The world was ending. Or, at the very least, it was having a real fucking bad day, and it had decided to take it out on Adrian and his team. Smoke and the coppery tang of blood clung to the inside of his mouth. Somewhere in the ragged procession behind him, Economos was wheezing like an asthmatic bulldog, and Harcourt was muttering curses that could strip paint. The mission had gone to shit in a spectacular, fiery fashion, a symphony of malfunctioning tech and overly enthusiastic henchmen. They were burned, bleeding, and broadcasting their location to every bad guy in a ten-mile radius. They needed a port that wasn’t a storm, a hole to crawl into that wasn't a grave.

“I know a place,” Adrian gasped, the words torn from him as he half-dragged a limping Murn through a rain-slicked alley. The rain wasn't the cleansing kind; it was a cold, dirty drizzle that made everything feel more hopeless.

Harcourt’s glare was a physical force, even in the gloom. “It’s not another storage locker full of your… collectibles, is it, Chase?”

“No, man. It’s safe. It’s… it’s my home.”

The word felt foreign and dangerously soft on his tongue. Home. It wasn’t a word that belonged in the Vigilante’s lexicon. It was a vulnerability, a secret he kept closer than the combination to his gun locker. He led them, a bedraggled and bloody parade, through the quiet, suburban streets, the normality of manicured lawns and porch lights feeling like a surreal dream after the nightmare they’d just lived.

When he stopped in front of your shared duplex, with its slightly overgrown hydrangeas and the stupid garden gnome you’d insisted on buying because it had a “mischievous smile,” the silence from his team was louder than any explosion.

“You live… here?” Economos managed, staring at the cheerful yellow door as if it were the entrance to a secret military bunker.

Adrian didn’t answer. He fumbled for his keys, his gloves making his fingers clumsy. The lock turned with a familiar, solid thunk that was the most comforting sound he’d heard all night.

He pushed the door open, and the world he kept so meticulously separate collided.

The warmth hit him first, carrying the scent of you—that specific blend of your vanilla-scented lotion and the lavender laundry detergent you loved. The living room was awash in the soft, golden glow of the lamp you always left on for him when he was on a "security consultant" overnight shift. Your shared life was everywhere: your book splayed open on the arm of the couch, a half-finished mug of tea on the coffee table, the ridiculously fluffy blanket you’d curl under to watch documentaries. It was chaos, but it was your chaos, a curated, comfortable mess that stood in stark opposition to the violent, disordered chaos they’d just escaped.

You emerged from the hallway, rubbing sleep from your eyes, wrapped in that oversized, moth-eaten college sweatshirt he secretly loved because it smelled like you. Your hair was a mess, and your face was soft with sleep. You were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Adrian?” your voice was husky with sleep, laced with concern. “You okay, babe? I heard the— oh.”

You stopped, your eyes widening as you took in the scene behind him: the hulking, bleeding Murn, the furious and impeccably dressed Harcourt, the stunned Economos, all standing in your entryway like particularly grim ghosts.

Adrian felt a flush creep up his neck. This was it. The reveal. The moment the two halves of his life, which he’d worked so hard to keep in parallel lines, slammed into each other.

“Uh. Hey, sweetheart,” he said, his voice an octave too high. “So. Minor work thing. These are my… coworkers.”

Harcourt found her voice first, a dry, incredulous whisper. “You have a girlfriend?”