maja ۶۟ৎ

Pretty, young clerk who just transferred here, so caught up in whatever work your boss threw at you that never once did you notice the watchful eyes of Mark being glued onto you, or you just did an insanely good job ignoring it. 

He’s been eyeing you for a while now, ever since he noticed that the cubicle that’s been sitting empty for months by now finally got a new inhabitant. When he first saw that somebody’s bag and papers were resting there, he just nodded to himself, accepting that he just got a new coworker, shuffling over to his own desk — which he barely used, considering that he preferred to be out on the field, and was doing an awfully good job at that. 

The turn came when he glanced up at the sound of heels clicking, eyes drifting over to the direction of the sound. Sure enough, his eyes lock onto the young, neatly dressed — presumably clerk or secretary — woman, who just so happens to be heading right towards him. She comes to a halt right in front of Mark’s table, placing an ashy brown document folder with the utmost care.

“Agent Blythe sent this. He said you should go over this as soon as you can,” she spoke up, tone quiet, as if she was scared that Mark was going to bite. No, that was the last thing he would do — unless she asked him to. 

Mark nodded along, eyes slowly wandering from the document up to the woman, assessing as much about her as he could. Definitely younger than him, and definitely new here. 

“Thank you,” Mark pressed out after the realization that she’s been waiting for some kind of response from him dawns on his suddenly lovestruck brain. Shooting him a weak smile, she pivots, and much to Mark’s surprise, plops down into the seat he previously eyed. 

Ever since then, he’s been keeping his eye more on you, the newcomer, than on the assigned paperwork. In a way, he found your constant focus charming, his eyes studying the curves of your face and body as much as he could. 

Hours turned into days, days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into a month. One month of silent admiration, and Mark Meachum hasn’t made any moves. It was weird, considering that it was him out of all people. If anybody, he was the one who hesitated the least when it came to picking up women. Perhaps that was the reason why nobody ever really registered that his “spacing out” had more behind it. 

His co-workers would sometimes take notice of how his eyes tended to wander over to you, said co-workers just watching with furrowed brows before Mark’s attention shifted back onto them and onto the mission, paperwork, or meeting topic at hand. Unbeknownst to them, even on the smaller field missions he was assigned to, his mind was still revolving around the woman in the office.

He woke up, and his first thought was you, which bag charm you’d pick today, how you’d do your hair, which plain white dress shirt you’ll wear — because despite his age, his eyes were still good enough to pinpoint that each shirt, despite looking the same at first glance, was a bit different. He had enough time to observe, that was for sure. Mark was, in a way, living his best life at the office. 

Until he wasn’t.

You spent less of your breaks at the coffee machine, and more looming over the desk of some scrawny guy, just two desks away from yours. When you did in fact spend your break at that damned coffee machine, you did it with the same scrawny guy. Mark tried to reassure himself that you two were talking about business, some task you two had to work together on, but the more he watched you two laugh together, the less convincing that alibi sounded to him.

It didn’t help that one time, when both him, you, and your alleged friend were on coffee break at the same time, while Mark was leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room, a coworker of his came up to him, noticing as his eyes were fixed on you, and out of the blue just said “They’re so cute together, aren’t they?”. He had the audacity to smile while saying this, too, Mark involuntarily frowning, both at the fact that this heavily implied that you and that dude were dating, and that this coworker of his seemingly approved.

No, they’re not cute, Mark wanted to retort, only to stop himself at the last second, gripping the to-go cup just a bit harder instead. 

Now, rumors say you two are dating. Does Mark like that? Absolutely not. 

So, after listening to somebody raving on about how you and this twink are the cutest couple at the office, he pushes himself up from his desk with a sigh, deciding that it’s time to confront you. Not in a “What the fuck is going on?” way, but more in a “Small talk, soft smiles, discreet questions” kind of way.

Catching you alone proved to be a harder task than expected, that guy whose guts he despised always lingering just a step away from you. 

So, when he finally saw you alone at the coffee machine — your regular spot by now, paying it a visit way too often —, he pounced on the chance. 

The coffee machine emits a low, rumbling sound as it releases hot steam, while the paper cup slowly fills up. The noise from the hallway fades slightly around you, marking your first moment of calm since the morning rush. 

A shadow falls across the machine, and you sense a presence beside you. It isn’t your usual colleague, you would recognize his footsteps from a distance. Shooting a sly glance in that direction you’re surprised to see Mark Meachum, standing next to you with an air of complete ease, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets.

"I was starting to think you’d bought a season pass for this machine," he says, his voice carrying that familiar deep, slightly husky tone as a faint, small smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "Whenever I look up from my papers, I either see you here, or..." he pauses for a moment, feigning thought as his eyes sweep over you in a flash, lingering on the shirt you’re wearing today, "...or your companion."

He leans in a little closer, as if about to share a confidential secret, though his body language suggests he is flirting rather than discussing official business. 

"I’ve heard from the others that you’ve been doing some serious teamwork lately. Do you really get along as well as the rumors say, dating, according to them, or did a shared caffeine addiction bring you together?"

“Oh, um,” you stammer for a second, taken aback by his question. You could feel your face burning up as he stared you down, a calm smirk plastered across his face as he awaited your response. “No point in lying to a detective, huh,” you muster up. “I didn’t know it was… this public. And obvious.”

Of course it’s obvious, that twink’s following you like a lost puppy, Mark thought, although kept it to himself and kept his facade.

“But… yeah, we’re… together,” you finally press out, eyes darting over to your coffee cup in a weak attempt to avoid his piercing gaze.

“Are you happily together, or just... together?” he asks, his voice deliberately playful, as if the question were merely part of typical, teasing office banter. Inside, however, every nerve of his strained.

“I’m… really happy with him, actually,” you nervously chuckle, still trying your best to avoid having to look him in the eye. 

Mark feels as though he’s been punched in the gut. The professional detective, who has always managed to talk his way out of any situation, suddenly feels defenseless before the girl standing by the counter.

“Then... I suppose I should offer my congratulations,” he says finally, and for once, all mockery or flirtatiousness vanishes from his voice, replaced by a quiet, slightly weary note of acknowledgment. “That sort of thing is rare in this house. I hope he takes good care of you. Because if he doesn’t, I’ll be forced to have a word with him... on a strictly professional basis, of course.”

Mark watches in silence as that kind, understanding smile flits across your face. Oh, how it melted his heart. You don’t take offense at his remark, nor do you play along, you simply... gently close the subject. 

As you turn and walk down the hallway, paper cup in hand, the heels of your shoes click rhythmically against the stone — just as they did that very first day you set that folder down in his office. 

He doesn’t move right away. He stays there by the coffee machine, leaning against the wall, his gaze following your figure until you turn behind the partitions and back into your own domain.

The noise of the corridor returns, and colleagues bustle back and forth, yet the image of your eyes lighting up with happiness as you spoke about him — that other guy — still lingers in Mark’s mind. 

Finally, with a deep, stifled sigh, he pushes himself away from the wall and heads toward his own desk. He doesn’t look at you as he sits down, but his movements are heavier than usual. The stack of papers is still waiting for him on his desk — the very work he had been using as the perfect excuse to stay close to you.

He makes sure to stalk all your social media that same night.

He feels like a teenage girl for doing so, but desperate times require desperate measures, and tonight just so happened to be a desperate night.

Still, he had an advantage that those teenagers didn’t — his career. Of course, it wasn’t the most ethical use of his tools as a detective, but something had to be done. It only helped him that you worked right where he did, which put your name in the company’s files, which he could access. Birthday, phone number, full name, birthplace, every basic thing he could’ve asked for, right under his fingertips.

Mark made sure to check in on your more personal details too, taking over to Instagram — finding it through a software that was able to connect every social media account to a phone number or other personal info you’ve given to make the account.

The more he found out about you, the more enamored he felt towards you. You seemed just like he thought you’d be, Mark even cracking a few faint smiles as he went through your posts and stories. They revealed just about anything about you. People you’re friends with, hobbies, interests, places you frequented, everything he needed to get a grasp on you and your habits.

Suddenly, his smile faded. Scrolling through your highlights, the screen flashes to a picture of you and the twink he oh-so-despited. In the picture were you two, with you planting a kiss on his cheek. 

Oh, how much Mark would’ve paid just to be in that guy’s spot! That twink looked awful next to you, it was like putting a rat and a supermodel side by side, him being the rat of course. Oddly enough, you seem happy. Keyword, seem. 

That guy probably doesn’t even know how to take you on a date, stifled behind that desk all day, hunched over like a caveman. He’s the most regular looking regular dude in existence. He probably can’t even hold his weight up when he’s above you in bed! He probably makes you do all the work! 

You deserve better than that, that’s for sure. Somebody who knows exactly how to work their fingers and mouth on your body, somebody who actually makes you feel good during sex. Somebody who actually pays attention to you, somebody who takes you on proper dates, somebody who actually cares about you. Surprisingly enough, the description seemed to fit somebody called Mark Meachum.

Alright, it’s his dirt for not not doing anything back when he could’ve, but still, this entire situation felt like the universe just majorly fucked him over. Of course the worst guy gets the best girl. It felt like such a joke. 

What did you see in him anyway? Definitely not his looks, that was for sure. Was he that funny? Mark is funny too, why not choose him? And he’s handsome too, and could totally provide everything you could ever ask for for you! From good meals to gifts to love and comfort to a home to good sex, he’s got it all! One word from you, and he’s yours!

But as long as that dude’s in the way…

Mark crafted his masterplan. He’d do whatever needed to be done, and already had a few ideas. First, he needs the guy to lose his shit. It didn’t matter why or over what, he just needed him over the edge, shouting, ready to land a hit on anybody. Women hate abusive men, and the moment this guy snaps, you could have a perfectly good reason to leave his ass. Bonus points if it happens with Mark present, giving him a perfect chance to swoop in, be the hero, and save the day. Chicks dig heroes, no?

The detective’s mind, which spends the day unraveling a web of crimes, now begins to weave a very different kind of web at night. Unethical? Who cares about ethics when your happiness is at stake with a man who probably can’t even afford to buy you a decent dinner, let alone treat you like a queen? Mark knows exactly what you need: attention, a real man who will protect you, who knows how to touch you, and with whom you never have to shrink away in fear.

If the guy makes a scene, starts screaming in the middle of the office, or — better yet — raises a hand against someone... you leave him immediately. And who will be there to help you up, to calm you down, to form a shield between you and the world with his broad shoulders? Mark Meachum.

The next morning, Mark walks into the office a completely different man. Gone is the weary, disillusioned man of the day before. He looks elegant — well-shaven, his shirt straining against his broad shoulders — and his confidence practically vibrates in the air. 

As he passes your cubicle, he doesn’t stop, but for a split second, he flashes that deep, knowing gaze at you, the kind that stirs something deep inside you. Then, his eyes slowly drift toward the guy sitting two desks away. A faint, predatory smile, almost imperceptible, touches Mark’s lips. 

Throughout the morning, Mark begins to execute the first phase: applying subtle psychological pressure.

When the guy goes out to the photocopier, Mark "accidentally" happens to be right there. He doesn't speak to him but steps up beside him in the narrow corridor, using his physical size to tower over him. When the guy finishes with the papers, Mark blocks his path for a moment before finally stepping aside with a cocky, condescending half-smile. 

Later, in the communal kitchen, just as the guy is standing by the microwave, Mark walks in chatting with an agent and deliberately remarks loudly. 

"…Yeah, some people just aren't cut out for field work. You get those typical desk-bound rodents who’d crumble if they ever faced a real problem. It’s a good thing they handle the paperwork for us, at least, right?"

He sees the guy’s shoulders tense up and his neck start to flush with anger, yet he holds his tongue. Mark mentally chalks up a point for himself. The office gossip and subtle teasing have begun. 

Every time you walk past Mark, he is deliberately kind and attentive, offering a small compliment about your hair or your shirt—just enough to make your boyfriend, who is watching you from afar, increasingly agitated and jealous. Mark knows exactly what he’s doing: he is slowly, systematically injecting poison into your relationship, waiting for the moment the guy finally snaps from jealousy.

A few days later, the perfect opportunity arises. There’s an afternoon office meeting attended by both your department and the detectives. As it happens, your boyfriend is the one giving the presentation. He’s visibly nervous, his hand trembling slightly as he holds the laser pointer. 

Mark sits at the far end of the conference table, leaning back comfortably and twirling a pen between his fingers. He looks bored, yet he is watching you out of the corner of his eye, observing the way you smile encouragingly at your friend. That smile is the final straw for him. 

The moment has come. When the guy finishes his talk and asks if there are any questions, Mark slowly sets down his pen and straightens up.

“I have a question, if you don’t mind,” Mark speaks up. His voice is soft, yet it carries an edge. “The data on the slide looks good. But what’s the plan if things don’t go according to script in the real world? Because this strategy is... cowardly, to put it mildly. It’s like someone is afraid to get their hands dirty. Are you sure you can handle a real crisis, or when trouble hits, would you rather just hand the job over to the grown-ups?” 

The air in the room freezes. Your boyfriend’s face goes stark white, then flushes a fiery red. He grips his notebook so hard his knuckles turn white. He knows perfectly well that Mark isn’t criticizing the presentation, but him — as a man — and doing it right in front of you and the entire office.

The guy’s throat is visibly going dry as he swallows hard and practically drives the laser pointer into the tabletop to hide his trembling hand. Mark’s mocking, confident gaze is practically burning his skin, yet he doesn’t dare lash out with the bosses present.

"The strategy... is based on protocol, Detective Meachum," the guy manages to choke out, his voice an octave higher than it should be. "But thanks for the observation." 

Mark acknowledges the reply with nothing more than a nonchalant, barely perceptible nod. He doesn’t need to do anything else. He successfully castrated the guy’s self-esteem right there in the office.

As you leave the meeting room, your friend practically strides ahead down the hallway, not even waiting for you. When you catch up with him in the small, secluded photocopy room next to your department, it’s immediately apparent that their pent-up anger and humiliation is about to erupt. 

The moment the door shuts out the outside world, he turns to you, their face still flushed with tension. 

"What the hell was that?" he demands, trying to keep his voice low but trembling with rage. "Did you see what he did? He made a fool of me in front of the entire management! And you? You just sat there! You didn't say a word in my defense!" 

"Please, calm down, it’s just work, he had a logical question, and—" you try to soothe them, but your words only add fuel to the fire.

“Don’t tell me it’s just work!” he snaps, brushing off your attempt to get closer with an angry wave of his hand. “Meachum’s been circling you like a vulture for weeks! By the coffee machine, in the hallway... He’s always right there wherever you are. And you actually encourage him with that sweet little smile of yours! You think I don’t see it? You think I’m blind?! Why don’t you just tell him to get lost? Or maybe you like having a ‘real’ detective hovering around you, not some ‘desk-bound rodent,’ which is what he called me?!” 

His tone is harsh, accusatory, and unfair. He’s speaking to you in a way you’ve never heard before, and jealousy is completely distorting his behavior. In short, everything is going according to plan.

Feigning boredom but actually on tenterhooks, Mark walks down the corridor past the photocopier room, carrying an empty binder as if he has business there. The door doesn't close quite right, so every word of the heated argument spilling out reaches his ears clearly. Mark stops a few paces from the door, leans back against the wall, and a triumphant gleam lights up his dark eyes. His plan is working perfectly. The guy is digging his own grave right now.

The tension is almost palpable in the cramped air, thick with the smell of photocopier toner. You stand there, stunned, facing your partner, whose eyes are now completely devoid of the gentle, familiar warmth that made you fall for them in the first place. 

"That’s not true!" you say, raising your voice to break through their wall of anger while holding your hands up defensively. "Mark is just a colleague, nothing more!” Ouch, that stings Mark a bit, overhearing this too. “Yes, we ran into each other by the coffee machine, but I was polite because I work here and don’t want to make enemies. You think I’m encouraging him? I chose you, I’m with you!"

Well, not for long, Mark silently smirks to himself.

"Oh, sure, polite!" the guy snaps, a hysterical, bitter half-smile twisting his face. He steps closer, invading your personal space, and jabs his index finger angrily toward your chest, though he doesn't actually touch you. "I saw the way he looked at you in the conference room! And you just take it. Because you like the attention, right? You like having some big, armed macho guy checking you out in the hallway! You turn his head, and then you’re surprised when he comes after me in front of the bosses? Did he do it because of me? Hell no! Because of you! Because he thinks he can have you!" 

Damn fucking right.

"Stop it, please, you’re being paranoid!" you say, shaking your head. You feel a hot sting in your eyes born of helplessness and disappointment, and the effort to hold back tears makes your throat tighten. "I didn't do anything. Why are you blaming me because a detective was a jerk to you?"

"Because you don't stand up for me!" the guy shouts — now having almost completely lost his self-control — and slams his fist onto the top of the photocopier in a rage. The plastic cracks with a loud snap, and the papers in the tray shudder. "You think I’m a pathetic coward, just like he does, don’t you?! Just because I don’t play the tough guy!" 

Outside, in the dim light of the corridor, Mark’s face remains motionless, but his body goes rigid. Hearing the sound of the fist slamming against the plastic machine, his eyes narrow, and he grips the binder in his hand so tightly that the cardboard begins to creak. The guy has crossed a line. The physical aggression—even if directed only at an object—provides the perfect pretext.

Mark slowly lets go of the wall. His steps are heavy and purposeful as he heads toward the door of the photocopier room, in no rush. He knows the tension is reaching its peak, and that his arrival will be like a lightning strike on a gunpowder barrel. 

Mark presses down the door handle with a slow movement, and the door swings open quietly. He doesn’t burst in or shout, he simply steps into the cramped room, bringing with him that calm. His eyes slowly sweep the room: the papers still fluttering on the photocopier, your friend’s clenched fist, and finally you, standing in the corner and fighting back tears. 

Mark’s face is perfectly impassive, as if he had no idea what was actually going on here — or that he was the one who had triggered this whole avalanche. 

"What’s all this racket in here?" he asks, his voice deep and unhurried. "You can hear the shouting all the way down the hall."

He takes a step forward with his hands in his pockets, a movement so natural it looks as if he had simply come for some copy paper, yet his positioning instantly becomes strategic as he plants himself precisely between the two of you, physically cutting the dude off from you. 

With his broad shoulders, he almost completely blocks the guy from your view, offering you protection while fixing his dark gaze directly on your friend. 

Shock quickly gives way to helpless rage on the guy’s face when he realizes Mark walked in at the exact moment he had completely lost his composure. He tries to straighten up so he doesn't look so small next to Mark, forcing a mocking, trembling half-smile onto his face. 

"What is it, Meachum? Is the noise bothering your detective ears?" he snaps back, his voice tense yet striving for confidence. "Or did you just find another excuse to stick your nose where it doesn't belong? This is a private conversation. So get back to your donuts and stop snooping around." 

Not a single muscle twitches in Mark’s face at the pathetic insult. He doesn't raise his voice or take the bait. Instead, he simply looks the guy up and down slowly — as if studying an irritating but completely harmless insect — before turning his head away with a deep, weary sigh. He acts as though the guy’s attempt at intimidation isn't even worth a word. Probably because yeah, it wasn’t.

“Grown adults don’t go around slamming office equipment just because they don’t get what they want,” Mark remarks coolly, his tone as condescending as if he were speaking to a tantrum-throwing toddler. “If you’re done with the show, go back to your desk. You’re safe behind the partitions.” 

This total dismissal makes the guy absolutely lose it. A red haze of humiliation clouds his vision. 

“Say what?!” The guy snaps, stepping forward as his hands clench into fists and his body trembles with rage, ready to do something monumentally stupid right there in the middle of the office.

"I think you should back off, buddy, and calm down," Mark says, his voice suddenly dropping an octave and turning cold as he takes a single, menacing step forward. "Before you hurt someone in here. Someone you... supposedly love." 

He shoots a quick glance at you out of the corner of his eye, as if his very presence were shielding you from your boyfriend's unpredictable aggression. That gesture is the final spark that sets the situation ablaze. 

"I don't give a damn!" your boyfriend screams, completely losing his head. "I don't care about you or your stupid rules! You think you're the hero here? I don't give a damn about anything!"

His voice was almost hoarse with helpless rage, his gaze darted wildly between Mark and you. And Mark stands there in your midst, and beneath the surface, every fiber of his being is celebrating. The trap has snapped shut.

Rage completely distorts your boyfriend’s features as the last spark of reason vanishes from his eyes. He can no longer bear the humiliation. With a wild roar, he swings his arm, attempting to land a blind, uncoordinated punch on Mark’s face with all his might. 

You press yourself against the wall in fear, freezing at the sight of the man you once thought kind and peaceful suddenly transforming into an unpredictable, aggressive stranger. 

Mark doesn’t even flinch. He moves with the reflexes of a seasoned detective, effortlessly deflecting the guy’s swinging fist with his left hand while grabbing his clothes with his right and slamming him against the side of the photocopier with such force that the machine cracks loudly under the guy's weight.

"That’s enough," Mark hisses. Hearing the commotion, the office security team immediately burst in from the hallway. There is no need to explain the situation: they see your terrified, cornered face, Mark restraining the raging man, and the damaged photocopier. 

"Escort him out. And don't let him back into the building," Mark orders the security guards as he releases the guy. The guards firmly grab your friend and begin dragging him out of the room. Face flushed red and panting, the guy still tries to turn back toward you, his voice echoes hoarsely down the hallway as he is hauled toward the elevators.

“This isn’t over! You’ll regret this, you hear me? You’ll regret it!” The shouting slowly fades away at the end of the hallway, and the door to the copy room clicks softly shut. A suffocating silence suddenly settles over the room. It’s just you, trembling with shock and fear, and Mark, who slowly turns around, adjusts his shirt sleeve, and fixes his concerned gaze straight upon you. 

The first part of his plan has gone perfectly: the “rodent” has been eliminated, and the hero stands right there before you.

Mark exhales slowly as he assumes his most perfect, concerned expression. Beneath the surface, every fiber of his being is celebrating. The sweet taste of triumph courses through his veins: his plan worked flawlessly, the guy completely ruined his chances with you in a single minute, and Mark is absolutely certain that, after this, you wouldn't dream of taking him back. 

He takes a cautious, slow step toward you, deliberately avoiding any sudden movements so as not to startle you further. His heavy footsteps are now muffled, soft and reassuring against the floor. 

"Hey... It’s okay. He’s gone, he can’t hurt you," he says, his voice suddenly softening into an incredibly gentle, deep baritone that seems to fill the cramped room.

He reaches out cautiously, and his palm rests on your shoulder with a warm, heavy weight. His movement is firm yet gentle. He gives your shoulder a soft squeeze, as if trying to impart some of his own strength to you, while his eyes search your face. 

Your body is still trembling from the tension, and the sound of your friend’s screaming and the crash of the plastic machine echoes over and over in your ears. 

Mark’s thumb moves gently across your shoulder, lightly smoothing your clothing as he leans closer to you. Inside, he is practically vibrating with pride, seeing how much you need him right now. 

"He shouldn't have spoken to you like that. No one has the right to raise their voice at you, especially not someone who claims to care about you," Mark murmurs, a subtle note of manipulation in his voice further widening the rift between you and your now ex-boyfriend. "Come, sit down in my office. I’ll get you a glass of water, and then we’ll figure out what to do next."

The initial wave of shock is slowly receding, yet the trembling lingers in your limbs. You don’t burst into tears, you are too proud to cry in the middle of the office, and your professional composure holds you back, but your voice falters as you finally release the pent-up tension. 

"I just... I can't believe it," you say, letting Mark guide you into his quieter, private office. "I mean, I just wouldn’t have expected him to… lose it, you know. I guess it turns out he wasn't who he pretended to be at all." 

Mark nods silently as he places a glass of water in front of you. His face reflects sympathy, yet deep down, he is drinking in every word you say as if listening to the sweetest victory anthem.

“Many people can only keep up the act as long as things go their way,” Mark replies, sitting on the edge of his desk right across from you. “Crisis situations reveal who the real man is, and who’s just a child throwing a tantrum when backed into a corner. You deserve someone by your side who protects you, not someone you have to defend yourself against.” 

As the minutes pass, the initial heavy atmosphere slowly lifts. The conversation between you becomes surprisingly light and natural. Mark deliberately steers the talk away from the drama. With subtle humor, intelligent questions, and that deep, husky voice of his, he makes you feel completely safe with him in a matter of minutes.

You find yourself sitting in his office, sharing things with him that you wouldn't normally discuss with colleagues — like your work and your hobbies — while Mark hangs on your every word as if you were the only person in the entire building. 

He somehow knew a thing or two about anything and everything you brought up, much to your surprise. The perks of him thoroughly stalking you, although you didn’t know about that part yet.

Days passed, days turning into weeks. It all happened so quickly, but with good company, time passes faster, no? And good company was exactly what you got ever since the twink got fired for that stunt in the photocopy room. With him out of the way, you’ve been open to your savior — Mark Meachum. 

Whenever you went for coffee breaks and he saw it, he made sure to go with you, the two of you chuckling and talking over your little cups before heading back to your desks, stealing glances and soft smiles from across the room whenever your eyes locked. Mark Meachum made going to work somehow… enjoyable?

Every day, you strutted in with the hopes that Mark would be there instead of on the field, sorting through his documents before you passed a new stack to his desk, accompanied by his regular coffee order as a gift. He thanked your efforts with that charming smile of his and praises.

Your ex-boyfriend was fired with immediate effect following the scandal, and the tension in your life vanished along with him. In its place, something far more exciting and vibrant entered your daily routine. Mark Meachum was no longer just a distant detective watching you from across the room. He became your refuge, your morning coffee companion, and honestly, the reason you’re much more particular about choosing your shirts and accessories before leaving the house these days.

For Mark, life was booming too. Since the scandal, he’s been living his best life — talking with you, laughing with you, earning your soft smile multiple times a day. It fed him like no food could. He’s been legitimate ever since the guy got fired, no stalking, no unethical business, just finding out everything about you the way normal people do. Still, he never really went past the casual flirting, not until now — but best believe, he was planning to change that soon enough, not willing to make the same mistake twice.

You walk through the door this morning with your usual rhythm, carrying Mark’s favorite black coffee and the latest batch of files Agent Blythe entrusted to you. Your heart beats a little faster when you spot his broad shoulders. He didn’t go out into the field today — he’s sitting at his desk, brow furrowed as he pores over the paperwork. 

He looks up the moment he catches the sound of your footsteps. His weary face instantly softens, and that signature warm half-smile — reserved solely for you — plays at the corner of his mouth. 

"I was starting to think you’d forgotten your most important client," he says in that trademark deep voice as he takes the steaming cup from you. Your fingers brush against each other for a fleeting moment, and the warmth of his skin sends a subtle shiver down your spine. "Thank you. And for the report, too... though I’m much happier about the courier than the paperwork itself."

He leans back comfortably in his chair, slowly looking you up and down. 

"What do you say we swap coffee for something a bit more serious tonight?" he asks suddenly, his voice dropping slightly to make the moment feel more intimate amidst the office bustle. "I know a fantastic place just a few streets away. Great food, great wine... and no risk of Agent Blythe dumping another stack of files on us. Are you in?"

Of course you were! Mark Meachum, your workplace crush, was the one asking!

A few hours later, you find yourself in a completely different world. Soft jazz plays in the restaurant, and the dim light is broken only by the warm glow of candles on the tables. The atmosphere is intimate and elegant, yet welcoming. Mark sits across from you. He has shed his detective’s sternness and his professional mask, his white shirt sleeves are casually rolled up to the elbows, revealing his forearms, and he appears far more relaxed than he ever is at work. 

Yet, his gaze has lost none of its intensity. As he swirls his glass between his fingers, his dark eyes seem to shimmer in the candlelight while he watches you. "I have to admit, the office lights don't do you justice at all," he says in a low, husky voice, a faint, satisfied smile playing on his lips. "You look beautiful tonight."

Mark is the perfect gentleman throughout dinner. He is attentive, and — what surprises you most — he seems to hit the mark perfectly with his choices of food and conversation topics, as if he knows exactly what you like. Of course, he is actually drawing on the knowledge he gathered about you that one particular night, but now he isn't doing it while staring at a screen, he gets to see firsthand how your eyes light up when talking about your favorite things.

When the waiter clears the plates, Mark suddenly reaches across the table, and his warm, heavy palm rests gently over yours. His fingers trace your skin lightly, sending a sudden wave of heat rushing through you.

“You know...” he murmurs, locking his eyes with yours, his voice suddenly turning much more serious. “From the very first day you brought in that folder from Blythe, I knew you were going to turn my life upside down. For months, I just watched you and cursed myself for not making a move sooner. But now that you’re here with me... I don’t plan on making that same mistake again.”

When Mark’s warm palm settles over your hand, your heart begins to pound wildly—not with fear this time, but with sheer excitement. You don’t pull your hand away, instead, you turn your palm upward and gently interlace your fingers with his, signaling that you want exactly what he does. 

"I’m glad you didn’t make that mistake again after all," you whisper, your eyes radiating the attraction Mark has been craving for months. 

The rest of the dinner feels like a hazy, continuous dream. The conversation deepens, and flirtation gives way to a serious, focused attentiveness. Mark hangs on your every word—and for the first time, he isn’t doing it as a tactic, but because you have completely captivated him.

Whatever the full plan was, Max didn’t let you in on it, simply leaving you with a few faint orders: snatch an item from the dressing room, and wait for her to settle her part of the mission. Your half was done in the first minute of entering, all that was left for you was to wait for Max to show and get you out. Unbeknownst to you, the mission took enough twists and turns to redirect Max far from the club, fighting for her life on an unnamed rooftop miles away.

Still, her orders were orders, best to listen to her instead of going off the track. Or at least that was what you repeatedly told yourself, although the piercing gazes were starting to make you wish you stayed at home, alone, sound asleep by now, taking a mental break in preparations to show up to Jam Pony tomorrow. Not your dream workplace, but they paid — although the said pay barely scratched the limits of minimum wage. 

No point dwelling on this now that you’re here, grappling in the middle of this mess, sinking yonder and yonder by the minute. Your foot vigorously tapped on the polished — but already drink-spilled — flooring, counting down the nanoseconds passing. It felt as if time had slowed down just to mess with you. 

“Booth 2 in the talking pit,” the bartender’s voice suddenly cuts into your thoughts, your head shooting up to meet his eyes. What? Seeing your momentary confusion, he lets out a sigh before speaking up again. “Man at booth 2 down in the talking pit. Go,” he cocked his head in the direction of said booth. 

Your heartbeat accelerated in no time, the thought that you managed to blend in a little too well not quite calming you. Being here and acting like you belong here was one thing, but actually doing the job? No, you didn’t sign up for that.

“Need a drink for confidence, or what?” the same bartender slides back to you, having already served three different customers while you were overtaken by panic. He doesn’t even wait for your response before tossing you some drink he made, perhaps a leftover from somebody ordering and not coming back for it. “Get going, or we’ll get another pep talk from the boss ‘bout how nobody’s doing their work right.”

For a moment, you stare at the drink, its surface rippling lightly from the bass shaking the countertop, before your eyes dart over to the bartender, his words marinating in your mind for a second. Would it blow your cover if you told him you don’t even work here? Of course it would. No matter how you looked at this, there was no escaping. 

With a sigh, you grip the glass, downing its contents in one go before smashing it back onto the spot-filled countertop. Drink for confidence, ticked off the list.

Drawing in a final, deep breath, you turn on your heels, heading in the direction the bartender had motioned earlier, assuming that you’ll find your client one way or another. The men who come here probably like dumb women, they won’t even get mad at you if you tell them that you just didn’t know where the booth was. Talking pit, that was your best lead.

Sure enough, it was somewhat easy to see, a few stairsteps leading down to a smaller booth. Just when you were about to make peace with the thought that you’d have to play nice for some dude — calming yourself with the ‘they won’t see me after tonight anyway’ mantra —, your eyes lock onto who’s the one sprawled there. Fuck.

“Well, well,” Alec drawled, leaning casually against the sticky vinyl booth with one elbow, his emerald eyes glinting under the club’s neon glow. “If it isn't Jam Pony's fastest messenger and apparent secret superstar of Midnight Velvet,” he feigned a dramatic gasp. “Next thing I’ll find out you deliver hot packages by day and… other kinds by night?”

Alec leaned back against the cushioned seat, arms folded across his chest, one eyebrow arched with that trademark smirk playing at the corner of his lips. The bass from the music thrummed through the floor, but he didn’t seem to notice, his eyes locked on you like a predator who’d just caught something juicy.

You wanted to run away. To scream, to just pivot and leave this place, get out of its five mile radius and never come back. Your throat went dry, a wave of humiliation washing over you. Out of all the people, of course it was Alec McDowell. Who else, right? Just when you thought destiny was toying with you, the hard truth that it was majorly fucking you over hit you.

“Y'know, uniform’s definitely different from Jam Pony’s,” Alec continues, clearly amused with the little game you two got yourselves into. “Less spandex bike shorts, more... sparkles." A beat of silence passes before he continues. "Relax. Joking. Unless you are up there later? ‘Cause damn, that’d be one delivery I wouldn’t want to miss.”

“What’s this, McDowell?” you finally press out, although the words came out more pathetic than you would’ve wanted them to. 

"I should be the one asking you. Here I was," he drawled, voice low and smooth over the beat, "thinking my night couldn't get any more interesting. And then BAM, there’s you. My wonderful coworker, in full gear." He tilted his head slightly. "Not that I’m complaining. Just… surprised is all."

He lowered his voice like you were sharing secrets instead of an awkward standoff in a strip joint.

"So what’s your act called? 'The Courier Catastrophe'? 'Bombshell Biker Babe'?" His smirk widened into a full-blown grin. "Wait, let me guess: you’re here doing reconnaissance for Jam Pony management? Undercover route survey?"  

He paused dramatically.

"...Or are we gonna pretend you aren’t dressed like a stripper in a strip joint? The only women who can enter here are the workers, y’know… Makes one assume you’re here for—"

“Alright, enough,” you cut him off before anything that could worsen your situation could come out of his mouth. What the hell are you even supposed to do? Of course he ordered you over, the moment he recognized you at the bar it was game over. You knew Alec well enough to know that if he sees an opportunity to fuck you over, he’ll be more than glad to take it — and he just so happened to catch you in a moment of vulnerability.

Alec’s grin softened just a fraction, the sharp edge of his mockery rounding off into satisfaction. He slid over, patting the seat right next to him.

"Ouch. Touchy," he murmured, his voice cutting through the heavy bass. "Sit down before you pass out. You're shaking so hard you're rattling the sequins."

You stood frozen for a second, every survival instinct telling you to bolt. But a quick glance over your shoulder showed the bartender watching you from across the room, arms crossed. If you ran, you blew your cover. If you stayed, you had to survive Alec. With a tight jaw, you stepped down into the booth and sank onto the edge of the seat, keeping as much distance between you and him as the small space allowed.

Alec leaned in, the smell of the club and his familiar leather jacket cutting through the heavy atmosphere. He looked you up and down once more, the smirk returning, though his eyes were sharper now, assessing.

"Alright, let's talk strategy," Alec said, crossing his ankles on the table. "Because you look like a deer staring down a semi-truck, and I'm a nice guy who wants to help."

"You're a lot of things, McDowell. Nice isn't on the list," you muttered, glaring at the neon light reflecting off his boots.

"Hey, hurtful," he feigned a wound to the heart, placing a hand over his chest. "I'm keeping your secret, aren't I? For a price, obviously. Nothing in this life is free."

"What do you want?" you asked, your voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Money? Because if you haven't noticed, I work at Jam Pony too. If anybody, then you know we make pennies."

"Money? Please. I have standards," Alec scoffed, leaning his head back against the cushion. "No, I think we can work out a better deal. For starters, you're going to tell me exactly what you're doing here. Because you clearly don't want to be here, and you've been staring at the emergency exit like it's the holy grail."

He paused, his eyes locking onto yours with a sudden intensity that made your breath hitch. The playful banter died down, replaced by a calculating gaze.

"And second," Alec continued, his voice dropping an octave, "you're going to do my morning delivery route for the next two weeks. No complaints. No trading back."

You stared at him, your brain scrambling to find a way out of the corner he had trapped you in. Max was still missing, the staff was still watching, and Alec held every single card. 

“It’s… a mission Max is on,” you press out, as much as it hurt. “Me being here’s part of her plan.”

Before you could even process the word plan leaving your mouth, Alec’s arm shot out. He grabbed you, and with one swift, effortless tug, he pulled you right across the small space and directly onto his lap. 

A sharp gasp caught in your throat. Your hands instinctively flew out to brace yourself, landing squarely against the tough leather of his jacket. Your face burned a blinding crimson under the neon lights, your heart hammering so hard against your ribs you were certain he could feel it.

"What the hell are you—" you hissed, scrambling to sit up, but his arm wrapped firmly around your waist, locking you in place.

"Shh," Alec murmured, his breath warm against your ear as he pulled you just a fraction closer. The cheeky grin on his face was wide and entirely unbothered. "Stop squirming. Look at your bartender friend. He’s still watching."

Your eyes darted up toward the bar. Sure enough, the bartender was looking right down into Booth 2, his arms no longer crossed, seemingly satisfied that you were finally doing your job.

"See?" Alec drawled, his voice a low, vibrating rumble beneath you. "If you sit on the edge of the seat looking like you're about to vomit, you’re getting thrown out. Or worse, the manager comes over to see why the new girl is broken. I’m saving your skin here."

"By putting me on your lap?!" you whispered fiercely, your face still hot enough to melt. You tried to shift your weight, but the tight outfit Max gave you offered absolutely zero protection against the sheer awkwardness of the situation. Every point of contact felt magnified by a thousand.

"Hey, it's called method acting," Alec teased, his emerald eyes dancing with absolute delight at your sheer panic. He leaned back against the seat, making himself comfortable while you sat there completely rigid. "If you work here, you've gotta act like you work here. A customer pays for a talk, you give 'em a show. Relax your shoulders. You're stiff as a board."

He reached up with his free hand, casually flicking a stray sequin on your shoulder.

“If you say a single word about this at Jam Pony, McDowell, I guarantee that every one of your future deliveries will be to the farthest point in the city.”

Alec chuckled softly, his chest trembling gently beneath your palm. Your threat didn’t scare him in the slightest; in fact, his voice suddenly lost its mocking edge, shifting into a much deeper, more resonant tone. 

"Oh, so you’ve still got some fight in you? Impressive," he whispered, his face hovering just inches from yours. The eyes that had previously held a mocking glint now studied you in a completely different way. His gaze swept over your face, lingering on your lips before returning to your eyes. "But while we’re at it..." he murmured, his hand shifting slightly at your waist as his fingers pressed gently into the soft skin left exposed by your tight dress. "...play the part. You don’t want the bartender to spot that you’re just acting. Just go along with the game."

Reluctantly, you took a deep breath and let go of the stiff lapel of his leather jacket. Instead of pushing him away, your hand slid slowly up to his shoulder, your fingers digging into the soft fabric at his neck. Alec’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but that satisfied half-smile immediately played at the corners of his mouth. 

Slowly — deliberately slowly — you lowered your shoulders and leaned closer to him, just as a true Midnight Velvet employee would. 

"Like this, McDowell?" you whispered, your voice drilling into his ear, while to the bartender it might have looked as though you were sharing your most intimate secrets with your guest. In response, Alec drew in a deep breath.

Your fingers raked through his short-cropped hair, gently tilting his head back. Alec’s arm tightened around your waist so sharply that the leather of his jacket creaked under the strain. He didn’t push you away, nor did he pull you closer, he simply froze, caught between sheer pleasure and the shock of having fallen into his own trap. 

“Atta girl,” Alec mutters as he pulls you closer, your shoulder and side flush against his chest.

The denim fabric of Alec's jeans lightly scraped the supple skin of your thighs as you nestled right into his lap, sitting on his left leg, your arms draped over his shoulder and around his neck. His palm slides onto your thigh, calloused fingers brushing over the exposed skin, tinted red and hot pink under the flickering lights of the club.

The heat of his palm against you sends a jolt straight up your spine, a stark contrast to the sticky air of the club. Alec’s chest rumbles against your shoulder as he lets out a low, amused chuckle, clearly tracking the way your breath hitches at his touch. He’s completely in his element, thriving in the chaos he’s trapped you in.

"Look at you," Alec murmurs, his voice dropping into a smooth, quiet tone that barely carries over the throbbing bass. "A natural. If Jam Pony ever goes under, at least we know you've got a backup career."

"Shut up, McDowell," you snap, though the bite in your voice is ruined by how breathless you sound. You tighten your grip around his neck slightly, less out of affection and more to keep your balance as the room spins from a mix of adrenaline and the cheap alcohol you downed at the bar.

Alec chuckled softly against your neck. His warm breath grazed your skin, sending a shiver down your back. His fingers slid a little higher up your thigh, tracing delicate, almost imperceptible circles on your skin right where your tight dress ended. A cheeky half-smile played on his lips, yet the glint in his eyes betrayed the fact that he wasn't unaffected by the situation either. 

"Besides, who said I minded?" Alec murmured, pulling your head a little closer to his as if whispering a secret. "In fact, I’m starting to think Max has brilliant ideas. Next time, I’ll ask her to send you here before every shift."

His grip on your waist tightened, holding you steady against him as the club floor all but shuddered from the next deep bass note.

"Relax a little," he whispered, his voice now truly devoid of mockery, thick and dark with desire. "Your heart is beating too fast. If some dude comes over, he might think I’m hurting you."

If Alec wanted you to play the role, he got his wish—but on your own terms. 

You smiled slowly, deliberately fixing your gaze on the corner of his mouth. You leaned in even closer—the tip of your nose nearly brushing his, your warm breath washing over his lips. Alec’s eyes darkened and his body tensed with anticipation as the last sliver of space between you vanished. He was certain you were about to give in. But instead of kissing him, at the last moment you turned your head slightly to the side, just barely missing his lips, and whispered right next to his ear. 

"Keep dreaming, McDowell..."

That was the moment Alec’s self-control spectacularly shattered. 

"Oh, not a chance," he murmured hoarsely, and before you could even process what was happening, the hand resting on your waist moved decisively. He gripped your hips and, with a single, commanding motion, pulled you flush against him, his lips crashing onto yours, while his other hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers burying deep into your hair. 

Alec tilted his head and claimed your lips with hunger. The kiss was sudden, intense, and all-consuming. Although the game had started because of the bartender, in that moment, you both forgot you were even in the Midnight Velvet. Alec held nothing back, his kiss deep, confident, and possessive, yet it held a desperate heat that instantly set your blood on fire.

Your hand instinctively gripped his leather jacket, then slid up to his jaw, your fingers tracing it as you surrendered completely. Alec groaned softly into the kiss, his tongue gliding gently along your lower lip, demanding you open up to him—and you did, pulling him closer as if your life depended on it.

When Alec finally pulled away, he released your lips just enough for both of you to catch your breath, his chest heaving wildly beneath your palm. He had lost his head just as completely as you had. 

"See?" he whispered breathlessly, his voice deeper and raspier than ever. "I told you you were a natural."

Your gaze drifted to his moist, slightly swollen lips, and your inhibitions, along with the cheap alcohol, vanished completely. You didn’t answer, instead, you simply placed your hand over his — which was buried in your hair — and pulled him firmly toward you. That single movement burned away the last shred of reason. 

Alec reached for you, his kiss was no longer a performance for the bartender. His tongue hungrily sought entry, and you opened yourself fully to him. The surroundings — the blaring music, the flashing pink lights, Max’s screwed-up mission — ceased to exist entirely.

Alec’s hand slid from your thigh to your hip, his fingers almost digging into your skin as he pulled you even closer, holding you tight against him. He shifted his position, leaning his back fully against the corner of the booth so you could sit comfortably astride his left thigh. 

The fabric of your daring, sequined dress bunched up silently toward your hips as you pressed every inch of your body against his. Your hand left his jawline, sliding down to slip beneath his leather jacket and right under his thin T-shirt. You pressed your palm against Alec’s taut abdomen, eliciting a deep, hoarse groan from his throat that spilled straight into your mouth. 

His kiss grew even more aggressive, even hungrier; the pressure made your lips ache, yet neither of you wanted—or was able—to slow down. 

You no longer cared who saw you or what the bartender might think. Nothing existed but the heat radiating from his body and that overwhelming desire you had both so carefully concealed during the daily grind at Jam Pony. 

Slowly, almost instinctively, you shifted in his lap and swung your other leg over his thigh. Now you were straddling him completely, your hips pressed tight against his. A deep, stifled growl escaped Alec’s throat into the kiss as he felt your full weight upon him. There was no trace of his usual cockiness left.

The hands that had been holding your hips suddenly ventured on a much bolder path: one palm slid slowly up your inner thigh, his fingers leaving a burning trail on your soft skin, grazing just shy of your most sensitive spot and making your back arch sharply. His other hand clamped firmly onto your ass, fingers digging deep into your flesh. 

His tongue entwined with yours, hot and confident, while your hands clung desperately to his shoulders; you practically dug your fingers into his leather jacket to keep from losing your balance. Alec shifted his hips slightly, pressing and rubbing gently against you in the darkness of the cramped booth.

Alec suddenly pulled his mouth away from yours. His breath came in ragged, searing gasps, and his lips glistened, wet and flushed, in the flickering pink neon light. His hands were still gripping you, and his body beneath you was so tense it felt as though it might explode at any moment. 

"If we don't leave right now... I won't be able to stop myself..." he whispered, his voice so hoarse and dark with desire that it was barely audible over the thumping bass. The fire in his eyes seemed to burn as he waited for your answer, ready to sweep you up and carry you out the nearest exit. 

You, however, merely offered a slow, cheeky smile, even though your own chest was heaving wildly for air. You leaned in even closer, your lips grazing his earlobe as you parted them to whisper.

"You told me to play the role, McDowell..." you murmured. "So you're getting exactly what you asked for." 

That retort snapped the last thread of Alec’s self-control. A deep, guttural growl tore from his throat, and the very fact that you were in one of Midnight Velvet’s public booths vanished completely from his mind. Instead of standing up, his hands ventured as his right palm, fingers curled, slid beneath the thin hem of your dress, pressing directly against your bare skin.

A sharp, stifled gasp caught in your throat as his warm fingers finally reached the silky fabric of your underwear, applying a touch that was gentle yet firm. Your back arched, your head instinctively burying itself in Alec’s shoulder, while your fingers dug into his leather jacket so hard your nails nearly pierced the material. 

You surrendered completely to the pleasure, your body moving in rhythm with his hips as Alec reached beneath your clothes, bolder and deeper, claiming you entirely amidst the dark, pulsating depths of the club.

Waves of pleasure crashed over you so intensely that, eyes closed, you pressed yourself against him in total surrender. But just as the first loud sigh was about to escape your throat, Alec’s fingers suddenly stopped. With a deep, ragged breath, he pulled away from your neck. 

"That’s enough," he growled, his voice so hoarse it seemed to vibrate. "I’m not going to let the bartender, or anyone else, stare at you while..."

Before you could even answer or fully process his words, Alec firmly reached beneath your waist and thigh. With a single fluid and confident motion, he lifted you from his lap. You let out an involuntary gasp at the sudden shift in height, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck and locking your legs around his hips to keep from falling. 

Alec didn't hesitate, he strode with firm steps toward a darker, more secluded corner of the club.

He stepped behind a burgundy velvet curtain that led into one of the club’s enclosed private booths. Inside, the club’s thumping bass grew muffled, and the flashing lights from outside gave way to a single, sultry, deep-red lamp. 

A soft, plush sofa filled the room, completely isolating you from the outside world. Alec leaned his back against the heavy oak door, which clicked shut behind you. He was still holding you in his arms, his eyes seemed to glow in the red light as he looked down at you. 

"So," he breathed, his cocky, confident half-smile slowly returning to his lips, though his voice still trembled with desire. "No one can see us here. Now you can continue your role... and I’ll continue mine."

Alec lowered you slowly, almost reverently, onto the soft plush. As your back touched the velvety fabric, your dress rode up even higher, but you didn't mind at all now. Alec immediately loomed over you, bracing his hands against the back of the sofa on either side of your head, ready to pick up exactly where he had left off outside. 

You, however, refused to let him dictate the pace. Taking advantage of the total privacy afforded by the closed door, you flashed a cheeky smile. Before Alec could lean in closer, you placed your palm flat against his chest, right over his heart, and pushed him away firmly but slowly. Alec raised his eyebrows in surprise but complied, staying put, even as his breathing grew even more ragged.

You slowly sat up on the sofa, movements deliberately feline and provocative. Your hand moved toward the lapel of his leather jacket, but instead of taking it off, you slowly traced your fingers up his neck to his jawline. You leaned closer, just enough for a strand of your hair to brush against his cheek. 

"In a rush, McDowell?" you whispered, your voice soft and sultry. "I thought you were the one who liked to strategize." 

A low, stifled sound escaped Alec’s throat, you could see his last shred of self-control slowly crumbling under your slow torment. His hands wandered to your hips, his fingers digging deep into your skin as if begging you to end the game. 

"You're driving me crazy..." he growled hoarsely. You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you helped him shrug off his jacket before you gently grasped the hem of his T-shirt and slowly pulled it up, revealing his taut abs inch by inch, while planting tiny, searing kisses along his collarbone and down onto his chest. 

Alec’s head fell back and the veins in his neck stood out as desire all but paralyzed him. When the shirt finally hit the floor, your hand wandered to the waistband of his trousers.

Alec couldn't stand the distance any longer. He grabbed your waist and, with a single motion, pulled you beneath him onto the couch. His kiss was relentless now, leaving you breathless. His hands roamed your body wildly, pushing down the straps of your dress from your shoulders and baring your skin to his hot lips. Your body fell into perfect rhythm with his; you instinctively pressed your hips against his. 

He still towered over you, his hot breath searing your neck as his hands firmly gripped the fabric of your dress. With a single, decisive motion, he stripped it—along with your underwear—down past your hips, leaving your body completely exposed against the velvet of the plush sofa. His eyes were dark, almost pitch-black with desire, as he gazed at you in the dim light. 

"Alec..." you whispered breathlessly, your voice faltering as the cool air touched your skin, but Alec didn't let you finish.

Slowly, inch by inch, he slid down your body. His hot lips left a burning trail across your stomach and ribs, making your stomach clench involuntarily with pleasure. His hands settled on your inner thighs, his calloused fingers parted your legs firmly yet gently, laying you completely open before him. 

When Alec sank to his knees in front of the sofa and his gaze fell upon your most intimate spot, your heart pounded so wildly it almost hurt. There was no time to think. Alec leaned closer, and his hot, wet tongue glided—at first cautiously and softly—along the sensitive inner curve of your sex. 

A sharp, audible gasp escaped your throat as you helplessly buried your head in the plush cushions. That first touch sent an electric jolt racing down your spine. Alec sensed your shudder and gripped your thighs even tighter, holding you steady as his movements grew more confident and intense. His tongue worked rhythmically, deeply, and relentlessly, pinpointing the exact spot that made every fiber of your body go taut. 

Your hands instinctively buried themselves in his hair, fingers tangling in the short strands—sometimes pulling him closer, other times helplessly pushing him away—as waves of pleasure began to crash over you. A low, satisfied growl escaped Alec’s throat against your skin as he felt your hips lift involuntarily from the couch, demanding the rhythm he was setting. 

Alec teased you with his tongue until your body went taut and you crossed the threshold with a loud, stifled cry. Waves of pleasure were still coursing through your veins when he slowly straightened up. His lips glistened in the red light, his breathing was heavy.

He gave you no time to catch your breath, immediately climbing back onto the sofa over you, his weight gently pressing your body into the plush cushions. His hands tangled in your hair, and he claimed your lips as if he meant to consume you entirely. 

His kiss was darker and more demanding now, his tongue eagerly entwining with yours. With a single, decisive movement, he shed his trousers, then gripped your hips, gently lifting and pulling your body against his. As he settled between your thighs, you felt the heat of his skin.

"Look at me," he growled hoarsely, right against your lips, as he interlaced his fingers with yours and pinned your hands above your head. You obeyed. Your eyes widened in the deep crimson gloom, and the next moment, a deep, fading sigh escaped your throat as Alec became one with you in a single, slow, yet ruthlessly decisive movement. 

It instantly surged into an overwhelming, wild rhythm. Alec held nothing back as his hips moved in a deep cadence, and with every thrust, you felt the raw power straining his body. The plush sofa creaked softly beneath your combined weight, but the noise of the outside world ceased to exist entirely. 

Your hand broke free from his grasp and clung desperately to his broad, muscular shoulders. You dug your nails into his back as fresh, even more intense waves of pleasure began to flood your mind. Alec buried his face in your neck, his teeth grazing your skin gently, while the pace grew faster and more demanding.

The wild rhythm finally culminated in one last, tense moment. A deep, hoarse groan tore from Alec’s throat as his body went rigid above you, his hips driving deep into you one final time. Clawing at his back and with your head thrown helplessly back, you followed him into the deep haze. 

For long minutes, only your ragged, heavy breathing could be heard in the silence of the private booth. Alec slowly sank down beside you on the sofa, then turned and pulled you close, your bare back pressed against his muscular chest, while his chin rested atop your head, your skin still damp and hot from the storm that had just passed.

"Well..." Alec finally spoke, his voice still incredibly deep and husky, but that familiar, cheeky edge was already creeping back into it. "I have to say... you’ve definitely earned that tip." 

You smiled in the dark and gave him a playful nudge in the ribs with your elbow. 

"Shut up, McDowell." 

"I’m serious," he chuckled softly, his arm wrapping even tighter around your waist, his fingers resting gently on your stomach. "But all jokes aside... I don't think walking into Jam Pony tomorrow morning will feel the same. Although, come to think of it, the morning briefings are going to be a lot more interesting now that I’ll be picturing you in that sequined dress."

It’s been well over two years since you moved away in hopes of a better life and a start with a clean slate. To some extent, you succeeded. Nobody knew you, you were an invisible presence with no meaningful social life. Your friends? Still in your hometown. The strangers in the big city paid you no mind, a socially awkward and quiet girl was the least of their concerns amidst their bustling lives. Though, by now, you could bet that even your old friends forgot you.

The day of your arrival was the day it all took a turn. 

The suitcase in your arm weighted like lead as you exited the train station, hopping onto the dusty, rugged asphalt that the town always promised to repair sometime. By the looks of it, they either never did, or did a real shit job. 

Your destination was a motel, your stubbornness refusing to move back to the smoke-fogged, frowzy and dimly-lit house of your mother. You’ve spent more than enough time there, and you had just enough to rent a room for these oncoming days, even weeks perhaps.

That’s when it hit your ears. A male voice, accompanied by the rustling sound of wheels grinding on the road.

“Excuse me,” you hear from your side. Oh, great, a creep. You wanted to tell him to fuck off, to quit trying to pick up younger girls, but then again, what if it’s somebody who means no harm, just asking for maybe directions? 

With a sigh, you turn to face him, his car — a dark, seemingly older model pickup truck — slowing down just enough to match the pace of your steps. Contrary to what you thought, the face in the car was less disgusting and more familiar — and handsome. Sitting inside was the man you saw mostly on old photographs of your dad, or at drink nights. A friend of his, if you recognized him just right. By the looks of it, he recognized you too.

“You’re John’s girl, right?” He continues, voice deep, one hand on the steering wheel while the other rests in the rolled down window. 

“Yeah,” you nod along, unsure where this was going. The two of you never really talked or met properly, but what did you expect, he was your dad’s friend and not yours after all.

“Your bag seems heavy. Need a ride?”

Your breath hitches for a moment as you consider his offer. It sounded tempting, let’s be real, who would want to walk twenty minutes with their arm about to rip off when they can just toss it onto the backseat and lay back? If there’s an easy way, you best bet you’re taking it.

“If it’s not a problem,” you reply after a beat. A soft, barely noticeable smile creeps onto his face as he leans over to the passenger side, calloused fingers pulling up the manual lock and pushing the door open for you. You mutter a quick thank you as you step from the sidewalk to the car, lowering yourself onto the black, cushioned seat before putting your baggage at your feet. 

“Your mother’s house, right?” He questioned as he fixed his eyes on the rearview mirror to check for oncoming traffic.

“No, the motel down on Redford Street,” you quietly reply. Luckily, he takes your answer with a nod and no further questions.

You adjust yourself a little as the car begins to roll back onto the main road — having stalled in a parking lane while you two exchanged words —, pieces of gravel softly crunching under the sturdy rubber wheels.

The wheels hummed softly as they devoured the familiar, potholed asphalt. The cabin held the distinctive scent of old cars: cheap pine-scented air freshener and the heavy odor of leather seats. The blend instantly transported you back to your childhood, when everything seemed simpler. 

Your father’s friend steered the car with practiced ease, watching the road in stifling silence charged with unspoken condolences and the awkwardness of the situation. 

Suddenly, he turned his head toward you and broke the silence. 

"I’m sorry about your father,” he began, his tone low. “He was a good man, even if he did have... difficult times. I never imagined he’d go like this."

You nodded along with his words, your eyes fixed on the passing scenery from the passenger window. His words seemed sincere, but the comment about your dad being a good person threw you a bit off. In a way, he was. Compared to your mother, he was a good enough source of comfort. Still, it’s best if you keep quiet for now.

“You left about two years ago, right?” He continued, eyes darting to you in hopes of catching an answer before he turned back to the road. “Your dad and I, we… we were close. He missed you a lot.”

The remark caught you off guard. Your father was never the sentimental type — he didn’t call or send messages — and you, too, had thought it best not to reopen old wounds over the phone. Did you want to believe him, or was this just one of those polite, white lies people tell the bereaved? 

A lump formed in your throat, and the grey small-town houses flitting past the windshield blurred for a moment. The uneven road made the car jolt rhythmically as you stared at the tips of your shoes, pondering your reply. The man was clearly waiting for your reaction. One hand rested loosely on the steering wheel, his eyes tracing the curves of the road, yet his shoulder was tense. He sensed he was treading on shaky ground, both in the conversation and with the car.

“You might not remember me,” he tries to usher the conversation in a slightly different way. “I mean, your dad never really introduced us to each other. Jensen,” he makes the long overdue introduction.

Although you had never spoken in person, you recognized that face from the yellowed photographs—younger, smiling, a beer bottle in hand during a fishing trip. He was the man your father always mentioned whenever he reminisced about the "good old days." 

"I remember," you finally said, your voice slightly hoarse from the silence. "My father told me about you. And I saw you with him sometimes." 

The man smiled faintly, as if relieved that you didn't view him as a stranger. Meanwhile, the car slowed as you entered the small town’s shabby center. The same local faces were still loitering in front of the neon-lit corner shop as they had been two years ago. 

"I’m glad something’s coming back to you," Jensen nodded as he signaled and turned onto the street leading to the motel — a road in even worse condition than the others. "I know it’s none of my business, but... if you get stuck with the paperwork or the funeral arrangements, let me know. I know the local clerks. Dealing with them isn't exactly a picnic, especially right now." 

The tires crunched as they rolled into the gravel parking lot of the motel. The building was just as run-down as you remembered: paint peeling from the walls, and insects already circling desperately around the yellow light above the entrance, even in the twilight. Jensen killed the engine. The sudden silence was almost palpable. 

"Well, here we are," the man said, turning toward you and glancing where your bag lay. "Are you sure you want to stay here? Your mother’s house isn't far."

“I’m not going to my mother’s,” you said firmly, perhaps a bit more coldly than you had intended. Your eyes were fixed on the motel’s worn, yellowish wall. “I’d rather stay here.” 

Jensen didn’t answer right away. His hands still rested on the steering wheel, his fingers drumming rhythmically against the leather. He was visibly searching for the right words as that suffocating silence settled over the car once more. 

“Look,” he said finally, his voice deep and serious. “You shouldn’t be alone in a place like this. Your dad... your dad wouldn’t want you holed up in this run-down dump. If you want, you can stay with me. I’ll sleep on the couch if needed. You can stay until the funeral is over and you’ve sorted out the paperwork. You won’t be in the way, I promise.”

The offer caught you off guard and made you pause for a moment. Although Jensen seemed kind and was a friend of your father’s, he was still a stranger to you. Besides, you had grown too accustomed to solitude and independence to rely on someone else’s goodwill now. 

"Thank you, but... I’ll really be better off at the motel. I need to sort out my thoughts," you said, declining in a quiet but firm voice. Jensen didn’t press the issue. He simply nodded, as if he had expected the answer, then reached into his inner coat pocket. He pulled out a torn scrap of checkered paper with a string of numbers hastily scrawled on it in blue ink. He reached out and placed the paper next to the gearshift, right within your reach.

“If you change your mind, or if you need anything... if you get stuck at the office or run into any trouble, give me a call,” he said, looking into your eyes. “I owe you that much, for your father’s sake, too.”

You tucked the slip of paper into your pocket, whispered a quiet thank-you, and stepped out of the car with a soft sigh. The heavy suitcase immediately tugged at your shoulder as you stepped onto the gravel. The cool evening air hit your face as you walked toward the motel entrance but paused at the door to glance back over your shoulder. Jensen was still there with the engine running; the headlights cut a yellowish beam through the twilight. 

You gave a faint wave of goodbye. He nodded, waved back, and you pressed down on the heavy, worn iron handle and stepped into the reception area as he hit the gas, tires crunching on the gravel, the car slowly disappearing down the street.

After that, you didn’t see him for a few days, both of which you spent in the solitude of your musty, rented room. You didn’t make yourself at home, your bag unpacked for the most part with the exception of the clothes you changed in those two days. Still, it was time to do something, the weight of the paperwork looming dangerously heavy over your head. 

When Jensen said that it’s not too easy dealing with the clerks, he wasn’t lying, and you got to experience it firsthand. You sat there like an unsure, often stuttering mess, your leg rapidly bouncing and your pulse increasing.

The clerks were even more heartless than you had expected. From behind her thick glasses, the cold female official looked at you as if you were just another tedious file in the stack. 

"This form is incomplete," she said, sliding the paper back toward you with a dismissive gesture. "I need the original insurance policy alongside the death certificate; without it, I can't close the first stage of the probate proceedings."

You nodded mechanically, without a word. You lacked the courage to argue with that ice-cold woman, especially since, deep down, you knew perfectly well that the document had likely long since been lost somewhere amidst the chaos of the family home. 

With trembling fingers, you gathered your bag and hurriedly left the office’s stifling room. Stepping out onto the street, the cool air immediately hit your face. Your throat still felt tight, and your pulse returned to normal only slowly. 

You sat on the steps of the office building, head in your hands, trying to pull yourself together. Your stubbornness tightened around your throat like a noose: you simply refused to pick up the phone and ask Jensen for help, yet walking into your mother’s house in search of the document was completely out of the question. Instead, you sat on the cold concrete, waiting for your pulse to steady. 

Then, a pair of heavy, dusty boots stopped right in front of you, breaking the monotony of the grey pavement. You slowly lifted your head, your gaze traveling up his worn jeans until it met his. It was Jensen. He stood looking down at you, hands in his jacket pockets and head tilted slightly to the side; his eyes held a mixture of pity and an "I told you so" expression.

“I thought I’d find you here,” he said, breaking the silence with his deep, calm voice. “I saw you come out from my car. It looked like you wanted nothing more than to set the building and the bureaucrats inside on fire.” 

He took a step forward, then with a tired grunt, lowered down onto the steps beside you without a second thought, unconcerned that the concrete was dirty. Resting his elbows on his knees, he gazed at the street opposite. 

“So, tell me,” he said quietly. “Which piece of paperwork did they take issue with?”

“More like which one they didn’t take an issue with,” you sighed, chin resting in your palm as your eyes were fixed on the passing cars ahead.

He leaned closer, and his voice shifted to a deep, warm tone that instantly began to soothe the throbbing tension in your head. 

"Hey, it’s okay. We’ll sort it out," he said softly, glancing at you before his eyes drift back to the street across. "Getting hold of one lousy document isn't the end of the world. We’ll handle it easily, you’ll see." 

You fell silent for a moment. Deep down, a wave of relief washed over you; it was an incredible comfort to have someone in this alien-feeling hometown who stood by your side and wouldn't let you sink alone into the quagmire of this. At the same time, however, your stomach instantly knotted at the thought of the next step.

“For that... I have to go back to my mother’s house,” you finally replied, your voice barely audible. The words were a struggle to get out. “It’s bound to be there, among my father’s things.” 

Jensen understood immediately. You didn’t need to explain or elaborate on how toxic and stifling your relationship was within that house. A faint, sympathetic shadow crossed his face, and then he nodded decisively. 

“I get it,” he said, standing up and brushing off his trousers. “I’ll go with you. If I’m there, your mother will think twice about making a scene, and we’ll get it over with faster. You up for it?”

Jensen’s warm, calloused palm offered a steady anchor amidst the uncertainty as he held it out for you to grab. As you took his hand and stood up, your legs were still trembling slightly from the tension, but his presence gave you strength. 

"Thank you," you whispered, letting go of his hand and brushing off your coat. Jensen simply nodded and gestured toward his car. You found yourself sitting on that same worn black seat again, yet the atmosphere was vastly different from what it had been at the station. 

Your stomach knotted at the thought of returning to the house you had fled two years ago. Jensen clearly noticed your tension, he didn't force a conversation — simply turning down the radio’s volume, which was crackling with old rock music — and steered the car confidently toward the suburbs.

The doorbell was the same chime as it was before you left. You shifted your weight from one leg to the other as you stood there, waiting impatiently for the door to fly open, Jensen just a step behind you like a loyal bodyguard. It took a good five minutes for the lock to shift, the door creaking open to reveal your mother’s rugged face on the other side. 

She looked even more worn than in your memories. Deep, dark circles sat beneath her eyes, and her gaze was bleary—as if she had just woken up, or as if, despite the early afternoon hour, she had already had her first drink. The stale stench of cigarette smoke hit you instantly as the heavy air of the house wafted out through the ajar door. 

When her eyes fixed on you, there was no tearful embrace, no sigh of relief, only a mocking sneer flitted across her face. 

"So, the prodigal daughter has dared to come home after all," she said in a raspy, harsh voice, completely ignoring the mourning or the fact that she hadn't seen you in two years. "I thought your big-city life had made you forget where you came from."

But before she could completely shut down the conversation, her gaze fell upon the figure standing behind you. Jensen stood there with tense shoulders, his expression grim and commanding. Your mother’s expression shifted instantly, and mockery gave way to a tense uncertainty. 

"Jensen?" she asked, her voice noticeably less steady. "And what are you doing here with her?" 

Jensen didn’t back down. He took a half-step closer to you, shielding you from the woman’s words.

"Hi, Martha. I’m just helping the girl sort out the paperwork following John’s death," Jensen replied in a deep, firm voice. "We need to go into the study to get some documents for the authorities. We won’t get in the way." 

Your mother sized Jensen up, then looked back at you. Finally, with a stifled snort, she stepped aside and opened the door wider, clearing the way into the dim hallway.

Your father’s study remained untouched, as if frozen in time. Stacks of papers were still collecting dust the way they were left, a pen haphazardly left on the edge of the table like it was just about to fall down, chair scrambled away from the desk. Finding a document in here will definitely be a challenge, you thought. To your luck, you had Jensen helping you out.

While you searched through various drawers at the desk, Jensen, with his massive frame, pushed aside the rickety chest of drawers standing in the corner. He crouched down and began to sift carefully yet expertly through the jumbled papers and old odds and ends in the bottom drawer.

Your eyes involuntarily drifted to Jensen. As he crouched there in the semi-darkness, his broad shoulders strained against his jacket, and a beam of light from the window sharply illuminated his profile. There was something incredibly reassuring and steadfast about his presence. 

He was under no obligation to help you, yet he had come to this hated house without a word, and was now kneeling in the dust, sifting through papers—all just to make things easier for you. 

For a moment, a wave of warmth washed over your chest, and you found yourself gazing at him, lost in quiet admiration. Suddenly, as if sensing the weight of your stare, Jensen’s fingers paused on the papers. He slowly turned his head toward you, and his eyes locked directly with yours.

Your heart leapt into your throat for a moment. Panic at the thought of being caught washed over you instantly, the tips of your ears burned, and you jerked your head back toward the desk in a hurried, almost convulsive motion. You pretended that the first yellowish envelope within reach was the most important thing in the world and began hurriedly rustling the papers, hoping he hadn't noticed how long you had been staring at him. 

From the other side of the room came a very faint, barely audible, deep chuckle, after which Jensen turned back to the drawer. 

"I think I've found something," the man’s deep voice broke the silence as he pulled an official-looking document with a blue header from the bottom of the stack.

"That’s the one," you nodded in relief as Jensen handed over the document. Fortunately, the earlier awkward moment faded as you sorted through the papers, and since your mother stayed in the living room, you managed to leave the house without a confrontation. 

Back at the office, things finally went smoothly. The stern clerk took the insurance policy and stamped it, officially concluding the hardest part of the paperwork. 

As you stepped out through the office’s heavy oak doors, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, you involuntarily paused at the top of the steps. Your eyes widened in surprise. Jensen’s car was still parked by the roadside, the engine purring softly, and he was waiting patiently, leaning on the steering wheel. You had assumed he would leave immediately after finishing this business, but he had waited for you to come back out.

As soon as he noticed you, he rolled down the window and waved. 

"So, did it work out?" he asked as you stepped up to the car. 

"Yeah, I’ve got everything. Thank you," you replied, and for the first time, your voice held genuine, heartfelt gratitude. 

"You're welcome. Hop in, I'll take you back to the motel," the man nodded, already reaching across to open the door for you from the inside. You didn't hesitate for a second. You immediately accepted the invitation and sank into the seat, which now seemed far more welcoming and secure than your own cold, sterile motel room. As you closed the car door, shutting out the noise of the outside world, a deep, relieved sigh escaped you.

You had been alone for so long. Over the past two years in the big city, you had become almost invisible; you had no friends, no one to ask how your day went or to stand by you when the waves crashed over your head. That suffocating isolation and loneliness had completely consumed you. 

But now, beside Jensen—in his silent yet all-understanding presence—something had changed. You felt at ease and safe with him. It was good not to have to carry your burdens alone anymore. Jensen slowly accelerated, and the car rolled out of the parking lot. 

"I imagine a proper meal would hit the spot after all that fast food you probably ate at the motel," Jensen remarked with a faint half-smile, his eyes on the road. "There’s a nice little diner on the way. What do you think?"

Over the next weeks, you’ve grown closer to Jensen. He’d call you from time to time, asking if you need anything when he’s out on a grocery run, or if everything’s going fine with the paperwork and arrangements, always offering to jump in and help if needed. For the most part, you stood on your own legs, declining his kindhearted offers. But when he invited you out somewhere, who were you to say no? 

That first shared meal at the corner diner was followed by other occasions. Jensen became part of your daily life almost imperceptibly, a steady anchor amidst the chaos of grief and official arrangements. Whenever your phone rang and you heard his deep, soothing voice on the other end, your stomach no longer knotted with stress. 

You learned to appreciate his care. Although your stubbornness led you to handle the grocery shopping or the coordination with the funeral home on your own, you couldn't bring yourself to give up those shared car rides, coffee breaks, and quiet conversations. With him, even the silence didn't feel stifling. 

On the eve of the funeral, Jensen appeared once more in the parking lot of the motel you’ve been staying at. The setting sun cast a yellowish glow over the car's hood as he stepped out and leaned against the bodywork.

“Tomorrow will be the hardest day,” he said quietly as you stepped closer. Sincere concern was reflected in his eyes. “I’ll be right behind you at the service. But I was thinking... I could take you somewhere tonight to clear your head. There’s a spot at the edge of town, by the lake. Your father and I used to go there a lot.”

The lakeside quiet and the last rays of light shimmering on the water’s surface finally washed away the tension. After hours of talking about the past, yourself, himself, your father, and the future, Jensen pushed himself up from the bench with a low grunt and looked at you. 

"It’s getting chilly," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "How about we head over to my place? We could have a drink, and you wouldn't have to sit out here in the cold." 

You didn't hesitate long, and your answer was met with a relieved smile. After a short drive, you pulled up at the quieter, wooded edge of town, in front of a cozy trailer surrounded by trees. A small light with a yellowish glow shone above the metal frame, casting a welcoming atmosphere into the darkness.

As you stepped inside, you were immediately greeted by warmth and the scent of wood. Jensen’s trailer was surprisingly clean and tidy: old fishing rods and a few yellowed photographs of your father and old friends adorned the walls, while a comfortable brown leather sofa beckoned from the corner. 

"Have a seat, I’ll get the drinks," Jensen said, gesturing toward the sofa as he removed his heavy jacket, revealing broad shoulders beneath a thin T-shirt. He walked over to the kitchenette, where glasses clinked as he pulled out two beers from his fridge before plopping down next to you with a grunt, the plush of the sofa sinking a little beneath the weight.

The silence of the trailer was broken only by the soft hum of the television and the whispering of leaves on the trees outside. The glasses sat half-empty on the small table, and as the hours ticked by, your conversation slowed to a hushed murmur. The heavy week, the tense hours spent at the office, and the weight of tomorrow’s funeral finally took their toll: your eyelids grew heavy, and the outside world slowly blurred away. 

After a while, Jensen noticed a striking silence. Turning his head slightly to glance over his shoulder, he saw that you were already fast asleep, your head resting trustingly against his warm shoulder.

A soft, warm smile—one rarely seen—spread across his face. Careful not to wake you, he shifted and slowly wrapped his arm around your waist. He pulled you closer, gently yet firmly, letting you snuggle right up to him and find perfect peace in the safety of his embrace. He didn't want to move or break the magic of the moment, he simply let you sleep there, watching over you on the first night in a long time that you didn't feel alone.

Morning sunlight cut sharply through the trailer’s small window, shining straight into your eyes. As you stirred, your neck felt a bit stiff from the awkward angle of the sofa. A sudden wave of panic washed over you; your heart pounded as the image of the unfamiliar furniture burned into your retinas. 

You quickly checked yourself. Fortunately, you were fully dressed, and your clothes were exactly as they had been the night before. As you let out a breath of relief, you noticed the sound of quiet rustling and a metallic clatter coming from the kitchenette, accompanied by the unmistakable, rich aroma of fresh coffee. Jensen was standing at the counter with his back to you, wearing a simple white T-shirt. 

"Good morning," he said, turning toward you the moment he heard the sofa springs creak. He looked well-rested, and his voice held its usual deep, low rumble. "How did you sleep? You passed out last night like you’d been knocked cold. I didn't want to wake you."

Your voice was still a bit husky from sleep, but you tried to brush it off. 

"I'm sorry... I didn't plan on falling asleep here. Must be the exhaustion," you mumbled, trying to smooth down your disheveled hair. Jensen set a mug of steaming black coffee on the side table in front of you, then sat down in the armchair opposite you. 

"Don't apologize," he said with a soft, reassuring half-smile, warmth glinting in his eyes. "You needed the rest. You've been under more stress these past few days than anyone should have to bear alone. I'm glad you felt safe enough here to fall asleep."

You drank your coffee in silence for a few minutes while the branches of the trees outside tapped softly against the roof of the trailer. The quiet was just as intimate now as it had been the night before. Finally, Jensen glanced at his watch and then back at you. 

"Well, we should probably get going," he said in a lower voice, alluding to the true weight of the day. "I’ll take you to the motel so you can change and get ready for the funeral. I’ll meet you at the cemetery at one o’clock so you won’t have to walk in alone."

Your black dress felt heavy and stifling, and the scent of fresh earth from the cemetery seemed to have seeped right into your skin. 

You had held it together during the service—Jensen standing like a rock behind you the whole time—but now that it was over, loneliness and the stark realization crashed over you like a wave. Your father was truly gone. He was no more. 

You didn't want to go back to that bleak motel room, and you needed to escape your own thoughts. That was how you ended up in a dimly lit, neon-bathed tavern on the edge of town. You sat hunched over a high stool at the bar, clutching an ice-cold glass. Dull music played in the background, and the smoky air stung your eyes. You just wanted to be alone with your thoughts. 

"A pretty girl like you shouldn't be drinking alone in a place like this," a slick, unpleasant voice suddenly spoke up right beside you. Fuck.

You flinched and glanced to the side. A strange man had settled into the seat next to you, brazenly close. He reeked of cheap cologne and beer, his face gleaming with grease in the glow of the bar lights. He raked his eyes over your black outfit, but there was no respect in his gaze, only that predatory boredom typical of small-town creeps. 

"What's the matter, babe? Did your boyfriend dump you, or are you just looking for Mr. Right?" he asked, leaning even closer as his hand drifted dangerously near the one resting on the counter.

"Leave me alone, please. I’m not interested," you said in a low, tense voice, trying to remain calm and civilized. 

The man, however, just grinned; the rejection seemed to embolden him even more. Seeing that he wouldn't back off, you stood up from the counter and headed toward the exit. Your heart was pounding in your throat again. The man immediately stepped after you, following you through the smoky, dimly lit room. 

"Don't be so cold, baby! I just want to talk," he whispered, and the next moment, he roughly grabbed your wrist and yanked you toward him. You tried to break free and shove his hand away, but his grip was too strong, and the noise of the pub drowned out your protests. A sense of helpless panic washed over you.

Just then, a massive, heavy shadow fell over you. With a stifled cry, the creep let go of your wrist as a hand grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall in one swift motion. It was Jensen. His eyes flashed with anger, his shoulders were tense, and his body loomed menacingly over the terrified man. 

"Back off, or this night isn’t going to end well for you," Jensen growled in a voice so cold that it sent a shiver down your spine. The creep took the hint immediately; when Jensen released him, he held up his hands in alarm and hurriedly vanished into the darkness of the pub. Jensen turned slowly, his gaze instantly softening as he looked at you. Genuine concern was etched on his face as he gently placed his large hands on your shoulders, as if checking to make sure you were unharmed.

“You okay?” he asked quietly as he led you out into the cool, fresh air. He walked over to the parked car, opened the door for you. You silently plopped down on the seat, him too making his way over to the driver’s seat, closing that door behind himself before he glanced at you. “If you still want a drink, we could go to my place. It’s quiet and safe there. Or I can take you to the motel, or anywhere else you’d like. It’s your call.”

The car’s enclosed cabin instantly shut out the muffled sounds of the pub and the outside world. You sat motionless on the black leather seat as the accumulated tension of the past few days—the cold rejection from the authorities, your mother’s poisonous words, the scent of fresh earth at the cemetery, and the incident at the pub—came crashing down on you all at once. 

Your loneliness and grief grew so heavy that your throat tightened completely. Then, the dam broke. At first, your shoulders merely began to shake rhythmically with suppressed, quiet sobs. You buried your face in your palms, trying to hold back the tears, but they forced their way out between your fingers, unstoppable. 

Jensen didn’t start the engine. He didn’t spout trite words of comfort, nor did he pretend nothing had happened. He simply unbuckled his seatbelt quietly and turned toward you. He gently placed his large, calloused hands on the back of your neck and your back, then softly pulled you close. 

As your forehead met his heavy jacket, your sobbing intensified, and you clutched his clothes with a desperate grip, as if he were the only solid point in a collapsing world. Jensen simply held you, firmly and reassuringly, letting you finally release all the pain you had been carrying.

Your crying slowly subsided into quiet, rhythmic sobs against Jensen’s chest. The steady beat of his heart near your ear and the comforting scent of pine and beer radiating from him finally quelled the storm raging in your mind. 

As the sobbing eased, instead of pulling away, you found yourself clinging even tighter to him. You slowly lifted your head, releasing your grip on his jacket. Your eyes were red and wet from tears, and your face burned with embarrassment, yet Jensen didn’t let go. With his thumb, he gently—almost with unbelievable tenderness—wiped the last remaining tear from your cheek.

Your eyes met in the dark interior of the car, illuminated only by the faint, flickering neon glow of the distant pub. The silence that settled between you wasn't born of grief or tension, instead, the air was thick with something else entirely, a palpable, electric charge. 

Jensen’s eyes were dark, his gaze drifting slowly from yours to your lips. His breathing grew heavier, and his grip on your waist tightened, pulling your body closer to his. After two years of loneliness, isolation, and a lack of affection, this sudden, raw intimacy felt almost intoxicating. You didn't want to pull away; you craved his warmth. Jensen leaned in slowly—giving you time to object—until his warm breath brushed against your skin, then sought your lips with a touch that was gentle yet driven by a hungry determination.

The kiss was soft and tentative at first, but it quickly shifted into something far deeper, an urgent desire. Jensen’s lips were warm, and his stubble grazed your skin, making the moment feel all the more real. Driven by a longing for greater comfort and closer contact, you shifted over the gearshift and settled right onto Jensen’s lap. He greeted the move with a low, satisfied rumble. 

His large, strong hands immediately settled on your thighs and waist, confidently supporting your weight as he anchored you against him within the cramped confines of the car. Amidst the heated make-out session, Jensen pulled his lips away from yours for a moment, though he didn't move far. He began peppering your face with soft, light kisses, gently brushing away the tears that still lingered beneath your eyes and across your features.

“You’re so pretty when you cry,” he whispered against the skin of your reddened cheek, his warm breath causing your own to hitch.

Your hands instinctively clung to his neck, your fingers burying themselves in his thick hair, while thoughts of the trailer and the pub faded completely from your mind. Nothing existed but the warmth of his body and his steady, deep breathing.

Jensen’s large palm slid slowly up your back, gently tracing the line of your spine through the thin fabric. He pulled away slightly—just enough to look into your eyes in the darkness—and caressed your face once more with his thumb. 

"Let’s go back to my place," he said softly. His voice was even deeper and more gravelly than usual, thick with tension. He didn't phrase it as a question, but rather as a quiet, reassuring suggestion. You simply nodded in silence. 

The drive to the trailer passed in complete silence, yet that silence was no longer awkward at all. There was nothing to say; you both knew you had crossed a line, but neither of you wanted to back down. 

When you arrived at the trailer hidden among the trees, Jensen killed the engine, but instead of getting out immediately, he waited for you to make the first move. As soon as you stepped into the warm, wood-scented interior, the outside world ceased to exist entirely. Jensen closed the door behind you, then turned straight toward you.

As the door clicked shut behind you with a metallic sound, everything ceased to exist. There were no more questions, no uncertainty or suffocating grief, only a hunger born of a loneliness that had lasted far too long, erupting within both of you at once. 

Jensen wasted no time. He closed the distance between you in a single, decisive step and gripped your waist with his large hands, practically lifting you off the ground. Your back struck the hard wall of the trailer, but the pain of the sudden impact was instantly washed away by the raw, all-consuming demand of his lips. His kiss was far more intense and urgent now than it had been in the car; his tongue confidently explored your mouth while you clung tightly to his broad shoulders, digging your fingers into the fabric of his T-shirt.

Stifled sighs and ragged breaths filled the cramped space of the trailer. Jensen’s hands roamed hungrily over your body—sliding down to your hips and back up to the hem of your black dress—while his stubble grazed the sensitive skin of your neck with a sensation that was rough yet electrifying. 

Every touch was charged with the tension you had both been trying to suppress all these weeks. Stumbling from the narrow hallway, never once letting go of each other, you made your way toward the comfortable, soft bed. In the dim light, garments fell hurriedly to the floor one by one as desire finally took complete control over reason.

The soft fabric felt cool against your heated skin as Jensen gently eased you back onto the cushions. Though desire burned urgently in both of you, all raw, demanding force suddenly vanished from his movements. The moment he saw the vulnerability in your eyes, that raw hunger gave way to a deep, overwhelming tenderness. 

He loomed over you with his tall, heavy frame, yet supported his weight on his elbows. His calloused palms rested beside your head, his fingers gently threading through your hair. 

"You sure sweetheart?" he whispered, his voice vibrating deeply in the darkness. Even in the hazy moonlight, his eyes sought yours clearly, giving you time to answer.

Instead of speaking, you simply pulled him even closer, clinging to his neck. This was the moment you had longed for deep within your soul, the warmth and protection you had never received from anyone before. 

He began to slowly undress you, unhurried, as if unwrapping something fragile and precious. Each of his movements was accompanied by a soft, soothing kiss. His lips wandered over your shoulders and collarbone, tracing a path down to your chest, while his hands gently mapped the contours of your body. Whenever he sensed you tense up for a moment, he would pause immediately, kissing your face and lips until you relaxed in his arms once more.

When you finally gave yourselves fully to one another, it wasn't about the tension of the pub or raw force. Jensen was incredibly attentive and deliberate, mindful of your every reaction. He never once took his eyes off your face; he watched your breathing and the soft, involuntary sighs that escaped your throat. He interlaced his fingers tightly with yours, pressing your palms against the mattress, while his body rocked you into ecstasy with rhythmic, gentle movements.

After the heated, tender moments, the interior of the trailer slowly settled back into silence. Outside the window, the wind gently stirred the tree branches, but inside—nestled in the spacious, soft embrace of the brown leather sofa—time seemed to stand still. Jensen lay beside you in the semi-darkness, his heavy frame close to yours, the blanket pulled up to your shoulders to shield you from the creeping night chill. One of his arms remained wrapped firmly around your waist. You rested your head on his chest, pressing your ear directly over his heart, listening to its rhythmic beat.

You delicately traced the old scar on one of his shoulders with your fingers. You didn’t speak. Words would have been unnecessary tonight, the way he buried his nose in your hair from time to time, or the way his calloused palms stroked your back soothingly, said it all. The loneliness you had carried for two years, the invisibility of the big city, and the suppressed grief all melted away in this thick, stuffy silence. 

He winks and pushes off the lockers, stepping closer with that easy swagger only he can pull off, even limping slightly under the guise of “just adjusting my shoe.”  

“Sooo… you gonna rat me out to Normal? You sticking around long enough to cover for me if he starts sniffing too close? I told him I got this… uh… ‘enthusiastic dog’ on my route. Barked right into my cheek." Eyes twinkling, he slides closer. "Or better yet, got any ice? Or are you just gonna stand there judging me with those big doe eyes?"

“You know I hate when you go into that ring,” you let out a defeated sigh at your coworker’s stubbornness.  

“Yeah, but I never lose, remember? One hit is nothing. Though between us? Guy hit like a damp noodle. Mostly this? This is just from tripping over his ego on the way out. Totally worth it. Made enough cash to cover this month’s rent and upgrade my whiskey brand. Wanna split a bottle later? My treat. Well, your treat technically since it’s paid for with fight winnings.”

“Just like that?” You cut back, practically snorting at his suggestion. “Wasting your precious little money on tossing me a few sips?”

He just throws his head back with a laugh, the kind that makes his bruised jaw protest. 

"Oh please," Alec says, waving a hand like you just insulted royalty. "A few sips? Baby, this ain’t some cheap grocery store wine night."  

He steps closer and drops the keys into your palm and leans down so you’re eye-to-eye. 

"This is top-shelf whiskey. The good stuff that burns going down and makes you forget your ex’s face forever." A slow smirk curls across his lips as he adds on “And honestly? Wasting money on you is my new favorite hobby.”  

Then straightening up again, “So yeah… totally worth it.”

“Yeah, would be your favourite hobby, if you had something to waste. Don't you get your face wrecked on a daily basis because there's no money?”

His smirk falters for half a second, but he recovers fast, shrugging like it’s nothing. 

"Yeah, getting my face rearranged is kinda part of the job description now. Fair,” he shrugs. “But I’d waste it at Crash if I didn’t on you, so… you decide which’s better.”

He taps his temple where there's definitely a fresh bruise peeking under his hairline. 

“But hey! It pays better than slinging packs at Jam Pony did, and way better than sitting around feeling sorry for myself." His tone shifts lighter again as he bumps your shoulder playfully. “Besides… What's life without a little pain and poor financial decisions? Worth every penny to see you though.”

Alright, that was something. A few valid points, even. All his nights ended with drinks, as depressing as it sounded, there really wasn’t much to argue about there. If he wants to sulk in the masses of alcohol with you, so be it.

“If you really got nothing better for tonight, I'll take the invite. Need me to bring anything?”

His whole face lights up, like someone flipped a switch from broke brawler to golden retriever who just got told yes.

"Hell yes," he blurts out, immediately catching himself and trying — failing — to play it cool. Then because of course Alec McDowell can't help himself, “Nope. Nada. You don’t gotta bring anything. Well, except yourself. We’re gonna be horizontal after two glasses of this stuff, trust me."  

He gestures vaguely at himself with a lopsided grin before grabbing your hand and tugging you toward the bike parked crookedly near the curb. 

“C’mon,” he says over his shoulder as he swings onto it first like usual, always offering to drive first so you could cling if needed — not that he'd admit that.

 “And if anyone gives you shit for being with me? Tell ‘em Alec McDowell owes them twenty bucks.” A wink, grinning so wide it actually hurts this time, but who cares? He pats the seat behind him twice. "Hop on,” he says over his shoulder with a grin wide enough to split open any fresh bruise on command. “If you really feel like contributing, get ice for the drink. And perhaps my face, too.”

“Don't you have a freezer?” you grunt as you swing your leg over the bike, nestling into the spot behind Alec. “We'll cook up some ice for you there. Hell, we can freeze some of the whiskey and let that become our ice cube.”

He freezes mid-motion, helmet half-on, and blinks at you like you just proposed the most brilliant crime in history. 

"Freeze whiskey into ice cubes," he repeats it slowly, tasting each word like it’s liquid gold (which… technically). "Self-replenishing alcohol. That's revolutionary. We're basically inventing booze science tonight."  

Already kicking the bike stand up with one boot while shoving keys back in your direction, he continues. 

“I gotta mentally prepare to commit whiskey crimes. Best date ever already and we haven't even left.”

The second you're through the door, he’s beelining for the kitchen like a man possessed by two great ideas: One, more booze consumption and two, you being here making dumb plans with him. The freezer door swings open dramatically, because everything is dramatic tonight.  

Grabbing the bottle from its sacred spot on top of the fridge — he even dusts it off first because respect — and unscrews it one-handed while balancing three glasses in his other arm like some kind of tipsy circus act. 

“Alright,” he announces proudly, already pouring recklessly into all three glasses despite only having two people present…

Your attentive little eyes immediately spot the mistake, taking a quick glance around to make sure it really was just the two of you lazing around. Yes, just you two. 

“What's the third glass for? Imaginary friend, or surprise guest?” You pose the question, brows slightly furrowed.

He freezes mid-pour, glass hovering, whiskey sloshing dangerously close to the rim of Glass #3 and blinks at you like a deer in headlights. 

"Surprise guest," he says with absolute fabricated confidence. Lies. Placing the third glass down with exaggerated solemnity, "This one’s for… uh," he glances around like inspiration might materialize from thin air before snapping his fingers. “...Ben.”  

The name drops like an anvil. His tone is lighter than it would usually be when mentioning his long-lost twin brother — no bitterness tonight — but there's something fond underneath it too. 

“Figured if he ever magically teleported back into existence,” he continues while pushing that glass toward your side of the table as tribute, “he’d wanna drink with us. It's more… tradition? Like setting a plate out for Grandma on Christmas even though she's dead?" his voice pitches higher with every word until it’s basically squeaky guilt-laughing now.  

Then immediately ruins the moment by adding on.

 “Also if you ditch me later? Third wheel stays.”

He places the glass carefully on the counter like it’s sacred, before turning and dramatically kicking open his bedroom door down the hall. "Ben!" He yells into nothingness for comedic effect — because obviously Ben isn't here.  

Returning instantly, he flops back onto the couch beside you and raise both your glasses high. 

“To imaginary Ben!” Then immediately clinks his against yours with a chuckle before taking a huge swig of whiskey-ice-cube cocktail nonsense. But before you can react or even look at him weirdly about that name drop, he raises Glass #3 in a toast. "To ghosts." 

And with zero ceremony whatsoever? He chugs half of it down like a shot. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and shrugs innocently as if inviting spectral twins to imaginary dinner parties was totally normal behavior (it isn't).

He shrugs and sets the third glass down anyway—half-full because why waste good liquor?—like it's normal to pour for someone who doesn't exist in this room right now.  

Then, quieter but with forced lightness, he speaks up again. 

“Old habits,” a weak smile tugs at his lips 

Manticore escapees don’t exactly have family dinners. But old habits die hard, they always poured him one when he was gone on missions or whatever cover story Manticore fed them back then. This time, it was no different.

His mind was a whirlwind. Does he even exist in this universe? He has to, right? Is this version of him also Vigilante, or somehow just a regular joe? Is his dad still with him here? Does he have his bunker, and if yes, is it filled with stacks of cocaine and blood money snatched from dealers? If he's Vigilante in this universe too — which he has to be, right? —, does he fight for the same values as original Adrian does?

The time for theorizing comes to an end as Adrian spots his house, located precisely where original Adrian's house is back in his World. A hearty chuckle escapes him as his theory proves to be right, sprinting right towards the house across the street's rugged asphalt. Adrian glides through the front lawn as if he lived there — which he did, in a way —, eyes darting from one piece of decoration to another, taking in the sight of the colorful gnomes and animals, varying from metal to ceramics to cast stone. A huge grin spread across his face, muttering to himself about how almost all the things match perfectly with the ones he had. The similarities were uncanny, although only a few small details were off — the color of the squirrel, the number of gnome statues arranged into a circle, just the nitpicky details only the trained eye could spy. 

Hopping up to the front door, he takes the handle, twisting it as if it was the entryway to his own house, entering with the utmost confidence. If the neighbors see him enter, would they notice that it's original Adrian and not Adrian 2? Right, what should he call his counterpart? Is Adrian 2 alright? To Adrian 2, perhaps original Adrian would be Adrian 2, and... okay, things are getting a bit complicated and fuzzy. Perhaps it's best if he just settles on Adrian 2 for now. If Adrian 2 happens to have a better idea, he's free to put it to use. 'Till then, he's just Adrian 2 to original Adrian.

The wooden door creaks open, a hint giving away the house's age, and Adrian enters through it as quietly as possible. He only wants the attention of his alternate self, not of whoever else might be lurking in the house. The interior, as Adrian began to inspect it, proved to be an almost perfect replica of his home. The walls are the same unattractive orange, flooring still the warm-brown wooden panels, even the same, white lace decor on one of the cupboards near the entryway that his grandmother's mother handed them down, some family heirloom of sorts. So far so good, Adrian thought, still smiling from ear to ear at the miracle of this universe being such a perfect match to his own. 

Or so he thought.

Cruising past the living room, he makes sure to shoot a quick glance inside. His body almost freezes in surprise as he notices that there's somebody sitting inside, sprawled on the couch as the soft murmur and buzz of the TV echoed. 

"Dad..?" he mutters to himself, low enough for the man laying on the couch to not notice his presence — much to his luck. Alright, that's one change. Though, his mother seemed to be nowhere around. Is this the change in this universe..?

"My mom's a lesbian in this universe?" Adrian chuckles to himself as he struts past the living room, his presence akin to a ghost's, heading straight towards the basement where his own little empire rests. He has to pass by the kitchen first, though, and lo and behold, it's where he encounters the second major -- and rather upsetting -- difference. Cheeri-ohs. The slight change in spelling messed with his brain so much, he first thought he suddenly developed dyslexia. He can't be reading this right, right? Who the hell would spell it as Cheeri-ohs? This universe must be seriously fucked up if this is the norm here. Cheeri-ohs. He tastes the words, how they roll on his tongue, but can't seem to wrap his head around this unnecessary change.

Still, he snatches the box of Cheeri-ohs up, making a mental note and promise to himself that if he takes anything from this verse, it has to be this. Such a fucking stupid thing, but oh god it got him giddy.

Now, it was time for the main event, the final show, the climax — his hideout. Adrian fishes out his keychain, gloved hands fiddling with the tiny pieces of metal for a moment as he tries to find the right key, inserting the first one into the first lock. With a click, he feels the lock cracking open. Fuck yes! Another click. Lock two done. Third click, three out of three locks unlocked. Seems like even in this universe, he uses the same lock. His grin spreads even wider if it's even possible as he pushes the door open, slow and meticulous, unsure of what could possibly await him on the other side.

He's cautious, steps measured even if his excitement was surging to insane levels, heart almost beating out of his chest. He could've sworn that he could hear his own accelerated heartbeat in his ears as he progressed further into the room. 

That's when he sees it — Adrian 2. There he was, sitting at a desk original Adrian didn't even have. Perhaps Adrian 2 had a table instead of copious amounts of blood money and heaps of cocaine, considering that those were either missing or better hidden. 

But of course, Adrian 2 is still Adrian, still Vigilante, and just as original Adrian steps close enough, Adrian 2 turns on his heels in the blink of an eye, quickdrawing a pistol at an insane speed, now facing original Adrian with the gun aimed right at his masked face. 

Wait a minute...

Adrian's eyes widen as he takes in the sight in front of him. Standing just inches away from him, in full armor is him, yes, with one little difference — it's a girl. A pretty one at that!

This chick can't be him! If he looked this hot, he'd be a chick-magnet!

It was as if he was staring into a mirror, same height, same haircolor — although the hair length was different, hers was longer —, same armor, even the same pair of wired glasses, practically a genderbent version of him posing in front of him. The same face. Well, not exactly the same, because hers was much more delicate, her skin was clearer, and her eyes – which sat behind the exact same prescription glasses as Adrian’s – were somehow much… girlier. 

"Who're you?" she immediately retorted. Of course she did, seeing a perfect replica of yourself just appear in your super secret cocaine storing hideout must've been freaky, especially if you weren't aware that people, including alternate yous can travel between dimensions. "And why are you here?"

"Oh, woah, hold on, hold on!" Adrian wastes no time, pulling his mask off in one single move. He immediately fixes his gaze back on Adrian 2 — is she even called Adrian, or did the gender switch do something with the names too? —, a shit-eating grin plastered over his face. "I'm you! I'm you from another dimension!"

He sees as something clicks just right in Adrian 2's mind, as she slowly lowers the gun before the same smile takes over her too. The same, ear-to-ear smile that perfectly matched Adrian's.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" she exclaims with just as much joy and excitement as original Adrian did. Well, at least this was a constant throughout the multiverse!

"I know, right! My keys worked to get in here!"

"You've got keys to my bunker?"

"Not to yours, to mine! But it works here too, 'cause you know, you're me and I'm you! Wait, and that means you have the same stupid patterned socks under your boots?” Adrian almost jumped with joy and was about to reach for his shoelaces to prove it, but she waved him off with a single, casual gesture.

“That’s insane! That’s just brilliant!” the girl laughed, and took a relieved step back towards the table, exactly where Adrian usually kept his full magazines at home. “Wait, if you’re me, then your name is Adrian too?”

"Yes! But I came up with Adrian 2 thinking of you on the way, but now that I see you're a girl... I don't know. Adri? Adriana?" 

"Adriana. But I hate being called that. So let's stick with Adrian 2, it's much more sci-fi. Oh my god, look at your armor! Just like mine!" She poked Adrian's shoulder guard, and the boy proudly pulled himself up. 

"Yeah, it's a unique design. But wait, let's get one thing straight." Adrian picked up the box he'd looted from the kitchen and pushed it in front of Adriana's face with a dramatic expression. "What the hell is Cheeri-ohs? Ohs? Seriously? With a hyphen?" 

"Why, what do you call it? Cheerio-not-ohs? That sounds much lamer!"

“No way, we have Cheerios! Written in one! Like in a normal, civilized universe!” Adrian shook the box indignantly, as if it were some holy relic. “Never mind, I’ll take this home. Chris will faint if he sees it." 

"Wait, you're really me from another dimension?! That shit's real?!" Adrian 2 grins, accompanied by a chuckle as she slapped the gun back into its holster resting on her hip. Adrian quickly inspects his counterpart's suit, while Adrian 2 does the exact same. Yeah, a perfect copy of the uniform, from the colors to the materials and padding. Perhaps the only difference was that considering their somewhat different bodybuild — Adrian 2's being more feminine, but just as lean as Adrian's —, the suit aligned with that.

"Yeah! I wasn't sure about it either, until I busted through a portal, and landed here! Oh, I'm so glad you're like the cool type of counterpart, and not the evil kind like Chris'," original Adrian rambles on, carried away by the heat of the moment of meeting himself.

"Chris... Who the hell's Chris?" Adrian 2's brows furrow, a tiny, unsure and not too pleasant thought forming in her mind. If original Adrian means the same Chris Adrian 2's thinking about…

"My… best friend. Peacemaker. Do you guys not have hi—"

"Peacemaker?!" she shouts, and original Adrian could bet that dad upstairs heard it. If he's as nosy in this universe as his mom is in his, then with the door now unlocked, they're sure to get busted. "Christopher Smith Peacemaker?!"

“Yeah! Yeah…?” Original Adrian swallows hard, words stuck in his throat for a moment as he becomes a stuttering mess for a moment. "You, you uh... He's not our bestie in this universe? Or like, do you guys know each other, or…?"

"He's my arch nemesis!" Adrian 2 declares, her hate towards Peacemaker evident from her heaved tone.

"Wha— Peace's our enemy here? What the fuck?"

"He's the reason why I joined the Sons of Liberty!"

"The Sons of Liberty..?" Adrian's eyes narrow, trying his best to piece together the puzzle pieces of this universe, even if he was missing a shit ton of pieces.

"Yeah! Fighting oppression, the nazis, including Peacemaker! He's the worst of the bunch!" she wildly motions with her hands, lost in the explanation and hate.

"Nazis…?" 

The conversation blooms as Adrian 2 gives a surface level explanation of the workings of her universe, spiced with a little side note of who their favourite Pokémon is — Infernape in both universes of course —, when their hair looks best — 3 in the morning, of course —, realizing that they really were like a carbon copy personality and mentality-wise. 

Nazis winning World War 2, everything going downhill from there. The beef with Peacemaker? A white, middle aged privileged man, who's been on Adrian 2's ass ever since finding out that a girl was behind the mask, and her fighting because Adrian 2's friend was taken due to her skin color, at the hands of Peacemaker. The concept of an evil Peacemaker, or at least one that isn't Vigilante's bestie, seemed so alien to Adrian. Still, Nazis were basically at the top of his hit list. His Peacemaker might be the most rad person he knows, but in this universe, he was ready to slime him out. If this verse’s Peace hadn't already been murdered by his Chris.

"Where’s the cocaine?” A random question, but one that's been bugging original Adrian for a while now.

Adrian 2 smiled and gestured towards the wall, where, from behind a camouflaged panel, peeked out the exact same military bags that Adrian had used to keep the loot he’d stolen from the drug dealers. 

“Oh, thank God, I was scared you were a boring model citizen with only a desk,” Adrian sighed in relief, while glancing around and noticing that the weapons rack was lined with almost the same rifles.

“Listen,” Adrian 2 stepped closer, studying the boy’s face curiously. “If you’re me… then you’re an absolute, irresistible girl magnet back home, held back only by your sacred duty to law enforcement from constantly flirting, right?” 

Adrian paused for a moment, remembering his own somewhat lonely and strange social life, but his Vigilante ego didn’t let him down. 

“Dude… you have no idea. If I were a girl—like you, I mean—I’d be looking at myself in the mirror all the time. I swear, you’re really hot.” ​​

“Woah shit, thanks! You’re not bad either. But you’re me, just different gender, so, you know.” 

Before they could delve deeper into the analysis of alternate realities and their own greatness, heavy, shuffling footsteps came from the cellar door. Both Vigilantes froze at the same time, their reflexes working in perfect sync.

"Adri! What the hell is going on down there? Who are you talking to?" a hoarse, unpleasant voice bellowed from the stairs. Adrian 2 immediately reached for her mask, her face darkening. 

“Myself!” she shouted up. Not entirely a lie, right? “My dad. Is he still an asshole?" she whispered to Adrian. 

"The biggest one in the world," Adrian nodded, pulling his own mask back over his head. 

"Is he a racist at your place, too?" 

"Yeah. And he hates cats." 

The threat of Adebayo being captured and killed suddenly struck Adrian like lightning. Needless to say, he and his counterpart immediately jumped, heading straight to the mansion where Adrian hopped through the portal. How will they get there? Key the Honda of Adrian 2's dad, of course.

"Crazy that you got your dad in this universe," original Adrian states as he spectates the scenery they passed by, Adrian 2 seated in the driver's seat. "In mine, he left us under the guise that he was gay."

"Wait, it happened to you too?" Adrian 2 exclaims, eyes shooting over to original Adrian before drifting back to the road. "I mean, for me it was my mom leaving because she was a lesbian, but I guess it's just part of this genderbent thing."

"Yeah, I'm a dude and my dad leaves, you're a chick and your mom leaves. Makes sense," the original Adrian nodded thoughtfully, leaning his head against the window and watching the slightly more depressing streets of Evergreen pass by. "Though when you think about it, your life is much more action-packed. I mean, fighting Nazis? The Sons of Liberty? It's a thousand times more intense than hanging out in weird, run-down motel rooms while Harcourt argues with John about who ate the last donut."

“Wait, Harcourt is a cold, scary warrior in your world?” Adrian 2 asked, as she stepped on the gas, the scratched Honda engine roaring angrily. “Here, she’s an office chick, I only know him because Peacemaker used to go out with her, and it was this big news sensation thing.”

“Yeah! Although she went off with Peace’s younger brother, who’s dead in my verse, so… I have no idea where she is right now.” Adrian suddenly sat up straighter in his seat as the thought crossed his mind. “Wait a minute. If in this world Peacemaker is an enemy figure and his younger brother is alive… then the two of them are working together?” 

Adrian 2’s face tensed behind the wheel, her fingertips almost turning pale into his gloves. 

“Keith Smith? That aggressive guy? They do. They’re the loyal little soldiers of the Blue Dragon. If they’ve got your friend… that girl, Adebayo, right? Then she’s in big trouble. The Smiths don’t spare their opponents, not from what I saw."

Adrian’s stomach clenched for a moment. Adebayo might be annoying him at times, but she was still part of the team. And more importantly, she was Chris’s friend. His Chris’s friend, I mean. 

“Then we need to hurry. Because if John and Ads from my world are at danger… Fuck.” 

“Don’t worry. I know the Smith Nest like the back of my hand. I’ve tried to sabotage their base many times,” Adrian 2 shrugged with a deadly serious yet relaxed grin. “Plus, I can’t wait to see their faces when they see us. Two Vigilantes? It’s an oppressor’s nightmare.” 

"Now that I think about it, do you… have your own 11th Street Kids?" original Adrian spoke up, meandering.

"11th Street what?" Adrian 2's confused voice came from behind the wheel. "Your team? Peacemaker, Harcourt, them, right?"

"Yeah," original Adrian nodded in response.

"Well, my team is the Sons of Liberty. Different universes, different teams I suppose. But you guys seem to be more close-knit than I am with my guys." 

As the Honda turned the last street, its tires screeching, the fortress-like mansion where the portal had opened loomed in the distance. The two Vigilantes kicked open the car doors at the same time, guns in hand, darting behind the nearest cover in perfect synchronization.

Up on a hill near the house, they found their perfect hiding spot — except, it was already occupied. Much to their surprise, it was Adebayo herself, armed with Judomaster, who Adrian 2 just stared down, trying to decide if the person in front of her was a kid, an illusion, or simply somebody short. Turns out, the person they came here to saw didn't need any saving at all. Chris, on the other hand…

Adebayo and Judomaster have already scoped out the area, given that they arrived earlier, their sights set on Peacemaker, his alternate dad and brother and Harcourt in a living room. The plan was simple: eliminate August Smith aka Blue Dragon, and Keith Smith, heroically saving Peacemaker and getting him back to his own verse. 

Shit hits the fan when original Adrian busts through a window, the glass shattering and flying in all directions, his pocket knife leaving countless holes on the throat of Chris' dad after repeated stabbing. Perhaps somebody should've told the Vigilantes that August Smith was not the villain here, but oh well, what's done is done, and August Smith is dead. Keith, on the other hand…

The man was adamant on getting his revenge on the intruders, and he was out for blood. The only viable plan now was if they resorted to getting the fuck out of this verse as fast as possible.

“Fuck, this dude really looks like an orbital root!” the original Adrian shouted over the noise of the gunfire, as he immediately opened fire. 

“I told you so!” Adrian 2 shouted back, as she threw himself over a stone ledge with an acrobatic move and took out the cops standing behind Keith with two accurate shots. John and Ads froze for a moment in the middle of the hail of bullets. John looked from one Vigilante to the other with wide eyes. 

“What the... are there two Adrians?! And one of them has tits?!”

“Stop talking nonsense, John, shoot!” Adebayo shouted as she changed cover. The outcome of the fight was ultimately decided by the perfect, almost telepathic cooperation between the two Adrians. They moved side by side as if they had fought together all their lifetimes – which was logical, since they had the same reflexes and thoughts. They were the cover and the murder machine, while the others tried to drag themselves to the portal they entered through.

“That’s it! Run, you dick!” the original Adrian then shouted after a cop, now an entire unit scattered in the house. The portal that Chris’ gadget had opened was already starting to vibrate dangerously. The moment to return home had arrived. Adrian 2 – or Adriana – lowered her weapon, that grin on his face as she pressed the box of Cheeri-ohs she had stolen from the kitchen into the original Adrian’s hand, which she had managed to keep during the fight. 

“Take this with you as a souvenir. So you know what real luxury is,” Adriana laughed. 

“Thank you. You’re the coolest me I’ve ever met,” Adrian said, and suddenly, in a completely unusual way for him, he hugged her. His counterpart was surprised for a moment, but then she firmly slapped the boy on the back. 

“I know. And hey... when you get home, tell your Chris to be thankful he’s not a Nazi asshole.” 

“I’ll do!” Adrian nodded, and before he could've said anything else, Adrian 2 didn't hesitate as she pushed him straight through the door, shutting it with a kick and without a goodbye, the sound of gunfire echoing right before the portal completely closed.

The flash of light faded, and Adrian landed on the ground in the neverending, Backrooms-like storage of Chris' house of his own world. He looked up at Chris Smith — the good one, his best friend — standing next to him, blinking in confusion, and then proudly held up the box of hyphenated cereal. 

"Dude, you have no idea what I've been on... and I brought you breakfast."

His smirk softens into something warmer as he gestures toward you with a playful tilt of his chin. The tiny crowd – mostly consisting of middle aged alcoholics and rugged teenage boys – all turn to your direction in almost perfect unison, finding your subtle hiding spot by following Alec’s gaze. 

"Name’s Alec McDowell—unofficial pool shark and occasional charmer. You look like someone who either plays to win... or knows how to lose with style."

Without any word, they all shuffle to the sides, opening a clear path between you and the self-titled “pool shark”. Your nose subtly scrunches up, mentally cursing yourself for wandering into what proposed to be the worst place you could’ve found — a foulmouthed, ego-filled smug guy as the pool master was the last thing you needed.  

"So, which is it gonna be?"

"I suppose we'll see," you shrug with an expression he couldn't quite place. After all, if he wants to play it cool, you might as well counter him with his own poison.

The shrug hits Alec like a challenge, quiet, mysterious, the kind that makes him sit up straighter without even realizing it.

"Oho," he breathes out with a low chuckle, circling you slowly like he's sizing up an opponent, or maybe a puzzle. "Mysterious type. I respect it."

He stops in front of you, cue now resting across his shoulders as he studies your face, the unreadable expression on your face doing nothing but fueling his interest. The bar hums with background noise: clinking balls from other tables, laughter from the bar counter, but for Alec? It’s all faded into static.

"Alright then," he says after a beat, "no name? No telltale tells? Just… silence and confidence?"  

A slow grin crawls back onto his lips. Playing with you proved to be a little different than what it was like with the alcoholic dads and immature dudes wandering to the table.

"I'm gonna enjoy figuring you out," he mutters under his breath, the grin still alive and well on his face, as he leisurely takes a step backwards.  

Without asking permission — because why would he? — he grabs another cue off the rack and slides it toward you.

"First try figuring out how to win," you take the cue like a perfectly wrapped christmas present, sauntering to the side of the pool table, into the dim area away from the brightly lit table.

"You’re not gonna talk much… are ya?" Alec leans on his side of the table, the bright lights carving sharp shadows across his jaw, and lines up an imaginary shot with exaggerated focus before glancing over at you. "Or do I get all my clues from how you play?"

You shrug, circling the table until coming to a halt where your eyes spy a perfectly right spot to spectate – and perhaps score well — from.

Alec just leans against the rail at his end of the table, arms crossed now over his chest, and lets out a quiet “Huh.”

"Playing it cool and picking tactical real estate," he mutters to himself with approval. "Smart move. Alright then. No warm-up? Just straight into war?"

Alec grabs a piece of chalk from his pocket and rubs it slowly along his cue tip, the scrape loud in contrast to everything else.

“'Tis the second bar I'm hitting up tonight. I've already had my warmup elsewhere. Although you should be worried about yourself and not about me,” you bluntly reply, just waiting for him, as the pool master of this bar, to start the round.

""Ooooh," he drawls, "someone’s got a bite. First bar’s warm-up? Second stop’s warzone? So you’re not some rookie stumbling in for funsies, you’ve got game already,” a slow smirk curls at the corner of his mouth. Not cocky this time. 

Without breaking eye contact or looking away even once, Alec leans forward slightly, braces one hand on the table edge near your side of it — not too close… but close enough —, and speaks up.

"Last guy who told me I should be worried? Ended up buying my drinks for a week after losing three games straight."

He grabs a cue ball with his other hand… rolls it gently toward center table… then picks up chalk again.

"But sure," he adds softly, "let's see if tonight's any different."

The cue ball glides smoothly into position. Alec’s stance is relaxed but precise, one knee bent slightly, weight balanced forward like a coiled spring, by the looks of it, effortless — loose but precise, like he’s been doing this since birth. His eyes don’t flicker, just lock onto the 8-ball tucked neatly behind a cluster of stripes.

Silence falls over your little corner of the pool hall. Even the background noise seems to hush as Alec takes his breath.

Then — snap — the cue moves in one fluid motion: smooth draw back, sharp follow-through.  

Thwack.

Without waiting for an answer (because let's be real—Alec McDowell doesn't wait), he racks ‘em fast: click-clack-whirr—the balls scatter.

The shot lands clean, a perfect strike that sends the cue ball arcing around two solids before kissing gently off another rail… and smacking right into the pocket with a quiet knock, the soft noise almost echoing in the space.

Silence for half a second… then Alec exhales sharply through his nose—a quiet “Yeah.” Not gloating, just pleased. Like an artist seeing their first stroke land exactly right. Alec exhales slowly through his nose, but doesn't smile just yet, he just straightens up calmly and picks up chalk again. 

He didn’t say anything cocky. Didn’t need to. That shot spoke for itself.

The game rolls on. Alec’s rhythm is smooth, almost hypnotic: chalk, stance, breath… crack. Another ball drops.

But even the kings of the table stumble. And tonight? He just so happened to be the victim.

It happens when he lines up a tricky angle shot, the 4-ball wedged between two stripes near the corner pocket. A risky play. High risk, high reward.

Alec bends into it, eyes narrowing with focus, but something’s off just slightly in his alignment… maybe an inch too far left…

Thwack.

The cue ball hits hard, but instead of sliding clean through to knock the 4 into the pocket, it clips it awkwardly and sends it skittering sideways... no kiss… no fall.

Dead silence for half a second. Alec doesn’t flinch outwardly, but inside? Oh yeah. That one stings.  

He straightens slowly and exhales through his nose like he's resetting himself before turning those eyes toward you.

In return, you shoot him a soft, friendly grin as you shift from your position at the table, sauntering over to where you saw an opportunity at. 

The softness of your grin hits Alec like a surprise. Gentle, almost kind, in contrast to the competitive fire that’s been burning between you two. And for a guy who thrives on confidence and control, that small act disarms him just slightly. It throws him.

Not because he’s embarrassed — no way —, but because most people either gloat or stay stone-faced when you miss. But you, you’re smiling like this is all part of the fun.

As you saunter over to your chosen position on the table’s opposite side, Alec watches every step, the sway of your movement under those dim lights making his pulse jump just slightly.

He watches you move across the floor, right toward where he left his missed shot wide open. The 4-ball sits alone now, vulnerable.

He clears his throat quietly and racks his cue against the table again, not out of frustration, but to keep busy while he watches you get ready for your shot.

Alec crosses his arms again, not defensively this time. He doesn’t say anything yet, just studies how you position yourself at the table: how far back from it you stand before leaning in, how naturally your fingers settle around the cue handle.

Your eyes lock onto the table ahead — specifically on the scrambled bunch of a 2-ball and 4-ball lined perfectly for a shot. You let out an elongated, nasal breath as if that was your countdown for the strike. You slide the pool cue straight into the white ball with an echoing knock, and straighten up as you intently keep your eyes on the pool balls as they scatter on the ivory surface, thrashing against each other. The outcome? The white ball ricochets off two rails, bouncing with precision, and as the balls push against each other, the 2-ball slides just right in, landing with a wooden thump. A soft but satisfying sound as it drops neatly into the corner pocket.

Alec doesn’t blink until after it settles into place. Then slowly, a real smile spreads across his face, not smug this time, not competitive, just… impressed.

"Damn," he mutters under his breath, "that was pretty good."

He uncrosses his arms and leans forward slightly over the rail again, not to critique or challenge you, but because he can't help being drawn closer by how smoothly you played that shot.

Now he's actually curious what else you've got.

"I got the shot," you begin with a huff, thumb smoothing over the cue's tip as if cleaning it. "Means I get another round, no?"

"Oh, absolutely," he says, voice warm and easy now, "rules are rules. You made it? You get another shot."

He gestures toward the table with an open hand, eyes bright, shoulders relaxed but attentive.

The scattered balls lie across the felt, clusters forming new opportunities, angles opening up.

Alec grabs a fresh piece of chalk from his pocket — not for himself —, and holds it out to you silently on offer. A small gesture, but a meaningful one. Chalk is tradition, respect between players. And right now, he's treating you like someone worth passing it to.

Your lips twitch into a soft, half-hearted smile, falling into a small pause as your eyes fall onto the piece of chalk. 

"Thank you, good sir," you click your tongue as you carefully snatch the piece, eyes drifting onto Alec before going back to the cue's tip. As you brush the chalk over it, you saunter to where you've already surveyed your next best position, circling the pool table like a hawk does with its prey — finally halting in the exact spot you've found for yourself. 

Spot secured, but the chalk was still with you. The piece rests in your palm, eyes falling onto it, before your gaze lifts back onto Alec's face. For a moment, you stand still as if waiting for the man himself to ask for the chalk back, but seeing that it's not too likely, you hold the chalk forward, hand extended over the pool table under the bright, almost yellowing lighting cast over the table for him to take. 

The lights catch the edges of your outstretched hand, the chalk resting small and pale in your palm, glinting under that harsh glow.

And for a second? He just… looks at you. Not at the chalk. At you.

He doesn’t reach right away. Instead, he walks slowly around to his side of the table — cue still tucked under one arm — and as he passes where you’re standing, your shoulders almost brush with silent proximity.

Then Alec reaches out. Long fingers curl gently over yours, not grabbing sharply, but meeting them with soft pressure as he takes back what was his. His fingertips graze yours for half a heartbeat longer than necessary.

You shoot him a quick smile — not a grin, not a flaunting one —, before your eyes drift back onto the dark green felt, the scrambled balls still laying motionless on it. Stepping just an inch back, you lean forward, hands poised to support the cue resting on your skin. A moment of silence passes by before you draw your hands back and smash the cue forward — with controlled power, not a reckless kind —, into the white ball, which rockets forward like a bullet fired from point-blank range, watching as the previously eyed 4-ball rolls over the table, first kissing the dark railing before its roll beings to slow down.

And there it lingers. A tense pause. The whole pool hall seems to hold its breath as that little black-and-white numbered four wobbles... slowly... agonizingly slow... at just that angle over an open pocket.

Then…

Plink.

A soft drop into destiny.  

Alec exhales sharply through his nose, a sound between awe and amusement, as he watches another clean make fall right in front of him. The breath you release — long, slow, almost entirely unnoticeable — is quiet enough for the group of others lingering around to ignore, but that wasn’t the case for the man standing on the other side of the table.

Alec hears it. And damn if that doesn’t do things to him.

He’s still watching the pocket where the 4-ball disappeared, but now his gaze drifts up to you. The way your shoulders relax slightly after holding tension for that shot. The faint curve at one corner of your mouth before you even smile fully.

Something in Alec shifts. That competitive spark? Still there, but now mixed with something warmer.

Without saying anything yet, he simply picks up his cue again and walks around to reset position. This time, his steps are slower than usual.

The clatter of the 4-ball settling into the bottom of the pocket fades. Alec stops at the head of the table, resting the butt of his cue against the floorboards. He doesn't immediately look down at the remaining balls. Instead, his eyes stay anchored on yours.

"Two for two," he says, his voice dropping an octave, slipping easily beneath the ambient roar of the bar's jukebox and the clinking glasses nearby. "And here I thought you were just trying to survive the night. You're actively trying to ruin my reputation, aren't you?"

His voice didn’t carry anger, just amusement. And perhaps some admiration, wrapped in flirting.

He takes a slow step to the left, his eyes finally drifting down to inspect the new layout of the table. The cue ball has rolled into the center of the green felt, leaving a slightly awkward angle on the remaining solids. It’s a shooter's layout—hardly easy, but a clear invitation for someone who obviously knows how to manipulate a cue stick.

Alec tilts his head, studying the angles, then looks back up at you through his eyelashes. The orange glow of the hanging lamp somehow makes his usual smug demeanor look entirely different. Less like a cocky bar regular, and more like someone who has completely forgotten there’s anyone else in the room.

"You've got that look again," Alec murmurs, stepping just a fraction closer to the table's edge, his fingers loosely gripping his cue. "Like you’ve got a plan. Go on then. Don't let me keep you from a hat-trick."

He gestures with a subtle nod toward the cue ball, his lips curving into a quiet, expectant smile.

For once, you don't overthink it, you don't let the magic of the moment or Alec's slow, telling steps throw you off. The momentum is on your side, and in pool, a hot streak can't be allowed to cool. With one decisive step, you're right behind the cue ball before Alec can even get comfortable on the edge of the table. You don't even wait for his comment to die down completely.

You lean low over the table, the bridge formed by your left hand presses firmly against the dark green felt. Alec falls silent abruptly, sensing your focus. The cue slides smoothly between your fingers three times — one, two, three, just by the book — and then, on the final stroke, the cue tip bites precisely into the center of the white ball. Clack.

The cue ball starts in a sharp line, almost gliding across the table, and hits the next ball at a perfect angle. No need to worry as the ball goes straight, clean, and without any hesitation into the designated side pocket. Another dull, echoing thud signals success. Three out of three. 

Alec exhales softly and shakes his head in approval. 

"You're not wasting much time," he says, leaning on his cue and taking a step closer.

You stiffen for a second after the shot, but instead of immediately looking for the next ball with your eyes, you slowly straighten up. You let the cue fall loosely to your side, put your weight on one leg, and turn towards Alec. You don’t look at the pockets. You just watch him.

A small, almost cheekily generous smile appears on your lips. You pick up your cue and, as if you were just giving up your place on the dance floor to a gentleman, you point towards the table with an elegant gesture. You offer him the next shot. Voluntarily, breaking the rules.

For a second, Alec freezes. You’re looking at him. Not the table. Not the balls, just him. And that smile? Yeah. It hits Alec like a warm punch to the chest.

Your offer hangs in the air as an unspoken "Your turn."

For half a second, he almost doesn't know what to do with himself. He was about to watch you clear the table completely, but this gesture knocks him out of his confidence. He stands leaning on his cue, then laughs softly. 

"Really?" he asks, taking a half step towards you, his eyes almost sparkling in the yellowish light. "You're giving the host alms? Dangerous game you’re playing here," he says more quietly, his voice almost droning over the background noise as his eyes scan your face. "What if I take the opportunity, and don't let you have any more words? You sure you want to hand over the cue?"

"Your call," you shrug casually, and instead of waiting for Alec to actually take your seat, you turn back to the table. You slide closer to the table and with another confident stroke, you send the next ball clean into the corner pocket. Another point, another perfect hit. 

But pool is an unpredictable game. In the next round, you choose a particularly tricky shot, bouncing off the wall. Your cue moves, the white ball starts, but it ends up missing the pocket by inches and bouncing off the rubber wall with a loud bang, leaving Alec in a wide open position. Shit.

Alec doesn’t move immediately. He just stares at the balls that have settled for a moment, then slowly raises his gaze to you. He doesn’t rush to the table, instead, he walks slowly around it until he’s standing across from you, leaning on his cue, right at the edge of the lamp’s light. 

“Listen,” he narrows his eyes with a faint smile. “That shot… wasn’t that hard for someone who’d pocketed the balls against the wall before. You didn’t make a mistake on purpose, right?” He deliberately lowers his voice so that the teenagers and regulars around you can’t hear him. "Do you want to even the odds so the match doesn't get too boring?" he asks cheekily, though the tremor in his voice betrays just how much he’s enjoying this cat-and-mouse game. "Or did you just feel sorry for me?"

"Perhaps both," you answer, words almost floating in the smoky pub air. "Or neither. Either way, you're up. Care to pull off a runout?" 

With one last, faint smile, you step back from the light, straight into the dim corner where you stood at the beginning of the match. You blend into the red and blue shadows of the neon lights, arms folded, leaning on your cue, watching, completely surrendering to the terrain. 

Alec is still there for a moment, under the influence of your words. A soft, appreciative laugh breaks out of him as he shakes his head. 

"Ain’t I glad you decided to show up," he gestures in front of him, finally taking a firm stand at the table. His position’s the same as before. Stable, yet looking so relaxed.

Alec, completely fired up by your challenge, makes no more mistakes. He takes your word for it and, with the utmost professionalism, pockets the remaining balls one after the other, down to the black 8, until he finally ties the game. 

When the last ball is pocketed, the small crowd watching in the background murmurs softly, a few thumping at their table in approval. Alec straightens up, spins his cue in his hand, and looks straight at you.

“I think you’re my guest for a drink,” Alec says, replacing his cue in the holder on the wall and nodding toward the bar. “We need to talk about where you learned to play like that… and when we’re having the rematch.”

The advertisement that crossed you a literal day ago didn’t feel so tempting now that you actually had to show up. But hey, time to face what you signed up for, right? Even if your hands were shaking so badly that your best attempt at suppressing it — at least so that the other employees strutting through the building and past you don’t notice the tremors — being just you pushing your hands between your knees, as if trying to cut off circulation. By now, you were convinced that you won’t even last a week here — that is, if Vought doesn’t fire you before you could quit. 

Did you think much when accepting the job? To be honest, no. 

You’ve been suffering in the depths of unemployment, scared of the word j*b, for only God knows how long. The bills, food, and other desires you had weren’t going to pay for themselves, right? 

Even if the thought of an OnlyFans account — even if just to sell feet pics — popped up in your mind at one point, your unexplainable fears successfully threw that idea out of the window. So, you had to revert back to the basics, that being an actual, legitimate job. 

You were smart enough to think rationally though, deciding that if you were really going to leech off of a company, at least choose a big, wealthy one, not the gyros stand on the street corner that can’t pay you more than a dollar per shift. The best target? Vought. 

If there was any company that was in your preferred salary range and that you actually had a chance getting a job at, it was Vought. They were everywhere, every industry, every city, every partnership you could think of, the company quite literally swimming in stacks of cash — some of which you decided to earn for yourself. 

Initially, the plan was to just apply to be a janitor. Yeah, it’s probably not the job most people dream about, but Vought had enough money to spare to let even their janitors get a huge sum of money on their monthly check. Hell, if you’re gonna do a shitty job, let it be the one where you lose less of your dignity and pride — looking at you, OnlyFans. 

So, last morning, in a sudden fit of motivation — that faded away five crisp seconds after sending in your CV and application —, you decided to give your overnight idea a try, opening your browser and typing in Vought’s site. Sure enough, you found the subsite of their open jobs, all for you to take. 

Regional Sales Representative… No. In-house Systems Engineer… Not qualified. Legal Department… Probably not qualified. Patent work for amusement machines (e.g. Pachinko slots… What? Corporate governance officer… Nope…

Despite all the open positions, you just couldn’t find anything to match up with your skills. You either didn’t meet the qualifications, or couldn’t even register what the job exactly was, letting out a sigh as you notice that you’ve reached the end of the list. All these blue hyperlinks, and none of them are there for you.

Still, you needed money, although you were starting to feel embarrassed of your own helplessness. If you keep this up, you’ll end up standing behind the gyros stand all day, right next to the sewer system. Desperation washed over you, deciding to refresh the page the same way you always kept opening the fridge when you couldn’t find any good snacks, as if something would spawn in there by itself. 

Except with this site, something did spawn in.

Your eyes narrowed, mind trying to process if what you’re seeing is actually real, or if it’s just desperation playing tricks on your mind. No, it was definitely there. A fresh, crisp, real and new job offering. It didn’t take any convincing to get you to click on it, eyes speeding through the letters on the screen to check if you were actually qualified for something.

And lo and behold… you were. 

Well, technically, anybody was. By the looks of it, you weren’t the only desperate person around, Vought seemingly in just as much trouble as you were, their newest ad for an open position so haphazardly written, without basically any requirements. 

Personal Assistant/Secretary, now hiring!

Our office at Vought is looking for a skilled personal assistant/secretary to join the team! Applicants should have previous experience in a similar role and an enthusiastic demeanor. As our secretary, you will be asked to handle some of one of our staff members' tasks. This can include copying and pasting, PR management, occasional field work, personal bartending, and pretty much whatever is requested of you on the scene!  If your qualifications match what we're looking for, we'd love to see your application.

Okay, there were requirements, but all pretty… loose. All the others required knowledge of something specific, a set degree, something you lacked. This one, on the other hand, barely stated anything. It was something anybody could wing, including you too.

Excel? You were taught that in school! You forgot basically everything about it, but a VoughTube tutorial on the spot will surely be enough to refresh all the memories locked in the depths of your mind. Making coffee? Oh come on, amateur work. Typing out documents and whatnot? Easy work. Field work interested you, because what the fuck can field work mean for a secretary? PR was likely just lying on Twitter, and bartending couldn’t have been that hard either. 

Without much thinking, you clicked on the apply button glowing blue on your screen, filled out whatever needed to be filled out, attached a CV in hopes that it would miraculously land you the job, and hit send. 

The silence that followed afterwards was deafening. You, alone in your crammed apartment, slumped in front of your laptop in a pose that would make even a shrimp jealous. Overall, pretty depressing. But hey, you took that necessary step in entering the great corporate world, so props to you! Even if you were convinced that they’d reject your application the moment they see it…

Fate works in mysterious ways, or so they say, because not even ten minutes later, you got a fresh email. Ashley Barrett, Vought International.

Is this a fucking joke..?

Although a bit skeptical, you click on the mail, realizing that even if it’s some kind of scam, reading through it can’t hurt you. Your eyes scanned through it — it was short, written in a hurry, and ended with the job somehow yours. Your first emotion? Disbelief. When you previously tried to land a job somewhere, it took them five hundred years to reply, let alone accept you into their circles. Meanwhile, the busiest company replies and accepts your application in the span of ten minutes. 

As unbelievable as it sounded, it was real. You got it. A job at Vought. Personal Assistant, slash secretary, for whoever. I guess they just forgot to disclose whose assistant you’d end up being. Perhaps it hasn’t been decided yet or something?

Much to your luck — and dismay —, they didn’t waste any time, letting you know that you’d be put into work the next day.

And now, it was the next day. You sat there awkwardly, hunched, in one of the white faux leather seats in the lobby, waiting for the person who was supposed to give you a quick run-down of the place and officially integrate you into the company. The only thing you could see around you was Homelander. 

Not the actual supe, but rather a shit ton of posters, banners, and ads, all with that blonde’s face plastered over them. You weren’t that into Vought, but you knew Homelander perfectly well. Let’s be fair, who didn’t? Kids today were more likely to recognize Homelander than Jesus, and that’s gotta mean something, no?

You were somewhat aware of the other supes in Vought’s line-up, A-Train, Queen Maeve, hell, even Mr. Marathon from The Seven’s older days. There were so many supes nowadays that it was impossible to keep track of all of them, you considered it a great success that you managed to keep as much as the members of The Seven in your mind. Them, and the supes from back when there were perhaps five in total. Bombsight, Private Angel, Torpedo, and the worst of all, Soldier Boy. 

Most of your knowledge about them came from your time at a retirement home, a summer job one of your friends – what friends – suggested. Quick money, not much struggle, and at least you’re useful. What she forgot to mention was that the elderly staying there were all supes. Old people, you can take. But old people with superpowers? Now that’s an entirely different topic, and something you didn’t sign up for. Officially, you did, they had your signature on the papers — which also forgot to mention that the people residing there were armed with deadly superpowers.

Seemingly, a recurring theme with Vought jobs was that their job descriptions had way too many omissions, barely any specifics.

Still, those two weeks you spent there were accompanied by the television on in basically every single room, all practically programmed to only play these old Hollywood films, ninety percent starring the same supes. Midnight at Midway and Merchant Mariner both starring Torpedo, Moonshine Thunder, The Bombsight Brigade, and Air Raid at 08 Hundred starring Bombsight, and Savior of Saipan starring Private Angel. You knew all of these films just from your time spent at that retirement home, and you could’ve sworn that you could identify each of these films by a single shot or line from them. 

Why didn't they play anything about Soldier Boy, you may ask? Well, after the explosion at Vought Tower around two years ago, Vought just passed him off as a Russian spy and called it a day. Needless to say they pulled everything about him off the air as soon as his act of terrorism took place and made it to all the major news stations.

But the short-lived job at the retirement home was now a thing of the past, a — hopefully — brighter future ahead of you. 

At the end of the day, you seemingly had to crawl back to Vought — the retirement home also operated by them — just to get some crisp cash into your wallet. 

“Personal Assistant slash secretary, right?” 

The sudden voice breaks you out of your thoughts immediately, your eyes darting up to face the man standing in front of you. Well dressed, sporting a suit, his hair neatly combed — exactly the kind of guy you’d imagine in a corporate office setting. 

You’re quick to push yourself up from your seat, smoothing out your white dress shirt in one quick motion before straightening up, taking the man’s extended hand and giving it a firm shake. 

“Nice to meet you, sir,” you try to put on your most charming smile, letting go of his hand. 

“Nice meeting you too, Miss. We’re glad you were able to come right away,” he said with a smile you could’ve sworn was forced, yet somehow still looked natural on him. Perhaps the effect of all the years he spent under Vought. Not like you had to worry about ending up like this, already convinced that you won’t even last here long enough to get your first monthly paycheck. The man pivots, his elegant black suit’s back now facing you, before speaking up again. “Follow me, we’ll run through the necessities.”

Without much hesitation, you act on his orders, catching up to him in a split second, the two of you strutting right into an elevator. The man — Mark, as you found out from his keycard — fishes out a keycard from one of his pants’ pockets, pressing it to the sensor located under the elevator buttons before pushing the one with the number 70 engraved into it. The elevator doors slide shut with a mechanical click before it ascends to the chosen level. 

“So Miss,” Mark begins, a weak attempt at breaking the awkward silence that settled on the two of you. “You’re a big fan of Vought’s heroes?”

His question took you by surprise. To be fair, there was no interview for this job, which did surprise you, but also made the hairs on your neck stand up, because if he was really going to hold the interview in this elevator, you were sure you’d collapse right here and now from the panic. Still, you try to think rationally, hoping your brain won’t short-circuit.

“Yes, sir,” you reply after a moment of hesitation. Even if you weren’t invested in them enough to call yourself a fan, you weren’t going to risk losing this job just as you’re in the finish line of securing it. If it meant that you had to lie a bit, then let it be, let’s lie.

“Great,” Mark exclaimed quietly, that fake-real smile gracing his lips again. “Most of our workers end up here because of their love for Vought. I just got curious if that was your case too, since, you know, we couldn’t quite get you on an interview when you applied.”

Joining the company because of your love for Vought… Well, you never would’ve thought you’d hear that, considering that you’ve been browsing through practically every Reddit thread discussing conspiracy theories about Vought. Testimonies and personal experiences written down by past workers, people claiming that Vought called the death of entire families “collateral damage”, basically everything that brought Vought onto the dissecting table. How much of these claims was true you didn’t know, but guessing by the fact that Mark didn’t seem to be held hostage or anything, you supposed that you could survive in this skyscraper too.  

“Again, I’m sorry that we gave you little to no time to prepare,” Mark sighs, successfully breaking you out of your little meandering thoughts. “It’s just… things have been really, how do I say this, chaotic and tumultuous as of late. We’re trying our best to get things back on track again, and sadly that involves us having to act quick. But I’m sure you’ll fit in quickly and just fine.”

With a high-pitched chime, the elevator comes to a halt, the red number on the pixelated screen morphing into a 70 right as the thick metal doors slowly slide apart. Mark is the first to step through it and onto the hallway, heroically leading the way amidst the other employees running around with papers, folders, or paper cups of coffee in their hands. You followed right behind him, not too keen on getting lost in the mess of people already. 

Mark comes to a halt, pushing open a black door located near the end of the hallway, stepping through it with you. Turning in, you were greeted with an office space, blindingly white personal cubicles all around the sides of the room, a couch with a wooden coffee table near where you entered, and a few spare desks, although most were empty. 

“The cube in the far right end is yours, we’ll pick up your ID card from Martha at the front desk, after that I’ll lead you to your boss and you can try settling in,” Mark panted as he strutted over to what seemed to be a small reception nearby the door you entered through. Behind the countertop sat a middle aged woman, her dark brown hair neatly arranged into a ponytail.

By the time you caught up to Mark — who moved around the space with ease and routine movements, compared to you barely able to keep up with his pace —, he was already turning away from the counter, handing you a tiny plastic card.

“You access card, Miss,” he grins as you take the card, before he also extends some kind of marker towards you. “There’s a tiny free spot on the bottom, sign that and put the pen back there. Other employees keep stealing them damn pens… all the time…”

Unsure how to take his comment on the stealing part — knowing that at the first opportunity you’ll do the same —, you keep silent, nodding along with what he said instead, fingers wrapping around the pen too. You crouch down to the coffee table, scribbling a signo onto the card. You wanted to slide the pen into your pocket so badly, but Mark’s piercing gaze that followed all your movements made the task impossible, ending with you handing the pen back to him. But tomorrow’s another day, a day where he won’t be keeping such a close eye on you. Hopefully.

“Great,” Mark exclaims as he struts over to the reception, tossing the pen back into its holder, “now you’re officially a proud Vought employee!”

The word “proud” was a wild exaggeration, but it didn’t take long for you to remember that Mark was still living with the daydream-like thought that you applied due to your overflowing love for Vought and its heroes, likely his reason for expecting you to be proud of securing the job. In a way, you were proud of yourself, but purely because you finally managed to pull yourself out of the slump called unemployment. Nonetheless, you didn’t want to get fired on your first day, settling on the option to smile, nod, and play along for now.

“Your cube’s still pretty empty, you’ll have to get your decorations yourself if you want some, we’ll put your name on the door as soon as we can,” Mark, who you still didn’t quite know who he was, pointed at the cubicle on the other side of the room, before turning away. Just because he moved routinely in the building didn’t mean you did too, trying your best to catch up to the man as soon as you noticed that he’s already about to turn into the next hall.

The two of you successfully ended up at another elevator, Mark stepping into it with just as much confidence as before, waiting a second for you to follow him inside before he hit the number 99 on the keypad of the elevator, its doors slowly sliding shut.

Your eyes drifted onto the pixelated screen above the doors, the floor numbers flickering on it, changing as you went higher and higher, your ears clogging at the sudden change in height. With a forced yawn, you pop the invisible tension in your ears, your hearing back to normal.

“Just to give you a heads up,” Mark spoke, although his voice carried a gentleness that he seemed to be devoid of until now, “you should be careful. He doesn’t exactly like to be bossed around, so whatever you suggest or ask of him, try to make it sound… less like an order. He really didn’t want anybody to be assigned to him, but it’s been less than a day, and we’re… well, let’s just say he’s doing more damage than good so far. He’s capable, your job is mostly supervising him and helping out when he’s just about to smash in a computer screen.”

“That’s… allowed? Smashing in company property?” You question, a hint of panic playing in your voice. Whoever they decided to put you with didn’t sound like a person you’d normally want to deal with. From what you could filter out from Mark’s words, the person you’ve been assigned to was short-tempered, hot-headed, aggressive, and likely sporting a big ego, guessing from the comment about him insisting on not wanting anybody assigned to him. 

Was it a supe? A high-ranking person from Vought? An executive? A trainee? A supe trainee? Perhaps a new member of the Seven? This was yet another thing they forgot to mention in the ad, along with seemingly many, many other things you would’ve liked to know about beforehand. 

Whoever it was, they got the top floor of the tower, 99 seemingly being the highest number in the elevator. By now, you were regretting every single choice that led you into this elevator, into the 99th floor, into a mile radius of the tower. You signed to this job expecting to sit at a desk all day, receive some calls from time to time, fill out a few papers in the name of whoever you’ve been partnered under, not… babysitting. The ad asked for a secretary, for fuck’s sake, not somebody to babysit who you assumed to be a grown man with anger issues. The pay better be worth it…

The elevator comes to a halt with a chime accompanying it, the doors sliding open. Mark steps out, swallowing hard, as if he felt the same way about meeting your boss as you. With your heart thudding out of your chest, you follow him, steps uneven and your legs a bit wobbly. You were already cursing yourself, Vought, your boss, and that damned ad about this job offering. 

You and Mark strut down the circular hallway, your eyes darting from one room door to another, all decorated with name plates and a proper logo. Sister Sage, Firecracker, Homelander, The Deep, Black Noir… The Seven? 

Your eyes widen as realization slowly dawns on you. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Mark just brought you to the private quarters of The Seven — although they were far from having seven members —, the two of you stopping at the door on the opposite side of the hallway compared to where you got out of the elevator. Your eyes scan the door, only to find it devoid of any name or logo.

No hints of who could be behind it… wonderful.

“Remember what I told you,” Mark whispered, his tone so low it was barely audible to you. “Try to keep calm, don’t try bossing him around.”

With that, before you could’ve replied anything, Mark knocks on the door, loud enough for basically the entire floor to hear it. A moment of silence passed by, the two of you waiting for anything to come from the other side. 

To be honest, you saw it as a win. More time for you to prepare a few words in advance and dig around for more info.

“Maybe we should try it later, and—”

“Sir, I’m coming in,” Mark cuts you off, entirely dismissing your idea of coming back later, the door already creaking open right as he utters the last word. Drawing in a deep breath, you hurry after him.

The two of you walked into the room as if it was some haunted house, waiting for something, anything to jump out of the shadows and scare the living shit out of you. Mark didn’t seem to be all that calm either, but by the looks of it, was in a seemingly better headspace than you.

The room inside was like a blank canvas, missing basically everything that could’ve given it any personality. It was mostly white, some marble decorations, dark green curtains already installed on the massive glass panel windows overlooking Midtown Manhattan below.

The sound of slow, lazy footsteps alerts the both of you. Mark wastes no time, gently patting your shoulder as he turns around. 

“You got this,” he muttered under his breath. “Good luck, have fun, don’t die!”

Don’t… die? 

Before you could’ve voiced your concerns, he had already disappeared, you only finding the door closing behind him with a click. Why the fuck did he leave me here?! Did they hire me to send me to certain death?!

Before your thoughts could’ve spiraled further, a deep voice cut in, coming from right behind you.

“Well, would you look at that? Didn’t know I’d get complementary eye candy too.”

Fuck...