Chapter Text
Karen knew the morning had betrayed her the moment she felt the unnatural stillness of the room, a quietude far too peaceful for a workday.
Usually, the city’s familiar chaos bled through the windows, but today, the absence of her alarm's deafening shriek left the apartment feeling cloaked in a heavy, expectant silence.
Panic, jagged and sudden, thrummed against her ribs as she fumbled for her phone on the nightstand. She hissed a curse under her breath; her calculations were ruined, and she was already twenty minutes behind the world's schedule.
She cast a fleeting glance at the empty space beside her. The sheets were cold, the vacancy a silent testament to the early shift Frank had mentioned the night before while half-asleep, his arm wrapped around her waist and his voice rough with exhaustion.
That memory faded quickly, replaced by the another frantic rush of adrenaline. She scrambled into the bathroom, only having time for a face wash and a hurried brush of her teeth before lunging for the first article of clothing her hands found: a pencil skirt from the day before and a dark mass of navy wool.
Only when she caught sight of herself in the mirror did she finally pause. "Oh, come on."
She groaned softly. Her hair was a tangled mess against the oversize fit of Frank’s navy sweater. It was worn-in and heavy, the fabric hanging off her slender frame like a borrowed sanctuary, carrying the faint, grounding scent of him—something she usually reserved for the privacy of their four walls.
The sleeves stretched well past her wrists, the collar slipping slightly to one side, the hem brushing against the tops of her thighs. It was an oversized fit on her slender build, making her look smaller somehow, despite their similar height.
Normally, she would've changed. She would've dug through her drawer until she found something appropriate. Today, she simply stared at her reflection for a second longer before exhaling. She couldn't find the desire, couldn't spare the time.
The next five minutes were a blur of frantic preparation; the realization that she was supposed to be clocking in already made her skin feel too tight. She snatched up her necessities, her eyes scanning their home for a final check before she bolted out the door. The bright morning sun hit her with the force of a physical blow as she emerged from the building.
Luck, rare and fleeting, finally favored her when a cab rounded the corner of her street. She waved her hand with a desperation that bordered on the theatrical, her long legs taking huge strides to meet the vehicle at the curb. She tumbled into the backseat, her breath hitching as she stated the address of the Bulletin.
The driver must have sensed the visceral urgency radiating off her, as they wove through the city smoothly. She arrived at the building exactly when her internal timer predicted—still late, but not dramatically so. She breathed a silent, desperate prayer that she wouldn't cross paths with Ellison, a man whose wit was as sharp as his editorial eye. Stepping into the lift to go up to level four, she savored the momentary stillness.
Once she stepped out and moved towards the bustling space, she offered guilty, tight-lipped smiles to the familiar faces on, receiving reassuring thumbs-up in return. She was rarely someone who trailed behind, but she knew her respected position here, and the news was a restless beast that never waited for a late start.
The second relieved sigh of her morning died in her throat the moment she cracked open her office door. Ellison was already there, hunched over her desk like a predator over its prey, flipping through an unfamiliar set of papers with practiced intensity. She tried to shed the defeated look before it took root, closing the door with a quiet click.
Ellison looked up, a smirk playing on his lips as he prepared to banter with her, like teasing his own daughter. But the remark died before it was spoken; his gaze snagged on the navy sweater, the sleeves falling past her hands despite her rolling them into thick, clumsy cuffs. It was obviously not hers.
"Didn't take you to be someone who wore their boyfriend's sweater to work, Page," Ellison said as he straightened his posture, assessing her with the cold, standard scrutiny of a veteran journalist. Karen fought the heat rising in her cheeks, moving past him to dump her bag on the desk.
"I was in a rush. Sorry," she replied lamely. Ellison didn't miss the lack of a denial; he tucked the knowledge away, secretly pleased for her even as his smirk deepened.
"What do you have for me?" she asked, her voice turning steady and professional in a desperate bid to pivot the conversation back to work. Ellison only hummed, his curiosity piqued; he silently vowed to put a name to the mystery man one day.
The morning’s friction eventually gave way to a day that was uncharacteristically smooth. The Bulletin office was a symphony of familiar chaos—the rhythmic clatter of keys, the shrill demand of telephones, and the distant, electronic murmur of the TVs. Karen found she could breathe in that noise. However, the respite was brief; during her breaks, she felt the weight of eyes on the navy wool.
When a particularly blunt colleague finally voiced the question everyone was thinking, Karen swore a silent blood-oath to never wear Frank's clothes to the office again. The secret was out: Karen Page had someone waiting for her at home.
She sat in her office and groaned, cringing at the thought of her personal life being discussed on the other side of the door, by the very people trained to uncover every hidden truth.
The day began to bleed into evening, the golden light of sunset spilling lazily through her window and signaling the end of her shift.
A soft vibration on her desk—a text from Frank saying he'd be there in a minute—brought a smile to her face. She replied with a simple Okay and a rare :), her heart stuttering in a way that felt childishly like anticipation.
In a way, he had been wrapped around her all day, his scent a persistent mark on her skin that made the anticipation of seeing him feel almost overwhelming. Sometimes, she was scared of feeling too much for him.
He definitely had a certain way to show his devotion, but for her, she'd go against everyone for him and worst of it all, she'd lie, again and again; the one thing she hates, just to keep him safe.
She finished packing her bag with a frantic, distractedly graceful rhythm. Bidding a hurried goodbye to the few remaining officemates, she clocked out with the same shameless urgency she'd arrived with.
This time, Ellison was nowhere to be found, a small mercy for which she thanked the universe. The lift felt too slow, but soon she was pushing through the glass doors and stepping out into the cooling evening air.
At this point, she didn't care if anyone was peeking out the window to see what she was rushing about, or for. She was already scanning the street for the one thing she needed to see.
Across the road, Frank was a broad and imposing silhouette leaning against his truck, his hands buried deep in his pockets. He was watching her, his gaze tracking her movements with an intensity he reserved only for her.
To him, seeing her in her domain—confident, hair catching the wind in a graceful dance—was a scene he knew he'd never tire of. But as she drew closer, his eyes dropped to the navy fabric, and his breath hitched in a heavy, embarrassed exhale.
She was wearing, practically drowning, in his sweater. The navy wool fell past her hips, contrasting sharply with the corporate lines of her pencil skirt. The sight hit him with the force of a new obsession; the realization that she had spent her entire day enveloped in something of his made the air in his lungs feel thin.
As she reached the curb, she offered him a shy, knowing smile. He didn't bother hiding his contentment, letting out a low chuckle as he pushed off the truck, his heavy cadence bringing him into her space. "That sweater looks real familiar," he started, his body instinctively swaying closer to her warmth.
Karen rolled her eyes, her fingers fidgeting with the excess fabric of the sleeves. "Yeah, well, this sweater was popular today. Apparently, everyone has never seen one," she replied. Frank stepped into her space, his fingers reaching out to catch the hem of the sweater, wholly entranced by this look.
"Everyone knows I have a boyfriend now," she sighed, the drama of the statement undercut by the way she leaned toward him.
"Good," Frank responded without a second of hesitation. He closed the remaining gap, planting a small, marking peck on her cheek. He pulled back slowly, his eyes locking onto hers with a pining that was, in other people's view, might be disgustingly romantic.
The city's noise seemed to dull as she finally gave in, the look in his eyes not helping the cause. Not wanting him to pull away, her hands gripped onto his broad waist and pulled him back towards her. She tucked her head into the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent she'd been wearing all day, finding the source at last.
Frank was momentarily stunned—public displays were a rarity in their relationship—but he didn't pull away, didn't want to. He was exhausted from a day of manual labor, his body a map of ache and effort, but her presence felt like the only stretch of calm he'd ever truly want to earn. He draped his own arms around her shoulders, his lips grazing the crown of her head.
"I felt you everywhere today," she whispered against his skin. Frank let out a low groan at her words; she was killing him, and frankly, he was more than happy to let her. She let out a soft giggle, a sound that made him feel more alive than he had any right to be.
"I think I need you to wear me more often," he stated shamelessly, his voice veering into a territory between hunger and playful teasing. Karen finally retreated a step, her lips twitching as she felt his hands linger on her waist, reluctant to lose the contact.
"Didn't take you to be the possessive type, Frank," she teased, her eyes tracking the way his thumbs brushed against the navy wool at her sides. This man really liked how she looked in his clothes. He offered her a brazen, unrepentant grin.
"But you like it," he retorted with his head tilted, eyes softening into that gentle, puppy look she knew was his greatest weapon. She only shrugged, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an admission.
"Come on, move along," she said, nudging him away from the passenger door he was blocking. He snorted at the sudden mood change but still played the part of the gentleman, opening the door for her. She bit back a smile as she settled into the seat. Moments later, he was behind the wheel, the engine rumbling to life.
"Where to, my sweater thief?" he asked in jest, throwing a rare lopsided grin at her.
Karen entertained him, finally letting the smile break free, unrestrained and bright. "Get us home, Frank," she answered.
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, shifting the gearstick with a fluid ease as they pulled away into the dimming city.