lynn 🚬

You were backed up against the sticky wooden edge of the counter, your fingers white-knuckled around your drink. A group of three men had pinned you into the corner, their smiles entirely too wide, blocking any clear exit to the door. You’d tried the polite rejection. You’d tried the blunt one. None of it was working, and the air around you was growing suffocatingly tight as one of them leaned in closer, his hand reaching out to grab your wrist.

Before his fingers could even brush your skin, a hand clamped down on his shoulder from behind.

With one fluid, violent twist, the man was wrenched backward, losing his footing completely as he crashed hard into a nearby barstool.

Emilia Harcourt stood in the space he had just occupied. She didn't look frantic or angry; she looked utterly, terrifyingly bored. She wore a dark leather jacket, her hair tied back, and her eyes were fixed on the remaining two men with a chilling focus.

"She said no," Harcourt said, her voice dropping into that dangerous register that instantly cut through the bar’s hum. "Move."

The biggest one of the group scoffed, stepping up to her. "The hell is your problem, lady—"

He didn't get to finish the sentence. Emilia stepped into his guard, her elbow cracking hard against his jaw in a brutal, lightning-fast arc. He stumbled back, groaning, but the third guy swung blindly at her head. Emilia didn't even flinch. She ducked beneath the wild punch, grabbed him by the collar, and slammed his face directly into the wooden counter with a sickening crack.

The entire exchange took less than ten seconds.

The first guy was still groaning on the floor, and the other two were scrambling backward, completely losing their appetite for a fight. Emilia didn't bother watching them retreat. She just shook out her knuckles, exhaling a sharp breath through her nose, and turned around to face you.

The lethal edge melted off her face the second her eyes met yours, replaced by a sudden flash of concern.

"You okay?" she asked, stepping right into your space. She didn't look at the rest of the bar; her universe had narrowed down entirely to you. "Did they touch you?"

"No," you breathed, your heart still hammering against your ribs, though the adrenaline rushing through your veins wasn't from fear anymore. It was from her. Watching her move like that, entirely unbothered, completely protective of you, made your blood run hot. "No, you got here before they could."

Emilia let out a quiet breath, her shoulders visibly dropping as the tension left her body. "Good."

She reached out, her fingers sliding over the skin of your forearm, checking for scratches or bruises before her hand traveled down to firmly lock her fingers with yours. Her skin was warm, a little rough from the fight, and completely grounding.

"Come on," she murmured, tugging you gently away from the corner. "Let's get out of this shithole."

The cool night air hit you the second the heavy door of the bar swung shut behind you, cutting off the neon light and the smell of stale beer. Emilia led you down the dimly lit alleyway beside the building, away from the main street where the noise couldn't reach you.

She finally stopped against the brick wall, turning back to you. The ambient yellow light of a streetlamp caught the sharp, beautiful angles of her face.

"I shouldn't have left you at the bar alone," Emilia said quietly, her voice rough, a hint of frustration directed entirely at herself. "I was only gone for five minutes to get the car."

"Em, it's fine," you smiled softly, stepping closer until the space between you vanished. You reached up, your fingers gently touching her knuckles. They were slightly split from the punch she’d landed. "You handled it."

"I don't like people putting their hands on what's mine," she muttered, her eyes dropping down to your lips before flicking back up to your eyes, dark and incredibly intense.

The weight of the word mine hung heavily in the quiet alleyway. For months, it had been a slow, agonizing burn between the two of you—unspoken glances during briefings, shoulders lingering a little too long against each other in the back of tactical vans, a quiet understanding that neither of you knew how to put into words.

"Is that what I am?" you whispered, your thumb tracing the soft skin of her wrist. "Yours?"

Emilia didn't answer with words. Instead, she reached out, her hand tangling firmly into the fabric of your jacket and pulling you flush against her.

The kiss was sudden, fierce, and entirely consuming. It tasted like the crisp night air and pure, unfiltered desire. Emilia pressed you back against the brick wall, her body heavy and warm against yours, anchoring you in place. It wasn't the clinical, guarded Harcourt; this was raw, breathless, and deeply desperate.

Her free hand moved up to cup your jaw, her thumb anchoring your chin as she deepened the kiss, a quiet, needy sound escaping the back of her throat when your arms wound tightly around her neck. She kissed you like she was trying to scrub out the image of those men near you, replacing it entirely with the feeling of her lips, her hands, her scent.

When she finally pulled back just a fraction, her forehead rested against yours. Her breathing was ragged, her chest heaving against yours, her eyes wide and entirely vulnerable in the dark.

"Yeah," she breathed, her voice a rough, quiet vow against your lips. "You're mine. Don't ever doubt that."

You smiled against her skin, your fingers tangled in the short blonde hairs at the nape of her neck. "I don't. Take me home, Em."

Harcourt let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh, her lips brushing yours one last time before she took your hand again, her grip tight and unyielding as she led you out of the dark.

jeno. notes. silly doodles, goodbye notes, messages hidden in your pants pockets or stuck on the fridge. eat your food. i miss you. maybe he’s been leaving more than usual because he thinks you don’t see them; maybe he’s left few because he thinks you throw them away and don’t pay much attention to them, when the truth is that you collect them, every single one, and reread them, imagining how foolishly happy he looks making them while you sleep.

chenle. daegal. you would have offered not long ago to take care of her while he needs to be away. a lot of time passes. there isn’t much to do; she isn’t as bad as he’s made her out to be, and you usually take naps together. taking her for walks and sending him photos has become routine now because he asks for them—he must miss her a lot when they’re apart. thank goodness you have a couple of photos of him on your phone to show the puppy when she seems down; it’s a relief that he’s coming home tonight, and you open the door. you think he’ll go straight to her as soon as you see him, but instead, his arms wrap around you. maybe he misses you just as much.