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[decibelsoundsolutions]

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Decibel Sound Solutions, based in Manchester, specializes in providing professional audio hire packages for various events, including gigs, live music, club events, outdoor, corporate, weddings, and birthdays. They offer a range of audio and DJ equipment hire packages, suitable for events of different scales, ensuring high-quality audio experiences for their clients. Catering to events with up to 450 guests, their packages include various configurations of monitor speakers, subwoofers, microphones, mixers, and DJ controllers, with delivery and setup options available.

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[verricherri]

Rhett Abbott one night stand vibes with accidental pregnancy? Surprise me with how the ending turns out please 🙏🏻✨

Right Here

A/N: I definitely went overboard with this one 😭 scrapped three drafts before landing here — so this version? she’s the chosen one. Warnings: soft, protective Rhett coming your way. you're not ready and neither am I. i melt for this Rhett — like full-on puddle.  Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated  ☀️

The baby was asleep when he started talking.

Not that she’d understand a word of it — all curled up in her cotton wrap, her fingers twitching against his shirt, her breath warm and even where it ghosted over his collarbone. But Rhett liked to think she’d remember the sound of his voice. The shape of it. The safety.

He shifted in the old rocking chair, boots planted firm on the creaky wooden floor — though the nursery didn’t look quite finished. Shelves only half-installed. A mobile still waiting to be hung. There was a paint roller in the corner and a small pile of unopened baby books someone had dropped off weeks ago. Maybe him. Maybe you.

He looked down at her — all six pounds of her — and smiled without teeth.

“You wanna know how you got here?”

The room stayed quiet. A cricket chirped somewhere near the baseboard heater.

“Well,” Rhett said softly, adjusting her weight in his arms, “That’s a long story. And not the kind I ever thought I’d be tellin’.”

His thumb brushed over the soft edge of her ear. So small.

“So small,” he whispered. “Didn’t think somethin’ so tiny could turn my whole life upside down.” He smiled, barely. “Just like your mama did.”

He leaned his head back, eyes tracing the ceiling fan that never worked quite right.

“She wasn’t supposed to stay, you know. Not that night. Wasn’t even supposed to look at me, let alone... God.” He let out a breath “I don’t even remember what song was playin’. Just remember her laugh. It was like drinkin’ somethin’ too fast — made my head spin.”

The baby sighed in her sleep.

“I didn’t mean to let her go, kid. I just didn’t know how to make her stay.”

The memory tightened in his chest like a rope.

One night. That’s what it had been. One stupid, beautiful night. And in the morning — she’d left. Quiet as sunrise.

No note. No number.

Just the smell of her on his shirt and the shape of her still carved into the sheets.

He blinked. Swallowed hard.

“I told myself not to chase her. Thought if I kept busy, if I stuck to riding and kept my head down, I’d forget.”

His voice cracked slightly.

“But I didn’t. Not once.”

He looked down again — at her tiny fists, her sleep-pink mouth.

“You’ve got her eyes,” he whispered. “Big and soft. Like you see more than you should.”

He kissed her forehead.

“You weren’t part of the plan, little one. But you sure as hell ain’t a mistake.”

The chair creaked as it rocked. Outside, the sky was turning bright over the ridge.

“And if she won’t tell you how it happened,” he said, brushing a thumb over the baby’s cheek, “I will.”

—

The music was loud. Too loud for the size of the room, too loud for how late it was, but no one seemed to care — not the old jukebox wheezing out another George Strait hit, not the drunk couple trying to two-step on scuffed wood floors, not the college kids tossing back shots they couldn’t afford. The Wabang bar hadn’t changed. Not in years. Probably never would.

Rhett didn’t come here much anymore.

He was nursing a beer in the farthest corner of the room, half in the shadows, half pretending to care about the pool game in front of him. Someone was shouting about a scratch, someone else laughing too loud. He felt the thud of bass more than he heard it. His boots tapped once. Twice. Then stilled.

And then he saw you.

Across the room. Laughing at something a friend said. Hair tied up, strands falling loose, cheeks warm with heat and liquor and the kind of confidence that made his throat tighten. You were wearing a denim jacket and a black tank top, and for a second — just a second — you looked right at him.

And smiled.

Rhett blinked.

That smile hadn’t been meant for him. Couldn’t’ve been. He hadn’t seen you in years. Not since school. Not since that awkward period where he’d liked you a little too much and you’d barely known his name. You ran with a different crowd. The smart ones. The ones who didn’t stay.

But you were here now. And walking toward him.

Shit.

“Rhett Abbott,” you said, dropping into the seat across from him without asking. Your voice was soft and surprised, like you weren’t entirely sure you were doing this. “I thought that was you.” He stared for half a beat too long. “Hey.”

That was all he could get out. Hey.

You laughed again. “Don’t sound too excited.” “No—I mean. Yeah. I just—didn’t expect…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “What are you doin’ here?” “Visiting. Friend’s birthday. Thought I’d stop by the old haunts.” You gestured to the room. “Didn’t think I’d see you. You look… the same.” “That good or bad?” You tilted your head. “That depends. You still ride?” His mouth quirked. “Sometimes.” “Still quiet?” “Only when I don’t know what to say.” You raised your brows. “You always knew what to say back in school.” “No,” he said, and this time it came out slower. Truer. “I just knew how to listen.”

You looked at him differently then. Like the game had changed. Like maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t a mistake.

“I always thought you didn’t like me much,” you admitted, nursing your drink now. “You were kind of… intense.” “That mean I scared you?” You laughed. “A little.” He smirked, eyes drifting down and back up. “Still do?”

You didn’t answer. Just looked at him — like you were trying to decide if this was dangerous, or if you wanted it to be.

The jukebox whirred into a slower song. Something mournful. Something sweet.

You held out your hand. “Wanna dance?”

Rhett looked down at it, then back at you.

And for once, he didn’t think. Didn’t second guess. Didn’t play it safe.

He stood and took your hand.

—

The floor was sticky. The music was old. But the way you fit against him, the way your head dipped toward his chest — it felt brand new.

“You always dance this quiet?” you murmured. “Only with people I don’t wanna let go of.” You smiled against his shirt. “That a line?” “No,” he said softly. “It’s the truth.”

The dance slowed, the music fading into something else. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Outside, the air had cooled. You walked together, neither of you saying much. The kind of silence that buzzed between skin and breath. When you got to your car, you paused. Unlocked it. Didn’t open the door.

“I don’t wanna go home yet,” you said. Rhett leaned against the passenger side. “You wanna ride?” You looked up at him. “Where?” He met your eyes. “Anywhere you want.”

—

The truck smelled like pine and leather. You didn’t turn on the radio. Just let the wind and gravel speak for you.

He didn’t ask where you wanted to go. Just drove.

And you didn’t stop him.

The motel was just outside of Wabang. Old sign flickering, vending machine humming near the front desk. Rhett didn’t even flinch when the clerk handed him a key — Room 6 — didn’t ask questions, didn’t offer explanations. Just nodded, paid in cash, and led you up the crooked concrete steps.

The room smelled like stale AC and cheap soap.

One lamp. One bed. One heartbeat between yes and no.

You stood there for a second, keys still in your hand. “I don’t usually do this,” you said.

Rhett didn’t move. Just looked at you.

“Me neither.”

You turned to face him.

The light hit him just right — tired, tan, a little older than you remembered. The kind of man who looked like he’d seen too much and still chose softness anyway.

He didn’t touch you first. You did.

You kissed him like maybe it was a mistake. He kissed you like maybe it wasn’t.

There were no loud declarations. No fumbling urgency.

Just a quiet look.

A question in your eyes.

An answer in his touch.

When he undressed you, it was careful. Slow. Like he didn’t want to spook the moment.

When you pulled his shirt off, he didn’t say a word. Just looked at you.

And you swore — just for a second — you saw something in his face that had nothing to do with lust.

Something like hope.

—

The morning light hit too hard through the cheap motel curtains.

You were already dressed when Rhett stirred, still tangled in the sheets. He watched you pull your jacket on like you couldn’t get it done fast enough. Like if you moved quickly enough, you could leave the night behind entirely.

“I wasn’t gonna wake you,” you said softly, eyes on the floor. “You leavin’?” You hesitated. Then nodded, “This doesn’t need to be anything.”

He sat up slower than he meant to, fingers gripping the edge of the mattress like it might hold him up.

“Right,” he said, even though it didn’t feel right. Not at all.

You gave him the kind of smile people give at airports or funerals — polite, distant, already halfway gone.

“Take care, Rhett.”

You left without looking back.

—

He didn’t go home. Not right away.

Drove for a while. Long enough to burn through a quarter tank. The day felt dull around the edges, like sound underwater. By the time he pulled into the ranch yard, the sun had barely cleared the ridge.

The kitchen smelled like coffee and something burning. Royal sat at the table, flipping through paperwork. Cecilia moved silently at the stove, frying eggs she wouldn’t eat.

Rhett stood in the doorway, unsure why he’d even come in.

“You’re late,” Royal said without looking up.

Rhett didn’t answer.

Royal glanced up, eyes sharp. “You hungover or just stupid?” “I’m fine.” “You don’t look fine.” Royal leaned back in his chair. “Got that half-glazed look like a man thinkin’ too hard about somethin’ that ain’t his to think about.”

That landed. Harder than Rhett expected.

Royal kept going. “Whatever it is, drop it. You’ve got a ride next week and I don’t need your head three counties away.”

Rhett didn’t answer. Just nodded, slow.

Cecilia set a plate down in front of him. Toast. Eggs. The kind of comfort she never named.

She didn’t say a word — just looked at him, once, with something like knowing in her eyes.

Then she walked away.

—

He didn’t talk about it again.

Not to Royal. Not to Perry. Not to Amy, who asked why he was quieter than usual and got a headshake in return.

Instead, he trained harder. Rode more.

Got thrown off a bull in Sheridan and got back on like it didn’t matter.

Told himself it didn’t. Told himself it was better this way.

He hadn’t seen her since. Didn’t expect to.

—

It was the kind of day that didn’t ask much. Overcast sky, wind low and steady, that late-autumn chill sliding down the back of your neck like a warning. Rhett wasn’t even supposed to be in town — just running an errand for Perry, picking up horse feed and a new belt buckle he didn’t need.

He didn’t plan on seeing her.

Didn’t plan on freezing in the middle of the grocery aisle, one hand around a can of coffee he wasn’t sure he’d even grabbed.

But there she was. By the end cap near the bakery. Reaching for something on a high shelf.

She looked the same, but softer. Hair pulled back in a low knot. Jacket zipped halfway. She turned slightly as she adjusted her footing and—

His breath caught.

There it was.

Not obvious, not dramatic. But there. A soft curve beneath her coat.

A bump.

She didn’t see him at first. He should’ve walked away. Turned around. Left it alone.

But he didn’t.

He took a step forward. Then another. And then—

“You gonna tell me?”

She froze.

Didn’t turn right away. Just let the sound of his voice sink in like a stone.

When she did face him, her eyes flickered — surprise, guilt, something else he couldn’t name.

“I wasn’t—I didn’t expect to see you,” you said quietly. “Didn’t expect to see this either.” His gaze dropped to your stomach, then back up. “You should’ve told me.” You swallowed hard. “I didn’t know how.” “You could’ve called.” You shook your head. “And said what? That I left in the morning and came back months later with a bump?” Rhett didn’t flinch. “Would’ve been better than this.” You hugged your arms across your chest, suddenly very small in the wide-open aisle. “I didn’t think you’d want to know.” His jaw tightened. “You don’t know me at all if you thought that.”

There was a long silence.

Finally, you said it. “It’s yours.”

He nodded once. No surprise. He’d already known.

“Boy or girl?” “I don’t know yet. I didn’t want to find out alone.”

That stopped him. Softened him.

“You don’t gotta do this alone,” he said, voice lower now. Steadier. “I know you think this was nothin’. That I was just some night you regret. But you’re carryin’ my kid. And I ain’t about to be some ghost in her life.” You flinched. “Her?” He shrugged, eyes never leaving yours. “Guessin’.” You blinked fast. “I wasn’t asking for anything, Rhett.” “Well, too bad,” he said simply. “Because I’m here anyway.”

You stared at him — not sure if you were angry, relieved, or just stunned.

He didn’t look like the boy you’d stole glance at school. Didn’t look like he needed convincing.

He looked solid. Real. Like someone who’d already decided he wasn’t leaving again.

“I don’t know what this is,” you whispered. Rhett took a breath like it hurt to let it out. “I like you.”

You blinked.

“I don’t know when it started. Back in school, maybe. Maybe the night at the bar. Hell, maybe before that. But it wasn’t just about the night. You gotta believe me on that.”

Your lips parted, but no words came.

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t wanna scare you,” he added. “Didn’t wanna break it before it even started.”

He looked down, then back up — eyes steady.

“And now there’s a baby in the middle of this, and I know you didn’t ask for me to be around. I know you’re strong enough to do this alone.”

You were quiet. Breathing shallow.

“But I don’t want you to,” he said. “Not just because of her—him—whoever they turn out to be. But because of you.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

“I’m not gonna break you,” he said softly. “Even if I already cracked something that night.”

Then, lower now. Barely above a whisper, but it landed like thunder:

“I want to be responsible for this. For you. For them. I know it’s not simple. I know I messed up by not sayin’ it sooner. But I’m sayin’ it now.”

You swallowed hard, something in your chest twisting sharp and sudden.

He kept going. “You don’t gotta decide today. But I need you to know—I’m not runnin’. Not from this. Not from you.”

—

The knock came just before dusk.

Not loud. Not urgent. Just... there. Like he didn’t want to scare you off.

You stood at the window for a good ten seconds before opening the door.

Rhett stood on your porch, holding a brown paper bag and a half-flustered expression.

He looked like he hadn’t rehearsed this part. Like the grocery aisle had been raw instinct, but this—showing up again—this was commitment.

“I brought you dinner,” he said finally. You stared. “You’re serious?” He held up the bag like it was proof of intent. “You need help. And I didn’t think ‘I like you’ was gonna be enough if I didn’t show up again.”

You stepped aside wordlessly, letting him in.

The kitchen was small, warm. Lived-in, but tired. Dishes drying by the sink. A plant you weren’t sure was dying. Mail on the table you hadn’t opened.

Rhett unpacked without asking where things went. Two frozen meals. A loaf of bread. Oranges. Ginger tea.

“You researched what pregnant people eat?” you asked dryly. He paused. Scratched the back of his neck. “Nah. Asked that lady at the checkout. The one with grandkids. Real loud voice.” You snorted. “Mrs. Henley?” “That’s the one,” he said, almost sheepish. “She said oranges help with heartburn. Scared the hell outta me, honestly.”

That earned the smallest smile from you.

He glanced around, his fingers tapping the edge of your counter. “You got anything that needs fixin’? Leaky faucet? Broken hinge? Lights out?” “Why?” “Because I’m standin’ here and I wanna do somethin’ more than just breathe the same air as you.” You folded your arms. “You can’t just show up with groceries and expect that to make this easier.” “I don’t,” he said. Quiet. Steady. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. Or fall into my arms. I’m not that stupid.”

You swallowed.

He took a step closer, but not too close.

“I just want you to know that I’m here,” he said. “That I meant what I said. I want to be part of this. I don’t wanna watch you do it alone when I can stand beside you.” You blinked, throat tightening. “You make it sound simple.” “It’s not,” he said. “It’s hard as hell. But hard things are worth stayin’ for.”

The silence sat thick between you.

Then he said it. Soft. Unapologetic.

“I never stopped thinkin’ about you after that night. You disappeared, and I told myself I’d imagined it all — that it was just one of those things. But now... now I know better. And I’m not walkin’ away from that twice.” Your voice cracked before you even meant to speak. “And if I don’t know what I want yet?” His eyes didn’t falter. “Then I wait. I show up. I do the dishes. I fix the porch. I buy groceries. I wait.” You laughed once — a shaky, wet sound. “That sounds stupid.” “Maybe,” he said. “But it’s honest.”

—

You didn’t ask him to stay.

But you didn’t ask him to leave either.

The sun dipped low outside, turning the kitchen gold. Rhett stood awkwardly by the counter, his thumbs hooked in his belt loops like he didn’t know what to do with himself now that the groceries were unpacked and the speech was over.

You broke the silence first. “You hungry?” He blinked. “What?” “You brought food,” you said, softer this time. “Might as well eat it.” He nodded once, slow and cautious, like the offer might disappear if he moved too fast. “Yeah. Alright.”

You microwaved the meals he brought — chicken something for you, beef stew for him. He stood by the sink the whole time, watching the timer count down like it mattered. When it beeped, he jumped a little. You pretended not to notice.

You both sat at the table like strangers trying not to be.

Halfway through dinner, you said, “You always eat this quiet?” He looked up, eyes warm with the smallest flicker of something — relief, maybe. “Only when I’m nervous.” You paused mid-bite. “You’re nervous?” “‘Course I’m nervous,” he said, nudging his tray with his fork. “You’re smart. And strong. And pissed off. And pregnant. And sittin’ across from me after months of not speakin’. I’d be an idiot not to be nervous.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t. But your lips curled, just slightly. Just enough.

After you both finished, Rhett grabbed a paper towel and wiped down the counter. Like it was his house. Like he belonged there.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said, watching him from the table. “I know,” he said. “But I want to.”

He threw the towel away. Then turned to face you again. Hands at his sides. Shoulders square. Still unsure.

“I don’t expect anything from you,” he said. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. But I want to keep showin’ up. However you’ll let me.”

You were quiet for a long moment.

Then you stood. Crossed the room. And leaned back against the counter next to him.

“Okay,” you said. Just that. No fanfare. His head turned, eyes searching yours. “Okay?” You nodded. “Okay. One step at a time.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

“I can do one step,” he said. “I’m good at steady.” You bumped his arm with your shoulder. “You’re also good at falling off bulls.” He smirked. “Falling for difficult things is kind of my brand.”

That made you laugh. Really laugh.

And it felt like the first true thing between you since that night.

—

It started with the screen door.

You’d mentioned, offhand, that it creaked every time the wind hit it. Not as a complaint. Not even really expecting anything. Just one of those things people say when they’re tired and trying to ignore the things that bother them.

Two days later, it was fixed.

No note. No fuss. Just... fixed.

And then came the squeaky bathroom faucet. Then the broken fence post near the back gate. Then the step on the porch that’d always slanted left until suddenly, quietly, it didn’t.

You never asked him to do any of it.

But he did.

He stopped by every few days now. Always with a reason.

Brought extra milk once. Said he “accidentally bought two.” Dropped off a hammer the second time. Claimed he “forgot it last time,” even though you were pretty sure it hadn’t been there at all.

And once — just once — he showed up with a tupperware of stew and mumbled something about “Cecilia made too much.” You didn’t question it.

You started leaving the porch light on without thinking about it.

—

One night, you found him sitting on your steps, your dog curled up next to his boot, watching the wind move through the trees like it was a story worth hearing.

He didn’t knock. Didn’t call. Just sat there with the kind of quiet you didn’t mind.

You opened the door and leaned against the frame. “You’re just gonna sit there all night?” He looked up, sheepish. “Didn’t wanna bug you.” You gestured toward the couch. “You wanna come in or not?”

He smiled — small, crooked — and followed you inside.

—

The living room felt warmer with him in it. He didn’t say much. Just took off his boots, set his hat on the counter without thinking, and leaned back into your secondhand couch like it remembered him.

You brought two mugs of tea and sat beside him, knees almost touching.

“I didn’t think you’d keep coming,” you said softly. “Didn’t think I’d be able to stop,” he replied, just as soft.

You looked at him — really looked.

At the faint scrape on his knuckles. At the way his shirt pulled at the shoulders from work. At the way he exhaled like he hadn’t had a quiet place to land in a while.

He caught you looking. Didn’t flinch.

“You always stare this much?” he asked, voice low. “Only when I’m trying to figure someone out.”

He leaned back on the couch, one arm stretched over the cushion, his fingers drumming lightly against the fabric.

“I’m not that complicated.” You raised a brow. “That’s what complicated people say.”

He smiled at that. Small. But real.

“I just like bein’ here,” he said. “That’s all.” You tilted your head. “Why?”

He looked around the room — at the dim lamp, the mismatched throw pillows, the chipped mug on the table still holding yesterday’s tea bag. Then back at you.

“Because no one’s waitin’ for me to mess it up.”

That quiet landed deeper than you expected.

But before you could say anything, he added, softer:

“I’m not here just ‘cause there’s a baby involved.”

You looked up at him. Eyes wide. Still guarded.

“I mean it,” he said. “I’m here because I wanna be. With you. The baby’s just…” He hesitated. Then gave a lopsided shrug. “The baby’s a happy accident. You’re the part I was already wantin’. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Your breath caught somewhere in your chest. He looked nervous now, like he’d gone too far.

But you didn’t pull away. Didn’t run. You just let your foot rest against his, and this time, you didn’t move it.

And he stayed.

—

It came out quiet.

Like most true things do.

You were sitting on the floor in the living room, sorting through the week’s mail, legs folded under you. Rhett was on the couch behind you, flipping through a hardware catalog he had no intention of ordering from. It was just background noise. Just a way to fill the silence between what had already been said and whatever was next.

You set an envelope down and said, “I found out on a Wednesday.” Rhett looked up. “Yeah?” You nodded, eyes still on your hands. “I didn’t feel right. Thought maybe I was just tired, maybe stress, maybe—hell, I don’t know. But something told me to go pick up a test.”

He didn’t say anything. Just sat forward slowly, elbows on his knees.

“I didn’t even wait until I got home. I used the gas station bathroom down by that old diner. Locked the door. Waited. Shook the whole damn time.” You let out a quiet breath. “Didn’t need to wait the full three minutes. It showed up quick.”

Rhett stayed quiet.

You looked down at your fingers. “I didn’t cry. I didn’t smile either. I just... sat there. For a long time.”

Still nothing from him. Just presence. Just patience.

“I went home. Put the test in the trash. Took another one the next morning. Same result. And I just… kept going. Like it hadn’t happened.” You paused, trying to shape it right. Then: “I wasn’t scared of being a mom. I was scared of telling you.” Rhett’s voice came out low. “Why?” “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to blow up your life.” “You didn’t.” “I didn’t want it to feel like some trap. Like you owed me something just because I kept it.”

He didn’t speak. Just set the catalog aside and slowly stood — not rushed, not dramatic. Walked the two steps over.

Then he sat down beside you on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, knees bent like he was settling into something he didn’t want to leave.

He rested his arms on his thighs, voice steady. “I don’t feel owed. I feel lucky.”

That stopped you. Fully stopped you.

He glanced over. “If you hadn’t told me? If I’d never known? I’d be walking around not even realizing I had this chance. You.” You swallowed, throat tight. “It didn’t feel like a chance. It felt like a mess. And I was already halfway drowning in it.” Rhett nodded. Quiet. “I’m not afraid of mess.” “I am,” you said. He didn’t look away. “Then let me be the part that’s steady.”

You didn’t answer right away.

So he added, softer: “I’m not here to fix it. I’m here to stay. Even when it’s ugly. Especially then.”

You looked at him — really looked — and for the first time, you believed it.

—

You turned to him, slow. Careful.

“What if we tried?”

He looked at you. Really looked. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard right.

“Tried what?” “This,” you said. “You and me. Not just because of the baby. But... because we want to.”

Silence. But not the bad kind.

Rhett didn’t blink. Didn’t laugh it off. Just sat still like the moment was sacred.

“I’ve wanted that since school,” he said finally. “You were always...” He trailed off, rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Untouchable. Too smart. Too pretty. Too far outta my league to even look my way.” You blinked, stunned. “I barely knew you liked me.” “I barely knew how to act on it,” he admitted. “But I never forgot you.”

You swallowed, suddenly breathless.

“And now you’re here,” he added, voice dropping. “Asking me what if. After everything. After the mess. After the one night I never stopped thinkin’ about.” He smiled — slow, soft, disbelieving. “This don’t feel real. It feels like a dream I’m afraid to wake up from.” You shifted closer. “Well… what if it’s real?” He reached for your hand then. Fully, deliberately. “Then I’ll do whatever it takes to hold onto it.”

Your fingers curled around his. Steady. Sure.

And for the first time in a long, long while — it didn’t feel like you were gambling your heart. It felt like coming home to someone who’d been waiting for you to find the door.

—

The house was quiet except for the sound of her breath.

Tiny, rhythmic. Almost like wind through cotton.

She was asleep against your chest, her body curled up like a comma, one hand fisted in the fabric of your shirt. You hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Across the room, Rhett sat cross-legged on the floor, still in his work shirt, still dusted in hay and dirt from a day he didn’t complain about. His eyes were locked on her — your daughter — like she was the sun coming up over the ridge.

“She’s got your mouth,” he said softly. You looked down. “You think?” “Yeah,” he nodded. “That stubborn little pout? That’s you.” You smiled, exhausted but full. “She’s got your frown when she sleeps.” He chuckled. “Poor thing.”

The lamp threw soft amber light across the floorboards. Everything felt warm, lived-in, quiet in a way neither of you had known before.

Rhett shifted up onto the couch beside you, careful not to jostle her. One arm draped behind your shoulders, fingers brushing your neck like a whisper.

“She’s really here,” you said, your voice barely above a breath. “She’s ours.” He nodded, eyes still on her. “Whole world in one tiny thing.”

You looked down at her — at her sleep-heavy face, the rise and fall of her breath. You still couldn’t believe something so new could feel so right.

“She changed everything,” you said. Rhett let out a quiet breath. “Yeah. And somehow made it all make sense.”

The baby shifted, sighing softly, and you both stilled — protective without speaking, already moving in tandem without having to try.

—

The baby in his arms stirred, bringing Rhett back to the now.

She was heavier these days. A little bigger. A little louder when she wanted something. But in that moment, cradled against his chest in the quiet, she was still. Warm. Safe.

The house around them was hushed — not the tense kind of silence he used to know, but the good kind. Familiar. A hum of peace under the floorboards.

The late morning light spilled through the window. Golden, soft-edged. It lit up the room in streaks — caught the dust in the air, glinted off the framed photo on the mantel, and landed square on his left hand where it curled around her tiny back.

The sun shone bright on the silver band on his ring finger.

He hadn’t taken it off since the day you slipped it onto him, quiet and teary-eyed at the courthouse, both of you too choked up to make a big deal of it. He’d kissed your knuckles and whispered, This don’t change us. It just makes it official.

Now it caught the light every time he held her. And God, he hoped she’d see it one day and know it meant safe.

Steady.

Staying.

Rhett rocked slowly in the old chair, voice low and careful.

“And that,” he whispered, brushing his lips to her forehead, “is how you came to be.”

He looked down at her — same stubborn pout, same tiny fists — and smiled to himself.

“Wasn’t part of the plan, sweetheart,” he said. “But you’re the best thing I never saw comin’.”

She shifted, one arm flopping up against his chest like she knew she was being talked about.

“I didn’t know how to be a dad,” he went on. “Didn’t even know if I was gonna be good at any of this. I still don’t, some days. But then you cry, or smile, or fall asleep on me like this, and I figure... maybe I don’t have to know everything. Maybe just bein’ here is enough.”

A beat.

“Your mama... she gave me a real chance. Took a risk lettin’ me back in. And I’ll spend the rest of my life makin’ sure she never regrets it.”

His thumb brushed gently over her back. She sighed in her sleep. Like she already believed him.

Rhett leaned back a little further, gaze catching again on the wedding band. It felt heavier in the sunlight. Not in a burdensome way — just real. Earned.

“I used to think a win meant stayin’ on the bull,” he murmured. “Now I think it looks more like this.”

Another pause. No rush.

“You were a happy accident, darlin’,” he said. “But you’re the best thing that’s ever been mine.”

His voice dipped even lower, almost a promise.

“You’re ours. All the way.”

And outside, the wind moved through the trees, steady and light — as the sun kept shining.

[kabsey]

The driving rain had reached the layer of fabric closest to his skin by the time Viago unlocked the front door of his townhouse. He could already feel a clammy chill spreading down his spine from where the hair at his nape dripped into his collar. Suppressing a shiver and a sigh of relief, he pushed the door closed and reengaged each lock. His hand froze on the last one when its quiet click was echoed by a creak of floorboards from above.

He slid into the corner where the shadows were thickest. The usually reliable moonlight was mostly absent from the tall front windows, and for a moment, he wondered if he had mistaken the patter of rain or a branch blown by the wind for an intruder. But the unmistakable sound of a door opening and the spill of firelight at the top of the curved staircase dashed that brief hope. He waited in silence, not willing to give his position away if the intruder harbored similar doubts about the presence of another person.

Until he heard a voice call "Viago?" from the landing that overlooked the foyer from the second floor.

He ran a hand down his face as he let out a held breath. Then he stepped into the faint rectangle of light slashed by the bars of the balcony.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"I was in the city and got caught in the rain," Rook replied. "I was closer to here than the Diamond, so I figured I'd wait until morning to head back to the Lighthouse."

She was mostly in shadow from the light behind her, but he could make out her silhouette leaning with both elbows on the railing. Her hair, normally tossed up in a messy bun, hung in loose waves to dangle over the drop to the floor below. She stood up straight as he started up the stairs.

"What are you doing here?" she asked in turn. "Teia kick you out?"

He scowled. "She did not kick me out," he insisted with a concurring stomp of his boot on the stair. "We have been working together nonstop since this damn occupation began. We both agreed a little time apart would be healthy."

"Uh-huh," she replied as he reached the landing. His new position relative to the light unfortunately gave him the full view of her knowing smirk. "So you don't plan to go sulk in the bath?"

He did not dignify that with a response. He was soaked to the skin; of course he was going to go take a bath. As he walked down the hall to his own room, he expected Rook to make some additional remark, but surprisingly, she retreated without further commentary.

Once in his room, he quickly stripped out of his dripping cloak and hung it on the rack near the fireplace. He was too eager to be rid of the rest of his wet clothing to deal with potentially damp tinder, so he settled for just lighting the candles in the candlestick on his dresser until he had finished his bath. He had paid a hefty sum to have dwarven plumbing installed in the house, but having a hot bath ready at the touch of a rune was worth every copper.

He carried the candlestick into the adjoining bathing chamber and set it on the marble counter below the mirror. His own shadowed reflection flickered there, but the reflection of the door to the room drew his eye. He turned and pushed the door half-closed.

There was nothing there. Instead of his favorite dressing gown he saw nothing but an empty hook.

An aggravated noise growled in his throat. All he had wanted was to take a warm bath, get in his dressing gown, and then read by the fire until he had put his disagree—his discussion with Teia out of his mind. And now he was being denied even that for Maker knew what reason.

Maybe only the Maker knew the why, but Viago certainly knew the who. He stalked back down the hallway, pounded with a closed fist on Rook's door, and waited impatiently until she cracked it open.

"Where is my dressing gown?"

Rook frowned at him. "What?"

He drew in sharp breath through his nose. "Where is my dressing gown?"

"Why would I know where your dressing gown is?" Rook retorted. "You probably left it at the Diamond."

"I did not leave it at the Diamond. I leave my favorite one here specifically so that it will not be misplaced."

Rook smirked at him again. "Well, sometimes plans go awry."

With another growl, he pushed her door open and shouldered past her. Just as he expected, the door to her bathing chamber was closed, and he ignored Rook's protests to bang on that door as well.

"Whoever is in there," he shouted, "if you have my dressing gown, you will return it immediately."

"What the hell, Viago?" Rook demanded as she grabbed his elbow. "Get out of my room!"

"I will not until I get my—"

The door opened, and Viago swallowed the rest of his sentence. And possibly part of his tongue. Lucanis Dellamorte stood on the threshold wearing clothes that had obviously been thrown on (or thrown back on) haphazardly. His shirt hung lopsided from being buttoned incorrectly, and the fabric was wet enough to be see-through. He looked back at Viago with a perfectly composed expression, but a slight flush colored his cheeks.

"My apologies," he said as he held out Viago's dressing gown. "We weren't expecting you, but it was still rude of me to borrow this without your permission."

When Viago made no move to take it, Lucanis's eyes flicked to Rook for just a moment before returning to him. "Or I can take it to the villa and have it laundered if you'd prefer. I can have someone deliver it back here as soon as possible."

Rook let out a loud breath. "This is ridiculous. Viago, you have at least three other dressing gowns and half a dozen pairs of silk pajamas. And, Lucanis, you're dripping on the rug."

A moment of awkward silence passed before Viago found his voice again. "Forgive my lack of hospitality, Lucanis. You may of course borrow my dressing gown until your clothes have dried."

"It's really not necessary," Lucanis protested.

"I'm afraid it is," Viago replied. "Rook is right. You are dripping on the rug."

Lucanis glanced down. "Ah," he said. Then he put his hand to his chest, gave a slight bow, and stepped back into the bathing chamber with a quiet "Excuse me."

As soon as the door closed behind him, Viago grabbed Rook's upper arm and pulled her out to the hallway.

"You should have told me it was Lucanis in there!" he hissed at her.

"You didn't give me much of a chance when you bowled me over!" she hissed back.

"You should have said he was here as soon as I arrived!"

"I didn't want to deal with this!"

He scowled. "This? What this?"

"This!" she exclaimed as she gestured at all of him. "This whole"—she drew herself up straighter and pretended to stroke a nonexistent beard as she lowered her voice—"'What were you thinking?' this."

"I know exactly what you were thinking," Viago shot back. "The same thing you always think. Nothing."

Rook rolled her eyes and turned to go back inside her room, but he grabbed her arm again so she was forced to face him.

"He is the First Talon and an abomination," Viago insisted. "Do you have any idea how dangerous—"

"Dangerous?" she repeated, and incredulity dripped from the word. "Viago, I have literal gods trying to kill me."

"And while you are distracted, one of the other Houses could strike against him and you."

He closed his eyes as he forced himself to take a deep breath. When he opened them again, Rook gazed up at him, a furrow in her brow.

"I can only protect you from the threats I know," Viago said. "I cannot protect you from gods."

That fact haunted his thoughts throughout the day and his dreams at night. It had only gotten worse since he had seen them with his own eyes, since he had stood helplessly frozen by ancient magic as Rook—his Rook—stared them down.

Rook's lips curled up in a slight smile. "You did all right against those dragons. Did I ever thank you for that?"

He huffed. "No."

"Well, when this is all over, maybe I will." Rook shook her head. "I have a team to protect me, Viago. Lucanis is part of that team. And I need them with me."

He heard what she did not say: I need him with me. It was a sentiment he understood all too well. The occupation would have ground him to dust long before if he had not had Teia at his side.

Maker, he loved her. Even when too many dangers and too many stresses made them snipe at each other until she told him to give her space for a night. He would have to find a way to make it up to her. He really needed her advice about the situation he had just discovered. She probably already knew. She'd probably be terribly smug about knowing.

"Just... be careful," he finally said with a sigh.

When she was younger, Rook used to laugh when he said that. Now she nodded.

"You too," she said quietly.

They stood a moment longer in awkward silence until she grinned up at him, hands on her hips.

"Well, I have another Talon waiting for me, and he outranks you." She waved her hands at him. "So... shoo."

Viago rolled his eyes. "Maker's blood," he muttered.

But he could not completely stifle his smile as he headed back to his own room. He could not remember how long it had been since they had slept under the same roof.

If that meant also sleeping under the same roof as a Dellamorte, so be it.

At least it wasn't Illario.

[orellazalonia]

I need more Alpine and Feline reader🧎‍♀️🙏

Hello there! Certainly. Funny story, I had accidentally started writing this and made them switch to different animals during the story. So, I finished that, saved, and restarted it. In other words, I’ll have another part for Shapeshifting Shenanigans soon! Thank you for the request and Happy reading!!!

Snack Division

Summary: You and Alpine go on a stealthy investigation to discover who has been stealing Clint’s snacks. (Bucky Barnes x shapeshifter!reader)

Word Count: 1.1k+

Main Masterlist | Shapeshifting Shenanigans Masterlist

It began with a crime.

Not an earth-shattering or a city-burning kind of crime. No, this was quieter. Stickier.

More… crumb-related.

Clint Barton stood in the middle of the Avengers communal kitchen, hands on his hips, staring down at an empty snack cabinet as if it had personally betrayed him.

“Okay,” He said loudly, drawing the attention of no one. “Who keeps stealing my granola bars?”

Sam, passing by with a smoothie, didn’t even break stride. “Not me.”

Natasha didn’t look up from her phone. “Eat faster next time.”

Steve walked in, saw Clint’s expression, and immediately turned around without a word.

But two sets of ears did perk up from the living room: one sleek and white, perched like royalty on the arm of the couch, and one mischievous furry figure curled up in a cozy loaf beneath the coffee table, tail flicking lazily.

You were still in cat form, your favorite form as of late. No meetings or expectations; just naps, treats, and tormenting Bucky with laser-pointer games and couch-stealing schemes.

And across from you: Alpine was fluffy, regal, and completely deadpan. Your unofficial roommate. Occasional rival. Fellow agent of chaos.

The moment Clint grumbled again and muttered something about “installing cameras”, you stretched out, ears flicking with sudden purpose. Alpine raised a brow, her head tilted. You blinked at her. Then slowly stood and hopped onto the arm of the couch beside her.

You didn’t speak, of course. But she understood.

Mission accepted.

By afternoon, the compound had settled into its usual rhythm of busy and loud, layered with footsteps, voices, and tech beeps. But you and Alpine were silent, gliding through the corridors like tiny, determined shadows.

You took the west hallway. She veered east. You sniffed out the crumbs on the kitchen floor finding graham cracker bits and a dried strawberry piece. Alpine scoped out the trash bins, poking her head in like a judgmental raccoon.

In the gym, you both reconvened. Someone had dropped a protein bar wrapper. Alpine tapped it once with her paw, then looked up at you sharply.

You sniffed the foil. Definitely Clint’s.

Alpine flicked her tail and darted out of the room with a sudden burst of speed. You followed, sprinting after her on soft paws, weaving around a confused Vision who floated down the hallway mid-puzzle.

Eventually, Alpine skidded to a stop behind the main lounge’s oversized recliner. You crouched beside her, ears swiveling forward. Voices.

“…didn’t even taste it before it was gone,” Clint was saying, somewhere near the balcony.

Bucky’s voice came next, sounding vaguely tired: “Maybe stop hiding them behind the blender.”

“People shouldn’t touch another man’s snack stash, Barnes.”

Your eyes narrowed as Alpine huffed beside you.

Then, suddenly, a wrapper fluttered from the table and landed on the floor just feet from your hiding place.

You both lunged at it like it was a security clearance file. Alpine swatted it under the couch for safekeeping. You sat back, triumphant, tail curling as you locked eyes with her.

This was no longer just a casual sniff-around. This was a full-blown investigation.

And you? You were going to crack the Case of the Missing Granola Bars wide open.

So, you and Alpine split up again.

You took the south hallway, trailing every snack wrapper like it owed you money. Alpine crept through the vents which Bucky had insisted she shouldn’t fit in the past, and yet she always did; her snow-white tail occasionally visible like a ghost signal.

The compound was full of suspects. Sam, always snacking. Wanda, sleep-eating cereal at 3 a.m. Tony? Too rich to care but dramatic enough to steal out of spite.

But none of them had left the right trail.

Then you found it near the weapons lockers. A plastic wrapper. Crumpled that smelled exactly like Clint’s missing peanut butter granola bar. Not hidden. Not even thrown away. Discarded with guiltless speed.

You pawed at it twice, then turned just as Alpine arrived from the opposite direction.

She took one sniff, then slowly looked up at the nearest door.

Peter Parker’s room.

You and Alpine exchanged a long, meaningful stare. Alpine hissed once. You nodded.

Target acquired.

That night, the two of you set up camp in the hallway outside Peter’s room.

Bucky had gone to sleep two hours ago. He didn’t suspect a thing. Well… he’d muttered something about “weird vibes” and “conspiracy cat energy” when he found you both sitting in the same position on the windowsill like identical gargoyles, but he let it go.

Now, it was just you, Alpine, and the quiet hum of a poorly kept secret.

Alpine crouched behind a large potted plant in the hallway. You were nestled in a shoebox that definitely wasn’t yours.

The second Peter’s door opened with a soft creak, both of you froze. His socked feet padded down the hall. He looked left then right, thought he was alone.

And there it was. The granola bar. Pulled from his own hoodie pocket. it was unwrapped and ate right there casually.

Alpine’s ears twitched. You shifted in your box.

And that’s when Bucky’s voice rang out, gravelly and deadpan: “Why are there two cats sitting outside Peter’s door staring like that?”

Peter screamed and dropped the granola bar.

The next morning, you sat smugly on the kitchen counter, tail curled around your paws like a throne.

Alpine lounged beside you, licking her paw like she had nothing to do with the whole saga even though she absolutely took the lead in dragging the granola evidence straight to Clint’s bed while he was sleeping.

Peter sat at the breakfast bar, slumped and grumbling. “I didn’t steal them. I was borrowing snacks.”

Clint narrowed his eyes. “That’s not how food works.”

“I was gonna replace them!”

“With what?” Bucky asked dryly. “Guilt?”

Alpine hopped into his lap mid-sip of his coffee. You followed, climbing onto his shoulder with all the dignity of a war hero returning from the front lines.

“Great,” Bucky mumbled, voice muffled by a tail to the face. “Now I’m a perch.”

Wanda snorted. “They’re just showing you gratitude.”

“Pretty sure they’re gloating.”

Sam walked in, glanced at the scene, and muttered, “Did we seriously just have a covert snack operation run by cats?”

“They weren’t just cats,” Clint muttered reverently. “They were professionals.”

You purred loudly. Alpine stretched.

Bucky sighed, rubbed your ear with one hand, and mumbled, “I’m surrounded.”

Then, after a moment, he stood and pulled a small package from the fridge. He took out two thin cuts of salmon, already lightly cooked. One for each of you.

“You did good,” He grumbled. “Now stop climbing the curtains.”

You and Alpine shared the spoils of justice in perfect silence. Peter learned his lesson. And the compound would never underestimate the Snack Division again.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Saw a tweet that said “if you don’t open your buttcheeks to the water during a shower, you shouldn’t be giving any life advice” which has me wondering which of the crew + Vi do that, if any of them. I need to know if Silco is able to give life advice based on these parameters alone.

This tweet is on to something and I agree 100%.

Re: Silco and the crew + Vi

Silco: Yes - he's actually a bit neurotic when it comes to keeping folds, cracks and orifices clean in general. So this guy's probably doing some absolutely unhinged yoga positions in the shower to really get that water up there if he needs it. He also has one of those handhelds for really intense washing sessions.

Bonus: it lets him control the stream and keep water out of his bad eye.

Sevika: Her sense of smell is ten times more acute than ordinary people - she can determine with a whiff what you had for lunch, when you last brushed your teeth, how many times you've recycled your socks, etc. With that in mind, she has a low threshold for stench, and makes it a point to wash every day.

I say 'wash', not shower, because like many of her compatriots, running water was a rare luxury. She makes do with a big metal tub, a heavy-duty scrub brush, soap and hot water. Everything gets scoured, cheeks included.

Also it's easier to perform maintenance on her prosthetic this way.

Lock: He's not a fan of showers in general; more a bucket of hot water, a stool, a bar of soap and sponge kind of guy. He grew up in an environment with limited running water and has grown accustomed to low maintenance type of cleanliness. So unless he knows he's getting lucky, or has had an extremely rigorous sparring match, he just uses the aforementioned set up. No cheek-spreading prioritized.

Ran: Showers twice a week. They're one of those freaks of nature with low oil production, so they rarely reek like some of their compatriots. Also they're accustomed to a lifestyle with minimal access to washing facilities, so keeping clean usually just means tidy hands, combed hair, a good toothbrushing regimen, plus a washcloth where it counts on a daily basis.

Cheeks are rarely spread unless it's the height of summer, and they feel they really need it.

Dustin: Showers when Sevika orders him to. Otherwise it's once a week... maybe. His olfactory receptors are dead and his hygiene regimen mostly hinges on whether or not he'll be around the Boss that day. Yes, your boy can go three weeks wearing the same clothes, slathering on layer after layer of cheap cologne, and still think he's a suave motherfucker. At some point, Sevika gets fed up with the reek, and shoves him into the bathroom before locking the door. He won't be allowed out until there's no longer any risk of contagion from coming near him.

Bonus: when Dustin does actually wash, he bathes in an antique clawfoot tub in his grandma's apartment, and will use anything as long as it has bubbles. Soap? Good. Body wash? Better. Dish detergent? Excellent! Just as long as it foams up, he's in.

As for cheek-spreading...meh. Most likely, he'll only scrub what he sees.

Vi: Oh hell yeah, this gal will pull her cheeks apart and wash every bit of her nether regions during a long hot shower. She learned in Stillwater that cleanliness is not guaranteed and so now takes advantage whenever she can.

Also, of Silco's entire crew, she and the boss are neck-and-neck for their obsessive love of showering. In the summer, that can be as often as twice a day.

Jinx: Has a deep-seated dread of stagnant water. As a little girl, she'd wash with Vi in the same tub, with her sister doing most of the shampooing and rinsing. When Silco took her in, she'd legit leave the door ajar and ask him to stay in the adjacent room while she splashed away, consoled by the sound of his voice nearby.

Naturally, Silco ordered the tub removed and a shower installed, because what the hell is this nursery room bullshit? He's a busy man with things to do.

The shower is a replica of his own - detachable head with adjustable settings; lots of different temperatures and massaging effects.

Jinx has only used it five times in seven years.

Mostly she makes do with 'bird baths' i.e. undressing next to the basin, then pouring a disinfectant solution from the mines called Aqua Del Pillar - one part water, two parts lye - over herself before scrubbing with a washcloth . The solution doubles as a styptic for the days when her tattoos were fresh, as well as for removing bacteria and accumulated dirt from her gunpowder-encrusted hair. For every half-liter of aqua del pillar consumed, approximately a pound of toxins is stripped from her pores. Her hair is washed separately over a clean bucket thrice a week, with a concoction made from finely pulverized rosemary, sage and lemon. After rinsing, she brushes her hair with coconut oil to detangle.

As far as spreading the cheeks... yes.

Absolutely yes.

But only if she plans on wearing very fitted shorts that day.

[stealfromthedevil]

Code name: Complicated

A Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish fic.

18+

Warning: Details of sexual behaviour. Implications of sex. Kissing. Making out. Touching. Body worship. Sex. Brief mentions of alcohol, Battlefield trauma and field medicine.

Word count: 1165.

Chapter One. Love is a battlefield.

Speed dating?" Soap muttered with a scowl as he eyed the neon sign above the club door. "You dragged me outta bed for this?"

Gaz grinned,“C’mon, Johnny. You’ve got the charm. Just flash that Scottish accent and they’ll melt.”

"I flash my accent, and half of ‘em think I’m bloody Irish."

“That’s racist,” Gaz snorted, patting his shoulder. “Come on. If I have to suffer through this, so do you.”

Soap groaned but followed his friend inside.

It was some trendy little spot in London, dim lighting, ambient music, cocktails with ridiculous names like "Emotional Damage" and "Spank Me, Daddy." Soap wasn’t sure if he wanted to gag or order one out of curiosity.

The place was buzzing with people. Everyone sat in small round booths as a host with a clipboard explained the rules. Five-minute rounds. No phones. No last names. No personal details. Just vibes.

Easy enough.

Until he sat down in front of her.

You.

"Hey," you greeted, giving him a slow once-over, sipping something neon and sugary from a glass. “You don’t look like a finance bro.”

He huffed a laugh. “That's a compliment?”

“Considering I’ve sat through three crypto pitches and one guy who collects samurai swords? Yes, yes it is.”

Soap tilted his head, eyes narrowing playfully. “What makes ye think I’m not a crypto bro?”

“You don’t have a tragic man bun and your trousers cover your ankles.”

That earned a real laugh from him—low and rich. You liked his laugh.

“I’m Johnny,” he said. “I install… security systems. Commercial and private.”

You smirked. “Oh, you’re one of those guys.”

He raised a brow. “One of what guys?”

“The kind who fake being boring to seem safe. Lemme guess, you’re secretly a spy?”

Soap leaned in with a lazy grin. “And what d’you do then, Miss Not-into-Crypto-Bro’s?”

“I’m a… veterinarian,” you replied smoothly. “Exotic pets, mostly. Ever treated a bearded dragon with a complex?”

“That sounds like my mate Gaz, actually,” he muttered, earning a loud cackle from you.

The timer went off. You were supposed to switch tables, but neither of you moved.

And nobody made you.

The drinks flowed. The flirting got bolder. Your knees touched beneath the table and neither of you pulled away. He was sharp and funny, with piercing ocean blue eyes and a sly mouth that never stopped smirking.

When he kissed you outside, pressed up against the wall near the alley behind the bar, it was like a lit fuse.

The cab ride was a blur.

You straddled his lap in the back seat, kissing like you hadn’t eaten in days and the other was the last bite. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs brushing the bare skin beneath your dress, while your lips mapped every line of his jaw. You couldn’t stop touching him. He couldn’t stop groaning into your mouth like he’d lose his mind if you pulled away.

By the time you stumbled through your apartment door, both of you were breathless—half-laughing, half-mad with the need to feel.

He pressed you against the wall, dragging your dress up your hips as his mouth trailed down your neck, teeth grazing skin with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice husky, accent thick. “You’re stunning. D’you know that?”

You shoved his jacket off his shoulders, fingers greedy as you explored the lean muscle beneath his shirt. He felt like coiled power, all corded arms and sinew, the kind of strength that wasn’t just physical—it was trained. Dangerous. You should’ve been more wary.

But you wanted him like gravity wants falling things.

“You talk too much,” you teased, catching his mouth in another kiss as you walked him backward toward your bedroom.

The second you hit the bed, it was a mess of limbs and fabric and breathless gasps. You tore each other open with mouths and hands, exploring like you were mapping something sacred.

When he finally slid inside you, slow and thick and overwhelming, both of you stilled. The world narrowed to the sharp, perfect ache of where your bodies met. You clung to him, your nails sinking into the strong planes of his back, your thighs wrapping tight around his waist.

He cursed softly, forehead pressed to yours. “Bloody hell, you feel… incredible.”

You smiled through a gasp. “So do you. Don’t stop.”

And he didn’t.

His rhythm built gradually, hips grinding deep and slow, like he wasn’t in a rush—like he wanted to feel everything. Your moans echoed off the walls, tangled with his name as his hands roamed your body like he was memorizing it.

It wasn’t just fucking. It was magnetic. Fluid. Every thrust made your bodies hum in perfect sync. He kissed you like he was starving—messy, deep, open-mouthed kisses that stole your breath and gave it back full of heat.

You cried out as he shifted, hitting a spot that made your legs shake.

“There?” he asked, low and guttural.

You nodded, almost too gone to speak.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and that broke you.

You arched up into him as the orgasm rolled over you, white-hot and blinding. He held you through it, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip like he was grounding himself.

The second you came down, he lost his rhythm—his thrusts turning rough, uneven, desperate.

“Jesus Shittin’ Christ,” he growled as he spilled into you, panting into the curve of your neck, like your name alone had wrecked him.

You stayed tangled together, skin to skin, sweat slicking where your bodies met. Your fingers stroked through the short hair at the back of his head as he caught his breath against your collarbone.

Neither of you said it, but you felt it—something dangerous had just shifted.

Not just chemistry. Not just sex.

A connection.

Unspoken.

Unplanned.

Complicated.

Soap walked into the barracks the next morning feeling smug, sore, and unusually cheerful. Gaz noticed immediately.

“You get lucky last night?”

He only grinned and slapped him on the back. “Best speed date o’ my bloody life.”

Price’s voice cut through the room. “Look alive. Got someone new joining the unit.”

Soap turned as Price stepped aside and introduced the newest medic attached to 141’s field ops rotation.

Shit.

Wearing combat boots, dog tags, and a blank expression that faltered the second your eyes landed on him.

“Meet Sergeant Y/N,” Price continued. “Specialist in trauma response and battlefield medicine. She’ll be attached for the next few months.”

Soap’s brain short-circuited.

You blinked at him, visibly frozen for a second.

Then—like flipping a switch—you smiled, politely and professionally, extending your hand.

“Sergeant MacTavish, right? Pleasure to meet you.”

Gaz raised a brow. “You two know each other?”

Soap cleared his throat, straightening like he hadn’t spent last night making you moan his name.

“No. First time.”

But your fingers brushed his palm just long enough to whisper: This is gonna be complicated, isn’t it?

[pollka1]

The world was on fire and no one could save me but you

Summary - Sam catches Josh just in time

⚠️ WARNING - Mentions of suicide ⚠️

Characters - Sam Giddings, Josh Washington

Genre - angst

Character speech is colour coded:

Red = Sam

Blue = Josh

Snow fell like ash. Thick and slow, smothering the bridge in a silence that had become unbearable.

Josh stood at the edge of the bridge near his house, just beyond the safety rail his father had paid a crew to install two summers ago. A precaution, Bob had said. For insurance, maybe. For peace of mind. As if iron bars could stop the kind of fall that mattered.

The wind bit at his cheeks, turning them red, but he didn't move. He hadn't moved for what felt like hours.

Behind him, the house windows glowed dimly. His parents were gone again—movie shooting in L.A., or maybe something in New York this time. He hadn’t asked. They left him with money, a half-stocked alcohol cabinet, and a prescription bottle with fewer pills than he remembered taking.

A month. A month since the mountain swallowed his sisters whole. A month of search parties, press releases, interviews, and false hope. A month of no closure. No bodies. No answers.

Just silence.

He stared into the white. The drop was steep. Clean. The cars below moved quickly, even with the snow in the way, but they’d do the job if a car were to hit him as he fell. Probably. He wasn’t sure if he wanted pain. Maybe it would be fair.

He pressed his fingers against the cold metal of the railing and closed his eyes.

He should’ve done something that night. Anything.

Instead, he’d passed out, blacked out on alcohol. By the time he’d come to, it was daylight, and everyone was still at the lodge.

“Josh.”

The voice snapped him out of it.

He turned, blinking against the wind. Sam stood there, bundled in a heavy jacket, cheeks flushed. Her boots crunched over the snow as she approached.

“How the hell did you—”

“Chris told me where you might go.” Her voice was calm, but her eyes flicked toward the edge. “You weren’t answering your phone.”

He scoffed, rubbing at his face. “Didn’t know I had to check in.”

“You don’t.” She took another step closer. “But it’s freezing out here, and you’ve been gone since this morning.”

He didn’t respond.

“Josh.” Her voice was gentler now. “Let's go inside.”

He looked at her. Really looked. And something in his chest cracked—like ice breaking under pressure.

“I can’t keep doing this, Sam.”

“I know.” She reached out, hand hovering near his arm but not touching. “But don’t do this. Not this way.”

He almost laughed. “Why not? Maybe it’d make things easier. For everyone.”

“No,” she said sharply, stepping between him and the edge. “Not for your parents. Not for Chris. Not for me.”

He was quiet for a long time. The only sound was the wind moving through the trees.

“Every night,” he whispered, “I close my eyes and I see them out there. Cold. Alone. I can't stop imagining my sisters are still out there...”

Sam’s eyes welled. She reached out, gently this time, hand curling around his wrist.

“You don’t have to be alone like this.”

Josh didn’t pull away from her touch, but he didn’t move either.

The wind howled behind them, rising like a scream through the trees, then vanishing into stillness again. Sam didn’t rush him. She stood there, holding his wrist, eyes not leaving his.

He felt the shaking in his hands before he noticed it. It started small—barely a tremble. But then it spread through his arms, into his chest, until his whole body buzzed like the strings of a piano hit too hard.

“I keep thinking,” he said hoarsely, “what if she ran because of me?”

Sam frowned. “Josh—”

“No, just—listen. Hannah liked Mike. Everyone knew that. I knew that. I should’ve known something like that would happen. I should’ve stopped it. I should’ve stopped them.” His voice cracked. “They all laughed. And I just let it happen.”

“You didn’t let anything happen,” Sam said, voice firm but kind. “You were passed out, remember? You didn’t even know.”

He tore his wrist free—not violently, but like it hurt too much to be held. He turned away from her, running a hand through his hair.

“I should’ve known. That’s the thing. I should’ve been watching them. I should’ve been watching her.”

Sam moved beside him, not touching him this time. “You loved them. That’s what matters.”

“What does that even mean?” His voice lifted, bitter now. “I loved them, yeah. So fucking much it hurts to breathe. And they’re still gone. My love didn’t stop anything. It didn’t save anyone.”

He dropped to his knees in the snow suddenly, hands covering his face, breath coming fast.

Sam hesitated for only a second before kneeling beside him. The snow soaked through her jeans, but she didn’t care.

“Josh…”

“I’ve tried,” he gasped. “I’ve tried everything. Pills. Talking to Alan. Pretending I’m fine so Mom doesn’t cry when she sees me. But nothing changes. Nothing gets better.”

He lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, glassy. The most broken she’d ever seen him.

“They aren’t coming back. And I don’t want to be here if they’re not.”

There it was. The truth, raw and bleeding.

Sam didn’t say anything for a moment. Just breathed beside him, trying not to fall apart herself.

“You’re right,” she finally said. “They’re gone. And it hurts like hell. But you don’t have to go with them, Josh.”

He laughed bitterly. “Why not? What’s left?”

“I’m left.”

Her voice cracked on the words.

Josh stared at her.

“Chris is. Ashley. Your parents, even if they suck at showing it. I’m here, and I’m scared out of my mind that I almost lost you just now.”

She grabbed his hand again and this time he didn’t pull away.

“You think it would make things easier,” she whispered. “But it won’t. You’ll just pass the pain onto someone else. And then it never ends.”

“I’m tired, Sam.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think I can do this.”

“You don’t have to do it alone.”

They sat there in the snow for a long time. No more words. Just silence and breathing.

Eventually, she helped him up. He stumbled a little, but didn’t resist.

“Let’s go inside,” she said gently.

Josh looked one last time toward the edge.

Then he nodded.

...

The fire was out. The living room felt cold, even with the heat technically on. Josh sank into the couch while Sam threw more logs into the fireplace, hands slightly trembling as she struck a match.

“I’m making tea,” she said, disappearing into the kitchen.

Josh stared at the flames.

When she came back, she handed him a mug with both hands. Her fingers brushed his. He didn’t say thank you, but she didn’t expect him to.

They sat in silence for a while. The tea steamed between them. He didn’t drink his.

“I used to think,” Josh muttered, “that I was the protector. You know? The big brother. I was supposed to keep them safe.”

“You did protect them. All the time. Just… not that night.”

He flinched.

“Sorry,” Sam said quickly. “I just mean…you couldn’t have known. No one knew it would go that far.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself,” he whispered.

“You might not. But you can still survive it.”

He finally looked at her. “What if I don’t want to?”

She hesitated.

“Then I’ll sit with you anyway.”

He let out a long breath. Something close to a sob, but softer. He leaned his head back against the couch, eyes shut.

“I miss them so much.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t know how to not miss them.”

Sam leaned against his shoulder. “You don’t have to. Just keep breathing.”

He didn’t respond. But after a while, his head tilted slightly toward hers. Not quite leaning, but enough.

The fire hissed and crackled, throwing soft gold onto the walls and floor. Snow still fell outside, thick and silent. The tea in Josh’s mug had gone cold, untouched, resting on the coffee table.

Sam hadn’t moved from his side.

Josh stared into the flames, hands folded tightly in his lap. The silence between them was quieter now—less suffocating, more like breathing room. He hadn’t spoken in nearly fifteen minutes, and Sam hadn’t pressed him. She was just there.

And that mattered more than anything else.

Finally, his voice came—low and dry. “You know something funny?”

Sam glanced up. “What?”

He kept staring ahead. “Out of all of them…you're the only one who understands me.”

She was quiet.

He rubbed his hands together absently, skin pale from the cold, knuckles scraped raw. “Chris is my best friend, yeah. But he always laughs things off. Always changes the subject when things get serious. Ashley barely talks to me unless it was about Chris or something geeky. Jess never looked past herself. Emily...well, she liked Beth more.”

He swallowed hard. “But you…you listen. Like actually listen. Even when I don’t make sense. Even when I'm rambling about stuff that doesn’t matter to anyone but me.”

He turned his head slightly. His eyes were soft now—tired, red, but genuine.

“You didn’t laugh when I said I didn’t feel real sometimes. You didn’t look at me weird when I talked about how everything felt…fake. Like I was just going through the motions, trying to be someone everyone else could stand.”

Sam felt her throat tighten.

“I never said anything because… I didn’t want it to be a burden. You had your own shit. Everyone does. But somehow, you never made me feel like I was too much.” He gave a bitter chuckle. “Even when I was.”

“You weren’t,” she said quietly. “You aren’t.”

Josh shook his head slowly. “You say that now. But you don’t know what it’s like in here.” He tapped his temple. “It’s everything. The noise in my head, the emptiness when it’s quiet. The guilt. It doesn’t stop. I'm just sad all the time.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands buried in his hair.

“I wake up and I forget for a second. Just a second. And then I remember—they’re gone. I let them go. And then it all crashes down again.”

He looked at her, eyes shimmering with something between anger and despair.

“I want to scream. I want to punch a wall. I want to drink until I pass out and forget again. But none of it helps. Nothing helps.”

Sam’s eyes burned. She wanted to hold him, but she knew he wasn’t ready for that yet.

So instead, she said, “I can’t fix it, Josh. I wish to God I could. But I can sit here with you. I can keep showing up.”

“I don’t know how to let anyone in anymore.”

“You don’t have to know. Just…don’t push me out.”

He blinked at her, and something in him cracked—again.

“I don’t know why it matters so much, but it does,” he whispered. “That it’s you. That you’re here. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this. I didn’t think anyone could see me like this and still give a damn.”

Sam smiled weakly, blinking away her tears. “Well, sorry to disappoint.”

He huffed out a sound that might’ve been a laugh. “You never do.”

They sat together, firelight dancing across their faces. The weight of the world hadn’t lifted, not even close—but Josh didn’t feel like he was suffocating under it anymore.

“I think if you hadn’t come out there tonight,” he said after a long pause, “I'd already be dead.”

Sam’s heart stopped. She didn’t respond right away. Just stared at him, her face crumpling slightly.

“Then I’m glad I found you.”

Josh turned toward her fully now, his voice barely a breath. “I meant it, you know. What I said. You’re the only one who ever saw me for me. Just…Josh.”

She reached over, fingers brushing lightly against his wrist again. “I see you, Josh. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He looked at her hand. Then at her.

And for the first time in a while, he finally had a reason to stay a little while longer.

[mongoosingisme]

Hi, hello.

If you've been following my Harvey series "Sticking the Landing," you may like to know that the first chapter of the next installment is up on AO3.

It got a little long so I won't be posting it on Tumblr, but you can find it here:

~Woooooo new chapter yaaaaay~

There's also a little NSFW preview below the cut.

Harvey hummed, smiling, and kissed you again. His hand dragged across your back, over your hip, slowly up your rib cage, until finally he was cupping your breast. He squeezed it gently, the pressure really waking up your core now, spiking your pulse, and you wanted to fit yourself fully into his hands, let him guide you, put all the pieces of the evening in place.

Was this selfish of you? Maybe. But Harvey didn’t seem to mind.

And maybe you didn’t have to be perfect for him anyway.

He rolled your nipple between his fingers, tongue pressing further into your mouth. You sighed, then let your hand drift around his cock. He was half hard, but as you gripped him you could feel him pulse and stiffen further.

He made a low groan into your mouth.

You squeezed him a little. 

He groaned a little louder, crowded you back against the shower wall. There was a metal bar there that ran parallel to the floor, just the right height for you to settle your hips back against. You kept ahold of his cock, running your hand up and down its length, squeezing gently near the top, letting your fingers trail down over his sac. 

Yoba, it felt good. Unhurried and close, the sound of the shower closing you off from the rest of the world. Harvey’s hands and mouth were building you up by degrees, sloughing away the rough edges of the day, quieting your mind, stopping the gears from grinding, and before long you were feeling unencumbered, absolutely pliant as his hips moved in small stutters towards yours.

“I… there’s something I always wanted to try.” His voice was low, quiet in your ear.

“Yes,” you said quickly, giving his cock another squeeze.

Harvey gasped at the pressure, then laughed. “You don’t want to know what it is first?” 

“If the past is any guide, whatever you have planned is going to work out pretty well for me, so I see no reason to question things.” You gave him another good stroke, loving the way his eyes fell closed for a minute. 

“You’re… okay, here.” He gently removed your hand from his cock, pressed it back to the bar behind you. You snickered, wrapped your other hand right back around his length. “Be good,” he chuckled, pressing that hand against the bar too.

“That’s no fun,” you protested.

Harvey grinned, then reached up for the shower head. “If this goes to plan, this will be fun for both of us.” 

Oh.

Oh, okay.

[whiteravengreywolf]

The Crimson Comet - A Star Wars Story

A/N: Hello everyone! Here it finally is, after much teasing, the next installment of "The Life of the Wolf, the Wren, and their Cub"! This novel-length fanfiction will be updated every Sunday without fail. Here is the beginning of the story and if you'd like to read the rest, the link will be at the end! Enjoy!

The holoprojector in the center of the dashboard flickered to life, and the one-foot-tall image of Captain Jacen Syndulla materialized. He ran a hand over his green goatee then waved.

“Hey, cuz! I hope you’re doing alright. Aunt Sabine said you were helping a dig on Concord Dawn but that was a few months ago, I’m sure you’ve moved on already. Anyway, I thought I’d call. The Resistance could use your help right about now. General Organa is sending out people searching for Luke Skywalker, and we think we have a lead, but just in case, I figured I’d call. I don’t know anyone who knows as much about old Jedi temples and ruins as you do, maybe you know where he could be hiding. Call me back if you have anything, alright?”

With another smile and a wave, the image faded. Uschi reclined back into the captain’s chair, staring where the hologram had stood a moment ago.

“You’re thinking what I’m thinking?”

On the back of her chair, BD-L1A let out a series of beeps indicating her agreement. The three-foot droid, made from the head of a BD unit on the body of a DUM pit droid, climbed off the seat and landed in the cockpit with a thud. Uschi stood and followed her to the corridor.

“I’ll text him. No need to gets his hopes up.” As they crossed into the living room, she realized just how silent the ship actually was. The couch was empty, the kitchen hadn’t been used since breakfast that morning, and she couldn’t hear a sound coming from the living quarters. “I thought they’d be back already,” she said as she checked her wrist com. Then, she picked up her old leather jacket – her buir’s technically – from the edge of the booth and slid it on. “I’ll go get them. Keep an eye on the ship.”

BD-L1A beeped and made a military salute, then scurried off back into the cockpit. Uschi slid down the ladder in the corner and entered the almost always empty cargo bay, where the ramp was still open. Already, she could hear music coming from the city all around the spaceport. Luman was an industrial city, and they liked to party hard after their shift. Hands in her pockets, Uschi retraced her steps to the underground bar she had left only twenty minutes earlier.

She walked through the busy Rust Garden where the rave was its liveliest, brushing past a small group of Twi’leks wearing glow stick around their necks, wrists, and lekkus. A wave of shouts rose from her left, where a packed crowd was watching a pod race, and it was clear a fan favorite had bit the dust.

Uschi squeezed between a bunch of drunk people to get to the entrance of the Bloody Crater. A staircase led into the bar, the name in bright Aurebesh letters written in a rainbow neon sign above. Because of the intense mining during the Empire era, a lot of the city had been rebuilt on top mines and quarries. The Bloody Crater had been a quarry, three floors deep of white stone now plunged in the dark. The only spotlights were on the fighting pit in the center.

Her feet followed the slight angle of the spiraling floor as she kept an eye out for the rest of her crew. She’d left them near the bar, so it stood to reason that they were still there, despite the elapsed time. A techno-droid DJ was mixing the music that blast from every corner of the enclosed room, but despite its loudness, the crowd on the lowest floor watching the fight was louder.

Halfway down the club she finally spotted Zan’s shape as he stood against the metal banister to watch the fight, a cocktail glass with a slice of pamperose in one hand. The Mikkian’s mantis green color was hard to spot in the dimness of the bar, but his telltale head tendrils cut a singular shape in the crowd. She slid beside him and he took a sip of his drink through a metal straw.

“I think I got something,” she told him, just loud enough that he could hear her, though he technically had no ears.

“A job?” he replied.

“Not exactly. It could help a lot of people though.”

Zan nodded. He was a scholar like her, though his focus wasn’t history and archeology, but rather nature and biodiversity. Still, he didn’t mind going on those impromptu leads that may or may not pay out. He wasn’t the hard one to convince.

“Where’s Jyn?” she asked.

Zan sighed, and it was answer enough, but he added:

“Where do you think?”

Uschi shook her head as she looked toward the fighting pit.

“Is she winning at least?”

“She might if she remembered not to block with her face.”

FULL STORY HERE

[princehendir]

Let's talk about ghosts. What experience made you go ''I am not sure, But...''?

There was a bunch of weird stuff that used to happen in the building where I work. Like, before the new door got installed, what separated the business space from the rest of the building when we were closed was one of those heavy pull down metal rolling grates like the kind they use in malls. And sometimes if you were in there after hours you would hear the distinct (and loud!) sound of someone grabbing the bars and giving it a hard shake or like, slamming their open palm against it, but when you would go to look there would be absolutely no one around, no sounds to suggest some prankster was bolting in the other direction, nothing. Multiple people separately experienced this without previously knowing it was a thing. Another thing that would happen is that if you were at the server's station you would hear someone behind you get your attention from very close, only to turn around and see no one was close enough, and no one was trying to get your attention. This would mostly happen during busy lunches and it was very irritating. A lot of places in the building also just generally felt like, creepy, in a hard to define way.

None of this really got to me though. It's a really old building, old buildings make sounds, especially if they're not being maintained very well, and this one really wasn't, at the time. The vibes were also bad because occupancy was quite low and the maintenance guy was really not keeping up with the lightbulb situation very well, so it was often dim and people were often alone in spaces that were built to hold a lot of people, which explained some of the creep factor. Hearing stuff by the server's station did freak me out for a little bit, but after fucking around with my brother some I did manage to recreate the echo effect that was making things from across the room sound like they were right next to you. Weird building acoustics, it was nothing.

What got to me was the second floor bathroom.

So I used to go upstairs to use that bathroom, despite there being one on the basement floor where I work, because the second floor was basically unoccupied and I was tired of customers trying to chat me up at the sink (who does this btw. Please don't do this.). I always felt weirdly watched on the second floor which I hated, and the lighting in the bathroom itself cast a shadow in the end stall that made it look like it was occupied when it wasn't, which i also hated, but it was infinitely cleaner and less populated than the one on my floor so I kept going.

Also, the automatic paper towel dispenser was set up wrong, so it would dispense a towel every time you turned on the light in there. Further context: there was a sign at the time asking you to turn the lights off when you left, because if you left the lights on for an extended period of time it would get unbearably fucking hot in there. Cannot emphasize enough how useless the landlord and maintenance guy at the time were.

Anyways, one day I have my hand on the door knob, and I hear a paper towel dispense from behind the door, and I think oh okay. Well someone else is in there I guess. Open the door. No one is in there. Also the lights are on, but it isn't hot, so I know they haven't been on for very long. No one was working on the upper floors that day.

I do my business. I turn off the lights, and no paper towel dispenses. I close the door behind me, no paper towel dispenses. But as I'm walking away, I hear a paper towel dispense. In a dark room that no one is in. Which could mean nothing.

Next week I'm in the bathroom again, and I start to feel creeped out so I say out loud "anyone else in here?" in kind of a jokey voice, and after a beat, a fucking paper towel dispenses.

1. The lights were on

2. I was not moving. I was not standing anywhere near the sensor. I could not set off the motion detector from where I was standing. Trust me. I checked.

It was basically the scariest thing that had ever happened to me.

So I say out loud "okay. That's cool. I was just checking." And then I left and didn't use that bathroom again for like a month.

When I did start using the upstairs bathroom again though, because I missed the clean, mostly private service it provided, a couple other smaller but still weird things happened , and I always felt Looked At while I was in there, until eventually I got in the habit of saying "hey! It's just me again" in a cherry voice when I walked in, or some other kind of casual greeting, and that feeling would go away, and eventually stuff stopped happening. Even the thing with the gate downstairs. And like a lot of this was probably psychological on my part, but at the time it really felt like I was using a haunted bathroom that just was choosing not to fuck with me specifically because I was nice to it. This went on for like 9 months until we temporarily closed due to the pandemic. When I came back to work it genuinely just seemed like a normal bathroom.

I still have no fucking idea what that was about.

[ogradyfilm]

Recently Viewed: Final Destination Bloodlines

[The following review contains SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

The Final Destination franchise is horror at its most primal. Although the quality of its individual installments tends to be… inconsistent, to phrase it charitably, its overarching premise is near perfect, distilling the genre to its purest form. What, after all, could possibly be more universal than the fear of one’s own mortality? Death is inevitable, pervasive, and relentless; it hunts us from the moment we’re born, surrounds us every hour of every day, and always vanquishes its prey eventually. Regardless of when you read this sentence, somebody—many people, in fact—will have taken their last breath by the time you reach the punctuation mark. Yet we constantly defy this fundamental truth of nature, stubbornly (albeit not unreasonably) clinging to life—or at least struggling (in vain) to find some semblance of meaning amidst the senseless tragedies that we regularly endure. And Final Destination depicts this innately human impulse—survival at any cost—in the most literal, blunt, extreme manner imaginable.

The latest entry in the series, Final Destination Bloodlines, continues this proud tradition, elaborating on the themes of its predecessors without feeling like a shallow regurgitation of old material (a common flaw in belated sequels); indeed, it frequently subverts and deconstructs the familiar tropes that fans have come to expect, to both dramatic and comedic effect. The previous movies, for example, featured gloriously deranged set pieces that resembled blood-soaked Rube Goldberg devices—precisely calibrated machines of slaughter that ranged from needlessly convoluted to outright absurd, replete with deviously sadistic bait-and-switches and hilariously abrupt anticlimaxes. Here, filmmakers Zach Lipovsky and Adam Stein fully exploit that established foundation to generate maximum tension; their lens lingers on every potential threat, lending mundane, innocuous objects a sinister edge, thereby crafting a palpably ominous atmosphere. In one particularly suspenseful scene, our protagonists, having already witnessed plenty of incomprehensibly improbable carnage, briefly hesitate before navigating the perils of… an automated revolving door; in another, our heroine predicts an unlikely sequence of events that might culminate in a friend’s demise, and is so relieved upon apparently being proven wrong that she fails to notice the exact scenario that she described unfolding in the background of the shot mere seconds later (completely out-of-focus, to boot!)—the most deliciously unceremonious payoff in the history of cinema.

A word of caution: as I hope the above paragraphs have adequately conveyed, Final Destination Bloodlines is not for the faint of heart or the weak of stomach. The trademark opening premonition alone boasts multiple instances of defenestration, immolation, impalement, dismemberment (including an absolutely sick vertical bisection via malfunctioning elevator), and an especially gruesome degloving. It’s a deliberately confrontational introduction—an outrageously gory spectacle that immediately sets the tone for the story to follow, promising/warning that any subsequent violence will be equally graphic, excessive, and maximalist.

It serves its intended purpose with an almost unnerving degree of enthusiasm.

Gleefully grotesque, chillingly macabre, darkly humorous, refreshingly sincere (unlike Osgood Perkins’ gratingly irreverent The Monkey), and even surprisingly poignant on occasion (thanks in large part to the presence of the late, great Tony Todd—reprising his role as the no-longer-quite-so-enigmatic Bludworth—who contributes some much-needed gravitas to the narrative), Final Destination Bloodlines is a contender for the best chapter in the saga. I realize that probably sounds like a rather low bar to the uninitiated, but trust me: it’s very high praise.

[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 3 - Post #6: You can find me in the Club

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 3.5K (of 45K total in Volume 3)

Rating: Explicit - smut, language, +18 *NSFW*

__________________________________________

VI. Gwellis Bagnoro is waiting for you near the front of the club and waves you over. Neon Dreams. Good name for a nightclub in Daiyu City. 

It’s a clusterfuck inside. This dark, cavernous warehouse that looks like it might have been some kind of industrial factory in a previous life. 

Despite the crush, everyone steps aside to give Mando a path without looking up from their drinks. 

Must be nice. 

You, on the other hand, have to quickstep to follow in his wake before the press of bodies can drag you away like a riptide into this sea of black silhouettes and glitter.

“Gwellis,” is the extent of the Mandalorian’s greeting. He tosses the cloak over his shoulder so his holster remains within reach before sliding into the booth and making sure he had a clear line of sight toward the entrance. 

Once again, there’s only one way in or out of this establishment. Why did no one in this godsforsaken town worry about safe and unobstructed exit routes? 

A server soon arrives with a bottle of cloudy liquor and three glasses. He gives the Mandalorian a sly wink before heading back to the bar. Because no one in this galaxy is immune to a six-foot-three hunk of muscle in shining Beskar armor, ladies and gentlemen.

Gwellis uses a vocoder, so you’ll actually be able to keep up with this conversation. If you don’t go deaf from the throbbing bass coming through the club’s sound system. It’s clear why this place is popular with folks engaged in the...clandestine economy. Unlike the cosmopolitan nightclubs of the Inner Rim, there are no elevated lounges or platforms for elite clientele to preen and exhibit. Visibility is terrible, and you can’t hear a fucking thing. 

“Mandalorian, I am glad we can do business.”

Gwellis helps himself to the liquor and pours you a drink. A thoughtful gesture considering the Onodone immediately pulls his trunk up from his lap and drops it down the neck of the bottle to suck up the remaining liquid inside. You’re kind of a lightweight, so you decide to sip yours. And, of course, Mando’s glass goes untouched.

Having sucked the bottle dry, Gwellis gets down to business. From beneath his robes, he pulls out a data-pad and scrolls over the screen. “I was surprised to receive this commission. Disguise is not the way of a Mandalorian.”

“It’s not for a job,” he says, tilting his head toward you. “My friend, she needs some new identification. ID, chaincode, and an implant.”

Gwellis studies you and taps something into the data-pad. “A war orphan from Saleucami, I think. Gone missing amidst the rubble from the siege.”

Fuck. Tragic but very plausible. You nod.

“Can you pass for human?”

When you nod again, Mando fixes his view plate on you. It was a subtle turn of his head, and someone who didn’t know him well wouldn’t have caught the shift in his attention. But you do.

“Good. Human will be easier.”   

Gwellis regards you for a moment before launching into an incomprehensible stream of noises. The vocoder stays silent, so the high-pitched clicks and whistles are for the Mandalorian’s ears only.

“He says it’ll cost you fifty thousand credits.”

Shit! With Vos’ reward, you can afford it, sure, but that’s a lot of fucking money. And the fact that it’s exactly the same amount you just received from Vos feels like a weird fucking coincidence. 

Dammit, you had planned to save at least ten thousand of that for jewelry. Why must all your victories be so fleeting? 

“Arrive at my ship on the twenty-seventh hour.”

You finish your drink in one gulp as you watch the Onodone disappear back into the crowd. 

“I told you it wasn’t going to be cheap,” Mando says evenly. 

“You didn’t kick him under the table, so I’m sure it’s a fair price.”

“We’ll use funds for the job to cover it.”

“No, that’s okay. I know Nito needs money to buy some gear, and we should probably save the rest for Ubaa’s crew and payoffs.” You take a deep sigh. “Plus, it’s a good investment for me now anyway.” 

The Mandalorian pauses to take in your expression. Which must be challenging given how little of your face is visible with the hood and visor on.

“Don’t think it’ll withstand a serious background check, but you could probably get a straight job after this.”

After this? Working with Mando, life had been unfolding one day at a time. You hadn’t put much thought into the future. Yet here he was, anticipating the day you’d finally ‘come to your senses’ and choose safe, civilian life. It’s hard to believe that could be a possibility. 

“I already have a job,” you say wryly. 

Whatever he might think, right now, you’re not ready to imagine a life without him.   

“But, thank you. I’m relieved to have this kind of cover. I didn’t know anyone who could do this for me when I went underground. I mean…I knew that I must have ended up in some database…But, kriffing hell, it took months to coordinate our clinic deliveries. And yet the New Republic can just drop whatever they’re doing to run a cross-check?”

“Are you just now realizing how they hold this galaxy together?” He scoffed. “Surveillance and security is what they’ve got to offer.”

“Mando…that’s a shockingly pointed bit of social criticism. I didn’t take you for a revolutionary.”

“I’m not. But I’m also not blind to how this all works.” There’s a subtle switch in mood before he rests an elbow on the table. “Can I ask you something?”

“Um, sure. Yeah. I’d like to resume normal adult conversation.”

He sighs roughly and tosses his head.

“You know you’re not getting the deposit back for that room, Mando.”

You catch him mumbling something about cheap drywall and try not to snicker. While it’s absolutely ridiculous behavior for a grown man to punch holes in the wall…you can understand that Mandalorian warrior culture probably doesn’t impart a lot of wisdom about dealing with complex emotions like guilt and shame. 

And hell, this is coming from a woman whose coping response was to cry and masturbate in the shower, so who are you to judge?

You lean in over the table to hear him better, “What did you want to ask me?”

“How are you planning to pass for human?” 

You try not to blush when he leans closer, too, and you sit huddled together with your knees touching under the table.

“If I remove the reflective tissue from my eyes…that’s really the only visible difference.”

“Remove? How?”

“Do you want me to go into detail? Most people get the heebie-jeebies thinking about cutting—”

“Alright, fine.” He holds up a hand to stop you. “If it’s that simple, why didn’t…sorry, maybe that’s not something you want to talk about.”

“No, no! I’m never going discourage you from taking an interest in me,” you grin. Then, sigh. It’s a deeply personal topic to get into while trying to shout over a bass system. “I’ve probably been holding onto this delusion that someday I’d get to go back home. But there’s…not really anything to go back to…”

“What about your family? Your brother?”

That’s another topic you’re not prepared to get into at Neon Dreams, so you just shake your head no. 

“There’s nobody waiting for me—well, no one who’s waiting to welcome me back.” 

“Could you…reverse it?” Mando asks in a surprisingly gentle voice. “Make the tissue regrow?”

“Maybe,” you smile at him sheepishly.

“I’m sorry you have to do this, Thuli, and that it feels like you’re losing a part of yourself,” he places a gloved hand over yours to stop you from twisting your fingers into knots. “But, it’s the right choice. The smart choice.”  

Is this what Mando told himself when he swore the Creed? He took so much pride in being Mandalorian…had it been an easy decision for him to leave the life and dreams of that little boy behind. Your heart clenches in your chest, overwhelmed with this realization of your shared loss. 

Is that why you don’t want to give up on him? Because you’re hoping that mending his heart will somehow make yours whole again? Wouldn’t that be nice…

“Didn’t think this would be your scene, Mando.” You attempt a coy tone to lighten the mood and change the subject. Not too coy, though. You’re afraid to flirt with him that openly after all your talk about respecting boundaries. “Are we about to embark on a wild night of partying without the kids?”

Even though he hasn’t had anything to drink, Mando does seem more relaxed despite the chaotic surroundings. He extends an arm across the back of the booth and stretches his legs out under the table, crossing them at the ankle. Of course, he’s even sexier in this casual, languid pose.    

“We have three hours to kill. I’m getting comfortable.” He nods behind you towards the back of the club, where the pulsing vibrations emanate. “Knock yourself out.”

You look over at the dance floor, where shimmering neon incandescence rains down on the revelers below. It looks fun, actually. Like the kind of place you’d go to on leave with some of your fellow medics. Get drunk, dance, sing badly, find someone to bring home for the night, and forget the brutality and brushes with death for a night.

“Do you like dancing?” You ask on a whim. “Or, do Mandalorians not dance?”

“After game hunting, there is usually a…ceremony.”

“Ah, so liturgical dance!” Your eyes go wide. “Hmmmm, I don’t think the DJ plays Mandalorian chants. Guess I’m on my own.” 

“You like this kinda of place?” He asks, sounding almost disdainful. Good. It’s easier to maintain the distance between you when you’re reminded that despite some shared trauma, your personalities are still galaxies apart.

“Yeah,” you grin defiantly. “You don’t have to be some club kid to enjoy the distraction of getting drunk and rubbing up against beautiful strangers. It's a good way to wash the taste of war out of your mouth.”   

“I can understand that,” he says earnestly. 

And you begin to wonder what, exactly, does a Mandalorian do to decompress? 

You’ve known some elite soldiers, and their work always burned holes into them—which needed to be filled. Sometimes, they’d filled those holes in their hearts with you. But that wasn’t the case for Mando. Ditto on drinking, drugs, and dancing, apparently.     

“So you don’t go clubbing. What’s something you do do for fun? 

“Fun?”

“Yes. There’s a word for it in Mando’a. Nuhur? Good times? So I know Mandalorians are familiar with the concept.” He sighs as though you’ve asked him to perform long division. “You love throwing knives, isn’t that a Mandalorian game?”

He laughs—an actual, audible laugh. “When did you learn Mando’a?”

“We spend literally days at a time in hyperspace.”

“And this is what you do when you aren’t playing cards with Nito?” 

“Yes. I read. I learn things.” Lately, you’ve become particularly interested in researching Mandalorian mating customs. “Don’t you want the kid to know your culture?” 

“He’s a foundling, and I’m in his debt for saving me from the Mudhorn. My duty, by Creed, is to protect him. But this is no life for a child. Once it’s safe, I’ll find a real home for him.”

“Home is who you make it with, not where.” Whether he admits it or not, Mando loves that kid like a father, and you’re not going to let him just dismiss the depth of that relationship. “You seem pretty real to me.”

“What made you leave?” 

“Huh?”

“What made you leave Hapes?” 

Dammit, he’s too good at catching you off guard with these probing questions. You reach for an easy answer, but when you begin to respond, he cuts you off with a raised hand. “I know you ran away to join the Rebellion. That’s not the whole story. Not with the home you left behind.”

“Everyone expects life inside a royal palace to be so glamorous, but it is, above all else, exceedingly tedious.”

“Getting attacked by lions is tedious?”

Wow. You hadn’t expected him to acknowledge that conversation at all, given what happened afterward.

“Can I ask you about one of your scars?” You look up at him timidly. “Like how you got that one on your calf?”

It was a jagged white thunderbolt running from his heel to the back of his knee. 

“I killed an Altagak. At the time, our Covert was located on Altora. They can consume entire herds—and villages. The locals asked us to rid them of the beast. The scar running along my calf is from its tusk.”

“How old were you?”

“I was fourteen. It was…an important trial for me.” 

“I imagine it's hard?” You grimace, “to kill an Altagak? It’s an apex predator.”

“With tusks,” Mando nods. Which surprises you to a huff of laughter. He’s getting better at making jokes.

“You’re lucky it didn’t cripple you.”

“Lucky I wasn’t gored. Not everyone survived.”

You raise your glass and arch an eyebrow, “Thank the gods for skilled healers.”

“Hmmmm,” his exhalation hums through the modulator. “It’s always impressive how effortlessly you manage to avoid answering my questions.” 

Mando’s tone starts off playful when suddenly, out of the corner of your eye, you see his body retract sharply. His elbows come to rest on his knees as though he’s poised to launch himself out of the booth. 

You look around to see a tall, stormy blue Twi’lek approaching your table, a gigantic grin spread across his face. The Mandalorian is a formidable warrior, but this guy could give him a run for his money—he’s big and broad, his tattoed arms clearly toned with use.

“Mando,” the Twi’lek places a hand on the Mandalorian’s shoulder. “It is you!” 

“Bril,” Mando sighs in exasperation but extends himself to clasp the man’s outstretched forearm in the most congenial gesture you’ve ever witnessed from the bounty hunter. “It’s been a while.” 

You can’t be sure if they’re friends, but Bril is at least confident he’s not about to be stabbed because he slides amicably into the booth next to Mando. 

“Your new business partner?” He winks at you, and before you can stop yourself, you smile back.

“Something like that,” the Mandalorian mutters. 

“You did always have a thing for the bad girls, Mando.”

Behind Bril is his female Twi’lek companion. She is stunningly beautiful.

Literally, you feel your breath catch in your throat when your eyes meet. Her skin is the color of sea coral, and she had adorned her lekku in gold thread, woven with gemstones, beads, and pearls, all braided through her golden headband. She takes a seat on the stool next to Bril, directly across the table from you, and you try your best not to gawk. 

Bril waves over a droid with another bottle of liquor. You probably shouldn’t look wasted in the photos for your forged identification, so you’re taking it slow. But whatever this beverage is, it’s pretty strong, and you definitely feel its effects.

“Thought you left all this behind, Mando? Working for the Guild. Keeping your hands clean,” the Twi’lek says conversationally, placing a hand on his companion’s thigh. “But, I still hear things.” 

While the Mandalorian doesn’t elaborate, Bril’s good spirit remains undeterred. You get the sense that they might, in fact, be friends. At least this is the first person you’ve met who wasn’t harboring some underlying hostility towards him.

It’s a tantalizing prospect. Maybe you’ll get to learn a little bit more about Mand—

“Like that shit with Ranzar. Handing your ex over to the feds, Mando? That’s cold even for you.”

Wait, what?

That, right there, how you nearly snap your neck from the speed with which you turn to look at Mando, is proof enough that you’ll never be able to play it cool with him. 

“I did what I had to,” the Mandalorian says smoothly without looking at you—or he could be staring you full in the face. How the fuck would you even know?

“Don’t you always,” Bril laughs and shakes his head. “Did you buy the fancy armor with Xi’an’s bounty? Didn’t think she’d fetch that much.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

You down your drink in one gulp and pour another in the hopes that you’ll be less visibly tense over this discovery if you’re drunk. For fucksake you are nearly trembling with shock. Breathe. You gotta slow your breathing. 

Ugh, you might throw up. 

Please, please, dear goddess, have mercy on me and prevent me from dissolving into a panic attack in front of all these people!  Okay, you’re tearing up a little bit, but no one can see behind your visor. 

Every muscle in your body is rigid. You can sense Bril’s companion watching you with concern.  

“I didn’t think Mandalorians coupled,” she purrs in a low voice. 

Yeah, neither did you. 

What is this bizarre weight settling onto your chest? The crush of rejection. And betrayal. 

As though he’s deceived you somehow? Because all this time, you’ve been telling yourself that this barrier between you is because the Mandalorian can’t be intimate—with anyone. That it's forbidden. And now you know that isn’t true. He just doesn’t want to be intimate with you. 

You always did like the bad girls, Mando.

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck. All your smirks and winks and stupid flirting…and all he wanted was some stone-cold bitch. Like Morrigan. 

That figures. Ironic. Just the completely exact opposite personality traits, contrary to the foundational core of your being. You couldn't even be her if you tried.

Gods, you are such an idiot. Throwing yourself at him. You fucking climbed on top of him! Ugh, the shame is so intense you can taste the bile roiling up your throat.  

Bril guffaws, and you're shocked to see him actually nudge the bounty hunter with his elbow. “Your armor doesn’t include a codpiece, does it, Mando?” 

It’s an objectively funny joke, and you’d love to smile away the devastation that’s probably written all over your face, but you refrain from laughing out of misplaced loyalty. 

“I’m here running Spice, of course.” Bril stops howling long enough to resume polite conversation. “You looking for work? I can always stand to elevate my game with a warrior of your caliber, Mando.”  

He'd said, "It wasn't just you" out of...pity? Did he feel sorry for you pathetically thirsting after him?

Aaaaaaaaah, that means you've been this creeper, sexually harassing him for the past how many months now?!

While you desperately search your brain to determine the exact moment in time when you started brazenly flirting with the Mandalorian, Bril’s companion moves around the table to crouch down next to you.

“Hey,” she looks up at you through her long, dark lashes. “Do you like MARTINE?”

“W-w-what?!” You stutter, surprised out of your shame spiral by the unexpected question. “Um, yeah. Of course. I lost my virginity listening to their second album.”

Fuck...you are such a stupid idiot. You really convinced yourself that Mando was a virgin.

“They're here–in the VIP lounge.”

“Seriously?! Like…performing?” 

“Yeah, I guess it’s their cousin’s birthday party or something.”

You crane your neck to see if you can spot a VIP section. 

“Let’s leave the boys to catch up,” she says, slipping her hand into yours. 

“Okay,” you whisper, and without a single glance at Mando, you slip off your jacket and let her pull you away from the table.  

“This is such a sleazy ploy, but if we cause a stir, I think we can get the bouncer to let us in. Are you up for for it?”

Leading you across the room and past the bar, you're pulled underneath the showering lights of the dance floor. She moves with the artful grace of a trained professional, and from the way she looks in her catsuit, she just might be.

Everybody’s watching her dance, but she only has eyes for you.

It’s suddenly very important that she knows how amazing your hair is, so you release it from your hood and run your fingers through its length to shake it out until it cascades in pearlescent sheets around your hips. 

You still can’t hear a fucking thing, but you read her lips, exclaiming how much she loves it. She catches a strand in her outstretched fingers to trace its length. Her hand comes up again to tuck it behind your ear before tilting her head and leaning in slowly. Fixing you with her aquamarine eyes, she places a gentle kiss on your lips.

“Wait. This isn’t just to get Bril gassed up, right?”

“What? Fuck, Bril. He’s not gonna get us past that bouncer.”

As you both continue dancing, intertwined, her hands trace over your waist and around the edges of your ribcage before grabbing the full swell of your breasts and squeezing. You gasp, but she catches it from your mouth with slow, languorous kisses. Her lips are full and soft. 

You realize that even if this is some elaborate performance for Bril, you don’t care. A deeply lonely place in your heart needs this kind of tenderness and attention. It feels good to be desired after the sting of...whatever it is you’re feeling about Mando. 

You wrap your arms around the small of her back and lean into her kisses. The drumbeat picks up, and your knees and hips begin to bob in time with the music. You jump and swivel, swinging your hips and pumping your arms until you're gasping. It felt so ecstatic to release this toxic energy from your body with each breath and drop of sweat.

Both of you keep moving through this endless cycle of dancing, laughter, and kisses while the crowd around you sways and rocks.

“Do you want to try to sneak in?” She asks with an excited gleam in her eye.

**************************

Continue reading, Volume 3 - Post #7: Counteroffer

Back to Volume 3 - all posts

[jaggedwolf]

Still trying to figure out why TGAA2-4 and TGAA2-5 set off my "man this is a lot of dudes dudeing" hackles when the other Ace Attorney final cases do not - I thought my baseline expectation of AA was that it's dude-centric while having rad female characters, but apparently it might've been higher, because those two TGAA cases meet that bar.

I kinda see the difference once I iterate through every other installment's (AA1-AA6, AAI1-2, crossover) finale. There's two levels to it.

There's the backstory level, where if you exclude TGAA all the other finales' have at least one major female player figuring into the drama of the backstory, often more. Misty Fey was nowhere near the elevator on DL-6 but she is inseparable from the case, for instance, and that radiates out to Mia and Maya.

Sithe comes closest, with her role in the Professor coverup, but she gets uninterestingly shuffled off in 2-3, her daughter relaying her reports in a way that dilutes both their presences. Even in the finale with the biggest similarity to this - dude-heavy conspiracy with only one female participant, we see more of that participant than we do Sithe, and there's another woman invested in exposing the conspiracy.

Then there's the present-day courtroom and investigation. Which sounds odd, given that if we're playing a male character as we usually are, we almost always have a female assistant around. There's a lot of room for variety here though. I'll take 1-4 again, both because it is the most-played finale case and so I hopefully won't be spoiling anyone, and also because it's a case where the victims were dudes, the arrested suspects were dudes, the only people within five feet of the both crime scenes were dudes, the only living people with previous direct connections to those dudes are dudes (we haven't met Franziska yet), so you know, it has as much of an excuse as any finale to focus solely on the dudes.

But Maya holding onto the bullet is what clinches us the case. It's not the biggest thing Maya ever does, but IDK, it's more interesting to me than Iris's part in the hologram deus ex machina. Heck, even comparing the finales of TGAA1 and TGAA2, in TGAA1 Susato's and Gina's decisions change how the incident and case play out, while in TGAA2 they each get bummed out for different reasons but don't do anything uniquely instrumental.

Anyway, I mostly like the puzzle-solving and emotional logic of TGAA2-4 and TGAA2-5, but I also would not have minded either Klint's widow (dead from childbirth) or Genshin's widow (dead from grief) surviving to the present day to have some feelings of their own and/or cause some drama of their own instead of being one of the three dead wives.

[sissytobitch10seconds]

Birdsong: Hollow Moon

Fandom: Grishaverse: Six of Crows Summary: Jesper likes taking little odd jobs, they let him meet new people. Very pretty people, that he likes collecting. Despite the fact that he already has four of them waiting for him back home, he can't help but flirt with the woman that just walked into his friend's bar. Warnings: implied unhealthy relationships, implied ableism, alcohol, and implied sexual content Word Count: 6,388 Ship(s): Nina Zenik/Jesper Fahey/Kaz Brekker/Wylan Van Eck/Inej Ghafa/Matthias Helvar

Archive link!

A/N: I edited and got this ready to be uploaded on the same day that I'm posting it so if there are typos and spelling errors please be kind to me because I wasn't able to spend as much time on it as I wanted. I hope that you guys enjoy this installment! Stay sissy and bitchy everyone <3

Jesper Fahey had been taking odd jobs for as long as he could remember. Back when he was living with his father, across the country from where he was now, he had always signed up to do whatever had sounded interesting. Several of the farmhands that were the same age as him at that time had dedicated jobs that they had to check on every day, but Colm understood that wasn’t right for his son. Jesper was allowed to drift from job to job as long as he completed the tasks correctly and on time. It was what had worked best for him, which is why his schooling had struggled so much before he had the supporte he needed from his partners.

Jesper’s favorite job was working with the local theater near where he lived. It was the first place that he had managed to secure a job while trying to figure out what he wanted to do with his life now that he was no longer twenty miles from the nearest other living person. Poppy was the child of a family friend of theirs and had taken him in, but had also pushed him towards the theater. 

He liked acting well enough, but memorizing the lines under the more strict directors that wouldn’t let him improvise was dull so he had to make sure that he avoided them. That limited the amount of acting jobs that he was allowed to take, but he was good when it came to the props as well. The stage crew was always so light that he was allowed to drift from job to job to job while completing about half of each. Sometimes he would leave them and someone else would come and pick them up, sometimes he found himself scrambling to get them finished the night before they had to be used. He liked the rush-rush-rush and changing nature of the theater jobs. It was alway something different and new, never the same show and rarely ever with the same premise.

He had a soft spot for the specific theater that he had been working in not just because it was the first place that really let him thrive as an adult, but also because it was the job that he had when he met Matthias. The other man had just barely moved from Denmark and was struggling to speak English, let alone hold down a job that required him to decipher the language through reading as well. Jesper had been a wonderful conversationalist and helped him adapt to a culture that he didn’t really understand.

They had both been rather lost in the big city, Jesper having grown up on a farm and the new place that Matthias lived being so different than his last one. It didn’t take long before they became as thick as thieves, and then only a week after that was when they had shared their first kiss. Things had been a little complicated in the moment since Jesper was also navigating the relationship that was beginning to develop between him and his two best friends in the entire world.

Tonight brought him a job that he was enjoying at least a little bit, though he was excited for it to end. A friend of his owned a bar close to the one that his boyfriend ran, so Jesper had agreed to be a stand in bartender during the interim of the last one quitting and the owner being able to hire a new one. He hadn’t anticipated that quitting to happen directly when Inej was getting back from the shows that she had been doing in Germany, which made him a little antsy to get back to his home.

They had all finished moving into the estate that he and Wylan had cleared out, which meant that they were all finally back together. It was a bit of a steep learning curve but they each had their own rooms and space so that they could be away from each other when they needed it. Still, of course, they were living together which meant that they had to learn and work around the new quirks of every person in the house.

Jesper had tended a bar before, usually at the Crow Club after Kaz asked him to with those puppy dog eyes that he just couldn’t ignore. Kaz was better at begging with his eyes than Matthias’ dog Djel, which was saying something.

This establishment was different than Kaz’s in the aesthetic and the types of people that it attracted. The layout had tables scattered around the main floor, all of them the same color of dark cherry wood with a different numbers of chairs littered around them. They were all stocked with a bowl in the center that could be filled with peanuts, fries, or chips depending on what they ordered. The walls were lined with booths that had red coverings and silver outlines, along with a couple of tasteful art pieces. There were also TVs littered around the space, pointed in different direction so that people could catch the news or a variety of sports games playing on the cable channels that the bar paid for. The bar itself had the three regular flavors of juice that were mixed into cocktails, as well as the soda gun. The rows and rows of alcohol behind him were kept in place with a thin clear plastic band so that he could see the label for when someone asked for something specific. In front of him were a couple of stools for people to sit on, which Jesper half hated despite his general love for people and communication.

He had been serving drinks to people for the better part of two hours and was growing bored with it. He wished that he could switch the TV to something else to distract him from the growing pile of texts in his pocket. Inej and Wylan were being bad influences on each other and encouraging him to skip out on the rest of his job and come home early so that he could spend time with them. Inej had only been back home for a couple of days so having her around them was relatively novel again, which made the fact that he was away from her during that returning honeymoon period all the more annoying.

The people milling around the bar were still far and few between for how early it was in the night. He’d see a much larger surge in the crowd leaning towards midnight, when the bar closed. His friend owned one of those places where working people were supposed to come after they got dinner with their friends to get a drink before they returned to the monotony of their lives. That meant that he was making a lot of whisky and not a lot of the cocktails that he enjoyed making.

He had recently been experimenting with his recipe’s on Matthias’ behalf to try and find him a non-alcoholic version of the drink that he had gotten at The Blue Jay when he and Kaz had met up a business partner a few weeks ago.

Despite the time, things seemed like they were about to get a lot more interest as a big group entered into the bar. There were two men and four women from what Jesper could see. He didn’t like to assume that kind of thing more than he had to, but he also liked to looked for the stereotypical dramas that played out in a lot of people’s lives. He was always open to being corrected, but speculating about what was happening in groups he wasn’t a part of was one of the only things that kept him sane during the monotony of this kind of job.

Jesper continued to work on the drinks that had been ordered from him, keeping his eye on the group as they found one of the booths towards the back of the bar that was big enough to fit everyone. They were discussing something between themselves, obviously already very close based on the way that they were knocking against each other and grabbing things out of each other’s hands.

It reminded him of being back home with his partners, which made his heart ache. He didn’t realize how much being out of the house at night just a few days after Inej came back home was going to be tearing him up, but it was.

He tried to distract himself as he focused on making the drink that he had been sipping on himself for the last hour. He made a point of not drinking when he was at work even if Kaz could very easily coerce him into having a drink or two when they were having date nights, but he would allow himself one if he fucked up a cocktail in a very slight way. It felt like a shame to waste alcohol and juice just because he had accidentally messed up the ratio away from the vodka.

“Barkeep!” a sultry voice from behind him said. It was rich and deep in a way that would have made a wonderful second alto if she was singing, and entrenched in a very nice accent.

“Yes?” he asked, a smirk playing over his lips as he turned around to face her. She had the looks to match the voice that she had, absolutely gorgeous and very obvious that she was somewhat aware of that.

She had long brown hair that was curled around the side of her face and woven intricately back into a bun on the back of her head. Her jawline was just sharp enough to be accentuated with a tiny bit of bronzer but still soft enough that it highlighted the beautiful plumpness of her body. She had a smokey eyeshadow and perfect catwing eyeliner to bring out the pop of her gray-blue eyes and a matching plumb lipstick. She was wearing a black suit jacket with nothing underneath other than a red lace bra that clung to her skin in just the right way, flush but not squishing anything. Jesper could see the sneaking curve of a feather tattoo resting above her heart, hidden mostly but still visible enough to be tantalizing.

“You’re not the regular bartender,” she commented when he turned around fully.

Jesper pouted at that, tilting his head to the side, “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I don’t think that you could disappoint me if you tried, darling,” she replied easily as she folded her arms on the edge of the bar and leaned forward. 

Jesper had been working with enough sexually promiscuous and exploitative people for long enough that he could tell the difference between someone trying to hit on him and someone trying to get something out of him. She didn’t want free drinks like the last group of women he had tried to flirt with while bartending had, she was genuinely interesting him.

She sighed as she toyed with a single lock of her hair that had been left out of the updo, winding it around her finger until she released it so that it bounced next to her naturally freckled face. “I do have to actually tell you what we want now, though.”

“Oh, do you come here often?” Jesper asked. He had been washing down the bar, and it felt oh-so-terribly cliche to do so, but he moved his arms out wide with the towel grasped in one hand so that he was lower down and closer to her.

The woman tilted her head to the side as a beautiful little smile toyed at her lips. She was clearly enjoying the attention that she was getting, and he loved giving it to her. “I played a show here last week. Something small and intimate to help drive up nighttime numbers,” she supplied. “A friend of mine recently went through a bad breakup and she liked this place so we decided to come back this evening.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. About your friend, that is,” Jesper pointed with his head back towards the table where the rest of her group was waiting. He knew that she had come in with them because he had gotten a decently long look at them, but he was glad he got to see her much closer than he had before. “I could never be sorry about you coming here again because it meant that I got the pleasure of meeting you.”

A rosy glint took over her cheeks and the catlike smile painted on her plumb-colored lips widened. “I can’t say that I’m particularly sad about what happened to the other bartender either, you’re much nicer than he was.”

“I do try my best for pretty ladies such as yourself. Can’t say that I take great care of the dodgy old men that come to leer at the sports,” he smirked back in reply. He was, of course, at least courteous to all of the patrons that came in so that that bar could keep up its business, but it was more fun to pretend that he wasn’t to her.

“Well, I do feel special,” she tilted her head down towards one shoulder as she did a half-shrug. The gesture was cute and it made Jesper feel warm inside to know that it was directed specifically towards him.

“Good, someone was pretty as you certainly does deserve to feel special,” he smiled. He remembered that he was there as a worker and not another patron, so he did have to work. “Now, what can I get you?”

“Well, the table wants a load of shots while they decide what they want to be drinking all evening. And then I’ll just take some soda water for myself,” she replied, a little bit of a pout taking over her beautiful features.

“Soda water?” Jesper wrinkled his nose. He tried not to judge other people for what they wanted, but it was such a bland drink for a woman that outwardly seemed so rich and complicated. He knew that type of dichotomy did exist in some people but it was also the first time that someone had ordered carbonated water from him while he was tending.

The woman sighed, toying with the strand of hair again as she shifted her weight to her other foot. “Unfortunately, I’m the designated driver so I will not be drinking tonight. Someone has to stay sober enough to make sure that Nikolai and Zoya don’t fall into bed with each other. Again,” she cringed, wrinkling her nose cutely.

Jesper had the impulse to kiss her on the nose for just a moment before he pushed the thought from his mind. He had developed crushes on people very quickly before, but that had mostly faded now that he had four partners of his own waiting for him at home. They kept him busy and fulfilled enough things in his life that he never felt like he had to continue looking for anything else.

He cleared his throat and stood back up. He grabbed one of the shot trays from behind him, a wooden plate with indents for the glasses. He placed ten of the shot glasses down in it while he asked, “How about you tell me your favorite cocktail and I’ll make a virgin?”

“Are you really going to be able to do that?” she asked, eyeing him nervously.

Jesper tried not to be offended. A lot of the other bartenders that he had met were so focused in with the alcohol that they didn’t know what kind of flavors could supplement them when it was removed. He also had no precedent with her, so while he hated people doubting his ability to do his work he couldn’t really fault her for it. So he smiled confidently at her and said, “Yes, I can.” 

And, because he had so much trouble being able to contain himself, he said, “One of my boyfriends recently got into vintage cocktails. He doesn’t do very well when it comes to kitchen work and doesn’t want to be getting wasted every night so I’ve been making him virgin cocktails for the better part of two weeks.” It was a bit of a curveball when it came to flirting. Matthias liked to hide the fact that he was polyamorous until he was sure that the relationship was going to lead to something romantic or sexual because his Christian upbringing made him feel so awkward about it. Kaz never flirted with anyone, which was probably for the best. Inej and Wylan usually brought it up towards the end of the first date that they were having with a prospective partner, which didn’t happen very often. Jesper liked to throw it in at the beginning of his flirting so that he could talk about the partners that he adored without it convincing the person that he was pursuing that he was off the market.

She raised her brow at him, “Just had to slip that in there, didn’t you?” Her accent got thicker when she teased him, which he thought was absolutely adorable.

“I thought that it was worth mentioning,” he winked. He was letting the flirting go on a little bit longer than he probably should have as some of the other patrons were nearing the end of their drinks, which usually meant that he’d have an uptick in things that he was supposed to do. Still, he was validating it to himself with the fact that he had brought the shot set and the glasses over with him.

Something that he couldn’t quite read crossed her face as she stood up to her full height. Jesper wondered what kind of heals she was wearing and how tall she would be compared to Inej and Matthias, the extreme end of the spectrum in height out of his polycule. He hadn’t been able to see the bottom half of her outfit when she was walking over to him since he had been trying to distract himself from the heavy heart in his chest.

She glanced back towards the booth where her friends were getting restless before she drilled those piercing eyes back on him. He felt like she was trying to peel him apart so that she could see exactly what made him tick, examining the mechanisms of his heart with the eye of a clockmaker. “You’re not trying to flirt with me so that you can get to one of my friends, right?”

“Darling, if I wanted to flirt with one of those boys over there then I would flirt with them directly,” Jesper said honestly. It amazed him that someone was divinely beautiful as her thought that she would be passed up for the others that she had come into the bar with. While they were generally handsome, none of them held the mystique and grace that she did. 

“Really? You’re not trying to make me feel so special and doted on that I get flustered and send someone else to the bar so you can pounce on them?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously. “Because Nikolai isn’t the type that you should date and David is engaged.”

“Do you think that I’m gay?” Jesper asked, realizing the mistake that he had made. In trying to tell her a little bit more about his romantic life to show that he was interested, he had made the mistake of leaving out the fact that he could be and was interested in her that way. It was a flub that he had made before, and it would not be the last time, he was sure.

She raised her perfectly penciled brow at him as she placed both of her palms flat down on the table. “What else was that line about your boyfriends supposed to do for me?”

“I may have misspoke,” he replied awkwardly. “I was simply trying to come on to you a bit harder, beautiful. You’re a very pretty woman, it’s easy to get tongue tied,” he winked at her.

Her shoulders dropped as she became more relaxed. He wondered how often someone had overlooked her despite her obvious beauty and wit, to try and get to someone that she cared about. She tilted her head to the side again and said, “I’m Nina.”

“Jesper,” he replied as he mirrored her look. “Now what can I get you, before my boss decides that I’ve done a horrible job and you have to spend the next night getting to know a new bartender.”

She laughed at that, her beautiful eyes sparkling. “I’ll take a virgin pina colada if you think that you can make that.”

“What kind of shots would your friends like?” he asked as he got out the class that her served those drinks in.

“Vodka,” she supplied. She moved to one of the stools and got up on it so that she was able to continue to talk with Jesper without being in the way of the other patrons that might need to come and speak with him. 

He got out the vodka that they kept for when people didn’t give them a specific brand and then filled up all ten shots easily. He moved the plate up towards her on the bar as he got to work on mixing her drink. “Is this something that you do often?” Nina asked, placing her elbow up on the bar so that she could rest her head on her hand.

Jesper shrugged, glancing at her while trying to focus mostly on his work. “I have a bartending license, if that’s what you’re asking,” he replied. “I don’t usually hop from bar to bar to startle people that are used to seeing a certain face back here. Though mine is usually an upgrade.”

“It certainly is for me,” she winked playfully at him.

He felt heat pool in his veins, dripping down from his heart. The longer that he spent time around her, the harder it was to deny. Nina was magnetic. 

“Well I’m glad that I can be a bit of change in decor for you. You said that you had played here the other week?” he asked, trying to get to know her better. The flirting in between the conversation was usually his favorite part, but flirting just to flirt got a little boring after some time.

She toyed with the edge of the plate with one hand as she said, “I’m in a band with all of the people I came in with, sort of. Alina, Zoya, and Nikolai are my bandmates but Genya styles us to make sure that we don’t look like a complete disaster.” 

He wasn’t able to put the names to faces, but it was nice to be supplied with a bit of information anyway. “I could never imagine you being anything other than immaculate.”

“You’re quite the sweet talker,” she commented. “Not that I’m complaining now that I know you’re not trying to get me involved in yet another relationship drama I can’t even have the fun of being part of.”

“Two of your bandmates sleeping together whenever they’re left drunk or unsupervised does sound stressful,” he nodded. Before he had gotten into his current polycule, it had been a hassle to try and navigate the friends-with-benefits relationships that he tended to become a part of back when he was doing theater full time. 

“It’s not quite that,” she rolled her eyes, clearly annoyed at even the memories that were popping up in the back of her mind. “I do love my bandmates and I’m so happy that we’re back together but Nikolai and Zoya having the weird on-again-off-again thing that they do is the least of my worries.”

“Do tell,” he supplied as he finished up with her drink.

She took the glass with her nimble fingers and then smiled. “You better hope that this is good enough for me to want another so that you can find out more of my drama,” she winked. She slipped off of the barstool and disappeared to the back of the bar with what she had ordered.

Despite barely knowing anything about Nina, he desperately hoped that she would like what he had made her. Both so that she had something to cheer her up since she seemed to be so upset with the way that her life was going and so that she would come back to talk with him more.

---

Jesper tried to get lost in his work. He made sure that he was focusing on all of the patrons equally instead of keeping his eyes glued on Nina, who was sitting with her friends and sipping on her drink. She had sent the blond man over to the bar so that he could order martinis for the drinking members of the group, but Jesper had made sure to just be professional with him as he was taking the order and preparing it. He wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a test of some sort so that she could confirm that he was focused on her, but he hoped that he had passed it.

Given that it was a weekday, even the large rush of people towards the evening who wanted to pregame before they went clubbing was relatively small. Jesper had to card two teenagers that thought enough makeup and a suit would make them look adult enough to avoid that. He had just finished sending them away, rubbing out the headache that was beginning to form on his temples, when he heard Nina’s voice again.

“You were right, you are rather good at this,” she purred as she set her now empty glass onto the counter. “Would you make me another?”

“Only if you spill your secrets for me, beautiful,” he said teasingly.

She was already positioning herself onto the stool that she had been on before, directly in front of his workspace. “My band is called Shadow and Bone. We’ve been together for four years, but we had to take a huge break in the middle because one of my bandmates got into a relationship that wouldn’t let her play with us. It’s not my place to talk about that, but it meant that we couldn’t even practice, let alone make our own stuff. Each of us went and made our own side bands so that we could continue creating, other than Alina, but it’s left things a little twisted now.”

“Something you’re still untangling?” he asked.

She nodded. “I got very popular with my music, but it isn’t something that can work with the type of music that we play as a group. Just the other day I had someone try to accuse me of changing the sound of our music even though Alina and I switch off singing and all four of us write everything together,” she rolled her eyes. 

A mischievous look overtook her face as she said, “If you’re interested in looking me up then my solo work was under the name Heartrender. I wasn’t nearly as good as Nikolai, but he passed on the name of his work to a mutual friend of ours. Have you heard of an artist called Sturmhond?”

She was assuming that he worked in bars more often than he did by asking that, but by some stroke of luck he was actually familiar with the name that she had just given him. “I am. My friend Poppy did a set with him during a drag show she did,” he supplied. He hadn’t been able to attend said show because Wylan and Kaz had both ended up getting a cold and he was the only one that was able to take care of them, but she had told him all about it the next time he was able to show up for rehearsals.

“You know Poppy?” Nina asked, her face illuminating with an excited look. “Small world!”

He chuckled alongside her, basking in the brightness of her warmth. He wished that she could sit by him the entire time that he was working, but he knew that she had come to help comfort her friend through a breakup. Jesper had been around enough broken hearted people and been consumed by it enough himself to know the importance of having support during those times. “Your drink, my dear,” he handed over the finished cocktail that she had ordered.

“Thank you, handsome,” she winked.

---

For the rest of the night, Jesper worked alone. He poured what felt like a thousand glasses of beer and a million shots, until his arms and wrists were sore from the repetitive motion. Nina hadn’t strayed over to the bar again as she continued to nurse the singular refill that she had gotten on her virgin cocktail. He was right about the rush happening closer to midnight, but everyone had already trickled out by the time that they hit eleven.

When they were at the height of the crowd, the owner had slipped behind the bar to help him out. They had worked in tandem with each other, silent but efficient. Jesper was terribly exhausted by the time he finally slipped into the back with a plate of fries and a water to rest up before the last stretch of his shift. He brought his phone out and connected the wireless earbuds that he kept with him in his pocket for when he got overstimulated. He opened Spotify, searching up the band that Nina had given him.

He chose the one that she was in with other people first, clicking on the first song that popped up, obviously their most popular. He could tell that it was her voice crooning to him immediately as the first couple of lines played, “Late at night, when the stars don't look quite right. In the darkness, slowly crawling over my skin. Whispers at the door ‘Let us in, let us in.’ I'm a fool! I've been howling at a hollow moon! There's something burning in the empty room inside of my head. Fill it up with doubt, let it in, let it spread. I won't be sleeping, there's too many monsters in the backyard and I feel them creeping closer, closer, closer. I'm afraid. Is this a bunker or a shallow grave? Either way I'm left holding onto the shovel and rope, digging in the dirt, finding bones, finding ghosts. I won't be sleeping, there's too many monsters in the backyard and I feel them creeping closer, closer, closer. But if I made my bed did I make the demons in it? Set 'em free from my head, did I make the demons in it?”

She sang the chorus over and over again, the notes seeping together and burrowing their way into Jesper’s soul. He had always been a fan of music, which was how he and Wylan had met in the first place. They had been attending the same small music course and immediately hit it off, even if the other had a harder time reading music and instead just memorized a song. He wondered what it would be like if Wylan and Nina performed together, if Jesper would be able to handle it or if it would kill him on the spot.

He favorited her band so that he could come back and check it out later as he searched up the name that she had told him she used for her solo work. It was easier to listen to the more manufactured, pop-leaning stuff while also finishing up the other business than the more raw sounding classical that her band made. He let the songs play in the background as he flicked through the messages that his partners had sent him. He replied to a few and then took a screenshot of the song that he had listened to from Nina and sent it to Wylan so that he could get his boyfriend’s opinion on it.

Almost immediately afterwards he got a text from Matthias, which meant they were like watching one of their medical drama shows while waiting for him to come home. Inej and likely coaxed Kaz into the bath with her, the only person that understood the touch issues he had well enough to have that kind of special intimacy with him.

Jesper felt the fry that he had been eating become lodged in the back of his throat as Matthias informed him that the girl he had been flirting with over Instagram for the better part of the last two weeks also happened to be the woman that he had met at the bar. It really was a small world afterall.

He rushed through the last part of his break so that he could hopefully get back out in the bar before Nina left. He hadn’t want to be so creepy as to obviously check to make sure that she had stuck out the busy part of the night, especially since she would have been there for hours if she had. He made sure to calculate his walk so that he had slipped back into the persona that he used when he was working, suave and smooth, much like acting. He didn’t want it to seem like he was too frantic or desperate to get back to work lest he freak her out.

He had stepped back behind the bar and served two other patrons, switching out with the owner, when Nina finally came back up. The relief that he felt upon knowing that she hadn’t left despite having been huddled in the back corner for hours at that point made him feel a little embarrassed. He ignored it as he looked up to her, waiting for what she had to say.

“I was wondering when you were going to be back,” she smiled as she took the same stance that she had when they had first begun their interaction.

“Sorry for leaving you, baby, but I had to take a quick break,” he explained as he set down the glass that he had just finished cleaning.

“I understand, being that handsome has to take quite the toll on someone,” she winked back in reply, which made his heart flutter. He hadn’t known how Matthias had fallen so hard and so fast for Nina, especially since it had taken him almost a week to get to the point where they could even hold a conversation with each other. Now that she was standing in front of him in all of her smooth, gorgeous, suave glory, he understood. 

“If you keep this up then I’m going to fall in love with you,” he grinned. He was telling the truth, of course. If she continued to treat him like he was something special then he was going to fall head over heels for her the same way that Matthias had. He’d be tender smiles down at his phone and one earbud in to loop the sound of her crooning musical voice into his mind while doing mundane tasks.

Nina had the common decency to look a little bashful at that as she shifted awkwardly. “I have to admit that the idea of that doesn’t sound too bad. I came over here to pay my tab but I was also hoping that I could possibly get a way to stay in contact with you?”

Excitement burst through him like fireworks as he leaned forward like he was going to share a secret that no one else was allowed to hear. “If you ask Matthias then he’ll give you everything,” he winked.

She looked a little confused and scared, as if he had found out that she was somehow trying to give him the runaround. He tilted his head back towards the door he that led to the back room, “When I took my break I searched you up and sent one of your songs to my partner who likes music. Turns out that he was with Matthias and we found out that we had been flirting with the same woman. So it sounds like you’re going to fit into our relationship quite well if you’re serious about pursuing us.”

Immediately the panic left her and she laughed. It was louder than the quiet giggles that she had given her before, all rosy tinkling and shaking shoulders. She then shook her head, causing a few of the curls that had come loose from her tight bun to bounce around her beautiful face. “I should have known when you mentioned the cocktails, it’s all Matthias has been talking about lately.”

“He gets like that sometimes,” Jesper agreed. It was endearing how one thing could take over Matthias’ entire personality until he had discovered how it worked or how he could navigate it properly and then moved onto the next thing.

Nina shifted and handed him her card. He processed it for the tab that the table had wracked up and then handed it back to her. She said, “I don’t want to take up all of your time tonight, but I would like to see you again. I’ll ask Matthias for your handle and then we’ll talk more, alright?”

“I think that the both of us would like that very much,” Jesper nodded. Even if he didn’t actually develop a romantic or sexual relationship with Nina, the idea of getting to have someone as wonderful and mysterious as her in his life was very enticing. He leaned across the bar so that he was closer to her, giving her the hint of what he wanted. Jesper asked, “May I kiss you?”

A pretty smile split across her face and she said, “Polite as well as handsome, color me surprised. You may.” She placed one of her hands on his cheek, letting him feel the calloused nature of her hand. She then leaned in and pressed their lips together in a quick, chaste kiss. She smelled like green apples and lavender, mixing together distinctly to make her smell overall sweet. He could taste the vanilla of her lipstick and the pineapple clinging to her tongue from the drinks that he made her throughout their evening of flirting.

[precisionfinishca]

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[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

now i'm in it (a matt murdock short story)

Part 2: Terms and Conditions

A/N: @ratherburnmywholelifedown thank you so much for the reblog. It poured new will into me and had me sitting on the story for 6 hours straight. And yes, you're absolutely correct; it should have been a full-on series. I realized so when I divided it into parts. I wanted to chop it into chapters, but it didn't feel right. However, I can promise that the final instalment (Standing in the Sea) will be a series with chapters. The max length should be around 10K words.

Summary:

Matt turns fear into control, throwing Sunny into a crash course in legal survival—interrogation prep, court lingo, and plausible deniability. But the classroom is his bedroom, the bar, his desk at Nelson & Murdock. Every lesson turns into a game of edge and obedience, every rule he writes, she dares to break. What starts as protection blurs into obsession. Sunny plays along, but she’s not just memorizing facts—she’s watching Matt fall apart in real time. And when the cops finally come knocking, it’s not the law that breaks them. It’s the silence.

Word count: 41K

Set in the grit and shadows of the Defenders universe, "Now I’m In It" is a slow-burn spiral into obsession, co-dependency, and everything two broken people can’t say aloud.

The untimely death of Ben Urich didn't just vanish into silence. The circumstances were murky. The timeline didn't make sense. Whatever Ben had gotten himself into... ...it killed him. Viciously. Quickly.

Sunny mourned him the only way she knew how: she turned the Thank You, Daredevil board into a Ben Urich memorial. She filled it with a scatter of his most important articles and columns, digging them up during sleepless nights. Printing, cutting, researching, and smiling as if she reminisced.

On those nights, Matt was off somewhere... Doing God knew what to God knew who. She didn't ask. She already knew Matthew wouldn't answer. She knew it had something to do with the decision he made at Ben's funeral. After that, he came to bed later. If at all. Bloodier. Bruised. He fell apart in her arms while she patched him back together.

Sunny poured herself into the memorial and into keeping 'Thanks, Tony' running. She and Karen visited Doris. Doris cried when Sunny told her what she’d done for Ben. Gave them a few photos of the couple as a blessing. Sunny dug deeper. Found the old exposés Ben had published. The ones from back when he was still young, still burning with ambition... when he was a charming young man with a typewriter and a vendetta.

It made her feel something ugly and urgent. Like, the only way to honor his death was to stop being soft. To stop waiting around for someone else to protect her.

Matt didn't say it out loud, but she knew. After the funeral, something in him snapped clean. He needed her prepared. And Sunny? She wasn't about to be collateral damage.

So, a new day meant a new legalese term. It had gone so far that she started a vocabulary list. So far, it counted:

OBSTRUCTION OF JUSTICE → Don’t lie. Don’t look hot near crime scenes. Just... Don't.

PLAUSIBLE DENIABILITY → Pretend you’re dumb. Like, really dumb. Dumb enough to not know your hookup is Daredevil. (You can remember he’s a lawyer, though.)

FIFTH AMENDMENT → Shut the fuck up. Even if they’re hot... especially if they’re hot. It's a trap.

PERJURY → Apparently, this is just lying under oath?

MENS REA (Latin = fancy guilt) → Sounds like a perfume. "Eau de Crimes."

SUBPOENA DUCES TECUM (Latin??? = Literally means bring your shit to court) → What in the Hogwarts is this?

MOTION TO SUPPRESS → Get illegal evidence tossed because you fucked up. Yay, technicalities.

And she had to go through drills and quizzes. Anytime Foggy exclaimed a random legal term, Sunny groaned and rolled her eyes, scrambling to answer. But she was getting the hang of it. Enough to understand what Matt was yapping about when coming over for the night.

He even went above and beyond, creating a set of flashcards in addition to Foggy's original three:

You are never just chatting.

You sign nothing without reading. And you don’t read without us.

You agree to nothing without us.

Be aware of entrapment tactics.

Look believable.

He even created scripts. Pre-written answers that Sunny had to memorize. Short, sharp, to the point. Rehearsed until they stuck like poetry.

They trained them, over and over again.

It was a calm afternoon, just shy of 6 p.m. Nice weather. No big cases. Good tips, decent customers.

Foggy and Matt were neck-deep in pro bono work—nothing thrilling, just enough to keep the lights on.

The whiteboard sat untouched. The legal dictionary lay open like it had insulted Sunny personally. Her tiny vocabulary list was parked beside it. Highlighters, post-its, and Karen’s extremely aggressive notepad were laid out like weapons on display.

Sunny was slouched in her chair like someone had asked her to identify bodies. Groaning. As she often did during study hours.

"I'm bored, Karen," she announced, looking around dramatically. From the next room, she could hear Matt and Foggy arguing quietly, careful not to disrupt her study session, as per Matthew’s request. ...fuck them both. Karen didn’t flinch. She'd grown immune to Sunny's increasingly desperate attempts to rope her into another tic-tac-toe rematch.

"Why do I have to do this? Just because I’m seeing a lawyer? Honestly?" Another groan. She leaned so far over her chair that she nearly slipped off, turning toward Matt’s office. An amused smile already played on Sunny's lips when she threw Karen an amused look. "I should’ve dated a butcher."

"Cute," Foggy called out." Too bad, the butcher wouldn't have dated you because he values mental well-being!" "Oh, come on!" Sunny retorted, smiling. Sunny threw her pen in a half-hearted trick shot. Karen dodged without flinching.

"You're doing this," Karen explained, unimpressed, "because the guy you’re seeing decided that dealing with a decade of emotional repression through physical, hands-on therapy is a great idea." "I heard that!" Matt called out. Sunny didn't waste a second. "Good! You should!" She shouted back before turning back to Karen. "You make it sound worse than it is."

"Do I?" Karen objected. "No, but still... rude." Karen finally looked up, expression unreadable. Sunny smiled, sensing victory. Karen flipped to a fresh page in her notebook like she was about to end something.

"Okay, smart-ass," Karen smiled sweetly. "Legal term lightning round, since you’re clearly on fire today. Tell me what ‘Miranda rights’ are." "Oh, that’s the porn line," Sunny said, completely deadpan. "Right before the fake cop rails the girl over the hood of a cruiser. 'You have the right to remain silent…'" Sunny even mimed air quotes.

Karen didn’t blink, just flipped a page. "Incorrect. Also, cursed. Whatever you two watch at night needs to come from the 'based on a true story' section." "You should hear what it does to Matt when I put on an audiobook of Constitutional Law," Sunny muttered. A beat of silence as Sunny stared somewhere into the distance. "The Book of Job nearly killed him."

Karen set her pen down. Slowly. "If you make one more religious-porn hybrid joke, I will sue." "We're literally right here," Foggy protested. Sunny hummed. "I lined up Leviticus for Friday night." Matt groaned somewhere in the background. "Can you... Take it seriously?" Karen muttered tiredly. Sunny nodded. Sat up straight. Folded her palms in her lap. "I'll be serious from now on, solemnly swear, cross my heart, until I die." Beat of silence. "...Or until we hit entrapment. Whichever comes first."

Karen narrowed her eyes. "…Alright. Next question." She flipped the page again, slower this time. "Define entrapment." She puffed out her cheeks, muttering, 'I fucking knew it'. Then, she raised her eyes to Karen, furrowing slightly. Sunny didn't blink. Didn't smirk. Just spoke.

"That's when law enforcement induces someone to commit a crime they wouldn’t have otherwise committed," she was calm and focused." It’s a defense. Not an excuse. Doesn’t work if the person was already down to commit the crime." Karen paused. Pen hovering in midair.

"…Correct." Suspicious. Still waiting for the punchline. When Sunny smiled, Karen nodded slowly. "Next one," Karen said, sitting forward now. "Subpoena duces tecum." Sunny's eye twitched. Just slightly. Then she cracked her knuckles. Like a threat.

"That’s the one where they make you bring shit to court. Documents. Records. Evidence. Latin for ‘bring your stuff,’ basically." She smirked. "Still sounds some fucking spell, though." There was silence. Karen's eyebrow rose as if she had never met Sunny before. She nodded, smirking. "...Correct."

The door to Matt’s office creaked open—both men poking their heads through. "She’s been practicing," Matt called. "She made me quiz her in bed during movie night," Foggy added. "With flashcards and everything." "Let it be known I got fifteen in a row," Sunny grinned. "While hungover."

Karen leaned back, narrowed her eyes. "…You’re terrifying sometimes, you know that?" Sunny beamed. "Finally, some recognition."

"Alright," Foggy stretches his neck. "We’ve done enough legal bootcamp for one day. Time for those gross, oily noodles down the street?" "Sounds great," Karen muttered, gathering her notes. "Anything to finally relieve me of my babysitter duties." Sunny flicked a hairband at her, pinging off her shoulder. "It's not that bad." Karen smirked, standing. "You’ve threatened to light this place on fire twice today." "I said if provoked." "Which you were. By a paper jam." "Exactly," Sunny said, deadpan. Karen snorted. "Come on, terror. Noodles await."

"Raincheck for me," Matt muttered, casual, hands-in-pockets kinda deal. "I have that People V. Jasper hearing in the morning. Better read up on that." The shift was subtle—too subtle for anyone else, but Sunny felt it. The weight in his tone. The way he didn’t look at her when he said it.

She straightened in her chair. Not a lot. Just enough. Eyes on him now, brow pulling in slightly.

Neither Foggy nor Karen argued with Matt. They just nodded, taking it as a fact. Foggy stood with a groan, grabbing his jacket. "Suit yourself, man. But if you drown in case law and miss noodles night again, I’m billing you for emotional damages." "I’ll stand guard," Sunny hummed after a beat. "Ensure he has at least six hours of sleep before acting out his fantasies as Lawyer Supreme." Karen glanced at Sunny and grinned. "Try not to commit any crimes or workplace violations while we’re gone."

"No promises," Sunny said, grabbing her empty coffee mug. "Depends if Matt starts yapping about Judge Judy again. But hey, at least you won’t have to come to work tomorrow? Yay?" Karen nudged her elbow on the way out. "Call me if he tries to lecture you in Latin again." "Only if you promise to bail me out." "You're my favorite felon," Karen called, already halfway down the hall.

Then it was just the two of them. And the heat. And everything unsaid, waiting like a match struck too close to kindling.

"Night," Sunny called behind them, hearing their chatter and footsteps slowly disperse into silence. Her eyes didn't leave Matt. She didn't blink, even as the main door swung shut behind them.

It was quiet now. The kind of quiet that buzzed and hummed under her skin. Matt still hadn't moved. Still leaned into the doorframe, hands in pockets. There it was... that victorious fucking smirk.

Sunny stood up slowly, stretching. "Jasper v. People hearing, huh?" Her voice was lighter than it should've been—testing the waters. "First time I'm hearing about that case. And suddenly there’s a hearing no one’s heard of. Mysterious." Matt tilted his head. "Mmhmm." "What's the charge?" she asked, stepping closer. He hesitated—just for a beat. Matt was already leaning in, close enough to catch her scent. "Possession with intent."

Sunny stopped beside his desk. "…Funnily enough, my old neighbor has a dog named Jasper. Name match much?" Matt's mouth twitched. Busted. "Allegedly." "Foggy knows it," she sang, dragging her fingers across the tabletop. "He loves that dog." Matt looked around the empty office, mock-searching for a sign of his colleagues. "Not long enough to stay and argue its case." She scoffed, amused. "That's your lie? The one you're going with? That sweet old dachshund next door?"

Matt turned toward her, finally. Calm. Composed. Confident. His hands were no longer in his pockets. They hovered. One against the desk, the other curling at his side.

"I didn't think you'd pay attention to my calendar," he hummed, impressed. "Or check my docket." "You knew I would." Her voice dropped a little. "What, you think I only memorized your lunch order? I'm doing my reading, c'mon, Matt." His smirk was small. "That's why I stayed. Hoped you'd stay too."

The silence between pulled taut, all tension and friction.

"If you were less dramatic, you could've just said thank you," she muttered. "Oh, I'm trying to," his voice was low now, just for her. "But you're not great at hearing it. You like actions and evidence." Sunny swallowed, her heart rate slowly picking up. He could smell her—sugar, coffee, something sharper underneath—and it made it impossible to think. Matt stepped even closer.

"If I said you're the only reason I'm still on my feet this week, you'd roll your eyes." Sunny did roll her eyes at that. "I would, because we both know you could also annoy Claire with your stitches and owies." Matt scoffed, shaking his head. "If I said you scare me a little with how fast you're learning this shit... how much it turns me on to hear you say mans rea, you'd probably make a joke." "Definitely," she murmured. "...still sounds like French perfume."

He was inches from her now. "But if I got on my knees..." he breathed, voice thick with restraint and want. He wanted to fall to his knees the second Foggy left. "And let you tell me what to do with my mouth... maybe you'd believe all that."

She blinked slowly, like trying to decide if he meant it. Caressed his side, a grin forming on her lips. The tension snapped. She grabbed him by the tie and kissed him, smiling. Took his glasses off, walking backward until the desk caught them. Matt groaned, low and guttural, as his hands went to his shoulders, pushing him down into the chair.

"Then get on your knees, counselor," she rasped, nudging the chair back slightly and stepping between his legs. "And no hands. Just your mouth." He didn't hesitate—he dropped with a soft thud, palms flat on hardwood, breath already rough in his throat. He forced a gulp, trying to stay in control.

But something about Sunny in that moment... Her scent soaked into his table and walls, and she leaned in, confident and unhurried, staring straight at him. In his office. At Nelson & Murdock. With the last rays of sun bleeding orange through the blinds, and the city humming just beyond the glass... Made it nearly impossible.

The carpet scratched faintly against his knees, but he didn't shift. Didn't flinch. He just took it like a fucking man, listening to how she moved closer.

He didn’t flinch when her hand gripped the back of his neck— not when her thigh brushed against his mouth. His lips were already parting, breath hot against her skin. He tilted forward, barely, drawn by instinct. Open-mouthed. Searching.

His lip trembled at the sensation. The scent of her. The heat. She was right there, and he needed her.

His head followed as her warmth slipped away. But her fingers caught his chin, firm and final. A soft tsk followed, sharp as a whip.

"No hands," she warned again, breath high and clipped. Matt nodded, desperate. He wasn’t far from begging. He folded his palms behind his back, spine straightening "Say it." His head snapped up, and even though his eyes were dysfunctional, it felt like he was looking straight at her. "I won't use my hands." "Good boy," she murmured, her thumb dragging across his lips deliberately, nearly possessively. His mouth chased the touch, teeth catching on the pad of her thumb—careful, hungry.

The office smelled like old paper, cheap cologne, and burnt espresso. But underneath it all— Her. Just her. Her scent. Her arousal.

And that was what he needed to taste.

He didn't speak. Didn't make it a joke. Just parted his lips and pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee, reverent. Slow. Thankful.

Sunny's fingers tangled deeper in his hair. He groaned when she tugged on it. She just... smirked.

"You gonna behave? Follow instructions?" she murmured. His nod was small, aching. "You're not exactly known for that." His body vibrated beneath her palm. Restraint stretched tight across every inch of him.

She was playing with him. Toying, molding... sure of herself. She knew Matt would let her. He stilled when she finally reached for the button on her jeans, popping it open slowly. He didn't move. Just listened. Tracked every sound like a litany. When the zipper came down, he inhaled deeply. Like the scent alone might undo him. Before he could stop it, a whine escaped his mouth.

Sunny stepped forward, close enough to lift his chin with her knuckle. She was dragging it out with purpose, reveling in the chaos. "Tell me what you want, Matthew?" she whispered, physically nudging his chin off her thigh. He was ready. His voice already frayed as he offered a wrecked:

"To taste you."

That did something to her... burned straight through. She didn't answer with words. Just leaned into the table and tilted her hips forward—barely. Just enough. One thigh brushed his shoulder. She tossed it over him, slow and lazy.

Matt didn't need more than that.

He leaned in and kissed her. Slow. Deliberate. Grateful. It was the kind of kiss meant for altars, not offices.

It started softly. An open mouth. A reverent tongue. Methodical. Just a taste. But she whimpered. Moaned his name.

And that sound?

That sound broke him.

He moaned into her, shoving his head deeper. His lips dragged across her, tongue sliding up in long, sure strokes. No fumbling. No teasing. He knew her. Like he’d already mapped the territory and came back to memorize it again.

Her hand threaded into his hair, gripping tight. She pushed him in. And he fucking loved it. "Jesus Christ, Matt…"

She guided his mouth exactly where she wanted it. Tugged on his hair to keep him in place. And Matt didn't fight it. Didn't tease. Didn't try to make her beg. If she'd mutter even a little 'please'? He'd lose. This wasn't about winning. It was about giving.

Sunny's hips jerked once, quick, sharp, and Matt let out a soft, pleased sound at the taste of her. She wasn't gentle. She pulled his hair like she meant it. Used him like she needed to feel everything he couldn’t say.

The chair behind them bumped softly against the desk.

Outside, the city was alive. Traffic was thickening. Sun dipping lower. A handful of stragglers still walked under the windows. The blinds were drawn, but not completely. This office was five fucking minutes from Times Square. Anyone paying enough attention could see. Could catch the way her head tipped back. Could see her hand tangled in his hair.

Matt could feel it—every vibration from the street, every horn, every heel on sidewalk.

He didn't care. He wanted them to know. He wanted them to see Matthew Murdock, Esq., on his knees. Serving the woman who'd haunted his blood for months. Thanking her. Letting her ride every inch of his mouth like it was a confession.

He groaned again and moved faster, like a man possessed. His tongue circled her clit, then flattened, dragging down and back again, building pressure until her knees nearly buckled. She braced herself against the desk, panting, head falling back. He murmured something against her—Latin, maybe— And his mouth didn't stop moving. He was relentless. Like he needed this more than air. Like her orgasm was the only thing that could save him.

"Don't stop, Matt," she winced, sobbing with pleasure. "Just don't fucking stop." And he didn't. If anything, he moaned like it turned him on more... being called his name from between her legs, mouth slick with her, hands still obediently folded behind his back.

Sunny's grip in his hair tightened—sharp enough to make him moan against her. She was panting now. One leg braced against the edge of the desk, the other hooked over his shoulder, her heel digging into his back like she owned him.

Because she did. Because Matt Murdock, for all his sins and control, had given up every inch of power the second he fell to his knees. And he stayed there. Hands clasped behind his back. Breath shaking. Mouth devoted.

She was soaked. God, she was soaked. His chin, his lips, his jaw—slick with her. The lower half of his face was shining from it. He'd worked her open slowly, then fast, then slowly again. Circles, suction, long, cruel laps that left her trembling and flushed. She was so incredibly sensitive, attuned to each minuscule movement of his jaw... every twitch of his tongue dragging a cry from her throat.

Her thighs were damp. His mouth was a mess. The air between them was thick with it—warm and humid and filled with the sounds of her. She whined. Sobbed. Moaned.

Every time she neared the edge, she tightened her grip and pulled him back, shaking her head with a breathless smile. Not now. Not yet. ...just a little more, Matty. He could nearly hear her saying that.

And he whimpered when imagining her saying it aloud. He fucking whimpered, and she felt it deep in her spine. "What is it?" she asked, voice thick, teasing. Matt grunted when she yanked him back and dragged her knuckles across his cheek. Even pulled his head back when he tried leaning forward again. "Do you deserve to make me come?" He didn't speak. He nodded, shaky, desperate, and so ready. Sunny laughed. "That's not an answer, Matty." He winced, feeling his cock pulsing at the nickname. His voice cracked on the first word. "Please."

"Please... what?" "Please, let me. Let me finish what I started. Let me taste it," he gulped, mouth filling with saliva just at the idea of it. "Let me have it, Sunny."

She didn't answer right away. Just stared down at him—his mouth glistening, breath ragged, hands still clasped like a sinner begging for communion. Her thighs trembled. Her pulse roared in her ears. And finally, finally, she gave him what he wanted. "Then take it," she whispered, voice shaking. "All of it." Matt surged forward with a broken sound—grateful, starving—and sealed his mouth to hers again like he couldn’t breathe without it.

Her thighs were trembling now. The leg draped over his shoulder was clenched tightly behind his neck, heel digging into his back. The other leg braced wide on the floor, grounding her. She was riding his fucking face. Not passively. Not gently. Matt was gone.

She rocked against his mouth like she owned it—like his mouth was hers, like the only reason it existed was to take this. Matt couldn't think straight. He couldn't breathe right, either, closer to passing out with each second. ...and he didn’t care.

His tongue moved like it knew the path by heart. His lips locked where she needed them. And when she pulled his hair, when she cursed through her teeth, when her thighs clenched around his ears—he groaned into her, like he could come from just this.

She let out a broken sound. Something between a gasp and a growl.

"Don’t stop."

He couldn’t have if he tried.

She was shaking now, whole body clenched, bent slightly over him as her fingers twisted in his curls like she needed leverage. And when it hit? It was sudden and loud, her head slamming the desk behind her as her whole body arched forward. Matt didn't stop. Not until her hips jolted back, too sensitive, pulling away. Her thighs were tight. Voice wrecked. Grinding through it on his mouth, not letting him go until it was all wrung out of her.

Matt took it. Swallowed it. Groaned into her like he was the one falling apart. Didn’t move his hands, didn’t lift his head, didn’t stop until she told him.

Her breath slowed. Her grip loosened. She looked down at him—glasses gone, lips swollen, tie crooked, breath uneven. Only then did he lift his head.

Only then did he pull back, mouth wet, lips swollen, chin glistening. Smiling. Ruined. Pleased.

She was still trembling under his mouth. Her breath, heavy. T-shirt, rumpled. Eyes, dark. Her tongue slid across her teeth. Fuck. He could still feel the heat pulsing through her. And yet, there she was. ...staring at him like she was ready for more.

Matt stayed exactly where he was—on his knees, panting. His lips were slick. Tie askew. Hair ruined. His hands were folded behind his back like a sinner at the altar.

His eyes didn't move. He didn't speak. Just let the silence wrap around them. He closed his eyes and let the sounds and scent of her orgasm wash over him, like he was memorizing it.

He'd eat her out again if she told him to. She wouldn’t even have to ask. And again. …and again, until it smothered him. What a way to go.

She grabbed his tie. Wrapped it around her wrist. Not gently. Not teasing. She sat up and tugged on it while she leaned down. She tugged Matt back on his feet, inch by inch, enticing him with a kiss. He could feel her smiling as she toyed with him, ensuring to sit straighter each time their lips nearly met.

"You were gonna let me walk away while so hard you can barely think straight, huh?" she whispered, losing her grip on the tie. Matthew stood up, towering over her while still feeling her fingers toying with the noose around his neck. "You'd play noble, wouldn't you? Think you're a fucking saint for eating me for dinner and having enough restraint not to fuck me." Matt's head shook as he rasped. "This isn't about me..." She bared her teeth. Sharp. Cocky. "That's just a pathetic fucking excuse, Murdock."

Matt's mouth opened like he wanted to argue, but nothing came out. He hadn't expected this. He thought this was the end. That he'd done his job. That he'd be allowed to crawl back into silence and ache quietly. But Sunny wasn't finished. She was still famished... starving.

Matt's breath hitched. He didn't move... couldn't move. Then and there? Matt wanted to give her anything she set her pretty eyes on. Like a soldier, blindly following orders. Anything that she demanded? Hers. Including himself. If she were willing to take.

"The chair," she rasped. "Take it." He blinked. "What?" "I said take the fucking chair, Matt." She shoved him gently, but firmly, by the shoulder, turning him toward the desk chair he'd vacated earlier. Still warm from the dying sun. Still tilted from when he sat in it for the entire day. Still facing the street on full display.

He hesitated. His hands clenched behind his back. "You gonna make me drag you again?" she asked sweetly, purring into his ear. "Because I will. I'll put you in that chair and ride you until you beg."

That did it. He sat. Tense. Unsure. Already violating the promise he'd given himself.

Her fingers were already working at his belt. And when he tried to touch on instinct, she smacked his wrist away. "Hands on the armrests, counselor. You're not off the hook yet," she planted a soft peck on his cheek. "You'll know when you are."

He groaned. But obeyed. Clutched the armrests like it offended him. He dug his nails into the cheap plastic. She moved before him. Still catching her breath. The wet slide of her thighs. The drumming heartbeat under her skin. Soft thuds of her footsteps on the carpet.

He didn't move. Didn't reach. Didn't ask. Because he hadn't meant to. This was for her. He let her do whatever she wanted... whatever she desired.

Sunny’s knuckles curled under his chin, lifting his face. Not hard. Not soft. Just… dangerous. Knowing. She looked down at him, face flushed, eyes still glazed with bliss. She smiled. "Your turn." Matthew, ever the richeous idiot, softly gasped for air. "This isn't about..." "You think you don't deserve a thank you?" She whispered, her thumb tracing the edge of his bottom lip. And his breath stuttered. His eyes closed instinctively. "No, not really."

"You're working so hard," she drawled, shaking her head softly. "Teaching me legal terms. Showing me how to lie to cops. Pretending you’re still some morally superior lawyer by day, then hunting… whoever you hunt when the city goes still. That deserves a proper little thank you." Matt scoffed breathlessly. "Sunny..." "You think I'm gonna let you do all that and just... clock out for the night?" she asked, voice velvet-wrapped threat. "Cute, really."

Matthew Murdock was at wits' end. He frowned, searching for a quick joke or quip. But he didn't answer. Couldn't.

Not when she gripped his tie and met him halfway—mouth hot, kiss hungrier than before. She kissed him like she could still taste herself on his tongue. Like... the idea alone turned her on. To know she was in his mouth and inside his body now.

That? That nearly wrecked him. When they broke apart, he was panting against her cheek. "I'm not asking for anything," he insisted, like it was some kind of apology. Sunny smirked. She knew Matt... knew him well enough to recognize when he talked to silence his consciousness. "I know," she whispered, pulling his shirt from his waistband. "That's why I want to give it to you."

Her hand slid down his abdomen and cupped him through his boxers. Matt’s eyes rolled back instinctively. He shuddered against her, forehead pressing into her shoulder, hands wrapping around the armrest like it might keep him tethered. "Fuck," he whispered. "You're gonna kill me, sweetheart." She smiled against his ear, thumb lazily dragging across his leaking tip. "Then die pretty for me, baby."

Matt's knees barely locked before she pushed him back into the chair. He could sense the shift in the air and the angle of the sun. The warmth. She pushed him directly under the window. Adjusted the windowsills so people could see if they looked hard enough. Without any shame whatsoever.

"I'm a lawyer, Sunshine," he rasped. "People shouldn't... see me like this." "And they shouldn't see me splayed on the counter in my café, Matthew," she hummed back, walking back to him. "But I didn't protest a single word... because the idea turned me on as much as it did you."

Sunny followed. One knee between his thighs. One hand on his chest. And that fucking smirk on her face like she’d been waiting for this all day.

She straddled him slowly and unbothered, like she owned the office and the city outside it. And Matt? Matt just sat there, glassy-eyed and barely breathing, hands gripping the chair.

"Look at you, baby, being so good for me," she said, pleased, sliding onto his lap. She ground against the hard line of him through his underwear, and he groaned—sharp and guttural, head thumping back against the chair. "I'm trying," he rasped. It came out hoarse... like it hurt to hold back. Sunny leaned in, lips brushing his jaw. "You'll forget you had to hold back when I'm done with you."

She reached between them, teasing a little. He was so hard it hurt. He didn't bother trying to hide the flinch when she dragged her thumb across the wet spot at the front of his boxers again. She pulled him with one hand and lined herself up with the other, sinking down in one slow, obscene slide that punched the air out of both of them.

This angle was new. Raw. Unexplored. Blissful.

Matt's hands shot to her hips—but stopped there, fingers twitching, uncertain. "No," she whispered, grabbing both wrists and pinning them to the armrests again. Even the slightest wiggle of her lips shot through Matthew's entire body, like a bolt of lightning. "No touching unless I say so. You don't get to rush this." Matt's head tipped back, jaw slack. "Please," he breathed—barely. Just that. Just once. She didn't answer. Just rolled her hips in a slow, grinding circle that made his entire body shudder.

He nodded fast, biting his lip. Didn't have a fucking clue what he agreed to. And he didn't fucking care either. "Good boy," she purred, and started to ride him.

It was filthy. Wet, slick, unhurried power. He reveled in the sounds of her skin slapping against the soaked fabric of his boxers. His entire lap was damp because Sunny was leaking on him, one hand holding the backrest, the other drawing slow and lazy circles around her clit as she lazily rocked back and forth. Her pace was deliberate, if even that. She ground against him, forcing him to feel every inch and each shift.

Matt tried to keep quiet. He really did. But when she clenched around him, dragged her nails down his chest, leaned in and moaned into his mouth... he couldn't hold it. His head lolled forward, forehead against hers, and he started murmuring. Her name. Latin. Pleas. Her name again.

"God, you're so fucking deep," she whispered in answer. "Matt..." He whimpered. Actually whimpered. Sweat beaded along his temple. His shirt clung in patches. The tie she'd dragged him with was still hanging crooked around his neck, and his hands, God, his hands, were gripping the arms of the chair as if he let go, he'd come and instantly.

And maybe, he would.

His whole body was trembling. Every muscle locked down. Desperate. Raw. Holding back like it was his last line of defense.

Sunny hovered above him, still grinding, still pulsing around him—so slow it was torturous. Her hands were on his chest now, nails dragging soft, deliberate scratches down to his ribs. She watched him. Head tilted. So in control, it made her feel high.

Then she glanced to the window.

A man had stopped across the street. Mid-stride. Coffee cup in hand. Staring. He couldn't see everything. Not clearly. Just the golden slats of blinds, the silhouette of her hips rolling. The outline of Matt's head tilted back.

But it was enough. Sunny smiled. She leaned down and whispered, lips brushing Matt’s ear: "We’ve got an audience... and he seems to like it."

Matt gasped, deep and sharp, like it burned inside him. He could feel her hips still. "Let him," he rasped at her, bringing his teeth to her forearm and biting in softly. It wasn't a command. It was a pleas. "Let him watch." She scoffed softly, pushing against his chest to have him sit back. "What?" "Just... don't stop, please." "Look at me, Matt," she murmured, puckering her lips just enough to let him feel it.

And he tried. By God, he tried. His head was heavy, his spine curling forward, breath skipping like a skipped heartbeat. His mouth was open, lips parted, too far gone to form full words. Sunny grabbed his jaw—tilted it up. Then slid her fingers around the base of his throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. Claiming. Steady.

"Beg for it," her voice was low, bone-dry. "Beg me to give a good show." "Sunny, God, please... I need to, fuck, I need..." "More." "I can't," he moaned, granting, bucking against her. "I need to come, please, I swear. I'll do anything if you let me..." She clenched around him once, tight and hard. Matt cried out. Head back, muscles spasming.

His whole body arched under her when she started moving again. This time, she had a tempo and a purpose. The chair creaked. Matt felt the muscle on his back pulling as he tried to find the deep angle inside her again... and he didn't give a shit.

"Let go," she murmured. And he did. Hot. Loud. Brutal. He blacked out for a moment. He just knew he came hard, with a full-body shudder, burying his face in her neck, moaning her name over and over like a prayer.

She didn't stop. Just arched her back and flexed her neck. She kept riding him slow, dragging it out, coaxing every last broken sound from his throat. One of her hands caught the back of his head.

The guy across the street turned away. Shocked. Maybe flustered. Probably turned on.

They stayed there a moment longer—sweaty, tangled, breathing in sync. She was holding him, cradling him against her chest, letting him listen to her heartbeat. Her cheek dropped to the crown of his head, legs still draped over his, both of them too boneless to move. Matt winced. She didn't catch it at first. But then he shifted, barely, and let out the tiniest, sharpest hiss through clenched teeth.

Her head snapped up. "Did you pull something?" "... No." "Matt?" He exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw clenched. "It's... fine." "Oh my God," she was already laughing. "I'm fine." "You literally aren't," she scoffed. "I can feel you spasming under me. Is that a happy cramp or did I just break your fucking back?"

He groaned and shifted again... poorly. "Lower back. Left side. It's manageable." Sunny blinked. Then bit her lip. and burst out laughing. "You fucking busted your back in your own chair." Matt gave her a look. Half murder, half mortified. "I was trying to not come too fast. Also, there was this specific angle you seemed to enjoy more than the other..."

"Jesus Christ," she snorted, sliding off his lap with all the grace of someone not currently incapacitated. She was drying tears, howling. "You always find a way to go full martyr, even when you're having the ride of your fucking life." "Oh, shut up," he muttered. "Totally worth it." "Clean up," Sunny was still laughing as she offered him a tissue. "And don't let me remind you of all the noble shit you said before. 'All about you,'" she muttered, berating his accent and voice. She got awfully good at it. "'Your moment, baby girl, let me eat out and then furrow thanks to blue ball syndrome...' Fucking hell." "Oh, ha-ha," Matthew huffed and winced when he moved his palm too fast.

He grunted, trying to sit up straighter. Failed. Slumped back into the chair with a pained expression. "This is so going in the injury report, just so you know." She whispered, kneeling to adjust his pants and clean his dick for him. "I swear to God, Sunny, if you tell Foggy..." She shook her head. "...Baby, I'm telling everyone."

Matt slumped in the chair, head tilted back, shirt soaked through at the collar, tie still hanging limp like a noose of his own making. His glasses were on the floor. His pride might've been too.

"...I was trying to thank you," he muttered, voice hoarse, dazed. Sunny smirked as she pulled the blinds shut, fully, this time. "Oh, you did."

They thought they'd gotten away with it. With what? Shamelessly fucking in front of the window of Matt and Foggy's rented office without getting caught. ...They were wrong. So, so wrong.

Foggy clocked in a few minutes before nine, balancing three to-go cups on his forearms and carrying one of Sunny's famous cheesecakes. He was humming some cheesy pop song, glancing around the office. Matt and Sunny had apparently cleaned up before clocking out last night. Even cracked the windows open.

Then his phone buzzed. One glance before he put it away, sighing, relaxing into the morning stillness. Paused mid-sip. Looked again. A staff report notification.

SUBJECT: Possible misconduct — upper floor window (Nelson & Murdock, Attorneys at Law) / After-hours activity

MESSAGE: Heya! I hate to bring this up, but one of the delivery drivers swears he saw something weird through your office window last night. He said it was about 7:30 PM—something about a woman riding a guy on an office chair. I told him it was probably a misunderstanding since you’re both very decent, but since the blinds were half open and we are on record for office conduct, I have to flag it. If it was nothing, just ignore it! — Poppy from Property Management :)

Foggy froze, blinking at his phone slowly, like it offered answers. He reread the message. A woman... riding... a guy... in a chair. He stared at the email some more. Then at the timestamp.

7:30 PM yesterday. ... when Matt was supposedly reading up for Jasper v. People.

Slowly, carefully, Foggy turned toward the back hallway. He heard him coming. Matt Murdock limped in all his glory, dolled up in a suit that had definitely seen better days—collar loose, glasses slightly askew… The same damn outfit he wore yesterday.

Foggy held back a groan, rolling his eyes. He was surrounded by idiots and children.

Matt stayed the night at Sunny's. Obviously. The wrinkled suit was bad enough. But the expression? That was the face of a man whose galaxy had expanded after four mind-blowing orgasms. And that limp... that motherfucking limp.

"Morning," Matt muttered too casually, flashing a sheepish smile. "I take it you've already stopped by Sunny's?" "Yeah. Bitch sends her regards," Foggy blinked once. Then, flatly: "Did you fuck someone in the office?" Matt didn't blink. Didn't stiffen. Didn't even jerk. He just frowned at Foggy. "...No?" "You're limping, Matthew." "I got mugged." "You're Daredevil?" Foggy muttered, furrowing. "You don't just get... mugged." "Had a rough night," Matt smirked. Foggy nearly barfed. "Yeah, they had a rough night." "Even vigilantes can get mugged."

"You're glowing," Foggy objected. Matt shrugged. "Sunny helped me with exfoliating." "You can't walk properly, you asshole." Matt blinked. "It's... a spinal thing. Pulled my back doing a really cool-looking back-flip."

Foggy squinted and let Matt walk into his office, hissing and muttering curses as the muscles on his back pulled on his ass. He opened the email again. Then looked at Matt... really looked at him.

The slightly red jawline and neck. Faint bruising on his wrists. The fact that he was wearing yesterday's shirt, but had re-buttoned it wrong.

It clicked.

"You two are fucking unbelievable," Foggy muttered, stunned. Matt had enough nerve to give him a clueless expression. "Who?" "You let a delivery guy watch Sunny ride you like a subway rail..." "Ah," Matt sighed, nodding. No reason to embellish, he figured. "Allegedly." "Oh my God," Foggy nearly slapped the desk. "I think you're projecting," Matt shrugged. "...She said he enjoyed it." "You don't even try denying fucking my best friend?" Foggy's voice cracked as he sucked in a breath. "In our office?" "Would you like me to?" Matt replied, tiredly. "You're well-informed, clearly. No reason for me to lie."

Foggy was pacing now, phone in hand, the email open like a final piece of evidence. He was muttering like a man betrayed by God—and ergonomic furniture. Matt sat at his desk, legs crossed, coffee in one hand. He couldn't lean back in the chair. He had the expression of a guilty child.

"So let me get this straight," Foggy exclaimed, waving his phone like it was holy scripture. "You and Sunny stayed overtime to allegedly read up... At our place of business, where we file taxes, store subpoenas, and occasionally eat Thai food." Matt sighed. "It was after hours. Nobody was in." "You fucked her in our chair!" "No," Matt hummed back, defiant. "She fucked me in my chair."

Foggy put his hand on his hips and took a long breath.

"... And to be fair, the chair is a lumbar killer," Matt muttered as if it were a valid argument. "Listen to me," Foggy said, dead serious. "I could've gone to med school. Like Nana said. Or started that ska band. Or been a butcher. Ever tell you my mum wanted me to be a butcher?" Matt scoffed. "...Not this again." "But no!" Foggy exclaimed. "Said, 'No, Mum! I want to be a lawyer!' And I don't remember what I said next." "You never do." "But I'm fairly certain it wasn't anything about my two best friends fucking like two possessed rabbits in our place of business," he took a breath. "My mum loves Sunny, y'know that? Way more than she likes you."

Matt took a slow sip of coffee. Nodded. Muttered a quiet, 'Fair.' Then, with all the calm of a man who'd accepted damnation ages ago, he murmured: "Technically... it was a round two." "... did you dishonor the shared space too?" "No, we're not animals. My office only." "We're not animals—" Foggy scoffed with disbelief. "I can't believe I went to law school and met a guy who can't keep his dick out of the deposition zone." "Desposition zone?" Matt echoed, amused. "That's new." "I'm building a defense," Foggy snapped. "Because someone is gonna have to defuse this PR nightmare when Poppy from Property Management decides to put 'ass on face' in the incident report."

"Okay, E. L. James, it wasn't that dramatic," Matt snorted. "No asses in anyone's face, Jesus. And we both know it's not legally actionable." "Oh, look who's clocked in to lawyer again." Matt shook his head. "It happened... on a whim, okay? I wanted to express my gratitude..." "That's what flowers are for, you idiot! Chocolate! Sex is not an official corporate recognition policy!" Matt set his mug down. "It was a really... sincere thank you. We got lost in it and overstepped... okay? I'm sorry." "You're not saying it won't happen again," Foggy snapped, voice razor-sharp. "Matthew, say it won't happen again. Right now."

Matt tilted his head, like he was genuinely considering it. Then, slowly, carefully: "I won't... plan for it to happen again."

Foggy stared. Blinked once. "Did you just—did you just use legal ambiguity in a sex misconduct apology?" Matt shrugged. "Force of habit." Foggy dragged both hands down his face. "Oh my God, I hope the chair gives you tetanus."

Sunny was surprised to see Karen enter 'Thanks, Tony.' Foggy'd already picked up their morning dose of caffeine twenty minutes ago. She groaned as she moved behind the counter, one hand bracing her lower back. Scott shifted in his seat… smiling like a lost puppy.

"Look who the cat dragged in," Sunny hummed and winked at Karen. "The hottest bombshell to enter the villa." "Don't you look jolly," Karen muttered, eyeing her posture. Sunny's back was definitely in post-wrath-of-God pain. "Rough night?" "Pfft," Sunny nodded. "Jasper v. People was really intense reading." "There's no Jasper v. People case," Karen said, deadpan. Sunny deadpanned right back, doubling down: "Then what the heck was I reading?"

"If you told me you got hit by a car or lost a fight to the espresso machine, I might've believed you," Karen bobbed up on the barstool, sending Sunny a warm smile. "I'm not creative today, love," Sunny huffed, pushing two items toward Karen as she worked on Karen's usual. "My vertebrae are on fire. You don't realize you don't get any younger until you throw a proper fucking back."

One of the mentioned items was a fresh raspberry muffin. The other? A care package with heat packs, protein bars, and cooling gel. It was labeled: 'Fuck you, Matthew Murdock, I hope you bust your balls next.'

"I don't know whether to be jealous or refer you both to physical therapy," Scott chimed from his corner, nursing a latte loaded with a triple shot of choccy syrup. Karen and Sunny both scoffed. "No, changing their old and musky office chairs would do the trick," Sunny sighed. "What?" Karen stilled a bit. Sunny attempted to deflect, patting the girly, glitter-covered plastic back, "This is for Matt. Lots of reading... also back pain."

"...Our office chair?" Karen paused, not letting up. Well. Fuck. "Yeah, we... uh... Spent after-hours at the office, just like we said we would," Sunny muttered, too quickly. "Lots and lots of boring legal shit, horrible back pain." "...You threw your back inside Nelson & Murdock?" Karen froze. Sunny tried to spin it into an out. "...Hypothetically?" "I work there," Karen deadpanned. The realization settled like a cold fog as her eyes widened. "...Oh my God." "Technically," Sunny inhaled sharply, before rushing out: "You don't have to be worried. It happened in Matt's office. We're well-behaved."

There was stunned silence. Scott puffed out his cheeks and pursed his lips, suddenly very interested in the countertop. Karen stared at the wall behind Sunny. Sunny stared at the espresso maker, pretending to press random buttons like she hadn’t owned it for four years.

"Are we talking about the same Matt who doesn't own the building?" Karen let out after a moment. Sunny nodded. Winced. "There was no one there. It was after hours. And listen, technically, the chair started it." "Ah, yes. Classic honeytrap furniture," Karen nodded slowly. "Well. When I said I hoped Nelson & Murdock would keep making history... I didn't mean DNA samples." "I'll send bleach. The good kind. Expensive. The one that doesn't smell like shit," Sunny winced, burying her face in her hands. "I'm sending you flowers. Triple. I’ll put together a fucking apology fruit basket. And Scott'll help me hire a choir of cute little Catholic children to sing sonatas under the office windows..." As Scott took a breath to chime in, the bell jingled again.

Sunny glanced at the door, a smile dying on her lips. She froze. Then groaned, loud and guttural, echoing across the café and drawing furrowed brows from a few regulars.

Scott nearly spat out his latté. It got so bad he had to dry his nostrils. He turned away from the entrance so fast it looked tactical, face pale like he'd just seen a ghost with a clipboard. "Oh no, not him... Not here and now." That caught Karen's attention—her lips pursed, eyebrow shooting up. She witnessed whatever this was for the first time, so she sat up straighter as her reporter instincts kicked in. "...Who?" She whispered, watching Scott's uncharacteristic reaction. "He works for the devil," Scott hissed back.

Sunny had met the deliveryman more times than she could count on both hands. Happy Hogan, bringer of the over-the-top bouquets. He brought every single one, without fail. Anthony Stark’s right-hand man. A tired-by-life-but-still-kicking kind of guy, with kind eyes and a walk that said "I've seen too much."

Sunny liked him. A lot. She always treated him for free—best brew, best mantra cake, no questions asked.

And in his arms, who would've guessed? A bouquet. An enormous one. Happy Hogan stood in the doorway with the look of a man carrying emotional trauma and one extremely aggressive floral arrangement.

The bouquet was absurd—at least three feet tall, bursting with red anthuriums, white lilies, tiny golden orchids, and a fucking balloon. Attached to it was a bottle of Stark-branded house whiskey, nestled like a warhead. ...And a card. Motherfucker.

Neither Karen nor Scott said a word. They stared at Happy wobbling around the café, not seeing the floor before him. That's how big that monstrosity was.

Happy gave Sunny a long, suffering look. "How many times a year can one have a birthday?" "Ask your boss," Sunny shot back, trying to remember if she even owned a vase big enough to house the beast. "We’re on number four this year alone. Last time, he tried to start a chat thread through floral cards." "Tony said to tell you the roses were his idea. The lilies were Pepper. She says she hopes you’re doing okay. And the balloon… was me."

"Tony," Karen said quietly, clearing her throat. "As in Tony…?" Sunny blinked again, ignoring Karen completely. "How very considerate of you, really, Happy." "You know how it goes," Happy grumbled, putting an elegant envelope in front of Sunny. "He explicitly said he wants your reaction. Says he's proud of you, mildly concerned and horrified." "He can explicitly go fuck himself," Sunny snarked, picking the card up nonetheless.

The card read:

Sweetheart, I admire your work. I don't understand it. But I admire it. Please enjoy this bouquet as compensation for the structural damage and an early celebration of your next court-mandated NDA. The whiskey's to numb the shame. Or the back pain. Whichever hits first. The balloon's Happy's fault. Love (begrudgingly), —Uncle Tony P.S. Pepper says hi. Also, "Jesus Christ."

"This is not even funny," Sunny winced, throwing the card on the countertop. Karen didn't even ask, just picked it up. "How does he even know?!" "Who knows what?" Karen asked, raising an eyebrow as she flipped the card open. Her voice trailed off. "...Is this the logo of... Stark Industries?"

"Yes. And that nosy motherfucker knows everything," Sunny snapped, already shouting at Amita to bring an empty pastry box from the back. "Apparently." Scott, hunched on the barstool like a badly disguised coat rack, chewed on his straw and tried to radiate nothing-to-see-here energy. It wasn’t working.

"Let alone the card..." Karen squinted at him. "You look nervous." Sunny was too grumpy to notice Scott looked like he'd just seen the grim reaper... otherwise, she'd be all up his and Happy's business. Scott smiled way too fast. "Who, me? Nah. Just... high caffeine, low morals. That's my thing."

That’s when Happy tilted his head slightly, still standing there like he was regretting every life choice that led to floral delivery duty. Just enough to look at Scott. Enough for a frown to form on his face. Enough to make the interaction suspicious.

"What are you doing here? This is how you choose to spend your bi-weekly three-hour pass? The one you freaked about during courts, on record?" Happy hummed, low enough for Sunny not to hear over her rage, but not sly enough for Karen to miss. She still pretended to read the card. "Thought they said invisible." "I'm blending," Scott gritted back, teeth bare, a forced smile on his lips. "Weren't you supposed to spend it with your kid?" "She's at Nana's, thanks for asking." "You're wearing a hoodie saying 'What would quantum physics do?'" Hogan scoffed, shaking his head.

Both men glanced toward Sunny, who was still grumbling behind the counter, too distracted by rage to notice either of them. She was already pulling Happy his usual—five chai lattés and an entire Mantra cake. "Tony flagged this place long ago," Happy added quietly. "Before you even pulled your magician act together. When he first learned you were frequenting it, he just said—'If he's gonna keep popping into a café named after me out of pure spite, he better not draw attention.'"

"I'm not drawing anything," Scott hissed back, his happy-go-lucky smile fading. "I'm drinking and enjoying good company. Quietly." "You look like a raccoon with a loyalty card."

Sunny's palm suddenly hit the counter. Her other hand went to her hip, eyes narrowing as they jumped between the two of them. "...You two know each other or sumthin''?" "Nope," Scott beamed, way too fast, voice cracking slightly. Happy said flatly, deadpan and too smooth: "Never saw him in life."

"Great," Sunny snapped, dragging a marker across Happy's to-go cup and stabbing a furious little heart onto it. "Then stop pestering my favorite house felon slash handyman. He's been a regular for years, and Tony, for all his unrelenting bullshit, doesn't get to pick who I’m friends with."

"Did you just say felon?" Karen echoed, shooting Scott a look. "I thought it was a joke." "Uh," Sunny shrugged, not offering a further comment. "We kinda go back." "That's... nice," Happy scoffed. "Don't say that, she's a mogul," Scott muttered. "She'd so raise my prices if she realized how much she'd already given me for free." "I should," Sunny shot back. "And I might." She didn't look up, just dropped off a muffin beside him with 'Recidivism' piped in icing.

Then, under her breath, like she was remembering a grocery list, not explaining their origin story: "I got referred for the pen-pal program by a former uni prof. Don't know why I signed in. But this idiot stuck and never left. It was shortly after the Incident... Y'know, Avengers, my former café gone, all the pazzaz." "She sent me a bag of beans once. Said the prison coffee sucked. Which it did," Scott reminisced. "Amen," Karen agreed with a soft smile. "She wrote a note on the bag that said, 'Hope this makes it suck less, convict,'" he paused, eyes a little distant now. "No one sent me anything before that." "Don't get sappy, idiot," Sunny muttered while meticulously putting Happy's usual into a paper bag. Her eyes? Warm. A little glassy.

"Helped her pull this place together," he sighed, looking around. "Fell through the roof once because she forgot to mention it was rotten." "Ah yeah," Sunny hummed. "Had to explain to your parole curator why you came back with a broken leg." "My buddy and I worked here on our prison passes," Scott reminisced. "She fed us some murky Thai down the street and a gallon of coffee daily."

"Oh?" Karen wondered, looking over her shoulder at Hogan. He didn’t say anything, but he was definitely listening.

"Yup," Scott nodded. "I built this counter with Foggy. And the coat hooks. And she yelled at me every step of the way." "You idiots used the wrong screws because that friend of yours wouldn’t stop yapping," Sunny cut in, bone-dry. "They worked!" "They're more crooked than Brett Mahoney," she shot back, loud enough to make both Karen and Happy scoff. "And I know for a fact Foggy still gives him cigars for Bess in exchange for client references."

With that, Sunny finally slapped down Karen's usual right beside Happy's paper bag.

"Okay, calm down, children," Karen laughed, looking at them all with something between disbelief and affection. "It's real, then? You picked a pen-pal and got... him? Scott? And he's actually a convicted criminal?" "Statistically unlikely," Sunny muttered, already walking away. "But then again, so is running a café in Hell’s Kitchen and surviving."

Karen arched an eyebrow slowly, eyes flicking from Scott to Sunny to Happy, then down to the card on the counter. She took a sip of her drink like she hadn’t just mentally filed a new red string thread.

Scott lifted his latté in a mock toast. "I was very polite in my letters. You were charmed by my way with words." Sunny didn't even blink. "You drew a dick on the first one."

Karen and Hogan, who was overstaying at this point, huffed a laugh.

"It was... stylized," Scott defended. "It had a cape." "You went on a rant about how a 'green rage monster' and a 'walking six-pack model with Shakesperean syndrome' maulled your coffee to the ground in the first letter," he muttered. " Didn't even ask how I was. So I thought it was thematic."

Karen sat back, muttering into her drink. "Jesus Christ." But once again? It was crystal clear that Sunny was hiding more than she let on. Whether Matt's alter ego, connection to Stark, or Scott's past? She was the wallflower of the local community. And she'd rather see everything burn in flames than share any of it.

The office was loud with laughter, the way only familiarity allows. It smelled like overused oil, spice, old paper, and burnt coffee. It smelled like home.

It was evening now, and they gathered in the small shared space of Nelson & Murdock for Thai. Courtesy of Sunny, as an awkward thank you. The bouquet from Stark was thrown in the corner, meticulously stored away in a paper box lined up with an askew cut plastic bag. Foggy nearly cried when Karen shared that part of her and Sunny's morning.

Matt was suffering quietly in a corner. Something about him was different, and Sunny couldn't quite place it. He carried a sense of... determination. As if he were half absent, his mind drifting somewhere else while he grasped at the last moments of warmth and humanity before something broke loose. Something unstoppable. Like a man drowning.

Sunny was right next to him, leg lazily thrown over his as she listened to Foggy's dramatic retelling of Matt's chair incident. She was acting like Foggy saw it firsthand. Like she hadn't been the cause. Her mouth was open, and she nodded as if she hadn't lived through it. Karen was sitting on her chair, grinning as she swallowed noodles, eyes glinting with mischief.

... just a good after-hours Friday at Nelson & Murdock.

"And after the guy saw them," Foggy said, eyes wide. Sunny nodded, hanging on Foggy's lips. "He made a sound. Like a man either having a religious experience or dying. Whatever. I'll mark it as 'unclear' in the defence." "Can we not?" Matt huffed, and Sunny, not even looking at him, slapped his chest with a 'shush, the best part's coming'. "...You were here, with me, on that damn chair." "Yeah, but Karen and Foggy weren't," Sunny argued. "It should be you telling the story, then. Not him." "No," Sunny hummed categorically. "This is way funnier."

Foggy gestured with a plastic fork. "Any comments on the accusation, Mr. Defendant?" "It was my back," Matt muttered, sipping his soda like it might restore his dignity. "I just pulled a muscle." "Yeah," Sunny drawled. "Because someone doesn't know how to say no." Matt scoffed, turning toward her with a smirk. "Someone specifically ordered me to sit on that damn chair."

Foggy raised his eyebrows with the expression of a constipated child. "Yeah, I'm not touching any of that. It's inadmissible in court anyway." "Were you two training for Cirque de Soleil?" Karen snorted, digging into her takeout. "I'm doing the raccoon-on-a-bicycle routine," Sunny bared her teeth. "Matt'll be doing an acrobatic number accompanied by a recording of his essay collection named 'Catholic guilt and other nonsense.' Why?"

"For what it's worth, he never pulled anything when we were together," Karen grinned back, her voice light and smooth. "I'm trying to imagine it out of morbid curiosity."

It was meant to be light. And God, Sunny knew that. It was just a callback. Something along the lines of 'look how far we've come.' One of those 'we're all friends now' lines. Because they were. They are.

And for a moment, the laugh started to rise.

But... Sunny's smile was just too quick before she pulled away from Matthew, muttering about 'stretching her back.' She didn't pull back closer again. Her laugh was just a beat too loud. Her fingers twitched at her elbow like she didn't know what to do with them while she listened to Foggy and Karen expanding on the joke.

Sunny was pretending to laugh it off. And Matt caught it. Karen and Foggy, still cheerful, didn't.

"Guess we had better posture," she added breezily, not realizing the weight of the situation. "Or, these walls witnessed something they'll never forget. Honestly? Good for you guys. It's healthy, let alone the whole misconduct trouble." "I should be horrified, yeah," Foggy added, too. "But I know you guys. We'll laugh so hard looking back at it." Sunny's mouth opened, ready with a joke. A jab. Deflection. Something. But Matt was quicker.

"Might be because we never felt like that." This declaration grounded the entire room into stunned silence. The teasing atmosphere evaporated in the air. The room suddenly shrank. Karen blinked. She wasn't hurt, just surprised. She looked at Sunny, her lips parting as she finally noticed the signs of discomfort. She wanted to apologise, explain that her mouth ran faster than her brain. That Sunny shouldn't make anything of it. But again, Matt was quicker.

"I heard you the other day, you know?" He dropped the plastic spoon into his Thai, turning his head at Karen. It looked like his gaze burned through her. "You weren't wrong. You're not Sunny, and with her, I'm not who I've been with you." Matt wasn't mean or cold. He was just... reminiscing. Factually. His voice was steady, like he was arguing a case.

"We've closed this chapter already and realize what part we played in it. We were real, but it wasn't clean. It wasn't pretty. And if you're so morbidly curious..." He paused. Let it land. "…then I can tell you: nothing you pulled off sure as hell didn't leave me wrecked in a chair because I couldn't stop touching you."

The silence was heavy. Too heavy for comfort.

Karen exhaled softly. "Matt, I didn't mean..." Her voice cracked. She scoffed, half-laughing. "It was just a joke. I wouldn't say it if I didn't think Sunny'd take it." "I know," he said gently. "I know you didn't. But I couldn't listen and... not say anything." "I'm sorry, okay?" She turned toward Sunny, who was already smiling and nodding. "Don't worry," Sunny muttered, sliding back toward Matt. "I'll just call off the Catholic choir, Scott prepaid it. He specifically asked them to sing 'We're all in this together' from High School Musical. Your loss, my financial gain." "The what now?" Foggy blinked, finally looking up from his spring rolls

Foggy and Karen decided to bar-hop after their shared Friday Thai. Foggy explained it was 'a long Friday night with nothing to do.' Sunny agreed with that logic, saying it'd been too long since she last saw Josie. She was already in her coat when she caught Matt leaning into the doorframe again. Just like the night before. But this time, his expression was softer and sombre.

"Another rain check?" She muttered, walking back to him. "Yeah," Matt nodded with a stiff smile. "Sorry." "Which non-existent case are you reading up on this time?" "No case tonight," he hummed, dragging slow fingers up her forearm. Yes. Something was wrong. And this time, Sunny's alarms went off. "I just have... something to finish tonight. It's going down." "Should I yell timber?" Sunny scoffed, slipping out of her coat.

"What are you doing?" Matt sighed, as if he was worried Sunny might stay. She snickered. "Between me, you, your pulled back, and that 'something?'" She rolled her sleeves up, bending to take out the trash. "You need help with cleaning up before setting off." "You should go with them." "They know where you're going?" Sunny asked back, pausing as Foggy and Karen laughed in the background. "...Know if you're coming back?" "No." "Shut up, then," Sunny said topically. "I've done my fair share of laughing over beer, not knowing whether you'd be alive the next morning. Let me have this."

Matt was silent. He listened to her move around the office, cleaning, stacking, sorting. He listened to her heartbeat and breathing resonating around, echoing in the walls. Only then, he muttered a measured "Okay."

"So, you two coming, or...?" Foggy stepped back into the room, his eyes falling on Sunny toying with an empty Manila folder. Her grin alone was an answer. Then, he looked at Matt, leaning into the doorframe with the expression of a martyr. "I see." "We can have a get-together at Thanks, Tony, tomorrow?" Sunny offered meekly. Foggy hummed, nodding. "Just keep it in the bounds of Matt's office and... for the love of God, pull the blinds down."

"We were just discussing whether we'll christen your desk?" Sunny teased, approaching Foggy. She hummed as she hugged him. "It'd be late for that." Foggy hummed back, patting the small of her back. "Franklin Percy Nelson!" she gasped, smacking his shoulder. "You bastard!" "...except Marci and I didn't get caught like fucking amateurs." "Good for you, Foggy," Matt hummed, laughing too. But it wasn’t relaxed or happy. It was strained. Distant.

Foggy looked at them like he knew. Like he knew that whatever was about to happen in that office, it'd have nothing to do with sex and bad jokes. The atmosphere was too heavy with all the unsaid that hung over them like an axe. Whatever was unraveling, it wouldn't be pretty... or easy. "I… I know it’s out of nowhere." Foggy said quietly, hand on the doorknob. "But I love you both," he exhaled. "Even though you’re insufferable, sex-obsessed dicks." "Yeah. Right back at you," Sunny laughed, a little too softly. "Tomorrow at ten?" "Yeah," Foggy nodded, eyes a little too shiny. "See you there." "Mhm," Matt nodded.

Sunny and Foggy exchanged a glance. That's how dense the air was now—how heavy the situation had grown. Matt didn't say I might be late. He didn’t say I don't think I'll make it. Just a quiet hum. And that hum twisted something in Sunny’s stomach.

Whatever Matt tangled himself in? It was deeper than Sunny had assumed.

And that was when Foggy realized. He heard the name fall off Matt's lips repeatedly. He witnessed the hunt. The one Sunny was meticulously kept out for her safety. One name. One man.

Wilson Fisk.

The fed raid was supposed to begin any moment now. The clock was ticking. And Matt? Even if he could walk into the night easier knowing Sunny was safe with Foggy, he needed this moment with her. Just like she needed to share it with him.

And Foggy? He was overstaying his welcome. So he closed the door with a soft click.

They moved silently, in unison. Tidying, throwing out, sorting, and cataloguing. She didn't need to ask anymore. She'd spent too much time at Nelson & Murdock. She knew the order in which Matt and Foggy filed their cases. She knew how Karen kept her desk. She'd seen the rhythm of the meeting room, the filing shelves, the mugs that never returned to the kitchenette. So Sunny moved around with purpose. Quiet. Humming a song, just like any other time, when she got restless.

"You didn't need to... defend me," she called into the quiet office, as if it crossed her mind. "Y'know, when Karen made the joke. There wasn't a need for you to step in." "I know," Matt called back at her. "Then why did you?"

Matt didn't answer right away. She could hear him near the cabinets, hear the files shifting under his hands. The slip of paper. Slap of folder. The hum of her tune still lingered in the room, quieter now.

"Because you pretended to laugh it off," it was soft. Not a call-out. Just an observation, a statement—a fact. Sunny paused mid-swipe at the desk. "What?" "I deliberated for a second or two, while you pretended the joke was okay, probably because Karen’s our best friend." His voice was distant, thoughtful. "But you smiled too fast. Pulled away. Didn't snuggle back in like usual. You said nothing, but your hands didn't know where to go. And I knew you’d let it pass—laugh it off and swallow it, like you always do."

Sunny sighed, shoulders squaring. She closed her eyes. Pain churned in her chest.

She wasn't stupid. She knew what he was getting at. But she didn't know if she was ready for that talk, not with everything hanging by a thread. Matt and her? Perfect in theory and volatile in reality.

Matt stepped into view again, not close, just visible. He was clicking a pen. "And by God," he said, smirking faintly, shaking his head. "You were going to carry it for everyone else's comfort." He exhaled. "I know... that if you thought Karen overstepped and needed the fence drawn, you would. I didn't assume you were weak. Or fragile. But I couldn't let you take that one, too."

A beat passed between them. It was too long and heavy. "Not tonight," he said, looking away. "I'm sorry if I acted up."

Sunny sighed, releasing the rug as she stepped toward him. She nodded, kissed his shoulder, and wrapped her arms around his waist. She swayed gently, still humming under her breath. "It's okay. I'm not mad, just..." I won't admit anything, she meant. And if you make me, I'll run.

"I know," Matt chuckled softly, resting his palms over hers, both feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat. "...Do you?" He nodded and lifted one of her hands, kissing her knuckles. "You don't have to say anything." "I should, Matt..." "But can't," he finished for her.

He turned then, placing his elbows gently on her shoulders. One hand lifted, slid across her face, reading her expression like braille.

Just as he feared. A soft frown. Lips in a tight line. Nose crinkled.

"You look like you're in pain," he scoffed, trying to joke. "Back acting up?" Sunny didn't let up. "Because you're already halfway gone." It was a flat statement. No maybe. No hypotheticals. Just a fact. She knew that on this night, something would end. And she prayed another day would begin. "And I'm fucking scared, Matthew."

This wouldn't be just a patrol. She wouldn't mutter about 'gauzes being too expensive' or 'her flat smelling like bleach and detergent.' It'd be one where she'd have Claire on speed dial... in case he'd even show up. This was something more.

And she didn't press. Just let him know she was smart enough to figure him out.

"Tell me that I don't need to be scared," she murmured, voice breaking with a sob. "Lie to me if it makes you walk off easier, but just..." "I can't," Matt muttered back. He felt his eyes stinging. But he didn't let go. He held her face in his palms, leaning his forehead to hers. Despite the pain and heaviness, he forced a sour smile. "It wouldn't be fair to either of us." "Then tell me something that'll be fair," Sunny pressed, stepping closer. Her fingers wrapped around his wrists, nails digging into his skin.

"He's going to prison," he stated, nodding, sobbing. "Or I am." "Is he a good man?" "I doubt it." "Does he have a name?" "He does." "Does he have a family?" "Close to it," Matt admitted. "So do you." "Yeah." "Then don't fucking die on me."

That moment tipped the scales. Sunny's lips pressed to his in a silent, measured, and tamed kiss. Her fingers dug into his sides, grounding him. Keeping him here. Just a moment longer. And he let her. He brought her closer, groaning into the kiss like it wounded him. When she finally pulled away, neither of them spoke.

Then, Matt swallowed thickly. "Before I go, can you do something for me?" She nodded. "Of course." "Will you pray with me?" His voice was quiet and steady.

Sunny's brows twitched. Not in disbelief. But in understanding. In unsettling, blood-curdling recognition. There wasn't time to ask why. She didn't ask what the goal was... what he expected. She just nodded.

"Yeah, of course," she smiled. "Of course." She felt Matt pull away, just slightly. He undid his shirt, taking off the pendant from his neck. It was elegant. A golden cross dangling on a silver chair. Traditionally feminine. 'Someone gave it to me when I was little,' Matt half-ass explained when Sunny first asked. She didn't press since.

He wrapped it around her hand, meticulously and firmly. Jesus. Whatever this night meant, it was worse than Sunny expected. Matt took her hands gently, sliding his fingers between hers. Palms pressed. Foreheads touching again.

His breath hitched before he started muttering. "Pater noster, qui es in cælis…" He spoke slowly, carefully, like every word was a weight on his chest. Sunny didn't know the Latin. But she knew him. The rhythm. The reverence. He paused once, almost broke. She squeezed his hands tighter. "Finish it."

"…Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in cælo, et in terra…" By the time he reached the end, his voice was almost gone. Her eyes were closed. His hands were shaking. She raised her chin and pressed her lips to his temple. Breathed in, slow and reverent. Then nodded once. Like she was coming to terms with it. "Amen," she whispered after a moment.

And that was all he needed.

They stood there for a moment. Foreheads pressed. Hands wrapped together like a promise. The weight between them hadn't lifted. But it had shifted.

Matt exhaled. So did she. Then Sunny pulled back, just enough to look him in the face. Her voice was quiet. But firm. "Are you listening?" she checked, waiting until he nodded. "When you're done and if you're walking, come straight to my apartment." Her hand settled over his heart. "And if anyone asks," a faint smile ghosted across her lips. "You've been there the whole night."

Matt huffed softly through his nose. The closest thing to a laugh. He couldn't explain what weight she'd just taken off his chest. It was silent, 'You don't need to explain, I believe in you.' Silent, 'Please, come back.'

"And if you can't," she added. "You call me. Or Foggy. And we come scrape you off." He reached up and traced the edge of her jaw. Just once.

"I will," he promised. It was a lie. Or a hope. A prayer in its own right. And it was enough. Sunny didn't push it.

She leaned in again, resting her forehead against his one last time. "Go," she whispered. "Go get your name, asshole." That made him smile. Really smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. But it tried to.

He stepped back. Turned toward the door. And just before he opened it, as he put the jacket on... he turned back at her. Still standing in the middle of the office, small and scared, clutching the pendant between her fingers. "I'll see you soon, Y/N," he said. He paused, closed his eyes, and memorized her scent like it was the last time he could. "Keep the bed warm for me."

And he was gone. The door closed behind him with a hush. Sunny stood in the quiet, nodding. Cross still wrapped around her fingers. Hands still clasped. The weight still there. But somewhere in the stillness, hope lingered.

Sunny didn't know how long she had stood still. The office was vacant and silent. Only the hum of the half-broken icebox and ticking of the clock indicated time moving around her. The door shut softly behind Matthew. How long ago? Ten minutes? Fifteen? No fucking clue.

Sunny stayed still, hands clasped, the gold cross wrapped gently around her fingers like it had always belonged there. As if not moving would summon Matthew back. As if he'd appear at the door, saying, 'It was just a joke.' She didn't cry. She didn't speak.

She just stood there. Breathing. Holding. Like the air still held his name.

Her eyes drifted to the office chairs, the desk lamp still on, the faint trail of Matt's scent in the room—sweat, soap, old paper, clean cotton, and something faintly metallic. He'd left his warmth there, with her. He always did. But tonight felt different. This wasn't just a keepsake. This was heavier. And Sunny didn't know what to do with that weight.

The pendant around her hand was still warm and heavy. It felt like a promise she didn't ask for but accepted nonetheless. Maybe from his body heat. Maybe the weight of what it meant. Sunny unwrapped it carefully, breathing shakily.

She sat at his desk, curled up in the chair they'd desecrated just yesterday. Why did it feel so long ago? Just a night ago, they were laughing in that chair, coming undone.

No matter. She couldn't change it now. Matt was already gone in the night. She laid the cross in her palm. Closed her hand around it. Kissed the metal. She waited.

Not for the sound of footsteps. Not for a phone call. Just for the moment when her heart stopped racing. For the moment the hum came back.

Then, after a moment, she reached for her phone. No hesitation. Just muscle memory. One contact. One message. Three words.

hes off

She sent it to Foggy. No punctuation. No emoji. No follow-up. And then she put the phone face down on Matt's desk, curled her legs under herself in the chair, and waited. She wasn't waiting for a reply. Just for the world to stop holding its breath.

The office was clean. Too clean. Sunny ran the mop over the floor again, even though it didn't need it. Then she dusted the shit out of the fax and scanner. She restacked the folders in Foggy's cabinet. Wiped down the whiteboard that no one ever used. Did the dishes. Bleached the bathroom sink. Wrote short notes on each of their desks with small smiley faces and hearts. Then, she walked through every room again and shut the blinds. She took out the trash on her way out. Closed the door and locked it. Double-checked it.

Left no trace of where Matt had stood. And it didn't help. She could hear it as she stepped out. Hell's Kitchen was different that night. The rats had crawled deep inside their holes. The sirens were far off. The air was tight. Something was changing. It was silent... and peaceful.

When she finally arrived home, it was late. She walked home alone, one headphone in, one out. The city around her was quiet and uncaring. Tourists, cars, non-stop bodegas and open bistros. New York's heart was beating, pulsing through the streets. Exactly as it should be.

She didn't turn on the overhead lights, just the kitchen lamp. The little warm one, shaped like a beehive.

She didn’t turn on the overhead lights. Just the kitchen lamp. The little warm one, shaped like a beehive.

The one Matt had once tripped over and insisted she'd “intentionally designed for blind sabotage.” She told him to “look where you’re going.” He quipped, “Fuck you.” She muttered, “You already did. But I wouldn’t be mad at another round.” They'd fucked until morning. He nearly lost a case because of it.

She opened the fridge. Stared. Settled on rice and leftover lentils. Tasted like cardboard, but it was hot. Her jaw worked like she was chewing anger.

Then, she started cleaning the flat too. With the fury and disgust of a thousand raccoons. The news was on. The volume was too high. Like she was daring the world to shut up first.

She scraped it for anything. A soundbite, a blur, a rooftop silhouette, for any hint that Daredevil was out there. The news channel was already playing when she picked up the remote. She didn't remember turning it on. At least she didn't have to look for it.

She just probably never turned it off. Not after Ben Urich's funeral. Not after she realized she'd been bracing for the day Matt finally broke. And that night? He finally did.

She started with dusting. Then reorganized the cacti on her fire escape. Ironed for a bit. Matthew's baby-white shirts, the ones he'd started wordlessly leaving in her laundry. Trousers and jackets from the same set. Mixed along with her t-shirts, sweats, hoodies, and pyjamas. And when there was nothing to do? She moved to the kitchen, glaring at the TV while she rinsed the dishes.

"Following last week's failed Sokovia Accords revival proposal, public interest in vigilante registration has risen again after video footage of an alleged rooftop altercation aired late last night…"

Sunny set the mug down. Let the boiling water run down her palms. Didn't flinch.

"…Senator Nadeer, known for her aggressive reform stance, called the footage 'another reminder that the streets aren't run by courts, but by cowls.'"

Sunny rolled her eyes, staring at the Senator's photo. Threw a spoon into the sink with too much force. It clattered like a bullet.

"…Surprisingly, her statement was met with public outrage, mainly from her supporters in Queens and Central New York. Even Stark Industries issued an official statement. Anthony Stark, despite his former and outspoken support for the Sokkovian accords..."

Sunny's eyes shot up again, her lips parted as she listened. Tony Stark—full glam, full suit—stood at a podium. Called the former accords 'Constitutionally unenforceable.' He said:

"The vigilante trend hit New York and other major cities worldwide like a meteorite. So your best bet? Separate the actual vigilantes from the wackos and posers—and help them."

He opened the issue of vigilantes putting NYPD officers into early retirement. He wasn't wrong. His proposed solution?

"Donations. Legal, nothing bedazzled. Transparent accounts."

Sunny hummed, surprised. This answer was something more mature than what she'd expect from Stark. Unsurprisingly, a reporter asked: 'Mr. Stark, are you openly offering bribes to state police officers?'

And, well... Anthony Stark, being Anthony Stark, told the reporter quote, 'Fuck off.' She scrubbed a single mug for three minutes, grinning, watching the disaster unfold on her screen. Wiped down a counter that was already clean. That's when it hit.

Siren right outside her tenement. Cars were rushing past. People squealed, jumping off the road. The omnipresent blue and red illuminated her living room.

BREAKING NEWS in black block letters on yellow. Drone footage. Downtown.

"Breaking news: Wilson Fisk is on the run from authorities. We advise anyone who'd see him to avoid him. The convict is armed and extremely dangerous..."

The usual 'please, in case of suspicion, call 911' message played, flashing right next to a photograph of said Wilson Fisk. Sunny turned the faucet off. Stood still.

Standard warning. Standard fear. Then the screen flashed a photograph. Wilson Fisk. Alive. Out. Real.

"... We were informed that a masked figure was seen near the Hell's Kitchen precinct around 1:12 AM, matching earlier descriptions connected to the 2015 citywide explosions. Officials confirm the vigilante known publicly as Daredevil may be connected to today's raid on…"

The news droned on behind her. The light hummed. And in her fist, the cross still pulsed with heat not quite gone. She froze. Waited.

But no actual sighting of Matthew. No one said, 'A local vigilante was found dead.' Just: "We'll report again soon."

The anchor moved on. New story. New outrage. Another fire in Queens. No name. No confirmation. Just smoke.

Sunny stepped back from the sink. Sat on the kitchen floor. Cross still in her palm. And for a second? She hated the city for staying the same.

She grabbed her phone off the counter. Thought about calling. Then realized her voice might break. So, she typed without thinking:

YOU: Did u see the news?

She waited for a beat. Foggy answered immediately. Like if he were waiting for Sunny to text first.

Percival: Yeah, we saw the press conference, lmao. Stark's on his bullshit again. You gonna key the next bouquet or just let the cake speak for itself?

She snorted. Typed back.

YOU: You watching too?

Percival: We asked Josie to put it on. Karen keeps flinching when they say 'unregistered' and 'unregulated'.

YOU: Is it him?

A second passed.

Percival: It's him.

She stared at that for a moment. Breathed in. Shakily. Nearly threw up. That was who Matt was against? The man Matt lost sleep over? Wilson Fisk?

YOU: So we're all looking, huh?

Percival: You know the whole city is.

It was quiet. Stupidly quiet. There'd been sirens around 10 p.m.—an outburst, fast and sharp. The streets had come alive after that.

But not in the usual New York way. No aliens. No Avengers. Just something happening out there. In the dark. Silent and deliberate.

Nobody knew what, not exactly. They just stood there, their coats half-zipped, their eyes squinting toward nothing, smoking and chatting, their voices hushed. Taking in the air like it might explain itself. Whispers floated between them. Uneasy. Breathless. Like the ghost of something they didn’t want to name. Like trauma remembered.

Something had shifted. As if Hell's Kitchen let out a breath it didn't know it was holding.

The window of Sunny's apartment dragged open, inch by inch, groaning against the frame. Slow. Reluctant. Inch by inch. Matthew's fingers were numb. The joints weren't bending. No feeling in them. His breathing was heavy against the cold glass. He braced himself. Clutched his jaw, muscles strained to bursting. Another shove. Matthew held himself up with sheer willpower.

Fisk didn't waste a single hit. Every punch landed. Every swing found a bone. Every hit was precise. Every swing punished something. He was settling debt.

His joints were loose. Skin torn, knuckles blooming red. One or two ribs, cracked. He could feel them grinding when he breathed. A heavy blow cracked his temple open. He could feel the blood under the tear in his skin. Droplets slid down his cheek, cold against the heat of his jaw. It threaded past his mouth, bitter and warm. He tasted it on his tongue.

Was it the first punch that tore his skin open? The tenth? Or the twentieth? He couldn't recall. His center of gravity was shot. The ground tugged at him, patient and cruel. It nearly dragged him down as he staggered across her bedroom floor.

He shut the window in one ragged motion. Rasped as his head found the wall behind him. He slumped into the frame before he realized he was moving. Her scent was soaked into the walls and furniture. It filled his lungs like a reason to stay conscious. Matt inhaled with genuine gratitude. Compared to the stench of blood, sweat, whatever kept Fisk’s heart beating… stale alcohol… back-alley handjobs and cheap pervitine?

Heaven.

Sunny smelled like fucking heaven and pure bliss. He wasn't sure if it was mercy or a trick of the blood loss. Regardless, Matt stumbled toward her soft heat emitting from the living room. Her heartbeat resonated through the walls like a fucking echo. His knees threatened again the second he let go of the window. He buckled. Pressed on.

His footsteps were heavy. Weight and limbs uncontrolled, his body slumping all over. He left behind bloody fingerprints and smudges on her furniture... she'll yell at him when she sees it. She usually did. The known halls felt empty. Each step resonated through. Too loud. Bounced off the walls too many times. Only her heartbeat kept him in motion.

He couldn't hear the hum of her fridge, not even the blare of the TV, stuck on some loop he couldn't register. The streets were silent to him, too. Usually, he heard the street lamps swaying in the wind, the taxis braking too hard, the obnoxiously cheery chime, the train rattling in from Queens, the bodega's creaky door, the 2 AM regulars spilling out of O'Hara's. Now? Silence. Just the static roar of blood screaming in his ears, so loud it drowned out the world.

His legs were shaking. His grip on the wall was slipping. The ground called to him like a grave. He couldn't tell which part of the flat he was in.

But then. He stopped beside her. Took him a few minutes to realize. Her heartbeat stopped echoing around him. Now, it was just hers. In the room. Beside him. Soft. Slow. Familiar... like a whisper meant only for him. Like he knew he needed it.

Matt flinched. His fingers curled tighter around the frame. She was in the same room. He could feel her through the floorboards. He forced himself to concentrate. Her breathing was regular, gentle, and steady, curled up on the couch where she waited. He couldn't hear the city. But he could hear her.

He could feel her warmth in the walls, the way the air shifted around her body, the soft give of the cushion under her ribs. The faint creak came when she adjusted her weight.

Sunny.

She was asleep. The cross was still in her hand. He didn't need to see it. He could feel her shape in the room like gravity. Like the answer to a question his body couldn’t ask anymore.

Matt stumbled forward. Toward her. Each step was like walking through water. Heavy. Blind. Bleeding. But guided by her scent, her breath, the thrum of her heart calling him home. His knees hit the ground, thumb brushing over the sofa cushion.

She stirred on the couch and blinked awake slowly. Focused. Sat up with a startled breath. And the moment her eyes met his, she stilled.

It was Matthew... she recognized the stubble, the plush shape of his lips, and his chin. He was still in the suit. He was still the Devil.

The helmet was on. Blood crusted on his jaw, sticking his beard together. His shoulders were trembling, soaked through and weighted like he hadn't stopped moving since the moment he left.

Her eyes swept over him. Down the rigid red lines of his chestplate, reinforced shoulders, and an unfamiliar shape in the low light. This was... new. Someone made him a suit. Someone sew it together. It was layers of red and black, faded in the dim light of the TV.

Her voice cracked, small and raw. "Is... is it done?" Matt gave the slightest nod. "Yes." "Is he dead?" Matt hesitated, throat bobbing. His lips parted. "No," he said quietly. "But I... I think I wish he were." She nodded. Once. Processing.

Then, calmer than she should've been, almost detached, "You upgraded the suit." Matt blinked behind the mask, caught. "What?" She tilted her head. "That's not the one I used to wash in the bathtub or the laundromat. Different stitching. It seems heavier. Fight-ready." He didn't answer. "New fabric, too. Must be someone's handiwork," her thumb slowly brushed the curve of his shoulder. "...Didn't tell me."

It wasn't an accusation. Not really. Just one more thing he hadn't said. Matt's jaw tensed. But her voice? Her voice dropped and softened, "It suits you, Matt. You look... heavier. Not like I need to worry as much."

He bowed his head slightly. Couldn't meet her eyes. Sunny leaned in, whispering against his shoulder: "Are you alive?" He swallowed hard, and she noticed it—a tear rolling through the soot, dirt, and blood on his face. And then another. "I don't know," he finally breathed.

She nodded again, this time much slower. Her hand stayed on his shoulder. His suit was stiff with dirt and sweat. Her thumb brushed across it anyway, just once more. "Okay," she whispered. "Okay. That's a start. We work with that." Then, she muttered: "Let's take a shower."

Matt didn't move, didn't speak. But after a breath, just one, he lowered his head until his forehead touched hers, helmet and all. And he exhaled.

Matt didn't let go of her hand the entire way to the bathroom. He didn't speak. Didn't flinch. He just followed her lead. The tremor in his fingertips was the only thing giving away how close he was to shattering.

Sunny turned on the water first. Hot, nearly scalding. Closed the bathroom door and prepared towels on the closed toilet lid. Pulled his favorite bottle of soap out. The peach one with strawberry undertones. Then, she stepped before him. Waiting for him to come in. Not pushing. Not talking. Just standing there, smiling softly.

Matt stood at the threshold. His helmet was still on. Suit still zipped. Blood drying on his jawline. She didn't say anything. When his silence didn't crack, she took a half-step closer... and then another. When she was close enough, she reached up, slow and deliberate, and undid the clasps at his collar.

Matt's breath caught. Therefore, Sunny stilled. Relaxed her shoulders. Waited. But Matt remained silent. Her fingers moved carefully, reverently. Like she wasn't just peeling off armr... she was dismantling the last piece of the night.

With each clasp undone, the Devil faded. With each zipper, Matt emerged.

When the helmet came off, she heard his breath catch. Not because of pain, but because of air. Because he hadn’t exhaled since walking in. Then, she started peeling the suit off. Once the zipper was halfway down, she helped him out of it. Piece by piece. No sudden moves. No jokes.

The gloves came last.

His hands shook as Sunny tugged them free. Fingers trembling in a set-in stiffness. She noticed the knuckles were open. And she didn't comment on it, but held his palm longer than necessary. Then, Sunny leaned in, bringing his palm to her lips to press a feather-light kiss into his skin. It was meant to ground him.

When she led him into the water, he didn't sigh or groan. He just stood there, shoulders bowed, letting the spray hit him like it might be Fisk and the Devil out of his skin.

Sunny followed a beat later. She remained fully clothed in a tank top, sleep shorts. She peeled her socks down with two fingers. She didn't comment on it, didn't stop at it. She stepped under the water with him like they'd done this before. Like it was routine. ...thank God it wasn't.

The steam wrapped around them both, curling at the edges of her lashes, settling on his jaw. He tried to gulp the taste of blood down. But it didn't help. The water hit the bruises and scabs. Washed the soot and blood off.

Sunny closed her eyes. Exhaled and stretched her neck like this was just another long shift. Then, she stepped closer. Her hands slid up his chest, slowly and steadily, until they rested over his heart.

Matt didn't acknowledge her physically. Didn't move, hum, or scoff as he usually did. He didn't get snarky with her, no cockiness. And when he finally spoke, Sunny didn't recognize the edge in his voice. "I thought I'd come here and fall apart," he muttered, barely audible. "But you're... holding me together."

Sunny leaned in until her forehead rested against his sternum. Her breath was warm through the soaked fabric of her tank top. She didn't speak, just pressed herself closer. She was shaking. Trembling. Her breathing was heavy. But Matt didn't react... didn't turn around to calm her down. He usually did. Not this time. His hand didn't clumsily rake her thigh. No forehead kiss. No muttered nonsense. Nothing.

He shifted. His palms, still trembling, came up. They were hesitant, like he was scared to take too much. But when his fingers met her wet skin, he didn't stop. He cradled her palms on his chest. Squeezed them before turning around. He held her, pulling her fully against him. Chest to chest. Mouth to shoulder. Hands in her hair. And he stayed like that, like he didn't know what else to do.

Her fingers traced the edge of a bruise on his side. His nose dragged along her jaw slowly, water collecting at the busted corner of his mouth. "You're not alone," she whispered. Matt nodded, voice broken. "I know." Their hips brushed. Their mouths didn't. But the charge between them? Uncaged.

And neither moved to change it. It wasn't about sex, but about survival and gratitude. It was his name on her tongue. Her touch on his skin. ... and the world was still turning because of it.

"I don't have an alibi," he muttered, eyes closed and voice hoarse. "Not legally. Not morally. I just... I kept thinking about your coffee cups. The ones you keep on the top shelf because you're petty. And toffee stuffs, the ones you put over a cup when it's still brewing hot and how you tell me to go fuck myself when I thank you for it," Matt's grip on her hair grew stronger. "And how you make too much rice. And how you hide the good syrup. I kept thinking... wishing that if I make it back to that, maybe it means I'm not a fucking moster," he added, tears running down his cheeks. His mouth twisted without a sound before his forehead leaned into her shoulder. "I nearly killed him, Sunny. I nearly did."

She stared at him, lashes fluttering as the words set in. His breathing began to slow, mouth still pressed to her shoulder. Her hands palmed his jaws, making him straighten again. Quietly, she reached for his hand. Rested hers over it. Nose brushing his. "You smell like you turned the city upside down to catch him." He let out a small laugh. It caught, sharp in his chest. "Feels like it." "Then tell me one thing," Sunny muttered into his lips. He nodded, broken. "Anything." "Did it work?" Matt nodded again. "They'll announce it tomorrow. He's gone. Caged. For real this time, I think." "That's not what I asked."

Matt gulped forcefully, grinning, trying to keep himself in the moment. "Do you feel better now that he's gone?" Sunny asked again. "He killed Ben," Matt admitted as a fact. "And he wouldn't waste a second doing the same to Karen or Foggy." "...And do you?" "Doesn't feel like enough," he murmured. "But maybe that's the point."

Sunny nodded. It wasn't justice he wanted. Not really. It was blood. And she wasn’t sure how much of him wanted it. That part of Matt? It wanted Fisk dead. She blinked, then forced a shaky breath. "Then you should shower before you ruin my floor." Matt didn't move. Just leaned forward, forehead nearly touching hers, breathing her in. "I thought I'd have to bury some part of me tonight," he whispered. "Instead, all I thought of on my way back was coming home."

The water had gone lukewarm. Neither of them noticed. Matt's grip at her waist loosened just enough for her to move, chest brushing his, chin tilted just so. She picked up the shampoo, massaging it between her fingers. "You look like you got something to say," Sunny muttered, working slow circles in his hair, then in his stubble. Her fingers darkened with dried blood and soot. The water was bright pink, flowing down her forearms.

"I did it all for us," Matt whispered, convinced. Sunny let out the tiniest sound. Something between a scoff and a sigh. "You didn't," she objected. "But that's okay." "I..." "You needed this," Sunny continued softly. "You needed to be the one who ended it. You needed to see it fall. To know it was really over. And that's okay." He nodded, frowning as she continued cleaning him.

"But you can do something for us," Sunny said, voice quiet, deliberate. "Say you were here with me." Matt flinched like she'd slapped him. "What?" "Home, Murdock." Sunny's hands slid down, wiping away dried blood, careful not to press too hard where it had already bloomed purple. "All night. Beside me. Inside me. Whatever version makes it easier to fucking breathe." "Sunny..." His voice caught. Cracked. "Don't." "Say it." Matt stiffened. "Say that you were here. With me." Matt didn't answer. Didn't move. His throat worked like he was trying to chew glass.

"I..." Her knuckles were under his chin now, forcing him to face her even though she knew he couldn't see. "Matthew," she whispered, low and shaky. "Say it." He looked like a man mid-crucifixion. Then, finally, barely audible over the sound of water hitting the tile...

"I was here," he said, wrecked. "With you. On top of you. Inside you. The whole night." Sunny exhaled like she'd been holding that breath for centuries. Her shoulders relaxed. "Good," she murmured, nodding. "Attaboy." She kissed the corner of his mouth—chaste, soaked, reverent. Then she leaned her cheek against his.

Matt didn't speak. He just let her hold him. He let her lie for him. Let himself believe it, just for a second. And maybe? That was enough.

They didn't say anything as they stepped out.

The air outside the shower was cold enough to sting. Matt didn't flinch. Sunny didn't shiver. Not really. She reached for a towel from the toilet lid, smelling like her lavender detergent. She tossed it over his head like she was dealing with a soaked dog, sighing.

"Jesus," he muttered, muffled. "Let a guy breathe," she said, voice dull but fond. "He's off-duty for tonight."

Matt stood still, dripping on the mat, letting her pat him down like a child. She didn't linger. Didn't tease. Just methodically worked the towel over his hair, down his neck, and across his chest. Each pass was gentle, clinical, and personal. She avoided the bruises, even though she knew where they were. He didn't need to guide her. Matt trusted her.

When she was done, she silently passed him the towel and grabbed a second one for herself. Then, she peeled off the soaked top and shorts. No performance, no flirtation. Just practicality.

Matt kept his head down, towel clenched in his hands. He wasn't fully there. Not yet. So Sunny didn't press. They dried off in silence. Two people who'd already said everything they couldn't repeat.

When they were done, Sunny wrapped her towel around her body like armor. Matt's hung loose around his hips, dripping. She looked at him. "Come to bed." And he followed. Still towel-wrapped. Still bleeding in places. Still hers.

She didn't bother turning the lights on. Matt followed her out of the bathroom like a ghost that hadn't decided if it wanted to stay. The towel hung low on his hips, his hair dripping onto the floor, and the scab at his jaw was just starting to crack again. She noticed the bloodstains. Didn't comment on it. Just locked the window he came through.

She moved in silence, with precision. Pulled back the comforter with one hand and crawled in without a word, still wrapped in her towel, hair and skin damp. Didn't bother cleaning the trail of water between the hallway and the bed. Just... got in. Matt hesitated. Then dropped the towel. Sunny heard it hit the floor.

He slid in behind her. Careful and quiet. The mattress dipped under his weight, and... his arm came around her waist. She let him, just closed her eyes. His chest pressed to her back. She didn't move. They didn't speak. Not at first.

The silence wasn't heavy. It was thick. Like it had weight. Like it knew things they weren't ready to say. His hand settled just under her ribs, and hers covered it, nails gently digging into his skin.

"I can feel your heartbeat," she muttered. Matt's voice was rough. "Yours is louder." Sunny snorted. "Probably because you made me shower in clothes. I'm freezing." "You weren't moving fast enough," he whispered, burying his face in the crook of her neck. Breathed her in. "You smell like blood and strawberries." "You smell like possible federal charges."

He huffed something that could've been a laugh. It shook a little. She reached behind her, found the edge of his thigh with her foot, and anchored them together. They lay like that. Entangled. Still. Damp. Present.

"I almost didn't come back," he said, eventually. A whisper. Like maybe if he said it louder, it'd mean more. Sunny didn't flinch. "But you did," she whispered. "So shut up and hold me." So he did. And he didn't let go.

The sun was low, weak through the curtains. Barely more than a suggestion. The apartment hadn't warmed up yet.

Sunny stirred first, her ankles peaking from under the blanket. Their bodies were still tangled. Bare skin under blankets, the air still thick with dried blood, artificial smell of strawberries, and too many things left unsaid. Her knee was hooked over his thigh, and his arm rested limp at her waist. He hadn't moved all night. She could tell by the angle of his neck. And the gentle frown on his face.

She blinked, then shifted carefully, her fingers moving hair out of his eyes. She smiled, hand slipping down. It traveled between them with a purpose. She trailed the familiar curves and bumps, slowly and with familiarity. Like she'd done it a hundred times before. It was just instinct. Comfort. Muscle memory reaching for reassurance.

Matt didn't seem to be awake, but his breathing was steady. Too steady. Practiced. His eyelids didn't move when she pressed her fingertips against his pelvis and expectedly licked his lips, biting on her lower lip. Her palm moved lower, fingers wrapping around his cock. Slow, steady movements. Muscle memory. What they always did after a fight. Or anything that didn't fit their little scenarios. Sex.

Sunny paused, waited a moment, and kissed Matt's shoulder, feeling an expectant flutter in her chest. She waited. Gave him a moment. But there was no reaction. Not even a flinch. Like he wasn't in his body at all.

Her hand stilled before she carefully pulled it off him. "Nothing?" It wasn't a playful whisper. Not pressing. Just... soft. A question with no real answer. Matt didn't move or speak. But his jaw flexed once, sharp. Like it hurt. She noticed. Of course, she noticed. But she didn't say anything.

She let Matt stay still, arm still limp around her. Heavy beside her, warm but unreachable. Sunny exhaled. She wasn't hurt. She was... worried.

She pulled her hand off his thighs and shifted away, just enough to let him breathe without her touching him. She didn't say another word, just turned on her back, and stared at the ceiling. She listened to the silence between them and how it filled every inch of the room. How it filled him.

And she understood, really. He'd come home. But he hadn't made it back. Not yet. She closed her eyes again, exhaling softly.

She didn't feel it at first. But eventually, his palm settled, warm and wide, across her stomach. Like his body still knew where she was, even if his mind hadn't caught up.

Matt counted her heartbeat as she drifted off again. It was a lazy, cold morning. It was one of those blue-gray hours when the city held its breath before walking. He remembered them from when he could still see—that grayish film on everything, steam hissing across rooftops, streets too empty yet somehow obnoxiously loud.

Sunny was asleep again. And it was a good, deep kind of sleep. The kind that made her mouth part just slightly, little soft sounds escaping with each breath. He could tell by the rhythm of her breathing, soft and deep, unconcerned. She flung one arm over his ribs, her leg tangled between his. Her skin was warm where it pressed against his chest.

Matt stayed perfectly still. Eyes closed. Ears wide open.

He could hear the city. He could hear its heartbeat, loud and clear. The radiator ticked three floors down. A garbage truck groaned in the alley. Someone was arguing over a parking spot on 47th. A dog barked. Somewhere, a child laughed.

But no sirens. No screams. No footsteps at the door. ...no Fisk.

It didn't make sense. None of it made sense.

Ever since Matt had learned Fisk's name—who he was, what he was, what he'd done—he'd become the only thing Matt saw when he listened to the city.

His voice in back-alley deals. His influence on every paid-off cop. His rot, growing beneath the surface of every courtroom, every headline. Fisk had twisted justice until it bent backward. Had sunk his teeth into Hell's Kitchen and bled it dry.

And now? Matt was supposed to believe he was... gone? Just like that?

His fingers twitched against Sunny's spine. He counted every breath she took. Every small sound escaping her lips. Every micro-shift of her knee against his thigh. He mapped the room again and again. Measured the silence like it was about to snap.

Sunny stirred and mumbled something incoherent. Tucked her face into his collarbone, letting his limp palm spread across the curve of her ass. Matt didn't even breathe.

"Your heart's going nuts," she muttered, not opening her eyes. "Did you short-circuit? "...Sorry." "You counting the drops in the water-shoot again?" He was. Of course, he was. Sunny sighed and reached up, blindly, to cup his cheek.

"Matty," she whispered. "You're in bed. With me. You're done." He swallowed. "I don't believe it," he muttered. "It doesn't feel real. Like, there's still something that I forgot about, Sunny. Something that would bite if I lowered my guard." "I know," she said gently, eyes still closed. "I'll feel like that... for a few days, weeks, or months, but it'll fade away. That's why I said it out loud. Because you got the hydra's head..." She cleared her throat. "...which means another will grow in its place."

He swallowed but didn't answer. So she kissed his jaw. "I just don't believe any of it," Matt sighed after a moment, his nails digging into Sunny's skin. "Least of it myself." "I believe in you, Matt." Sunny moved away far enough that she could look him in the face. Her nails ghosted over his face as she smiled and kissed his forehead. "I do."

Then, with a soft laugh, she pulled the blanket over their heads like they were kids hiding from the world. "Try it again," she whispered into the dark. "You'll believe it eventually. But we're in bed. We're okay. And you're allowed to be broken here. But only until I make coffee, though. No brooding after." "You like me when I brood," Matt objected. It was a careful joke. Too strained and quiet. But Sunny took it and rolled with it. "No," she muttered, scoffing. "I wanna ride your face when you're brooding... there's a difference."

Matt didn't believe that Fisk was gone. Not fully. But he stayed under the blanket right next to her anyway. He held her a bit tighter. Didn't think about it when he kissed her. Smiled when she kissed him back. ...just in case the world tried to call bullshit.

Sunny expected a lot out of Matthew after his near-suicidal mission to bring Fisk down. For him to come back shaken and hollow—which he did. She expected him to be unrecognizable still—which he was. She also expected that he'd be drifting in and out, like a man whose head was shoved underwater. Like life around him was just passing by. ...but she didn't expect Matthew to stick to her like a Velcro-limbed toddler who'd just discovered object permanence.

When Sunny moved, Matt followed immediately. He was always half a step behind, slow and reverent, unnervingly silent. From bedroom to bathroom, from bathroom to the kitchen. His feet stuck to the wood flooring. She turned on the radio, and Matt turned the volume up and changed the stations to something soft. Stateside radio. 40s and 50s only.

Matt stayed dead silent when Sunny brewed coffee—arm wrapped around her waist, lips pressed to her shoulder. Cheek pressed to her shoulder blade, palm flat on her stomach. He was swaying to the rhythm, and Sunny's hips followed naturally. She didn't comment, just blinked once, kept stirring the sugar, and let him cling.

She tried to add milk. Matt didn't let her bend to reach for it. His hand was still on her stomach. He didn't let go. That's when she noticed it. Bruised knuckles, curled fingers... still shaking. He wasn't fully back yet, but something shifted.

Apparently, Fisk wasn't the only thing Matt buried last night—so was his sense of personal space.

Sunny closed her eyes and exhaled. One long, practiced drag through her lips. Then, a breath in. Her elbow nudged his side. "Matt," she whispered. "Too much. I need to breathe." He shook his head against her shoulder blade, "Let me have this." "Okay," she muttered. "Don't cry when you get head-butted with the frying pan."

She moved toward the fridge. He twisted with her. She opened the fridge door. He bumped into it. She looked back. He looked unbothered. Like the fridge had gotten in his way She started preparing toast and eggs.

"What day is it?" She asked. Matt frowned. "Friday, I think." "I have no groceries." Sunny announced factually. "We'll need to have a run later." "Okay," Matt agreed quietly. "Can I hold your hand the whole time?" "...only if you carry the bread."

They ate in silence. Showered and clothed without reverence. Sunny did her makeup that morning. Matt sat on the edge of a bed in silence, listening to the soft sounds she made—brush against skin, soft breaths as she put on mascara, and off-key humming to the radio. He'd never cared about makeup before. But he could have lived in that sound—the quiet confidence of her existing

They hit the grocery shop first. He kept brushing her hand when they walked. Not holding it. Just…checking it was still there. People watched them—a blind man without a cane holding her elbow like a lifeline. He lingered around her a bit too close for liking, delaying her entire shopping process. By the vegetable rack, Sunny exhaled slowly through her nose. Preparing herself. "Matt, if you don't stop shadowing me like a backup dancer, I'm leaving you in the frozen aisle." "... Too close?" He hummed, taking a step away from her. She nodded, feeling her shoulder relax again. "Yep."

It helped... exactly for a minute. She realized Matthew didn’t even know he was hovering. But it was exhausting either way. "Matthew," she warned, setting the lettuce down. He hovered a beat closer. "You're faster than usual." She turned, brow raised. "Are you timing me now?" "No," he said. "Just noticing." "So... You timed before?" Silence. Matt just took a half-step back. She sighed loudly. "One more step, and I'm calling CPS because I found a confused, overgrown kid—or I'm leaving you in the frozen aisle."

They set off to open the café next. Matt insisted on carrying the bags. All of them. Sunny didn't argue, because she didn't have the energy. She tossed him the keys and muttered, "Don't drop the eggs or I'll drop you."

The morning air still felt too sharp, the sun too honest, the air too crisp. But the smell of the café and roasted beans, industrial cleaner, and almond syrup hit Sunny like a hug she didn't want to admit she needed. Her jaw relaxed as they entered, breathing the atmosphere in.

Matt lingered in the doorway for a beat too long. Like stepping inside meant facing something. Like coming back here made everything real.

Sunny flipped the remaining lights on. Amita was already there, polishing the pastry case with headphones in—half-dancing, off-key singing, blissfully unaware. Sunny tossed her jacket over the counter. Started unloading the groceries with muscle memory that didn't need her to think.

Matt set the bags down gently. Too gently. And then? He stood in the middle of the café like a man waiting for orders, like he didn’t know what to do in a space that wasn't trying to kill him. Sunny stopped behind the counter, face muscles twitching with sympathy. She debated talking to him, asking if he wanted to sit, and offering him espresso and a raspberry tart. Kissing his temple and leading him to his usual spot at the counter. But she didn't. Some problems were his to wrestle with.

That's when Amita noticed their arrival. She jolted in surprise, stopping in motion. She looked at Matt standing there in silence, his head down. His fingers twitched near the bag handles. He still hadn't let go. As if he were worried that they might collapse the second he'd turn away. Then, Amita turned to Sunny behind the counter, looking at him as if he were an injured animal she had found next to the road.

She straightened slowly. Pulled one earbud out. "Uh…" Matt didn't look up. Just set the bags down, nodded once, and moved behind the counter like he belonged there, which, technically, he didn't. Sunny sighed, rubbing his shoulder like a tired mother whose child was throwing up at night. Her expression was tight, caught somewhere between sympathy and helplessness.

Amita stared at Matt like watching someone defuse a bomb with their teeth. "Did you," she started cautiously, playing with the rug in her hand, "try to kill him?" Sunny's voice turned into a broken whisper. "Not yet." Matt leaned on the counter with both palms. Said nothing. Amita blinked. "He's usually like... loud. With the jaw. And the voice. And all that sexy lawyer shit." "He'll come back," Sunny smiled, more to herself than for Matt, starting the espresso machine. "He just needs a minute."

Matt hadn't moved behind the counter. He just stood there, hands pressed to the wood, eyes behind glasses, like he was listening to the walls breathe, waiting for any suspicious sound. Amita mouthed to Sunny: what the fuck? Sunny raised one finger: give us a minute. Matt finally spoke. "...Can I try to make the espresso today?" "Sure," Sunny muttered, blinking. A ghost of a smile on her lips. "Yeah. Go ahead. I'll walk you through it." He moved like he'd been waiting to be told he could. "I remember the basics. You were always bossy with it." "Mhm. You know me." Sunny quipped back carefully.

Amita leaned over. Whispered. "So... trauma?" Sunny nodded, tiredly. "Yeah. Big one."

The morning went by slowly. No one turned over the 'closed' sign, but nobody's turned away either, not when they walk through that damn door. Matt is still positioned behind the espresso machine, heavily relying on Sunny to whisper directions over his shoulder. He wasn't bad at it. It was scary—watching him stumble around, unable to see, but still brew decent coffee.

Karen walked through the door first, Foggy right behind her. Their slow, easy-going banter faded the moment they crossed the threshold—one look and they knew exactly what was happening. Sunny leaned over Matt's shoulder, eyes watching his hands shakily whip out an espresso shot Sunny would deem 'decent' and 'not looking like rat's piss.'

Matthew Murdock looked like shit. Beaten to a pulp. Pale as a ghost. Violet bruises and healing scabs blooming across his face, badly hidden with stubble, and red-tinted glasses. Karen and Foggy settled at the counter like they'd done it a hundred times before—because they had. Only this time, the air wasn’t caffeinated with warmth or banter.

Sunny set down two mugs wordlessly, slid over sugar, a creamer bottle, and a spoon that had seen better days. Karen wrapped her hands around the cup like it was a peace offering. Matt didn't acknowledge them. He was behind the espresso machine, sleeves rolled up, forearms blooming with bruises, working like the world might fall apart if he didn't get the tamp right.

His jaw clenched with every press. He was muttering under his breath, counting seconds. Listening. Feeling.

Foggy cleared his throat, sending Sunny a careful, meaningful look. "...Are we doing performance art now?" Sunny shrugged, flat. "Espresso therapy." "Is that even a thing?" Karen wondered. "Sure as hell is now," Foggy smiled. Sunny scoffed. "I'll start charging hefty money for it. We'll be rich and set out to Bali for a getaway."

The machine hissed. Steam burst. Matt barely flinched. He swirled the milk with deliberate slowness. Like it was sacred. And it his mind, it most likely was.

"Two lattes coming up," Matt announced quietly. He poured with one hand, slightly trembling, knuckles still raw, but steady enough for the latté to come out presentable. The milk hit the espresso. Foam spread out. Not perfect. Not bad. He scraped a heart into one, left the other blank. Then, he pushed it toward Karen. "Thanks," she muttered softly, nodding. Matt didn't look at her. "Yeah. You two are loud."

He turned away then, rinsed the pitcher, and grabbed a rag. "Are you concussed?" Foggy asked carefully. Matt shrugged. "Yeah. Most likely." Sunny didn't even look up, just deadpanned: "As long as he's brewing, he's fine."

"So, who's bursting the bubble?" Foggy asks after a moment. Matt didn't look up. Just poured himself a mug. His own. Black coffee. No art. No flair. "... there something that needs bursting?" "I don't know," Foggy scoffed, but it was soft and quiet. Non-intrusive, but still dead-set enough for Matt to know exactly what Foggy's talking about. "The fed raid throughout the entire city yesterday? Sirens going off near midnight? The fact that you were gone..."

Foggy didn't finish the sentence. Sunny slapped her palm flat on the counter, breathing through her nose. Her eyebrow rose, her eyes cold with determination and a warning.

"He wasn't anywhere," she spoke slowly, carefully… venom dripping off her tongue. Loud enough for the whole café to hear. "He was laid beside me the entire night, railing me from behind and it was the best goddamn sex I've ever had. Is that clear?"

The old lady sitting beside the exit choked on her raspberry lemonade. The old lady beside the exit choked on her raspberry lemonade. A dad holding his kid, rocking them on his knee, froze, waiting to see if the kid would ask questions. It didn't. "Sunny," Foggy whispered. You can trust me, his expression said. But Sunny shook her head. "I asked if it's clear that Matt couldn't have been anywhere else." "Clear," Foggy nodded. "Crystal clear."

"Matt," Karen breathed softly. "Are you joining us over here?" "I'm here," he said, tapping the counter gently. "This is just... the only part of the day that makes sense anymore." He shrugged, turning toward Sunny. "After getting... fucked out of mind." She nodded sternly and didn't argue. She just reached across the counter and touched his hand for a second. A quick, grounding touch. "Just stay here with me, okay?" And Matt nodded.

The café settled into something quieter. The kind of quiet that doesn’t ask for attention—just offers it. Steam hissed again. Cups clinked. Someone unwrapped a sandwich. The old lady by the exit coughed lightly and took another sip of raspberry lemonade, eyes studiously avoiding Sunny. Karen didn't press. Foggy didn't joke. All of them simply existed side by side. Just how Sunny liked it the most. Her family and safe place, close together, under one roof.

Matt stood behind the counter, one hand near the rag, the other near Sunny's—close enough to find it again if he had to. She let him. Didn't comment on it. Didn't move away either.

And for a second, the world stayed paused.

Then someone, probably Amita or that college kid in a hoodie, called from one of the tables, "Hey, can someone turn up the TV? Think something's going on downtown." "I saw this guy on TV last night," somebody else said. "When the sirens blew up." "Did something... happen last night?" Sunny shrugged, uncovincing. "Yeah," Karen muttered, eyes shooting to Matt for a split second. "Something went down in an alley near 46th. Sirens, police cars, all that pazzaz. People say he showed up. The Devil. But no wonder you missed it, when you were too busy..." "We were." Sunny ended topically.

Sunny reached for the remote, absently. The volume clicked up. "...arrested late at night during coordinated efforts of the FBI and NYPD. Man named Wilson Fisk..."

Matt didn't move. Just gulped and let his hand reach Sunny. The reporter kept talking: "...allegedly involved in multiple real estate fraud schemes. Details remain sealed under federal investigation. Fisk was taken into custody early this morning, and his current location remains undisclosed..." "Fisk?" Sunny hummed under her breath like she hadn't known already. "He's this... big-headed hotshot," Foggy confirmed, playing along. "Our firm crossed a few of his subsidiaries. Met his second-in-command when he tried to bribe us..." "Allegedly, Foggy," Karen added. "You have to say allegedly."

"Fisk? Never heard of him," someone muttered over their bagel. Amita turned, eyebrows raised. "He made some... announcement a few months back? All 'the media’s out to get me' crap. People say he had something to do with the death of Ben Urich? That journalist guy?" She jerked her head toward Sunny’s In Memoriam of Ben Urich board. "NYPD never commented on it, though."

Sunny flinched. Hearing the name 'Ben Urich' still didn't sit right. Matt's mug had gone cold. His grip didn't loosen. "So he just… laundered money?" another customer asked. "That’s it? Why all the drama?" Nobody answered.

The footage was grainy. Fisk in handcuffs. Stark lighting. A man in a too-clean suit shoved into a black van. Some back alley smelling like rushed hand-job and piss. Someone in the café muttered, "Damn, that guy looks like he sells timeshares."

Sunny's hand crept up Matt's shoulder. He was shaking, his eyes glassy, when her lips pressed to his throat. Sunny closed her eyes, holding him. Foggy and Kaern watched them in silence. "You hear that?" Sunny hummed to his ear, arms tightening around him. "Do you?" Matt nodded, his hands finding her forearms to squeeze them. To anchor himself. "What are they saying, Matt?" "Fisk's in a cage." He muttered. "He's locked up. Waiting trial." "There. Someone else finally said it." Sunny palmed his jaw tenderly, making his head turn to her. "You can breathe out now." "I need to lie down." Matt hummed back. "I need to sleep, Y/N." "Yeah," Sunny nodded. "Of course you do. Let's get you to bed, Matty."

They didn't say much after that. Neither Matt nor Sunny protested when Foggy offered to stay behind and close the café. Amita sensed something had happened to Matt and told them not to worry. Then promised she'd take care of Thanks, Tony for as long as it takes. Said she'd call Jas to come over to cover the shift. Nobody argued when Karen gathered Matt's coat and murmured something about grabbing takeout on the way. Matt didn't flinch when Sunny whispered, "Come on, big boy," and led him out the back.

It was a short walk to her apartment. A familiar route. His hand never left hers.

Karen and Foggy went ahead. Sunny and Matt strolled, one step at a time, her arm wrapped around his, her head resting on his shoulder. Neither said it aloud, but the air was different. Free. Relaxed. "He's not the end of it," Matt muttered sometime between an overpriced hair salon and the bodega on the corner of Sunny's block. "Fisk, I mean." "We think about the rest later, okay?" "There's worse than him," Matt breathed out. "Much worse." "One at a time, Murdock," Sunny whispered. "One at a goddamn time." "Rumors are going around," Matt hummed, frowning. "Someone ordered a hit on some guy a few months back, near Central Park... disguised it as a gang shootout gone wrong. Made his family collateral. Heard some gang's going around now, hunting all parties who were there on that day." "Rumors," Sunny whispered. "Just rumors."

"Heard he butchers them like fucking animals, Sunny," Matt gritted out. "Heard someone talking about it. 41st dock. Five dead. All in pieces." "You'll rest before you even think of going after him." "But..." "No," Sunny caught Matt's jaw between her palms. "You just brought one nemesis down. We don't need another. Okay?" Matt was silent for a moment before he nodded. "Okay." "Good." She didn't drop her hands. Not yet.

They started walking after a moment of silence, steadily moving forward. Matt didn't answer. Just tightened his hold on her arm. The silence between them wasn't comforting. It was a warning.

By the time they got upstairs, Foggy and Karen were already curled on the couch, wrapped in mismatched blankets, half-watching a Hallmark movie where some snowed-in woodworker was rediscovering the meaning of Christmas via a hot, recently divorced schoolteacher. Foggy was mocking the plot. Karen wasn't stopping him. "Wanna join us?" Foggy hummed from the TV. Karen nodded. "They just started baking gingerbread. Things are about to get steamy."

Sunny didn't say a word. Just smiled and scoffed. She just tugged Matt straight past them, into the bedroom.

The sheets still smelled like both of them. The room felt warm, like the sun had just slipped out a moment before. Matt sat down on the bed and exhaled. Sunny watched him for a bit before she joined.

"Need help with undressing?" she murmured, sitting beside him. Knee to knee, thigh to thigh, and shoulder to shoulder. She was warm next to him. Soft like silk. "No," Matt mumbled, his palm finding her knee. "Just... stay." Sunny nodded. No more questions. Just two people lying down for an afternoon nap.

They didn't fuck. They didn't talk. They just lay there. Fully clothed, wrapped in the comforter, Matt curled around her like the only thing keeping him from unraveling.

"Remember that night you made me alphabetize tea blends?" he rasped after a moment. "I think about it when I'm cold." Sunny smiled against his collarbone. "Yeah. You misfiled chamomile under ‘P’ for ‘pisswater.’ Still hadn't forgiven you that one." He let out a breath. Not quite a laugh, but close. "It smelled like a urinal cake. Still does." "Blasphemy," she whispered. "That blend got Amita through her finals and Foggy through his quarter-life crisis." "I stand by it."

A long pause stretched out between them. The kind that wasn’t awkward. Just... resting.

Then Matt said, quieter: "You were the first person who ever made me slow down. Even when I didn't want to. Not for long, just... for a moment. To breathe. Reconsider. Come up with strategies." Sunny's fingers trailed gently over his ribs, counting old bruises like beads. "You didn't slow down," she murmured. "You broke down in my bathroom and refused to leave until I agreed to learn CPR, remember? You had a massive concussion. Called Claire an eternal fae." "...Still counts." "You're terrible at resting." "And you're too good at noticing when I need to." His fingers poked her waist. "And too good at sleeping, too." She shifted slightly, just enough to tilt her head up and rest her chin on his chest. "You're not in the courtroom now, Matty. You don't have to argue your case."

His hands tightened around her for a moment. "I know. That's the part that scares me." Sunny blinked. "What does?" "I want to stay here. Like this. With you." He swallowed. "And that it feels... possible. It feels like you're not running away this time." Her hand found his face again, palm warm against his cheek. She stilled for a second, eyes trailing away. Then, she nodded to herself. Like she allowed herself to lie. Just this once. "You can stay. You're allowed to feel okay."

He didn't answer for a long time. No names. No confessions. Still usual, dull silence. But she allowed herself to open up, even if a little bit. And that was enough for now. Then, finally, he murmured, "Will you still be here when I wake up?" "Always," Sunny whispered, pressing her lips to his jaw. "Even if you snore." "I don't snore," Matt murmured, already half-asleep. "You breathe like a war-torn accordion." His only response was a lazy smile against her skin.

Sunny ran her fingers through his hair, feather-light touches on the contours of his face, fingers drawing a line around his lips, on his stubble, just... exploring. Until she felt him relax. The tension in his muscles eased up, body went limp. Sunny allowed herself to stay for a little longer, smiling as she caressed him carefully, listening to his steady breathing and heartbeat.

When she left, she carefully tugged the comforter around him and pressed a kiss to his temple.

The movie was climaxing when Sunny walked into the living room. Just two ugly-crying leads who still looked like they'd walked straight out of a Sears catalogue, dressed in Hollywood-approved winter layers. "I didn't come back for the cookies, Emily," the main lead announced dramatically. "I came back for you." "Ah, Jack," Emily cried before throwing her arms around Jack's shoulders.

"...Jesus Christ," Sunny muttered, sitting on the sofa beside Karen. The blonde put her blanket around Sunny's shoulder, cuddling close to her. "Oh my God," Foggy muttered, scoffing. "Jack bakes too, now?" Karen just laughed. "Shut up, Nelson. I'm invested."

After the over-dramatized kiss, they all silently watched the final scene unravel. Sunny relaxed into Karen's chest, but her shoulders were tense. "He okay in there?" Foggy hummed. Sunny stilled for a second, "I suspect Matt can't believe he'd done it. That he brought that Fisk guy to justice, I mean," the moment Sunny said Fisk's name, Karen's body tensed. She stopped moving. Her fingers in Sunny's hair stilled. "Even before we got here, he started yapping about wackos who murdered some goons on 41st." "Jesus," Foggy muttered. Sunny turned to Karen. She hadn't moved, stilled, and stared into the distance.

"You okay?" Sunny whispered. When she touched Karen's shoulder, Karen jolted and looked around as if she'd forgotten with whom and where she was for a moment. "Looks like you've seen a ghost." "Yeah," Karen nodded. Her smile was off. Just a bit too practiced. "Just... flashbacks. Sorry." "You got a history with that... Fisk guy too?" Sunny asked carefully. "No, God no," Karen smiled and rubbed Sunny's shoulder. "I'm fine. Promise." "Okay," Sunny nodded, choosing to believe Karen's lie. "Do we wanna... hit another Hallmark movie or what?" "I'm down," Karen nodded. Foggy looked at them both. "Only if I get to pick this one."

Sunny and Karen groaned in unison. But handed the remote anyway.

Sometimes, you can smell the bullshit long before it comes. It's a subtle feeling gnawing at your chest. For example, you can feel it when you doze off on your best friend's shoulder. Your other best friend is there, too—all three of you asleep on the sofa of your shoebox apartment with your nearly-boyfriend-but-not-really sleeping in your bed after he'd brought one bad mothefucker to justice.

There's something inside your chest that doesn't still. It doesn't relax. It bites. Twitches.

The apartment was silent now. The Hallmark movie ended an hour ago. Sunny was lying on Karen’s chest. Karen leaned into Foggy, who’d also dozed off—creating a conga line of sleeping bodies. Foggy was snoring. No one minded it. The opposite, in fact. It meant they were safe and allowed to rest.

Sunny's phone vibrated on the coffee table. Stilled. Started ringing again. Amita's goofy CV picture was all over the display. Sunny hummed and declined the call, thinking it was an alarm. So it rang again. She picked up with a sigh.

"Yeah?" she croaked, voice raspy from sleep. "There are some... men. Looking for you." Amita burst out, not even saying 'hi' or asking 'how are you.' "Jesus, I called you six times. Texted like thirty. I thought you were dead." "I was dead asleep, yeah," Sunny murmured, carefully untangling Karen's limbs from her body. "If it's the IRS guys again, tell them to fuck off. Last quarter's taxes were submitted accordingly and on time." "No, not the IRS guys." "Then who?" Sunny stilled, staring out of her window. Wackos. 41st. Hunting goons for sport. Matt. Blood. Daredevil. Sunny's eyes widened, and her body stilled. "Do they look... like some gang members? Some shady guys you wouldn't look at twice? If they do—"

"No," Amita stopped her. "It's some fed and a NYPD detective, Sunny." The world stuttered. Sunny's stomach dropped. Her knees gave out so fast she had to brace herself against the sill. "F-feds?" She stuttered. "Why would the feds be there?" "Yeah," Amita gulped. "They insist they won't leave until you come in person or I put you on the phone. Something... They're saying something about harboring a fugitive in the back office. Wanted me to show them, but I don't have the keys. Sunny, I don't know what to do."

"Take a breath. Take a shot of the fancy tequila Stark sent last year. I keep it hidden behind the syrup. Tell them I'll be over in ten," Sunny muttered back, pulling a hoodie over her shoulders. Her spine was tense, muscles jolting under the pressure. "Whatever you do, you don't tell them anything. You hear me?" "Y-yeah." "Good. I'm on my way."

The door swung open too hard. The bell jingled. Amita, her eyes wide and glassy, jumped. The café was half-empty. But still. Too many eyes. Too many witnesses.

Sunny's hair was messy, and her hoodie was zipped halfway. No bra. Her sneakers? Untied. She nearly fell flat on her chin three times. But her voice? Sugar-sweet calm. Her eyes? Panther-sharp. Her posture? Fiery. Brave.

Two men were standing at the counter. Not even dressed in uniforms, but straight up three-piece tailored suits. Some big-shot cops, Sunny guessed. One wouldn't buy a suit off an officer's paycheck. They look at her lazily, like she was their friend who always ran late.

"Good evening, gentlemen." Sunny smiled, calming her hair situation. "Sorry for the delay. Is there anything I could help you with?" The men exchanged a look. One of them, a lean guy with black slicked-back hair and a badge hanging loose, stepped forward.

"You must be Miss Y/N Y/L/N. We're with the Organized Crime Task Force," the badge guy explained slowly and calmly, letting it land. "Of course you are," Sunny nodded politely. "Do you mind if I make myself a coffee before we begin?" The other, older, grey-haired fox smirked. "By all means."

Sunny took her time. Measured the pour, Crema art. Not a spill. She offered them a drink. They declined.

"Move it," she hummed to Amita. "Do something. Play the music too loud. Make the espresso machine hiss. Talk. Make the customers occupied." "Sunny..." "You hear me?" "Okay," Amita nodded and let out a shaky breath that smelled like tequila. "Make noise. Got it."

Sunny sipped her espresso tonic and hummed contentedly. It tasted perfect. With that, Sunny finally turned to the OCTF guys. "So. You're here because...?" "We're investigating allegations of obstruction, possible facilitation of fugitive movement," the younger one recited, "and plenty more. Your name appeared in a few flagged statements in several independent testimonies."

"Allegations," Sunny echoed gently, as if testing the word like a new lipstick. She furrowed and nodded, setting the espresso tonic on the counter. "That's very serious." "Serious enough to request a formal interview at the precincts," the older man said. He slid a subpoena across the counter. It was too crisp.

Sunny's stomach dropped. A flash of heat passed through her. Her breath shivered. Her shoulders buckled. Her fingers trembled when she picked it up, but she forced her wrist. steady. She nodded like a soldier steadying themselves before going to war.

"It was signed yesterday, before your visit," Sunny hummed. "You're really efficient." "We try our best," the grey-haired hunk replied, smiling like a predator. "The justice in this city never sleeps, Miss." "Let me guess that the justice system wants me panicking, cracking, and saying something stupid right here, hm?" "The justice system just hopes you'll cooperate, Miss Y/L/N." He quipped right back. "I'm very cooperative by nature," Sunny smiled.

She picked up the paper. Read the date. Read the clerk's name. Frowned. "Mr. Richards?" she hummed. Both men synonymously nodded. "That's so strange," Sunny scoffed. "My lawyer friend told me Mr. Richard retired four months ago. They loved that guy. Said he was a 'walking ray of sunshine.'" The men remained silent. But the young cop's lip twitched. "Anyways," she smiled. "I'll consult with my legal team and get back to you."

The older one shrugged like it wasn't a big deal. The younger one looked irritated. He wanted sweat. Tears. Fear. And why did he get? The Nelson-Murdock-PR-Training.

As they walked out, Amita breathed, "What the fuck was all that? Sunny, what-what did you do?" Sunny shrugged. Took a sip of her espresso tonic and hummed, her hands trembling as she picked up the subpoena. She held it before her eyes, her lips trembling as she fought the tears. "That, Amita, was a fucking theatre. I gave the performance of a lifetime," Sunny scoffed sourly. "And they didn't even clap."

Sunny left the café five minutes later, with a hollow smile. She held up the subpoena one last time and waved it around as she turned out the door, tears gathering in her eyes. She didn't go straight home. In fact, she didn't know where she was walking. The subpoena crinkled in her pocket. Her phone was buzzing. Karen, then Foggy. A text. Foggy again.

The bodega guy waved at her and waved at her. "You look like fucking shit," he huffed, all his six feet rumbling with a scoff. "Have a burrito on me. And a beer. Here you go." Sunny didn't even thank him, just nodded weakly. The senior news-stand guy made small talk. She sat on a bench opposite the super-expensive local flower shop for twenty minutes, watching people walk in and out with enormous bouquets and nostalgic, soft smiles, probably imagining giving the flowers to their significant others.

She scoffed, sipping on the two-bucks pisswater the bodega guy called "beer". Across the street, someone left the flower shop holding a bouquet so big it needed both arms. Roses and lilacs. Wrapped in paper with gold trim. Thoughtful. Intentional. The kind of flowers you brought home to say 'I was thinking about you. I want to be here.'

Sunny blinked. Her throat tightened. She'd never gotten flowers from Matt. Not real ones. He left her notes. Braille and block letters. Dirty jokes on napkins. Once a stick figure of Daredevil on a post-it that just said 'definitely not me.'

And that had been enough. At least that's what she'd told herself. It's enough. He and I are enough as is. ...until that moment.

Her fingers curled around the neck of the bottle. Cold. Sticky. Cheap.

Matt would show up the moment she showed the subpoena to Foggy. She could feel it. The moment he'd get to know? He'd start fighting. He'd show up in that suit he hates and the white cane he barely touches right, pretending it was all normal. He'd pretend he wasn't two steps from pacing a hole into Nelson & Murdock's floor while discussing the strategy.

He'll ask her to sign the waiver, so he can sit beside her, speak for her, and fight for her. And she'll say no. Not because she didn’t trust him. But because she did. Because she wanted more than a closing argument and late-night bruises. She wanted to be his choice, not his case. She wanted him in her bed because he couldn't stay away, not because he felt responsible.

She wanted Thursdays and dumb movies and inside jokes. She wanted to be loved without needing to perform for it. She wanted to be his girl.

But if this subpoena turned her into a liability again, into someone he had to manage, fix, or defend, then that dream was already rotting at the stem. Her thumb rubbed the corner of the subpoena in her pocket. It was just a piece of paper. But it felt like a collar.

Sunny tipped the rest of the beer down her throat, wiped her mouth with her sleeve, and stood up. If Matt walked out of the bedroom with the suit and the legalese? She'll tell him to take a walk. But if he walked out like himself, no defense strategy, no closing statement, no goddamn waiver…

Maybe then. Maybe she'd finally let him hold her. Maybe she was finally ready to give them a name.

The front door opened. No dramatic slam. Just a soft creak as Sunny slipped inside. Karen was the first to stir from the kitchen, still in her jeans and that morning's blouse, hair a mess. Foggy stopped pacing by the window, phone in hand, mid-text. They both turned to Sunny.

And she looked like a piece of work. Within two hours, she'd aged ten years. Her eyes were red. Her shoulders carried the energy of a kicked dog.

"Sunny?" Karen was the first one to break the silence. "Jesus, where did you..." "You just fucking left, Sunny," Foggy stepped forward, voice tight, phone still in hand. "You didn't even... Fuck, are you okay?"

Sunny hummed but didn't answer. Didn't trust herself enough to. Just reached into her hoodie pocket, pulled out the crumpled subpoena, and pressed it into Foggy's hand, like it burned.

Then, she sat on the sofa, staring into the distance. She was quiet. Her back snapped straight. Her hands were folded in her lap. As if she were waiting for something, at confession or waiting for the verdict.

Foggy uncrumbled it and read. Karen watched his face drain of color, all of his wrinkles deepening. His eyes widened in fright.

"...Obstruction of justice. Criminal facilitation. Tampering with evidence," Foggy mumbled under his breath, swallowing quick, "accessory to vigilantism. Class E Felony. That's, Jesus, Sunny..." He looked up carefully. "We're looking at least ten years, Sunny. Minimum. If the judge's in a good mood."

Karen covered her mouth, letting out a strangled sound. Sunny said nothing. Just hummed and nodded, as if she already knew. Her jaw was tight. Her throat was moving. But she didn't speak.

"Did you talk to them?" Foggy asked softly. "Said something you shouldn't have?" She shook her head. "Just was very nice to them. Just like you and Matt taught me," she lowered her head. "They already had it printed. Signed and approved by a clerk who retired earlier this year... Before they even showed up."

Sunny remained seated, Karen sank into the couch, and Foggy leaned into the table's edge. The silence was louder than any explanation Foggy could've come up with.

"We all know this isn't about you..." Karen finally said after a bit. "Oh yeah?" Sunny scoffed. "Well, it's my name on the subpoena, so..." "It's about Daredevil," Foggy muttered. "They're trying to scare you into giving him up; they're pulling the last strings that could get Fisk out of prison. Something, anything." Sunny's eyes flicked toward him, and for the first time, she said something sharp that sounded more like her: "Good luck to them, then."

Foggy ran a hand over his face. Karen was already reaching for the coffee pot, hand working automatically. No one knew what to say. But everyone knew what it meant. It wasn't about the charges. It wasn't even about Sunny, really. It was about him. And the war they just stepped into.

The mugs rattled as they kept on sipping and put them down haphazardly. Sunny's best and most caffeinated blend was loaded into her coffee machine. Its smell carried through the flat like a scented candle. It started raining heavily while Sunny called up Amita and Jas, giving them clear instructions—close early and don't talk to anyone even remotely suspicious.

Foggy was pacing like a caged animal, talking fast. Sunny was at the kitchen island, fingers wrapped around a brewing hot mug. Karen was sitting off to the side, face pale, phone unlocked but untouched. While Sunny and Foggy already argued tactics and strategies, Karen seemed... stuck.

"So, here's what we're gonna do. We file for immediate suppression," Foggy announced, flipping through the pages of some random-ass old book he'd fished out of his briefcase. "No judge will let this hold. It's clearly retaliatory." "Which means?" Sunny scoffed. "If feds had this information all along, and I assume they did," Foggy stopped and took a sip. "Why now? Why the night after Fisk's arrest? I'll tell you why." "...because they couldn't pinpoint it on the Devil. Not exactly," Karen groaned, letting out a strangled sound. "Not until he was the one who delivered Fisk to justice." "Exactly," Foggy clapped, pointing at Karen. "You didn't even... Christ, Sunny, you didn't do anything." Foggy said it like an apology. Like an admission. Like it wasn't enough.

"Yeah," Sunny grinned, her eyes widening as she wiped her nose with her sleeve. "Nothing. Except running an illegal back-office ER, maybe," Sunny muttered into her sleeve. "Except housing a wanted vigilante with the martyr complex the size of Manhattan. Except fucking in your office after hours with the blinds open—which is, technically, public offense. And I also... Speeded through a stop sign like a month ago," she started laughing again. It was the strangled, panicked kind of laugh. "If they want, they'll even have me on trial for stealing that fucking bodega candy when I was nine."

"Allegedly," Foggy barked, pointing at her. "You don't do that. Don't give them language. Don't give them words. Don't give them admissions. You start watching your mouth right this second, you hear me?" "I'm just saying, Fogster..." "No, that's the thing!" Foggy squealed. "That's what I'm saying. You shut the hell up here!"

Sunny slipped off the counter and put the mug down with too much force. She smiled again, pointing at herself. She took a breath and— The door to the bedroom creaked open. And Sunny froze. She was looking at Foggy, but her fight disappeared into thin air. Matt stepped out, shirt twisted, hair rumpled, blinking sleep out of his eyes. He had his usual dumb smirk as he assessed the room, stretching his back, hands above his head.

"You guys are so loud," he murmured sleepily. Then, his head tilted, eyes shooting straight to Sunny. His instincts sharpened. "You're angry. And he's scared." He could smell it. The tension. The blood pressure. The caffeine. The paper. Matthew Murdock started moving as if he weren't blind, waltzing through the room.

"What happened?" He scoffed, trying to ease the tension. "Did the world decide to end while I was out. Couldn't have been that long," he offered, also pouring himself a mug. Everyone in the room remained silent. "Wouldn't say so, O'Hara's just opened."

Karen cleared her throat. Sunny moved around the room—to the furthest corner, in fact. She leaned into the sill, facing away from him. Foggy walked to him, handing him a crumpled piece of paper. "What's this?" he murmured, looking around. "Our grocery list?" "Not the place to be funny, Matt," Foggy whispered. "Not here. Not now."

Matt hummed back, running his fingertips across the paper. "A subpoena signed by Mr. Richards? Don't you say. He retired four months ago." Matt grinned. "Who's the poor soul they're trying to get?" He was in a good mood. Finally. Matt came back to himself—after all the blood, the bruises, and coming to terms... The fact that he handed Wilson Fisk to justice finally landed. He was relaxed. Almost... happy. Rowdy.

Foggy was frozen with fear in front of him, waiting for the revelation to land. Not the place. Not the time, either.

"Delivered two hours ago. NYPD and a fed. Showed up at the café," Foggy explained quietly. "Sunny got it straight from them." Matt traced his fingers over the edge, taking a long breath. "These are fake." "What?" Sunny snapped, finally turning to him. "That badge seemed very real to me, buckaroo." "Not face like counterfeit. Fake like fishing," Matt explained briefly, his lawyer persona finally coming to life. Sharp and all business. "They're trying to scare you... us. Based on the impressive number of charges they listed, there's no evidence... yet. If they had some, you'd be in holding." "Karen's mouth opened, then closed. She looked to Foggy, then back to Matt. "...so what do we do?" she asked.

Matt put the paper down, slowly and delicately, like it was poison. He came up with some grand speech; his voice washed over Sunny's ears like ocean waves. Jesus fucking Christ. Foggy and he argued over some minor details while Sunny sat back, everything inside her growing cold. There was no 'How you holding up?' or 'It's me and you against them now.' No. Straight to lawyer persona for Matt.

And Sunny didn't need him as a lawyer. She needed a partner. She tuned into the ending of his speech.

"...they came for you because they thought you'd break first," Matt muttered, shaking his head. "They were wrong. I'll tear their heads clear off if I have to. But you need to sign it for me." Sunny was silent. She looked over to Foggy—he was leaning forward, elbows on knees, watching Sunny. Neslon knew she didn't hear a word, just the hollow, detached expression. Karen looked like she was going to throw up.

"...what?" Sunny peeped. "Is the subpoena optional? Can I skip it?" "The waver, Sunny," Matt breathed out, sighing. "Informed consent." "For what?" "Did you hear a word from what I've said?" "Oh, I'm sorry," Sunny giggled ironically. "I was too busy imagining myself in orange with Scott as my pen pal. Did you have a super educational speech? Hm, sorry." "You'll sign it," Matt repeated tiredly. "When you do, I have the full right to go after whoever sent them. Legally, of course. Within the bounds."

"...informed consent for fucking what, Matthew?" Sunny's spine straightened, her eyes jumping toward Foggy and Karen. "You will," Matt repeated, glancing over to Foggy. But neither he nor Karen dared to even move. "You mean making you what?" "Admitting to the court that you are romantically and physically involved with me but still agree with me to represent you," Matt explained as if it were simple. "It's... nothing. Just a formality."

Oh. Nothing. It was nothing. Of course, it was nothing. ...he shouldn't have said that. Sunny froze again, her mouth agape. Her eyes and nostrils slowly widened. She blinked. Once. Twice. Then she laughed. Just a single, breathless sound, like she was choking on air.

"Right, silly me," Sunny whispered. "It's just paperwork, nothing more. Just a love letter to the court: Your honor, I let this man fuck me raw. Please, please, can he be my lawyer, too?" She pouted sarcastically, holding her palms together before throwing a beaten-up book off the bookshelf. It wasn't about some fucking subpoena anymore. It wasn't being reasonable or smart... because everyone in the room knew that letting Matt Murdock on defense was the smartest thing Sunny could have done. This was about pride.

"Sunny," Matt breathed, low and dangerous. "Can you be reasonable for a second?" She snapped, her finger pointing at him. She didn't play his usual 'I'm blind' gam. She knew well that that motherfucker could see it in some fucked-up way. She only said one word, slow and venomous: "Don't." "Listen, Sunny..." "No, you don't do that," her voice cracked. "Do what?" "Talk to me like it's already decided," she laughed in disbelief. "Like I'm just a form to sign, a case to file and win, and to celebrate at Josie's. No. You don't do that." Matt walked to her slowly, all softness and humor gone.

"I'm trying to protect you here, and you're not making it easier." "Eat my ass, Murdock," Sunny laughed, dark and rich. "You're attempting to own me." The room went still. Foggy shifter like he wanted to leave. Karen stayed frozen.

"You think I wanted this to happen?" Matt's voice rose slowly, cracked and tired. "You think I'm behind some federal plot to ruin your life and then save the day? Grow up." "Grow up?" Sunny echoed. Then, slowly, she said: "I think that you only show up when you're either bleeding, in need of a good fuck or you can be righteous. And right now? All three combined." "That's just not fair." "Oh, but it's accurate, baby," Sunny blinked, watching Matt's jaw lock. "I won't watch you go to prison from the sidelines." "Then, how about you don't be the reason I'm a suspect, Matthew!" Sunny shrieked, voice unstable. "You and Foggy said it. This is fake. Made-up. The feds clearly knew I was harboring someone months ago—and they move right after Fisk's ass gets arrested? Oh, give me a break."

"Slow down here and listen to what you said," Matt growled. "Did I ever, even once, ask you to cover for me?" "Matthew..." Sunny whispered like a warning, hands on her hips. "No, since you're so smart, you tell me," Matt pressed. "Did I ask you to risk anything? Or did you allow me to look for you when I'm hurt? Did you remodel a whole office to help me when I'm fucked up? Or last night? Did I ask you to tell everyone we were fucking at your apartment the entire night. Remind me, because I don't remember asking you for shit."

"No, no, you're right," Sunny admitted, walking away from him when he circled close enough. "You never asked for anything. You just showed up, and let me give it to you, Matty. You dripped blood all over my floor while your ribs were broken, and you left pieces of yourself in my sheets like I wouldn't notice." "And you let me," Matt stepped in closer, voice like a blade. "Because I thought it meant something," Sunny hissed. "For a second, when I was sitting on a bench outside, I—I thought it meant I am... That we were... I don't even fuckikng know, okay? But you reminded me how wrong I was, thank you, Matty. Because I sure as fuck don't want any of this."

"You think I'm not fucked up over this too? To see you become a collateral is my worst nightmare coming true," his voice was loud now, frantic. "You think I slept well last night? That my—my hands weren't shaking when I touched you? I brought Fisk down, and I still woke up expecting the city to burn... again. I was fo fucking scared I'd hear your, Foggy, or Karen's name on the radio." "And I was out there," Sunny fired right back. "Wondering if you're even coming home on your feet or in a box!" A pause. Silence fell like ash. Sunny was crying now.

"You stopped texting when you set out for patrols," she added, quieter now. "You don't even call when you come home anymore to let me know you're safe. You let me worry night after night when you know I have a demanding job. You just show up when you want something and vanish when you don't. And then you stand here, demanding I sign my life into your hands like it's some shared charity mission." Matt didn't respond. Sunny snifled, shaking her head, voice breaking. "You are not my lawyer, Matthew. You're not even my boyfriend. And I'm not your liability. So pick a fucking side," she turned away from him, gulping. "Either you pull your head out of your ass, sit down and shut the fuck up, or leave. It's that simple."

Matt breathed in like he wanted to argue. Then, he didn't. Just lowered his head, shaking it. Muttering something about 'a lost cause' and 'so stubborn it would go on to kill him.'

Foggy broke first. "Okay. Okay. Everyone stop. We said enough."

But no one moved. The tension didn't dissipate, and the mood didn't just magically brighten. Karen looked like a marble-carved statue. Her gaze was on Sunny, wide-eyed and broken for her.

This was a cliff without any clear landing zone. No matter how fast or where they'd jump... they wouldn't survive.

"So, Matty, you want to talk about protection?" Sunny whispered, sitting back on the kitchen island, sipping her coffee. She crinkled her nose. The liquid tasted like piss. "How about we start with honesty, then? After, we can move to lesson two: love and loyalty." Matt's hands curled into fists as he bit on his lower lip, hitting the metal doorframe leading to her bedroom. It split his knuckles open again. She was right. And he knew it.

Matt was still standing too close. Sunny's body was leaning away from his, tense with fury and... disgust. She was disgusted.

"Because, news flash, you don't get to do this. You won't disappear for days, come back broken, and expect me to sign some silly little paper that gives all of my right to you like it's a goddamn reflex," she scoffed, shaking her head, swaying her feet. "You want the trust? Then earn it. Stop playing fucking god in my life for one fucking evening, I beg of you. Because guess what, Matty? I'm tired as shit." Foggy tried to interfere, but Sunny raised her palm. Clear message: shut up.

"You think I don't want to trust you? Or that I don't want you to trust me?" Matt asked back, turning his back to her. His voice was low and tight. "You think it's easy for me to let anyone in?" He shook his head. "I've buried people for less than what I feel for you, idiot." Sunny blinked hard, her jaw tensing again. "Then why do you keep running? You pretend you're here, but you're not." "Because if I really stay," Matt breathed, "I'll destroy you," "Save it, Murdock," Sunny scoffed. "You're already doing that. Do me a solid and, at least, get the balls for chocolate and flowers."

They stared at each other. Something in his face crumbled. He looked at her like he was memorizing the last image he'll be allowed to keep.

"You told me you couldn't name it..." Matt croaked, voice cracking. "Yesterday. Just yesterday. Before I left." "I told you, keeping me around isn't easy. You knew what you signed up for." "You know I can't offer that," he muttered in the same breath, "because I can't ensure you'd get what you need if I promise it." "Then don't promise," Sunny croaked back, equally distressed. "Just do it." "What are we doing, Y/N? Playing green light, red light?" "...we've been playing it for over two years, Murdock, don't act surprised." "You deserve someone who tells you when he's bleeding. Not someone who shows up already half-dead." "Then be that man," she snapped.

There was a stretch of silence. Karen stepped toward Sunny, putting her hand on her upper arm, bracing them both for the impact. Even Foggy knew what was about to happen.

"...I hadn't figured out how to be that man yet," Matt admitted. Sunny nodded, closing her eyes. Silence spread again, thick and grieving. This didn't feel like the last argument. This didn't feel like a point they could just fuck away from. He grabbed his coat, walked toward the door, his closed fist absentmindedly tracing the wall.

"If you walk out now," Sunny said softly, "don't expect me to wait." Matt stilled. Hesitated. "I never do when I leave," he breathed out. "But you knew that already. Send me my stuff through Foggy, can you do that for me?" "Of course," Sunny nodded, as if they had just agreed to split a cheesecake. "Consider it done." "Thanks."

And with that... Matthew Murdock was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him like a gavel. Matt really left. He just fucking left. The door closed and nobody speaker. Foggy stared into the hallway like Matt might walk back through. Like it was a Broadway rehearsal, and the real moment was still coming.

Worst part? Sunny didn't look wrecked. She looked... relieved. Like she could finally breathe, for the first time since the subpoena was delivered. Karen's nails dug into her shoulder. She kept nodding. As if she didn't believe what she heard or saw. Her knees shook, like they would give out when she let go.

The quiet buzzed, and Foggy, as usual, was one to break it: "Okay. That happened." Karen exhaled shakily. "He didn't mean all of that... And you didn't either." Sunny scoffed, looking away. "No. He meant every word. He just didn't know how to listen to any of mine."

"Well, one way or the other," Foggy sat down, running his hands on his face. "That was a fucking disaster." "Want him on your legal team?" Sunny snapped quietly. Karen reached for the mug Sunny abandoned, poured in more coffee, and handed it wordlessly. Sunny took it, but didn't drink.

"He'll... He'll come back, you'll see," Karen muttered, more to herself than to Sunny. "He always does." "Of course, he will," Sunny smirked. "But which version of him? Think I wanna keep playing this Russian roulette with him? Am I getting the saint? The vigilante? The lover boy? No. I'm tired of his shit."

That killed the room again. Foggy perched on the edge of the table, elbows on knees. He didn't touch Sunny or look at her as if she were fragile, because Franklin Nelson knew her. She'd tear his head clean off. "We're not letting them take you. No matter what. And may I be condemned in hell if I fail." Sunny looked up. For a moment, her voice broke. "They think I'm weak." "Then let's prove them wrong," Karen whispered just as quietly. But there was resolve in it.

Sunny looked between them. Two people who weren't there for the show. Two people who stayed.

"I don't wanna go to war," Sunny whispered. "Honey, you already are," Foggy replied. "But the good news? You've got one hell of a counsel."

Nelson & Murdock, Attorneys at Law, stood divided since that night. Cleanly, visibly, like a split verdict no one wanted to read aloud. The atmosphere? Suffocating. All the unsaid hung in the air, dense as smoke. When Sunny crossed the threshold, Matt disappeared into his office. They couldn't co-exist anymore. And neither knew how to move forward. Karen and Foggy transformed into children whose parents had gone through a divorce. And not a good, easy one. One of those messy ones that dragged on for years.

Sunny still kept brewing a fourth cup of coffee during Foggy's morning runs—nobody ever picked it up, and she never poured it. They passed each other in the hallway without a single gaze—neither spoke, and Sunny always stepped out of the way too early so he wouldn't have a chance to touch her. Foggy found a few Post-it notes, crumbled into balls in Matt's bin: 'Please, talk to me', 'I can't stop thinking about you', or 'Would you still have me if I asked?' She forgot the keys one morning when fetching Foggy's notes for her approaching testimony—she heard Matt in. All Sunny had to do? Knock. But instead? She called Foggy to fetch a cab and come open the damn door.

Karen remained hopeful—she saw how Matt's fingers absentmindedly tapped the door frame when Foggy invited Sunny into the meeting room. How his throat bobbed when he listened to Sunny's voice. How his eyes closed, as if he was imagining and remembering her little quirks—how her lips curled, how her tongue moved, and how her body postured. Karen also saw the small moments—when Sunny slowed down in front of Matt's door, listening as he consulted a client. Or when she stopped at the doorstep, staring into Matt's office long after he was gone. Her eyes were soft. ...as if she were longing.

"They're still in it," Karen muttered to Foggy one evening. Sunny was asleep on the chair after memorizing perfect answers for the testimony. "They still feel everything. But they don't know what the fuck they're supposed to do with it." "They never did, to be frank," Foggy chuckled, tugging his coat over Sunny's shoulders. "They just finally crashed." "You think they'll figure it out?" Karen whispered. "Because I can't imagine them separately anymore. Certainly not if it fucks everything and everyone up." Foggy shrugged, "No clue. But let them breathe. It's been just five days." "Okay." "Let 'em be broken for a minute," Foggy murmured, throwing his arm around Karen's shoulder. "Doesn't mean they're done." Karen nodded, leaning her temple into Foggy's shoulder.

That day hadn't been any different. The office hummed with low printer sounds, ringing phones, and rustling folders. Foggy's desk was chaos incarnate—sticky notes, open case files, snack wrappers, used mugs, and empty take-out boxes. Sunny was curled up in the meeting room, hunched over a table, skimming a stack of police reports and cross-referencing witness lists. Her hair was messily kept out of her face, her coffee was cold, and she hadn't moved in over twenty minutes.

Foggy was at court, and Karen was sitting at her desk, serving as a buffer between the two. Matt's office door was closed. But she could hear him—talking, laughing... flirting. Sunny could always hear him talking.

"Well, I'd say the city owes you a thank-you," his voice carried smoothly through the door. It was that careful warmth he saved for clients. "But instead, you get stuck with a court date and me." There was a laugh. High-pitched. Feminine. So bedroom-coded that Sunny's stomach twisted. "Believe me, I've had worse things stuck to me."

Sunny's pen stilled. Karen looked up from the monitor, but didn't say anything. Not yet. Matt started doing this over the last few days... a lot of it. He flirted with clients whenever he could. Why? To soothe his ego. To prove he still had game. To whom? That remained unclear.

"I mean, I never thought I'd get counsel this good-looking," the woman continued. She sounded like she was chewing her lip... not like an ordinary blind guy would know. "I'm so grateful to have a man like you in my corner. You made a name for yourself, Mr. Murdock." It was a blonde in her early 30s. Her heels clicked too hard across the floor when she walked in. Sunny clocked her in a single glance. The tight blazer. A push-up bra. Teeny-tiny pencil skirt.

"I'll try not to let it go to my head," Matt murmured back. That voice. Lazy. Self-assured. Just shy of a purr. Unless you want it to." Sunny's jaw tightened. "You don't have to stay here," Karen whispered, at which Sunny nodded absentmindedly. "You okay?" "Fine," Sunny muttered, not looking up. Her pen pressed too hard into the paper, nearly tearing the corner.

Matt started flirting with clients, whether Sunny was in the room or not. But it was always worse when she could hear him. The tone. The cadence. That flirtatious rasp... the one he used to save just for her. The woman inside giggled again. A file closes. Matt's voice dropped. It was audible, but smooth as sin. He wasn't hiding his intentions in the slightest.

"Tell me more about that night, please, Ms. Cox," the chair creaked under his weight as he leaned toward his client. "Details matter. Especially the ones no one else bothered to ask you." 'Oh, Jesus fucking Christ,' Sunny rolled her eyes. 'He's such a pretentious piece of shit.' Another giggle. Something slid across his desk. Sunny hadn't written a letter in the last five minutes. Karen's eyebrows rose. "You sure you're..." "I said I'm fucking fine."

Sunny stood up and walked to the file cabinet like she needed something. She didn't, she just needed to be closer. She wanted him to know she heard everything. That she was listening and not looking away.

From behind the door, Matt paused for just a breath. Then, his silhouette leaned over the table. Suddenly, his voice dropped into velvet. "You've got nothing to worry about, Ms. Cox. I'm very... hands-on with my clients."

Sunny slammed the file drawer shut harder than necessary, cracking her knuckles before walking off, too loud and unmissable. She walked away with an attitude. Karen flinched. The printer jams.

Matt's door didn't open, but he smiled. He knew exactly what he was doing... and who he was doing it for.

The door to Matt's office finally opened. The blonde... what was her name again? Matthew practically moaned it fifteen minutes back. Samantha? Stephanie? Something with an S and full cleavage. She clicked out with a grin and a swing in her step. Talk about an Oscar-worthy performance. Matthew outdid himself.

"Thank again, Matthew," she murmured, dragging his name like taffy. Sunny grinned so hard that Karen nearly burst laughing. "You're such a dream." "I do my best," Matt smiled, that tilt of his head calibrated to deadly. "Call me if anything comes up, please." The blonde walked past Sunny, who was now practically dismantling the printer with a screwdriver.

"Aw," the blonde smiled, charmed. "I've never seen a female janitor." "...excuse me?" Sunny looked up, hissing like a cat protecting its territory. "You work here?" "Oh, no, Ms. Cox," Sunny smiled, straightening up, playing with the screwdriver. "I just fuck the staff around here."

Karen's coffee nearly shot out of her nose. Matt didn't move from behind the door. But the silence? It was deafening.

"Have a wonderful day!" Sunny cried as the woman stepped out of the office. Matt slowly appeared in the doorway, a week of silence hanging between him and Sunny. He leaned against the frame, breathing in the smell of her. So fresh and alive, straight from the source... not stale from hanging in a room for too long. The thumping of her heart. The roaring of her blood.

"Something wrong with the printer?" He asked, quiet and unassuming. "You know how miserable you are with electronics, don't you?" "No, no," Sunny hissed back, not even looking at him. "Just figured if it's gonna jam every time you get turned or try to get laid, I'd put it out of its misery now." Matt smiled. Slow. Lazy. Lethal. "You jealous, Sunshine?" "Of what?" she muttered, straightening her posture. "Your new client, or your fragile fucking ego, Matty?" "You listened to every word." "And you meant every word." A beat. Then, Sunny scoffed, "Hope she likes fucking in front of open windows—since it’s still your favorite go-to."

Karen stood up, inhaling sharply, slapping her palms against her desk. But before she could speak, the door slammed open.

Foggy stood there, in a wrinkled three-piece suit and that beige coat that had definitely seen better days. He froze. His eyes flicked between Sunny and Matt like he was trying to gauge the blast radius. Then, with a dramatic throat-clear, he stated: "Okay! Awesome! Love the… tension. Super healthy. Really glad we're weaponizing unresolved emotions in the workplace." He stepped in, raising both hands as if he were herding cats. "But Sunny has a police interview tomorrow, and instead of prepping, she's out here verbally neutering my law partner. Can we, just for today, not do this?"

Sunny turned to him, sharper than necessary. "I am prepping, Percival." "No," Foggy chuckled, unfazed. "You're bullying Matt just because you can. And because he deserves it." "...after he tried to bend over that blonde chick who came in for his 'stellar recommendations,'" Sunny scoffed, like it was the best joke she’d heard all week. "Sure."

Matt breathed out a sharp 'oh' and leaned into the doorframe, shaking his head. Sunny was so fucking infuriating when she tried to be, Jesus Christ. "You don't get to act like I'm the only one playing dirty. You've been doing laps around me since the second I walked through the door." "You're not that hard to walk around, sweetheart," Sunny laughed, mean and quiet. "Just gotta avoid the landmines... Your ego. Your control. The Catholic guilt. The martyr complex. The ‘no one understands me’ bit. Want me to keep going?"

Murdock stepped forward, taking a deep breath—whether he was keeping calm or simply breathing Sunny's scent in was unclear. "You want to talk about control, princess? You're the one who shut the door, remember? I asked you to let me help, but you let me walk out instead," he scoffed, towering over her. "I wanted to name things between us—you nearly went ballistic, saying 'can't do that'. Then, literally the morning after, you whine about me not showing up as a boyfriend." "Matthew..." Sunny breathed out as a warning. "Oh, no, I'm not finished," Matt cut her off immediately, without any breathing space. "You say you don't want labels, but throw a fit the second I stop pretending we're something we aren't. Do you love running around in circles? Pushing me away and waking up neurotic because I'm not around in the morning? Holding my hand, kissing me in public while not admitting I might, just as well, be your... your..." His lips opened and closed.

They ran away from that name so long and hard that neither could really say it aloud. Who they really were to each other, or who they wanted to be. Matt couldn't finish it. So Sunny took the wheel. With that mean fucking smile of hers. "I asked you to show up as my partner, not justice incarnate or a damn public defender." "And you think our little rodeo the other night made it better?"

"Oh, I don't, Matty," she scoffs, steps in. Her heartbeat drums inside his ears, her scent making his mouth water. If she gave him a reason, he'd lose it... right there and then, inside the office, in front of Karen and Foggy. He gulped. Hard. "But the ultimatum was the only way I could still look at myself in the mirror. I'm saying that just in case you would wanna pull your head out of your ass and think about it."

Matt's jaw clenched, and his voice dropped. "You're playing games." "...and you're playing god," Sunny hissed right back at him. His fingers grazed her wrist, his fingertips. It ached. It was a quiet 'I miss you.' Even quieter, 'Please, talk to me.' Sunny stilled for a second, her eyes trained on Matt's lips. And then, her hand jerked back.

"Don't," she whispered. Matt exhales as if he were caving in. Another battle lost. "Come on, Sunny." "Go fuck yourself, Murdock," she was final and cold, walking back into their small makeshift conference room. "Better ramp your game with the clients."

Matt froze, then backed up into his office. He didn't say a word. Just remained standing there. And this? That was the last time their hands touched for two months.

"Okay. What the actual fuck are you two doing," Foggy stepped into the room, both hands raised like a hostage. Anyone answered. "Seriously, you two. Are you okay? Because from where I'm standing, you're both acting like emotionally stunted velociraptors and I'm the goat in your pen." Still nothing. Just silence.

Matt grabbed the files off Karen's desk and left. He didn't exactly slam the door, but he closed it hard enough for the glass to shiver. Sunny exhaled through her nose, as if she had just finished dealing with an insolent, tantrum-throwing child. Foggy turned to her. "Are you okay?"

She grabbed her folder off Karen's desk, picking up her notepad and pen as well. "I've got a precinct date tomorrow. Testimony and whatnot." "That's not what I asked, sunshine." She nodded, sent Karen a tired smile. "I know." With that, she backs off into the conference room. Foggy was baffled by her attitude and under his breath, he muttered: "...Fucking lawyers, man."

The sun has gone down. Karen left for a date hours ago. Matt was... somewhere, doing something. The main office lights were dim, but one desk lamp glowed above the shared table.

Foggy's sleeves were rolled up, his tie long discarded, his hair a mess from all the constant pulling, running his fingers through, and grabbing. Sunny was sitting opposite him in a matching war mode. She was in a hoodie, barefoot, and pacing as she memorized a printed sheet of Miranda rights. She knew them by heart—Matt spent a ridiculous number of nights pounding her while having her scream them at the top of her lungs. Sunny remembered each second of it. Foggy had a vague knowledge of it, too. Neither stopped her.

"Again," Foggy growled, not unkindly. "I know my rights, officer," Sunny muttered back, clearly exhausted. Foggy offered her to leave for some grease-soaked Thai hours ago, but she declined. She would be jumpy and fidgety the entire time, anyway. "And we know the NYPD, the DA and the fucking feds. They'll twist your tone, your posture, and your breath into a confession. So, let's go again," he fired off like a cop would. "Why'd you turn off the cameras?" "Sir, there was a power outage in the alley..." "Nope," Foggy's palm hit the table flat. "Too many words. You're not in the Broadway recreation of Pride and Prejudice. Try again."

Sunny exhaled, clearly contemplating whether to talk back or not. Then, she straightened up.

"Sir, the cameras weren't operational. I don't know why." "Better, you're getting somewhere," Foggy nodded. "You're not defensive anymore. You're not lying, either. You're just..." he shrugged. "...a regular barista trying to run a weird café." She smirked. "So, exactly what we're aiming for?" "No," Foggy rejected categorically. "We want to make you a saint who never heard the names Spider-Man, Daredevil, or the Avengers. But we're getting there."

They both laughed, softly and easily.

Matt sat still and silent inside his office, Ms. Cox's file propped before him. In reality, he hadn't looked at it in hours. He wasn't interested in some petty PR scandal, but she paid good money... even more when he was willing to slip in a flirtatious comment or two. His head was tilted just slightly. He could hear everything.

Sunny's voice was steady. She was getting good at it, growing confident with each small lie. He heard each word of Foggy's coaching—he wasn't being a dick, but he didn't go soft on her either. Throughout a decade of friendship, he'd already learned how to deal with her. They clicked now.

The scrape of paper. A pen tapping. A memorized line falling off Sunny's lip like a fact. Then laughter.

Matt barely exhaled. Then he turned his chair away from the door. Back outside, Sunny dropped into the chair next to Foggy.

"You really think I can do this?" "You've been doing it," Foggy muttered. "You just didn't know it." "I'm scared," Sunny whispered. "I'm worried I don't have any backup." "You've got me now," he whispered, shoulder bumping hers. She smiled tiredly. Foggy didn't push. They just got back to work.

The interrogation room was cold. Sterile. No windows. The stench of bleach burned through Sunny's nose. Just a long metal table, three chairs, and the low hum of a wall-mounted security camera.

Foggy sat beside her, sweating in his best three-piece like a hooker in a church. One hand rested protectively over her file... her fucking file. Sunny's wrists stayed neatly folded in her lap. Karen had given her a full pep talk that morning—big smiles, exaggerated hope, the works. She even made Sunny dress up in her best formal dress and decent makeup. Then she drove her and Foggy to the precinct herself.

The pleasantries with the officers were exchanged. Since then? Silence.

The detective and the fed, whom Sunny had already met, were sitting opposite them. Detective Duarte, the older, grey-haired man, dressed in a fitted shirt, holster loosely hanging off his shoulders. He laid a single document between them.

"Before we begin formal questioning," he said, voice smooth, "we're required to inform you of your counsel options." He offered Sunny a smile. Too polite. Too rehearsed. "Should you wish to change representation, Matthew Murdock has indicated his availability—and interest." He slid the waiver forward. "Informed consent, per NY v. Selwood. You'd be acknowledging your personal relationship with Mr. Murdock while authorizing him to act as your defense."

Sunny didn't reach for the waver; she didn't blink, just furrowed at Duarte.

"Why," she asked calmly, "did you bring up Mr. Murdock while my chosen counsel is present in the room?" Foggy's jaw tightened. "Counsel forms were submitted and approved yesterday," he said, voice clipped. "The department signed off. If there was any confusion, detective, it should have been addressed through proper channels. Not here. Not now."

Duarte didn't flinch. "We're simply doing our due diligence. A potential conflict of interest was pronounced, and we're bound by protocol to let Ms. Y/L/N decide for herself." Sunny looked down at the waiver. Her eyes skimmed across the words written there... her name, his name, together on a legal document. It couldn't have been a coincidence.

Sunny didn't need confirmation. She knew the pattern—quiet contact, background questions, "expressed availability." They'd reached out to Matt. He said yes. Of course he did. But dropping the waiver now, just before questioning? That wasn't the procedure. That was a strategy. She looked up, calm, cold, and unshaken.

"I never mentioned Mr. Murdock's name today. Neither did my counsel. So I'd like it on record: I find it highly irregular that this form is being presented in the absence of any request coming from me." Duarte didn't flinch; he hummed and nodded as if he expected this. He just folded his hands, gaze flat. "We offer the waiver as a matter of protocol. Given Mr. Murdock's known relationship with the defendant, we must clarify conflicts before beginning."

"The only conflict I see," Foggy muttered, voice tight, "is a department overstepping counsel protocol." Sunny's eyes didn't leave the waiver. Still untouched. "We can begin," she said coolly. "I'm not changing my lawyer, and I won't need Mr. Murdock's services today."

Baxter, the NYPD detective who sat next to Duarte, shot a glance at his colleague. As if he asked, 'Was she supposed to react like this?' Duarte didn't answer, just pulled the waiver away from Sunny. "Let's proceed," Baxter announced, studying Sunny for a long moment. Then, he nodded to the recorder. "Timestamp, 09:18. Subject had declined alternate counsel. This is now a formal deposition." Foggy leaned in, his tone clipped and composed. "And we'll be holding you to proper procedure. Start your questions, please."

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The table was cold steel. The air smelled like burnt coffee, bleach, and cheap floor polish. Both she and Foggy were offered measly, beaten-up glasses and water with lemon slices. The detectives brought coffee in disgusting, plastic go-to cups.

The federal agents didn't reintroduce themselves. The recorder was already rolling when Detective Baxter leaned forward, took a breath, and began. "State your full name for the record." "Y/N Y/L/N," Sunny said clearly. "Better known under the nickname 'Sunny.'" "Are you the owner and operator of Thank, Tony Café, located on the intersection of West 46th Street and 10th Avenue in Hell's Kitchen, New York?" "Yes," Sunny nodded. "Any security employees at your establishment? "Only cameras. Standard motion sensors. No personnel security, Detective. Just a basic employee logbook."

Baxter smiled like a bloodhound that just sniffed a trail—bared teeth, but no emotion in his eyes. "Those cameras you mentioned were nonfunctional on the night of April 16th. Can you explain why?" "There was a power outage in the alley. The building's external grid tripped." Sunny explained calmly. "And you didn't attempt to fix it during the night?" "No, sir," Sunny shook her head to emphasize. "I was asleep and only found out in the morning, when I entered the café for an opening shift.

"Were you alone?" Baxter pressed. "Alone," Sunny confirmed calmly, but Foggy noticed the slightest shiver going through her body. She wasn't alone. She was with Matthew, because, of course, she was. The agents exchanged a glance. ...they knew something.

"What we need you to understand, Ms. Y/L/N," Duarte said, loud, clear, and firm. "Is the fact that your café has been unofficially associated with vigilante traffic for over a year now. Several independent testimonies..." "It's a public space, Detective Duarte," Sunny stopped before he finished. Foggy's finger tapped her knee ever so lightly. 'Careful now,' he warned, 'they're fishing for admission.' "My staff and I serve open hours. No bouncers. And I haven't seen any masked individual enter the café during said open hours."

Foggy slid a folder across the table. "The department was adequately provided with my client's staffing logs, building schematics, and utility records. There's no evidence Ms. Y/L/N knowingly aided any criminal activity" "We're not throwing any accusations here, Mr. Nelson," Detective Baxter explained very calmly. Too smooth and quick. "We're simply asking why this location continues to appear in federal and municipal reports linked to vigilante sightings." "Because someone keeps filing those reports," Sunny said simply. "Could be competition, a disgruntled customer, or a neighbour who's too mad we close at 10pm. Maybe you should investigate them."

There was no smile. No sarcasm. Just exhaustion wrapped in velvet.

"Okay," Detective Duarte huffed, nodding. "Another one: café closed early on March 17th, according to your logbook. Power cut in the alley again. Yet... No outage reported to ConEd." Another tap on the knee. "As a business owner, you learn to run backup batteries for refrigeration—because I sell coffee and hand-baked pastries, a lot of my production depends on refrigerated goods," Sunny explained calmly. "As seen in the building plans. The alley's on a separate breaker—sometimes it simply blows. Our handyman handles it in-house if he's available." "How often is he unavailable?" Duarte pressed. "He's running an... unusual schedule," Sunny confirmed very carefully. "He's a convicted felon who's currently on house arrest and has a court-approved leave for three hours bi-weekly. Comes to check the café whenever he can."

"And you are... comfortable with spending time with convicted felons and other potential criminal elements?" Detective Baxter jumped in, throwing Sunny off-balance for a moment. Before they noticed how stunned she was, Foggy jumped in. "The contract with the café's handyman, whom I will refer to as Scott, had also been included in the staff report folder. His part-time employment with Ms. Y/L/N was a mitigating circumstance during his parole trial. Atop, Ms Y/L/N is also in contact with Scott's curator until present."

"So you're saying the alley camera trips are coincidental? No connection to any of those nights when vigilantes are reported in the vicinity of your property?" Detective Duarte huffed, voice low and chilling. Sunny exhaled, rubbing her elbow. "I'm saying this is New York City. Power fails. Things break. People walk. You want to pin it on me, bring a warrant or a wire." "And for the record, that last comment was metaphorical. My client is not waiving any rights; she's not making any admission. She's asking you to stop theorizing without evidence," Foggy added coldly.

"Have you seen or spoken to the individual known as Daredevil in the last sixty days?" Detective Baxter asked, his expression unreadable. "No," Sunny answered immediately, voice firm. "Have we jumped from allegations to false accusations?" "Would you tell us if you had seen such an individual?" The Detective entirely ignored Sunny's question. Foggy leaned in, eyes burning with fury. "That question is outside the scope of this inquiry. My client is not obligated to serve as a state informant." "Given the charges filed, Mr. Nelson, this question is more relevant than you're willing to admit," Baxter barked back. "What's your final answer?"

Sunny remained silent, giving Foggy a quick glance. He couldn't argue, so he carefully nodded. "I haven't come in contact with an individual known under the alias of 'Daredevil,'" Sunny breathed out very carefully. "At least not to my knowledge, Detective." "So," Baxter exhaled. "You didn't see or aid anyone enter or exit the property between 3:30 and 4:00 AM, February 25th?" "No." "Then who opened the back alley door at 3:43? Which, for the record, is uneretable from inside the café backspace?" He was smiling cockily, now. "I don't know, Detective." "And who locked the same door at 3:48?" "I said I don't know."

Silence followed; this time not aggressive, just weighty. Baxter leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "You're aware, Ms. Y/L/N, that lying in a sworn deposition is a felony in itself?" Foggy's voice sliced in before Sunny could speak. "My client hasn't lied. She's responded clearly, consistently, and within her rights. This fact is not contestable in court without undisputable evidence, Detective Baxter. "

Baxter gave him a long look, then turned back to Sunny. "You operate a space frequented by known vigilantes, confirmed by surveillance and indirect testimony. Your cameras go dark at very specific times. You hire felons. You make space. You leave doors open." Sunny inhaled through her nose, slow and controlled, "And you still don't have a warrant. Or a name."

Another silence. This one taunting.

Detective Duarte finally spoke, voice more tired than angry. "You're playing semantics, and you were clearly coached by your defense attorney, Ms. Y/L/N. Eventually, this becomes an obstruction of justice." "And until then," Sunny said softly, "I'm answering your questions. If you don't like my answers, then maybe stop asking things you don't have proof for."

Foggy allowed himself the smallest glance down at her knee. It had stopped bouncing. She was back in control.

"Let us conclude this interrogation. Let the record state it's 10:10 AM." Detective Duarte stated and pressed the stop button on the recorder. "This isn't the last time we'll see each other, Ms. Y/L/N. We have more questions, and we'll soon forward a warrant to search the back office and your apartment." "Okay," Sunny nodded, still somehow remaining in control. "I'll take it into account, Detectives. Am I free to go now?" "Yes," Detective Baxter stood up, offering them both a palm. "Thank you for your time. We'll be in touch with your counselor. Mr. Nelson." He bowed his head, leaving the interrogation room.

Sunny cracked down the second Detective Duarte closed the door. She hyperventilated, putting her palm on her sternum, concentrating on counting and breathing. "God, you did well, so well," Foggy hugged her, lips pressed to her hair. "Y/N, you were amazing." "They... they'll have a warrant." "Not here," Foggy hissed. "They have cameras here. You tell me at your apartment, okay?" Sunny just nodded weakly.

They stepped into the station corridor, shutting the interrogation behind them. Foggy's palm was gently pressed to the small of Sunny's back, brotherly and protective. One of Sunny's palms was curled around the fabric of his suit, clutching each time it seemed like Foggy was moving away. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The hallway smelled like cold takeout and printer ink. The employees and other summoned dragged within the spaces, their heels clicking on the overly polished wooden flooring.

Sunny didn't want to spy in. She didn't want to listen. But something inside her snapped tight the moment she noticed the crowd. Too many uniforms at one desk. Too quiet. Too still. Never a good sign.

Foggy was still murmuring reassurances. One of his hands was steady at Sunny's back when they passed the bullpen. A cluster of uniforms circled a cluttered desk—half-eaten muffins, coffee cups, and a small TV playing the morning news on mute. "Can you believe it?" One female officer muttered, looking around. Her voice was low and grim. "Another six goons gunned down near Pier 88. Execution-style. Same M.O. as last week." "Jesus," another cop whispered. "What is that now—fifteen bodies in three weeks? Someone's making a statement." "Or settling a score," a third added. "And we're still waiting for someone to ID that Jane Doe dumped behind St. Agnes..."

Sunny slowed down. If it weren't for Foggy, she'd just stop and watch them. Foggy's hand on her back tightened as he pushed her forward. "That's Matt's guys they're talking about," Sunny murmured. "The wackos who're gunning down gang members around Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan, and Chelsea." "Yeah," Foggy nodded simply, as a matter of fact. "They're dangerous." Sunny stilled for a second, feeling a chill traveling down her spine. It wasn't from the interrogation room. It was from a cold, slow-setting realization. "Foggy, they're dangerous." "I'll keep an eye on him," Foggy promised silently. Sunny didn’t answer. She just nodded. But that chill? It didn’t leave

It was three half-empty coffee cups, one untouched protein bar, and four yellow legal pads later inside Nelson & Murdock. Foggy discarded both his suit and his tie, rolled his sleeves up, and tried to relax. Karen had commandeered the whiteboard by the window, scrawling out names and case dates, arrows and underlines—possible DA strategies, overlapping surveillance, gaps in timestamps. The NYPD was eerily efficient in sharing the entirety of Sunny's file and the case they've built against her so far. They sent it to Foggy within hours of an official, formal request. Something about it was iffy. Too efficient, too fast, too eager. But Foggy couldn't accuse without proof.

Sunny sat across them, a blank stare aimed at a stack of printed interviews. Her voice was level and calm, but she looked drained... like her bones were holding her up more than her will. "I held up," she said softly, like it didn’t matter. Like it changed nothing. "You held up so incredibly well, baby," Foggy confirmed. "You didn't fold and these assholes walked away empty handed." Karen paced. "They're still building something. This wasn't just fishing—they had a direction, someone steering the boat. They downright confirmed it when they mentioned the warrants—and they'll do their damndest to bait you into a mistake."

"I'm not exactly subtle," Sunny muttered. "Neither was, apparently, Matthew. Jesus. How many people saw? How many had noticed? Do you think it's the bodega guy?" "No," Foggy scoffed sourly. "Anton was always a stand-up guy, ever since you opened the café. They probably just fished, and when you didn't outright deny...." He shrugged and shook his head. "But if you'd lie, they'd just slap another instance of obstruction of justice onto your case. This was a win-win." "And that's why we prep," Karen replied, not missing a beat. "We out-detail them. We grind them down."

Karen slid a folder across the table. It wasn't Foggy's. Sunny looked down. Her name was on the Post-It.

'For her eyes. Disregard if she doesn't want it.' - M.

Foggy blinked, like he hadn't seen it arrive. "Did you..." "Nope," Karen looked toward the door. "Left it on my desk when he was leaving, before you guys returned from that Indian place. He must've gotten to the NYPD file before we did... probably banked in some favors." Sunny peeled it open. It wasn't much. Just a physical copy of her testimony transcripts, with the feds' phrasing lightly underlined. As if someone banked on Matthew reading through it. Notes in Matt's messy, blocky handwriting snaked through the sides:

Revisit the timeline. 03:43-03:48. Surveillance might show someone else from the camera on 10th (on the side of the bodega), which was operational at the time of speaking.

'Public access' is your stronger legal shield. Lean on it. Cling to it. Good job.

Sunny said she didn't know, and they didn't push harder when they should've. That's not a win but a tell. These guys don't shoot blanks. Always remember that.

Sunny stared down at it, unreadable, until reaching the very end.

They're threatening with a warrant. It's not phrased as a threat, but it is one. Clean everything up. Destroy everything that's not essential and that would be suspicious if missing. Call Claire. She'll know what to do.

Karen cleared her throat. "He's... he's trying to help." Foggy just groaned, massaging his face. But Sunny? She moved with purpose, for the first time that afternoon, nodding to herself. Foggy gave Karen a quick look, the 'are you seeing this?' one.

Sunny's fingers traced the edge of the page. She didn't cry, didn’t speak, just nodded. But when she looked up, her eyes were already on the door, and her phone was in her hand.

"Call Claire," she echoed quietly. "Right."

The call was brief. Foggy and Karen listened in, frowning. The less said, the better... and both Sunny and Claire spoke right to the point. Short, unassuming sentences—they didn't need to say much more. They agreed to meet later in the evening, after Thanks, Tony closes down. Sunny realized the NYPD and feds were watching. They couldn't be suspicious. Just old friends meeting at a café after hours.

Karen promised to come as well, especially after Claire's text:

Hot Scrubs Nurse: found help. knows a technique or two. already done this before. shell come with me.

Nobody knew who the 'help' was. Nobody asked. They simply remained quietly grateful. Sunny came in for the rest of her shift, pretending everything was on course. She also managed not to look like a mess that was one minute from a nervous breakdown.

She cleaned up the front along with Amita. Standard mops, standard bleach, standard chatter. They closed the blinds and locked the front door. Sunny watched her leave, trying to breathe in and out.

When Karen and Claire appeared, they were unusually loud. Laughed too much, talked too fast. They... they pretended to be tipsy, Sunny realized. She matched their energy—giggling too loud, hugging too tight, playing the part like her life depended on it. Anybody who passed knew exactly what was about to happen: a meet-up of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

"Okay," Claire muttered when the door closed, her hand slipping off Karen's elbow as if Claire never wanted it there in the first place. Claire Temple looked like hell—braid half-undone, duffel bag full of bleach, eyes two days past sleep. "Where's the mess?" The fluorescent light in the back office flickered like it had something to say. Sunny didn't answer. She was crouched under the sink, bleach-stained rag clenched in her fist, scrubbing something that was already scrubbed raw. Her eyes didn't match the movement, but somewhere else entirely.

"If you asked where it's clean..." Sunny croaked. "I'd be able to answer." Claire sighed. "What are we looking after?" "Mud, dust, speckles of blood," Sunny shook her head. "Anything Matthew could've left behind. Everything I was too stupid to overlook." "Yeah, okay, fair," Claire nodded. "The other half of my equipment is on the way. UV light and such, all the big-boy police toys and methods." "Do you work with vigilantes a lot?” Karen asked softly. Claire didn't blink, just stared, bone-deep tired.

"My boyfriend is a convicted felon and a gifted individual," Claire explained. "Trust me, you learn quickly." "Oh, how's Luke, by the way?" Sunny asked over her shoulder. "Still dating the baddest nurse in Hell's Kitchen, so he's holding up," Claire smiled, "How's Matt?" "How would I know? Ask Ms. Cox," Sunny fired back blatantly. "Oh," Claire whispered softly. "Sorry." Karen leaned in. "...they're currently on a break. Hit a tough patch."

"Where's Santa's little helper anyway?" Sunny asked, painfully cheery. Claire sat on the army cot, leaning her elbows on her knees. "You won't like who it is, but this isn't a solo act, girl." Sunny stilled while Karen took the situation in with her eyes wide open. "Claire, no." "Claire, yes," Temple argued back. "She's a pain in the ass. Kept gnawing and bitching the entire time she set up the motion sensor camera," Sunny groaned, dragging a hand down her face. Claire shrugged. "That pain in the ass knows more about crime-scenes than me, you, Luke, blonde here and Murdock combined. She's a nutjob at this work. Enjoys it too much, but gets shit done... convincingly. And that's what you need right now." "Oh, for fuck's sake." Karen looked at the two. "...who are we talking about?"

Before Sunny answered, the front door rattled open and slammed shut.

"I hate you, Temple, and I want you to know that," came Jessica Jones's voice, like a knife wrapped in flannel. "I hate Luke more for making me come. But I especially hate bleach. It ruins leather. And the smell makes my mouth water." Sunny didn't answer Karen's question, just threw her hand in Jessica's direction. She came into view holding two grocery bags—one filled with industrial-grade cleaner, the other with black licorice, a flask, and a six-pack of beer.

Jessica Jones looked exactly how Sunny remembered her. Too skinny, too pale with raven-black hair, too forcibly punk to be convincing at it. She looked at Sunny, her blue eyes rolling, voice laced with biting irony. "Well, well, well... if it isn't my favorite barista." Claire glanced at the beer. "Seriously?" "If we're pulling an all-nighter clearing, I gotta cleanse the soul too, Temple," Jessica argued back.

Sunny still hadn't looked up. Karen watched the newcomer, waiting to be introduced... a pleasantry that'd never come.

"Everything went as planned, I hope?" Claire muttered under her breath. "Yeah," Jessica nodded. "Don't worry about it." "What?" Karen asked. "Oh, Temple over there asked me to stop by the bodega across the street and pretend to be an eagerly excited teen who's pumped about a hang-out at her friend's café," Jessica explained, tossing her scarf over a chair and scanning the room. "I made sure everyone within a mile radius heard my terrific Brooklyn accent." "Fucking Christ," Sunny groaned again. "It'll work, don't worry," Jones answered quietly, grazing around the room.

The stainless-steel counter was covered in medical gauze and stripped gloves. Small droplets of blood crusted the tile grout near the makeshift army cot. A red-soaked shirt was shoved behind the water heater. The air smelled like iron and panic.

"...this isn't just a hookup cleanup," Jones muttered, low. Claire stilled. "No. It's not."

Jessica's eyes flicked to Sunny. Her mouth opened for another wisecrack, then closed shut. Jones still remembered Sunny from when they met. And that kid looked... off. Shaky from nerves. Sweaty on the nape of the neck. The usual brand of pissed missing. She wasn't humming or cursing under her breath or deflecting with a joke. She was quiet... which meant she was scared.

Jessica knelt by the cot. Pulled up a corner of the sheet. Her eyebrows shot up. "Shit," Jones breathed. "That's not just blood. That's arterial." Sunny finally looked up. "He came bleeding. My first night alone, without Claire," she whispered. "I didn't know what I was doing back then... Got progressively better." "You knew enough for the bastard to survive," Claire said softly, stepping beside her.

"I nearly let him bleed out, I panicked and..." Sunny cut herself off. Her hands were trembling again. "Couldn't find it. The artery, as you said," she looked at Jones. "I was too slow and couldn't stop it. And then I was busy having sloppy sex to really clean up. Just threw a sheet over it, thinking it won't bite me in the ass." "And now what?" Jessica leaned against the wall, arms crossed, pulling out a cigarette. Claire opened her mouth, then let Jess light it anyway. "Scrub the floor like that's gonna erase it?" Sunny's eyes snapped to hers. "You think I didn't figure that out, genius?" "I think you're pretending it's about the tiles. And not the fact that your entire fucking life is now one step away from a RICO indictment."

Claire gave Jessica a look, but Jessica didn't flinch. Sunny stood up slowly, shoulders tense. "You think I wanted this? That I did it because I wanted him to be grateful?" She scoffed. "I just didn't want to watch the man I fuck bleed out on my fucking bed anymore. I was sick of it, okay? And he wouldn't stop. No matter how many times I told him to." "Yeah, I think you did," Jessica's voice dropped. "And deep down, you always knew this moment would come, didn't you?"

The silence cracked like ice.

Claire cleared her throat. "We've got seven hours until sunrise to clean up both this office and her apartment and still make it look like an innocent hangout," she informed fast and factually, pulling together a strategy. "That's how long we've got before the DA's office starts pulling security footage from nearby businesses. That's how long we've got to make this place look like nothing ever happened." But nobody moved.

Jessica looked at the table again. "Let me guess... Whatever the cops asked you today, they hit the nail, didn't they? You patched Daredevil up here?" Sunny didn't answer. Jones' gaze darkened. "You never thought about what happens if they realize someone else holds the needle?" "Jesus, shut the fuck up already," Sunny barked back at her, watching Jones flicker ash on the tile. "If I didn't think about it every second he whined and groaned under me, why do you think you're here? Because I enjoyed your presence the last time? Because I'm just fucking bored?" "There's the tiger, hi," Jones smiled lazily, putting the cig out on the steel sink. Then, she pulled out a UV lamp from one of her duffels. "Let's make damn sure they won't figure it was you, then."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Karen muttered, watching the room flooded with darkness, white and violet. The UV light came in handy... nearly too handy. The entire room lit up like a Christmas market, from the walls to the tables and floor. "You two were busy," Jones muttered, whistling under her breath. "Welcome to the crime scene, ladies." Sunny turned away, again. Her throat burned raw. She'd already thrown up once, and the light hadn't even hit the floor yet. Claire massaged her shoulder, nodding to herself, silent as a grave.

Karen stepped back instinctively, like the light might burn. "Is all of that… blood?" "No. Not just blood. It's blood, bile, and whatever else little Devil decided to leave as a souvenir," Jessica replied, deadpan, already pulling on a pair of gloves. Then, she tossed a roll of painter's tape toward Claire.

"You're on tag duty, Temple. Tag anything that glows," Jones muttered. "I want this place looking like a disco ball before we start." Claire nodded and crouched down, jaw tight, professional walla slamming back into place. She tore the tape into sharp pieces and began sticking them like surgical targets: tile ground near the cot, one edge of the sink, the corner of the desk. She moved fast, but methodically.

"This is an arterial splash, not smear," Claire muttered. "Must've his something hard and fast." "The same night, table edge, barely managed to catch him," Sunny offered, barely audible. "He collapsed." "Stop asking, Temple," Jessica grumbled. "We're not here to chat; it's not helping. Just let her point out if we missed something."

Sunny nodded, stepping back, leaning into Karen. Karen hadn't spoken much since the light came on. Her fingers hovered near her mouth like she might bite her nails... until Clair gently placed a strip of tape in her hand.

"Let's move, Page," Claire offered softly. "Help me mark the bed legs." Jessica kept moving. She crouched near the heater and peeled up the edge of a tile with her fingernail. "There's seepage here. Claire, can we move this cot?" "Not without scraping the floor and making noise," Claire muttered. "So we do it lighting fucking fast," Jessica barked. "It's flagged. They'll test it. Either we can clean it or toss it."

Karen watched the cot with a frown. "Do you really think they'll bring in a full forensics team?" Jessica straightened up, face unreadable. "They're building a RICO case here, Barbie," she scoffed. "Not a noise complaint. If they even sniff organized help—healing, hiding, aiding—they'll carpet-bomb this place with every test they've got. Hair. Skin. Blood type. Shit, they'll probably DNA test the fucking dust." Nobody moved. Jessica rolled her eyes. "Just fucking move already. Start taping or praying, your call."

Sunny blinked, watching Karen join forces with the dynamic duo. "Tag everything," Jessica said hoarsely. "If it lights up, we mark it. If it doesn't, we clean it anyway." Claire glanced toward her and nodded again. "Now we're thinking like people who want to survive." Sunny inhaled and picked up a roll of tape, joining the force.

They cleaned in silence... unless someone counted Eminem's 'The Marhal Matters LP' in the background. Jessica lined up Linkin Park next. Said everyone who knows her will swear under oath it's the only music she'd listen to during a hangout. Sunny didn't mind. She hummed along to 'Slim Shady'. Karen bobbed her head in the rhythm. Karen didn't comment. Just moved.

Jessica paused as the UV beam skimmed over the lower edge of the desk. She leaned in, squinted, then clicked her tongue against her teeth. "Okay, well, that's not blood either," she muttered, tagging it with an amused sigh. Claire looked over. "What, mold?" Jessica didn't even blink. "Nope. That's jizz." Sunny stiffened. Karen stopped in motion, growing a shade paler.

"Jesus Christ," Sunny groaned. "Yeah, don't blame him, he didn't make it. But that horny stud of yours did," Jones replied, grinning at her double entandra, then stood up straight.

Karen swallowed. "Is it... recent?" Sunny gasped. "Why would you even fucking ask that?" "I don't know!" Karen exclaimed. "Does it even matter, Barbie?" Jessica asked, already snapping on another glove. "If they find it, it's a forensic marker. And it's got Daredevil's DNA all over it." Sunny looked like she wanted to crawl into the mop bucket and die. "I got him new towels. Fancy ones, from IKEA. He got a bit too excited. Thought we..." "Yeah, you didn't, sweet cheeks," Jessica cut in. "But it's okay, Aunt Jess will clean up for you so Mama won't find out. Alcohol wipes, please."

Claire passed them wordlessly, already moving to hit the heater again. Sunny muttered, "You're so disgusting, Jones." "And you're dating a man who can't aim for shit, clearly," Jessica replied, wiping briskly. "We all have our flaws."

They entered hour two. AC/DC glared in the background, Thunderstruck just coming on. Claire's album of choice. Claire cracked her neck and dropped the first soaked rag into a sealed bio bag. "We start with the blood," she said. "Peroxide, then bleach. Then we dirty it back up."

"That's not how cleaning works," Karen muttered, already wiping tile grout. "At least not in TV shows." "It does when the goal's plausible deniability, Barbie," Jones replied, hauling the cot sideways. "Okay," Karen peeped. "Yeah, okay."

They worked fast. Sunny sprayed peroxide across the cot legs, watching foam bubble over the speckled red. She didn't flinch this time. Jessica hovered near the desk, yanking out drawers and wiping them down with alcohol, then smearing them again with her own fingerprints. Then with Karen's, Sunny's, Claire's, and, again, Sunny's.

"Wipe, then touch again," she barked. "Make sure Sunny touches it at least two to three times. No one should wonder why this is clean. They should wonder why it nearly violates OSA regulations. Did you also fuck your boy-toy here?" "Excuse me?" Sunny muttered, looking at her. "Except the vigilante," Jessica scoffed as if it were obvious. "I know you have some blind lawyer guy railing you. You fucked him here too?"

Sunny stilled. Jessica Jones didn't know that Matthew Murdock was, in actuality, Daredevil. Good. "Y-yeah," Sunny nodded. "It's embarrassing, but we fucked here... a lot." "Amazing!" Jones clapped. "If there are more semen trails, don't touch them with peroxide. Just alcohol wipes." Claire handed Jessica a bottle. "Use gloves for that." "Nah," she shrugged. "Let them find me, I dare them."

Karen knelt beside the water heater, using tweezers to pull a crusted rag from the gap in the paneling. It disintegrated in her hand. "Oh my god." "Yeah... Sorry for that," Sunny said flatly. "Also, the first time. Back when I panicked and shoved it back there." Claire bagged it silently. "Not anymore." The red-soaked shirt came next—still damp, slowly molding. Jessica grabbed it with two fingers like it offended her personally. "We're burning this?" "No, we shove it back in, that shady laundromat down the street, hot cycle, then rinse it in rainwater," Claire ordered. "The fibers are already there. Best if we... go with it." Jessica blinked, then nodded. "...damn, you're scary."

Sunny scraped old skin, jizz and blood from under the cot bolts. "They'll know I cleaned up," she whispered. "Fibers and smell and all that shit." "So we give them yours," Jessica said. "Hair scrunchy under the table. Lip balm smudge on the table. Maybe one of your weirdo socks for flavor in the corner. Pull out a few hair strands from your brush, spread them across the room—we need the hair old, not fresh. You make sure you air it and put your perfume in here until they come. Russian shower and all that."

Karen blinked. "Are we... planting evidence now?" Jessica didn't look up. "We're normalizing the crime scene. This isn't supposed to be a clean room. It's shitty café back office where your bestie got drunk over her breakup with her lawyer fuck mate and ugly cried." "Claire nodded, adjusting the lighting. "We leave a half-eaten protein bar on the counter. Coffee rings on the desk. Maybe a tossed beer can. Then force Nelson to eat his breakfast in here, pull him into the DNA cocktail too."

"I got those. Beercans, I mean," Jessica smirked, tossing two empties from her duffel. "Used one of them to pretend I was visiting my parole officer. I know it's gross, but run your tongue across it." She offered it to Sunny, not even looking at her. Sunny pulled her hair back before doing as she was asked to. Jones then dumped the cans around the room. "Perfect," she nodded.

"What about the old espresso machine?" Sunny asked. "You don't touch that," Claire said immediately. "Touch it with your bare hands. Make it obvious it's the real focus of the room, that you hide in here when things get too intense at the café."

Jessica stood, eyeing the floor. "Who wants to trip and 'spill' something to fuck the shine up?" "On it," Karen muttered, holding a near-empty bottle of cleaner. "I'll make the brew. One old from your tiramisu pour-away and a fresh chamomile." "Good," Jessica nodded, offering Sunny a small pocket knife. "One cut across the palm should do it, nothing dramatic. Splash it around the room, and Temple will mop it. Make it look like a work-related accident." Sunny didn't object. Just did as Jessica ordered.

The room didn't look clean when they finished. It looked lived in. A little gross. A little chaotic. Nothing perfect. Nothing suspicious. But under it all, Matt's blood was gone. "Next stop, the apartment," Claire said, pulling off her gloves and showing them along the rest to the 'to burn' duffel bag. "Great," Jessica muttered. "More sperm, blood, and trauma."

Jessica dropped the duffel inside the doorway with a dull thud. "Okay," she announced, looking around. "New scene, new rules, same old trauma. Nice place you got there, Sunny." "Thanks?" Sunny offered, watching her stalk around the perimeter. Jones flicked on the living room light. It was dim. The place was warm and lived in. A forgotten mug here, a t-shirt over the chair there, dust thick in the air. Jessica... liked it. Photos of Y/N, Page, Nelson, and Murdock hung around the room. Small Polaroid pictures were scattered across the fridge and the corkboard.

Claire scanned the space like a triage tent. "Which room did he bleed in?" "Which didn't he bleed in?" Sunny asked back rhetorically. "Define 'didn't'." "Bedroom, I think," Sunny muttered. "The bathroom and kitchen are closely behind."

Jessica followed her into the bedroom. Matt's dried blood lingered on the bedframe, the wardrobe, and smudged faintly across the drywall. A forgotten gauze sat on the nightstand, a needle cap tucked between couch cushions, and one of Matt's old shirts in the laundry pile. A pair of his boxers was on the bathroom floor.

"This one's worse," Claire muttered on an exhale. "There's more to burn, more to hide." "Of course it is," Jessica muttered. "This is where she loved them and cared for them... lucky idiots." That silenced the room. Sunny exhaled, sank onto the couch, and rubbed her face. Karen didn't look up from the corkboard.

They split again—four ghosts with one mission: unwrite the evidence of intimacy. Claire handled the bedroom. She stripped the sheets, lifted the mattress, and ran a UV lamp. It showed some blood and bodily fluids. But not enough to freak out and burn.

Jessica opened every drawer in the apartment. She pulled out pill bottles, latex gloves, alcohol swabs, all shoved in behind tampons and matchbooks. She packed them into a single first aid box.

Karen and Sunny hovered by the bathroom door as if it might bite them. They stood frozen, UV lamps in hand. "What do we focus on here?" Karen finally asked. Claire didn't pause. "Sweat, semen, and blood. The usual." Jessica added, "And vibes. We're painting a break-up. Very dramatic. Very loud. Keep that in mind."

Jessica held up a half-burned scented candle she found in the bookcase. Berries. Matt liked this one the most. "Light this up, and Sunny... you get to cooking. Start airing the apartment. Then toss the candle. It's not much, but it feels lived-in. It'll be enough to throw the sweepers off suspicion."

Sunny stood in the kitchen, staring into the open fridge like it might explain something. Nothing usable. Nothing she wanted. Not really. Jessica didn't dispute. She crossed the room and picked up a tie hanging loosely from the counter. "Burn pile or memory box?" Sunny looked at the tie. Then, at Jessica. Like she might have the answer. "...both. I don't... I don't know."

Claire and Karen moved toward the laundry pile. "Anything too soaked goes. Everything else we rotate. Set up a basket with mostly your clothes and one of his hoodies. Nothing bloody, but worn. You leave that one untouched. Take the rest to the laundromat." "Yeah," Karen nodded. "Yeah, okay. On it." "I have this... t-shirt," Sunny called out from the kitchen. "Back from when Foggy had his campaign run for Columbia's student parliament. It's old, gross, and has paint on it." "I'll borrow it then," Jessica muttered. "I need to patch up the blood stains. And given we have... three and a half hours to go, I need to get a move on."

"Take this," Claire said, handing over one of Matt's old, worn-out college hoodies. "Make it look like you lived in it for a week. Crying, sulking—the whole melodrama." "Also, while you're on laundromat duty, Page," Jones joined in from the bedroom, digging through Sunny's wardrobe. "Take out the trash. Five blocks away, minimum. That's within the plausible-deniability radius." "Mhm," Karen sang back.

The bathroom cleanup was next. Claire gave it a thorough scrub with alcohol wipes and peroxide, then smudged it with Sunny's cosmetics and Matt's aftershave and cologne. It smelled horrendous by the time she walked out, holding a small basket.

Her hairbrush. His razor, still capped, and his shaving cream. Her fluffy, pink sponge. The toothbrush he brought over six months ago. A few towels, a few stained with blood. She looked at Sunny. "We want to keep all this. Makes you look like the sentimental ex, praying he'll come home." "...okay," Sunny nodded, throat tight. "Here's the hairbrush. Pull a few strands out, scatter them across the back office," Claire continued with a still, level voice. "But, I found this."

Claire lowered a bottle of shampoo into Sunny's hands. His, of course—the one he never used because he liked Sunny's better. "Want me to throw it out?" "No," Sunny blinked at the items. Then... "Yes, actually. Well, no. You know what? Just fucking bag it, I don't have the energy tonight." "You don't even need to train for the role of a sad ex-girlfriend. Look at you," Jones called out from the bedroom, already kneeling in front of a wall with a brush, her tongue sticking out. "You're a natural." "Cut it out, Jones," Claire answered. "She already doesn't like you. Don't make it worse."

Jessica scoffed, listening as Claire bagged up toiletries. "I don't do it for 'good girl points,' Temple. I got the walls. Sunshine’s on heartbreak nest duty. Barbie's trash and laundry. We need a splash of vodka on the rug or something—it's too clean. Nobody questions a heartbreak spill." "I'm out of alcohol," Sunny whispered. "Well, I'm not," Jones announced, opening her duffel, pulling out a half-drunk bottle of cheap bourbon. Three beers and now this? How much had Jones drunk already? "Don't ask. Traumatic past. Shitty ex."

Jessica poured it into a mug. Sunny tripped over the edge of the rug and dropped it on cue. They scrubbed every reachable surface and made sure everything was normal. The blood was gone. The sex was buried under clean sheets. The grief was still there. Just… quieter now. They sat in silence, eating lukewarm leftovers and drinking cheap bodega wine. It tasted like nothing.

"An hour left until sunrise," Claire murmured, checking her watch. "One more sweep and then we're ghosts. I'll make sure the duffle gets burned and buried somewhere in Harlem. Luke and his guys will help me." "Yeah," Jessica nodded, staring at the candle still burning low. "Good job. Now..." she turned to Sunny. "Give me your phone, sweetheart. There's still work to do."

"Like what?" "Like your digital footprint, for example," Jessica explained, rolling her eyes. "We need to decide whether it's safe or if we're trashing it. Also, give me your laptop. So I can clear it, dumbass." "Is that..." "Yes," Claire cut her right off. "Don't ask Jones questions when it comes to sweep. Just do it or it'll bite you in the ass."

Sunny picked herself up, grumbled, and dropped her phone and laptop into Jones' lap. "Thank you," Jones hummed, picking up the laptop first. She unlocked it. No passcode. No dumb photos or suspicious files. Nothing. Clean as a newborn's ass. No bleeding men in suits. Just photographs of coffee, an over-the-top bouquet sorted into albums. Bank details. Invoices. Inspection forms. An email app with 200 notifications.

"Congratulations, you're not stupid," Jessica muttered. "Just trying to remain slightly detached, just like most of Hell's Kitchen." She opened the café's security feed. Three cameras. All running. All backed up. One in the alley. One showing the counter—begging for a clean, quick loop she could finish under twenty minutes. One in the corridor.

She scrubbed the timeline and played with the code. Backtracked timestamps. Re-checked code. Squeaky fucking clean. She moved to the alley camera.

...paused.

The back alley. Someone stood just outside the frame—a woman. Barely visible. Barely moving. She watched them clean. Long enough to stay hidden. Long enough to matter. "Claire," Jones called without looking up. "You know this woman? Another of Luke's or Horny boy's lady friends, or... Should I be worried?" Claire and Karen approached. Karen squinted. "Hard to tell." Jessica didn't move. "Exactly. She wants it hard to tell."

Jones tapped again, pulling up another clip. Earlier in the week. Same silhouette. Always just outside the frame Same spot. Still staring. Still unmoving. Claire leaned in. "Is that her again?" "Yup," Jones nodded, diving back another week. And another. The woman was in all of these. "Who the fuck is that?" "That's not a random," Claire leaned in. "That's trained surveillance." Jessica's voice went flat. "Someone's chasing after you, Sunshine. Someone who knew where the blind spots were." "Could be an ex-customer," Karen offered lightly. "Someone watching over you when... he doesn't?"

Jones shook her head. "Cute, but no. Too sharp. This one's a fucking professional." Sunny also looked at the laptop screen. She furrowed, pursed her lips, and leaned her head toward her shoulder.

"I've seen her," she whispered. "Yeah, I remember those ankles and high heels. She bought a muffin once. Like... three weeks ago. An espresso last week. No flair. Hadn't touched it, but tipped ten dollars." Jessica blinked. "...What?" "She didn't touch the muffin either," Sunny explained as if it were supposed to make sense. "But stared at me like she already knew what color my bra was and what position I enjoy the most."

Karen swallowed. Claire went still. All three women looked at her. Jessica lowered the laptop. "And you didn't tell anyone?" "What would I even say?" Sunny's voice was hollow. "I'm fucking a vigilante. I don't want attention. She's the kind you notice… then try really hard not to. Not someone you report." Jessica studied her for a beat longer. Then nodded, locked the laptop, and gently laid it on the coffee table. "It's clean. I'll run a remote sweep, make it look like a Trojan. But I'm leaving her in. Tell your lawyer about her." "You think she's connected to the case?" Claire rubbed her temple. "No," Jones scoffed. "I think she's actually watching Sunny. And... part of me thinks that's worse."

Then, Jones picked up the phone. "We'll be scrubbing most of these bad boys, I'm afraid. Phone, passwords, logins, history, routers, searches—everything. It's not a panic wipe. Stage it as a random hacker attack. Plausible. Messy. I'll scrub my trail, too."

Jessica sat on the armrest, Sunny's phone in one hand, a half-empty mug of bodega wine in the other. Claire sighed, leaning her back into the armchair. "So, we good on the sweep? We have thirty more minutes." "Almost," Jessica replied. "The photos are clean. Search history, too. Sunny's a big fan of cookies, but we can't all be perfect. Still need to check the messages. That's when we decide whether to bag it or burn it." Karen nodded and plopped on the floor, too tired to really care. "Might as well check. She and he are a lot, but not... discreet."

Jones held the screen up like a teacher addressing her class. "Okay, children. Exhibit one: Foggy Nelson. Saved as 'Percival.'" Karen chuckled and rolled her eyes. "Oh my God." Jessica cleared her throat and read in her best fake British accent:

Percival: I've known you longer than most psychics know their own trauma. Stop being cute and give me the address, bitch. You: You are not allowed to emotionally parent me tonight, Sir Percival. You signed the best friend clause, not the martyr one. Attached: A photo of a very drunk Sunny at a bar.

"Drunk post-breakup texts," Jessica grinned. "We love that." "Why... Percival? Of all the things you call him?" Karen wondered. "You go with Percival?" Sunny gave her a serious look. "...it's literally his middle name." "Is it?" Karen blinked. Sunny nodded solemnly. "Wow. Didn't know." Claire snorted. "At least the ride or die energy is... consistent."

Jessica hummed and swiped. "Next up, Barbie. Saved as 'Babe'. Bold move."

YOU: I'm bringing wine and gloves. Possibly also a pepper spray. Babe: Make sure it's pepper spray and not perfume again, lmao. YOU: IT WAS ONE TIME. ONE.

Karen started laughing as Sunny flushed. "Shut up. Being hot and smart is hard." Jessica grinned. "And now... Scott. Just Scott. No emoji. No last name. A bit shady. Respectable."

Scott: Cassie wants to know if you're still mad at her for licking the whipped cream can. YOU: I'm not mad. I'm just disappointed. She's just like her father. Scott: Don't parent my kid, barista lady. Muffin extravaganza still on in two weeks? YOU: Bring a new can of whipped cream, and it's a yes.

Claire smirked. "You'd like him, Jones. He's... oddly charming, that one." Sunny smiled. "Being a convicted felon kinda gives him an edge." "Oh?" Jones hummed. "Might take his number, then. I like pathetic single fathers with a criminal background." "Yeah, can do," Sunny hummed. "Since that bad bitch with a bob dumped his ass, he's emotionally constipated... and on house arrest."

Jones kept scrolling. "Alright. Now, let's—oh." Her voice dipped. Eyes narrowed. Just a flicker of amusement tugged at her mouth. Karen looked up. "Oh, what?" "Jones?" Claire turned. Jessica cleared her throat. Sat up straighter. Scanned the room.

I dreamt about your mouth again. Specifically, what you did with it. which time (arent you supposed to be in court?) (We're on a break.) The one where you said you weren't going to let me come until I begged. That time when you kneeled and let me...

Jessica shook her head. "Oh, wow. He's... graphic." Claire tilted her head. Karen leaned forward. Sunny stilled. Her expression clearly said 'I'm so fucked.'

I meant it. We'll see if you keep it up next time, sweetheart.

Karen blinked at Jessica. Then, at Sunny. "Is that...?" "Yeah," Jessica muttered. "That's Boytoy." Claire started laughing, drying tears off the corners of her eyes. "You have him saved as Boytoy?" she squealed. Sunny nodded. "...not like he knows."

Boytoy: Did you drip when I called you 'counselor' or was I dreaming? YOU: you came when i mumbled objection: witness seduction, so shut it Boytoy: And I'll do it again. Against the wall. Let me provide the evidence. Boytoy (five minutes later): Thai with Foggy and Karen tonight? YOU: yes ❤️ and lets go for a pool and fuck at josies

Karen's mouth opened. Closed. Sunny didn't even flinch. Just nodded at the counter. Claire reached for the phone. "Jones, that's enough, I think..." "No, no," Jessica raised a hand, dead serious now. "We're in too deep. It's too fun." She squinted.

YOU: cant walk properly motherfucker. last night was too good. cant wait to see you. Boytoy: Good. I made sure you'll feel it on purpose. I'll bring wine and takeout.

Karen made a small sound. Jessica kept scrolling as she deadpanned, "Wine and takeout. Romantic and abusive." Then, she looked at Sunny, who had her face buried in her arms on the kitchen counter like she was trying to disappear. "Anything actually dangerous?" Jessica asked seriously. "Something that'd have your ass in jail before you can say 'Steven Rogers is Captain America' fast, five times in a row?" "Nothing concrete, I think," Sunny admitted. "But there are some texts that could seem weird."

"New phone it is," Jessica announced. "This one's legally considered erotica. I'll still stage it as a hacker attack, don't worry." Claire grabbed the device from her hand, already bagging it. Karen blinked at Jones. "How long ago were the last texts?" Sunny didn't lift her head. "...Two weeks." "And you haven't heard from him since?" Karen asked gently. Sunny exhaled shakily. "...just some note I haven't read."

"Good," Jessica said. "We just bleach the phone. I won't touch your photos, Sunny." "And when he shows up," Claire added, "you make sure he regrets ghosting a woman with this much evidence of sexual superiority." Sunny groaned, and Karen patted her hair. "We all make choices. You just happened to fuck the Devil of Hell's Kitchen and sext a beast of a lawyer."

Jessica was the last one standing, digging her claws right into the grid of Sunny's café and her apartment. She'd hit every wireless connection, Bluetooth ping, cached file, and auto-backup. Killed a dozen app permissions. Ran a carefully crafted Trojan through the phone and laptop. Stole some files—and a bit of money—to make it believable.

She stole Sunny's keys and strutted back to the café. 7:16am. Two hours until DA's office opens. Two hours before New York breathes the first morning air.

Jones stormed through the café. Made sure it was airing properly. Spread Sunny's old hair, mud, and street grit on the too-clean flooring of the back office. Ate a croissant at the table and ensured to leave crumbs.

"Jesus, girl, it's like you're begging to be arrested," she muttered, half-asleep, wiping a file path from Sunny's old laptop. She cracked open a bottle of Stark's house whiskey. It was neat. Then, Jones looked up Amita's e-mail and sent her instructions disguised as a community theatre bulletin.

She returned to Sunny's apartment at 7:53, peeled the jacket off her shoulders, and threw it on the chair. Her eyes burned. But it was done. Temple was curled up in the armchair, arms crossed, eyes closed but not fully asleep. Karen had disappeared into the kitchen with the half-empty bodega wine shortly after six. She hadn't come out since.

Sunny stood at the edge of the living room, watching Jessica slump into her couch. The PI looked like a corpse draped in flannel and self-loathing. Half a licorice string hung out of her mouth. One shoe was still on. "If anyone asks," Jones muttered, "I charged you three hundred an hour." "Sure," Sunny whispered. "I'll put it on my expense tab." "Goddamn ninjas," Jones snored, rolled over and dropped into deep, peaceful sleep.

Morning hadn't fully come yet, but the clock was ticking. It was 7:59am. Still an hour to go. Sunny hadn't shut an eye. Couldn't. Didn't want to.

Jessica was already knocked out cold. Claire was slumped in the chair, shoes off, arms crossed, head tilted against the wall. Karen was sleeping against the fridge, sitting on the floor, bodega wine in her palm. She was dressed in Sunny's worn gray hoodie, still wearing jeans. No one had changed. No one had spoken in over an hour, except Jessica. It was a rough night for everyone.

And Sunny? She was working. Quiet. Methodical. Performative.

She took a granola bar from the cupboard, ripped the wrapper halfway open, and took two bites. It tasted like ash. She set it on the counter next to the sink—crumbs deliberately scattered.

She unscrewed the cap on a bottle of vitamins. Left it askew. Put it back on the shelf.

Knocked a chair slightly off-center. Wiped her thumb across the old, homely espresso machine, like she'd leaned there just a second too long. Adjusted the trash can so it looked untouched... because it was.

Then, she went to the café. Ran the same cycle Jessica had. Didn't clean a thing.

She raised a brow at the router while brewing a triple espresso. Then she got to work.

More movement meant more decisions.

She draped an old hoodie over the desk chair. Smudged the side of the espresso machine. Ate half a protein bar, threw the rest under the cot. Curled a few napkins in the far corner of the room. Painted a streak of lipstick across the employee bathroom mirror. Sprayed her perfume... everywhere. The café. The back office. Even the tiny corridor that connected them. Then fanned and aired it out.

Sunny held her breath for a moment and listened to the silence. She felt it tighten around her, especially around her throat.

When she entered the apartment again, it was dimmed with early daylight. She walked around. It didn't feel dirty enough... it still didn't feel dirty enough. The kitchen lights were already on. She left the fridge cracked open a few seconds too long, then rearranged the condiments and decided to uncap the hummus. The drowned a spoon in it, then licked it clean and threw it into the sink with just enough noise to sound accidental.

She went to her bedroom. Mussed the fresh sheets, then switched the pillowcases. Then switch it back because it looked too fresh. She walked in and out of the bathroom one too many times, back and forth, towel swaying in her palm. Sunny mumbled and walked in circles... as if she was practicing a motion. Then dropped the towel as she walked out like she'd run late for work.

She opened the window, but not for air... the thick, bitter scent of morning's Hell's Kitchen to seep in. Sunny needed it. The cool air felt relieving, like her throat unclenched a bit.

"Let them smell fresh coffee and laundry," Claire muttered from the armchair, still half-asleep. "Let them think you're just tired. Do that through living here." Sunny returned to the kitchen and placed Matthew's note on the fridge. Pinned it there like a grail. Like a woman grieving for her man. No one would think to check it. Just a sign of obsession.

She poured another cup of coffee, but set it aside. She won't drink it. She'll let it sit. Like she'd forgotten it.

The clock struck 6:45. Fifteen minutes to go. They'll come soon. Her fingers trembled, her breathing was shaky, and her muscles hurt from a sudden burst of caffeine and not much sleep at all.

They wouldn't arrive all at once, of course. Apart just enough to let the pressure rise, to watch her squirm and worry. They'll knock first, then a badge and polite questions... backed by veiled threats to top it all off.

But the place? The place would be clean. Too clean to have her drown, but dirty enough to make it less suspicious.

Before dawn even really cracked, Claire stirred from the chair. She didn't say much, just nodded toward the bedroom window and opened the one in the living room more. "Two hours minimum," she muttered. "You need crossflow. Let it air when you leave the apartment, or you're dead in the water." "And do make sure the café's door remains open at all times," Jessica cracked from the couch. "Let the city soak the guilt and fear out."

She did as Jessica told her to, entering the space side by side with Karen. She ran back and forth between the café and her apartment, over and over—adding noise, adding mess, trying to make the silence look lived-in. Each trip added a new mistake. A scuff here. A smudge there. A life she hadn't lived that day.

They propped the back door ajar with a milk crate and Karen promised to keep watch. It groaned like it judged them. It smelled like hasty backhand jobs, stale water, piss and a bit of methamphetamine. Just another morning in Hell's Kitchen.

Sunny propped open the front café windows just a crack. Not too much to be suspicious, just enough to invite the city in. She ensured it didn't look like a morning prep session, just enough to have the night air drift in and carry the bleach stench out. The alcohol, the peroxide, the smell of coffee, her perfume, and... guilt.

Karen handed her a half-finished bag of coffee beans. It was old and forgotten, from a supplier Sunny didn't even buy from anymore. "Throw these under the counter. Let it mask the smell. You'll thank me later," Karen smiled. Sunny obeyed.

Claire took it one step further. "Roast something strong. Overroast it. Ensure to play the story of being a tired, overworked, sad barista. You've been broken up with," Claire muttered. "...and you miss him." "I don't," Sunny answered too fast. Then looked away. "…I do." "Good. Make it cling," Claire nodded.

So, Sunny set the grinder to maximum obnoxious, brewed a pot of espresso, and poured it straight into a tray of ice. God... It smelled fucking awful. By the time the sun finally cracked through the blinds, the worst of the chemical tang was gone. All that was left was caffeine and sleep deprivation. Jessica was gone, just left a sticky note and her leather jacket thrown over the chair. The note was simple. "You're welcome. Don't fuck it up." Claire sent Sunny a picture of it when she checked the apartment for one last time, then threw it into the 'burn-it' duffel.

It was 8:30. Thirty minutes before the shitshow happens, and counting down. ... tick, tick, tick.

Thank you for reading. All interactions are appreciated.💙 Do not copy or repost. Have a wonderful day. 💙

What to look forward to in the next part of Now I’m In It?

More Scott shenanigans. Yes, he's still not invited. Yes, he's still showing up. No, he's still not explaining anything.

Another one of Stark's deeply unwelcome insertions into someone else’s emotional breakdown. This time without flowers.

The first appearance of Francis "Frank Castle" Castiglione, gun in hand and one dangerous comment away from becoming everyone’s problem.

Our regularly scheduled broadcast of dark humor, emotional masochism, and intimate disaster, featuring: Karen "I'm friends with children" Page, Foggy "holding this found family together with duct tape" Nelson, Claire "please get stabbed somewhere else" Temple, Marci "she's back and she's judging everyone" Stahl, and Matthew "I write love letters and disappear for three weeks" Murdock.

And, of course, Sunny. Still in it. Still spiraling. Almost ready to start calling it love.