#killshot

you, a young woman who worked at her family’s humble tea shop, did not cower or tremble at the sight of him. instead, you met his gaze with open curiosity, your eyes warm like golden sunlight filtering through the leaves. 

that night, when he stepped into your shop, you greeted him with a small smile, unfazed by his reputation. you served him a cup of tea, your hands steady as you placed it before him. “it’s on the house,” you said simply. 

samurai! isagi, accustomed to war and wary stares, found himself at a loss. he lifted the cup, inhaling the fragrant steam, and took a sip. the warmth seeped into his bones, something unfamiliar stirring in his chest. 

he returned the next night. and the night after that. 

at first, he told himself it was only the tea – how it soothed him, how it was unlike anything he had tasted before. but soon, he realized it was not the tea that drew him back. it was you. 

he began to notice the way your lips curved when you smiled, the way your sleeves fluttered as you worked, the quiet hum of your voice when you thought no one was listening. he was a man who had lived by weapons, who had long accepted that love was not meant for men like him. yet, he found himself lingering in your presence, aching for every fleeting moment the two of you shared. 

one evening, as the last lanterns flickered against the deep indigo sky, he found you outside the shop, gazing up at the cherry blossoms swaying in the breeze. 

“the wind carries them away so easily,” he murmured, his voice quieter than he intended. 

you turned to him, plucking a single petal from his shoulder. “some petals may be carried away,” you said, fingers brushing lightly against his clothes. “but others fall right where they belong.” 

his breath caught. 

for the first time in his life, he felt truly unarmed, not by steel, but by something much softer, much more dangerous. he reached for your hand, hesitated, then took it gently in his own. his fingers, rough and calloused from years of battle, trembled against your warmth. 

“have i fallen here?” he asked, his voice raw with something unfamiliar. 

you smiled, a quiet knowing in your gaze. “stay,” you whispered. “and you will know.” 

and for the first time, samurai! isagi, who had spent his life wandering, finally found a reason to stop. 

BONUS: 

the nights grew longer, and so did his visits. it was no longer just the tea he came for, it was your laughter, the way your voice softened when you spoke his name, the way your presence filled the emptiness inside him. 

one night, as rain drizzled gently against the rooftop, you invited him inside. not as a feared warrior. but simply as a man. 

you led him to your room, where the candlelight cast golden hues against the wooden walls. he stood there, unsure, hesitant. no battlefield had ever made him feel so vulnerable. you stepped closer, your delicate fingers reaching for the ties of his upper garments. 

“let me take this weight from you,” you whispered. 

piece by piece, you unfastened the ties. beneath his uniform, his body was strong, marked with old wounds, scars that told stories of survival, pain, and solitude. you traced them with gentle fingers, your touch soft where the world had only been cruel. 

his breath hitched as you pressed your palm to his bare chest, feeling the steady, powerful beat of his heart. no one had ever touched him like this, not with reverence, not with tenderness. 

“you are beautiful,” you murmured, your eyes drinking him in. 

his throat tightened. “i am not,” he said hoarsely. “i am only a man who has known war.” 

“and now,” you whispered, guiding his hand to your own racing heartbeat, “you will know something else.” 

your lips met his, soft and seeking. he immediately melted into you, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you flush against him. you fit so perfectly against his body, as if you had been waiting for him all along. his hands traced the curve of your back, memorizing every inch, every breath, every sigh that escaped your lips. 

you led him down, onto the futon, where the world outside ceased to exist. here, there was no war or bloodshed, only the warmth of your skin beneath his fingers, the way your body welcomed him, the way you whispered his name as if it were something sacred. 

for the first time, he was not a warrior, nor a legend whispered in fear. he was simply a man, undone by love. 

and beneath the sound of the rain and the scent of falling cherry blossoms, samurai! isagi knew… he had finally found a place to belong.

𝐫𝐢𝐧

the streets of edo were never quiet. even at night, the city pulsed with life. paper lanterns swayed in the breeze, the scent of grilled fish and incense mingled in the air, and laughter spilled from sake houses. 

but in the narrow alleys beyond the main roads, in the places where the light barely reached, death walked unseen. 

assassin! rin was known only as the destroyer. an assassin without mercy. his katana was swift, his presence fleeting. he came and went like a shadow, leaving nothing but silence in his wake. no one sought him out. no one dared to. 

except you. 

you were a florist’s daughter, tending to your father’s tiny shop at the edge of the yoshiwara district. a place where courtesans laughed behind painted fans, where samurai shed their honor for a night of pleasure. yet, among the fleeting indulgences of men, your flowers remained constant – simple, beautiful, untouched by the chaos around them. 

assassin! rin first saw you one evening, just before the rain. he had finished a job, blood still cooling on his blade. as he slipped through the streets unseen, he caught sight of you arranging delicate plum blossoms outside the shop. 

your hands moved with quiet precision, handling each petal with care, as if they were something precious. something fragile. 

he should have kept walking. he always did. but that night, as the rain began to fall, he lingered under the shop’s awning. you looked up, surprised to see a lone figure standing there, his hood drawn low, his eyes unreadable. 

“you’ll get sick,” you said gently. 

he did not answer. he never spoke to strangers. 

but then, you turned, stepped inside, and returned with a simple gesture – a small, pale blue flower, held out to him in your open palm. 

“for you,” you said, smiling.

he stared at the flower. then at you. 

people feared him. they avoided him, as they should. yet here you were, offering something soft, something kind. 

he didn’t take it. instead, he turned and disappeared into the rain. 

and yet, the next night, assassin! rin returned. 

at first, he told himself it was a mistake. he was a man of cold steel and darker deeds. but you were different, never pushing, never prying. you greeted him the same way every night, even if he never spoke, even if he only stood in the shadows. 

sometimes, you would leave a flower on the shop’s wooden ledge before going inside, knowing he would see it. a silent gift, expecting nothing in return. 

one evening, after a job that left his sleeve torn and blood staining his hands, he arrived as always. you said nothing about the wound, nothing about the red that streaked his fingers. you only looked at him, then quietly poured a cup of tea, setting it beside a fresh white camellia. 

“a flower of longing,” you whispered. 

he finally spoke. “and what does that mean?” 

you blinked, startled by the sound of his voice, rough from years of silence. then you smiled. 

“it means someone is waiting for you.” 

something in his chest twisted. 

he did not belong in the warmth of your world. he knew that. but when you reached for his hand, your fingers brushing against his, he did not pull away. 

perhaps, for once, he could let himself be seen. 

perhaps, even a ghost could learn to bloom. 

BONUS: 

the night was humid, heavy with the scent of summer rain. assassin! rin had returned from another job, the taste of blood still thick in his mind, but instead of vanishing into the shadows, his feet led him to you. 

the flower shop was still open, its doors swaying slightly in the warm breeze. inside, you were alone, seated on the floor, your kimono loose at the collar, your hair slightly undone from a long day’s work. a single candle flickered beside you, casting golden light across your skin. 

you looked up, unsurprised to see him. 

“you always come late,” you said softly. 

he stepped inside without a word. 

you gestured for him to sit, and to his own surprise, he did. he had never stayed this long. never let himself linger. but tonight, something felt different. 

you poured tea, the quiet sound filling the space between them. he watched you, taking in the delicate movements of your hands, the curve of your throat as you sipped. you were untouched by the world he lived in. and yet, you had let him in, if only just a little. “your hands,” you murmured. 

he glanced down. blood had dried under his fingernails, invisible under the dim candlelight, but you still saw it. 

without a word, you reached for a damp cloth and took his hand in yours. 

assassin! rin stiffened. he had killed with these hands. broken men. ended lives. and yet, you touched them as if they weren’t stained, as if there was still something human beneath the callouses. 

you wiped gently, your fingers cool against his skin. he could have pulled away. he should have. but he didn’t. 

instead, he let himself feel. 

the warmth of your hands. the way you smoothed over old scars with quiet reverence. he had never known softness like this. 

slowly, hesitantly, he reached up. his fingers brushed the loose strand of hair at your cheek, tucking it behind your ear. you stilled, your breath catching. 

then, with careful slowness, you leaned forward. 

his lips met yours in the flickering candlelight, the taste of tea lingering between the two of you. it was not desperate, not hurried, just a quiet surrender. a moment stolen from a life that had never belonged to him. 

you did not ask him to stay. you did not beg for words he did not know how to give. 

but when he deepened the kiss, when his hands found the curve of your waist, when you whispered his name for the first time, he knew he was no longer just a shadow. 

for the first time, assassin! rin did not disappear before dawn. 

𝐤𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫

the small village by the river had never seen the likes of him. 

soldier! kaiser, a foreigner, far from his homeland, wearing a heavy military coat that seemed out of place in the humid warmth of the japanese summer. his tall frame, adorned with a strange combination of leather and metal, and his sword – an odd, long-bladed weapon – drew the eyes of every passerby. but it was the gun slung across his back that truly made the villagers uneasy. 

you, however, were not easily unnerved. 

the village’s lantern festival was approaching, a time when the streets would glow with paper lanterns, each one carrying wishes for the coming year. you had grown up making them, painting delicate flowers on their surfaces and attaching intricate paper strings. your family’s shop, where lanterns were sold, would be bustling with activity soon. 

that’s when you first saw him. 

soldier! kaiser had come to the shop, drawn by the bright lanterns hanging in the windows. he didn’t speak at first, just standing at the counter, staring at the rows of vibrant, colorful lanterns. his presence felt heavy in the room, like the air before a storm. 

you watched him silently. you had never seen someone like him, so foreign, so different. he seemed lost, out of place, and yet there was something almost childlike in the way his eyes lingered on the delicate paper. 

“you’re looking for something?” you asked, finally breaking the silence. 

he blinked, as though startled from a trance. then, he gave a small nod. 

“i want one,” he said in broken japanese, his voice deep and rough. “a pretty one.” 

you tilted your head, considering him. 

“i can make you a lantern,” you said, smiling. “i promise it will be beautiful.” 

he seemed to hesitate for a moment, then took off his coat, revealing a simple vest beneath. it was clear he was not accustomed to the customs of this village, everything about him screamed of a life lived in other lands, far from the peaceful simplicity of a place like this. 

but still, you worked with your hands, as you always did. you knew how to make things beautiful. 

and so, over the next few days, you saw him every morning. he would arrive before sunrise, watching you work as you painted and folded the lanterns. sometimes he’d sit quietly, observing, and other times he’d ask you questions, simple ones, like what each flower on the lantern symbolized or why the colors of the paper mattered. you spoke to him slowly, teaching him the meanings behind the designs, the significance of the festival, of the hopes each lantern carried. 

though his words were few, his attention was constant. you found yourself looking forward to his visits, even though you didn’t quite understand why. there was something in the way he listened, the way he focused, like he wanted to understand this quiet village, wanted to learn the things he could never have in his home. 

one afternoon, as the sun dipped low and painted the sky with hues of red and orange, you finished the lantern. you handed it to him, a tall, white lantern with a red crane painted across its surface, symbolizing strength and hope for a prosperous future. 

he took it carefully, as though it were fragile, and held it up to the fading sunlight. 

“this is... beautiful,” he murmured. his voice was quieter now, softer. “i don’t know if i deserve it.” 

you raised an eyebrow, surprised by the sorrow in his words. 

“you deserve it as much as anyone,” you said gently. “this lantern is for you. to carry your hopes.” 

for the first time, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. it wasn’t wide, but it was there, subtle, warm. 

“i’ve never had something like this before,” he admitted. “where i come from, in germany, there’s only war, only fighting. things like this...” he paused, shaking his head. “they don’t exist there.” 

your heart tightened at his words. you could see the weight he carried, the scars that were invisible to the eye. the soldier who had fought in faraway lands, a stranger in this peaceful village, trying to find something that would allow him to live without his past. 

without thinking, you stepped closer. you took his hand, careful, tentative, and placed the lantern back in his grasp. 

“you don’t have to fight anymore,” you whispered. “you can start fresh. here.” 

for a moment, there was only silence between you. the lantern’s soft glow seemed to illuminate his face, casting shadows and light over the hard lines that marked his years. then, slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet yours. 

“i’m... sorry,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “i didn’t know what to do. but you… this... it feels like peace.” 

you smiled, squeezing his hand. 

“i’ll help you find it,” you promised. “one step at a time.” 

the festival came, and the streets were filled with families, children laughing as they carried their lanterns, each light a wish floating toward the heavens. you stood among them, watching as people set their lanterns afloat on the river, the tiny lights drifting gently in the current. 

and when the last lantern was released, you turned to find soldier! kaiser standing beside you, the red crane lantern still in his hands. his expression was no longer heavy, no longer burdened by the shadows of his past. 

for the first time, he was free. 

and you, standing beside him, knew that he had found the peace he had long sought, here, in the quiet beauty of a village, with a lantern that carried his future. 

BONUS: 

the night had grown still, and the lanterns were long extinguished, their soft glow only a memory in the now-darkened village. you stood by the riverbank, watching the ripples of the water catch the fading moonlight. 

it was late, and the village was asleep, but you knew soldier! kaiser would come. he always did, after everyone had gone to bed, when the world was quiet and it felt like only the two of you existed. 

when you heard the familiar sound of footsteps behind you, you didn’t turn around. 

“i thought you might be here,” he said, his voice low and comforting in the silence. 

you smiled softly, letting the cool breeze sweep past you. “i come here to think... to let everything settle.” 

he stepped closer, his shadow falling next to yours. he didn’t speak right away, and for a long while, you simply stood there together, two strangers finding solace in each other’s presence. the weight of the world seemed to fall away whenever he was near, and in his silence, you found peace. 

finally, he spoke again. 

“i’ve never had a place like this. a place where i can just... be. no orders, no fighting, no war.” his voice cracked slightly, though he quickly masked it with a soft sigh. “i don’t know what to do with it.” 

you turned to face him then, your heart heavy with empathy. the soldier you had come to know was not the same one who first walked into your shop. he had changed, and you knew it wasn’t just the lanterns or the village, it was something inside of him, something he had buried deep. 

“i think you’ve forgotten how to live without the noise,” you said gently, your voice soft as you closed the distance between you. “it’s okay to be still. to find peace in the quiet.” 

his gaze softened, but there was still uncertainty in his eyes. “i’m not sure i know how anymore.” 

without thinking, you reached up to touch his cheek. his skin was rough, worn by the trials he had faced, but there was warmth beneath it, a warmth you had come to recognize. 

“maybe i can help you remember,” you whispered. 

he stared down at you, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. his gaze flickered from your lips to your eyes, and you could feel his hesitation. but then, as though the silence was too much to bear, he leaned down slowly, his lips brushing against yours in a delicate, tentative kiss. 

the kiss could have even passed as urgent, as if the years of loneliness, of fighting, had led him here. to this moment. to you. 

your hands found their way to his shoulders, and he wrapped one arm around you, pulling you closer. the kiss deepened, and the world around you seemed to disappear. there was no war, no distance, no past, only the two of you, lost in the warmth of each other’s embrace. 

his other hand slid down to your waist, fingers brushing the fabric of your kimono. you shivered at the touch, but it was not out of fear. it was the realization that this… this tenderness, this softness… was something you both had been yearning for. 

when he pulled away, breathless, he placed his forehead gently against yours. his hand remained at your waist, holding you firmly as if afraid to let go. 

“i never thought i would find peace like this,” he confessed, his voice hushed. “not in a place like this. not with someone like you.” 

you smiled, your fingers tracing the lines of his jaw. “you’re not alone anymore.” 

he kissed you again, this time with a quiet intensity, his hands pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. you responded with the same fervor, your heart racing, your body warm against his. 

the night seemed to stretch on forever, but in his arms, you knew the world was exactly as it should be: silent, still, and full of love. the two of you, finally together, finding what you both had been missing all along: a love built not on words or promises, but on the quiet understanding that, for once, you didn’t have to fight. 

I don't think there was ever a place I could call home. Be it the constant torture, shit ton of missions and moving around or whatever, I either never stuck around at one place long enough to call it home, or when I did, it didn't exactly go well. The closest thing I had to a home was my family. Not my mom and dad or whatever, never met them, don't care. My family, as in, the people who made even hell feel okay. The Avengers.

New York chewed me up and spat me out more times than I can count. I’ve bled in these streets. I’ve fought aliens, assassins, war criminals, gods. I’ve lost friends. I've lost Natasha. I've lost Tony. I've lost... a version of myself I don't think I’ll ever get back.

And still— here I am.

You’d think I’d run far away from this place. Most people would. But there’s something about this city. Something about the way it doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t care what you’ve done or who you were before. As long as you keep your head down and pay rent on time, New York minds its own damn business.

It’s loud. It’s grimy. It smells weird. But it’s honest. And after everything, I think that’s what I wanted most— something that didn’t pretend to be something it’s not.

So I found a shoebox apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. It’s not much. Leaky ceiling, noisy neighbors, the usual city soundtrack of sirens and someone yelling outside at 2 a.m. But it’s mine. My furniture. My mugs. My books. My life.

And now— my bookstore.

Yeah. A fucking bookstore. Can you believe it?

Turns out peace and quiet isn't a myth. It's just extremely underrated and criminally underfunded. But I saved up. I fought for it. And now, every morning, I unlock the door to a space that smells like coffee and paper and safety. It's quaint, it's cozy, it's so goddamn peaceful.

It’s the first thing I’ve done for myself in a long, long time.

And for once, I think I’m okay.

——————————————————————————————————

It was just past nine when I got to the bookstore— keys in one hand, half-spilled coffee in the other, hoodie sleeves still damp from where I accidentally elbowed the sink while washing my hands. So yeah, a normal morning. I almost tripped over a cracked bit of sidewalk again— mental note: report that or, I don’t know, start lifting your feet when you walk, I guess.

The shutters were halfway up, like always. I kept forgetting to pull them all the way down before I left. It wasn’t like anyone was dying to break into a place full of paperback classics and dusty murder mysteries, anyway.

I was halfway through unlocking the front door when I heard someone clear their throat behind me.

“Hey— bookstore?”

I turned around and found myself facing a woman with a leather satchel slung across her body and a smile that was… genuine. Not that fake retail smile. Not the “I’m-being-polite” one either. Just— nice. Blonde hair, neatly styled. Sharp eyes, a little tired. She looked like someone who saw everything and didn’t let it startle her.

“That’s what the sign says,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at the window decal I painted myself in a fit of DIY confidence and three cups of coffee. In retrospect, that looks awful. What the fuck was I thinking? Remind me to get one professionally made, yikes.

She smiled, holding out a hand. “Karen Page. I work next door.”

I shook her hand and followed her nod toward the office just to the right of my shop. Nelson, Murdock & Page. Huh. I’d seen the name a few times, but I hadn’t stopped by yet.

“Lawyers,” I said, accepting her handshake. “Brave of you to admit that before ten a.m.”

She laughed, warm and easy. “We try to keep a low profile.”

“I’m (Y/N),” I said. “Owner-slash-cashier-slash-bookshelf-assembler. Opened the place last month. Still figuring out if I need a real receipt printer or if handwritten notes give it a rustic vibe.”

“Well, it already looks amazing,” Karen said, peering through the window at the front table. “You’ve got ‘Little Women’ sitting next to a hitman memoir. Bold move.”

I shrugged. “I like balance.”

“Hell’s Kitchen could use more of that,” she said, and something about the way she said it made me pause. Like she knew.

Karen shifted her bag higher on her shoulder. “We’re next door— Nelson, Murdock, and Page. If you need anything, or just decent coffee, come by.” A pause. Then, more casual, “Or if you just wanna talk. No pressure.”

I blinked. “Thanks. That’s… actually really kind. Seriously, everyone here’s been so nice. I didn’t expect that.”

Karen raised an eyebrow. “In Hell’s Kitchen? Seriously?” Then she laughed, shaking her head. “Man, you must’ve moved in on a good week.” I did not want to explore what that meant. Nope. Only peace in my life starting now. Hell's kitchen better become my happy place or else.

And with that, she turned and headed into the law office, leaving me alone in front of my shop, coffee gone cold in my hand and a faint, weird smile pulling at my mouth.

For a second, I just stood there.

This place… it was starting to feel like something.

Not home. Not yet.

But something. And I liked it.

As my train of thought arrived at a halt, I went in and let myself glance around the shop.

Stacks of books waiting to be shelved. The soft creak of the wooden floor. The faint smell of cinnamon from the candle I left burning yesterday. It was quiet— still. That kind of still that sits on your chest but doesn’t press down. The kind you could almost mistake for peace if you weren’t paying too much attention.

And then the door burst open.

I mean burst.

The bell above it didn’t jingle— it screamed for its dear life.

“HELLOOOO, LITTLE BOOKSTORE!”

I nearly dropped my coffee.

There she was. Sunglasses. Combat boots. Too much attitude for 9:00 a.m. And a wide, shit-eating grin like she was about to punch me or hug me and hadn’t decided which.

“Yelena,” I said flatly, setting my cup down before it could tremble out of my hand. “Jesus Christ.”

She threw her arms out like I should be applauding. “I heard my favorite little assassin opened a bookstore, and I had to see it with my own two judgmental eyes.”

“You mean the bookstore I told you about four months ago?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t believe you,” she said, striding in like she owned the place. “I thought you were definitely joking, but this? You? This is… cute.”

“You’re cute,” I muttered under my breath.

“I know,” she said immediately, already wandering toward the front table. “Wow. You really did it. You actually retired.”

“Don’t say it like that,” I said, watching her poke at the table display like she was searching for hidden weapons. “It makes me sound old and boring.”

“You are old and boring,” she said sweetly. “But this is adorable. Like— look at this. Aw, paperbacks. So soft. So non-lethal.”

I rolled my eyes. “Alright. Why are you here?”

Yelena blinked, all faux innocence. “What, I can’t drop in just to say hi?”

“You don’t do anything ‘just’ to say hi.”

She plopped onto the arm of one of the reading chairs. “Okay, fine. I’m genuinely here just to hang out. No weapons. No missions. No ulterior motives. Okay, maybe like one weapon. Two tops. Three if we're being technical.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Missed me, huh?”

“I’m not going to say yes and let you gloat.”

A slow smile crept up my face. “You know you love me.”

She shrugged, picking up a book like it hadn’t just gotten incredibly obvious in here. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head.”

I leaned against the counter, watching her pretend to read the blurb on the back cover upside down.

Peace and quiet, my ass.

But honestly?

I’d missed this too.

——————————————————————————————————

Cut to: greasy takeout containers, chopsticks in hand, legs kicked up on mismatched stools in the back room of the store.

Yelena slurped a noodle and pointed at me with her chopsticks like she’d just remembered something important. “Wait. Have you met the hot lawyer next door yet?”

I blinked. “Karen?”

“No, the hot one.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Karen is hot.”

Yelena rolled her eyes. “Not that one. The other hot one. The tall one. Broody. Looks like he hasn’t slept since 2004. That one.”

“I haven’t met anyone else,” I said. “Just Karen. She was really sweet.”

“You need to meet the lawyer,” she said, like it was an emergency. “How have you not met the lawyer?”

“I don’t know, maybe because I’m running a bookstore and not casing the neighbors for eligible brooding bachelors?”

She popped another dumpling in her mouth. “I’m just saying. You’re doing your whole normal civilian thing now. He fits your aesthetic. Tortured, morally conflicted, probably has a tragic backstory— he’s perfect for you.”

I gave her a look. “Why do you know this? And how do you know this?”

Yelena pointed at herself, smug. “Baby girl, this is what I do.”

I groaned. “You are unbelievable.”

She grinned. “You’re welcome.”

I shoved a takeout box at her. “Eat your food and shut up.”

She did. But she was still smiling like she knew something I didn’t. And I fucking hate that look because that means she already knows she's right.

——————————————————————————————————

I was rearranging the front table display— again— because apparently, that was my new favourite hobby when I didn’t want to deal with actual work. My knee hit the corner of the shelf and I cursed under my breath, just as the bell over the door jingled.

I didn’t even look up. “Yelena, if that’s you again, I swear to God—”

“It is,” came her unapologetic voice. “But this time, I brought friends.”

That got my attention.

I looked up and, sure enough, there she was. Standing just inside the door like she owned the place, grinning like a menace, flanked by two men I definitely hadn’t seen before. One looked like he'd be someone’s favourite lawyer— pressed suit, hair barely out of place. The other stood slightly behind, cane in hand, expression unreadable. Curious, but guarded.

“Friends?” I repeated, squinting. “That’s new.”

“They’re real,” Yelena said, completely unbothered. “I checked.”

“You check everyone.”

“Exactly. That’s why I’m here.”

She turned like she was introducing royalty. “This is Foggy. He talks a lot but somehow it works. And this,” she gestured to the man with the cane, “is Matt. Doesn’t talk a lot, but when he does, you should listen.”

I looked between them. “Lawyers?”

“Unfortunately,” Foggy said, smiling like this wasn’t his first time deflecting that. “We work next door. Karen told us you opened up shop, figured we’d stop by before she shamed us into it.”

I tilted my head. “Ah. So this is a guilt visit.”

“Strong coffee and guilt,” Matt said. His voice was low— smooth in a way that made it hard to read. “Two things we run on.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. “Fair enough. I’m (Y/N). I own the place. Unless Yelena somehow tricked me out of it and this is an intervention.”

Yelena held up both hands. “Hey, I only scam warlords now. Relax.”

Foggy was already halfway to a display table. “This is cool. Real cozy. I didn’t even know this was here.”

“Yeah, it’s new,” I said, sliding behind the counter like it would ground me. “Still figuring things out.”

Matt trailed his fingers along the shelf edge. It was subtle, but it felt… intentional. Like he was reading more than the titles.

“Quiet in here,” he said.

“Don’t jinx it.”

Yelena dropped into the chair by the window like it was hers. “I told you this place was legit.”

“You also told me there’d be pastries,” Foggy said, eyeing the plate beside the register.

“There were!” she said, pointing at the two sad, leftover cookies. “You’re just late.”

I caught Matt’s hand hover over a spine before he let it drop.

Foggy glanced over. “He does that in every bookstore, by the way. It’s freaky.”

Matt turned slightly toward me. “It’s relaxing.”

I glanced at his hand tracing the edge of the shelf. “What is? The books?”

“The quiet,” he said. “The way everything’s… still.”

I nodded. “Yeah, well. Kind of the point. Some of us open bookstores instead of going to therapy.”

He smiled — soft, but real. “You might be onto something.”

“You say that like it’s the first time I’ve been right today.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, just under his breath. “I’m reserving judgment.”

“Careful,” I said, tilting my head. “You come back too often, I’m gonna start charging you rent.”

Matt turned toward me slightly more, something curious behind his expression. “Is that your way of asking me to come back?”

I shrugged, meeting his gaze. “Is that your way of dodging the question?”

His smile widened, and just for a second, it felt like the rest of the room went quiet for real.

Yelena, of course, ruined it.

“Okay, wow. Should I leave? Or are we all just pretending this isn’t happening?”

I didn’t look away from Matt. “You could pretend harder.”

He grinned. “I think I’ll take that as an invitation.”

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling too.

He smiled— just slightly. Not the kind that asked for attention. The kind that slipped past your guard before you realized it. I caught it anyway. The curse of being observant— you catch everything.

"Wait so, how is it that you've already met Yelena?"

“He represented me once,” she said lightly, walking to the counter like she owned the place. “Long story. There were knives involved. And some yelling. Matt’s very good at not looking surprised in a courtroom.”

I raised my eyebrows. That feels like something she should've told me earlier, but I let it slide cause I was in a forgiving mood.

Matt smiled faintly. “It was… a unique case.”

“I was innocent,” Yelena added. “Mostly.”

Foggy sighed. “She was technically not guilty.”

“See?”

“So how do you know her?” Matt asked, nodding toward Yelena.

I blinked. “Yelena?”

“Please don't say prison,” Foggy added.

“Classified,” Yelena chimed.

I deadpanned. “She showed up in my life one day and never left.”

Matt nodded like he wasn’t sure if I was serious. Which was fair.

“She’s the clingy one,” Yelena added helpfully.

“I’m literally not.”

She gave me a look from behind Foggy’s back. One of those looks. Eyebrows up, lips twitching. She might as well have yelled "He’s cute" across the room. I stared at her. She winked.

Foggy looked between the group of us, grinning. “God, I missed normal human interaction.”

“This is your idea of normal?” I asked.

Matt smiled again, a little more noticeable this time. “You get used to it.”

We didn’t talk about anything important, but it didn’t feel awkward either. Just easy. No pressure. No masks, surprisingly. Just enough banter to feel human.

They didn’t stay long— lawyer things to do, apparently— but as Matt reached the door, he turned back.

“Nice meeting you,” he said.

“Likewise,” I replied.

He gave a small nod— one of those subtle ones that meant something even if you weren’t sure what.

The door closed behind them.

Yelena immediately turned to me, arms crossed and smug.

“Well?”

I shrugged. “They seem alright.”

“You think Matt’s hot.”

“I think you should get out.”

“I think I’m gonna hang out by the window in case he comes back.”

I sighed and threw a cookie at her.

She caught it without blinking. “You know you love me.”

God help me— she wasn’t wrong.

I watched her kick her boots up and settle in like she planned on moving in. And yeah, it wasn’t quiet anymore. Not the kind I thought I wanted. But when I glanced back at the door— just for a second— I didn’t mind it so much.

Not anymore.