❚ COLLECTION 01. THE ROMCOMS

COMING ATTRACTIONS

01. PRETTY WOMAN (1990) STARRING: bruce wayne x fem!reader GENRE: Slow Burn • Strangers to Lovers • Fake Arrangement • Billionaire Romance • Gotham Glamour RUNTIME: ??? REVIEWS: "★★★★★ A surprisingly heartwarming film. - Alfred"

02. 10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU (1999) STARRING: john logan x fem!reader GENRE: Slow Burn • Dating Arrangment • Enemies to Lovers • College Au RUNTIME: ??? RATING: "★★★★★ idk why someone loved this guy but cute ig. - Dean Di Laurentis"

03. HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN 10 DAYS (2003) STARRING: hal jordan x fem!reader GENRE: Just A Bet Trope • Strangers to Lovers • Ego vs Ego • Unexpected Romance RUNTIME: ??? RATING: "★★★★★ She shouldn't have lowered her standards for him. - Barry Allen"

04. SHE'S THE MAN (2006) STARRING: dean di laurentis x fem!reader GENRE: Rivlas to Lovers • Genderbend • Sports Romance • College Romance RUNTIME: ??? RATING: "★★★★★ I wish I got to see dean shirtless like that smh - Beau Maxwell"

05. THE HOLIDAY (2006) STARRING: steve rogers x fem!reader GENRE: Smalltown Love • Single Dad • Forced Proximity • Opposites Attract RUNTIME: ??? RATING: "★★★★★ Men like Steve don't exist IRL. - Natasha Romanoff"

06. 27 DRESSES (2006) STARRING: clark kent x fem!reader GENRE: Always the Bridesmaid Trope • Strangers to Lovers • Third Act Turmoil • Forced Proximity RUNTIME: ??? RATING: "★★★★★ I laughed, I cried, I also rewatched twice. - Hal Jordan"

07. THIS MEANS WAR (2012) STARRING: jason todd x fem!reader x roy harper GENRE: Love Triangle • Oblivious Love Interest • Comedic Battles • Bromance to Rivals RUNTIME: ??? RATING: "★★★★★ Why can't I be loved by jason and roy wtf. - Wally West"

08. WATCHING THE DETECTVES (2007) STARRING: tim drake x fem!reader GENRE: Weirdo x Weirdo • Manic Pixie Dream Girl • Nerds Are Hot • Mutual COMEDIC 'Stalking' RUNTIME: ??? RATING: "★★★★★ this one is for the freaks AND geeks. - Dick Grayson "

09. A CINDERELLA STORY (2004) STARRING: peter parker x fem!reader GENRE: Evil Stepmother • True Love's Kiss • Fantasy-ish • Happily Ever After RUNTIME: ??? RATING: "★★★★★ i want this movie tattooed in my eyelids. - Ned Leeds"

10. MY BIG FAT GREEK WEDDING (2002) STARRING: dick grayson x fem!reader GENRE: Found Family • Marriage • Big Chaotic Family • Heartwarming RUNTIME: ??? RATING: "★★★★★ I wish I got to marry Dick smh. - Gar Logan"

Should you wish to request a movie adaptation, just leave a comment or DM with who you'd like to see in your chosen movie.

Keep an eye out for a Collection 02. CLASSICS and make sure to comment on this post if you'd like to be tagged. All fics in this series can be found under #drive-in

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

The mattress shifted again beneath you, the movement subtle enough that it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but after dating Bart Allen for as long as you had, you had become unusually sensitive to disturbances. Mainly because, when they were coming from him, they felt less like ordinary movement, and more like someone attempting to contain a small electrical storm inside a human body.

Your eyes remained closed as you curled deeper beneath the blankets, one arm tucked beneath your pillow while warm morning sunlight slipped through the gaps in the curtains and painted soft bars of gold across the bedroom floor. The apartment was quiet apart from the distant hum of traffic outside and the occasional creak of old pipes somewhere in the building, and for a few precious seconds you thought you might be able to drift back into sleep.

Then a hand smoothed across your back.

The touch was gentle enough that it barely registered at first, warm fingers gliding carefully along your back before disappearing again. A moment later it returned, lingering slightly longer this time, and despite yourself you felt your shoulders relax beneath the blankets.

"Babe." Bart's voice was low, though not because he was tired. He sounded like someone making an enormous effort to remain calm in the face of extreme adversity.

You responded by pulling the comforter a little higher around your shoulders.

The mattress dipped as he shifted positions. Then it dipped again. Then again. Even with your eyes closed you could practically picture him, unable to settle into a single spot for longer than a few seconds as restless energy buzzed beneath his skin.

"Babe," he tried again.

A groan escaped you before you could stop it.

For a moment there was silence, and you thought perhaps he had finally accepted defeat.

Then you felt his forehead press against your shoulder.

You cracked one eye open.

Bart was half draped across the bed beside you, his cheek squished against the blanket and his arms folded beneath his chin as he stared at you with the expression of a man who had been stranded on a deserted island for several years. His hair stuck out in every direction, still messy from sleep, and there was a faint flush in his cheeks that always appeared whenever he had been sitting still for longer than his body considered reasonable.

"How long have you been awake?" you mumbled.

His expression darkened and became almost solemn, "Thirty-two minutes."

You stared at him. Bart stared back.

The sheer seriousness with which he delivered the statement made it difficult to determine whether he genuinely considered this a crisis.

"Thirty-two whole minutes?" you asked.

"I know."

The words left him with such heartfelt suffering that you almost laughed.

"That's terrible." You played along with his anguish, shaking your head slightly before a hand came up to rub your eyes.

"It is terrible," he agreed immediately. "I've already reorganized the kitchen cabinets twice."

You blinked. "What?"

"The spices are alphabetical now." His lips quirked into a small smile, his eyes on you and much wider (and more awake) than just seconds before.. like he knew to fake being sleepy while waking you up.

"You alphabetized the spices before eight in the morning?" You questioned, shifting slightly under the blankets and his weight, readjusting so now his cheek was squished against your arm.

"I ran out of spices." The room fell quiet at that, Bart's eyes flicked toward the window. Then toward the bedroom door. Then toward the window again.

The look was familiar enough that you immediately knew where this conversation was heading.

"No." You narrowed your eyes in a way that should have served as a warning, but you knew he wouldn't take it as such.

"I didn't even ask yet!" Bart defended helplessly.

"You were about to."

His entire face brightened at that, "So you do know me."

You groaned, flipped, and buried your face back into the pillow.

A second later his weight settled carefully across your back, not enough to crush you, just enough to make it impossible to escape while he wrapped his arms around your waist.

"Babe," he mumbled into your shoulder.

"No."

"I just need to run a few laps."

"No."

"It'll take like ten minutes."

You turned your head a bit and raised an eyebrow at that, "You said that last time."

"Okay, but that one accidentally became forty-five."

"Because you ended up in California."

"In my defense, California was already there."

You could hear the grin in his voice after your face had already buried itself back into the pillow.

The worst part about dating Bart Allen was that he could say genuinely ridiculous things with such complete sincerity that arguing with him often felt impossible.

The second worst part was that he was currently warm and comfortable and wrapped around you like an oversized blanket despite being physically incapable of relaxing for more than five consecutive minutes.

"I just need to get some energy out," he continued, his voice softening as his face tucked into the side of your neck. "Just a few laps up and down the East Coast. Maybe stop in Maine. Maybe Florida. Grab a bagel somewhere. I'll be right back, I swear."

"You are describing a road trip." And as if he knew you would logically protest, he peppered your neck in gentle kisses before you could even start talking.

"It's not a road trip if I don't use roads." He mumbled against your skin, this time, you could feel the grin.

"You are not running to Florida for breakfast, we can literally go down the street."

"I could be back before your next sentence."

You turned your head enough to look at him.

The hopeful expression waiting for you was almost painful to witness.

Bart wasn't trying to leave because he was bored of being here. If anything, that was what made the situation so ridiculous. He loved mornings like this. Loved staying tangled together beneath blankets, loved the quiet intimacy of waking up beside someone he adored.

His body just, unfortunately, happened to contain enough energy to power several small cities.

For a long moment he simply looked at you, trying very hard to appear patient despite the fact that every muscle in his body seemed ready to launch him through the nearest wall.

Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss against your forehead.

"Babe," he whispered softly, and a little pathetically. "Please."

You sighed, causing his eyes to widen, and the grin arrived before you'd even spoken.

And somehow, despite knowing exactly how this would end, you found yourself laughing into your pillow as Bart celebrated a victory he technically hadn't won yet.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

By the time you walked into the fraternity house, it already felt like the night had decided what it wanted to be.

Music was spilling through every open window in waves that made the floorboards vibrate under your heels, laughter curling up the staircase and out into the night air like it didn’t belong to any one room. Someone had turned the living room into something halfway between a party and a performance, colored lights thrown lazily across the walls, cups stacked on every available surface like they were part of the architecture.

And at the center of it all, unsurprisingly, was Beau Maxwell.

Your brother had that kind of presence that didn’t just fill a room but rearranged it around him. Star quarterback, frat legend, and somehow still managing to look like he’d been born in the middle of a crowd and never left it.

He spotted you the second you stepped inside, his grin breaking wide and immediate as he pushed through a cluster of people to get to you.

“There she is,” he cheered, like the entire night had been waiting for your arrival specifically.

You barely got a chance to respond before he pulled you into a one-armed hug that lifted you onto your toes.

“Asshole!” you protested through a laugh, adjusting your jacket as he let go, finally.

He looked you over like he was assessing a critical player coming onto the field. “You look like you're ready to fucking party.”

“I always look ready,” you said.

“That’s true,” he admitted easily, then gestured broadly at the house. “Welcome to Sig Tau.”

“You live like this voluntarily,” you pointed out with a crinkled nose and squinted eyes.

He smiled like that was a compliment. “It builds character.”

It did not, in fact, look like it built character. It looked like it built diseases and questionable decisions.

You followed him deeper inside, weaving through bodies and laughter, already feeling the familiar ease that came with being around Beau in his element. You had grown up orbiting this version of him, the version that belonged to crowds and energy and people who shouted his name like it meant something beyond just a game.

Which was exactly why you hadn’t expected the shift.

It happened when Beau paused mid-conversation with someone at the counter, glanced over your shoulder, and then did a double-take so sharp it almost looked painful.

“Oh,” he cursed under his breath, but recovered with a grin nonetheless.

You turned slightly. “What?”

Beau didn’t answer right away. His expression had gone from relaxed to something faintly alarmed, like he’d just spotted a problem he had actively avoided thinking about for a long time.

You turned fully this time.

Some blonde who was unfairly attractive was standing a few feet away, still in that effortless post-practice presence he always carried even outside of hockey. His hair slightly mussed, shirt open at the collar, eyes already on you like the rest of the party had been filtered out of existence the moment he arrived.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then Dean tilted his head slightly, like he was trying to place something that had just clicked into focus.

And then he laughed once, low and disbelieving.

“No,” he said, pointing lightly between you and Beau. “That’s her?”

Beau’s hand came up in a slow, resigned motion. “Yeah.”

Dean blinked.

Then looked at you again, properly this time, like he was re-evaluating every interaction you had ever had.

“Little Maxwell, holy shit,” he said with a grin that was both fond and something a little more.

You raised a brow, did you know this guy? Had Beau just talked about you too much?

Something in his expression shifted immediately. Interest sharpened into recognition, then into something distinctly more entertained.

“Oh,” he mumbled again, slower this time, like the realization had weight. “Okay, I get it now.”

Beau sighed. “Don’t start.”

Dean ignored him completely, still looking at you like the conversation had already moved somewhere the rest of the room couldn’t follow.

“Listen, I get it. It's been years since we've seen each other cause you're always off doing some random shit with family in the summer, and I'm always rising and grinding during the season. But come on you don't even recognize these dimples?” He beamed at you as punctuation to his statement. His dimples pressing into his cheeks as his eyes closed in pure exaggeration.

You glanced at Beau with wide eyes, then back to the blonde.

"Dean?" Your jaw was practically on the floor at this point. This was not the little kid with a perfect side part that you grew up hanging out with. There was no way.

Beau looked vaguely like he was reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this moment.

Dean laughed again, shaking his head slightly as if he genuinely couldn’t decide whether this was impressive or insane.

But before he could answer, Beau stepped in half a pace, subtly but firmly placing himself between the two of you like a defensive line that had just been activated.

“Nope,” Beau put an arm between you and his best friend with a firm shake of his head.

Dean lifted a hand innocently. “What?”

“You’re not doing whatever you’re about to do,” Beau continued.

“I’m literally just standing here.”

“That’s how it starts,” Beau said flatly.

You laughed under your breath at that, and Dean’s eyes flicked briefly to you like that sound had been more important than anything else in the room.

Which Beau noticed too, because of course he did.

His jaw tightened slightly. “Tucker,” he called without looking away from Dean.

From somewhere behind the crowd, Tucker appeared like he had been summoned specifically for this purpose. He took one look at the situation, then at Beau, then at Dean, and immediately groaned.

“Oh, come on, bro.”

“Watch him,” Beau said.

Tucker pointed at himself. “Why am I always the emotional support in this house? This feels like it's just a fucking punishment at this point.”

“Because you’re reliable,” Beau said.

“That's really not a compliment in this context.”

Dean exhaled, amused, watching the entire exchange like it was a show he had not paid for but intended to enjoy anyway.

“I feel like I’m being managed,” he said.

“You are being managed,” Beau corrected immediately.

You leaned slightly toward Beau, lowering your voice just enough to be conspiratorial. “This is ridiculous, he's your best friend, why are you being such a weirdo about this?”

Beau didn’t look at you. “This is necessary, you don't know the newer Dean.”

Dean’s gaze shifted back to you again, softer at the edges now that Beau wasn’t fully blocking his view. “So,” he drawled, like he was testing the waters carefully despite the chaos around him, “you here all night, or does your brother have a curfew for you too?”

You opened your mouth to answer.

Beau answered first. “She has a curfew.”

“I do not,” you said at the same time. An offended, but exaggerated gasp escaped your lips as you glared at your brother.

Beau pointed at you like that proved his point anyway. “See?”

Dean smiled, clearly entertained now in a way that made him even more infuriating to the person trying to contain him.

“Good to know,” he hummed with a wink that was shot in your direction.

And just like that, Tucker stepped in closer, casually inserting himself between you and Dean with the exhausted resignation of someone who had accepted his role in life.

“Alright,” Tucker said, clapping Dean on the shoulder. “Let’s go get you a drink... far away from here. Preferably outside. Or in another state, fuck it, let's just go all the way to Texas for a drink.”

Dean didn’t move immediately.

His eyes stayed on you a moment longer than necessary, like he was memorizing the fact that you existed in the same room as him now in a way that couldn’t be undone.

Then, slowly, he nodded once, “Yeah,” he said. “Sure.”

But as Tucker started steering him away, Dean looked back over his shoulder one last time.

And mouthed, very clearly:

Maxwell.

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling anyway. Behind you, Beau let out a long, suffering sigh.

Your brother didn’t stop watching you even after Dean had been physically removed from your immediate vicinity.

Which, considering the fact that Tucker had successfully dragged him toward the bar like he was escorting a dangerous but extremely social animal, was saying something about how seriously your brother was taking this entire situation.

You leaned against the kitchen counter with a drink you hadn’t actually decided to drink yet, watching the party unfold. People spilling through doorways, laughter rising and falling in uneven waves, someone already attempting a very confident but very incorrect rendition of a song you vaguely recognized.

Beau stayed beside you like a shadow, except he unfortunately had opinions.

“I don’t like the way he looked at you,” he said finally.

You didn’t even glance at him. “He looked at me like we were friends who haven't seen each other in years... Oh wait- maybe that's because we are.”

Beau made a noise of disagreement. “No, he looked at you like he was calculating something.”

“That’s called having eyes and a brain, Beau.”

“That’s called being Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis.”

You finally turned your head slightly toward him. “You’re being so dramatic. At this point you should be on broadway.”

“I’m being observant,” Beau corrected immediately, though his second glance in your direction and the way his lips pursed made it seem like he may have just briefly considered asking if you were serious.

From across the room, you caught sight of Dean again near the drinks. Tucker was still beside him, one hand planted firmly on Dean’s shoulder like a human barricade, while Dean leaned casually against the counter, looking entirely unbothered by the fact that he was being monitored like a public safety concern.

Except his eyes flicked up, and immediately landed on you like they’d been waiting for you to look back.

You did, of course you did... how could you not.

Dean’s mouth curved slightly, just enough to be noticed, not enough to be subtle. He lifted his drink in a small, lazy gesture that somehow felt like it belonged only to you and no one else in the room.

Beau saw it too.

“Absolutely not,” he said flatly.

You blinked. “What now?”

“He just-” Beau gestured vaguely across the room. “He just acknowledged you like that in my house.”

You looked back at him, not even bothering with arguing the my in that statement, instead you figured a better use of your time would be to get another opinion... Y'know, make sure you weren't misreading the hints that Dean was putting down. “Like what?”

Beau stared at you like you were intentionally missing the point. “Like you’re a person he’s interested in.”

You took a slow sip of your drink finally, like you needed something to occupy your hands before you said something stupid. “Maybe I am a person he’s interested in.”

That got Beau to turn fully toward you with a look of shock and appallment.

“No,” he shut down immediately.

You raised a brow. “No?”

“He’s my best friend,” Beau said, like that explained everything.

“And I’m your sister,” you replied.

“That’s exactly why this is a problem.”

You laughed under your breath. “So your logic is I’m allowed to exist as a concept, but not as a dating option?”

Beau exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re not a dating option.”

“That’s not how people work,” you said, your arms crossed as your eyebrows furrowed. You had been able to humor this whole protective brother ordeal for a little bit, but now you were starting to wonder if you could push this as far as you wanted it to go.

Across the room, Dean said something that made Tucker immediately react like he’d just been personally offended by the universe. Tucker grabbed Dean’s arm again, physically turning him slightly away from your direction.

You watched it happen.

Then you looked back at Beau. “Is Tucker always like this?”

“Yes,” Beau said without hesitation. “And I’m paying him in friendship points.”

“That feels like hazing.”

“It’s fraternally sanctioned, don't mention it out loud though....”

You hummed, glancing back again just in time to see Dean make eye contact with you over Tucker’s shoulder.

He lifted his brows slightly, like he was asking a question without saying it. You tilted your head, and he seemed to read that like a book.

Beau noticed immediately... again.

“No,” he said again, his rink resting on the counter now as he leaned towards you with crossed arms.

You didn’t respond.

Because Dean had just shifted, subtly shaking Tucker’s hand off his arm with a pat that looked friendly but firm, and started walking.. directly toward you.

Beau straightened instantly.

“Oh my god,” he muttered.

“Relax,” you teased, even though your attention was already fully on Dean now.

Beau stepped slightly in front of you again out of pure instinct, like blocking access was muscle memory at this point. “I am relaxed. I am very relaxed. I am so relaxed I am about to throw up.”

“Beau.”

“Do not ‘Beau’ me right now.”

Dean arrived anyway, and he stopped just short of your brother -- his bestfriend -- smiling like this was exactly the reaction he had been expecting, and maybe even hoping for.

“Tucker’s not very good at his job,” Dean said casually.

“I heard that,” Tucker called from across the room.

Dean didn’t look away from Beau. “Yeah, I wanted him to hear it.”

Beau pointed at him immediately. “Stay on your side of the room.”

Dean glanced at the finger like it was mildly amusing. “Which side is that?”

Beau’s expression tightened. “The side that is not my sister.”

That made Dean finally look past him, his eyes landing on you.

And when he did, his voice dropped slightly, the teasing still there but softened around the edges like he was aware of exactly what he was doing.

“I was just coming to say hi,” he said all too casually with a cheeky shrug.

Beau didn’t move. “You said hi from across the room.”

“I feel like it’s better up close.”

“Why.”

Dean paused, then shrugged lightly. “Higher accuracy.”

You let out a quiet laugh before you could stop yourself. That, of course, got Dean’s attention again immediately.

“Okay,” Beau interrupted, stepping slightly closer to Dean now like he was ready to physically negotiate boundaries if necessary. “You’re done.”

Dean looked at him, eyebrow quirked, and head resting to the side just slightly. “With what.”

“With whatever this is.”

“This is a conversation,” Dean informed him, like he was struggling to find the simple word.

“This is a threat,” Beau corrected.

From somewhere behind Dean, Tucker reappeared, clearly having abandoned all hope of containing anything at this point.

“I tried,” Tucker said, holding up his hands. “I genuinely tried.”

Dean finally exhaled, looking between Beau and Tucker like he was evaluating the situation in full now.

Then he leaned slightly closer to Beau, voice dropping just enough to turn private.

“I’m not doing anything,” he said. “I’m talking to her.”

Beau didn’t budge. “That’s how it starts.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. “You’ve said that already.”

“I will keep saying it,” Beau replied.

There was a beat, then Dean looked past him again, directly at you.

And this time, there was no teasing in it at all, just something unapologetically interested.

“I’ll be over there,” he muttered, nodding slightly toward the quieter side of the house. “If your brother decides to stop guarding you like you’re a national treasure.”

Beau immediately opened his mouth, but you made sure to speak first.

“I’ll find you,” you nodded with a small smile.

Beau froze, and poor Tucker made a sound like he was witnessing the end of something inevitable.

Dean, however, smiled and for once it wasn't the usual smug one.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I was hoping you would.”

And then he walked away again, slow enough not to look like retreat, confident enough not to look like permission, while Beau slowly turned his head toward you like he was trying to process the fact that you had just said that out loud.

“No,” Beau said again, but weaker this time.

You took another sip of your drink.

“Yes,” you corrected.

Behind you, Tucker sighed deeply and walked away in surrender.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

Bruce Wayne hated bad press.

Not because it damaged Wayne Enterprises, because Lucius usually fixed that before it became a real problem. And definitely not because Gotham’s elite whispered about him over expensive champagne either, because Bruce had learned years ago that rich people would gossip about anything if they got bored enough.

He hated bad press because you wrote it well.

Not tabloid garbage, not shallow billionaire hit pieces filled with lazy commentary and recycled headlines, but articles sharp enough to make people uncomfortable, pieces that dug beneath the polished charity galas and photo ops and exposed the ugly disconnect between Gotham’s suffering and the city’s wealthiest man pretending another fundraiser counted as activism.

Your latest article had been particularly brutal.

The article had gone live at 6:12 AM.

By 7:00, every major Gotham outlet had reposted excerpts.

By 8:30, Wayne Enterprises stock had dipped two percent.

And by noon, Bruce Wayne himself had apparently read it three separate times.

----

Bruce Wayne does not save Gotham. He curates it.

There is a difference.

One requires sacrifice. The other requires branding.

For years Gotham has treated Bruce Wayne like a symbol of civic generosity, the charming billionaire heir photographed beside hospital wings and scholarship funds while reporters eagerly document another smiling donation beneath carefully arranged lighting.

The city calls him compassionate because compassion is easier to market when it wears tailored suits and buys buildings with its last name engraved above the entrance.

But Gotham’s wealthiest son has perfected a version of philanthropy that prioritizes visibility over permanence.

Last Thursday, while residents in the Narrows were still clearing floodwater from apartment buildings the city deemed “structurally inconvenient,” Wayne Enterprises hosted its annual preservation gala downtown beneath imported chandeliers and a floral installation rumored to cost more than the average Gotham household earns in two years.

Inside the gala, donors drank champagne beside ice sculptures.

Six miles away, children slept in water-damaged shelters.

Wayne Foundation representatives later confirmed that emergency aid was distributed to affected neighborhoods by Friday afternoon, complete with media coverage and coordinated press releases.

Convenient timing.

Bruce Wayne has built an empire on being seen caring about Gotham, but visibility has never been the same thing as accountability. Charity offered after cameras arrive is still charity, but it is also performance, and Gotham has mistaken performance for heroism for far too long.

Because the uncomfortable truth beneath Wayne’s carefully maintained image is this:

Gotham does not need another wealthy man funding damage control after tragedy strikes.

It needs someone willing to prevent the tragedy before it becomes profitable to mourn publicly.

And perhaps the cruelest part of Bruce Wayne’s legacy is not that he fails Gotham entirely.

It is that he convinces people that incremental kindness from billionaires should feel revolutionary in the first place.

-----

It spread fast.

By the next morning every media outlet in Gotham had picked it up, and suddenly Bruce Wayne was trending for something other than being photographed falling out of clubs with models draped over his shoulders.

Which was why you nearly dropped your drink when your editor leaned against your desk and casually informed you that Bruce Wayne himself had requested a private interview.

Specifically with you.

“No assistants?” you asked slowly.

Your editor grinned. “No PR team either.”

“That’s suspicious.”

“That’s journalism, good journalism. Means you got to him.”

“No,” you muttered, staring at the forwarded email on your screen, “that’s a setup.”

Still, two days later, you found yourself walking through the front doors of Wayne Tower wearing your nicest blazer and the expression of somebody entering enemy territory.

The receptionist practically melted the second she saw your name on the appointment list.

“Mr. Wayne is expecting you.”

That somehow made it worse.

You expected a boardroom. Or a conference area. Something sterile and corporate where he could smile politely while a legal team watched from the corner.

Instead, they brought you to the penthouse office at the very top floor.

And Bruce Wayne opened the door himself.

It was irritating how attractive he was in person.

You already knew that, obviously, Gotham practically documented the man like he was a national monument, but photographs didn’t capture the size of him properly, or the way his voice settled low and smooth when he spoke directly to you.

“You came.”

You blinked once. “Well.. you did invite me.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face, subtle enough that you almost missed it.

“Right,” he motioned for you to properly enter. “Come in.”

The office was massive, all dark wood and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Gotham, but somehow it still felt strangely personal. His jacket was tossed over the couch instead of hung up properly, files scattered across the desk like he’d actually been working before you arrived.

Bruce gestured toward the sitting area. “Drink?”

“I don’t take beverages from men, especially those who are trying to sue me.” You smiled, despite the slight bite behind your words.

That got an actual laugh out of him, low and rough.

“I’m not suing you.” He shook his head while pouring himself a glass.

“You should,” you replied. “The article was mean.”

“You think it was unfair?”

“I didn't say that. I think it upset you.”

Bruce sat across from you then, elbows resting against his knees slightly as he studied you in silence for a second too long.

It was unnerving.

Most powerful men interrupted constantly, especially men with reputations like his, but Bruce just watched people, quiet enough that it forced them to keep talking.

“You don’t like me,” he said eventually.

You crossed your legs. “Professionally?”

“Personally.” He corrected without a breath. Your eyes narrowed at that as you took him in. Though you had never spoken to him directly, he was so far looking like everything you had heard.

“I don’t know you personally.”

“You write like you do.”

The air shifted a little after that. Not hostile exactly, but heavier somehow.

You had expected defensiveness. Anger maybe. Instead he seemed calm in a way that felt more dangerous, because every question he asked sounded casual while somehow managing to feel intensely direct at the same time.

“You think I’m shallow.” His eyebrows quirked slightly, allowing himself to lean back instead of sitting in such a defensive manner as he had moments earlier.

“You cultivate shallow.”

“You think the playboy act is fake.”

You held his gaze. “Isn’t it?”

Bruce smiled faintly then, and something about it made your stomach tighten. “That depends who’s asking.”

God.

That was annoying.

Because suddenly this did not feel like an interview anymore.

You glanced down at your notebook mostly to regain control of your own brain.

“So why exactly did you ask for this meeting?” you asked. “Because if it’s just to stare at me while I insult you, I should probably start charging consultation fees.”

Bruce leaned back into the couch slowly, one arm stretched along the back cushion behind you, not touching, but close enough that you became painfully aware of the space anyway.

“I wanted to know if you actually believed what you wrote.”

“I did.”

“Even the part where you called me Gotham’s most emotionally detached philanthropist?”

You smiled despite yourself, a small, amused breath escaping you. “Especially that part.”

Another pause.

And then, infuriatingly, Bruce looked pleased. “You’re different in person,” he noted quietly.

“You sound disappointed.”

“No,” he murmured. “More so... distracted.”

The tension hit so suddenly it almost felt embarrassing.

Because you should not have been reacting to him like this.

Not when you’d spent months publicly criticizing him. Not when half your career currently revolved around dismantling the mythology surrounding Bruce Wayne.

And definitely not when he was looking at you like he already knew exactly what effect he was having.

You cleared your throat. “Do you flirt with every woman who says mean things about you?”

His tongue poked out to run across his bottom lip, while his eyes found something in the room that wasn't you for just a moment before meeting yours once more. “Only the interesting ones.”

“That line probably works often.” You shook your head. This was absolutely feeling like a trap, and you'd make sure your editor knew you were right. You were not going to let Bruce fucking Wayne flirt himself out of your opinions.

“It hasn’t worked on you yet.” The yet lingered after the words died in the air between you two.

You hated that your face felt warm.

Bruce noticed too. You could tell by the way his eyes dropped briefly toward your mouth before returning to your eyes again, slower this time.

The silence stretched.

Outside the windows Gotham glittered in the dark below you, but inside the office everything suddenly felt close and overheated and strangely private.

“You know,” you said carefully, “this is a very manipulative PR strategy.” You shifted, your legs uncrossing briefly as you adjusted your blazer, before your right leg tightly rested atop your left.

Bruce tilted his head slightly. “Is it working?”

Your laugh came out softer than intended. “That depends,” you replied. “Are you this arrogant all the time?”

“No. I'd like to call myself generally humble. I only act like this when someone keeps looking at my lips.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

And the worst part was that he didn’t even look smug about catching you. If anything he looked more interested now, gaze heavier, sharper, like the tension between you had finally become something undeniable instead of hypothetical.

You shut your notebook sharply and decisively. “Right.. that’s enough interviewing for today.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked down to the motion before lifting again.

“Leaving already?”

“You are a workplace hazard, and I'm not letting that jeopardize the career I've built for myself.” You shook your head with an annoyed huff. This was not how you wanted this to go. You wanted to get him to say something that would prove everything you've ever written to not just be convenient coincidences but rather cold hard truth.

As much as you hated to admit it, you were underprepared. You chose not to believe the idea that he was actually charming (when he wanted to be).

This time, when you turned to look at him after slinging your bag onto your shoulder, his smile was slower.

“Come back tomorrow,” he said.

You stood carefully, trying very hard not to think about how close he was now. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re curious.”

He stepped forward then, not enough to crowd you fully, but enough that the space between you narrowed into something charged and dangerous.

“And because,” Bruce added quietly, “I think you want to find out whether you hate me as much as you thought you did.”

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The rink smelled like cold air, sweat, and freshly resurfaced ice, the familiar combination settling heavily into your lungs every time you pushed off the bench and stepped back onto the surface.

Your legs already ached.

The game had turned aggressive halfway through the second period after one shitty call spiraled into another, and now every shift felt sharper around the edges. Faster. Meaner. The kind of game where players stopped caring about penalties and started caring about pride instead.

You preferred games like that, if you had to be honest.

Your ponytail stuck damply to the back of your neck beneath your helmet while you skated toward center ice, adjusting your grip against your stick as the referee dropped the puck between you and the opposing center.

The collision happened almost immediately after that.

Sticks clashed. Skates carved violently against the ice. Somebody shouted from the bench behind you while bodies slammed together hard enough to rattle the boards, but your focus narrowed the way it always did during games until the rest of the rink became background noise.

You stole the puck cleanly and pushed forward.

A defender cut toward you from the left.

You dipped your shoulder, trying to slip around her.

Instead, she drove straight into your side.

The impact sent you hard against the glass with a crack loud enough to echo through the arena, pain blooming sharply along your ribs as the boards shook beneath you.

The crowd reacted instantly, and so did your teammates.

But you barely had time to register any of it before irritation outweighed the pain completely.

You shoved off the glass immediately, stealing the puck back before the defender could recover properly, and skated straight down the ice with enough force behind your strides to make your thighs burn.

Somewhere behind the opposing bench, somebody yelled, “Holy shit.”

The puck left your stick seconds later, and the goal light flashed red.

You barely had time to breathe before gloves slammed against your helmet and arms wrapped around your shoulders, the team crowding around you near the bench while the arena noise swelled louder overhead.

“You’re insane,” your captain laughed breathlessly against the side of your helmet.

You grinned despite yourself, adrenaline still racing violently through your system.

The celebration around you lasted only a few seconds before the line changed again and everybody scattered back into position, skates carving sharply across the ice while the energy in the rink climbed even higher after the goal.

You pushed a hand briefly against your ribs while skating backward toward center, testing the ache already beginning to settle beneath your padding.

It hurt.. not enough to matter, yet.

Across the arena, Logan still had not looked away from you.

He sat forward in his seat slowly, forearms resting against his knees while the rest of the crowd blurred into noise around him. The game continued moving at full speed beneath the arena lights, players shouting over one another while the referees reset the faceoff, but his attention stayed fixed entirely on you.

Dean noticed first, because of course he did.

“You good, bro?” he asked, glancing sideways from his seat beside him.

Logan barely blinked. “Who is that?”

Dean followed his line of sight toward the ice where you were circling near center.

“The defenseman?”

“The one that just got launched into the glass.”

Tucker snorted from Logan’s other side. “That doesn't narrow it down at all. They've been nasty tonight.”

Logan ignored him completely.

You pushed your helmet back slightly while talking to one of your teammates, visibly unfazed by the hit you had taken less than a minute earlier, and something about that seemed to irritate Logan further.

He wasn't irritated with you.

At the fact that nobody else on the ice appeared nearly as bothered by it as he was.

“She’s fine,” Dean said casually, mid bite of his overpriced arena pretzel. “Women’s team plays mean as hell.”

“That wasn’t a casual hit.”

Dean shrugged. “She got back up.”

“Not the point.” Logan groaned, leaning back in his seat and letting his legs spread a bit.

Tucker looked over slowly then, eyebrows lifting slightly as realization started creeping into his expression.

“Oh my God,” he muttered. “You’re obsessed with her.”

Logan finally tore his eyes away from the ice long enough to glare at him.

“I’m not obsessed.”

“You looked ready to fight somebody for checking her.”

“She hit the glass hard.”

“She also scored immediately after.” Dean piped up with a shrug and a wink.

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly.

The game resumed again before Dean could say anything else, but Logan’s attention kept drifting back toward you no matter how hard he tried to focus elsewhere. Every shift you played seemed sharper than everyone else’s. Faster. More aggressive.

You didn’t hesitate.

Most players slowed right before impact without even realizing they were doing it, bodies instinctively bracing against pain before collisions happened.

You didn’t.

You kept driving forward like fear genuinely never occurred to you.

Halfway through the third period, you slammed another player into the boards hard enough that Tucker actually winced.

“Jesus Christ,” he laughed. “She’s terrifying.”

Logan said nothing.

Your helmet turned slightly while backing away from the boards afterward, and for a brief second the arena lights caught the side of your jersey clearly enough for him to see the number stretched across your back.

Twelve.

Before he could make out the name above it, you skated off toward the bench again.

Logan leaned forward immediately.

“Twelve,” he repeated.

Dean stared at him. “What?”

“Her number.”

Dean burst out laughing. “You’re actually trying to identify her right now?”

Logan reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled his phone out without answering.

“Oh, this is bad,” Tucker said, grinning openly now. “He’s gone.”

Dean leaned over slightly while Logan opened the Briar women’s hockey roster, scrolling quickly with his thumb while the game continued in the background.

“Twelve,” Logan muttered quietly to himself.

The roster loaded slowly.

Tucker watched him with open amusement. “You don’t even know this girl.”

Logan’s eyes stayed fixed on his phone. “Working on it.”

Dean laughed under his breath. “You got all this from one hit into the boards?”

Logan finally looked back toward the ice.

You were standing near the bench listening to your coach, one glove hanging loosely from your hand while you nodded along absently, cheeks flushed from exertion and baby hairs sticking damply to your forehead beneath your helmet.

Then you smiled at something one of your teammates said.

Five minutes ago you had looked vicious enough to start a fight in the middle of the rink. Now you looked warm and relaxed. The contrast was something that Logan understood and admired.. something that was also making him constantly reconnect his wifi in the hopes that it would load faster.

Logan looked back down at the roster immediately.

“There,” Dean pointed suddenly, leaning closer. “Number twelve.”

Logan’s thumb stopped scrolling.

Your name sat there on the screen beneath your player photo.

Defense. Junior. The same number stitched across your jersey.

For some reason, finally knowing your name only made the strange tight feeling in his chest worse.

Tucker looked between Logan and the phone before laughing again.

“You’re done for, bro.”

Logan barely heard him.

Down on the ice, you stepped back into play again, completely unaware that a man several rows above the rink had just memorized your name like it was something important.

By the final stretch of the third period, Boston College had stopped looking organized and started looking frustrated.

Every pass they attempted felt rushed, every hit carried just a little too much irritation behind it, and Briar only seemed to feed off the shift in energy. The game had become brutal in the way rivalry games always did once pride got involved, fast and physical and loud enough that the sound of skates carving into the ice blended together with the roar of the crowd overhead.

Your lungs burned every time you pushed off into another sprint, exhaustion settling heavily into your legs beneath the adrenaline, but it barely registered anymore. The ache in your ribs from earlier pulsed every time you twisted too sharply, yet even that felt distant compared to the rush of momentum building around your team.

The scoreboard hanging above the rink read 5–1.

Boston looked furious about it.

You stole another pass near center ice before one of their forwards could recover properly, intercepting it so cleanly that she nearly lost her footing trying to turn around after you. The crowd reacted immediately, noise erupting through the arena while you accelerated down the ice with one of your teammates racing alongside you.

A defender moved toward you.

You waited until the very last second before sliding the puck across the ice.

Your teammate buried it immediately.

The red goal light flashed, and before you fully registered it, the arena exploded.

By the time you reached the boards again, your teammates were already swarming you, gloves smacking against your helmet and shoulders while somebody nearly crashed hard enough into your back to knock you forward.

You were laughing before you realized it, adrenaline making everything feel sharp and electric beneath your skin while the Boston goalie snapped her stick against the post in frustration somewhere behind you.

Several rows above the glass, Tucker stood abruptly from his seat with the kind of dramatic excitement only hockey players seemed capable of.

His hands coming together with immense force as his claps echoed alongside the rest of the cheers in the arena.

Dean laughed immediately beside him, though his attention shifted toward Logan a second later once he realized there had been absolutely no reaction.

Logan had not looked away from the ice.

Not once.

His forearms rested against his knees while his eyes tracked you, a small grin tugging at his lips despite the intent behind his eyes.

Dean noticed it first.

Or maybe he had noticed earlier and only now found it entertaining enough to comment on.

“Y'know,” he said slowly, “most people blink occasionally.”

Logan barely reacted.

“You’re staring at her like you’re scouting for the NHL,” Tucker added, dropping back into his seat.

“She’s good,” Logan answered simply.

It came out quieter than either of them expected.

Not dismissive. Not casual. He was just certain.

Dean glanced sideways at him then before looking back toward the ice again where you were circling near the bench waiting for the next line change.

“That is not a normal amount of interest for someone you’ve watched exactly one game of.”

Logan didn’t answer immediately.

The truth was he had stopped paying attention to the rest of the game almost twenty minutes ago. Every time you stepped onto the ice, his focus shifted toward you without thinking. The speed, the aggression, the complete lack of hesitation every time another player came near you. You played like somebody who trusted herself completely, and there was something about that confidence that had rooted itself beneath his skin almost instantly.

The final buzzer sounded not long after.

Briar won 7–1.

The entire team spilled onto the ice immediately afterward while music blasted through the arena speakers and students crowded harder against the glass cheering. Your helmet disappeared during the celebration at some point, leaving your hair flattened messily around your face while one of your teammates jumped against your side hard enough to throw both of you off balance.

You caught her automatically, laughing hard enough that Logan could see it even from the stands.

Dean leaned back in his seat slowly.

“Oh, you are fucked,” he muttered.

Logan finally dragged his attention away from the rink long enough to frown at him slightly. “Fuck off." He shoved Dean's shoulder while the two of them laughed as Logan's eyes wandered back to the ice.

You were standing near the bench now talking to your coach, your gloves tucked beneath one arm while you nodded along absently. The arena lights reflected faintly against the sweat still shining along your forehead, and even exhausted, you still looked completely awake somehow. Alive in a way that made it difficult to stop looking at you once he started.

After a short victory lap, the team slowly started disappearing through the tunnel beneath the stands while the energy in the arena softened into postgame noise. You lingered near the ice longer than most of your teammates, still talking to someone through the glass while tossing a puck over for a kid with a little Briar hockey jersey on.

Then your head turned slightly toward the stands.

Toward him.

Logan went still.

Even from this far away, he could see the brief flicker of awareness cross your expression as your eyes passed over the crowd and paused for half a second too long in his direction.

It wasn't recognition, despite the fact that he wanted it to be. It was really just awareness.. like you had felt someone watching you.

Before either of you could hold the moment long enough for it to become anything real, one of your teammates grabbed your arm and dragged your attention away again, pulling you toward the tunnel with the rest of the team.

Logan kept looking toward the empty space you had left behind long after you disappeared from sight.

The next morning felt painfully slow after the energy of the game the night before.

Campus had settled back into its usual rhythm by the time Logan crossed the quad toward his lecture hall, students moving in uneven streams through the cold while coffee cups steamed between gloved hands and backpacks bumped against shoulders in crowded walkways.

He barely noticed any of it, all he could think about was crawling back into his bed after his classes wrapped up.

Not because anything was wrong, which honestly only irritated him more, but because every time he closed his eyes he kept replaying flashes from the game in frustratingly vivid detail. The sound of skates against the ice. Your laugh during the postgame celebration. The way you kept getting back up after every hit like it genuinely offended you to stay down.

Dean had called him pathetic three separate times already that morning.

Logan still wasn’t entirely convinced he was wrong.

He pushed open the door to the lecture hall a few minutes before class started, stepping into the familiar low buzz of conversation and keyboards tapping. The room smelled faintly like coffee and winter air dragged in from outside, students already settling into seats while the projector glowed dimly against the front wall.

Logan started down the steps automatically, his hands settled in his pockets while he made his way towards the usual row he sat in.

Then, his steps came to a screeching halt.

Three rows from the front sat a navy blue Briar athlete backpack slouched beside one of the seats.

Women’s hockey was embroidered, and small along the top of the front pocket.

His eyes caught on the small keychain hanging from the zipper almost instantly.

#12.

For a second, he just stared at it. Then his gaze lifted higher.

You sat half turned in your seat talking quietly to the girl beside you, one sleeve pulled over your hand while you absentmindedly highlighted something in your notebook with the other. Your hair was perfect, and despite being beneath a helmet earlier that morning for practice, he was sure it smelled like vanilla.

Without all the gear and arena lights around you, you looked softer somehow. Still pretty enough to make his chest tighten annoyingly hard. Just… real now. Close enough to touch.

Logan stood there long enough that somebody behind him had to awkwardly step around him to get down the stairs.

He moved automatically after that, though his attention stayed fixed on you the entire way down the aisle.

You still had not noticed him.

Part of him almost preferred it that way, because now that he was actually standing in the same room as you instead of watching from the stands, he realized he had absolutely no idea what to say.

Which was new.

Logan was not usually nervous around women. Confident, relaxed, occasionally arrogant if Dean was being honest, but never nervous.

Yet suddenly he was hyperaware of everything. The sound of his shoes against the lecture hall floor. The fact that his heartbeat felt stupidly loud. The way your fingers tapped absently against your pen while reading over your notes.

He passed your row. Kept walking. Then, immediately regretted it and pretended to take a phone call to abort back up a few rows.

By the time he dropped into a seat a few rows higher, Dean — who had walked in behind him at some point — looked close to losing his mind laughing.

“Holy shit,” he whispered while sitting beside him. “You panicked.”

“I didn’t fucking panic.”

“You literally walked past her like a Victorian dude seeing an ankle.”

Logan stared straight ahead. “Shut up.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, visibly delighted. “You’re down horrendous.”

Logan ignored him, though not very successfully considering his attention had already drifted back toward you again.

You were still focused on your notebook completely unaware of the crisis currently happening several rows behind you.

Then, as if sensing it somehow, you glanced over your shoulder.

Your eyes landed on him immediately with a flicker of recognition swiping across your face almost instantly.

Logan watched the exact second you noticed him noticing you. You looked away first, and that was enough to make warmth crawl unexpectedly up the back of his neck.

Dean saw the entire interaction and looked ready to combust.

“You made eye contact,” he whispered dramatically, his eyelashes batting in a playful fashion.

“Please be quiet.”

“Are you in love?”

Logan rubbed a hand slowly over his face.

Class started before Dean could keep talking, though that honestly did not help much, considering Logan spent the first twenty minutes hearing absolutely none of the lecture.

His focus kept drifting. He noticed how you chewed lightly on the end of your pen while reading. The way you fidgeted with your necklace while listening to the professor. You wrote quickly, confidently, barely ever crossing things out or hesitating before moving onto the next line.

At one point, you stretched slightly in your seat and winced.

Subtle and quick. But Logan noticed immediately, of course he did, he was noticing everything you had done for the past 30 minutes.

Your ribs.

The hit from yesterday had clearly bruised you worse than you’d acted like it did. The thought of that was enough to bother him for the rest of class.

When the lecture finally ended, students started gathering their things immediately, backpacks zipping loudly while conversations picked up around the room.

Logan watched you zip your backpack shut carefully before standing. Then he watched two different guys notice you at exactly the same time.

One of them moved before he was able to finish fumbling to put his laptop away.

Of course he did.

Tall, confident-looking business major type. The kind of guy that was probably in a frat with a snap score of at least 2 million.

Logan felt irritation spark instantly.

The guy smiled at you while adjusting the strap of his backpack. “Hey, you’re on the hockey team, right? You played last night?”

You looked up politely. “Oh-.. uh, Yeah.”

“You were really good.”

Logan hated how genuine the compliment sounded, he was expecting this douche to be superficial and just ask for your snap to add to his roster.

You smiled softly anyway. “Thank you.”

The guy opened his mouth again, clearly gearing up to continue the conversation.

Then Logan stood.

Dean looked up immediately with the kind of excitement usually reserved for live sporting events.

“Ho-ly shit,” he muttered.

Logan ignored him completely before heading down the stairs.

He wasn’t entirely sure what his plan was, only that the idea of walking out of this room without talking to you suddenly felt impossible.

The guy was still talking by the time Logan reached the bottom of the stairs.

Something about study groups, or maybe coffee. Logan honestly was not listening closely enough to tell the difference.

Your attention stayed politely fixed on him while you adjusted the strap of your backpack higher onto your shoulder, though there was something slightly distracted about your expression, like your mind was already somewhere else entirely. Exhaustion lingered faintly beneath your eyes from the game the night before, softened only slightly by the fact that you still looked unfairly pretty standing there in your Briar hockey sweatshirt and sweatpants.

The small keychain hanging from your backpack zipper knocked lightly against the fabric every time you moved.

#12.

Logan’s eyes caught on it again before he could stop himself.

“You play unbelievable, by the way,” the guy continued. “That goal in the third period was insane.”

You smiled politely, surprised that this guy actually had gone to the game, and wasn't just using it as an excuse to hit on you. “Thanks, Boston's never an easy opponent.”

The conversation should have ended there.

You clearly wanted to end it there.

But the guy kept standing in front of you anyway, lingering just enough that Logan recognized the strategy immediately. Stretch the interaction out long enough and eventually it becomes something else.

Normally he wouldn’t have cared.

Except now he did, annoyingly so, at that.

Before he could overthink it, he stepped closer.

“You should probably ice your ribs.” The words came out naturally, low and calm, though the moment they left his mouth, you turned toward him immediately.

Recognition crossed your face faster, and it wasn't just vague familiarity, but rather memory this time.

You had seen him in the stands last night, and Logan got to watch the exact second it clicked for you.

“The guy from the game,” you smiled before seeming to realize you had spoken out loud.

Your voice sounded rougher than he expected, slightly worn at the edges from yelling over rink noise the night before.

Something about it settled heavily in his chest.

“Yeah,” Logan answered quietly.

For a brief second, the other guy still standing beside you looked deeply confused by the interaction happening in front of him.

“You know each other?” he asked.

“No,” both of you answered at the exact same time.

That seemed to catch you off guard a little because your mouth twitched faintly afterward, like you were trying not to laugh.

Logan felt warmth spread unexpectedly through his chest at the sight of it.

The other guy looked between the two of you again before apparently deciding he was suddenly no longer part of the conversation.

“Well,” he said awkwardly, adjusting his backpack strap, “I’ll see you around.”

You smiled politely again. “See you.”

The second he disappeared into the crowd of students leaving the lecture hall, silence settled briefly between you and Logan.

Up close, he noticed details he hadn’t been able to see clearly from the stands. A faint bruise near your jaw partially hidden beneath your hair. The exhaustion lingering beneath your eyes. The slight stiffness in your posture every time you shifted your weight too quickly.

You were definitely hurting more than you wanted people to notice.

“You really should ice those ribs,” he repeated more quietly this time.

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “You could tell?”

“You flinched during class.” The answer seemed to surprise you, no one besides your roommate paid enough attention to notice when you had an injury you were insistent on downplaying.

Heat crawled faintly into your expression before you looked away for half a second, adjusting the sleeve pulled over your hand.

“It’s fine,” you murmured. “Just bruised, at least nothing's broken. ”

Logan frowned slightly. “That hit looked bad.”

“It was bad.”

“Yet, you got right back up. Scoring after nearly breaking the glass is some insane shit.”

Something softer flickered briefly across your face then.

“Kind of have to in hockey.” You shrugged in amusement, a smile tugging at your lips that was much more genuine than with the frat guy from a few moments ago.

And Logan was taking that as a win.

Students continued filtering loudly around the two of you while the lecture hall slowly emptied, but Logan barely registered any of it anymore. His attention stayed fixed entirely on you, on the way you shifted your backpack higher against your shoulder or how your fingers tapped absently against the strap while thinking.

“So, you came to the game? There was more turnout than usual for our game's last night, it was fun.” you asked after a second.

The question sounded casual, though curiosity lingered beneath it.

Logan nodded once. “Yeah, I went with some of my roommates, we decided last minute because one of them wanted a fucking pretzel.”

“And now you’re giving medical advice to strangers?”

A smile tugged unexpectedly at his mouth. “You don’t really feel like a stranger.” The sentence slipped out before he could stop it, and immediately his eyes squinted a bit in regret, and his brows furrowed.

Your eyes lifted back to his immediately.

For one horrible second, Logan considered the possibility that he had just sounded insane, but your expression softened instead in a very subtle way.

“Well,” you hummed quietly, “you still don’t know me.”

“I know your name.”

The moment he said it, your eyebrows lifted again.

“I-... uh, looked up the roster.” Logan had the decency to look slightly guilty as the words left his mouth.

You stared at him for half a second longer before laughing softly under your breath, and the sound hit him with the same force it had the night before in the arena.

It was soft and warm, to anyone else it would be like music to their ears, but to Logan? It was dangerous.

“That’s a little insane,” you told him, playfully putting on a disapproving face that quickly dissolved into a smile.

“Yeah, no, for sure.”

The honesty of the answer seemed to catch you off guard enough that you laughed again, shaking your head while starting toward the aisle leading out of the lecture hall.

Logan naturally fell into step beside you without thinking about it. From across the aisle, Dean held up two thumbs-ups and mouthed 'Fuck yeah,' which Logan was happy to drown out with the conversation that was slowly building between the two of you.

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The meeting had barely started before you became a problem, though honestly, the problem had probably started ten minutes earlier in the hallway outside the conference room.

Ben had been in a foul mood all morning.

Not loud about it — not yet, at least — but restless in that particular way he got when Vought insisted on dragging him into anything moderately corporate/businessy. He walked beside you down the hallway with his sunglasses shoved onto the collar of his shirt, one hand flexing impatiently at his side while some terrified assistant rushed ahead trying to explain the purpose of the meeting.

Something about “brand alignment.”

Ben looked ready to commit homicide.. or suicide (or both) before the meeting even began.

“This better not be another one of those fuckin’ seminars where they tell me not to smoke on camera,” he muttered.

You glanced sideways at him while adjusting the sleeve of his jacket where it had twisted slightly at his wrist. “You literally lit a cigarette in a children’s hospital commercial.”

“It was one cigarette.”

“It was during the commercial.”

Ben scoffed softly, though he stayed still while you fixed the sleeve properly. His eyes lingered on you afterward a second too long, dropping briefly toward your mouth before lifting again.

“You’re annoyin’ when you act right,” he said.

“And you’re annoying all the time.”

“That’s charm, sweetheart.”

You snorted, stepping toward the conference room doors just as he caught lightly at your wrist.

The movement stopped you immediately.

Not forceful. Barely even deliberate. Just his fingers wrapping briefly around your wrist before sliding lower until his hand settled at your waist instead, warm and heavy through the fabric of your clothes.

“You gonna behave in there?” he asked, though the grin tugging at his mouth made it clear he already knew the answer.

You looked up at him innocently. “When have I ever embarrassed you professionally?”

Ben laughed quietly under his breath.

“Well that's givin' me zero fuckin' reassurance.”

The doors opened before you could answer him, and the second you walked into the conference room, the atmosphere shifted into the usual miserable Vought nonsense.

A-Train stood near the massive screen at the front of the room, looking incredibly underprepared for somebody allegedly leading a company strategy briefing, one hand moving vaguely through a slideshow filled with statistics nobody cared about while the rest of the Seven suffered through it in varying stages of boredom.

The room itself was painfully sleek in that aggressively corporate way Vought loved, all glass walls and polished surfaces that made every sound echo slightly too much. Homelander sat at the head of the table pretending to pay attention, while Ashley hovered nearby with the expression of someone permanently one inconvenience away from a nervous breakdown.

Ben dropped into the chair beside yours looking miserable already.

He leaned close while A-Train fumbled with the clicker remote and muttered quietly, “Ten bucks says this asshole says synergy in the first five minutes.”

You leaned toward him slightly. “Twenty says he accidentally says something sexual.”

Ben’s grin widened immediately, and sure enough–

“…and if we look at audience retention across the younger male demographic,” A-Train continued, clicking lazily to the next slide, his voice drawling out of boredom, “engagement spikes whenever there’s more direct physical action.”

You glanced at the graph for half a second, your eyebrows knit together while trying to figure out if you were hearing this correctly.

“Direct physical action sounds like we're talking about porn.”

The room went quiet immediately.

A-Train stopped mid-sentence.

Across the table, The Deep snorted before quickly covering it with a cough when Homelander looked over.

Beside you, Ben went completely still for one dangerous second before the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Ashley closed her eyes like she’d seen death approaching.

“We’re talking about fight sequences,” A-Train clarified tightly, trying to recover some amount of professionalism.

“Sure,” you replied easily. “That’s clearly where my mind goes when a man starts talking about physical action and retention rates.”

Ben laughed under his breath beside you, low enough that only you heard it at first.

His knee bumped yours beneath the table a second later.

Deliberate.

You glanced sideways just in time to catch the look on his face, amused and sharp around the edges in a way that immediately encouraged you further.

A-Train pointed the presentation remote at you accusingly. “Can you let me finish one slide before you start acting like a bitch?”

“I’m listening,” you said. “I just don’t like the weird foreplay, and that's the first time I've ever said that.”

That got a louder reaction.

Even Black Noir tilted his head slightly like he was entertained.

A-Train stared at you for a long moment before looking toward Ben instead.

“You gonna control her or what?”

Ben leaned farther back in his chair, completely relaxed now that the meeting had become entertaining.

“Fuck would I do that for?" he asked. “This is the best presentation Vought’s had in years.”

His arm stretched casually across the back of your chair as he said it, fingers brushing briefly against the top of your shoulder before settling there comfortably.

Ashley made a strained noise somewhere near the coffee station.

A-Train muttered something under his breath and clicked to the next slide harder than necessary.

“Anyway,” he continued tightly, “our social team thinks the public responds better when we appear more emotionally accessible-.."

“Emotionally accessible?” you echoed with an amused look in your eye.

Every time you interrupted the presentation, Ben's attention snapped right back toward you automatically, eyes dragging over your face while he tried — and failed — not to laugh again.

“You got something really fuckin’ wrong with you,” A-Train muttered.

“You’re the one standing in front of a thirty-foot screen saying audience penetration with a straight face.”

“I said audience retention.”

“Same vibe.”

Ben had fully given up pretending to behave at that point.

His hand slid from the back of your chair to your thigh beneath the table sometime during the next slide, settling there lazily like he wasn’t even thinking about it, though the slight squeeze he gave when you made him laugh again suggested otherwise.

And honestly, that only encouraged you further.

The thing about Ben was that he liked vulgarity the way some people liked background music. Most women around him either got uncomfortable or tried to tame him after a while, constantly telling him to lower his voice or stop saying inappropriate shit in public.

You did the opposite.

If anything, you escalated him.

“…focus groups also responded positively to increased chemistry between team members,” A-Train read stiffly from the slide.

You raised a brow. “Now you’re just edging the room on purpose.”

The Deep choked outright on his water.

Ashley physically dropped her pen.

And beside you, Ben laughed so hard he leaned forward, dragging a hand across his face while trying unsuccessfully to pull himself together.

“Jesus fuckin' Christ,” he muttered through another laugh.

His hand tightened briefly against your thigh before he leaned closer, voice dropping lower near your ear.

“You’re gonna get me kicked outta this building.”

You turned your head slightly toward him. “That sounds like foreplay too.”

That nearly finished him off completely.

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