Mickey - Male and FtM Reader Fanfiction

Codependency was the word that hung in the air like thick smoke, though neither of you dared to label it. It was a symbiotic arrangement, a strange, oscillating frequency where the lines of give-and-take blurred until they were indistinguishable. It hadn't started with grand promises; it had started with the friction of skin and the adrenaline of proximity. It started as pure, unadulterated pleasure—a distraction from the neon-soaked chaos of the city.

Bartending at a club that catered exclusively to the "gifted" crowd meant your life was a revolving door of questionable characters and ego-driven nightmares. You dealt with tempers that could shatter glass and appetites that defied nature. And then, there was Reggie. A-Train.

He was different. He was charming in a way that felt curated yet dangerously authentic. He knew how to talk to you—not with the predatory hunger so many other supes displayed, the kind that made you wonder if they’d follow you into the dark alleys behind the club—but with a smooth, disarming confidence. When he smiled, he didn’t just show teeth; the corners of his eyes crinkled, a subtle vulnerability that felt like a secret he was only sharing with you.

In the chaos of your shift, he became your anchor. You liked simple, and Reggie had become the definition of it.

Simple was the sight of him sliding into his usual spot at the corner of the bar, the polished mahogany reflecting the club’s pulsing strobe lights. Simple was knowing exactly what he wanted—a specific, bitter-sweet concoction—before he even had to lift a finger to signal you. Simple was the way the air seemed to shift when he entered, a subtle, static charge that clung to him, smelling faintly of ozone and expensive cologne, a sensory reminder of the speed that defined his existence.

Simple was the quiet ritual of him waiting for you at the end of your shift, his lean, athletic frame tucked into the shadows near the back exit. It was the feeling of his hands against your skin, grounding you after a night of dodging dangerous tantrums; the way his lips felt against yours, desperate yet controlled. It was waking up in the pale, hum of dawn with his arm heavy across your chest, finally having his personal number saved in your phone, and the quiet comfort of your strange, undefined orbit.

But simple, you learned, was a fragile commodity in a world built on power and public image.

The club was louder than usual tonight, the bass thrumming through the soles of your shoes, but the corner of the bar remained stubbornly, unsettlingly empty. You found yourself glancing at the clock, then toward the entrance, your movements practiced and automatic as you mixed drinks for strangers.

It wasn't the first time he’d missed a night. His life was a whirlwind of Vought press tours, training sessions, and PR crises. But this felt different. The air in the club lacked that familiar, static prickle that always announced his arrival. A cold, nagging feeling began to coil in your gut, a dissonance that didn't sit right with the rhythm of your night. You gripped the edge of the counter, your knuckles turning white, wondering if the simplicity you’d clung to was finally unraveling, leaving you alone in the noise.

The club’s bass continued to thump against your ribcage, but your focus was entirely on the cold screen of your phone tucked beneath the bar’s service rail. You hadn't initiated a conversation in weeks. It was a silent, unspoken rule of your arrangement: he arrived, he initiated, and you responded. But the absence of his familiar, ozone-charged presence was itching at your skin like a rash.

Your thumb hovered over his contact.

You: Hey, miss—

You stared at the words, the cursor blinking with an accusatory rhythm. Pathetic. You hit delete, the backspace key clicking rapidly. You tried again, keeping your movements brisk, trying to mimic the casual indifference of a bartender checking on a regular.

You: Didn’t see you tonight. Everything okay?

It was neutral. Safe. You hit send before you could overthink the potential vulnerability of it.

You watched the screen. The bubble appeared, that little grey indicator of life, and your breath hitched. It hovered for a agonizing three seconds, then vanished. No message. Just silence.

The rest of the shift was a blur of spilled mixers and hollow, strained smiles. By the time you reached your car, the silence of the parking lot felt heavier than the noise of the club. You leaned your forehead against the cool glass of the driver’s side window, feeling the vibration of your own heavy, erratic breathing.

"He's just busy," you muttered, the words sounding thin and defensive in the enclosed space. "He’s got a million things going on. It’s not like we're... hell, it’s not like we’re even friends."

You blew out a frustrated breath, a jagged sound that filled the car. You were lying to yourself, and you knew it. If it was just about the pleasure, you wouldn't feel this hollow ache in your chest. You wouldn't be agonizing over a ghost-text.

The drive home was a mindless navigation through the city's neon-drenched grid. When you finally unlocked your apartment door, the silence of the place hit you like a physical weight. You tossed your keys onto the counter with a clatter that sounded too loud, let your bag slide off your shoulder to hit the floor, and kicked your shoes off in opposite directions.

You walked straight into the bedroom, the room dark save for the sliver of light from the streetlamps bleeding through the blinds. You sat on the edge of the bed and checked the phone one last time. Still nothing. No bubble. No incoming call. Just the same empty screen you’d been staring at for hours.

A sharp, hot spike of irritation—or maybe it was just hurt—shot through you. You tossed the phone onto the nightstand, watching it slide toward the edge, and started peeling off your work clothes. The fabric was stiff, tacky with spilled liquor and the stale, suffocating scent of the club. You shoved the pile into the hamper, not bothering to fold anything, and retreated into the bathroom.

You didn't wait for the water to reach the perfect temperature before stepping in. You needed the heat to scrub the night off you. As the spray hit your shoulders, you leaned your forehead against the cold, damp tiles of the shower wall, closing your eyes.

The water cascaded down your back, turning the steam into a thick, suffocating cloud. You stood there for a long time, letting the hot needles of water dull the jagged edges of your thoughts. You were trying to wash away the feeling of his hands, the phantom memory of his skin, and the creeping, cold realization that you were just another temporary stop on his high-speed circuit.

You forced yourself to move, shaking the lingering dread from your shoulders as if it were actual debris. You grabbed the soap, scrubbing your skin until it was pink and raw, desperately trying to strip away the lingering scent of stale alcohol and the phantom pressure of his touch. The hot water drummed against the tile, a relentless, rhythmic distraction from the gnawing anxiety in your stomach.

When you finally turned the handle and stepped out, the bathroom was a sauna of humid air. You wrapped a towel around your waist and wiped a jagged streak through the condensation on the mirror. Your reflection looked back at you—hollowed out, eyes bloodshot, the exhaustion of the night etched into the tension in your jaw. You didn't linger. You just wanted the cold, dark silence of your bedroom.

As you walked past the nightstand, your phone sat inert and dark. You didn't even glance at it, too drained to care about the void it represented. You missed the sharp, high-pitched buzz against the wood, followed by the soft illumination of the screen as it flickered to life.

Reggie: Can I come over?

The message sat there in the dark, a silent request waiting to be acknowledged.

Three miles away, Reggie sat on the edge of a pristine, white leather sofa in his apartment, his leg bouncing with a nervous, staccato rhythm that would have blurred the vision of anyone watching. He stared at his phone so intensely his eyes burned.

He didn't need to ask. You had given him a key—or at least, you had told him the spare was under the third planter, a gesture of trust he usually treated with the casual arrogance of a celebrity. But tonight, the air in his own place felt too thin, too pressurized. He felt like a coiled spring, his heart rate elevated, his metabolism burning through energy at a rate that made his skin feel like it was vibrating.

He kept looking at the screen, waiting for the ‘read’ receipt, waiting for the immediate chime of your reply that he had grown accustomed to.

"Why isn't he answering?"

A flicker of something darker than impatience crept into his chest. Was it anger? Or was it the sudden, terrifying realization that he was actually waiting on someone?

He checked the time. The silence stretching from your end was becoming unbearable. It felt less like you were ignoring him and more like the distance between you was growing, widening into something he couldn't just run across in a heartbeat.

He didn't have the patience to wait for a response, and he certainly didn't have the stomach to sit in this silence a second longer. He stood up, his movements fluid and unnervingly fast. He didn't even grab a jacket. He just grabbed his keys, the metal biting into his palm, and headed for the door. The simple request for permission had already turned into a burning need for presence. He didn't need you to tell him to come over; he just needed you to be there when he arrived, to remind him that he was still anchored to something that wasn't just Vought, cameras, and the crushing weight of his own life.

Reggie hovered on your welcome mat, his hand poised to knock, then dropping back to his side, then rising again. He stared at the worn, faded wood of your door, his gaze flicking down to the terra cotta planter tucked in the corner. He knew exactly where the spare was—he’d been inside plenty of times when you weren't home—but tonight, the idea of just letting himself in felt like a violation of a boundary he hadn't realized he’d set until this very moment.

He knocked. Three soft, controlled raps. He stood back, his pulse thrumming in his throat, ears straining for the sound of you.

After a few agonizing minutes, he heard it: the soft, rhythmic shuck-shuck of your slippers against the hardwood floor. He pulled his shoulders back, trying to smooth the frantic energy out of his posture. When the lock clicked and the door swung open, the relief that hit him was so sharp it almost knocked the wind out of him.

You stood there, looking tired but soft in your worn-out pajama pants and those oversized, ridiculous plush dog slippers. He’d teased you about them for months, calling them "fashion crimes," but seeing them now, they looked like the only grounded, real thing in his entire world.

"Hey," you said, a small, genuine smile tugging at your lips, completely unaware of the turmoil he’d been carrying for the last hour. "Didn't know you were stopping by."

Reggie didn't say a word. He just stared at you, his eyes scanning your face as if he were trying to memorize the exact lines of your expression. He held his phone up briefly—a silent gesture toward the message he’d sent—before sliding it deep into his pocket. He took a single, deliberate step across the threshold, invading your space, and he didn't wait for an invitation.

He reached out, his hand steadying against the door until he pushed it shut behind him, the click of the latch sounding unnervingly final.

Without a word, he closed the distance. He moved with a grace that felt heavy tonight, not his usual lightning-quick blur. He pressed you back against the hallway wall, your shoulders hitting the drywall with a soft thud. Before you could even register the shift in the air, his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t the hurried, hungry kiss of a man looking for a quick fix. It was slow, agonizingly sweet, and tasted like desperation wrapped in velvet. It was the kiss of someone trying to ground themselves before they floated away.

”Oh,” you thought, your heart stuttering against your ribs. ”Something is definitely wrong”.

Reggie leaned into you, his weight familiar and solid. His hands found the bare skin at your waist, his thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles into your hips. The contact was electric, but it lacked the frantic edge it usually held. You reached up, your fingers gripping his shoulders, feeling the tension locked tight in his muscles beneath his hoodie—a rare, startling sight that made the moment feel even more surreal.

He didn't pull away. He just sighed against your mouth, a sound that was half-prayer and half-surrender, letting his forehead drop to rest against yours as he anchored himself firmly into your space.

Your hands slid up from his shoulders, your palms cupping his face. His skin was warm, a sharp contrast to the cool air of the hallway, and his eyes—usually so bright and animated—looked dim, heavy with a weight he hadn't brought with him before.

"Reggie," you murmured, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "Are you okay?"

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he leaned down, pressing a series of soft, chaste kisses against your lips—almost like a penance. When he pulled back, his hand found the small of your back, his touch firm and guiding. He didn't wait for you to lead the way; he moved you gently, steering you through the living room, past the threadbare couch and the stacks of books, straight into the bedroom.

You followed him, letting the current of his mood dictate the pace. It was simpler this way. Trying to force him to talk, to strip back those layers of armor he wore so well, felt like trying to hold back the tide with your bare hands. If he wanted to be here, if he wanted to exist in this quiet, then that was enough for tonight.

He sat you on the edge of the bed before gently easing you back, his weight following yours as he crawled up over you. The air shifted. This wasn't the frantic, skin-burning urgency of your usual nights. His kisses were slow, almost reverent, lingering at the corners of your mouth and your jawline with a tenderness that felt like a foreign language. It was domestic, terrifyingly intimate—the kind of soft, heavy affection that made you feel like you were actually somebody to him, rather than just a place to hide.

Your hands slid under the hem of his hoodie, your fingertips dancing along the waistband of his jeans before slipping upward to splay against his bare chest. You felt it instantly. Beneath the muscle and the heat of his skin, his heart was hammering a chaotic, jagged rhythm. It wasn't just fast; it was stuttering, skipping beats like a broken record, a frantic fluttering that sent a jolt of alarm through you.

His lips moved from your jaw to the hollow of your throat, then trailed slowly, agonizingly, across your collarbone. He paused there, his breath hot against your skin, but you went rigid. You couldn't ignore the frantic thumping beneath your palm any longer.

"Reggie," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Your heart… it’s—"

He stopped mid-breath, his forehead resting against your chest. He froze, then slowly pulled back, propping himself up on his forearms to look down at you. His expression was unreadable, caught between fear and a sudden, sharp exhaustion.

"What?" he asked, his voice rough.

You didn't take your hand away. You pressed your palm flatter against his sternum, feeling the erratic, desperate thrash of his pulse. "It’s not right. It’s… it’s skipping. Everything okay, man? You’re scaring me."

He stared at you, his eyes darting across your face as if searching for a reason to lie. Then, his shoulders slumped, the facade finally cracking. He let out a shaky, hollow laugh that didn't reach his eyes.

"It’s the V," he said, the words barely audible, almost swallowed by the room’s silence. He looked away, his jaw tightening. "The Compound V. It’s… it’s catching up to me. The speed, the training, the supplements… my heart can’t keep up with the pace anymore."

He looked back at you, and for the first time, you saw the genuine terror hidden behind the A-Train persona. "Every time I push it, every time I move, I feel like I’m running out of time. My own body’s betraying me, and I don't know how to stop.”

The silence that followed his admission felt thick, heavy enough to crush the air right out of the room. You just stared at him, your hand still splayed over his chest, feeling that erratic, stuttering rhythm vibrating against your palm. It wasn't just a physical sensation anymore; it felt like a countdown.

"You're not serious," you whispered, though the way he was looking at you—stripped of that A-Train polish, just a man terrified of his own biology—told you he wasn't joking.

Reggie let out a jagged, humorless laugh, his gaze dropping to the bedsheets between you. "I wish I was. It’s been… building. Doctors, Vought—they keep telling me it’s fine, that it’s just the ‘strains of peak performance.’ But this?" He grabbed your wrist, pressing your palm harder against his sternum. "This is my heart trying to quit, and I’m just out here trying to outrun it."

His grip on your wrist was tight, almost painful, a stark departure from the gentle touches he’d been giving you just moments before. He was holding onto you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the bed, to the room, to reality.

"I can't tell anyone," he said, his voice dropping into a raw, desperate register. "You know what happens if the public finds out? If Vought finds out? I’m finished. They’ll replace me before the ink on my medical charts is even dry. I’m an asset, not a person to them, and assets aren't allowed to have heart conditions."

You felt a cold knot tighten in your stomach. You’d always known the life of a supe was performative, a stage-managed existence, but seeing it manifest like this—Reggie trembling in your bedroom, admitting he was slowly breaking from the inside out—felt like a door had been ripped off its hinges.

"Reggie, if you keep pushing it, you’re going to kill yourself," you said, trying to keep your voice steady despite the way your own heart was starting to race in sympathy with his. "You have to tell someone who can actually help. Not Vought. Not your PR team. A real doctor."

He shook his head sharply, a lock of hair falling over his forehead. "There’s no ‘real doctor’ for this. It’s not just broken, it’s… altered. The V changed everything. I’m stuck, man. I’m a high-performance engine that’s rusted out." He closed his eyes, his breathing hitching. "I just… I needed to be somewhere where nobody was looking at me like I was a brand. I needed to just be… here."

He looked at you then, and the raw vulnerability in his expression made your chest ache. He wasn't looking for a fix; he was looking for a witness to his decline.

You shifted, ignoring your own fear, and pulled him down until his head rested against your shoulder. He went limp instantly, letting his weight sink into you, his heart still fighting that uneven, frantic battle against his ribs. You just held him, stroking his hair, the realization settling over you that the "simple" life you’d carved out for the two of you was gone, replaced by a jagged, complicated reality that neither of you knew how to survive.

The night wore on, the neon glow from the city outside filtering through the blinds, casting long, distorted shadows across the bedroom. The frantic, erratic tempo of his heart slowly began to level out, though it never quite settled into the steady beat of a healthy man. It remained a hitching, uneven rhythm, a constant reminder of the ticking clock he lived under.

Reggie didn't move. He stayed tucked against you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breathing finally matching the slow, intentional cadence you were setting for him. The earlier tension, the desperate, almost manic energy he’d brought through your front door, had evaporated, leaving behind a hollowed-out exhaustion that seemed to seep into the very mattress.

"You're shaking," you whispered into the quiet, your fingers still tracing slow, soothing lines down the back of his hoodie.

He didn't pull away; he only tightened his grip on your waist, his knuckles white against your side. "It’s just... it’s quiet here," he murmured, his voice muffled by your skin. "No cameras, no press releases, no one asking for a smile. It’s the only time it feels like I’m actually breathing, not just... performing."

You stared up at the ceiling, the fan spinning lazily above, and realized that this—this fragile, broken moment—was the closest you’d ever been to him. All the months of shared drinks and unspoken boundaries, the casual hookups, and the carefully curated mystery of A-Train had been a buffer. Now, the wall was down, and the reality was heavier than you ever could have anticipated.

You weren't just a bartender to him anymore. You were the only person in the world who knew he was dying.

"You can stay," you said, the words feeling heavy and permanent. "As long as you need to."

Reggie shifted, pulling back just enough to look at you. In the dim light, he looked younger, stripped of the bravado that usually made him seem untouchable. He reached up, his hand trembling slightly as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your temple.

"I'm not worth this," he said, his voice raw, devoid of its usual rhythmic, practiced flow. "You shouldn't have to carry this. You don't know what you’re getting yourself into."

"I know," you replied, your voice firm. "But you're here. And for tonight, that’s all that matters."

He looked at you for a long moment, an unreadable intensity in his gaze, before he let out a long, shuddering breath and collapsed back against your chest, his eyes sliding shut. The room grew deathly quiet, save for the hum of the city and the faint, uneven thrumming against your palm.

As the hours slipped toward dawn, you didn't sleep. You lay there in the dark, watching the way the streetlights painted patterns on his skin, realizing that your simple, uncomplicated life had effectively ended the moment he walked through that door. You had invited the storm inside, and as Reggie’s breathing finally deepened into true sleep, you knew there was no going back to the way things were.

The rain that night didn't wash away the blood; it just diluted it, turning the Alsace mud into a slick, crimson soup. Every breath you took tasted like copper and woodsmoke, a brutal reminder that despite whatever gifts God had seen fit to curse you with, you were still terrifyingly breakable.

If you had just kept your mouth shut. If you had just accepted that you were caught in the gears of a war you never asked to fight. If you had just died with what little dignity a conscript was allowed, it wouldn't be so bad. But the instinct to survive is a filthy, primal thing. It strips away pride until there is nothing left but the screaming in your chest.

Through the ringing in your ears, you heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of combat boots.

He loomed over you like a monument of olive drab and tarnished gold, the eagle emblem on his chest darkened by grease and German blood. Ben. Soldier Boy. America’s golden boy looked down at you with an expression that wasn't even hateful—it was bored. To him, you weren't a person; you were just another piece of foreign debris he had to clear off the board.

Panic, hot and sharp, overtook every fiber of your being. You scrambled backward in the dirt, your hands slipping in the mire.

“Bitte, ich tue alles!” The words spilled past your swollen lips, frantic and broken. “Ich werde euch im Krieg helfen! Bitte…"

Soldier Boy stopped. He tilted his head, his fingers casually hooking into his tactical belt, right near the heavy grip of his combat knife. He let out a short, scoffing laugh—a low, raspy sound that made your stomach drop.

"Help us?" he said, his voice dripping with that smooth, old-school Brooklyn arrogance. He took a slow step forward, the mud groaning under his weight. "What makes you think we want help from some kraut rat who can't even stand up straight? You're out of your depth, sweetheart. The whole damn fatherland is."

How could you prove your worth? How could you make a man like this see you as something other than target practice? Your mind raced, grasping for the only leverage you had left—the secret the German high command had tried to weaponize.

“Ich bin ein Supe!” you gasped out, desperate to bridge the language barrier before he lost interest. “I am… like you! Born with it. They wanted me for a spy. I can disappear—I can make shields. Please! Ich schwöre, ich werde alles tun!”

That stopped him cold.

The casual indifference vanished from his face, replaced by a sharp, calculating stillness. Soldier Boy crouched down, the heavy leather of his boots inches from your face. The stench of stale tobacco, cheap whiskey, and gunpowder wafted off him, suffocatingly thick. He reached out, his gloved fingers clamping around your jaw with enough pressure to make the bone groan. He forced your face up, staring into your eyes with a terrifying intensity.

"A supe, huh?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register. He twisted your chin slightly, inspecting you like a piece of livestock. "Funny. Usually, German science projects have a bit more fight in 'em. You're telling me you were born this way? No serum?"

You could only nod, a pathetic, jerky motion that sent fresh agony through your face.

Soldier Boy let out another laugh, but this one was darker, devoid of any humor. "Well, ain't that something. A naturally grown freak. And here I thought Vought had the monopoly on the special stuff."

He didn't look impressed; he looked annoyed that the world was more complicated than his propaganda reels suggested. His grip tightened for one agonizing second before he shoved your face away, letting you drop back into the dirt. He stood up, wiping his gloved hand on his trousers as if you had left a stain.

"Get up," he barked, turning his back on you as he signaled to the shadows behind him. "Move it, before I decide your little magic trick isn't worth the rations. We're taking him back to the command tent. Let’s see if this bird sings as good as he begs.”

None of it really mattered. You had simply traded one prison for another.

At first, the American command tents weren't much different from the German labs—just different men in different uniforms staring at you like a weapon they hadn't learned how to aim yet. But then, Ben took a liking to you.

It wasn't a kind sort of affection. It was the possessive, careless favor a man shows to a stray dog he’s successfully broken. He liked the way you looked, sure—the contrast of your sharp, European features against the rough canvas of his quarters—but mostly, he liked that "no" wasn't in your vocabulary. You became his shadow, his human shield, and his dirty little secret. When the artillery got too loud or the pressure of being America’s golden boy pressed too hard on his shoulders, he’d drag you into his private quarters. He’d take whatever he wanted from you, leaving you bruised and breathless, and in return, he kept Vought’s white-coats from dissecting you.

"He's a useful little freak," Ben had told the suits, his hand heavy and warning on the back of your neck. "Keeps his mouth shut, does what he's told, and his shields keep the shrapnel off my suit. We’re keeping him."

So you stayed. You let him mold you, use you, and call you his "pretty little kraut." It was entirely one-sided, a twisted transactional nightmare, but you endured it because beneath the degradation was a semblance of safety. As long as you belonged to Soldier Boy, the rest of the world couldn’t touch you.

But safety in Vought’s world is an illusion. When Ben vanished in Nicaragua in '84, your protection went with him. No longer deemed useful, Vought treated you like surplus military hazardous waste. They pumped you full of experimental stabilizing agents—burning cocktails that made your veins feel like dry ice—and put you under. A relic of a war everyone wanted to forget.

Decades later, you woke up to a world that had moved on without you.

Navigating the 21st century was a slow, agonizing rebirth. You forced yourself to shed every remnant of the old country. You practiced in front of mirrors for months until you could perfectly mimic a flawless, generic American drawl. You hid your invisibility and your shields so deep you almost forgot how to use them. You reinvented yourself entirely.

Yet, some habits never die. You still needed an anchor. You still needed someone to tell you where to stand so you wouldn't drown, and that was how you fell into the orbit of Billy Butcher.

A sharp, violent buzzing cut through the dark, heavy silence of your bedroom. You let out a low groan, shifting against the mattress as your hand blindly scrambled across the nightstand. Your fingers wrapped around the sleek metal of the smartphone—a piece of technology that still felt entirely alien to you sometimes.

Swiping the screen blindly, you pressed it to your ear and rolled onto your side. "Yeah? What d'you want?" you murmured, your voice thick with sleep.

"Oi, pretty boy. Get your arse out of bed, I need a favor," a raspy, gravelly voice barked through the speaker.

The familiar, abrasive cadence of Billy Butcher instantly cleared the fog from your brain. You sat up, the bedsheets pooling around your bare waist as you rubbed a hand over your face. "Butcher. It’s three in the morning. Why the hell are you calling me?"

"Because you're the only reliable bastard I've got on the payroll, that's why," Butcher chuckled, a dark, dry sound. "And lose the attitude, yeah? Sounds a bit too much like hard work. Look, I need you at the safehouse. Now."

You sighed, a weary, defeated sound. It was happening again. The same pattern, the same trap. You had traded Ben for Billy, always falling into bed or into line with men who smelled like gunpowder and bad intentions because you simply didn't know how to exist without a master. You couldn't say no. To Butcher, you were a ghost with a useful set of skills and a clean record, and you let him keep using you because it was better than being completely alone in a century you didn't belong to.

"What's this about, Billy? I told you, I'm trying to keep my head down," you said, though you were already swinging your legs out of bed, your feet hitting the cold hardwood floor.

"Let's just say an old mate of yours dropped by. A real blast from the past," Butcher said, his voice dripping with a terrifying, smug satisfaction. "Bit of a family reunion, you might say. Peep your texts, sunshine. Don't keep us waiting."

The line went dead with a sharp click.

A heavy dread settled into the pit of your stomach, turning your blood to ash. Your phone vibrated in your palm, a text notification lighting up the dark room. With trembling fingers, you tapped the screen and opened the attached photo.

It was a blurry, dimly lit surveillance shot inside a dilapidated building. Standing in the center of the frame, looking older, rougher, but unmistakably him, was Ben.

Soldier Boy was alive.

The drive to the safehouse was a blur of streetlights and cold sweat. Your hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles turned white, the ghost of an old war humming in your veins. You hadn't used your real voice or your real name in decades. You had buried the boy from the Alsace mud deep beneath layers of American slang and a quiet, unassuming life.

But as you pulled the car up to the curb outside the derelict brownstone, the past caught up to you in a single heartbeat.

Billy Butcher was standing under the amber glow of a flickering streetlamp, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked as rugged and unbothered as ever, his heavy black trench coat shifting slightly in the night breeze. You killed the engine, but you didn't get out right away. You just stared through the windshield, letting the silence of the car envelop you for a few agonizing seconds. Your heart was a rabbit in a snare.

Finally, you forced your door open and stepped out into the damp night air.

Butcher watched you approach, his lips curling into that sharp, knowing smirk he always gave you. It was the look of a man who knew exactly which strings to pull to make you dance. Neither of you spoke for a moment, the tension thick enough to choke on.

Butcher took one last drag of his cigarette, dropped the butt, and crushed it beneath his boot. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy brass ring of keys.

"Need you to play babysitter, mate," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He tossed the keys. They cut through the air, and your hand flew up automatically, catching them with a dull metal clack.

Before you could even form a question, Butcher walked right past you, giving you a rough pat on the shoulder that felt more like a warning than a gesture of comfort. He headed straight for his own car, leaving you alone on the pavement. You rolled your eyes, a heavy, tired sigh escaping you as you turned toward the heavy wooden door of the safehouse. You unlock it, the hinges groaning in protest as you push it open and step into the dim, musty hallway.

"Back so soon?"

The voice drifted out from the kitchen, low and raspy, carrying the distinct, heavy drawl of mid-century Brooklyn. A voice you had heard in your nightmares for forty years.

Your entire body went rigid. You froze in the doorway, your fingers gripping the brass keys so fiercely the metal bit deep into your palm, drawing pain that barely registered against the shock.

"Was zum Teufel…?" you whispered. The words slipped out before you could stop them, raw and unpolished, your carefully practiced American accent instantly shattering.

A figure stepped out of the shadows of the kitchen, holding a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey. Ben. He looked different—his hair was longer, his face weathered by whatever hell Vought had buried him in—but the posture was exactly the same. The same arrogant, casual stance of a man who owned every room he walked into.

But when Ben’s eyes landed on you, he stopped dead in his tracks. The smug, careless look vanished from his face, replaced by a sudden, jarring stillness. He stared at you, his chest rising and falling as his gaze swept over your face, recognizing the sharp European features he used to hold in his grip.

"You're alive?" Ben breathed.

The words didn't come out as a taunt, or a boast, or even a threat. His voice dropped into a quiet, gravelly register that sounded entirely wrong coming from him. It sounded like... relief. Like he was genuinely, deeply grateful that you were standing there.

The unexpected softness of his tone hit you like a physical blow, sparking a sudden, bitter fire in your chest. You let your shoulders drop, abandoning the American disguise completely. When you spoke, your voice was thick with the harsh, rolling consonants of your native tongue, cold and sharp as winter ice.

"Maybe," you whispered, staring back at him with wide, unblinking eyes. "Or maybe... maybe I am finally dead, Ben. And you are only looking at your past mistakes.”

Ben didn’t move. He just stood there, the whiskey bottle heavy in his hand, looking at you like he’d just unearthed a ghost from the trenches. That arrogant, untouchable shield he always wore around his shoulders cracked, just for a second, letting something raw and horribly human blink out at you.

"Don't talk like that," he said, his voice dropping into that gravelly, low register. He took a slow step forward, the floorboards groaning under his weight, just like the mud used to. "You ain't a mistake. And you sure as hell ain't dead."

"No?" You let out a short, humorless laugh, the sound sharp and grating in the quiet house. You didn't back away this time. Decades on ice and a new century had given you a different kind of spine, even if the fear still pulsed like a phantom limb. "You think because I breathe, I am alive? Vought took me after you disappeared, Ben. They put me in a box. Cold. Dark. For forty years, I was nothing but ice because I had no master left to tell them I was useful."

Ben flinched. It was a minuscule movement—just a tightening of his jaw, a slight twitch in his broad shoulders—but you caught it. The great Soldier Boy, bothered by a ghost.

"I didn't know," he muttered, shaking his head. He took another step, closing the distance until you could smell the familiar, suffocating mix of stale tobacco and cheap liquor pouring off him. He looked down at you, his eyes scanning your face, searching for the boy who used to tremble under his touch. "They told me everyone was gone. I thought... I thought you died in Nicaragua with the rest of 'em."

"And if you knew? What then?" Your German accent bit into the English words, heavy and unforgiving. "Would you save me? Or would you just keep me in your tent like a pretty dog? A shield to stop the bullets?"

Ben’s face darkened, the familiar, volatile heat flashing in his eyes. He set the whiskey bottle down on a nearby table with a loud, deliberate thud. He stepped right into your space, towering over you, testing the old boundaries. He reached up, his large, calloused hand hovering near your face for a fraction of a second before his fingers clamped around the back of your neck.

It wasn't the brutal grip of a captor, but it wasn't gentle either. It was possessive. Demanding.

"I kept you alive," Ben growled, his thumb pressing firmly into the skin just beneath your ear, forcing you to look up into his bloodshot eyes. "Don't you forget that. Those corporate suits wanted to slice you open the day we brought you in, and I told 'em no. I gave you a roof, I gave you food, and I kept you safe. You belonged to me."

"Ja," you whispered, your breath hitching despite yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs in that old, terrifying rhythm. The familiarity of his weight, his scent, his absolute certainty that he owned you, was an intoxicating, terrifying poison. "I belonged to you. Because 'no' was a word that would get me killed."

Ben’s gaze dropped to your lips, then traveled back up to your eyes. The anger in him seemed to simmer down into something heavy, thick, and complicated.

"Well, you're here now," he murmured, his grip softening just a fraction, his thumb tracing a slow, familiar line along your jaw. "And so am I. The rest of 'em... Payback, Vought... they're gonna burn for what they did to us. But you? You're still my pretty boy. Ain't ya?"

The trap was closing again. You could feel it. The keys Butcher had given you were still biting into your palm, a reminder that you were supposed to be the handler here, the babysitter. But looking at Ben, feeling the heat radiating off him in this strange, terrifying new world, you realized some things never changed. You were still the boy in the mud, and he was still the only monster big enough to keep the other monsters away.

"You have not changed at all, Ben," you breathed, your voice a fragile, rolling whisper against his chest.

Another brutal Oceanside heatwave had settled over the coast, turning the already scorching summer into an absolute pressure cooker. If people weren't choking the shoreline at the beach, they were holed up indoors with the AC blasting on high, or crowding around whatever patch of water they could find to keep from melting. The Codys, naturally, were no exception. And neither were you.

By mid-morning, you’d already sweated through two shirts. The heavy, stagnant air didn't stop Andrew from clinging to you, though. From the second you woke up in your shared bed, his frame was heavy against yours, his hands anchoring into your skin despite the slick sheen of sweat between you. It lasted through breakfast and all the way to Smurf’s house, until you finally gave up on logic, peeled the damp fabric off, and ditched your shirt entirely.

Deran and Craig had thrown a half-assed invite your way, trying to rope you and J into a surf session to beat the midday glare. But the second Smurf casually mentioned she had errands to run—leaving the house completely empty—you caught Andrew’s eye. The silent agreement was instantaneous. Smurf liked you. Hell, she trusted your judgment on a job more than she trusted Baz’s half the time, which was saying a lot in this family. If she was giving you two a free pass to her sanctuary, you weren't about to say no.

Now, the house was finally dead quiet. The guys were gone, Smurf’s car was out of the driveway, and it was just the two of you.

While Andrew went inside to change out of his heavy jeans, you walked straight out to the backyard. You didn't even bother looking for swim trunks. You kicked off your flip-flops, stripped down to your boxer briefs, and slid right into the cool, turquoise water of the pool. The relief was immediate. You floated on your back, ears submerged so the rest of the world drowned out into a dull, watery hum, staring up at the blinding California sky.

The heavy thud of the sliding glass door cutting through the silence was your only warning. Then came that low, familiar hum in the back of Andrew’s throat—the one he only made when the noise in his head finally quieted down, usually because he’d found you.

"Better?"

His voice was quiet, rough around the edges. You didn't open your eyes, but you could hear the heavy thwack of two towels hitting a lounge chair, followed by the soft, rhythmic splash of him wading down the steps into the shallow end.

You let a slow, genuine smile break across your face, drifting aimlessly on the surface. "Much.”

The water was a physical relief, drawing the suffocating heat out of your muscles as you drifted. You heard the steady slosh, slosh of Andrew wading deeper into the pool, his movements methodical and unhurried. When the cool water finally reached his chest, he stopped, standing perfectly still in the middle of the deep end like an anchor.

You floated over until your head nudged against his ribs. You opened your eyes, squinting against the harsh glare of the midday sun. Up close, you could see the tension still lingering around Andrew’s eyes—that permanent, hyper-alert tightness that never really left him, even when the rest of the family was miles away. His dark hair was slicked back, wet from the splash of his entry, and his gaze was fixed down on you with that intense, unblinking focus that used to intimidate people on a job. To you, it was just Andrew.

"You're like a rock," you teased, reaching out to plant a hand on his shoulder, deliberately giving him a firm shove.

He didn't budge. A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, his large hand coming up to wrap around your wrist. He didn't squeeze, but the weight of his grip was a grounding promise. "You're gonna drown if you don't look where you're floating."

"Then save me," you laughed, pulling your wrist free and splashing a sudden, sharp wave of water directly into his chest.

Andrew blinked, wiping the droplets from his face with a slow, deliberate swipe of his forearm. The quietness in his eyes shifted, a rare, playful glint breaking through the static. Before you could swim backward, his hands shot out, catching you around the waist. With a sudden burst of effortless strength, he dunked you under.

The cool blue enveloped you for a second before you broke the surface, coughing and shaking the hair out of your eyes. Andrew was standing there, a rare, genuine chuckle vibrating in his chest. You lunged forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and dragging him down with you, the two of you wrestling in the water in a chaotic mess of tangled limbs and muffled laughter. It was a side of him the rest of the world never got to see—the side that didn't have to carry the weight of Smurf's expectations or the crew's paranoia.

Eventually, the roughhousing slowed down, settling into a comfortable, quiet rhythm. You leaned back against the pool wall, resting your elbows on the coping, while Andrew stood close enough that your knees brushed underwater. His thumb traced a slow, repetitive circle over the skin of your hip, just beneath the waistband of your soaked briefs.

"Thirsty," Andrew muttered after a long, peaceful silence. His voice had dropped back into that low, gravelly register. "Smurf made sweet tea before she left. Left a pitcher in the fridge."

"Go grab it," you said, tilting your head back against the concrete. "Bring two glasses. I'm parched."

He gave your hip one last, lingering squeeze before turning and wading toward the steps. You watched his broad, heavily freckled back as he climbed out, the water streaming off his dark trunks and pooling on the hot concrete deck. He disappeared through the sliding glass door, leaving the backyard in total, sun-drenched silence.

The second the door clicked shut, you looked down at your heavy, water-logged boxer briefs. They were sticking to you uncomfortably, trapping the moisture. Remembering your earlier thought about skinny dipping, you smirked. There was no one around for miles, and Smurf wouldn't be back for hours.

You kicked your legs, floating just enough to slide the wet fabric down your thighs. You stepped out of them completely, letting your bare feet sink into the smooth plaster of the shallow end. Standing up, the cool air hit your wet skin, a sudden, freeing contrast to the heat. You gathered the dripping, heavy boxer briefs into a tight, soaked ball in your right hand, waiting.

A moment later, the sliding door rumbled open. Andrew stepped out, carefully balancing two sweating glasses of iced tea.

He stopped the moment his eyes found you standing entirely bare in the shallow end, the water only coming up to your hips. His gaze darkened, tracking the water droplets rolling down your chest and stomach, his expression shifting from calm to completely transfixed.

"Andrew," you called out, a wicked grin spreading across your face.

Before he could even take a step forward, you whipped your arm back and launched the soaked, heavy bundle of boxer briefs straight across the patio.

Smack.

The wet fabric landed with a perfectly loud, squelching slap right against the center of his bare chest.

Andrew didn't flinch. He didn't even drop the glasses. He just stood there, looking down at the dripping briefs stuck to his sternum, and then looked back up at you through his eyelashes, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the California heat feel completely irrelevant.

Andrew didn’t blink. He just stood there for a long beat, the soaked, heavy fabric of your briefs still plastered to his ribs like a wet leaf. Slowly, deliberately, he walked over to the small glass table next to the lounge chair, his gaze never breaking from yours as he set the two sweating glasses of iced tea down. He didn't spill a drop.

Once his hands were free, he reached up, peeled the dripping bundle off his chest, and let it drop to the concrete with a heavy, wet thud.

Then, his fingers hooked into the waistband of his own swim trunks. He didn't hesitate, sliding them down his thighs and kicking them away until he was just as bare as you were. Standing there in the blazing afternoon sun, his body was all lean muscle, pale skin, and dark freckles, completely unbothered by his own nudity.

You bit your lip, a breathless chuckle bubbling up in your throat at the sheer, unblinking gravity of his expression. He looked like a predator mapping out a route.

When he took his first heavy step back toward the pool, his eyes locked onto yours, you instinctively took a step back, your bare heels sliding against the smooth plaster of the shallow end.

"Don't," you laughed, raising your hands in a mock surrender as the water lapped at your hips. "Andrew, don't you dare."

He didn't slow down. He descended the pool steps with a quiet, lethal sort of purpose, the water rising up his shins, his knees, his thighs, until he was fully submerged back into the cool blue.

"You started it," he murmured. His voice was low, a rough, quiet rumble that carried clearly across the water. It wasn't loud, but it had that immovable Cody weight to it.

"I was clearing the air," you teased, backing up another step into the deeper water, the pool rising to your chest. "It was a tactical decision."

"Yeah?" Andrew kept coming, his broad shoulders cutting through the water with terrifying ease. He didn't look angry; he looked entirely consumed, that hyper-fixated focus of his narrowed down to a laser point, completely locked on you. "Bad tactics."

You went to swim backward, but you weren't fast enough. Andrew closed the distance in two long strokes, his large, wet hands breaking through the surface to lock firmly around your waist. His grip was absolute, his fingers digging into your hips as he hauled you against his bare chest. The sudden, full-body friction of skin against skin underwater sent a jolt clean down your spine.

You gasped, your hands flying up to grip his wet shoulders for balance as he pinned you back against the smooth concrete wall of the pool.

"Caught you," he whispered, his face inches from yours. His breath was warm against your damp skin, his dark eyes searching yours with an intensity that made the cool water around you feel like it was starting to boil.

The full-body collision of skin against skin underwater instantly shattered any lingering quiet. You barked out a laugh, your hands slipping from his slick shoulders down to his ribs, trying to find leverage against the concrete wall. Andrew didn't budge an inch, his heavy frame holding you pinned, a faint, dangerous spark in his dark eyes that told you he was entirely invested now.

"Oh, you think you've got me?" you wheezed, tilting your head back.

"I know I do," Andrew murmured, his grip tightening just a fraction around your waist, his thumbs pressing into your hips.

You didn't give him time to gloat. Shifting your weight, you planted your bare feet firmly against the smooth pool wall and shoved off with everything you had. The sudden leverage caught him off guard. You threw your entire upper body weight forward, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck and bringing both of you crashing down into the deep end.

The water swallowed you whole in a chaotic explosion of white foam and bubbles. Underneath the surface, it was a lawless scramble of tangled limbs. You twisted your torso, using the momentum of the dive to plant a hand on Andrew's shoulder and literally body-slam him deeper into the cool blue, forcing his back toward the plaster bottom.

For a second, you actually had the upper hand. But Andrew was pure, dense muscle, and his stamina was terrifying.

Before you could pull away to break the surface, his hands found your thighs. With a sudden, explosive burst of strength, he stood straight up through the water. He didn't just push you off; he lifted you completely out of the pool, your bare torso cutting through the humid air as he hoisted you over his shoulder like a sack of concrete.

"Andrew! Wait—" you gasped, spitting out a mouthful of pool water, but it was too late.

With a low grunt, he slammed you right back down. You hit the surface chest-first with a spectacular, echoing splash, sinking like a stone before scrambling back up to breathe, shaking the wet hair out of your eyes and coughing through your laughter.

"Dirt bag," you choked out, wiping your face.

Andrew was already moving toward you again, the water parting around his chest. He had that rare, unhinged grin on his face—the one that made him look ten years younger, completely stripped of the heavy paranoia he usually carried like armor. "You want some more?"

"Come here," you challenged, lunging forward before he could set his stance.

This time, you managed to slip behind him, wrapping your arm tightly under his chin and locking him into a textbook headlock. Andrew laughed—a rough, barking sound—and reached back to grab your wrists, trying to peel your fingers away while you squeezed with everything you had, both of you sloshing wildly against the shallow end steps.

"Yield," you demanded, grinning against the wet skin of his shoulder. "Say it."

"No."

A sharp, deliberate throat-clear cut through the heavy splashing.

The sound was like a bucket of ice water. Instantly, both of you froze. You didn't drop the headlock right away, but your head snapped toward the patio doors.

Smurf was standing on the deck, leaning casually against the doorframe with her arms crossed over her chest. Neither of you had heard her car pull up, let alone the sliding door opening. In fact, looking past her into the house, you realized with a jolt that the glaring afternoon sun had completely vanished. The sky overhead was a deep, bruised violet, and the underwater pool lights had automatically flicked on, casting a glowing turquoise hue across your bare skin. You’d been messing around for hours.

Smurf’s gaze drifted from the wet clothes scattered across the concrete, to the two sweating glasses of tea, and finally to the two of you tangled up naked in the shallow end. Her expression didn't change; she just held that knowing, matriarchal smile that always made it impossible to tell exactly what she was thinking.

"I'm going to start dinner before the rest of the boys get back," she said, her voice smooth and entirely unbothered. She tilted her head toward the house, her eyes locking onto you with that quiet authority. "Clean up out here and come help me?"

It wasn't really a question. She offered one last, easy smile before turning on her heel and slipping back into the air-conditioned kitchen, the glass door sliding shut behind her.

The backyard fell dead silent again, save for the gentle lapping of the water against the tile.

The distant, rhythmic thud of leather hitting a heavy bag echoed in the cavernous space, vibrating inside Frank’s skull. It was a sound that used to anchor him. The violence of a fist connecting with meat, the hollow slap of a body hitting the canvas, the metallic rattle of the chain-link cage—it was the only music he’d ever cared for. Now, it just felt like a countdown to a memory he couldn't outrun.

It had been eighteen months since that night, and the guilt still tasted like copper in the back of his throat.

Logic told him it shouldn't bother him. Frank wasn't the one who’d heard his own vertebrae snap under the weight of a botched takedown. He wasn't the one who’d spent three months staring at a hospital ceiling with his jaw wired shut while a surgeon explained that his career had ended before his prime. But logic didn't account for the fact that it was you in that cage. It didn't account for the way his heart had flatlined when the referee—distracted and slow on the draw—let the extra four seconds of a dirty ground-and-pound go on far too long.

The worst part wasn't the injury itself. It was the aftermath. It was the fact that Frank’s career kept climbing, the wins piling up like a mountain, while you were relegated to a cramped apartment, watching his highlights on a flickering TV screen.

Frank shook his head, a sharp, jagged movement to clear the ghosts. He rubbed a calloused hand over his face, the stubble rasping against his palm, and stepped deeper into the dim light of the neighborhood gym.

You were standing by the weight benches, back turned to the door. Even from across the room, the sight of you hit him like a liver shot. Your posture was different now—stiffer, more guarded. The surgical scar ran like a jagged lightning bolt down the center of your spine, a permanent map of the night the lights went out.

“Took you long enough,” you said, your voice a little raspier than it used to be. You moved slowly, a careful hinge at the hips as you reached for a water bottle in your gear bag. “Starting to think you finally realized I’m a bad influence and stood me up.”

Frank didn’t say a word until he was right behind you. He didn't want to startle you, but he needed the contact like he needed air. He stepped into your space, his large, scarred hands settling gently—almost tentatively—around your waist. He pulled you back against his chest, feeling the heat of you through his shirt.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he grunted, the words low and gravelly against the skin of your neck. He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the hollow there, his eyes closing as he just let himself breathe you in. “Not in this lifetime.”

You reached down, covering his rough, taped knuckles with your own hand. A small, private smile tugged at your lips as you felt the familiar heat of him. Frank didn’t just let go; he shifted, his nose grazing the ridge of your shoulder blade before he pressed a deliberate, lingering kiss directly over the raised tissue of your scar. It was a ritual now—an apology he never stopped offering, and a mark of ownership he refused to relinquish.

The sharp, salty tang of sweat clung to your skin, a dead giveaway.

“Been here a while?” Frank asked, finally pulling back. He didn't wait for an answer, already moving to drop his duffel with a heavy thud next to yours. He caught the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, muscles rippling under skin mapped with his own history of violence. He looked you over, his dark eyes narrowing as he took in the dampness of your hair. “You said you’d wait for me. You’re gonna overwork that back before we even start.”

“I got restless, Frank,” you countered, turning to face him. You leaned back against the weight rack, crossing your arms. “Sitting around the apartment is worse for it than the gym is. You know that.”

Frank let out a low grunt, one that was halfway between a disagreement and an acknowledgment. He stepped closer, the smirk finally tugging at the corner of his mouth—that rare, lopsided Frank Castle look that he only ever saved for you.

“Is that right?” He stepped into your space, his presence looming and solid. “Maybe you just need a better reason to stay home. You sure you don’t want to pack it in? Go back, soak in a hot bath?” He paused, his voice dropping an octave, gravelly and suggestive. “I’m sure I could find a way to help you relax.”

You rolled your eyes, though the heat in your chest had nothing to do with the gym’s lack of AC. “Real subtle, Castle.”

He chuckled, a low vibration in his chest. By now, the gym had emptied out. The rhythmic snap-snap-snap of some amateur kid working a heavy bag in the corner was the only other sound, but even that was fading as the owner started dimming the overhead lights. This was the routine: the world ended at the gym doors, leaving just the two of you in the shadows of the mats, just like it had been when you were both rising stars.

You shrugged, your gaze drifting over the familiar lines of his face—the broken nose, the scars, the fierce protection in his eyes. “Maybe once we’re done here,” you said, your voice softening as you reached out to snag the waistband of his gym shorts, pulling him just an inch closer. “But I’m hoping you’ll join me. I don't think I can reach the spots that actually ache.”

Frank’s expression shifted, the playfulness dying down into something much more raw. He reached up, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that would have shocked anyone who’d ever seen him in a ring.

“Yeah,” he rasped, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “I’ll join you. But first, let's see what you’ve got left in the tank. Don't go easy on me just 'cause I'm the one still on the payroll.”

Frank paced a small circle on the mat, his movements methodical and heavy. He was staying outside your reach—way outside—dancing a perimeter that felt more like a chore than a warm-up.

Usually, sparring with Frank was like being trapped in a cage with a hurricane. He was a pressure fighter; he liked to get inside, use his weight, and make you feel every ounce of his strength. But tonight, he was a ghost.

You lunged, throwing a jab-cross combo that was meant to test his guard. Instead of parrying and digging a hook into your ribs like he used to, Frank just stepped back. He slipped the second punch with a foot of clearance to spare, his hands held high and tight, his eyes tracking your every twitch with a frantic sort of focus.

“Come on, Frank,” you grunted, resetting your stance. “I’ve seen heavy bags with more aggression than you’re showing right now.”

“Just finding my rhythm, baby,” Frank rasped, his breath hitching as he circled left. “Testing the air. Seeing how you’re moving.”

You didn't buy it. You feinted a low kick—just a twitch of the hip—and Frank practically leapt backward, his brow furrowed in a sharp line of concern. He wasn't looking for an opening; he was looking for a way to make sure you didn't break.

“Bullshit,” you snapped, dropping your hands to your sides. The sudden stillness made him stop in his tracks. “You’ve been ‘testing the air’ for ten minutes. You’re dodging hits you’d normally counter in your sleep. You’re keeping enough distance for a third person to stand between us.”

Frank adjusted his stance, his shoulders bunching. “I told you. I’m warming up. Don't want to catch you with something stupid before you’re loose.”

“You’re being soft, Castle,” you said, the words sharp and intentional. You stepped into the pocket, forcing him to either engage or retreat again. “You’re scared. You think if you put a hand on me, I’m gonna shatter like glass.”

Frank’s jaw tightened, the muscle jumping in his cheek. That hit home. He hated being called scared, but he hated the idea of hurting you more. “I’m being careful. There’s a difference.”

“Not in this gym there isn’t,” you countered. You moved in again, faster this time, snapping a leg kick that actually connected with his thigh. It wasn't hard, but it was enough to sting. “I’m not a patient in a ward anymore, Frank. I’m your partner. I’m a fighter. So stop treating me like a ghost and actually spar with me.”

Frank went still, his dark eyes searching yours. He was breathing hard, not from the exertion, but from the internal war he was losing. He looked at your spine, then back to your eyes, his hands trembling just a fraction.

“I can’t,” he admitted, his voice dropping into that raw, guttural growl. “I see you move a certain way, hear a certain sound...and I’m back in that arena. I’m watching you go down again.”

“Then watch me stay up,” you challenged, stepping into his space until your chest was inches from his. You took his hand—the one wrapped in tape and scarred from a dozen wars—and pressed it against your side. “I’m right here. I’m solid. You want to help me? Then help me remember what it feels like to be in a real fight. Don't let that guy in the arena take this away from us, too.”

Frank stared at his hand against your ribs, his fingers curling slightly. He let out a long, shaky exhale, the tension slowly bleeding out of his frame and being replaced by a focused, familiar heat.

“You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?” he muttered, though the smirk was finally beginning to return.

“So you’ve told me,” you grinned, snapping your guard back up. “Now, quit being a coward and hit me.”

Frank grunted, a low, dangerous sound. He shifted his weight, his center of gravity dropping as he finally stepped into the pocket. “Alright. But don’t come crying to me when you’re sore tomorrow.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” you laughed, just as Frank exploded forward, finally fighting like the man you knew.

The sparring was a dance of calculated restraint. You could feel the dormant power in his shoulders every time he checked a kick or parried a strike; he was moving at sixty percent, his strikes landing with a controlled thud rather than a bone-deep crack. Even so, he was working you. He kept the pace high, forcing you to pivot, to breathe through the burn in your lungs, and to trust your body again.

But every time you threw a heavy hook that left your ribs exposed, Frank would pause for a fraction of a second—just long enough for you to recover.

"Still pulling punches, Castle," you huffed, ducking under a slow-rolling cross.

"Keeping you honest," he grunted back.

He waited for you to overextend on a lead leg kick, and then he struck. With a burst of speed that reminded you exactly who he was, Frank stepped inside your guard, wrapped his arms around your waist, and used his momentum to drive you backward. The chain-link fence of the practice cage caught you, the metal groaning under the combined weight of your bodies.

He didn't take you to the mat. Instead, he spun you around with practiced ease, pinning your chest against the cold, galvanized steel.

Frank pressed himself flush against your back, his heavy weight anchoring you there. He reached around, his large hands engulfing yours and pinning them against the mesh of the cage above your head. You were trapped between the fence and the sheer heat of him. You felt his chest heaving against your spine, his breath hot and ragged against the sensitive skin of your ear.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned in, his nose brushing against the side of your neck, inhaling the scent of salt and exertion.

"You know," he started, his voice dropping into a low, vibrating rumble that you felt deep in your bones. "I forgot how good you look from this angle. Pinned up against the wire...maybe I should’ve kept you in the clinch more often."

He let out a short, dark chuckle, his lips grazing your skin. He was teasing you, trying to lighten the heavy air that had hung over the gym all evening, but there was a raw edge of hunger in his voice that he couldn't quite mask.

You felt the familiar spark of defiance—the one that had made you a contender in the first place. You didn't struggle; you waited. You felt the slight looseness in his grip, the way he’d relaxed just enough because he thought he had you.

In one fluid motion, you dropped your weight, twisting your wrists inside his hold. You used the cage for leverage, shoving off the wire and spinning into his space before he could reset his feet. Frank stumbled back a step, surprised, and you didn't give him an inch. You hooked his lead leg and shoved, using his own momentum to send him back against the fence.

You slammed your forearm against his chest, pinning him where you had just been. You leaned in close, your face inches from his, a triumphant hum vibrating in your throat.

"I don't know, Frank," you whispered, your eyes locking onto his dark, blown-out pupils. You felt the rough texture of the cage behind him and the frantic beat of his heart under your arm. "I think I like this view a whole lot better."

Frank stared at you for a beat, stunned into silence. Then, a slow, genuine grin spread across his face—the kind of grin that showed teeth.

"Yeah?" he rasped, his hands coming up to rest on your hips, no longer hesitant. "You’re gettin' cocky again. I like that.”

He didn't stay pinned for long. Frank moved with that deceptive, predatory speed he was famous for, slipping your forearm and diving for a double-leg takedown. He was careful—always careful—guiding your descent so your back hit the thick foam of the center mat with a dull thump rather than a bone-jarring crash. He followed you down, settling into a heavy side-control before transitioning into a full mount.

He didn't strike. He just stayed there, his weight a solid, grounding presence on top of you. His large hands pinned your wrists beside your head, but his grip was loose, almost a caress. He was looking down at you, his dark eyes searching your face with an intensity that felt like it was peeling back your skin. The sweat dripped from the tip of his nose onto your cheek, but neither of you moved to wipe it away.

For a long minute, the silence was absolute. Frank’s chest rose and fell against yours, his expression clouded with a question he’d clearly been chewing on all day.

"Doctor say anything new?" he finally rasped, his voice barely a whisper in the empty gym. "About...you know. Returning. Getting back in the rotation anytime soon?"

The question felt like a physical weight, heavier than Frank’s body. He knew the answer was a sore spot. He’d seen the way you flinched whenever an MMA blog posted a "Where Are They Now?" retrospective, or when commentators spoke about your career in the past tense, like you were a ghost haunting your own highlight reels. He knew the walls of that shitty apartment felt like they were closing in on you every time he left for a fight.

You shifted beneath him, the movement stiff, your eyes drifting toward the darkened ceiling. You let out a long, jagged sigh that seemed to drain the last of the adrenaline from your limbs.

"It’s hit or miss, Frank," you admitted, shaking your head slowly against the mat. "One day the specialist says the nerve ending is looking 'promising,' and the next he’s talking about 'long-term mobility management.' It’s a coin toss if I’ll ever be cleared for a sanctioned walk-out again."

Frank’s jaw tightened, his thumbs tracing small circles over your wrists. You could see the guilt rising in him again—the "why you and not me" that stayed shadowed in his gaze.

You reached up, breaking one hand free to cup the back of his neck, pulling him down just a fraction so he had to look at you. "Hey. Look at me."

His eyes locked onto yours, raw and pained.

"Even if the answer is never," you said, your voice firm despite the ache in your chest, "I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be in your corner. I’ll still be the one screaming the loudest when you're under the lights. I’m cheering you on until the wheels fall off, Castle. You’re stuck with me."

Frank closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against yours. He took a shaky breath, the tension in his shoulders finally snapping as he let himself just be there with you, grounded by the promise.

The adrenaline of the spar had cooled, leaving behind a dull, familiar ache in your lower back and the heavy, grounding presence of Frank by your side. The gym was silent now, the lights dimmed to a low, amber glow that caught the sharp angles of Frank’s face as he watched you move.

He stood by the bench, his own bag already zipped, but he wasn’t in a hurry. He was just...observing. His gaze followed the line of your shoulders as you reached for your discarded t-shirt. You felt his eyes track the movement of the fabric as it slid over your skin, momentarily concealing the jagged line of the scar he’d kissed only an hour before.

Frank had a way of looking at you that made you feel like the only solid thing in a world made of smoke. It wasn't just desire; it was a quiet, fierce brand of devotion that he didn't have words for.

You reached down, gathering your hand wraps and your bottle, stuffing them into your duffel bag with a tired precision. When you finally zipped the bag shut and looked up, he was still there, leaning against a weight rack with his arms crossed, his dark eyes unblinking.

You couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your mouth. "You gonna keep staring, Castle, or are we actually leaving?"

Frank didn't move, though a shadow of that lopsided smirk touched his lips. "Just taking it in," he rasped, his voice sounding deeper in the stillness of the gym. "Making sure you're still in one piece."

You straightened up, slinging the heavy strap of your bag over your shoulder. The weight made you wince—just a flicker of a shadow across your face—and Frank was off the rack in a second, his hand reaching out as if to catch you, before he forced himself to go still.

"Hey," you said softly, reassuring him. You stepped into his space, tilting your head. "That bath...is it still on the table? Or were you just talking big to get me off the mats?"

Frank’s expression softened, the intensity in his eyes shifting into something warmer, more intimate. He reached out, his thumb brushing a smudge of gym grime from your cheekbone. "Always on the table. Hot water, some of those salts the doc recommended. I’ll even handle the heavy lifting."

You laughed, the sound echoing lightly against the high ceiling. "I think I can manage to sit in a tub by myself, Frank."

"Didn't say you had to do it by yourself," he countered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

You hummed, the sound vibrating in your throat as you reached up. You grabbed the lapels of his jacket, pulling him down toward you. Frank met you halfway, his large hands coming up to cradle your face with a tenderness that always felt like a secret he was sharing only with you.

You leaned up on your toes, pressing a lingering, salt-tinged kiss to his lips. It wasn't a quick goodbye; it was a promise. He tasted like grit and determination, and when he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for a long, quiet breath.

Benjamin Poindexter was an equation that had never quite balanced. He was a collection of sharp edges and cold precision, a man who had never been likable, let alone lovable. To truly know Dex was to look into a mirror and see only the cracks. Perhaps the fault lived in his marrow, inherited from a mother whose touch was a strike and a father whose presence was a threat. He had spent his childhood learning the geography of his own pain—calculating the velocity of a swinging belt, the trajectory of a glass bottle, the weight of a silence that promised a storm.

​He had become a master of the bruise. He’d gotten so used to the heat of a blooming welt and the dull throb of a cracked rib that he had eventually mistaken the agony for a form of intimacy.

​Was I born this hard to love? The thought was a jagged glass shard in his mind. Was I so fundamentally broken that people had to use violence just to make me feel something?

He could still see his mother’s face—not soft with maternal warmth, but tightened with a disgust that made his chest ache. He remembered his father, the smell of cheap whiskey clinging to him like a shroud, raising that half-empty bottle. Benjamin had learned to go numb. He had turned himself into a stone, cold and unmoving, because stones don't cry when they’re kicked. Not by his mom. Not by his dad. Only Nate—dead, distant Nate—had ever held a piece of his heart that wasn't scarred over.

​Violence was the only intimacy Dex understood. If you weren't hurting him, you weren't really there.

The sun had long since abandoned Hell’s Kitchen, leaving the skyline to rot in a bruised purple twilight. As the shadows stretched over the grime of the city, it felt as though the world had finally balanced its books, demanding payment in blood. Dex lay there, the cold pavement leaching the last of his warmth, yet he could still feel the phantom sensation of the bullet—a white-hot needle stitching him to the earth. Pain was his only honest lover. It was the only thing that had never lied to him, never left him, and never demanded he be good to earn it. It was a constant, a fixed point in a chaotic world.

​He expected the end to be a quiet calculation. He expected to draw his final, rattling breaths and see Nate waiting for him in the static—Nate, with a hand outstretched to take him somewhere where the lines were straight and the pain couldn’t find a purchase.

​Instead, the void tasted of lavender.

​The transition was jarring. The sharp scent of ozone and city trash was replaced by something cloying and floral, and the biting wind was traded for the gentle, rhythmic press of cold hands against his feverish skin. He tried to flinch, his muscles coiling like rusted springs, but the surface beneath him was foreign. It wasn't the sterile, lonely precision of his apartment’s mattress. It was soft, plush, and smelled of old laundry detergent and life—worn and lived-in, comforting in a way that made his throat ache with a sudden, violent thirst.

​Then came the voice. It wasn't a bark or a command; it was soft, leveled, and careful. It was the kind of voice one used for a wounded animal or a ticking clock—as if speaking too loudly might cause him to shatter into a thousand unfixable pieces.

​As his vision swam, your face came into focus. You were a blur of soft edges, your expression tightened with a worried intensity that Dex didn't know how to process. He wanted to look away; the kindness in your eyes felt like a physical weight, an intrusion. He could almost mistake you for his mother, but the memory of her was a sharp blade, and your touch was something else entirely. You moved with a deliberate, quiet rhythm, your hands approaching him slowly, telegraphing every move as if you understood the electricity humming under his skin—the way he was constantly braced for a blow that hadn't come yet.

​With a gentleness that felt like a mockery of his own hardness, you propped his head up on plush pillows. Dex watched through hooded, glassy eyes as you began to strip him of his gear. You handled the suit—the armor he used to hide his humanity—with such strange reverence, setting it onto an old wooden coffee table as if it were made of glass.

​When the soft weight of a blanket settled against his bare legs, Dex felt a sob catch in his bruised ribs, trapped behind a wall of stone. You turned him onto his side, your movements methodical and sure, and he heard the hitch in your breath that mirrored the frantic beating of his own heart. You weren't afraid of the monster; you were afraid for the man.

​Was I born this hard to love? The thought was a jagged shard of glass, twisting in his mind. Was I so fundamentally broken that I had to be gutted, bleeding and hollowed out, before someone would touch me without a weapon in their hand?

​You could feel the way he tracked you, his fingers twitching at his side with every movement you made. He looked at you like you were a puzzle he couldn't solve, his body reacting to your care as if it were a new kind of agony. Through and through, the bullet had gone—a clean enough hole in the flesh. But as you looked down at the man who had turned himself into a weapon just to survive, you wondered how you were supposed to fix a soul that had been taught that love was just another word for impact.

​Why?

​The word was a jagged stone caught in his throat, sharp enough to draw blood. Why? Why were you treating him like he mattered? Why were you so calm, your hands steady on a mutt that had spent its entire life bared-teeth and ready to snap? Why save a thing that was designed only to break other things?

​He wanted to scream it, to demand a reason for this unearned grace, but his lungs felt like they were filled with wet sand. All that surfaced was a choked, broken sob. The sound was pathetic to his own ears—a wet, heaving noise that signaled the final collapse of his defenses. Tears finally broke, hot and stinging, carving clean tracks through the dried blood and gunpowder caked on his cheeks.

​You didn't flinch at his grief. You didn't look away in embarrassment or disgust. Instead, you leaned into his space, your eyes searching his with an intensity he’d never had the privilege of seeing. There was no fear there, no calculation—only a deep, quiet recognition.

​Your hand reached up, your fingertips barely grazing the scar on his cheek. The contact was so light it was almost a ghost of a touch, yet against his feverish skin, it felt like a brand. Dex’s breath hitched, his eyes wide and roaming your face, memorizing the way your brow furrowed not in anger, but in a frantic sort of care.

​When you began to pull away, the world tilted. You turned toward the corner of the loft, toward a figure shrouded in the deep shadows—someone Dex hadn't even noticed in his delirium.

​No.

​His hand, heavy as lead and trembling with a fine, desperate palsy, reached out for you. His fingers caught the air, grasping at the space you had just occupied. God, don’t go, he thought, the silent plea screaming behind his teeth. Please, for once, don’t let the shadows take something from me.

​You must have felt the shift in the air, the sheer magnetic pull of his panic, because you were back in an instant. You leaned over him again, becoming his entire horizon. Up close, you were unbelievable—soft in a way that shouldn't exist in a place as jagged as Hell’s Kitchen. Your eyes were the kindest things he had ever been allowed to look at.

​"You're going to be okay," you whispered.

​The words weren't a hollow promise; they were a directive, spoken with the quiet authority of someone who knew how to survive a storm. You reached out, brushing the sweat-slicked hair from his forehead with a slow, deliberate sweep of your hand. Then, your thumb found the pulse point on his wrist.

​Dex watched, fascinated and terrified, as your fingertip began to trace a pattern on his skin. A star. One point, two, three—the lines were crisp and intentional, the center resting right over the prominent vein where his heart hammered against his skin. You were mapping him, grounding his soaring heart rate with a physical rhythm he could understand.

​​Dex barely heard the sound of a door closing in the distance, or the muffled scrape of furniture being moved in another room. His senses were narrowing, tunneling down until there was only the pressure of your finger on his wrist and the overwhelming, cloying scent of lavender.

​It wasn't the room that smelled of it. It was you.

​You smelled of safety. You smelled of the one thing Dex had never been able to calculate, the one variable that refused to fit into his equation: peace. As his vision finally darkened, the last thing he felt wasn't the pain of the bullet, but the heavy, grounding weight of your hand holding his, refusing to let him drift away into the cold.

The fever was a cruel architect. It took the plush comfort of the pull-out couch and warped it, turning the soft cushions into the hard, linoleum floor of a kitchen that hadn't seen a kind word in decades.

​In the dream, the air was thick, suffocating and sour. He was small again—his bones felt fragile, his skin too thin. He could smell her before he saw her; she reeked of cheap gin and a floral perfume so cloying it made his stomach turn. It was a scent that didn't promise peace like lavender did; it promised a storm.

​"Look at me when I’m talking to you!"

​Her voice wasn't soft. It was a jagged edge, a serrated blade sawing through the silence of the house. Dex stood there, paralyzed, a collection of sharp angles and silent terrors. He felt the first strike—a sharp, stinging heat that radiated across his jaw. He didn't fight back. He never did. He just stood in the geography of his own ruin, tracing the familiar trajectory of her rage.

​"I wish you'd never been born!" she shrieked, her face contorted into a mask of disgust that burned deeper than the physical blows. "You’re an undeserving waste of space, Benjamin! A void! There’s nothing in you worth loving!"

​As her hand rose for the final, finishing blow, the world fractured. The palm collided with his cheek, and the impact sent him spiraling out of the memory and back into the present with a violent, gasping jolt.

​Dex’s eyes snapped open. His chest heaved, his lungs burning as if he’d been submerged in ice water. For a terrifying second, he was still there—still that small, broken boy. But as his vision cleared, he felt the heavy, rhythmic throb in his side. His hand flew to the wound, his fingers brushing not against bruised skin, but against the textured grit of medical gauze and the firm, professional tuck of a bandage.

​The weight of the fever and the panic made his equilibrium snap. He tried to shift, to find the edges of the bed, but his coordination failed him. With a pained, muffled huff, Dex tumbled off the cushions. He hit the floor hard, his knees barking against the wood, his hands trembling as they braced his weight.

​He stayed there on all fours, head hanging low, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose onto the floorboards. The loft was silent. The only light came from the small, amber glow of the stove lamp in the kitchen, casting long, skeletal shadows across the room.

​He strained his ears, desperate for the sound of that even, calm voice. He sniffed the air, searching for the lavender that had anchored him earlier. Nothing. The air was still and sterile.

​She was right, he thought, the nightmare bleeding into his reality. You saw the hole in me. You saw the bullet, and you saw the broken parts behind it, and you finally realized I wasn't worth the effort.

He felt a hollow, cold ache in his chest that was far worse than the bullet wound. He assumed you had done what everyone else did: you had stabilized the weapon, realized it was dangerous, and walked away before it could discharge. He was a stone again. And stones didn't need blankets. Stones didn't need to be touched.

​He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool floor, waiting for the silence to swallow him whole.

Dex’s fingers were white-knuckled, tangled deep in the matted, dirty blonde strands of his hair. He gripped his own scalp as if trying to hold his skull together, his teeth gritting so hard his jaw ached. A sob hitched in his chest—a jagged, ugly thing he refused to let out—as he began to scramble. He was a man defined by his precision, but now he was a mess of clumsy limbs and desperation.

​He crawled, dragging his leaden body toward the high bar counter that separated the kitchen from the living area. His fingernails scraped against the floorboards until his hand finally slapped onto the edge of the counter. With a low, guttural groan, he hauled himself up. He clung to the wood for balance, his breath coming in ragged, shallow bursts that clouded his vision.

​As the room stopped spinning, his eyes began to track the space. It wasn't like his apartment. There were no empty, echoing halls. Instead, there were colorful post-it notes scattered across the fridge and pantry in a frantic, organized chaos—reminders of tasks, thoughts, or routines. His gaze drifted, finally landing on a small framed photo nestled next to a ceramic bowl.

​It was you. You were younger, a chunky kid with a smile that was a little too wide for your face, radiating a type of uncomplicated joy Dex couldn’t fathom. A woman held you, her arms a protective circle. Even through the blur of his fever, the contrast was a physical blow. You had been held like you were precious. He had been held like he was a burden.

​The soft snick of the front door closing was barely a whisper, too quiet to alert a man whose senses weren't currently drowned in a fever-dream.

​You didn't say a word at first. You simply set two brown paper bags onto the coffee table, placing them beside the medical supplies you’d laid out earlier with surgical neatness. You kicked off your shoes, your movements fluid and silent, and walked toward the kitchen.

​"It’s my mom," you said, your voice a low, steady hum in the quiet loft.

​Dex flinched, his shoulders hiking toward his ears, but as the words settled, the tension began to leach out of him. He didn't turn around; he couldn't. He just stood there, braced against your counter, staring at the photo of a life he didn't understand.

​"I went to get a few things," you continued, closing the distance between you. You didn't rush him. You stepped into his peripheral vision slowly, offering him every second to react, to strike, to be the monster the world said he was. "Come on, Benjamin. Let’s get you back where it’s comfortable."

​You reached out. Your hand settled on his waist, your fingers splayed softly against the bare skin just above the bandage. Your other hand moved to his, gently uncurling his white-knuckled grip from the counter and sliding your palm against his.

​It was an invitation, not a command. You gave him every chance to pull away, to shove you back, to let the "mutt" bite. His muscles twitched, a reflexive spark of violence flickering in his nerves, but it died out the moment he felt the heat of your skin. He didn't push. Instead, he let out a long, shuddering breath and leaned—just an inch, but it was everything—into your touch.

You had managed to guide him back to the edge of the bed, but he wouldn't lie down. He sat on the edge, his spine a rigid line of tension, his hands clutching the soft fabric of the duvet as if it were the only thing keeping him from falling into the earth.

​"Aren't you scared?"

​The question was barely a whisper, cracked and dry. Dex finally looked up, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed with a raw, agonizing vulnerability. "I could kill you. Right now. With anything in this room." His gaze flickered to the ceramic bowl, the coffee table, even the pens on your counter. His mind was a target computer that wouldn't shut off, even when he was dying. "Why are you doing this? Why aren't you running?"

​He expected you to flinch. He expected the same look of cold terror he’d seen on the faces of his victims or the disgust he’d seen in his mother’s eyes. He expected you to realize the math didn't add up.

​Instead, you just continued to kneel before him, your expression as steady as a heartbeat.

​"Dex," you said, your voice low and grounding, "I’ve spent my whole life watching people try to beat the 'bad' out of things. I’ve seen how the world treats anything that doesn't fit the mold." You reached out, not to restrain him, but just to exist in his space. "Just because a dog is taught through violence...just because it’s been kicked until it learned to bite first...that doesn't mean it’s an inherently bad dog. It just means it hasn't had the right person to show it that it doesn't have to be on guard anymore."

​Dex let out a harsh, jagged laugh that sounded more like a cough. "You can't fix me," he spat, the words laced with a self-loathing so deep it felt bottomless. "You’re talking about a monster. I’m a weapon. You can't fix something that’s designed to snap. Eventually, I’ll hurt you. It’s what I do. It’s the only thing I’m good at."

​He waited for the blow. He waited for you to agree.

​But you didn't pull away. You moved closer, your knees pressing against his shins, and you reached up to cup his face. Your palms were warm, a stark contrast to the icy chill of his fever-sweat. You looked at him—truly looked at the man behind the bullseye—with that same wide, kind smile from the photograph.

​"I don't want to fix you, Benjamin," you whispered, your thumb tracing the line of his trembling lower lip. "You aren't a broken machine. You're a person who was never given a chance to grow toward the light. I’m not here to fix a monster. I’m here to mend the parts of you that were never allowed to heal."

​It was the "Benjamin" that did it. Not "Dex," the soldier. Not "Poindexter," the asset. Just Benjamin.

​The wall he had built out of cold precision and stone-hard apathy finally buckled. The "why" that had been stabbing at his insides finally twisted one last time and broke. A sob, deep and guttural, ripped from his throat—a sound of pure, unadulterated grief for the boy who had been kicked and the man who had been used.

​He collapsed forward, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder, his fingers bunching into the fabric of your shirt. He was heavy, a dead weight of trauma and exhaustion, but for the first time in his life, he wasn't bracing for impact. He let his tears soak into your skin, his body shaking with the force of his cries.

Matt Murdock’s problem had a rhythm. It was a specific cadence of a heartbeat—one he’d first picked up in a cramped Columbia dorm room, tucked between the scent of Foggy’s cheap cologne and the stale air of law school textbooks.

​Back then, you were a ghost. You were quieter, reserved, sunken so far into yourself that Matt sometimes had to strain to hear the blood moving through your veins. You were just another body in the sea of frantic, ambitious students, always hovering in the corner of the room like a secret. You only seemed to anchor yourself to the earth when Foggy was there to hold the line.

​Matt would find you slumped on Foggy’s bed, the rustle of heavy pages the only sign of your presence. But there was always that subtle shift—the way your heart would skip a beat, then settle into a faster, more insistent thrum the moment Matt stepped through the door. He couldn't see the way you looked away, but he felt the heat of your gaze, a gravitational pull he couldn’t quite categorize.

​It was Foggy who finally broke the seal one night, long after you’d retreated to your own room. The air in the dorm was heavy with the smell of old coffee and high-stakes anxiety.

​“He’s trans,” Foggy muttered into the dark. He didn't sound defensive—just honest.

​Matt, lying on his own twin bed, felt the word settle over him like a missing puzzle piece. It explained the guardedness, the way you seemed to be holding your breath for years at a time. “What?”

​Foggy shifted, the springs of his mattress creaking. “My brother. He’s transgender. He told me it was okay if I told you.”

​Matt nodded slowly, a small, thoughtful hum vibrating in his throat. He felt a strange surge of warmth—not pity, but a sudden, sharp clarity. “Is he handsome?” Matt teased, trying to keep his voice light even as his own heart gave a traitorous kick.

​A notebook caught him square in the chest. “Wouldn't you like to know, Murdock,” Foggy scoffed, though the smile was evident in his voice. “Keep your hands off the merchandise.”

​Knowing hadn’t made Matt less nervous; it had made him hyper-aware. He wasn’t just crushing on his best friend’s brother; he was falling for the quietest man in the room, terrified that his "senses" were overstepping boundaries he didn't yet understand.

​Matt rubbed a hand down his face now, the present-day reality of Nelson and Murdock pressing in on him. The office was too quiet without Foggy’s frantic typing. The files under his fingers were a mess of complex litigation, and his brain was fried.

​You weren't a ghost anymore. Over the last decade, you had bloomed. Foggy had described the changes to him over drinks—the way your jawline had sharpened, the newfound breadth of your shoulders, the way you finally smiled with your teeth. But Matt didn’t need eyes to know you were different. Your voice had dropped into a rich, resonant baritone that vibrated in Matt’s very marrow. You moved with a heavier, more confident gait. You sounded…solid. Whole.

​His fingers brushed the Braille labels on his phone as he dialed. It rang three times—the third ring cutting off as you picked up.

​“Matthew?” Your voice was thick with sleep, a low, grainy sound that made his stomach flip. “It’s nearly eleven. Please tell me you aren't still at the office.”

​“I’m still at the office,” Matt admitted, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. He loved the way the syllables of his name sounded coming from you—the 'th' soft, the 'm' a lingering vibration. “I’m hitting a wall on the Dorsey filings. I…I was wondering if you’d be willing to give me a second pair of eyes? If you aren't too tired.”

​He heard the tell-tale sounds of your life on the other end: the soft thump of your cat jumping off the duvet, the rustle of a discarded blanket, the sharp click of a lamp being switched on.

​“You’re a menace, Murdock,” you sighed, but there was no bite in it. Just a warm, familiar affection that made the cold office feel a little smaller. “Fine. But I’m not putting on a suit and tie for some late-night call. You get me in a hoodie or you don't get me at all.”

​Matt smiled, a genuine one that reached his eyes. “I think I can live with that. See you soon.”

The silence of the office wasn't truly silent; to Matt, it was a hum of flickering fluorescent lights and the distant, muffled roar of Hell’s Kitchen. But then, a new sound cut through the static.

​He heard the heavy clack of the street-level door, followed by footsteps on the stairs. They were firm, purposeful—the gait of a man who knew exactly where he was going. Then came the soft thud of the office door closing and the familiar, melodic jingle of keys being dropped into a pocket.

​Matt sat up straight, swiveling his chair toward the door. He didn't need to see you to know the exact moment you entered the room. Your heartbeat was a song he’d memorized over a decade ago. In college, it had been a frantic, staccato thing, hidden behind layers of uncertainty. Now, it was a steady, resonant bass line—confident, grounded, and unmistakably yours. It was the most comforting sound in the city.

​"You look like you're drowning in paper, Matt," you said, your voice warm and slightly gravelly from the late hour.

​Matt leaned back, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Only up to my chin. I figured if I went under, I should at least have good company."

​He tracked your movement as you walked toward his desk. You set a paper cup down, the scent of dark roast and a hint of cinnamon swirling into his senses. Then, you reached down. Your fingers brushed his as you guided his hand to the cup—a lingering, grounding contact. He didn’t need the help—his spatial awareness was better than anyone’s—but he never pulled away. He lived in a world of ghosts and echoes; your touch was one of the few things that felt solid.

​"Foggy actually left you alone in this mess?" you hummed, pulling out Foggy’s squeaky desk chair.

​Matt took a grateful sip of the coffee, feeling the heat bloom in his chest. "He claimed he had a date. Something about a guy from the DA’s office, though I suspect he just wanted to avoid these filings." He paused, tilting his head slightly. "But it worked out. Now I have my favorite Nelson with me."

​You chuckled, the sound vibrating low in your chest—a sound Matt felt more than he heard. "Right. Foggy on a date? I’ll believe that when he stops talking about work for more than five minutes."

​You reached across the desk, your sleeve brushing against his arm as you gathered a stack of files. Matt heard the rustle of you rummaging through Foggy’s drawer, the click of a pen, and the cap being pulled off a highlighter.

​"Am I really your favorite?" you asked. Your voice had dropped a fraction, the teasing edge giving way to something softer, more genuine.

​Matt leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, moving into your space just enough to hear the slight hitch in your breathing. "Don't tell Foggy," he whispered, his tone conspiratorial and dangerously fond. "He’s got the heart, but you...you've got the brains. And better taste in coffee.”

The office settled into a heavy, comfortable rhythm. It was the language of two people who had spent a decade in each other’s orbits: the rhythmic click-clack of your pen, the dry rustle of paper, and the low, melodic vibration of Matt’s voice as he muttered legal jargon under his breath.

​At one point, Matt slid a manila folder toward you. As you reached for it, your fingers grazed the back of his hand. The contact was brief, but to Matt, it felt like a lightning strike. He heard your heart skip—a sudden, sharp hitch in the beat—before it accelerated into a frantic, driving tempo. He didn’t say anything, but his head tilted just a fraction of a millimeter.

​He caught the sound of your fingernails scratching against the coarse stubble on your jaw—a habit you’d picked up since the testosterone had thickened the hair there. It was a sound he’d grown to love; it meant you were focused, grounded, and entirely present.

​Exhaustion finally started to win. Matt let out a long sigh, his shoulders dropping as he reached up to his throat. He caught the silk of his dark red tie, tugging it loose with a practiced flick of his wrist. His fingers moved to the top button of his shirt, undoing it to let the cool office air hit his skin.

​The room went still. He could feel your gaze—not just a glance, but a heavy, lingering weight that tracked the movement of his hands. He felt the air shift as you licked your lips, the faint sound of your breath hitching.

​"You were staring," Matt whispered. His voice was low, vibrating through the mahogany desk.

​"No," you blurted out, the word coming out a little too fast, a little too defensive. You scrambled for an out, your mind racing. "How can you even tell? Maybe I was...staring at the man in the doorway?"

​It was a terrible excuse. There was no one in the doorway; the hallway was a vacuum of silence.

​Matt leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. He crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture that pulled the fabric of his shirt tight across his shoulders. He didn't turn away; he looked directly in your general direction, his sightless eyes hidden behind his glasses, though you felt like he was seeing right through your skin.

​"Uh-huh," he hummed, a playful, private sound. He was fighting back a laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching.

​You waved a hand dismissively in the air—a useless gesture for a blind man, but a necessary one for your own sanity—and tried to bury your nose back in the Dorsey file. "What is it?" he pressed, his voice dropping an octave, becoming more intimate. "What were you looking at?"

​How were you supposed to say it? How could you admit that you were transfixed by the dexterity of his fingers? That you were wondering if those same hands would be gentle or firm if they were wrapped around your waist—or your throat?

​Matt’s head tilted further. His nostrils flared, taking in a sharp breath. The scent of the room had changed. The clean, soapy smell of your skin had been overtaken by the saltier, sharper tang of arousal and the spike of pheromones that came with a racing heart.

​"You were looking at me," Matt said. It wasn’t a guess. It was a cold, hard fact delivered with the confidence of a man who could hear your blood rushing to your face.

​"I.." You choked on the words, your throat feeling suddenly tight. "I’m sorry. I just...I got lost in thought."

​It wasn't a lie. You were thinking. You were thinking about how the man across from you had been a constant in your life through every surgery, every transition, and every heartbreak—and how, right now, the only thing you wanted was to bridge the three feet of desk separating you.

Matt didn’t stop at loosening his collar. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing the perfectly groomed strands until they fell over his forehead, then fully unknotted his tie. He tossed the silk strip onto the pile of folders in front of you—a flag of surrender, or perhaps a challenge. He wanted your undivided attention, and he knew exactly how to get it.

​He began rolling up his sleeves, the fabric bunching past his elbows to reveal the corded muscle of his forearms. He undid a second button, leaning back with his legs braced wide, claiming the space between you.

​"And what if I said I think about you, too, Nelson?" he whispered. His hand reached up, fingers hooking around the temples of his tinted glasses. He pulled them off, setting them aside.

​You swallowed hard, the sound loud in the quiet office. In your head, Matt Murdock didn’t think about men like you. He was a man of logic, law, and a very specific kind of Catholic guilt. He was supposed to think about the firm, or the latest beautiful witness, not a trans man who had spent years rebuilding himself into the masculine figure sitting across from him. You were convinced that having something with you would be a one-way ticket to his priest’s confession booth.

​"I’d say you’re sleep-deprived," you managed, your voice a little raspy. "And that you’re probably mistaking me for someone else in the dark."

​Your fingers twitched, brushing the silk of his discarded tie. You leaned back, your chair letting out a sharp, protesting creak that felt like an exclamation point to your nerves.

​Matt let out a long, slow breath, his eyelids fluttering shut as he tilted his head. "I hear your heartbeat every time I’m near you," he whispered, his voice vibrating with a sudden, raw intensity. "I’ve heard it since the day we met in college. It’s a constant. A rhythm I’ve used to find my own way back to center."

​His hand slid up his chest, his palm flattening over his heart. He began to tap a frantic, syncopated rhythm against his sternum—a mirror of the desperate pace your own heart was currently setting.

​"How?" you whispered, your eyes glued to the movement of his hand. "How can you possibly hear that?"

​A small, knowing smile played on his lips—the kind of smile that suggested he had a thousand secrets he was finally ready to share. "There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Nelson." He opened his eyes. Without the glasses, the intensity of his gaze was staggering. Even if he couldn't see you, those vivid, dark brown eyes seemed to anchor you to the spot.

​"I like you," he said simply. The words weren't a question; they were a confession. "I thought it was obvious. I mean, even Foggy figured it out years ago."

​You felt a flush creep up your neck. Foggy had always been the observant one. While you had been trying to shrink, to disappear into the background and draw as little attention as possible during your early transition, Foggy had been watching. He’d seen the way Matt’s head turned when you walked into a room; he’d seen the way Matt lingered on your voice.

​"Foggy was always better with the emotional stuff than I was," you whispered, finally braving a look directly into his eyes. "I was just trying to survive. I didn't think...I didn't think someone like you would ever be looking at someone like me.”

Matt didn’t respond with words. Instead, he rose from his chair with a slow, deliberate grace. He navigated the few feet of space between your desks with his hands held slightly out—not because he was lost, but as an invitation, waiting for you to meet him halfway. He stopped when his legs brushed against your knees, a physical boundary that made the air in the small office feel suddenly scarce.

​His hands found yours, his fingers long and warm as they curled around your palms. With a gentle, insistent tug, he pulled you to your feet until your bodies were mere inches apart. He was close enough that his breath hitched against your skin, carrying the faint, comforting scent of the coffee and cinnamon you’d brought him.

​"Can I kiss you?" Matt whispered. The question was raw, stripped of his usual lawyerly composure. His hands trailed up your arms in a slow, searing path until his palms cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing just below your cheekbones.

​You let out a shaky breath, your mouth opening and closing as you tried to find your footing. "You're...you're seriously asking me that?"

​It wasn't a rejection; it was pure, unadulterated disbelief. You had walked into this office expecting a night of dry legal filings and bad lighting, not a decade’s worth of unspoken longing finally coming to a head.

​Matt let out a soft, huffed chuckle, his forehead leaning down to rest against yours. "Yeah. I thought that was the right way to do this. Usually, I'm better at reading the room, but with you…" He trailed off, his voice cracking slightly. "With you, I just want to be sure."

​You didn’t give him a chance to finish. You cut him off, your lips finding his in a kiss that started out soft and uncertain—a question asked in return. Matt answered it instantly. He groaned low in his throat, a sound of pure relief, and pulled you flush against him. He liked the solid weight of you, the way you fit perfectly into the space he’d been holding open for years. Even with the slight height difference, the way he had to tilt his head felt natural, like two jagged pieces finally clicking into place.

​Without breaking the kiss, Matt began to move. He guided you backward, his boots shuffling against the thin carpet until he felt the edge of his chair. He sat, and in one fluid motion, he pulled you down with him.

​You slowly pulled away, both of you panting for air in the sudden silence of the room. You were straddling his lap, your hands splayed wide against the heat of his chest, feeling the frantic, galloping rhythm of his heart through the thin cotton of his shirt. Matt’s hands moved from your cheeks, sliding down the curve of your neck—his fingers lingering over your pulse point as if he were savoring the fact that it was racing just for him—before settling firmly at your waist.

​"We aren't going to get any work done, are we?" you sighed, your forehead dropping onto his shoulder as you tried to catch your breath.

​"No," Matt hummed, the vibration of his voice buzzing right through your chest. "Absolutely not."

​He didn't wait for a rebuttal. His lips were already hovering over yours again, closing the distance before the Dorsey files could even cross your mind.

The kiss deepened, turning hungry and urgent. Matt stood, lifting you easily from his lap and pressing your back against the edge of his desk. The wood was cold against your spine, a sharp contrast to the furnace-heat of his body. With a careless sweep of his arm, a stack of Dorsey files slid onto the floor, the paper fluttering like dying birds, but neither of you cared.

​Matt leaned over you, his weight a grounding presence. His fingers hooked under the hem of your hoodie, the fabric bunching up as he slid his hands over your skin. He moved slowly, his fingertips tracing the coarse line of hair that ran past your navel and disappeared into the waistband of your sweatpants.

​A violent shudder ran down your spine when his touch grazed the thin, horizontal lines of your top surgery scars. Even six years later, having his hands there—so gentle, so deliberate—felt like it was altering your DNA. He wasn't just touching you; he was learning you.

​"Foggy never did you justice," Matt hummed against your mouth. He began pressing soft, lingering kisses to your jaw, your neck, the hollow of your throat. "All those stories...they didn't even come close."

​You let out a breathy laugh, your head falling back. "Yeah? Well, maybe that’s what you get for asking my brother for life updates when I was only ever one phone call away."

​You slid your hand up his chest, past the open buttons of his shirt. Your fingertips caught on a ridge of puckered skin—a jagged scar near his ribs you hadn't known was there. It was thick and ropey, a testament to a violence you didn't quite understand yet.

​Matt hummed, his hands continuing their exploration, mapping the curves of your sides and the muscle of your chest. His thumbs hooked into the waistband of your sweats, dipping just low enough to make your breath hitch.

​"Like I said," he whispered, his voice vibrating with a dark, low-frequency heat. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me, Nelson."

​Your other hand came up, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. You gave a sharp, insistent tug, pulling him down until his lips were mere inches from yours, his nose brushing against yours in the dark.

​"Maybe you can tell me all about them over coffee tomorrow?" you hummed, your voice teasing despite the way your heart was thundering.

​Matt’s hands stopped dead at your waist. His fingers dug into your skin, his grip tightening until it was almost bruising—not with malice, but with a sudden, overwhelming surge of want. He let out a ragged, disbelieving breath.

​"I’m standing here thinking about how badly I want to fuck you right now," he breathed, the honesty of it hitting you like a physical weight. "And you’re asking me about coffee?"

​He tilted his head, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made the room feel like it was losing oxygen. "I don't think you realize how long I've been waiting to have you on this desk.”

Matt didn’t hesitate. He surged forward, pressing you harder against the mahogany desk until the wood bit into your lower back. He was a wall of solid, radiating heat, his breath ghosting over your skin in ragged hitches.

​"What's stopping you?" you challenged, a reckless smirk tugging at your lips. You didn’t wait for an answer, your fingers moving to the remaining buttons of his shirt, popping them free with an urgency that sent a stray button skittering across the floor.

​Matt’s own smirk was dangerous—the look of a man who had just been given permission to stop holding back. His fingers hooked into the hem of your hoodie, and in one fluid motion, he pulled it up and over your head, tossing it blindly onto the pile of discarded files. You helped him shrug out of his shirt, the silk sliding off his shoulders before hitting the floor somewhere in the shadows.

​Then he was on you again, his bare chest slick with the heat of the room as it pressed against yours. He kissed you hard, a bruising, possessive claim that tasted like coffee and desperate longing. One of his hands moved to your throat, not to squeeze, but to rest there—his thumb resting right over your carotid artery so he could feel the frantic, thundering pulse of your arousal. His other hand traveled down, his palm flat against your stomach before hooking into the waistband of your sweatpants.

​He stripped them away with practiced ease, sliding them down past your hips and ankles. At the same time, your hands fumbled with his belt. The leather groaned as you yanked it through the loops, your knuckles grazing the heavy, insistent heat through the fabric of his trousers.

​You pulled back just an inch, your chest heaving as your eyes roamed over him. In the dim light of the desk lamp, his torso was a map of scars and lean muscle, looking like something carved from marble. Your gaze dropped to the prominent bulge straining against his slacks.

​"Mmm," you hummed, a low vibration of approval as you kicked your shoes and sweatpants completely aside. You shifted, the cool air of the office hitting your legs, leaving you in nothing but your boxers. You looked from the evidence of his erection back up to his face, a playful spark in your eyes. "Seems a little unfair, don't you think, Murdock? I'm significantly more exposed than you are."

​Matt leaned in, his lips hovering just a hair’s breadth from your ear. The hand on your throat moved up, his fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back.

​"I'm a lawyer," he rasped, his voice dropping into that gritty, gravelly tone that made your knees weak. "I'm very good at finding ways to settle the balance. Why don't you let me show you?”

Matt was on his knees now, settled between your legs. His hands—calloused and steady—gripped your thighs, the pressure grounding you as he pulled you toward the edge of the desk. You felt the breadth of his shoulders between your knees, a solid anchor in a world that was quickly turning into nothing but heat and friction.

​One of your hands was tangled deep in his dark hair, your knuckles brushing his scalp; the other gripped the mahogany edge of the desk so hard your fingers went white. Your head rolled back against your shoulder, a shaky breath escaping you as Matt leaned in.

​He started with soft, reverence-filled kisses to your inner thighs, moving higher with agonizing slowness. He wasn't just exploring; he was listening. He could hear the way your blood rushed to the surface of your skin and the precise moment your breath hitched as he neared the center of your heat.

​"Fuck," you rasped, a shudder racking your frame when his hot breath fanned over your bottom growth. The sensitive bud was pulsing, swollen and aching for a touch that Matt seemed determined to delay. He pressed a light, lingering kiss to the very tip of it, his fingers flexing against your thighs to keep you open for him.

​"Relax," Matt whispered, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel right up your spine. He leaned up just enough to press a firm kiss to the soft skin below your navel, right at the start of your happy trail. "Give in to me. Let me take care of you."

​You let out a jagged exhale when he moved back down. His tongue made a slow, agonizing path from the base of your growth upward, following the new length your transition had given you. It was a targeted, deliberate sensation. One of his hands slid from your thigh, his fingers finding the softer, slicker skin behind the growth, massaging gently as he continued to lick in rhythmic, upward strokes.

​Your thighs instinctively tightened around his head, the muscles in your legs coiling with the need for more. When he finally took the sensitive bud into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and sucking with a slow, steady pressure, your vision blurred.

​Your hand tightened in his hair, yanking his head back as a low, guttural moan was torn from his throat—a sound of pure, shared hunger.

​"Stop," you huffed, your chest heaving. "Stop teasing me, Matt. Just...please."

​You tried to force your muscles to relax, even as Matt’s thumb began to circle the hood of your growth, his touch light and teasing. He pulled back just an inch, his lips glistening in the low light, a dark, satisfied hum vibrating in the small space between you.

​"You seem to like it," he murmured, his senses fixed on the frantic rhythm of your heart. "And I like the way you sound when you're losing your mind.”

Matt didn’t wait for you to find your words. He leaned back in, his stubble—just starting to roughen his jaw—grazing your sensitive inner skin before his lips sealed around your growth once more. The suction was firm and rhythmic, a direct, pulsing pressure that made your entire body go taut.

​You let out a jagged gasp, your fingers digging into the hair at the base of his skull. The sensation was overwhelming; with the increased sensitivity from your transition, every slide of his tongue felt like an electric current. You couldn't help it—your hips began to roll instinctively, seeking more of that grounding heat, pushing yourself deeper into his reach.

​"Matthew," you gasped, your voice breaking. "Please—"

​He didn't slow down. If anything, he became more insistent. He could hear the way your breath had turned into short, hitching sobs of pleasure, and he used that as his compass. His hands moved from your thighs to grip your hips, his fingers hooking into your skin to anchor you as you rocked against him. He wasn't just taking; he was worshipping, his tongue swirling around the head of your growth before pulling back with a slow, drawing pressure that made your toes curl.

​Your thighs began to tremble, a fine, uncontrollable shaking that signaled you were reaching your limit. The office around you—the cold desk, the smell of old paper, the distant hum of the city—all of it bled into the background. There was only the wet, sliding heat of his mouth and the low, vibration of the hum he made against you when you bucked your hips upward.

​He felt the shift in your muscles, the way your heart rate spiked into a frantic, staccato rhythm. He knew you were right on the edge. He transitioned from slow licks to a fast, fluttering motion of his tongue right against the most sensitive point, while his thumb maintained a steady, circular pressure at the base.

​"Matt—I'm—" You couldn't even finish the sentence. Your head thudded back against your shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut as a wave of heat started at your core and radiated outward.

​He didn't let go. He kept up the pace, his mouth a hot, insistent vacuum that pulled the climax right out of you. You cried out his name, a raw, vocal sound that echoed off the glass walls of the office, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as your body was racked by a long, shuddering release.

You lay back against the desk, the mahogany cool against your heated skin as your chest heaved. The high was still humming in your marrow, making your limbs feel heavy and liquid. You watched, mesmerized, as Matt stood up from his knees. Your thighs slid from his shoulders, dropping to drape loosely around his waist as he leaned over you once more.

​He pressed a lingering, reverent kiss to the center of your chest, right over your heart, before trailing a path of fire up to your lips. Your hands climbed his shoulders, nails dragging down the lean muscle of his back before hooking into his skin to pull him closer.

​"I'm not done with you," he whispered against your mouth, his voice a low, rough promise. He pulled back just enough for you to see his eyes—dark, unfocused, and radiating a raw hunger.

​You let out a shaky breath, watching as he reached for his own waistband. He undid the button of his slacks with a practiced flick of his thumb, pushing them down along with his boxers until they joined the growing pile of discarded clothes on the floor. You sat up on the desk, your eyes tracking the lines of his body, landing on the heavy, insistent length of him.

​"You're staring again," he chuckled. Even without his sight, he seemed to feel the weight of your gaze like a physical touch. He reached blindly but accurately into his top desk drawer.

​You bit your lip, watching him pull a small square foil packet from the stash. "How could I not?" you hummed, your voice dropping into a suggestive purr. "Always prepared, aren't you, Mr. Murdock?"

​You reached out, taking the condom from his hand. Matt’s smile was sharp and knowing as he leaned forward to steal one more quick, searing kiss. He let out a sharp intake of breath when you began to roll the latex over the hot, aching length of him, your fingers steady despite the adrenaline.

​You didn't stay on the desk. You stood, your bare body flushing against his before you placed your hands on his chest and pushed. He went back willingly, his office chair catching him with a soft creak of leather. You moved instantly to straddle his lap, your knees bracketing his hips.

​One hand rested on his shoulder for balance; the other wrapped around his cock, your fingertips grazing the tip. Even through the condom, Matt seemed to feel every ounce of your heat as you began a slow, deliberate stroke. His head tilted back against the headrest, a low, guttural moan vibrating through his chest as you lifted yourself and sank down onto him in one smooth, agonizingly perfect motion.

​Matt’s hands snapped into action. One gripped your waist, fingers digging into your skin to anchor you, while the other found purchase around the curve of your throat. He didn't squeeze, but the weight of his palm—firm and possessive—sent a fresh jolt of electricity through you.

​"There," Matt rasped, his head rolling to the side as he felt you settle against him. "Now we’re even.”

Matt’s grip on your waist was white-knuckled, his fingers digging into the dip of your hips to anchor you. Every time you sank down, the contact was a revelation—the heavy, insistent heat of him filling you, the subtle friction of the latex, and the grounding, possessive weight of his hand at your throat.

​His head was thrown back against the leather headrest, his jaw tight as he tracked the symphony of your body. To Matt, you weren’t just a person; you were a masterpiece of sound and vibration. He could hear the way your joints shifted, the slick slide of skin against skin, and the frantic, beautiful mess of your heartbeat thundering against your ribs. It was a sensory overload that would usually drive him to distraction, but with you, it just felt like finally coming home.

​"Don't stop," he rasped, his voice a jagged edge in the quiet office. His thumb brushed over your windpipe—not enough to hurt, just enough to make your breath hitch and your moan resonate deeper in your chest. "I’ve spent...God, I've spent years wondering what you’d sound like like this."

​You leaned forward, your chest brushing against his bare skin, your hands finding the back of his neck to steady yourself. Your fingers tangled in his hair, the strands soft against your knuckles as you settled fully against him, your hips rolling in an agonizingly slow, grinding circle.

​"Is it everything you imagined, Matthew?" You managed a breathy, teasing laugh, though it was cut short by a sharp moan when Matt bucked his hips upward, meeting your depth with a forceful, desperate hunger.

​He squeezed your throat softly—a silent command for your attention—and pulled your face down until your lips were a hair’s breadth from his.

​"Better," he whispered, the word vibrating against your mouth. "Infinitely better than the version in my head."

​He shifted his grip, his hands moving to your backside to pull you even tighter against him, his movements turning more urgent as he began to lose the battle for his own composure. The office chair creaked under the weight of your shared rhythm, the sound lost in the rush of your breathing.

Matt’s thrusts grew sloppy, the measured precision of a lawyer replaced by the raw, uncoordinated hunger of a man who had reached his limit. His hand slid from your throat, trailing a path of fire down your chest to join his other hand at your hips. He braced his forehead against yours, his breath coming in hot, jagged hitches as he lifted you slightly and brought you back down to meet him in a slow, agonizing grind.

​You leaned forward, your lips brushing his, eyes half-lidded as you whispered his name like a prayer. The office around you seemed to dissolve, leaving nothing but the friction of skin and the heat of the moment.

​"I’m," he breathed, the word breaking into a ragged gasp. "I’m close. Please."

​He bridged the gap, his kiss deepening into something deep and possessive as he anchored you against him. His hips rolled into yours one last time, his body taut as you squeezed him, feeling the frantic pulse of his release. Your thighs trembled, hands tangling in his hair as the world fell away, leaving you both suspended in a long, shuddering climax that seemed to echo in the silence of the office.

​For a long time, neither of you moved. You sat there, hearts hammering in sync, sweat mixing where your chests pressed together. Matt finally broke the kiss, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder as he let out a long, shaky exhale. His grip on your hips loosened, his trembling hands beginning a slow, reverent path up and down your spine. He wasn't just touching you; he was listening—tracking the way your heartbeat gradually slowed, mapping the lingering tremors in your muscles.

​Reluctantly, you pulled away. Your legs felt like water as you stood up, crossing the small distance to his desk to grab a box of tissues. The sound of the tissue rustling and the soft slide of fabric as you pulled your clothes back on seemed loud in the quiet room. Matt stayed in the chair, his head tilted as he listened to your heart settle.

​When you stepped back in front of him, holding out his boxers, he didn't take them immediately. Instead, he reached out, his hand lingering near your hip as if he were considering pulling you right back down.

​"Please," he whispered, his voice still thick with sleep and satisfaction. "Tell me we can do this again. Tell me this wasn't just a side effect of the late night."

​You let out a soft laugh, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to his lips. "You think you’re getting rid of me that easily, Matthew? I’ve been pining for a decade; you’re stuck with me now."

​Matt’s face broke into a genuine, brilliant smile—the kind he only ever saved for those he truly trusted. He took the boxers from you, his fingers brushing yours. "I’m counting on it," he said, standing up to pull his slacks on. "Though I’m hoping for my bed next time. Or yours. Anywhere but these squeaky office chairs."

​He walked up to you as you started gathering the scattered files from the floor. His hands found your waist, a few fingers dipping back under the hem of your hoodie to find that patch of warm skin he’d claimed earlier.

​You opened your mouth to reply, but the sharp click of the front door lock froze the air in the room. The office door swung open, and there stood Foggy, eyes wide and jaw practically hitting his chest.

​"Oh...wow," Foggy deadpanned, his gaze darting between your flushed face and a very shirtless, very 'sex-drunk' Matt Murdock. "Okay. That happened."

​"Foggy," Matt started, turning toward the sound of his partner, though he made no move to actually move his hands away from you.

​"Don't," Foggy held up a hand, looking like he wanted to turn around and walk right back out. He was clutching a few manila folders like a shield. "I don't need the legal opening statement. I have eyes. And ears. And a very strong sense of 'I should have knocked.'"

​You walked over, taking the folders from his hand just to give your own hands something to do. "I thought you had a date," you muttered, rocking back and forth on your heels.

​"Yeah, well, he rescheduled," Foggy cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact with the shirtless man behind you. "And I realized I left these on my kitchen table. I thought I'd be in and out in thirty seconds." He paused, looking at you, then at Matt. "Was it—"

​"I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, Foggy," you cut him off, pressing a hand to his face and gently steering him back toward the door. "Go home.”

You stood by the door for a moment after the lock clicked, listening to the fading rhythm of Foggy’s footsteps as he practically sprinted down the hallway to avoid further awkwardness. Turning back toward the room, you found Matt in the center of the office. He looked significantly more "Murdock" than he had ten minutes ago, though his hair was still a mess and his eyes held a lingering, soft glow. He was currently plucking his silk tie off the corner of Foggy’s desk with the precision of a man who could feel the exact texture of the fabric.

​You walked over to him, your bare feet silent on the carpet. You picked up the manila folders Foggy had brought and stacked them into a somewhat organized pile—a futile effort given the chaos of the rest of the room—before leaning back against the edge of the desk.

​"I’m never living this down," Matt hummed. He sounded remarkably sheepish. He stepped into your space, his hands instinctively finding their home at your waist again. "I’m going to hear about this at every brunch, every firm meeting, and probably in the middle of our next opening statement."

​You smiled, reaching out to straighten the collar of his shirt. Your fingers brushed against the warm skin of his neck, and you felt his pulse jump under your touch.

​"No, you’re definitely not," you murmured, smoothing out the fabric. "Foggy has a memory like an elephant for things that embarrass you. It’s his favorite pastime." You paused, looking up at him, your expression softening. "But about that coffee I mentioned earlier...maybe I can finish helping you look over these files over a fresh cup? Someplace with better lighting and significantly less chance of your partner bursting through the door?"

​Matt’s head tilted, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. He leaned down, his face burying in the crook of your neck as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your pulse point. The heat of it radiated through your entire body.

​You couldn’t say you were surprised when Andrew got arrested. Honestly, you weren't even surprised he’d been caught while protecting his family. It was the Cody curse: that same family used him as a weapon while simultaneously viewing him as a liability. They had tried to do the same to you once they realized you were the only good thing in Andrew’s life, pulling you into the orbit of their jobs and their secrets. You knew, even then, that this was the inevitable outcome. Andrew was a man built for the fall.

​You’d lost count of the days spent driving to that gray, lifeless facility to visit him. Those were days you knew the rest of the Codys wouldn't waste on him—not when there were scores to plan or money to move. You made a point of visiting the day before his birthday, a calculated move to avoid the others. You specifically wanted to avoid the sharp, possessive gaze of Smurf. Andrew had nearly lost his mind getting you away from her influence, dragging you out of the "family business" before the rot could settle in your bones. He’d saved you, even if it meant he had to stay behind in the dark.

​Then, halfway into the second year of his sentence, you suddenly stopped showing up.

​He didn't blame you. Whatever ghosts the two of you shared—before Smurf dragged you in and he dragged you back out—it wasn't worth the fluorescent lights and the reinforced glass. It wasn't worth the way he flinched when you reached out, or the suffocating silence of a man who had forgotten how to be touched. By the time he was halfway through that three-and-a-half-year stretch, you had disappeared into a life that was quiet, clean, and far away from the Cody name.

​So, why was he standing in front of your house now?

​The setting sun cast long, amber shadows across the deck. Andrew was there, a ghost made of flesh and bone, walking slowly up your porch steps. His calloused fingers brushed against the surfboard resting on the porch table, lingering near a discarded shirt and a tin of board wax. He looked out of place in the salt air, still wearing the tension of a man who expected a cell door to slam shut at any moment.

​Your wetsuit hung on the line, still dripping steadily onto the wood—drip, drip, drip—the only sound in the evening quiet. You were inside, likely still in the shower, washing the salt from your skin with that specific shampoo he remembered.

​Cedar and mint.

​To Andrew, that scent didn't just mean you; it meant safety. It meant the life he had forced you to take so he wouldn't have to watch Smurf destroy you, too. He stood there, frozen, caught between the urge to knock and the instinct to run before you saw what the last few years had done to him.

His hand came up, heavy and trembling. His knuckles barely grazed the aged, salt-worn wood of the front door. Andrew didn't look at the house; his eyes remained fixed on his boots, tracking the dust from the road. He let out a long, shuddering breath, his forehead coming to rest against the doorframe right beside his hand. He was a man holding onto a ledge, unsure if he wanted to be pulled up or let go.

​Then, he heard it.

​Your voice. It was muffled by the wood, but he’d know that low, resonant frequency anywhere. But it was immediately followed by another—a softer, melodic laugh. A woman.

​Oh.

​The syllable echoed in the hollow of his chest. His body screamed at him to turn around, to vault over the porch railing and disappear back into the shadows of the coastal highway. He had no right to be here. He had no peace to offer you, only the jagged edges of a life lived under Smurf’s thumb. Maybe you’d moved on. Maybe that was why the visits had stopped—why the letters you never sent remained yellowing in a desk drawer. You hadn't talked about labels back then; you were just two people clinging to each other in the dark, too terrified of Smurf’s surveillance to call it love.

​The door creaked open before he could retreat.

​It wasn't you. The woman standing there had skin the color of deep mahogany, her hair piled into a messy, salt-crusted bun. She wore a sheer pullover over a damp bikini, looking every bit like she belonged in this sun-drenched life. She was beautiful in a way that felt healthy, vibrant—everything Andrew wasn't.

​"Can I help you?" she asked. Her voice was curious, not yet guarded, but she leaned slightly against the frame, a subtle claim of territory.

​Andrew’s mouth opened, then clicked shut. He felt like a ghost trying to remember how to speak to the living. His throat was dry, tasting of every unspoken word and regret. He looked like a stray dog—beaten, dangerous, and lost.

​"I..." he started, but the word died.

​Then, you appeared. You rounded the corner from the hallway, drying your hair with a towel, your skin still steaming from the shower. You stopped dead. Your eyes went wide, turning glassy in an instant as the air left your lungs. You looked older—the fine lines around your eyes spoke of years Andrew had missed—but you were still the man who had been his only sanctuary.

​"Andrew," you breathed. It wasn't a greeting; it was a prayer.

​The woman stepped back, sensing the sudden, violent shift in the atmosphere. She crossed her arms over her chest, her gaze darting between your shocked expression and the hollowed-out man on her porch.

​"You're out," you said softly, stepping in front of her, closing the gap but keeping the threshold between you. "I didn't...I didn't think it was today."

​Andrew’s heart didn't just break; it shattered, the shards cutting into his lungs. He heard the way you said his name—not Pope, the monster Smurf had raised, but Andrew. He looked past you into the warm, lit living room. Did she know? Did she know the way you used to hold him when the night terrors got too loud? Did she know how many times he’d pressed you into that same couch, desperate to feel something other than his family’s rot?

​He looked at her, then back at you, his voice a jagged whisper. "I shouldn't have come.”

​The silence that followed was suffocating. It wasn't just the absence of noise; it was the weight of years, of secrets, and of the blood Andrew had on his hands. No one moved. The woman looked between the two of you, her eyes sharp and perceptive, reading the invisible threads of history that tied you to the broken man on the porch.

​Finally, she broke the spell. She straightened her posture, reaching behind the door to a small console table—a place Andrew hadn't noticed in his panic—and snatched up a set of keys and a leather purse.

​"Well," she murmured, her voice slicing through the tension like a blade. "I should get going. Maddy is probably wondering where I’ve disappeared to."

​She didn't lean in to kiss you. She didn't offer a familiar touch or a lingering hug. She simply gave you a small, knowing smile—one that suggested she understood exactly who was standing on your porch—and stepped toward the door.

​As she brushed past Andrew, she paused. She was close enough that he could smell the salt spray on her skin, but she didn't flinch. She leaned in, her voice a ghost of a whisper meant only for him.

​"Be good to him," she said.

​Andrew didn't breathe until she was down the steps. Was it a warning? A plea? Had you told her about him—about the Cody family, the jobs, the dark streak in his soul that only you knew how to soothe? The thought that you had spoken his name to someone else, that you had shared his existence with this vibrant woman, made his stomach twist with a mix of jealousy and profound shame.

​"Please," you finally whispered, your voice cracking the evening air. "Andrew...come in."

​He hesitated. His boots felt like they were made of lead, anchored to the porch. He turned his head, watching the woman climb into her car. She didn't look back at you, and she certainly didn't look back at him. She just drove, her taillights disappearing into the amber glow of the streetlights, leaving Andrew alone with the one person he was most afraid to face.

​He finally moved, crossing the threshold with the gingerly steps of a man walking through a minefield. As he stepped into the entryway, he didn't look at the furniture or the art on the walls. He looked at you.

​He was close enough now that the scent of the shower hit him full force. It wasn't the sterile, metallic smell of the prison or the rot of his mother’s house. It was cedar and mint. It was the smell of the mornings you used to spend together before the world went to hell. It was the smell of home.

​Andrew’s eyes tracked the dampness of your hair, the way your pulse thrummed in the hollow of your throat. He looked like he wanted to reach out and touch you just to see if his hand would pass right through, but he kept his arms stiff at his sides, his fingers twitching against his thighs.

​"You changed the floors," he said, his voice gravelly and low, his eyes finally darting to the hardwood. It was a mundane observation, but it was all he could manage without breaking. "They used to creak."

​You let out a breath that sounded like a sob caught in your throat. "A lot of things changed, Andrew.”

​"Who is she?"

​The question was sharp, cutting through the scent of cedar and mint like a jagged piece of glass. Andrew didn’t wait for an answer. His gaze began to prowl the room, darting from the kitchen to the mantle until it landed on a small wooden frame. In the photo, the woman from the porch was laughing, her head leaned back against your shoulder as the Pacific tide surged behind you both.

​You followed his gaze, a long, shuddering breath escaping your lips. Before you could speak, Andrew scoffed—a dry, bitter sound that held no humor.

​"Is she better than me?" he asked. He didn't realize he was moving at first. It was an old instinct, the way he occupied space, drifting forward until he was deep in your personal bubble. "You moved on because you found someone...clean? Someone who isn't a liability?"

​You stepped back, your hips hitting the edge of the kitchen island, but Andrew didn't stop. He kept coming until he was looming over you, his shadow swallowing you whole.

​"Is Maddy yours?" he whispered, his eyes searching yours with a desperate, frantic hunger. "Is she your kid? Did you start a family while I was rotting in a cage?"

​His hands flexed at his sides, his knuckles white, before they finally snapped up. He gripped your shoulders—hard. But the second his skin touched yours, the tension didn't escalate. Instead, the fight seemed to drain out of you. Your shoulders softened under his palms, a silent surrender that Andrew wasn't prepared for.

​The aggression vanished as quickly as it had arrived. His grip loosened, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, and then his head dropped. He let his forehead thud against your chest, his shoulders shaking with the effort of holding himself together.

​"Do you love her?" His voice didn't just break; it fell apart. It was a small, wounded sound that belonged to the boy he used to be, not the man the Codys had built.

​"Liz," you whispered, the name finally found its way out. "Her name is Liz, Andrew. She’s a friend. Just a friend."

​Your hands moved hesitantly, hovering in the air before finally settling on his forearms. You could feel the corded muscle, the vibrating tension of a man who had been on guard for years.

​"Don't lie to me," he choked out into your chest, his fingers tightening on your shirt. "Don't...I can't...please don't lie."

​You shook your head, hot tears finally blurring your vision. You squeezed his arms, trying to ground him, to pull him back from whatever dark ledge he was standing on.

​"I’m not lying, Andrew," you breathed, your voice steady despite the moisture in your eyes. "God, I’d never lie to you. Not about this. Not ever."

​He stayed there for a long moment, listening to the rhythm of your heart, the same rhythm that had been his only North Star through every job and every prison sentence. He smelled the mint on your skin and felt the warmth of a house that wasn't Smurf’s. It was too much. It was everything he didn't deserve.

​"Maddy," Andrew muttered, the name sounding like a foreign word in his mouth. He was still pressed against you, but his mind was working, filing the name away, trying to map out the new boundaries of your world. "Who is she? Is she...does she stay here?"

​You rested your chin on the crown of his head, feeling the coarse texture of his hair. Your fingers traced slow, absent-minded patterns over the skin of his forearms, trying to leach the tension out of him.

​"Liz’s girlfriend," you whispered. "They have a place a few miles up the coast. She was just stopping by to drop off some wax."

​He let out a breath that he seemed to have been holding since he stepped onto the porch. His fingers finally unclinched from your shirt, but they didn't go far. They slid down to your hips, his palms heavy and warm as he anchored himself to you. He didn't pull away. He seemed content to stay in the sanctuary of your shadow.

​"Why’d you stop coming?"

​The question was muffled against your chest, stripped of the aggression from moments ago. Now, it was just a raw, aching wound. "A year and a half, and the visits just...they stopped. I waited. Every visiting day, I waited until the guards cleared the room."

​You felt a pang of guilt so sharp it made your breath hitch. You pulled back just enough to force him to look at you, one hand sliding up to cup his cheek. His skin was rough, a little cooler than yours, and he leaned into your palm with a desperate, crushing weight. He looked like a man who had been wandering in a desert and had finally found water.

​"Smurf," you murmured, the name tasting like lead.

​Andrew’s eyes darkened instantly. The mention of his mother always brought a specific kind of shadow to his face.

​"She found out I was still seeing you," you continued, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. "She made it very clear that if I kept showing up at that facility, I wouldn't be walking back to my car one of those days. I didn't exactly want to end up dead in some ditch, Andrew."

​You left out the rest—the way Craig had followed you for weeks, the silent phone calls in the middle of the night. You would have risked it for him, honestly. You would have faced whatever Smurf threw at you if it meant Andrew didn't have to be alone. But you knew him. If Andrew found out his mother had laid a hand on you, he’d do something that would ensure he never left prison again. You stayed away to keep him safe from his own protective instincts.

​Andrew’s jaw set, his eyes flashing with a familiar, dangerous glint. "I won't let her hurt you."

​It was the same promise he’d made you when you were teenagers hiding in the backseat of his truck. The same one he’d made when he practically forced you out of the family’s reach years ago. It was a Cody promise—heavy, violent, and absolute.

​"I’m out now," he whispered, his grip on your hips tightening as if he expected Smurf to materialize in the kitchen and snatch you away. "She doesn't get to touch what’s mine. Not anymore.”

Andrew didn't let go. Even as he pulled away from the island, his hands remained anchored to your hips, his thumbs hooked into your waistband as he navigated the hallway. He moved with a strange, magnetic pull, guiding you past the living room where the sliding glass doors revealed the darkening shoreline, past the bathroom where the steam was still vanishing from the air.

​He didn't stop until you reached the bedroom.

​The room was dim, lit only by the fading lilac glow of the sunset, but Andrew’s eyes immediately found the bedside table. There, next to a lamp, sat a framed photo of his younger self—unburdened and staring back with a ghost of a smile. Next to it lay a thick, worn stack of the letters you’d written but couldn't send, held together by a simple rubber band.

​Andrew’s knees hit the edge of the mattress, the sudden contact making him stagger slightly. You didn't hesitate. You stepped into him, your hands moving to his chest as you gently guided him back. He sat heavily, and you climbed into his lap, straddling his thighs just as you had when you were boys hiding from the world in the back of his truck.

​In the shadows of the room, his hazel eyes were vivid, darting across your features as if he were trying to memorize your face all over again.

​"I missed you," you whispered, your hands coming up to cradle his face. Your skin was warm against his, a sharp contrast to the cold steel he’d lived with for years. "Every single day."

​He leaned his forehead against yours, his breath hitching. You began to pepper soft, lingering kisses along his jawline and his scarred cheeks. With every press of your lips, his hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging in just enough to remind himself that you were real, that you weren't another prison-cell hallucination.

​"Tell me," he begged, his voice a jagged rasp against your skin. "Tell me you love me."

​He sounded like a man drowning, reaching for the only lifeline he had ever known. You leaned back just enough to look him in the eye, then slowly pushed him down until his back was flat against the covers. You loomed over him, your hair falling like a curtain around both of your faces, creating a world that consisted only of the two of you.

​"I love you," you whispered, your lips hovering inches from his. You felt his heart hammering against your chest, a frantic, wild thing. "I love you, Andrew. So much."

​You repeated it softly, a litany of truth meant to drown out every lie Smurf had ever told him.

​"Kiss me," he whispered.

​And you did.

​It wasn't the frantic, desperate kiss of a goodbye, nor was it the rough, jagged edge of the Codys' world. It was slow. It was soft. It was a long-overdue conversation, filled with the years of words you’d kept locked away to keep him safe. As your lips met his, Andrew finally let out a long, shuddering sigh, his eyes closing as he let the salt and the cedar and the love wash over him, finally bringing him all the way home.

​The kiss deepened, becoming less about the shock of the reunion and more about a desperate, tactile reclamation. Andrew’s hands were everywhere—grasping at your shoulders, sliding down your spine, clutching the fabric of your shirt as if he expected you to dissolve into sea mist if he let go for even a second.

​"Stay," you whispered against his mouth. "Stay with me tonight."

​It wasn't a question. You’d stopped asking him that years ago, back when you realized that Andrew didn't know how to answer questions about his own desires. He only knew how to follow or to protect.

​He pulled away just an inch, his lips sliding down to press against the column of your throat. He lingered there, his breath hot against your skin, and you felt his lips brush against your Adam’s apple.

​"Yeah?" he hummed, the vibration rumbling through your chest. He hesitated, his voice dropping to a small, uncertain pitch. "Can I...I can stay in here? With you?"

​You let out a soft, breathy chuckle, your Adam’s apple bobbing against his lips. "What, Andrew? You think I’d make you sleep on the floor like a dog?" You pulled back just enough to catch his gaze, pressing a quick, firm kiss to his mouth. "It’s your bed, too. It always has been."

​Andrew didn't speak. He just watched you. As he moved to get ready for bed, his eyes never left your form. It was a predatory kind of focus, but softened by a deep, aching reverence. He watched you pull your shirt over your head and toss it toward the chair; he watched the way the muscles in your back moved as you reached down to peel back the heavy duvet.

​To him, you were a miracle of light and ordinary life. He committed the way the lamplight hit your skin to memory, filing it away in the dark corners of his mind where he kept the things worth surviving for.

​When you finally climbed under the covers and patted the space beside you, Andrew’s breath hitched. He didn't just slide under the blankets; he crawled toward you, moving with a slow, deliberate caution. He didn't stop until his body was draped over yours, his weight a heavy, grounding presence that you welcomed.

​He tucked his head into the crook of your neck, his face pressed against the warm, bare skin of your chest. He breathed in deep—cedar, mint, and you. The silence of the house was absolute, broken only by the distant, rhythmic pulse of the ocean and the sound of your shared breathing.

​"I love you," he mumbled, the words thick with sleep and the sudden, overwhelming safety of the room.

Everyone’s played a game of cat and mouse, whether they realize it or not. We’ve all chased something—or someone—simply for the electric hum of the pursuit. Maybe it was a girl you had no business talking to, an opportunity that slipped through your fingers like smoke, or a friend you couldn't quite let go of. But the game changes when the mouse stops running and starts hunting the cat.

​For years, you were the undisputed predator. You collected targets like trophies: a corrupt councilman here, a sadistic precinct captain there, a judge who viewed the law as a suggestion. They never saw the game coming, and they certainly never saw you. That was the beauty of it. The ignorance of the prey made the final moment—that split second of realization—so much sweeter.

​It had been the same during your years with the agency. Every mark, every contract, every steady pull of the trigger provided a cold, clinical satisfaction. Until you crossed the line. Or, as you preferred to think of it, until you realized the line was a fiction drawn by men who didn't have a drop of blood on their own hands. You weren't a hero; you were just a high-caliber pawn in a game of chess that never ended.

​The sky outside your window was the color of a fresh bruise—swollen purples and deep, aching blues. Heavy clouds hung low over Hells Kitchen, pregnant with the smell of rain that refused to fall. Inside, your apartment was a cavern of shadows, save for the rhythmic, dying flicker of the fluorescent bulb over the sink. The air was thick, a cloying mix of gun oil, stale cigarettes, and the sharp, unexpected sting of cherries and mint emanating from the woman standing in your apartment.

​Vanessa Fisk.

​You didn't move from your seat. A slow, jagged smile pulled at your lips as she placed a heavy brown paper bag on your scarred coffee table. The muffled thump of bundled cash echoed in the quiet room. You didn't look at the money; your eyes stayed locked on hers.

​"You and your husband have the wrong address," you said, your voice a low, gravelly hum. "I thought I made it clear: I don't lose sleep over the type of people you pay to protect."

​Vanessa didn't flinch. She was as cold and elegant as a marble statue. "I'm not here for protection," she sighed, her gaze sweeping over the Spartan conditions of your living room. "I’m here because I need someone to take out the trash."

​You scoffed, leaning forward until your elbows dug into your knees. The movement pulled the skin tight over the scars on your shoulders—relics of a life you’d tried to bury. "If this is about Daredevil, save your breath, sweetheart. He’s off-limits." You reached for a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter on the table. "I like the guy too much. He’s got spirit."

​Vanessa gave a dry, humorless laugh, tossing a second bag onto the table. This one hit with a more substantial weight. "It isn't the Devil. You like the chase, don't you? You like the thrill of catching the mouse that no one else can touch."

​She began to pace, her heels clicking softly on the hardwood. She paused to inspect the framed photos on your wall—relics of a man you used to be—before glancing at the scattered pill bottles and the stack of overdue bills on the counter. She turned back, her expression tightening. "I want Benjamin Poindexter. I want Bullseye dead."

​You took a long, slow drag of the cigarette, the cherry glowing bright in the dim light. You let the smoke curl out of your lungs, eyes shifting from the cash to the woman.

​"You want a 'problem' erased," you corrected her. "Dex is a hurricane. Once I stop the storm, who's to say I won't become the next problem on your husband's list?"

​Vanessa stepped closer, her fingers brushing against a face-down photograph on your shelf. She didn't flip it over. Instead, she turned her full attention to you, taking in the reality of the man before her: the broad, powerful frame, the map of white scar tissue across your chest, and the hollowed-out look in your eyes that only comes when a man has nothing left to lose.

​"You won't," she said softly, her voice brimming with a chilling certainty. "Because you're the only one who knows how he thinks. And deep down, you want to see if you're still faster than the best.”

You reached down, fingers hooking into the handles of the heavy brown bags. As you hauled them up, you rolled your shoulders back, a series of sharp, rhythmic cracks echoing through the quiet apartment. It was the sound of a machine being forced back into gear after too long in the shed.

​Standing at your full height, you loomed over her. Even in her stiletto heels—which probably cost more than your car—Vanessa Fisk was dwarfed by you. You stood a good foot taller, a wall of scarred muscle and cynical intent, but she didn't flinch. She didn't even blink. She just stood her ground in the gloom, smelling of cold rain and expensive mint.

​You stepped into her space, the heat from your cigarette inches from her face, and held the bags out between you.

​"I don't want the money, Vanessa," you said, the words sliding out with a plume of gray smoke. A slow, toothy smirk pulled at your face, the cigarette dangling precariously from the corner of your mouth. "You were right the first time. I'm in it for the high."

​You pressed the bags into her hands. She took the weight without a word, her eyes searching yours for a crack in the armor. She didn't look disappointed; she looked like she’d just won a bet.

​She turned away, walking back toward the kitchen counter where your stack of overdue bills sat like a mounting threat. Her gloved hand reached out, finally picking up the face-down photograph she’d been eyeing.

​"Everyone has a price," she murmured, her voice smooth as silk. She turned the photo over, studying the two men in the frame—younger, cleaner, smiling. "Tell me...does he have a price? Or is the chase really enough to satisfy a man like you?"

​You didn't answer immediately. You walked over, your shadow swallowing her as you stared down at the image. Your heart didn't race—you’d killed that part of yourself years ago—but your eyes blew wide, fixed on the face of the man standing beside you in the photo.

​Dex.

​"He’s always been the mouse," you said, your voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. You took one last, deep drag of the cigarette, the cherry glowing a fierce, angry orange. Slowly, deliberately, you pressed the burning tip directly into Dex’s face on the glossy paper. The photo curled and hissed, the smell of melting plastic filling the air. "It was always about the chase."

​Vanessa watched the smoke rise from the ruined picture. "And now you finally have a reason to finish it?"

​You let out a laugh—a low, gravelly sound that vibrated in your chest. You looked at her, the smoldering remains of the photo still between her fingers.

​"Do men like us ever really need a reason, Vanessa?" you asked. "We just need a direction."

​She nodded once, a sharp, clinical movement. She didn't need to say anything else. She left the money on the counter anyway—a silent insult or a standing offer—and walked toward the door.

​”Try not to make too much of a mess. My husband hates cleaning up after old friends.” ​she said over her shoulder.

You sat deep in the driver’s seat of your sedan, the engine off and the cabin cooling into a damp chill. A black baseball cap was pulled low, the brim cutting off the top half of your vision, leaving only the glowing cherry of your cigarette and the entrance to the apartment building across the street. It was a nice place—brick facade, clean awnings, way too upscale for a man who spent his nights painting the city red. Then again, the Fisks took care of their favorite monsters.

​Movement at the glass doors made your eyes track center.

​Dex stepped out, his shoulders hunched against the first few drops of the oncoming rain. He looked... diminished. In your memory, he was a giant, a specter of pinpoint accuracy and jagged nerves. Now, seen through a cracked windshield, he just looked like a man in a hurry. It had been years since you’d stood in the same room—years since the night a bullet meant for your spine grazed your ribs instead. He’d been a lousy shot that night, fueled by a frantic, desperate kind of rage. But then, you’d both been messy back then.

​You watched his silhouette vanish around the corner, but you didn't move. You waited. Your watch ticked through thirty minutes of silence, the interior of the car filling with the gray ghost of cigarette smoke. Precision was the only thing that kept men like you alive.

​When the half-hour mark hit, you slipped out of the car. The rain was steady now, a cold mist that clung to your skin. You didn't use the front door. You moved like a shadow into the alley, your boots finding the familiar rhythm of the fire escape. The iron groaned under your weight, but you were light on your feet, climbing until you reached his landing.

​The window was locked, but the glass was old. You pressed a piece of heavy-duty tape to the pane to muffle the sound, then gave the center a sharp, controlled tap with the palm of your hand. It didn't shatter; it crunched. You cleared the jagged teeth of the frame and slid inside, your boots hitting the hardwood with a dull, heavy thud.

​The air inside was stale. It was a "pretend" apartment—sparse, functional, a stage set for someone trying to convince themselves they were a normal member of the human race. You moved through the dark, your fingers grazing the surfaces as you passed. No dust. Everything in its place. Terrifyingly neat.

​You reached the bedroom door and stopped. Your eyes caught on a splash of color against the drab grey of the duvet. A cat. It was curled into a tight ball, its chest rising and falling in the deep, easy sleep of a creature that felt safe.

​A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. You walked over and sat on the edge of the mattress, the springs giving a faint, metallic whine. Your hand reached out, hovering for a second. Your fingers trembled—just a fraction—before you sank them into the soft fur behind the cat’s ears.

​"He’s becoming domesticated," you rasped, the sound of your own voice startlingly loud in the empty room. "Who would’ve thought, Dex? You found something that doesn't scream when you touch it.”

The obsession with order was the one thing about Dex that had never changed. It was his anchor, his way of convincing the world—and himself—that there wasn't a jagged, howling void where his soul should be.

​You moved back into the main living area, your boots silent as you navigated the space. You stopped at the entryway, looking down at his shoes. They were aligned with surgical precision, toes pointing toward the door at the exact same angle. On the small bookshelf, the spines were perfectly flush, organized by height and then, likely, by subject. It was a museum of a life, not a home.

​You had never understood that need for rigid lines. Your world was one of frayed edges and blurred boundaries, but there was something oddly hypnotic about his devotion to the grid.

​For years, Dex had been your mouse. He’d lived his life entirely unaware of the shadow you’d cast over him. You’d been the ghost in the machine of his life—a subtle nudge here, a lingering gaze from a rooftop there. It had been a private game, a long-form masterpiece of a hunt that required no audience and no ending.

​But as you stood there in the center of his sanctuary, the "subtle" era felt like a lifetime ago. The game was evolving. The cat was finally stepping out of the tall grass.

​The silence of the apartment was broken by the distant, rhythmic thrum of the elevator, followed by a set of heavy, deliberate footsteps echoing in the hallway. You didn't scramble for cover. Instead, you tilted your head, listening to the cadence. He was tired. You could hear it in the slight drag of his heel.

​A low, melodic whistle passed your lips—a sharp contrast to the gloom.

​You moved to the small, lone table in the kitchen area and pulled out a chair. The wood scraped softly against the floor as you sat, leaning back with an air of casual ownership. You didn't draw your weapon. You just waited, that same jagged, toothy grin stretching across your face.

​The lock clicked. The handle turned.

​You watched the door swing open, your eyes bright with the thrill of the corner.

The door swung open with a practiced, mechanical efficiency. Dex stepped inside, already reaching for the light switch with his left hand while his right went to his keys, moving to place them in the exact center of the entryway bowl.

​He didn't see you at first. He was focused on his ritual. He kicked his boots off, nudging them into their designated slots in the rack with his heel, his breath coming in shallow, rhythmic pulses. He looked drained—the kind of exhaustion that comes from trying to hold a crumbling psyche together with nothing but sheer willpower.

​Then, he heard it. The faint, metallic click-clack of you thumbing the flint on your lighter.

​Dex froze. He didn't jump; he didn't gasp. He simply went still, every muscle in his body locking into a state of high-alert tension. His head snapped toward the kitchen table, his eyes wide and unblinking, tracking the small flame that illuminated the lower half of your face.

​"You're late," you said, the smoke from your cigarette curling into the air between you.

​Dex’s hand didn't go for a gun—he didn't need to. His fingers twitched, instinctively seeking the edge of the metal keys he’d just set down. His posture was rigid, his spine straight as a rod. He stared at you, his mind clearly racing to categorize the threat. The "mask" he wore for the world—the polite, steady FBI agent—was gone, replaced by the raw, jagged edges of Benjamin Poindexter.

​"Who are you?" he asked. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, but there was a tremor of agitation underneath. You were a variable. You were dirt on his clean floor. "How did you get in here?"

​You leaned back, the chair groaning under your weight. "You don't remember?" You let the grin spread slow and wide, making sure he saw the predator behind the eyes. "And here I thought I was special, Dex. I've been watching you for a long time. Even back when you were still wearing the suit and pretending to be a Boy Scout."

​Dex’s eyes flickered. He was scanning you now—not as a person, but as a target. He was looking at your center of mass, your throat, the distance between your hands and the table. His breathing started to hitch, becoming faster, more erratic.

​"I remember the scent," he whispered, his voice cracking just a fraction. He tilted his head, a bird-like, twitchy movement that was pure Poindexter. "Gun oil, and…smoke." He took a step forward, his hand hovering over the counter, fingers spidering toward a steak knife left in the drying rack. "The man who didn't die. The one I missed."

​"Missed by an inch," you corrected, tapping the scar beneath your shirt. "It was a messy night for both of us. But look at you now. A nice apartment, a cat...you’re almost human."

​Dex flinched at the word human. He looked over at the bedroom door, his eyes darting toward the cat, then back to you. The violation of his sanctuary was clearly starting to make his "structure" fail. He wasn't just angry; he was vibrating with the need to put things back in their place.

​"You touched my things," he hissed, his eyes fixated on the way you were sitting—disrupting the perfect symmetry of his kitchen. "You’re in my space. You need to leave. Now."

​"Vanessa Fisk doesn't want me to leave," you hummed, enjoying the way his pupils dilated at the mention of the name. "She wants me to finish the game we started all those years ago. But I told her...I like the chase too much.”

You pushed off the table, the chair legs screaming against the floorboards—a sound specifically designed to grate on a man who craved silence. You stood at your full, imposing height, dwarfing the kitchen space. Slow and deliberate, you stretched your arms out wide, palms open, baring your chest like a target on a range.

​"Go on then, Dex," you baited him, your voice a low, gravelly dare. "Show me you’ve practiced. Show me you’re more than just Fisk’s errand boy."

​The reaction was a blur. Dex didn't wind up; he didn't telegraph. His hand snapped to the drying rack with the precision of a piston. The steak knife flickered through the dim light, a silver streak aimed directly at your throat.

​You didn't flinch until the last possible microsecond, tilting your upper body just enough to feel the cold kiss of the blade’s wind. The knife thudded into the wooden doorframe behind you, vibrating with the force of the impact. The handle hummed—a perfect, deadly bullseye, missed only because you’d moved.

​Dex’s face contorted. His eyes were blown wide, his breathing coming in jagged, hitching gasps as he stared at the knife he’d "missed." It wasn't just anger; it was a crisis of identity. To Dex, a miss wasn't a mistake—it was a failure of his very soul.

​"Missed again," you taunted, taking a slow, heavy step toward him. "Must be the cat. Softening your edges."

​"Shut up," he hissed, his voice rising in pitch. He scrambled toward the entryway bowl, his fingers clawing for the keys. He didn't just grab them; he indexed them, feeling the weight, finding the center of gravity for each individual brass key. "You’re making it messy. You're...you're all wrong. You don't belong in the grid."

​"The grid is a lie, Ben," you said, using the name like a weapon. "The world is just one big, bloody mess, and you’re the sharpest piece of glass in the pile. But you’re getting slow. You’re thinking too much."

​He lunged for a heavy glass coaster on the side table, his movements twitchy and frantic yet terrifyingly fast. He hurled it. Then a key. Then a heavy fountain pen. You moved with the practiced grace of a man who had spent years studying his rhythm, dodging by inches, the projectiles embedding themselves in the walls or shattering against the floor.

​The apartment—his perfect, structured sanctuary—was being systematically destroyed by his own hand.

​"Look at this place, Dex," you laughed, the sound deep and mocking. You ducked as a brass key whistled past your ear, burying itself an inch deep into the drywall. "You’re the one breaking the rules now. You’re the one making the mess."

​Dex stopped, his chest heaving, his hand hovering over a heavy lamp. He was vibrating, his eyes darting from the shattered glass on his floor to the knife in the doorframe. The "mouse" was backed into a corner, but he wasn't fleeing. He was coiled, his sanity fraying at the edges as he realized he couldn't predict your movement.

​"I'll fix it," he whispered to himself, his gaze fixing on your eyes with a terrifying, singular focus. "I'll fix the mess. I just have to put you down first.”

You surged forward, closing the distance before he could find another object to launch. Dex let out a sharp, guttural sound—half-snarl, half-sob—and met you halfway.

​He didn't lead with a punch; he led with a tactical strike, his elbow aiming for your temple with the speed of a snapping trap. You caught his arm, the impact vibrating through your marrow, and used his momentum to shove him back against the kitchen counter. The perfectly aligned jars of spices exploded behind him, showering you both in a cloud of cinnamon and shattered glass.

​"You're sloppy, Ben!" you roared, throwing a heavy hook that he parried with a desperation that was almost beautiful.

​"I'm...not...sloppy!" he hissed through gritted teeth. He grabbed a heavy ceramic plate from the drying rack and, instead of throwing it, used it like a jagged shield to deflect your next strike. The plate shattered against your forearm, slicing through your skin, but you didn't flinch. You leaned in, your forehead slamming into his in a brutal headbutt that sent a spray of red across the pristine white tile.

​Dex stumbled back, his eyes rolling for a split second before the predatory instinct snapped them back into focus. He was bleeding from a cut above his brow, the crimson line carving a path through his pale features. He looked at the blood on his fingers, then at the blood he’d spilled on you.

​A manic, flickering light danced in his eyes. He wasn't trying to run for the door. He was leaning into the chaos.

​He lunged, tackling you around the waist and driving you into the living room. You hit the coffee table, the wood splintering beneath your combined weight. You rolled, grappling in the wreckage, hands searching for throat, for eyes, for any leverage. It was a messy, ugly tumble—less like a choreographed fight and more like two wolves tearing at each other for the right to breathe.

​You pinned him for a second, your weight crushing his chest. "Is this what you wanted?" you panted, your blood dripping onto his collar. "The mess? The noise?"

​Dex didn't answer with words. He reached up, his fingers digging into the fresh wound on your shoulder with a surgical, agonizing precision. As you hissed in pain, he bucked his hips, throwing you off. He scrambled to his feet, but instead of finishing you, he paused to straighten a crooked picture frame on the wall with a trembling hand, even as his other hand reached for a heavy brass lamp.

​The irony was thick enough to choke on. He was trying to maintain order while systematically destroying his life.

​You stood up, wiping a trail of blood from your lip, and started to laugh. It was a dark, jagged sound. "You're still trying to fix the room, Dex? We’re the ones who are broken. The room is just collateral."

​He hurled the lamp. You didn't duck—you swatted it aside, the base bruising your palm as it crashed into the television. You stepped into his guard, catching him in a clinch. You could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic thud-thud-thud that mirrored your own.

​For a long, breathless minute, you just struggled against each other, locked in a stalemate of raw strength. You weren't reaching for your knife, and he wasn't reaching for the shard of glass inches from his hand. You were just...holding on. Two monsters in the dark, recognizing the reflection in the other’s eyes.

​"You missed that night," you whispered in his ear, your breath hot and ragged. "Because you didn't want to kill me. You just wanted me to notice you."

​Dex’s entire body shuddered. The rigid, mechanical tension in his muscles snapped, replaced by a sudden, violent shove. He pushed you away, his chest heaving, his face a mask of sweating, bloody agony.

​"I don't...I don't know you," he lied, his voice breaking. He looked around the apartment—at the shattered plates, the ruined photos, the blood-stained carpet. His structure was gone. The mouse was no longer hidden, and the cat was no longer hunting. They were just two men standing in the ruins of a pretend life.

​"Yes, you do," you said, steadying yourself against the wall. You didn't move to attack again. The "high" was fading, leaving behind the dull ache of old age and new bruises. "And that’s why you’re not going to kill me tonight. And I'm not going to kill you. We’re just going to keep playing, aren't we?"

​Dex looked at you, his pupils dilated until his eyes were almost entirely black. He didn't say yes. He didn't say no. He just picked up a single, unbroken key from the floor and held it so tight his knuckles turned white, his gaze fixed on you with a terrifying, unspoken promise.

​The game wasn't over. It had just finally become honest.

This wasn't a job anymore; it was an addiction. You were both junkies for the adrenaline, hooked on the specific, jagged high that only the other could provide.

​For a heartbeat, the apartment went dead quiet, the only sound the dripping of the faucet and the frantic thud of two hearts. Then, Dex snapped.

​He lunged with a raw, uncoordinated power that bypassed his usual precision. He slammed into your midsection, his shoulder driving into your gut as he pinned you against the wall. The impact was a dull roar in your ears, the plaster behind your head cracking like an eggshell. The air left your lungs in a ragged wheeze, but you didn't drop. You couldn't.

​Dex scrambled, his desperation manifesting as a frantic need for a tool. He lunged for the doorframe, his fingers white-knuckled as he wrenched the steak knife free from the wood. In one fluid, terrifyingly fast motion, he didn't stab—he flicked.

​The blade buried itself four inches deep into the meat of your thigh.

​The world went white for a second. You froze, your leg buckling as the cold shock of the steel registered, followed immediately by a blooming, sickening heat. You looked down at the handle protruding from your jeans, then back up at Dex. He was heaving, his face a mask of sweat and absolute, terrifying focus. He was waiting for you to break.

​Instead, you started to laugh. It was a wet, breathless sound that turned into a cough. You reached down, gripped the handle, and with a guttural grunt, you ripped the blade out. You didn't even look at the blood as you tossed the knife aside; it clattered uselessly against the baseboard.

​"You're still aiming for the limbs, Ben," you rasped, a dark, manic glint in your eyes. "Aim for the heart if you actually want the game to end."

​You didn't wait for his response. You threw your entire weight forward, tackling him before he could find his footing. You hit the floor hard, the impact jarring your teeth. You rolled him over, pinning his shoulders down with your knees and pressing your forearm hard across his throat.

​The pressure was immense. You could feel his windpipe beneath your bone, the frantic pulse of his carotid artery jumping against your skin. Dex didn't go still; he became a cage of thrashing limbs. He clawed at your face, his nails digging into your cheeks and tearing at the skin near your eyes, trying to find a soft spot to gouge.

​"Look at me," you growled, leaning down until your forehead was inches from his. "Stop looking at the room. Stop looking at the mess. Look at me."

​Dex’s eyes were blown wide, a panicked, frantic blue. He was choking, his face turning a deep, bruised purple, but the clawing slowed. His fingers transitioned from tearing at your skin to clutching at your forearm, holding onto you like a man drowning. For a second, the violence shifted into something else—a heavy, suffocating intimacy.

​"Is this...enough?" Dex managed to wheeze out, his voice a strangled thread. "Is this...what you wanted?"

​You stared down at him, the blood from your face dripping onto his forehead, mingling with his own. You realized then that you weren't just the cat, and he wasn't just the mouse. You were both just two broken things trying to feel the edges of your own existence.

​"It's a start," you whispered, the pressure of your arm never wavering.

The adrenaline began to ebb, replaced by the heavy, thrumming ache of reality. The apartment was a graveyard of the man Dex had tried to be. Broken glass, spilled spices, and the copper tang of blood hung in the air, thick enough to taste.

​You slowly eased the pressure on his throat, but you didn't move away. Your forearm was still braced against his chest, feeling the frantic, bird-like rhythm of his heart finally begin to slow. Dex didn’t move. He lay there among the wreckage, staring up at you with eyes that looked less like a predator’s and more like a man seeing a ghost.

​"The game’s over for tonight, Ben," you rasped, your voice cracking from the strain.

​You rolled off him, your wounded leg giving a sharp, white-hot protest as you slumped against the base of his kitchen island. You didn't bother checking the hole in your thigh; you just pressed the palm of your hand against it, feeling the warm pulse of blood through your fingers.

​Dex stayed on the floor for a long time. He stared at the ceiling, his chest heaving. Slowly, he sat up, his movements jerky and mechanical. He didn't look at you. Instead, his eyes fixed on a shattered ceramic bowl—the one that had held his keys. He reached out, his fingers trembling as he touched a jagged shard of porcelain.

​"It’s messy," he whispered. The word sounded like a confession. "It’s all...out of alignment."

​"It’s honest," you countered. You reached into your pocket, finding your lighter and one last, crushed cigarette. You lit it, the flame steady despite the tremor in your hands. You took a drag, the smoke burning beautifully in your lungs. "This is what we are. You can't hide it behind a nice zip code and a clean floor."

​Dex finally turned his head. The blood from the cut on his forehead had dried into a dark streak across his eye, making him look like he was wearing a fractured mask. He looked at you—really looked at you—without the sights of a gun or the trajectory of a blade between you.

​"Vanessa...she'll expect you to finish it," Dex said, his voice flat but curious.

​"Vanessa doesn't own the game," you said, blowing a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. "She just bought the tickets. I'm the one who decides when the curtain falls."

​You used the counter to haul yourself to your feet, gritting your teeth against the flare of pain in your leg. You looked around the ruined room one last time. In the doorway of the bedroom, the cat appeared, blinking its green eyes at the chaos before sitting down to lick a paw. It was the only thing in the apartment that wasn't broken.

​You walked toward the window you’d broken to get in, leaving a trail of dark droplets on his floor. You stopped at the frame, looking back over your shoulder. Dex was still sitting in the middle of the debris, holding that shard of porcelain like it was a holy relic.

​"Fix your window, Dex," you said, a small, tired ghost of that toothy smirk returning to your lips. "And get some sleep. You look like hell."

​"Are you coming back?" he asked. The question wasn't a threat. It was a plea for the only structure he had left: the chase.

​You paused, one hand on the fire escape railing. The rain was finally falling now, a cold, heavy downpour that washed the salt and copper from your skin. You looked at the "mouse" sitting in the ruins of his cage and felt a dark, familiar spark in your gut.

​"I never really left, Ben," you hummed.

The salt air of Oceanside usually felt like home, but tonight it felt heavy, sticking to your skin like a layer of grease. You’d spent twenty years acclimating to the way Janine "Smurf" Cody operated. You were a fixture in the house, a shadow in the background of their heists, and more specifically, the only person who could look Andrew in the eye without flinching.

​You knew him—not just the him the world saw, but the Andrew who had been your shadow since you were both kids stealing bikes. You knew the twitch in his jaw when he was off his meds, the eerie, statue-like stillness when he was on them, and the way the family used him as a scapegoat for every job gone south. He was a man built of jagged edges and "wrong ways," but you’d long since stopped trying to smooth him out. You just lived among the ruins.

​The vibration of your phone on the nightstand cracked the silence at 1:14 AM.

​Smurf: Come over. I need you.

​You didn’t text back. You didn't ask "what" or "why." That wasn't the protocol. You rolled out of bed, pulling on a pair of gray sweatpants and a worn hoodie, skipping the shirt. The drive to the Cody house was a blur of empty streets and yellow-blinking traffic lights.

​When you let yourself in, the house was too quiet. The pool lights outside cast shimmering, watery blue shadows across the living room walls. You didn't hesitate; you walked straight into the den.

​Andrew was there. He was sitting in the armchair, back ramrod straight, feet planted flat on the floor. He wasn't watching the TV—he was staring through it, his eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance that didn't exist.

​A soft weight pressed against your back. Smurf. She didn't say a word at first, just slid her hand across your bare skin, her fingers cool and possessive. She rested her chin on your shoulder, the scent of her expensive floral perfume cutting through the smell of stale air.

​“Hope I didn't wake you, honey,” she hummed, her voice a low, melodic purr. “I just want him to be safe. He’s...agitated.”

​Safe. The word felt like a joke. Was anyone ever safe under this roof? Especially him. You looked at the back of Andrew’s head, at the tension in his shoulders that looked like it might snap the bone.

​“I’ve got him, Smurf,” you whispered, your voice raspy from sleep. “Go to bed.”

​You felt her lips brush your cheek—a maternal gesture that always felt a little too intimate, a little too loaded. “You’re a good boy,” she murmured before retreating into the shadows of the hallway.

​You stood there for a long moment, the silence stretching between you and the man in the chair. You hadn't even known he was out of prison. No one had called. No one had warned you. And Andrew...Andrew would never have reached out. He didn't know how to ask for things.

​You rounded the corner and stood directly in his line of sight. He didn't blink. Up close, he looked frayed. His hair was buzzed short, his skin sallow under the dim light.

​“Pope,” you said, your voice steady but soft.

​His eyes tracked up slowly, focusing on you. It wasn't a normal look; it was that intense, hyper-analytical stare he used when he was trying to decide if someone was a threat or a ghost. He didn't smile. He didn't say hello. He just looked at you like you were the only solid thing in a room full of smoke.

​“You’re late,” he finally rasped. His voice sounded like it had been dragged over gravel.

​“I didn’t know you were home,” you replied, holding his gaze. You reached out, not touching him yet—you knew better than to surprise him—but leaving your hand open in the space between you. “Come on. Let’s go. You need to sleep, and I’m not dragging you down the hall.”

​A flicker of something—recognition, maybe, or just old habit—crossed his face. You never used "please" with the others, but with him, it was implied in the way you stayed.

​Andrew stood up, his movements stiff and deliberate. He didn't say where he’d been or why he was sitting in the dark. He just followed you, his shadow falling over yours, as silent and loyal as a stray dog.

The cool night air hit you as you pushed through the heavy front door, but the tension didn't dissipate; it just shifted. You stopped by your car, the keys jingling softly in your hand. Behind you, the gravel crunched under Andrew’s boots before he came to a dead halt. He stood a few feet away, silhouetted against the glow of the pool lights, looking like a ghost haunting his own life.

​He didn't move. He just watched you with that unblinking, predatory focus.

​“Is she pawning me off on you?” he asked. His voice was thin, stripped of any inflection, but there was a jagged edge of resentment underneath—resentment for Smurf, or maybe for his own need to be looked after.

​You didn't flinch. You just stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until you could feel the radiated heat from his body. You leaned back against the hood of the car, the cold metal biting through your sweatpants.

​“No,” you said softly. A smile tugged at your mouth—the rare, genuine kind that was reserved strictly for him, never for Smurf or the boys. “I missed you, Andrew. Truth is, I’d rather have you with me than be alone tonight.”

​You didn’t wait for him to process the honesty. You knew he didn't always know what to do with someone being real with him. You just climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. A moment later, the passenger door opened, and the car dipped under his weight.

​The drive back to your apartment was a study in silence. It wasn't the awkward silence of strangers, but the heavy, comfortable weight of two people who had run out of things to say ten years ago. You kept one hand on the wheel and the other on the center console, inches from his. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched the streetlights rhythmically strobe across his face. He was staring out the side window, his reflection ghostly in the glass, his fingers twitching rhythmically against his thigh—a nervous tic you recognized from a thousand nights just like this one.

​In this car, the world felt smaller. Safer. You thought about the nights before he went away—the nights where silence turned into something physical. The way you’d explored every inch of his body, the way he would cling to you like a drowning man in the dark, desperate for a touch that didn't come with strings attached.

​You pulled into your spot at the apartment complex and cut the lights. The engine ticked as it cooled, the only sound in the cramped cabin. You didn't get out. You just sat there in the dark, letting the quiet settle around you for a long few minutes, giving him time to ground himself in this new reality.

​When you finally moved, he followed. He trailed behind you up the stairs like a shadow, his presence heavy and constant. Inside, the apartment was dim, smelling of woodsmoke and your laundry detergent.

​You didn't put on a show; you just moved with the practiced ease of being home. You reached for the hem of your hoodie and pulled it over your head, tossing it onto the armchair. The sweatpants followed, then your briefs, leaving you standing there in the pale moonlight filtering through the blinds.

​Andrew was standing by the door, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He was looking at you—really looking—his eyes tracing the lines of your back and the familiar curve of your shoulders.

​“You still sleep naked?” he asked. It wasn't a judgment; it was an observation, his voice sounding low and rough in the small room.

​You turned slightly, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips as you headed toward the bed. “You used to like it,” you responded quietly.

​The air in the room seemed to thicken. You saw his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed, his gaze lingering on you with a hunger he’d spent a lifetime trying to starve out.

You lay in the dark, the mattress feeling vast and cold, staring at the rectangle of light the hallway cast across your bedroom floor. You knew he wouldn't leave—he had nowhere else to go that wasn't under Janine’s thumb—but that didn't mean he would come to bed.

​Every time you two crossed this line as adults, the shadow of Smurf lingered in the corner of the room. You wondered if he was still paralyzed by the guilt she’d spent decades sewing into his skin. Was he scared to be this close to someone who actually saw him? Or was he just waiting for her permission, even when she wasn't there?

​You let out a long, weary sigh and reached over, clicking the bedside lamp off. The room plunged into a hazy, blue-toned darkness. You rolled onto your side, turning your back to the door, trying to let sleep take you.

​But sleep was impossible with him pacing.

​For hours, you tracked his movements by the floorboards' groans. He was a shark in a small tank. You heard the kitchen window slide open—the sharp click of the lock, the rush of the night air, then the heavy thud as he closed it again, checking it twice, maybe three times. You heard him sink into the couch, the springs complaining under his weight, only for him to stand up thirty seconds later. Then came the pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, his footsteps stopping just short of your door before retreating.

​Finally, the floor creaked right at the threshold. He was there, hovering like a specter.

​You pushed yourself up, the sheets pooling at your waist as you leaned back against the headboard. The moonlight caught the sharp line of your shoulders, but you didn't look at him directly. You didn't want to spook him.

​“Come to bed, Andrew,” you whispered. Your voice was soft, an invitation rather than a command.

​He didn't move. He stood in the center of the doorway, his silhouette rigid, his hands slightly curled as if he were waiting for an attack. Even in the dark, you could feel the intensity of his stare—that wide-eyed, unblinking look that made other men run.

​“I can’t sleep,” he rasped. It wasn't just a statement; it sounded like a confession of a crime.

​“I know,” you said.

​“I’m fine right here,” he added quickly, his head giving a small, jerky nod. “I’m good. I’ll stay out there.”

​You looked at him then, really looked at him. He looked like he was vibrating with a nervous energy he couldn't discharge. You didn't argue. You knew that pushing Andrew only made him retreat further into his own head.

​“Fine,” you murmured. You laid back down, pulling the duvet up and scooting to the very edge of the mattress, leaving a wide, empty expanse of bed behind you. You turned your back to him, showing him you weren't a threat—that you weren't going to watch him or judge him.

​The silence stretched for another five minutes. You listened to his ragged breathing, the sound of a man who had forgotten how to just be.

​Then, finally, the floor groaned.

​He didn't make a sound as he approached. The bed dipped—slowly, cautiously—under his weight. He didn't get under the covers at first; he just sat on the edge of the mattress, his back to yours. You could feel the heat radiating off him in waves. Slowly, he moved, laying down on top of the blankets, still fully dressed, his body as stiff as a board.

​He was close enough that you could hear the frantic rhythm of his heart slowing down, syncing with yours. He didn't touch you, but the fact that he was there, in the dark, within arm's reach, was something.

You didn’t move, didn't even adjust the pillow, knowing that any sudden gesture might send him bolting back to the living room.

​Behind you, the rustle of fabric began. It was slow, hesitant. You heard the heavy thud of his boots hitting the carpet, followed by the soft metallic clink of his belt buckle. He was stripping away the armor he wore for the rest of the world, piece by piece. Finally, the bed shifted again. This time, he didn't stay on top of the blankets. He slid beneath them, the sudden warmth of his body cutting through the chill of the sheets.

​He stayed on his side of the mattress for a long time, as still as a statue. Then, slowly, you felt it—the lightest, most tentative ghost of a touch. His fingertips brushed against the skin of your shoulder, barely a whisper of contact, as if he were checking to see if you’d burn him or push him away. He was asking permission in the only way he knew how.

​You didn't say a word. You simply turned over, the movement fluid and welcoming. In the pale shadows, his eyes were wide, darting across your face, looking for any sign of rejection. When he found none, the tension seemed to drain out of him all at once.

​He moved in, curling his large frame into your side. He tucked his head into the crook of your neck, his forehead resting against your chest. He was heavy, solid, and shaking just a little. You reached up, your fingers tracing the jagged line of his jaw before moving to the nape of his neck. You followed the shape of his ear, your thumb disappearing into the short, coarse hair at the back of his head.

​For a long time, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the distant roll of the Pacific.

​“You’re the only one,” he whispered. The words were so low you almost missed them, muffled against your skin. “Everyone else...they look at me and they’re looking for the monster. They’re waiting for me to break something. But you aren’t scared.”

​It wasn't a boast; it was a realization that clearly terrified him. To be known was, to Andrew, the most dangerous thing in the world.

​You shifted just enough to press a firm, lingering kiss to the top of his head. The scent of him—soap, cigarettes, and the lingering metallic tang of the Cody house—filled your senses.

​“There’s nothing to be scared of, Andrew,” you murmured into his hair. “Not here.”

​The world outside the bathroom window was a bruised, silent purple. It was barely four in the morning, that hollow hour where the rest of the city felt like a ghost town, but inside the small bathroom, the air was thick with the hum of the radiator and the scent of unscented healing ointment.

​You stood before the vanity, your reflection framed by the dim, yellow glow of the overhead light. For the first time in years, you weren't looking past yourself. You were cataloging. The dullness that had lived in your eyes for a decade had lifted, replaced by a clarity that felt almost foreign. Your shoulders, broader now from the steady rhythm of testosterone and the physical labor of the ED, seemed to sit lower, no longer hunched in a defensive curve.

​You leaned in closer to the glass, adjusting your glasses. Your nose, with that slight, familiar crook, sat above a jawline now defined by a light but stubborn layer of stubble. It was the chest, though, that held your gaze. The tubes were out. The nipple graft stitches were a memory. You traced the dark path of your happy trail, feeling the weight of the last few weeks of recovery finally begin to settle into something like peace.

​The shower was a luxury you had missed. You stood under the spray for what felt like an eternity, letting the water beat against your back until the heat bled out of the pipes and the air turned bracingly cold.

​When you finally retreated to the bedroom, the floorboards creaked under your feet. The room was a graveyard of unfolded laundry—clean, but neglected. You tugged on a pair of boxers, grunting as the fabric pulled tight across your thighs; the testosterone was still reshaping you, filling you out in ways that made your old clothes feel like a stranger’s. You layered a soft, long-sleeved cotton shirt under your scrubs to protect your skin, then sat on the edge of the bed to lace up the beat-up sneakers that had carried you through a thousand codes and double shifts.

​Your phone vibrated against the nightstand, the sudden noise jarring in the silence.

​Frank L: word on the street is you’re back on the schedule today. i’ve got twenty bucks riding on you actually showing up…don't make me lose money, man.

​A huff of a laugh escaped you. You were halfway through a mental retort when the screen lit up again.

​Frank L: also, I love you. see you in a bit. :)

​You stared at the text, this version of Frank Langdon still catching you off guard. The man who had come back from the brink, through rehab and the grueling work of therapy, was now the kind of man who sent heart-fluttering texts before sunrise.

​Your fingers hovered over the glass of the phone, the glow reflecting in your lenses as you debated sending a reply. Something witty, something grateful—but the words felt too heavy for this early in the morning. Instead, you tapped the power button, plunging the room back into a soft, pre-dawn gloom. You reached for your bag, tucking a fresh set of scrubs into the bottom—a safety net for the inevitable spills of the ED—before tossing your wallet and ID badge on top. The badge caught the light; the photo was older, the face a little rounder, a little less you, but today it felt like a relic rather than a definition.

​Before leaving, you stepped back into the bathroom for one last look. Your hair was a mess of soft strands reaching down to the nape of your neck, and you swept it up into a small, utilitarian bun. It was a "measly" thing, as you often thought of it, but it kept the hair out of your eyes and your mind on the job.

​Back in the bedroom, your hand found the heavy fabric of a jacket draped over the foot of the bed. It was Frank’s—an oversized, worn thing that practically swallowed you. You remembered the day he’d given it to you. You were fresh out of a smaller trauma center, still finding your footing in the high-octane chaos of the city ED. A patient had "she’d" you during a triage, the word cutting through your confidence like a scalpel. You’d gone quiet, retreating into yourself, and Frank—in his blunt, observant way—had cornered you by the breakroom. He hadn't asked questions; he’d just shucked off the jacket and draped it over your shoulders, his presence a physical barrier between you and the rest of the world.

​Zipping it up now, the hem hitting mid-thigh and the sleeves bunching at your wrists, you felt that same protection.

​The apartment was silent as you slipped out, the door clicking shut with a finality that signaled the end of your recovery leave. The stairwell smelled of old wood and floor wax. Each flight down felt like a descent back into reality. When you pushed open the heavy front door, the cool morning air hit you—sharp, crisp, and smelling of damp pavement.

​The hospital was a thirty-minute walk away, a trek you usually enjoyed for the way it cleared your head. The city was still waking up; a few delivery trucks rumbled in the distance, and the streetlights hummed with a low-frequency buzz. You walked with a new rhythm, your chest feeling light, the phantom weight of the binders you used to wear replaced by the simple, easy movement of your own muscles.

​Six blocks in, the atmosphere shifted. The wind began to pick up, whistling through the alleyways and tugging at the oversized collar of Frank’s jacket. Above, the bruised purple of the sky was being swallowed by heavy, charcoal-colored clouds that moved with an ominous speed.

​You stopped under a flickering streetlight, tilting your head back. A single, fat raindrop landed right on your cheek, cold and mocking. Then another hit your glasses, blurring your vision.

​"You have got to be kidding me," you muttered, the sound of your own voice small against the rising wind. You looked up at the darkening expanse, a frown tugging at your lips. "Seriously? Just give me twenty minutes. Just let me get through the doors."

​You pulled the hood of the jacket up, the scent of Frank’s laundry detergent—and a hint of the peppermint gum he was always chewing—surrounding you as the sky prepared to open up.

You were barely ten minutes from the trauma center when a crack of thunder rolled through the street, vibrating deep in your chest. A second later, the clouds gave way. It wasn't a drizzle; it was a vertical ocean. You stood frozen for a heartbeat, mouth agape as the weight of the water hit you, instantly turning Frank’s heavy jacket into a lead weight. Your glasses were useless within seconds, blurred into a smeared kaleidoscope of streetlights and grey sky.

​With a frustrated groan, you snatched the frames off your face and started to sprint.

​By the time the automatic doors of the trauma center hissed open, the burst of sterilized, climate-controlled air felt like a slap. You stepped onto the pristine white tile, leaving a trail of heavy, rhythmic splats behind you. You were a disaster. Your "measly bun" had surrendered to gravity miles ago, and your hair now clung in wet, dark clumps to the nape of your neck and forehead. Frank’s jacket was a darker shade of navy, dripping steadily onto your soaked scrubs. Ironically, your old sneakers—the one thing you expected to fail—had somehow stayed mostly dry.

​You stood there for a second, huffing, chest heaving as you wiped the rain from your eyes.

​"Well, look what the cat dragged in. Or drowned. Definitely drowned."

​You looked up to see Dana at the central nursing station. She had a cocked eyebrow and a look of pure, amused pity.

​"What happened? Did you decide to swim the last three blocks?" she asked, a smirk playing on her lips. "I knew you missed this place, but that’s a hell of an entrance."

​You managed a weary, lopsided smile, pushing a wet strand of hair out of your eyes. "Keep it up, Dana, and I’m walking right back out that door. I’m sure you guys can handle the morning rush without me."

​"Not a chance," she laughed, already reaching for a stack of charts. "You’re officially clocked in the second you stop dripping. Go. Change. You look like a drowned rat." She gestured vaguely toward the back hallway, past the row of empty gurneys lined up against the wall.

​You started to move, the water in your clothes making a heavy squelch with every step. You paused, trying to sound more casual than you felt. "Is...uh, is Dr. Langdon in yet?"

​Dana didn’t even look up from her screen, but her grin widened. "Not yet. He’s usually five minutes late with a lukewarm coffee in his hand, as per usual. Don't worry—I'll send him your way the second he slinks in.”

The locker room was a sanctuary of humming fluorescent lights and the faint, lingering scent of lavender air spray. You made a beeline for your locker, your fingers fumbling with the combination until the metal door finally swung open. You exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding when you realized your bag was dry; the thick canvas had held its own against the deluge.

​You kicked off your sneakers first, stepping carefully onto the dry bench to keep your socks from soaking up the puddles forming around you. Then came the heavy lifting. You peeled off Frank’s soaked jacket—it felt like it weighed fifty pounds—and let it hit the floor with a wet thud. The scrubs followed, sticking to your skin like a second, unwanted layer.

​Soon, you were standing there in just your boxers. In the past, this moment would have been a frantic race against the clock, a blur of hunched shoulders and averted eyes. But now? You stood tall. You looked down at your chest, at the healing lines and the way the light caught the dark hair of your happy trail. It felt strange to be this exposed in a communal space, yet for the first time, the "weirdness" wasn't rooted in shame. It was just...new.

​You started rummaging through your bag, realizing you’d forgotten a plastic bag for the wet heap on the floor. Your eyes darted around the room, landing on the high-mounted supply cabinet near the ceiling. You knew for a fact the night shift stashed the heavy-duty plastic emesis bags up there.

​"Great. Fantastic," you muttered to yourself.

​You stood on your tiptoes, reaching one arm upward. But as your fingers brushed the handle, a sharp, tight tug radiated across your chest. The skin, still settling and tender from the surgery, protested the sudden stretch.

​"Ooh—okay. Maybe not today," you grunted, hissing as you pulled your arm back down to your side.

​"Need a hand there, Short-stack?"

​The voice was low, gravelly, and closer than you expected. You didn't even have to turn around to feel the radiating heat of him. A large, familiar hand reached over your head, effortlessly plucking a roll of plastic bags from the high shelf.

​You turned, your heart doing a slow roll in your chest. Frank was standing right there, close enough that you had to tilt your head back significantly just to meet his eyes. He was leaning one hand against the lockers, a lazy, lopsided grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as his gaze swept over you—not with judgment, but with a quiet, intense sort of pride.

​"You plan on giving the whole ED a show, or were you just waiting for me to get here?" he asked, his voice dropping into that soft, new register that always made your stomach flip.

The locker room felt smaller with Frank in it. It wasn’t just his height—the way the top of your head barely cleared his shoulder—it was the sheer magnetic pull of his presence. He didn't hand over the bag immediately. Instead, he held it just out of reach, his fingers hooked in the plastic, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your chest and then back again.

​His mouth clicked open as if he had a fully formed sentence ready to go, but then he snapped it shut, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. You didn’t look away. You crossed your arms—not to hide, but as a challenge—waiting for the "old" Frank to make a crack or the "new" Frank to find his footing.

​Finally, he exhaled a sharp breath and extended the bag. "Here. Take it before I drop it."

​"Thanks," you murmured, your voice a little scratchy in the quiet room. You took the bag and began the wet, heavy task of shoving your soaked clothes into it. The silence stretched between you, thick and charged, until you finally reached back into your locker for the fresh, dry scrubs.

​"You look good," he blurted out.

​The words were clumsy, hitting the air with the force of a blunt instrument. He winced the second they left his mouth. "I mean—you always look good. Obviously. It’s just...you look—" He cut himself off, waving a hand vaguely in the air as if trying to catch a thought that had grown wings and flown away.

​You leaned back against the cool metal of your locker, a quiet, genuine laugh bubbling up as you stepped into your scrub pants. The fabric felt heavenly against your skin compared to the wet mess on the floor.

​"Therapy really did a number on you, Frank," you teased. Your voice was soft, devoid of any real bite. It was a marvel, seeing this man—who used to survive on cynicism and deflection—actually struggle to express a sincere emotion. "Careful, though. If Robby or the new residents hear you being this earnest, your reputation is toast."

​Frank didn't move. He just stood there, his eyes fixed on you with a focused intensity that made the air feel heavy. He looked like he was trying to memorize the way you looked right now—upright, breathing easy, and entirely yourself.

​"Right," he mumbled, his voice dropping an octave. "Yeah. Reputation. Wouldn't want that."

​He lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he finally seemed to snap out of it. He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze dropping to his own boots. "I’m sorry. I’m...staring. I'll shut up."

​He turned his back to you then, a silent offer of privacy that felt like its own kind of intimacy. He stood as a sentry by the door, but you could see the slight tension in his broad shoulders. It was clear his brain was short-circuiting; the reality of your recovery, the sight of you standing there whole and healed, was a lot for a man who spent his life waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You reached into your bag, fingers finding the familiar plastic edge of your ID badge. Clipping it to your scrub pocket felt like a rite of passage, the final click of "going back to work" after weeks of being a patient yourself. You tugged at the long sleeves of your cotton undershirt, smoothing the fabric over your forearms before finally reaching for your glasses.

​They were still smeared with rainwater, but after a quick, vigorous rub with the hem of your clean shirt, the world snapped back into focus. The fluorescent lights were sharper, the lockers more metallic, and Frank—standing there like a broad-shouldered wall—was suddenly HD.

​"You really mean it?" you asked.

​You bent down to retrieve your sneakers, your hair slipping from its loose ties and veiling your face in dark, damp strands.

​"Huh?" Frank’s voice was a rough whisper. He turned back around a second too fast, as if he’d been waiting for the slightest permission to look at you again.

​You chuckled, tilting your head to look up at him through the curtain of your hair. The height difference was never more apparent than from down here; his work boots looked like small boats next to your feet. "That I look good, dork. Or was that just the therapy talking?"

​You stood up fully, the top of your head barely clearing the curve of his shoulder. You reached up, gathering the messy weight of your hair and twisting it back into that utilitarian bun, your elbows brushing the air just inches from his chest.

​Frank didn't look away this time. He just watched the way your arms moved, the way your glasses caught the overhead light, and the way you stood—centered and solid. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in a way that betrayed how much he was overthinking this.

​"Yeah," he whispered, the bravado of his earlier self completely gone. "I mean it. But for the record? You’ve looked good since the first day you walked into this disaster zone."

​He paused, a small, lopsided smile finally breaking through his serious expression—the kind of look that was reserved only for you. "The surgery just...I don't know. It looks like you’re finally wearing the right skin, I guess.”

You stood there in front of him, the fresh fabric of your scrubs a crisp, dry contrast to the memory of the rain. A genuine, lopsided smile pulled at your lips—the kind of smile that didn't feel forced or hidden behind a mask of discomfort. You didn't even try to find the words to match his. Instead, you shifted your weight, rising onto your tiptoes to close the gap between your height and his. You pressed a lingering, soft kiss to his jawline, just below the ear.

​Frank froze, the "gears" of his usually sharp, cynical mind visibly grinding to a halt. He looked stunned, his breath hitching in the small space between you.

​You pulled back with a wink, turning toward the heavy swinging doors of the locker room to start your shift. You only made it two steps.

​A large, warm hand shot out, fingers wrapping firmly but gently around your bicep. With a low grunt, Frank spun you back toward him. Before you could even let out a surprised huff, he was leaning down, his other hand cupping your jaw, his thumb grazing the edge of your glasses. He kissed you—not a tentative kiss, but something deep, grounding, and full of the weeks of worry he’d kept bottled up while you were away.

​You melted into him, your hands finding purchase on the front of his scrub top, pulling him closer. You were the one to break it eventually, slowly pushing against his chest until he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and blown out.

​"Dinner at my place tonight?" you breathed, your heart hammering a steady rhythm against your ribs. "It’s getting a little too quiet being there by myself."

​Frank nodded immediately, his hand still lingering on your cheek as if he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. "Yeah," he rasped, a small, breathless smile breaking through. "Yeah, absolutely. I'm there."

​He bit his lip, his gaze dropping down to your chest again before darting back to your eyes, that flicker of his old, unfiltered mischief returning. "So...do I get to see you shirtless again? Or was that a one-time-only grand reopening?"

​You let out a huff of a laugh and rolled your eyes, reaching up to playfully pat his chest—a solid, grounding thud against his sternum.

​"Don't push your luck, Langdon," you teased, turning back toward the door. "We have a waiting room full of people who probably have actual problems. Let’s go."

​Being an ED nurse for twenty years had carved deep, difficult habits into your psyche—habits that didn't stay behind when the fluorescent lights of the trauma center faded into the dawn. You had developed a clinical, almost predatory way of watching people. You tracked the cadence of a breath, the micro-tensions in a jawline, and the way a person’s weight shifted when they thought no one was looking. It was a survival mechanism; you saw the "something else" that patients tried to hide behind their primary complaints.

​You did it with everyone. You saw through Robby’s forced "I’m fine" grins, and you clocked the exact moment Dana’s bravado cracked when she thought she was alone in the breakroom. You even tracked Frank, though his life was such a slow-motion car wreck that his symptoms were usually just the weight of his personal life.

​But the second Jack Abbot walked into the Pit, your clinical eye sharpened into something else entirely. Something personal.

​At first, it was just the physical details: the specks of amber caught in his hazel eyes under the harsh LED panels, the way his stubble was coming in thicker and grayer toward the end of a double shift, and the fine map of creases at the corners of his eyes.

Jack had a way of standing close—closer than most colleagues—but you’d noticed he saved a specific kind of proximity for you.

​Then, the nurse in you began to see the cracks. You noticed the way he swayed almost imperceptibly when he stood still for too long, the subtle change in his gait as the hours ticked by, and the fleeting grimace he’d hide whenever he had to pivot on his left leg. It was worse after he’d been out prior to a shift, his body paying the price for his inability to just sit down.

​Tonight, you were buried behind a mountain of charts at the central station, your neck aching. You didn't need to look up to know it was him; you recognized the rhythm of his step. It was heavier tonight. Labored.

​As he approached the high counter, you watched his hand drop instinctively to his thigh, fingers digging briefly into the muscle above his prosthetic before he caught himself. He leaned against the laminate, the exhaustion rolling off him in waves. When he saw you were already looking at him, a tired, small smile tugged at his mouth.

​“Still at it?” he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp in the quiet of the early morning ED.

​“Just clearing the deck,” you said, setting the file down with a soft thud. You didn't soften your gaze. “You’re hurting, Jack.”

​It was blunt, but in a ward full of trauma, you didn't see the point in dancing around the truth. Jack opened his mouth—no doubt to offer the standard, stoic deflection—but he bit the words back when you leaned back and crossed your arms, giving him a stern look.

​“I’m fine,” he eventually muttered, though he didn't move from the counter.

​“You’re an amputee who just finished twelve hours on a trauma floor,” you countered, your voice dropping to a private, steady tone. “Don’t lie to me. It’s insulting to both of us, Jack”

​He winced. He’d always had a complicated relationship with how you said his name—it usually made his heart kick, but right now, it felt like being caught by a mirror he couldn't turn away from. He didn't like people knowing the extent of his struggle, but with you, he was beginning to realize that secrets were a lost cause.

​“Walk with me?” he asked, nodding toward the corridor leading to the staff lounge.

​You stood immediately, falling into step beside him. You didn't grab him—he was too proud for that—but your hand stayed a fraction of an inch from the small of his back, a light touch that offered support without the indignity of a crutch. He leaned toward you anyway, a subconscious surrender to the proximity.

​“When did you figure it out?” he asked as you rounded the corner, away from prying eyes.

​“It’s what I do, Jack,” you replied softly. “And I tend to pay extra attention to the people I actually like.”

​You reached the breakroom and ushered him inside, closing the door on the noise of the ED. You gestured firmly toward the padded armchair in the corner. For once, Jack didn't argue. He just sank into the seat with a long, shuddering exhale, finally letting the mask slip because he knew you’d already seen what was behind it.

​“You like me?” Jack asked. The words were light, punctuated by a tired smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes, but there was a flicker of genuine vulnerability behind the bravado.

​You didn't give him the satisfaction of a blushing reply. Instead, you dragged a rolling stool over, the casters screeching against the linoleum, and sat directly between his knees. Without asking, you reached out and hooked your hands under his left calf, hoisting his leg up onto your lap.

​“I put up with you, don’t I?” you huffed, focused on the task at hand. You began to gather the hem of his scrub pants, rolling the fabric up past the ankle, then the calf, until the carbon fiber and titanium of the pylon were exposed.

​Jack went still. His breath hitched—a sharp, staccato sound in the quiet room—before his shoulders finally slumped, his body betraying him by relaxing into your touch. You paused, finally looking up. The harsh overhead light caught the silver in his hair and the deep shadows of exhaustion under his eyes.

​“I like you, Jack,” you whispered, the honesty stripping away the hospital's frantic energy. “That’s why it pisses me off when you treat yourself like an afterthought.”

​You turned your attention back to the limb. As you reached the top of the sleeve, your fingers brushed the soft tissue just below his knee. The skin there was angry—radiating a feverish heat that spoke of inflammation and hours of friction. You could feel the slight tremors in his thigh muscle, the result of a body pushed far past its limit.

​“Jack,” you murmured, your thumbs tracing the edge of the suspension sleeve. “Can I take it off?”

​Jack didn't answer right away. He stayed like that for a long moment, a hand dragged over his face, fingers digging into his brow as if he could massage away the reality of the situation. He spent his life being the hero in the center of the Pit, the man who didn't break so that others could. Letting someone—especially you—see the stump, the irritation, and the sheer mechanical reality of his life felt like stripping naked.

​Finally, he gave a single, jagged nod.

​You moved with practiced, clinical gentleness, though your heart was hammering against your ribs. You worked the sleeve down, the sound of the seal breaking a dull, wet thud in the silence. As the prosthetic came away, Jack let out a long, shuddering exhale, his head falling back against the wall.

​The residual limb was swollen, the skin a mottled, angry red where the socket had been Chafing.

​“God, Jack,” you hissed softly, your fingers hovering just over the inflamed skin, afraid to cause more pain but needing to assess the damage. “This didn’t happen in the last hour. You’ve been walking on a pressurized blister for half the shift, haven't you?”

​“There were three incoming traumas from the 90,” Jack grounded out, his eyes squeezed shut, his voice tight with that stubborn defiance. “I wasn't going to sit down because of a little skin irritation.”

​“It’s not ‘little,’ it’s an infection waiting to happen,” you countered, your voice rising in a mix of professional frustration and personal fear. You reached for a clean towel from the counter, wetting it with cool water. “You’re a doctor. You’d scream at a patient for doing exactly what you’re doing right now.”

​“I’m not a patient,” he snapped, though there was no heat in it, only the exhaustion of a man tired of being strong.

​“Tonight you are.”

​You pressed the cool cloth to the heat of his skin. Jack flinched, a low groan vibrating in his chest, and his hand came down from his face to grip your shoulder. His fingers dug in, anchoring him to the moment, to the relief, and to you. You didn't move. You just kept the cloth there, let the cooling sensation dull the fire in his nerves, and waited for the tension to leak out of him.

The silence in the breakroom felt heavy, charged with the sudden shift from clinical to personal. You looked at Jack’s hand on your shoulder—a surgeon’s hand, steady and scarred—and felt a wave of protective heat rise in your chest. You reached up, your fingers wrapping around his wrist to pull his hand down. Instead of letting go, you brought his knuckles to your lips, pressing a lingering, soft kiss against the rough skin.

​Jack’s breath hitched again, but this time it wasn't from the pain. It was the sound of a man being seen.

​“You want me to take care of it here?” you asked softly. You knew him; if you walked him down to a treatment room, the entire day shift would be hovering, and Jack would put the mask back on. Here, behind a closed door with the smell of stale coffee and industrial cleaner, he could just be Jack.

​He nodded, slowly drawing his hand back, though his fingers trailed against your cheek for a second too long. “Yeah,” he rasped. “Thank you.”

​“Don’t thank me yet. I’m going to have to scrub that skin.”

​You stood, giving his good knee a firm, grounding pat before heading out. The transition from the quiet lounge back into the ED was jarring. The "Pit" never truly slept; the hum of monitors and the distant chime of an ambulance bay alarm greeted you instantly.

​As you headed toward the supply closet, you nearly collided with Robby and Whitaker, who were hovering near the central station with charts in hand. They both stopped, their eyes tracking you with the keen, gossipy curiosity that only seasoned hospital staff possess.

​“Thought you went home ten minutes ago?” Robby questioned, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline.

​You didn't break your stride, heading straight for the keypad on the supply room door. “Thought you said to keep things professional, Robby,” you retorted, glancing over your shoulder. You caught Whitaker’s nervous smirk and gave him a sly, tired smile of your own. “I’m just logging out some supplies. My shift is over when the work is done.”

​Inside the closet, you worked quickly. You grabbed a bottle of Hibiclens, a pack of sterile 4x4 gauze, and a tube of barrier cream. Most importantly, you grabbed a fresh stump shrinker and a bottle of medical-grade prosthetic cleanser. Amputees often dealt with "volume changes"—fluid buildup in the residual limb after a long day of standing—which made the socket fit too tightly and caused the exact kind of skin-shear Jack was suffering from.

​You tagged the items out under your name, ignoring the digital paper trail. If the administrator asked why a nurse was checking out limb-care supplies when your shift was supposed to be over, you’d tell them to mind their own business.

​When you slipped back into the breakroom, Jack hadn't moved. He looked smaller in the chair, his head leaned back against the wall, eyes closed. You set the supplies on the coffee table and knelt back on the stool.

​“Alright, Doc. Let’s see the damage.”

​You soaked a gauze pad in the antiseptic wash. “This is going to be cold,” you warned. As you began to dab at the inflamed skin of his residual limb, you noticed the tell-tale signs of verrucous hyperplasia starting at the distal end—the skin was thickening and bumpy from the uneven pressure of his socket.

​“You’ve been losing volume,” you noted, your voice low and clinical. “The stump is shrinking throughout the shift, and you’re sinking too deep into the socket. That’s why the distal end is bottoming out and shearing.”

​Jack hissed through his teeth as the antiseptic hit the raw spots. “I added a ply,” he muttered, referring to the prosthetic socks used to manage fit. “It didn't help.”

​“One sock isn’t enough for a twelve-hour trauma shift when you’re sprinting down hallways, Jack,” you scolded gently, wiping away a bead of serous fluid from a blister. “You’re lucky this isn’t an abscess. You need to offload the pressure for at least twenty-four hours. No socket. No calls. Just a shrinker and an ice pack.”

​“You know that’s not going to happen,” he said, but his voice lacked its usual bite. He watched your hands—the way you moved with a mix of nurse-honed efficiency and a lover’s tenderness.

​“It’s happening,” you insisted, looking up to lock eyes with him. “Because if you can’t walk, you can’t lead. And if you can’t lead, this whole place falls apart. I’m not letting that happen. And I’m not letting you break yourself for a job that’ll replace you in a week.”

​Jack looked like he wanted to argue, but then he looked at the red, angry skin of his own leg and then back at you. He let out a defeated, weary chuckle. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

​“The best you’ve ever had,” you joked softly, applying a thin, cooling layer of barrier cream to the unrefined edges of the redness.

​The tension in the room shifted again, the clinical reality of the injury giving way to the quiet comfort of being cared for. Jack reached out, his hand finally finding the back of your neck, pulling you just a few inches closer.

The silence in the breakroom changed as you finished dressing the skin. The sharp, antiseptic smell of the Hibiclens began to fade, replaced by the quiet, rhythmic hum of the vending machine and the distant, muffled chaos of the ED.

​You didn't move from your spot between his knees. You took the fresh compression shrinker—a snug, elastic sleeve designed to control the swelling—and carefully slid it over his residual limb. Your touch was deliberate, smoothing out the fabric to ensure there were no bunching points that would cause more irritation.

​“There,” you murmured, finally resting your hands on his thighs. “That’ll keep the edema down while you sleep.”

​Jack didn't pull away. He was looking down at you, his gaze heavy and clouded with a exhaustion that went bone-deep. His hand was still resting at the nape of your neck, his thumb tracing the hairline there in a slow, hypnotic circle.

​“I have a surgery scheduled for 0800,” he said, but the usual iron-clad authority in his voice was fraying at the edges. “I can’t just—”

​“Jack.” You cut him off, not with a shout, but with a quiet firmness that demanded he listen. You leaned forward until your forehead rested against his. “Look at me.”

​He hesitated, then lowered his gaze to meet yours.

​“The Pit isn’t going to burn down if you take a seat for twelve hours,” you said. “You spend every waking second being the load-bearing wall for this entire hospital. You’re a doctor, you’re Trauma, you’re the guy everyone looks to when the world ends. But you’re also a man. A man who’s currently bleeding into his socks because he’s too proud to admit he’s human.”

​Jack’s jaw tightened, that familiar stubbornness flaring up for a second. “It’s not about pride. It’s about the job.”

​“No,” you countered, reaching up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over the gray-flecked stubble on his cheek. “It’s about control. You think if you stop moving, the pain catches up. You think if you show a limp, you’re obsolete.”

​You let out a soft, weary sigh, your voice dropping to a whisper. “But I see you, Jack. I’ve been watching you for months. I see the grimaces you hide from the interns. I see the way you lean on the counters when you think the halls are empty. You don’t have to keep going like this. Not with me.”

​Jack’s eyes closed, and for the first time, he let his head heavy into your hand. The "Doctor" persona—the untouchable, unstoppable Jack Abbot—finally cracked. He looked vulnerable, a man in his late 40s who had given everything to a profession that took and took.

​“I don’t know how to do it any other way,” he admitted, his voice barely audible.

​“Then let me show you,” you said. “Whether you accept it or not, I’m here. I’m the one who’s going to notice when your gait is off. I’m the one who’s going to have the Hibiclens ready. You don’t have to ask for help, Jack. I’m just going to give it. You’re stuck with me.”

​A small, genuine smile—devoid of the earlier smirk—tugged at the corner of his mouth. He leaned forward, closing the small gap between you, and pressed his face into the crook of your neck. He took a deep, shuddering breath, smelling the soap and the faint scent of hospital coffee that clung to your scrubs. It was the smell of home, even in the middle of a trauma center.

​“You’re a persistent son of a bitch,” he muttered against your skin, his arms finally coming around to pull you into a proper hug, holding onto you like you were the only thing keeping him upright.

​“I’m an ED nurse,” you reminded him, rubbing circles into his back as he finally let his weight settle into the chair. “Persistence is in the job description. Now, give me your keys. I’m driving you home, and I’m making sure you actually stay in bed until that skin closes up.”

​Jack didn't fight you. He just held on tighter, a silent surrender that said more than any "thank you" ever could. In the harsh light of the breakroom, surrounded by the ghosts of a thousand shifts, he finally stopped running.

The night air was sharp, a biting contrast to the stagnant, recycled oxygen of the ED. The parking lot was mostly empty, save for the scattered cars of the rest of the skeletal night shift and the low hum of distant traffic. Jack was leaning heavily on you, his arm draped over your shoulder, his fingers digging into your scrub top as he hopped rhythmically on his good leg.

Despite his height and the lean muscle he maintained, he felt heavy—the kind of weight that came from a man finally letting go of the tension that had held his skeleton together for sixteen hours.

As you reached his SUV, you fumbled with the key fob in your pocket, the lights flashing a dull amber in the dark. You maneuvered him toward the passenger side, bracing your core as you prepared to pivot him into the seat. But Jack’s coordination was shot. As he went to sit, his good leg buckled just an inch, and his grip on your shoulder tightened reflexively, pulling you down with him.

You went stumbling forward, your chest hitting his as he landed on the leather seat with a grunt. For a heart-stopping second, you were tangled together—your hands braced on the headrest and the door frame to keep from crushing him, your faces inches apart in the shadows of the cabin.

The scent of him was overwhelming here—cold night air, expensive aftershave, and the metallic tang of the hospital. You stayed there for a beat too long, breathing in the same space, before you slowly pushed back, one eyebrow cocked in a look of feigned unimpressed judgment.

"I could leave you on the sidewalk, you know," you hummed, your voice vibrating with a playful, low-register threat. You reached out and patted his shoulder, though the gesture was more of a lingering caress than a dismissal. "Let the morning shift find you slumped against the tire like a discarded lab report."

Jack let his head fall back against the headrest, a tired, genuine chuckle vibrating in his chest. His hazel eyes were dark, tracking the way the streetlights caught the graying hair at your temples. He looked utterly wrecked, but the sharp, defensive edge he usually carried was gone.

"You wouldn't," he murmured. His voice was a gravelly rasp, layered with a quiet certainty that made your heart skip a beat.

He was right. You wouldn't. You’d stay here until the sun came up if it meant he was safe.

"Don't test me, Abbot," you countered, though there was no heat in it. You reached over him, your arm brushing his chest as you grabbed the seatbelt. The click of the metal buckle echoed in the quiet car like a finality—a seal on the night.

You didn't move away immediately. You stayed hovered over him, your hand resting on the center console. "You got your phone? Keys? Everything you need for a man who is officially off-duty for the next twenty-four hours?"

Jack didn't look at his pockets. He just looked at you, his hand reaching out to catch yours where it rested. He squeezed your fingers, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a slow, deliberate rhythm that matched the kiss you’d given him in the breakroom.

"I have everything I need," he said softly.

You felt the weight of that statement settle between you. It wasn't just about the medical supplies or the ride home. It was the admission that for the first time in a long time, he wasn't doing this alone. You squeezed his hand back, a silent promise, before you finally stood up and shut the door with a solid, satisfying thunk.

Walking around to the driver's side, you caught your reflection in the windshield—tired eyes, messy hair, and a look of absolute, terrifying affection. You climbed in, adjusted the seat, and put the car in gear.

"Seat back, Jack," you ordered as you pulled out of the lot.

He let out a soft huff of a laugh and actually obeyed, reclining the seat until he was looking up at the passing streetlights. The silence in the car wasn't the heavy, awkward kind; it was the comfortable quiet of two people who had seen the worst of the world and decided to find a corner of it for themselves. As you drove through the empty Pittsburgh streets, you kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the armrest, right where Jack’s fingers could find yours in the dark.

The drive to Bethel Park was quiet, the hum of the tires against the pavement acting as a rhythmic lullaby that threatened to pull Jack under. You didn't turn toward his place; you didn't even ask. You just steered the SUV toward your first-floor apartment, and Jack, usually so insistent on being the one in the driver’s seat of his own life, simply leaned his head against the glass and let you.

Getting him inside was a slow, coordinated dance. With the apartment being on the ground floor, you avoided the indignity of stairs, guiding him through the front door and straight into the sanctuary of your bedroom. The air here smelled like home—faint cedar, old books, and the lingering scent of the tea you’d brewed before your shift started a lifetime ago.

You lowered him onto the edge of your mattress, the springs giving a sympathetic creak. Without a word, you reached down and took the prosthetic, carrying the heavy, mechanical limb into the adjoining bathroom. You set it upright against the vanity, a strange, silent sentinel in the tile-reflected light, before returning to the bedroom.

By the time you walked back in, Barnaby—your Maine Coon mix who was roughly the size and shape of a Thanksgiving turkey—had already claimed the territory. The cat let out a truncated, gravelly meow and hopped onto the duvet, kneading his massive paws into the space right next to Jack’s hip.

Jack watched the cat with a tired, amused expression, his hand dropping instinctively to scratch behind Barnaby’s ears. "He’s...substantial," Jack rasped, his eyes tracking you as you moved through the room.

"He's a glutton," you corrected with a soft huff, moving to the closet to pull out a fresh set of clothes. "Stay put. I need to top off his bowl before he starts eating the furniture, and then I’m hitting the shower."

You excused yourself, moving with the practiced efficiency of a man who knew his space. Jack didn't move; he stayed perched on the edge of the bed, his gaze tethered to you. He watched the way you moved—the slight slump of your shoulders now that you were off the clock, the way you navigated the familiar layout of your life. For a man who lived in the clinical, high-stakes chaos of the trauma center, seeing you in your element was a strange, grounding intimacy.

He heard the rattle of dry cat food in the kitchen and the rush of the shower from the bathroom. Every time you passed back through the bedroom, you caught his eyes on you. He wasn't just looking; he was observing, memorizing the way the lamp light hit your face, the way you sighed when you finally kicked off your own shoes.

When you finally emerged from the bathroom, dressed in worn-out sweats and a faded t-shirt, you held out a soft, oversized charcoal-gray shirt you’d grabbed from the back of the drawer.

"Here," you said, tossing it gently onto his lap. "It’ll be big on you, but it’s clean. You’re sleeping here tonight."

Jack looked at the shirt, then up at you, his brow furrowing slightly. "Where are you going to be?"

"I'm taking the couch," you said, already reaching for an extra pillow and a knitted throw blanket from the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. "The mattress is better for your back, and God knows you need the room to stretch out that leg. Barnaby will keep you company. He’s basically a heated weighted blanket anyway."

You turned to head for the door, but the look Jack gave you stopped you in your tracks. It wasn't the look of a doctor or a patient; it was the look of a man who realized he’d just been handed a piece of peace he didn’t think he deserved.

"You don't have to do that," he said softly, his fingers tightening around the soft fabric of the shirt you'd given him. "It's your bed."

"And it's my guest's health on the line," you countered, leaning against the doorframe, a small, tired smile playing on your lips. "Besides, I’ve slept on worse in the breakroom. The couch is a luxury by comparison. Get some sleep, Jack. No alarms. No traumas. Just quiet."

You lingered for a second, watching him relax just an inch further into the pillows. The sight of Jack Abbot—formidable, brilliant, and stubborn—tangled up with a fat cat in a Bethel Park apartment was something you wanted to keep in your head forever.

"I'll be right in the next room," you whispered. "If the stump starts throbbing or you need anything, you yell. I mean it."

Jack nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "I know you will," he murmured, his voice thick with a sleepiness he finally stopped fighting. "Goodnight."

"Night, Jack." You clicked off the main light, leaving only the soft amber glow of the hallway, and stepped out, closing the door just enough to give him privacy but leaving it cracked just enough so you could hear him if he called.

The Pitt had a specific atmosphere—a thick, pressurized weight that settled over your shoulders the second you swiped your ID badge and didn't lift until you stepped back out into the cool morning air. Or maybe that was just the night shift talking. You’d been working these ungodly hours since your residency twenty-some years ago, and lately, the fluorescent hum of the ER felt more like home than your own quiet apartment ever did.

​The hospital was a greedy thing; it took every scrap of your life you were willing to give. But standing there in the trenches, it didn't feel entirely like a loss. You tolerated the chaos for the crew—and because Dana, with her iron will and sharp tongue, hadn't let you jump ship for a quieter gig in another state yet.

​Then, of course, there was Jack Abbot.

​You tried to be professional—you were a nurse, for Christ’s sake—but you couldn't help but track him when he moved through a trauma bay. He filled out his scrubs in a way that should have been a distraction to medical science, muscles straining against the fabric of his sleeves as he worked. But it wasn't just the physical side of him. It was the way Jack looked at you in a crowded room of over-eager interns and frazzled residents. He’d lock eyes with you like you were the only person who actually knew what was going on, like he wanted you specifically at his side, no matter how messy the case got.

​Sometimes you’d catch him staring back, his gaze lingering a second too long on your face. You’d just offer a tired, knowing smile and keep moving. You’d known plenty of men in your forty-something years, but none of them carried themselves like Jack. None of them were ex-military with a "hobby" for SWAT calls and a cocky grin that made your heart do things it was far too old to be doing.

​You let out a long, ragged sigh, draining the last of the sludge you called coffee. You walked into the employee breakroom, the soles of your shoes squeaking against the linoleum, and tossed the empty cup into the trash with a practiced flick of the wrist. You were so deep in your own head that you didn't even notice Dana leaning against the wall by the lockers.

​“You look like hell,” she huffed, her voice cutting through the silence of the room. “Rough night?”

​Dana was blunt, a trait you valued more than you probably should. You turned, rubbing the back of your neck where a dull ache was beginning to settle. “Still shrugging off yesterday’s shift, honestly.”

​The previous night had been a gauntlet. A domestic dispute had spilled over into the waiting room while you were triage-side. To some, it was a crisis; to you, it was just another Tuesday, though a bloody nose and a shattered glass partition tended to leave a lingering adrenaline spike.

​“It happens. You’ve been at this long enough to know the Pitt likes to bite back,” she said, stepping forward to pat your arm. Her expression softened into something resembling a smile. “But you’ve got thick skin. Better than most of the kids we’ve got running around here.”

​You’d been on the receiving end of healthcare violence more than a few times—a stray punch from a detoxing patient, a shove from a panicked relative—but the toll was cumulative. It stayed in your bones. “Thanks, Dana. I’m fine. Just need about twelve hours of sleep and a new set of knees.”

​“Don’t we all?” Dana shot you a weary, knowing smile—the kind shared only by people who have spent more time under fluorescent lights than in the sun. She gave your shoulder a final squeeze before heading out, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

​The silence she left behind was heavy. You moved toward your locker, the metal door groaning on its hinges as you swung it open. You went through the ritual: phone silenced and stashed, car keys dropped into the plastic bin, and the nicer-looking name badge—the one without the coffee stain—clipped firmly to your scrub top. You draped your stethoscope around your neck, the cool binaurals a familiar weight against your collarbone.

​The thud of the breakroom door swinging open made you pause. You didn't need to look to know who it was; you knew the cadence of his step.

​As you swung your locker shut, the gray metal clicking into place, Jack was already there. He was moving toward his own locker just a few feet down, his presence immediately making the cramped room feel smaller. He looked like he’d just come from a workout or a very fast drive—charged with that restless energy that seemed to vibrate off him.

​"Afternoon," you said, your voice low and slightly raspy from the lack of sleep.

​Jack slowed his pace, his head turning toward you. A slow, tired heat crept into his eyes. "Afternoon," he replied, his voice mirroring your volume, turning the simple greeting into something that felt far more private than it was.

​He reached for his locker, but he didn't open it yet. Instead, he turned his body fully toward you. "Think I can count on you tonight?"

​There it was. That cocky, lopsided grin that had no business being that charming at the start of a twelve-hour shift.

​You shifted your weight, leaning your shoulder against the cool metal of your locker and crossing your arms over your chest. You let a slow, huffed breath escape your nose, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You can count on me every night, Jack. You know that."

​"I know," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he took a half-step closer, encroaching on your personal space just enough to let you catch the scent of cedar and sterile soap. "Just making sure. I like knowing exactly whose hands are catching what I’m throwing."

​The air in the breakroom suddenly felt a lot warmer. You searched his face, looking for the line between professional camaraderie and something else. Was he flirting? You’d had these back-and-forths for months—little sparks thrown across a trauma table or shared over a chart—but if he was pushing the boundary today, you weren't about to pull back.

​"Careful, Abbot," you murmured, adjusting the stethoscope around your neck. "People might start to think you’ve got a favorite."

​"Let 'em think," he countered, his grin widening just a fraction.

​You shook your head, a genuine chuckle bubbling up. As you moved to head toward the floor, you reached out, your hand landing briefly—deliberately—on his bicep. The muscle was as solid as you’d imagined through the fabric of his shirt, warm and firm under your palm. You gave it a lingering, playful pat.

​"See you out there then.”

​You didn't look back, but you could feel his gaze on your spine all the way to the door.

​Six hours in, and the walls of the Pitt were starting to pulse with the rhythm of the fluorescent lights. You’d downed three cups of the breakroom sludge—acidic, lukewarm, and vibrating in your veins—but it wasn't providing the clarity it used to. Instead, it just made your hands feel heavy and your eyelids feel like they were lined with sand.

​You were leaned over the high counter of the nurses' station, squinting at a discharge summary for a patient who’d just left, when a warm, familiar weight landed on your shoulder. The heat of the palm seeped through your scrub top instantly.

​You didn't even have to look up to know the grip. "You're going to need more than caffeine to get through the next six, old man," Jack’s voice rumbled near your ear.

​You looked up, catching him standing there with a yellow trauma chart held aloft like a trophy. "I'm only a few years on you, Abbot. Don't get cocky," you countered, though your voice lacked its usual bite.

​He didn't pull his hand away immediately, his thumb giving a brief, subconscious brush against your trap muscle. "Think I can borrow you? I’ve got a walk-in in Bed 4. Triage says they’re struggling with the history." He cocked an eyebrow, a challenge in his eyes. "You still speak Spanish, or did you forget it all over your lunch break?"

​"I remember enough to get you out of trouble," you replied, handing the chart you were holding back to the charge nurse with a tired nod.

​"Good. Follow me."

​As you walked, he handed you the new chart. It was sparse—just a name, Elena Rodriguez, and a few scribbled notes about abdominal pain. No allergies, no past medical history; the language barrier had hit a wall at the front desk.

​When you pushed back the curtain to Bed 4, the atmosphere shifted. An older woman was curled on the thin mattress, her face pale and waxy, clutching her midsection. Beside her stood a girl in her late teens, her knuckles white as she gripped the bedrail.

​"Hola," you said, your voice softening into your 'nurse' persona—calm, steady, and commanding. "Soy uno de los enfermeros, y él es el Doctor Abbot. Estamos aquí para ayudarles."

​The relief on the granddaughter's face was instantaneous. As you began a rapid-fire series of questions to the girl—asking about the onset of pain, fever, and the last time her grandmother had eaten—you translated for Jack in real-time.

​You and Jack moved around the small space like it was second nature. As he donned gloves and moved to the head of the bed, you stepped in at the hip, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around the woman’s arm and clipping a pulse oximeter to her finger. You didn't even have to look at him to know where he was reaching; you moved the gown aside just as his hand descended.

​"Tell her I'm going to check her abdomen," Jack said, his eyes focused. "I need to check for guarding or rebound tenderness."

​"El doctor va a examinarle el estómago," you murmured to the woman, leaning in close. "Trate de relajarse."

​Jack began his palpation, starting in the lower left quadrant to stay away from the pain. You were focused on the monitor, watching her heart rate climb as she tensed. You should have been looking at her face. You should have noticed the way her jaw tightened and her swallow became jagged.

​Jack moved his hand to the right lower quadrant, pressing down firmly over McBurney’s point to check for appendicitis. The second he applied pressure, the woman’s eyes went wide.

​"¡Ay, Dios—!"

​She didn't finish the sentence. A violent, projectile wave of dark, bile-stained vomit erupted from her, catching you squarely across the chest, your name badge, and the stethoscope you’d so carefully cleaned earlier.

​The room went dead silent, save for the beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor.

​You stood perfectly still, your arms still slightly raised from where you’d been adjusting the cuff. A slow, warm drip slid down the front of your scrubs. The woman began to sob out apologies, clutching her stomach even tighter.

​"Está bien, está bien...no se preocupe," you said automatically, your voice remarkably flat as you reached for a stack of gauze to wipe your face.

​Jack, his hands still hovered over her stomach, just stared at you. His mouth was slightly agape, his cocky persona completely evaporated. He looked at your ruined scrubs, then up at your eyes, an expression of pure, horrified sympathy—and a tiny, repressed twitch of a smile—crossing his face.

​"Well," Jack cleared his throat, finally finding his voice. "On the bright side...I think we can rule out a simple stomach ache.”

The shift had transitioned from laid back to a complete disaster. After the projectile vomit incident, the universe seemed to have opened a personal vendetta against your dignity. Between the firework enthusiast who’d turned his hand into a jigsaw puzzle and the elderly man who’d mistaken your leg for a bathroom stall, you were operating on pure, dehydrated spite. You’d even taken a cinematic spill in the lobby, sliding through a puddle by the water cooler like a clumsy kid on a slip-and-slide, only to pull yourself up with a plastered-on professional smile to help a patient back to their room.

​By the time you hit the locker room for the fifth change of clothes in four hours, you weren't even a person anymore—just a vessel for cheap coffee and adrenaline.

​You were pulling a fresh navy scrub top over your white long-sleeve, the fabric still smelling like industrial laundry detergent, when a resident skidded into your field of vision. He looked like he was about to burst into tears or an aneurysm.

​"Everything okay?" you asked, your voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel.

​"No," he choked out, already sprinting back toward the hallway.

​You didn't even hesitate. You followed, the muscle memory of twenty years kicking in. But when you rounded the corner into Room 12, you stopped dead.

​Standing on the center of the bed was a woman who couldn't have been more than five-foot-two, looking like a tiny, naked gladiator. She’d ripped her IV out—blood was blooming in a small trail down her arm— and she was wielding the metal IV pole like a trident in one hand and a heavy steel bedpan like a shield in the other.

​"Honestly? That’s actually impressive," you whispered.

​"I’d give her an eight for form, but a two for the wardrobe choice," a low, familiar voice rumbled behind you. You didn't have to look to know Jack was standing right at your shoulder, his presence a grounded heat against the chaos.

​Security was already being paged, but you knew how that ended—takedowns, bruised ribs, and more paperwork than you had the soul left to finish. You looked at the girl; she was terrified, her eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal. Physical force was just going to make her swing that pole harder.

​"Wait," you murmured to Jack and the resident. "Let me try."

​You took a slow, deliberate breath, centering yourself. You stepped into the room with your hands held up, palms open, the universal sign for I’m unarmed and I’m tired.

​"Hey, sweetheart," you said, your voice dropping into that low, melodic 'nurse-hush' that had calmed a thousand panicked patients. "Why don't we put the pole down? It looks heavy, and I’d hate for you to pull a muscle."

​She didn't drop it. Instead, she hissed and swung the pole in a wide, whistling arc. You ducked instinctively, then straightened back up, unfazed. You glanced back at Jack and the resident with a look of pure, exhausted disbelief. She was barely a hundred-and-thirty pounds soaking wet, yet she was holding that metal pole like she was Ares on the battlefield.

​You reached the foot of the bed, moving into her personal space. The girl’s eyes narrowed, and with a grunt of effort, she launched the bedpan at your head.

​Your reflexes, honed by two decades of dodging flying medical equipment and erratic toddlers, kicked in. You brought your hand up just enough to deflect the trajectory. The heavy metal dish whistled past your ear, narrowly missing your shoulder before clattering loudly onto the linoleum behind you.

​Out in the hallway, a small gallery of residents and nurses had gathered, watching the standoff through the glass.

​"Ten dollars says he handles it before security even clears the double doors," Dana muttered, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe next to Jack.

​Jack didn't take his eyes off you. He watched the way you didn't flinch, the way your shoulders stayed relaxed even as the girl raised the IV pole for another strike. A ghost of a smile touched his lips—a mix of professional respect and something a lot more personal.

​"Make it twenty," Jack replied, his voice a low vibration. "I’ve learned never to bet against him when he’s had this bad of a day. He’s got nothing left to lose.”

You didn't blame the girl. In the Pitt, patients didn't act out of malice; they acted out of psychosis, withdrawal, or sheer, blind terror. To her, you weren't a nurse trying to help; you were a giant in navy blue scrubs coming to hurt her.

​"Sweetheart, just give me the pole," you said again, your voice a low, rhythmic anchor.

​She didn't listen. She lunged, using the IV pole like a bayonet to keep you at bay. You parried it with your forearm, the cold metal bruising your skin, but you didn't retreat. You knew the dance. You moved laterally, trying to find an opening, but your boots felt like lead and the caffeine jitters were making your timing a fraction of a second off.

​You realized then that there was no easy way to do this. You were going to have to take a hit to save her from herself.

​You lunged.

​The world turned into a blurred montage of motion. You didn't register the metal pole swinging in a tight, desperate arc. You didn't register the sickening crack as the weighted base of the pole collided directly with the bridge of your nose.

​What you registered was the girl. You wrapped your arms around her waist, pinning her arms to her sides as gently as possible while she shrieked, a wild, primal sound. You had her—until she threw her weight backward, her skull slamming into your already shattered face with the force of a hammer.

​The world blossomed into white light. Your knees hit the linoleum, then your back hit the wall.

​Suddenly, the room was full of blue and green scrubs. Dana was there, her face a mask of grim determination as she helped the residents guide the girl back onto the mattress. Soft restraints were clicked into place; a sedative was prepped. The chaos was being contained, but you were stuck in the static.

​You blinked rapidly, trying to clear the red haze from your vision. Warmth was blooming over your lips, copper-tasting and thick. You tried to stand, but a pair of hands—firm, steady, and unmistakably Jack’s—clamped onto your shoulders, pushing you back down against the wall.

​"Don't you dare try to stand up by yourself, " Jack growled. It wasn't his cocky voice. It was his authoritative voice.

​He didn't wait for an answer. He hooked his arms under yours and hoisted you up, half-carrying you out of the room. He navigated the sea of staring interns, depositing you into a swivel chair at the nurses' station.

​"Ice. Now," Jack snapped, gesturing vaguely at the air. Dana was already moving, tearing open a chemical cold pack before he’d even finished the sentence.

​Jack didn't step back. He stepped in, his knees brushing against yours as he boxed you into the chair. He snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves, the sound like a gunshot in the sudden quiet of the station.

​"Look at me," he commanded.

​You tilted your head back, your breath hitching. His hands were incredibly gentle as they moved over your face, ghosting over your cheekbones before landing on the bridge of your nose.

​"Follow my light," he muttered, clicking on a penlight. He checked your pupils for a concussion, his brow furrowed in a way that made the lines around his eyes deepen. Then, he began the physical exam. He slid his fingers down the sides of your nose, feeling for crepitus—that crunching sensation of bone fragments moving—and checking for any septal hematoma.

​You hissed, your eyes watering involuntarily as his thumb applied the slightest pressure to the bridge.

​"Using this as an excuse to get your hands on me, Dr. Abbot?" you croaked, a wet, bloody chuckle bubbling in your throat. "Very professional. I should report you to HR."

​Jack didn't laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched, a tiny crack in his armor of professional concern. "Believe me, I can think of much better ways to get my hands on you that don't involve me covered in your blood."

​He took the ice pack from Dana, wrapping it in a paper towel before pressing it firmly but carefully against your face. "Any pain?"

​You rolled your eyes, which only made your head throb harder. "Yes, Doctor. It’s a tragedy. I fear I might be at death's door. Tell my landlord he can keep the deposit, but not my cat."

​Jack finally let out a short, breathy laugh, his eyes locking onto yours. The worry was still there, dark and heavy, but the spark was back. He leaned in a fraction closer, his voice dropping so low that even Dana, standing three feet away, couldn't hear him.

​"You’re a goddamn idiot," he whispered, his thumb lingering on your jawline just a second too long to be strictly clinical. "But you’re the best nurse in this building. Now sit still for a moment.”

The sterile quiet of the exam room was a stark contrast to the rattling chaos of the hallway. Jack didn't let go of your arm until you were perched on the edge of the exam table, the paper crinkling under your weight. He flicked the Occupied slider on the door and turned on the overhead procedure light, the sudden brightness making your head throb in time with your heartbeat.

​He began gathering supplies—lidocaine with epinephrine, a nasal speculum, and a tray of sterile gauze—his movements clipped and efficient. The silence between you was thick, charged with the kind of tension that usually preceded a storm or a confession. The adrenaline was finally bottoming out, leaving you with a raw, pulsing ache that felt like a railroad spike was being driven into your skull.

​You needed a distraction. Anything to stop you from focusing on the copper taste in your mouth and the way your vision was tunneling.

​"Still thinking about it?" you rasped, the words sounding thick because of the swelling.

​Jack paused, a sterile syringe halfway to a vial. He didn't look up. "Thinking about what?"

​"Those 'other ways' to get your hands on me," you said, leaning back slightly, though the movement made you wince. "The ones that don't involve a crime scene on my face."

​Jack’s jaw set. He finally looked at you, his eyes dark and unreadable under the harsh LED light. He didn't smile this time. "I shouldn't have said that," he muttered, his voice dropping into a rougher territory. "It wasn't professional. Not there. Not with you bleeding out in the middle of a triage station."

​He stepped toward you, the smell of his cologne—faintly masked by the sharp scent of isopropyl alcohol—filling your senses. He tilted your chin up with a gloved hand, his touch surprisingly warm despite the latex.

​"Mmm," you hummed, closing your eyes for a second to steady yourself. "I didn't say I minded, Jack. I just said you probably shouldn't broadcast it to a room full of nosy nurses. They talk enough as it is."

​"Let them talk," he breathed, but he was already moving into doctor-mode.

​He soaked a long strip of gauze in a vasoconstrictor to shrink the membranes and stop the bleeding. "This is going to be unpleasant," he warned, his voice softening. "I need to pack the nose to see if there’s a septal hematoma. If there's a blood clot pressing on the cartilage, I have to drain it tonight, or you’ll lose the bridge."

​He moved with a surgical precision that was almost hypnotic. He inserted the speculum, widening the nostril just enough to peer inside. You gripped the edges of the exam table, your knuckles turning white as he worked.

​"Stay with me," he murmured, noticing your shallow breathing. "Talk to me. Tell me about that Spanish elective you took. Anything."

​"Took it….because the professor was pretty," you managed to choke out, a strained attempt at a joke. "Turned out...I was better at the verbs than I was at the flirting."

​Jack let out a low, genuine huff of a laugh. He swapped the speculum for a small needle, preparing to numb the area. "Hard to believe. You seem to have the flirting part down to a science now."

​He paused, the needle hovering just inches from your face. His eyes searched yours, the professional mask slipping just enough to show the man underneath—the one who had been watching you across trauma bays for months, the one who was currently vibrating with a protective streak he couldn't quite hide.

​"If this nose is broken," Jack said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble, "I’m the one who gets to set it. And once I’m done being your doctor for the night..." He trailed off, his thumb grazing your cheekbone one last time before the procedure began. "I think I’d like to try being that distraction you’re looking for. Somewhere without an audience.”

Jack had the elevator tool ready—a thin, flat metal instrument designed to lift the nasal bone back into its rightful place.

​"I’ve numbed you as much as I can," Jack said, his voice dropping into a low, steady frequency. "But you know how this goes. The lidocaine won’t touch the pressure. It’s going to be one sharp movement, a hell of a lot of crunching, and then it's over."

​You gripped the edges of the exam table, your knuckles turning a ghostly white. You’d seen this done a hundred times to screaming patients, but being on the receiving end was a different beast entirely. Your breath was coming in short, jagged hitches.

​"Look at me," Jack commanded. It wasn't a request.

​You forced your eyes open, locking onto his. He wasn't looking at you like a case file anymore. He was looking at you with a fierce, quiet intensity that seemed to pin you in place. He stepped between your knees, closing the distance until his chest was inches from your own, creating a private world within the four walls of the exam room.

​"Hand," he muttered, reaching out.

​You let go of the table and placed your hand in his. His grip was immense—warm, calloused, and grounding. He squeezed, a silent promise that he wasn't going to let you drift.

​"On three," Jack whispered. "One...two..."

​He didn't wait for three. He moved on two-and-a-half, a seasoned doctor’s trick to keep the patient from tensing at the last second.

​The sound was sickening—a wet, crystalline snap-crunch that vibrated through your facial bones and echoed in your inner ear. You let out a choked, guttural sound, your body instinctively trying to recoil, but Jack was a rock. He held your head steady with one hand while his other hand crushed yours, absorbing the shock of your pain.

​For a second, the world went gray at the edges. Your eyes flooded with involuntary tears, blurring Jack’s face into a smudge of blue scrubs and dark hair.

​"Easy, easy," Jack murmured, his voice right against your ear now. He’d dropped the tool and moved both hands to your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a tenderness that felt almost illegal in a hospital. "Breathe for me. It’s back in place. You’re okay. Stay with me."

​You slumped forward, your forehead coming to rest against his shoulder. You were shaking—a delayed reaction to the trauma and the exhaustion—and you didn't even care that you were getting blood on his clean shirt. You just needed the contact.

​Jack didn't pull away. He draped his arms around you, holding you in a loose, protective embrace that shielded you from the rest of the world. He pressed his face into the side of your head, his breath warm against your hair.

​"That's it," he whispered, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the base of your skull. "Just breathe. I've got you."

​The silence that followed wasn't the awkward silence of two coworkers; it was the heavy, loaded silence of two people who had finally stopped pretending they didn't care. You could hear the steady thrum of his heart against your ear, a rhythm that was far more effective than any sedative Dana could have brought.

​After a long minute, you pulled back just an inch, looking up at him through watery, bloodshot eyes. "You cheated," you croaked, a weak, lopsided smile touching your swollen lips. "You went on two."

​Jack wiped a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb, his gaze dropping to your mouth before snapping back to your eyes. "I’m a doctor. I’m allowed to lie if it’s for your own good."

Halloween was just another night, another hollow excuse to get drunk and smoke until Steve couldn't remember his own name, let alone the weight of the expectations pressing against his chest. It was an excuse to pretend that life wasn’t eating him alive from the inside out—a chance to wear the ghost of his high school self like a costume that no longer fit. He wanted to feel normal again. But nothing had felt normal since you showed up in the middle of senior year and upended his entire gravity.

​He drank to quiet the frantic thrumming of his heart whenever you were near. He drank to forget the specific, devastating way you smiled at him—the kind of smile that made him feel seen and exposed all at once. Over the months, he had unintentionally memorized the map of you: the way you looked when you swam in his pool, the slight dip in your mid-back, the freckles that competed with the moles for space on your skin. He knew the trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of your jeans, and that one specific mole, perfectly mirrored on both sides of your neck just below the jawline, usually veiled by the dark sweep of your hair.

​Steve wasn't supposed to look at another man this way. He was supposed to still want Nancy; he was supposed to be the guy who ended up with a girl like her in a house with a white picket fence. But there was something so profound about you—something that settled deep within the marrow of his bones—that he couldn't bring himself to cut it out.

​It was you. It had always been you.

​That was why he spent the first two hours of Nancy’s party hovering by the door, eyes darting through the crowd. He was terrified you’d disappear into the basement to play Dungeons & Dragons with the younger kids, lost to a world of dice and fantasy where he couldn't follow. He wanted you here, in the light. He wanted to see the way the cheap party strobes reflected off your face, to see if you were wearing those glasses you claimed you didn't need, even though you squinted at every street sign without them.

​The heavy, rhythmic thrum of the bass vibrated through the floorboards the second you stepped into the Wheeler’s house. The air was thick with the scent of hairspray, cheap beer, and too many bodies pressed together. Girls were dressed in spandex and lace; boys were squeezed into their old Hawkins High jerseys, chasing a glory that had already faded. And there was Steve—his eyes locking onto yours instantly, as if he’d been tuning out the rest of the world just to hear your heartbeat.

​"Hey," he breathed, the word nearly lost in the music.

​You were wearing the glasses. Your hair was pushed back just enough for him to see those twin moles on your neck. Steve felt a physical ache in his chest; you looked incredible, even in your no costume—faded blue jeans that hugged you in all the right places, a gray pullover with maroon sleeves, and those beat-up white sneakers that had seen better days.

​"Hey," you replied, a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips. You reached out, your fingers ghosting over the sleeve of his beige knit sweater. "A sweater, huh? It looks good on you. Soft."

​Steve felt his pulse skyrocket. He gripped his Solo cup tight enough to crinkle the plastic. "Beer?" he blurted out, desperate for something to do with his hands.

​You nodded, that infectious warmth spreading across your face. "Beer sounds perfect."

​As he led you through the throng of sweaty bodies, Steve kept his hand slightly outstretched behind him, a silent guide. You reached out, your pinky interlocking with his for just a moment—a fleeting, electric connection that grounded him as you navigated the chaos toward the kitchen.

​The counters were a graveyard of open cans and mystery punch. You made a face at the carnage, a look of pure, cynical amusement that Steve adored. He grabbed an unopened bottle from the back of the ice bucket—the coldest one he could find—and pressed it against your arm to get your attention.

​"Thanks," you said, twisting the cap off and tossing it onto the counter.

​Steve watched you. He couldn't help it. He watched with that attentive, hungry look he saved only for you—like he was mapping every inch of your expression so he could replay it in the dark. He watched the way your throat moved as you took a long swig, your face twisting into a grimace at the bitter taste before you sighed and leaned against the fridge.

​"What?" you asked, catching him staring.

​Are you drinking to forget something, too? Steve wondered. Are you trying to drown out the same things I am?

​Instead, he shook his head and offered a lopsided, vulnerable smile. "Nothing. Just...I'm really glad you came."

​"Better than rotting in my room alone," you said, nudging his shoulder with yours. "Though a horror movie marathon would've been a lot quieter."

​Steve wouldn't have let you be alone. He would have driven to your house and sat on the edge of your bed just to hear you breathe. He’d rather be there right now—kissing every freckle on your skin while you whispered his name like a prayer—but he was here, trapped in a house full of people, drowning in the "maybe."

​The rest of the night dissolved into a neon-colored blur. Too much cheap vodka made the room vibrate; a few hits of a joint in the backyard made the music feel like it was coming from underwater. Everything was too bright, too loud, too much.

​Somehow, the party drifted away. Steve had lost track of time talking to Robin and Nancy, his eyes constantly searching for a flash of maroon sleeves that never appeared.

​When he finally headed downstairs to the quiet of the basement, the air was cooler, smelling of damp concrete and old wood. He saw you slumped against the far wall, a half-empty beer bottle dangling from your hand and a lit joint resting between your lips. The room was dark, save for a single lamp in the corner.

​"Hey," Steve called out softly.

​You took a slow, dragging hit, the cherry of the joint glowing bright in the shadows. You didn't move as he approached, your eyes glazed and distant. Steve didn't hesitate; he sat down right in front of you, his legs bracketing yours, his thighs pressing against your hips as he settled over you.

​"Hey," you whispered, the smoke curling out of your mouth and ghosting over his cheeks.

​Steve was tipsy—enough to lose his filter, but sober enough to feel the desperate ache of your proximity. "Thought you left," he mumbled. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he took the joint from you.

​He took a long drag, his eyes never leaving yours. As he exhaled, he leaned down until the tip of his nose brushed against yours. The smoke seeped into your mouth, a shared breath in the dark.

​The bottle slipped from your hand, thudding softly onto the carpet, but neither of you cared. "You're drunk, Steve," you whispered, your voice cracking. Your hands came up, resting tentatively on his hips, your thumbs sliding just an inch underneath the hem of his sweater.

​"Mm," he hummed, his face so close he could feel the heat radiating off your skin. "So are you."

​"Not drunk," you corrected him, your voice thick and honey-slow. "Somewhere else entirely."

​Steve watched your hands. He felt your fingers find the bare skin of his waist, tracing the happy trail of hair with a feather-light touch that made his entire body go taut. He wondered if you knew what you were doing. He wondered if, in the morning, you’d blame the substances for the way you were looking at his mouth right now.

​He let his own hand slide up your chest, his thumb ghosting over your jawline, hovering dangerously close to that mole on the left side of your neck.

​"You look like you're trying to find a way to get inside me," you whispered. Your breath smelled of menthol, weed, and the sharp tang of beer. It was the most intoxicating thing he’d ever sensed.

​Steve let out a shuddering breath, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "Maybe," he breathed, his voice dropping to a gravelly low. "Maybe I am."

​He let out a weak, breathless chuckle, but it died when you reached back for the joint, your eyes sharpening for a split second.

​"It’s just the alcohol talking," you muttered, tilting your head away to take another drag. The rejection, however slight, felt like a physical blow to his ribs. "Tell me the truth, Harrington...do I just look like a pretty girl to you right now? Some substitute for Nancy?"

​Steve pulled back, his heart shattering at the question. He looked at you—the sharp line of your jaw, the messy hair, the way your glasses had slipped down your nose. You weren't a substitute. You were the reason the substitute didn't work anymore.

​"No," he whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, terrifying honesty. "I—"

​But the moment snapped. You blew a plume of smoke between you and started to sit up, your movements clumsy and disjointed. "I should go," you whispered. "Everything's starting to spin, and I’m starting to think you’re even more fucked up than I am."

​Steve scrambled to his feet as you stumbled toward the stairs. "Let me drive you," he blurted out. "It’s late. You can’t walk home like this."

​You shook your head, waving a hand dismissively without looking back. "No. I need the cold. I need to clear my head."

​Steve stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching your silhouette disappear into the light of the floor above. His chest felt hollow, the silence of the basement suddenly deafening. You'd said you'd see him tomorrow, but tomorrow felt like a lifetime away.

​"Yeah," he muttered to the empty room, his hand coming up to touch the spot on his waist where your fingers had been. "Tomorrow.”

You pushed through the front door of the Wheeler house, the wood heavy and solid against your palms. The porch was a mess of discarded cups and lingering smokers, and you nearly collided with a tall, slender figure leaning against the railing.

​"Whoa, easy there, Tiger," Robin’s voice cut through the ringing in your ears. She caught your shoulder to steady you, her brow furrowed with that familiar, frantic concern she usually reserved for Steve. "You look like you’ve been through a blender. You okay?"

​You couldn't find the words, so you just offered her a lopsided, dreamy smile—the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes because they were too busy trying to focus on the porch light. You gave a clumsy wave and practically tumbled down the front steps, your sneakers hitting the concrete with a dull thud.

​Standing on the sidewalk, you tilted your head back. You stayed like that for a long minute, letting the crisp, biting October wind wash over your skin and fill your lungs. It felt like drinking ice water after a desert trek. The sweat on your neck from the crowded party turned into a cold film, shivering through you, but you welcomed it. It made you feel real again.

​You began to trek down the street, your legs feeling like leaden weights. In the distance, the flickering orange glow of jack-o'-lanterns lined the driveways. You noticed a few straggling groups of kids—little ghosts and plastic-masked monsters—sprinting toward the last few houses that still had their porch lights on, their plastic pails rattling with the weight of cheap chocolate.

​Behind them, a man stood in the shadows of a large oak tree. In your intoxicated state, his face was a blur of gray and shadow, impossible to pin down. You watched him through half-lidded eyes as the children turned a corner, their high-pitched giggles fading into the night. The man didn't follow them. He just stopped. He stood perfectly still on the edge of the curb, looking left and then right with a mechanical, eerie precision, as if he were waiting for a phantom car to pass. When the street remained empty, he stepped back into the rhythm of the sidewalk, disappearing into the darkness of the next block.

​A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold raced down your spine. You huffed, a puff of white vapor escaping your lips, and reached into your back pocket. Your fingers fumbled with the crinkle of the pack, finally snagging a menthol.

​The clink-scuff of your Zippo was the loudest thing in the world. You sucked the flame into the tobacco, the first hit of menthol cooling your throat and grounding you. As you walked, the smoke swirled around your head like a shroud.

​Your mind, traitorous and stubborn, flickered back to the basement. Back to the weight of Steve Harrington straddling your waist. You could still feel the phantom heat of his thighs pressing against yours, the way his beige sweater felt like a soft cloud under your fingertips. You remembered the way his breath—hot and smelling of hops—had mingled with yours when he leaned in.

​What does he taste like? The thought hit you with the force of a physical punch. You imagined the salt of his skin, the bitterness of the beer, the sweetness of something uniquely Steve underneath it all.

​What does he sound like when he isn't trying to be perfect? You wondered if his voice got even lower, even raspier, if he were pressed against your ear in the dark of a bedroom instead of a crowded party. You wondered if he made the same desperate, quiet noises you did when your head was spinning.

​You blew out a long, thick plume of smoke, watching it dissipate into the moonlight. You shook your head violently, trying to rattle the thoughts out of your skull, trying to forget the way his thumb had nearly brushed that mole on your neck—the one he’d clearly been staring at all night.

​"Get it together," you muttered to the empty street, your voice sounding foreign and tiny in the vastness of the night.

​But as you turned the corner toward home, the ghost of his hand stayed with you, resting aginst the chest of your shirt, burning hotter than the October wind could ever chill.

The further you walked, the more the festive glow of the neighborhood began to bleed out, the jack-o'-lanterns on the porches flickering into guttering, charred husks. The orange light that had felt warm an hour ago now felt sickly, casting long, skeletal shadows of oak branches across the cracked pavement.

​The silence of Hawkins at 2:00 AM was usually a comfort—a blank slate—but tonight, it felt heavy. It felt like a physical weight pressing against the back of your neck. You weren’t the paranoid type; you’d done this walk a hundred times, and neither the cheap beer nor the weed had ever turned the world into a horror movie before. Yet, you couldn't shake the prickling sensation that the darkness between the streetlamps was reaching out for you.

​It’s just the wind, you told yourself, taking a long, dragging pull of your menthol. It’s the comedown. You’re just coming down.

​You focused on the rhythm of your own breathing, the way the smoke curled around your glasses, and the lingering, ghostly warmth of Steve’s body against yours. You tried to summon his face to drown out the dark—the way he looked when he was truly looking at you, stripped of the usual bravado. But the memory was slippery, sliding away every time you heard the rustle of dead leaves behind you.

​You reached a desolate stretch of sidewalk, a little less than a mile from the safety of your front door. The streetlamps here were spaced too far apart, leaving yawning gaps of pitch-black territory in between.

​Then, you heard it.

​Scuff. Click.

​It was the distinct sound of a boot hitting the pavement. Not your sneakers.

​Your breath caught, a jagged shard of ice lodging itself in your throat. You didn't stop—stopping was for victims—but your body stuttered, your stride losing its fluid rhythm. You tightened your grip on the Zippo in your pocket, the cold metal biting into your palm.

​It’s an echo, you reasoned, your heart hammering a frantic, uneven beat against your ribs. Old houses. Wind in the gutters. Just an echo.

​To prove it, you sped up. Your heart rate surged, the adrenaline finally winning the war against the alcohol. You took three long, hurried strides.

​Step. Step. Step.

​From the darkness behind you, the response was immediate.

​Step. Step. Step.

​They matched you perfectly. The pace, the weight, the intent.

​The cigarette dropped from your lips, sparks dancing briefly on the concrete before dying. You spun around, your heels skidding, eyes darting wildly through the gloom. You expected a silhouette, a monster, someone from the party—anything but the void that greeted you. There was nothing. Just the faint, sickly yellowish glow of a porch light you’d passed fifty yards back, looking like a dying star in the distance. The street was a vacuum of silence.

​"Fuck," you wheezed, the word trembling as it left your lungs. "I'm losing it. I am actually losing my goddamn mind."

​You let out a wet, breathless laugh that sounded more like a sob. You rubbed your face, pushing your glasses up your nose, trying to ground yourself. You were just high. You were just tired. You were just thinking too much about Steve Harrington and not enough about your own surroundings.

​You shook your head, turning back around to finish the final stretch home—and slammed hard into a solid, unyielding surface.

​The air left your lungs in a violent huff. It wasn't a wall. It was too warm for a wall. It was the broad, firm expanse of a chest clad in denim and the faint, metallic scent of something that didn't belong in a suburban neighborhood.

​A hand, cold as the October frost, reached out and gripped your shoulder with a strength that felt like a vice.

​"Going somewhere?" a voice rasped. It wasn't Steve’s. It was low, textured like sandpaper, and devoid of any warmth.

The air in your lungs turned to jagged glass. You were paralyzed, your nervous system misfiring as your brain screamed run, run, run, but your sneakers felt like they were fused to the cracked pavement. The man didn't move with the frantic energy of the partygoers you’d just left; he moved with a terrifying, rhythmic patience.

​As his hand drifted toward your face—fingers splayed like a pale spider—the spell finally snapped. You lurched backward, your heels catching on a raised lip of concrete. You flailed, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, and turned to bolt.

​You didn't even get two steps.

​A hand like a steel shackle clamped onto your bicep, and with a sickeningly effortless jerk, you were yanked backward. Your spine collided with his chest—cold, hard, and smelling of old copper and rainwater. You thrashed, elbows swinging wildly, but he wrapped a heavy arm across your throat, pinning you against him.

​"Shh," he murmured, his breath ghosting against your ear. It wasn't the voice of a madman screaming in the dark; it was calm, almost academic. "Stop wasting that energy. You’re going to need it."

​You tried to shout for help, but his palm clapped over your mouth, tasting of salt and grit. You let out a muffled, choked sob, your vision blurring behind your glasses.

​"You're like the others, yet...not," he mused, his voice vibrating through your back. "The boy from the driveway, the girls in the lace...they were hollow. They broke before the first cut. But you? You have this burn in you. I watched you walk a mile in the dark just to feel the cold. What is it that keeps you upright? Is it the boy in the beige sweater? Or the little ones with their plastic swords and dice?"

​The mention of the kids—of Steve—sent a surge of pure, primal adrenaline through you. With a guttural snarl of effort, you drove your elbow back, catching him square in the ribs.

​He let out a sharp, wet hiss, his grip slackening just enough for you to wrench yourself free. You scrambled away, your foot catching on a crack in the sidewalk. You went down on one knee, skinning it bloody, but you didn't stop. You forced yourself up, your lungs burning, and sprinted toward the light of the next streetlamp.

​He was faster.

​You heard the heavy, rhythmic strike of his boots—thud, thud, thud—and then the world tilted. He tackled you from behind, the impact driving the wind out of your chest as you slammed face-first into the cold, unforgiving sidewalk. Before you could roll over, he was on top of you, his knees pinning your thighs, his weight crushing the life out of you.

​He seized both of your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head against the concrete. With his free hand, he reached into his jacket.

​The sound was unmistakable: the rhythmic snick of a folding blade locking into place.

​The steel glinted under the distant, dying porch light. He didn't stab; he explored. He pressed the flat of the blade to the sensitive skin of your throat, dragging it slowly down the center of your chest, over the fabric of your pullover like it was nothing more than water. Finally, he came to a stop, pressing the cold sharp tip into your side.

​"Please," you sobbed, the word breaking into a thousand jagged pieces. "Please, don't do this. Just let me go. I won't say anything, I swear—"

​"Don't lie," he whispered, leaning down until his face was inches from yours. His eyes were flat, twin voids that reflected nothing. "It doesn't have to be a tragedy. I have faith in you. I’ve spent so long looking for someone who wouldn't just...go out like a candle. I think you're the one who survives the dark."

​Faith? The word felt like a mockery. You didn't know this man, but he talked as if he had authored your entire life.

​As he continued to trail the tip of the knife in slow, agonizing circles over your ribs, you felt a flicker of stubbornness ignite in your gut. You waited for the exact moment his weight shifted, and then you drove your knee upward with every ounce of strength you had left.

​It hit home. He groaned, a sound of genuine pain, but he didn't tumble away like before. Instead, his hand clenched.

​A white-hot flash of pain bloomed in your side, so intense it turned your vision to sparks. It wasn't a sting; it was a deep, invasive heat that made your breath hitch in a silent, open-mouthed gasp. You felt a sudden, heavy wetness soak into your shirt, spreading rapidly across your skin.

​He pulled the knife back, the blade now dark and slick in the moonlight. He looked down at the wound with a terrifying sort of reverence, while the world around you began to tilt and fade at the edges.

The metallic tang of blood was thick in your mouth, mixing with the fading mint of the cigarette. The world was tilting, the streetlamps stretching into long, distorted smears of light. He stepped back, his shadow looming over you as he tilted his head with a slow, predatory curiosity, watching you bleed out onto the concrete.

​You tried to crawl. Your fingers scraped against the rough surface, nails catching in the cracks as you dragged your heavy, protesting body a few measly inches. Your glasses slid down the bridge of your nose, clicking softly as they hit the sidewalk. Without them, the world became a terrifying watercolor of grays and blacks.

​"Get up," he growled. The calm, academic tone was gone, replaced by a low, jagged hunger.

​You let out a pained, wet cry, your hand clamped over the wound in your side. Every breath felt like a serrated blade moving in your chest. You forced yourself up, your knees shaking so violently you thought they’d snap. You staggered to your feet, the cold wind biting into the open gash. This was a game—a sick, twisted marathon where he was the only one who knew the finish line.

​You began to stumble away, one hand trailing along a picket fence for support. Behind you, the silence was punctuated by a sharp, crystalline crunch. He had stepped on your glasses, grinding the lenses into the pavement beneath his boot. The sound felt like it was happening inside your own skull.

​"That’s it," he taunted, his voice drifting closer, rhythmic and steady. "Keep moving. Show me that fire. Show me why you're worth the effort."

​He caught up to you with terrifying ease and shoved. It wasn't a strike; it was a dismissive push that sent you spiraling. Your knees hit the sidewalk with a sickening crack, the impact sending jolts of white-hot agony through your injured side. You gasped, face pressed against the cold stone, tasting dust and iron.

​Steve. The name was a mantra now. You pictured him in that beige sweater, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the way he’d looked at you in the basement. You couldn't die here, not on this desolate strip of concrete, not while he was still waiting for tomorrow.

​You forced yourself up again, your breath coming in ragged, sobbing hitches. He laughed—a dry, hollow sound. "You're doing so much better than the others. They usually stop screaming by now. They usually just...give up."

​He shoved you again, and this time you tumbled into the grass bordering the sidewalk. Your hand brushed against something cold and heavy—a jagged landscaping rock, half-buried in the dirt. Your fingers curled around it, the grit pressing into your palm.

​When you stood this time, you didn't try to run. You spun around with a guttural, primal scream of rage, swinging the rock with every ounce of fading strength. It connected with the side of his head with a dull thud.

​He stumbled, his hand going to his temple, but then he began to chuckle. It was a low, terrifying sound that made your blood run colder than the October air. He looked at you, a trickle of dark fluid running down his cheek, and his eyes went pitch black.

​"My turn," he whispered.

​Before you could swing again, his hand was a vice around your throat. He lifted you nearly off the ground, pinning you against a nearby tree. You clawed at his wrist, your nails drawing lines of red, and kicked desperately at his shins, but you were fighting a ghost.

​"I had such high hopes for you," he hissed.

​The first strike to your shoulder was a shock—a cold, invasive pressure that numbed your arm instantly. The second, driven deep into your abdomen, was the one that broke you. The heat was gone now, replaced by a hollow, radiating cold.

​Your legs gave out. You didn't feel yourself hit the ground this time. You only felt the sensation of being moved—the brutal, rhythmic jarring of your body being dragged. You felt the rough, skin-shredding scrape of concrete, then the damp, forgiving touch of soft grass. Then the smell of wet earth and mud rose up to meet you.

​You tried to whisper his name one last time, but your lungs wouldn't cooperate. The last thing you saw was the swaying canopy of trees against a starless sky before the darkness finally rushed in to claim the rest.

Steve’s reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror was a roadmap of a night he wished he could erase. His skin was pale, eyes rimmed with the telltale redness of cheap weed and even cheaper beer. He let out a low, rattling groan, his fingers white-knuckled as they gripped the porcelain edge of the sink.

​Cold water beaded on his hairline, dripping down his nose from where he’d splashed his face moments ago in a desperate attempt to shock his system into reality. The hangover was there—a dull, rhythmic thudding behind his temples—but it was tolerable. Honestly, he wished it was worse. He wished it was a localized hurricane in his skull, something violent enough to scrub the memory of the basement clean. He wanted to forget the way his thighs had felt bracketed over yours, the way he’d looked at you with a desperation that surely must have been written in neon across his face.

​God, Harrington. Get a grip, he thought, his chest aching with a phantom weight.

​He stayed there for a long beat, his head hanging low between his shoulders, before reaching for a frayed towel to pat his face dry. The house was too quiet, the kind of silence that made the hum of the refrigerator sound like a scream.

​He moved downstairs, his footsteps heavy on the carpeted stairs. Habits died hard; he flicked the television on to the morning news for background noise, though the bright colors of the broadcast made his eyes ache. He didn't look at the screen as he navigated the living room, heading straight for the kitchen. His movements were mechanical as he reached into the cabinet for the bottle of extra-strength painkillers he kept for mornings just like this.

​As the water filled his glass, his mind drifted back to the top of the Wheeler’s basement stairs. He could still see the way you’d stumbled, the way the light had caught your glasses. He shouldn’t have let you leave. The cool guy persona—the one that told him to play it safe and let you have your space—felt like a death sentence now. He’d rather you spent the next month hating him for forcing a ride on you than have to sit here wondering if you made it home through the cold.

​"Stupid," he muttered, swallowing the pills with a sharp gulp of water. "So damn stupid."

​With a heavy sigh, he retreated to the living room, the glass cold in his hand. He stood directly in front of the television, planning to switch it off and call your house—to apologize, to check in, to hear your voice—but his thumb froze over the power button.

​The news anchor’s voice, previously just a drone of static in his mind, suddenly sharpened. The "Breaking News" banner at the bottom of the screen was a jarring, violent red.

​"...police have cordoned off a three-block radius in the leafier suburbs of Hawkins this morning," the reporter was saying, her voice strained against the wind. Behind her, blue and red lights strobed against the gray morning sky, reflecting off the very same sidewalk Steve had watched you walk toward last night. "Authorities are calling it a 'disturbing discovery' after a local resident found signs of a violent struggle on the pavement earlier today."

​Steve’s heart didn't just race; it stopped. The glass of water slipped an inch in his grip. On the screen, the camera panned down to the concrete.

​There, lying in the middle of a dark, dried smear that could only be blood, was a pair of glasses. The frames were twisted, one lens shattered into a web of crystalline shards.

​Steve didn't breathe. He knew those glasses. He knew the way they sat on the bridge of your nose when you were squinting at the world.

The handheld camera on the screen jerked, the frame skipping as the cameraman zoomed in on a shallow, mud-slicked ditch just feet from the pavement.

​A piece of Steve Harrington didn't just break; it died. It stayed back in that wood-paneled basement, trapped in the memory of a dingy basement and a half-smoked joint.

​The camera caught it for less than a second—a flash of a maroon sleeve, the pale, waxen curve of a neck, and that unmistakable twin-set of moles.

​The glass of water didn't fall; it slipped, shattering against the hardwood in a spray of diamonds that Steve didn't even hear. His lungs suddenly felt like they had been filled with concrete. He tried to draw a breath, but the air hitched in his throat, coming out in a high, thin whistle. His vision began to tunnel, the edges of the room fraying into static.

​No. No, no, no.

​His knees hit the floor with a bone-jarring thud. He didn't feel the impact. He only felt the crushing weight of the oxygen refusing to enter his body. His hands flew to his chest, clawing at the fabric of his shirt as if he could tear a hole straight to his lungs. He was drowning on dry land. His heart wasn't beating anymore; it was a trapped bird slamming against his ribs, frantic and dying.

​On the screen, the chaos continued. Officers moved in, their palms out to block the lens, but the camera snuck one last, shaky glimpse of a hand resting in the dirt—fingers curled as if reaching for something that wasn't there.

​Steve thought of your mother. Would she even realize you were gone yet? Would she care, or would she just see another tragedy in a town full of them? The thought made a jagged, hysterical sob rip from his throat. He cared. He cared enough that the guilt was currently stripping the skin from his soul. He should have fought you. He should have thrown you over his shoulder and locked the car doors. You should be tangled in your sheets right now, safe and warm, not cooling in the dirt of a ditch.

​The nausea hit him like a physical blow. He scrambled to his feet, stumbling toward the kitchen, his coordination gone. He barely reached the sink before his stomach revolted, throwing up the water and the pills in a violent, racking heave. He slumped against the counter, his forehead pressed to the cold stainless steel, sobbing so hard he thought his ribs might snap.

​The keys were a cold weight in his hand. He didn't remember walking to the car. He didn't remember the drive. He only remembered the blur of autumn leaves and the screech of tires as he pulled up to the police line.

​The strobe of the blue and red lights was blinding. The smell of damp earth and ozone hung heavy in the air. Steve shoved his way out of the car, his legs moving on instinct, his eyes fixed on the black body bag the coroners were beginning to zip shut.

​"Hey! Kid! Back off!" a voice barked.

​A heavy hand slammed into Steve’s chest, halting his momentum. It was Hopper. The Chief’s face was a mask of grim professionality, but his eyes softened for a fraction of a second when he saw the hollowed-out wreck of a man standing in front of him.

​"Steve," Hopper said, his voice unusually quiet. "You can't be here. Get back behind the line."

​Steve didn't look at him. He couldn't take his eyes off the shape under the heavy plastic. His hands were shaking so hard he had to tuck them into his armpits.

​"I have to take him home, Hop," Steve whispered. His voice was a ruined thing, thin and trembling. "He...he said he'd see me tomorrow. It’s tomorrow now."

​"Steve, listen to me—"

​"Please," Steve broke, a fresh wave of tears blurring the world into a smear of emergency lights. He reached out, his fingers brushing the sleeve of Hopper’s uniform, his voice cracking into a raw, desperate plea. "Please, just let me take him home. He shouldn't be in a bag. He hates the dark. He’s gonna be so cold. Just let me...let me take him home. I'll fix it. I'll fix it."

​He collapsed against the Chief's chest then, his fingers bunching into the fabric of the tan uniform as he wailed—a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that silenced the hum of the police radios and the chatter of the onlookers.

​The tomorrow he had promised was here, and it was a graveyard.

The days following the police tape and the sirens were a hollow, gray static. Time didn’t move in a straight line for Steve anymore; it looped and stuttered, a broken film reel of grief.

​He didn't remember the drive to your house, or how he ended up in your kitchen, but he remembered the weight of your mother. She had collapsed into him the moment he stepped through the door, her fingers digging into the wool of his sweater as she wailed into his shoulder. Steve had stood there, a pillar of salt, trying to hold back the violent sobs racking his own chest so he could be the strength she didn't have. He remembered the smell of the house—stale coffee and the lingering, ghostly scent of your menthol cigarettes—and the way he’d eventually let it slip, mid-sob, that he was in love with you. He’d said it like a confession, like a prayer, and she had only gripped him tighter.

​He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he woke up in your bed. He was curled around your pillow, his face buried in the fabric that still smelled like your shampoo and that faint, sharp trace of mint. He stayed there for hours, staring at the dust motes dancing in the light, surrounded by your posters and your unwashed laundry, feeling like a trespasser in a sanctuary.

​Then came the funeral. Steve wanted to forget the funeral with a desperation that bordered on physical pain.

​He wanted to forget the afternoon spent sitting on your bedroom floor with your mother, sifting through shoeboxes of old photographs. He wanted to forget the way his heart had stuttered seeing a picture of you from eighth grade, grinning with a missing tooth, or the one of you at the pool where he’d first started counting your moles.

​He wanted to forget the cold.

​When he had gone to the funeral home to help your mother dress you, the air in the basement room had been clinical and freezing. He’d picked out your suit—the one you complained was too tight in the shoulders—and he had insisted on being the one to straighten the lapels. When the funeral director finally stepped away, Steve had leaned down, his eyes burning, and pressed a final, lingering kiss to your forehead. Your skin hadn't felt like skin; it felt like marble, a terrifying, unyielding cold that had seeped into his very bones and never truly left.

​The service itself was a blur of black umbrellas and the wet thud of dirt against wood. Steve stood by the grave, flanked by your mother and the kids. Nancy was vibrating with silent sobs; Robin was holding Steve’s hand so hard her knuckles were white. Steve didn't care about anything anymore. He didn't care that half of Hawkins was watching him fall apart. He broke down, his knees hitting the grass, his voice a raw, jagged ruin as he gasped for air that you would never breathe again.

​He tried to drink. He sat in his dark living room with a bottle of bourbon, begging for the blackout to take the memories away. But the alcohol didn't work like it used to. It didn't wash away the curve of your smile or the way you looked through your glasses. Every swallow only made the images sharper, the guilt heavier.

​Deep down, in the quiet, dark corners of his soul, Steve realized he didn't want to forget. To forget the pain would be to forget you, and he couldn't do that. He would carry the weight of you, the cold of your forehead, and the scent of your pillow until it buried him, too. Because as long as he was hurting, you were still real. As long as he was crying, you weren't just a ghost in a ditch.

​You were his. And he was never letting go.

Halloween of 1988 didn't arrive with a bang; it arrived with the same suffocating, gray silence that had defined every morning since the dirt first hit your casket. For Steve, the holiday had lost its teeth. The monsters were no longer under the bed or behind masks—they were the ghosts of the things he hadn't said and the steps he hadn't taken.

​He sat on his couch, the fabric smelling of old upholstery and the faint, lingering scent of the cologne he wore because you once told him it was tolerable. The living room was a graveyard of its own, littered with empty beer bottles that caught the flickering, blue light of the television. Some low-budget slasher film was droning on, a scream piercing the air every few minutes, but Steve didn't blink. Real horror didn't have a soundtrack.

​In his hand, he held the photograph your mother had pressed into his palm before she fled Hawkins. It was a candid shot—you were mid-laugh, your glasses slightly crooked, the sun catching those twin moles on your neck. “Too many bad memories,” she had whispered, her eyes hollowed out by a year of sleepless nights. Steve didn’t blame her. Your murder had gone from a front-page tragedy to a dusty file in a cabinet at the station—a cold case that the rest of the world was happy to forget. But Steve was the keeper of the flame. He was the only one left who remembered the exact shade of your eyes when you were high.

​With a heavy, rattling breath, Steve pushed himself off the couch. The bottles clattered together like wind chimes as he gathered them in his arms, dumping them into the trash with a final, glass-on-glass ring. He grabbed his keys and the fresh bundle of carnations he’d bought that morning—bright, cheerful things that looked garish against the gloom of his house.

​The drive to the cemetery was a path he could have navigated blindfolded. The graveyard was a sea of weathered stone and iron wrought-fences, most of the residents long forgotten by the living. But your plot was different. Your plot was tended to.

​He stopped in front of the headstone, the granite cold even in the fading light. He set the new flowers down, brushing away the skeletal, brown remains of the last bundle. Then, as he did every single evening, Steve lowered himself onto the grass. He laid down on his side, his shoulder resting against the earth that separated him from you, and stared up at the darkening October sky.

​"Hey," he whispered, his voice cracking in the quiet. "Happy Halloween. Or whatever."

​He took a breath, closing his eyes and imagining you were lying right there next to him, shoulder to shoulder. "Life’s...it’s weird, man. You’re never gonna believe this, but Robin? She finally did it. She’s got a girlfriend. And get this—it’s Nancy. Yeah, that Nancy. They’re actually happy. I think they’re good for each other, even if it makes the Saturday night hangs a little crowded."

​He let out a small, hollowing chuckle. "I’m still at the radio station. My boss thinks I’m obsessed with the '84 charts, but I just...I keep slipping 'When Doves Cry' into the late-night slot. I tell them it’s a classic, but I really just want to hear it and pretend you’re sitting in the passenger seat of the Beamer, complaining about my taste in music. I hope you can hear it. I hope wherever you are, the reception is better than it is in Hawkins."

​The humor faded then, replaced by the familiar, crushing weight in his chest. He reached out, his fingers tracing the carved letters of your name in the stone.

​"I love you," he choked out, the words thick with a year's worth of unshed tears. "I love you more than I ever got to tell you when you could actually hear me. And I’m so sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry I let you walk away. I stay awake at night just...replaying those stairs. If I’d just grabbed your hand. If I’d just been a little more selfish and told you to stay. You’d be here. We’d be at some stupid party right now, and I’d be watching you squint through those glasses."

​He curled his body closer to the grave, his forehead resting against the cool stone. "It’s my fault. It’ll always be my fault. I was supposed to be the one who looked out for people, and I failed the only person who actually mattered."

​He stayed there until the moon was high and the grass was slick with frost, talking to the silence, waiting for a tomorrow that would never come.

Steve stood up from the damp grass, his joints popping with a stiff, hollow sound. He didn’t look back at the headstone; if he did, he wouldn’t be able to leave. He walked back to the Beamer, the gravel crunching under his boots like breaking bone. He sat in the driver's seat for a long time, the engine cold, staring at the dashboard until the moonlight shifted. Eventually, he turned the key. The roar of the engine felt offensive in the silence of the dead. He drove aimlessly through the winding backroads of Hawkins, the heater blasting but doing nothing to thaw the ice in his chest, until he finally pulled into his own driveway.

​Inside, the house was a tomb. He stripped off his clothes in the bathroom, leaving them in a heap on the tile, and stepped into the shower. He turned the handle until the water was scalding, the steam billowing up to choke the room. He sat on the floor of the tub, knees pulled to his chest, letting the near-boiling spray redden his skin. He wanted to feel something—anything—other than the phantom touch of cold marble.

​Six miles away, beneath the frost-nipped earth, the silence broke.

​A sharp, jagged intake of breath hissed through the coffin, a sound like tearing silk. Your body jerked, your spine arching so violently it hit the satin lining of the lid with a dull thud. Your lungs were screaming, a burning vacuum of agony as they tried to pull oxygen from a space that had none.

​Panic, raw and animalistic, took over. You clawed at the wood above you, your fingernails splintering and tearing as you shrieked into the darkness. The wood groaned, weakened by a year of rot and the weight of the earth, and then it gave way.

​It wasn't air that greeted you. It was a suffocating, heavy deluge of dirt.

​It filled your mouth, gritting against your teeth, clogging your throat as you thrashed. You were being buried alive all over again. You dug, your fingers raw and bleeding, dirt shoving its way under your nails and staining the pristine suit Steve had picked out for you. Your movements were frantic, a desperate, swimming motion through the crushing weight of the soil.

​Then, your hand broke the surface.

​The air was cold, wet, and beautiful. You hauled yourself upward, your head breaking through the mud like a drowning man reaching the surface of the ocean. You gasped, a wet, rattling sound that was drowned out by a sudden, violent boom of thunder. Rain began to pour, washing the filth from your face in icy streaks.

​With a final, guttural cry of effort, you dragged your body completely from the hole. Your hand clamped down on something soft—the fresh carnations Steve had left hours ago. You crushed them in your fist, the petals bruising as you collapsed onto the damp grass beside the open wound in the earth.

​Your chest heaved, the oxygen burning like fire in your throat, but the relief was short-lived. A sudden, oily heat rose from your stomach. You rolled onto your hands and knees, your body convulsing.

​You didn't vomit the beer or the food from a year ago. What came out was a thick, ink-black liquid—viscous and shimmering with an unnatural, iridescent sheen. It poured from you, staining the grass and the white carnations, a foul-smelling bile that felt like it was purging every ounce of death from your system.

​You stayed there, trembling, the rain soaking through your suit and plastering your hair to your forehead. Your vision, once blurry and dark, snapped into a terrifying, sharp focus.

​"Fuck," you gasped, the word scratching your throat like sandpaper.

​Your eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowed by iris. You looked down at your hands—pale, scarred, but pulsing with a heavy, rhythmic heat. You weren't a ghost, and you weren't a corpse. You were something else entirely. And all you could think about, through the haze of the black bile and the rain, was the smell of the beige sweater that had been pressed against your face in a basement an eternity ago.

Every movement was an exercise in agony, a chorus of wet snaps and grinding porcelain as your joints, stiff from a year of stillness, forced themselves back into the rhythm of the living.

​You stood over your own empty grave for a breathless second, your fingers clumsy and numb as they fumbled with the knot of the tie Steve had picked out for you. The silk felt like a noose. You ripped it free, casting it into the mud alongside the heavy wool of the suit jacket. Your chest heaved, the buttons of your white dress shirt popping and pinging off into the darkness as you bared your skin to the moonlight.

​You looked down, and your stomach turned.

​There, stark and silver against your pale skin, were the jagged scars where the blade had found you. But worse was the straight, clinical line running from the base of your throat down toward your abdomen—the grim tally of an autopsy you weren't supposed to remember. Yet, beneath the trauma, the map of you remained. The same moles Steve had memorized, the same scatter of freckles, the same dark trail of hair. You looked like yourself, but you felt like a hollowed-out shell filled with woodsmoke and shadows.

​You started to walk.

​Your feet moved with a heavy, rhythmic autonomy, dragging you out of the wrought-iron gates of the cemetery and onto the asphalt. You didn't consciously choose a direction, but as the suburban houses of Hawkins began to thicken around you, the scenery became terrifyingly familiar.

​You stopped. You were standing on the exact stretch of sidewalk where the world had gone dark. Under the harsh, buzzing glow of a streetlamp, you could still see it—a faint, brownish stain in the grain of the concrete that the rain hadn't been able to wash away. Your blood.

​A phantom ache throbbed in your side. For a moment, you turned toward the direction of your mother’s house, your body seeking the comfort of your own bed. But a sharp, magnetic pull in your gut jerked you back. Your mind was a kaleidoscope of that final night: the heat of the Wheeler’s basement, the smell of Steve’s sweater, and the way his eyes had looked—blown wide and terrified—as you walked up those stairs and out of his life.

​You didn't go home. You turned toward the woods, toward the sprawling, lonely estate where the Harrington house sat like a fortress.

​As you walked, the reality of the date began to sink in. You passed houses draped in fake cobwebs and glowing orange lights. You saw a group of kids—a tiny Dracula and a cardboard robot—sprinting across a lawn, their laughter echoing in the damp air. They didn't see you; you were just a shadow among shadows, a man in a ruined dress shirt drenched in grave-dirt and rain.

​"This isn't happening," you rasped, your voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over pavement. "I'm dead. I’m supposed to stay dead."

​The words felt wrong in the air, like a lie told to a ghost. You weren't supposed to be able to feel the wind. You weren't supposed to feel the desperate, localized heat in your chest that flared every time you thought of Steve.

​You reached the edge of his property, the long driveway stretching out like a challenge. The house was mostly dark, save for a single light flickering in an upstairs window—the bathroom.

​You didn't knock. You didn't ring the bell. You just stood at the edge of the woods, your hands trembling, staring at the house of the man who had spent a year loving a corpse. You looked down at your hands, still stained with the ink-black bile you’d retched up, and a single, terrifying thought clawed its way to the surface of your mind.

​What is he going to see when he looks at me?

Steve stepped out of the shower, his skin scrubbed raw and red from the heat. He moved through his routine like a ghost haunting his own life—towel-drying his hair until it was a chaotic mess, pulling on a pair of gray sweatpants and a thin, faded Hawkins High t-shirt that had seen better days. Every movement was heavy, burdened by the anniversary that sat like lead in his stomach.

​He headed downstairs, his bare feet silent on the wood. He needed water. He needed to quench the dry, scratching thirst that always came after a night of drinking and a morning of mourning. But as he reached the bottom step, the air in the living room felt...different.

​The house was cold. A draft he couldn’t account for drifted through the hallway, smelling of wet earth and the sharp, ozone tang of the storm. Steve froze. He stopped directly in front of the television, the same spot where he’d stood exactly a year ago, watching the news report that had ended his life. The screen was black now, reflecting nothing but his own hollowed-out expression, but the sense of wrongness was a physical weight against his chest.

​Then, there was a sound.

​It wasn't the heavy, authoritative knock of a police officer or the frantic pounding of a panicked teen. It was a soft, hesitant rap against the wood of the front door. Three distinct, quiet taps.

​Steve didn't move for a heartbeat. He thought he was finally losing it. He thought the grief had finally cracked his skull open and let the hallucinations in. But his feet moved anyway, drawn by a magnetic pull he didn't understand. He reached the door, his hand trembling as it hovered over the brass knob. He twisted it, the hinges letting out a low, mournful groan.

​The door swung inward.

​You stood there on the porch, a specter framed by the thrashing rain and the jagged flashes of lightning. You were drenched, your white shirt translucent against your skin, dirt still caked in the creases of your elbows and under your broken fingernails.

​Steve didn't scream. He didn't even breathe. He just stared, his mouth falling open, his eyes blown wide with a terror that was rapidly being overtaken by a frantic, starving hope. He began to map you—the same way he had mapped you at the party, only now he was searching for the impossible.

​His gaze dropped to the jagged, silver scars on your chest, then to the dark, clinical line of the autopsy stitch that shouldn't be there. His breath hitched, a jagged, broken sound, as his eyes climbed back up to your throat. He looked for them—the twin moles, identical on both sides of your neck, just below the jawline.

​There they were. Dark and familiar against the pale, rain-slicked skin.

​"Steve," you rasped, the name sounding like it had been dragged through miles of gravel.

​His hand reached out, hovering inches from your face, his fingers shaking so violently he looked like he might vibrate apart. He was terrified that if he touched you, you’d dissolve into smoke and mud. He was searching your eyes, looking for the boy who had smiled at him in the basement, trying to reconcile the warmth of his memories with the cold reality of the man standing on his porch in a ruined burial suit.

​"You're dead," he whispered, the words more a sob than a statement. "I saw...I saw them put you in the ground. I kissed you goodbye. You were so cold."

​You took a step forward, crossing the threshold into the warmth of the doorway. The smell of the grave followed you—wet dirt, decay, and that strange, metallic scent of the black ink.

​"I know," you whispered back, your voice trembling. "I was. I think I still am.”

The silence in the hallway was thick, suffocating, and broken only by the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of rainwater onto Steve’s polished hardwood floors. The heat from the house rolled over you in waves, clashing with the tomb-deep chill of your skin, making you feel like you were beginning to thaw and break apart all at once.

​Steve’s hand finally bridged the gap. His fingers were trembling so violently they looked blurred, but when they finally made contact with your cheek, the impact was earth-shattering.

​He didn't pull away. He didn't scream. He let out a sound that was half-sob, half-chuckle—a broken, hysterical noise that vibrated in the small space between you. His palm was hot, searingly so, against your face. To him, you felt like a winter morning; to you, he felt like a sun he hadn't seen in a lifetime.

​"You're cold," he whispered, his thumb catching a smear of graveyard mud on your cheekbone and wiping it away with a reverence that hurt more than the knife ever had. "You’re so cold, but you’re...you’re here. You’re actually here."

​You leaned into his touch, your body trembling with a sudden, violent exhaustion that made your knees buckle. Steve caught you instantly, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling your rain-drenched frame flush against his warm chest. The contrast was staggering—the life in him fighting against the lingering shadow of the grave in you.

​"Yeah," you rasped, your voice cracking as you finally let your eyes close. "Yeah, I'm here, Steve."

​Steve let out a shaky breath, a ragged sound of pure, unadulterated relief. He shifted his grip, one hand moving to the back of your head, holding you as if you were the most fragile thing in the world. He didn't care about the mud staining his shirt or the water soaking into his skin. He only cared about the steady, impossible weight of you in his arms.

​Gently, he tilted his head down. He lingered for a moment, his breath warm against your skin, before he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead. It was the same spot he had kissed in that freezing funeral home, but this time, the skin moved beneath his lips. This time, there was a pulse—faint, slow, and strange—but it was there.

It wasn't about the white-hot flare of pain with every ragged, shallow breath. It wasn't about the lingering heat of the infection, or the ghosts of Grace and Gideon. In the silence of the car, those names felt like static. It wasn't about the mission or the world ending—again.

​It was about you.

​It was only ever about getting back up, one agonizing movement at a time, and finding the strength to go home. He just wanted to walk through that stupid blue door and see your face—to see the way your brow furrowed in that specific, doctor-like concentration when you were worried.

​Leon didn't care about the inevitable lecture. He knew you’d treat him like a child for being so reckless; he could already hear your voice, seasoned with the weariness of a man who had seen too much of the same biology Leon fought in the field. You had scolded him like that when you first found out about the infection—your hands shaking despite your years of medical training.

​God, he wanted you to yell at him now. He wanted to hear you say his name and call him stupid, all while your steady, gentle hands—calloused from years of work but always soft when they touched him—bandaged his cuts and soothed the blooming bruises. He could almost feel it: the way you’d tuck a loose, sweat-matted lock of hair behind his ear while he shivered against the cold tile of the bathroom, leaning into your warmth because you were the only person who could make him feel human again.

​His vision blurred as he finally pulled into the gravel driveway. The headlights cut through the dark, illuminating the peeling paint of the blue door and the soft, amber glow spilling from your bedroom window. You were still up. Waiting.

​His hands trembled as he cut the engine, the silence of the car suddenly heavy. Every joint ached, and his lungs felt like they were filled with glass, but the sight of that light—your light—was the only thing keeping the darkness at the edge of his mind from swallowing him whole. He was home. He was back with his husband. Now, he just had to find the strength to open the car door.

The door handle felt like ice against his palm, a stark reminder that he was still vibrating with a low-grade fever. It took three tries to get his cramped fingers to turn the key. When the door finally gave way, the familiar scent of the house—old books, cedarwood, and the faint, clean smell of the soap you always used—hit him like a physical blow.

​He didn't turn on the lights. He didn't want to see the trail of road salt and dried blood he was likely leaving on the rug. With a grunt of effort, he shrugged out of his jacket, the fabric stiff with grime. His fingers fumbled with the buckles of his holster, the heavy leather hitting the recliner with a muffled thud that felt far too loud in the quiet living room. He was lighter now, but he felt more fragile, his body held together only by the desperate need to reach the hallway.

​As he neared the bedroom, a sliver of warm light cut across the floorboards. Then, he heard it—your voice.

​It was low, hushed in the way people speak late at night, but it carried that jagged edge of anxiety you usually kept hidden.

​"I know, Sherry. I know he’s careful," you were saying, your voice cracking slightly. "But it’s been three days since the last check-in. Just... if you hear anything, call me. I don't care what time it is."

​Leon froze. Hearing you talk to Sherry—the girl who was as much your daughter as she was his ward—made the guilt in his chest flare brighter than the pain in his side. He leaned against the doorframe, his shadow stretching long and distorted across the carpet. He looked like a ghost haunting his own home.

​"Baby," he rasped. It wasn't even a whisper; it was a broken sound, caught in the back of a dry, scorched throat.

​In the room, the shifting of bedsheets stopped instantly. You looked up, the phone still pressed to your ear, your jaw going slack as your eyes tracked the battered silhouette in the doorway. For a heartbeat, the doctor in you was paralyzed by the husband in you.

​"Sherry," you whispered, your voice breathless and urgent, never taking your eyes off him. "I have to go. He’s here. He’s home."

​You didn't wait for a reply before ending the call, the phone slipping from your hand onto the duvet as you started to move toward him.

The distance across the bedroom felt like miles until you finally reached him, your arms sliding upward to drape carefully around his neck. You didn't pull him in tight—not yet—your instincts warning you of the hidden agonies beneath his gear

​You just stared at him, your breath hitching. Slowly, your hands moved from his shoulders to cup his face, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones with a reverence that made his eyes flutter shut. You tilted his head gently from side to side, searching his skin with a look of genuine bewilderment. The terrifying, ink-black lines that had once threatened to claim him—the mark of the infection that had haunted your nightmares—were gone. His skin was pale, mapped with fresh, angry cuts and the deep purple of blooming bruises, but it was him. It was just Leon.

​Leon’s breath hitched, a jagged sound that vibrated through his chest. He reached up, his gloved hand trembling as he caught your wrist. He didn't pull you away; instead, he guided your palm down, pressing it flat against the center of his chest.

​Underneath the grime, his heart was thundering, a frantic, rhythmic proof of life. He looked down at you, his blue eyes glassy and bloodshot, searching your face as if he were still trying to convince himself he wasn't hallucinating this quiet, warm bedroom.

​"I'm here," he rasped, his voice barely a thread of sound. "I'm really here."

​You reached out, your index finger tentatively tracing a shallow, jagged cut along his cheekbone. The moment your skin made contact, Leon flinched, a sharp hiss of air escaping through his teeth as he instinctively pulled back.

​He braced himself then, his shoulders tensing. He expected the lecture. He expected you to demand to know why he’d been so careless, or to see that flash of professional frustration you got when a patient—or a husband—ignored their own safety.

​But the scolding never came.

​Instead, you leaned in, your touch feather-light. You began to pepper soft, lingering kisses against his bruised cheeks, your lips trailing over the unbroken skin near his temple. When you finally pressed a kiss to his mouth, it wasn't a greeting; it was a promise. It tasted of salt and exhaustion, but it was the first time Leon felt his lungs truly expand since he’d left the city.

​"Let’s get you cleaned up," you whispered against his lips, the words soft enough to be a prayer.

​Leon didn't argue. He couldn't. He simply nodded, his forehead dropping to rest against yours for a fleeting second before he allowed himself to be led. He followed you into the bathroom, his steps heavy and slow, trusting you to handle the weight of his broken body now that he didn't have to carry it alone anymore.

Leon sat heavily on the closed toilet seat, his broad shoulders slumped forward. His hair was still dark and heavy with water, dripping rhythmically onto the towel wrapped around his waist. The bathroom was small, the air thick with the lingering steam of the quick, careful wash you’d just given him.

​Under the unforgiving glare of the overhead lights, Leon simply watched you. He watched the way you moved, rummaging through the cabinet under the sink with a focused intensity. He noticed the silver-gray strands at your temples that hadn't been there a few years ago, and the way you squinted, tilting your head to read the small print on a bottle of saline. When you finally found what you were looking for and turned back to him, the soft crinkles at the corners of your eyes deepened—a map of every worry he’d ever caused you.

​You pulled a small wooden stool between his knees, sitting close enough that your thighs brushed against his. Leon didn't move; he just let out a long, shuddering breath, his eyes never leaving yours.

​With a touch as light as a whisper, you reached up to brush a damp strand of dark dirty blonde hair behind his ear, tucking it away so you could see the damage. Your hands were steady, though your expression remained tight with a quiet, simmering concern. You didn't say much. You didn't need to. The silence was filled only by the click of the first-aid kit and the soft hiss of the antiseptic spray.

​As you began to dab at the jagged cuts along his collarbone and chest, Leon’s body betrayed him. He tensed, his muscles roping under his skin, a sharp intake of air whistling through his teeth when the sting hit a particularly deep gouge.

​"Sorry," you murmured, your voice low and gravelly with sleep and suppressed emotion. "I know, Leon. I'm sorry."

​He shook his head slowly, his hand coming up to rest tentatively on your knee. "It's okay. I'm okay."

​You worked in a rhythmic, practiced peace, cleaning the debris from his skin and smoothing antibiotic ointment over the bruises that were already turning an ugly, mottled green. Every time he flinched, you stopped, waiting for him to settle before continuing.

​Leon watched your hands—those hands that had held him through nightmares and long nights of fever. He looked down at your face, feeling a sudden, overwhelming surge of affection that hurt worse than the wounds.

​"Hey," he whispered, his voice cracking. He tilted his head down, catching your gaze as you reached for a fresh box of bandages. "Could you….kiss them? Like you used to?"

​The request was so vulnerable, so stripped of his usual bravado, that it broke the tension in your chest. A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

​"Always," you breathed.

​You peeled back a bandage and pressed it firmly but gently over the cut on his cheek. Then, lingering for a second, you leaned in and pressed a soft, warm kiss directly over the adhesive. Leon’s eyes closed, his entire body finally going limp under your touch.

​You moved to his shoulder, Repeating the ritual. Peel, press, kiss. Then down to his abdomen, where the worst of the bruising lay. With every kiss you pressed against the bandages littering his torso, you felt his breathing even out, the jagged edges of his exhaustion finally beginning to smooth.

Leaving the bathroom felt like walking through a fog. Leon’s legs were heavy, his coordination frayed by the sheer weight of the day’s adrenaline finally leaving his system. You guided him back to the edge of the bed, where you had laid out a pair of soft, worn-in sweatpants—the kind he only wore when he was truly home.

​"I’ve got it," he muttered, though his fingers were fumbling uselessly with the waistband. His brow furrowed in that stubborn, Leon-like scowl. "I’m not useless….I can do it."

​"I know you're not," you replied softly, not letting the protest deter you. You gently brushed his hands aside, kneeling between his knees to help him step into the fabric. "But tonight, you don't have to be 'useful.' You just have to be here."

​He let out a long, defeated sigh, his large hands coming to rest on your shoulders for balance. He watched as you dressed him with practiced, unhurried care, smoothing the fabric over the fresh bandages on his thighs. He looked so much smaller like this—stripped of the gear, the weapons, and the duty. When you reached up to pull a soft t-shirt over his head, he leaned his forehead against your chest for a second, his breath hitching.

​"Thank you," he whispered into the cotton of your shirt, the fight finally draining out of his limbs.

​pulling back the heavy duvet to invite him into the space you’d kept warm for him all night. Leon crawled in with a groan of relief, his body sinking into the mattress as if he were finally being allowed to merge with the earth.

​Once he was settled, you climbed in beside him, propping yourself up on one arm. You opened your arms, an unspoken invitation, and he didn't hesitate. He shifted closer, tucking his head into the crook of your neck, his face pressed against the pulse point of your throat. His arm draped over your waist, heavy and grounding, his fingers curling into the fabric of your pajama top.

​The room was silent, save for the rhythmic tick of the clock and the sound of his breathing, which was finally slowing down, losing its ragged, panicked edge.

​"I love you, Leon," you whispered into the crown of his damp hair, your hand tracing slow, soothing circles across his back. "More than anything. Just stay here. Don't go anywhere for a long, long time."

​Leon shifted, pressing his face deeper into your skin. "I love you," he rasped, the words sounding thick with the onset of a deep, bone-deep sleep. "Every time….I was just….coming back to you. Always you."

The clock above the bowling alley entrance was a relic of the seventies, a cracked plastic face that hummed with a low, electric buzz. You stared at it until the second hand seemed to stutter. The air in the building was a thick, sickly soup of spilled Miller High Life, stale popcorn, and the chemical bite of the disinfectant spray used to sanitize the rental shoes.

​You stood behind the scuffed Formica counter, your hands still smelling like the industrial soap you’d used after scrubbing the day’s grime off the size 10s. The noise was a headache in the making: the shrill war cries of a birthday party in Lane 4, the rhythmic thwack-clatter of pins, and the occasional bone-jarring boom when a drunk teenager lofted a sixteen-pound ball onto the hardwood.

​If it weren’t for the thought of Steve Harrington, you probably would have walked out the back door and never looked back.

​You’d been dating Steve in secret for nearly a year. It was a life lived in the margins—quiet nights at his place when his parents’ driveway was empty, him showing up ten minutes before closing just to lean against the counter and distract you with that crooked, lopsided grin. Being two guys in a small Indiana town in 1986 wasn't just difficult; it was a tightrope walk. But when you were in his car, the windows rolled down and a mixtape of The Smith’s or Tears for Fears drowning out the rest of the world, the risk felt worth it.

​A heavy sigh escaped you as the final league bowlers trudged toward the counter to trade their rented shoes for street boots. As the front doors swung open, the scent of the alley was momentarily cut by the sharp, metallic tang of an approaching thunderstorm. The sky outside was an ominous, bruised purple.

​Perfect weather for a drive, you thought, a small spark of excitement cutting through your exhaustion.

​You were sliding the last pair of bowling shoes onto the rack when Candy, your manager, drifted out of the back office. Candy was management in name only; she spent sixty percent of her shift highlighting articles in Cosmopolitan and the other forty percent gossiping.

​She leaned against the counter, her neon-pink earrings jingling as she batted her lashes. “So,” she purred, "is that handsome jock of yours swinging by tonight?”

​You felt the familiar heat creep up your neck, but you kept your voice casual. “Maybe. Why do you care, Candy?”

​Candy had caught the two of you kissing behind the dumpster five months ago. By pure accident, she’d walked out to toss some trash and found Steve’s hands tangled in your hair. Luckily, Candy’s only judgment was that she was jealous Steve had a better hair routine than she did. She didn’t care who you loved, as long as you did the closing side-work so she could leave early.

​“Just making sure you remember to lock the deadbolt,” she said, sliding the heavy ring of keys across the Formica. She leaned in, the scent of bubblegum and cheap cherry cigarillos hitting you like a brick. She gave your cheek a quick, sisterly peck. “And be careful if you two go out to the quarry tonight. Seriously.”

​You paused, your hand hovering over the keys. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

​Candy’s expression shifted, the playful glint in her eyes dying out. “You haven’t been listening to the radio? Robin’s been talking about it all afternoon on the local station. Some guy escaped from the county asylum up near Pennhurst. A real nasty piece of work.” She lowered her voice. “They found a car out by the old highway. Driver was....well, they say he didn't use a knife. He used something else.”

​She mimicked a hooking motion with her finger.

​“We’re just taking a drive, Candy,” you said, forcing a smile to hide the sudden chill in your veins. “We aren't going anywhere near the old highway. We'll be fine.”

​“Just keep your doors locked,” she warned, grabbing her purse. “See you tomorrow, handsome.”

​The bells on the door jingled as she left, leaving you alone in the sudden, ringing silence of the empty alley. Outside, the first heavy drops of rain began to pelt the glass, and through the gloom, you saw the familiar headlights of a BMW pull into the lot.

You shook your head, the jingle of the keys in your hand grounding you. Candy was a sweetheart, but she lived for the drama of National Enquirer headlines and urban legends. In a town as suffocatingly quiet as Hawkins, people traded ghost stories like currency just to feel a spark of excitement. An escaped mental patient with a hook? It sounded like a bad B-movie plot from the late-night double feature at the drive-in.

​With a heavy sigh, you stepped out from behind the rental counter. The silence of the empty alley was heavy, broken only by the distant, rhythmic hum of the pinsetters cycling one last time. You reached the glass double doors just as the BMW pulled to a stop, its headlights cutting through the sheets of rain that were now slamming against the pavement.

​Through the blurred glass, you saw him. Steve hopped out of the car, shoulders hunched against the downpour, his signature hair miraculously defying the humidity as he jogged toward the entrance.

​You pushed the door open just enough to let him slide in. The smell of the storm—ozone and wet asphalt—rushed in with him, instantly clashing with the bowling alley’s scent of floor wax.

​"Rough night?" Steve asked, his voice low and raspy, vibrating with that familiar warmth.

​"The usual," you murmured, a smile tugging at your lips the moment you looked at him. "Too many kids, not enough oxygen."

​Steve didn't wait for an answer. He reached out, his hand cupping the back of your neck, and pulled you into a quick, firm peck. His lips were cool from the rain, tasting faintly of mint and tobacco. It was brief—a cautious habit born from a year of hiding—but it sent a jolt through you that cleared away the entire shift's exhaustion.

​"Lock it up," he whispered against your mouth.

​You turned the heavy deadbolt with a satisfying thunk, the finality of the sound signaling that the world ended at those glass doors. You didn't say a word as you reached down, interlacing your fingers with his. His palm was calloused and warm, a perfect anchor. You led him past the darkened snack bar and through the swinging door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

​The breakroom was small, lit by a single flickering fluorescent bulb and smelling of industrial coffee. In the center sat a heavy, round Formica table littered with old newspapers.

​The moment the door swung shut behind you, Steve’s composure broke. He didn't just walk toward you; he moved into your space like he was starving. He caught you by the hips, his large hands firm and sure as he hoisted you up onto the edge of the table. Your legs naturally parted to make room for him, and you let out a soft huff of air as your lower back hit the cool surface.

​Steve buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. "I missed you," he muttered, the words muffled against your pulse. "The house was too quiet today. I just….I needed to see you."

​A genuine chuckle bubbled up from your throat, your fingers winding into the damp hair at the nape of his neck. "You saw me yesterday, Steve."

​"Too long," he grunted.

​Before you could get another word out, his fingers were at the top of your work shirt. It was a hideous, stiff polyester button-down with your name embroidered in cursive over the pocket—a shirt you hated with a passion. You cocked an eyebrow, watching him work. He didn't fumble; he was methodical, popping the plastic buttons through the loops one by one until the shirt fell open.

​Steve paused. His eyes dropped to your chest, and a slow, smug grin spread across his face. Underneath the uniform, you were wearing a soft, faded grey sweatshirt with Hawkins High Athletics cracked across the front.

​"No way," Steve laughed softly, his thumbs tracing the hem of the collar. "I was wondering where that went. I looked everywhere for this thing three weeks ago."

​"It was a cold morning," you defended, though your grin matched his. "And it smells better than my clothes."

​Steve leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his hands curling tighter around your waist. "Yeah? Well, keep it. It looks better on you anyway. But I'm definitely taking a 'tax' for the theft."

​"Oh yeah?" you challenged, your heart drumming against your ribs. "And what's the tax?"

​"Shut up," he breathed, and then he was kissing you for real.

The heat between you was addictive, a magnetic pull that made every inch of your skin hum, but the responsible part of your brain—the part that didn't want to get fired from the only decent-paying gig in town—started to tug at you.

​With a reluctant groan, you pressed your palms against Steve’s chest. He didn't move at first, his grip on your waist tightening as if he could physically hold back the clock.

​"Steve, seriously," you breathed, a breathless laugh catching in your throat. "I still have to close out the register and kill the power. I’m not getting chewed out by Candy tomorrow because I left the neon signs humming all night."

​"Candy loves you," Steve muttered against your jaw, though he finally relented, his hands sliding slowly from your hips as you hopped off the table. "She’d probably give you a raise if she knew I was the reason the lights stayed on."

​"In your dreams, Harrington."

​You turned toward your locker, the cool air of the breakroom hitting your bare skin for a fleeting second before you shrugged out of the stiff, polyester work shirt. You tossed it onto a hook with more venom than it probably deserved and reached for your well-worn denim jacket. The fabric was heavy and smelled faintly of your own cologne and the lingering scent of Steve’s car. You pulled it on, the familiar weight settling over your shoulders, and grabbed your canvas bag from the bench.

​Steve was still leaning against the table, his arms crossed over his chest, watching you with an expression that was entirely too fond.

​"I have to make sure everything’s turned off and locked up before we can actually get out of here," you said, reaching out to pat his cheek as you walked past. "Go wait by the front doors. I’ll be two minutes, tops."

​You caught the mock-pout on his face and leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek. "Don't look at me like that. The sooner I finish, the sooner we're in the car."

​"Fine, fine," he huffed, pushing off the table with a grin. "But I'm picking the tape."

​You left him heading toward the lobby while you began the nightly ritual. The bowling alley felt different when the lights were half-dead. The long, polished lanes looked like dark rivers stretching into the shadows, and every creak of the building's settling pipes sounded like a footstep. Usually, you didn't mind the solitude, but Candy’s "wackjob" comment was a persistent itch in the back of your mind.

​You moved through the motions with practiced speed: flipping the breakers for the pinsetters, checking the heavy padlocks on the emergency exits, and ensuring the kitchen fryers were cold. You double-checked the back alley door, pulling on the handle until the metal groaned, satisfied it was deadbolted.

​By the time you made it back to the front, the main lights were off, leaving the lobby bathed in the eerie, rhythmic glow of a flickering streetlamp from outside. Steve was leaning against the glass door, silhouetted against the rain, looking like something out of a movie poster.

​The downpour had tapered off into a heavy, misty drizzle—the kind of rain that felt like it was soaking directly into your bones.

​"Ready?" he asked, reaching for your bag to carry it for you.

​"Ready."

​You stepped outside and turned back to the door, sliding the key into the lock one last time. You heard the tumblers click into place, a final all clear for the building. As you turned around, the cool, damp night air hit you, a sharp contrast to the greasy warmth of the alley. The parking lot was a sea of black asphalt and shimmering puddles.

​Steve clicked his key fob, the BMW’s lights flashing like a signal in the dark. As you hurried across the lot, your boots splashing through the water, the silence of the town felt unusually heavy. There wasn't a single other car on the road—just you, Steve, and the low, distant rumble of thunder rolling over the Indiana plains.

​He opened the passenger door for you, a smirk playing on his lips. "Welcome to the Harrington Express. Destination: anywhere but here.”

​The drive was quiet, save for the rhythmic thrum-thrum of the tires over the highway expansion joints and the steady, hypnotic sweep of the windshield wipers. Outside the glass, Hawkins was a blur of dark trees and silver-streaked asphalt. The rain had picked up again, lashing against the car in sudden, violent gusts that made the BMW sway just slightly. On the dash, the glowing green lights of the stereo illuminated Steve’s profile as Blondie’s Heart of Glass played at a low, pulsing volume.

​The roads were ghostly. Occasionally, the twin pinpricks of headlights would appear in the distance, only to woosh past and leave you in even deeper darkness. Once, you spotted the familiar tan-and-brown silhouette of a Sheriff’s Cruiser tucked into a gravel turnout, its lights off, a silent sentinel in the storm.

​As the glowing yellow shell of a gas station sign crested the hill, you shifted in your seat, your denim jacket creaking. You pointed toward the exit. "Mind stopping? I’m out. I want to grab a pack before we get too far out."

​Steve didn't say a word, just gave a sharp, single nod. He flicked the blinker—the steady tick-tick-tick filling the cabin—and merged onto the off-ramp.

​This station was a relic, a flickering island of fluorescent light in the middle of the woods. It was the same spot you always hit on these late-night runs; it felt like a neutral zone, a place where no one asked questions. Usually, there was some scrawny kid behind the glass who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth.

​Steve pulled up to the pump and killed the engine. The sudden silence was jarring.

​"I'll be right back," you said, unbuckling. "You want anything? A Coke? Some of those stale donuts you like?"

​Steve huffed a laugh, leaning back into his headrest. "Just a coke.”

​"Got it," you said, bracing yourself before pushing the door open.

​The transition was brutal. The humid, heavy heat of the night hit you first, followed by the stinging spray of the rain. You jogged across the pavement, your boots splashing through oily puddles that shimmered with rainbow hues under the station lights.

​The bell above the door gave a pathetic, tinny ding as you stepped inside. The air was chilled by an overactive AC unit and smelled of floor cleaner and old hot dogs. Behind the counter sat a girl who couldn't have been older than seventeen, her hair pulled back in a messy scrunchie. She didn't even look up as you entered; she was leaning over a small battery-operated radio on the counter, her chin resting in her hand.

​You headed for the back, the soles of your boots squeaking on the linoleum. You grabbed two sodas. As you approached the counter, the muffled voice of the radio announcer cut through the hum of the refrigerators.

​"...authorities are advising residents to stay indoors. The individual is considered armed and extremely dangerous. Reports indicate he was last seen heading south toward the quarry..."

​You set your items on the counter, reaching into your back pocket for your wallet. "A pack of Camels, too," you said, sliding your ID across the scratched plastic.

​The girl finally looked up, her eyes tired and rimmed with dark circles. She barely glanced at your ID before reaching back for the cigarettes. The radio continued to drone on about "escaped patients" and "unexplained sightings."

​"You actually believe any of that?" you asked, gesturing vaguely toward the radio while you waited for her to ring you up. "The escaped wackjob bit? Seems like a lot of noise for Indiana."

​The girl shrugged, her movements slow and mechanical as she punched the keys on the register. "Not really," she hummed, her voice flat. "Probably just some assholes from the high school playing a prank to scare the girls at Lovers Lane. People get bored around here. They like having something to talk about."

​"Exactly," you agreed, sliding a few crumpled bills across the counter. "Boredom makes people see monsters in every shadow."

​"That'll be six-fifty," she said, bagging your stuff without a hint of a smile. "Stay dry out there."

​"You too," you said, grabbing the bag.

​As you walked back out into the rain, the girl's words lingered—stupid boys playing a prank. It was the logical explanation. But as you looked toward the dark tree line bordering the station, the woods felt a little deeper, a little more silent than they had ten minutes ago.

​You hopped back into the car, the warmth of the interior wrapping around you like a blanket. Steve looked over, his eyes searching yours as you handed him his Coke.

​"Everything okay in there?" he asked, his voice casual, but his hand lingered on the gear shift.

​"Yeah," you said, reaching for the radio to turn Blondie back up. "Just ready to go.”

You reached into the crinkling plastic bag, sliding a fresh pack of Camels out. With a practiced flick of your thumbnail, you packed them against your palm before tearing the foil. You tucked one between your lips, the filter tasting of paper and dry tobacco, and began fishing through your bag for your Zippo.

​The flame flared to life, a small, dancing orange star that reflected in the dark glass of the windshield. You took a long, steady drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing a brilliant cherry red. As you exhaled, you cracked the window just an inch, watching the grey ribbon of smoke get sucked out into the wet Indiana night.

​Without a word, Steve reached over. His fingers brushed against yours—lingering just a second too long—as he took the cigarette from your hand. He took a slow pull, his eyes fixed on the road, before tilting his head back to blow the smoke toward the roof of the car. The scent of tobacco mixed with his expensive cologne, creating a smell that, to you, was the very definition of peace.

​He handed it back, his thumb grazing your knuckles.

​The bright lights of the highway soon gave way to the skeletal silhouettes of the back roads. Here, the pavement was narrower, cracked by years of frost and neglected by the county. The towering oaks and maples leaned over the road like a canopy, their wet leaves slapping against the roof of the car as Steve navigated the twists and turns.

​The music was still low, but Steve reached out and twisted the volume knob until Blondie faded into a ghostly hum. He cleared his throat, his grip tightening slightly on the leather-wrapped steering wheel.

​"So," he started, his voice a bit more serious than before. "You heard what news stations have been saying," He glanced at you, his eyes darting from the road to your face and back again. "You sure you still want to head out to the quarry? We could just….I don't know, head back to my place. My parents are in Indy until Thursday."

​You took another drag, the smoke swirling in the dim light of the cabin. You turned in your seat, tucking one leg under you so you could fully face him.

​"Steve, come on," you huffed, a playful smirk dancing on your lips. "You’re really going to let some local ghost story ruin the first night we've had off together in weeks? It's just a guy with a hook, Steve. It’s a campfire story for Boy Scouts."

​Steve bit his lip, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I'm just saying….it's a hell of a night to be stuck on a dead-end road if some lunatic really is out there."

​"Besides," you leaned in closer, the glow from the dashboard illuminating the mischief in your eyes. "Where else am I supposed to make out with you without your neighbors or my boss breathing down our necks? The quarry is the only place we don't have to look over our shoulders."

​The mention of making out hit him exactly where you intended. The cautious line of his shoulders relaxed, replaced by that familiar, cocky Harrington grin. He cut a sideways look at you, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heartbeat longer than was safe for driving.

​"You're a bad influence," he murmured, though his voice had dropped an octave. "You know that, right?"

​"I'm the best influence," you corrected, reaching over to turn the music back up. "Now keep driving. I didn't agree to this just to sit in your driveway."

​Steve chuckled, a deep, vibrating sound that made the hair on your arms stand up. "Alright, alright. Quarry it is. But if we hear a scratch on the door, I’m putting this thing in gear and we’re out of there. Deal?"

​"Deal," you whispered, leaning back into the leather seat as the car veered off onto the dirt path that led toward the dark, jagged silhouette of the old rock quarry.

Steve steered the BMW with practiced ease, the tires crunching over wet shale and flattened tallgrass. This wasn't the main lot where the high schoolers usually gathered to drink cheap beer; this was a jagged limestone shelf tucked behind a curtain of weeping willows, overlooking the deep, ink-black water of the quarry.

​As Steve pulled the car to a halt, the headlights swept over the rain-slicked trees before he flicked them off. The world plunged into a heavy, suffocating darkness, save for the rhythmic patter of rain on the metal roof. He turned the key, and the engine’s purr died with a final, shuddering click.

​In the sudden silence, the only light came from the dying cherry-red ember of the cigarette. You took one last, deep drag, feeling the heat settle in your lungs, before passing it to Steve. He finished it off, the fleeting light illuminating the sharp line of his jaw and the focused, dark intensity of his eyes. He cracked his window just enough to flick the butt into the mud, where it hissed and died instantly.

​"Alone at last," Steve murmured, his voice sounding deeper, more resonant in the cramped space of the car.

​"Finally," you huffed softly.

​The BMW was comfortable, but the center console was a nuisance you weren't willing to tolerate tonight. You moved with a fluid, restless energy, unbuckling your seatbelt and maneuvering yourself over the gear shift. Steve adjusted his seat back with a quick tug of the lever, creating just enough room for you to straddle his lap.

​You settled onto him, your knees resting on either side of his hips on the leather seat. The height difference put you right where you wanted to be, looking down at him in the shadows. Your hands found his shoulders, your fingers digging into the soft fabric of his jacket, while his hands—large, warm, and sure—slid instinctively around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

​Steve let out a long, shaky exhale, his head falling back against the headrest as he looked up at you. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting to do this today," he whispered. "Six hours of Robin talking about radio frequencies and four hours of thinking about you in that ridiculous work shirt."

​"Well," you leaned down, your nose brushing against his, the scent of rain and peppermint still clinging to him. "The shirt's off. And Robin isn't here."

​Steve’s grip on your hips tightened, his thumbs tracing the line of your waistband. He didn't lean in for the kiss immediately; instead, he just watched you, his expression softening into something raw and incredibly vulnerable—a look he only ever saved for the dark, for the quarry, and for you.

​"Just us," he breathed, his voice barely a ghost of a sound over the drumming rain.

​"Just us," you confirmed, tilting your head to find the perfect angle.

​Steve’s hands didn't stay still for long. One slid up from your waist, his palm hot against the small of your back, while the other tangled into your hair, his fingers anchoring you as he pulled you down. When your lips finally met, it wasn't the tentative, cautious peck from the bowling alley. It was hungry and desperate, the kind of kiss that came from weeks of stolen glances and suppressed longing.

​A low, guttural moan vibrated in Steve’s chest—a sound you felt more than heard against your own mouth. He tasted of the mint he’d been chewing and the lingering, smoky edge of the cigarette you’d shared. He kissed you like he was trying to memorize the very shape of you, his tongue tracing your lower lip before deepening the contact with a soft, needy huff of air.

​You shifted your weight on his lap, your hands sliding from his shoulders to cup his face. His skin was warm, his jaw slightly rough with the start of five o’clock shadow that scratched pleasantly against your palms. Every time your hips moved against his, a sharp, broken sound escaped your throat, swallowed instantly by the friction of his lips against yours.

​"Steve," you breathed out against his skin, the name sounding like a prayer in the quiet cabin.

​He didn't answer with words. Instead, he trailed his kisses down the line of your jaw to the sensitive dip beneath your ear. His breath was hot, sending a frantic shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold air outside. He nipped at the cord of your neck, his hands tightening on your hips as he pulled you even closer, trying to eliminate every last millimeter of space between your chests.

​The only other sound in the car was the soft, wet slide of skin on skin and the frantic, heavy thud of two hearts beating in a jagged rhythm. You were lost in the scent of him—the denim, the rain, and the clean, masculine musk that was uniquely Steve.

​For a few minutes, everything else didn't exist. There was only the weight of Steve’s hands, the heat of his mouth, and the way he let out a shaky, breathless "yeah" when you arched your back and pressed your forehead against his. The air in the car was thick, humid, and heavy with a tension that had been building since you first clocked in that afternoon.

​Steve pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and blown wide with heat, his lips swollen and wet. He looked completely wrecked by you, his usual composure shattered into something much more honest. He reached up, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

​"You're gonna be the death of me," he whispered, his voice a jagged wreck of its usual self. "You know that?"

​You started to lean back in, a smug, breathless smile playing on your lips, ready to tell him that was the plan—when a sharp, metallic screech echoed from the passenger side of the car.

​It wasn't the rain. It wasn't the wind. It was the unmistakable sound of metal dragging slowly against metal.

Steve froze, his hands still anchored on your waist, his head cocked toward the passenger door. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the frantic thud-thud-thud of your heart against your ribs.

​"Did you hear that?" Steve whispered, his voice losing its heat and regaining that protective, alert edge.

​You didn't trust your voice to work. You just nodded, your eyes fixed on the fogged-up glass of the passenger window. You wanted to believe it was a branch caught in the wind or a stray cat, but the sound had been too deliberate—too heavy. You didn't want to admit that the "wackjob" stories were suddenly feeling a lot less like bored Indiana gossip and a lot more like a warning.

​"Stay here," Steve said, his tone shifting into that 'big brother' mode he defaulted to when things got sideways. "It’s probably just some idiots from the high school thinking they’re being funny.”

​"Steve, wait," you said, your hand catching his wrist as you reluctantly maneuvered yourself back into the passenger seat. The leather felt cold now. "Maybe we should just….leave? Your parents' place is empty. We could go there. We don't need to prove anything to some kids in the woods."

​Steve reached over, his thumb grazing your cheek in a brief, reassuring gesture. "Hey, it's fine. I’ve got the heavy-duty Maglite in the glove box. If it’s Tommy, or one of those losers, I’m gonna make them regret the hike out here. I'll be right back. I promise."

​You let out a shaky sigh, watching him lean over to pop the glove box. He pulled out the long, black metal flashlight—the kind that felt more like a club than a light source. He flashed you a quick, cocky grin—the mask firmly back in place—and stepped out into the rain.

​The moment the door opened, the roar of the storm flooded the cabin, dousing the warmth. You watched through the rear-view and the side mirrors, your leg bouncing a mile a minute. To settle your nerves, you fished another cigarette out of the pack, your fingers trembling just enough to make the lighter strike three times before the flame took.

​Outside, Steve’s flashlight cut a violent, bouncing white line through the downpour. You watched the beam sweep over the mud, the jagged rocks of the quarry, and finally, the side of the car. He walked around to your side, his boots splashing through the muck. He stopped right at your door, lowering the light to inspect the metal.

​Through the rain-streaked glass, you saw his brow furrow. He leaned in, squinting at the door panel—right where that screeching sound had come from. You held your breath, the cigarette smoke stinging your lungs. After a moment, Steve looked up at you through the window. He gave a dismissive shrug, shook his head as if to say 'nothing there,' and started to circle back around the front of the BMW.

​You felt a wave of relief wash over you. Just the wind. Just a branch. Just my head playing tricks on me.

​Steve reached the driver’s side and yanked the door open, the interior light kicking on and bathing the car in a dim, yellow glow. He looked damp and annoyed, tossing the flashlight onto the back seat.

​"I didn't see any—"

​The sentence died in his throat. Steve didn't even get the chance to sit down.

​From the darkness behind the open door, a hand—thick, scarred, and unnaturally strong—clutched the collar of his denim jacket. Steve let out a sharp, choked gasp of surprise, his heels skidding on the mud as he was violently yanked backward away from the car.

​"Steve!" you screamed, the cigarette dropping from your lips onto the floor mat as you lunged across the center console.

​The driver’s door swung wide, swaying on its hinges in the wind, and Steve was gone—pulled into the black void of the trees like he weighed nothing at all.

​"Steve! Steve!" you screamed, your voice cracking as the wind snatched the sound away.

​You scrambled across the seats, your boots catching on the gear shift as you dove out the open driver’s side door. The mud was slick, sending you to your knees, but your hand shot out and gripped the cold, heavy barrel of the Maglite Steve had dropped. You fumbled with the switch, and the beam cut a jagged white path through the trees. You didn't stop to look for footprints. You just ran toward the sound of snapping branches and the low, muffled grunts of a struggle.

​The woods were a nightmare of grasping briars and slick, rotting leaves. "Steve! Answer me!"

​"Over here!" his voice came back—not the confident, cool voice of Steve Harrington, but a panicked, breathless rasp.

​You sprinted toward the sound, the flashlight beam bouncing wildly. You rounded a massive, moss-covered oak, and suddenly, he was there. Steve stumbled out of the darkness, his jacket torn and his face pale. He slammed into you, his hands grabbing your upper arms so hard it would surely leave bruises.

​"Run! Go! Back to the car, now!" he choked out, his eyes blown wide with a terror you had never seen in him.

​He didn't wait for an answer. He latched onto your hand, his grip crushing your fingers, and hauled you back the way you came. The two of you were a mess of tangled limbs and desperate lungs, stumbling over hidden roots and sliding down muddy embankments. The car's headlights were nowhere to be seen; the darkness had swallowed everything.

​"We're almost there," Steve gasped, his breath hitching. "Just keep moving, don't look—"

​CRACK.

​It happened so fast you didn't even see the movement. You felt a sudden, heavy impact—a weight like a falling lead pipe—slam directly across the bridge of your nose. The world exploded into a brilliant, blinding white light. You didn't even have time to put your hands out before your body collided with the ground. The impact was wet and heavy, the smell of damp earth and iron-rich blood filling your senses instantly.

​The pain was a white-hot spike driven into your skull. Your nose was definitely broken; you could hear the sickening crunch echoing in your ears, and a warm, thick gush of blood began to pour over your lips and chin.

​"Hey—hey, look at me! Get up!" Steve’s voice was frantic. He was on his knees beside you, his hands trembling as he tried to hook his arms under your pits to haul you up. "Come on, honey, please, you gotta get up—"

​Steve’s words were cut off by a sound that would haunt your nightmares: a wet, heavy thwack.

​Steve’s body jerked violently. He let out a sound that wasn't even a scream—it was a high, thin whistle of pure agony. You looked up through your blurred, tear-filled vision just in time to see a curved piece of rusted, cold steel—a massive hay hook—embedded deep into the meat of Steve’s shoulder.

​The metal had pierced through the denim and skin like it was paper.

​"Steve!" you tried to shout, but it came out as a gargle of blood.

​The hook was attached to a thick, grimy rope, and with a sickening, powerful heave, Steve was yanked backward. His boots dragged through the mud, his hands clawing uselessly at the ground as he was hauled back into the impenetrable shadows.

​"Steve!"

​The flashlight lay in the mud a few feet away, its beam dying, flickering over the empty space where Steve had just been. You were alone in the rain, the taste of your own blood thick in your throat, and the sound of something heavy dragging through the leaves getting further and further away.

The world was a spinning, disjointed mess of grey and black. The metallic tang of blood was thick in your throat, making every breath a wet, rattling struggle. You collapsed onto your stomach, your fingers clawing through the freezing mud until they brushed against the cold, ridged handle of the Maglite.

​You gripped it like a lifeline, the beam flickering weakly—a dying heartbeat of light.

​You forced yourself up, your knees shaking so violently they nearly gave out. Every step felt like a spike was being driven through your sinuses. You stumbled forward, the forest floor pitching beneath your feet like the deck of a ship. You spat a glob of thick, copper-tasting blood into the leaves, your voice a broken rasp as you tried to scream for him again.

​"Steve!"

​A scream ripped through the trees in response. It wasn't a call for help—it was a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that sheared through the noise of the storm. It was the sound of someone being broken.

​"No, no....no," you whispered, the words lost to the wind. "This isn't happening. This is just a story. It’s just a stupid story."

​You pushed through a dense thicket of brambles, the thorns tearing at your denim jacket and the skin of your face, but you didn't feel it. The adrenaline was a cold fire in your veins. Suddenly, the trees broke away, and the sight of the quarry parking lot bled back into view.

​The BMW sat there, its interior dome light still casting a sickly yellow glow into the rain.

​"Steve!"

​He was there, slumped against the open driver’s side door. The sight of him nearly destroyed you. His head was tilted back against the frame, his breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches. The rain was washing over him, turning the blood from his mangled shoulder into a pale pink stream that soaked his shirt and pooled in the door well. Long, jagged lacerations lined his neck and the backs of his hands, as if he’d tried to fight off a blade with his bare skin.

​"Steve, I'm here! I'm—"

​You didn't see the shadow move behind you.

​A massive, calloused hand—smelling of woodsmoke and rotted meat—clapped over your mouth, cutting off your cry. The force of the grab jerked your head back, your spine arching as you were hauled against a chest that felt like solid stone.

​Fight-or-flight didn't just kick in; it exploded. Your vision tunneled. You didn't think, you didn't plead. You simply opened your mouth and clamped your teeth down on the fleshy meat of his palm with every ounce of strength you had left.

​You felt the skin give way. You tasted the foul, salt-heavy blood of the man as you tore a chunk of flesh away.

​The man let out a low, guttural roar—a sound more animal than human. He threw you forward with terrifying strength. You hit the muddy ground hard, the air driven from your lungs in a sharp whump. You scrambled to breathe, your fingers digging into the gravel, but before you could even draw a gasp, a heavy, work-worn boot slammed down into the center of your back.

​The pressure pinned you to the earth, grinding your chest into the mud. You let out a strangled, sharp gasp of pain, and then—suddenly—the weight was gone, replaced by a hand tangling into your hair.

​He didn't just pull you up; he yanked. Your scalp felt like it was being peeled from your skull as he hauled you to your feet, your toes barely scraping the dirt. He held you there, dangling you like a broken doll, the rain stinging your eyes as you stared helplessly at Steve’s slumped, unconscious form just a few feet away.

The metallic glint of the hook caught the dim interior light of the BMW, rising slowly like a scythe in the rain. Your breath hitched, a sharp, jagged sound that died in your throat as the curved steel leveled with your chest. You didn't have room to swing an arm, but your legs were free.

​With a frantic, guttural snarl, you launched your boots upward. You kicked with every ounce of terror-fueled adrenaline in your body, your heel connecting solidly with the underside of the man’s jaw. The impact sent a jar through your own hip, but the grip on your hair vanished. You hit the mud hard, the wet gravel scraping your palms, but you didn't stay down.

​You scrambled to your feet, your fingers closing around the cold, heavy barrel of the Maglite. The man was already trying to reorient himself, his massive frame swaying as he reached for the hook he’d dropped in the muck. You didn't give him a second.

​You swung the heavy metal flashlight with both hands, a baseball swing born of pure survival. The crack of the Maglite against the bridge of his nose was a sickening, wet sound—a mirror image of the injury he’d given you. He let out a choked, wet wheeze and stumbled back, but you were past the point of mercy.

​"Get! Away! From! Him!" you shrieked, the words tearing at your throat.

​You swung again, and again. You followed him down as he hit the ground, the heavy flashlight becoming a blurred silver arc in the rain. You weren't just hitting him; you were trying to erase him. Every strike felt like a release of the fear that had been building since you'd left the bowling alley. You didn't stop when he stopped reaching for his weapon. You didn't stop when his face became an unrecognizable mask of red and grey. You kept swinging until your arms burned and your lungs felt like they were filled with broken glass, a guttural, animalistic scream ripping from your chest with every blow.

​You only stopped when a faint, broken sound drifted from the car.

​"Hey....hey..."

​Steve’s voice was a ghost of a whisper, a wet, rattling groan that finally cut through the red haze in your mind. You stood over the silent, mangled heap of the man, the Maglite slick with more than just rain. Your chest heaved, your vision swimming as you stared down at the person you’d just broken.

​One last, shaky swing connected with his shoulder before you dropped the light. You didn't look back. You stepped over the body, your boots squelching in the bloody mud, and threw yourself toward the car.

​"Steve! Steve, look at me," you gasped, grabbing his uninjured shoulder. He was pale, his eyes fluttering as he tried to focus on your face.

​With a strength you didn't know you possessed, you hauled him across the center console and into the passenger seat. He groaned in agony as his mangled shoulder shifted, but you couldn't afford to be gentle. You reached for your denim jacket, the fabric stiff and soaked, and yanked at the seam of the sleeve. With a desperate, violent tug, the denim gave way. You wrapped the thick fabric around the deep puncture in his shoulder, tying it tight enough to make him hiss through his teeth.

​"Hold that. Pressure, Steve. Keep pressure on it.”

​You scrambled into the driver’s seat, slamming the door and locking it in one fluid motion. Your hands were shaking so hard you almost couldn't get the keys into the ignition. The engine roared to life, a beautiful, mechanical snarl that broke the silence of the quarry. You shoved the car into reverse, tires screaming and kicking up a spray of gravel and mud as you peeled out.

​You hit the main road doing eighty, the BMW’s headlights cutting through the mist like a blade. Your nose was still bleeding, the copper taste filling your mouth, but you didn't care. You glanced at Steve; he was slumped against the door, his hand white-knuckled over the denim bandage.

​"Stay with me, Harrington," you commanded, your voice shaking. "Don't you dare close your eyes."

​The highway was a blur. The police station was on the other side of town—too far. The gas station was a dark, abandoned shell. But the neon sign of the bowling alley was still humming in the distance, a flickering beacon of civilization in the middle of the dark. You pushed the pedal to the floor, the speedometer climbing as you raced back toward the only place that felt like it might still have a lock on the door.

The tires of the BMW shrieked as you banked into the bowling alley parking lot, the car fishtailing slightly on the slick asphalt before slamming into a halt right in front of the main entrance. The neon sign for "Starlight Lanes" flickered overhead, casting a rhythmic, sickly pink glow over the hood of the car.

​You didn't wait for the engine to stop vibrating. You lunged across the console, your fingers diving into your bag until they closed around the cold, jagged teeth of the building keys.

​"Stay with me, Steve. Just a few more steps," you gasped, your voice cracking.

​Getting him out of the car was a nightmare of gravity and slick blood. You hooked his uninjured arm over your shoulder, your knees buckling under his weight, and all but dragged him toward the glass doors. The key fumbled in the lock, metal scraping against metal, until finally—click. You burst inside, the smell of stale popcorn and floor wax hitting you like a physical wall of safety.

​You didn't stop in the lobby. You hauled him back toward Candy’s office, the small space narrow and cramped. You kicked the door open and eased him into her floral-patterned swivel chair. Steve let out a jagged, hollow groan as his back hit the seat, his head lolling to the side.

​"Don't you dare close those eyes, Harrington," you commanded, your hands shaking so violently you nearly knocked over Candy’s "World’s Okayest Boss" mug as you reached for the beige landline on her desk.

​Your fingers smeared blood across the rotary dial as you spun the numbers for emergency services. The dial seemed to take an eternity to reset after every digit.

​"Hawkins 911, what is your emergency?" a calm, almost bored voice crackled over the line.

​"I need an ambulance! And the police!" your voice came out in a frantic, high-pitched rush. "The quarry—we were at the quarry, and someone....he had a hook, he attacked us. My friend is bleeding out, he’s been stabbed in the shoulder, he—"

​"Slow down, please," the dispatcher interrupted, his voice maddeningly steady. "I need you to take a deep breath. Start from the beginning. Who am I speaking with, and what were you doing at the quarry at this hour?"

​You felt a spike of pure panic. You couldn't tell them the truth—not about the secret dates, not about the two of you being together in the dark. In 1986, that truth was its own kind of danger. You took a ragged, shaky breath, your chest heaving.

​Suddenly, a cold, damp hand reached out and squeezed yours. You looked down. Steve was watching you, his eyes hazy but focused, his fingers grounding you. That small squeeze gave you the strength to lie.

​"We were....we were just out there watching the water," you lied, your voice stabilizing into a desperate feign of innocence. "Having a smoke. We heard a noise, and Steve went to see if it was a fallen branch or an animal, and this man....he just came out of the dark. He had a hook. He went for Steve first, and then he came for me. Please, he’s losing so much blood."

​There was a long, heavy silence on the other end of the line. You could practically hear the dispatcher’s skepticism through the static. Two twenty-one-year-old guys "watching the water" at midnight didn't exactly fit the Hawkins social script, but the urgency in your voice was undeniable.

​"Units are already on the way to your location at the bowling alley," the dispatcher finally said. "Keep the victim elevated. Do not remove any bandages. Stay on the line with me."

​"I have to go," you whispered, hanging up the receiver before he could protest.

​The silence of the office rushed back in, broken only by the hum of the fluorescent light and Steve’s labored breathing. You dropped to your knees on the linoleum beside the chair, your denim jacket stained dark, your own face a mask of dried blood and grime. You reached up, gently cupping his face, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw to keep him focused on you.

​"I’m so sorry," you whispered, the guilt finally crashing over you. "I should’ve listened. We should’ve gone to your place. I shouldn't have been so stubborn about the 'story' not being real."

​Steve let out a weak, rattling laugh that turned into a wince. He leaned his head forward, resting his forehead against yours, his breath smelling of the copper tang of blood and the mint he'd had earlier.

​"Hey," he rasped, his voice barely audible. "Don't….don't do that. Besides..." He paused, a ghost of that cocky, lopsided Harrington grin flickering on his pale lips. "I would’ve missed seeing how hot you look when you're defending me. You really….you really laid into that guy, didn't you?"

​You let out a watery, broken laugh, leaning in to press your forehead harder against his. "I thought I lost you, Steve."

​"Not that easy to get rid of me," he murmured, his eyes slipping shut for a second before he forced them back open to look at you. "You’re stuck with me.”

​In the distance, the first faint wail of a siren began to cut through the Indiana rain, growing louder with every heartbeat.

The weeks that followed were a blur of sterile hospital white and the heavy, medicinal scent of antiseptic, eventually bleeding into the quiet, sun-drenched sanctuary of Steve’s bedroom. The physical wounds were healing—the swelling in your nose had subsided to a dull ache, and the angry, jagged stitches in Steve’s shoulder were finally being replaced by a thick, silver scar. But the silence of the Harrington house felt different now. Every creak of the floorboards or lash of rain against the windowpane made your heart hammer against your ribs like a trapped bird.

You were staying at his place permanently for the time being. His parents were off on another extended trip, leaving the two of you to navigate the wreckage of that night in the quiet.

The most grounding moment had come a week after the incident, when Jim Hopper had shown up at the door. He hadn’t come with a notepad or a formal attitude; he’d come with a pack of cigarettes and a heavy, weary sigh. You had sat with him on the back porch, the morning mist clinging to the trees, and for the first time, you let the mask slip. You told him everything—not just about the man in the woods, but about why you were at the quarry. You told him about the year of secrets, the midnight drives, and the fact that Steve Harrington was the only thing that made Hawkins feel like home.

Hopper had just nodded, staring out at the tree line. "I’m not in the business of ruining lives over who they love," he’d grunted, flicking ash into the grass. "I’ll write it up as a car trouble stop. The report will stay clean."

But then he’d told you the part that kept you awake at night.

"We processed the scene," Hopper had said, his voice dropping an octave. "We found your flashlight. We found the hook, too—rusted, old, covered in blood that matches Steve’s. But we didn't find any 'man.' Just a heavy trail of blood that stopped at the water’s edge. No body. No ID. Nothing."

That was the thought that irked you most. It sat in the back of your mind like a splinter. You knew what you had felt when you swung that Maglite. You knew the sound of breaking bone. But according to the Hawkins PD, you had beaten a ghost into the mud.

Now, sitting on the edge of Steve's bed, you watched him as he struggled to pull a fresh t-shirt over his head. His movements were stiff, his face scrunching in a momentary flash of pain. You stood up, reaching out to help him guide his injured arm through the sleeve.

"I've got it," you whispered, your fingers lingering on the soft cotton of the shirt—one of yours this time.

Steve leaned his weight into you, his forehead resting against your shoulder. He smelled like the expensive soap he used and the familiar, warm scent of him. "Hopper still hasn't called with anything new?" he asked, his voice muffled.

"No," you lied softly, not wanting to remind him that the woods were still holding onto their secrets. "Nothing new. Just more paperwork."

Steve pulled back just enough to look at you. The cocky spark was still there, but it was tempered by something deeper now—a shared trauma that had fused the two of you together more tightly than any secret ever could. He reached up with his good hand, his thumb tracing the slight bump on the bridge of your nose where the bone had knitted back together.

"No more quarries," he said, his voice firm. "From now on, late-night drives stay on the main roads. Under the streetlights. Somewhere with a lot of people."

"And no smoking at midnight?" you joked weakly, though your hands were still trembling slightly.

Steve let out a soft huff of a laugh, pulling you into a one-armed embrace that felt like the only safe place left in the world. "Maybe just on the porch. Within reach of a deadbolt."

The BSAA headquarters had long since surrendered to the night. The frantic energy of the day—the ringing phones, the barked orders, the hum of a hundred workstations—had bled away into a heavy, artificial silence. Desks were cleared of everything but dust. Corridors stretched out like cold, sterile veins, their lights dimmed to a ghostly blue. Every door was shut tight, sealing away the secrets of the day.

​Except for yours.

​You sat hunched over your desk, the green glow of a desk lamp carving your features into sharp shadows. Files were scattered across the scarred oak like a paper graveyard. This was your domain. Your job was to ensure that the operations Chris and his team conducted under the table stayed buried deep beneath it.

​You’d started as a field agent, a lifetime ago. You still remembered the stench of New York under Glenn Arias’s viral cloud—the heat, the screaming, and the sight of Chris Redfield cutting a path through the chaos. That was the first time you’d learned to trust someone else’s shadow more than your own.

​But a decade ago, a shattered knee and a chest full of shrapnel had traded your holster for a highlighter. It took sitting behind this desk to realize just how much heavy lifting went into keeping the public’s peace intact.

​A sharp ache throbbed in your joints, a reminder of every mile run and every hit taken. You scrubbed a hand over your face, the stubble rasping against your palm, and let out a long, ragged breath. Reaching for the ashtray, you picked up a smoldering cigarette and took a slow drag. The smoke burned, familiar and grounding, before you exhaled it into the lamplight.

​“Working yourself into an early grave? Or just waiting for the building to collapse around you?”

​The voice was gruff, weathered by years of shouting over gunfire. You didn’t even have to look up to know the weight of the man standing in the doorway.

​Chris was already shucking off his heavy leather coat, the material creaking as he tossed it toward the rack. He missed the hook, but didn't bother to fix it. He looked tired—Chris always looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and tonight, he looked like he was losing the fight.

​A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of your mouth as you watched him approach. He didn't wait for an invite; he just started rummaging through the files on the edge of your desk, his large, calloused hands moving with a restless energy.

​“Job’s never done, Chris,” you sighed, flicking ash into the glass tray. “Besides, I can't just leave this mess.”

Chris grunted in response, a low vibration that seemed to settle in the quiet of the office. He didn't move away; instead, he circled the edge of the desk with a slow, deliberate stride until he was standing directly between your spread knees. He was close—close enough that the scent of cedar, gunpowder, and expensive leather rolled off him in waves. As he leaned forward to inspect a mission manifest near your keyboard, his legs brushed against your thighs.

​You cocked an eyebrow, your gaze dropping to the way he moved. He was being purposeful, leaning down just enough to crowd your space, his frame blocking out the rest of the room. You took another slow drag of the cigarette, the cherry glowing bright in the dim light, and smirked as he finally turned his head to glance at you over his shoulder. His eyes were tired, etched with lines that hadn't been there during the Arias job, but they still held that same piercing intensity.

​“That’s going to kill you,” he grunted, his voice dropping an octave in the small space between you.

​You let out a dry, raspy chuckle, the smoke curling around your face. “You’re one to talk, Redfield.” Your mind flicked back to a decade ago—the day you were discharged from the hospital with a leg held together by pins and a stubborn refusal to let anyone help you into your apartment. You’d watched him through the window of the cab, leaning against his truck, chain-smoking through two packs in a single afternoon because he didn't know how to handle the fact that you almost didn't come home.

​“Better a cigarette than some BOW tearing my throat out,” you huffed, flicking a stray bit of ash into the tray. “At least I can control the pace of this one.”

​Chris didn't argue. Instead, he let out a sharp exhale that was almost a sigh and turned around fully. He hoisted himself up, sitting on the edge of the old oak desk with his boots dangling between your legs. He crossed his massive arms over his chest, his biceps straining against the dark fabric of his shirt. For a long moment, he just stared at you—searching for something in your expression, or perhaps just grounding himself in the fact that you were still there.

​Without breaking eye contact, he reached out. His fingers, calloused and warm, brushed against your lower lip as he took the cigarette right from your mouth. You didn't stop him. You watched as he took a long, deep drag, his chest expanding as he pulled the smoke into his lungs.

​You kicked off the floor, rolling your office chair forward until it clicked against the desk, slotting yourself firmly between his legs. The height difference put you eye-to-eye while he sat on the desk. You could feel the heat radiating off his thighs against your sides.

​Chris exhaled the smoke slowly, the grey cloud drifting between the two of you like a veil. He looked down at the cigarette, then back at you, a shadow of a smirk playing on his lips.

​“Stubborn old bastard,” he muttered, though there was no heat in it—only a tired, bone-deep affection. He leaned in closer, his knees tightening slightly against your hips, anchoring you to him in the silence of the empty headquarters.

You leaned forward, resting your cheek against the rugged denim of Chris’s thigh. One hand stayed grounded on your own lap while the other splayed flat against his abdomen. Even through the layers of his shirt, you could feel the rock-hard tension in his core—the body of a man who had never truly learned how to relax.

​“You like it,” you hummed, your voice vibrating against his leg. It wasn't a question; it was an observation of a decade-long truth.

​Chris didn't pull away. He never did. He liked the grounding weight of your hand, and he liked you—far more than he’d ever care to put into words. Admitting it meant putting a label on the overly friendly glances and the late-night disappearances. It meant acknowledging that this wasn't just two old soldiers blowing off steam, but a tether that kept him from drifting too far into the dark. And, though he’d take the secret to his grave, he’d have to admit the sex wasn't the only thing that actually made him feel human anymore.

​“Maybe,” he whispered. His voice was a low rasp as he leaned over, reaching for the ashtray. He didn't just drop the cigarette; he ground the cherry into the glass with a slow, forceful pressure, extinguishing the light until only the dim green glow of the desk lamp remained.

​He looked down, his gaze tracking the movement of your hand. You began to massage his thigh, your palm sliding up and down in a slow, rhythmic motion that you both knew by heart. It was a silent language, a countdown.

​You tilted your head back, looking up at him from your position between his knees. A ghost of a smirk played on your lips, the kind of look that only came from decades of knowing exactly which buttons to push.

​“So, Redfield,” you started, your voice dropping to a low, intimate timber. “Did you actually climb those stairs to look at the reports? Or were you just hoping I was in the mood for something else?”

​You already knew the answer. You could feel it in the way his breathing hitched, the way his knees tightened almost imperceptibly against your sides, pinning you in place. The reports were just a paper-thin excuse, a ritual they both performed before the inevitable.

​Chris didn't answer immediately. He reached down, his large hand cupping the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a surprising amount of pressure. His eyes were dark, focused entirely on you.

​“The reports can wait until morning,” he growled.

​The air in the room seemed to vanish. You knew how this ended—it always ended the same way. In a few minutes, the scattered files would be swiped onto the floor, the old oak desk would be creaking under the weight of two grown men, and the silence of the BSAA would be broken by the sound of muffled groans and the desperate calling of one another’s names.

You leaned down further, the heat of your breath ghosting through the heavy denim of his pants. Your lips brushed the hard line of the bulge beneath the fabric, and the reaction was instantaneous.

​Chris let out a ragged, strangled groan, his boots scraping against the floor as his legs clamped tight around your shoulders, pinning you into his space.

​“Don’t,” he huffed, his voice cracking. It was a half-hearted command, more a plea than an order, and you both knew it.

​You looked up at him, a wicked glint in your eyes that only decades of shared trauma and survival could forge. You knew Chris’s patience for teasing had thinned out as the years piled up. The older he got, the more he just wanted the release—the blunt, honest grounding of your body against his.

​“Remember that night after Arias?” you murmured, pausing to press a slow, deliberate kiss against the ridge of him. You felt him shudder under your touch. “I was so damn worried you’d caught something, or that Arias had done more damage than you were letting on. But all you wanted—the second we were behind a closed door—was for me to take it out on you.”

​You chuckled, the sound low and resonant against his thigh. “Pretty sure Rebecca caught on, too. The way you were looking at me on the helicopter….you weren’t exactly subtle, Redfield.”

​Chris rolled his eyes, a rough, breathless sound escaping his throat. One of his massive hands found its way into your hair, his fingers threading through the strands and tightening into a firm, anchoring grip. His other hand slammed flat against the edge of the desk, his knuckles white as he braced himself.

​“Funny,” he managed, a dry, gravelly chuckle breaking through his composure. “Memory’s getting hazy in your old age. I’m pretty sure I was the one who fucked you that night.”

​He looked down at you then, his gaze heavy with a hunger that had been building since the moment he walked through the door.

You finally pushed off the floor, the movement drawing a protest from your stiff joints, but you ignored it as you stood between his knees. Chris didn't move an inch; he just watched you with an intensity that could have set the room on fire. As you rose, your lips found his in a collision that was both desperate and deeply familiar. His hands moved instinctively, finding a firm perch on your hips, his thumbs digging into the bone as he pulled you flush against the edge of the desk.

​He mumbled something against your mouth—a low, gravelly string of words lost in the friction of the kiss—but the specifics didn't matter. What mattered was the taste of him. He tasted of stale cigarette smoke, the bite of cheap whiskey he must have had earlier, and something else that defied everything: he tasted like home. It was a strange, almost a soft thought for a man in your line of work, but in a world of bioweapons and collapsing governments, everything always led back to him. He was your only north star.

​“Let me take it slow,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to let the words brush against his lips. You watched his pupils blown wide in the dim light. “I know you like it when I take my time with you.”

​Chris let out a long, shuddering breath, his head falling back slightly. His fingers twitched against your skin, eventually sliding beneath the hem of your shirt. His touch was rough, calloused from decades of holding a rifle, but there was a hidden gentleness there that he saved only for you.

​“Mmm,” he hummed, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. “You’ve had enough years to figure that out.”

​You slid your hand under his shirt, your palm hot against the landscape of his torso. You traced the hard, familiar lines of muscle that hadn't softened with age, moving upward until you felt the heavy thud of his heart. At the same time, his fingers were tracing the raised, jagged lines of the scars on your chest—souvenirs from the injury that had ended your field career.

​“I like knowing you, Chris,” you said softly, a genuine smile tugging at your mouth as you leaned in to press your forehead against his. “Every inch. Every new scar.”

​Chris’s grip on your hips tightened, his knuckles brushing against your belt. The exhaustion that usually clouded his face seemed to lift, replaced by a raw, quiet vulnerability. For a moment, he wasn't the commander of Hound Wolf or the man who had seen too many friends die. He was just a man who was tired of being alone.

​“Then keep going,” he rasped, his eyes locking onto yours. “The world’s not going to end in the next twenty minutes.”

Your mouth moved over his with a languid, deep rhythm, exploring the familiar terrain of his lips and the rough scrape of his stubble. Chris’s hands stayed low on your back, his palms broad and warm, pulling you closer until there wasn't a breath of air left between your chests.

​Slowly, almost tentatively, your fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt. You worked them one by one, your knuckles brushing against the dark hair of his chest. Each time a button gave way, you’d pause to press a kiss to the newly exposed skin—the hollow of his throat, the top of his sternum, the hard curve of a pectoral. Chris let out a low, shaky breath, his head falling back against his shoulder.

​When the shirt was finally open, you peeled it back, letting it drape off his shoulders. He didn't let it stay there for long; with a shrug of his heavy frame, the garment fluttered to the floor, forgotten among the files.

​Now it was his turn. Chris’s movements were deliberate as he reached for the hem of your shirt. His eyes stayed locked on yours, searching, an unspoken question in the brown depths. You nodded slightly, and he pulled the fabric up and over your head in one smooth motion. The cool air of the office hit your skin, but the chill didn't last long before Chris’s hands were back, his palms splaying over the scars on your chest and ribs. He traced them like a map he’d memorized long ago, his touch reverent.

​“Still here,” he muttered against your collarbone, his voice thick with a sudden, raw emotion.

​“Always,” you breathed back.

​You moved to his belt next. The metallic clink of the buckle sounded loud in the silence. You worked the leather through the loops, the sound of the zipper following shortly after. Chris stood up just enough to help you slide the heavy trousers down his legs. He stepped out of them, leaving him standing there in nothing but his dark boxers, his physique still formidable, though marked by the decades of war he’d waged.

​You stood before him, shirtless and exposed, looking at the man who had been the constant in your life for more than twenty years. The green light of the desk lamp caught the silver in his hair and the deep lines of his muscles. He looked less like the legendary hero and more like the man you loved—tired, scarred, but entirely yours.

​Chris reached out, his hands curling around your bare waist, pulling you back into the space between his thighs. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply.

​“God, I needed this,” he confessed, his voice a muffled rumble against your skin. “I needed you.”

“Needed me?” You rasped. “Or wanted me?”

Chris’s grip on your waist tightened, his fingers sinking into your skin as if he were trying to anchor himself to the only solid thing left in his world.

​He pulled back just an inch, his face still ghosting against the side of your neck. His breath was hot and uneven. He didn't answer right away; instead, he tilted his head, his forehead coming to rest against yours. In the dim, green-tinted shadows, his eyes looked like bruised glass—haunted, but softening as they focused on you.

​“Both,” he finally rasped, the word vibrating between you. “It’s always been both. I want you until it hurts, but I need you because you’re the only one who remembers who I was before all this started. Before I became whatever the hell the BSAA thinks I am now.”

​He let out a sharp, self-deprecating huff of air—the ghost of a laugh that didn't quite make it—and his hands slid from your waist down to the backs of your thighs. With a sudden, surprising burst of strength that reminded you he was still more than capable of handling himself, he hooked his arms under your legs and hoisted you up.

​You let out a low grunt of surprise, your hands instinctively flying to his broad shoulders to steady yourself. He sat you back onto the edge of the desk, right on top of the scattered files and mission reports. The paper crinkled and slid beneath you, some of it fluttering to the floor like autumn leaves, but neither of you cared.

​He moved back into the space between your knees, his bare chest pressing against yours. The contact was electric—skin on skin, heat on heat. You could feel every ridge of his muscle, every throb of his heart against your own. He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his voice dropping to a gravelly, dangerous velvet.

​“You’ve been in my head all day,” he admitted, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip. “Thinking about you in here. Thinking about how much I wanted to shut that door and see if you still looked at me the same way after everything I’ve done lately.”

​You reached up, cupping his face, your thumb smoothing over the rough stubble of his jaw. “I’ve known you for twenty years, Chris. A few more secrets aren't going to change the way I look at you.”

​A ghost of a smile finally touched his lips—a real one this time. He didn't say anything else. He didn't need to. He leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was no longer slow or tentative. It was hungry, demanding, and filled with the desperation of a man who had finally found his way back to the only shore that mattered.

Chris’s hands were steady but urgent as he helped you out of your pants, his fingers lingering for a second too long on the jagged, raised scar that ran across your knee. It was the mark of the day your life had changed, the day he’d almost lost you to a world that didn't care about its heroes. He pressed a silent, reverent kiss to the damaged skin there before rising back up to capture your mouth again.

​He tasted like a man who was starving, his kisses deep and demanding. Even when you placed your hands against his broad chest and pushed back slightly, he followed the motion, reluctant to lose the contact. You slid off the desk, your bare feet meeting the cold floor, but the chill didn't stand a chance against the heat radiating off him.

​Now, it was your turn to take control.

​You reached for the waistband of his boxers, your knuckles brushing against the coarse hair of his lower stomach. Chris let out a hitch in his breath, his hands falling to your shoulders to steady himself as you peeled the last layer of fabric away. He stepped out of them, standing before you completely exposed—a man made of scars, heavy muscle, and a weariness that only you were allowed to soothe.

​With a firm press against his shoulders, you pushed him back. He moved easily, his weight settling against the edge of the oak desk once more. The wood creaked under his frame, and he gripped the edge of the table behind him, his biceps bulging and veins standing out in his forearms as he watched you with hooded, burning eyes.

​You didn't rush. You wanted to map him, to reclaim every inch of him after his months away in the field. You started low, your hands roaming the heavy, powerful columns of his thighs. Your lips followed, trailing hot, lingering kisses over the rough skin of his legs, moving slowly upward. You felt him shudder, a low vibration in his muscles that told you exactly how much he’d missed this.

​You moved to his abdomen, your tongue tracing the ridges of his core, feeling the way his stomach muscles jumped and tightened under your touch. You worked your way up, your lips ghosting over the old bullet wounds and surgical scars that littered his chest like a history of every war he’d ever fought.

​“You’re still a masterpiece, Chris,” you murmured against his skin, your voice muffled by the heat of his body.

​You moved to his arms, kissing the thick bicep where the BSAA patch usually sat, then up to the broad span of his collarbone. He tasted of salt and the lingering scent of his own musk. Finally, you moved back up to his face, cupping his jaw with both hands. His stubble rasped against your palms as you pulled him down for a kiss that was no longer a question, but a promise.

​Chris let out a broken sound—half-groan, half-sob—and pulled you into the space between his legs, his forehead crashing against yours.

​“You’re the only thing that’s real,” he rasped, his eyes searching yours for the stability he lacked everywhere else. “The only thing that hasn’t changed.”

You took a single, small step back, the fabric of your boxers slipping down your legs until they pooled on the floor. A sudden shudder rippled through your spine as the stale, chilled air of the office hit your exposed skin, but the cold didn't last.

​Chris didn't let it.

​His hands were already moving, his fingers hooking into your waist with a proprietary grip that broached no argument. He pulled you back into the heat of his body, and the moment your cock brushed against his, a low, guttural sound bubbled in your throat. The friction was a jolt of pure electricity, a reminder of exactly how long it had been since you’d felt this specific, heavy weight against you.

​You leaned in, pulling Chris back into a kiss that was messy and desperate, your tongue tangling with his as your heart hammered against your ribs. While one hand stayed anchored on the solid muscle of his shoulder, the other reached out blindly, sliding open the top drawer of the oak desk. Your fingers brushed past pens and official stamps until they found the familiar square of a foil wrapper.

​You set it on the desk with a faint crinkle, your other hand sweeping a stack of mission reports and personnel files out of the way to make room. The sound of paper hitting the floor was the only thing breaking the silence. You broke the kiss, the air between you tasting of whiskey and heat, and firmly turned Chris around.

​He went willingly, though his breath was coming in short, ragged hitches. You pushed him forward until his chest was flush against the edge of the desk, his large hands gripping the wood so hard his knuckles turned white. You ran your palms down the broad expanse of his back, your nails dragging just enough to leave faint red tracks against his skin. You followed the movement with your lips, pressing burning kisses down the length of his spine and across the powerful flare of his shoulder blades.

​“Don’t tease me,” Chris breathed, the words more of a plea than a command. A small, broken moan escaped his lips as his erect cock brushed against the cold, hard edge of the desk. “I’ve had a long goddamn week….just give me this.”

​You responded with a lingering kiss to the sensitive nape of his neck, your breath hot against his skin. You reached for the condom, the silver foil crinkling loudly in the quiet office. With a practiced motion, you tore the wrapper and rolled the latex over yourself.

​You let out a soft, shaky breath, your eyes briefly locking with Chris’s as he looked over his shoulder. In the dim green light, his brown eyes were dark with a raw, stripping vulnerability. He wasn't the commander right now; he wasn't the legend. He was just a man looking for the only person who knew how to put him back together.

​“I’ve got you, Chris,” you whispered, your voice thick with a promise that spanned decades.

You stepped closer, your thighs caging his as you guided the head of your cock to his entrance. Chris’s back was a broad, tense map of muscle beneath your gaze, his skin shimmering with a fine sheen of sweat in the dim lamp light.

​Slowly, with a hand anchored firmly on each of his hips, you began to push. You were gentle, your thumbs rubbing steady, grounding circles into the meat of his waist as you eased the tip past the initial, stubborn resistance of his muscle. You felt him hitch, a sharp intake of breath hitching in his throat, and you paused, leaning over him until your chest was flush against his back. The contact was a brand—hot skin on hot skin, the rapid thud of your heart echoing against his spine.

​With one final, deliberate thrust, you bottomed out.

​Chris let out a long, fractured moan that vibrated through both of your bodies. His head dropped, his forehead pressing into the cool wood of the desk as he worked to find his breath. One of his hands reached back blindly, fumbling until his fingers laced tightly with yours, his grip almost bruising. You stayed perfectly still, anchored inside the heat of him, letting his body stretch and accommodate the sudden fullness.

​He felt incredible—tight, pulsing, and impossibly warm. After a moment, the tension in his shoulders began to bleed away, replaced by a restless, demanding energy. He pushed back against you, his hips seeking the friction he’d been craving all night.

​“Move,” he grumbled, the word muffled against the desk but vibrating with a raw, low-timbered authority.

​It wasn't a suggestion; it was a need. You let out a shaky breath, your forehead resting against the nape of his neck, and began the first, slow pull. The sensation of him clenching around you was nearly enough to break your composure.

​“Easy, Chris,” you whispered, your voice thick and raspy. “We’ve got all night. Nowhere else to be.”

​You thrust back in, deeper this time, the sound of skin meeting skin slapping wetly in the quiet office. Chris let out a choked sound, his fingers digging into the desk until the old oak groaned under the pressure.

You kept the pace slow and agonizingly deliberate, your hips rolling into his with a languid power. Every time you bottomed out, you lingered for a heartbeat, pressing your lips against the damp skin of his shoulder blades or the heated column of his neck.

​“That’s it, Chris….take it all,” you whispered against his ear, your voice a low, gravelly vibration that made him shiver. “You’re doing so good for me. Just like that.”

​The praises seemed to strip away the last of his professional veneer. Chris let out a jagged breath, his back arching like a bow as he pushed back blindly, his body seeking the blunt force of you. When you angled your hips just right, driving upward so the head of your cock dragged directly over his prostate, the reaction was violent.

​Chris let out a choked, strangled moan, his head snapping back as his eyes rolled shut. His hand, still laced with yours, squeezed with enough force to make your bones ache, anchoring himself to the sensation.

​“Fuck….” he groaned, the word breaking in the middle.

​You could feel the slick heat of his pre-cum dripping onto the scattered files beneath him, the scent of sex and salt filling the small radius of the desk lamp’s glow. He was completely undone, his body trembling under the weight of a pleasure he usually denied himself.

​“You like that, don’t you?” you breathed, your thumbs tracing the protruding bones of his hips as you picked up the pace just a fraction. “Knowing I’ve got you. Knowing you don’t have to think about anything else.”

​Chris didn't answer with words—he couldn't. Instead, he let out a long, shuddering sob of a breath and ground his hips back against yours, a silent, desperate plea for you to stop holding back.

You didn't break the connection immediately, savoring the way his heat clung to you as you finally pulled out. The wet, sliding sound was loud in the quiet office, punctuated by Chris’s sharp, hitching breath.

​Before he could even think about moving, you caught his waist, guiding him to turn around. He was pliant in your hands, his movements heavy and uncoordinated as he shifted his weight. You gripped his thighs and hoisted him up, seating him firmly on the edge of the scarred oak. His legs instinctively fell open, wrapping around your hips to pull you back into the space between them.

​You didn't wait. You lined yourself up and began to sink back into him, the tip of your cock stretching him open once more. Chris let out a low, vibrating sound—halfway between a growl and a sob—as he felt the familiar fullness returning.

​His hands shot up, his large, calloused fingers digging into the meat of your shoulders. He didn't just touch you; he anchored himself to you, his knuckles white as he hauled you downward. He met you halfway in a kiss that was bruising and desperate, his tongue Tangling with yours as his mouth tasted of salt and the lingering smoke of the night.

​You thrusted deep, your hips hitting his with a solid, fleshy thud that echoed in the empty room. The desk creaked under the combined weight, more files sliding off the edge to join the wreckage on the floor, but neither of you blinked. Chris’s head thrashed back for a second, his teeth bared in a silent snarl of pleasure before he pulled you back in, his legs locking tight around your waist to force you deeper.

​“Stay right there,” he rasped against your lips, his voice broken and raw. “Don’t you dare stop.”

​Every thrust was a reclamation. You watched his face—the way the shadows of the office carved out the lines of his exhaustion and the intensity of his focus. He looked at you like you were the only thing keeping the walls from caving in, his grip on your shoulders never wavering as you drove into him, steady and relentless.

Chris’s body went rigid beneath yours, his head snapping back as a guttural, primal sound tore from his throat. You felt his internal muscles clench around you in a series of rhythmic, demanding pulses that nearly sent you over the edge instantly. His back arched, his heels digging into the wood of the desk as he came, the heat of his release smearing between your pressed-together abdomens, slick and hot in the narrow space between your bodies.

​The friction, the heat, and the raw vulnerability of Chris coming apart in your arms were too much to withstand. You leaned him back further against the desk, your hands moving from his shoulders to the top of the oak surface to brace yourself. Your thrusts became heavy and uncoordinated—sloppy, desperate lunges as you chased your own peak.

​The world narrowed down to the sound of skin slapping against skin and the frantic, shallow gasps for air. Then, with a low, ragged groan that felt like it started in your marrow, you hit your own climax. You rode it out with a few final, deep thrusts, your vision blurring as the pleasure washed over you in waves, grounding you into the solid, shaking man beneath you.

​The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of your combined, heaving breaths. Your strength seemed to evaporate all at once. Your forehead dropped against Chris’s damp chest, the coarse hair and the scent of salt and smoke acting as a pillow. Your heart hammered against his ribs in a frantic, uneven duet.

​Slowly, with a lingering reluctance, you pulled back. The cool air of the office rushed back into the space you had occupied, a sharp contrast to the heat of the last few minutes. You eased yourself out of him, the wet sound of the separation echoing in the quiet room.

​With shaking fingers, you reached down and peeled the condom off, the latex snapping softly. You sat there for a moment, still boxed in by his legs, your forehead still resting against his sternum as you both waited for your heart rates to return to something resembling normal. Chris’s hands, which had been gripping your shoulders so tightly, slid down to rest loosely on your lower back, his fingers twitching in a slow, post-orgasmic daze.

Chris’s chest rose and fell in a slow, deep rhythm beneath your forehead, his skin cooling as the sweat began to dry. He didn't move to get up, and neither did you; for a long moment, the only thing that mattered was the warmth of his body and the steady thrum of his pulse.

​Eventually, Chris cleared his throat, the sound a low, gravelly vibration that rattled through your own chest. He shifted slightly, his calloused hands sliding up from your lower back to cup the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the base of your skull with an uncharacteristic softness.

​“So,” he started, his voice thick and weathered. He cleared his throat again, trying to find his commander’s tone and failing miserably. He sounded like a man who had just been reminded he was human. “The million-dollar question. You coming home with me tonight? Or are you going to stay here and finish burying these reports so the brass doesn't have a heart attack in the morning?”

​You didn't pull away. Instead, you let out a soft, tired chuckle, the sound muffled against his damp skin. You shifted your head just enough to press a lingering, tender kiss to his collarbone before looking up at him. In the dim, emerald glow of the desk lamp, Chris looked every bit his age—the lines around his eyes were deeper, the silver in his hair more prominent—but to you, he just looked like the man who had kept you alive for twenty years.

​You leaned up, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was a world away from the desperate hunger of a few minutes ago. This one was slow, tasting of a shared promise and a long-overdue rest.

​“The reports can wait for the morning,” you whispered against his lips, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “I’d like nothing more than to go home with you, Chris.”

​Chris let out a long, relieved breath, his eyes closing for a second as he leaned his forehead against yours. A faint, real smirk touched his face—the kind of look he only ever saved for you.

​“Good,” he muttered, his grip on your neck tightening just enough to pull you back in for one more quick, firm kiss. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m too old to be sleeping on an office chair, and I’m definitely not leaving here without you.”