Chapter Text
The auditorium was abuzz with conversation and laughter, the ESUN conference in full swing.
Relena had just finished shaking hands with a group of diplomats when glass shattered.
The sound was sharp and wrong—not applause, not celebration, but something concussive and violent. For half a heartbeat, her mind refused to interpret it.
Then the blast followed.
The world tilted.
Heat and pressure slammed into her from the left. The lights flickered out. Screams replaced music.
And then—
An arm wrapped around her waist, and there was nothing tentative or uncertain about the movement.
Trowa.
He moved before the rest of the security detail did. Before anyone shouted commands. Before her body could decide whether to duck or freeze.
He pulled her down.
The second explosion hit as they struck the floor. His body curved over hers, shielding her from falling debris. She felt the impact reverberate through him—solid, controlled—as fragments rained against his back.
The air filled with smoke.
“Stay with me,” he said, close to her ear.
His voice wasn’t panicked or raised. Just steady.
Her hands had fisted instinctively in the front of his jacket. She forced her breathing to obey.
He lifted his head just enough to assess her—quick, efficient. His hands moved with clinical precision along her arms, her shoulders, her sides.
“Are you hit?”
“I don’t think so.”
A beam crashed somewhere behind them. Someone shouted for medics.
Trowa’s jaw tightened—barely perceptible—before he rose into a crouch and pulled her up with him.
They moved low through smoke and chaos. He didn’t relinquish contact, one hand firm at her back as he guided her toward an emergency exit.
Outside, the night air felt brutally cold. Sirens wailed in the distance.
She staggered once—not from injury, but adrenaline—and his grip tightened immediately.
He steered her toward an unmarked vehicle along the curb.
“Preventer transport,” he said, matter-of-factly. “We’re relocating.”
She glanced down at herself for the first time.
Her dress—pale blue, chosen for diplomacy, not disaster—was torn along one shoulder. The hem had ripped nearly to mid-thigh. Soot streaked the bodice, along with what looked like blood.
Her pulse lurched.
He followed her gaze.
“It isn’t yours,” he said calmly.
Of course he would know.
He ushered her into the car, circled to the driver’s side, and maneuvered them away before she allowed herself to breathe fully.
The city lights streaked past in fractured reflections across the window.
“I assume I was the target?” she asked quietly.
“Unclear,” he replied. “We’ll assess.”
His voice was even. Measured.
She studied him. A thin line of red traced along his temple—not deep, but enough.
“You’re bleeding.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “It looks worse than it is.”
Her brow lifted. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.” He met her eyes briefly as the road curved ahead.
“Safe house?” she ventured.
He nodded once. “Until we receive further instruction.”
She felt it, then—cold creeping in as the adrenaline ebbed. The tear in her dress left one shoulder fully exposed.
He noticed.
He didn’t comment.
They drove in silence as the skyline gave way to neighborhoods, then open fields.
As Trowa drove with one hand on the wheel, confident, she allowed her mind to drift.
Secretly, she loved when Preventer assigned him to her detail. He was one of the few people who did not orbit her—did not expect performance, explanation, reassurance. He simply existed beside her.
The safe house was modest. Nondescript. Efficient.
Trowa secured the perimeter before letting them inside.
“The bathroom is through there,” he said. “Let me check you for shrapnel before you change.”
She nodded, but inwardly, she panicked. Her suitcase was at the hotel near the conference center; she didn’t have anything to change into.
But she didn’t argue. Didn’t flinch as he examined her again under brighter light—professional, methodical.
When his fingers brushed bare skin near the torn fabric, the contact was careful. Impersonal.
And yet the awareness lingered.
“You’re clear,” he said finally.
Relief loosened something in her chest.
She glanced down at her dress. “It’s ruined.”
A brief flick of his eyes, and a hum of acknowledgement.
She huffed a quiet laugh. “Of course.”
He hesitated, then shrugged out of his jacket. Reached for the hem of his shirt—
And pulled it over his head in one smooth motion.
She forgot how to breathe.
He held it out to her. “It’s clean.”
No implication; no suggestion. And yet the intimacy of it struck her harder than the blast had.
She accepted it. “Thank you.”
“I’ll step outside.”
He did.
She stood there for a moment, his shirt warm in her hands. She inhaled despite herself. It smelled freshly laundered—clean cotton, and something faintly woodsy.
It would have to do.
Thankfully, Trowa was tall; his shirt hung slightly oversized on her petite frame, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs.
It was almost long enough to pass as a dress—almost. It covered what mattered, at least.
When she emerged, Trowa was standing near the far wall, arms loosely folded, gaze angled toward the window. His jacket was zipped nearly to the collar—nearly. The absence of a shirt beneath it was not subtle.
Her gaze lingered a fraction too long.
His eyes lifted from the window at precisely the moment she realized she was staring.
Their eyes collided.
His dropped—tracking from her shoulder down to the hem of his shirt against her thighs.
The air shifted.
He straightened and adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, though it required none. Then he cleared his throat and turned toward the kitchenette.
“I’ll make coffee.”
“As long as you’re volunteering,” she replied, perhaps a touch too brightly.
He busied himself with the machine, movements efficient, controlled—though she noticed when he zipped his jacket higher. It did very little to help.
Relena, for her part, pivoted toward the living area in search of distraction.
The room was sparsely furnished: a couch, a coffee table, a narrow bookshelf stocked with practical supplies, and—
“Board games?” she asked incredulously.
There were three: Checkers. Chess. Something with faded cartoon characters on the box.
“No spare clothes,” she added dryly, “but apparently we’re prepared for game night.”
“We could leave your dress for the next occupant,” he replied evenly. “I’m sure someone would appreciate it.”
She stared at him; he did not look up. For a heartbeat she wondered if he was entirely serious. Then she saw it—the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. The betrayal of amusement.
A laugh slipped from her before she could stop it.
He looked over his shoulder then, and this time, he didn’t look away immediately. His eyes were lighter when they held hers—not teasing exactly, but undeniably warm.
“Do you play?” she asked, lifting the box of checkers.
“No,” he said.
She arched her brow.
“But,” he continued, adding grounds to the filter with measured precision, “I’m fairly certain I can figure it out.”
The understatement was almost offensive.
Relena smiled. “I’d expect nothing less from a Gundam pilot. But I should warn you,” she added, almost playfully. “I’m pretty good.”
He huffed a soft laugh. “I don’t doubt it.”
Moments later, they settled across from one another at the coffee table, each with a steaming cup of coffee, the board set in between them.
Relena sat as primly as possible, legs tucked neatly to one side, doing her best to keep her thighs covered.
Trowa studied the pieces with the same measured intensity he applied to tactical briefings.
She hid a smile.
The first few moves were cautious. Predictable. Then she leaned forward to capture one of his pieces.
The hem of the shirt shifted slightly higher against her thigh. His gaze followed, just for a second. It was enough.
“Oh,” she said lightly, lifting another piece. “I believe that’s yours.”
He blinked once. Looked down. Recalibrated.
“Noted,” he said.
Three moves later, she crowned her first king. By the time she removed his final piece, she was trying very hard not to laugh.
He sat back slowly, regarding the board.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
She folded her hands in her lap. “I did warn you,” she teased.
He lifted his gaze to hers. This time, the look lingered—not on the board.
“You did.” His lips twitched in a half-smile. “But now I’m warmed up.”
The second game unfolded differently. Trowa’s posture changed—straighter, more precise. He anticipated her advances two moves ahead. Forced exchanges. Closed diagonals.
When she attempted a double jump, he countered. By the time he crowned his first king, the outcome felt inevitable.
She leaned back as he removed her final piece.
“That,” she said, conceding with a faint smile, “felt deliberate.”
He held her gaze for a moment, one eye obscured by his long sweep of hair, the visible one twinkling faintly.
“It was.” He reset the board calmly. “I did notice a bottle of whiskey in one of the cabinets.”
“Did you.”
“It seemed imprudent at the time.”
“And now?”
“It may improve morale.”
She smiled in spite of herself. “Kicking game night up a notch?”
He shrugged. “Why not.”
He rose and retrieved the bottle from a cabinet, along with two plastic cups. He poured two modest servings, handing her one before taking his own.
“Classy,” she noted wryly.
“Naturally,” he replied. “Only the best for a former queen.”
Relena snorted.
The whiskey burned warm and clean on the way down. She exhaled slowly. “That’s… effective.”
Trowa inclined his head slightly. “It is.”
She took another tentative sip. More warmth bloomed in her chest, her thoughts pleasantly unmoored.
“Um,” she said, cheeks flushed, “I’m not certain I can play impaired.”
To her surprise, Trowa let out a short, stark laugh. “Isn’t that the point?”
She shook her head once, then stood. “Time for a new game.”
She returned to the bookshelf and pulled out the unfamiliar box.
“Now we’ll be on equal footing,” she said, setting it on the table. “Unless you’ve played this before?”
He took a slow sip of whiskey and studied the box quizzically. “I have not.”
The cover featured an illustration of a dragon the size of a cathedral, three armored warriors mid-battle, and a wizard casting something blue and sparkly.
Trowa leaned forward slightly. “Ambitious,” he observed.
Relena peered at the title. “‘Empires of Dor…” She shook her head. “Nope.”
He took a slow sip of his whiskey. “Sound it out.”
She shot him a look. “Can’t you read?”
“Obviously,” he said, “but I’m enjoying this.”
She gave an irritated huff. “Fine.” She glanced back at the box. “Dor-thith-lah-der.” A pause. “That’s… way too many h’s.”
He considered this. “Concerning.”
She flipped the box over and skimmed the back. “Requires one game master and three to six players.”
She looked up at him. “We can adapt.”
His brow arched faintly. “That seems statistically unlikely.”
She ignored him and opened the box. The contents spilled onto the coffee table in a riot of cardboard tiles, miniature figurines, and an instruction manual that could have doubled as a graduate thesis.
Trowa picked up the rulebook and flipped it open, then closed it almost immediately.
Relena burst into laughter. “Oh, come on. We survived an assassination attempt. We can survive cooperative storytelling.”
“Survival parameters are unclear,” he replied dryly.
Relena took the rulebook from him with an exaggerated eye roll. She flipped to page one.
“We appear to require a dungeon master.” She gestured grandly in his direction. “Congratulations.”
He shook his head once. “I decline.”
She snickered. “Fine. We’ll co-govern.”
He tilted his head, considering. “That seems inefficient.”
“Something tells me efficiency is optional here,” she said, grinning.
Character creation was an ordeal.
“I suppose I’ll be…” Relena skimmed a list of archetypes. “A high envoy of the Silver Realm.”
Trowa didn’t look up. “Sounds redundant.”
She gasped and pressed a hand to her chest theatrically. “Excuse me?”
“That’s effectively your real-life job description,” he replied evenly.
“Yes,” Relena agreed, “but this one has magical persuasion abilities.” She waggled her brows.
Trowa arched his. “Which you already possess.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Flattery will not improve your dice rolls.”
He ignored her and selected a character sheet from the stack. “Guardian-class tactician,” he read aloud.
She laughed outright. “Of course.”
He picked up the twenty-sided die, examining it briefly before rolling. It bounced across the map, clattering against a tiny plastic dragon before landing near her knee.
She leaned forward to retrieve it, and the t-shirt shifted slightly.
Trowa’s attention followed before he could stop it. Which Relena couldn’t help but notice.
The corner of her mouth lifted. “Distracted again?”
“No,” he said quickly.
She held the die up between two fingers. “You are.”
He took it from her. Their fingers brushed and lingered before Relena pulled her hand back and placed it in her lap.
They began the campaign—or attempted to.
Within minutes, they were arguing gently about whether their two-person party could storm a fortress designed for six heavily-armed adventurers.
“This is statistically improbable,” Trowa observed, studying the map.
She leaned closer, shoulder brushing his. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
He looked at her fully then. “That’s the first time anyone’s asked me that.” His lips quirked. “I literally cheat death for a living.”
“That’s different,” Relena said, trying to keep the mood lighthearted. At that, she reached for the whiskey and topped off each of their cups.
Trowa eyed his cup skeptically, but took a practiced sip without comment.
Relena returned her gaze to the game board, her eyes drifting to the cardboard cover and the dragon mid-roar.
“This game is absurd.” She snorted softly.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“And yet.”
“And yet,” he echoed.
The rulebook slid slowly from her lap to the floor.
Neither of them reached for it.
Silence stretched, the game momentarily forgotten.
Relena traced the rim of her cup absently. “I never thanked you,” she said softly. “For today.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m—”
“—doing your job. I know,” she cut in, quieter. “But still. You saved my life. I don’t take that lightly.”
She lifted her gaze back to his, almost shyly.
“Without you...” Her voice trailed off.
He looked at her knowingly.
“Relena.”
He reached out and—tentatively, almost reverently—brushed the pad of his thumb along her cheek where soot had smudged earlier.
“You’re safe now,” he murmured.
She didn’t pull away.
Instead, she lifted her hand, and, with quiet deliberation, brushed his hair aside.
His breath stilled.
For the first time since she’d known him, both of his eyes were fully visible—clear, intent, unguarded—and the most piercing shade of green she’d ever seen.
The air shifted.
They leaned toward each other. Slowly. Carefully. Their lips hovered a breath apart.
They both pulled back at the same time.
He exhaled first. “We should—”
“Yes,” she agreed immediately.
Because of course he meant distance. Caution. Professionalism. Her heart gave one firm, disappointed beat.
But before she could retreat further, his hand closed gently around her wrist. Not restraining or demanding. Just… stilling her.
She looked up.
His gaze was steady now. Not uncertain; not conflicted.
“We should,” he repeated quietly, leaning toward her instead of away.
Understanding dawned.
Her breath caught.
He didn’t rush it; he gave her one more second. And when she eased toward him, he closed the distance.
His lips brushed hers—slowly, tentatively at first. But something sparked instantly, deeper than mere attraction or desire.
One hand drifted to her waist, protective and possessive in equal measure.
Her lips parted, and he deepened the contact, his other hand cradling the back of her head. She rose to meet him without hesitation, looping her arms around his neck.
This was not a mistake.
This was not adrenaline.
This was choice.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against hers.
“We should,” he said again, voice lower now, eyes bedroom-soft.
Her pulse raced. “We definitely should.”
He smiled, then kissed her gently. Once. Twice. “But… perhaps not on the floor.”
Heat crept up her chest at the implication, though she tried to remain composed.
“Oh?” She arched a brow playfully. “You don’t like the floor?”
“On the contrary,” he said smoothly. “I’m crazy about the floor. However—” He fanned kisses along her jaw, first one side, then the other. “—the couch or bed would be preferable.”
“Bed,” Relena said decisively.
She didn’t have to say anything more.
Before she could fully register what was happening, Trowa slipped an arm around her waist and lifted her easily—
Carrying her into the bedroom.
He laid her down gently and braced himself above her, arms on either side. For a heartbeat, they simply looked at one another—breath unsteady, the weight of the day finally settling.
“You’re sure?” he asked softly.
She answered him with a kiss that left no room for doubt.
He kissed her back just as deeply, fingers grazing the hem of her borrowed shirt as though asking permission without words. He was still wearing his jacket, which Relena decided was entirely unfair given her current state of dress.
She broke their kiss long enough to unzip it and push it off his shoulders. He shrugged out of it and let it fall aside.
Relena took a moment—just a moment—to admire him. The steady strength of his chest, the quiet evidence of years of training.
“I–I need a minute,” she breathed, falling back against the pillows.
He chuckled softly and lay beside her, propping himself up on one elbow. “Take all the time you need,” he said. “I’ll be here.”
She grinned and reached over to squeeze his bicep. He flexed automatically, the muscle tightening beneath her hand.
She laughed, then leaned in to kiss him again, nipping his lower lip playfully. A low sound escaped his throat—almost a growl.
His mouth claimed hers once more, slower this time, one hand cupping her face while the other dipped lower—
She inhaled sharply and pulled back. “We should probably discuss—”
“Safe words?” Trowa murmured against her lips.
She let out a startled laugh. “I was going to say protection.”
“Right.” He sat up at once. “I’ll go look.”
“You mean you don’t carry any on you?” she teased as he headed toward the bathroom.
“Do you?” he called back.
“No,” she admitted.
A beat later, he groaned softly. “We’re out of luck.”
“Oh.” Disappointment fluttered through her.
Now what?
He returned looking faintly deflated and dropped back onto the bed beside her. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” Her fingers traced his arm lightly. “You couldn’t have known this would happen.”
“I certainly didn’t plan on it,” he said quietly. “But now…”
“Maybe we can still…” She hesitated. “I mean…”
He turned fully toward her.
“I’m not risk-averse,” he said, and her heartbeat quickened. “However,” he added, “that’s one we probably shouldn’t take.”
“I agree,” she said quietly, though she hated it. “But what I meant was, maybe we could just… adapt.” A blush warmed her cheeks.
“That sounds… logical,” he murmured.
The tone alone sent her pulse racing.
He shifted slightly, brushing his lips against her temple. “We have time.”
What followed was slower. Softer. No longer urgent, but no less intense.
They learned the shape of each other carefully, intentionally, without crossing the line they had agreed to respect.
And when they finally lay back, breathless and warm, the world outside the safe house felt impossibly far away.
Relena woke slowly. Not abruptly. Not to panic or blasts or blaring sirens.
To warmth.
There was an unfamiliar weight draped loosely across her waist—firm but not possessive. A steady rise and fall at her back.
She stilled.
Memory returned in fragments. Whiskey. Dice. His thumb against her cheek. The way he had said we should.
Her pulse skipped. Carefully, slowly, she turned her head.
Trowa was awake, because of course he was.
His visible eye was already open, steady and unreadable at first glance—though something softer lingered there now.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
His arm shifted slightly, as though he’d become aware of the contact at the same time she had.
“Good morning,” she said softly.
“Good morning.” His voice was lower than usual, roughened by sleep.
She became acutely aware of the proximity—of the narrow bed, of the way the sheet had twisted between them sometime in the night.
Of the fact that she was wearing nothing but his shirt.
And he—
He was still bare-chested.
She looked away first, color warming her face.
“So,” she began, then stopped.
He sat up carefully, giving her space without making a spectacle of it.
The communicator at his belt crackled before either of them could attempt small talk.
Both of them froze.
He reached for it instinctively.
Static crackled over the line, then a voice: “Barton. All-clear.”
Trowa acknowledged the report with professional calm. When he clipped the communicator back into place, the air felt different—reality reasserting itself.
Relena sat up more fully. “I suppose that means we’re free to leave.”
“Yes,” he said, professional composure reassembling itself around him like armor. He stood, retrieving his jacket from the floor.
She slipped from the bed and disappeared briefly into the bathroom.
When she reemerged in her torn dress, the contrast was almost jarring. The fabric was ripped at the shoulder, the hem uneven, smoke-stained.
His jaw tightened slightly.
She held out his shirt.
Their fingers brushed again.
He removed his jacket without comment, pulling the shirt back on first. Then, instead of reclaiming his jacket, he draped it over her shoulders.
It settled there like it belonged.
“You’ll be warmer,” he said evenly.
She slid her arms into the sleeves. The scent was still there: Clean cotton. Something woodsy. Something warm and grounding.
They moved at the same time, no discussion required.
Relena gathered the abandoned dice from beneath the coffee table. He folded the campaign map with surprising care, smoothing creases before sliding it back into the box. The whiskey bottle was returned to the cabinet, the disposable cups rinsed and recycled.
She paused, glancing back at the bed. He had already straightened the sheets—professional, respectful. She smoothed the pillow absently, new memories flashing, flooding her with warmth.
The safe house slowly reverted to anonymity. No trace of them. No trace of laughter. Of what had almost happened.
When they finally stood facing one another near the door, the place looked exactly as it had the night before.
Except it wasn’t.
They stepped outside together. Morning light washed over the unpaved driveway.
He opened the car door for her.
She paused before getting in.
He met her eyes directly.
“When this is all resolved…” He paused—not uncertain, just precise. “I’d like to take you to dinner.”
Her heart flipped.
He held her gaze steadily. “If you’re open to it.”
She felt a soft smile curve her lips. “I’d like that.”
Something eased in his posture—subtle, but real. He closed the passenger door once she was inside and rounded the vehicle.
As the engine started and the safe house disappeared behind them, Relena adjusted the collar of his jacket around her shoulders.
And as the outside world rose up around them, with more conflict and questions still awaiting resolution, at least one matter had been settled. Something Relena had been wondering about for years.
Maybe he had, too.
Trowa drove with one hand, his free hand resting idly on the center console. Relena reached over and laid her hand lightly atop his. He responded at once, threading their fingers together.
Neither of them commented on it.
They didn’t need to.
The road ahead remained uncertain.
This was not.