Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The diner was unusually lively that evening. Vigilante, Peacemaker, and the rest of the gang were huddled in one corner, their conversation bouncing between butterflies and obscure government conspiracies—something far too dangerous for a waitress to overhear. Blake, the other waitress on shift, was nowhere in sight, leaving you to juggle orders while half-listening to the masked men’s strange discussion as you approached an overfilled tray weighing heavily on your shoulder.

Two orders of zoodles with milkshakes—why exactly an “authentic Italian” restaurant served milkshakes, you’d never understand—two plates of spaghetti and meatballs (one with extra meatballs), and an order of chicken Parmesan teetered dangerously in your hands, at risk of spilling all over the sticky diner floors if anyone got too close.

Your arms tensed as you weaved between tables, careful to avoid elbows, backpacks, and the occasional stray foot. Every shift felt like a balancing act, but today, with this particular table, the stakes felt higher—mostly because of the man in the red visor. His quiet, twitchy presence made your pulse race more than it should, and every subtle movement under the table pulled your attention like a magnet.

You carefully set down the food, balancing the tray just long enough to place the steaming plates in front of each diner. Vigilante’s fingers shifted a straw wrapper absently, twisting and untwisting it with precise, almost nervous movements. One leg bounced repeatedly under the table, catching your attention.

“Here you go,” you said, sliding a plate of over-sauced zoodles in front of the man in the red visor. Your voice was light, teasing ever so slightly as you leaned closer. “Hope it’s to your liking.”

He muttered a quiet, almost swallowed, “Thanks,” his gaze flickering briefly to the slight dip of your low-cut shirt as you leaned over to slide the plates to each of his friends. He muttered a quiet, almost swallowed, “Thanks,” his gaze flickering briefly to the slight dip of your low-cut shirt as you leaned over to slide the plates to each of his friends. He straightened a little too fast, shoulders going rigid. “Uh—thanks. For... the food... I mean,” he added. Heat rose in your cheeks, but you kept your tone light and professional.

Your eyes flicked to his hands again, the twitching fingers, and then down to the restless leg. Something about the combination made your chest flutter in a way that had nothing to do with the danger of overhearing secret conversations. He was fidgety, awkward even… yet undeniably magnetic.

“Hey, sweetheart!” a particularly unruly man called from behind you. His table had been giving you trouble all evening, and lord knows the tip wouldn’t be worth it. “Been tryin’ to get your attention for ten minutes. We need more napkins—or maybe your number!”

Heat flared in your cheeks, part anger, part exasperation, and your stomach twisted. You’d dealt with worse, but something about the leer in his tone made your skin crawl. You forced a tight smile and walked over, already knowing it wasn’t going to end well.

You were halfway through setting down the napkins when one of them smacked you on the ass—quick, casual, like it meant nothing. Like it didn’t make your skin crawl and bile rise in your throat.

“Hey!” you snapped, spinning around, ready to confront him. But before you could take another step, a firm presence blocked your view. A gloved hand gripped the man’s wrist, twisting just enough to make him flinch, and the deep, controlled voice behind the red visor cut through the diner’s chatter.

“Back off,” he said, calm but unmistakably dangerous. Then, realizing half the diner was staring, he shifted his weight, clearing his throat. “I mean—uh… seriously. Back off.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest. Relief, shock, and something else—something fluttering you hadn’t expected—hit all at once. You hadn’t realized how much you’d been holding yourself together until he appeared, a solid barrier between you and the harassing asshole.

Your knees went weak before you even realized it. Eyes went impossibly wide as you stared up at him, taking in the solid, protective presence, the way his gloved hand had handled the offender with precise control. Your voice came out soft and nearly reverent, almost breathless, trembling just enough to betray your nerves. “Th-thank you.”

He tried to play it cool, shifting his weight slightly, mask glinting under the diner lights. His tone was clipped and steady, but you could feel the tension in him, the careful control barely hiding the twitch in his fingers.

And then—something clicked. The small, almost imperceptible twitch of his hands. The restless, fidgeting leg beneath the table. The slight limp as he adjusted his stance. The voice… just low enough, but unmistakable. Your pulse spiked, and your breath caught. Your chest fluttered in a way that had nothing to do with danger.

“Adrian?” you breathed, the name barely leaving your lips, soft and uncertain, low enough that you weren’t sure he could even hear you.

He froze for a fraction of a second, then shook his head firmly. “What? No. Nope. Totally not me,” he said quickly, voice dropping half an octave, trying to mask the familiar tone. The denial came quickly, almost desperate, yet still carried a trace of his awkward, fidgety mannerisms.

Before you could say another word, he bolted, leaving his friends behind and the bill unpaid. You stood rooted to the spot, staring after his retreating form, heart pounding and cheeks warm. Even after he was gone, you couldn’t tear your gaze away, your thoughts spinning with the shock, awe, and undeniable longing that had settled in your chest.

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, shaking your head as you returned to the table. “His meal’s on the house,” you told Peacemaker and the gang, trying to steady your voice. “Consider it a… thank-you.”

A few of them raised eyebrows, curiosity piqued, but you didn’t elaborate. Your mind was still on him—on the twitching fingers, the restless leg, and that unmistakable, awkward energy you knew all too well.

-----

The next night, the bell above the diner door jingled, and there he was again—Vigilante, the same black-and-teal suit and red visor. He slid exact change across the counter along with a tip for the zoodles and chocolate milkshake—the same meal he and Peacemaker had ordered the night before.

“How do you know exactly down to the penny how much it is?” you asked, suspicion lacing your tone. He insisted he wasn’t Adrian, but you’d only seen him here once before, the night prior, and even then his visit had been brief—there was no way he could have memorized the price.

He tensed slightly, mask catching the diner light. “I… come here sometimes,” he said, voice low, measured, as if weighing each word.

You blinked, frowning. “Come here a lot? So do I,” you said, disbelief lacing your tone. “I work here every day. I see the menu every day. I take people’s orders every day, and I’ve only seen you once.”

He shifted under your gaze, fingers fidgeting lightly, weight shifting from leg to leg just enough to betray his attempt at appearing calm. “Maybe… you just overlooked me. Or forgot,” he murmured, voice careful, measured—but still laced with that overly deep tone you knew wasn’t truly his.

A small, teasing smile tugged at your lips. “I don’t think I could ever forget you. Not even if I tried. You’re… unforgettable.”

-----

For the next week after every night shift, you could feel it—someone following you. Far enough to not be seen, but close enough to always watch. At first, you kept your pepper spray and switchblade at the ready, eyes darting to every shadow, heart hammering in your chest.

Then came the first glimpse of the red visor, fleeting but unmistakable. The next night, the glint of black-and-teal against a surprisingly clean window confirmed it: he was watching, keeping pace, protecting you.

Slowly, you let yourself relax, the edge of constant vigilance softening. Your fear dulled, replaced by something far more complicated. Soon, you stopped clutching your keys between your fingers and started walking a little slower, letting him catch up in the shadows. You walked a little taller, a little more carelessly, because you knew he was there. Watching your back. Protecting you. Maybe it was foolish—probably was—but there was comfort in knowing he was there.

It was a strange, fluttering comfort—like so many girls felt with boyfriends who instinctively walked closest to the road, nudging them away from puddles and electrical poles when they weren’t looking, silently caring in ways that went unnoticed until they mattered most.

One night, you were walking home, phone in hand and head held high, not fully alert but comforted by the knowledge that he was somewhere close. Suddenly, a shadow lunged from the alley beside you. You barely dodged, heart racing, adrenaline spiking, and instinctively reached for your pepper spray.

Before you could react further, a familiar figure stepped into the glow of a streetlamp, blocking the attacker with effortless precision. A firm presence shoved the shadowy figure back, and for a heartbeat, you simply froze, caught between fear and relief.

He pressed a hand lightly on your shoulder, firm but gentle, keeping you rooted in place. “Walk away,” he murmured, voice low, urgent, and a little rushed. “Then stay… stay there. Don’t—don’t come closer. And, um… don’t watch.” The um slipped out before he could stop it, the only crack in the command that otherwise sounded trained, certain.

Your pulse hammered in your ears, but you nodded, trusting him despite the uncertainty. You took a cautious step back, eyes flicking to his rigid form as he positioned himself between you and the alley. The streetlight glinted off his visor, black-and-teal suit tense with readiness.

You wanted to protest, to insist on helping, but the certainty in his stance and the protective weight of his presence left you silent. You watched from a distance, heart lodged somewhere between fear and awe, knowing he had everything under control—even if you couldn’t see exactly what that meant.

He rejoined you a few minutes later, visor dim now, voice steady but soft. “It’s over,” he said simply.

You tried to laugh, though it came out uneven. “You make that sound like it happens every night.”

He tilted his head, a faint edge of tension in his stance. “It doesn’t… not usually. Tonight… I, um… I was a little slow.”

Your chest tightened, pulse quickening. “A little slow?” you echoed, your voice low. The thought made your stomach flutter—he had been close enough for you to notice the attacker, but it had almost been too late.

He didn’t answer, just gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug, as if to say everything was fine—and yet the weight of his presence made it impossible for you not to feel the intensity of the night pressing in around you.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, your hands trembling only slightly. “You should walk me the rest of the way,” you said after a moment, trying to sound casual. “It’d be a shame if I survived that just to die halfway home. Really mess up your heroic streak.”

He froze for a heartbeat, the weight of your words apparently registering. His visor dipped slightly as if he were debating whether to answer. “You’ll… you’ll be fine now,” he said finally, a little stiffer than usual, the words rushed and awkward but still carrying the faint edge of authority.

“Maybe. But maybe not,” you countered, tilting your head. “Come on. Walk me home. You’ve already seen where I live from a rooftop or something, right?”

He exhaled a short, uncertain sound, maybe a laugh, maybe not. “Y-You… uh… make it… hard to argue."

“Good,” you said, brushing past him toward the sidewalk. “Then don’t.”

You walked the rest of the way in silence, the night unusually quiet around you. When you reached your building, you turned to him, pulse still not quite steady. “Do you… want to come up?” you asked before you could think better of it.

He froze. You could almost see his eyes widen behind the visor. Your chest tightened, and you realized you might have overstepped—upended the delicate balance of the game you’d been playing all these nights.

You immediately backpedaled, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Not like that— I just meant— forget it. You probably have, like, hero paperwork or a meeting of masked vigilantes to get to.”
For a long, tense heartbeat, he didn’t move. Then, finally, he exhaled softly, the sound muffled but audible even through the mask, shaking his head. “Goodnight,” he said, voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

“Goodnight,” you echoed, watching as he stepped back into the shadows, disappearing as if he’d never been there at all.

-----

The next night, as you slipped into your pajamas and went through your nightly routine, you froze—something flickered in your peripheral vision. A shadow—no, a silhouette—shifted on the fire escape outside your window, tall and deliberate against the faint glow of the streetlights. Instinctively, your hand shot to the small knife you kept in the drawer, fingers tightening around the hilt.
Your heart thudded in your chest as you crept closer, eyes narrowing. But then—just for a moment—the light caught the smooth curve of a red visor, glinting like a warning and a reassurance all at once.
Your muscles unclenched slightly, and a strange mix of relief and fluttering anticipation washed over you. You weren’t alone. He was watching, like usual, protecting. Your tension melted into recognition—and then something warmer, a delicate flutter stirring in your chest.

After that night, you started leaving your window open every evening, a quiet invitation meant only for him. Sometimes, when you woke in the morning, it was closed, as if he hadn’t come at all. Other times, it was open even wider than you had left it, the gentle breeze a reminder that he had been there, silently watching over you. You didn’t mind. In fact, you welcomed it.
Each time you glimpsed the open window, your chest warmed with a mix of reassurance and anticipation.

One cold night, you heard the clang of metal outside your window, followed by a low hiss of a curse. Strange—he was usually so quiet. Your heart skipped a beat, a mix of concern and curiosity stirring inside you.

You pressed a hand to the wall next to the window, voice teasing despite the chill. “You’re here every night… you might as well come in now before you freeze to death.”

For a long, tense beat, there was only silence. You bit your lip, wondering if you’d overstepped, if he’d vanish into the night as quickly as he appeared.

Then came the soft creak of the fire escape, followed by the scrape of boots on the windowsill. Gangly, muscular legs swung over, and the floorboards groaned under his weight as he stepped inside.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, chest warming with relief. He was here—inside your apartment, just for you.

Chapter Text

He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, voice low and matter-of-fact. “I didn’t really need you to invite me in. The suit… is surprisingly well-made. Keeps me warm.”

You raise an eyebrow, catching the slight shiver that ran through him, the faint clack of teeth beneath the mask. “Uh-huh,” you murmur, unconvinced. “Sure you didn’t freeze your ass off out there?”

He shifted uncomfortably, one hand brushing against the edge of your windowsill, attempting to maintain his cool façade. “I—uh… I’m fine—good.”

You step closer, careful not to crowd him, and hold out a steaming mug you’d made only moments before you’d invited him in. “Hot chocolate. Just how you like it—full of rainbow marshmallows.”

To your surprise, he accepts the hot cocoa. When he sees it—filled to the brim with rainbow marshmallows, just the way he likes it—his eyes widen behind the visor in genuine, almost childlike surprise. A small, almost uncontainable grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, not that you can see. “You… how did you-?”

You smile softly, a little secret in your expression. You only know to make it this way because Adrian—your crush, the nerdy, socially inept busboy you sometimes worked with—had once gone on and on and on about how the diner should serve hot chocolate exactly like this. Everyone else thought he was a nuisance, but you had listened—remembered.

“Just… enjoy it,” you say, your voice teasing yet tender, watching the way his hands wrap around the warm mug. Cold, gloved fingers brush against your warm ones as he takes it, sending a shiver up your spine.

“No one ever makes it like this,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Rainbow marshmallows. Most people think it’s… stupid—childish.”

“Not stupid,” you say softly. “Sweet.”

He glances down at the mug, then back up at you, and you notice the faint hesitation in his movements. Of course, he can’t actually drink it with the mask on.

“Here,” you say softly, stepping a little closer. “I can… turn around for a second. You can take a sip.”

He freezes, the faintest stiffening in his posture betraying his surprise. Then, after a hesitant pause, he gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. You turn, careful not to peek, feeling your pulse race as you wait, the quiet sound of him adjusting just beyond your line of sight.

There is a small shuffle behind you, the faint click of plastic and metal as he lifts his mask just enough. Then silence—followed by a quiet hum, low and unguarded. He hadn’t meant to make it—you can tell by the quick inhale afterward—but it slips out anyway, warm and pleased, sending a thrill up your spine and a flush of warmth through your chest you hadn’t expected.

A proud, teasing smile curves your lips. “Good?” you ask softly, leaning slightly but keeping your back turned.

A quiet, steady voice answers, unmuffled for the first time. “Yeah… it’s good.”

Your chest flutters at the sound—warm, real, unmistakably him. You stay perfectly still, back still turned, waiting. Slowly, carefully, you feel the tension in the room shift, the quiet anticipation of permission lingering in the air. Only when he speaks again will you allow yourself to turn, to finally meet his eyes behind the red visor.

The next night, you are brushing your teeth in the tiny bathroom connected to your bedroom when you hear the faint clunk of metal against the windowsill.

You glance up just in time to see him—Vigilante—swing a leg over the ledge and step inside like it is the most normal thing in the world. No knock. No warning. Just him, moving with the confidence of someone who clearly doesn’t believe in doors.

You spit into the sink, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “You know,” you say, half amused, half incredulous, “most people use doors.”

He freezes mid-step, visor snapping toward you like you’d just suggested something absolutely scandalous. “The- the door?” he stammers. “You mean, like… your front door?”

“Yeah,” you say, smiling around your toothbrush. “That’s what most people use.”

He shifts his weight, fidgeting with the strap on his glove. “I- I don’t know. That feels… weird.”

“Weird?” you tease.

“Yeah,” he says, voice quick, tripping over itself. “It’s—uh—it’s like something you’d do if you, you know, lived here. Or were, like… invited to live here.”

Your amusement falters for just a moment, replaced by something softer. You look down at the sink, trying—and failing—to bite back a gentle smile. “So the window’s just less scary?”

He hesitates, then nods once. “A lot less.”

You tilt your head, studying him from the corner of your eye. “You really do act like you live here most of the time, y'know?”

There is a pause—barely a heartbeat—before he asks, quieter this time, “Do you… not want me to?”

Your breath catches. You hadn’t expected that—hadn’t expected the sincerity under all that armor and awkwardness. For a second, all you can do is stare at his reflection in the mirror. Then, gently, you say, “I didn’t say that.”

One night, you get off work early and decide to treat yourself to an everything shower—the kind you rarely have time for. Hair and face masks, body scrub, and shave everything you usually do. The bathroom fills with steam and the scent of vanilla, the world outside fading until it’s just you, a faint Nirvana song playing from your phone by the sink, and the thump of running water hitting slick tile.

Of course, you are thinking about him—you always do these days. Your silent shadow, your unseen guard, the one who hovers at the edges of every late-night walk home. Still, for once, you let the thoughts settle into background noise instead of the usual tension—the kind that makes your heart thunder in your chest, palms slick with sweat, muscles tight and coiled, and thighs clenched together almost without realizing it.

Until you hear it.

A faint creakkkk—the sound of a floorboard shifting beneath careful weight. Your hand freezes mid-motion, heartbeat stumbling. For a second, you think you imagined it. Then comes another sound, soft but certain, somewhere just beyond the shower curtain.

Your pulse thunders in your chest as steam curls around you, realization sinking in. He is here. Watching. Silent as ever.

You don’t move, not yet. Just stand there, water cascading over your shoulders, pretending you haven’t heard him.

“Y’know,” you say finally, your voice calm but edged with something electric, “you could knock.”

There is a long, loaded silence. Then, from beyond the curtain, his voice—soft, uncertain, trying too hard to sound casual. “Didn’t… want to startle you.”

A humorless laugh slips past your lips. “Bit late for that.”

The floorboard creaks again. You can feel him there now—close, impossibly close, filling the small space just beyond the veil of steam and translucent fabric.

You swallow hard, muscles still coiled, and slowly poke your head out from behind the curtain.

He stands there, the dim light glinting off the black-and-teal suit, and for a heartbeat, you freeze. Blood—again. Soaking his gloves and streaking the suit haphazardly. It isn’t the first night you’ve seen him like this, but that doesn’t make it any less jarring.

Your chest thuds, a mix of fear, concern, and something far warmer. You step forward, water dripping from your arms, steam curling around you like a soft veil. “You… you might as well join me,” you say, your voice light but carrying a hint of invitation. “At least… to wash the blood off.”

He freezes, hesitation sharp in the stiff tilt of his shoulders. Then, ever so slowly, he shifts, the faintest nod betraying the trust he is granting you.

You duck back behind the curtain as he begins to strip, careful not to meet his gaze. You don’t want to startle him—or scare him off. He's confident (mostly), but intimacy is one area he has little to no experience. Steam swirls around you both, warm and thick, wrapping the bathroom in a private haze.

You can feel his presence—close, solid, and somehow electric—without needing to see every movement. The faint scrape of fabric, the soft clink of metal, the subtle shift of his weight on the floorboards: all of it draws your attention and makes your pulse spike.

Even behind the curtain, you sense him leaning in closer, careful, hesitant, as if navigating an unspoken boundary.

You lean back under the warm stream, fingertips working through your tangled hair, letting the water slide over your shoulders. Then—soft, but deliberate—the curtain slides open behind you. You don’t turn. Your eyes stay closed, letting the water wash over your face, back turned to the new presence.

You feel him there, every subtle movement: the shift of his weight, the quiet inhale as his gaze—he is sure of it—lingers on your naked back, the soft thud as he accidentally nudges a half-empty shampoo bottle. The shower feels impossibly small, charged with something unspoken. You let yourself relax just slightly, leaning into the warm water, trusting him entirely… but still on edge, acutely aware of every inch of his presence behind you.

Then you hear the faint click of a bottle, followed by the soft slap of soap against the African net sponge you recently bought, easily influenced by social media.

And then you feel it.

Wary, light hands—rough yet careful—begin to massage your shoulders, tracing the tension there with gentle insistence. Your muscles, still coiled from nerves and anticipation, gradually loosen under the careful pressure, every brush of rough cloth sending a shiver down your spine.

His hands move down your back, gentle and deliberate, coaxing your muscles to relax. You don’t pull away, and he takes that as permission to continue, tracing lower and lower, each touch careful and measured.

Eventually, he kneels at your feet, still patient, still attentive, washing them with the same careful reverence he showed your shoulders. The simple intimacy of the act—the closeness, the trust—makes your chest tighten with a fluttering warmth you cannot quite name.

You turn toward him, your palms bracing against his wet shoulders. For a moment, you freeze, remembering how he often flinches from touch. But this time, he doesn’t move away—and you let your hands remain, steadying both of you. What makes this time different? you wonder. Is it the moment itself—the quiet between you—or does he just not mind when it's you?

Your chest tightens, a flutter of warmth rushing through you, as you notice he still has the mask on. A small laugh almost escapes you, quickly swallowed, replaced by a soft gasp when his hands press into your sore, aching feet—tender, careful, reverent. Hours of standing doubles at the diner have left them stiff and overworked, and yet every press of his hands makes your pulse skip, a mixture of relief and something far more intimate.

The warmth of his touch, the careful pressure, sends a shiver up your spine, and for a moment, the rest of the world falls away, leaving only the quiet intimacy of the shower and the closeness between you.

“You don’t have to keep that on, you know,” you murmur, nodding toward the mask. “Not with me.”

He looks up at you, thumb still pressing gently into the tender arch of your foot. Even through the fogging visor, you can almost see those wide, earnest puppy eyes you love so much—hesitant, vulnerable, and completely his own. The sight makes your chest tighten with a mix of affection and desire, and you feel an almost dizzying warmth spread through you.

He hesitates, then mutters his usual excuse, voice muffled behind the visor. “Can’t… can’t have you knowing my, uh… secret identity.”

You roll your eyes, a soft smile tugging at your lips. As if I don’t already know, a little thrill runs through your chest at the thought. His stubbornness only makes him more endearing, and you more fer.

You tilt your head, water dripping down your shoulders, voice light but edged with genuine curiosity. “So… how exactly are you planning to wash your hair with that on?”

He freezes mid-motion, sponge hovering above your ankle. “Uh… I- well… I… uh…” His words trip over each other in that familiar stammer, like his brain is short-circuiting under your gaze. “I mean… maybe—uh—I could… not? Or… I’ll… figure it out?”

A nervous inhale slips past the visor as he shifts from foot to foot, visibly wrestling with the ridiculousness of the situation. You can’t help the quiet laugh that escapes your throat, soft and warm. Watching him struggle with something so ordinary, so human, makes your chest ache with affection. Even behind the mask, even in all the armor and danger, he is still Adrian—awkward, earnest, and completely adorable.

You take a slow breath, letting the warm water cascade over you, and say softly, “I’ll close my eyes… trust me. I won’t look, I promise.”

A faint inhale answers you, followed by a subtle nod you can just make out through the fog. Carefully, deliberately, he obeys, tilting his head back slightly, placing his trust entirely in you. You keep your eyes closed, not even for a second do they flutter open, even as you feel him move closer—the faint brush of his arms against yours, the warmth radiating off him. Your chest tightens, and a rush of heat pools low in your stomach at the trust he places in you.

You let the sound guide you—the sharp clang of plastic and spandex hitting the tile—and move your fingers carefully, searching blindly for the sponge.

Your fingers search blindly for the net sponge, grazing over the warmth and tautness of his arms, the curve of his abs, and the lean strength of his legs as you move. Each touch sends a faint thrill up your spine, a mix of anticipation and trust, your heart hammering with the closeness and the quiet electricity of the moment.

Once you have his sponge in hand, you gently begin to return the favor, running it over his shoulders first, pressing into the hard, tense muscles that flex beneath your fingertips. You know these muscles aren’t honed solely from workouts—they are shaped by nights spent on dangerous streets, patrolling, fighting, and taking down anyone foolish enough to threaten you on your way home. Every knot, every taut line along his back and shoulders speaks of relentless effort, of secret burdens you are only now touching, feeling, and honoring.

Your hands trace the knots between his shoulder blades, moving lower across his back and down his taut sides.

“You… you okay?” you ask softly, voice tinged with awe. “I mean, your shoulders… they’re so tense.”

A strangled, half-laughing, half-coughing sound escapes him. “I—uh… yeah, just—um… nothing. Really,” he stammers, fidgeting and holding back a groan as you knead a stubborn knot. “I—don’t… like… things… tight, I mean, tense. Not bad, just… uh, you know?”

A strangled, half-laughing, half-coughing sound escapes him. “I-uh… yeah, just-um… be careful, I guess,” he stammers, fidgeting and holding back a groan as you knead a stubborn knot. “It’s… uh… muscles. Tense muscles. Not bad, just… don’t press too hard. I… I’m… sensitive? Kind of…” He trails off, obviously flustered, cheeks warming under the already warm water.

You smile, letting the sponge follow the lines of his body. “I know,” you whisper. “I can feel it. Let me help.”

He shivers slightly under your hands, but says nothing, letting you guide the rhythm. Every touch is an unspoken exchange, a quiet conversation of trust, gratitude, and closeness. You feel the warmth of him under your hands, the subtle shift of his weight, the faint intake of breath at each stroke.

Your fingers follow the unfamiliar contours of his body with a mix of anticipation and awe, each movement charged with silent trust. You don’t look, not once, no matter how much you want to, wanting this moment to exist in sensation alone—a small, steamy world suspended between care, intimacy, and unspoken desire, private and entirely yours.

Finally, you trace the sponge lower, to his thighs and calves, your touch careful but deliberate, massaging away tension from hours of stealthy operations and brutal encounters— feeling the dense muscles flex and twitch under your touch. “You work too hard,” you murmur. “All those nights… just to keep me safe.”

He exhales sharply, standing stiff as a board, a mix of relief and embarrassment coloring his tone. “I- uh… I don’t… it’s nothing. I mean… okay, maybe it’s- yeah, I’m tired, sure… but you’re… safe, right? You’re okay?” His voice wavers, almost pleading for your approval and reassurance.

You let out a soft, amused sigh, tilting your head as your fingers feather over the curve of his spine. “Tired, huh? I can see that,” you murmur, your voice teasing, warm, and slightly breathless. “But look at you… all tense and worried, trying to make sure I’m safe. You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

Your chest warms, words spilling out without thinking. “But… I love it. I love that you care. And I’m fine—really. Safe. Especially with you here. Because you’re here.”

He freezes, the warmth of your voice hitting him harder than he expects. His hands curl into tight fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms as if to ground himself. Every instinct screams to reach for you, to pull you close, to brush away the worry etched in your voice—but he holds back. Afraid. Afraid that if he moves, if he lets himself, he might cross a line he can’t undo.

He shifts on his feet, shoulders tensing, then relaxing, then tensing again—each micro-movement betraying the storm inside him. His breath hitches. “I… I just—don’t want to mess anything up.”

You place a hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart through the suit. “Shh,” you whisper, letting your palm rest there, steadying both of you. “You won’t. I trust you. I’m safe because you’re here.”

The words seem to weigh on him, but finally, his posture softens, shoulders slackening slightly, chest rising and falling in time with yours.

He reaches for you, one hand hesitantly brushing your arm, then your waist, grounding you both in the quiet intimacy of the moment. You lean into him, your own heart hammering against his chest.

Then his thumb brushes gently beneath your eye, over your cheek, and finally your lips. You inhale sharply, almost forgetting to breathe as the simple gesture sends a spark through you.

He leans in—foreheads touching first, then closer, until the warmth of him presses against you, electric, overwhelming, and intimate.

You stand there, wrapped in steam, water, and tension. The world outside the bathroom ceases to exist.

When you finally whisper, “Don’t you get tired of pretending with me?”— your voice soft but charged —he shivers slightly, breath hitching against your skin.

He doesn’t answer. Not immediately. Not aloud. Only the quiet, steady thrum of his heartbeat against yours is left to speak. He presses his forehead closer, hands trembling slightly, as if the weight of unspoken words is too heavy to release.

You feel it all—the longing, the hesitation, the tension—until, at last, his hands drift from your shoulders, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary.

The familiar shhhkt of the shower curtain sliding open rang through the small bathroom, followed almost instantly by the soft snap of it closing. Just like that, he was gone.

Your window clicked softly closed behind him, the faint sound marking his departure and leaving the bathroom feeling suddenly too quiet, despite the rushing water and the thrum of blood in your ears.