#murn

Economos slammed his laptop shut. “Jesus Christ. If these two pulled it off—” he waved angrily at you and Adrian— “then why couldn’t you just fucking kiss him?” His voice cracked with pure frustration. “It’s not rocket science, Harcourt.”

The room froze. Harcourt’s glare could’ve cut steel. “Excuse me?”

Economos plowed on, gesturing wildly. “All you had to do was sell it. One kiss, maybe two, and we’d have Malloy’s contacts mapped by now. But no, you had to make it weird, and then you bailed, and now we’re behind.”

Chris’s mouth opened, then shut. Harcourt looked like she was two seconds from breaking a chair over Economos’s head.

You cleared your throat. “Maybe screaming at each other isn’t productive?”

“Agreed,” Murn said flatly, like he was already regretting his life choices. “We’ll recalibrate before the next attempt.” He looked back at you and Adrian. “But for tonight? Good work.”

Adrian straightened, still grinning. “Best fake couple ever.”

You tried to focus on the praise, on the mission’s success, but your pulse still fluttered every time you remembered the slow dance, the kiss, the way his hand had cupped your jaw like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Best fake couple ever. Right. So why didn’t it feel fake anymore?

The night should’ve ended at the safehouse. Instead, Adrian insisted on walking you to your car like he hadn’t just survived an undercover op with HOA couples and casserole-based small talk.

He leaned against your passenger door, helmet tucked under his arm, curls sticking up again after the hours of “suburban husband chic” you’d carefully assembled. He looked ridiculous. He looked happy.

“That was so fun,” he gushed, voice carrying in the quiet parking lot. “Like, not butterfly-fun, but actual fun. Did you see the way those dads were nodding at me? Like I was their leader? I could start a dad cult. Dads love me. I’m basically a dad magnet. Which sounds gross, but in a non-sexual way. Unless… well, no, definitely non-sexual.”

You unlocked the car. “You really wanna lead a dad cult?”

“Why not? We’d wear polos. Grill meat. Talk about how we’re totally gonna fix the deck next weekend. Oh my god, you’d be amazing in a dad cult. You’d organize the bake sales. You already made lemon bars like a champion.”

You shook your head, laughing as you slid into the driver’s seat. “Get in before someone calls security on us.”

He climbed in, still talking. “And did you see when you let me tell the bee story? They bought it. Hook, line, and stinger. You’re a genius. You let me go full improv. Most people shut me down before I get to the good part, like the,” He made buzzing noises. “but you didn’t. You’re the best fake girlfriend I’ve ever had.”

You pulled out of the lot. “How many fake girlfriends have you had, exactly?”

“Counting you?” He held up one finger. “So… yeah. Just you.”

Your chest tightened in a way you didn’t like.

The drive was quiet for about two minutes, record time for Adrian before he piped up again. “You know, if this were a real relationship, this would be the part where I walk you to your door and try to look suave, but then I trip over my own dick, metaphorically. My real dick doesn’t trip. It’s very coordinated.”

You nearly swerved. “Adrian.”

“What? I’m just saying. It’s got rhythm. Could probably win America’s Got Talent.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “Shut up.”

He grinned, smug. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m regretting every life choice that led me to this moment.”

“Hot. Say it slower.”

You rolled your eyes, pulling up to your building. You should’ve let him go, should’ve said goodnight and left it there. But when you glanced at him, helmet in his lap, hopeful puppy energy practically radiating off him, you couldn’t do it.

“You don’t have to go all the way back to your mom’s,” you said finally. “It’s late. You can crash here.”

He blinked. “Here? With you?”

“Yes. Guest room.” You emphasized it, hard.

“Oh. Yeah. Guest room. Totally. Unless you secretly want me in your bed, in which case, wow, what a twist.”

“Guest room, Adrian.”

He grinned, wide and boyish. “Got it. Guest room. With my very talented, balanced dick.”

You groaned, shoving his shoulder lightly as you parked. He laughed the whole way inside, buzzing with the same adrenaline you’d both been pretending wasn’t there.

And for the first time that night, you weren’t sure if letting him stay was a mistake or the smartest decision you’d ever made.

Your apartment wasn’t anything fancy cozy, lived-in, the kind of place that smelled like clean laundry and vanilla candles, but Adrian looked at it like you’d just walked him into the Louvre.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, helmet tucked under one arm. “It’s so… you. Like, I don’t know what I expected. Maybe beanbags. Or swords on the wall. But this is—” He stopped in front of your bookshelf, crouching. “Do you alphabetize your books and color-code them? That’s… honestly, that’s hotter than I thought it would be.”

You closed the door behind you, kicking off your shoes. “Try not to rifle through all my stuff.”

“I would never,” he said, already picking up a photo frame. It was you, your sister, and your niece, laughing mid-silly-face. Adrian smiled at it, soft. “Your family’s cute. You look happy.”

The way he said it, quiet, without a trace of irony made you pause. “Yeah. They’re my… everything.”

He set the frame back carefully, then perked up again, bouncing on his toes like the sincerity had short-circuited him. “So where’s the guest room? Or do I get, like, a cot in the bathtub?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “End of the hall.”

He saluted, striding toward it like a soldier on parade. But of course, he stopped halfway, drawn to the kitchen like a moth to flame. He opened the fridge, whistled. “Wow. Actual vegetables. Do you eat these or are they props?”

“I eat them,” you said flatly.

“Hot,” he muttered, still digging. “Whoa, is that oat milk? You’re so L.A. chic.”

“I’m not from L.A.”

“You’ve got the vibes. Like, ‘oh my god, let’s go do hot yoga and then talk about our feelings over açai bowls.’” He shut the fridge and leaned against it, grinning. “I’d totally go to hot yoga with you.”

You snorted, covering your mouth too late. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you.”

You shook your head, finally steering him down the hall to the guest room. It wasn’t much just a bed, dresser, lamp, but he flopped onto it with a satisfied groan. “Oh my god. This is the nicest bed I’ve ever been on that didn’t have, like, plastic sheets for ‘easy cleanup.’”

You paused in the doorway, raising a brow. “…I don’t want to know.”

“Good,” he said, already sprawled out like he owned the place. “Mystery is sexy.”

You grabbed an extra blanket from the closet and tossed it at him. He caught it clumsily, grinning. “Thanks, babe.”

The word hung between you. Too casual. Too easy.

You should’ve corrected him, reminded him it was all part of the bit. Instead, you just nodded. “Goodnight, Adrian.”

“Goodnight,” he said, voice softer now. Then, almost as an afterthought “Best fake girlfriend ever.”

You closed the door, heart hammering, and leaned against the wall.

Because the truth was, nothing about this felt fake anymore.

It was almost midnight when you padded into the kitchen, craving water. You flicked on the light, only to nearly drop your glass when a shadow moved by the fridge.

“Jesus Christ!” you hissed.

Adrian yelped, clutching his chest. “Holy shit—you scared me! I thought you were a burglar. A sexy burglar in pajamas.”

You pressed a hand to your racing heart. “You can’t just lurk by my fridge in the dark like a serial killer.”

“I wasn’t lurking,” he said indignantly, holding up a half-empty box of cereal. “I was scoping out midnight snack options. Very different. Also, do you know how depressing plain Cheerios are without sugar? It’s like eating sad circles.”

You sighed, setting your glass on the counter. “You’re hungry?”

“Starving,” he admitted, eyes wide and guileless. “Some lady kept hogging the crab dip. I only got, like, two Ritz crackers’ worth.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, fighting a smile. “Sit down. I’ll make you something.”

His whole face lit up like you’d offered him eternal salvation. “Really? Oh my god. This is like… playing house.” He plopped onto one of your barstools, chin in his hands, watching you like you were about to perform magic. “You, cooking in your kitchen, me sitting here telling you how hot you look cutting vegetables. it’s basically a Hallmark movie. Except, you know, with more dick jokes and potential homicide.”

You pulled eggs and bread from the fridge, shaking your head.

He leaned forward eagerly. “What’re you making?”

“Scrambled eggs. Toast. Nothing fancy.”

“Fancy enough. Did you know eggs are basically chicken periods?”

You gave him a flat look over your shoulder. “Thank you for ruining breakfast food forever.”

“You’re welcome.” He grinned, utterly unrepentant. “But seriously, this is great. Like, domestic. Cozy. If I didn’t know better, I’d say we were…” He stopped, suddenly aware of the line he was about to cross. His grin softened into something almost shy. “…real.”

The sizzle of butter in the pan filled the silence. You stirred the eggs, throat tight. “It was just for the mission, Adrian.”

“Right,” he said quickly, too quickly. But when you set the plate in front of him and he dug in with boyish delight, he looked up at you with scrambled egg on his fork and said, “You’d be really good at real, though.”

And you couldn’t bring yourself to argue.

You were fully prepared to watch him inhale them like a starving raccoon, and then send him back to the guest room. That was the plan. Keep the walls up. Keep the line between fake and real intact.

But when he looked up at you, mouth full of eggs, curls messy, eyes bright with that impossible, enthusiasm, you cracked.

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and said quietly, “You’re right. This is kind of like playing house.”

He froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “…Wait. Did you just admit I was right?”

“Don’t get used to it,” you warned, but your lips curved anyway.

He set the fork down slowly, like any sudden movement might scare you off. “So, like… in this game of house, are we… married? Dating? Divorced but still hooking up for old times’ sake—because honestly, all three sound hot.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Dating, Adrian. Let’s keep it simple.”

Something in his eyes shifted, sharp and hungry under all the dorky energy. “Dating. Okay. Yeah. I can do dating.”

Before you could think better of it, you stepped closer. He smelled like laundry soap and a hint of lemon from the bars earlier. He straightened instantly, wide-eyed, like a dog who just heard the treat bag crinkle.

And then you kissed him.

Not a fake cover kiss. Not a crowd-pleasing slow-dance kiss. A real one. Firm, deliberate, meant to shut him up and ruin your own damn rules in one move.

He made a startled noise, half gasp, half laugh and then grabbed your waist, pulling you flush against him. The stool screeched backward as he stood, towering over you, lips moving hungrily against yours.

“Holy shit,” he whispered when you broke for air. His forehead pressed to yours, his grin completely unhinged. “You just kissed me in your kitchen. This is… this is like porn, but better, because there’s eggs.”

You let out a laugh, trying to shush him, but he was already tumbling forward, mouth on yours again, kissing like he’d been waiting forever and suddenly realized he’d never have to stop.

Every time you tried to pull back, he chased your lips, babbling between kisses “You taste like…oh my god…like toothpaste and lemon—fuck, I’m so into this…it’s like a brunch fantasy but with way more tongue—”

“Adrian,” you managed, breathless, half laughing.

“Yeah?” His eyes were blown wide, pupils dark, curls sticking every which way as his hands roamed like he didn’t know where to put them first.

“You’re riled up.”

He grinned, feral and boyish all at once. “I told you I’d be great at house.”

And with that, he kissed you again, messier, deeper, eggs forgotten on the counter while you let yourself get lost in the disaster you’d just unleashed. Adrian’s mouth was hot and insistent on yours, his hands clumsy but eager as they slid up your sides.

You should’ve stopped. But the way he kissed you messy, desperate, like you were oxygen had you whispering against his lips before you even thought about it “Fuck it.”

His eyes snapped open. “Wait…fuck it, like, fuck it fuck it or?”

You grabbed his shirt, tugging him toward the hall. “Bedroom. Now.”

For a split second, he looked like he might combust from sheer joy. Then he practically stumbled after you, tripping over his own feet in his rush. “Oh my god, this is happening. This is actually happening. I knew playing house was a gateway drug.”

You shoved your bedroom door open, pulling him in. He barely got it shut before his hands were on you again, fumbling but determined.

“Holy shit,” he babbled between kisses, already breathless. “You’re like…like a freak in disguise. The bimbo thing? That’s like a camouflage, isn’t it? You’re actually feral. ”

“Keep talking,” you gasped, yanking his shirt over his head.

“Oh, I will. You think I ever shut up during sex? Nope. Not happening. You’re gonna get the full Adrian director’s commentary while I—”

You kissed him hard enough to shut him up, only for him to laugh into your mouth, delirious and turned on.

“God, you’re insane,” you muttered, pushing him back onto the bed.

He sprawled there, curls wild, chest heaving, grin unhinged. “Insane for you. Which is probably diagnosable, but whatever, let’s not invite a psychiatrist into this threesome.”

You climbed onto him, and he groaned like it was the best gift he’d ever been given. His hands roamed, hesitant one second, greedy the next, like he couldn’t decide between worshipping or devouring you.

“Holy shit,” he whispered again, voice cracking as you ground against him. “You’re not faking this, are you?”

“Not even a little,” you said, daring him with your eyes.

And that was all it took. He surged up, kissing you like a man possessed, like all the jokes and babble were just his way of containing the truth he wanted you, badly, and now that he had you, he wasn’t letting go.

The fake-dating rules, the team, the mission, they all blurred and disappeared as you matched his frenzy beat for beat, chaos answering chaos.

For once, Adrian Chase wasn’t too much. For once, he was exactly what you wanted.And neither of you cared about the fallout.

He made a choked sound when you kissed him again, more tongue than anything, your hand already slipping beneath his waistband like you’d made your decision and that was that.

“Wait—are we actually?” he gasped, voice climbing an octave as your fingers wrapped around him.

“Yeah,” you whispered against his lips. “We are.”

He let out a strangled moan, whole body going rigid like you’d just hit him with a stun gun.

“Fuck—fuck.” He whined. Full-on, actual whine. “You don’t understand,” he rambled, breathless as you stroked him slow. “You’ve been in my head for weeks. Every time you talked during mission briefings, I just stared at your mouth like a fucking idiot. I’d be thinking about it during recon, during stakeouts…once during a firefight, which is so unprofessional. You’re shit…you’re my Roman Empire.”

You let out a laugh, barely keeping your rhythm. “Adrian—”

“I mean it. You said ‘brunch version of you’ and I got hard, that’s not normal. You smiled at me while filing intel and I had to sit down. And now you’re doing this and I’m just—fuck, I’m two seconds away from coming in your hand.”

You slowed down just to watch him squirm. His hips bucked up helplessly, a sound punching out of him like it had been trapped.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please don’t tease me. You don’t understand what this is doing to me.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” you smile sweetly before you begin to kiss down his chest, down his hard toned abs.

“Holy shit,” he whispers to himself. You sit back on your knees as you pull down his boxers letting his painfully harden member fall heavy against his lower abdomen.

“Fuck.” You hear yourself say. He’s bigger than you expected. Considering how Chris called him Thimble you always kinda assumed it’d be…average? “Can I have a taste?” You ask as you kiss his thigh.

“Please please please you can have whatever you want,” he begs. If there’s one thing you love, it’s a man that begs. You lick up from the base to the top before wrapping your lips around the tip. Swiping your tongue over the slit collecting his pre cum and moaning in appreciation.

“Oh my god,” he struggles to say looking down at you eyes wide and the darkest green you’ve ever seen.

His thighs tremble.

Your mouth slides down lower, taking more of him, hand wrapped tightly around the base, your spit making everything slick and obscene.

And Adrian melts. His hands fist the sheets, then your hair, then the air, he can’t decide if he wants to worship you or fall apart.

“Do you know how many times I’ve thought about this?” he babbles, unfiltered. “You..like this, on your knees, mouth on me…fuck—I’ve jerked off to this so many times it’s not even funny.”

You pull off just long enough to say, “You taste so fucking good.”

He lets out a strangled, pathetic whimper.

You stroke him while you speak, watching every reaction like a reward. “You’ve wanted this for a while, huh?”

He nods frantically. “Since day one. Since you smiled at me like I was funny instead of insane.”

You suck him back down, deeper this time. His hips jump. His breath hitsched so high it’s a gasp. His hands come back down to your hair pushing you down deeper, his hips coming up. He’s so greedy.

The way he withers beneath your mouth makes your thighs clench. He’s flushed and shaking, babbling like it’s his first orgasm on earth. You moan around him, just to feel the twitch, just to push him over the edge.

“Oh my god,” he whimpers, “you’re… you’re unreal..you’re too good at this… I’m gonna come… fuck, please don’t stop—please swallow it.”

He comes hard, a lot and you don’t even flinch. You swallow happily, lips wrapped around him until he’s wrung out and twitching.

When you finally pull off, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, he collapses against your pillow like a man who just saw God.

“This is like every porn video I’ve ever watched,” he sighs, dazed. “But soooo much better. Now I’m gonna think of this every time you talk. Like, full Pavlov response. You’ll say ‘briefing,’ and I’ll get hard.”

You laugh, slipping out of your clothes without breaking eye contact. He watches, wrecked and reverent, as you crawl back up the bed to straddle him.

“Wanna taste?” you tease, voice syrup-sweet as you lean down and kiss him.

His mouth opens under yours instantly. You let your tongue slide over his playfully, let him taste himself on you.

“You’re the best,” he whispers against your lips. “In every fucking way possible.”

His hand slides between your thighs, fingers dipping through your slick. He groans, long, low, reverent.

“Oh, I bet it feels so fucking good in there,” he sighs, sliding a finger inside.

You moan into his mouth, hips twitching as he starts to pump it in and out, slow and deep.

“Jesus,” he mutters, eyes locked on yours. “You’re so wet. I barely touched you. You got like this just from sucking my dick?”

You nod, panting, rolling your hips into his hand. “I’ve wanted you. Just like this.”

He moans again, overwhelmed. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

You leaned down, mouth brushing his ear. “Show me you deserve me.”

“You’re gonna break me. I’m gonna be one of those guys who pines. I’m gonna smell your shampoo on my pillow for the next year and cry. I’m gonna write your name in my FBI-issued journal.”

You climbed on top of him and he whimpered. Whimpered.

“What position do you want me in first?” Yoy ask against the shell of his ear.

You didn’t expect him to go quiet.

But he does.

Your words — whispered hot against the shell of his ear — turn his whole body to stone. His hands tremble where they rest on your thighs. His chest rises in short, shallow gasps.

“What position…” you repeat, kissing just beneath his ear, “…do you want me in first?”

He whimpers again and covers his face with both hands.

“Oh my god.” His voice is wrecked. “Oh my god, I can’t decide. You’re asking me? I thought you were gonna just fuck me without warning. Like boom, snapped in half, goodnight.”

You pull his hands gently away from his face. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide.

“I can fuck you however you want,” you murmur. “You just have to choose.”

“I can’t choose,” he breathes. “That’s the problem. Every position? Sounds like the best idea I’ve ever had. Cowgirl? Amazing. Missionary? I get to see your face and cry. You on your knees? I might actually black out. Me going down on you until you’re shaking? That’s the dream. Me bent in half while you ride me and talk shit?” He moans,loud. “I’m so fucked up about that idea it’s unreal.”

You laugh, low and pleased, grinding your hips just enough to make him twitch beneath you. “Adrian.”

He clutches your waist like a lifeline. “Please ride me first. I need to feel you. Need to see you like that.”

You line him up, and he’s throbbing, leaking, practically vibrating with the kind of tension that can only come from weeks of fantasizing and finally getting the real thing.

And then you sink down. Slow. All the way. Until he’s fully inside you, deep and thick and stretching you so perfectly you have to brace your hands on his chest just to breathe.

“Holy shit,” he groans. His head falls back into the pillow, mouth open, jaw slack. “ I’ve never felt anything like this. You’re so warm. You’re so tight. You’re…fuck.”

“You’re so deep,” you whisper, beginning to roll your hips.

And then he’s babbling again. “Yesyesyes, oh my god, yes. I’ll be so good to you. I’ll worship you. I’ll buy you stuff. I’ll make you breakfast. I’ll get your name tattooed on my dick. Just…don’t stop. Don’t ever stop. Please.”

Your hands slide up his chest, feeling every twitch, every desperate gasp.

“You love this, don’t you?” you purr. “Being used like this.”

He nods, eyes wet, voice trembling. “Yes. Yes. I love it. I love you. Fuck—did I say that too soon? Doesn’t matter. I do. I love you. I’m obsessed with you. I’m ruined for anyone else. This pussy is mine now, right? Say yes. Please say yes. I’ll beg again. I like begging—”

You kiss him, hard and hungry, swallowing the rest of his chaos.

And when you pull back, your lips wet and your thighs trembling, you say the thing that finishes him completely

“It’s all yours.”

He makes a sound, raw and hoarse, like it’s being ripped out of him, and arches up so deep inside you it makes your whole body stutter.

And in that moment, Adrian is gone. Fucked stupid. Fucked in love.

You’re riding him hard now hips rolling, sweat slick between you, his hands gripping your ass like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. He’s been babbling nonstop, tossing out praises like prayers, like every word might keep you there a little longer.

“You’re unreal… you feel so good… I could die like this, happy, smiling… fuck, I’d leave a note and everything ‘death by pussy, signed: a grateful Adrian Chase.’”

You press a hand to his mouth. “Shh,” you whisper, breathless, grinding down slow. “It’s your turn to listen.”

He moans into your palm, eyes fluttering, head tilting back like he’s offering up his whole goddamn soul.

And you feel it how close you are. How bad you want it. But it’s not enough. The pace, the rhythm, the angle, it’s perfect, but it’s not it.

He sees it in your eyes. You don’t have to say anything. You slow. You hesitate. And before the disappointment even lands in your chest

Adrian moves.

He shifts you gently, flipping you over with surprising strength, hands guiding your thighs apart. His eyes are so wide, so fucking devoted, it makes your heart catch.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Let me get you there. Please. I need to.”

You open your mouth to respond. And then he sinks back inside.

Slow. Careful.

One of his hands reaches for yours, intertwining your fingers and pressing it against the pillow beside your head. The other rests right over your stomach.

And when he moves deep, slow, tender, it’s not about him anymore. It’s about you.

“You’re everything,” he whispers, forehead brushing yours. “Everything I ever wanted and didn’t think I could have.”

You gasp, your legs wrapping tight around his waist.

His voice is wrecked, low, barely holding together. “I wanna make you come so bad it hurts. Not because I need it, but because I want you to feel how much I fucking adore you.”

He rocks into you just right and you whimper, eyes stinging.

“I’ll do anything,” he says, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “I’ll buy you flowers every morning. I’ll rub your feet after missions. I’ll learn how to cook for real. I’ll call you baby in public and mean it. I’ll never make you feel small. I’ll be yours in every way I know how to be.”

You’re gripping his hand now like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

He presses his forehead to yours again. “You’re so close, aren’t you?”

You nod, breath catching.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Come for me. Please.”

And it’s not the rhythm. It’s not the pressure. It’s him. The voice. The hand in yours. The soft, impossible things he’s whispering just for you.

You come hard, gasping his name, back arching as the wave crashes through you.

He watches it all the way your mouth parts, the tears that spring to your lashes, the way your body writhes under his and his own release hits seconds later.

He buries his face in your neck, hips jerking, groaning against your skin like he’s never felt anything like this before.

Because he hasn’t and neither have you.

You both lie there, tangled, trembling, the silence thick with everything you didn’t mean to say but did.

And when he finally catches his breath, voice barely audible against your throat, he whispers,

“…I think you just broke me in the best fucking way.”

You don’t know how long you stay like that pressed together, sweaty and shaking, your heart still thudding like it hasn’t gotten the memo that it’s over.

Adrian hasn’t moved.

His body is still wrapped around yours, chest flush to yours, arms banded tight around your back, one leg thrown over yours like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t physically anchor you to the bed.

He’s still inside you. Soft now, overstimulated, but not willing to let go just yet.

Your fingers trace idle circles against the sweaty slope of his shoulder. You’re still catching your breath when you feel it the tiniest little tremble in his chest.

And then he exhales. Sharp. Shaky. Emotional.

“…man,” he whispers. “I think I saw God.”

You laugh, soft, breathless and tilt your head just enough to look at him.

He’s blinking up at the ceiling like he just came back from war. Hair a total mess. Chest heaving. Lips red and bitten.

You brush a thumb across his cheek. “You okay?”

He nods quickly, eyes darting to you like he wants to make sure you’re still here. Still real.

“I just… fuck.” He smiles, dazed. “You really meant it, didn’t you?”

You blink. “Meant what?”

He pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes. His voice is hoarse. Small.

“When you said it was mine.”

Your breath catches.

Because you did say that. You meant it at the time. And now, after everything, you’re sure it wasn’t just dirty talk.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I meant it.”

Something breaks in his face, something soft and boyish and so stupidly vulnerable that it makes your chest ache.

He lowers his head to your collarbone and just stays there, breathing you in.

“I’m gonna be so annoying about this,” he mumbles.

April 12th, 2009

Twenty-eight year old Christopher Smith's head shot up from his records, his fingers pausing on his favorite 11th Street Kids vinyl, and slowly reaching up to pull off his headphones. The second he did so, the sound that pulled him from his jovial silence hit him in the gut. The first thing he noticed was the sound of his father, August Smith screaming obscenities and slurs with a fury he'd only ever faced once in his life— the day he killed his brother. The second thing he heard was the thing that worried him the most; outside of his bedroom, he could hear his baby sister screaming and crying, and the distinct crack of skin against skin. His dad was beating his sister.

Chris had never run faster. Sprinting out of his room, he found himself staring in horror at the scene in the living room. His sister was on the ground, shielding her face from her father's blows as he screamed at her, "No child of mine is gonna be a goddamn homosexual! How dare you bring that trash into my house?!”

"Dad!" Chris yelled, crossing the room to his father's side and blocking a particularly harsh blow. All that did was earn him a backhand to the face and a rough shove from his father. His head smacked the ground before he could throw out his elbows to soften the landing, his vision temporarily blurred, and it took him a moment to regain his bearings. He could still hear his sister crying as their father delivered one last verbal blow, "I ever see you with that girl or another ever again, you're both fucking dead. You hear me?" It was only when Auggie heard a broken whimper from his daughter that he stomped off, grabbed his keys, and left their house yelling something about going to a bar.

She looked so broken. So defeated. What in the world could his sweet little sixteen year old baby sister have done to cause their father to reign such hatred down on her. He didn't know if he'd ever seen her cry before. He'd heard it through their shared wall a few times late at night, but never seen it out in the open like this. It hurt even more seeing the blossoming bruise around one of her eyes and dried blood dripping from her nose. His hand hovered inches from her shoulder, unsure of whether or not a comforting hand was what she needed. Instead, he whispered her name in uncertainty. A question that recieved a soft sob in response.

Her gaze finally lifted from the ground, finding his in defeat, "He found out about her, Chris. I didn't know he'd walk in without knocking. He saw us kiss."

He stared at his sister for a long moment, confused— no, beyond confused, "Found out about who?" Another soft sob fell from her lips, a noise that could only be the kind that knocked the wind out of you.

"My girlfriend, Chris."

Oh.

"Your… girlfriend?" He knew he probably looked like a floundering idiot. Wide eyed and mouth agape. He had no clue his sister liked girls— how could she like girls? Whenever they hung out and listened to Motely Crue (one of the few bands they agreed on), she would drone on and on about how hot Tommy Lee and Nikki Sixx were, or she would talk about the fat crush she had on Eric from Boy Meets World, "You're a lesbian? How? You're like in love with Nikki Sixx-"

"I'm bisexual you dumbass." She murmured in defeat, "I like girls too." His heart clenched for a moment as her eyes avoided his like she was afraid he'd react like their father. Chris wasn't like their dad though. Sure, he sought Auggie's validation like twenty-four seven, but he didn't agree with a lot of what he believed— okay, he disagreed with like pretty much everything.

"What, like Bowie?"

This ellicit a small laugh from her, finally lifting her mood ever so slightly, "Yeah. Like Bowie."

***

Present Day: April 12th, 2022

"No, I don't have room for another class in my schedule, Jan." Work bags and grocery bags were ballanced precariously in her arms and her phone was pressed to her ear by her shoulder as she attempted to unlock the front door of her apartment. She let out a pissed off scoff, "No- Jan, that's my free period. I use that to grade. There are other English teachers, ask one of them." Finally her apartment door swung open and she was able to get inside, weaving through scattered dog toys and an overly excited pittie. She bites back an immature grumble as she sets down her groceries, "Well, I don't know what to tell you. Hire someone new because I don't have the time." Click.

Her palms rested against the cold granite counter of her kitchen, calming her frustrations ever so slightly. This school year had already been enough to make her question why she went into teaching in the first place. From a rowdy Freshman class that tested her patience, a new principal who doesn't seem to have any regard for the class loads she gives to teachers, and a lazy piece of shit boyfriend who was two seconds away from being dumped, she was ready to say fuck it and run off to the country side.

The thumping of her dog's tail against her leg pulled her from her pity party. She glanced down at her pittie, Eggsy— a name given after realizing that dogs could have a favorite movie and for some reason his was Kingsman: Golden Circle. Smiling, she kneeled down to let him press into her arms, "Hi, buddy. D'you have a good day?" She glanced around the quiet apartment, "Did Cody actually get off his ass and leave the house?" Her fingers paused on his head, so Eggsy pulled away from her to walk over to his water dish which turned out to be bone dry, "Motherfucker- CODY! ARE YOU HOME?" Her fury from the day returned with a vengence as she filled the dish back up. The silence she recieved told her he was either miraculously out of the apartment or gaming with his fucking noise cancelling headphones on.

She rose from the ground, her gaze zeroing in on her closed bedroom door, eyes narrowing as she stalked towards the room and muttered vulgarities that only a salior could manage to string together, "That lazy fucking piece of shit…" If the #ihatemybf trend had a face, it would be hers. "CODY!"

Cody's face paled, startled out of his game. He was completely frozen in place like a child caught doing something they shoudln't, "Hey, baby… when did you get home?" He knew she was going to lose her shit on him. She'd told him time and time again that if he didn't get a job, he needed to get things done around the house while she was at work— evidently, he'd yet to do this in the slightest.

She could tell by his face that he knew he was in deep shit, "Turn off that fucking game and take off your headphones." She didn't wait for him to do so before launching into her speech, "I am so sick and tired of your lazy ass. I feel like I have a teenage son, not a boyfriend. At this point, I'm ready to—" Knock knock knock. A scoff fell from her lips at the interuption, holding her finger out at him, "I'm not done."

She couldn't imagine who would possibly be at her door at the moment, but whoever it was would probably get a taste of her anger too. Without looking through the peep hole, she tugged the door open and froze, "Chris?"

"Hey, sis." It had been so long since they'd spoken that Chris was almost convinced the woman before him wasn't even his sister. The last time he saw her was the night of her high school graduation where she told him she'd be leaving for college in California with no plans of returning (spoiler alert: she came back). That was over a decade ago. Giving her a once over, he noticed all the things that made her his sister. Those forever furrowed eyebrows, the necklace she hadn't taken off since she was twelve, and that tilt of her head that told you everything you needed to know about how she was feeling.

"What the fuck are you—"

"Who's at the door?" The voice of her idiot boyfriend was like nails on a chalk board. The one time he manages to do something outside of rotting in their shared bedroom, it ends up being something to piss her off even further, "Babe, who the fuck is this?"

"I'm her br-"

"None of your fucking business, Cody." She whipped around, staring the man down for a long moment before speaking again, "We're done. Pack your things."

"What?"

"Pack your things and go."

***

She stood at her kitchen counter and watched her brother with a curious gaze. Normally, he was spotted out and about constantly in his Peacemaker costume, but he'd done her the favor of wearing normal clothes to show up on her doorstep.

After a long sip of her wine, she spoke, "So, you're out of Belle Reve?"

A shallow nod, "Yeah… how'd you know I was arrested again?" Chris had been arrested a few times before for his vigilante behavior, but after a mission for A.R.G.U.S. went wrong, he was sentenced to thirty years at the super prison Belle Reve.

He'd used his one phone call on her.

She didn't answer.

After listening to the voicemail he'd left for her, she felt absolutely horrible for not answering. They hadn't talked in years, and yet he used his phone call on her. From there on, she'd made a point of keeping tabs on him through his prison sentence via a security guard she knew, "I keep tabs on you."

"You've been keeping tabs on me?" He asked incredulously, the beer she'd given him stopping short on it's way to his mouth, "How the fuck were you even doing that?"

"I know a guy." She smiled playfully, letting her guard down ever so slightly.

She wasn't sure of Chris at the moment. He was everything to her growing up, but after they lost contact, she assumed his dad had stuffed his nazi propaganda down his throat. In the long run, he was still her best friend growing up. He was to her what Keith was to him. Just like Chris and Keith, their dad had torn them apart.

"You know a guy." Chris murmured into his beer, eyebrow raised slightly, "You uh… you really grew up, huh? You're different." Meaner, he thought to himself. Especially after he witnessed her breakup just minutes earlier.

"Yeah, well… I'm not sixteen anymore." She swirled the wine in her glass, watching it with a sad smile, "You're not very different, are you?"

"Probably not."

It was comforting to know that he hadn't changed much. Somehow, it was like she was a teenager again, just hanging out with her big brother— yet, she still hadn't completely let her guard down because she didn't truly know what this Chris was like, how he'd changed.

"Did you tell your little side-kick about me?" She asked curiously, a small smile quirking up at the corners of her mouth, "He stalked me for a minute after you got arrested, he wanted to see if I would help him break you out.

"Fuck," Chris sighed heavily, shaking his head, "I mentioned you like one time."

"Just one time," she repeated with a chuckle, "It's fine, I'm not like mad or anything. Seemed sweet. Reminded me of someone…. still can't put my finger on it though."

"Sweet?" Chris replied incredulously, "Dude, he's weird as fuck."

"Oh, c'mon. Clearly he thinks you guys are best friends, give him a break."

She thought back to that night he finally approached her. She'd noticed Vigilante haphazardly following her home on a few occasions before he 'saved' her from a mugging and took the opportunity to reveal himself as "Peacemaker's best friend". It was heartwarming the way he talked about her brother, so passionate and determined. He was genuinely serious about breaking Chris out of Belle Reve, but she talked him down from the idea— "You can't help him if you're stuck in prison too" she'd explained.

"Best friends," he murmured, "Bullshit, Eagly is my best friend."

"Eagly is a bird, Chris."

"Yeah, and my best friend."

Finally, she let out a real laugh. Comfortable banter had settled back between them like nothing ever changed, like they were back to being kids again listening to Motley Crue and sharing a beer they stole from their dad. It brought a smile to Chris's face to see her finally opening up to him.

"So, what are you doing now that you're out?" Her head tilted to the side curiously, her wine hovering inches from her lips as she waited for him to respond.

"Probably lay low for awhile, then go back to crime fighting." He shrugged like it was nothing, like he didn't want her catch onto what he let slip.

"Lay low?" She narrowed her eyes, "Chris… did they let you out or did you break out?"

He stiffened, awkwardly scratching the back of his head, "They didn't exactly let me out, but they haven't come for me either, so…"

"What the fuck, Chris?!" She set her wine glass down with a loud clang , reflecting the fury she suddenly felt, "You're a fucking fugitive and showed up on my doorstep?"

"Hey hey, no! I am not a fugitive! They left me in a hospital! I just walked out!"

Tension thickened between them as Chris's sister grew angrier. She wanted to express her anger, but she didn't get the chance to speak. There was no time for her yell, let alone get out a single thought because her front door suddenly swung open under the force of four people rushing into her apartment.

"Christopher Smith!" One of them yelled, rushing into the kitchen with his gun raised. He was an angry looking man, the glare of a man on a mission staring through her and into Chris.

"FUCK!" Chris swore, looking between the three agents furiously, "Come on!"

"You really think we'd let you skip out on your sentence without a catch?" The man raised his eyebrow, gun still pointed, "Sit down, we need to talk."

She glared between each person that broke into her apartment, two women— one, an experienced looking agent and the other a little nervous looking. There were two men as well, sharing similar demeanors as the two women. Except, one of the men snuck off towards her fridge where he began riffling through for food.

"Hey, asshole! Get the fuck out of my fridge!" She snapped, watching as the man glanced over at her with the look of a kicked puppy and a mouth full of olives.

"My blood sugar is low…" He whined, popping another olive into his mouth with a frown.

"Yeah well, those olives are expired." Her eyes narrowed as he spit the olives back into the jar before placing it back where he found it.

"Smith," the other man brought their attention back to him, holstering his gun and calling off the two women, "And… other Smith. We have a mission we need you for. It was only supposed to be Peacemaker we were after, but we could use Chaos too."

Her heart stuttered in her chest as the man referenced her old alter-ego. She hadn't operated under that name since she started college, the fact that this man knew it was her chilled her to her core.

"How did you—"

"They're ARGUS," Chris's face turned in her direction, but his eyes never left the man, "They know everything."

"Focus up, Smiths." The angry man pulled their attention back in, "My name is Mr. Murn. That man is John Economos, that's Agent Harcourt, and Agent Leota Adebayo." He pointed to each respective person who gave Chris and his sister their own greeting, "We need you both for something we're calling Project Butterfly."

***

It was mere hours later that she found herself sitting at a table at Fennel Fields, each person who'd invaded her home now sitting around the table with her and waiting on her brother. She hadn't said a single word to any of them, she didn't want to. They'd just met, they expected her to join in on some fucking mission, and she already had something against them— with good reason. She'd be sending ARGUS an invoice for her splintered doorframe.

"Hi- hey… what's up," a voice next to their table cleared their throat, awkwardly standing just a little too far away from them, "Can I take any plates for you guys?" It was Adrian Chase, Gut Chase's little brother— someone her brother knew from high school.

Adrian, who used to be a gangly and awkward boy, used to follow Gut around like he was the coolest person on planet Earth. Which meant, whenever Gut came over, so would Adrian. She'd always hid in her room because they were all much older than her, but she'd harbored a small crush on him— one that she wasn't sure had gone away, especially considering how much he'd beefed up.

"We're okay, Adrian. Thanks, though." She smiled kindly, adding a little nod to each person at the table to make sure they agreed. When she did speak to him, she'd always been extra kind to him. She wasn't sure he even registered or cared, but all the other boys were mean to him. She wanted to be the one person who wasn't.

"Oh," he seemed a bit disappointed, yet on the inside he couldn't believe she had remembered his name— she was so pretty now, "Okay… just let me know if you need anything." He tacked on her name at the end with an added flair, like a 'I remember your name too' kind of way.

"Thanks, Chase." She nodded to him, watching him scamper away just as her brother finally showed up… in full uniform. Fucking helmet and everything.

"Hey, guys." Her brother squeezed himself into the booth, leather squeaking awkwardly as he moved.

"Why the fuck are you wearing that?" Harcourt grumbled, gesturing to his stupid getup with disdain.

"It's a uniform… we're working." He made a face at her, almost like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "D'you guys eat without me?"

"Yeah, man. You took forever to get here." Economos complained— something he did quite often, she noted.

Chris rolled his eyes and waved over a waitress, "Hey, sweetcheeks! Yeah, can I get the zoodles?"

"Sure thing, hon. I'll get 'em right out to ya." The poor waitress quickly took his order and disappeared, leaving the table to stare at Chris in disgust. His sister wasn't surprised. That's exactly how her father acted, so in turn, that's how Chris learned to act— even if he wasn't fully aware he was in the wrong.

"Seriously, Chris?" She murmured, nudging him under the table with her foot.

"What? They're zucchini. It's healthy."

"We're not talking about what you ordered, man!" Adebayo backed her up as she shook her head, "Sweetcheeks? Really?"

"What?" He became defensive, feeling offended that they would invalidate him like this, "She has cherubic cheeks! It's a compliment."

"Sweetcheeks doesn't refer to her face, dumbass." She glared down her oblivious brother, watching the realization dawn over him before he quickly returned to that self-assured look.

"Well, I wasn't looking, but I'm sure her ass was nice too. She has a good figure."

Another eye roll passed around the group before Murn grabbed their attention back to the mission, "Smith's, these are for you." He handed them each a manila folder, nodding to each of them seriously. He quickly grew angry as Chris immediately opened it despite the contents being extremely sensitive.

"Don't-" his sister slammed the folder shut and gave him a glare that the rest of the table reflected, "Don't open that shit in public, dumbass."

"Take it home and read it, Smith." Murn sighed, dragging a hand down his face. To which Chris merely shrugged and set down the file.

"Why is that busboy staring at us again?" Harcourt questioned, looking over to Adrian once more. Everyone looked over to see Adrian give Chris a supportive fist pump and big dopey smile.

"He's got mental issues." Chris whispered, earning a hard kick from his sister, "What? He does."

"He also has a crush on your sister." Adebayo teased, sending her a wink in support.

"What? On my sister?" Chris laughed like he'd heard the most absurd thing in the world, "Yeah, that's likely. I mean, she's not ugly, but…" he muttered like she couldn't hear him, "she's not the prettiest of the bunch.

Another kick.

"Dude, fuck off."

"Can we get back on task please?" Mr. Murn seemed to be getting more exasperated by the second, glaring at the plate of zucchini green zoodles placed in front of Chris. He nodded to the waitress before dropping his polite expression the moment she walked away, "Go home and read the file."

She nodded to Murn before forcing her brother out of the bench so she could take her file and leave. She needed to get back to her apartment for peace and quiet— aka space from her overbearing and obnoxious brother, and now the team of asshole agents that recruited her.

As she weaved her way through the restaurant, she couldn't help the glances she made through the room in an attempt to spot Adrian. She didn't want to admit it, but when Adebayo joked about Adrian having a crush on her, it made her heart race. It even made her wonder— no, hope that it was more than just a joke.

"Shit-" She stumbled back a step as she walked into a poor busboy carrying a bucket of dirty plates. He looked damn near ready to chew her out when Adrian rushed over, "I'm so sorry, dude. I wasn't paying attention."

"Hey! Daniel!" Adrian snapped at the other busboy, "Maybe watch where you're walking? We have a rule here about not walking into customers." He placed his hands on his hips in an attempt to seem authoritative, leaning forwards, "Fuck off, man."

The busboy- Daniel- just rolled his eyes at Adrian before muttering an apology to her and walking away.

"That's not actually a rule," Adrian smiled at her, looking proud of himself, "I just said that to make him think he could get in trouble. It really should be a rule though. We should not be walking into customers like that, it's bad for business."

"Adrian," she chuckled softly, "It's okay, we were probably both at fault… thank you, though. That was very kind of you."

His smile widened, "Yeah, duh. Of course. How could I just stand by and let you get assaulted like that. That guy deserves to lose his job— I bet that wasn't even his first time running into a customer. Man, we really should crack down on this."

She stood there, smiling like an idiot as Adrian ran through all of the possible scenarios in which that could have gone south— a knife jumping out of the bin and stabbing her, the bin falling on her and breaking a bone, etc. It was detailed and completely unrealistic what he delved into, but she stood there and took it in like he was reasonable in warning her about the dangers of wandering busboys.

"Anyways," he shrugged, still smiling widely, "I should probably get back to work before my boss gets on me for not working… I'll see you later, crocodile."

She furrowed her eyebrows with a chuckle, "I think its alligator— ya know, since it rhymes with later."

"No…?" He scoffed, giving her an unintentional condescending look, "It's definitely crocodile. I should know, I know a bunch of crocodile facts. You should quiz me."

"Yeah?" she laughed, "I'll have to take you up on that sometime… maybe you should give me your number. You know, so I can call and quiz you."

Adrian looked like a kid in a candy shop, completely lighting up at the prospect of getting her phone number, "Uh yeah, I can do that." He whipped out a pen and paper from his apron and jotted down his number before handing it over with a flourish.

"Thanks, Ad." She smiled softly, taking it from him with an uncharacteristic wink, "I'll call you."

"Yeah. You do that. You just… type in those numbers and give me a good ol' ring." He awkwardly scratched the back of his neck as she walked away, grateful she probably didn't hear the last part of that.

As she walked out to the parking lot, phone number in hand, she read the digits to herself a few times over. She swore she'd seen this number before— did she already get his number? Surely not or she would've gotten closer to him already. She shook off her confusion and stuffed the number into her pocket, unlocking her car and getting in, smile still lingering on her face.

The drive home wasn't long, which she was grateful for. She hadn't bothered turning on her radio or putting in a CD, instead she drove home in silence and continued to think about her interaction with Adrian. He was always so refreshingly awkward. It was a much appreciated divergence from the average overconfident dickhead she normally ran into. Which is why for the entire drive home she continued to think about that dopey smile he always wore and the way he seemed to have filled out since the last time she'd seem him… and he really bulked up. She could feel herself get hot as she thought about what his biceps would look like in a tighter shirt as he picked up those heavy dish baskets, muscles rippling behind the fabric.

"Shit-" She blinked back into reality and realized she'd begun to slowly drift towards the side of the road without realizing, "Note to self: Don't think about biceps while driving."

It was when she finally arrived home that she sat down on her couch to punch in Adrian's number and shoot him a text. Nervously, she glanced between the paper and her phone, typing in each digit only to find one of her contacts remaining steadily in the suggested bar. Then, when she'd had the whole number punched in, she continued to cross check each number: On the paper she would count out the first three digits, then look at the contact on her phone… the same digits, then back to the paper for the last four. Each number completely identical, and yet before now these two contacts would have been two very different people.

When her brother went to prison and she was first introduced to him, he'd given her his number in case of emergency. Now, here she was, staring at the number of someone else entirely and coming to the realization of one very big secret.

Adrian Chase is Vigilante and without realizing, he'd completely blown his cover by giving her his number for the second time.

She was now left with a very important decision: tell him and risk a potentially violent fallout or pretend she didn't know a thing.