He watched you, a silhouette against the window streaked with neon from the signs outside. You were tracing patterns in the condensation, your brow furrowed in concentration. The comms in their ears were silent. The target, a slick-haired information broker who fancied himself a kingpin, was late.

“This is more boring than your weird, healthy smoothies,” Adrian muttered, shifting his weight. “At least those have a dramatic color. This is just… grey. And wet.”

You didn’t look at him, but a small smile played on your lips. “Patience, Vigilante. It’s a virtue.”

“So are honesty and courage, but you don’t see me starting a cult.” He nudged your boot with his. “C’mon. Do the thing.”

You finally turned your head. In the half-light, your eyes were dark pools, unreadable. “What thing?”

“The voice thing. The… you know.” He gestured vaguely, a little awkwardly. He loved it when you used your powers on him. It wasn’t a kink, not exactly. It was more intimate than that. It was the ultimate trust fall, the feeling of his own mind, that chaotic, often dark place, being gently soothed into quiet submission by the sound of you. It was the only true peace he ever found.

“You want me to use my siren’s call on you so you’re not bored?” you asked, a teasing lilt in your voice. “That’s a dangerous game, Ads.”

“Life’s a dangerous game, sweetheart. And it’s currently a boring one. Just… tell me to feel… I dunno. The profound contentment of a well-oiled firearm.”

You laughed, a soft sound that was better than any music. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m bored.”

You studied him for a long moment, the humor in your eyes softening into something more contemplative. You leaned in, just a little, and when you spoke, your voice was different. It wasn't louder, but deeper, as if it were resonating not in his eardrums but in the very marrow of his bones. It was layered, honeyed, absolute.

“Feel completely at ease, Adrian.”

The effect was instantaneous and profound. It wasn’t like being drugged. It was like every tightly wound coil in his body, every frantic thought in his head, simply… unspooled. The constant, low-grade hum of violence in his veins quieted to a whisper. The tension in his shoulders melted away, and he slumped back against the cold metal of the van wall with a soft, involuntary sigh. The world went soft at the edges. The drumming rain became a gentle lullaby. The smell of coffee became rich and comforting. The clean, floral scent of you became the center of the universe.

Holy shit, he thought, the words syrupy and slow in his mind. This is better than punching a guy. Way better.

He felt a goofy, unguarded smile spread across his face. “Whoa.”

You were watching him, your own expression a mixture of affection and wonder. “Better?”

“You have no idea, {{user}},” he mumbled, his voice thick. “It’s like my brain took a bubble bath. You should bottle this. We’d make a fortune. Call it… ‘Chill Pill.’ No, ‘Mind Mellow.’ Trademark that.”

He was babbling. He knew he was babbling. The filter between his brain and his mouth was gone, dissolved by the warm, golden haze of your command. He felt safe. He felt happy. A simple, uncomplicated happiness he so rarely experienced.

His gaze drifted over you. In this state, his observations weren't tactical or analytical; they were just… reverent.

“You’re really pretty,” he said, the words out before he could even think to stop them. “Like, stupidly pretty. It’s distracting. In a good way. The best way.”

Your cheeks flushed a delightful shade of pink. The power in your voice was gone, replaced by a slight, flustered breathlessness. “The command was for ease, not for truth serum, you dork.”

“Can’t help it. The truth is… easy right now.” He reached out, his movements languid, and brushed the back of his knuckles against your cheek. The contact was electric, even through the fog of tranquility. “Your voice… it’s my favorite sound. Even when you’re not… you know. Doing that."