#reader insert fanfic

“Get you hands off me, oh my god why are your fingers so cold? Your hands are usually warm! Stop it!” You bat at Cassie’s hands as she tries to get your temp. You had been practically lifted off your feet to get into the room in the first place. You had a shift in five minutes, and your friendly doctor McKay wasn’t letting you out until you had a clean bill of health. Her hands had already reached out to do the forehead and gentle hand temp check, and you were burning up. 

“Behave, don’t make me use the rectal thermometer, doctor.” The older, gorgeous doctor threatened, and she meant it. You were behaving worse than her son when he was ill. Harrison had texted his mother, warning her of your sick status. While Cassie had been worried, seeing you like that had her full blown over protective crazy mama vibes.

“It’s just a case of the spring flu,” you reason but your pushed back onto the bed. You don’t have the strength to fight her, had she been working out? 

The hospital lights offend you, making you squint up at the doctors form. Cassie takes your glasses off your nose and pockets them. You try to get them back but she’s faster, mad mom skills and all.

“Maybe, but I gave you your flu shot, though so I’m going to be thorough,” McKay tells you moving her stethoscope as Dana comes in with her little lamb. Emma's smile falters when she sees how pale you look.

“No, I don’t want to be a teaching hospital today.” You say rudely, and Dana narrows her eyes at you.

“Don’t listen to her, Doctors make the absolute worst patients. But as grumpy as she appears, she’s my favorite. So that’s why I came in to torture her.” Dana says, and Cassie squirms a little. And the charge nurse notices immediately.

“Dr. McKay?” Her eyebrows go up expecting.

You have such a high fever that you don’t understand or care about their silent argument. 

“I’ve got this, I think Robbie’s got a trauma comin' in.” She eyes the new nurse like that will be better for her. A nice bloody case for Emma. Not you, not while Cassie had you. No extra hands required. 

“Dr. McKay, is there a chart made up for our patient?” Dana makes her point clear, but Cassie still isn’t happy. The gentle threat doesn’t reach your tired frame. But to the other three women, it’s clear; If a chart is made, it’s not a personal call anymore. 

If anything, Dana could get Cassie off the case for her ‘personal feelings,’ but the nurse is more poking the soft butch to see how much of an ass she’s going to be.

“No,” you say just as the older doctor cringes and nods.

“Yes,” Cassie says on top of you. Her braid falling over her shoulder as her dark scrubs can’t hide the way her body tenses.

“Okay, let’s do some labs and see what color mucus you got kiddo,” Dana tells you and grabs the blanket, pulling it across your lap.

Your eyes drift, you can help it.

“I have rounds.” You say with your eyes already closed.

“You may present your own case if you would like,” Al-Hashimi states coming in and pressing her ID down on the scanner to see your chart.  Ignoring the rest of the room to find out what ails you.

Cassie hates this even more than Dana, way more. 

“I’ve got this covered, really, just some routine tests.” Doctor McKay is being possessive, and Al-Hashimi doesn’t back down.

They’d been doing this for the past five months, and it was getting to be a game of whose strap was bigger. 

Dana was over it, but you were ignorant to the butch brawl. 

Emma makes a scared face as her attention goes back and forth to the two women fighting about your chart. Even Dana waits on this one.

The children would get tired eventually, or she’d need to get a kiddie pool with mud for the two to work it out. 

Dana had her bets on Cassie, not because of the ankle monitor or the rough history. But not, not because of the ankle monitor, McKay just had this love for you. That the charge nurse was sure wouldn’t blow over anytime soon. 

Baran is the queen of passive-aggressive in these situations, though, and she easily calls ranks. 

“Then we’ll make sure to put a rush on them and find out, Dr. McKay, may I speak to you in the hall?” The senior attending requests even though it’s not a question. 

Cassie makes sure to leave with your glasses in her pocket; you wouldn’t be driving without them. 

“Of course Dcotor Al-Hashimi,” she says through her teeth. 

The two leave, and you miss how Cassie’s eyes linger in your shivering frame.

Dana ignores the fight in the hall and instead squeezes your knee comfortingly.

Voices raising and falling outside don’t matter; you did. 

Dana nods at Emma towards the computer, knowing she’d have better chance at bullying you into submission then the sweet young nurse. 

You yawn, and try to get warmer in the blankets. Sweat drips down your forehead and you really wish you had stayed home; the light was too much for your headache. 

Dana wipes at your forehead with her palm; it’s less medical and far closer to an intimate gesture. 

“So tired, Dana…” you whisper, and she smiles comfortingly at you. You were too cute to even the charge nurse like this, all docile and needy. 

“I know, kid, so no more bad patient, okay? Emma here is gonna get you a second warm blanket and I’m gonna get some fluids in you. Starting of course, with your temp, now are you gonna behave or do I need to put you over my knee like my kids?” She says, and you don’t have the energy to fight her. Though you can see how she would totally spank you.

“Apple juice? you squeak in question and even Emma can’t help but smile at how cute you are. The normally smart doctor that she was intimidated by was getting tucked in by the charge nurse and asking for juice.

“As much as you want, you just gotta let me take your temp.” Dana agrees, trying not to smile too openly at how adorable you were. No wonder the two gay ladies in the hall were arguing over your chart.

Your eyes lull closed and Dana takes it as a warning, grabbing the thermometer for under your tongue.

“How long you been feelin this way, kiddo?” She says low in her ‘mama bear’ sorta way. It works on you every time. You fold like a melted string cheese under just a little maternal push. 

“I took Harrison to this new exhibit.” You shiver, and the thermometer beeps and is pulled from your lips.

Emma types in your chart once she sees the high number. 

“Who’s Harrison?” Emma asks, being a little nosey. Thinking that it’s your boyfriend. Kids these days, she’s probably thinking he’s 5’9 in finance. Nothing could be further from the truth. Dana chuckles at her very wrong idea.

“Harrison is Dr. McKay's little boy, he’s smarter than many of the doctors on this floor and cuter than a button,” Dana informs Emma, and now you smile big.

Yeah that was a good way to describe him. 

“He’s adorable and knows he’s got me wrapped around his finger. How else would I start playing the Nintendo Switch on my weekends?” You say and your teeth chatter from your temp. 

“You saw the exhibit, you worked 3 shifts and you’ve been having a headache, haven’t you?” Dana asks but starts an IV. You don’t even twitch as the needle goes into your vein. 

“Who squealed?” You open one eye to glare.

Dana hid her laugh at the absurdity of the question. 

“You got family here, family talks.” Dana dismissed you but you still gave her a dirty gaze. It’s not scary in the least. 

“You have spies.” Your throat is raw, and you sound like Johnny Cash after smoking a pack. 

But the two nurses don’t tease you, too low-hanging fruit. Besides, Dana has worked hard to be someone you trusted, and it wasn’t her style to tease you while you're half unconscious.

“Everywhere.” Dana agrees just as the two doctors re-enter.

Both are looking equally unhappy.

“Temp?” Al-Hashimi asks and Dana lets Emma answer. She’s squeezing the IV bag, and watching you try and pull the covers up incredibly higher. Your scrubs sticking to your skin like wet newspaper. It’s rough and unkind and you want to sleep. 

“103.4,” her gentle voice is kind but you groan and yank the blanket over your head all the way. 

“Does Harrison have it too?” Emma asks and misreads the room. This wasn’t a discussion. Everyone looks at her and then Cassie.

“Excuse me?” The doctor doesn’t like that one bit.

“Why would her son have it?” Al-Hashimi asks, but her tone is off.

“He didn’t put on the astronaut helmet with the zillion children coughing in it, so no.” You say, and your voice gives out halfway. 

“Rest your voice,” Cassie instructs harshly and then eyes Emma with a new fire. 

“Either way, let’s just rule everything else out.”

“Baran!” You try to shout and her lips curl at you using her first name. Just as Cassie’s grinding her jaw.

“Healthy Doctors on my floor. Only healthy Doctors. Get some rest, Khvaab-e-shirin.” Baran reminds you and squeezes your blanket covered foot. 

The anger in Cassie’s features are hot enough they could light her fingers on fire.

But then the senior attending is out of the room again. 

“Stop it,” the head nurse snaps at Cassie. “Get that look off your face.”

She says, waiving her pointer in a tiny circle. 

“What?” Cassie pushes back rudely, only to get a threatening stare in return. 

“I warned our patient I’d take her over my knee, you want to go first?” The motherly threatening is enough that Cassie tries to bounce back.

“Blood draw, and a Covid test. Do strep too.” Cassie lists and Dana actually pulls back, looking offended. Like what was this her first day or something?

“Oh, and then what?” The nurse delivers sarcastically but Emma is typing rapidly on your chart. 

“Not you too, please.” Cassie winces after getting the riot act with Doctor Al Hashimi. A very uncomfortable back and forth where the two argued but also danced around the real issue. Baran wanted you and so did Cassie and neither wanted to work in the same shift while yearning over you. 

The blonde can’t believe this clear rudeness. 

“Hey, I’m bisexual too. You gonna fight every gay on rotation or just the ones in your weight class?” Dana arches an eyebrow, and Cassie’s eyes zone in on you to see if you're paying attention. Luckily you were out. 

You look like Harrison when he sleeps. Mouth open, little snores, body curled like a bug in a rug. Cuddling nothing but fabric, how Cassie wanted to crawl into that bed and hold you tight. 

Hold a cold cloth on your forehead and rub your lower back over and over. Hypnotic and consistent, watching over your sleeping form to keep you safe. 

Kiss your nose and soothe any bad dreams. 

Cassie McKay wanted the honor of being the person you snuggled against. 

Today and every night, never letting you get cold again. Feet pressed against her own under comforter and silent nights.

“Please Dana, I just…” Cassie is trying really she is, but she’s already raw. Already holding back from fighting with Baran. 

So the nurse's shoulders drop a little, no longer wanting to make her point.

She raises her hands up to stop McKay from trying to say another word. 

“You started the chart, you finish the chart. Emma and I will keep an eye on Sleeping Beauty. Go do rotations, by the time you're done with our first few happy customers, the labs will be back. You can’t do anything for her now anyway.” Dana says, gently reaching out to squeeze Cassie’s bicep and it helps.

Lord she needed a raise. 

“Why did I fall for the cute one everyone wants?” Cassie asks, and Emma tries not to grin at how adorably in love Dr. McKay is.

Dana shakes her head, but makes her way for the door. Pushing the doctor as well. 

“Listen, your girl didn’t get sick while on a date with Al Hashimi. Let’s remember who she spends every weekend with. Now stop marking your territory and scram.” Dana says, opening the door and walking the worried Butch out.

It’s hours later when you wake up. Sorta disoriented, you get anxious and jerk from the bed.

Strange fever dreams causing a cold sweat, you gasp in despair. 

“Hey, hey, hey, easy, it’s me,” Cassie shushes and in the dim light you blink wearily at her.

“Cass? Cassie that you?” You croak, voice something in between. 

“Yeah, I’m here. It’s okay sweetie, I turned off the lights so you could sleep better. Here,” she puts your glasses on your face and now you can make her form out better.

It soothes you and you fall back flat on the bed. Knowing she’s around always makes you feel better. 

“Am I dead?” You ask, with the IV in your arm and Cassie working on your chart.

“Not funny.” She says dryly.

“Sorta funny,” you challenge, only to see Cassie looking down, right concerned.

“You should have told me you were feeling sick.” She sighs, disappointed that somehow she missed this. You're burning out right in front of her. 

Cassie was always on you to drink water, to sleep, feeding you when you forgot. Packing extra lunches and extra coffee.

So how had the doctor so missed this? 

The answer was clear, because you hid it from her. That’s what really made Cassie sick to her stomach. 

“I could have worked my shift.” You insist. Anxious that you’d caused a fuss, a call out, you dropped the ball. Made work harder for the team. 

“Your temp spiked, you were delirious and dehydrated.” Cassie’s tone is getting more clipped, more tense, it’s building. 

In the dark you can see her worry is all consuming.

“Cassie, I just-”

“You just weren’t taking care of yourself!” She shouts and you flinch from her words and then you see her eyes shut as she tries to breathe and calm down. Not wanting to shout at you. Her temper flaring because she’s scared.

“Hey, I’m alright. I just needed some fluids and and-” You start but Cassie wipes at her face and you wonder if you’ve broken something in her. 

“You, make everyone else a priority. You can’t burn out like this, your important. Not just a doctor but…Damn it.” Cassie chews on her bottom lip trying so hard to figure out how to do this. 

“I didn’t want to worry you.” Your voice cracks and your head is pounding. 

“That’s what’s got me worried.” Cassie lets out a self deprecating sound and whispers at her feet. 

“Cassie, it’s just the flu.” You say gently but Doctor McKay isn’t able to let it go. 

“I need you to take care of yourself, do you understand? You matter. I need you….” Cassie is opening her mouth and she can’t say the rest because that sentence really sums it all up. 

Cassie McKay needs you. 

“Your mad I didn’t tell you.” You say now, thinking of how you’d evaded her. 

Her head falls before she lifts it and tries to calmly discuss this. 

“I can’t take care of you if you won’t let me.” Her voice cracks and you reach out, it doesn’t take your fellow doctor more than a second to grab your hand back.

“You have enough to worry-” You try but it makes the older woman huff and cut you off. 

“No, no, you don’t get to decide. That’s not how this works.” Cassie insists and you sniffle and she can’t stay mad at you when your sick and out of it. 

So you two just hold hands and stare at one another. 

“I don’t wanna get you sick.” You whisper, voice straining and Cassie leans forward and pulls wet strand of your hair back off your face. 

“I’ll take my chances.” She says gently with love in her eyes. 

“Harrison told me it probably had more germs then chucky cheese ball pit and I still put it on. I wanted to be an astronaut.” You say in hushed tones and Cassie can’t help but snort at that. 

“What am I gonna do with you,” Cassie keeps playing with your hair and holding your hand. 

“Let me win mario cart once in a while?” You try with big pleading eyes. It wasn’t fair that she could beat you and Harrison. 

“Not a chance, that’s my street cred.” The older woman says and you giggle then wince in pain. 

“I brought you apple juice and applesauce, and I even snagged a donut. But you have to take the tylenol. Or I’m withholding the sprinkles.” She’s got a bunch of goodies on the tray.

“You are cruel.” You say back and Cassie nods like she’s tough shit. 

“You know it,” The doctor helps you sit up, propping the bed and pillows until your up. 

“I feel like death.” You say in pain.

“Now she tells me,” Cassie lays it on thick and you try to be grumpy about it. But you want that pink sprinkled donut dang it. 

“If this is the end, I just want you to know-”

Now Cassie’s not having any of it. She shakes the pill cup. 

“Don’t even, jokes about your death will not get me to share sugar.” The older doctor warns. 

“I see the light,” you push but take the pills and Cassie opens the apple juice and you take a swig. 

“Last warning,” Cassie informs lifting the donut and taking a bite herself. 

Your eyes widen, in despair - how could she be so mean. 

“I thought you swore to do no harm.” You stick out your bottom lip. 

“Dana said she’d spank you if you were bad, what do you think I’d do?” Cassie actually flirts and you lose your ability to speak at the idea. 

Dirty dirty thoughts, fuck what a sight.

“That’s what I thought, be good. I’m taking you home after my shift,” she checks her wrist watch. “So in exactly four more hours, so if you can not develop any new illnesses between then and now I’ll even let you pick dinner.”

You don’t get to say anything else, but Cassie sets the rest of the donut onto a napkin and moves the tray over your hospital bed. 

“I’m still trying to decide if I want to be good or not,” you flirt but you aren’t joking. You don’t know if you can blame it on the temperature. 

Cassie gives you a long look before leaning over your body and kissing your forehead. 

You can’t help but close your eyes and feel more loved from such a tiny peck than you had your whole life. 

Cassie lingers too long to be considered friendly, before leaning back and eyeing you. Your flushed from the temperature, that’s what she tells herself. 

“You’re already in the dog house. Now no more death jokes, close your eyes. Good dreams only, and drink your juice.”

“I want Chinese.” You say, but your heart is doing summersalts in your chest. You don’t want her to go.

“Behave.” Cassie says one last time before moving towards the door. 

“Can I have another kiss if I promise to?” You for sure can’t blame it on the temperature now. 

But Cassie also couldn’t resist such a request. She moves back to your bed and goes for your forehead but just as you close your eyes to enjoy it again. 

She moves down and pecks your lips. 

You must look like a cartoon because when you open your eyes she’s smiling at your lovestruck look. 

Your grin is so big it actually hurts your cheeks. 

“Four whole hours?” You ask needy and revel in how much Cassie seems to like you like this. 

“Two hundred and fourty minutes,” Cassie agrees but in the dark now you think you can see her own blush. 

“Do you have to go?” It’s desperate but real.

“Dana already is grumbling because I came in here every twenty minutes while you were sleeping. I think if I stay any longer she’ll send Al-Hashimi in and put me on AI charts all night.” 

“Baran’s nice!” You argue and your voice cracks. Cassie grabs your juice and makes you take a sip but she’s already disagreeing. 

“Hey, don’t forget who’s got your chart.” Cassie threatens and you wonder why the two doctors don’t get along. 

You frown and give a little pout. 

“You sure you want to take me home? I’m overly needy when I don’t feel good, I know this, and it’s gross.” You say but Cassie shakes her head. 

“I like you like this.” She admits afraid of how you’ll react.

“Bedridden, waiting for the end.” You tease again and Cassie grabs your donut and holds it up. 

“I warned you.” Cassie’s got this look that you can’t place. 

“Not the donut! Anything but the donut.” You shout playfully and move your hand to try to take it. 

“Can you be a good girl?” The older doctor asks and you can’t explain the full body reaction you have. 

Except that you were sick and maybe subspace was easier to reach like this….or maybe it was all Cassie McKay. 

But you sink and the butch see’s it immediately. Tilting her head to the side she sets the donut back down and cups your cheek. Swallowing the sugar and wondering what you taste like.

“Can you be my good girl?” Cassie asks now, and she needs you to say it. Needs it to be true. 

Your lip trembles just a bit, but the hold on your face has you feeling so cherished that you get choked up. 

You nod once.

And Cassie likes that, she likes that more than anything. 

“Good, eat, drink, sleep. Fourteen thousand four hundred seconds, then your butt is being released. And you can get as much sweet and sour soup as you want. Okay?” McKay says more to herself than to you, she’s never been more excited to get off shift. 

You nod again and grin, and Cassie doesn’t want to leave you but she’s got to. 

“You okay here?” She asks, but she’s stalling.

You nod again, then Cassie’s taking off your glasses and putting them back in her pocket.

You two stare at each other with more feelings than you can take, it’s bursting out of your chest. But she’s walking backwards to the door. 

Hesitating, not touching the doorknob. 

Almost like she’s afraid if she leaves maybe you’ll change your mind, or maybe this was all too good to be true. 

“1.44e+7” You whisper and she looks confused for a second before realizing you are doing the math for the milliseconds. 

She points to the applejuice and you grab it again and drink.

“My good girl.” 

Take care of yourself

It’s a quiet afternoon in Monaco, the kind where the air feels just a little salty and the sea breeze slips through open windows with no urgency.

You’re sitting on a blanket spread across the sun-warmed terrace of your apartment, legs outstretched, baby Amélie asleep across your chest, her cheek smushed against your collarbone. She’s drooling slightly, one tiny fist clinging to the neckline of your dress.

Leo, is curled at your feet, panting gently, his ears twitching every so often as if even in rest he’s on duty.

“Do you think he knows he’s not a big dog?” you whisper to Amélie, scratching behind Leo’s ear. “He walks like he owns the marina.”

You don’t expect an answer, of course, but if the soft grunt Amélie makes in her sleep is any indication, she agrees.

From inside the apartment, you hear the sound of laughter, then feet padding quickly across hardwood, then...

“MAMAN! Look what Papa did!”

Maxime bursts through the open sliding doors first, grinning, two strawberries stuck onto his fingers like claws. Luca follows close behind, holding what appears to be a makeshift paper crown with crayon scribbles and a Ferrari sticker on the front.

Charles trails behind them, carrying a tray with juice boxes and two small plates of cut-up fruit and cheese. He’s barefoot, sun-kissed, and wearing a navy t-shirt that used to be yours.

“He let us eat strawberries before lunch,” Maxime tattles gleefully.

Charles pretends to look scandalized. “They were organic. And sliced. That’s basically a salad.”

You give him a look, but your heart isn’t in it. He winks, sets the tray down on the blanket, and leans in to press a kiss to your temple, then one to the soft curls on Amélie’s head.

“Is she out?” he whispers.

“She made it exactly four minutes into your crown-making craft session.”

“Understandable. Maxime takes glue sticks very seriously.”

The boys settle onto the blanket, Leo immediately scooting over to rest his chin on Luca’s ankle. Maxime offers him a piece of cheese. “For being the best guard dog in the whole world.”

Leo accepts it with regal calm, as if it’s his divine right.

You and Charles sit back against the terrace railing, Amélie shifting gently in your arms, the quiet hum of the city below you. Somewhere nearby, a yacht horn blares lazily. Birds chirp. A Vespa whirs past. Monaco hums along.

“You know what I was thinking about this morning?” Charles asks suddenly, his fingers absentmindedly drawing circles on your knee.

“What?”

“That first summer we spent here. When the apartment had no furniture. When we had to eat pasta on the floor.”

You smile, remembering it perfectly. “And Leo was the only one with a proper bed.”

“And now look at us,” he says softly, watching Maxime show Luca how to build a tower out of cheese cubes. “Three kids, a mortgage, and enough toys to build a small city.”

“And still no matching socks for anyone,” you sigh, holding up one of Amélie’s, a soft pink one that definitely doesn’t match the yellow bootie on her other foot.

Charles laughs. “It’s called aesthetic chaos. Very trendy.”

You lean your head against his shoulder and close your eyes for a moment.

It’s warm. Not just from the sun, but from this. The life you built together, noisy and sticky and perfectly imperfect.

“I like our version of Monaco,” you murmur.

He kisses the top of your head. “Me too.”

Maxime giggles loudly, a strawberry now mushed to his nose, Luca chanting “Leo! Leo! King Leo!” as he places the paper crown on the dog’s head.

Leo sighs like a saint but allows it.

Amélie stirs in your arms, then settles again, tiny lips puckering in her sleep.

And for a long, quiet moment, nothing happens except sunlight and soft laughter and the feeling of Charles's hand, warm and sure, resting over yours.

————

the end.

------

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“And I’m not saying Courtney went feral during the improv challenge, but when she climbed onto the table, screamed ‘I’M YOUR NEW GOD NOW,’ and tried to baptize Damien with a Capri Sun? That’s not ‘yes and’—that’s ‘arrest her.’”

Spencer snorted softly, curled up beside you on the Smosh green room couch.

He didn’t say anything. Just leaned his cheek on his knuckles and watched you with that tiny half-smile that meant he was enjoying this, even if his mouth didn’t move much. But his eyes—his eyes were soft, full of the kind of quiet love that didn’t need words. Like there was nowhere else he’d rather be than next to you, listening.

“And THEN,” you continued, shifting to face him better, “Emily tried to de-escalate with the puppy voice, which just made it worse, and honestly? At that point, we all deserved chaos.”

“You always choose violence,” Spencer murmured.

“I choose accuracy.” You sipped your drink. “Anyway. I haven’t even told you what happened after filming. Do you wanna guess how many times Shayne dropped his mic?”

Spencer tilted his head. “Three?”

“Five. Five. One of them bounced into a plant. It’s in the blooper reel.”

He grinned. Still quiet. Still watching.

And you knew this rhythm by now.

You yapped. You rambled. You ping-ponged from story to insult to theory, sometimes circling back like a walking Google rabbit hole, like if Wikipedia got caffeine and a personality. And Spencer? Spencer sat with you in it. Always listening and always nodding at just the right moment. Always smirking when you hit a particularly unhinged punchline, like he’d been waiting for it the whole time. He never interrupted. Never rushed you. Just watched you like you were his favorite show, soaking in every wild tangent like it made perfect sense. Like your voice was the best background noise the world had to offer—and maybe the main event, too.

You paused for a beat. “I talk too much.”

Spencer blinked. “No, you don’t.”

You gave him a look.

“Okay, you talk a lot,” he amended, eyes warm. “But it’s never too much.”

Your stomach flipped.

You tried to hide it with sass. “You know, most people would say ‘shut up’ by now.”

“I’m not most people,” he said simply.

And that… made something in your chest tug.

You softened. “You ever get tired of listening to me?”

He shook his head. “Never.”

“Even when I rant about my neighbor’s emotional support chinchilla at 2 a.m.?”

“That was riveting.”

“Even when I psychoanalyze everyone’s childhood via their Starbucks orders?”

He smiled. “I still think about Shayne’s being a cry for help.”

You laughed, warm and caught off guard.

Spencer reached out—quietly, slowly—and brushed his fingers against yours on the couch. You blinked at him.

“I like your voice,” he said.

You stilled.

“It’s not just the stories or the jokes,” he went on, gaze focused, steady. “It’s you. You could read the back of a cereal box, and I’d still sit here like it was a movie.”

Your face heated. “...You’re literally in a room with trained comedians.”

“I’m aware.” He leaned in a little. “Still only listening to you.”

You bit your lip, heart stuttering.

“You gonna kiss me or just compliment me to death?”

His voice dropped, low and teasing. “You gonna let me?”

You didn’t answer. Just leaned in and kissed him like you’d been waiting through three seasons and two spin-offs.

His hand caught the side of your face halfway through, steady and careful, like he couldn’t believe this was real—but wasn’t about to let it go. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t clumsy. It was exactly right—warm and a little dizzying, like laughing too hard in the sun.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, eyes still half-lidded, Spencer just smiled.

That soft, crooked little smile like you’d just handed him the moon.

“You good?” you asked, voice low.

“Mm-hm,” he nodded, still looking at your mouth. “Gimme a sec. My brain's doing the Windows loading wheel thing.”

You laughed, giddy and flushed.

He tucked a hand behind your knee, squeezing gently. “Okay. Yeah. I'm fine. Great, actually. You kissed me. That's… illegal levels of cool.”

You grinned. “I’ll confess later.”

Spencer leaned in again, forehead pressed to yours. “No rush. I’m a patient man....You’re gonna have so much to say about this, huh?”

You grinned. “Oh, absolutely. Buckle up.”

He nodded.

“Cool,” he said softly. “I’m listening.”

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Nervous wasn’t quite the right word for what you were feeling. No. What curled in your stomach, tight and sharp, was closer to despair. The kind that clings. Embarrassment too, maybe. And a little self-loathing, dusted over everything like powdered sugar on something too sweet.

People were trickling into the bar you’d rented, a grungy little place with flickering lights and sticker-covered walls, each one a memory someone left behind. You said it was for your special birthday. Twenty-five. A number that sounded important if you said it with enough conviction.

Your brother had given you a look when you made the announcement. Quiet, but questioning. He didn’t say anything, just sipped his drink like he was waiting for the punchline. You’d never thrown yourself a party before.

Across the room, Nico and Riley were tucked into a corner booth, their heads tilted toward each other like a secret. The light above them buzzed softly, catching just enough of their faces to make it look like a stage. Like they were performing being young and happy. You should’ve been over there too. Laughing. Pretending to be carefree. But instead, your eyes kept drifting back to the door.. You stared like it might open for you if you just put your mind to it hard enough.

Like he might walk through it.

A hand landed on your shoulder, jarring you out of it. Too hard. Too warm.

“Kiddo,” your dad said, offering you a beer. Cold enough to make your skin flinch. “Having a good night?”

You forced a smile, wide enough to fool someone who loved you too much.

“Yeah. Thanks, Dad. I’m so glad everyone came.”

Well. Everyone didn’t come. 

He hummed, draped an arm across your shoulder. For a second, it felt like being five again, when the world was small and soft and safe.

Then you said it. Quiet and casual. “Did you invite Joel?” You took a sip to hide the way your mouth twisted when you said his name.

“Yeah,” he replied, not noticing. “Hope that’s alright with you. Figured I needed someone who drinks at my pace. Can’t keep up with you young folks anymore.”

He nodded toward the crowd, downing shots like they were racing death.

You laughed—dry, polite. If your dad knew, if anyone knew, that this entire night, this birthday, this guest list, this location, had been stitched together just to get Joel Miller into a room with you again…

Well. They’d probably send you somewhere with padded walls.

And maybe they’d be right. Because even now, with all this noise and warmth around you, all you could think about was the last time you saw him. The way he stood in his doorway, arms crossed, mouth tight. The way he said it couldn’t happen anymore. The way you begged.

Pathetic.

The way he said you had your whole life ahead of you, and he’d already lived his. The way he never looked back.

“Sure you’re alright?” your dad asked, voice dipping into something softer. “You seem kinda… far away.”

You blinked, smiled again, this time with teeth. “I’m fine. Just really happy. And maybe a little tipsy.”

You added a giggle on top, like a cherry.

Then you kissed his cheek and slipped toward the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind you like a final note.

You pressed both palms to the edge of the sink, bracing yourself like the floor might give out. The mirror in front of you offered no comfort, just your own face, too aware of how carefully you’d prepared for this night.

The dress was the one he liked. He told you once, offhandedly, that it drove him crazy. Said he worried all the “boys” would trip over their own feet trying to stare.Your lips curled at the memory, though it hurt.

Nico had done your makeup. Nothing too loud, just enough to make your eyes look bigger, brighter. Like a version of yourself you could almost believe. A single tear slid down your cheek, catching your mascara on its way down, leaving behind a delicate black streak. Like a special effect in a Hollywood movie. The kind where the girl falls apart beautifully. You wiped it away with the edge of your thumb, careful not to smudge the rest.

Heartbreak wasn’t new. You’d had college flings, boys with kind smiles and forgettable names. But none of them had ever looked at you like Joel did.

No one had touched you like he had, hands firm, reverent, like your body was a song he didn’t want to forget the words to. No one had kissed you slow, full of guilt and wanting, like he did when the door was locked and the world was far away.

And no one had ended it like he did either.

You still remembered the last time. His front door already cracked open, his jaw tight. The way he rubbed his face like he was trying to wake up from something.

“This has to stop,” he’d said. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You begged. You didn’t even try to hide it.

Asked why.

He said the words you already knew: the age, your dad, the life you were still building and the one he’d already spent.

You could still feel the echo of that moment in your ribs.

And now here you were—at a birthday part you didn’t want, in a dress you picked for a man who said goodbye, trying to hold your body together in a bathroom that smelled like beer and old soap. You dabbed at the corners of your eyes one last time and forced yourself to breathe. Then you opened the door.

The noise hit you like a wave—laughter, clinking bottles, bass thrumming low through the floor. Your father was waving at someone near the entrance, half-shouting over the music. “Look who finally showed up!”

But you didn’t need to look. You felt it. The air changed. He always did that—shifted the atmosphere like some kind of storm front. You turned, slow, and there he was.

Joel Miller.

That flannel—his flannel—was the one you’d picked out for him once, at some small store on a rainy afternoon. He wore it like he didn’t even realize. Like he wasn’t still wrapped in the memory of you. He didn’t look at you at first. But you could feel his eyes—skimming the room, skipping over you, then circling back. Your throat tightened. Like you’d swallowed a stone. One of those heavy ones that lined the edge of your dad’s backyard pond.

Still, you moved. Like prey too stunned to know it was walking toward the hunter.

He stepped forward, finally meeting your gaze. And you could see it, something behind the eyes. Regret, maybe. Or worse: want.

“Hey, kid,” he said, soft. “Another year older, huh? Happy birthday.”

He held out a hand like you were strangers meeting at a dinner party.

You took it. Shook it. A nod was all you could manage.

“I uh—got you a present,” he said, clearing his throat. “It’s out in the truck. You got a second?”

He scratched the back of his neck. He couldn’t look at you when he said it.

Joel Miller, nervous. What a sight.

You wanted to scream. To tell him no, that you didn’t need whatever apology-shaped object he’d left on his passenger seat. That you were doing fine, thank you very much. That he could go live his grown man life and leave you in peace.

But instead, you nodded. “Sure.”

He turned, walked through the crowd. You followed—threading your way past your friends, smiling too hard, touching shoulders like you belonged, like you weren’t unraveling at the seams.

—

Outside, it was quiet. Not peaceful, just still. A hoot echoed in the distance. An owl, or whatever fucking kind of bird thought it was a good idea to sing its heart out in the middle of the night. The gravel crunched beneath Joel’s boots—slow, steady, heavy. Not once did he glance back to check if you were following. Not once did he slow down.

So you trailed behind him, obedient and ridiculous, like some loyal dog too stupid to realize it had been left behind weeks ago.

His truck was parked in the back lot, tucked between two tall trees like it didn’t want to be found. Finally, he stopped. Turned. Looked. So you did the same. Stopped. Turned. Looked. Like two strangers in a standoff, unsure of what to say now that the war had already been lost.

“You’re bein’ distant,” he muttered. No soft greetings, no dad-approved handshakes, no pretending this was casual.

He had that voice again, the one he used only with you. Lower. Quieter. Trying to sound gentle, like you were a thing that might break. And god, you hated it. Or maybe you didn’t.

“Am I?” you snapped, arms crossed over your chest like armor. “Guess I didn’t notice, what with all the life I’ve been so busy living lately.”

It was early autumn, the kind of cold that seeps through your dress and sinks straight into your bones. You hugged yourself tighter, trying to hold in the warmth, or whatever scraps of it were left.

Joel stepped to the side of the truck and popped the door. Without a word, he pulled out one of his jackets. He walked over and laid it over your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You should’ve shrugged it off. You should’ve told him to fuck off. But it smelled like him. Smoke and cedar and wood shavings. Like safety. Like the last place you’d felt wanted.

“Thanks,” you mumbled.

He nodded once, jaw working.

“So what?” you asked. “You drag me all the way out here just to tell me I’ve been weird? Because newsflash, Joel, getting your heart broken a little tends to do that to a girl.”

You turned, ready to head back. Ready to reenter the noise and neon and pretend like you hadn’t just stood wrapped in his scent like some sad little footnote.

But then—his hand. On your wrist. Gentle, but firm. A tug, not a pull.

“Wait.” His voice cracked, soft. “Please. Just five minutes. That’s all I’m askin’. Please. Baby.”

You looked up. His eyes were wide, glassy. Begging. And goddammit, those eyes. You hated how easy they made it.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like the word hurt coming out. “You think this past month was easy for me? You think I liked avoiding you like I was made of stone? I think about you all day, every day. First thing in the morning, last thing before I sleep. And every time, I tell myself it’s wrong. That I shouldn’t. That I can’t.”

He laughed, humorless. Rubbed a hand over his face, then pinched the bridge of his nose like he was trying to make the world stop spinning.

“But still,” he continued, voice raw, “your face shows up. Everywhere. I see your eyes when I close mine, baby. I hear your voice in my head when things get quiet. I don’t know what the fuck to do about it.”

You didn’t think. Just reached for his hand, the one still half-hiding his face. Slid your fingers into his, gently lowered both to his chest. He let go. Just long enough to pull you in.

His arms wrapped around you like they’d never let go again. Tight, like he thought someone might come rip you away if he wasn’t careful. His face buried in your hair. Your cheek pressed to the soft cotton of his shirt, the beat of his heart steady and real beneath it.

Maybe you imagined it, but it felt like yours was flipping, twisting, leaping in your chest. Like it recognized something. Or someone. Maybe it was love. Or maybe it was a car crash you were finally letting happen.

You stood there for god knows how long.

There was a brief flicker in the back of your mind, someone might come looking. Nico, maybe. Or your brother. But the thought passed, unimportant.

Maybe it would’ve been easier if someone did see. If they caught you like this, wrapped in his jacket, pressed to his chest like something sacred. Then it wouldn’t be a secret anymore. It would be out, and the world would just have to deal with it.

Joel let go first. Again. He stepped back, rubbed the back of his neck like he was stalling for courage, then ducked into the truck. When he reappeared, he was holding a small box. Wrapped. Badly. Like he’d tried. Like he’d started, stopped, tried again, given up halfway through but still finished because it had to be done.

He held it out to you like it weighed something more than it should. You took it carefully. 

Bit by bit, you peeled away the paper, slow and precise, revealing a silky green box, inside a delicate silver necklace. A small green stone shimmered in the center, soft and earthy, like a forest in spring.

On the back, an initial. Your initial.

“Joel…” your voice caught in your throat. “This is—this is beautiful.”

For what felt like the hundredth time that night, your eyes filled with tears. This time, you didn’t bother wiping them away.

He took the chain from your fingers, stepping behind you. One hand reached up, brushing your hair gently to the side. His fingers skimmed over the back of your neck, and every hair on your body stood up like it had been waiting for that exact moment. Goosebumps bloomed beneath his touch. He leaned forward, carefully clipping the clasp behind your neck. His fingers were steady. Gentle. Familiar.

Then, just as gently, he guided your hair back into place, like it was something he’d done before, like he already knew the shape of you by heart.

“I made it,” he said softly, voice low near your ear. “Made it whenever I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you. When nothing else would get you outta my head, I worked on this. Just kept imagining what it’d be like—giving it to you.”

It didn’t matter anymore. Who might see. What it meant. How much worse this would make the ache.

You couldn’t help it.

You turned—fast, reckless—and kissed him.

At first, it was soft. A whisper of lips. A question. He didn’t respond right away. Just stood there, frozen.

But then, something in him snapped. His hand shot up, fingers sinking into your hair, the other gripping your cheek like he needed to anchor himself to the moment. He kissed you back, open-mouthed, desperate. Sloppy in a way that made your knees weak. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.

It was need. Hot and raw and a month too late.

He walked you backward, mouth never leaving yours, hands roaming your sides like he couldn’t remember where to start. Hips, waist, thighs. He pressed into the soft skin beneath your dress, thumbs brushing the hem of your underwear, knuckles dragging across your bare skin like he couldn’t help himself. The dress rode up with every step. And just before your back could hit the cold metal of the car, he opened the door, fast and smooth, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

You fell into the back seat, breathless. The leather stuck to your skin, warm now, suffocating. You barely had a second to register it before Joel climbed in after you, mouth crashing against yours again like he was trying to memorize the taste.

“Fuck, baby,” he muttered between kisses, voice hoarse. “I missed you. I fucking missed you.”

His lips moved down to your neck, biting softly, soothing the sting with his tongue. Your hands clawed at his shoulders, nails digging through the fabric of his flannel. You felt him everywhere. His weight, his breath, the grip of his hands tracing your thighs, your ribs, the place just under your chest like he couldn’t pick what he wanted to touch most. His hips pressed into yours, slow, deliberate, like he wanted to feel the exact shape of you again. Like he was trying to remember what it felt like to have you wrapped around him, pulling him apart.

“This isn’t right,” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours, hands still running up your thighs like he couldn’t stop. “But I don’t care. I can’t stay away from you. I tried. God, I fucking  tried, Baby. My Girl.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him back to your mouth.

“Then don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t try anymore.”

The windows had already started to fog.

Joel was above you, heavy breaths warming the space between your lips. His hands trembled slightly where they gripped your hips, like he was holding back from devouring you whole.

You reached up, brushed your fingers along the edge of his jaw. “You don’t have to—”

But he cut you off, voice gravel-dark.

“I want to.”

Then, slower—deeper. “I need to.”

He kissed your inner thigh first. Just above your knee. Then higher. Then higher again. Every touch was reverent, like he was making up for lost time. Or maybe punishing himself for the month he spent trying not to think about what you tasted like. When he got to your panties, he breathed in. Breathed. Like your scent knocked the breath from his chest.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, dragging them down with one hand while the other held your leg open, gently but firmly, like he wasn’t taking chances this time.

“You’re already so wet, baby. So wet for me, pretty girl.” he muttered, like it hurt him. “So fuckin’ sweet…”

And then his mouth was on you. No teasing. No slow build. He buried himself between your thighs like a man starved, like he hadn’t touched anyone in the time he was gone because there was only you. Tongue flat, wide, dragging through your folds like he wanted to live there. You gasped, head hitting the seat back, one hand scrambling for the fogged window, the other sinking into his hair.

Joel groaned—groaned—like the sound of your moan alone made him harder. He doubled down, tongue circling your clit before sucking it into his mouth, messy and obscene, the wet sounds echoing in the tight heat of the car.

“F-Fuck—Joel—”

He grunted against you, holding your thighs wide open, almost shaking with restraint as he devoured you like something holy. Like your pleasure was the only thing that existed.

You looked down at him, breath hitching, and when your eyes met, he held your stare as he licked a slow, thick stripe from your entrance to your clit again. Then—again. And again.

“You taste like a fuckin’ dream,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “My fuckin’ dream.”

You whimpered, hips bucking against his mouth. He growled and pushed them down, holding you still, not letting you move—he was in charge here, and he was going to ruin you on his tongue.

“Daddy—” The word slipped out. Not planned. Just felt. Joel froze. Just for a second. Then looked up at you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. A slow smirk spread across his lips, chin slick with you.

“Say that again.”

You swallowed, chest heaving.

“Daddy, please…”

That was it. He lost it. His mouth was back on you, harder now, rougher, devouring your clit with filthy groans that vibrated straight through your core. His fingers joined his mouth, sliding inside you, two thick ones, curling in just the right place, dragging moans from your throat like confessions.

It was overwhelming. Hot and wet and frantic. Like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. And you didn’t want him to stop. Your body tightened, muscles trembling, orgasm building fast—too fast.

“Joel—I’m gonna—”

He didn’t let up. Just pinned your hips, looked up at you with fire in his eyes, and growled:

“Come for me, babygirl. You can do it. I got you sweet girl. Come for me now..”

And you did. Your whole body arched off the seat, thighs shaking, moans spilling past your lips like prayer, like ruin. He didn’t stop. Kept licking you through it—into it—drawing every last wave from you, humming softly against your clit like he wanted you to feel his pleasure too.

Only when your body slumped, boneless and wrecked, did he finally lift his head.

“You always taste this fuckin’ good?” he muttered, voice low and raw. “I fucking forgot what it felt like to be alive.”

The air inside the truck had gone heavy, thick with heat and breath and the weight of every second spent apart.

Joel sat back on his heels between your thighs, chest heaving, hair a little wild. He looked ruined already, and he hadn’t even fucked you yet. Your dress was still bunched at your waist, his jacket falling off one shoulder. The necklace he made you rested just above the swell of your chest, glinting in the dim cabin light. He looked at you like it hurt. Like you were too much and not enough all at once.

“I missed you,” he said, almost a whisper. “I missed you so fuckin’ bad it made me mean.”

You reached up, cupped his face, your thumb grazing that little crease beside his mouth. “Then do something about it.”

His eyes flickered, something bright, something dangerous. Then he moved.

He crawled over you, slow, like he was savoring it. The way your body opened for him. The way your knees spread wide, trembling, eager. He kissed you again, this time unhurried, deep, almost lazy. Like he had all the time in the world to ruin you. His cock pressed hard against your thigh, hot and heavy. You reached down to wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, loving the way his breath hitched in your mouth.

“Fuck,” he muttered, breaking the kiss. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“No,” you whispered, guiding him lower. “Just bring you back to life.”

Joel braced one hand beside your head, the other gripping your thigh, dragging it around his waist. You felt the thick head of him nudge your entrance—hot, solid, perfect.

He didn’t push in yet. Just stayed there.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice hoarse. “Tell me to do it.”

You blinked up at him, lips parted, breath shaky. “I want it. I want you. Please, Joel. Please just fucking make yours again”

That was all he needed.

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open in a way that made your eyes roll back, mouth falling open in a silent moan. He was big. He always was. And you felt every single bit of him.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “You feel even tighter than I remembered.”

Your fingers clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into fabric and skin as he bottomed out, hips flush with yours. He stilled there, letting you adjust, forehead pressed against yours.

The silence stretched. Breathless. Electric.

He started to move. Slow at first, dragging his cock out until just the tip remained before slamming back in with a groan that made your whole body throb.

“Joel—”

He growled into your ear. “You gonna take it all, babygirl? Gonna take everything I give you? Fucking you with my big dick that you’re taking so well?”

You nodded helplessly, back arching, legs wrapping tighter around him as he started to fuck you in earnest. Rough, deep, steady. Every thrust deliberate. No teasing now. No games. Just months of need finally boiling over.

“Fucked my hand for weeks thinkin’ about this pussy,” he rasped, biting down on your neck, licking over the mark he left. “But it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough.”

You whimpered, voice breaking. “Joel—please—harder—”

He obliged.

The rhythm turned punishing, his hips slamming into yours, the seat creaking beneath you, the windows fogged with sweat and heat and sin.

“Such a dirty fuckin’ girl,” he muttered. “Gettin’ fucked in the backseat like this, lettin’ Daddy make a mess of you. While everyone else is inside waiting for the birthday girl. She’s underneath me like a pretty little slut. This is probably the only birthday present you wanted huh?”

You moaned at the magic  word, loud, needy, and he smiled against your throat, feral and proud.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Say it again.”

“Daddy—”

He grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head, holding you in place as he drove into you harder, deeper, angling his hips to hit that perfect spot that had you writhing under him.

“You like that, don’t you?” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Being Daddy’s little fucktoy. You gonna let me fill you up?”

You choked out a sound, half sob, half moan—nodding frantically. “Yes—fuck, yes—please, I want it. Wanna feel you inside me. Making me feel so good”

He reached between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing it fast and rough, just the way he knew you liked. You were close, so close, your whole body coiling tighter, slick and soaked and made for him.

“I wanna feel you come, baby,” he grunted. “Wanna feel this pretty cunt milk my cock while I fill it up. Show me how much you missed me.”

That was it.

You shattered beneath him, crying out his name, whole body locking up as your orgasm crashed through you, leaving you shaking and gasping. Joel cursed, low and filthy, and then came inside you with a broken moan, cock pulsing deep as he held you tight, like he could press his heart right into your chest. He didn’t move. Just stayed there, breathing hard, face buried in your neck, whispering your name like a promise.

The truck was quiet now. Not silent, there was the sound of rain tapping softly on the roof, the distant hum of late-night traffic somewhere beyond the trees. But inside, the noise had stilled. Joel sat beside you, one hand resting on your thigh. His touch was light, absentminded, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. His thumb stroked in lazy circles over your skin, slow and steady, grounding. Your dress was rumpled, pushed halfway down your hips, his jacket still hanging from your shoulders. The air smelled like sex and sweat and his cologne.

You leaned your head against the window, skin cooling, breath finally evening out. Neither of you spoke.

The moment didn’t ask for words. It just was. Heavy and warm and full of something unspoken. You looked down at your chest, fingers finding the delicate silver chain. The necklace still sat there, the green stone catching the soft overhead light. Your initial pressed against your skin like it belonged there. You ran your fingertip over it, slow, thoughtful.

Joel saw. He didn’t say anything right away, just watched your hand, watched the way you touched something he made for you. Something he'd thought about while pretending he didn’t care.

Then, softly, almost like he was afraid the words might scare you away, he said, “Happy birthday.”

You looked at him. You smiled, small and real, the corners of your lips curling..

“Thanks,” you whispered.

He gave a small nod. Barely a movement. But he didn’t look away. Not this time. And you didn’t push. Didn’t ask what this meant. Didn’t ask if things were different now. You just sat there, legs tangled, his jacket around your shoulders and his come still inside you, and knew.

He was here. And he wasn’t going anywhere, not tonight.

—-

You stepped out of the truck first, legs still a little unsteady, dress sticking to your skin in places, hair slightly mussed from Joel’s hands, his mouth, his body. The air outside had cooled even more, autumn crisp and still. You inhaled, deeper than you meant to, like the moment needed anchoring. Joel came around the side of the truck and pulled the door shut behind him, eyes scanning the ground for a second before they lifted to meet yours. His face had softened, not entirely, but enough that you saw the shift. Something in his expression you hadn’t seen in weeks. A quiet, wordless promise: I'm here.

Neither of you said anything as you started walking back toward the bar. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes again, the low hum of music getting louder with every step. You adjusted his jacket around your shoulders, still warm from his body, and smoothed your fingers once more over the necklace resting just below your collarbone. The stone felt heavier now. Important.

Inside, the bar was just as loud and golden and smoky as you left it. The party hadn’t missed a beat. People were laughing over half-empty drinks, a group were now playing darts and heckling each other mercilessly, and your brother was waving a sparkler around in the corner with two girls you didn’t know. But as soon as you crossed the threshold, the attention shifted.

“There you are!” someone called from across the room. Riley, of course. Loud and nosy and already half a bottle deep. “Where the hell did you disappear to?”

You froze just slightly, lips parted, heat already rushing to your cheeks. Joel brushed past you then, moving through the crowd with a casualness that only just masked the tension in his shoulders. His hair was a little wild, his shirt untucked at the back, and there was still the faintest pink at the tips of his ears.

And then Nico joines. He took one look at Joel. Then at you. His eyes narrowed. Slowly. Like a cartoon villain putting two and two together. And then he screeched.

 “OH MY GOD—”

Your head snapped toward him, a hand shooting up, eyes wide. “Shut the fuck up.” You said it with all the fake venom you could manage, but the smile curling at the corner of your mouth betrayed you instantly. Riley’s mouth dropped open like she was about to explode, but she held it in, barely, eyes twinkling like she’d just been handed the juiciest gossip of her life. And she probably was.

You slipped past her quickly, cheeks burning, pretending to busy yourself with a forgotten drink someone handed you. Then the music changed, softened into a rhythm you recognized too late.

A cake appeared out of nowhere, glowing with too many candles. Someone dimmed the lights, and then, everyone was singing.

Happy birthday to you…

It was out of tune, too loud, voices competing for attention, but there was something warm and wonderful about it anyway.

You turned slowly, laughing through your mortification, hands half-covering your face, and then—

You felt it.

Joel’s hand.

Sliding around your waist from behind, slow and deliberate, fingers resting just above your hipbone. Not claiming. Not possessive. Just there.

Steady.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to. You just leaned back a little, just enough that your shoulder brushed his chest, and let yourself exist in the moment—cake and candles and noise and his hand on you like maybe, just maybe, the space between you two didn’t need to be hidden anymore.

Happy birthday, dear you…

The song ended in applause, laughter, someone accidentally knocking over a beer. You didn’t hear much of it.

You just closed your eyes for a second. Smiled.

And felt the weight of his fingers tighten, just slightly, at your waist.

He sat at the far end of the long table, boots planted, tunic a little looser than usual. There was still a sword at his hip—habit, not threat—but he hadn't had to reach for it in weeks. The suitors were gone. His father had returned. His mother no longer cried into candlelight. Ithaca breathed again.

So why couldn't he?

"Drink," said Peisistratus, pushing a cup toward him. "If you're going to stare like that, at least look mysterious while doing it."

Telemachus blinked. "I wasn't—"

"Yes, you were," his friend grinned. "Whole brooding prince thing? Very effective. That barmaid's been eyeing you since we walked in."

Telemachus turned, just in time to see her saunter off after dropping another round of drinks. She had smiled at him, he thought. Maybe lingered. He hadn't noticed.

He glanced back at Peisistratus, sheepish. "She was just being polite."

"She was being polite with her chest, my guy."

Telemachus sputtered into his wine.

Peisistratus leaned back with the smugness only the youngest son of a king could afford. "Gods, you're hopeless. What do they do in Ithaca, anyway? Stitch tapestries? Pray? Practice self-restraint until you die untouched?"

"We defend our homes," Telemachus said, wiping his mouth. "We hold our families together. I didn't exactly have time to entertain women while men ate my mother's food and planned to take her bed."

Peisistratus groaned. "Still reciting war monologues, huh? Your house is intact, your mom's safe, your dad's alive, and you—you've still never—"

"Don't." Telemachus glanced around, lowering his voice. "You don't have to announce it."

"Then deny it."

He said nothing.

Peisistratus stared. "Telemachus."

Still silence.

The prince of Pylos let out the most exaggerated gasp Telemachus had ever heard. "You are—!"

"I never had time, okay?" Telemachus snapped, heat rushing to his cheeks. "And it's not like I—like anyone—I mean, I could have, maybe, once or twice, but—"

"Spare me." Peisistratus slammed the mug down. "You've been home for weeks. Women all over the castle smiling like doves in heat. And you've done nothing?"

Telemachus opened his mouth. Closed it.

"...You're impossible."

"I'm cautious," he rebuttled.

"You're cursed."

Telemachus rolled his eyes. "You said we were celebrating your last night in Ithaca, not my alleged virginity."

"And we are." Peisistratus stood up suddenly. "Which is why we're fixing that."

Telemachus tensed. "What are you doing?"

"Getting you out of your own head." The younger prince grabbed his wrist. "Come on."

"Wait—"

"I know a place."

"Peisistratus—"

"You trust me, don't you?"

"I—That's not the point—!"

"It is exactly the point." Peisistratus grinned, half-dragging him through the tavern door, past the lyre, past the wine, into the soft night where stars bloomed and scandal lurked.

Telemachus' stomach dropped. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, the nerves, or the fact that for the first time in years... he didn't know what came next.

☆

☆

The wash water stung your hands. Not from heat, but from the way your fingers had cracked again—tiny splits in your skin from scrubbing too long, too often, with too little rest between. But you didn't stop. You couldn't stop. If you could just finish this last basin, you could dry your hands by the fire and maybe—

"Hey." You flinched.

One of the older girls leaned into the doorway, silk slipping off her shoulder, perfume following behind her like smoke. She was smiling—but not in that fake, flirty way they did for customers. This was different. Kind. Almost... pitying.

"You're up."

"...Up?" you echoed, straightening too fast.

"First client. Just got called in. He's a special one, too. Big spender."

Your mouth went dry. "I—I thought—"

"I know. You've been doing laundry for weeks. Earning your keep. But tonight's different."

She crossed the room, gently took the basin from your hands, and set it down. The water sloshed over the sides. You stared at it like it might pull you under.

"I'm not ready."

"No one ever is," she said softly. "Come on. We'll help you."

Moments later, you sat like a doll in a chair that wasn't yours, surrounded by girls whose hands moved too fast for you to follow.

One was curling your hair with a hot iron pin, another was dabbing rose oil on your wrists. Someone else adjusted the straps on a dress that dipped too low, hugged too tight. You barely recognized yourself in the mirror. Cheeks smooth in oil. Lips bitten raw. Cleavage you'd never seen before.

"You're shaking," said one girl, brushing powder across your collarbone.

"I-I'm fine," you lied.

"She's nervous," another grinned. "That's cute."

"She's lucky," said the girl with the perfume. "First time, and she gets him."

You finally gain the courage to speak. "...Who?"

The girls exchanged a look.

"I heard he's a prince," someone whispered. "Or close to it. Tall. Polite. Kind eyes. Might not even make you do anything."

You swallowed hard.

"Just remember," said the first girl, crouching in front of you, voice low. "Pretend you've done this before. That you're in charge. Even if you're not. Men like that."

Her hand touched yours. Warm. Grounding.

"You'll be okay."

.☆.      .✩.           .☆.

You followed the Madam up the stairs like you were walking to your own execution.

Each step felt louder than it should've. Your heartbeat was pounding in your throat. She stopped in front of a thick wooden door, glanced over her shoulder, and whispered, "He's already inside."

Then she was gone.

Just like that.

You stood there for a second, alone in the silence, hands slick with sweat, chest so tight it hurt. You almost turned and ran. Almost knocked on the Madam's office and begged to go back to your linens, to the hot sting of soapwater, to the safety of anonymity. Almost.

But you didn't.

You opened the door.

He stood near the window, back turned, silhouetted by moonlight.

His posture was perfect—hands clasped behind his back, chin slightly tilted, like he was measuring the stars. His cloak was folded neatly on the chair beside him. His boots, still dusty from the road. He didn't turn at the sound of the door closing.

Your fingers clenched at your sides. You tried to remember what the girls said.

Pretend I've done this before. That I'm in charge.

You took one step. Then another.

Your voice came out soft—too soft. "You can sit down... if you'd like."

He turned.

And you forgot how to breathe.

Not just because he was handsome—though gods, he was. Soft brown curls that caught the light. Broad shoulders. Eyes like calm earth after rain. But what stunned you wasn't his looks.

It was the way he looked at you.

Like you were real.

Like he hadn't expected someone nervous, someone trembling in silk like she was being sacrificed.

Like... he saw it.

He stepped forward, slower than you expected.

You reached up—mechanically—like you'd practiced. Fingers brushing his jaw. His skin was warm. Clean-shaven. You smiled, or tried to, coy and low-lidded like the others had shown you.

But when he raised a hand—slowly, carefully, like he was asking permission—and touched your cheek...

You flinched.

Your whole body jolted. Just slightly. But enough.

He froze. His palm still hovered, but he didn't push.

You dropped your gaze. "I'm sorry. Forgive me. I just—I've never—" The words got caught. Your throat burned.

He stepped back. Not in shame. Just to give you space.

"...Me neither," he said quietly.

There was a silence after he spoke. Not an awkward one. Not really. More like a stillness—a moment suspended in the air between two strangers who had no idea what to do now that the truth had been said aloud.

You weren't sure who sat down first. Maybe you did. Maybe he followed. But somehow you both ended up on the edge of the bed, not touching, facing slightly different directions like you were afraid of spooking each other.

You stared at your hands in your lap. "I didn't think... you'd be nervous."

He gave a soft huff, not quite a laugh. "Why not?"

"Because when I walked in here, you turned around like... like you weren't afraid of anything."

That made him pause.

He looked at you—just looked—eyes dark and unreadable, like he was weighing whether to say the truth or something easier.

Then, slowly, his mouth curved into a faint, crooked smile. "Looks can be deceiving." He held out his hand. "I'm Telemachus."

You blinked.

The name struck something deep in your chest. You're not sure why, but it sounded really familiar. Still, you reached out, slipping your fingers into his before the silence stretched too long. "I'm ____."

He held your hand a second longer than he had to.

" ____." he said softly, like he was tasting it. "That's... a beautiful name."

He repeated it again, slower this time. More careful. Like he was folding it into memory.

You looked away first. But only for a second. When you turned back, he was already watching you—shoulders drawn in a little, face unreadable.

He blinked, startled at being caught, and looked away quickly, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. His ears were flushed.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I'm not... I didn't come here planning to do anything like this. My friend—he pushed. I didn't even mean to follow him in, but I—I don't know."

He sighed through a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, shoulders rising and falling under the weight of his own honesty.

"I've fought men twice my size. Led ships through storms. Stared down men who wanted to kill me in my own hall," he said. Then turned his head to you, eyes meeting yours. "None of that was as terrifying as opening that door."

You blinked at him. "...Why?"

He looked away again, and you could tell he was choosing his words.

"...Because if I went through with this," he said slowly, "I'd never be able to go back."

That confused you. "Back?"

"To the boy who never did," he murmured. "To the version of me who still hadn't. I spent so long carrying him around, pretending he didn't matter. But I think he does. And if I let him go—" he paused, "—I want it to be for something real."

You swallowed.

Telemachus glanced at you, half-smiling. "Sorry. That was a bit heavy."

"No, it wasn't," you said, surprising yourself. "I... understand."

He tilted his head. "Do you?"

You nodded. "I gave my first kiss to a coin."

He blinked.

You flushed. "I mean—! I didn't—I meant—" You exhaled, collecting yourself. "I gave it to the idea of a coin. A better life. A trade. I thought I could handle it. That if I said yes to this place, I could keep my soul out of it."

He was quiet.

You laughed, bitter. "But I think it got in anyway."

When you looked up, his expression had changed. Something had softened in him—not out of pity. Not out of guilt. But recognition. He knew that feeling. That ache behind your voice.

"I was scared," you whispered. "I still am."

Telemachus leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze steady. "What are you scared of?"

"That it'll hurt," you said. "That it'll be awful. That I'll do something wrong."

"It's not something you can do wrong," he said quietly. "Not when you mean it."

"...Do you?"

His breath caught. You didn't mean to ask it like that. Like it was a challenge. But it hung there.

He nodded. "I... I think I do. Now."

Another long pause. But something shifted in it—something warmer.

You both smiled, small and unsure.

He turned slightly toward you. "Would it be alright if... if I... kissed you?"

You nodded.

The kiss wasn't perfect. It wasn't practiced or smooth or clever. It was a little too hesitant. A little too careful. His lips were warm but tentative, like he didn't want to overwhelm you. Your fingers curled in his tunic, clutching the fabric, not pulling—just holding. His hand touched your cheek again, and this time, you didn't flinch.

It deepened. Slowly. You tilted your head. He let out a breath.

When you finally parted, you were both smiling now, a little dazed.

"I don't want to do anything that scares you," he murmured.

"That's the thing," you said softly. "It still scares me. But... not as much."

He leaned back slightly, just enough to see your face. "Do you want to stop?"

You hesitated, and then, with the tiniest breath, you said, "No."

You moved first this time—your hand trembling slightly, brushing the inside of his knee and then higher, testing the waters. He inhaled sharply, but didn't stop you—his gaze locked on yours like he was waiting to see what you'd do next.

He didn't move.

Didn't push.

Didn't take.

He just watched you, like you were a storm rolling in, and he was the only man foolish enough to stand beneath the thunder. But then you moved again. Just a shift, just closer. And something in you said: Try it. So you did.

You leaned in and kissed him.

The moment your lips touched his, Telemachus melted into it—no hesitation, no second-guessing. His hand cupped the back of your neck like it was instinct, holding you steady, and then—

His mouth opened, his tongue slid against yours, and you gasped.

A startled, breathy sound that you couldn't bite back. It caught in your throat like a held-back whimper, made your lashes flutter. You weren't expecting that—how warm he was, how eager. He kissed like someone starved. Like someone who'd read about it, dreamed about it, but never had permission to try.

And gods, once he had it... he took it.

His arms wrapped around you without thought, strong and sure. In one smooth motion, he pulled you forward, shifting until you were straddling his lap, your knees against the bed, your body pressed flush to his. His hands didn't just rest at your back—they curled, palms dragging up your spine like he was learning the shape of you by feel alone.

Your mind raced.

He's strong. He's so strong. This is going so fast—but I don't want it to stop.

You barely remembered to breathe.

His hands spread wide against your ribs, holding you in place like he was afraid you'd vanish. His tongue moved against yours again, this time slower—more deliberate. Testing. Teasing. Tasting.

You whimpered, and his grip tightened.

Some small, silly part of your brain sparked to life, voice hushed but not gone:

If this is what all the customers are like... maybe working at the brothel won't be so bad.

But the thought barely had time to settle before memory returned, sharper now—the voices of the girls who'd painted your lips and whispered in your ear before the door opened.

"Touch his chest. Men love that."

"Use your hips—grind just a little, then stop."

"Fake moan. Even if you don't mean it. They eat that up."

The words came in flashes.

You tried to recall what you were supposed to do next. How you were supposed to arch your back or roll your hips or do that breathy little laugh one girl had demonstrated by the mirror.

But none of it came naturally.

Not when his hands felt so real. Not when his lips were shaking slightly against yours. Not when he kissed you like you were something he didn't think he'd ever get again.

You clutched his shoulders instead.

Not because someone told you to, but because you didn't know how else to keep yourself from falling apart.

Your lips finally broke from his, breath catching as you pulled back just enough to see him.

And gods—Telemachus looked wrecked.

His cheeks were flushed pink, almost feverish. A single curl clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, while the rest of his hair had fallen wildly out of place, soft spirals tousled from where your fingers had tugged them. His mouth hung open slightly, lips swollen and red, wet where he'd kissed you too long and too hard and too much—not that you'd wanted him to stop.

His eyes, though...they were the worst part.

Wide. Glassy. A little dazed.

And so hungry.

Not like a man ready to devour—but like a boy starved of softness, blinking up at you like you'd just fed him something he never knew he needed.

You sat on his lap still, panting softly, your chest rising against his.

Your hand moved before you could think. Fingers brushing his jaw, then up along his cheek. You cupped his face, thumb tracing just beneath his eye like you were trying to remember every line of him.

He's handsome, you thought, breathless.Too handsome to be here. Too gentle to want someone like me.

Telemachus leaned into your touch like it was instinct. Like it was safe.

You stared at him.

And then... you moved.

Slowly, you slid from his lap, your knees hitting the floor one after the other. Your hands rested on his thighs, steadying yourself. You leaned forward, eyes cast down, heartbeat loud in your ears.

This was what the other girls said men wanted.

This was what they told you would happen eventually.

Maybe if you did it well, he'd want to come back. Maybe he'd ask for you again. Maybe—

But your fingers had barely reached for the tie of his tunic before—

He stopped you.

Gently.

Firmly.

Telemachus' hands curled around your waist again—not desperate, not panicked, but certain. Like he'd been waiting to stop you from this.

You didn't even get to ask why before he was lifting you. Effortless.

He picked you up like it was nothing, like you weighed less than the breath in his lungs. Before you could protest, he'd turned and settled you back on the bed—this time seated lower, your legs tucked beside you. You stared up at him, startled, breath still ragged.

His hands didn't leave your hips. But they didn't move either. Just stayed there. Warm. Steady. Present.

You swallowed. "Why...?"

He crouched slightly, bringing himself to eye level, voice soft.

"I'm not here to take from you," he murmured. "I... I don't want that to be your first memory."

You blinked. Tried to read his face. His voice hadn't changed. There was no judgment in it. No shame. Just... truth.

He touched your knee—light, barely a brush.

"But... I want to give you something... If you'll let me."

It didn't take long for the truth of it to click into place.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart lurching as it settled in.

He was telling you—right now, in this quiet moment with your hands still trembling in your lap—he wanted to give, and he wanted nothing in return.

The realization made your stomach twist in a way you didn't have a name for.

Before you could find your voice—before you could tell him, you don't have to, I didn't mean for this—

Telemachus moved.

He dropped to one knee—not with dramatics, not like some chivalrous knight, but like something in him had simply given way. Like his body understood before his mind did that this was where he belonged.

Not beneath you. But before you.

His shoulders bowed, his head dipping slightly as his gaze stayed locked on yours. His hands hovered over your thighs—not touching, just there. Waiting. Asking without words.

He didn't blink. Didn't flinch.

"You don't have to do anything," he whispered. His voice was so low it felt like a secret passed between breaths. "Just let me take care of you."

Your lips parted, but you didn't speak.

He continued—voice steady, but laced with something softer. Something closer to awe.

"I've thought about this moment," he admitted. "Not like this, not here—but... about what it would feel like. To be trusted with someone. By someone."

His fingers finally moved—just enough to ghost over your knees. Then higher. Sliding along your thighs, slow and warm and so careful.

He didn't press them apart.

He didn't ask for more.

He just waited.

And the way he looked at you—gods, it was unbearable. His eyes didn't flick down to your chest. Didn't scan your body like a thing bought and paid for. They were locked on yours. Unblinking. Steady. Patient.

You didn't think you'd ever been looked at like that.

Like your nervousness was sacred. Like your silence was allowed. Like you were the sky and he'd found a place in it.

Your hands curled into the sheets.

And then—

You nodded.

And everything stilled.

Not the air. Not the quiet creak of the floorboards beneath the bed. But him. Telemachus didn't surge forward. Didn't pounce. He waited one heartbeat—two—just to be sure. Just to give you the chance to change your mind. And when you didn't, he moved.

The first press of his lips to your inner knee was enough to break you. You inhaled sharply, your thighs twitching from how careful he was being. As if he thought you might shatter. As if he'd fall apart too, if he touched you wrong.

His hands were warm against your calves, large and steady, sliding beneath your legs to part them—not forcing. Guiding. Creating space. Creating breath.

You couldn't look at him. Could only stare at the ceiling as the fabric of your dress shifted—bunched higher and higher as his hands pushed it past your knees, your thighs, up over your hips. Each inch of exposure made your skin burn. Not from embarrassment. From realization.

From how huge his hands felt.

The way his palms wrapped around you so easily. How his thumbs brushed along the softest parts of your inner thighs. How your skin tingled wherever he touched—like his fingertips were ink, and you were being written on.

His lips followed.

He kissed higher.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like each inch of skin was a vow.

He paused between each kiss like he needed permission from your skin to keep going. And when he reached the place right at the intersection of your thighs—he paused again, and the heat of his breath made you jerk.

Your voice came out soft. Fragile. "Telemachus..."

His head tilted up.

You expected hunger. Or urgency.

But his eyes..

Gods, his eyes.

They were soft. Dazed. Like he was seeing something divine.

You could feel his breath there—there—hot and reverent, like prayer pressed to skin. It burned in the most delicate way. A kiss without contact.

And then—

His mouth covered you.

You jerked.

A small, startled squeak caught in your throat as your hips lifted off the bed, back arching on instinct. The heat of his mouth was searing—not rough, not greedy, just everywhere. Warm and wet and real.

"T-Telemachus—!" you gasped, the sound breaking halfway through as his tongue moved. You clutched at his hair—those soft brown curls that caught your eye the moment you saw him—and whimpered as the pressure began to build.

It was clumsy at first. Careful. Testing. But gods, he was trying—tongue flicking and tasting and exploring in slow, cautious strokes that grew bolder every time you whimpered.

Every sound you made pulled something new from him.

You couldn't see his face, but you felt him—his hands gripping your thighs tighter, holding you open, his mouth pressing against you like he was trying to learn you by muscle memory. Like he didn't want to miss a single reaction.

You weren't trying to say his name, not really, but it kept falling from your lips like a prayer—"Telemachus, Telemachus, Telemachus—" and every time you said it, his grip on your thighs tightened, his tongue slowed, focused, like the sound fed him.

He moaned into you once—just once—and the vibration made you cry out, thighs twitching around his head. Your fingers tangled in the sheets. You couldn't stop moving, couldn't stop trembling. Every time you cried out—every little "ah," every breathless "oh gods"—he shook with need.

"Please," you whispered, not even knowing what you were asking for.

His hands slid further beneath you, thumbs hooking under your thighs as he lifted your legs—gently, reverently—and pulled them over his shoulders, like this was where he'd wanted to be all night.

He didn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

His fingers pressed into your hips, holding you still when you started to squirm, when your legs tried to close. You didn't want to push him away—you just didn't know what to do with all of it.

The pressure. The heat. The way he was everywhere.

And when you came—

Gods, when it hit—

You didn't scream. You didn't cry.

You breathed—one long, shaking exhale as your whole body went tense, then soft. Your thighs locked around his head, your back bowed, and your fingers slipped from his hair to your own lips, muffling the sound that rose from deep inside your chest.

And he didn't stop.

Not right away.

Telemachus kissed you through it—tongue gentle again now, coaxing you down with slow, soft laps that made your thighs tremble and your lungs shudder. Like he couldn't bear to let you go yet. Like he wanted to catch every last wave of your pleasure and hold it in his mouth.

Only when your hips twitched from the overstimulation and you sagged against the pillows like a storm passing, then—and only then—did he lift his head.

He looked... wrecked.

His face was flushed. Lips wet. Hair mussed from where your fingers had accidentally tangled in it. He looked like a boy who'd just touched divinity and barely survived.

For a while, neither of you moved.

Your legs had gone loose. Your chest rose and fell like it had been emptied of every secret you'd ever tried to carry. And him—Telemachus just stayed there. Sitting on the floor beside the bed, head resting against the mattress, eyes closed like he was memorizing the sound of your breathing.

He hadn't touched you since. Not in that way. Not even to kiss you again. He just sat there, reverent and flushed and so very still, as if breaking the silence might ruin it.

Eventually, you found your voice.

"Should I... should I... help you?"

He let out a breathless laugh. "No. I'm... I'm alright."

You looked at him, eyes flicking downward.

He was obviously not alright.

But he only smiled—softer this time, a little crooked.

"That was enough," he said. "More than enough." Now it's his turn to question you. "Was it... Was that—?" he started, then cut himself off, unsure.

Your hand reached for him, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, catching the last trace of yourself there.

"That was..." you couldn't even finish. Your voice cracked, but you smiled. And that was enough.

His breath hitched, just for a second. Then, gently, he asked, "Can... Can I lie beside you?"

You nodded.

He stood and climbed onto the bed with a quiet grace that didn't match how tightly his body must've been wound. He slid in behind you—not too close. Not assuming. But when you shifted—just a little—and your back brushed his chest, he went still.

You felt his arm ghost toward your waist. Waiting. Always waiting.

You let him.

He exhaled as he wrapped around you, chest pressed against your spine, his breath steady against your hair.

And gods... it felt like safety.

Not heat. Not hunger. Just warmth.

You'd never been touched like that before.

Never felt like that before.

And the craziest part?

Neither had he.

You whispered, "...You're still hard."

You felt him laugh, muffled against the back of your neck. "I know."

"I can—"

"No," he said softly. "Not tonight."

You turned your head just enough to glimpse him over your shoulder. "Then... what do we do now?"

He smiled. Sleepy. Adoring. Infatuated in a way that made your heart ache.

"Now?" he murmured. "Now we stay."

And so you did.

With his arm draped over your waist, his nose tucked behind your ear, and your breath starting to slow to match his, you let yourself fall asleep.

Just this once, in someone else's arms.

Just this once, without fear.

☆

☆

You woke to the smell of lavender soap and old wood.

For a moment, your eyes stayed closed. You didn't want to risk opening them—afraid that the night before had been a dream spun from nerves and exhaustion. Afraid that if you looked beside you, he'd be gone. Or worse... that he'd still be there, and it wouldn't mean anything.

But you didn't need to open your eyes to know he was still behind you.

You could feel him.

Telemachus' chest was warm against your spine, one arm draped lazily over your waist. His fingers twitched in his sleep, like he was still holding on to something. His breath was slow. Even. Peaceful.

You tried not to move. Tried to hold still like maybe if you stayed quiet enough, time would pause. But it didn't. You felt the moment start to shift—the softness fraying at the edges, reality creeping in.

You turned your head slightly. Just enough to whisper, "Are you awake?"

His breath caught. And then, softly. "Yeah."

You rolled onto your back, eyes meeting his.

He looked ruined. Hair tousled. Eyes a little puffy. Lips still flushed from where you'd kissed him. But gods, if he didn't look at you like you were something he was scared to blink at.

"Hi," you whispered.

He smiled. "Hi."

Neither of you moved.

You weren't sure what to say. Should you say anything? Ask if he'd be back? If it meant something? If he'd still want you when the sun was high and the world was loud again?

But then he reached up, fingertips barely brushing your cheek, and said, "I've got to leave soon."

Your stomach dropped. You nodded, trying not to let it show.

"But," he added quickly, "that doesn't mean this... have to end."

You looked at him.

He smiled—soft, boyish, crooked. "I don't think I could forget you if I tried."

You didn't believe him. Not really. But part of you wanted to. And maybe that was enough for now.

You sat up, pulled the sheet around you. "I should get dressed before everyone wakes and the girls start talking."

"They'll talk anyway," he muttered.

You looked over your shoulder. "Oh?"

He smirked faintly. "They were whispering when I came in last night. Half the brothel knew where I was going."

That made your cheeks burn.

You stood, tried to tame your hair, tried to smooth the wrinkles out of the dress you'd been poured into. You felt his eyes on you the whole time. Not leering. Just... watching.

Like he still couldn't believe you were real.

"I'll send for you," he said suddenly.

You turned. "What?"

"I mean—" he sat up, voice softer now, more careful. "If... If you want your actual first time to be... different... I could find a way."

Your throat tightened. "You don't have to—"

"I want to."

You blinked.

He stood. Stepped close. Tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear and whispered, "If last night was your first... then I want the second to be mine, too."

And then he was gone.

.☆.      .✩.          .☆.

You were back in the laundry room before the others, sleeves rolled to your elbows, sleeves that still smelled faintly like him. You kept your head down, folding quietly, avoiding the curious glances and the not-so-subtle giggles from the other girls.

"Did he kiss you?"

"Did you touch him?"

"How big was his dick?"

You ignored them.

The Madam approached mid-morning. You braced yourself for orders—new clients, more linen, someone drunk puking on the rugs again. But she only said. "You're off the floor."

You blinked. "What?"

"No clients. No touch work. From today on, you stay with the laundry."

Your lips parted. "Why?"

She didn't answer at first, just tucked a folded piece of parchment into your palm. A receipt. A payment.

"He bought it. Your virginity." she said simply. "The prince. Paid enough to take you off rotation."

Your mouth dropped. "Prince??"

She snorted—an unladylike sound for a woman who wore perfume and lace—and kept walking, her heels clacking across the wooden floor as she called out something about clean towels to the other girls.

You scrambled after her, nearly tripping on the hem of your skirt. "Wait—wait! What do you mean a prince?! Why would a prince buy me? When would he—does he come back? Will he come back tonight?!"

The brothel was already alive with its usual morning rhythm—cleaning cloths flapping out windows, perfume bottles clinking onto vanities, girls slipping between one another to straighten bedding and fluff pillows. A few early clients sat in the lounge area downstairs, their voices low and lazy, nursing watered-down wine while waiting for their favorites to appear from behind silk curtains.

You chased the Madam past them all, dodging a tray of breakfast figs and a girl giggling down the hall with her corset still half-undone. You reached the hallway leading back toward the laundry room when she suddenly spun around to face you—and you stumbled to a stop with a squeak.

She didn't speak at first.

Just looked at you. Looked through you.

Then—tap.

Two fingers to the center of your forehead.

"Honestly," she sighed. "And here I thought you were one of the smart ones."

You blinked, wide-eyed. "I—I am!"

She gave you a flat look. "You keep the ledgers balanced. You talk back to the bookkeeper without blinking. You know which clients are late on payment before they sit down. Hell, you taught Clio how to read last week—and you fixed the squeaky back door with an oil rag and string."

Your face flushed. "Then why—"

"Because, darling," she said, tone sharp but not cruel, "you're acting like a little airhead this morning, and it's beneath you."

You shrank in on yourself slightly. "I just... I don't understand."

She sighed again and pinched the bridge of her nose. "The man you were with last night—"

"Telemachus," you said quickly, almost breathless. Just hearing his name made your chest pull tight.

The Madam's lips pursed.

Tap.

She poked your forehead again, this time more pointed.

"That's Prince Telemachus," she corrected. "Don't forget who you're talking about."

You blinked. "But I thought—he never told me—"

She raised a brow. "Of course he didn't. Nobles never do. Not when they want to see how you treat them before the title gets in the way. That's why you listen to the whispers that goes through here. I'm positive someone let it loose."

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

She continued walking, and you had to trot after her again.

"Anywho, the prince of Pylos—Peisistratus, the youngest of King Nestor' sons—he came in just after dusk last night. Said he needed someone untouched. Said it was a gift, of sorts, for the prince of Ithaca. And the moment I thought of someone who might actually look him in the eye and not fall apart..." She gave you a sideways glance. "So I sent for you."

You gawked. "But I—I flinched. I almost cried!"

"Yes, precisely why I chose you," she said dryly, "and yet he bought your virginity the moment he left. Paid triple what we charge."

You stopped walking.

The hallway around you blurred—sunlight spilling through stained glass, footsteps echoing above, voices below, the brothel alive in every direction.

You stood frozen in the middle of it.

Prince Telemachus bought my virginity.

You touched your lips.

They still tingled.

Even then, all you could be stuck on was the fact that Telemachus was a prince.

And suddenly—everything clicked. Like someone had thrown a torch into the back of your mind and lit up the whole kingdom map.

You recalled the whispers in town. The parade of ships. The late-night feasts held at the palace people like you weren't invited to. The rising hum of change in every corner of Ithaca.

The return of King Odysseus.

And that boy—the one who kissed you like the world was ending—

"Prince Telemachus?!" you squawked again, way too loud this time.

But the Madam was already halfway down the hall, waving a rag at the kitchen girl and calling for someone to bring fresh honey-water to room six.

You stood frozen, still clutching the folded parchment like it might burn you.

You looked down at it again.

The ink hadn't changed. His name was still there. The number. The seal.

All real.

And your chest—your whole body—went still.

"...So I'm free?!?" you shouted down the hall after her.

The Madam didn't stop walking.

She just gave a half-smile, scoffing like you'd just asked if pigs could read.

"No one's free here, girl," she called over her shoulder. "But you're his now."

And with that, she disappeared into the steam of the bath corridor, barking something about soap and firewood.

You looked back down at the parchment.

Your fingers were shaking a little, but only because they felt lighter somehow. Like for the first time in weeks, you were holding something that might mean more than just survival.

And then—just barely—you smiled.

Because he didn't take you.

He chose you.

And maybe, just maybe...

As you were taken through the hideout, your eyes scanned every inch of your surroundings, committing it to memory. They marched you down a series of narrow hallways. You caught glimpses of closed doors, with faint voices bleeding through cracks. Open doors were empty and dirty, having been stripped of everything except meaningless supplies and garbage.

You turned down another hall, and a set of large double doors came into view. They shoved you through the double doors and into what looked like a former conference room. The change in air hit you first—cooler, cleaner, the only room with windows, but no less oppressive.

Sit,” Erick gestured to the folding chair in the middle of the room.

You obeyed. The metal legs scraped against the floor as you sat, the sound slicing through the heavy silence. Erick took his place at a desk positioned in front of the window, adjusting the webcam until it was aimed squarely at you. One of the men beside him drew a pistol and pressed the cold barrel to your temple, the pressure steady and unyielding.

You tried to steady your breathing, eyes darting toward the window — the only thing in the room that hinted at the outside world.

But the view offered no comfort. The glass was grimy, streaked with years of neglect. Beyond it stretched nothing, even as the setting sun illuminated everything in an orange haze. A wide, empty expanse of cracked concrete and rusted shipping containers. No passing cars. No city sounds. Just wind, whispering through the gaps in the metal walls.

It hit you then: you were too far from anywhere. The warehouse sat buried deep in some forgotten industrial district, where the only visitors were ghosts of old machinery and the hum of power lines. Even if you screamed, no one would hear you.

And Erick knew it.

“You’re going to send a message,” he said, his tone almost casual. “We need to let your father know where you are. And that if he doesn't meet our demands, things are going to get out of hand really fast.”

You blinked. “My father?”

Erick smiled, thin and sharp. “Bruce Wayne. I think he’ll listen if the plea comes from his daughter.”

Your blood turned to ice. No shot of that happening! He was off doing Batman things with the Justice League. Saving and protecting other people who were more important than you will ever be. Whatever these people had planned for you wasn't sounding like a threat anymore, and more like a definite promise.

The red light blinked faster, steadying into record mode. Erick nodded. “Start talking. Beg him for help.”

Your throat tightened. You stared into the lens, the blank, unblinking eye that could reach Gotham in seconds, and felt a tremor crawl down your spine. You didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. But you knew refusing wouldn’t end well. So you swallowed hard, forcing the words out through the knot in your throat.

“Bruce…Dad… please. They have me. I—” Your voice cracked.

"Don't be scared honey," Erick mocked. "Try again. With feeling this time."

As you stared into the camera, you remembered the last time Bruce had looked at you — eyes tired, voice distracted, saying he’d talk to you soon. He never did.

You clenched and unclenched your jaw. Forcing yourself to deal with the humiliation, you steadied your voice. “Just do what they ask. Just give them what they want. Please. I need you.”

The camera caught every shake, every shallow breath, every flicker of fear you couldn’t hide.

When Erick finally said, “Cut,” you felt your stomach twist. The lens stopped recording, but it didn’t feel like the world had stopped watching. "You're not exactly going to Hollywood but we can make do with this shot."

The man with the gun finally withdrew it, though he didn’t holster it—just let it hang loosely in his hand at his side, like a casual threat.

Erick sauntered over to you with a disgustingly smug grin on her face. "Man, this is truly a delight. You're the biggest cash cow we've gotten. You belong to one of the richest families in the world. And I have you in my possession. At my mercy."

Erick crouched in front of you, the faint scent of cigarettes clinging to his hair. “You did well,” he said in that same eerie calm tone. “You might actually get out of this alive if Daddy moves fast enough.”

You flinched when he reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Though between you and me,” he whispered, “he doesn’t strike me as the sentimental type. But for your sake, let's hope I'm wrong. Take her away."

One of the men grabbed your arm, his fingers digging into bruises that hadn’t even finished forming. He hauled you up causing you to stumbled, catching yourself against the edge of the folding chair before they dragged you toward the door again. Erick stayed behind, humming softly as he checked the camera’s playback, replaying your own face on the tiny screen.

They marched you down the same hall, the air thicker now, heavier. When the man shoved you back into your room, you didn't hit the floor, but another person.

"Holy shit [Name]!"

You looked up into a pair of wide blue eyes. "Brooke!?"

Just like yours , her wrists were bound behind her, the skin rubbed raw beneath the ropes. A strip of duct tape dangled uselessly from her sleeve where she must’ve tried to bite it off. Her hair was a mess, her face pale with the exception of a large purple bruise on her cheekbone.

The man chuckled. "Good. You'll keep each other company. Enjoy it, this is as good as it gets while you’re here."

Then the door slammed shut and locked, leaving you both alone.

Brooke’s breath hitched. A waterfall of tears began streaking down her face. “You’re—oh god, you’re really here.”

You nodded, exhaling a shaky breath. “Yeah...unfortunately.”

“I thought I would never see you again! They saved everyone from the aquarium but they didn't find you. I was beginning to lose hope.” her voice cracking.

Brooke tried to shift closer, the rope around her wrists scraping together. “I’m sorry. I'm so so so sorry. I didn’t know what Mark was doing. He said he was taking me home, that Mom and Dad were worried. I didn’t think—” Her breath broke. “He’s not the same, [Name]. Something’s wrong with him.”

“Stop. Wait.” You stared at her, disbelief tightening your chest. “Mark is behind this? Your own brother planned this whole kidnapping operation!?”

Brooke used her shoulder to wipe away her tears. "Sorta. When he took me he was saying that he knew a guy who was part of this, and that this person let Mark in on all of this because he knew me and you and Dani and Laura and…and… I'm gonna cry again [Name]!" She hiccupped, trying not to sob. “Dani and Laura are back at the hotel thinking you’re missing and I’m flying back home. But we’re here and they’re in so much trouble!”

“Hey. It’ll be okay.” You shuffled closer, twisting awkwardly until your shoulder brushed hers. You leaned in, and Brooke relaxed into you, her head resting in the crook of your neck. You kept your voice low, your breath slow and steady to help her calm down. “Trust me they’ll keep us alive.”

Brooke inhaled sharply through her nose so snot wouldn't go down her face. "How do you know?"

"They want money. Plain and simple. I don't know why they caused that explosion. But they already have a video of me begging Bruce to save me."

"That's awful! They'll do the same thing to me and Tim! That's so humiliating and scary!"

You froze. “Wait—Tim?”

Before she could react, you pushed yourself to your feet, heart hammering. Brooke toppled onto her back with a soft thud and a startled grunt. “I’m sorry, Brooke, but Tim is here too!? Where?”

“Somewhere around here.” She rubbed her shoulder, still catching her breath. “Everything is kinda fuzzy for me.”

You knelt back down, desperate now. “Tell me what happened. Start at the beginning.”

Brooke sat up, mirroring you. The two of you faced each other, knees almost touching, like kids whispering secrets at a sleepover.

She nodded slowly, eyes darting to the locked door. “Okay… I’ll do my best. But it happened like this…”

…The light and luxurious hotel room was filled with tension and dread by the three girls. Dani was laying on one of the couches waiting for her migraine medicine to kick in. Brooke sat curled up in a recliner, knees to her chest, rocking gently. Laura was pacing the room, mumbling things under her breath.

All of their phones were sitting on the coffee table. Any moment now, one of them will ring. And there will be someone on the other line saying you were safe and sound at the hospital. They just had to wait. They were sure of it.

But instead of a phone ringing, there was a hard knock at the door. Brooke was the first one on her feet. She sprinted to the door thinking you would be standing there, but it was Mark instead.

“Mark!” Brooke exclaimed, wrapping her arms tightly around her brother.

Mark returned the hug, though it was slightly stiff. He didn’t even bother to crouch down to her height. “I came as soon as I heard what happened at the aquarium. Are you okay?”

Brooke pulled back, looking up at him. “What!? That happened, like, three hours ago! How did you hear and get here so fast?”

"The news, and a really fast private jet." Mark gently took Brooke's hand in his. "We need to get you home Brooke. It's not safe anymore. And I'm sure you're shaken up by all of this."

Brooke’s lower lip trembled. “Yeah, but [Name] is still missing. We’ve been waiting for any news. I want to stay—so when they find her, I can be there for her.”

"I get it. But Mom and Dad sent me here. Saying we need to get you home. What happened was obviously some kind of planned attack. You need to be at home, safe and sound. With me, mom, and dad."

“I understand,” Mark said, squeezing her hand. “But Mom and Dad sent me. They want you home. What happened was clearly a planned attack. You need to be somewhere safe—with me, Mom, and Dad.”

Brooke froze, weighing her options. Dani stepped forward, rubbing gentle circles on her back. “You should go,” she said softly. “If your parents are asking for you, it’ll ease their minds. They’ll worry less if you’re safe.”

Laura nodded, voice hoarse from crying and screaming. “Yeah. [Name] will understand. When she’s found, you can come back, or video call her.”

Mark offered a reassuring smile. “See? Everything will be fine. Let’s get your things packed and leave.”

Brooke wiped a stray tear from her cheek and nodded, finally moving past him to her hotel room. Dani and Laura looked on fondly. Seeing their friend going with home to be with her worried family, where she will be safe and sound.

When the siblings were in Brooke's room she immediately started packing. Inside the room, Brooke started packing fast, yanking open drawers and pulling clothes from hangers. Mark followed close behind, like a restless shadow. Huffing and grumbling anytime she slowed down even a little bit.

“Come on, Brooke!” he barked.

"Do not rush me please!" Brooke snapped. She was playing Tetris with her folded clothes, trying to find the best layout so everything can fit better. "I'm not leaving anything behind!"

"You can literally buy this stuff and have it delivered to your bedroom tomorrow morning," Mark slammed the suitcase closed and tried to zip it, but Brooke pushed him away.

"I know that but this is my stuff! And I like my stuff. And some of these things my best frineds gave me. It's all coming back with me, I don't care."

He rolled his eyes. “Then at least let me help.”

“If you do, nothing will fit,” she shot back. “I appreciate the offer, but I know what I’m doing.”

"And I don't," Mark glared at Brooke.

Brooke looked at him, exhausted and done with the conversation. "What?"

"You said you know what you're doing and I don't."

"I didn't say that last part," she countered, her tone tensing and voice rising. "You're making this whole thing about you, like you always do. The second you get your little feelings hurt, anything anyone says is somehow a personal dig at you. My best friend is missing, dead or alive, no one knows! And I'm extremely upset and worried! This situation is not going to be about you! So stop it and grow up! You're a thirty-two years old man Mark, lets fucking act like it!? Please!?"

Brooke didn’t give her brother the satisfaction of responding. She was already moving toward the bathroom, trying to think, trying to get a moment to herself. She started pulling things from the cabinets when suddenly a puff of dust exploded in her face.

It was like someone had thrown a handful of ground pepper directly into her eyes and nose. Her throat burned. Her eyes streamed uncontrollably. The stinging made her cough, gag, and stumble. The overwhelming sensation knocked her off her feet, sending her sprawling across the cold tile.

“What the hell!” she shrieked, clawing at the floor, trying to find something to grab. “Mark! Mark! Mark! Help!”

Her voice was raw, panicked, desperate. Every second stretched painfully as the room spun around her, the dust filling her lungs, blurring her vision.

"It's fine Brooke," Mark’s voice came from somewhere above her, low and calm. "The drug will take effect in about five minutes or so."

Brooke’s stomach dropped. The drug? She couldn’t process it. Couldn’t even think. The walls swayed like a boat in a storm. She clawed at the floor until her trembling hands found the counter. Somehow, she dragged herself up and fumbled for the faucet. Cold water splashed over her face, cutting through the burning. For a moment she could see again—just enough to find him. With angry red eyes she glared at Mark, who stood in the doorway, watching her with detached amusement.

“We could’ve done this the easy way,” he said, stepping closer. “But you said it yourself, I need to grow up. So I’ll start tomorrow. But today…” His lips curled. “Today, I’m going to enjoy watching you suffer.”

Brooke blinked through the stinging tears. “W-Why are you doing this?” she choked out.

“You’ll see soon enough,” he replied, almost cheerfully. “But go ahead. Try and call for help. Your phone’s in the kitchen.”

Her legs gave a violent tremor. The world tilted sideways. Still, she stumbled toward the door, arms outstretched, trying to make it just a little farther. When she left the bedroom and rounded the corner into the living room, she stumbled over the rug on the floor.

Her hands shot out instinctively, trying to catch herself, but the momentum sent her sprawling across the floor. Pain flared in her knees and palms, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Mark’s shadow loomed over her, a slow, deliberate step closer that made her stomach churn. “Careful,” he said, almost mockingly. “Wouldn’t want to hurt yourself before the fun begins.”

Every nerve in her body screamed at her to move, to fight, but the drug still coursed through her, dulling strength and coordination. Her head spun as she scrambled upright, gripping the edge of the couch for support. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear the haze, her heart hammering.

The faint, steady sound of a knock echoed through the apartment. Mark’s lips twisted into a deep frown. "Who the hell is that?"

He took a cautious step toward the door, his hand hovering near the handle. “I didn't order anyone to be here.”

Another knock came, louder this time, deliberate. Mark’s brow furrowed. “Who the hell would…?” His voice trailed off as unease started to replace his usual arrogance.

He glanced at Brooke, who was laying on floor. Brooke let out a weak groan, her body trembling against the floor. Mark bent down to lift her roughly by the arm. “Stay down, it’s fine,” he muttered, though his voice wavered slightly, betraying his uncertainty.

Another knock. Louder. More insistent. "Brooke? It's Tim Drake, [Name's] brother! I need to talk to you about my sister!"

Mark’s eyes flicked toward the door, and a slow, calculating smirk spread across his face. “Tim Drake, huh?” His voice dripping with intense greed he didn't bother trying to hide.

“Well, isn’t this convenient?” he muttered under his breath. “Another one to leverage. We can ask Bruce Wayne for double the money now that we have two of his kids.”

Brooke's heart was racing. "You…you took [Name]? S-She's not dead?"

Mark started dragging her to the bedroom, back into the bathroom. "If she misbehaves with my collogues, then she will be. But yes, she's alive. And she's going to make me very rich. And so will you and Tim out there. Just be quiet and let me work. And you'll make it out of here alive."

Brooke was too weakened by the drug to stop Mark, or yell out to warn Tim. As she faded in and out of consciousness she heard the sound of a scuffle echoing through the hotel room. Brooke’s eyelids fluttered as she tried to focus, every movement of her body weighted down by the drug. Her ears picked up muffled grunts, the shuffle of feet, and harsh curses.

Minutes later everything faded to black…

…Brooke shifted slightly where she sat. "When I woke up, me and Tim were in the trunk of someone's car. Then Mark and some other man were carrying me. Tim was being dragged by another two right behind us. I tried to fight my way out of their grip. I didn't know where I would go…I just wanted to go. Mark didn't hesitate to punch my face. I fell to the ground, and he dragged me by my hair into this room…called me a bunch of vulgar names along the way. Saying he'd let those men do…disgusting things to me if I kept causing trouble…"

She wasn’t crying anymore. Her face was a map of brokenness. She wore that suffering openly, without restraint.

"Oh Brooke," your heart broke hearing her recount what happened to her. Your family had done some mean things, but Mark betraying his own sister was downright horrid.

You knew you'd make it out of this. You knew that the captors had not just Tim Drake, but Red Robin. And that the Young Justice were not too far behind. But you couldn't tell Brooke that. You just had to keep your spirits up for the both of you, and let her not let her fear consume her.

You slowly leaned forward, gently touching Brooke's forehead to yours. “Hey… you’re still here,” you murmured, keeping your voice low and steady. “You made it. That’s what matters right now. You’re not alone.”

Brooke’s eyes flickered up at you, glazed with pain but searching. She gave a small, shaky nod, but didn’t speak. You both scrambled up to the one cot and tried to make yourselves comfortable. The thin mattress did little to cushion your sore muscles, and the room smelled faintly of damp concrete and old air.

The silence didn't last unfortunately. The faint shuffle of footsteps in the hallway made you both freeze. The door swung open, and Erick stepped in first, a few men following close behind. Their presence replaced what little hope you and Brooke had cultivated with an oppressive and suffocating atmosphere.

"Come on Brooke," Erick stepped aside so the two men could walk in and pick her up. "We're gonna film a nice little video for your parents."

Brooke was being dragged toward the door, stumbling slightly. She didn't look at you as she left, but she gave a firm thumbs up behind her back, letting you know she's still holding on, and that she'll be okay.

When the door shut and locked again you were left by yourself. You sat there for a long moment, staring at the spot where Brooke had just been. The air felt heavier without her — colder somehow, like the warmth she carried had been stolen along with her.

More silence. More uncertainty. You swallowed hard. Panic clawed at your throat, begging to break free, but you forced it down. If you lost it now, you’d never make it another night. You tried to give yourself the hope you tried to spread with Brooke.

"WHERE THE HELL IS MY SISTER," Tim's angry voice ricochet off the walls of the hideout. Hearing his voice filled your whole body with an unbelievable sense of relief.

"Thank you, finally." The door slammed open, the two men hauling Tim threw him into the room and quickly closed the door. "What the fuck!"

You stared at your savior as he writhed and groaned on the floor. His dark hair plastered to his forehead, and when he lifted his face you got a good look at his split lip, a bruise at the temple, and small trail of blood dried up on his forehead.

He rolled onto his side, wrists straining against the rope digging into the skin behind his back. “Fantastic,” he muttered. “Add a bruised shoulder to the list.”

You glared at him from across the room. “This better be a joke. Please say this is a joke. You were supposed to save me, not get your ass thrown in here too.”

He glared up at you through a curtain of messy hair. “Good to see you too, sis.”

“I thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” you said flatly. “But you literally walked into a kidnapping operation tied up before the first commercial break.”

Tim let out a rough laugh that immediately turned into a groan. “Sorry I didn’t have time to do my research while I was getting punched in the face.”

“Oh, right, because that always goes so well for you,” you snapped, wriggling against your own restraints. “Remind me, what’s the point of all that fancy detective training if you can’t even avoid getting caught?”

“Detective training doesn’t cover a sibling with zero patience,” he muttered.

“Neither does it cover bad plans, apparently.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “You know, I’m starting to remember why I like working solo.”

You snorted. “Because you can't work solo. You’d get bored and start monologuing to the walls.”

“Please, you’re projecting.”

You leaned forward, lowering your voice into a mocking imitation. “ ‘I’m Red Robin, and I’m always five steps ahead. I'm a genius. And you're not!’ "

“Wow,” he said dryly. “I don’t sound like that.”

“You sound exactly like that. I could be you for Halloween.”

Tim gave you a look that was somehow both exasperated and fond. “Man, you’re lucky I love you.”

You shot him a tight grin. “I know. Otherwise, I’d probably be dead right now.”

He looked at you, the humor fading slightly from his eyes. “You’re not going to die. Not while I’m here.”

You sighed and leaned your head back against the wall. “Well you better figure out how to get us out of here then.”

He smirked faintly. “You could help, you know.”

“I am helping,” you said, kicking lightly at his leg. “I’m providing emotional support.”

“Oh! So that’s what we’re calling insults now?”

“Yes. Now shut up and focus.”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” he said quietly, giving you a small smile of his own. “Remind me next time to let the armed kidnappers keep you.”

"Will do." Your smile faded. "But seriously, do you have a plan? Or do we have wait for Bruce to pay up?"

Tim managed to pick himself up and sit next to you on the cot. "I have a plan. In fact, the plan is operating right now. "

"Oh really?"

"Yes really," Tim shuffled closer to you and started whispering. "You really think I actually got my ass kicked and kidnapped that easily? I let myself get caught. There's a small tracking device attached to my belt. My team knows where I am."

"So, where are we?"

"Still in Central City. But this is a far off district called Tarmin. This warehouse made a lot of jobs for a lot of people when it was operational. So they built homes and businesses here. When this place was abandoned, so was this district. We figured you were taken here but we needed to be sure. We were on a time crunch and didn't want to waste any time if you were taken elsewhere. We got a lot of info on Mark, Erick, and their other buddies, but underestimating your enemies is never a good idea."

You gave a genuine smile. "You got your ass whooped and kidnapped just to save me?"

"I'd break every bone in my body just so you can get a good nights sleep."

"Thank you…so where's your team. Shouldn't they have been here by now?"

This made Tim pause. "Yeah. I don’t have any way to communicate with them. I didn't want too much gear on me or else they'll be onto me."

“So…what happens now?” you asked.

Tim took a deep breath, staring at the walls as if trying to read them, trying to stay calm. “We wait.”

The rooftop was cold, the wind biting as Cassie, Bart, and Conner crouched in the shadows, their eyes fixed on the distant warehouse. The faint beeping of the tracking device in Cassie’s hand told them all they needed to know—Tim was in there, somewhere.

Cassie’s grip tightened on the device, her pulse quickening. The wait felt endless, gnawing at her with every passing second.

“We’re close,” she muttered, barely louder than a whisper, the urgency in her voice undeniable. “But we need to move now, before they make a move of their own.”

Bart shifted impatiently, his body tense with anticipation. “Yeah, but what’s the plan? We can’t just run in without a strategy. We still don’t know how many of them are inside or what weapons they got.”

Conner’s posture was stiff, his jaw tight. “We wait for the right moment, then we hit them from all sides. We’re not getting caught.”

“Agreed,” Cassie said, eyes scanning the building. “We can’t risk being seen. We need to be in and out.”

They were just about to make their move when the sound of footsteps echoed from behind them. The team turned as one, instinctively ready for a fight. But when they saw who it was, they immediately dropped their fists.

Dick stepped out of the shadows, his movements sharp, deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey. His eyes, usually warm, were now cold and burning with something darker. Kori stepped behind him, her face filled with worry, but even she couldn’t hide the unease in her eyes.

Cassie’s stomach twisted. “Nightwing… What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice filled with concern.

Dick didn’t answer right away. He looked at each of them, even through his domino mask his gaze piercing, like he was assessing whether they were worth his time. His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding, and there was an edge to his presence that sent a chill through the group. This wasn’t the Dick they knew, they might as well be looking at someone else.

“I’m going after Erick,” he said, his voice a low growl, barely controlled. “And you’re not doing this without me.”

Cassie froze. “You’re not going in there, Nightwing. You don’t know what you’re walking into.”

Dick’s eyes narrowed. The calm demeanor he usually carried was gone, replaced by an intensity that felt like it could burn through stone. “I’m not standing by while they hurt her.”

His hands were balled into fists. His chest was rising and falling with each shallow breath, like he was fighting something deep inside himself. His body was coiled, every muscle tense with barely contained rage.

Bart stepped forward, trying to control the trembling in his own voice. “We’re going in, Dick. But we have a plan. You can’t just throw yourself in there without thinking.”

Dick’s gaze shot to him, cold and lethal. His lips curled into a tight, controlled sneer. “I’m not waiting around,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper but cutting through the silence like a blade. He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, and the tension in the air grew thicker with every inch he closed.

Conner's heart pounded. He knew this was not just about the mission. This was personal. Something had snapped inside Dick.

Kori stepped forward, her voice softer but still filled with urgency. “Nightwing, please. We’re all in this together. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

Dick didn’t flinch. His eyes locked on her, and for a split second, it almost seemed like he couldn’t even recognize her. He was somewhere else—caught in a storm that no one could reach him through. It was like the closer he got to [Name], the more he changed. He's different from the Dick that left his home.

He snapped, his voice dark, dangerous. “I’ve already lost enough. And if you get in my way, I’ll leave you behind.”

The words struck like a physical blow, and Bart took a step back, his stomach churning. This wasn’t just Dick pushing them away; it was something more terrifying. He wasn’t thinking clearly—he was acting on instinct, on rage.

Conner hesitated, his usual bravado gone. “Nightwing… this is getting out of hand. You don’t need to do this alone. You can’t.”

Dick looked at them, his eyes narrowing with a look that could freeze fire. “Stay out of my way,” he growled. “If you don’t want to help, then get the hell off this roof, and go home.”

Conner, still silent, finally stepped forward. His voice was low, barely above a whisper, but the weight of it hit harder than anything. “We’re not abandoning Tim or [Name]. But we won’t follow you if you’re willing to throw yourself into this recklessly.”

Dick’s eyes flickered toward Conner, but only for a moment. The anger in his gaze didn’t shift. He was beyond reason, beyond redemption for this moment. Everything inside him was about to break, and nothing would stop it.

“I’m going in,” he said, his voice chillingly calm.

Kori moved closer to him, her hand gently resting on his arm. “Nightwing, please…” Her voice wavered, but there was nothing she could say that would pull him back from the edge. She saw the darkness inside him now—raw and unchecked—and it terrified her.

Dick didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at any of them. He turned away, his steps sharp, filled with purpose. “Do whatever you want. Just stay the hell out of my way.”

Cassie, Bart, and Conner exchanged glances, the weight of Dick’s words settling heavily on their shoulders. They had never seen him like this before. He wasn’t the leader they knew. He wasn’t the Dick who made calm, calculated decisions, cracking a joke or two. This was a man consumed by something darker—a force they weren’t sure they could follow.

But they had no choice.

“Let’s move,” Conner said quietly, his voice thick with uncertainty. “We go in. Together.”

But even as they moved toward the roof access, none of them could shake the feeling that they weren’t just chasing Erick anymore. They were chasing the part of Dick that had been unleashed, and they weren’t sure what would happen when they caught up.

The team dropped into the shadows of the alley below, moving swiftly and silently toward the back of the warehouse. The tension in the air was palpable, each step a calculated risk as they navigated the narrow spaces between the buildings.

Cassie, Bart, and Conner were ready—prepared for a fight. They had their plans, their instincts sharp and honed for this. But Dick? Dick was something else entirely. He moved with a sense of purpose so brutal, so raw, that the team struggled to keep up.

With every step, the air around him seemed to thrum with intensity. He wasn’t just ready for a fight—he was looking for it. The darkness in his eyes had become a consuming fire that spread through his body.

“Get in position,” Kori hissed as they reached the back of the warehouse. “We hit them from all sides. Watch your backs.”

But even as the words left her mouth, she saw it—the flash of movement ahead. A guard stepped into view, his eyes scanning the area.

Before anyone could react, Dick was already moving. His steps were silent, but lethal, like a predator closing in on its prey. In an instant, he was on the guard, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him into the nearby wall. The sickening crack of bone against concrete rang in their ears.

Dick’s eyes didn’t flinch. He didn’t even pause to make sure the man was unconscious. The guard’s body slumped to the floor, a useless mess of limbs. But Dick didn’t care. He was already moving again, his focus set solely on the next target.

“Damn it!” Cassie shouted, her heart racing. “Slow down! We need to coordinate—!”

But Dick wasn’t listening. He wasn’t stopping. Another two guards appeared in front of him, weapons raised. He didn’t hesitate. He charged at them with a speed that caught them off guard, his movements violent and unpredictable. One man went down with a brutal punch to the jaw, the sound of cracking bones echoing through the air. The other barely had time to lift his gun before Dick grabbed his wrist and twisted, sending the weapon skittering across the ground.

A savage punch to the throat knocked the second guard out cold, and Dick barely spared a glance at the unconscious bodies as he moved forward again.

“We need to work together, Nightwing!” Bart shouted, watching the chaos unfold. His usual quick reflexes couldn’t keep up with Dick’s rampage. The intensity was suffocating, and the bloodlust in Dick’s movements was beyond anything they’d seen.

Dick was on a warpath now. Every guard that crossed his path fell—broken, beaten, and unconscious, maybe even worse. Each strike landed with a vicious precision, each one clearly wasn’t meant to incapacitate, it was to destroy. He wasn’t pulling back. There was only one goal in his mind—get to Erick.

“Get out of my way,” Dick growled, knocking another man to the ground before twisting his arm behind his back with a sickening crack. “I’m not waiting anymore.”

As they pushed forward, clearing the remaining guards with quick, calculated moves, the tension only grew. They were moving faster, but Dick? Dick was a hurricane, unstoppable, leaving mayhem in his wake.

A heavy door at the side of the warehouse swung open, and a dozen men flooded into the alley. They had seen the destruction left behind by Dick and his team, and they came prepared—guns raised, ready for the fight.

“Take them down!” one of the criminals shouted, his voice cracking with panic.

But Dick was already there, diving into the fray like a force of nature. He moved faster than they could track, knocking men aside with brutal precision. His fists collided with faces, ribs, and necks, each blow purposeful, each strike a promise of pain.

Kori soared above the chaos, her body tense as she prepared to launch a hailstorm of Starbolts at the three men below. Her eyes narrowed, locking onto her targets. But before she could fire, a blur of black and blue shot past her—Dick.

Without breaking stride, he whipped out his escrima sticks, the metal gleaming in the dim light. The first man didn’t even have time to react before Dick had closed the distance. With a flick of his wrist, one escrima stick slammed into the side of the man’s head, knocking him off balance.

Before he could hit the ground, Dick was already behind him. In a single, fluid motion, he swung his second escrima stick low, tripping the next man as he tried to charge. The impact was like a crack of thunder, sending the man sprawling to the ground.

Dick didn’t pause. He flipped his sticks effortlessly in his hands, moving in a blur of black and blue. The third man lunged, but Dick was already there, sidestepping the attack. With a quick twist of his body, his escrima sticks met the man’s ribs with a brutal thud, sending him crashing into the wall.

Kori, momentarily stunned by the speed and efficiency of Dick’s takedown, hovered above, watching the scene unfold. He had taken down all three men before she could even fire a single shot.

Dick stood over the incapacitated criminals, his escrima sticks still raised, ready for more. His eyes were cold, his breath steady, but the fury beneath his calm demeanor was undeniable. He wasn’t done. Not yet.

With a grunt, Conner stepped into the fray, his fist shooting forward. A man tried to charge him, but Conner’s fist connected with his jaw, sending him flying backward. But just as Conner prepared to keep pushing forward, Dick was already there, delivering a savage roundhouse kick that took out another two men who had been sneaking up behind him.

Cassie rushed forward, using her bracelets to deflect the spray of bullets. She raised her arm to throw a punch at two of the men, but before her fist could connect, Dick rushed passed her and taken them down. He tackled one from the side, knocking him to the ground with an elbow to the chest. Without hesitation, he grabbed the man’s head, slamming it against the concrete.

Cassie froze for a split second, watching in shock as Dick took down another guard with nothing but raw fury. She gritted her teeth and turned to Bart. “Move!”

But as Bart darted forward, Dick was already there, kicking a third man off his feet and sending him crashing into the wall. Dick swung the unconscious body of the first man he’d taken down, using it as a makeshift weapon to take out two more attackers.

“Can we get in on the action?” Bart muttered, frustration evident in his voice, but also a hint of awe at the destruction Dick is currently leaving behind.

Dick couldn’t stop. He didn't want to. He was a man possessed, every swing of his fist driven by the need to destroy, to make them pay. It was exactly what he thought he needed.

“I’m not losing her! I won't lose her! Never! Never!” Dick roared, his voice thick with fury. His movements were almost feral now, like a beast unleashed.

Then he saw him—Erick. He saw him in the crowd, standing near the back of the warehouse, trying to flee out of an emergency exit.

That was all Dick wanted. He turned, shoving a guard out of the way, and charged toward Erick with unrelenting speed.

Erick didn’t have time to react. Dick was on him in an instant, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him into the wall with such force that it knocked the air out of Erick’s lungs.

“I’m going to make you regret this. And enjoy every moment of it," Dick snarled, his breath coming in heavy bursts. He raised his hands, both escrima sticks gripped tightly, the metal gleaming under the harsh lights of the warehouse. But it wasn’t just the weapons that made him dangerous—it was the madness in his eyes.

Erick, still reeling from being thrown against the wall, struggled to stand, his face twisted in fear. “W-Wait—no, please! I'll give them back! I'll give them all back! Just don't-” he stammered, tears in his eyes, but his legs were shaking, unsteady.

Dick didn’t give him the chance.

The escrima sticks cut through the air like a whip, the sound sharp and merciless. The first strike came down with a force that echoed throughout the room, the metal hitting Erick’s shoulder. Erick shrieked, but Dick wasn’t done. He swung the second stick, catching him across the face that knocked him sideways.

Erick fell hard, his face twisting in agony, but Dick wasn’t waiting for him to recover. He was too far gone. Dick closed the distance, pinning Erick to the ground with a foot on his chest. His escrima sticks moved faster now, unrelenting—each blow landing with horrible cracks and snaps and crunches. He hit Erick’s ribs when they exposed. His arms when he lifted them to defend himself. His face when it was left wide open. Until the man’s body was limp beneath him, completely unrecognizable.

“Stop!” Kori shouted, rushing forward. She reached out, her hand resting on his arm, trying to pull him back from the brink. “You’re going too far!”

But it was too late. The storm had already consumed him, and washed him away where no one can save him.

“This ends now,” Dick grunted, his voice thick with anger.

With one final strike, he slammed his escrima stick into Erick’s throat, the impact cutting off the man’s last breath. For a moment, all there was silence—Dick’s heavy breathing, the faint echo of the blow ringing in the air.

Kori hovered above the scene, her heart pounding in her chest and ears so hard she couldn't think. Bart took a step back, tempted to run away from here. Conner's words were stuck in his throat, choking him, he found it difficult to breathe. Cassie felt like she was frozen in ice, unable to move and every part of her was painfully cold.

When Dick finally moved from the corpse, blood still staining his escrima sticks, he didn’t look at the team. He didn’t look at anyone. His eyes were distant, like he was looking through and past everything. As if the act of killing Erick had taken him to another place entirely—a place he didn’t want to return from.

Dick wiped the blood from his escrima sticks, his expression unreadable. “I'm done here,” he said, his voice hollow.

And with that, he walked away, leaving the wreckage of his anger behind him. The team could only watch, knowing that they had just seen a side of Dick Grayson that none of them could have anticipated.

The floor beneath you trembled. A low rumble shook through the walls, followed by the sharp crack of gunfire echoing from somewhere in the building.

Tim’s head snapped toward the door. “That’s not random,” he muttered smiling. “They’re here.”

The next explosion was closer—shattering glass, twisting metal. Dust rained from the ceiling. You both flinched as a scream echoed faintly from another room.

Tim crouched by the door, trying to peer through the small gap at the base. “We need to move before this turns into a warzone.”

He didn’t get the chance.

The lock clicked—fast. The door swung open, and Mark burst through, sweat on his brow, pistol in hand. His hair was disheveled, his shirt torn at the shoulder. He looked nothing like the arrogant man from Brooke’s story. Now, he looked desperate. Cornered.

“You’re both coming with me,” he hissed, waving the gun between you and Tim. “Now!”

Tim immediately stepped in front of you, his wrists still bound but his stance protective. “You’re out of options, Mark,” he said evenly. “You run now, you’ll be dead before you reach the main road.”

“Shut up!” Mark barked, his hand trembling. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t know that Gotham's vigilantes are on your father's payroll? That’s exactly why you’re still alive!”

He lunged forward, grabbing your arm and yanking you upright.

“Let go of her!” Tim snapped, stepping forward. Mark swung the pistol toward him before settling the end of the barrel against your temple.

“I said move!” Mark’s voice cracked. “You don’t get to play the hero, Drake. I know what kind of people you employ. I saw what they're doing down there—they’re animals! And I’m not going down for his stupidity.”

Outside, the sounds of battle grew louder. The lights flickered again, the whole building trembling as another explosion rocked the floor.

Tim’s eyes flicked briefly toward the window. “If you think you can get past them with two hostages, you’re dumber than you look.”

“I don’t need to get past them,” Mark sneered. “I just need to make them stop.”

He pressed the muzzle of the pistol harder against your temple. “One move from either of you, and I swear to God—”

“Don’t,” you said sharply, cutting him off, voice steady. “You’re not in control anymore. You’re panicking, Mark. You can hear it in your own voice.”

For a second, he hesitated. The shaking in his hand grew worse as his gaze darted between you and Tim. “Y-You won’t get your way! I’ve done too much and come too far to have everything ruined! Now come quietly,” he spat, his voice cracking with desperation.

Tim gave you a quick, knowing glance, then nodded. His body tensed, his hands subtly adjusting their position behind his back, preparing for the next move.

“Fine,” Tim said. “Lead the way.”

Mark sneered, his gun still trained on you as he shoved you forward into the hallway. Tim walked beside you, not missing a beat. But his eyes were sharp, calculating—waiting for the right moment.

They moved down the narrow hall, the footsteps being the only sound in the few bursts of tense silence. The muffled explosions and gunfire outside echoed louder, growing closer, but Mark barely seemed to notice. He was too focused on maintaining the illusion of control, the gun pointed at your backs as you walked.

You and Tim took slow, careful steps, each of you aware of the building tension in the air. Mark was too distracted, too caught up in his own panic to realize how close he was to losing it all.

That’s when you heard it—a sharp, whistling sound followed by a sudden clink as something metallic collided with Mark’s hand.

His grip on the gun loosened just long enough for it to fly from his hand, skittering across the floor. Mark let out a sharp, confused gasp and spun around, but before he could react, a figure stepped out from the shadows at the end of the hallway.

He cursed, clutching his wrist. “What the—?”

Cassandra Cain—Batgirl—stood there, her posture fluid and deadly. Batgirl stood motionless, the black fabric of her full cowl absorbing the dim light. No eyes, no mouth, no expression — just that eerie, featureless mask staring him down.

“Don’t make this harder than it already is,” she said, her voice low.

That was enough to send him spiraling. With a panicked shout, Mark bolted down the hall, shoes slapping against the floor as he disappeared around the corner.

Cass didn’t move right away. She turned her head slightly toward you and Tim. “He insists on making things difficult,” she said calmly, already reaching for another Batarang. “What a shame.”

She crouched beside you, slicing through the rope binding your wrists in one swift motion, then moved to Tim, freeing him just as quickly.

When she straightened, she turned to you. “Service stairs. Two doors down on your right. Follow them to the south exit — it leads outside the fence line. Go straight down Kingsley Avenue until you see my motorcycle. Wait for me there.”

"By myself!?"

Cass rested a hand on your shoulder. "You're not going to be alone. You'll never be alone."

You hesitated, looking between her and Tim. “Okay. But what about you two?”

Tim’s jaw was set. His expression focused. “We’re going after Mark.”

Batgirl nodded once, already moving. “We won't be long.”

You swallowed hard. “Alright. Be careful.”

Tim gave you a faint, almost reassuring smile. “We will. Now go.”

As you sprinted down the hallway toward the door Batgirl had mentioned, you could already hear them moving — Batgirl’s silent, measured footsteps and Tim’s heavier, purposeful stride fading into the distance.

Somewhere ahead, Mark’s panicked voice echoed through the building. He burst through the double doors of the conference room, breath ragged and eyes wild. In one of the corners was Brooke. She sat on the floor, knees close to her chest, her red face streaked with tears, her wrists rubbed raw from the rope.

When she saw him, she froze, confusion flashing across her face.

“Mark?” she said, her voice trembling. “What’s going on? What happened—”

“Shut up,” he snapped, cutting her off as he stumbled toward her. His words were sharp, almost rabid. “You’re coming with me.”

Brooke blinked, startled. “What? Why—?”

“You’re all I’ve got left,” he hissed, grabbing her chin so hard she winced. “Your friend and that Bat freak ruined everything. Erick’s dead, the deal’s gone to hell, and now I’ve got nothing. But you?” He smiled then — a cold, trembling smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re my ticket out of this.”

Brooke shook her head, tears spilling again. “You’re insane— you’re not making it out of here! You won't get away with this!”

Mark slammed his fist down on the wall beside her, making her flinch. “I’ll make it out. I always do. Wayne’s brats might’ve slipped through my fingers, but you? You’ll buy me time and a payout since you're our parents favorite. They'll pay up. Double, no triple the amount!”

He reached for the ropes around her wrists, jerking at the knots with shaking hands. From the hallway came the faint rhythm of footsteps — two sets.

Mark froze, his head snapping toward the sound. “No… no! I'm so close. I can't let this end like this!”

The doors behind him creaked open.

Tim Drake stepped in first, calm and steady. Behind him was Batgirl — the featureless mask of her full cowl fixed on Mark like a hunting predator.

Mark’s breathing hitched. “You just don’t quit, do you?” he spat, shoving Brooke’s chair toward them. “I’ll take her instead! You and that little bitch sister can go where ever the hell you want! I don't care!”

In one silent blur, she threw a Batarang. It cut through the air with surgical precision, embedding itself in his shoulder. Pain blew up his face; his fingers clawed at the embedded metal, blood beading where it had become one with his shoulder. His grip on Brooke faltered—then broke completely.

Brooke bolted, stumbling away from him in blind panic. She ran straight toward the one person who seemed untouchable in all this chaos.

Brooke’s breath hitched as she clung to Batgirl’s armor. Behind them, Mark writhed against the wall, one hand pressed to his shoulder as blood seeped between his fingers.

Batgirl caught her effortlessly, steady and solid as stone. One arm came around Brooke’s shoulders, keeping her upright while her masked face never once turned from Mark. Tim cut her restraints, finally freeing her.

“Hey, hey—look at me,” he said softly, cupping her face in both hands. Her breathing was erratic, eyes glassy with shock. “You’re okay. You’re free now.”

Brooke’s lip trembled. “I—I didn’t know what to do. He said—”

“I know,” Tim cut in gently, his tone firm but kind. “You don’t have to explain anything right now. Just listen.” He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, forcing her to focus on him. “I need you to go. [Name] should be there already. Wait together, okay?”

She nodded weakly, tears spilling over. “What about you?”

Tim’s faint smile didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ve got something to finish.”

Batgirl gave a sharp tilt of her head toward the far end of the hall. “Service exit, two doors down, go down Kingsley Avenue,” she told her. “Move fast and don’t look back.”

Brooke didn’t hesitate. She ran fast, her footsteps echoing down the hallway until they vanished entirely.

And then it was just them.

Tim.

Cass.

And Mark — slumped against the wall, one hand pulling the Batarang from his shoulder. His teeth bared in a mix of pain and fury as his blood splattered in front of him.

“This is it." Batgirl said coldly. "You took someone I love. You hurt them. You will pay for it."

Tim stepped forward, eyes locked on Mark. “We were going to make this, just to be nice. But you calling my sister a bitch…that right there, just killed any mercy we had for you.”

Mark backed up against the wall, one hand still trying uselessly to staunch the pain in his shoulder. His eyes darted like a trapped animals', looking for an exit that wasn’t there. “You don’t understand—” he tried, voice wet with fear.

Tim didn’t answer. The words inside him had hardened into something he could no longer swallow. Having you being frightened and humiliated for a fast buck tightened in his chest and became motion.

Cassie stepped forward beside him. She didn’t speak. There was no need. The line between what had to be done and what should be forgiven had been erased the moment Mark chose to sell you like livestock.

They moved together like a pair of inevitabilities. Tim struck first: a hard, controlled blow that sent Mark stumbling into the desk. It was not a killing blow. It was an instrument of retribution, and Mark’s scream cut through the corridor.

Cassie followed, not just with pleasure but with a grim purpose. Her strikes were businesslike and practiced. Meant to disable, to break whatever desperate will kept him standing. They hit with the kind of certainty that comes from training, from knowing where a man’s balance ends and his compliance begins.

Mark swung wildly, desperate to keep his attackers at bay. His movements were sloppy, driven by panic more than intent.

Tim ducked beneath the blow and came up fast — a sharp strike to Mark’s ribs that sent him staggering backward. Before he could recover, Cass was there, moving like liquid shadow. Her fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head sideways and sending him crashing into the wall.

He bounced off it with a groan, only to find Tim already there.

A punch, fast and surgical, landed across his temple. Mark lurched the other way, straight into Cass’s heel as she pivoted and drove a kick into his stomach. The force folded him forward, the breath leaving him in a wheeze.

Tim didn’t let him fall. He caught him by the collar, slammed him upright, and threw him toward Cass again — the rhythm of their movements perfectly in sync, brutal and practiced. Cass struck his face with an elbow, spinning him around, and Tim answered with a knee to his back. Mark’s body ricocheted between them like a ragdoll caught in a storm. A twisted round of tennis, Tim and Cass are the players, and Mark is the ball.

Tim’s jaw was tight, his expression unreadable — but his eyes burned with the kind of fury that came from fear turned into vengeance. Cass, silent as ever, was the storm’s other half — graceful, efficient, deadly. The two of them moved like a single force.

Mark tried to raise his arms in defense, but Cass swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. Tim was already there, lifting him up by his hair until he was on his knees.

“This,” Tim said through his teeth, “is for her.”

Mark choked out something that might’ve been a plea, but Cass was already in motion again. One swift kick to the temple The kind that ended things.

Mark hit the wall one last time. His head slumped forward, body slack. The air hung heavy, punctuated only by the sound of Tim’s harsh, unsteady breathing.

For a long second, neither of them moved.

Then Cass straightened, eyes on the lifeless heap in front of them. She exhaled slowly through her nose, shaking out her hands. Tim stayed crouched for a moment longer, staring down, the fury in him cooling into something quieter — pure exhaustion.

“It’s over,” Cass said finally, her voice soft but certain.

Tim didn’t respond right away. When he did, it was barely above a whisper. “No. Not yet.”

He stood, the tension in his shoulders sharp as steel. “We still have to get them home.”

Cass nodded once. Together, they turned from the body and stepped back into the hallway — two silhouettes fading into the darkness.

Jason crouched on the rooftop overlooking the warehouse a few blocks away. The warehouse sat half-swallowed by fog and neon, a low hum of bad light leaking through gaps in boarded windows. He’d watched the comings and goings, the men who never looked anyone in the eye, and the courier who ducked in with a crate and left with cash. He'd counted the exits and timed the guard rotations. David’s little empire had patterns, but his patterns had weak points.

He chambered a round, eyes narrowing. “Alright, David. Let’s finish this. little game.”

That was when the sound hit him — low, mechanical thunder rolling through the fog.

Jason frowned. “No way…”

The Batmobile burst from the alley like an angry myth, tires shrieking as it swung into a perfect drift and slammed to a stop across the street. Its lights cut through the mist, harsh and surgical. Jason blinked, incredulous.

The driver’s hatch opened — and out stepped a kid barely tall enough to reach the steering wheel.

“Unbelievable,” Jason muttered. “Of course it’s him.”

Damian Wayne — ten years old, masked face set in a scowl sharp enough to cut glass, cape fluttering like he owned the night. Jason hopped down from the rooftop and walked toward the young boy, calm as a soldier.

Damian only glared at him through his domino mask. “You’re sloppy,” he said. “The south entrance has a blind spot, but you’re wasting time up here.”

Jason ran a hand down his masked face. “You have got to be kidding me. Does Bruce know you hijacked the damn Batmobile?”

“Father knows what’s important,” Damian replied defiantly. “You’re tracking David to get revenge for him putting [Name] in danger. So am I.”

Jason barked a humorless laugh. “You should be tracking bedtime, kid. Go home before you get grounded out of existence.”

Damian ignored him completely, already scanning the guards coming and going with that calculating gaze that was all too familiar. “They’re moving crates. The product is volatile — some of its chemical, some ballistic. If we detonate it, the whole block goes up.”

"Yeah no shit. I know all about what's going on here. Tim gave me David's location and a pretty damn big push to finish this. Tonight." It sounded simple and straightforward, but this isn't like any of Jason's other jobs. This was personal. And he won't let anyone get in his way and distract him.

Jason’s next set of words coming out harder than he intended. He kept his voice low—too many ears, too many triggers. “Listen. I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. This isn’t some fun little field trip you can join. This is serious. This is personal to me."

Damian’s response was flat, with measured defiance. “You’re brittle tonight. You’ll snap if you keep going solo. Like I said, you’ll get sloppy. And I don’t like sloppy.”

For a beat Jason wanted to tell him to go back to the cave, and practice scowling in a mirror. Instead he watched the kid’s face—the same relentless calm that made people underestimate him until it was too late. Damian wasn’t mouthing bravado.

"I have a reason to be here. But why are you here? This doesn't have anything to do with you. But you came here without Bruce, in the Batmobile. Clearly you're on a mission."

Damian didn’t flinch. The glow from a streetlight caught along the edge of his cowl.

“I’m here because this does have something to do with me,” Damian’s tone was calm, but there was a flicker of something beneath it, guilt, anger, maybe both. “You’re going after David — the man who supplied the chemicals used in [Name]’s kidnapping. He’s one of the reasons she was taken. Father would’ve stopped me. He’s wasting time planning, talking, waiting. I'm not waiting. I want to finish things.”

Jason gave a low, mirthless chuckle. “Yeah, you’ve got that in common with me. Only difference is, I don’t answer to anyone. You? You’re still ten.”

Damian crossed his arms, chin lifting slightly. “And you’re still reckless.”

That earned a sharp snort from Jason. “Takes one to know one.”

The air between them settled into a tense quiet, with mutual irritation, and mutual respect simmering just below the surface. Jason's eyes flicking toward the warehouse again. “Fine. You’re already here, and you’re not leaving, are you?”

“No,” Damian said simply. “You’ll need me.”

Jason smirked, dark and a little proud despite himself. “Cute. Just don’t slow me down.”

“I’d worry more about keeping up.”

Jason didn’t even get to argue before Damian ran toward the warehouse. No hesitation. No backup plan. Just pure, reckless confidence — a ten-year-old missile in a cape charging straight into enemy territory.

“Unbelievable,” Jason muttered running behind Damian. He drew his pistols mid-stride, chambering rounds with a metallic click that cut through the night.

By the time Jason reached the side entrance, Damian was already inside. The sound of motion echoed from within—sharp, clean, surgical. Jason pushed through the door and found two guards on the ground, motionless. Damian stood above them, katana drawn, the blade slick with blood under the dim industrial light.

“Couldn’t wait thirty seconds, could you?” Jason growled.

Damian didn’t look up. “They saw me.”

Jason stepped over a stream of blood from one of the bodies. “You could’ve let them see you. Fear’s one hell of a weapon.”

“I prefer results.”

Jason smiled beneath his helmet. “Oh trust me. You'll learn that weaponizing both gets you the best result.”

They move like a single shadow through the belly of the warehouse, two silhouettes slipping between crates stamped with DIVIAN INDUSTRIES. Every sound is amplified — the creak of a pallet, the hiss of a generator, the soft, meaningless laugh of men who don’t know the night has already turned against them.

“Two at the fork,” Jason whispers, scanning with a practiced sweep. He draws both pistols, the motion fluid, sure. A grin ghosts under the visor — this is the confrontation he wants.

Damian answers with a tilt of his head and drops low. He moves with that terrible, neat economy of motion: no wasted steps, no flourish. The katana appears in a blur. The first grunt turns at the sound of a falling crate and never sees the edge of steel. He goes to the floor bloody and silent.

Jason is already covering the other. A precise shot cracks through the space between pallet and shadow; the man’s rifle disengages from his fingers and clatters, useless. He slumps against a crate.

And they don’t slow down. They don’t need words. Their choreography tightens with every room. They move through squads the way tornado move through houses: inevitable and destructive, bending everything to their will.

A group tries to flank them in a narrow corridor. Damian feints left, slicing a path that makes the first two drop their weapons to clutch at bleeding arms; Jason flows behind, headshots taken without flourish, each pull of the trigger measured to stop, not to indulge. When one man tries to run, only for Damian’s katana to bisect the man on his way to the exit, a quiet "no" spoken by steel.

Every person they take down, every drop of blood sprayed and spilled, removes a private weight from both of them. They are not gleeful. There is no pleasure in the end — only a blunt satisfaction, the kind that comes from righting a ledger that’s slipped too far out of balance. Each time they clear a room, they glance at each other in that microsecond where the world is soft and the danger has been smacked down. The looks are brief and unreadable: an acknowledgment.

They find themselves in a choke point where men cluster around thermal-wracked barrels and a flickering work lamp. It should be three on one — odds in the goons’ favor — but those odds dissolve when Jason fires and Damian closes. Jason pops two quick rounds into a man who tries to pull a grenade; the throw never comes. Damian’s blade catches a second attacker as he dives for cover; the man pitches forward and stays down. A third lunges with a pipe; Jason’s elbow breaks his balance, and a clean shot ends the charge.

Soon they encounter a corridor opened into a fork — one path leading deeper into the shipping bays, the other climbing to the mezzanine offices above. Shouts echoed from both directions, the sound of boots and metal, of weapons being drawn in panic.

Jason glanced at Damian. “You wanna take high ground or floor?”

Damian’s eyes flicked toward the stairs. “High ground is fine. I’ll clean the rafters.”

Jason grinned, switching from his pistols to a hunting knife strapped to his thigh. “Fine by me. I’ll handle the welcoming committee.”

They broke apart without another word.

Damian darted up the stairs two steps at a time, his cape snapping behind him like a banner. The warehouse catwalks stretched across the ceiling — a maze of metal and shadow, perfect for a predator.

Three men patrolled the upper level, lazily keeping watch. They never saw him coming. Damian vaulted onto the railing, balanced perfectly, and dropped behind the first with surgical precision. The katana slashed at the man's achilles, as his body crumpled Damian lifted him over the guard rail, letting the concrete below finish him off.

The second turned, too slow. Damian pivoted, slamming a kick into his chest that sent him sprawling into a railing, allowing Damian to plunge his katana into his chest from above.

The third man tried to retreat down the stairs, shouting for backup. Damian followed, using the narrow rails like stepping stones. He moved like something that shouldn’t exist. Completely unstoppable. The man reached the stairs just as Damian landed behind him. The hilt of the katana struck his temple, and the man fell down the stairs. His head hitting everything on the way down.

For a moment, Damian stood still. His breathing steady. His grip sure. Every motion had purpose. No hesitation. Certainly no remorse. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The vision of you and him in the manors garden together flashed in his mind. Just you two talking and laughing, completely at ease and at peace. A soft smile graced his face when he opened his eyes.

He looked down at the warehouse floor below, hearing gunfire, the rough sound of fists.

On the ground level, Jason moved through the aisles like a force of nature. His guns were holstered; this wasn’t about distance.

A grunt lunged at him with a crowbar. Jason sidestepped, grabbed the man’s wrist, and twisted hard enough to break the man's wrist . The handle clattered uselessly. Jason’s hunting knife slashed at the man's neck, dropping him to the floor as he tried to stop the bleeding.

Another came from behind. Jason spun, and drove a boot into the guy’s chest, sending him into a stack of crates. The tower came down and crushed the man. A third swung a pipe; Jason ducked low, cut his chest upward, then followed with a brutal elbow that sent the attacker sprawling.

This was muscle memory, a language written in strikes and blocks. When one guard tried to fire from a distance, Jason closed the space in seconds, kicking the riffle barrel causing the bullets to shoot into the ceiling. Jason grabbed his assailant by the face and cracked his skull open on the wall. The body leaving a streak of blood as it crumpled to the ground.

He exhaled, short and sharp, checking corners as he moved. "Almost done," Jason muttered. "Just a little longer [Name]. I won't let anyone hurt you. Never again."

The sound of Damian above — metal creaks, faint impacts — told him the kid was keeping pace.

A ladder clanged behind him. Damian slid down, landing silently beside Jason. His blade glinted with the dull reflection of the warehouse lights.

Jason wiped his knife on his sleeve and smirked. “Not bad for a kid who still gets grounded.”

Damian smirked up at him. "Not bad for a man that needs to be."

Jason barked a laugh, like there wasn't any carnage surrounding them.

For a second, they just looked at each other — two soldiers standing in a quiet battlefield. They both knew what the other had done, all of the lines they’d crossed.

Jason finally spoke, low and even. “You know they’ll hate us for this if they find out, right?”

Damian gave the faintest shrug. “They’ll never understand.”

Jason gave a sharp nod. “Yeah. But we do.”

"And honestly, that's all that matters."

Jason clapped Damian once on the shoulder, the gesture short but genuine. “Come on.”

And together, they moved deeper into the warehouse — a deadly symmetry of red and black, gun and blade, brother and brother — cutting a clean path toward David’s office and the final reckoning that waited upstairs.

Room after room, the pattern repeats. Strikes that disable the subject’s ability to continue, shots that end the threat instantly. There are no dramatic monologues, no time for internal debates about consequence. Tonight they’re executioners and execution is what the job requires.

Between engagements, they move in that silent sync — one watches a doorway while the other rips through a line of targets; one covers an exit while the other clears the back rows. They grow more bold, more trusting. Jason starts taking risks he wouldn’t alone. Damian steps into kill zones he’d never have entered without Jason’s suppressing fire. Jason begins to time his shots to the exact moment Damian’s blade carves a path. It’s an ugly ballet, only elegant in how effective it is.

They both imagine, at some edge of their rage, their families' reaction — disapproval, lectures, the long, inevitable cleaning up. They don’t care. Not tonight.

By the time the building is cleared and the stairwell sits before them. The warehouse is now a rearranged map of motionless bodies. Still they climb. The job still isn't done. Each step creaks, each breath is measured, but there’s still that working tempo between them. Foot, foot, strike; step, step, shot. In the main office, their final target waits. David bent over his ledger with a thick black marker, a last, ridiculous attempt to hide the names.

They don’t talk as they enter. There’s no need. Damian’s katana draws like a sentence, Jason’s pistols rise like punctuation. When David looks up, the terror in his eyes is immediate and complete — ultimate payment arriving twice over: steel and lead.

When it’s done and the ledger is in Jason’s hands, the look between them is not triumph so much as a shared, terrible agreement. They did not leave survivors tonight, that wasn't the plan. They both knew that before the first body hit the floor, and that knowledge is a bond.

Damian sheaths the katana slowly, his motion calm, almost ritual. Jason’s breath is even, his grin muted now into a hard line. Both of them feel the aftertaste of it — a little pleasure, a ton of relief, and the steadying cold of having done what they decided needed doing.

Jason nodded once toward the back door. “Let’s go home.”

They pushed through the exit. The night air hit them like a slap. Jason stepped out first, guns still in hand, scanning the perimeter. “We’re clear,” he muttered—then stopped.

Bodies.

At least two dozen men lay sprawled across the loading dock and the cracked asphalt beyond. A bullet was the executioner, every head shot was clean.

Jason’s head tilted slightly. “These… aren't mine.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed, scanning the pattern. “They aren't mines either.”

Jason’s gaze lifted to the ridge of the old water tower across the lot. A faint silhouette stood there, framed by the moonlight.

“Oh shit,” Jason muttered.

The figure shifted, climbing down the ladder with an ease that only came from decades of training. Jason and Damian sprinted to the tower. A few minutes later when they reached it, Alfred Pennyworth emerged from the shadows, trench coat brushing his legs, sniper rifle balanced casually in his grip.

He looked immaculate, as always. Not a drop of sweat. Just quiet purpose and the look of a man who’d seen far worse and still kept the kettle warm at home.

“Gentlemen,” Alfred said, voice smooth, unhurried. “I was under the impression you might require assistance.”

Jason blinked behind his visor. “You—how the hell—”

“I was in the Batcave when Master Damian decided to rebel and take the Batmobile,” Alfred interrupted mildly, inspecting the rifle before tucking it under his arm. “I must confess, I too couldn't stand idly by and let these untrained animals get away with what they've done.”

Damian straightened slightly, pride flickering through his composure. “So you chose followed me? Instead of going with Tim. He's with [Name] right now.”

“I trust Master Tim to take care of Miss [Name],” Alfred corrected gently. “I wanted to make sure you two didn't get too reckless.”

Jason gave a low, incredulous chuckle. “You took out the reinforcements by yourself? How did it feel? Nostalgic?”

Alfred’s lips twitched. “All I can say is old habits die hard, Master Jason.” His tone softened, though his gaze stayed hard. “And I trust you both ensured there are no survivors within?”

Neither of them answered immediately. Jason’s silence said enough. Damian’s calm did the rest.

Alfred regarded them for a moment — not angry, not even surprised. Just quietly understanding in that way only he could be. “Then I suggest we make ourselves scarce before the authorities arrive.”

Jason let out a breath that was half laugh, half disbelief. “You’re something else, Alfie.”

“Indeed,” Alfred smiled, adjusting his cuffs as if the sniper rifle were a mere accessory.

Jason glanced at Damian, who for once didn’t argue.

They each went their separate ways to their own vehicles, leaving behind the ruin of David’s empire and the quiet graveyard of men who’d made the mistake of aligning with trash and standing in their way.

For the first time that night, Jason felt something strange stirring — absolutely no guilt, a ton of pride, and the faint, surprising warmth of respect. Not just for Alfred. But Damian as well.

The three of them disappeared into the darkness — the soldier, the heir, and the butler.

The Batcave hummed with quiet machinery. The glow from the massive screens bathed everything in cold light.

Barbara leaned forward over the console, watching the live feeds flicker across the screens. Some from hacked security camera's, some from drones hovering over multiple separate scenes. One above a warehouse outside Gotham’s limits, another circling another warehouse her Central City's outskirts.

Barbara’s fingers danced over her keyboard from her workstation off to the side. “They didn’t just hit the operation,” she said. “They erased it. Entirely. No survivors.” Her voice wavered, just slightly, as the drone feed zoomed in on the wreckage.

Stephanie sat in a chair next to Barbara, her legs propped up on an empty spot on the desk. Her arms were folded tight across her chest, a stubborn scowl pulling at her mouth.

“This is the worst,” she muttered. “I should have been there too! But nooo, I had to be here, doing absolutely nothing! I’m not even suited up!”

Barbara chuckled softly while continuing to type, the soft click of keys filling the air. “Funny. I thought you were on a silent strike. You know, ‘No missions, no words’ — your dramatic protest about Bruce’s leadership style.”

Steph’s glare softened into a pout. “I changed it. Now it’s just the classic silent treatment. It’s more effective and way less exhausting.”

Barbara grinned. “Ah, so you’re evolving.”

“Yup,” Steph said with mock pride. “It’s called emotional growth.”

The playful tone faded as another live feed shifted onto the main screen — a shot of the warehouse where Jason and Damian had been. The drones picked up the footage of the Batmobile retreating down the street.

Behind them, the heavy tread of boots echoed off the cave’s stone floor. Bruce descended from the upper walkway, his cape trailing behind him like a shadow that had forgotten how to stop moving. He came to a halt between the two women, eyes on the screens — on the chaos his family had left behind.

Barbara tilted her head toward him. “So, Bruce? What are you gonna do about your kids?”

Bruce didn’t answer. The glow from the monitors painted his face in shifting light.

Barbara leaned back in her chair, studying him carefully. “They crossed multiple lines tonight. You know that.”

Bruce reached across the console, picked up a chipped black #1 Dad mug, the only one he uses for calming herbal teas before he went to bed. Bruce glanced inside the mug before letting out a short grunt. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the exit tunnel that led to the mansion above.

“Don’t stay up too late,” he mumbled — not in the disappointed father way they expected, but in the tone of a CEO who’d just survived the world’s longest board meeting.

The echo of his footsteps faded into the distance, swallowed by the hum of the Batcave.

"Um…," Barbara blinked, eyebrows shooting up. “I-Is that it?”

“Yeah,” Steph said, still staring after him. “I guess so?”

Barbara swiveled in her chair to fully face the empty tunnel entrance. “Normally he’d stay up until everyone got back—lecture, interrogation, emotional guilt trip, the works.”

Steph threw up her hands. “I know I'm ignoring him for not letting me go, but I was emotionally prepared for…something! I don't know what, but not going upstairs to make some damn tea and go to bed.”

Barbara exhaled through her nose, leaning back in her chair. “Either he’s hit his limit… or he’s planning to handle this in a way none of us are ready for.”

Steph crossed her arms with a groan. “Great. So he’s calm now—which means we’re all doomed later.”

The two sat in uneasy silence, the glow of the monitors flickering across their faces. Somewhere above, they could almost picture Bruce in the quiet kitchen, standing alone, waiting for his tea kettle to whistle — calm on the outside, a storm building beneath the surface. Everyone will just have to wait and see what happens.

Okay okay! This is the first time I did an action scene this gritty. I tried to not make it gory or over indulgent on the violence, but make it for story telling. I'm happy with how it turned out and would love some feedback if you're willing to give it. Just make it constructive please!