#braxton x reader

Just as Braxton was running out of time and losing his sanity, frantically googling which damn shots a cat might need in Istanbul—an encrypted file appeared in his inbox.

A portfolio of reliable pet sitters in his direct area, complete with background checks and client testimonials. It was so clinical, so perfectly compiled that for a moment Braxton forgot to be relieved. He would’ve deleted it on principle, but he was running out of time.

So he made inquiries. It turned out, these people might have been reliable, but by God were they also utterly nuts.

The first woman on the list had a house that smelled like patchouli and talked to him in a baby voice as if he was the damn cat. The next, a guy, kept winking and asking if Braxton “needed any other services taken care of.” Had it been up to Braxton, he would’ve taken care of the man then and there, he even had the silencer on him. But, as it was, he was also in a hurry.

The third lady had seventeen cats of her own and tried to lecture Braxton on holistic nutrition, which… Let’s be honest, he barely fed himself on a regular basis and most of it was processed sugar anyway.

You were the lucky number four and his last resort.

Braxton googled you, just to be sure, but to his surprise he found very little. A social media profile that looked abandoned, some old playlist on an ancient YouTube account, and a blurry photo to wrap it all up. Safe to say, he was intrigued.

At the end of the day, the information in Christian’s portfolio was straightforward and your rate seemed very reasonable. Not that it mattered. You were his last chance. His ass had to be planted in that plane seat in exactly four hours.

He called first—suddenly he felt like not being that much of an asshole. But after that initial phone call, he did show up on your doorstep with the orange menace in a plastic carrier. Braxton was fully aware he was forcing your hand, and he was prepared to deal with you like with any other problem—throw cash at you and hope for the best.

When you saw him, the cat, then let him introduce himself (with a fake name and that easy charm), you just let him. And, for the longest moment, you didn’t speak. Unnerving, that. 

But, regarding your sanity, you seemed clean, quiet, and smelled like nothing in particular. 

Finally, just as Braxton was about to lose it, you looked at Braxton, then at the hissing, spitting creature, and simply asked: “Not neutered?”

Braxton winced. But there was no baby talk, no winks, no judgment. Small mercies.

That was when he pulled a thick, plain envelope from inside his jacket and placed it on the side table—not tossed. The gesture was oddly careful for him. 

“Rate’s in there. Plus extra.”

You looked at it, then at him with the same blank expression. 

“I don’t need extra,” you said and he snorted, giving you that exasperated look like you’d just told him gravity was optional.

“Consider it hazard pay. That thing’s insane.”

“Right. He got a name?” you asked.

Braxton smirked. “Nah. Just call him whatever he’ll respond to.”

Then you deadpanned: “So… ‘Asshole’ works?”

He actually laughed. “Yeah. That’ll do. And listen, thanks.”

“Never said I’d take him.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “What’s the rush?”

“A job.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Listen, lady,” he scrubbed a hand across his face and put down the carrier, “I gotta be at the airport in an hour.”

“Not my problem, is it?”

But then you picked up the carrier and the cat stopped hissing. 

Braxton’s eyes widened slightly. Goddamn. Now he was a little intrigued. First of all, you seemed largely unaffected by him showing up with the cat, which… Frankly, you should have shut the door in his face. It’s what he would’ve done. But now you turned out to be some sort of cat whisperer too, which wasn’t exactly unexpected—judging by your standoffish, cat-like demeanor. Practically half-feline yourself.

“Alright, listen,” he conceded. “You want details? Here’s the thing.”

Then he spun the tale, every sentence of which carried the polish of a well-practiced lie. You believed none of it, but judging by your eyes you were also too tired to argue.

“So, you in? Or do I need to find another solution?” Braxton’s dark eyes studied you intently, searching. “Come on, what’s it gonna be?”

Now, Braxton was many things, but not patient. He wasn’t used to relying on others, especially not for something personal. Matter of fact, he wasn’t used to having anything remotely classified as “personal” either.

He glanced at his watch, the tension in him growing because you were still silent. Finally, he scoffed and moved to take the carrier back, but that was when you reached for the envelope. 

Braxton smirked.

“Ah, so you are human.” He straightened up, tilting his head. “Listen, don’t even worry ‘bout it. Take the cash, if anyone asks you never saw me, if I end up dead in a ditch somewhere, congrats, free cat.”

He said it like it was a joke. It wasn’t.

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s weirdly specific.”

“Yeah, well.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Two weeks, tops.”

You smiled, but he failed to see anything funny about it. Finally, you nodded then stuck your finger inside that carrier and didn’t immediately lose it.

Braxton took it as a sign.

“What food does he like?”

“I don’t know, uh… That canned stuff.”

“Canned… stuff.”

Braxton had never seen that orange monster look at him with more disgust.

“Look—”

“What type of litter?”

Braxton was the picture of exasperation. You chuckled, he assumed it was probably because his and the cat’s expressions now matched. 

“Look, just… Buy whatever you think is best.”

He wasn’t used to being interrogated. But he had to admit, he liked your direct approach—even if your stern looks made him feel like he was failing math again.

“Fine, fine,” he muttered, running a hand over his stubbled jaw. “He likes chicken. And for the litter... just get the cheap stuff. He’s not picky.”

You sighed. “You mean you’re not picky. But fine.”

Braxton couldn’t believe he was having this conversation.

“Anything else?” he asked. “Need his measurements for a little cat suit or something?”

“No, I should have a spare.”

He sincerely hoped you were kidding, but then again the past week had been a quick and painful education on just how crazy the crazy cat people could really be.

“Ha. Funny.” Braxton paused, then added reluctantly, “And maybe get some of those... what do you call ‘em? Those little toys. He likes to bat at ‘em.”

Braxton cleared his throat, trying to cover the moment of vulnerability. He glanced at his watch again. He really needed to get moving. The cat let out an undignified yowl, not too happy with his imprisonment.

“Alright, that’s my cue,” Braxton said, taking another step back toward the door. The cat was still glaring at him like Braxton had somehow wronged him, which to be honest he probably had.

“Yeah, and,” Braxton paused as he took another step towards the stairs, “don’t let him near that fire escape. Little psycho thinks he’s Spider-Man.”

You muttered something under your breath that sounded suspiciously like: “Wonder where he learned that from.”

Braxton pretended not to hear. He pointed at you, then the cat. “Two weeks. Don’t kill my cat.”

Now, according to Braxton, this whole petsitting thing… It was supposed to be a clean, one-time, borderline-desperate arrangement. But it wasn’t, not really. It soon turned out you weren’t a freak and the cat was well-taken care of. Frankly, much better than whatever freestyle parenting Braxton had been experimenting with. Besides, you still didn’t ask any weird questions and Braxton liked that about you as well.

Which was why, some weeks later, he found himself back at your door—again. He had an expensive duffel bag slung over one shoulder and the same orange menace in the upgraded, non-rattling carrier under his arm.

Braxton didn’t bother with knocking politely this time. He just rapped his knuckles hard against the wood. “Open up. Package delivery.”

There was some rattling and some swearing, then a crash like something fell. You opened the door, hair wild and a glare so fierce it almost rivaled the cat’s. Braxton cracked a grin at your expense. 

“You know,” you snarked, “normal people call ahead.”

Braxton pushed past you into the apartment, setting the carrier down on the floor. “Normal people don’t have a cat who screams like a banshee if you leave him in the car for two minutes. I was sparing you.”

“My hero,” you deadpanned, crossing your arms. Braxton’s smirk only widened.

“Alright, ma’am,” he drawled, handing over the familiar envelope. “Three weeks.”

“Three?!”

Braxton shrugged, his expression back to guarded. “Business trip. It’s… complicated.”

He glanced around your apartment, cataloging the new cat tree in the corner and the collection of feather toys. “Someone’s been shopping.”

“Someone’s been paying well.”

You opened the carrier first and the cat bumped its head against your shin, purring loudly.

“Yeah, yeah, no whining,” Braxton muttered.

“I wasn’t going to whine,” you said. “But I will start an emotional support surcharge for dealing with his absentee father.”

Braxton actually laughed—a sharp, surprised type of sound. He dropped his duffel by the door with a heavy thud. He was already fishing out his phone, typing one-handed, but the smile was still there. “Send me the bill.”

“I wasn’t—” You rolled your eyes. “Nevermind. He got a name yet?”

“No.” Braxton put the phone down and nodded toward the cat, who was now attempting to scale your bookshelf. “But had to get him… You know. He kept getting into fights. Got some sort of a death wish.”

“All orange cats do,” you sighed.

Braxton grunted, levelling you with a look. He had no idea what the hell that meant. Sometimes he wondered about you.

Not that often, though.

“Alright.” He hesitated in the doorway. “You, uh… you got everything you need this time?”

You stared at him. “Are you being thoughtful?”

“No.”

You smirked, clearly not buying it. He needed to exit. Fast.

“Whatever. Three weeks. Don’t teach him any new swear words.” He pointed a finger at you. “I mean it.”

Then, his usual guarded mask was back on and Braxton was out the door. 

Three weeks later, the snow was falling in thick, silent clumps. The city airport was strangely festive and it only clicked for Braxton at customs that it must have been Christmas. Usually, and especially when on assignments, Braxton blocked out any type of family-adjacent events. Holidays weren’t really a thing for him, not since he was a boy. And even then it was a very touchy subject.

He took off his gloves, then knocked on your door—same two sharp raps—and waited, shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets.

When you opened the door, the usual sharp retort was absent and your apartment was oddly quiet. Usually, your place had some kind of life to it—a book open on the table, music playing low. Now it just felt hollow. 

You nodded at him and stepped aside. A wordless invitation. As soon as he saw Braxton, the cat let out a loud, indignant meow and trotted towards him.

“All good?” Braxton asked, his tone a tad less sharp than usual.

You shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “It’s fine. He was good.”

Braxton stood there for a moment. Usually, you’d give him some smartass comment by now and he’d be out the door. He didn’t like this. The quiet. The way your shoulders were slumped. He’d seen that look on people before. It was the look of someone who was missing something. Or someone.

He much preferred you giving him hell about the cheap litter again.

“Okay,” he started, the words feeling awkward already. “It’s, uh… Look, I’ll get him. You don’t gotta…”

But he was still standing just inside your threshold, shedding snow onto the floor. Something tight and unpleasant clenched in Braxton’s chest. It wasn’t necessarily about the silent treatment, it was the whole damn picture. The bad news was, he wasn’t good at this at all. His usual problem-solving method for any sort of life-related issue involved a well-placed bullet. Maybe a little threatening conversation. He was not good at dealing with… whatever this was.

Braxton hovered, uncharacteristically unsure. 

He could just grab the cat and go. 

That was the arrangement, after all.

“Alright, ma’am,” he said. He jerked his head toward the cat, who was now back to weaving between his legs, purring like a small motor. “Let’s make a deal. You get that psycho some dinner—”

“He’ll puke in the car if he eats now.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Braxton took his coat off and threw it on the closest surface. “You can argue with me later. Right now, we’re gonna do something else.”

You wanted to argue, he could see it in your face. But he was already stepping further into the apartment.

“You got any more of that disgusting vegetarian stuff you eat?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just started walking toward your kitchen. The cat trotted after him, chirping at the prospect of the early dinner. He got his can of wet food first, otherwise nothing would get done. The orange idiot would probably run circles around Braxton’s feet until he tripped and broke his neck.

“Make yourself at home,” you said flatly, but that first real spark of life was back in your tone. Tinged with annoyance, but there.

You watched Braxton rummage through your cabinets with an alarming lack of ceremony. “Where the hell do you keep your liquor? Never mind, found it.”

He pulled out a bottle, inspected it, shrugged, then finally grabbed two glasses. 

“Sit,” he ordered, pointing a finger at your couch. “You’re gonna tell me who I need to have a chat with about ruining your night. Or,” he paused, pouring generously into each glass, “you’re gonna just drink this and we’ll talk about somethin’ else.”

You smirked. “Like what do you do for work?” 

Braxton shot you a look over his shoulder, the kind that said: “Don’t start with me.”

“Like,” he handed you a glass, “why the hell I’m spending my first night back babysitting you and not a nice bottle of bourbon that doesn’t talk back.”

“This is bourbon.” You took a sip and gestured between the two of you. “You sitting here with me? Completely optional, by the way.”

Braxton groaned and sank into the armchair opposite you, sprawling in the way that seemed to occupy the whole room. “Start talkin’,” he said, his eyes never leaving you. 

There was something about the way he let you talk back now. Some sort of reluctant, gruff permission that developed sometime after the petsitting number five. You weren’t sure where this whole thing came from, but you didn’t exactly mind either.

So you told him the sob story—bits and pieces anyway. There was no one you cared to spend Christmas with, not particularly, and you knew there wasn’t anyone missing you at their table either. A complicated mess that didn’t affect you—much—except times like this. Birthdays, Christmas, New Year’s. All of them a shit day to be alone on.

Braxton listened in a way you weren’t sure he could. Silent, still. Most importantly, he didn’t interrupt with platitudes or meaningless comfort. You told him about the call you got this morning. The expected, obligatory guilt-trip from your mother. The way she could always make you feel ten years old and utterly alone.

When you finished, Braxton set the glass down.

“Families,” he said, the word sounding like a curse. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He was quiet for another moment, as if weighing his next words. You shuffled in your seat and the cat got startled by the sudden movement. He flattened his ears before resettling next to you with a grumpy huff.

“Yeah, see, my mother, she…” Braxton said finally and he met your eyes, his dark gaze more intense than you’ve ever seen it. “Didn’t really care about us. That’s what I think. Used to be it ate me up inside, but then… Decided to stop carryin’ that around. And guess what? The world didn’t end.”

You frowned and downed the rest of your drink.  “You think I should… What? Cut them all off?”

He gave a short, sharp shrug. “Hell if I know. But sometimes the best thing you can do is stop pickin’ up the damn phone. ‘Cause trust me, they only call if they need something.”

You looked at him for a long time. “You sure this is still about me?”

A slow, wry smile spread across his face. “Smart girl,” he said, his voice gaining the weary, bitter honesty that usually happened after a good drink and an honest conversation. “No. Guess not.” Braxton stared into his empty glass, turning it slowly in his hands. “Guess it’s about a dad. And a brother who…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I’m sure it matters,” you said, and you meant it.

He looked at you, that unguarded look amplified by drink and an almost-confession. “Yeah, alright. Maybe it ain’t about you. But the advice is the same.”

He pushed himself up, the moment of vulnerability over. He came back with the bottle, pouring you both another stiff drink. You were still chewing on the emotional mess he’d just laid bare. You couldn’t quite believe you got to hear it.

“Alright, Oprah,” you said, leaning back against the couch cushions, “so what’s your professional opinion? Do I just block their numbers and pretend I don’t exist? Get a cat and a gun and learn to live in the woods?”

You gestured with your glass at the cat, who was now asleep next to you, curled up in a near ball. “Guess cats already like me. Just need the weapons training.”

Braxton chuckled. It was a low, genuine sound that rumbled deep in his chest. “Nah. You’re not the woods type.” He gestured with his glass towards your small, tidy bedroom. “You’ve got… Things.”

“Things?”

“Books, I don’t know. Curtains.” He shook his head like he disapproved and took another sip. “What? What you’re laughin’ for now?”

You still grinned. “You said it like it was some foreign species.”

“Yeah, well.” Braxton sat back down. “Might as well be.”

You snorted into your glass. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

The anger you had been nursing all day was starting to feel distant, replaced by this foreign sense of warmth. It was the alcohol, sure, that’s what you told yourself. But it was also him. The strange man who paid you ridiculous sums for watching his crazy cat. He sat in that armchair, looking completely out of place with his dangerous energy, and yet you didn’t want him to leave. The snow outside had softened the city and the low light in your apartment did the same to him. He looked less like a mysterious eccentric, more like… Just a guy. A messed-up, probably highly dangerous guy who most likely had seen too much.

“So which one are you?” you asked, just to keep the conversation going. “The quiet one, or the loud one?”

He froze, the glass halfway to his lips. For a moment, he just looked confused. 

“You said you have a brother,” you explained. “So I was wondering.”

He stared at you, the mask of easy charm cracking for a second. “What, you makin’ a file on me now?”

You shrugged. The cat, disturbed by the sudden movement, lifted his head and blinked sleepily. Then he yawned, stretching a paw towards you, before settling back down. Braxton watched it, his face revealing nothing once more.

“Guess I’m the loud one,” he said finally.

You tilted your head, the alcohol and the strange intimacy of the moment slowly getting to your head. “Funny. You don’t seem that loud right now.”

Braxton scoffed, draining the rest of his glass in one go. “Yeah, well. Even I run out of things to talk about.”

He stood up and put his coat back on, back to efficient, already putting the walls back up. The dangerous, charming stranger was returning, and the guy who talked about broken families was disappearing.

“Time to go.” He nudged the cat gently. “C’mon, you little shit. We’re out of here.”

You didn’t say anything. But you didn’t have to. He read the disappointment in your face and didn’t like how it made him feel.

Braxton sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, about what I said.” He awkwardly gestured between you and himself. “Don’t… Just, don’t think about it too hard.”

“No promises.”

“You…” He paused and shook his head. “Is that a thing we do now? I pay you and you talk back?”

You smirked. “I can always give you a referral.”

“Christ,” Braxton grunted. “Yeah, don’t hurt yourself.”

He didn’t like people looking too closely, seeing the cracks in the armor. And tonight he had shown you plenty. You somehow made him do it, without even trying, just by sitting there and breathing. The thought should terrify him.

Finally, he grabbed the plastic carrier with one hand, then scooped up the now-awake cat, who protested loudly, and tucked him inside. Braxton was already halfway to the door when you said:

“Thanks.”

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. 

“Don’t mention it.”

And he meant it literally.

Then he gave you a short, sharp nod, not even fully turning around. This was getting too dramatic for his liking. Except, of course, the cat chose that moment for his disgruntled yowls re: sudden imprisonment. 

You were right, Braxton decided. All orange cats really did share a single brain cell.

The job in Bogotá went sideways. Fast. What was supposed to be a straightforward extraction turned into a firefight, and now Braxton had another bullet wound for his fucked up collection. 

He told you he’d be gone for ten days, but almost three weeks passed before he was good enough to fly. He didn’t call ahead. Could barely think straight. He appeared at your doorstep just after midnight, pale and crumpled. He looked like he’d been wrung out and left to dry, and felt like it too.

When you opened the door, his gaze swept over you, then the apartment behind you. A quick, automatic assessment. He didn’t offer a greeting. You yawned in his face, then said:

“You look like shit.”

Braxton managed a tired smirk then stepped inside. The cat trotted towards him, chirping in an agitated manner. Braxton wanted to think the orange menace missed him, but the truth was he could probably smell the antiseptics a mile away. Braxton’s side throbbed, the wound still angry and fresh. 

“He’s fine,” you said quickly. “Just trying to get a second dinner out of you.”

“That’s on you.”

“Me?”

“You’re spoiling him rotten.” Braxton shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over a chair. He immediately regretted it when the movement pulled at the bandage under his shirt.

“Hey. You okay?” you asked. “Where the hell have you been?”

Much like the cat, you could probably smell it on him—that something was undeniably, definitely wrong.

“Just need five minutes,” he muttered to the ceiling as he sank onto your couch, head tipped back. “Then I’ll get out of your hair.”

He didn’t move for a long moment, his eyes closed, breathing shallow. All he could hear was the cat’s persistent purring as he rubbed against his leg. You stayed where you were, watching him.

“You’re bleeding,” you said after a moment and Braxton had never heard you sound so worried. It shouldn’t have felt as good as it did.

Braxton cracked one eye open. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like fucking nothing.” You walked up to him and flicked his ear.

Braxton tried to sit up straighter, hissing through his teeth. The things he let you do to himself…

His face went pale for a second. “Fine,” he ground out. “It’s—”

He nearly jumped when the cat climbed into his lap, purring like a tractor. Braxton rested a hand on the animal’s back. 

You watched it all for a second, really taking in the damage. The way Braxton held himself, the pallor. It wasn’t just exhaustion. He was trying to play it off, but it was a bad performance.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” you muttered. “Take your shirt off.”

He cracked one eye open, looking at you with a mere flicker of his usual cocky defiance. “Buy me dinner first.”

You didn’t even dignify that with a response, just picked up the phone. “I’m calling you an ambulance.”

“No,” he snarled, his voice low and sharp. The sudden intensity made the cat flinch. “No hospitals. No cops. No paper trail. Got it?”

You froze with the phone in your hand. “Then what?” you shot back, frustrated. “You gonna bleed out on my couch? That’s a lot of paperwork too. Mostly for my landlord, he’ll have to buy me another couch.”

A grim, humorless smile touched his lips. “Ain’t you sweet.”

He shifted, trying to sit up, and the effort left him breathless, a sheen of sweat on his brow. “Just… get me the first aid kit. Whatever you’ve got.”

For just a moment, you stared at him. The sensible part of you screamed to call 911 and let the professionals deal with this. 

“I don’t want you to die,” you said finally, deciding the direct approach was always best with cats so there was no reason why it shouldn’t work on him too.

He managed a weak, triumphant smirk. “I’m not gonna die.”

“Maybe.” You shook your head. “That’s a big maybe. So be glad I’m a hypochondriac.”

Having said that, you disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of cabinets opening and closing echoing all the way back to the living room. Braxton leaned his head back against the cushions again.

True to your word, you came back with what could only be described as an industrial-sized first-aid kit. “Alright, tough guy,” you said, dropping the supplies on the coffee table with a clatter. “Let’s see the damage.”

Braxton let out a ragged sigh, the fight draining out of him. “You’ve done this before?”

“Changed bandages? Yes. Saved someone’s life? Absolutely the fuck not.”

“Alright. Fair,” he grunted. “Just… don’t freak out.”

With a grimace of effort, he gripped the hem of his blood-soaked t-shirt and peeled it away from the wound. The fabric stuck, pulling at the torn flesh. With your help, he finally managed to get it over his head. 

His entire torso was a map of old scars—faint silvery lines and thick, jagged pink ones. And weird tattoos. Lots of them. This new wound, though… It was angry and immediate, surrounded by deep purple bruising that spread across the hard muscles of his abdomen and side. The full extent of the damage was a brutal, messy thing. You absolutely wanted to freak out. Braxton noticed.

“Yeah,” he said, his tone a tad gentler than before. He took the gauze from your hands and the antiseptic, fully prepared to do everything himself. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Or the last.

The cat, now perched on the armrest, watched your every move with wide, unblinking eyes. 

“What the fuck,” you sighed and finally felt strong enough to move. You sprayed antiseptic on the surrounding area, ignoring Braxton’s grunts. “There’s…” You gestured to five boxes of pills on the coffee table. “Pick any.”

Braxton looked at the arrangement, desperate for a distraction. You put on rubber gloves and got to work. 

“Where does a girl like you get fucking Tramal?”

“Same way you do, I presume,” you muttered. 

He shot you an incredulous look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You swept the gauze against the jagged edges of the wound. Fortunately, the bleeding had long stopped. It must have been superficial. Or at least that’s what all your years of experience watching “Grey’s Anatomy” told you.

He hissed sharply through his teeth, the muscles in his abdomen tensing when the antiseptic touched him closer. He didn’t pull away, though. He just took it. You looked at him critically but said nothing. Either he was used to this kind of pain or he trusted you, and both scenarios made something in your chest ache.

Finally, Braxton cracked one eye open as you worked.

“Okay. Tramal’s an overkill,” he grunted. “Give me the ibuprofen. Or nothing. Don’t matter.” He shifted slightly and the cat bumped his head against Braxton’s forearm. 

“Yeah, yeah, shut up,” Braxton muttered to the cat, his voice strained but softer than you had ever heard him. “You do this often?” he asked, the question casual, but just on the surface.

You sighed and sprayed some more antiseptic on his side. Then you passed him the pills. 

“Patch up strange men?” You smirked. “Sure. Lots.”

A low, humorless chuckle rumbled in his chest, turning into a grimace as it jostled his ribs. He dry-swallowed the pills. “Careful,” he rasped. “You get all affectionate like that, I might never leave.”

He let his eyes drift shut for another second. You were quiet, but only because you were so focused on taping fresh bandage just tight enough to his skin—but not so tight so as to serve as a Victorian corset.

Braxton, for all his quirks, apparently read too much into your silence.

“Hey. You won’t see me ‘til the next… Uh, business trip.” He paused. “Long as I can walk, I’m not your problem.”

You cut some more medical tape and then deemed your masterpiece complete. “Not the worst patient I’ve had,” you muttered, “and I’m mostly enjoying my apartment not becoming a crime scene.”

Braxton let out a weak laugh. He looked around your living room—cluttered, quiet… With cushions and curtains and even a carpet. Your world was miles away from his.

“Yeah,” he said, starting to feel heavy as the adrenaline left his body. “Good to know.”

He watched you pack away the supplies.

“Listen. If you want me to leave now—”

But you wouldn’t let him finish that sentence. You leveled him with a stern look, which for a moment made Braxton think he was about to get scolded. 

You leaned in and kissed him instead. 

Braxton froze. Completely. His brain, usually working ten steps ahead, went quiet. One moment he was assessing his pain levels and the next your lips were on his. It wasn’t a tentative peck either, even if he could feel your hesitation every step of the way. 

Yeah, fuck that. There was no way he was going to push you away. He let out a deep grunt and then, like a switch flip, he kissed you back. It was hungry and desperate, his whole body starved for contact.

The cat, startled by the sudden motion, leaped off the couch with an offended chirp, but Braxton didn’t pay him any mind. He was entirely focused on you.

His free hand came up to your face, fingers tangling in your hair. He pulled back just an inch, his breath ghosting over your mouth. “That’s not gonna keep your place clean much longer, just sayin’.” 

Braxton’s usual smirk was back and you felt better seeing it. But this time, you definitely didn’t want to talk it out. Didn’t want to analyze the disaster zone that was your personal life, or his for that matter. He seemed to have read that look in your eyes exactly right.

Again.

He leaned in, but this time it wasn’t desperate. It was a deliberate, consuming kiss. His hand slid from your hair down to your back, pulling you closer. “You sure about this?” he asked. “Because I’m not exactly in prime condition here.”

You laughed. “Yeah, I’m sure,” you said. “Just keep it PG. Don’t want to traumatize your crazy son.”

“He’ll get over it. He’s got a strong stomach.” Braxton dipped his head, trailing kisses down your neck, rendering your brain entirely useless. “And so do you, apparently.”

His hand slid under your shirt, palm hot and rough against your skin. “But just so we’re clear,” he murmured against your skin, “I don’t do fuckin’ ‘PG’.”

Braxton was yanked back into the land of the conscious by the feeling of his new cat stepping directly on one of the many bruises that was littering his stomach. He groaned, having to fight the instinct that told him to smack whatever was causing him pain. Instead, with his eyes still shut, he grumbled out a few curse words and tried to gently nudge the cat onto a part of his chest that maybe wouldn’t hurt so much. It was slim pickings at this point but if the thing would just lay down then—

His nonstop train of thought was interrupted, a beckoning whisper hitting his ears, but more importantly his cat’s. The sound was enticing enough that he walked down Braxton’s chest and stomach, causing little shots of pain with each step, before finally getting off of him. He let out a small huff of relief at the loss of pressure—how such a small creature managed to feel like it weighed as much as a car while it walked on his chest was beyond him.

Still laying flat on his back, he started to bring his hands to his face to wipe the last of the sleep away when he realized that the whisper sound had to have come from someone, and it certainly hadn’t come from his brother.

Shooting upright, Braxton reached and fumbled behind him for his pistol. His eyes were wide open now, only creasing slightly at the edges as he winced in pain from his injuries that still weren’t fully healed, and still weren’t ready for him to be moving at full speed again.

He continued to feel around behind him for his gun as the rest of his vision came into focus. It was only when everything became clear again and he saw you sitting there just off the edge of the bed that he realized searching for the gun was useless. Partially because he knew he wouldn’t shoot you, but mostly because you were holding the pistol up like a trophy while his cat settled down in your lap. Every time you turned up you always ended up taking his things. He never figured out how to keep it from happening.

There were a million other thoughts that should’ve crossed his mind before that, but he wasn’t awake enough for it. And, even if he never admitted it out loud, you’d always had a way of throwing him off his rhythm.

“Rise and shine,” you said with a laugh. Using the hand that wasn’t holding the gun, you gently scratched the top of the cat’s head between his ears. You looked down at it for a moment, smiling before returning your attention to Braxton. He looked disgruntled as usual, but the injuries he was sporting were fresh ones. “Lookin’ a little rough there, Brax.”

He groaned, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes for a moment as he gathered himself enough to respond. His hands fell back to his lap as he said, “You hunt me down just to tell me I look like shit?”

You were smiling as you rolled your eyes. “I didn’t say that. I’ve seen you look like shit.” You paused, tilting your head like you were really considering him and taking in the sight of him, like you hadn’t had ample time to do that before he woke up. “This ain’t that bad.”

“How the fuck did you even get in here?” he asked, sounding a little bit more like himself, like the man you remembered, now that he was a little more awake.

Hand still holding his gun, you shrugged. “Your brother opened the door when I knocked, and then let me in once I pinky promised him that I wasn’t here to blow your brains out.”

Chris’s voice drifted back from the other end of the trailer. “We did not pinky promise.”

You nodded in agreement, a chuckle dangerously close to the tip of your tongue. “Yeah, it was more like a regular promise.”

“Well, if you’re not here to kill me,” he adjusted himself, sitting up a little straighter, rolling out his neck, “then what the hell are you doin’ here?”

If he’d been looking at you, he would’ve caught the tiny crack in your façade of nonchalance. You shook your head, mostly at yourself, and got your face right again by the time he was done rolling his neck and seeing how far he could stretch before something started to hurt. As you looked at him, you could say with near certainty that there were plenty of injuries that his t-shirt was currently hiding, along with the blanket that was pooled in his lap. His face was bruised, cuts on it scabbed over—his knuckles were in much the same condition. You wondered how well the bruises went with his tattoos underneath that graphic tee.

Your tone came off in the casual way you wanted it to, and you were thankful for that. “Heard about that shit that went down in Juarez. I had a feeling, but once I asked around…”

He cracked a smile, one of those ones you knew was real even though whatever he was about to say was going to try and make it seem like it wasn’t. All that gruffness and sarcasm but sometimes if you looked at him just right, you could see clean through it. You’d had more time to practice that than most people, maybe with the exception of his brother sitting out in the opposite end of the trailer.

“You were worried about me?” he asked, clearly dramatizing for comedic effect, that type of deflection he’d always been good at. “I’m, I’m touched. Real fuckin’ touched.”

“Alright,” you said, making a vague waving gesture with the gun, something like a dismissal, “don’t go getting a big fuckin’ head about it or anything. Otherwise you’ll never fit out the door.”

The two of you shared a laugh at that, and the tension that had been there at the start was beginning to go away. He was cranky and in pain, and you were grumpy and exhausted, but that was the usual for you two. There was an element of status quo there, familiarity in the physical discomfort.

“How’d you find us?” he asked. He knew that there was no way his brother used anything resembling real personal information when he made the reservation at the park, not after everything that had just gone down.

Resting your free hand on the cat in your lap, feeling the warmth coming from his fur and the vibrations of his purring, you gave Braxton a disappointed look. Finger off the trigger, you pointed at him with the gun, his gun. “You tellin’ me that you don’t know by now that I can track you down if I really want to?” You cracked a grin. “Done it before, and I’ll do it again if I have to.”

He sucked his teeth as he shook his head at you. His attempt to look annoyed fell through, amusement still showing through his eyes that gave him away every damn time. “That first time didn’t count—I was tracking you down too.”

It felt like it was years ago and yesterday all at once. The two of you had been playing cat and mouse, each thinking you’d been sent after the same target until you realized that the two of you had been sent after each other. Clearly your boss had decided you’d each run your course. Your first real conversation had happened while he had a gun to your head and your knife was buried into his thigh, one quick pull away from destining him to a quick bleed-out. The plan for mutually assured destruction that people higher up in the food chain had pulled together all fell apart right then and there, covered in sweat and blood and curse words.

That was a few identities ago now, but you still thought back on those first few weeks together with a certain brand of fondness. Not that you’d be able to explain that to anyone if they’d asked. Some days you weren’t sure how much you understood it yourself.

It must’ve been quiet for too long, or at least, too long by Braxton’s standards. There was a tinge of softness in his expression for a moment, one that told you he knew you were going down memory lane. That was the only reason he’d been able to stay quiet for as long as he had. It was kind of impressive in its own way.

“So you’re not here to kill me. Just here to make sure I’m on the right side of the dirt? And to steal my gun and my new cat while you’re at it?”

“The cat is a nice surprise!” you chirped, laughter punctuating your sentence.

His brows furrowed, but the frown on his face quickly flipped into a grin as he scooted closer to the side of the mattress you were sitting by. He managed to scramble out from underneath the covers in the process, and you rolled your eyes at the sight of him. You were fairly certain that if it hadn’t been a major safety concern, and would probably get him flagged for indecency in a few places, Braxton would go out on jobs in his goddamn boxer briefs.

The observation fell by the wayside as he reached the edge of the mattress, swinging his legs over the side of it so that they were slotted with yours, one after the other after the other. Extending his hand, he reached for the cat in your lap rather than the gun in your hand. That was new, and it made you smile.

“Gimme my fuckin’ cat,” he said as he pulled it over from your lap onto his. The small orange creature didn’t fight him on it at all, happy to be pulled and lifted like he was made of jello instead of fur and bones. Braxton’s voice dropped to that half-murmur he did when he was talking to himself as much as he was talking to whoever else was in the room. “Everyone keeps taking my goddamn cat. I’m the one who rescued him. Me. And yet every-fucking-one else gets to hold him and pet him and—”

“Didn’t realize you were such a cat guy,” you cut him off mid-tangent, laughing as you did so.

He grinned. “Me neither.”

“I did,” Christian piped up again. A reminder that he could hear everything that the two of you were saying and doing, even if he didn’t mean for it to be that.

Braxton didn’t look like he cared that his brother could hear everything, so you weren’t going to waste any energy caring either. Braxton shook his head, speaking a little louder on purpose even though Christian clearly didn’t need the assist to hear, “Yeah, guess that guy just knows everything!”

When there was no response, you pressed the back of your hand to your mouth to try and stifle your laughter. Braxton was chuckling quietly too, shaking his head as he pet the cat in his lap. It was already laying down, all curled back up into a ball again, happy to be with just about anyone as long as he was getting attention. You were looking back and forth between Braxton and the cat, enjoying the closeness and feeling of his legs being pressed against yours in the tight space.

His eyes were still fixed on the creature in his lap as he asked, “You also acquire an Airstream since I last saw you? Or you just walk in here with a backpack and a tent?”

You hummed in amusement. “Neither. I really was just stopping to check in.” You glanced over your shoulder and you could see the very edge of Christians’ silhouette as he sat at the table, one leg and one shoulder not obstructed from your view. “Glad you two are alright.”

That got Braxton to look up. He followed your line of sight, and when you turned your attention back to him you saw him smiling as he scratched the cat underneath it’s chin. “Yeah.” Clearing his throat, he locked eyes with you. “You stickin’ around or…?”

You chuckled and shook your head. “I don’t think that bed is big enough for all three of us.”

Braxton was expecting another well-timed interjection from his brother, but it never came. He shook his head at you. “Nah, I just mean, well,” he laughed, “you know what I fuckin’ mean, don’t be a dick about it.”

You smiled. “I know.” Pausing, you rested your hands on your knees, neither of you paying much mind to the gun at this point. “I’ll let you guys have your time.”

His expression faltered—he could feel you starting to stand up. Words came tumbling out in an attempt to stall you, knowing that once you stood up there was not going to be any stopping you from walking back out the door. “If you want, we’re just gonna be hikin’ and shit, but we’ll probably head into town at night. It’s fun. He’s, he’s cool.”

Something in the roundabout way he expressed his feelings had your smile stretching a little wider. Turning your head slightly, you called back over your shoulder, “Whatcha think, Chris?”

“Last time was fun. I got a girl’s number, and Braxton threw some guys through some windows.”

You barked out a laugh. “Damn. Least one of you was smooth.”

Even though you couldn’t see him, you could picture Christian nodding in agreement. “I was very smooth.”

You and Braxton both were laughing quietly to yourselves. You were sure there was a story there, one that Braxton would be happy to tell you if you bothered to stick around or meet up with them again.

Taking a deep breath, you looked around the cramped bed space, not quite big enough to be called a bedroom, for something to write with. Reaching down, you grabbed the pen that was on the floor right by a tiny leatherbound journal. Once you pulled the cap off the pen, you took one of Braxton’s hands in yours, scribbling down the number to your latest burner phone.

You spoke as you replaced the cap on the pen and put it back in its rightful spot. “I’ll be in the area for a few more days at least. Let me know if you wanna go out or meet up.” You leaned in, and you caught the way that Braxton leaned to meet you, thinking that you were going in for a kiss. Instead you planted a quick kiss to the top of the cat’s head. “I’m glad you’re alright though. Cat’s cute, too.”

He huffed, rolling his eyes at you. “C’mon, what the fu—”

You stopped his annoyance short with a uncharacteristically soft kiss. Your hands were calloused like his but your palm still felt soft and warm against his cheek when you rested it there. Pulling your lips off of his, you stood up, keeping yourself bent slightly even though you knew logically that you could move around the trailer without knocking your head off anything.

You didn’t offer much else in the way of a goodbye as you stood up and started walking back towards the door. Braxton watched you for about a stride and a half before he realized he should probably get up and do something. He carefully scooched the cat off his lap and onto the bed before going to follow you.

“I’ll see you ‘round, Chris,” you said with a smile as you walked by him.

He spared you the briefest glance, a teeny tiny lift to the ends of his lips as he said, “Most likely, yes.”

You opened the door to the Airstream and walked down the two small steps that separated the floor of the trailer from the ground. Braxton followed you but stopped in the doorway. Reaching up, he rested both hands on inner side of the top of the doorframe, leaning so that he was close to swaying right out over the steps after you.

“Good seein’ you!” he called after you.

You spared him a look over your shoulder, a smile on your face as you said, “I’m sure it was!”

Braxton stayed there to watch you walk away. He watched as you tucked his gun, the one that he’d gotten in Berlin and had made it through all the bullshit that happened afterwards, into the back waistband of your jeans. He shouldn’t have been smiling at that, but he was. He was shaking his head too. It was always something with you.

He only retreated when he heard your bike come to life. Pulling the door shut, Braxton looked down at the palm of his hand where you’d scribbled your new phone number. He wondered how long this one would be good for.

Plopping down across the table from his brother, he held out his hand. “Guess who was the smooth one this time!”

Lifting his eyes from his laptop screen, Christian looked first at his brother’s freshly inked palm, and then at the excited smile on Braxton’s face. Christian smiled too. “She likes you.”

Braxton leaned back in his seat, hands dropping into his lap. “Yeah, why wouldn’t she?” He saw his brother take a breath in to respond and thought better of it. “Don’t answer that,” he said with a dismissive wave. Looking down, Braxton stared at the number, your handwriting. “Not bad for a transient, right?”

Christian shook his head, attention back on his laptop but he still had a whisper of a smile left on his face. “Not bad.”

The comm in his ear crackled with static, then he heard the faint sound of keyboard clatter from wherever you had set up shop this week. If Braxton had to guess, it was probably some windowless room with seven monitors and a signal jammer propped at every doorway.

“C’mon, genius, talk to me.”

“Stop calling me that,” you replied.

“But you are a genius, don’t be so modest.”

“You know damn well what I meant.”

Braxton looked straight into the camera and grinned. He couldn’t see you, in fact he had no idea what you looked like, but he imagined you were rolling your eyes right about now. 

“Yeah, yeah, you in or not?” 

You scoffed, offended at the very question. “Yes. And this guy’s security system is a joke. A toddler could breach it with a second gen iPad.”

“Whatever you say, darlin’.”

“I am saying it. It’s a joke. He didn’t even change his router password from ‘admin admin’.”

“Don’t doubt your expertise, Legs,” Braxton said, moving to examine a wall panel. He ran his fingers along the seam, feeling for inconsistencies. “Guy paid six figures for that system. Probably bragged about it at his country club too.”

You groaned, right in his ear. “Six figures for a system and the man thinks ‘password123’ for the camera control is gonna cut it.”

“So I’m guessin’ you got the cameras, sweetheart?”

“I’m in the cameras, the AC, the smart toilets—yes, he has those, and yes, they’re as ridiculous as you think. Also, that is not my name either.”

“Damn it, girl, no one can say that shit, what is that even? Psyduck?”

“Psithyrus,” you corrected.

“Yeah, that.” Braxton walked back to the kitchen. “What the fuck is it even?”

“Google it.” 

“Nah.”

“Then consider it my stripper name. The concept should be more familiar.”

“Heh!” Braxton let out a humorless huff and checked the space between the fridge and the counter for any suspicious wiring. Then he opened that fridge and helped himself to an overpriced bottle of water. “Yeah, yeah, real funny.”

“You won’t start callin’ me by my name, might just flush that idiotic toilet under you repeatedly.”

“Tempting.” Despite himself, Braxton smiled. Just a little. “You do that to me, Legs, and we’re gonna have words. Real ones. Face to face.”

Back in the living room, Levan let out a long sigh. “We also hear you,” he informed them, his accent getting heavier with annoyance.

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll live, big guy.” Braxton turned his attention to Rico. “Kid, you find that access panel or not? Christ, we’re gonna be here all night.”

“Yeah, I found it,” Rico winced, “but I ain’t never seen a mess like this. Guy’s got his ethernet running parallel with the AC ducts. No shielding. It’s like he’s askin’ us to steal his data.”

Braxton snorted. “Yeah, probably hired his cousin who watched a YouTube video.” He moved to the window again, scanning the street below one more time. “Legs, you got all that?”

Braxton couldn’t see it, but he knew you were rolling your eyes even harder. He learned to look for those moments and exploit them.

“Yep.” You sighed. “The guy’s five minutes away, by the way. Want me to stall him?” 

“Shit.” Braxton turned away from the window, already moving towards the front door, gun in hand. “Stall him? What’re you gonna do, hack his Tesla and drive him in circles?”

Braxton could hear the smirk in your voice. Or maybe he was just imagining it. 

“I’m already in his car. Matter of fact, I’ve read all the texts from his mistress, too.”

“Yeah?” Braxton mounted the silencer quickly, ignoring the look Levan gave him for it. “Anythin’ good?”

“Depends how sick your taste is.” You paused for effect. “That lady’s good, though. Gives a whole different direction to that master and servant—”

“Nope.” Braxton winced. “Changed my mind. Never tell me anythin’ ever again.”

You laughed for real this time and goddamn, Braxton felt somewhat proud. Even if he paid for it with the mental image of their sixty-year-old target in a gimp suit.

“Fair enough,” you conceded. “Draining his battery then. He’s gonna have to stop at the charging station. Bought you half an hour minimum.”

Braxton just nodded. He was rarely impressed with people and tried not to make an exception for you. 

“Atta girl.” He crouched next to Rico, eyeing the rat’s nest of cables. “Kid, you about done playing?”

“Almost.” Rico shook his head. “Just need to splice in the bypass. Another ninety seconds.”

“Make it sixty.” Braxton stood up and watched Levan mount the last hidden camera. “Alright, big man, what’s our status?”

“Final camera live,” Levan rumbled, “with thermal… how you say? Thermal shit.” He got down from the chair and carefully placed it back at the dining table. “But system is, I think, dumpster fire.”

Braxton frowned. “Meaning?”

“Badly done.” Levan shook his head. “This whole place. Sticks together with glue and spit.”

“Poetic.” Braxton moved back to the living room, scanning the placement of their gear. Everything needed to look like a professional security upgrade, not a covert surveillance operation. “Legs, how you doin’?”

“Can’t complain.” You slurped loudly in his ear. “Having a slushie.”

“You’re killin’ me here.” Braxton shook his head. “We’re on the fuckin’ clock, she’s havin’ a slushie.”

“It’s blue.”

“Legs, I invoiced you before so I know you’re not twelve.” All of a sudden Braxton whistled sharply. “Kid! Sixty seconds was two minutes ago. You makin’ progress or just makin’ me nervous?”

“Makin’ sure I don’t fry the whole grid,” Rico shot back. “Guy’s got his thermostat on the same circuit as the TV and that damn smart fridge.”

“In English?”

“I trip the wrong wire, his ice maker starts talkin’ to the feds.”

Braxton rubbed the back of his neck. “Jesus, you’re all stand-up comedians all of a sudden…” 

“Almost done.”

“You were almost done five minutes ago, now you’re just playin’.”

Meanwhile, Levan lumbered over from the dining area and set up his toolbox on the ridiculously shiny kitchen counter. Braxton watched the cloud of drywall dust set down all around the tabletop. 

“We look like real security team?” The big man gestured to their outfits—black polos with a fake company logo and cargo pants that were a little too clean to be genuine.

“Long as the client’s as dumb as his password,” Braxton grumbled.

He moved to the window again, looking down. A white Tesla crawled down the block, stopping at the corner. 

“Alright! Show’s over. Rico?”

“Done!” The kid wrapped up the now-straight cables back behind the drywall cover. 

Braxton tapped his earpiece. “Legs?”

“Sending him a perfectly legitimate invoice from a perfectly legitimate company e-mail. I called us Secure Home Solutions.” You took another long sip. “I even gave you a five-star Yelp review.”

“From who?”

“SatisfiedCustomer69. Very convincing.”

Braxton pinched the bridge of his nose, then moved to the front door and checked the peephole. “Alright. Move it everyone, show’s over. Walk like we belong here. Levan, you’re the supervisor—walk out first. Rico, you’re the apprentice, look tired.”

Rico picked up his thermos, then pointed at Braxton’s still perfectly styled hair. “And you?”

Braxton smirked. “Pretendin’ I really was doin’ a job that pays thirty bucks an hour.”

Meanwhile, you slurped the last of your slushie, dodged a brain freeze by a miracle, and checked the monitors. Four screens, four feeds from the client’s place. All running smoothly so far. 

On monitor one, you had the entire layout of the open-spaced living room and kitchen. Monitor two showed the hallway. Levan filled the doorway as he lumbered out first, playing supervisor. The guy moved like a refrigerator with legs, but you had to admit you hadn’t seen him fuck up an install once.

Next, you pulled up the grainy footage from the security cam downstairs. The concierge was busy playing Candy Crush on his phone, just like nature intended. The last footage you checked was the underground parking lot where the client was still fussing over his Tesla.

“You’re clear,” you said, then checked the internal cam in the elevator. “Hurry, though. That idiot won’t be praying at his shrine to Elon all night long.”

All three of them got inside the elevator and stood there in what looked like an awkward silence. You zoomed in on the elevator footage before you could help yourself. There they all were, each exhausted in his own way. Except Braxton, who still looked like he’d rather be walking around naked than in all this polyester. You zoomed the camera on him as he adjusted his polo and you smirked. 

The camera caught his profile—the broken nose, the stubble, the bored scowl. Then, all of a sudden, Braxton looked up and you physically recoiled from the monitor. He winked at the camera. 

Like he knew.

“Bastard,” you muttered.

His smartass grin widened. “What’s that, sweetheart?”

You closed your eyes. Your mic was still on. 

“Scrubbing the logs,” you grumbled. “You should be good, go through the main door like you’re supposed to be there. I’m gonna lose the visual, need to wipe this clean.”

It took you a couple minutes and then boom—it’s like the team was never there.

“Hey, Legs.” Braxton’s voice crackled through the comms. “You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” You leaned back in your chair. “Watching your dashing getaway. You walk like a guy who stole something.”

“Thought you were wiping the footage?”

You clicked your tongue, busted. “Educated guess.”

“Sure.” You could hear the van door slam through his feed. “Okay. You’re gonna grace us with your presence for the debrief, or is this a digital-only relationship?”

Braxton waited. Silence stretched for a while and you tried to figure out a good enough answer.

“C’mon, Legs. You gonna make me ask twice?”

“You already know the answer,” you said, suddenly serious. “I’ll check in later.”

You disconnected the call right then, like ripping off the bandaid—and you told yourself it was better this way anyway.

The hotel room might have been staged to be pristine—once—but it took Braxton exactly four hours to scatter his own flavor of chaos across every surface. There were two disassembled Glocks on the coffee table, a small pile of clothes by the bed, and a plate with a half-eaten room service burger getting cold on the desk. A bottle of Maker’s Mark, with the cap missing, was still on the bathroom countertop, right where Braxton had left it before he stepped in the shower.

The luxury suite’s windows showed the city downtown, glittering like in a well-balanced movie shot. Braxton walked up to the widows, towel wrapped loosely around his hips, like he couldn’t be bothered. He looked outside for a moment, then pulled the blackout curtains halfway. He couldn’t decide whether to watch the world or shut it out yet.

Then, his phone rang. One of the burners. He rummaged through his bag for the right one, then let it go three rings before picking up.

“Batu. Tell me something good.”

“Job’s clean,” Batu said, then got into a smoker’s coughing fit. Braxton winced and held the phone away from his ear for the duration of it.

“Client’s happy. Wire’s already movin’,” Batu said finally, wheezing.

Braxton grunted, dragging a hand through his wet hair. “And the other client?”

Batu chuckled darkly. “The other one’s even happier. Told me he got the login details from our little friend. That system of hers… I don’t understand it. But it works.”

“I’m sensin’ a ‘but’.”

“Yeah, well.” Batu paused and Braxton heard a lighter click. “Could say we got a problem.”

“Don’t say it.”

“She’s not here.”

“Where?”

Batu omitted the specifics. Instead, he took a long drag on his cigarette.

“It’s the fourth job. Fourth debrief she ghosts.” Papers shuffled on Batu’s end. “Makes clients nervous. Makes me nervous. Digital assets are still assets. Assets need handlers.”

Braxton paced to the window then back to the bathroom where he left the bottle. “You callin’ me to bitch ‘bout her? I’m not the handler here, Batu, got my hands full handlin’ my own shit.”

Batu exhaled smoke that crackled across the line. “You’re the one she talks to.”

Braxton paused in his tracks, forgot to pick the bottle, turned back to the bedroom and let out a heavy sigh. The towel was starting to slip. He didn’t bother yanking it higher.

“Client paid, data’s clean, nobody got shot. What’s the actual grievance here?”

“The grievance,” Batu said, voice dry, “is that she thinks she’s callin’ the shots. If she shows up on somebody else’s payroll, well, let’s just say ‘I told you so’ now to get that out of the way.”

Braxton’s jaw worked. Why the hell was he required for this talk? 

“She’s not gonna flip. She’s too paranoid for that.” Braxton picked up a glass then rolled his eyes at being so distracted because he never picked up that bottle. “You want me to what here—track her down? Put a leash on her?”

“I want you to do what you do best, Braxton. Make a problem into not-my-problem.”

Braxton froze. 

“Why the fuck would you put a hit on the best hacker we ever had?”

The words came out sharper than he meant. Braxton swore under his breath. He was getting too emotional about this. 

He needed to drink more. Or less. 

One of those.

“She’s not a problem.” Braxton did his best to sound convincing. Might have leaned a tad too much on the desperate side, though, because Batu laughed. Then coughed even more than before. Braxton wished him seven types of lung cancer. 

“I’ll handle it,” Braxton decided.

“That’s cute,” Batu grumbled. “Handle it how?”

“By not handling it like you would.”

“That’s not an answer, Brax.” Batu took another long drag. “You think she’s irreplaceable. That’s dangerous thinking in our line of work.”

“You wanna waste the best digital asset we’ve got, be my guest. But you better find me someone as good as her for the next job.”

The line went quiet except for Batu’s breathing, raspy and wet.

“You callin’ the shots now, kid?”

Braxton stared out the window, wheels turning in his head. “Give me forty-eight hours.”

“You got twenty-four. And that’s only ‘cause you piss me off like you’re my own son.”

The call disconnected.

Braxton looked at the phone for exactly two seconds of calm, then hurled it at the wall. It bounced off of it, leaving a dent, and clattered to the carpet beside the bathroom door.

The towel finally gave up and pooled at his feet. Braxton stepped over it, walked naked to the desk, and pulled a laptop from his go-bag.

He dragged a hand down his mouth, waiting for the system to boot. “Okay, what the fuck…”

Because how would he even begin the search for someone who made smoke signals look traceable?

Braxton had worked three jobs with you so far, heard your snark in his ear and witnessed you perform online miracles. But witnessing wasn’t understanding. He could field-strip a weapon blindfolded, but didn’t have the first idea on how to locate a goddamn hacker.

And that unknown, that lack of any semblance of a plan pissed him off almost as much as your disappearing act did.

Until he remembered something. 

He looked for Yelp, then searched for the fake company you had set up for their cover story. 

“Okay, what was it? Secure… home solutions,” he muttered and ran a hand through his hair. It was drying all sorts of frizzy, but he had no time to do anything about it now. 

He loaded the Yelp page and scrolled through the contact information. Fake address, fake email, fake mobile number… But it looked real enough. 

“No way this connects to anywhere but the local Golden Dragon bar,” Braxton muttered as he typed in the number on his other phone. The one by the wall was still on timeout. 

“Come on, come on, you gotta know it’s me,” he muttered and got up then started pacing the room. 

This was crossing a line, he knew. You two had a rhythm—he grumbled, you ghosted, he pretended to be mad, everyone got paid.

Three rings. Four. Braxton’s thumb hovered over the end call button when the line clicked—not to a voice, but to a mechanical whir, like an ancient dial-up modem.

“Welcome,” a synthesized voice chirped—female, saccharine, and obviously AI. “You’ve reached Secure Home Solutions. Your call is very important to us. Please hold while we redirect you to one of our operators.”

A pause. Then elevator music—actual fucking elevator music, the kind that made Braxton want to crawl out of his skin.

He put it on speaker and then just stared at his phone. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

The sheer amount of work you’ve put into the masquerade was impressive, though something told him it wasn’t so much your professionalism but genuine love of the game—the game being messing with people.

Then the music cut off. Silence. Braxton checked if it got disconnected, but it didn’t. 

Then he heard your voice, real and as infuriating as it was this morning:

“Secure Home Solutions, this is Brandy.” Papers shuffled, some weird machine beeped in the background, and then Braxton heard crunching.

“Legs.”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you not to use that term. It’s highly unprofessional.”

He finally stopped pacing. Got himself two seconds to exhale.

“Legs.”

“Braxton.” You paused. “Well, what is it? You were watching ‘Casablanca’ and thought of me?”

“The…” He frowned, momentarily forgetting why the hell he called in the first place. The relief of having reached you was too great. “What?”

“It’s a… Ah, nevermind. It’s a Meg Ryan movie reference.” Then, more crunching sounds. “So… You feelin’ lonely on a Friday night? Wanted to call one of them 1-800 numbers instead?”

“The fuck… You’re eating popcorn while running a fake security company. On a Friday night.”

“Chips, actually. And it’s a very real fake company. We could’ve paid taxes and everything.”

Normally, it would’ve made him smile. He would’ve jumped head first into banter. But right now it dawned on him that he genuinely cared whether you lived or died.

“She’s eatin’ chips,” Braxton muttered to himself, then walked right back to where he left the bourbon. He remembered to pour himself that glass this time. “Goddamnit.”

The crunching stopped. For three seconds, there was only the hum of whatever server machinery you had running in the background.

“What’s wrong?”

Braxton scoffed and took a swig. “How do you know something’s wrong?”

“‘Cause it’s been three minutes and you only called me ‘Legs’ once, and now it sounds like you’re drinking.”

“Maybe I just needed a drink.”

Braxton didn’t know why he was deflecting exactly, but it was a complicated thing—breaking it to you that Batu had put a hit on you.

Finally, he landed on a half-truth:

“Batu’s talkin’ about handlers.”

“Handlers,” you repeated, like the word was something filthy. “Cute. But I’m not a unicorn, an escaped demon, or a criminal.”

Braxton laughed at that, even though it was short-lived. “Hate to break it to you, darlin’...”

“Okay. Sort of a criminal. Never killed anyone, though, I’m not good at that, so he can’t be that pressed about me.”

Braxton scoffed and sat down on the bed, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Listen to me. He’s tired of your ghosting. Fourth time, Legs. Makes people nervous.”

“Good.”

“No, no, not good.” Braxton closed his eyes, slowly feeling all that bourbon hitting him all at once. “You’re gettin’ paid to be reliable.”

“I am reliable.” Your voice came out sharper now. “The job was clean, the data was scrapped, the client’s happy, the other one is too. That’s the only metric that matters.”

“Yeah, Batu’s metric’s different.” Braxton let out a long-suffering sigh. “He’s not the kinda man who settles for the shorter straw.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, he’s got nothin’ on you. No face, no address, and it’s makin’ him twitchy. Makin’ him do stupid shit.”

You chuckled, like you couldn’t quite believe what you were hearing. “Tell him my face is proprietary information.”

“Jesus Christ, Psithyrus, this isn’t a joke!” Braxton raised his voice, completely out of arguments. “He’s givin’ me twenty-four hours to make you a problem that ain’t his.”

Your voice, when it came, sounded shocked:

“You said my name.”

“Pretty sure your parents didn’t name you after a goddamn bee.”

“And you Googled it.”

Braxton groaned. “You heard what I just said?”

Something shuffled on the other end again, then a door opened and closed. Braxton listened for exactly two seconds more before he spoke:

“Where are you right now?”

“Home.”

“And where’s home?”

You snorted. “Where’s yours?”

“Don’t have one.”

Neither of you spoke for a while. Personally, Braxton was appalled with himself for revealing something—anything—personal. 

And then he heard you typing—fast, staccato bursts, not the idle click-clack of someone browsing.

He huffed in disbelief. “What’re you doin’?”

“None of your—”

“You better not say it’s none of my business, ‘cause this is me puttin’ my own ass on the line here.”

The call went quiet again. On both ends. Like neither wanted to acknowledge what just happened.

And your typing resumed.

“Listen to me,” Braxton tried again, suddenly feeling very tired, “whatever you’re tryin’ to do here, it better not involve leavin’ me to explain to a very pissed off Armenian why my bright idea backfired on me.”

“Oh, bet that never happened before,” you quipped.

“Jesus… Listen. You gotta give me somethin’ here. A meet. A dead drop. A fuckin’... Carrier pigeon.”

“I hate pigeons.”

“Good to know. Tell you what, I’ll make sure not to order any for both our funerals.”

You didn’t answer, not right away. Braxton closed his eyes again. “So how ‘bout it, Legs? I know it’s way past your bedtime—”

“I don’t sleep much.”

“Nah.” Braxton let out a short, sharp laugh. “Neither do I.”

Briefly, you just existed on the line together—both in their own flavor of personal anxiety. Just as Braxton slowly felt himself give up on this whole thing, he gave it one last desperate try:

“I’m not gonna let him touch you.”

You didn’t say anything, not at first, and he looked at the ceiling, mouthing silent curses, feeling like a complete idiot. 

And yet, as if hell had frozen over, you finally spoke:

“I’ll text you the address.”

Braxton tried not to let the irony of sitting in a Chinese restaurant named “Golden Dragon” get to him too much. At least the place looked clean and didn’t smell like old grease. 

He chose the table by the aquarium, not exactly hiding in any dark corners, but not leaving his ass exposed either. The waiter tried to take his order twice already, and each time Braxton said he was waiting for someone. Now the waiter was coming around for the third attempt and Braxton honestly got worried this would end up with him getting force-fed.

“Your friend, she’s coming soon?” 

Braxton sighed and looked up at the man. He was smirking, the bastard, again holding out the two menus. 

“Yeah. She’s comin’. Or not. Give me that,” Braxton grumbled and took the menus, then slapped them against the table. “You know what, why don’t you get me the egg rolls, how ‘bout that?”

The waiter scribbled something on the notepad, still smirking. “Six egg roll, ten minutes.”

Braxton could see why you chose this place. That was the thing about restaurants like that, it wouldn’t have mattered whether he chose two items from the menu or twenty. It would still be ten minutes.

Braxton drummed his fingers on the laminated menu, eyes tracking every person who walked through the front door. The aquarium behind him cast a bluish glow across his face and all of it seemed almost peaceful—had it not been a literal life or death sort of situation. 

After ten minutes, the waiter appeared again, this time with a plate of egg rolls that looked surprisingly fresh. 

“Six egg roll,” he announced, setting them down with a smug little flourish. “You friend, she is late.”

“She’s not my friend,” Braxton muttered, reaching for the sauce. “She’s a—” 

Pain in my ass. A liability.

“—colleague.” 

The waiter’s eyebrow lifted. “I see.” 

He definitely didn’t see. He saw a guy who’d been stood up, and Braxton hated that he’d let himself be put in that position at all.

He was halfway through his second egg roll—greasy, but real good—when the door chimed. Braxton’s head came up, but it was just a delivery guy with a stack of takeout bags. Braxton forced himself to relax, took another bite, and checked his watch. Once or twice, he pulled out his burner phone, considered sending a text, then shoved it back in his pocket. 

Last thing he needed was to look desperate.

But he was, wasn’t he. Because Batu wasn’t in the habit of bluffing, in fact the man hated gambling with a passion. And even though you were usually the smartest person in the room on assignments, Braxton wasn’t sure you understood the gravity of the situation.

Braxton had never even seen your face, not for the lack of trying, but he really, truly didn’t want to see it in a body bag that very first time.

The door chimed again. He didn’t even notice, too preoccupied by the darker side of his thoughts—until you walked up right to his table. The first thing Braxton noticed was the hair, because, well. It was hard not to. Then there were the glasses, a detail he somehow suspected would be there. You couldn’t stare at the screen all day and come out of it with 20/20 vision.

“You look taller on camera,” you said, then sat down in front of him.

And Braxton still stared. He wasn’t in the habit of staying quiet, but somehow he had nothing to say. 

Until you snapped your fingers right in front of his face.

“Hello?” Then you leaned right back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Jesus, I’ve been called a robot before, didn’t realize there’d be two of us.”

“Didn’t know you were comin’,” he shot back, then just watched you reach for the egg roll across the table and take a big bite.

“Yeah, well,” you mumbled around the food, swallowed, “I wasn’t sure I was either. Then I figured, what the hell. Might as well see what a real-life dinosaur of this business looks like before you go extinct.”

Braxton leaned back, crossing his arms. Fuck walking around the hotel room with no towel on, this made him feel ten times more naked.

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” 

You shrugged, chewing. “Your problem-solving instincts are a bit dated.”

“Dated?”

“Walk around shootin’ your problems. Seems the boss is the same way. And I got no idea how to deal with people like that.”

Braxton’s eyebrows shot up and he let out a short, raspy laugh, like he couldn’t quite believe you. “Yeah, okay. You done testin’ me, girl? We gonna talk about the fact you’ve got a hit on your head?”

You took another bite. Swallowed. The playful glint in your eye vanished. Then you studied Braxton’s face for a long moment and nodded.

“Okay.”

He frowned, no less confused than before. “Okay, what?”

“Okay, I’ll let you buy me dinner.” You gestured to the egg rolls. “Can we get the fried rice? Wonton soup is really good, too.”

“Fuck me,” Braxton snorted, and it was a real laugh this time. “You got balls, Legs, I’ll give you that.”

Then he flagged the waiter. The man walked over, looking far too pleased with himself. Then Braxton noticed the recognition in the man’s eyes. 

“Welcome back!” The waiter beamed at you. “So, you want wanton soup?”

“Hey, Shui.” You smiled but avoided eye contact. “Yeah. Wanton soup, please. Fried rice, extra tofu.”

“Hot lemon tea?” The waiter paused, a sort of insistent type of pause. “Is good for you.”

“Yeah, sure.” Your smile widened just so. “And tea.”

The waiter scribbled, glanced at Braxton, at the decimated egg rolls, then back at you. “He want the duck?”

“Yeah, he’ll have the number six. Can we get him a beer, too?”

Braxton’s eyes widened at the whole exchange, but he didn’t protest. When the waiter left, Braxton leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“I want the duck?” 

“You do.” You wiped your hands on a napkin. “Desperately.”

Braxton looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time. Then he leaned back again. His jaw worked for a moment longer before he found the words. 

“Listen to me, Legs. Batu doesn’t make idle threats,” he said finally. “He’s a nicotine-addicted killer. Mean when he really wants to be. So when he says twenty-four hours, he means twenty-four hours.”

“I know what he means.” You pushed the glasses up your nose. “I also know he’s not gonna move until he’s got confirmation. Right now, you’re the one keeping it on hold.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“It wasn’t a criticism.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“You’re panicking.”

“I don’t panic!”

“Your jaw’s doing that thing.” You gestured at his face.

“I’m tryin’ to keep you alive.”

“Why?” You sat back, studying him again. “You can’t like me that much. People don’t like me. I know I’m just that way, same as you’re… Your way.”

Braxton just stared at you. 

“That way,” he repeated.

“Yeah.” You shrugged. “Four jobs we did together. You’ve never seen my face. Always asked me questions, I never gave you any good answers. I pissed you off on purpose, sometimes just to see the… Yeah, there it is again.”

Braxton forced his jaw to relax. 

Your order arrived.

You smiled at Shui, thanked him, then waited until he was out of earshot. Braxton said nothing. He didn’t touch his food, he just watched you slurp your soup. 

“Listen to me,” he said finally. You didn’t look up. 

“You think this is about you being difficult? It’s not. Batu’s got a file on you. Not a big one, but it’s there. Birth certificate—fake, I guess. Social—burned. Medical records—nonexistent. That’s fine. That’s what we all do.”

“So what’s the problem?” 

“You’re not flying solo here. You’re using the firm for some assurances while he’s got nothin’ on you. He’s not in the charity business, Legs, he’s in—”

“I’m a liability?”

“Nah.” He shook his head and this time he was sure. “I've watched you work four jobs and you haven’t fucked up once, which makes you a goddamn unicorn.”

He waited. You ate one wonton and kept looking away.

“You wanna know why I ghost?”

Braxton sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. “Enlighten me.”

“Because the last time I let someone put a handler on me, he fucked up.”

“Fucked up how?” Braxton asked, though as soon as he said it, he realized he wouldn’t like the answer. He could see it in your eyes.

“I ended up in a government black site for eight months.”

It made Braxton straighten right up. 

“You’re shittin’ me right now.”

“Oh, wish I was.” You winced. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

He just nodded. There were many things Braxton would make light of—but not that. So you both ate in silence, and worst of all was, he had to begrudgingly admit the duck really was good. 

“So you got a plan?” you asked, breaking the silence. And for the first time since you sat down, you sounded like you’d actually listen to him.

“Workin’ on it,” he muttered.

After some time, he drained his beer and set it down hard enough to make you jump. “Okay.”

You pushed your glasses up your nose. He was right, they really were too big for your face.

“Okay?”

“Here’s the thing. Batu’s old school. Yes,” Braxton raised a hand before you could speak, “we both are. Save the ‘old man’ jokes for now.”

You huffed and crossed your arms over your chest, but didn’t protest more than that.

“Okay,” he agreed for you. “So. Batu doesn’t trust what he can’t touch, what he can’t put in a room and look in the eye.” 

Braxton’s tone sharpened, gaining that special kind of authority you’ve heard many times before. You hated how much it calmed you down.

You nodded, not looking up from your plate. “So I invite him out for tea.”

“No.”

You frowned. “No?”

“You become my problem,” he conceded.

That got your attention. You finally looked at him. “What?”

“I tell Batu I’m your handler now. You report to me, I report to him. He gets his assurance, you don’t gotta… Be scared.” Braxton spread his hands. “Simple.”

You stared at him for a long moment, the look of pure disbelief. “That’s your plan? You’re going to… vouch for me? With the…” You gestured up and down at yourself, unsure what exactly you wanted to object to here.

Braxton looked away like he couldn’t quite believe it himself. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because…” He flagged Shui when he walked past your table. “Hey, can we get the check? Thanks.”

“Sure thing.” Shui started to stack the empty plates and gave you a knowing smile. “All good?” 

“Yeah.” You forced a smile, but failed miserably. 

“Okay.” Shui’s voice softened. “I bring your check now.”

Braxton watched the man walk away and his jaw tightened again. He could feel it, that same tic you’d pointed out. He forced himself to stop. 

Then you nudged his boot with yours under the table and he frowned, brought back to reality. 

You jutted your chin at him. “You were saying?” 

“Yeah.” He shook his head. “Listen, Batu’s an idiot if he thinks he can find someone better and—” He cut himself off, scrubbed a hand over his face. “Fuck it. Because I’m not lettin’ you die, okay? It’s a goddamn waste.”

“Waste?” 

“I’m not letting him kill the person who can actually make my job easier instead of harder.”

You studied him again and Braxton could tell you didn’t believe him, not even a little.

“What’s the catch?” 

“Catch is,” he replied, slower this time, “you don’t ghost me. You don’t vanish after jobs. You check in. Not ‘cause I say so, but ‘cause I need to know you’re not in a ditch somewhere.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“And if I say no?”

“Fuck’s sake…” Braxton leaned back, looking up like the inspiration to get through to you would be hanging down from the ceiling. It made you smirk.

“Then get your affairs in order, Legs, don’t know what else I can do here.”

Shui came back with the check then. Braxton reached for his wallet and didn’t even look at the total—he just stacked two crisp hundreds together and handed them to him. 

“I’ll bring the change,” Shui muttered.

“Keep it.” Braxton stood up and gestured towards you, already standing up. “You good?” 

Shui’s brows shot up. He cleaned the rest of the dishes away and you were still sitting, mulling everything over. And panicking, despite your best efforts Braxton could tell this time.

“You’d do that?” you asked quietly when Shui left. “Just… Make me your problem?”

“Jesus, just said I would, didn’t I?”

You looked away from him, watching the aquarium. “This won’t end well.”

“Don’t care.” Braxton put his jacket on and handed you yours. “C’mon, Legs. Get up.”

You did. Then you snatched your jacket from him before he could touch you. “What are you asking me to do here?”

“Stay alive, how ‘bout that?”

You smirked. As you both walked out, Shui called after you: “You come back soon! Bring boyfriend too!”

Braxton shot you an offended look. And for the first time tonight, you laughed. He didn’t bother to think why exactly he was so relieved to hear it.

You shoved your hands in your pockets and followed Braxton wherever it was he started walking towards.

“So,” you said after a block. “This is the part where you ask what I drive.”

“Don’t care what you drive.”

“Good. ‘Cause I don’t drive.”

Braxton grimaced. “You don’t drive.”

“Nope.” You kept walking, backward now, facing him. “I take the bus. Or I walk. Or…” You trailed off. “My handler gives me a ride, sometimes. It’s an HR nightmare waiting to happen.”

Braxton’s frown deepened until he caught up. “Jesus.”

You looked up at him, and for a second he thought you might say something real now. Something that wouldn’t be a joke or a deflection. But you didn’t.

“Okay,” you decided and turned back around, facing the road again. “But I’m not sitting in the front seat. I get carsick.”

Braxton snorted. “How old are you?”

You scoffed, defensive. “How old are you?”

“Forty-one.”

You shot him an unamused look. 

“Okay, forty-four.”

You stopped and now looked so profoundly done with him that Braxton had to laugh. “Fuck’s sake, you got a file on me, Legs?”

“Obviously,” you deadpanned.

“Yeah, alright,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Sorry I asked.” 

You walked up to his car—black, nondescript, what you expected—and he opened the passenger door for you. You stared at it like it might bite.

“In,” he said.

So you got in.

As Braxton pulled into traffic, he glanced over. You were already doing something weird on your phone, he could tell.

“Legs,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Put the damn seatbelt on.”

You did. And Braxton couldn’t tell why you didn't even argue. Maybe you were too preoccupied with whatever nerd ritual you were performing there or… Maybe you started to trust him.

Wasn’t that a terrifying thought.

Braxton’s hotel room was… Exactly what you expected, too. You didn’t even bother being surprised. 

“You live here?”

“Don’t live anywhere, Legs. That’s kinda the point.”

“Uh-huh.” You looked inside, but still didn’t move.

“In,” he said, then threw his jacket on the closest chair. “Or you gonna stand there all night?”

You sighed like he was asking you to swim through sewage, but you got inside and closed the door. 

You stood just inside the doorway, like you were calculating exit routes. There weren’t any. 

You arched a brow. “One bed.” 

“Don’t flatter yourself.” He rummaged through his bag to find his laptop, then remembered where he left it and walked up to the desk. “You’re not staying.”

“My last bus home was an hour ago.”

“You get the floor then.”

“This is you protecting me, huh?” You grinned and carefully put your jacket on the hanger by the door.

“I said I’d keep you alive, not comfortable.”

He pulled out the desk chair and spun it around, gesturing for you to sit. “Now, you’re gonna call him. Be… You know. Nice. Normal.”

You stared at the chair. Then at Braxton. “Can’t do both.”

Braxton sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Fine. Be normal. The nice part was wishful thinking.”

“Uh-huh.” You dropped into the chair and helped yourself to his laptop, immediately executing some sort of commands. He wasn’t even sure what they did. 

“He wants me to be normal,” you drawled. “With the man who just threatened to have me killed.”

Braxton poured himself a drink.

“Just… talk to him like you talk to me.”

You chuckled. “I don’t think you understand how badly that would go.”

Braxton pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus fucking Christ. Can you, for one minute—”

“Actually, no.” You pulled your knees up to your chest. It made you look about twelve. “That’s the thing. I am how I am. Don’t know how to be different. You don’t like it, fuck off. Let him kill me.” 

Braxton felt himself losing it. There was only so much drama he could take.

“Sure.” He put the glass down with a loud clink. “You know what—”

“I don’t know how to be whatever it is you need me to be right now,” you interrupted, and goddamn if these big eyes looking right at him didn’t pin him in the spot harder than a throwing knife could.

“I know how to ghost. I know how to hide. I know how to piss people off until they leave me alone. I don’t know how to… Make nice with a crime boss so he’ll let me keep playing Skyrim.”

The words came out fast, almost frantic, and Braxton realized that was the real bit he had wondered so much about. Now that you said it, he didn’t feel equipped to help you.

“Skyrim,” he deadpanned.

“It’s a… Game about elves and dragons, but also a civil war with the—”

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” he winced, “alright, stop. Forget normal. Just be… Professional.”

“Professional.” You laughed, but it was hollow. “What the hell do I say?”

You looked up at him, and behind those glasses, your eyes were still wide and genuinely lost. Braxton hated how that made him feel.

So he pulled up another chair, sat down next to you. “You say: Batu. It’s Psithyrus. Braxton’s handling my integration. You’ll have your reports. We’re good.”

“That's it?”

“That's it.”

“And if he asks questions?”

“He won’t.”

“No?”

“No.” Braxton managed a small smile and reached back for his drink. “He doesn’t really give a shit. He wants to get his way, now he’s gettin’ it.”

A slow smile spread across your face. “That’s… Pretty insightful.”

“Got my moments, don’t I.”

You sighed and executed the video call app, then typed in the number from memory and hit call. Braxton tried not to be impressed. 

It rang for a long time, but after a while, Batu’s gravelly voice came through:

“Braxton. You got something for me?”

You took a deep breath and switched the camera on. “Batu. It’s Psithyrus.”

Silence fell. You frowned. “Hello?”

“This a joke?” Batu rasped.

“No.” You shook your head. “Braxton’s… Handling it. Me. I mean… Things.” You closed your eyes for a moment, squeezing your fists so tight your knuckles went white. “You’ll have your reports. We’re good.”

Batu wasn’t impressed. You couldn’t see his face, but you could tell anyway.

“Thought you were supposed to be the ghost,” he rasped.

“Not anymore.” 

“No?” Batu mocked. “Why not?”

Braxton could almost hear the gears turning in your head. But you didn’t mention the hit. Smart girl.

“I’ve been working on something,” you said fast. “A network of cyber keys for the bespoke private security firms, the kind rich idiots like to hire because the logo looks nice and the agents wear good suits. Doesn’t matter, point is, their service is usually shit, the firewall bypass is childplay. But I can’t do that hit alone.”

And this time Braxton couldn’t tell whether you were lying or not. Batu couldn’t either. He turned on his camera. Apparently the calculation between risk and reward came out in your favor.

“Why didn’t you say something, huh?”

Then, miracle of miracles, Braxton heard the lighter click. You weren’t out of the woods yet, but definitely not in danger of being eaten by the big bad wolf anymore. Smoking meant the crazy man was reconsidering.

You, apparently oblivious to the mood encyclopedia of Batu, just frowned, caught off guard. “I, uh… Don’t like bragging about something that’s not finished.”

Batu exhaled another lungful of smoke and immediately coughed, the sound carrying through the speakers like a death rattle. 

“Fine,” he rasped. “You finish your… network. You report on it. He reports to me. And you report on every job.”

“Yeah, yes,” you said, your voice steadier than Braxton expected.

“Braxton,” Batu grunted, and Braxton leaned into the frame so the old man could see his face. 

“Yeah.”

It felt like Batu would whip out his report card any second and ask why the neighbor's kid could get a B in English but not his idiot ass.

“Don’t know what you’re thinkin’ here and frankly I don’t give a fuck. But I see one more fuck up, it’s both your heads. Not just hers.”

“Okay.” 

You shot Braxton a look, just a quick one. His voice was completely calm, like they were discussing delivering groceries.

Then the screen went black. You sat there for a moment, still staring at Braxton. Braxton downed the rest of his drink and tipped his glass towards you.

“Sure you don’t want anythin’?”

“Oh, no, now I definitely do,” you said quickly and let out a long, shuddering breath. Then you closed the laptop and watched him pour two drinks. “That was excruciating.” 

“Nah, that? It was fine,” he shook his head, smirking. “He was in a good mood.”

“How can you tell?”

“I just can. My job’s to read people. Here.” He handed you the glass and you snatched it.

“A real glass-half-full guy, aren’t you?”

“Glass is broken and I’m bleeding, but sure.”

You laughed, despite the nerves, then looked at him, frowning. “You want to make a really bad toast, don’t you?”

He grinned. “Ah, c’mon, Legs. Let me.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t mean it. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He clinked his glass against yours. “To your new leash.”

“You—!”

He chuckled to himself and took a big gulp. You sighed and took a sip. To his surprise, you didn’t even make a face or comment.

“Wouldn’t take you for a bourbon kinda girl.” 

“I prefer cognac, actually,” you muttered.

“What the…” His grin widened. “Lookie here. What a snob.”

“It’s called ‘taste’.”

“Whatever you say, Legs.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it and just pointed. “That a Hugo Boss jacket I see on the bed there?”

“The…” He turned around, a little spooked. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Hypocrite.” You unfolded yourself from the chair, stretched, then wandered the room. Braxton watched you, but tensed when you picked his disassembled Glock parts like they were Legos.  

“Put that down,” he said immediately.

“Why? It’s not loaded.”

“Still a gun.” He gestured at you with his glass. “And you’re still… You.”

You smirked, but stepped away. “You live like this everywhere?”

“I told you. Don’t live anywhere.”

“Right.” You kept wandering and this whole time Braxton’s dark eyes followed your every step. “So this is just… What? It’s how you avoid doing the dishes and your own laundry?”

“Somethin’ like that,” he muttered.

“Wish I could do that.”

You moved like someone who spent too much time in small spaces and he wondered about you.

“You wanna sit down before you wear a hole in the carpet?”

“Ah, but it’s not your carpet, is it?” You turned towards the window, looking outside as if the view could tell you something about him.

“Yeah. Well.” He set his glass down, suddenly serious. “You don’t have to stay,” he said finally. “Just leave me the number you’ll actually pick up and we’re good.”

You walked up to him and picked up your glass again. 

And for once there was no smartass comeback stacked behind your teeth.

Braxton felt himself reading too much into it.

“Alright,” he decided, changing the subject. “Ground rules.”

You groaned. “Oh, here we go.”

“Don’t get cute. First—” He held up a finger. “You answer when I call. Not three hours later. Not after you’ve run it through seven million VPNs. You pick up.”

“And if I’m in the middle of—”

“No.” His voice cut through yours, sharp enough that you actually shut up. “You find a way. That’s how this business works.”

You chewed on it and finally nodded. “Fine. Next?”

“You don’t lie to me about where you are. I don’t need your address, nothin’ like that. I need a city. A state. Something I can tell Batu if he asks.”

“Why would he ask?”

“Because he’s a paranoid fuck who gets off on checking in. Give me something real enough to sound convincing.”

You nodded slowly. The fight was draining out of you and he kind of hated to see it. 

“I hate talkin’ to people,” you muttered. “That’s kinda why I do what I do.”

“Okay, newsflash—I don’t care if you hate it. I don’t care if I make your skin crawl,” he lied. “You check in. Text. I don’t give a shit how, but you let me know you’re breathing.”

“Why?” you whispered, feeling like he had chipped away at your walls so consistently that they started crumbling down. “You don’t even know me, why do you care so much?”

“Ah, I don’t, do I?” Braxton laughed, but it came out rougher this time. “I know you named your goddamn computer ‘Ozzy’, which… Weird as it is, also tells me you don’t have the worst music taste.”

You stared at him for a moment, processing.

“See, I listen.” He shrugged, but it was too casual, too perfect. “You talk to your machines like they’re alive. Also know you run shit through seven proxies or VPNs, whatever that is, I don’t know why, but it’s always seven.” He smirked. “And you bitch about polyester like it’s the new form of torture.”

You blinked at him, stunned. “That’s… A strangely complete list there, Brax.”

“Yeah, don’t overthink it,” he muttered, looking away.

“Fine. Give me your phone.” You outstretched your hand and he obliged you. 

“So,” you opened the contacts, “should I put myself as ‘pizza place’ or ‘work wife’?”

He frowned, genuinely confused. “What the hell is a ‘work wife’?”

You chuckled, incredulous. “I don’t even know how to explain it now without sounding like an absolute creep so I’m not gonna.”

“You don’t say.” Braxton leaned back, eyes narrowing. “Don’t get sentimental on me now. I’m not built for it.”

“Eh, neither am I.” You handed him the phone back, having put yourself as ‘work wife’ with a bunch of pink heart emojis. Braxton looked utterly appalled.

“Yeah, that’s… A whole lotta hearts there, Legs,” he grumbled.

You still looked at him like you expected him to argue so he just pocketed the phone back instead. 

In the couple weeks since the Golden Dragon, you’d checked in exactly as promised—texts at random hours, deliberately brief and always sarcastic. Braxton pretended to be serious about it, but usually failed miserably.

Not to mention, you spammed him with memes he had trouble understanding on the daily. This morning you sent him another one, a picture of a cat knocking a wine glass off a table with the caption “me dealing with your attitude.” 

He saved it.

Right now, you were browsing through some corporate ace’s email like it was the morning newspaper while Braxton whined in your ear. 

“Legs, talk to me. Can’t stand in this damn office forever, someone’s gonna eventually figure I’m too pretty to be security .”

“And I told you,” you muttered, “the guy doesn’t store his email on the company server. What he does store, though, is his Spotify.” You scoffed. “Fucking K-Pop…”

Despite himself, Braxton grinned, scanning the closest entrypoint to the fancy corporate office. “You’re a menace.”

“Your menace, sir.”

Braxton snorted. “Don’t call me that.”

“Would you prefer ‘work husband’?”

“Christ, Legs, I told you to delete that.”

Rico, still elbows deep in the ethernet cables, reared his head from under the desk. “They got married?” He shot a confused look to Levan who just shook his head slowly, like a warning.

“Yeah, and I told you I got problem with authority,” you shot back, still furiously typing. “Best I can do is take your suggestions under advisement. And then ignore you.”

“You’re killin’ me here.” Braxton was still smirking. Then he glared at Rico. “You mind? It’s a private conversation.”

“You know we’re all on the same line here, right?” you interjected.

“Yeah, yeah,” Braxton muttered. “How we doin’ there, kid? And don’t give me any of that ‘ninety seconds’ shit again, I thought she gave you a manual this time.”

Rico’s frown deepened. “These… squiggles? You try to make sense of it, might as well be hieroglyphics.”

“Hey watch it,” Braxton warned. “That’s my wife you’re talkin’ about here.”

“Jesus, go easy on him.” You chuckled quietly. “He’s doing well.”

“Yeah, so proud of him,” Braxton deadpanned. “He’s like the son I never wanted.”

Rico flipped him off and went back to connecting the cables. This time his hands trembled less than before.

Levan just sighed. “Americans are weird.”

“Don’t you start.” Braxton adjusted his earpiece, lowering his voice. “Legs, you’re gonna give my team the wrong idea here.”

“It’s your fault you let this marriage joke run as far as it did, now here we are.”

Indeed, there you were. What started as a silly thing between you took on a life of its own. You came to learn that mercenary business was not at all as mysterious as everybody made it out to be.

And it definitely wasn’t as tight-lipped.

So far, all the bullshit about you and Braxton that you heard through the grapevine never failed to make you laugh. This week’s top story was still the rumor that you tied the knot in Vegas while Braxton held the Elvis impersonator at gunpoint.

“Yeah, you started it,” Braxton grumbled.

“Heh.” Levan let out a chuckle and checked his gun mag. “Heard you made Elvis cry.”

Rico popped his head up again, holding a cable like it was a dead snake. “So it’s true about Vegas?”

“Yes,” you said.

“No!” Braxton immediately countered.

You laughed in his ear, a real laugh this time, not the sarcastic huff he was used to. 

“Fuck this, I’m—” Braxton cut himself off, took a breath. “Everybody focus, okay? Legs, you got what we needed yet or you just gonna run your mouth all day?”

“Almost there, dear.”

Rico snickered from under the desk. Braxton could practically hear your satisfied little grin. Or he could very well imagine. 

“Finish with the goddamn cables, kid,” Braxton snapped. “Legs, how long we got to the next shift?”

“Seven minutes before the shift change, but I’d say like, ten.”

“Huh?”

“The other security guard is still on the toilet watching TikToks.”

“Wonderful.” Braxton issued a long-suffering sigh. “Still got eyes on the lobby?”

“Yes, you paranoid bastard, I got eyes on the lobby, on the bathrooms, on your ass…”

“Good to know.” Braxton checked his watch, shaking his head. “You done yet?”

“Just finished. Took a little longer because I had to reroute through… Actually, you know what, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“I made the computer do the thing.”

“Atta girl,” Levan laughed, a rare enough sound, and helped Rico up from under the desk.

Braxton rolled his eyes and carefully opened the door to the office. “Alright, everybody pack it up. Legs, you good to ride shotgun?”

“In the van or…?”

“No, in my fuckin’ spaceship.” 

You laughed. “Oh, fuck you.”

“What else are husbands for?”

The comms clicked off and the three of them rushed to the elevators. Rico looked at Braxton, still holding his toolkit to his chest. “So you really are—”

“Say it.” Braxton glared again, this time making sure it was a truly terrifying thing to witness.

Rico went silent. The elevator arrived with a ding and they got in.

“You’re a lucky man,” Levan grunted, all of a sudden insightful. “Her, not very lucky.”

Braxton was lounging on the hotel room sofa, halfway through an overpriced protein bar, when his phone buzzed. He fished it out of his pocket and winced.

Grundy.

He watched the thing ring for a moment, looking at the contact name flashing. 

“You gonna get that?” you asked from your spot by the window, still crouched over the laptop like a very focused shrimp.

“Thought these things were noise-cancelling.” Braxton gestured to your headphones.

“Your old man ringtone could raise the dead.”

Braxton grumbled something and finally picked up. “What.”

“Hello, Braxton.”

Braxton stayed silent, looking away as if Christian could physically see him.

“We need to talk,” Christian continued.

Braxton rolled his eyes and deliberately chewed through a mouthful of the protein bar, hoping the sound was annoying.

“It concerns your personal security.” Christian still talked like he was reading through a monthly statement.

Braxton sat up straight, suddenly alarmed. “The fuck’re you on about?”

“The wedding.” 

Braxton closed his eyes. “Fuck me,” he muttered.

“I ran the numbers. Four separate intelligence streams are reporting you married in Vegas.”

“The numbers,” Braxton repeated. 

“Did you know your wife was wanted by the Interpol?”

Braxton blinked, slowly, then looked towards you. You had your music back on because you were slowly shaking your head. The Communards, if he had to guess.

“No,” Braxton muttered. “But what can I say, I got good taste.”

“Debatable,” Christian countered. “Which alias did you register under? Hello? Braxton, it’s important.”

“Which alias… Jesus fucking Christ, Christian—it’s a joke.” Braxton dragged a hand down his face. “She started it, then it sort of… Spiraled.”

“A joke.” Christian’s tone didn’t change, but Braxton could tell he wasn’t convinced. “Well, the business seems to be taking it seriously.”

“The what now?”

“Furthermore, I wasn’t invited.”

“What?” Braxton muttered.

“To the wedding,” Christian explained, as if that helped anything. “Or, the alleged wedding. I would have appreciated a courtesy call.”

“A courtesy—” Braxton stopped himself. “First of all, you don’t call me!”

“I am calling you right now.”

“No, I mean… Oh, Jesus, fuck, you know what I mean!”

For a moment, nobody spoke. And to Braxton’s dismay, he saw you slowly take off your headphones, giving him a look of concerned confusion.

“Chris.” Braxton sighed, looking for the right way to name whatever the hell he was feeling. “You think I got married and didn’t tell you?”

“Well, if you’re asking about the probability—”

“Christian. Christian.” Braxton leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I didn’t get married in Vegas. Didn’t get married anywhere. Didn’t hold Elvis at gunpoint, didn’t kidnap a Shaolin monk or a priest. I saved a crazy girl from a trigger-happy Armenian who signs my goddam paychecks.”

Christian went quiet and Braxton could tell he was mulling it over. He shot you one more glance and got up.

“Alright, listen,” he walked to the bathroom and locked the door, “this ain’t fair. You don’t call me, you don’t… Nothin’, and now you call me because what? What is it you want me to do here?”

“She’s there right now,” Christian said, completely ignoring that entire speech.

“What?” 

“I heard you go to the other room.”

“It ain’t like that.”

“It is exactly like that.”

“It is exactly like that,” Braxton mocked him in a high-pitched voice.

“Stop doing that.”

“Stop doing that.”

“Braxton.”

“Braxton.”

“Fine. I don’t understand,” Christian finally admitted. “But next time, invite me to the fake wedding. I’ll bring a gift.”

Braxton sighed and shook his head, defeated. “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

“I fail to see how—”

“Start with settin’ the date for meeting me and actually showing up, now how ‘bout that?”

Braxton winced as soon as the words escaped his mouth. He hated that. Hated letting himself get emotionally eviscerated by a phone call.

“We went camping last year,” Christian offered after a moment and Braxton could tell, even through the monotone, his brother was scrambling.

“Great, Chris. That’s great.” He leaned his forehead against the door and bumped it against it, once. Twice. “Unlimited goddamn money between us and you still do this shit.”

They both went quiet after that and Braxton honestly thought Christian hung up.

But no.

“I’m trying to understand,” Christian said.

Braxton sighed. “Well, stop trying to understand and just… I don’t know, listen to me?”

“I am listening,” Christian replied, confused. “And I know that it’s important. You definitely sound like it’s important.”

“You… You can’t keep auditing my life, okay?”

“I am auditing your life,” Christian confirmed. “How else am I supposed to keep tabs on you?”

Braxton opened his mouth, ready to fire back something that would burn the bridge for another six months, but then he chose not to. This was not what he wanted, not the words he kept waiting to hear, even after twenty years of silence. But maybe this was the best they could manage.

“Jesus.” Braxton laughed. “You sound like Dad.”

“Low blow.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.” Braxton banged his head against the door again, harder this time. “Forget it. Forget I called you.”

“You didn’t call me. I called you.”

“Even worse.”

Christian exhaled. It sounded vaguely nervous, though with him, it was hard to tell. “Braxton.”

“What?”

“I am happy for you.”

Braxton stood there, phone still pressed to his ear, feeling like a dog that just went ten rounds around the block chasing his own tail.

“Happy for me,” he repeated.

“I know you don’t want to tell me, so I won’t ask.”

“Alright, okay, you can ask,” Braxton said quickly, way too quickly for the grumbling tone he was trying to pull. “C’mon. Ask me.”

There was another moment of silence. Braxton hesitated between actually answering truthfully or hanging up.

“Tell me about her,” Christian said finally. 

And for him, that was basically emotional.

Braxton let out a dry laugh. “She’s… A pain in my ass.”

“Sounds vaguely familiar.”

“Ha. Funny.” But Braxton smiled this time and it felt less painful. “She’s… Smart. Hates people. Kind of like you, actually.”

“Well, most hackers display some variety of anti-social beha—”

“No, nope, none of that, shut up,” Braxton grunted. “What else… Oh, yeah, and she’s mouthy. And I know she likes her laptop more than me.”

“You like her.”

Maybe Braxton was kidding himself, but he could have sworn Christian sounded softer now. 

“I…” Braxton scrubbed a hand over his face, pacing the small bathroom. “Yeah. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doin’, Chris. She needed help. I helped. Now I’m…”

“Married.”

Christian let out this small chuckle then and Braxton knew he must have been hallucinating. 

“Did you just make a joke?”

“I am capable of humor, Braxton.”

“Oh, I know you’re capable, okay, I know you are. You’re just savin’ the battery.”

“Does she know?” Christian asked.

“Know what?”

“About us. Dad. The whole…”

Braxton winced.

“What the hell, Chris? No! And she’s not gonna.”

“Braxton—”

“No, Chris. That’s not… That’s not part of this. I’m not gonna sit there with her, mixin’ trauma like it’s a goddamn cocktail party of ‘who went through more shit’.”

Christian paused, but then:

“Understood.”

Braxton leaned his back against the bathroom door, suddenly exhausted by all this. “You’re really not gonna give me shit about this?”

“I believe I am doing just that,” Christian corrected. “Just inefficiently.”

Braxton smiled despite his best efforts. “Okay. Good talk.” 

“Take care of yourself, Braxton.”

“I probably won’t.”

He hung up and opened the door to find you standing right there, headphones still around your neck. You were looking right at him and he didn’t know what to do with himself. 

“Everything okay?” you asked.

“Yeah. Family shit.” Braxton stepped right past you, trying to put distance between you two. He needed a drink. He needed ten drinks.

“You got a real wife somewhere?”

Braxton shot you a sharp look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” you replied fast, too fast. “Just sounded intense in there.”

He didn’t know what to do with that so decided not to touch it. Just in case it blew up right in his face. 

“Yeah,” he rasped, “it’s how he talks.”

“Oh.” You took the headphones off and threw them on the bed. “Your brother? The Accountant.”

Braxton’s frown deepened. You felt more and more comfortable around him. He slowly came to realize, the two of you would just.. Hang out these days. Like real people do. Sometimes there wouldn’t even be a job debrief involved.

Braxton clenched his teeth. “You been digging?”

“Please.” You rolled your eyes and sat back down in the armchair by the window. “Like I need to dig. The man’s a myth. Basically a folklore cryptid.”

“The what now?” he asked.

You smirked, looking far too pleased with yourself. “Your brother’s a ghost story contractors tell each other to feel better about their shitty hacking.”

“My brother,” Braxton grabbed the bourbon bottle from the dresser, “is not a fuckin’ ghost story.”

He poured himself a glass. Didn’t offer you one.

“Okay,” you said quietly, having realized you just stepped on one hell of a mine of a touchy subject.

“Okay?” Braxton looked down at you, still frowning. “That’s it?”

“Why, you want me to make you more uncomfortable?” You winced. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Goddamn it, Legs.” He shook his head and downed half his drink. “It’s already weird.”

“I disagree.” You opened the laptop again, obviously unaffected by whatever the hell was wrong with him. “Ugh. Can you hand me my…?” You pointed to the bed and Braxton rolled his eyes.

“You gotta stop throwin’ your shit around,” he muttered then moved to hand you your headphones.

“Why? You literally live in a hotel, not like I’m moving your favorite trinkets from the mantlepiece.”

“I don’t have trinkets.”

“I mean, kinda.” You typed something then pointed to the coffee table and Braxton’s chaotic little arsenal scattered on it.

“No, that’s… That’s different.” 

“How?” You adjusted your glasses and smirked. “Oh, ‘cause it’s guns so it’s manly trinkets?”

Braxton’s eyes were still dark and stormy, but his mouth twitched. “You done?”

“Never.” You paused. “Unless I’m actually pissin’ you off, sometimes I can’t tell with people, in which case yes, I’m done.”

Braxton stared at you for a long moment after that, disarmed. “Nah,” he muttered. “You’re not pissin’ me off.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Couldn’t fool a blind man at a poker game right now,” he grumbled and set his glass down. “It’s just… Weird. This whole thing.”

“What whole thing?” you muttered, still typing.

He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “This. Us. Whatever the fuck this is.”

You stopped typing. “You mean the fake marriage that somehow became a real… fake marriage?”

“Don’t say it like that.” 

“Like what?”

“Like everything’s a joke.”

You went quiet for a long, confused moment.

“But it is,” you said, then set the laptop and the headphones down. “Okay, see, this is why the human factor in relationships thoroughly fucking sucks.”

Braxton’s eyebrows shot up. “The human… What other relationships are we talking about here?”

“Well, if you were a hard drive for example, I could disassemble you top to bottom, take you apart right on that table and see the insides, but you’re not, so. I got no clue.” 

A soft, incredulous laugh escaped him and you frowned, unsure what the hell was so funny. You’ve never seen that man smile like that—so unguarded. 

“Jesus, that is the weirdest pick-up line I heard in my life, Legs.”

“You’re making fun of me.” 

“Damn right I am.” He approached you, slowly, like he wasn’t entirely sure you wouldn’t bolt. “You can’t just… You can’t just say shit like that and expect people to know what you mean.”

“I don’t expect people to know what I mean,” you shot back, defensive now. You took a step back. “That’s why I don’t talk to people.”

“Yeah, well.” He stalked you like a tiger now. “You’re talkin’ to me now.”

“Unfortunately, since I think you completely misunderstood that last bit.” 

“The one where you wanna take me apart on that table?” Braxton nodded, like that settled anything about it. 

“I mean, I don’t…!” You frowned and then it dawned on you. “I mean. Is it too late to ask if you came with a manual in the box?”

He laughed and shook his head in disbelief. “No, darlin’. I’d probably be the model they recalled for bein’ defective.”

“You’re not fucking defective.” The words came out before you could stop them. “You’re just… You’re…”

“Yeah.” He was still grinning. “That’s one way to put it.”

Finally, he just shook his head and reached for you. “C’mere.”

You didn’t move. “Why?”

“‘Cause I’m askin’ you to. That enough?”

It really shouldn’t have been that hard, but it was. You froze. Finally he just closed the gap between you and was close enough for you to notice just how dark his eyes were, close enough to see the scar that cut through his left eyebrow, close enough for him to just lean in and kiss you like this was the most obvious thing in the world.

Braxton kissed like everything else he did—direct, with a touch of overwhelming. But he made it easy for you. There was absolutely no hidden subtext you’d have to worry about. 

So you didn’t pull back. Didn’t try to reconsider about seventy-nine times like you normally would.

When he finally broke the kiss, Braxton didn’t go far. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing ragged.

“That answer your question?” he muttered.

You blinked up at him, lips parted, your mind miles away. “I didn’t ask a question.”

“Sure you did.” He smirked. “My answer’s ‘yes’.”

Some months passed and you were still ridiculously happy—something you never suspected could happen. Sure, Braxton lived in hotels and never settled down anywhere because his personal level of dysfunction told him he didn’t deserve it. You had been forced to settle down because your server farm required too much maintenance.

But you also hated cooking, cleaning, and picking out bedsheets. All of the things the hotel could take off your hands with a smile. So, all of a sudden, you never had to think about chores again. Ever.

Or at least as long as this thing between you and Braxton lasted. And something deep inside you desperately wished for it to last. It shouldn’t have worked out so well between you and yet it did. Two dysfunctional sections of code spliced in the middle got haphazardly glued together, and voilà—you were the most functional you’ve ever been. 

Because the thing about Braxton was, he didn’t care about cooking, not really. He was not the kind to roam IKEA for hours choosing a bedding, he didn’t know what the hell a threadcount even was. There was no mess to clean or dinners to prep. In fact, the line between “hotel housekeeping” and “Braxton’s tolerance for squalor” was alarmingly thin. 

The first time you realized this was working, you were elbows-deep in a server breach at 3 AM, and Braxton walked in from a job—with blood on his hands and a duffel full of guns.

He didn’t turn the main light on, just kissed the top of your head and left you to strain your eyesight even further. You did your best work half-blind after all. When he finally got out of the shower, he didn’t even bother with clothes or towels. He tossed you a protein bar with uncanny precision and you flinched, but took it. He collapsed next to you on the bed. You kept typing. He reached for your hand, annoyed at the lack of attention and it made you giggle. 

“Can’t do this one-handed, you know,” you muttered, fingers tangled in his hair. 

“Yeah, you’re gonna have to.” His face was buried in the pillow but you could tell he was smiling. That certain kind of self-assured grin that disarmed you every time. 

“Tough day at the office, honey?” you quipped.

He grunted. You already learned his grunts. There was the ‘I’m annoyed’ grunt, the ‘I’m amused’ grunt, and the ‘I’m clocking that guy right there if he won’t stop talking to you.’ 

This was the middle one.

“You want room service?” he asked after a while.

“No.”

“Why not?” 

“It’s three am, I don’t want them to hate us.”

“Fair enough.” He sighed and turned on his side. “These rooms should really come with kitchens.”

You smirked. “I believe that’s called an apartment.”

“Yeah, well.” Braxton’s hand found your thigh under the laptop and stroked upwards, a possessive gesture that still made your stomach flip. “You wanna get an apartment?”

“No.” Your fingers froze over the keyboard. “What? Why?”

“Alright, okay,” he grumbled. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You made it weird.” You saved your progress and finally looked at him, noticing the way he looked at you. Just brazenly staring, like you were something to behold.

“Apartments come with leases and nosy neighbors,” you remarked then put the laptop down on the floor and snuggled up against him. He switched off the nightstand lamp.

“And questions,” Braxton begrudgingly agreed, then put his arm around you. 

“Yeah.” You smiled. “Questions like: ‘Why does your boyfriend have a duffel bag full of assault rifles?’”

“Boyfriend?” He leaned back and you could tell he was still smirking. “You demoted me, Legs?”

You giggled and pulled him back into a tight embrace. “No.”

“Think you did.”

You sighed. “You can’t still call me your ‘work wife’ if we’re sleeping together, I’m pretty sure by now that’d be a full-blown affair.”

He was quiet for so long you thought he’d drifted off. But then he had another thought:

“We can get a house. Secure. Remote. Without any neighbors.”

A dangerous thought. The kind of thought that got people killed in your line of work.

“So a bunker.”

“Basically.”

“Romantic.”

“Yeah.” He squeezed your thigh again. “Now shut up and let me sleep.”