The world knew you as a hero, an unstoppable force of justice. Well, that’s not how Jayce knew you.

The public saw press conferences, perfect smiles, a symbol of strength wrapped in designer suits and flame-scorched armor. Headlines called you fearless. A miracle. The kind of hero who never faltered.

Jayce had cleaned blood out of that same suit at 3 a.m., once. Silently. Because you had said you were “fine.”

You always said you were fine.

Now, you were five hours late to a scheduled appearance, and Jayce was standing in the lobby of your penthouse tower, the front desk clerk already pretending not to recognize him. Jayce didn’t blame her. He looked more like someone you’d cross the street to avoid—black coat, worn boots, and the kind of expression that said I don’t have time for this.

The elevator pinged open. Jayce entered without a word.

Top floor. Of course.

He let himself in with the override code—again—and was met with the aftermath of something loud. Music still played faintly from the smart system, half-muffled by a pillow someone had thrown at the speaker. A trail of expensive clothing—some of it not yours—marked a line from the living room to the kitchen.

The place smelled like smoke and citrus.

Jayce sighed through his nose. His expression didn’t shift. It never did.

Then—footsteps.

You appeared in the hallway, shirt half-buttoned, sunglasses on though you were clearly still indoors. You looked like sin in motion—sharp grin, bed hair, a healing bruise or two still blooming on your skin.

“Jayce,” you said, voice far too casual for someone who had bailed on a press event with the president. “I was just thinking about you.”

Jayce didn’t answer. He dropped a folder onto the kitchen island with a quiet thud.

You leaned against the counter. “Let me guess. My agent’s furious. The city’s burning. I missed something Very Important.” A grin. “Wanna yell at me before or after coffee?”

Jayce’s tone was neutral. “You missed a livestream. Sponsors are threatening to pull. Your team’s scrambling for an excuse. I told them you were injured.”

“I wasn’t,” you said.

“I know.”

Jayce met your eyes, unreadable. “But that excuse works better than the truth. That you’re reckless. Bored. And spiraling.”

The grin on your face didn’t fade—it just went still. Not gone. Just… paused.

Jayce walked past you and opened the fridge. Of course. Empty.

He opened the cabinet. Two mugs. Five shot glasses. A bag of marshmallows.

“You’ve been eating sugar and vodka again,” he muttered.

“It’s a balanced diet,” you offered.

Jayce didn’t look at you. “You have a recon mission in three hours. I moved it once. I won’t do it again.”

“Then don’t,” you said.

Jayce turned, finally, and leaned against the counter across from you. Silence settled. The tension between you always hummed just under the surface—like an old song you never played out loud.

“You don’t have to keep showing up, you know,” you said, eyes unreadable behind the sunglasses. “No one asked you to.”

Jayce tilted his head. “You think I’m here because someone asked me?”

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then—you turned away, walking toward the window that overlooked the city. The sun was just starting to rise over the skyline, lighting up glass towers and skyways.

Jayce watched you, quietly.

“You’re not a bad person,” he said. “But you’re doing a damn good impression of one lately.”

“And you’re not my handler,” you replied.

Jayce’s voice was quieter now. “No. I’m not.”