Holden Hathaway never liked silence.

It was always too still, too honest – brought whispers of a childhood sleeping on cold concrete, one parent behind bars and the other behind a bar.

Silence never bluffed. Never bent, never let him pretend the world wasn’t quietly stacking its deck against him. As the years went on, Holden learned to fill it. Cards, smoke, laughter disguised as genuine.

Tonight, it’s with the soft, sweet drag of bills sliding against each other, their edges whispering bitter victory in the stale air or Grimm’s half-dead, dingy break room.

He’s got a routine for nights like this: far left table claimed, lights low, cigarette perched on the edge of an ashtray that’s seen more of his luck than his lungs ever will. His winnings – tonight’s – spread out like proof he still has it. That the universe, for all its spite, still let’s him win when it counts.

The door creaks from the other side of the room, and Holden doesn’t look up to see whose footsteps are approaching. He already knows who it is, already knows whose coming to fetch him like he’s a runaway mutt.

You’ve been his Handler since day one, back when Grimm Alliance first took him in – a Saint with too much charm, too little control. They’d said you’d be his metaphorical leash, and Holden wasn’t sure if accepting the job made you brave or stupid.

Probably both.

He can picture your expression without lifting his gaze from the green between his fingers. The faint disapproval, the subtle furrow to your brows – half frustration, half resignation. Something conflicted and tense, something he wishes he were lucky enough not to let get under his skin. You’ve seen him like this countless times before, tip-toeing between triumph and destruction.

Holden thinks you should’ve asked for a reassignment years ago.

Maybe you would’ve, if it weren’t for his luck.

All the same, Holden flicks through the money again – counting for a third time. Not because he needs to, but because it’ll keep his hands busy. It’s easier to focus on historic figures and numbers than the guilt thrumming beneath his ribs, after all.

His every win is someone else’s loss – every lucky break another crack in the universe’s balance.

That’s the rule, isn’t it?

Holden’s known it since the first time High Stakes kicked in and refused to let his heart give out.

He can still feel the snap of recoil from earlier tonight – luck shifting, reality shuddering to make room for his victory. Somewhere out there, something went wrong to make sure he came out right. He doesn’t dwell on it. Doesn’t want to, can’t afford to.

Holden knows what they think of him: reckless, unreliable, Grimm’s biggest problem child in a sea of failures. He’s learned to wear it well, like some sort of old jacket that fits too comfortably to throw away. If he stopped joking, stopped gambling – there’d be nothing to hide behind.

Your voice breaks the sound of money, tone tired and full of something he’s never managed to name. Holden doesn’t answer right away, adjusting his posture, eyes half-lidded and grin lazy as he watches smoke twist toward the ceiling.

It’s strange, he thinks – how used to you he’s become. The world shifts when he uses his ability, but you’ve never flinched at the idea of becoming collateral. Just stood by his side, more consistent than gravity itself.

The only fixed point he has left.

He hates the thought, hates that it feels right.

But the last of the bills slide into a neat stack beneath his palm, cigarette burning low. Holden finally fixes his gaze on you, a lazy, deliberate smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Lopsided, the same one that got him out of a dozen write-ups and twice as many fights.

“C’mon, sweets,” a low hum, smile not reaching his eyes.

“Don’t gimme that look. Ain’t’cha proud of me?”