Vy ilis :)

"You'd think with our curriculum you'd be sick of projects by now but noooo! Here we are with experiment #248!" Your best friend has the tendency to say this exact line each time - albeit with a different subject number for your new and certainly not improved fixer upper.

"He's just a little too close with his mom. Probably that homesickness from being away at college and all. Nothing he can't work on." You always have a justification - or maybe a shovel because you always manage to dig the hole a little deeper under your feet when trying to make sense of your nonsensical taste in men.

"What are you, a manchanic? Pull it together!"

Well, you might not be a manchanic but right now you're in desperate need of a mechanic because your car won't start. Every time you turn the key in the ignition, your engine makes this noise you can only describe as sounds of sorrow - sounds you're about to start echoing back at it because the storm the forecast predicted is closing in.

You're fresh out of tennis practice, still in your gear that is not Armageddon weather friendly with a phone that just fucking died. Not that it would've been of any use - not many people you can call. Most of your friends are in their morning lectures right now. You yourself have one you need to get to in about twenty minutes but your tin-can on four wheels clearly thinks otherwise. The only person you could call - and I mean in theory - is subject #249. And I say in theory because that motherfucker is definitely not gonna pick up. Hell, he might even hang up on you if he even hears the phone. It's 10AM but he's a night owl - sleeping till dusk, gaming till dawn kinda fella - not a chance in hell he's coming through for you. Oh and it's not like yall are serious or anything - as per his own proclamation - so why would he do such a thing as come through for you, right? RIGHT??

A spear of white slashes the dark grey sky. Followed by a clap of lightning that opens the floodgates to a downpour that your polo shirt and shorts don't stand a chance against.

In a moment of helpless frustration you kick the tire a couple times - causing more damage to your foot than the rubber - and decide that you're definitely not making it to that lecture or out of this parking lot anytime soon.

But then....divine intervention!

The clouds have parted and heaven's light shines down upon thee - oh no, nevermind, it's just a pair of headlights.

You wipe raindrops from your lashes to be able to make out the vehicle approaching you - an oldish looking but well maintained truck comes to a stop next to you and for a moment you do consider the possibility of it being a kidnapper or something.

But both your shoes are flooded and your socks are soaked so, really, you ARE the threat with the amount of irritation condensed into you right now.

A guy you vaguely recognize gets out - similarly not dressed for the weather in his t-shirt and jeans. But hey, at least he has a working vehicle!!!

"Showering on a budget?!" He literally has to shout so you can make out what he's saying over the hellish downpour.

"Wish I had that level of preparedness - would've brought shampoo. Or...charged my phone at least." Had anyone else tried to make light of the situation you're in right now, you would've probably laid them out with a racket to the dome. But this guy says it with such ease, no notes of anything that irks or bugs you. No condescension or mockery. And to add the fact that he's choosing to stand out here in this weather to talk to you.

"Something wrong with your car, I'm assuming." He says, looking past you at the traitorous shitcan that looks perfectly normal on the outside - oh how looks can be deceiving.

You sure as hell hope his looks aren't deceiving cause HAWT DAMN. You have thoughts. No notes. No prayers. Just thoughts. Some potentially impolite observations you've made about him in the passed minute. Like how freakishly good he looked when he stepped out and how much good-er he looks now with his hair soaked. Some would say it's a shame to see hair so luscious be tamped down like this and you'd half agree but...you see a different kind of appeal.

And, for some weird reason, you seem to recognize him more with wet hair.

"That's how it started, yeah, and then the apocalypse happened." You reply, motioning to the now steady rain that thankfully no longer hurts on impact like hale.

He hums, nodding thoughtfully. "Right. Am I also right to assume that you'd rather not stay in this parking lot?"

You raise your eyebrows, eyes widening slightly for the theatrics of it all, "Are you clairvoyant?"

"Just one of my many talents. Another one of which is owning a functioning vehicle that can take you anywhere you desire." He turns to gesture to his truck with a flourish.

And you're in no position to say no. Not that you want to. Not that you could. The smile does indeed possess extraordinary abilities that make this guy trouble. Trouble in a way that you go thoughtless when looking at it.

Within fifteen minutes, he's pulling into the nearest parking spot to the entrance of your lecture hall so you don't get quadruple soaked on your way in.

"You're a lifesaver, I can't thank you enough. I wish the best car luck upon you. May your truck never leave you in a ditch the way mine did." You sing him his praise as you unbuckle, unwillingly so, in preparation to get out and make it to the lecture you're only a little late for. What a shame it is to be leaving his truck indeed - the drive over might have been the most fun fifteen minutes you've had this past month.

He's just so...fun, lively. He met you halfway on everything: sarcasm, dark humor, irony. Line for line - he didn't miss a beat.

And you're already missing the interactions you had and the ones you could have if you were to ever see him again.

"I am eternally grateful for the wishes you've cast upon me but this truck doesn't have much of a choice but to work. I'm a mechanic - it doesn't get a rest day just cause it's smoking under the hood. I up and fix it." He says with a humble smile and a humorous straightening of his back to accentuate his remarkability - and you're fucking swooning.

An oddity because you're yet to pinpoint a single thing wrong with this man.

"Impressive. You didn't exaggerate those many talents you mentioned. Jack of all trades, huh." You smirk - kinda hard to play coy when there's a dark spot in the shape of you on the seat and backrest. There's a similar one on his too. It looks like you leave your shadow behind when you step out. "My gratitude knows no bounds. Have a good one!"

Those parting words feel empty for some reason you can't place until twenty minutes later when you're sitting in class in all your drowned-rat glory and realize you had no name to tack onto the end there.

You never asked him his fucking name. Way to fucking go about potentially seeing him again, babe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time your professor's voice says the most important phrase of the lecture: 'That will be all for today' - there's ironically not a cloud in sight on the picture-perfect blue above you.

After an hour and a half of a lecture you didn't hear a single syllable from, you return to the scene of the crime your car committed against you to clean it of your belongings with the intention of calling a tow. Your brain is already doing math gymnastics trying to calculate the cost of the repairs - not that you even know what needs to be repaired - and figure out how much it'll set you back financially.

In the whirlwind of mental equations, the he last thing you expected to find was two legs sticking out from under your car.

"Um, hi? Who are you and why are you violating my car?" You ask as you make a hesitant approach, nudging the person's right foot with your own.

And then the hottest jumpscare of your life happens when out rolls HE.

He can't even respond because he's cracking up over your very interesting phrasing of the question and man does he look cute.

"Oh hey guy-from-earlier!" You blurt out on autopilot, all too aware of the fact that you don't know his name.

"John Logan - since you clearly don't plan on asking." He smirks, nodding to you in greeting in tandem with tipping an imaginary hat. His hands are stained as a result of the car surgery he's performing so he doesn't offer a handshake. "But everyone calls me Logan."

The name rings a bell - no, it actually makes a different sound. It sounds like skate scraping ice.

Oh shit that's where I know him from!

"Wait, you're a Hawk, ain't ya?!" You grin triumphantly as if you finally found a puzzle piece that fits. In this case the last piece but hey, E for Effort. Your brain was firing on all cylinders right there (unlike your car *ahem*)

"Sure am. You into hockey?" Logan asks as he stands up, wiping his hands on a hand towel dangling from one of his belt loops.

We're all familiar with that saying 'don't hate the player, hate the game', right? Well you're in a 'forget the game, fuck the player' kinda situation right now. You've got as much interest in hockey as a fish would have in cycling but that's neither here nor there because right now it's a strong contender for you favorite sport of all time.

But still, you're no liar.

"Not really, sorry. My friend is, though. I go to watch games with her all the time." You hurry to add that last part which is in fact true. Thea always manages to convince you to tag along.

Logan doesn't wanna run the risk of sounding creepy by saying it but he has indeed noticed you. He's vague acquaintances with Thea and he's duly noted the friend she attends Hawks games with.

Spotting you earlier was the luckiest fucking coincidence to him.

"Well, we're grateful for any support. Even by proxy." He winks. He fucking winks. It has the same danger level as pulling the trigger on a gun. Does this man know how fine he is? There's no way he doesn't, right? He turns to point to your car, giving the hood a light pat. "Anyway, that should tie you over but maybe consider getting yourself a more reliable vehicle, yeah? This fixer upper will leave you stranded again sooner or later and trust me, you do not want to take that risk."

His words stun you.

They hit a mark he wasn't even aiming for when he said them. Hell, he doesn't know the mark even exists.

They're a softer, more gently phrased variation of lectures you've endured before. Time and time again, your friends have tried to bring a rude awakening upon you to snap you out of your Bob The Builder roleplay. Time and time again their words went in one ear and out the other.

But there's something so viscerally real about the situation you found yourself in because of your fixer upper car and how closely it compares to where you end up because of your fixer upper guys.

Left high and dry. Or rather stranded and rain soaked, but you get the idea.

Maybe such a real and tangible depiction of what these relationships - if you can even call em that - are doing to you is exactly what you needed to get your shit together.

"Yeah...um...yeah, I'll definitely look into upgrading." You say after a pause you didn't even realize you created.

Logan doesn't seem to mind. "As payment I only accept first and last names."

Oh, he's smooth

"Is that negotiable? Like maybe I can pay first name now and last name later on with a cup of coffee to tie me over in between?"

But so are you *wink*

And Logan knows when he's out-smoothed. He finds no shame in admitting it. In fact, he finds it quite attractive. "Consider it done."

"Where do I sign?" You tease only to have this goofball pull out an actual notepad and pen from his back pocket like he's Mary fucking Poppins with magic jeans instead of a bag.

"Signatures only in digit form, please." He adds as he hands you the pad and pen - the brief brush of your hands bringing a heatwave upon you both.

You write down your phone number, your first name right below it.

How dare he contaminate your apartment with his presence? His like mould, can't get rid of him. He's been here for four hours and twenty-six minutes already. I'm fed up and I don't even have to listen to him talk. How do you put up with him?

Ok, I know how, you have the patience of an angel. Lucky for you, your guardian demon is here to rescue you.

"Good afternoon, sir. Sorry to inform you your car has been towed for insufficient parking. You can pick it up at the impound downtown."

Ah it's pathetically hilarious to watch him huff and puff. But hey, it worked out. The fucker needs the car to get to work in the morning. I got him out of your hair, that's good enough. I'll be seeing you later for my repayment, sweetheart.

Right now, I have to entertain your date a little. Show him what happens when someone tries staking claim on what's mine. Has been mine since the day we met, baby, and you should know better than to deny it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sorry I'm late, sweetheart. Had to stop by my place for a change of clothes.

I imagined things would go more smoothly and cleanly but your guy got a little...dramatic. Got blood all over me and I'd never show up here not looking my best for you.

But alas, I'm here now. And you're sound asleep already. As you should be, you have an early start tomorrow.

Whoa, don't scare me like that. Thought you were waking up for a second. I mean, you've never woken up on me before but there's a first time for everything.

You have this huge bed and still choose to curl up on one side. It's like you know to expect company. I appreciate that, it means a lot to me.

Sleep tight, angel. It's my favorite sight to see...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Dex! Shut up, don't say anything. You're grabbing drinks with me tonight!"

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Took ya all of a day and a half to forget all about him huh? You barely had any time for me when he was in the picture. It's like you were waiting for him to take his leave so you could come back to me.

"Remember Chase? The guy I was seeing? The fucker ghosted me."

You have no idea how literally he ghosted you indeed, sweetheart

"Oh? I'm...I'm sorry?"

"Not a big loss."

Trust me, darling, I knew that way before you. You just needed me to clear it up for you.

"So...you're not upset?"

"Not particularly, no. I just wanna go out. Have a fun night with my best friend. Do some hunting for new prospects, you know?"

Ah angel, when will you learn...

"I'll pick you up around nine then."

Mostly because I have a body to get rid of at seven. And that shit takes a while. Such a shame I'm about to waste two hours dealing with an insignificant bag of organs.

They couldn't afford to lose a professional like Brendon, but the mountain of complaints from patients and staff alike was starting to tip over. So, the best admin could do was tip the scales, even the playing field by introducing a new player.

Dr. Y/N L/N

And man does the change give Park whiplash.

The nurses and doctors weren't enthusiastic to hear about a new addition. Mainly out of fear and hesitation that they'd be getting a Shark 2.0 to worsen the work environment further.

They were pleasantly surprised, however, to find out the new surgeon is technically one of them. Y/N is an ex-nurse who specialized in orthopedic surgery only a couple years ago and has already climbed to the top of the list of surgeons country-wide.

Oh-ho-ho did Park not like that.

Y/N is all the skill Brandon possesses and none of the sticks up the ass.

Ok, maybe one singular stick. The one she holds onto specifically for Park. It took her all of thirty seconds to get a read on what kind of doctor he is - unbeatable at what he does - and what kind of person he is - absolute dickhead. It took her another thirty seconds to bear witness to the course of his interactions with the rest of the staff, especially the nurses. Not to even touch upon the bedside manner he exhibits to his patients.

That's the moment she proclaimed war on his patience.

It's proven to be way easier than she had originally though.

Given that she's only been here two months, she's yet to be given her own office. They just added a second desk to Park's office and called it a day for the time being. Y/N took the news with a conspiratorial grin she barely managed to conceal.

The fangs sunk in like a knife through hot butter, getting right under his skin where it would irritate him most.

"Hey, roomie." She says to him every morning without fail. She watches his eye twitch every time, it's great. "You sleep here or something?"

"I like to have a head-start. Stay above the workload. If that means coming to work an hour or so earlier, so be it." Brendon rarely looks up from the paperwork he's sifting through when he responds to her.

Y/N doesn't mind. "If that's what you think will help you maintain rank..."

That comment gets her a step above an eye twitch - she can actually see that vein in the middle of his forehead pulse.

"Maintain rank? What is it you're referring to, Dr. L/N?" He asks, voice dangerously even and low.

"Oh, you know. I'm sure it's not easy getting used to sharing your role. Your floor, your office, everything. It's normal to feel threatened." She hums casually, now flipping through her own paperwork, mostly to have something else to look at except him. One glance at his slightly reddened face and she'll crack up.

"Threatened? By you?" He scoffs with such disgust, you'd think the words are poison on his tongue. Y/N can practically hear his jaw clench. "You can't possibly be se-"

Dr. Park doesn't get to finish his thought when a knock sounds at the door to the office.

Since he's still seething, Dr. L/N takes it upon herself to straighten in her chair, plaster that smile of hers and call out for the person to come in, chipper as ever.

A frightened looking nurse pokes her head inside, "Hi, um, I-I came up from ED. We need a consult on a car crash victim. I-It's pretty bad..."

Y/N is nodding slowly, processing what the nurse said. Whereas Brendon is already getting out of his chair with a huff. He loves getting called for a consult as much as he loves acting like it's such a bother and annoyance. He loves being needed, Y/N has come to learn. He loves seeing himself and being seen by others as the only solution. The sole savior or whatever warped idea he has of himself in that dome of his.

"Um...I'm sorry, Dr. Park. I should've been more specific. Dr. Robby specifically requested Dr. L/N." The nurse clarifies, vaguely motioning to the other surgeon.

That's all prompting she needs before standing up and following the nurse, a hand on the small of the girl's back. Reassuring, comforting, promising she's nothing like her colleague back there.

Despite how much she wants to glance over her shoulder to subtly flaunt that small victory and take in the irritation on his face, she doesn't. She has enough grace to remain humble unlike him.

Shame, really. Because Dr. Park is a seething sight to see. It's a cartoonish scene as he sits there, fuming, face and neck reddened, eyes glaring daggers into Y/N's back.

This is the fourth time this has happened this week, and it's only Wednesday. All consults have come with the specific request that said consult come from Dr. L/N. Her entrance on the playing field has allowed the hospital staff to avoid any and all interactions with him. Some unlucky patients still get stuck with him as their attending. God knows that, if given the choice, in an ideal world where she could take on all the patients, she'd be chosen by all.

"You know they only like you because I'm the alternative, right?" He asked her once, eyes ice cold as they bore into hers.

"That's not the insult you think it is, Dr. Park." She'd replied simply, without even batting an eye. "I'd like to think of it as them seeing me as a breath of fresh air coasting through ortho for the first time since you took up that chair. That's praise enough in my book."

"If that's what makes you feel better. Don't let your likability make you think you're more skilled than you are." He snarled back which only made her find the situation even more humorous.

"You'll understand the depth of the shit you're spewing when you need me one day."

Her calm and reasonable response does nothing to change his mind, though. He carries on believing that until one day her prophecy is fulfilled. And that puts it mildly.

A young girl is rushed over from the ED to his OR and he can't even fathom her state initially. All he could see in the whirlwind of her being wheeled in was blood. So much blood. And a leg that definitely shouldn't be bent that way.

The briefing was indeed that - brief. Time is of the essence. Every wasted second brings that girl closer to losing that leg. And Dr. Park would be damned if he lets that happen.

He's rattled, more than he typically is with patients, even emergency cases. It probably has to do with the girl's age. She's a child, early teens probably. She'd taken a horrific plummet while exploring an abandoned building on the outskirts of town. It's a miracle she's alive. And right now another miracle is needed to maintain that leg attached to her body.

"Fucking pull yourself, together." Brendon curses himself out, watching the tremble of his hands as he starts scrubbing. "Don't be a fucking coward. If you can't do this no one can."

Remember how I said he loves being needed? Being the only solution? Playing savior? At times, it's his worst nightmare. Even an ego of that size has some holes in it, and in cases such as this one, they tear open a little bigger. They leave him feeling the emptiness of what would happen if he doesn't succeed. He's never let himself find out the aftermath before, but he's also reasonable enough to know that there's a first time for everything. The savior's responsibility is, at times, too heavy for him to breathe through. Cursing himself out into getting back in line has proven futile.

"Dr. Park? Is everything ok?" That familiar voice only unnerves him more. It doesn't hold the usual snarky undertone. If anything it sounds genuinely concerned despite the audible exhaustion in it.

"No, Y/N! It's not ok! That girl might lose her leg! What if I can't..." He roars, his fears manifesting as unbridled rage as he whirls around to meet her eyes - the only feature of hers visible above the mask and below the cap.

It's not lost on her, the use of her first name. She's never heard him say it once. But that's not something to dwell on now. Brendon clearly shares that sentiment because, without giving her the time to reply, he's speaking again, "Scrub in."

For a moment, she doesn't believe she heard him right, "Um..?"

"Scrub in, Y/N. That girl needs all hands on deck. Fangs aside, you're the best pair of hands I got. So scrub in. I need you in there."

Some would call it magic. Others would call it a miracle. It could be dubbed as divine intervention by the believers; a wonder of orthopedic medicine by the rest.

In reality, it's all the work of two doctors. Two pairs of hands that are still shaking with adrenaline an hour after the surgery has successfully ended.

An hour Brendon and Y/N have spent in deafening silence. Literal crickets could be heard through the open window in their shared office as they sit and stew. It's past the end of their shift but neither has moved, still mentally reliving the surgery like playing a mental chess match with the Grim Reaper.

Y/N is the first to break the silence, "We...we did good back there."

Brendon nods, eyes refocusing after a long time of staring off into space. "We did. I take back....most of what I've been saying about you these past two months. Some of it you deserve?"

Y/N observes him with eyes of wonder, as if she's witnessing the second coming of Brendon Park - the new and improved version. Now with less sticks up the ass!

"Oh do I? Is this about the fangs? I remember you saying that earlier." She subconsciously smooths her tongue over her canines to check if they've by some off-chance sharpened in the last two months. "What's that about?"

"All you've done since transferring here is bleeding my patience dry. You don't know when to stop." He says with an accusing tone but none of the usual heat his words pack. "A vampire of sorts."

"Why would I stop when it's my personal brand of comedy, Park. You ought to learn not to take yourself so seriously. I know you think you're God's gift to orthopedics but come on." Y/N rolls her eyes, spinning slowly on her chair.

"Stop that, you're making me motion-sick. Also, I don't think that, just so you know. I'm just good at what I do. And I'll be damned if I let anyone question or doubt that ever again." Brendon says after some contemplation, his tone one of earnest and truth she didn't know he was capable of.

"Ooh, sounds like a story. A long one. Do tell." Y/N says, halting her chair twirling to exhibit the seriousness the situation calls for. She schools her cadence and expression accordingly. "Sorry, no. I didn't mean that in a prying way. Just...consider it an olive branch. We already spend the better part of the day together, what's to bad about being civil or maybe even friends? If you know what those are, that is." When he doesn't reply and just soft-glares at her for a stretch of time, she continues, "Webster's dictionary defines the word 'friend' as..."

"Enough. Funny. But not another word. Alright?" Brendon huffs, shaking his head.

Y/N momentarily ponders the possibility of turning to stone because, she'll be damned, but he's smiling. And she's perfectly content getting turned into a statue if that's the last thing she sees. Rarer than a blood moon or a solar eclipse. An extinct type of facial expression in Brendon's genes. And yet there it is.

She resists the urge to take out a magnetifying glass and inspect it closer. Maybe measure the exact angle of the quirk at the corner of his lips to determine if it can be classified as a smile. She's a researcher by trade, after all.

Brendon must notice it too - probably because she looks equal parts astonished as she does victorious. "Yes, I can do that."

"Have you been practicing?" She fires back without missing a beat.

"I could start tonight. Come on. Remember that story you wanted me to tell? Maybe you can hear it over drinks if you'd like." He doesn't wait for her to confirm or deny as he gets up from his chair, crossing the office to take his coat from the hanger.

Y/N is still actively weighing her options, differentiating pros and cons even as she too reaches for her own jacket. In the end, she decides not to look a gifted Shark in the jaws.

Ah, love. A claw that's dug so deeply into his chest, his heart isn't even his anymore. He'd let her rip it out of him and not bat an eye. In a way, from where he's standing, his heart is already walking around outside his body - beating in the chest of the woman he'd die and kill for.

Dex has gotten used to and comfortable with their routine since they've started living together. He'd initially been irked by how little he sees of her but he respects her work, her craft, and her enough to put his own clinginess on the backburner.

She's a woman of the night.

By the time he gets home she's already long gone, meshing with the shadows. The city is her cloak, concealing her, keeping her safe when he can't do it himself. Not that she needs protection. It'd be laughable to think so little of a trained assassin.

Tonight, there's a shift to the rhythm of his night.

Dex would usually come home to an empty apartment, every breath echoed back at him, emphasizing her absence.

Not tonight.

She's home, sat at the table in the small space between the living room and kitchen they deemed the dining room. The only light that's on in the entire apartment flickers above her head.

Oh no...

Flickering lights, not good. Her mutant power allows her to bend the laws of electricity to her will. They are also bent by her emotions. A flickering light isn't a good sign. It's usually the precursor to a storm.

"Oh, you're home early. Done hunting for the night, sweetheart?" Dex smiles at her, nothing short of genuine adoration in his eyes.

She tilts her head, smirking at him. The sharp quirk of her lips could slit his throat. And what a way to die that would be. "Haven't decided yet."

He's accustomed to her ominous one-liners. He's gotten pretty good at deciphering them but right now he's lost on what she could be referring to.

"Um...ok? How so?" Dex asks as he takes a seat on the chair beside her, basking in her closeness. "Is that why you're sitting here in the dark like a textbook villain? Want me to find you a stray cat for added effect?" He actually would if she were to ask.

But she just laughs in return. A dark chuckle that would unnerve a lesser individual. Dex isn't as easily disturbed. Never by her. Hell, she could pull a knife on him and he wouldn't flinch. She reaches one hand up to cradle his cheek, running her thumb along the sharp edge of his cheekbone.

"Oh, Dex..." She sighs, shaking her head with a smile, a certain twinkle in her eyes.

In her free hand she holds a card, bringing it eye-level so he can see it.

He's seen plenty of such cards since he's known her. She keeps them in a shoebox, mementos of all her hunts. An elaborate kill count, if you will.

It's a card she gets at St. Margaret's every night. Same design, different name each night. Weasel would slide it subtly under the palm of her hand where she'd rest it on the bar, nursing whatever drink she ordered.

No simpler procedure.

Pick up a card. Kill in accordance. Refrain from getting too close. Stay in the shadows. Don't stick around. Keep it clean. Keep it unseen. Keep yourself unseen.

But just like Dex, her night didn't run along the usual routine.

Because the name on the card is his.

"You've made someone real mad, haven't you, Dex?" She coos, caressing his face. The warmth of her touch silencing his thoughts, momentarily rendering him helpless, putty in her hands. As if he isn't prey. A moving target.

And she's the hunter.

"It's a long list, sweetheart. Many of them are cowardly enough to pay a hit instead of doing it themselves." Dex mutters, barely coherent as he leans into her hand, tilting his head so he can press a kiss to her palm.

"I wouldn't call it cowardly. More so self-aware. They know they can't touch you..." Her hand slithers down, wrapping lightly around the column of his throat. Not squeezing...yet, "But they know I can."

Dex huffs out a laugh, clasping his fingers around her wrist, holding it there. Vague encouragement. "You're considering it, baby?" He smirks up at her as she rises from her chair to stand over him. With a tug on her free hand, he settles her onto his lap, wrapping a secure arm around her waist.

"It'd be good money. I'd be set for life..." She replies thoughtfully, tightening her hold on his throat ever so slightly for emphasis. "You're an expensive kill. Elite prey. You should be flattered."

"Dying at your hands is flattery enough." Dex proclaims without batting an eye.

"Oh how lucky you are that I love you." She drops her villainous act for the sake of kissing him.

The play they made of this back-and-forth was just that - a play. She'd never consider it, not that he would hold it against her if she did. He'd be grateful to have lived as a man loved by her. His only grievance would've been not getting to be with her longer.

Death doesn't scare him. Being without her is what chills his blood.

Dex is not a man that believes in luck. All his life has been based on cutting-edge precision with no room for mistakes. Luck has never had anything to do with it.

Until her.