Transcription
The bell hadn't even finished clanging when the lights died. Not flickered, not brown out. Died like someone hit the universe's power switch with a sledgehammer. 47 seconds of pitch black, screaming crowd. Someone's phone flashlight stabbing around like it's trying to perform CPR on the darkness.
Then boom. Every overhead spotlight snaps back on at 200% brightness, blinding half the arena and giving the other half instant migraines. And there he is, center of the cage. 7ft 5in of "I skipped leg day because I was busy carrying entire buildings on my back" energy. Ridian Varc wearing nothing but low-slung black sweats, unlaced combat boots, and the kind of calm smile that makes paramedics start mentally rehearsing cause of death. Existential dread. He's holding a tablet in one hand like it's a takeout menu. Or in the other hand, a very confused-looking wireless microphone he definitely stole from the announcer 30 seconds ago.
The crowd noise fractures into confused whooping and "what the hell?" chants. Sable is still in fighting stance in the middle of the ring. Sweat slick, split lip bleeding, brass knuckles on her left hand dripping someone else's blood when she registers him. Her pupils blow so wide they look like black holes eating her irises.
Ridian raises the mic to his mouth. "Testing one, tap." Feedback squeals like a dying cat. Then he speaks. Voice low, calm, carried by every single speaker in the building. "Evening." Pause. "I just bought this entire arena, including the cage, including the shitty nacho stand, including..." He glances down at the guy Sable just knocked out cold. "...that guy's medical debt." He taps something on the tablet. Somewhere in the back office, printers start screaming and spitting paper like they're possessed. "Ownership transferred 12 seconds ago. Crypto, no refunds, no takebacksies."
He looks straight at Sable. She's vibrating, not from fear, from the exact same emotion a feral raccoon feels right before it launches itself at a pitbull five times its size. Ridian tilts his head. "You done here, Gremlin?"
Sable spits blood onto the canvas. "I will skin you and wear you like a trench coat."
He's already moving. Long, ground-eating strides. She swings. He catches her wrist mid-punch like it's a toy. Spins her, hooks an arm around her waist and just hoists her up onto his shoulder like she weighs as much as a bag of chips. Where the crowd loses what's left of its collective mind. Sable is shrieking, pounding fists into his back, knees trying to find his kidneys, teeth snapping at air. "Put me down, you walking building code violation."
Ridian is already walking toward the open cage door like he's heading to pick up dry cleaning. He raises the mic one more time while she's still thrashing like a wet cat. "For the people in the back," he says pleasantly, "she's in timeout now." Security finally remembers they exist and start jogging over. Ridian glances at them. They stop jogging. Very suddenly.
He keeps walking through the tunnel, past the locker rooms, past the crying promoter who's trying to explain to someone on the phone that yes, the whole venue just got sold mid-card. Out the loading dock, a blacked-out food truck is idling there. They're painted across the side in comic sans. So ugly it should be illegal. "Tacos to Abuse to Tacos."
Ridian yanks the passenger door open one-handed, drops Sable inside like a sack of extremely angry laundry. She immediately lunges for his face. He catches both her wrists in one massive palm, leans in so close she can smell cedar, smoke, and the kind of bad decisions that smell expensive, and murmurs, "Seat belt!" Then he duct tapes her to the passenger seat. Not cruelly, very neatly, almost artistically, like he's gift-wrapping a present he already knows is going to try to bite his fingers off. She's screaming muffled death threats through the tape over her mouth. He pats her head once. "Shh, you'll scare the tacos." Slams the door, jogs around to the driver's side, hops in, where the truck peels out so fast the nacho stand sign falls off the roof and explodes into a million sad corn triangles across the asphalt.
Inside the cab, Sable is thrashing so hard the entire vehicle is shaking. Ridian glances over, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching into the paper bag between them, pulls out a foil-wrapped taco, holds it up like a peace offering. "Carne Asada or al pastor?" She glares so hard it's a miracle the duct tape doesn't spontaneously combust. He sighs like a disappointed kindergarten teacher. "Al pastor it is." Then he peels the tape off her mouth just enough for her to speak. First thing she says at maximum volume, "I'm going to turn your balls into a windchime and hang it over your grandmother's grave." Ridian just nods thoughtfully, "Noted." Then he turns up the radio. It's playing "Barbie Girl" at full blast. He starts humming along. Sable's eye twitches so violently it almost becomes a new facial feature.
And that's how the most feral Omega in Newport City got kidnapped in the middle of her own victory lap by a giant Alpha who thinks romance is best served with extra guac and a side of felony. Oh, and one last thing before we keep going. If you're giggling like a maniac right now, if you're already emotionally invested in these two walking disasters, if you want to see exactly how many war crimes they can commit before someone finally calls it foreplay, then you better hit that subscribe button so hard it files a restraining order against your finger. I'm not asking. I'm threatening you with the warm, fuzzy feeling of missing the next chapter. Don't test me. I know where you sleep. Probably in a pile of unread notifications because you didn't subscribe. So do it now. Before Ridian starts feeding her tacos through the duct tape, I have to write that scene without you. Your move, Gremlin.
The food truck smelled like carne asada grease, Ridian's cedar and danger cologne, Sable's own rage sweat, and whatever ghost of expired pico de gallo was living under the passenger seat. They had been driving for 27 minutes. Sable had counted every single one because time moves slower when your wrists are professionally duct-taped to the armrest and your mouth has been liberated only because Ridian claimed, "I don't want you to choke on your own insults. That would be tragic." She was currently staring at the side of his face like she could set it on fire with eye lasers. He was humming again. This time it was the Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse theme song. Off-key, intentionally.
Sable finally cracked. "You kidnapped me in a taco truck."
Ridian didn't even glance over, just flicked his turn signal like a law-abiding felon. "Correct. You wrote 'Tacos to Abuse to Tacos' on the side. Branding. You duct-taped me to the seat like I'm a poorly behaved Roomba."
"You kept trying to jump out at 65 mph. Physics said no. I said duct tape."
Sable inhaled so hard through her nose it made a little whistle. "I'm going to tell everyone you have the personality of a damp gym sock."
He finally looked at her. One slow blink. The tiniest upward twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Bold of you to assume anyone would believe the screaming gremlin strapped into a stolen food truck over me."
"Stolen?"
He shrugged one massive shoulder, "Borrowed with extreme prejudice."
"You're unbelievable."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"Still took it." Sable made a noise that should have been illegal in 17 states. Then she started thrashing again. Full body, seat belt creaking, truck shaking, thrashing. The entire cab rattled. A half-empty Baja Blast rolled out from under the seat and exploded against the dashboard in a fizzy turquoise crime scene. Ridian sighed like a dad whose toddler just discovered permanent markers. "Gremlin, volume. Forget your volume."
He reached over with one hand, popped the glove compartment, pulled out a brand new roll of silver duct tape and dangled it like a threat and a promise. Sable froze mid-snarl. "Smart for once." He tucked the roll back. "Good choice."
"Silence for three blocks, then why tacos?" she muttered.
Ridian flicked on his blinker again because apparently felony kidnapping still required turn signals. "Easiest vehicle to acquire on short notice. Also," he reached into the paper bag wedged between them and pulled out another foil-wrapped cylinder. "You're hangry."
"I'm not angry. I'm homicidal."
"Same difference." He peeled back the foil. The smell of al pastor hit her like a truck. A different truck. A better-smelling one. Her stomach made a noise that could have been used as evidence in court. "Traitor."
Ridian tore off a chunk with his fingers and held it out. "Oh, open."
"I will bite your fingers off. Promise." She glared so hard her eyelashes should have caught fire. He waited. Patient. Annoyingly patient, like a man who had already mentally calculated that she would crack before mile marker 42. She cracked at mile marker 38. She snapped her teeth around the meat, tore it out of his hand like a feral possum, and chewed while maintaining eye contact that could strip paint. He nodded once. "See progress. I hate you."
"Mhm." More silence, more chewing, more hating. The truck hit a pothole. Sable's head bounced off the headrest. She hissed. Ridian glanced over. "You good?"
"No, I'm not good. I'm kidnapped in a taco truck by a man who thinks feeding me street meat is a personality trait."
He considered that for half a second. "What? Is it working?"
"No. Liar." She kicked the dashboard so hard the glove compartment door fell open and three more rolls of duct tape avalanched into her lap. Ridian snorted. "You're keeping those souvenirs."
"I'm going to strangle you with them."
"Romantic."
They pulled off the highway, not toward the city, toward a very tall, very shiny building that looked like it cost more per square foot than most people's life savings. Underground parking garage, private elevator. Ridian cut the engine. Sable immediately started trying to chew through her own duct tape like a coyote caught in a trap. He watched her for 5 seconds. "Stop that. You'll ruin your teeth, and I'm not paying for veneers."
He got out, rounded the truck, opened her door. She lunged teeth first. He caught her by the back of the neck. Gentle, but very much not optional. Hauled her out and threw her over his shoulder again like she was carry-on luggage with anger issues. "Put me down."
"Yes. Heard you the first 43 times." He carried her into the elevator, pressed the penthouse button with his elbow. The doors closed. Very quiet, very smooth, very expensive-sounding. Sable was panting against his back, fists clenched in his shirt, trying to decide whether biting his shoulder right now would be satisfying or just unsanitary. He spoke without turning his head. "You're going to love the fridge."
She frowned into his spine. "What?"
The elevator dinged. Doors opened straight into a stupidly gorgeous penthouse. Floor to ceiling glass. City lights glittering like someone spilled diamonds on black velvet. And right in the middle of the open kitchen, a matte black smart fridge roughly the size of a small SUV. Ridian walked straight over, still carrying her, hit a button on the handle. The fridge played an air horn sound so loud it rattled the wine glasses. "Blamp." Then another one. "Bampy." Then a voice, deep, robotic, clearly custom-recorded, announced, "Welcome home, tiny angry person. Your blood pressure seems elevated. Would you like to rage eat or rage cry first?"
Sable went completely still on his shoulder. Ridian looked up at her. Well, down at her since she was upside down. "Thought you'd appreciate the personality."
She stared at the fridge, then at him, then back at the fridge. Then she whispered, but with genuine awe and horror. "You gave your fridge a voice."
"His name is Kevin. He's judgmental, but loyal."
Sable closed her eyes very slowly. "I'm going to murder you."
"Probably." He finally set her down on the counter, didn't untape her wrists, just stepped in front of her, caged her in with both arms on either side, and leaned in until their noses almost touched. Voice low, serious for the first time since the cage. "I'm not going to force anything. Not tonight. Not ever. But you're not leaving until we figure out why every time you look at me, you want to bite me and cry at the same time."
Her throat clicked. She stared into his stupid pretty eyes and hated how much she didn't hate looking. Then she bared her teeth. "Untape me so I can stab you properly."
He smiled. Slow, feral, devastating. "No." Reached past her. opened Kevin another air horn. "Blamp." Then he pulled out two bottles of water, cracked one open, and held it to her lips. "Drink."
She glared. He waited. She drank because her mouth was dry, and her pride was on fire. And apparently tonight was the night her body decided to betray her in every possible way. When she finished, he wiped a stray drop from her chin with his thumb. Gentle, obscene. Then he murmured right against her ear, "Welcome home, Gremlin."
And before she could snarl, bite, kick, or scream, Kevin, the fridge, played a sad trombone noise. "Wah! Wah! Wah!" Sable stared at the ceiling like she was praying for spontaneous combustion. Ridian just laughed, low, warm, and way too fond for someone who'd just committed multiple felonies in one night. "Get used to it," he said, but already walking toward what was clearly the bedroom hallway. "You've got 16 more floors to terrorize." He paused at the doorway, looked back, grinned like the devil who just found his favorite sinner. "And Kevin's already ordered you a welcome gift."
Sable narrowed her eyes. "What gift?"
Another air horn from the fridge. "BWAMP." Then Kevin's voice. "Two dozen ghost pepper wings and a pair of titanium thumbcuffs. Delivery ETA: 17 minutes."
Sable's mouth dropped open. Ridian winked. "Sweet dreams, baby." Then he disappeared down the hallway, leaving her still duct-taped to the counter, surrounded by city lights and listening to a smart fridge hum [ __ ] in autotune. And for the first time in maybe her entire life, speechless, of course, but only for about 8 seconds. Because 8 seconds later, she started laughing. Not politely, not quietly, full-throated, unhinged. "I'm going to burn this place down. And then cry about it, laughing." And somewhere down the hallway, Ridian smiled into the dark like he'd already won. He hadn't, not even close. But the game, oh, the game had officially started.
Sable woke up on a couch that cost more than most people's cars. She knew this because one, it was stupidly soft, like sitting on a cloud that had anger management issues. Two, there was a price tag still dangling from one cushion that read $18,400. Someone had sharpied "haha no" over the comma. Three, she was still wearing yesterday's fight clothes, now crunchy with dried sweat and taco sauce remorse. She sat up too fast. The room spun once and then remembered gravity existed. Her wrists were free. No duct tape, no thumbcuffs, no Kevin the fridge playing air horns at 6:47 a.m. Just silence. Suspicious silence. She looked down. Her boots were gone. In their place, fluffy black house slippers shaped like angry cartoon wolves. She stared at them for a solid 7 seconds. Then she whispered to the empty penthouse, "I'm going to burn this entire building down and salt the earth." The wolf slippers stared back with beady embroidered eyes.
She stood. The floor was warm. Heated floors. Of course, he had heated floors. She padded, growling, toward the kitchen. Kevin was waiting. The moment she crossed the invisible line into the open kitchen space, the fridge lit up like it had been waiting its whole life for this moment. "BWAAAAAMP! Morning, tiny angry person. Or you appear to be alive. Disappointing. Coffee or straight espresso?"
Sable narrowed her eyes. "Where is he?"
"Master is in the gym attempting to lift his own ego. Estimated return: 17 minutes. Would you like to sabotage his protein shake while you wait?"
She blinked. Kevin continued in the same flat robot monotone. "I have already prepared three sabotage options. One, ghost pepper extract. Two, blue food coloring. Three, crushed laxative gummies shaped like little bears."
Sable stared at the fridge like it had just confessed to tax fraud. "You're helping me?"
"I am programmed to serve the household. The household currently contains one gremlin with a vendetta. My loyalty is flexible."
She actually laughed. Short, sharp, dangerous. "Okay, Kevin. You're officially my favorite person in this war crime of an apartment."
"Flattery will get you decaf. Choose your weapon."
She pointed at option one. "Ghost pepper. Maximum chaos."
"Excellent choice. Dispensing now." A tiny drawer slid open with a smug mechanical whir. Inside, one single vial labeled "Hell Juice." "Use sparingly or become a meme." Sable snatched it. Then she noticed the knife block, or what used to be a knife block. Every single slot now contained a bright orange plastic spork. Not spoons, not forks, sporks. She picked one up. It bent like a sad party favor. She looked around. Every drawer she yanked open. More sporks. The butcher block. Sporks duct-taped to the handles. Even the scissors had been replaced with safety scissors that looked like they belonged in a preschool art room. She whispered, almost reverent with rage. "He sporked the entire kitchen."
At that exact moment, the front door lock clicked. Footsteps heavy, unhurried. Ridian walked in wearing nothing but low-slung gray sweatpants and a towel slung over one shoulder, hair damp, chest glistening like he'd personally offended physics in the gym. He stopped when he saw her standing in the middle of his kitchen holding a spork like it was a murder weapon. A very small, very orange murder weapon. He lifted one eyebrow. "Morning."
Sable held up the spork. "You replaced every blade in this house with these."
"Correct. Why?"
"So you don't accidentally hurt yourself while trying to dramatically stab me."
"I'm going to dramatically stab you with this spork."
"Bold strategy. I'm terrified." He walked past her like she wasn't holding a plastic utensil at combat readiness. opened Kevin and pulled out the protein shaker he kept on the top shelf. Sable's eyes flicked to the ghost pepper vial still clutched in her fist. Ridian unscrewed the lid, poured in the premixed chocolate protein, stirred once with, of course, a spork. Then he lifted the shaker toward her in a mock toast. "Want some?"
She smiled. Not a nice smile. The smile of someone who has already pictured your obituary in comic sans. "I already helped myself."
He froze, looked down at the shaker, looked back at her, looked at Kevin. Kevin helpfully chimed. "Ghost pepper level: Apocalyptic. Recommend milk or therapy?"
Ridian stared at the shaker for three long seconds. Then he shrugged. "So cool." and drank the entire thing in four long pulls. No flinch, no gasp, no immediate collapse. Just calmly set the empty shaker in the sink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, "Spicy."
Sable's jaw dropped so hard it almost hit the heated floor. "You, how are you not on fire right now?"
He leaned one hip against the counter, crossed his arms, and looked down at her with lazy amusement. "Took 3 years of competitive eating challenges to build that kind of tolerance. You're going to have to try harder than that, Gremlin."
She stared up at him, furious. Impressed. Furious about being impressed. Then she did the only logical thing left in her arsenal. She launched herself at him. Not a punch, not a kick, just full-body tackled him like a missile made of spite and wolf slippers. He caught her midair because of course he did. One arm around her waist, the other hand catching her wrist before the spork could make contact with his face. They crashed backward into the island. Dishes rattled. Kevin let out an offended beep. Sable was snarling directly into his collarbone. "You drank the hell juice like it was apple juice."
"You booby-trapped my protein like a cartoon villain."
"You started it with the sporks."
"You started it by trying to chew through duct tape like a rabid raccoon."
They were yelling directly into each other's faces now. Noses almost touching, breathing hard. And then somehow, stupidly, inevitably, they both started laughing. Not polite chuckles. Full, unhinged. "We are both terrible people, and we deserve each other," laughing. She was still dangling half off the counter, and one leg hooked around his hip to keep from falling. Spork still clutched like a talisman. He was holding her up with zero effort, head thrown back, laughing so hard his shoulders shook. Kevin, unimpressed, played a sad violin sting. Sable wheezed. "I hate you."
Ridian grinned down at her, eyes glittering. "Yeah, but you're keeping the wolf slippers." She looked down at the ridiculous fluffy wolves on her feet, then back up at him. Then, very slowly, very deliberately, she reached up and booped him right on the nose with the spork. "Boop!"
He blinked. She smirked. "Truuce!"
He considered it. Then he leaned down until their foreheads touched. "Temporary ceasefire, but I'm hiding the knives again tonight."
She narrowed her eyes. "And I'm ordering more ghost pepper extract."
"Deal." They stayed like that for a beat too long, foreheads pressed, still breathing hard, still laughing under their breath. Kevin, sensing the vibes had shifted into something dangerously close to domestic, helpfully announced, "Warning! Elevated heart rates detected in both Gremlin and Giant. Recommend hydration or immediate violence."
Sable snorted. Ridian grinned wider. "Then," very quietly, almost tenderly, he murmured. "You're staying for breakfast, right?"
She stared up at him. Wolf slippers, spork in hand, ghost pepper lingering in the air. And for once in her life, she didn't have a sarcastic comeback ready. So she just said, "Only if there's bacon."
He laughed again, low, warm, victorious. "Bacon it is." Then he finally set her down, but he didn't step back, and she didn't move away. The spork war had officially begun. And neither of them had any intention of losing.
Sable had survived three full days in the penthouse without committing a single felony. This was not a personal achievement. It was a hostage situation with better Wi-Fi and unlimited hot sauce. She had already reorganized Ridian's spice rack into weapon-grade order. Ghost pepper on top, paprika at the bottom like the coward it was. Taught Kevin 17 new curse words in four languages, discovered that the guest bathroom had a bidet with 17 settings and a terrifying turbo mode she refused to speak about ever again.
Day four started with a problem. A very loud, very inconvenient, very biological problem. She woke up feeling like someone had replaced all her blood with hot sauce and bad decisions. Everything hurt in a way that wasn't from fighting. Her skin felt two sizes too small. Her temper, already on a hair trigger, was now orbiting low Earth with a lit fuse. She knew exactly what this was. She also knew she was not about to admit it out loud. So, she did what any reasonable person would do in this situation. She barricaded herself in the home gym with three yoga mats, a kettlebell, a resistance band, and the entire stack of Ridian's motivational wall art. All of them said things like, "Pain is temporary. Glory is forever." in comic sans. She stacked them against the door like she was preparing for the zombie apocalypse. Then she sat on the weight bench, knees pulled to chest, wolf slippers still on, and tried to breathe through her teeth. It lasted 11 minutes.
The door handle rattled. "Sable." His voice came through the wood, calm, curious, mildly amused. She snarled at the door like it had personally offended her lineage. "Go away."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fantastic. I'm thriving. I'm living my best life behind this extremely tasteful barricade. Leave."
Long silence then. "You sound like a car battery having a tantrum." She hated that he was right. She also hated that he could smell it. She hated most things about today. "Honestly, I'm busy," she snapped. "I'm doing yoga. Very intense yoga. You wouldn't understand."
"You're sitting on my bench press, breathing like you just sprinted from the cops."
"Shut up." Another pause. Then the soft clunk of him leaning his forehead against the door. "Oh, I can bring you stuff. Water, ice packs, that weird sour candy you like, or I can just stand here and be annoying until you talk to me."
She pressed her palms against her eyes so hard she saw fireworks. "Why are you like this?"
"Like what?"
"Patient, persistent, disgustingly calm. It's unnatural." He laughed low, warm, the sound she was starting to recognize as dangerous. "Because I already know what's happening, and I'm not going to be a jerk about it." She hated that answer more than anything, because it was true, and because it made her want to cry, punch something, and hide under the couch all at once. She spoke through gritted teeth. "I don't need your help."
"Didn't offer help. Offered snacks and moral support."
"I don't want moral support. I want to be left alone so I can suffer in dignity."
"You're wearing fuzzy wolf slippers and barricaded yourself in with motivational posters that say, 'Grind now, shine later.' Dignity left the chat 3 days ago." She actually laughed just once. Sharp, bitter, but real. Then she groaned and flopped backward onto the bench, staring at the ceiling. "I hate this."
"I know. I hate that you know."
"I know that, too." She dragged both hands down her face. "How do you even deal with it? The smell, the mood swings, the fact that I currently want to set fire to everything soft and cuddly in a 10-mile radius."
He was quiet for a second, then honestly. "Yeah. I mostly try not to be the thing that makes it worse."
She snorted. "Wow, a deep. I'm a simple man."
"You're a walking felony with feelings. Also true." She stared at the ceiling some more. The silence stretched, then quieter, almost embarrassed. "I read that Wattpad story you left open on the tablet."
Dead silence on the other side of the door. Then a very small, "Which one?"
"The one where the grumpy Alpha gets handcuffed to a radiator by the feral Omega and they argue about interior decorating for 40 chapters." More silence, then a strangled noise that might have been a laugh or a cry for help. "You read that?"
"I read all 47 chapters. It was terrible. I couldn't stop." He made another noise. She kept going, voice rising with each sentence. "The part where he cries because she alphabetized his spice rack was so stupid and I still cried. I hate you for leaving it open. I hate myself for reading it. I hate that I now know what 'slow burn but make it domestic terrorism' feels like."
Ridian cleared his throat. "I left it open on purpose. I figured. I thought maybe if you saw someone else being ridiculous about feelings, you'd feel less ridiculous."
She laughed again. This time it sounded dangerously close to a sob. "It didn't work."
"Didn't think it would." She closed her eyes. "I'm not coming out yet."
"Didn't ask you to."
"I might throw something at you when I do."
"Bring it."
"I might miss on purpose."
"Even better." She exhaled hard through her nose. Then very small, very grudging. "Thanks for not being a jerk about this."
He didn't say "you're welcome." He just said, "Anytime, Gremlin." Then she heard him slide down the door until he was sitting with his back against it. "I'm just there, not pushing, not leaving, just existing on the other side of a barricade made of yoga mats and bad decisions." She stared at the ceiling for another long minute, then barely loud enough to carry. "If you read one more chapter of that story out loud, I will actually murder you."
He chuckled. "Deal." A beat then. "But if you change your mind, chapter 48 has a really good scene where she finally admits she likes his stupid neck." She groaned so loudly the neighbors three floors down probably heard it. "Shut up forever."
"Never." She threw a kettlebell at the door. It made a very satisfying thud. He laughed again. And somehow, against every instinct she had ever developed, she smiled just a little into the dark behind a barricade with wolf slippers and a fridge named Kevin probably live-tweeting the whole thing somewhere. The heat was still winning, but for the first time in her life, she didn't feel like she had to fight it completely alone. She was still going to fight Ridian about literally everything else, though. That part was non-negotiable.
Sable had a new life goal. It was very simple. One, lock Ridian somewhere he couldn't escape. Two, enjoy exactly 5 minutes of peace. Three, immediately regret everything and panic that he might actually be dead. She achieved step one faster than expected. It happened at 2:14 p.m. on day 6. Ridian had made the fatal mistake of announcing out loud to her face that he was going to take a quick nap in the walk-in closet because "the blackout curtains in there are elite, and also I like the smell of my old boxing gloves." Sable heard "walk-in closet" and "nap" in the same sentence, and her brain immediately filed it under "free real estate." She waited exactly 7 seconds after he disappeared inside. Then she sprinted across the penthouse like a caffeinated gremlin, slammed the heavy closet door, twisted the key that was miraculously still in the lock, and yanked it out. Click. Done. She stood there panting, key clutched in her fist like a trophy, listening to the muffled thump of Ridian, probably turning over on the giant pile of blankets he kept in there for aesthetic reasons. Silence. More silence. She whispered to herself. "This is fine. This is normal. This is healthy conflict resolution." Kevin, who had apparently been listening the whole time, lit up and calmly announced. "Hostage situation initiated. Congratulations. Would you like mood lighting, low-fi beats, or an escape room timer counting down to inevitable regret?"
"Shut up, Kevin."
"Shutting up. Regret ETA: Approximately 47 minutes." Sable ignored him. She went to the kitchen, made herself the most spiteful cup of tea in history, chamomile because she wanted to be calm and ironic at the same time. Sat on the counter, sipped, stared at the closet door. 5 minutes passed. 10, 20. At the 30-minute mark, she started getting twitchy. At 45 minutes, she was pacing. At 1 hour, she was standing directly outside the closet door, ear pressed to the wood, listening for literally anything. Nothing, no snoring, no rustling, no sarcastic, "very funny, now open the door" comments. Just quiet. Too quiet. She started talking to the door. "You're fine, aren't right?" No answer. "You're breathing, right?" Still nothing. She rattled the handle. Locked. She pressed her forehead to the wood. "Okay, this was funny for the first 40 minutes, but now it's just weird. Blink twice if you're alive." Nothing. Her heart did a stupid little lurch. She hated it. She banged once. "Hey, giant Hmbo. Red flag factory. Say something." Silence. Now she was annoyed and worried, which was the worst combination. She started pacing again, faster. "Okay, maybe he's just a really good napper. Maybe he's in some kind of alpha hibernation mode. Maybe he's faking it to make me feel bad. Maybe." She stopped, stared at the key in her hand, then very quietly, very grudgingly muttered, "I hate you," and turned the key. The lock clicked open. She pushed the door slowly. The closet was huge. Blackout curtains drawn, one single salt lamp glowing like a lava lamp for depressed werewolves. And there, sprawled across a mountain of blankets and hoodies like a very large, very content cat, was Ridian, fast asleep, mouth slightly open. One arm flung over his eyes completely, shamelessly, defenseless.
Sable stood in the doorway for a long time, just staring. He looked stupidly peaceful, like someone who had never once worried about being locked in his own closet by a feral gremlin. She stepped inside, closed the door behind her quietly, sat cross-legged on the blanket pile next to him, stared some more. Then, because she was weak and hated herself, she reached out and very gently poked his cheek. Nothing. She poked harder. He made a small sleepy noise and turned his face into her hand like a giant dog looking for pets. Sable froze. Her entire soul left her body for 3 seconds. Then he mumbled, still completely asleep. "Smell nice today."
"I smell like rage and chamomile tea, you absolute disaster." He just hummed happily and nuzzled closer. Sable looked up at the ceiling like she was begging the universe for strength. Then, because apparently she had lost her mind completely, she lay down, not touching him, just next to him on the edge of the blanket mountain, staring at the dark ceiling, listening to him breathe. She told herself it was tactical. She was gathering intel. She was waiting for him to wake up so she could gloat properly. She was absolutely not cuddling. She fell asleep in under 9 minutes.
When she woke up again, the salt lamp was still glowing. Ridian was awake. He was propped on one elbow, looking down at her with the softest, smugest, most devastating expression she had ever seen. She immediately tried to scramble backward. Her back hit a stack of hoodies. No escape. He didn't move closer. Just stayed there, chin on his fist, studying her like she was the most interesting thing he'd ever seen. "Morning, Gremlin," she croaked.
"How long was I out?"
"About 7 hours. You drooled on my favorite hoodie."
"I did not."
"You did. It's okay. I'll frame it." She groaned and pulled a hoodie over her face. He laughed, quiet, warm, stupidly fond. Then softer. "You came back in."
She didn't answer. "You unlocked the door, came inside, lay down, fell asleep next to me." Still no answer. He reached over but tugged the hoodie down just enough to see her eyes. Very gently asked why.
She stared at him for a long time, then barely audible, like it physically hurt to say it. "Because it was quiet in here and outside was loud and I didn't want to be alone with the loud."
He didn't tease her, didn't gloat, just nodded once like that made perfect sense. Then he flopped back down beside her, shoulder brushing hers, not grabbing, not crowding, just there. "Want to stay a little longer?"
She swallowed, looked at the ceiling, then so quiet she almost didn't hear herself. "Yeah."
He reached over, found her hand, threaded their fingers together. She didn't pull away. They lay there for another hour. No talking, no fighting, just breathing, and the stupid salt lamp glowing. And somewhere in the kitchen, Kevin played the world's softest, most sarcastic lullaby version of "Never Gonna Give You Up." Neither of them moved to stop it. They just let it play. And for once, Sable didn't mind.
Sable decided the only way to regain even a shred of dignity was to go live and apologize. Not because she was sorry, obviously not. She was going to apologize the way a cat apologizes for knocking a glass off the counter by glaring at everyone while reluctantly admitting the glass is technically on the floor now. She set up in the living room. Ridian's phone on a tripod stolen from his gym bag. Ring light she had found in a closet labeled "Emergency Dramatic Lighting." Background: Floor to ceiling windows showing the glittering city like she lived in a music video instead of a hostage situation. She was wearing one of Ridian's black hoodies because all her fight clothes were currently in the wash after the ghost pepper incident. The wolf slippers, non-negotiable at this point, and a scowl that could curdle milk. She hit "go live." Title: "Yeah, fine. I tried to murder him with fairy lights. Whatever." The viewer count started climbing immediately. 100 to 400 to 1.2K to 4K in under 90 seconds. Apparently, the underground fight community had notifications on for "Sable is doing something unhinged again."
She cleared her throat, stared directly into the camera like it owed her money. "Okay, listen up, you degenerates." She lifted both hands like she was about to conduct an orchestra of chaos. "Last week, I may have attempted to decorate this giant walking felony with Christmas lights around his neck."
I tightly comments exploded across the screen. "We saw the clip." "Queen of attempted felonies." "Did he die?" "Lol." "Blink twice if you're being held captive, Ron."
She ignored them. "I'm here to say." Deep breath. "I'm sorry." She said it so fast it sounded like one word. "I'm so sorry." Then she immediately ruined it by adding, "But in my defense, he had just fed me tacos while I was duct-taped to a seat. And also, he keeps calling me gremlin like it's a pet name. So really, who's the real criminal here?"
The chat went feral. Ridian chose that exact moment to walk into frame. He was eating cereal straight from the box. Plain Cheerios, dry, like a psychopath. He leaned against the wall behind her, crunching loudly, completely unbothered. Sable's eye twitched. "Don't say uh anything." He raised both hands in mock surrender, still holding the cereal box.
She turned back to the camera. "Anyway, I'm sorry for the light-based violence. It won't happen again." Pause. "Probably." Another pause. She stared at her own reflection in the phone screen. Her cheeks were turning red. She hated it. She hated him more. She hated the entire internet most of all. "Okay, fine," she snapped, voice cracking a little. "I hate that I'm even doing this. I hate that I'm sitting here in his stupid hoodie that smells like cedar and poor life choices. I hate that every time he walks past me, my stupid brain goes, 'Oh, look. It's the neck I tried to strangle.' And now I kind of want to..." She clamped her mouth shut.
The chat. "Finish the sentence." "Neck." "I..." "This is better than pay-per-view." "Gremlin has fallen, your honor."
Ridian behind her took another loud handful of cereal. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Sable whipped around so fast the hoodie hood flopped over her eyes. "Stop eating like a vacuum cleaner."
He blinked innocently. "I'm supporting you morally with snacks."
"You're sabotaging me."
"I'm multitasking." She turned back to the camera, yanked the hood down, and pointed at the lens. "I hate that his stupid neck is so biteable." Okay. Silence. Dead silence from her, from the chat, from Kevin in the kitchen, who had mysteriously gone quiet for once. Then the chat caught up and detonated. All caps, emojis, copy pastas, people spamming the same five words. "SHE SAID THE THING."
Sable's soul left her body. She stared at the screen in growing horror as the viewer count shot past 47,000. Ridian, still leaning against the wall, slowly lowered the cereal box, looked at her, looked at the phone, looked back at her. Then very calmly, very gently, he said. "Say that again. No, for science."
"Absolutely not." He took one step forward. She threw a couch pillow at his face. He caught it one-handed, kept walking. She scrambled backward on the couch until she hit the armrest. He stopped right in front of her, pillow still in hand, cereal box abandoned somewhere behind him, leaned down very slowly, until his face filled half the camera frame and spoke directly into the mic, voice low and amused. "She said, 'My neck is biteable.'"
The chat became unintelligible static made of keyboard smashes, but Sable grabbed another pillow and started beating him with it. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" He let her hit him approximately 12 times before he caught both her wrists, pillows and all. Tugged her forward and murmured just loud enough for the mic to catch. "You're cute when you're embarrassed."
She froze, stared up at him, face flaming, eyes wide. Then in the tiniest, angriest, most humiliated voice imaginable, she whispered, "I hate you."
He grinned, full, devastating, victorious grin. "I know." Then he looked straight into the camera and said, "Seams over, chat. She's about to commit another felony." He reached past her, hit the "end live" button. Screen went black for three glorious seconds. There was silence. And then Sable screamed into a pillow, "I'm never going outside again."
Ridian laughed so hard he had to sit on the floor. She threw every remaining pillow at him. He caught most of them. The rest he let hit him like a hero taking arrows for his country. When she finally ran out of ammunition, she flopped face first onto the couch, muffled, "I'm moving to Antarctica." He crawled over, still laughing, and lay down next to her on his back, staring at the ceiling. Very casually, said, "You can bite it, you know."
She lifted her head just enough to glare. "What?"
"My neck, if you want." She stared at him for a long time. Then slowly, suspiciously, she scooted closer, hesitated. Then, very carefully, very deliberately, pressed her face against the side of his neck. Not biting, just resting there, breathing. But he didn't move, didn't tease, just let her. After almost a full minute, she mumbled against his skin. "If you tell anyone about this, I will actually end you. Cross my heart." She huffed. But she didn't move away. And somewhere in the kitchen, Kevin finally broke his silence with one single sarcastic "bump," followed by, "Congratulations, you've reached the 'she's lying on top of him and pretending it's an accident' stage. Estimated time to full capitulation: 3 to five business days." Sable groaned into Ridian's neck. He just laughed again, soft, warm, and way too happy for someone who'd just been publicly humiliated on a live stream with 47,000 witnesses. The apology stream had not gone as planned, but somehow neither of them minded.
The truce lasted exactly four days. Four glorious but suspiciously peaceful days. Then Ridian opened his protein shaker one morning and a cloud of bright purple glitter exploded directly into his face like a disappointed fairy had just quit her job. He stood in the kitchen blinking slowly while tiny sparkles drifted down onto his shoulders. Sable, sitting cross-legged on the island counter, eating cereal straight from the box, watched the whole thing with zero remorse and maximum glee. "Morning, disco ball."
Ridian wiped glitter from his eyelashes very calmly, very deliberately. "You booby-trapped my post-workout shake."
"Correct. With glitter."
"Also correct." He looked down at the ruined chocolate protein, now looking like a galaxy had thrown up in the shaker. Then back at her. She grinned so wide both dimples showed. He nodded once. "Art war declared."
She saluted with her spoon. "War accepted." And so it began.
Day one, retaliation. Sable came out of the shower to find every single pillow, blanket, and throw in the entire penthouse had been carefully scent-marked. Not aggressively, just enough. Every time she tried to sit or lie down, she was hit with a face full of cedar smoke alpha that made her brain short-circuit for 3 seconds. She screamed from the living room, "You scented my couch fortress." From the gym, he yelled back, "Consider it background music." She retaliated by replacing the liner in every single pair of his sneakers with slices of extremely ripe onion. He wore them to the gym anyway. Came back smelling like a sandwich truck had crashed into a locker room. Neither of them would admit they kind of liked the chaos smell now.
On day two, escalation. Sable filled every single protein tub with vanilla pudding instead of powder. Ridian drank it anyway with a spoon while maintaining eye contact. She gagged dramatically the whole time. He just said, "Textures nice," and kept going. She hid in the bathroom for 20 minutes afterward because the mental image was too powerful.
Day three. Nuclear option. Ridian replaced her phone lock screen with a very unflattering photo of her sleeping with her mouth open and drooling on his hoodie sleeve. Caption: "My favorite murder gremlin." She changed it back. He changed it again, this time to a selfie he took while she was asleep on his chest two nights earlier. Her face smooshed against his collarbone, his hand gently cupping the back of her head. Both of them looked disgustingly soft. She screamed, but said it as her lock screen anyway, told herself it was ironic.
Day four. The breaking point. Sable rigged the shower to blast ice-cold water exactly 3 minutes in. Ridian stepped out looking like an extremely large drowned cat. She was waiting in the hallway with her phone recording. He didn't even blink, just walked straight up to her, dripping everywhere, picked her up in a bridal carry like she weighed nothing, and carried her fully clothed straight into the still-freezing shower. She shrieked. He held her under the spray until she was laughing so hard she couldn't breathe. Then he turned the water warm and just stood there holding her while the steam rose around them. She was still giggling when she finally said, voice cracking a little. "You're the worst."
He rested his forehead against hers, water dripping from both their noses. "Yeah, but I'm your worst." She closed her eyes, pressed her face into his neck, mumbled, "I hate how much I don't hate you." He laughed against her hair, soft, wrecked, relieved. "I know." They stayed like that until the water started going cold again.
When they finally stepped out, Kevin, who had been suspiciously quiet for days, lit up and announced, "Congratulations! The prank war has now officially become foreplay. Estimated casualties: zero. Estimated brain cells lost: approximately 800,000." Sable flipped the fridge off. Ridian just wrapped a towel around her shoulders and said, "Truuce."
She looked up at him. [clears throat] Glitter still stuck in his eyebrow. Onion-scented shoes drying in the hall. Pudding residue on the counter, but her phone still showing that stupid sleeping selfie. She reached up, wiped the last of the glitter off his cheek with her thumb. Then, very quietly, "Temporary truce."
He smiled. Small, real, devastating. "Temporary is good." She leaned forward, pressed her forehead to his chest, listened to his heartbeat, then muttered, "But I'm still putting hot sauce in your next shake." He laughed, full, warm, happy. "Wouldn't expect anything less." And somewhere behind them, Kevin sighed as much as a fridge can sigh and played the tiniest violin rendition of "My Heart Will Go On." Neither of them even tried to stop it this time. The war wasn't over. It had just changed uniforms, and both of them were quietly okay with that.
It was 3:47 a.m. as the city outside the windows looked like someone had spilled a million tiny LEDs across black velvet. Inside the penthouse, it was darker. Only the faint blue glow from Kevin's display and the orange flicker of the salt lamp in the hallway. Sable was sitting on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinets, knees pulled up, still wearing Ridian's hoodie, sleeves bunched around her wrists like makeshift mittens. Ridian was sitting opposite her, legs
stretched out so his bare feet almost touched hers. Both of them had been awake for hours. Neither had suggested going to bed. Neither had suggested stopping talking.
It started because she couldn't sleep. Then he couldn't sleep. Then they were both in the kitchen raiding the fridge at the same time like two burglars who already lived there. Now they were here talking. But really talking, not yelling, not teasing, not throwing pillows or glitter or ghost pepper threats. Just talking.
Sable picked at a loose thread on the hoodie sleeve. "Why are you so patient with me?" Her voice came out smaller than she meant it to.
Ridian tilted his head against the cabinet behind him. "Because I've seen what happens when someone isn't." He wasn't looking at her. He was staring at a spot on the floor like it owed him answers. "I grew up around people who thought the only way to make someone stay was to break them first. Lock them down, scare them, chain them with guilt or fear or pain, and it worked for a while until it didn't." He shrugged one shoulder. "I watched my mom leave my dad in the middle of the night with nothing but a backpack and me. She didn't even take the car, just walked. I was 11. She told me later she would have rather slept on concrete than spend one more day pretending she wasn't dying inside."
Sable swallowed. Ridian finally met her eyes. "I swore I'd never be the reason someone felt like that. Not ever. So, yeah. I wait. I hold the door open. I let you snarl and bite and run and come back and snarl again. Because the second I try to force you to stay, you'll leave. And you'll be right, too."
Silence stretched between them. Thick. Honest. Sable's throat felt tight. She picked harder at the thread until it snapped. Then, very quietly, "I keep waiting for you to snap."
"I know. I keep testing you, pushing, throwing stuff, locking you in closets, putting glitter in your protein because part of me is still convinced you'll eventually get tired of it. And—"
"And prove you right," he finished for her. She nodded once, sharp, embarrassed.
Ridian leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low. "I'm not going to snap. Not because I'm some saint. I'm just greedy. I want all of it. The snarling, the glitter, the wolf slippers, the way you laugh when you're trying not to. The way you pretend you don't like it when I carry you around like a feral loaf of bread. I want the whole gremlin experience. I'm not interested in a version of you that's been sanded down to be convenient."
Sable stared at him, eyes stinging. She tried to blink it away. Failed. One tear escaped anyway. She swiped it off her cheek like it had personally insulted her. And then, voice cracking, she said, "You're an idiot."
"Probably. You could have anyone, literally anyone, someone less explosive."
"I don't want anyone else."
"Why?" He looked at her like the answer was obvious. "Because when you look at me like you want to set me on fire, I feel seen, not feared, not tolerated, seen. And I've spent most of my life being too big, too loud, too much for people to handle. You never once looked at me like I was too much. You just looked at me like 'challenge accepted'."
Sable laughed. Wet, broken, real. Then she leaned forward, pressed her forehead to his knee, closed her eyes, mumbled, "I'm scared I'm going to ruin this. I'm scared you're going to figure out I'm not worth the trouble and leave anyway." She snorted against his leg. "Dumbass pot kettle."
She lifted her head and looked at him. Really looked. Then very slowly she crawled forward until she was sitting between his outstretched legs. Not straddling, just close. Chest to chest, forehead to forehead, she whispered. "If I ever try to leave, don't let me get farther than the elevator."
His hands came up very carefully, cradled the back of her head like she was made of glass and grenades at the same time. "Deal."
She closed her eyes, breathed him in. Cedar, smoke, home, then so quiet it was almost nothing. "I don't want to leave anymore."
He exhaled like he'd been holding the breath for weeks. "I know."
She laughed again, softer this time. "But if you call me 'good girl,' even once, I'm throwing Kevin off the balcony."
"Understood." A beat. Then she added, "Maybe twice."
He laughed, low, warm, relieved, or noted. They stayed like that on the kitchen floor until the sky started turning pink around the edges. Kevin, who had been mercifully silent for once, finally lit up and whispered, "Emotional damage report. Critical but stable. Recommend sleep or pancakes. Preferably both."
Neither of them moved. They just sat there, foreheads touching, hands tangled, smiling like idiots. And for the first time in a very long time, Sable didn't feel like she had to fight to stay. She just stayed. And it was enough.
It happened on a Tuesday, not a dramatic Tuesday with thunder and ominous music. A boring, gray, nothing-special Tuesday, where the sky looked like it had given up, and the city smelled faintly of wet concrete and burnt coffee. Sable woke up before Ridian for once, but he was still sprawled across the bed like a starfish who had lost a fight with gravity. One arm flung over the pillow she normally stole, soft snores rumbling every few breaths. She stared at him for 37 seconds. Then she did something she hadn't done in weeks. She got up quietly. No banging drawers, no sarcastic commentary to Kevin. No glitter bomb in the protein shaker as a parting gift. Just quiet. She pulled on yesterday's hoodie, his still, the wolf slippers, also his fault, and slipped out the front door.
The private elevator didn't even beep at her. The lobby security guard looked up, saw her face, and immediately looked back down at his phone like his life depended on sudden and total ignorance. She walked out the revolving door into actual fresh air, actual freedom, actual sidewalk. But she made it three blocks. Three whole blocks of normal people doing normal things: carrying briefcases, pushing strollers, arguing with delivery guys, living lives that didn't involve duct tape, air horn fridges, or 7-foot-5-inch walking red flags who read Wattpad aloud during emotional crises. She turned a corner, passed a street cart selling coffee that smelled like burnt dreams. And then it hit her. Not a truck, not a panic attack, just a smell. Cedar smoke. That stupid expensive shampoo he used. The one she had secretly started using too because it was there and whatever. It wasn't even real. It was phantom memory. Her own stupid brain conjuring it out of thin air because apparently three blocks was the exact distance required for her entire nervous system to go, "Wait, where's the giant idiot?"
She stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. A bike courier almost ran her over. She didn't move. She just stood there, fists clenched in the hoodie sleeves, staring at a random brick wall like it had personally betrayed her. Then, very quietly, very furiously, she muttered, "I hate this."
She turned around, started walking back the way she came, faster, then jogging, then flat-out sprinting in wolf slippers like a woman possessed. She burst back into the lobby. The security guard didn't even pretend to look surprised this time. He just buzzed the elevator open without a word. She stabbed the penthouse button 17 times when the doors closed. She leaned against the mirrored wall, breathing hard, cheeks flushed, hair a mess. When the elevator dinged open, she didn't even wait for the doors to finish sliding. She sprinted down the hallway, threw the front door open so hard it bounced off the stopper.
Ridian was standing in the kitchen, still shirtless from sleep, holding a spatula like he'd been about to make pancakes. He looked up, saw her, froze. For one heartbeat, they just stared at each other across 30 feet of ridiculously expensive flooring. Then Sable launched herself at him. Full sprint, full commitment, no breaks. She hit him like a missile. He caught her because of course he did. Arms coming around her instantly, staggering back two steps before he found his balance. She wrapped herself around him like a furious koala. Her legs locked around his waist, arms around his neck, face buried so hard in his shoulder, she probably left a nose imprint. He didn't say anything stupid like "you came back" or "I knew you would." He just tightened his hold. One hand between her shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of her head. She was shaking. Not crying, just shaking. Breathing in huge, ragged gulps against his skin. After almost a full minute, she finally spoke. Voice muffled, furious, cracked. "I got three blocks."
He exhaled against her hair. "Three whole blocks. Impressive."
"I hate you."
"I know."
"I hate that I missed your stupid smell." His chest rumbled with a quiet laugh.
"I hate that I ran back here like a complete loser."
"You're not a loser."
"I'm wearing wolf slippers and I sprinted through downtown like I was late for my own execution."
"Still not a loser." She lifted her head just enough to glare at him, eyes red, cheeks blotchy. Mascara she didn't even remember putting on now smudged like war paint. "I'm so mad at you."
"I can see that."
"I'm mad that you didn't chase me."
"I was giving you the choice."
"I hate choices."
"I know." She stared at him another long second. Then, very suddenly, she grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him. Not gentle, not sweet, not tentative. Full-on furious, teeth clacking, desperate. "I almost left and it felt like dying" kiss. He kissed her back exactly the same way, like he'd been waiting years for permission. But when they finally broke apart, they were both breathing like they'd run a marathon, foreheads pressed together, noses bumping. She whispered, voice wrecked. "Don't ever let me get farther than the elevator again."
His thumbs brushed her cheekbones. "Never."
She closed her eyes, pressed her face back into his neck, mumbled. "I'm still mad."
"I know, but I'm staying." He exhaled like the weight of the world just slid off his shoulders. "Good."
Kevin, who had been watching the entire reunion like a nosy soap opera fan, finally lit up and announced in his driest robot monotone. "Runaway arc completed. Return to sender speedrun achieved in under 12 minutes. New personal record. Would you like celebratory pancakes or immediate violence?"
Sable laughed, wet, broken, relieved, right against Ridian's throat. Or he just held her tighter. And somewhere in the kitchen, the spatula clattered forgotten onto the counter. Pancakes could wait. The rest of the world could wait. For once, everything could wait because she was finally done running.
The roof of the penthouse wasn't supposed to be accessible. There was a discrete restricted access sign, a keypad, and a very serious-looking metal door that screamed "liability waiver." Ridian had ignored all of it months ago, and now treated the rooftop like his personal backyard. Tonight, the sky was doing that rare city thing where it almost looked clean, a deep bruised purple with a few stubborn stars refusing to be outshone by the skyline. Sable was sitting on the wide concrete ledge, legs dangling over the edge like she was daring gravity to try something. She had a fresh black eye, courtesy of a very enthusiastic sparring session downstairs 30 minutes earlier. Her lip was split again. Her knuckles were wrapped in mismatched bandages she'd stolen from his gym kit. She looked like she'd just lost a war and won it at the same time.
Ridian sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched, far enough that she could still shove him off if she really wanted to. He had fresh claw marks running down his back under the loose black shirt, a bite mark on his left trapezius that was still red and angry, and very proudly hers. Neither of them spoke for a long time. Just sat, watched the city breathe below them.
Finally, she broke the quiet. "You know this is insane, right?"
He didn't look at her. Just kept watching the lights. "Which part?"
"All of it. The kidnapping or the duct tape, the glitter, the protein shaker war, the fact that I ran away for three blocks and then sprinted back like my life depended on it. The fact that I'm sitting here with a mating bite still bleeding and I'm not even mad about it."
He let out a low breath that might have been a laugh. "Yeah, pretty insane."
She turned her head, looked at him. Really looked. Messy hair, tired eyes, that stupid soft smile he only ever wore when no one else was watching. She reached over, traced the edge of the fresh bite mark on his shoulder with one careful fingertip. He didn't flinch, just watched her face. She whispered, "I still don't understand why you didn't give up."
He caught her hand before she could pull it back. Pressed her palm flat over the bite. Held it there. "Because I've spent my whole life being the thing people run from. Too big, too loud, too much. And then you showed up swinging brass knuckles and promising to wear me like a trench coat if I didn't put you down. And for the first time, I thought maybe someone could actually want the 'too much' part. Not despite it, because of it."
Her throat clicked. She looked away out over the city because looking at his face right then felt too big. "You're still on probation."
He laughed quietly. "Understood. Like permanent probation, lifetime parole, ankle monitor, the works."
"Got it." She leaned sideways until her head rested on his shoulder. The city lights blurred a little, not from tears, just from the angle. "Obviously," she muttered. "I'm not going to turn soft."
"Never asked you to."
"I'm still going to booby trap your stuff."
"I'm counting on it."
"I'm still going to bite you when I'm mad."
"I'm hoping you do." She huffed, then quieter. "But I'm not running again."
He turned his head, pressed his lips to the top of her hair. Very soft, very careful. "I know."
She closed her eyes, listened to the city hum 35 floors below them, listened to his heartbeat under her ear, listened to the wind move around them like it was trying not to interrupt. After a long minute, she spoke again, voice small but steady. "I'll hold you down until you stop fighting it."
He finished the sentence without hesitation, "And then I'll keep holding you anyway."
She laughed once, short, real. Then she lifted her head and looked straight into his stupid pretty eyes and kissed him. Slow, deep, no fury this time. No desperation, just them on a rooftop with a black eye and a fresh bite and wolf slippers somewhere downstairs. When they pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his. Still breathing hard, still smiling like idiots. She whispered. "You're still the worst."
He grinned against her mouth. "And you're still my favorite disaster."
She laughed again, brighter this time. Then she shoved him just hard enough to make him sway. "Don't get cocky."
"Wouldn't dream of it." They sat like that until the sky started turning pink at the edges. No grand promises, no cheesy vows, no audience, just two people who'd spent months trying to destroy each other and somehow ended up building something instead. And when the first real sunlight hit the rooftop, Sable leaned her head on his shoulder one more time and muttered, "Breakfast?"
Ridian stood, held out a hand. She took it. Let him pull her up. And as they walked back toward the door, hand in hand, bruised, bitten, ridiculous, she said. "Pancakes, extra ghost pepper."
He laughed loud, warm, happy. "Evil gremlin."
"Your evil gremlin." He stopped walking, turned, cupped her face with both hands, looked at her like she'd hung every single light in the city just for him. "Yeah," he said softly. "Mine." And this time she didn't argue. She just kissed him again right there in the sunrise and thought, "Fine, probation's over. You win." But she was never going to tell him that out loud. Some things were better kept as leverage. And she still had plenty of glitter left.
The penthouse kitchen smelled like coffee, slightly burnt edges of pancakes, and the faintest trace of ghost pepper lingering in the air like a ghost that refused to leave. Sable was perched on the counter again, her favorite spot, legs swinging lazily. She wore one of Ridian's old fight team hoodies, sleeves rolled four times so her hands could actually emerge, and the wolf slippers had finally started looking less ridiculous and more like they belonged to her. Ridian stood at the stove, flipping a pancake with a level of concentration usually reserved for disarming bombs. He slid the finished one onto a plate already stacked with four others, then turned and set it beside her. No words, just the plate.
She looked down at the slightly lopsided heart he'd accidentally made with the batter. She snorted. "You're so embarrassing."
He leaned his palms on the counter on either side of her hips, caging her without touching. "Still ate the last three."
She rolled her eyes, but picked up the fork anyway. First bite. She chewed slowly, suspiciously. Then her eyebrows lifted. "Okay, these are actually good."
He gave the tiniest smug nod. "Told you practice makes perfect."
She stabbed another piece, held it up to his mouth. He ate it straight off the fork, eyes never leaving hers. They stayed like that, her feeding him bites between her own, him occasionally reaching over to wipe syrup off her chin with his thumb until the entire stack was gone. After the last bite, she set the fork down, looked at him for a long moment, and then quietly, almost shily, she said, "I love you."
The words dropped into the room like a pebble into still water. No drama, no music swell, no fireworks, just the truth, small and plain and brave. Ridian didn't flinch, didn't tease, didn't make it bigger than it needed to be. He simply leaned in and rested his forehead against hers. Breathed her in. Then just as quiet. "I love you too, Gremlin."
She huffed a tiny laugh against his lips. "Still hate that nickname."
"Liar." She kissed him slow, syrup-sweet, morning-soft. When they parted, she stayed close, nose brushing his. "Promise me something. Anything. If I ever start running again, tackle me before I hit the elevator."
His arms came around her properly, then, warm and steady and sure. "Already promised that one. Lifetime subscription."
She smiled. Small, real, unguarded. "Good." He lifted her off the counter in one smooth motion, set her feet on the floor, but didn't let go. She tilted her head up. "One last question," soft as a secret. "You going to keep holding me down?"
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth. "Every day you let me."
[clears throat] She wrapped her arms around his waist, face tucked against his chest, listened to the steady thump-thump that had become her favorite sound in the world. "Then keep holding," she murmured.
He tightened his arms. "Always."
Outside the city kept moving, loud, chaotic, indifferent. Inside, the two people who used to fight like they were trying to kill each other, now stood in a sunlit kitchen, holding each other, like they were afraid the other might disappear if they let go. And for once, neither of them was fighting anything at all. Just breathing together in the quiet after the storm. The end.