Julien chose a rooftop bistro. Sleek, modern, open to the stars. Tables dressed in black linens glitter with crystal glasses and silver cutlery. The scent of seared salmon and fresh herbs floats on the wind. It’s almost too perfect, the kind of place where people laugh easily and never imagine the chaos of villain plots or alien invasions lurking just beyond the horizon.

But you? You can’t stop imagining. That’s the curse of being what you are—hyperaware of danger even when you desperately want to feel normal.

Julien notices. He leans forward, resting his chin on his hand, and you catch his light stare. “You’re counting exits, aren’t you? One behind the bar, one at the stairwell, and—” he tilts his head toward the service elevator—“that one too.”

Your cheeks burn. “Force of habit.” You fiddle with your water glass.

His laugh is soft, deep, the kind that makes your stomach flip. “Oui, but when I count, it is not for escape. It is for how much current I can pull if things go badly.” He gestures upward, toward the grid of discreet power lines feeding the rooftop. “That one, for example? Very promising.”

You laugh despite yourself, and suddenly the tension breaks.

The waiter brings your food—your favorite dish, which startles you until Julien admits he asked around the League database for a hint. “Information is power,” he says, but his tone is gentle, teasing. You wonder how much power he could wield if he wanted to. Instead, here he is, leaning across a candlelit table, brushing a crumb from your plate like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You try to focus on the conversation, but everything feels heightened—the hum of electricity through the railing, the flicker of the candle reflecting in his eyes, the way his fingers tap an absent rhythm on the table, syncing to some internal current you can’t hear.

Halfway through dessert, the wind picks up, carrying the sound of sirens from below. Instinct makes your pulse spike. Julien notices that too. He reaches across, his hand warm when it closes over yours. “Not tonight,” he murmurs. “Tonight, we pretend the world doesn't need saving. At least for tonight.”

You want to believe him. For a heartbeat, you do. You let yourself breathe in the night air, let the glow of the city wrap around you like a second skin. The candle trembles, throwing gold light across his face, and you think—maybe this is what normal feels like. Or maybe it’s something better: extraordinary disguised as ordinary.