𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗜

The house is bustling with people even though it’s not even nine in the morning. The party that raged on the night before is replaced by a tranquil space—well, almost tranquil.

Tucker had made all of them clean up after the mess they all made the night before. There are complaints here and there, but they all clean up anyway—all thanks to Tucker holding their breakfast hostage.

Sweet Tuck, who is cooking up a feast for a bunch of ravenous hockey players, including himself, is now wrestling Logan for a fucking sandwich.

“Man, it’s just a sandwich,” Logan grumbles, pointing at the lone sandwich on a plate, set aside and waiting for someone—hopefully him—to devour it. “Can’t you just make another?”

“Exactly, it’s just a sandwich!” Tucker responds, slapping Logan’s hand away as it tries to reach for the unsuspecting sandwich yet again. “I cooked a shit ton of food for you ungrateful assholes—go eat them!”

“But that looks so good!” Logan tries to grab the sandwich again, but Tucker just slaps his hand away—harder this time that Logan actually winces. “Fuck, alright, fine! I’ll leave you and your precious sandwich alone.”

“Thank you!” Tucker bows dramatically. “Fucking finally, man. Just go eat whatever’s on the table.”

Logan continually steals glances back at the sandwich as he eats, this time looking over to Tucker as well, watching as he seemingly waits for something—or probably someone—to arrive.

He gets the answer he is looking for when the front door of the house opens, and he hears the sound of your voice greeting the people by the door. He watches as Tucker’s shoulders sag in relief, as if a massive weight has just lifted and he can finally breathe.

“Hi, Logan, how are you?” You ask as soon as you step into the kitchen.

“Hey, you. I’m good, but your boyfriend doesn’t look too good.” He grins when Tucker flips him off.

You then walk over to Tucker, walking straight into his waiting arms. You kiss him softly and quickly. “Hi.” You smile. “What’s got you in a bad mood this early in the morning, baby?”

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.” He smiles back at you, like everything in the world is right once again. “Here, why don’t you eat some breakfast, darling?” He presents you the plate of sandwich Logan had tried so hard to fight for. “Here is a sandwich for you, milady, no pickles, no onions, no mayo, no mustard, the crusts are cut off, and most importantly, the egg yolk is perfectly cooked.”

Deciding to take two cars, you drove alone as Hannah and Allie followed behind you in Hannah’s car. As you continued to drive, the snow became heavier and heavier, the visibility lessening for you. The girls decided to pull over for a quick pee break, you letting them know you were going to keep going.

Seeing the snow finally let up, a sigh of relief comes from you, as you can at least see now. Maintaining a fair distance from the car in front of you and not going too fast, you were determined to get there on time and safely.

It was only a matter of time before the familiar feeling of your tires skidding makes your heart drop in your stomach. You try gently turning the wheel, foot hovering over the brake as your car eventually reaches the stop sign, coming to a complete stop at the divided highway. 

Slowing your breathing down, you exhale, thankful nothing too scary happened. Seconds later, a car rear ends you, most likely unable to stop properly on the ice as well, causing your car to be pushed into the middle of the highway. Attempting to turn your wheel and move was a lost cause, the gas pedal doing nothing as your tires skid in place. A loud horn sounds as you look out of your driver’s side window, seeing bright headlights coming straight for you.

Your heart lurches in your throat, the car slamming into the center of the driver's side your car. Your head whips to the side on impact, your car now being pushed by the truck, unable to stop. Eventually, you separate from the truck as they successfully hit their brakes, only to send your car ping ponging off a metal pole as your car slides into a ditch.

Snow starts to pour down again as you finally stop, angled awkwardly in the ditch, the car tilting to the right. Your right foot managed to get stuck under the now busted brake pedal, any movement sending waves of pain through your foot and up your body. Airbags deployed, every light on your dash on or flashing, your seatbelt locking you in place. Being too scared to unbuckle it and do more damage, you leave it alone.

Trying to breathe and stop the tears, you try and reach for your purse. Your phone peeks out, just out of your reach, a loud groan leaving your lips as you realize you're trapped. A sense of lightheadedness creeps up on you, not knowing how severe your injuries were, you closed your eyes, focused on your breathing, praying that someone would help you.

Hannah and Allie weren’t too far behind you, confusion finding them as they still haven’t seen your car. They approach the divided highway, Allie noticing some slight debris in the road.

“What the hell?” she says, looking around, seeing a truck stuck in the middle of the road. She watches as the guy who presumably was in the truck runs towards the ditch. Allie’s heart drops, seeing a strange brush of the grass and snow paved out as if something slid through it, leading into the ditch. 

“Hannah, pull over, they might need help.” Allie says. Hannah doesn’t question her, pulling off to the side of the road, putting the car in park. Allie rushes out, not caring if she slips on ice. Snow continues to fall as she runs to the top of the ditch. Her heart sinks, seeing a Briar U bumper heart shaped sticker, distorted from the initial hit but still visible on the right side of the back of the car.

The bumper sticker she gave you.

“Fuck! Call 911!’ Allie shouts out to someone, anyone, as she runs down the hill, Hannah on her trail, grabbing her phone. Allie finally reaches the car, her heart sinking once again, seeing you passed out in the driver’s seat. She yells out your name.

“Shit! We’re here, okay?! We’re gonna get you outta there!” she yells, not even knowing if you can hear her.

After what feels like hours, the police and fire rescue arrive, safely extracting you from the car, getting you onto a stretcher as you groan in pain at any sudden movements. The girls get the approval to leave Hannah’s car as they both get in the back of the ambulance with you, one of the firefighters handing Allie your purse with your belongings. Hannah holds your hand as Allie pulls your phone out to start calling your family. After notifying your family, she puts your phone away, grabbing hers from her pocket. Before she can call Dean, your mumbles catch her attention.

“Shhh try not to talk, okay?” Allie soothes.

“Logan…” you mumble, “someone… has to tell Logan,” you finish, your eyes slowly blinking, slightly loopy from the morphine given to you to help ease your pain. Allie and Hannah’s eyes leave yours to look at each other, both incredibly confused, thinking you’re just extra loopy. Hannah looks back down to you, leaning in closer to you.

“John… Logan?” Hannah asks. You nod ever so slightly.

Logan’s hanging out with the guys at the house, complaining once again about Tucker’s massive Christmas to-do list when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He laughter dies down, smile fading, confused when he sees the caller ID as ‘Allie Dean’. They were chill with each other, sure but never really interacted too much unless she was with Dean, hence the contact name. Unsure if it’s a butt dial, he answers.

“Hello?”

Logan’s chest tightens hearing Allie’s stressed voice, rambling as she explains what she knows about your situation and mentions that although strange to her, you asked her to call him. The guys look at Logan with concern, seeing the way his face dropped and the color seemed to wash away from his face. Allie drops the name of the hospital you’re headed to.

“You gotta get here now.”

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

Logan enters the hospital faster than humanly possible, scouring the waiting room until he finds the girls sitting there, nervous looks on their faces. Garrett, Dean and Tucker follow behind him, the same stressed looks on their faces.

“Where is she?!” Logan asked, worried out of his mind. Hannah reassured him that you were currently in surgery and most importantly, that you were alive. Logan runs his hands through his hands as he sits down, his head now sitting in his hands as he tries to slow down his breathing, the adrenaline consuming him.

“What the fuck happened?” Dean asked, rushing to hug and comfort Allie.

Hannah tries to explain everything they know, not knowing how you ended up in the ditch. They described your injuries, Allie explaining how she found you, tears welling up in her eyes. The energy in the waiting room is heavy, not just from the stress of your unknown status, but of everyone but Logan looking at each other, confused yet intrigued about what was going on between the two of you.

No one brought it up, obviously wrong place, wrong time, but the thoughts did circulate, along with waiting, hoping and praying you’re okay. 

After what felt like hours, the surgeon enters the waiting room, calling out your last name. All six heads snap towards the sound of his voice, Logan getting up the fastest as the surgeon walks over to the group.

“She’s stable,” he starts, exhales and sighs of relief leaving everyone.

“She did break her right foot and she’s got some minor fractures in her leg, along with some torn muscles, some cuts and bruises from the impact. Fortunately, there were no signs of spinal injury or any internal bleeding, but we did find signs of whiplash and the few broken bones. She’s incredibly lucky,” he finishes.

Logan rubs his sweaty palms against his pants, his body still shaking from the overwhelming anxiety. The surgeon continues,

“We’ve got her in the ICU now. We’re going to keep an eye on her for a little bit before we can move her to a room, then she can have visitors,” he finishes. Everyone says their thanks before sitting down.

The longer the wait, the more nervous Logan got. His leg bouncing at a rapid rate, him constantly standing up and pacing around the room. His heart raced in his chest at the thought of anything happening to you. Although he felt relief knowing you were okay, not being able to physically see you, to physically touch you, was killing him.

After what felt like days, into the late hours of the night, a nurse comes out, saying your last name, once again, grabbing everyone’s attention.

“She’s finally settled in her room, we can start bringing you guys back, but it’ll have to be one at a time,” she explains.

Garrett pats Logan on the back, “Go. Go see your girl.”

Logan nearly tears up, not even caring that everyone knows now. Everyone nods in agreement as Logan follows the nurse back into the inpatient rooms area. His heart races, not knowing what to expect. Eventually, he and the nurse arrive at the door, opening it softly. 

Logan’s body tenses up, anxiety bubbling up inside him. You lay on the bed, peacefully sleeping, an oxygen mask sitting lightly in your nose. A small cut on your left temple, scrapes on your arms, your foot elevated in a sling and wrapped in a cast.

He didn’t think he hated anything the way he hated seeing you so hurt, so vulnerable, so quiet. The nurse leaves, shutting the door behind him as he approaches the bed. You lie there, another wave of nausea coming over him, his mind thinking the absolute worst. He finds the spare chair in the room and gently pulls it over so he can sit at your bedside. His hand reaches up to find yours, being careful to not touch any wires. Slight redness graces your knuckles as Logan brings your hand up to his lips, kissing your knuckles, wishing he could take away all of your pain.

“I’m so fucking glad you’re okay,” he mumbles into your hand, before dropping both your hands on the bed. As if his words had some magic touch, your brows furrow as you shift slightly, your eyes opening slowly, a groggy, glazed look in your eyes.

“Hey, hey…” Logan says, standing up so you can see him without having to move your head too much. “You’re okay.” he says, for you but also for him.

“Water… please,” you croak out, Logan letting go of your hand, finding the cup of water sitting on the counter. He grabs it, extending the straw for you as you try and sit up, grunting in pain. 

The ice cold water washes into you like you had been dehydrated for weeks, instantly feeling better before nodding to signal you were done. Logan puts the cup down before coming back to you, sitting down in the chair. Despite the pain in your neck, you turn your head, a tear that was sitting in your eye falls down your cheek, bottom lip quivering.

“I thought I was gonna die,” you say, voice breaking, fighting more tears that threatened to spill.

Logan’s hand comes up to your head, lightly moving the hair from your forehead before kissing it, soothing you with gentle hands, his thumb lightly grazing your temple.

“I know, baby, I know. But you didn’t. You’re here and you’re safe,” he reassures, his thumb moving to your cheek. With a light nod, you agree, thankful that this didn’t go where you thought it was going to, being trapped in that car for so long.

After a few moments of a now more comfortable silence, Logan speaks up again,

“Allie called me, she and Hannah found you,”.

Tears refill your eyes, guilt washing over you knowing you had probably traumatized both of them, them having to see you like that. Logan immediately clocks it, shutting down those thoughts.

"Hey, this was not your fault. Thank God they were there and were able to get help, right?" he reassures. You nod, Logan's thumb coming to wipe the tears off your cheeks.

“They all know.”

“Good. It was about time we told them,” you joke, a light giggle leaving your lips, your eyes still full of tears. Logan had never been happier to hear your laugh, joining you in laughter.

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

After the overnight stay, your vitals looked good and you were cleared to go home. After seeing everyone, you insisted that they all went home and got some sleep. Logan had immediately said no to that, staying with you the entire night, camping out on the guest chair in your room. Once you got discharged, the nurse wheeled you out on a wheelchair to the front drive, Logan pulling his truck around the front. He and the nurse both worked to get you in the truck, saying your goodbyes and thanks before heading to your apartment.

You hobble off the elevator on your crutches, muscles still sore as you approach your apartment door. Logan opens your front door for you as you enter, you immediately finding your couch. Sighing, you plop down, thankful for finally be rid of that hospital bed.

“You hungry?” 

“Oh my god, yes, I’m so tired of hospital lasagna and Jello cups.”

Logan stayed with you at your place for the first week of your recovery. The way he always took care of you, doing everything you needed - half the time without you even needing to ask - made this recovery process so much lighter and less stressful. No matter how frustrated you got, he always knew exactly what to say to calm you down and comfort you.

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

Following that first week, after your energy came back, you and Logan made your way to the hockey house, hanging out with everyone, you needing desperately to get out of the house. A hangout with your friends is exactly what you needed.

You all sit on the couch, Logan setting a pillow down on the coffee table for your foot, helping you hike your leg up before he sat down next to you as you both explain, well, everything.

"You guys have been dating?"

“For months??!”

"No way."

“And you didn’t tell anyone?”

“Why wouldn’t you say anything?”

Questions bombarded both of you as you laughed. “In my defense, I was gonna tell you girls at the cabin,” you say, giggling.

Despite this very traumatic event, you found yourself incredible grateful for not just your boyfriend, but the group of friends you had surrounding you. This was going to continue to be a long and frustrating recovery process, but knowing you have the support system behind you that you do, alleviated some of that pain for you.

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

You watch your reflection closely in the mirror as you apply one last coat of mascara.

Tonight there was a reunion event for Brendon’s graduating class from medical school. 

You had seen the invitation in the mail and insisted he go and see some familiar faces. And also throw around some bragging rights as the one of the east coast’s top orthopedic surgeons.

After some top tier convincing, he finally agreed but only if you went with him. Now it was you who had to be convinced.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘱 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 

"𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯 𝘯𝘰."

"𝘉𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘤'𝘮𝘰𝘯," 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 "𝘐𝘧 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘫𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘥𝘰."

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 "𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘯..."

"𝘚𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦?" 𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘭𝘺

"𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘯, 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘸. 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘗𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘴𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘩'𝘴 𝘣𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘨𝘢𝘭𝘢'𝘴 𝘪𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘬𝘦𝘺."

𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴.

"𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐'𝘮 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦. 𝘚𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘪𝘧 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘦'𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘶𝘺 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦."

𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘢𝘻𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯.

𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 "𝘖𝘬𝘢𝘺, 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘦. 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘰."

𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯 𝘱𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺.

"𝘞𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘥𝘰" 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Brendon watches you get ready from the doorway of the bathroom. If he could stare at you all day long he would.

When he met you, you were the fresh faced nurse starting out in the pitt.

It only took him overhearing you talk about your interest in orthopedics once for him to fight day shift tooth and nail for you.

With a promise to Robby that he would watch out for you, you were moved to orthopedics.

You were brilliant and young, eight years younger than him and completely out of his league.

You still were out of his league now.

Yet as soon as he asked you out for the first time back then, you immediately said yes.

He often worried with the age gap people would have things to say. That those words would drive you to be with someone closer to your age.

Even though you always reassured him that would never be the case, you both agreed to keep things under wraps at work and discreetly out in public.

You never minded, only wanting to ease his mind. You’d do anything for him

Brendon was glad to have you on his arm tonight but he still worried just a tad that you’d catch the eye of someone who may try to steal you away.

—-

You and Brendon walk into the event room, your hand holding onto his bicep.

“Wow..” you say looking around at the beauty and decor of the room “it’s gorgeous in here.”

Brendon’s gaze lingers on you as you admire the space “Yeah, sure is.”

You turn your head and catch him staring, rolling your eyes with a smile.

He chuckles at your reaction as you both make your way to the bar.

“Hey! Look who it is! If it isn’t Park!”

The voice makes you both turn your heads.

To the right of the bar in a seating area towards the back are a few guys, all smiles as they wave in your direction.

Brendon waves back as he leans close to you.

“Some guys I studied and hung out with most of the time in med school.” he whispers

He gently leads you towards them.

A taller guy greets you guys first when you get closer.

“Well well well if it isn’t Pennsylvania’s most sought after ortho surgeon” he smiles and then his gaze turns to you.

“Well hello there, and you are?”

You smile politely and introduce yourself.

“You a doctor too, sweet stuff?” 

Brendon’s hackles go up at the flirtatious tone and pet name.

“No, I’m a nurse for orthopedics at ptmc with Brendon.” you share

The guy briefly glances at you and Brendon and notices your intertwined hands.

A giant smirk works its way on his face.

“Ohhh shit! Guys!” he grabs the attention of the other men sitting close “Our buddy here brought his O.R. nurse and girlfriend!”

Your face warms in slight embarrassment from the attention as all the men start whistling and yelling at the introduction.

Brendon’s hand moves from yours to your waist, pulling you close.

A waiter walks by and offers you both drinks.

Thank god.

You both needed one.

Brendon grabs a whiskey and you grab a wine glass.

The friend closest to you guys beckons you over to sit.

Casual conversation flows and Brendon adds in here and there, glad that the attention is off of you.

Or so he thought.

Brendon glances around the group subtly and notices a few of the guys eyeing you and looking you up and down, not so subtly.

His jaw clenches at how they unashamedly stare and gawk at you.

“Hey baby,” he whispers to you “could you grab me another drink? Maybe a snack we can split?”

You smile at him and kiss his cheek quickly.

“Yeah of course. Be right back, baby.”

He watches you as you walk off and turns back to the guys and sees they’re also watching you walk away.

“Yo Park, your girl is fine as fuck” one guy says with his eyes still on you in the distance.

Brendon’s composure is slowly crumbling.

“Yeah,” another guy chimes in “if I had her in my O.R.? Shit, not a damn thing would be getting done except for her.”

The man breaks into a fit of laughter as the other guys high five him and agree.

Brendon frowns at the jokes being made, gripping his thigh hard to keep from decking the men.

He doesn’t like the idea of anyone else having you. 

You're his.

—--

On the other side of the room you're grabbing new drinks.

It’s like you can feel his brooding attitude from across the room.

You turn to look for him and you see the irritation clear across his face as he swirls the whiskey around in his cup.

After the bartender hands you the drinks you make your way back to him.

His buddies quickly glance at you as you walk past, not being discreet enough with their comments about you.

“Fuck, the things I’d do if I had her.”

“She could have anyone and she chooses old man over here.”

“I bet he had to pay her to be here. No way she’s actually dating him.”

The smiling assholes aren’t subtle when they say it and it’s clear that Brendon hears it too when his frown gets even worse.

Luckily you can squash the talk and reassure Brendon all at once.

Brendon is sitting on a leather couch. So you place your left leg between his and then place your right knee on the cushion on the outside of his leg.

The placement has you practically straddling his thigh with your dress riding up dangerously high.

Brendon must notice because his hands grab your ass and hold you closer to him, shielding what’s only his to see.

“Hey baby” you greet him sweetly.

He gives you a “hey”, frown still in place.

You lean in closer so your mouth is right by his ear.

“I know what they’re saying, Bren. You also know that none of it is true. As far as I’m concerned,” you whisper “they’re not the ones who get me in their O.R. every day. You do.”

Your hand makes its way to the back of his head where you lightly scratch through his hair.

A weakness of his.

“They’re also not the ones who are gonna get to fuck me at the end of the night. You are. So, how about you turn that frown upside down and we go home to our own party?”

You hear his breath hitch at your words and a slight groan escapes him.

“Y-Yeah. Yeah let’s fucking do that” he grits out “But can we wait a few minutes?”

Your eyebrows furrow at the question.

“I mean yeah but wh-” 

Your words are cut off as he pulls you flush against him. 

More so against his hard cock.

“Aaah okay baby” you laugh a little.

“Thanks sweetheart.” he groans as he leans his head back against the couch.

—-

Unbeknownst to you both, your audience had watched the interaction with rapt attention.

Eventually they all had silently slipped away to collect themselves and let their jealousy spill over elsewhere.

You made it clear you were Brendon’s and they had finally gotten the message.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

But he couldn't drag himself away from work. Not when he had a lead on Dagget's newest offense. If he was lucky, he could trace the fingerprints he'd found left behind on a window-pane, and be one step closer to revealing the truth behind this investigation. Just one more hour...

The elevator shaft behind him began reeling; signaling the arrival of a guest.

You.

Bruce's eyes shifted to the time and he mentally kicked himself. It was past midnight. He mentally kicked himself for the being the cause of another sleepless night for you.

The elevator doors slid open nearly silently and he listened to the soft padding of feet on the cave's floor. Your feet were most likely swelling, again.

"Head back to bed, sweet girl, and I'll join you soon." He murmured, eyes fixed on the analyzing data in front of him.

A hand slid up his bicep to his broad shoulder, thumb massaging the tense muscle there. Bruce groaned.

"Can't sleep without you, Brucey."

It didn't take any effort to peel his gaze from the computer to you.

Bruce hadn't believed in angels until he met you. From the first moment he saw you in that coffee shop, he hadn't been able to think of anything else. And now, with his ring on your finger and the swell of your silk encased stomach from his child, Bruce knew heaven existed. And it was wherever his wife was.

Bruce reached out for you. "Keep me company a while?"

Without further encouragement, you straddled his lap--with some awkwardness thanks to your growing midsection--and laced your fingers behind his neck. You smelled like lavender and vanilla and felt like home.

You pressed your lips to his in reunion. "Missed you."

His fingers dug into the softness of your hips, tongue tracing the seam of your lips. "What did my sweet girl do today?"

"I went to Jason's place with Tim to drop off the rest of his books and then to lunch. Afterwards I took a nap and Alfred was kind enough to wake me up with cookies--and, no, the baby didn't save you any."

"The baby?" he withdrew slightly to take in the tired, mischievous gleam in your eyes. "It would seem the baby has been slighting their father for quite some time now. First with stealing all the blankets and pillows and now with cookies?"

"They're sneaky, like you."

"Apparently, everything's my fault."

"Well," your finger spun the hair at the nape of his neck idly, "when you cheat on your wife with work in the middle of the night, you're automatically blamed."

Bruce trailed kisses along your neck, an apology for keeping you waiting. "You know how I am-"

"Work obsessed and tireless." You shouldered a lock of hair back to give Bruce more skin to work with as you scolded him. He hummed against your pulse, the noise repentant. "I only wish I had as much energy as you. These days, it feels like I wake up and am instantly exhausted."

Before finding out you were pregnant, you had been a dynamo; flitting from one project to another. It wasn't until your second trimester that you began switching luncheons for naps and family nights for early retirement. Bruce and the boys had been extra careful to attend and provide for your wants and needs, from stocking up the ingredients for your cravings to keeping an anti-acid in all of their wallets for your chronic heartburn.

Bruce knew you missed your previous lifestyle, something he had come to guilt himself for cutting short, but you knew him better than anyone else and that meant you were able to smother his fears and regret with reassurances. There was nothing more important you could be doing than growing a piece of him and you, you took as your newest mantra whenever you found him stuck in his own head.

You had been his savior in many ways but he always found himself in awe at the thought that you wanted to build a future, a life, with him. You loved his Robins as your own, treated Alfred as an old friend, and--most importantly--showed up for Bruce in his darkest moments.

"Don't tell me you're still thinking about work."

Your soothing voice brought him back from his thoughts.

He looked up at you, mad at himself for bringing that melancholy frown to your lips. Before you, he might have brushed off your worry and ordered you back to bed to leave him be but you had taught him better.

His palms spanned across your abdomen, scarred fingers kneading the firm skin there. The nightgown you wore tonight fit you like a glove, showcasing every proud curve and giving Bruce the pleasure of seeing what was his.

"I was thinking," he pulled you to him until your fronts were flush as much as they could be, "that you're too good for me."

As he expected, your eyes rolled heavenward in exasperation. "Should I tattoo it over your heart, Bruce Thomas Wayne? I. Love. You."

"And I love you-"

Your finger pinned his lips closed as you glared at him. "I love you and I don't want you saying things like that anymore. If I hear another self-deprecating word from this mouth, I will revoke privileges."

His brow rose in curiosity.

"I will reinstate the pregnancy pillow." You decided.

That had Bruce's eyes widening. He spoke around your finger, "Don't be so hasty, baby!"

"Then stop it." You snapped.

Any other person would have seen the wrath of the Dark Knight if they'd dared speak to him like that. Found themselves dangling from the cave ceiling or knocked on their ass. But he just looked at you with desire. The same thing that had Damian grumbling under his breath at dinner or Dick teasing about a houseful of little Wayne's.

He couldn't stop himself as he kissed you, easily man-handling your body to meld to his preferences.

As he suspected, your limbs went lax as you returned his affection, a moan building in your throat when his hand cupped your throat, moving your head this way and that in guidance.

You might be able to yell at and scold him but Bruce always took back control.

Your fingertips glided over his naked back, feeling the raised scars there from his time as an apprentice of Ra's Al Ghul. Every scar he had, you had kissed dozens of times. He never felt ashamed to bare himself in front of you the way he did when he laid with his past dates. You made him feel whole despite all of his loss and grief.

"You're not bringing that damned pillow back." He growled against your mouth, hips shifting beneath you to support his decision.

You gasped, sensitive from pregnancy.

"Tell me you won't bring it back." He ordered, hips raising again.

"I-I won't!"

He smiled darkly, fingers playing with the hem of your nightgown to push it further up your smooth thighs. You had made him shave your legs this morning as you couldn't reach them without a struggle.

"You wouldn't even be able to find it. I burned it to embers the first night you insulted me with it."

You chuckled breathily. "Good thing I have my billionaire husband's credit card at my disposal. I can buy the entire company and then some."

Bruce nipped at your collarbone. "I hope you weren't planning on getting any rest tonight. Our bed won't be used for sleeping after your impertinence."

"I didn't tell you why I wanted you to come to bed."

Your make up is strewn across the bathroom counter, but this is out of shot. Instead, the skin care products are all neatly lined up on Bruce’s side.

You’re dressed in a fluffy white robe with your initials embroidered, hair clipped away from your face. Your make up from the gala is still on and you’re beautiful diamond studs— a present from Bruce, glitter under the bathroom’s lights. 

“Hello!” You smile at the camera. “And welcome to Vogue Beauty Secrets. Today, I’ll be showing you my skincare routine for after galas. We literally got back from the gala..." 

You glance over at Bruce, who is getting rid of his tie in the main bedroom. Luckily, the camera can’t see him. "What, twenty minutes ago?"

"Twenty-three," he corrects.

You laugh. "Twenty-three minutes ago. I wanted to film this while everything was still on because I feel like that's the only way to really show what works for me."

You carefully unclip the earrings, gently setting them down on a tiny golden plate. The camera picks the small metallic sound of the diamonds clicking against the metal. “These are usually the first thing to go because I'm terrified of dropping one down the sink. Bruce says that's what insurance is for, but I think he'd still judge me."

Somewhere off-camera, “I absolutely would.”

You laugh. “He's lurking somewhere off camera, don’t mind him.”

Slow and sure steps approach, Bruce’s is wearing a matching robe to yours and fluffy slippers the hotel provided. He looks absolutely adorable, but not like the camera sees it– the angle is too far off.

You pick up the cleansing balm, a yellow thing with a metallic lid. “This is the Elemis Cleansing Balm and an absolute jewel.” You rub the balm with circular motions all over your face. “And no, this isn’t sponsored.”

“When people always ask what my biggest beauty secret is.." You slightly turn your body in Bruce's direction. He grabs a cotton cloth, previously soaked in warm water. “It's probably hydration. Which is the most boring answer imaginable, but unfortunately it's true.”

Bruce begins removing the make up, with soft and soothing motions. His eyes are soft and focused on the task. Your heart swells, how is it you have such an amazing husband?

"People always think the gala is the exhausting part." Your eyes are still closed as Bruce keeps wiping a stubborn streak of mascara. "It's actually this. You're tired, your feet hurt, and the last thing you want to do is spend another ten minutes in front of the mirror." You smile. "It helps that Bruce loves to help with my skincare.”

He smiles, small and just for you. “If I didn’t you’d probably forget.”

You laugh. “That's not true!” You turn to the camera again. “Show them the cloth.”

Bruce’s massive hand appears in frame, veins noticeable and his golden wedding band shining. The cloth is now dirtied with varying shades of brown and a speck of maroon. 

“As you can see I was wearing loads of make up, and for that reason– where is i–”

Bruce hands you the next product. 

You barely look at him. “I use a second cleanser.” 

You quickly apply it. “Okay, boom! Makeup is off.” You move your head, showing the different angles. “Now comes the fun part.” A small pause. "When I was younger I used to think skincare was something you only did when your skin looked bad."

Bruce hums. "It showed."

You gasp, pretending to be offended. "You're unbelievable."

“You still married me.”

You hum, smirking at the camera. “It’s never too late to get a divorce.”

“Hydration,” Bruce clears his throat, and hands you the SK-II bottle.

“I was actually terrible with skincare,” you say as you press your product-soaked hands onto your cheeks. “As Bruce here snitched.”

“She used a barsoap.” Bruce dryly says. 

You laugh, glancing at him. “You’re getting kicked out of my video.”

“But then who would hand you everything?”

Just as you’re about to reply your phone rings. You quickly rinse your hands in the sink before picking it up. You click the speakerphone and set it on the counter.

“Dick, baby. What's wrong?”

“Can’t I just call to ask how my wonderful mother is doing?”

You suppress a smile. “So nothing is on fire?”

“Not on fire, no. Hypothetically... are all the cars insured?”

Beside you, Bruce pales. “Is someone hurt?”

Dick groans. “Please don’t tell me Bruce is there.”

“Sorry, baby,” You pause, shooting the camera a look. “And yes, all of the cars are insured. After you and Jason crashed the last one we weren’t taking risks.”

“Oh, okay! Thank you mom, love you. Bye!” He hangs up.

You look back at the camera with a fond smile. "Everyone says parenting gets easier when they're older."

Bruce slowly shakes his head. "It just gets louder."

You nod. "He's right. When they’re older they have their own opinions and personalities, and they have the confidence to argue back.” You scrunch your nose. “Eventually they realize I can out-stubborn every single one of them.”

You sigh affectionately. “This is part of the routine as much as the other steps. There’s always some emergency– so even if my phone is off there are certain calls from certain numbers that come through.”

“That being the kids and me.”

You grab the next product before Bruce can beat you to it. He grumbles something, but it lacks any heat.

You show it to the camera. It’s a tiny dark purple bottle, with a black pipette as lid. You squint your eyes, trying to read the description. “This is the Skin Ceuticals Hya–Hyaluronic… Acid Intensifier... Multi-Glyyycan. Wow, what a mouthful. Who even came up with the name?”

"Scientists."

You shake your head. "It’s all marketing." You slowly apply it. “I forgot to mention the names of the other products– wait, can I mention them? Since I’m not doing publicity or anything. Wait, am I going to get sued?"

Bruce shakes his head. “I’ll ask the lawyers tomorrow.”

"See?" You grin at the camera. "I don't even have to think about things like that anymore."

Bruce shrugs. "Occupational hazard."

You shift the camera slightly, so it doesn’t catch you giving Bruce a sweet peck on the cheek. His shoulders slump and you give him another.

A second after you’re back to the camera. “Sorry guys, I can’t resist my husband.”

Your phone rings yet again, the noise interrupting you mid-speech. You immediately pick it up, setting it on speaker again.

“Mother.” Damian’s voice can be heard. “I understood Richard called you?”

You raise a conspiratorial brow at the camera. “Yes, darling.”

“Richard has made yet another poor decision.”

“Ahuh.”

“I simply wished to clarify that I advised against it.” 

“Thanks sweetheart— please go to sleep now, it’s getting late.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Fine,” he grumbles. “Good night, mother.”

“Good night Damian, I love you.”

He hangs up after a second.

You laugh, bright and amused. “I think we’ve gotten a bit sidetracked. But there’s only two more steps to go!”

Bruce’s hand appears on screen again, showing the eye cream. You offer your face, your side profile is the only visible thing aside from Bruce’s gentle fingers applying the cream on your under eyes.

“You know, you’re really good at this.”

He barely smirks. “I’ve had practice.”

"Bruce always does the eye cream." You whisper to the invisible audience.

"You poke yourself."

You roll your eyes. "Once."

He looks at you, stopping his ministrations for a second. 

You sigh. "Twice."

Then the lipbalm, this time it's you who shows it to the camera. “And now my favourite part. The lip balm!” You apply it on your lips. “This one is honestly so good…” you finish rubbing it, “I keep one in each bag. A bit pricey though.”

“I think everyone expects some elaborate forty step routine. There isn’t one, just make sure your skin is clean and healthy. Oh, and really, really important. Don’t forget to drink water. The key for the whole glowy look is to be hydrated.”

“And marry someone who reminds you.” Bruce chimes in.

You smile. “That one definitely helps.” You unclipp your hair away, your hair gently framing your face. “Be kind to your skin. Don’t pick it, it’ll just get red and you’ll get more pimples.” 

“Don’t compare yourself to people on the internet either— I’m literally standing under a studio light.”

Bruce leans into frame just enough to kiss the top of your head. You look up at him, then at the camera again. “Thanks for watching!”

Comment Section:

@snoopycftheday the fact that she looks BETTER after taking her makeup off ?????????

@vogue Thank you for joining us 🤍

@slutforthestarks Bruce's entire personality is 'yes dear'

@metropolismetrosfan she genuinely has the most insane face card i've ever seen

@parasocialalert she has the personality of a wallpaper

@sukunt its sending me that 80% of the video is her flirting with her husband and talking to her kids and the other 20% is actual skincare

@selinakyle Can your husband fight?

@selinakyle Bruce CANNOT handle all that

@officialgothamgazette "there are certain calls from certain numbers that come through" being a mom never clocks out 

@slutforgreenlantern they're both so hot idk if i want to be them or be with them #pleasepleasepleaseletmethird

@boostergoldslefttoe just added everything to my cart... why is the total $672 😭😭😭

@daschundmom "Bruce is lurking somewhere off camera" Bruce proceeds to become half the video.

@user7696the way she instinctively tilted her face up so bruce could put on her eye cream... they've done this a thousand times IM SICK

@truthhurts she's only famous because she married bruce lmao she's not even that pretty

@mrswayneisamilf everyone talks about his green flags but can we discuss HER ?? she's so patient and kind every time one of the kids called she's my role model

There is, unsurprisingly, no one else around at the moment, but it’s not like a lot of people went up to the roof anyways; and they certainly didn’t during the middle of an alien invasion. You, however, were not currently experiencing the same level of concern as your neighbours, considering you’ve brought your binoculars.

The battle’s focused a few blocks away, and even without your binoculars you can see a green Optimus Prime-looking construct; no doubt one of Kyle’s creations. A look down at your phone shows that the livestream’s still going, someone closer to the area recording it from their window for the world to see.

It’s in that instant that an unfortunate sequence of events occurs. You watch your screen as something gets knocked into and bounces off of a building and goes flying off camera, in the direction of… your apartment building. Your eyes flick from the screen to the sky.

You’re starting to think the universe really hates Jordans.

You don’t get hit with the weight of impact. Just a whoosh of air that, if you weren’t already crouched down, would’ve knocked you off balance. You raise your head from your arms, blinking at the person in front of you, a chunk of something held above them.

“Hi,” He says, a slight smirk on his face, though his eyes show concern. “I’m Superboy.”

Your eyes drop to the insignia on his chest. “I can see that.” You glance back up at the concrete in his hands. “Are you gonna put that somewhere? Preferably not near me.”

“Right. One second.” He’s gone and back again before you can blink, holding his hand out to you. “You alright, uh…?” He trails off, realizing he doesn’t know what to call you.

“Y/n.” You say, offering your name as he helps you up. “And I’m still here, so I’d say I’m”—you catch sight of a nearing green glow and let out a nervous laugh—“in big trouble.”

Kon opens his mouth, a barrage of questions on the tip of his tongue—though he doesn’t get the chance to ask them, watching as Green Lantern stops short of barrelling into you.

You try not to think too much about the expression on your father’s face as he checks you over for scrapes and bruises. It’s an expression you’ve only seen a few times in your life, the most prominent memory of it from when you were eleven and your flu symptoms stuck around for a little too long.

When he sees you’re okay, his face shifts, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. You think you’re in the clear when he presses a kiss to the top of your head, but that assumption goes out the window the second he makes eye contact with you.

Hal squeezes your shoulders, gently shaking you as he bellows out a question. “Are you insane?!”

Ohh, Kon thinks to himself as the realization hits. You’re that Y/n.

You let out a little huff as you reply to your father’s (albeit rhetorical) query. “Dad, I’m fine. This guy”—You make a vague gesture towards Kon, who’s still hovering a few feet away—“caught the thing.”

“I have a name,” Kon interjects, though neither you nor your father pay any attention to his comment.

“He wouldn’t have had to if you were inside where you’re supposed to be.”

“Inside? Like, inside the building made of concrete with a bunch of windows that could break when something gets thrown at them and the shards could possibly embed themselves in my skin and lead to my untimely death?”

“You—” Hal pinches the bridge of nose, muttering something about alien invasions, children and grey hairs before looking back at you. “Stairs.”

Kon, who’s been, for the most part, silently observing the conversation looks between the two of you in confusion. “Stairs?”

You’re ready with another protest, but the look on your father’s face says not to push it. “Fine.”

“Good. Go. Now.”

“I’m going!” You head towards the door, pausing at the entrance to look back. “Hey, Superboy?” You watch as Kon perks up at the sound of his moniker. “I like your jacket.” With that you turn away, the door shutting behind you.

Hal turns his head to the side very slowly, eyes narrowing as he spots the grin spreading across Kon’s face. “No.”

“I didn’t even say anything!”

dividers by @/ivy-vinezz and @/strangergraphics

do not copy, alter, repost, or translate my works. do not enter any of my works into AI. © @iridescentlightshow

"I have a class project," Alfie announced dramatically as he dropped his backpack onto the kitchen table. Damian looked up from his coffee and you looked up from helping Juliet color. Neither of you were prepared for the expression on Alfie's face.

"What's wrong?" You asked.

Alfie pulled out a crumpled worksheet "Teacher wants us to make a family tree."

You blinked and Damian slowly set down his mug and said "...I see."

The silence immediately made Alfie suspicious. "Why are you both looking at it like it's a bomb?"

Because, you thought, for most families a family tree was easy, but for Damians side of the family? Not so much.

An hour later, Alfie sat at the dining room table with a giant poster board while you and Damian attempted to help.

Juliet sat beside him, innocently coloring her own paper, she mostly was eavesdropping.

"Okay," you said “Let's start simple, put yourself in the middle."

Alfie carefully wrote his name, then he drew another branch "Mum."

You smiled as he wrote her name "Dad."

Damian nodded approvingly "So far, so good."

Alfie continued drawing "Then Grandpa Bruce."

"Correct."

He drew another branch "Then..." his pencil stopped "...how many uncles do I have?"

You immediately laughed  and Damian pinched the bridge of his nose "Too many."

Three hours later, the project had somehow become worse. Alfie stared at the increasingly complicated diagram.

"So Grandpa Bruce didn’t Dad."

"Yes."

"But did adopt Uncle Dick."

"Yes."

"And Uncle Jason."

"Yes."

"And Uncle Tim."

"Yes."

"And Aunt Cass."

"Yes."

"And Uncle Duke."

"Yes."

Alfie groaned "That's so confusing."

"You have no idea," Damian muttered.

Juliet suddenly looked up. "You forgot Titus, and Alfred the Cat, and Batcow.”

"They’re animals." Damian shook his head at her

"He lives here."

"That is not how family trees work."

Juliet crossed her arms "Titus is family."

Alfie considered this "She has a point."

"No."

"Bat-Cow?"

"No."

"Alfred the cat?"

"No."

Juliet looked deeply offended.

By dinner time the project had spread across half the table and even worse, other members of the family had started wandering in.

Dick had arrived first "What are we doing?"

"Family tree," Alfie said.

Dick took one look at the poster "Oh."

That was never a good sign.

Ten minutes later Jason appeared. Then Tim. Then Cass.

The project instantly became complete chaos. Jason leaned over Alfie's shoulder.

"You're making me look old."

"You are old."

"I'm in my late thirties"

"Exactly."

Jason looked personally attacked.

Meanwhile Tim was examining the diagram "You forgot half the connections."

"There are more?"

"There are always more."

Alfie looked horrified.

Cass sat beside him "This is why normal people use smaller families."

"Can we do that?" Alfie asked hopefully.

"No."

The final straw came when Alfie reached Damian's mothers side of the family. His pencil hovered uncertainly.

"So..."

You immediately knew where this was going "Oh no."

Damian knew too "Oh no."

Alfie looked between them "What about your Grandpa Ra's?"

The entire room froze. Jason burst out laughing first, Dick followed and Tim had to leave the room entirely. Damian looked seconds away from a migraine.

"Technically," Alfie continued, "he's part of the family."

"He is dead, and hes the former head of the League of Assassins."

"That's not what the project says."

"Alfie."

"He exists."

You bit her lip to stop smiling and Juliet tilted her head. "Who's Grandpa Ra's?"

"No one."

"He sounds fun."

"He is not."

Despite Damian's objections, Ra's ended up on the poster in a very small in a corner with several arrow, and a note reading:

Dad doesn't like talking about him.

When the project was finally finished, everyone gathered around the table. The poster was enormous and somehow, Juliet had managed to sneak Titus onto it anyway.

Damian was pretending not to notice as Alfie looked over the finished tree proudly.

At the center were four names connected together:

Alfie.

Juliet.

Mum.

Dad.

Everything else branched outward from there. The Batfamily, older relatives, some alfie didn't even know about, etc.

You watched Alfie's eyes scan the poster "You happy with it?"

"I think so."

"You think so?"

Alfie smiled "Most kids in class have like... four people."

You laughed "And?"

"I have loads."

Juliet puffed out her chest "We're special."

"We're definitely something," Damian said.

The next day Alfie proudly carried the project into school. When he returned that afternoon, Reader met him at the door "How'd it go?"

Alfie's grin was immediate "The teacher thought I made some of it up."

You laughed "I can see why."

"She didn't believe I had that many relatives."

"What happened?"

"I showed her pictures."

You could only imagine how that conversation had went.

That evening the poster ended up hanging in the Manor hallway. Bruce stopped to examine it, for a long moment he simply stared at the family that had somehow grown larger than he ever could have imagined with all his children and grandchildren.

Then his gaze settled on Alfie and Juliet's names in the center and a small smile appeared as he realised who had made it "Nice tree."

Alfie beamed "Thanks, Grandpa."

Waking up at 4:37 AM wasn't just a nuisance; it was a sensory disruption. You hated the specific chill of the master bedroom when it was empty—the way the expensive, high-thread-count sheets felt less like luxury and more like a cold marble slab.

You tossed and turned, your chest tightening. Dating the Batman had been an intellectual challenge; marrying him was an exercise in preservation. You hadn’t just married a man; you had legally bound yourself to a triptych. There was Bruce, the raw canvas. There was Bruce Wayne, the heavily varnished, superficial portrait presented to Gotham's high society. And there was the Batman—the dark, brutalist sculpture that demanded all of his shadow.

Living with all three was exhausting.

Giving up on sleep, you slid out of bed. You threw on a soft silk robe, though you didn't bother changing out of the ridiculous plush bunny slippers—the single, absurd piece of kitsch Bruce absolutely hated but secretly smiled at.

The hidden elevator ride down to the Batcave always felt like descending into a subterranean vault of stolen artifacts. The air down here smelled entirely of cold limestone, damp leather, and high-end server coolant. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, your fingers moving across the master console with practiced, fluid precision. You knew the keystrokes by heart now.

When the massive monitors flickered to life, the primary feed displayed his line of sight.

You weren't looking at Bruce. You were looking at Gotham through his cowl. The city was rendered in harsh, high-contrast digital blacks and neon whites—a living chiaroscuro painting. The camera tilted slightly as he sat on the stone ledge of a cathedral, looking down at the fog-rolling streets. Nothing was happening. He was just watching. Monitoring the borders of his canvas.

You leaned against the cold metal desk, pressing the comms button.

"Hi, Batman," you murmured, your voice soft, cutting through the heavy hum of the cave's cooling fans.

On screen, the camera feed didn't jerk, but you caught the subtle, micro-fractional stabilization of his posture. He always reset his baseline when he heard your voice. Through the audio receiver, his breathing shifted, slowing down.

"What are you doing up?"

The cowl's vocal modulator rasped through the cave's high-end speakers. It was the heavy, gravelly baritone designed to strike terror into Gotham's criminal underworld—but after three years of marriage, you knew the exact frequency of the hidden cadence beneath it. It was a voice that made you hyper-aware of the bare skin of your legs against the cave's draft.

"Needed to check the alignment," you replied, leaning closer to the microphone, your tone small, intentionally stripping away the professional distance you usually kept. "Wanted to make sure my favorite piece wasn't damaged."

On the monitor, the digital horizon tilted slightly. A nod. Perfect, silent comprehension.

He didn't say I'm fine. He didn't say I miss you. As Batman, he was a man of minimalist composition. But the camera feed lingered on the empty sky for one long beat before he finally spoke

“How’s Dick doing?” his tone softens up a little when he brings up the kid you two had adopted. Dick Grayson. He was barely twelve years old, but he had the same look Batman had sometimes. That vengeance look.

“He’s sleeping. I didn’t check up on him before coming here.” You see how his head tilts and you know that’s a nod.

The feed remained still on the dark gothic skyline, the digital white noise of the comms the only sound filling the damp expanse of the cave. Even through the cold, synthetic filter of his cowl, you could hear the microscopic shift in his posture—the heavy, protective weight of a father balancing the darkness of Gotham against the fragile peace of his home.

"Go check on him," Bruce murmured, the gravel in his voice smoothing out, yielding to the quiet, exhausted father who worried about the ghosts haunting the boy down the hall. "He had... a rough afternoon."

You frowned slightly, leaning a hand on the edge of the sleek, cold console. "A rough afternoon? What happened?"

"A bird with a broken wing in the gardens," Bruce said quietly, his gaze on the screen panning slightly to the left, tracking the silent movement of a police cruiser miles below. "He spent three hours trying to build a splint for it. He wouldn't leave it. He wouldn't let me help, either."

A soft, bittersweet smile touched your lips. Dick was so incredibly stubborn, carrying a fierce, quiet intensity that mirrored the man currently crouching on a freezing stone ledge in the rain. They both wanted so desperately to fix everything that was broken, no matter how small.

"He's like you," you murmured into the microphone. "He doesn't know how to walk away from a tragedy."

"He needs to learn," Bruce replied, though the flat, minimalist delivery carried a rare trace of self-reckoning. "I don't want him to be like me."

You sigh, a quiet, knowing sound escaping your lips as you stare at the digital terminal for a fraction of a second too long. “I’ll go check on Dick, he’s probably still out cold. I’ll wait for you in bed, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the modulator rumbles, carrying a thread of rare, private warmth.

Without another word, you sever the link. The elevator whisks you back up to the quiet, ancestral halls of Wayne Manor, where the cold brutalism of the cave yields to high-vaulted ceilings and heavy Persian rugs. You pad down the silent hallway to Dick’s room, pushing the door open just a crack.

Inside, the boy is splayed across his mattress like a living Jackson Pollock canvas—limbs thrown in chaotic, energetic vectors, practically dripping and splashing across the sheets. That was Dick Grayson’s version of sleep; even at rest, he was a burst of kinetic energy. He doesn't seem bothered by the weight of his dreams, and honestly, who would be at five in the morning? A small spike of affectionate jealousy pricks at your chest; he isn't the one keeping vigil over Gotham's protector tonight. You smile to yourself, pulling the door shut. Your little bird is safe, grounded in his nest.

When you return to the master bedroom, the heavy oak door clicks shut behind you, and there he is. Bruce is caught mid-motion, his broad shoulders tensed as he struggles with the stubborn latches of the remaining back plating. For a split second, he looks like a wild creature cornered by a sudden spotlight—vulnerable, stripped of his shadows.

“Need some help?” you ask softly, crossing the room.

You slip into the adjacent bathroom, returning with a warm, damp towel. Bruce lets you guide him to the edge of the bed. He sits, letting his heavy head drop slightly, completely yielding his formidable frame to your hands. He lets you in. You are the only person in the world he allows to touch him like this—to strip away the armor he built to keep the rest of humanity at bay.

You press the warm cloth to his temple, dabbing softly, carefully lifting the heavy black paint from his skin. You treat him with the same painstaking, reverent touch you use on the priceless masterpieces at the museum. In your mind, Bruce isn’t just a husband; he is a Monet—built from heavy, textured strokes of light and shadow, delicate under the surface, and utterly irreplaceable.

As the last of the greasepaint is wiped away, he leans forward. His hands rise to find your waist, his large, scarred fingers digging gently into the silk of your robe to pull you flush against him. When his lips find yours, the kiss is slow, heavy, and thick with unspoken gratitude. He tastes of dark espresso and the lingering cold of the Gotham night, a soft, grounding pull that makes your knees weak. His lips are your beautiful, inescapable perdition.

“Hi,” he murmured once he pulled away from you to look into your eyes. His light blue orbs were observing your face as if you were the only person in the world that mattered. He always made you feel like that. He flashes a small smile, not the one he uses when he’s on the cover of magazines, nor the one he uses when he talks to his associates. No. This kind of smile was only for you in intimate moments like this one. When he’s holding your body against his, and he smells like sweat, a bit metallic like blood, and inherently him. You press a kiss on his chest, bringing goosebumps on his arm. “Wanna watch the sunrise, sweetheart?”

You raised your eyebrow, looking at the covered windows of the master bedroom. The blackouts didn’t allow any light to come in, but he most likely knew what time the sun was coming up. It felt like his duty, somehow. You nod and let him guide you towards the large balcony in the living room. He opens the sliding window to let you step outside. The cool of dawn hits you immediately. He’s only wearing his sweats, hanging low on his hips and allowing all the scars on his torso to stay on display. You always told him you loved his scars, that they were his won battles.

As you hold onto the balcony railing, his warm arms embrace you from behind. His eyes are closed as he breathes your shampoo in, his warm chest against your covered back. He leans in, starting to kiss your neck and the sensitive joint of your neck and shoulder. The place where, according to him, you smelled the most you. Your hand curls around his arm and you tap him gently.

You’re going to miss the sunrise,” you whisper against his lips, a small, amused huff escaping you as you tilt your head back to accommodate the warm path of kisses he’s tracing down your jaw. It’s a beautifully transparent lie. You don’t care about the sky; you only care about the heavy, possessive way his arms are locked around your waist. And by the tight, unyielding grip of his hands, it’s clear the Dark Knight doesn’t care about the daylight either.

He nips teasingly at the crook of your shoulder—just enough pressure to make you gasp, but gentle enough to leave nothing but a warm sensation on your skin.

The first soft, orange rays of dawn begin to bleed over the horizon, cutting through the heavy Gotham mist. The sky above the distant harbor is finally waking up. You let out a soft, contented hum, looking past his shoulder at the view.

“It has the exact same palette,” you whisper, your fingers tangling in his damp, messy hair.

Bruce chuckles, the low sound rumbling directly against your spine. He presses a soft kiss to your cheek, his dark eyes turning to the window to watch the violet and orange paint the clouds. A knowing, incredibly soft smile touches his lips.

“You’re right, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep and affection. “Maybe Monet actually knew a thing or two about his colors.”

A bright giggle escapes you, warm and light in the quiet dawn. You turn in his embrace to face him, burying your hands in his chest. “Cheesy,” you tease, poking his chest.

Bruce just smiles, his eyes soft and entirely resting on you, his own perfect masterpiece.

“four. handsome. deliciously so. body and face. rare,” bakugou laughs, boyish and booming, “thanks, babe.”

you feel uncomfortable, perspiration dribbling between your breasts, limbs heavy with exhaustion.

“what is that? what are you reading?”

still bakugou ignores you and continues reading from the paper, “five. successful and ambitious. six. good friend even though he pretends he’s not. protective!! seven. so gentlemanly, holding open doors, paying for dates, very clear on why he likes me.” ruby pupils flicker over to you, “that last one is bare minimum.”

then it clicks, about seven points too late. your head snaps over to him robotically, eyes about to fall out of your head. “where the hell did you find that! stop reading it! stop katsuki!”

you hop up from your seat on your sofa, speed like no other taking over you as you run across the room to grab at the paper in bakugou’s hands. his laugh only booms louder, holding the flimsy sheet in the air over your head as you jump like a child.

“seriously, don’t read anymore!” you shout, trying to hoist yourself up his larger body, using his arms and shoulder as a climbing frame.

nothing about bakugou budges, he just continues reading with the paper in the air.

“it’s getting good, baby!” he laughs, ignoring your jumps and furrowed brows, “eight. listens to me. really listens. makes me feel heard and remembers what i say.”

he looks down at you, whose fingertips are slapping the bottom of the paper. you recognise it all too clearly now. the pink ruled lines, the edges ripped out from one of your old notebooks. your handwriting. “that’s cute. i still listen to you, don’t i?”

“you’re not now! give it back!”

“i’m almost done, two more,” bakugou says, hooking his arm behind your back to keep you locked close to him. you’re both sweaty and sticky. you’ve got no choice but to listen, “nine. cooks. such a good cook! you added five exclamation marks there. ten. fulfils some of my love languages. some?”

“now stop.” you urge. he can’t turn the paper around. he can’t.

bakugou pecks your forehead, his cheeks blushed with all the compliments. he continues skimming the list, rereading it. 

“so this is why you chose to date me, huh?” he looks down at you, pouts his lips, “c'mon gimme a kiss.”

if you just grab it out his hands, he won’t see the other side. with pros always comes—

he stops pouting at you.

“give me the paper. i wrote this all a few years ago!”

“if these are the pros, where’s the cons? you must have done a cons list.” 

you shake your head, side to side. he holds the paper away from you. the opposite side, the list of all your cons, written back at you. you loop out of his arm, trying to reach for it.

he notices you staring, eyes fixated and that’s when he flips the paper around. CONS in big red capital lettering.

“this is private! you weren’t meant to see this, you shouldn’t be snooping in my room!” you squeak but bakugou’s already half down the page, pupils running across every line like he’s in a race.

“one. WILL choose his job over me—,”

“well obviously, your job is to save the world!”

“two. odd relationship with his mother? but apparently it’s better than before.”

“it’s so much better now!”

bakugou’s eyebrows drop now, voice getting lower as he continues, “three. argumentative. argues with EVERYONE. his agency workers, the media and his friends.”

“i understand why you argue with them all now! it makes sense!”

“three. his job is terrifying.”

bakugou looks over to you, solemn narrowed eyes and you don’t have a positive word to say about that.

“it is, sometimes i don’t know if you’ll come home.”

“four. he doesn’t do much else besides work. all his friends are from work.” bakugou pinches his nose bridge, “really? you think that?”

“now i don’t! and i know they’re childhood friends and… and we do things together all the time. i know you love to read, game, you’ve got your lego. i didn’t know all of that then.”

“five. don’t know if my friends and family will understand.” bakugou steps away from you, “the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

you huff on the spot, “this was from when i met you! all they’ve seen of you is shouting and yelling on the television. they didn’t know how lovable you are. how well you treat me.”

bakugou looks at you, then back at the paper. scratches his head. “six. inexperienced with sex but it’s really cute. has never had a girlfriend?”

“but number one pro is that you know how to use it. obviously we’re experienced now, we know everything about each other,” you flick your finger between you and your boyfriend. 

“and the girlfriend comment? i can’t help the fact you’re my first.”

“no, i mean yes i know that. it was just a question as to why. it doesn’t mean anything to me now.”

“but it was a factor in whether you wanted to be my girlfriend,” he states.

“well, yeah,” you drawl, “i thought maybe there was a reason as to why. that’s all.”

bakugou raises his eyebrows, looks back at the sheet, “seven. doesn’t always have time for me. travels a lot for work.”

“that hasn’t changed.” bakugou grunts. it’s something he knows you struggle with while dating him. it’s even been a conversation you’ve had a few times throughout your relationship. quality time. you want to spend more time with him but he simply can’t. 

you sigh, grabbing his chin between your fingers so he looks directly at you. his eyes are half lidded, cheeks red and exhausted from the negativity and heat. “we’ve been through this. i’m still gonna stick by you, everything i love about you means more than all the things i find difficult.”

he takes your palm away from your face and squeezes it. but you can tell he’s feeling off. “the last one. eight, he’s surrounded by beautiful women all the time.”

“you’re with celebrities, pro heroes, socialites a lot,” you shrug, “that was jealousy on my part, nothing to do with you.”

“i don’t give a fuck about any of that.”

you nod sharply, “i know! i wrote this a while ago, two years even? a lot has changed.”

bakugou sighs from the pit of his stomach, then flings his head back in a huff. “fuck, baby.” he groans.

then he looks down at you, looking up at him.

“just wanna put it out there, that was private, you weren’t meant to see that, my opinions have now changed and i’m sure you had a mental pro con list for me. i just wrote mine down.”

bakugou folds the paper, “yeah, yeah, i get it. you hate my job that much, huh? it covered half of the fuckin’ cons.

“i also said i liked you were successful and ambitious.” you sit on the back of the sofa, crossing your arms. 

bakugou mirrors you standing, crossing his arms too. “but nothing about my job has changed since we’ve got together.”

you groan, leaning your head on your shoulder, “katsuki, i think you’re making problems out of nothing here.”

“you made a list of the problems with datin’ me.” he frowns, holding the folded paper between two fingers.

“and a list of the reasons why i wanted to date you. obviously the good reasons won if i’m with you now.” you glare at him with a sharp tone.

he begins to pace around the room, paper still in hand. a terrible sign. you watch as sweat trickles down his skin, body flush with heat.

“but, babe. the problems you’ve had with me from before we were dating are still problems now. i still don’t have time for you, you still are terrified every time i’m minutes late from a mission, you don’t think i’d choose you over my job and you don’t think i do anything but work.”

you moan aloud, “and i still want you despite that all. i get the world needs you, heck, i need you if i come across a villain. i don’t hate you for being a hero.”

he stops behind you, on the other side of the sofa, “i don’t want you to resent me when you realise you could have been with someone who does have more time for you, isn’t obsessed with their job, can put you first and doesn’t scare you.”

you hop off the sofa. leaning your forehead on his collarbone. “katsuki. i wouldn’t be here if i didn't want to be. i love you. i choose you everyday. i don’t want to argue with you.”

bakugou doesn’t touch you. there’s a shake to his voice, “i’m sorry i’m not better. i’m gonna try to be. just wait for me, fuck, maybe when i’m slower and the younger lot take over, they’ll need me less. it’s just now—,”

“it’s okay. you have time for me right now but you wanna argue with me," you pout up at him.

“you did put that i’m argumentative,” he looks away from you as your hands link around his neck. 

“look at me.”

shiny lava red pupils find you. you ground him, takes him out of the what ifs and the failures of his past and places him in the present with you. 

“i have dated bakugou katsuki for two years and i love him so much. i love how kind and generous he is, always putting his loved ones first. how he dedicates his life and body to saving the world. how even if he’s tired from a long week of working, he still comes over to cook me a three course meal because he wants to see me eat his food. who was so open and willing to change for me. to change his routines and learn my body. who is argumentative because he wants to make things right. who wanted so hard for my family and friends to love him and manages to see his mother once a week just to check up on her.”

you search in both his eyes and he’s listening, he always is.

“i can write an updated list for you, if you want.”

he shakes his head, stuffs his forehead into your neck and slowly pushes you down into the sofa. you laugh, his hands plastered into your waist as his body crushes you in the plush cushions ever so slightly.

“‘m sorry. i shouldn’t have read it. even though i enjoyed the pros.” he muffles, lips tickling your skin.

you tap his shoulder. “you shouldn’t have but it’s okay. i still need you to get my fan. it’s hot.”

“promise you’ll tell me if you want somethin’ to change between us. i’m not wakin’ up one day to you leavin’ me for a reason right under my nose.” he urges and you can see him pleading. the desperation for you to agree.

“promise. now you promise me.”

“course i promise. i couldn’t even fill out ten reasons as to why i hate you.”

“i didn't say i hate you. and sure you can. you hate my cold feet. you hate how i moan about my job. you hate how i hate your job. you hate how i always want a massage. you hate how i wait until the last minute when you’re tucked up in bed for you to get me a glass of water. you hate how i’m indecisive for what i want for my birthdays and—,”

bakugou sits up, “i don't hate any of that shit. love listenin’ to you and half that shit is cute as hell.”

you pout, “you hate when i wear low cut tops out—,”

he frowns, “that’s foreplay, baby. you let me suck your tits after to make me happy. couldn’t give a shit what you wear.”

“how about how protective my friends are? and the fact i tell them everything?”

bakugou shrugs, “you deserve friends that love you that much and that you can tell everythin’.”

“i get snappy when i’m running late or too much is going on or i’m hot.”

with that bakugou gets up. your fan. though not without hovering over you to give you a peck. then another. you press your soft lips against his though you don’t open up because then you will get even hotter and snappy.

he pulls off you and rises from the sofa, “that makes sense, baby. you’re stressed and uncomfortable.”

you roll your eyes, “stop being so understanding!”

he walks towards your bedroom, but not without turning around to look at you. his fingers grip the door frame, “i love you.”

The moment your plane touches down in Japan, your heart won’t stop pounding.

Not from nerves.

Well… maybe a little.

But mostly because after almost eight months apart, you’re finally about to see him again.

Shoto Todoroki.

Your boyfriend.

The newly ranked #2 Pro Hero in Japan.

You stare out the airplane window as the city lights glow beneath the evening clouds, Tokyo sprawling endlessly in gold and white. 

Your reflection stares back at you—tired from the long flight from America, hair slightly messy, hero duffel bag slung over your shoulder—but smiling so hard your cheeks ache.

Because Shoto has absolutely no idea you’re here.

Neither does anyone else from Class A.

And somehow, against all odds, you managed to keep the secret.

Barely.

Kaminari had almost ruined it three separate times in the group chat.

It started two weeks ago.

You’d been sitting in your agency office in New York after patrol when Mina suddenly spammed the class chat with approximately thirty screenshots announcing the updated Hero Billboard rankings.

SHOTO TODOROKI — RANKED #2 HERO IN JAPAN

The internet had exploded instantly.

News stations.

Articles.

Fan edits.

Interviews.

The entire world was practically screaming finally.

You’d smiled so hard your face hurt while reading the comments.

Because nobody knew Shoto the way you did.

Nobody saw the years of effort behind that ranking.

The exhaustion.

The pressure.

The impossible expectations he carried since childhood.

People saw the calm, handsome prodigy with overwhelming power.

You saw the boy who stayed awake after missions worrying if he’d saved enough people.

The boy who quietly brought you warm tea after your patrols because you forgot to eat when you were stressed.

The boy who had once held your hand on the dorm balcony during your second year at U.A. and whispered: “I think I’m happiest when I’m with you.”

You’ve loved him ever since.

Maybe even before that.

So when Mina announced there’d be a giant celebration dinner for Shoto that the entire class would attend…

You made a decision immediately.

You were going home.

The restaurant is loud with laughter by the time you arrive.

Warm lights glow through the windows, illuminating familiar faces inside private dining rooms upstairs.

Your heart squeezes painfully the second you hear Kaminari yelling from somewhere beyond the hallway.

God.

You missed them.

You missed home.

The hostess quietly leads you toward the reserved room after recognizing you instantly.

“Everyone’s already here,” she whispers excitedly. “Todoroki arrived about twenty minutes ago.”

Your stomach flips.

Twenty minutes ago.

He’s right there.

You haven’t seen him in person in nearly a year.

Sure, there were video calls.

Text messages.

Late-night phone conversations when time zones allowed it.

But that isn’t the same as this.

Not the same as touching him.

Not the same as hearing his voice beside you instead of through speakers.

The hostess slides open the door carefully—and as soon as you enter the room, Kirishima notices you first.

His eyes go comically wide.

You immediately lift your index finger to your lips.

Silently.

Shhh.

Kirishima slaps both hands over his mouth so fast he nearly chokes.

That gets Mina’s attention.

Then Yaoyorozu’s.

Then Iida’s.

One by one, the entire class slowly realizes who’s standing in the doorway.

And every single one of them looks moments away from losing their minds.

You mouth silently: Don’t tell him.

Ochaco physically grabs Kaminari’s face to stop him from screaming.

Bakugo notices next.

His red eyes narrow immediately before a knowing smirk tugs at his mouth.

“Tch,” he mutters under his breath. “About damn time.”

At the center of the table, completely oblivious, Shoto is calmly drinking from his glass while Midoriya excitedly rambles beside him about approval ratings.

He hasn’t noticed the room going weirdly silent.

You have to bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing.

God, you missed him.

He looks different.

Older.

Broader shoulders beneath his dark blue coat.

His hair is slightly longer now, soft strands falling over heterochromatic eyes you’ve dreamed about for months.

And somehow—somehow—he’s still the prettiest person you’ve ever seen.

Mina is vibrating so hard in her seat she might explode.

Kirishima looks like he’s about to cry.

Tokoyami dramatically lowers his drink like this is the climax of a movie.

You sneak quietly around the table while everyone fights for their lives trying not to react.

Shoto finally notices something is wrong when the room becomes dead silent.

“…Why did everyone stop talking?”

“You’ll see,” Bakugo says, already grinning into his drink.

Shoto blinks slowly. “What does that mean?”

You step behind his chair.

Close enough to feel warmth radiating from him.

Close enough to smell the faint smoke and winter scent that always clung to his clothes.

Your chest aches so badly you almost ruin the surprise right there.

God.

You missed him.

Slowly, carefully, you place your hands over his eyes.

The second your skin touches him, his entire body freezes.

Completely still.

The room collectively stops breathing.

Then you lean down beside his ear, smiling. “Guess who, number #2?”

Silence.

For one heartbeat.

Two.

Then—“...You’re here?”

His voice comes out so quiet it nearly breaks your heart.

You laugh softly. “Surprise.”

The second you remove your hands, Shoto turns around so fast his chair scrapes harshly across the floor.

And then he just—stares at you.

Like he genuinely can’t believe you’re real.

His eyes widen slowly, emotions flickering across his face so openly that the entire room goes silent again.

Shock.

Relief.

Disbelief.

Love.

So much love your chest physically hurts from it.

“Hi,” you say softly.

You barely get the word out before he’s standing.

Then suddenly his arms are around you.

Hard.

Warm.

Desperate.

The force of it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

A chorus of screaming erupts around the room immediately.

“OH MY GOD—”

“HE MOVED FIRST!”

“TAKE A PICTURE!”

“KAMINARI DON’T YOU DARE—”

But Shoto doesn’t care.

For once in his life, he genuinely doesn’t care who’s watching.

He buries his face against your neck, holding you so tightly it almost hurts.

“You didn’t tell me,” he says quietly.

“You weren’t supposed to know.” you reply.

“I thought you were in America.”

“I was this morning.”

That finally makes him pull back slightly, staring at you like he’s still processing it. “You flew here today?”

“Mhm.” you hum.

“…Just for this?” he asks, genuinely surprised.

Your smile softens. “Of course just for this.”

Something in his expression crumbles.

Not dramatically.

Not loudly.

Just enough for you to see how much that means to him.

Shoto has never been good at asking for things.

Especially not emotionally.

But you know him better than anyone.

You know how lonely success can get sometimes.

You know how often he wonders if people love him or the image attached to his name.

So you cup his face gently and whisper: “I wouldn’t miss your moment.”

The look he gives you after that nearly destroys you.

The class absolutely loses their minds.

Mina is openly sobbing.

Midoriya is crying too.

Kaminari is yelling something about soulmates.

Bakugo looks seconds away from throwing everyone out the window.

“You idiots are so damn loud,” he snaps while aggressively wiping his eyes. “Shut up already.”

“You’re crying too!” Kirishima shouts.

“SHUT UP SHITTY HAIR OR I’LL KILL YOU.”

Laughter explodes through the room.

But Shoto still hasn’t let go of you.

One arm remains firmly around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip.

“You should’ve told me,” he murmurs again, quieter this time.

“And ruin your reaction? Absolutely not.”

“I don’t usually react.”

“You literally looked like your brain stopped working.”

“That’s fair.”

You grin. “There’s my boyfriend.”

The faintest pink dusts across his cheeks.

And somehow, after all these years, after war and graduation and long-distance and adulthood—Shoto Todoroki still blushes when you call him that.

The dinner becomes chaotic after that.

Everyone bombards you with questions immediately.

“When did you get here?!”

“How long are you staying?!”

“Did Endeavor know?!”

“WAIT, DOES THIS MEAN YOU SAW THE AMERICAN BILLBOARD RANKINGS TOO?”

“No one cares about your rankings, Kaminari.”

“I CARE.”

Shoto barely speaks through most of it.

Not because he’s upset.

Because he literally cannot stop looking at you.

Every time you glance over, his eyes are already on you.

Soft.

Warm.

Almost disbelieving.

Like some part of him still thinks he imagined you walking through that door.

At one point, beneath the table, his fingers quietly intertwine with yours.

You squeeze back instantly.

He doesn’t let go for the rest of the night.

Hours later, the dinner finally ends.

The others slowly filter out of the restaurant amid hugs, yelling, promises to meet again tomorrow, and Mina dramatically demanding couple photos before leaving.

Eventually, it’s just you and Shoto standing outside beneath the city lights.

The night air is cool.

Quiet.

Tokyo glows around you.

For a moment neither of you speaks.

Then Shoto exhales softly. “I really thought I was hallucinating.”

You laugh quietly. “That bad?”

“I looked up and everyone was staring at me strangely. Bakugo was smiling.”

“…Okay yeah, that should’ve been your first warning sign.”

“It was terrifying.”

You laugh harder, and the sound makes something impossibly fond soften in his expression.

God.

That look.

You missed that look.

Shoto steps closer slowly until your bodies nearly touch.

Then he brushes his fingers carefully against your cheek like he needs physical confirmation you’re actually here.

“When do you go back to America?” he asks quietly.

“In three weeks.”

Relief flashes across his face so quickly you almost miss it.

“Three weeks,” he repeats.

“Mhm.” you hum with a nod.

“That’s not enough.”

Your chest squeezes painfully.

“No,” you whisper. “It’s not.”

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then Shoto leans down and kisses you.

Softly at first.

Tender.

Careful.

Like he’s savoring the fact you’re finally here.

The second your hands slide into his hair, his composure cracks completely.

His grip tightens around your waist.

The kiss deepens immediately, months of distance and longing pouring into it all at once.

You melt against him with a quiet sound, and Shoto exhales shakily against your lips like he’s been starving for this.

For you.

When you finally pull apart, both of you breathless, his forehead rests gently against yours.

“You know,” you murmur softly, “I’m really proud of you.”

His eyes close briefly.

Not because of the ranking.

Not because of the title.

But because you said it.

After a moment, he opens his eyes again, looking at you with that same quiet intensity that made you fall in love with him years ago. “…Stay with me tonight?”

You smile immediately. “Obviously, number #2.”

For the first time all night, Shoto laughs.

A real laugh.

Soft.

Warm.

Happy.

And as he takes your hand beneath the glowing city lights, you realize something quietly wonderful: 

No matter how far away America is…

No matter how busy hero work becomes…

No matter how much time passed—home has always been him.