#developing relationship

Fizz sputtered, trying to recover his usual swagger. “I—I’m not blushing! That’s just—uh—stage lighting! Yeah, the neon’s playin’ tricks on ya!” But his bashful grin betrayed him, and you couldn’t help but laugh again—this time with a genuine, unguarded joy that made both demons’ eyes soften. Ozzie leaned an elbow on the back of the couch, his massive frame folding in close enough that his neon mane brushed Fizzarolli’s shoulder. His glowing bull and ram faces peeked out, grinning as though they were in on a private joke. “Oh, look at him,” Ozzie purred, his voice like warm velvet. “Stage lighting, huh? You’re glowing, Fizz. Practically matches my hair.”

Fizzarolli groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Ozz, c’mon—don’t do this in front of the human—” “Oh, why not?” Ozzie teased, tilting his head so that the cyan streaks of his mane framed his sly grin. “You’re adorable when you get shy. Makes you even cuter.” Fizz peeked between his fingers, ears now flushed to the tips. “You’re gonna ruin my reputation, y’know that?” You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound warm and bright. Watching them, something in the way their movements synced—the casual ease of their banter—made your heart squeeze. They weren’t just coworkers or friends. There was too much softness in the way Ozzie looked at him, too much trust in the way Fizz leaned back against Ozzie’s arm without even noticing.

“Hey,” you said quietly, curiosity lacing your tone. “Are… you two a couple?” The reaction was instant. Fizz’s head shot up so fast his bells jingled. “Wha—no! Pfft, no, that’s—” He waved his hands, trying to sound convincing, but failing. “We’re just… partners. In showbiz! Totally professional.” Ozzie smirked, unconvincing in his denial. “Just friends,” he echoed, though the corners of his neon eyes crinkled with amusement. You arched a brow, unconvinced. “Uh-huh.” Then, with a gentle smile, you added, “Well… you look really good together.”

For a beat, neither demon spoke. Fizzarolli’s blush deepened until it rivaled the neon lights outside, and even Ozzie’s bluish face had a neon blush for a split second . The bull and ram in Ozzie’s mane glowed a little brighter, like they were smirking too. Ozzie finally broke the silence with a warm laugh. “Sweetheart, you’re trouble, you know that?” he teased, but there was a hint of tenderness under his playful tone. Fizz groaned again, hiding his face in Ozzie’s arm. “She’s onto us…” he muttered, though the small, shy smile tugging at his lips betrayed how pleased he really was. The room felt brighter somehow—less alien, less dangerous.

Fizzarolli peeked out from behind Ozzie’s arm, still pink under his makeup. The jester’s usual electric grin softened into something almost fragile. “Okay… yeah,” he admitted quietly. “You caught us. We… keep it quiet. Paparazzi demons can be vicious, and gossip spreads faster here than a wildfire in Greed.” Ozzie’s neon gaze dimmed slightly, a flicker of seriousness overtaking his teasing. “It’s complicated, sweetheart,” he said, his voice still gentle but edged with a weight you hadn’t heard before. “A Sin dating an imp? That’s… not exactly considered proper in the circles I move in. To most of Hell, Fizz is supposed to be a showpiece—my star performer, my friend at most. Anything more…” He trailed off, the bull and ram in his mane lowering their glowing eyes as if sharing his quiet worry.

Fizz’s mechanical fingers tapped against his knee nervously. “We’ve had close calls. Paps with cameras hiding in alleys, big mouths tryin’ to stir up trouble. It’s safer if people don’t know. I mean, if they think I’m just the boss’s clown, nobody comes after me.” You sat forward on the couch, the weight of their confession sinking in. You didn’t understand all the politics of this place—the Sins, the rings, the hierarchy—but you understood the look they gave each other, the way their eyes softened when they met. That was universal. “I don’t… know much about the hierarchy here,” you said, your voice steady even as your heart ached for them. “But it shouldn’t matter. If you two are happy together, then that’s all that matters. Screw what the others think or say.”

Fizz blinked, taken aback, and a small, genuine smile spread slowly across his face. “You’re kinda fearless, sugar.” Ozzie’s expression melted into something warm and deep, a softness rarely seen in the King of Lust. “That’s… very kind of you to say,” he murmured. His massive hand—careful and delicate despite its size—rested briefly on your shoulder. “Not many would stand up to Hell’s whispers like that.” Fizz gave a small laugh, the tension easing as he leaned back against Ozzie’s arm with an almost unconscious trust. “Guess mortals aren’t all bad.” You smiled back at them, the neon glow painting the room in bright pinks and blues. For a moment, the dangerous city outside didn’t matter. There was just warmth, laughter, and a little hope flickering like neon light.

💜💜Continued In Part 3💜💜

You'd been watching his battle, along with some of the other medical personnel on standby at the base, ready to receive the influx of wounded officers who'd borne the rudiments of field treatment.

Your eyes had never wavered from him.

There he was, the Vice Captain with the steady hands and easy smile, the man who'd made this place a home from the first time you'd reported for duty.

On the screen, blood gleaming in dark, neglected trails across his face, pooling between his teeth, hair disshevelled and clinging to his damp, corpse-pale brow.

Hoshina was already slight in build, lean and honed as one of his blades, but against the towering form of Number 10, he seemed as brittle as a leaf about to be torn apart in a gale, each sweep of the glowing swords a risk, one that brought him closer to the crushing grip of his opponent.

Your nails were leaving harsh imprints in the flesh of your thigh, lip worried to raw edges between your teeth.

The moment Captain Ashiro had returned had been your cue.

With synchronised, unspoken understanding, the medical crew had risen as a single mass, heading with purpose to the med bay.

The battle would be over soon, one way or another.

As part of the specialized med tech team, you'd handled your fair share of injuries that should have been life-threatening.

Soldiers with crushed torsos, pulverized legs, debilitating spinal injuries and joints bent out of any form of recognition, all rendered treatable with Izumo Tech's new line of of med pods. They'd harnessed the power and efficiency of kaiju regeneration in order to 'prompt' the cells of the patient into such recognizable patterns.

Your team had last handled the treatment of Ichikawa Reno, his body riddled with near-fatal puncture wounds.

Seeing Hoshina in the same pod, limbs slack in the slumber of deep recovery, the steady electronic hum of the monitors and the muted click of measured vitals loud in the silence, had been surreal indeed.

When he'd been stabilized, the team's attention moving on to the next patient, you'd found yourself standing beside him, fingers hovering above his exposed wrist.

Flesh and bone, sinew and skin, inhabited by him, the man who made the mundanity of such things so irreversibly precious.

In that second of preternatural awareness, as if your presence had called him back from some other plane of consciousness, his eyes snapped open, fingers flexing, heart rate spiking on the ECG. 

Without thought, you took his fingers between your own, clasping them gently, but firmly, thumb drawing soothing circles on the skin still bearing traces of dried blood.

His gaze moved over to you, piercing for all its hazy uncertainty, a great beast rendered momentarily immobile, trapped within its own form.

The sight of you seemed to do the trick. The furrows between his brows eased, the tension drawn taut in his neck and shoulders ebbing away once again.

He lay motionless for a while, fixing his eyes on you before the slow drag of their lids revealed his exhaustion.

Even in sleep, his fingers remained curled around yours.

You thought he might not remember.

It wasn't that you needed, or particularly wanted him to.

There were already too many aborted conversations, too many times when his duty had called him away from the quiet sharing of morning coffee in the break room, too many times the back of your hand had brushed his in the darkened hush of the observation room, the momentary halting of breath as stark for him as it was for you.

There was something that both of you were aware of, but neither of you would acknowledge, for reasons too complex to be listed.

After that day in the med bay, however, a change exerted itself, stealing into the space between you both like threads that laced together the promise of something breathless and urgent.

Hoshina remembered.

You could tell from the way he looked up from the report and spotted you in the corridor across from where he sat in the courtyard below, that singular motionless state signifying the ceasing of conscious muscle function.

Slowing your stride, you nodded to him courteously, as you always did in passing.

He rose from his seat, a little more gingerly than usual, considering the bandages and braces adorning his body. You stopped in your tracks, uncertain, moving to meet him halfway.

"Vice Captain? I hope you're not exerting yourself."

You couldn't help the instinctual scold in your voice and the corner of his mouth rose in response.

Ah, this part was easy.

"Always a worrier, huh? Nah, nothing like that. Although ... "

He squinted and eyed the administrative building behind him with suspicion.

"I feel like some people are mighty glad I took a few hits."

"What? Why would anyone want that?"

He leaned towards you conspiratorially.

"So they can stick me with all the paperwork!"

"A most devious plan, sir."

"That Number 10 ... I knew he sounded like Tanaka from Auditing."

You shook your head, stifling the snort that had emerged, but Hoshina tutted, tugging at your sleeve.

"Listen, I'm gonna head to the training room for a bit ..."

"Sir, with all due respect, I'm not going to be bought off with jokes."

For the second in command of a prestigious military base, Hoshina could pout as effectively as any kindergartner.

"Cover for me? I promise I won't do more than stretches."

Fingers tapping along your arms where you'd folded them, you considered his proposal.

"Only if I - "

It was at that moment that his glance dropped to your hand.

Not an action that would arouse much attention from anyone else, but the significance of it was not lost on you.

He was watching the dance of your fingers, intent and focused, as if their movement had brought to mind some other occasion where they'd touched more than the fabric of your sleeve.

It was over in an instant, but it had been enough.

The air between you had changed, charged with something humid, a low roll of distant thunder.

Hoshina raised a querying eyebrow.

"Only if you ...?" he prompted.

"If I get to observe you train. To make sure you aren't doing anything ... strenuous."

He regarded you in impassive silence before nodding amiably.

"Well, sure. If you've got time to spare. Don't wanna pull you away from your duties."

"I'm on break."

He could have made a jest about spending your break holed up in a training room, but he was strangely silent, as if he knew one more stray utterance would reveal too much.

You fell into step beside him, wondering why on earth you'd volunteered for this.

Had your brain lashed out with a kind of primal response, your desire for him leaping from your fingers, a mocking laugh trailing in its wake?

Regardless, you were here now, in the situation you'd placed yourself in, and it felt strangely inevitable.

Confronted by your folly, you couldn't help but wonder at the disembodied thought that had resulted in this situation.

Stretches, he'd said.

As if that innocuous word encompassed anything he'd done for the past ten minutes.

These were Hoshina's versions of stretches, apparently, and you'd never known the human form could look quite like that, even when injured.

He'd wandered into the room, jaunty in spite of his stiff stride, already taking off his jacket as he'd probably done many times before.

Underneath, he wore a loose fitting black t-shirt for a change, one that accomodated the bandages and padded dressings.

The injuries to his ribs didn't prevent him from limbering up slowly, a gentle side to side motion.

You settled onto a yoga mat in the corner, his slow movements lulling you into a false sense of complacency.

It would probably be half an hour, maximum, and he'd be done with -

Hoshina tucked his fingers beneath the hem of the shirt and drew it up over his head with one swift movement.

He turned to you, nonchalant.

"I can't move with this rubbing against the bandages. Can you hold it for me?"

You nodded wordlessly, trying to maintain a medic's professionalism as he strolled towards you, abdomen rippling above the rather low set of his belt.

The shirt deposited into your hands was still warm from his body, and you folded it hurriedly, smoothing the material over your knee.

It smelt of him too, the faint woody aroma of his soap, the underlying clean scent of his skin, the sharp note of antiseptic.

Your gaze flicked up to the roll of his shoulders as he walked away, before you fixated on the view of the sky visible outside.

You'd seen your fair share of soldiers in the course of your duty, so musculature and its definition wasn't new to you, but there was something about Hoshina that differed in the extreme.

Perhaps it was your knowledge of what he could do on the battlefield, pushing his body well beyond any known limits, that made him such a spectacle when he moved.

Lean-flanked, rigid as a stone carving when still, a swordsman's discipline on full display, and then the fluid break into motion, water spilling from the lip of a dam into an unstoppable rush.

Such was the way he geared into his stretches, even now, when he'd been robbed of full mobility.

As much as you wanted to keep your eyes on the swathes of airy cloud that drifted past, or perhaps the tops of trees, nothing quite exceeded the call of nature like its most stark and powerful form, the cleanest lines of elegance and martial beauty, clothed in skin and sweat.

Most daunting of all was the fact that nothing he did was for show, each movement contained, graceful and strong.

While Hoshina probably knew full well the effect he had on you (and wasn't above testing it), he seemed relaxed and at ease in a way he hadn't been in the courtyard below, that hyper-awareness leaping like lightning from your body to his.

Equally dangerous was this tranquility, a whispered promise of a different kind of intimacy, one reserved for after every drop of passion had been spent and a hush fell over a space that had once been inhabited by the vital heat of two entwined bodies.

This was the quiet of knees brushing beneath a table, of eyes that met first thing each morning. It was the easy, perilous familiarity that stole in with the heat of the day, ready to snatch away something precious and leave a beautiful bruise in its place.

What if you could -

And what about him? If he -

A dozen possibilities, never acknowledged, but so easily slipped into, like a silk dress you could never afford.

So what was this, so reminiscent of the time you'd held his hand as he'd drifted out of consciousness?

What was this invitation, so warm and sweet, couched in the language of silence and body heat, and the soft material of his shirt in your lap?

Hoshina had completed his stretches, taking a moment to wipe off his brow before he straightened and approached you once again.

He collected his shirt from you with a simple nod, and yet, the brush of his fingers was a forest fire that drove you headlong from a place of safety.

The first time it happened was a week after that.

It had settled between you like alluvial silt, hardening to solid weight under rushing currents of day to day life, this unspoken understanding.

You couldn't put words to it, not just yet, but if you had to, it would be a subtle claim of one on another, a torch that burned brightly just for you, even when nobody else was aware.

He'd find you in the med bay, the operations room, the mess hall, his presence pricking awareness all across your body.

Most times, you wouldn't even get a chance to speak to him, but the exchange of glances was enough.

There he is.

Yours.

How bold of you to say so, even in your mind.

This worldess claim begged to be converted to some other form, stacked coal, waiting for a bonfire that sent it up in glorious blaze.

It sent you to his office, one evening, when you knew the flow of paperwork had somewhat slowed down, when you knew he must have been rounding up his tasks for the evening.

You knocked, low and polite, and waited for him to  look up.

When he did, his stylus paused, hovering over the data pad on his desk.

He straightened.

His hair was slightly disshevelled where he'd pushed his fingers through it a few times. The collar of his formal uniform was undone, exposing a sliver of throat, the rumpled fabric revealing the shift of his shoulders beneath.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?"

His voice was unexpectedly low, slightly husky with fatigue, striking a spark against living flesh.

You leaned on the doorframe, and his eyes followed the curve of your waist and hip, undisguised, unabashed.

"I bought a new brand of coffee. Thought you might like to try it."

He quirked a small smile.

"Now, you know full well I'm a one brand kinda guy."

You shrugged, glancing across to the cupboard where he stored his usual brew, then back at him, crossing your legs at the ankle.

"So you won't try anything new?"

Now that caught his attention.

His smile disappeared, and you tilted your head, your hair sliding to one side.

"I'm heading to the break room. Come join me if you like."

As you turned, you heard the sound of his chair being pushed back. Standing with your back to him, you felt, more than heard, his approach.

He passed close behind you, as your position in the doorway demanded, brushing lightly against the material of your knee-length skirt.

"Break room? I think it might be crowded at this time. All your colleagues will probably be there."

His tone was even, controlled, leaving you rife with anticipation.

"Hmm. You're right. What do you suggest, Vice Captain?"

He turned slightly towards you, before gesturing forward with one hand, a polite request for you to walk with him.

You did, through the quiet corridors, an unremarkable pair, your officious presence beside him never raising any questions amongst those you passed.

The new coffee you'd purchased was picked up on the way past the break room.

There were only a few operators in there, hardly paying attention to your presence, and yet, he was still waiting in the corridor outside, ready to move on.

You followed him all the way up to the higher floors, where the senior officers had their quarters.

He punched a code into the keypad beside his door, stepping aside to let you pass.

The apartment was fairly spacious, neat and elegant, a certain minimalism in the furnishings, reminiscent of traditional Japanese homes.

His papers and books, manuals and reports were stacked high on the coffee table, a row of bookshelves all along one wall testament to his reading habits.

The kitchen was clean and organised, not much used by the look of it, and a small corridor led off to the side, to what appeared to be a home office and a separate bedroom.

You slipped out of your shoes, aware of him doing the same to your left, donning one of the few pairs of house slippers in the entryway. They felt well-cushioned under your soles, barely used.

He obviously didn't entertain much in the way of visitors.

He slid the package of coffee from between your fingers, heading for the kitchen, shooting you a smile over one shoulder.

"Make yourself at home."

Wandering over to his bookshelf, you felt his eyes on your back as he opened up cupboards, the clink of mugs heavy in the soft hush of his quarters.

"This is quite the collection."

You turned to catch him wrinkling his nose slightly.

"More a habit than anything else. Helps to ease the mind."

"Then you enjoy some part of it."

The kettle was on, bubbling merrily.

You traced a finger along the spines, pausing on  titles that were familiar to you.

He had removed his coat, now standing with both palms braced on the counter. The sleeves of the dark shirt he wore beneath had been folded to his elbows, the overhead light highlighting the corded sinew drawn taut beneath the skin of his forearms.

He caught you looking, and you found that you didn't care.

"I've read some of these."

"Which ones?"

He was emerging from the kitchen, coming to a stop at your side.

"This one, and this one here. Oh, this one too."

"Ah. That one was pretty boring."

You huffed out a laugh.

"And you finished it?"

"Because of my profound sense of duty."

"Bravo, Vice Captain."

You'd spoken his rank almost playfully, but he turned to you with a serious look.

"Call me Soshiro. Please."

His earnest appeal caught you slightly off guard, and your shoulders dropped, a warmth building in your chest.

"Of course. Sorry. I'm just - "

An interruption came in the form of his fingers curling around your wrist, not tightly, a gentle pressure.

"I know. But here ... please don't."

He didn't have to explain. Here, it was you and him, and the world waiting outside for when you'd emerge, dressed in the trappings of professionalism once again.

Falling silent, you felt him release you, catching hold of him on the descent.

He didn't protest as you laced your grasp through his.

"Want to try that coffee?"

"I've already tried it."

Confused, you cocked your head.

"What?"

"I've tried it before. Nice enough, but doesn't beat my tried and tested Green Label."

You blew out an amused breath.

"So I came all this way for nothing?"

"I wouldn't say that."

There it was again, that shift from mischievous to weighted warmth, words that settled inside you like bales of downy feathers, ready to burst free of their bonds.

You wouldn't let it stop there, not when he was all but asking permission with his hands, his voice, the way his gaze fell across your hair, your lips, your throat.

"Soshiro ... "

It was more a test than anything else, his name new on your tongue, and yet not unfamiliar.

In answer he brought your hand up, fingers still linked with his, heat breathed out along the length of your wrist before he raised it to his lips.

It was a simple gesture, almost old-fashioned in its execution, but it knocked the breath out of you as effectively as if he'd pushed you backwards onto his bed.

He lingered there, mouth indescribably soft, and you realised that he was as disarmed as you were by the effect of this simple contact.

Then, he turned your hand over, and he was moving up the inside of your wrist, careful, gentle, ravenous, each soft placement a burning brand.

Lower lip caught between your teeth, you kept tight control over your silence, unwilling to break it over this, but now he was looking up at you from beneath those dark lashes, as if all you had to say was the word.

Which you did, hushed and unsteady.

"Yes."

He took both your hands this time, drawing you into him, allowing the press of his body to yours to speak of all the ways he wanted you, all the ways he'd been patient, and would continue to be.

He was incredibly warm, as comforting as it would be to stand naked before a cosy hearth, flickering flame dancing across every shadowed surface.

In that moment, you'd never been more aware of who he was, the strength in the arms that encircled you, the dexterous grip that eased up along your sides, the wash of his breath against your neck, as it would fog the inside of his gas mask when he commanded from the forefront of battle.

As eager for him as he was for you, you traced the line of his shoulders, dragging your palms down over the solid planes of his chest, his breathing growing heavier, less controlled, as you slid your arms around him in turn, hands mapping out his waist and back.

It took a few more breathless moments of standing there, barely able to hold yourself up, touching each other as if you'd never be able to again, before his lips found yours.

He was as gentle as when he'd first claimed your hand, angling his head to gain more purchase, the soft sounds of where your mouths joined as loud as your breath in your ears.

He released you, hand cupping under your chin, the harsher press of his thumb into your lower lip like a tug on delicate lace before it rips under a lover's ardour.

There was no going back after that.

That first time, Soshiro made love to you on top of his eiderdown.

There was no finesse, or technique, no art to the way he lifted you by the thighs and tossed you gently down.

Your clothes came off in a tangle that snagged on limbs, stubborn buttons that seemed to have no concept of urgency, zippers and straps that suddenly transformed from functional to erotic.

Soon it was all gone, the meaningless wrapping torn from the gift of naked skin, ready to be unleashed on yours. You were both running on pure instinct.

Foreplay was a mass of myriad sensation, the warm slide of his grasp parting your thighs, his soft hair trailing over your neck, lips closing, hot and wet, over your nipple, the powerful shift of his shoulders beneath your touch, knees sliding against yours, anchoring your legs apart.

He was a breathtaking juxtaposition of genteel and primal, the swipe of his thumb across your cheek a direct contrast to the way his teeth grazed your inner thigh.

Soshiro seemed to be feeling his way through this as well, watching you intently, his natural grace disguising the lack of practice when he moved against you.

You supposed, that as someone in his role, he wouldn't have had many opportunities to engage in discreet encounters like this, less so any that were charged with the deeper feelings that neither of you could put a name to.

Soshiro didn't strike you as someone who was free-handed with intimacy, and the thought lit you up further in ways you hadn't ever anticipated.

He'd let you in, into his home, his bed.

Here he was, looking down at you, panting, chest gleaming with the evidence of your exertions, honeyed gaze drinking in your own misted, pleasure-soaked surrender.

Here he was, holding your attention, commanding you silently to keep your eyes on him as he reached down between your bodies.

Here he was, uttering soft praise as you cried out at the touch of his fingers, petal-soft, caressing and parting you, circling and dipping with tantalizing intention as you arched beneath him.

Your whole body thrummed with heightened awareness as he groaned, a low rumble in his chest that vibrated against your sternum, nearly drowning out your soft gasp as he rocked himself along you, lengthwise.

His erection was burning hot, hard enough to bob against his abdomen, and you pushed on his chest in impatient need as he took his time, letting you feel the full length of him pass again, catching on your clitoris.

Soshiro wasn't too concerned with positions at the time, simply doing what seemed to feel good for you both.

His movements were almost languid, belied by the sinew standing out in his neck, the corded strain of his arms and thighs, giving a clear indication of how much self-control he was capable of exerting.

In that moment, he wasn't testing any boundaries, or measuring what you were able to take, simply guiding both your bodies through a sensuous, torturous dance that sensitized every nerve in your body to breaking point.

When he finally gripped you firmly, keeping your spread, guiding himself in, your breathless keening had his eyes snapping up to yours, watching your mouth fall open as you took him.

The stretch was exquisite, a faint burn of protest at the edges. He wasn't overly long, but his width eased you open in ways that had you clawing at his back.

You felt the slightly coarse brush of hair at his base as he connected with you fully, pelvis pressing tight into the yield of yours.

He began to rock against you, starting up a slow, inching rhythm that had your head falling back, one hand slippjng to the side as you slapped and clutched at the bedding beside you.

It wasn't so much what he was doing to you, as the knowledge of who he was, how long you'd both wanted this, how you'd let him have you like this for hours on end, and never grow tired of having his body against yours.

Even with the overwhelming feel of him inside you, you were slowly growing conscious of certain little tells.

There were sounds that escaped him, involuntary, when your nails raked gently across his scalp, the way his lower back had stiffened and coiled when your mouth had wandered close to a nipple, the way he'd bucked into you, hard, when you'd grazed over his buttocks. You'd felt the breath that had hissed between his teeth when his tip had first spread your glistening folds.

Soshiro's hips dipped, lifted and rolled between your quivering thighs, near effortless for someone of his strength and agility.

It was something else entirely that sang droplets of moisture into existence on his brow, some siren of soft, supple flesh, of tight, wet heat, of moans and sighs freely given as reward to he who pleasured so deeply, and so well.

Your neck was all but arched in ecstasy, damp with perspiration, hair cast over the bedding as he lost himself in the sweet, urgent call of your body.

Distantly, you realised that it wouldn't be long, not with how he was snapping down into you, one solid arm easing under your lower back to allow him to slip deeper inside.

The noise of your joining was loud, animal, obscene, in contrast to the way he brushed damp hair back from your brow, pressed his lips, butterfly soft, across your jaw, caressed your waist, even as your breasts swayed with the force of his thrusts.

He was everything you'd ever wanted, all while soaring beyond the limits of an over-taxed imagination.

When he brought you to the edge, it was unexpected, a molten, lava-burst of brilliance behind the eyelids, white-hot, sinfully drawn out, your whole body rendered taut as a tripwire before a detonation of blinding ecstasy.

By the time you returned to your senses, he had buried his face in your neck, body weight pressing into you, that rarest of simultaneous orgasms achieved.

You whispered his name into the quiet of the listening night, half-halting, laced with the  exhaustion and wonder of what he'd done to you, of what you'd done to each other, in this secret sliver of stolen time before the dawn.

Of course, there was significantly more to this than sex.

With you, Soshiro seems to be fighting off his instincts to make light of heavier emotion, actively attempting to stave off the mask that fell so naturally into the shape of an enigmatic smile.

You both had busy schedules that left little time for leisure, he even less so, and yet he always found some way to maintain contact with you.

Whether it was a picture of something he'd noted on base, a new dessert he'd tried out, a series he wanted you to watch together, or perhaps a book he wanted your opinion on, he made a concerted effort to enmesh your lives in some fashion.

It wasn't as if his mischievous streak had disappeared.

There was the time a book with the dubious title "How to make your co-workers think you're normal" had been delivered to your desk with no wrapping paper.

You had also been approached by a shady-looking group of people with bowl cuts identical to Soshiro's, who'd offered you secret membership to his fan club on base.

You'd politely declined.

One time, he'd 'accidentally' cc'd you on an email competition for coming up with the most romantic haiku for your Valentine.

You'd retaliated by replacing his mug with one that declared him "Captain Narumi's No. 1 fan".

He'd sulked for a while after that.

Of course, there was sex, but you'd come to realise something telling about all of your encounters with him.

There was never an occasion that felt like some half-hearted attempt at maintaining intimacy, nor was there a tendency to fall into bed with you whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Each time you were together was thoughtful, carefully considered. It was as if you were catching more and more glimpses of his internal workings, of greater complexity than he let on, each time you learned of him physically.

It was a gentle unraveling, the fabric of his shield coming apart under your touch, all the threads that had once been beyond your comprehension now spooling around the slow turn of your wrist as you drew him closer.

Soshiro learned of you as well as you did him.

He'd always been a remarkably quick study.

You'd picked up that he liked it when you wore stockings he could peel off from mid-thigh, pressing kisses to the places only he could touch, the highest point of your inner thigh, the back of your knee, the curve of your calf and the dip of your ankle.

He liked watching the way you walked, the way you held your data pad across your forearm, the way your hair looked when you were fresh from a shower.

You'd caught him examining the way you'd organised you desk with a fond look, and sometimes you'd find the stock of the mint sweets you liked to keep in your handbag mysteriously replenished.

It had, however, taken you a while before you were comfortable enough to act on your own observations.

When Soshiro wanted to remain unreadable, he was almost impossible to guage.

And so, you decided on the next best, and obvious solution.

To ask him outright.

He was lying between your legs, the back of his head resting against your chest.

You both preferred evenings in like this, in the sanctity of his apartment, or yours.

The weight of him was substantial, warm, his arms draped in proprietary comfort across your knees.

Turning your attention away from the book in your hand, you smiled at the top of his head, the silly strands stark against the pale fabric of your sweater.

He was reading through reviews of a new coffee shop on his personal data pad, probably somewhere he'd suggest going with you when your time off coincided.

It occurred to you, in that moment, that you were in an ideal position to conduct as investigation.

Placing your book aside, you started to card your fingers lightly through his hair, noting the instant slackening of the muscles in his neck and shoulders.

"Do your officers know that you like a good scratch behind the ears?"

He stretched lazily, temporarily abandoning the data pad.

"'Course not. That would make 'em too powerful."

"I'm feeling quite powerful myself right now."

Grinning, he shot you a look upward from his rather comfortable spot between your breasts.

"Got the Vice Captain wrapped around your finger, huh?"

"You said it, not me."

"Consider it an admission."

"Hmm."

You pretended to think about this for a minute, the circles drawn on his scalp growing wider, the press of your digits slightly more forceful.

Soshiro sighed, leaning back against you fully.

"Got 'em magic fingers, sweetheart."

"Oh?"

Your thumbs moved down to the back of his neck, eliciting another slow exhale.

"Ah, that's good."

"What about here?"

You gently pinched the lobes of his ears, giving a light tug, curving the palm of your hand along the shell before repeating the process.

"Mhmm."

He shifted against you, and you glanced down at him, noting the slight flush creeping along the sides of his neck.

An interesting development.

You lulled him into drowsy complacency, alternating between stroking his scalp, neck and ears.

Soshiro's grasp had now shifted to the backs of your knees, so taken was he with the sensations you were giving.

Pausing, you placed a soft kiss to his forehead.

"Soshiro ... will you take off your shirt?"

His eyes flew open, and he stared up at you with a raised eyebrow.

"Huh? I thought I was the one gettin' in the mood."

You stifled a laugh against his hair, raising your head once again to offer him a direct look.

"I want to try something. But only if you want to."

He was silent and still for a moment before attempting to sit up.

You stopped him with a palm against his shoulder.

"Stay there. Just let me unbutton the front."

Bemused, he complied, seeming a trifle smug as you traced down his front, slipping the buttons from their receptacles.

"What're you up to?"

"You'll see."

The two halves of the shirt were folded aside, exposing the hard planes of his chest, so familiar to you now.

The clean cut lines of abdomen and pelvis, the ripple of power beneath supple skin, scars that tracked, bisected and drew small puckers and dents, and the slight scattering of dark hair between the pectorals, all laid out before your eyes.

Pushing the edges of his shirt further apart, you identified your target.

Not that you'd give the game away so soon.

This time, you started lower, at the soft violet trail running down to where his belt buckle heralded the boundaries of a new kingdom.

You felt him tense under your touch, his grip on your knees tightening, head falling further back against you.

His body was inherently divine as always, the flex of his abdomen tangible as he reacted to the slow, upward stroke.

Lingering right above the zipper of his jeans, you let him believe that this was your final destination.

Not that it wasn't.

You just had a few ... stops along the way.

Before he had a chance to register the change in trajectory, you slid your fingers up, circling both nipples.

He let out a small sound of surprise, pressing involuntarily into your touch, and you squeezed, pinching down on them lightly.

The moan that escaped him was positively delightful, his eyes opening wide once again at the knowledge of what you'd drawn from him.

You paused, giving him a chance to collect himself, whispering against his ear, even though it was just you and him, as always.

"Is this fine?"

He was still and tense between your legs, a slight shudder running through him as you circled again, once, twice.

When he nodded, the gesture sharp and tight, triumph fluttered upward in your chest.

He was trusting you with this, yet another part of himelf revealed.

There was no chance that you'd let him down.

You took to tracing those languid spirals once again, watching as his lips sealed in a tight line of restraint, the rosiness that danced down from his neck, the sensitive peaking of his nipples under your gentle attention.

Taking things up a notch, you pinched them lightly again, drawing them between your nails, and he uttered a low grunt of pleasure, fingers digging into your thighs.

Nudging him to sit up, you slipped out from behind him, the beautiful curve of his throat baring itself to you as he eyed you with eyes darkened and hungry with expectation.

Slipping off your own sweater, which had turned a little confining, you leaned forward and pressing soft kisses to his sternum.

His hand was now in your hair, an echo of the attention you'd given him earlier.

Your mouth now took over the duty of your fingers, lapping, tracing, exerting gentle pressure, then firmer.

Soshiro was breathing hard, never taking his eyes from you, the rise and fall of his chest palpable beneath you.

You registered the smoothness of his skin, the slight coarseness of the hair in contrast, the firm yielding flesh of his pectorals edged by harder lines where they sloped down towards the top of his ribcage.

He was delicious, a banquet laid out for your private feasting, vital and ever-shifting, soft gasps escaping him when you took him between your teeth and worried at him.

It was a wonder that you'd never truly focused on him here before, considering the eroticism of his reactions right now.

You had set up a rhythm of a kind, three quick laps, followed by the close of your lips around one nipple, exerting a prolonged suction before releasing his sensitized flesh with a sound reminiscent of a cork being drawn from a champagne bottle.

Soshiro had choked back a laugh the first time he'd heard it, spurred on by your cheeky grin, but by the third or fourth, he'd all but lost himself to the sensations you were giving him.

His fingers had wound tighter through your hair, not guiding you, but squeezing appreciatively whenever you sent those small spikes of white hot pleasure riccocheting through his body.

His nipples were now slightly swollen from your attentions, standing stiff and pliant to the toying of your tongue.

Sweat had started to build in the places you'd grown so accustomed to seeing it form, a sheen across his forehead and pectorals.

Noting how he had begun to squirm beneath you, a quick unzip of his fly, a slide of your hand past the waistband of his boxers, revealed him in all his heated, hard, silky glory.

The moment you took him in your palm, his hips bucked helplessly, mouth falling open, lashes fluttering as he uttered a low, broken moan.

There was an answering throb between your legs, a sudden desire to stop short and indulge yourself too, but you tamped down your urges.

Today was about unraveling him, and you wouldn't do it by halves.

With that in mind, you gave his length a single, long stroke, as if making clear your intention, before adding this to the repertoire you'd been building.

"Oh fuck, sweet thing, if you keep - "

He cut off, low and guttural, the kind of voice he made when you'd truly managed to bring him to the edge.

Glancing down, you noted the engorged veins, the flushed tip, pearly fluid leaking down to coat your hand.

Soshiro's cock was as heart-stopping as the rest of him.

Throwing yourself into your current pursuit with renewed vigour, you pressed him back against the sofa, finally relinquishing his chest for other territory.

He glanced down hazily, hair mussed and pushed back from his forehead, the glow of arousal stealing across his cheeks, ears and the tilted tip of his nose.

It would never fail to amaze you, how he could manage looking this endearing even when in the deepest throes of sexual ecstasy.

You grip around him grew firmer, more intentional, the angle between his thighs widening to give you better access.

Your lips were trailing softly down his front, hands reaching down to cup him before resuming your steady strokes.

He was so incredibly responsive tonight, his voice hoarse with tenderness as he praised you, encouraged you, hissed filthy endearments at you.

Contrary to how chatty he was in the course of his duties, Soshiro was never overly vocal in bed, from what you believed to stem more from restraint than the natural way of things.

Here he was, proving you right once again, a stream of barely coherent sentences pouring from him, laced together with the heady intoxication of falling into pleasure beyond any form of control.

"Come on ... there ... ah! Come on, sweetheart, put your mouth on me. Want you so bad ... to ...to ... yes, like that -"

Complying with his wishes, you kissed the insides of his upper thighs, close, but not quite there yet, listening to his small sound of impatient protest.

Smiling, you gave him what he wanted.

As you palmed him, pushing against the curve of his erection, your tongue licked a tentative stripe up the underside of him, firming as you reached the tip, pushing back his foreskin lightly for better access.

He yelped slightly, followed by a breathy laugh that switched to a groan as you took him into your mouth.

You gave him a minute to adjust to the sensation, squeezing gently before you started up a rhythm similar to the one you'd established earlier.

Two quick, shallow bobs of your head, followed by a longer pull sideways into the flesh of your cheek, distending it, followed by suction and a release.

The technique was rather messy, but Soshiro certainly wasn't complaining, the hand tangled in your hair tugging harder in unconscious approval.

You chanced a look up at him, catching the way he threw back his head once again, overwhelmed, and oh, what a sight he was.

His shirt was now hanging loosely from his shoulders, all but discarded, jeans pushed all the way down to his ankles to make the spread of his legs easier.

Lower back arching, his body was drawn into a taut, tense curve, the muscles of his abdomen, arms and thighs clenching tight. The vibrant flush of his nipples formed a stark contrast to his skin, still peaked and damp from your earlier exploration. The clean, carved line of his jaw was exposed, throat bobbing as he fought to maintain control over his reactions.

His cock was now soaked with the evidence of your attention, each new pulse of pre-cum steadily suckled from him, spread over his burning length.

Through all of this, he never lost sight of the true nature of the act, the vulnerability you gifted him.

He was cradling your chin, damp as it was from sucking on him, tracing the distended corner of your mouth, pushing back your hair.

At one point, his hand came down along your neck, fingers curving around it briefly, as if to further experience the completion of each drop and tilt of your head, and you uttered a soft whimper of desire, loving the feel of him there.

You weren't sure if he'd taken due note of that, because you could tell from the increased upward lift of his hips, the ragged breathing, the way his mouth had fallen open again, that it wouldn't be long for him.

He looked briefly down at you, urgency in his expression, as if signaling you to get off, but you shook your head slightly, letting him slip deeper into your mouth as answer.

You released him for a moment, long enough to whisper to him.

"Come in my mouth. I want you to."

"Fuck, I'm gonna ... put that pretty mouth back on my ... uh, yeah, that's -"

He was now writhing and bucking beneath you, drawn to the limits of his ability to endure, thighs quivering, chest gleaming with perspiration.

Holding him in place was what you'd imagine restraining a kaiju felt like. The sheer strength of the man you had in your power right now was nothing to be sniffed at.

Soshiro came with a muffled roar, tendons standing out as his neck strained with effort, the slick, salty heat of him suddenly coating your tongue. Holding your head firmly in place, you swallowed with fervor, slowly tilting your head back as he slipped from your mouth.

You crawled up beside him, stroking back the sweat-soaked strands of hair that clung to his brow, a hot, heavy sensation growing in your chest as you beheld him.

He was turned towards you, eyelids flickering in a half-delirious, post-climatic haze, the smile that broke across his face radiant, free of all contrivance and studied charm.

There was no need for speech of any kind, no declarations of mutual satisfaction. Neither of you had any requirement for that, not when the magnitude of what you'd done together, what he'd allowed to happen between you, was still circling you both like some great bird of prey, ready to rip out readily surrendered hearts.

You pulled him lightly into you, his damp forehead cradled against your breasts, a return to the familiar intimacy of earlier that evening.

He gave a small sigh of complete content, happily nuzzling against the side of your neck, silky hair folding upward against your cheek.

The air around you seemed to contract, driven inward by a different kind of gravity, one that bound you closer than any words ever could.

He paid you back in kind, of course.

Later, when you'd both returned to his bedroom, when the awareness of each other's bodies past the thin shield of the comforter roused you from deeper sleep, he was there, one arm slung over your waist.

Innocuous, and then not.

The heat of him had filtered through to you, so much so that you'd bared your shoulder to the night air.

This was where you felt the light touch of his lips, following the planes and curves of your reclining form.

It was early morning, distant floodlights still visible beyond the curtain, but in the shadowed arena of his bedroom, you were awarded a most pleasant ambush.

Muffled laughter, soft gasps, the rustle of sheets and he had you on your stomach, sliding into position behind and on top of you.

You knew what he was after when he traced lightly over your neck, renewed vigour pulsing hard and hot against your buttocks.

"Soshiro ... "

Your playful, drowsy half protest ended in a sharp gasp as he rocked against you. You'd forgone any underwear beneath the t-shirt you'd borrowed, and he was taking full advantage of that.

Leaning forward, he held you in place with the weight of his body, breath stirring the hair near your ear. When he spoke, the crimson-lit richness of his tone, still husky with sleep, elicited a prickling all along the skin of your shoulders.

"Want you like this, angel."

As if to emphasize his need, his hips angled, sliding his erection right against your already-slick entrance.

You almost jerked away from him, ready response dying in your throat.

Until now, you hadn't realised how aroused your earlier activities with him had made you, even if you hadn't been on the receiving end. His grinding had unleashed a near-unquenchable desire to have him as deep inside you as you could take him.

This was how he took you apart, snapping the seams of your reserve, the outer professionalism you always displayed in his presence when you were on base.

Here, you were not an official.

Here, you could play as wanton as you liked, without fear of judgement. For every new raging fire he started in you, Soshiro would always find a unique way to quench it.

Such it was that you found yourself clutching the bedspread, knees held firmly in place by his, breasts and face pressed to the pillow before you as he took you, slow, controlled and high impact, from behind.

Oh, did he know your body well.

Devastating precision, each slapping thrust designed to make your breath hitch, no quarter given.

You were helpless in this position, entirely at his mercy, and he let you know it with every harsh, whispered reminder of how good you were, how sweet and tight, his beautiful one, and how wet she was too, asking him to go deeper? There? Yes, and harder, perhaps? Yes, he could do that too.

One palm slid along the length of your spine, resting at your shoulder before lightly squeezing your throat once more.

He'd definitely taken note of your reaction back then.

It wasn't overt, the light pressure he exerted, not intended to cut off your air, but to highlight some buried instinct, to brand a message into your skin, that in this moment you were his, that he could do exactly as he pleased, and what he chose to do was pleasure you senseless.

Every breath you took scalded your lungs, exhalation borne on one shuddering cry after another, muffled by the downy softness of the pillow.

Raising yourself slightly, you half turned to him, letting him see exactly what he was doing to you; the tears tracking down your cheeks, the mess his hand had made of your hair when he'd wound it through his fingers and tugged your head back, your swollen lips where he'd kissed you, messily, roughly, before flipping you over.

There were these marks, and others, more indelible, that he'd left where no one had ventured before, and seeing you like this was confirmation enough.

Instead of picking up the pace, he grunted with effort, starting to move his hips in grinding, intentional circles.

You reached back, clawing at him, hoarse cries escaping as he stretched you, filled you, pressing into that place that had you fighting every instinct to scream to high heaven.

Your voice was not your own, giving up its reigns to something ancient and primeval, one you didn't recognise, begging him to fuck you, yes, like that, please, please, to make you come -

The bed seems to give way beneath your hands and knees, swallowing you up like the gaping throat of a sea beast, every nerve set ablaze as he slowed, his own deep shudder and the sudden drop of his weight on your back pushing you further into that shining abyss.

You're vaguely aware of the beat of his heart against your back, damp skin on skin, the drawing of shaky breath as one organism, shattered into a thousand pieces and rebuilt into some new form.

Such crushing intimacy, the complete weave of his being with yours, even after all of this, when you must don your uniform and be apart from him again (but not really).

He slides off you, your answering, blissful smile a secret, one only he will know.

When he pushes away your hair, eases you closer, holds you until your breathing evens again, until he traces over all the places he's grasped with a gentler reminder of what you are to him, this is when you sink fully into him.

Soshiro.

Your Vice Captain, your confidant, your lover.

A blade honed for a single purpose can also turn inward, and you'll be there to clasp it between your hands, to receive him, to sheathe him inside a wound that bleeds gold, as the horizon does at dawn.

You’re finished with your search, so you head over to where she’s kneeling. When you have her lay down on the sidewalk to do your own sweep, an officer from another district interrupts.

“Officer, I’ve already searched her. So, get her out of here!”

All around you people are being loaded into vehicles. Still, you protest, “It’s protocol.”

“What? You...”

“Morgan, get moving,” Sergeant Wolf turns around and cuts in over the radio chatter.

Your head hurts and you can search her later. So, you usher her into your patrol car and head to PTMC.

You drive south, then east. Cutting through the city grid with a speed that’s only possible at 3 in the morning. The city is asleep except for the garbage collectors, the bread trucks and the solitary runners in neon bands. The cold air from the cracked window cools the left side of your face – dulling the throbbing pain from the bruise.

Your passenger doesn’t so much as sigh. You check the rearview mirror. She sits behind the safety partition perfectly upright, hands still cuffed in the back. Her face is a mask giving nothing away. She doesn’t even flinch when you take the pothole on Grand at full speed. She’s Hispanic, early thirties, short and small. She could appear fragile – if not for the way she holds your gaze in the rearview mirror.

You park the patrol car on the curb near the bay doors and step out. Wordlessly you open the rear door and motion for your passenger to swing her legs out. She complies. Not a single word, no complaint, just pivots on her butt and stands. It takes her a second to find her balance. Then those brown eyes are on yours again, like you’ve challenged her to a dare. You hold her gaze a second, before gesturing toward the bay doors. She walks ahead; her hands bound behind her by the flex cuffs.

Leading her by the arm you navigate the relatively quiet ED floor. The bright overhead lights have you blinking and the pain in your temple throbs. You reach the hub and address Charge Nurse Lena, “Morning Lena, I need this detainee checked over.” It takes you a second to mentally gather what else she needs to know. “We have no ID for her and she’s not talking. She hit an Officer over the head from behind and got tackled to the ground. Her head hit the floor, but she didn’t pass out.”

“North 7 is free. I’ll send you a doctor,” she answers after a quick check of the board, pointing to a room straight across from her.

“Thanks, Lena.”

Your usher your charge into the empty room and close the door. After putting a pair metal cuffs and the clipper on the exam bed, you secure her against the wall with one hand on the wrist closest to you.

“I’m going to switch out your cuffs now and search you. Don’t try anything stupid,” you inform her. Then you clip the zip ties and put the cuffs on her now free wrist.

There’s a short knock. Before you can respond, the door is opened and Jack comes in. You turn half towards him – about to ask him to wait outside for a moment.

“You told Lena it was only your detainee that needed a check. What happened? You just forgot you took one to the head?”

Silent lady uses the exact moment you were preparing to answer Jack and not paying attention to her. She elbows you in the sternum hard enough to knock you back a single step. You lose your grip on her wrist as the air is forced from your lungs.

“Fuck!”

When your head snaps back up – she’s turning around while drawing a small blade from under her bun.

“Security!” Jack yells through the still open door. But he doesn’t step back out.

She has not managed to turn around fully just yet. So, you leap forward throwing your weight against the shoulder closest to you. Your outer arm goes for the bicep of her knife arm hard. She tries to dodge you by going low and manages to kick hard against the inside of your knee. You let yourself fall on top of her with the momentum she created. There’s movement at the door and you’re hoping it’s backup. Even on the floor she’s pushing up her pelvis to free a leg from under you and gain some leverage.

But Jack has come over during your struggles and is sitting down on her calves. You huff in irritation, before focusing on getting her under control. When you shift your weight back, she tries to slash at the inside of the arm holding her bicep. The shallow knife cut sears – you knock her elbow hard to the ground. The knife clatters to the floor and heavy footsteps echo through the room as Armad from security rushes in.

Together you put the cuffs on her properly and finally do a thorough search. It turns up one more small blade in her right boot and set of small lockpicks in the other. There’s also a pill shaped plastic container falling down as you release her hair bun. Then you transfer her over to the bed. There you secure both her wrists to either side of the bed using your second set of cuffs. Armad takes up position by the door after she’s properly secured. Charge Nurse Lena and Dr. Shen arrive and Jack takes your arm, “Time to check you over, Officer.”

Before you can protest the turns to the other doctor, “Shen assess her and let me know what you find. In addition to her head and ribs, her right elbow now needs a look.” With that he leads you from the room. As you don’t want to make a scene in front of his colleagues you bite back your response. Shaking your head at his overbearing behaviour causes you to flinch at the sharp pain from the side of your head. Jack passes the obviously empty room 6 before ushering you into number 5 and closing the door behind the two of you.

You grab your radio and report: “Dispatch, David 12 at PTMC, North 7. One detainee, combative, multiple concealed weapons recovered. Primary officer temporarily out—need unit to maintain custody. Send additional for transport and advise supervisor.”

The response comes while Jack stares at you – a muscle in his jaw ticking: “David 12, copy. Units en route to PTMC North 7 for custody and transport. Supervisor notified. ETA three minutes.”

“They shouldn’t have sent you over here alone in the first place. You’re injured.”

“We didn’t have the time or manpower to spare. It was just a headbutt.”

“Which obviously hurt and can still cause a concussion. Sit down,” he motions to the bed.

You do – wanting to get this over with and get back to your case. As he runs his hands over your head carefully, you continue the argument, “Well, I’ll stay on desk duty when I get back then, doctor. But you need to stay in your lane next time. Or someone will get hurt – again.”

“Stay in my lane?” the disbelief is all over his face and in his tone.

“Yes, as in don’t enter a room with a detainee inside before getting the all clear. As in stay out of a physical altercation between a trained officer and an armed suspect. Better yet leave the room and get...,” you are interrupted as Jack shines his penlight into your eyes.

“I called for security.”

“Jack! That’s not the point.”

“You do have a mild concussion,” he states, “and you can’t expect me to stand by when you’re getting hurt. Now, let me see your arm.”

Taking a breath, you remind him, “Getting hurt comes with the job on occasion.” As you shed your uniform jacket, Jack helps you by pulling the arms down.

“Then you’re gonna have to do a better job at avoiding those occasions. And live with me having my way with you, when you can’t,” he replies, while you place your injured arm on the table he’s rolled over. Before you can loosen the cuffs on your uniform shirt, Jack does it for you and cuts the shirt off, above the elbow. You’re gonna need to order a new one.

“And you need to remember I’m an officer first while on duty – and your...what ever second,” you’re still trying to make your point.

He huffs, “I’ll try. And I think you mean partner. Or am I just your love interest?” He’s efficiently cleaned your wound in the meantime. Picking up a couple butterfly strips as he speaks.

“You are not just anything, Jack!” You want to punch him for derailing the argument. This is not the place though, so instead you add, “But I think we can agree on partner.”

“Lucky me then,” he smirks and bandages your arm.

You hop off the bed as soon as he’s done and turn towards the door.

“Hold on there. You know what to watch for with a concussion?” Jack holds your arm.

“Not my first one. And I’ll change the bandages after the shower tonight,” you shrug and look at him pointedly.

“You mean I’ll change them.”

“Jack, please. I need some processing time here. This case is far from over. And I’ll recover better at my own place.”

“Fine. I’ll come by with food at 8 then.”

“Seriously?” you shoot him a look, but he doesn’t budge. “Okay. See you then.”

He finally lets you get back to work.

All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.

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