#raceforwomen

PROLOGUE

Bruce Wayne was seven years old when he first stood on a stage.

He’s always liked The Lion King. He’d watched it countless times—so much so that the tape had stayed in the VHS player in the playroom for a whole year. The tie-in books were his favorites whenever his dad could read him before bedtime, right before he fell asleep snuggling his Simba stuffie. Some nights, he would dream of golden savannas and purple skies and red-billed hornbills flying overhead. His mother swore she found him humming what sounded like Hakuna Matata in his sleep once.

So when he saw it live for the first time—the first time he saw anything live—so early even in his childhood… It changed his life. Rafiki’s opening chant cut through the quiet theatre, and the choir sounded so grand, he felt it in his bones as he buzzed in his seat. The animals came out—elephant and rhino trodding down the aisle, passing right by him—so unlike the animated pictures he grew to love but so enchanting all the same. The golden savannas and rising sun and grassland creatures coming to life before him.

At the end of the show, someone made a speech and called his parents onto the stage. He didn’t understand much of it then—something about supporting arts and renaming the Minskoff Theater into Wayne Theater. Bruce didn’t pay it any mind; he was too busy marveling at the ‘animals’ next to him. Life-sized puppets attached to the actors, like an extension of their bodies. The man who played Simba caught him staring, and when he nodded, the lion’s head on top of his moved, too.

And as his mother and father shook hands with people after the curtains closed, Bruce was more interested in the chaos that ensued on the wings. People with headsets and clipboards milling around, little red and green lights blinking on panels, thick ropes that held the golden sun together… 

These were the things that brought his dreams to life.

***

Bruce Wayne was eight years old when he swore off the stage.

He’d just lost his parents—gone forever, just like that—and he had to stand by as the police commissioner made a speech. He didn’t really hear a word of it—just the shutters of cameras and blitzes of the flash. And the rare clear sky over Gotham that morning. The warmth doesn’t feel comforting.

And standing on a platform in front of Wayne Tower, with no wings or curtains framing the stage… It's a cruel awakening, knowing that nothing held this fragment of reality up. No suspension of disbelief, no strings or ropes holding this surreal scene together.

It’s a nightmare that stood on its own. And Bruce had nowhere to run.

He just squeezed Alfred’s hand tighter, wishing the curtains would close on him. Any minute now.

It never did.

***

ACT ONE

Bruce Wayne was twenty one years old when he found himself backstage at his university’s theater space.

It was his own stupid fault, really. He meant to sign up for Theater Studies as an elective, a critical textual analysis of classic and contemporary plays. But instead, he accidentally clicked on Theater Production, which was a practice-based class where they would collaborate with the Acting program. By the time he’d mustered the courage to switch classes, it was already time to choose which department to join for their final project, a full production of a classic or contemporary play. 

Hence Bruce, ever so quiet and invisible and withdrawn from classroom discussions, was mapping out a costume inventory list in a little corner in the wings.

It’s strange, a backstage area that’s not fully active. Just a few of his classmates in the art department and the stage management team. People coming and going for the auditions this late Sunday morning. Different interpretations of the same monologues performed in the background, on the stage. He didn’t mind it; at least the attention was not on him, this time.

He tidied up his notes and his copy of the design sketches, maybe he could get a cup of coffee while he worked—

“Fuck!” a girl crashed right into his shoulder, sending his notebook flying. She dove down and scrambled for the scattered pages before he could see her face. “Shit…”

And yet, the first thing that came out of Bruce’s mouth is, “Sorry.”

She looked up, meeting his evading eyes. “What? No, I’m sorry. It’s… the nerves.”

“Are you auditioning?”

She looked towards the stage, where a guy was performing his monologue, grand and dramatic and just a tad over-the-top, and then nodded at the boy in front of her—as if embarrassed, almost.

“Good luck.” Bruce managed a smile, although he was sure she knew it’s out of courtesy more than anything else.

But the smile she returned was genuine, almost amused, and he wondered if he said something wrong. Or maybe there’s something on his face?

“Isn’t it bad luck to say good luck in the theater?” She handed the stack of papers back to him.

Right, Bruce internally kicked himself. “Sorry. Break a leg…?”

She nodded as she got back up on her feet. “That’s more like it.”

“Thanks, you too.” Bruce walked away, mentally kicking himself once again for that nonsensical response. He skulked along the corner aisle, quietly making his way towards the exit. Only stopping when he heard a familiar voice introducing herself on the stage.

The girl who sent his work flying. 

“And who are you auditioning for today?” Marc, the director, asked.

“Hamlet.”

There’s a brief pause as he took a good look at her, for a moment thinking she’d misheard him. “Uh… yeah, what role?”

“Hamlet,” she confirmed without missing a beat, as if it’s the most obvious thing ever.

Another pause between Marc and Angela, the stage manager, exchanging subtle looks of surprise. They leaned into a hushed discussion—they weren’t expecting that. But now that the possibility was presented in front of them, safe to say they were… curious.

“Alright. Whenever you’re ready.” Marc ultimately decided.

The girl on the stage nodded gamely, taking a deep breath, and Bruce found himself intrigued too, leaning against the velvety walls of the auditorium. And then, simply, almost matter-of-factly, she spoke.

“To be or not to be,” she asked, to everyone and no one in particular. And upon the silence replying back to her, she hummed. “That is the question: whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to…” her mouth twisted in distaste, “...suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” she paused again, and just like that, her features softened, as if presenting a much preferred option, “or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing… end them?”

Bruce—along with everyone else in that room, he’s sure—didn’t know what to expect. The prospect of a female Hamlet was so far off of the production concept that the team had come up with; so teeming with rage and male bravado. But there she was. In a black dress, so calm, almost catatonic in her grief, so understated, so unlike what everyone imagined. And yet, so true to the text that it didn’t feel like Shakespeare anymore.

It was hers. Her own contemplation whether to live, or…

“To die.” she smiled ruefully. She looked out towards the audience and caught Bruce’s gaze, as if finding moral support, using the plainest of words in the lightest of manners. “To sleep, no more.”

Not that she needed to. He knew exactly what she meant. To cease life itself; the heartaches and the body aches that came with possessing this physical flesh. To rest, that's it. He wished for it everyday for the last thirteen years, and wondered if this part of the play was a cruel prophecy to his fate, written centuries ago.

“‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be wish’d,” she admitted. Her gaze broke away from him as she moved away from his side of the theater. “To die… to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream,” she mused, letting out a longing sigh. And then, it dawned on her. 

Here’s the catch: what happens after death?

It’s a question responsible for many of Bruce’s sleepless nights. What calamity awaits out there in death that we’d much rather put up with the humiliations of abuse and heartbreak and injustice and time instead? And to see the exasperation, the disdain as her pace and emotion picked up, so similar to his own… it almost felt like an out-of-body experience.

“Who would fardels bear? To grunt and sweat under a weary life, but that the dread of something after death.” she stopped in her tracks, and the tears that welled up in her eyes glimmered under the spotlight. “The undiscovered country. From whose bourn no traveler returns—”

Her voice caught as the three words echoed in the room—in her mind. No traveler returns. Not Hamlet’s father.

Not Bruce’s. Nor his mother.

The facade cracked, just a little, and the question whether it’s worth it to bear the known ills in life than to face the uncertainty of death came out raw because what’s the fucking point. The tears escaped not out of sorrow anymore, Bruce suspected, but out of pure exhaustion.

But with a sharp inhale, she pulled herself together. Calm and composed. Prim and proper, as she patted the tears dry with her palm flat on her cheek. Fingertips gently pressing against her skin.

“Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all.” she walked back to her original spot with a wry nod, a ghost of herself now that she’d shown her cards, and Bruce’s heart stopped as she met his gaze again for a moment. 

And then, she addressed the audience (and herself) using more… diplomatic words, although she’s not fooling anyone. “The native hue of Resolution,” the straightforwardness of Death, “is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of Thought,” cockblocked by the slightest Reason. “And enterprises of great pitch and moment with this regard— their currents turn awry, and lose the name of–” she mused thoughtfully, as if shuffling through the head for the right word—the end of everything—only to come up with… 

“Action.”

Action. A word that Bruce could never amount to, after hours of staring at the pills in the medicine cabinet or the knives in the chef’s kitchen of the Wayne Tower. Action, as he went through the motions just enough to not be carried away in the motions itself. Action, a funny word to represent the lack thereof.

Action. 

As her performance ended and his own began, as a functioning member of the production. And the society overall.

A round of applause erupted—as much as it could with seven people scattered in the 200-seater theater anyway— and Bruce followed along. Eyes still following into the girl onstage, bowing and relaxing into her own form as she disappeared into the wings, leaving Hamlet out on the stage.

***

ACT TWO

Bruce Wayne never cared for college social life.

He didn’t care for parties or casual hangs in the common room. But apparently, the pre-production party was an unofficially mandatory part of the class. As soon as the read-through concluded, the director ushered everyone to the edge of the forest, just around the block, for a ritual celebration of sorts, something about blessing a Shakespeare production. He wanted to bail, tried so hard to slip away from the crowd, but the theater kids were a superstitious bunch and he didn’t want to create any unnecessary rift with the people he had to work with.

So he stuck around, as the director made an opening remark by the open fire, marking the start of the production. Drank as they raised a toast “to the stage!”. Inching further and further to the back when somebody rolled out a speaker, and played some pop-y, campy tune he didn’t recognize. All he wanted was to go back to his room and read one of the five books he checked out from the library this week. It was lame and a little pretentious, admittedly, but it’s peaceful.

Predictable.

The girl clocking him and walking towards him from the crowd was anything but.

Hamlet, Princess of Denmark. So cold and deranged in the reading of the tragedy, yet so… warm in the chilly autumn air, huddled into her jacket. Greeting and weaving her way through classmates milling and hanging around like she’d known them forever, all the way to this new boy. Standing alone, sticking out like a sore thumb, all the while trying desperately to blend into the background.

But she spotted him, and he spotted her.

“Congratulations,” he greeted her briefly, and then cleared his throat as he heard his sentence hanging in mid-air, “on getting the lead, I mean.”

She beamed, either unaware or unfazed by his awkwardness, and mock-curtsied. “All thanks to you.”

“Do you say that to all the guys?”

“Only the sweet ones who wished me ‘break a leg’ and stood in the aisle in support.”

“Right…” he shifted on his heels. A smile threatened to break out of the corner of his lips and he had to remind himself: don’t get carried away. She was an actor, for fuck’s sake, she could play him like a flute. “Well, I’ll see you around.”

But before he took another step, her hand grasped his arm. Warmth emanating from her palm even through layers of wool and cotton of his coat and sweater. “Whoa, wait. You’re leaving already?”

Bruce shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“Oh, come on. Stay another ten minutes, at least,” she cajoled him, “If the party still sucks, I’ll walk you home myself.”

“Wow.” he looked away bashfully. “Chivalry’s dead, huh?”

“Fell on its sword, God rest its soul,” she chuckled, and he secretly loved the Hozier reference. Then, as if sensing his discomfort among the crowd, she motioned away from the crowd, “Come on, the view is better out here.”

Bruce felt more at ease when he could hear the leaves crunching under his shoes. The tree roots coiling and bulging on the ground like veins to the earth. She sat back against a red oak tree and scooted aside to make room for her new friend (acquaintance, more like). Chelsea boots crossed at the ankles, and olive green dress flaring over her knees. The singing became more of a distant humdrum, and the cheering and shrieking of people playing drinking/kissing games was easier to tune out. Although not enough to completely ignore.

“Never thought theater kids would be so… wild.”

“Oh, we’re the wildest of the bunch. All that angst and tension brought out on purpose… See those guys?” she gestured at Shannon and Gabbie from Set Design, making out by the bonfire. “Their story was far more dramatic than the show we were doing last year. And we were doing Passion.”

Bruce had no idea what the play was about, but he understood the sentiment and appreciated the irony.

“So what major are you? Can’t be theater, right? ‘Cause I’ve never seen you around before.” she swirled the drink in her hand.

He shook his head. “Criminal Justice, actually.”

“Christ, you’re a long way from home.” her eyebrows went up to her hairline at his answer.

“You?”

“Acting, final year.”

He pursed his lips and took a sip of his drink, unsure why he asked in the first place. Figures.

“So why’d you take this elective?” she caught herself, realizing how harsh it sounded. “Not in a weird gatekeeping way or anything. But it’s shit credit, too much workload... It’s basically unpaid labor, at this point.”

“I… didn’t. I signed up for the wrong class, and then I was too late to withdraw,” he admitted with a grimace.

She chuckled. “Oof. My condolences.”

Bruce tried his hardest not to stare. No matter how unsurprised he was by how comfortably she’s lounged on this uneven surface. Legs stretched out, arm resting on a small crook of the tree, sipping crappy wine out of a plastic cup. A complete opposite of his position, bent knees and elbows shirking in on himself. Somehow finding themselves in each other’s company at the edge of this party.

When he finally turned to look, it was because of the click-click-click of a lighter and a tiny spark of ember in his peripheral vision. Beside him, a blunt hung between her lips and one hand sheltered it from the wind.

“Oh, shit. Sorry. Where are my manners.” she pinched it between her middle and forefinger, pulling it away from her mouth, and his eyes caught on the lipstick mark on the wrapping paper, rosy and glossy even in the dim lighting. “Want some?”

And just like that, he was brought to a frantic awakening as he stammered, “Oh, I– I don’t…”

“Don’t smoke or don’t know how to?”

A pause. He tried to muster an answer that sounded a bit more dignified, but maybe in his time of thinking, the pause all but indicated it was the latter. 

“Nothing to be ashamed of.” she waved him off. “To each their own. Do you mind if I…?”

“Please.”

He tried to keep cool, he really did, and for a moment, he thought the short, quick answers would save him. But she lit the joint, and in the brief second that the tiny flame illuminated her face, he could see her long lashes fanning against the freckled skin under her eyes as her lids dropped to a close. Her cheeks sank in, and the line of her cheekbone gave some edge to an otherwise soft face. And as the back of her head hit the tree trunk, smoke in her wake, he was utterly lost. Fuck, she’s hot.

“Can you shotgun me?”

Her eyes snapped open (and to be honest, he’s just as surprised as she was), although she tried not to move so suddenly, as if worried he might scatter away. “Seriously?”

“I mean…” he muttered lamely, “If you want.”

“I mean, sure…” she started, looking him straight in the eyes for good measure. “Are you sure about this?”

He shrugged.

“Huh.” she smiled to herself, unable to contain the surprise in her features as she straightened up into a more upright position.

Neither of them could ever anticipate the closeness of this encounter. Shoulder to shoulder, legs colliding and finding their way to coexist. Face inches away from each other. Her forefinger touching the underside of his chin, the rounded end of her nail gently scratching his five o’clock shadow. 

Bruce was starting to wonder if this was a bad idea. But then her voice pulled him out of his reverie, soft and low,

“Just breathe in. Hold. And breathe out, okay?”

He nodded exactly once. Afraid that if he’d done more than once, one of them would change their mind.

No.

Afraid she would, because in this moment, Bruce realized he wanted nothing else.

She inhaled deeply through her joint, and tilted him closer to her. He swore he could almost feel her lips as she blew into his slightly ajar mouth.

“Slowly… that’s it…” she watched him intently as he followed her voice. Proud as it didn’t catch in his throat, making him cough. She just studied the smoke coming out of his lips. “Look at that. You’re a natural.”

Bruce watched her smirk, watched how one corner of her mouth pulled, how the tip of her tongue darted out ever so slightly for a moment, wetting her lips. “All thanks to you,” his throat felt scratchy, but he managed a somewhat cheeky reply, recalling her own words earlier.

“Do you say that to all the girls?” her voice was honeyed with teasing.

And he wanted to come up with something smart and quippy, by God he did, but maybe his brain only limited him to one line per conversation and he’d used it up already. So he just admitted, quite pathetically in his opinion,

“No.”

There was a certain brand of thoughtfulness as she took another puff for herself. And then another. And then a look of question when she gazed up at him again, and he leaned in at her wordless offer.

This time, their lips did touch. And he thought he was imagining it.

Barely a graze. She might have even done it by accident. But even in doing so, it made him forget how to breathe. The smoke just hovered in his mouth cavity for a moment. It wasn’t until her nose grazed him that he came to and shallowly, involuntarily gasped.

There was just a haze between them.

And then there was none.

At the same time, there was so much more. So much that Bruce didn’t know which one to process first. The smell of leaves and fresh laundry and flowery shampoo. The sweet, tangy taste of wine on her tongue.

The warmth of her lips on her.

Soft. Gentle. She deepened the kiss tentatively, like she’s knocking on his door, asking to be let in. He was never a big believer in higher power, but as God as his witness, he would let her knock down his entire wall and make herself at home in a heartbeat.

No questions asked.

She, on the other hand, seemed to have one, judging from how she pulled away, brows furrowed in thought.

Oh, no. Back in the figurative mental safehouse you go.

“Fuck. Where are my manners? Uh…” she giggled, “I haven’t even got your name.”

He relaxed, releasing the breath he didn’t even know he was holding. “Bruce. And you are…?”

He felt stupid for asking her this. He really shouldn’t have to ask, she’s the lead for fuck’s sake, but he came in late from a class and missed the introductions. By the time he arrived, the read-through had already begun and they were already calling her by her character’s name.

But she didn’t seem to mind. She simply uttered, “Eden,” and kissed him stupid again.

It took him embarrassingly long to realize that she was saying her name instead of describing what this was.

His hand braving itself to settle on her soft cheek, warm and flushed from the alcohol and the influence of it all. Meanwhile, her touches were bold, pushing the dark strands off of his face and tangling her fingers through his hair. Lips joined together in a kiss, deeper and deeper as they went on.

Heaven.

Heaven was the hand that ventured along his jaw. Down his chest.

Trailing up his inner thigh.

Her knuckle grazed his crotch, and he wondered if these featherlight touches of hers were never coincidental after all. But there’s a more pressing issue at hand; that of… a growing ache between his legs, and she giggled. Lazy, breathless, and hazy.

Fuck. I’ve been made.

She caught his lower lip between her teeth, tugging it a little. Drawing it out. Weighing in her choices once again.

But then she broke the kiss completely, straddling his lap, and Bruce thought he was losing his mind.

It had to be the weed, right? Because kisses weren’t dizzying, and the way her dress hiked up her thigh shouldn’t make his palms vibrate with the need to touch her. And when her palm trailed down to where he needed her…

The party nearby just fell away. The music and celebration died out. Just the rustles of the trees. The shuffling of fabric rubbing against each other, from chests heaving up and down. From breath, stolen and taken away by each other. A little bubble that felt like no time and all of the time in the world had passed at once.

“…but the Act 1 finale to Sunday in the Park with George is un-fucking-paralleled, though!” a girl’s voice gushed in the distance, footsteps approaching closer to where Bruce and Eden were tangled together, and she all but jumped back to her original spot. Raking through her hair really quickly in a daze.

Bruce froze in his place, secretly hoping they would veer away from their path. Or not see them somehow. Or anything. But the voice grew closer and closer, and he could hear another set of footsteps with this one.

“Like when the real painting came down? Ugh, I nutted!” she groaned, barely acknowledging them. “Oh, hey guys.”

Eden nodded at the girl—Laura, head of the costume department—trying to play it off like nothing happened.

But, when Laura didn’t give a flying fuck, Angela—the stage manager—, did a double-take... First at Eden. Then at the joint between Eden’s fingers. “Damn, you corrupting the new kid already?” she turned to Bruce, “Careful there. This one’s a troublemaker.”

“Um. I was just leaving.” Bruce shot up to his feet, wrapping his coat around his body tightly and barely looking at her when he said, ”Bye, Eden,” rushing off as fast as he could.

And when the party was entirely out of reach, he realized just violently he tore himself away from her. The gloss of her lips still lingered. Her hand. Her scent. Her hand over his hard fucking cock. The way her name tastes when he said it the first time.

How much he’d taken for granted all of the above.

***

ACT THREE

Bruce didn’t see Eden for much of the week.

He supposed it was better this way. There were quizzes and assignments to be done, and he spent most of his time at the library and his dorm. When he went to the Theater building, he stayed in the costume workshop. On different floors, on opposite wings. Copying designs, doing the math, preparing materials… he had a lot of learning to do, but he could do it fast.

It was definitely for the best. Anything to get his mind off of thinking which one is more stupid; making out with her or walking away from making out with her.

“Hey, Bruce?” Laura hollered, without looking up from her workstation. “Can you go upstairs and take Eden’s measurements? They’re rehearsing in the Woodard Studio.”

Fuck. He looked around the room, finding nobody else there. This was a nightmare coming to life, but damned if he was going to be spoiled brat Bruce Wayne in a setting where people finally let him be.

So even with his heart in his throat and his brain telling him to run the other way, he grabbed a pencil, a tape measure, and a blank new measurement sheet. “Okay, sure.”

The climb up to the top floor was entirely too short, that Bruce had half a mind to take another lap to the ground floor and back. But Lady Luck seemed to continuously be on his side, and Eden walked out of the studio just as he reached the top of the stairs. They locked eyes for a moment, like neither knew how to act, until she addressed him. Cool and nonchalant. “Hey.”

He braced himself, approaching her by the water fountain as she refilled her bottle. Trying not to even think about the yoga pants clinging to her thighs. The sports bra wrapped around her chest like a corset. Or armor? Because she looked like she could break someone in half in that.

Focus, Bruce.

“Got a minute?”

“‘Sup?”

He paused, caught off-guard with her short reply. But he powered through, lifting the piece of paper in his hand. “I, uh, need to take your measurements.”

She hummed dryly, “Right,” leading him into the rehearsal space.

Bruce should’ve been careful with what he wished for, for the walk to be longer, because the 15-foot distance from the door to the row of seats in one corner of the studio felt like miles as they walked in silence, careful not to disturb the rehearsal in the process.

And he never minded the silence, not once, but he minded hers. She was normally so talkative, so engaging, and these monosyllabic answers—the stare burning into his back as he unrolled his tape measure—was quite unnerving. He hated it.

“What.”

She shrugged noncommittally, looking out at the fight sequence being rehearsed. The thumps and squeaks of shoes on the floor felt deafening

He sighed, a quick glare before he began measuring the width of her shoulders. Her back. Her arms. Down her spine. Jotting down the numbers as he filled out the form. Trying not to go insane in the sheer intimacy of his fingers treading along her body, learning every inch in between the fabric of clothing and the skin it clung onto, and how he did it under such a cold, clinical circumstance.

An agonizing stretch of silence.

Her silence.

Especially knowing that she must’ve had something to say.

“So, let me get this straight.” she drew a sharp breath, and Bruce was kind of relieved to be on talking terms, at the very least. “First, you made out with me, and then you ditched me, and now you’ve pulled me into a corner to take my measurements? My, my. Talk about mixed signals.” Eden tilted her head to the side, sarcasm lacing her voice this time, and he knew he was in for it.

“This wasn’t up to me,” Bruce quietly, evenly replied, trying not to feel like a scolded schoolboy.

She turned around to meet his gaze, taking this as a personal challenge now. “Ah, but you’re a big boy, aren’t you?” she straightened up with a ghost of a smirk, as if squaring up to him, and it terrified and excited him at the same time. “Laura could’ve done it. I’m sure she’d much prefer to do this over carrying big logs of fabric into the workshop. So… what gives?”

A heavy pause hung over their heads. Even with her arms outspread, so open and vulnerable, she was still the one in control. Her head held high and eyes searching into his. It took Bruce everything to keep his fingers steady as they pinned the tape measure on her waist.

He wanted so desperately to have some semblance of upper hand in this game. He unpinned his fingertips from the tape and pulled it back. “You said shit credits, so… gotta make it worth it.”

Her eyes rolled in amusement, and Bruce thought he’d made a complete fool of himself. She definitely saw through his bullshit answer, she was kind enough to let it slide, if the little smile she was sporting was any indication. The air wasn’t as heavy anymore, and he was tempted to leave it be.

It wasn’t quite an upper hand, but it’s as good as it’s gonna get.

But the edge, the anticipation persisted (and no, it wasn’t because he’s measuring her underbust next), and he couldn’t shake off the feeling that it was his turn to speak. Her cold shoulder treatment was warranted, and she merely opened the door enough for him to prove he was worth her time. 

And he wanted to be worth her time… for reasons unbeknownst to even himself.

So he cleared his throat to make his case. “I also wanted to apologize for last weekend.”

“For what, making out with me or ditching me?” Her eyes flitted back to him.

His heart clenched, and he barely had the gall to look in her direction. “You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”

“Jury’s still out,” she quipped, though there was no malice in her tone.

Bruce grimaced, but it’s all fair, he supposed. “It won’t happen again.”

“Hm.” she softened. Thoughtful, but said nothing else.

And as she let him work quietly, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d made another mistake with that promise. Yes, he was wrong to just leave her there. But did he really want it to never happen again? To never experience her mouth that drove him crazy, be it in banter or kiss, ever again? To never study the curve of her hips beyond this flimsy string he held together around her? To feel her warm, intoxicating body on top of his—

“I don’t hold it against you, you know.”

He looked up at her in question. In surprise. Mildly in worry that she caught sense of the filthy things he was thinking about—for a second horrified that she could read his mind somehow. Especially with his thumb accidentally grazing along the side of her chest, pinching the tape right over the swell of her chest. He should’ve looked at the number quickly and then moved on.

But he couldn’t.

She stilled and he stilled with her, eyes still locked on each other, much too close for comfort. 

“We were both caught in the moment, under the influence. It happens. No hard feelings.” She paused, and then…. “Well. Maybe some hard feelings.”

His mind was running a mile a minute, and for a split second, he thought she genuinely bore some hard feelings—which was fair. But then a mischievous grin bloomed on her face, and he realized exactly what she was referring to.

A literal hard feeling. In his pants. Under her palm.

“Eden…” he shut his eyes in horror. This can’t be happening right now.

She laughed in the way that made his heart flutter, and he wondered if the endless teasing would be worth it. “I’m just saying…” her light chuckle dwindled into a bright glint in her dark eyes, and then earnestly, “We’re good, Bruce.”

It was strange to associate the sound of his name with a smile—not even a smile, a grin. The kind that made crinkles on the corner of her eyes. Where the light sheen of sweat made the apple of her cheeks glow as it pulled the corner of her mouth upwards.

Strange, but nice.

***

ACT FOUR

In the next few weeks, Bruce saw Eden sporadically. In passing. In between slaving away at the workshop; tracing, sewing, altering costumes, carefully following the instructions of his much more experienced peers—Laura seemed to appreciate his careful handiwork and keen eye for detail. She began sending him upstairs to sit in on the rehearsals, delivering updates to the director and observing the blockings, reporting back to his head of department.

And in between those moments, if he’s lucky, he would see her drop by the workshop, gabbing away with Laura. Trying out different period dresses, different shoes, the all-white fencing suit that one time. Or sometimes as her tragic hero character in rehearsal, a timeless Shakespearean force to be reckoned with in a baggy Yale sweatshirt.

They might not be friends per se, but they were on friendly terms, at the very least.

Which was probably why he didn’t immediately say hello when she strode out the back of the Drama Department building, where Bruce was reviewing his Criminal Homicide notes whilst getting some air (although to be fair, it was mostly the latter.) He heard the door open and shut, familiar lines murmured, as light footsteps paced back and forth on the platform. 

And there she was; like Juliet on the goddamn balcony.

Well.

If Juliet were a miserably jaded character on the brink of insanity instead of a wide-eyed girl in love.

“O vengeance!” she recited from memory, devoid of any emotion. “‘This is most brave—’ no, that’s not right. Did I skip a line?” she stopped abruptly, and then he heard a rustle of pages being flipped. “‘Why, what an ass am I.’ Ha. That’s… apropos.”

Bruce looked up, finding Eden holding her script close to her chest, looking out into the distance with a frown as she started over.

“‘This is most brave that I, daughter of a dear father murdered, prompted to my revenge by… heaven and hell, must—like a whore…’ Fuck!”

“Unpack my heart with words and fall a-cursing,” Bruce finished it just above a murmur, just for himself.

Eden’s head whipped towards his direction. “What?”

Caught eavesdropping, he immediately buried himself in his notebook again. “Nothing. Sorry.”

“No, no. What did you say?”

“Um. ‘Unpack my heart with words and fall a-cursing?’” It felt weird to say it now. To hear it in his own voice. “‘Like a very drab. A scullion’.”

A lull as she checked her script. And then, “Hold up a minute.” she leaned against the railing, chin propped up on her hand. “You know Hamlet, Bruce?”

He looked up at her, finding fascination and that ever-present witty glint in her gaze. “I’m surprised you didn’t know Hamlet, Hamlet.”

“Very funny.”

It was a little funny. He might’ve even smiled a bit.

She padded down the platform and round the stairs, joining Bruce sitting cross-legged on the ground, back against the wall. It never ceased to amaze him how she managed to make herself comfortable anywhere. “This whole Shakespeare thing is hard, you know.”

“Really? I never would’ve thought—” 

“It’s almost like a foreign language.”

“But you’ve always looked so… fluent.” he frowned at his own choice of word. Fluent was an understatement; the lines felt native to her tongue. “I guess I’ve always assumed it comes naturally to you.”

Eden chuckled ruefully. “Hell no. This is what generally happens, outside of rehearsals—just so I have some idea what’s going on in the scene.”

“Some idea, huh?” He didn't buy it at all. She had to work hard, of course, but he was dead sure that come rehearsal, she’d had her shit down on lock.

“You probably know more than I do.”

“Nah, I’m just… I’m familiar with it,” he played it off.

This time, she didn’t buy it. At all, if her lingering look was any indication. But she looked away like she knew more.

Well, as much as she could’ve known for a single look, anyway. It barely scratched the surface, but he didn’t have the heart to wipe that captivating smile off of her face.

Not with such misfortune behind the story.

He first read Hamlet when he was thirteen. In truth, it didn’t pique his interest until his English teacher offhandedly mentioned that the Lion King was based off of it. And at first, he read it just out of spite—just to see if it’s true. But the structure of words felt alien and there were words, references, scenes he didn’t understand, unlike that little movie he knew like the back of his hand.

But some parts, like this one, stuck and stayed with him since he first read it. What Hamlet lacked in the starry-eyed nostalgia that Lion King had, it made up in anguish. For the longest time, there were no words to describe what he was feeling. He never knew how to explain himself, how to explain why he didn’t want to. Until this line.

‘That I, the son of a dear father murder'd,

Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,

Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words,

And fall a-cursing, like a very drab,

A scullion!’

Eden was struggling, albeit for an entirely different reason, but he understood. He probably wouldn’t even be able to say the whole sentence without razors slicing his throat from the inside.

“Hey, what are you doing right now?”

“Um, studying?” He mustered, caught off-guard by the knee lightly nudging his own. Maybe a little bit flustered. 

She glanced at his textbook, sparsely highlighted and full of legal terms she’d only heard in passing. “Right. I keep forgetting you were pre-law. You’ve been hanging around here most days.”

“This elective is a full-time job, basically.”

She smiled sympathetically. And then, “Would you help me run lines? You just— I don’t know, make sure I say the right words and… read out the odd lines if there’s any.”

“Sure,” he answered immediately. Not for any particular reason; he just happened to know the play very well, and he liked being useful, however menial the task.

Not because he finally had a valid reason to spend some time with Eden.

She handed him her script, highlighted in yellow, pink, and blue, and heavily annotated with her own handwriting. Some were so small and loopy, they were undecipherable. One line was noted in big capital letters, ‘FUCK THE FUCK OFF’. Bruce chuckled a little bit at that.

He fiddled with the edge of the page. “So... From the top?”

And that’s how it started. Running lines and hanging out. Sometimes she’d stop by the costume workshop and drape her arm over one of the mannequins, or perch atop one of the empty workstations, while Bruce worked on a costume—her costume. Or outside the rehearsal studio, while waiting for the dance club to finish their thing. Sometimes they’d do it over a meal, and he found himself frequenting the dining hall of her dorm at the Hopper College instead of his own—it was closer, but mostly, he liked the dark wood-paneled walls under the high columned arches, and how nicely everything was spaced out. And how completely at home she looked, leaning back in her seat. It made him at ease to see her at ease.

But most of the time, it was just this. Crouched behind the theater building, sitting side-by-side with a script and her pack of Lucky Strike between them.

“Oh, I’ve fully corrupted you now,” she lamented, watching him light a cigarette between his lips. He even did it with one hand this time.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he huffed, exhaling out a berry-minty smoke (he only ever bummed her cigarettes when she had the flavored ones—he would never admit that he hated the normal ones). “What’s for today?”

She shuffled into her bag, reaching for her script. “The breakup scene with Ophelia.”

“Mm. That should be easy.” 

She looked at him incredulously. “Easy for you to say!”

“Easy for you to do. Come on.” he snatched the script out of her hand, flipping through the pages until he found the one. And then he waited. Pointedly. “Any day now.”

With a dirty glare, Eden took a deep breath and uttered, loudly but without any passion whatsoever, “The fair Ophelia! Nymph.” she elbowed him on his side.

He liked that they’re comfortable enough to do this. It was the first time Hamlet made him laugh—and not in a wry, self-loathing way. There was always something new this girl found—a cheeky pun, an off-handed comment. Lines he’d always imagined having a certain context, only to be interpreted completely differently.

Like this one.

“I did love you…” she trailed off thoughtfully, “...once.”

His eyebrows perked up, interest piqued as he never read the line broken in two parts like this, although his tone stayed flat as always. “Indeed, m’lady, you made me believe so.”

“You should not have believed me,” she responded, surprisingly just as sapless. “I loved you not.”

“I was the more deceived.”

The air between them was changing. Each line was filled with more heavy pauses—but not the kind she would make when she was trying to remember what she was supposed to say. No, this was something else. She sounded like she was… thinking. Composing her breakup speech as she sat next to her dear love. Pondering whether she should be cruel or kind.

“Get thee… to a nunnery.” The words started out cautionary, but her tone was vicious, and everything else became a cruel charge from then on. “Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners, huh?” she didn’t raise her voice, but it made her all the more terrifying. “Perhaps it were better… my mother had not borne me. I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious…”

Bruce’s brain registered that she was talking about herself. As Hamlet. A performance, no more. And yet, he’d never heard it performed like this; so stripped down, so much like the voice in his head his entire adolescence—the constant questioning of how things would’ve been if he’d never been born—, that he felt like it was aimed towards him.

“We are arrant knaves, all; believe none of us.” Maybe it was a little bit about him too, he thought as she spat, “Where’s your father?”

The question felt like a punch in the gut. He knew that was her next line—he’d read it a million times, but he’d never had anyone ask him that. Not in that order. Not with such bitter taste in their mouth.

He tried to compose himself, but his voice sounded feeble as he answered her, “At home, my lady.”

“Well.” she looked down, picking her nails absent-mindedly. “Let the doors be shut upon him… that he may play the fool no where but in his own house.” It was cold, heartless the way she made up her mind without so much as a glance his way, and it reminded him of how the doors of Gotham shut upon his own father, and he was left for dead like a fool in a city that he built.

Somehow, somewhere along the way, he didn’t realize when he stopped looking at the page and when he started looking at her. Jaw stiffened, trying her damnedest to contain the slight tremble on her lips. Eyes stubborn as they tried to keep the tears from falling. Hands fisting the hems of her own jacket. And as she nodded, she accidentally (or on purpose, he wouldn’t know) blinked a stray tear away,

“Farewell.”

They sat there for a long while. In a daze. Watching the lights twinkled in the dusk; white and yellow against purple and pink. The Halloween decorations were put up, over the windows and doors, jack o’lanterns on the side of the pavements and skeletons propped upright in the lawns. He wasn’t even thinking about the play anymore—he couldn’t if he wanted to—, his insides were all amok.

Bruce heard a click of her lighter, a flash of orange from the corner of his eye—first a flame, then a flaring ember—and with an exhale, she slumped back against the wall…

And leaned her head on his shoulder.

He carefully tapped his cigarette and put it out. It was burnt to ash and he barely had a couple of puffs—he was too occupied, too vexed with her. More stoic than him as she continued to look ahead. It’s disconcerting.

“Are you okay?” He simply asked, though with a sliver of worry there.

“Yeah.” he couldn’t quite explain it, but Eden sounded like herself again even with a single word. “Are you?”

“Yeah.”

It was an automatic response at this point, but whether it was honest… was an entirely different matter. And she seemed to notice that.

“I heard it in your voice,” she said quietly, carefully. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I’m just… checking in.”

A pause. He didn’t answer right away; he didn’t know how to.

“It’s just… my parents, is all.”

“Right.”

One word said so much. One word, and she understood.

One word, and he knew.

He was no longer some new guy in the production; she knew him and his name and his burden of a legacy. A trauma. The very thing he was running away from. The little bubble around them had burst, and although he knew it was inevitable, he couldn’t help the sinking feeling in his gut.

But she placed a hand on top of hers, filling the spaces between his fingers. Not quite. Just… ever so tentatively. “I’m sorry.”

And for the first time in years, he allowed it. He allowed her to invade his space, if ‘invade’ was even the right word. She eased in like something familiar, like she’d always been there, and it made it all the more easier to let her in.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she offered.

“I mean… there’s nothing to talk about.” he sighed heavily, immediately set off by the all-too-familiar feeling of prodding questions. “I know as much as everyone else.”

“That’s not what I—” she noticed the sharp edge in his voice, and she was quick to rebuff him. But then she realized the edge in her tone, and she softened up again immediately. “Bruce. All I’m saying is, if you ever want to… I don’t know. Either way, I’m here. Okay?”

Oh. He didn’t have to talk if he didn’t want to. Or he could, if he was ever so inclined.

Either way she’s here.

His other hand landed on top of hers, patting it limply but entirely too heavy to pull away. “It’s fine. You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t. I want to.” her fingers tangled themselves in his. “That’s what friends do, right?”

Friends. The word hung heavy above them, as he turned her hand over. Palm facing upwards, he studied every line that twisted and branched on her skin, tracing it with the pad of his thumb. Feeling the indents, soft against his calluses. Trying to comprehend how this person eased—maybe invaded was right, after all—into his life, inching closer to his most vulnerable parts…

And that it was okay.

Because in entering his space, she also let him into hers. Palm facing upwards, her thumb caresses the side of his forefinger that rested atop hers. Not squeezing. Not even grasping. Just running up and down, from knuckle to knuckle. As if saying, come in.

I won’t hurt you.

He took the chance and held her hand for a moment. It wasn’t quite a response to her invitation, but at the same time it was. And that’s all they needed.

That’s all he could take for now.

Bruce took a breath, trying to find a fresh subject to get out of this one, and the first thing that he blurted out was, “Grilled cheese?”

She lifted her head and turned her whole body towards him. “Huh?”

If those two words out of his mouth weren’t enough to sober him up, the blatant disconnect between them sure did the trick. They were spouting Shakespeare just moments ago, but now that he’s panicking and in desperate need of an out, he turned into a goddamn monkey and it puzzled the fuck of her.

“Grilled cheese,” he repeated. Why did he do it again?! He slung his backpack and got up to his feet; if he’s already standing, it would be easier to make an escape. But maybe he should give it one last shot? “You know… at the Beanjamin.”

“Oh.” she blinked at him dumbly, whether at his stilted but persistent topic change or the mention of the punny cafe two blocks away. But much to his surprise, she shrugged and gathered her stuff. “Alright. Let’s get some grilled cheese.”

“Wait, really?”

“You’re buying.” she absently said as she patted the dirt off of her pants.

He sighed in relief, although he tried to play it off as a huff. “Fine. But you get the ciggies.”

“Ciggies?” she balked. “Wow, my influence on you knows no bounds.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, it’s just shorthand.”

“Sure thing, Brucie.”

“That’s not a shorthand. That’s an extra syllable.” He scowled, but she slapped his back lightly, linking her arm with his as they walked on crunchy reddened leaves in the fall. Each biting back a smile as the heaviness of their conversation didn’t tarnish this easy banter they had.

They were friends, after all.

***

ACT FIVE

Bruce was late. Very late. His Restorative Justice final presentations ran long and he wanted to punch every one of his obnoxious kiss-ass classmates in the teeth for drawing it out, asking questions for the sake of loopholes and extra points. Sending him on a wild sprint to the University Theater.

In the rain.

And as if that weren’t enough, he was greeted by Laura, practically steaming out of her ears, pulling him aside and telling him off.

“We’re entering tech week, man! We got plenty of people to dress. I can’t have you disappearing in the worst of times like this.”

She was right on all three accounts. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sticking my neck out here for you!” Laura huffed. “Look, if anything happens, you need to let us know. Call, text, anything. God, I sound like a clingy girlfriend here—”

She was cut off with a dragging, dramatic creak of a door opening. They both turned around to find Eden there, her head popping out of a dressing room, grimacing. “Hi. I’m so sorry to bother you, but— I need a hand…”

Laura softened up, slightly caught off-guard in the middle of her tangent. “One sec.” Then she turned back to Bruce, a little calmer now. “You go, I’ll handle the ensemble.”

He nodded, still apologetic as he made his way to their leading lady’s dressing room, catching her sly grin as she made way for him.

“You picked the wrong day to slack off, Brucie,” she lightly murmured as she threw him a towel to dry off.

All she got in response was a grunt.

A grunt and nothing else.

Because all the frustration, the ennui, the fucking cold from getting drenched in a 44-degree weather… all went when he finally caught sight of her.

Clad in silk—her gloves ivory, her dress black. Draped down her body all the way to the ankle—seemingly resting on her curves and wanting to glide off of her skin at the same time, held together by a thin strap on each of her bare shoulders, ruffled point d’esprit tumbled down her arms.

“I know. It’s different from the usual sweatshirt and joggers…” she droned on, barely glancing at him as she shifted in her dress. “Shit, I should’ve worn these things more in rehearsal. This feels too new. I haven’t even put on the corset—do you mind?”

“Y-yeah. Sure.”

He knew exactly how to do her corset—they discussed it exhaustively in the workshops, deliberating which one was the most secure and efficient—and yet he still found himself fumbling at the laces the first time. Then again, maybe lacing up a mannequin would never compare to a living, breathing being.

Especially one like her.

It’s awfully intimate; he vaguely remembered seeing his parents getting ready for a night out like this. Eden putting on her earrings—a beautiful silvery thing with a dot of blue as its main stone—while he laced her up. Grazing her back with featherlight touches, but not really. Barely missing each other’s gaze through the mirror. So close, and at the same time, having absolutely no chance to get closer.

“You got me worried for a bit there.”

“I know. I’ve got—”

“Finals, I know. But this counts as finals too, you know. Like, come on, man, this is important.”

“It’s an elective.”

He felt her tense up—felt the slight expanse of her ribs as she drew a sharp breath. “It’s not just an elective for some of us, Bruce.”

“Come on, Eden. I’ve been over this. I don’t need this from you, too.”

She scoffed. “Excuse me?”

“What else do you want me to do? I was held up, I came here as fast as I could, I told Laura I was sorry. Now you’re gonna give me shit while I do my job, too? Give me a fucking break.” 

He never minded the silence, but this one was deafening. Eden was understandably stunned to see him snap. He had never shown anything beyond mild—whether it’s amusement or discontent. But it was nowhere near the end of his day, and he was tired. And it disappointed him more than anything that she was not on his side on the one moment he needed her to.

But he’d shown just enough to get his point across, and now it’s time to just bite his tongue.

“Do you know why we worked so hard for this show?” Her tone was still terse. Clipped. But it wasn’t accusatory—not anymore.

He said nothing. Didn’t even look up. He just continued pulling at the loose crossing laces, tightening them right on the dip of her spine.

“We don’t know who’ll be in the audience. Directors, agents, producers or their fucking daughters for all we know—people who might hire us. Maybe for a gig over the holiday— maybe something more. If we’re lucky. Most of us won’t be, you know. Most of us are just gonna be stuck in this rat race until we’re burnt out, or dead, or dead from getting burnt the fuck out, so to call it ‘just an elective’ is a gross understatement which—“ she gasped as he pulled the strings just so that her back straightened up and she nearly stumbled into his chest.

“You okay?” his eyes flickered towards the mirror, studying her face. Realizing that there might be something more than giving him shit for committing the cardinal sin of tardiness. Something having nothing to do with him.

“Yeah. It’s just…. Nerves.” she breathed out, and he had to look again and make sure she wasn’t suffocating.

Suffocating, she was not. But agitated, definitely. The corset made the rise and fall of her chest more prominent with every breath, and he willed himself not to stare.

“It’s alright. You got this.” he managed a reassuring nod, surprising himself that despite what happened, he was still on her side.

Eden softened at that, as if warming up to him again. “So, yeah. This is why it’s important to us.” she spoke, quiet and resolute. “I hope you understand that.”

“I do,” he answered evenly. “And I hope you understand that I’m doing my best.”

“Fair enough.”

The air swelled between them. Stifling as the aggression dissipated. The lightbulbs framing the mirror did so much to expose every microexpression. The tight crease between her eyebrows, the clenched jaw as she struggled with her necklace. Blindly trying to clasp it together on the back of her neck, underneath her long dark waves.

“Let me.” He gently brushed her hair aside, seeing the hook and clasp colliding, but never really linking together.

It was entirely too easy. Bruce almost hoped it would be trickier, and he would need more time here. Nearly pressed against her. So close. The temptation was too much. Even after he let go of her necklace, he couldn’t resist smoothing his hand down her dress. Adjusting the cinch under her bust. Making sure it didn’t bunch.

Their eyes met through the reflection, and he lost all words. And no, not because of the glimmery strings and stones adorning her neck, the lavalier falling like water drops on her chest—silver and white against her bronze skin. Not entirely.

But the way her brown eyes, ever so mischievous and mysterious, looked so… naked in this light.

He had never been able to read her—there’s always this hidden card on her sleeve, even beneath her ‘open book’ way of carrying herself. But this time, he could see her waiting.

Wanting.

“Well?” Her voice was soft against the silence.

“You look…” he trailed off. 

Maybe it was simply the tension in the air. Maybe it was pure awe. Maybe it was the unshakeable possessive pride in the fact that he’d had a hand in creating this look, knowing how she would turn out in it.

No word would ever amount to this—to her—and he would be foolish to even try. So he just shook his head, returning his attention to her corset. Making sure nothing bent or bunch in a way it wasn’t supposed to.

“This not too tight?”

She shook her head, and he swore she looked demure, for the first time ever.

“Turn around, let me see.”

He grabbed her waist with both hands, studying the brocade details of the corset. How it’s an even darker shade of black than the dress, but shinier, like swirling scars—the pain, the anger, the fury, wrapped around her waist.

Oh, the divine curve of her waist.

Eden’s gloved hand dropped to his wrist, and he froze. He wondered if this was a sign to let go, but at the same time… he couldn’t. Not when her thumb is mirroring the very pattern he was drawing on her waist. Not when she trailed up his arm, along his shoulder, so warm and gentle that it made his breath hitch in his throat.

She brushed back a dark strand that fell in front of his face, searching his eyes. “Is that the only place you’ll touch me?”

And there it was again. The waiting. The wanting. He’d never dared to dream it, because he knew—like he knew now—that it’d be all he wanted from then on.

To give in. Melt into her touch. Get lost in her gaze.

“Where else do you want me to touch you?” he rasped.

Heartbeat pounded in his ears, and he’s not sure whether it’s hers or his own. It took him everything to tune it out, just so he could hear her respond,

“Everywhere?”

He expected it to come with a smirk, a teasing twinkle in her eyes; it didn’t. It sounded like a question, and she looked every bit as vulnerable as he felt asking it, and it was all too easy for him to answer.

“Please.”

Because what other answer was there? Everywhere was more than he’d ever hoped for and he couldn’t even think where to begin. His first instinct was her waist—the divine curves of her waist— as his hands were already there. But the necklace was calling out to him with every rise and fall of Eden’s breath. Beckoning him to trace the spaces between the hanging stones, the gentle slope of the neckline, leaving shivers in his wake.

So much, and at the same time, not nearly enough.

She pulled him in closer—the crook of her nose on the crook of his neck. Nuzzling. Resting. Claiming him with kiss after kiss on his skin, and it made him weak. Pliant as she sat herself on the dressing table, hiking up her skirt and allowing him to be lodged between her open legs. Guiding his hand towards the swell of her breast, squeezing his hand, right here. He thumbed her nipples through her dress, marveling at how it hardened under his touch, while her hand roamed his chest, sneaking under his shirt, feeling his lean stomach—his bulging crotch through her silk.

“Your gloves, don’t ruin your gloves…” Bruce miraculously mustered, even as his palms slid down to her hips, squeezing her ass as she left a dizzying hickey on his neck.

Eden clicked her tongue, tearing herself off him with a glare, though it didn’t deter him—then again, maybe it wasn’t supposed to. She bit the tip of her glove at her middle finger, and the fabric slid off, one hand after the other, and she had no right to be so alluring. Running her hand through his rain-drizzled hair. Stroking his prominent jawline. Drawing patterns on his wrist with her bare hands.

Guiding him once again; this time, up her inner thigh. Following the warmth of her body underneath the cool cloth.

All the way up until he reaches something damp.

She gasped.

“Here?”

“Mm-hm.”

He swallowed, yanking her panties aside to find her nether lips, all slippery on his fingertips. His fingers drew up her gushing cleft, and when he touched the swollen little nub, her eyes fluttered ever so slightly, and he could come right then and there if he weren’t so taken by her, mellowing in pleasure.

He rubbed her tentatively, gauging the smallest reactions as a sign. He’d only ever seen it in porn, and it went quite differently in real life. There was no guarantee of a happy ending—not even a guarantee of doing things right. And everything was quieter, subtler with her.

Prettier.

She followed the trail of hair down his navel, absently palming his cock over his jeans—firmer, surer than the last time—and his mind went blank.

“Fuck, Eden…” he sighed, forehead falling against hers. “I’ve never— I don’t— Tell me…” he bit the inside of his cheek, hoping she would get the hint.

She nudged his nose with hers. “Your fingers, Bruce.”

He slowed down his circling motion, trying to figure out whether her squirming meant less or more.

But she chuckled, lazily kissing along his jaw. And then, nipping at his earlobe, she whispered, “I need them inside me.”

Jesus Christ.

His hand traveled down from her clit, and he nearly moaned at how gushing wet she was. All of this just for him? His middle and forefinger slid right in, as if she’d swallowed them whole, and she let out a strained whimper.

Bruce stilled inside her, not wanting to cause any pain by moving in or drawing out. Instead, he just waited. Slowly pulling away to study her face, waiting for her command. God, he’d follow her anywhere.

“You okay?”

Her head fell back against the mirror as she caught her breath. “‘m good. So good,” she sighed, stroking his back as if he was the one who needed soothing. “Keep going.”

He’d always been captivated by her. Her grit, her humor, her warmth that seeped into his cold dead soul. But in the three months he’d known her, he’d never seen her so… tame. Her guard down, all soft and needy under his touch, as he started pumping his digits in and out of her experimentally. Reveling in how she coated his fingers in her arousal, gripping him around her silky walls. How she mewled when he crooked his fingers just right.

He liked that she let him see this side of her.

And as he picked up the pace, her hands grew frenzied on his belt buckle. Frantic as she unfastened it and pushed it down just enough—boxers and all—to take his cock out. And when he thought being freed from the painful restraint of his pants was blissful enough…

She closed her fist around him. 

“Fuck…” a pathetic whine threatened to rip out of his throat, so he busied his mouth on the open stretch of her neck. Dousing himself in the taste of her skin. The smell of her hair. The clench of her cunt.

The grip on his cock.

Thumb rubbing on the tip—smearing precum along his length as she stroked up and down, up and down…

“Bruce...” God, he loved her saying his name like this. “Bruce, I’m close.”

His heart nearly leapt out of his chest, and with that, he pulled away. Her eyelids fluttered heavily, but she kept her eyes locked on his. Self-bitten lips parted as she told him, “Don’t stop. Touch my clit.”

It’s messy and clumsy, the way the heel of his hand pressed down on her sensitive nub with every thrust, and he couldn’t maintain the pace to save his life. But she’s practically riding his hand, canting her hips forward, her own hand faltering from his length. And he needed a release oh so bad, but he was much too enraptured in watching her come. Her hips stuttered with every touch, and her lips pouted as she murmured yes, yes, yes until it fell open with a trembling sigh.

He wanted it seared onto his memory forever.

She hovered in like she was going in for a kiss, but Bruce turned a little bit, planting his lips on her jaw instead. Soft pecks towards her thrumming pulse point. It was nice, but aggravating all the same.

“Why won’t you kiss me?” She found his cock again, stroking him nice and slow. 

“I promised you it won’t happen again.”

He could see how hazy her mind was as she tried to rake around when he’d said that. After the party in the woods. Confusion turned to realization turned to amusement. “I think we’re way past that.”

And he knew that. She came on his hand, goddammit, and he was well on his way to do the same on hers. But somehow, he couldn’t seem to move past that—and he didn’t know why.

But her grip tightened just a little bit, and he was so close. “Besides… is that really what you want?”

He shook his head.

“Good.” she wrapped her legs around his hips, stroking him from tip to base. “I never wanted that, either.”

And just like that, he gravitated towards her lips until they collided. This is what he needed.

Cursed be his brain, because his memory could never recall her kiss being so… good. It was so much like the last time, and yet nothing like it? Her lips were soft, he remembered that, but the way she kissed him was different. Dirtier. Like she wanted to consume him, and God, he was ready to give her all that. Anything at all, he swore, fuck, Eden, so close—

“Come for me, Bruce,” she murmured into his mouth, tugging his lower lip between her teeth.

He had no chance against her.

“Fuck,” as he lurched into her hand, spilling out his pent-up release for her. “Fuck…” he panted out, catching his breath, basking in the pleasure of giving everything for her. For Eden. Eden, in all her glory of kiss-worn lips and heaving chest and— 

“Fuck!”

Little drops of white on her black corset.

“Bruce.”

“No, no, no, no…” all sobered up, Bruce immediately tried to wipe it off. It went, but not without a faint stain on the fabric. He’s in a lot of trouble.

“Bruce, it’s fine—”

“No, it’s not. Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, like a whirlwind as he pulled his pants back up, scrambling for tissues, returning to the dress—barely registering that Eden stayed unmoved in her place.

Perched on top of the dressing table. Watching him fuss.

Dazed and docile.

“Eden, we can’t do this. We can’t—” he was so weak for her. She smoothed out his stubbornly sticking-out hair so tenderly, and he nearly lost his train of thought. “We gotta keep our shit together for this. You said so yourself, right?”

Her face dropped just a little bit, but she nodded anyway. “Right.”

He tried to move on. The stain was going bit by bit, and his head cleared enough to remember grabbing a Tide pen later on. But he couldn’t shake off the subtle switch in her expression. That hint of… disappointment when he told her no.

Because neither of them wanted to stop.

“Closing night,” Bruce decided.

“What?”

“We’ll pick this up after closing night. Okay?”

She blinked at him in surprise. In question. In curiosity.

“You need to focus, and I need to do my job,” he reminded her, unable to fight back the amused smile that came with her uncharacteristic lack of witty remark. It’s kind of… cute.

“Okay, deal.” Eden offered her hand. “Closing night.”

He stared at her hand for a moment—the hand that was just on his dick, for fuck’s sake—before gingerly accepting the handshake. With the hand she came all over.

The irony didn’t seem to be lost on them as they started giggling. An honest-to-God, straight-from-the-core giggling that led him to lean in, kissing her one last time. Sure and easy as day, relishing the warmth of her lips as the two of them made the most of it.