#xftmreader

​What had he done to deserve this?

​Before the academy, before the nightmare of Raccoon City—hell, even after the world fell apart a dozen times over—what had he done to earn a grace like you? In a world choked by the rot of Umbrella and the shadows of corrupt men, Leon Kennedy had somehow stumbled into your life. He didn't think he deserved you. In his own mind, he was still just a rookie cop who’d had to grow up in a single, blood-soaked night. And you? You were a legend, a pillar of S.T.A.R.S. who had survived the Arklay Mountains only to spend your fifties tethered to Chris Redfield’s relentless, exhausting crusade to fix a broken world.

​Leon never expected a forever. It was never supposed to be more than a lingering, sideways glance in a dimly lit bar while Chris talked shop. It wasn't supposed to end in a quiet ceremony, or the secret thrill he felt every time someone called you Mr. Kennedy just to see the smirk play on your aging, handsome face.

​And yet, as the infection tore through his nervous system, his mind didn't go to the mission. It went to you. Your voice was the only thing cutting through the white noise of the virus; your smile was the only image that wouldn't dissolve into the blur. You were his anchor. Even as his muscles seized and his mind screamed for the mercy of unconsciousness, the thought of coming home to you kept his heart beating.

​But the reality was a cold, hard floor. His body was a cage of fire and ice, twitching violently as the antidote warred with the parasite.

​“Can't believe you're heading out again,” you murmured in the golden light of the memory. The bedsheets were tangled around your legs, and the scent of cedar and old coffee hung in the air. “I finally get a week off, and they decide they can't breathe without you.”

​Leon huffed a dry laugh, his lips pressing firmly against your weathered knuckles as he lay draped across you. “Gonna miss me, old man?” he whispered against your skin. He knew the answer, but he needed the vibration of your voice to steady him.

​You leaned back against the headboard, running a hand through his messy brown hair. Leon let out a long, shaky breath, melting into the heat of your chest. “Of course,” you said softly, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “I always do. Just….come back in one piece this time. I'm too old to be a widower, Leon.”

​Leon closed his eyes, tilting his head up until his lips met yours in a promise he intended to keep.

​Then, the world shattered.

​His back arched off the freezing ground, a choked gasp tearing from his throat as he shouted your name into the empty air. His eyes snapped open, stinging and bloodshot. There was no warm bed. No hand in his hair. The taste of you was replaced by the copper tang of blood and a sterile chemical stench.

​His left hand flew to his chest, searching for the silver band he’d worn for years. His finger felt unnervingly light. The ring was gone—likely stripped away during the chaos or lost in the dirt. The silence of the room was deafening, a requiem for a man who had everything to lose and was currently losing it all.

Leon’s lungs burned, each breath a jagged shard of glass as the last of the infection was purged from his veins. The silence that followed the chaos was deafening—the monster was dead, Victor Gideon was a memory, and Grace was finally safe.

​None of that mattered.

​His vision was a blurred mess of gray and red, but his hand was already moving, clawing at the dirt and the debris. His fingers felt wrong. They felt lighter, colder, stripped of the one thing that grounded him to his humanity.

​"No….no, no, no," he rasped, his voice a broken shell of its former self. He dragged his body across the floor, his knees scraping against the jagged concrete. "Not this. Not now."

​His mind was a whirlwind of panic. He had survived Raccoon City, the Plagas, and the fall of governments, but the thought of losing that simple silver band felt like the final, killing blow. It was the only piece of you he had brought into this hellhole. It was the promise of a quiet house, the scent of cedar, and your hand in his hair when the nightmares got too loud.

​"I’m coming back," he hissed through gritted teeth, his fingers digging into a pile of ash and spent shell casings. "I promised. I told you….I told you I'd come back."

​He was rambling now, a feverish mumble that only he could hear. To any observer, he looked like a broken man searching for a scrap of refuse, but to Leon, he was searching for his soul. He didn't care that his gear was shredded or that his ribs felt like they were held together by the thinnest of threads.

​"Can't lose it. Please, just….not this."

​He pushed aside a heavy piece of fallen rebar, his breath hitching. There, half-buried in the soot and the dark, damp earth of the crater, was a glint of silver. It was dull, coated in a layer of grime, but it caught the flickering emergency light of the facility.

​Leon’s hand shook so violently he almost knocked it further into the debris. He lunged for it, his fingers closing around the cold metal with a desperation that bordered on holy. He didn't just pick it up; he cradled it against his palm, bringing it to his lips as a sob he’d been holding back since the mission started finally threatened to break through.

​He wiped the dirt off with a trembling thumb, the familiar weight of it centers him. He didn't think about the global implications of all of this. He didn't think about the debriefing or the scars this night would leave. He only thought about the way you looked in the morning light, and how he wasn't going to let that be a memory.

​With a grunt of agony, he forced himself to his feet. His legs felt like lead, but he slid the ring back onto his finger. It was a perfect fit—a constant, solid reminder of the man waiting for him. He adjusted it, twisting it once, twice, until it sat exactly where it belonged.

​"See you soon," he whispered, his eyes hardening as he looked toward the exit. "I'm coming home.”

The silence of the house was its own kind of weight. It wasn't the peaceful quiet of a cold night; it was the hollow, ringing silence of an empty nest that was never meant to be this still.

You sat at your mahogany desk, the green shaded lamp casting a warm, localized glow over a sea of chaos. Your home office had become a secondary branch of the BSAA in all but name. Scattered across the blotter were thick manila folders and grainy satellite captures—reports Chris had unofficially slid your way. He valued your eyes, the eyes of a S.T.A.R.S. veteran who had seen the world break before the rest of the public even knew it was cracked. But tonight, the analysis of bio-organic weapon dispersal patterns in Eastern Europe felt like trying to read a dead language.

Your mind was miles away, buried in the dark soil of whatever godforsaken corner of the globe Leon was currently haunting.

You knew better than most what he was capable of. You’d seen him survive things that would have leveled a small army, but that didn't stop the creeping dread. You knew how Raccoon City had carved him out, leaving a hollow space that he’d spent years trying to fill with duty. Your greatest fear wasn't that Leon wouldn't be able to handle the job—it was that one day, the job would simply decide it was finished with him, and you’d be the last to know. You’d be sitting right here, analyzing a report for Chris, while your world ended in a silent, classified file on someone else's desk.

Letting out a heavy, jagged sigh, you scrubbed a hand down your face. Your palms felt rough, the skin dry from years of handling firearms and paperwork. Your fingers brushed against the grit of stubble on your jaw—a silvered, unruly growth you hadn't bothered to trim since Leon left.

"Get it together," you muttered to the empty room. Your voice sounded gravelly, older than you felt like admitting.

With a grunt of effort, you pushed back from the desk, the wheels of the chair groaning against the hardwood. You began the ritual of tidying up, stacking the BSAA reports into a neat, categorized pile. It was a habit from the old days—leave your station ready for the next shift. You clicked the desk lamp off, plunging the room into a shadowy twilight, save for the pale moonlight filtering through the blinds.

As you moved through the hallway, the muscle memory of your life together took over. For a fleeting, heart-stuttering second, you expected to see a shadow move in the kitchen, or to feel a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist from behind. You could almost smell him—gunpowder, expensive cologne, and the faint, metallic scent of rain. But when you turned the corner, there was only the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer.

He wasn't there.

You shook your head, a self-deprecating smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. You were too old for ghost stories, especially the ones you told yourself.

Stripping off your flannel shirt and undershirt as you walked, you let them fall onto the armchair in the bedroom, followed by your belt and trousers. You stepped into the en suite bathroom, the tile cold beneath your feet. The fluorescent light hummed to life, bright and unforgiving.

You leaned against the marble counter, staring at the man in the mirror.

You looked at the silver ring on your left hand first. It was scratched, the metal dulled by decades of life, but it was the most solid thing in the room. Then, you looked up. The light caught the deep salt-and-pepper of your hair, more salt than pepper these days. The wrinkles at the corners of your eyes were deep—laugh lines earned from rare, genuine smiles, and worry lines earned from every time Leon walked out the front door. Your face was a map of a long, hard-fought life. You weren't the young S.T.A.R.S. operative anymore; you were a man in his fifties who just wanted his husband home.

You shook your head again, dismissing the melancholy before it could take root. Turning away from your reflection, you reached into the walk-in shower and twisted the handle. The pipes groaned, a familiar shudder running through the wall, before the spray began to hiss against the stone floor. Steam started to rise, blurring the edges of the room, and for a moment, you just stood there, watching the water swirl down the drain.

The quiet click of the front door’s latch was a sound Leon had rehearsed in his mind a thousand times over the last forty-eight hours. He didn't turn on the lights. He didn't need to. The house breathed with a familiar, lived-in warmth that made the sterile, metallic tang of the lab feel like a bad dream he’d finally woken up from.

He moved like a ghost through the foyer, his movements heavy with a bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of caffeine could touch. His tactical boots, caked in the dried mud and grime of a nightmare, were set by the door with a dull thud. He didn't bother unlacing them properly; he just kicked them off, his socks padding softly against the hardwood. His jacket followed, hitting the floor with the muffled thud.

He knew exactly where you were. The low, rhythmic hum of the pipes vibrating through the floorboards told him everything. It was your ritual—the late-night shower to wash away the phantom weight of BSAA casualty reports and the stress of waiting for a phone call that might never come.

Leon moved into the bedroom, his silhouette a jagged shadow against the moonlight. He stripped with a mechanical efficiency, his hands trembling slightly as he unbuckled his holster. His pants and boxers pooled on the faded rug in front of the bed—the one you’d bought together because it reminded you of a proper home—and he left them there.

He stepped into the bathroom, the air thick and heavy with steam that smelled of your sandalwood soap. The humidity clung to his skin, pulling the chill of the outside world from his pores.

Before he reached for the shower door, he caught his reflection in the mirror.

The fog had started to claim the glass, but he saw enough. He looked at the man staring back—a man who had survived, but looked like he’d been dragged through the gears of it. There was a jagged cut along his cheekbone, held together by dried, copper-colored blood. Bruises the color of spoiled plums were blooming across his ribs and shoulders. But it was his face that held his gaze. He saw the gray stubble dusting his jaw, thicker now, and the stark, silver strands peeking through the weary brown of his hair. He was aging. They were both aging, the years stolen by a world that never stopped needing them to bleed for it.

Then, his eyes dropped to his hand. The silver ring sat firmly on his finger, gleaming even through the grime. He twisted it once, a grounding habit, before his gaze drifted past his own reflection.

Through the frosted, foggy glass of the sliding shower door, he saw you.

You were a blurred, familiar silhouette in the spray, your head bowed under the rush of the water. Even through the steam, he could see the strength in your shoulders—the build of a man who had carried a familiar weight and survived. You were standing there, unaware that the ghost you’d been mourning had finally come home.

Leon didn't say a word. He didn't want to break the silence yet. He just stood there for a long moment, his chest heaving with a sudden, sharp intake of air, fixated on the sight of you. To him, you weren't just a man in a shower; you were the end of the road. You were the reason he’d clawed his way out of the dirt.

Slowly, his hand reached out, his fingers pressing against the warm, wet glass, leaving a clear streak in the fog as he prepared to let you know he was back.

The sliding door creaked on its track, a low, metallic groan that cut through the steady drumming of the water. You didn't even have time to turn your head before the sudden draft of cool bathroom air hit your wet skin, quickly replaced by the heat of a body stepping into the stall behind you.

The steam swirled, momentarily clearing as Leon stepped into the spray.

The first thing you felt wasn't his touch, but his weight—the sheer, solid presence of him suddenly occupying the small space. Then came his hands. They were cold at first, a stark contrast to the scalding water, as he pressed his palms flat against your shoulder blades. You felt a shudder ripple through him the moment his skin made contact with yours. It was the touch of a man who had spent days wondering if he’d ever feel another human being again.

He didn't say a word. He just leaned forward, his forehead dropping heavily against the space between your shoulder blades. His breath hitched, a jagged, wet sound that was swallowed by the splash of the shower.

"Leon?" you breathed, your voice cracking. You started to turn, but his grip tightened, his fingers digging into your shoulders, not out of aggression, but out of a desperate need to keep you right there.

"Just….a second," he rasped. His voice was a wreck—gritty, raw, and exhausted. "Just let me stay like this for a second."

You stood still, the water cascading over both of you. You could feel the grime of the world washing off him and onto you. The water at your feet turned a murky, tea-colored brown as the dust, soot, and dried blood from the facility began to melt away. He smelled like ozone, wet earth, and the metallic tang of an oncoming storm, but beneath all of that was the scent you knew by heart—the faint, lingering musk of his skin.

Slowly, he began to move. His hands slid down your arms, his fingers interlaced with yours, and that was when you felt it—the cold, hard press of his silver ring against the back of your hand. You let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding since the day he left.

Leon finally pulled back just enough to let you turn around. When you faced him, the sight nearly broke your heart. The water was slicking his hair back, revealing every new line of exhaustion on his face. The cut on his cheek was weeping a faint pink under the spray, and his eyes were bloodshot, framed by dark circles that looked like bruises.

He looked at you with an intensity that was almost painful. His gaze traced the graying hair at your temples and the laugh lines around your mouth, his eyes softening with a reverence that bordered on worship. To him, you weren't an aging veteran; you were the only beautiful thing left in a world of monsters.

"You're late," you whispered, your hands coming up to cup his face. Your thumbs brushed over the gray stubble on his jaw, feeling the prickle of life beneath your touch.

Leon let out a broken, huffed laugh, his eyes closing as he leaned into your palms. "It.was….complicated."

"I thought...." You stopped, the words catching in your throat. You didn't need to finish.

"I know," he murmured. He stepped closer, closing the final inch of space between you until your chests were pressed together, the water trapped between you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you in so tight it was hard to breathe, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "I promised I'd see you soon. I wasn't going to break that. Not for anyone."

He was shaking now—the post-adrenaline crash finally hitting him in the safety of your arms. You held him, your fingers threading through his wet hair, shielding him from the rest of the world.

Leon didn't move. He stayed anchored against you, his weight heavy and honest, his damp forehead resting against your collarbone. You could feel the tremors running through his muscles—the slow, rhythmic aftershocks of a body that had been pushed past its breaking point and was only now realizing it was safe to collapse.

​Gently, you reached for the bottle of soap, the familiar scent of cedar and sandalwood rising with the steam. You didn't ask him where it hurt; you already knew. You could see the map of his pain written in the dark blooms of purple along his ribs and the jagged, angry red of the laceration on his cheek.

​You poured the soap into your palms, lashing it into a thick, white foam before you began.

​The silence between you wasn't empty; it was thick with everything that didn't need to be said. You started with his shoulders, your large, calloused hands moving in slow, grounding circles. You felt the knots of tension under his skin—hard as stone—and as you worked, you felt them slowly begin to give way. The water at your feet was still tinted a murky gray, the filth of the facility swirling down the drain, leaving Leon’s pale, scarred skin behind.

​As you moved your hands down his back, Leon let out a long, shuddering breath. It wasn't a sigh; it was a surrender. He leaned into your touch, his eyes closed tight, his hands coming up to grip your forearms as if to make sure you were still solid, still there.

​You were meticulous. You cleaned the soot from the nape of his neck and the dried blood from the shell of his ear. When you reached the deep bruise over his ribs, your touch lightened, becoming a ghost of a caress. You saw him flinch, his breath catching in a hiss of pain, and you paused, leaning down to press a lingering, salt-tinged kiss to the top of his wet head.

​I’ve got you, the gesture said. You’re home.

​Leon finally pulled back just enough to look at you. His blue eyes were glassy, reflecting the overhead light, rimmed with a weariness that went bone-deep. He looked small in that moment—not the government’s top agent, not the survivor of a dozen bio-hazards, but simply a man who was tired of fighting.

​He reached out, his trembling fingers taking the soap from you. He didn't wash himself; instead, he began to wash you. His movements were slow, almost reverent, as he ran his hands over your chest and arms. It was his way of checking you, of confirming that while he was gone, the world hadn't touched you. His thumb traced the silver band on your finger, lingering there for a second longer than necessary, his ring clinking softly against yours—a small, metallic heartbeat in the spray.

​The water was starting to run clear now. The grime was gone, but the exhaustion remained, etched into every line of his face.

​You took the showerhead from the wall, turning the spray down and rinsing the last of the suds from his skin. The water smoothed his hair back, revealing the silver at his temples that seemed more pronounced tonight than it had a month ago.

​Leon leaned his head back, letting the water hit his face, his throat working as he swallowed back the emotions he wasn't ready to voice. When he finally opened his eyes, he looked at you—truly looked at you—with a raw, unfiltered devotion. He reached out, his wet palm cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your graying stubble.

​Still, neither of you spoke. The hurt was there, hovering in the bruises and the haunted look in his eyes, but the comfort was stronger. It was in the heat of the water, the familiar weight of his wedding band, and the fact that, for the first time in days, his heart rate was finally beginning to match yours.

​You reached over and turned the handle, the sudden silence of the bathroom feeling heavy and holy. The only sound left was the drip-drip-drip of water hitting the tile and the ragged, synchronized breathing of two men who had cheated death one more time.

You stepped out first, grabbing the largest, plushiest towel from the rack and holding it open. Leon stepped into it without a word, his body shivering as the cool air hit his wet skin. You wrapped him up, pulling the fabric tight around his shoulders and rubbing his arms to bring the heat back. He leaned his head against your shoulder, his eyes half-closed, letting you guide him like he was a man walking in his sleep.

The walk to the bedroom was slow. The only light came from the moon spilling across the hardwood, illuminating the trail of discarded gear Leon had left in his wake—a reminder of the man he had to be out there, contrasted against the man he was allowed to be here.

You sat him down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He looked small, wrapped in that white towel, his damp hair sticking up in golden-gray tufts. You stood between his knees, taking a smaller towel to his head, gently drying the strands with a tenderness that made his breath hitch.

"Stay," he whispered, his voice finally finding its vibration. His hands, still clean and smelling of your soap, reached out to circle your waist, pulling you closer until his face was pressed against your stomach.

"I'm not going anywhere, Leon," you murmured, your fingers raking through his hair. "I’m right here."

After a few minutes of quiet, you helped him into a pair of soft cotton lounge pants—the ones he always complained were too loose but wore every time he came home. You climbed into the other side of the bed, the linens cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the grime he’d been caked in.

The moment Leon slid under the covers, he didn't just lie down; he sought you out like a compass needle finding north. He draped himself over you, his heavy head landing on your chest, his arm hooking firmly over your waist as if to anchor you to the mattress. You felt the cold metal of his wedding band press against your skin, a solid promise.

You pulled the heavy duvet up over both of you, tucking it around his shoulders. The house was silent, save for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic, slowing thrum of Leon’s heart against your ribs.

"It's quiet," Leon mumbled into your skin, his voice thick with the onset of sleep. "I forgot it could be this quiet."

"That’s because you’re home," you replied softly. You reached down, taking his hand in yours and interlacing your fingers. The two silver rings clicked together, a tiny, domestic sound that felt more significant than any explosion he’d survived.

Leon let out a long, contented sigh, his entire body finally going slack. The tension that had lived in his shoulders since he’d left Raccoon City decades ago seemed to melt into the mattress. He nuzzled closer, his nose brushing against the gray hair on your chest, his breathing deepening into the slow, steady pull of a man who finally felt safe enough to dream.

You lay there in the dark, watching the shadows of the trees dance on the ceiling. You felt the weight of your years—the laugh lines, the gray hair, the old injuries that ached in the rain—but as you looked down at your husband, finally at peace in your arms, you realized you wouldn't trade a single wrinkle. They were the marks of a life lived together, a map of how far you’d both come to reach this bedroom, this bed, this moment.

"I love you, Leon," you whispered, so low you weren't sure he heard it.

You toe off your shoes by the door, shoulders heavy with the kind of exhaustion that isn’t just physical. It’s bone-deep. A tiredness that follows you into the house, into your skin.

Nanami’s already in the kitchen. You hear the low simmer of something on the stove and the soft hum of his voice not singing, just… existing out loud, the way he does when he thinks no one’s home yet.

He turns at the sound of the door.

“Welcome back.”Warm, even, calm. His voice is the first thing today that hasn’t felt like pressure.

You try to smile, but it’s half-hearted.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re not late,” he says, as if the concept itself is ridiculous. “You’re home.”

That makes your throat catch, just a little. You drop your coat onto the back of a chair and step into the kitchen. Nanami’s already moving, ladling soup into bowls, slicing the last bit of green onion to garnish. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to the elbows, and his tie is loosened just enough to remind you he’s been off the clock a while.

“Rough day?” he asks, still not pressing.

You nod. You don’t want to get into it.

You sit in silence at the table while he sets everything down. He doesn’t force you to talk, he just eats beside you, calm and steady. When your hand shakes a little lifting the spoon, he pretends not to see. You know he does. That’s the thing about Nanami. He sees everything and chooses grace, every time.

Halfway through dinner, your voice slips out quieter than you mean. “I just didn’t feel good in my skin today.”

You don’t look up when you say it. You can’t. It feels silly, even though you know he’ll never treat it that way.

Nanami doesn’t respond right away. You hear the soft clink of his spoon against the bowl as he sets it down. Then the chair beside you slides back, and you feel the warmth of his hand on your thigh under the table.

“Thank you for telling me.”

That alone undoes you a little more than you expect. You blink fast. “You don’t have to say anything—”

“I know.” He squeezes your leg gently. “But I want you to hear me.”

You finally look up. His face is calm, but his eyes … god, his eyes. That soft, focused intensity you’ve only ever seen aimed at you. Like nothing else in the room matters.

“You’re mine,” he says, low and steady. “And I don’t love you despite anything. I love you entirely.”He waits. Watches you breathe through it. Then adds, softer, “Let me help.”

You don’t ask what he means. You don’t need to.

The rest of dinner is forgotten. The lights stay dim. His hand finds yours as you lead him to the bedroom, slowly, quietly, like neither of you want to startle the fragile comfort you’ve built in these last few minutes.

You sit on the bed. He kneels in front of you, his fingers gentle as they undo the buttons of your shirt, not rushing, just letting you breathe into it. Letting you decide how far you want to go, how close you’ll let him.

You meet his eyes again. “I want you to touch me like I’m yours.”

His breath catches. His gaze darkens, not with lust, but with reverence.

“You are.”

His hands slide beneath your shirt, slow, practiced, asking without words. You nod, and he helps ease the fabric up and over your head, careful not to let it snag. You shiver at the shift in temperature, not from cold but from being seen.

Nanami doesn’t stare. He studies. His hands rest lightly on your sides, and then he leans in, pressing a warm, grounding kiss to your sternum.

And then lower to the edge of one scar.

You flinch. Not because it hurts. Just… it’s overwhelming. You feel everything. His lips pause, just barely brushing the tissue. He lifts his eyes to meet yours. “Still okay?”

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “Y-Yeah. Just… sensitive.”

His smile is small but sincere. “That’s okay.”

He kisses one scar again, softer. Reverent. Not skipping past it, not avoiding it. He lingers there like it’s holy. Then the other. Then just above, right beneath your collarbone, where his hands settle like he’s anchoring you to yourself.

And just like that, the dysphoria quiets. Not gone. But dulled by the weight of his love.

When he pulls back, your eyes are glassy, but your voice is steady. “Kento…”

He presses his forehead to yours. “Let me love you. Just like this.”

And you let him.

His mouth meets yours, gentle as a familiar rhythm is settle between your lips. Then, his mouth pulls back and kisses your cheeks, your jaw, your neck. Down to the jugular nutch, your collarbones, and so on.

A soft whimper escapes your throat as Nanami kisses your scars again, then moves down your stomach. His fingers gently pulls your sweatpants down, leaving you in your boxers at his disposal.

“You okay?” He asks as you nods, running your hands through his blonde locks softly.

His mouth moves further down, kissing your thighs as one hand sneaks up to open your legs. You aid, spreading them as Nanami massages your thighs.

Kissing the inner thigh, Nanami begins to move closer and closer to your heat. Trembling, he meets yours eyes as you give a subtle nod, which he takes eagerly and begins kissing above your clothed groin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, the movement making you shiver a little. Your boxers damping, you push Nanami off so you can shuck the uncomfortably wet fabric off.

“So beautiful,” he repeats, using his fingers to spread your lips slowly, running them up and down your wetting lips.

Christ, no matter how many times he’s done this, you never get tired of his fingers.

“Can you look at me?” You whisper, the sounds of your breathing and the wetness gathering on Nanami’s fingers being the only sound in the bedroom.

Nanami doesn’t speak, just looks up to meet your eyes as his mouth locks onto your crotch.

You inhale, meeting his eyes as Nanami looks at you so lovingly as his mouth begins to kiss and lick you. Fingers now massaging your thighs once more, you whimper at the sensation.

Getting eaten out used to make you so nervous, so dysphoric. But with Nanami? It feels heavenly.

Another gasp is pulled out of you as a finger slips inside you. Long, it reaches that little spot inside you that Nanami knows all too well.

Gripping the sheets at your side, you choke out another moan as Nanami’s mouth moves up to lick your clit.

“Kento…” is murmured through your lips, looking back down at Nanami between your legs.

His finger is pumping inside you, hitting that spot right on as his eyes are closed, like your pussy is the only thing in the world. Like he’s drowning with it.

His tongue is flicking against your clit at an unpredictable rhythm that keeps you on your toes. The combination of the two, and the groan Nanami lets out, makes your thighs begin to tremble.

“Gosh…” you finally begin to find your breath as his pace picks up, eyes opening to meet yours. Hungry, he looks.

One hand lets go of your thighs, sneaking up your chest to push your back against the bed. Legs being hiked over his shoulders, he begins to move with a new found purpose.

“Ah! God— Kento!” You shout, taken aback by the sudden change in atmosphere.

He’s a man on a mission now, tasked with making your abdomen clench and back arch as you find your hands in his hair. Both trying to bring his face closer and push him away as you get overwhelmed, he grabs your hands and pins them above your head.

“Kento— I’m close—“ the words are torn from your throat as you feel his tongue move off your sensitive bud to slip inside you. One hand releasing your wrists as his thumb rubs your clit. Vigorously.

“Kento— Wait—“ you can help the moan that breaks your sentences. Coherent thoughts long gone as you feel your orgasm approaching rapidly.

“Come on baby, you’re right there,” Kento murmurs into your pussy, the vibrations finally sending you over edge as you cum hard with a shout of his name. Hands moving to hold Nanami’s hair tightly, your body convulses as he licks you through your orgasm.

“Such a beautiful boy,” he says. Chin drenched as he licks his lips, he unzips his pants and pulls himself out.

Stroking himself for a few seconds, you try to catch your breath as you look up at him. His eyes are hooded with a desire that makes you shiver. Resting on your back, you close your eyes as you feel him slide up and down your slit, soaking his cock in your juices.

Some rummaging can be heard, so you sit up and tap at Nanami. Shaking your head, “I just want to feel you.”

The search of the condom is abandoned as Nanami kissing your forehead as he slips the head in.

“Christ…” he mumbles as he begins to push in, painfully slow to drag out the stretch. Hands going to your side as he uses the bed for leverage.

“You’re still so tight…” he says quietly into your ear. Finally bottoming out, your arms move to hold his shoulders as you bury your face into the crook of his neck. But that doesn’t fly. Nanami moves to push you back down on the bed, seeing you laying down and spread out for him.

“You’re stunning,” he says as he begins pulling in and out, angling his hips just so he can continue reaching that collection of nerves inside you.

“Mmm, so warm. So wet. So tight. Such a handsome man,” he purrs as he brings one of your arms up and begins kissing your palm, wrists, and fingers. He begins to worship your body, like it’s the most priceless piece of art in the world. Rocking his hips into a rhythm you know all too well, he draws out more whimpers from your lips.

“Kento—“ he cuts you off by dropping your hand and moving his thumb to trace slow painful circles are your clit.

As if you’re still not sensitive from your first orgasm just mere minutes ago.

“Wait— Kento baby— I’m still—“ you try to protest, but get cut off by another moan as he pushes the little bundle down.

“I know baby. But see how much I love your body? So perfect for me,” Kento rasped, before bringing your legs up to fold you into a mating press.

Now, his pubes are the ones brushing up your clit, the new feeling adding another layer of pleasure as the angle allows him to push further into you.

His balls slap against your ass, the sound of the flesh so vulgar, mixing in with the sweat and the gasps you let out.

“Ah— Ah— Ah—“ is the only sound you can make out. Nanami moves his hands right by your head, your own arms moving to hold onto his back. Nails dig into his skin, scratching down as you desperately try cling on to him.

He’s always been so good at this, it’s downright criminal.

“Feel good, baby?” He asks, voice rough as he picks up the pace, fucking into you like it’s his last mission.

You nod, whimpering as you cling on to him quicker. “Yes— God!— Yes, Kento. So good…”

He moves harder. Faster. His horribly skilled hand coming back between the two of you to rub that little bud again.

Your stomach begins to cramp, your eyes squeeze shut, your hands digger deeper into his back.

“Kento, I’m close—“ You can’t finish as he begins to kiss your forehead, your temple, your cheek. Coming up to mouth, he whispers right into your lips, “Come for me.” And by mighty you do.

Shaking as your jaw goes slack, his hand quickening against your clit, he feels you clench and tighten up as you orgasm violently.

“Kento!”

“Fuck—“ he moans right back, his orgasm rapidly approaching. Fucking you through your own finish as he approaches his, his hands come off your puffy pussy as he begins pounding you like it’s life or death. Snapping his hips violently, you’re a whimpering mess as he grunts above you.

“Inside, please,” is all you need to say as the groan is violently ripped from his throat as he freezes. You feel the warmth flood you, and Nanami’s hands give out as he lowers your legs.

You finally seem to catch enough air. Legs cramping up a little, but able to relax now that Nanami moved off to your side to hold you.

And he does. For a while.

The heat wave had turned the X-Mansion into a gilded oven. Even with the state-of-the-art cooling systems humming at maximum capacity, the air in Westchester felt thick enough to chew, a suffocating blanket of ninety-nine-degree humidity that clung to your skin. It was the kind of heat that made your very marrow feel sticky.

Nights were objectively worse. The dormitories had become a sprawl of discarded sheets and kicked-off blankets, the air barely moving. There was a strange, frantic honesty to the way everyone moved through the halls, desperate to shed anything that kept the stifling warmth against their skin. For you, the relief of having had your top surgery years ago—no longer needing to worry about the constrictive misery of a binder—was a blessing, even if the sweat still pooled on your chest. For Anna the relief of not having to tuck—was her own blessing.

In the quiet of your room, the silence was broken only by the rhythmic hum of the vents. Anna Marie lay beside you, a powerhouse of muscle and warmth, though her eyes were soft with the exhaustion of the heat. She had spent the last three nights practically glued to your side, a silent plea for the unnatural, refreshing chill that radiated from your skin. You were a living, breathing air conditioner, your body perpetually coated in a fine, frosted sheen that turned your touch into a sanctuary.

You woke in the dead of night, the air heavy in your lungs. Your shirt was a damp, clinging second skin, despite the layer of frost you’d unconsciously manifested to keep your temperature down. Beside you, Anna was pressed flush against your side, her gloved hands gripping your arm, her face buried near your shoulder to catch the cold. You moved with practiced caution, sitting up and peeling the sodden shirt away, tossing it toward the haphazard mountain of her clothes at the foot of the bed. Somewhere in the hazy, heat-addled hours, you had shed your boxers too, leaving you bare against the cool relief of your own ice-touched skin.

When you drifted back off, it was into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

You woke again to a weight that felt both grounding and immense. Anna had shifted during the night, moving from your side to splayed directly across your chest. Her 6’2” frame was a marvel of strength, and at a significantly shorter height, you felt completely eclipsed by her. Her feet dangled off the edge of the mattress, and her muscular weight pressed you firmly into the sheets. It was impossible to breathe properly, but as you looked at the way her hair fanned out against your skin, you decided there were far worse ways to go than being smothered by the woman you were hopelessly in love with.

"Mornin', sugah," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. She didn’t shift an inch, her head resting heavily in the crook of your neck. "I swear, this place is hotter'n Georgia asphalt in July. I'm fixin' to melt right into these sheets."

She let out a frustrated huff, finally pushing herself up on her forearms. The motion sent a shiver through you, the change in pressure making your icy skin flare slightly with a gentle, crystalline mist.

You managed a weak, lopsided smile, looking up at her. Even with her hair a mess and the sweat highlighting the curve of her shoulders, she was breathtaking. "I'm tryin' my best, Anna," you sighed, your voice raspy. "But I don't think even my powers can win this fight. I’m half-tempted to go find Bobby and see if we can start up a mini ice age in the common room just to get a decent breath of air."

Anna let out a low, throaty laugh that seemed to vibrate right through the mattress. She finally shifted, gracefully swinging her legs over you until she was straddling your waist. Her thighs were solid, firm, and grounding; even through the haze of the heat, you felt that familiar, exhilarating jolt of affection in your chest.

"I’m sure it won't take much coaxin' to get Bobby on board," she hummed, her eyes dancing with amusement. "That boy’s about as desperate for a breeze as I am. But how’s about we start with a cold shower? I’m startin' to think I might actually combust."

She leaned down, pressing a lingering, soft kiss against your cheek. Her lips grazed the thin, delicate layer of ice you’d instinctively kept there, and she let out a contented sigh at the contact before sliding off you and the bed. The loss of her weight felt like a sudden, jarring change in pressure, but you couldn't help the grin that spread across your face as you watched her move toward the dresser.

She pulled out a simple tank top and some loose shorts, pausing to look back at you over her shoulder. The morning light caught the curve of her back and the way her hair fell in loose, unruly waves. "You gonna join me, or are ya plannin' on turnin' into a puddle right there on the sheets?"

"Yes, ma'am," you chuckled, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. You spent a few minutes quickly smoothing out the tangled mess of sheets and gathering the discarded clothes from the floor, trying to bring some semblance of order to the room before leaving it behind.

By the time you reached the bathroom, Anna had already adjusted the knobs, the shower head hissing as it poured out a steady, frigid stream. You stepped in after her, the cold water acting like a shock to your system, though your ice-cold skin welcomed it instantly.

Showering with Anna was always a delicate dance, a constant awareness of her powers and the barrier that kept you apart. You stood behind her, the water cascading over her powerful shoulders. She was statuesque, towering over you, and you reached up to take the shampoo from her hand. You insisted on this part every time—washing her hair was the one way you could nurture her without the fear of her absorption pulling at your energy. You massaged the suds into her scalp, your movements slow and deliberate, while the cold water rinsed the heat of the night away. She leaned back into your touch, her eyes closing, a rare moment of complete, unburdened peace on her face.

"You're a lifesaver, darlin'," she murmured, her accent thick and honey-slow as she turned her head just enough to catch your eye. "I don't know how I'd survive this summer without ya."

Once you were both dressed, the chill from the shower clung to you for a while, providing a fleeting, blissful immunity to the oppressive temperature outside. But the moment you stepped into the hallway, the heat hit you like a physical blow.

The common area was a portrait of misery. The mansion felt like a crowded, steam-filled locker room. Angel was draped over Bobby—who looked like he was vibrating with the effort of trying to keep himself from melting—much the way Anna clung to you. Illyana sat in the corner with a scowl so sharp it could cut glass, looking ready to snap at the first person who dared breathe in her direction. Scott, ever the stoic, was staring blankly at a wall; it was impossible to tell if he was contemplating a tactical solution or simply waiting for the sweet release of a heat-induced fainting spell. Jean was vigorously fanning herself with a discarded Time magazine, while Kitty had her entire face pressed directly into the oscillating blades of a small desk fan, letting it ruffle her hair.

"Lord have mercy," Anna whispered, her voice tight with sympathy as she squeezed your hand. "It’s a regular graveyard in here. Reckon we should start that ice age before Scott starts seein' mirages?"

You looked at the suffering group, then back at Anna, a smirk tugging at your lips. "I think the ice age is officially overdue.”

Before you could take a step toward Bobby, the heavy double doors of the common room swung open. The sudden shift in energy was palpable. In walked Professor Xavier and Erik, moving with a maddening, graceful ease, as if they were strolling through a breezy spring day rather than a suffocating oven. While the rest of the team looked like they’d been dragged through a swamp, the two men looked perfectly composed, not a single bead of sweat on their brows.

Every eye in the room snapped to them—resentment, longing, and pure confusion warring on everyone’s faces. Charles offered a serene, grandfatherly smile that seemed entirely too bright for the current mood.

"It appears everyone is finding the interior climate... less than ideal," Charles noted, his voice smooth.

Erik didn’t bother with the pleasantries. He stood with his arms crossed, glancing around the room with a smirk that bordered on arrogant. "The mansion does have an Olympic-sized swimming pool, last I checked. Or, by all means, continue to wallow in misery until the heat breaks. It is quite the spectacle."

The room erupted into sudden, frantic motion. It was as if a starting pistol had been fired. Angel immediately snatched Bobby’s hand, practically dragging the shivering ice-man toward the exit. The rest of the team scrambled, discarding magazines and fans as they bolted for the locker rooms.

You stood there, still anchored by Anna’s hand, when you felt a sudden change in the atmosphere. The "girls" of the X-Men—Jean, Kitty, Jubilee, and Rogue—had descended upon you.

"Oh, thank god," Jubilee chirped, wiping sweat from her forehead. "You're the only one who can drive that SUV, and I am not getting in a car with Logan today. He’s in a mood."

"We need supplies," Jean added, though she looked slightly frazzled, fanning herself with her hand. "And swimsuits. The ones in the store cupboard are from the nineties, I swear."

Anna squeezed your hand, her eyes bright with a sudden, mischievous spark. "You’re comin’ with us, right, darlin’? You ain’t gonna leave us to the mercy of the mall crowds alone, are ya?"

You looked at the expectant faces surrounding you. How could you say no? Especially when the thought of any of them behind the wheel of a car was enough to give you a headache. "Alright, alright," you laughed, raising your hands in surrender. "Let me grab my keys."

"Yes!" Kitty cheered, already heading for the stairs. "Five minutes, everyone! Meet at the garage!"

Anna didn't let go of your hand. She practically towed you toward your shared room, her stride long and purposeful. The excitement radiating off her was infectious, her southern drawl quickening as she began to pepper you with questions.

"What d'ya think, sugah? Should I go for somethin' classic? Maybe a nice deep green? Or maybe somethin' with a bit more flair?" She turned, walking backward as she pulled you along, her brow furrowed in playful concentration.

You chuckled, catching up to her pace. "Anything you wear is gonna look good, Anna. You know that."

She let out a soft, pleased laugh, bumping her shoulder against yours. "Flatterer. But wait—what about us? You think we should get matchin' ones? Not like, *tacky* matching, but maybe like... coordinated? A bit of ice blue for you, maybe somethin' that matches the contrast?"

She stepped into your room, moving straight for your bag to grab your keys, her movements fluid and confident. She turned to face you, her expression turning surprisingly soft. "It’d be nice, wouldn't it? Bein' able to match, even just for the day. Makes the world feel a little smaller, a little more like it’s just us."

You felt a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with the temperature. You reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "I think that’s a perfect idea, Anna Marie. Whatever you want."

"Good," she beamed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She leaned in, pressing a quick, firm kiss to your nose. "Now come on, let's get movin' before I decide to jump into the nearest fountain fully clothed.”

As soon as you killed the engine and stepped out into the humid, shimmering heat of the parking lot, you were essentially the most popular person in the group.

Kitty was practically vibrating with energy, having successfully coerced Magik into coming along. It was painfully obvious that Kitty just wanted to watch Illyana try on swimsuits, but Illyana seemed to tolerate the theater of it all with a sharp, guarded smirk that never quite left her face.

Inside the store, the fluorescent lights and piped-in pop music felt like a different world from the sweltering tension of the mansion. Anna didn’t let go of your hand once. She held it with a possessive, grounding grip, her thumb tracing the frosted skin of your knuckles. Jubilee and Jean had split off toward the home goods section, determined to find pool supplies that hadn’t been around since the Reagan administration.

That left you, Anna, Kitty, and Illyana in the chaotic, brightly lit aisles of a high-end swimwear boutique.

"Alright," Kitty chirped, tossing a literal armful of neon-colored fabric at you. "You're the official gear-holder. Try to look like you're having fun, yeah?"

You sighed, bracing yourself as the weight of various swimsuits piled up in your arms. Illyana simply dumped her stack onto your pile without a word, her eyes fixed on Kitty with an amused, slightly predatory glint.

Anna, meanwhile, was lingering by a display, her expression thoughtful. She held up a pair of deep, midnight-blue bikini bottoms—simple, elegant, and decidedly lacking a matching top. She leaned in, her voice dropping into that familiar, velvet-thick Southern lilt.

"Humor me, sugah," she giggled, a playful glint in her eyes as she held them out toward your chest, measuring them against your frame. "Just imagine the contrast. That deep navy against your skin? It’d be a sight."

You looked down at the fabric, then back at her, giving her a look that was equal parts exasperated and hopelessly charmed. You knew exactly where this was going. She loved teasing you, testing the boundaries of how much you’d go along with her whims. "Anna Marie, I really don't think a bikini is quite the look I was goin' for today," you said, trying to keep a straight face despite the way your heart did a quiet somersault.

She stepped closer, invading your personal space in the best way possible. Her hand brushed against your arm, her gloves cool against your forearm. "Oh, hush now. You lookin' at these like they’re gonna bite ya. Don't be such a prude, darlin'. I just wanna see how the colors play off that ice-skin of yours. Is that so much to ask?"

She winked, a slow, deliberate movement that made your resolve crumble entirely. She knew you couldn't say no to her when she turned the charm up like that.

"Fine," you muttered, shifting the pile of hangers in your arms. "But if I look ridiculous, I'm holdin' you personally responsible for my dignity."

Anna let out a bright, melodic laugh that turned a few heads in the aisle. She reached out, patting your cheek—careful of the layer of frost you always kept there—and leaned in close to your ear. "Your dignity's perfectly safe with me, honey. Besides, we’re lookin’ for somethin’ that matches, remember? Can't have you lookin’ all plain while I’m standin’ next to ya lookin’ like a million bucks."

She turned back to the rack, her hips swaying with that characteristic, confident grace. "Now, come on. Kitty’s waitin' on us to pick out the rest of the stash, and if we don't hurry, I reckon Illyana's gonna lose her patience and teleport the whole store to the backyard."

You shook your head, a smile finally breaking through, and followed her deeper into the maze of racks. The heat of the day felt miles away, replaced entirely by the gravity of her presence.

The pile in your arms had grown to an almost comical size, resembling a textile-based mountain you were forced to navigate. When Jean and Jubilee reappeared, they didn’t offer any relief; instead, they simply added their own haul of bags—presumably containing the floaties and towels—to your burden, offering nothing but a breezy bright smile before vanishing back into the aisles.

You didn't mind the weight, though. Honestly, it was a welcome diversion. You found a sturdy bench positioned strategically in front of the changing room corridor, sinking into it with a huff of relief. You’d spent the last week getting pummeled by Logan in the Danger Room, his idea of "bonding" involving throwing you through reinforced walls until you were black and blue. This—sitting in the cool, artificially crisp air of the mall, waiting for the girls to come out and show off their finds—was a luxury by comparison. It felt natural, a quiet rhythm you’d settled into that felt infinitely more you than trying to force yourself into the role of the hyper-masculine brawler.

"Alright," Kitty’s voice called out from behind the curtain. "Prepare to be dazzled."

Kitty emerged first, stepping out with a grin. She was wearing a sleek, vibrant purple one-piece that featured daring, geometric cutouts along her sides, perfectly suited for someone who could phase through solid matter. Illyana followed close behind, looking every bit the fierce, dark aesthetic she favored—an all-black bikini with striking, thin orange trim that highlighted her sharp features.

"Well?" Illyana challenged, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe, her gaze daring you to find fault.

"You both look great," you said with a sincere smile. Jubilee bounced out next, looking like a neon sign in an obnoxiously bright, high-waisted pink bikini. She did a quick, cheerful spin, the fabric shimmering under the harsh store lights. "Too much? Or just enough?"

"It's loud, Jubes," you laughed. "But it fits you."

Jean followed, stepping out with a poise that made everything look elegant. She’d chosen a rich, deep emerald green one-piece that complemented her hair beautifully. She looked at you expectantly, and you nodded. "That's definitely the winner, Jean. Very classic."

Then, the curtain to the final stall pushed open. Anna Marie stepped out, and for a moment, the ambient noise of the mall seemed to fade into the background. She was wearing a vibrant, sunshine-yellow one-piece, but the design was daring—so high-cut and plunging that it barely left more to the imagination than a traditional bikini. True to form, she had her signature denim dixie shorts pulled on over it, the contrast of the soft yellow fabric against the worn, rugged denim hitting exactly the right note.

She caught your eye, a slow, playful smirk tugging at her lips. She did a small, deliberate pose, letting the straps of the suit rest just so on her shoulders.

"What d'ya think, darlin'?" she asked, her voice dipping into that soft, melodic drawl. "Is it too much, or am I just bringin' the heat?"

You felt the tips of your ears heat up, and for the first time all day, you didn't even notice the temperature. "Anna Marie," you started, finding yourself momentarily struck. You looked at the matching trunks she’d picked out for you, still sitting in the pile on your lap, and then back at her. "I think you’re gonna make sure nobody looks at the pool all day."

She laughed, a warm, genuine sound that made your chest ache with affection. She walked over, placing a hand on your knee, her glove slightly cold against your skin. "Good. That’s exactly what I was goin' for. Now, quit starin' and go put yours on. I wanna see if we look like a pair, or if I’m just showin’ you up.”

The drive back to the mansion was a blur of laughter and the lingering chill of the mall’s AC, but the moment you pulled into the drive, the oppressive heat of the afternoon slammed back into you. The team scrambled toward their respective dorms with the frantic energy of people who knew the pool was their only salvation.

You and Anna Marie, however, had the right idea. You’d stopped by the kitchen on the way, snagging a large, condensation-slicked glass jar of sweet tea, a couple of plastic cups, and enough ice to keep the drink—and you—perfectly chilled. You bypassed the main chaos of the pool deck, where Angel and Bobby were already splashing around like kids, and headed for the far end. Here, the pool transitioned into a quiet, shaded corner tucked away from the shouting and the frantic splashing.

You set the jar down on a small side table and claimed two lounge chairs. You didn't waste time, sliding into your chair and turning immediately onto your side, propping your head up with your hand. You weren't even trying to hide it; your eyes were locked on Anna.

She stood for a moment, the sun catching the golden tones of her skin, before she reached up to unknot the gauzy, oversized cover-up she’d thrown on for the trip home. With a fluid, graceful motion, she tossed it over the back of her chair. She looked effortless in the yellow suit, the vibrant color contrasting beautifully against her skin. She kept her back to you at first, reaching up to adjust her hair, her muscles shifting beneath her skin in that way that always made your breath catch.

She knew you were watching. You could tell by the slight smirk playing on her lips and the way she deliberately took her time, smoothing down the fabric of her suit and adjusting her stance. She was playing to the audience of one, enjoying the weight of your gaze just as much as you enjoyed the view.

"You plannin' on blinkin' anytime soon, sugah?" she asked, her voice a low, teasing hum. She didn't turn around immediately, but you could hear the smile in her words. "Or are ya just gonna sit there and memorise every square inch of me?"

You didn't look away, your gaze tracing the line of her shoulder down to the powerful curve of her hip. "I’m doin' a bit of both," you admitted, your voice rougher than you intended. "Hard to look at anything else when you’re standin' right there."

Anna let out a soft, pleased laugh, the sound melodic against the distant splashes of the others. She finally turned to face you, settling into the lounge chair across from yours. She tucked one leg beneath her, leaning toward you, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She looked radiant, the sunlight reflecting off the water behind her, but all you could focus on was that look she was giving you—that soft, possessive expression she only saved for you.

"You’re a terrible flirt," she teased, though her hand reached out to brush the back of her fingers against your arm, right where your ice-touched skin was at its coolest. "But I reckon I don’t mind one bit."

She reached for the jar of tea, pouring a small amount into a cup and handing it to you, her fingers lingering against yours for a second longer than necessary. "Drink up, darlin'. You’re lookin’ a little bit peaked. Even you need to stay hydrated when it’s this hot."

You took the cup, the cold glass a sharp contrast to the warmth of her touch. You leaned back, watching her as she took a slow sip of her own tea, her eyes never leaving yours. In this little pocket of shade, with the faint scent of chlorine and sunscreen hanging in the air, the stifling heat of the mansion felt a thousand miles away. For now, it was just the two of you, the cold comfort of your powers, and the quiet electricity that seemed to hum between you every time she looked your way.

The sun began its slow descent, bleeding a bruised purple and burnt orange across the Westchester sky. The frantic energy of the day had finally evaporated along with the worst of the heat. One by one, the rest of the X-Men had retreated inside, leaving the pool deck in a heavy, humid silence that was broken only by the rhythmic dripping of water from the diving board and the distant song of crickets.

You were still reclined in your lounge chair, the residual chill of your ice-skin keeping the oppressive evening air at bay. Anna was stretched out in the chair beside yours, her skin glistening with a thin veil of water that caught the dying light of the sun. She looked lethargic, her eyelids heavy, but there was an unmistakable spark of mischief lingering in her gaze.

Without a word, she rose, her movements liquid and slow. She didn't head for the mansion; instead, she stepped over to your chair and straddled your waist, her weight settling comfortably against you. You instinctively reached up, your hands finding the familiar firm curve of her hips, anchoring her in place. She looked down at you, that signature smirk curling the corner of her mouth—the look she always wore right before she proposed an idea that would undoubtedly get you both in trouble.

"What?" you hummed, your voice dropping to a gravelly register. You looked up at her, your heart hammering against your ribs. "That look says you're up to somethin'. What could you possibly be thinkin' about?"

She didn’t answer. She just held your gaze, her eyes searching yours with a quiet, intense focus that made the air feel suddenly thin. Her hands moved with agonizing deliberation, hovering over the waistband of your trunks. With a slow, steady pull, she undid the knot.

Before you could even process the sudden vulnerability, she stood up. She didn't look back, but you could see the playful challenge in her shoulders as she reached behind her and shifted the straps of her yellow one-piece. In one fluid, practiced motion, she slipped out of the suit, the fabric bunching in her hands for only a second before she tossed it directly at your face.

She laughed—a bright, crystalline sound that echoed off the pool tiles—and then she was airborne.

She hit the water with a clean, satisfying splash, the surface tension shattering into a thousand diamonds. You were left sitting in the lounge chair, the fabric of her suit draped over your lap, watching the ripples slowly settle in the dark, inviting water. The humidity seemed to sharpen, clinging to you, but the thrill of what she’d just done sent a jolt of adrenaline through your system that was far more effective than any ice-skin trick.

It wasn't about the white-hot flare of pain with every ragged, shallow breath. It wasn't about the lingering heat of the infection, or the ghosts of Grace and Gideon. In the silence of the car, those names felt like static. It wasn't about the mission or the world ending—again.

​It was about you.

​It was only ever about getting back up, one agonizing movement at a time, and finding the strength to go home. He just wanted to walk through that stupid blue door and see your face—to see the way your brow furrowed in that specific, doctor-like concentration when you were worried.

​Leon didn't care about the inevitable lecture. He knew you’d treat him like a child for being so reckless; he could already hear your voice, seasoned with the weariness of a man who had seen too much of the same biology Leon fought in the field. You had scolded him like that when you first found out about the infection—your hands shaking despite your years of medical training.

​God, he wanted you to yell at him now. He wanted to hear you say his name and call him stupid, all while your steady, gentle hands—calloused from years of work but always soft when they touched him—bandaged his cuts and soothed the blooming bruises. He could almost feel it: the way you’d tuck a loose, sweat-matted lock of hair behind his ear while he shivered against the cold tile of the bathroom, leaning into your warmth because you were the only person who could make him feel human again.

​His vision blurred as he finally pulled into the gravel driveway. The headlights cut through the dark, illuminating the peeling paint of the blue door and the soft, amber glow spilling from your bedroom window. You were still up. Waiting.

​His hands trembled as he cut the engine, the silence of the car suddenly heavy. Every joint ached, and his lungs felt like they were filled with glass, but the sight of that light—your light—was the only thing keeping the darkness at the edge of his mind from swallowing him whole. He was home. He was back with his husband. Now, he just had to find the strength to open the car door.

The door handle felt like ice against his palm, a stark reminder that he was still vibrating with a low-grade fever. It took three tries to get his cramped fingers to turn the key. When the door finally gave way, the familiar scent of the house—old books, cedarwood, and the faint, clean smell of the soap you always used—hit him like a physical blow.

​He didn't turn on the lights. He didn't want to see the trail of road salt and dried blood he was likely leaving on the rug. With a grunt of effort, he shrugged out of his jacket, the fabric stiff with grime. His fingers fumbled with the buckles of his holster, the heavy leather hitting the recliner with a muffled thud that felt far too loud in the quiet living room. He was lighter now, but he felt more fragile, his body held together only by the desperate need to reach the hallway.

​As he neared the bedroom, a sliver of warm light cut across the floorboards. Then, he heard it—your voice.

​It was low, hushed in the way people speak late at night, but it carried that jagged edge of anxiety you usually kept hidden.

​"I know, Sherry. I know he’s careful," you were saying, your voice cracking slightly. "But it’s been three days since the last check-in. Just... if you hear anything, call me. I don't care what time it is."

​Leon froze. Hearing you talk to Sherry—the girl who was as much your daughter as she was his ward—made the guilt in his chest flare brighter than the pain in his side. He leaned against the doorframe, his shadow stretching long and distorted across the carpet. He looked like a ghost haunting his own home.

​"Baby," he rasped. It wasn't even a whisper; it was a broken sound, caught in the back of a dry, scorched throat.

​In the room, the shifting of bedsheets stopped instantly. You looked up, the phone still pressed to your ear, your jaw going slack as your eyes tracked the battered silhouette in the doorway. For a heartbeat, the doctor in you was paralyzed by the husband in you.

​"Sherry," you whispered, your voice breathless and urgent, never taking your eyes off him. "I have to go. He’s here. He’s home."

​You didn't wait for a reply before ending the call, the phone slipping from your hand onto the duvet as you started to move toward him.

The distance across the bedroom felt like miles until you finally reached him, your arms sliding upward to drape carefully around his neck. You didn't pull him in tight—not yet—your instincts warning you of the hidden agonies beneath his gear

​You just stared at him, your breath hitching. Slowly, your hands moved from his shoulders to cup his face, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones with a reverence that made his eyes flutter shut. You tilted his head gently from side to side, searching his skin with a look of genuine bewilderment. The terrifying, ink-black lines that had once threatened to claim him—the mark of the infection that had haunted your nightmares—were gone. His skin was pale, mapped with fresh, angry cuts and the deep purple of blooming bruises, but it was him. It was just Leon.

​Leon’s breath hitched, a jagged sound that vibrated through his chest. He reached up, his gloved hand trembling as he caught your wrist. He didn't pull you away; instead, he guided your palm down, pressing it flat against the center of his chest.

​Underneath the grime, his heart was thundering, a frantic, rhythmic proof of life. He looked down at you, his blue eyes glassy and bloodshot, searching your face as if he were still trying to convince himself he wasn't hallucinating this quiet, warm bedroom.

​"I'm here," he rasped, his voice barely a thread of sound. "I'm really here."

​You reached out, your index finger tentatively tracing a shallow, jagged cut along his cheekbone. The moment your skin made contact, Leon flinched, a sharp hiss of air escaping through his teeth as he instinctively pulled back.

​He braced himself then, his shoulders tensing. He expected the lecture. He expected you to demand to know why he’d been so careless, or to see that flash of professional frustration you got when a patient—or a husband—ignored their own safety.

​But the scolding never came.

​Instead, you leaned in, your touch feather-light. You began to pepper soft, lingering kisses against his bruised cheeks, your lips trailing over the unbroken skin near his temple. When you finally pressed a kiss to his mouth, it wasn't a greeting; it was a promise. It tasted of salt and exhaustion, but it was the first time Leon felt his lungs truly expand since he’d left the city.

​"Let’s get you cleaned up," you whispered against his lips, the words soft enough to be a prayer.

​Leon didn't argue. He couldn't. He simply nodded, his forehead dropping to rest against yours for a fleeting second before he allowed himself to be led. He followed you into the bathroom, his steps heavy and slow, trusting you to handle the weight of his broken body now that he didn't have to carry it alone anymore.

Leon sat heavily on the closed toilet seat, his broad shoulders slumped forward. His hair was still dark and heavy with water, dripping rhythmically onto the towel wrapped around his waist. The bathroom was small, the air thick with the lingering steam of the quick, careful wash you’d just given him.

​Under the unforgiving glare of the overhead lights, Leon simply watched you. He watched the way you moved, rummaging through the cabinet under the sink with a focused intensity. He noticed the silver-gray strands at your temples that hadn't been there a few years ago, and the way you squinted, tilting your head to read the small print on a bottle of saline. When you finally found what you were looking for and turned back to him, the soft crinkles at the corners of your eyes deepened—a map of every worry he’d ever caused you.

​You pulled a small wooden stool between his knees, sitting close enough that your thighs brushed against his. Leon didn't move; he just let out a long, shuddering breath, his eyes never leaving yours.

​With a touch as light as a whisper, you reached up to brush a damp strand of dark dirty blonde hair behind his ear, tucking it away so you could see the damage. Your hands were steady, though your expression remained tight with a quiet, simmering concern. You didn't say much. You didn't need to. The silence was filled only by the click of the first-aid kit and the soft hiss of the antiseptic spray.

​As you began to dab at the jagged cuts along his collarbone and chest, Leon’s body betrayed him. He tensed, his muscles roping under his skin, a sharp intake of air whistling through his teeth when the sting hit a particularly deep gouge.

​"Sorry," you murmured, your voice low and gravelly with sleep and suppressed emotion. "I know, Leon. I'm sorry."

​He shook his head slowly, his hand coming up to rest tentatively on your knee. "It's okay. I'm okay."

​You worked in a rhythmic, practiced peace, cleaning the debris from his skin and smoothing antibiotic ointment over the bruises that were already turning an ugly, mottled green. Every time he flinched, you stopped, waiting for him to settle before continuing.

​Leon watched your hands—those hands that had held him through nightmares and long nights of fever. He looked down at your face, feeling a sudden, overwhelming surge of affection that hurt worse than the wounds.

​"Hey," he whispered, his voice cracking. He tilted his head down, catching your gaze as you reached for a fresh box of bandages. "Could you….kiss them? Like you used to?"

​The request was so vulnerable, so stripped of his usual bravado, that it broke the tension in your chest. A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

​"Always," you breathed.

​You peeled back a bandage and pressed it firmly but gently over the cut on his cheek. Then, lingering for a second, you leaned in and pressed a soft, warm kiss directly over the adhesive. Leon’s eyes closed, his entire body finally going limp under your touch.

​You moved to his shoulder, Repeating the ritual. Peel, press, kiss. Then down to his abdomen, where the worst of the bruising lay. With every kiss you pressed against the bandages littering his torso, you felt his breathing even out, the jagged edges of his exhaustion finally beginning to smooth.

Leaving the bathroom felt like walking through a fog. Leon’s legs were heavy, his coordination frayed by the sheer weight of the day’s adrenaline finally leaving his system. You guided him back to the edge of the bed, where you had laid out a pair of soft, worn-in sweatpants—the kind he only wore when he was truly home.

​"I’ve got it," he muttered, though his fingers were fumbling uselessly with the waistband. His brow furrowed in that stubborn, Leon-like scowl. "I’m not useless….I can do it."

​"I know you're not," you replied softly, not letting the protest deter you. You gently brushed his hands aside, kneeling between his knees to help him step into the fabric. "But tonight, you don't have to be 'useful.' You just have to be here."

​He let out a long, defeated sigh, his large hands coming to rest on your shoulders for balance. He watched as you dressed him with practiced, unhurried care, smoothing the fabric over the fresh bandages on his thighs. He looked so much smaller like this—stripped of the gear, the weapons, and the duty. When you reached up to pull a soft t-shirt over his head, he leaned his forehead against your chest for a second, his breath hitching.

​"Thank you," he whispered into the cotton of your shirt, the fight finally draining out of his limbs.

​pulling back the heavy duvet to invite him into the space you’d kept warm for him all night. Leon crawled in with a groan of relief, his body sinking into the mattress as if he were finally being allowed to merge with the earth.

​Once he was settled, you climbed in beside him, propping yourself up on one arm. You opened your arms, an unspoken invitation, and he didn't hesitate. He shifted closer, tucking his head into the crook of your neck, his face pressed against the pulse point of your throat. His arm draped over your waist, heavy and grounding, his fingers curling into the fabric of your pajama top.

​The room was silent, save for the rhythmic tick of the clock and the sound of his breathing, which was finally slowing down, losing its ragged, panicked edge.

​"I love you, Leon," you whispered into the crown of his damp hair, your hand tracing slow, soothing circles across his back. "More than anything. Just stay here. Don't go anywhere for a long, long time."

​Leon shifted, pressing his face deeper into your skin. "I love you," he rasped, the words sounding thick with the onset of a deep, bone-deep sleep. "Every time….I was just….coming back to you. Always you."

The Pitt had a specific atmosphere—a thick, pressurized weight that settled over your shoulders the second you swiped your ID badge and didn't lift until you stepped back out into the cool morning air. Or maybe that was just the night shift talking. You’d been working these ungodly hours since your residency twenty-some years ago, and lately, the fluorescent hum of the ER felt more like home than your own quiet apartment ever did.

​The hospital was a greedy thing; it took every scrap of your life you were willing to give. But standing there in the trenches, it didn't feel entirely like a loss. You tolerated the chaos for the crew—and because Dana, with her iron will and sharp tongue, hadn't let you jump ship for a quieter gig in another state yet.

​Then, of course, there was Jack Abbot.

​You tried to be professional—you were a nurse, for Christ’s sake—but you couldn't help but track him when he moved through a trauma bay. He filled out his scrubs in a way that should have been a distraction to medical science, muscles straining against the fabric of his sleeves as he worked. But it wasn't just the physical side of him. It was the way Jack looked at you in a crowded room of over-eager interns and frazzled residents. He’d lock eyes with you like you were the only person who actually knew what was going on, like he wanted you specifically at his side, no matter how messy the case got.

​Sometimes you’d catch him staring back, his gaze lingering a second too long on your face. You’d just offer a tired, knowing smile and keep moving. You’d known plenty of men in your forty-something years, but none of them carried themselves like Jack. None of them were ex-military with a "hobby" for SWAT calls and a cocky grin that made your heart do things it was far too old to be doing.

​You let out a long, ragged sigh, draining the last of the sludge you called coffee. You walked into the employee breakroom, the soles of your shoes squeaking against the linoleum, and tossed the empty cup into the trash with a practiced flick of the wrist. You were so deep in your own head that you didn't even notice Dana leaning against the wall by the lockers.

​“You look like hell,” she huffed, her voice cutting through the silence of the room. “Rough night?”

​Dana was blunt, a trait you valued more than you probably should. You turned, rubbing the back of your neck where a dull ache was beginning to settle. “Still shrugging off yesterday’s shift, honestly.”

​The previous night had been a gauntlet. A domestic dispute had spilled over into the waiting room while you were triage-side. To some, it was a crisis; to you, it was just another Tuesday, though a bloody nose and a shattered glass partition tended to leave a lingering adrenaline spike.

​“It happens. You’ve been at this long enough to know the Pitt likes to bite back,” she said, stepping forward to pat your arm. Her expression softened into something resembling a smile. “But you’ve got thick skin. Better than most of the kids we’ve got running around here.”

​You’d been on the receiving end of healthcare violence more than a few times—a stray punch from a detoxing patient, a shove from a panicked relative—but the toll was cumulative. It stayed in your bones. “Thanks, Dana. I’m fine. Just need about twelve hours of sleep and a new set of knees.”

​“Don’t we all?” Dana shot you a weary, knowing smile—the kind shared only by people who have spent more time under fluorescent lights than in the sun. She gave your shoulder a final squeeze before heading out, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

​The silence she left behind was heavy. You moved toward your locker, the metal door groaning on its hinges as you swung it open. You went through the ritual: phone silenced and stashed, car keys dropped into the plastic bin, and the nicer-looking name badge—the one without the coffee stain—clipped firmly to your scrub top. You draped your stethoscope around your neck, the cool binaurals a familiar weight against your collarbone.

​The thud of the breakroom door swinging open made you pause. You didn't need to look to know who it was; you knew the cadence of his step.

​As you swung your locker shut, the gray metal clicking into place, Jack was already there. He was moving toward his own locker just a few feet down, his presence immediately making the cramped room feel smaller. He looked like he’d just come from a workout or a very fast drive—charged with that restless energy that seemed to vibrate off him.

​"Afternoon," you said, your voice low and slightly raspy from the lack of sleep.

​Jack slowed his pace, his head turning toward you. A slow, tired heat crept into his eyes. "Afternoon," he replied, his voice mirroring your volume, turning the simple greeting into something that felt far more private than it was.

​He reached for his locker, but he didn't open it yet. Instead, he turned his body fully toward you. "Think I can count on you tonight?"

​There it was. That cocky, lopsided grin that had no business being that charming at the start of a twelve-hour shift.

​You shifted your weight, leaning your shoulder against the cool metal of your locker and crossing your arms over your chest. You let a slow, huffed breath escape your nose, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You can count on me every night, Jack. You know that."

​"I know," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he took a half-step closer, encroaching on your personal space just enough to let you catch the scent of cedar and sterile soap. "Just making sure. I like knowing exactly whose hands are catching what I’m throwing."

​The air in the breakroom suddenly felt a lot warmer. You searched his face, looking for the line between professional camaraderie and something else. Was he flirting? You’d had these back-and-forths for months—little sparks thrown across a trauma table or shared over a chart—but if he was pushing the boundary today, you weren't about to pull back.

​"Careful, Abbot," you murmured, adjusting the stethoscope around your neck. "People might start to think you’ve got a favorite."

​"Let 'em think," he countered, his grin widening just a fraction.

​You shook your head, a genuine chuckle bubbling up. As you moved to head toward the floor, you reached out, your hand landing briefly—deliberately—on his bicep. The muscle was as solid as you’d imagined through the fabric of his shirt, warm and firm under your palm. You gave it a lingering, playful pat.

​"See you out there then.”

​You didn't look back, but you could feel his gaze on your spine all the way to the door.

​Six hours in, and the walls of the Pitt were starting to pulse with the rhythm of the fluorescent lights. You’d downed three cups of the breakroom sludge—acidic, lukewarm, and vibrating in your veins—but it wasn't providing the clarity it used to. Instead, it just made your hands feel heavy and your eyelids feel like they were lined with sand.

​You were leaned over the high counter of the nurses' station, squinting at a discharge summary for a patient who’d just left, when a warm, familiar weight landed on your shoulder. The heat of the palm seeped through your scrub top instantly.

​You didn't even have to look up to know the grip. "You're going to need more than caffeine to get through the next six, old man," Jack’s voice rumbled near your ear.

​You looked up, catching him standing there with a yellow trauma chart held aloft like a trophy. "I'm only a few years on you, Abbot. Don't get cocky," you countered, though your voice lacked its usual bite.

​He didn't pull his hand away immediately, his thumb giving a brief, subconscious brush against your trap muscle. "Think I can borrow you? I’ve got a walk-in in Bed 4. Triage says they’re struggling with the history." He cocked an eyebrow, a challenge in his eyes. "You still speak Spanish, or did you forget it all over your lunch break?"

​"I remember enough to get you out of trouble," you replied, handing the chart you were holding back to the charge nurse with a tired nod.

​"Good. Follow me."

​As you walked, he handed you the new chart. It was sparse—just a name, Elena Rodriguez, and a few scribbled notes about abdominal pain. No allergies, no past medical history; the language barrier had hit a wall at the front desk.

​When you pushed back the curtain to Bed 4, the atmosphere shifted. An older woman was curled on the thin mattress, her face pale and waxy, clutching her midsection. Beside her stood a girl in her late teens, her knuckles white as she gripped the bedrail.

​"Hola," you said, your voice softening into your 'nurse' persona—calm, steady, and commanding. "Soy uno de los enfermeros, y él es el Doctor Abbot. Estamos aquí para ayudarles."

​The relief on the granddaughter's face was instantaneous. As you began a rapid-fire series of questions to the girl—asking about the onset of pain, fever, and the last time her grandmother had eaten—you translated for Jack in real-time.

​You and Jack moved around the small space like it was second nature. As he donned gloves and moved to the head of the bed, you stepped in at the hip, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around the woman’s arm and clipping a pulse oximeter to her finger. You didn't even have to look at him to know where he was reaching; you moved the gown aside just as his hand descended.

​"Tell her I'm going to check her abdomen," Jack said, his eyes focused. "I need to check for guarding or rebound tenderness."

​"El doctor va a examinarle el estómago," you murmured to the woman, leaning in close. "Trate de relajarse."

​Jack began his palpation, starting in the lower left quadrant to stay away from the pain. You were focused on the monitor, watching her heart rate climb as she tensed. You should have been looking at her face. You should have noticed the way her jaw tightened and her swallow became jagged.

​Jack moved his hand to the right lower quadrant, pressing down firmly over McBurney’s point to check for appendicitis. The second he applied pressure, the woman’s eyes went wide.

​"¡Ay, Dios—!"

​She didn't finish the sentence. A violent, projectile wave of dark, bile-stained vomit erupted from her, catching you squarely across the chest, your name badge, and the stethoscope you’d so carefully cleaned earlier.

​The room went dead silent, save for the beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor.

​You stood perfectly still, your arms still slightly raised from where you’d been adjusting the cuff. A slow, warm drip slid down the front of your scrubs. The woman began to sob out apologies, clutching her stomach even tighter.

​"Está bien, está bien...no se preocupe," you said automatically, your voice remarkably flat as you reached for a stack of gauze to wipe your face.

​Jack, his hands still hovered over her stomach, just stared at you. His mouth was slightly agape, his cocky persona completely evaporated. He looked at your ruined scrubs, then up at your eyes, an expression of pure, horrified sympathy—and a tiny, repressed twitch of a smile—crossing his face.

​"Well," Jack cleared his throat, finally finding his voice. "On the bright side...I think we can rule out a simple stomach ache.”

The shift had transitioned from laid back to a complete disaster. After the projectile vomit incident, the universe seemed to have opened a personal vendetta against your dignity. Between the firework enthusiast who’d turned his hand into a jigsaw puzzle and the elderly man who’d mistaken your leg for a bathroom stall, you were operating on pure, dehydrated spite. You’d even taken a cinematic spill in the lobby, sliding through a puddle by the water cooler like a clumsy kid on a slip-and-slide, only to pull yourself up with a plastered-on professional smile to help a patient back to their room.

​By the time you hit the locker room for the fifth change of clothes in four hours, you weren't even a person anymore—just a vessel for cheap coffee and adrenaline.

​You were pulling a fresh navy scrub top over your white long-sleeve, the fabric still smelling like industrial laundry detergent, when a resident skidded into your field of vision. He looked like he was about to burst into tears or an aneurysm.

​"Everything okay?" you asked, your voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel.

​"No," he choked out, already sprinting back toward the hallway.

​You didn't even hesitate. You followed, the muscle memory of twenty years kicking in. But when you rounded the corner into Room 12, you stopped dead.

​Standing on the center of the bed was a woman who couldn't have been more than five-foot-two, looking like a tiny, naked gladiator. She’d ripped her IV out—blood was blooming in a small trail down her arm— and she was wielding the metal IV pole like a trident in one hand and a heavy steel bedpan like a shield in the other.

​"Honestly? That’s actually impressive," you whispered.

​"I’d give her an eight for form, but a two for the wardrobe choice," a low, familiar voice rumbled behind you. You didn't have to look to know Jack was standing right at your shoulder, his presence a grounded heat against the chaos.

​Security was already being paged, but you knew how that ended—takedowns, bruised ribs, and more paperwork than you had the soul left to finish. You looked at the girl; she was terrified, her eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal. Physical force was just going to make her swing that pole harder.

​"Wait," you murmured to Jack and the resident. "Let me try."

​You took a slow, deliberate breath, centering yourself. You stepped into the room with your hands held up, palms open, the universal sign for I’m unarmed and I’m tired.

​"Hey, sweetheart," you said, your voice dropping into that low, melodic 'nurse-hush' that had calmed a thousand panicked patients. "Why don't we put the pole down? It looks heavy, and I’d hate for you to pull a muscle."

​She didn't drop it. Instead, she hissed and swung the pole in a wide, whistling arc. You ducked instinctively, then straightened back up, unfazed. You glanced back at Jack and the resident with a look of pure, exhausted disbelief. She was barely a hundred-and-thirty pounds soaking wet, yet she was holding that metal pole like she was Ares on the battlefield.

​You reached the foot of the bed, moving into her personal space. The girl’s eyes narrowed, and with a grunt of effort, she launched the bedpan at your head.

​Your reflexes, honed by two decades of dodging flying medical equipment and erratic toddlers, kicked in. You brought your hand up just enough to deflect the trajectory. The heavy metal dish whistled past your ear, narrowly missing your shoulder before clattering loudly onto the linoleum behind you.

​Out in the hallway, a small gallery of residents and nurses had gathered, watching the standoff through the glass.

​"Ten dollars says he handles it before security even clears the double doors," Dana muttered, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe next to Jack.

​Jack didn't take his eyes off you. He watched the way you didn't flinch, the way your shoulders stayed relaxed even as the girl raised the IV pole for another strike. A ghost of a smile touched his lips—a mix of professional respect and something a lot more personal.

​"Make it twenty," Jack replied, his voice a low vibration. "I’ve learned never to bet against him when he’s had this bad of a day. He’s got nothing left to lose.”

You didn't blame the girl. In the Pitt, patients didn't act out of malice; they acted out of psychosis, withdrawal, or sheer, blind terror. To her, you weren't a nurse trying to help; you were a giant in navy blue scrubs coming to hurt her.

​"Sweetheart, just give me the pole," you said again, your voice a low, rhythmic anchor.

​She didn't listen. She lunged, using the IV pole like a bayonet to keep you at bay. You parried it with your forearm, the cold metal bruising your skin, but you didn't retreat. You knew the dance. You moved laterally, trying to find an opening, but your boots felt like lead and the caffeine jitters were making your timing a fraction of a second off.

​You realized then that there was no easy way to do this. You were going to have to take a hit to save her from herself.

​You lunged.

​The world turned into a blurred montage of motion. You didn't register the metal pole swinging in a tight, desperate arc. You didn't register the sickening crack as the weighted base of the pole collided directly with the bridge of your nose.

​What you registered was the girl. You wrapped your arms around her waist, pinning her arms to her sides as gently as possible while she shrieked, a wild, primal sound. You had her—until she threw her weight backward, her skull slamming into your already shattered face with the force of a hammer.

​The world blossomed into white light. Your knees hit the linoleum, then your back hit the wall.

​Suddenly, the room was full of blue and green scrubs. Dana was there, her face a mask of grim determination as she helped the residents guide the girl back onto the mattress. Soft restraints were clicked into place; a sedative was prepped. The chaos was being contained, but you were stuck in the static.

​You blinked rapidly, trying to clear the red haze from your vision. Warmth was blooming over your lips, copper-tasting and thick. You tried to stand, but a pair of hands—firm, steady, and unmistakably Jack’s—clamped onto your shoulders, pushing you back down against the wall.

​"Don't you dare try to stand up by yourself, " Jack growled. It wasn't his cocky voice. It was his authoritative voice.

​He didn't wait for an answer. He hooked his arms under yours and hoisted you up, half-carrying you out of the room. He navigated the sea of staring interns, depositing you into a swivel chair at the nurses' station.

​"Ice. Now," Jack snapped, gesturing vaguely at the air. Dana was already moving, tearing open a chemical cold pack before he’d even finished the sentence.

​Jack didn't step back. He stepped in, his knees brushing against yours as he boxed you into the chair. He snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves, the sound like a gunshot in the sudden quiet of the station.

​"Look at me," he commanded.

​You tilted your head back, your breath hitching. His hands were incredibly gentle as they moved over your face, ghosting over your cheekbones before landing on the bridge of your nose.

​"Follow my light," he muttered, clicking on a penlight. He checked your pupils for a concussion, his brow furrowed in a way that made the lines around his eyes deepen. Then, he began the physical exam. He slid his fingers down the sides of your nose, feeling for crepitus—that crunching sensation of bone fragments moving—and checking for any septal hematoma.

​You hissed, your eyes watering involuntarily as his thumb applied the slightest pressure to the bridge.

​"Using this as an excuse to get your hands on me, Dr. Abbot?" you croaked, a wet, bloody chuckle bubbling in your throat. "Very professional. I should report you to HR."

​Jack didn't laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched, a tiny crack in his armor of professional concern. "Believe me, I can think of much better ways to get my hands on you that don't involve me covered in your blood."

​He took the ice pack from Dana, wrapping it in a paper towel before pressing it firmly but carefully against your face. "Any pain?"

​You rolled your eyes, which only made your head throb harder. "Yes, Doctor. It’s a tragedy. I fear I might be at death's door. Tell my landlord he can keep the deposit, but not my cat."

​Jack finally let out a short, breathy laugh, his eyes locking onto yours. The worry was still there, dark and heavy, but the spark was back. He leaned in a fraction closer, his voice dropping so low that even Dana, standing three feet away, couldn't hear him.

​"You’re a goddamn idiot," he whispered, his thumb lingering on your jawline just a second too long to be strictly clinical. "But you’re the best nurse in this building. Now sit still for a moment.”

The sterile quiet of the exam room was a stark contrast to the rattling chaos of the hallway. Jack didn't let go of your arm until you were perched on the edge of the exam table, the paper crinkling under your weight. He flicked the Occupied slider on the door and turned on the overhead procedure light, the sudden brightness making your head throb in time with your heartbeat.

​He began gathering supplies—lidocaine with epinephrine, a nasal speculum, and a tray of sterile gauze—his movements clipped and efficient. The silence between you was thick, charged with the kind of tension that usually preceded a storm or a confession. The adrenaline was finally bottoming out, leaving you with a raw, pulsing ache that felt like a railroad spike was being driven into your skull.

​You needed a distraction. Anything to stop you from focusing on the copper taste in your mouth and the way your vision was tunneling.

​"Still thinking about it?" you rasped, the words sounding thick because of the swelling.

​Jack paused, a sterile syringe halfway to a vial. He didn't look up. "Thinking about what?"

​"Those 'other ways' to get your hands on me," you said, leaning back slightly, though the movement made you wince. "The ones that don't involve a crime scene on my face."

​Jack’s jaw set. He finally looked at you, his eyes dark and unreadable under the harsh LED light. He didn't smile this time. "I shouldn't have said that," he muttered, his voice dropping into a rougher territory. "It wasn't professional. Not there. Not with you bleeding out in the middle of a triage station."

​He stepped toward you, the smell of his cologne—faintly masked by the sharp scent of isopropyl alcohol—filling your senses. He tilted your chin up with a gloved hand, his touch surprisingly warm despite the latex.

​"Mmm," you hummed, closing your eyes for a second to steady yourself. "I didn't say I minded, Jack. I just said you probably shouldn't broadcast it to a room full of nosy nurses. They talk enough as it is."

​"Let them talk," he breathed, but he was already moving into doctor-mode.

​He soaked a long strip of gauze in a vasoconstrictor to shrink the membranes and stop the bleeding. "This is going to be unpleasant," he warned, his voice softening. "I need to pack the nose to see if there’s a septal hematoma. If there's a blood clot pressing on the cartilage, I have to drain it tonight, or you’ll lose the bridge."

​He moved with a surgical precision that was almost hypnotic. He inserted the speculum, widening the nostril just enough to peer inside. You gripped the edges of the exam table, your knuckles turning white as he worked.

​"Stay with me," he murmured, noticing your shallow breathing. "Talk to me. Tell me about that Spanish elective you took. Anything."

​"Took it….because the professor was pretty," you managed to choke out, a strained attempt at a joke. "Turned out...I was better at the verbs than I was at the flirting."

​Jack let out a low, genuine huff of a laugh. He swapped the speculum for a small needle, preparing to numb the area. "Hard to believe. You seem to have the flirting part down to a science now."

​He paused, the needle hovering just inches from your face. His eyes searched yours, the professional mask slipping just enough to show the man underneath—the one who had been watching you across trauma bays for months, the one who was currently vibrating with a protective streak he couldn't quite hide.

​"If this nose is broken," Jack said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble, "I’m the one who gets to set it. And once I’m done being your doctor for the night..." He trailed off, his thumb grazing your cheekbone one last time before the procedure began. "I think I’d like to try being that distraction you’re looking for. Somewhere without an audience.”

Jack had the elevator tool ready—a thin, flat metal instrument designed to lift the nasal bone back into its rightful place.

​"I’ve numbed you as much as I can," Jack said, his voice dropping into a low, steady frequency. "But you know how this goes. The lidocaine won’t touch the pressure. It’s going to be one sharp movement, a hell of a lot of crunching, and then it's over."

​You gripped the edges of the exam table, your knuckles turning a ghostly white. You’d seen this done a hundred times to screaming patients, but being on the receiving end was a different beast entirely. Your breath was coming in short, jagged hitches.

​"Look at me," Jack commanded. It wasn't a request.

​You forced your eyes open, locking onto his. He wasn't looking at you like a case file anymore. He was looking at you with a fierce, quiet intensity that seemed to pin you in place. He stepped between your knees, closing the distance until his chest was inches from your own, creating a private world within the four walls of the exam room.

​"Hand," he muttered, reaching out.

​You let go of the table and placed your hand in his. His grip was immense—warm, calloused, and grounding. He squeezed, a silent promise that he wasn't going to let you drift.

​"On three," Jack whispered. "One...two..."

​He didn't wait for three. He moved on two-and-a-half, a seasoned doctor’s trick to keep the patient from tensing at the last second.

​The sound was sickening—a wet, crystalline snap-crunch that vibrated through your facial bones and echoed in your inner ear. You let out a choked, guttural sound, your body instinctively trying to recoil, but Jack was a rock. He held your head steady with one hand while his other hand crushed yours, absorbing the shock of your pain.

​For a second, the world went gray at the edges. Your eyes flooded with involuntary tears, blurring Jack’s face into a smudge of blue scrubs and dark hair.

​"Easy, easy," Jack murmured, his voice right against your ear now. He’d dropped the tool and moved both hands to your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a tenderness that felt almost illegal in a hospital. "Breathe for me. It’s back in place. You’re okay. Stay with me."

​You slumped forward, your forehead coming to rest against his shoulder. You were shaking—a delayed reaction to the trauma and the exhaustion—and you didn't even care that you were getting blood on his clean shirt. You just needed the contact.

​Jack didn't pull away. He draped his arms around you, holding you in a loose, protective embrace that shielded you from the rest of the world. He pressed his face into the side of your head, his breath warm against your hair.

​"That's it," he whispered, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the base of your skull. "Just breathe. I've got you."

​The silence that followed wasn't the awkward silence of two coworkers; it was the heavy, loaded silence of two people who had finally stopped pretending they didn't care. You could hear the steady thrum of his heart against your ear, a rhythm that was far more effective than any sedative Dana could have brought.

​After a long minute, you pulled back just an inch, looking up at him through watery, bloodshot eyes. "You cheated," you croaked, a weak, lopsided smile touching your swollen lips. "You went on two."

​Jack wiped a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb, his gaze dropping to your mouth before snapping back to your eyes. "I’m a doctor. I’m allowed to lie if it’s for your own good."

The salt air of Oceanside usually felt like home, but tonight it felt heavy, sticking to your skin like a layer of grease. You’d spent twenty years acclimating to the way Janine "Smurf" Cody operated. You were a fixture in the house, a shadow in the background of their heists, and more specifically, the only person who could look Andrew in the eye without flinching.

​You knew him—not just the him the world saw, but the Andrew who had been your shadow since you were both kids stealing bikes. You knew the twitch in his jaw when he was off his meds, the eerie, statue-like stillness when he was on them, and the way the family used him as a scapegoat for every job gone south. He was a man built of jagged edges and "wrong ways," but you’d long since stopped trying to smooth him out. You just lived among the ruins.

​The vibration of your phone on the nightstand cracked the silence at 1:14 AM.

​Smurf: Come over. I need you.

​You didn’t text back. You didn't ask "what" or "why." That wasn't the protocol. You rolled out of bed, pulling on a pair of gray sweatpants and a worn hoodie, skipping the shirt. The drive to the Cody house was a blur of empty streets and yellow-blinking traffic lights.

​When you let yourself in, the house was too quiet. The pool lights outside cast shimmering, watery blue shadows across the living room walls. You didn't hesitate; you walked straight into the den.

​Andrew was there. He was sitting in the armchair, back ramrod straight, feet planted flat on the floor. He wasn't watching the TV—he was staring through it, his eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance that didn't exist.

​A soft weight pressed against your back. Smurf. She didn't say a word at first, just slid her hand across your bare skin, her fingers cool and possessive. She rested her chin on your shoulder, the scent of her expensive floral perfume cutting through the smell of stale air.

​“Hope I didn't wake you, honey,” she hummed, her voice a low, melodic purr. “I just want him to be safe. He’s...agitated.”

​Safe. The word felt like a joke. Was anyone ever safe under this roof? Especially him. You looked at the back of Andrew’s head, at the tension in his shoulders that looked like it might snap the bone.

​“I’ve got him, Smurf,” you whispered, your voice raspy from sleep. “Go to bed.”

​You felt her lips brush your cheek—a maternal gesture that always felt a little too intimate, a little too loaded. “You’re a good boy,” she murmured before retreating into the shadows of the hallway.

​You stood there for a long moment, the silence stretching between you and the man in the chair. You hadn't even known he was out of prison. No one had called. No one had warned you. And Andrew...Andrew would never have reached out. He didn't know how to ask for things.

​You rounded the corner and stood directly in his line of sight. He didn't blink. Up close, he looked frayed. His hair was buzzed short, his skin sallow under the dim light.

​“Pope,” you said, your voice steady but soft.

​His eyes tracked up slowly, focusing on you. It wasn't a normal look; it was that intense, hyper-analytical stare he used when he was trying to decide if someone was a threat or a ghost. He didn't smile. He didn't say hello. He just looked at you like you were the only solid thing in a room full of smoke.

​“You’re late,” he finally rasped. His voice sounded like it had been dragged over gravel.

​“I didn’t know you were home,” you replied, holding his gaze. You reached out, not touching him yet—you knew better than to surprise him—but leaving your hand open in the space between you. “Come on. Let’s go. You need to sleep, and I’m not dragging you down the hall.”

​A flicker of something—recognition, maybe, or just old habit—crossed his face. You never used "please" with the others, but with him, it was implied in the way you stayed.

​Andrew stood up, his movements stiff and deliberate. He didn't say where he’d been or why he was sitting in the dark. He just followed you, his shadow falling over yours, as silent and loyal as a stray dog.

The cool night air hit you as you pushed through the heavy front door, but the tension didn't dissipate; it just shifted. You stopped by your car, the keys jingling softly in your hand. Behind you, the gravel crunched under Andrew’s boots before he came to a dead halt. He stood a few feet away, silhouetted against the glow of the pool lights, looking like a ghost haunting his own life.

​He didn't move. He just watched you with that unblinking, predatory focus.

​“Is she pawning me off on you?” he asked. His voice was thin, stripped of any inflection, but there was a jagged edge of resentment underneath—resentment for Smurf, or maybe for his own need to be looked after.

​You didn't flinch. You just stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until you could feel the radiated heat from his body. You leaned back against the hood of the car, the cold metal biting through your sweatpants.

​“No,” you said softly. A smile tugged at your mouth—the rare, genuine kind that was reserved strictly for him, never for Smurf or the boys. “I missed you, Andrew. Truth is, I’d rather have you with me than be alone tonight.”

​You didn’t wait for him to process the honesty. You knew he didn't always know what to do with someone being real with him. You just climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. A moment later, the passenger door opened, and the car dipped under his weight.

​The drive back to your apartment was a study in silence. It wasn't the awkward silence of strangers, but the heavy, comfortable weight of two people who had run out of things to say ten years ago. You kept one hand on the wheel and the other on the center console, inches from his. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched the streetlights rhythmically strobe across his face. He was staring out the side window, his reflection ghostly in the glass, his fingers twitching rhythmically against his thigh—a nervous tic you recognized from a thousand nights just like this one.

​In this car, the world felt smaller. Safer. You thought about the nights before he went away—the nights where silence turned into something physical. The way you’d explored every inch of his body, the way he would cling to you like a drowning man in the dark, desperate for a touch that didn't come with strings attached.

​You pulled into your spot at the apartment complex and cut the lights. The engine ticked as it cooled, the only sound in the cramped cabin. You didn't get out. You just sat there in the dark, letting the quiet settle around you for a long few minutes, giving him time to ground himself in this new reality.

​When you finally moved, he followed. He trailed behind you up the stairs like a shadow, his presence heavy and constant. Inside, the apartment was dim, smelling of woodsmoke and your laundry detergent.

​You didn't put on a show; you just moved with the practiced ease of being home. You reached for the hem of your hoodie and pulled it over your head, tossing it onto the armchair. The sweatpants followed, then your briefs, leaving you standing there in the pale moonlight filtering through the blinds.

​Andrew was standing by the door, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He was looking at you—really looking—his eyes tracing the lines of your back and the familiar curve of your shoulders.

​“You still sleep naked?” he asked. It wasn't a judgment; it was an observation, his voice sounding low and rough in the small room.

​You turned slightly, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips as you headed toward the bed. “You used to like it,” you responded quietly.

​The air in the room seemed to thicken. You saw his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed, his gaze lingering on you with a hunger he’d spent a lifetime trying to starve out.

You lay in the dark, the mattress feeling vast and cold, staring at the rectangle of light the hallway cast across your bedroom floor. You knew he wouldn't leave—he had nowhere else to go that wasn't under Janine’s thumb—but that didn't mean he would come to bed.

​Every time you two crossed this line as adults, the shadow of Smurf lingered in the corner of the room. You wondered if he was still paralyzed by the guilt she’d spent decades sewing into his skin. Was he scared to be this close to someone who actually saw him? Or was he just waiting for her permission, even when she wasn't there?

​You let out a long, weary sigh and reached over, clicking the bedside lamp off. The room plunged into a hazy, blue-toned darkness. You rolled onto your side, turning your back to the door, trying to let sleep take you.

​But sleep was impossible with him pacing.

​For hours, you tracked his movements by the floorboards' groans. He was a shark in a small tank. You heard the kitchen window slide open—the sharp click of the lock, the rush of the night air, then the heavy thud as he closed it again, checking it twice, maybe three times. You heard him sink into the couch, the springs complaining under his weight, only for him to stand up thirty seconds later. Then came the pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, his footsteps stopping just short of your door before retreating.

​Finally, the floor creaked right at the threshold. He was there, hovering like a specter.

​You pushed yourself up, the sheets pooling at your waist as you leaned back against the headboard. The moonlight caught the sharp line of your shoulders, but you didn't look at him directly. You didn't want to spook him.

​“Come to bed, Andrew,” you whispered. Your voice was soft, an invitation rather than a command.

​He didn't move. He stood in the center of the doorway, his silhouette rigid, his hands slightly curled as if he were waiting for an attack. Even in the dark, you could feel the intensity of his stare—that wide-eyed, unblinking look that made other men run.

​“I can’t sleep,” he rasped. It wasn't just a statement; it sounded like a confession of a crime.

​“I know,” you said.

​“I’m fine right here,” he added quickly, his head giving a small, jerky nod. “I’m good. I’ll stay out there.”

​You looked at him then, really looked at him. He looked like he was vibrating with a nervous energy he couldn't discharge. You didn't argue. You knew that pushing Andrew only made him retreat further into his own head.

​“Fine,” you murmured. You laid back down, pulling the duvet up and scooting to the very edge of the mattress, leaving a wide, empty expanse of bed behind you. You turned your back to him, showing him you weren't a threat—that you weren't going to watch him or judge him.

​The silence stretched for another five minutes. You listened to his ragged breathing, the sound of a man who had forgotten how to just be.

​Then, finally, the floor groaned.

​He didn't make a sound as he approached. The bed dipped—slowly, cautiously—under his weight. He didn't get under the covers at first; he just sat on the edge of the mattress, his back to yours. You could feel the heat radiating off him in waves. Slowly, he moved, laying down on top of the blankets, still fully dressed, his body as stiff as a board.

​He was close enough that you could hear the frantic rhythm of his heart slowing down, syncing with yours. He didn't touch you, but the fact that he was there, in the dark, within arm's reach, was something.

You didn’t move, didn't even adjust the pillow, knowing that any sudden gesture might send him bolting back to the living room.

​Behind you, the rustle of fabric began. It was slow, hesitant. You heard the heavy thud of his boots hitting the carpet, followed by the soft metallic clink of his belt buckle. He was stripping away the armor he wore for the rest of the world, piece by piece. Finally, the bed shifted again. This time, he didn't stay on top of the blankets. He slid beneath them, the sudden warmth of his body cutting through the chill of the sheets.

​He stayed on his side of the mattress for a long time, as still as a statue. Then, slowly, you felt it—the lightest, most tentative ghost of a touch. His fingertips brushed against the skin of your shoulder, barely a whisper of contact, as if he were checking to see if you’d burn him or push him away. He was asking permission in the only way he knew how.

​You didn't say a word. You simply turned over, the movement fluid and welcoming. In the pale shadows, his eyes were wide, darting across your face, looking for any sign of rejection. When he found none, the tension seemed to drain out of him all at once.

​He moved in, curling his large frame into your side. He tucked his head into the crook of your neck, his forehead resting against your chest. He was heavy, solid, and shaking just a little. You reached up, your fingers tracing the jagged line of his jaw before moving to the nape of his neck. You followed the shape of his ear, your thumb disappearing into the short, coarse hair at the back of his head.

​For a long time, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the distant roll of the Pacific.

​“You’re the only one,” he whispered. The words were so low you almost missed them, muffled against your skin. “Everyone else...they look at me and they’re looking for the monster. They’re waiting for me to break something. But you aren’t scared.”

​It wasn't a boast; it was a realization that clearly terrified him. To be known was, to Andrew, the most dangerous thing in the world.

​You shifted just enough to press a firm, lingering kiss to the top of his head. The scent of him—soap, cigarettes, and the lingering metallic tang of the Cody house—filled your senses.

​“There’s nothing to be scared of, Andrew,” you murmured into his hair. “Not here.”

​Your body ached: muscles tense, bruised, bleeding, your eye swollen shut. The sticky, drying sensation of blood against the cheap fabric of your suit was a nauseating reminder of the past hour, but the ache wasn't what was on your mind.

​Blonde Blazer had lied to you.

​You had suspected it the moment she called you—of all possible heroes—to go on a dispatch. With her, nothing was ever simple. She was a complexity you perpetually resented, a calculated mess wrapped in blinding blue fabric. You had never really liked her, and while you wouldn't say that to anyone, she rubbed you the wrong way. Then again, who hadn't besides Roy and Chase? Those two were the only things keeping you from quitting this entire, disastrous operation.

​You stepped through the reinforced glass doors of the Dispatch building. The central room was a blindingly bright expanse of monitors and ringing phones, the hurried tapping of keyboards a furious, constant sound that grated on your already frayed nerves. You ignored the startled, whispered looks, ignored the sharp, electric sting in your cheek from the blow you hadn't anticipated, and ignored the shallow, burning sting in your lungs from pushing your powers past their limit.

​“Where is she?” You grumbled, the sound rough and low in your throat. You planted your feet near the main desk, your glare settling on one of the dispatch operators.

​The operator, a young woman with a headset askew, visibly flinched. She pointed toward the main conference room with a shaking finger, unable to meet your gaze.

You turn your head—a sharp jolt that sends a wave of nausea through your skull—and lock eyes with Chase.

​He’s leaning against the doorframe of an adjacent office, arms crossed, his stance casually rigid. He doesn’t need to ask what happened. The jagged cut on your cheek, the purple-black swelling around your eye, the way you plant your feet like a wounded, caged animal—he knows. He knows you are as stubborn as they come; he knows whatever he says won't matter, but he tries anyway. That’s just Chase.

​The harsh, fluorescent light of the Dispatch center—the one you had ignored seconds ago—now seems to drill into the intact retina of your good eye. Each ringing phone and furious tap of a keyboard is a jackhammer against your already frayed nerves.

​"Planning on starting a fight here, in your condition?" he hums, his voice low enough to be lost in the building's cacophony, but clear enough for you. There's a sliver of genuine concern in his dark gaze, which you choose to ignore.

​You stop abruptly just beside him, the cheap, blood-soaked fabric of your suit sticking uncomfortably to your skin. Your hand rises automatically to wipe blood from the cut on your cheek—only succeeding in smearing the sticky, drying residue further into your skin. "You gonna try and stop me?" you scoff, the word catching on the rough rasp in your throat. You lean closer, dropping your voice to a low snarl, "Because that usually works out well for you."

​He sighs, a sound of profound, weary patience. He pushes off the frame, taking a protective half-step toward you, but doesn't touch you. "She's got company," Chase mutters, looking past you toward the thick, mahogany conference room door. "Try not to make him a casualty."

​The air catches in your lungs. Company. The last thing you need.

​A spike of ice-cold dread mixes with the hot, burning rage already simmering beneath your skin. The memory of your last argument with Blazer—the one that started over a similar situation —is instantly vivid: the sudden, stunning force of her fist to your face, the sound of your head hitting the wall, and Roy practically peeling you off the concrete like a discarded decal.

​Did you deserve it? Yeah, you're known for your short temper. You instigated it, just like you’re instigating this. But after the brutal, exhausting, pointless dispatch you just had, where you pushed your powers past the point of exhaustion, you'd prefer not to leave another imprint on the wall. Not today. You need answers, not another concussion.

​You take a shuddering breath, tasting the dust of the Dispatch center and the metallic tang of your own blood. You settle your suit, adjusting the collar with a jerky, sudden motion. You meet Chase's eyes one last time, a challenge swimming in yours. He only shakes his head, an acknowledgement of your impending recklessness.

​You turn your back on him, moving purposefully toward the conference room.

You move purposefully toward the conference room. You don't bother knocking. The door is already ajar, a crack of light spilling into the hallway.

​"Take your clothes off."

​Blonde Blazer's voice is sharp and completely devoid of emotion, followed by the heavy, dull thud of something being set down hard on the conference table.

​You pause for a split second, a wave of weariness hitting you. You grumble the word "Seriously" under your breath, hoping desperately that you weren't about to walk in on some desperate, half-naked man trying to earn Blazer's attention despite her being involved with Phanomaman. This office melodrama is the last thing you need.

​You shove the door the rest of the way open, stepping inside. "Am I interrupting?"

​The reinforced oak door slams shut behind you with a deafening BANG, a sound that silences the distant office noise and makes the air in the room vibrate. You ignore the immediate, throbbing protest from the bruises ringing your ribs.

​Blazer turns slowly to face you. She’s wearing her signature blinding yellow blazer—not a hair out of place, not a smudge of dirt on her pristine white trousers. She’s tall, and even standing casually, she seems to slightly tower over the man seated behind her. She crosses her arms, her jaw tightening the moment her eyes land on your bloodied face.

​"I'm in the middle of something," she says, her tone crisp and impatient, like you're an annoying telemarketer.

​You barely glance at the man she's with—hero, already peaking from around her, eyes directed at you. You’re focused entirely on the calculating mess in the yellow jacket.

​"I couldn't care less whose dick you're about to fondle," you snarl, taking three deliberate steps toward the table. Your voice is raw, fueled by pain and betrayal. "But I'm not leaving this room until you explain why you put me in danger yet again."

​Blazer's eyes narrow, but she doesn't flinch. "I followed protocol. It wasn't my fault you failed to properly manage the variable."

​"Protocol?" You laugh, a harsh, humorless sound that scrapes against your throat. "You called me because you knew I'd be reckless enough to do the dirty work. You sent me on a dispatch against a known-level four threat and gave me intel that was two hours old! You lied to me!"

​You lean your hands on the table, your knuckles white, the movement bringing you eye-level with her. Your good eye blazes. "Tell me you didn't know that building was rigged. Tell me I wasn't just bait.”

​Blazer rolls her eyes—a small, theatrical gesture that communicates her utter boredom with your suffering. She straightens, taking a cool, deliberate step that brings her nose-to-nose with you across the polished conference table.

​"Please. If you were truly bait, darling, you wouldn't have survived. You'd be splattered across that floor right now," she says, her voice dropping to a low, silken purr that drips with condescension. She moves fluidly around the table's corner until she is standing directly in front of you. Her eyes narrow as she stares down, appraising the damage to your face like a disappointing report card.

​You stand perfectly straight despite the screaming protest from the bruised and possibly cracked ribs beneath your sticky suit. Every muscle is tense, every nerve ending is humming with a painful cocktail of adrenaline and exhaustion, but you will not back down. Not now. Not even if it means another fist to the face and another broken nose.

​"The intel was old because you took too long to secure the objective. Your lack of situational awareness is what put you in danger, not my planning," Blazer continues, the words clipped and precise. "You got reckless. You always get reckless. You push too hard, you act on impulse, and then you blame the person who provided you with the necessary resources." She pauses, a hint of patronizing pity in her gaze. "Perhaps if you learned to control your temper and rely less on brute force, your results wouldn't be so messy."

​The pure audacity of the dismissal strikes you harder than any physical blow. Before you can launch the scathing rebuttal forming in your mind—a retort about her cold detachment and manipulative tendencies—her hand flashes out.

​Her fingers clamp down on your shoulder—not a gentle touch, but a hard, firm shove. It sends a jolt of white-hot pain through your torso and forces you to stagger two full steps to the side, breaking your desperate stance.

​Blazer doesn't spare you a second glance. She’s already moving toward the door, her composure flawless. She yanks the conference room door open, the sound less violent this time, a signal of her control.

​She pauses with her hand on the frame, looking over her shoulder at the nervous scientist—the one she had just ordered to strip—who is still clutching his clipboard.

​"Robert," Blazer calls, her voice back to that smooth, professional register. "I'll see you in a few. We need to continue our discussion on your integration here and, of course, the absolute necessity of keeping your identity as Mecha Man a secret."

​She walks out, leaving the door slightly ajar. You are left standing in a stinging silence, staring past the man and at the thud she had made earlier: a simple duffle bag.

Blazer's scent—crisp linen and something faintly metallic, like ozone—lingers in the air, a final, infuriating insult.

​You push away from the door, dragging your feet, and collapse back against the edge of the large conference table, letting out a low, involuntary groan. The sound is muffled, escaping through clenched teeth. Your gaze settles on the industrial carpet, but you don't really see the fibers. You only see the pattern of your own recurring failures.

​You always had your own way of doing things—a stubborn, chaotic, effective kind of genius. But sometimes, when Blazer orchestrated a mess like this, you suspected it was exactly why she did it. Like it was her twisted, calculated way of telling you that your way of life was nothing but a colossal fuck-up waiting to happen.

​"I'm sure it wasn't your fault."

​The voice is a quiet, mumbled sound, pulling you out of your internal pit of self-loathing. You glance up. Robert—the same guy that was behind Blazer and secret Mecha Man—is now standing a few feet from you, leaning gently against the table, trying to appear non-threatening.

​You wanted to laugh. This guy didn't know you. He had just witnessed you nearly tear Blazer’s head off. And hell, according to every major news outlet and official Hero Registry, he was Mecha Man, one of the most respected heroes the country had ever known, and one who was supposedly dead—killed in action six months ago.

​"You expect me to believe the words of a dead man?" you scoff, the exhaustion making your voice flat and dull. You lift a hand to touch the swelling above your eye, not caring that you’re likely leaving a bloody handprint.

​Robert pats himself down, a humorous motiom—starting at his thighs, then working his way up his stomach and chest. He shruggs the thin, brown jacket off his shoulders, then immediately puts it back on. The entire time, he holds your gaze, a strange mix of sincerity and weary resignation in his eyes. He reaches up slowly and takes off his mask, setting it on the table.

​"Look, I get it," he says, with a shrug. "But one of two things is true right now." He spreads his hands. "Either I’m alive and well, talking to a very bruised hero." He gestures to you. "Or you have the freaky ability to see and talk to dead people."

​He waits for a response, his expression earnest.

​You couldn't help the genuine smile forming on your face. It felt alien—a sharp, involuntary stretch of damaged skin—but it was there. It was the first honest reaction of amusement you’d had all day, a pure spike of relief cutting through the adrenaline and resentment.

​Robert noticed the sudden change instantly. He noticed the way the smile pulled the jagged cut on your cheek, and how it gave him a glimpse of your teeth, stained a dark, unsettling crimson. Undoubtedly, blood was still pooling into your mouth from the cut on your face, mixing with the dust and dry taste of the Dispatch center.

​"No wonder she likes you," you hummed, the sound low and rough. The "she" was, of course, Blazer. It was a veiled compliment, the highest praise you’d ever dole out. "Charming." You sighed, the weariness of the day finally catching up to you, dragging the smile away.

​Your eyes, however, stayed on him. You noticed the details you'd missed when Blazer was monopolizing the room: the small, crescent-shaped chunk missing from the upper curve of his left ear, healed long ago but an obvious scar; the scruff of stubbled hair that covered his jawline, giving him a weary, unkempt look that belied his 'hero' status.

​"You think I'm charming?" He jabbed, a bright, disarming smile replacing his look of earnest resignation. He seemed genuinely pleased, perhaps used to people being more awestruck or, more likely, completely intimidated by the myth of Mecha Man.

​You looked away abruptly, the small, honest moment already too much. Your fingers flexed, curling into the sharp edge of the conference table behind you as you gripped it. "Don't push it."

​Robert's smile softened, turning into something warmer, more knowing. He pushed off the table, the simple action graceful and controlled. He came to stand directly in front of you, close enough that you could smell the faint, clean scent of old soap and something metallic—not ozone, like Blazer, but something sharper, like engine oil.

​"Right," he murmured, his voice dropping slightly. His hand flinched beside him, a slight, involuntary tremor, like he wanted to reach out and touch your face, check the damage. Instead, he forced the hand to his side. "You should probably see a doctor."

​"It'll heal," you murmured, the words barely audible. You felt the characteristic, painful hum beneath your skin.

​Robert cocked an eyebrow, his eyes drifting down your bloodied suit. "So," he chuckled, the sound deep and easy. "You can heal yourself and speak with the dead? You really are something."

​The assumption was enough to snap you out of your self-pity. You reached out, not gently, and smacked his shoulder with the heel of your hand. It was a reflexive, playful shove meant to break the tension. "No," you huffed, a low laugh hiding in the sound. "I can't do either."

​"Then let me help you," Robert met your eyes, the sincerity back, but now mingled with a spark of immediate, protective intent. "Somewhere more private, if you want?" He gestured with a subtle nod toward the conference room door, which Blazer had left slightly ajar as a sign of her utter contempt for your need for secrecy.

​Through the narrow crack, you could just make out the contrasting figures of your two remaining friends. You saw the stark white of Chase's hair—an unmistakable beacon—and beyond him, the sheer, immovable size of Roy, a mountain of muscle standing sentinel. They were most likely there to ensure you didn't, in fact, tear Blonde Blazer's head off, or at least to peel you off the wall for the second time this week. They were a safety net, and you hated needing one.

​You met Robert's gaze. The strange mix of easy charm, quiet authority, and deep scars in his eyes was instantly appealing. He was, much like Chase, a complication you could almost tolerate.

​"Fine," you finally admitted, pushing off the table fully, trying to ignore the painful protest from your ribs. You straightened your suit collar once more.

​You and Robert moved with the practiced, efficient silence of two people who understood the necessity of discretion. You slipped past Chase and Roy—who simply offered twin, weary nods of approval—and quickly found an unused office at the end of the hall. The room was sparsely furnished: a heavy, chipped wooden desk, a precarious-looking old chair, and the pervasive scent of stale coffee. Robert was careful to shut the door and draw the thin, off-white blinds behind you, plunging the small room into shadowed privacy.

​He immediately opened the duffel bag you'd retrieved. It held a neatly folded uniform—the standard, dull-gray, cheap fabric worn by every dispatcher and low-level administrator in the building. Blazer’s insult was clear: even Mecha Man was just another glorified employee now. Robert shrugged off his brown jacket and changed quickly, efficiently, the drab uniform swallowing his heroic physique.

​You, meanwhile, felt a wave of painful, sticky relief as you started to peel off your blood-soaked suit jacket. You grunted softly as you maneuvered your bruised arm out of the sleeve, finally tossing the ruined fabric onto the floor.

​Your back was a sprawling map of trauma—old, pale, puckered scars that testified to past brushes with death, mixing with fresh, livid bruises and gashes from the recent dispatch. Robert watched, quiet and focused. He traced the lines with his eyes, mapping the geography of your history—the faint, deep lines from burns, the heavy, purple pooling of new contusions—as you moved to take off your boots and the bottom half of your suit. You had a deeper-than-expected cut just below the hem of your boxers, staining the fabric dark.

​He let out a low hum, a sound of professional acknowledgment mixed with a hint of concern, slightly nodding to himself while haphazardly grabbing for the old office chair.

​With a grunt, you hopped up onto the solid surface of the old desk, settling sideways to face Robert as he pulled the chair in front of you. You felt exposed, tired, and deeply vulnerable.

​"You were staring," you murmured, folding your arms across your bruised abdomen, a self-conscious gesture. "You're not very subtle."

​Robert finally looked up from the medical kit he’d nabbed, his eyes meeting yours with that same weary sincerity. He set the metal box gently on the desk beside your hip.

​"Yeah. I wasn't trying to be," he said simply, his voice flat but honest. He scooted the chair closer until he was directly between your legs, which were bent at the knee and dangling over the side of the desk.

​Your face felt instantly hot. He was practically a complete stranger, yet he was now nose-deep near your crotch, his attention focused entirely on your injuries. He reached out, his touch tentative but firm, placing one hand on your inner thigh for stability as he carefully opened the metal first-aid box with the other.

​"Just assessing the damage," he explained, his gaze sweeping across the various cuts, scrapes, and massive, angry bruises mapping your abdomen and ribs. "That was one hell of a dispatch. Any internal issues, or is it mostly surface-level?”

You swallowed hard, the rough rasp in your throat returning. "The ribs are just badly bruised, maybe a hairline crack." You shifted slightly on the desk, feeling the accidental, gentle press of his hand against your skin. "I can handle it."

​Robert paused, his gaze lifting immediately from your abdomen to meet your eyes. He wasn't skeptical, but deeply concerned, his expression heavy with knowledge. "Handle it, sure, but heal it? You need better care than an old desk and some iodine," he countered, his voice a low, steady murmur. "That's not just bruising. You're losing more blood than you think, especially from the cut on your leg."

​He pulled out a swab and a small bottle of antiseptic. "We'll start with the easy stuff, then we’ll move up to your face. But listen to me: you need a proper scan for those ribs. We can't let a hairline crack turn into a punctured lung." He dipped the swab, his movements suddenly all business. "This might sting. Keep still for me." He nodded toward the cut on your leg.

​Robert didn't wait for a response; he simply got to work. He started with the cut just above your boxers, the one that had been bleeding steadily. He poured the antiseptic—a burning, sharp cold—directly onto the swab, then pressed it firmly against the wound.

​You let out a low, involuntary hiss, the sound squeezed past your clenched teeth. The pain was immediate and searing, cutting through the dull, throbbing ache that had been your constant companion all day. Your body instinctively jerked, trying to pull away from the sting.

​To steady you, Robert’s hand tightened slightly on your thigh. It was a purely practical action, yet the firm, warm pressure was startlingly intimate. His touch was solid and anchoring, preventing you from squirming off the desk entirely, though it did little to stop the deep, rattling breath you took as the antiseptic bit into the raw tissue.

​"Hold on," he murmured, his voice now lower, focused entirely on the task. His head was bent, giving you a perfect view of the crescent scar on his ear and the concentration etched around his mouth. "Just getting the worst of the grit out. Blazer's intel was two hours old, you said? That building must have been a wreck."

​You let your head roll onto your shoulder, watching the fluorescent office light glint off the polished steel of the medical kit. "Wreck doesn't cover it. It was a trap," you managed, the words still rough. "It wasn't just old intel; it was active misinformation. She knew I'd go in blind."

​Robert finished cleaning the cut on your leg, taping a clean square of gauze over it. He then moved up, his fingers brushing the skin of your abdomen, tracing a large, spiderweb of bruising spreading across your oblique muscle—the likely impact point of a heavy kick or shove. He pressed gently, testing for tender spots.

​You flinched away from the contact, your breath catching. "Careful," you warned, the word a strained whisper.

​"Trying to be," he replied, his eyes finally lifting from your injuries to your face. He saw the sweat beading near your hairline, the tight line of your mouth. "But I need to know where the pain is worst. You're trying to ignore this, and you can't."

​He grabbed a smaller swab and began cleaning a scrape along the ridge of your hip bone. The movements were careful, but they weren't gentle—he was determined to clean them properly. You watched him, trying to reconcile the figure of the legendary Mecha Man with this grounded, weary man applying antiseptic and worrying about your ribs.

​"Why are you doing this?" you asked, the question escaping on an exhale of pain. "You don't know me. You’re Mecha Man—you should be debriefing with the Director, not patching up some short-tempered idiot Blazer used as bait."

​He paused, holding the swab just above a particularly nasty graze near your belt line. His eyes were direct, unblinking. "Maybe I know what it feels like to be an idiot used as bait." He gave a slight, humorless shake of his head. "And I was debriefing. I got the full Blazer treatment: ice-cold, all protocol, no empathy. I prefer patching up short-tempered idiots. It's more honest."

​He finished the graze and started on the bruising along your ribs, gently massaging in a cooling gel. The pressure was firm and comforting. He then pulled out the alcohol wipe to tackle the smudged blood on your cheek—the dried residue you’d smeared in the main office.

​The wipe was cold. He used meticulous, slow movements, cleaning the dried blood from the jagged cut on your face, then wiping the dark stain from your teeth and lips. His proximity was overwhelming; you could feel his breath, faintly metallic and warm, against your good eye.

​"Okay," he said softly, putting the used wipe aside. "That's the worst of it. Now for the rest of your face. You're going to have a shiner." He looked at the swollen, purple-black skin around your eye, his expression shifting from clinical focus to something that looked suspiciously like pity.

​You refused to meet the pity, instead focusing on the way his thumb was still resting lightly on your thigh. "Don't say it," you muttered, knowing exactly what he was about to say.

​Robert chuckled, a quiet, rich sound that seemed completely out of place in the antiseptic gloom of the office. He didn't remove his hand. "Relax. I was just going to say that these lights really bring out the purple in your eye.”

You let out a long, shuddering sigh, a puff of air that finally felt relaxed, as Robert finished cleaning and patching the last of your wounds. He had just applied a sterile dressing over the cut on your cheek—the one that had caused so much blood to pool. The whole process was over, leaving your skin feeling clean, stinging, and infinitely better than it had an hour ago.

​"Thanks," you murmured, the single word carrying more weight than you intended. You met his gaze, a slight, genuine smile touching your lips. "Glad you enjoy short-tempered idiots."

​He gathered up the used swabs and bandages, tossing them into the metal tin. Then, instead of moving, he leaned back in the chair, his dark eyes staring up at you with an unhurried, knowing quality. His hand remained lightly resting on your thigh—a casual, comforting weight now, not just a practical restraint.

​"I enjoy a lot of things," he said softly, a genuine smile curving his mouth. "And I enjoy more than just patching them up, too."

​You cocked an eyebrow down at him, a reflex that pulled at the stitches (or heavy adhesive) on your face. "Oh yeah? And what exactly else do you enjoy?" you challenged, a playful rasp in your voice, leaning forward slightly on the desk so your faces were only inches apart.

​Robert's smile widened, and he leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, warm murmur that felt like a secret just for you. "I enjoy honesty. I enjoy people who don't hide their fire, even when they're beaten up. And I really enjoy people who don't try to pretend they don't need help."

​He reached up, his movements slow and deliberate, and gently tapped the very center of your chest, right over your heart, then let his hand rest there.

​"You're a mess," he concluded, his gaze serious, but his tone completely affectionate. "A stubborn, painful, complicated mess. And I like complicated."

​You felt your breath catch, the unexpected tenderness of the moment stealing the sarcastic retort you’d been ready to deliver. You wanted to lean down, to close the last few inches of distance, but you held yourself still.

​"Well, you just got done telling me I need a scan and a few days rest," you whispered, trying to sound aloof, but failing entirely.

​"I did," he confirmed. He pulled his hand from your chest, his thumb lightly brushing the clean, taped skin of your collarbone before his hand finally returned to his side. "But I'm a patient man. The world's been waiting six months for me. It can wait another few hours for you."

​He slowly pushed the chair back, breaking the intimate circle, and stood up. He offered you his hand—a clean, strong grip.

​"Let's get you that scan," he said, his voice back to that easy, quiet authority. "Then we can figure out where the best place is for a complicated mess to rest."

​You took his hand, letting him help you slide off the desk and onto your feet. For the first time all day, the pain seemed manageable.

The rain that night didn't wash away the blood; it just diluted it, turning the Alsace mud into a slick, crimson soup. Every breath you took tasted like copper and woodsmoke, a brutal reminder that despite whatever gifts God had seen fit to curse you with, you were still terrifyingly breakable.

If you had just kept your mouth shut. If you had just accepted that you were caught in the gears of a war you never asked to fight. If you had just died with what little dignity a conscript was allowed, it wouldn't be so bad. But the instinct to survive is a filthy, primal thing. It strips away pride until there is nothing left but the screaming in your chest.

Through the ringing in your ears, you heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of combat boots.

He loomed over you like a monument of olive drab and tarnished gold, the eagle emblem on his chest darkened by grease and German blood. Ben. Soldier Boy. America’s golden boy looked down at you with an expression that wasn't even hateful—it was bored. To him, you weren't a person; you were just another piece of foreign debris he had to clear off the board.

Panic, hot and sharp, overtook every fiber of your being. You scrambled backward in the dirt, your hands slipping in the mire.

“Bitte, ich tue alles!” The words spilled past your swollen lips, frantic and broken. “Ich werde euch im Krieg helfen! Bitte…"

Soldier Boy stopped. He tilted his head, his fingers casually hooking into his tactical belt, right near the heavy grip of his combat knife. He let out a short, scoffing laugh—a low, raspy sound that made your stomach drop.

"Help us?" he said, his voice dripping with that smooth, old-school Brooklyn arrogance. He took a slow step forward, the mud groaning under his weight. "What makes you think we want help from some kraut rat who can't even stand up straight? You're out of your depth, sweetheart. The whole damn fatherland is."

How could you prove your worth? How could you make a man like this see you as something other than target practice? Your mind raced, grasping for the only leverage you had left—the secret the German high command had tried to weaponize.

“Ich bin ein Supe!” you gasped out, desperate to bridge the language barrier before he lost interest. “I am… like you! Born with it. They wanted me for a spy. I can disappear—I can make shields. Please! Ich schwöre, ich werde alles tun!”

That stopped him cold.

The casual indifference vanished from his face, replaced by a sharp, calculating stillness. Soldier Boy crouched down, the heavy leather of his boots inches from your face. The stench of stale tobacco, cheap whiskey, and gunpowder wafted off him, suffocatingly thick. He reached out, his gloved fingers clamping around your jaw with enough pressure to make the bone groan. He forced your face up, staring into your eyes with a terrifying intensity.

"A supe, huh?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register. He twisted your chin slightly, inspecting you like a piece of livestock. "Funny. Usually, German science projects have a bit more fight in 'em. You're telling me you were born this way? No serum?"

You could only nod, a pathetic, jerky motion that sent fresh agony through your face.

Soldier Boy let out another laugh, but this one was darker, devoid of any humor. "Well, ain't that something. A naturally grown freak. And here I thought Vought had the monopoly on the special stuff."

He didn't look impressed; he looked annoyed that the world was more complicated than his propaganda reels suggested. His grip tightened for one agonizing second before he shoved your face away, letting you drop back into the dirt. He stood up, wiping his gloved hand on his trousers as if you had left a stain.

"Get up," he barked, turning his back on you as he signaled to the shadows behind him. "Move it, before I decide your little magic trick isn't worth the rations. We're taking him back to the command tent. Let’s see if this bird sings as good as he begs.”

None of it really mattered. You had simply traded one prison for another.

At first, the American command tents weren't much different from the German labs—just different men in different uniforms staring at you like a weapon they hadn't learned how to aim yet. But then, Ben took a liking to you.

It wasn't a kind sort of affection. It was the possessive, careless favor a man shows to a stray dog he’s successfully broken. He liked the way you looked, sure—the contrast of your sharp, European features against the rough canvas of his quarters—but mostly, he liked that "no" wasn't in your vocabulary. You became his shadow, his human shield, and his dirty little secret. When the artillery got too loud or the pressure of being America’s golden boy pressed too hard on his shoulders, he’d drag you into his private quarters. He’d take whatever he wanted from you, leaving you bruised and breathless, and in return, he kept Vought’s white-coats from dissecting you.

"He's a useful little freak," Ben had told the suits, his hand heavy and warning on the back of your neck. "Keeps his mouth shut, does what he's told, and his shields keep the shrapnel off my suit. We’re keeping him."

So you stayed. You let him mold you, use you, and call you his "pretty little kraut." It was entirely one-sided, a twisted transactional nightmare, but you endured it because beneath the degradation was a semblance of safety. As long as you belonged to Soldier Boy, the rest of the world couldn’t touch you.

But safety in Vought’s world is an illusion. When Ben vanished in Nicaragua in '84, your protection went with him. No longer deemed useful, Vought treated you like surplus military hazardous waste. They pumped you full of experimental stabilizing agents—burning cocktails that made your veins feel like dry ice—and put you under. A relic of a war everyone wanted to forget.

Decades later, you woke up to a world that had moved on without you.

Navigating the 21st century was a slow, agonizing rebirth. You forced yourself to shed every remnant of the old country. You practiced in front of mirrors for months until you could perfectly mimic a flawless, generic American drawl. You hid your invisibility and your shields so deep you almost forgot how to use them. You reinvented yourself entirely.

Yet, some habits never die. You still needed an anchor. You still needed someone to tell you where to stand so you wouldn't drown, and that was how you fell into the orbit of Billy Butcher.

A sharp, violent buzzing cut through the dark, heavy silence of your bedroom. You let out a low groan, shifting against the mattress as your hand blindly scrambled across the nightstand. Your fingers wrapped around the sleek metal of the smartphone—a piece of technology that still felt entirely alien to you sometimes.

Swiping the screen blindly, you pressed it to your ear and rolled onto your side. "Yeah? What d'you want?" you murmured, your voice thick with sleep.

"Oi, pretty boy. Get your arse out of bed, I need a favor," a raspy, gravelly voice barked through the speaker.

The familiar, abrasive cadence of Billy Butcher instantly cleared the fog from your brain. You sat up, the bedsheets pooling around your bare waist as you rubbed a hand over your face. "Butcher. It’s three in the morning. Why the hell are you calling me?"

"Because you're the only reliable bastard I've got on the payroll, that's why," Butcher chuckled, a dark, dry sound. "And lose the attitude, yeah? Sounds a bit too much like hard work. Look, I need you at the safehouse. Now."

You sighed, a weary, defeated sound. It was happening again. The same pattern, the same trap. You had traded Ben for Billy, always falling into bed or into line with men who smelled like gunpowder and bad intentions because you simply didn't know how to exist without a master. You couldn't say no. To Butcher, you were a ghost with a useful set of skills and a clean record, and you let him keep using you because it was better than being completely alone in a century you didn't belong to.

"What's this about, Billy? I told you, I'm trying to keep my head down," you said, though you were already swinging your legs out of bed, your feet hitting the cold hardwood floor.

"Let's just say an old mate of yours dropped by. A real blast from the past," Butcher said, his voice dripping with a terrifying, smug satisfaction. "Bit of a family reunion, you might say. Peep your texts, sunshine. Don't keep us waiting."

The line went dead with a sharp click.

A heavy dread settled into the pit of your stomach, turning your blood to ash. Your phone vibrated in your palm, a text notification lighting up the dark room. With trembling fingers, you tapped the screen and opened the attached photo.

It was a blurry, dimly lit surveillance shot inside a dilapidated building. Standing in the center of the frame, looking older, rougher, but unmistakably him, was Ben.

Soldier Boy was alive.

The drive to the safehouse was a blur of streetlights and cold sweat. Your hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles turned white, the ghost of an old war humming in your veins. You hadn't used your real voice or your real name in decades. You had buried the boy from the Alsace mud deep beneath layers of American slang and a quiet, unassuming life.

But as you pulled the car up to the curb outside the derelict brownstone, the past caught up to you in a single heartbeat.

Billy Butcher was standing under the amber glow of a flickering streetlamp, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked as rugged and unbothered as ever, his heavy black trench coat shifting slightly in the night breeze. You killed the engine, but you didn't get out right away. You just stared through the windshield, letting the silence of the car envelop you for a few agonizing seconds. Your heart was a rabbit in a snare.

Finally, you forced your door open and stepped out into the damp night air.

Butcher watched you approach, his lips curling into that sharp, knowing smirk he always gave you. It was the look of a man who knew exactly which strings to pull to make you dance. Neither of you spoke for a moment, the tension thick enough to choke on.

Butcher took one last drag of his cigarette, dropped the butt, and crushed it beneath his boot. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy brass ring of keys.

"Need you to play babysitter, mate," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He tossed the keys. They cut through the air, and your hand flew up automatically, catching them with a dull metal clack.

Before you could even form a question, Butcher walked right past you, giving you a rough pat on the shoulder that felt more like a warning than a gesture of comfort. He headed straight for his own car, leaving you alone on the pavement. You rolled your eyes, a heavy, tired sigh escaping you as you turned toward the heavy wooden door of the safehouse. You unlock it, the hinges groaning in protest as you push it open and step into the dim, musty hallway.

"Back so soon?"

The voice drifted out from the kitchen, low and raspy, carrying the distinct, heavy drawl of mid-century Brooklyn. A voice you had heard in your nightmares for forty years.

Your entire body went rigid. You froze in the doorway, your fingers gripping the brass keys so fiercely the metal bit deep into your palm, drawing pain that barely registered against the shock.

"Was zum Teufel…?" you whispered. The words slipped out before you could stop them, raw and unpolished, your carefully practiced American accent instantly shattering.

A figure stepped out of the shadows of the kitchen, holding a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey. Ben. He looked different—his hair was longer, his face weathered by whatever hell Vought had buried him in—but the posture was exactly the same. The same arrogant, casual stance of a man who owned every room he walked into.

But when Ben’s eyes landed on you, he stopped dead in his tracks. The smug, careless look vanished from his face, replaced by a sudden, jarring stillness. He stared at you, his chest rising and falling as his gaze swept over your face, recognizing the sharp European features he used to hold in his grip.

"You're alive?" Ben breathed.

The words didn't come out as a taunt, or a boast, or even a threat. His voice dropped into a quiet, gravelly register that sounded entirely wrong coming from him. It sounded like... relief. Like he was genuinely, deeply grateful that you were standing there.

The unexpected softness of his tone hit you like a physical blow, sparking a sudden, bitter fire in your chest. You let your shoulders drop, abandoning the American disguise completely. When you spoke, your voice was thick with the harsh, rolling consonants of your native tongue, cold and sharp as winter ice.

"Maybe," you whispered, staring back at him with wide, unblinking eyes. "Or maybe... maybe I am finally dead, Ben. And you are only looking at your past mistakes.”

Ben didn’t move. He just stood there, the whiskey bottle heavy in his hand, looking at you like he’d just unearthed a ghost from the trenches. That arrogant, untouchable shield he always wore around his shoulders cracked, just for a second, letting something raw and horribly human blink out at you.

"Don't talk like that," he said, his voice dropping into that gravelly, low register. He took a slow step forward, the floorboards groaning under his weight, just like the mud used to. "You ain't a mistake. And you sure as hell ain't dead."

"No?" You let out a short, humorless laugh, the sound sharp and grating in the quiet house. You didn't back away this time. Decades on ice and a new century had given you a different kind of spine, even if the fear still pulsed like a phantom limb. "You think because I breathe, I am alive? Vought took me after you disappeared, Ben. They put me in a box. Cold. Dark. For forty years, I was nothing but ice because I had no master left to tell them I was useful."

Ben flinched. It was a minuscule movement—just a tightening of his jaw, a slight twitch in his broad shoulders—but you caught it. The great Soldier Boy, bothered by a ghost.

"I didn't know," he muttered, shaking his head. He took another step, closing the distance until you could smell the familiar, suffocating mix of stale tobacco and cheap liquor pouring off him. He looked down at you, his eyes scanning your face, searching for the boy who used to tremble under his touch. "They told me everyone was gone. I thought... I thought you died in Nicaragua with the rest of 'em."

"And if you knew? What then?" Your German accent bit into the English words, heavy and unforgiving. "Would you save me? Or would you just keep me in your tent like a pretty dog? A shield to stop the bullets?"

Ben’s face darkened, the familiar, volatile heat flashing in his eyes. He set the whiskey bottle down on a nearby table with a loud, deliberate thud. He stepped right into your space, towering over you, testing the old boundaries. He reached up, his large, calloused hand hovering near your face for a fraction of a second before his fingers clamped around the back of your neck.

It wasn't the brutal grip of a captor, but it wasn't gentle either. It was possessive. Demanding.

"I kept you alive," Ben growled, his thumb pressing firmly into the skin just beneath your ear, forcing you to look up into his bloodshot eyes. "Don't you forget that. Those corporate suits wanted to slice you open the day we brought you in, and I told 'em no. I gave you a roof, I gave you food, and I kept you safe. You belonged to me."

"Ja," you whispered, your breath hitching despite yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs in that old, terrifying rhythm. The familiarity of his weight, his scent, his absolute certainty that he owned you, was an intoxicating, terrifying poison. "I belonged to you. Because 'no' was a word that would get me killed."

Ben’s gaze dropped to your lips, then traveled back up to your eyes. The anger in him seemed to simmer down into something heavy, thick, and complicated.

"Well, you're here now," he murmured, his grip softening just a fraction, his thumb tracing a slow, familiar line along your jaw. "And so am I. The rest of 'em... Payback, Vought... they're gonna burn for what they did to us. But you? You're still my pretty boy. Ain't ya?"

The trap was closing again. You could feel it. The keys Butcher had given you were still biting into your palm, a reminder that you were supposed to be the handler here, the babysitter. But looking at Ben, feeling the heat radiating off him in this strange, terrifying new world, you realized some things never changed. You were still the boy in the mud, and he was still the only monster big enough to keep the other monsters away.

"You have not changed at all, Ben," you breathed, your voice a fragile, rolling whisper against his chest.