Sumerusan

He's reminded of this particular weakness whenever he's banned from voice or text chats in his games, where one too many creative insults about the opposing team's mothers slip out before his brain catches up to his mouth.

And there's also the whole cocaine thing. But that's not important. He's working on it. Malevola makes sure of that.

His greatest weakness, though, walked into his life a month ago.

Specifically, when you began working at SDN.

It was love at first sight. At least for him, because you hadn't even looked at him as you walked by, following Blonde Blazer as she animatedly introduced you to the dispatchers you'd be shadowing.

A few seconds was all Victor needed to know he was fucked.

He paid more attention in the weeks that followed. He gathered intelligence: not only were you hot—like, objectively, scientifically attractive—but you were funny. More than funny. Hilarious, actually. At times, he found himself coughing to cover up his laugh after he'd eavesdrop on your conversations. Not entirely creepy, because he only did it when you were in the break room or the conference room, and he considered those public spaces. Natural ground. It wasn't his fault he had exceptional hearing.

His crush has only grown since then, metastasizing into something he can't quite control.

There are times he's convinced you're secretly enhanced, some kind of undercover operative. It's the only explanation, really—maybe you're a temptress, a succubus, some lust manipulator with pheromone control. Because without fail, you turn him to putty. He has to readjust himself in his dress pants whenever you walk past, because your perfume wraps itself around his veins and tugs the flow of his blood straight to his dick like a leash.

Malevola had laughed herself sick one evening when she'd noticed, telling him he was "down catastrophic" for someone he didn't even have the guts to talk to. She'd shared the observation with Z-team too, and when Prism caught him adjusting himself during a mission briefing, they'd called him a perv loud enough for half the room to hear.

You'd earned the nickname Medusa after that, because Malevola found it hilarious that you managed to turn him rock-hard just by existing in his line of sight.

Victor had thrown a pen at her head. She'd caught it without looking and threw it back five times as hard.

Standing in the hallway, Victor rises to attention as you walk toward him, following the usual path to your desk. He adjusts his tie, tuning out Malevola's conversation, and steels himself mentally.

"I'm gonna go talk to her."

Malevola glances up. "Oh yeah? What are you gonna say?"

"Something good. Get her interested. Leave her thinking."

Malevola scowls. "Please don't mention your crypto portfolio."

"Why would I mention my crypto portfolio?"

"Because you mentioned it to the last three people you tried to talk to."

"I was networking!"

"You were being insufferable."

Victor sneers at her, half annoyed, half embarrassed. "Whatever. Watch and learn."

He tightens his tie and steps in front of you, halting you in place.

"Oh," you say, blinking. "Hi, Sonar."

You offer him a smile—polite, gentle. Good sign.

"Hey," he grins. "How's it going?"

"It's... going good, I guess. Just a regular Monday."

He nods. "Right. Cool. So, uh, I noticed you take like three sugars in your coffee."

Okay, good start. Observational. Shows he pays attention.

"...Okay?"

"That's cool. I mean, that's a lot of sugar but like, you do you. I usually go for two max." Wait, that sounds judgmental. "Not that three is bad! Three is good. Sweet tooth, that's chill."

Your smile is getting tighter. "Thanks?"

"Yeah, no problem." He shoves his hands into his pants pockets. "So hey, I've been looking at the mission numbers. You're doing pretty well. Like, way above average. If you ever want any tips on dispatch strategies or whatever, I could totally help you out."

"I... you're not a dispatcher. I am."

"Right, yeah, I know that. I just meant like, general efficiency stuff. I'm really good at that kind of thing. Optimization, time management, all that." He's nailing this. "Actually, I used to run this whole investment operation and—"

"The fraud thing?"

"—it was very successful. Financially. Before the legal issues." Okay, maybe don't bring up the crimes. "But like, I learned a lot about managing systems and people and—"

"That's great, Sonar, but I really should get back to work."

"Oh yeah, totally. I get it, you're busy. Respect the grind." He nods. "But hey, if you ever want to grab coffee and talk shop or whatever, I know this place that has really good espresso. Well, decent espresso. It's acceptable espresso but the vibe is nice."

"I'll... keep that in mind." You slip past him, the tight, nervous smile still on your face. Maybe you're nervous because you like him too. Score.

"Cool, cool. See you around!"

You give a little wave without really looking at him and speed-walk toward your desk.

Victor turns back to Malevola with a grin. "Dude, I think she's into me."

Malevola stares at him, mouth agape, the corners of her lips turned down.

"What?" he asks.

"I don't think so. She literally ran away from you."

"No she didn't. She walked. Quickly. Because she's busy and dedicated to her job. That's attractive, actually." He feels good about this. That went well. "She smiled at me."

"That wasn't a smile. It was a grimace. I felt like I was watching a hostage negotiation."

"You're being dramatic." He loosens his tie a bit, feeling accomplished. "I was smooth. I gave her an out by mentioning coffee, showed off my skills without being too much about it—"

"You told her about your fraud charges."

"I was being honest. Chicks dig honesty."

Malevola sighs. "Sonar—"

"You're wrong," he says, cutting her off. "I know what I'm doing, okay? I've got this. Tomorrow I'll try again. Maybe I'll tell her about that time I made 100k in a month. That's impressive."

"Please don't."

"Or maybe I'll ask about her interests. Show I care about her as a person."

"That one. Do that one."

"And then tell her about the 100k."

"Sonar, I'm begging you—"

But he isn't really listening anymore. He's already planning his next move, thinking about what to say, how to stand, when to catch you again.

He's got this. He's good at this.

Victor's eyes track you through the open break room door.

"What are you staring at?"

Victor flinches at Malevola's voice, straightening himself in his seat. "Huh? I'm not staring at anything."

"Uh-huh." She follows his gaze and sighs, turning back to him with a pitiful expression. "Please don't tell me this is why you wanted to take break at 2:15 instead of 3."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Malevola groans. "It is, isn't it? You figured out her schedule? Dude, that's so creepy."

"It's not creepy. It's called pattern recognition. That's a skill."

"Technically, so is stalking."

Victor glares at her but doesn't reply, his white eyes flickering to where you stand as he registers movement. You're wrapping up your conversation now, waving goodbye to another dispatcher. James, maybe. Something with a J. Victor sits up straighter without meaning to.

"Oh, she's coming in," Malevola says, grinning. "You gonna talk to her this time?"

He frowns. "What are you talking about? I talked to her last week."

"Whatever that disaster was, was not talking."

Victor's expression flattens to unamused. You're approaching the threshold of the break room now. He can already smell your perfume. "Okay. I'm doing this."

"You're doing this," Malevola echoes.

"Yup." He stands. "Gonna be casual. Relaxed. Normal."

"Three words that have never been used to describe you."

He glares at Malevola again, but she only raises a brow, the corners of her lips quirking upward. Despite her amusement, there's an encouraging gleam in her expression that Victor recognizes. He matches it with a confident nod, fixes his tie, checks his cuffs, and makes his way to where you stand at the counter.

The break room isn't large by any means, but he feels as if he's been walking for a long time. He can feel Malevola's gaze following his movements. Good. Witnesses to his success are important. This time is going to be a win. He can feel it.

You're making coffee. Perfect. He's got this.

He opens his mouth as he finally reaches you, winding up one of his practiced conversation starters, but stills as you put in headphones.

Shit.

He looks back at Malevola. She's watching with barely contained glee, making a "go on" gesture with her hands.

Okay. Okay, he can work with this. He'll just... wait until you turn around. It gives him some time to prepare, anyway. A few seconds can be priceless to a man if he knows how to use them right.

A few moments pass, but you have yet to acknowledge his presence. Or anything besides your coffee making, really. Which, now that Victor's thinking about it, is concerning. How have you not been mugged?

You're adding sugar—one, two, three packets, as usual—and he should probably say something or clear his throat or do literally anything besides hover like a creep, but his brain has completely blanked.

You're stirring now. Any second you'll turn around and he'll say something smooth and—

He's made a miscalculation.

Grabbing your mug, you step backward—and walk directly into his chest.

You gasp, spinning around. The coffee in your cup jumps, sloshing over the rim and splashing across your hand, your wrist. Drops hit your shirt, your pants. Your headphones catch and pull free from your ears.

"Shit!" you hiss, jerking your hand back. Coffee drips onto the floor between you.

Victor's frozen, staring at the spreading stain on your shirt, at your reddening hand. At least the break room coffee is never really hot. Perpetually room temperature, in fact. "I—"

"Jesus Christ, Sonar!" You set the mug down hard on the counter, shaking out your hand. "How long have you been standing there?"

"I wasn't—I just—" His mouth is moving but nothing useful is coming out. "Maybe thirty seconds? I was waiting for you to turn around because you had headphones in and I didn't want to—"

"So you just stood behind me?" You grab napkins from the dispenser, pressing them against your shirt. The coffee's already seeping through. "Silently?"

"I didn't want to startle you—"

"Well, congratulations. You failed." You're dabbing at the stain, movements sharp and frustrated. More napkins. The coffee isn't coming out. "God damn it."

"I can help—"

"It's fine."

"Let me get you paper towels, or—"

"It's fine, Sonar." You crumple the napkins in your fist and toss them in the trash. When you look at him, your expression is carefully neutral. Painfully polite. "I have an extra shirt in my locker. I need to go change."

"I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"I know." You're already moving past him, toward the door. "It's fine. Just... an accident."

But the way you say it doesn't sound like you think it's fine at all.

Victor watches you leave, your coffee-stained shirt disappearing around the corner, and something in his chest sinks.

The break room is quiet. Too quiet.

He turns slowly, meeting Malevola's gaze.

"Don't," Victor says.

"I didn't say anything."

"You're thinking it loud enough."

Victor's tried four more times since the coffee incident.

Each interaction has been uniquely catastrophic in ways he didn't think were possible. There was the time he tried to hold the elevator for you and accidentally hit the emergency stop button instead, trapping you both for twenty minutes while you made increasingly uncomfortable small talk and he sweated through his shirt.

He followed that disappointment a few days later when he brought you coffee from an overpriced cafe as an apology (three sugars, he remembered) but had accidentally grabbed another order instead—black, no sugar—and watched you take a sip and immediately wince.

Then there was the time he tried to compliment your new haircut but instead said you looked "different" in a tone that implied he meant it negatively.

And finally, there was yesterday, when he'd attempted to help you carry a box of files and had somehow managed to trip over absolutely nothing, sending papers exploding across the hallway like the world's most pathetic confetti cannon.

The Z-team has been having a field day. He's even seen money exchanging hands in the break room. Malevola claims she's been betting in his favor, but her recent vinyl purchases suggest a very different story.

By this point, Victor's half-expecting a restraining order. Or at minimum, a very awkward meeting with Robert to discuss workplace boundaries and what constitutes harassment.

He's given up. Officially. He's waving the white flag.

Which is why he's at Gracie's on a Saturday night, letting the terrible DJ and even worse drink specials wash over him in waves of aggressive mediocrity.

The music is too loud. The bass is making his head throb—enhanced hearing is a blessing until it very much isn't—and some drunk girl just spilled her vodka cranberry on his shoe.

He needs air.

Victor pushes through the crowd toward the back exit, shouldering past a group doing shots and a couple making out against the wall. Lucky them.

Reaching the door to the patio area, he shoves it open and steps outside.

And freezes instantly.

You're sitting on a picnic table that's been shoved up against the brick exterior wall, perched on the top with your feet on the actual seat, scrolling through your phone. The string lights overhead cast everything in warm amber.

Oh fuck.

Victor immediately pivots, turns on his heel, fully prepared to march right back into the bass-thumping hellscape he just escaped because this—this looks like stalking. This looks like he planned this. This looks like—

The door slams open into his face.

"Shiiiiiit, dude, my bad!"

A drunk guy stumbles past him, hand briefly patting Victor's shoulder in apology before he makes a beeline for the porta-potties in the corner of the patio.

Victor's holding his temple, white eyes squeezed shut against the sharp pain.

"Sonar?"

He opens his eyes and turns around. You're looking at him now, phone lowered, expression unreadable.

"Oh, heyy." His voice comes out pained. "Didn’t see you there. What’s up?”

He genuinely considers willing himself to transform and flying away, dignity be damned.

You lock your phone. Drop it in your lap. "Are you stalking me?"

Victor's eyes go wide. His hands come up immediately, waving emphatically. "No, no. I swear, I didn't know you'd be here—"

A smile breaks across your face within seconds, your laughter following suit. Bubbly and amused and completely unexpected. "I'm just fucking with you. Everyone and their fuckin' mom comes to Gracie's on a Saturday, apparently. Dunno what the fuck that's about."

The word 'fuck' sounds strange coming from you. Wrong, but in a way that makes his body heat with warmth he's not entirely prepared for. He's seeing you in a completely new light now as he slowly walks closer: gone is the corporate demeanor, the professional distance.

You, his Medusa, are a potty mouth.

In a way that's much more endearing than when Chase does it.

Victor realizes he's been quiet for a few seconds too long. "Yeah," he manages. "What the fuck is that about?"

The grin on your face widens as you tilt your head, examining him. Instinctively, Victor stands straighter, hoping it radiates an attractive aura of confidence rather than the barely-restrained awkwardness he's actually feeling.

"Can I join you?" He points to the space next to you.

You glance at it, then back at him. Nod. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Cool."

He climbs up, settling beside you. Not too close—that would be creepy, invasive, weird. But not too far either—that would be offensive, like he thinks you have a disease or something. Just in case. He scoots a little to the left. Then back to the right.

You don't comment on his musical chairs routine, which he takes as a win.

Now that he's closer, he can see the slight tint in your cheeks, the looseness in your posture that speaks of a few drinks in your system. Which might explain the casual swearing—and the fact that you didn't pretend not to know him entirely.

The drunk guy exits the porta-potty, stumbling slightly as he heads back inside. A few girls immediately take his place, their loud laughter cutting through the muffled bass still thumping from inside the bar. Victor grimaces at the sound of one of them vomiting into the open toilet.

Classy establishment, this.

You're looking down at your lap now, twirling your phone between your fingers. Nosily, Victor tries to peek at your lockscreen, see what hints it might give about your life outside of dispatching. But he's met with nothing. Just the black, smooth coating of a privacy screen protector.

Smart.

He's half-tempted to pull out his own phone just to give himself something to do besides aimlessly bounce his knee. But that would be rude. And you haven't unlocked your phone either, which feels like a sign. This is his chance. His shot at redemption. To make up for the elevator incident and the coffee mix-up and the box of papers and every other disaster that's led to this moment.

He sorts through the thoughts in his mind, watching dialogue options flash across his consciousness like some shitty dating sim.

"Can you—" You grimace slightly, glancing at him. "Could you stop that? Maybe?"

Victor blinks, head whipping to the side. You're pointing at his knee, your gaze bouncing between his face and the traitorous limb that's been bouncing hard enough to shake the whole bench.

"Oh, yeah. For sure. My bad."

He clears his throat, placing his palm flat on his knee. The movement slows, but he can still feel the muscles twitching under his hand, restless energy with nowhere to go. He knew those lines in the bathroom were a mistake. Victor opts for a better solution, leaning forward to brace both forearms on his thighs, using his weight to settle the spasms.

Silence settles between you again. You're humming under your breath, and without looking directly at you, he can hear the rustle of fabric as you sway subtly to the music bleeding through the walls. The vibrations meet his eardrums, bass-heavy and relentless.

He steals a few glances at you. After the third, his gaze settles on the side of your face, taking in your profile. The shape of your nose, the curve of your jaw, the way the string lights catch in your hair.

Conversation. He needs to make conversation. He's alone with you, and you haven't skittered away from his presence like every other time. This is it. Say something. Anything. Something to engage you, make you like him—

"You want some coke?"

Your eyes lock on his as you turn to look at him, brows furrowed and mouth slightly parted.

"I have some. In case you do."

You're still staring. Your mouth parts even further, but he can see the corners of your lips beginning to turn upward.

"Or not. That's totally cool. You don't have to. I just thought I'd offer because we're both here and—"

Finally, you break your silence with a laugh, your shoulders shaking with it. "You know SDN drug tests, right?"

If Victor had a human face, he's sure it would've been drained entirely of color. He sits ramrod straight, leaning further into your space without meaning to. "What? They do?"

Pressing your lips together, you give him a tight nod.

His face falls. He looks forward blankly, speedrunning the image of unemployment in his mind—fired for a failed drug test of all things, after everything he's survived, after clawing his way back from federal charges and—

Then his ears twitch, picking up another sound leaving your lips. Another fit of laughter.

He turns to face you once more.

"I'm just fucking with you again," you say, curling into yourself as your laughter settles into something softer. "Oh my god, your face."

"So not cool," Victor says, but he's fighting back a chuckle of his own. "My life just flashed before my eyes."

"Oh, I saw it." You bite back a smile. "Don't worry. If we started drug testing, I think we'd fire half the staff." You give him a pointed look. "You guys love your drugs."

You're teasing him. This is a win. He's winning. Victor clears his throat, hoping to play it cool.

"And I was still willing to share."

"Oh, how charitable of you."

You're looking at him through your lashes now, your head slightly lolled to the side. You look... so hot. He's fighting the urge to inhale your scent like a rabid dog. He's more refined than that. More dignified.

"I'm actually very charitable," he says, nodding seriously.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Not to brag or anything."

"Seems like you're super humble, too."

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "Totally."

His response earns him another laugh. He's racking up wins tonight, each one more improbable than the last. Finally.

You shift slightly, curling in on yourself, arms wrapping around your middle. It's not really cold outside, but he sees an opening. A chance. Every romance movie he's ever secretly watched while high has prepared him for this moment.

Victor shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it over your shoulders in one smooth motion.

You jump slightly, startled, but then you realize what he's doing and soften into it, pulling the fabric closer around yourself.

"Oh," you say quietly. "Thank you."

And he swears—he fucking swears—you run your gaze over him. Over the white dress shirt, over the loosened tie at his collar, lingering just a second too long. You're checking him out. Holy shit, you're actually checking him out.

"No problem." He's trying not to grin too wide.

You settle back into your sitting position, his jacket wrapped around your shoulders like a claim, and Victor has to resist the urge to fist-pump right there.

"I'm—I'm sorry that I brush you off at work."

Victor raises a brow, surprised. He wasn't expecting an apology. Wasn't expecting you to acknowledge any of it.

"I have this anti-superhero policy," you continue, not quite meeting his eyes. "For flirting, or whatever. A lot of you guys are just so stuck up, you know? Full of yourselves. And I thought—" You pause, picking at your nails. "I thought you were messing with me for some weird entertainment. Because the Z-team is always laughing whenever you try to talk to me."

You guys. You consider him a proper superhero.

"They were laughing at me," Victor says quickly. "Not you. Totally not you." He runs a hand over his head, over the smooth fur there. "They were laughing because I kept messing it up. Every single time."

"I realize that now," you murmur softly.

Victor opens his mouth to say something else—something smooth—but you make a small sound of discomfort, dropping your head down as you run a hand across your temple.

"I think I should go get some water."

You're starting to move, preparing to haul yourself up from the table, but Victor stands quickly—too quickly—and nearly stumbles when his foot catches on the ledge of the bench.

"No," he says, then clears his throat, smoothing his voice into something more casual. "I mean, you stay here. I'll go."

"Are you sure?" You're looking up at him with furrowed brows, readjusting his jacket across your shoulders.

White eyes track the movement, and his heart beats faster at the image of you in his coat. It skips, unhappily, at the thought of you taking it off in favor of going back inside—at the image of losing you to a crowd.

He nods, probably too quick. "For sure. You just—you stay here. Don't move."

His hands raise to emphasize his point, and thankfully, you bite back a laugh at the motion. "Okayyy."

Victor nods again, smiling, then starts backing toward the door. He glances back once, twice, making sure you haven't moved. You wave at him, amused, and he nearly walks into the doorframe before catching himself.

Smooth. Real smooth.

He opens the door casually, steps inside—

And then he's running.

Waters acquired, he heads back, walking quickly but not running this time. Playing it cool. He's got this.

He pushes the door open with his shoulder—

And immediately registers that something is wrong.

You're standing now, backed up against the picnic table. There's a guy in front of you. Too close. Your arms are crossed, body language screaming discomfort.

"—just being friendly," the guy is saying, his words slurred. "Why you gotta be such a bitch about it?"

Victor's jaw clenches.

"Wow, I'm swooning," you say, annoyed. "Leave me alone, dick."

Victor steps forward, waters still in hand. "She’s not interested."

The guy turns, taking in Victor with bleary eyes. "Nobody's talking to your recalled beanie baby ass."

Victor's mouth falls open slightly. Recalled beanie baby? Now he's pissed.

"Fuck you, man."

The guy laughs, turning back to you. "What, this your boyfriend or something?"

"Don't be a cunt," you say to the guy.

He laughs, ugly and mean. "Sure, I'll stop being one if you show me yours—"

One second, Victor's standing there, waters in hand, watching this play out.

Then the glasses in his hands shatter.

And everything goes red.

His vision tunnels. His hearing sharpens. He feels the familiar, uncontrollable surge of his body changing, growing, warping. Clothing tears. Air hits fur. His heart pounds in his chest, rapid-fire, and his breathing comes harsh and ragged through expanding lungs.

Distant thuds fill his ears: people scrambling away from the patio area, the man's heartbeat kicking into overdrive, terror-sharp.

And yours—your heart is racing too.

Victor—no, the beast now, the creature version, massive and monstrous—hunches his shoulders and bares his fangs.

He shrieks, a guttural sound of pure rage, and the guy's eyes go wide, face drained of color.

"She told you to get lost," Sonar growls, his voice distorted and deep.

The guy nods frantically, stumbling backward. "I'm—yeah, I'm going, I'm—"

He turns and runs, practically falling over himself to get back inside the bar.

Victor watches him go, head turning to track the movement. He's still breathing hard, teeth bared, arms tense and ready. The predatory satisfaction of watching a threat flee courses through him, hot and electric.

Then his gaze swings back.

And he sees you.

Wide-eyed. Mouth open. Hands tightening around his jacket.

Shit.

He transforms back in a rush, the shift happening so fast it leaves him dizzy. Fur recedes. Size shrinks. His breathing evens out.

And then he's just Victor again, standing in the middle of the patio, completely naked, glass crunched under his feet.

You're staring.

"I... kinda feel like I may have overreacted," he says.

"No—that was—" Your eyes flicker downward and widen more.

"Oh!" You turn immediately, one hand coming up to cover your eyes. "Oh my god. Your dick is out."

Victor stiffens—in multiple ways, unfortunately—and looks down.

Yup. Dick's out. He moves to cover himself with his hands.

He's not ashamed, exactly. He knows he's packing more than average. But he's also a grower in more ways than one, and this was definitely not how it went in his fantasies when you first saw him naked. He'd imagined it would be more empowering. That you'd go wide-eyed with lust and excitement, maybe bite your lip suggestively.

Not turn away and exclaim while covering your eyes. That's... not a good sign.

"Shit. Sorry. That—the clothes don't come back when I transform. Because of the whole ripping apart thing."

"Um," you say, voice muffled behind your hand. You're carefully not looking at him, which would be funny if Victor wasn't dying inside. "Here."

You take his jacket off your shoulders and hold it out blindly, arm extended.

"Thanks," Victor mutters, taking it.

He tries to figure out how to position it around his waist. The warm night breeze kisses his exposed skin.

"Can we—can we just—" He does an awkward shuffle-turn with you so his bare ass is facing the wall. "Just turn with me—yeah, like that—"

Finally, he gets the jacket positioned, holding it around himself like a towel. Roman bath-style. "Okay. Got it."

You peek through your fingers. "All good?"

He clears his throat. "Yup. Yeah. All good."

You drop your hand and turn fully to face him, holding his gaze for a long moment.

And then you're laughing, covering your face with both hands, shoulders shaking. Victor feels the tips of his ears go hot with embarrassment.

"Maybe you could not laugh in my face after seeing my penis."

You're laughing harder now, doubled over. "No, it's not that, I swear, it's—"

You press your fingers over your lips, taking a deep breath to compose yourself. "I appreciate you defending my honor."

"Anytime," Victor says, and he means it despite the circumstances.

Someone bursts through the door, yelling your name, and both of you snap your heads toward the sound.

Your friend stops in place, eyes going wide as she takes in the scene—you, Victor in nothing but a jacket-toga, broken glass everywhere.

"Uh... hello." She walks over slowly, confused but clearly intrigued. "Am I interrupting something?"

You and Victor glance at each other.

"No—uh, this is Sonar. We work together," you say quickly.

"Heyy," Victor says. He readjusts his hold on the jacket with one hand and extends the other for a handshake. "What's good?"

Your friend takes it delicately, eyebrows climbing higher. "I'm—wow. Okay." She introduces herself, then looks between you and Victor, amusement growing in her expression. She looks at you with a shit-eating grin. "Do all the hot superheroes at your job get naked for you?"

Victor sees an opening and points at her. "Only the best ones."

Your friend cackles. You cover your face again, but you're smiling.

"Well," your friend says, turning back to you, "I've been looking for you. I think we're ready to head home. That cool?"

You nod, glancing back at Victor. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

"'Kay, I'm calling the Uber." Your friend pulls out her phone and steps away, giving you two space.

You turn to Victor fully, and he holds your eye contact for as long as he can manage without combusting.

You walk toward him.

Victor stiffens—and embarrassingly, he can feel himself getting hard. He attributes it to the warm breeze and your smell flooding his nostrils and the softness of the jacket lining. Curse his excellent taste.

He tracks your movement with white eyes. When you're close enough, you go up on your toes and press a kiss to his cheek.

His brain flatlines.

You pull back, and there's a strand of hair stuck to your lip gloss.

"Oh, hair," you laugh softly, pulling it away from your mouth. "I'll…see you Monday?"

Victor's still stunned. Completely frozen. "Yeah. For sure. See you... see you Monday."

Your friend grabs your hand, tugging you toward the door. "Uber's here. Let's go."

She glances back at Victor as you both head inside. "Nice meeting you, Batman."

"It's—it's Sonar—" he calls after you, but you're already gone.

Victor stands there for a moment, alone on the patio, hand still pressed to the fur on his cheek where you kissed him.

He does a celebratory fist pump, his jacket falling to the ground. "Yes! This is what I'm talking about!"

Someone stumbles out of the porta-potty. They make eye contact. The guy freezes, taking in Victor's naked form with wide eyes.

"Celebrating a massive win," Victor explains.

The guy keeps staring.

Victor leans down slowly to grab his jacket, wrapping it back around his waist. "Aight. Night, man."

He lets his excitement bleed through his body, raising his heartbeat as he transforms—carefully holding his jacket this time—and takes off into the sky. Victor is too consumed in his success to register the small baggie that fell out of his jacket pocket and landed on the ground.

The guy from the porta-potty watches the giant bat fly away, then looks down at the baggie at his feet.

He picks it up, examines it, and grins.

Score.

thank you for reading and please lmk if you enjoyed <3 i operate entirely on positive reinforcement like a dog with treats :D