Chapter Text
It all started simply enough—with a furious ringing that yanked Emma out of a colorful dream. She’d been dreaming of singing ducks and flying fish, and she desperately wanted to slip back into it, so she ignored the shrill noise echoing insistently through her apartment.
Still half asleep, she reached for her phone and groaned. 1:00 p.m., for God’s sake. Too early. Far too early. She was going to kill Hange.
Or close her eyes again and wait for the storm to pass.
Half a minute later, the ringing still hadn’t stopped, and Emma finally surrendered. Groaning, she dug herself out of the avalanche of pillows she’d collapsed under after last night’s brutal shift and dragged herself to the door. By the time she reached it, she’d prepared several scathing accusations about the noise torture—all of which evaporated into annoyed empathy the moment Hange’s trembling lips and tear‑streaked eyes appeared in front of her.
“What did he do this time?”
The answer was a burst of tears, so sudden and unrestrained that Emma had no choice but to step aside, catching the tear-soaked paper bag Hange shoved into her arms as she stumbled into the apartment. Peeking inside, Emma sighed. Pistachio ice cream was good for anything; boxed rum, though—disgusting as it was—was only allowed in the direst of calamities.
“That bad, huh?”, she asked, closing the door behind them.
With Hange sobbing in the background, Emma stashed the supplies away and put on two cups of coffee instead. Giving her distraught friend a boozy sugar shock was a terrible idea, at least while the sun was still out. The chaos of her kitchen offered no clean spoons, so straws had to do.
“He’s going to leave me, Emma!” Hange wailed the moment Emma sank onto the couch beside her. She drowned another sob in a generous gulp of coffee, and pouted. “There’s no alcohol in this.”
“Are you trying to kill me? I just woke up. Now tell me, what did your poisonous little gremlin of a husband do this time?”
The description made Hange flinch before a dark shadow crossed her wet eyes as her fury reignited. She sniffed angrily. “He’s being a jerk, that’s what he did! You know my sofa?”
Of course she did. Nobody could forget hauling a quarter ton of furniture from a junkyard to a student apartment on the sixth floor without an elevator. Even a decade later, Emma’s back still hurt just thinking about it. “Don’t tell me—”
“Levi threw it out!”
Emma’s jaw dropped. “Bastard!”
“Exactly! Didn’t even sell it or give it to someone—just threw it away! My beautiful sofa! Just like that, while I was in court! And do you know what he said? That it’s smelly and dirty and takes up too much space, and then I said we have enough space because he’s so tiny, and then he threw me out, Emma!” Her rage dissolved into heartbreaking whimpering, which only grew worse when Emma rubbed her back. “Now he’s going to divorce me and I’ll die alone and lonely and miserable.”
“No, you won’t,” Emma said gently. Maybe it was late enough for ice cream and rum after all. “And Levi won’t divorce you. You guys always fight like it’s your love language.”
“This time is different,” Hange insisted, but she said that every time, right before they patched things up a moment later and continued whatever strange relationship they’d built together. Emma had never understood their dynamic or why it worked, but it did, even after five nerve-wracking years of marriage.
She rested her head on Hange’s shoulder and wrapped her arms around her. “Just give it a little time. Levi’s as short and mean as he’s reasonable.”
That earned a laugh. A weak one, but still.
The peace didn’t last long, though. After sadness, anger, and frustration came revenge. By evening, they were so hyped up from Hange’s gifts and reenacting old Western movies that Emma jumped up after winning a staredown and pointed her thumb‑gun at Hange.
“Party. You and me, like old times. You in?”
Hange’s enthusiastic whoop was answer enough, crescendoing into frenzied excitement as they tore through Emma’s overflowing closet until they found a nice dress for her and a flashy pair of earrings that Hange added to the power suit she was already wearing. None of it exactly screamed party!, but it didn’t have to. On a weekday like this, the only club in town would only be packed with boring white‑collars blowing off steam after tedious meetings, random PowerPoint presentations, or whatever it was those nine‑to‑fivers did. She’d never felt the urge to find out. What she did want to find out, though, was the secret ingredient in the house specialty cocktail.
They spent the entire ride discussing interrogation tactics for the bartenders, each one more absurd and hysterical than the last, until the taxi driver practically booted their loud asses out of the car when they arrived, barely acknowledging the generous tip Hange slipped into his hand like a bribe.
“He should be grateful I’m tipping, not suing,” she huffed at the coat check. “Faux‑leather seats in a BMW. That’s a crime.”
Emma just shook her head and nudged her forward. Subpar fabric and a grumpy driver still beat Hange’s reckless driving. She had to have some very good connections at the authorities, otherwise even her hefty lawyer’s salary wouldn’t cover all those speeding tickets. If they don’t want people to drive fast there, they shouldn’t make the roads that smooth, she’d argue whenever she found yet another one in her mail. That’s practically solicitation of an offense!
“Save your complaints for tomorrow!” Emma shouted against the rising music, ushering Hange behind the thick curtain into the main hall. “Tonight we’re having fun!”
Inside, the air was warm and humid, the music in full beat, and the crowd already dancing, drinking, and cheering as if they’d been at it for hours. Not half‑bad for a bunch of lame office people. Considerably less fun than the weird tattoo artists and unhinged scare actors on weekends, sure, but wholly acceptable nonetheless—and probably outright fine with enough alcohol.
“Shots!”, she demanded, one fist raised in the air. “Mango, banana, and tequila!”
Hange complied instantly. As usual, she refused to split the bill, and Emma didn’t bother arguing. Not that there was time. The pulsing beat dragged them to the floor, hands up, feet moving, surrendering to every drop and rise.
For an hour and a half, it was a deliciously crazy night. Then, Hange remembered why she had wound up here in the first place. By now, her hair was a mess, cheeks flushed, and she should have looked like joy incarnate. Instead, her lips trembled as she trotted off the dance floor.
“Would you please stop moping?” Emma shoved a fresh drink into her friend’s hand. “Here, drink more. That’ll make things better.”
Hange downed the glass in one go, but the alcohol did nothing for her mood. “I should go home.”
“Nonsense, we just got here. Besides,” Emma added, “if you bail now, Levi wins. We’re not letting him ruin our girl’s night out.”
“What if he thinks I’m with someone else?”
“Then text him. Tell him where you are and send a picture. Let him see how much fun you’re having without him, Hange. Hange.” Emma set her glass down onto some random table and grabbed her friend by the shoulders, looking her dead in the eye with all the stern gravitas her tipsiness allowed. “Hange. You are a strong, independent, ambitious woman, and half the men in here would line up for a chance with you. I know it. You know it. Levi better figure it out soon, too.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Uh, no.” Emma scanned the club. Since they’d arrived, the crowd had thickened, the air had grown warmer, and the music louder. She practically had to shout. “This place is full of smartasses with pressed collars and polished shoes. If they’re not into power women, who is? I’ll prove it. Pick a guy.”
She spun Hange toward the entrance, where a group of men had gathered, all of them well-dressed but unbearably dull. Without hesitation, Emma nudged her a bit further. The group at the bar looked more promising.
“Alright,” Hange relented, nodding toward a guy midway down the counter. “The short one with the glasses and bowl cut’s kinda cute?”
Emma stared at her. “Your taste in men is grotesque. I give up.” She sighed at Hange’s dejected expression, then relented as well. She would’ve loved to cheer her best friend up, but didn’t want to force it either. It was perfectly in Hange’s right to wallow a bit in her own misery. “You gonna make it home alone?”
“Yeah. See you tomorrow, okay?”
And just like that, she was gone, slumped and defeated, just like she’d been when she’d shown up that afternoon. At least she’d smiled for a little while.
With Hange gone, Emma sighed, then resigned herself to partying alone. The entrance fee had been too high to waste it, and she was neither tired nor sweaty enough to call it a successful night just yet.
Dancing her way to the bar, she made an effort not to look left behind, cheering and jumping to the beat‑soaked music as though she were having the highlight of her existence—and maybe she was, actually. While her old party crew had long moved on, becoming busy career people, busy parents, or both, she’d never really managed to kick her stagnant life into viable motion. Her day job as a line cook was poorly paid and unfulfilling, and the high‑end catering agency she occasionally helped out at insisted she show more culinary finesse before even considering to take her on as a full‑time employee.
Stuck. That’s what she was. Also, broke.
It was almost physically painful to open her wallet and hand over too much money for one single drink. The house cocktail was by far the most expensive item on the menu, but damn, was it excellent. Herbal liqueur, lime juice and honey came perfectly together into a rich golden blend, enhanced by something else that she couldn’t put her tongue on. It was earthy and smokey, a brilliant counterbalance to the sweetness. That was the culinary finesse she’d need.
The barkeeper knew its worth too, and flat-out refused to share the secret ingredient with her.
Stuck once more, she turned back to the pulsing dance floor—
It was more shock than pain that made her cry out when her face collided with a shoulder. Before she could stumble backward, the man attached to it caught her, offering a smile and an apologetic wave of his free hand.
He was good-looking, and not just in a well‑dressed‑for‑this‑crowd way, but genuinely handsome, with a chiseled face and a deep voice so strong and clear it cut effortlessly through the heavy beats. “Impressive,” he said, nodding at her almost-full glass that was still perfectly upright in her hand, not a drop spilled, despite the collision.
“Easy!” she shouted, her own words struggling against the music. Leaning in, she added, “It’s all in the wrist!”
To her honest surprise, he didn’t take her introduction as an invitation to ogle her tits or cop a feel. Instead, he offered his hand. What a specimen. “A very useful skill in this part of town. By the way, I’m Erwin.”
He didn’t look like an Erwin. Erwin sounded old and dull, and this man was anything but: tall, blond, broad‑shouldered, wearing a designer suit—exactly the kind of man ordinary women like her had no business impressing. What a shame. Hange could have done it, with her summa‑cum‑laude degree and her endless anecdotes about courtroom drama.
“Hange,” Emma blurted faster than she could stop herself. Erwin was clearly a man of refinement, with intellect and standards. Not a man for her, but maybe a man for tonight, someone to prop up her self‑confidence. Why not? “Yup. I’m Hange.”
He chuckled at the unusual confirmation. “Nice to meet you, Hange.”
“You say that now, but wait until you know me. My best friend keeps telling me I’m weird. But she’s a broke line cook and has been showering in cold water for a week, so what does she know?”
For a moment she feared she’d pushed the joke too far already. Erwin glanced past her shoulder, waved at someone, but ultimately decided to indulge her. “Can’t blame her. Last time my heating broke, I almost gave one of my students a bad grade because I had to read his thesis on the influence of hot‑water availability in private households on innovation in one‑man businesses while freezing in my living room. Miserable.”
“You’re a teacher?”
Erwin flicked his hand dismissively. “Professor of economic history, though social history tends to sneak into my lectures. Whoever decided to separate those fields was out of their mind.”
Instantly, Emma was relieved she’d lied. What was a cook’s apprenticeship compared to a professorship in something she hadn’t even known existed as a discipline? She shrugged. “Probably a political decision,” she said vaguely, yet confident. Tonight she was Hange Zoë, a successful career woman who knew exactly what she was talking about. “What did you write your dissertation on?”
He laughed a little sheepishly and Emma’s mouth went dry. A man shouldn’t be allowed to look that good. She tried to regain her composure with a long sip of her cocktail. Did she taste star anise in the background? No. Focus.
“If I tell you, you’ll think I’m boring, and I’d rather avoid that. What about you? What do you do for a living?”
“Lawyer,” she said, smooth and confident, a flicker of damning pride igniting in her chest as she saw Erwin raise his brows in acknowledgment. She hadn’t noticed them at first; now they framed his blue eyes like an ornate gold border—get a grip, Emma. She took another sip. Fennel? Not quite.
“Never met a lawyer before,” he said. “How exciting. What’s your specialty?”
Damn. She knew Hange was always talking about money laundering and general terms and conditions—though not in that order—but what was it called again? “Banking and… capital markets law.”
There, that sounded plausible enough. She leaned in conspiratorially, brushing his arm under the guise of a confidential whisper. Beneath his dress shirt, she could feel firm muscles twitching.
“Most people think it’s just dull asset management and securities trading, but just recently one of our clients was charged with price‑fixing in the arms industry.”
“Your firm’s handling the—”
“Shhh!” she hissed, leaning even closer to press a finger to his lips. It was a bold move, even for her, but she’s been tipsy for a while now, and if Erwin asked for details about a case she knew absolutely nothing about, she was doomed. Laughing, she pulled back and shrugged. “You never heard that from me.”
“I’m a vault. Honestly, this is already more exciting than my dissertation.” He clinked his beer bottle against her cocktail glass. “If your hobbies are just as exciting, I’m going to have to reconsider my entire boring life.”
Somewhere behind the light buzz in her head, it stung how easily Hange’s vague CV had impressed a man like him, while the truth wouldn’t have carried her ten minutes in his company. She drained her glass and didn’t object when he flagged the bartender for another. University professors could afford expensive cocktails like water, right?
Licorice? No.
“I’m into cars,” she said, accepting the new drink with a grateful nod. If Hange’s job had gotten her this far, she might as well lean into her hobbies too. “Fast cars. I love speeding, especially when it terrifies my passengers. My best friend always screams, Hange, you have to stop, oh my God, Hange, you almost ran over the prosecutor!, and then I hit the gas even harder.”
Erwin’s mouth twitched at what he assumed was a joke, but absolutely wasn’t. “You’ve got a very unique sense of humor.”
“If only you knew. What about you?” Emma shrugged, waiting for a reply, a follow-up question, anything. Instead, he checked his phone.
Of course she couldn’t fool someone like him for long. But maybe the night wasn’t lost just yet. There’d definitely been a spark, and even if it was built on appearances and lies, it might be enough for a bit of fun.
She was just leaning in again to place a suggestive hand on his thigh when her gaze fell on his smartphone. A typo‑ridden message preview hovered in the foreground, but it was the background that caught her off-guard: a yellow desert under a piercing blue sky with a junk‑ready futuristic car in the middle, and a silhouette beside it.
“Hold on. Someone like you is into Fury Road?”
He looked up, as caught off guard as she was. A few beats washed over them.
“Someone like me?” he asked eventually, almost offended. “If you look past the bombastic action scenes and the gritty spectacle, it’s a brilliant film. Highly underrated, if you ask me.”
Emma’s jaw dropped. “My words! The visual storytelling is glorious! Like, when Nux first steals Max’s boot, then Max steals Nux’s boot, and later Max gifts Nux a boot—”
“And indicates that he forgives him it? Yes! It was such a strong moment.”
“Right!” she cried, failing miserably to contain her enthusiasm. “Did you know the film didn’t have a script? It was completely storyboarded. More studios should do that.”
“A fellow movie buff, huh,” Erwin said, amused. It felt incredibly triumphant when he put his phone away and ordered another beer. “What’s your favorite movie?”
Emma almost choked on her drink. Cinnamon? Whatever. “Oh no, you don’t ask a film lover that. That’s like asking a history professor their favorite history event.”
“The invention of the lightbulb, obviously,” he replied without hesitation, a mischievous glint sparking in his eyes just as the beat dropped hard around them, sending the crowd jumping and Emma’s heart skipping. The room had grown so full and loud she could barely understand what he shouted into her ear afterwards. When she nodded on instinct, he lifted her glass to flag the bartender again. That was cocktail number two on his tab. Her wallet sighed with relief, but her pride flinched.
Just five minutes ago, she hadn’t cared. Now she did.
She wanted to object, at least switch to cheaper white wine, but someone bumped into her back, sending her stumbling forward — this time not into his shoulder but into his chest, into an accidental embrace as he caught her again. His warm breath brushed her cheek as he looked down at with such blazing intensity she wouldn’t have heard his suggestion in a completely silent room.
Whatever it was seemed to involve a quieter place. Pressing the new cocktail into her hand, he guided her down the hallway into a side room where the music was softer and the bar smaller. She’d never been in a side room of a club before—why would she, when the party was always in the main hall? Right now, though, she was nothing less than grateful to sink into a cozy chair at one of the small tables and finally hear why the invention of the lightbulb was Erwin’s favorite historical milestone.
From there they drifted to his favorite films, her favorite genres, his love of books, her abandoned film‑studies degree, his philosophical dispute with the dean, her despair over the disappointing finale of her favorite TV show—which was something he not only superficially agreed with but deeply felt himself, having once recommended the show to his students.
“Now, my questionable taste in television sparks more threads in the student forum than my publication list,” he concluded his frustration.
“As attractive as you are, I guarantee you that’s not the hot topic among your students,” Emma teased, and for the first time that evening, he blushed. Oh no. Handsome, kind, and shy. Deep in the pit of her stomach, she felt the rise of something distraught and chaotic.
Under the table, Erwin’s knee brushed against hers.
She was done for, and not in a good way. This night was too perfect, too marvelous, too unreal. Surely, Erwin hadn’t caught her earlier. Instead, she must’ve hit her head on the bar counter and was now bleeding out. These were just her brain’s final, endorphin‑fueled fabrications. There was no other explanation.
A sharp ringtone cut through her panic, drawing Erwin’s attention to the phone he’d placed on the table after texting someone earlier. With an apologetic expression, he answered, nodded a few times, then hung up with a quick, “Be right there.”
Before she could ask for details, he was already standing. “My friends need me. Apparently, Nile overdid it again and refuses to call a taxi,” he explained, when he should’ve asked for her number or given her his.
Had she offended him after all? Had he played her? Or was her brain actually shutting down?
Resigning herself to her bleak fate, she slumped into her chair, grabbed her cocktail—and almost toppled from it when Erwin suddenly slipped a business card into her hand and pressed a quick goodbye kiss to her cheek.
“Will you promise to call me?” he asked, his eyes flicking to the glass in her hand that was hovering so close to his lips he only had to tip his chin to take a sip. At her shock, he grinned, apparently embarrassed by his own impulsive move. “That was rude, I apologize. I’ve just been wondering all evening what you were drinking.” He paused, thoughtful, wiping a stray drop from his lower lip. “Cardamom. How unusual.”
Emma’s heart exploded.
“I had a wonderful night. Thank you, Hange.”
Oh. Right. She’d forgotten about that.
Fuck.