Coach Yaga says it dryly as he slaps a paper down onto the desk in front of him.

Satoru doesn't flinch. In fact, he laughs.

"You can't bench me, Coach," he says, leaning back in the chair. "It's finals season."

"I can, and I am." Yaga points to the top of the page Satoru still hasn't bothered looking at. "You have an overall 2.0 GPA."

Okay. So maybe he is good at everything except academics.

"What's the problem?" Satoru asks lazily, though he straightens a little in his seat, scratching the back of his neck. "It's not like you need math to qualify for the pros."

"The problem is you need it to graduate. Do you seriously think scouts only come to watch you play?"

"Well… yeah."

Yaga pinches the bridge of his nose. "They watch you play, then they check your standings. No one is going to recruit you with grades this bad."

Satoru scoffs immediately. "That's bullshit. I've had plenty of options." He gestures vaguely. "Look at all the scout business cards I've got."

"And how many called you back?"

That shuts him up for a half a second.

His jaw ticks. "Whatever. This is stupid. I'm your best player—the captain! Finals are in like six weeks."

"Looks like you have six weeks to get your grades up if you want to play." Yaga slides the report closer toward him. "There's information for the tutoring center attached. I suggest you use it."

Satoru stands abruptly, shoving a hand through his white hair. "This is fucking bullshit," he mutters, snatching the paper off the desk.

He looks it over with disgust before turning on his heel and storming out of the office.

He makes it exactly three steps before someone throws an arm over his shoulders.

"Yo! Number 8!" Ren says loudly. "Did you get the lineup for Friday?"

"No."

"Ooookay…" he drags out. "Then why were you in there so long? Yaga chewing you out for bad form?"

"No."

The bulky goalie smells badly of BO with a poor attempt of covering it with body spray. And if he keeps talking for another five seconds, Satoru is genuinely considering punching him in the throat.

"Then what's this?"

Before Satoru can react, the paper's ripped right out of his hand.

"Yo—give me that shit back!"

"Ooooh, no fucking way." Ren beams down at the page. "Yaga was talking to you about grades?"

Satoru snatches it back with ease, exhaling the rage from his nose. "Yeah. But it's whatever."

"Those grades are shit. Did he bench your ass?"

Silence immediately bounces around the locker room.

Then Ren bursts out laughing so hard he nearly doubles over, drawing the attention of the few teammates still hanging around after practice.

Great. Perfect.

"You're benched?" one of the defensemen asks, staring at him.

"No way," another joins. "Right before finals season?"

Satoru closes his eyes for a brief second, summoning every ounce of patience he has left. When he speaks again, his voice is tight beneath the usual cocky edge.

"Yeah, well, you idiots better pray I fix my grades, otherwise you can kiss that sweet championship goodbye."

"You don't think we can win without you?" someone calls from the showers, towel slung around his neck.

"Hah. Absolutely not. You guys are shit without me."

Satoru nearly regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth; not that he'd ever admit it out loud.

Their team is good. Really good. There's a reason they've made it this far, and it wasn't just because of him, even if he likes acting like it was.

Luckily, the team knows him well enough not to take it personally.

A chorus of fuck you's, middle fingers, and dramatic threats about replacing him as captain follow him out of the locker room while he flips them off over his shoulder.

But by the time he gets back to his dorm, his irritation has settled into something heavier.

He drops onto his unmade bed, staring down at the paper in his hands. His grades.

His future.

School has never mattered much to him. Why would it? Hockey is the plan. Hockey has always been the plan. Sitting through lectures about subjects he barely understands feels pointless when he is destined to be in arenas packed with screaming fans anyway.

But underneath all the arrogance is something he rarely admits, even to himself.

He genuinely didn't get any of it.

Half the shit his professors ramble about all blur together after about ten minutes. He stopped trying a long time ago.

His fingers pinch the attached business card, pulling it free from the paperclip.

TUTORING CENTER

M-F | CALL FOR MORE DETAILS

Satoru flops backward onto the mattress he barely fits on, holding the card above his face. He stares at the number written across the back for a long moment.

And honestly? He actually considers calling. Right up until he scoffs and flings the card across the room instead.

He doesn't need a fucking tutor.

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

He needs a fucking tutor.

When Satoru shows up to practice the following Monday, he leaves even more pissed after realizing Yaga had actually been serious about keeping him off the ice.

No games. No practice. No hockey, until his grades came up.

And despite how unbelievably stupid the whole thing is, he can't sweet-talk his way back into playing. He actually has to fix the problem.

So he starts going to class.

Turns out attendance is a giant part of his grade. Unfortunately, being so far behind means that his professors talking just sounds like another language. The last two mornings end the same way too—with his arms crossed on the desk, sunglasses barely hiding the fact he'd fallen asleep halfway through the lecture.

Back at the dorms, he opens the stupidly expensive laptop he bought solely because people said he "needed one for college," then starts dragging himself through missing assignments. The few he barely understands take hours.

Even with all that effort, his grades barely move.

The only real option left is acing midterms and finals while grinding through extra credit. And looking over the study guide makes one thing painfully clear.

He is absolutely fucked.

Maybe it is pride, but calling the tutoring center feels humiliating. Star athlete Gojo needing help understanding basic concepts? People would laugh. Word would spread. It'd be a disaster.

So instead, he ends up at the campus library.

People study here all the time. Easy. He'll just find some nerd willing to discreetly help him out and charm his way into a few lessons.

The library is quieter than he expects, nearly empty except for a few scattered students hunched over their laptops.

Satoru adjusts the strap of his bag, feeling out of place wandering between the shelves toward the back study booths.

And there you are.

Sitting alone with one headphone in, the other hanging loose against your sweater. Wire-framed glasses rest on your nose—which he thinks are kind of hot—while you chew absentmindedly on the end of a pen, eyes scanning over a textbook filled with enough highlighted notes to make him nauseous.

Perfect.

Without hesitation, Satoru slides into the seat across from you.

Your eyes lift immediately, widening just a little with recognition when they meet his. A faint blush dusts your cheeks.

"Hey."

"Hi," you answer softly. "Can I help you?"

"Actually," Satoru drawls, leaning forward onto his elbows to casually invade your space. "I think you can."

You blink at him, visibly confused.

Of course you know who he is. Everybody does. Satoru Gojo makes his presence known whether people want him to or not. Why he is suddenly sitting across from someone like you, though, clearly isn't adding up.

"You're smart, right?" He nods towards the mountain of notes spread across the table. "I need to get my grades up. Think you could be a sweetheart and help me out?"

The nickname immediately makes your face warmer.

"I'm sorry," you say carefully. "I don't really tutor, but I can refer you to the tutoring center."

Satoru pushes his bottom lip out dramatically. "Already tried. They suck." Total lie. "C'mon, really? Not even for me? I'd… compensate well."

You hesitate, still trying to figure out why he is talking to you in the first place.

But extra money is tempting.

"How much? Would you pay hourly?"

A grin spreads across his face instantly, arrogant enough to light the whole room.

"Well, I was thinking maybe I could pay a different way."

"I only take cash or Apple Pay."

Satoru chuckles.

"What if we could have some fun instead?”

You stare at him.

"Fun?"

"You know." His smirk deepens. "You come back to my dorm, I show you a good time."

Your eyes widen, complete shock washing over your features before it's replaced with pure disgust.

"Are you kidding me?" you whisper-yell. "Absolutely not!"

Satoru leans back just as fast, momentarily forgetting all about his grades as offense flashes across his face.

"What do you mean, absolutely not?"

"I mean," you hiss, "I am not sleeping with you! Who even asks someone that?"

"Who do you think you are to reject it?" he shoots back automatically.

A sharp shush comes from somewhere deeper in the library. He lowers his voice, but not the attitude.

"Do you know how many people are waiting to fuck me?"

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh, completely flabbergasted while starting to stuff your things into your bag now that your concentration is completely ruined.

"Well, I certainly am not."

"Why not?"

"Because you're not my type."

Satoru scoffs. "I'm everyone's type."

You don't even bother responding.

Still visibly horrified by the audacity of the entire interaction, you swing your bag over your shoulder and briskly walk out of the library.

Satoru stays there for another minute, slouched back in his chair with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, irritation buzzing hot beneath his skin.

Nobody ever flat-out rejects him like you just did, and sure as hell nobody looks at him like what he said was actually offensive.

You are just being dramatic.

He throws his bag back over his shoulder with far more force than necessary before leaving the library.

Barely halfway to the dorms a familiar figure materializes at his side.

"You look irritated."

"I'm not."

"Mhm. I mean, you do always look like there's a hockey stick up your ass," Suguru snickers.

Satoru turns his head sharply, a muscle ticking in his jaw as narrowed eyes lock onto his best friend, whose smirk only widens in the dim glow of his phone screen.

After a second he shakes his head and focuses forward. "Some uptight nerd just ruined my night."

"What'd you do?"

"Nothing!" Satoru scowls. "Why are you assuming I did something?"

Suguru chuckles, locking his phone and shoving it into his pocket as they enter the dorm building. "Maybe because I've known you for years. Or lucky guess."

"I didn't do shit. It was her that made it all a big deal."

"Oookay…" Suguru pushes open the door to their shared room and toes off his shoes. "What exactly did you say?"

The blue eyed hockey star flops face first on his mattress, voice muffled by the pillow beneath him. "I offered to sleep with her in exchange for tutoring."

"And?"

"And…" he hesitates, suddenly feeling embarrassed to recount his rejection out loud. "She stormed out. Bein' dramatic and whatever."

There's a moment of silence before Suguru bursts out laughing.

Satoru rolls onto his back so fast he nearly falls off the bed, glaring daggers at his dark-haired friend as he doubles over, clutching his stomach.

"The fuck are you laughin' at?"

"Did you hear what you just said?" Suguru wheezes.

Satoru snatches the nearest pillow and launches it at his head. "Fuck off."

Gratefully, Suguru does eventually shut up, though the lingering grin on his face remains as he pulls his headphones over his ears and starts minding his own business.

Lying flat on his back, Satoru stares at the speckled ceiling above him and tries to brush the entire thing off.

Except he can't stop replaying it.

You're not my type.

His nose wrinkles.

What the hell did that even mean?

He is tall, attractive, popular, athletic—objectively speaking, there wasn't a universe where Satoru Gojo isn't someones type. Half the campus practically throws themselves at him on a daily basis. Hell, he's rejected more people this month alone than most people get approached in their entire lives.

And yet, you'd looked at him like he'd tracked mud onto your favorite shoes.

The more he thinks about it, the more annoyed he becomes.

Whatever.

He didn't need you.

Tomorrow he'll find another tutor, get his grades up, get off academic probation, and get back on the ice where he belongs. Then everything will go back to normal.

Except the following day is a complete disaster.

It isn't hard for him to find a tutor, but finding one he can actually tolerate is the issue.

The first girl he meets spends the entire hour flirting instead of teaching. Twirling her hair around her finger, batting her eyelashes, leaning over the table enough that her breasts nearly spill out—so every five minutes she is exaggeratedly adjusting her shirt while explaining the same equation for the third time.

Normally he doesn't mind the attention. Actually, he loves it.

But with midterms approaching and Coach breathing down his neck about his grades, the whole thing just rubs him the wrong way. He doesn't need someone giggling every time their knees brush under the table. He needs someone who can explain concepts before his GPA tanks hard enough to permanently bench him for the championship game.

So he tries again.

The second tutor of the day lasts all of ten minutes before recognizing him from the hockey team and deciding he isn't interested in "helping arrogant assholes coast through college."

Apparently his reputation is worse than he'd thought. Which is bullshit, honestly.

Satoru is already in a foul mood by the time he wanders toward the coffee shop off campus, desperate for a pick-me-up. Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, he moves on autopilot, barely registering where he's going until something solid slams into his chest.

"Ah— shit—"

He looks down.

And there you are.

Again.

For a second, time genuinely seems to stop.

Your eyes widen in surprise, fingers tightening around the drink in your hand before recognition flashes across your face.

You are close. Close enough for him to notice the irritation bubbling in your expression and catch the faint scent of whatever perfume you wear. And really, what are the odds? He doesn't really believe in fate, but perhaps you are some form of academic savior.

Then your face hardens.

"Are you serious?" you snap. "Could you please watch where you're going?"

"Right, yeah." Satoru steps back immediately, hands lifting slightly in surrender. "Sorry. My bad."

"Yeah, your bad," you snap, sidestepping him before briskly walking past.

Satoru watches you go for half a second, hesitating, trying to decide if what he was about to do is a good idea.

"Hey—"

"No."

He sighs, jogging to catch up anyways. "You don't even know what I was gonna say."

"I don't need to. The answer is no."

"C'monnn," he groans, dragging the word out shamelessly. "Look. The sex thing was—"

"Horrifying? Degrading? Borderline sexual harassment?"

He visibly winces. "I was gonna say misinterpreted…"

You stop walking so abruptly he nearly walks into you again.

"How," you ask slowly, turning toward him with narrowed eyes that are quite terrifying, "do you misinterpret offering me sex in exchange for tutoring?"

"…Yeah, alright," Satoru admits after a beat, for once looking a little ashamed.

But you do not care, continuing your swift walk away from him.

He moves fast, stepping in front of you before you can get far, blocking your path with an awkward sort of determination.

"Dude."

"Just hear me out for like—thirty seconds."

"No."

"I'm sorry.”

The words come out quieter this time, genuine enough to make you pause. Satoru stuffs his hands into his pockets, expression tight with obvious discomfort at having to say any of this in the first place.

"You're right. It was outta line."

"Tch," you scoff, but stay still. "You're telling me."

"Look, I…" He exhales sharply through his nose, visibly struggling with the vulnerability of the situation. "I really need help, okay? I'm benched right now and if I don't get my grades up soon, I'm going to lose everything."

You blink once as he continues.

"I don't get the material," he mutters bitterly, gaze flicking away for the first time since you'd met. "Like at all."

"And all of this is my problem how? Why don't you ask someone else?"

"I've tried!" he says instantly, sounding genuinely exasperated now. "Seriously, do you think I'd be standing here begging for another chance if I had found another option?"

It's quiet for a long moment, the two of you standing there beneath the afternoon sun, locked in a strange standoff right outside the coffee shop.

Satoru searches your expression carefully, waiting for any sign that you are considering it. And as much as you already loathe this guy, you know you have the upper hand.

"Cash only," you say finally. "Eighty bucks for two hours, Tuesdays and Thursdays only, and I want the money upfront."

The relief on Satoru's face is immediate, but you hold up a finger before he can speak.

"Absolutely no flirting. No touching. No missing sessions. If you do any of that or say one more weird thing to me, I'm done tutoring you. Got it?"

Satoru looks down at you, confidence slowly returning now that he can practically see himself getting back onto the ice.

"Yeah," he says quickly. "Okay. Got it."

"Great. You got money?"

A breath of laughter escapes him at how serious you sound. "Yeah."

You hold your hand out expectantly, opening and closing your fingers against your palm.

Satoru reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and a crisp hundred dollar bill before slapping it directly into your palm.

"Keep the change."

"Meet me here Tuesday at twelve," you say, tucking the bill into your bag. "Whatever subject you need… just don't make me regret this."

"Trust me, sweetheart, you'll—"

Your glare sharpens, and he stops himself with a cough.

"…not regret it," he corrects.

"Mm."

With one last suspicious look, you turn and walk away.

Satoru watches until you disappear down the sidewalk, and weirdly enough, his chest feels lighter.

He finally secured a tutor.

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

Tuesday comes faster than expected.

And Satoru is ten minutes late.

He shoves through the coffee shop doors in a rush, drawing irritated glances from the students sitting near the entrance as cold air sweeps in behind him. His bag hangs loose over one shoulder, white hair a mess from sprinting all the way across campus the second he realized what time it was.

Relief washes over him when he finds you sitting at a little corner table near the windows, notebook open neatly in front of you beside an untouched drink. One leg is crossed over the other as you absentmindedly tap your pen against the page.

You waited, which surprises him.

He's walking a tightrope with you, he knows that much. Showing up late to your first tutoring session together surely earned him another lecture, and he feels oddly foolish as he approaches the table.

"Sorry for being late," he says, mildly sincere.

"Save it," you reply, though the words lack the sharp bite from your previous conversations. "Sit. Do you have a subject that you want to focus on today?"

Satoru obeys, dropping into the seat across from you with obvious relief that he escaped being scolded. He shrugs off his bag and pulls out a notebook that looks brand new.

"Yeah," he replies. "I was thinkin' stats."

You only nod before opening your own bag, and Satoru notices the thing looks heavy enough to kill someone. Folders, binders, loose papers, color-coded everything.

"Damn," he mutters, leaning back in his chair. "Do you carry an entire office supply store around with you or what?"

You ignore his comment completely.

"How far behind are you?"

Satoru waves a hand dismissively. "Not that bad."

"Mhm." You click your pen. "Can I see your grades?"

"…Why?"

"Because if I'm tutoring you, I need to know where you're struggling."

Satoru felt his confidence shrivel and die, crossing his arms defensively. "Look, all you need to know is that I need help in basically every class."

You blink at him, entirely unimpressed and a bit annoyed. "Do you want me to help you or not?"

He exhales slowly before reluctantly pulling out his phone. After a painful amount of hesitation, he opens the student portal and slides the device across the table.

The moment you start scrolling, his stomach twists.

"…Satoru."

"What?"

"How are you even academically eligible to still attend this school?"

He snatches the phone back immediately, "Okay, don't be dramatic."

"You have a forty-three percent in statistics."

"That's basically fifty."

"That's still failing."

Satoru slumps back in his chair while you jot down something in your notebook.

"I just suck at tests," he defends.

"And homework."

"Homework's stupid."

"And attendance."

"Okay, well attendance being graded is dumb."

You stare at him for a long moment before exhaling slowly through your nose.

"Alright," you mutter, flipping open the folder. "Let's figure out what you actually know."

And for the first twenty minutes, it becomes miserably clear that the answer is close to nothing.

Half of the concepts you mention from the syllabus sound completely unfamiliar to him, and with every note you scribble down, Satoru becomes increasingly aware that he may have genuinely fucked himself over. Hockey. Graduation. His future. Sitting across from you in that tiny coffee shop, and all of it suddenly feels a lot less stable than he’s been pretending.

But as the time passes, and he admits he doesn't understand something, you don't look surprised or judgemental.

You just adjust.

When he gets lost reading through textbook definitions, you stop relying so heavily on the slides and start explaining concepts out loud instead, breaking them down in ways that somehow make way more sense than any lecture he has ever sat through—which isn't many.

Still.

It's weirdly natural for you despite claiming you "weren't really a tutor." Because you are really good at it.

"You should probably write this down."

"Oh, right," Satoru snaps from his daze, reaching into his bag.

Nothing.

He digs around harder, and still, nothing. No pen. No pencil. Not even a half dead mechanical one shoved in the bottom somewhere.

"You have got to be kidding me," you mutter.

Satoru looks up sheepishly. "How obvious is it that I didn't think this through?"

"Painfully." You sigh, reaching into your pencil pouch before holding one out towards him. "Don't lose it."

His fingers brush yours briefly as he takes it, that stupid cocky grin finding its way back onto his face.

"I'll treasure it forever."

"Just focus."

And… he does.

Not very gracefully or quietly. But somewhere between borrowed pens, a bruised ego, and your increasingly exasperated sighs, Satoru Gojo finds himself actually trying.

He sits in that coffee shop making study sheets about standard deviation and solving equations filled with words like probability and distribution. Every time he gets confused, he asks questions instead of brushing it off, determined to get something out of the hundred bucks he'd spent.

The two hours pass faster than he expects.

And by the end of the session, he feels… productive. Like he actually learned something for once, even if he got almost every practice problem wrong.

"Here." You slide a stapled packet across the table toward him. "I wrote out a practice sheet. Give me eighty and we can review it Thursday."

"Homework on the first day?" he smirks.

You close your eyes and rub at your temples.

"What!" he laughs, pulling out his wallet. "You said no weird comments, not no charming ones."

And he swears the corner of your mouth twitches upward for half a second before you look away.

Thursday he shows up on time.

Satoru completed the worksheet, brings his laptop, and even remembers a pen—though halfway through he still ends up using yours because he likes the way it writes better.

Of course you notice.

"That's mine," you point.

"Mhm."

"…so give it back."

"You can pry it from my cold dead hands."

You huff. "You are genuinely the most irritating person I've ever met."

Satoru grins lazily, clicking the pen obnoxiously while leaning back in his chair. "And yet, you came back to tutor me another day. Curious."

Your eyes narrow. "Don't push your luck. Finish question six."

Right.

He learns quickly that you are harsh with criticism in a way that normally would have pissed him off. You don't soften corrections or sugarcoat mistakes to protect his ego, but after the first few comments, Satoru starts realizing you are not trying to make him feel stupid.

You really want him to understand.

It's weird. Really weird.

No professor has ever bothered slowing down long enough to figure out why he gets lost halfway through explanations or give up after realizing he zones out every five minutes. But you adjust without making a big deal out of it.

And it works. It’s effective enough that he finds himself less awkward when he slides the latest assignment closer to you, tapping the paper with the end of the pen.

"Hey… uh, is this the correct formula?"

You tilt your head, leaning slightly closer to examine his work. A few strands of hair fall forward as your eyes scan over the equation.

"Yeah," you say after a second. "Just keep following through and you should get the correct answer."

Satoru nods, pulling the paper back towards himself. The tip of his tongue sticks out slightly in concentration as his—your pen scratches across the paper. His brows pinch together while he works through the rest of the problem, muttering numbers beneath his breath before circling the final answer.

Then he slides the worksheet back toward you for validation.

"Yup. Good job."

And damn does that tiny bit of praise hits him embarrassingly hard.

Satoru ducks his head back towards the paper, biting the inside of his cheek to hide the smile threatening to spread across his face while he works through the remaining problems.

Ridiculous, honestly.

Two little words of encouragement shouldn't be rewarding enough to make his chest feel warm.

But things continue shifting in ways Satoru doesn't notice at first.

The sessions have settled into routine surprisingly fast. Tuesdays and Thursdays at the coffee shop. You arrive with a bag overloaded with enough supplies to survive an academic apocalypse, and he shows up with slightly fewer missing assignments and just enough effort—and money—to keep you from giving up on him completely.

Today, you have spent a lot of time chastising him for fidgeting or cracking jokes instead of focusing.

"Can you sit still for like five seconds?"

"No."

"You've tapped your pen against the table thirty-seven times."

"You counted?"

"I wanted to know."

"Wow," Satoru smirks. "Obsessed with me. I was wondering how long it'd—"

Your notebook smacks loudly against the table, cutting him off before he can finish the sentence.

"Question eight."

Satoru makes a face at you before reluctantly turning back towards his laptop, adjusting his grip on the pen to continue the assignment.

You can complain all you want, but he knows for a fact you've laughed at his jokes before.

Once.

Kind of.

It was more like a scoff, really, but your mouth did twitch upwards while you shook your head at him, and ever since then he's started slipping dumb comments into conversations just to see if he can get that sound out of you again.

Sometimes he does.

Most of the time you just roll your eyes so hard he thinks they might permanently stick that way.

"You skipped a step."

Your voice drags Satoru out from his thoughts. He glances down at the latest problem he'd solved, confused because he is almost positive the answer is correct.

"What's the issue?"

"You missed a step," you point at the worksheet before explaining the concept again.

"Yeah, I did it. Just in my head."

"Your professor cannot grade your thoughts, Satoru."

"But I still got it right."

You stare at him blankly before snatching the worksheet out of his hands.

Satoru leans back smugly, folding his arms behind his head while you scan over his work, actively searching for something to criticize. Your eyes move across the page, brows pinching together with growing annoyance.

Low and behold—

He is correct.

You frown slightly.

"Huh," he grins. "Look at that. Natural talent."

With a huff, you shove the worksheet back across the table so hard the paper flutters towards his chest.

"Whatever. You still need to show all your work for full credit."

"You know what I think?" he asks, spinning your pen between his fingers now. "I'm academically gifted too. I just needed a little push."

"Don't get ahead of yourself. You still have a D minus."

His smile drops instantly.

"Man," he groans dramatically, letting the pen clatter to the table. "Why do you always gotta humble me?"

"It comes with the tutoring session, free of charge." You quickly snatch your pen back from him before pointing towards his backpack. "Now get out your economics stuff. You seem to have the hang of stats."

Satoru wants to complain about losing the pen, but it feels like a breath of fresh air to move on from weeks of mathematical equations trying to kill him, so he lets it go without much of a fight.

Tucked away at your usual corner table, you begin explaining different ways he could salvage his grade in the class before the semester ends. Satoru is mostly paying attention, lazily playing with a highlighter while you talk—pulling the cap off with his teeth before snapping it back on over and over again beneath the table. His eyes drift between your face, your notes, and the little doodles crowding the corners of your notebook page.

He probably should be focusing more. And he is really going to tune into whatever you're saying that has you tapping your fingers against your coffee cup, but then the bell above the coffee shop door chimes.

And instead of ignoring it he glances up automatically—

Then immediately whips his head back down.

Fuck.

At least five members of the hockey team walk inside, loud and sweaty from practice. Their voices carry across the room, familiar enough to make Satoru physically tense.

He has been so focused on studying lately—so focused on these sessions and getting his grades up—that hockey hasn't crossed his mind once while sitting here with you.

And now it's hitting him all at once.

The first round of playoffs is approaching fast. If his grades continue to go up, there is actually a chance he can get back on the ice to play.

But persuading Coach is not important right now, because he completely forgot to mention he would really appreciate it if you didn't actually tell people you are his tutor.

"Okay," you say, tapping your pen against his notebook. "Explain what I just said back to me in your own words."

Satoru blinks and looks up slowly, a faint flush dusting across his cheeks and climbing towards the tips of his ears.

You sigh, but it isn’t as dramatic as it used to be. "You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"

"Yeah. Sorry," he mutters quickly, subtly shifting his body farther away from the counter as his teammates move deeper into the cafe. "I got distracted."

Perceptive as ever, your gaze follows his before landing on the group.

"Hey," you start slowly. "Aren't those your—"

"Shh!" Satoru hisses, leaning across the table so fast his knee bumps yours underneath it. "Don't—" he lowers his voice further, eyes widening in genuine panic, "don't draw attention."

Your lips slowly curl upward as realization clicks into place.

"Ohhhh," you drag out quietly. "You don't want them knowing you have a tutor?"

"Tsk. No. I don't care if they know."

"You just panic shushed me."

"Because… they're annoying."

You press the end of the pen to your lips, grin widening by the second while Satoru very deliberately keeps his eyes on his notebook instead of the hockey team.

"Oh my god," you laugh softly. "You're embarrassed."

"I am not."

"You are totally embarrassed."

"Look," Satoru grumbles, running a hand down his face before flicking his hood on. "It's already bad enough that they know I'm benched because of my grades. A tutor on top of that? I'd literally never hear the end of it. And I'd prefer to keep my image intact."

You hum thoughtfully, eyes flicking briefly towards the group before landing back on him, tilting your head. "And what exactly is your image?"

"The hot, strong, and not completely stupid hockey captain," he answers. "Obviously."

"Riiight."

Satoru looks down at his notebook, distractedly scribbling bright yellow ink onto the corner until the page starts curling beneath the saturation.

"I'm not asking you to do anything," he admits after a second, voice more subdued than usual. "You're already helping me enough."

"But?"

"But…" he shrugs one shoulder awkwardly. "Nothing, I guess."

Because he has already decided that you will probably laugh at him for caring this much in the first place. Honestly, maybe he deserves it.

But instead, you shrug back, your teasing expression softening into something more understanding.

"If they come over, just say we're studying together." You gesture between his notes and your own work spread across the table. "I mean… that's technically what we're doing anyway, right?"

Satoru finally looks back up at you properly. Your expression stays completely casual, and something loosens in his chest.

"Right," he says faintly. "Right, yeah."

"But only because you're actually trying," you add promptly, pointing the pen at him now. "So don't make me regret it."

A grin tugs at his mouth again.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Thankfully, his teammates never notice him. The group stays crowded around the counter for a while before eventually piling back out of the shop just as loudly as they entered. The second the door shuts behind them, Satoru relaxes in his chair.

You snort. "That was pathetic."

And instead of being annoyed, he finds himself laughing with you.

By the time the two-hour session ends, the tension from earlier has dissolved into something softer. The two of you pack up your papers in a comfortable silence, shoulders occasionally brushing in the small space between chairs.

"Alright," you say, sliding your laptop into your bag. "See you Thursday?"

"Uh, yeah," Satoru slings his backpack over one shoulder. "Definitely."

"Cool."

Both of you end up walking out together, stepping into the warm midday glow side by side. It's pretty peaceful here away from the campus buzz, and Satoru doesn't feel particularly rushed to leave.

"Hey, earlier…" he starts lightly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Thanks. For not, y'know… outing me."

"Oh. Yeah. It's whatever."

"No, really." His voice softens just slightly. "It means a lot."

Your smile is strangely smaller at that. Almost shy. "Yeah, no problem."

The silence that follows isn't awkward anymore, and Satoru glances sideways at you after a moment.

"Do you maybe want to meet at the library next time?"

You meet his gaze.

"It's quieter," he adds quickly, trying to be casual about the way he can't ignore the sun glinting in your eyes. "Probably easier to uh, focus. Closer to campus too."

The suggestion seems to brighten your expression.

"Let's do it."

"Cool," he clears his throat, looking away. "See you in two days."

"Two days it is."

And you walk off towards campus, disappearing into the distance. Satoru watches you go before turning in the opposite direction, realizing halfway down the sidewalk that you hadn't even asked for payment upfront this time.

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

Satoru Gojo was early.

It wasn't the first time he was early to something. Sometimes he showed up before practice to get extra laps in on the ice, or arrived at games ahead of everyone else just to skate alone while the arena was still quiet. He liked the feeling of being settled in before the noise started. Before people started expecting things from him.

He was early for things that mattered.

And apparently, your tutoring sessions were becoming one of those things. The realization annoyed him enough that he tried not to think about it too hard.

He watches the door for you, and when you finally walk into the library, scanning the rows of tables beneath the dim overhead lights, something strange tightens in his chest.

You aren't wearing your glasses today.

It shouldn't make that much of a difference, but without them your face looks softer somehow. Less hidden. He can see your eyes more clearly, and the second they land on him, his heartbeat picks up stupidly fast.

"You're here early," you say, lacking the teasing edge you normally bring with you. "Didn't think you'd beat me here."

Satoru stretches his arms lazily across the back of the bench seat like he hasn't been sitting there waiting for the last fifteen minutes.

"I was just nearby."

A hum is the only response before you settle in across from him.

"So… no glasses today?"

"Oh," you blink, tugging your sleeves over your hands when cold air drifts from the vent above. "Yeah. Contacts."

"Nice. You look cool."

Seriously?

Satoru barely recognizes his own voice and immediately decides he should probably stop talking before another painfully lame comment slips out.

The library feels different from the coffee shop. Smaller somehow. More private. There are no dishes clattering or loud conversations filling the silence between you both. Just the quiet typing somewhere deeper in the building, pages turning, and the soft scratch of your pen against paper.

Satoru finds it distracting.

Or maybe the distraction is just you.

He tries focusing while you explain concepts in that calm, patient voice of yours, but his attention drifts anyways. Towards little things he normally wouldn't notice.

Like the sticker wrapped around your drink peeling near the seam because you keep picking at it every time you concentrate too hard.

Or your rings spinning against your fingers whenever you pause to think.

Something about it makes him realize that despite spending hours with you every single week lately, he barely knows anything about you at all.

Satoru isn't used to that.

Most people hand him pieces of themselves without him even asking. Girls tell him their life stories just to keep his attention for a few extra minutes.

But you don't.

He doesn't know your major. Doesn't know what music leaks faintly from your headphones. Doesn't know what your dorm looks like, or what time you usually go to sleep, or if the faint shadows beneath your eyes are because you weren't getting enough of it.

He shouldn't care, except you seem completely fine keeping those things to yourself, and it bothers him more than it should. And makes him notice more instead of less.

The first conclusion he comes to is that you're actually kind of shy.

Not in an obvious way. You aren't nervous or awkward, but you lower your voice whenever someone walks pasts your table. You never hold eye contact with him for too long before looking back down at your notes. Even when your mouth gets sharp with him, Satoru notices you don't actually like attention very much at all.

Then suddenly he realizes what he's doing and looks back down at his study sheet, internally scolding himself for being weird and not focusing on the midterm tomorrow.

The session remains quiet.

Truthfully, he could've finished most of the material on his own tonight, which still feels insane to think about considering where he started.

But you don't seem eager to leave either.

You work through your own assignments across from him while faintly nodding along to whatever song was playing through your headphones, occasionally pushing hair behind your ear.

At some point, the library empties almost entirely. Neither of you notices how late it's gotten until Satoru leans back to stretch and catches sight of the windows.

"Woah," he mutters. "The sky looks sick."

You turn your head, eyes landing on the streaks of orange and pink spilling across the darkening campus skyline.

"Oh," your voice is soft. "Yeah, that's really pretty."

You both continue looking out the window, letting the moment linger for just a second longer.

"Didn't realize it was so late," you add.

And just like that, you start packing your things because that's just what the two of you always do when the sessions end.

Satoru finds himself packing up automatically too, shoving loose papers into his backpack before you can finish first and disappear on him.

"Thanks for the company today," he says, mostly to fill the silence. "I know I didn't really need that much help."

"No problem," your smile is gentle. "I'm glad you're actually improving."

"All because of you."

The words come out way sweeter than intended, and judging by the way you look at him, you notice it too.

Satoru looks away, pushing himself away from the table and making a quick escape toward the exit before he can embarrass himself further.

The air outside is cold enough to sting a little, bits of winter still clinging to the early spring. He watches you adjust the strap of your bag, and before he can really think too hard about why he wants to, the words leave his mouth.

"I'll walk you to your dorm."

You look up at him in surprise. "Oh. You don't have to do that."

"Yeah well." He shrugs. "It's getting dark. And if you get kidnapped, I lose my tutor."

"Campus is pretty safe, I think I'll survive."

Satoru groans. "Oh c'mon. Humor me."

Your cheeks warm slightly before you finally nod. "Alright. Fine."

You start walking down the path towards the dorms, Satoru falling into step beside you. He shoves his hands into his pockets, glancing sideways at you every couple seconds while trying to think of literally anything to say that doesn't involve tutoring or the fact he's spent the last few hours noticing entirely too many things about you.

"So, uh, what do you like to do for fun? Besides tutoring, of course?"

"First, I don't tutor. Second, you think I'd do tutoring for fun?"

Satoru laughs. "Okay, throw me a bone here. I'm trying to make small talk."

"Ah," you hum. "First time for everything huh?"

Satoru looks at you flatly. "You're brutal."

"Truth hurts."

God. Were you always this—

Satoru cuts the thought before it can root, kicking a loose stone and watching it skitter across the sidewalk.

"So?" he presses. "No sports? Clubs? Anything?”

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"Just never interested me much."

Satoru doesn't buy that for a second.

"If I admitted stuff, you have to too," he nudges your shoulder lightly with his own. "Only fair."

You hesitate before answering.

"There's just a lot of expectation for me to do well in school. From my family. From myself too, I guess. I focus on that."

"Yeah," he exhales slowly. "I get that."

You look at him curiously. "With hockey?"

"Hockey's kinda my whole life. So not being able to play feels…" he trails off. "I dunno. Weird."

"Do you miss it that much?"

"Do I?" A thousand different things come to mind. "Yeah. It kinda feels like I'm screwing up the only thing I'm supposed to be good at."

The vulnerability is so raw, you both can feel it in the space between you. Satoru isn't used to this feeling, and immediately tries covering it back up.

"But y'know," he grins weakly, "I'm Satoru Gojo. I've got everything handled."

The statement falls flat, he knows it does, but you don't pity him too badly for it.

"Give yourself more credit," you look over at him. "You've been working really hard this last month."

Satoru nods, absorbing your words into his heart instead of his ego. People compliment him all the time, but not like this.

"I guess."

You look up towards the sky, as if the answer for him is written somewhere within the stars that begin to shine.

"Perhaps you are just growing into a different version of yourself."

Satoru snorts softly. "That sounds poetic."

"I've always thought I should become a poet"

That pulls a laugh out of him.

The rest of the walk passes with light conversation about favorite foods, movies, places to waste time and things that could disappear from the earth without either of you shedding a tear.

Turns out you both have a mutual hatred for weather that's way too hot, and engage in a passionate debate about which type of sushi roll is the best.

Talking to you is easy, and Satoru feels very irritated at how fast the dorm building appears in front of you both.

Neither of you say goodbye immediately, you just stand there awkwardly beneath the streetlight for a second.

"Thank you," you break the silence first. "For walking me back. I'm sure you scared off all the potential kidnappers with your…" you gesture vaguely towards him, "…everything."

Satoru smirks, but it's kinder. The light is hitting your face just right, and he really doesn't want the conversation to end.

"Oh, shit" he reaches for his wallet. "I forgot to pay you for tonight and last time."

"Don't worry about it," you insist, waving him off. "Consider them free since you weren't a menace."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure." You start backing towards the dorm entrance. "Good luck on your midterm tomorrow."

Shit. Right, that was tomorrow.

"Yeah," he clears his throat. "Right. Thanks."

Your hair swishes as you turn, fumbling briefly with your keys before unlocking the door. Right before stepping inside, you glance back and give him a small wave.

Satoru lifts his hand automatically in return.

Then you disappear into the building, and he stays there way longer than he should, thinking about how he just voluntarily spent hours studying, walked a girl home, and paid attention to the way she doodles in her notebook.

Since when did he care about stuff like that?

What the hell was going on?

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

He is still benched for the first playoff game.

Satoru tries not to let it get to him, really. But after all the bullshit assignments he's dragged himself through lately, still not being allowed back on the ice feels genuinely insane.

I mean, come on. His statistics midterm scores came back.

Eighty-one percent.

At this point, he's half convinced you're a witch, because there's no other explanation for him suddenly pulling scores like that. But apparently your weird tutoring magic only works on grades and not on convincing Yaga to stop being stubborn, because despite looking impressed for maybe half a second, the old man still doesn't budge.

Something about the lineup already being finalized. Plays already built around the current roster. Team chemistry and all that shit.

And just to piss him off more, they fucking win.

Satoru watches the celebration through Instagram stories with his jaw clenched so tight it aches. The team group chat won't stop blowing up while he's stuck in his dorm reviewing flashcards like some miserable honors student, trying to keep his GPA high enough for second-round eligibility.

It's humiliating.

Satoru doesn't think of himself as an angry person. Hockey usually burns the worst of it out of him before it settles too deep under his skin. Without it, the frustration just sits there festering, hot and ugly beneath the surface.

So by the time he's shoving through the crowded hallways to get to class the next morning, he's in a terrible mood.

Then the universe decides to fuck with him even more.

He rounds the corner and spots you immediately.

And some guy.

Talking with you.

Not casually, either.

No, Satoru knows flirting when he sees it. He's mastered it, perfected it. He knows every little trick—the slight lean in, the lowered voice meant to force someone closer, the subtle shoulder brush that lingers just long enough to test boundaries and see what someone will allow.

How funny.

So this random asshole gets to flirt with you, but he isn't allowed to?

Maybe it's the leftover rage from being benched. Maybe it's something else entirely that he refuses to unpack anytime soon.

Either way, his feet are propelling him forward before he fully thinks it through.

"Hey," he cuts in smoothly, interrupting the guy mid-sentence without a shred of guilt.

Satoru steps directly between the two of you like it's the most natural thing in the world, broad shoulders blocking the other guy out completely before he glances down at you.

"Still on for this week?"

Your eyes widen slightly. "Hi, Satoru. Um, yes?"

"Mm, good."

Behind him the guy scoffs. "Hey, dude. We were kind of having a conversation."

Satoru turns slowly like he genuinely forgot another person was right there.

"Oh, were you?"

The guy straightens a little at that, clearly trying not to back down. Kind of funny, honestly.

"Yeah," he says. "We were."

Satoru stares at him for a second before a grin spreads lazily across his face.

"My bad," he laughs.

His tone says the exact opposite, and it gets him the reaction he wants. The guy's expression tightens before he mutters something under his breath and walks off, deciding you aren't worth dealing with an asshole this early in the morning

The smug grin is still sitting on Satoru's face when he turns back towards you, but slowly drops the second he sees your expression—the same look you gave him after he fucked up the first time you met.

Shit.

"What the hell was that about?" you ask, arms folded tightly across your chest.

An answer doesn't come fast, because really, what the hell was he doing?

It’s all he knows, so his voice turns defensive automatically. "What? I can't come talk to you?"

"Obviously you can. I'm not referring to that."

"Then what are you referring to?"

You exhale slowly, tilting your head in exasperation. "Don't play dumb."

Satoru runs a hand through his hair, biting the inside of his cheek until it stings. He probably should feel ashamed, but the anger inside is boiling over that feeling.

"I'm not."

You gesture toward the hallways the guy disappeared down. "You totally scared him away."

"So?"

"So?" you echo incredulously. "So that was rude."

"Oh, what, so you care about him or something?"

"That's not the point! He was probably a really nice guy. Why does it matter to you anyways?”

Satoru turns his head away, jaw flexing.

Of course you'd want the nice guy. The guy who walks you to class instead of riling up the students in the hallways. The guy with perfect attendance and a normal future that doesn't revolve around bruises, aggression, and chasing adrenaline across ice rinks every night.

Why does it matter?

"Whatever."

"Satoru—"

But he's already in motion, speed-walking away from you before you can say anything else, shoving his headphones over his ears to drown out the sound of his own heart pounding violently against his ribs.

The anger doesn't dissipate.

And maybe that's a good thing, because Coach lets him play that night for the second round of playoffs.

Satoru arrives to the rink early, skating hard laps around the ice until the cold air burns in his lungs harder than the frustration clawing through his chest. He only stops to grab his stick and start firing pucks into the net from every angle he can think of.

Each shot is harder than the last. Sharp cracks echo through the empty rink as puck after puck slam into the net.

Your face keeps flashing through his head between swings.

The softness of your expression during tutoring.

The irritation in your eyes this morning.

He shoots again, too hard this time, and the puck ricochets off the goalpost with a loud clang before skittering across the ice.

A miss.

How fucking ironic.

"Sure you're ready to be back?"

Satoru doesn't even bother turning around. "Not in the mood, Suguru."

"Oh, you're never in the mood."

Suguru skates closer, dark hair tied back into a loose bun, already fully dressed in uniform.

"Is it that girl?"

"What girl?" Satoru grumbles, skating over to retrieve the puck.

Suguru steals it before he can reach it, smoothly dragging it away with his stick as he glides towards the opposite goal.

"Your tutoring chick."

Satoru goes defensive instantly—with hockey and everything else

"What about her?" He shoulders Suguru hard enough to steal the puck back before skating towards the net.

"You like her, huh?"

The words catch him off guard for half a second, more than enough time for Suguru to swipe the puck back into his possession and skate past him.

"I don't fucking like her," Satoru snaps, chest heaving as he pivots to chase after him.

Suguru shoots. Scores.

The net snaps and waves with the force before Suguru circles around it with a laugh.

"And is that supposed to convince me or you?"

He doesn't give Satoru time to answer, already skating backward toward the tunnel while calling out something about not missing the pregame meeting. Captain duties.

Satoru stays where he is for a moment, standing alone at the center ice while Suguru's words settle uncomfortable deep in his chest.

He doesn't like you.

No fucking way.

Except it's all he can think about for the entire game.

They win, obviously, but not without a fight.

The energy in the arena is brutal from puck drop, bodies slamming hard into the boards, skates carving sharp lines into the ice as the game turns increasingly aggressive by the period. Satoru throws himself into it recklessly, like if he hits hard enough or skates fast enough he can physically outrun the mess in his head.

It doesn't work.

He misses passes, takes risks, and ends up shoved into the penalty box after nearly starting a fight in front of the net.

And sitting there behind the glass with adrenaline pumping in his veins, your voice is louder than the crowd—where you are no where to be found.

By the time the final buzzer sounds and the crowd erupts around them, he barely feels the excitement.

They're headed to the conference final. His teammates are yelling, shoving each other around, celebrating as they skate off the ice.

But Satoru doesn't linger. He rips off his helmet the second he reaches the tunnel, damp white hair sticking to his forehead as cool air rushes against his overheated skin, trying and failing to calm the lingering buzz of the game—and something much deeper inside his chest.

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

They said that falling for someone was like falling asleep. Slowly, then all at once.

Satoru remembers reading that cheesy ass quote somewhere online once and laughing his ass off about it because seriously, who even writes stuff like that?

Apparently someone wiser than him.

Because this? Whatever the hell this is, sneaks up on him so quietly he doesn't realize he's screwed until it's already happened.

Satoru had completely ghosted you.

For the first time in over a month, he skips tutoring without warning. Then he skips again. And again after that.

He tries not to think about you sitting alone at the library waiting for him. Tries not to picture your eyes lifting every time the door opens before falling again when it isn't him walking through. He hopes you didn’t eventually check the coffee shop just in case he went there instead.

At least you never exchanged numbers. That fact feels equally relieving as it does horribly disappointing.

He's still mortified about the last time he saw you. The jealousy. The possessiveness. The way he shoved himself between you and that guy like some territorial jerk.

It's insane, because you two weren't anything, and Satoru doesn't do jealousy. He flirts. Hooks up. He gets bored.

So he handles you the same way he handles every other girl: distance himself before things get messy.

Except its already messy, and the more he avoids you, the worse it gets.

Because Satoru Gojo has real feelings for you. Actual feelings that make him restless and irrational and weirdly miserable because you don't worship him like everyone else does, you see him exactly how he sees himself sometimes.

Arrogant. Performative. Kind of an asshole.

The version of himself he hides behind because it's easier than letting people get too close.

Those quiet tutoring sessions felt more real than packed screaming arenas ever did. No expectations ever came from those moments between flashcards and stolen glances. And he can't tell if it terrifies him because he ran or because he wanted to stay.

The rink is freezing at eight in the morning. Empty too.

Satoru skates mindless laps around the ice, sharp turns cutting white lines into the fresh surface while cold air burns in his lungs. There's no practice today, No game. Just him trying to outrun his own head.

The rink door opens, then closes.

He notices you immediately.

You don't speak at first, just linger near the entrance by the glass, bundled against the cold with your hair braided back. Your eyes meet his before dropping away again. Even across the rink, he can see the hurt sitting on your face, and his stomach twists unpleasantly

Pretending he's irritated is easier than admitting he feels guilty, so Satoru keeps skating.

One lap. Then another.

The scrape of his blades echo through the arena while he acts like you aren't standing there watching. But when it becomes obvious you're not leaving, he finally slows near the boards, snow spraying beneath his skates as he exhales through his nose.

He still can't fully look at you.

"What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you."

"Why?" The roughness in his voice sounds forced, even to him.

"Because you missed tutoring this week." Your voice bounces off the walls in the empty arena. "Again."

Satoru keeps his eyes down, dragging the tip of his skate against the ice.

"I figured you were still pissed," he mutters. "And you were probably gonna drop me anyway since my grades are decent now."

Silence.

Then—

"Do you always make assumptions?"

Icy blue eyes finally lift to yours, but before he can answer, you walk towards the benches and crouch down to pull something from underneath them.

Satoru blinks.

Are those—

"What the hell?"

You sit casually and start lacing up a pair of skates like this entire situation is completely normal.

"Where did you even get skates?"

You gesture towards the rental storage closet near the front. "They left it unlocked."

"So you broke in?"

"One could phrase it that way."

"You're a criminal now?"

"And you're not guilty of anything?"

Satoru swallows hard while you stand and wobble towards the rink entrance. The second your blade touches the ice, your balance completely disappears. You slam yourself against the wall before you can fall.

Satoru stares at you because you are actually unbelievable.

"Okay," he sighs, skating over before you crack your head open. "What exactly are you doing?"

Your cheeks are flushed pink from the cold. Or embarrassment. Maybe both.

But despite how obviously nervous you are, you straighten stubbornly and meet his gaze with a determined look that makes warmth bloom painfully in his chest.

"I'm gonna ice skate," you declare. "What does it look like?"

"It looks like a baby deer whose learning how to use its limbs."

You glare. "Well, teach me then."

"Me teach you how to skate?"

You scoff and push away from the wall too confidently and immediately start flailing. Satoru catches both of your hands on instinct before you eat shit.

"Gonna yell at me for breaking one of your rules?"

"Shut up."

Something helplessly fond pulls at his mouth as he begins slowly skating backwards, keeping your hands in his while guiding you forward. Skating he can do, so his focus directs to that.

"Bend your knees a little," he says. "You're too stiff."

"I'm trying."

"You're just letting me drag you."

"Because I don't wanna die."

He laughs quietly.

God, he missed this.

"Okay, you're not gonna die." He says. "Push with one foot first. Not too hard." He tightens his grip when you wobble again. "Alright. You're doing it. Kind of."

"Wow. Such encouragement."

"You want me to lie?"

You roll your eyes, but try again.

The rink settles into silence again, broken only by the scrape of blades across ice. It's a sound he's heard most of his life, but right now it's completely new.

Little by little, your movements smooth out. The death grip you originally had on his hands loosen and your shoulders relax. Satoru keeps skating backwards in front of you, guiding you through slow turns while trying not to focus on how cold your fingers are against his palms.

Or how badly he doesn't want to let go.

But you've found your rhythm, so he starts pulling one hand free, only to be met with your fingers tightening around his before he fully can.

"Why did you stop coming to sessions?"

Satoru debates lying, and almost does. But the rink is empty, your hands are in his, and somehow honesty feels easier here.

"I didn't know how to see you again after how I acted."

"Why?"

He lets out a dry laugh. "What do you mean, why? I was being a douche bag. Acting weird. Scared off your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Whatever. Still." His jaw tightens slightly. "How I acted was not cool. I know that."

"Why didn't you just apologize then?"

Satoru spins you both slowly in a small circle before bringing you to a stop.

"Pride," he admits.

You just nod lightly, like that answer makes perfect sense. Like you understand him.

"So do you not need a tutor anymore?"

He looks away. "Yeah. Guess not," he forces a shrug. "You're free now. We don't have to see each other again."

"You're so dramatic," you remark. "I said you don't need a tutor. Not that you have to banish me completely."

Satoru huffs out a laugh through his nose. "Well. I still owe you an apology." He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "So… I'm sorry."

"And I forgive you."

Simple and easy, like you hadn't spent the last few weeks wondering why he'd disappeared, and he wondering why he did.

Guilt still sits ugly in his chest, but it loosens enough for him to breathe around it now.

"Alright," he says finally, changing the subject before anything else can slip free. There's already too much lingering in the air between you both. Too much he doesn't know how to unpack yet. "You wanted to skate? Lets skate."

It's like the roles reverse.

Satoru teaches you something he's actually good at, just like you'd done for him all those days at the coffee shop and the library. He corrects your stance lightly when you lock up. Laughs when you panic every time you gain speed.

While you skate, he learns about you—and not just the simple little things, like your favorite color or why you decided to come to this college. The deeper parts of yourself that most people don't know because they don't come easy.

Why you find yourself anxious over things that seem small to everyone else. Why some nights sleep feels impossible no matter how exhausted you are.

He shares things about himself, too.

Not the version of Satoru that everyone else knows, but the real parts. The pressure he puts on himself. The moments he wishes he could take back.

The chasm created doesn't feel so vast anymore. Like maybe it could be crossed if he stopped being afraid of it.

Eventually, he lets go of your hands completely.

For three whole seconds, you're actually skating on your own, face lighting up in disbelief right before your balance gives out.

"Oh my god—"

You pitch forward, the world tilting before one arm wraps around your waist the other finding your wrist, the force pulling you flush against him before you can fall.

Everything goes still.

Your bodies press together, skates drifting slightly while cold air fogs between you.

Too close.

Way too fucking close.

Satoru can see every detail of your expression—the surprise in your eyes, the slight part of your lips, the way your lashes flutter when your gaze drops to his mouth.

His own eyes follow before he can stop himself, and for one second, he really thinks you might kiss him.

He thinks maybe he'd let you. Or maybe he'd stop being such a coward and kiss you first.

Then you pull away suddenly, scrambling clumsily against the ice with one hand pressed against his chest, face burning red.

"Thanks," you stutter. "Sorry."

"It's cool."

But his heart is racing, hands still tingling where he held you so close just seconds ago.

Satoru bites the inside of his cheek, and he's genuinely about to say something he's never said to anyone else before.

Then the rink doors swing open.

"What the— hey!" an older employee yells from the entrance. "We're closed right now!"

Your eyes widen in panic, and Satoru just bursts out laughing.

"Gojo!" the man calls again. "I'm serious. Get your ass off the ice or I'll make you drive the Zamboni."

"You act like that's a punishment, Lee!" he shouts back before turning his gaze back to you. "C'mon, lets go."

He offers his hand, and you take it without hesitation. He keeps one hand hovering behind your lower back as you carefully step off the ice onto solid ground again, prepared to catch you if needed.

Down you both collapse onto the bench side by side, shoulders brushing while you unlace the skates.

"So,' he says, focusing too intensely on the laces so he doesn't have to see your reaction. "Are we cool?"

"Yeah," the reply is immediate. "Of course we are."

Pure relief. Enough for him to ask something bigger.

"We've got the conference finals this weekend. Big game."

"Mm."

"You should come."

You pull your feet free from the skates and glance up at him. "To your game?"

"Obviously."

"Oh should I?" you tease. "After you avoided me?

Satoru can't stop the cocky grin on his face at your banter, feeling more like himself.

"Hey, I said I'm sorry," he says. "And I just saved you from a concussion."

Your socked foot kicks his shin lightly, and Satoru grins so hard his face hurts.

"Really though," he gets quieter, his smile softening around the edges. "You've only ever seen me challenged." His eyes finally meet yours. "I think it'd be cool if you saw me doing something I'm actually good at."

You just look at each other, the almost-kiss swirling electric and unfinished in the space between you both.

"I'll come to your game, Satoru."

"Yeah?" his voice lifts an octave higher.

A small smile spread across your face.

"Yeah."

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

There's two things that Satoru is going to do tonight.

First, he's going to win the conference game and drag his team straight into finals.

Then he's finally going to tell you how he feels. No more dodging around it like a coward.

After you left the rink that morning, after that almost-kiss still burning hot in his head, Satoru spent the next few days mentally kicking his own ass for not just doing it. For not telling you the truth and then grabbing your face and kissing you stupid right there on the ice while you looked at him like that.

It was fine. He'll make good on it after the game.

Assuming these idiots listen to him for once.

"Yo!" he calls over the locker room noise buzzing with a mix of pregame excitement. Gear clatters against benches while music blasts faintly from someone's speaker. "C'mon. Huddle up."

The arena tonight is massive compared to their home one. Packed, too. Satoru could hear the crowd before they'd even stepped onto the ice—a least a hundred voices blending into one roaring pulse of excitement that vibrates through the walls.

He hopes yours is somewhere inside it.

"Listen," he says, his voice carrying that intense captains edge he slips in naturally. "I don't need to tell you shit you already know. You guys can play. It's why were here."

A few guys laugh. Someone shoves another.

"So just… don't fuck it up at the last second." He points around the circle. "Let's win this game, so we're closer to taking that pretty cup home, yeah?"

The response erupts loud enough to shake the room, and adrenaline floods his veins instantly.

The tunnel to the rink glows brightly ahead of them, arena lights spilling across the ice while the crowd explodes the second the team skates out.

Satoru isn't paying attention to any of it.

The pregame announcements blur together while he skates a lazy loop around the ice, scanning rows and rows of faces. Girls scream near the glass when he passes, whistles echoing behind him while people pound excited fists against the barrier trying to get his attention.

Usually he'd grin. Wave. Feed into it.

Tonight he doesn't care. Not until he sees you.

Halfway up the lower section you sit, wire-rimmed glasses catching the lights but not hiding the way you're watching him.

The noise disappears the second your eyes meet. No screaming crowd. No announcers. Just the violent pounding of his own heartbeat.

You're here.

And when he finally skates past, forced to break eye contact, the sound comes rushing back in as he goes to the center.

The game starts brutal. From puck drop, Satoru plays like he has something to prove.

The opposing team is good, but comes out aggressive immediately, throwing hard checks into the boards and trying to force sloppy passes under pressure. Satoru reads through them fast. Their defense is overcompensating and they leave gaps open whenever they get impatient.

So he exploits it.

Hard.

The first interception happens barely four minutes in. Satoru cuts across center ice, steals the puck clean off their right wing, and accelerates so fast the crowd rises before he even shoots.

The goalie barely reacts before the puck rockets into the top corner.

The arena erupts, and you're on your feet too. Smiling so hard it nearly knocks the air from his lungs.

The rest of the period moves fast and violent.

The opposing team gets close to scoring but loses the puck in a battle. Satoru intercepts another pass late in the first, setting up an assist that is barely caught by their goalie.

It's alright. It's still one-zero.

By the time line changes finally roll around, his chest is heaving with exertion. He taps gloves with his teammate before collapsing onto the bench, spitting his mouth guard free.

He squirts water into his mouth, then leans forward and lets some droplets spray onto the ice.

And immediately catches you staring.

Your chin rests against your hand, eyes locked onto him with complete focus until you realize he's looking back. You turn away too fast, fingers spreading across your cheek to hide your face.

Satoru bites back a grin.

You're so fucking cute.

"Gojo!" Yaga snaps. "Quit flirting with the crowd!"

The second period gets uglier as the other team starts losing patience.

A defenseman twice Satoru's size drives him hard into the boards after a whistle, a shoulder slamming into his ribs hard enough to make the glass shake. The crowd boos, and Satoru shoves him back without hesitation.

"Get off me, fucker."

Then the guy grabs his jersey.

"Back off, pretty boy," the defenseman spits.

Satoru grins meanly, his glove shoving against his chest to break free. They bicker for another minute before the ref breaks it up.

As he skates off, he secretly flips him off behind the ref's back while sticking his tongue out, making the guy nearly lunge for him again.

Penalty box for them both.

Worth it.

The game tightens by the third.

Two-one.

Then two-two.

He didn't think the game would be easy. He didn't want it to be. By the time overtime hits, his lungs burn and his legs feel heavy, but the rush buzzes through his body hard enough to make him forget it.

Sudden death. First one to score wins.

So Satoru scores first, obviously.

The puck snaps clean off his stick, low and fast, sliding past the goalie before he can react. The buzzer erupts through the arena a second later as their spot in the championship is secured.

His pulse pounds violently while he rips off his helmet, white hair damp with sweat and sticking it messily to his forehead. His teammates crash into him, shouting into his ear, patting his back hard enough to jostle him forward.

But he just needs to get to you.

Breaking free as fast as possible, he rushes through the handshake line with barely enough patience to be polite before disappearing through the tunnel. He only stops long enough to swap out his skates, fingers trembling from the energy while his heart refuses to slow down.

You're already waiting for him when he exits the locker room.

His uniform is still on, bulky, but doing absolutely nothing to hide how broad he is, how tall, and how unfairly good he looks flushed from a game. Sweat darkens the collar of his undershirt, strands of damp hair falling into eyes still bright from the win.

You'd never been to a hockey game before.

Never realized how intense it was. How violent and fast and overwhelming. How hot it was watching players slam each other into the glass.

Or maybe it was just him.

Your cheeks warm as you slowly meet him halfway.

Words, Satoru thinks desperately. There were words. He had practiced them for days—actual sentences that were smooth and honest. But standing here with the high of winning and you right there, none of them feel big enough.

"Hey, nice game—"

He cups your face before he can stop himself, and then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss lands messy with excitement, somewhere between soft and starving. He exhales softly against your lips, thumbs pressing lightly against your cheeks like he's been wanting to do for weeks.

You're stunned at first, fingers twitching against his jersey before you start to lean into him—

"Gojo! Get your ass back here for huddle."

Satoru is going to fucking kill his team.

He pulls away too fast, breathing hard as the realization burns the tips of his ears pink. You stand frozen in place, lips glistening and still parted from the kiss.

His team starts yelling from down the hall, and then, somehow, they're physically dragging him backwards.

He shoves at them, stumbling away. "I hate every single one of you."

They only laugh harder.

"Don't wait up!" he calls quickly, eyes darting back to you. "I'll— I'll come to your dorm after!"

The words are rushed, nervous in a way Satoru Gojo never sounds.

But he does show up.

After the debrief, the celebration, and the fastest shower he can take, Satoru practically sprints to his car and speeds to campus until he gets to your dorm with damp hair and a wrinkled shirt.

Now that the adrenaline is fading, anxiety takes it's place immediately.

He kissed you.

Didn't even confess first like he planned. Didn't ask. Just completely short-circuited and kissed you in the middle of a hallway like an idiot.

And you hadn't fully kissed him back—granted, his team interrupted after like three seconds, but still.

Maybe he got carried away. Maybe he read this whole thing wrong. Maybe you only tolerated him because you were nice and he turned that into something its not.

By the time he reaches your door, his stomach is in knots.

He knocks anyways.

And the door opens.

You've swapped your clothes for something softer that makes him ten times more nervous. Everything feels more real and every thought in his brain trips over itself.

"Hey. I'm sorry for just kissing you after the game. I don't wanna come off weird, or like a complete fuckboy like I did when we first met. I've actually been trying really hard not to say dumb shit around you because I respect you. Like, genuinely."

He inhales sharply, running a hand through his still-damp hair before continuing without giving himself time to stop.

"I just—fuck. I really like you. Like, a lot. And I've never really had feelings for someone before, so I know I'm probably terrible at this, but if you don't want anything to happen, then nothing will. I can deal with it. Probably." He laughs anxiously at himself. "But I think of you constantly. Anytime I smell coffee or see shelves of books or—"

Satoru cuts himself off abruptly and stares at the floor for half a second, horrified. Just how long has he been talking? Why are words still coming out? Why haven’t you kicked him out yet?

“Are you done?” you ask softly.

“I think so,” he answers weakly.

“Good.”

Your fist curls into the front of his shirt, tugging him down before he can process anything else.

And then you’re kissing him.

Actually kissing him.

Every ounce of tension in his body melts instantly at the feeling of your lips moving against his. He lets out a startled breath into the kiss, hands finding your waist on pure instinct while he walks you backwards without ever pulling away.

His hand fumbles behind him until the door shuts with a quiet click.

You taste like something sweet and instantly addictive.

The kiss deepens, his thumbs brushing along your jaw as his tongue swipes against your bottom lip. A groan catches in his throat when you let him in, the sound swallowed by your mouth before it can fully escape.

He walks you back a few more feet. One hand cradles the back of your head until your shoulders meet the wall. The impact is soft, but the way he melts into you isn't.

Your hands disappear into his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp as need shoots through him so fast it nearly makes him dizzy. He exhales sharply against your lips, fingertips toying with the hem of your shirt.

Then they slip underneath.

"Is this okay?" he finally gasps, managing to pull away only enough for the words to brush against your lips.

"Yes," you whisper.

Satoru lets out a soft sigh before capturing your mouth again. Higher his hands roam, tracing the curve of your spine while you arch instinctively into his touch.

Of course you're not wearing a bra.

He's always been dominant, always the one in control—but he's more than willing to follow when your hands press firmly against his chest, breaking the kiss only long enough for you to shove him backward.

His brows shoot up as he stumbles towards the couch, landing against the cushions with a soft grunt, hands immediately finding your waist as you climb onto his lap.

And that's when Satoru turns pink.

He's painfully hard from nothing but making out with you, and the warmth between your thighs pressing exactly where he's throbbing beneath his sweats is not helping.

His hands tighten slightly at your waist as a slow, knowing smirk spreads across your face.

Satoru knows he's in serious trouble way before you dip your head and start pressing kisses along his jaw. Then lower, hunting for a sensitive spot to latch onto.

And then you start grinding your hips. Just slow, lazy passes that drag yourself over his length.

"Fuck," he pants.

His hands slide down to your ass, grabbing a handful in an attempt to slow you down. It does the exact opposite, and you whine against his skin before rocking your hips faster.

"Shit— you gotta—" his eyes squeeze shut. "Are you sure?"

"Satoru," you breathe against his neck. "Can you not tell how much I want you too?"

Something about the way you say those words—soft and sweet—snaps the last thread of restraint clean. His mouth finds yours as he starts pushing you forward, meeting every roll of your hips with one of his own.

His shirt is gone first. Yours follows seconds later.

The moment you're bare to him, he's all over you. Mouth dragging down your neck, across your collarbone, then circling your nipple with his tongue until it hardens beneath the attention.

You moan, a syrupy little sound he's no longer shy about chasing.

He guides you off his lap only to tug at the rest of your clothes, fumbling in impatience to find out just how many more of those noises you can make.

You dissolve into giggles.

"Move," you laugh, swatting his hands away. "You're going too slow."

He huffs but relents, yanking his sweats down while you finish stripping yourself. The thin cotton of your panties brushes against the hard length straining in his boxers when you settle back onto his lap.

You bat your lashes innocently, dragging your fingers beneath the waistband, tracing his hips.

"You want it?" you purr.

"Do I—" Satoru lets out a strained laugh. "Yeah. I fuckin' want it.".

"How bad?"

He catches your chin, forcing your gaze down. His cock twitches impatiently beneath the fabric.

"That bad."

You don't pull away from his grip, just smirk as you tug his boxers down. His cock springs free, smacking his stomach lightly. Angry red at the tip, a bead of precum already gathered—his need is obvious.

And so is the fear he's absolutely going to embarrass himself.

Satoru's flush spreads down his neck as you wrap your small hand around his cock, instantly pumping your fist.

"Oh s-shit—" he chokes out, his head falling back and exposing the long line of his throat.

"Mmmm… so big, 'Toru…"

Eyes squeezed tight, he tries to focus on anything—anything at all. The couch. The wall. The weather. Anything except the fact that he feels like he's about to bust a load already from a few dainty strokes of your oh-so-soft hand.

But your squeezing him just right, stroking in a perfect rhythm while making these little knowing giggles—

"Ah— okay— stop," he pries your hand off, flushed and laughing in embarrassment. His Adam's apple bobs. "If you want this to last, we gotta stop for a second."

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I just…"

He trails off, deciding his best reply is leaning forward to capture your mouth instead of explaining anything at all.

The movement presses your nipples flush against his chest and his cock twitches against your lower stomach.

His hands explore, swiping aside your panties and finding the warm, sticky mess between your thighs. You mewl into his mouth as his fingers find your swollen clit, rubbing slow and gentle circles until you're squirming on top of him.

Then he shoves his fingers inside you, working you open as your breath catches in sharp little bursts against his cheek.

"Satoru… oh god… fuck," you coo. "Please… please put it in."

His fingers don't slow, thrusting against the spongy spot inside you. "Okay…. okay, do you have protection?"

"I'm on the pill."

Satoru groans.

You're really gonna fucking kill him.

He gently pulls away his fingers, your slick mess stretching like a web between them as he helps you hover over his length. You slide his cock through your folds, coating him in a mix of your wetness and his precum.

"You're…" he tugs his lip between his teeth as you nudge the tip just barely inside. "A fucking tease."

You hide a smile. "You love it."

Then you sink down.

He's so thick, stretching your gummy walls perfectly. The agonizingly slow descent is on purpose, letting him feel every flutter of your pussy swallowing every inch.

Satoru thinks the next few minutes he blacks out.

He thought you were such a sinless sweetheart, but the second you adjust, a mischievous glint hits your eyes right before you brace your hands on his shoulders and start bouncing on him.

Straight from a wet dreams, you take him deep, tits bouncing with the movement as everything between you turns slick.

He's moaning— fuck, whimpering at how good you feel, letting praise slip from his mouth in jumbled slurs of pleasure he can't even think through.

"Fuck, baby— just like that— feels amazing— good fucking girl, take my cock—"

You let out a series of pretty whines, accompanied by the obscene sound of how wet you are each time you slam your hips against his.

And you're so beautiful. And you're his. And holy fuck it's only been a few minutes but—

"Shit—babe—" he gasps. "Wait— I'm gonna cum if you don't—"

But it's too late.

Satoru lets out a strangled moan as his cock throbs violently, hips driving upward and pressing his tip against your cervix before shooting rope after rope of his warm release inside you.

He's trembling from the ecstasy and pure embarrassment from his body's betrayal. He doesn't think he's cum this fast in his life, ever, and hides in your neck as he floats back to earth.

Your hands gently stroke his back, grounding him with kisses to his sweat-slicked shoulder. "You okay?"

"No," he grumbles, returning a lazy kiss to your skin anyways.

"Why not?"

"You know why."

He takes a few more deep breaths before clutching your body close and flipping you both with easy strength until he's braced on his forearms above you. His cock is still nestled inside you, sensitive, but still really hard.

His lips find the shell of your ear, nibbling the lobe before he whispers. "Promise I'm gonna make you cum, sweet thing."

And then his hips snap forward hard, dragging a broken moan out of you. The couch shifts beneath you both as he starts fucking you into it, determined to make you a babbling mess by the time he's done with you.

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

It's loud. So loud it feels the celebration is cheering inside his skull.

Winning the cup is no small thing. It's what he's worked toward for as long as he can remember. Every morning practice, every brutal loss, every moment that should have broken his dreams but didn't.

And yet, somehow, none of it hits him as hard as you running toward him on the ice.

As you jumping straight into his arms.

He catches you instantly, crushing you to his chest and spinning you in a light circle that lifts your feet. You squeal and it locks itself into his mind as the sound he wants to hear forever.

Your laugh.

When he finally sets you down, he doesn't let go. His arms stay firm around your waist, keeping you close just in case the chaos around you tries to steal you away. Your eyes are bright when they look up at him, confetti tangled in your hair and blue stars painted across your cheeks from your support.

"Congratulations!" you beam, practically vibrating with joy. "You were so amazing out there!"

"Thank you," he says, grinning as he leans in and tilts your chin up. "You look really cute."

You blush, which is the exact reaction he wanted.

"Be my girl," he blurts over the noise. "I should have asked you way sooner."

But you only grin.

"I thought I already was."

2026 © thewrldx

Xavier

You're binging the latest season of your hyperfixation TV show when all of a sudden, you hear a ping! come from your phone.

lumiere <3: Starlight, can U come upstairs? lumiere <3: Quickly please

You: omw !!

You hop off your couch and take the elevator one floor up to Xavier's apartment. You barely get a single knock on the door before he swings it open, quickly revealing the less-than-ideal problem he'd called you up for.

"Xavier, why does it smell," you're cut off by an incessant coughing fit, "like something burnt in here?"

He awkwardly laughs and rubs the back of his neck, "… I tried my best, starlight."

Your cuteness aggression gets the best of you and you pinch his cheeks, muttering, "Let's see what you messed up this time."

———

"Xavier, what could have possibly possessed you to make raspberry custard tarts instead of, I don't know, just buying them?" you sigh.

Your boyfriend only stares guiltily at his mess as he confesses, "I wanted to make a gift for you."

"Well, thank you love, but it's fully burnt now… Let me see if I can make something el-"

You're interrupted by a raspberry being stuffed in your mouth, muffling your speech. You turn to look at the culprit, only to see his cheeks puffed out from being full.

You start giggling, only to be met by a tilted head and a quizzical look from the object of your laughter. You giggle even more at his adorable reactions.

"My star, what's so funny?"

"You!!" You take his face with your hands, planting kisses across his face. "You look just like that one thing I heard the newest Hunter trainees talking about, that one raspberry rabbit or whatever."

He looks even more perplexed than before, so you reach for your phone and open your social media.

"See, there it is! Oh it's called raspberrini rabbitini, whoops."

"My love, you think I look like… that?"

"Well duh. You're both cute bunnies, you're both eating raspberries, although techn-"

"Who do you think is cuter, me or that bunny?"

Zayne

zaynie the penguin 🐧: Class just ended. I was planning on heading to the café.

You: yes !! i'll see you at the cafe lovely <33

You quickly pack up your things and barely remember to say goodbye to your coworkers as you rush out the door, desperate to join your boyfriend you haven't seen in what felt like forever.

Both of you had been busier than usual: Zayne started as a new guest professor at Linkon University, and you were swamped with back-to-back wanderer missions. That being said, both of you were jumping at the chance to finally be in each other's arms.

You see him outside the cafe doors, looking around, as if he was searching for someone.

"Zayne!" You call out his name and watch his eyes light up as the two of you lock eyes.

"It's been too long, my love," You embrace for longer than usual. "How have you been?"

"I've been abso-fucking-lutely exhausted without you," you pout and stare longingly at the menu. "Can we get our coffee now?"

He smiles at your dramatics as you walk to the counter, talking about the mundane events of your life you hadn't had a chance to update each other on.

Zayne recites his order as you inspect the drinks, always the ever-prepared man. "One cappuccino please, with whipped cream on top."

You take one look at him and burst out in uncontrollable laughter.

He side-eyes you, the look in his eyes revealing his true emotions. "I'm glad you find my coffee order amusing, sweetheart."

Naturallly, you laugh even more and open your phone.

"It's not my fault that Zaynie the Penguin looks so cutesie-patootsie ordering his cappuccino with whipped cream while in his button-up and tie, now is it? He kinda reminds me of cappuccino glaciale, wouldn't you say so?"

He raises an eyebrow, "No."

Rafayel

"Thomas, you're the worst person ever," Rafayel frowns at his unimpressed manager.

"If you piss that investor off, you're done for."

Rafayel pouts even more, "But Thooomasssss, I'm here with my cutieeee."

"Well, cutie," Thomas turns to you, fully ignoring Rafayel's scandalized gasp. "I hope I can trust you to keep him in line with the guests."

"Just leave it to me, Thomas!" You nod your head and do a mock-salute, ignoring Rafayel's second outraged gasp.

"Wonderful!" Thomas claps his hand once, pleased to have the upper hand on the artist. "I'll speak with some more investors around the exhibit. Don't mess this up," Thomas points at Rafayel and finally walks away, leaving you and Rafayel alone for the rest of the night.

"Cutie, how could you? How could you betray me like that?" Rafayel pleads with tears in his eyes.

"Look Raffie, Thomas is already pissed about your silent rebellion by wearing," you point to his Air Max 1 '86s, "those. Just talk to that one investor, and get it done with."

"… Do I have to?"

"If you don't want him to fire you."

"He works for me????"

"Yeah… I don't care."

Your boyfriend huffs, "Fine. But let me use the restroom first."

"What, so you can sit on your ass and stall?"

His eyes widen, shocked you caught on to his plan, "What? Haha. I wouldn't-I don't even know what you're talking about cu-"

"Just go."

"Yes mom."

You roll your eyes.

———

Rafayel's stalling finally ends and he makes his journey back from the restroom, only to see you… laughing??? With another … male??? He feels acid rising up his throat simply at the thought of it.

Yeah, no.

He immediately storms over and kisses your cheek with a loud mwah!, eager to publicly stake his claim.

He turns towards the wide-eyed man, "Thanks for taking care of my partner, but I've got it from here." Turning back to you , "Cutie, can we go now?"

The guest takes this opportunity to speedwalk away as you repeatedly hit Rafayel while laughing.

"You're laughing? Another man tried to steal you from me and you're laughing?"

"You're just- You're such an orcalero orcala," you manage to get out between laughs.

"You've gotta be shitting me I know you didn't just compare me with that… thing," disdain dripping from his voice.

"Well, think about it. You're a mean fishie and orcalero orcala is a mean fishie, and technically, you're both wearing Air Max 1 '86s… Maybe if you're a good fishie, I'll let you wear less than that."

Your heated conversation is interrupted by a loud yell.

"RAFAYEL! DID YOU JUST IGNORE THE MOST IMPORTANT INVESTOR OF THE NIGHT?"

Rafayel grabs your hand, "Run."

Sylus

You've been tossing and turning for what feels like hours when Sylus finally speaks up from the armchair in the corner of the bedroom.

"Trouble sleeping, sweetie?"

You open your eyes and sit up straight in bed. "What do you think?" your voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I think we should go on a joyride. It'll help you clear your mind."

"… Fine."

———

"Sylus, what the hell!"

You tighten your hold on his waist as he speeds and damn near backflips through the N109 Zone.

"Don't worry kitten, we're almost there."

"Almost where?"

"Here."

You gasp at the sight in front of you. It appears Sylus has brought you to an area at the edge of the N109 Zone, the perfect balance of dark and clear to see the constellation-covered starry night.

"Sylus, t-this is beautiful. Thank you."

"Anything for my beloved."

Some time passes by in a comfortable silence, the two of you holding each other, when you finally speak up.

"Why are you like this?"

He inquisitively raises his eyebrow.

"Like why are you trying to aura farm? You know you don't have to try this hard around me? I love you just the way you are!" You punctuate your statement with an extra tight squeeze and a kiss on his jaw.

"Aura… farm?"

"The whole speeding and skidding and motorcycle tricks you were doing on the way here. You know… like aura farming?"

"Is this… farm of auras similar to skibidi?"

"Wha- How do you eve- I'm gonna kill those two later. Like you were trying to act so cool and nonchalant around me."

"Please kitten, you underestimate me. I am cool and nonchalant."

"You're literally not nonchalant. This is so dud udud gendut of you."

"Ah, Luke taught me what 'dud' is, and I can assure you, I am certainly not a dud," he raised his eyebrow with a slight smirk. "I'm sure you would agree too, wouldn't you, kitten?"

You smack his chest, "Sylus!! No, you silly goose, I was talking about this thing Simone told me about." You pull out your phone.

"Sweetie, there's no way I remind you of that."

You smile up at him and shrug your shoulders, "Hmm, I don't know. Yes, no, maybe so?"

Caleb

"Nuh uh pips, I already told ya like a million times. You can't have my braised chicken wings until you get all better."

He pats your head and walks back to the kitchen, leaving you seething in the bedroom.

"But Caleb," you whine, "I want those wiiiings." Even a deaf person could hear the heartbreaking disappointment in your voice.

"I know, I know, but the spices will just irritate your throat, and we don't want your fever to get worse now, do we?"

If you weren't so painfully sick, you'd be cracking up at the visual in front of you. The Colonel of the Farspace Fleet wearing a frilly pink apron and chiding you with a silicone spatula. But alas, you are painfully sick, and you can't laugh unless you want to end up in the emergency room from a lack of oxygen and buildup of phlegm in your throat.

"Buuuut, I did compromise and make you chicken soup. Open your mouth, I'll feed you."

"Stop being a bum! You were gonna make me chicken soup anyway!" You huff and turn away from him.

"I'm just lookin' out for ya, pips. You're too sick to get up and make anything yourself. Look, I'll even blow on the soup so it's not too hot. Now, open your mouth, and let Caleb handle everything."

A few spoonfuls into his delicious chicken soup (hey, you're a hater, not a liar), and you start to feel your fever acting up again. This time, you see Caleb as… a chicken?

"Tirilikalika tirilikalako," you whisper, too quiet for him to catch.

"Hm? Whatcha say, pips?"

"Tirilikalika tirilikalako," just a little bit louder.

He sighs and chuckles, "Just because I didn't make your wings doesn't mean you can condemn me to eternal damnation through the use of witches' curses."

"No, you dumbass, it's a new trend. I have to do everything myself, don't I?"

You swear you heard him say "not on my watch" under his breath, but you choose to ignore it in favor of showing him your newest social media hyperfixation.

"Pips, do I need to restrict your internet usage?" He gives you a knowing look.

You ignore what he said again, "Caleb, look! You look like a chicken, and you're blowing on my soup, ergo tirilikalika tirilikalako."

"Yeah… I'm cutting off your Internet access."

“Status?” Tara’s voice sounded through the comms channel.

With a quick press on your earpiece, you responded, “Took up designated post. Awaiting target. What’s the ETA?”

“Three minutes. Target is brought to the elevator,” she said. You checked your watch. “Once you’re done, proceed to the rendezvous point.”

“Copy.”

Your focus shifted back to the building across the street. Steadying your breathing, your fingertip hovered over the trigger as you waited for the target to step out of the elevator and into your line of sight.

Sudden movement caught your eye, prompting you to look up from the scope. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…”

A window cleaner ascended on his lifting platform, climbing steadily up the building’s facade. To your annoyance, it stopped directly in front of the window for your intended shot, blocking your view of the elevator. 

There shouldn’t have been any cleaners scheduled for today—you had made sure of it—and instinct told you this wasn’t a coincidence.

After checking your watch again, you stretched your neck and tightened your hold on the handle. You spun the rifle, locking onto the cleaner and tracking his movements. 

Male, athletic physique, clad in black clothing, face obscured by a cap and sunglasses. So most certainly not a civilian, and he wasn’t even hiding it. Something metallic reflected the sunlight, drawing your attention to his hands. Your eyes narrowed to slits. Was that an MP7 he was loading?

He would ruin your shot, leaving you no choice but to take him out first. The guards inside would be alerted, your cover blown, but there was still a chance for a second shot at the target, if you reloaded fast enough.

“T-minus ten seconds,” Tara announced.

You cursed under your breath. It was a gamble, but there was no time to think of a better plan.

Forehead furrowed in concentration, you took aim and pulled the trigger, the silencer swallowing the shot. The bullet missed him by a hair—as if he had anticipated it, he had dodged to the left. Surprised, your eyes widened. It was a clean shot. How could you have missed him?

His head whipped in your direction, but you were already moving your rifle to the window behind him. Without a pause, you swiftly reloaded, scanning the inside of the building for the target. 

Your missed shot had found its mark somewhere beyond the window, sending the guards inside to scramble into action. As soon as the target emerged from the elevator, hands tied and surrounded by four heavily armed escorts, he was tackled to the ground to shield him from incoming bullets.

They hadn’t spotted you. Instead, they aimed their guns at the window cleaner, but he was already shooting at them, shattering the glass in the process. 

Heart pounding in your chest, you tried to remain calm as you searched for an opening to the target—but to no avail. Too many people covered him. The window cleaner guy was also unsuccessful, as his element of surprise had been ruined by your failed attempt to eliminate him. The two of you couldn’t get a clean shot. 

The last thing you saw of the target was a flash of purple hair before he was crowded by more guards and dragged away to another room.

Shit.

With the target gone and the guards firing at him, the window cleaner guy held onto a rope attached to his belt you hadn’t noticed before, pressed a button, and gracefully let himself be pulled upwards toward the roof.

On his way up, you locked him in your viewfinder, inhaling deeply, and on your exhale, you fired. The bullet managed to graze his leg, but he didn’t seem particularly impressed. While one hand was gripping the rope, the other held up his submachine gun and aimed in your direction.

The hail of bullets missed you—only because you had dropped to the ground, pressed flatly against the concrete. One of them struck your phone that was propped on the border, sending it flying across the roof. Fortunately, it was only a work phone for missions. 

You remained pressed to the floor as you frantically packed your gear, then you sprinted to the exit.

“Status?”

“Target got away,” you panted as you ran down the flight of stairs, adrenaline rushing through your veins. “Unidentified individual interfered. Mission aborted.”

“Copy. Extraction point was moved. There’s a car waiting.”

When you reached the ground floor, you dashed outside and straight into the black van waiting at the curb. With a frustrated exhale, you took off your cap and ran a hand through your hair. As you drove by, you looked out the tinted window to the building, but he was already gone.

Your head hit the backrest as you slumped against it. Andrew glanced at you through the rearview mirror, one corner of his mouth tugging upwards at your disgruntled state. “It went excellent, I take it?”

At your answering glare, he held up his free hand in surrender, but the amusement in his eyes betrayed him. 

You two had been locked in a constant battle of snarky comments and competitive bickering since the day you had begun working for the Hunter Agency. Despite being a team and all that, you both tried to one-up each other every chance you got. And you failing an important mission such as this one, was like a heaven-sent opportunity for Andrew to tease you. Especially considering you had recently been declared the agency’s best operative and appointed to this task because of it.

When you arrived at Headquarters, everyone was staring, their eyes following you as you made your way toward Simone. Her frantic hammering of keys on her keyboard told you she was just as tense as you were. You dropped your bag with the rifle onto her desk, prompting her to look up. A startled pause before her eyes widened.

“She already called,” was all she said, and it was all she needed to say.

Simone nodded toward Tara who was on a call. When Tara spotted you, a barely perceptible wince crossed her face. She walked over and handed you the phone. With one last unconvincingly reassuring smile, she hurried to her own desk.

In the car, you had mentally prepared for the inevitable reprimand of your superior in her familiar cold tone laced with disappointment. At the mission briefing, she had stressed how critical the success of this mission was, and now that you fumbled it, you would have to live with the consequences.

There was no exchange of greetings as you placed the phone to your ear. “You have 48 hours to eliminate the other agent, otherwise your compromised identity leaves us no choice but to relieve you of your duties,” Jenna declared, and a shiver went through your body.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I’ll make sure to leave no trace.”

With that, the call ended.

Staring at the opposite wall and slightly confused how Jenna had reached the conclusion that your identity was compromised, your thoughts were racing. You didn’t think he saw you well enough to recognise you, but that didn’t matter as long as your boss believed he did. In order to get out of this mess, you had to find out who he was, who he worked for, and then take him out.

Your hand tightened around the small device as you turned to your team. “Find him.”

Simone was already reviewing the footage of all the security cameras in the proximity while Tara and Nero checked for any digital footprint.

Without meeting your eyes, Nero requested your work phone for the analytics, and, with a surge of added frustration, you realised that, in your haste, you had left it behind after it got destroyed.

Sinking into your chair, you buried your face behind your hands. You had been careless, made one mistake after another like an amateur. Dealing with this required efficiency and error-free execution, so whatever happened today, couldn’t repeat itself.

You just had to find him first.

-

Your drive home was spent in frustrated silence. You parked your car in the garage next to your husband’s silver Aston Martin and navigated your way through the familiar path of your yard to your front door, your rose bushes that won you the neighbourhood garden award two years in a row lining the way.

“Hey Mrs. Shen!” a young boyish voice called out from the sidewalk. For a heartbeat, you looked accusingly heavenward, as if some kind of higher power had deliberately decided that today would be your worst day.

Hand lifted in the air in greeting, the browned-haired son of your neighbours jogged towards his house.

“Evening Caleb,” you greeted back, already turning to your door.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like him. He was a little charmer, always complimenting you and asking if you needed help whenever he caught you in your garden shed, thinking you were about to do some gardening. In reality, that was just where you had your weapons reserve. 

However, you couldn’t shake the feeling he had an infatuation with you as his compliments seemed to walk that fine line between flattering and inappropriate, each time becoming more shameless. Besides, he was the reason you didn’t hang your clothing outside to dry anymore, since some of your underwear kept mysteriously disappearing. Considering both his fathers weren’t interested in women, and with no other neighbours around, it only left him as the culprit. Or a postman, but that was unlikely.

Of course, you never mentioned any of that to your husband. Even though Caleb was just a teenage boy—despite him constantly insisting he was “mature for his age” accompanied by a waggle of his eyebrows—you didn’t believe that would necessarily keep your husband from trying to strangle him. He was, after all, a jealous man.

Not that you particularly cared, but you suspected one of Caleb’s fathers to be an arms dealer, and you simply didn’t want to start a fight with the local gang. As long as your neighbour didn’t interfere with your business, you wouldn’t interfere with his.

“Your new curtains in the living room look great!” Caleb shouted over to you, his face split by a wide grin.

“Thanks!” you shouted back and unlocked your door with your fingerprint. 

Wait. But before you could have asked how he knew you had new curtains—not even your husband had noticed them—Caleb was already gone, swallowed by the shadows behind the driveway to his house.

Shaking your head, you took a deep breath. You had more pressing problems.

“I’m home,” you announced once you were inside. The smell of your husband’s cooking wafted over to you from the kitchen as you shed your coat. He was making hot pot again. He usually reserved it for days when one of you was feeling down since it had always been your shared comfort food. The spicy broth and tender meat reminded you two of the day you first met, a memory steeped in warmth and laughter.

-

It was at an old hot pot place in Chansia City. A seemingly innocuous location, but in the backroom, nestled right next to the illegal gambling room, was where one of the city’s crime lords conducted their money laundering. The local police wanted to get rid of them in one go, a simple breach and clear operation. However, your agency favoured a more subtle approach. So they sent you to discreetly eliminate him.

The ‘discreet’ part had proven to be more difficult than expected, and due to unforeseen problems, you were forced to make a rapid escape before one of his henchmen could spot you standing over their boss, who was bleeding out on the floor, wide, empty eyes staring into space. Unfortunately, they had heard noises and began investigating.

When you re-entered the restaurant through the ‘staff only’ door, you saw him. In a booth alone, bathed in the last rays of sunlight shining through the window, he sat calmly eating his hot pot while absorbed in a comic book—a stark contrast to the gruesome scene just moments before. The way the light was caught by his silver hair cast him in an almost ethereal glow and held your gaze captive.

Something drew you to him and from one moment to the next, you found yourself sitting across from him in his booth. At your sudden appearance, he looked up from the page he was reading, blue eyes blinking twice as if he was verifying your existence before they assessed you with open curiosity.

“Is this seat taken?” you blurted out like a fool, as if you hadn’t already sat down.

“It’s now,” the silver-haired stranger responded, tilting his head. A simple statement delivered with a matter-of-fact tone and no hint of sarcasm.

Under the weight of his full attention, you became hyperaware of your own words and movements, causing you to feel uncharacteristically nervous. Just a minute ago, you most certainly hadn’t felt nervous when you punctured the heart of that dude in the backroom.

As if on cue, the door to said backroom was thrown open, and three of the henchmen stepped out, handguns barely concealed by their suit jackets. As they scanned the restaurant, searching for the culprit who killed their boss, they appeared to be looking for people who were alone.

He followed your gaze to the visibly agitated men questioning customers and stalking through the place with concentrated purpose. Leaving the restaurant right now would raise unnecessary suspicion, so the best course of action was to stay and convincingly pretend you belonged there with the handsome stranger in front of you. 

“I’m Y/N.” Why you revealed your real name to him, you couldn’t say.

To your surprise, he silently pushed the bowls brimming with an array of vegetables, meat, and other ingredients closer to the middle around the steaming pot, and offered you a pair of chopsticks. “Do you want to join me, Y/N?”

Your mouth curved into a smile, but it faltered once you noticed the amount of food on the table. “I’m sorry, were you waiting for someone?”

“No,” he replied, and already resumed eating. Something soft gleamed in his eyes when he glanced at you and added, “But I don’t mind company.”

Wow, it seems he has quite the appetite. It could easily be assumed he had ordered for two, considering the mountainous pile of food between you. That made your little act in front of the henchman all the more convincing. When they arrived at your table, you were pretending to be very engrossed in enjoying your meal.

“Hey, did you come here together?” one of them asked, coming dangerously close to scrutinise you two. Trying your best to maintain your composure, you shot an anxious look over to the man across from you, but his eyes were solely fixed on the meat simmering in the pot, his chopsticks moving with elegant precision.

“Yes,” he simply said, not minding them at all. 

To an outside observer, you likely looked just like any other ordinary couple on a date. That was probably why they left without another word.

You released the breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, and allowed yourself to relax in your seat. Now that the situation was taken care of, there was an amused smile on your face as you regarded him more closely. “You haven’t told me your name.”

He paused to meet your eyes, offering a smile in return. “I’m Xavier.”

You sat there for hours, finishing your meal and talking until the sun had disappeared behind the buildings. Outside the restaurant, he hadn’t hesitated to say, “I want to see you again.”

Enjoying his directness that belied his unassuming appearance, you accepted without having to think about it. Your attraction was undeniable. He wasn’t just handsome, he was beautiful. Soft silver-blonde strands, striking blue eyes, and a lean, firm body sculpted by years of training as he was working for the police.

Beneath his stoic, calm demeanour, he possessed a remarkable boldness and effortless confidence that left you wondering what else he was hiding behind his feigned innocence.

You found out rather fast. Usually, you would wait until you got to know someone better, but Xavier managed to get you on your back—among other positions—already after the first date. That something that had initially drawn you to him kept pulling you in, like a moth you were drawn to his light. 

Falling in love had never been an option in your line of work, not to mention maintaining a long-term romantic relationship, but you found yourself willing to try.

Seven months later, you got married. 

Every one of your friends thought you were crazy, that you were rushing things, but you knew, with a certainty that couldn’t be put into words, that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him.

And that remained true, on your end at least. Xavier, however, seemed to have changed his mind a year into your marriage. 

At the beginning, it was like a dream. Lingering touches, stolen kisses, the comfort of his presence, and morning sex before sleep had barely released you from its clutches. 

But then, a shift. 

You didn’t know what caused the change, but suddenly he withdrew. He became like a distant star. No matter how many times you tried to reach for him, you could never bridge the widening space between you. 

So eventually, you stopped trying. Instead of living together, you began to simply exist in the same house, leading two separate lives and drifting apart day by day.

-

And here you were. Two years later.

“How was your day?” you asked as you entered the kitchen and greeted Xavier with a kiss on his cheek—a gesture that was more routine than a show of affection. 

He had changed out of his police uniform, now wearing a white hoodie, and his hair was still slightly damp from a quick shower he must have had before you arrived home.

His “Uneventful,” was delivered without taking his eyes off the chopping board, only pausing the cutting of the beef into slim slices to lean down and receive your kiss.

That was his standard response. Your conversations had settled into a predictable pattern of disinterested questions, hollow answers, and polite small talk. You never probed, nor did he. Sharing stories of your day while cuddling on the sofa belonged to the past. Sometimes, though, you caught yourself reminiscing, wishing back the Xavier, who had let you be part of his life and who wanted to be part of yours.

“How was work?”

“Ah, you know,” you waved off, already distracted by your phone, checking for updates on the agent you were searching for. He shouldn’t be too hard to locate since you had CCTV footage of him, and considering you had wounded his leg with a graze shot, maybe your team could find some drops of blood as well.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Xavier’s left leg seemed to tighten with tension with each step he took as he began to set the table. “Are you hurt?”

“I bumped into the counter edge before you got here,” he explained, but you weren’t listening as a notification redirected your attention back to your phone. You had received an email from Simone. Unfortunately, they couldn’t find any trace of him on the roof of the opposite building. Nada, not even signs of the rope he had used to pull himself up. Your work phone was nowhere to be found as well.

You let out a frustrated sigh, slamming your phone face down onto the countertop with more force than necessary. Time was of the essence. Tomorrow, you needed to find him, or you would have trouble eliminating him in the given time frame.

After a silent dinner, the both of you retreated to your separate routines. While he  would usually settle himself on the sofa, playing videogames or reading a book, you would go upstairs, step into a hot bath, and enjoy your evening downtime on your own.

Once you had gotten ready to sleep, part of your bedtime ritual involved going downstairs and waking Xavier, who, without fail, managed to fall asleep every day in the most interesting of gaming or reading positions imaginable.

A short while later, he would join you in your shared bed, plopping down on his side and drifting off to sleep almost before his head hit the pillow. No talking, no cuddling, and most certainly no shared intimate moments. 

Prior to his sudden withdrawal, he had been something close to insatiable. Once he got his hands on your skin, it was hard to detach him from you. Not that you ever complained. That was why you found yourself missing being close to him every so often, a quiet ache of wanting pulling you to him, and wondering if he ever missed you in that way too.

Your mornings were spent similarly. As if to maintain the illusion of a happy marriage, you left the house at the same time and exchanged perfunctory greetings with your neighbour Dr. Li, who had to leave for work as early as you—the complete opposite to his husband, who usually didn’t leave the house until late in the evening.

In front of the garage, Xavier kissed your cheek and wished you a good day before getting into his car. “Dinner’s at seven,” he said like every morning. You hummed in acknowledgement and got into your own car. It always was.

And this was your everyday life with your husband. 

Watching him drive away, the last glimpse of his car disappearing around the next corner, you asked yourself: would he always stay the distant star you couldn’t reach?

-

Tara brought you a cup of coffee when she noticed you slumped over your keyboard. Despite already having had a cup at home not that long ago, you accepted it and took a sip, the hot liquid doing nothing to soothe the anxious knot in your stomach. You hadn’t slept that night, too busy thinking about ways to find the other agent and about your time running out. 

To get to your current position, you had poured everything into this job. Years of relentless effort and countless sacrifices later, you were finally where you wanted to be, and you were unwilling to give all that up just because of a single failed mission.

A shadow suddenly fell over you, and a glance upwards revealed a tired looking Simone, stifling a yawn. She must have spent the night reviewing all the CCTV footage.

“This is all I could find,” she said, and after handing you a tablet, she returned to her desk. Leaning back in your chair, you propped your legs up on the desk and checked the video files she had neatly prepared. 

Whoever he was, he had been careful. Barely any security camera had managed to capture him. And then later, it was as if he simply vanished into thin air.

The building’s security footage showed him as he climbed onto the lifting platform. Something in the way he moved seemed familiar, yet you couldn’t articulate why. Frame by frame, you examined him carefully. The quality left something to be desired, and the cap and sunglasses he wore made it hard to see any distinguishing features besides a flash of blonde hair peeking out from beneath the cap.

The last frames revealed his lower body as the lifting platform ascended. You paused. Sitting up in your chair, feet hitting the ground with a thud, you zoomed in as close as the grainy quality allowed and stared at your discovery. 

There was something poking out of his pants pocket. The shape resembled the star tassel keychain you had made for Xavier’s birthday last year, since he insisted on having a physical key for your house even though he could open the door with his fingerprint.

This was just a couple of pixels, surely your brain was simply recognising patterns and matching them with something familiar.

Yet, your heart began to race as you rewind the footage and checked everything about him a second time. 

The way his body moved, the muscles straining under the black compression shirt, was like seeing a movie you had watched a thousand times, and his hair wasn’t just any shade of blonde, but one you encountered regularly in your house, on pillows, in the shower, and sometimes on your own clothing.

You weren’t able to rationalise the unsettling truth right in front of your eyes. Especially when you spotted a ring. It was impossible to discern any pattern on the silver band, but you felt a terrifying certainty that it had a star in its center, just like your own.

There was no doubt as to who the other agent was. You stared at the screen frozen in disbelief, your pulse a frantic drumbeat against your ribs.

It was your husband.

-

Dinner was at seven.

In the garage, you remained sitting in your car for a while, contemplating your next move. Xavier’s car was parked next to yours. That meant he was already cooking dinner. Or preparing an ambush.

Did he know that you were the sniper on the roof? Was he also assigned to take you out like you were him? You had been given 48 hours to get the job done, to clean up your mess. Otherwise, you would become their next target. That left you with no other choice than to end it today.

Without realising it, you had started to fidget with your wedding ring. Looking down on it now gave rise to a cocktail of mixed feelings. You had been married to this man for three years now, and it was hard to believe that everything between you had been a lie.

Even though you hadn’t been honest with him either, you had genuinely fallen in love with him. Xavier was gentle and kind, possessing a quiet dominance that made you feel some type of way. He knew how to set a trap, how to lure you in with his eyes and soft voice, and before you knew it, he had you right where he wanted.

Perhaps your marriage was some kind of elaborate trap of his as well, exploiting you for cover and playing house to raise no suspicion. Considering how distant he had become over the last two years, it was highly likely that he had no feelings for you to begin with and simply portrayed the infatuated husband until he was sure you wouldn’t leave him.

If that was true, then he wouldn’t hesitate to kill you. However, it was still a gamble. You couldn’t be sure that he knew of your actual job and involvement in yesterday’s mission.

But did it matter? There was only one unchangeable fact: you had to eliminate him, or you would get killed yourself.

You exhaled, rubbing a hand across your face. Then, you opened your glove compartment and pocketed the gun you had stored there, tugging it in your waistband. That should be enough for now.

As you unlocked the front door, you peered through the glass but couldn’t see anything suspicious. After hanging your coat, you followed the sounds of sizzling oil to the kitchen where Xavier was standing at the stove, pan-frying steaks. Ironically, he was wearing his ‘number one husband’ apron you had bought him for Christmas two years ago.

“I’m home.”

“You’re just in time,” he said after you gave him the obligatory peck on the cheek to greet him. Since he seemed to be acting normally, you had to keep up the act too. 

He handed you a glass filled with colourful liquid. An orange slice was draped over the rim, and the ice cubes inside cooled your clammy palm. “I made your favourite cocktail.”

You eyed him carefully as he turned back to the stove, flipping the steak in the pan. Would he poison you? There was no change in his behaviour—he was as calm and composed as ever. Still, you wouldn’t drink from it just yet. Instead, you asked, “Is there something to celebrate?”

“Does there have to be a special occasion to drink cocktails?”

“I guess not.” Discreetly, you scanned your surroundings. Pretending to be busy stirring the ice cubes around, you added casually, “Did you not make one for yourself?”

“It’s already on the table,” Xavier responded, and motioned with his head to the doorway leading to the dining room. He told you to sit down, dinner would be ready soon.

On your way to the adjacent room, you emptied the contents of your glass into the next flower pot. When you sat down at the already set table, you placed the steak knife slightly closer within reach. Shortly after, Xavier joined you and put one of the steaks on your plate.

The clinking of cutlery against porcelain was unnervingly loud in the otherwise quiet room as silence settled over the two of you, the air thick with tension. While you piled the vegetables on your plate, your mind raced. How could you find out if he wanted to poison you or not? Maybe you could feign an illness in order to get out of having to eat anything altogether.

Just as you were about to open your mouth, Xavier broke the silence. “How was your day?” Usually, you kept your small talk to a minimum and ate without talking, but today he even sought eye contact with you from across the table.

“Uneventful,” you replied, deliberately using his own words.

One corner of his mouth briefly quirked up before settling into a neutral line again. “I read the Linkon Central Bank had cut interest rates by 0.5%. That must have been a stressful day for you.” He kept his voice in a conversational tone, but you didn’t miss his scrutinising gaze as he studied your facial expression.

In all that excitement, you hadn’t kept up with the news or checked the latest figures. Xavier believed you to be a broker, representing a large trading company and overseeing their investments. A cut in interest rates would mean the investments were likely to suffer losses as stock value decreased, putting you between a rock and a hard place. 

Was he…testing you? If so, his question could be a bluff, a trap. At this moment, you couldn’t possibly check if the LCB truly had announced an interest rate cut. If what he said was true, today would have been a stressful day indeed.

You had no choice but to go along with it for now. “Yeah, that did cause some problems. But nothing I couldn’t handle.”

The last part you had said while meeting his analysing stare head on, an unspoken challenge. If he was actually testing you, you wanted him to know you were ready. His face remained unnervingly stoic. He was a closed book, offering no hint of his intentions.

“Do you want some music?” he asked, stirring the conversation in a different direction. Xavier was already out of his chair and standing in front of the shelf filled with his extensive CD collection before you could have answered. You never quite understood why he insisted on buying physical copies, even though you had a streaming service subscription.

His sudden movement made you tense, and your hand reflexively shot out to grab the handle of the steak knife, hiding it in your lap. When a gentle melody began to play from the speakers—a tune you knew intimately—your grip loosened, confusion and surprise momentarily flashing across your face.

Clearing your throat, you quickly composed yourself. “Cocktails, our wedding song… Are you sure I haven’t forgotten our anniversary or something?”

“If it were our anniversary, I would have brought you flowers.” He tilted his head to observe you with a small, playful smile.

That was true. He always gifted you the biggest, most beautiful bouquets you had ever seen, each year’s arrangement more vibrant and extravagant than the last. The way he meticulously chose the flower types and colours rekindled a flicker of hope that he was about to transform back into the loving husband from the beginning of your marriage. However, his usual distant behaviour returned the very next day.

The bouquets came from his best friend Jeremiah’s flower shop, who had been his best man at your wedding. You hadn’t seen him much since then.

Xavier looked at you expectantly, one hand extended toward you. You hesitated, assessing him then his outstretched hand cautiously. It could be another trap.

“I’m really tired and—”

“Just hold on to me,” he interrupted, his smile turning into a smirk. “I’ll do the rest.”

Despite every instinct screaming at you, you rose from your seat, concealing the steak knife swiftly under the napkin, and accepted his hand. Once you were in front of him, he pulled you close, his other hand finding its place on your waist. His blue eyes didn’t leave your face, and you were unable to look away too. The soft sway of the music accompanied you as he guided you elegantly through your dining room. You hadn’t been this close to him for a while and the smell of his cologne enveloped your senses.

It was difficult to understand what his plan might be, because at this point, you were convinced he had one. You had to stay vigilant and resist the magnetic pull of his gaze, the expanse of his eyes threatening to drag you into their depth. But it wasn’t easy. The whole situation plunged you back into the past, triggering a flood of memories of your wedding day. Come to think of it, back then he had looked at you the same way he did now.

Lifting his arm, he twirled you around, and when you faced him again, he pressed you even closer to him than before, the sudden closeness of his face making your breath hitch and your heart skip a beat. 

His eyes travelled down to your lips and then back up, as if asking for permission. But you had stopped breathing, and all you did was stare at him, eyes wide and lost in anticipation. You hadn’t even realised that he had paused your waltz.

Slowly, he leaned closer, and your eyes fluttered shut instinctively, waiting for the pressure of his lips. Instead of on your mouth, you felt them brush against your jaw, a fleeting touch that then traced down the curve of your neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Your grip on his biceps tightened as your heart picked up its pace, still waiting for him to finally kiss your lips while his hand on your back slid  along your spine.

With a jolt, you shot your eyes open and tried to shove him away. But it was too late. Xavier had felt the outline of the handgun tucked in your waistband through your clothes and tightened his hold on you.

In a quick series of motions, he pulled it out from under your blouse and carelessly dropped it to the floor before spinning around and pushing you against the shelf, caging you in with his broad frame. His CDs rattled from the impact.

How could you have fallen for the most common trick in the book? Like a love-struck idiot, you had let him toy with you like that, and he didn’t even kiss you. 

Damn him and his stupid, innocent-looking face.

“Do you want to explain to me, honey, why you’re carrying a gun in our house?” His voice was deeper than usual and there was a threatening gleam in his eyes.

“I could ask you the same thing, honey.” It was a bluff, but from the way his eyes narrowed, you knew you had guessed right. 

You didn’t wait for him to make the first move. Raising an arm, you reached it across to push his arms down, creating an opening to knock your elbow against his head and forcing him to release his grip. As he was slightly bent over, you held onto his back, followed with a kick to his stomach, and then slammed him into the shelves next to you, causing CDs to clatter onto the ground.

Xavier recovered faster than you had anticipated, blocking the path to your gun that was lying on the ground behind him. “So it’s true,” he said to himself rather than to you, and rubbed the spot where your elbow had made contact. What confused you was that he didn’t look angry, or particularly surprised. But there was a proud little smile playing on his lips.

Not giving him the time to collect himself, you charged forward and delivered one punch after another. However, he manoeuvred his body gracefully out of the way each time you tried to kick or strike him—a fluent dance you weren’t sure who was leading.

The fact that he wasn’t attacking you back, instead dodging effortlessly your every move, ignited a white-hot fury and simmering frustration within you. If he truly had a weapon hidden on his person too, then why wasn’t he drawing it?

Once you were close enough, you grabbed the steak knife from the table and flung it at him with practised precision, but he simply stepped to the side, the knife getting stuck in one of the paintings adorning the walls.

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Your aim certainly has room for improvement.” 

You huffed in response. You had a feeling he didn’t just mean the throw, but also your missed shot during your double-assigned mission.

His teasing, competitive side was coming out. It reminded you of your dating phase when you had visited a fair with a shooting booth. You had pretended to be bad at it, but after he shot each target perfectly, saying he “got lucky” with his feigned innocence, you had insisted on having a go again, fuelled by a stubborn need to wipe the smirk off his face. The giant bunny plushie in your bedroom was a memento from that day. The owner of the booth probably gave it out to finally get rid of the two of you.

Doubling your efforts, you advanced on him and unleashed a series of blows and kicks. He pivoted on his heel, a blur of motion as he bowed under one of your swings. With a swift grab, he caught your wrist and pulled you aside, causing you to stagger past him.

Despite not being able to hit him, you managed to make him back up and get closer to your gun. Xavier seemed to read your intention as he cocked his head after effortlessly dodging one of your attempted attacks yet again. “Go on, pick up the gun.”

You froze in place, irritation flashing in your eyes as you met his gaze. The confidence behind his words was unsettling. What game was he playing?

Not letting him out of your sight, you slowly retrieved the gun from the floor. He didn’t stir, but his eyes tracked your every movement as you raised your arm, aiming for his head. Still, no reaction. As if he was waiting for an answer to a question, he wouldn’t voice out loud. 

Taking a step closer, he remained rooted to the spot, a silent challenge in the quirk of his raised eyebrow. Frustrated by his lack of response, you closed the distance between you. Your hand was trembling as it held the gun under his chin, forcing his head to tilt slightly backward. 

However, you didn’t pull the trigger. 

Xavier looked down at you through his silver strands of hair, his eyes holding your gaze. “You can’t do it.” It wasn’t a question. He had immediately clocked your hesitation, probably way earlier than you would like to admit. In a last attempt, you narrowed your eyes and pressed the muzzle harder against his chin.

“Fight back!” you demanded, frustration raw in your voice. “Why aren’t you fighting back?”

“Because I can’t do it either,” Xavier responded calmly.

It took a moment for his words to sink in. You studied his face for any signs of deception, but were only met by an open honesty in his unwavering gaze.

He was right. You couldn’t do it. Despite his distance in the last two years, you cared for him and found yourself unable to shoot the love of your life, even if it meant disregarding your own. 

“I assume you were also giving a time frame to get rid of me,” he began and snapped you out of your thoughts. He didn’t wait for your answer. With his low, soft tone, he continued, “I’m not planning to kill you.”

At last, you dropped the gun with an exhale, your chests rapidly rising and falling in sync. For a moment you regarded one another. The longing in his eyes took you by surprise even though it was a reflection of your own. “They will come for us.”

“Let them try.”

With the adrenaline still high in your systems, you crashed your lips together. There was nothing gentle about the way you devoured each other, both desperate for the taste of the other, familiar and intoxicating. It had been a long time since you had been intimate. Like a spark, your sudden need was ignited. Your hands were roaming, the need to touch every single part of him overwhelming.

Feeling his shoulders relax, Xavier sighed into your mouth, as if he had been hoping this would happen. Your back hit the nearest wall as he pressed you against it. As he kissed down your neck, your hand found purchase in his silver strands, holding on tightly, causing a groan to escape his lips. 

His hands explored the skin beneath your blouse before they glided down your body and then hoisted you up, your legs reflexively wrapping around him. He made his way through your house, stopping only to restlessly place you on a sideboard or a table and remove one piece of clothing at a time while not breaking away from your lips or your neck.

When he pulled your blouse over your head, he immediately made it his mission to litter the newly exposed skin with wet, open-mouthed kisses, making you gasp and arch into him. You tugged at his hoodie in a silent plea, one he complied with in a rapid, impatient motion.

Before you could get lost in his touch, he was moving you again, carrying you up the stairs while your mouth didn’t leave his neck. Occasionally, he would pause to chase your lips, as if he couldn’t be apart from them for too long.

Once you had reached the bedroom, he dropped you onto the mattress, and after removing his shirt, he followed closely behind. The only clothing left on you were your panties. Your head was already foggy, unable to recall when he had taken off your bra. One of his many skills was stripping you naked with such swiftness that you barely realised he had started before you were already bare underneath him. 

Your hands reached down to free him from his pants, but he stopped you, simply getting a hold of your wrists and pinning them above your head.

“Not yet.” 

There it was. His quiet dominance, his careful control.

After kissing and exploring your mouth with his tongue, igniting a fire in your core, he let go of your wrists and planted kisses along his descent. Each searing kiss was more heated than the last as his lips left small red marks behind. Sucking, licking and claiming each part he had claimed before once again, making sure you remembered who you belonged to. He wasn’t just mapping you anew with his mouth but retracing his path from a time long past.

Your nails scraped across his naked back and arms, scratching his bare skin whenever he sucked on a particular sensitive spot. You could feel how he got more impatient with each scratch and tug at his hair.

One of his hands trailed down from your throat to between your breasts to your stomach while he looked at you reverently, having missed this view and the feel of your skin. Like a predator watching his prey squirm before they devour it.

When Xavier reached your thighs, you felt his hot breath against the wet patch on your underwear, making you unconsciously shift closer. His amused chuckle prompted you to open your eyes. “Someone’s eager.”

Just as you were about to quip back that he was just as eager as you were, he bit your thigh—an unexpected, piercing sting. You inhaled sharply, the pain short-lived and replaced by a rush of pleasure as he soothed the skin with a languid lick, your legs already shaking from his attention.

“I love it when you’re trembling because of me,” he rasped with his half-lidded eyes looking up at you, his cheek resting on your thigh.

You couldn’t wait any longer, you needed some kind of friction. “Xavie, please,” you whined. In your desperate state you hadn’t realised that you had said his nickname you hadn’t used in the last two years. 

His eyes darkened with lust, glinting with something dangerous, before he impatiently tugged your panties down your legs and tossed them carelessly away. His mouth was on you a second later. A moan slipped past your lips at the sudden pressure against your clit.

Groaning at the taste, he nuzzled the lower half of his face deeper between your legs. His hands tightened around your thighs, holding them in place, as he draped them over his shoulders. “God, I’ve missed this.”

First, he broadly dragged his tongue up and down, lapping up your taste, and then flicked it against your clit. Your back arched, legs twitching, as you squirmed from the overwhelming pleasure. 

“So responsive,“ he chuckled, opening his eyes a fraction to shoot you a smug look. “Your body is telling me it missed me too.”

You weren’t able to reply as he dove back in and swirled his tongue around your clit, shortly followed by a finger slowly pumping in and out of your hole. When he added a second finger and curled them in the exact angle he knew by heart, he picked up his pace, making you see stars as he managed to hit that one spot inside you over and over again. 

Every time you glanced down, you were greeted by the subtle flex of his shoulder blades and the contentment in his expression. Despite the hungry way he ate you out, he looked serene, radiating an angelic calm.

Already lightheaded, your hips bucked to chase your release, you felt was close, your fingers fisting his silver-blonde hair. But he abruptly stopped his movements, prompting you to whimper at the sudden loss of stimulation.

“Stay still,” he commanded, his voice remaining soft, but there was a darker undercurrent that made you clench around his fingers. “Or do I need to restrain you?”

Without waiting for an answer, he pushed your knees towards your chest and resumed devouring you. One hand kept your legs up and the other returned to their relentless mission of fucking you open. It took you a considerable amount of effort to remain still, not wanting to provoke him to stop yet again.

“I need to properly prepare you for what I want to do with you.” Xavier seemed to have noticed your struggle. “So be good for me, baby, okay?”

You nodded hastily, not fully registering his words. 

He reduced you to a moaning mess, clawing at the sheets and legs shaking uncontrollably. Even when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, he continued and coaxed another orgasm out of you. At one point, you had stopped counting. 

Xavier had left you dazed, breathless, and still wanting more.

With one last, almost tender kiss to your pussy, he finally straightened, the lower half of his face glistening from your many releases. His hand reached up, his thumb caressing your cheek before parting your lips. Watching you closely as you blinked up at him blearily, he put two of his fingers in your mouth. Instinctively, you eagerly sucked on them, hollowing your cheeks and tasting yourself on his skin.

Xavier’s eyes were fixed on you, the blue of his irises eclipsed by his dilated pupils, and resembled a dark, hungry void threatening to consume you.

“Do you want to continue?” There was a hesitation to his tone, as if he wasn’t sure if he took it too far.

His question roused you from your daze, a smile spreading across your lips. “Yes, I do.”

His mouth was on you before you saw his relieved expression. His fervent kisses had you melting and desperate to finally feel him inside you. Your hands travelled down to his pants, fumbling with his belt. “Condom, Xavier,” you were able to press out and unzipped his fly.

Reluctantly, he pulled away from your lips to reach for his drawer and retrieved a condom. When he didn’t move and simply stared at the packaging, you asked if everything was alright.

“They’re expired.”

Oh. So that meant you hadn’t had sex for…a while.

He rummaged through the drawer but each one he found had the same expiration date. You might regret this later, but after years of nothing and the thrill of your fight still in your veins, you grabbed him by his neck and pulled him down to you again, kissing him urgently.

“Let’s do it without one,” you breathed, and he stilled, searching your eyes for any kind of hesitation.

“Are you sure?”

You nodded, and his ravenous eyes glazed with lust in response. The way he captured your mouth now was different from before as his tongue glided against yours in a sinful claim, shooting an electric tingle down your spine.

You and his hands moved with a shared urgency, making short work of his trousers and boxershorts. Fingers tangled in a frantic dance, both yearning to finally feel the other in a way you haven’t for so long.

Then, finally, he was bare hovering above you, pumping his cock a few times before settling between your legs. Your foreheads met, and you both sighed in pleasure as he slid inside. As if your bodies hadn’t forgotten, you moved in sync, the heat radiating from him overwhelming. His lips left yours in favour of kissing and sucking at your neck before travelling even lower to your breasts, teeth nibbling and biting the soft skin around your nipples.

Your gaze drifted to the window as a noise outside made your ears perk up. Xavier grabbed your face, forcing your attention back to him. His cheeks were flushed a rosy shade, and his eyes stared down at you with a stern intensity that bordered on a warning. “I guess I have to double my efforts if you’re this easily distracted.”

Your surprised yelp got stuck in your throat as you were suddenly flipped around and found yourself on all fours, his cock already sliding back in without giving you time to catch up.

“Wait,” you gasped, trying to stop him from going deeper. The stretch was too much. Even with his extensive preparation, you still needed time to adjust to his size.

“You’ll get used to it,” Xavier said from behind you, his tone carrying a finality, a command that left no room for disobedience. Taking a shaky breath, you tried your best to relax while he grinded against you, pushing in inch by inch. “See?”

He started slow, his hands holding your hips or trailing appreciatively down your back. “Look at you, taking me so well,” he cooed, planting a kiss on your cheek. You hummed, already lost in the sensation of his cock gliding in and out of your pussy in an agonising rhythm.

Then with his hand on your back, he pressed you down so that your face was smushed in the pillows and turned his unhurried movements to punishing thrusts. You cried out, your moans muffled by the soft fabric rubbing against your face with each slap of his hips.

His grip on you tightened, probably leaving you with bruises in the morning, as you held on to the sheets for dear life. Drunk on pleasure, your moans and sighs echoed through the room unrestrained. When one of his hands began to rub circles on your clit, the double stimulation quickly tumbled you over the edge. As you clenched around him, muscles tensing and spasming, you came with a strangled gasp and buried your face deeper into the pillows.

“That’s it, baby,” Xavier praised and squeezed your hips approvingly. Since your thighs were shaking, and you were barely able to hold yourself up, he took a pillow and placed it underneath you. “Lie down.” His command, firm but gentle, had you clench around him once more, causing a groan to escape his lips.

Now lying flat on your stomach, your ass elevated by the pillow, he hovered over you, your bodies almost pressed against each other. Showering you with kisses to the side of your face, his thrusts turned messy and even harsher as he chased his own release. Xavier observed your face with half-lidded eyes, mesmerised by the view of you mewling and shivering in response to every thrust. His heat and scent enveloped you completely and clouded your senses.

“Tell me you missed me,” he rasped, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

Your voice was swallowed by the mattress as you choked, “I–ah–I missed y-you.”

“I can’t hear you. Say it louder.” His hips slammed harder against you, rendering you unable to speak at all. His arm snaked around you in a sudden, possessive embrace, his hand settling on your throat before lifting your head and pressing you against his chest. “I know you can do it.”

Xavier was breathing heavily from the exertion, his hot breath raising goosebumps down your arms and spine. The pressure from his hand around your throat wasn’t enough to restrict airflow, but the dominating gesture sent a dizzying wave through you.

“I missed you,” you whimpered. “I missed you so much.”

A badly suppressed moan, followed by a stutter in his relentless pace announced his orgasm crashing over him. As he rode out his high, you felt the way he filled you up. Shortly after, he collapsed on top of you, his weight a comforting presence as you both steadied your breathing and calmed your racing hearts.

After giving you a kiss to your temple, he gently rolled you onto your back and took in your fucked-out state with a predatory smirk.

“I’m sorry, starlight. We’re far from done.”

-

Dawn just broke and a sliver of soft light found its way through a crack in the curtains and shone down onto Xavier’s collarbone. You couldn’t help yourself and bend down, kissing the soft skin all the way up to his face. He stirred a bit, but his eyes remained closed. The hitch in his breath betrayed him. Smiling to yourself, you smothered him with kisses until he finally opened his eyes a fraction, a smile curving his lips.

“Is it my turn now?” The rasp in his voice, deep from sleep, made heat spread in your core. In one swift motion, he had you flipped on your back, his weight pressing you down as he lazily trailed warm kisses down your neck. Your breathing came in shallow as your heartbeat quickened. He knew exactly where to apply pressure, where to nib gently, and where to suck harshly, to make you restless underneath him.

The sound of cars driving onto your driveway brought you back to the present. You and Xavier exchanged a glance before jumping out of bed. A peek out the window presented you with three SUVs, each with a couple of heavily armed men swarming your yard.

Your mouth set in a hard line. “They didn’t even wait until 48 hours were up.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Xavier said, his tone serious, while his eyes assessed the situation below.

Well, it surprised you a little. After all, you had been working for your agency for years now. You always completed your work with diligence. Fast and efficient, you were their best agent. But, of course, you were replaceable; everyone was. And you had a feeling Andrew was already jumping at the opportunity to take your place at number one.

The both of you quickly grabbed clothes out of your closet since fighting naked was not something you were keen to do. Xavier threw on a black compression shirt, the same one he wore back on your mission. Now up close, you could watch how the fabric clung tightly to his biceps and revealed just the right amount of sculpted abs. When he fastened a shoulder holster around his back, you forced yourself to look away, struggling to control your drifting thoughts.

You focused your attention back on getting dressed yourself, opting for an all-black outfit, mirroring his choice. “We need a car,” you mused out loud while putting on pants, an escape plan already forming in your head. Using one of your own cars would be too easily trackable since they were registered under your names.

“We’ll take one from the Li’s. They keep the keys in their garage,” Xavier replied. Once he was dressed and noticed your matching attire, his serious expression softened into an endearing smile.

Then, he reached underneath his bedside table, retrieved a handgun which had been attached to the underside, and tugged it in his shoulder holster. The leather straps accentuated his shoulders and chest, prompting you to glance over to him more than once.

In a secret compartment inside the closet, you got out a rifle. This was far from enough to face several armed agents with the sole purpose of ending your life. However, there wasn’t enough time to get to your weapon reserves, so you quickly made your way through the top floor of your house, collecting the few weapons you had stashed upstairs. In the end, you had a couple of throwing knives on your person, two handguns each, and your rifle.

The sound of breaking glass and the frantic pounding of several footsteps on your expensive red oak flooring made you press your backs against the wall near the stairs.

“We could climb out the window, escape over the garage,” you suggested, holding your rifle at the ready.

Xavier shook his head, one handgun in his hands. “They’re already waiting for us there. Besides, we would need to round the back of the house to get to our neighbour’s yard.”

You would be lying if you didn’t at least enjoy it a little bit seeing your husband like this. Serious, competent, with that tiny furrow between his eyebrows as he meticulously thought about how to escape out of your own home. “Sounds like you already have a plan.”

“First, we need more weapons. There’s a shotgun in the living room, behind the sideboard.”

Your position at the top of the stairs would have been ideal, but considering you wouldn’t have enough bullets to take them all down as they climbed the stairs, some likely attempting to gain entry through a window, it simply wasn’t a smart strategy to remain there.

“I hid another rifle in the dining room,” you added. “Now what? We just breach downstairs?”

Xavier held up a flashbang, one side of his mouth quirking up. “Yes.”

He raised his hand, counting slowly, and on three, he tossed it down the stairs. A loud bang echoed through your house, followed by a burst of light, and a chorus of groans and yelps of surprise. Straightaway, you slid down the wooden railing of the stairs and started to fire.

Their momentary confusion wasn’t enough to stop the other agents from shooting the instant they spotted you. Once you hopped down onto the floor, you took cover behind the living room wall, reloading as bullets whizzed past. 

A glance at the bottom of the stairs revealed your bra, dangling forgotten and discarded between the beams of the railing. Ah, so that’s where it went.

With the hallway mirror, you assessed their position and gauged their movement. To cover for Xavier, you crouched down and sent a hail of shots in their direction, forcing them to run for cover. Shortly after, Xavier joined you behind the wall, taking over your position and your rifle while you quickly got the shotgun from where he had told you earlier.

Heavy footsteps came rushing closer. You shot the first person to appear in the doorway in the chest, the recoil slamming the handle against your shoulder and causing you to wince. A shotgun wasn’t usually your weapon of choice as you preferred stealth over brute firepower.

“Nice shot,” Xavier complimented and swiftly took out the next one. At his praise, you couldn’t suppress your smile.

This time, they came in as a group. You immediately switched between shots and close combat. You were just choking one of them, your arm pressing against the sides of their neck while your legs tightly wrapped around their chest, when a loud crash made you look up. As if they weighed nothing, Xavier hauled one agent over him, sending him sprawling onto your coffee table, shattering it in half.

Damn. From your vantage point on the floor, you were able to watch him fight three opponents at the same time. Just as he did during the fight with you, he effortlessly moved his body out of their range and neutralised them with unsettling velocity.

When, finally, the squirming in your arms stopped, you focused back on the task at hand. 

As the first wave was taken care of, you rolled onto the couch, ducking behind the backrest. On all fours, you propped yourself up on the armrest and peeked at the doorway.

“Does this remind you of something?”

You felt Xavier’s hand glide down your back, a caress that stood in contrast to what that hand just did to those agents on the ground. “It reminds me of our wedding night.”

Surprised and slightly confused by his answer, you looked over your shoulder, finding Xavier kneeling behind you with a contemplative expression.

It dawned on you what was going through his mind, and the timing couldn’t have been worse. “Oh god, Xavier!”

“Ah, so you remember too?”

You quickly turned around again to hide your flustered expression, your cheeks burning from the memories of your first night as a married couple. Xavier had made a point to consecrate every room and every surface to your new status, turning it into a never ending night you wouldn’t soon forget. It ended with trembling muscles and a sore throat from all the noises he had coaxed out of you. The following days, you weren’t able to walk probably.

“I meant– You know what, nevermind.”

You were going to say it reminded you of that one time you and Xavier had thrown a garden party for the neighbourhood’s annual get-together, and got so tired and overwhelmed by everyone that you hid inside, using the sofa as a shield—just like right now.

After you had checked your inventory of weapons and ammunition, you proceeded to navigate through the house and dove back into the fray. It became clear that together, you were unstoppable. As if you had been fighting side-by-side for years, your teamwork was like a well-oiled machine. What one started, the other finished, making your way forward with a relentless, efficient rhythm until you reached the back door.

Once outside, you made a run for your neighbour’s garage, unleashing a barrage of shots at the approaching agents who had been waiting in your garden. 

“Get the car. I’ll hold them off,” you told him and reloaded the shotgun. Xavier vanished almost instantly, leaving you amazed at how fast he was moving.

Several agents were closing in, so you jumped behind a bush for cover. You paused. From here, you had a clean view of your living room and your new curtains. “So that’s how he knew…”

Your neighbour’s Bordeaux-coloured pick-up truck screeched to a halt in front of you, and you quickly scrambled into the back seat behind the driver while Xavier shot out of the open window. The moment the car door slammed shut, he stepped on the gas pedal, accelerating around the corner onto the road at such terrifying speed that it threw you to the other side of the car with a sharp groan of pain.

“Sorry,” Xavier smiled sheepishly and gave you an apologetic look through the rearview mirror.

You climbed to the passenger seat and checked your magazine. “What’s next?”

“I know a place we can go.” His gaze flickered between the road and the mirrors. “We just need to get rid of them first.”

With his head, he motioned to the back and a glance confirmed the three SUVs closing in, a parade of black metal tailing behind you. He pushed the accelerator further, the increasing speed pressing you into the seat. As Xavier maneuvered the truck through the busy traffic, narrowly avoiding collisions and trying his best to lose your pursuers in the maze of the city streets, you seized the opportunity to get something off your chest. What better time than now?

“Why didn’t you fight back yesterday?” 

Xavier glanced in your direction before focusing back onto the road. “I could never hurt you, even if you were out to get me.” A small smile curved his lips. “And I wanted to see how far you would go.”

Your head whipped in his direction, but his gaze remained fixed ahead. “I wasn’t sure if our marriage was just one big cover for you,” you confessed, your fingers fidgeting with the barrel of your shotgun.

As soon as Xavier hit the highway, the three SUVs blocked all three lanes and opened fire. “How could you think that?” he asked, genuinely confused. He yanked the wheel, swerving the truck to dodge the incoming bullets from the left side.

“You were the one who suddenly got distant after one year of marriage,” you reminded him while rolling down your window. “Are you aware of how you acted the last two years? How was I supposed to know you still have feelings for me!”

There was a beat of silence as he thought about your answer, and you leaned out of the window, releasing a volley of shots at your attackers. “You’re right,” he began once you were back in your seat. “I felt guilty, like I’d been selfish marrying you, because I was putting you in danger thanks to my job. I didn’t want to drag you into this world.” Mimicking you, he rolled down his window and sent a couple of precise shots behind him, effectively puncturing the front tires of one of their cars. “But as it turns out, I didn’t need to worry,” he added, smiling contently.

Returning his smile, you huffed playfully. “I wasn’t really careful during our first meeting. Didn’t you question me suddenly sitting down with you, trying to act innocent while the thugs were clearly looking for someone?” 

“The second you sat in front of me I wasn’t exactly thinking straight.”

Heat crept up your neck, but your private moment was disrupted when one of their SUVs pulled up closer and shot straight at you, shattering the back window and forcing you to turn away, shielding your faces from the flying glass shards.

In order to hide your face and the emotions that welled up, you announced to take care of them. Climbing to the back of the truck, you took cover behind the backseats, switched to the rifle, and shot at your attackers through the broken window. For a while no one spoke as you continued your assault, occasionally gripping the seat and bracing yourself against Xavier’s violent swerves.

“Since we’re honest with each other now,” you eventually shouted, your voice barely audible over the noise of the wind rushing in, the relentless gunfire of the other agents, and the strained roar of the truck pushing its engine to the limit. “You know the flowers that are sent for my birthday every year?”

“The ones from your parents?”

“They’re actually from my ex from university.”

When they were first delivered and Xavier asked who they were from, you had to improvise on the spot, claiming they were from your parents. After that, to hold up your lie, you didn’t tell your ex to ‘fuck off’ but instead let them continue sending the bouquets each year in order to not raise suspicion. It would have been odd if your parents suddenly stopped buying you flowers for your birthday.

Xavier’s hands tightened around the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. “What’s their name and social security number?”

“No, you’re not going to kill them,” you chided with an exhale and turned your attention back to your pursuers.

Deciding to go on the offensive, you used the handle of your weapon to hack away at the shards framing the window before climbing onto the truck bed. When you stumbled across something and discovered two weapons under a blanket, among them a machine gun, you raised one of your eyebrows.

So Dr. Li’s husband really is an arms dealer. Might have been a bad idea to steal his car, but that was a future-you problem.

Quickly, you checked whether it was loaded and then positioned it in front of you on the tailgate of the truck. The incessant rattling of the machine gun reverberated through your body as you aimed at heads and chests, eliminating them, one by one. 

One of the SUVs sped up and reached the side of your car. At the next moment, two agents jumped onto the truck bed and immediately engaged you in a fight. You knocked the weapon from the first agent’s hand with a precise kick before drawing one of your knives and lunging at him. After blocking the right hook of the second one, you slammed the blade into her throat and hurled her off the truck.

Xavier suddenly jerked the truck sharply to the side, ramming its flank against the other car and causing you and the remaining agent to stumble onto the ground, your bodies connecting with the metal underneath with a loud thud. Your knife flew across the air and landed onto the road. 

Swiftly, you climbed on top of him and delivered one brutal punch after another. A spray of blood streamed from his nose, the crack of breaking bone barely audible above the chaos. With an angry roar, he threw his head forwards and smashed it against yours, the impact blurring your vision. Seizing the opportunity by your momentary incapacitated state, he reversed your position, and returned the favour by slamming his fists into your face.

Before you could have retaliated, a shot to his temple sent him crumbling to the side. Xavier had already turned back to face the road by the time you had realised what happened.

Scrambling to your feet, you continued your fight with the next agent who jumped onto the truck bed and quickly disposed of him by kicking him over the tailgate. When another SUV appeared on your other side, you yelled, “Xavier!”

“On it.” With a sudden jolt, he hit the brakes, causing you to fall forwards and hit your head on the roof. Xavier made a sharp turn off the highway that left the SUVs in front of you unable to turn around fast enough.

You rubbed your forehead while grumbling to yourself and climbed back into the passenger seat.

“I also have a confession.” He picked up your conversation where you had left off, as if nothing had interrupted you, and handed you a handkerchief which you used to wipe the blood from your face. “I never cooked a day in my life. But I want to though.”

Xavier explained that his agency prepared the food, and he only needed to cut the vegetables and reheat everything else.

At this very moment, you had no idea that letting him cook would turn out to be a horrible idea. You would remain blissfully unaware for at least another week before a fire in your kitchen confronts you with the reality that one of you would have to learn how to cook and it better not be him.

“I never even so much as touched the rose bushes,” you shared. “In fact, I hate gardening.”

Xavier’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Then how come you keep winning the gardening award each year?”

“You should ask our gardener,” you shrugged and attempted to turn on the radio. However, it was riddled with bullet holes and, unsurprisingly, no longer played any sound.

“We have a gardener?” His voice easily carried over the loud noises of traffic without him having to raise it much. “What other men did you invite into our house that I don’t know about?”

Rolling your eyes, you didn’t deign to answer him, and you didn’t need to. One of the SUVs suddenly appeared beside you and shot through the driver’s window. Xavier ducked, but the bullet grazed his arm. Leaning over him, you drew your handgun and shot at the front and rear tires, rendering them incapable of pursuing you further.

Once you were certain you got rid of them for good, Xavier slowed the truck to a more civil pace. “Your arm!” He let you examine it, smiling down at you as you carefully assessed the injury. 

“It’s fine, it barely hit me.”

Meeting his blue eyes, radiating a calming stillness, convinced you he was telling the truth. You let yourself relax in your seat and asked, “Where’s this place you said we could go to?”

As one of his hands remained on the steering wheel, his other sought out yours and intertwined your fingers together. “You’ll see,” he responded and gave your knuckles a tender kiss.

-

At the sight of the flower shop of his best friend, you glanced at Xavier questioningly, but he was already pushing open the door. You were greeted by an explosion of colours and shapes in every size imaginable, the lush, fresh fragrance of the flowers around you filling the air. The bell announced your arrival as you walked in and a head of brown curls emerged from under the counter.

“I was hoping you would show up!” Relief was clearly written all over Jeremiah’s face. His smile faded when he took in the state you and Xavier were in. Your clothes were torn, stained with blood and dirt as well as the rest of your bodies, but it was your tightly clasped hands that drew his attention.

“We have a problem,” Xavier said. “I was hoping you could help us.”

With a sigh, Jeremiah motioned with his head to the back of his shop. He sat down in his office chair and offered you the couch, but you and Xavier remained standing. A look behind him at his desk revealed the remnants of your destroyed work phone. So that was how Xavier figured out that it was you. Jeremiah must be exceptionally good at what he did since he managed to find you with it, despite Nero’s meticulous efforts to keep your identity untraceable.

“There’s no easy way out of this,” Jeremiah began, his gaze darting back and forth between you. “You don’t just ‘have a problem’. Both the Hunter Agency and Philo Agency are out to get you.”

A quick acknowledgement passed between you and Xavier. So he was working for the competing agency. It wasn’t surprising since you had seen his abilities with your own eyes, and working for any other agency that wasn’t one of the top three would have been a waste of his skills.

“Your best chance of survival is to split up.” At Jeremiah’s words, Xavier levelled him with a withering glare. Throwing his hands up in surrender, he quickly added, “Or you bring them something they want more than you.”

You and Xavier exchanged a glance, a silent understanding. There might be a target both your agencies wanted more than you; the one you two had been tasked with eliminating a couple of days ago. Getting the job done might be enough to redeem you. Even if it did not, it was worth a try and better than staying idle.

The door opened, revealing a man you had never seen before, yet instantly recognised similarities to your husband. Beyond their shared silver-blonde hair, there were certain details in his facial features and overall demeanour betraying his connection to Xavier. However, while the stranger’s regal posture was laced with arrogance, Xavier’s possessed a self-assured elegance.

“You’re here.”

“Isaiah,” was all Xavier returned. He didn’t appear to be particularly happy to see this man.

Next, Isaiah turned to you and a look of disgruntled distaste washed over his face, but instead of addressing you directly, he addressed Xavier again. “You should have gotten rid of her right away, then we wouldn’t be in this mess!”

Now you had a pretty good idea why he hadn’t been invited to your wedding, despite them undoubtedly being related.

Xavier’s eyes darkened and the temperature in the room seemed to drop. “That’s my wife you’re talking about.” His threatening tone gave you a shiver. You never heard him speak like that before and your heartbeat quickened at him calling you his wife.

Jeremiah defused the tension in the room, even though he also looked like he wanted to kick Isaiah in the knee. “You can stay here as long as you need and sleep in my guestroom upstairs.” With a glance to Xavier’s arm, he added, “There’s a first-aid kit in the bathroom.”

Xavier gave a curt, thankful nod, and you offered Jeremiah a smile. On your way up, you heard a loud yelp.

“What was that for?!” Isaiah yelled.

“For being a jerk!” Jeremiah countered. Their bickering voices grew quieter with each step up the stairs and faded completely once you closed the door behind you. 

The sudden silence was like a balm. It was the first quiet moment since this morning and your body finally released the knot of tension it had been holding.

When Xavier sat down onto the edge of the bed, the sleeve of his shirt soaked with blood, you eyed him concerned. “How’s your arm?”

“It hurts really bad,” he said in a feigned pitiful tone and patted the space next to him. “I think you need to come closer and have a look.”

You shot him an amused sidelong glance, not buying his act. Still, you couldn’t help but to smile at that and quickly retrieved the first-aid kit from the bathroom. Xavier watched you rummage through it before joining him on the bed. Although he clearly wasn’t in any pain, you humoured him and began to carefully clean the wound. It wasn’t deep, just a minor graze.

As you tightly wrapped the bandage around his biceps, he pretended to wince. “Shouldn’t you handle a wounded person more gentle?”

“I don’t think you particularly want gentle,” you remarked with a sly smirk, and tied the bandage together. “Here, all done.”

“Thank you.” Xavier looked at his arm and then at you, mischief gleaming in his eyes. “How can I possibly show you my gratitude?”

Heat crept up your neck at the way he was observing you. Tilting your head, you challenged with a low voice, “I’m sure you can think of something.”

Returning your smile, Xavier leaned closer, and meeting him halfway, your lips touched in a soft kiss. His hand came up to cup your cheek as he sighed into your mouth and pulled you even closer. The unhurried movements of his lips against yours made you melt into his arms, surrendering to his warmth and comforting familiarity. His other hand travelled from your waist down to your thigh with deliberate intent, and his tongue boldly demanded entrance into your mouth.

Even though you didn’t want this to stop, a sudden desire to mess with him ignited within you. You gently pushed him away, a knowing grin on your face as you watched his reaction. “You should rest since your wound hurts ‘really bad’.”

Noticing his mistake, Xavier put on an innocent face, his lower lip jutting out in a disarmingly cute pout. “I’m feeling much better already. Probably because you took so good care of me,” he murmured and leaned down again, but your hand on his chest kept him from coming closer, a gentle barrier that held him at arms length.

“Nice try,” you chuckled. Tonight, you wouldn’t fall into one of his traps, no matter how alluring and irresistible they might be. Both of your agencies were hot on your heels. You must act before they find you.

“We should make a plan.”

-

Xavier had parked the car near the venue. The moon was out, providing you a little light through the windshield as you sat in darkness. You stayed seated, double-checking if each of your weapons was loaded and secured in your holsters.

“Sooo, how many?” you asked conversationally. Xavier briefly glanced at you while he attached the silencer to his handgun. The suit he was wearing created sharp angles which accentuated his lean, muscular form. “Alright, I’ll start. Somewhere around 80, maybe 90 if you count non-targets.”

You didn’t miss the small smile that tugged at a corner of his mouth. Alright, so he had more kills under his belt. He probably had been working longer than you in this type of job. It was natural that he would—

“214,” he answered without looking up. To say you were shocked was an understatement. Eyes wide, you almost dropped the throwing knife you were about to attach to your thigh beneath your dress. “237 if you count non-targets.”

You blinked, then cleared your throat. “Oh.”

“Are you impressed or concerned?” Xavier asked after noticing your astonishment.

I think I’m aroused. “Just surprised.”

At last, you slipped on the masks you had bought for the event, matching your black formal attire. Then, Xavier drove up to the gate and showed the guard your invitation. When the gate was opened, you followed the winding driveway, and parked besides an alignment of similar sports cars.

As Xavier offered you his arm with a smile and guided you to the entrance, your eyes scanned the other guests, and located the patrolling guards and the security cameras along the perimeter.

According to Jeremiah, the target was being held hostage on the highest floor of the villa, an area off-limits to the public. Security was tight. However, the masquerade ball provided the perfect cover, allowing you to blend in with the crowd as you made your way through the halls. Disguised as a charity event, it was intended to be the best location for striking nefarious business deals and networking with your fellow local gang leaders.

When you entered the main ballroom, you were greeted by classical music played by a live band in one corner, accompanied by dancing and chatting guests adorned with an assortment of different kinds of masks. As your gaze swept across the crowd, a flash of white caught your attention.

Was that…your neighbour? His unmistakable white hair and crimson eyes would have been enough to recognise him, but he didn’t bother with a mask, clearly unconcerned over his own safety.

You tapped Xavier’s arm, but his eyes were fixed elsewhere. The host had entered the room and on his person he had the key to the upper floors. It was time for phase one of your plan.

After reaching for a glass of champagne from the tray carried by a waiter passing by, you freed your arm from under Xavier’s, and with slow, confident steps, moved towards the host, the sound of your heels echoing languidly over the wooden flooring.

Even as other guests as well as guards encircled him, you had no problem joining the group and sliding into their conversation with ease.

As you spoke, deliberately sending glances through your eyelashes, and exchanged one or two carefully chosen flirtatious words, you felt the heat of Xavier’s burning stare at the back of your head. You knew he disapproved of this part of the plan, yet you would be lying to yourself if you didn’t enjoy his jealousy a little bit. For two years, you’d believed him to have mentally moved on from you, convinced he no longer found you attractive. It was satisfying to watch him so clearly affected by another man’s proximity to you.

During your chat, you stopped mid-sentence, pretending to catch your mask. “Oh, I’m afraid my mask is slipping,” you said, your voice carefully neutral. “Could you hold my glass for a moment, please?”

“Of course.” The host politely accepted your glass, his eyes travelling down your form in open interest. It made you slightly uncomfortable, but as long as he was distracted, it didn’t matter.

You fiddled with the strings of your mask before you took it back, mindful of touching only the slender stem, and flashed him a grateful smile.

“May I have this dance?” The sudden, familiar soft-spoken voice beside you startled you. Xavier wasn’t supposed to approach. He had positioned himself between you and the host, his eyes fixed firmly on you, as if the other man didn’t exist.

“What are you doing?” you whispered once you were out of earshot. Xavier discreetly scanned the fingerprint on the glass with his watch and then placed it on one of the sidetables. He guided you to the dance floor before settling into a gentle sway to the music.

“Am I not allowed to dance with my wife?” There was an intensity behind his words, his grip on your waist and hand tight, betraying his feigned nonchalance.

Shaking your head, you couldn’t suppress your smile. Yes, you enjoyed his jealousy immensely. “You’re ridiculous.”

As you two danced, you couldn’t help but stare into his blue, twinkling eyes framed by his winged mask. They regarded you with matching longing and an unspoken need that had your heartbeat pick up its pace.

“You’re mine,” Xavier breathed, holding up his hand with the wedding ring. “Not just tonight, but every single day you belong to me.” His face was close enough that his warm breath fanned across your already heated cheeks. “And I want everyone here to know that.”

His hand reached up to spin you in an elegant twist before pressing you flush against him. Trying to keep a clear head, you focused back on your plan. “We have the biometric key. It’s time we go up.”

“All in due time.” One corner of his mouth lifted and as if on cue, the music switched its rhythm. Xavier glanced at the band, then to you. Without saying a word, he changed your stance to fit the new dance. A tango.

Despite him enjoying showing off with you and your obvious close relationship as he let his lips brush against your neck or his hand glide down lower than appropriate, he guided you closer to the other end of the ballroom, near the hallway leading to the stairwell.

“There’s a guard,” he informed you, dipping you low with one of his hands securely on your back while the other held up your leg. Looking backwards, you spotted one armed man in front of the stairs. With an abrupt movement, he lifted you back up, foreheads touching, and your leg suspended as his hand was still on your thigh.

“I have a knife,” you told him, and observed how his smirk grew wider. Without breaking eye contact, his hand trailed higher and beneath the slit of your dress. Your  breath hitched as his touch ignited a sudden desire and caused your thoughts to drift to the other night. He removed the knife from its sheath, then, in one fluid movement, twirled you while using the momentum to flick his wrist and send the blade toward the guard. It found its mark in his throat, his gurgle drowned out by the music and loud chatter of the crowd.

“Nice throw,” you praised, and he flashed you a smile in response. After quickly hiding the guard beneath the staircase, you made your way to the upper floor. Avoiding the patrolling guards, you reached the top of the stairs without being detected.

“The room he’s in is the last one down the third hallway to the right.” Jeremiah’s voice crackled through the comms channel.

“I’m still convinced you should just shoot her and get it over with,” Isaiah chimed in. “That would save us a great deal of trouble.”

You chuckled, unfazed by Isaiah’s obvious dislike towards you. “Do you value his opinion?” you asked Xavier amused, already knowing the answer.

“No,” Xavier shrugged, poking his head around the corner and keeping an eye out for security.

“I heard that!”

“Good.”

Two guards suddenly appeared up ahead and, before you knew what happened, Xavier had pulled you into what appeared to be a guest bedroom and hid both of you inside a closet. Their footsteps outside stopped for a moment and then retreated. You let out a relieved breath.

“We should wait here until the guards change shifts,” Xavier said and checked his watch. Jeremiah had managed to discover the layout of the villa’s security precautions, including blind spots of their security cameras and when the guard’s shift changes took place.

The two of you were pressed against each other due to the cramped space inside the closet. You enjoyed being this close to him, especially after your rather charged dance mere moments ago. But what you liked even more was feeling just how much he seemed to like it.

You shot him a teasing look, watching how his expression changed as one of your hands lazily trailed up his thigh. Xavier’s arm wrapped around your waist as he gazed into your eyes with a sharp focus.

He checked his watch again. “We have ten minutes.”

“I know you’re fast, but I doubt you’re that fast,” you chuckled and immediately regretted saying that.

His eyes flashed with something dangerous as he cocked his head. You shouldn’t have doubted him. Xavier would always accept a challenge.

His nose trailed up your neck to the shell of your ear, the slight touch already making you shiver in anticipation. As one hand steadied you on your hip, the other parted the fabric of your dress. Once you felt his calloused fingers on the bare skin of your thigh, you drew in a shaky breath, eyes fluttering shut.

“Eight minutes,” you murmured, not able to hide the grin.

Xavier huffed, leaning back to sternly look down at you with half-lidded eyes. “Where’s that attitude coming from?” 

Your hips involuntarily chased his hand as you desperately needed him to touch you, but he held you in place.

“I see.” A smug expression came onto his face, his fingers gently caressing your cheek. “Don’t worry, my star. I’ll take good care of you.”

Then, with a fluid motion, he slid his hands between your legs and pushed your underwear to the side. When he began to circle your clit with just the right amount of pressure and pace he knew made you weak, a moan got stuck in your throat.

“And I’ll fix your attitude while I’m at it,” he rasped and one finger pushed inside your heat, followed by a groan when he felt how wet you already were. He added the second finger right away and set a slow, agonising rhythm while his thumb kept circling your sensitive bundle of nerves. You clawed at his shoulders, trying to hold yourself up as your legs trembled. You wanted more, your hips meeting his fingers, searching for a faster rhythm.

“Xavie,” you mewled, but he only chuckled.

“I haven’t heard you beg for it yet.”

You thought you would struggle with submitting yourself to him after such a long intimate pause between you, but the pleas came naturally over your lips. “Please, please, please, Xavie, do it harder.”

Satisfied with your request, he pumped his fingers in and out of you faster and harder, his other arm supporting your weight as you buried your face into his neck, biting down to muffle your moans and cries of pleasure.

Your orgasm was embarrassingly fast approaching. For a moment, your mind cleared enough to consider trying to delay your release in order to make him lose your little challenge. However, you wanted to come so badly that you immediately dismissed the thought.

When he reached that sensitive spot inside repeatedly, it finally snapped. Your body surged forward from the force of your orgasm as you gripped Xavier’s suit jacket tightly and bit the soft skin of his neck even harder, silencing your gasp as best as you could.

While you came down from your high, catching your breath and trembling from the aftershocks, he locked eyes with you and licked his fingers clean in an unhurried manner, making you clench around nothing at the sight.

“Thirty seconds,” Jeremiah’s voice brought you both back to reality.

You rolled your eyes at Xavier’s obvious self-satisfied smirk and straightened your clothes. He had a bite mark on his neck from your attempts to stay quiet, and you were a little proud that you managed to leave a mark on him this time too.

Outside in the hallway, Xavier entered the host’s biometric key into the control panel using his watch, allowing you access to the restricted part of the villa. Another corridor opened before you. 

Two guards emerged from the corner and once they spotted you, raised their weapons. Instead of slowing down, you rushed forward, kicked the weapon from the left guard’s hand and delivered two precise punches to his jaw. Grabbing his head, you smashed it against the wall. He collapsed to the ground next to his colleague, who was already unconscious after Xavier had knocked him out.

After you took care of the third pair of patrolling guards, you followed Jeremiah’s instructions from earlier and found the room where the target was being held. From inside, you heard voices as you pressed your ears against the wood.

“Do you mind switching the channel? If I have to watch the same cartoon one more time, I hurl myself out the window,” a voice complained. No one answered him, so it was hard to say how many people were inside.

A quick nod passed between you and Xavier before you pushed open the door and charged into the room, guns drawn. At the far end, a man with purple hair was bound to a chair, limbs leisurely sprawled out. Completely unfazed by your arrival, two men wearing identical masks sat seemingly bored in front of the TV, watching cartoons. They didn’t even stand up.

“Take him,” one of them said and motioned with his head behind him. Confused, you blinked a couple of times. Then you spotted them, the actual guards, tied up and gagged in a corner.

“Yes, please do. He’s been complaining about everything for the past hour,” the other one added, their gazes trained on the TV.

Seeing that Xavier shared your irritation, you both raised an eyebrow. With a mutual shrug, you approached the target, whose face lit up with eagerness at the prospect of being rescued. “Fiiinally, you know how long I’ve been waiting for someone to show up? Jelly fishes are walking naked, sea turtles climb trees, sharks are eating grass for free and—hmmpf!”

Xavier had put his hand over his mouth to shut him up and looked at you questioningly. “That was easier than expected.”

“What now?”

Your gazes switched to the purpled-haired man who was struggling against Xavier’s unyielding grip. The moment Xavier withdrew his hand, he was talking again, but you quickly interrupted him. “Why are our agencies after you?”

“Long story, I suggest you wait for the movie,” he quipped. The slap came out of nowhere, not just for him but for Xavier too. Surprised, both blinked at you. 

You shrugged. “We don’t have all day.”

“I admire your initiative,” Xavier smiled.

You giggled and the man in front of you rolled his eyes. With cheeks heating up, you cleared your throat. “Where were we?”

“The part where you let me go.” His eyes suddenly widened at the blade in Xavier’s hands. “Woah! Alright! Wait, I’ll tell you everything!”

Now, it was your turn to look startled. You didn’t expect Xavier to torture someone. But then he did kill over 230 people…

“My name’s Rafayel. I actually work for the Philo Agency. They found out you guys were married, and since they didn’t particularly like two assassins from different agencies possibly sharing confidential intel, they planned to get rid of you. You were supposed to kill each other during your mission. I was just bait.”

Xavier looked down at his knife, then back at Rafayel. “I actually just wanted to untie you.”

Rafayel looked like he was close to complaining some more, so you grabbed Xavier’s arm and stepped a few meters away. “What now? When they planned to get rid of us right from the start, there’s nothing we can do.”

“We’ll figure it out once we get out of here.” Xavier took your hand in his, his thumb gently caressing the back of your hand in a calming gesture that eased your nerves.

“Jeremiah might be right.” Your voice was laced with sadness. “We should part ways, so we have a higher chance at survival.” You didn’t want to leave him, but if that was the only way he could escape and find safety, then you would.

“Once we run, we’ll run for the rest of our lives. Besides,” Xavier responded and held up your joint hands with the wedding rings. “I made a vow. I’m not going back on my word.”

“But—”

“Right now I have you,” he cut you off, squeezing your hand for emphasis. The intensity in his eyes made your heart swell. “And I’ll never let go.”

You swallowed the emotions bubbling up, and nodded.

“If he’s really just bait, then agents from both our agencies will be here soon,” Xavier continued, and as if on cue, several heavy footsteps came rushing closer.

Glancing at the hallway, you exhaled. “You really had to jinx it…”

As you readied your guns and sought cover, you noticed the identically masked guys switching off the TV and rising from the sofa. They had shown no interest in involving themselves in your business the entire time you had questioned Rafayel, but now, with armed agents storming the room, they joined the fray. At that point, you didn’t question it and accepted their assistance in eliminating the waves of attackers.

With a quick roll behind the purple-haired man’s chair, you swiftly reloaded as bullets flew past and, while using his body for cover, shot at the chest of someone attempting to sneak up on Xavier.

Rafayel snorted indignantly. “I’m not a meat shield!”

Ignoring him, you moved on to the next one. You underestimate the speed of your opponent and when your gun was knocked out of your hand, you reached for the man’s arm and flung him over your shoulder onto the floor. A fist connected with your face as another agent materialised beside you. Your lip split open, a thin stream of blood trickling down to your chin.

Just as you prepared to strike back, a dagger pierced the agent’s throat. He collapsed and revealed one of the masked men lurking behind him. He offered a playful salute, which you answered with a grin.

Your unknown accomplices turned out to be great at close combat. With their help, you were able to quickly take care of the incoming agents. After the last wave was reduced to a pile of limbs on the ground, you caught your breath. Xavier was by your side in an instant, cradling your cheek and checking your injuries. 

One of the masked men waved you over to him and pointed to a hidden door at the back of the room. “Let’s get you out of here.” 

Xavier’s hand reassuringly laid on your lower back, and together you followed the two out of the building.

“Heeey! Are you just gonna leave me here?!” Rafayel shouted after you, but no one from your group heeded him any mind and ignored his incessant shoutings until his voice was nothing but a faint echo in the background.

As you navigated the labyrinth of hallways, you quickly reached the backdoor. Outside, the chilly nightly breeze ruffled the fabric of your dress, but since you were still running hot from the fight, the heat fuelled by adrenalin pumping through your veins, you welcomed the cooling air.

Surprised to find yourself facing none other than your neighbour, you came to a stop. “Mr. Li,” you blurted out.

“Mr. and Mrs. Shen, good to see you in good health and with all your limbs still attached,” Mr. Li greeted, a casual smirk on his lips. He leaned against the railing of the terrace, clearly waiting for your arrival. His white hair was slightly tousled by the wind, but other than that, he looked like he fit right into this place with his tailored suit and dangerous ruby eyes.

“Here.” With one hand, Xavier caught whatever he tossed into the air with ease. Opening his palm, you were presented with a key. “There’s a car at the other end of the property. It’s fuelled and should be enough to get you out of town.”

When the masked men positioned themselves next to Mr. Li, everything clicked into place. “Why are you helping us?” you asked. Your neighbourly relationship never went beyond polite greetings and the occasional package exchange when one of you had accepted one on behalf of the other.

“Take it as a thank you for keeping my…occupation a secret.” A sly smile curved his lips as he looked each of you in the eyes. “And as an apology for my son’s behaviour,” he added, his smile fading. Ah, so he must have found Caleb’s secret stash of your underwear. Xavier threw you a questioning look, but you waved him off.

“However, I still expect a check for my stolen car.” With that, Mr. Li turned on his heel, waved goodbye, and returned to the party as if nothing had happened. His two henchmen snickered and vanished into the darkness of the surrounding garden.

Processing what just happened, you stared at the spot your neighbour had been standing a moment ago. Huh, what a night.

“Do you want to go get hot pot?” Xavier’s blue eyes twinkled brightly, mirroring the stars above as he gazed down at you and intertwined your fingers together. 

You chuckled, wiping the blood off your lip with the back of your other hand. “Sure.”

Glancing at your joint palms, a warm feeling spread through you. From now on, whenever you extended a hand, your distant star would always be within reach.