and fuck, if that didn't give her the WEAKEST knees.

she would have taken right over liked any day, and most didn't agree with her, but wesley? lived it, breathed it, would show off just to make a point of it, how true that stuck with him. that's not something she's willing to admit to, even as she's winding closer, that laugh, sleep worn, sliding from her lips. "do you know how much my tights cost? believe me, i think we might be far more equitable in this exchange than you know it to be." oh. his years working the commentary booth really did make a clever man out of him in a way that would make her swoon if she could get past admitting that his personality wasn't the worst. it certainly wasn't now, as she sipped at her coffee and made a face. it's perfect. there's nothing to pull as a complaint or a snappy comment, she just drinks it, and feels a WARMTH that she didn't expect.

she flirts, he demurs, like, he's remembered before she did to behave. as if there's much room for that when she's wearing his clothes and he's wearing her enthusiasm, it all feels like a MOOT POINT to her. at least she can laugh at the idea, brows raising. "somehow, i think this is more of a reddit then a reporters speculative moment." though, she could tell that they were all too candid amongst themselves, wait - a reminder. god, this was a bad idea, even when she's finding it easier to know where to go in his place, how she knows where to get glasses, or the way to his bathroom in the dark. the small things that a girl could overdose on if she was looking to cope, but blair...

she likes to think she's more practical than that. a girl who's been more measured, always, than someone willing to sleep with their clients. she knew it'd be explosively difficult if it were to come out, that they'd need to do something, statements made, lines re-drawn. but why did she want this not to STOP, that she was enjoying the way that they'd wrap up in a room, with her stone faced while his got red, the both of them utter opposites when dealing with the public, and one another. this? was the abnormality, the thing that didn't fit, making her laugh, easily, at the idea. "i don't know . you kind of have a wicked tongue yourself, and no, not just in that way." brows raising, a scoff. she's the one projecting. she can't help that part.

because even a small part of her, that was alive, and there, couldn't help but feel like for once, she was the one that perhaps didn't measure up. who couldn't hold it together, who lacked the something that might have made her so easily the right choice. but blair's never really been around anyone who was even slightly competent, on their best days. the rich were so often loaded up with DYSFUNCTION, and nepotism ruined so many things. it made meeting someone who did have it together so... difficult to know what to do with, if she's more honest. she's so used to the upper hand, it all being a competition, a game to be won, that this?

oh god, she'd never been equipped for anything like this in the FIRST PLACE. and as a result, she's floundering, pulling at the edge of his shirt. "well, i'll take that under advisement. does this mean if we end up at my much more enjoyable place by the way-" he's been over a handful of times. kitty minky had decided he was acceptable company. "you might have to walk out in one of my little numbers, we might find that you too happen to be a better fit." the grin's hard to fight. shit. this is getting bad for her. "did you have to go somewhere early today?"

There was something unfair about watching Blair try to convince herself she still had the upper hand while she stood in his kitchen wearing one of his shirts and drinking a cup of coffee he hadn't needed to think twice about making. Wes had spent most of his adult life reading people before they ever opened their mouths. Hockey had demanded it first, journalism had sharpened it later, and somewhere in between he had developed an almost irritating ability to recognize the things people were trying very hard not to admit. Blair was brilliant at building arguments that could dismantle anyone else's certainty, but when it came to herself, she relied on the same carefully constructed logic with all the desperation of someone trying to hold back the tide with legal precedent. He could see it every time she laughed a fraction too quickly or disguised sincerity beneath another clever remark, and there were mornings like this when he wondered if she realized he had stopped believing her excuses a long time ago.

Her comment about the tights drew another laugh from him, richer this time, his shoulders lifting with quiet surrender. "Then I suppose I'll need an itemized invoice," he replied easily. "I wouldn't want my attorney accusing me of undervaluing damages." His eyes followed the expression that crossed her face after she took another sip of coffee, and satisfaction settled over him with embarrassing ease. She hadn't found anything to criticize. That alone felt like winning a negotiation neither of them had realized they were having.

He's unable to hide the grin tugging at his mouth. "You're probably right. The reporters would at least have the decency to call somebody before making something up. Reddit would have me secretly engaged by lunchtime and divorced before dinner." It was said lightly, but the image lingered in the back of his mind longer than he expected, disappearing only when he caught himself wandering too far down a road neither of them had been willing to name.

"I don't know," he mused. "I think I'd struggle to do your wardrobe justice." He let her have it, winning a smile that widened with every ticking moment. The question she asked lingered in the air between them, softer than the teasing that had come before it, and Wes found himself glancing toward the windows where the skyline stretched out beneath the morning sun. His calendar wasn't empty. It seldom was. There was a production meeting before noon, an interview to record later that afternoon, and a charity board call he had been trying to postpone for the better part of a week. Any other morning, he would already have been dressed in something presentable instead of leaning against the counter in sweatpants, mentally sorting through the day's obligations before his first cup of coffee had cooled.

"I do," he admitted after a moment, though there wasn't a trace of annoyance in his voice. "Meeting at the studio in a couple of hours. They want me to pretend I haven't already formed an opinion on a trade that's going to dominate the next news cycle." He smiled to himself, rubbing absentmindedly at the back of his neck before his attention settled on her again. "I've gotten very good at looking thoughtful on camera while producers whisper in my ear that controversy drives ratings."

His gaze softened almost imperceptibly as it rested on her, taking in the oversized shirt she'd already claimed as her own, the mug cradled between her hands, the easy way she had begun occupying his space without asking permission. Somewhere along the way, the condo had stopped feeling quite so cavernous on mornings like this. The silence that had once settled over it after interview, every broadcast, every public appearance now had someone to answer it, even if only for a handful of hours before reality came knocking out.

that was the FIRST TIME they slept together, too. go figure. they both liked to win.

it's just to blow off steam, they insist. only it repeats, in odd cycles. blair getting pissed and annoyed, and wesley knowing just what buttons to press, it goes hot and cold and judging from last night, things are burning right up again. it's funny though, how when she opened her eyes up in these aftermath mornings, how it felt more defined by the quiet. the calm. the way his place seemed like a beautiful museum with nobody to admire its contents, telling him as much, that this place was lonely, one day. only to find he'd hung a piece of art for her the next time in the room she'd take her calls if the stay was a more EXTENDED weekend affair. blair doesn't know what to name this, the feeling, the sentiment. she'd never been with anybody who was both as mature, and had their lives together as wesley... who also in turn had the temper that would have made any fresh up and comer blush.

she woke, this time, alone. she could hear his presence somewhere within the depths of his new york luxury condo ; she never understood the appeal of these over a classic brownstone, but that was the nostalgic lover in blair, who had come here as a child from spain to see the beauty of new york, felt it capture something in her. he'd be making coffee by now, likely already woke up and had a work out and this was his come down. the shower was likely already done, too, which, ( too bad ), and as she eyed her things on the floor from last night, she'd come equipped for a night out. she slipped from here to his closet, pulling out a shirt, all of them kept pristine. was she really SURPRISED by that? pulling it up and over her head, knowing that if he even slightly looked at her funny for doing this, she'd already be blurting out that she'd pay for it, not wanting for a second to look like she'd been... what. been feeling affectionate in this?

the shirt smells like him. she wants to take it home, that quiet fantasy life that blair was so good at making up helping to justify the mistakes being made in the way they were coming together like this at all. her firm would skewer her. she might have questions about her license. the longer this went on, the worse it became, the harder it was to EXTRACT herself... oh... and the idea of even asking him if she should stop and transfer off of his account felt like too much. like admitting that she couldn't just turn back from this anymore, a fact almost solidified when looking at him as she slipped, entranced, towards the kitchen, blearily peering at him through sleep-slick eyes, rubbing beneath them tiredly as she found the coffee he'd made, the sounds of his voice bordering the offer. fuck.

maybe it was TOO LATE for her.

blair felt like a hypcrite of the utmost form. this was the kind of shit she'd give serena if she were in this situation. god. it was right there in the statement itself, that this was a scenario that serena would have been in, which in and of itself was a RED FLAG. "morning-" her voice drawled as she stepped into the space to claim the coffee, eyeing him almost with a sudden sense of wariness, knowing well that when their clothes came back on, their words both ended up sharper then they meant them to be sometimes. "i'm claiming this shirt as compensation for the tights you ripped last night." well. that she could at least use to get ahead of any embarrassing claims of her wanting to wear his clothes. "... and i suppose this..." another step, a kiss pressed there, to the corner of his mouth, that almost, almost, that she seemed to excel at. "... this is mine for biting too hard. don't worry. those bruises will be gone in a week~"

Wesley watched her emerge from the hallway over the rim of his own coffee mug. Despite every intention he'd ever had of keeping some semblance of distance between them, he felt the familiar, quiet satisfaction settle somewhere beneath his ribs. She had stolen another of his shirts. It hung looser on her than it ever had on him, sleeves brushing her hands, the hem disappearing well past where it was meant to end. He found himself thinking, not for the first time, that she looked as though she belonged there. It was a dangerous thought, one he refused to entertain for more than a heartbeat before shoving it aside with the same practiced discipline that had once carried him through twenty professional seasons. Unfortunately, discipline had always deserted him where Blair was concerned.

Her greeting pulled a smile from him before he could stop it, and when she reached for the mug he'd already prepared exactly the way she liked it, he caught the faint look of realization that crossed her face. She had noticed. Of course she had. Blair noticed everything, which made it all the more impossible to pretend that remembering the smallest details about her was meaningless. Wes couldn't have told another journalist how they took their coffee if his life depended on it, but he knew Blair's order as instinctively as he knew the route from his apartment to Madison Square Garden. Somewhere along the line it had stopped being information he'd retained and become habit, the sort that formed only after enough morning spent paying attention.

Her comment about the shirt earned a low laugh, the sound warm enough to soften the sharp edges that so often defined the spaces between them once daylist arrived. He leaned back against the counter, folding his arms loosely across his chest as his eyes traveled over the oversized fabric she was already laying claim to. "Compensation?" He echoed, amusement tugging at one corner of his mouth. "That shirt costs considerably more than a pair of tights, counselor. I think you're getting the better end of that settlement." There was a familiarity to the joke that came too easily, slipping between them with the ease of people who had long since memorized one another's rhythms, even if neither of them had been brave enough to ask what that meant.

She stepped closer. The kiss landed against the corner of his mouth with enough restraint to be almost innocent, which somehow made it infinitely more dangerous than anything that had happened the night before. Wes stayed perfectly still for the briefest moment after she pulled away, his eyes lingering on her face while she delivered her teasing remark about the bruises she'd left behind. His hand lifted almost absentmindedly to the side of his neck, fingertips brushing over the faint tenderness there before he let out a quiet breath through his nose. "Occupational hazard," he murmured, his voice threaded with dry humor. "I'm retired now. Gives the reporters something new to speculate about."

He held her gaze for another second longer than he probably should have before shaking his head with the faintest smile, the kind that always seemed to appear around her despite his best efforts. It amazed him how effortlessly they could move between sarcasm and silence, between arguments that could level buildings and mornings that felt impossibly gentle. The contradiction should have exhausted him. It had only become the part he anticipated the most.