#haven fic

Y/n woke to residual panic and terror. The drugs made her mind fuzzy but she shook herself to push it away and focus on what happened, where she was. 

They have my sister. 

The guard. Blake. The elevator. The syringe. 

She gasped but only through her nose. Her mouth was covered in duct tape, her ankles and wrists both taped up, her hands behind herl. It was dark. Too dark. She felt the rough fibers of carpet against her cheek as her body swayed slightly. 

She was in the trunk of a car. 

Her breath came faster and faster, panic gripping her bones with icy claws. They had drugged her. Kidnapped her. Now they were taking her somewhere to kill her, somewhere that gave them enough time to hide her body and get away with it. 

Y/n couldn't breathe, couldn't see, could barely move. 

No. No. She wasn't going to die like this. No way. Not after having the best kiss of her life, and certainly not before finishing her goddamn article. She'd made a promise, after all. 

Besides. She had been trained for this as a kid and again as a teen with Bruce. 

Everyone seemed to think it was highly likely, practically inevitable, that someone would attempt to kidnap Bruce. And because they were inseparable, that y/n would be taken too. So Alfred brought in a scary looking guy who taught them various ways to get away after being kidnapped. As kids, it had been frightening, so much so that she and Bruce both had nightmares. As teens, they had laughed and rolled their eyes throughout it and made it into a secret game. 

Only about half of the information came back to her in her state of blind panic, but it would have to be enough. 

Y/n inhaled deeply through her nose several times to calm herself down. How long had she been out? No. That didn't matter. She had to act fast no matter what, as if they were almost at their destination. There wasn't time to focus on anything else. 

She wriggled around carefully, trying not to make any noise, and managed to bring her arms down around her butt and to her front. She was pretty sure something popped that wasn't supposed to pop and her back twinged in pain. She brought her bound hands up and ripped the tape off of her mouth in one swift movement that left the skin there stinging. 

She rolled onto her side towards what she thought was the back of the car and felt around carefully for any kind of release mechanism. But there wasn't anything. Of course not–that would be too easy, especially for someone like her, someone with the worst luck in the entire world. She cursed silently and scooted forward a bit. 

Onto the next step then. First she brought the duct tape around her wrists to her teeth and bit and tore until she found the end and tore it off. She sighed with relief. Bending at the waist, still laying on her side, she took care of her ankles next. 

Now she could make a run for it as soon as they opened the trunk. 

Next, she pressed herself into the corner and felt for a ridge of a taillight. She shoved with all her might but nothing budged. Remembering a vague anecdote from their kidnapping training, she searched the panel behind the taillight and managed to pry it off. The she yanked on the wires, disconnecting them. Maybe she'd get lucky and they'd get pulled over for the missing light. She had a brief memory of being locked in a trunk as a kid during their training, Bruce shouting encouragements to her from outside. 

With that memory in mind, y/n switched positions and went feet first towards the trunk, head knocking painfully against the top of the cramped space. She paused and held her breath for a long moment, sure that someone had heard it. But the car kept moving. 

After a silent breath of relief, she positioned one foot where she had removed the taillight panel. 

This is where things would go wrong. There was no way for her to kick out the light without it being noticed. But it was the best way at a chance for survival. Because she wanted to live, dammit, and she was going to fight like hell to ensure she did. 

And if this was a newer car…she wasn't so sure she'd even be able to kick the light out. Which meant more kicking, more noise, more opportunities for whoever was inside the car to notice. 

She kicked once, as hard as she could in the cramped space, and only managed to painfully jolt her ankle. Holding her breath, she listened again. She slid forward as the momentum of the car suddenly slowed. 

They were stopping. 

Panic gripped her again, even stronger than before. 

She didn't want to die. 

She closed her eyes against a wave of pain. 

But if she did–they needed proof. They needed to know who did it. They needed evidence that she had been there. 

Frantic now, y/n scratched her skin across the rough carpet. She yanked out a few hairs and spread them around, and then spit for good measure. There–if something happened to her, they would know. She didn't know if it was enough, if any of it was enough, but at least she had tried. At least she wasn't going to just give up, no matter how inevitable the end seemed. 

Her heart clenched painfully as she thought about Bruce. Despite what happened between them, she knew he would move heaven and earth to find her. To find her killers. She closed her eyes against the agony of that thought. She didn't want to be someone else Bruce lost. She didn't know if he would survive it, even with three years apart. Who would he become if he lost her, too? 

Y/n shook herself. She didn't have time to think like that. Ready, she had to be ready when they opened the trunk. She locked her emotions down as securely as she could.

Muscles coiled tight, y/n waited. She heard the muffled sound of footsteps on gravel coming slowly closer. 

The trunk clicked and she flinched. After a beat, buttery yellow streetlights poured through the opening. Y/n sprang. She landed hard on her knees but scrambled forward despite the sharp pain. She skidded for a second before she managed to get her feet under her. There were trees in the distance so she aimed for those. All she had to do was get away. The rest could come later. The most important thing to do at that moment was run.  

But within seconds strong hands grabbed her in a steel grip and yanked her backwards. With a cry she slammed into the gravel with a bright spark of pain along her already aching spine. 

"Stupid cunt," one of the men standing over her said. He aimed a kick at her ribs but missed. She laughed breathlessly from her back on the ground. The night sky above was still polluted from the city–so they weren't far. Maybe on the outskirts of the suburbs. She turned her head and saw a large house in the distance. Beside her was the car she'd come in, a nondescript model, and another car in front of that. 

That was all she could take in before pain exploded in her head and the world went dark. 

–

When y/n came awake again she was tied to a chair in the middle of a concrete room. She had been drugged again, her brain even fuzzier than before. It dulled the pain in her knees, her ankles, her ribs, and most of all her head. The pain in her head broke through the haze somewhat, which must mean that it was pretty bad. She blinked around her hazy vision to try and take stock of her surroundings. 

The room was small and empty besides the chair she was in and a drain in the floor. Directly in front of her were the bars of a cell, like in a dungeon. Or a jail, her foggy mind suggested helpfully. 

There was nothing beyond her cell other than a dark hallway. 

She yanked on her restraints but they must have learned her lesson because now she was bound with handcuffs instead of duct tape.

Where the fuck was she? 

She yanked harder on the cuffs. They rattled loudly in the silence. Panic rose like a tidal wave within her again and she yanked and yanked until the chair started to rock. She was making a racket but she didn't care. 

"Hey!" she shouted, voice hoarse from disuse. Who knew how long it had been since she'd been taken. Too late, she realized she probably should have gone about things a different way. If she were smarter, if she had thought it over, she would have remained calm and quiet. She needed to buy time for someone to find her. Batman, Gordon, Bruce, someone. Maybe they were all working together to find her. 

Or they maybe they didn't know she was gone. 

That shut her up. 

As far as Gordon and Batman knew, she'd gone home. The last thing Gordon saw was her entering the elevator with Blake, someone they had trusted. As far as Bruce and Alfred knew, she was with Gordon and Batman. 

How long would it take any of them to notice she wasn't where she was supposed to be?

A single tear rolled down her cheek. 

Nobody knew where she was. 

Nobody was coming. 

"Thought I'd have to come shut you up myself," said a voice from the hall just outside her line of sight. Y/n's head snapped up. Frank Gallo stepped into the light. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall across from the bars of her cell. He was wearing a suit sans jacket, his shoes shining in the low light, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He looked a lot more polished since she had seen him last. 

"Just kill me already," she said defiantly, mouth running away from her as usual. 

Gallo just laughed and shook his head. "Not yet." 

Those two words chilled her. "What do you want from me?" She tried to keep the shake from her voice but didn't quite manage it. He must have noticed, because he smirked. 

"I have some questions for you." He nodded to something past her cell. "Open it." 

Another man stepped up and unlocked the door. Gallo entered first, then the other man, who was younger, bigger, and overall scarier looking. Y/n's heart raced ever faster. Whatever they had planned for her wasn't good. The chains of the cuffs on her wrists and ankles rattled loudly in the space as she shivered with fear. Somehow she still managed to tilt her chin up. She would be defiant to the end, at least. 

Gall held out a hand. The other man placed a phone in it. Gallo tapped the screen a few times before turning it around to show her. 

There was no mistaking the surprised sound that escaped her at the picture. 

Just like the one that had been taped in the elevator, this photo was grainy as if taken at a great distance. Y/n had taken similar long lens photos a time or two herself. 

And just like the photo from the elevator, this one was a moment between her and the Batman. But this time, it was their kiss. 

Fear and a sharp sting of betrayal mixed within her. It was an intimate moment now on display here, in a cell, with a criminal who wanted her dead. Her stomach quivered with terror. She knew exactly what questions Gallo wanted her to answer based on that photo alone. Questions she didn't have any answers to. 

"Who is he?" Gallo said in an almost bored voice. 

"You're going to think I'm lying," she said hurriedly, every muscle in her body locking like it knew what was coming, "but I really, truly don't know who he is. Not yet." 

Gallo sighed. He made a motion with one hand and paced into the hallway. 

She knew it was coming but nothing prepared her for the pain that exploded at her ribs. She cried out against her better instincts. The next blow came before she could recover for even a moment, and then a third that made black spots dance in her vision. 

When she finally blinked them away Gallo was watching her with a blank expression. 

"If there's one thing our family has learned well, it's how to hurt someone. There are the more…overt ways, of course. But the thing we've really perfected is how to prolong that hurt. We won't break anything important, won't let you die from blood loss, but you're going to be in agony every single moment." Gallo smiled with all his teeth. 

Y/n's fear ratcheted up another notch, if it was even possible. Her ribs hurt so much it was hard to get a full breath. And if Gallo wasn't bluffing–and she was certain a high ranking member of a mob family wasn't bluffing–they were just getting started. 

Trying not to let her fear show, she said, "Try not to enjoy it too much, you psycho," and spat at his feet. He didn't react to her words, which was probably for the best, since she was already in a considerable amount of pain. 

"Who is the Batman?" Gallo asked again. 

"I really, really don't know. I've been trying to figure it out too but he won't let me in." Her voice shook again in anticipation of the pain. Yet she still couldn't help but add, "But I wouldn't tell you if I did." 

More pain, so much so quickly she actually fully blacked out for a second. God, she'd really lived an insulated life hadn't she? The only real physical pain she'd ever experienced had been a broken finger from a stupid accident years before. Her mind flashed to Bruce's scars for some odd reason. 

She gasped through the agony in her ribs, hardly able to breathe. Her brain needed oxygen, desperately. She almost blacked out again but her vision finally cleared as her lungs opened up. 

"Looks like this may take a while." Gallo cracked his knuckles like he was the one hitting her. 

Y/n braced herself for the pain and hoped to god that someone realized she was gone. 

–

Pain was y/n's constant companion. Time passed, broken only when she blacked out or went fully unconscious. There was no way to tell if it had been minutes or hours or more. Gallo came and went, asking his questions and letting three different men beat her whether or not she answered. He never bothered to do anything other than pace the small cell, asking his questions. Most of them had to do with Batman. A few were about Gordon, about her job, about Gotham itself. She answered when she could, if only to spare herself the pain. Inevitably Gallo would ask about the Batman's identity, and the pain would worsen. 

At one point, she thought they might be waiting for something, using her torture to pass the time. 

Then the cycle started again and her train of thought faded like dust in the wind. 

There was finally a break for a long stretch. Long enough for her to really come to, for her mind to clear a little, for her to catch her breath. Her mouth tasted of blood and with a dart of her tongue she learned her lips were cut open.. Her right eye was almost swollen shut. Her entire body was a map of new bruises. 

But as Frank Gallo had promised, none of it was life threatening. She didn't think anything was broken and other than her face and a small cut on her head, she wasn't bleeding anywhere else that she could tell. She might have internal bleeding, but she had no frame of reference for being able to know for sure. Somehow, she didn't think so. They needed her alive for some reason, even if it was just to get to the bottom of Batman's identity. 

She wished she knew. She wished she'd been able to kiss him again, at least once. 

More than that, y/n wished she had been able to kiss Bruce Wayne just once in her lifetime. Just to know. 

Hours and hours had passed, that much she knew. Long enough that they must be bored of her or needed sleep or a lunch break if her currently empty cell was any indication. Long enough that she knew no one was looking for her but if they were…it was much too late. 

They would either get tired of her and kill her…or realize she had no answers and kill her to tie up loose ends. 

Her life was slowly ticking away towards the end, whenever that would be. Sooner rather than later, she thought. 

At the very least, Gordon had Frank Gallo's picture circulating and when they eventually found the car she was in, they would be able to tie him to her murder. At least Bruce and Alfred would have that closure. 

And at least her grandmother wasn't around to have to live through any of this. 

Crying hurt like a bitch with her swollen eye and split lips. 

There was a distant shout that had her lifting her head. She listened carefully but her ears were ringing too badly to really be able to hear clearly. She thought maybe she heard a clang somewhere nearby, but it too was far away. Her body tensed, anticipating more pain, and that simple motion hurt so bad she lost her breath all over again.

Another minute passed. Head lolling, y/n might have dozed off. 

Then she heard gunfire. 

There was no mistaking it this time. 

She sat up suddenly and almost blacked out yet again. Certainly that couldn't be good for her brain, she thought a bit deliriously. She forced herself to focus. Right. Gunfire. Something was happening. Her cuffs rattled against the chair. 

"Hello?" she called tentatively. "Forget about me, Frankie?" It was probably stupid to taunt Frank Gallo more than she already had. But he was going to torture her no matter what at this point, so she might as well give him a hard time. Defiant to the end, she promised herself. She was getting lightheaded. She hadn't slept in…a really, really long time. Or eaten. Her bladder had emptied some time ago but that was such a non issue now because of how dehydrated she was getting that she didn't count it among her many problems. Add in the intense pain to all of that and she was surprised she was still awake let alone coherent enough to taunt Frank Gallo as he came and went. 

More gunfire, closer this time. 

Her heart pounded for an entirely different reason. 

Had someone found her? She barely dared to let herself hope, but she couldn't explain the gunfire in any other way. Was GCPD storming the place? Because y/n truly didn't know how much longer she could last. She didn't know much longer they were going to let her last. Frank Gallo hadn't lied–they knew exactly how to maximize her pain. But there was an end coming, that much she knew. He had promised to kill her, after all. 

A sudden flurry of noise and activity in the hallway directly outside her cell had her flinching back against her chair. The sudden movement almost made her tip over. She stilled and watched with wide eyes as Frank Gallo came inside without looking at her. Outside in the hall were six armed men, guns pointed towards the hallway on the right, where she assumed the door outside was. 

Another gunshot rang out, making her ears ring so badly she didn't realize Gallo was talking to her until he slapped her hard across the face. 

She blinked dazedly at him and tried to focus on what he was saying. Something about the Batman. 

"Huh?" she said stupidly. Her mind was fuzzy and every thought slipped and slid like water. 

And then all the lights went out.

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“Well, it looks like I only had ten seconds to write it.” Audrey sets down her coffee and runs her thumb over the injury on her wrist.

“I gotta tell ya, if I were gonna have to live multiple lives, I would have picked some place more exotic. Warmer climate, Bali, Costa Rica…Hong Kong.”

“How’s that healing?” You ask, noticing Audrey’s distanced gaze.

“It’s fine.” She answers, brushing it off in the way that she always does. “I keep thinking about the man who abducted me.” Something you are all thinking about. “He said I loved the Colorado Kid.” Duke props himself against the balcony fence once more.

“Who was supposedly buried 27 years ago.” He looks out over the water. “But now his grave is empty.” 

Audrey had been a good friend to you since you arrived some months ago, and just as you were finding out new things about her every day, she was too. You couldn’t fathom what that was like - discovering the multiple lives you’d lived…the people you’d loved…all forgotten.

“I think he’s alive and I think he is on the run.” You lean back in the chair and look up at the sky. Audrey was very rarely wrong, but how long did they have to find The Hunter before this conversation became null and void? What happens if The Hunter finds them first? How will you carry on in Haven without her? What would your job at The Herald be like without her? What would Nathan and Duke be like without her?

An abrupt noise brings the conversation to a halt, and everyone to the edge of their seat.

“Are you expecting somebody else?” Duke almost whispers. Audrey shakes her head. 

“Be careful.” You mouth, more than speak. You had experienced more than enough fear for the wellbeing of your friends in the last 48 hours. Duke puts his coffee down next to Audrey’s and takes a screwdriver from his back pocket as he moves towards the side of the building. 

You move to stand, and Duke raises a hand, motioning you to remain where you are whilst he investigates.

You hold your breath, right up until the moment Duke visibly relaxes.

“Good morning Chief.” Duke puts the screwdriver in his pocket and turns back around.

“What are you doing here?” He asks pointedly.

“In case you forgot, Audrey got abducted. So I am changing the locks.”

“You’re changing the locks?” Nathan challenges as Duke walks away, back to the table and chairs. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at what appears to be a chest-beating contest.

“Yes, I am changing the locks but, you know, we got to chatting,” He picks up his coffee once more and raises it to his lips. “...favourite coffees, scented candles. Girl talk.” He smiles as he takes a sip of his drink and you try hard not to laugh at the way he winds him up on purpose.

“You told them everything about The Hunter?” Nathan asks and Audrey nods.

“Yeah, we’re friends, is that a problem?” Duke asks Nathan.

“It’s not her I’m worried about,” He throws his hand in your direction, making Duke look between you both. “Come on, your dad? You ever think you’re the hunter, Duke?” 

“No.” His answer is sharp. “Never.”

“Well. I guess we won’t know until you kill someone.” 

“Hey!” You interject. “Enough.” Nathan seems to snap out of his surge of manliness. “Audrey’s safe. Let’s not start throwing around accusations…in fact preemptive accusations right now.” The boys look at one another, wordlessly calling a truce. “Why don’t we all catch up later? I’ve gotta get to The Herald and you two need to save the world.” You look to Duke. “You’ve got things covered here, yeah?” He nods.

“Yeah.”

And with that, you pick up your satchel by Audrey’s front door and make your way down the stairs towards your car. 

When you return to The Grey Gull later that afternoon, you find yourself entranced by the mingling colours in the sky. So much so that you don’t register who it is bundling a dog into their car. Audrey and Nathan. 

You turn on your heels to try to catch their eye in the rearview, but with no luck. “Huh.” You turn back to the restaurant and take one more look at the scene of serenity before heading in to see Duke behind the bar. “When did Audrey get a dog?” You shrug your bag off your shoulder and hook it on the back of one of the barstools. He doesn’t hear you, or chooses not to, as he buffs out an imaginary mark in the countertop. “I guess stranger things have happened.” You continue, hoping to lure him out of whatever daydream he is stuck in.

His slightly damp hair moves across his furrowed brow as he continues to focus his attention on the bar. The smell of his sea salt and sage shower gel invades your senses and you realise he’s changed his clothes. A vision of cream and white, this cardigan is one of your favourites on him. 

“Will you talk to me already?” This time, he reacts. He discards the cleaning implements and crouches down behind the bar, retrieving two glasses and a bottle of whisky. He remains silent, even as he places them down and pours a single measure in each. When he’s done, he passes one in your direction and keeps the other for himself. “Haven’t I told you before that drink isn’t the answer to everything?” You say, despite taking the glass from him.

“It’s just a toast.” The first words he's spoken since you walked through the door. You watch him as intently as he watches you.

“To?” You finally say.

“Friendship.” You throw him an are-you-kidding look, to which he shrugs, with a hint of a smile.

“You stubborn bastard.” You raise the glass. “To friendship.” He raises his own glass and the two meet in the middle with a high pitched clink. He throws back his drink in one, barely reacting.

“Ugh.” You cringe aloud and shiver at the aftertaste whilst Duke tries to contain a smile. A smile that falls fast as he pours another shot for himself.

“The Hunter is a meteor shower.” He says, before screwing the lid back on the bottle and knocking back the second shot.

“What does that even mean?” He doesn’t answer. “What do we do with that information? I need to speak with her. When did you speak with her? Can’t we do something about it? There has to be a way. In this place your feelings can cause tornadoes and your nightmares can be real, how can we not stop my best friend leaving?” The tears are already falling from your eyes.

“Nothing.” What? “Audrey…wants to do nothing.” 

Duke tells you that the Hunter Meteor shower occurs every twenty seven years, and during that meteor shower, tradition dictates, she must leave. And when she leaves, the troubles go too.

It seems a cruel twist of fate that Audrey would help the troubled in every lifetime, only to be cast out. You wonder if the other versions of Audrey had friends who tried to keep her here. You wonder how close they might have been to succeeding if they had. And yet Audrey wants to do…nothing.

“Are you okay?” You finally ask, and he won’t look at you, probably with all the tears and snot down your face. “When Nathan asked you this morning if you thought you might be The Hunter, you said no.”

“I meant what I said. Even if I was meant to be The Hunter, I would never.” He steps out from behind the bar to move as freely as his thoughts. “I told you all, I am not subscribing to this Crocker bullcrap. I’m not doing it.” He stands still. “In a way, I wish I was this Hunter, because I would have some sort of power to stop it. But how the hell are we meant to stop a meteor shower?” He slowly balls his right hand into a fist and presses it against one of the supporting beams of The Gull. “She can’t go now.” He whispers. “She only just got here.”

“Do you have feelings for her?” It’s a surprise that you ask, but no surprise that you wish that you hadn’t. “What?” He turns and drops his hand from the beam. His lips are parted and his eyes squint, you’re not sure if it’s confusion, defence, or perhaps neither.

“I mean, she’s a special person. Even without the whole trouble thing following her around, she’s magnetic. It just would make sense right? Nathan, Chris…you?” He rubs the back of his neck as he looks at you.

“I think she's great, don't get me wrong. But she’s got that whole Nathan thing going on. I’ve got this whole doomed-to-follow-in-my-father’s-footsteps thing. It’s complicated.” Sadness overtakes his face as he studies the ground and steadies his words. “It’s just that she's the only one who can see the good in me: that I'm not some criminal, no-good crook.” 

“Not everyone thinks that, Duke.” As he looks up at you, the sadness still saturates the brown of his eyes. You move toward him. “I-”

“Hey, have either of you guys seen Audrey with an adorable dog following her around?” Doctor Claire Callaghan’s poor timing pierces through the moment. Duke inhales before running his palm down his beard, over his mouth and down his chin.

“I believe he’s called Nathan, and probably wouldn’t appreciate you calling him that.” As usual, Duke Crocker’s innate ability to deflect feelings with humour comes to the rescue.

You chew on the inside of your cheek as you try to summon the words to recover from the emotional wringing of your insides.

“I am sensing some tens-”

ACT ONE

Bruce had heard the phrase ‘tech week is hell week’ being thrown around among the cast and crew many days before they officially moved into the theater, and he never got any clear explanation, save for sympathetic pats on the back and ominous ‘you’ll see’s. And after his little tryst with Eden in the dressing room, he found it difficult to imagine something more hellish than having to wait to touch her again until closing night.

Boy, was he sorely mistaken.

Anything that could go wrong did go wrong. A wheel from one of the set pieces broke and it took half an hour to fix it and roll onto the stage to get the lighting set up—and it was only the second scene of the show. An ensemble can’t fit into one of his costumes, zippers getting stuck and snagging the changing time, a prop went misplaced…

The cue-to-cue ran so slovenly despite all the fires to put out, and they were stuck to their own posts; Bruce backstage—just off of the wing, and Eden onstage, shuffling between her heels as she moved from one mark to another. Patient, despite the banality, as they made changes to the blocking and tried to get the lighting right. She absently turned to the side and caught a glance of Bruce in a rare moment of idleness, and winked at him discreetly, sending him smiling back. It gave him enough to hold on until they wrapped up, at 1.28AM that night.

The second and third day was a blur. There was no way of savoring the moment of fixing her corset in the wing, because people were milling around. All they had was a secret, split-second graze of their fingers before she strode into the spotlight.

The stumble-through was just that—stumbling through as they tried to get everything right. There weren’t as many fuckups, and he was starting to get the hang of it. The bouts of high-pressure moments in the quick costume changes, and the longer minutes of nothingness. Keeping an eye out for his own cue to get the next costume ready as he watched from the wings. Observing how everyone tried their utmost not to lose their mind in this tiresome tedium. It kept his mind off of Eden.

Eden, currently lying on her side on the floor, more beautiful than a John Collier painting. Deceivingly feminine in high-waisted pants and white shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. The black corset remained a staple around her torso, making Bruce feel some type of way.

Okay. Maybe it didn’t keep his mind off of her entirely.

“Alas, poor Yorick!” She studied the skull in her hand pensively, twirling it and staring right at its hollow eye sockets. And then she laughed wryly, turning to her scene partner, “I knew him, Horatio! He’s a fellow of infinite jest—of most excellent fancy.”

The exhaustion was apparent in her thoughtful musing. For a moment, he thought it was a new discovery in her character. But then he spotted her dozing off on Kola’s—who played Horatio—shoulder during the final debrief, and he was equal parts amused that she was genuinely tired, and amazed that she could still pull it off and make the performance make sense.

So when Eden schlumped out of the theater with just a general wave to the company, Bruce didn’t pay any mind. He wasn’t all that relieved to receive a text from her that said ‘Opening night! You excited?’ right out of his Law Adjudication exam the next day (he sent her the Italian hand emoji and got back a ‘noice’ in return.) He certainly didn’t sign into the theater early, knowing she’d be there.

The pit stop at the local florist, however, had no other excuse.

He came in through the audience’s entrance and there she was, sitting by the aisle that split the seats down the middle. Her smile lit up the dark hall, and he was beckoned in.

“Hey, uh…” he shifted on his heels, gingerly handing his modest gift, “Happy opening night.”

“Oh…” Her mouth went agape upon receiving a single-stem sunflower bouquet, tastefully framed with pretty leaves and baby’s breath. She inhaled the floral scent deeply. “I love sunflowers. Thank you!”

He knew that. Her phone lockscreen is a sunflower field and she had a habit of doodling sunflowers with yellow highlighters on her script, but he’s glad to be right anyway.

She scooted one seat over so he could sit next to her. “How’d you know I’d be here?”

“I didn’t. But it makes sense, now that I think about it.”

“Well, this is my church.” Eden motioned around them. “Before opening night, I like to come in early and sit in the audience and just… take it all in. The quiet, the stillness. It’s like the calm before the storm, you know?”

They stared at the empty stage before them. The set was partially set up, but there wasn’t much else. Just dust dancing under the house lights. And for a moment, they just sat there, arms propped on the seats in front of them like they were in church.

“How are you feeling?”

She took a deep breath. “Well, that’s a loaded question.”

Her palm facing upwards on the backrest, he put his hand over it. Finger lightly tracing the lines that twisted and branched on her skin. Thumb resting over the pulse point on her wrist. Hoping this brought her comfort, because it comforted him to be in the warmth of her closeness. It didn’t feel as new anymore, although it perplexed him all the same; the very act still made his heart race.

She kissed him on the shoulder and propped her chin there. “You know… we might not need to wait til closing night.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just saying…” her lips ventured closer to his neck, less innocently this time. Grazing his freshly shaven jaw before whispering, “We have time.”

Bruce tried to hide his bounding heart with a rare teasing smile for her. Just for her. “Right here, in your church?” he was met with a cheeky look on her face, and his smile widened. “The sacrilege!”

The kiss went so easy this time. Bruce didn’t give himself time to overthink—he simply cupped her chin and leaned in. Savored the sugary taste on her tongue. The little giggle that bubbled up from within her. The shameless wanting that emanated from her—from him, as his cock stirred under his jeans. God, they wanted each other so badly.

He groaned into her mouth. “How do you do this?” anxiously glancing at the closed door, then at the empty stage, “Anyone could walk in here. It’s giving me—” she cut him off with another searing kiss and it took him everything to finish his sentence, “...anxiety.”

“Maybe you’re just a pussy.” she bit his lower lip playfully. “Or maybe, I like putting on a show.”

Jesus.

Bruce must’ve stopped dead in his tracks, because she pulled away with a shrug. “Or not,” she added. She fixed her bouquet wrapping as she said nonchalantly, “Shame, though. I wouldn’t mind sucking your dick right now.”

“What?” his head whipped towards her faster than he could blink.

“It’s cool. We don’t have to do it if you don’t want to—”

“But I do.”

This time, she stopped in her tracks, surprised by how quickly he’d answered. “Really?”

He swallowed hard. It was a bad, bad idea. He could make a whole list of reasons why; the sheer exposedness of the space, the lack of professionalism, the trouble they’d get into…

But above all, this impossible girl had just offered to go down on him for the first time, right here right now, so… he nodded.

“Okay. Just sit back and relax.”

There was something about the way she kissed him. So simple, so… soft that his worries melted away for a second. It all felt so distant; in that moment, there were just the two of them. Sitting in the empty theater, two hours before anyone’s supposed to be here.

Alone together.

“Fuck,” she cursed as she released his cock out of his pants. All thick and hard and purplish, gleaming at the head. Pulsing as her fist closed in around his shaft. And as she put her mouth on him…

“Eden.”

He didn’t even know whether he was calling her or this. Not anymore. Not when her tongue was laving on the tip of his cock. Gathering, devouring his arousal. Spreading down his length as she took him by every inch.

Heaven.

Heaven was the warmth of her mouth that enveloped him. The obscene wet sounds she made as her cheeks hollowed out around him. The noises threatening to escape from his kiss-worn lips as she took him in so deep. So good.

“Fuck, Eden…” his hand found the back of her head—not quite pushing her down, not quite pulling her back either. Just carding through her hair, finding some solace because he felt his nerve endings going haywire. He couldn’t think. Oh God. “I’m gonna come…”

His quiet plea echoed through the empty hall in a hush, and he knew he should’ve stopped. He really should have. But he was bursting at the seams, arching into her mouth. Her fist. And he tangled his own fist in her dark waves, breathing hard and heavy to keep himself at bay.

And failing.

Not that it mattered.

She kept him close and snug and safe as he surrendered and came apart down her throat. Sucking and swallowing until there’s nothing left but shivers running down his spine.

“Well?” she straightened up, delicately wiping the corners of her mouth with her thumb and kissing him on the cheek innocently. Fuck, she’s unbelievable. “Still think we should wait until closing night?”

Maybe it was the post-nut clarity. Maybe he was just being dramatic, but he swore he’d never seen her so beautiful. “What are you suggesting?” He smoothed out the messy strands of her hair.

“Well, tonight’s opening night. We’ll drink and dance and celebrate…”

And they did just that. The company popped a few bottles of cheap champagne and drank out of plastic cups, blasting late 90’s hip-hop backstage. They had made it through hell week, through a successful opening night, a well-received performance by the audience.

But Hamlet was three hours long, and Eden was onstage for most of it. And as much as she was in high spirits, her energy was visibly—understandably depleted. And Bruce could see that. It was one of the few things he could empathize with.

“You’re not coming in?” she frowned, when he just hovered by when she walked up the steps to her building.

He shook his head apologetically, shoving his freezing hands deeper into his coat.

“But—”

“You need to rest, Hamlet.”

“I’ll get plenty of rest! It’s barely midnight, it’s—” her argument was cut off with her own yawn, her breath fogging up the cold night air.

He threw her a knowing look.

“Fine,” she relented, hiding her face behind the sunflower bouquet—still smelling it fondly, trodding back to give him a brief hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Walking away, melodramatic as it may have sounded, was the most difficult thing he’d had to do all week. Maybe even more so than the first time, in that dressing room. Bruce had to remind himself that tomorrow is Saturday and Sunday is closing night. And come Sunday, they would pick up where they left off without any interruption, any passersby. But until then…

Until then, he would have to share. With the crew getting her ready and briefing her on technicalities in this two-show day (or as everyone called it, two-doe shay). The downtime she used in between shows to take a power nap. The cast that she hung out and warmed up with. The audience that took selfies and gave her flowers after the show. As an only child, this was a massive learning curve for Bruce, but he was doing alright.

He didn’t mind.

He really didn’t mind when a beautiful blonde girl in knee-high boots came up to Eden with a big bouquet of roses out at the foyer. The stranger seemed well-acquainted judging from the warm, lingering embrace they were in, and it’s fine. It was fine that the blonde’s hand stayed on Eden’s waist as they talked. It was no big deal at all when Eden’s hand landed on her arm when she laughed at something the girl had said. So intimate, so… familiar.

She could do whatever she wanted. If he really minded, he was free to leave.

“Hey Bruce, wait up!” she hollered, catching up with him on his way out with barely a quick kiss goodbye on the girl’s cheek. “You wanna walk home together?”

He shrugged nonchalantly, but held the door for her anyway. “Thought you were… occupied.”

“Who, Gwen? Nah, it’s no big deal. She’ll be fine.” Eden stuffed the bouquet into the canvas bag in her hand, along with the other flowers and cards she received that day.

“Hn.” He didn’t know what else to respond, continuing their night walk in silence. But it seemed that not responding only raised more question, because she eyed him curiously and inquired,

“Are you jealous?”

“No.” and he really wasn’t. Eden was just a generally tactile person—she greeted her friends with hugs, leaned on people’s shoulders like it’s no big deal. Why should this be any different?

“Aw, Brucie!” She cooed, linking her arm around his as if it’d ease his mind—although to be frank… it did. But he also hated the nickname with that tone. “She’s an ex for a reason, you know.”

He knew there was something about her, about the encounter. “So she was your ex.”

“So you were jealous,” she echoed his intonation playfully.

He scowled, not liking how he accidentally revealed his own cards. But she smiled, and he wasn’t sure how he could feel better and worse at the same time.

“Oh, that ship has sailed and sunk a long time ago. We’re better off friends anyway,” she mused. “Don’t worry. I’m still yours tomorrow night.”

His heart skipped, although Bruce tried not to shift out of place. What the fuck does that mean? He knew very well that she was talking about their little closing night plans, but those three words echoed in his mind. Pulling all kinds of abstract meanings that he couldn’t quite put into words. I’m still yours. And only for tomorrow night? He felt his gut twist, whether in worry or anticipation—or both—, he had no idea.

***

ACT TWO

In his college life, Bruce had two types of morning: the one where he had to fight five different alarms of varying intensities to wake up, or where he got up before any of the alarms rang (whether he’d had any sleep beforehand was an entirely different matter).

That Sunday morning, he felt like a schoolboy before a field trip as he counted the minutes until his phone would make a peep—way too many— and decided to work off the jittery buzz in his body on a morning run—away from his residential college courtyard and towards Grove Street Cemetery across the street. Avoiding farmer market crowds and whatever sports game was happening in the gym. Steering clear from Eden’s building in case he bumped into her and risked looking like a stalker. No, thank you.

(He did touch himself in the shower thinking about what they did in the dressing room, in the empty theater. Imagining her in her dress. Unlacing her corset. Touching her everywhere.)

“Bruce!” Eden flagged him in the backstage corridor, her bag slung on her shoulder and coffee tumbler in one hand. “I got something for you.”

They stepped aside to a little nook full of stored props, away from the crew setting up for the matinee like they’re sneaking around with a secret—then again, they sort of were.

“Happy closing night,” she beamed, bringing her other hand out from behind her back. Brandishing a flower bouquet—three stalks of red carnations wrapped in coffee-colored cellophane paper.

“But I… I’m not—”

“Flowers are for anyone working on the show. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

He smiled sheepishly, unable to hide the rose blush creeping up his neck and ears. She’s gonna be the death of him. “Thank you.” He plucked the card out from the back of the bouquet. It said ‘Hakuna matata!’ scribbled in her cursive handwriting.

“Get it? ‘Cause Lion King and Hamlet…”

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “This is lovely. I mean it… thank you.”

Bruce looked up at her, and it’s truly amazing how she looked as happy as he felt (because let’s face it, knowing his poker-faced tendencies, he probably didn’t look it). But there’s that twinkle in her dark eyes, and the smile that lit up her soft face, and all he wanted to do was to lean in and kiss her.

And he did.

Eden gasped, jaw dropped as she pulled away, looking around to check if anyone had seen them. The ghost of a smile still persisted on the corner of her lips, but now there’s a tinge of color on her cheeks, too. “And, uh…” she cleared her throat, backing away into the hallway— accidentally bumping into Louie from Sound, “Try to have fun. Enjoy the show when you can.”

He took her word for it. Part of him wished he was in the audience, watching everything unfold in full view. But he also liked that he could see the inner workings at the same time. He liked hearing the stage managers’ cues, and the actors gossiping about who was in the audience, who’s falling asleep, who’s very cute and attending without a date. He liked watching the crew take out whole rooms from the stage and put together a new one in a matter of seconds. He liked watching the shift from night to day from the lighting above.

But most of all, he liked watching Eden. She walked past him just as the show started, her hand sliding across the small of his back and he’d squeeze her hand in that brief second. And then she stood there in the wing, watching the opening scene. He couldn’t see her face—just her silhouette. So still, almost statuesque as the ghost of the King, her father, appeared before her peers. And as the ensemble, the music, the wedding festivities rushed in…

She crumpled.

Closed in on herself and he could see the breaths struggling against her ribs—almost like sobs.

And then… she straightened up again, making herself presentable for the social event and walked into the scene.

“How is it that the clouds still hang on you?” King Claudius, her uncle-turned-stepfather, put a friendly arm around her shoulder.

But she tensed at the touch, swiftly squirming away towards a waiter, taking some fake champagne from the tray. “Not so, my lord; I am too much in the sun.” She flashed a saccharine smile, raising her glass.

It was fascinating to see her Hamlet; so regal, so imposing in the presence of others. This was the Hamlet who grew up on etiquette lessons, on stuffy outfits and stuffier social functions and was told to grin and bear it. She carried herself like she belonged there, in her silk dress and diamonds on her neck and wrists. But there was something about the way she listened to people; her mother prattling on and on about ‘all that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity’ that just screamed… exhaustion. Seething. Like she was close to breaking her champagne flute and shoving the shard into someone’s neck.

It was kind of hot.

But his most favorite thing? Her version of Hamlet was funny.

And no, it wasn’t just moments of comedic relief deliberately placed after scenes of high tension. Her dry humor was consistent—from her first scene to the last, where she had just witnessed her mother’s death, followed by her uncle and her lover’s brother. Knowing she would be next in just mere minutes.

“I am dead, Horatio. Wretched queen, adieu,” she blurted out matter-of-factly, laughing in disbelief as she threw a mock-salute. It felt like one of Hamlet’s usual sardonic quips—except it wasn’t.

The audience laughed with her for a bit. But the air of unease was palpable, and for the first time, Eden all but broke the fourth wall, sharing her final moment of vulnerability with the audience as the poison coursed through her veins. “Had I but time…” she mused. She didn’t, as Death was as punctual as it was unexpected. “Oh, I could tell you—” she gushed. It was the first time she didn’t want to die. Just for a split second. Just enough to speak her truth. Enough to make dying actually hurt. “But let it be.”

In a fit of shock and grief and helplessness, Horatio—her best friend and right-hand man— tried to drink the remains of the poison in the cup, but she wrestled it out of his grasp. Knocking it away, and collapsing into his arms afterwards.

“If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart… absent thee from festivities awhile, would you?” she patted his cheek limply, comforting him even though she was the one dying. Softening as he choked out a sob at the sight of her.

Bruce would never consider himself an emotional person, but even his eyes welled up as he watched from the side.

“O, I die, Horatio,” she sighed—not in regret, but in relief. All too glad to surrender to her fate. Her business was done. She had entrusted the future of Denmark in the hands of her very best friend. “The rest…” she rasped out, pushing through her words for the very last time,

“...is silence.”

Horatio’s wailing was gut-wrenching as it echoed through the hall, but Bruce couldn’t help but focus on how peaceful she looked. How breathtaking. How lucky she was for meeting her end so swiftly. And perhaps, on a much lighter note, how amusing it would be if Eden genuinely fell asleep playing dead (she did on last night’s performance.)

He envied her either way, and adored her in every way possible.

The show ended, and the cast took their final curtain call to the raucous standing ovation, amidst the cheering and the applause. But as soon as the curtains came down, Eden all but raced to the wing where Bruce was standing.

And as she came closer, he could see her lips wobbling.

“Hey, are you ok—” his words were cut off with her arms thrown around him, wrapping him into a crushing hug. Her face buried in his chest— and he could feel her tears seeping through his black hoodie.

She lifted her head up, “Sorry about that. This, uh, this happens. Closing nights. Always emotional,” she sputtered around, sniffling a bit. It’s endlessly endearing whenever Eden, ever so eloquent and witty, stumbled on her words because she’s so overcome with emotions.

“That’s okay,” he soothed her with a fond smile, smoothing the hair tumbling down her back as she tucked her face back in his chest.

She was soon tugged away and drawn into a hug after hug by the other cast and crew, but he didn’t mind it. He was happy with the handshakes and high fives and pats on the back and half-hugs (or a full hug from his esteemed department head Laura, who told him, “you’re a solid dude, B.”) His heart already swelled from the fact that in a crowd of openly emotional people, she came to him first.

And when all was said and done, her hand sought solace from the cold in his hand, tucked in his coat pocket, all the way to his dorm.

His dorm. With his worn Gibson J-45 perched on a guitar stand in one corner of the room, the mess of wires and parts and analog cameras on his desk. The small bookcase with books nearly spilling out. The standard-issued twin bed by the window (that he made earlier that morning, thank God.) 

“The room where it happens, huh?” Eden cheekily remarked, glancing around the clutters and the mess that probably told her more about him that he did in the past few months.

“Would you like a…” Bruce gingerly asked, though the words faltered on him as she closed the distance between them with a single step.

She didn’t lean in, didn’t pull him in—save for the hands slipping under his coat and around his waist. There was no more sneaking around. No more stealing time. It’s finally just the two of them.

Alone together.

“You never told me you played guitar.” The fabric of his clothes comforted her hands, but she still chased the warmth underneath. Despite the sudden touch of bare skin, it felt… nice.

“Never came up.” He paused, and then winced, “You’re not gonna ask me to play, are you?”

“Well, not now…” she rolled her eyes playfully, “I think I have something more important in mind.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“Like this.” she tugged the lapels of his coat to bring him down to her face, making him smile into her kiss.

He never, ever smiled like this. Like some regular person with an uneventful personal history and a normal life. He almost felt like he shouldn’t. But within the confines of these four walls, in the arms of this impossible girl who dragged him around from the woods to the stage (and whom he so happily followed to the ends of the earth)... he allowed himself to.

They’ve stolen kisses countless times, but they’d never kissed like this before. So free, so unfettered, so… devoid of a single care as they unhurriedly shed each layer of their clothing. Scarf. Coat. Sweater. They both secretly wondered if they should make haste —they were so desperate to feel each other up all week— but at that moment, they didn’t mind taking it slow.

After all, they had all the time in the world.

He didn’t outwardly ask, but he was thankful that she took the lead. Backing him up until his legs find the bed frame. Sitting him down and straddling his lap. Tugging her dress over her head as she kissed him so fiercely, so that he could focus on her. Committing every inch of her to memory with his touch. Her lips, her thighs, the curves of her waist, the…

“Is that a—” his hand finished the rest of his question, tracing the hair-thin lines on her skin. Pinkish, purplish orchids blooming from her ribcage, with leaves sprouting and buds blooming on the underside of her breast. “You never told me you had a tattoo.”

“Never came up.” she shrugged, echoing his words. “Do you like it?”

He kissed her there, from the petals to the florets. Tracing the lines with his tongue this time, up the soft swell of her flesh. Sucking her pebbled nipple. Feeling her gasp deep in her core.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she simpered blissfully, one hand buried in his mess of dark hair. Not quite grabbing, not quite pulling, just… playing with it, twirling it around her fingers. Urging him to keep going, keep taking, more more more, because she had so much more to give, if the dripping mess in her panties were any indication.

“Bruce…” she hummed, “Where’s your condom?”

“In the— in the, uh, drawer,” he struggled against the haze in his mind. Motioning at the nightstand next to bed, but refusing to unlatch his mouth from her tits, his hands from her supple thighs, until she had to pry him off of her.

And even then, she had to make up for it in a blinding, heartstopping kiss, before she pushed herself off of him.

If he were smart —and Bruce had always prided himself on his intelligence— he would use this time to undress. But he watched her hips sway, her ass jutted out as she bent over in his full view… and he was hypnotized. The foil packet rustled in her hand, and the radiator creaked in the background, but nothing could tear his attention away from the way Eden shimmied out of her panties. Even if the world was ending outside the window.

He seized her in a flurry of kisses and groping hands, and even as he clumsily kicked off his shoes and got the fuck out of his pants. And as they stumbled back into bed, her hair tumbled down her shoulder just right, and her profile illuminated by the moon.

She looked absolutely beautiful.

“God, you’re beautiful,” she breathed out.

His heart stopped, wondering if he’d accidentally said it out loud. But then, all thoughts went out the door as her hand stroked his hard cock (as if it weren’t already aching for her), lewdly studying the pinkish purplish head as she circled it with her thumb. It took him everything to tear her hand away to make way for the condom along his length; he had to remind himself that he’d be inside her soon.

She ran him up and down her slit, spreading her wetness all over him, lining him up just right. Her opening hovered over his fat, blunt tip, and she could feel herself seizing up as she sank down on him—or at least, tried to.

“Fuck, you’re big,” Eden muttered brokenly, taking deep breaths as she prepared to try again.

There was no hiding his deep blush now. “Thank you…? I, uh, really wouldn’t know.”

She frowned, somewhat incredulous. “What do you mean, you wouldn’t—? You mean nobody’s ever told you…”

“Well, I’ve never been with…” he trailed off, desperately hoping she’d get his point without having to say it. It’d save some of his dignity, at least.

But her face lit up, her jaw dropped, and she all but cried out, “No way. Bruce! Am I popping your cherry right now?”

“Ugh, don’t say it like that,” he grumbled, which only made her giggle.

“Okay, fine. Deflowering.”

“Oh my God, this is my worst nightmare…” His forehead fell onto the crook of her neck, and he hid his beet-red face there in embarrassment.

But she lifted her chin so tenderly, stroking his improbable jawline. Dammit, she’s gonna be the death of him. “You don’t mean that, do you?”

How could he? Eden was naked in his bed, perched on his lap, taking his cock inside her. This was his whole dream. “Not really, no,” he lamely admitted. 

“Good. Cause I want all of you inside me.” She smirked, kissing him, although she fell out of it as she tried to sink down on him again. Struggling with the sheer size of him. Still too fucking big. “Fuck…”

“I thought I was the one getting deflowered.”

She shot him a sharp glare.

He kissed her back passionately, rubbing slow circles on her clit to ease her up. Trying to focus solely on her—the way her fingernails dug into his back, her teeth gnawing on her lower lip.

Her pussy taking in the head of his cock in a tight clench.

As their moans united in the silence of this humble room, so did their bodies. It was overwhelming. His mind felt hazy, yet at the same time, never been clearer, and he hoped, dear God, he would remember every inch of her. By feeling, by sight, by touch.

By the breathtaking whine that escaped her lips with every inch she took him deeper. Drawing out again.

Painfully slow, but maybe just as well, because any faster and Bruce might just combust from the sheer pleasure of it all. And as tempting as it was to surrender, he really, really wanted to make this good for her, too.

She withdrew nearly all the way off of him and then plunged herself all the way to the base, eliciting a restrained cry from both of them. He smoothed his callused hand up and down her thighs, leaving hot wet kisses on her bare neck.

“You okay?” he whispered, holding her close to him, around him.

“Mm-hm,” she replied, her voice tight. “Are you?”

He nodded. “Just… stay here for a while.”

“Okay.”

It was strange how… innocent they both sounded, despite the obscene nature of their activity. Bruce had resigned his fate (in the biblical sense) in her hands a long time ago, but what he didn’t realize was that, stripped down to her most vulnerable form, she laid her own fate in his hands, too.

And for a while, time stopped and there’s just the dull, throbbing ache between his legs, comforted and aggravated at the same time by the snug, silky pulsing of her walls around him. And it almost didn’t matter, because Eden kissed and held him like she never wanted anything else. And neither did he.

Almost.

Somewhere between desperate hands and even more desperate mouths, Bruce’s hips started grinding against hers, shallowly thrusting at first, setting the delicious ache inside her alight. It was nothing like he’d ever felt—nothing his hand or even a panic-bought fleshlight could compare. And the more she responded to his motions —the roll of her hips, the moon crescents she left on his skin, the quiet little moans she made.

He bucked up into her particularly deep, pushing out a sound that sounded more pained than pleased, and he stilled immediately. “Sorrysorrysorrybaby,” he murmured, breathless, cupping her face in both hands. “Did that hurt?”

“No, I’m—” Eden chuckled lazily, “I’m good.” She kissed him once on the lips. “Feels good.” and another on his jaw. “I promise.” her mouth veered down to his pulse point and she bit him lightly.

His head lulled back with a groan, she’s gonna be the death of him, as he picked up where he left off. He was so drunk on her, and yet… he wanted more. Devouring everything he could get his mouth on; her mouth, her neck, her tits. Kneading her ass like he wanted to claim it.

Like she hadn’t already claimed him with every thrust she met halfway.

She took his hand, kissing his wrist and palm and letting his thumb drag along her lower lip. Trailing the outline of her soft, kiss-worn flesh, before he tentatively, ever so lightly, inched it inside.

And when she closed in on her mouth, cheeks hollowing as she sucked his finger…

“Eden…” her name came out in a rumble from deep within his chest, and he had to close his eyes. But that didn’t work, because the image was seared into his mind and it melded with the fantasy of having his cock in her mouth again.

Bruce eased his thumb out of her mouth and onto her clit, rubbing it firmly —and secretly thanking God she seemed to like it. His hips started to falter, and with Eden controlling the pace now, he was close.

Dangerously close.

And apparently, so was she.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” she chanted, shamelessly bouncing on his cock. Unbothered to hold back her noises anymore as she powered through the stretch of his girth.

And as her voice went higher, so did the pleasure coursing through her veins until it coiled deep in her core. Gripping around him like a vice, throbbing, squeezing, and oh God, he wanted to give her that forever, but he couldn’t, he was selfish and he wanted to punish himself for chasing her orgasm with his own, but—

“Oh, fuck!” he lurched forward as he came inside her. Heartbeat rang in his ears, his whole body set ablaze in waves of unadulterated pleasure. Holding her waist in place, riding out his high with one, two, thee thrusts until he rested limply on her chest.

And she rested her chin on top of his head. Holding him flush against her. Alone together.

For the first time in his many restless years, Bruce’s mind was…quiet. There were just breaths slowing to a calm, hands settling on the small of her back. Her fingertips caressing the nape of his neck. He always imagined his peace of mind in solitary, but in that pocket of time of space, he couldn’t imagine anyone else by his side.

Anyone but her.

***

ACT THREE

Bruce saw a lot of Eden that week.

It was the final week of the semester. There were exams to take and essay deadlines to catch, and he spent most of his time hunched over his laptop. Sometimes in the library, sometimes at the Beanjamin, though most of the time he stayed in his dorm. All warm and lively and cozy now, with his new… guest gracing it with her presence on a near daily basis. Hogging his bed, wearing his Nirvana t-shirt she grabbed from his drawer, reading his weathered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo.

As soon as his Victimology paper was marked ‘successfully submitted’, Bruce shut the laptop and swiveled in his desk chair, stretching his arms and neck with a groan. He turned towards his bed—or rather the girl occupying it.

Legs swinging in the air as she laid on her stomach, shirt riding up to reveal the lace of her panties like a dirty fucking dream.

“You done?” she asked absently without looking up from the book.

He flopped half on top of her, smushing his face onto her back, reveling in the smell of her shampoo, her scent on his shirt. “Yeah. Are you?”

Eden hummed, stroking his hair a little. Her attention was still glued to the page.

Bruce peeked over her shoulder. He was going to let her enjoy it —it was his favorite part— but his hand was too tempted to explore the curve of her hips, her thigh, her ass, squeezing the soft swell of flesh playfully. He’d never been a physical person, but he was starting to get the hang of it… and he liked it.

“You’re distracting me,” she whined, light-and-half-hearted at the same time, if the little trail of giggles were anything to go by.

He smiled, brushing her hair to the side. “Am I really?” He murmured, nuzzling her cheek. 

His finger traced between her nether lips over the fabric, and she groaned. A low, playful sound that had become an expression of fondness. And out of fondness, he smacked her ass.

“Bruce!” she gasped, turning on her back. The thick book in her hand fell back against her clothed chest and made a muted thud. She turned to meet his gaze, her eyes wide, surprised and pleasantly scandalized. Maybe a little turned on?

“What?” he looked at her, feigning innocence. And she knew he was pretending, based on the sheer fact that he’s working her panties down her hips. 

She stared at him, searching, and then…

“Nothing.” She picked up the book again. And then, as she opened her page again, she kicked the scrap of panties off of her legs. Spreading her thighs. “Carry on.”

There was a command in her every gesture. A directive. He loved it.

Bruce was, by no means, good at eating pussy. How could he be good at something he’d just started doing? But what he lacked in skill, he made up in enthusiasm. How could he not like how wet she was for him, how she arched up into his touch? People spent their lifetime chasing the very thing that would quench their thirst, but his oasis came to him and was all too happy to show him how to enjoy her.

And God, he enjoyed every bit of her.

“Fuck…” she bit back, her grip tight on the book as his teeth grazed the soft flesh on her inner thigh. There was an affectionate little blue mark just next to it, and he remembered how she moaned and grabbed his hair when he did it two nights ago—and maybe she liked it as much as he did.

His tongue dipped between the cleft of her cunt. There was no time to tease her; he needed to taste her now. Needed to lap up her juices, her clit, and feel her pelvis gyrating into him, one leg hiked up on his back. A sign that he was doing it right.

She sighed, seemingly pleased with the motion he’d settled into—because he was certainly more than happy to be licking her cunt up and down, all sloppy and greedy and good.

“Bruce, baby…” Eden put the book aside, fingers carding through his messy hair. There’s that nickname again. He couldn’t remember when they started using it, but they only ever used it in the most vulnerable and desperate moments. And in that moment, all signs pointed to Eden wanting more.

He slipped a finger inside her, wetting it and curling it against her inner walls. Patient and observant as he looked for that spot that made her melt. It never ceased to amaze him how Eden, ever so bold, could ever be so putty in his presence. In his hand.

“More please, stretch me out for your cock,” she moaned quietly.

His eyes closed shut. “Jesus Christ, Eden…”

“Mm.” She leaned into the vibration of his voice, the low growl she never thought she’d coax out of quiet and elusive Bruce. Relishing in the second finger he added, his mouth not letting up from her swollen clit. 

She was fully, shamelessly fucking his face now, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. It should make him feel powerful. And while a surge of pride ran through him as he found his bearings in her pleasure, he knew she also had the upper hand.

Even when she came apart on his mouth, his fingers, tugging at his hair desperately. When he eased up and crawled up her body, swallowing her little whimpers and gasps into his kisses. Even when he pushed his cock inside her, fucking her slow until agony had the best of him, and he came in the warmth of her throbbing cunt as he plunged into her so deep.

She had him wrapped around her little finger, and he was more than happy to be there.

“Hey, you wanna take a nap?” He softly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, noticing her eyes growing heavy as they laid there in post-coital bliss.

She looked at him, and then out the window, and back at him. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon.”

“Fuck. I have a class in an hour,” she groaned. “But hey, we got the Hamlet party tonight. The Dolphin Den, 8 PM. Don’t forget.” And with a quick kiss on his lips, she rolled out of bed.

He watched her get dressed, unhurried but haphazard anyway, not bothered to return his t-shirt, and his heart swelled at that. God, he was so gone for her. “Would you, um, like to go together?” His heart suddenly started racing for no reason. Why was he nervous about asking her this?

“I’ve already promised to help them set up. But I’ll see you there?”

“Right. Okay.”

“And don’t even think about skipping.”

She must’ve noticed the slightest deflation in his tone, the way he tensed up at her ‘threat,’ because she sat back down on the edge of the bed as she put her shoes on.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. But I do hope to see you there.” She kissed his shoulder and his nose and his lips one last time, and then she was off.

Shit. 

***

The Dolphin Den was a common room in the basement floor of the Grace Hopper Hall, where Eden lived, the last door on the left from the west staircase—a fact Bruce had looked up in the three torturous hours he had between his final class of the semester and the production-slash-Christmas party he was apparently invited to. Going back and forth between going and not going, even as he got dressed, put on his jacket, and stepped out into the cold. Taking the scenic route on purpose.

(He very nearly turned back. Stopped right in front of the building, wondering if he was underdressed or overdressed in his hoodie, if fifteen minutes was acceptably late or it’s still considered very early for this kind of event, and… he just kept walking.

He walked and walked for a block, and another, and stopped in front of a liquor store. And as the neon sign flickered over the storefront, a lightbulb lit up over his head.)

So, when Bruce walked back to the Eden’s residential building—now a good twenty five minutes after the start time— he felt considerably less nervous. Still nervous enough, though, to count every stair step as he made his way down to the basement, carefully reading every room sign even though he had the layout memorized. Pondering whether he should knock or just walk right in. 

Bassline thumped faintly through the corridor, and he took it as a sign to go for the latter. Half of the production team was there already, occupying the couches and corners of the wood-paneled room. Table tops covered in red solo cups and beer cans. Indistinct conversations going over and under the music, a dance pop song. Some of the people nodded at Bruce as he made his way inside. It was… strange to be on familiar terms with this many people.

But not unwelcome.

Still, he was relieved to see that familiar face waving at him from the drinks table. Her pale yellow skirt flared around her waist like a burst of sunshine, although her long legs reminded him of all the nights he had them wrapped around his waist. He weaved through the crowd, bumping and murmuring passing apologies unlike those dramatic slow-motion scenes, all the way across the room as she excused herself from Kola and Angela, too.

He was probably a few steps away from her, before he panicked. How should he address her? Sure, they were very… intimate in private, but what were they in public? Were they friends, were they together? Oh God, they never talked about it—

“Hey, you made it!” She hugged him and briefly kissed him on the cheek. Okay, standard Eden protocols, at least. Dark eyes flickering down to make sure she didn’t leave a lipstick mark on his skin.

(No matter. She left plenty more lasting marks in more discreet places.)

Her lingering hand on his arm left way too soon, but he supposed it was for the best as her two friends joined them, still engrossed in conversation.

“So I told him, back the fuck off, let me do my double pirouette in peace and— ‘sup, Bruce?” Kola nodded up at him, offering a high-five which he didn’t take.

Not out of ill will or anything, just because he’d already raised the paper bag he was holding in his hand.

Bruce made an apologetic smile that looked more like a wince. “Hey, I got, uh—for the, um…” he gingerly handed him his last-minute… offering.

Kola accepted one and gasped when he took the bottle out of its paper bag. “Vodka!” he cried out like a kid at Christmas, offering yet another high-five that Bruce reciprocated this time. And as he brandished another bottle from the bag, he proceeded to announce to the whole room, “Yo! Bruce got us more vodka!”

He was met with overlaps of whoops, cheers, and Bruce’s name and in various levels of inebriation and excitement. It’s impossible for Bruce to fight the heat creeping up his face now.

“It’s no big deal.” he shrugged a little.

“Dude…” Angela beamed, her hand on her chest like she was about to shed happy tears, “I thought you hated us.”

He tilted his head curiously. “Why?”

“I dunno. We just assumed…” Kola shrugged, trailing off, making a face, hands flailing around in the air.

It was understandable, he supposed. He never hung out with anyone except for Eden (for obvious reasons) and the costume department (also for obvious, albeit entirely more professional, reasons.) Come to think of it, he didn’t think he ever exchanged a single word with these two that wasn’t about the production.

But they were warm and welcoming nonetheless, and it put him more at ease.

“Nah, you guys are alright,” Bruce eventually said casually, matter-of-factly.

Angela and Kola immediately exchanged looks. A moment of silence, before they full-on freaked out, clutching onto each other for dear life.

“Oh my God, you like us!” Kola squealed, while Angela fanned her face with her hand. Despite the dramatic reactions, they seemed… genuinely touched?

“Well…” Bruce went to interject. He opened his mouth, but then closed it again. He had yet to decide whether ‘like’ was an overstatement. But he didn’t dislike them, that’s for sure.

“Guys, stop it. You’ll scare him,” Eden lightly chided her friends. Then, stepping up to lead him away, forever his knight in a stolen Nirvana t-shirt, “You want something to drink?”

“He totally likes us, dude.” The duo gushed to themselves as Bruce and Eden moved away a little, not bothered by his lack of decorum, apparently.

“Are they drunk already?”

“Nah, this is how they normally are when they’re hanging out.”

“Really? Even Angela?” As stage manager, she was efficient. Level-headed. A bit on the stricter side. Bruce didn’t expect her to be so… goofy in real life.

“Mm-hm. So, we got…” Eden rolled up her sleeves, “Rum and Coke, vodka and Coke, whiskey and Coke, and… tequila and Coke?” she raised a cheeky eyebrow. “Marc’s still picking up the rest of the mixers. Oh, and we got club soda and cranberry juice and… beers of many varieties, good sir.”

She was more animated than usual, and it’s very cute. Like she was amped up from the drinks and the room itself. And perhaps, a small part of him wondered if his presence had anything to do with it.

“What are you having?” Bruce propped himself up with both hands on the table.

“Vodka. We’ll save the tequila for later.”

His heart jumped to his throat. He’d never been much for drinking and partying, but he liked the idea of letting loose with her. So he squared up. “Sounds good.”

“Coming right up!” She flipped a new cup and began preparing his drink. Lightly briefing him on what a cast party was, the things he’d missed in the first 25 minutes of the party, and the potential rowdiness of it all as the night went on. “Trust me, the bonfire had jackshit on this.”

Bruce received the drink she handed and took a sip tentatively, and blink as the sharpness hit his senses. “Wow. That’s… wow.”

“I think I should’ve prefaced this by saying I’m not the best at mixing drinks.” She winced apologetically. “The ratio might be a little bit off.”

“A little?” He side-eyed her, but raised his cup slightly to toast her. “Thank you for the drink.”

“Thank you for coming.” She met his cup halfway.

He wanted to kiss her senseless—and from the way she hovered, shifting on his heels and stared at his lips, he’d guessed she wanted to do that, too. But the room around them still felt too… mild, too sober, and he couldn’t handle the prying eyes. Not when he’d grown so used to being alone with her. So he joined her and her friends, listening to their plans for next semester.

Well.

Until Eden got whisked away, leaving the three of them in favor of song and dance as they played a Motown musical number over the sound system. The conversation halted for a moment as they watched and nodded along to the familiar tune.

(Familiar for them, of course, not for Bruce. He was just happy to watch her sing along and reenact a dance routine with two guys who were definitely not the Dreamgirls.)

“So Bruce, how’s life outside the theater’s treating you?” Angela piped up, snapping him out of his reverie. 

“Well,  it’s finals week, so… busy. But you know, quieter.”

She nodded knowingly.

“Yeah, we were, like, belting fucking Sondheim at, like, 9 in the morning.” Kola huffed. “It was rough.”

“Ugh.” Angela rolled her eyes and turned to Bruce. “Actors, am I right?”

Bruce stammered. The only thing he could relate with that was the time he woke up to Eden making those funny humming, trilling noises in the bathroom for warm-up. Was it too early to disclose that they were having sleepovers?

“Bitches, besties!” Laura suddenly joined them, popping up between Angela and Kola, a bit tipsy. Guess who’s dressing A Doll’s House at the Rep next month! So I guess I’ll be seeing you, Madame Stage Manager.”

The two girls squealed and hugged, and Bruce suddenly remembered what Eden said to him on the first day of tech: it was never just about a show. It could be a gig, a collaboration, another project to keep them in this neverending rat race a little longer. 

“That’s awesome! I auditioned for that.” Kola stared down his drink pensively. “They said ‘Hard pass.’”

“Aww, you don’t even like period shit.” Angela wrapped her arm around her friend in comfort.

“I liked our Hamlet,” he said lamely.

“Yeah, but this one isn’t like ‘period’ period, you know? Like, it’s not… stuffy. I mean, not to suck our own dick or anything, but…” Angela trailed off, eyes scanning over them for validation.

And Laura was right there for her. “Nah, we nailed it with this one. I couldn’t fucking stand Hamlet before this, but our version? All the female rage? Fuck yeah.”

“I just feel like we should accept the fact that Shakespeare, in its true form, is boring now. Nobody wants to watch people in big frocks, speaking in big words for like 4 hours. And it’s fine! We don’t have to like that shit anymore. We like badass corsets and queer relationships and dick jokes and sassy comebacks. And that doesn’t cheapen Shakespeare; that keeps him relevant, and frankly, that’s what we should be focusing on, instead of sucking the dick of some dude who’s been dead 400 years.”

The three of them stared wide-eyed at Kola, watching him take a casual swig of his drink after his unexpected hot take, all 5’7 of athletic muscles and nerd rage.

“Holy shit, you’re right.” Bruce blurted out.

“Thank you!” Kola lifted his red cup, knocking it softly with Bruce’s—and he found himself drinking to that, too.

Angela was still quiet, though. Thoughtful. “Yeah, but it’s hardly fair to say all historically-accurate adaptations are shit, right? Like, some people just happen to like period pieces, you know?”

“Fuck off with your contrarian shit, Ang! Bruce—back me up here.”

“Uh…” Bruce paused, scrambling for a response. “I think neither is mutually exclusive?”

“Well, that’s a lukewarm take if I’ve ever heard one,” Laura remarked. “Come on, man. Humor us.”

“Honestly? I… like those period pieces, too. I really do. This reimagined version we did was new to me and it’s… pretty eye-opening.”

It felt like a fever dream. Bruce never would have thought he would be engrossed in a conversation about Shakespeare adaptation at some theater cast party, which led to more drinks, which led to tequila shots with this merry band of misfits… and actually enjoying it.

Eden occasionally joined them for a chat and a drink—he suspected it’s mostly to check on him and make sure he’s not feeling ignored. And while it was sweet of her, he also enjoyed watching her do her thing. Sometimes singing along to whatever song they were playing, sometimes simply vibing and cheering on whoever was taking the lead. Sometimes just…

Standing on the coffee table now with Marc, arm-in-arm, raising their drinks, leading the crowd to the big Latin number. And straight out of a movie, people were spontaneously singing and harmonizing to the ensemble lines in Spanish. These theater kids never ceased to amaze Bruce.

And as the beat dropped, they hopped off the table and danced. Despite the close proximity—all the spins and the turns— Bruce didn’t feel a pang of jealousy like he did with her ex-girlfriend. On the contrary, he was simply enthralled. She was truly at home in her body. In the heat, the beat, the people all around her.

And why wouldn’t she be? She was surrounded by people who had made a home out of this little corner of life, too.

“So, what are you up to next semester, Bruce?” Laura asked him.

“I don’t know, just… trying to graduate in time, I guess.” He shrugged. It sounded a lot less exciting than what they had lined up, and he didn’t realize he was a bit… miffed as he said it out loud?

“You can always join us again. The Costume Department’s always open. Or maybe you wanna try something else?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that…” Bruce smiled sheepishly. “I appreciate it, though.”

“I’m serious. Hamlet was a trial by fire, and you handled it really well for your first time.”

“Whose first time?” Eden showed up, resting her chin on Bruce’s shoulder, and he nearly passed out from sheer shock and panic that she might have slipped on by talking about his first time. But she wrapped her arm around his middle, and the group was considerably more interested in this new public display of affection.

“Ooh, what is this?” Kola motioned between them. “Bruce, did she finally Shake your Speare?”

“Yeah, did you finally go Ham on her Let?” Angela added.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he murmured into his drink, completely horrified.

His survival instinct should’ve kicked in moments ago and told him to run for his life, but somehow, even as the group made puns out of their expense, turning him beet red, Bruce didn’t feel like running away. Despite everything, they’re laughing with him, not at him. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but he wondered if, perhaps, there was room in these people’s home —Eden’s home— for him, too.

***

ACT FOUR

Gotham City, Bruce’s true home, was quiet. Cold. All too vast in the dining room where he and Alfred had their Christmas dinner, and the halls they wandered through in their own time—dark and desolate in its Gothic nature. But all too cramped and chaotic as he weaved through the streets and back alleys in his beat-up Honda CB, the city too grotesque, too… somber.

Bruce’s phone buzzed in his pocket, twice, just as he worked on the Corvette in the spacious garage basement of the Wayne Tower. He rolled out from under the car, wiping the oil grease off of his hand before he opened the text.

‘Say hello to my new friend!’ Eden’s message said, with a selfie to go with it. She sported a toothy grin, wavy hair blowing in the wind, pointing at a green crab in the sand by the shoreline. A true embodiment of a ray of summer sun on a gloomy winter day.

“Since when d’you text?” Alfred commented.

“Dunno,” Bruce hummed absentmindedly, typing a reply. ‘Ugh, extroverts. Can’t relate.’

She texted back immediately, ‘You’re just jealous you’re not A) at the beach and B) hanging out with me right now,’ with another selfie — this time laying on a beach towel, throwing a peace sign as if her yellow bikini didn’t draw his eyes right into her cleavage and her curves weren’t angled in the exact way he fucked her before he drove her to the airport two weeks ago.

And the worst part of it all? She was right on all counts.

Bruce bit back a smile, forcing himself to look away from the screen because he would definitely pitch a tent if he looked a little too long. It was just his luck that he happened to meet Alfred’s gaze peering from behind the hood, secretly (but also, not so secretly) elated by this new development.

“So I take it you made a friend, huh?”

“Hn.”

“What’s she like?”

“She? That’s presumptuous,” Bruce grumbled, tucking his phone back into his pocket. But Alfred raised his eyebrows at him as if saying he wasn’t born yesterday, and he found himself rolling back and forth in his spot on the wheeled slider. And then… “But she’s alright.”

The older man kept his voice even and his gleeful grin at bay, for which Bruce was somewhat grateful. “And where is she now?”

“Back home in Hawaii.”

“Huh. I hear Hawaii is great this time of year.”

Bruce tucked his phone back into his pocket. “Hawaii’s great any time of the year. That’s why they have a rainbow on their license plate.”

Alfred actually snorted this time —he never recalled this proper British gentleman ever responding to his remark in such a… juvenile way. “And what does Gotham have?”

“I don’t know, rain and—” he motioned around the garage, “Home, I guess.”

“Yeah, what else is new,” Alfred dryly noted. Then, leaning back against the bumper of the car,. “Hawaii, on the other hand… You’ve never been, have you?”

Bruce side-eyed him, an all-too-familiar, non-verbal look that meant, where are you going with this?

“I’m just saying,” Alfred started, “Enjoy the sun, drive a car with a rainbow license plate on it.” He returned the side-eye right back at the younger man. “Hang out with your friend.”

Bruce was ready to brush it off. It was simply something he didn’t use to do —but then again, neither was texting. And as much as he wanted to make another counterargument, his phone buzzed again in his pocket. Alfred returned his attention to the engine in front of him, as if he’d made his point, and it somehow felt worse than being looked straight in the eye.

“It wouldn’t kill you to enjoy yourself every once in a while, you know.”

***

Bruce had a very particular way of texting, which Eden found endearing. He retained that placid —at times seemingly aloof— tone, but his dry humor shined through over a higher word count than his usual spoken conversations and came up at the most random times.

One message came in just as she dried herself off after an early morning surf.

‘Alfred just went on vacation and he doesn’t trust me enough to NOT set the house on fire, so… wanna hang out?’

Eden frowned at the screen. The lack of emoji didn’t usually bother her, but this time, she wasn’t sure if he was fucking with her or not. ‘Wtf are you talking abt?’ she replied.

Her phone dinged twice —first with an incoming picture of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the back porch of a house, pristine blue water gleaming in the background; and then a location pin, merely 15 minutes away from her house. No caption, no context whatsoever. And yet, Eden understood it just enough —she always did with Bruce. 

‘NO WAY!!!’ she texted back immediately, and then added, ‘Send me a selfie so I know you’re not an axe murderer trying to lure me into your trap.’

The three-dotted bubble hovered in their chat window for a few seconds, and then disappeared. Popped up, and then it was gone again. Eden couldn’t help but picture him trying to protest, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed as he typed up and deleted his response. She was certain she was gonna get a sardonic Bruce-esque quip in the reply, but instead, she received something better.

Another picture of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the beach. But this time, Bruce was there, squinting in the sun, lips pulled up —is that a smile he was attempting?—, his sweater hoodie pulled up to the top of his head. God, he was adorable.

‘Don’t fucking go anywhere.’ Eden’s thumbs were frantic against her phone screen and she stuffed all of her belongings into her bag and hauled her surfboard onto her car.

She loved the unhurried pace of her home island. Time moved slower on Maui and so did she. It was an ordinary Tuesday morning and the cars cruised along the road like they had nowhere to be… and Eden would have enjoyed it on any other day. Any other day, God, but this. When this peculiar, funny, handsome boy happened to show up just minutes away from her house, nearly 5,000 miles from where he lived.

She held back from honking the horn on every car in her way along the main road. Instead, she kept her mind occupied with some questions. Yes, she did wish he was here since she arrived, but did she think he was actually gonna do it? And now that he did, what then? Should she bring him home to her parents? That sounds so serious, she cringed at the idea. Oh God, what does this make us?!

“Your destination is on the right,” the navigation AI on her phone startled her. Eden nearly jumped out of her seat and missed the driveway, tucked between palm trees and shrubberies.

A black Porsche Cayman was already parked outside the villa. The white exterior was simple —modest, almost, but the tall glass windows and the sheer size of the building gave away its true luxury. Eden had to remind herself to slow down, give herself time to collect her own thoughts. But as she climbed up the steps to the entrance, Bruce emerged from the front door, wearing the same gray hoodie he took the selfie in, just with a pair of sunglasses perched on his nose bridge this time. He sheepishly waved at her.

Her heart grew three sizes at the sight of him, and yet the first thing that flew out of her mouth was, “You fucking bitch!”

His hand, still held up, was now alert. “Look, I can explain.”

She stopped, just a few steps away from him. “Explain, then.”

“I know it’s…” he took off his sunglasses. “It’s a lot. And… I hope you don’t find it creepy—”

“When did you fly out here?”

“12 hours ago.”

“When did you decide to fly out here?”

He paused. “Remember when you were texting me about the green crab?”

Eden did the math. There’s only a couple of hours gap between his decision and his departure.  “Right, I forgot you were stinkin’ rich.”

“Are you mad?”

He sounded so quiet, so timid, and it had only just dawned on her how new this was for him, too. How nerve-wracking. “Of course I’m not mad,” she immediately brushed it off, closing the distance so she could hold him in her arms again —oh, how good it was to have him in her arms again. “You’re just… gah!”

There was disbelief in her tone, maybe frustration, but it wasn’t the slightest bit venomous. Instead, she pulled him into a kiss. Fervent, as the weight of separation in the last two weeks had been lifted off of her shoulders. Amorous, as the weight of her… feelings set in. The fondness. The longing. The yearning of everything she remembered —his kiss, his touch, his presence— and everything she couldn’t have possibly memorized no matter how much she wanted to. 

The softest scent that lingered on his clothes and his person. The pattern he drew on the small of her back. The ever so surprising strength of him as he hoisted her legs around his waist and carried her into the house.

He set her down on the oversized couch, kneeling between her legs. A silhouette of sharp nose and sharper jawline backlit against the late-morning sun streaming in from the French doors behind him. She wanted to admire him so bad, to get the offending sweater and the pants out of the way. To immerse herself in his lean frames, the taut lines of his collarbones, his torso, the grooves on his hips. Instead, he just… stilled.

“What.”

“I like this.” His finger traced the front of Eden’s rashguard, ghosting at her teasing neckline. Hovering over the zipper tentatively as if asking for permission.

She tutted impatiently, pulling it down to reveal the electric blue bikini top underneath. Peeling the outer layer off and shimmying out of her pants. And throughout all of this, Bruce still stood by, shamelessly ogling her. She playfully kicked him in the back of his thigh. “Take your clothes off.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He tugged the sweater off over his head and leaned in to kiss her again, like he was still craving more of her (she couldn’t blame him, she also hadn’t had enough. She’s not sure she ever would.)

The straps behind her neck and in the middle of her back came undone with one pull, and Bruce was all over her newly-exposed tits. Reacquaint himself with her ribcage tattoo as if he didn’t commit every line, every stroke of color to memory. Fluttering as he knocked the wind out of her with every line, every stroke of his fingers on her slick cunt.

After spending most of their last couple of weeks at school together, Eden thought they’d get it out of their system. The novelty of it all. But the sun never shined on Bruce’s pale skin like this. It never streamed in from their dorm room windows quite so warmly in the New Haven winter. They’ve never had this much room to themselves, not having to worry about noises and next door neighbors.

It was just the two of them, naked and hidden away at the same time in this tiny pocket of a cove.

She’d never been shy about anything ever, but somehow the heat got to her cheeks when she heard her own obscene moan reverberate through the entire first floor, over the sharp slapping of skin as Bruce pounded into her through her orgasm. Arching into him to take all of him deep inside, two weeks of pent-up release and all.

“Okay?” he tucked a wild strand of hair behind her ear.

His breathing was heavy, too, but his hand on her back was soothing. He kissed her shoulder and neck, barely —mostly just nuzzling his whole face against her like the gentlest creature she’d ever known. And he truly was a gentle thing. She loved that about him.

And for the first time, she entertained the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she loved him, too.

“I…” she started. “I’m glad you’re here.”

It wasn’t what she was gearing up for, but it would have to do.

For now.

***

ACT FIVE

I’m glad you’re here.

Those four words kept playing on loop in Eden’s head as they made out half-asleep on the couch. Standing under the rain shower in the main bathroom (Well, he was standing; she was on her knees, gagging on his cock.) Giggling in the kitchen as they attempted —and failed— to recreate the Beanjamin’s famous grilled cheese for breakfast. Dipping their toes in the sand, leisurely wading into the shallow waters behind the villa.

She meant every word, sure, but that wasn’t all she meant to say. It’s one word less, but weighs more than what she could imagine. But she couldn’t say it. Not now. Not when things were so nice and quiet and good.

“You know you don’t have to spend all your time with me here, right?”

Eden threw him a funny look, hiding the sudden spike of worry inside. “It’s been, like, half a day. Are you kicking me out already?”

“No! God, no. I know that —I mean, you must’ve made plans, right? With your friends and your family while you’re home. I’m just saying…” he took a deep breath, trying to gather his words —and in doing so, gathered her in his arms, too. “You should still do that. I’ll be fine.”

She hummed, not disagreeing. “And what are you gonna do while I’m away?”

“I don’t know, see the sights? Hike? Snorkel?” Bruce looked out at the horizon, where the sea met the sky, and the trees fringing on the side. 

“Snorkel? I didn’t even know you could swim.” Eden grinned at the thought of Bruce swimming with little fish. They found a whole throng of turtles just off of his back deck and he nearly lost his mind over excitement —as much excitement as his range of expressions allowed, anyway.

He made a face, incredulous and just a little offended. “Of course I can swim.”

“You sure? ‘Cause I can get you a floatie if you want. I think I saw a flamingo one back at the house.”

“Fuck you…” he giggled —a sound so bright and warm that she couldn’t resist being infected by it, even as he attacked her with tickles on her side.

“No, fuck you, Brucie.” She struggled to keep his hands off, even weaving in some pokes on his waist as well, getting into a play-wrestle until they tumbled into the water. Eden came out on top, laughing victoriously as Bruce’s eyes squeezed shut as a wave crashed into his head from behind. “You sure you don’t want the floatie?”

He splashed her right in the face.

Eden had never seen such color in Bruce, such life, and she hoped it would stick around. Happiness looked good on him.

***

Bruce would never admit this to Alfred or Eden, but coming to Hawaii was a huge gamble. He couldn’t remember the last time he went on vacation out of his own volition. He did remember the last time he went to the beach; 14 years ago with his parents. He couldn’t remember if it was this place or somewhere in Southeast Asia, and he regretted that the memory was lost on him.

Part of him was terrified setting foot in the sand would set off an ugly chain of reaction. He was worried that he would be overcome with loss —everything he’d buried in the back of his mind. But he liked the warmth, he liked having the turtles in his backyard —even though one of them bit him in the ankle on the second day and seemed to develop a personal vendetta against him. And Eden was right there to ease him into it.

At this point, he’s pretty sure she could talk him into anything. She successfully talked him into drinking coconut straight out of its shell (which was awesome), surfing (which was awful and he came out bruised and sunburned), and a beach rave on New Year’s Eve (which was… not as bad as he expected.)

“I could get used to this,” Bruce piped up, unsure if he meant the sun and the beach… or playing house with Eden, eating pancakes for dinner on the daybed as the sun set before them.

“Mm, I think you’re having the Last Day syndrome.”

“What’s that?”

“Your vacation’s about to end and you kinda wish you could stay just a little longer —or even like, move here— but trust me, you don’t.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Because it’s an escape. The moment you give it more time than it actually has, it stops being a vacation and it just becomes… your life. And you might grow to resent it.”

They were quiet again. And once again, Bruce was not sure if she was talking about Hawaii or him.

“Then again, maybe a vacation is just what you needed. Remind you of what’s important,” she lightly said through a mouthful of pancakes.

She turned to him then, and her gaze nearly made his heart burst. The light hit her face just right, all tanned and golden. The saltwater made waves in her hair, and a cheeky smirk tickled the corner of her lips. In that moment, he knew what was important. And as she opened her mouth, so did he.

“Like wearing enough sunscreen —what?”

“I love you.”

Bruce froze. The smile on Eden’s mouth fell. And he thought it was over. This blissful honeymoon period, the whole fucking situationship between them… done. And it’s up to him to salvage whatever’s left of it. 

If he could still salvage it.

“I’m sorry. Fuck. Forget I ever said anything —”

“No, wait. Hold up.” She sat right up, and Bruce had never been more terrified in his life. “Do you mean that?”

“I don’t know.” That was completely untrue, he does know if he means it. “Yes!” He went way too big, and she could totally hear the overcompensation in his tone. “I think so.”

“You think so?” her eyebrows shot up.

Great, now he sounded like a dick. “Wait, that’s not what I meant. I… Look. I’ve never —”

“Been with anyone, I know. You were a blushing virgin when we met,: she huffed playfully.

He groaned. “Can we not?”

“And this has nothing to do with dating experience whatsoever. I just… I just wanna know if this is the Last Day syndrome talking, or if this is… it.” 

Bruce had no idea how to answer that. He wanted it to be true, but he had no way of knowing which one was wishful thinking and which one was plain old fact. And Eden had no way of knowing how desperately he wanted it to be it.

“You don’t have to say it back,” he eventually said. A relent. Acceptance.

Defeat.

“I know I don’t.” She took a heavy breath, looking out at the horizon. It’s mostly dark now. “I want to, though.”

“Really?”

Eden nodded tentatively. “I just need to figure out if this is it. I hope you understand that.”

“Right. Of course.” And with that, Bruce nodded back, straightening up, giving her some space —well, as much space as they could allow in this daybed. It’s funny how massive it felt before the elephant in the room got between them.

But Eden closed the distance again, planting a kiss on his lips —nothing but warmth between them— and said, “But I really hope it is.”