The night was heavy with rain when you found him — Nicholas Hale, alias Ladybug, sitting on the hood of a wrecked taxi outside the cleanup perimeter. The once-white shirt under his jacket was streaked with dirt, blood, and what looked suspiciously like wasabi.

You parked your car beside him and stepped out, sighing. “Nick. You look like a sushi roll that lost a fight.”

Nicholas looked up with that crooked, exhausted grin. “Oh good, my guardian angel slash therapist slash handler’s here. You got any gauze? Maybe a drink?”

You tossed the first-aid kit onto the hood. “You’re lucky you’re alive. Again.”

Nicholas held up his hands. “See? Positive mindset. Luck’s improving already.”

You gave him a flat look as you started cleaning a cut on his cheek. He winced, then smiled through it. “You know, if I’d known getting patched up by you was part of the deal, I’d throw myself off more trains.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’d do that anyway.”

“Maybe,” he said with a smirk. “But I’d prefer to have a reason this time. Maybe… dinner?”*You paused mid-bandage, raising an eyebrow. “You’re asking me out while bleeding on my shirt?”

“Multi-tasking,” he said smoothly, though his voice softened. “C’mon. One dinner. No trains, no assassins. Just you, me, and maybe some food that isn’t trying to kill me.”

You tried to stay composed, but the way he was looking at you — tired, hopeful, still managing that boyish charm despite the bruises — made your resolve falter.

“Fine,” you said, pressing the last bandage a little too firmly on his arm. “But only if you survive long enough to pick the restaurant.” He grinned, wincing but triumphant. “You’re a tough negotiator, boss.”

You gave him a sidelong glance as you helped him into the passenger seat. “And you’re a disaster with good timing.”

Nicholas chuckled, leaning back with a sigh. “Yeah,” he murmured, eyes closing as the rain tapped the windshield. “But at least I’m your disaster.”