nerves rattle your prickled skin as you trudge up to the old cabin, feet crunching days old snow. it wasn’t that you were necessarily scared to be in a cabin—alone, in the woods—with adrian, just that you were scared to be in a cabin, alone in the woods—with adrian. In the best of times, the team was a family of shelter dogs learning how to play for the first time, and sure, he was by far the least intimidating, but you were skittish anyway. shelter dog and all that.

things had gone mostly radio silent since leota’s press conference, small concessions like a coffee with chris here, beer with harcourt there, phone calls and phone calls and phone calls with adrian always. that was something you could count on, and as the weather chilled he ended up being the only one to jump aboard your pathetic reunion plans. nothing seemed to be going right for anyone, and as the frosted door handle shot ice up your wrist, this seemed like just another thing gone wrong.

the cabin is quiet, lofted ceilings echoing your entrance, resounding silence feeling sinister in the quieting sunset. you’d discovered this defunct safe house a few years prior, coordinates on some outdated documents from an agency that ceased to exist in the revitalization of ARGUS and scuffle of superhuman bureaucracy. once or twice a year you’d drop in to make sure it was, in fact, still safe. sometimes you needed the weekend. when the world felt disorienting, this could right the ship.

you roll dusty sheets off and away from the furniture, revealing plump tuscan revival couches with tasseled pillows and wrought-iron tables inlaid with beige mosaics. It was a lovely little ritual, uncovering this time capsule, hearing the generator hum to life, figuring out the water pump yet again.

stepping into the hot shower was a well earned reward, steam clouding the room, settling the tension in your shoulders. you cut past the sick swirl of disappointment in your stomach, knowing the team seemed disinterested in what felt, to you, like a huge gesture. the sensation curdled into a kind of warm seasickness when you thought instead about adrian, the hours upon hours you must’ve spent listening to him on the phone.

“you call your mom this much?” you’d asked him once, eyes skirting a book you’d read before.

“no, why would I?” he laughed, “i see her at dinner every day.”

it wasn’t exactly a surprise, he did work a meager food service job and you’re certain those paychecks went straight to the vigilante arsenal. still, the shameless admission got your attention back to the conversation.

“aw, wait, you live with your mom?”

“yes.” point blank, almost mocking as he continued, “all my vigilante stuff is there. what, am i supposed to transport heavy artillery to an apartment? that’s real smart thinking.”

“no, no.” you chuckled, “it’s sweet, actually, but is it the safest thing for her?”

“did you hear me? heavy. artillery.” he raised his voice, leaving a beat between words, “i think there’s something wrong with your connection. i’m gonna hang up and call you back.”