#underlying angst

You.

Each evening you strolled in, heels clacking like a metronome announcing trouble, dressed in pinstripes and red lipstick sharp enough to slash through his emotional armor. You slid into your usual spot at the bar like you owned it, elbow perched on the counter, your gaze languid and amused.

“Evening, Officer,” you purred, deliberately using the title to fluster. “Got anything that'll knock the paperwork out of my skull?”

Gallagher glanced up from his polishing ritual, scar catching the warm bar light just so. He gave you that look—tired, unbothered, but just slightly amused.

“You sure you don’t want chamomile tea and a yoga mat instead?” he murmured, setting a dark amber drink in front of you. “You look like a lawsuit in heels.”

You grinned. “You look like trauma with a pour spout. We’re even.”

He huffed through his nose. Not quite a laugh, but close.

This was your dance. Always skirting close to something more dangerous, more intimate. You were flirty—relentlessly so—but not unkind. Just busy. Sharp. Self-possessed. And he’d lie to himself every damn night pretending it didn’t affect him.

You sipped the drink and sighed theatrically. “If you keep making it this good, I might just marry you.”

“Don't threaten me. I’m old, not deaf.”

You leaned closer over the bar, enough for him to catch a whiff of your perfume—rich, spicy, with something floral buried in it. “You keep calling yourself old, Gallagher, but I think you like it when I test your heart rate.”

His gaze didn’t flicker. But his hand did pause as he reached for a shaker.

“Not the kind of test I’m trained for,” he said quietly. “And not the kind I’d pass.”

There it was. That flicker of melancholy behind the sarcasm. You tilted your head, lips parting. It was the only time you softened.

“Maybe I don’t want you to pass,” you said. “Maybe I just want someone who doesn’t bullshit me.”

That earned you a pause.

“…You come here to tease, or to connect?” he asked, suddenly serious.

You smiled. Not flirtatious this time—gentle. “I’m a busy woman, Gallagher. If I make time for someone… it’s not by accident.”

The silence between you was a thread pulled taut.

Then you broke it with a wink. “Besides, you’re the only man in this city who’s seen me tipsy and still managed to say no.”

A quiet chuckle, low and cracked. He set down the bottle and leaned in close enough that you could see the line where his glove met his wrist.

“You ask one more time,” he murmured, “and I won’t.”

Your pulse jumped. You swirled the drink, watching the amber spin.

"Then I'll have to decide whether I want a sip… or a bite."

You left without answering. But your number, scrawled in lipstick on a napkin, stayed behind.

He pocketed it without a word.

Aventurine first noticed you at a contract renegotiation table.

You were the sharp-dressed chaos in the corner, phone in hand, heels too high for diplomacy, attitude dialed to lethal. You knew what everyone wanted, and weaponized that knowledge in stilettos and smirks.

He liked that. You were like a loaded die—dangerous, but delightful when you landed in his favor.

After that, you saw each other often: at high-stakes parties, late boardroom nights, deals soaked in champagne and subtext.

The first time he flirted with you, you brushed it off with a laugh and a casual, “You couldn’t afford the consultation fee, darling.”

He smiled like a shark.

Game on.

Tonight, it was different. The two of you were alone. The IPC lounge, empty. Your calendars had conveniently aligned.

“You really are a busy woman,” he said, pouring wine with practiced grace. “You cancel more meetings than the Annual Ethics Review Committee.”

You perched on the velvet seat, legs crossed, lips gleaming in the dim light. “I’m efficient. I don't entertain clowns.”

“And yet,” he drawled, “here you are.”

Your smirk deepened. “I have a weakness for dangerous men with pretty jewelry and repressed daddy issues.”

He laughed. Not his usual polished chuckle, but something real and amused. “Careful. Keep peeling the mask and you might see the monster underneath.”

You stood, sauntered over, and plucked the wine glass from his hand. Took a sip. “I’ve dated worse. At least your brand of manipulation comes with wine and clever metaphors.”

His eyes gleamed, magenta catching the lamplight. “And yours comes with lipstick on legal briefs and threats of emotional terrorism.”

You pressed a hand to his chest. “Don’t tempt me. I’ll move into your schedule and never leave.”

He caught your wrist gently, thumb brushing the pulse point. “Promise?”

For a moment, everything froze. Just the hum of your heartbeat and his careful grip.

You were both masks on fire. Two performers dancing on the edge of something neither could name.

“I don’t do love,” you said finally.

“Neither do I.”

“But I do do dangerous games.”

Aventurine smiled. Slow. Wicked.

“Then, my dear busy woman, let’s make this the highest-stakes gamble of our lives.”

Your calendar was empty tomorrow.