#redemptive truth

Sam Wilson’s address hadn’t been hard to find, not with his name and reputation. She was surprised his family home — a charming, Southern-style house in a small fishing community — wasn’t swarmed with fans looking for selfies or signatures. But ever since the Blip, the public had learned to be more respectful of heroes. Maybe even a little afraid of them. And she couldn’t blame them. Fear was a natural response to the unknown.

But to her, the unknown had always just been… life. Part of being human.

She took a steadying breath and knocked on the Wilsons’ front door, nerves tight in her chest. She hadn’t really planned this beyond stumbling across Sam’s address in one of her grandfather’s letters — one of many he’d written but never sent. She hadn’t had the heart to open them. It hadn’t felt like her place. She raised a fist, counted to three, and knocked again — firm, deliberate.

The bundle of letters crinkled at her side.

From inside came the sound of shuffling and a child’s voice, high and animated. Her guess was confirmed when the door creaked open and a young boy with glasses squinted up at her, a suspicious frown tugging at his mouth.

She waited, awkwardly, hoping he’d say something first. When he didn’t, she shifted her weight and offered a small, uncertain smile.

“Hi… um, is your mom or uncle home?”

His frown deepened. “You wanna see Uncle Sam?”

“Yes, I actually would—”

“We don’t know you.”

She blinked at the interruption, caught off guard. The kid raised his brows like he was waiting for her to make a case for herself, arms folded firmly across his chest. He couldn’t have been more than ten, but he stood there like he ran the whole household.

She cleared her throat uncertainly. “Well, I don’t know you either.”

“I live here.”

“Okay, fair.”

A beat.

“What’s your name?” he demanded.

She hesitated, then only gave her first name.

The boy wasn’t fooled, however. “No last name?”

“Look,” she signed, starting to get frustrated. “I really just want to give your uncle something. If he’s not here, could I just leave it with your mom?”

He narrowed his eyes. “What do you really want with Uncle Sam?”

“To talk.”

“About what?”

“Classified stuff.”

The boy’s mouth opened in mild offense. “I’m ten, not stupid.”

She leaned in slightly. “You sure about that?”

His eyebrows shot up like she’d challenged him to a duel. Before he could fire back, a voice called from inside, warm but exasperated.

“Cass, stop interrogating people on the porch!”

Cass rolled his eyes but didn’t move. “She says she has classified stuff.”

“I did not say that,” she muttered.

A woman appeared behind him — Sarah, if she remembered correctly from her research — wiping her hands on a dish towel as she approached the door. Her eyes landed on her instantly, softening with polite curiosity.

“Can I help you?”

Cass muttered something under his breath and stomped off.

She offered a small smile, nerves creeping back in like a tide. “Hi. I’m sorry to just… show up. I was hoping to talk to Sam?”

Sarah eyed her with the same guarded skepticism her son had, gaze flicking briefly to the bundle of letters in her hand. “Are those for him?”

She nodded, her throat tightening. The papers felt hot in her grip. “They’re not from me. I found them a few weeks ago. Thought… he’d want to have them.”

Sarah’s lips pressed into a thoughtful line, her expression unreadable. “Who are they from?”

She hesitated, knowing the next words would shift everything. Up until now, she’d been nothing but a shadow, a secret tethered to a story no one else knew — watching history play out exactly the way her grandfather had said it would.

“They’re from my grandfather,” she said softly. “Steve.”

Sunlight caught the edge of the first envelope in the stack, illuminating the name written in her grandfather’s careful, steady hand, ink faded, but still unmistakable.

. . .

It only took one hushed phone call, words muffled through the living room wall. An hour later, Sam Wilson was walking through the front door, boots still dark and slick from the damp autumn evening.

His gaze found hers the moment the door clicked shut behind him.

She'd seen the Falcon countless times over the years. On the news, in grainy online clips, splashed across social media feeds. Usually standing beside a younger version of her grandfather, the man she'd never known in that era. The one who still belonged to the world instead of to her.

In person, Sam Wilson was exactly what she expected and somehow more. Tall, broad-shouldered, steady in a way that seemed effortless. There was confidence in the way he carried himself, yes, but warmth in the set of his mouth, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He had that same quiet geniality her grandfather had always carried, the kind that made you feel like you could trust him before he ever said a word.

Still, his eyes were skeptical as they swept over her. Not rudely, but carefully, deliberately searching. She knew exactly what he was looking for. Did she resemble Steve? Could she really be his last living blood relative? Or was this some elaborate trick, another ghost from the past come back to haunt him?

She already knew the answer. Her mother's side had left her with enough differences that the resemblance wasn't immediate, wasn't obvious. So she waited, still and patient, hands folded loosely in her lap, letting him decide for himself.

The silence stretched. Sarah watched from the kitchen doorway, her hands folded in front of her as if bracing for bad news, or maybe just holding herself together. Finally, Sam's shoulders eased. The tension slipped from him in one long, deliberate exhale. He dropped his duffel bag by the door and gave her a smile. Genuine, but tinged with something bittersweet.

"You have his eyes," he said quietly, voice rougher than she expected. "It's… good to see them again."

She returned the smile, tentative, unsure if her face reminded him too much of a best friend long gone. "He always said he was glad that was the only thing I got from him."

Sam chuckled, a low sound that seemed to ease something in the room. He let out another long breath before dragging a chair over and dropping into it directly in front of her. Elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them. His gaze kept drifting back to her eyes, lingering there like he was trying to memorize them all over again. If it weren't for the faint twist of his mouth, the subtle tightness at the corners, she wouldn't have guessed he was lost in memory.

"No super soldier genes, then?" His tone was light, almost teasing, but there was real curiosity underneath.

She shook her head, biting the inside of her cheek. "None that I know of. My mom and her brother never had anything out of the ordinary. The serum didn't change his genetics. Couldn't be passed down. I think… he was grateful for that. Relieved, even."

Sam nodded slowly, absorbing that, quiet for a long beat. He was still studying her, not intrusively, but like he was piecing together a puzzle he'd thought was long finished. He hadn't even asked about the letters yet, though she could feel the questions simmering just behind his eyes, patient and waiting.

"When Steve went back…" he said finally, voice low and careful, "I guess I never thought we'd meet his grandkids one day. Didn't even cross my mind." He paused, something distant flickering across his face. "Makes sense, though. A few months for us…was decades for him."

"He told me everything," she said softly, hoping pieces of her grandfather's voice, his stories, might bridge the impossible gap between them. "World War II. The serum. Waking up in a world that had moved on without him. The Avengers. Meeting you. Fighting Ultron, Thanos… all of it. We watched every news story together, read every article we could find." She smiled faintly. "Well, I did. He said there was no point. He already knew exactly how it would all play out."

Sam let out a short, surprised snort, shaking his head with something like fond exasperation. "Sounds about right. Classic Steve. No point in reliving the headlines when you lived the whole damn thing."

His gaze finally dropped to the bundle of letters resting on the small table beside her, tied carefully with faded string. "Those for me?"

She nodded and lifted them, handing them over like they were something sacred. Some of them were decades old, the edges yellowed and brittle, the paper thin enough to see shadows of ink through the backs.

"He wrote them from the day he went back to my grandma," she said quietly, "all the way until his last. They were in his will… along with this address, and a request to find you." She swallowed. "I never opened them. Didn't feel like it was my right."

Sam turned the packet over in his hands slowly, reverently, his thumb brushing over the worn edges like he could feel the weight of decades pressed into the paper. His mouth tightened, jaw working for a moment before he spoke, voice steady but softer now.

"Thank you," he said. "For bringing these. For respecting them." He looked up, meeting her eyes again. "That means more than you know."

She nodded, throat tight, unsure what to say. Unsure of what to do next, really. She hadn't planned this far ahead in her mind when she first read her grandfather's wish for her to deliver the letters. All she'd really thought about was hoping she'd be able to find the recipients. And praying they'd want what she had been asked to give.

He glanced up after a moment. "I didn't catch your name."

She told him her first name, then added, "Carter. Last name's Carter. Steve took Peggy's name when they married. Said it made life easier to… stay out of sight. Start over."

Something in Sam's expression shifted. Recognition flickered, maybe even understanding — or sorrow for what that choice must have meant. "Your mom and… you said there was an uncle?"

Her gaze dropped to her hands, fingers twisting together. "My mother died a few years ago. Cancer." The word still tasted bitter. She swallowed hard. "My uncle… he was killed in Vietnam. Never made it home. So, yeah. I'm the last one left."

Sam was silent for a long moment, watching her with an expression that wasn't pity. He’d seen too much to know that pity wasn’t the accurate response to years of loss. Empathy, maybe. Shared understanding of what it meant to carry ghosts. Then he said, with a faint, sad smile, "You've got Peggy's face. The shape of it, anyway. But the eyes… those are all Steve."

Her own smile wavered, threatening to break. "That means a lot." She cleared her throat, steadying herself. "And… thank you. For taking up his shield. I know it wasn't easy."

Sam looked down briefly, a shade of something unspoken crossing his face. Pride, maybe, or the weight of what she knew was both a gift and a burden. "It's… an honor. Always will be. Even on the hard days."

She hesitated, then reached into her bag and pulled out another bundle, smaller than the first, bound in worn twine that had frayed at the edges. "I have one more packet," she said, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "These aren't for you. They're from my grandfather… to Bucky."

Sam's head lifted sharply, his brows drawing together. Not surprised, exactly. More like he'd been expecting this, dreading it maybe. Knowingly.

"I need help finding him," she continued, words coming faster now. "I know he's… hard to track down. Doesn't want to be found. But Grandpa wanted him to have these." She met Sam's eyes, steady and sure. "And I think… he needs to. Maybe more than anyone."

Sam stared at her for a long beat, jaw tight, weighing something heavy in his mind. Then he gave a single, slow nod, decision made.

"I might know where to start."

. . .

Her grandfather had spent most of his life talking about Bucky. Her grandma used to joke—half-teasing, half-serious—that Bucky was secretly his long-lost love rather than her. He'd just laugh and wave it off with that familiar boyish grin, but she knew better. She'd seen the way his eyes would go distant sometimes, especially in his last years. He carried a tremendous weight of guilt for leaving Bucky behind in the present, an anchor that never quite loosened its hold. He always said Bucky had given him his blessing, had practically shoved him toward the quantum tunnel himself, but the endless war stories about his best friend — told and retold until she could recite them by heart—were his way of coping with the sense of wrongdoing he carried until the day he died.

She knew the broad strokes of Bucky's life. The torture and brainwashing, his years spent as HYDRA's weapon. The time he spent as nothing more than a ghost story whispered in intelligence briefings. The bloody reunion with her grandfather that had made international headlines. His slow, painful return to himself. But it was in her grandfather's final years, after Grandma Peggy passed and the house felt too empty, that she got the clearest picture. Sitting by his bed while illness slowly claimed him, machines beeping softly in the background, she listened as he spoke of Bucky in a way that was more than just facts, more than hero worship or survivor's guilt.

Steve had described him as stubborn to a fault, fiercely loyal, and braver than anyone had a right to be. The kind of bravery that didn't come from fearlessness but from choosing to stand anyway. A man with a sharp wit and a dry sense of humor that could cut through the tension of any battlefield, make men laugh even when they were knee-deep in mud and blood. He said Bucky could fight like hell but would still give away his last meal if someone else needed it more, would carry a wounded soldier on his back for miles without complaint. And no matter how much the world had taken from him, no matter how much blood was on his hands or how many memories had been stripped away, there was still a piece of that kid from Brooklyn who'd do anything to protect the people he loved.

She had to admit, she'd spent the last few years wondering more about Bucky than about Sam. A man out of time, just like her grandfather, but worse somehow. Recovering from losing not just his era but his memories, his autonomy…himself. Utterly alone except for Sam, really, and whatever tenuous thread still connected him to a world that had moved on without him. It was a tragic story, Shakespearean in its cruelty, and she felt quite a bit of sympathy for a man she had only seen in grainy pictures and heavily redacted news reports.

Sam had given her Bucky's Brooklyn address himself, though not without a significant disclaimer.

"He's a bit standoffish," Sam had said, leaning back in his chair like he was bracing her for turbulence. "Still healing in ways that matter. Good guy underneath it all—great guy, actually—but he's got walls. Thick ones." He'd paused, choosing his words carefully. "He's still got a lot of guilt about his past. Still processing Steve being gone. It's… complicated."

He'd let the words sit there, watching her reaction with those perceptive eyes.

The unspoken truth was loud enough to hear: He's still dealing with his trauma and isn't the Bucky your grandfather told you about. Maybe he never will be.

Sam had smirked then, softening what he just delivered with humor. "And hey, fair warning…you might remind him a little too much of Steve. So, y'know… if he slams the door in your face, don't take it personal. That's just his love language."

She'd raised an eyebrow, couldn't help the small smile. "Door slamming as a love language?"

"In Bucky's case? Yeah. Right up there with glaring and intense brooding. Olympic level, really. He could medal."

So, with Sam's warning ringing in her ears and a knot of anxiety in her stomach, she booked the next flight to New York and now stood on the cracked sidewalk outside James Buchanan Barnes' apartment building, clutching his letters like they might vanish if she loosened her grip.

The place was exactly the kind of building you'd expect a man avoiding the world to live in. Weathered brick darkened by decades of soot and rain, yellowed with age and neglect. A rust-flecked fire escape zigzagged up the facade like a skeletal ladder, bolts loose enough that she could hear it rattling faintly when a breeze blew by. The windows were made of that old, wavy glass that distorted the reflection of the afternoon sun into something dreamlike and wrong, and the front door bore the scuffs and dents of a thousand careless kicks.

Inside, the air was thick and close, smelling faintly of old radiator heat and stale cigarette smoke. She wrinkled her nose at the smell upon entering and wondered why he chose to live here, when he could probably have the pick of the litter of any place in the city given his notoriety with the Avengers. Familiarity, maybe?

She glanced at the mailboxes in the narrow entryway. Half had peeling name labels curled at the edges, the rest just bore tarnished numbers. His was one of the bare ones. Of course it was.

Her boots echoed faintly against the chipped tile as she climbed the narrow staircase, the railing cool and slightly sticky under her palm with years of grime. The higher she went, the quieter it got, the sounds of the street fading until all she could hear was the steady drumbeat of her own pulse and the distant hum of someone's television.

Her stomach was in knots. She wasn't sure if Sam had warned him she was coming, or if she was about to knock on the door of a man who might slam it in her face without a word.

A hermit, Sam had called him. She didn't blame him. She'd spent her whole life doing the same, hiding in plain sight, deflecting questions about her family tree with practiced ease.

At the third floor, she stopped in front of his door. The brass number was slightly crooked, loose on one screw, and the wood around the peephole was scuffed and faded. She knocked before she could talk herself out of it, three sharp raps that sounded too loud in the quiet hallway, heart drumming an unsteady rhythm against her ribs.

The door opened a moment later, and for a long, disorienting moment, she was utterly floored.

Because he was far more handsome in person than she had expected. Devastatingly so.

She had seen the photos. Black and white images of a young sergeant with a cocky grin, had heard how much of a ladies' man he'd been back in the day from her grandfather's fond, exasperated stories—but none of that did justice to the real thing.

He was taller than she'd expected, broad-shouldered and solid in a way that seemed effortless, wearing a dark henley that clung to lean muscle and did absolutely nothing to hide his build underneath. His hair was short now, dark and slightly mussed like he'd been running his hands through it, framing a sharp jawline shadowed with stubble and rough, intensely masculine features. The blue of his eyes was startling vivid even as they glared at her from under a furrowed brow, assessing and cold. She forgot, for just a second, why she was there.

He looked her over quickly, efficiently, his expression darkening immediately. "If you're here to sell me something—"

"I'm not—" she began, but he was already starting to shut the door, movement smooth and dismissive.

Her hand shot out on instinct, catching the edge of the door before it could slam shut, palm stinging from the impact. "Wait, didn't Sam tell you I was coming?" she asked, forcing her voice to stay even, reasonable.

Bucky's jaw twitched, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. His scowl deepened, carving harsh lines around his mouth. "Sam? No. And whatever you're selling, I'm not interested. Have a good day, kid."

"I'm not selling anything." She snapped, leaning her weight into the door, refusing to let it close. Stubbornness flared hot in her chest. "And maybe if you actually answered your phone once in a while instead of ghosting everyone, you'd know why I'm here."

His jaw flexed again, teeth grinding. Annoyance flashed in those steely eyes. "You've got about three seconds to explain before I make you leave."

She huffed, already feeling her patience fray at the edges like old rope. "Wow. You're exactly as charming as Sam said you'd be."

His eyes narrowed dangerously, but there was something else there too. Surprise, maybe, at her directness. He blinked at her, clearly not expecting the attitude. "What…did he send you here?"

"I mean… in a way, but — listen, can you let me explain, dude?"

His expression shifted to something between incredulity and exhaustion, like the thirty seconds he'd spent talking to her had already shaved years off his life and he deeply resented it. "How old are you?"

She blinked at the abruptness, thrown. "Uh… twenty-four? Why is that relevant?"

Bucky nodded slowly, deliberately, like he'd just confirmed a working theory he'd had. Then he reached into his back pocket with his right hand. She frowned, confused, until he pulled out a worn leather wallet. Her eyes widened when he opened it and produced a massive wad of cash, crisp bills folded thick.

"Sounds about right," he said casually, tone flat and matter-of-fact. "If I pay you extra, will you leave and tell Sam you did whatever he paid you for? I'll throw in a tip."

She gawked at the money, speechless. Then at him. Then back at the money, trying to process what was happening. Heat rushed into her cheeks, flooding her face, but not from embarrassment. From pure, uncut, incandescent rage. "Do you think I'm a hooker?" He looked her up and down slowly, taking in her jeans and jacket, then shrugged like it was the most natural, logical conclusion in the world. He held the bills out again, expression unchanged. "No judgment here, kid. Consenting adults and all that. He does it as a practical joke sometimes, sends someone over, watches me squirm. Don't get too upset about it. You're still a fine-looking dame. Now — have a good day."

Without a flicker of irony or shame, he grabbed her hand, pressed the cash into her palm, folded her fingers over it, and shut the door. Hard. The sound echoed in the hallway like a gunshot.

She stood there frozen, fist full of bills, mind blank with shock, trying to process what the hell had just happened. Her grandfather's best friend, the man he'd spent two decades praising to her, had just mistaken her for a prostitute Sam had sent as a prank and slammed the door in her face without a second thought.

Go. Fucking. Figure.

Shaking her head sharply to break the trance, she muttered a vicious string of curses that would've made her mother roll in her grave. Then, with slow, deliberate care, she crouched down, slid the packet of letters under his door where he couldn't miss them, and tossed the wad of cash down onto the floor where his feet had been ten seconds ago. Let him choke on it.

"Fuck that guy," she hissed under her breath, turning on her heel and stalking toward the stairs. Her grandfather had been dead wrong about James Buchanan Barnes. Absolutely, utterly, infuriatingly wrong. What an asshole.

She left the apartment seething, jaw clenched, already wondering bitterly what anyone—anyone—could have ever seen in the so-called "notorious" Bucky Barnes.

. . .

She had been born in D.C., spent nearly her whole life there in the shadow of monuments and power, but when it came time to graduate high school and pick a college, she really only applied to schools in New York. Her mother had passed by the time she was a junior—cancer, brutal and quick—leaving her under the care of her grandparents in a house that suddenly felt too big and too quiet.

Her father was someone she had never met, never bothered to find out about, and never wanted to. Her mother's pregnancy with her had been an accident, a foolish fling with a soldier who had promised her the world and given her nothing but abandonment and a daughter to raise alone. So she had spent a lot of her teenage years hearing about New York instead, learning about her grandfather's early history in painstaking detail. Learning about how he became a hero, how he'd met her grandmother, how Brooklyn had shaped him into something more than just a scrawny kid with too much heart.

She graduated from Cornell top of her class with honors and a thesis that made her professors take notice, landing a position straight out of college with a Veterans' Outreach Nonprofit in New York. So, she had stayed, putting down roots, residing near where her grandfather used to live—close to where Bucky now lived, though she hadn't known it at the time. And when her grandfather had died, slipping away peacefully in his sleep after months of decline, he left all of his considerable inheritance to her as his last living relative. She used none of the money for herself, not a dime. Instead, she opened her own Veterans' Outreach center, pouring everything into it, something she desperately hoped would have made him proud. Something that felt like honoring him without living in his shadow.

Given that her name was plastered all over the nonprofit's website, listed as founder and director, it wasn't a surprise that Bucky Barnes was able to easily track her down. What was a surprise was his quickness in doing so.

The day after visiting his apartment, she had woken up, poured her normal morning coffee with heavy eyes, and drove over to the center to get some work done before opening hours. She had strolled up to the front doors just after dawn, keys in hand, the sun barely peeking over the horizon of the city in soft pinks and golds, when she noticed a familiar figure standing outside, leaning against the doorway like he'd been there awhile.

Dressed in dark jeans and a worn leather jacket that had seen better days, gloved hands shoved deep into his pockets, Bucky Barnes watched her approach with tired, intent eyes that tracked her every movement. In daylight, she noticed things she'd missed yesterday in the dim hallway. The shadows beneath his cerulean gaze were darker, heavier, bruise-like. Insomnia, most likely. Most of the veterans she worked with carried the same weight under their eyes, the same bone-deep fatigue that no amount of sleep could fix.

Still, even exhausted and haunted, for a man who barely looked past his early thirties, he was beautiful in that tragic, carved-from-marble way. The same handsome young man from her grandfather's faded photos, just more haunted now, sharper at the edges.

She stopped five feet from him, fingers curling protectively around the keys in her pocket, metal biting into her palm. She didn’t look at him directly, instead keeping her tone dry to hide the flare of anger in her chest at the sight of him. "I wasn't too hard to track down, then, huh? Did Sam give you my information?"

Bucky didn't answer right away. His expression stayed carefully impassive, neutral, but she could feel him measuring her, taking her apart piece by piece. Sam had done the same, just less subtly, with more obvious emotion.

His gaze drifted over her features slowly, deliberately, lingering on her eyes like he was searching for something specific. She saw the shift in him when he found it—the faint bite of the inside of his cheek, the muscle in his jaw flexing hard as if bracing for impact.

Where Sam's look had been sad, grieving and warm, Bucky's was… resigned. Haunted. Like he didn't want to see her, didn't want this confirmation, but couldn't avoid it now that she was here. She swallowed against the bitter weight of it, turning to unlock the door just as he glanced away, jaw tight.

"I… found the letters you left," he said at last, his voice low, distant, carefully controlled. "From Steve. Called Sam after I read them. If it makes you feel any better, he gave me a good beating for thinking you were a—"

"Doesn't matter," she cut in quickly, the metal of the key scraping against the lock a little too hard, hands unsteady. She doubted he noticed her edge, the sharpness creeping into her tone. "My purpose was to give you both the letters. You got 'em—no harm, no foul. Mission accomplished."

She pushed the door open, but before she could shut it behind her and put a barrier between them, Bucky stepped in smoothly, blocking it with his body. "For what it's worth, I am sorry. I didn't mean to offend you…it's just something Sam's pulled before, and I thought—"

"Really, Mr. Barnes, it's fine," she interrupted again, sharper this time, forcing a polite smile that didn't quite reach her eyes and felt wrong on her face. "If you came all the way here just to apologize, you don't need to. You don't owe me anything. We're square."

He didn't move closer, didn't push, but when she turned fully to face him, his eyes locked on hers like they were reading a page he'd thought long burned to ash. Fascination flickered across his face—raw and unguarded for just a moment—then faded into something harder to read, more carefully controlled.

"I don't," he admitted quietly, "but I am sorry. Shit…if Steve knew I called his —" He stopped abruptly, dragging a gloved hand over his face in frustration. His gaze stayed locked on hers, unwavering. "I don't know how I missed it yesterday. You look just like Peggy. The resemblance is… uncanny. But you have his eyes. Steve's eyes."

"He was always happy I took after her," she swallowed, voice softer now despite herself, giving a shaky smile she couldn't quite control. She couldn't imagine what it must be like for him—to stand in front of the granddaughter of his best friend, wearing two faces he'd loved and lost, ghosts made flesh. "I'm sure he would've gotten a kick out of last night. Laughed himself sick."

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Bucky's mouth, fleeting and sad. It didn't last. His stare lingered, unflinching and intense, and she fought the urge to shift under the weight of it, to look away. She knew so much of his life from her grandfather's stories, had heard his name more times than she could count…yet here he was. A complete stranger standing in front of her looking at her like she was haunting him.

"Found you online," he said finally, breaking the silence. "Didn't realize you'd been living a few blocks away for years. Small world. You own this place?"

"Yeah," she said, glancing around at the dimly lit hallway leading to offices not yet occupied for the day, the rooms where they held group therapy sessions for vets who needed a safe space to talk. "After Grandpa… Steve… passed, I opened it up myself with his inheritance. It's been doing well so far. Better than I hoped, actually. Figured he'd want it in the city he grew up in, where it all started for him. I hope he would have liked it."

Bucky's face didn't change dramatically, but she watched his eyes soften at the edges, something warm and genuine breaking through the careful walls. Again, she noticed that he hadn't torn his eyes away from her this whole time, like he was memorizing her. "He would have loved it. Same with Peggy. It's exactly what they would have wanted you to do with his legacy. Exactly right."

The words were genuine, sincere in a way that hit her square in the chest. The warmth of his praise coursed through her like something physical, and she returned it with a small smile, truer this time, less guarded. "I appreciate that, Mr. Barnes—"

"Bucky," he cut her off gently, his voice softer now, almost careful. The corner of his mouth curved in the barest, almost apologetic smile. "Call me Bucky. Please."

She pulled in a deep breath, hoping it would ground her, steady the sudden flutter in her chest. It didn't. Her pulse still thudded high and fast in her throat, and her fingers itched with nervous energy she couldn't explain or control. Why was she so jittery? This was just a man. A man she'd heard about her whole life, sure, but still just a man. Flesh and blood.

"Okay… I guess we are practically family," she said, forcing lightness into her tone, trying for casual. She didn't miss the faint twitch in his expression at that word. Probably just now realizing how surreal this all was, finally meeting her. Knowing she existed. That Steve's life had continued, had meant something beyond the fight. "But really, I have to get to work. Thank you again for coming by—"

"What time do you get off?"

The question stopped her cold. Her feet, her thoughts, her breath — everything stilled. She blinked at him, searching his face for context she couldn't find, couldn't parse. He just stood there watching her, expression neutral but not quite, and she noticed the restless twitch of his hands inside his pockets, like he wasn't sure if he should keep them there or reach for something else.

"I'm sorry?"

He chuckled quietly, but there was a strain in it. Nerves, maybe, or uncertainty. One gloved hand came up to rake through his hair before settling at the back of his neck, a gesture that seemed unconscious. "I know we got off on the wrong foot and all—worst possible first impression—but… you're Steve's granddaughter. And I'm just finding out he had a life, a whole family, after everything. I'd like to hear about it. About him. About you. If… if that's okay."

Of course he did. And she understood. She even felt the faint tug of wanting to say yes, to sit down over coffee and talk about her grandfather, to share stories and memories. But this…this was exactly why she kept the Carter last name even after Steve died, even when lawyers suggested changing it might open doors. Why she never plastered his shield on the nonprofit's letterhead or renamed it in his honor, despite pressure from the board. Because the moment people knew who she was, everything she'd built—her work, her identity, her worth—would be filtered through his legacy. Through the man who had been Captain America.

And as much as she wanted to believe Bucky and Sam were good men, and she genuinely did, there was always the risk that they'd never see her. Only him. Only Steve's ghost wearing her face.

And she couldn't stomach the idea of failing them. Of not living up to an impossible ghost, of being a disappointment.

So she put on the polite, neutral smile she reserved for boardroom strangers and pushy donors. The one that looked friendly but left no doors open, no room for negotiation. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Barnes, but I won't have any free time tonight. But again, thank you for the apology and for dropping by. I hope the letters were… I hope they gave you and Sam some peace. Some closure."

The change in his expression was immediate and striking. Confusion pulled his brows together sharply, his eyes narrowing slightly, jaw tensing like her smile had shifted something fundamental in him he didn't understand. But she didn't give him a chance to speak, to question, to push.

She pivoted sharply, retreating down the hallway toward her office with more speed than dignity, heels clicking too loud on the tile, refusing to glance over her shoulder even though she could feel his eyes on her back. It felt cowardly, running instead of staying, but if she lingered even a moment longer, she knew she might say something she couldn't take back. Might crack open and spill everything she'd kept carefully locked away.

. . .

She figured that was the end of it. She had fulfilled her grandfather's final request, Sam and Bucky had his letters, and now she could quietly slip back into the life she'd built before. The life where she was just herself, not a legacy, not a symbol. Just her.

Except Bucky Barnes apparently didn't know how to take no for an answer.

The next morning, when she arrived at work at her usual ten-past-seven, the sun barely cresting the buildings nearby, she spotted him instantly. He was parked in the exact same spot outside the entrance as yesterday, leaning casually against the weathered brick wall with a carrier tray of coffee in one leather-gloved hand. His eyes found her the moment she stepped onto the sidewalk, tracking her approach with quiet intensity.

A wave of awkwardness hit her so hard she nearly stopped mid-step, her stride faltering. Questions tumbled over each other in her mind like dominoes. What was he doing here? Did he need something else? Was she about to be pulled into some bizarre follow-up errand she hadn't signed up for? She straightened her shoulders, drew in a steadying breath that did nothing to calm her pulse, and approached with as much confidence as she could fake.

"Mr. Barnes," she greeted, nodding politely, ignoring the subtle flicker across his expression at the formality. Something like frustration mixed with resignation. "You're back."

His answering smile was small and tentative, almost nervous in a way that didn't fit the intimidating frame. It caught her completely off guard. Her grandfather had told her countless stories about Bucky Barnes as the smooth-talking charmer who could coax a dance out of any woman with a single grin. The man in front of her, though, seemed nothing like that legend. He was a little fidgety, shifting his weight slightly, a little unsure, like he was carefully considering every word before he spoke.

"I figured you might want some coffee before your day started," he said, gesturing with the tray, voice low and careful. His eyes dropped to it, as if suddenly unsure of the choice, second-guessing himself. "Didn't know what you liked, so… I brought a few different kinds. Covered my bases."

She glanced down at the cups, each neatly labeled in blocky handwriting: latte, mocha, cappuccino, drip coffee. Something warm and unexpected tugged at her chest, unfurling slowly. It was such a simple thing, almost embarrassingly simple, but thoughtful in a way she hadn't expected from a man she'd all but brushed off the day before. From a man who could probably snap her in half without breaking a sweat.

And you were such a jackass to him yesterday, her conscience hissed viciously. He came to apologize and you practically ran away.

She exhaled slowly through her nose, fingers tightening on her purse strap until the leather bit into her palm. Her conscience was right. She'd been defensive, guarded, unfair.

"That's… really kind of you. Really sweet, actually." Her gaze lingered on the cups, then lifted to his—storm-blue and full of quiet sincerity that made her chest ache. "You didn't have to do all that. Go through all that trouble."

A half-smile curved his mouth, uncertain and hopeful at once. His eyes searched her face like he was bracing for her to shut him out again, preparing for rejection he'd clearly decided was worth risking anyway.

"Told you I owed you, didn't I?"

Something in his voice, in the gentle way he said it without expectation or pressure, softened the last bit of hesitation she'd been clinging to like armor. She let her eyes linger on him a beat longer, taking in the tired lines around his eyes, before her lips curved in the faintest, most genuine smile she'd given him yet.

"Well… if you went through all this trouble, it'd be rude not to try them," she said, tilting her head toward the building's entrance. "Come on, we'll sample them together. See which one's the winner. Scientific method and all that."

He blinked, clearly surprised, like he hadn't expected the invitation. He gave a small nod, and the corners of his mouth twitched up again in that almost-smile of his that made him look younger somehow, less terse. More like the photos from before everything went wrong.

Inside, the quiet hum of the early office filled the space, fluorescent lights still warming to full brightness and casting everything in slightly sterile white. She led him down the narrow hall to her small office, tucked away near the back corner. It wasn't much—just a desk perpetually stacked with papers and grant applications, a worn leather chair that had seen better days, and a window that let in the pale morning light and gave her a view of the brick building across the alley—but it felt good enough for her.

She set the carrier of coffees on her cluttered desk and shrugged out of her coat, draping it over her chair. "Alright," she said, reaching for the first cup with both hands, warming her fingers against the heat. "Latte first?"

But before she could hand it to him, his voice cut through the comfortable quiet, low but direct, cutting straight to bone.

"Do you not like me?"

She froze, fingers tightening reflexively on the cup, the warmth suddenly too hot. Her gaze flicked up to his, catching the intensity there. Not harsh or accusatory, but searching. Vulnerable in a way that made her stomach twist.

When she didn't answer right away, couldn't find the words, he went on, voice steady but quieter, more careful. "Or are you afraid of me?"

Her breath caught sharply in her throat, trapped there. Of all the questions she'd expected from him—about Steve, about the letters—that wasn't even on the list. Not even close.

"What?" she said softly, startled more by the raw honesty, the unguarded hurt in the question, than the words themselves.

"You avoided me. Yesterday," he said, eyes holding hers with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. "You seemed like you wanted nothing to do with me. Like I was… I don't know. A problem you needed to solve and move on from."

She blinked, throat tight, then shook her head slowly, deliberately. "No. That's not it. That's not it at all." Setting the latte down carefully, she folded her arms loosely and leaned back against the desk, needing the support. "My grandfather spent half his life telling me stories about you. About the two of you getting into trouble in Brooklyn, getting out of trouble, saving his ass more times than he could count. How you always had his back, even when no one else did." She exhaled, a small, rueful smile tugging at her lips despite the weight in her chest. "I… I grew up hearing your name like it was part of the family. I'd never met you, but somehow knew everything about you. I'm not afraid of you, Bucky. I promise you that."

His gaze stayed fixed on her, steady and unreadable, jaw tight as if he was weighing whether to believe her, whether this was truth or apathetic kindness. She let the silence hang for a moment, gathering her courage, before she spoke again, her voice a touch quieter, more vulnerable than she'd intended.

"It's not that I don't like you," she said, fingers unconsciously tracing the seam of her sleeve, a nervous habit she'd never managed to break. "It's just… this is a lot. Meeting you. Meeting Sam. You've both been these… larger-than-life figures in my head for years, because of Steve. These legends. Heroes. And now here you are, standing in my office, and you're real, and I don't…"

She let out a breath, shaking her head slightly, frustration bleeding into her tone. "I don't want to be treated like some figurehead of Steve's legacy. Like I'm only here, only worth knowing, because I'm connected to him. Like I'm just… an echo of something you lost. That's not fair to either of us."

His brow furrowed slightly, something shifting behind his eyes, but he didn't interrupt. He just listened, patient and still.

"I guess part of me is worried," she admitted, the words spilling out now that she'd started, unable to stop them. "That I'll disappoint you. Or Sam. Or both of you. That you'll realize I'm just… me. Not whatever version of Steve you think I might be, or what pieces of him you hope I inherited." She gave a faint, self-deprecating smile that felt brittle. "And honestly? That's a little terrifying. Knowing I can't possibly live up to him. Knowing I'll always fall short."

Bucky's expression softened in a way she hadn't expected. Something sharp flickered across his features and settled there.

"For the record," he said quietly, voice rough with sincerity, "I'm not looking for a version of Steve in you. Trust me, I've already got enough memories of him rattling around in my head to last three lifetimes." One corner of his mouth twitched upward, sad and fond at once. "I just… want to get to know you. Get to know his granddaughter. The woman who built all this from nothing. That's all I want. Nothing more, nothing less."

The tension in her chest eased a fraction, enough for her shoulders to drop, enough for her to breathe properly. Her throat tightened with unexpected emotion, and she had to blink hard against the sudden sting in her eyes.

"Alright," she murmured, voice barely above a whisper, glancing down at the carrier of coffee to avoid his gaze. "Then let's start with this."

She slid the first cup toward him, the latte, and kept the mocha for herself, wrapping both hands around it like a lifeline. "First impression counts, so be honest."

He took a sip, and his face immediately twisted into a thin line of poorly disguised disgust. "To be honest with you," he deadpanned, setting it down with exaggerated care, "I don't drink anything but black coffee. I have no idea why I just tried that. That was a mistake."

She snorted, nearly choking on her mocha, laughter bubbling up unbidden. "Okay, so that's a hard no for the latte. Take the drip. Back to basics."

She passed him the paper cup, and her fingers brushed his glove as he took it from her—just the briefest contact, fleeting and accidental. Even through the leather material, he felt warm. Like a contained heat source, like stepping barefoot outside in the early afternoon.

His eyes didn't drop from hers, didn't waver, even when he lifted the cup to his lips for a careful sip.

She felt like she was holding her breath until Bucky set down his cup and leaned back slightly against the edge of her desk, studying her with that same steady gaze from before, but now without the guarded edge, the defensive walls. "You own all this? At twenty-four, with no help? Built it from the ground up?"

She let out a short laugh, shaking her head. "I own it, yeah—but I've got people who help me keep it running. A small staff, volunteers, a board that mostly stays out of my way. I might've inherited Steve's stubborn streak and his inability to quit, but this place… it's worth every headache, every late night. It does a lot of good. Or at least, I try to make sure it does. That's the goal, anyway."

His brow furrowed, like he was trying to reconcile the picture in his head. Whatever vague image of Steve's granddaughter he had with the reality of what she'd just said, what she'd actually accomplished. "So you built this on your own? Really? No partners, no investors?"

"Yeah. After my grandfather—" her voice hitched unexpectedly, cracking on the word, and she bit her lip hard, forcing the wave of grief back down, past the too-vivid image of fresh dirt over a grave beside her grandmother's. Beside her mother's. Three headstones in a row. "After Steve died, he left me everything. Every penny. I'm the last one left…the last Carter. So I took just a portion of it and put it to good use. Did something I know he would have wanted, something that felt right.

"He lived as Steve Carter most of his life. Just a normal, everyday American who paid his taxes and mowed his lawn and complained about traffic. But at his heart, he was always a soldier. That never left him. So I figured… I'd give back to other soldiers like him. The ones who came home but didn't really come home."

Bucky stared at her, eyes wide, blinking once, twice, like he was seeing her clearly for the first time. Then, after a slow swallow, visible in the movement of his throat, he gave her a small, genuine smile. His gloved fingers traced the seam of the coffee cup absently. "That's… yeah. He would've loved that. Been so damn proud of you, too. What you've done here…most people your age wouldn't even think about doing something like this. They'd take the money and run. Buy a house, travel the world, live easy."

She arched a brow, a playful glint in her eye. "Kid, huh? I'm wounded, Mr. Barnes. Truly."

"Stop with the 'Mr. Barnes' nonsense," he groaned, a faint scoff escaping him, exasperation clear in his tone. "It's Bucky. Just Bucky. And you're almost ten years younger than me. Actually younger, not technically. You're a kid to me."

She smiled, but something in her chest twisted unexpectedly, sharp and unwelcome. Disappointment? She brushed it off quickly with a wry remark, deflecting. "Add another seventy decades or so to that ten-year gap."

He shot her a withering look, unimpressed and mildly offended, and she couldn’t help but laugh. An unguarded sound escaped her lips, genuinity that surprised even her.

His eyes lit up at it immediately, actually lit up, his whole posture shifting like he was unconsciously leaning closer, drawn in.

"You live in Brooklyn now? Sam mentioned that," he said, voice casual but curious.

So he'd asked Sam about her. That thought landed somewhere she didn't want to examine too closely, didn't want to unpack. "Ten blocks away. Down by—"

"Ten blocks?" he cut in sharply, his brows pulling together in immediate concern. "You… walk here? Alone? Every morning?"

"Yeah, it's not far. Especially in the morning when the streets are—"

"And you walk home alone too? At what time?" His voice had an edge now, protective and frustrated.

Her frown deepened, defensiveness rising. "Depends on the day. Sometimes six… sometimes ten at the latest. Depends on what needs to get done."

Bucky's expression hardened into a full-on frown, jaw tight. "No. No way. Absolutely not. It's not safe for you to be doing that alone in the city, especially not at night."

She stared at him, caught somewhere between surprise and rising annoyance, heat creeping up her neck. "Bucky, I've been fine—"

"What time are you leaving tonight?" he pressed, ignoring her protest entirely.

She hesitated, sensing a trap. "Probably around seven. It depends on—"

"Okay," he said firmly, leaning forward, voice brooking no argument. "Take down my number. When you're done for the day, call me. I'll come pick you up and walk you home. Non-negotiable."

She blinked at him, his words hanging between them like some kind of decree she'd never agreed to, never asked for. "Uh… no. Absolutely not. Not happening."

His brow ticked upward, genuinely confused. "Why not?"

"Because I don't need a babysitter," she said, setting her coffee down with a little more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet office. "No offense to you personally. But I've been walking that route for years, Bucky. I know every corner, every streetlight, every bodega owner, every guy selling knockoff handbags on the corner. I'm fine. I've always been fine."

He leaned back carefully, not in surrender but in that patient, infuriating way people do when they're about to dig their heels in and refuse to budge. "Doesn't matter how well you know the streets. Bad things don't send you a warning text before they happen. They don't check to see if you care."

She crossed her arms defensively. "What, you're suddenly my bodyguard now? My personal security detail?"

"No, you're a defenseless, attractive, young woman walking alone in one of the most dangerous cities in the country at night," he said bluntly, unapologetically, meeting her glare head-on. She forced herself not to linger on the fact that he called her attractive. "No offense meant by that, but it's a fact. And before you argue, because I can see you gearing up for it, I'm not doing this because I think you're helpless or incapable. I'm doing it because Steve would haunt me for the rest of my life if I let something happen to you when I could've prevented it.."

Her lips parted, but nothing came out right away. He said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, like it was just… objective truth. No drama, no condescension, no macho posturing. And that made it so much harder to push back, to argue.

And as much as she hated admitting it, even silently to herself, he was right. Her grandfather would be biting her head off if he knew she walked alone at night. If he knew she was entirely alone in general, no family, no real support system. He would probably be thanking Bucky profusely for this act of service, buying him drinks, clapping him on the back.

"I'm not calling you," she said finally, though the words lacked the bite she'd intended, coming out more resigned than defiant.

Bucky just smirked faintly, infuriatingly confident, like she'd already lost and they both knew it. "We'll see about that."

. . .

She didn't call him. Or text, though she wasn't even sure if he knew how to text on the archaic-looking flip phone he'd pulled out earlier like it was perfectly normal in 2025. She'd survived twenty-four years without a man coddling her, hovering over her like she was made of glass; she definitely didn't need her grandfather's century-old friend shadowing her every move like some overprotective watchdog.

And yet, somehow, it didn't surprise her in the slightest that when she flipped off the office lights at five minutes past eight and went to lock the front doors, key in hand and exhaustion settling into her bones, Bucky Barnes was right there. Leaning casually against the brick wall like he'd been part of the architecture all along, like he'd grown roots.

He gave her a look straight out of a disapproving parent's playbook, the kind reserved for a teenager who'd ignored curfew. She couldn’t help it — she bristled and shot her own challenging glare back at him.

"You didn't call," he said plainly, voice flat, one brow arched over a face that belonged on a Greek sculpture. Not that she'd ever tell him that. His ego didn't need the help.

She didn't bother hiding her sigh, shooting him a deadpan stare. "Told you I wasn't going to. How long have you been out here?"

"Three hours," he replied without a hint of shame or exaggeration, as if he'd been waiting three minutes instead of sitting in the cold Brooklyn evening for half her shift. "You need help with your bags?"

"Three… hours?" She gaped at him, her irritation temporarily short-circuited by sheer disbelief. "Why didn't you just come inside? We have chairs. Heat. Coffee that's only moderately terrible."

He shrugged, his expression flat but his tone casual, as though camping outside her workplace was nothing out of the ordinary, just a normal Thursday activity. "You were busy. Didn't want to bother you or get in the way. Now, hand me one of your bags, kid."

"I'm not going to give you my—"

With inhuman smoothness, faster than she could track, he plucked the heavier bag off her shoulder the instant she turned, holding it in his left hand, his metal hand, like it weighed absolutely nothing. Less than nothing. She froze, staring at him in disbelief and growing frustration.

"HYDRA serum," he said dryly, raising his brows with mock innocence. "In case you forgot. Super strength and all that fun stuff."

"I know about the—" She exhaled sharply through her nose, muttering a creative curse under her breath that would've made a sailor blush. "Fine. Whatever. Let's just go. We can keep bickering on the way; maybe it'll save me some of my night. I have laundry to do."

She took off at a brisk pace, determined to make the walk home as short as humanly possible, but his strides were longer, effortlessly longer. Within seconds, he was half a step ahead, matching her pace without even trying.

"Wanna tell me why you didn't call?" he asked, his tone threaded with quiet amusement, like this was entertaining to him.

She kept her eyes forward, jaw set. "We went over this already. I told you I wasn't going to. I don't need a bodyguard. I'm a grown woman."

"And I told you I didn't care what you thought you needed," he shot back easily, unbothered. She could feel his gaze flick toward her, deliberate and assessing. "Steve would've—"

"I swear to God," she cut in, glaring at him from the corner of her eye, heat rising in her cheeks, "if you mention doing something for me because of my grandfather one more time, I'm going to start running. Full sprint. See how you like chasing me down the street."

Bucky went silent, his boots slowing just a fraction on the pavement. She didn't look at him, stubbornness winning out, but she could almost feel him processing her threat.

"I'd catch you in maybe four seconds flat," he said after a beat, voice low and matter-of-fact. "Five, if you wanted a head start. Your call."

"Oh my God," she drawled, finally stopping in her tracks, spinning to face him. He halted too, looming over her, his chin dipping as he looked down. She realized, belatedly and with growing awareness, how close they were. Less than a foot of space separated them and she was close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. He was absurdly tall compared to her. Even in heels, the top of her head barely reached his sternum. The sheer size of him, the solid presence, was… obvious. Undeniable. Dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with violence.

She forced herself to blink those treacherous thoughts away and shook her head. "I don't need you doing things for me out of obligation to your best friend's memory. I lived every single day up until two days ago without knowing you existed outside of stories, and you did the same. So, please, stop doing things because you feel guilty. Because you feel bad for me. Or for my grandfather. I'm not a charity case."

For a long moment, he just studied her, his expression unreadable in the dim orange glow of the streetlight above them. Then his jaw shifted slightly, tension releasing.

"I know," Bucky cut in, calm but firm. He leaned forward slightly, closing the already-small distance, his eyes boring into hers with an intensity that stole her breath. "That's not why I'm offering."

She tilted her head, uncertain, searching his expression for the catch, the angle she was missing.

"I know what it's like to build something from nothing," he said after a moment, voice low and even, weighted with experience. "To be underestimated constantly, to have people look at you and think they've already figured you out, already decided what you're worth. And sometimes… having someone in your corner, someone who sees you, can make the difference between working out and burning out. Between making it and breaking."

His eyes held hers, steady and without pity, without condescension. Just truth. "Steve was that for me, more than once. In more ways than I can count. Guess I'm just trying to return the favor in my own way, pay it forward. And yeah, selfishly, you're his blood and flesh. His legacy walking around. He was my brother. That makes you a priority to me whether you like it or not."

The tightness in her chest eased, though she wasn't sure what to do with the warmth settling in its place, spreading through her ribs.

"Okay. I get it," she breathed, letting her gaze trace over his face—the shadows smudged under his eyes like bruises, the stubble along his jaw from a day or two without shaving, the small scar cutting through his eyebrow. This close, she caught the faint bite of mint toothpaste on his breath, the lingering trace of cologne in his clothes. Something sharp and musky, masculine, expensive.

She could see why women had flocked to him almost a century ago, why they still would now if he let them; he was all rugged charm and effortless masculinity wrapped in danger. But beneath it, in the depths of his eyes, in the measured, careful way he spoke…there was still that edge of darkness. The shadow of too many lifetimes carried alone, too much blood, too many ghosts.

She wondered, not for the first time, what it would have been like to meet him before the fall from the train. Before HYDRA. Before the Winter Soldier. When he'd been her age, still untouched by the weight of what was coming. The man her grandfather had grown up with.

And then it clicked. An idea forming fully-realized in her mind.

"I have a deal for you… Sergeant Barnes." She tested the title on her tongue deliberately, catching the way something flickered in his eyes at the sound. "I'll let you walk me home every day from work… if you come to some of the group sessions we do with veterans."

His expression shifted immediately, surprise flashing across his face, eyes widening slightly. He blinked down at her, mouth slightly open. "Group… sessions? Like group therapy? You want me to talk about my feelings?"

"No, not like that. Not therapy." She shook her head quickly. "In the evenings, a few times a week, we host a group where military veterans can come in and just… talk. Share experiences if they want. Listen if they don't. It's more helpful than you'd think. No pressure, no judgment. I think you might actually like it. Or at least not hate it."

Bucky dragged a hand down his face, his eyes still fixed on her, looking torn. He sighed heavily. "I don't need any friends, kid—"

"It's not about making friends," she cut in, her confidence building as she warmed to the idea. "Though, from what Sam said about your social life, or complete lack thereof, you could probably use some human interaction that doesn't involve punching things. It's about connecting with people who understand. Just talking. Seeing you're not—"

"Anyone in there brainwashed by Nazis, fitted with a vibranium arm, and trained to kill mindlessly for seventy years?" he interrupted, dry sarcasm dripping from his voice. His eyes were dark despite the humor laced into his words.

She leveled him with an unimpressed look. He smirked despite himself.

"Don't be a smartass," she said, shaking her head but fighting a smile. "You know what I mean. Just try one session. One. If you hate it, you never have to go back. I'll never ask again."

He studied her in silence, his gaze unreadable, intense. She waited, heart thudding, resisting the urge to fidget under his scrutiny or backpedal.

Finally, he let out a slow breath and shook his head, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Reluctant, fond. "You really are Steve's blood, aren't you, sweetheart?"

The heat rushed to her cheeks at the nickname before she could stop it, unbidden and obvious. She wanted to kick herself. "So… deal?"

"You gonna let me walk you in the mornings too?"

She bit her lip in thought, considering. "Two group sessions a week then."

He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath that sounded like a curse. "One to start."

"And next week, you move to two."

He narrowed his eyes, still unreadable, weighing it. "Fine. But you have to actually use that phone I'm going to give you my number for and call me when you're done. Every time."

She grinned in victory, genuine and bright, offering him an outstretched hand. "You have yourself a deal there, Sergeant."

Bucky shook his head in exaggerated annoyance, but the light in his eyes spoke volumes. Warmth, amusement, something softer she couldn't quite name. He took her hand, his grip firm and warm even through the glove, and shook once. "Just make sure you actually use the damn phone. I mean it."

. . .

She used the phone.

The next morning, he was outside her building at 6:30 A.M. sharp, two coffees in hand—one black, one a mocha. She called him thirty minutes before she planned on leaving work that night, and there he was again, waiting outside the center patiently as she locked the doors.

And surprisingly, miraculously, it was never awkward. He didn't talk much, content with silence in a way most people weren't, but she had enough to say for the both of them. Conversation came easier than she expected, flowing naturally. Beneath his gruff edges—socially awkward, a little withdrawn, occasionally grumpy in that old-man way—she caught glimpses of the man her grandfather had described in those late-night stories. Sarcastic with a bite that made her laugh. Charming in unexpected moments. Blunt to the point of brutal honesty. Unlike any of the boys her age she'd met through dating apps or fleeting college flings that never went anywhere.

And, albeit begrudgingly at first, she started noticing him at some of the group sessions. She never intruded, respected his privacy too much for that, but she'd steal a glance or two from the hallway window when she passed by. Without fail, he was there every Tuesday and Thursday at 5 P.M., sitting in the circle with the other veterans, listening more than talking. When she finally worked up the courage to ask him about them, he'd just shrug and mutter, "Went well today," like he didn't want to make a big deal of it.

Curiosity got the better of her eventually. She asked Shaun, an Army veteran in his forties who ran the sessions with practiced ease, how Bucky was doing. If he seemed like he hated being there, if he was just going through the motions to keep his end of their deal. Though she kept that last part to herself.

"He's quiet, kinda standoffish at first," Shaun said, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed. "But he participates every single time now. Doesn't give much detail on his past…not that anyone here doesn't know who he is, but he's trying. Really trying, in the best way he knows how. Seems like he's improving, opening up more. I think it's helping him."

She took it as a small victory, a private one. Maybe it was helping him process things, work through decades of trauma in small, manageable pieces. She hoped it was. Her grandfather would have wanted that for him more than anything.

And over time, the calls to him stopped feeling like a responsibility or an obligation, and started feeling like a reward. Something she looked forward to.

She began counting down to Mondays, to seeing him after the weekend stretched too long. To the walks between her apartment and the bookstore on the corner, where she'd tell him stories about Steve and her childhood—the embarrassing ones, the sweet ones, the ones that made her voice crack. She'd listen to him laugh over old Howling Commandos memories that sounded impossible and watch his expression shift into something more serious when she asked careful questions about his own past.

It worked, somehow. Their friendship. That's what she decided to call it, for lack of a better term. The unknown granddaughter of Captain America and the century-old, vibranium-armed former assassin who'd killed more people than almost anyone in modern history. She could only imagine the headlines if the public ever found out about her, the think pieces and hot takes.

Two weeks after their first walk, Sam called her to ask if he could join the sessions too. Said Bucky had brought it up over beers, asked him to come along. She was stunned, not just that the new Captain America wanted anything to do with her little nonprofit, but that Bucky, who rolled his eyes dramatically every time Sam's name came up despite their obvious friendship, had actually invited him. Asked for him. Of course, she said yes immediately.

And just like that, two very famous Avengers were suddenly fixtures at the evening group sessions. It took less than twelve hours after the first social media post of them walking into the building together, Sam with his arm slung around Bucky's shoulders despite his scowl, for the media to swarm her doors the next morning, demanding interviews, quotes, photo ops. Then came the flood of donations, overwhelming the nonprofit’s ancient website. The waitlist for sessions that now stretched months long. The scramble to hire more staff, find more space, expand faster than she'd ever planned. All within weeks.

She wasn't an idiot, she knew exactly what the two of them were doing. So after poring over the numbers on a Saturday night, scrolling through thousands of tags on social media until her eyes burned, and seeing her name splashed across local news headlines for "making a difference in the military community", she picked up the phone and called Bucky for the first time without it being a thirty-second "I'm leaving now" or "I'm at work" update.

The line rang just once before he picked up, like he'd been holding the phone.

"What's wrong?" he asked immediately, voice low and gruff through the speaker, threaded with concern. No hello, no small talk. Just that deep, even voice of his cutting straight to what mattered.

"Nothing's wrong," she said, tucking her legs up under her on the couch, pulling a blanket over her lap. "But I think we need to talk."

There was a pause, deliberate and weighted. She could almost hear him leaning back in whatever chair he was sitting in, crossing his arms in that skeptical way he did when he knew he'd been caught at something and was deciding whether to admit it.

"Must be important if you're calling me on the weekend, kid. What about?"

She hesitated, suddenly aware of how small her apartment felt, how the silence pressed in around her. How quiet the night was. "About… whatever game you and Sam are playing. Bringing him to the sessions, showing up together, making sure every camera in Brooklyn catches you walking through my doors."

"We didn't make a scene," Bucky said flatly, defensive.

"You knew what would happen," she pressed, her voice sharper now, frustration bleeding through. "Two superheroes walking into a group session for veterans? It's a media circus, and now I'm being turned into this—" She cut herself off abruptly, the word sticking uncomfortably in her throat.

"This what?"

She exhaled hard through her nose. "This symbol. This figurehead for the community. Steve's legacy personified. And I don't want that, Bucky. I don't want to be put on a pedestal I didn't ask for. I don't want to disappoint you, or Sam, when I inevitably fall short. And honestly? The whole thing is… it's terrifying."

Silence hummed between them for a long moment, heavy but not hostile. She could hear him breathing, thinking.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, gentler. "That's not why I did it."

She waited, heart thudding.

"I didn't do it for Steve," he went on, words careful and measured. "Or for Sam. Or for some press stunt to boost my image or whatever the hell people think I care about. I did it for you."

Her pulse skipped, stumbled. "For me?"

"You're out here busting your ass every day for people who need it," he said, voice rough with conviction. "No cameras when you started, no paycheck worth the hours you put in, no orders from someone higher up telling you to care. Just you, doing good because you actually give a damn. Because you want to make a difference."

He let that hang in the air for a moment, let it settle. "You deserve someone in your corner. And if I can make sure you get a little more support—funding, visibility, resources, whatever you need—then I'm gonna do it. Not because Steve would've wanted it. Not because Sam thinks it's a good idea. Because I want to."

She swallowed hard, suddenly unsure where to look in her own empty apartment, throat tight with emotion she didn't know how to name. "You… want to help me."

"Yeah," he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I want to help you. Because you deserve it. You're one of the good ones, and that's rare these days. People doing good just for the sake of it, without expecting anything back. And if anyone's gonna be the one backing you up, supporting what you're building, I want it to be me."

Her heart clenched painfully. Something washed over her, a feeling she only used to get when her grandparents smiled at her with pure pride, when her mom ran her hands through her hair and told her she was loved. Her mouth went dry, words failing her completely.

I want it to be me.

"You still there?"

Bucky's voice brought her back, anchored her. She cleared her throat, biting down on her thumb. "Yeah… sorry. I—"

She stopped. How could she even thank him properly? What words could possibly match his actions, his belief in her?

"Do you want to come over?"

The line went silent for what felt like the longest five seconds of her life. She heard nothing from his end. Not even an inhale or exhale, no rustle of movement.

So she waited, perched on the edge of her seat, wondering why the hell she'd spoken without thinking, why she couldn't just leave well enough alone.

Then, finally, he spoke. His voice was soft.

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

Exactly ten minutes later, her heart hammering wildly in her chest like it was trying to escape, there was a knock on her door. Three precise raps.

She opened it to find Bucky standing in her hallway, still in his jacket and jeans from wherever he'd been. Probably home, probably alone.

His hair was slightly mussed, like he'd run his hands through it repeatedly on the way over, and there was something in his eyes she couldn't quite read. For a moment, they just looked at each other — her in her oversized sweater and leggings, bare feet on cold tile, him with his hands shoved deep in his pockets like he didn't know what else to do with them.

"Hey," she said softly, voice barely above a whisper.

"Hey," he replied, staring at her intently, the corners of his mouth turning upwards in that almost-smile she'd come to recognize.

She stepped back to let him in, and he moved past her into the small space, his presence somehow making her already-tiny apartment feel even smaller, more intimate.

He stepped inside, leather gloves covering his hands like armor. She realized, not for the first time, that she'd yet to see his metal arm uncovered. Wondered if he ever took the gloves off, even alone.

Bucky's gaze swept the room with quiet precision, taking everything in with the practiced eye of someone trained to assess threats and exits. Her apartment was simple, almost sparse—not much in the way of trendy décor or expensive furniture, but filled with personal touches that made it hers: framed photographs on every surface, a worn bookshelf stuffed with dog-eared paperbacks, little pieces of a life she was trying to piece together.

He stopped in front of a picture hanging beside the bedroom door—her younger self, maybe eight or nine, standing between her grandparents in front of a lake—and a faint, almost wistful smile ghosted across his face when his eyes landed on the older man beside her. Steve, silver-haired and content, his arm around Peggy's waist.

"He looked happy," Bucky said quietly.

"I think he was." She stepped closer, her own eyes settling on the familiar image, memorized down to every crease. "Always had a smile on his face, even at the end. But… he missed you. Talked about you all his life. Wondered how you were, if you were okay."

Something shifted in Bucky's expression. A flicker of sadness edged with something darker, more complicated. Guilt, maybe. Resentment.

She knew he'd told Steve to go back, to live his life, but she could imagine the bitterness that might still linger beneath the acceptance. Being left behind wasn't something you just… got over. Not really.

And then, like he'd physically closed a door on the thought, it was gone. His gaze returned to her, steady and searching, intense.

"You ok?"

"Yeah." Her mouth went dry, tongue thick. It hit her, abruptly and uncomfortably, that she had no idea what she'd meant to say once he got here. She hadn't even put any thought into what would happen next, what came after "come over." All she knew was that she had wanted to see him. Needed to, maybe.

Her mind scrambled desperately for something—anything—and before she could stop herself, before common sense could intervene, she blurted out, "Do you… want to grab dinner?"

The moment the words were out, she winced inwardly. It was nearly ten at night, and she sounded like she'd just asked him out on a real date. Like a teenager with a crush.

Bucky didn't seem to mind. In fact, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, genuine and warm, one that made him look younger for just a moment. Like the boy in her grandfather's stories again. "Yeah," he said easily, without hesitation. "I know a place."

By half past ten, they were standing in the warm, fluorescent glow of a corner bodega a few blocks away. The place smelled faintly of fresh bread and oregano, the quiet hum of the refrigerator cases filling the comfortable space.

The man behind the counter, a kindly older gentleman with a heavy Italian accent and hooded eyes, smiled warmly as he wrapped their sandwiches in white paper. His eyes crinkled as he glanced between them. "You make a lovely couple."

She froze mid-reach for her wallet, heat crawling instantly up her neck and flooding her cheeks. "Oh— we…we aren't dating," she stammered, her voice higher than usual, too quick. She kept her gaze firmly on the floor tiles, the scuffed linoleum, refusing to risk looking at Bucky's face and seeing his reaction.

"Nonsense," the man tutted with the absolute certainty of someone who thought they knew better. He tapped a finger knowingly on the register as he rang them up. "He looks at you like you have hung the moon, my dear. Like you are light."

Her heart did an uncomfortable flip, lurching sideways in her chest, and she swallowed hard, still not daring a glance in Bucky's direction. The silence that followed was heavy.

She finally risked a sideways look. Bucky's mouth was twitching, not quite a smile or a smirk, his gaze fixed on her with that same unreadable intensity that made it impossible to tell if he was amused or annoyed. He didn't respond to the man’s comment, didn't deny it or laugh it off. Instead, his hand closed over the wallet in her grasp, warm and firm even through the glove, pushing it gently but decisively back down toward her purse.

"I'm buying," he said, voice low and final, brooking no argument. She opened her mouth to protest—she'd invited him, after all—but he cut the attempt short with a single look. Sharp, steady, and impossible to argue with. Without breaking eye contact, he pulled a couple of bills from his own wallet and handed them to the man behind the counter.

She bit the inside of her cheek hard and didn't speak again until they were outside, seated at a plastic table far too small for a man Bucky's size, his knees bumping the underside. The night air was cool against her flushed cheeks, and she busied herself with unwrapping her sandwich with more concentration than necessary before finally breaking the silence.

"If that guy knew you were over a century old," she said, her tone attempting casual but leaning a little too much on the sarcastic edge, deflecting, "I doubt he'd stand by his statement."

Bucky's brow furrowed slightly beneath the shadow of his cap as he looked at her, genuinely confused. "Which statement?"

She gave him a look of disbelief, surprised he was making her say it. "That we're dating, Buck."

His eyes lingered on her for a beat too long, something flickering in their depths, before he turned his attention back to peeling the wrapper from his sandwich. "Some people might be into that sort of thing in this era. Age gaps aren't as scandalous as they used to be."

She rolled her eyes, taking a bite to avoid responding immediately. "Feel like that was more of a thing in your era, grandpa. Wasn't it normal to marry sixteen-year-olds back then?"

"I was born in the 1910’s, not the Dark Ages, sweetheart," he said dryly, a hint of offense in his tone.

God, she hated when he called her that. Mostly because she couldn't stop the blush that crept up her neck every single time and the way her stomach flipped traitorously.

And now she was flustered. Because here he was, without question the most gorgeous man she had ever seen in her life —- sitting across from her at a plastic table outside a bodega, those startling blue eyes fixed on her like she was the only person in the world, like she mattered. Her. A girl a decade younger than him physically, whose only real claim to fame if she had one was her famous grandfather. And him—one of the world's most celebrated heroes despite a bloody, chaotic past that would haunt anyone else forever—a man with a vibranium arm who had endured more than anyone should, who'd been unmade and remade, and who had seen far too little of life's beauty and far too much of its cruelty.

So naturally, because she was apparently a glutton for punishment and had no sense of self-preservation, she decided to poke the bear.

"Have you been…you know, dating?"

Bucky stopped chewing instantly. His gaze snapped to her like she'd just asked him to commit a felony.

"Have I been… dating?" he repeated slowly, carefully, tasting each word like he wasn't sure if they belonged together in that order.

She felt like an idiot now. But there was no going back, no taking it back. Tapping her leg nervously under the table, she kept her voice as casual as she could manage. "Like, going on dates with women. Dinner, maybe a movie…or, you know, 'courting' or whatever—"

"Sweetheart, I know what dating is," Bucky said flatly, cutting her off. "And no. Not really. Went on one date a bit back, before the whole Flag Smashers mess with Sam. Didn't go very well. My fault, mostly."

"Oh," she mumbled, tearing at a piece of lettuce in her sandwich, suddenly finding it fascinating. "Well… maybe you should reach out again? Give her another shot. Second chances and all that."

Bucky's gaze stayed locked on her for a long, heavy moment that stretched unbearably. "I don't need to do that. I've met you."

It was like her brain short-circuited, all coherent thought evaporating. If there was a term for feeling like you were both on fire and drowning at the same time, suspended in impossible contradiction, she would have used it.

She nearly choked on her bite of sandwich but forced a small laugh, trying desperately to look relaxed instead of completely undone. "We aren't dating, Buck. I don't see how I factor into your love life."

Bucky tilted his head, studying her like she was the most interesting puzzle he had ever encountered, like he was trying to figure her out. "We aren't dating," he agreed, voice low, "but I'd rather focus my time on you."

She didn't trust herself to answer that directly, didn't dare ask him what he meant by that, so she went with the conversational equivalent of stepping sideways to avoid a collision. "So… how are you sleeping lately?"

Something flickered in his eyes at the abrupt transition—amusement, maybe—but he didn't comment on it, didn't call her out.

His shoulders shifted in the kind of shrug that said don't expect too much honesty, but his eyes gave him away. "Still hard to get through the night most nights," he admitted quietly. "Wake up more than I stay asleep. But… I like the group sessions. They help. More than I thought they would. More than I wanted them to."

"That's good," she said softly, leaning forward on her elbows, genuinely pleased. "Really good. I'm glad."

For a moment, they just sat there, the hum of the city filling in the silence between them. Distant sirens, someone's laughter, the rattle of a passing subway. Then she ventured, carefully, "What about the letters? Did you… read all of them?"

Bucky's mouth twitched. This time, a faint, genuine smile reached his eyes. "Yeah. I read 'em all. Every single one, multiple times. They helped a lot, more than I can explain. Gave me something I didn't think I'd ever get back."

"What's that?"

"Peace."

Her chest tightened painfully, and before she could stop herself, before she could think better of it, the words slipped out. "I still feel terrible he left you behind."

But Bucky just shook his head, calm and sure, no hesitation. "I don't. Not anymore." His gaze met hers, steady and warm in a way that made her stomach flip dangerously. "If he hadn't gone back, if he'd stayed, I would've never met you."

Something warm and overwhelming flared in her chest at his words.

Something she couldn't quite name through the haze of nerves and want and confusion.

She smiled at him, sweet and unguarded. Because she wanted to, because she couldn't help it. The rest of her sandwich sat forgotten on the wrapper, growing cold.

She didn't even have to ask him to walk her home. He did it like it was instinct, like there was never any question. When the night air made her shiver, goosebumps rising on her arms, he shrugged off his jacket without a word and draped it over her shoulders before she could protest.

She caught the faint trace of his cologne as she pulled it closer, wrapping herself in it. The same earthy musk and something sharper, the kind of scent that was undeniably, uniquely him. The sleeves hung loose and long, like she was a kid drowning in her father's coat.

Even in just his thermal shirt, the bulk of his arms was obvious. Corded muscle shifted beneath the fabric with every movement, powerful and controlled. Her gaze drifted to his gloves as they neared her building, the unsaid thought forming and reforming in her mind.

She toyed with it, weighing the right words, the right approach.

It wasn't until they reached her floor, standing in the too-bright hallway outside her door, that she finally blurted it out.

"You don't need to wear the gloves around me, you know."

Bucky froze mid-step, his whole body going still. He glanced at her sharply, surprise clear on his face. She met his eyes head-on, determined to read whatever emotion flickered across his usually carefully impassive face.

First came surprise, raw and unfiltered. Then the tight pull of anxiety. The flicker of fear. She watched his shoulders tense, his breathing pick up noticeably.

He didn't speak right away. Just blinked at her, clearly at a loss for words, for what to do with what she'd said. So she filled the silence herself, pushed through the tension.

"I know you wear them in public in general," she said softly, keeping her voice gentle. "And I know it's not about me specifically. But you don't need to hide yourself from the world. They don't get to decide who you are, or what you've been through, or what you're worth. And if that's too big of a step, if that feels impossible… maybe you could just start by taking them off when you're with me."

Still, he said nothing. Just looked at her with those piercing eyes, a quiet storm raging behind the blue. Like he was bracing for her to laugh, or take it back, or reveal it was some kind of cruel test. And in that moment, she saw what her grandfather must have seen all those years ago when the Winter Soldier's mask was first ripped away.

Fear of himself. The shame, the certainty that he was something monstrous.

She did what she would have wanted someone to do for her. What felt right. She reached for his hand.

She heard his sharp inhale, felt it in the air between them, before she felt the tension in his body when her fingers wrapped gently around his left hand. The vibranium one. A faint tremor ran through him, and she wasn't sure if her own hands looked steadier than they felt, betraying her nerves. But he didn't pull away. He just stood there, breathing slow and heavy, measured, as she held on.

Carefully—watching him closely, waiting for any sign of retreat or panic—she began to peel the glove from his hand.

He didn't stop her.

The glove slipped free and fell between them, forgotten the moment it hit the floor. She took in the arm she had only seen in news footage and grainy photographs, but up close it was something else entirely. Sleek and intricate, Wakandan black threaded with veins of gold that caught the light, like molten sunlight trapped in metal. The faint hum of hidden mechanics vibrated against her palm, each twitch of his fingers carrying an understated strength that felt both dangerous and impossibly, yet carefully gentle.

"It's beautiful," she murmured, tracing the lines with her eyes before looking up, wanting to see him in this moment.

His jaw was tight, clenched hard, like he didn't know what to do with her words, how to process them. He didn't look away — just kept his gaze locked on hers, as if he was afraid to blink and she would disappear.

When her fingers slid between his, lacing together, he let out a slow, almost imperceptible breath that sounded like relief. The plates under her touch shifted minutely as his grip tightened, careful but sure, like he was testing just how much pressure she could take, how much of himself he could give.

"Can you feel things with it?" she asked quietly, curiosity genuine. He hesitated, his brow knitting before he answered. "I can tell when something's hard or soft. Textures. I can sense pressure when something's there. But it's… not the same as my actual hand. Not even close. It's muted."

She gave his fingers a deliberate squeeze, firm and real. "Different doesn't mean worse. And I'm not afraid of it, Bucky. I'm not afraid of you."

His eyes softened, the faintest flicker of something—gratitude, relief—crossing his face. The way he was looking at her sent shivers cascading down her spine, made her breath catch.

And for a moment, maybe longer than a moment, she forgot who he was. His connection to her grandfather, his age, his past, the bodies, the blood. For now, he was just a man standing outside her door, holding her hand like it was something precious and fragile.

He stepped closer, blue eyes darkening until they were nearly black in the dim hallway light. She could taste his breath, mint and coffee, feel the faint heat radiating from him like a furnace. His gaze traced over her face with aching slowness, lingering—her hand in his, her lips, the curve of her jaw—before returning to her eyes.

Her pulse thundered in her neck, loud and insistent in her ears. If he just tilted his head, just leaned one more inch forward, his mouth would be on hers.

And she realized, his metal hand like fire against her skin, that she wanted that. She wanted him to kiss her.

Down the hall, a door opened suddenly. The sharp sound sliced through the silence like a knife.

And the moment shattered.

Bucky blinked, like he'd been jarred from a trance, pulled back from somewhere far away. He cleared his throat roughly, stepping back, putting distance between them. The magnetic pull between them snapped.

Much to her abrupt disappointment, he let go of her hand. Slowly. As if he hadn't even realized he'd been holding it.

"I… should go. It's late," he said, his voice pitched rough. It sounded like he was talking more to himself than to her. "I had a good night. With you. A really good time."

The words were warm, sincere, but they didn't stop the disappointment from settling heavy and cold in her chest. She dropped her gaze to her feet, not trusting her expression, not wanting him to see. She didn't want him to see the truth written plainly in her eyes.

That she hadn't wanted the night to end there. That she wanted more.

He stepped back another pace, boots scuffing the worn hallway floor, but didn't turn right away. Instead, his eyes flicked over her face like he was memorizing it, committing every detail to memory. Then he moved toward the stairwell door, his movements reluctant.

His hand was already on the knob when he stopped. He didn't look at her at first, just let out a slow breath that she felt more than heard. "I don’t… wear the gloves because of what people think," he said finally, voice quiet but steady.

His gaze found hers again, and there was something raw there. Vulnerable. "I wore them around you because I didn't want to scare you."

Her chest tightened, ached.

"You wouldn't," she murmured, the words instinctive and true.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then he gave a small nod, like he'd been hoping to hear that.

"Goodnight, sweetheart," he said softly, and this time he left without looking back.

Her mind was a mess the whole night. She turned over every moment of their interaction, every word said and unsaid, every look, every touch. Sleep was impossible.

He looks at you like you have hung the moon, my dear.

I doubt he'd stand by his statement.

Which statement?

. . .

When Sam called her the week after, inviting her for a night out with the group, she initially wanted to politely decline. Because she knew Bucky was part of "the group," and while everything had been perfectly normal between them since that night together—surface-level normal, anyway—she still couldn't shake the nerves she'd developed around him, the hyperawareness that made her pulse jump whenever he was near.

He'd picked her up for work on Monday glove-free, and while she'd noticed it immediately—it was impossible not to—she didn't mention it. And he didn't mention anything about the moment they'd shared outside her door, the hand-holding, the almost-kiss that still played on repeat in her mind at night. Just resumed business as usual. He continued to walk her to and from work with easy silence, picked up coffee without being asked, and sat in on the group sessions.

So she didn't bring it up either. As much as she wanted to. As much as the words sat heavy on her tongue every time they were alone.

But was there even anything to bring up? All they'd done was hold hands for a moment, really. Something she'd done in middle school during lunch period with her first boyfriend. And here she was, a grown adult, holding hands again and thinking it meant something. Obsessing over it like a teenager.

She couldn't say no to Sam, though, despite her reservations and the anxiety coiling in her stomach at the implications. So she confirmed that she would be there, at the dive bar he'd named with infectious excitement.

The place was tucked into the corner of a block that hadn't seen a fresh coat of paint in years, maybe decades. The wooden sign out front hung crooked on its rusted chain, its neon beer logo flickering in and out like it was barely clinging to life. Inside, the air smelled faintly of old wood, spilled whiskey, and decades of cigarette smoke that had seeped into every surface. A jukebox in the corner warbled a classic rock song, something by Springsteen, over the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses.

She could see why Sam and Bucky would like the place. Typical guy bar.

She spotted them right away. Sam leaning back in a worn leather booth near the wall, next to a young man about her age she didn't recognize, grinning broadly as soon as he saw her. Bucky sat opposite him, shoulders relaxed but posture alert. His head turned when Sam's gaze shifted toward her, and a small smile tugged at his lips. It was so subtle most people would miss it, but she'd learned to read the minute movement in his cheeks, the softening around his eyes.

"Hey, you made it!" Sam called over the noise, waving her over.

Bucky's reaction was quieter, more contained. His eyes tracked her as she wove through the crowd, his expression neutral despite the whisper of a smile on his lips in that way she was starting to recognize as deliberate control. When she reached the booth, Sam gestured enthusiastically at the spot next to Bucky.

The space next to him was open, waiting. Her heart beat a hair faster as she slid in, hyper-conscious of every movement.

"Long time no see, kiddo," Sam teased, nudging her shoulder once she settled.

She sighed dramatically, shaking her head in mock displeasure. "What is it with everyone calling me 'kid'? I'm a functioning adult with a nonprofit."

Bucky said nothing, but she could feel the awareness of him beside her. The heat of his body, the way you feel fire without looking at it, the magnetic pull. She deliberately kept her thigh from brushing his, maintaining a careful inch of space.

"That's 'cause you are one," Sam noted with a knowing grin, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Both of you, actually."

He gestured at the young man sitting across from them—Hispanic, military-sharp haircut, fit build, and grinning like a kid meeting his heroes for the first time. "This is Joaquin Torres. Joaquin, meet—"

"Oh, c'mon man! I know who she is," Joaquin beamed, practically vibrating with excitement as he leaned across to shake her hand enthusiastically. "Pleasure to meet you, ma'am. Sam and Bucky have talked a lot about you."

Bucky grumbled something under his breath that she couldn't quite catch, but it sounded distinctly like a warning.

"Nice to meet you, Joaquin. Are you… the new Falcon?" she asked, genuinely curious.

Joaquin's chest puffed up like he'd just been knighted. Sam groaned dramatically.

"Don't get him started," Sam huffed, but there was affection in his exasperation. "Coming from a pretty girl like you? He's never gonna shut up. Ever."

"C'mon, dude, give me some credit," Joaquin chuckled, but his grin said otherwise. "But seriously…did you hear that from Sam or did you see a cool news clip? Maybe a TikTok edit? Please tell me it was a TikTok edit."

Bucky's voice cut through the table like a blade, quiet but stern. "Leave her alone, Torres. She's not here to feed your ego."

She laughed, a warm counter to Bucky's gruffness, trying to lighten the sudden tension. "It's fine, Buck. Really. If I were the new Falcon, I'd be just as excited. It's a big deal." She leaned toward Joaquin conspiratorially. "Saw you and Sam take down that cartel on the news the other week. You guys did great, really impressive work."

Joaquin looked like he might actually faint, stars in his eyes. Sam shook his head with a smirk. "Oh, he's gonna marry you now. Especially if he finds out who your grandfather is."

Bucky's head snapped toward Sam with frightening speed, his voice sharper than before, cutting. "Don't."

Her brows lifted slightly at his tone, at the edge of real warning there. "It's okay," she said gently, turning to him, catching his eyes. "I don't mind if he knows. It's not a secret if he’s an Avenger."

Bucky stared at her for a long moment, his jaw ticking visibly before he finally looked away, tension radiating from his shoulders.

With Torres looking between all of them in growing confusion, Sam didn't waste the opportunity. "Torres, buddy, turns out our girl here's the granddaughter of a certain Captain America. The original."

Joaquin froze completely, then looked at her like he'd just been handed the keys to a vintage Ferrari and told it was his. "No way. Nope. That's it. I'm in love. When's the wedding?"

She laughed along with Sam as Joaquin clasped his chest in exaggerated mock devotion, playing it up. Beside her, Bucky stayed quiet. His jaw was set hard, his arm resting on the back of the booth behind her, close but not touching, the faintest shadow in his eyes even as the others joked and laughed.

Bucky's shift was subtle, but she caught it, and had been watching for it. The faint smirk he'd been wearing earlier flattened completely, his shoulders going rigid like someone had just flipped a switch inside him, shutting down something warm. He didn't even glance at Sam this time—his eyes stayed on Joaquin, mouth set in a hard scowl.

Sam caught her eye across the table and raised his brows in that way friends would do when silently trying to communicate something important. She didn't know if it was a warning, a tease, or both. She frowned at him in confusion.

"What?" she murmured under her breath, leaning slightly toward Sam.

Sam just gave her a faint, knowing smirk before looking away, taking a deliberate sip of his drink.

When she turned back to Bucky, she saw the faint tick in his jaw again, the clear tension in his neck. "You could try being less of a storm cloud," she said quietly, half-joking but half-serious too.

"I'm not a storm cloud," Bucky muttered without looking at her, eyes still fixed on Torres.

She arched her brow. "You kinda are right now. Very brooding and thunderous."

That earned her a sideways glance. Brief, but loaded.

"Maybe I just don't like watching Torres audition for a rom-com," he grunted, voice low.

She huffed, shaking her head, fighting a smile. "He's harmless, Buck. Excited. You don't have to act like he's trying to steal nuclear codes or kidnap me."

That got the smallest twitch of his mouth, the ghost of amusement, but it vanished almost immediately. She rolled her eyes and decided to let him stew if he wanted to be stubborn.

"I'm getting a drink," she announced, pushing up from the booth with purpose.

Sam's gaze followed her with that same faint, loaded expression before he turned back to Bucky, clearly ready to poke the bear the absolute second she was out of earshot. She would happily stay out of that one.

The bar top was dimly lit, scarred wood that had seen decades of use. The walls were even lined with faded neon beer signs advertising brands she wasn’t even sure existed anymore. She ordered something simple—vodka soda—the ice clinking pleasantly in the glass as the bartender slid it her way.

She took a slow sip, trying to ignore the nagging question looping relentlessly in her head: What was Bucky's deal tonight?

He was usually grumpy in public, sure—standoffish with strangers, slow to warm up—but tonight, he was different. Off. Especially around Joaquin, his mood souring faster than she had ever seen before. Did it have anything to do with their night out? That quiet, hand-holding moment they'd both were carefully avoiding mentioning?

She was so deep in her own thoughts that she didn’t register a man sliding up beside her at the bar until he leaned in too close, making sure he was in eyeshot. "Haven't seen you here before," he said. She fought the urge to close her eyes in distaste. His tone already carried a presumption that she owed him attention and she had the feeling he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

"I'm just here with friends," she replied evenly, not unkind but not inviting more, keeping her eyes forward.

He didn't take the hint. She watched his eyes run down her frame slowly out of her peripheral, something lighting in his expression that made her stomach churn with instinctive disgust. "Well, your friends can wait. Pretty girl like you shouldn't be standing here alone at the bar."

"I'm fine, thanks buddy." She shifted her stance and gripped her glass tighter, shoulders squaring. Tried to scream with her body language that the conversation was over. At least, she hoped that was what he gathered from her complete lack of interest.

His voice dipped sharper, ugly. "Don't have to be a bitch about it."

His hand suddenly clamped around her arm without warning, fingers digging in just enough to hurt, to send a flash of alarm up her spine. She barely had time to react or even process what was happening, before she heard rapid movement behind her and the sound of heavy boots closing in fast.

In less than a second, Bucky was there.

He slammed the man chest-first against the bar top with brutal efficiency, his metal hand wrapped around the guy's throat, pressing hard enough to cut off air, making the man gasp and choke instantly. The entire room seemed to freeze at the sight, conversations dying mid-sentence.

Bucky's expression was nothing short of murderous. His eyes were like shards of ice, cold and deadly. Every line of him radiated lethal intent barely contained. It would have been a stunning sight if she wasn’t the cause of it.

"Don't touch her, you son of a bitch," Bucky hissed, digging his vibranium hand further into the man's neck. The plates in his palm whirred softly as their mechanics moved, the only sound apart from the man's desperate gasping and the creak of wood beneath him as he struggled.

She heard Sam and Joaquin stand quickly. Sam moved closer but didn’t intervene, posture deliberately relaxed with his hands idle in his pockets.

She sucked in a sharp breath, grabbing Sam's arm when he stopped beside her. "You're not going to stop him?"

Sam's face was serious, but there was an unmistakable spark of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Nah. He's not gonna kill him. I've seen Buck actually trying to kill someone…this ain't it. Besides, I'm not the kind of guy to step in on another man protecting his girl."

Her head whipped toward him, eyes wide with shock. Something churned in her gut at his words. "Sam, we aren't—"

"Oh, but you will be," Sam cut in knowingly, leaning down so only she could hear over the noise. "Thought I didn't notice? Both of you? White Panther over there is head over heels for you. Has been since day one. It's honestly painful to watch at this point, all this pining."

She stared at him, her pulse skipping. Her brain was barely processing the words, struggling to catch up with the reality of it all. She had no words for once — all she could muster up was something that sounded like a mix of a scoff and a wheeze.

Sam's grin widened, clearly enjoying himself. "Tell me, does he do the staring thing with you too? That intense, unblinking thing where he looks at you like he’s X-raying your insides?"

She opened her mouth, but again, nothing came out. Sam just looked far too pleased at the response, like he'd been waiting weeks to say this.

The sound of the man's choking dragged her attention back to reality. He was still struggling desperately against Bucky's iron grip, voice raspy and terrified when he finally managed to croak out, "C'mon… man… I'm sorry. Didn't… know she was with—"

"Shut up," Bucky snarled, low and venomous, voice like gravel. His jaw was locked tight, his entire body coiled like a spring. She had never seen him like this, terrifying in a way that made the air feel heavier, dangerous enough that every person nearby had gone completely silent.

"Apologize to her," he ordered, pressing harder against the man's throat. His eyes were like blue fire, burning.

The man instantly wheezed out a hoarse, pathetic, "Sorry—"

"Louder."

The man's eyes went wide with panic, real fear. He coughed out a second, much louder apology, voice shaking with terror. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Only then did Bucky release him, letting him crumple forward against the bar. The man stumbled back immediately, clutching his throat, gasping for air before scrambling toward the door without looking back, nearly tripping over his own feet.

Bucky let out a heavy breath, flexing his metal hand slowly as the plates shifted, before he turned to her. His chest rose and fell fast, fury still smoldering visibly in his expression, but his gaze swept over her like a careful scan—checking for injury, for fear, for any sign she was hurt.

She just stared at him, probably still looking dumbstruck. She had no idea what to think, what to do, how to process what just happened. All she could hear was Sam's words ringing in her ears on repeat.

Head over heels for you. Has been since day one.

Bucky's blue eyes locked onto her own. The fire faded gradually, burning down, turning into something softer. Something warmer. Purer.

She recognized it. She had seen it in his eyes before, she realized with startling clarity. She had seen it so many times before—when her grandfather looked at her grandmother in old photographs, in her memories of them together. And now, it clicked.

Which statement?

She was an idiot. It had been in front of her this whole time, so obvious she had been blind to it.

The air around them was electric, thick with the echo of what just happened, with Bucky's ragged breathing settling back into stillness. He was still riding the wave of his own fury, but as the tension dissipated, his gaze relaxed just enough to break into concern.

"You okay?" His voice was gravel, edged with barely contained anger still simmering beneath the surface.

She didn't answer. Couldn't. The mix of adrenaline, shock, and something far more dangerous was coursing through her too fast for coherent words.

"Damn, Barnes," Sam drawled from behind them, the smirk unmistakable in his voice. "Didn't know you had it in you to make public service announcements like that. Very dramatic."

She barely heard him. Her pulse was pounding in her ears, deafening. Without thinking, she stepped forward, grabbed Bucky's wrist, the metal one, and muttered, "Come with me."

He frowned, taken off guard, surprised. "What—"

But he didn't resist as she tugged him past the crowd, past Sam's knowing look and raised eyebrows, past Torres's confused expression, toward the back hallway.

They reached the single-person bathroom, and she shoved the door open, pulling him inside before locking it firmly behind them with shaking hands.

Bucky blinked, still catching up, still processing. "What are you—"

She didn't give him a chance to finish. In one sharp movement, fueled by adrenaline and clarity, she pushed him back against the wall, her hands curling tight into the fabric of his shirt.

His eyes widened in genuine surprise, just for a moment, before her mouth crashed against his.

The kiss was messy, heated, reckless—a clash of lips and tongue. He froze for a beat, stunned, but then his hands found her waist immediately, one warm and one cold, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them, until she could feel every hard line of him against her.

Pleasure flared within her immediately, hot and demanding. He tasted like the beer he'd been drinking and something sharper, more distinctively him. The taste of him was intoxicating, something so undeniably sweet it made her dizzy.

Her breath hitched sharply when his metal fingers flexed against her hip, careful and controlled, his other hand sliding up her back like he couldn't decide whether to anchor her there or drag her impossibly closer. Like he was fighting the want to consume her.

Her back hit the cold tile as he reversed them without warning, caging her in with one arm braced above her head, the other still gripping her hip like he was afraid she'd disappear if he loosened his hold. His mouth left hers just long enough for a ragged inhale, his forehead finding a pillow against her own.

"What are you doing?" he asked, voice hoarse and rough, shaking slightly. But he didn't move back, didn't put distance between them.

She swallowed hard, her pulse rattling violently in her throat. "Testing a theory."

That was the truth. She didn't know why she'd dragged him in here, didn't know why her body had made the decision for her before her brain could catch up—but she knew the feeling of him holding her like this was making her dizzy in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with want.

He searched her face like he was trying to find the answer for himself, his breath hot against her cheek, pupils blown wide.

"Testing a—" His voice broke slightly, rough and strained, his grip on her hip tightening unconsciously. "You shouldn't. Not with me. I'm… not… enough for you. You're too good, too sweet, too—"

"Bucky…" She meant it to be a warning, maybe even a plea to stop talking, but it came out softer, breathier, almost like an invitation.

Something in his expression cracked, the last thread of restraint snapping audibly. His mouth was on hers again, deeper this time. Almost desperate, devouring her with a passion that felt unbridled. She clutched the front of his shirt, dragging him closer until his body was pressed flush against hers, until she could feel his heart hammering against her own chest.

Every inhale was shared, every sound they made swallowed into the charged space between them. Her head tipped back against the wall, and he followed the motion immediately, his lips brushing down her jaw to the rapid thrum of her pulse at her throat.

The heat between them was overwhelming, an intoxicating mix of want that she couldn’t put into words if she tried. Her senses were overrun by pleasure, his touch alone short-circuiting any tangible thought she could muster.

He caught himself then, just barely. She watched him pull back enough to look at her again, chest heaving, as if needing to confirm she still wanted this. That this was real and not some sort of fever dream.

He studied her intently, like he was trying to memorize every detail of her face. "You shouldn't… we shouldn't," his voice frayed at the edges, his grip tightening. "You don't know what you're asking for."

Her lips parted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I think I do."

Something in his eyes broke then, the restraint giving way to something darker, more primal. His mouth crashed back to hers, almost desperate, the kind of kiss that burned straight through bone, through reason.

She gasped into him, and he took the sound like he'd been starving for it, pressing her harder into the wall. His hands traced her waist, her back, her ribs, as if he was trying to brand the shape of her into memory. Learn every curve, every divot. She was doing the same to him, running her hands along any part of his body she could reach. The corded muscles in his forearms, the strain underneath his biceps as he gripped her. He felt heavenly, like he’d been carved out of marble and chiseled to perfection.

When they finally broke apart, both gasping for air, she kept her gaze locked on his. His eyes were dark, nearly black with want, and the sight made her shiver.

"Sam told me you've been… attracted to me. Wanted me, liked me—whatever word you want to use." Her voice trembled, not from fear but from the way his breath brushed her lips, the way he was looking at her. "I wanted to… find out for myself if it was true."

Bucky's expression didn't waver. The hunger in his eyes didn't fade even slightly. If anything, his grip tightened, pulling her even closer, eliminating the last molecule of space between them. "Sam's got a big mouth."

She almost laughed, but the sound caught in her throat when his thumb brushed along her jaw with devastating gentleness. The gesture was so gentle, so reverent, so at odds with the intensity of moments before. "Is Sam's big mouth telling the truth?"

His eyes flickered. Desire tangled with something heavier, more complicated. "I fell for you the second I came to your office," he admitted, voice rough and raw. "And when you walked away from me that first time, brushed me off, I knew it. Knew I was in trouble. Knew I wanted you in a way I had no right to. And the more I got to know you, the worse it got. Every conversation, every walk, every smile."

He paused, jaw flexing. "At first, I tried to kill it. Bury it. You're Steve's blood. His legacy. You're… young. Too young for someone like me, someone with my past." His throat bobbed. "I felt guilty as hell. Still do, if I'm being honest."

Her chest ached at the emotion in his voice, at the way he looked at her like he'd already memorized every inch of her but was still afraid he'd somehow ruin her.

She leaned in, close enough that her words brushed his lips. "I'm not too young for you. And I'm not Steve. Whatever rules you think apply, they don't here. Not with me."

Bucky sighed heavily, reaching up to cup her cheek in his hand—the flesh one, warm and calloused. She understood the hesitation. His dead best friend's granddaughter, almost a decade younger than him physically, a lifetime younger in experience. So she continued, needing him to understand. "You don't need to feel guilty. And neither should I. We're both adults. We both want this."

Bucky exhaled sharply, his metal fingers flexing against her hip like he was trying to let her go but couldn't quite bring himself to, couldn't quite make himself step back. She saw the battle play out clearly in his eyes. Duty versus want, guilt versus satisfaction.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he said, voice low and strained, almost pleading. "Steve… he was my best friend. My brother. And you're his granddaughter. Hell, I shouldn't have even looked twice at you. Shouldn't have let myself get close."

His jaw tightened visibly, but then his eyes softened almost painfully. "But the truth is…I didn't stand a chance. The second I saw you, I was done for. And every damn day since has just made it worse. Your laugh, your smile, the way you look at me…you're perfect in ways I can't even put into words. And it kills me how much I want you when I know I shouldn't."

She pressed closer, sliding her hands up the hard planes of his chest until they hooked behind his neck, fingers threading through his short locks. "Then stop killing yourself over it. I'm not some fragile little thing you need to protect from yourself, Barnes. And I'm certainly not going to go tattling to my grandfather’s ghost about this."

That earned the smallest smirk from him, a flash of humor. "Pretty sure he'd still find a way to punch me. Come back from the dead just for that."

"Then he can get in line," she shot back, her voice dipping into a whisper that sent heat rushing between them like wildfire. "Because you've kept me waiting long enough."

Something in him broke then. Snapped like a cable under too much tension. His hand slid up her back, pressing her flush against the wall as his mouth finally crashed against hers again. The kiss was hungry, yet revenant, all of his careful restraint burning away in a single instant.

Her fingers gripped his hair, pulling him closer, swallowing the groan that rumbled deep in his chest. When they finally broke for air, both breathing hard, his lips still brushed against hers as he murmured, "You have no idea what you've started."

She grinned against his mouth, breathless and reckless. "Guess you'll have to show me."

She wasn't entirely sure what she had expected to find. It had been seven years since she'd last set foot in Brooklyn, after all. Old photographs yellowed at the edges, perhaps. Bizarre knickknacks from Violet's travels. Maybe even mice, or that particular musty sweetness that seemed to cling to every surface in elderly people's homes. But a living, breathing Adonis? That hadn't made the list.

Then again, maybe it should have.

Her cousin—second cousin, really—had always been eccentric. The black sheep gleefully paraded at family Christmas dinners, each year arriving with a boyfriend younger than the last. She'd made enough money with modeling to spend most of seemingly every year traveling the world, her Brooklyn apartment she inherited from her grandmother serving as little more than a glorified storage unit. A month here, a week there, never long enough to gather dust. Plus, the inheritance from her deceased stepfather meant Violet had never worked a real day in her life, and never planned to.

The number of times she'd actually seen her cousin outside of those obligatory holiday dinners? She could count them on one hand.

Which made the offer all the more bewildering. The keys to the apartment had come to her, not to her mother, not to her other cousins. Her. Violet was going to be gone for most of the year gallivanting around Asia, and had offered up the place free of charge when she'd heard her complaining about rising rent prices in the city. She wasn't complaining. Her last year at NYU was expensive enough without rent, and the commute to any job she could get in the city would be cut in half. It was a gift. An unexpected, generous gift.

She just hadn't expected it to come with one of Violet's flings still in residence.

When she'd burst through the door with a cardboard box of kitchen appliances wedged under one arm and an overstuffed suitcase threatening to explode in the other, she'd been too busy cursing the frayed doormat that nearly sent her sprawling to notice him at first.

Then she looked up.

The man at the table didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. He simply sat there, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling, and watched her with the kind of detached curiosity you might reserve for a stray cat that had wandered in off the street.

She stood frozen in the doorway, the box cutting into her ribs, her pulse hammering so hard from initial fear she could feel it in her throat. When she finally managed to speak, her voice came out strangled, pitching higher than she would've liked. "I—what the hell are you doing in my apartment?"

He didn't move. Just arched one dark brow, slow and deliberate, like she'd asked him something vaguely amusing.

And that's when she made the mistake of really looking at him.

God help her.

He was tall. She could tell even with him sitting down. Broad-shouldered, lean, the kind of build that didn't come from a gym but from actual physical labor. His hair was dark and slicked back in a style that should've looked outdated but somehow didn't, and he wore suspenders—actual suspenders, one strap sliding carelessly off his shoulder. His dress shirt was rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms that were unfairly well-defined, and his slacks were tailored, hemmed just above the ankle in an annoyingly intentional way.

He looked like he'd stepped out of a 1940s film noir. Or a very committed mafia cosplay.

His eyes, a vivid blue, dragged over her slowly. Head to toe. Taking inventory.

She knew that look. Four years of college had taught her the difference between a man glancing your way and a man cataloging you, piece by piece, like you were something he might want to acquire. This was the latter.

Heat crawled up her neck, equal parts indignation and attraction. Not that she would give this man the satisfaction of knowing that. 

She tightened her grip on the suitcase handle and lifted her chin.

"Well?" she demanded, fighting to keep her voice steady and not show her internal panic. "Are you going to answer my question, or are you going to make me call the cops?"

The man's lips pulled up into a half-smirk, and something like a chuckle escaped him. The sound was low and entirely too confident. "Well, you got some fire in ya, don't you, doll?"

She gaped at him, stunned by his audacity. Or maybe it was obstinance. Either way, at least she knew he was definitely from Brooklyn with that accent of his. Easier for the police to track him down if she had to file a report. "Listen, buddy, this isn't funny. Breaking and entering isn't funny at all. You have five seconds to explain yourself before I call the cops and let them know that a goddamn stranger is squatting in my apartment—"

"See, it's funny you keep referring to it as your apartment," the man interrupted, grinning at her cheekily. He got up slowly, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray, "when it's actually neither of ours." 

He moved toward her with easy, unhurried steps. "That box looks heavy. Lemme get that for you."

She wished she could say she stood her ground, barked back at him, or done anything remotely impressive in that moment. Instead, she stood there rooted to the spot, watching him close the distance like she'd witnessed something catastrophic and her body had forgotten how to respond. 

When he lifted the box from her arms, she didn't resist. Didn't even twitch. Just let him take it, let him carry it to the kitchen counter like this was perfectly fine. 

He could have done anything in that moment. Absolutely anything. And she would have just stood there, wide-eyed and useless.

God, her survival instincts were pathetic.

It wasn't until he'd returned and plucked the suitcase from her grip, moving past her into the hallway where the rest of her life sat stacked in cardboard, that her brain finally lurched back into gear. He was already hoisting the box labeled "FRAGILE - DISHES" when she found her voice again.

"What—what do you mean it's neither of ours?" She thrust the keys toward his face, metal jangling. "I literally just unlocked the door in front of you!"

He paused, glanced down at the keys, then back up at her. That infuriating smirk still hadn't budged. 

She wanted to slap it off him.

"It's your cousin's place, isn't it?" He said it like it was obvious. "She left a note saying you'd be staying for a bit. I was crashing here for a bit, she said the overlap should be fine." His gaze flicked over her face, searching. "I'm guessing she didn't mention that to you?"

He leaned in slightly, studying her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. A small crease appeared between his brows. Perfect, naturally, because of course even his concern was attractive. 

His breath carried the ghost of cigarette smoke, but beneath it was something warmer. Sandalwood, maybe. And something crisp and expensive she couldn't place.

"Though, you're younger than I expected," he added, voice dropping a note. "And far too pretty. Definitely related to Violet, with that face."

He flashed her another grin, complete with a wink that suggested he thought he'd just earned himself bonus points.

Then he turned and went back to hauling in her boxes like he hadn't just upended her entire understanding of the situation.

She stood there, bewildered. Violet hadn't mentioned anyone staying here with her. And she definitely didn't do roommates. So she was just okay with an ex crashing in her place while she jet-setted around Asia?

But she didn't have the bandwidth to process it all. Not when she still needed to figure out how to get him out.

"Okay, enough with the cheese," she snapped, stalking after him. "Are you one of Violet's boyfriends or something? How did you even get in here?"

He stopped mid-step, looking almost wounded. "Boyfriend? No." He set down the box and straightened, brushing dust from his hands. "She said she'd be leaving for a while, so she let me use the place while our families are out of town. Needed someone to keep an eye on things so she could sneak off out of the country with her new beau of the month." His grin returned, warm and easy. "Feisty gal, Violet. I see where you get it from."

She stared at him, turning his words over like puzzle pieces that refused to fit. So he did know Violet. About her travels. And she was almost positive Violet had mentioned taking a boyfriend with her, whatever flavor of the month she had at the moment. And despite the fact that he had the energy of a guy who'd definitely been in a fraternity, he didn't seem dangerous. If he were some kind of Ted Bundy wannabe, she'd probably already be dead.

Still. The details were inconsistent. Why would Violet not mention this to her? Did she just forget? But clearly, this man had keys and had to have gotten in somehow. The place had been locked up for at least half a week. And the whole vintage getup was trying way too hard. But none of that was illegal.

"So," she said slowly, forcing her pulse to settle. "Violet is letting you stay here… for a bit."

"Yes ma'am." He leaned back against the counter, lifting his coffee cup to his lips. His eyes gleamed at her over the rim, playful and entirely too confident. "Said I could crash here for a week, if I wanted. Hope that's all right with you. I can take the guest bedroom. Stay out of your hair."

She let out a heavy sigh and leaned against the counter. She cursed her cousin silently. "I mean… it's not my place, so it's not my call. If Violet says you can stay here, you're more than welcome to stay for a week. What's your name again?"

He grinned and extended a hand. "James. But you can call me Bucky. And you are?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Bucky?" 

Why did that sound familiar? 

"Nickname," he said easily. "And you are?"

She introduced herself, reaching out to grip his hand without budging from her spot against the old wood. His palm was warm, his grip firm and confident. The handshake of someone who'd never doubted himself a day in his life.

Typical. 

"Well," he said, holding on just a fraction longer than necessary, his thumb brushing against the back of her hand before he let go. She fought the urge to squirm. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Really."

She felt a headache beginning to bloom behind her eyes. "Great. Yeah, a real pleasure. One week. Guest bedroom. And for the love of God, stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" His grin widened, all faux innocence.

"Like you're trying to figure out whether I'm wearing matching underwear."

He had the audacity to laugh, a sound that probably had most women blushing. Her? She was just annoyed that she'd be spending the next week avoiding this guy at all costs in her own temporary apartment.

Younger her, with a few shots of liquid courage in her system, would have melted right into that laugh. Would have leaned into whatever pretty promises a man like this could spin. But she knew better now. Experience was a brutal teacher, and if there was one thing she'd learned about devastatingly attractive men who flirted like breathing, it was this: they delivered one mediocre night and a lifetime of awkward run-ins afterward.

Besides, there was no way Violet hadn't slept with him. Given her cousin's reputation, it was practically a guarantee.

She pulled her hand back and resisted the urge to wipe it on her jeans. "Right. Okay. I'm going to start unpacking now, so if you could just…I don't know, go smoke somewhere that isn't here, that would be great."

"I can help," he offered, already moving toward the boxes stacked by the door.

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." He flashed her another one of those grins, the kind that probably had a 90% success rate. "Besides, the sooner you're settled, the sooner you can relax. You look like you could use it."

She bristled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing bad." He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Just that you seem a little… tense."

"I wonder why," she muttered, but she didn't stop him when he picked up a box marked "KITCHEN" and carried it to the counter.

They worked in silence for a few minutes, or rather, she worked in silence while he hummed something under his breath. Some old tune she didn't recognize. He was annoyingly efficient, unpacking dishes and setting them in the cabinets without asking where anything went, like he'd already memorized the layout.

She pulled out her electric kettle and set it on the counter, muttering a few profanities under her breath. Here she had been looking forward to living entirely on her own for the first time. Some peace and quiet. Now she had to cozy up with some hipster wannabe for a whole week. At least they had separate bathrooms. 

Then again, something about this felt strange. Why had Violet not mentioned this to her? 

"What is that?"

She glanced over. "What's what?"

He nodded toward the kettle. "That… contraption."

She blinked at him. "It's a kettle."

"Doesn't look like any kettle I've ever seen."

"It's electric," she said slowly, wondering if he was messing with her. "You plug it in. Boils water."

He stared at it for a long moment, then shook his head with a soft laugh. "Huh. Fancy. They make those now? Overseas or something?"

She rolled her eyes and went back to unpacking. Definitely teasing her. Or maybe he was one of those off-the-grid types who only used cast iron and thought microwaves gave you cancer.

"Yes, Bucky. It’s a kettle from overseas." She shot him her best ‘please stop talking to me’ glare. "Are you always this annoying, or is today special?"

He grinned. "I'm just curious. You've got some…interesting things."

"They're normal things. You're just—" She stopped herself, shaking her head. "Never mind."

She moved on to the next box, refusing to engage. He was clearly trying to get a rise out of her, and she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. Either that, or he was Amish and she was being rude without even knowing it. With those clothes, she wouldn't put it past him.

"So," she said, desperate to put her mind a bit more at ease. "Where are you from?"

"Brooklyn," he said easily. "Born and raised."

"Really? Your accent isn't too strong."

He shrugged. "Guess I've been around. You?"

"Long Island. Grew up there, anyway. I'm finishing up my last year at NYU." She pulled out a stack of textbooks and set them aside. "Communications degree."

"Communications," he repeated, like he was testing the word. "What's that mean?"

She gave him a look. "You're kidding, right?"

"No, I—" He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, I know what communication is. Just wondering what you do with a degree in it."

"Media, public relations, marketing. That kind of thing." She unpacked her favorite mug, the one she used every morning for her first cup of coffee. She'd gotten it on a family vacation to Hawaii years ago, and time and multiple washes had faded the bright flowers adorning the ceramic. "I'm hoping to get into publishing, maybe work for a magazine."

"A magazine," he said, nodding slowly. "That's swell."

"Swell?" She laughed despite herself. "What are you, ninety?"

His grin faltered for just a second, so brief she almost missed it. Like for a moment, he was doubting himself. Maybe he wasn't used to girls not falling for his charm. The thought made her gleeful, for some reason. 

Then it was back, easy and unbothered. "You got something against how I talk, doll?"

"Nah, it's different. Refreshing, for sure. Better than the crap kids are saying these days." She set down the box and leaned against the counter, studying him. "How old are you, anyway? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?"

"Twenty-five," he confirmed.

"And what do you do? Besides crash in women's apartments and make weird comments about coffee makers."

His jaw tightened, just for a moment. Then he looked away, busying himself with folding up an empty box. "I'm… between things right now. Figuring stuff out."

"Ah." She nodded. "So you're unemployed."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

He shot her a look—half annoyed, half amused. "I pick up jobs when I can. You always this blunt?"

"You always this evasive?"

They stared at each other for a beat, something crackling in the space between them. Then he laughed, shaking his head.

"You really are Violet's family," he said. "Sharp as a tack."

She wanted to ask what he meant. How Violet, who'd barely scraped through high school and built her entire life on looks rather than intellect, could have possibly seen through to something deeper in her. But she bit her tongue. It was probably just flattery, the kind ex-lovers traded in. Empty and meaningless.

She let it go and continued unpacking.

—-

She called Violet early the next morning, slipping out onto the balcony with coffee cradled between her palms. The humidity of late summer in New York was already pressing in, thick and sticky even as the sun barely crested the tops of the high-rises. The city was waking up around her. She could hear the sound of distant horns and the rumble of the subway somewhere in the distance.

Violet, currently somewhere in Asia, was legendary for ignoring her phone. Texts went unanswered for days. Calls went straight to voicemail. Her mother liked to joke that Violet would probably find out about her own funeral from the invitation.

So when she answered on the last ring, it took everything in her not to choke on her coffee.

"Darling!" Violet's voice burst through the speaker, bright and breathless, nearly drowned out by what sounded like a wind tunnel. "Did you make it to the apartment? How do you like it? The couch is custom leather. I had it made in Italy. Please tell me you're not eating on it."

She closed her eyes and counted to three. "Yeah, Vi. Great couch. Lovely. Very… financially irresponsible of you." She opened her mouth to continue. "Listen, when I got here yesterday—"

"Aren't you going to ask me about my trip?" Violet cut in, as if she hadn't spoken at all. "I'm in Seoul!"

She stopped mid-sentence, her jaw tightening. The urge to hurl her phone off the balcony was nearly overwhelming. Typical Violet. Vain, self-absorbed, utterly incapable of listening for more than five consecutive seconds.

"That's great, Vi. I'm sure it's amazing. Now if you could just—"

"It is amazing! The food, oh my God, you wouldn't believe it. And the people are a little strange, but they seem to love Americans. Or maybe they just love me." She laughed, that breathy, airy sound that probably had men falling over themselves when they heard it. "Oh! Do me a favor, would you? Check my closet for my Prada Caban. The one with the fur trim. I might need you to ship it."

"It's the middle of summer. Why would you—"

"I'm out here until at least spring, remember?" Violet giggled like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Asia first, then the Middle East. Do you think I could pull off one of those head things? What are they called for women? Turbans?"

"Hijab, Violet." She gripped the coffee cup so hard she was surprised it didn't crack. "Can you please just listen to me for one second? Did you tell one of your…’friends’ they could stay here? Because when I showed up yesterday, there was a guy—"

"What? Sorry, I'm in an Uber right now and the windows are open. It's so loud!"

She pulled the phone away from her ear and let out a strangled groan into the open air. When she brought it back, her voice was strained. "Could you maybe ask them to close the windows?"

"I don't speak Korean, silly! How would I even do that?"

"Okay." She exhaled sharply, her pitch climbing before she forced it back down. "Let's just—did you or did you not tell one of your friends they could crash at the apartment? Like, right now?"

A pause. Long enough that she could practically hear Violet's brain grinding through the gears.

"Oh! I think I did, actually." Violet sounded genuinely surprised, like she'd just remembered she owned a car. "I just can't remember if I told you. Did I tell you?"

"No. You did not."

"Whoops! Well, he should be stopping by soon then. Or maybe he's already there? What day is it for you?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Anyway, when he shows up, try not to sleep with him, okay? Wouldn't want you getting your cousin's leftovers."

Her blood pressure spiked. "Thanks, Violet. Super helpful. I have to go now."

"Wait, don't forget about my coat—"

She hung up before Violet could finish, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. 

A long, slow exhale escaped her, the tension draining from her shoulders now that her cousin's voice was finally, mercifully gone. She shoved her phone in her pocket a bit too aggressively. 

She slumped into one of the sad plastic chairs on the balcony, dragging a hand through her hair with a soft, disbelieving laugh. Sharp as a tack, Bucky had said. Sure. Eye of the beholder and all that.

"What's got you looking so glum, huh? Sun's barely up."

She glanced back over her shoulder at the true source of her morning irritation. Though, to be fair, it wasn't directly his fault her cousin had the attention span of a goldfish.

See, she was reasonable. 

“Heard from Violet," she said flatly. "She sends her love."

Bucky grinned at her from the doorway, leaning against the frame like he'd been posed there by a photographer. 

A cigarette dangled unlit between his teeth. His hair was slicked back again, though a few rebellious strands had escaped, curling slightly at his temples in the rising heat. He wore coveralls today—clean enough at first glance, but up close she could see that it was marked with old grease stains that had probably been there since the Truman administration. A logo for some mechanical shop she didn't recognize was stitched onto the breast pocket.

"Oh yeah?" He tilted his head, studying her. "Didn't realize your cousin got under your skin so much. What'd she do this time?"

She took a long sip of coffee, forcing herself to keep her eyes on his face and not let them wander. Annoyingly, he looked like a walking temptation in that getup. His coveralls were unzipped just enough to reveal a white undershirt clinging to a chest that had no business being that defined. But she'd be damned if she gave him the satisfaction of noticing.

Keeping her gaze on his face was the safer option. Not that it helped much. His face belonged on a billboard.

What had Violet called him? Leftovers? With a face like that, who the hell would care?

She bit down on her tongue hard, snapping herself out of it. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Just her usual grating personality." She paused, narrowing her eyes at him. "I don't know what you see in her."

Bucky snorted, his blue eyes brightening with amusement as he crossed the balcony. She couldn’t hold back her surprise when he dropped into the chair right next to her. 

Close. Too close. His knee almost brushed hers.

Bold move. But she doubted he even thought twice about it. Meanwhile, she knew for a fact the temperature outside didn’t just go up ten degrees in the span of three seconds. 

"It's not so much me," he said, pulling a lighter from his pocket. "It's my buddy. He's got it bad for her. Wants me to put in a good word and all that."

He leaned forward to light the cigarette, and a few more strands of dark hair fell loose across his forehead. He glanced up at her through his lashes as he took the first drag, smoke curling around his face like something out of an old film.

"Want one?"

She bit the inside of her cheek and forced her gaze down to his boots. Scuffed, caked in dried mud, safe and utterly uninteresting. "No thanks. I don't smoke." She cleared her throat. "Your buddy's interested in Violet?"

Bucky leaned back in his chair, exhaling a slow stream of smoke as he looked out over the railing. "Yeah, but what guy isn't? Your cousin's a knockout. I don't think Stevie's got a shot in hell, but what kind of friend would I be if I told him that?"

She raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the casual way he said it. No longing in his voice. No wistfulness. He sounded almost… indifferent.

Maybe he was just like Violet. The love-'em-and-leave-'em type. A collector of one-night stands and convenient arrangements.

"That's nice of you," she said, taking another sip of her coffee. The smell of his cigarette mingled with the city's particular brand of morning stench. Exhaust, garbage, something frying from a street cart below. "Giving up your ex for your buddy."

"Ex?" Bucky's head turned sharply, his grin widening slowly. "She's not an ex doll. Never did anything with her."

She blinked, her coffee cup pausing halfway to her lips. 

Her attention snapped back to him fully now. He was still leaned back, one arm draped over the back of his chair, looking completely at ease. Like he hadn't just upended her entire working theory about him.

"What?" She set the cup down on the small table between them. "I thought—"

"Thought I was crashing here 'cause she gave me a good time?" Bucky chuckled, low and satisfied, like he could read every confused thought racing through her head. And honestly, she was sure it was written all over her face. "Damn, sweetheart. You really think that low of me?"

"I—" She faltered, heat creeping up her neck. "You can't blame me for assuming. You're staying in her apartment, you talk about her like you know her pretty well, and she literally told me not to sleep with you because—" She stopped herself, realizing too late where that sentence was headed.

His grin turned absolutely wolfish. "Because what?"

She groaned and covered her face with one hand. "Because she didn't want me having her leftovers."

Bucky laughed. Really laughed this time, his head tipping back, shoulders shaking. It was an easy, genuine sound, and it made something in her chest do an annoying little flip.

"Well," he said, still grinning as he took another drag. "Hate to break it to your cousin, but there's nothing to leave over. She's not my type. She kissed me once, at a dance, but that was it. Happened years ago too."

Now she was even more confused. She had never met a guy who wasn’t interested in Violet. The girl oozed sex appeal. And Bucky…well, so did he.

"And what is your type?" The question slipped out before she could stop it, and she immediately wanted to kick herself.

His eyes found hers, sharp and interested, the corner of his mouth tipping up. "You really wanna know?"

"Forget I asked." She grabbed her coffee again, using it as a shield to hide the rising heat in her cheeks.

He stared at her for a moment in silence, the lazy smirk still on his lips. Something flickered in his eyes. 

"Smart," he said, ignoring her deflection entirely. "Confident. Doesn't take any shit. Especially not from me." His gaze dragged over her face, slow and deliberate. "Someone who keeps me on my toes. Pretty face doesn't hurt either."

Her pulse kicked up. She forced herself to roll her eyes. "Does that line usually work for you?"

"I don't know." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, close enough now that she could smell the sandalwood again beneath the smoke. "Is it working?"

"Not even a little bit."

"Liar."

She scoffed and stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the concrete. "You're insufferable."

"And you're dodging the question."

"There was no question."

"Sure there was." He stood too, slower, like a cat stretching. He was taller than her by a good few inches, and the way he looked down at her made her feel simultaneously annoyed and unsteady. "You wanna know if I'm interested."

She bristled immediately. "I absolutely do not."

"Then why'd you assume I slept with Violet?" His grin was infuriating, those blue eyes dancing over her face wildly. "Why'd that bother you?"

"It didn't—"

"You sure about that?"

She glared at him, jaw tight. "You're reading way too much into this."

"Maybe." He took one last drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out on the railing, his eyes never leaving hers. "Or maybe you're just bad at hiding it."

Her face burned. She wanted to throw her coffee at him. She wanted to shove him off the balcony. She wanted—

"I have to get ready for class," she said stiffly, turning on her heel.

"What time you done?" he called after her.

"Why?"

"Thought I'd make dinner. You know, since I'm crashing here and all. Least I could do."

She paused in the doorway, not turning around. Out of all the things he could have said, she didn’t expect that. "You cook?"

"Sweetheart, you gotta start having some faith in me here," she could practically hear him smirking now. "I have a lot of talents. All you gotta do is ask, and I'll start showing you just how many."

She didn't answer. Just walked inside and shut the door behind her, muttering a curse under her breath as she threw her cup into the sink a bit too aggressively. "Jackass."

He tried again, still amused, his voice carrying through the glass. "What time you gonna be home, doll?"

"Six," she grumbled, grabbing her bag from her room and stalking toward the front door, fighting the urge to depart with a middle finger aimed his way. "Don't burn down the kitchen, Barnes."

His laugh followed her all the way down the stairs, and she hated how much she liked the sound of it.

____

"Let me get this straight," Fiona whispered, leaning so close her curls brushed against her shoulder. Her eyes were huge behind her glasses. "You have a hot guy—older, single, living in your apartment for a whole week—and you're telling me you want absolutely nothing to do with him?"

"Keep your voice down, Fi. People are going to hear you." She shot a pointed look toward the front of the lecture hall, where their professor was mid-drone about media theory or audience engagement or something equally mind-numbing. Even from the back row, sound carried, and the last thing she needed was the entire class hearing Fiona lose her mind over something this trivial.

Fiona rolled her eyes, twirling her pen through her dark ringlets. "Oh please. No one can hear us back here. Besides, Martin's about to put on some long, boring-ass video and pass out in his chair in three... two..."

She counted down on her fingers, snapping her hand into a fist on "one" just as the lights dimmed. Right on cue, a grainy documentary flickered to life on the projector screen. Professor Martin was already slumped in his chair, eyelids drooping.

She stared at Fiona, incredulous. "How did you—"

"Please." Fiona's grin was pure smugness. "We're lucky if we make it thirty minutes before he pulls this. Now can we get back to the actually important conversation?"

Fiona had been her best friend—her only real friend, if she was being honest—since they'd been randomly assigned as roommates freshman year. They were complete opposites. Fiona was the social one, effortlessly magnetic in any given situation. Tall and willowy with warm caramel skin, she'd joined every club, attended every party, and somehow still maintained a 3.8 GPA while dating one of the guys on the swim team. She was the kind of person people gravitated toward without even trying.

Most of their friendship had consisted of Fiona dragging her to parties or orchestrating blind dates with her boyfriend's teammates. She'd even dated one of the swimmers briefly during sophomore year until he'd started pressuring her to try coke at some off-campus rager and she'd noped out of that relationship so fast she'd left skid marks.

Ever since, Fiona had made it her personal mission to find her "future husband." So far, through no fault of Fiona's, she hadn't made it past a second date with any of them.

And honestly? She didn't see the problem with that.

Why would she want someone tying her down, holding her back? Her mother had a promising career in marketing before she met her father. One pregnancy, one frantic maternity leave, and she'd never gone back. Just like that, it was over. College guys could talk all they wanted about equality and supporting their girlfriend's ambitions, but she wasn't naive. The second kids entered the picture, most of them would expect their partner to be the one to sacrifice. To stay home. To give it all up.

She wasn't interested in being that person.

"There's nothing to discuss," she murmured, keeping her eyes trained on the screen in case Martin glanced their way. "He's some random friend of Violet's. He's staying at the apartment for a week. And since he didn't murder me in my sleep last night, I'm assuming I'm safe for now."

Fiona gaped at her like she'd just announced she was dropping out to join a cult. "How is this not worth discussing? He's single, right? And not even that much older—"

"Four years is a decent gap—"

"Shut up, it is not." Fiona's whisper climbed an octave, earning them a sharp look from a guy two rows ahead. She shot him a withering glare that could've stripped paint. "And you said he's absurdly attractive, right?"

She shifted in her seat, suddenly hyperaware of the memory burning at the edges of her mind—smoke curling around Bucky's face this morning, the way his lips had wrapped around the filter of his cigarette, the lazy confidence in the way he'd looked at her.

"I never said absurdly attractive," she muttered. "He's...pretty good-looking, I guess."

Fiona looked at her like she'd just committed a felony. "You literally said you thought he was a model when you walked in."

"I mean, models can be subjectively ugly depending on personal taste—"

"No. They cannot." Fiona's voice dropped to a growl. "That is literally the entire point of being a model. To be beautiful. Don't you dare downplay this, or I swear to God I will come over there myself and see what we're working with. What does he look like? And don't tell me you don't have pictures."

"I don't have social media, Fi. You know that."

"Yeah, and you're insane for it." Fiona snorted, loud enough to earn another glare from their classmate. She returned it with twice the venom. "You're a communications major, for Christ's sake. How are you supposed to get a job without an Instagram?"

She bit back a smile. "With a resume. Maybe some references. Ever heard of those?"

"Shut up." Fiona swatted her arm. "Stop deflecting. What does he look like?"

She leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly. Bucky was gorgeous. Undeniably, frustratingly so. And there was something familiar about him, too, though she couldn't place it. Maybe she'd seen him in some ad campaign once and her brain had filed it away without her realizing.

"He's... tall," she said finally. "Built. Dark hair, really intense blue eyes. Crazy jawline." She paused, searching for the right comparison. "Kind of looks like a young Mark Hamill, actually. But, like, more—"

Fiona inhaled so sharply she nearly choked. "Your temporary roommate looks like young Luke Skywalker and you're not trying to sleep with him?!"

Several heads turned in their direction. She grabbed Fiona's arm and yanked her down lower in her seat.

"Could you be any louder?" she hissed.

"Could you be any more in denial?" Fiona shot back, eyes glittering with barely contained glee. "Seriously. Young Mark Hamill. Living in your apartment. For a week. This is like a rom-com setup and you're acting like it's a hostage situation."

"It basically is a hostage situation. I didn't ask for this."

"But you're not kicking him out either."

"Because Violet said he could stay!" She threw her hands up, then quickly lowered them when Professor Martin stirred slightly in his chair. "What am I supposed to do, throw him on the street?"

"No, you're supposed to throw him on your bed."

"Fiona—"

"I'm just saying!" Fiona grinned, shameless. "You're twenty-one, single, and you have a literal model camped out in your living space. When is this opportunity ever going to present itself again?"

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're impossible."

"And you're stubborn." Fiona tapped her pen against her notebook, studying her with the kind of shrewd attention that made her squirm. "But you do think he's hot. I can tell."

"I never said—"

"You didn't have to. You got that look."

"What look?"

"That look." Fiona gestured vaguely at her face. "Like you're trying really hard not to think about something, which means you're definitely thinking about it."

She felt heat creep up her neck. Damn Fiona and her ability to read her like a children's book.

"Fine," she muttered. "He's attractive. Happy?"

"Thrilled." Fiona's grin widened. "So what's stopping you?"

"Common sense? Self-preservation? The fact that I don't even know him?"

"You have a whole week to get to know him."

"A week, and then he's gone. What's the point?"

"The point," Fiona said slowly, like she was explaining basic math to a toddler, "is that you get to have fun for once in your sad, boring life."

She rolled her eyes. "My life isn't boring."

"You spent last night organizing your bookshelf by publication date."

She frowned, affronted. "It needed to be done. I was moving my stuff in."

"You're proving my point." Fiona leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. "When was the last time you did something spontaneous? Something just for you?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Frowned again.

"Exactly." Fiona looked far too pleased with herself. "Look, I'm not saying marry the guy. I'm just saying... why not enjoy the week? See what happens?"

"Because I don't need the distraction right now." She pulled out her own notebook, flipping it open to a page covered in interview notes and company research. "I'm in the middle of job interviews. That's what I should be focused on. Not some random guy with nice cheekbones."

"You can do both, you know. Have a life and a career. It's called balance."

"I'll worry about balance after I have a career to balance."

Fiona sighed dramatically. "You're going to look back on this moment and regret it. I'm calling it now."

"I'll take my chances." She tapped her pen against the notebook. "Besides, I don't even know what he does for work. He's supposed to be staying there for a week, so clearly he's not in a rush to go anywhere."

"Did you ask?"

"Sort of. He was weirdly vague about it." She frowned, remembering their conversation that morning. "He was wearing coveralls earlier. With a mechanic shop logo on them. So maybe he works on cars or something?"

"A hot mechanic?" Fiona clutched her chest. "Be still my beating heart."

"Except he dresses like he walked out of a time capsule the rest of the time. Yesterday he was wearing suspenders. And slacks that were hemmed above the ankle. Who dresses like that?"

"Hipsters?"

"He doesn't seem like a hipster." She chewed on the end of her pen, thinking. "He talks strangely too. Uses words like 'swell' and 'doll' unironically. It's like he's doing a bit, but he's not."

"Maybe he's an actor," Fiona suggested. "You said Violet knew him, right? She's into all that artsy stuff."

"Maybe." But that didn't feel right either. Bucky didn't have that performative quality actors usually had, that underlying awareness of being watched. He just...was. "I have no idea how she even met him. Or why he's friends with her in the first place."

"Does it matter?"

"I guess not." She shook her head, trying to clear it. "Either way, it's irrelevant. He's there for a week and then he's gone. End of story."

Fiona was quiet for a moment, tapping her pen against her lips. Then she leaned forward, eyes narrowed.

"Okay. Give me one good reason, one genuinely good reason, why you shouldn't just have a fling with him. He's hot, he's temporary, you'll literally never have to see him again after this week. What's the harm?"

She stared at her friend, caught off guard by the directness of the question.

"I just told you," she said finally. "Job interviews. That's where my head needs to be right now. Not on some guy who'll be out of my life in seven days."

"Right. The interviews." Fiona tilted her head. "When's your next one?"

"Friday. Some PR firm in the city." She flipped to the right page in her notebook, scanning her notes. "They've worked with a bunch of high-profile clients. Celebrities, politicians...even some of the Avengers before the Blip."

"The Avengers?" Fiona's eyebrows shot up. "Damn. That's legit."

"I know. I'm trying not to get my hopes up, but..." She allowed herself a small smile. "It would be amazing if I got it."

"You will." Fiona's voice was firm, confident. "You're going to nail that interview, get the job, and then you'll be too busy hobnobbing with superheroes to even remember Hot Mechanic Vintage Guy."

She laughed despite herself. "That's the plan."

"Speaking of superheroes," Fiona said, grin returning full force, "if you do get the job, you better get me an autograph from the new Captain America. I don't care if you have to stalk him in the break room."

"I'm not stalking Captain America for you."

"You're a terrible friend."

"I'll get you a coffee mug from the gift shop. How's that?"

Fiona stuck out her tongue. "Fine. But only because I love you. And only if it has the old Captain America's face on it. Steve Rogers was something else."

The video droned on at the front of the room. Professor Martin's soft snores were barely audible over the narration.

She turned back to her notebook, trying to refocus on her interview prep. But Fiona's words kept circling in her head, persistent and annoying.

What's the harm?

She bit the inside of her cheek and forced herself to write another note about brand strategy.

There was plenty of harm. There always was.

She just had to keep reminding herself of that.

___

She was pleasantly surprised to arrive home that evening and find the building still standing.

No smoke pouring from the windows. No fire trucks idling at the curb. Just the usual hum of Brooklyn at dusk. Traffic, distant sirens, some kids shouting in the distance. 

She climbed the stairs slowly, keys jangling in her hand, half-expecting to open the door and find the kitchen engulfed in flames.

Instead, she found Bucky. Inferno-less.  

He was at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He looked up when she walked in, and his face split into a grin that probably knocked most women out of their feet. 

"There she is!" He gestured with a wooden spoon, looking absurdly pleased with himself. "Right on time, too. I'm just about done here."

She set her bag down carefully on the counter, sneaking a glance at the stove. The smell hit her first—garlic, some basil. Actual food. She was not shy to admit that she was stunned. 

On the burner sat a pot of fettuccine, steam curling lazily into the air, and beside it, a pan of bright red sauce bubbling gently.

Simple. And somehow, miraculously, not a disaster. She had been expecting grilled cheese, at best. 

"Looks good, Barnes." She bent down to unlace her shoes, trying to hide her surprise. "I was half-expecting the fire department to be camped out front when I got back."

He scoffed, shooting her a look that was equal parts offended and amused. "Doll, ye of little faith. What kind of man doesn't know how to cook a decent plate of pasta?" He stirred the sauce with practiced ease, shaking his head. "My Ma would slap me upside the head if I screwed this up."

She shrugged off her jacket, draping it over the back of a chair. "Well, color me impressed."

"That's all I get? 'Impressed'?" He clicked his tongue, though his eyes were dancing in the light. "I was hoping for at least a standing ovation."

"Don't push your luck."

She moved closer to the stove, pretending to inspect the sauce when really, God help her, she was sneaking glances at him.

He'd changed out of the coveralls. Now he wore those same tailored trousers from before, hemmed just above the ankle, and paired with a simple white button-down left untucked. No suspenders this time. No gel in his hair either. Just loose, dark strands falling around his face in a way that was almost criminal. And when he reached for the pepper grinder, his forearms flexed beneath the rolled fabric of his sleeves, muscles shifting.

She forced herself to look away before he caught her staring.

Maybe Fiona was right.

The thought crept in unbidden, unwelcome. Maybe she was being ridiculous. Maybe she was denying herself something good, something fun, out of sheer stubbornness. One week. That's all it would be. What was the harm in—

No.

She shut the thought down hard, gripping the edge of the counter.

More harm than good. That's what it would be. A distraction. A complication. She didn't need either of those right now.

She needed to stay focused.

"You gonna stand there all night, or are you actually gonna help me out here?" Bucky's voice cut through her spiral, teasing and warm.

She blinked, realizing she'd been staring at the counter probably looking pained. 

"Help with what?" she asked, straightening.

"Plates. Silverware. You know, the basics." He nodded toward the cabinet. "Unless you're planning on eating straight out of the pan like some kind of heathen."

"I wouldn't put it past you to do exactly that most nights."

"Touché." He grinned, turning off the burner. "But I've got some class around a lady. Come on, make yourself useful."

She rolled her eyes but moved to grab plates from the cabinet, acutely aware of how small the kitchen suddenly felt with both of them in it. She reached over him to grab the dishware, indirectly brushing her arm against his. He was warm, solid. 

She hated how just a brush of her arm against his sent a shiver up her spine. 

"So," he said casually, draining the pasta with an ease that suggested he wasn’t spiraling like she was. "How was your day? Do anything exciting?"

"Sat through a two-hour lecture on media ethics," she said dryly, setting two plates on the counter. "Riveting stuff."

"Sounds like a real thrill."

"It was about as fun as it sounds." She pulled open the silverware drawer, fishing out forks. "What about you? What does a mysterious mechanic do all day when he's not cooking pasta?"

"Mysterious mechanic?" He glanced at her, eyebrow arched. "That what you think I am?"

"You were wearing coveralls this morning. With a shop logo. I'm not a detective, but I can put two and two together."

"Fair enough." He scooped a generous portion of pasta onto each plate, topping it with sauce. "And yeah, I work on cars. Engines, mostly. Fixing things that are broken."

"Is that what you were doing today?"

"Something like that." His tone was light, but there was something guarded in it. Like he was editing his words as he spoke.

She didn't push. She barely knew him. It wasn't her business. But he seemed a bit…embarrased. Like he didn’t think his job was impressive enough. 

He slid one of the plates toward her, and their fingers brushed for the briefest second. She pulled back too quickly, diverting her attention to studying the food instead of him. His mouth twitched like he'd noticed.

"Dig in," he said, leaning back against the counter with his own plate. "And try not to look so suspicious. I promise I didn't poison it."

She picked up her fork, twirling a bite of pasta. "Guess we'll find out."

The first bite was annoyingly delicious. Perfectly seasoned. The right balance of acid and sweetness in the sauce.

 She hated that it was good because she knew she would have to admit that to him now. Him and his damn ego. 

"Well?" He watched her, grin already forming.

She chewed slowly, refusing to give him the satisfaction. "It's edible."

"Edible?" He laughed, shaking his head. "You're really gonna make me work for a compliment, huh?"

"You'll survive."

"Brutal." But he was still smiling. There was something about it, something easy and genuine, that made her chest feel tight.

She looked down at her plate and took another bite, ignoring the way her pulse had picked up.

Stay focused, she reminded herself.

Seven days. That's all this was. Six now, really.

She could handle six days.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the scrape of forks against plates and the distant hum of the city filtering through the open window.

"So," Bucky said eventually, breaking the quiet. "Communications major. That mean you're good at talking, or good at making other people talk?"

She glanced up at him. "Depends on the day."

"And today?"

"Today I'm tired and hungry, so probably neither."

He chuckled, taking another bite. "Fair enough. What made you pick it? The major, I mean."

What was up with him and all the talking? He was always asking questions.

She shrugged, twirling more pasta onto her fork. "I like stories. How they're told, who tells them, why they matter. Communications felt like the best way to be part of that without having to, like, write the next great American novel or whatever."

"Not a writer, then?"

"God, no. I can barely get through an essay without wanting to scream." She paused. "What about you? You always want to be a mechanic?"

"More like that’s what I was told to do." He set his plate down on the counter, leaning back with his arms crossed. The position made his shoulders look even broader, if that was possible. "I've always been good with my hands. Fixing things, taking them apart, figuring out how they work. Seemed like a natural fit."

"Modest, too."

"Hey, I'm just being honest." His grin was unrepentant. "You want me to lie and say I'm terrible at my job?"

"I want you to not sound like you're auditioning for a cologne ad."

He laughed, giving her a good eye roll. "A cologne ad? That's a new one."

"I call it like I see it, Barnes."

"Clearly." He picked up his plate again, studying her over the rim as he took another bite. "So what's the plan after graduation? You gonna take over the world, or what?"

"Something like that." She echoed his words back at him, smirking. "Ideally, I'd like to work in PR. Maybe for a publishing house, or a bigger firm that handles entertainment clients. I want to help people tell their stories the right way."

"The right way," he repeated, like he was turning the phrase over in his mind. "That's pretty noble."

"Or naive, depending on who you ask."

"I'm asking you."

She met his gaze, caught off guard by the sincerity in it. There was no smirk this time. No playful glint. Just genuine curiosity.

"I think everyone deserves to have their story told well," she said slowly. "Even if it's messy or complicated or doesn't fit into a neat little box. That matters."

He was quiet for a moment, and something shifted in his expression. 

"Yeah," he said finally. "I think so too."

She felt something loosen in her chest. Maybe he wasn't just all charm and easy grins. Maybe there was something real underneath all that swagger. 

"What about you?" she asked, breaking the silence before it could get too heavy. "What do you want to do with your life? Besides fix cars and cook mediocre pasta."

"Mediocre—" He pressed a hand to his chest like she'd shot him. "You're killing me here, doll."

"Answer the question, Barnes."

He sighed dramatically, but his smile didn't fade. "Honestly? I don't know yet. I'm just... figuring things out as I go. Trying to make sense of where I fit in all this."

"All this?"

He gestured vaguely at the window, at the city beyond. "The world. It's a lot bigger than I thought it'd be."

There was something wistful in his voice, something that didn't quite match the confident, flirty persona he'd been wearing since she met him. She wanted to ask what he meant, but before she could, he straightened and nodded toward her plate.

"You gonna finish that, or are you just gonna keep picking at it?"

She looked down. She'd barely made a dent with all the talking they had been doing. "I'm savoring it."

"Uh-huh. Sure you are."

She rolled her eyes and took another bite, and the easy rhythm of their banter settled back into place.

"Can I ask you something?" Bucky said after a minute, his tone lighter now.

"You're going to anyway."

"True." He grinned. "What's with the outfit?"

She blinked. "What's wrong with my outfit?"

"Nothing's wrong with it, it's just..." He gestured at her vaguely. "Different. You always dress like that?"

She glanced down at herself. High-waisted jeans, cropped sweater, chunky sneakers. Perfectly normal. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Different?" He tilted his head, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. "The pants are real high. And tight. And those shoes—" He nodded at her sneakers. "They look like something a kid would wear to play ball."

She stared at him. "Are you seriously critiquing my fashion choices right now?"

"I'm not critiquing, I'm just... observing."

"Well, observe quieter." She stabbed another bite of pasta. "And for the record, these jeans cost me seventy bucks. They're supposed to look like this."

"Seventy dollars?" His eyes widened. "For pants?"

She shot him a strange look. Maybe he was Amish. "Yes, Bucky. For pants.”

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath that sounded like "highway robbery."

She bit back a smile. "You're one to talk. You dress like you're about to drink matcha at a coffee shop."

"A what?"

"A matcha. You know, like—" She stopped, realizing he looked genuinely confused. "Never mind. My point is, you've got a whole vintage thing going on. The suspenders, the slacks, the hair gel. It's very... retro."

"Retro," he repeated, like he was swallowing a lemon.

"Yeah. Like old-fashioned. In a kind of cool way," she added reluctantly.

His grin returned, slow and smug. "You think I'm cool?"

"That’s what you took from that? I think your clothes are cool. There's a difference."

"Uh-huh." He leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting. "So you've been looking at me then, huh?"

"Oh my God." She set down her fork. "You're insufferable."

"And yet, here you are. Eating my cooking. Complimenting my fashion sense because you’ve been looking at me."

"I'm starting to regret both of those things."

"No you're not."

She opened her mouth to argue, but the worst part was, he was right. She wasn't regretting it. Not really.

She stood abruptly, picking up her plate. "I'm doing the dishes."

"I'll help—"

"No." She shot him a look over her shoulder. "You cooked. I'll clean. That's the deal."

He raised his hands in surrender, but the grin didn't leave his face. "Whatever you say, doll."

She carried her plate to the sink, turning on the water and squirting soap into the basin. The sound of running water filled the kitchen, and for a moment, she thought he was going to stay where he was.

Then she felt him behind her.

Not touching. Not quite. But close enough that she could feel the heat of him through her back. Close enough that if she leaned back even slightly, she'd be pressed against his chest.

"You missed a spot," he said, his voice low. Rough in a way that made her skin prickle.

Her breath caught. She turned around, confused. "What?"

"Right here."

His hand came up slowly. She froze as his thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. The touch was feather-light, barely there, but it sent a jolt of heat straight through her that pooled low in her stomach.

He held up his thumb, showing her the smudge of red sauce. "Messy eater."

Her heart was pounding so loud she was sure he could hear it. She stared at him dumbly, frozen. His gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered there.

"Bucky—"

"Yeah?" His voice was rough now, almost a rasp. His thumb still hovered near her lips.

She should step back. Should say something sarcastic, something to break the tension coiling tighter and tighter between them like a spring ready to snap.

"You should—" Her voice came out breathless, trembling. "You should move."

"Probably." But he didn't. He shifted even closer, and she could smell him now. Sandalwood and cigarettes. His free hand came to rest on the counter beside her, resting next to her hip 

His eyes searched hers. She didn’t remember the blue of his eyes being that dark before. "Should I?"

For a moment, she thought he was going to close the distance. Thought he was going to lean in and kiss her right there against the sink, dishes forgotten. And she was going to let him.

But she couldn’t muster up the courage to give him a response.

His eyes searched hers for another beat before he stepped back.

The air rushed back into her lungs all at once, cold and jarring. She turned quickly toward the sink, gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her knuckles were white.

"Thanks," she managed, her voice steadier than she felt. "For dinner."

"Anytime, doll."

She didn't look at him. Couldn't. Not when her face was burning and her pulse was still racing and every nerve in her body was screaming at her to turn around. To close the distance he'd just created.

Behind her, she heard him move away, heard the soft scrape of a chair as he sat back down.

She focused on the dishes. On the water. On anything other than the fact that she'd just wanted him to kiss her.

Stay focused, she told herself again.

But it was getting harder to believe it.

—-

The next morning, she sat on the balcony before class, nursing coffee that was too hot and slightly too bitter when Bucky joined her again. 

The door slid open behind her, and she didn't need to turn around to know it was him.

Bucky dropped into the chair beside her with that same easy grace, an unlit cigarette already dangling from his lips. He had his own cup of coffee in hand, which she'd brewed this morning without a single complaint from him. 

"Morning," he said, striking a match and bringing it to the cigarette. Smoke curled between them, familiar now.

"Morning."

She kept her eyes on the street below, hyperaware of him in her peripheral vision. The way he sat, relaxed and unguarded. The way the morning light caught in his hair, still damp from a shower.

Neither of them mentioned last night.

The moment at the sink. His thumb at the corner of her mouth. The way the air had felt too thick, too charged, like the split second before lightning strikes. The way he'd looked at her like he was starving for her.

He hadn't brought it up yet, and she sure as hell wasn't going to. Maybe it hadn't meant anything to him. Maybe she'd imagined the heat in his gaze, the way his voice had dropped an octave when he'd said her name. The way his hand had trembled slightly when he'd touched her face.

Or maybe, and this felt more likely, he was just like this with everyone. Effortlessly charming. Casually devastating. The kind of guy who could make you feel like the only person in the world and then forget about you the second he turned away.

If anything, he seemed more talkative this morning. More jokes, more grins, more of those infuriating winks every time she rolled her eyes at him. Like he was doubling down on the persona, making sure she didn't see past it.

And maybe that's all it was. A persona. A carefully constructed act he put on because it was easier than being real. Safer.

But last night, for just a moment, she'd seen something else. Something quieter. When he'd talked about not knowing where he fit, about the world being bigger than he'd thought—there'd been a vulnerability there. A crack in the armor.

She wanted to see it again.

And that scared her more than anything.

"You okay?" Bucky's voice pulled her out of her thoughts.

She glanced over at him. He was watching her, brow slightly furrowed, cigarette forgotten between his fingers.

"Yeah. Fine. Just thinking."

"About?"

You. "My interview on Friday."

"Ah." He took a drag, exhaling slowly. "Nervous?"

"A little." She wrapped both hands around her mug, letting the warmth seep into her palms. "I really want this job."

"You'll get it."

She raised an eyebrow. "You sound pretty confident for someone who's known me for two days."

"Two days is enough." He flashed her that grin, the one that made her stomach flip annoyingly. "You're smart. Driven. You don't take shit from anyone. Especially not me. They'd be idiots not to hire you."

Her chest tightened. It was such a simple thing to say, but the sincerity behind it caught her off guard.

"Thanks," she said quietly.

"Anytime, doll."

They fell into a comfortable silence, sipping their coffee as the city hummed to life around them. And despite everything, despite her better judgment, she felt something warm and dangerous settling in her chest again.

She liked him.

Not just his face or his body or the way he looked at her like she was something worth looking at. She liked him. The way he listened when she talked. The way he made her laugh even when she was determined not to. The way he seemed to see her in a way most people didn't bother to.

And that was a problem.

Because in half a week, he'd be gone. Back to wherever he came from, back to his life that she knew nothing about. And she'd be here, alone in Violet's apartment, wondering if any of it had been real.

She couldn't afford to get attached.

"I should get ready for class," she said abruptly, standing.

Bucky looked up at her, something unreadable flickering across his face. "Yeah. Sure."

She hesitated, then forced herself to move toward the door.

"Hey."

She stopped, glancing back.

He was still sitting there, cigarette smoke curling around him like something out of an old photograph. "Good luck today. With class and all."

"Thanks."

She slipped inside before he could say anything else.

—-

That evening, she had her notes spread across the coffee table in the living room and a half-empty mug of tea going cold beside her. She'd been at it for over an hour, reviewing talking points, researching the firm's recent campaigns, trying to anticipate every possible question they might throw at her.

She was so focused she didn't hear the front door open.

"Hey."

She jumped in her seat, nearly knocking over her tea. Bucky stood in the doorway, a tired grin on his face.

His coveralls were undone, hanging around his waist to leave him in just his pants and the wifebeater he wore underneath. Grease streaks and sweat had somehow managed to make their way onto the white material, as well as the underside of his jaw. His hair was disheveled, wet with sweat and sticking to the back of his neck.

She fought the urge to drool. Goddamn him and his stupidly attractive face. 

"Jesus, you scared me."

"Sorry." He kicked off his boots by the door, leaving them in a haphazard pile. "Didn't mean to sneak up on you. What're you working on?"

"Interview prep." She gestured at the organized chaos spread across the table. "Friday's coming up fast."

"Ah." He nodded, running a hand through his hair and leaving a smudge of grease at his temple that was somehow endearing. "Mind if I hop in the shower real quick? I'm covered in motor oil."

"Go ahead."

He disappeared down the hall, and she heard the bathroom door close, the pipes groaning as the water started.

She tried to focus on her notes. Really, she did. But her brain kept drifting, distracted by the knowledge that he was right there, just down the hall taking his clothes off, and—

Stop it.

She forced her eyes back to her notes, reading the same sentence three times without absorbing a single word.

Ten minutes later, she heard the water shut off. The bathroom door opened and she couldn’t help but glance up reflexively.

She immediately regretted it.

Bucky stepped into the hallway wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips.

Her brain short-circuited.

He was — well, he was ridiculous. All lean muscle and broad shoulders, water still clinging to his chest, dripping down the defined lines of his stomach. There was a small scar on his left shoulder, faded and pale with time, and another along his ribs that looked a bit darker. His hair was wet and pushed back from his face, and he looked like—

Like every bad decision she'd ever been tempted to make.

She was so caught up in her own head that she didn’t realize until it was too late that he caught her staring.

His mouth curved into a slow, knowing grin, but he didn't say anything. Just raised an eyebrow and continued toward the guest room like this was perfectly normal. Like he walked around half-naked all the time.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

He was such a bastard. 

Her face burned. She snapped her gaze back to her notes so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash.

"I'll make dinner!" she blurted, far too loud.

He paused, glancing back at her curiously. "You sure? I can—"

"Nope. My turn. You cooked last night. It's only fair." She was already on her feet, gathering her notes with shaking hands. "I'm making chicken. And potatoes. It'll be great. Totally."

He was still grinning, the bastard. "Okay. Thanks."

"Yep. No problem. Just…put on some clothes."

"Yes, ma'am."

She fled to the kitchen, cheeks still on fire, and busied herself pulling ingredients from the fridge. Chicken breasts. Potatoes. Garlic. Olive oil. Simple. Easy. She could do this.

She absolutely could not think about the way water had beaded on his collarbone. Or the V of muscle that disappeared beneath that towel. Or where it leads to.

Focus, damn it.

By the time Bucky emerged from the guest room—fully dressed, thankfully, in a plain white t-shirt and those stupid, goddamn trousers—she had the chicken sizzling in a pan and potatoes chopped and ready to roast.

"Smells good," he said, wandering over to the coffee table where she'd left her notes scattered.

"Thanks." She didn't look at him. She was sure her cheeks were still the color of a fire engine. 

"You mind if I take a look at these?"

She glanced over her shoulder. He was holding up one of her note pages, brow scrunched in concentration.

"Uh, sure. Go ahead."

He settled onto the couch, scanning through her prep. She turned back to the stove, flipping the chicken, trying to ignore the way her heart was still racing now that he was in such close proximity to her again. 

"You've got good answers here," he called after a minute. "Real thorough."

"Thanks."

"You nervous about it?"

"A little," she admitted. "It's a big opportunity."

"Want to practice?"

She paused, spatula in hand. "Practice?"

"Yeah. I'll ask you questions. You answer. Like a mock interview." He grinned at her over the back of the couch. "Come on, it'll help. And I promise I won't be too hard on you."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Okay. Yeah. That'd actually be really helpful."

"Great." He leaned back, studying her notes. "Let's start easy. Tell me about yourself."

She took a breath, steadying herself. Why was he so interested in this? She couldn’t get a good read on him. 

She wiped her hands on a dish towel, gathering her thoughts. "Well, I'm a senior at NYU studying Communications. I'm passionate about storytelling and brand strategy, and I believe that everyone deserves to have their narrative shaped with intention and care—"

"Okay, hold it right there."

She blinked. "What?"

Bucky was shaking his head, a bemused smile on his face. "You sound like you're reading from a script."

"I'm supposed to sound professional—"

"You're supposed to sound like a person." He set down the notes and turned to face her fully. "Nobody wants to hire a robot. They want to hire you. So try again, but this time, talk to me like I'm not some stuffed shirt behind a desk."

She crossed her arms over her chest with an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. What made you pick communications in the first place? What actually gets you excited about it?"

She hesitated, the practiced answer dying on her tongue. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. "I guess... I've always been fascinated by how stories shape the way we see the world. How the right words, told the right way, can change everything. Make someone care about something they never thought about before. Give a voice to people who've been ignored." She paused. "I don't know. That probably sounds naive."

"It doesn't." His voice was sincere. He nodded at her encouragingly. "It sounds real. That's what you lead with."

Something warm unfurled in her chest. "Okay. Yeah. I can do that."

"Good." His grin returned, playful again. "Next question. What's your biggest weakness?"

She groaned. "God, I hate that question."

"Everyone does. That's why they ask it. It’s fun for ‘em. Come on, what've you got?"

She turned back to the stove, checking on the chicken to buy herself time. "I'm a perfectionist. I have trouble delegating because I want things done a certain way—"

"Boring. Next."

"Bucky—"

"I'm serious. That's the answer everyone gives. It's not even a real weakness, it's just you humble-bragging." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Give me something true."

She was quiet for a moment, seasoning the potatoes more aggressively than necessary. "Fine. I have a hard time asking for help. I always feel like I need to prove I can handle everything on my own, and sometimes that means I take on too much and burn myself out."

"There you go. See? That's honest."

She glanced back at him. "You're surprisingly good at this."

"I'm full of surprises, doll. Thought you'd have figured that out by now."

"Oh, I'm learning." She slid the potatoes into the oven and set the timer. "What about you? What would your biggest weakness be?"

He tilted his head, considering. "Probably the same, if I'm being honest. I'm not great at letting people in. Easier to keep things surface-level, you know? Less complicated that way."

The admission caught her off guard. It was the first time he'd said something that felt truly unguarded, without the veneer of charm or the safety of a joke.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I get that."

Their eyes met across the room, and something shifted. The air in the room felt heavier suddenly.

Bucky cleared his throat and looked back down at her notes. "Alright, here's a good one. Where do you see yourself in five years?"

"Wow, pulling out all the classics."

He gave her a dry look. "Answer the question."

She leaned against the counter, thinking for a moment. "Honestly? I want to be good at what I do. Really good. I want to work with clients I believe in, tell stories that matter. Maybe have my own team someday." She paused. "And I want to feel like I earned it. Not because someone gave me a break or felt sorry for me, but because I was the best person for the job."

"You will be."

The certainty in his voice made her chest tight. "You don't know that."

"Yeah, I do." He put the notes down and moved closer to her. Not crowding her this time, but close enough that she could smell the lingering scent of cigarettes and that damn sandalwood soap he kept using. "You've got something, doll. I can tell. You're gonna do exactly what you set out to do."

She swallowed hard, suddenly finding it difficult to maintain eye contact. "Thanks. That's... that means a lot."

"I mean it." He leaned against the counter beside her, shoulders almost touching. "Can I ask you something real?"

"As opposed to fake?"

His mouth quirked. "Smart-ass. I'm serious."

"Okay. Shoot."

He was quiet for a moment, like he was choosing his words carefully. "What are you so afraid of?"

Her breath caught. "What?"

"You work yourself to death over these interviews, you won't let yourself have any fun. You've built all these walls up so high nobody can get close." His voice was gentle, not accusatory. "What's got you so scared?"

She should've deflected. Should've made a joke, changed the subject. Done anything but answer honestly.

Instead, she found herself saying, "I'm afraid of ending up like my mother."

It was surprising how quickly she admitted it. How easily the words fell off her lips. She rarely spoke about that to anyone, much less a handsome stranger. But he wasn’t really a stranger anymore. And there was something about the earnest look in his eyes that made her want to let him in. 

"She gave up everything when she had me," she continued, her voice quieter now. "She had this promising career, all these plans, and then life happened. Marriage, a baby, and suddenly all of that just... disappeared. And I watched her spend my entire childhood being this shadow of who she could've been. Resentful. Bitter." She swallowed hard. "I'm terrified that if I let myself want anything else, if I let myself get distracted, I'll end up the same way."

Bucky was silent for a long moment, his blue eyes searching her face. When he spoke, his voice was rough. "You're not her."

She swallowed, but masked her rising emotions with a scoff, looking down at her feet for a moment. "Oh yeah? You know every member of my family now?"

"I know you." He shifted closer, and she could feel the heat radiating off him. "Because you wouldn't be here if you were like her. You wouldn't be fighting this hard." He shifted slightly closer, his arm brushing against hers. "But you can't live your whole life running from something that hasn't even happened yet. That's not living, doll. That's just...existing."

Her heart was pounding. She couldn't look away from him. She couldn't think past the way he was looking at her. Like he could see straight through every defense she'd ever built. Like he was still holding back. 

"Bucky—"

"Yeah?"

She didn't know what she was going to say — if she was going to tell him to back off or pull him closer. The space between them felt impossibly small, and she could see the exact moment his gaze dropped to her mouth.

 His jaw clenched slightly.  

He leaned in, close enough that she could count his eyelashes, could see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes—

Then the oven timer shattered the moment like glass.

They both jumped back, and she spun toward the stove so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet.

"Potatoes," she said, voice strangled. "The potatoes are done."

"Right. Yeah. Makes sense."

She grabbed the oven mitts with shaking hands, pulling the tray out and setting it on the counter with more force than necessary. Steam rose between them, a convenient barrier.

When she finally risked a glance back at him, Bucky was running a hand through his hair, his neck flushed pink. 

For the first time since she'd met him, he looked genuinely flustered. Almost...bashful. 

"I should—" He gestured vaguely toward the table. "Set the table or something. Make myself useful."

"Yeah. Good. That'd be good."

He moved past her quickly, not quite meeting her eyes. She pressed her palms flat against the cool counter, trying to catch her breath.

What the hell was happening to her?

—-

The next morning, she woke to silence.

No sounds from the kitchen. No smell of coffee brewing. No low hum of conversation waiting for her on the balcony.

She padded out to the living room in her pajamas, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and found the apartment empty. A note sat on the counter in unfamiliar, slightly cramped handwriting:

Had to leave early for work. Coffee's in the pot. 

She stared at the note longer than necessary, something uncomfortable twisting in her stomach.

He'd left early. Without saying goodbye. Without their usual morning routine of coffee and easy banter on the balcony.

Was he avoiding her?

She poured herself a cup of coffee and stepped outside alone, the city waking up around her in shades of gray and gold. The chair where Bucky usually sat looked conspicuously empty.

Last night replayed in her mind on a loop. The way he'd leaned in. The way his eyes had darkened, his gaze dropping to her mouth. The infinitesimal space between them closing —

Until it hadn't.

Maybe she'd imagined it. Maybe she'd read too much into a moment that was nothing more than friendly concern. Maybe she was the one who'd made it weird, and now he was uncomfortable around her.

God, what if she'd completely misread everything? What if all his flirting was just...who he was? The way some people were touchy or loud or overly friendly? What if it didn't mean anything at all?

She pressed her palms against the warm coffee mug and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her chest.

Unfortunately for her, that sinking feeling inside her remained throughout her first class of the day.

"You're doing that thing again," Fiona said, snapping her fingers in front of her face.

She blinked, pulled back to the present. They were sitting in the back of the lecture hall, Professor Martin droning on about something she'd stopped paying attention to twenty minutes ago.

"What thing?"

"That thing where you disappear into your own head and overthink yourself into a panic." Fiona narrowed her eyes. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened."

"Liar. You've been weird all morning. Spill."

She sighed, slumping lower in her seat. "It's nothing. Really."

"Is it Bucky?"

Her silence was answer enough.

Fiona's eyes went wide. "Oh my God. What did he do? Did he try something? Because if he—"

"No, he didn't—" She lowered her voice, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. "He didn't do anything. That's the problem."

"I'm confused."

"Join the club." She rubbed her temples. "We had this...moment. Last night. While I was making dinner. He was asking me interview questions and then we started talking about real stuff, and he asked me what I was afraid of, and I actually told him, and then he—" She stopped, the memory making her chest tight. "He looked at me like...like he was going to kiss me."

Fiona leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "And?"

"And then the oven timer went off and I freaked out and now he's avoiding me."

"How do you know he's avoiding you?"

"He left early for work this morning. Didn't even say goodbye. Just left a note." She could hear how pathetic she sounded. "We've had coffee together every morning since he got here, and today he just... bailed."

Fiona was quiet for a moment, considering. "Okay, but have you considered that maybe he's the one freaking out? Not you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, maybe he wanted to kiss you and chickened out, and now he's the one overthinking everything." Fiona shrugged. "He doesn't sound like a guy who's weirded out by you. Sounds more like a guy who's into you and doesn't know what to do about it."

She sighed. Could that really be the case? She didn’t know Bucky all that well but Fiona was right, he wasn’t the type to be embarrassed easily. "I don't know, Fi. Maybe I just—"

"Hey guys."

They both looked up. Trevor Marks stood at the end of their row, backpack slung over one shoulder, and an easy smile on his face. Tall, conventionally attractive in that clean-cut, all-American way. She'd maybe spoken to him twice all semester, though she knew they had a few classes together. 

"Hey, Trevor," Fiona said, shooting her a meaningful look.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, directing his attention to her. "I just wanted to ask…you're killing it in this class, right? Top of the grade curve?"

She shifted uncomfortably. "I mean, I don't know about—"

"Oh, c’mon now. You are. Everyone knows it." His smile widened. "I was wondering if maybe you'd want to study together sometime? For the next exam? I could really use the help, and I figured, you know, two heads are better than one."

"Oh. Um—"

"She'd love to," Fiona cut in, kicking her under the desk.

Trevor's face lit up. "Yeah? That's great. Maybe we could grab coffee this week?"

"Sure. Yeah. Coffee sounds good."

"Awesome." He lingered for a moment, like he wanted to say more, then seemed to think better of it. "I'll catch you after class?"

She nodded, and he headed back to his seat.

The second he was out of earshot, Fiona turned to her with a wicked grin. "Well, well, well."

"Don't start."

"I'm not starting anything. I'm just saying, maybe a little competition is exactly what Bucky needs."

"There's no competition. Trevor just wants help studying—"

Fiona gave her a deadpan look. "Uh-huh. Sure. That's definitely all he wants. Watch what happens next. I bet you lunch he'll talk to you before we leave."

She huffed in annoyance and shook her head, staring down at her notes instead of at her friend. She didn't need another person in her life constantly looking smug around her on a daily basis.

But, true to Fiona's word, she had to quite literally hold back a sigh when Trevor approached her again as class ended.

"Hey," he said, falling into step beside her as she walked out. "You heading home?"

"Yeah."

"Mind if I walk with you? I'm going that direction anyway."

She glanced at Fiona, who was trailing behind them with the same maniacal grin she’d worn earlier and two very enthusiastic thumbs up.

She was going to kill her.

"Sure," she said. "That's fine."

They made small talk as they walked. Easy, surface-level stuff about classes and professors. Trevor was nice. Polite. Completely inoffensive in every possible way.

But she knew she wasn’t attracted to him.

No butterflies. No racing pulse. No awareness of every place his arm almost brushed against hers.

Nothing like what she felt around Bucky.

"So," Trevor said as they approached her apartment door. "I know I said coffee, but maybe we could have dinner instead? Make a real study session out of it?"

She stopped at the base of the steps, turning to face him. He was looking at her expectantly, eyes bright.

Damn it, she really hated when Fiona was right. 

"Trevor—"

"I know it's kind of forward," he said quickly. "But I've been wanting to ask you out all semester and I figured, you know, now or never, right?"

Goddamn it. 

"That's really sweet," she said carefully. "But I don't think—"

"Just think about it?" He nodded, taking a step backwards. Giving her space. " Just... think about it? You can let me know next class.”

She hesitated. Every instinct screamed at her to say no, to make an excuse. To protect whatever fragile thing was building between her and Bucky.

But what if she was wrong? What if this morning's absence meant exactly what it looked like—that he'd had second thoughts? That she'd been a fool to think it meant anything at all?

And Trevor was right here. Safe. Uncomplicated. Exactly the kind of guy who wouldn't make her carefully constructed walls come crashing down.

Besides, Bucky was leaving in less than a week. Trevor was a guaranteed constant. That was a more reliable option. 

"Okay," she heard herself say quietly. 

His face lit up into a wide grin. "Great! We'll figure something out."

"Yeah. Sure thing."

He gave her a small wave and headed off down the street. 

She stood there for a moment in silence. Why did these unexpected things keep happening to her? 

She shook her head, sighing. Whatever it was, she needed her life to go back to normal. All this guy drama was not good for her stress levels.

Fumbling in her pocket for her key, she pulled it out and unlocked the door, still mumbling under her breath about men.

She stepped inside and immediately froze.

Bucky was standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. His jaw was tight, blue eyes stormy. 

For the first time since she'd met him, he looked genuinely angry. 

The air in the apartment felt thick all over again. 

"So," he said, voice calm. "Dinner and a study session. Sounds nice."

Her stomach dropped, but irritation flared hot on its heels. "Bucky—"

"No, it's fine. Really." But his tone was sharp, cutting. "You're single. He's interested. Makes perfect sense."

"It's not like that. He just—"

"Just asked you out. You said yes." His eyes flashed. "Seemed pretty straightforward to me."

She dropped her bag by the door, frustration bubbling up fast and fierce. "Why the hell do you care?"

"I don't."

"You clearly do."

"I don't," he repeated, pushing off the counter and moving toward her. Each step felt deliberate, almost predatory. "I just think it's interesting timing. Two days ago you were going on about not having time for distractions, and now you're handing out dates to the first guy who smiles at you—"

She bristled immediately. "He's in my program—"

"—who probably can't wait to get you alone. Have you looked in the mirror?"

"And what business is that of yours?" Her voice rose, sharp and defensive. "We're not dating. We're not even friends. You're some guy crashing on my couch for a week. That doesn't give you the right to—"

"To what?" He was in front of her now, too close, a scowl plastered on his face. "To care that you're making a mistake?"

"A mistake?" She laughed, bitter. "Oh, that's rich coming from you. The guy who runs hot and cold every five seconds. Who flirts with me constantly and then disappears without a word the second things get real."

His jaw clenched. She noticed that his eyes widened fractionally. "That's not—"

"That's exactly what happened." She stepped forward, refusing to back down even though her heart was hammering against her ribs. "You don't get to act like you have some claim on me just because we had a moment. You don't get to be jealous when you won't even—" She broke off, breathing hard.

"Won't even what?" His voice was dangerously low. The expression on his face had gone cold again. 

"Won't even be honest about what you want!" The words exploded out of her. "You've been playing games since the second I met you. The flirting, the looks, the touching—and then the moment it means something, you run. So forgive me if I'm a little confused about why you're standing here acting like I owe you something."

"I'm not asking you to owe me anything—"

"Then what are you asking?" She was shouting now, all the tension from the past few days boiling over. "Because from where I'm standing, you just want me to sit around waiting for you to figure out what you feel while my life passes me by. Well, guess what? I don't wait for anyone. Not even you."

Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "So that's it? Some prep school asshole asks you to dinner and you just fold?"

"Don't you dare—"

"What? Tell you the truth?" He stepped even closer. She could feel the heat radiating off him. Could smell the cigarettes, motor oil, and something uniquely him. 

"You want to know what I think?" His voice dropped, turned cold in a way that made her stomach twist. "I think you said yes because it's safe. Because you know exactly how it's going to go. A few dates, maybe you'll sleep with him, and then it'll fizzle out and you can go right back to hiding behind your career and your plans and pretending that's enough."

His eyes bore into hers, brutal and unflinching. "At least with him, you don't have to risk actually feeling something."

The words hit her like a slap.

For a moment, she couldn't breathe. All she felt was the sharp, sudden pain blooming in her chest.

"Get out," she whispered.

His face changed instantly, all the anger draining away and replaced with something that looked like horror. "Wait, I didn't mean—"

"Get. Out." Her voice was stronger now, but it trembled at the edges.

"I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry, I just—" He reached for her, and she jerked back like his touch would burn.

"Don't." The word came out broken. "Just... I need you to leave. Please."

"Let me explain—"

"I don't want to hear it." She wrapped her arms around herself, a flimsy shield against the hurt spreading through her chest. "I need space. I need you to give me space."

He stood there, hand still half-raised between them, looking utterly wrecked. His mouth opened and closed, like he was trying to find the right words and coming up empty.

"Please," she said again, softer this time. The pain in her chest had turned into a cold numbness.

His hand dropped.

She turned away from him, unable to look at his face anymore, and walked toward her bedroom. Each step felt mechanical, distant, like she was watching herself from somewhere far away.

She heard him standing there, silently. He hadn’t moved an inch. 

"I'm sorry," he said finally, his voice rough and quiet. "I'm so sorry."

She didn't answer. Didn't turn around. She reached her door, stepped inside, and closed it behind her firmly. 

For a long moment, there was nothing. Just silence.

Then she heard movement. The jingle of keys being grabbed. The creak of the front door opening.

And then he was gone.

She stood there in the dark of her room, arms still wrapped around herself, and finally let out the breath she'd been holding.

It came out shaky and uneven, dangerously close to a sob.

She pressed her palms against her eyes and told herself she was fine. That he was just some guy. That in three days he'd be gone anyway and none of this would matter.

But her chest ached in a way that made a liar out of her.

And when she finally crawled into bed hours later, still dressed, the apartment remained empty and quiet.

He didn't come back that night.

—-

She woke up the next morning with her face pressed into her pillow and her phone buzzing insistently on the nightstand. Three missed calls from Fiona. A text asking if she was dead.

She typed back a quick ‘Alive, just staying home to prep for tomorrow’ and tossed the phone aside.

The apartment was still quiet. Still empty.

He hadn't come back.

She sat up slowly, running her hands through her tangled hair, and tried to ignore the hollow feeling in her chest. Told herself it didn't matter. That she didn't care where he'd spent the night or if he was coming back at all.

But the lies tasted bitter on her tongue.

She dragged herself out of bed and into the kitchen, making coffee on autopilot. The note he'd left yesterday morning was still on the counter. She crumpled it up and threw it in the trash.

Her backpack sat on the coffee table, surrounded by interview notes and research she should have been reviewing. Tomorrow was the interview. The one she'd been working toward for months. The one that was supposed to be the start of everything.

She needed to be focused. Should be running through her talking points, rehearsing answers, making sure she knew the subway route by heart.

Instead, all she could think about was him.

The way he'd looked at her last night. The venom in his voice when he'd said those words. The way his face had crumpled the second he realized what he'd done.

She pressed her palms against her eyes and let out a shaky breath.

The worst part? He'd been right.

Not about Trevor. She didn't give a damn about Trevor. But about her. About the way she kept everyone at arm's length, the way she'd built walls so high nobody could climb them. The way she used her ambition as a shield against anything that might hurt her.

And Bucky? Bucky had gotten under her skin in a way she hadn't thought possible. In three days, he'd managed to slip past every defense she'd carefully constructed, and now she was sitting here in an empty apartment, missing someone she barely knew.

Someone who'd be gone in two days anyway.

She couldn't deny it anymore. Couldn't pretend it was nothing.

She was attracted to him. More than attracted. She was developing feelings, inconvenient as they were, for a man who was temporary by definition.

God, she was an idiot.

She stood abruptly, abandoning her coffee. She needed to get out of here. Clear her head. Do something productive before she spiraled completely.

The interview. She'd go scope out the route, make sure she knew exactly where she was going tomorrow. No room for error, no chance of being late.

She could do that much, at least.

The subway was crowded even midday, bodies pressed together in that particular New York way. Close but careful to not touch, everyone existing in their own bubble. She clutched her bag and tried not to think about how Bucky would have insisted on coming with her. Probably would have made some joke about being her personal bodyguard.

The PR firm was in Midtown, tucked between a bank and a boutique hotel. She stood outside for a moment, staring up at the building, trying to imagine herself walking through those doors tomorrow as a potential employee rather than a nervous student.

You can do this, she told herself. You don't need romance. You don't need anyone.

But the words felt hollow.

There was a coffee shop across the street. One of those trendy places with exposed brick and overpriced lattes. She ducked inside, suddenly desperate for something to ground her. Something normal.

She ordered a cappuccino and a croissant she had no intention of eating, paid, and turned to leave—

—and walked straight into someone coming through the door.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry—" She stumbled back, and her hand connected with something solid. Really solid. Like hitting a brick wall.

"No, it's my—"

But she was already moving past the man she hit, mumbling another apology, not really looking. Just a blur of dark hair and broad shoulders. Was he wearing a baseball cap indoors?

She felt him freeze behind her, heard the sharp intake of breath, but she was already out the door, clutching her coffee and trying not to spill it all over herself.

By the time she made it back to Brooklyn, her nerves had settled slightly. She'd mapped the route. She knew where she was going. Tomorrow would be fine. Everything would be fine.

She just had to get through tonight.

She climbed the stairs to the apartment slowly, keys jingling in her hand, steeling herself for more emptiness.

But when she opened the door, she stopped.

Bucky was standing in the living room.

The first thing she noticed was how wrecked he looked. His hair was disheveled, like he'd been running his hands through it for hours. His eyes were red-rimmed, shadowed with exhaustion. And in his hands—

Flowers. A slightly wilted bouquet of red roses and a bottle of wine.

They stared at each other for a long moment, the silence stretching thin and fragile between them.

"Hi," he said finally, his voice rough.

"Hi."

He shifted his weight, the flowers crinkling in his grip. "I, uh. I got these for you. And the wine. Thought maybe…I don't know what I thought. That maybe you'd—" He stopped, closing his eyes briefly. "Lisen. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. What I said last night was…it was cruel and it was wrong and I had no right to—"

His words were tumbling out now frantically. "You didn't deserve that. Any of it. I was angry and jealous and I took it out on you when you were just…you were just living your life and I had no business—"

"Bucky—"

"—and I wouldn't blame you if you wanted me gone. I can pack my stuff right now, I'll be out in ten minutes, you'll never have to see me again—"

"Bucky." She said it louder this time, cutting through his spiral.

He stopped, breathing hard, looking at her like he was bracing for a blow.

She set down her empty coffee and crossed the room slowly. His eyes tracked her movement, wary, but she noticed how he leaned a bit closer towards her. 

When she reached him, she didn't say anything. Just wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a hug.

He went completely still. Like he'd forgotten how to move. How to breathe.

Then, slowly, carefully, his arms came around her. One hand still clutching the flowers, the other pressing against her back like he was afraid she'd disappear if he didn't hold on tight enough.

He smelled like cigarettes and that sandalwood soap and something else. Something warm and distinctly him. His chest was solid against hers, his heartbeat thundering beneath her ear.

"I'm sorry," he said again, his voice muffled against her hair. "I'm so sorry."

"I know." She pulled back just enough to look up at him. "I accept your apology. But if you ever talk to me like that again, I'm throwing you off the balcony. Clear?"

A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. "Crystal."

"Good." She took the flowers from him, trying not to notice how his hands were slightly trembling. "These are...actually really nice. Thank you."

"They're not much. The guy at the flower stand said they were 'romantic' but I think he might've been messing with me."

"They're perfect." She carried them to the kitchen, hunting for something to use as a vase. "And the wine?"

"Thought maybe we could drink it. Help calm your nerves for tomorrow." He followed her, still hovering like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to stay. "If you want. If you don't want me here, I can—"

"Stay." The word came out quicker than she'd intended. "Please. Stay."

The relief on his face was palpable.

Two hours and most of the bottle later, they were sprawled on the couch, the tension from the night before replaced with something easier.

The wine had been the kind that went down too easy and left you buzzed before you realized what was happening. Her cheeks were warm, her limbs loose, and Bucky's laugh was coming more freely now, his eyes a bit more unfocused. 

"Okay, okay," she said, gesturing with her glass and nearly sloshing wine over the rim. "Tell me about your family. You've mentioned your mom like three times but I don't actually know anything about her."

His smile turned fond, a little distant. "Ma's great. Tough as nails. Had to be, raising me and my sister on her own after my old man passed." He took a sip of wine. "She worked at a factory during the war. Made good money, actually. Better than a lot of folks."

She blinked, her wine-soaked brain struggling to catch up. "During the war?"

"Yeah. She was real proud of it. Said it was her way of doing her part."

"Your mom worked in a factory during what war?" She laughed, doing the math in her head. "Bucky, how old is she?"

He looked at her strangely, like she'd asked him something obvious. "She's in her forties. Why, she seem old or something?”

"Her forties....yeah, okay." She shook her head, dismissing it. Maybe he had meant Afghanistan or Iraq. "What about siblings? You said you had a sister?"

"Rebecca. Becca." His voice softened. "She was a pain in the ass growing up. Always getting into my stuff, always tagging along when I didn't want her to." He smiled. "But she’s a good kid. Smart. Way smarter than me."

There was something almost sad in his voice, something she wanted to prod at, but the wine made her thoughts slow and syrupy. Instead, she leaned her head back against the couch and sighed.

"My family's boring compared to yours. Just me, my parents, and Violet's whole chaotic mess orbiting around us like a comet."

"Violet isn’t boring," Bucky said. "She’s —" He stopped, shaking his head with a soft laugh. "Actually, yeah, she was kind of a mess. But in a good way."

"You talk about her like you really knew her."

"I did. I do." He frowned, like he was trying to work something out. "She's a good person." He groaned. "English is hard when you're drunk."

She laughed, the sound bubbling up unbidden. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're beautiful."

The words slipped out so easily, so casually, that it took her a moment to process them. When she did, her breath caught.

Bucky seemed to realize what he'd said at the same time. His eyes widened slightly, but he didn't take it back. A small smile crossed his face instead.

"Bucky—"

"Dance with me."

She blinked. "What?"

He was already standing, slightly unsteady, and moving toward Violet's old record player in the corner. Something she had inherited from her grandmother, just like half of the things in this apartment. "Come on. When's the last time you danced?"

"I don't…Bucky, I don't dance."

"Everyone dances." He pulled out a record out of the old vintage collection Violet’s grandmother had and set the needle down. Brass and strings filled the apartment, warm and crackling. "Come on, doll. One dance."

She hesitated, unsure. Not willing to look like an idiot in front of the most attractive man she had ever seen. 

But the wine had made her bold, and the way he was looking at her, hopeful and a little nervous, made it impossible to refuse.

"Fine," she said, standing with a mock grimace. "One dance. But if you step on my feet, I'm done."

"Deal."

He took her hand, and the touch sent electricity up her arm. Or maybe that was just the wine again.

Bucky pulled her close, one hand settling on her waist, the other holding hers gently. 

She could feel how stiff she was, how awkward her movements were. Their rhythm was off but it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the fact that she hadn’t taken her eyes off her own feet. 

The room was suddenly a lot hotter than she remembered it being a minute ago. How embarrassing did she look right now? 

"Hey," he said softly. "Look at me."

She did.

And something shifted.

The music swelled around them, and suddenly they were moving together, swaying in the small space between the couch and the coffee table. His hand was warm through the fabric of her shirt, his thumb brushing carefully against her ribs. She could feel his breath against her forehead as he leaned in closer. 

"See?" he murmured. "Not so bad."

"You haven't stepped on my feet yet. Give it time."

He laughed and just pulled her closer. 

Her heart was racing now, and it had nothing to do with the wine. She was acutely aware of every point of contact between them. His hand on her waist, her palm against his shoulder. The way their bodies moved in sync like they'd done this a thousand times before.

He spun her slightly, and she laughed despite herself, dizzy with warmth and dangerously close to doing something stupid.

Bucky took another step, then stumbled. Not badly, just a small misstep as he turned, but his shoulder knocked into something solid.

"Shit—" He jerked back, looking around. "What did I—"

"Watch out for the TV," she said, laughing.

He stared at the flat-screen mounted on the wall, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What TV?"

She followed his gaze. "That TV. The one right there. That you almost just walked into."

"There's nothing there."

She laughed again, assuming he was joking. "Okay, sure. You're drunker than I thought. Come on. Finish the dance before you actually break something."

His smile returned, that gooey look still in his eyes. The music swelled again, and he was pulling her back into his chest.

She could care less about how drunk either of them were. There was nowhere else she would rather be. 

The song eventually faded into the crackle of the record's end, but neither of them moved. They just stood there, swaying slightly, caught in each other's orbit.

Bucky's hand was still on her waist, his thumb tracing absent patterns against her side. His eyes searched her face for something she wasn’t sure if she would see in the mirror. 

"I need to tell you something," he said quietly.

Her heart stuttered. "Okay."

"What I said yesterday…about you and that guy, about you being safe—" He swallowed hard, his jaw working. "I didn't mean it. Or I did, but not the way it came out. I was—" He let out a frustrated breath. "I was jealous. So goddamn jealous I couldn't see straight."

She went still in his arms. "Jealous?"

"Yeah." A bitter laugh escaped him. "Standing there listening to him ask you out — it felt like someone was twisting a knife in my gut. And I know I have no right. We barely know each other. You don't owe me anything. But I wanted—" His voice cracked slightly. "I wanted to be the one asking you to dinner. Least that guy had the balls to beat me to it."

Her breath caught. "Bucky—"

"Let me finish, doll. Please." His hand tightened on her waist, like he was afraid she'd pull away. "I've liked you since the second you walked through that door with all those boxes, looking at me like I was some kind of criminal. You didn't swoon, didn't giggle. Didn't play coy. You gave me attitude and called me out on my bullshit and—" He shook his head, something like wonder in his eyes. "You're not like any dame I've ever met. You're smart and driven and you don't take shit from anyone, and…that’s exactly what I want."

The words hung in the air between them. She fought the urge to pinch herself. Was this actually happening?

"And I know it's crazy," he continued, words tumbling out faster now. "I'm leaving in two days. This was never supposed to be…I wasn't supposed to feel like this so fast. But hell, I do. And last night, when I said those things, it was because I was scared that you'd go out with him and realize he's exactly what you need. Someone who's not—" He gestured at himself helplessly. "Whatever the hell I am."

She stared at him, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. Every carefully constructed defense she'd built around not falling for someone was crumbling — and she couldn't find it in herself to care.

"You really are an idiot," she said finally. She heard the tremble in her own voice. 

His face fell immediately. "I know. I'm sorry—"

"No, I mean—" She reached up, framing his face with her hands. "You're an idiot because I like you too. I've been trying not to, trying to convince myself it was just because of proximity or temporary insanity, but—" She laughed, the sound watery. "I like you, Bucky. And I mean it. I don't want Trevor or anyone else. I want—"

She didn't get to finish before he kissed her. 

It was soft at first, tentative, like he was afraid she might pull back if he pushed too hard. His lips were warm and gentle against hers, tasting of wine and something sweeter. One hand cupped her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek, while the other remained firmly attached to her waist. 

She melted into him, her hands sliding from his face to his shoulders, anchoring herself as the world tilted sideways.

When she kissed him back, something in him broke loose.

The gentleness gave way to urgency. To hunger. The hand on her cheek threaded into her hair instead, angling her head as he deepened the kiss, and she felt the hand on her hip wrap firmly around her entire waist instead. She gasped softly, the sound disappearing into his mouth. 

She felt herself moving—or maybe he was moving her—until her back hit the wall with a soft thud. He pressed against her, all solid muscle and heat, his touch growing more confident. She couldn't think past the feel of him, the way his mouth moved against hers like he was trying to say everything he couldn't put into words. All she could focus on was the invisible electricity racing through her body at the feel of his body against hers. 

"God," he breathed against her lips, pulling back just enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. "You're—"

She pulled him back down, swallowing whatever he was going to say. She didn't want words right now. She nipped at his bottom lip, wrapping her own hands around his neck, and the low groan that rumbled in his chest sent another wave of heat directly to her core. 

Her head fell back against the wall, giving him better access, and her fingers tangled in his hair. "Bucky—"

"The way you look at me," he continued, punctuating each phrase with a kiss. "The way you laugh. The way you give me shit." His teeth grazed her pulse point and she shuddered. "Wanted this. Wanted you so badly, I thought I was going crazy.."

Her hands found the hem of his shirt, sliding underneath, and the feel of his skin, warm and very real, made her dizzy. She explored the planes of his stomach, the ridges of muscle, the way he tensed and relaxed under her touch.

He groaned, a broken sound, and his own hands slid under her shirt in return. His palms were rough and calloused, the contrast against her skin sent sparks racing up her spine. He traced the curve of her waist, her ribs, thumbs brushing just below—

And then he stopped.

She made a sound of protest, trying to pull him closer, but he caught her hands gently.

"Wait," he said, his voice strained. He was breathing hard, his forehead pressed against hers. "Wait, we should—"

"Don't you dare stay stop," she said, her own breathing ragged.

"I don't want to." He pulled back slightly, and the look in his eyes made her chest ache with desire all over again. "Christ, you have no idea how much I don't want to stop. But—" He swallowed hard. "I want to do this right. I want to treat you the way you deserve. Not just…not like this, half-drunk against a wall."

"I don't care—"

"I do." His hand came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing over her kiss-swollen lips. "You're not some girl I picked up in a bar. You're…you matter. This matters. And I want—" He took a shaky breath. "I want to take you on a proper date. I want to do this the right way. The way my Ma raised me to."

Her heart was still racing, her body still thrumming with unfulfilled want, but something in his earnestness made her soften.

"Your Ma would approve of you stopping?" she asked, trying for lightness even though she was sure she still looked desperate.

"Ma would kill me if I didn't." A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. "She raised a gentleman. Mostly."

She laughed despite herself, some of the tension easing. "A gentleman who kisses like that?"

"A gentleman who knows when to stop." But his hands were still under her shirt, his thumbs still drawing maddening circles against her skin. Like stopping was the last thing his body wanted to do.

She sighed, leaning her head back against the wall and closing her eyes for a moment to catch her breath. "You're killing me here, Barnes."

"Yeah." He pressed his forehead to hers again, breathing her in. "Me too."

They stood there for a long moment catching their breath before he broke the silence. 

"Tomorrow," he said finally. "After your interview. Let me take you out. A real date. Dinner, the whole nine yards."

"You sure you can afford it?" She opened her eyes, her mouth curling into a smile as she teased. "On a mechanic's salary?"

"Funny." He kissed her softly, sweetly, just a chaste gesture more than anything. "Just say yes."

"Yes," she whispered against his lips. "I would be honored."

And when he pulled back this time, putting literal space between their bodies with a sheepish grin and eyes still dark with want, she let him.

Because he was right.

This mattered. He mattered.

And she wanted to do it right too.

—-

She woke to sunlight streaming through her curtains and the lingering ghost of last night's wine pressing against her temples. 

For a moment, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the memories wash over her.

Bucky’s mouth on hers. The wall at her back. The way his hands had felt under her shirt, rough and warm.

A smile tugged at her lips despite the headache. God, he was something else. Infuriating and charming but surprisingly sweet underneath all that swagger.

She rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom, catching sight of herself in the mirror. Her lips were still slightly swollen, her hair a mess. Evidence of what had almost happened.

What was definitely going to happen again after tonight.

The thought sent a pleasant shiver through her.

Focus. Interview first. Life-changing career opportunity. Then you can think about jumping your temporary roommate.

She showered quickly, the hot water helping to clear her head, and dressed carefully in her outfit for the interview — tailored black slacks, a crisp white blouse, her nicest blazer. Professional. Safe. Exactly the kind of impression she wanted to give off.

When she emerged into the kitchen, Bucky was already gone. But there, next to her usual mug, sat a fresh cup of coffee, steam still curling off the top, and a single rose from last night's bouquet.

A note was propped against the mug in that same cramped handwriting she had seen before.

Knock 'em dead. You've got this. See you tonight for that date. 

Her chest felt warm and tight all at once. She picked up the rose, bringing it to her nose and breathing in the sweet, slightly wilted scent.

When did she become the kind of person who got butterflies over flowers? 

She was still smiling when her phone rang, Violet's name flashing on the screen.

The smile immediately fell from her lips. She almost didn't answer. She had an interview to get to, and conversations with her cousin were never anything but irritating. But something made her pick up.

"Hey, Vi—"

"Oh my God, finally! I've been trying to reach you for days!" Violet's voice was bright and frantic in equal measure. "Listen, I need you to do me the biggest favor. I know I already mentioned my friend crashing there this week. My friend Kevin is supposed to get there sometime during the weekend now. Has he shown up yet? Tall guy, kind of boring, works in finance? He should have a key."

She froze instantly, coffee cup halfway to her lips.

"What did you say?"

"Kevin. My friend? Is the connection bad? I told him he could stay at the apartment while I was gone. Did he not show up? Because if he bailed on me again, I swear—"

"Vi." Her voice came out sharper than intended. "Who's Kevin?"

"Uh, my friend? The one I said could crash at the apartment?" Violet sounded confused now. "Didn't I tell you about him? I could've sworn I mentioned it when we talked the other day."

Her mind was racing, trying to piece together what wasn't adding up. "You said your friend was going to stay but he’s already here. His name is Bucky.”

A pause. Then: "Bucky? Who the hell is Bucky?"

The coffee cup slipped from her hand.

It hit the counter with a dull thud, liquid sloshing over the rim, but she barely noticed. Her ears were ringing, her pulse suddenly too loud in her head.

"What do you mean, who's Bucky?" Her voice sounded distant, tinny. "The guy staying here. Your friend."

"Babe, I have no idea what you're talking about." Violet's voice had shifted from confused to concerned. "I don't know anyone named Bucky. The only person I said could stay there was Kevin. Are you okay? You sound weird."

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think past the sudden, stark wrongness of everything.

"I have to go," she said, the words coming out robotic.

"Wait, are you—"

She hung up.

For a long moment, she just stood there, staring at the rose. At the note. At the coffee he'd made her before leaving for work.

What the fuck was going on?

Her mind spun through the past few days like cards being shuffled. The first day she had met Bucky, he had already been inside the apartment. He had a key, had been using it to get in and out. Where had he gotten that from? He had been here for days now and she had sensed nothing nefarious about him. Unless, this was some big ploy and he was duping her intentionally…

No. That's insane. You're being insane.

But Violet didn't know him. Had never mentioned him. The only person she'd given permission to stay was someone named Kevin.

So who was Bucky? And why was he here?

Her hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against the counter, trying to ground herself.

He could be dangerous. He could be a con artist. He could be—

But even as the thoughts spiraled, she couldn't make them stick. Because Bucky was... kind. Genuine. The way he'd looked at her last night, the things he'd said—that hadn't been fake. She'd stake her life on it.

Could she?

She glanced at the clock. Forty-five minutes until her interview.

Fuck.

She couldn't do this right now. Couldn't unravel whatever mystery Bucky Barnes was while she was supposed to be preparing for the most important interview of her life.

She'd deal with it later. When he came home. When she could look him in the eye and demand answers. And maybe called the cops before she even went back here.

For now, she had to pull herself together.

She cleaned up the spilled coffee with shaking hands, downed two Advil for her growing headache, and grabbed her bag. The rose stayed on the counter, the red stark against the white tile. 

—-

The subway ride was a blur. 

She kept her eyes on her notes, forcing herself to review talking points even though her mind kept drifting back to Bucky and Violet doesn't know him and what the hell is happening.

By the time she reached Midtown, she'd managed to shove it into a box in the back of her mind. Locked it tight. She could panic about possibly getting targeted by a serial killer later.

Right now, she had a job to get.

The interview started rough—her hands were still trembling slightly when she shook her interviewer's hand—but once they started talking, muscle memory took over. She fell into the rhythm of it, answering questions with the practiced ease of someone who'd been preparing for weeks.

She talked about storytelling. About brand strategy. About her passion for helping people shape their narratives in a world that wanted to define them first.

And somewhere in the middle of it, she forgot about Bucky entirely.

By the end, her interviewer was smiling. Nodding. Making notes that looked promising.

"We'll be in touch by the end of the week," she said, standing and extending her hand again. "But I have to say, you're exactly the kind of fresh perspective we're looking for."

Relief flooded through her, so intense it was almost dizzying. "Thank you. Really. This opportunity means everything to me."

"Well, you earned it." Her interviewer glanced at her watch. "Actually, if you have a few minutes, I'd love to introduce you to a couple of our clients. They're in the building today for a meeting."

"Oh…yes, of course."

They walked down a sleek hallway, all glass and modern art, and stopped outside a conference room. Through the window, she could see two men standing by the table, mid-conversation.

Her interviewer opened the door. "Gentlemen, sorry to interrupt. I wanted to introduce you to one of our top candidates." She gestured for her to enter. "This is—"

But she'd already stopped walking.

Because she knew one of those faces.

The man on the left was Sam Wilson. The Sam Wilson. Captain America. She'd seen him on the news, in magazines, everywhere since he'd taken up the shield.

But it was the man on the right who made her blood run cold.

He was older—mid-thirties, maybe, with short dark hair and sharp blue eyes. He wore dark jeans, a leather jacket, and a black glove on his left hand. There was a hardness to him, something battle-worn and weary, but his face—

His face was Bucky's.

Older. Different. But unmistakably, impossibly his.

Suddenly she remembered Bucky all over again. 

They both turned when she entered, and she watched in real-time as recognition flickered across the older man's face.

Not shock. Not confusion.

Just... resignation. And something that looked heartbreakingly like relief.

Like he'd been expecting this.

"Hi," Sam said, extending a hand with an easy smile. "Sam Wilson. Nice to meet you."

She shook his hand mechanically, her gaze still locked on the other man.

He was staring at her with an expression she couldn't name. Something complicated and knowing. 

"And this," her interviewer continued, oblivious to the fact that she probably looked like she was going to pass out, "is James Barnes. Though most people call him Bucky."

The world tilted sideways.

James Barnes. Bucky.

________________________________________________________________

And yet she couldn't let it go entirely. Some stubborn, foolish part of her clung to that original dream like a lifeline, refusing to believe that everyone had sold out, that there wasn't still room for someone who gave a damn. Someone who would work for the people, not for themselves.

So when the acceptance letters came, full rides from prestigious universities scattered across the country coveted in prestige, she turned them all down. Every single one. She accepted the partial scholarship from Gotham University instead, a school most people only knew by reputation, and not a good one.

Her parents were horrified.

"It's senseless," her mother had said, pacing their recently renovated kitchen with the same restless energy she brought to cross-examinations, heels clicking against marble like a countdown. Her father, quieter but no less disappointed, had simply shaken his head, the gesture heavy with years of expectations collapsing. "Impractical. You're throwing away opportunities people would kill for."

They saw it as the reckless whim of a child with dreams too big for her own head, a naive girl who would learn the hard way that idealism didn't pay the bills.

She didn't care. She saw it as the only choice that mattered.

If she was going to make a difference, where better than the most crime-ridden, corrupt, power-hungry city in the country?

The internship at the Gotham Gazette wasn't handed to her. She fought for it tooth and nail, email after email, phone call after phone call until she was half-convinced they'd blocked her number. It wasn't until she won a university writing contest her sophomore year that they finally relented, offering her an unpaid position that mostly involved coffee runs and booking hotels.

She took it without hesitation.

Four months of grunt work followed. Filing papers, editing fluff pieces about charity galas and restaurant openings, staying late to proofread copy no one else wanted to touch eventually earned her a part-time spot. Hourly pay. Barely twenty hours a week. It wasn't much. But it was something. A foot in the door. 

All she needed was one good story. Just one.

And everyone knew Gotham was full of good stories.

The city was a living, breathing contradiction. Beautiful and broken, glittering with old money and rotting from the inside out. It was known for its criminal underworld, its seedy politicians, its yawning economic divide that swallowed whole neighborhoods. 

And of course, for him. The man who dressed like a bat and prowled the rooftops at night, hunting criminals in the dark.

The city was split down the middle about him. Half saw him as a villian, no better than the criminals he put behind bars. Maybe worse, because he operated outside the law and answered to no one. The other half worshiped him like a dark saint. The Dark Knight. Their protector. The only one who'd done more in a few years than the GCPD, itself rotted through with corruption, had managed in decades.

She didn't hate him. She didn't love him either. He did good for the city. That was enough for her.

She just wished she could write something significant about him. Something that would finally earn her that front-page byline she'd been chasing since day one.

Which is why, at exactly ten past eleven on a Tuesday night, she found herself purposefully looking for trouble in the middle of Crime Alley.

The neighborhood had earned its name easily enough. Even in a city as broken as Gotham, this place stood out, a festering wound that never healed, tucked away where the city's elite didn't have to look at it. 

The streetlights here were sparse, half of them shot out or simply dead from neglect. Those that still worked flickered weakly, casting sickly yellow pools that barely pushed back the darkness. The buildings leaned in close, their facades crumbling brick and rusted fire escapes, windows either boarded up or glowing with the dim light of lives lived in quiet desperation.

Trash gathered in corners, in doorways, swept there by wind that always seemed to smell like rust and something rotting. The pavement was cracked, sprouting weeds through the fissures. 

During the day, the Park Row was simply sad. A monument to urban decay and municipal indifference. At night, it transformed into something else entirely. Something hungry.

Most people avoided it after dark. The ones who didn't either lived here or were looking for things decent people didn't look for.

She'd spent the last hour wandering the streets with her phone's voice recorder running in her pocket, observing, taking mental notes. A story was forming in her mind, something about the people the city had abandoned. About what happened in the spaces between the law and lawlessness. 

It wasn't about Batman, not directly, but it was real. A territory of the city probably a consistent top visit on his list. She'd already interviewed three residents earlier in the week, gotten permission to record their stories. Tonight was about atmosphere, about understanding what this place felt like when darkness fell.

Her notebook was filling with details. The way voices carried differently here. Either too loud or whisper-quiet, nothing in between. The sound of glass breaking in the distance. A dog barking, then cutting off abruptly, the silence after more disturbing than the sound itself. The shuffle of footsteps that scattered when she got too close, people who didn't want to be seen. She documented the graffiti, some of it artistic, most of it territorial. Counted the number of working streetlights per block. Noted which buildings still had occupied apartments, marked by laundry hanging from fire escapes or the glow of television screens.

She was so focused on capturing it all, on translating the texture of this place into something readers would understand, that she almost missed it.

Voices. Sharp. Male. Coming from an alley branching off to her left.

She slowed, instinct warring with curiosity. Her hand moved to her phone, not to call for help, but to be ready to record.

A third voice. Female. Younger. Afraid.

"—told you, I don't have any cash—"

"Don't look broke to you, does she?" One of the male voices, cruel amusement threading through.

"Nah. That's a nice bag. Hand it over."

Her feet moved before her brain caught up. She rounded the corner into the narrow alley, and the scene crystallized under the weak light bleeding in from the street. Two young men, probably late twenties, blocking a girl against the grimy brick wall. The girl looked about her own age, maybe a year younger, clutching a purse to her chest like a shield. Her eyes were wide, darting between her attackers, looking for an escape that wasn't there.

Every self-preservation instinct she possessed screamed at her to back away, to call 911, to not get involved.

But how long would it take for them to get there? In Crime Alley, of all places? The calls were always flooding in nonstop. And she was here now, able to be more than a bystander.

"Hey!" Her voice came out stronger than she felt, cutting through the tension like a slap. "Leave her alone."

Three heads snapped toward her. The girl's face flooded with desperate relief. The two men turned, sizing her up, and she watched their expressions shift. Surprise melting into something uglier.

It was an opportunity for them. She wasn't naive enough to miss what men like them saw in her. Tailored clothes, blown-out hair, a nice pair of earrings to complement a soft, youthful face. She didn't walk like someone who knew Crime Alley. She didn't look in the dark corners, avoiding trouble like most others would have in this situation. 

She wasn't from Gotham. She was an outsider. Well-off, too. An easy target.

"Well, look at that," the taller one said, taking a step toward her. His smile was all teeth, no warmth. "Two for one special."

"Walk away," the other one added, but he was smiling too. "Unless you want to share whatever's in your pockets."

She didn't walk away. Instead, she moved further into the alley, positioning herself so the men's attention pivoted fully toward her, their backs now partially to the girl. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her hands remained steady.

"Pretty stupid, coming down here alone at night," the tall one said, moving closer. He eyed her notebook, leering. "Journalist, huh? I can tell. You've got that look. Thinking you're gonna write some big story about the mean streets?"

She held her ground, pulse roaring in her ears. From the corner of her eye, she saw the girl edge sideways along the wall.

"What I think," she said, keeping her voice level even as her mouth went dry, "is that two guys harassing women in an alley are exactly the kind of cowards who won't do anything if someone's watching."

The shorter one laughed, a harsh, ugly sound that echoed off the walls. "No one's watching, sweetheart. That's the point."

But the girl was moving now, faster, slipping past them while their focus was locked on her. Almost there. She locked eyes with her, jerking her head toward the entrance to the alley.

"Get out of here," she urged, putting steel in her voice.

The girl didn't need to be told twice. She bolted, flats slapping against pavement as she fled toward the mouth of the alley and disappeared into the street beyond.

Which left her alone with two very angry men.

The tall one's expression darkened. "That was stupid."

Yeah, she realized that now. But at least the girl had gotten away. 

Her heart hammered in her chest, blood rushing so loud in her ears it nearly drowned out the sound of their footsteps. She had thought that if someone confronted them, they would have backed off. Instead, both men were stalking toward her and she was out of options.

The tall one moved first.

She saw it coming—his arm drawing back, fist clenched—but knowing and being able to stop it were two different things. She twisted, managed to dodge the worst of it, his knuckles grazing her cheekbone instead of connecting solidly. The impact still sent stars bursting across her vision, white-hot pain radiating from the point of contact.

Training she didn't know she had kicked in. Pure instinct. Her father had insisted on self-defense classes when she'd told them she was moving to Gotham, one of the few practical things he'd done besides lecture her.

She channeled every ounce of fear and adrenaline into her right arm and swung.

Her fist connected with the shorter one's nose with a satisfying, sickening crunch. Cartilage gave way beneath her knuckles.

He staggered back, cursing, blood streaming between his fingers. "You bitch—"

She didn't have time to feel triumphant. The tall one grabbed her from behind, arms wrapping around her shoulders like steel bands, and yanked. She lost her footing, hit the ground hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. The pavement was cold and unforgiving against her back, grit digging into her skin through her jacket. 

Her skull cracked against concrete and the world tilted sideways.

Before she could roll away, they were on her. The tall one dropped his knee onto her chest, pinning her down with his weight. She gasped, struggling to breathe, to move, but he was too heavy. The shorter one, still bleeding from his nose, drew back and hit her with a vicious backhand that snapped her head to the side. 

Pain exploded across her jaw, white and blinding. She tasted copper, felt warmth spreading across her tongue.

"Think you're tough?" he snarled, hitting her again. Her lip split. Something warm ran hot down her chin, pooling in the hollow of her throat.

Panic clawed up her throat like a living thing. She thrashed, bucked, but the tall one had her shoulders pinned, his knees pressing bruises sure to bloom deep into her chest. She couldn't breathe properly, couldn't get leverage—

Her hand found skin. Face. She didn't think, just acted.

Her fingers found the tall one's eye socket and she dug, nails scraping, pushing, grinding in as hard as she could. She felt the soft give of flesh, the wet heat of tears and blood.

He howled, an animal sound of pure agony. She watched him rear back, hands flying to his face in anguish. "Fuck, my eye! You fucking—"

She sucked in a desperate breath, tried to scramble backward, get her feet under her—

The kick caught her in the ribs before she could stand.

All the air left her lungs in a painful whoosh. White light burst behind her eyes. She curled instinctively around the pain, gasping. 

The shorter one was on her, shoving her flat on her back again. His weight settled on her hips, pinning her down, and his hands went to her clothes.

Grabbing, ripping. Buttons scattered across the pavement with small plastic clicks that sounded obscenely loud in the sudden stillness.

"No, no, get off—" She fought, clawing at his arms, his face, anything she could reach, but he caught her wrists, slammed them down above her head with one hand while the other tore at her shirt. Cold air hit her skin. Terror turned her blood to ice.

And then he was gone.

One second he was on top of her, and the next he was flying backward through the air like he weighed nothing, like something had plucked him up and thrown him like a ragdoll. He hit the alley wall with a crack that might have been brick or bone or both, and crumpled.

A blur of color, red and green that was moving too fast to track, descended on the taller man immediately. A fist, a kick, movements precise and brutal and efficient. The choreography of violence practiced to perfection. The thug went down hard, didn't get back up.

It happened in seconds. Maybe less.

She lay there on the ground, shaking. One hand clutched her torn shirt closed, the other pressed against her screaming ribs. Her vision swam, darkened at the edges like someone was slowly turning down the lights. 

She blinked hard, trying to focus, trying to understand what she was seeing.

A figure stood over the two unconscious men, silhouetted against the weak streetlight. Not as tall as she'd expected. Lean, athletic build. A cape, bright yellow on the inside,settled around shoulders clad in red and green. A mask covered the upper half of his face, but she could see his jaw was set, tight with barely contained anger.

Not the Batman. Someone else. Someone younger.

He turned toward her, and even through the mask, she could see the concern in his eyes as he checked for injuries. Cataloged the damage. He took a step closer, one hand extended like he was approaching a wounded animal.

"Are you alright?" His voice was surprisingly gentle, careful, like he was afraid she might shatter. "Can you stand?"

She stared up at him, brain still trying to catch up with what had just happened. The taste of  blood was on her lips and tears she hadn't realized she'd shed ran hot down her cheeks.

Somewhere in the depths of her brain, through the haze of fleeing adrenaline and oncoming pain, she felt recognition click into place. She had seen this boy before in countless news clips, in any blurry pictures that the Gazette could get their hands on.

"Robin," she muttered, more fact than question.

Up close, he was younger than she'd imagined. Not by much, maybe a few years younger, but still clearly a boy judging by the leanness of his frame and the fact that she had a few inches on him. Somehow the photos never quite captured it. He couldn't have been more than fifteen, sixteen at the absolute most.

The domino mask covered his eyes, stark white against the shadows, but she could see the sharp line of his jaw, the slight furrow of concern between his brows. Dark hair, slightly mussed from the fight. The costume was more vivid in person than in the grainy newspaper photos. A red tunic with a yellow 'R' emblazoned across his chest, green sleeves and gloves, a yellow cape that puddled bright against the grimy alley floor as he crouched down.

He was real. Not just some blurry figure caught mid-leap on a traffic camera, but real. And now he was crouching in front of her with an expression that was almost painfully earnest.

"Yeah," he confirmed. She caught the edge of relief in his voice, like he'd been worried she might be too incapacitated to speak. "That's me. Good job. And you're bleeding." He shifted his weight, moving closer but not touching, giving her space. "Can you sit up? Anything feel broken?"

She took inventory, cataloging injuries with detached precision. Split lip, bruised jaw, ribs screaming, but she still managed to lever herself up onto her elbows. Pain shot through her side and she winced, gasping.

"Easy," he said, and this time he did reach out, one gloved hand hovering near her shoulder, ready to steady her but waiting for permission. "Slow."

"I'm fine," she said automatically, which was such an obvious lie that he actually raised an eyebrow at her.

"Right. So you're the delirious kind of stupid." He glanced over his shoulder at the two crumpled figures, then back to her. "You took on two guys in Crime Alley. Alone. At night." A pause, weighted with meaning. "That was either incredibly brave or incredibly dumb."

"Both," she admitted, finally managing to sit up fully. The world tilted slightly but steadied. "Probably more dumb."

"Definitely more stupid than dumb." But there was no judgment in his voice, just something that sounded almost like respect. Wonder, even. "That girl you helped, she got away clean. So, you know. Stupid, but effective."

She touched her lip gingerly, felt the split there, the tackiness of drying blood. She eyed him curiously, taking in his appearance unabashedly. 

He was a teenager. His limbs were still in that awkward in-between phase of growing and not quite knowing when to stop. His face was clean, free of stubble, of any fuzz in general. And his voice was caught between the youthful pitch of young boys and the deep tenor of a man. He couldn’t be older than eighteen, at most.

She tilted her head, curious despite the pain. "You're younger than I thought you'd be."

He stopped moving and blinked at her, clearly not expecting that. "What?"

"Robin. The Boy Wonder. The photos don't—" She gestured vaguely at him, then immediately regretted moving her arm that much. "You're just...you're like, what, fourteen?"

He gaped at her, momentarily stunned. "You got something to say after I saved your ass and all?" he said, a little defensive, and yeah, that confirmed it. Definitely mid-high school age. Maybe even an inner-city kid judging by his Gotham accent.

"No, I'm sorry. Just—" She attempted something like a smile, though the motion pulled painfully at her split lip. "Shouldn't you be in high school or something? Underage drinking? Questionable life choices that don't involve fighting crime?"

"Who says I'm not older?" He stood, offered his hand again, more insistent this time. "And if we're talking questionable life choices, you're the one who decided Crime Alley at midnight was a good place for... what, journalism?" His eyes flicked to the notebook that had fallen a few feet away, pages splayed open like broken wings.

"Research," she corrected, accepting his hand. He was lean, not very muscular, but his grip was strong. 

He pulled her up carefully, watching to make sure she wouldn't collapse. She didn't, but it was a near thing. Her ribs really didn't appreciate the movement.

"Right. Research. Of the scummiest place in all of Gotham. Great choice," He bent down, scooped up her notebook carefully and handed it to her. She noticed that he seemed to finally see the ruined state of her shirt with the act, as he flushed and ducked his head quickly.

She didn't have to look down to know that her shirt was mostly torn open. The chill on her skin from the night air was evidence enough. To his credit, he wasted no time in immediately shrugging off his cape, keeping his eyes downcast like a gentleman. 

Before she could protest, he draped it around her shoulders. The fabric was surprisingly soft, still warm from his body heat. "Here."

She clutched it closed with one hand, the other pressed against her aching ribs. It smelled of something pine, some sharp cologne that didn't belong to a young boy. And something utterly individual to him that she didn't know him well enough to name. "And they say chivalry isn't dead. Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Robin's mouth quirked into something that might have been a smile, crooked and boyish. "Can't exactly have the girls I rescue strolling around undressed. Tends to lend to bad reviews."

She snorted despite herself. For a teenager, he was pretty bold. Cocky. Certainly too confident for his own good. "Good to know where you draw the line."

"I'm very principled." He studied her for a moment, and she saw the concern deepen in his brow, the way his lips pressed together. "You're hurt. You took a pretty solid hit or two to the ribs. You shouldn't be walking around alone right now."

"I'll be fine. I just need to—" She took a step and immediately swayed, the world tilting again like the ground had become liquid.

His hand shot out, caught her elbow with reflexes too fast to be unpracticed. "Yeah, no. Where do you live?"

"What?"

"Your apartment. House. Wherever." He was already moving, positioning himself at her side like a human crutch, taking some of her weight without making it obvious. "I'm walking you back. Non-negotiable. Good for reviews too."

She wanted to argue. She should argue. She shouldn't let some vigilante know where she lived, even if he was associated with Batman. But she was too hurt, too disappointed in her own poor judgment tonight to care. And something about the way he said it, matter-of-fact and gentle at the same time, made her believe he actually would just...walk her home. Like a normal person. Like this was perfectly normal.

"You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to. I'm going to." He steered her toward the mouth of the alley, his movements careful, practiced. Like he knew exactly where he was going. "Besides, you just got your ass kicked saving someone. That's pretty badass for a girl, even if it was boneheaded. Least I can do is make sure you get home in one piece before you dive head-first into another bad idea."

"My ass didn't get kicked," she protested weakly, shooting a quick glare at him that had no real heat behind it. She was glaring at a borderline criminal, she thought to herself humorously. "I got a good hit in."

"You did," he agreed patiently, like he was speaking to a child, rather than vice versa. "Broke his nose. That was a solid right hook. Textbook form, actually."

She frowned down at him, pulling his cape closer around her shoulders. The weight of it was comforting somehow. "Are you making fun of me?"

"No, I would never mock you. Not a pretty girl like you." His tone was light, teasing, but then it shifted into something more serious. "Well, maybe just a little. You did confront two guys in Crime Alley with zero weapons and I'm guessing minimal training."

They emerged from the alley onto the main street, and Robin kept close to her side, his presence strangely reassuring. The few people still out at this hour gave them a wide berth, whether out of fear or respect, she couldn't tell. 

She scoffed but didn't protest. He was right, wasn't he? She'd made a monumentally stupid decision and now she was paying the price. But that girl had gotten away. That had to count for something. Even if it had nearly gotten her killed.

"So. Address? Or are you going to make me guess?"

She told him, rattling off the street name of her apartment building about eight blocks north. Not a great neighborhood, but leagues better than Crime Alley. She'd lived on campus her freshman year to get the standard dorm experience but after landing the job at the Gazette, she'd decided to move into the city proper. Somewhere she could afford on her own meager salary, without help.

Her father hated it. He'd practically begged her to move into Gotham Heights, even offered to pay for a place himself. For something spacious and safe with a doorman and security cameras. She'd politely declined. The whole point of this, her self-determined mission, was to forge her own path. Living under her parents' shadow, accepting their money, using their connections would get her nothing but whispered accusations of nepotism and mistrust. She needed to do this on her own terms, even if it meant a fifth-floor walk-up in a building where the heat only worked half the time.

"Eight blocks," Robin repeated, utterly undeterred by the distance. "Yeah, we're definitely walking. You going to make it?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really, no." But his voice was warm, almost teasing, and she could hear the smile in it. "Come on. Lean on me if you need to. I won't tell anyone the big bad journalist needed help from the Boy Wonder." He paused, glanced at her. "You are a journalist, right? I'm not totally off base here?"

"I'm not big anything," she muttered, but she did lean slightly, just enough to take the pressure off her screaming ribs. Every breath was sharp-edged and painful, like breathing through broken glass. "I'm a part-time assistant at best. Intern who does grunt work nobody else wants."

"Better than nothing." He adjusted his pace to match hers. Slow, patient. Like he had all the time in the world, like there weren't criminals to catch and wrongs to right. "You seem young too, though. You in high school? Taking some kind of early journalism program?"

She hesitated at first before reality settled in. He'd just saved her life. He probably saved countless people every week, swooping in at the last second like some kind of guardian angel in a cape. He'd drop her off at home, be on his merry way, and she'd never hear from him again. This was just...politeness. Maybe a little flirtation, but what teenage boy wasn't a flirt when given half a chance?

"I'm a student at Gotham U," she corrected him, unable to keep the slight defensiveness out of her voice. Pride, maybe. "Junior. And you essentially just gave yourself away, you know. What are you, seventeen? Can you even drive a car yet?"

Robin shot her a glare. She could see it even through the mask, the way his brow scrunched and his lips pressed into a tight line. "Very funny. Hilarious. You just won the award for most annoying person I've saved this week." He paused, tilted his head thoughtfully. "You got a name to go with that attitude, or should I just keep calling you ‘questionable life choices’?"

She rolled her eyes, shifting her weight into him a bit more. He was stronger than she'd expected for someone his age, taking her weight without so much as a grunt. He was almost eye-level with her, definitely strong and developing some real muscle, but still a bit too lean. Stringy. Like his body was filling out, like he'd never quite had enough to eat growing up and was only now catching up to where he should have been all along.

His accent caught her attention too, that distinct Gotham twang, the kind you heard in the Narrows or Crime Alley. The neighborhoods where people struggled just to survive. If he'd grown up in the inner-city, she could imagine what his childhood had been like. What kind of horrors he'd witnessed, what kind of hunger he'd known. Maybe that's why he did this. Maybe that's why a kid barely old enough to drive, if he even could, was out here risking his life every night.

She told him her name. One block down, seven to go.

"So you're a student and you work for the Gazette," he commented, filing away the information like he was building a profile. "And if I had to put money on it..." He glanced at her sideways, assessing with sharp eyes. "I'd say you're not from Gotham originally. Am I right?"

She peered at him in surprise, genuinely impressed. His only response was a cheeky grin. The domino mask hid half his face, but she was certain that kind of broad, cocky smile reached his eyes. "Looks like you'd lose all your lunch money then, Boy Wonder. But you're right, I came here for school. Grew up on the West Coast."

The grin vanished instantly, replaced by an exaggerated scowl that was more theatrical than genuine. "If that guy hadn't kicked you in the ribs, I'd be elbowing you right now for that lunch money comment. And not because you're some California hippie."

"Well, that would be terrible for your ratings, wouldn't it?" she teased, leaning down closer to him with a grin of her own, ignoring the way it pulled at her split lip again and made fresh blood well up. "I'd have to personally call Batman and let him know his sidekick harassed an injured woman. Right after saving her from harassment. The irony would be incredible."

The corners of his lips twitched, like he was fighting the urge to smile and losing badly. "Partner, not sidekick," he corrected, his voice firm but not unkind. "Write that down. It's important."

A flutter of excitement ran through her chest, completely inappropriate given the circumstances. She raised her eyebrows at him, hopeful despite herself, despite knowing better. "Is that an invitation for an interview?"

She had no idea why she asked that. Everyone knew Batman and Robin didn't give interviews. It was practically their defining characteristic, much to every reporter's eternal chagrin. They worked in the shadows, operated in near-total silence, communicated through action rather than words. 

Besides, Robin was clearly a minor. She wouldn't necessarily need parental consent for an interview, not that she even knew if he had parents or not, but interviewing a minor without permission was generally frowned upon. Though the Gazette, and Gotham society in general, would probably look past that given the mantle he wore. When it came to icons, most bets were off the table.

And an interview with Robin... she couldn't even imagine what she would do with that. Where it could take her career. What good she could do by profiling a boy the city saw as both hero and menace, savior and symptom.

Robin, meanwhile, was looking at her like she'd just suggested they rob a bank together. "Are you crazy? No way. Batman would kill me." He shook his head, muttering to himself with genuine frustration, like she'd just made his life infinitely more complicated. "Journalists, man. You guys are greedy as hell."

Two blocks down. Six to go.

She made a sound of disgust at his words, though she knew he didn't mean it maliciously. To his credit, he was right. Most journalists would twist his words, distort the truth, and do whatever they could to expose the worst parts of a story. Interviewing a vigilante would be disastrous for their public appeal, their carefully maintained mystique. "You really think that little of me? You don't even know me."

"I know enough about the Gazette to know you'd just write about how bad people like Batman and I are for the city," he said. There was real anger simmering beneath the surface now, hot and defensive. His grip on her arm tightened fractionally. "How we should just leave everything up to the cops. Which is complete bullshit. The cops don't do anything here. They won't do anything. Everyone's pockets are always open for the right price, and the people who can't pay just get left behind to rot."

He was right. For a kid, he was perceptive. Articulate. Though she supposed if he was working with Batman, a lot of Batman's ideals would bleed into his own worldview. They'd have to, wouldn't they? You couldn't fight alongside someone night after night without absorbing their beliefs and values.

"What if I agreed with you?" she asked carefully, testing the waters. "Would you be more open to talking then?"

Robin stopped walking for a moment, blinking up at her with genuine surprise. One beat passed. Two. She held her breath, hope fluttering dangerously in her chest like a caged bird. 

And then the moment was gone as quick as it came. His guarded expression snapped back into place, incredulity coloring his voice. "I'd say you're pulling my leg to get me to talk. Playing me."

She shook her head, tightening her grip on his arm in her eagerness, ignoring the fresh spike of pain from her ribs. "And I'd say you're generalizing. Not all journalists are the same. You think I don't see the problems with Gotham? The corruption, the inequality, the way this city eats people alive?" Her voice gained strength despite the pain, despite the exhaustion seeping into her bones. "Just because I work for a newspaper doesn't mean someone's bribing me. Doesn't mean I'm looking to tear you down. If I thought the worst of you, would I have told you my name? Would I let you walk me home?"

Robin stared at her for a long moment, his jaw working like he was chewing over her words, testing them for truth. Finally, he started walking again, pulling her gently along with him. "You're persistent, I'll give you that."

"Comes with the territory." She winced as they stepped off a curb to avoid a rather large hole in the sidewalk, the jolt sending fresh pain through her ribs. "So is that a yes?"

"That's a 'keep dreaming.'" But there was less bite in his voice now. Three blocks down. "You really think an interview with me would change anything? Make Gotham give a damn?"

"I think people need to hear your side of the story," she said carefully, measuring each word. "Right now, half the city thinks you and Batman are criminals. The other half thinks you're heroes. But nobody actually knows anything. They just...speculate. Make assumptions based on blurry photos and whatever the news runs that night."

"Maybe that's the point." His grip on her arm tightened slightly as they navigated around a heap of clutter in the street, glass crunching under their feet. "We're not doing this for recognition. We're doing it because someone has to."

"But why does it have to be you?" She wasn't trying to provoke him. She was genuinely curious, genuinely trying to understand. "You're what, fifteen? Sixteen? You should be worrying about college applications, and girls, and—"

"And what?" He cut her off, sharp as a blade. "Pretending everything's fine? Going to house parties while people get murdered three blocks away?" There was an edge to his voice now, something raw and angry. Something that sounded personal. "Someone's gotta actually do something. The cops sure as hell won't."

"You really believe that? That the system's completely broken?"

"I know it is." He said it with such certainty, such bone-deep conviction, that it made her chest ache. "I've seen it. Lived it. You grow up in Park Row, you learn real quick that nobody's coming to save you. The politicians don't care. The cops are either corrupt or too scared to make waves. And the people with money?" He laughed, bitter and hollow. "They're too busy in their penthouses to notice the city's rotting from the inside out."

Four blocks down. She absorbed his words, filed them away, her journalist's brain cataloging every inflection, every hint of the boy beneath the mask. "So vigilantism is the answer? Taking justice into your own hands?"

"You got a better idea?" He shot back, turning to look at her fully. "Because I'm all ears. Really. Tell me what else works when the law's a joke and the people enforcing it are bought and paid for."

"Reform," she said, though even as she said it, she knew how naive it sounded. How young and hopeful and stupid. "Working within the system to change it. Exposing corruption through journalism, pushing for accountability—"

"Yeah, because that's worked so well so far." The sarcasm was thick, cutting through the night air like smoke. "How many exposés has the Gazette run on dirty cops? Crooked politicians? And what's changed? Nothing. They pay a fine, make some public apology, and go right back to doing the same shit." He was getting worked up now, his voice rising slightly. "Meanwhile, people are dying. Getting robbed, beaten, worse. Someone's gotta actually put hands on these bastards. Make them scared to do what they do."

She could feel the violence simmering beneath his words, not directed at her, but at the injustice of it all. The frustration of a kid who'd seen too much too young, who'd been failed by every system designed to protect him. It was a familiar sentiment held by people in the city. "And you think fear is the answer?"

"I think fear's the only language some people understand." He said it flatly, matter-of-fact, like it was self-evident. "You can't reason with a guy who's about to kill someone. Can't file a complaint about the gangbanger who just shot a kid over territory. Sometimes you just gotta..." He made a sharp gesture with his free hand, a striking motion. "Put them down. Make sure they think twice before doing it again."

"That sounds like you're talking about more than just stopping crime," she observed quietly, carefully. "That sounds like punishment."

"Maybe it is." He didn't back down, didn't soften it with euphemisms or justifications. "Maybe some people deserve to be punished. You gonna tell me those guys back there—" He jerked his head back toward Crime Alley, back toward the violence. "—didn't deserve what they got? That they should just get a stern talking-to and a slap on the wrist? They hurt you and would have done worse. We're just gonna lock them up, give them a few years, and set them back out in the streets for the same cycle to repeat itself. What's the point of that?"

"No," she admitted, because he was right. "But where's the line? How do you decide who deserves what? What happens when you go too far?"

"We don't." But there was something uncertain in his voice now, something that suggested he'd asked himself that question before, late at night when the adrenaline wore off and he was just a kid again. "Batman has rules. Lines we don't cross."

"Like what?"

"Nice try." He shot her a look that was almost amused, almost impressed by her tenacity. "You really think I'm gonna lay out our whole operating procedure while you're mentally taking notes for your article?"

"I'm not writing an article right now." She shifted her weight, leaning more heavily on him as her ribs protested. Pain was making her dizzy. "I'm just... trying to understand."

"Why?"

"Because I think you're right." The words came out before she could stop them, raw and honest. "I think the system is broken. I think Gotham needs something more than what it's getting. I just..." 

She struggled to find the words, to articulate the thing that had been gnawing at her since she'd moved here. "I want to know if this is it. If two people in masks beating up criminals is really the best we can do."

Five blocks down. Robin was quiet for a moment, processing, the only sound their footsteps on pavement and the distant wail of sirens. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "You think we like this? You think Batman wants to spend every night breaking bones and dodging bullets?" He shook his head, dark hair catching the streetlight. "This is a stopgap. A band-aid on a bullet wound. We're buying time, trying to keep people alive long enough for something better to come along."

"And if it doesn't? If nothing changes?" God, she was arguing with a teenager about systemic reform after getting beaten up by thugs for doing the right thing. The absurdity wasn't lost on her.

"Then I guess we keep doing what we're doing." He said it with grim determination. "Until someone stops us or we die trying."

The casualness with which he mentioned dying made her stomach clench. "You're a kid. You're so eager to die?"

"I'm almost sixteen, actually," He glanced at her, and there was something defiant in his expression, something that dared her to call him a kid again. "And before you start with the 'you're too young' speech, save it. I know what I signed up for. Nobody forced me into this."

"But someone let you," she pointed out, pressing the issue because she couldn't help herself. "Batman. He's older, right? An adult? He brought a kid into this."

"I don't regret any of it. He's done more for me than anyone has," Robin said sharply, defensively, his entire body tensing beside her. "With or without him, I want to do this. At least this way I've got training, backup. Someone who gives a damn if I make it home." His voice took on a harder edge, something raw. "Not everyone gets that."

There was a story there. She could feel it, could hear it in the way his voice tightened, in the way he held himself just a little too rigidly. But before she could probe further, he turned the tables on her.

"What about you?" He asked, his tone shifting, becoming almost conversational. "What's your deal? Rich girl from California slumming it in Gotham, trying to save the world with a notebook and a dream?" There was mockery in his tone, but it wasn't entirely malignant. More like he was testing her, seeing if she'd rise to the bait. "You could've gone anywhere. Could've taken that full ride to some fancy school on the coast, written bullshit pieces about tech startups and farmer's markets. Why here?"

"Because here is where it matters," she said simply, the truth distilled to its essence. "Because Gotham is where people are suffering. Where the stories need to be told. Isn't that the point of the job?"

"Noble." He didn't sound entirely convinced, but there was something in his voice that suggested respect. "Your parents must love that."

"They think I'm an idiot."

"I'm starting to think they're onto something, after the stunt you pulled tonight."

She laughed, then immediately regretted it as pain shot through her ribs like fire. She gasped, stumbling slightly, and his arm came around her waist immediately, steadying her with surprising gentleness.

"Easy," he murmured, concern bleeding through. "Don't make it worse."

"Probably. But at least I'm trying," she managed once she could breathe again.

"Yeah." Something in his voice softened fractionally, and became almost warm. "Yeah, you are."

Six blocks down. Her building was close now, just two more blocks. She could see the familiar corner store, its neon sign flickering weakly in the darkness, the bodega where she bought coffee every morning.

"So no interview then?" She tried one more time, unable to help herself.

"No interview," he confirmed. But there was something almost apologetic in his tone now. "But..." He hesitated, like he was weighing something. "What were you gonna write about? Before those guys jumped you?"

"Crime Alley," she said, seizing the opening. "The people who live there. What it's like to exist in a place the rest of the city's forgotten. I've been interviewing residents, getting their stories. Tonight was just... atmosphere. Context. Understanding what it feels like when the sun goes down and the city changes."

He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "And you were gonna include us? Batman and me?"

"Not the focus," she admitted honestly. "But yeah. You're part of the ecosystem there. People mentioned you. Some grateful, some scared, some resentful." She paused, watching his profile in the dim light. "What do you think they should think of you?"

"I don't care what they think of me," he said, immediate and fierce, the words coming out almost angry. "I care that they're alive to think anything at all."

It was a good line. Maybe too good, too polished. Like he'd thought about it before, or someone had told it to him. But there was sincerity underneath it too, a bone-deep belief that made her think he actually meant it. 

He was just a kid, though. Idealistic, naive in his own way. Anything could change, so much could change, in just a few years of life for him.

"That's a good answer," she said quietly. Her heart clenched, aching for this boy who'd taken the weight of the city onto his own shoulders at such a young age. She hoped he kept believing in that.

"Of course it's a good answer. I know what I'm talking about." He was scanning the street now, alert, watching for threats even as they talked. Always working. No kid should have to worry about these things, to have to see danger in every shadow. "Your building's that one, right? The brick one with the blue door?"

"Yeah." Seven blocks down. Almost there. "You've got good eyes."

"Comes with the job." They crossed the final street, and he guided her up to the front steps of her building with careful precision. The light above the door was still out,  as it had been out for weeks. In the darkness the colors of Robin's costume seemed to blend into the shadows. "You gonna be okay getting upstairs?"

"I'll manage." She was reluctant to let go of his arm, reluctant for this strange night to end. There was something about him, something earnest and fierce, that made her want to keep talking. "Thank you. For everything."

"Don't mention it." He stepped back, giving her space. His eyes were still assessing, making sure she could stand on her own. "And hey, that article you're writing? About Crime Alley?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't pull your punches." His voice was serious, intense, the playfulness draining away. "People need to know how bad it really is. They need to see what we're up against. What you're up against, just walking around asking questions." He paused, and something shifted in his expression. "You're brave for doing that. Stupid, but brave."

"High praise from the sidekick."

"Partner," he corrected automatically, and she could hear the smile returning to his voice. "Get some ice on those ribs. And maybe consider carrying pepper spray or something next time you decide to play hero."

"I'll take it under advisement."

He turned to leave, the streetlight in the distance reflecting off his black waves from overhead. She watched him take two steps before his name fell out of her mouth without much thought to caution. 

"Robin?"

"Yeah?" He paused, turned back slightly, cape swirling around him.

"Can I ask you one more question?"

He sighed, but it sounded more amused than annoyed. "You're relentless, you know that?"

"It's not about an interview," she promised, though her heart was racing, pounding against her bruised ribs. "It's just...do you really think it's impossible? That journalism can't make a difference?"

He tilted his head, considering the question with more seriousness than she'd expected. "I think most journalism doesn't. Most of it's garbage. Clickbait, propaganda, whatever sells papers or gets clicks."

"But not all of it," she pressed, taking a step forward despite the pain. "What if... what if someone wrote about the real Gotham? Not the sensational stuff, not the Batman think pieces everyone's already tired of. But the actual people living in Crime Alley. The families trying to survive. The systemic failures that put them there." 

Her voice gained strength despite the pain, despite how exhausted she was, because this mattered. This was why she'd come here. "What if someone wrote about how the city's eating its own people alive and nobody with the power to change it gives a damn? What if someone made the people in Gotham Heights actually see what's happening ten blocks away?"

"I'm not trying to be Batman. I'm not trying to save people with my fists. But maybe…maybe I can save them by making their stories impossible to ignore. By forcing people to confront what they've been pretending doesn't exist. Isn't that worth something?"

Robin stared at her mutely. Even through the mask, she could feel the weight of his gaze, assessing, measuring. The silence stretched between them, heavy with possibility, thick with understanding.

Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet and thoughtful. "You really believe that? That you could actually make people care?"

"I have to try, at least," she said simply, the truth stripped bare. "Otherwise, what's the point of any of this?"

Another beat of silence. Then something shifted in his posture. The tension in his shoulders eased. The defensive edge in his stance softened.

"Okay," he said quietly. There was something like respect in his voice. Something like hope. "Here's the deal. You can use what I told you tonight. About the system being broken, about why we do what we do, about Crime Alley and how nobody's coming to save people who live there." He held up a finger, pointing at her with emphasis. "But you don't mention me directly. No quotes attributed to Robin. You work it in, make it part of the bigger picture. Background, context, whatever. Just... no 'Robin says' headlines. Batman really would kill me."

She stared at him, stunned speechless. Of all the ways she'd expected this night to end, this wasn't one of them. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. "Are you serious?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?" But there was something soft in his expression. "You asked what could change things. Maybe you're right. Maybe someone needs to write the truth for once. Make people actually pay attention to what's happening in their own city." He shrugged. "Just... don't make me regret this."

"I won't." The words came out fierce. "I promise. I'll do it justice. I'll—" She broke off, overwhelmed by the weight of what he was giving her. "Thank you. You have no idea what this means."

"Yeah, well." He shuffled his feet slightly, and for a moment he looked every bit the kid he was. Bashful, shy. Uncertain. The bravado disappeared for a heartbeat. "You took a beating trying to help someone tonight. That counts for something. And you actually seem to give a damn about the right things." A pause, then quieter. "Plus, you broke that guy's nose. That was pretty badass."

She laughed, even though her ribs felt like they were on fire. "That's what it takes to impress the kids these days?"

"Not a kid," he corrected automatically, but he was smiling now. She could hear it in his voice, see it in the curve of his mouth. "I'm, what, four years younger than you? In a few years, I could be taking you out. Don't forget about that."

She rolled her eyes, amused despite everything. "I'll take it under advisement."

He turned to leave, two steps toward the shadows. Then, he paused again, glanced back over his shoulder with something that looked suspiciously like a smirk.

"You know, most girls I rescue don't try to convince me to give them an interview while they're bleeding."

"I'm not most girls."

"Yeah." His voice was warm. "I noticed. It's kind of refreshing, actually. Annoying, but refreshing."

"Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment."

"Don't let it go to your head." But there was definite amusement in his tone now. "Listen, you ever need help again, and knowing you, you probably will — Crime Alley, midnight. Fridays and Saturdays. I patrol this area heavy those nights. You get in trouble, make noise. I'll hear you."

Her heart did something complicated in her chest, somersaulting over itself. "You're offering to be my personal vigilante bodyguard?"

"I'm offering to make sure you don't get yourself killed doing something noble and stupid." He was fully grinning now, she could tell. Young and cocky and impossibly confident. "Though I gotta say, you're probably gonna be a problem. I can already tell you're the type who's gonna keep finding trouble."

"Only the newsworthy kind," she promised, matching his smile with one of her own.

"Right. Because that makes it better." He shook his head, but there was a grin on his face. "Take care of yourself, princess. And when you write that article? Make it count."

"I will."

"Good." He took another step back. "And hey, next time I save your life, maybe you could at least pretend to swoon a little? Really bruises the ego when a girl tries to turn it into a business opportunity."

"You'll survive," she called after him, unable to keep the smile out of her voice.

His laugh echoed back from somewhere in the shadows, genuine and boyish. "See you around, sweetheart."

And then he was gone. Truly gone this time, leaving her standing on the front steps with his cape still draped around her shoulders, bruised and battered but more inspired than she'd been in months.

She looked down at the yellow fabric, traced her fingers along the edge, felt the softness of it. This had been real. And somehow, impossibly, she'd convinced one of Gotham's most notorious vigilantes to trust her with a story.

She felt something like hope blooming in her chest, pushing back against the pain.

She had work to do.

____

"You're never going to believe the call I just got."

Elliot Grant peered over the tops of his glasses at her from across his desk, hands clasped together in front of his chin like he was praying. 

She'd been doing exactly that when he'd called her into his office the moment she stepped through the door this morning: praying. Wondering if today was the day they finally decided she was more trouble than she was worth.

It was an irrational thought. Ever since she'd published her first bylined article on Crime Alley, weaving Robin's words throughout without directly quoting him, everything had changed. Overnight, practically. The article had resonated in ways she'd barely dared to hope for, drawing attention not just from the general public but from City Hall itself. 

The mayor had sent her a personal letter, congratulating her on such "progressive and vital work." The next day, she had her own desk at the Gazette. Not tucked in some corner with the interns, but a real desk on the main floor, positioned near a window where she could watch the city sprawl below her.

Grant had offered her a full-time position on the spot, promised to work around her class schedule at Gotham U. She'd accepted before he could change his mind, before the universe could correct what felt like an impossible stroke of luck.

Needless to say, there was no rational reason to think she was in jeopardy of losing her spot. And yet here she was, palms sweating against the leather portfolio clutched in her lap, heart racing. She was about to be fired, convinced this was it.

She knew she'd made enemies in the process. The resentment from her coworkers was palpable, a living thing that followed her through the office. It manifested in conversations that died when she approached, in cold shoulders and tight smiles. Older journalists with decades of experience watching a twenty-year-old college student leapfrog over them because of one article.

Grant had faced serious heat for promoting her, she'd heard the whispers through closed doors, seen the way certain board members looked at her like she was a gamble that might not pay off. A girl barely out of her teens with no degree yet, no real credentials beyond one viral piece.

But the numbers spoke for themselves, he'd told the board. Circulation was up twenty percent. People were reading again, engaging, arguing in coffee shops and comment sections about what the city owed its most vulnerable residents. Letters to the editor had tripled. Subscriptions were climbing for the first time in five years.

In the two months since publication, she'd been given her own column, a regular feature where she wrote about the people everyone else ignored. She'd profiled single mothers in the Narrows struggling to feed their kids on minimum wage, their faces lined with exhaustion and determination. Teenagers offered drugs and gang recruitment before they hit high school, kids who should have been worrying about algebra tests and homecoming dates. The impossible calculus of working for crime lords who promised a way out of poverty while ensuring you'd never actually escape, the way desperation made monsters of ordinary people. 

Real stories. The kind that made people uncomfortable, that made politicians squirm when reporters shouted questions about them during press conferences.

Two months since the article had been published. Two months of significantly better paychecks padding her meager savings. Two months of her parents calling with reluctant pride in their voices, admitting maybe she'd been onto something after all, that perhaps Gotham hadn't been the death sentence they'd feared. Two months of spotlights shining brighter on the systemic failures she'd exposed with unforgiving clarity.

Two months, and she'd heard nothing from Robin.

Not that she'd expected to. He'd made it clear he wasn't interested in recognition. She just hoped, quietly, in the small hours when she couldn't sleep and found herself staring at the yellow cape still folded in her closet—that if he'd read it, he'd approve. Most of it had been his words, his sentiments, after all. His anger at a broken system, his conviction that someone had to act when the institutions failed. His fierce belief that fear was sometimes the only language certain people understood. She'd woven it throughout like a thread of gold through dark fabric, given voice to what he couldn't say with his name attached.

She figured if he'd hated it, she would have heard about it. A note left on her fire escape, maybe, written in that sharp, confident hand she'd imagined him having. Or he simply would have stopped saving people long enough to tell her she'd betrayed his trust, that she'd taken his anger and twisted it into something unrecognizable. The silence felt like if not approval, then at least acceptance. Permission to keep going.

Still. Despite her recent success, despite the evidence that she was doing exactly what she'd come to Gotham to do, her first thought when Grant had called her in had been that she needed to start packing up her desk.

She tried not to shift nervously as she stood before him now, digging her nails into her palms behind her back to redirect the anxiety somewhere less visible. The pain helped, grounding her in the present moment. "Do you want me to start guessing, sir?"

"Mr. Wayne's office called this morning," Grant announced, his voice carefully neutral, though his eyes were sharp as knives. "Apparently, he wants you to write an article."

The floor dropped out from under her.

Her mouth went dry like someone had filled it with cotton. She had to swallow twice before she could force words past the sudden tightness in her throat. "I'm sorry, sir, but...Mr. Wayne? As in Bruce Wayne?"

Grant looked at her like she'd just asked if water was wet. "Yes, Bruce Wayne. Is there another Mr. Wayne running around Gotham that I should know about?" His tone was acidic. "He wants an article written. He specifically requested us. Specifically requested you."

It was absurd. Impossible, even.

Bruce Wayne—the Prince of Gotham, Gotham's Last Son, whatever melodramatic title the society pages were using this week—was a recluse. He attended the occasional charity gala, smiled for the cameras with whatever supermodel was on his arm that month, wrote checks large enough to fund small countries. But he didn't talk to people. Didn't sit down for interviews. Didn't engage with the press beyond carefully crafted statements issued through his publicist or the Wayne Foundation's PR team, statements so polished and empty they could have been written by algorithm.

He had enough money to buy the city twice over, enough influence to make or break political careers with a single donation or whispered word at the right dinner party. And yet, unlike every other person with that kind of power in Gotham, he wasn't bought and didn't seem interested in buying others. At least not publicly. Most of his fortune went to legitimate charitable causes. Funding halfway houses, rehab clinics, youth programs, scholarships that had pulled countless kids out of Park Row and given them a chance at something better. The Wayne Foundation was responsible for half the safety nets keeping Gotham's most vulnerable from falling through the cracks entirely.

He was untouchable. Unreachable. The kind of man who didn't request interviews because he didn't need to. His name alone was worth more than anything a journalist could write about him.

And somehow, impossibly, he knew her name.

"And he requested... me?" The word came out small, uncertain. She desperately hoped that she'd misheard, that Grant would laugh and tell her he meant someone else, anyone else. Davis with his Pulitzer. Chen with her thirty years of experience.

"He specifically said your name," Grant confirmed, his eyes narrowing as he studied her face like there was something she wasn't telling him. "You want to tell me how the richest man in Gotham knows who you are?"

"I—I don't know him." The words tumbled out too fast, edged with panic she couldn't quite suppress, couldn't quite hide behind her professional mask. "I've never even met Bruce Wayne. Are you sure he asked for me? Because I really think one of the senior writers would be better suited for—"

"Kid." Grant's voice cut through her rambling. "He asked for you. Specifically. By name. Said he didn't want anyone else to do it." He paused, still watching her with that unsettling intensity, like he was trying to read her thoughts through her skull. "And if you really don't know him—" Another pause, more skeptical this time. "—maybe he just liked that Crime Alley piece. Half the city did. No reason to think the guy with the deepest pockets doesn't want another reason to find a cause to throw money at."

She said nothing. Couldn't, really. Her brain had short-circuited, gone to pure static in her continued state of shock. It didn't make sense. Why would Bruce Wayne read her article? Why would he care about the people Gotham's elite spent their entire lives pretending didn't exist? Those people were invisible to the wealthy, to the powerful. They were statistics, problems to be managed from a distance, never actually seen or heard or understood as human beings with names and dreams that mattered.

And more importantly, why now? What had happened to make Bruce Wayne, of all people, decide he needed to talk to the press? Was he running for office? Announcing some massive new initiative? Dying?

"Mr. Grant," she started, forcing her voice steady through sheer willpower, through years of learning to hide what she really felt. "I appreciate the opportunity, I really do, but I don't think there's any way he actually wants me to—"

"Oh no." Grant cut her off immediately, his impassive expression cracking to reveal something harder underneath. Impatience. Maybe even anger, simmering just below the surface. "No, no, no. You aren't turning this one down. Absolutely not. No way in hell."

She stopped mid-breath, taken aback by the vehemence in his voice, by the way his hands had flattened against his desk like he was physically holding himself back. "Sir, respectfully, another writer could take it. Someone with more experience. I've only been writing for a few months, I don't have the credentials to—"

"He specifically requested you," Grant repeated, each word deliberate, final, like a judge delivering a verdict. "Not Davis. Not Chen. Not anyone else on this floor with twenty years of experience." He leaned forward, and for the first time since she'd met him, she saw something almost desperate flicker across his face. "Bruce Wayne hasn't spoken to a news outlet—not a paper, not a magazine, not even a goddamn photographer—in years. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. For you, for this paper, for all of us. We are not turning it down."

"But I don't want—"

"I don't care." The words were flat, brutal. A door slamming shut on any protest she might offer. "I'm sorry if this isn't what you signed up for, but sometimes you take one for the team. That's how this works." His voice softened fractionally, but the steel remained underneath. "Besides, an article about Bruce Wayne with your byline? You'll be known globally. Every major outlet in the world will want to talk to you. Your career will be made."

The thought made her stomach turn violently, made bile rise in her throat.

She didn't want to be known globally. Didn't want her face on CNN, didn't want offers from the Times or the Post or whatever other prestigious publications would come calling with their fat paychecks and their comfortable distance from the people who actually needed help. She wanted to write about the people no one else cared about. She wanted to make a difference for the people who needed help, not write puff pieces about billionaires who already had more attention than they knew what to do with, whose every movement was documented and dissected ad nauseam.

But looking at Grant's face, at the set of his jaw, the finality in his eyes — she knew she didn't have a choice. Not really. This was her job. He was her boss. And turning down Bruce Wayne wasn't just professional suicide, it was institutional betrayal. The Gazette needed this. Grant needed this. Whether she wanted it or not was a luxury she couldn't afford.

She took a deep breath, trying to force back her rising frustration, the sick feeling spreading through her chest. Looked down at her feet because she couldn't bear to meet his eyes, couldn't let him see how much this bothered her. "Alright," she said quietly. Defeated. "Understood, sir. Did he... did he mention what he wants the article to address?"

The silence that followed was different. Heavier. The air in the room seemed to thicken, to press down on her shoulders like a physical weight.

When she looked up, Grant's expression had changed. The impatience was gone, replaced by something she'd never seen on his face before. Something somber. Almost... grief-stricken. His eyes had gone soft at the edges, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

"It's not public information yet," he said slowly, carefully, like the words themselves were fragile. "But apparently one of his wards died a few days ago." He paused, and she watched the way his fingers tightened around the edge of his desk. "A kid he'd taken in. Jason Todd."

___

The butler of Wayne Mansion, a kindly older gentleman who had greeted her when she knocked on the front door with a refined British accent, had shown her into the office with a smile that seemed too forced. 

It had struck her how utterly devastated he had appeared. His eyes had been rimmed red, his movements careful and deliberate, like he was holding himself together through sheer force of will. Perhaps he had been close with this Jason Todd. 

The office was... not what she expected. Larger than Grant's by a factor of ten, but surprisingly understated for a man of Wayne's wealth. A dark wood desk sat in the center of the room, polished to a mirror shine. Those floor-to-ceiling windows that seemed to be a requirement for the wealthy, offering a view of the city that looked almost beautiful from this height, almost clean. Bookshelves lined with what looked like actual books rather than decorative spines. She could see worn bindings, creased pages, the evidence of things that had been read and read again. A sitting area with leather furniture that looked comfortable rather than showy.

It felt human, in a way that surprised her.

Bruce Wayne stood by the windows, hands in his pockets, looking out over the city with his back to her. He was taller than she'd expected, broader too, though his perfectly tailored suit hid most of his build. Dark hair, graying slightly at the temples in a way that somehow made him look more distinguished. 

He turned as she entered, and she found herself meeting eyes that were a startling blue, sharp and assessing in a face that photographs never quite captured correctly.

He was handsome. Of course he was, the tabloids never shut up about it, but there was something else there too. Something harder underneath the polished exterior, something that suggested the playboy persona was exactly that: a persona. He looked worse than tired, she realized with a jolt. He looked haunted. 

His eyes were red, bloodshot. His face was ashen, the skin pulled tight over his cheekbones. There was a shadow of stubble on his jaw that suggested he hadn't shaved in days, that basic self-care had fallen away in the face of something more devastating.

She felt an internal pang of self-guilt for judging, for cataloging his appearance when he was clearly in pain. He had just lost someone close to him and here she was critiquing how tired he looked.

His voice was lower than she'd expected when he spoke, quiet and rough around the edges. He said her name first in a comfortable manner like he had said it before. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course, Mr. Wayne." Her own voice came out steadier than she felt, steadier than she had any right to sound. "I'm sorry for your loss."

He nodded once, accepting the condolence without comment, though she hadn't expected much emotion out of him to begin with. His face remained carefully blank, professionally neutral. Considering his background as an orphan, she knew loss was a familiar foe to him. He'd buried his parents when he was eight years old. What was one more funeral?

He gestured to the sitting area with one hand, the movement precise. "Please. Sit."

She did, perching on the edge of a leather chair that probably cost more than her car. The leather was soft, broken in, and she had to resist the urge to sink into it, to let it swallow her whole. He took the seat across from her, not behind his desk. A deliberate choice, she noted. Trying to make this feel less formal, perhaps. Less like an interrogation, more like a conversation between equals even though they both knew they weren't.

He studied her for a moment silently. She had the uncomfortable sensation of being catalogued, assessed, filed away in some mental database. His eyes moved over her face like he was memorizing every detail. When he spoke, his words clipped, stripped of unnecessary decoration.

"I want to publish something for Jason. Something more than the standard death notice. Something that...captures who he was." A pause, and she saw something flicker across his face. Pain, quickly suppressed. "I'd like you to write it."

An obituary. She'd thought…she didn't know what she'd thought. An exposé, maybe. An in-depth profile, a feature piece exploring the life of Bruce Wayne's troubled ward. Something that would take weeks to research and write, something substantial that would justify Grant's excitement.

Not an obituary.

She kept her expression neutral, professional, even as disappointment curled in her stomach. Grant would hate to hear how benign the article would be. He'd expected more, wanted more. She could already imagine the disappointment on his face when she told him. 

Not that she particularly cared. "Of course. What would you like included?"

Bruce Wayne leaned back slightly, his gaze distant, like he was looking at something she couldn't see. A memory, maybe. "Jason was fifteen. Almost sixteen. He came to live with me when he was twelve. I found him in Crime Alley. He'd been surviving on his own for months, maybe longer. His mother had died, father was in and out of prison." His voice was matter-of-fact, reciting information rather than telling a story, like he was reading from a report. "He was smart. Incredibly smart. Resourceful in ways that would break your heart if you thought about it too long. He had a temper—" 

A pause, something flickering across his face too quickly to identify, there and gone like lightning. "—but he cared deeply about justice. About protecting people who couldn't protect themselves."

She wrote it all down, her hand moving mechanically across her notepad even as her chest grew tighter with each word, even as something cold and heavy settled in her stomach. She had tried to research a bit about Jason Todd beforehand, but there was little information on him in general besides a few pictures of a dark-haired boy with sharp features and some basic facts. Bruce Wayne notoriously kept his personal life close to the chest.

"He loved literature," Wayne continued, and for the first time there was something softer in his voice, something almost warm. "Classic novels, poetry. He could quote Shakespeare from memory, would correct you if you got a line wrong. He was... he had this way of seeing through people. Calling things what they were, cutting through bullshit with a single sentence." Another pause, longer this time. "He didn't suffer fools. But he'd give you the shirt off his back if you needed it."

The words kept coming, short and clipped, each one carefully chosen like he was rationing them out. Jason liked motorcycles, loved the feel of speed and freedom. Jason was good with his hands, could fix almost anything mechanical—cars, bikes, even the toaster that had been broken for months. Jason had wanted to go to college, maybe study social work or education. Something where he could help kids like him, kids who'd been failed by every system designed to protect them.

Jason was dead, and they were reducing his entire existence to bullet points for an obituary..

Finally, Wayne stopped talking. The silence stretched between them, heavy and expectant, thick with things left unsaid.

"Is that everything you'd like included, Mr. Wayne?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral, stripped of the emotion churning in her gut.

"Yes." He nodded once, sharp and final. "I'll need it by Friday. My assistant will send you the details about funeral arrangements, dates, that sort of thing."

Friday. Three days. Three days to write an obituary for a boy she'd never met, a child who was now dead. That most of the city didn't even know existed. Had existed.

She should have stood up. Should have thanked him for his time, promised to deliver something appropriate and respectful. Should have left with her notebook and her professionalism intact.

Instead, she heard herself ask: "Can I ask you something, Mr. Wayne?"

He raised an eyebrow, curious. The first real expression she'd seen from him beyond grief-stricken blankness. "Go ahead."

"Why me?" The question came out more blunt than she'd intended. "You could have anyone write this. Someone with more experience, better credentials, a name people actually recognize. Why specifically request me?"

For a long moment, he didn't answer. Just looked at her with those sharp blue eyes, like he was deciding how much truth to give her. How much he wanted to say. 

"I read your article," he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "The one about Crime Alley.”

"I—" She blinked, genuinely surprised. "You did?"

"I read everything written about Gotham's most vulnerable neighborhoods." His voice was still quiet, but there was an edge of something intenser underneath now. "Most of it's garbage. Poverty porn, or journalists playing at understanding what they'll never actually experience. Writing about people like they're statistics instead of human beings." He paused, and his eyes locked onto hers with sudden focus. "Yours was different."

She didn't know what to say to that. Her throat had gone tight again, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"Jason grew up in Park Row," Wayne continued. She could hear the grief in his voice again beneath the professional veneer. Subtle, but there. She had seen it this whole time, in the way his eyes flickered when Jason's name was said, how his voice wavered on his name. "I want people to understand what that means. What he survived just to make it to twelve years old. What that kind of neglect does to kids."

He paused, and she saw his jaw tightened almost imperceptively. "I want you to shed light on his upbringing in the obituary. On the reality of what happens to children in this city when every system designed to protect them fails."

Her throat was tight. Too tight. She swallowed hard, forced words past the lump that had formed there. So, she had been wrong. He wanted to shed more light on Jason than she realized. It was just masked behind grief, maybe even guilt. The kind of guilt that came from loving someone and watching them die anyway.

She nodded, kicking herself internally for judging Bruce Wayne too harshly, for assuming he was just another rich man trying to assuage his conscience with charitable donations and empty gestures. "I'll do my best to honor that, Mr. Wayne. And I'm... I'm truly sorry for your loss. He sounds like he was an incredible boy."

"He was." The words were quiet, final. "Thank you."

She stood, gathering her notebook with hands that wanted to shake, preparing to leave. She had her hand on the door handle before his voice stopped her.

"A moment please."

She turned back, hoping she didn’t look too nervous. 

Wayne was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Something that made her feel exposed and vulnerable. "That article of yours, the Crime Alley piece. You had quotes. Perspective from someone who clearly understood the reality of vigilantism in this city. Someone who'd thought deeply about why people like Batman exist." A pause. "Where did you source that information?"

Her heart stopped.

She kept her expression carefully neutral, even as panic clawed up her throat like a living thing. "I met a source in Crime Alley. Someone who wanted to remain anonymous. I promised not to reveal their identity."

"I see." Wayne nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving her face. Then, impossibly, the corner of his mouth ticked up in something that might have been a smile. It was grim, somehow both kind and devastating at once. Like he had expected that answer. "I only ask because... the words sounded familiar to me. The way they were phrased."

She just stared, keeping her face relaxed through sheer force of will, despite the way her pulse was hammering in her throat. He sounded like he knew more than he was letting on. Why had he asked her about her source? How would he even know she had spoken to Robin? 

No. That was impossible.

"Jason read a lot," Wayne continued quietly, and something in his voice had shifted, had become softer again. "He had...strong opinions about the city. About the systems that failed him. About the necessity of taking action when institutions won't." Another pause, and she saw genuine grief flash across his face now, unguarded for just a moment. "He would have appreciated what you wrote. I think he would have wanted his story told by someone who understood. Who listened."

Her panic melted into something softer, warmer. She relaxed fractionally, seeking Wayne's eyes out with her own. 

That must have been why he requested her specifically. The proximity of what she chose to profile to Jason's life. It was a bold decision, yet somehow touching, that he cared enough to think of these things, to want his ward's story told by someone who might actually profile his home accurately. 

"Thank you, Mr. Wayne," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'll have the obituary to you by Friday."

He just nodded in return. The mask of impassiveness had slipped back into place, professional and distant once again.

Sierra snorted, rolling her eyes with such dramatic incredulity that it would have been funny under different circumstances. "Come on. You're telling me you haven't noticed? There's a red hood symbol spray-painted right outside your building's front entrance. Big as shit. How long has that been there?"

Her stomach dropped. The coffee she'd been drinking suddenly tasted sour, threatening to come back up.

"I..." She frowned, trying to keep her expression puzzled rather than panicked. "I can't tell you the last time I actually studied my front door. Are you sure you're not thinking of the building next to mine?"

Sierra looked at her over the rim of her glasses like she'd just claimed the Earth was flat. She was a pretty girl—tall and willowy, with auburn hair that fell in waves past her shoulders and a constellation of freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose like someone had splattered paint across porcelain. 

Just a few years older than her, twenty-nine maybe, she'd grown up in the East End her whole life. Like everyone else who worked at the Gazette, Sierra was obsessed with the city's vigilantes. Had a whole theory board at home, apparently, tracking their movements like some people tracked sports teams or celebrity relationships.

Naturally, this kind of gossip was right up her alley. 

"Please, be for real right now." Sierra's voice dropped to an excited whisper-shout that somehow carried across half the office anyway, making heads turn. "Have you seen him around your block lately? Because aren't you technically outside his territory? Like, significantly outside it?"

Andrew had rolled his chair over by now much to her active displeasure. Because of course this needed an audience. She fought the urge to groan out loud when he spoke up, balancing a can of Coke on his knee like this was just casual water cooler talk and not a discussion that made her want to walk out and quit her job. 

"Red Hood's established territory is Park Row," Andrew said, taking a casual sip of his soda like they were discussing weather patterns. "Especially Crime Alley, that whole area. You're what, six blocks north of that?" He tilted his head thoughtfully, and she could practically see the gears turning. "Maybe he's just expanding his coverage. Extending his purview into new neighborhoods."

Sierra's eyes widened, practically sparkling with excitement, and she knew immediately it was game over.

She groaned. Actually groaned this time, couldn't help it. She knew exactly where this was going now, could see the gears turning in Sierra's head, could predict the next three conversational beats like she was reading from a script. "You know where she lives now, do you, Drew?"

The look of absolute terror that flashed across Andrew's face would have been satisfying if she hadn’t been so irritated. He paled visibly, his eyes going wide as he realized the trap he'd just walked directly into, the implications of what he just said.

"No! No, not like that, I didn't mean—" His words dissolved into stammering, tripping over themselves like they couldn't escape his lips fast enough. "I only know because I dropped her off after we all went to that bar a few weeks ago, remember? I was just making sure everyone got home safe, it was the responsible thing to do—"

"Oh my God." Sierra looked like Christmas had come early and brought her birthday along for the ride. She whipped around to face her fully, practically vibrating in her chair with barely contained excitement. "Andrew took you home?!"

She let her head fall back against her headrest with a thunk, closing her eyes and praying for divine intervention. Lightning strike, earthquake, alien invasion, spontaneous combustion…anything would be preferable to this conversation right now.

"Sierra—" she said tiredly, hoping to derail this before it gained momentum.

"Did he go inside?" Sierra whisper-shouted again. "Did you invite him up? Oh my God, did you—"

"He's sitting right here," she grumbled, eyes still closed, jabbing a finger blindly in Andrew's general direction. "Why don't you ask him yourself instead of speculating about my love life like I'm not even present?"

"Because it's way more fun to watch you get all flustered," Sierra said, completely unrepentant, grinning manically. Her attention snapped to Andrew with the focus of a laser sight. "So? Did you go inside?"

Andrew looked like he desperately wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. He was shaking his head so fast she thought it might detach from his neck and roll away across the office floor. "No! No, absolutely not. I walked her to her door, said goodnight, and went home. That's it. End of story. Nothing else happened."

"Nothing else?" Sierra pounced on the phrasing like a cat on a mouse. "So something happened?"

"Nothing happened!" Andrew's voice had gone up at least half an octave, cracking slightly. "I was being a decent human being! That's literally all! Can we please drop this?"

"You're both horrible," she muttered, finally opening her eyes to glare at them with all the force she could muster. "And can we please get back to the actually concerning part of this conversation? The part where there's apparently a gang tag on my building?"

She didn't dare mention that she had seen the tag the morning after he had drunk her coffee at her kitchen table. That she'd stood on her doorstep staring at it, recognizing the symbol, understanding immediately what it meant. 

She knew exactly what he was doing. Whether it was a warning or just a joke or something else entirely, he was telling her something. Keep in line. Stay aware. I'm watching. 

She'd soured at the thought, pushed it down. Tried to pretend it didn't bother her.

Luckily, Sierra took the bait.

"Vigilante tag," Sierra corrected, but her expression had shifted slightly, an edge of genuine concern creeping in around the edges. "And yeah, that's... actually kind of weird, right? Like, why would he mark your building specifically?"

"Maybe it's not about the building," Andrew offered, seemingly grateful for the subject change. "Maybe it's about the block? Claiming new territory or warning other criminals away from the area?"

"Or maybe," Sierra said slowly, her eyes going comically wide as she looked between the two of them like she was piecing together a conspiracy, "he knows someone who lives there. Someone he's keeping an eye on. Someone who's been writing articles about him."

The blood drained from her face so quickly she felt lightheaded. There was no way her coworkers could know about her run-ins with Red Hood. She would never be able to write an article about anything else ever again. They'd pigeonhole her, make her the vigilante reporter, the one who only covered the capes and masks.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, but her voice came out sharper than she would have liked. "Why would the Red Hood care about some random journalist? I write about a lot of things. It's not like I'm specifically—"

"You literally just published a critique of his methods two weeks ago," Sierra interrupted, leaning forward conspiratorially. "It was the front page. Everyone read it. The mayor's office commented on it."

"Lots of people write about the Red Hood," she protested weakly, even though she knew it was a losing argument.

"Yeah, but you're the only one doing it thoughtfully. Actually engaging with the moral questions instead of just fear-mongering or hero worship." Andrew had that look on his face now too, the one that meant he was connecting dots she didn't want connected. "And you live right on the edge of his territory. And now there's his symbol on your building." He paused, letting that sink in. "That's...that's a lot of coincidences."

"It's literally that. Just a coincidence," she insisted, even though her mind was racing back to three nights ago. To Red Hood standing in her kitchen, helmet pushed up just enough to drink coffee, that jagged scarring visible in the warm light. To the way he'd talked about Robin like he'd known him personally, the way he seemed to ease up and let his guard down for a few moments. How he seemed almost normal before she'd pushed too hard and he'd fled.

He had, for a brief time, seemed almost vulnerable beneath all the armor and violence.

"Is it though?" Sierra pressed, not willing to let it go. "Because honestly, if I were the Red Hood and I read an article that actually made good points about my methodology instead of just calling me a monster, I'd probably want to know more about the person who wrote it. Maybe even keep tabs on them."

"That's creepy," she said flatly, though Sierra had a point. Maybe that's why he had been watching her building, lurking on rooftops, appearing at her window. She hadn't even tried asking him about it the night he had entered her apartment. She would have most likely gotten some sarcastic answer back, some deflection that raised more questions than it answered.

"That's vigilante logic," Sierra countered with a shrug. "They're all creepy. It's kind of their whole thing. The watching from shadows, the stalking, the showing up unannounced."

Andrew was watching her now with an expression she couldn't quite read. Concerned, maybe. Curious. Something that made her skin prickle with awareness. "Have you seen him? Around your neighborhood?"

"What? No. Of course not." The lie came out too quickly and she saw Andrew's eyes narrow fractionally like he'd caught it. "I mean, I've been doing research in Crime Alley, so I've heard stories, but I haven't actually—"

"You've been going to Crime Alley?" Sierra's voice went up again, sharp with alarm. "Alone? At night?"

"During the day," she lied again. She was just racking up stretches of dishonesty today, building a house of cards made of falsehoods. "For interviews. Research. It's my job."

"Your job is going to get you killed if you keep doing things your way," Sierra said bluntly, her excitement giving way to genuine worry. "Especially if you're writing things that piss off armed vigilantes who apparently know where you live."

"I'm not…he's not—" She stopped, took a breath, tried again with more control. "The Red Hood doesn't hurt civilians. That's not his M.O. He targets criminals, people actively hurting others. I'm not in danger."

"You don't know that," Andrew said quietly. There was genuine concern in his voice now. "Look, I know you're trying to do good work here, and I respect that. I really do. But Sierra's right. You're poking at something dangerous. These vigilantes, they don't play by normal rules. They operate outside the law, outside accountability. And if the Red Hood is marking your building, that means he knows who you are and where you live. That's not nothing."

She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell them they were overreacting, that it was fine, that she had it under control. But the truth was sitting heavy in her chest now. 

Red Hood did know who she was. Had been watching her apartment from rooftops. Had slipped through her window and drunk coffee in her kitchen and told her things that made her chest ache with questions she was too terrified to ask.

How did he know so much about Robin? Why did talking about him hurt him so badly?

"I'll be careful," she said finally, which wasn't a lie but also wasn't the reassurance they were looking for.

Sierra studied her for a long moment blearily, then let out a long sigh. "You're going to keep investigating him, aren't you?"

"It's my job."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I'm giving you."

Sierra and Andrew exchanged a look, the kind that made her want to throw something at both of them.

"Just..." Sierra started, then stopped. Tried again, choosing her words carefully. "Just promise you'll be smart about it? And if anything weird happens, and I mean anything, you'll tell someone? Grant, the police, us?"

"I promise," she said, and meant it. Mostly.

"Good." Sierra settled back in her chair, though she still had that crease of worry between her brows. "Because I've gotten used to having you around, and I'd rather not have to break in a new cubicle neighbor because you got yourself murdered by a vigilante with boundary issues."

"How touching."

"I'm a giver." Sierra grinned, but it was strained, not reaching her eyes. "Seriously though. Be careful. Gotham's already dangerous enough without actively poking at the guys who operate outside the law."

"Noted." She turned back to her computer, trying to signal the end of this conversation, hoping they'd take the hint. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have actual work to do."

Sierra made a show of rolling her eyes but wheeled back to her own desk. Andrew lingered by her cubicle, shifting his weight from foot to foot in a way that made it clear he had something else to say.

She looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Can we—" He gestured vaguely toward the hallway, toward the meeting rooms. "Can I talk to you? Privately?"

Her stomach sank. "Andrew—"

"Just for a minute. Please?"

She sighed, saved her document with more force than necessary, and stood. She had a feeling she knew where this was going. "Fine. But just a minute.”

They walked in silence to one of the small meeting rooms near the back of the office, the kind with glass walls that technically gave them privacy but still let the entire newsroom see that they were having a conversation. She left the door slightly ajar on purpose, leaning against the table rather than sitting.

Andrew ignored her silent cues and closed the door behind them. He ran a hand through his hair—dirty blonde, perpetually a little too long, like he kept meaning to get it cut but never quite got around to it.

He was attractive in that conventional way that probably worked on most people: tall, decent build, clear blue eyes, the kind of smile that put people at ease. Nice face, strong features. Good job, steady income, no obvious red flags beyond the occasional too-many-beers situation.

Just...not her type.

She'd never been able to articulate exactly what her type was, but standing here looking at Andrew, she knew with certainty he wasn't it. Maybe it was the hair. She'd always dated brunettes, she realized distantly. Typically men that her parents would disapprove of. 

Andrew was too... light. Too safe. Too predictable. The kind of guy you brought home to meet your parents, not the kind that made your pulse race.

Which wasn't fair to him. She knew it wasn't fair. But knowing something logically and feeling it emotionally were two very different things.

"I wanted to apologize," Andrew started, not quite meeting her eyes, focusing instead on a spot somewhere over her left shoulder. "About Sierra. That whole thing out there. She gets excited about gossip and doesn't know when to quit, and I shouldn't have mentioned knowing where you live."

She waved a hand dismissively. "It's fine. That's just Sierra being Sierra. I'm used to it."

"Still. It was awkward, and I didn't mean to make it more awkward by letting slip that I know where you live. That came out wrong, like I've been... I don't know, keeping track of you or something."

"Andrew, seriously. It's fine. You walked me home from a bar. That's not weird. That's actually nice." She softened her voice because he genuinely looked uncomfortable now. "I appreciated it, for what it's worth. Not a lot of guys would have bothered."

He smiled at that, small but earnest, and his posture relaxing fractionally. "Good. That's... good."

A pause. She waited, sensing there was more, that this wasn't the real reason he'd pulled her aside.

"About that night," he continued, and now he was definitely not meeting her eyes, focusing instead on a spot somewhere over her left shoulder. "I'm sorry if I drank too much. Or if I said anything inappropriate. I know I can get a little... overly friendly when I've had a few."

"You were fine," she assured him, meaning it. "A little flirty, maybe, but nothing I couldn't handle. And you were a perfect gentleman when we got to my building. So no harm done."

"Yeah?" He looked at her now, something hopeful flickering in his expression, vulnerable in a way that made her chest tighten with guilt. "Because I've been thinking about that night and..." He took a breath, seemed to gather courage, squaring his shoulders. "Would you want to grab a drink sometime? Like, just the two of us. Not the whole office group. An actual...you know. A date."

Oh.

She'd known this was coming. Had seen it building over the past few months in the way he found excuses to stop by her desk, the way he laughed a little too hard at things she said that weren't particularly funny, the way he'd offered to walk her home sometimes. But knowing it was coming didn't make it easier to figure out how to respond now that he'd actually asked.

She hesitated, her mind spinning through calculations she didn't entirely want to be making.

She didn't feel anything for Andrew. Not really. No spark, no flutter in her chest, no magnetic pull that made her want to lean closer when they talked. He was nice. Attractive enough. Had a good job, seemed stable, made her laugh occasionally. But there was no charge there, no electricity, none of that breathless feeling that made you want to know everything about someone, that kept you up at night thinking about them.

But.

That didn't mean something couldn't grow, right? People built relationships on less than lightning strikes all the time. Sometimes attraction developed slowly, built over time as you got to know someone, as familiarity bred affection. Maybe Andrew was one of those people, someone who got more interesting the longer you knew them. Maybe she just needed to give him a real chance, outside the office, without deadline stress or the constant background noise of the newsroom or coworkers watching.

Besides, she hadn't been on a date in...how long had it been? Over a year? Since before she'd moved to Gotham, definitely. Before the Gazette, before her whole life had become work and occasional drinks with coworkers. Her life had narrowed to this singular focus—the stories, the people who needed their stories told, the problems she was trying to expose—and somewhere along the way she'd stopped making space for anything else.

Sometimes, late at night between her four walls, she got lonely. Not lonely in the sense of wanting company. She liked her solitude, needed it even. But lonely in the deeper sense, the kind that sat deep in her chest and whispered that maybe there was supposed to be more to life than just work. That maybe having someone to share things with, someone to come home to, wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

And what was the harm in one date? In trying? Andrew was a decent guy. He clearly liked her. Maybe that was enough to start with.

"Okay," she heard herself say. "Yeah. We could do that."

Andrew's face lit up like she'd just told him he'd won the lottery. "Really? I mean…great! That's great." He was grinning now, wide and boyish in his enthusiasm, and she felt a small pang of guilt that his excitement so vastly outweighed her own tentativeness. "Are you free Friday? There's this new place in the Diamond District, Italian, supposed to be really good—"

"Friday works," she interrupted gently, before he could get too far ahead of himself. "But maybe somewhere a little more casual?"

Less formal would make it feel less like a date and more like a get-together, which would take some of the pressure off her going into it. 

God, she was such an asshole.

"Right, yeah, of course." He was nodding enthusiastically, already planning. "There's a good pub in Midtown. Real food, decent beer, not too loud. How's that sound?"

"That sounds perfect." She gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile, even as a voice in the back of her head whispered that she was pathetic and she knew it.

"Okay. Great. I'll make a reservation, or do pubs not do reservations? I'll figure it out." He was talking faster now, nervous energy spilling out in a rush. "Seven? Or is that too early? Too late?"

She gave him the sweetest smile she could muster, the kind that felt like a mask. "Seven's fine, Andrew."

"Right. Seven. Friday." He was backing toward the door now, still grinning like he couldn't quite believe his luck. "This is…I'm really glad you said yes."

"Me too," she said, and tried to mean it. Tried to ignore the hollow feeling in her chest, the sense that she was making a mistake she couldn't quite articulate.

He left the meeting room practically bouncing, radiating joy, and she watched him go with a strange mixture of fondness and resignation. He was sweet. He was trying. Maybe that was enough. Maybe she was just being impossible, holding out for something that didn't exist, chasing a feeling she'd imagined.

She walked back to her desk slowly, ignoring Sierra's smug look from across the divider and sat down in front of her computer. The article she'd been working on stared back at her, cursor blinking accusingly. The Chen article. She wanted it finished before the weekend.

But her mind kept drifting to other things. To the red hood symbol spray-painted outside her building. To coffee in her kitchen with a man whose face she'd barely seen, who seemed like both an enigma and just a ball of trauma all at once, layers upon layers she couldn't quite penetrate. To the way he'd talked about Robin. Past tense and pained, like talking about someone he'd lost. A memory that haunted. 

She shook her head, forced herself to focus on the screen. She had a date on Friday. With Andrew. A nice, normal guy who worked a nice, normal job and who probably wouldn't show up at her window in the middle of the night with guns and a philosophy about justice that made her chest ache with complicated feelings she didn't want to examine.

That was good. That was healthy. That was what normal people did. They went on dates with colleagues who asked them out, not... whatever the alternative was. Not pining after vigilantes who beat people bloody in alleys.

She started typing, determined to get work done, determined not to think about whether the symbol would really be there when she got home.

Determined not to wonder why the thought of it made her pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

—--

When she arrived back at her apartment, the sun had already set and the sounds of the evening rush had died down to a low murmur. There was nothing but the occasional passing car and the low, ever-present rumble of the city. Sirens in the distance, muffled voices from open windows, the rattle of the subway beneath the streets like the city's heartbeat.

She stood on her front step, staring up at the red hood symbol spray-painted above the entrance.

Staring was the wrong term. She glared at it furiously, letting her anger build with every second she spent looking at it.

It was exactly where Sierra had said it would be, impossible to miss once you were actually looking for it. Bold red paint, still relatively fresh based on how vibrant the color was, positioned directly above the door at eye level. Not large enough to be ostentatious, but prominent enough that anyone entering or leaving would see it. Would know.

A territorial marker. A warning. A message.

And the message, as far as she could tell, was clear as day: Watch yourself. I'm watching. You're mine.

She'd spent the entire subway ride home getting progressively angrier about it, letting the fury build with each stop, each passing minute. The audacity of it all. Showing up at her apartment, drinking her coffee, having what felt like an actual conversation, almost something like understanding between them — and then turning around and tagging her building like she was some kind of problem that needed monitoring. Like he had the right to mark her space, to make it clear he could show up whenever he wanted.

Was this about the article? Her critique of his methods? Was this his way of telling her to back off and to stop writing about him? To fall in line or face consequences?

Or was it simpler than that? Just pure intimidation. The kind of power play that men seemed to think worked on women. I know where you live. I'm watching. Be careful what you write about me. Step out of line and see what happens.

Well, fuck that.

She didn't bother going inside. Just turned on her heel, shoved her hands in her jacket pockets—knife on the right, pepper spray on the left—and started walking. Fast, purposeful strides that ate up the blocks between her building and Park Row with a barely contained sense of fury. 

She was going to find him. She was going to track him down in whatever dark corner of Crime Alley he was currently lurking in, and she was going to tell him exactly what she thought about his little territorial pissing contest. About thinking he could intimidate her into silence. About being a hypocritical asshole who preached about protecting people while simultaneously harassing the one journalist who was actually trying to understand his perspective, who'd given him a platform when everyone else just called him a monster.

The walk to Crime Alley took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of her anger building with every step, fueling her forward even as the streets got darker, more dangerous. The smart thing would have been to wait until daylight. To approach this rationally, professionally. To maybe not go looking for an armed vigilante while pissed off enough to do something stupid.

But she'd apparently left smart back at the office along with her common sense and any sense of self-preservation.

Crime Alley at night was a different beast than during the day. The shadows were deeper, more absolute, like they had weight and substance. The few working streetlights seemed to create more darkness than they dispelled, their sickly yellow glow making everything outside their radius impossible to see clearly, creating pockets of absolute black. She could hear things moving in that darkness. Footsteps, voices, the scuttle of rats or worse, sounds that made her skin prickle with awareness.

Her hand moved to her knife, fingers wrapping around the handle through the fabric of her pocket, finding comfort in its solid presence.

She walked deeper into the maze of streets and alleys, scanning rooftops, looking for any sign of him. The helmet would catch light, and would be visible even in the dark. She just had to—

"Well, well. What do we have here?"

She spun around, heart leaping into her throat.

A man stepped out from a recessed doorway, materializing from shadows like he'd been waiting for exactly this moment. Tall, rangy, wearing a casual posture that came from being comfortable with violence. Mid-thirties maybe, wearing a stained jacket and jeans that had seen better days, clothes that had absorbed the grime of the city.

His eyes tracked over her in a way that made her skin crawl. She met his leer head-on with a sharp glare regardless, refusing to show fear.

"You lost, sweetheart?" He took a step closer, and she saw the knife in his hand. Longer than hers and with a serrated edge that looked like it had been sharpened recently, gleaming dully in the weak light. "This ain't a good neighborhood for pretty girls to be wandering around alone."

Her hand tightened on her own knife, adjusting her grip. "I'm fine. Just passing through."

"Yeah?" He smiled, showing teeth that were yellowed and crooked. "Well, there's a toll for passing through. Call it a... safety tax." Another step, closing the distance between them. "Your purse should cover it. And that nice jacket. Maybe your phone too."

"I don't think so." She pulled out her knife, flicked it open in one smooth motion she'd practiced a hundred times in her apartment. Her heart was hammering but her hand was steady. The best thing to do was to avoid displaying any sense of hesitation. "Back off."

He laughed, a wet, phlegmy sound. "Oh, she's got a knife! That's cute. Really cute."

He moved fast, lunging forward with his own blade leading, going for her throat.

Training kicked in. The self-defense classes her father had insisted on, the practice she'd done in her apartment until the movements became muscle memory. She dodged left, felt his knife whistle past her shoulder close enough that she felt the breeze of its passage, and brought her own blade up in a tight arc.

It connected with his forearm. Not deep, but enough. Enough to draw blood, to make him curse and jerk back with a hiss of pain.

"You bitch—"

He came at her again, angrier now, sloppy with rage. She knew with sudden, terrifying clarity that she was outmatched. He was bigger, stronger with a longer reach and more experience with real violence. And she'd just pissed him off enough that he wasn't going to settle for her purse anymore. He was going to hurt her, going to make her pay for having the audacity to fight back.

She raised her knife again, heartbeat bleeding into her ears until it was all she could hear, preparing for the impact—

A blur of red and black dropped from above, landing between them with enough force to crack the pavement, sending up dust and small fragments of concrete.

The thug had maybe half a second to register what was happening before Red Hood's fist connected with his face. The sound was awful. Bone and cartilage crunched, the sound so visceral that it made her stomach turn. The thug went down hard, his knife clattering away across the concrete.

But Red Hood didn't stop.

He followed the man down, grabbed him by the collar, hauled him partially upright just to hit him again. And again. And again. Each blow landed with brutal precision. His jaw, his ribs, his face again — methodical violence delivered with terrifying efficiency. 

The thug tried to raise his hands, tried to protect himself, but Red Hood batted them aside like they were nothing.

"Red Hood—" she started, her voice weak with shock.

Another punch. Blood was spraying, painting the concrete in dark spatters she could see even in the dim light, creating abstract patterns like grotesque art.

"Red Hood!"

The thug was barely moving now, just making small, hurt noises that might have been pleas. His face was a mess. Nose clearly broken, bent at an unnatural angle. One eye already swelling shut, the other rolling back. Blood pouring from his mouth, teeth visible through split lips.

There was so much blood. Too much. It was everywhere—on Red Hood's gloves, on the ground, splattered across the thug's clothes, pooling beneath his head.

She moved without thinking, grabbed Red Hood's arm mid-swing and pulled with all her strength.

"Stop! You're going to kill him!"

For a second, a second that felt like a minute dragging by in slow motion, she thought he might turn that violence on her. His whole body was wound tight, vibrating with barely contained rage, coiled like a spring compressed past its breaking point. Through the helmet's lenses she could sense nothing but white light and fury, something primal and uncontrolled.

A beat passed. He stared at her for a moment that stretched impossibly long, chest heaving, his breath mechanical and harsh through the modulator.

He dropped the thug.

The man crumpled to the ground like a puppet with cut strings, unconscious or close to it, chest rising and falling in shallow with pained breaths.

Red Hood stood, taking a step back, creating distance. His gloves were covered in blood, dark and slick. He flexed them at his sides like he was fighting the urge to reach for the man again, to finish what he'd started.

The adrenaline washed away from her slowly, draining from her system and leaving behind cold reality. She sucked in a breath through her teeth, her hands shaking. The taste of bile coated the back of her throat.

"What the fuck," she breathed, staring at the unconscious body. At the pool of blood surrounding the wheezing man, dark against the dirt and concrete. "What the fuck was that? You could have...he wasn't a threat anymore, you could have killed him—"

"He pulled a knife on you." Red Hood's voice was distorted by the helmet but she could hear the anger underneath, hot and barely controlled. "He pulled a fucking knife on you."

"So you beat him half to death?!"

"So I made sure he'd never pull a knife on you again!" He rounded on her, and even though he was several feet away she took an instinctive step back, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. "What the hell are you doing here? In Crime Alley? At night? Alone?"

"I was looking for you!"

"Well congratulations, you fucking found me!" He gestured sharply at the unconscious thug, the motion violent and jerky. "Along with every other piece of shit who sees a woman walking alone and thinks she's easy prey! What part of 'this is dangerous' do you not understand?!"

"I can take care of myself—"

"Oh really, princess?" He moved closer, and she could feel the fury radiating off him like heat, like something physical pressing against her skin. "Is that why you were about to get robbed? Stabbed? Worse? Because you were handling it so well? You’re fucking insane!"

She gawked at him, frazzled by his tangible fury. Still reeling from what had just happened, from how close she'd come to real harm. "I stabbed him first!"

"With a pocket knife!" He was right in front of her now, close enough that she could smell the blood on his gloves. "Against a guy twice your size with a serrated blade and zero conscience! Do you have any idea how badly that could have gone? What he would have done to you?"

"I was fine—"

"You were lucky!" His voice had gone ragged, breaking around the edges. "You were lucky I happened to be close enough to hear. Lucky I got here before he—" He cut himself off, turned away sharply, one hand coming up to his helmet like his head hurt. "Jesus Christ. What the fuck were you thinking?"

"I was thinking," she said, her own anger pushing past the shock and fear, "that I wanted to give you a piece of my mind about tagging my goddamn building!"

He went very still. Turned back slowly, deliberately. "What?"

"The red hood symbol. Above my front door." She crossed her arms, partly defensive, partly to stop her hands from shaking, to hide the way she was trembling. The adrenaline crash was hitting her hard and fast, and she didn't want Red Hood to notice. Didn't need to give him any more ammunition. "Real subtle. Really sending a clear message there."

"A message." He repeated it flatly, like he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

"Don't play dumb. I write one article critiquing your methods and suddenly my building's marked?" Her voice was rising now, weeks of frustration and fear and confusion spilling over like a dam breaking. "What is that, a warning? Intimidation? Your way of telling me to back off, to fall in line or else?"

"Intimidate you?" He sounded genuinely shocked. "Are you…did you walk into Crime Alley, looking for me, at night, alone, because you thought I tagged your building to threaten you?"

"What else am I supposed to think?! You mark my building like it's territory, like you're claiming it or—or warning me off or—"

"I did it to protect you!"

She stopped mid-sentence, mouth still open, brain struggling to process the shift, the raw honesty in his voice.

"You... what?"

"I marked your building, you idiot," he hissed with quiet rage. "To let every criminal in a ten-block radius know that the place is under my protection. That anyone who touches that building, anyone who goes near the people inside, answers to me." His hands clenched into fists at his sides, blood still dripping from his gloves. "That they'd have to go through me first."

She stared at him, speechless, her anger evaporating like smoke.

"You published an article calling me a symptom of systemic failure," he continued, taking a step toward her, his voice gaining intensity. "You made yourself a target for every gang member, every dealer, every piece of shit who thinks journalists are enemies. You painted a bullseye on your back and then kept walking around the Narrows like nothing had changed. With your head held high like a goddamn moron who doesn't understand that some people don't give a fuck about press credentials."

"Excuse me, I don't need—"

"You do need." Another step, closing the distance between them. "Because you're smart and brave and stubborn and you don't know when to stop pushing. You can’t win these kinds of fights with a notebook and your goddamn good intentions." His voice had gone rough again, scraped raw. "You're fucking naive. You think you're invincible because you have principles."

He was close now. Very close. Close enough that she could see the blood splattered on his armor, could hear the slight mechanical distortion of his breathing through the helmet, faster than it should be. Could smell the cigarette smoke clinging to the seams of his jacket, see the muck from the alley on his gloves, dark and viscous.

"You think I'm harassing you?" His voice had gone quieter, more intense. "I'm trying to keep you alive, sweetheart. Because apparently you're determined to get yourself killed proving a point on your little crusade to save the world through words."

"I don't need you to protect me," she said, but it came out weaker than she intended, less certain, Her back had hit something solid. The alley wall, she realized distantly. When had she backed up that far? When had he gotten so close?

"Yes, you do," he said, moving into her space, close enough that she could feel the heat of him radiating through his armor. "I don't care what you think about me. I don't care if you think I'm a monster or a symptom or whatever the fuck your next article calls me." His voice dropped lower, more intense. "I care that you're still alive to think at all. I care that you're still breathing, still writing, still being an idiotic girl who thinks she can change the world."

Her heart was hammering. From the adrenaline, she told herself desperately. From the fight, from standing in a dark alley with an unconscious body ten feet away, from the violence she'd just witnessed. Not from the way he was looking at her, or seemed to be looking at her. It was impossible to tell through the helmet but she could feel his gaze like a physical weight. 

Not from the way he'd said everything like it mattered to him personally, like the thought of her dying was something he couldn't tolerate.

"You're insane," she said, but there was no heat in it. Her brain was racing, trying to understand what was happening here. Something felt familiar about his words, about the way he was standing, about the cadence of his speech.

"You strolled into Crime Alley looking for me because you were pissed about graffiti," he countered, and she could hear something almost like amusement beneath the anger now. "Who's the insane one here, princess?"

"Still you. Definitely you." There was no bite to her voice now. She sounded breathless and she knew it, could hear the way her voice had gotten softer and more uncertain. But her heart was hammering through her chest, her pulse so loud she could hear it in her ears.

"Yeah?" He leaned in slightly, one hand coming up to brace against the wall beside her head. Not touching her or trapping her, she could duck under his arm easily if she wanted. But she didn't move. Couldn't move. Was caught in whatever this moment was. "You came looking for me."

She shivered despite herself. "To yell at you."

"You came looking." His voice had dropped lower, intimate despite the distortion. "You could have called the police. Could have written another exposé about territorial vigilantes. Could have even ignored it. But you came looking for me. In person. At night. In the most dangerous part of the city."

"I was angry—"

"You were worried." He said it with certainty, like he could see straight through her carefully constructed walls. He leaned in even closer. "You thought I was threatening you and it pissed you off, but underneath all that you were worried. About what it meant. About why I'd do it."

She glared up at him but her breathing had gone shallow, too rapid. "Don't tell me what I was feeling."

"Then tell me I'm wrong." If his mask was off, she was certain his lips would be grazing her ear, his breath ghosting across her skin in a way that would make her knees weak.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Couldn't find words that weren't lies, couldn't force out denials that would crumble the moment they hit the air between them.

They were chest to chest now, or would be if he moved another inch forward. She could feel the warmth radiating off him through his armor, through her jacket—heat that shouldn't be this palpable. Could smell leather and gunpowder and something underneath that was becoming dangerously familiar now. Her pulse hammered against her throat, a frantic drumbeat in her own ears.

And she didn't know if she wanted to shove him away or pull him closer. Didn't know which impulse was winning.

"You can't keep doing this," she said, but her voice still came out weaker than she intended. "Showing up. Marking my building. You don't even know me."

"Now who's telling me what I'm feeling, hm?" His other hand came up, not touching her but close, fingers curling near her shoulder like he wanted to but was physically restraining himself. Like touching her would shock him. "I know you're trying to change things. That you actually give a damn about the people everyone else ignores. I know you're brave enough. or stupid enough, to walk into Crime Alley looking for trouble." A pause, weighted with something heavier. "I know you desperately want to know what happened to Robin. Is that why you came here, really? Is that why you’re still hunting me down?"

Her breath hitched. "Don't—"

"He would've liked you," Red Hood continued, and there was something raw in his voice now, something bitter. "Would've told you to keep fighting. Keep writing. Keep being reckless and stubborn. Not enough of that, in this city."

She froze. Blinked up at him, her thoughts scattering. He was so damn close. Close enough that she could see her own reflection distorted in those white lenses. "How do you know that?"

"Because—" He stopped, and for a moment she could have sworn he caught himself, swallowed back words that threatened to expose too much. The hand beside her head curled into a fist against the brick, his knuckles going white even through the gloves. "Because he cared about the same things you do. Believed in the same things. And he would've wanted someone to keep fighting for them after he—" His voice cracked, splintered at the edges. "After he couldn't anymore."

She was barely breathing. Her mind was racing, puzzle pieces clicking together with devastating clarity, scraps she'd been collecting from their interactions. Her focus was hazy with how close he was to her, how tense and electric the air felt between them, but something inside her brain was clicking. 

I care that you're still alive to think at all.

She felt like her knees were about to give out beneath her.

"Red Hood—"

"Don't." He pushed off the wall abruptly, creating distance between them so fast she actually swayed forward before catching herself. "Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to."

She took a step forward. Another. Her voice came out as a plea, more desperate than she realized. "What if I do want the answers?"

He laughed, but it was hollow, empty. "No, you don't. Trust me." He turned away, toward the mouth of the alley, still clearly tense. "C'mon. I'll take you home."

The dismay that radiated off her was palpable, thick enough to choke on. "I can get myself—"

"You can’t take the subway from here and you're not walking." His voice brooked no argument, iron wrapped in distortion. "I'm taking you home. End of discussion."

She wanted to protest, to insist she didn't need an escort, and didn't need protection. But the adrenaline was draining out of her system now and her legs felt more shaky than reliable. The thug was groaning softly behind them now and she didn't want to be here when he woke up. Didn't want to explain any of this to the cops who would eventually show up. Didn't want to give Red Hood another reason to finish what he'd started, to add another body to his count.

"Fine," she muttered, looking down at her shoes.

He led her out of the alley, down a side street to where she stopped short, her breath catching.

A motorcycle was parked in the shadows between two buildings. Not just any motorcycle—this thing was a beast. All black with red accents that matched his helmet, sleek and predatory-looking, the kind of bike that was built for speed and violence in equal measure. 

Custom, she realized immediately. Had to be. The armor plating on the sides, the reinforced frame, modifications she couldn't even name but could tell were there — none of it was something you could buy on the commercial market.

"You've got to be kidding me," she gaped, whipping around to stare at him with wide eyes.

The helmet tilted toward her with what she imagined was curiosity. "What?"

She snorted, eyebrows climbing toward her hairline as she gestured pointedly at the bike. "I'm not getting on that thing."

"Yes, you are." He was already moving toward it with easy familiarity, pulling something from a compartment on the side. "Unless you'd prefer I call you a cab and wait around until it shows up? Which, given that we're in Crime Alley and you just pulled a knife on someone, seems like a spectacularly bad idea."

She stared at the motorcycle with deep suspicion, arms crossed defensively. She'd never been on one before. Never had any desire to be on one. They seemed like death traps on two wheels, the kind of thing people rode right before they became statistics.

"It's perfectly safe," he said, probably reading the incredulity in her expression. 

She gave him a flat, deadpan look. "Given your current career choice, forgive me if your definition of 'safe' is probably wildly different from mine."

"Fair point." He pulled out a helmet from the bike— sleek, with full-face coverage that looked far too high-quality for the average Gothamite. Held it out to her like an offering, or a challenge. "But I've been riding for years and I've never crashed. Well." He paused, tilting his head in consideration. "Never crashed on accident."

She wanted to throw something at him. "That's incredibly reassuring, thank you for that."

"Would you prefer I lie?"

"I'd prefer you let me walk home."

"Yeah, because you've proven to be full of good ideas lately. Helmet. Now."

She took it from him with a scowl, turning it over in her hands. It was heavier than she expected, solid and well-made, probably worth as much as a more than a few months of her rent. The visor was tinted dark enough that she wouldn't be able to see much through it at night. "How do I even—"

She tried to put it on, but her hands were still shaking. The adrenaline crash was in full effect now and she couldn't figure out how to get it to sit right on her head. It kept sliding, sitting too far forward and blocking her vision entirely.

"Here." Red Hood's voice was softer now, gentler. Completely different from the pure fury he'd shown minutes ago. He took the helmet from her fumbling hands with unexpected care. "Let me."

He stepped closer, back in her space, towering over her. He lifted the helmet and positioned it properly on her head with a gentleness that seemed at odds with everything else about him, pushing it down carefully.

She froze, not expecting the tenderness. Not expecting him to touch her like she was something fragile.

She hoped desperately then that she didn't smell from the day, that he couldn't feel how fast her heart was beating, couldn't sense the way her pulse jumped at every point of contact.

His fingers brushed against her jaw as he adjusted the fit, large hands surprisingly deft as they tucked stray strands of hair out of the way delicately. 

"Okay?" His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. Her chest felt too tight, too constricted, like her ribs had shrunk.

She swallowed hard and nodded, not trusting her own voice to respond.

He fastened the chin strap, taking time not to pinch her skin, fingers grazing her throat. When he was done, he tapped the top of the helmet twice, two solid knocks that rang throughout the enclosed space.

"There. Now you won't crack your skull open if I have to brake hard."

Even with the helmet on, she still managed to shoot him a frown. "Still not reassuring."

"I'm not trying to reassure you. I'm trying to keep you alive. Don't you listen?" He pushed her visor down with one gloved finger, and then swung his leg over the bike with practiced ease, settling into the seat lazily. The engine roared to life, loud and aggressive, all barely contained power. "Get on."

She stared at the small space behind him, at the way she'd have to press against his back, wrap her arms around him to hold on. The intimacy of it made her hesitate. She was hyperaware of every point of contact that was about to happen, of how close they'd be.

"I don't bite," he said, and she could hear the amusement threading through his voice even over the roar of the engine. "Usually."

"Not helping," she grumbled, but her traitorous body was already moving.

"Wasn't trying to help," he patted the seat behind him. "I was trying to get you to hurry up before someone sees us and I have to explain why I'm giving a civilian a ride."

She took a shaky breath, gave a silent prayer to any god that might be listening, and climbed on behind him.

Immediately the problem she'd dreaded became glaringly apparent. There was nowhere to put her hands that wasn't on him. The bike was designed for this, for a passenger to wrap themselves around the driver like a second skin, but knowing that didn't make it less awkward.

"You're going to have to hold on," he said with thinly veiled amusement. "I'm not going slow, and if you fall off, I'm not stopping to pick you up."

She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper and dug her nails into her palms, resisting the urge to elbow him between the shoulder blades. "You're a terrible person."

"Tell me something I don’t know. You’re stalling, princess."

She was. She wrapped her arms around his waist, tentatively at first, trying desperately to maintain some kind of space between them. But the moment he revved the engine, the bike thrumming beneath them, she pressed closer involuntarily, arms tightening around his midsection.

Even through his armor, through her jacket and layers of tactical gear, she could feel the heat of him. The solid muscle underneath all that protection, the way his breathing shifted and deepened as she held on. 

The proximity was overwhelming, more intense than when they'd been chest to chest in the alley. This felt inescapable. Her thighs were pressed against his, her chest against his back, her arms encircling his torso like she was trying to merge with him.

The realization hit her like a freight train. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been this close to a man and enjoyed it even half as much.

"Good?" His voice came through distorted but she could feel it rumble through his chest through her arms. She fought the urge to shiver. 

"Define good," she managed, trying desperately to focus on anything other than the heat and hardness of him.

"Still on the bike. Not actively panicking."

"What's the opposite of 'actively'?"

"Don’t be a smartass." And then he kicked off.

The acceleration was immediate and terrifying, stealing the breath from her lungs. She gasped, arms tightening instinctively, pressing herself even closer into his back as the world blurred into streaks of light and shadow around them. 

He navigated through the narrow streets with reckless precision, taking corners that made her stomach drop, weaving between potholes and debris like it was second nature. Like the bike was an extension of his body.

She should have been terrified. Should have been screaming at him to slow down, to be careful, to drive like a normal person instead of someone with a death wish and no regard for traffic laws.

But there was something exhilarating about it. Something that made her blood sing. The wind whipping past them, cold and sharp against any exposed skin. The power of the engine between her legs, thrumming with barely leashed violence. The way he moved with the bike like they were one entity. 

She could see why he liked this. It matched everything about him. The recklessness, the attachment to danger, the need for control and speed. An adrenaline rush that probably rivaled the high of hunting criminals.

It took less than ten minutes to reach her building, a trip that would have taken twenty on the subway with two transfers and too many stops. He didn't stop out front where anyone could see them, instead turning down the alley beside her building with expert precision, killing the engine in the shadows where no one would see them from the street.

The sudden silence was deafening, almost painful. She could hear her own breathing, harsh and quick inside the helmet, echoing back at her. Could feel his own pulse through the points where their bodies were still pressed together, where she was still holding on like he might disappear if she let go.

She should let go. Should climb off the bike, thank him for the ride, go inside, and pretend this whole night hadn't happened. Pretend her body wasn't still singing with adrenaline and something far more dangerous.

She didn't move. Couldn't make herself.

"You can let go now," he said quietly. Was that breathlessness in his voice? "Unless you're planning on holding on all night."

She was suddenly glad she was wearing the helmet so he couldn't see the flush burning across her cheeks.

She shook herself out of whatever stupor had taken hold of her and released him slowly, her arms feeling strangely empty as she pulled back. She climbed off the bike on shaky legs, partly from the ride, and partly from everything else crashing down on her at once.

She fumbled with the helmet strap, her fingers trembling too much to manage the clasp. Red Hood reached out without hesitation and unclasped it for her with the same gentle efficiency he'd used to put it on. He lifted it off her head, careful not to pull her hair or jostle her head too much.

"There," he said, and she swore she could hear something soft in his voice again. "Safe and sound."

She stared at the helmet in his hands, her eyes trailing down to the blood still staining his gloves. They were dry now, just dark red splotches against the black leather that looked almost black themselves. "Can I ask you something?"

He paused. "You can ask. Doesn't mean I'll answer."

She fought the urge to glare at him again, opting instead for a deep inhale. 

"Why do you care?" The question came out smaller than she intended, vulnerable in a way she hated. "About whether I'm safe. About tagging my building. Why does it matter to you?"

He was quiet for a long moment. Long enough that she thought he might not answer, might just leave her hanging with this question like he'd left so many others unanswered. She didn't miss how he shifted, how his fingers flexed in his gloves against his thighs like he was fighting the urge to reach for something. He turned away slightly, like he couldn't let her look at him. "You gonna overthink this one too? C'mon, sweetheart. Use that big brain of yours and figure it out."

Her throat felt too tight, like someone was squeezing it. "Red Hood—"

"Stay out of trouble," he said, cutting her off before she could finish the thought, before she could push for the answer they both knew she wanted. "Go inside. Lock your door. And for fuck’s sake, don't go wandering into Crime Alley looking for me again."

"What if I need to find you?"

"You won't."

"Oh, you just know everything now?"

He didn't answer. Just reached for the helmet she'd been wearing, placed it back in the compartment with deliberate care. His hand moved to the ignition, fingers curling around the key. He was preparing to leave, ready to disappear into the night like he'd never been there at all. Like none of this had happened.

She hated it.

She hated the way he could just do this. Show up when he wanted, leave when it suited him, dodge every question that mattered while demanding answers from her. Hated that he could pin her against walls and mark her building and beat men half to death to protect her, but couldn't give her the one thing she actually needed: the truth.

And she knew why. Of course she knew why. They both knew why he was dodging, dancing around it, refusing to confirm what was sitting right there between them like a third presence, like a ghost. Neither of them wanted to be the first to say it out loud. To make it real. To cross that line that, once crossed, couldn't be uncrossed.

But she was tired. Bone-deep exhausted. Tired of games, tired of half-truths, tired of feeling like she was constantly two steps behind while he held all the cards and controlled every interaction. She'd walked into Crime Alley tonight looking for answers, and she'd be damned if she left with nothing but more questions.

"You looked a lot better with the cape."

The words hung in the air like a gunshot, echoing in the enclosed space of the alley.

He froze. His entire body went rigid in a way that was answer enough even before the silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. His hand was still on the ignition but he wasn't moving. She wasn’t even sure if he was breathing.

She watched him, watched the way his shoulders had locked up like someone had replaced his spine with steel, the way every muscle had gone tense. Watched him process what she'd just said, what she'd pieced together, what she knew.

He had always seemed familiar. All it had taken was the right words, the right cadence, and she had known. 

"You—" Her voice cracked, breaking on the word. She swallowed hard and tried again, softer this time. "I never thanked you. For letting me use your quotes. For trusting me with your words." 

Her throat was tight, burning with emotion she couldn't quite name. "I just... thank you. You changed my life."

He said nothing. Didn't move. Didn't deny it. Didn't confirm it either, but the lack of denial was confirmation enough, wasn't it? The silence was its own answer.

The seconds ticked by. Five. Ten. Fifteen. She counted them in her head, counted her own heartbeats thundering against her ribs like they were trying to escape, counted the ways this could go wrong, all the ways he could react badly to this.

Then, slowly, achingly slow, he finally turned his head. Looked back over his shoulder at her.

And everything about him was different.

The measured cockiness was gone. The dangerous swagger, the aggressive confidence, the barely contained violence that usually defined his movements and his presence. All of it had vanished like smoke, leaving behind something she'd never seen from him before.

What was left was something rawer. Younger. More vulnerable than she'd imagined he could be.

He moved hesitantly, turning on the bike to face her fully but not getting off, not coming closer. She could  tell he was afraid. He didn't know what to do with this moment, with what she knew. With the fact that his secret was out and exposed.

He looked like a kid again. Like the fifteen-year-old boy who'd walked her home years ago and teased her about her article, before whatever had broken him and remade him into this.

She didn't move. She could only stand there and watch him wrestle with something she couldn't see, some internal war playing out behind that helmet that hid everything.

He didn't say anything. A long, heavy breath escaped through the helmet's filters, shaky and uncertain.

And just like that, like flipping a switch, the edge was back. He straightened up, turned away from her, and put his hands back on the bike. The Red Hood persona snapped into place like armor over whatever vulnerability she'd glimpsed for those few precious seconds.

His hand twisted the ignition.

"Wait—"

But he didn't wait. The engine roared to life, one heavy rev that shattered the fragile quiet of the moment, and he was gone. Peeling out of the alley in a spray of gravel and exhaust that made her stumble back, the bike's growl fading into a distant rumble and then nothing at all. Just a disappearing shadow swallowed by Gotham's endless dark.

She stood there, arm still half-raised like she could somehow call him back through force of will alone. She stared at the empty space where he'd been, where the warmth of him still seemed to linger in the cold air.

The silence that followed felt deafening. Oppressive.

She sank down onto her front steps heavily, hands coming up to cradle her head like she could hold herself together through pressure alone. Her elbows were braced on her knees, her breaths sharp. 

Above her, the red hood symbol glared down in the harsh streetlight, watching. 

—--

The bar Andrew had chosen was nice. Exposed brick walls worn smooth by decades of weather, warm Edison bulbs casting everyone in a flattering amber glow instead of the harsh fluorescents that made most people look washed out. A decent beer selection was scrawled in chalk behind the bar, the handwriting almost artistic. Not too loud, not too quiet. Where actual conversation could happen without shouting, where you could hear yourself think.

She should have been enjoying herself.

Andrew sat across from her in their booth, animated and smiling, halfway through some story about a mishap at the office that she knew she should be tracking but couldn't quite focus on. The words washed over her like white noise, pleasant but meaningless.

 He looked good tonight, he always did. Made an effort every single time, never showed up looking like he'd just rolled out of bed. Tonight it was a dark blue button-down, hair styled just enough to look intentional without seeming overly concerned, clean-shaven and smelling like some kind of expensive cologne. He'd brought her flowers again, like he had on their first date. Tulips this time, red and yellow, cheerful and bright.

The irony of the color choice wasn't lost on her. Red for the vigilante who'd been haunting her thoughts. Yellow for Robin’s cape she still had buried somewhere in her apartment. 

This was their third date. Third in the month since he'd first asked her out over coffee in the break room, since she'd said yes because it seemed like the reasonable thing to do. The safe thing. 

The first had been casual, just drinks at a bar, getting to know each other outside the office dynamics and workplace politics. The second had been dinner at an Italian place in Midtown, slightly more formal, Andrew clearly trying to impress her with his knowledge of wine pairings and his ability to pronounce "osso buco" correctly.

He was being perfect. Attentive without being overbearing, funny without trying too hard, asking questions about her and actually listening to the answers instead of waiting for his turn to talk. He remembered things she mentioned in passing. Her favorite coffee order (oat milk latte, extra shot), the fact that she hated seafood, and that she was allergic to cats. Small details that showed he was paying attention, building a mental file of who she was. That he clearly, genuinely cared.

And she felt absolutely nothing.

No spark. No flutter in her chest. No magnetic pull that made her want to lean closer when he talked, to close the distance between them. Just a neutral, almost clinical observation that Andrew was a good man—objectively attractive, emotionally available, professionally stable—who deserved someone who could reciprocate what he was offering with the same wholehearted enthusiasm.

That someone wasn't her.

That someone would never be her, and the guilt of that realization sat in her stomach like a deadweight. 

"The Chen article was incredible, by the way," Andrew was saying now, leaning forward with genuine enthusiasm that made his eyes light up. "I mean it. The way you tied together the money laundering and the drug trafficking networks, and that quote from the woman who worked there, that was powerful stuff. Everyone in the office has been talking about it for weeks. Jenkins even printed it out and pinned it on the bulletin board."

"Thanks," she said, managing a smile that felt like it was carved from stone, heavy and unnatural on her face. "I'm glad it resonated. That it…meant something."

"Resonated? It's been everywhere." He gestured expansively, nearly knocking over his beer. "I saw it pop up on three different news aggregators last week, and someone from the Times shared it online with like, a whole thread about Crime Alley. You're making waves." 

He reached across the table, his hand landing on hers where it rested beside her water glass, condensation pooling on the wood beneath. His thumb brushed absently against her knuckles in what was probably meant to be an intimate gesture. She fought the urge to pull back, forced herself to stay still. 

"You should be really proud. You're doing incredible work. Work that actually matters."

His hand was warm. Solid. Steady.

She looked down at it and felt just the crushing weight of her own guilt. Guilt that she was here, on a third date with a man who clearly liked her when her mind was somewhere else entirely. Someone else entirely.

"Yeah," she said, her voice sounding distant even to her own ears, like she was listening to herself from underwater. "Thanks. That means a lot."

It had been a month.

A full month since that night in the alley. Since she'd figured out that Red Hood used to be Robin, that the boy who'd saved her years ago and the man who'd marked her building were the same person, separated only whatever hell he'd been through in between. Since she'd thanked him for letting her use his words, for changing her life. Since he'd looked at her with something as close to vulnerability as she'd ever get with the mask on before shutting down completely and disappearing like she'd imagined the whole thing.

Thirty-two days of absolute silence.

No more rooftop sightings outside her window, no familiar silhouette perched on the fire escape across the street. No surprise visits through her window that she definitely needed to start locking. No appearances at all. She'd checked, pathetically, in a way that was embarrassing even to her. Scanning rooftops on her walk home from work like some lovesick teenager, lingering by her window longer than she should with her lights off so she could see out into the dark, lying awake at night listening for the sound of boots on metal that never came.

Nothing. Just the ordinary sounds of Gotham at night. Sirens and car alarms and the occasional scream that no one ever investigated.

He was still operating, though. She knew because she tracked the news religiously now, searching for any reports of his activities. He was out there, still doing his brutal work with methodical precision. A pimp found dead in Park Row with three bullets in his chest arranged in a triangle, execution style. A drug dealer who'd been selling fentanyl-laced pills to high schoolers discovered in a dumpster with his neck broken. The work continued, merciless and utterly uncompromising.

But he wasn't coming to see her. He was avoiding her deliberately, which somehow felt worse than if he'd just disappeared entirely.

She told herself it was for the best. That he was being smart, keeping distance now that she knew part of his truth. That he was protecting himself, protecting them both from whatever had been building between them in dark alleys and her kitchen at midnight.

She told herself she was relieved. That this was what she wanted, the ability to focus on her work and her life without the distraction of a vigilante who killed people. If she was never going to get an interview, if he was never going to give her the story, it was probably for the best that he stayed away.

She told herself a lot of things.

None of them felt true. All of them felt like lies she was telling herself to make the hollow ache in her chest feel like something other than what it was.

Because the truth that she didn't want to examine too closely, was that she missed him. 

She missed the excitement of his visits, the way he challenged her, the charged feeling in the air when they were in the same space. That electric tension he gave her that made her feel more alive than she had in years. She missed the complexity of him, the contradiction between brutality and gentleness, between the violence of Red Hood and whatever innocence he'd had as Robin.

She didn't even know his real name. Didn't know his story beyond the fragments he'd given her like scattered puzzle pieces, the scraps she'd assembled from things left unsaid and implications in the silence.

And she couldn't stop thinking about him.

It was pathological at this point. Unhealthy in a way she recognized but couldn't seem to fix. She knew that. She was fixating on someone she barely knew, someone dangerous and complicated who'd made it abundantly clear he had chosen to stay away. Meanwhile, Andrew was right here in front of her, offering something real and tangible. Something that made sense. Something her mother would approve of and her father would respect.

She should want that. Should want the man who brought her flowers and remembered her coffee order and didn't carry guns or leave bodies in alleys.

So why did her chest feel hollow every time he touched her? Why did his kiss feel like nothing?

"—don't you think?"

She blinked, focusing back on Andrew and dragging herself back to the present moment. "Sorry, what?"

He smiled, patient as always. He'd been patient with her distraction all night, with her obvious mental absence. Too patient, maybe. A better man than she deserved. "I asked if you thought Grant would give you the crime beat permanently. After the Chen story and all your other work on the Park Row, it seems like you've really carved out a niche for yourself. You’ve made yourself indispensable."

"Oh. Maybe. I don't know." She picked up her beer, took a sip she didn't taste, the carbonation feeling flat and lifeless on her tongue. "I'm still technically splitting time between crime coverage and other assignments. Puff pieces about restaurant openings. Human interest stories about local artists."

"Well, you should push for it." His hand moved from hers to her knee under the table. Testing the waters, she knew. His palm was warm through the denim of her jeans. "You're doing work that actually matters. Work that changes things. And it suits you, the investigative stuff on people everyone else ignores. You're really good at making people feel seen.”

His hand on her knee should have felt nice. Should have made her want to lean in, to close the distance between them, to let this progress naturally into something more.

Instead, her traitorous brain supplied a different memory. Arms wrapped around a leather-clad waist, her thighs pressed against muscular legs, the rumble of an engine around her. The way her body had fit against his so easily. 

She took another sip of her drink, using it to cover whatever expression was on her face.

"You okay?" Andrew's brow furrowed, genuine concern in his eyes. "You've been really distracted tonight. More than usual, I mean. You're not really... here."

"I'm fine," she lied automatically. "Just tired. It's been a long week. Lots of stuff at work lately.”

"Long month, sounds like." He squeezed her knee gently, reassuringly. "Between the articles and everything else, you're probably burning out. We can call it early if you want. Rain check on dessert. I don't want to keep you out if you're exhausted."

"No, it's fine. Really." She forced herself to engage, to be present in this moment instead of lost in thoughts of someone who shouldn’t matter. Andrew deserved better than this. Better than her divided attention, her hollow responses. "Tell me more about that thing with Sierra and the printer malfunction. I zoned out for a second but it sounded funny."

He launched back into the story with renewed enthusiasm, something about Sierra getting into a fight with the office printer that had somehow resulted in toner exploding all over the break room like a cartoon disaster. She tried to listen. Tried to laugh at the right moments, to make the appropriate sympathetic noises.

But her mind kept drifting like smoke, slipping away despite her best efforts. Back to rooftops and alleys and the red hood symbol above her door that she saw every time she came home. Back to a distorted voice that had somehow become familiar, almost comforting. Back to white lenses catching the light and the way he'd put the motorcycle helmet on her head with such unexpected tenderness, like she was something precious.

"—which is why I think she would rather just email instead of dealing with printing anything ever again—"

I care that you're still alive to think at all.

The voices overlapped in her head, present and memory bleeding together until she didn't know which was which. She blinked hard, trying to ground herself in the now.

"Sorry," she said again, shaking her head like she could physically dislodge the thoughts and reset her brain. "I'm really off tonight. I don't know what's wrong with me."

Liar, she spat at herself internally. 

"Hey." Andrew's voice was understanding in a way that made her feel worse. He reached across the table again, both hands finding hers now, enveloping them completely. "Seriously, we can go. No pressure. Maybe you're coming down with something, or just burned out from work. You've been working yourself to the bone lately. I've noticed."

"Maybe," she agreed, even though she knew exactly what was wrong with her and it had nothing to do with being sick or overworked or any other convenient excuse.

It had everything to do with some stupid, naive fascination she had with a man whose name she didn’t know, story she wasn’t privy to, and who certainly didn’t care about hers. 

They finished their drinks in a silence that Andrew probably thought was comfortable but felt suffocating to her. He paid the check, waving off her attempt to split it with an easy smile. "Next time," he said, and she wondered if she should let there be. "My treat tonight. To celebrate your success."

The drive back to her apartment was quiet. She spent it staring out the window at Gotham's nightscape sliding past, the city transforming as daylight died. The city looked different at night, she'd noticed. Sharper. More honest. Like it stopped pretending to be something it wasn't and just embraced the darkness, the rot that pulsed underneath its skin.

She wondered if he was out there somewhere. Watching from some rooftop like a gargoyle. Tracking criminals through the shadows. Thinking about her at all, or if she'd been compartmentalized and filed away as a closed chapter, a civilian who knew too much and needed to be kept at arm's length.

Andrew parked on her street, insisted on walking her to her door despite her protests that it was barely twenty feet. "It's Gotham," he'd said with a laugh. "I'm not letting you walk alone even twenty feet. What kind of date would I be?"

They climbed her front steps, stopping under the red hood symbol that glared down at them in the streetlight's harsh glow like a beacon. Andrew didn't seem to notice it, or if he did, he didn't comment. Just turned to face her, hands in his pockets, that same kind smile on his face. Open, honest, uncomplicated.

"I had a really good time tonight," he said, and she believed he meant it. "Even if you were a little in your head. That's okay. We all have those nights. I get it."

"I had a good time too," she said, and it wasn't entirely a lie. The bar had been nice. The food good. The company...pleasant. 

Perfectly pleasant. That should have been enough. For normal people, that would be enough.

"So..." Andrew took a half-step closer, reading something in the space she left open between them. "Same time next week? There's this new Thai place that opened in the Diamond District that's supposed to be incredible."

"Yeah. That sounds good."

He moved closer still, and she realized with a jolt what was about to happen. She could see it in the way he angled his body, the way his gaze flicked down to her mouth and back up to her eyes, asking silent permission. He was going to kiss her.

She should want this. Should be excited, nervous, feeling something other than resigned acceptance. Something other than complacent.

He leaned in slowly, giving her time to pull back if she wanted, to turn her head or step away. She didn't. Just stood there and let him close the distance, let his lips meet hers in a kiss that was soft and careful. Safe.

He kept it chaste, just a press of mouths, nothing too aggressive or presumptuous. The kind of first-kiss-on-a-third-date that was appropriate and respectful and perfectly, perfectly nice.

Perfectly, absolutely, devastatingly nice.

And she felt nothing. No spark, no heat, no desire to deepen it or pull him closer or lose herself in the moment like people did in movies. Just the clinical, detached observation that Andrew was kissing her and that his technique was perfectly fine. That objectively this should be pleasant, should make her feel something warm and promising.

It felt like an obligation. Like checking a box on a form. Third date: kiss. Fourth date: invitation upstairs.

He pulled back after a few seconds, smiling, his eyes hopeful and so genuinely happy it made her want to cry. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Andrew," she echoed, her voice steady despite the hollow feeling expanding in her chest.

She watched him walk back to his car, waited until he'd driven away and his taillights had disappeared around the corner before turning to head inside. 

Her legs felt heavy, each step an effort. Inside her apartment, she kicked off her shoes, and went straight for the kitchen, pulling down the bottle of whiskey she kept for nights when beer wasn't enough.

She poured two fingers into a glass, then added a third, because why the hell not, and downed half of it in one burning swallow that settled like fire in her empty stomach.

The apartment felt too quiet. Too still. Like a mausoleum.

She moved to the window, shoved it open with more force than necessary to let in the cold winter air. The chill felt good, grounding, cutting through the fog in her head and the numbness in her chest. She leaned against the sill for a moment, breathing in the smell of Gotham at night. Exhaust and rain and something indefinably urban. Sewage, smoke, and violence waiting to happen.

She carried her glass to the kitchen table, slumped into the chair, and tried to think about anything other than the fact that she'd just kissed Andrew and felt absolutely nothing. Tried to think about work, about her next story, about anything that would distract her from the pathetic reality of her situation.

She should end it. She had to end it. Should tell him next week that this wasn't working, that it wasn't him but her, all the clichés that were nonetheless true and had become clichés because they were universal experiences. It wasn't fair to keep seeing him when her mind and heart were elsewhere, when she was using him as a distraction from feelings she didn't want to have for someone she barely knew. Someone who was probably wrong for her in every conceivable way.

But ending it meant admitting those feelings. Meant acknowledging out loud that she'd somehow become far too invested in a vigilante who killed people without trial or mercy. A man whose name she didn't even know.

Was she just curious? Professional interest in a story? Or was it more than that, something dangerous and consuming that she couldn't name?

God, she was a mess. A complete disaster masquerading as a functional adult.

She took another sip of whiskey, let it burn down her throat, and tried to think about work instead. About what story she should chase next. The Chen article had been good but she couldn't rest on that. She needed to keep pushing, keep exposing the rot underneath Gotham's surface. Keep doing work that mattered.

Maybe something about the GCPD's corruption. Or the housing crisis in the East End that was displacing hundreds. Or—

"You should really lock that window," a familiar, distorted voice said from behind her, cutting through her thoughts like a knife. "Anyone could climb in."

She didn't turn around. Didn't move. Didn't even flinch. Just sat there with her whiskey glass cradled in both hands, fingers white-knuckled around the crystal like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

"A month," she said quietly, her voice steady despite the fury building in her chest like a storm. She closed her eyes. "You disappeared for a month."

Silence behind her, thick and heavy. Then, the sound of him moving, boots hitting her floor with soft thuds as he climbed through the window with practiced ease. She heard it close, heard the lock clicking into place. And then his voice again. 

"I've been busy," he said bluntly, and the casual dismissiveness in his tone made something snap inside her like a wire pulled too taut.

She took in a long breath before standing to face him, and the anger that had been simmering for thirty-two days boiled over all at once in a rush of heat and fury.

"Busy." She repeated it flatly, letting the word hang there like an accusation. "You've been busy."

"Yeah. You know, stopping crime. Killing bad guys. The usual." He leaned against the window frame, arms crossed, posture radiating that infuriating cockiness that meant he was hiding behind bravado again. Same red helmet, same leather jacket worn and scuffed from use, same boots, the dual pistols at his sides like extensions of his body. She didn't know why she'd expected anything to be different. "Did you miss me?"

"Don't." She set her glass down harder than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet. "Don't do that. Don't show up after a month and act like it's nothing. Like you can just waltz in here whenever you feel like it."

He tilted his head, his tone dry. "I didn't realize I was on a schedule. Should I be checking in? Sending you a daily update?”

"You marked my building! You—" She stopped, took a breath, tried to rein in the emotion threatening to crack her voice. "No word, no sign, nothing. I had no idea if you were dead or just avoiding me or—"

"I told you," he snapped, though his voice didn't carry as much bite as she was used to hearing from him. "I was busy. Don't think I haven't been watching your building either, princess. In case you were worried about your own hide here."

"Bullshit." The word came out sharp as a slap, cutting through his deflection. "You weren't too busy to keep operating in Crime Alley. I've been tracking the reports. Bodies keep showing up with your calling card all over them. So you were busy with that, you just weren't busy with—" She gestured between them, frustrated at his obtuseness. "With whatever this is."

"There is no 'this,'" he barked out with a laugh that sounded forced, like she had made an intentional joke. But something in his posture had changed. He was tenser now, his shoulders drawn closer and his back a bit straighter. 

"Really? So you mark my building, take me home on your bike, and show up at my window for no reason in general then? You do that to everyone you save? Is this standard operating procedure for vigilantes?"

He growled low in his throat, running a hand over his helmet in frustration. "I told you why I marked your building. Protection. That's it. Stop reading into it, princess. Stop looking for meaning that isn't there."

"For a month? You've been protecting me for a month while avoiding me?"

"Are you looking for an expiration date on the protection?"

"Well, apparently you have one!" She was almost shouting now. She was past caring about volume, about neighbors hearing through thin walls, about anything except the fact that he was here and she was furious with him. She'd been angry for a month, carrying it around like a weight, and now that he was here, she had an opportunity to let it spill over. 

To make him understand that she was hurt. 

"You can't just...you can't do this to people, Hood. You can't make them care and then disappear. When you were Robin, you would have never—"

She froze mid-sentence. They both froze, the words hanging between them like a grenade with the pin pulled. She closed her eyes, wincing at what would come next, at the explosion she'd just triggered.

"Don't call me that," he said dangerously quiet, his tone dropping to something that made her skin prickle.

"Why not?" Might as well own it now. Might as well push him, anything to get under his skin. To crack that armor. "It was you. Still is, if I had to bet. You can pretend all you want but—"

"It's a dead boy's title." The words came out harsh, final.

"You're not dead! You're standing right here! Annoyingly alive!"

"I might as well be." His voice had gone cold in a way that hurt to hear. He balled his hands into fists, looking away from her. "He died years ago. What came back—"

 He gestured at himself with something like disgust. "This isn't him. This isn't Robin."

"That's bullshit too and you know it." She took a step closer, refusing to back down even though every instinct screamed that pushing this was dangerous for the both of them. She didn't care anymore about caution, though. Not after a month of him avoiding her like they had a lover’s spat. "You're him. You're Robin. The boy who walked me home and told me to keep fighting. You're still—"

"I'm not Robin." The words came out final, like he was trying to convince himself as much as her. "Robin died. I'm what's left after that. Let it the fuck go.”

"Then why are you here?" She demanded, throwing up her hands. "Why show up at all if you're so different, so removed from who you were? Why come back tonight after avoiding me for a month?"

He didn't answer. Just stood there, tension radiating off him in waves she could almost see, and she could feel the war happening behind that helmet—the part of him that wanted to leave and the part that had climbed through her window anyway.

Two warring sides within him constantly, never at peace. His old life and the one he was trying to live now. Whoever Robin had been, and whoever Red Hood was pretending to be.

"You've been watching," she said, softer now, trying a different approach. "Haven't you? For the whole month. You've been watching to make sure I was safe."

He hesitated, clearly caught off guard by the change in tactic. Maybe even a bit bashful, if she was reading his body language right. "Look at you, finally figuring out what a tag on your building means. Real detective work there."

She wanted to throw something at him. Maybe it would knock some sense into him, knock the obstinacy out of his thick skull. "Stop deflecting. You're always fucking doing that. I hate it. You've been watching my building while simultaneously avoiding me. Do you see how that's a bit contradictive?"

His arms tensed, frustration boiling into his own voice now, matching her heat. "For your own good."

"My own good?" She scoffed. "You don't get to decide what's good for me. You don't get to make that call."

"Someone should, since you clearly can't." There was an edge to his voice now, sharp and terse. "Going on dates with office boys who drive Hondas and bring you flowers like it's some fucking Hallmark movie. Real safe choice there, princess."

She stopped short, her breath catching. "What?"

"Your date," he said, and even through the modulator she could hear how the words tasted sour in his mouth, like he was swallowing a lemon. "Nice guy. Works with you, right? Andrew. It's good that he walks you to the front door like a gentleman, but he should be walking up to your apartment when he drops you off. Tell him that next time, would ya? It’s been driving me nuts."

She blinked, her mouth falling open in shock. "Have you been stalking me?"

"I've been keeping you safe," he countered hotly, taking a step toward her. "There's a difference."

"Watching me on dates is stalking!" Her voice rose, incredulous.

"I wasn't watching your dates," he retorted, like she'd accused him of something obscene. "I was watching you. Making sure you got home safe. That's different."

"That's literally the same thing!"

"It's not—" He stopped, hands flexing at his sides like he wanted to hit something or reach for her, she couldn't tell which. "He kissed you tonight."

She froze, her anger momentarily forgotten. Confusion crept in instead, seeping through the cracks. The way he spoke was strange. Flat, dead — more empty than angry. 

"That's none of your business," she said carefully, her brain spinning a million miles an hour. 

"I know." He sounded almost drained. Exhausted with something she didn't understand. "That's why I stayed away. Because you're just a civilian, and you know things you shouldn't—" 

He stopped again, looking down at his hands as he fiddled with something on his holsters. "He's good for you. Even if his pants are a bit too tight. And his credit score isn’t all that impressive. Car’s a bit of a junker too, really."

"What the fuck, did you run a background check on this guy or something?" She almost laughed at the absurdity.

“Well, I didn’t personally run the check but —”

She stared at him in horror. 

"That guy," he stated quickly, changing the subject. "He's better for you. Normal job, normal life, normal everything." 

There was something bitter underneath the words, something that sounded almost like a wound splitting open. "That's what you should have. Someone who isn't—" He hesitated, and she could see his fingers drumming against the side of his leg. "Can we just shut the fuck up about this now?"

She stared at him. At the rigid line of his shoulders, the way he wouldn't look at her, how he was shifting around ever so slightly from side to side. Like he was uncomfortable, uncertain. Nervous.

 Understanding clicked into place with such sudden, painful clarity she was surprised a lightbulb didn’t appear above her head. 

"Why did you really stay away?" she asked, her voice quiet now.

He stilled, glancing up at her now that her voice had changed. 

"I stayed away because I have work to do," the lie was painfully obvious, transparent as glass.

"You stayed away because you're scared," she corrected, calling his bluff.

"I'm not scared of anything." But it came out too quick, too defensive. A contrast to his usual cocky swagger. She knew she'd hit the mark.

"Liar." She moved closer, close enough to see the bloodstains on his jacket sleeves. Fresh, still wet in places, probably from tonight's patrol. "You're terrified. That's why you ran on the bike when I figured out who you were. Why you disappeared for a month. Why you're telling me Andrew is better for me. You're scared of whatever this is between us. Whatever you’re feeling."

He balked, tensing up immediately like she'd struck him. His tone was biting now, defensive walls slamming into place. "There's nothing between us."

"Then why are you here?" She asked again, refusing to let him deflect. "Really. Why did you come tonight? Why have you been watching me for so long? How long has it been exactly?"

He was quiet for so long she thought he might not answer, that he might just leave through the window and disappear for another month. "Because I needed to see—" he stopped, the words catching. Started again. "I wanted to check in. That's all. Make sure you were...okay."

"I'm fine," she bit out, perhaps a bit too forcefully. She was never going to get him to answer her questions honestly. Any question, really. And it was exhausting to even keep trying, to keep hoping that he would break down his walls one day and let her in.

"You're drinking alone at your kitchen table at eleven at night," he nodded at her glass, at the whiskey bottle still sitting out. "That's not fine."

"I'm drinking alone because I went on a third date with a man I feel nothing for and I'm trying to figure out why I can't just be normal about it." The words came out before she could stop them, raw and honest. "I’m pissed because I can’t just want the stable guy at work who probably doesn't even know how to use a gun, who's never killed anyone or maybe even been in a damn fight. Why I'm on a date with him, thinking about you. And don’t you dare stand here and tell me you’re so interested in ‘protecting me’ out of general curiosity. Bullshit. You think I was born yesterday?”

Silence. Heavy, terse silence that pressed down on them like a physical weight.

"You should want the stable guy," he said finally. Gruffly, like he was forcing the words out through broken glass. "You should want someone who won't get you killed just by association. Someone who can give you a normal life."

She shook her head in frustration, running a hand through her hair hastily, making it stand up in places. "Stop telling me what I should want. Stop deciding for me."

Red Hood took a step closer to her, looking down at her with those unreadable white lenses. She wished he would take that damn helmet off and she could look him in the eye. "Someone has to, since you’re consistently good at making shitty decisions."

"Like what? Like figuring out who you are? Like keeping your secret when I could have made my career off it? Like—" She gestured at him, frustrated beyond measure. "Like caring whether you show up here or not?”

"Yes." The word came out almost anguished, ripped from somewhere deep. "All of those. You should have published the story. Exposed me. Protected yourself and your career. Instead you're, what? Protecting me? Why? What do you get out of this?"

"Because—" She stopped, the truth lodged in her throat. Because he'd saved her. Because he'd trusted her once when he was Robin, given her something precious. Because underneath the violence and the brutality, she could still see glimpses of the boy who'd cared so fiercely about protecting people that he'd put on a mask and fought in the dark. 

Because somewhere along the way, she'd stopped being able to separate her professional interest from something far more personal and dangerous, something that kept her up at night.

"Because it would be wrong," she said instead, taking the coward's way out. "Publishing your identity. It would get you killed, or arrested. And I don't—" She took a breath. "I don't agree with your methods, but I understand why you think they're necessary. That should be enough of an answer."

He moved then, crossed the small distance between them in a single stride. She thought for a wild, breathless second he might touch her. That he might finally close that gap, might reach for her the way she wanted him to. But he stopped just short, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact with those white lenses, feeling the body heat radiating off of him.

"You should be afraid of me," he said quietly. There was something almost pleading in it. Like he was begging her to be afraid. 

She met his gaze head-on, hoping there was still the same fire from earlier in her eyes. "I'm not."

"I've killed people," he hissed, leaning closer. "A lot of people. Dozens. And I'm going to kill more. I'll probably kill someone tomorrow."

"I know." She didn't flinch, didn't back down.

He laughed, but it was a cruel, mocking sound. "And you're just, what? Okay with that? You can live with that?"

"I didn't say I was okay with it." She held his gaze, or where she thought his gaze was behind those lenses. "I said I understand why you do it. That's different. Understanding isn't approval."

"How is it different?" He demanded.

"Because—" She searched for the right words, for a way to make him understand. "Because I've seen what this city does to people. Seen how the system fails, over and over again. Seen criminals walk free because they have the right connections or enough money to buy their way out. I've interviewed their victims—the women, the children, the families left behind. The people who live in fear every day because the courts let monsters go free to hunt again."

 She paused, her voice dropping. "So I understand it. The rage. The desire to make sure they can never hurt anyone again. I understand wanting permanent solutions to prevent the cycle from continuing."

"But?" He prompted, because there was always a but.

"But I also think there has to be a line. Has to be something that separates justice from vengeance, protection from murder. Something that makes us different from them." She paused. 

"And I worry—" Her voice caught slightly. "I worry that you've lost sight of that line. Or maybe just stopped caring about it. Stopped caring where it is."

“The line is bullshit," he said harshly. "It's just something people tell themselves so they can sleep at night while monsters keep hunting, keep hurting people. There’s good and there’s bad. Root out the bad, solve the problem. Over and done with."

"Or maybe it's the only thing that keeps us from becoming monsters ourselves," she countered.

They stared at each other. Everything was still tense, still charged with energy. He said nothing, just stared down at her with an expression she wished she could see, his breathing shallow. 

"You want a drink?" She asked finally, needing to break the moment before it shattered completely, before one of them said something they couldn't take back. "I'm not drinking alone if you're here."

He seemed surprised by the offer, caught off guard by the olive branch. His body was still tense, still in that constant state of fight or flight. Ready to bolt. But after a moment of hesitation, after some internal debate she couldn't see, he relaxed and gave her a short nod. 

She moved to the counter and pulled down another glass. Poured two fingers of whiskey with hands that shook slightly and handed it to him. Ignored the wave of anger, of hurt, still flowing through her.

He took it from her gently, carefully, like he was afraid of breaking it. He turned away slightly, and reached up to his helmet.

She heard the soft hiss of seals releasing and watched as he pushed it up. Not off, just enough to expose his jaw and mouth. The scar caught the kitchen light, that jagged line crossing from his cheek to his lip like someone had tried to carve him open, and she found herself staring again despite trying not to.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. "Still fascinated by it?"

His voice without the modulator was still as beautiful as she remembered. Rough, clipped, and husky in a way that did things to her she didn't want to examine. "Still wish it hadn't happened to you."

Something in the set of his mouth shifted, softened fractionally like ice beginning to thaw. He raised the glass to his lips and drank deeply, draining half of it in one go. "Christ, that's good. What is this?"

"Something far too expensive for me," she said, leaning against the counter with her own glass. "My father sent it when I published an article exposing some politicians in the city taking bribes to shift money away from soup kitchens and shelters in the Narrows. His way of saying he was proud without actually having to say it."

He looked at the amber liquid in his glass, his lips turning up into a small smirk. "Sounds like a dick."

"He is," she agreed easily. "But he has good taste in whiskey. I'll give him that much."

She leaned against the counter, cradling her own glass. "Can I ask you something?"

"You're going to anyways," he said with a sigh. She watched his lips part, the breath escaping pushing past. 

"When you were Robin—" She saw him tense but continued anyway. "When you saved me that night. You told me you did it because nobody had saved you when you needed it. What did you mean by that?"

He was quiet for a long moment, swirling the whiskey in his glass like it held answers. "I grew up in Crime Alley. Few blocks from where I found you, actually. Same shitty streets, same shitty circumstances." 

"My mom was—" He stopped, the words catching. Started again. "She was an addict. Heroin, mostly. My dad was in and out of prison for petty shit. I was twelve when she died. Overdose. Thirteen when I ended up on the streets, fending for myself."

She paused, taken aback. "I'm… I’m so sorry." 

The words felt inadequate.

"Don't be. Lots of kids have it worse. Lots of kids don't make it at all." He took another drink, using it as punctuation. "But yeah. I know what it's like when nobody's coming to help. When you're just... alone. Trying to survive in a city that doesn't give a shit if you live or die.”

"And then Batman found you."

His jaw tightened, like the memory was painful. "I sorta found him, but yeah, that's about right. Tried to jack the tires off the Batmobile."

"You what?" She blinked, almost laughing at the absurdity.

"I was desperate and stupid. Thought I could sell them." A pause. "He could have broken my arm. Could have turned me over to the cops. Instead he—" He stopped.

"He took you in."

"He gave me a purpose." There was something complicated in his voice, affection and resentment tangled together like barbed wire. "Trained me. Made me Robin. Gave me a home, a mission, a reason to be better. For a while it was—" He paused, and she could hear the pain in it. "For a while it was good. I got to help people. Got to make sure other kids didn't end up like me. Got to matter."

"What happened?" She asked quietly, even though she knew this part would hurt.

"I died." He said it flatly, matter-of-fact, like he was reporting the weather. The words came out of his mouth so fast, so bluntly, that she had to steel herself, had to physically stop herself from reacting. "Almost six years ago. Got in over my head, made a fucking stupid decision, and paid for it. End of story.”

She sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth. She stared at him in disbelief, gripping the glass in her hand so tight she thought it might shatter. He had mentioned Robin dying, but the way he said it now sounded so...literal. So final. How could someone die and come back to life?

"When you say die," she paused, not quite sure how to articulate her thoughts without sounding insane. "Do you mean..."

"Yes, sweetheart, I mean died." His voice had gone hard again, defensive walls slamming back up. "Quite literally. Was dead for a bit before I got pulled out of my grave by forces I still don't entirely understand. Woke up different. Angrier. Less—" 

He gestured vaguely. "Less willing to play by the Bat's rules. Less willing to let people walk away."

She processed that, the impossible reality of it. Death and resurrection. No wonder he seemed like two different people warring for control. He was the boy she’d met and the man he'd become, the before and after. She wanted to apologize, to offer sympathy, to do something other than just stand and stare at him, but she knew him by now. Anything too emotional would set him off and would send him running all over again. "What happened after? After you...came back?"

"After I woke up in my coffin and clawed my way out?" The bitter laugh was back, sharp and humorless. She felt sick hearing the words, imagining it. "I spent some time figuring out who I was. What I wanted. Who I wanted to be. And I realized—" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I realized Batman's way doesn't work. Catching criminals and sending them to Arkham so they can escape six months later and kill again. Stopping dealers just to have them back on the streets a week later with new product. It's a cycle. A fucking endless, pointless cycle. So I decided to break it."

"By killing them."

"By making sure they can't hurt anyone ever again. Yes." He met her eyes, mouth set in a thin line. "You want to judge me for it, go right ahead. I've heard it all before from you. I sleep fine at night knowing the people I've killed deserved it. Knowing I've saved lives by taking theirs.”

"I'm not judging you." She said quietly, meaning it with everything she had. "I'm trying to understand. Trying to figure out how someone who cared so much about justice, about protecting people, ended up becoming—"

"An executioner?" He supplied the word she'd been avoiding.

"I was going to say someone who's lost faith in humanity. In redemption."

That stopped him cold. He looked at her sharply, his mouth twisting into something ugly. "What?"

"That's what it sounds like," she said carefully, like she was handling something fragile. "Like you've decided people are beyond redemption. That they can't change, can't be rehabilitated. Can only be eliminated. That some people are just evil and that's all they'll ever be. And I get it—I get why you'd think that after what you've seen, after what you've been through. But—"

 She took a breath. "But I also think that's a really dark place to live. Believing that some people are just irredeemable. That killing them is the only solution."

"It's realistic," he said flatly.

"It's nihilistic."

"Same thing in Gotham.”

"No," she said firmly, refusing to let him hide behind cynicism. "It's not. Gotham's broken but it's not dead. There are still people fighting for it. Still people who believe it can be better, that change is possible. You used to be one of those people. Robin believed that."

"Yeah, and look where that got me." He gestured at himself again, at the guns and armor. "Dead in the ground at fifteen. Real inspiring story."

"But you came back," she pressed. "You're still fighting, still trying to protect people."

"I'm fighting smarter. More effectively. With permanent solutions."

"You're fighting angrier." She moved closer, closing the distance he'd created between them. "And I understand the anger. I do. I understand the rage and the betrayal and the hurt. But Hood—" She used his moniker deliberately this time, emphasizing it. "You can't let it consume you. You can't let it turn you into the thing you're fighting against.”

He looked down at her with his mouth set in a scowl, but she could see his throat working, see the tension in his jaw. "I'm nothing like them."

"Aren't you?" She kept her voice gentle, not accusatory. "You kill without trial. Without giving people a chance to defend themselves or change or prove they're more than their worst moment. Don’t you believe in second chances?”

"They don't deserve chances!" His voice rose, sharp with old rage that had never healed. "You think that pimp in Park Row deserved a chance? He was trafficking thirteen-year-olds, selling children. Or that dealer selling fentanyl-laced pills to high schoolers, to kids who didn't know what they were taking? How many chances should he get before we admit he's just going to keep killing kids? How many more victims?"

"I don't know," she admitted honestly. "I don't have an answer for that. I wish I did. Maybe you're right. Maybe some people are beyond saving, beyond redemption. But—" 

She reached out, stopped just short of touching his arm, her hand hovering. "But if you believe everyone you kill is beyond saving, if you've lost the ability to see any hope for redemption in anyone, then you're losing yourself. You're becoming exactly what broke you in the first place. Someone who sees the world in black and white, who's forgotten there's gray too.”

"There is no fucking gray," his lips were pulled back now in a half-snarl, defensive and angry. "Don't talk about me like you know me. You don't know what I've seen."

"There's always gray. That's what being human means. That's what separates us from animals." She pulled her hand back, wrapped it around her glass instead, needing something to hold to ground herself. "You talked to me once about protecting people who couldn't protect themselves. About making sure kids like you had someone fighting for them. Do you remember that conversation?"

"Of course I remember." His voice was rough.

"That person you were…Robin…he had hope. He believed people were worth fighting for, worth saving. Even when everything was stacked against him, he kept going because he believed in something better. He had faith." Her throat was tight, burning. "I don't want you to lose that. I don't want you to become so consumed by anger and vengeance that you forget what you were fighting for in the first place. That you forget why Robin mattered."

"Oh, so you met me once, write an article, and suddenly you know me now?" he sneered, but it lacked real heat. The scar on his jaw shifted into something uglier when he grimaced. "Get off your fucking high horse, princess."

"I researched you for years," she shot back, not backing down. "I know you better than you think. Better than you want to admit. Are you fighting because you're angry? Why? Because nobody saved you when you needed it most? Because you feel betrayed by Batman, by someone else? Because you're hurt and you don't know how else to process it except through violence?"

His jaw clenched so hard she could see a muscle jump. "Don't fucking psychoanalyze me."

"I'm not. I'm—" She stopped, choosing her next words carefully. "I'm worried about you. Because I think you're drowning and you don't even realize it. I think you're so deep underwater you can't see the surface anymore. I think—" Her voice cracked slightly, betraying her emotion. "I think eventually you're going to go so far down that path that you won't be able to find your way back. And the person who was Robin will be truly, permanently dead."

Red Hood chuckled darkly, the sound wrong. He leaned forward suddenly, his lips grazing the side of her face, close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath. 

She didn't shiver, but she did jump at the unexpected contact, at the feel of his breath on her skin for the first time. His words were no louder than a whisper. "Maybe I don't want to come back."

She swallowed hard, biting down her rising adrenaline, her heart hammering. "I don't believe that."

"Why not?" He was still close, too close, not moving away.

"Because you're here." She gestured at her apartment with her free hand, at the minimal space between them. "Because you came back tonight even though you've been avoiding me for a month. Because you marked my building to protect me, because for some reason, you still care enough to make sure I get home safe even when you're trying to push me away.” 

She paused, her voice dropping. "Because the boy who was Robin is still in there somewhere. And he's the reason you can't fully commit to becoming the monster you think you need to be."

The silence that followed was deafening. He stood there, whiskey glass forgotten in his hand, staring at her with an expression she couldn't read through the helmet but could feel—raw and exposed. Vulnerable. 

"You don't know anything about me," he said, but his voice was hollow. Empty of conviction.

"I know enough." She finished her own whiskey and set the glass down with finality, her resolve absolute. "I know you saved my life when you were Robin. I know you gave me words that changed everything for me. I know something made you decide killing was justice. I know you disappeared for a month because you were scared of whatever this is between us. And I know—" She took a breath, steadying herself. "I know you're still in there. The boy who cared. Who had hope. You're just buried under so much pain and rage that you can't see it anymore.”

He flinched like she had physically struck him. "You're fucking wrong."

"Am I?" She challenged, taking a step closer. They were nearly pressed chest-to-chest. "Then prove it. Tell me you feel nothing when you kill. Tell me it doesn't keep you up at night. Tell me you're perfectly fine with the line you've crossed and you have zero doubts about what you're becoming. Tell me you don’t think about any of that."

He said nothing. Didn't move an inch. His body was rigid and uncompromising, every muscle locked. His mouth was set in a thin line, the scar pale against flushed skin in the artificial light.

She had him.

"That's what I thought," she said softly. 

He set his glass down roughly, nearly slamming it onto her kitchen table hard enough that she was surprised it didn't shatter. "Fuck you. You think you can save me? Is that it? Fix me with the power of compassion like some kind of fucking savior?" He snorted, shaking his head almost manically. "Grow up, princess. It's time to face the music and get your nose out of your own idealism before it gets you killed."

"I think you can save yourself," she corrected him, ignoring the jabs, the attempts to push her away. "I think you're capable of finding a middle ground between Batman's unwillingness to cross the line and your complete erasure of it. I think you're smart enough and strong enough to figure out a way to protect people without losing yourself to the darkness completely. But—" She held his gaze steadily. "But you have to want to. You have to believe there's something worth coming back for. Someone worth being better for."

"Shut up," he bit out, though she wasn't sure if he was talking to her or to his own thoughts at this point, to the voice in his head that maybe agreed with her.

"Eventually you'll go too far," she pushed, refusing to let him hide. "You'll kill someone who maybe didn't deserve it, or cross a line even you can't justify to yourself, and you won't be able to come back from it. You won't be able to live with yourself. And the person who was Robin, the old you, will be truly dead. And I don't—" Her voice broke. "I don't want you to lose him. I don't want to lose you."

The words stretched out between them. Heavy and honest.

"Why do you care?" He asked. There was genuine confusion in his voice now, she could hear it in the way his voice shook. His face was turned away from her but his chest was heaving, his harsh breaths filling her ears. "Why do you give a damn what happens to me? I'm nobody to you."

"I don't know," she said softly, the lie bitter on her tongue. 

She did know. She had known for a month now, maybe longer.

 "I should be reporting you. Should be exposing what you're doing, writing articles about the danger of vigilante justice taken too far. That's my job. That's what a good journalist would do. That's how I build my career."

She paused, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I can't. Because when I look at you, I don't just see Red Hood. I see Robin. I see the boy who saved me. And I think—" Her voice wavered, broke. "I think maybe if someone had cared enough to pull him back from the edge, to refuse to give up on him, he wouldn't have become this. So maybe if I care enough, if I refuse to give up on you, maybe—"

"Maybe I won't become a complete monster?" He finished for her bitterly. "That's not how this works. I'm not your fucking passion project. I'm not some broken thing for you to fix."

"Then how does it work?" She demanded, frustrated. "Tell me."

"I keep doing what I'm doing. You keep writing your articles. And we both pretend this—" He gestured between them violently. "—doesn't exist. Because it can't exist. I'm not someone you can fix or save or redeem with some nice, prissy speech. I'm just someone trying to make Gotham a little less hellish, one bullet at a time. That's it."

"And Batman?" She asked quietly, changing tactics. "Where does he fit into this?"

His whole body tensed like she'd hit a nerve, touched something raw. "He doesn't."

"Red Hood—"

"He doesn't." He spat the words out like a curse. "We have an understanding. He stays out of my territory, I stay out of his way. That's it. That's the whole relationship."

"But he was your—"

"My what? Father figure? Mentor?" He laughed, sharp and pained and angry. "He was someone who used me. Who turned a kid from Crime Alley into a weapon and then couldn't handle what that weapon became when it started thinking for itself. When it proved to always be a pitiful disappointment."

"That's not fair," she said quietly.

"Isn't it?" His voice was rising again, the anger bleeding through. "He trained me to fight. Taught me to be brutal, efficient, ruthless. Then acted surprised when I decided efficiency meant permanent solutions. When I took the lessons he taught me to their logical conclusion." His voice was climbing higher, more heated. "He wants to play by rules that don't exist, wants to believe that people can be saved when this city proves every single day that they can't. That some people are just monsters. And when I pointed that out, when I started doing what he was too cowardly to do himself, he—" He stopped abruptly, cutting himself off.

"He what?" She pressed gently.

"He gave up on me." The words came out broken, small. Like a child's. "Same as everyone else. He chose his code over me. Chose his precious rules over his son."

And there it was. The wound that had never healed, that was still bleeding beneath the hood, the tough persona. A son who longed for his father’s acceptance. For his approval. 

Her chest ached, a physical pain blooming behind her ribs. She blinked hard, fighting back tears she didn't even know she had building up. "I don't think that's true."

"You don't know him." His voice was flat, dead.

"No. But I know that grief makes people do stupid things. Losing someone once means you can't survive losing them again." She moved closer, close enough to see her own reflection distorted in his lenses, two versions of herself staring back. "Maybe he didn't give up on you. Maybe he just doesn't know how to reach you anymore. Or he's scared to fuck up again."

"I don't want to be reached." But the words came out hollow, unconvincing even to his own ears.

"Liar."

"You don't know what you're talking about." He turned his head away, the scar on his mouth twisted against his frown. 

"Don't I?" She held his gaze, or where she imagined his gaze was. "You came back tonight. After a month of avoiding me, after swearing you'd stay away, you climbed through my window anyway. If you really didn't want to be reached, if you really wanted to be alone, you'd have stayed away. You would have kept avoiding me."

He didn’t look back at her, but she saw a slight tick in his jaw. The sound of a hard swallow. She could feel the war happening inside him, the two sides of him dueling yet again. 

His new side won out. With a sharp exhale, he ran a hand over his jaw, turning back to the window. "I should go."

She fought back the urge to scream. To grab him and physically restrain him. Frustration rolled through her in waves, hot and furious. "You always run when things get too real. Every damn time."

She could see the glare in the set of his jaw, in the rigidness of his posture. "I'm not running."

"Then what do you call showing up just to tell me to forget about you? To move on? To be with someone else?" Her voice was rising despite her best efforts. "What do you call disappearing for a month and then coming back just to leave again?"

"It's protection!" His voice rose, cracking under the pressure. The armor finally began to fracture "From me, from this life, from everything that comes with being anywhere near someone like me! I'm trying to keep you safe!"

"I don't need your protection from you!"

"Yes, you do!" He moved closer, aggressive now, anger finally breaking through all his defenses like a dam bursting. "You have no clue what you're asking for. What being involved with me means. You think it wouldn’t cost you? I'm not—I'm not some project you can fix! I'm not Robin anymore, I'm not that stupid kid, I'm—"

"You are him!" She shouted back, stepping into his space rather than away from it. Resuming their usual dance, this constant fight. "You're still him, you're just too stubborn and too damaged to admit it! You think putting on a red helmet and killing people erases who you were? You think violence and anger can burn away everything you used to be?"

"There is no person underneath!" His hands came up, not touching her but close, gesturing wildly like he could make her understand through sheer force of movement. "There's just—there's just this fucking need to make sure no one else ends up like me, like those kids in Crime Alley, like—"

He stopped, breathing hard, gasping for air like he was drowning, like the words had physically hurt him. His chest was heaving.

"You want to know why I stayed away, sweetheart?" The question came out raw, scraped from somewhere deep. "Because being near you makes me fucking want things I can't have. Because you look at me like I'm still worth saving when I'm anything but. I'm so far gone there's nothing left to save. And you keep thinking I’m some bleeding heart, some moronic dunce —”

"That's not your call to make!"

"It is my — fucking Christ, I'm trying to keep you safe!" His voice cracked on the last word.

She took another step closer, eliminating what little space remained between them. "From what?"

"From me! From caring about someone who's going to get himself killed doing this! From—" His voice cracked completely, splintered into pieces. His mouth was trembling. "From ending up like everyone else who gets close to me. Dead or broken or wishing they'd never met me in the first place. I can't—I can't be the reason you get hurt. I won't."

"You don't get to decide that for me." Her heart was hammering, adrenaline and anger and something else flooding her system, making her reckless. "You don't get to push me away 'for my own good' and expect me to just accept it. You don't get to make my choices. Admit it. You're just scared."

"Of course I'm scared!" The admission burst out of him like it had been trapped, locked away for months. Buried behind weeks of denial and deflection. "I'm fucking terrified! Because you're…because you make me feel like maybe I'm not completely lost, like maybe there's still something worth, like maybe I could be—" He stopped abruptly with a gasp like he had been hit, his lips pulled tight as he seemed to realize what he'd been about to say. What he'd been about to admit.

The silence that followed was deafening. She stared at him silently with a hammering heart, realization washing over her instantly. 

"Say that again," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"No." He growled, mouth trembling slightly.

"Hood—"

"Don't." His voice was rough, stripped of all pretense. "Don't push this. Just...just drop it. Please."

"Drop it?" She couldn't believe the back-and-forth within him, the constant war. Did it tire him constantly, the endless dance in his own head? The push and pull? "You can't just say something like that and then—"

"Yes!" He grabbed her arms then, Not aggressive, but desperate, his gloved hands wrapping around her biceps with a pressure that was more grounding rather than threatening. She forced herself not to jump in surprise. "You're not going to get what you want out of me. If I say it, if I admit—" 

He stopped, his breathing ragged even without being filtered through the helmet, harsh and quick. "You should be with that other idiot. Someone who won't get you killed. Someone good. Someone who deserves you."

"I don't want good!" The words tore out of her like a scream, frustration bleeding out. "I want—"

She didn't get to finish.

He moved so fast she didn't see it coming.

The kiss was nothing like Andrew's. Nothing sweet or gentle, careful or respectful. It was desperate, almost violent in its intensity, like he was drowning and she was air. Like he was dying and she was life itself. 

His hand came up to cup the back of her head, fingers tangling roughly in her hair, angling her head so he could kiss her deeper, harder. Like he was trying to consume her. His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him with enough force to steal her breath.

She gasped against his mouth and he took advantage immediately, deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers in a way that made her knees weak. She clutched at his jacket for support, needing him closer even though they were already pressed together with no space between them, something to hold onto.

He tasted like whiskey and something darker, something indefinably him. The scar on his cheek was rough against her skin, a texture that just made everything feel more real, more visceral. 

She kissed him back just as fiercely, weeks of frustration and confusion pouring out in a rush. Her hands moved from his jacket to his chest, feeling the armor plating beneath, the solid muscle underneath that. She wanted to touch his skin but there were too many layers, too much between them.

He made a sound low in his throat, something like a growl, and suddenly they were moving. He walked her backward, his mouth never leaving hers, even as her back hit the wall beside the window with a thud. The impact should have hurt but she barely felt it, too consumed by the feeling of him against her, his body pinned against hers, his hands everywhere at once. Possessive and yearning to touch every part of her, to hold whatever he could grab onto.

One hand stayed tangled in her hair, holding her head in place while he kissed her like he was trying to memorize her. The other slid down her side, over her ribs, settling on her hip with a grip that was almost bruising. His thumb brushed under the hem of her shirt, finding bare skin, and the touch sent electricity racing through her veins. 

She arched into him with a soft moan, one leg hooking around his hip to pull him closer. He groaned against her mouth, his breath passing through her own lips. He pressed harder against her, letting her feel exactly what this was doing to him physically. How much he wanted this, wanted her.

His mouth left hers to trail down her jaw, finding the sensitive spot just below her ear, and sucked hard. She gasped, her head falling back against the wall to give him better access, surrendering instantly. He took full advantage, lips and teeth working against her neck in a way that was definitely going to leave a few marks. It was messy and juvenile in a way, but she didn’t care. All she could focus on was the feel of him against her, the heat pooling in her core as he ravaged her skin. 

"Hood—" The only name she had for him came out breathless, pleading. Barely recognizable to her own ears.

He growled something against her throat — maybe agreement or protest, she couldn't tell — and came back to her mouth. This kiss was somehow even more intense now, more consuming, like he was trying to pour everything he couldn't say into the contact. His hand on her hip tightened, fingers digging in hard enough to draw blood, but she didn't care. 

She wanted the marks. Wanted proof that this was real, that he was here, that after all this time dancing around each other he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

She could feel his heartbeat through the armor, through all the layers between them. It was racing, hammering out a staccato rhythm that matched her own. Could feel the tremor in his hands that meant he was barely holding on, barely keeping himself together. 

Her hands moved upward, one sliding around to the back of his neck where his helmet had been pushed up, finding warm skin and loose hair that was softer than she'd expected. The other moved to his face, wanting to touch, to feel, to map the features she'd only glimpsed—

Her fingers brushed the scar on his jaw.

He froze.

It was instantaneous, how fast the moment broke apart. One second he was kissing her like he was starving, the next he'd completely frozen up. She felt it the moment he shut down, felt him pull back internally even before he pulled back physically, the walls slamming up between them without any words being spoken.

She sucked in a sharp breath, reorienting herself to the world around her, to the sudden absence of him. She tried to reach for him but he was already moving.

He stepped back, putting distance between them so quickly she nearly stumbled without his weight holding her against the wall. His hand came up to yank the helmet back down fully, covering his face completely again. Rebuilding the armor, the distance. The anonymity. 

"That was—" He stopped, breathing hard, the sound harsh and mechanical through the modulator once more. The barrier was rebuilt. The intimacy was destroyed. "That shouldn't have happened."

"Hood—" Her voice came out wrecked, far too desperate and weak.

"I need to go." He was already moving toward the window, putting more space between them with every step.

"Don't you dare." She pushed off the wall, legs shaky, but the remaining adrenaline left giving her strength. "Don't you dare do that and then run away. You can’t…”

He stopped in front of the window, his back to her. She could see the war happening all over again. The part of him that wanted to stay and the part that was terrified of what staying meant. The two sides fighting their constant, hopeless battle.

"I'll ruin you," he finally said. Quiet, ragged — certain yet broken. "Everyone I care about ends up gone. Broken. It's not—I can't do that to you. I won't be responsible for that. Not you."

She swallowed hard, her lips still tingling from his touch. "You don't get to make that choice for me."

"Yes, I do. Because I'm the one who'll have to live with it when you get hurt because of me. When —" He stopped, his voice failed him. He looked down at his feet, his words a murmur now. "I'm sorry. Just... just forget it. Forget this happened.”

"Hood, wait—"

But he was gone, disappearing through the window into the night like he'd never been there at all. Leaving her alone in her apartment with swollen lips and the phantom feeling of his hands on her body, the ghost of his touch burning into her skin.

She moved to the window slowly, as if in a dream. Closed it, locked it like he'd told her to so many times. Leaned her forehead against the cool glass and tried to catch her breath, tried to process what had just happened.

The game had reached its end. She wouldn't keep chasing a man who wanted to pretend to be a ghost, who kissed her like she was everything and then ran like she was nothing. What was the point, if he wanted to keep resisting? If he was going to keep pushing her away?

She took a step away from the window and let out a quiet, shaky exhale that fogged the glass. She gathered the whiskey glasses from the table and tossed them in the sink with more force than necessary, listening to them clink loudly against the metal. 

She just wished she had never started to care. Wished she could go back to that night in the alley and walk away, call the police, do anything other than what she'd done.

But she couldn't. And she did care. And that was the problem.

—-

"—and apparently Batman took out three of Penguin's enforcers in one night," Jaime was saying, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head, looking entirely too pleased about the violence. "Just left them tied up in front of the Iceberg Lounge like a present. Like a cat leaving dead birds on the doorstep. Penguin's furious."

"Good," Sierra said, not looking up from her screen, fingers flying across the keyboard. "Maybe he'll think twice before expanding. Maybe he'll learn his territory doesn’t encompass half of the city.”

"Or maybe he'll escalate and we'll have a gang war on our hands." Jaime shrugged, his eyes wide. "Either way, it's a story. Probably a front-page story."

She took a sip of her coffee, staying quiet, letting the conversation wash over her. She'd been tracking every report about Red Hood for the past week in a way that made her feel like a stalker looking for patterns, for signs of...what? That he was okay? That he was thinking about her? That the kiss had meant something to him beyond a moment of weakness?

She hadn't seen him in a week. Hadn't heard from him. The window stayed locked every night. Every morning she checked it anyway, hoping for something. A note, a sign, anything. Some indication that he didn’t regret what had happened. 

Nothing. Just silence and the red symbol on her building that might as well have been mocking her now.

Sierra glanced up at her, then lowered her voice conspiratorially. "So. Speaking of things we're not talking about..." She jerked her head toward Andrew's desk across the room. He was on a call, turned away from them, but Sierra kept her voice barely above a whisper anyway. "What happened with that?"

She followed Sierra's gaze to Andrew and felt the familiar pang of guilt that hadn't quite faded yet that sat in her stomach like something rotten. "I ended it. Last week."

"Oh shit." Sierra sat up straighter, her eyes going wide. "Really? I thought you guys were... I mean, he seemed really into you. Like, potentially serious."

"He was. Is." She corrected herself, watching Andrew through the glass partition. "But I couldn't—it wasn't fair to him. I wasn't..." She searched for the right words, for something that wouldn't reveal too much. "I wasn't focused on him. My head was somewhere else.”

"Somewhere or someone?" Sierra asked knowingly, eyebrows raised in speculation, reading between the lines.

She rolled her eyes, taking another sip of coffee to avoid answering. "Does it matter?"

"I mean, yeah? Kind of?" Sierra gestured vaguely. "You went on like three dates with Andrew. He's a good guy, a really good guy. Nice, respectful, clearly into you. And you just—" She made a cutting gesture. "What happened? Did he do something?"

"Nothing happened. That was the problem." She took another sip of coffee, using it as a shield, as something to do with her hands. "I just realized I couldn't make myself feel something that wasn't there. And it wasn't fair to keep trying, to keep stringing him along hoping it would develop into something."

Jaime whistled low, eyes wide behind his glasses. "Damn. How'd he take it?"

"Decently. Well enough, anyway." She'd met Andrew for coffee, been as honest as she could be without mentioning the part where she'd developed complicated feelings for a vigilante who killed people and whose face she had never seen. Andrew had been hurt, she'd seen it in his eyes, but he'd been kind about it. Gracious, even. Told her he understood, that he appreciated her honesty, that he'd rather know now than months down the line. They'd agreed to keep things professional at work, to try to move past the awkwardness.

It still felt awful. Like she'd kicked a puppy.

"He's been pretty quiet this week," Sierra observed, looking over at him with concern. "Not his usual self. Usually he's cracking jokes, making everyone laugh."

"I know." The guilt twisted harder, a knife between her ribs. "I feel terrible about it."

"Hey, you did the right thing." Sierra's voice was firm, brooking no argument. "Better to end it than lead him on. String him along for months before finally admitting you weren't feeling it. He'll be fine. It just takes time."

"Yeah," she agreed, but the word felt hollow, meaningless. She stared into her coffee cup, watching the liquid swirl as she tilted it slightly, seeing her distorted reflection in the dark surface.

Time. That's what everyone said, wasn't it? Give it time. Things would get better with time. Hearts healed with time.

But how much time was she supposed to give this ridiculous notion of her own disappointment? How long was she supposed to wait for him to show up again, to explain why he'd kissed her like that and then vanished? How long before she accepted that maybe it had been a mistake to him, that maybe he regretted it, that maybe—

"Excuse me?"

She looked up sharply. Kelly, one of the junior assistants, was standing beside Sierra's desk, wringing her hands nervously, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

"Sorry to interrupt," Kelly continued, glancing between the three of them apologetically with wide, dark eyes. "But there's someone at the front desk asking to speak with you." It took her a second to realize that Kelly was looking directly at her expectantly. 

She frowned, setting her coffee down. "Me? I'm not expecting anyone. Did they say what it was about?"

"He said it's important. Asked for you by name." Kelly bit her lip, clearly uncomfortable. "Should I tell him you're busy? I can take a message if you want."

"No, it's fine." She set her coffee down, already standing, her journalist instincts kicking in. A walk-in source, maybe. "Did he say what it was about?"

"No, just that he needed to speak with you. He seemed..." Kelly hesitated, searching for the right word, her face scrunching up. "Intense. Kind of... I don't know. Intimidating?"

Sierra and Jaime exchanged glances. "Want backup?" Sierra offered, already half-standing. "Just in case?"

"No, I'm fine." Though something in her chest had tightened with an emotion she couldn't name, couldn't identify. Dread? Worry? "I'll be right back."

She followed Kelly through the newsroom toward the front reception area, her mind spinning with possibilities, running through scenarios. An irritated Gothamite, come to argue about something she wrote? Someone with information about a potential story? She had no idea — she hadn’t put out an article since the Chen article. 

She rounded the corner and stopped dead, her feet forgetting how to move.

A young man stood by the reception desk, hands shoved in the pockets of a worn denim jacket, dark jeans and scuffed boots that had seen better days. He was tall, easily six feet, and built like he'd been carved from marble by an artist who understood human anatomy on an intimate level. Broad shoulders, a muscular frame that the jacket did nothing to hide, all lean strength and controlled power.

But it was his face that made her breath catch in her throat.

He was absurdly handsome in a way that seemed almost unfair, almost cruel. A sharp jawline dusted with stubble that was a few days past needing a shave, high cheekbones that could cut glass, and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than a few times and not set quite right. It had a slight crook to it that somehow made him more attractive rather than less. And his eyes were a bright, vivid blue. The kind that seemed to cut right through you when he looked at you. 

He was so striking, so beautiful in that dangerous, sharp-edged way, that she almost didn't notice the scars at first. Some were a pale and silvery white that shone in the light, some darker and more raised. He had one that cut down from the edge of his left cheekbone down his jaw that stood out more than the rest, jagged and crude. Like someone had tried to carve him open. 

Most of the scarring was scattered across his face—his cheeks, his nose, the underside of his jaw—but it didn't detract from his appeal. If anything, it heightened his features. Made him look dangerous and beautiful in equal measure. Like someone with a story. 

And there, cutting through the black hair that fell across his forehead, was a distinctive white streak. Stark and unusual against the dark locks, impossible to miss.

Her heart stopped. Completely stopped, then lurched back into motion too fast, painful against her ribs.

He turned as she approached, and those blue eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. There was something deep in those eyes. And something else, something that looked a lot like regret. 

"Hi," she managed to say, forcing her voice to stay professional despite the sudden certainty blooming in her chest. "I'm told you asked for me?"

"Yeah." His voice was gruff, lower than she'd expected but painfully, devastatingly familiar beneath the rough edges. That Gotham accent she'd heard a thousand times, had memorized without meaning to. He extended a hand, and she noticed the calluses, the scars on his knuckles. "Thanks for seeing me."

She shook it, and the contact sent a jolt through her system like touching a live wire. His grip was firm, strong—exactly like she remembered from last week when those hands had been in her on her waist, leaving bruises that had just faded. 

She felt dizzy, faint. Her eyes latched onto the scar on his jaw, forcing herself to remain steady despite the surprise of this. What was he doing here? Unmasked? 

"And you are?" She asked, even though she already knew, even though every cell in her body was screaming the answer.

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second, something flickering across his face. He was looking at her like he was nervous. Like meeting her without the mask was terrifying. And he looked so young — even with his height and build, there was no way he could be any older than his early twenties. "Someone with information you'll want to hear."

She narrowed her eyes at him. Was this a game? "About?"

His jaw tightened, muscle jumping. "Red Hood."

Her professional mask nearly cracked. She glanced around the reception area. Too public, too many ears, too many potential witnesses. "Conference room. Follow me.”

She led him down the hallway to one of the smaller meeting rooms, acutely aware of him behind her, of his presence like a physical weight. He moved just as he did with the mask on — silent and deliberate, like someone who was constantly aware of his surroundings. She could feel his eyes on her as they moved down the hall. 

She closed the door behind them, locked it with hands that trembled slightly. Gestured to the chairs around the table. He sat, but his posture was tense, coiled, ready to move. Ready to run.

The professional mask she'd been barely holding onto finally cracked, shattered completely. She whirled around, glaring at him furiously. "What the actual fuck are you doing right now?"

Red Hood — whoever the hell he was—shrugged with infuriating casualness, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a smirk that made her want to either slap him or kiss him, she couldn't decide which. His eyes, impossibly blue, traveled over her from head to toe with an appreciation that was anything but subtle, seemingly more relaxed now that it was just the two of them, now that they were alone. "Nice to see you too, sweetheart. Mind penciling me in for a meeting? I can throw in coffee if that sweetens the deal."

She gaped at him, completely taken aback by his smugness, by the sheer audacity of him standing in front of her without a mask like this was normal, like he hadn't just turned her entire world upside down. This is what he had looked like the whole time. Young, unfairly handsome, devastatingly masculine in a way that made her mouth go dry. She silently counted her lucky stars there, even through her anger. "Cut the shit, Hood. You can't just be strolling into the Gotham Gazette without a mask! What if somebody sees you, recognizes you, or figures out—"

"What would they figure out?" He cut her off with a grin that was all teeth and confidence, taking one deliberate step closer to her, invading her space like he had every right to. "Pretty easy to walk around town without the mask. That's kinda the point of the mask, ya know. To hide my real face so when I don't want to wear it, I can just be—"

"Alright, alright," she waved him off with a heavy sigh, slumping down into the nearest chair before her legs gave out. She pressed her fingers into her temples, trying to stave off the headache blooming behind her eyes. "I don't need you being a smartass right now. Can you just tell me what the hell you're doing here? Why you're here at all?"

He frowned, the smugness evaporating instantly, replaced by something that looked like genuine hurt. His brow furrowed, and seeing it on his actual face, seeing the way it changed his features, made her chest ache. "Thought you'd be a little bit more enthusiastic about finally meeting me face to face. Thought you'd want this."

She snorted, the sound sharp and humorless, leaning back in the chair with her arms crossed defensively. His look of surprise only deepened, confusion and hesitation warring on his features. "I'm sorry, did you expect me to jump for joy after you told me you wanted nothing to do with me a week ago? After you kissed me like I was everything and then ran like I was nothing?"

He blinked, those blue eyes widening slightly even as his scowl remained firmly in place, and she had a brief moment of vicious satisfaction at seeing genuine surprise flicker across his face for the first time. "Those words literally never came out of my mouth—"

"You told me to forget it ever happened." Her voice was flat, emotionless, even though inside she was anything but. "You told me to move on. That it was a mistake."

"Okay, can we just—" He moved closer with an exasperated sigh that sounded almost pained, taking the seat right next to her and leaning forward, bracing his arms on his knees. She froze, startled by the sudden proximity, by having him this close without the helmet between them, without any barrier. She could see every detail of his face now, every scar, every flicker of emotion he usually kept hidden. "This is not going at all how I wanted this to go. Not even close."

She tore her focus away from the mesmerizing blue of his eyes and shifted back into her defensive anger, using it as a shield. "Did you have a plan or something? Did you actually think this through?"

Red Hood shifted in his chair uneasily, his eyes locked on hers like he couldn't look away even if he wanted to. A flush crept up the back of his neck, visible above his jacket collar, spreading to his ears. He rubbed at it nervously, like he could force the blood back down through sheer will. "I... yeah, I did. What's so wrong about that, huh? Thought you'd appreciate seeing me, the real me, without the mask. Without all the barriers." His voice dropped, went quieter. "Not like I go around taking the mask off for just anyone. You're the only one who knows. The only civilian."

"I'm sorry, so your plan was..." She gestured at him, at all of him, trying to wrap her head around this. "To come into my place of work all mysterious and cryptic, thinking I wouldn't immediately know it was you? You thought you'd surprise me with who you are like some grand fucking reveal? Like this was a movie?"

"I—Jesus Christ, you're fucking mean today, aren't you?" He snapped at her, his eyes narrowing, jaw clenching. And yet, underneath the defensiveness, he still sounded nervous. Uncertain. "That wasn't my whole plan, okay? I just..." 

He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the dark strands, that white streak falling across his forehead. "I feel bad about how things went down last week. The way I left, what I said…it wasn't how I wanted things to go. Wasn't what I meant."

She stared at him, her anger warring with confusion. "Yeah, I know. You told me to essentially get lost, remember? To forget you even kissed me. To pretend it never happened."

"For fuck's sake, sweetheart, can you just let me talk?" He cut her off, his entire face flushing red now. Not with anger, she realized with a jolt, but with nerves. His leg was bouncing against the floor, and he was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, the scar there stretching white. "I'm not good with this sort of shit. With people, much less…much less girls. Women. Whatever." He looked away, unable to meet her eyes. "Never had a chance to... date or anything. Normal teenage stuff. I died before I could figure any of that out, and after I came back, I was too fucked up, too angry, too—"

He stopped, took a breath, forced himself to continue. "I'm an idiot, I know. A complete fucking disaster. But I just...wanted to say I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said. I don't want to forget about what happened." His voice dropped, went rough with emotion. "I don't regret it. I've wanted to do that for so long now, wanted to kiss you, wanted—" He swallowed hard. "And you were just standing there looking at me with those eyes and saying all that stuff about not giving up on me, and I just..."

He cut himself off with a soft groan that sounded like it was being ripped from somewhere deep, like being this vulnerable was physically painful. Like it was shredding him apart from the inside out. She imagined it was, in every sense that mattered. "I'm sorry, alright? And you do deserve fucking better than me. Someone who isn't broken and damaged and fucked up in ways I can't even begin to explain. So you should forget about me, if you know what's good for you. If you have any sense of self-preservation." 

He paused, his hands flexing into fists on his knees. "But... I do care about you. More than I should. More than is probably safe for either of us. And I don't wanna just keep avoiding you, keep running every time things get real. I can't keep doing that."

He looked up at her again finally, and the vulnerability in those bright blue eyes made her breath catch. "So I wanted to apologize and tell you all that. Tell you that I'm an idiot and I'm sorry and I don't want to stay away." He paused, and something that might have been hope flickered across his face. "And I wanted to give you your damn interview. The real story, everything you've been trying to get out of me for months. Figure that's a good trade for me being a complete jackass. You get your story, your career-making exclusive, and I get to... I don't know. Try to make this right."

She stared at him, at this man who was Red Hood and Robin, who'd died and come back wrong, who killed people and wore bloodstains on his clothes like badges of honor. Who'd kissed her like he was drowning and then run like he was saving her.

"I'll take the interview," she said finally, her voice quiet but steady.

Relief flooded his features, his shoulders dropping. "Yeah? Okay, good. I can…I'll tell you everything you want to know for your article—"

"No." She cut him off, shaking her head. "I'll take the interview, but not for an article. Not for publication."

He blinked, confusion replacing the relief. "What?"

"I want the interview for me." She leaned forward, her eyes locked on his. "To learn more about you. Who you really are under the mask. Not Red Hood the vigilante, but you. The person."

He stared at her like she'd spoken a different language, his mouth opening and closing without sound. "I—you—" He stopped, started again. "You realize what you're turning down, right? An exclusive interview with a vigilante. First journalist to ever get one. It would make your career. You'd have every major publication in the country trying to poach you. You could write your own ticket."

"I know." Her voice was steady, certain.

"Then why—" He looked genuinely baffled, like he couldn't comprehend what she was saying. "Why would you give that up?"

"Because I don't care about any of that." The words came out simple, honest. "Not right now. Not compared to this." She gestured between them. "I care about you. About knowing who you are, really knowing you. Not as a source, not as a story, but as... as whatever this is. As someone who matters to me."

Something in his expression cracked, walls crumbling. His eyes went bright with emotion he was clearly struggling to contain. "You're serious."

"I'm serious." She held his gaze. "No more running. No more hiding. I want to know you…whoever you are."

He flinched slightly, looking down briefly at his boots. "You don't even know my full name. My real name."

"Then tell me." It wasn't a demand, but an invitation. An offering.

He was quiet for a long moment, his jaw working like he was chewing on the words, his blue eyes dark. Finally, he muttered. "Jason. Jason Todd."

The name hit her like a freight train, recognition slamming into her with devastating force. Her breath caught, eyes going wide. "Jason Todd. You're—" She stopped, her mind racing back through years of memories. "I wrote your obituary."

He nodded slowly, watching her carefully. "Yeah. Six years ago. Bruce — he asked you to do it specifically. Paid the Gazette to make sure you were the one who wrote it."

"I remember." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Wouldn't say why he wanted me specifically, just that it was important. That you were important." 

"You did good." His voice was rough, thick with emotion. "I read it. After I came back, after I got my head straight enough to look myself up. You made me sound...human. Like my life meant something. I was happy he picked you."

"But why did Bruce ask me specifically?" She was still putting pieces together, still trying to understand. She didn’t touch on the realization that if Bruce Wayne was Red Hood — Jason’s — adoptive father, that must mean he was also…

She stopped herself, pushing the thought down and locking it away for now. She would revisit that later, when her mind wasn’t already spinning from what was going on right in front of her now.

Jason's throat worked, like swallowing was difficult. "After I died, Bruce found stuff in my room. Personal things. Including a newspaper clipping I'd kept." He paused, his eyes meeting hers. "Your article. The one about Park Row, about Crime Alley. The one where you used my quotes, from that night I saved you.”

Her heart stopped. "You kept it?"

"Yeah." A slight, sad smile tugged at his lips. "Read it probably a hundred times. Every word. You took what I said and made it mean something. It was…it was great." He looked down at his hands, at the scars on his knuckles. "Bruce found it after. Put two and two together. Figured if I'd kept your article, if your words had mattered that much to me, then maybe you should be the one to write about my death too."

"Jason..." She didn't know what to say, overwhelmed by the weight of it all. All she knew was that the sound of his name on her lips was both thrilling and terrifying all at once. 

"I liked the article," he continued, his voice going softer, more vulnerable than she'd ever heard it. "But I also... I had a bit of a crush on you. After that night." He laughed, but it was self-deprecating, almost embarrassed. The flush on his neck reappeared, spread to his face. "Stupid, right? I was fifteen, you were this college student who'd actually listened to me, treated me like I mattered. Like my words had value. I thought you were—" 

He stopped, swallowed hard. "I wanted to find you again. After I got a bit older, when I wasn't just some kid. I thought maybe I could…I don't know. Talk to you again. Without the mask."

His voice was getting tighter now, emotions clearly overwhelming him. "But then I died. And when I came back, I was so fucked up, so angry and broken that I thought…I thought it didn't matter anymore. That I'd ruined any chance of—"

 He stopped, his breath hitching slightly. "And then I ran into you again, years later, and you were everything I remembered and more, and I didn’t think I was enough—"

His voice cracked completely. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and let out a ragged breath, trying to hold it together, trying not to fall apart in front of her.

She didn't hesitate. Didn't think. Just moved, closing the distance between them and pulled him into her arms. 

He went rigid for a moment, surprised. But then he was clinging to her, his face pressed against her shoulder, his breathing harsh and uneven against her neck.

"It's okay," she murmured, one hand coming up to stroke through his hair. The smell of him was familiar, comforting. Cigarette smoke, sweat, and some cologne she couldn’t place. "It's okay. I'm here. I'm right here."

"I'm sorry," he choked out, the words muffled. "I'm sorry, I'm a fucking mess, I—"

"You're allowed to be," she said firmly. "You died, Jason. You died and came back and went through hell, and you're allowed to feel that. You're allowed to be human."

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her, and his eyes were bright with unshed tears, his face raw and open in a way she'd never seen. Beautiful and broken and so painfully human it made her chest ache.

She leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft, gentle, different from their desperate kiss before. This was comfort and acceptance and promise all wrapped together. This was choosing him, choosing this, choosing to see all of him— the killer and the boy who had never really gotten a chance to live.

He made a soft sound against her mouth, something that might have been a sob, and kissed her back with a tenderness that stole her breath. His hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone, and she could feel him trembling.

When they pulled back, he looked dazed, like he couldn't quite believe this was happening. Like he was afraid if he blinked, she might disappear.

She smiled at him gently, and moved back to her chair, pulling out her notebook and pen. "Okay. I'm going to start the interview now."

He blinked at her, clearly trying to process the shift, still looking wrecked and vulnerable. "You…right now?"

"Right now." She clicked her pen, looked up at him with warmth in her eyes. "No more running, remember? So let's start at the beginning. Tell me about growing up in Crime Alley. Tell me about the boy you were before the cape. Before everything."

He blinked, and slowly, a smile spread across his face. Genuine and so full of emotion it transformed his features completely. He looked young suddenly, boyish despite the scars and the hard edges. He looked at her like she was something precious, something miraculous.

Like he was already half in love with her, or maybe had been all along.

"Yeah," he said softly, his voice rough with an emotion she could finally name. "Yeah, okay. I can do that."

________________________________________________________________

The barista knew her order by heart now: iced latte, extra shot, oat milk if they had it. She'd claim her usual table by the window, the one with the wobbly leg that she'd learned to steady with a folded napkin, and spread her kingdom of chaos across the scratched wooden surface. Highlighters in every color, index cards covered in her cramped handwriting, and always—always—that worn photo tucked into her calculus textbook. Her and her mother at her high school graduation, wide smiles on their faces, both of them knowing it was the beginning of something that would either save them or break them entirely.

When the offer letter from Columbia arrived a year ago, granting her a full academic scholarship, it had been a dream come true in every sense. But dreams, she'd learned, often came with nightmares attached. She'd planned on attending a junior college, working double shifts at whatever job would have her, saving every penny for a couple years at a small state school. Maybe covering the rest with loans that would haunt her for the next decade, following her like ghosts through every paycheck, every birthday, every moment she tried to breathe freely.

She'd grown up with next to nothing, and nothing had a way of clinging to you like smoke. Her father never paid child support, not once in eighteen years, as if she and her mother were just a bad dream he could pretend never happened. Her mother barely scraped by on a waitress's salary, her feet swollen every night, counting tips on the kitchen table while the bills stared at them from the refrigerator door. Some nights, they ate cereal for dinner. Some nights, they didn't eat at all.

But her mother never complained. Never blamed her for the scholarships that didn't come, the opportunities that passed them by. Instead, she'd smooth her daughter's hair back from her forehead and whisper, "You're going to be something, baby. Something bigger than this." The weight of those words had carried her through every rejection letter, every sleepless night, every moment she wanted to give up.

So when Columbia said yes, she made herself a promise: she'd do whatever it took to keep her GPA high enough to hold onto that scholarship. Even if it killed her. Even if she had to sacrifice everything else—friends, fun, sleep, sanity—she would not let this slip through her fingers.

Engineering, however, was kicking her ass with the thoroughness of a street fight. Most nights she stayed at the campus library until security had to chase her out, her eyes burning under the fluorescent lights, her back aching from hunching over textbooks that might as well have been written in ancient Sumerian. She had a few friends, thankfully, so it wasn't as painfully awkward as high school had been, when she'd been the scholarship kid in a sea of designer backpacks and casual references to spring break trips she couldn't afford to dream about. But nearly all of her free time went to studying, to fighting entropy and thermodynamics like they were personal enemies who had wronged her family.

And sometimes, when the library walls felt like they were closing in and the equations started swimming together in her vision, a change of scenery made all the difference.

Hence the little coffee shop downtown. It wasn't anything special. Kind of outdated, desperately in need of a design refresh and a younger crowd. The mismatched furniture looked like it had been rescued from garage sales, and the walls were painted an unfortunate shade of beige that made everything look vaguely sepia-toned. But the coffee was good, rich and bitter and real in a way that the campus café's burnt offerings never were. The people were quiet, lost in their own worlds of laptops and loneliness. And the Wi-Fi was free, which mattered more than she cared to admit.

She first noticed the boy in the coffee shop about two weeks into her routine, the way you notice a new crack in a familiar wall, suddenly obvious, like it had always been there waiting for your attention. 

Well—"boy" wasn't quite right. He was around her age, maybe a year or two younger, caught in that awkward space between teenager and man where some boys looked like they were still waiting for their voices to change and others looked like they could bench press a small car.

He fell into the latter category, though he seemed determined to hide it. Nerdy, but attractive in that quietly devastating way that some guys managed without even trying, surprisingly fit underneath his rotation of corny science T-shirts and hoodies that were just a little too big. Like he was trying to disappear inside them. She figured he might be secretly athletic, judging by the breadth of his shoulders and the corded forearms she'd glimpsed once or twice when he pushed his sleeves up to type. There was a precision to the way he moved, like every gesture was calculated, controlled. Like he was stronger than he wanted anyone to know.

His face was the kind that would age well. Sharp cheekbones that were still settling into themselves, a jawline that had recently lost the last traces of boyish softness. Warm brown eyes that should have made him look approachable but instead made him look haunted. Hair that couldn't decide if it wanted to be brown or auburn, curling slightly at the ends in a way that suggested he'd given up trying to tame it.

But what really caught her attention, what made her look up from her differential equations and thermodynamic cycles, was how often he pined after one of the baristas with the intensity of someone trying to solve the universe's greatest mystery.

She was a pretty girl, probably around their age—all willowy lines and wild curls that defied gravity in ways that made other women secretly envious. Her nametag read "MJ" in cheerful bubble letters that seemed at odds with her dry sense of humor and the way she moved through the coffee shop like she owned it. Beyond that, she didn't know much about her. Just that she had the kind of effortless cool that some people were born with, the kind that made everything look easy even when it wasn't. And that she was often visited by a heavyset Asian guy named Ned, who'd come in to chat with her during his breaks from whatever job required him to wear a polo shirt with someone else's name embroidered on the pocket.

The boy—whose name she still didn't know—seemed to spend more time watching them than drinking the coffee he ordered each visit: black drip, with just a splash of milk and sugar. Not enough to make it sweet, just enough to take the edge off. She'd watched him nurse the same cup for hours, letting it grow cold while his attention drifted again and again to the girl behind the counter.

But it was MJ he watched most. "Watched" was putting it lightly. Stared was more accurate, with the kind of focus usually reserved for final exams or impending disasters. It was almost obsessive, but not in a creepy way. Nothing predatory or entitled about it. It was... sad. Sweet, in a way that made her chest ache with recognition. A lovesick kind of staring, the kind that spoke of sleepless nights and imagined conversations and the particular agony of wanting someone who might as well exist on another planet.

The kind of gaze that said he wasn't just nursing a crush—he was nursing a wound. Like she had broken his heart once, maybe without even knowing it, and he couldn't stop looking at her, hoping she'd change her mind. Hoping she'd see him. 

She recognized that look because she'd seen it in mirrors, on the rare occasions when she'd been foolish enough to let someone matter. But more than that, she recognized it from her mother, after dates that started with nervous laughter and careful makeup and ended with a slammed door. Muffled crying that lasted until dawn, and weeks of silence before the next hopeful soul came along. The look of someone who kept believing in love even when love kept failing them.

She'd never been one for relationships herself, had made peace with that particular sacrifice early on. They were distractions when you couldn't afford distractions, dead weight when you were already drowning in credit hours and desperate to keep your head above water. Besides, what could a boyfriend possibly offer her that she needed more than her next meal or next semester's tuition? Unless he was a genius in thermodynamics who could explain why entropy always increased and why that felt like a personal insult to her efforts to create order in her life, romance was a luxury she couldn't afford.

She was drowning in thermodynamics at the moment. Specifically the way heat always flowed from hot to cold, the way energy always found a way to dissipate, the way the universe seemed fundamentally committed to chaos. It felt like a metaphor for everything in her life she was trying desperately to control.

After a month of watching the boy pine with absolutely no progress — if anything, he seemed to be getting worse — more hopeless, more resigned to his fate as a professional coffee shop lurker, she finally decided to intervene. Maybe it was the engineer in her, the part that believed every problem had a solution if you just applied the right principles. Maybe it was simple human decency. Maybe she was just procrastinating on problem sets that made her want to cry.

She closed her laptop with more force than necessary, gathered her courage like armor, and walked over from her usual table to slide into the chair across from him with what she hoped looked like casual confidence rather than manic determination.

His eyes snapped up to meet hers, wide with surprise and something that might have been panic. He jolted like she'd touched him with a live wire, blinking rapidly like he couldn't process what was happening. Up close, she could see the dark circles under his eyes, the way his T-shirt hung loose like he'd lost weight recently. The particular exhaustion that came from wanting something so badly it consumed you.

Before he could speak—before he could stammer out some excuse and flee—she beat him to it.

"You gonna ask her out anytime soon?"

The effect was immediate and devastating. He gawked at her like she'd just asked him to rob a bank and donate the proceeds to charity, his brow furrowing in confusion so deep it was almost geometric. Up close, he was even more attractive than she'd thought. Probably around nineteen, with those warm brown eyes that looked like melted chocolate and currently held about the same level of coherent thought.

"I...what girl? Who even are you?" His voice cracked slightly on the last word, which would have been endearing if it hadn't been so obviously mortifying for him.

She stuck out her hand, undeterred by his deer-in-headlights expression, and gave him her name with the kind of confidence that came from having nothing left to lose. "I'm talking about the barista. The pretty one at the front counter. I've been coming here every Sunday for a month, and every time I see you, you spend the majority of your visit staring at her like she's Juliet and you're auditioning for Romeo. Except Romeo actually talked to Juliet, so maybe you need to work on your method acting."

"I wasn't—I mean, I don't—Juliet?" he stammered, glancing nervously toward the counter like MJ might have heard and would suddenly materialize to witness his complete social breakdown.

She raised an eyebrow, settling back in her chair with the satisfaction of someone who had successfully lobbed a conversational grenade. "So you don't think she's pretty? Or you do, and you're just hoping she'll develop telepathic abilities and read your mind eventually? Because I have to tell you, the success rate on that strategy is historically pretty low."

He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, his brain clearly buffering like an old computer trying to run too many programs at once. "I… I just come here to do homework."

She gave him a flat look that could have cut glass and leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice just enough to make him lean forward despite himself. "Do you also do homework with your eyes? Because you spend more time staring at her than at your laptop. I'm pretty sure I saw you drool once."

His face went crimson in a way that suggested his entire circulatory system had just rerouted to his cheeks. "What? No, I wasn't drooling! I was drinking coffee!"

"Uh-huh. Through your eyeballs?"

"I wasn't…look, she doesn't know me," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck in what was clearly a nervous habit. His voice dropped to almost a whisper, and suddenly he looked younger, more vulnerable. "She's cool and... and she's got her life together, you know? And I'm just some guy who sits in the corner nursing the same cup of coffee for three hours because I'm too chicken to actually talk to her. It's not like she'd be interested. Now, at least."

The last part caught her attention—the now, at least—but she filed it away for later analysis. Right now, he looked like he wanted to crawl under the table and disappear forever.

She tilted her head, studying him with the kind of clinical interest she usually reserved for particularly challenging physics problems. "Okay, that's tragic but fair. Still, you might be surprised. Girls can't read minds either, by the way. If we could, the world would be a lot more efficient and significantly less mysterious."

The boy looked like he was trying to disappear into his hoodie, pulling the drawstrings tighter like he could create a fabric fort around himself. "This is… the weirdest conversation I've had before 10 AM. Ever. Also pretty invasive, if we're being honest."

She shrugged, unrepentant. "I'll take that as a compliment. Anyway, consider this your intervention. Ask her out or I'm going to have to keep sitting here every week giving you pep talks and increasingly creative metaphors about your tragic love life."

He stared at her like he wasn't sure whether to laugh, run, or check if she was having some kind of psychological episode. There was something almost familiar about his expression, like he was used to people saying unexpected things to him, but not quite this unexpected.

"Your move, Romeo."

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, then made a sound that was half laugh, half groan. His brain was clearly short-circuiting, and she could practically see him calculating the physics of rejection in real time. The trajectory of humiliation, the velocity of embarrassment, the probable outcomes of various social interactions.

She tilted her head like a curious bird. "Want some help?"

His head snapped up so fast she thought he might give himself whiplash, his eyes wide with something that looked suspiciously like terror. "What—no! No, no, no help. Absolutely not. No help required or desired or—just no."

She blinked, deadpan. "Okay, relax. I wasn't going to push you into traffic and make her perform CPR or anything. Though now that I think about it, that would probably work..."

He sputtered, red creeping up his neck like spilled wine on white fabric. "I didn't—I just meant—I don't need help. I mean, I'm fine. It's fine. Everything's… totally fine."

"Wow. You sound very not fine. Like, impressively not fine. Should I be concerned about your blood pressure right now?"

"I am fine," he insisted, clearly unraveling faster than a cheap sweater. "I just, look, I don't even know her, okay? What am I supposed to say? 'Hey, I've been staring at you every Sunday like a socially inept raccoon, wanna get coffee sometime?' Because that's definitely going to go over well."

She snorted, covering her mouth to muffle the sound. "Honestly? It would be memorable. The raccoon line needs a little work, but it's got charm. Shows self-awareness. Girls appreciate self-deprecating humor, within reason."

He groaned and dragged both hands down his face, leaving red marks in their wake. The gesture was so full of frustrated despair that she almost felt bad for him. Almost.

"Why are you doing this? Seriously, what did I do to deserve getting psychoanalyzed by a stranger on a Sunday morning?"

She shrugged, brushing some imaginary crumbs off his table just to give her hands something to do. "It's entertaining. You're entertaining. Also, it's either this or go back to reviewing thermodynamics, and between you and entropy, you're currently winning. Barely, but still."

He stared at her like she was some kind of benevolent chaos demon who had materialized specifically to torment him, which wasn't entirely inaccurate.

"I just thought," she continued, tapping the edge of his table with one finger, "you might like a wingwoman. I could casually mention that you're probably not a serial killer. Girls respond better to flirting when they have another girl vouching for them. Like a reference letter, but for romance."

He continued staring at her like she had grown three heads, possibly four. "Do you do this often? Interrogate strangers in coffee shops about their nonexistent love lives?"

"Only the ones who look like they're about to die of unrequited feelings and caffeine overdose. It's a public service, really. I should probably put it on my resume."

He huffed a small, defeated laugh that was more air than humor, finally dropping his forehead to the table with a soft thunk. "God, this is so weird. My life is so weird."

"And yet, you haven't told me to leave."

He lifted his head just enough to glare at her from under his floppy hair, which was now thoroughly messed up from the table encounter. "You sat down at my table without asking."

"Semantics."

He let out another groan and rested his head back against the chair, staring at the ceiling like it might have answers written in the water stains. "You know, I came here for a quiet morning. Just me, my textbook, and the blissful anonymity of public spaces."

"Clearly," she said, gesturing to his untouched coffee with theatrical flourish. "Nothing screams inner peace like silently pining for the girl behind the counter while stress-vibing into your laptop. Very zen. Very healthy."

He gave her a look that could have powered a small city. "Do you always narrate other people's lives like this, or am I just lucky?"

She took a deliberately loud sip of her latte, savoring both the coffee and his obvious discomfort. "Only when I get bored. And you're significantly more interesting than my heat transfer notes, which is saying something because those notes are riveting. Really edge-of-your-seat stuff."

"That's a really low bar," he muttered, but there was something almost like amusement in his voice now.

"You'd be surprised. Engineering textbooks have all the emotional depth of a parking meter."

He exhaled a small laugh before glancing at her again, still wary but no longer looking like he was planning an escape route. "Okay, serious question: are you messing with me? Is this some kind of social experiment? Are there cameras?"

She tilted her head thoughtfully, considering the question with the gravity it deserved. "Not entirely. Messing with you, I mean. There might be some mild entertainment value involved, but I'm mostly sincere about the tragic pining situation."

"Awesome. Super reassuring. Really putting me at ease here."

"Look, I'm not trying to ruin your life," she said, and for a moment her voice lost its teasing edge, becoming almost genuinely gentle. "I just think it's kind of tragic, the way you look at her. Like she's the last Pop-Tart on Earth and you're stuck on a desert island with nothing but stale crackers."

He covered his face with both hands, but not before she saw his face paint itself crimson again. "Please stop. I'm begging you. Have mercy."

"No promises," she said cheerfully, her good humor restored by his obvious mortification. "But I'll dial it back if you admit I'm right about the staring situation."

"I'm not going to…ugh." He peeked at her through his fingers like a child watching a scary movie. "What are you even studying, anyway? Aside from the human condition and the art of maximum embarrassment?"

"Mechanical engineering, fourth year. You?"

He hesitated for just a beat too long, like he was editing his answer in real time. "Biophysics. Maybe biochemistry down the line, I'm still figuring it out. Where do you go?"

Her eyebrows rose, genuinely impressed despite herself. "Ambitious. That's serious stuff. I go to Columbia. Got a full ride, which is the only reason I can afford to drink overpriced coffee and psychoanalyze strangers."

"No kidding?" He perked up slightly, something shifting in his expression. "I go there too! Just started this year, actually. And yeah, scholarships don't maintain themselves. Trust me, I know."

At that, something in her expression softened around the edges. She recognized something in his voice, the particular weight that came with knowing exactly how much everything cost, how precarious it all was. "Yeah. I get that. Really get that."

They sat in silence for a moment, and it wasn't entirely awkward anymore. Just quiet enough to feel like a temporary truce had formed between them, like they'd found some common ground in the shared terror of potentially losing everything they'd worked for.

He picked up his coffee at last and took a careful sip, making a face at how cold it had gotten. "I'm still not asking her out."

She smiled, and it was the first entirely genuine expression she'd worn since sitting down. "That's okay."

"…Really? Just like that?"

"Sure." She shrugged, leaning back in her chair. "I can just keep showing up here every week and giving you unsolicited emotional coaching until you either break down and do it or transfer schools to avoid me. I've got time."

He gave her a sidelong glance that was equal parts horrified and reluctantly amused. "You're kind of terrifying, you know that?"

"And yet," she said, smirking in a way that suggested she was quite proud of that fact, "you still haven't asked me to leave. In fact, you seem almost relaxed now. It's like you enjoy being terrorized."

He rolled his eyes, but she caught the corner of his mouth tugging upward despite his best efforts. "You're… persistent. I'll give you that."

"I prefer 'motivationally gifted,'" she replied with a theatrical wink. "Also, you still haven't told me your name, Romeo. Are we going to stick with Shakespeare references, or can I get something to call you besides 'the guy who has a staring problem'?"

For the first time since she'd sat down, he actually grinned. Not the nervous, half-formed smiles from before, but something real and bright that transformed his entire face. For a moment, she could have sworn there was more light in those brown eyes than she'd seen in all her weeks of observation, like someone had just turned on a lamp in a room that had been dark too long.

He reached out his hand across the small table, and she noticed his fingers were long and surprisingly steady despite everything. "Peter Parker. And maybe I'll start studying up on my Shakespeare if it means you'll keep coming up with increasingly elaborate metaphors for my social failures."

She laughed—actually laughed, bright and genuine—as she took his hand. His grip was warm and firm, confident in a way that his voice hadn't been. “Just ask a girl out sometime and we can call it even.”

.

.

.

Columbia wasn't a huge campus, not by state school standards anyway. Compact for an Ivy League, really, tucked right into the heart of Manhattan like a secret garden hidden behind wrought iron gates. Dense and self-contained in a way that made it feel both intimate and impossibly vast depending on your mood. The Gothic Revival buildings rose from the urban landscape like something out of a fairy tale, all limestone and red brick and the weight of centuries pressing down on students who were just trying to figure out how to do their laundry without turning everything pink.

She'd lived on campus every year since her freshman orientation, when she'd arrived with two suitcases and a terror so profound it made her physically nauseous. It saved money—a lot of money—especially since she didn't have a car and probably never would. Even with the occasional bartending shifts she squeezed in between exams and study sessions, serving overpriced cocktails to people who spent more on a single drink than she had for groceries in a week, there was no way she could afford New York rent on top of tuition, books, and the thousand small expenses that nobody warned you about when they handed you that scholarship letter.

The campus had become her entire world by necessity, a carefully contained universe where she could control the variables, predict the outcomes, and manage the chaos of her life within clearly defined boundaries.

So it wasn't much of a surprise when, a few days after officially meeting Peter Parker—though she'd been thinking about him more than she cared to admit, wondering if he'd actually work up the courage to talk to MJ or if he'd spend another month perfecting the art of longing stares—she ran into him again. This time at a quarter past eleven in the campus library, in the basement level where the fluorescent lights hummed like dying insects and the air smelled perpetually of old books and desperation.

He was hunched over his laptop at one of the long wooden tables, shoulders curved inward like he was trying to physically shield himself from the world. A Red Bull sat to his left, the can sweating condensation onto a growing pile of napkins, and a teetering stack of textbooks rose to his right like a paper tower threatening to topple at any moment. Faded jeans that had seen better days, scuffed sneakers that were more holes than shoes, and a dark blue hoodie that was either genuinely vintage or had been worn so often it achieved that soft, broken-in quality that money couldn't buy.

The dark circles under his eyes were visible even from across the room, purple-black smudges that spoke of too many late nights and not enough sleep. She recognized the look because she wore it herself most days. The particular exhaustion that came from pushing your body past its limits in service of academic survival.

She approached quietly, noting the way his fingers moved across the keyboard with surprising speed and precision, the way his brow was furrowed in concentration so intense it looked almost painful. For a moment, she hesitated, remembering how skittish he'd been at the coffee shop, how easily he'd startled.

Then she slid into the seat across from him, leaned forward with a predatory grin, and tugged one of his earbuds out with the casual confidence of someone who had already decided they were friends whether he liked it or not.

"We meet again, Romeo."

Peter jumped in his chair like she'd just set off a small explosive, his hand flying to his chest as he blinked rapidly at her with those wide brown eyes. For a second, he looked genuinely panicked, like she might be a hallucination brought on by caffeine overdose and sleep deprivation. But then recognition dawned, followed immediately by what looked suspiciously like relief.

"You— I… you go here?" he stammered, his voice doing that thing where it pitched upward mid-sentence, cracking slightly on the last word in a way that made her want to simultaneously tease him and wrap him in a protective blanket.

She gave him the kind of flat, unimpressed look she usually reserved for particularly stupid thermodynamics problems. "I told you I go here the last time we met. Like, explicitly. With words and everything."

"I know, I remember—I meant—" He winced, already flustering himself into a corner like a particularly anxious butterfly. "That came out wrong. I know you go here, obviously you go here, I just didn't expect to see you here here. Like, this specific library. This specific floor. Not that you don't belong here or anything—obviously you do, you're clearly smarter than me based on our previous conversation and probably most conversations—"

She held up a hand like a traffic cop, fighting back a smile. "You're spiraling."

He exhaled, his shoulders deflating like a punctured balloon. "I am. God, I am."

She smirked and gestured to the Red Bull with the kind of theatrical concern usually reserved for interventions. "Is that your second or third today?"

He looked down at the can like he'd forgotten it existed, then back at her with something that might have been shame. "...Fourth."

"Impressive. Bold. Dangerously unhealthy. Are you actively trying to give yourself a heart condition, or is that just a happy accident?"

"I like to live on the edge," he deadpanned, and there was something in his delivery—dry and perfectly timed—that made her suspect Peter Parker might actually have a sense of humor underneath all that nervous energy. Or maybe he was just totally serious. 

She snorted, genuinely delighted. "Right. The edge of cardiac arrest. Very punk rock of you."

He cracked a tired smile, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses in a gesture that was becoming familiar. She noticed his hands — long fingers, calloused in weird places, like he did manual labor or played an instrument or had some hobby that required precise, repetitive motions.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, leaning back in his chair for the first time since she'd sat down. "I figured you'd be at your coffee shop, terrorizing other unsuspecting customers."

"Well," she said, settling back in her own chair and crossing her arms over her chest as she studied him with renewed interest, "most coffee shops aren't open at—" she checked her phone "—less than an hour before midnight. Revolutionary concept, I know, but apparently even baristas need sleep."

He had the grace to look embarrassed. "Right. Obviously. Time is... a construct I've been ignoring lately."

"I actually go to this library a lot," she continued, noting the way his eyes darted around the room like he was cataloging exits. "It's the closest to my dorm on campus, and the basement level is usually pretty dead. I just usually camp out on the top floor to avoid as many people as possible. Less distracting when you're trying to convince yourself that engineering makes sense."

He shifted at that, looking away nervously, and something in his body language made her narrow her eyes. There was recognition there, maybe even guilt.

"Just like how you avoid talking to women you develop crushes on when they're within a ten-foot radius of you," she added with a grin that was equal parts teasing and fond.

Peter groaned and dropped his head to the table with a soft thunk that echoed in the quiet space. When he spoke, his voice was muffled by the wooden surface. "You're never letting me live that down, are you?"

"Not a chance," she said, and her tone was cheerful enough to power a small city. "It's too good. Plus, it's character building for you."

He lifted his head just enough to peek at her, his hair sticking up at odd angles and his glasses slightly askew. The effect was simultaneously pathetic and endearing. "You gonna bring it up every time you see me? Because I'm starting to think you might be stalking me."

"Only when it's funny. Or convenient. Or when I'm bored, which is often." She leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin in her hands. "Speaking of which—did you ask her out yet? MJ? Make your grand romantic gesture? Recite some Shakespeare under her window?"

His face fell—barely, but noticeably if you were watching for it. His shoulders slumped a little, and he looked back at his laptop screen like it might save him from the conversation. The light from the screen cast harsh shadows under his eyes, making him look younger and more fragile than she'd expected.

"No," he muttered, and there was something final in the way he said it, like a door closing.

She blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his mood. She'd been prepared for stammering, for excuses, for the same lovesick rambling from the coffee shop. This quiet resignation was something else entirely.

"Still planning your Shakespeare monologue?" she asked, and her voice was softer now, gentler, like she was approaching a wounded animal.

He gave a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. Just a hollow sound that made her chest tighten unexpectedly. "I dunno. It's... stupid. She won't... she doesn't even know I exist. And even if she did..."

He trailed off, shaking his head like he was arguing with himself.

"Peter," she said, and her tone was flat enough to cut through whatever spiral he was starting. "You've got the emotional energy of a brooding romantic poet and the bone structure of an early 2000s rom-com star. Trust me, she knows you exist."

He laughed again, genuinely this time, but it was short-lived. The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by something that looked suspiciously like pain.

"Yeah, well. Doesn't matter. It's... complicated," he said quietly, and there was something in his voice—raw and quietly defeated—that caught her completely off guard.

This wasn't the theatrical angst of a college kid with a crush. This was real hurt, the kind that came from somewhere deeper than unrequited coffee shop attraction. The kind that spoke of history, of loss, of wounds that hadn't quite healed.

She found herself studying his face more carefully, noting the way his jaw tightened when he thought she wasn't looking, the way his hands had curled into loose fists on the table. Whatever was going on with MJ, it was bigger than she'd realized.

So she pivoted, because she didn't know him well enough to push, and because bringing down someone who was already clearly struggling felt unnecessarily cruel.

"Anyway," she said, injecting false brightness into her voice, "speaking of tragic losses that might actually ruin my life—thermodynamics."

That got his attention. His head snapped up, brown eyes focusing on her with laser-like intensity.

She pulled a folded sheet of paper from her backpack and slapped it onto the table like it had personally insulted her entire family. The paper was covered in her cramped handwriting, equations crossed out and rewritten so many times it looked like a mathematical crime scene.

"This assignment is currently destroying my will to live," she announced dramatically. "I've done this problem five times, and either I'm fundamentally broken as a human being or the universe has a personal vendetta against me. Possibly both."

Peter straightened slightly, his whole demeanor shifting as he leaned forward to squint at the page. It was like watching someone flip a switch. Suddenly he was alert, engaged, his previous melancholy temporarily forgotten in the face of what appeared to be an academic challenge.

"Can I see?" he asked, and there was genuine curiosity in his voice now, the kind of interest that people usually reserved for things they actually cared about.

"Knock yourself out," she said, pushing the paper across the table. "But fair warning, I'm pretty sure this problem was designed by sadists who hate joy."

He pulled it toward him, eyes scanning the equations with the kind of focused intensity she usually associated with people reading medical test results or legal documents. Then, without a word, without even asking for a pencil, he flipped the paper over, grabbed a pen from seemingly nowhere, and started writing in the margin.

She watched, fascinated despite herself, as his hand moved across the paper with smooth, confident strokes. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just pure, methodical problem-solving that looked almost effortless. Less than a minute later, he pushed it back to her with a small smile.

She frowned and looked at the paper. He hadn't just solved the problem—he'd identified the exact moment where she'd made an incorrect assumption about internal energy, traced her error through the entire equation chain, and corrected her work with the kind of clarity that made her original attempt look like chicken scratches in comparison. The solution was clean, elegant, and probably correct in a way that made her want to both thank him and throw something at his head.

She looked up at him, genuinely stunned. "Okay, that was deeply disturbing."

Peter shifted in his seat, suddenly looking embarrassed again, like he'd just realized he'd shown off in a way that might be socially inappropriate. "It's not that hard once you know where to isolate the variables. You were actually really close. You just got tripped up on the boundary conditions."

She blinked at him, processing. "Are you secretly a robot? Because that was not human-level problem solving. That was something else entirely."

He shrugged, and the gesture was so casual it was almost insulting. "No, I just... like this stuff, I guess. It clicks for me."

"'Clicks,'" she repeated, her voice completely deadpan. "Peter, I just watched you dismantle a thermodynamics midterm question like it owed you money and insulted your mother. That's not 'clicking.' That's wizardry."

He scratched the back of his neck, a gesture she was starting to recognize as his default response to any kind of praise or attention. "I mean, it's kind of my thing. Science. Math. Physics. Always has been."

"Your thing," she said, shaking her head in disbelief. "God, you're such a nerd."

His face fell again, just a little, like he wasn't sure if she meant it as an insult or an observation. Like maybe he'd been called worse things and was bracing himself for impact.

But then she smiled, not her usual smirk or grin, but something genuine and warm. She reached across the table to pat his arm in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. Physical comfort wasn't exactly her strong suit, but he looked like he needed it.

"It's impressive," she said simply. "Really impressive. I've been beating my head against this stuff for weeks, and you just... solved it. Like it was nothing."

Peter blinked, clearly surprised. "Wait, was that... a compliment? From you? Should I be documenting this moment for posterity?"

She leaned back in her chair and raised her nearly empty coffee cup in a mock toast. "Don't get used to it, Parker. I have a reputation to maintain."

He grinned, the first genuinely happy expression she'd seen from him since sitting down. "Noted. I'll treasure it forever."

"You better." She paused, then leaned forward again, studying him with renewed interest. "So. Do you, uh... want to help? With thermodynamics? Because I'm pretty sure I'm going to fail this class without some kind of intervention, and you seem to have an unfair advantage in the 'understanding how the universe works' department."

He hesitated for just a second, like he was afraid she might be joking or setting him up for some kind of elaborate prank. "You'd actually want my help? I mean, I'm already practically living in this library anyway, so I might as well be useful for something."

She narrowed her eyes, like she was studying him for signs of sarcasm or ulterior motives. Then she nodded decisively. "Okay. You're hired."

"Hired?" he asked, and there was something almost pleased in his voice, like the idea of being needed for something was novel and welcome.

"As my academic emotional support tutor," she announced with the gravity of someone offering a prestigious position. "Payment is limited to mild sarcasm, the occasional coffee, and my eternal gratitude. Which, fair warning, might not be worth much in the current market."

Peter smiled again, this time brighter, more genuine. She had a sinking suspicion he didn't know many people at Columbia yet, hadn't made the easy friendships that some people seemed to fall into effortlessly. Maybe he was just lonely, or maybe there was something else. Some reason why a kid who was clearly brilliant and not entirely unfortunate-looking was spending his nights alone in the library basement, subsisting on energy drinks and academic problem-solving.

"Deal," he said simply, and something in his voice made her think this might be the best offer he'd gotten in a while.

They settled into a rhythm after that. With him explaining concepts in that fast but remarkably clear way that only came from genuine understanding, his hands moving as he talked, sketching invisible diagrams in the air that somehow made more sense than anything in her textbook. And her scribbling furiously in her notebook, occasionally muttering creative insults at entropy like it was a personal enemy who had wronged her family.

After a solid forty-five minutes of progress that felt almost miraculous, she leaned back in her chair and let out a low whistle.

"Okay, Parker. I'm officially impressed. Like, genuinely concerned about your brain's processing power."

"Thanks," he said, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses with the heel of his palm. "You're actually a pretty fast learner when you're not busy composing death threats to thermodynamic principles."

"Years of perfectionism and childhood trauma," she said cheerfully. "Builds character and study habits. Mostly study habits." She paused, then glanced at him with the kind of curiosity that had gotten her into trouble more than once. "So. What's your deal, anyway?"

He blinked, clearly caught off guard. "My... deal?"

"Yeah. You know, what's your backstory, Romeo? Where'd you grow up? What's your tragic academic origin story? How does a kid end up being able to solve thermodynamics problems like he's ordering coffee?"

He hesitated for a second too long, and she caught it. There was something there, some story he wasn't sure he wanted to tell.

"I mean, if it's classified information, I can pretend I never asked," she added, trying to keep her voice light. "I'm good at selective amnesia when necessary."

"No, it's not—" he shook his head quickly, like he was clearing cobwebs. "I just don't usually get asked that. People don't usually... want to know."

She tilted her head, studying him more carefully. There was something vulnerable in the admission, something that made her chest tighten unexpectedly.

"You don't talk to people much, do you?" she asked gently.

Peter gave her a tired little smile that was more sad than happy. "Not lately. Not really."

That gave her pause. She'd been thinking of him as shy, maybe socially anxious, but this felt like something different. Like he'd withdrawn from people deliberately, or maybe people had withdrawn from him.

She didn't push, though. Just leaned back in her chair and sipped the last of her coffee, giving him space to decide how much he wanted to share.

"I grew up in Queens," he said finally, his voice quiet in the library's hush. "Forest Hills, specifically. Nice neighborhood, quiet. Good schools."

"Ah, a city kid. That explains the subway navigation skills I assume you have."

"Yeah." He tapped his pencil against his notebook in a rhythm that seemed unconscious, nervous. "It was just me and my Aunt May and Uncle Ben, growing up. My parents died when I was really little—car accident. I don't really remember them."

Her expression softened around the edges, though she didn't interrupt. She'd learned early in life that sometimes people needed to tell their stories in their own time, their own way.

"May raised me," he continued, and there was warmth in his voice when he said her name, the kind of love that came from years of shared jokes and scraped knees and bedtime stories. 

"She was... she was amazing. Strongest person I ever knew. Could fix anything. Cars, broken hearts, impossible math homework. She always said I got my brain from my dad, but my heart from her."

The past tense hit her like a physical blow. Was. Could.

"She passed away a little while ago," he added quietly, not looking at her. “And Uncle Ben... he died a few years back. Heart attack."

She felt her own heart stop for a moment. When she'd made that joke about tragic backstories, she'd been thinking about failed classes and unrequited crushes, not actual tragedy. Not the kind of loss that reshaped your entire world.

"Shit," she breathed, and it came out softer than she'd intended. "Peter, I'm so sorry. That's... God, that's awful."

He shrugged one shoulder, but the gesture was too careful, too controlled. Like he'd practiced it in mirrors until it looked casual instead of devastating.

"Yeah. Thanks. It's been... it's been a weird year," he said, and there was something in his voice that made her think 'weird' was a massive understatement.

She studied him for a moment, noting the way his shoulders had curved inward again, the way his hands had gone still on the table. The dark circles under his eyes suddenly made more sense, as did the energy drinks and the late nights and the general air of someone who was barely holding himself together.

"You live with anyone now?" she asked carefully.

He hesitated again, and she was starting to recognize that pause as a sign that he was editing his response in real time.

"No. Just me," he said simply.

She raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "Seriously? What are you, like, twenty? You live alone in New York? That's... that's actually kind of terrifying."

He almost smiled at that. "I'm almost nineteen, actually. And yeah, I know how it sounds. But I'm good at taking care of myself. I've had to be."

"Do you even know how to do laundry without turning everything pink?" she asked, trying to inject some lightness back into the conversation. "Because that's like, Advanced Adult Skills 101."

"Yes, actually," he said, and there was something almost proud in his voice. "And I can cook. Real food, not just ramen and cereal. May taught some some stuff before..."

He trailed off, but she got the message. Before she passed. Before she couldn't teach him anymore.

"Alright, points for basic life skills," she said with exaggerated approval. "Though I'm still suspicious. Most nineteen-year-olds I know can barely manage to shower regularly, let alone maintain an entire apartment."

"I'm just really independent," he said with a small smile, but there was something a little sad behind it. Like independence hadn't been a choice so much as a necessity.

She watched him for a moment, taking in the careful way he held himself, the practiced ease with which he deflected concern. Peter Parker, she was beginning to realize, was carrying a lot more weight than anyone his age should have to bear.

"Okay, tragic lone wolf," she said finally, deciding not to push any further. "Let's get back to entropy before I start psychoanalyzing you and we both end up crying into our textbooks."

Peter looked genuinely relieved. "Please. I'd rather discuss the heat death of the universe than my feelings."

"Deal," she said, flipping open her notebook. But as they bent over the physics problems again, she found herself stealing glances at him, wondering what other stories he was carrying, what other wounds he was hiding behind that careful smile and those impossibly steady hands.

They bent over the notebook again, heads close together as he explained another equation. This time, though, she noticed how quickly he caught her mistakes. Not with impatience, but with the kind of gentle precision that made her wonder if he'd done this before. How patient he was in explaining every step, even when she made him repeat it twice, three times. His voice never carried that edge of frustration she'd grown used to from other study partners.

And every once in a while, she'd glance up to find him already looking at her, brow furrowed in concentration — not at the problem, but at her. Like he was still trying to figure her out, piece together some puzzle she didn't even know she was presenting.

The study dates became a routine. A quiet kind of habit that settled into her bones like warmth. Some nights she'd find him already at their usual corner table in the library, half-asleep over his notes with a Red Bull clutched like a lifeline in fingers that trembled slightly from too much caffeine and too little sleep. Other days, he wouldn't respond to a text until late morning or mid-afternoon, his replies apologetic and vague —“sorry, was out late,” or, “phone died, long night”.

She never pried. But she assumed he had some kind of late-night job. Something exhausting and unrelenting that drained him in ways she could see carved into the shadows beneath his eyes. It would explain the chronic dark circles that no amount of concealer seemed to touch, the worn-out jeans that never seemed to change, and the borderline dependence on caffeine that had him reaching for another energy drink before he'd finished the first. Whatever it was, he clearly wasn't getting much rest. Some nights he looked like he'd been hit by a truck, moving with a careful stiffness that spoke of hidden bruises and aching muscles.

She would never admit it out loud. Definitely not to him, and barely even to herself, but Peter had quietly become one of her favorite people. A friend, sure. But one that had snuck under her skin in a way few others had ever managed. 

He made her laugh without trying, listened when she rambled about her classes, and had this way of making even the most mundane moments feel lighter. And she felt for him, truly. He lived alone in what she imagined was some cramped studio apartment, didn't seem to have much family beyond vague mentions of his aunt, and carried himself like he was used to being on his own—even when surrounded by people, there was something almost untouchable about his solitude.

So, she started bringing him food.

At first it was leftovers. Takeout she hadn't finished, extra spring rolls she'd ordered on a whim. She claimed it was no big deal, just extra. But the first time she set a slightly soggy Thai food bag in front of him, he stared at it like it was a gift from the heavens, his whole face lighting up in a way that made her chest tighten.

"Wait... this is for me?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper, fingers hovering over the container like he was afraid it might disappear.

She shrugged, keeping it casual, but something about his reaction—so surprised, so genuinely touched—made her throat feel thick. "I wasn't gonna eat it. Don't let it go to waste."

He looked weirdly emotional about it, blinking rapidly as he opened the container. Like maybe no one had brought him food in a while. Like maybe no one had thought of him in small, everyday ways that mattered. Which, of course, only made her feel more obligated to keep doing it.

Soon, it escalated. She started cooking actual meals, not gourmet stuff, but real food. Simple things that filled you up and warmed you from the inside. Pasta with homemade sauce, rice bowls loaded with vegetables, stir fry that she'd learned from watching YouTube videos. Nothing fancy, but always warm, always enough for two. She'd buy extra groceries "by accident," then insist he take half because she'd "totally miscalculated portions again." Dropped off 'extra' laundry detergent without asking, left it by his backpack with a casual "found this on sale." Bought him a couple cases of beer once, too, because he looked like he needed it. Like he needed something to take the edge off whatever was wearing him down.

He turned bright red and stammered, "I'm not—I mean, I'm not even old enough to—"

She rolled her eyes and waved him off. "Then don't drink it. Display it as a cautionary tale about underage drinking. Either way, it's yours now."

She left it on the table and went home without waiting for thanks, but she caught the way his face softened, the quiet "thank you" he whispered to her retreating form.

And through it all, Peter never stopped pining after MJ.

Every week, the same tired routine. He'd sneak glances at her behind the coffee shop counter, eyes soft and hopeless, like he was living out some tragic indie film where the protagonist never got the girl. The wistful sighing when she'd laugh at another customer's joke. The long, aching looks when she'd tuck her hair behind her ear or smile at something on her phone. She was this close to asking MJ out for him just to end the suffering. His and, increasingly, her own.

It was starting to get on her nerves in ways she didn't want to examine too closely. The guy could solve advanced thermodynamics in under sixty seconds but couldn't string together a full sentence to the girl he liked? It didn't add up. And the way he'd get that dreamy, faraway look whenever MJ's name came up in conversation made something twist uncomfortably in her stomach.

Honestly, she didn't know what was more tragic—his one-sided crush, or the fact that despite everything she was doing for him, despite all the time they spent together, MJ was still the one he couldn't stop looking at. Not that she liked him, or anything. He was becoming one of her closest friends, and he was still just a kid, really. She just wanted him to get over this phase so they could both move on with their lives. So she could stop feeling this weird jealousy that had no right to exist.

But life, especially in New York, waited for no one. And the city made it hard for people like her to get on with her life when superheroes were a very real thing, when danger could find you on any ordinary night.

It was just past midnight when she got off her bartending shift, the streets quieter than usual for a Thursday. Rain clung to the pavement like a threat, not quite falling but heavy in the air as she adjusted the strap of her backpack and turned toward campus. The weight of the night shift sat heavy in her bones, hours of mixing drinks, dodging grabby hands, and smiling through exhaustion had left her drained and eager for her bed.

The walk wasn't far, ten blocks, maybe twelve. Usually manageable, a peaceful end to a long night. And she had missed the last bus, her manager having her stay longer than usual to clean up after some fraternity boys had decided to celebrate someone's birthday by making as much mess as possible. But something about the night felt... off. Wrong in a way that made her skin crawl and her pulse quicken.

It started with the echo of footsteps behind her. Unhurried. Deliberate. Too perfectly timed with her own to be coincidental. She slowed at the corner of Amsterdam and 114th, pretending to scroll through her phone while her eyes flicked to the darkened storefronts reflected in the screen. Three shapes moved behind her, their footsteps faltering when hers did.

Three of them. Young, maybe early twenties. One with a hood pulled low over his face. Another chewing a toothpick, sauntering like he had nowhere to be and all night to get there. The third kept his hands in his pockets, but there was something about his posture that made her stomach drop. She picked up her pace, heart hammering against her ribs.

"Hey," one called after her, voice oily and confident in the way that made her skin crawl. "You got the time?"

She didn't answer, didn't even turn around. Just kept walking, faster now, her breath coming in short puffs that fogged in the cool air. She knew exactly where this was headed—had heard enough stories, seen enough news reports—and all she could do was hope they got bored of her and found an easier target.

"Hey—hey, don't be rude, sweetheart. We just wanna talk."

The shuffle of footsteps turned into a jog. She felt her stomach plummet, panic flooding her system like ice water. Campus was so close now. Half a block, maybe less. But it was late, the streets empty except for the occasional taxi, and the dull throb in her feet from hours behind the bar made it hard to move any faster.

A hand caught her backpack strap and yanked hard.

She stumbled, twisted, and the next few seconds were chaos. A flurry of motion, of hands grabbing at her clothes, her bag, one voice shouting to check her pockets while another reached for her phone. She managed to elbow someone in the gut, heard a satisfying grunt, barely broke free for a moment. But not fast enough, not strong enough.

A fist slammed into her side, hard and fast, knocking the breath clean out of her lungs and sending stars dancing across her vision.

She hit the sidewalk with a painful thud, her head bouncing slightly off the concrete with a sound that made her ears ring. The world spun in sickening circles. Her backpack was ripped away, and before she could scramble to her feet, a knee pinned her down, pressing into her chest with enough force to make breathing a struggle.

"Shouldn't have made it difficult, sweetheart," the guy above her sneered, his breath hot and sour in her face, reeking of cheap beer and cigarettes.

She thrashed beneath him, nails clawing at his arm, trying to twist her body sideways, to get leverage, to get free. Her heart pounded wildly, panic and adrenaline flooding every nerve ending, making her movements jerky and desperate. She bit down on the inside of her cheek and screamed, hoping someone—anyone—was close enough to hear, close enough to help.

The man's hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her voice.

And then—

A split second later, the guy on top of her was yanked backward so violently he crashed into a parked car with a metallic bang that echoed through the empty street, his scream cut off by a sudden spray of webbing across his face.

The remaining two didn't even have time to react. One was caught mid-turn and hoisted straight off the ground by a sticky net that pinned him to a lamppost like a fly in a web. The other tried to run, but a web shot out faster than lightning, wrapped around his ankles, and sent him face-first into the pavement with a wet smack.

Silence settled over the street like a blanket.

She lay frozen for a beat, breathing hard, blinking up at the night sky through the fog of adrenaline and disbelief. Her ribs ached, her head throbbed, but she was alive. Safe.

A figure dropped down from above. Fast, precise, landing in a crouch beside her like it was the easiest thing in the world.

She didn't live under a rock, she knew exactly who it was before he even fully straightened. Spider-Man. She'd seen him all over the news, on TikTok, Reddit, what used to be Twitter, even in a few over-dramatized BuzzFeed listicles about New York's most eligible superhero. But never in person. Never crouched five feet from her like some kind of spandex-clad guardian angel, concern radiating from his masked face.

He straightened slowly, masked face tilting toward her with an almost familiar gentleness. "You okay?"

She stared at him, still gasping, eyes wide with shock and lingering fear. The adrenaline hadn't worn off. Her hands were shaking, her pulse still racing like she was running for her life. That could explain why she sat there gaping at a literal superhero like a mute moron, mouth hanging open somewhere near her shoelaces.

Spider-Man tilted his head again, a gentle tilt to the left that reminded her of something she couldn't quite place. He was clearly scanning her for injuries, his attention focused and careful. "Er... are you okay, ma'am?"

Her brows furrowed despite everything. Something about his voice... "Are you making your voice deeper on purpose?"

He jumped like she'd poked him with a taser, head snapping up in what looked like panic. "I—what? No. Why would I—this is my normal voice. Totally normal. Everyday voice."

"No, it definitely sounds like you're faking it," she said dryly, blinking rapidly as her heart rate started to drop from 'Olympic sprint' to 'mild jog.' She could still feel the phantom touch of those guys' hands,like ants crawling across her skin. But she shoved the feeling aside, locked it in a mental box, and focused on something she could actually process.

Which was, apparently, mocking a superhero.

"I'm not faking it," he insisted, sounding almost insulted now, his voice cracking slightly. "I've got... a cold. It's been going around. Normal people get colds."

"Do normal people also swing around New York in pajamas and beat up muggers at one in the morning?"

If she could see through his mask, she would bet money he was gaping at her right now. "That's slander. This suit is very high-tech."

"Oh, my mistake. It just looks like it was made by Under Armour and blind faith."

He huffed and crossed his arms like an offended teenager. "You know, most people say thank you when they get rescued."

"Most people don't get rescued by someone doing a Batman impression," she countered. But she cracked a smile then, tired, but real. The first genuine expression she'd managed since this whole nightmare started. "Still. Yeah. Thanks. For the whole... dramatic entrance and life-saving thing. I appreciate it."

Spider-Man relaxed a little, visibly, his shoulders dropping. "No problem. Happy to help. You, uh... sure you're okay?"

She nodded, brushing dirt and grit off her jacket with hands that were finally starting to steady. "Yeah. Bruised ribs, maybe a lifetime of repressed trauma, but I'll walk it off."

There was a beat of silence. Then she stepped closer, eyes narrowing under furrowed brows as something nagged at her. He seemed... young. The way he talked, the way he carried himself, even the way he'd gotten flustered when she'd teased him…it was all wrong for what she'd expected from a seasoned superhero. "You know... you're my age, aren't you?"

He tensed again, and she could practically feel his anxiety spike.

"That's... weird," she said slowly, circling him like she was trying to solve a puzzle, studying the lean lines of his build, the nervous energy radiating from him. "I always assumed you were older. Like, at least late twenties. The vibe you give off online is way more emotionally repressed than this."

He scratched the back of his neck, a gesture so familiar it made something tickle at the edge of her memory. "Social media doesn't always capture nuance."

"Or personality, apparently." She tilted her head, that nagging feeling growing stronger. Something about him... "Wait—hold up. You feel weirdly familiar. Do I... know you?"

He went completely still. So still she could have counted his heartbeats if she'd been close enough.

"...No," he said way too fast, way too high-pitched. "Nope. Definitely not. I just have one of those friendly, neighborhood faces."

She squinted at him, studying the tilt of his head, the way he held his shoulders.

"Also the mask," he added quickly, gesturing at his face. "Very generic. Really blends in."

Spider-Man, whoever he was, cleared his throat before she could respond, still clearly panicking beneath said mask. "Okay, uh, you probably shouldn't be walking home alone after that. Or walking at night in general. I can take you back."

She blinked, confused. "Take me?"

He nodded, then realized how weird that sounded and quickly shook his head. "I mean—not like take you take you. Just, you know. Escort. Safely. Friendly neighborhood-style. Uh. Hero protocol."

She stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "You can't just walk me onto campus. People will notice. There'll be photos. A meme within five minutes of 'Spider-Man drops off random college girl.'"

"I wasn't gonna walk," he said, with just a little offense in his voice. "Come on. What kind of Spider-Man do you think I am?"

She blinked, realization dawning. "Wait. Are you serious?"

He held out a hand, gloved fingers flexing in what she was starting to recognize as nervousness. "Give me your address."

She hesitated, staring at his outstretched hand like it was radioactive. There was no way she was just going to swing through the city with a superhero she didn't even know. That was insane. That was—

"You trust me, right?" he added, voice softer now, almost vulnerable. "I did just punch a guy for you."

She sighed, muttered her dorm building under her breath, and placed her hand in his. His fingers were warm even through the fabric of his suit. "If you drop me, I swear to God—"

"I've never dropped anyone in my life," he said, cutting her off with the kind of confidence that should have been reassuring, and then before she could object again—

Her feet left the ground.

A strangled noise burst out of her as he wrapped an arm securely around her waist and launched them skyward. Literally launched, like gravity was just a suggestion he'd decided to ignore. She was mid-threat one second and hurtling between buildings the next, wind whipping past her ears and her stomach in complete freefall.

"Oh my god! Oh my—PUT ME DOWN."

"Uh, definitely not mid-air!"

"This is insane! This is literally a lawsuit waiting to happen!"

"You said yes!"

She clung to his shoulders with a death grip, eyes squeezed shut, trying not to scream and definitely trying not to vomit all over New York's friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. But after a few more swings, once the initial shock started to wear off and she wasn't certain she was going to die, something else crept in.

Excitement.

Adrenaline, sure. But also a rush she couldn't explain, couldn't have prepared for. Her heart pounded, her skin buzzed with electricity, and the city lights blurred around her like fireworks, like magic. She peeked open one eye... then both.

The view was incredible. Manhattan spread out beneath them like a glittering circuit board, alive and beautiful in a way she'd never seen from ground level.

Spider-Man whooped softly beside her, one hand expertly shooting a webline as they curved around a tall building with the kind of grace that spoke of years of practice.

She laughed. She didn't mean to, it just came out. Loud, surprised, delighted.

He glanced down at her, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "See? Kinda fun, right? Told you I don't drop people."

"Shut up," she said, still laughing, her fear transforming into something bright and exhilarating. "You're such a show-off."

"But like... in a fun way?"

She rolled her eyes, but she was grinning now, her cheeks aching from it. "Just don't Spider-Man me into a building, and we're good."

He chuckled, adjusting his arm around her waist in a way that made her suddenly aware of how close they were, how easy it would be to just… "No promises."

They landed on the rooftop of her dorm with a surprisingly gentle thud, his grip loosening just enough for her to get her feet under her. The whole journey had taken maybe five minutes. Less time than it would have taken her to walk two blocks.

She stood there for a second, wobbling slightly, trying to process what had just happened. "Okay. Not gonna lie. That was... kinda awesome. But I still feel like I need to throw up."

"Normal," Spider-Man said brightly, like he was discussing the weather. "Usually goes away after the third or fourth swing."

She blinked at him. "How many people are you swinging around New York?"

"I mean, not like a lot, it's not an Uber service. I don't have a punch card or anything—" He caught himself rambling and scratched the back of his head, which was just fabric, so it mostly looked like he was smacking himself. "Sorry. Nervous energy."

"Clearly."

She crossed her arms, still catching her breath, heart pounding like a jackhammer against her ribs. Below them, campus was quiet, peaceful, the occasional glow of a window cutting through the night. She glanced sideways at him, this masked figure who had just saved her life and given her the most terrifying and exhilarating experience of her existence.

"So... what now? You Spider-Batman your way into the shadows?"

He gave a little shrug, suddenly seeming younger again. "I mean, I was gonna do a cool web-swing exit, but now I feel kind of self-conscious about it."

"Don't let me ruin your dramatic moment." She paused, her voice growing softer. "But... thank you. Again, really. If you hadn't been there..."

She didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.

"Hey, don't mention it. All part of the job," he said, but his tone was light, almost dismissive in a way that felt practiced. Now that they were standing face to face (mask), she realized he was more human than she had thought from all those videos and news reports. He was only a few inches taller than her, probably average height for a man, and wasn't corded with muscle like Thor or Captain America. Instead, he was lean, fit. A young man's build, athletic but not intimidating.

There was a short pause, both of them awkwardly standing on the rooftop, neither quite moving toward goodbye.

Finally, she cleared her throat. "You, uh... gonna head out?"

"Yeah," he said, and then didn't move.

She raised an eyebrow.

He pointed toward her. "You're sure you're okay?"

"I was until a guy in red pajamas yeeted me through Manhattan like a human bungee cord, but yeah. Fine now."

He let out a laugh, shoulders relaxing, and the sound— real and unguarded—made something shift in her stomach. Familiar. Too familiar.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "You know... for a guy in a mask, you're weirdly familiar."

His whole body stiffened again.

"Like your voice," she continued, eyes narrowing as pieces of a puzzle she couldn't quite see started to shift in her mind, "and the way you say things. That's not normal superhero vocabulary. It's more... normal. Everyday. Like someone I might actually know."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said too quickly, backing toward the ledge like he was preparing to bolt. "I'm just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man."

She tilted her head, studying him with renewed interest. "Do you know me?"

"What? No. Definitely not. Why would I—bye!" And before she could say another word, he launched himself off the building faster than thought, vanishing into the night like he'd never been there at all.

She stared after him, arms crossed, jaw slack with disbelief and something that felt suspiciously like disappointment.

"...Okay, what the hell was that?" she muttered to the empty rooftop.

.

.

She walked to class with Peter the next day, buzzed off way too much caffeine solely because she'd been up all night replaying every moment of her encounter with Spider-Man, analyzing every word, every gesture.

Naturally, the second she spotted him that morning, she'd grabbed him by the arm and launched into the full dramatic retelling.

"I'm telling you, Pete, he just dropped out of nowhere. Boom. I was on the ground, thinking I was going to die, and suddenly Spider-Man is there, asking if I'm okay like we're in some action-comedy-meets-CSI episode—"

Peter, who was walking with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets and an annoyingly calm expression, gave her a small nod. "That's definitely cool."

She stopped walking so abruptly that a guy behind them nearly crashed into her back. Blinked, frowned, and stared at Peter's completely nonchalant expression.

"Cool?" she repeated, incredulous. "That's all you've got? Cool?"

He shrugged again, like he'd just been told there was free pizza in the dining hall instead of hearing about her near-death experience and subsequent rescue by a literal superhero. "I mean... yeah. I've met him before."

Her jaw dropped so fast she was surprised it didn't hit the sidewalk. "You've met Spider-Man?"

"Well, yeah," Peter said, still infuriatingly nonchalant. "Kind of hard not to when you interned for Tony Stark."

She blinked at him so hard her contact lenses nearly popped out. "What?!"

He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture that was becoming more familiar by the day, looking sheepish now. "Yeah, it was—uh, kind of unofficial. Just a short thing. Did some tech stuff. Helped out on a couple projects."

She gawked at him, her brain tripping over itself trying to process this information. "You interned for Tony freaking Stark?! And met Spider-Man?!"

Peter nodded, his expression softening at the edges, pride and something deeper flickering across his face. "Yeah. I, uh... met a lot of people through him."

Then, the grin he'd been wearing faltered. Just for a second. Barely enough for most people to notice, but she did. His shoulders drew in slightly, like he was protecting himself from something. His voice lost that spark of amusement and went quiet, distant.

She remembered, then, with a pang of sympathy that hit her like a physical blow.

Tony Stark had died defeating Thanos.

Her excitement dimmed as she looked at Peter, really looked at him. The way his face had changed, gone soft with grief that was still raw around the edges. He was quiet now, his gaze distant, like he was seeing something she couldn't.

"You... you must've really liked him," she said gently, her voice softer than it had been all morning.

Peter gave her a smile. Small, real, but cracked with grief like a broken window that still somehow held together. "Yeah. I did."

She didn't say anything for a moment, just fell into step beside him, letting the weight of his loss settle between them. "He seemed like the kind of guy who left a big hole when he was gone."

Peter laughed once, under his breath, but there was no humor in it. "Yeah, that's... that's one way to put it."

She bumped his shoulder with hers, a gentle gesture of comfort. "Well, for what it's worth, you probably made a really good intern. You've got the whole boy-genius thing going for you."

He snorted, and some of the tension leaked out of his posture. "I once spilled coffee on one of his prototypes and set off an alarm that called Pepper in from another city."

"Oh." She grinned, relieved to see a hint of his usual self returning. "Yeah, that sounds more accurate."

Peter smiled again, a little more full this time, a little more real. They walked on together, her caffeine buzz finally giving way to something warmer, calmer. There was something about Peter that did that to her, made even the most chaotic mornings feel manageable. Even studying with him brightened her day in a way that hadn't happened with a friend ever before.

Before she could continue the conversation, her toe caught a crack in the pavement. She pitched forward with a startled yelp, arms flailing uselessly—and then didn't hit the ground.

Peter had caught her, one arm around her waist, the other bracing her shoulder. It wasn't dramatic, not really—but the way she landed against him, the solid warmth of his hoodie, the way his hand flexed slightly like he was making sure she was steady and safe…

They froze for a second, closer than they'd ever been. She could feel his breath against her forehead, could smell the faint scent of his soap — something clean and simple. He was looking at her, eyes wide, like he hadn't meant to grab her but also had definitely meant to grab her.

He smelled like peppermint, she realized. She had never noticed that before.

"Thanks," she muttered, hoping she didn't look as flustered as she felt, hoping the heat in her cheeks wasn't as obvious as it seemed.

"Yeah," Peter said, his voice slightly hoarse, throat working as he swallowed hard. His eyes, molten brown behind his surprise, were locked onto hers with an intensity that made her stomach flip. "Uh. Gravity's a menace."

She blinked, processing his words. "Is that a pun?"

"Nope." He helped her upright and cleared his throat, stepping back like she was suddenly made of static electricity. "Okay, maybe."

She snorted, brushing her sweater off and trying to ignore the way her skin still tingled where he'd touched her. "You're lucky I was the one who tripped. If you'd tried that on MJ, she probably would've decked you. She looks like the type who doesn't want to be swept off her feet."

Peter's smile slipped again, just for a second, so quick she almost missed it.

She glanced over, curious about his reaction. "Have you... talked to her lately?"

He nodded, but something in his expression seemed forced now. "Yeah. I did. I... got her number too, actually. She gave it to me. Willingly."

She smiled, trying not to read into the weird thud in her chest, the way her heart seemed to stumble over itself. "That's great. I'm glad. Make sure you call her. Get the ball rolling on this grand love affair."

She meant it. Sort of. Maybe. The thing was, she'd never met MJ properly, never had a real conversation with her. But lately, something about the name coming out of Peter's mouth made her stomach do something stupid and complicated. Something she immediately blamed on too much coffee and the emotional whiplash of late-night superhero encounters.

By the time they got to class, she was mostly back to normal. Kind of. She was just settling into her usual seat when a smooth voice called out:

"Hey. Mind if I sit here?"

She turned to see a tall guy—good-looking, clean-cut, probably about her age—standing beside the empty chair next to her. He wore a varsity jacket with a Columbia logo and held a few textbooks in one hand like they weighed nothing.

She blinked, surprised. "Uh. Sure."

"I'm Robbie," he said, sliding into the seat beside her with an easy confidence. "You're in my Physics section, right? I've seen you around."

Peter, halfway into the seat to her left, paused mid-motion. She could feel his gaze like laser pointers behind her shoulder, though he said nothing.

She gave Robbie a small smile. "Yeah. I'm usually the one trying not to scream during thermodynamics."

Robbie chuckled, and the sound was warm, genuine. "Same. Professor Matthews might actually be part Terminator. Definitely related to that cop from the second movie."

She laughed, surprised by the reference, charmed despite herself. It wasn't the funniest joke ever, but something about his delivery, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, got her.

Peter cleared his throat behind them, just once, but sharp enough to cut through their conversation.

She turned halfway to glance at him with a frown, wondering what his problem was. He looked very focused on his laptop screen. Very deliberately so.

"Everything okay, Pete?" she asked.

He didn't look up, but his tone was dry as dust. "Yup. Great. Love class."

She narrowed her eyes, studying his profile. Something was definitely off.

Robbie leaned in slightly, his grin widening. "Friend of yours?"

"Yeah," she said, and she didn't know why she felt the need to add, "A good friend."

She didn't know why she said it like that. Like she was staking a claim, like she was making a point. But she did.

.

.

.

That night, she sat cross-legged on her twin dorm bed, surrounded by papers, a half-eaten protein bar, and a truly unhinged number of highlighters in every color imaginable. Her physics textbook was open in her lap, though she hadn't successfully read a full paragraph in at least twenty minutes.

She had no idea what had gotten under Peter's skin since class. He hadn't whispered to her once during the lecture, not a single sarcastic comment or dumb joke to make her snort during Professor Matthews' monotone drone about entropy. He didn't even slide her one of his ridiculous doodles, usually some stick figure Spider-Man battling evil thermodynamics equations. Instead, he'd kept his head down, scribbling notes like she didn't exist, like she was just another face in the crowd.

Robbie, however, had spent the entire class trying to get her attention. Passing her notes with terrible physics puns, making faces when the professor wasn't looking, finding excuses to lean over and ask questions about problems he clearly already understood.

She wasn't sure what had sparked the sudden interest. Maybe the chaos of last night had given her some weird adrenaline glow-up, or maybe he'd just noticed her for the first time. But she wasn't complaining. Robbie was handsome in that clean-cut, all-American way, sharp-eyed, easy to talk to. He walked her out after class and asked for her number "for section work," he'd added with a wink that made her laugh despite herself.

And she'd given it to him, smiling.

Normally, she would've brushed off any sort of male attention. College-aged guys were flaky at best, allergic to commitment, and usually vanished the second homework or actual effort entered the chat. But if Peter was pursuing MJ, maybe she should try the same. Let someone pursue her for once. See where it led.

Peter had disappeared the second Robbie stepped up beside her after class. Just sort of melted away down the hall like he didn't want to intrude, like he was being thoughtful. She figured he was trying to give her space. Nothing killed a flirt faster than a guy friend hovering like an overprotective older brother.

Still... he could've said goodbye.

She texted him once she got back to her dorm, asking him if he wanted to study. The message sat there, unread, no response. It bugged her more than she wanted to admit. She looked forward to spending time with him, looked forward to his goofy memes that he sent randomly throughout the day, the late-night phone calls she had with him occasionally when he went on his mysterious late-night runs (at least, she assumed from how much street noise she could hear around his heavy breathing). So him just ignoring her felt... wrong. Out of character.

She was mid-yawn, finally starting to make sense of a particularly brutal thermodynamics problem, when a soft taping at her window startled her out of her skin.

Her heart jumped into her throat. She glanced at the door, then slowly turned toward her window and promptly forgot to breathe.

Spider-Man was crouched on the other side of the glass like some kind of red and blue gargoyle.