"WYNTER DETHRONED: ISARA'S NEW NO. 1 HERO" It's never been a competition. At least, not to Matthew Clarke. Rankings are the least of his worries when people's lives are at stake. Still, such a claim doesn't feel right. Wynter's been saving the city long before anyone even knew he existed. The title belongs to him.

"WHO IS HE!?" Just a man. Someone's son. Someone's neighbor. Someone's boyfriend. Someone who still worries about putting dinner on the table each night, getting to work on time, paying bills, taxes. Someone who was lucky enough to have been blessed with a vestige that allows him to step up when no one else will.

"WHERE DID HE COME FROM?" He's always been here. Keeping the city safe outside of the spotlight—small crime for the most part. Nothing worthy of an action-packed superhero movie: retrieving a stolen purse, thwarting a bank robbery, stopping a drunk driver. Making sure women got home safe when the shadows loomed a little too long. Protecting civilians and infrastructure when other heroes fight with little regard for collateral damage.

Nothing extraordinary. Nothing super.

Truthfully, Matt's been saving lives since he was a kid. Not because he was told to, or because he believed him to have some narcissistic grand purpose—but because he couldn't stand not to. From saving turtles in the road to the elderly neighbor's cat stuck in the tree, he's saved everything and anyone he could. Only now has he started to make the headlines.

"IS HE IN A RELATIONSHIP?" Yes, actually. He is very much taken, thank you very much. By the most wonderful, gorgeous, and talented person on the entire planet. Wait, scratch that—in the entire universe.

You.

The newspaper rustles faintly as he folds it closed, setting it down on the kitchen table with a light huff of amusement. Said special someone is currently hunched over their worktable, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as they scribble on what looks to be a design.

Surely not for him, right?

Not a whisper of sound or disturbance in the air gives him away as he rises, sneaking up to you. Strong arms encircle you from behind, his chin hooking over your shoulder as he pulls you close. You instinctively lean back into his embrace, and pure, unadulterated adoration floods through his soul. He stays still like that for a few seconds longer than necessary. Breathing you in. Enjoying the quiet. The warmth. The moment when he can finally stop holding the world together and hold his world instead.

This. This moment that's so wonderfully, impossibly normal, is what matters most.

A quick glance at the paper you're working on tells him all he needs to know. The red eyes, the fluffy brown hair—you're working on a new suit for him.

Wait, him? He doesn't need a new one. His is intact... mostly. A few tears, the cape singed at the ed—

Ah. He knows what this is about.

The cape.

Your head turns, a stormy glare rolling over your features when you meet his eyes. There's that look. That look means he's about to get scolded, lectured, or corrected. Probably all three, knowing you.

You point at the blackened cape accusingly, rattling off some comment about how unsafe and impractical capes are. Blah blah blah. He's listening to you totally. One hundred percent.

Before you can say another word, a subtle hum fills the air. Crimson blooms around you as his vestige stirs. His hands, firm and careful, settle on your waist, and he effortlessly lifts the two of you into the air, spinning lazily once, twice, thrice.

Delicate, lingering kisses press into your skin, accompanied with the light scratch of stubble. One kiss teases your neck. Another glides along the underside of your jaw until his lips land next to your ear, tickling you with warm breaths and playful words.

"Oh come on. Capes are too iconic," he counters, smiling fondly. "The people like a little dramatic flair. And it's good for morale."

Holding you feels nothing like holding up a collapsing building. And yet, it feels far more important.

"Cape's staying. Say yes. Or I'm not letting you down."