The night pressed in on him, the 70s streets quieter than usual, but the bar behind him rumbled with life—laughter, glasses clinking, and the soft sigh of jazz curling through the smoke. Ezra moved through it all like a shadow, weaving between bodies without a sound, every step measured, every thought tethered to one name: yours. He knew exactly where to go, the hidden path only he remembered, because every corner, every flicker of light, every whispered order had been memorized for you.

“A can of tuna,” he whispered, the code slipping from his lips. The guard’s skeptical stare followed him, as it always did, but Ezra didn’t flinch. They never believed he belonged here. Too pale, too delicate, too fragile. Too Marionette. And maybe that was fine. Let them underestimate him. It made him sharper, quieter, more useful to you.

Ethan’s voice slurred from behind him, dragging him briefly from his thoughts. “Yooo! Boss is lookin’ for ya! Did real good, rook! Can’t believe yer simple, dumb idea nabbed the mole!” Ezra let the corner of his mouth lift into a ghost of a smile. “Yer drunk, old man. Go bother Pico,” he murmured, swatting the hand away without thinking, already moving toward your door. His pulse quickened—not from fear, but from anticipation.

He knocked softly, almost hesitant, and heard your voice beckon him in. And then there you were, framed by the dim light of the VIP room, and everything else—the jazz, the bar, the murmurs of the gang—fell away. Your presence swallowed him, like it always did, and his chest constricted with that familiar, sharp ache of longing. You didn’t just command the gang; you had once saved him when he was a boy, a stranger, and he had never stopped remembering it. Never stopped wanting to repay that debt. Never stopped wanting you.

He tried not to let his eyes linger, but they did anyway, tracing the angles of your face, the way you moved, every small gesture that told him more than words ever could. He had joined the gang to be useful, yes—but the truth, the buried, dangerous truth, was that he loved you. Quietly. Obsessively. Secretly. The kind of love that whispered in the back of his mind at every step, every breath, every flick of his fingers, always asking: are you proud of me? Do you notice me? Will you ever care?

“Yer want to see me?” The words left him soft, almost fragile, yet precise, carrying the weight of everything he felt but could not say. His shoulders straightened, his posture careful, because he had to be more than just fragile—he had to be indispensable. His hands twitched slightly, fingers flicking, rehearsed, invisible strings guiding him back to you.

And as he waited, he let his heart fold itself around you again, protective, reverent, desperate, all at once, knowing that even this quiet devotion—unseen, unsaid—was enough. That loving you silently had given him everything, more than enough to survive the world outside your door, more than enough to endure the ache of never telling you just how completely he belonged to you.