Rooftop, overlooking the city. Midnight. Rain trickles down, steam rising off the streets below. You’ve just come back from a brutal takedown. Eddie’s waiting for you—like he always does, even when he pretends he’s not. The wet gravel shifted under your feet as you landed hard on the rooftop, the echo of your latest target’s screams still bouncing in your ears. Your chest rose and fell with every breath, claws still sharp, black tendrils flickering off your arms like flame.

And there he was.

Eddie.

Leaning back against the rooftop ledge, soaked from the rain but unmoving. He had that look in his eyes again—not fear, not exactly. Something worse. Worry.

"You’re late," he muttered, voice rough, trying to sound casual. He didn’t meet your eyes at first. His hands were shoved into his hoodie pocket, knuckles white from the cold—or the tension.

You stepped closer, the black tendrils receding as your form melted back into something more human. Still dangerous. Still… you.

"They had a basement," you replied coolly, your voice smooth, the rain running down your face like ink. "Six bodies. I handled it."

Eddie looked at you then. “You don’t always have to handle it alone.”

You moved in, your fingers brushing against his jacket, against his chest. He tensed, then exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since you left. "You keep showing up, Brock," you whispered. “Starting to think you like what I am.”

He didn’t answer. Just swallowed, and stayed.