Writing With A Dinosaur

You noticed the tension in his posture from across the room. You’d known him for years and worked as his assistant—Nimue, that was your codename. And you admired the man; you’d been together for coming on four years now, though you’d been friends much longer.

Merlin had been overworked for days, and today was the worst. New agents were being trained to replace those who had been lost the year before. The recruits were embarrassingly unprepared, and he was taking it personally. He always did, which wasn’t fair to himself.

It didn’t help that one of the gadget techs had accidentally spilt coffee all over his notes, and one of the new recruit’s dogs had eaten his lunch. One thing after another made his day worse. Every time he fixed an error, another popped up on his screens. He ran his hands over his face with a groan.

“Hamish, you look like you’ve had a rough day. Maybe you should take a break,” you said in a soft tone. But the man jerked away with a huff.

“I don’t need you to tell me that, Nimue!” he spat, not even looking up from his work.

You didn’t expect the reaction when you brushed your hand along his shoulders.

“Okay, maybe I can help? Tell me how I can help you,” you asked gently. He turned to you with a sharp, tired look.

“Help? How can you help? Do you have any idea what today’s been like? Systems failing, every person breathing down my neck, and now you—” His voice cracked just barely before his anger continued to pour out. “You think a gentle voice and hand on my shoulder will fix anything? That is not how the real world works! You have no damn idea. None!”

You recoiled, hurt slicing through your chest. “I just—”

“No! Don’t! Don’t try to comfort me. You can’t possibly understand the stress I’m dealing with right now! So maybe, for once, leave me alone, woman!” His jaw was tense, and his glare was like daggers.

The coldness you felt when he turned back to his work hurt even more. This was far from the man you loved. Usually, he was such a kind man, but this—this was far from it.

You stormed out, fighting back the tears as you bumped into Eggsy, who noticed and tried to comfort you, but you brushed past him.

Slamming the door to your office shut, you slid to the floor with a sob. You were sure Eggsy was giving Hamish one hell of a lecture. The boy had become a good friend of yours, saw you as an older sister, and was fiercely protective of you.

Which was probably why you later heard a soft knock on your door.

“Nimue…” It was Merlin; his voice was softer now, and honestly, that didn’t help. You didn’t want to see him. But the door opened regardless.

“I—look, I was out of line,” he started, his voice low and rough. You snorted, rolling your eyes as you turned away from his gaze.

“Oh, really? You don’t say,” you said, sarcasm lacing your voice.

“What I said—it was cruel. You didn’t deserve that. None of it.”

He took a step toward you, hesitating before taking another cautious step, as if expecting you to lash out or bolt. He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “I hate that I hurt you, Mo ghràdh.”

You looked up at the Gaelic term of endearment he used just for you—my love. You wanted to stay mad because you were hurt, but he was making it hard.

“I—I’m sorry. I’ll… I’ll do whatever it takes to make it right. Please… don’t turn away from me.”

He bowed his head, almost muttering, his voice breaking. “I was a fool. I was a complete fool, and I… I can’t stand that I upset you. Please…”

You sighed, knowing he meant it; hell, you’d snapped too, but it still hurt. But the look of genuine regret on his face—you placed a hand on his cheek.

“I’m still upset, but if you want to make it up to me, take the rest of the day off. Let someone else fix the problems.”

He gave you a smile and a nod, taking your hand and pulling you up to give you a gentle kiss.

“I can do that,” he whispered against your lips, smiling.

Of all the things you expected that day—being dragged into a secure American facility in the middle of Kentucky, tied to a chair by a cowboy, and interrogated next to a scowling Scotsman and an emotionally frayed Eggsy—seeing Harry bloody Hart alive and shaving was not one of them.

But there he was.

On the other side of the two-way mirror. Shaving. Calmly. As if the world hadn’t buried him in a marble tomb months ago.

You stared. Hard.

His face looked the same—clean, sharp lines, that slight dimple when he frowned in concentration, eyes still a soft, steady brown. Except… something was off. A hollowness in his gaze. An unfamiliar hesitation in how he handled the razor.

And then the cowboy drew his gun. Harry didn't flinch. Eggsy shouted.

And you didn’t move when Ginger untied your wrists, even as Merlin rubbed the blood back into his fingers and Eggsy made a beeline for the mirrored glass. You just… stayed in your chair. Staring.

Harry interacted with them—Merlin and Eggsy—like they were strangers.

He blinked at Merlin with mild politeness, extended a hand, introduced himself as "Harry Hart, lepidopterist," and recoiled slightly when Eggsy tried to hug him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, brow wrinkled with unease. “Do I… know you?”

Eggsy’s face broke right there. Cracked wide open. The same kid who wore Harry’s legacy like a crown and curse.

You looked away. Just for a second.

“Alpha Gel,” Ginger was explaining beside you now. “It’s a medical miracle. Basically, it seals off brain trauma, suspends neurological degeneration.”

You blinked, turning your head.

“What?”

“We didn’t know who he was at first,” Ginger continued. "He’d been shot point-blank to the head… but the Alpha Gel kept him stable. Physically, he healed. But the memory loss—it’s a side effect. Sometimes temporary. Sometimes…”

Your gaze returned to the glass. Harry sat cross-legged on the bed now, a book open in his hands, reading with the same serene detachment he used to wear while waiting in the briefing room.

Like nothing had happened.

Merlin cleared his throat. “Kay. Maybe you should go see him.”

You didn’t even look away from the glass. “No.”

Eggsy turned. “What do you mean ‘no’?”

You exhaled through your nose. “He doesn’t remember you. Doesn’t recognize Merlin. I doubt he’d remember me.”

“Ginger said a strong emotional stimulus could bring it back,” Eggsy insisted. “Seeing someone he has a connection with might—”

“I barely had a connection with him,” you cut in sharply, finally turning to face them. “We tolerated each other, at best. I was the agent he rolled his eyes at in meetings. The one who always left the mission briefings five minutes early to avoid hearing him drone on about suits and manners. You really think that’s going to trigger a miracle recovery?”

Eggsy tilted his head, an almost sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Exactly.”

You blinked. “What?”

“That’s exactly why you should go.”

“Eggsy—”

He stepped closer, his voice softer now, more serious. “You said it yourself. You barely got along. Maybe seeing you stirs something ugly. Maybe he remembers why he barely tolerated you. And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough to crack open whatever’s blocking the rest.”

You stared at him, jaw set, throat dry.

“Sometimes,” Eggsy continued, voice low, “it’s not love or friendship that brings someone back.”

He glanced toward the mirror.

“Sometimes, it’s the person who knew how to piss you off just enough to make you feel alive.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Harry was still in the room, flipping through a book now—something old, leather-bound, maybe poetry or history, it was hard to tell. His legs were crossed, one foot bouncing gently in a rhythm you recognized from years of briefings. It was him. It was Harry. But it wasn’t. And that did something to your chest you didn’t quite have the energy to analyze.

You and Harry could barely stand each other.

That was the story everyone knew. You disagreed on mission structure, on training protocol, on the proper use of violence, and yes, on tailoring. You argued in war rooms, bickered in field ops, and traded barbs that were just polite enough not to qualify as misconduct. You were the agent who drank black coffee and wore boots to the pub; he was the agent who corrected your Latin and wore a three-piece suit to the jungle.

Some agents believed the two of you hated each other. But when Merlin called you—his voice brittle, careful—you were in a safe house in Lyon, wrapping up an extraction gone sideways. “He’s gone,” Merlin had said. “Valentine shot him. Point-blank. There’s nothing left.”

And you’d felt it. That pang.

It messed with you, losing another Kingsman. Always did. But this one? It settled differently. Somewhere between guilt and disbelief. A strange silence had followed you through the rest of that mission.

And now—of course—he was alive.

The lucky bastard.

You took a long breath, set your shoulders back, and stepped into the observation room.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, Harry looked up. He saw you. That was clear.

But there was no recognition in those brown eyes—just quiet assessment, a cautious narrowing of the gaze. He closed the book in his lap and straightened a little, every movement clean and controlled. He wasn’t afraid. Just… measuring.

You didn’t blame him.

You moved slowly, staying by the wall. “Name’s Kay,” you said, voice even. “I’m Kingsman. Like you used to be.”

Harry’s brow creased, mouth twitching faintly downward. “Harry Hart,” he said after a pause. “Though I’ve been told that name doesn’t mean much anymore.”

You didn’t acknowledge the sting. Instead, you nodded toward the drawings on the wall—dozens of butterflies, meticulously sketched. “Papilio machaon,” you said, pointing. “Nice detail on the tail extensions.”

He blinked. “You know your butterflies.”

“My father was a lepidopterist,” you replied. “Taught me how to pin specimens before I learned to tie my shoes.”

Harry’s posture shifted. The line of his jaw softened, just a bit. He glanced at the drawing, then back at you.

“I’m a lepidopterist,” he said carefully, almost like a question.

You tilted your head. “So you’ve mentioned.”

A pause. A flicker in his eyes.

Then—he smiled.

Small. Faint. But real.

Harry stood up suddenly, the book forgotten on the bed, eyes lighting up with that flicker of interest you remembered all too well from briefing rooms and field maps. “And that one—Danaus plexippus,” he said, gesturing to the sketch on the far wall. “The monarch. Fascinating migratory patterns. I was told once they can travel up to three thousand miles, did you know that?”

You nodded faintly, arms crossed as you leaned against the wall. “Mm. Impressive.”

“And this,” he continued, now pacing, pointing at another set of meticulously drawn wings, “is the Morpho menelaus—see the iridescent blue? Not pigment, actually. It's structure. Microscopic scales reflecting light.”

You hummed. “Harry, I’m not the one who hit my head. You don’t have to recite the encyclopedia at me.”

He blinked, slowing just a bit. “Oh. Apologies, I just—sometimes I speak aloud to center myself. I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”

“Hard to overwhelm me, Hart,” you replied dryly. “But go on. You’re clearly enjoying yourself.”

You heard the muffled voices on the other side of the mirror—Eggsy, Merlin, Ginger, and Tequila, all watching.

Inside the surveillance room, Eggsy leaned in, arms folded tightly. “Alright, what the hell is this? Thought they hated each other.”

“They bickered,” Merlin corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Eggsy squinted at the glass. “No, there’s something off about this. They look like... I dunno. Like they’ve done this before.”

“They have,” Merlin said, quiet, eyes locked on the two of you through the mirror.

Eggsy frowned. “You gonna explain that, or are you just gonna keep sipping your little secrets like they’re aged Scotch?”

Merlin hesitated, then glanced at Ginger, then at Tequila. The latter raised a brow, silent but expectant.

Merlin sighed. “She was one of Harry’s pupils.”

“What?” Eggsy barked.

“First batch after Gawain. She passed her trials and took the name Kay. Harry trained her himself. They lived in adjoining flats. Worked almost every mission together for nearly three years.”

Ginger turned her head slowly. “That doesn’t sound like two people who can’t stand each other.”

“It wasn’t,” Merlin muttered. “At first.”

Eggsy tilted his head, brows drawing together. “What happened?”

Merlin didn’t answer immediately. He watched through the glass as Harry pointed out another species on the wall, eyes bright with focus, while you shifted your weight with barely concealed impatience. There was something familiar in the rhythm. Something that had once been effortless.

“It was a mission in the Pyrenees,” Merlin said finally. “Bandit cell extraction. Midwinter. Brutal terrain. Harry and Kay were covering the east ridge. Things went sideways—gunfire, smoke, bad visibility. Harry got shot in the thigh. Through and through, but bad. The bandit took off through the snow, and Kay had a choice—go after him, or help Harry.”

Eggsy swallowed. “And she...”

“She went after the bastard. Took him down, called in extraction. But by the time she doubled back, Harry had taken another round and nearly bled out.”

Ginger exhaled sharply. “Shit.”

“Wasn’t her fault,” Merlin added. “She followed protocol. Secured the target. Harry would’ve done the same.”

“But he didn’t see it that way,” Tequila muttered.

“No,” Merlin confirmed. “He didn’t.”

He could still hear it—the shouting. The sound of raised voices echoing off the infirmary walls. Sharp, brittle. The clash of two people who should’ve known better how to wound each other.

You were standing at the foot of the bed, hands still bloodstained, jacket half-torn, face pale but set like stone. Harry was upright despite the IV, pale as paper, jaw tight with pain and fury.

“You’re out of your bloody mind,” he’d spat. “You left me there.”

Your eyes flashed. “I didn’t leave you.”

“The hell you didn’t,” he growled, pushing himself upright with a grunt, ignoring the sting in his leg. “You had a choice.”

“I made the right one,” you shot back. “I followed protocol. We had a priority target—”

“I was bleeding out in the fucking snow!”

“And I came back,” you shouted. “You weren’t dead. You weren’t even unconscious. I secured the bastard and I came back—just like you would’ve done.”

Harry scoffed, cold and bitter. “You don’t know what I would’ve done.”

“Yes, I do,” you snapped, voice shaking now, not with uncertainty—but anger. “Because you taught me. ‘The mission comes first.’ That’s what you said. Over and over. Drilled it into me like gospel. You made me choose, Harry. And I did.”

Merlin flinched when Harry’s voice cracked on the next words.

“I trusted you.”

You stared at him, breath coming hard and fast, chest rising like you were ready to fight him for real.

“I trusted you,” Harry repeated, quieter now, voice rough. “And you left me to die.”

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “I wasn’t going to let you die.”

But Harry wasn’t listening anymore. Or maybe he was—just past the point of caring.

You clenched your fists. “Why are you angry? The mission was successful. We got the target. You lived.”

“That’s not the point,” he hissed. “The point is, I would’ve stayed.”

You went silent.

Then your voice dropped—dead quiet.

“That’s not what you taught me.”

Harry inhaled, sharp and tight, and looked away. His hands trembled faintly where they rested on the bed. His mouth opened to speak—then closed.

And then, softly, like it physically hurt to say: “I wouldn’t have left you.”

Merlin hadn’t known if you heard him. You didn’t answer. You just turned, walked out of the infirmary, and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the windows.

The silence afterward was deafening.

Merlin had stood there a long time, clipboard in hand, watching Harry stare at the ceiling. The older agent looked more wounded than he had from the bullet, eyes hollow, jaw clenched so tight Merlin swore it would crack.

“Kay’s young,” Merlin said finally. “She’s still learning.”

Harry didn’t respond.

“She made a call. A hard one.”

Still nothing.

“You would’ve done the same, Harry.”

A bitter laugh escaped him, low and humorless. “Maybe. But it wouldn’t have cost me her.”

After that, everything changed.

You and Harry went cold. Cold like winter. Cold like protocol.

You still briefed together, still fought side by side, but the heat—the tension, the subtle push and pull that had once lived between you—was gone. Replaced with silence. With clipped orders and avoided glances. The sort of quiet that only forms when affection dies and pride is too wounded to bury the body.

They said you couldn’t stand each other.

But Merlin knew better.

It wasn’t hate. It was heartbreak. Left unspoken. Unmourned.

And now, Harry was alive. But the years of silence still sat between you, heavy as ever.

Would you speak it now? Merlin didn’t know.

But through the glass, he saw the way you watched Harry—jaw tight, eyes wary, every nerve in your body alert but tethered.

He saw the way Harry’s brow furrowed just slightly when you spoke—like something in him was trying to remember.

And maybe, just maybe, that meant there was still time.

Inside the room, the silence stretched. You spoke of butterflies, nodded at his facts, watched his brows knit in thought as if something was just beyond reach. Then you stepped back, hands at your sides, throat tight with words that had no business surfacing.

“I should go,” you said finally, already turning toward the door. But before you could leave, you felt the soft pull of something—his hand, wrapping lightly around your wrist. Not forceful. Just… tethered.

You froze, gaze flicking down to the point of contact. His fingers were warm. Steady.

You looked at his hand, then up at him.

Harry blinked, as if realizing what he was doing, and quickly pulled away. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice quiet, guilt flashing in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to— That was inappropriate.”

You didn’t say anything.

“I just…” He hesitated. Then, with a quiet breath, added, “Do you think you’ll come back?”

You blinked.

Harry gave a faint, almost self-deprecating smile, glancing down at his shoes. “It’s just… the doctors here, they’re kind, but they don’t know anything about lepidopterism. And it’s terribly dull having conversations about diet and neural function when all I want is to discuss the difference between a comma and a tortoiseshell.”

Your chest tightened.

He lifted his eyes again—brown, soft, tentative. “But you do. You know about them. I like that.”

That part was real. Even if the rest of him was still fragments.

You looked away, jaw tense. “I’m busy, Harry. I have a schedule.”

His face flickered—just slightly. A small crack in the smooth composure. Disappointment, quickly buried. “Of course,” he said. “I understand.”

A long pause stretched between you.

For a moment, you remembered the old days—the old him. The way his voice dipped when he spoke to you after long hours in the war room. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. You remembered your hands brushing as you passed files, the late-night debriefings, the quiet cups of tea when neither of you could sleep.

You remembered thinking—just once, just briefly—what if?

But you never acted on it. Never dared. Because the mission came first. And because he was Harry Hart. Your superior. Your teacher. Your friend.

Or at least, he had been.

“I’ll try,” you said finally. Quiet. Noncommittal.

Harry’s eyes flicked up again. Hope sparked. Then faded.

“Alright,” he said softly. “Thank you.”

You nodded once, sharply and professionally, then stepped out without another word. Behind you, the door clicked shut. And the silence inside the room returned.

You didn’t come back.

Not the next day. Not the day after that.

Harry waited, legs crossed neatly beneath him, book untouched in his lap. He didn't say much, but he watched and listened. Once, when the nurse handed him his lunch and asked how he was feeling, he responded, "Better, I think, if someone brought back the lepidopterist."

She smiled politely. Wrote something on her clipboard.

But you never came.

That boy—Eggsy, they said—he came every day. His energy filled the room like a storm cloud about to burst. Loud. Sad. Hopeful. Annoying. A blur of too many emotions in a track jacket and a cocky grin. He brought sweets and magazines, sometimes old vinyl records he swore Harry used to like. He played them through a portable speaker while Harry drew on the walls.

Eggsy talked. About training. About suits. About someone named Roxy, someone named Arthur, a dog called JB. About how Harry once made a grenade umbrella look “sexy as hell.” About how everything was better when Harry was around. About how everything went to hell the second he left.

Harry listened. Smiled when appropriate. Nodded when expected. Sometimes, he asked about you.

Only in passing. Only softly.

“Is Kay well?”

“She still busy?”

Eggsy always hesitated—just for a second—before answering. “Yeah. She’s busy. But she’s fine. Said she might come soon.”

Harry would hum. Smile faintly. Then go back to his book. But the books no longer held his focus.

The butterflies didn’t, either.

He’d started dreaming—long, strange dreams that clung to him like fog. Butterflies at first. Monarchs drifting through halls of glass. Iridescent wings brushing his skin like whispered names he couldn’t recall.

But then came the snow.

Endless. Quiet. Suffocating.

He’d wake in a cold sweat, heart pounding, nails dug into the mattress as if trying to claw his way out of something. It always left him shaken, though he couldn’t say why. Couldn’t even explain it properly. He didn’t know why snow terrified him. Only that it did.

He tried to tell someone once—one of the medical aides—but she just patted his shoulder and wrote “active imagination” on the chart.

It wasn’t imagination.

He could feel the cold. Feel it in his teeth, behind his eyes, in the phantom ache in his thigh where he sometimes limped without understanding why.

One morning, while reading a volume of Victorian poetry, the room filled with water.

No warning.

One moment, he was turning a page. The next, water surged from the vents, cold and rising fast, climbing past his knees before he even registered the danger. He stood quickly, dropping the book, shouting for help as panic gripped his chest. He couldn’t swim. He could, technically—but not like this. Not in a sealed room with no exit and water that smelled faintly of bleach and memory.

By the time someone burst in and drained the flood, he was shaking. Soaked. Silent.

He didn’t speak until the bald man came.

Merlin.

That was the name he gave. Said they’d known each other. That he’d been trying to trigger memories.

Harry stared at him, expression carved from ice. “You could have killed me.”

Merlin didn’t flinch. “You weren’t in real danger. We were monitoring your vitals.”

“You think that makes it better?” Harry snapped. “You drowned me.”

“It wasn’t real drowning. It was simulated. The sensors would have—”

Harry stood abruptly, the soaked trousers clinging to his skin, the cold still pressing into his spine. “You could have asked me questions. Played music. Shown photographs. Talked to me.”

Merlin was quiet for a long moment. Then he said softly, “We tried all that. You don’t remember any of it.”

Harry stared at him, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

“And what would have happened if I did remember?” he asked quietly. “Would you have locked me in here anyway? Kept poking the wound until I bled properly?”

Merlin opened his mouth, then closed it again.

That was answer enough.

Harry turned away, his voice low. “I want to see my mother.”

The silence behind him was heavy.

“Harry,” Merlin said carefully, “your mother passed away. Years ago.”

Harry didn’t move.

“I want to see my mother,” he repeated, quieter now. “I want to go home.”

“This is your home, for now.”

“No,” Harry said, sharper. “It isn’t.”

Because home wasn’t white walls and observation windows. It wasn’t unfamiliar voices telling him what to eat, what pills to take, how to breathe. It wasn’t dreams of snow and butterflies that meant nothing but made him feel everything.

Home… home had smelled like something.

Like clean wool and old books. Leather polish. Rooibos tea. Something warm. Something grounding.

Something—someone—missing.

He went quiet after that. Stopped speaking to Eggsy. Stopped sketching butterflies. Just stared at the wall sometimes. At a spot near the corner, where, on a restless night, he’d scrawled something with a pen he'd smuggled from the nurse’s tray.

Just a name.

Kay.

He didn’t know why. Didn’t know what it meant.

But the letters came back again and again.

Every few days, he wrote them in the corner of the mattress seam. On a tissue box. On the back of a food tray.

And sometimes… when he closed his eyes, he’d see you.

A flash of boots. A sharp tongue. The scent of rain and clean sweat. The feeling of being watched—not in fear, but in challenge. As if someone was daring him to get back up.

He didn’t know what that meant either. But it mattered.

And he was beginning to wonder if anyone would ever tell him why.

The night before his departure, Harry Hart stood at the small table by the window, meticulously folding the few belongings he’d been allowed to keep. The suitcase was modest—brown leather, scuffed at the corners, something Merlin had brought him to replace the stark plastic of the facility-issued duffel. Inside were the basics: neatly folded shirts, trousers, a pair of gloves, a crisp white handkerchief. But Harry’s attention lingered on the smaller items.

A comb. A silver pocketwatch that didn’t work. And a bottle of aftershave.

It was the aftershave that gave him pause. He unscrewed the cap and brought it to his nose. The scent was clean, old-fashioned—vetiver, a hint of bergamot, and something else underneath that tugged at a corner of his mind. It smelled like Kingsman. Like a hallway he couldn’t quite remember walking down, a coatroom he couldn’t quite picture, a ritual he’d forgotten but still craved.

Harry stared at the bottle a long while before setting it in the suitcase, centered and upright, as if it were the most precious thing he owned.

Then the door creaked open.

Eggsy stepped in, his expression unsure, his trainers scuffing the floor. “You decent?”

Harry turned, a brow raised. “I’m packing. Not bathing in the moonlight.”

Eggsy let the door close behind him, moving to lean against the wall with crossed arms. “So it’s really happening, then. You’re off to chase butterflies.”

“I prefer the term ‘document rare species in under-researched migratory zones,’” Harry corrected dryly. “But yes. My accommodations in Ecuador are confirmed. Merlin pulled a few strings.”

Eggsy nodded slowly, watching him. “Looks like you’ve got all the essentials.”

Harry gave a faint smile and held up the aftershave. “Including this. I don’t know why I like it. But I do.”

“That’s cause it smells like you,” Eggsy said, voice softer. “The you I remember.”

Harry’s smile faltered. He turned back to his suitcase.

“I’m not him,” he said. “Whoever you knew before… I’m a collection of tattered pages from a book someone tried to burn. Bits and pieces. A few instincts. A couple phrases. But the man you want—he’s gone.”

“Bullshit,” Eggsy said flatly.

Harry blinked.

“You can say all that fancy poetic stuff, but you’re still the guy who trained me. The one who taught me that manners maketh man and not all heroes wear spandex. The man who looked at a chav in a track suit and saw potential.”

“I don’t remember that,” Harry said evenly.

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

Harry’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t reply.

Eggsy pushed off the wall and stepped closer. “Look, maybe you don’t remember all the missions or the codes or the fact that you once threatened to shoot someone over table manners—but I do. And I’m not ready to say goodbye to you. The world’s not, either.”

Harry gave a faint huff. “I’m not the world’s concern.”

“You’re mine,” Eggsy said, voice hardening. “You turned me from a caterpillar into a butterfly, remember? You said that—once. That the ugly bits didn’t matter as long as you came out stronger in the end.”

Harry turned toward him, arms folded, brow furrowed. “Even if I said that, what exactly do you want from me now?”

Eggsy stepped forward. “I want you to come with me.”

Harry frowned. “Where?”

Eggsy grabbed his wrist, tugging gently. “You’ll see.”

“Eggsy—”

“No arguments. No questions. Just trust me.”

Harry didn’t move for a moment. But then he heard it.

A name.

“We’re going to see Kay.”

Harry stopped breathing.

His eyes flicked to Eggsy’s hand on his wrist. Then up to Eggsy’s face. “Kay…”

“Yeah,” Eggsy said, voice gentler now. “You remember her, don’t you?”

Harry blinked, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. “She knew about butterflies,” he murmured. “She… she said I was reciting an encyclopedia.”

Eggsy smiled. “Yeah. That sounds like her.”

Harry swallowed. “I could talk to her. About… Danaus plexippus. The Morpho menelaus.”

“And maybe,” Eggsy said carefully, “about everything else.”

Harry hesitated—then nodded.

“Alright,” he said. “Take me to her.”

And with his suitcase forgotten and the aftershave still lingering in the air, Harry followed Eggsy out the door. He followed Eggsy out into the night, the air crisp and still. The wind tugged gently at the hem of his coat as they stepped beyond the warm glow of the Statesman’s security lights and into the darker stretch of the lot behind the facility. There, seated on a worn bench beneath a flickering lamp, was you.

You sat with your legs crossed, one boot resting against the edge of the bench, a cigarette dangling between your fingers. The ember glowed orange in the dark, illuminating the faint curve of your cheekbone and the subtle arch of your brow as you looked out at the stars. Harry slowed when he saw you. His breath caught.

You smoked?

The question slipped from his mouth without thought. “Do you smoke?”

You turned your head sharply. Your eyes moved from Harry to Eggsy, and back again. Your expression was unreadable.

“What is he doing out here?” you asked, voice low but not unkind.

“He wanted to see you,” Eggsy said, his voice careful, almost apologetic. “Said he needed to talk.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just looked down, inhaled one last drag, and stubbed out the cigarette against the metal arm of the bench. Then you stood, wiping your fingers on your trousers like the gesture could erase the tension from the air.

“Take him back inside.”

Harry flinched at the dismissal. “Wait.”

You didn’t stop.

“I—” Harry stepped forward, his tone urgent. “Why didn’t you come see me?”

You stopped walking, your back half-turned to him. He saw your shoulders shift—just slightly—but you didn’t answer.

“Didn’t you enjoy talking to me?” he asked, brow furrowed, voice gaining a faint edge of confusion. “I thought we... connected. I thought maybe—”

“You’re not him,” you cut in, quiet and firm.

Harry froze.

You started walking again, your boots crunching softly over the gravel, the darkness slowly swallowing your outline.

“I don’t understand,” Harry said, louder now. “Why are you walking away?”

Still, you didn’t respond.

“Wait!” Harry called out, his voice ringing sharp through the still Kentucky night. You didn’t stop. The gravel crunched under your boots, each step slower than it needed to be, as if part of you expected—hoped—he’d follow.

And he did.

Harry moved after you on instinct, one long stride cutting the distance between you. But as he stepped off the paved path into the shadowed gravel, something gripped him low and hard—an ache that twisted behind his right thigh. He staggered, just slightly, a sharp breath hissing through his teeth as his leg buckled, phantom pain slicing through flesh long healed. He blinked, breath catching. He knew this pain.

He had felt it before.

Snow. That was the first thing that hit him. Not here, not Kentucky—but snow. Cold biting through the fabric of his trousers. Wetness soaking the wool. The scent of blood in the wind. His hands pressing to his leg. A hole in his thigh. The taste of metal. The gunfire still echoing faintly through the Pyrenees. The pain wasn’t real now, but it had been then. He’d lain in the snow, alone, the world muffled by winter and blood, waiting for something—someone—who never came.

Eggsy, a few paces behind, caught him by the arm before he fell. “Harry? Whoa, mate—what’s wrong?”

Harry’s eyes were wide, unfocused. His lips parted as though he couldn’t breathe.

Eggsy gripped tighter, worry shifting to fear. “Harry—Harry, what is it?”

“She left,” Harry whispered, the words torn from some deep part of him. “She left me.”

Eggsy stilled.

Harry’s voice came again, hoarse now, shaking. “In the snow. I was bleeding. I couldn’t walk. And she—she went after the target.”

He blinked down at the ground, breath hitching. “She left me to die.”

Eggsy inhaled sharply, realization dawning. “You’re remembering.”

Harry’s eyes burned. “She left. I called her name—I told her I couldn’t move, that I was hit—but she ran. Said she’d come back. But she didn’t.”

“She did,” Eggsy said gently. “She came back, Harry. But it was too late.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t listening anymore.

“I thought I was going to die there,” he said, chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. “I remember lying on my side, staring at the sky, thinking, ‘This is it. I’m going to die, and I never told her.’”

Eggsy frowned. “Told her what?”

“That I love her.” Harry’s voice cracked on the words. “That I would’ve stayed. If it had been her on the ground, if she’d been the one bleeding—I wouldn’t have left.”

Eggsy stepped back, stunned, hope flashing behind his eyes. “You remember all that? That’s it, innit? You’re back!”

Harry didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on your silhouette, still retreating into the dark beyond the lamplight. She was leaving again.

And it was happening all over.

Not again.

“Wait!” he called, louder this time, taking one step forward despite the echo of pain in his leg. “Don’t walk away from me!”

You didn’t stop.

His heart pounded.

Then—his voice sharpened, clear as a blade in the night. “Stop! [Your Name]!”

Your entire body stilled like you’d been struck. You turned slowly, your breath caught in your throat, heart in your mouth.

He knew.

You looked back at him. The glow of the overhead light cast long shadows across his face, but you saw it—saw the way his eyes locked on yours. Brown. Burning.

“Please,” Harry said softly now, almost broken. “Don’t leave. Not again.”

For a moment, all sound disappeared.

and it becomes a little bit of a gag, too, because he never, ever gets a proper lap dance despite paying for one each time. things come up—he has to leave only minutes after you walk through door, leaving behind food that he insists you eat, or comfortable clothes he makes sure you put on. ones he never accepts back, and that always fit you perfectly. or he just wastes his hour listening to you prattle on about whatever it is that has your attention that week, offering a small smile and a slow shake of his head when you try to give him more to make up for it. a little wink, too. a secretive this is just for us he keeps tucked inside the rucksack he carries, filled with homemade food, tea, and gifts you don't deserve. all crammed beside the bits and pieces you tell him about yourself. your life. your wants, dreams.

and it's weird. he's weird. a fifty-something widower who is much too good to be in a place like this, to spend time with a broken, sad little thing more than half his age. they'd write tragedies about this, you joke, flipping through an original print of The Idiot that you didn't believe he actually had. but he just shrugs, palms open, skyward, and says he's stopped believing in the desolate outcome of Russian romance a long time ago.

(he leaves his rare copy of The Idiot behind despite giving away a small fortune.)

but it's difficult to escape the fatalistic nature of your relationship. one built on debt and obligation—a transactional affair. services rendered. money deposited. and it doesn't surprise you much when the financial elephant in the room moves, shattering the illusion of choice when the man holding the end of your leash says he's sending you to Europe. a business partner thought you were a pretty little bird, and you're easier to giftwrap than a couple of Lamborghinis.

and it comes to a head when you catch him killing your boss—and maybe it's your fault for letting it slip that he's giving you away, but you thought you could trust him to keep that secret—and reflectively, you grab the gun lying on the floor, but he's just as unbothered by you shakily pointing it at him as is he by the gurgling man lying at his feet, staining the bottoms of his expensive leather loafers with blood. even calmly corrects your form, a little "hold it like this, honey," slipping out as he instructs you how to handle a gun to his own potential detriment. and the that's it, that's my good girl that follows when you obey his instruction is almost too much. so you run. and he follows—straight to the stage where your boss' men stand around, guns drawn, and try to take him down.

futilely, of course, and all you can do is stand there—wide-eyed—on stage as the gentle, polite man who refused every sly attempt of yours to seduce him takes down every man in the room until it's just the two of you remaining in a bloodsoaked room. neon lights slipping through the mess until it glints like the glitter they slathered over your skin. music blaring. smoke dissipating. if your feet didn't ache from the heels they picked for you, you might think it was a dream. a nightmare, maybe. except the monsters are the ones being slaughtered, and you can still taste the faint curl of smoke from the cup of pu'erh between your teeth. hear the buzz of his voice in your ear—i won't let them take you from me, honey.

and when he's finished, he sits at the end of the platform in the "throne," your leash held in his pale hand, and asks if you'd like to dance for him. only him.

You can hardly bring yourself to look at him, you're so embarrassed. Yet when you do, peeking out from under your lashes, you find he is smiling at you with a gentleness that melts you to the bone. 

“Uh...Hi.”

“Hi.” 

You wish the floor would open up and swallow you. 

There's a cacophony of thoughts and emotions in your brain, but you don't know how to voice any of it. Should you apologize? Explain yourself? Describe the panic that overcame you upon waking to the sight of his perfect profile in the morning light because you knew there was no way in hell a man like him could really be interested in a woman like you? 

John moves to a seated position on the side of the bed, seemingly unconcerned by his [glorious] nakedness and thank the gods for the sheet in his lap or you would not be able to focus on a single word he says. “I really like you, y/n.”

You admit, that it’s certainly seemed that way, the past month. It all started when you, the office gopher at a boutique publishing company, were tasked with dropping off the text block of a manuscript for a custom binding job. The author won a prestigious literary award, and it was all part of the presentation. There was to be a gala and an exhibit. Important People would be present! (All this was explained to you in most condescending terms by your boss, who despite your resumé and impressive university transcripts and glowing references, seems doubtful that you can even read).

John Wick was kind to you, when you went to his studio. He didn't make you feel like a fool, when you tripped over your tongue, rendered hopelessly shy by the fact that he's easily the most handsome man you've ever seen, tall and broad shouldered and you will find out later, as confident in a bespoke suit as he is in a henley and jeans. There is a sorrow in his soft dark eyes that tied you up in knots even then. 

He doesn't actually say much, but what little he does is succinct and sincere. This man listened to you with an earnestness that cracked open the hard shell of your native temerity like a porcelain cup dropped onto hard tile. Because you are young, and new, and a woman, you had been talked at so much since you moved to this city, but not with. You did not realize how much you'd missed it until then, and it was like he cast a spell over you. 

He showed you his latest project, a restoration of a first edition of Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, and Other Poems and you cannot stop yourself from confessing that you love Keats, particularly his odes. The ice broke there, and the two of you spent a long time discussing your favorite classic poetry and literature like you were old friends. 

The time slipped by, and you were horrified when you realized you were due back at the office an hour earlier. 

“Sorry. I didn't mean to get you into trouble,” John apologized.

“It’s ok,” you lied, dreading what your boss Sandy Schumann will say. 

“I'll call Sandy. It will be fine.”

“Oh no–” But it was too late. He'd already dialed up the number on an old school rotary phone, and the connection was clear enough you could hear Sandy on the other end.

You had never heard your hard-as-nails no-nonsense superior fawn to anyone, the way she purred for John as he took all the blame for holding you up.

But then…who could blame her? Certainly not you.

“There. You should be safe now,” he told you with a small smile that made you feel like a cookie just pulled from the oven, warm and melty inside.

This man is a menace.

You were addicted from day one.

You kept running into him in the days after that. In the park, while reading on a bench. At the corner coffee shop where you get your favorite tea. At the bookstore, doing market research as much as browsing for your own pleasure. Even on the subway after work, where he invited you to accompany him to a new Korean restaurant he was headed to. Of course you'd said yes. 

It was perfectly innocent, wasn't it? 

But sitting across from that man in a restaurant with the lights down low, his coffee brown eyes turned to glittering onyx orbs while he looked at you with that reserved smile…you weren't so sure. When he’d offered you a tidbit pinched expertly at the tips of his chopsticks you became a human furnace, and you’d feared the heat in your cheeks might burn the whole building down. 

The times you have lain awake in your bed, aching for him, could get you committed. 

The opening night of the exhibition proved your final undoing. You had to be there, even if you didn't want to be. You’d wanted to see the books, of course, but the crowd not so much. But who was there to put you at ease, but none other than your dark knight dressed all in black? He swept in to save you from a one-sided conversation, a colleague who cornered you. 

You’d marveled at his reflexes when he swiped two champagne glasses from a passing tray, passing one to you. The two of you made your rounds of the gallery together, admiring the artistry of the custom bound books. He stoops to speak low in your ear about the choices the other binders made. It felt intimate somehow, in that impossibly crowded room, and for a moment you let yourself imagine he belonged to you. Of course, John’s book is your favorite, and you told him so. You don't think it’s possible to make this man blush, but he did seem happy, and that was a prize unto itself. 

You lost him to your boss, who swept him up to talk to some bigwig or another of the publishing world, her arm possessively hooked in his, her fingers holding his bicep like a bird of prey grips a prize fish. It’s possible you had another glass of wine, then another, to pass the time. You certainly didn’t track his progress across the room, or descend into misery without him towering at your side. The uninviting look upon your face must have kept further company at bay. 

Later you realized John was giving you a look from across the room, brows raised in the universal plea of help me. 

Sandy still had her talons in him. 

You’d pointed at the fire alarm insouciantly, winning a flash of a smile that felt like being presented with a rare and beautiful jewel. 

Eventually he managed to escape, and you were flummoxed when he made a B-line for you. “Want to get out of here?”

You'd had too much Champaign to even consider saying no.

When the two of you hit the street it was like a backhand from Jack Frost himself. You immediately start to shiver, despite your cashmere dupatta wrapped around you; you don't think you'll ever get used to the bitter winter of New York City. Its unreal, compared to where you're from. John smiled to himself, amused, before tucking you under his arm. “Are you hungry?”

The finger foods at the gallery did not fill you up, girl dinner be damned.

“Yes.”

“Me too. I know a place that’s close.”

So how did you end up in his apartment? It was late, by the time you left the little eatery. You had to go all the way back to Brooklyn to go home, and he didn't like that. He offered to get you a cab, and you didn't like that either.  Somehow, the compromise was staying in his guestroom, in his apartment in Midtown. 

But you never made it to the guest room, and that was totally on you. Or maybe…that fourth glass of wine, that made you so uncharacteristically fearless, and bold, and open to the madness this sweet man called up from within you. You'd sat together on the couch in his 12th floor flat. You barely noticed the breathtaking view of the glittering lights of Manhattan beyond the windows, your eyes all for him. 

It didn't happen in a blazing whirlwind of passion. 

Looking back, you're not even sure it could even be called a seduction, so much as it was just…magnetism. You were talking, and then did you scoot closer, or did he? Did he wind his long fingers through your tresses, or did you reach up to stroke his beard, surprised by the collective softness of those wiry dark hairs? Who was first to lean in, to press lips in a kiss filled with such mutually sweet yearning? 

You just dont know. Only, that you melted for him. 

Who even were you, the night before?

How many times did he ask you, “Is this alright?” More than you could count, until the last time when you bit him in reply, you cheeky girl, and told him he could have you any way he liked. 

Because now you are here, and this man is looking at you like you hold his very heart in your hands.

“I like you too, John,” you answer honestly, though you sound absolutely miserable. 

“Then why…?” He gestures at your pants, now around your ankles, and your hastily clasped bra, and your panties which you now realize are on inside out.

“I…couldn't fathom that you wouldn't wake up and look at me and…regret it.”

This is the first thing you've ever said that seemingly displeases him, and John Wick has a frown that would make the bravest angels flee. “I adore you, y/n.”

When he holds out his hand to you, your feet move of their own volition, carrying you back to the place where you belong before your higher brain can attempt to sabotage everything again. And in his arms you feel a peace and an urgency like nothing you've ever known. 

There are kisses that inspire lush green meadows to bloom in your soul, and another delectably slow exploration that takes him across the entire map of your body, from your mouth to your breasts to the sweet honey that flows between your thighs. John Wick’s mouth is the closest thing to perfect bliss you'll ever know, in this lifetime, at least. 

“My pretty girl. Please stay with me?” 

Y/N rushed across the lobby, holding her coat tightly wrapped around herself as she pressed the button for the elevator. Her heart was racing, sweat gathering on her forehead as dark spots danced across her vision.

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, taking a breath before rushing into the elevator when the doors parted. Y/N hit the button for her floor repeatedly, head pounding along with her pulse.

Y/N knew that she was dangerously close to losing consciousness and she needed to get back to her room. Her coat was saturated with her blood, the material feeling heavy as she leaned into the wall.

The doors slid shut slowly and the elevator began to rise, the shift making Y/N feel even more unsteady on her feet. She was exhausted, body trembling from the adrenaline that coursed through her veins.

Y/N was grateful to be numb to the pain, but she could feel the soreness beginning to creep in. Y/N forced herself out of the elevator when the doors parted, walking down the hallway to her room.

She reached a hand out, guiding herself along the wall as she gulped. Her throat felt dry and she was beginning to feel lightheaded. Y/N stuffed a hand into her pocket as she arrived at her room, swiping the key and stumbling inside.

A loud whooshing sound echoed in her ears as the door shut behind her. Y/N reached out to steady herself before her knees gave out unexpectedly. Y/N's hand slid across the table, knocking her keycard and a small lamp onto the floor with a clatter.

Y/N let out a soft groan before attempting to get to her feet again. She pulled her knees up underneath herself with a grimace, her blood staining the cream carpets as she crawled towards the desk.

Y/N knew that she would die if she didn't make it to the phone. She grabbed onto the corner of the desk, pulling her body up with a whimper. Y/N reached out across the desk, fingers brushing against the edge of the phone.

Her fingertips were covered in blood, making it almost impossible to pull the phone closer. Y/N gritted her teeth as she pushed the phone to the edge of the desk before knocking it down onto the floor.

Y/N slumped against the leg of the desk, her vision continuing to darken. Y/N fell onto her side, reaching out for the phone weakly. Her fingers barely managed to make contact with the handset before she lost consciousness.

John looked up from his gun as he heard another item thudding against the floor in the next room. He set his towel aside, assembling his gun with expert precision before standing up from his seat.

John held onto the gun as he made his way over to the door, stepping out of his room and moving to the room beside him. The blood on the handle made him stiffen, he had known Y/N for years and she had always been incredibly good at what she did.

He looked down, eyes following the trail of blood leading to the elevator. The amount of blood made him concerned, it clearly wasn't a small injury that she had suffered.

John knocked on the door, "Y/N, are you in there?" He called, waiting silently for a response.

Y/N didn't respond and John quickly turned to his side, ramming his shoulder into the door. The door gave way after a few bashes and he stepped into her room. John searched the room quickly with his gun raised, tucking it into his holster before kneeling down next to Y/N.

His fingers slipped under her jaw and found her pulse, feeling the rapid pulsation against his fingertips. John leaned over her, grabbing the phone and calling the front desk.

The line rang once before Charon picked up, "How can I help you? " He questioned.

"We need a doctor up here... Now," John said.

"I'll send him up," Charon replied.

"Thanks," John muttered, hanging up the phone.

He sat back on his heels, flicking her jacket out of the way, "Shit," He muttered.

An alarming amount of blood had pooled in her jacket and soaked into the material of her clothing. John pressed his hand firmly against her side, feeling a miniscule amount of relief when she groaned softly.

"You're gonna be okay," He stated.

....

Y/N's eyes fluttered open, she cried out in pain at the feeling of someone digging around in her wound. John rested his hand on her arm, keeping her still as the doctor searched for the bullet in her side.

"Hold still. It's almost over," John instructed.

"Got it," The Doctor said, dropping the bullet into the metal dish with a soft clink.

Y/N slumped against the mattress, closing her eyes as she breathed heavily. The doctor cleaned the wound before stitching it closed carefully.

"All finished," He said.

"Thank you," John stated.

The Doctor nodded as he packed his items before silently making his way out of the hotel room. Y/N moved to sit up with a grimace, looking down at herself to see the mangled remains of her blood-stained shirt.

"You should rest. You lost a lot of blood," John said.

"I'm fine," Y/N muttered, noticing the IV in her arm. John grabbed her wrist when she reached up to remove it.

"You need fluids. Leave it alone," He said sternly.

"Can I at least change my shirt?" Y/N questioned.

"Sure," He nodded.

Y/N reached for the IV again, "I'll get it. You stay put," John said.

Y/N huffed, "Can you get me a black t-shirt, please?" She questioned, he nodded.

John stepped over to her bag, carefully searching through the contents before locating the shirt.

"I'll get you a cloth for the blood," He said, she nodded.

John returned momentarily with a warm cloth, briefly disconnecting the IV tubing for her to clean her skin and change her shirt. Her entire body was covered in dark purple bruises, her lip was split and she definitely had multiple broken ribs.

John hated seeing her like that, she was an incredible person and she deserved better than this. John had a brief taste of what life could be and he wished that Y/N could consider it, but he knew that she never would.

Her entire life had been nothing but blood, death and pain. She had never known anything different and it was unlikely that she would ever lay down her weapons.

Y/N moved to stand up from the edge of the bed, "No, sit back down," John said.

"I'm fine," Y/N stated.

"You almost bled out on the floor an hour ago. You're not fine," He replied.

Y/N rolled her eyes, sitting back down on the bed slowly with a grimace. John knelt down in front of her, carefully reconnecting the tubing and opening the clamp slowly.

"You're staying here tonight. I want to keep an eye on you," John said.

Y/N's brows furrowed as she looked around the room, quickly realizing that John must have brought her into his room.

"They're replacing the carpets in your room. You know that your blood is supposed to stay inside your body, right?" He questioned.

"I tried to keep it that way, believe me," Y/N said.

"You had two stab wounds and a gunshot wound... It doesn't sound like you tried very hard," John said.

"A few of those guys were massive, John. I didn't stand a chance," Y/N replied, shifting uncomfortably.

"Why didn't you call me? I could've helped you," John said.

"It wasn't your fight," Y/N stated.

John grabbed the bottle of pills from the nightstand, twisting off the cap and shaking two tablets into his hand.

"Take these. They'll help with the pain," He said.

Y/N held out her hand, John placed the tablets in her hand and set the bottle back on the nightstand. He picked up the glass of water and passed it to her, watching her pop the pills into her mouth and swallow them.

"I need you to know that I'm always here to help you," John said.

Y/N shook her head, "John," She started.

"Always," He repeated.

"Thank you," Y/N said.

...

John stepped into the hotel room, closing the door gently behind himself. His suit was splattered with blood, but he knew that it definitely wasn't his. John had taken care of Y/N's adversaries while she slept soundly in his bed. He wasn't proud of it, but he definitely made them suffer for what they had done to her.

John knew that she could've taken care of them herself eventually, but he hated the idea of her being injured like this again. John cleaned himself up and changed his clothes quietly, careful not to wake her up.

John disconnected the nearly empty bag of fluids from Y/N's IV and placed it into the trash can. John laid down in the bed beside her, leaving some space between them as he looked over at her. He knew that she'd be angry when she found out what he had done, but he had accepted it.

Helen said that she wanted him to care about something and he had finally found it.

Y/N deserved to have someone who cared about her and was willing to help her when she needed it. John allowed himself to fall asleep beside her, sinking into the mattress with a soft exhale.

John slept soundly for a few hours before suddenly waking up to the feeling of being wacked with a pillow. John squinted in the morning sunlight, looking up to see Y/N standing at the edge of the bed.

"You dosed me and killed my bounty, you ass," She said, smacking him with the pillow a second time.

"I'm sorry, I was just trying to help," John mumbled, sitting up in the bed.

"I didn't ask for your help," Y/N muttered, tossing the pillow onto the end of the bed.

Y/N rested her hand on her side, letting out an exhausted huff as she moved over to her bag. John watched her closely, "I didn't claim the reward," He stated.

"I know, but it was still my job," Y/N said, searching through her bag for a clean change of clothes.

John pushed back the blankets and flipped his legs over the edge of the bed, standing up and making his way over to her. Y/N didn't acknowledge him, continuing to rummage through her bag.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to overstep... Will you let me take you to dinner tonight as an apology?" John questioned.

Y/N paused before looking up at him, "Are you asking me out?" She questioned.

"I am," John replied.

"Okay, I'll go on a date with you," Y/N said.

"I'll make a reservation," John stated.

"Good," Y/N nodded, picking up a change of clothes from her bag and making her way into the bathroom.