one.”

He feels a fresh blush creep up his neck.

“So,” you continue, your eyes locking with his. “While I’m not going to fire you … if you really want to make it up to me for the, shall we say, ‘unconventional start’ to our professional relationship, I can think of something you can do.”

He is so high on the dizzying cocktail of relief and humiliation that he’s not thinking clearly. All he knows is that this woman, this impossibly powerful and surprisingly amused woman, has spared him. He feels an overwhelming, desperate need to prove his gratitude.

He doesn’t even hesitate. Nicolas’s voice is a faint, forgotten whisper from a distant past.

“Yes,” he says, the word rushing out of him, full of conviction. “Anything. Whatever it is, I’ll do it. I promise.”

A slow, enigmatic smile spreads across your face. It’s a smile that holds a thousand secrets. It’s the smile of a woman who has just been handed a blank check. You’ve got him. You played the game, and you won.

“Good,” you say softly, leaning back in your chair and picking up your glass. “I’ll let you know.”

***

The two days that follow his meeting with you are a strange, surreal limbo. The acute, life-altering terror has been replaced by a low-grade, humming uncertainty. He is not fired. His career is not over. But his fate is still very much in your hands. He has signed a blank check made out to you, and he has no idea when, or for what, you will decide to cash it.

He throws himself into his training with a manic intensity, trying to sweat out the anxiety. He spends hours in the simulator, the familiar G-forces and whine of the engine a comforting cocoon. But even there, his mind wanders. What could you possibly want? A public endorsement of one of your companies? A series of mind-numbingly dull sponsor appearances? A donation to your favorite charity? His imagination, usually reserved for finding the perfect racing line through a complex corner, now conjures a thousand different scenarios, each more bizarre than the last.

The summons, when it comes, is not an email from a corporate assistant. It’s a text message, from a number he doesn’t recognize, that appears on his phone on Saturday morning.

Good morning, Charles. I have your assignment. Y/N.

His heart leaps into his throat. He stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the screen. His first assignment. It sounds ominous, like something out of a spy movie.

He types and deletes three different replies before settling on a simple, professional. Good morning. I’m ready.

The three little dots that indicate you are typing appear and disappear for a full minute. The suspense is excruciating. Finally, a new message pops up. It’s a location pin, dropped on a sprawling villa in the hills outside Modena. Below it, a short line of text.

Today. 2 PM. Dress code: casual. And durable.

Durable?

He stares at the word. Durable. What kind of assignment requires durable clothing? Is he going to be doing manual labor? Is this some bizarre, character-building exercise where he has to help landscape your garden?

He immediately calls Lorenzo.

“She wants me to go to a villa. She said I have to wear something durable,” Charles says, the words tumbling out in a rush of renewed panic. “What does it mean? Am I being hazed? Is this a thing that billionaires do?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, followed by the sound of Lorenzo trying, and failing, to suppress a laugh. “Charles, I don’t think the potential new owner of Ferrari is going to haze you. Maybe it’s a charity event? Building houses for the poor?”

“In a blazer?” Charles asks, gesturing wildly at his own closet. “What is durable casual? What do I wear?”

“Just wear some nice jeans and a polo shirt,” Lorenzo says, his voice full of amusement. “And Charlou? Try to relax. The worst is over. Just go, do whatever she asks, and keep smiling.”

***

An hour later, Charles is driving his Ferrari 488 Pista down a long, cypress-lined driveway, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The villa is magnificent — a beautiful, old stone building that has been tastefully modernized, with sprawling, impeccably manicured gardens. He can hear the faint sounds of music and … screaming? Not screams of terror. Screams of high-pitched, chaotic joy.

He parks the car and walks towards the garden, his stomach churning. He rounds a corner, past a large, sparkling swimming pool, and the scene that greets him stops him dead in his tracks.

The lawn is a jumble of primary colors. There are balloons everywhere. A massive, inflatable bouncy castle in the shape of a red racing car dominates the space. A long table is laden with cakes, sweets, and enough sugar to power a small city. And running, jumping, and shrieking through it all are at least two dozen small children.

It’s a sixth birthday party.

And standing in the middle of it all, looking completely in her element, is you.

You are not the CEO from the conference room or the serene woman from the Terrazza. Today, you are wearing faded blue jeans, a simple white t-shirt, and your hair is in a messy ponytail. You’re holding a small, dark-haired boy on your hip, and you are laughing, your head thrown back, as he whispers something in your ear. You look young, relaxed, and impossibly beautiful.

This is his assignment. This is what required durable clothing. He’s been summoned to a child’s birthday party.

You spot him then. Your eyes meet across the sea of chaotic children, and a slow, wicked smile spreads across your face. It’s the same smile he saw in the boardroom, the one that says, I own you. You nod your head, a clear instruction. Come here.

He takes a deep breath and weaves his way through the tiny, running bodies. He feels like a giant, clumsy oaf in this world of miniature humans.

“Charles,” you say as he approaches, your voice full of false, saccharine sweetness. “So glad you could make it.” You shift the little boy on your hip. “Adam, look who it is. It’s the man from the fast red cars.”

The little boy, presumably the birthday boy, Adam, stares at him with wide, solemn brown eyes. “Are you Charles Leclerc?” He asks, his voice full of awe.

“I am,” Charles says, forcing a smile.

“My aunt said you were coming,” Adam says. “She said you owed her a favor.”

Charles glances at you. Your smile is positively gleaming with triumph. “That’s right, sweetie,” you say, patting Adam’s back. “Mr. Leclerc was very, very naughty at work, and this is his punishment.”

Adam’s eyes go even wider. “Wow,” he breathes.

Before Charles can process the full, mortifying horror of being framed as a naughty employee to a six-year-old, Adam points a chubby finger at him and yells at the top of his lungs.

“EVERYONE! IT’S CHARLES LECLERC! THE REAL ONE!”

The effect is instantaneous. It’s like a switch has been flipped. Twenty-five tiny heads whip around in his direction. A moment of stunned silence, and then, a roar.

He is swarmed.

It is a tidal wave of small, sticky hands and loud, unfiltered questions.

“Are you really him?”

“Is your car here?”

“Can you go faster than a cheetah?”

“Why didn’t you win the last race?”

“My papa says you need to be more aggressive in turn one!”

“Can I have your hat?”

They hang off his arms, tug on his polo shirt, and pat his legs as if checking to see if he’s real. He is a human climbing frame, an island in a sea of relentless, six-year-old energy. He looks over their heads, a desperate, pleading look on his face, searching for you.

You are leaning against a large oak tree, arms crossed, watching the scene with an expression of total satisfaction. You raise your glass of lemonade to him in a mock toast.

He mouths the word, ‘Help.’

You just shake your head, your smile widening, and take a delicate sip of your drink.

The next two hours are the most grueling, physically and mentally demanding of his entire life. It makes a double-stint at the Singapore Grand Prix feel like a casual Sunday drive.

He is forced to give endless piggyback rides, his back screaming in protest. He is dragged into the bouncy castle, where he is mercilessly bounced upon by a pack of shrieking children until he is dizzy and gasping for air. A little girl with a formidable grip insists on braiding his hair, pulling it into tiny, painful knots. Another child, whose face is a smear of blue frosting, decides to use Charles’s very expensive white polo shirt as a napkin.

Throughout it all, you watch. You drift through the party, the perfect, doting aunt, chatting with other parents, cutting cake, but your eyes are always on him. Every time he catches your gaze, you give him a little wave, a silent, mocking encouragement.

At one point, he manages to extricate himself from a heated debate about whether a Formula 1 car could beat a T-Rex in a race and makes his way over to you.

“This is cruel and unusual punishment,” he says under his breath, trying to discreetly wipe a sticky handprint off his jeans.

“Is it?” You ask, your voice laced with innocence. “They seem to be having fun. Adam said it’s the best birthday party he’s ever had.”

“I’m not a party clown,” he hisses. “I am a professional athlete.”

“Really?” You say, raising an eyebrow. “Because from here, you look like a very expensive, and not particularly durable, piece of playground equipment.” You pat his arm. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think Nina wants you to be the horse for her princess carriage. Don’t keep her waiting.”

He is about to protest when a tiny hand tugs on his trousers. He looks down to see a small girl with enormous blue eyes staring up at him.

“Are you the horse?” She asks.

Defeated, Charles sighs. “Yes,” he says, his shoulders slumping. “Yes, I am the horse.”

The absolute low point of the afternoon comes without warning. He is on his hands and knees, being the aforementioned horse, with a determined little girl on his back. Adam is running alongside, directing the ‘carriage’ with wild, enthusiastic gestures.

“Faster, horsey, faster!” Adam shrieks with delight.

In a burst of sugar-fueled excitement, Adam decides to climb aboard as well. He takes a running leap, attempting to land on Charles’s back behind his friend. He misjudges the jump. Badly.

Instead of landing on his back, Adam’s small, bony knee connects squarely, and with horrifying accuracy, with the most sensitive part of Charles’s anatomy.

The world goes white.

The air leaves his lungs in a silent, explosive gasp. All sound fades to a dull, distant roar. The bright, sunny garden dissolves into a pinprick of light. He collapses onto the grass, curling into a tight, fetal position, unable to speak, unable to breathe.

The two children, oblivious to the catastrophic damage they have inflicted, simply slide off his back and run away, screaming with laughter, towards the cake table.

He lies there on the lawn, a fallen gladiator, felled not by a rival on the racetrack, but by a six-year-old in a superhero t-shirt. He can hear your voice, suddenly sharp with concern, cutting through the haze of his pain.

“Charles? Charles, are you alright?”

He cannot answer. He can only manage a low, pathetic groan.

He feels a gentle hand on his shoulder. He cracks open an eye and sees you kneeling beside him, the teasing amusement on your face completely replaced by genuine worry.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, your eyes wide as you realize what must have happened. “Adam, did you …”

He just shakes his head weakly, which is all the confirmation you need.

The party begins to wind down shortly after that. Parents arrive, collecting their exhausted, sugar-comatose children. The shrieks of joy are replaced by the tired whines of the homeward bound. The garden slowly empties, leaving behind a battlefield of discarded paper plates, deflated balloons, and one deeply wounded Formula 1 driver.

Charles is sitting gingerly on a cushioned patio chair, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity while his entire lower body throbs in agony.

You emerge from the house and walk towards him. You are holding something behind your back.

“The last of the guests have gone,” you say softly. Your voice is gentle, stripped of its earlier mockery. You sit in the chair next to him, a respectful distance away.

“My legacy,” he rasps, his voice still an octave higher than usual. “To be remembered as the Ferrari driver who was taken out by a six-year-old.”

A small smile touches your lips. “He’s got a mean right knee. We’re thinking of getting him into football.” You bring your hand forward. You’re holding a small, plastic bag filled with ice cubes, wrapped in a clean dish towel. You offer it to him. “Here.”

He stares at the bag of ice. “Are you serious?”

“Standard medical procedure,” you say, your expression unreadable. “It will reduce the swelling.”

He hesitates for a moment, the sheer, clinical awkwardness of the situation warring with the very real, very intense pain. Pain wins. He takes the bag of ice from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours. The touch sends a strange, unexpected jolt through him that has nothing to do with the injury.

He carefully, discreetly, places the ice pack on his lap. The intense, numbing cold is a relief.

They sit in silence for a moment, watching the sun begin to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The quiet feels strange after the chaos of the afternoon.

“So,” he says finally, breaking the silence. He looks at you, really looks at you, in the soft, golden light. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

He asks it lightly, but the question is heavy with everything that has happened between you. The disastrous first meeting, the panicked apology, the agonizing wait, and this absurd, chaotic afternoon.

You turn to look at him. Your face is serious, your eyes searching his. The smile is gone.

“Yes, Charles,” you say, your voice quiet but clear. “You’re forgiven.”

The words hit him with the same force as the relief he felt on the Terrazza, but this time it’s different. It’s not just about his career. It’s … something else. It’s a feeling of resolution, of a strange, shared experience coming to an end. The blank check has been cashed. The debt is paid.

He should feel free. He should feel relieved. And he does. But he also feels a strange, unwelcome pang of disappointment. This bizarre connection, this weird power dynamic that has defined their every interaction, is over. Now, you will go back to being the untouchable CEO, and he will go back to being the employee.

The thought is surprisingly dissatisfying.

And that’s when the second-stupidest thought of his entire life enters his brain. The first, of course, was assuming you were an intern. This one is arguably worse. It is an idea born of pure, pain-addled, relief-fueled insanity.

He’s going to blame it on the groin injury. It has to be. The trauma must have temporarily rewired his brain, short-circuiting the part that controls self-preservation and common sense.

“Good,” he says, his voice a little shaky. “That’s good.” He takes a breath. “So, now that my career is no longer in jeopardy, and my future as a potential father is merely in question …”

He pauses. He can still back out. He can stop right there. It would be the smart thing to do. The sane thing to do.

He does not do the sane thing.

He turns to you, his expression deadly serious, and says the words.

“Would you be willing to go on a date with me?”

The question hangs in the quiet, twilight air between them, feeling both monumental and utterly absurd. He has just asked out the woman who is in the process of buying his team, the woman he mortally offended, the woman who used her nephew’s birthday party as a form of psychological torture.

You just stare at him. Your mouth is slightly open, your eyes wide with a look of pure shock. The cool, composed, in-control CEO is gone once again, replaced by a woman who has been rendered completely speechless.

And Charles Leclerc, for the second time in a week, realizes he is so massively, incredibly screwed.

For a long, silent moment, your brain refuses to process the words. The CEO part of your mind, the part that runs on logic and risk assessment and quarterly projections, is frantically searching for a protocol, a script for this exact situation. It finds nothing. There is no chapter in any business manual for what to do when your star employee, moments after being forgiven for a career-ending blunder, asks you out on a date while nursing a groin injury inflicted by your six-year-old nephew.

Charles watches the mix of expressions that flicker across your face. He sees shock, then disbelief, followed by something he can’t quite decipher — a flicker of confusion, maybe even a hint of vulnerability. He sees the precise moment your formidable composure cracks, not into anger, but into bewilderment.

His own mind is a siren, blaring a single, repeating warning: ABORT! ABORT! RETRACT THE STATEMENT!

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words coming out in a strangled rush. The relief has evaporated, replaced by a fresh, even more potent wave of horror. He’s done it again. He’s snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. “That was … stupid. I am so sorry. It’s the pain. I’m not thinking clearly. The ice pack must be restricting blood flow to my brain. Please, just … forget I said anything.”

He makes a move to stand up, to flee, to run back to his car and drive directly into the nearest canal.

“Sit down, Charles,” you say.

Your voice is quiet, but it carries an authority that roots him to the spot. He sinks back into his chair, his posture rigid with dread. He keeps his eyes fixed on a particularly interesting paving stone, unable to meet your gaze. He is preparing for the verbal evisceration he so clearly deserves.

But it doesn’t come. Instead, there is another long, heavy silence. He risks a glance up.

You are looking at him, really looking at him, with an intensity that feels like it’s peeling back layers of his skin. The shock has faded from your eyes, replaced by a deep, analytical curiosity. A slow, almost imperceptible smile is beginning to form at the corners of your mouth. It’s not the triumphant, mocking smile from the boardroom. It’s something else entirely. Something … intrigued.

“Let me see if I understand this,” you say, your voice a low, deliberate murmur. “You mistake me for an intern and order me to get you coffee. You then spend the next four days convinced I am going to ruin your life. You follow this up by literally falling to your knees and begging me not to send you to the Formula 1 equivalent of Siberia. And now, having been absolved of all your sins via trial-by-toddler, your very next move is to ask me on a date.” You lean forward slightly, your eyes sparkling with a dangerous light. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately, with profound sincerity. “Clinically. I am beginning to think I have a serious problem.”

The answer is so honest, so devoid of bravado, that it makes you laugh. It’s not the full, unrestrained laugh from the party. It’s a softer, deeper sound. A sound of genuine amusement.

“At least you’re self-aware,” you say, shaking your head slowly. “That’s a start.”

“So, that’s a no, then?” He asks, his voice small. He already knows the answer. It has to be no. It’s the only logical, sensible, professional answer.

You are quiet for another moment, your gaze drifting out towards the darkening hills. He can see the calculations happening behind your eyes. You are weighing the pros and cons, the optics, the sheer, unadulterated insanity of it all.

“Every professional instinct I have,” you say, turning back to him, “every single one, is screaming at me to say no. It’s inappropriate. It’s complicated. It’s a potential HR nightmare, assuming my acquisition bid is successful.”

His heart sinks. “I understand.”

“But,” you continue, and that single word electrifies the air between you, “I am also the woman who runs a multi-billion-dollar global corporation. I did not get here by always listening to my professional instincts. Sometimes, you have to take a calculated risk.” You give him a sharp, appraising look. “And you, Charles Leclerc, are nothing if not a risk.”

He doesn’t know what to say. He just stares at you, his mind a hopeful, terrified blank.

“Alright,” you say, a decisive glint in your eye. “I will go on one date with you.”

He blinks. “You will?”

“On one condition,” you add, holding up a finger.

“Anything,” he says immediately.

“You plan it,” you say. “No assistants. No PR teams. No reservations made by someone else. Just you. You choose the time, the place, the activity. And it has to be good. It has to impress me. And trust me,” you add, your voice dropping to a confidential whisper, “I don’t impress easily.”

It’s a test. Another one. But this one is different. This isn’t a punishment. This is a challenge. And if there is one thing Charles Leclerc understands, it is how to rise to a challenge.

A slow, genuine smile spreads across his face, the first one he’s felt in days that isn’t tinged with fear. “Okay,” he says, his voice full of a newfound confidence. “It’s a deal.”

***

He spends the next three days planning the date with the same meticulous focus he would apply to a race strategy. He dismisses a dozen ideas. A fancy, Michelin-starred restaurant? Too predictable. You’ve been to a hundred of them. A concert? Too loud, no room for conversation. A simple movie? Too impersonal.

He needs to show you his world. Not the glitz and glamour of the Formula 1 paddock, but the real, authentic heart of it. He needs to show you the man, not the celebrity.

On the evening of the date, a vintage, immaculately restored 1972 Ferrari Dino 246 GT in a stunning shade of deep silver pulls up outside your hotel. It is not a loud, aggressive supercar. It is a piece of art — elegant, timeless, and understated.

Charles gets out of the driver’s side. He is not wearing a team polo shirt or a designer suit. He’s wearing dark, well-fitting trousers, a simple linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and leather driving shoes. He looks relaxed, confident, and impossibly handsome.

You watch him from the window of your suite, a surprised, appreciative smile on your face. Point to Leclerc, you think.

When you come down to the lobby, he is waiting for you. He doesn’t say anything cheesy. He just smiles, his eyes lighting up when he sees you. You’ve chosen a simple, elegant navy-blue slip dress. It’s beautiful, but not ostentatious. You are meeting him on his level.

“Nice car,” you say, your voice dry, as he holds the passenger door open for you.

“I thought it was more appropriate for the occasion than my Pista,” he replies, a playful glint in his eye. “A little less … aggressive.”

The date begins not with dinner, but with a drive. As the sun begins its slow descent, he takes you out of the city, away from the familiar streets of Maranello, and up into the winding, cypress-lined roads of the surrounding hills. He drives the car with an effortless, fluid grace, the vintage engine a soft, throaty purr behind you.

This is his element. Here, on a challenging road, he is not the anxious, bumbling man from the boardroom. He is a poet in motion.

And he talks. He points out the ruins of an old castle on a distant hill. He tells you stories about growing up in Monaco, about the first time he ever drove a go-kart. He talks about the unique, almost unbearable pressure of driving for Ferrari, the weight of the entire nation’s hopes on his shoulders every other Sunday.

You listen, truly listen, asking questions that are sharp and insightful. You ask him not about his fame, but about his fear. Not about his wins, but about his most difficult losses.

In turn, you find yourself opening up to him in a way you rarely do with anyone. You talk about the immense, suffocating pressure of taking over your father’s company, the constant feeling that you have to be twice as smart and work three times as hard as any man in the room to be taken seriously. You tell him about the loneliness of being at the top, of having board members and employees, but very few true friends.

You discover that your two worlds, the high-stakes corporate boardroom and the high-G-force racetrack, are not so different. They are both places of immense pressure, public scrutiny, and a relentless, unforgiving demand for perfection.

He finally pulls the car to a stop at a scenic overlook. The entire valley is spread out below you, bathed in the soft, purple light of dusk. The lights of Maranello are just beginning to twinkle in the distance.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathe.

“It’s my favorite place to come when I need to think,” he says quietly. “When the noise gets too loud.”

You sit there in comfortable silence, watching the day end. The unspoken tension between you has dissolved, replaced by a warm, easy sense of connection.

For dinner, he doesn’t take you to a place with white tablecloths and a sommelier. He drives to a small, unassuming building tucked away in a tiny village. It’s a family-run trattoria, with checkered tablecloths, mismatched chairs, and the incredible, mouth-watering smell of garlic and fresh pasta hanging in the air.

The owner, a stout, beaming woman in her sixties, greets Charles with a loud cry of “Carletto!” and pulls him into a smothering hug before planting two loud kisses on his cheeks. She looks at you, her eyes twinkling.

“And you must be the special girl he told me about!” She says in rapid, musical Italian.

Charles’s face flushes a deep, adorable shade of red. “Nonna Maria, per favore …” he mutters.

The meal is simple, and it is the best you have ever had. Fresh, handmade tortelloni, local wine served in a simple carafe, and tiramisu so light it feels like eating a cloud. You talk and laugh, and he tells you stories about coming here for the first time with Sebastian Vettel. You see a side of him you never could have imagined — the teammate, the brother, the local boy who made good.

By the time he drives you back to your hotel, the night is dark, the sky thick with stars. He walks you to the main entrance of the hotel, the grand, imposing doors a stark contrast to the warm intimacy of the evening.

Neither of you wants it to end. The thought of going back to your separate worlds, of you becoming the CEO and him the employee again, feels wrong.

“I’m not ready for this night to be over,” he says, his voice low. The confidence from the drive has been replaced by a soft, hesitant vulnerability.

“Neither am I,” you admit.

“My apartment is not far from here,” he offers, the words tentative. “If you’re not tired. I could … make you a drink?”

You smile. “I’d like that.”

His apartment is exactly what you would have expected, and yet it surprises you. It is minimalist and modern, with clean lines and breathtaking views, but it feels like a home. There are photos on a side table — him as a boy in a karting suit, him with his brothers. And in the center of the vast living space is a beautiful, glossy black grand piano.

He leaves you by the vast window overlooking the city lights and goes to the kitchen. You can hear the soft clink of glasses.

He returns a moment later, his hands empty. He looks nervous again, that familiar anxiety flickering in his eyes.

“Can I get you something?” He asks, his voice a little rough. “Some wine? Water?” He pauses, a hesitant, mischievous smile playing on his lips. He takes a breath, and the whole world seems to hold it with him. “… An espresso?”

The question lands perfectly. The callback is so unexpected, so brilliantly audacious, that you burst out laughing. All the remaining tension, all the awkwardness of your history, evaporates in that single, shared moment of humor.

“I would love an espresso,” you say, your eyes shining.

You follow him to the kitchen and watch as he stands in front of the gleaming, state-of-the-art machine — the same model from the Ferrari conference room. But this time, the roles are reversed. You are the one watching, and he is the one at work, his movements practiced and competent. He grinds the beans, tamps the coffee, and pulls the shot. The rich, dark aroma fills the kitchen.

He hands you the small, delicate cup. It is a perfect mirror image of that first, disastrous meeting. A full circle. A closing of a loop that you never knew you needed.

You take a sip. “It’s perfect,” you say softly, your eyes meeting his over the rim of the cup.

“I’m glad,” he whispers.

He takes the cup from your hand and sets it down on the counter. He doesn’t move away. He is standing so close now you can feel the warmth radiating from him. He lifts a hand, his fingers gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is electric, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice barely audible, and the sound of your name on his lips is both an apology and a revelation.

And then he leans in and kisses you.

It is not a hesitant, questioning kiss. It is a kiss of absolute certainty, a culmination of every moment that has passed between you — the misunderstanding, the fear, the laughter, the forgiveness. It is tender, and it is passionate, a release of all the unspoken energy that has been crackling between you from the very first second he walked into that conference room.

You melt into him, your hands coming up to cup his face, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you tight against him. The world outside the windows disappears. There is only this room, this moment, and the incredible, undeniable truth that this impossibly complicated, slightly broken, beautiful man has somehow found his way straight into the center of your carefully guarded heart.

When you finally break apart, you are both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other.

You look up at him, a slow, playful smile spreading across your face as your quick, strategic mind finally catches up with your racing heart. You see the whole, absurd, wonderful trajectory of your story laid out before you.

You reach up and trace the line of his jaw with your thumb.

“So, Charles Leclerc …” you say, your voice a low, teasing murmur, the CEO returning for one last, brilliant power move. “What do you think is better for your public image? The driver who pissed off his future boss … or the driver who’s sleeping with her?”

He looks down at you, his eyes full of a light you’ve never seen before. The anxiety is gone, replaced by a natural confidence.

Dex loved sushi night Fridays.

You two had settled into the routine months ago without either of you ever really acknowledging it. Fridays after work. The same tiny sushi place tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop, the sign flickering like it was running on borrowed time.

Inside was all warm amber lighting and fogged windows, the air thick with rice vinegar and the low hiss of the grill.

The hostess smiled the second you walked in now, already reaching for a menu you never looked at, because you already knew what you wanted, and Dex already knew you’d order it before you did.

You referred to it as your “cheat day,” something Dex privately thought was bullshit. You were always working on cutting back on takeout or “trying to be healthier,” only to cave every Friday night without fail.

But the word cheat implied you were doing something wrong. Indulging something shameful. And he hated the idea of you apologising for your own appetite.

He’d watched the pattern long enough to know it by heart; Sushi Fridays. Thai food on bad days (red curry, extra spicy, no matter how much it made you sweat). Wings—any kind really— when you were too tired to cook… or on your period.

And coffee, too much coffee, all throughout the week, the same two-pump vanilla order from the cart on 47th.

Dex didn’t think you needed to worry about your weight. The thought irritated him every time it surfaced, a low-grade static at the back of his skull. You were beautiful exactly as you were.

If he had things his way, you’d indulge every craving that crossed your mind. Midnight milkshakes. Extra dessert. Those strawberry candies you liked from the bodega near your apartment.

He’d drive across the city at two in the morning if you suddenly decided you wanted dumplings or lemon cake or greasy diner fries.

The restaurant lights caught against your jewelry when you moved, tiny gold hoops glinting near your jaw. Warm light softened everything about you.

Your skin took on a honeyed tone, the shadows beneath your cheekbones gentle rather than sharp. It made you glow in a way Dex had never been able to properly explain to himself.

Like candlelight catching honey, or the last sun ray through a window at dusk.

He watched you pick up another fried roll with your chopsticks, your nose wrinkling slightly when it nearly slipped apart before you got it into your mouth.

That made him chuckle. A sound that died in the hollow of his chest, swallowed by the space between his ribs.

God.

He needed this.

Needed the quiet rhythm of it after the last week spent buried in FBI work. The lies. The noise. Too many voices in his ear, too many meetings, too much time spent orbiting Wilson Fisk and his suffocating shadow.

His apartment never helped either. Too quiet and too still. Silence had a way of making his thoughts louder, the walls pressing in until he had to pace just to feel like he still had room to breathe.

But here, things felt… normal.

Outside, rain poured weakly past the windshield of Dex’s car.

The wipers had been off for a while now, leaving the glass streaked with dried residue. The heater hummed low near his knees, filling the car with dry warmth and the heavy, layered smell of fried tempura, soy sauce, and burnt coffee that had long gone cold in the cupholder.

Across the street, through the fogged window of the sushi place, you laughed suddenly at something on your phone, leaning forward across the table.

Dex smiled before he could stop himself.

He adjusted the takeout container balanced carefully in his lap before it tipped against the console. The plastic lid was beaded with condensation, the heat of the food fogging it from inside.

Soy sauce packets crowded the cupholder beside the coffee and crinkled napkins were shoved messily near the parking brake.

One dumpling had leaked grease through the paper container onto his slacks minutes ago, a dark stain spreading across the fabric near his knee, but he barely cared.

He hadn’t even registered the warmth of it until it had already cooled.

Dex stuffed another piece of sushi into his mouth absently, chewing without tasting, his eyes never leaving you.

The rice was a little dry. The ginger had that sharp, stinging bite that made the back of his throat tighten.

He’d picked up the order right before you came in, timed it so the food would still be warm when he settled into the driver’s seat.

His monocular rested against his thigh for barely a second before he lifted it again automatically. He settled it back against his socket without thinking, the world snapping into that familiar, compressed clarity.

His pulse eased the moment your face sharpened back into focus.

There she is.

Chin propped lazily into your palm now, reading something intently on your phone. A server passed behind you carrying a tray and even distracted, you looked up at him automatically. Sweet and polite.

Warm in that effortless way that still twisted something painfully tight inside Dex’s chest after all these years.

You gave pieces of yourself away carelessly without even realising it. A smile here. A laugh there. A small wave to a regular who held the door for you.

You never hoarded your warmth. It just spilled out of you, abundant and unguarded, and Dex collected every stray drop like a man dying of thirst.

His thumb moved slowly against the steering wheel, tracing the seam where the leather had begun to crack near the top.

This was exactly what he needed after the week he’d had.

Just you and him.

The thought surfaced without permission, settling somewhere deep behind his sternum. He let it sit there as his hand drifted toward the glove compartment without looking away from you once.

The latch gave with a quiet click, and his fingers found the familiar bundle by touch alone, soft cotton folded neatly in the dark, tucked beside his registration and a crumpled gas receipt.

He drew it carefully into his lap, keeping his eyes fixed on your silhouette through the monocular.

The pale fabric bunched lightly in his fist. The lace trim was cool against his palm, delicate, a detail he’d traced with his fingertips so many times that he could map it blind.

Almost absentmindedly, like a man reaching for a cigarette or rubbing a familiar scar, he brought the stolen panties toward his face and inhaled slowly.

The smell hit him in stages. First the faint, clean scent of your vanilla lotion, the one you applied after every shower. Then the warmer note of your shea body oil, the one you massaged into your elbows and knees before bed.

Beneath that, something warmer and distinctly you, something saline and soft that settled low in his stomach hard enough to make his slacks tighten slightly. A familiar, hungry ache that bloomed behind his fly at just your scent.

He held the breath for a long moment, letting it steep in his lungs, before exhaling through his nose.

A small souvenir he’d rewarded himself four months ago, after letting himself into your new loft late one night to make sure everything was secure.

You’d forgotten to latch one of the windows facing the fire escape. Careless sweet thing. The lock had been loose, the frame warped slightly from humidity, and when he’d tested it with his fingertips, it had swung open without resistance.

Dex had fixed it for you before leaving. Tightened the screws on the latch, oiled the track, made sure it would hold.

He’d found the panties in your laundry basket on the way out. A pale blue cotton pair, with a small tear near the waistband that you’d never bothered to mend. He’d slipped them into his jacket pocket before he could think better of it.

Across the street, you laughed again, shoulders shaking lightly this time, your head tipping back just enough to expose the column of your throat.

He exhaled softly through his nose, smiling along with you like he really was sitting across the table

Just you and him.

That was all he needed.

He didn’t know what to think when he saw the newspaper.

For one suspended second, there was nothing. Not anger. Not fear. Not even confusion. Just a sharp, empty stillness, like a pin had dropped somewhere inside his head and every part of him had gone quiet trying to hear where it landed.

Dex had been sitting there for hours, spine rigid, eyes fixed on the bank of screens showing Fisk’s penthouse from every angle. The man himself was visible in one frame, seated at his dining table. Calm and unbothered like always.

Then the paper landed in front of him.

FBI INVESTIGATES ONE OF THEIR OWN.

Agent Kane shifted beside him. “I’m sorry, Dex. This isn’t right,” she said quietly.

He heard her voice, but it came from somewhere far away, as if she were speaking through water. The words landed and dissolved.

Dex stared at the headline until the letters stopped being letters and became just shapes—black ink pressed into pulp, arranged by somebody who didn’t know him, didn’t care about him, didn’t understand anything about what he’d done or why.

The static began to rise. It always started like this, a low hum at the base of his skull, building as the world pressed in.

Around him, the room kept moving. Agents passed behind his chair, their footsteps a rhythmic interruption. Phones rang in overlapping cadences. Somebody laughed too loudly near the elevators, the sound slicing through the air before smearing into everything else, sharp and meaningless.

He could feel them looking at him.

Not directly, none of them were stupid enough to stare. But he felt the glances anyway. The way people looked at car wrecks when they slowed down just enough to see blood but not enough to admit they wanted to.

His jaw tightened. The muscle in his temple pulsed once, twice.

He was being used as a scapegoat.

By the time Winn and Hattley called him into the office, the static had thickened. It filled the room around their fake sympathetic voices.

“We’re going to find out who leaked this,” Hattley said, leaning forward with that practiced look of concern people used when they wanted to seem human.

Dex looked at her mouth while she spoke.

Not her eyes. Her mouth.

The words were too clean. Too prepared. Every syllable landed exactly where she wanted it to, like she’d rehearsed this conversation. There was no surprise in her tone, no real outrage. Just a performance of solidarity.

She was lying.

They all were.

The thing inside him stirred, restless and cold. He pressed it down. But it was harder now, when the structure he’d trusted was cracking around him, when the rules he’d followed were being used to crush him.

It had been the Bureau.

They were throwing him under the bus because someone had to bleed publicly, and it was easier if it was him. Easier because he had no wife waiting at home. No kids. No loud, charming friends in the office to make a scene on his behalf.

Easier because he was useful until he wasn’t, precise until precision made them uncomfortable, disciplined until discipline stopped protecting him from becoming disposable.

After everything, they were disposing of him.

If he followed the rules, he could be normal. He could be safe. Everyone else could be safe.

But the rules had just thrown him away.

“Think of it as a paid vacation,” Hattley said, offering a thin smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

The static in his skull sharpened.

Dex looked down at his badge before he realised he’d already taken it off.

He didn’t remember doing it. His fingers had moved on their own, undoing the clip, sliding the leather folder from his belt.

Now it sat in his palm like something foreign, the gold shield winking at him tauntingly.

His hand didn’t feel like his own when he set it on the desk. The leather made a soft, final sound against the wood. Then the gun. The weight of it leaving him felt wrong in a way that made his stomach tighten sharply.

Badge. Gun. Credentials.

Structure.

Mercer’s voice rose in his head before he could stop it.

Get a job with structure, Dex. Rigid structure. Stay disciplined. Stay useful. Routine is important for you.

Routine. Rules. The job gave him rules. Rules told him what to do. Rules made the edges of the world sharp enough to hold onto. Without them, everything blurred.

Everything bled into everything else. The thing inside him pushed against its cage like an animal scenting an open door.

And now they were taking it away from him like it was nothing.

By the time he reached the hall, the migraine had settled behind his right eye, hot and pulsing. It pressed against his optic nerve, sending thin spokes of light across his vision.

Nausea turned slowly in his stomach, a greasy, rolling sensation that made his throat tighten.

He was aware of his body in pieces. His pulse hammering in his wrists, too fast. Sweat cooling under his collar, the fabric damp and clammy against his neck. The empty space at his hip where his gun should have been.

Empty.

Empty.

Empty.

By the time he stepped back out into the hall, the Bureau felt wrong around him. Hostile in a way it hadn’t ten minutes ago.

But the air had changed. It pressed against him differently now, thick and heavy, as if the building itself had decided he didn’t belong here anymore.

He walked past an agent he’d worked with for two years. The man met his eyes, then looked away.

Dex’s fingers twitched at his sides.

None of it belonged to him anymore.

Or he didn’t belong to it.

The job was gone. The badge was gone. The rules were gone. And without them, he felt himself starting to come apart at the seams, the threads that held him together snapping one by one.

His breathing thinned. Too shallow. Too fast. The edges of his vision began to grey, just slightly, like someone was turning down the lights from far away.

He needed out.

He needed air.

No.

Not air.

You.

He needed to see you. Now.

The thought cut through the static like a blade. A fixed point in the chaos.

Dex looked down at his watch.

6:17 p.m.

Thursday.

You did your grocery shopping on Thursdays after work because you hated weekend crowds. End of the week, but not the weekend. Practical. Smart.

Sometimes you bought tulips even though you worked at a florist and could probably get better ones for free.

He had never understood that.

He loved that he didn’t understand that.

The Bureau, Hattley, Winn, Fisk, the paper, the headline, the badge sitting on that desk like a dead thing. None of it mattered. Not right now.

Not when his mind was splitting open and the only thought holding him together was the image of you standing under grocery-store fluorescents.

He turned before he’d fully decided to move.

His feet carried him toward the elevator. Each step felt like pushing through water. The walls of the hallway seemed to close in, then expand, breathing with him.

By the time he reached the elevator and pressed the button, his jaw ached from clenching. His hands were steady, but only because he had trained them to be.

Inside, everything was coming apart in small, quiet pieces. Like a dam with a thousand tiny cracks, water seeping through each one, the whole structure holding only by habit and memory.

That was fine.

He didn’t need the badge.

He didn’t need their rules.

He had you.

The drive from the bureau to the grocery store did nothing to settle the storm clawing through Dex’s chest.

His palms were slick against his slacks. He’d just walked in. Empty-handed. Bereft of purpose beyond the single, desperate need screaming through every nerve ending in his body.

Find her. Find her. Find her.

The automatic doors hissed shut behind him, sealing him inside a world of too-bright lights and Muzak and the sharp chemical sweetness of floor cleaner.

His tie felt like it had shrunk two sizes since he’d left the Bureau, the knot pressing against his throat like a noose. He tugged at it once, twice, but it only made it tighter.

The migraine was still there, settled between his eyes like a hot coal. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a steady, throbbing pressure that made the aisles seem to swim when he moved his head too fast.

And Mercer’s voice.

She was there, in the back of his skull, the way she always was when things got bad. But today she wasn’t the steady, grounding presence he remembered.

Her voice flickered and warped, sliding between registers like a broken radio.

Stay calm, Dex. Breathe. You’re okay.

Then, lower, twisted. Freak. Look at you. They threw you away because they saw it. They knew what you were.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

You were supposed to be better than this. All that discipline. And you can’t even—

“Shut up,” he muttered under his breath, but the words came out wrong, too loud, and a woman passing with a toddler shot him a strange look.

He didn’t care.

He checked the endcaps, the seasonal displays, the little stand with flowers near the entrance because you liked stopping there.

You weren’t there.

His breathing got thinner, shallower, each inhale less satisfying than the last. A tightness gathered behind his eyes, hot and humiliating, frustration swelling so quickly it scared him.

Not here. Not here. Not—

He crossed the store, his shoes squeaking on the polished floor. He passed a man in a dark coat who frowned at him. He ignored him. He rounded the corner into the makeup aisle and his chest seized.

Empty.

The shelves stretched out before him, neat rows of bottles and tubes and compacts reflecting the harsh light. A woman stood at the far end, examining a lipstick, but she had different hair. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

The frustration crested, crested, broke.

Tears pricked at his eyes, and he blinked furiously against them. His throat closed. His hands shook.

This was stupid.

This was—

Where the hell are you?

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. The pressure helped, briefly, grounding him in pain instead of panic. He counted to ten. Then to twenty.

He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, the way Mercer had taught him when he was thirteen and didn’t know how to exist without breaking things.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth. You’re in control, Dex. You’re always in control.

But the voice was quiet now, drowned out by the static.

He dropped his hands and looked up.

There.

The fruit and vegetable aisle. Eight feet away. Your back.

And everything stopped.

The world snapped into focus like a lens being adjusted. The lights dimmed to something bearable. The buzzing of the fluorescents faded to a dull hum.

A shock ran through his system, ice-cold and bracing, like being splashed with water in the middle of a fever dream.

His throat worked. He swallowed once, twice.

He dragged his eyes up, angry at himself and not angry at all. Angry that he couldn’t just walk up to you, couldn’t just be normal, couldn’t just—

His hands were still shaking.

His chest was still tight.

His breathing was still too shallow, too fast, each inhale catching on something sharp lodged in his lungs.

He was still falling apart, and you were right there, six feet away, squeezing pears and humming to music he couldn’t hear, and he couldn’t calm down.

The realisation hit him like a fist to his throat.

If he couldn’t pull himself together now, if he couldn’t drag his shattered pieces back into something resembling a whole person, he was going to have a full mental breakdown with you a few steps away from him.

He couldn’t let that happen.

He couldn’t.

He stood at the end of the aisle, frozen, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, his heart hammering against his ribs, his eyes fixed on the curve of your spine and the gentle sway of your hips as you moved down the display.

And for a long, terrible moment, he didn’t know what to do.

The word nectarines repeated in his skull like a lifeline.

He didn’t know why that particular fruit had caught his attention—maybe because they were closest, maybe because they were red and blushing and reminded him of the colour your lips had been at the diner.

It didn’t matter. He grabbed one, then another, turning them over in his trembling hands pretending to inspect them.

Three steps away. You were three steps away.

Dex’s shoe scuffed against the linoleum as he adjusted his stance, positioning himself so he could see you in his peripheral vision without turning his head.

Look at something else. Let your eyes find the target naturally. But his eyes weren’t listening.

They kept sliding back to you, hungry and helpless, drinking in the curve of your hip where your sweatpants rode low.

He could smell you.

Estée Lauder. Beautiful Magnolia.

He knew the scent because he’d bought a bottle once, from a department store in Midtown, just to understand what it was that clung to your clothes and lingered in the air long after you’d passed.

He’d sprayed it on his pillow that night and buried his face in the fabric, breathing you in until the noise in his head quieted to a hum.

He inhaled now, deep and long, hoping it would do the same.

It didn’t.

His hands were still shaking. He could see the tremors as he turned a nectarine over, the fruit wobbling in his grip like he’d never held anything in his life.

Just breathe, Dex, Mercer whispered, but her voice was thin, frayed, like a recording stretched to breaking.

We don’t know how this got out, Hattley’s voice cut in, smooth and false, dripping with pity. We’re going to find out who leaked this.

His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

He wanted to hit something. Wanted to drive his fist into the display of nectarines, into the wall, into his own skull if it would make them stop.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

He tried to focus on you. On the sound of your breathing. On the fact that this was the closest he’d been to you in years.

But nothing helped.

The voices swelled. The migraine throbbed. His hands shook. His chest constricted. And he was drowning, drowning, drowning in the fluorescent light of a grocery store—

“Excuse me.”

The world snapped into silence.

Dex’s head shot up so fast his neck cracked. His eyes found yours, and everything in him locked up like a circuit breaker tripping. You were looking at him.

He stared.

He blinked.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

The silence stretched, and your smile tightened at the edges, just slightly. You cleared your throat, shifting your weight, the picture of casual confidence.

“I don’t know if this is gonna sound a bit creepy,” you said, and your voice was smooth, rolling, the same voice he’d heard a thousand times in his memory, “but do I know you?”

His heart stopped.

Then restarted at double speed.

Say something. Say something normal. Say something human.

“I—” He cleared his throat. The sound was raw, scraping. He forced a smile onto his face, “I don’t think so.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “No, I do.”

There was no room for argument in your voice. No uncertainty.

He tilted his head, mirroring you. Let his eyes narrow slightly, as if he were searching his memory.

As if he didn’t have every moment he’d ever seen you catalogued and cross-referenced in his mind.

As if he wasn’t memorising the way the light caught in your hair, the faint sheen of gloss on your lips, the tiny beauty mark just above your collarbone.

You snapped your fingers, before pointing to yourself. “I used to work at this diner a few years ago. I don’t know if you know it—Bel Air Diner, maybe?”

He let the pause hang. Let his brow furrow. Let himself pretend, when all he wanted to do was reach out and touch you to make sure you were real.

“Bushwick?” he said finally, his voice steadier than he felt.

Your eyes lit up, and the sensation of seeing that, of being the cause of that light, was like injecting ecstasy straight into his veins.

“Yeah!” You nodded, your smile widening into something that crinkled the corners of your eyes. “The one on the corner of 9th Ave. That’s the one.”

Dex’s breath caught. He swallowed, trying to find his footing, trying to remember how to be a regular person, having a conversation with a woman who had no idea that she was the only thing that had kept him from falling apart for years.

“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked on the word. “Yeah, I remember.”

“But you don’t remember me?”

Dex blinked at you, the words landing like a slap he didn’t see coming.

For a long, terrible second, his brain seized, caught between the instinct to apologise and the dawning realisation that you were teasing him.

You were teasing him.

The corners of your mouth curved, and there it was, a glint in your eye, a playful tilt to your chin that he’d never seen before.

Not in all the hours he’d spent watching you. You were straightforward. Bold.

In his head, you were soft. Sweet. A little shy, maybe, the way you’d duck your head when a customer thanked you, the way you’d bite your lip when you were concentrating on an arrangement.

He’d built a version of you that was gentle and malleable, a fantasy that existed to be consumed, not to talk back.

“I’m kidding,” you said, after his silence stretched a beat too long. Like you could see him drowning and had thrown him a line.

He hated himself.

The feeling was familiar, worn smooth by years of repetition, but this was a fresh, raw kind of hatred that made his palms itch.

The Dex in his mind, the one he’d imagined a thousand times, would have had a smooth response ready. Would have leaned against the display, flashed a grin, said something that made you laugh.

That Dex was charming. That Dex was normal.

But that Dex wasn’t real. And the real Dex was standing here, sweat beading at his temples, hands shaking.

He scrambled, forcing a smile onto his face that he hoped read as charming rather than manic.

“No, no.” His voice came out too quick, too eager. He reined it in, softened his tone. “I do remember you now. I’m just surprised you remember me.”

You tilted your head smiling, and the movement pushed the apples of your cheeks up. God, you were beautiful.

“Can never forget a handsome face,” you said.

Handsome. She said handsome. She’s flirting with you. That’s what this is. Say something back. This is how it works. So do it.

But his brain was a white-noise void, every thought scattering like roaches in harsh light.

His smile felt brittle on his face, but he held it there, hoping you couldn’t see how badly his hands were shaking.

“Thank you,” he managed, and the words came out rough, almost shy.

He shifted the nectarine to his other hand, wiping his palm against his slacks in a motion he hoped looked casual. Then extended his hand.

“Dex.”

You smiled and told him your name. Like he didn’t already know it. Like he hadn’t whispered it into the dark of his apartment with his fist wrapped around his cock, gasping it into his pillow like a prayer.

Your hand slid into his.

The contact was electric. Your skin was warm, soft, impossibly real against his calloused palm.

He had to stop himself from closing his eyes, from letting the sensation wash over him and drown him.

Every nerve in his body screamed at him to pull you closer, to bring your hand to his mouth and press his lips to your knuckles, to your wrist, to the delicate skin where your pulse beat just beneath the surface.

Instead, he shook your hand once, twice, like a normal person, and let go before he did something he couldn’t take back.

“So, Dex,” you said, drawing his name out just slightly, testing it, like you were deciding whether you liked the way it felt on your tongue.

You had no idea he’d been waiting to hear you say it for years.

“What brings you to the supermarket at—” you glanced at your phone, then back at him, a small smile playing at your lips, “—seven pm on a Thursday.”

Simple question. Normal question. The kind of question one person asked another when they wanted to keep a conversation alive, when they wanted to prolong it.

And you hadn’t even seemed to notice that he had no shopping cart. No basket.

Just himself, standing here in the produce aisle like a man who’d wandered in off the street with no purpose other than to stare at fruit he had no intention of buying.

There was no way he could tell you the truth. That just hours ago he’d been framed by the FBI, scapegoated for an ambush he’d had no part in, cast out of the only identity he’d ever known.

That he’d spent the last hour spiraling in his car, hallucinating voices, pressing a gun to his own jaw before forcing it back into the glove compartment.

That he’d driven here not for groceries, but because your Thursday evening routine was the only fixed point left in his collapsing world.

He couldn’t say any of that.

So he said the first plausible thing that surfaced from the scrambled mess of his brain.

“End of the week,” he heard himself say instead. The words came out rough, but he pushed through. “But way less crowded on weekends.”

You raised your brows, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “So I guess I’m not original at all, huh?”

You were making a joke, and he’d walked right into it and now he was supposed to respond. Laugh. A laugh would be normal. People laughed at jokes. That was the expected behavior. He should laugh.

He made a sound that was supposed to be a chuckle but came out more like a choked exhale, his lips stretching into a smile that felt too wide, too stiff.

“Great minds think alike, I guess.” He tried for laid-back, tried to make his shoulders relax, but they stayed hunched, like he was bracing for impact.

You tilted your head, just slightly, and hummed in agreement.

And then there was a pause.

A little one, at first. The kind of pause that happens naturally in conversation, where one person waits for the other to speak next.

But it stretched. It grew. It filled the space between you like something physical, and Dex felt it pressing against his chest, tightening around his throat.

Say something. She’s waiting. She gave you an opening and now you’re letting it die.

But his mind was a blank wall.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough and too loud in the quiet aisle. “So, uh—” He glanced down at the nectarine in his hand, then back up at you. “You come here often?”

The words landed and he wanted to die. You come here often? That was the line he’d pulled from his brain.

The most generic, cliché, forgettable question in the history of human interaction. The kind of thing a mannequin would say if it were programmed to simulate human speech.

He braced for the look. The one that would say really? delivered with a curl of the lip, a shift of weight away from him. He’d seen that look on women’s faces before, when a man tried too hard or said the wrong thing.

So when you let out a laugh, genuine and surprised, it hit him like a punch to the chest.

You were laughing. At him, maybe, but not at him. With him. Like you found him funny, endearing even. Like his awkwardness wasn’t a turn-off but a joke you were both in on.

Dex felt his face go warm. He rubbed his brow, a nervous tick he couldn’t control, the heel of his hand pressing against his forehead as if he could massage away the embarrassment.

“Yeah, I heard it when I said it,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Sorry…”

He risked a glance at you through his fingers, and you were looking at him with an expression he didn’t recognise.

You looked like you were trying not to smile and failing, the corners of your mouth twitching upward.

His heart was hammering so hard he felt it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers.

“I’ll give you a pass for now,” you said, a smile breaking through fully now.

Dex’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Nothing came out.

He swallowed hard, his throat clicking. “Thanks,” he said again , the word barely above a whisper. “I—I’ll try to do better next time.”

You raised your brows again, but your smile didn’t shift. In fact, it seemed to deepen, the corners of your mouth curling with delight. “Next time?”

The question hung in the air, but to Dex it felt like a tightrope. One wrong step and he’d plummet.

He hoped to God you couldn’t see the sheen of sweat beading on his forehead, the way his pulse was visibly jumping in his throat.

Adapt. You have to adapt. She’s smooth, she’s quick, she’s going to eat you alive if you don’t keep up.

He forced his mouth into something resembling a smile, though it felt more like a grimace on the way up. “You’re the one who said for now.”

And that’s how Dex ended up with your number.

Thirty minutes earlier, Dex had been sitting in his car, the engine off. His spare gun had been in his lap, cold and heavy.

He’d pressed the muzzle against the soft skin under his chin, felt the metal dig in, tasted the copper of a future he’d almost chosen.

His career. His structure. His livelihood. His reputation. All of it gone, stripped away in a single afternoon by people who’d used him and discarded him like a broken tool.

One pull. That’s all it would have taken.

Now, driving home, the streets of New York blurring past his windshield in streaks of neon and headlights, Dex felt something he couldn’t name.

It wasn’t relief, exactly—the weight of what he’d almost done was still there.

But it was layered over with something else, something bright and unfamiliar, like sunlight breaking through clouds after a storm.

He kept glancing at his phone. It sat in the cupholder, screen dark, but he could feel it like a beacon. Your number. 

Your number, given willingly, freely, without coercion or manipulation.

The thought made his chest ache, a dull, insistent pressure behind his ribs. He flexed his hands on the steering wheel, and let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob.

It was a high he’d never experienced before. And he was terrified of coming down.

He pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building, cut the engine, and sat there for a long moment, staring at his phone. The screen was dark, but he could still see your face, the memory of your smile burned into his eyelids.

And then his phone buzzed.

The screen lit up with a number he didn’t recognise, but the area code was familiar. New York. Manhattan.

He stared at it for three rings. Four. Five.

His thumb hovered over the decline button, but something made him pause. Something cold and familiar, settling in his gut like a stone.

He answered, “Hello.”

“When I was a boy…”

His skin wasn’t buzzing.

It was flaying itself from the bone, a high-frequency current ripping through every nerve ending until he couldn’t tell where the violence ended and his own body began.

The climb back through his window was a smear of pure sensation, the groan of the frame digging into his bruised ribs, the distant wail of a siren that might have been real or might have just been the echo of the screams still ricocheting inside his skull.

He tumbled into the living room, the red suit clinging to him like a second skin of sin and sweat, and the silence of his apartment hit him like a physical blow.

He spared a blank look at the microwave. 2:37 AM.

The high was curdling. The exquisite, crystalline purpose Fisk had injected into his veins was souring into a dense, suffocating fog.

The voices in his head were warping and overlapping, layered with the fresh screams of the people he’d just killed.

They weren’t separate voices anymore. They were a single, roaring static that made his skull feel too small for his brain.

He fumbled at the gloves, his fingers clumsy and uncoordinated, tearing at the constricting seams.

The helmet followed. The seal broke with a soft hiss of trapped breath, and the cool night air of the apartment hit the raw cuts on his cheekbone and split lip like a strip of litmus paper.

He wasn’t in control. He was a passenger, a ghost haunting a machine made of meat and bone.

The machine moved on autopilot, carrying him across the sticky floor through the debris of his life, toward his closet. His safe.

His fingers knew the combination better than his conscious mind. Beep. Beep. Beep. The door swung open.

Mercer’s tapes.

He reached for them, his fingers brushing the familiar edges, and he could already hear her voice in his memory. She would fix this.

She would rebuild the walls, draw the clean lines of the diagram, soothe the static into structured silence.

He paused.

The tapes felt dead in his hand. Cold. Alien. The thing inside him, that had killed tonight with a terrifyingly genuine grin splitting his face under the mask, revolted.

Structure was a cage. Control was a lie he told himself so he didn’t have to look at the abyss. Mercer’s voice was the voice of a woman who had never existed, a blueprint for a life he had never actually lived.

He didn’t want to be fixed tonight.

He wanted to be real.

He set the tapes down. The plastic clattered against the wood shelf, and the sound was a door slamming shut on his old self.

His body, no longer his to command, drifted to the phone on the nightstand. The screen was a blinding star in the gloom of his apartment.

Before he could rationalise the catastrophic stupidity of it, his thumb pressed the call button.

The phone pressed against his ear. The flat, electric hum of the dial tone filled his head.

First ring. A knife. 

Second ring. His breathing turned ragged, harsh stabs of air in and out. He couldn’t control it.

His hand shook, the tremors traveling up his arm to his chest, making his heart rattle against his ribs.

Third ring. Where the fuck were you? The thought was a claw in his chest, desperate and raw, scratched out from the bottom of his fractured soul. 

Fourth ring. Despair hit him like a bullet. The rejection he deserved. The silence he was born for.

His thumb was already moving to sever the connection, to retreat into the familiar dark, to let Mercer be the only voice he ever heard again.

The click.

A breath on the other end. The soft rustle of sheets. The sound of someone shifting out of sleep, pulling themselves back to consciousness for him.

A voice, sleepy and warm, cutting through the static in his soul.

“Hello?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. His throat had sealed itself shut, his tongue a dead weight.

The buzzing in his head didn’t stop, it changed, shifting from static into a high, thin whine of pure panic.

What the fuck was he doing?

He should hang up. He should hang up right now, pretend this never happened, crawl back to the tapes and let Mercer stitch him back together.

But he didn’t move.

“…hello?”

Your voice again. Groggy, yes, but there was an edge now. Caution. Awareness creeping in.

He could picture you propping yourself up on an elbow, squinting at the phone, trying to place the unknown number glowing in the dark.

He cleared his throat.

“Hi. It’s Dex.”

Silence. Long enough that he felt his stomach drop through the floor.

“From the grocery store,” he added, stupidly. “Earlier today.”

More silence. He counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. His heart was a jackhammer against his ribs, and he was suddenly, acutely aware of how insane this looked.

He had your number for less than twelve hours. He had called you at 2:37 AM. There was no version of this that didn’t make him seem unhinged.

Then your voice came through, softer now, a hint of recognition bleeding through the drowsiness.

“Oh. Guy from the fruit aisle.”

The words were flat, stripped of the teasing lilt from earlier. He winced. He was an idiot.

But he couldn’t hang up either.

“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked on the single syllable. He cleared his throat again, harder this time. “Sorry. I know it’s late. I—”

He stopped. Ran a hand through his damp, tangled hair. The words weren’t coming. They never came when he needed them. “I couldn’t sleep.”

A beat. Then, “You call everyone you meet at the grocery store when you can’t sleep?”

There it was. The faintest edge of something, not quite playfulness, but not hostility either. A testing of the waters. He latched onto it like a drowning man grabbing a rope.

“No,” he said, and the honesty slipped out before he could stop it. “Just you apparently.”

The silence that followed was different. Softer. He could hear the rustle of fabric on your end, like you were shifting, settling deeper into the conversation.

“You’re weird, you know that?” you said, but your voice had lost its wariness. There was a thread of amusement in it now.

“I know,” he said. He didn’t even try to deny it.

He could have left it there. Could have apologised again, said goodnight, let you go back to sleep.

But the buzzing in his head was quieter now, drowned out by the sound of your breathing on the other end of the line.

“I was wondering,” he started, and his mouth went dry again. He pushed through it. “If you’re free tomorrow. Or, I guess, today now. For dinner.”

The words came out rushed, jumbled together like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve if he didn’t get them all out at once.

He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the rejection.

Another long pause. Then, a soft, breathy sound that might have been a laugh.

“You’re asking me out at three in the morning?”

“Depends on if you say yes,” he said, and the words surprised him. They were smoother than he’d intended, a sliver of confidence he didn’t know he possessed.

Your laugh came through fully this time, quiet and warm, and something in his chest cracked open.

“That’s a good line,” you said. “You rehearse that?”

“No,” he admitted. “I’m kind of making this up as I go.”

“Pretty good for improv.”

He felt the corner of his mouth twitch, almost a smile. “Does that mean you’ll say yes?”

A beat. Then, “Depends on what you’re offering.”

He let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. His fingers tightened on the phone, grounding himself in the plastic and the warmth of your voice.

“Anything you want,” he said. And he meant it.

Dex prided himself on focus.

It was the cleanest thing he had, the discipline that held the loose pieces of him together. But here, across the table from you, that focus was a dead wire. Useless.

Ten minutes in and he still couldn’t land anywhere. His eyes kept skirting, from the deep crimson painted across your mouth to the sharp neckline of that tight black dress, down to where the fabric pulled across your chest.

He felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck, forced himself to your eyes instead. The dark liner made them bottomless, pulling at him with every slow blink.

His body was wired tight, locked up like he was bracing for impact. Every breath measured. Every movement too careful.

Terrified of the wrong word, the wrong look, shattering whatever luck had gotten you here.

You took a sip of your wine, watching him over the rim. Then you tilted your head, a smile catching at the corner of your mouth.

“Relax. You’re sitting like I’m gonna jump over this table and bite you.”

The image slid under his skin before he could stop it.

I’d let you, he thought. Anywhere you wanted.

He locked that down, managed a rough chuckle. “Still can’t wrap my head around why you said yes.”

You shrugged, setting the glass down. “Got nothing better to do. Thought I might as well get a free meal with a hot guy.”

Hot. You called him hot. 

Then your eyes narrowed. “Unless you’re one of those guys who believe in fifty-fifty for the first date.”

The question caught him off guard. For a second, he just stared at you, his brain struggling to catch up. Then he let out a choked laugh, shaking his head quickly.

“No. No, god, no. I promise.”

“Good.”

Your voice softened into something warm, teasing. You leaned back in your chair, swirling the wine in your glass, and the candlelight caught the curve of your smile.

The waiter appeared and Dex grabbed the menu like a lifeline, staring at the words without reading them.

He nodded when you ordered, asked for the same thing. When the waiter left, you leaned forward, elbows on the table.

The neckline of your dress dipped just slightly, and he caught the black lace underneath.

Fuck. Were you doing this on purpose?

“So, Dex from the fruit aisle.” Your voice had dropped, stripped of the teasing edge from earlier. Something warmer now. “Tell me something about yourself.”

His stomach dropped. Just a flash. He pushed it down.

“I’m an FBI agent,” he said. Safe. Simple enough. “Or—was. It’s complicated.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Complicated how?”

“The kind that makes for a bad first date story.” He tried to smile. It came out crooked.

You laughed, and the sound loosened something tight in his chest. “Fair enough. I’ll take a rain check.”

He nodded, scrambling for footing. “What do you do?”

You rolled your eyes and he felt a flicker of panic before you huffed, amused. “Just a florist. Completely boring compared to chasing bad guys, I’m sure.”

There’s nothing boring about you. The thought hit him hard and fast, and he heard himself say it out loud before his brain could catch up. “There’s nothing boring about you.”

You let out a small laugh. “So you do know how to sweet talk a girl.”

He couldn’t hide the blush that crawled up his neck to his ears, burning against the collar of his shirt. “I’m just saying it how I see it.”

“Maybe,” you hummed, “but then again you don’t know anything about me.”

Never had he heard a more untrue statement in his life. 

He knew your schedule. Your favourite coffee order. Your comfort shows you loved to binge. Which soap you preferred. Your go to nail colour. How you liked cats and dogs equally.

But he couldn’t say that. So he just looked at you across the table, watched the candlelight catch your eyes.

The food arrived. Steam rose from the plates between them, the scent of ginger and soy cutting through the moment. The waiter said something he didn’t catch.

“Well,” Dex murmured, “I’m hoping to learn if you’ll let me.”

Being here with you was something he had never experienced before.

The night before was a smear of violence but it all felt muted now, distant, like a transmission he couldn’t tune into anymore.

Not with you across the table, your voice cutting through the static in his head.

You kept the conversation easy. When he fumbled an answer or went quiet because his brain short-circuited trying to keep up with you, you didn’t pull back. You just smiled, shifted, let him find his footing again.

Once or twice he found himself wondering why you were even giving him a chance. You could have anyone. Smarter, smoother, someone without the weight he carried.

It made no sense that you’d picked him. Not that he’d let anyone else close enough to try, but the thought still lingered.

Still, there was a weight pressing down on him the whole time. A clock ticking. He felt it sharpest as the check arrived. Signing it, his stomach twisted into a knot so tight it made him nauseous.

The thought of leaving, of stepping into the cold air alone and watching you walk away, hollowed him out.

He could already feel the emptiness waiting. Maybe he’d just follow you home. Watch you through your window. It would be enough to comfort him.

“How are you getting home?” The words came out before he could stop them.

“Walked here,” you said, pulling out your lipstick. “Guess I’ll do the same.”

He watched your mouth as you reapplied it, the careful, practiced stroke of colour. He couldn’t look away.

“Let me drive you.”

You paused, the compact half-closed. Your eyes lifted to his, and he could see you weighing it, the stranger across from you, the risk of letting him know where you lived. The silence stretched. He felt the whole night teetering.

Fuck. He’d done too much. He ruined it. He’d pushed too hard, too fast, and now—

“Okay.”

It hit him somewhere between the Williamsburg Bridge and the mouth of your street, a strange hollow equation he couldn’t solve.

Away from you, the restlessness ate at him, he couldn’t settle, couldn’t quiet the noise inside his head.

But here, with you in the passenger seat, so close he could feel the warmth coming off your skin through the space between them, he wasn’t any better. His body was locked tight, every muscle braced for a mistake he hadn’t made yet.

He couldn’t stop glancing at you while he drove.

His hands were rigid on the steering wheel, knuckles pale in the passing streetlight. You leaned back in the seat, your head tilted, completely relaxed, watching the city slide past the window.

No tension in your shoulders. No flicker of anxiety. Just calm. It made him feel transparent, like you could see every loose wire and frayed thread in his head.

By the time he pulled up outside your building, his heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat, a quick, raw pulse that wouldn’t steady.

How had this happened so fast? He’d spent years wanting you, fantasising about you from a distance, and now that you were here, the wanting had twisted into a kind of fear.

The fear of doing something wrong. Of saying the wrong thing. Of breaking whatever fragile spell had let him into your space tonight.

You turned toward him. Your expression was different now. At dinner, your eyes had been sharp, playful, like a vixen toying with her prey.

But here, in the dim lamplight bleeding through the windshield, your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, and your gaze was wider, softer, something he didn’t have a name for.

“I had a good night,” you murmured.

Dex opened his mouth. His tongue felt thick, useless. “Me too.” It came out pitiful, barely a whisper.

You kept looking at him, waiting. Your lashes lowered, then lifted, like an invitation he couldn’t decode.

He stared back, frozen. Should he get out? Open your door? Walk you inside? He had no script for this, no smooth line rehearsed. His eyes drifted from yours to your parted lips. Red. Soft.

He was still scrambling through the noise in his head for the right move when your hand moved. It slid up the back of his head, fingers threading gently into his hair.

Before he could react, before his brain could catch up, you were pulling him forward.

Your lips met his.

For a long, heavy beat, Dex didn’t move.

His body locked up completely as the reality of your mouth sank in. You were kissing him. The thought cracked through the static in his brain like lightning. You. Kissing him.

Then instinct took over before he could wreck it. His lips started moving, awkward and unpracticed, trailing behind the rhythm you set.

A shaky breath left him, his shoulders dropping a fraction as he relaxed into the warmth of your mouth, the simple unimaginable fact of it.

Until he felt the wet tip of your tongue brush his bottom lip.

He tensed immediately. His eyes cracked open, found yours closed, your face slack and completely lost in it. He parted his lips. Let you in.

The second your tongues met, a raw sound caught in his throat. His cock hardened painfully behind his zipper, a rush of blood that made everything else go distant.

The taste of you flooded his senses, faintly sweet, the slick slide of your tongue against his. His brain went quiet for the first time all night.

Then something inside him snapped.

The careful, terrified version of himself fell away. He had to touch you. Now.

He pulled his hand off the wheel, lifted it. Fingers spread, hesitated. Your hair? Your waist? Your cheek? He had no idea what he was doing. Every option felt wrong, but doing nothing was unthinkable.

His palm landed on your throat before he could decide.

His fingers curved around the column of your neck, thumb settling against the flutter of your pulse. You moaned into his mouth, pleased and approving, and the sound shot straight through his chest. You liked it.

He pushed harder against your mouth, greedier. The hand on your throat tightened fractionally, pulling you closer across the console.

He didn’t care about breathing anymore.

The taste of you flooded every nerve in his body like a drug he’d been starving for his whole life. He’d rather suffocate against your mouth than take another clean breath of empty air.

Your hands found his jaw, and for a split second his brain screamed that you were pushing him away. Too rough. Too fast. He ruined it. 

His grip started to loosen, a fresh wave of shame crawling up his throat—

But your fingers dug into his skin and pulled him closer.

The sound that left him was raw, almost animal. Relief and hunger tangled together as you yanked him deeper into the kiss.

Little noises escaped your mouth, muffled against his tongue, and he tried to memorise each one even as he lost himself in the wet slide of your lips.

His hand slid from your throat to your jaw, fingers curling around the bone, tilting your head back as he pushed further into your mouth.

His tongue swept against yours, messy and desperate. He didn’t know what he was doing, he just knew he needed more. He wanted to crawl inside your skin.

Then your palms pressed flat against his chest.

Push.

The separation hit him like cold water. He broke away gasping, and his mouth chased yours before he could stop himself. But you didn’t pull further back.

You caught his lips in soft, quick pecks, barely there, just enough to soothe the ache you’d left behind.

Your mouth brushed against his when you spoke, voice low and rough.

“Do you wanna come up?”

Fuck. 

The words hit him square in the chest, then dropped lower, settling hot and heavy in his gut. He was already nodding before his brain caught up, pupils blown wide, lips wet and swollen.

“Yeah,” he breathed against your mouth, “Yeah. Fuck—yes.”

Dex’s pulse slammed against his ribs the second the lock clicked behind him.

Standing in your apartment. He forced his eyes to wander like he was stepping in here for the first time, even as his brain catalogued every detail against the map he’d already burned into his memory.

“Nice place.” The words scraped out of him, rough and distracted.

He tilted his head at the bookshelf, the framed photograph he knew was your mother, the throw blanket draped over the armchair that he’d watched you buy from a street vendor three months ago.

Every careful glance was a lie, but he wore it like a second skin.

“Thanks.” Your voice came from right behind him.

Then your hands were on him again, sliding over his shoulders, turning him around. He went without resistance, boneless under your touch. You pulled him down and met his lips halfway.

Your tongue pushed past his lips and he opened for you like a starving thing.

Your fingers twisted into his hair, yanking his head forward just enough to deepen the angle, and he let you. He’d let you do anything.

You bit his bottom lip, sucked it into your mouth, and his hips jerked forward involuntarily.

His hands began to move. Everywhere. Your waist, the dip of your spine, the swell of your hips.

He grabbed desperate handfuls of your ass, pulling you flush against him, and the heat of your body through that thin dress made his head spin.

You were soft in ways he’d only ever imagined, and his imagination had been thorough, but nothing prepared him for the reality of you pressed against his aching body. He wanted to touch every part of you at once, to map you entirely.

You broke the kiss first, panting, lips slick and swollen. Your forehead rested against his, your breath hot and uneven on his mouth. “I don’t do this often,” you murmured, the confession raw and almost shy.

“I know,” he breathed without thinking.

The second the words left him, he felt you stiffen. You pulled back, confusion knitting your brows. “What do you mean, you know?”

Dex’s stomach dropped into freefall.

His eyes snapped open, panic flooding his veins. 

Fuck. Fuck. 

He scrambled for a lifeline, his mouth opening and closing before the lie managed to crawl out. “I mean I—I know what you mean. Me too. I don’t—I don’t do this often either.”

You held his gaze for a long moment. The sharpness in your eyes softened, and you snorted, a puff of warm breath against his lips. “You’re so weird.”

Relief flooded him so fast it made him dizzy. Before he could dwell on it, you were kissing him again, swallowing whatever fragile composure he had left.

Your hands guided him backwards. He followed blindly, drunk on your mouth, stumbling until the back of his knees hit something soft. You shoved him. Hard.

He landed on the couch with a grunt, bouncing once before settling, looking up at you with wide, dazed eyes.

Before he could ask, you leaned down, bracing your hands on his knees, and kissed him again. Slow and deep, a thorough occupation of his mouth that erased every thought trying to surface.

He melted into it, his hands finding your thighs, stroking the warm skin exposed by the hem of your dress.

You broke the kiss gently, pulling back just enough that he could see you.

You were on her knees. Between his legs. Looking up at him through your lashes, your lipstick smudged, your hair loose around your face.

The sight of you there stole the air from his lungs.

“What—what are you doing?” Dex heard himself ask, his voice thin and wrecked, stripped of every layer he hid behind.

You smiled as your hands slid up his thighs, fingers pressing into the muscle.

“Having my dessert.”

Dex’s brain went completely blank when your fingers found his belt buckle. The soft click-clack of it coming undone rang through the room like a gunshot in his ears.

He opened his mouth to speak, to protest, to do something other than lie there like a trembling mess offering himself up to you, but all that came out was a strained, cracked confession,

“Are you sure—you-you don’t have to—”

His hips lifted off the couch cushions anyway.

A complete betrayal of every word coming out of his mouth. His body didn’t give a single fuck what his brain was trying to negotiate.

It wanted you. It had always wanted you.

You didn’t hesitate. You dragged his slacks and boxers down his thighs in one smooth motion, baring him completely to the warm air of your apartment.

He shivered, his cock springing free to slap against his stomach with a wet, heavy sound.

He was already painfully hard, leaking against his navel, the swollen head flushed dark and slick, and the sight of you looking at it made his stomach clench so hard he thought he might be sick.

Your hand wrapped around him like it belonged there. A firm grip that made him grunt, his hips bucking up into your fist before he could stop himself.

The heat of your palm was everything. He watched, completely mesmerised, as your thumb swept across the sensitive head, smearing the bead of pre-cum that had gathered there, using it to slick your stroke.

You looked up at him through your lashes, your mouth hovering inches from his tip.

Your breath was hot and uneven against his sensitive skin, and there was a tremor in your voice when you spoke that made his heart stutter in his chest.

“You don’t want me to suck your cock?”

Jesus Christ. 

The visual was so fucking obscene, you, on your knees, looking up at him with those wide, innocent doe eyes while your hand worked his shaft and your lips hovered so close he could feel the ghost of them.

He had to lean his head back against the couch cushion and squeeze his eyes shut. He was going to cum just from looking at you.

A soft, dark laugh came from between his legs. “That wasn’t a no.”

Before he could answer, something wet touched him.

His eyes snapped open. He looked down just in time to see your tongue trace a slow path along the thick vein on the underside of his cock.

An embarrassing, needy whimper crawled out of his throat before he could strangle it. His hips twitched, desperate to push into the warmth of your mouth, but he held himself still by sheer, crumbling willpower.

You didn’t stop. You laid a soft, lingering kiss right on the crown, your lips parting just enough to ghost over the sensitive slit before pulling away.

When you looked up at him, your eyes were dark and hooded, your lips slick and parted.

“Keep your eyes on me, Dex.”

He nodded. A dumb, jerky motion. He didn’t trust his voice. He didn’t trust anything. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

You didn’t even have his cock in your mouth yet and he swore he could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine, coiling tighter with every second you held his gaze.

His hands fisted in the couch cushions, knuckles white. His breathing was ragged, each inhale a desperate gasp.

He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached, watching in rapt focus as you parted your lips and took the swollen crown of his cock into your mouth.

Your eyes stayed locked on his. You held his gaze as you sank deeper, inch by agonising inch.

The wet heat of your tongue curled around his shaft, the velvet pressure of your cheeks hollowing as you pulled him further into the slick, perfect heaven of your throat.

Every inch you swallowed made his hips twitch involuntarily against the cushions. Every flutter of your lashes made his stomach clench tighter. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t.

Oh, fuck. Your mouth was so warm. So impossibly wet.

The slick slide of your tongue curling around his shaft, the flutter of your throat when the tip pressed against the back of your mouth, he didn’t think anything in this world could feel better than having his cock in your mouth.

He was certain of it. This was the single best moment of his entire miserable life. He was ready to die right here and call it a life well-lived.

You pulled back slowly, dragging your tongue along the thick, throbbing vein on the underside of his cock before taking him deep again with a low moan.

A broken whimper crawled out of his throat before he could clamp down on it. “Fuck—fuck, I can’t—” His voice was wrecked, barely more than a ragged whisper. “You gotta stop—or I’m gonna—”

You just hummed casually against his slick, swollen tip, your breath hot and uneven against his sensitive skin.

“No, no, wait—please, I want it to last,” he heard himself begging, the words tumbling out in a desperate, breathless rush. “I’m not gonna make it—I swear to God—”

You didn’t stop. You just held his gaze with those innocent, wicked eyes and took him deeper.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He was so fucking pathetic. Lasting like some inexperienced teenager, his first time all over again.

He tried to think of anything else; baseball statistics, the cold metal of his gun, the layout of the presidential hotel, but it was no fucking use at all.

Every nerve in his body was tuned to the wet slide of your mouth, the curl of your tongue, the soft, muffled gag when he hit the back of your throat.

He squeezed his eyes shut, could feel the frustrated tears prickling hot behind his lids. He couldn’t look at you anymore.

He had to stop himself, had to make this last, but his body was betraying him completely, trembling, arching, pushing deeper into your heat.

You took him back into your mouth in a single, fluid motion. Hollowed your cheeks. Pressed your tongue flat against the underside of his shaft.

And when you swallowed around the head of his cock, pulling him deeper into the wet velvet of your throat, he shattered completely.

“Oh fuck—I’m coming—”

His hips bucked involuntarily, driving himself deeper into your throat, feeling you gag around him, feeling your throat constrict and pulse as you swallowed, milking the orgasm out of him.

His release slammed into him like a freight train.

Hot, thick ropes of his come spilled into your mouth, and you swallowed around him, milking every drop, refusing to let him go even as he convulsed through the aftershocks.

His back arched off the cushions. His hands fisted so hard in the fabric he thought he might tear it. His vision whited out completely.

When his hips finally stopped stuttering, when his body went limp and trembling beneath you, you released him with a soft, wet kiss to his oversensitive tip.

The tenderness of it made his chest ache.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he felt himself mumbling, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “That was so fast—I couldn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

His hand came up to cover his face, shame and self-disgust crashing over him in waves.

But you wouldn’t let him hide. You caught his wrist, gently pulling his hand away, and crawled up his body.

Your lips were slick and swollen, your chin wet with him. You cut off his rambling apologies with a kiss, and his own taste flooded his senses. He groaned into your mouth, as your tongue played with his.

You broke the kiss just barely, your lips brushing against his as you murmured, “That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He blinked up at you, dazed and trembling. “Yeah?”

You hummed against his lips, a slow, satisfied sound. “And I can’t wait for you to fuck me.”

The words hit him like a spark in a gas tank. The shame, the self-hate burned away in an instant, replaced by an animal surge of hunger.

He looked at you, still dazed, a slow, disbelieving smile pulling at his lips.

He still hadn’t ruined anything yet. He still hadn’t lost you.

His hands found your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. Before you could react, he was moving, wrapping his arms around you and hauling you up with him.

You let out a surprised squeal, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

He captured your mouth in a bruising kiss as he stood, walking blindly toward the hallway where he knew your bedroom was.

Dex lay perfectly still, afraid that even the smallest movement might shatter the fragile, impossible peace of the moment.

You were curled against him, your back pressed to his chest, your breathing slow and deep, the sound of someone completely and utterly spent.

He had never felt anything like this. Not once in thirty-two years. This is what it feels like. This quiet. This rightness. This terrifying, exhilarating certainty that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Happiness.

His mind drifted back over the hours, replaying the sharp, vivid highlights like a film he couldn’t look away from.

He had learned so much about you tonight. How your breath hitched when he scraped his teeth along your pulse point. How your fingers twisted in the sheets when he found the perfect angle.

You loved being on your hands and knees for him. The first time, he’d followed your lead, sinking into you from behind, gripping your hips so hard he knew there would be bruises.

He pounded into you, watching your body rock forward with every thrust as you cried into your pillows, muffling your pleasure.

But something in him had itched. He hated it like this.

He couldn’t see your face. Couldn’t watch the expressions that flickered across your features when he hit that spot. Couldn’t feel your heartbeat against his chest or taste your moans with his own mouth.

It felt too much like taking, and not nearly enough like having you.

After you came the first time, your body shuddering and clenching around him, he pulled out before you could catch your breath and flipped you onto your back.

He needed to see you. Needed to watch the way your mouth fell open, the way your pupils blew wide when he settled between your thighs.

He buried his face between your legs and drank you in with a need that bordered on worship.

He lapped at your slick, swollen folds until your second orgasm crested, your hands fisting in his hair, your hips grinding against his mouth as you gasped his name into the dark.

By the time your third orgasm rolled through you, he had your legs wrapped high around his waist, his body pressed flush against yours.

He was buried so deep inside you that the world outside the space between your bodies ceased to exist. His nose touched yours. His forehead rested against yours.

He captured your gaze and held it hostage.

“Look at me,” he breathed, the command barely a whisper. “Don’t close your eyes. Look at me.”

He wanted you to see everything he had felt since the first moment he saw you in that diner. The obsession. The desperation. The hunger that had consumed him for years.

He wanted you to feel it in the way he moved inside you, as if he was trying to pour every ounce of himself directly into your bloodstream.

He knew you probably didn’t understand the full scope of it.

But lying here, in the aftermath, he let himself pretend. He pretended you had been waiting for him all this time. That your body recognised him. That this was always meant to happen.

When he finally let go, he held himself perfectly still, pumping his release deep inside you with a low groan.

He pressed so close that he could feel your heartbeat through his chest, grinding against you as if he could transfer his devotion through sheer physical proximity.

His nose stayed pressed to yours, his lips hovering just over your mouth, sharing the same warm, humid breath.

He whispered things against your lips. Broken things. Beautiful things.

Confessions that would never make sense in the harsh light of day, but here, in the dark, felt like the only truth that mattered.

“Been waiting so long. So long. I fucking worship you. You’re mine. I’m yours. Don’t ever leave me.”

His voice cracked on the last word. He didn’t care. He let himself be cracked open, let you see the raw, jagged edges of him that he had spent a lifetime hiding.

You didn’t answer. You probably didn’t even hear him. Your eyes had fluttered shut, your body going lax and heavy against him.

Lost to sleep. Lost to him.

He smiled against your hair, a real smile that softened all the hard lines of his face. He didn’t need you to answer. Not tonight.

Just having you here, warm and trusting and full of him, was already more than he ever dared to hope for.

The air in the room had cooled, but wrapped around you, he was warm for the first time in as long as he could remember.

Only twenty-four hours ago, he had been suffocating. Bound by rules and routines and the desperate need to keep himself contained.

But Fisk had shattered the cage he kept himself in. He had shown Dex a version of himself that was raw, hungry, and unapologetic. And instead of retreating from the wreckage, Dex had stepped into it.

He had let go of the ropes and the rules and the white-knuckled grip on control. He had chosen himself for the first time in his miserable, constrained life.

And by choosing himself, he had found the path that curved inevitably, beautifully, right back to you.

He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the curve of your shoulder. His hand splayed across your stomach, feeling the warmth of you.

I did this, he thought, pride blooming in his chest. I chose this. I chose me. And it led me to you.

Dex buried his face in the curve of your neck, his nose pressing deep into the warm, sleep-soft skin just behind your ear.

He inhaled slowly, letting your scent flood his lungs. You smelled like home—the faint coconut trace of your shampoo, the salt of dried sweat from the hours you had spent tangled together, and something deeper, muskier, that was entirely, irrefutably you.

God. This was unbelievable.

And that was where his next problem laid.

He spared a glance down, past the rumpled sheet that clung to his hips, and saw the unmistakable tent of fabric where his cock had hardened again.

He let out a quiet, shaky breath, his eyes tracing the outline of his own need with a mixture of frustration and irritation.

He couldn’t fucking help it.

He felt like a kid in a candy store. The kid being him, a thirty-two-year-old man who had never known what it felt like to want something and actually get it. And the candy store was you. Access to your body.

The knowledge that he could touch you, taste you, sink into you whenever he wanted, and you would let him. You would want him to.

He had known it would be addictive. He just hadn’t realised how quickly the addiction would take hold, how it would wrap around his nervous system and tighten until he couldn’t think of anything else.

His body moved before his mind could catch up.

Spooned against you, chest to your back, he felt his hips roll forward in a slow, instinctive grind.

The thick length of him slid into the warm cradle between your thighs, pressing against the soft, slick heat of you through the sheet. A low sound caught in his throat, a choked half-groan that he swallowed against your skin.

Fuck. He should let you rest.

He had been so rough with you tonight. Your body had given him everything.You deserved sleep. You deserved peace.

But his cock didn’t give a shit about what you deserved.

Before he could stop himself, his hips rolled forward again, and this time the tip of him nudged past the edge of the sheet, finding the bare, wet seam of your cunt.

He gasped against your shoulder, his eyes squeezing shut. The slide of you against him was obscenely slick, unbearably warm, a friction so perfect it made his toes curl against the mattress.

Shit. You were still leaking him from earlier.

The evidence of what he had done to you was still there, pooled between your thighs, making you slick and ready for him all over again.

He pressed a quick, guilty kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering just long enough to form a silent apology. I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I just... I need you. I can’t stop needing you.

His hand moved, sliding over the curve of your stomach, tracing the soft dip of your waist before cupping your breast.

The weight of it filled his palm perfectly, the flesh so soft and warm, molding against his fingers like it was made for him. He squeezed gently, then let his thumb drag across your nipple, feeling the peak tighten and pebble under his touch.

A small shift rippled through your body. A subtle arch of your spine. A soft, breathy sound that caught in your throat.

He froze.

Every muscle in his body locked tight. His breath stopped. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he was sure it would wake you on its own. He waited, suspended in the pure terror of being caught. 

She’s going to wake up. She’s going to see what I’m doing. She’s going to realise what a fucking creep I am—that I can’t keep my hands off her even when she’s asleep, that I’ve been watching her for years, that I am completely, irreparably obsessed with her.

The seconds stretched like hours.

But you didn’t wake. Your breathing deepened again, settling back into that slow, even rhythm. Your body relaxed against his, soft and trusting and completely oblivious to the war raging inside his chest.

He should have stopped. He should have been grateful for the reprieve, thanked whatever cruel god had given him this moment, and let you sleep.

Instead, he kept moving.

His hips resumed their slow, steady rhythm, grinding against your soaked cunt, the head of his cock sliding through the mess of his own release and your combined arousal.

The sensation was maddening; a wet, slippery tease that promised heaven without delivering it.

His hand stayed on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers, feeling the way your body responded even in sleep.

He pressed his lips to the back of your neck, a long, open-mouthed kiss that tasted of salt and skin. His breath came hot and uneven against your nape.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped against your skin, barely a whisper. “But I can’t... I can’t stop touching you. Every second I’m not inside you feels like I’m wasting time I don’t have.”

His hips rolled again, slower this time, deeper, the blunt tip of him catching at your entrance before sliding away, teasing both of you.

A shudder ran through his entire body.

“Please. Just a little more.”

The words slipped from Dex’s lips against the warm skin of your neck, a prayer offered to himself more than you, a plea for permission he was already taking.

He buried his face deeper into the crook of your shoulder, breathing you in until his lungs ached, and let his hips move.

There was nothing graceful about it. He rutted against you like a man possessed, the thick length of him sliding through the slick heat pooled between your thighs.

The sensation erased every rational thought. There was only you. The need to be inside you again. To own you. To fill you so completely that you couldn’t forget him, couldn’t leave him.

His breath came heavier against your nape, as his hand slid from your breast down to your stomach. He pressed his palm flat against the soft curve of your belly and pulled you tighter against him.

The arch of your back pressed your ass directly against his cock, and a fractured groan escaped him.

That’s when he felt it. A shift in your body. Your muscles tensed, your breathing changed, the subtle alertness of waking. Your voice cut through the dark, rough with sleep.

“Dex...?”

He froze for the span of a heartbeat. Then his hand came up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head back just enough for him to press a kiss to your cheek.

His hips never stopped their relentless grind, his cock catching at your entrance before sliding away again.

“Shhh,” he breathed against your ear. “Go back to sleep, honey. I’ve got you. Just let me stay right here.”

He needed you to stay in that space between dreaming and waking, where you were pliant and accepting and he could pretend his need wasn’t completely out of control.

But you turned your head toward him, your lips parting.

“Dex—”

He couldn’t let you finish. He kissed you, his tongue sliding into your mouth before you could form the rest of the sentence.

And you let him. No, you kissed him back. Your mouth softened under his, your body melting into his, your tongue meeting his with a lazy, sultry rhythm that told him everything he needed to know.

He felt your hand slide down between your bodies, your fingers searching blindly until they found him.

You traced the slick head of his cock, your touch featherlight, and a shudder ripped through him so violently he had to brace himself against the mattress.

“Fuck,” he gasped against your lips. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath ragged. “You want this too.”

You didn’t answer with words. You nudged the tip of him against your opening, a silent direction that drove the last shred of his restraint into the dust.

He answered with a small grunt as he pushed inside.

The heat of you swallowed him whole, and he dropped his forehead to yours, breathing you in. A soft, breathy moan escaped your lips, and your fingers curled against his back.

“Dex,” you murmured again, but this time it wasn’t a question. It was a sigh of surrender. A welcome.

He pressed another kiss to your mouth, before he began to move.

He tried to start slow. He tried to savour the sensation of sinking back into your slick heat. The attempt lasted only a handful of careful thrusts before the hunger surged through him.

His strokes turned hard and punishing. The rhythm of his hips fell into a desperate tempo that rocked the mattress beneath you, the steady thump-thump-thump of the headboard keeping time with the wild beating of his heart.

His hand slid up from your hip, fingers grazing the soft skin of your stomach, your ribs, before curling around your throat.

You looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, your pupils blown wide, your lips parted around soft, broken ah-ah-ah sounds that spilled from your throat with every deep thrust.

He leaned down, his mouth hovering over yours, and deliberately let a thick string of saliva fall into your open lips. He wanted more of himself inside you.

More of his taste, his mark, his presence seeping into every crevice of your body.

A low, guttural groan rumbled up from his chest as he watched you swallow it without hesitation, without question. Your throat worked under his palm, accepting him, taking him in, and the sight nearly sent him over the edge.

“Fuck,” he murmured against your lips, his balls slapping wetly against your ass as he drove into you harder. “You liked that, didn’t you? Touching you while you were asleep. Groping you. Fucking you like I own you.”

Despite the dazed pleasure softening your features, despite the way he was fucking the very thoughts out of your head, you still had the audacity to smile.

That slow, lazy, knowing curl of your lips that had haunted him since the first time he saw it. You hummed a soft, satisfied, “Uh huh.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, a fractured sound against your cheek.

He hooked your thigh higher over his arm, opening you wider, sinking deeper into your perfect, willing heat.

Your voice came out in fractured moans, but there was a teasing edge to it. “’S fucking hot. Knew you were a freak the second I saw you.”

Dex couldn’t help it. A laugh cracked out of him, low and disbelieving, pressed against the warmth of your cheek.

Here he was, balls deep in the object of a years-long obsession, and you were calling him a freak like it was the highest compliment.

The laugh faded into a shuddering exhale as he shifted his angle, driving into you with hard, deep thrusts that pushed the air from your lungs and left you gasping beneath him.

He wanted to leave a permanent mark on your soul. He wanted your cunt to remember the exact shape of him, the exact weight of him.

He wanted the memory of this night imprinted so deeply into your body that you would feel the ghost of him every time you closed your thighs.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, breath ragged and hot.

“I’m gonna make sure you never forget who you belong to.”

Your response came as fractured, desperate moans, words swallowed by the rhythm of his hips driving into you.

Without breaking pace, his hand moved. Two fingers pressed against your lips. You opened without hesitation, taking them into your mouth just as you took every part of him.

He pushed them deep, curling them against your tongue in perfect time with his thrusts, a double rhythm that had you moaning around his knuckles.

The sight of you like this; mouth full of him, cunt full of him, eyes glassy and fixed on his face, pushed him to the edge. He could feel the tension coiling tight in his gut, the familiar ache building at the base of his spine.

He was seconds away from coming. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

He needed you there first.

With a wet gasp from you, he pulled his fingers from your mouth, a string of saliva breaking between his skin and your lips. His hand dropped without hesitation, finding your clit.

He rubbed fast, precise circles against the swollen bud, his own rhythm faltering as he poured every ounce of focus into your pleasure.

His eyes locked onto your face. He watched every micro-expression. The furrow of your brows, the way your lips parted on sharp, punched-out breaths, the flutter of your lashes as pleasure overtook you.

You looked up at him, dazed and pleading, and he nodded like a man possessed, a dumb, frantic motion that matched the speed of his fingers.

“C’mon,” he breathed, the words cracking. “Let go f’me. Let go, baby.”

And you did.

The orgasm hit you like a wave, your back arching, your mouth opening in a loud moan. Dex felt it, the way your cunt clenched around him, choked him, milked him.

The sensation ripped a loud, guttural groan from his chest, his hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge. He closed his eyes, the world going white, and let himself go.

Deep, pulsing spurts of cum filled you, and he thrust into you with every wave, pushing himself as deep as he could go, holding himself there, making sure every drop stayed inside you.

When it was over, the room was filled with nothing but harsh, shared breaths.

He collapsed against you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress. He made no move to pull out. No move to let you go. He stayed buried inside you, as close as flesh could get.

“Jesus Christ,” you murmured in a daze, the words barely a whisper.

The silence that followed was a dangerous thing. It let the thoughts back in. The insecurity. The horrible, gnawing fear that he had done too much.

He pressed his face into the curve of your neck, hiding, breathing you in until his lungs ached. His voice was rough, muffled against your skin.

“Too much?”

A beat. Then your hand, slow and heavy with exhaustion, slid into his hair. You laughed, soft and drowsy.

“No.” A pause. “By all means... keep me in your basement if you want.”

Dex’s eyes snapped open.

The joke hung in the air, clearly just a sleepy, affectionate jab. But he didn’t hear the joke.

He heard the offer.

Having you to himself. Forever. In a place where no one else could touch you, see you, take you. A place where you were his, every single moment of every single day.

And if you wanted it... if you offered it up with that same trust you gave him your body, your mouth, your cunt...

Then why the fuck wouldn’t he do it?

He lifted his head slowly, looking down at your face. You were half-asleep, lips curved in a soft sex-dazed smile. You had no idea what you had just given him.

His voice dropped, quiet and raw. Completely serious.

“Yeah?”

Your lashes fluttered. You hummed, already drifting back into sleep, but the sound was an affirmation. A yes.

His hand slid up, cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His thumb traced your cheekbone, and when he spoke, the words were a vow pressed against your lips.

“Then I’m never letting you go.”

a/n | dex feeling absolutely blessed and a surreality of being seen and chosen by you, meanwhile reader is just a youngho and overly horny

Still, he couldn't figure out why you were always at their house. Smurf wasn't good company, obviously, though she tolerated you just barely. Mostly because you kept to yourself. She knew you wouldn't blab to anyone about the Cody's jobs or that you never intended on going against her.

You were just there.

And no one complained, because you were like a fresh breath of air. You smiled and within two minutes you'd have J smiling too. You stayed around a lot, but never for too many days. If you went over, you were there for a long time, but the moment you disappeared, you were gone.

There seemed to be no specific reason for it. You seemed to be just overly concerned that you were being too much and bothering people. He knew you were a lonely girl, but he was also aware that your fear of being too much overpowered your grave sense of loneliness that you were never able to hide.

It was a bad habit of yours, always apologizing, even for existing seemingly. Craig had shot you numerous perplexed looks, never having heard this many sorry come from one person ever. But Pope knew he liked it, enjoying the fact that someone saw him as important enough to feel bad for him, that he was worthy enough to receive the sweetest girl's ever apologies.

Pope on the other hand, hated it. He hated the word sorry, and he especially hated it coming from you.

Whenever you apologized, whether it was accidentally brushing his arm while you were in the kitchen, or speaking, what you thought was, for too long, Pope would shut you down. And he'd always do it in a cold tone, knowing that was the most effective way to stop you completely from ever uttering that word around him again.

He knew his voice would startle you, not expecting Pope who was always kind to you, to speak to you that way.

His plan worked, and you started biting your lip hard the moment the word slipped out. You'd look up panicked, and that would usually be enough for him. He'd shot you a dry look, bored even. And you'd shake your head and mumble, 'I take that back.' and he'd drop the look immediately, resorting to his normal soft look that he always wore around you.

The word didn't completely disappear from your vocabulary, but now you uttered it almost never when he was around, and it made Pope feel less worried about being in your presence.

Everyone adored you and sometimes he hated it. It worried him that everyone felt the same adoration he did for you, that somehow you'd never pay attention to him. Given his brothers were much better at being affectionate, it made him feel like he was behind. Like it was a competition to be your favorite brother, and he was last, not even having started the run, because he didn't know how to. That the moment Craig brought you into the house and introduced you, a starter pistol went off, and everyone started running.

It didn't stop him from seeking you out all the time. Whenever the question 'Where's Pope? popped up, the answer was the same. With you. Always with you.

Mostly, because you followed him around. When he'd reject your offers to sit with you on the couch at parties, you'd get up and follow him.

There the two of you would stand somewhere and observe the party together, both with the same repulsed expression. For him, it was the dirt and the carelessness, for you it was the loudness of it all.

When you caught Pope in front of a dark TV, staring at himself in the reflection, you'd tap his shoulder softly. Just two taps, never wanting to overwhelm him. "My car's making weird sounds," you'd say softly, and he'd get up and help you.

Sometimes you'd tell him something was broken in your home, and he'd drive to your place without a word. You'd always try to drag out his stay, offering him cookies (because you were absolutely terrible at cooking) or offering sodas.

Sometimes, he'd catch you looking around the room nervously, looking for new problems he could fix. So he'd grumble out a "Sink sounded weird earlier," and you'd smile so wide, it was like the sun came out from behind the clouds.

Things like this made him doubt everything.

Maybe you didn't dislike him as much as he thought, maybe he did have the potential to be your favorite brother.

But then he'd watch you light up when Deran would tell you he finally figured out how to make your favorite mocktail. (Obviously, you never had to pay a cent. If not for Deran shaking his head as you handed him money, then it was Pope who paid for everything you ate and drank.)

Even Craig offered to teach you how to surf. The shy expression you always wore around Pope would disappear and your smile would be so radiant Pope wouldn't be able to look away, never having gotten the privilege to see such an open expression from you.

Things like these made Pope doubt everything, consider that maybe the shy expression was just your uncomfortable one, that when you needed help at home, it was simply because you needed help and nothing else.

He knew Deran and Craig were absolutely terrible at fixing things, and he feared that, just like everyone else, you too viewed him as a tool, something to use and throw away. That he was just waiting for the throw-away part, and that it was coming sooner or later.

But he couldn't help but have all his worries vanish into thin air, whenever you decided to grace him with your big thankful eyes and an even wider, dazzling smile.

The first time he felt like too much for you, so much he wanted to run away, was when you joined him in the garage.

You softly knocked against the doorway. "Andrew?" you always said his name so sweetly, it made him want to record it and listen to it like a lullaby until he fell asleep, which didn't happen much these days.

He looked up at you. "You're awake." He furrowed his eyebrows in concern. It was pitch dark outside, and he figured you were asleep in the living room.

You shook your head. "Couldn't sleep." you smiled softly, your eyes telling him to please drop it. He did, turning his head back to what he was working on.

You stepped closer, and he could smell the perfume that he loved so much. Before he knew it, you were towering over him, lightly brushing up against his shoulder. "What are you working on?" you titled your head, staring down at whatever it was you were looking at.

"Part of the car. Stopped working last night," he replied in a low voice, not raising his head, even though he really really wanted to see your pretty face.

You glanced around, spotted what you needed and sat down. You pulled the chair closer to him, setting your elbows on the table in the process. "Mind if I watch you?"

Pope glanced at you, and his eyes darted all over your face, trying to gauge what exactly the point here was. You seemed sincere, so he hummed.

You laid your cheek in your palm and watched him. Your big eyes stared at his hands with so much interest, they started to tremble a bit.

The silence between you was filled with the sound of an owl and the ticking of a broken clock somewhere in the garage.

Five minutes must've passed by now and Pope had never understood until now how silence could be nice even with someone else in it. It wasn't like he couldn't feel your presence. No. He knew you were here, but he enjoyed it. More than enjoy, he craved it. He wanted to stay in this little room forever, hearing nothing but your soft breaths and the sound of you tapping your foot restlessly on the floor.

He didn't hate the silence like when he did with Smurf, who sat with him in silence at breakfast and watched him eat.

No, he loved the feeling of your soft eyes watching him work, knowing he was good at what he did, and that you were admiring him.

"You're not tired?" you asked after a while, careful not to be too loud, not wanting to disturb his work.

"No." When Pope looked up, he met your eyes immediately, like you'd been watching his face rather than his eyes, and your lips lifted into a flustered smile.

Embarrassed, like you'd been caught. He wasn't sure what it was, but he almost felt the need to gloat about it. Sweetest girl he knew was caught staring at him.

Stupid.

He looked away again, almost in shame, because how dare he think that you were admiring him. You were sleepy and he was awake. That's it. Had Craig been out here, you probably would've joined him too. He was nothing special.

"S'nice watching you," You brushed a hand over your face, rubbing your eyes tired.

Pope looked up, because surely he'd misheard, but you shot him a sweet smile, soft hair falling over your shoulders as you rubbed your eyes, hard, again.

People couldn't even stand to utter his name, and you were telling him that he was nice to watch. Like his presence was worth acknowledging. Like it was something good, like his presence wasn't to be feared, like he didn't hear the rumors in town about how people feared the thought of him.

Horrible, awful Pope who hit and hurt people, who made a mess of people and things, of everything.

A kind girl like you liked to watch him in the middle of the night doing things that his brothers called weird, made them shake their heads as they looked away in disappointment and shame, wishing they'd had a normal brother, one more like them.

He must've stayed quiet for too long, because you froze. "Sorry, did—did I say something wrong?" nervously, you toyed with your heart necklace.

"No—No you didn't." Pope shook his head quickly, eyes darting back down to his car part. His fingers twitched nervously. "You should try to sleep." And he could sense he'd said the wrong thing, because your eyes widened for a second, and worry overtook your face.

"Oh—right, yeah you're right." Stumbling over your words nervously, you stood up, and Pope regretted it.

He hadn't meant this. He was just trying to tell you that he appreciated your kindness, but surely he wasn't that interesting. "I meant— it's not healthy to stay awake," he managed out, eyes darting back up to your face and back down. "It's not good for you." he managed out nervously.

You looked down at him, and you stood there for a bit, before sitting back down slowly, understanding he didn't want you to go. "Yeah— I know." You toyed with a bolt on the table, rolling it in between fingers before you looked back at Pope who was still watching you. "Craig keeps yelling in his room about his video game, and Smurfs still awake by the Pool." You dropped the bolt. "It's distracting."

"You can sleep in my room," Pope said, and given your reaction, it wasn't exactly something you expected him to say. But it made sense to him. "You can't hear Craig in there."

You stared at him, your eyes wide, making them bigger than they already were. "You want me to sleep in your room?"

Pope wasn't sure what was so confusing. It wasn't like his room was bad. Sure, it was a bit empty, but he took care of it, it was clean. He pushed the car part away, getting up from his chair. "I'll get you new bed sheets," and then he just walked out of the garage. You stood in the empty garage, mouth open, before you scrambled to follow him.

To your luck, Smurf was fast asleep, bottles of alcohol next to her, and you hurried to follow Pope. Inside, he led you to his room, grabbing clean bed sheets out of one of the closets in the hallway, before walking into his room.

You stood in the doorway watching Pope fix the bed for you. Were you dreaming? Was Pope actually fixing his bed for you?

You looked down and pinched your skin. "Ouch." you muttered to yourself. Not a dream, officially and definitely not a dream.

Pope turned his head to you. "You need pajamas?" he asked, but you shook your head.

You never took, unless you were outright suffering and Pope's eyes slowly darted down to the goosebumps across your skin, which were visible even with just two night lights on.

You were wearing a simple white lace tank top and California nights weren't exactly known for their heat. Even Smurf outside, was sleeping with at least two blankets. He turned, opened a drawer and grabbed a hoodie. When he handed it to you, you didn't take it.

"Is that yours?"

Pope nodded, almost worried. "I—You can have one of Deran's if you want."

"Nope, I—I'd like yours." you managed, grabbing the hoodie and letting it swallow you whole. It was warm, and it smelled nice, so very nice. You couldn't help the way your head just lowered a tiny bit, letting yourself smell how nice Pope's scent was.

Pope had already looked away the sight too much, and was now awkwardly staring down at the bed, fingers twitching nervously at his sides. "Okay, have— have a good night."

In all of your years of living, you'd never been this bold before. You weren't even sure what overcame you. Your hand reached out, and you grabbed Pope's bicep lightly before he walked past you.

You felt him freeze up, eyes locked onto your hand around his bicep, and you had to resist the urge to squeeze, to test how really hard and warm his bicep was. "Will—" you bit your lip, already regretting starting the sentence. "Don't you wanna sleep?"

"I have to work." His eyes flickered back down to your soft hands around his bicep.

You had pink polish on with brown polka dots. It was sweet. He'd seen you paint them once, you'd even helped Lena with hers. Lena had been so happy, and hadn't stopped talking about you the entire afternoon after you'd gone home. He had been glad to know that someone else felt about you the way he did.

You dropped your hand, disappointment flickering across your face. Pope's eyes darted around your face, noting how close you were but also how you were still trying to find your words. He waited.

"I'd like you to stay," you phrased it so sweetly, the way you always did, but for the first time you told him what you wanted. There was no if it's okay with you, you don't have to, no it's okay.

No, you straight up wanted something from him and God would he be stupid if he said no to you.

His eyes darted back to the bed and his eyes stayed there for a while, thinking. "I have to turn off the lights in the garage."

"I'll wait here!" You looked like you were about to start bouncing up and down from excitement.

Pope watched you for a second before turning and walking down the hallway, wondering what on earth led him to commit to this.

Meanwhile, you were in disbelief, palm to your mouth, as you muttered. "Oh my god. Oh my god." Oh my god, you were going to die. You glanced at the bed, deciding to get in now, before you were stuck in the awkward moment of having to argue with him about what side to take.

You pushed back Popes clean blue covers, slowly settling down in bed, and god was it was warm and soft. And it smelled nice.

You pulled the hoodie sleeves down over your wrists, nervously squeezing your eyes shut. You couldn't believe he'd agreed to this.

Pope walked back slowly, boots thudding on the floor until he stood in the doorway looking at the top of your head. Not to seem like a creep, he didn't linger, quickly stepping in. He could feel your pretty eyes watching him as he grabbed a set of fresh boxers, shirt and a towel.

"Gonna take a shower, won't take long," he said, barely looking at you. The sight was too much for him to handle.

"Okay," you said softly, eyes following him until he was in his bathroom.

You passed the time by opening every drawer of his, checking out what he had in there. Barely anything. You sighed, Pope wasn't much of a talker, so you'd hoped you'd find out more about him in his room.

He wasn't joking when he said he wouldn't take long, because just as you were checking out his bottom drawer, he showed up. You shut the drawer with the loudest bang! possible before scrambling back into a horizontal position, embarrassed.

Pope's eyes darted down to the drawer before lifting to your embarrassed expression. He was more endeared than anything. Any other person and he would've gotten suspicious, but you were toying with his sheets nervously, avoiding his eyes, and he knew you'd just been curious.

He'd caught you walking around the house, staring at every picture more than once. He was more than aware of your curious nature.

He brushed a hand through his curls as he walked to his side of the bed, and you lifted the sheets for him.

You somehow managed to still surprise him with your small sweet gestures. He'd lived his whole life in Oceanside, and with his reputation, people had stopped granting him kindness, even as simple as receiving a thank you.

He felt so endlessly grateful that one person on this earth was able to be kind to him, that maybe he wasn't as evil as he thought, that there was a chance for him. That if someone like you looked at someone like him and thought he was worth it, worth spending your time and sweetness on, he might actually have a chance in life.

He slipped under the sheets, and you dropped them, making the warmth hit him all at once. He liked to sleep on his side looking at the wall, but it felt almost insane to miss out on seeing your pretty face all night, so he stayed on his back, view narrowing to the ceiling.

You, on the other hand, turned to your side, palm under your cheek. "Your bed's soft." You whispered, and he turned his head to you, eyes darting away shyly when he noticed your intense stare. He figured his bed was nice enough, almost relieved it was up to your standards. He'd been worried in the shower that you'd make some excuse, and he'd come out, looking like a wet puppy, to an empty bed.

"What?" he asked after he felt you stare for a little more.

"Your curls are nice," you whispered. "Always wanted to tell you that, but was too scared."

"Of me?" It just slipped out of Pope's mouth. He didn't want to know the answer to that question.

"What? No." Confusion was written all over your face, your lips curling into a frown. "I'm just— it's a weird thing to say. That's all."

Pope stared at you. Not scared of him. You weren't scared of him. ’S'not weird." He held your stare for a while until his nervousness overtook his entire body, leading him to glance away again, eyes focusing back on the white canvas above him.

"Thanks for dinner tonight."

Smurf hadn't been up for it for some reason and Deran or Craig didn't care, so Pope had made food just for you. You hadn't even told asked, and maybe that's why he made it, because he knew you never would.

He turned his head, happy you were giving him an excuse to look at you. "D'you like it?"

"Loved it." you smiled softly. "You could be a professional cook."

Pope's mouth almost lifted into a smile at that, but then you scooted closer, and he froze up. His arm, which had been resting on the side of the bed, almost touching your stomach now. You were so close, he could see how pretty your eyes were up close.

They had always been his favorite part about you. When Craig had first introduced you, Pope knew his brother had warned you about him, told you he was crazy and weird. His brothers did that with everyone they brought to the house, and their friends would always eye him weirdly, and he'd never be given the chance to show them that he was capable of kindness. That he could be as normal as they wanted him to be.

But you, you, had smiled, lifted your hand in a wave and looked at him in a way that no one had looked at him in years. Soft, kind, and open-minded.

He stared at you, and you stared back, and then you slowly lifted your hand.

"Can I—?" you whispered softly, and he was startled by the fact that you asked, so he nodded.

People never asked before they touched him. The only touches he received were involuntary ones from Smurf, or punches from his brothers and strangers. Never ones from sweet girls that asked before they settled their hand softly at his temple, toying with one of his curls.

The bottom half of your hand touched his cheekbones, and you brushed over his hair, thumb catching in a curl. He watched you, eyes big, before finally turning to his side, deciding that he'd make it easier for you.

He saw the smile you suppressed, absolutely delighted that he was so open to you touching him.

He took a second to absorb and analyze the expression. His hazel eyes darting all over your face, looking for any lie, that this was just a game to you. That maybe you'll look at him in the morning with pity in your eyes. But your eyes were glowing, and even with his insecurities choking him when he was with you, he could tell that no lie was in your eyes.

"They're wet," he provided you with the most unnecessary information, already wanting to smack himself for pointing out such an obvious thing.

You just hummed, too distracted to be touching his hair to focus on his awkwardness. You looped a curl around a finger, thumb brushing right above his eyebrow.

Your eyebrows were furrowed like you were studying his hair, but he knew you weren't as relaxed as you seemed. Your breath was going quicker, he could feel it against his face. He could smell your perfume, something floral and vanilla and felt the need to press his face into your hair and just stay there.

Your eyes traveled back to his face, and you observed him, before your hands went back down to his bicep. "You can relax," you whispered. "I won't do anything you don't want me to."

Pope stared at you, hazel eyes wide, never once leaving your face. "You have to sleep too."

"I will." Your hand already back in his curls. He let the feeling of your warm hands overtake every other feeling. Every sense of fear, insecurity and worry.

As much as he knew you wanted him to, he couldn't sleep. Whether it was because of his nightmares or because of you being here, he wasn't sure. His eyes continued to track your face, and it didn't take you long before you let your hand drift from his hair to his cheek, brushing your thumb lightly over his cheekbone one first and last time, before dropping it back in between you.

Your eyelashes fluttered lightly like a good night to him before you closed your eyes. Pope let himself watch you, let himself feel the phantom feeling of your hands. Your perfume continued to linger, and he wished his room would absorb it forever, that every time he walked in, he'd smell your perfume. He knew his bed would smell like you for at least the next couple of days now, and he hoped so desperately that the next time you came over to the house, you'd sleep in his bed.

After getting out of prison, Pope Cody felt like a ghost.

Everyone looked at him like they were waiting for something.

Waiting for him to snap.

Waiting for him to prove them right.

Pope understood. He was used to people not knowing what to do with him

Then there’s you.

You don’t treat him differently.

You didn’t look at him like he was something dangerous.

You didn’t look away either.

The first time you saw him after he was released, you smiled.

Not a pity smile.

Not a nervous one.

Just a normal smile.

“Hey, Pope.”

That was all it took.

——

The first thing Pope noticed about your house was the light.

A small glow cutting through the darkness.

He didn’t know why it mattered.

Maybe because prison had been years of locked doors and endless nights, with nothing but the sound of his own thoughts.

But your porch light meant one thing.

You were home, somehow; that was enough.

And every night, without even realising it, Pope found himself driving past your street to see that warm glow cutting through the darkness.

—-

The rain had started sometime after dark.

You noticed him before he noticed you.

Pope stood near his truck, looking toward your house like he always did, caught between leaving and staying.

You opened the front door.

“Pope.”

His head lifted.

For a moment, he looked almost guilty, as he already knew he shouldn’t be there.

You looked past him at the rain falling around him.

You stepped back from the doorway “Come inside.”

The words made him freeze.

Not because he didn’t hear you.

Because he did.

“You sure?”

It was such a simple question, but something about the way he asked made your chest tighten.

Like he needed to hear it again, he needed that permission to exist somewhere.

“Yeah, Pope. I’m sure.”

Slowly, he walked toward the door.

The same man everyone else treated like a problem.

The same man everyone expected to break.

But standing there in the warmth of your home, he looked less like someone dangerous and more like someone who had forgotten what it felt like to be invited in.

You closed the door behind him.

You turned to face him, his body tense, like a wild animal that couldn’t decide whether to run or stay.

Slowly, you closed the distance between you. Pope didn’t move. His hazel eyes never left yours, watching every careful step until you stood close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him.

“Is this okay?” you whispered

He swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

You gave him another moment, letting the silence settle between you.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

His shoulders eased, if only a fraction “I will.”

You reached for him, your movements slow enough that he could pull away at any moment.

He stayed exactly where he was, watching you with an expression that was equal parts uncertainty and quiet longing.

Your fingertips brushed lightly against his chest before gliding higher, tracing the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

Your hands continued upward until they rested at the sides of his neck, your thumbs grazing his jaw.

Carefully, you cupped his face.

His eyes fluttered shut for the briefest moment, a quiet, shaky whine escaping him before he could stop it.

He leaned into your touch without thinking, as though he’d spent so long without genuine gentle affection that he didn’t quite know what to do with it.

You searched his face “Still okay?”

He answered with the smallest nod.

Your thumb brushed softly across his cheek, and when he opened his eyes again, they were bewitched by you.

You closed the last bit of distance between you, giving him every opportunity to pull away.

He didn’t.

Instead, he met you halfway as your lips finally found his. The kiss was slow, hesitant at first, before something in Pope seemed to unravel. As if he’d been holding his breath for years and had only just remembered what it felt like to breathe.

His hands found your waist with quiet uncertainty, lingering there as though he was waiting for you to change your mind.

When you didn’t, he relaxed ever so slightly, drawing you a little closer.

The kiss lingered. Every gentle brush of your lips seemed to quiet the restless noise he carried for so long.

He suddenly pulled his mouth away, and a flash of confusion hit you until you felt the bulge against your stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Pope whispered, his voice barely audible.

The words came out automatically. His arms slowly loosened around your waist, pulling away as if he’d already decided he had gone too far.

“Andrew.”

The name stopped him.

Not Pope.

Just Andrew.

His eyes lifted back to yours, almost startled.

“Shh,” you whispered. “I’m not mad.”

You moved closer again, gently closing the space he had created.

“You’re okay.” Your hands moved lower, tracing down from his chest before coming to rest at the waistband of his jeans

“Will you let me take care of you, Andrew?” you cooed

His breath shuddered “Please”

You pressed soft kisses along the column of his neck, feeling the way his pulse jumped under your lips.

Your hand slid straight past the waistband of his jeans and straight into his boxers, fingers wrapping around the hot, rigid length of his cock without hesitation. Andrew’s breath hitched hard against your ear.

He was already leaking, the head slick and sensitive as your fist closed around it.

You gave him one slow stroke from root to tip, thumb smearing the wetness over the head, then another, tighter, firmer. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, pushing his cock deeper into your grip.

“Fuck” The word cracked out of him, half apology, half need. His arms came back around you, clutching your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish.

You didn’t stop. You worked him steadily inside the tight confines of his boxers, the fabric rubbing against the back of your knuckles with every stroke.

Andrew’s forehead dropped to your shoulder. His breathing turned ragged, little broken sounds spilling out every time your fist twisted over the head, the fabric of his boxers growing wetter and stickier with each pass of your hand.

“I’ve got you,” you murmured against his throat, lips brushing the frantic beat of his pulse. “Just let go for me, Andrew.”

His thighs started to tremble. His cock pulsed hard in your palm, and then he was coming thick, hot spurts soaking straight through the cotton of his boxers, coating your fingers as you kept stroking him through it.

He groaned low and desperate, hips stuttering, pushing into your fist, the mess spreading warm and wet against your skin and his own.

His eyes closed as he tried to hold onto the feeling.

The feeling of being wanted.

being safe.

not having to be the man everyone expected him to be.

You felt his breathing slowly settle beneath your cheek.

“You’re okay,” you whispered.

It was the same thing you’d told him before.

But this time, he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t apologise.

He didn’t tell himself he didn’t deserve it.

He just held you.

For the first time since leaving prison, Andrew Cody didn’t feel like a ghost.

“You know you should stop with this.” The voice behind you made you let out a sigh. Securing once again the test tube that you had taken out of your tights. Straightening your dress with your hands.

“And you know that you should let me work without any problems. I'm not doing anything wrong, Batsy.”

“You've been killing people, You—” You shook your head, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I've only killed men. And you know they weren't good guys. I'm doing a favor to this city, just like you.” The Batman approached you, his eyes fixed on your face, soon you needed to raise your head to keep up with him.

“I don't kill.” His voice was direct and harsh; it was frustrating not being able to see his eyes because of that stupid mask.

“Well, you should. If you did, it would save us a lot of trouble.” Without saying much more, you went back to what you were doing, walking away from him towards the bathroom exit. "If you'll excuse me, my date is waiting for me."

"That's not your date, it's your victim. I'm not going to let you go." All you felt was a firm hand on your waist before your chest collided with his.

"Aw, are you jealous, B?" you smiled while raising a hand to his cheek, surprisingly he didn't push away. “Don't be, he's not that important. By Tuesday he won't be around anymore.” You let out a giggle as you shrugged, trying to get away once again, only succeeding in making his grip stronger.

Bruce didn't agree with what you were doing, he never could, but if you continued with that kind of thing at some point you'd end up behind bars and even though he didn't say it out loud, he didn't want to be the one to take you there.

You were a very intelligent lab technician, and he knew it firsthand. You had managed to develop a strange mixture with which you had been ending the lives of several important men in Gotham's underworld. Somehow, you managed to make the effect of the injection slow enough so that they died a couple of days later, long enough that those who had seen you around wouldn't remember your name or your face.

You were Jason's favorite “villain”, and that said a lot.

Even so, he also felt a deep fear that at some point someone would find the pattern in the deaths, that someone else would realize that you were a constant presence in the days leading up to their deaths. If any of those people realized it, it would be the end for you, and it wouldn't be a pretty one.

Bruce didn't want to have to rescue your body from the dirty hands of those guys. He simply didn't want to lose you, that's all; it wasn't that hard to understand.

"Seriously, I have to go back or they'll realize something's wrong and that's never good." you complained as you still couldn't get away from him, placing your hands on his chest to try and push him away.

Your "date" was already drunk enough not to realize you were going to inject him with something; you had to seize the moment or you'd have to scrap your plan altogether. That guy had been taking girls from the alleys to put them to work for him; it was necessary to get rid of that filth.

"Bruce, I need to-!" Your voice was interrupted by several screams outside the bathroom, soon followed by the sound of weapons and things falling.

“We're already taking care of him, as you can notice.” You dropped a blow on his chest, knowing it wouldn't do any damage given his armor.

“You knew I would do it today, and you ruined it. You know it costs them nothing to escape from Blackgate." Your face began to turn red with the anger you felt; you knew that guy would continue to give orders from his cell until he managed to escape again. He would continue to take girls and lead them down a terrible path.

Bruce loved seeing you so angry with him; he liked the way your eyes seemed to turn colder and how your cheeks turned red. He was forced to suppress a smile.

"I'm not going to let him do it, I'll give you my word." You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. To you, his word was worth less than nothing, you wanted to believe him but it wasn't easy.

This time you were working in your lab, it was your “public” job. You were preparing some blood smears to analyze samples from that day's patients. In another zone of your lab, you were centrifuging other samples that you would analyze later.

That day your assistant had to leave early due to some personal complications, so you were completely alone there.

Noticing the new company behind you wasn't difficult; his gaze was as heavy as ever.

“Hey, Baby." you greeted in a carefree tone, leaving the swabs on the rack before pushing your chair up a little to get the dye with the dropper and start applying it. “Are you finally going to take me out to dinner?"

"Actually, I have a few questions," you sighed, rolling your eyes and turning your chair to face him. Batman was a black blur that seemed to absorb all the white of your lab.

“Of course you have them. It's the only reason you came here.” you murmured as you set the alarm on your cell phone.

Bruce let out a sigh, removing his cowl so he could see you; his eyes looked tired, but that was nothing new.

"I always come to see you, what are you talking about?" Finally, he took the other available chair, sitting down opposite you.

"Bruce, you only come around when you need me to analyze a sample for one of your cases or to try to stop me from continuing with my other project. We never talk properly, and I'm still waiting for you like a fool."

"You know we can't have anything serious, doll." The man ran a hand over his face, he was dying to be with you but...

“‘Cause I'm crazy?" You knew perfectly well what he was thinking. You'd even heard him mutter that with one more push you could become another Harleen. “I promise you I'm not. You can ask the others!”

Bruce looked at you deadpanned. “They're already dead.” You sighed in frustration. Yes, they were dead, but for perfectly valid reasons.

"Because they were bad, Bruce. I'm not crazy, what I did to them was a plan, with you it's something different!" You didn't want him to always see you as someone who needed to be in Arkham, you didn't want things to continue in a game where today you could get tangled up within the four walls of your laboratory's rest room and where tomorrow you would end up arguing in some alley because you had just murdered someone else.

"Then I need you to stop killing once and for all and let me take care of them."

“I-I can't, I can't stop yet.” You shook your head slightly as you sighed; there were still a couple more men who needed to leave. "Just... just three more, Bruce, please."

You stood up to go to him, taking off your gloves as you approached, leaving them in the appropriate trash. His hands find their favorite place on your waist, drawing you into his lap. You immediately dropped your head onto his shoulder, wrapping your arms around him.

"I know how to approach them, I can even take care of them at the same time... you know I'm not doing this on a whim, B. I need to." you whispered, almost pleading.

“Love, I already know who they are. Although I don't like the idea either, Jason is dismantling them from the bottom up." His fingers traced soft caresses on your waist, bringing you closer to his body. “You know what he's like."

When he mentioned his second child, you somehow felt calmer. He was the only one who seemed to understand your reasons a little better. Sometimes he was even the one who brought the samples that needed processing. He would often stay and talk with you for a long time; you were very fond of him.

"But I wanted to do it on my own," you murmured with a groan.

"And he didn't want you to have any more blood on your hands." The bond you and Jason had been forming was quite intriguing to him. On many occasions, Jason had even defended you during team meetings.

You would undoubtedly scold him for doing that when you saw him again, but you couldn't help feeling a little tenderness.

"And since I don't want you to have any more deaths on your shoulders or a pout on your lips... The questions I was going to ask you can wait. I'll take you out to dinner."

“You're just doing this to distract me. Next week you'll play dumb and tell me again that I'm crazy and that we can't be together". You moved your hands away from his body, trying to get up, but his hands gripped you more firmly to keep you in his lap.

"No... we're not going to be together like Batman and a mad scientist, but we can go to dinner as Bruce Wayne and a mysterious lab technician.” His voice was soft as he tilted his face towards you, lightly brushing your noses together before placing a small kiss on your lips.

You just remained silent, looking at him without being entirely sure.

“Besides, I think I deserve to be the only lucky one to go on a date with you and not end up dead a few days later, don't you think, Black Widow?" He kissed your lips again, smiling a little this time.

He wouldn't tell you, but it also worked to keep you from hanging out with those underworld people. Once your face was on the news with him, you'd be recognized everywhere.

He knew your pain and your reasons for killing those guys, but he had to keep you safe no matter what. He really hoped that would work.

“So what? We'll be together as long as you're not in the suit and I'm not out killing those scumbags?" you asked in a murmur, one of your hands playing with a strand of his hair, that let him know you weren't so upset with him anymore.

"For now, yes." Bruce waited for your answer. If his plan worked, perhaps you could be completely together sooner than you thought.

Your eyes scanned the lab, settling on the small drawer you had locked. If Jason dealt with those guys before you could reach them, there would be no need to eliminate them.

There would be no need for you to continue with that revenge, and maybe you and Bruce could be together without any doubt.

“Okay, but I want to go to Brasserie Zedel.” You finally nodded as you fixed your eyes on him again. A smile crossed the man's lips as he chuckled softly. Of course you weren't stupid.

You wanted to go to a restaurant in London; it would be difficult for any Gotham journalist to capture your face while you were there.

“Let me see what I can do. We'll need a reservation and the jet.” He placed one last kiss on your lips, letting you get up to put on a new pair of gloves and continue with your work.

I measure the grounds by feel, fill the kettle, and set it to boil. The familiar sounds of the Bowery filter through my window—a car horn, someone's radio playing Latin pop, the distant wail of a siren heading toward the Narrows. Morning in Gotham.

I have the screen reader on my phone read me my messages. There is one from Foggy.  I tap it and hold it to my ear.

"Don't forget—tailor at 8:30, court at 9. And I swear to God, Mary, if you're late again, Judge Corrigan will have my head. Call me when you're up."

Foggy's voicemail ends with the click of him hanging up. The kettle starts to rumble.

I tap Foggy's contact and bring the phone to my ear. He picks up on the second ring.

"There she is. The living legend." His voice is warm, already caffeinated—the bastard always wakes up before I do. "Please tell me you remembered the tailor appointment."

"I remember," I say, pouring the hot water over the grounds. The smell fills my kitchen—rich, dark, necessary. "Eight-thirty. Corrigan at nine. I wrote it down and everything."

“You wrote it down and then immediately lost the paper?"

"I didn't lose it. It's... somewhere."

Foggy laughs. That easy, familiar sound that pulled me through three years of law school and four years of running a firm together.

 "Just don't be late. I can only run interference so many times before Corrigan starts asking questions about your  'medical condition.'"

"Blindness isn't a medical condition, Foggy, it's a lifestyle choice."

"It's a 'you-need-to-be-in-that-courthouse-at-nine-or-we-

will-be-held-in-contempt' choice." He pauses. "Bodega run?"

"You read my mind."

"Two egg and cheeses, extra hot sauce on mine. I'll see you at the office." He hangs up before I can say goodbye.

I sip my coffee, letting the heat settle into my bones. The soreness in my shoulder eases as I roll it, working out the worst of the knots. Outside, the Bowery is waking up; the bodega cat that patrols the block, Mr. Chen opening his laundromat, the rhythm of a neighborhood finding its feet. I finish my coffee in long, measured sips, letting the caffeine work its magic. The mug finds the sink without me looking, I never look, and I head back to my bedroom.

My fingers brush through the clothes in my closet. Court today means professional. I pull out a black blazer, matching trousers, and a red silk blouse. The fabric is soft, worn-in, familiar.

Dressing takes longer than it would for most people—buttons checked twice, seams aligned by touch, the knot of my bow pulled just right. I carefully tie my long ginger hair up and apply a bit of makeup with practiced precision, even though I can't see the result. This begrudging habit started after an aging judge, long past retirement, remarked that a "lady lawyer" looks unprofessional without makeup. My red-tinted glasses sit on the nightstand, and I slide them on, the world settling into its usual warm blur of sound and texture.

I grab my cane from where it leans against the nightstand — the red-tipped white one, standard issue. My fingers find the worn grip, familiar as a handshake.

Keys in my pocket. Phone. Wallet. Briefcase by the door. I'm ready.

As I step out, I see my neighbor Jason coming home after what looks like a rough night.  

I turn to grab my bag and softly say, “Morning, Jason. Rough night” 

Jason turns to look at me and sounds like he  cracks something that may be considered a smile and a tired look, “You don’t know the half of it, have a good day, Mary” 

“You too, and get some sleep, you sound horrible,” I retort 

“Thanks,” he says with a chuckle as he closes his door.     

I lock my door and start down the stairs.

The moment I step out, the Bowery hits me like a wave. The smell of frying oil and exhaust fumes, the percussion of footsteps and chatter, the vibration of the elevated train rumbling a few blocks over. 

Mrs. Ramírez is on the stoop, smoking a cigarette. "¡Buenos días, María! You look pretty today. Court?"

"Court," I confirm, tapping my cane along the familiar path. "Corrigan's docket."

She clicks her tongue. "That man has a face like a sour lemon. Want me to bring you lunch later?"

"I might take you up on that."

I turn the corner, following the scent of fresh bread and fried eggs. The bodega's bell jingles as I push through the door.

"Mary!" Luis’ voice booms from behind the counter. "The usual? Two egg and cheeses, one extra hot, one with the green sauce?"

"I know me too well, Luis."

His knife scrapes against the griddle. "I know you work too hard. And I know your  friend Foggy eats like he's still in college."

I lean against the counter, listening to the rhythm of the bodega around me—the hum of the cooler, the rustle of a newspaper in the corner, the squeak of the ceiling fan.

"How's your daughter liking her new school?"

Luis’ spatula pauses mid-flip. "She loves it. Can't shut her up about it." I hear the pride in his voice, the way it softens around the edges. "She's already joined the art club. Came home with paint all over her uniform last week, grinning ear to ear."

"That's wonderful, Luis."

"Yeah." He scrapes the griddle again. "Public school in the Narrows would've eaten her alive. This place—" He stops himself. "Anyway. She's happy. That's what matters."

The bell above the door jingles. Someone shuffles in—heavy footsteps, the rustle of a plastic bag. I catch the scent of stale cigarettes and cheap cologne. One of the regulars, by the sound of his gait.

"Mornin', Luis’. Mary."

I nod in the direction of the voice. "Frank."

He grunts and shuffles toward the cooler. Luis slides a wrapped bundle across the counter toward me. "Two egg and cheeses. Red sauce is on Foggy's, green on yours. Don't let him mix 'em up."

My fingers find the warm foil, the familiar weight. I pull out my wallet. "What do I owe you?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Luis…"

"It's on the house. You got Corrigan today, yeah? You're gonna need the luck." He chuckles. "Besides, you fixed my nephew's eviction notice last month. Consider us even for a while."

I pocket my wallet. "You're too generous."

"I'm practical. A good lawyer's hard to find in the Bowery." I hear him pick up his rag, wiping down the counter. "Now go. Don't be late."

The morning air hits me again as I step outside, sandwiches warm against my side. The tailor's shop is four blocks east, past the laundromat and the corner church. 

Mrs. Ramírez is still on the stoop when I approach, the end of her cigarette glowing ember-bright in the morning gray. She's taken up her usual post on the bottom step, one eye on the street, the other on nothing in particular—the neighborhood watch runs on retired women and their sharp tongues.

"María," she says, and I hear the smile in her voice. "You came back. I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."

"Never." I tap my way over, pausing at the bottom step. "Just grabbing breakfast for me and Foggy before the circus starts."

"Ah, the sour lemon." She takes a drag. "I know, my nephew Diego worked for Corrigan once. Said the man sweats when he lies. If you  listen close enough, you can hear his heartbeat speed up when he's hiding something."

I file that away without comment. "I'll keep my ears open."

"Good girl." She ashes her cigarette. "You heading to the tailor now?"

"In a minute."

"Walk safe. I heard some chatter last night—strange men in suits around the old textile warehouse on Fourth. Not the usual types." She lowers her voice. "Could be nothing. Could be something. You know how to find out."

The textile warehouse. The same one I've been circling for two weeks, the one tied to the trafficking ring I've been pulling at like a loose thread.

Mrs. Ramírez always knows more than she lets on.

"Thanks, Mrs. R." I shift the sandwiches in my grip. "I'll look into it. Keep your ears open for me?"

She taps her cigarette, the ash scattering in the morning breeze. "Always do, mija. I will see you at church on Sunday, sí.”

“Of course, if I didn’t show up, Father Lantom would drag me back by ear,” I say with a small laugh, thinking of the stubborn priest who helped raise me at St. Agnes’.  “Have a good day, Mrs. R." I offer her a small smile, the kind she can hear in my voice. "Try not to smoke too many of those."

She snorts. "At my age, smoking is the least of my worries. You go on now. Don't keep that tailor waiting—he closes for lunch at noon, and you know how he gets."

I do. Sal has been running his shop on the Bowery for thirty years and operates on a schedule that would make a train conductor jealous. Five minutes late and he'll lock the door in my face, no exceptions.

I tap my cane along the pavement, the familiar rhythm guiding me east. The morning sounds wrap around me—a mother calling for her kid, tires hissing through a puddle, the distant rumble of a truck shifting gears. I filter through them, cataloging, filing away.

The textile warehouse on Fourth. Strange men in suits. I've been circling that place for weeks, catching whispers of something rotten at its core. Mrs. Ramírez’s nephew, who got picked up for loitering near there. The missing persons reports that cluster in a two-block radius around it. The shell company that owns it traces back to one of Vance's associates.

Piece by piece, the picture forms.

Three blocks later, I catch the familiar scent of starch and steamed fabric. Sal’s shop. The bell above the door jingles as I push inside. The bell above Sal's door is old brass, hand-polished, with a distinctive ring that's higher than most. I've heard it a hundred times. The shop smells like fabric and thread and the faint, clean scent of the pressed suits hanging in plastic wraps along the back wall. a scent I've known since childhood, when my father would take his boxing trunks to the tailor.

I push open the door. The bell chimes.

"Mary!" Sal's voice comes from the back, gruff but warm, the accent pure old Gotham — born in the Bowery, died in the Bowery, and resurrected twice. "About time. Your dress is ready. I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."

"Never, Sal." I let the door swing shut behind me. "Foggy keeping you busy?"

"He's got opinions, that one. Wanted me to add pockets to your dress. I told him, 'Salvatore Costa does not add pockets to an evening gown. It's not dignified." I hear him shuffle out from the back, the tap of his orthopedic shoes against the hardwood. "But I added pockets. Because he begged." 

"I'm a professional." He's close now, and I smell the faint trace of cigar smoke clinging to his shirt — he sneaks them out back when his wife isn't watching. "Here. Feel."

He drapes the dress over my outstretched arms. The fabric slides against my skin — deep red silk, heavy and smooth. My fingers trace the neckline, the fitted waist, the hidden pockets he's sewn into the seams.

"It's perfect," I say quietly.

"Of course it's perfect. I made it." He huffs, but there's warmth in it. "Try it on. Make sure the fit's right before you take it."

The dressing room is in the back, a cramped alcove with a faded curtain instead of a door. I pull it shut, the rings scraping along the rod, and unbutton my blazer.

I shrug off my blazer and unbutton my shirt, hanging them both on the small hook by the mirror. The dress slides over my head like water, the silk cool against my skin. I settle it over my shoulders, adjust the fit at my waist, and run my hands down the fabric to smooth it out.

The hidden pockets sit perfectly at my hips. I slip my hands into them, testing the placement. Deep enough to hold a phone. Maybe even my billy club, if I needed it.

I step out from behind the curtain, my heels clicking against the hardwood.

"Alright, Sal. How do I look?"

I hear him turn from his workbench, the squeak of his stool. He's quiet for a moment, and I can picture him squinting at me the way he does, one eye half-closed, his mouth pursed in professional judgment.

"Like you were born in it," he says finally. "The waist hits you perfect. Hem's right. Shoulders could use a tiny adjustment — maybe a quarter inch — but I can fix that in two minutes."

"Good. Because I'm not the best judge." I gesture vaguely toward the mirror. "Mirrors don't really work for me."

Sal snorts. "I forgot. Sorry, kid."

"Don't be. That's what I pay you for."

He laughs — a dry, rasping sound that turns into a cough. "You pay me? I thought that was Foggy's job."

"Foggy pays you. I provide moral support."

I turn slowly, feeling how the dress moves with me. The silk swishes against my calves. The asymmetrical neckline sits modest but elegant, just above my collarbone. I'd asked for something that wouldn't make me look like I was not trying too hard. Sal delivered.

"Let me grab my needle," he says. "One quick fix and you're out the door."

"So what's the gossip, Sal?" I turn toward his voice, the silk of the dress rustling as I move. "You always know what's happening in the neighborhood before anyone else."

He laughs, the sound accompanied by the soft tap of his measuring tape against the counter. "You flatter me. But you're not wrong." There's a pause, the click of his fingers finding a needle. “You hear about the warehouse on Fourth Street? The one that's been empty for years?"

"I know it. Old textile factory."

"Was a textile factory. Now it's got new owners. Trucks comin' and goin' at all hours. 

My nephew Vinny works the night shift at the bodega across the street — says he sees men going in and out, but they don't look like factory workers. No hard hats, no safety vests. Just..." He trails off, the needle threading through fabric with a soft pssh. "Men in suits. Expensive ones. Two days ago. Men in black suits, clean shoes, no dust on them. Drove up in a car that costs more than this block. Didn't buy nothin, didn't ask for nothin. Just stood across the street, looked at the building, got in their car, left."

"Recognize any of them?"

"Never seen them before." He pauses. "But one of them had a pin on his lapel. Silver. Looked like a snake wrapped around a gavel."

My pulse ticks up. A snake and a gavel. I've heard that symbol before—whispered in court hallways, scrawled on case files that disappeared from evidence lockers. A group of lawyers and judges who play their own game, above the law's reach.

My fingers still against the silk of the dress. Men in suits. A warehouse that's supposed to be empty. Trucks at odd hours.

"You tell the cops?"

"I told Vinny to keep his head down. Cops don't care about the Bowery unless someone's dead in the street." His voice is matter-of-fact, no bitterness — just the weariness of a man who's lived in this neighborhood his whole life. "Figured you might know someone who knows someone. If it's worth knowing."

He's not asking directly. He never does. But I hear the question underneath.

The needle stops. "Alright. Shoulders are done. Give it a feel."

"I know someone who might care about that," I say, and I keep my voice light, casual, like you're talking about a mutual acquaintance and not the red-clad vigilante who's been breaking bones in the Bowery for the better part of a decade.

Sal doesn't push. He never does. There's a long pause; the only sound is the rustle of fabric as he smooths the shoulder of my dress one last time. 

"Good," he says quietly. "That's good."

I feel his fingers brush against my shoulder, adjusting the fit. "There. Done. Quarter-inch, as I said. Turn for me."

I turn slowly, feeling how the silk moves against my body. The adjustment is seamless; I can't tell where the needle even went in.

"Feels perfect, Sal."

I duck back into the dressing room, carefully peeling off the gown and handing it back over the curtain. I hear Sal's methodical movements as he wraps it in tissue paper, then slides it into a garment bag.

"Damn right it does." He steps back, and I hear the satisfied click of his tongue. "Now get out of my shop. You've got court, and I've got a hemline to finish for Mrs. Kapoor by noon."

I emerge, re-dressed in my blazer and trousers, and take the garment bag from his outstretched hand. The weight of it is reassuring — the silk shifting inside.

"Same price as always?" I ask.

"Same price as always. And tell Foggy I expect a thank-you card for those pockets."

I laugh, tucking the garment bag over my arm. "I'll hand-deliver it myself."

"Thanks, Sal. Have a good day." I sling the garment bag over my arm, feeling the weight of the silk shift inside.

 "And Mary."

"Yeah?" I say as I turn back around

"That snake pin." He pauses. "I've seen it before. Years ago. A man came in asking for a suit alteration—wouldn't take it off, made me nervous. He was a lawyer. Had a name I recognized from the papers." His voice tightens. "He was found dead a week later. Ruled a mugging gone wrong."

The weight in the room shifts

"Take care of yourself, Mary. And tell Foggy I expect him at the shop next week for that suit fitting he's been dodging."

"I'll drag him here myself if I have to."

Sal laughs, that dry rasping sound. "I'd like to see that."

The bell chimes as I step back onto the street, the Bowery flooding back in—traffic, voices, the distant clatter of a train. The dress bag hangs over my arm, and the sandwiches are still warm against my side.

Time to head to the office. Foggy's waiting, and Corrigan's docket won't hear itself.

The Bowery unfolds around me as I walk—familiar sounds, familiar smells, the rhythm of a neighborhood waking into its full morning noise. I navigate by memory, by the texture of the pavement under my cane, by the way the acoustics shift when I pass the church. A cabbie curses at a delivery truck double-parked further down the block. Someone's car alarm chirps twice before falling silent. The pretzel cart guy is arguing with a health inspector about permits — I recognize both their voices; they have this argument every third Thursday like clockwork.

Nelson & Murdock occupies the second floor of a weathered brownstone on the corner of Third and Bowen. The sign out front is small, hand-painted, and easy to miss. I like it that way.

The stairs groan under my weight as I climb. The door's unlocked—Foggy's already here.

I push it open.

"And the prodigal partner returns." He's at his desk, coffee in hand, tie already loosened despite the fact that the court hasn't started yet. "Please tell me you brought the good stuff."

I set the bag on the corner of his desk. "Egg and cheese, extra hot sauce. Don't say I never do anything for you."

He unwraps it with religious fervor. "I take back every bad thing I've ever said about you."

"You've said a lot of bad things."

"And I take them all back." He takes a bite and groans. "God, I love this city."

I settle into my chair, the leather creaking under me. My desk is cluttered—case files, a Braille notepad. I pull out the Corrigan file and set it in front of me.

"So," Foggy says around a mouthful of sandwich. "Ready to make a lemon-faced judge cry today?"

"I'm hoping for tears before noon," I say, settling into my chair. The leather creaks under me. "But I'll settle for a ruling in our favor."

Foggy laughs, washing down his sandwich with a gulp of coffee. "That's the spirit. Nothing gets Corrigan going like a blind woman making him look stupid in his own courtroom."

"You mean a competent woman making him look stupid."

"Same thing, in his book."

I run my fingers over the Corrigan file, the Braille labels I'd put on each tab weeks ago. The eviction case is straightforward on paper—Carmen Delgado, a single mother of a seven-year-old girl, is being pushed out of her apartment by a landlord who claims she's behind on rent. But the paperwork I've dug up tells a different story. The landlord's records are inconsistent. Dates don't match. Signatures look forged.

"Did you talk to Mrs. Delgado this morning?" I ask.

"She called around seven. Nervous, but ready." Foggy crumples his sandwich wrapper. "She's bringing her daughter. Couldn't find a sitter."

"That's fine. Might help, honestly. Judges don't like evicting kids in front of their mothers."

“So what’s the deal with this gala thing you're making us go to tonight?” I asked absentmindedly while looking over the files.

“This gala thing is a fundraiser for the Gotham City Legal Aid Fund, hosted by Bruce Wayne. . We were invited by the foundation because our firm is one of their top litigators. 

 Our role is to mingle and persuade all those wealthy attendees to invest so we can keep doing cases like this while keeping the lights on. And just to remind you, you’re scheduled to give a speech on the virtues of the Fund. You remember that part, right?” Foggy said, raising an eyebrow. 

“Of course I did! I just wanted to make sure you remembered, Mother Foggy,” I replied.

Foggy gave me a pointed look. “Really?” 

“Yeah, even if I didn’t, luckily I’m great at thinking on my feet,” I said, feigning confidence.

"To get back on Topic, I want to go over the Delgado case one more time before we head over."

Foggy nods, flipping open a folder on his desk. "Carmen Delgado. Landlord's trying to evict her from the apartment her family has lived in for 8 years. Claims non-payment, but we've got records showing the checks were cashed every month for the last two years."

"Landlord's name?"

"Gregory Vance." Foggy's voice sours on the name. "Owns a dozen buildings in the Bowery. Known for letting properties fall into disrepair, then evicting long-term tenants to flip the units at triple the rent."

I finish my sandwich and wipe my hands, the familiar focus settling into my bones. This is what I do. This is what matters.

"What else do we know about Vance?" I crumple the wax paper from my sandwich and toss it into the trash can by Foggy's desk. Three points. I've been practicing that shot for five years.

Foggy flips open a folder, thumbing through the pages. "Gregory Vance, forty-seven, owns twelve buildings in the Bowery and another eight in the Narrows. His M.O. is textbook: buy up rent-controlled properties, let maintenance lapse until tenants complain, then find a reason to evict them. Usually non-payment." He slides a sheet across the desk toward me. "In Ms. Delgado's case, he claims she stopped paying rent six months ago. But we have bank records showing her money orders were deposited into his account every single month."

I run my fingers over the paper, finding the check numbers, the dates. My thumb traces the signature line.

"Anything else?"

"Vance has a lawyer on retainer. Harold Tattle, we know him. Slimy, wears too much cologne, specializes in landlord-tenant disputes. He's already filed a motion to expedite the eviction, claiming Ms. Delgado's unit has been vacant for two weeks."

"She's living there right now."

"Tattle says she's 'squatting.'"

I let out a breath. The injustice of it sits bitter in my mouth, the same old story. A powerful man with money and lawyers tries to bulldoze a family who can't afford to fight back. But that's why Nelson & Murdock exists. That's why we do this.

A knock at the door cuts through the thought–soft, hesitant. A woman's voice follows, quiet but steady. "Hello? Mr. Nelson? Miss Murdock?"

I hear a smaller heartbeat beside her. Quicker. Lighter.

"Come in," I say, rising from my chair.

"And who's this little one?" I ask, a smile creeping into my voice as I hear the smaller heartbeat shift closer to its mother's leg. Shy.

The mother laughs softly. "This is Sofia. She's seven. I couldn't find a sitter this morning, so..." She trails off, apologetic.

"Sofia," I repeat, crouching down to the child's level. I hear her small sneakers scuff against the floor. "That's a beautiful name. I'm Mary."

A pause. Then a tiny voice, barely above a whisper: "Are you really blind?"

"Sofia!" Her mother's voice is sharp with embarrassment.

I laugh, genuine and warm. "It's okay. Yes, I am. But I can still tell you're wearing a pink shirt with something sparkly on it. Am I close?"

The girl gasps. "How did I know?"

"Lucky guess." I wink in her direction, even though she can't see it. "My cane tells me a lot. And I can hear your mom's necklace jingling when she moves. The sparkles? That was a guess based on how excited I sounded."

Sofia giggles. I straighten up, turning toward her mother.

"Ms. Delgado?" I extend my hand. "I'm Mary Murdock. Foggy and I are going to do everything we can for you."

Her hand meets mine — calloused, warm, a grip that's firm but grateful. "Thank you, Miss Murdock. I don't know what we would've done if your office hadn't taken our case."

"Please, call me Mary. And I'd be surprised what people in the Bowery do for each other."

I hear Sofia's small sneakers scuff against the floor, uncertain. Then her mother's hand was gentle on her shoulder.

"It's okay, mija. Go on."

I crouch down again, my voice light. "Sofia, do you want to sit at my desk? I've got a fancy office chair that spins, and I'm pretty sure it's the most fun thing in this whole room."

A beat of silence. Then: "Can I really spin it?”

"I wouldn't have offered if I didn't mean it."

Sofia's footsteps approach, hesitant at first, then quicker. I hear the creak of my office chair as she climbs into it, the squeak of the wheels as she gives it a test spin.

"Whee!"

"See? Told ya." I straighten up, grinning in the direction of her laugh.

Ms. Delgado exhales, a sound of relief, of gratitude. "Thank you. She's been so nervous about today. I told her we were coming to see the nice lawyers."

"Nice is Foggy's department," I say, gesturing vaguely toward my partner. "I'm the scary one."

"I resent that," Foggy calls from his desk. "I'm terrifying in mediation."

"Last time you mediated, you cried when the client on the other side started talking about their cat."

"That was a very emotional cat, Mary."

Sofia giggles again from the spinning chair, and for a moment, the small office feels warmer, lighter. Ms. Delgado settles into the chair across from my desk — I hear the rustle of her coat, the clink of her necklace chain.

"So," I say, lowering myself into my own seat, my desk a familiar landscape of stacked files and a raised coffee mug. "Let's talk about Gregory Vance."

"Tell us about the eviction notice, Ms. Delgado." I lean back in my chair, my fingers resting on the edge of my desk. The morning light through the window casts a warm sliver across my face.

Ms. Delgado takes a breath. I hear the rustle of her purse as she pulls out papers, the soft crinkle of folded documents.

"It came three weeks ago." Her voice is steady, but I catch the slight tremor underneath. "Said I was behind on rent. Six months' worth." She pauses. "I've never missed a payment. Not once."

"But you have records?" I ask.

"Every single one. Money orders, receipts, bank statements going back three years." She sets the papers on my desk, and I reach out, fingers finding the stack. "I kept everything because... because I knew something like this would happen eventually."

I feel Foggy shift in his chair across the room, the leather creaking. "Why do you say that?"

"Because Mr. Vance has been trying to get us out since my husband died." Her voice catches, just slightly. "Two years ago. He called me a week after the funeral, offered me 'generous compensation' to vacate the unit. Said he wanted to renovate." A bitter edge creeps in. "I told him no. So he stopped fixing things. The plumbing, the heating, the cracks in the walls. He stopped taking my calls."

Sofia's spinning has slowed. I hear her small shoes drag against the carpet, her attention now on her mother's voice.

"And then the notice came," Ms. Delgado continues. "Saying I owed him thousands. With an eviction date already set."

"I'm sorry," I say softly, my voice gentling. "Two years ago, you said. Your husband."

Ms. Delgado is quiet for a moment. I hear Sofia's breathing slow in the desk chair, the creak of the leather as she shifts.

"Carlos. His name was Carlos." Her voice is quieter now. "He worked construction. Good with his hands. Fixed everything in that apartment himself — the leaky pipes, the cracked tiles, the wiring that should've been replaced in the eighties." A pause. "He died on the job. Scaffolding collapsed on a site in the Narrows. Three other men died with him."

The office goes still. Even Foggy stops shuffling papers.

"I'm sorry," I repeat. And I mean it — the weight of it settling in my chest like a stone.

"He was a good man. A good father." Ms. Delgado's voice steadies. "And Mr. Vance knew we wouldn't leave. Not after Carlos put so much into that place. So he found another way."

I hear Sofia's small voice from my desk chair. "Papi fixed my bike."

Ms. Delgado laughs, wet and warm. "He did, mija. He fixed your bike."

I sit with that for a moment. The clock ticks on the wall. A car horn blares somewhere outside.

Then I reach across the desk, my hand finding the stack of papers she placed there. "Ms. Delgado — Carmen — we're going to fight this. And we're going to win."

I hear Sofia's sneakers drag against the floor as she spins slowly in my chair. The paper bag from Martinez's crinkles as Foggy finishes off his hash brown.

I turn in her direction. "Hey, Sofia. I know what?"

"What?"

"We've got a big case this morning. And every good lawyer needs a paralegal to help them." I lean forward, lowering my voice conspiratorially. "You think you could be our paralegal for the day?"

A pause. Then a small, delighted voice: "What does a paralegal do?"

"Good question. Foggy, what does a paralegal do?"

Foggy clears his throat dramatically. "Well, Sofia, a paralegal is responsible for keeping the lawyers organized. Making sure they have the right files. Carrying important documents." He pauses. "And most importantly — making sure we eat lunch on time."

"I can do that!" The chair squeaks as she sits up straighter.

"Excellent." I reach into my desk drawer and pull out a spare notepad and a pen. I hold them out in her direction. "Then you'll need these. This is your official paralegal equipment. Don't lose them."

Sofia's small hands take the notepad, the pen. "I won't. I promise."

Ms. Delgado laughs softly from her chair — a warmer sound now. "Look at you, mija. My little lawyer."

"I'm not a lawyer, Mami. I'm a paralegal."

"That's right. Even better."

I check my watch. 8:12. The courthouse is a fifteen-minute walk. I pick up my cane from where it rests against my desk and stand, feeling the familiar weight of the day settling onto my shoulders.

"Alright, team." I grab my blazer from the back of my chair. "Let's go get justice."

I turn toward Ms. Delgado's voice, the stack of papers tucked under my arm, my cane finding the floor in a steady tap.

"Carmen, you ready?"

A beat of silence. Then the rustle of her coat as she stands, the click of her purse clasp closing.

"Ready." Her voice is steadier now. Stronger.

"Good." I offer a small smile in her direction. "We walk in together, we walk out together. That's how it works."

Sofia pipes up from my desk chair. "What about me?"

"You're carrying the important file," Foggy says, and I hear him cross the room, the soft thud of a manila folder being placed into small hands. "It's a crucial legal document. Don't let anyone take it from you."

"I won't!"

"Then let's move." I tap my cane and head for the door, my senses mapping the office one last time — the hum of the old refrigerator in the corner, the drip of the coffee maker, the warm scent of paper and old wood. My hand finds the doorframe. I step into the hallway, the stairwell stretching out before me, and the morning light filters through the window at the landing.

Ms. Delgado's footsteps fall in behind me, slower, steadier. And behind her, Sofia's light, quick steps, clutching her folder like it's made of gold.

The four of us descended the stairs together. Justice doesn't start in a courtroom. It starts with a first step.

The walk to the courthouse is brisk. Foggy leads the way, his footsteps steady and familiar on the pavement. Sofia stays close to her mother's side, the folder clutched to her chest. I keep my cane in front of me, reading the sidewalk's texture — smooth stretches, cracked slabs, the lip of a curb.

The courthouse looms as I approach. I feel it in the change of air pressure, the hollow echo of footsteps on marble steps. Glass doors swing open as a pair of officers exit, their radios crackling.

I pause at the bottom of the courthouse steps and murmur a quick prayer under my breath—familiar words, half-remembered from childhood mass at St. Agnes. Lord, let justice be done. Let the truth be heard. Let the innocent be held. I cross myself out of habit, my fingers brushing the small cross at my neck.

Foggy catches it. He always does. "Angel," he says softly, "you know God's got a full docket today."

"Then he'll appreciate me clearing one case off it."

He huffs a quiet laugh, and I hear the smile in it.

I push through the doors into the lobby. The air shifts — cooler, stiller, tinged with the scent of old wood and floor wax. The metal detector hums ahead.

"Alright, team," I say, low enough for only my group to hear. "Showtime."

I crouch slightly, angling my voice toward where I heard Sofia's small sneakers scuff against the marble floor.

"Sofia." My voice is gentle but firm. "Stay close to your mom, okay? Courthouses are big, and it's easy to get turned around in a crowd."

"I will." Her voice is solemn, serious. I imagine her clutching that manila folder like a shield.

"Good girl."

I straighten up, my cane already tapping forward toward the security line. The courthouse lobby buzzes with activity — the squeak of shoes on marble, the murmur of conversations echoing off high ceilings, the rhythmic beep of the metal detector up ahead. I catch the scent of stale coffee from a vending machine, the tang of floor polish, and the faint floral perfume of a woman passing by on my left.

Foggy falls into step beside me. "Row three, left side," he murmurs, low enough for only me to hear. "Judge Corrigan's courtroom is up on the third floor. Room 312."

"Got it."

I reach the metal detector. I set my cane on the conveyor belt — the officer knows me by now, a regular in this building — and step through. The machine stays silent. I retrieve my cane and wait, listening for my group.

Ms. Delgado's footsteps follow. Slower. Then Sofia's is lighter, quicker.

"Clear," the officer says.

I lead the way to the elevators, the button finding my fingertip. The hum of the elevator descending fills the small alcove. I step inside, the doors sliding shut behind me, and the four of us rise in silence.

Third floor. The doors open onto a long hallway, fluorescent lights humming overhead. A bench lines the wall outside Room 312, and I hear the shuffle of papers, the low murmur of voices from inside.

I turn to Ms. Delgado. "We wait here until they call us. Then we go in together."

Her hand lands on my sleeve, light and trembling. "Thank you," she says. "For—for believing me."

"Believing you is my job." I offer a small smile. "Winning is the part we get to enjoy."

I settle onto the bench beside Ms. Delgado, my cane resting across my knees. The wood is cool through my trousers. I angle my head toward her, keeping my voice low.

"You feeling okay, Carmen?"

A pause. She lets out a breath I didn't realize she'd been holding.

"Honestly?" A nervous laugh. "I feel like I'm going to throw up."

"Good. That means you care." I offer her a small smile. "If you were calm, I'd be worried."

She laughs again, softer this time. I hear Sofia shift on the bench beside her, the manila folder crinkling as she hugs it tighter.

"I just..." Ms. Delgado hesitates. "What if it's not enough? The receipts, the bank statements. What if he's done this before and gotten away with it?"

"Then we make sure he doesn't get away with it this time." I turn to face her fully. "Vance has money and lawyers. But we have proof, and you have us. And around here, that counts for a lot more than a checkbook."

Foggy chimes in from my left, his voice warm. "Plus, while he seems like a grump, Judge Corrigan's no pushover. He's seen Tattle's tricks before. If he tries to pull something, he'll shut it down."

Ms. Delgado exhales, the tension in her shoulders easing a fraction. "Thank you. Both of you. I've been so scared about this for months. I didn't think anyone would help."

"That's what we're here for." I reach over and give her arm a brief, reassuring squeeze. "Now. Let's go over the order of the hearing one more time."

I pause mid-sentence, my nostrils flaring. The air shifts, carrying a familiar scent — cloying, chemical, layered over cheap musk. I've smelled it in depositions, in hallways, in the brief moments before a courtroom door swings open and a man in an ill-fitting suit steps through.

I don't need to turn my head.

"He's here."

Foggy stops shuffling papers. "Who?"

"Tattle." I let the name sit in the air for a moment. "Cologne. The kind that costs forty dollars and smells like a teenager's first prom date."

Ms. Delgado tenses beside me. I hear her grip tighten on her purse strap. "Where?"

"Down the hall. Coming from the stairwell." I tilt my head, tracking the sound — dress shoes on linoleum, a measured gait, the subtle jingle of keys in a pocket. "He's walking this way. Probably with Vance."

Foggy lets out a low breath. "Showtime before showtime."

The footsteps grow closer. A voice cuts through the hallway — smooth, practiced, with the kind of polish that doesn't quite hide the grease underneath.

"Miss Murdock. Mr. Nelson. What a pleasant surprise."

I offer a thin smile in the direction of his voice. "Mr. Tattle. I'd say the same, but I try not to lie before noon."

Harold Tattle's laugh is hollow, scripted. "Still as sharp as ever. I see you've brought your client." A pause. "I do hope she's prepared for today."

"Prepared?" I tilt my head. "She's got receipts, bank statements, and two lawyers who believe in her. I'd say she's more prepared than your case is."

Tattle's footsteps stop. I catch the faint shift of his weight, the subtle crack of his neck as he adjusts his collar.

"We'll see what the judge thinks."

"Sofia, this is what we call the opposition."

I gesture vaguely toward Tattle with my cane, my tone light, almost playful. The girl's small sneakers shift on the marble floor as she looks up at the man I've indicated.

"A lawyer who represents the other side," I continue. "Sometimes they're reasonable. Sometimes they're not." I pause, letting a beat of silence hang. "Mister Tattle here, he's..." Another pause. "Well, Sofia, why don't you tell me what you smell?"

Sofia's voice is small but clear. "He smells like my abuela's perfume. The really strong one."

I bite back a grin. Tattle's silence is louder than any retort he could muster.

"Sofia, that's very observant." Foggy's voice is strained, clearly holding back laughter. "You're a natural paralegal."

Tattle clears his throat, the sound tight. "Charming. Truly." His footsteps shift, moving past me toward the courtroom doors. "I'll see you inside, Miss Murdock. I do hope the proceedings are... educational for the child."

"More educational than whatever cologne sample counter you got that scent from, I'm sure."

His footsteps quicken. The courtroom door creaks open and swings shut behind him.

Ms. Delgado laughs beside me, the tension cracking. "I can't believe you just did that."

"He started it." I shrug, a small smirk on my lips. "Besides, Sofia needed to learn that standing up to bullies starts early."

I crouch down to Sofia's level, my voice dropping into something quieter, more conspiratorial.

"Sofia, remember — you're our secret weapon."

The girl's sneakers shift on the marble floor. "I am?"

"You are." I nod, keeping my face serious. "See, the bad guys? They look at us and see two lawyers, a nice lady, and a little girl. They don't realize you're the one keeping us organized." I tap the edge of the manila folder she's holding. "And you've got the important file. Without you, this whole operation falls apart."

Sofia's voice comes out hushed, filled with importance. "I won't let them take it."

"That's my paralegal."

Ms. Delgado's hand finds my shoulder, a gentle squeeze of gratitude. "Thank you," she says, her voice soft. "For all of it."

I straighten up, rolling my shoulders back. The courtroom door looms ahead, the wood worn from decades of hands, the brass handle cool to the touch. Through the gap beneath the door, I catch the murmur of the gallery, the shuffle of papers, the distant squeak of a judge's chair.

"Alright, team." I set my hand on the door. "Let's go remind Mr. Vance that the law still means something in this city."

I push the door open.

The courtroom swallows me whole. The air is cooler here, tinged with dust and old paper. The gallery benches groan under the weight of a handful of spectators. The bailiff's footsteps echo from the side. I sense the bench ahead, elevated, heavy with authority.

Tattle is already seated at the defendant's table. I catch the faint, cloying scent of his cologne, the rustle of papers as he pretends to review notes.

Beside him, another presence. Heavier. Slower breath. The faint smell of cigar smoke clinging to an expensive suit.

Gregory Vance.

I guide Ms. Delgado to the plaintiff's table, my cane finding the edge of the wood. Sofia settles onto the bench behind me, the folder clutched tight.

"All rise for the Honorable Judge Marcus Corrigan."

I rise with the rest of the room, the scrape of chairs and rustle of clothing filling the space. The bench creaks as Judge Corrigan settles into his seat with practiced authority.

"Be seated."

The command is crisp, unhurried. Years of courtroom experience packed into two words. I lower myself back into my chair, my hand finding the edge of the plaintiff's table, the wood grain familiar beneath my fingertips.

"Good morning, your Honor."

My voice carries the right note — respectful but not deferential, professional without being stiff. I've stood before Judge Corrigan a dozen times. He doesn't tolerate theatrics, but he respects preparation.

"Ms. Murdock. Mr. Nelson." His voice is measured, cutting through the quiet hum of the courtroom. "Mr. Tattle. I see we're all here bright and early." A pause. The rustle of papers. "This is a motion hearing on the matter of Delgado versus Vance Properties. Eviction proceedings." Another pause. "Counsel, I trust you're both prepared to proceed without wasting the court's time."

Tattle rises. "Of course, your Honor. The defense is fully prepared."

I rise as well. "The plaintiff is ready, your Honor.”

Judge Corrigan's chair creaks as he leans back. "Then let's begin. Ms. Murdock, your opening statement."

"This is a simple case of landlord misconduct, your Honor."

My voice carries through the courtroom, measured and clear. I stand, my left hand resting on the edge of the plaintiff's table, my cane in my right. 

"Mr. Gregory Vance owns a dozen buildings in the Bowery. One of them — a walk-up on Broome Street — has been home to Carmen Delgado and her daughter Sofia for eight years." I pause, letting the details settle. "Eight years of on-time rent payments. Eight years of Ms. Delgado's husband, Carlos, fixing every leak, every broken pipe, every cracked tile that Mr. Vance refused to repair."

I hear Tattle shift in his seat, the faint rustle of fabric.

"Two years ago, Carlos Delgado died on a construction site. A week after the funeral, Mr. Vance called Ms. Delgado and offered her money to leave. She refused." I let the words hang. "So he stopped maintaining the apartment. Stopped taking her calls. And then, three weeks ago, he filed an eviction notice claiming she owes six months of back rent."

I gesture toward the stack of papers on the table. "We have money order receipts. Bank statements. A paper trail spanning three years that proves Ms. Delgado has never missed a payment. Mr. Vance's claim is not just false — it's retaliatory."

I turn my head slightly in the direction of the bench. "This is a landlord using the court system to punish a tenant for exercising her right to stay in her home. And we intend to prove it."

I settle back into my chair. The courtroom hums with quiet energy.

Judge Corrigan's voice cuts through. "Mr. Tattle, your response."

I listen carefully, filtering the courtroom's ambient noise — the hum of the overhead fluorescents, the distant clack of a keyboard from an office down the hall, the shallow rhythm of Ms. Delgado's breath beside me — and beneath it all, Judge Corrigan.

His breathing is even. Measured. He doesn't shift in his chair, doesn't tap his pen. That stillness tells me more than words could. He's watching. Waiting. Giving Tattle enough rope to either save or hang himself. 

Tattle continues, his voice smooth as polished glass. "We have bank statements showing deposits that don't align with Ms. Delgado's claimed payment history. Discrepancies that suggest — "

"Objection, your  Honor." I rise, my voice cutting cleanly through his cadence. 

"Speculation. Mr. Tattle is characterizing bank records that he has not entered into evidence and, I suspect, has not shared with the plaintiff during discovery."

Judge Corrigan's voice comes low, unhurried. "Mr. Tattle. Have you shared these records with opposing counsel?"

A pause. Tattle shifts his weight.

"Your Honor, we only received them from our client yesterday — "

"Then you should have filed a motion to extend discovery, not ambushed Ms. Murdock in my courtroom." The judge's tone sharpens, the first crack in his neutrality. "I won't have my time wasted with sandbagging. If you have evidence, counsel, you produce it. If not, you proceed with the case you have."

Tattle clears his throat. "Understood, your Honor."

I sit back down. Beside me, Foggy exhales quietly, and I can feel Ms. Delgado's shoulders loosen just a fraction. Good. Judge Corrigan's not playing games today.

I settle back into my chair. Let him talk.

Tattle's voice fills the courtroom, smooth and practiced. "Ms. Delgado's bank statements show deposits that don't align with her claimed rent payments. We believe these inconsistencies indicate the payments were never made, and that Ms. Delgado attempted to fabricate a paper trail retroactively."

I catch the shift in Carmen's breathing beside me — the sharp inhale, the tension coiling in her shoulders. Foggy's hand lands gently on the table, a small gesture of reassurance. I give the tiniest shake of my head. Not yet.

Tattle keeps going, his confidence building. "Our client has been patient. He allowed Ms. Delgado to remain in the unit well beyond the terms of her lease while attempting to resolve this matter informally. But at a certain point, the law must be upheld."

He pauses for effect. Judge Corrigan says nothing.

"The defense moves for expedited eviction on the grounds of non-payment and breach of lease."

The courtroom falls quiet. I can feel Tattle's satisfaction radiating from the defense table, the subtle shift of his posture as he lowers himself back into his chair.

Judge Corrigan breaks the silence. "Ms. Murdock. Rebuttal?"

I rise. Slowly. My cane finds the floor, my weight settling evenly.

"Your Honor, Mr. Tattle has presented no evidence of fabrication. He's offered a narrative, not proof. Meanwhile, we have bank records signed and stamped by a teller. Money order receipts with matching serial numbers. Three years of consistent payments." I tilt my head in Tattle's direction. "The defense's entire argument rests on the assumption that our client is lying, without a single document to support it."

I let that hang.

"When you have no case, you attack the credibility of the person bringing it. But credibility requires evidence. And the only evidence in this room says Ms. Delgado paid her rent."

I let the quiet settle for a beat before continuing.

"Your Honor, with the court's permission, I'd like to move to evidence presentation. We have documentation that speaks for itself."

Judge Corrigan's chair creaks. "Proceed, Ms. Murdock."

I reach for the folder. Foggy slides across the table. "Exhibit A through F: money order receipts from the Gotham City Post Office, dated the first of each month for the past three years, each matching Ms. Delgado's rent amount." I hold them up, the paper crisp between my fingers. "Exhibit G through L: corresponding bank statements showing withdrawals matching those money orders." I pause. "Exhibit M: a letter from Mr. Vance's property manager, dated two years ago, offering Ms. Delgado a cash buyout to vacate the premises."

A rustle from the defense table. Tattle shifts.

"And Exhibit N," I continue, "a text message from Mr. Vance's personal number to Ms. Delgado, sent three days after her husband's funeral — reading, and I quote — 'The apartment needs repairs that I can't afford. Might be time to move on.'"

Ms. Delgado draws a sharp breath beside me. I let the words hang in the air.

"This is a paper trail of a landlord trying to force out a tenant who refused to be bought, and then fabricating a debt when she wouldn't leave."

I set the exhibits down and face the bench. "The evidence is clear, your Honor. Ms. Delgado has paid every dollar she owes. And Mr. Vance knows it."

I turn my head toward the defense table, my expression neutral but my voice carrying an edge of invitation.

"If the defense has questions, I welcome them."

Tattle rises. His chair scrapes against the floor.

"We do, Ms. Murdock. Thank you." He steps forward, and I hear the rustle of paper as he picks up a document. "These money order receipts. They're dated the first of each month, correct?"

"They are."

"And yet, Ms. Delgado's bank statements show the corresponding withdrawals happening on the second, sometimes the third." He pauses, letting it land. "Wouldn't a tenant paying on the first withdraw the money on the first?"

I tilt my head. "She withdrew the money on the first business day of the month, Mr. Tattle. Money orders can only be purchased during post office hours. If the first falls on a Sunday or a holiday, the transaction processes the next business day." I let a small smile touch my lips. "I'm happy to provide a calendar for the court, if needed."

A ripple of quiet laughter from the gallery. Judge Corrigan's voice cuts through, dry as old paper. "Mr. Tattle, if you're going to cross-examine the evidence, I suggest I prepare questions that account for basic civics."

Tattle clears his throat. "Of course, Your Honor." He retreats to his table, the air around him deflating.

Foggy leans in close, his voice a whisper. "He's flailing."

I give a small nod. Ms. Delgado's hand finds my arm, her fingers trembling slightly, but her grip is sure. Across the room, I catch the heavy breath of Gregory Vance, the faint crack of his knuckles as he clenches his fist beneath the table.

He's not happy.

"Your Honor, I'd like to call Carmen Delgado to the stand."

Ms. Delgado's breath catches beside me. I feel her hesitate, the weight of the moment pressing down on her shoulders.

"Ms. Delgado." Judge Corrigan's voice is firm but not unkind. "Please approach."

I turn toward Carmen, keeping my voice low and steady. "You've got this. Just tell the truth, the way you told me. One question at a time."

Her chair scrapes back. I hear her footsteps — hesitant at first, then firmer — as she crosses the worn floor toward the witness stand. The oath is administered, the familiar rhythm of words she repeats in a voice that only wavers slightly.

"Raise your right hand. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

"I do."

The bailiff steps back. The courtroom settles into silence.

I rise, my cane finding its familiar spot against the table. "Ms. Delgado, can you describe your interactions with Mr. Vance after your husband's funeral?"

Carmen's voice comes out clear. "He called me the day after the funeral. Said he was sorry for my loss. Then he said the apartment needed expensive repairs and he couldn't afford to keep tenants there unless they paid triple the rent."

"Triple the rent."

"Yes. I told him I couldn't afford that. He said maybe it was time to find somewhere else to live. Somewhere more... suitable."

"And when you refused to leave?"

A pause. "He stopped answering my calls. The maintenance stopped. The heat went out twice that winter, and he wouldn't send anyone to fix it." Her voice tightens. "He wanted me to leave so badly. But I couldn't. This was my home. My husband built that bookshelf in Sofia's room. He fixed the kitchen sink five times because Mr. Vance wouldn't hire a plumber. I wasn't going to let them erase that."

"And the money orders — you bought those yourself?"

"Yes." Carmen's voice is steadier now. "Every single one. I walked to the post office on Atlantic Avenue. Tomas — the teller — he knows me. He'd stamp the receipt, and I'd file it in my drawer."

"Did Mr. Vance ever provide you with a receipt for your rent payments?"

"No. He never did. I asked him for one, early on, and he said he'd get around to it. But he never did."

"So you kept your own records."

"I had to. My husband always said, " Her voice catches, but she pushes through. "He always said if someone won't give you a receipt, keep my own paper trail. So I did."

I let the answer settle, then turn toward the defense table. "Mr. Tattle, would you like to cross-examine?"

Tattle rises. I hear the hesitation in the scrape of his chair.

"Ms. Delgado... these money orders. You purchased them at the Atlantic Avenue post office?"

"Yes."

"And the teller — this Tomas — he would vouch for your regular purchases?"

"He would."

Tattle pauses. I catch the faint rustle of fabric as he shifts his weight.

"No further questions, my Honor."

A ripple of surprise moves through the gallery. Foggy exhales beside me, and I feel Ms. Delgado's relief radiate from the witness stand like warmth from a fire.

Judge Corrigan's voice cuts through. "The court has heard the evidence. I'll take a brief recess before delivering my ruling. Fifteen minutes."

I rise from my chair, my cane finding the edge of the table as I make my way toward the witness stand. The gallery buzzes quietly — spectators stretching, lawyers conferring, the low hum of a courtroom in recess.

"Carmen, you did great up there."

Her feet hit the floor as she steps down, and I hear the shaky exhale she's been holding in since she took the stand.

"I was so nervous I thought my voice would crack."

"If it did, nobody noticed." I offer her a small smile. "You answered every question clearly. You didn't let him rattle you. That took guts."

She laughs, a little unsteady, but genuine. "Your partner handed me a folder with a blank piece of paper in it before I went up. Said it was for moral support."

From across the room, Foggy's voice drifts over. "It's a tried and tested legal technique. The Fake Folder. Intimidates opposing counsel every time."

I shake my head, a real smile tugging at my lips. "I'm going to check the hallway. Give me a minute to breathe."

I tap my way toward the courtroom doors, pushing through into the corridor. The air is cooler out here, less charged. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. I find a spot along the wall and let the quiet settle around me, running through the hearing in my mind.

Fifteen minutes. Then Corrigan delivers his ruling.

I find the wall with my shoulder and let myself settle into it. The plaster is cool through my blazer, the surface faintly textured beneath my palm.

The hallway breathes around me.

Footsteps pass at irregular intervals — a clerk hurrying with papers, the measured stride of a bailiff, the soft squeak of a janitor's cart somewhere down the hall. Voices filter through closed doors, muffled and indistinct. A phone rings in an office two floors up, the sound carrying through the building's old bones.

I close my eyes. Not that it matters, but the gesture helps me focus.\

The courthouse has its own rhythm. I've learned to read it over the years — the way the heating system clicks when the steam rises, the creak of a particular floorboard near the water fountain that means someone's approaching from the east stairwell, the faint electrical hum of the clock above the courtroom doors. It's a language spoken in vibrations and echoes, and I've become fluent.

My mind drifts to the Fourth Street Mill. The trucks at odd hours. The men in suits who never dress like workers. Elena's story about the bounced check was settled in cash. 

It's connected. I can feel it, the way I feel a change in air pressure before a storm.

But that's tonight's problem.

Right now, there's a woman and her daughter waiting for a judge to decide if they get to keep their home.

The courtroom doors creak open behind me. A bailiff's voice cuts through.

"Court will resume in five minutes."

I push off the wall, rolling my shoulders back. Time to finish this.

I push off the wall and turn in the direction of Foggy's familiar footsteps approaching. He stops beside me, the scent of his cologne — something inexpensive he's worn since law school — mixing with the courthouse air.

"Foggy, any last-minute observations?"

He lets out a breath, long and slow. "I think we've got this. Corrigan's been on our side all morning. Tattle's flailing, Vance is sulking, and Carmen's testimony was solid." He pauses. "But Corrigan's also unpredictable. He doesn't like being predictable. He might rule against us just to keep everyone guessing."

I nod. "He's fair, though at least by Gotham standards. That's what matters."

"Fair, yeah." Foggy's voice drops. "But fair doesn't always mean favorable. And Vance has connections. The kind that might've reached his chambers."

I consider that. I've heard the rumors about Corrigan — that he’s incorruptible, that he's turned down bribes from the Carmine family. But Gotham's rot runs deep, and everyone has a price.

"Then we trust the evidence," I say. "That's all we can do."

The courtroom doors creak open. The bailiff's voice cuts through the hallway. "All rise for the Honorable Judge Corrigan."

I straighten my blazer, my hand tightening on my cane. "Let's go hear our future."

I turn my head toward the small shuffling sound of Sofia's sneakers on the marble floor, finding her somewhere near her mother's elbow.

"Sofia, keep that file safe.”

The girl's voice comes back serious, important. "I will. I've got it right here."

"Good. That file is the difference between chaos and order in a courtroom. Without you holding it down, the whole system might fall apart." I keep my tone grave, as if entrusting her with state secrets.

"I won't let you down."

"I know you won't." I give her a small nod, then tap my cane toward the courtroom doors. "Alright. Let's go hear what the judge has to say."

The doors swing open as the bailiff holds them. I step inside, the familiar weight of the courtroom settling around me — the cool air, the faint scent of old wood and paper, the hushed murmur of the gallery. I find the table, my cane brushing against the edge before I settle into my chair.

Ms. Delgado sits beside me. I hear her exhale, steadying herself. Behind me, Sofia's small shoes scrape against the floor as she climbs onto the bench, the manila folder rustling in her lap.

Judge Corrigan's voice cuts through the quiet.

"Before I deliver my ruling," he says, "I want to address something I observed during these proceedings."

A pause. The air is tight.

"Mr. Vance." His voice sharpens. “Your attorney attempted to introduce evidence he had not shared with opposing counsel. He questioned the validity of a tenant's receipts without offering a single document to support those doubts. And throughout this hearing, I have sat in silence while your counsel built a case on insinuation rather than fact."

The gallery holds its breath.

"Ms. Murdock's client provided clear, consistent documentation. Three years of payments. A paper trail that any auditor would accept." 

Another pause. "Mr. Vance, I'm going to ask you a direct question. Do you have any evidence that Ms. Delgado failed to pay rent, beyond the absence of your own record-keeping?" His question has a near-silent undertone of desperation, like he is begging for Vance to give him plausible deniability to rule in his favor. 

I turn my attention inward, filtering out the ambient noise of the courtroom — the fluorescent hum, the rustle of the gallery, Foggy's steady breathing beside me — and focus on the defense table.

Vance's heartbeat.

It's there, beneath the silence. Steady at first. Then a flicker. A skip. The rhythm tightens, quickens, as Judge Corrigan's question hangs in the air.

“Do you have any evidence…”

Another skip. His breath changes — a shallow inhale, held too long. The faint creak of his chair as he shifts his weight. The subtle scrape of a shoe against the floor.

He's nervous.

"Mr. Vance." Judge Corrigan's voice sharpens. "I asked you a question."

Vance clears his throat. "Your Honor, I — my property manager handled the rent collection. I relied on his records."

"And those records show no payments from Ms. Delgado for six months?"

"They do."

"Yet Ms. Delgado has provided receipts for every single month during that period." A pause. "Did you  ever personally review your manager's records against actual deposits?"

The heartbeat stutters again. A longer pause.

"I... delegated that responsibility, your Honor."

"Delegated." The word lands like a gavel. "Mr. Vance, let me be clear. You are asking this court to evict a widow and her child based on a bookkeeping discrepancy that you never personally verified. Your manager is not here to testify. Your records are incomplete. And the plaintiff has provided a paper trail that contradicts your claim entirely."

He lets the silence stretch.

"I'm prepared to rule."

"Your Honor, may I add one thing?"

Judge Corrigan pauses. "Go on, Ms. Murdock."

I rise slowly, my hand resting on the edge of the table. "Mr. Vance claims he delegated rent collection to his property manager. But in his eviction filing, he personally swore under oath that Ms. Delgado was six months behind." I tilt my head toward the defense table. "If he delegated the records, how could he personally verify the debt? And if he didn't verify it, he swore to a falsehood."

A beat of silence.

"Either Mr. Vance knowingly filed a false eviction claim, or he filed one without doing the bare minimum to confirm its accuracy. Both options have consequences under the law."

Tattle rises. "Your Honor, Ms. Murdock is — "

"Sit down, Mr. Tattle." Corrigan's voice cuts like glass. Silence follows.

The judge's chair creaks as he leans forward. "Mr. Vance. I'm giving you one last opportunity. Do I have any direct knowledge that Ms. Delgado failed to pay rent, or are you relying entirely on your property manager's incomplete records?"

A long pause. Vance's heartbeat drums against my ears, uneven, rapid. He clears his throat.

"...I relied on my manager's records, your Honor."

"Then I have my ruling."

The courtroom holds its breath.

"The defendant's motion for eviction is denied. Ms. Delgado is to remain in her home. Furthermore, Mr. Vance is ordered to pay court costs and Ms. Delgado's legal fees. I'm also referring this matter to the city's tenant protection board for review of potential retaliatory eviction practices."

A sharp exhale from beside me. Ms. Delgado's hand finds my arm, trembling.

"We won," she whispers.

"We won."

The courtroom erupts into quiet motion — the rustle of the gallery rising, the shuffle of papers, the low murmur of conversation. But at my table, time slows.

Ms. Delgado's hand is still on my arm, her grip trembling. "We won. We actually won."

“You won." I turn toward her, a genuine smile crossing my face. "I just helped you prove what you already knew."

Beside me, Foggy lets out a breath he's been holding for the entire hearing. "I need a drink. And a nap. Possibly in that order."

Sofia's voice pipes up from behind us. "Does this mean we get to stay?"

I twist in my seat, finding her small presence. "It means you get to stay. And Mr. Vance gets to pay for the privilege of wasting everyone's time."

The girl giggles. The sound is light, unburdened. It's the first time I've heard it all morning.

Judge Corrigan's gavel taps once. "We're adjourned."

I rise, my cane finding the floor. Ms. Delgado guides Sofia out of the row, and I follow them into the aisle, the gallery parting around me. Tattle passes without a word, his cologne trailing behind him like a retreat. Vance's footsteps are heavier, slower — a man who just lost more than a case.

Outside the courtroom, the hallway stretches before me, cooler and quieter. Ms. Delgado stops, turns toward me. "I don't know how to thank you."

"By going home and living your life," I say. "That's all the thanks I need."

She laughs, a little watery, and hugs me. I let myself receive it, my cane tucked against my side, my arms finding her shoulders. She smells like lavender and coffee and relief.

When she pulls back, Sofia tugs at my sleeve. "Miss Mary? You're really good at being a lawyer."

I crouch down to her level. "And you're really good at being a paralegal. I might have to hire you full-time."

"Really?"

"Really. But you'll have to negotiate your salary with Mr. Nelson." I jerk my head in Foggy's direction. "He handles the budget."

Foggy groans. "I'm already being ganged up on."

Ms. Delgado laughs, and this time it's full and warm. She takes Sofia's hand, and they head for the elevators, the girl waving the manila folder like a flag of victory.

I listen to them go, the sound of their footsteps fading into the courthouse's hum.

Then I turn to Foggy. "We've got a gala to get ready for."

"you sound almost excited."

"I sound like I just won a case." I tap my cane against the floor. "Let me have this."

There’s a lot about Y/N that Bruce doesn’t know about despite the two of them being married for over a decade. He knew she had sisters, two of them to be exact but that they were all content in doing their own thing and rarely visited each other. He knew Y/N had some form of military experience, which is why she could handle herself in a lot of weird and dangerous situations. He knew the basic stuff, her favorite color, her favorite meal, and everything that a good spouse should know about their significant other. 

He knew enough. Just not all of it. 

Y/N huffed into her drink, minding the hot liquid as the Jeep Wrangler snapped a branch under its large wheels. This is what they get when they let the youngest drive, and Yelena was taking them down this weird path that she found on her way back to their vacation home. Natasha sat in the back, all of them wearing some form of beach wear, and in their hands were different drinks. 

“Wooohoo, I love this car!” Yelena’s thick accent made Y/N chuckle and Natasha smile. Her brown eyes followed the line of Y/N’s shoulders, watching them slope and weigh down with stress. This vacation was a spur of the moment, but it’s been long overdue. Y/N was not in a vacationing mood until this past year, and Natasha and Yelena were quick to jump on that. They missed their middle sibling, but they also knew that she was going through a lot. 

The loss of a child is always a heavy thing to bear. 

“I took the liberty of redecorating some stuff, but I know you’ll like it,” Yelena added, using the Wrangler to go through the tiny stream, which let everyone know they were close to their house. Y/N smiled, “We do have similar decorating styles, so how bad could it be?” 

“Well, I’ve been living here for almost six months, so we’ll see.” Both Natasha and Y/N stared at their youngest sister in a mixture of shock and annoyance. Yelena was always eccentric like that. When they arrived at the house, both Natasha and Y/N gave a heavy sigh in relief. At least the outside was normal. Knowing Yelena, the interior will be… something. 

Although, Y/N wasn’t going to complain because she really needed this. These past few years have been stressful with little time to catch her breath. She went from grieving, to anger, to more anger at the sight of their neighbor dressed in familiar colors, to exhaustion. She adored Timothy Drake, and often treated him as her son, but that didn’t replace the giant hole in her chest from her other son. 

Jason Todd. A name that has haunted her for the past few years. He was taken too soon, and Y/N could sometimes barely find the strength to roll out of bed at the thought of him. Lucky Bruce for having a mission, as much as a lost cause and bane to her existence it was, that got him out of bed, while Y/N had nothing. Absolutely nothing to get her motivated enough. Yes, Tim and Dick helped out a lot, but nothing replaced the missing space Jason occupied. 

She avoided the library, rarely drove her favorite car, and sitting at the dining table became a chore. It’s definitely caused a rift between her and Bruce, and her husband looked like he had no real intention in trying to mend it. With Tim now, at least Bruce has become a bit more chill. Especially out as Batman, and Y/N chewed him out that his mental health and moral code shouldn’t be enforced by a 13 year-old. 

That seems to be the only thing they do nowadays. Arguments and cold shoulders. 

Recently however, there’s been a new person on the streets that's been causing everyone a lot of stress. The Red Hood. A man who was single handedly bringing Crime Alley to kneel and driving Batman up the wall in frustration. Sure, the severed heads in a duffle bag may have been a bit overkill in her opinion, but if that’s what gets the drugs out of the hands of little kids then she can get behind it. 

Y/N hummed when she was shown a picture, Bruce urging her to be cautious, and she hid a smile behind her cup of tea at the stress lines on Bruce’s face. No, she didn’t want the guy stressed like this but he’s been pissing her off incredibly so these past few weeks so seeing him frazzled the way he’s frazzled her had definitely tickled a sore spot in her. 

Not her best moment, but she never claimed she was a saint. 

So with some push from her sisters and also from the people she lived with, Y/N decided to go on vacation. A long overdue one, but well needed. She and her sisters had purchased this island together quite a while ago, and they used to try to do a vacation once a year at minimum out here. However, Y/N got married and times had to shift around her kids’ schedules. She somehow always made it out though. Just not for the past few years. 

“Good to be back,” Y/N welcomed the home, and her eyebrow twitched at the slight mess in the living room. Overall though, the place was just how she remembered it. Large windows that faced the open ocean, an infinity pool of sea water that came directly from the ocean, and the openness of it all. It was a stark contrast from the manor and its Victorian walls and decor, which Y/N loved, but she’s always loved the ocean and the sun the most. 

She always meant to take her kids here, but this place was reserved for her and her sisters. They bought it with their money, and it was used fairly regularly by the other two. Before she had kids, Y/N would come by almost every season and enjoy the views and everything their home had to offer. Then it became once a year, which Natasha and Yelena understood with some bitterness on their younger sister’s side. 

“I washed your sheets, so they should be nice and fresh for you.” Y/N smiled at Yelena and she kissed her younger sister’s cheek in appreciation. She grabbed her bag and headed up the stairs where everyone’s rooms were. All rooms were about the same size and each had their own private bathrooms and walk-in closets, which acted more as storage than anything. None of them stayed long enough to fill the mini rooms with clothes, but maybe Yelena finally had a half-filled closet? 

All rooms had a wrap-around balcony, connecting their rooms from the outside, and floor to ceiling windows. Each occupied room was strategically placed so they could have a 360 view of the island, with Natasha choosing to watch the cliff side, Yelena the forests, and Y/N the beach side. 

Y/N’s room was a little more decorated, photos of family decorating her walls and bedside tables. She picked up the one where it was her, Jason, Bruce, and Dick at a gala. Probably a Christmas one judging by the color scheme, and a bitter smile took over her face. Dick and Jason were in the midst of arguing, and Bruce looked exhausted. His face in his hand and the slight furrow in his brow, while his other hand rested on Y/N’s shoulder. She had one arm resting on Jason’s shoulder, holding him close to her side, while Dick stood between her and Bruce and Y/N’s other hand was resting on his chest in what looked like she was trying to soothe him. 

Despite the argument, there was no real heat in any of their faces, with Jason sticking his tongue out and Dick looking offended at the action. 

Y/N set the photo down and looked around her room, noting the lack of dust and the lack of smell that formed when a room hasn’t been used. She made a mental note to thank Yelena. It looked like Yelena even put up some recent photos for Y/N, now that she saw there was one of her and Tim. 

‘Little stalker.’ Yelena and Tim should never meet, Y/N concluded. She set her bags down and collapsed onto the King bed, and felt her muscles relax. It was a 10 hour flight, and then an hour long drive to get to the port, followed by a 40 minute yacht ride, then another 20 minute drive to reach their destination. Yes, it was a hassle to get here, but that’s exactly why they chose this place. For its remoteness. 

Pulling herself off the bed she opened the glass door to her balcony and was greeted by fresh air and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. The palm trees beneath them swayed with the breeze and she could see a bird every now and then. She leaned against the glass railing, lips pursed as she took in the sight. 

Without a doubt, her kids would love this view. Maybe she’ll bring them one day. She glanced back at the photo of her and Jason, a candid one of them when they fell asleep in the library and The Count of Monte Cristo rested in Y/N’s hand with Jason’s head on her shoulder. 

‘We never finished that book.’ Pushing herself off the railing, she shut the door and headed towards the bathroom to shower. 

When she exited in her bathing suit, the steam that followed her out was brushed away by a gentle breeze. Y/N’s attention snapped to the balcony door, which was slightly ajar. She furrowed her brow, “I thought I closed that,” she mumbled to herself, walking over and closing it once more. She heard the audible click and tried to remember if she heard it before she got in the shower. 

She didn’t. Y/N pursed her lips, and gave a heavy sigh, “C’mon Y/N, you’re better than this.” She grabbed her towel, a sun hat, sun glasses, a book from her bookcase, and left her room and went down to the pool. Yelena said she stalked up on pizza and would be heating it up closer to dinner, so until then, Y/N was going to relax by the pool. 

++++

“So then I told them that it was the left switch actually, and oh man you should have seen their faces!” Natasha, forever composed, chuckled while Yelena and Y/N gave a loud laugh. They sat outside, underneath the stars with the house lights dimmed, and Yelena was recounting her year for her sisters. 

Just like their dad, Yelena was always a great story teller, while Natasha and Y/N took after their mother, patiently listening. Y/N leaned against Natasha, minding her sister’s cup of coffee while she and Yelena were working through the large vodka bottle that their youngest sister brought. 

Natasha kissed the top of Y/N’s head, enjoying that her sister was finally here. Brown eyes met E/C and she could still see the pain reflected in those pools of intelligence and love. When she had heard about what had happened to Jason, to the boy Y/N bragged and raved about, her heart broke for a boy she only knew from stories and for the love her sister had for him. 

“He’s not doing anything Nat! Our son, my son, was just mur-” Y/N gasped and Natasha kept telling her younger sister that she needed to breathe. 

“Jason is dead. My son is dead! And he wants to put that Мудак* back in Arkham, as if that's going to do anything!” 

She can recall when Y/N nearly went ballistic when Dick was strapped to a bomb. There were plans being made and Natasha could hear the faint sound of something zipping before she managed to talk her sister out of doing whatever it was she had planned. Y/N wasn’t the most well known in her capacity of showing grief. It was like her sister had a lock and key on that particular emotion, and even when they were younger, Y/N struggled showing it. It’s not like she couldn’t feel it, because Natasha can remember staying up and pressing her ear against their shared wall, and listening as Y/N sobbed. 

Y/N didn’t enjoy showing people she was grieving, even as a child. So when she got that phone call from her sister, and listened to her sob and break on the other side of the line, it had broken a part of Natasha as well. It made something ugly swell in her chest knowing that there was someone out there that caused Y/N to crumble. 

Although, knowing her sister, Y/N was never one to take something like that lying down. Y/N was an ‘eye for eye’ kind of person and while she may have cooled it after marrying Bruce, which Natasha and Yelena had opinions about, that is who Y/N was at her core. Batman may like to spew that he was vengeance, but Y/N was the living incarnate of karma. What goes around comes around, and Y/N always made sure that she was the one to hand deliver it. 

“So, Y/N,” Yelena called out, and Y/N hummed. Yelena and Natasha made eye contact, “What’s the plan?” Y/N hummed in confusion, “Relaxing, drinking, hang out with you tw-” 

“No no no, the plan Y/N. Against… ya’ know…” Yelena circled her finger next to her temple and Y/N removed herself from Natasha’s shoulder. She gave Yelena a cold look, “There is no plan.” Yelena stared in shock while Natasha furrowed her brows, “That’s not like you.” 

Y/N shrugged, “No plan. That fuck is in Arkham and he’s going to stay there.” 

“Okay, how do you know that? Hasn’t there been multiple Arkham break outs?” Y/N shrugged and she took a sip of vodka from the bottle, “He’s still there. Hasn’t broken out once. He’s staying in Arkham.” There must have been something in her eyes, or maybe her sisters just know her that well, because a grin broke out on Yelena’s face while Natasha’s posture relaxed. 

“He’s dead, isn’t he.” Y/N shrugged, “Don’t know, don’t care. He’s just never coming near my family again.” She took a chug and set the vodka down, which Yelena grabbed. Natasha gave a hum, “I heard the League of Assassins lost a valuable soldier recently." 

Y/N raised a brow, “Now where did you hear that?” Natasha shrugged, a smile on her lips, “Just saying, Ra’s is losing his touch.” Yelena and Y/N rolled their eyes, “About time that suit of moth balls retires.” 

“Or dies. I have a petition for him to die.” Yelena nudged Y/N with her foot, “One last mission?” Her sister snorted, “Hell no. My last mission was eight years ago, there’s no way I’m fit to go on another one… let alone one that infiltrates the League.” Maybe in her prime she’d do it. She’s done it before and made it out with only a scar, but she hasn’t done anything that physically intense since the trio's last hurrah. 

Yelena shrugged, “Just saying, no better way to make sure someone's dead then-” 

“To do it yourself,” All three stated. Natasha set her now empty cup of coffee down and reached for the vodka bottle. She and Yelena continued to eye Y/N, waiting and watching to see how she reacted. Y/N gave a small practiced smile, “He’s in Arkham. I won’t worry about him.” She pushed herself off the chair and gave a large stretch, the alcohol sat warmly in her stomach and made the world a little warmer and less stable. 

“I will see you both at breakfast tomorrow.” She didn’t wait to hear a reply as she made her way back into their house and up the stairs. Y/N scratched the back of her neck, feeling the tension ease from her shoulders and the trauma slightly released from her pelvis. Entering her room, she made her way to the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face, not giving the room a glance. 

She knows where everything should be. After their lunch, she had come back up to unpack and place things where she wanted them. Her book, Emma, was placed back in the bookshelf and pajamas were laid out on the bed and ready for her. She hadn’t picked a book to read for tonight just yet, and she knows this because she would’ve set it down on her bedside table. Not her desk. 

Definitely not her desk, that she hasn’t been near all day. E/C eyes zeroed in on the book that was resting on the dark oak. Her hand reached to her bedside table, silently pulling out a gun, and turning the safety off. She scanned the area, noting no changes to anything else and she didn’t spot any cameras. 

Years of experience that she thought she left behind made its way forward, it made her steps silent and muscles tense and she stalked to the desk. She scanned the balcony, noting the door was still closed and there were no signs of entry. When she cleared the balcony, she returned her attention to the book. She used the light of the moon to illuminate the room, and her brow furrowed at the sight of the title. It was Frankenstein. 

“The hell?” She didn’t hear any ticking, and the air didn’t smell differently either. Using the tip of the gun, she flipped the cover of the book and her breath stilled. In the middle of it was a picture of just her and Jason. They were in her convertible with the top down and sitting on the back like those old beach movies, their feet on her nice leather seats, and in their hands were burgers and milkshakes. It was a sunny day, with the both of them wearing sunglasses and shorts, and Jason had on the cheesiest smile while Y/N was staring fondly at him. 

“Ma! Liking that flavor is a crime.” Y/N scoffed, “Says you! Plain vanilla, really Jay?” Her son gasped, and pressed himself into her, “It’s a classic! You love classics!” 

“Yeah, classic literature.” Jason scrunched his nose, taking their order for them and following her back to her car, “Oh! Can we eat in the car this time?!” 

She leaned against the desk, resting the gun on the wood and putting her weight into her hands. Her chest tightened and she bit her lip to stop any sound from coming out. If her sisters thought this was heartwarming then they were sorely mistaken. Deft fingers picked up the image and her thumb traced Jason’s face, and she did everything in her power to remember his smile. 

“My Jason…” 

+++

There were little things like that, photographs being placed in places they shouldn’t be, books that she never touched, and doors not closing all the way that had Y/N looking over her shoulders for the next few days. Y/N felt as though she was being driven up the wall. Not to mention her two sisters kept asking about the Joker. 

All of it was driving Y/N insane, and when she finally got some sense of peace, floating in the pool, she allowed her mind to drift. She could faintly hear Natasha and Yelena talking, but their voices were muffled as they were in the kitchen and her ears were underwater. The warm breeze from the mediterranean ocean kept her skin warm while the water’s weightlessness alleviated all the tension she was feeling. 

Her mother always said that her biggest flaw was she carried her stress on her shoulders. It was her one give away and it had been one of the few things that the Red Room could never get rid of. Her father joked that she’ll have broad shoulders because of it, and her mother would swat at him with a roll of her eyes. 

She held her breath and allowed herself to submerge under the waters. Y/N opened her eyes after a while and when she peered up, she shot out of the water and rubbed her eyes. 

“Y/N! What's going on?” Yelena called out, and Y/N was coughing up the water she accidentally inhaled when she gasped. 

“Did you see that?” Yelena raised a brow, “See what?” Y/N motioned to the edge of the pool frantically, “The-the person! The person with a re-red helmet!” Natasha emerged from the house, a glass in her hands and she gave her sister a cautious look, “Y/N, no one was there.” Y/N’s eyes were wide and frantic, and Natasha took in how shaken her sister was. 

“Why don’t you come in and eat. The heat may be getting to you.” Y/N wanted to scream that she was not going crazy. The reason it seemed like she was, was because the two of them kept moving her photos and books! 

She bit her lip, and pulled herself out of the pool. The blurry image of the red helmet staring down at her didn’t leave her mind, but she chalked it up to home following her. There was no way the Red Hood, who didn’t know her connection with Batman, would follow her all the way out here. 

Let alone go unnoticed on this island. 

Natasha handed her a glass of wine which Y/N finished in two gulps. Her sister gave her a look, to which Y/N shrugged off. 

“Stressed much?”

“Yes.” Y/N rubbed her temples, “Extremely.” She moved to sit at one of the tables, ignoring the snacks and odd looks. Natasha and Yelena sat next to her, and waited. Y/N chewed on her words and she couldn’t stop the slight tremor, “Fuck… I feel like I’m losing it.” Yelena hummed, “Why?” 

“Even at home, it felt like Jason was haunting me. I could see him everywhere, and I know.. I know you guys are trying to help but messing with my books and things ain’t helping.” The silence was a little too heavy for Y/N to sit through, and when she looked up, she hated the confused faces of her sisters. She buried her head in her hands, “Please tell me that was one of you guys.” 

The silence was enough of an answer and Y/N felt her heart rate speed up. ‘Who the fuck is entering our house?’ For it to be Red Hood made no sense, because he had nothing against Bruce Wayne let alone his wife. Unless he wanted to make a statement of her? Which, he’s going to have a great time finding out that she was not a delicate flower that she likes to play as. 

Plus what kind of statement would that even be? She’s seen enough to know the reason doesn’t even have to be a good one. Some people are just cruel to be cruel.  She tried to imagine the Red Hood, who looks after the kids in Park Row, being cruel just to be cruel. She couldn’t. 

“I think you’re just stressed,” Yelena added, unnecessarily because Y/N knows she’s stressed. She bit down her biting words and instead of sighed heavily, if the Red Hood is here, then she’ll greet him with a gun and a threat. 

Sensing her growing ire, Natasha began to rub Y/N’s back again. Something was bearing heavy on her shoulders and she wanted to help her sister. It couldn’t have been that clown’s death, which despite the various attempts, she managed to dodge or state that he was in Arkham. 

Then again, Y/N hasn’t killed anyone in a while, so maybe it's the guilt of that? 

“Y/N, please tell me. Did you kill the Joker?” Like a live wire snapping, Y/N filled the air with a charge that had everyone taking a step back and the hair on the arms standing, “Yes! Okay! Yes, I fucking killed him!” It was spoken with the tone of someone finally letting their sanity slip, like a driver stuck in traffic watching the third car accident happen. She spun around, facing her sister and staring her in the eyes, “Is that what you want to hear?! That I had a hand in that monster’s disappearance because yes! Yes I did, and no, no I don’t regret a single thing.” 

How could she? How could she regret filling that disgusting piece of trash up with bullets, after everything he did to her family? For killing her son, her Jason, for Barbara, and for everything he’s put Gotham through. All the families he’s torn apart, all the people he’s buried, or worse sent them in a slow descent to madness. 

Gotham had enough criminals, enough that will run the areas Joker left behind, so really… he won’t be missed. Not by her, not by her family, hopefully not by Harley because her new found friend deserved better, and definitely not by the people of Gotham. Maybe she was a little enthusiastic about getting rid of the body, but who cares. The man was dead, and Y/N was so happy to see that stupid, horrific smile wipe off his face when he realized it was neither the Bat nor Nightwing about to kill him. Instead, it was a grieving mother, with her last straw broken and a gun she hasn’t used in almost a decade. 

“God, I should’ve done it sooner too. That fucking monster, all the orphans he’s made, all the parents that had to bury too small of coffins-” She choked on her words, remembering Jason’s, he baby boy’s closed coffin being lowered into the ground and with a tombstone so horrible she could barely look at Bruce. 

“-All the lives he’s ruined all because of some sick fucking perversion for Batman!” Tears were now racing down her face and her sisters watched in shock as their sister unraveled in front of them, 

“My baby… my son… How could I just lay in bed knowing that the murderer of my son was laughing in a padded room? Knowing that my eldest tried…” and Bruce fucking revived that fuck! He claimed it was for Dick, and part of Y/N believed him because Dickie may have crumbled under the weight of knowing he took a life… but there was therapy for that and Y/N had a lot of experience dealing with murder. Hell! The two of them may have been able to bond even more about that! 

She would’ve opened her past up for Dick, something she hasn’t done completely for Bruce, and helped compartmentalize and organize everything of the murder. 

Hands rested on her back, and she met the heartbroken eyes of her sisters, and it made her cry harder. How could Bruce bring him back? Did Jason not haunt him like he did to her? She could see him in every doorway, at every meal, in the passenger seat of her car, Y/N saw Jason everywhere with his large smiles and bright laugh. 

Her son in every way that wasn’t blood followed her from room to room, from reality to her dreams. Her Jason was everywhere.  Dick was Bruce’s son, and he was hers as well, but every mannerism was from or influenced by Bruce. That’s why he is a better, kinder vigilante than Batman. Bruce got to have his son in Dick, but Jason was hers. All her’s. From their love of literature, to the attitude, and crossed arms when faced with situations that could’ve been solved if their words were taken seriously from the start. At one point, Jason even started picking up on her slight accent, one that had Y/N thrilled and Bruce smiling fondly at the two. 

Her Jaybird. Cut from life too soon because he was a good kid, who loved with everything in him, and wanted to save his mother. His real mother. Y/N had a glass of her finest wine when she heard Sheila died. She succumbed to her injuries, but had the nerve to say that her son, Y/N’s boy, was a good son with her dying breath. As if Y/N didn’t know that. 

As if that wench wasn’t part of the reason he was dead. 

Sheila got off easy because if she didn’t die that day, Y/N had a plan to make that woman’s life a living hell. A type of hell that would have that woman wanting to die. 

“Nat, Lena… I… I don’t know what to do.” Because killing the Joker did not bring Jason back. She doesn’t even know if this is what Jason would have wanted. While Jason was her son and they both believed in an ‘eye for an eye,’ it was hard to know without hearing it, because he was also Robin. If Bruce were to ever find out, she can’t say how he’d react. It has yet to be discovered that the Joker was dead, but she has a feeling that it won’t last long. 

If Bruce found out, Y/N could see the arguments and cuffs already. Bruce chewed out Dick for killing the Joker, and when Y/N got involved, they were both nearly at each other’s necks about it. 

“It was wrong!” Y/N saw red, “What was wrong was you reviving him! Don’t yell at Dick for killing the thing we all want dead!” She and Bruce glared at each other, “You don’t honestly think, that-that thing can be saved. Do you?” 

“Jack Napier deserves-” 

“Nothing. He deserves absolutely fucking nothing. Not after what he’s done to us, to Barbara, and to all of Gotham.” 

They slept in different rooms that night, and for multiple nights following that. She’s not sure if she’s ever been able to look at Bruce the same, and she knows he’s looking at her in a different light as well. Her husband has always been the better between the two of them. Because while Bruce can get hurt and shrug it off, believing fully that everyone can be saved, Y/N would hurt the person who hurt her. Her previous line of profession made it easy to decide who was worth saving and far beyond it. 

Not every sinner could be saved, especially those who don’t even want to be saved. 

Y/N choked on her sobs as the memory of Jason’s corpse surfaced to her mind. His broken and bruised body, changed from the suit to regular clothes, laying there in that haunted cave. Gone were the smiles, the awkward chuckles whenever Jason got too banged up and had to tell Y/N how he got so, followed by the laughs and apologies that Y/N always folded too. No warm arms to wrap around her waist in a hug, or cheeky remarks that made Y/N smile. 

When Dick arrived, still in the Nightwing uniform because he had just gotten back from his outer space mission, he all but collapsed into Y/N’s arms before his screaming match with Bruce. A screaming match that Y/N didn’t have the strength to participate in. Her attention was flickering between her last conversation with Jason, all their conversations, and now his dead body. 

Her sisters held her tightly, Yelena nuzzled her nose into Y/N’s shoulder while Natasha rubbed her back. The both of them afraid that anything more and their dearest sister would fall apart in their arms. 

++++

Whoever said leaving someone alone after a mental breakdown was a great idea, definitely deserves a shot of vodka. Y/N crawled out of her room to a post it note on the fridge, stating that Natasha and Yelena went to the mainland to grab more groceries and more vodka. Y/N shrugged, and reached into the fridge and smiled at the freshly cut watermelon and strawberries. There was also a wine bottle with her name on it, written neatly and in cursive. 

She’ll have a cup of coffee later. Y/N grabbed the wine bottle and both the containers of watermelon and strawberries. She popped the cork, and poured a generous amount in a mug, and made her way towards the porch with the bowl of watermelon and strawberries in her other hand. When she passed by the living room, she paused mid step, took a small step back where she had a full view of the space, and turned on her heel to face the person in her living room. 

“Well, I was wondering when you’d show yourself.” She took a sip of her wine from her mug, and watched the Red Hood carefully. He was taller, broader, and more decked out in weapons then she expected. He looked like the type of guy that would cut off heads and shove them in a duffle bag. 

“Here I was hoping you’d think you were going crazy,” The red helmet was tilted to the side, and the slits narrowed. Y/N huffed, “Well, almost had me.” She took another sip, and never broke eye contact with the tank that was standing in front of her. “I don’t appreciate you touching my books, let alone my photos.” 

It got her a shrug, “Couldn’t help myself. I love classics, and the photos… well just wanted to see what you’d do.” She’s going to cut off his fingers. That’s what she’s going to do. 

She set her mug down precariously on the back of the sofa, balancing it on the cushion and she picked up a strawberry, “So, what does the infamous Red Hood have to do with me? Unless I’m involved in some scandal that I have not been made aware of, I don’t think the two of us have anything in common.” At least, not enough to warrant a visit to a remote island in the mediterranean sea. 

He watched her closely, keeping track of her hands when she went to grab her mug of wine. “A glass of wine this early in the morning?” Y/N rolled her eyes, “It's a mug, and yes. It’s called vacation.” 

“It’s called a problem.” Y/N sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes, “Give me a break. Someone with your recent history shouldn’t be lecturing me about a problem.” She moved to sit on the couch, but the Red Hood made an abrupt motion that almost had her chucking her bowl at him. 

“No no, don’t move.” Y/N raised an eyebrow, “Well, if you want to have a discussion, I would like to sit.” The Red Hood huffed, “Just keep your hands where I can see them.” 

“Scared of little ol’ me?” Y/N walked around the couch, her hands occupied, and sat in the middle. 

“I’ve seen the weapons you have stored here. You’re not as innocent as you like making people believe.” Y/N narrowed her eyes, “We all have secrets. Surely I’m privy to mine, plus those are my sisters.” 

“If being a trained mercenary with a kill count, infiltration prowess, and one of the notorious Widows, is a secret you want to be privy too, that’s a pretty big secret.” ‘This fuck,’ Y/N sucked her teeth and took another sip. She smirked, “Hmmm, the masked man of mysterious origins is going to lecture me on secrets?” 

A dry laugh left him, and Y/N watched as he lightly scuffed his foot into the wood flooring. For a moment, her boy Jason stood in front of her, with an awkward smile and hands behind his back. 

She narrowed her eyes and quickly buried it. How could her son be haunting her in this situation? 

“So, you never did answer my question, what are you doing here?” Y/N popped a watermelon piece in her mouth. There’s a gun taped to the bottom of the coffee table, and a few knives hidden in between the cushions, if she could distract him enough to grab one she’ll have a chance. 

Then again, she’s killed someone with a mug before so in the worst case scenario she breaks this one. 

“Just thought I’d visit Gotham’s most well respected woman-” 

“Lying doesn’t look good on you.” 

“- and ask a few questions.” Y/N raised an eyebrow, “Questions?” He nodded and Y/N could feel the temperature drop around them, “What did you do with the Joker?” Y/N glared, “I don’t appreciate that name being brought up while I am on vacation.” 

What is with everyone’s obsession with that guy? First Bruce, then her sisters, and now this guy? 

“I can imagine, considering he killed your son.” The temperature dipped to freezing and Y/N looked ready to murder the Crime Lord in front of her. Her grip on the mug was tight and she looked ready to launch the bowl in her hand. 

Red Hood watched her for any sign of attack, and when he found none, he continued, “I’m curious what an ex-Widow, with all your tools and training, would do.” Y/N sucked her teeth, “What does it matter. He’s not getting out.” A laugh escaped the helmet, dry and humorless, “Right, as if he hasn’t gotten out how many times before.” Y/N grit her teeth, “He’s not getting out.” 

“Why, new security?” Y/N pursed her lips, “Have you been to Arkham yet?” He stiffened in front of her, and Y/N barked out a laugh, “Relax, I meant in general, not as a slight.” She was given a shake of his helmet and Y/N rolled her eyes, “Well, when you do go, why don’t you stop by his cell.” 

“You’re that confident I’ll get caught?” Y/N gave a sharp grin, “I’m confident your curiosity is something you listen to a lot.” She won’t fault him. It’d be hypocritical of her to do so, because Y/N was also curious to a dangerous extent. Gritting her teeth, Y/N gave Hood the stink eye, “My turn, what are your plans for Crime Alley?” When this vigilante first decided to show up, Y/N watched with careful trepidation. Crime Alley was Jason’s project, one he cared for and hounded Bruce on, and Y/N took it over when he passed. 

She paid weekly visits, kept a close eye on the police that patrolled there, and even made routine visits to the orphanages and foster homes. It’s just, the problems in Crime Alley are deeper than what she can publicly touch. It looks bad if Y/N, wife of Bruce Wayne and a ‘good’ citizen at that, started dealing with the drug trade. 

For a helmet that only had eyes, he was super expressive. The tensing of his shoulders and slight hitch in his breath was enough of a tell. Y/N set her mug down and began eating the watermelon in her bowl, her eyes never losing track of him. 

“I’m cleaning it up.” Y/N raised a brow, “If your plan is to kill all the gangs, then rethink and review it. You can’t get rid of crime.” 

“...I know. You can’t stop crime, you can only control it.” Y/N’s eyebrows lifted, and her chest tightened. She remembers having a similar conversation with Jason. One where she shared that one line. 

There are always going to be people doing terrible things, and no matter how many times you break their arms, femurs, or noses, it won’t ever stop someone else from taking their place. 

“Why… why did you let a new person take Robin?” Y/N blinked, and she paused in eating her fruit. So, this guy knows. She chewed on the words, her chest and shoulders heavy, but before she could say anything, he cut her off, “Please don’t lie.” 

Maybe it was the way he said it, but Y/N could hear the crack in his voice. Her brain was racking up reasons, and she was unable to come up with why. Why was he so upset about Robin? The words were stuck behind her teeth and her eyes were burning from unshed tears. 

“Why did you let there be a new Robin? Especially with what happened to the previous one?! Why are you letting there be more dead birds-” He cut himself off, and Y/N was staring at him with a heartbroken look. Her breaths were heavy and her limbs felt like lead. 

It’s his first time really seeing Y/N unraveled. 

“...who are you?” He was ready to bolt, and Y/N jumped for the gun under the coffee table, forgoing the bowl and her eyes watching as Red Hood stumbled and pulled his own gun out just as Y/N trained her gun on him. 

“No no, you don’t get to run. Who the hell are you? Why do you know about Robin?!” ‘Why are you bringing up my dead son?’ 

Both their hands were shaking, and Y/N could feel it in her bones that should she pull this trigger, she’ll regret it. She’ll regret it to the point that her soul will collapse and something will break. Taking a deep breath and going against her training, she set the gun on the coffee table and took a deep sigh. 

“...God I’m tired,” She whispered, and she began picking up the spilled watermelons and strawberries. Hood kept his gun out, but no longer was it pointed at her. 

Y/N took a deep breath, and let her body almost go limp, “I let there be a new Robin because if we didn’t accept him, he would have still gone out on those rooftops either way.” Timothy Drake was tenacious like that, bull headed just like Bruce. 

“At least this way he has the training and tools needed to defend himself.” 

“You’re sending another kid to fucking die!” 

“You don’t think I fucking know that?!” She snapped, all teeth and looking feral. Tears burned her eyes and her throat wanted to close, “You don’t think I know that I am setting myself up to bury another child? To see another broken small body, and know my involvement, or lack thereof, was the cause?” 

If only she trained Jason. If only she taught Jason. She thought that by not stepping in, she was saving him from staining his hands like her. Y/N believed that Bruce’s training would be enough because they weren’t going out there to kill. They were going out there to help and to save lives. 

Not take them. 

“I should’ve trained Jay,” She whispered, and the tears escaped once more. Y/N didn’t make the same mistake with Timothy like she did with Jason. Especially since Bruce didn’t show an ounce of care in properly training Timothy. At least not fairly. So she gave him a bo and taught him how to defend himself. She taught him how to disable bombs, and most importantly, she told him to always come back. Batman’s rules would be damned if he found himself in a position where his life was on the line. 

She should’ve been clearer with Jason. 

“What would you train him in?” Y/N huffed, a bitter smile on her lips, “Everything. I didn’t involve myself because I specialize in killing. Batman and my Jay didn’t do that. They saved lives, so what use would my teachings be?” 

She stared at a particularly bruised strawberry, and the red seeping out of it on the floor. 

“Now I wonder if it's because I didn't, that I have a part in him dying.” It weighed heavily on her, heavier than any other regret. It kept her up at night and disassociating at breakfast. Was her lack of involvement the reason he’s dead?

Could she have saved Jason by training him? Just a little bit. 

“You didn’t.” Y/N looked up with bleary eyes, and Hood had put his gun away and instead was reaching behind his helmet. 

“I promise, you didn’t have any part in my death.” Y/N choked on a sob and when the helmet was officially off, Y/N would recognize that face anywhere. Even behind the domino mask, or even older than he used to be. She’d recognize her son anywhere. 

“Hey Ma-” Her arms were wrapped around him, and they were both kneeling on the floor in the living room. The mug of wine forgotten, along with the bowl of fruits and weapons. Y/N sobbed into her son’s shoulder, her hands running through his hair, and her fingers checking his pulse just in case. 

He’s bigger than he used to be. Her son who haunted her for years was finally in her arms, and this time, Y/N had little intention of letting him go. 

End.

Notes:

*Russian for shithead. 

Taglists:

@Rosecentury 

@Problematicreblogger

@Kurai-hono-blog 

@Lunaluz432

@findingjaxx 

@interobanginyourmom

@hanz-176

Your make up is strewn across the bathroom counter, but this is out of shot. Instead, the skin care products are all neatly lined up on Bruce’s side.

You’re dressed in a fluffy white robe with your initials embroidered, hair clipped away from your face. Your make up from the gala is still on and you’re beautiful diamond studs— a present from Bruce, glitter under the bathroom’s lights. 

“Hello!” You smile at the camera. “And welcome to Vogue Beauty Secrets. Today, I’ll be showing you my skincare routine for after galas. We literally got back from the gala..." 

You glance over at Bruce, who is getting rid of his tie in the main bedroom. Luckily, the camera can’t see him. "What, twenty minutes ago?"

"Twenty-three," he corrects.

You laugh. "Twenty-three minutes ago. I wanted to film this while everything was still on because I feel like that's the only way to really show what works for me."

You carefully unclip the earrings, gently setting them down on a tiny golden plate. The camera picks the small metallic sound of the diamonds clicking against the metal. “These are usually the first thing to go because I'm terrified of dropping one down the sink. Bruce says that's what insurance is for, but I think he'd still judge me."

Somewhere off-camera, “I absolutely would.”

You laugh. “He's lurking somewhere off camera, don’t mind him.”

Slow and sure steps approach, Bruce’s is wearing a matching robe to yours and fluffy slippers the hotel provided. He looks absolutely adorable, but not like the camera sees it– the angle is too far off.

You pick up the cleansing balm, a yellow thing with a metallic lid. “This is the Elemis Cleansing Balm and an absolute jewel.” You rub the balm with circular motions all over your face. “And no, this isn’t sponsored.”

“When people always ask what my biggest beauty secret is.." You slightly turn your body in Bruce's direction. He grabs a cotton cloth, previously soaked in warm water. “It's probably hydration. Which is the most boring answer imaginable, but unfortunately it's true.”

Bruce begins removing the make up, with soft and soothing motions. His eyes are soft and focused on the task. Your heart swells, how is it you have such an amazing husband?

"People always think the gala is the exhausting part." Your eyes are still closed as Bruce keeps wiping a stubborn streak of mascara. "It's actually this. You're tired, your feet hurt, and the last thing you want to do is spend another ten minutes in front of the mirror." You smile. "It helps that Bruce loves to help with my skincare.”

He smiles, small and just for you. “If I didn’t you’d probably forget.”

You laugh. “That's not true!” You turn to the camera again. “Show them the cloth.”

Bruce’s massive hand appears in frame, veins noticeable and his golden wedding band shining. The cloth is now dirtied with varying shades of brown and a speck of maroon. 

“As you can see I was wearing loads of make up, and for that reason– where is i–”

Bruce hands you the next product. 

You barely look at him. “I use a second cleanser.” 

You quickly apply it. “Okay, boom! Makeup is off.” You move your head, showing the different angles. “Now comes the fun part.” A small pause. "When I was younger I used to think skincare was something you only did when your skin looked bad."

Bruce hums. "It showed."

You gasp, pretending to be offended. "You're unbelievable."

“You still married me.”

You hum, smirking at the camera. “It’s never too late to get a divorce.”

“Hydration,” Bruce clears his throat, and hands you the SK-II bottle.

“I was actually terrible with skincare,” you say as you press your product-soaked hands onto your cheeks. “As Bruce here snitched.”

“She used a barsoap.” Bruce dryly says. 

You laugh, glancing at him. “You’re getting kicked out of my video.”

“But then who would hand you everything?”

Just as you’re about to reply your phone rings. You quickly rinse your hands in the sink before picking it up. You click the speakerphone and set it on the counter.

“Dick, baby. What's wrong?”

“Can’t I just call to ask how my wonderful mother is doing?”

You suppress a smile. “So nothing is on fire?”

“Not on fire, no. Hypothetically... are all the cars insured?”

Beside you, Bruce pales. “Is someone hurt?”

Dick groans. “Please don’t tell me Bruce is there.”

“Sorry, baby,” You pause, shooting the camera a look. “And yes, all of the cars are insured. After you and Jason crashed the last one we weren’t taking risks.”

“Oh, okay! Thank you mom, love you. Bye!” He hangs up.

You look back at the camera with a fond smile. "Everyone says parenting gets easier when they're older."

Bruce slowly shakes his head. "It just gets louder."

You nod. "He's right. When they’re older they have their own opinions and personalities, and they have the confidence to argue back.” You scrunch your nose. “Eventually they realize I can out-stubborn every single one of them.”

You sigh affectionately. “This is part of the routine as much as the other steps. There’s always some emergency– so even if my phone is off there are certain calls from certain numbers that come through.”

“That being the kids and me.”

You grab the next product before Bruce can beat you to it. He grumbles something, but it lacks any heat.

You show it to the camera. It’s a tiny dark purple bottle, with a black pipette as lid. You squint your eyes, trying to read the description. “This is the Skin Ceuticals Hya–Hyaluronic… Acid Intensifier... Multi-Glyyycan. Wow, what a mouthful. Who even came up with the name?”

"Scientists."

You shake your head. "It’s all marketing." You slowly apply it. “I forgot to mention the names of the other products– wait, can I mention them? Since I’m not doing publicity or anything. Wait, am I going to get sued?"

Bruce shakes his head. “I’ll ask the lawyers tomorrow.”

"See?" You grin at the camera. "I don't even have to think about things like that anymore."

Bruce shrugs. "Occupational hazard."

You shift the camera slightly, so it doesn’t catch you giving Bruce a sweet peck on the cheek. His shoulders slump and you give him another.

A second after you’re back to the camera. “Sorry guys, I can’t resist my husband.”

Your phone rings yet again, the noise interrupting you mid-speech. You immediately pick it up, setting it on speaker again.

“Mother.” Damian’s voice can be heard. “I understood Richard called you?”

You raise a conspiratorial brow at the camera. “Yes, darling.”

“Richard has made yet another poor decision.”

“Ahuh.”

“I simply wished to clarify that I advised against it.” 

“Thanks sweetheart— please go to sleep now, it’s getting late.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Fine,” he grumbles. “Good night, mother.”

“Good night Damian, I love you.”

He hangs up after a second.

You laugh, bright and amused. “I think we’ve gotten a bit sidetracked. But there’s only two more steps to go!”

Bruce’s hand appears on screen again, showing the eye cream. You offer your face, your side profile is the only visible thing aside from Bruce’s gentle fingers applying the cream on your under eyes.

“You know, you’re really good at this.”

He barely smirks. “I’ve had practice.”

"Bruce always does the eye cream." You whisper to the invisible audience.

"You poke yourself."

You roll your eyes. "Once."

He looks at you, stopping his ministrations for a second. 

You sigh. "Twice."

Then the lipbalm, this time it's you who shows it to the camera. “And now my favourite part. The lip balm!” You apply it on your lips. “This one is honestly so good…” you finish rubbing it, “I keep one in each bag. A bit pricey though.”

“I think everyone expects some elaborate forty step routine. There isn’t one, just make sure your skin is clean and healthy. Oh, and really, really important. Don’t forget to drink water. The key for the whole glowy look is to be hydrated.”

“And marry someone who reminds you.” Bruce chimes in.

You smile. “That one definitely helps.” You unclipp your hair away, your hair gently framing your face. “Be kind to your skin. Don’t pick it, it’ll just get red and you’ll get more pimples.” 

“Don’t compare yourself to people on the internet either— I’m literally standing under a studio light.”

Bruce leans into frame just enough to kiss the top of your head. You look up at him, then at the camera again. “Thanks for watching!”

Comment Section:

@snoopycftheday the fact that she looks BETTER after taking her makeup off ?????????

@vogue Thank you for joining us 🤍

@slutforthestarks Bruce's entire personality is 'yes dear'

@metropolismetrosfan she genuinely has the most insane face card i've ever seen

@parasocialalert she has the personality of a wallpaper

@sukunt its sending me that 80% of the video is her flirting with her husband and talking to her kids and the other 20% is actual skincare

@selinakyle Can your husband fight?

@selinakyle Bruce CANNOT handle all that

@officialgothamgazette "there are certain calls from certain numbers that come through" being a mom never clocks out 

@slutforgreenlantern they're both so hot idk if i want to be them or be with them #pleasepleasepleaseletmethird

@boostergoldslefttoe just added everything to my cart... why is the total $672 😭😭😭

@daschundmom "Bruce is lurking somewhere off camera" Bruce proceeds to become half the video.

@user7696the way she instinctively tilted her face up so bruce could put on her eye cream... they've done this a thousand times IM SICK

@truthhurts she's only famous because she married bruce lmao she's not even that pretty

@mrswayneisamilf everyone talks about his green flags but can we discuss HER ?? she's so patient and kind every time one of the kids called she's my role model

bf!pope cody who... is a biter. he love the sensation and the way you react. he bites anything and everything. its gotten to the point where you've banned certain positions because he cant stop biting you. he doesn't even do it on purpose!! he just needed somewhere to rest his head... not his fault your shoulders were perfect for sinking his teeth into.

"pope!" you squeal, pushing him back lightly. his eyes rove over you, his blank expression unmoving on his face. "i thought we agreed no more biting."

he grumbles lowly before tucking his face back into the crook of your neck where he had it before you'd so rudely evicted him. "yeah. 'm sorry baby," he mumbles softly. his teeth graze against your skin as he continues, "cant help it." you huffed softly as you felt his teeth connect back with your skin.

"pope. quit it." he whines softly at the demand. cant let him get away with everything but you'd be lying to say you didnt like it

There was a lump in Andrew's throat that he couldn't seem to swallow. His eyes zoned out, looking down at the shower drain while water sprayed from above. He looked beautiful like this— sunset hues beaming through the bathroom window, setting his otherwise auburn hair ablaze into a fiery red, droplets glistening as they traveled down his defined torso, and his freckles much more prominent than usual. However, ogling your boyfriend was far from enjoyable with his current state. 

"Andrew?" you call out. It had been a long day for you and all you wanted was to finish it off with the comfort of your boyfriend and his home. 

Nothing. His hazel irises lackluster, breathing abnormally sharp, and entire body rigid. You ached in desperation to shake him from his daze. Peeking your head into the bathroom doorway, you weigh your options. Instead of speaking, you slowly step towards him.

Similar to how an individual might approach a stray dog, your feet softly pad towards the shower. The second your hand swings the foggy glass door open, Andrew flinches at the sound. It looked instinctual when his hand went yanking a towel to cover his crotch. Once recognition washes over,his jaw goes lax, but the tension remained dormant in his body. A comforting smile spreads across your face as he shuts off the water with a stiff motion. 

"Didn't mean to startle you…you didn't come to bed last night," you mention gently. 

It had become a ritual for the two of you. After a long week of errands, work, personal affairs, and simply adulting, you liked to dedicate your weekends to spend time with Andrew. He so Friday's consisted of you going straight to his place, having whatever he cooked for dinner, and then sleeping together in his bed. So for you to have fallen asleep alone, and then to wake up to find that he never came to bed at all was…alarming to say the least. 

Andrew's brows furrow and then unravel, not responding right away. He was sensitive when it came to the routines that he had; sleeping no exception. The only sound for a long moment being the last couple drips from the faucet. The silence, you've come to learn over the course of your relationship, is a form of self regulation for the older man. 

"Didn't wanna…bother you. You looked comfortable," he finally mutters. 

"Sweetheart, it's your bed," you giggle. "How would you be bothering me?" you question with a tilt of your head. 

Andrew's jaw flexes in discomfort, and he shifts to wrap the towel around his waist; making an effort to keep his penis covered. This doesn't go unnoticed by you, but you decide not to mention it. You settle on reaching out your hand to thumb at his cheekbone. 

"I was dirty," is all he says, averting his gaze even though he was leaning into your touch. 

"That's okay…you could've come to bed anyways, or we could've slept on the couch like last time. I don't mind if you're a little worn from the day," you jest. 

"No." he blurts "I'm dirty…I'm not…I'm not clean," he mutters shakily. 

You look down at his hands and they're about as shaky as his voice. In an attempt of comfort, you reach to place your hands over the rough, trembling ones before you. The second skin contact is made, Andrew violently rips his hands away, turning his face away. 

"Hey…Sweetheart…you're not dirty. I promise you, you're not okay? You just showered, you smell perfectly fine, I'm sure you scrubbed yourself thoroughly like always. We can get your old soap if you'd like," you suggest, attempting to cradle his face once again. He brushes your hands away, causing you to raise your hands in surrender. 

"No! This…this isn't about some soap. You're not…you're not listening! I'm dirty! I am dirty!" his voice climbs in volume the longer he speaks.

With wild eyes, his spine jolts up and begins pacing frantically. All his body seems to be capable of doing is shaking it's head no and pacing the same pattern within the small space of his bathroom. The way he clings that towel to his pelvis causes one of your brows to raise. 

"Baby-" you begin, but that pet name he was all too familiar with stirred him up further. You didn't realize your mistake as it fell from your lips, but the damage was already done. 

His nails now dig into his arms repetitively, causing deep crescents to litter his forearms. He mumbles the same words:Baby, Smurf, No, and Stop under his breath over and over in no particular order. He seems to be speaking to himself more than you. Those hazel irises of his become consumed by his pupils erratic pulsing.

"Shit sorry, Sweetheart…yeah good job…just keep looking at me, okay?" you whisper, an attempt to ground him. 

Those hazel eyes met yours as his pacing slows, now staring wide-eyed and desperate, silently begging you for guidance. For help. You have to grab at your thighs to prevent yourself from reaching out and holding him. 

"Yeah…there you go," you repeat with a nod.

Andrew then nudges his face into your chest with a whimper. Your hands hover uncertainly, not knowing if it was okay to touch him yet.

"M'sorry…s-so sorry I yelled," he apologizes as he nuzzles his face into your neck now. "Hold me…" he pleads while his burly arms squeeze around your torso, cheek flush against the slope of your shoulder, and his nose nuzzled into the side of your neck. 

"I know…I know…talk to me, hm?" you hum, finally holding him and running your fingers through his damp curls. 

"Don't patronize me," he croaks, yet he can't seem to let you go. 

You lightheartedly roll your eyes and huff out a sigh. This was a reoccurring dilemma where you would attempt to comfort Andrew, and he would interpret it as you mocking him. No matter how many times you reassured him, whenever the man was wound up emotionally, he fell back into old patterns. It was a belief instilled by the Cody matriarch that was about as reversible as a stain in a white tee shirt; it may never go away, but there's a chance it'll fade overtime. 

"Andrew…" you huff exasperated. 

He sniffles once and his grip on your waist becomes bruising. 

"Sorry…" he whispers, realizing what he said. 

"Will you talk to me? I'm getting worried," you press. 

He peers up at you through his wet lashes with the most adorable pout painted on his lips. Your heart fluttered at the sight and you could not resist brushing away a stray tear with your thumb. The gesture causes him to bashfully look away. Then, he rises to his full height, pulling away from your embrace. He looked so…small. Using such a word to describe the eldest born Cody seemed like an oxymoron. Yet, with him standing before you: eyes glossy, bottom lip wobbling, and face flushed, you couldn't ignore the innate desire to nurture him. 

With you, he felt like his identity of Pope Cody was an alter ego. With you, he was plain old Andrew. That's why the thought of sharing his murky past terrified him. He feared that the more you learned about his history, the quicker you'll run away from him. The quicker you'll run away from Pope; the unsettling, atypical weirdo that scared the shit out of people. He just wanted to be your sweet Andrew and nothing more. He would choose being a nobody over a Cody if it meant he could lead a life with you. 

"You love me?" he asks shyly. His face uncertain, but the way he was vulnerably laying out his heart made you believe that some part of him trusted that you cared for him. And Andrew's trust didn't come easy. 

Without hesitation you nod, cupping his freckled cheek in your hand. Carefully cradling his face with the fragility that you feared he may break if not held correctly. Once you press your lips light and lovingly to his forehead, you answer his question. 

"Wholeheartedly," you confirm. 

Suddenly, Andrew reaches for the tucked part of the towel wrapped around his waist. His movements are sluggish and hesitant, but there's a spark of determination in his eyes that really captures your attention. You provide the space he so desperately needs to reveal what has been buried for decades in the darkest parts of his subconscious. And when he freezes after barely untucking the towel, you're not sure what the shaken man is trying to convey. You suspect this is his way of trying to address your lack of a sex life. Except, you told him that you didn't mind going slow, especially since prison impacted his libido. 

"Sweetheart…I told you it's okay…I know you're not ready to have sex yet-" you begin, but he raises a hand, signaling for you to pause. You bite your tongue and nod for him to continue. 

Your eyebrows raise in curiosity as his towel slowly falls down his hips. The immediate thing you notice is how unusually bare below his navel is. It's flawlessly smooth and naked of any pubic hair. Mentally, you rationalize it as another manifestation of Andrew's particular nature. 

Then, he reveals his manhood and your hand immediately flies over your mouth. His shaft looked almost grotesque; littered with these round, discolored bumps one may mistake as an infection of sorts. Your brows furrow, and before your brain can formulate a theory as to what you're looking at, he brings your train of thought to a halt. You saw the way his bottom lip was already beginning to wobble, and how any second he might burst. 

"Cigarettes…" he chokes out before clearing his throat. "When I was little…every time she would put them out…w-wet myself," he grunts through strained breaths, tears pooling in his hazel eyes. 

Something overtakes his body and he practically collapses. You attempt to catch him, but in the end, his weight takes you both down. With all the strength a woman of your stature can muster, you pull him into your arms and Andrew lets out cries so pained, you can only assume he's been holding them in for years. With a heaving chest, he gasps for air in between sobs and tears freely flow down his face, the hot tears dropped along your arms and neck. All you can do is cradle him into your arms on this cold floor and pet his oh so soft coils, scratching his scalp every few strokes. 

"Oh my…" you whisper. "What did she do to you, Sweet Boy?" you ask earnestly. 

Your motherly tone seemed to evoke more sadness from the man. He let out a squeak that you could only imagine is what little Andrew sounded like crying for help. 

"M-made me…sit in my wet diap-pers…t-touched me-" he chokes out with the occasional hiccup, then an un-involuntary whine slips out. "Would use m-me…my m-mouth" he adds breathlessly. He attempts to say more but lets out a strangled noise as if speaking physically hurt him. You shush him soothingly and pull his head closer to your chest. His ear pressed against your welcoming chest, and the sound of your heart beating seemed to calm him. 

"Just breathe…" you lull him. 

Eventually, after many guided deep breaths and whispered affirmations, Andrew manages to recount the horrors of his childhood. He tells you of the horrific routine Smurf put him through: him wetting himself due to overwhelming anxiety, the witch of a woman making him sit in his filth before she would violate him, and then putting out her cigarette on his genitals as punishment for "getting too excited". It absolutely horrified you. It angered you. Most of all, your heart felt overwhelmingly heavy. You were devastated. The thought of your Andrew experiencing that. Your Sweetheart. Your loving, thoughtful, and loyal Andrew being exploited when he was a wee little boy made you sick all over. You had to fight the tears that threatened to fall at the mere idea of that small boy being taken advantage of. 

"Oh my goodness…" is all you say. 

You rub at his back, pulling the towel back over his trembling figure. 

"I know that…that it's gross and that…I know that it'd probably get in the way so…" he utters, sounding humiliated. 

"Andrew…nothing about your body could ever disgust me. You're only human. I love even the parts of you that aren't pretty, okay? You deserve to feel good in every way," you reassure him with a firm kiss to his temple. 

He lays there, unmoving, except for his back rising and falling with each breath. You continue to pet his head as he clings to you. He seems to zone out for a long moment, and you just patiently wait for him to come back, ignoring the ache in your lower back. 

"I hate my body," is all he says after a long while. 

You continue rubbing his back, letting out a hum to encourage him to continue. 

"It's never…clean. No matter what I do," his breath shudders on the last word. 

His eyes widen and he curls in on himself. His face begins to trembles and tears pool in his eyes again. His nails resume digging crescents into his forearms. 

"I…I just want to be clean. I try…I scrub and I rinse and I scrub and I rinse and nothing. Nothing! NOTHING!" he shouts, slamming his palm against his forehead repeatedly. 

He begins to scratch at himself, streaks of red puffing up along his skin. Your arms snake around his torso and you hold him as tight as your body will allow you to. The tears you've been keeping at bay finally slip out, struggling to keep up your strong front for him. More pained cries escape his lips, writhing in discomfort. You see him restraining himself from abusing his body, hands awkwardly contorting. 

"Sweetheart…I'm right here…I'm right here," you whisper, nuzzling against his temple.

He nods shakily before turning to bury his face in your chest again. 

Eventually, his breathing evens out and he pulls away, loosely hugging his knees to his chest. With eyes full of resentment, he stared between his legs at his flaccid phallus lying on the tile floor. There was a slight snarl on his face as he silently criticized his organ. You kneel in front of him, placing a gentle hand along his calf, rubbing up and down. 

"Is this what it was about?" you ask, and when he doesn't respond you elaborate. "Your…scars…is this why you didn't want to have sex?" 

"It's part of it…" he says after a moment. "Prison killed my sex drive…but I didn't really have one to begin with. Sex has always been…weird for me. I do it because I'm supposed to. It's like…everything else I do. I do what I'm supposed to," he mumbles, speaking in that unrhythmic cadence of his. 

"Well…do you ever want to have sex?" you ask. 

"Of course I do…you like to have sex so," he begins. 

"No, don't think about that. Without thinking about what I want, do you ever want to have sex?" you probe. 

"I don't know," he admits slowly. 

As the words fell from his lips, he seemed shocked they escaped. It was as if it was meant to stay as a thought. 

"Well that's okay. I don't want you to ever do something you're not comfortable with for the sake of me," you assure him. 

"I'd do anything for you though," he confesses. 

"Sweetheart…I know you would, but I never want to exploit that. I would never take advantage of your trust, but I need you to let me know when you're uncomfortable." you explain, pushing his curls back. 

"I…It's not that I don't like it. It feels good, but I just…I'm used to prostitutes I guess. It's always for something…" he mutters. 

"For something?" you repeat. "How do you mean, Sweetie?"

"My brothers or…Smurf…pay women to do it. I haven't really…been with many women. Not intimately. They always make me do stuff…" he complains. 

"Hm…like they tell you what to do?" you question, brushing back his curls again. 

He shrugs and a long pause is all you get in response. You realize he's told you as much as he's wiling. 

"Alright, Sweetie," you sigh. "Can I see something?" you whisper softly, hand hovering over his back. 

He nods weakly. You pull back the towel to really take in his battered manhood. It was just awful. The welted, raised skin, the discoloration and hyper-pigmentation. Simply looking at the site made your skin crawl. Yet, despite all the scars of abuse that littered his privates, your attraction didn't waiver. With the look on Andrew's face though, all he could seem to do is wallow in self disgust. 

"Hate it," he repeats, voice now hoarse.

Your heart broke further when he nuzzled his cheek against your thigh. The man who maintained such a stoic front was now baring his true self to you, and as painful as it was to watch, you were humbled that he trusted you enough to fall apart like this. It was so human in a way that was raw and ugly; something you could only admire if you truly cared for an individual. To love them at their most vulnerable was an act that could only be executed by love. 

"You're beautiful, Andrew," you whisper. "This doesn't change how good I could make you feel…if it's something you want I can make it happen," you coo, grazing his bare thigh with your nails. 

The hairs on his body began to raise. Your touch excited the man, how could it not? With the feeling of arousal though, disgust always came with it as well. For Andrew, the two things went hand in hand. The very act of sex was the most primal thing in his eyes. He'd seen it in the many nature documentaries he's watched. To Andrew, sex was something animalistic. It was something people simply do to channel their primitive instinct to reproduce. 

"I feel so gross…" he whines, and it scratches at a certain part of your brain. 

He then hides his face in your belly, and that sparks something in you. This desire— no, this absolute need to protect him. 

"The tingling, the heat…I just…think of what she did and I feel disgusting," he mutters. "Clearly my body wants it though," he grumbles, looking down at the semi that formed from your touch. 

"Hey, none of that," you tilt his chin to look up at you. "This only happens if and when you want it to. Your body is just a response system, it doesn't speak for you. You either wants this or you don't, and I'll love you the same either way, alright?" you say. 

"I…" he begins before letting out a sigh and nodding. 

"I need words, Big Boy," you say softly.

Andrew doesn't even want to begin addressing why that pet name causes his cock to stir. 

"I want you. I want it," he whines. 

"Want what? I'm not a mind reader, Sweetheart," you tilt your head. 

"Want your hands on it! I want you to touch me, but be gentle please," he whimpers out the last of his sentence. 

Your pupils widen at how pathetic he has become. It's utterly adorable. Tears prick at his wide puppy eyes, his bottom lip pink and puffy, nose flushed red, and blood rushing to his shaft. He looked so vulnerable, so weak, so innocent, yet so sinful. Slowly, your nails graze his pectoral before traveling downwards. This ignites a burning in his nether region, and a choked whine vibrates in his throat. You lightly graze his navel, then the base of his shaft before gently wrapping your hand around it. With pursed lips, a thin, clear string of saliva drips from your mouth and onto his cock. He lets out a hiss as you stroke him once. 

"This okay?" you purr. 

All he can do is nod and let out a whine, gasping out repeated ah ah ah's as you stroke him faster. Pre begins leaking, glistening as it dribbles down his tip. With every stroke the skin on his tip rolls back, sheathing and unsheathing his cock head. 

"I didn't know you were uncut," you tease. 

He looks up at you, desperate for validation, it seemed. 

"Is it okay?" he asks with wide eyes. 

"More than okay. You're perfect," You smile at his eagerness to please.

He grunts, eyes squeezing shut when your grip tightens. 

"I-it's so sensitive," he cries.

Your hand immediacy pauses. 

"Do you want to stop?" you ask worriedly. 

He shakes his head frantically, hips bucking upward to follow your hand. 

"Keep- keep going," he grunts. 

You let out a laugh before continuing your ministrations. 

"So bossy," you giggle. 

He mutters out a half hearted "sorry" as he rolls his hips up to meet your hand. God, he couldn't remember the last time he was touched by another woman intimately. He was so used to transactional sex that this, the love in your touch, made him feel like a fucking virgin all over again. The way your hand was moving wasn't just to make him finish, no your were dragging it out for him. You wanted him to ride the wave of pleasure, not just climax as quick as possible. 

"L-love you so much, so fucking much, fuck," he gasps, clinging to your forearm with a steel grip. Hips bucking ferociously. As much as he was enjoying this, it felt too good for him not to chase his orgasm. 

"I love you too, Big Boy," you coo. 

And it was those words that made him let out a pornographic moan and spurts of cum shoot out his cock. It was obscene really, the amount that came out. It's as if he hasn't touched himself in a long long time. With tears streaking down his pick flushed face he whispers "iloveyou iloveyou iloveyou" over and over like a mantra. 

So he was a crier when he came. Cute.

"Goood Job Sweetie," you praise, petting his hair.

Andrew just curls up timidly, cuddling as close to you as physically possible. He was spent, covered in his sweat, and cum painted across his tummy. Your heart fluttered at the site of him sniffling, his body trembling with every sucked in breath. Andrew, your Andrew who hid himself from you for so long, let you make him feel good. When he finally sits up, it's to nuzzle his face into your neck, hugging you like you slip between his fingers if he doesn't. 

"Sweetheart wait-…geez you got yourself all over me," you huff, not annoyed, but inconvenienced. 

He nuzzles into your neck further, his climax now smeared all over your shirt. His apology a weak "sorry". You let it slide considering how distressed and pent up he was. Letting him bask there in your lap, despite his weight crushing you, seemed like the least you could do for your frazzled boyfriend. After a while, you shake him slightly. 

"C'mon, let's get you cleaned up," you guide him up to his feet, ushering him back to the shower. 

"Yeah…" it comes out raspy, so he clears his throat. "Yeah okay," he nods.

Once he stands up, you can tell he's still shy, still hesitant, but no longer hiding his body from you. That inch of progress is enough for you to feel like maybe, just maybe, the scars that Smurf left on his heart weren't permanent. And for Andrew, he was starting to think that maybe he wasn't as damaged as he was made to believe. 

Ryland bounced on Oliver’s cock on the floor of the dim living room to the dull beat of the music playing in the other room. At least he was pretty sure this was Oliver. Maybe he’d been the last guy. 

“Jesus, where did you find this guy?” somebody said, awed. 

“You know how freshman are, man,” Maybe-Oliver crowed, loosely holding Ryland’s hips as he languidly fucked up into him. Ryland was slightly drunk but not enough to make him sloppy; he was doing that well enough on his own. He panted and ground down, breaking the rhythm. He couldn’t help it. 

Somebody grabbed his jaw and he opened automatically, tongue out, ready to receive. They shotgunned into his mouth and he coughed a bit but managed to get most of it. 

“Fucking move, Charlie, it’s my turn,” a female voice demanded. 

Not Oliver, then. 

Ryland found himself flat on his back buried in someone new while another person held his arms over his head. He opened his eyes and forced them to focus on who was straddling him and was surprised when he recognized her. Oh. Jess. They had a class together. Her dark hair fell around her face as she rode him and Ryland never wanted her to stop. 

“Dude, what's his fuckin’ name?” someone wondered. 

“Who cares?” 

“Don’t be a dick. I think his name’s Ryan.”

Somebody tapped his cheek. “Hey, what's your name?” they snickered, apparently finding the mystery very funny. 

Ryland could only moan as Jess squeezed him with her walls. 

A warm mouth closed over his nipple and sucked and Ryland whimpered, tossing his head to the side as the feeling went straight to his cock. 

“Oh, he likes that,” someone said. A tongue flicked his pert nipple and whoever it was mouthed at him messily, smearing his chest with saliva. 

The group in the next room was howling along to Mr. Brightside; Ryland could feel the bass through the floor. 

“Jess, get off or he’s gonna come,” a guy growled. 

Nonononono, Ryland thought frantically. He tried grabbing Jess’s hips but forgot someone was holding his arms. He whined piteously as he slid out of her, cock flopping wetly against his stomach and smearing slick. 

“Let’s get him on the couch.”

Ryland felt himself being hauled bodily onto the couch and sat upright. He spread his legs, silently begging someone to touch him, need pounding through him like a heartbeat. He didn't have to wait long. Somebody started stroking him hard and fast and he moaned so loudly a hand clamped over his mouth. Ryland bucked his hips unhelpfully, fouling up the rhythm of the person trying to get him off. 

A strong arm pushed against his abdomen to pin him in place. “What a slut,” a woman, maybe Jess, huffed. His mouth was freed so someone could kiss him and he reciprocated desperately. He was wound so tight; he could feel himself about to snap. 

Then the hand on his cock disappeared and somebody laughed. Tears ran down Ryland’s face. He was so worked up that his overheated brain simply resorted to crying. 

“You guys are fuckin' mean,” a female voice, definitely not Jess, snapped. She slipped her lips around Ryland and took him all the way down, her throat fluttering around him and he burst, spurting uncontrollably as she worked him expertly. Ryland’s head fell back at the intensity of it; his savior guided him to the other side and popped off when he started to squirm. She kissed his cheek and went away and Ryland languished against the cushions, breathing like he’d run a marathon. 

Someone touched his shoulder. “Hey, you good, man? You done?”

Ryland crashed his lips into whoever was asking the question, pawing at them and trying to get their hands on him. They chuckled against his mouth. “Okay.” 

They took him to his hands and knees on the couch and he felt a large tip start to breach him; his cock gave an interested twitch. He’d probably be hard again in a minute. The person behind him leaned over his sweaty back and whispered in his ear. “Hold on, princess.”