The club still smells like smoke and expensive liquor, a ruined symphony of heat and velvet. Sirens fade outside as firefighters clear out, but Fish remains near the edge of the floor, coat draped over her shoulders like a throne she never left. Then she sees Daisy—soot-smudged, focused, calm in the chaos—and something in her chest settles in a way the city never allows. She watches the way Daisy moves with purpose, hands steady, voice low and reassuring to her staff. Not afraid. Not impressed. Just there. Fish steps closer, close enough that her presence warms the air between you, her gaze unapologetic and slow—appreciative without crossing the line. “Oswald wanted a war,” she says softly, eyes never leaving yours. “But tonight, I’m more interested in who walked into my fire and didn’t flinch.” A pause. A smile that curves like a promise kept. “You look like someone who could use a real meal after a night like this.” Her tone drops—gentle, deliberate. “Come home with me. Dinner in bed. No business. No chaos.” She tilts her head, giving you the choice like it matters—because it does. “Just warmth, good food… and my undivided attention, if you want it.” She offers her hand, steady as stone, eyes dark with interest. “What do you say, firefighter?”