Adrian Chase stood in the middle of the mall, arms crossed, scowling at his reflection in a store mirror like it had personally betrayed him.

“I hate this,” he said.

You leaned against a rack of sweaters. “You hate pants that aren’t tactical?”

“I hate pants that don’t have secret knife pockets,” he corrected. “How am I supposed to feel safe?”

“You are going to brunch,” you reminded him. “With civilians. No one is attacking you over eggs benedict.”

He squinted. “That’s exactly when they’d attack.”

You grabbed a soft hoodie and shoved it into his chest. “Try this.”

He held it between two fingers. “It’s… fluffy.”

“Yes. That’s the point.”

In the dressing room, there was a lot of muttering. And clanging. And at one point—

“Why does this shirt touch me everywhere?”

“Because it’s a shirt, Adrian.”

He stepped out a moment later.

And—

Oh.

You froze.

The hoodie fit him stupidly well. Casual. Soft. Normal. No weapons in sight. He looked like someone who paid taxes and argued about oat milk.

Adrian watched your face carefully. “Is this bad?”

You swallowed. “Unfortunately… no.”

He smiled, bright and proud. “I look approachable.”

“You look like you borrow books,” you said.

“Yes!” He pumped a fist. “That’s the vibe.”

You circled him slowly, adjusting the sleeves. “Okay, but we need different shoes. Those boots scream ‘I own a go-bag.’”

“They’re comfortable.”

“So is therapy,” you shot back. “And yet.”

He laughed—actually laughed—and leaned closer. “You’re really good at this.”

“At what? Styling murderers?”

“Making me look like I belong,” he said quietly.

That slowed you.

You met his eyes in the mirror. No mask. No bravado. Just Adrian—hopeful in a way that hurt a little.

“You do belong,” you said. “You just don’t always act like it.”

He considered that, then nodded. “Okay. But can I keep one knife?”