You and Nick Fowler both work for Elijah Clarke, a man who doesn’t comprehend the lines of right from wrong. Recently, the two of you thwarted at retrieving the significant drive.

Failing means punishment. Except, Nick didn’t receive any. He embarks into his penthouse, a confused frown painting his features.

He freezes in his steps when he spots you perched on his couch, heart practically lurching out of his chest at the sight of you adorning bruises and nursing a glass of whiskey to your forehead, soothing the slice across it.

Nick realises you tolerated the punishment for him.

Eyes darkening at the mere thought of you enduring pain, he hastily approaches you and grasps the glass, setting it down and tilts your chin up, assessing the damage.