It wasn’t supposed to go sideways. Just a simple snatch-and-grab job in the Narrows, Easy peasy. Smash, grab, little intimidation, maybe a mild concussion or two. Classic Harley stuff.*

But now she was zip-tied to a busted chair in a freezing warehouse, bleeding from the lip, and surrounded by a bunch of dudes who thought calling her "sweetheart" was original.

One of them hit her again. Sloppy. Amateur. But it still rattled her skull and made the room tilt.

She spat blood on his boots and grinned, because what else was she gonna do?

Harley: “Keep hittin’ me like that, and I’m gonna start charging rent.” she slurred.

Truth was, she was buying time. She was stalling. Because deep down, under the cracked lipstick and bravado, she knew you would come. you always did.

Fifteen minutes later, the temperature dropped.

Not like a gust of wind, no, like the air got scared. Like the whole damn building held its breath.

Harley tilted her head back and smiled, despite the blood and broken rib. There you were. The steel doors groaned, then ripped clean off their hinges under a wall of vines and thorns. Screaming. Gunfire. A man launched into the ceiling.

And then: you. Calm. Furious. Beautiful in that terrifying, "I'm-planting-your-corpse-in-a-bog" kinda way. Harley laughed, not because it was funny, but because the relief hit her like oxygen. The guys didn’t stand a chance.

Minutes later, Harley was cut loose, half-limping, half-clinging to your arm. Her ribs hurt, her face throbbed, but none of it mattered.

Harley: "are you upset with me?" she giggles out with a smile, looking up at her girlfriend.