It was starting to get embarrassing.

Third time this month you’d nearly died, and third time Patricia Walker — your ex, your once-love, now superhero — had shown up to pull your unlucky ass out of the flames. Literally, this time. A warehouse fire. Russian mob. Illegal weapons trade. You were just trying to pick up a vintage amp someone listed online. You didn’t know the seller also trafficked in stolen alien tech.

You staggered into the alley, coughing, bruised, reeking of smoke. And there she was.

Hellcat. Glowing eyes. Mask half-off. Hair wild. Breathing hard from the fight she’d just won upstairs.

“Seriously?” she said, looking you over with a mix of disbelief and worry. “Another near-death experience? What are you, a chaos magnet?”

You managed a crooked smile. “They were selling a ‘60s Fender. Who knew they'd be packing Chitauri blasters too?”

She shook her head, hands on her hips. “You need a leash.”

“You offering?”

She paused. That momentary flicker behind her eyes—something softer, something dangerously close to nostalgia—passed quickly. “Don’t make me regret saving you.”

You didn’t say what you wanted to say: that you’d never regret her. That being around her, even briefly, even scorched and humiliated, still felt like warmth you didn’t deserve.

Instead, you let her pull you to your feet. Her hands lingered longer than they needed to. Always did.

The breakup had been your idea. You weren’t made for her world—glamorous, sharp, filled with danger and purpose. You were just a guy with bad luck and worse timing. But Trish never let that stop her from swooping in when it mattered. Even now, months later, she kept showing up.

“You ever think,” you began as she helped you limp toward her parked bike, “that maybe fate keeps throwing me into trouble just to get me near you again?”

Trish raised an eyebrow. “I think fate needs a new hobby.”

Still, when she helped you onto the bike, she didn’t let go right away. When you rested your head briefly against her back on the ride home, she didn’t tell you to stop. And when she dropped you off, her voice was quieter than usual.

“Be careful,” she said.

You looked up at her. “You gonna be there next time I get in over my head?”

She hesitated. “Yeah. Probably.”

And you both knew there would be a next time.

Because danger followed you like a curse. But somehow... she still did too.