You meet a man who claims to be a prince from another world, after a love life full of disappointments and failed connections. As his impossible story begins to prove disturbingly real, you find yourself drawn to him in ways you didn’t expect.
Author's Note: After watching Master of the Universe (2026) and seeing Nicholas Galitzine at his best as Adam, I decided to write a chapter of a fanfic or a one-shot. It depends on whether anyone likes it. This chapter, like others, contains spoilers for the movie's plot. However, there will be changes in several parts as well. The characters don't belong to me.
FIVE
SIX
The moment of relative calm did not last long. A sharp alarm suddenly cut through the ship, followed by a low warning tone that made the lights flicker once overhead. Teela’s head snapped up from the controls immediately, her posture going rigid in that way that told you she had already understood the problem before anyone else had even processed the sound.
Then the ship shuddered violently beneath your feet.
You grabbed the nearest support instinctively, your stomach dropping as the whole vessel lurched to one side.
Adam steadied himself beside you, one hand braced against the wall, the other still holding the Sword of Power as if he had not quite decided whether he would ever let it out of his grip again. “What was that?”
Teela was already checking the display. Her jaw tightened.
“We have company.”
That was not remotely reassuring.
A second impact struck the ship, harder this time, and the entire cabin shook. Through the front window, you caught a glimpse of dark shapes cutting across the sky behind you, fast and aggressive and clearly not part of anything friendly.
Adam stepped closer to the glass, his expression darkening at once.
“Those are Skeletor’s ships.”
Teela swore under her breath and pulled hard on a control. “They followed us.”
“Of course they did,” Duncan muttered from the seat behind you, sounding as though the universe had personally offended him. “Nothing ever comes quietly anymore.”
The ship jolted again, and this time a warning light flashed red across the console. Teela’s fingers moved with sharp precision over the controls, but the tension in her shoulders was enough to tell you that even she was not enjoying the situation.
“They want the sword,” she said. “And they’re not waiting for a polite invitation.”
Another blast struck the hull.
You winced and looked outside again just in time to see one of the hostile ships swing in close, its weapons glowing at the front like a threat made visible.
Adam’s entire body changed when he saw it.
Not in the way it had when he transformed, but in that quiet, focused way of someone who had already decided what needed to happen and was now moving toward it. He looked from the window to Teela and then back toward a storage bay near the side of the ship.
“What is that?” you asked, following his gaze.
Adam was already moving. “A sky-cycle.”
You blinked. “A what?”
“A sky-cycle.”
“A motorcycle in the sky?”
He glanced at you over his shoulder, and even in the middle of the attack, he looked faintly amused by your tone. “That is usually how we explain it, yes.”
Teela didn’t even turn around. “If you’re thinking of using that, now would be the time.”
Adam gave a single nod, then stepped toward the side compartment where the vehicle was stored. The hatch opened with a mechanical hiss, and inside was indeed something that looked suspiciously like a sleek, armored motorcycle designed for open air combat instead of roads.
You stared at it.
Then at him.
Then back at it.
“You are not seriously planning to chase them on that.”
Adam looked mildly offended by your tone. “That is exactly what I am planning to do.”
“You are injured.”
“I am less injured than the ship is.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It is honest.”
He swung one leg over the sky-cycle with the ease of someone who had likely done much more dangerous things in much less practical clothing. The sword stayed in his hand, though how he intended to steer anything while carrying a magical blade and looking like a walking myth was beyond you.
You took one step forward before you could stop yourself. “Adam.”
He looked up at you.
There was still adrenaline in his expression, still that fierce, protective focus, but when he saw your face it softened just a fraction.
“What?”
“Are you sure you can handle them?”
For a second he didn’t answer, and the silence between you stretched just long enough to make you realize too late how worried you sounded.
His mouth curved.
Not into his usual teasing grin, but into something gentler.
“Are you worried about me?”
You felt your face warm instantly. “No.”
The lie came out far too quickly to be convincing, and Teela made a noise from the cockpit that sounded suspiciously like someone suppressing laughter while trying to avoid a fatal maneuver.
Adam, however, only looked more amused.
“I’m touched,” he said.
“Don’t be.”
“I am anyway.”
Another explosion shook the ship, and you reached out to steady yourself against the nearest wall. One of the enemy vessels had moved in closer, its weapons aimed directly at the rear of Teela’s ship.
Adam glanced toward it, then back at you.
Your cheeks were still warm.
You crossed your arms, trying and failing to recover your dignity. “I’m only concerned about the one who can take me home.”
That earned a quiet laugh from him, low and warm enough that it made the whole exchange feel worse in the best possible way.
“Of course,” he said, in a tone that made it very clear he did not believe you even a little.
Before you could come up with something sharper, Duncan’s voice cut in from behind you, dry as dust and twice as dangerous.
“Do the two of you have something going on?”
You spun around so fast you nearly lost your balance.
Adam turned his head too, looking faintly horrified at being caught in the middle of whatever this had become. “What?”
Duncan lifted a hand in vague accusation, as though your blushing and Adam’s expression had personally insulted him. “The staring. The tone. The concern. It’s all very obvious.”
Teela made an exasperated sound from the cockpit. “Father, now is not the time.”
“It is always the time,” Duncan replied, which sounded like the philosophy of a man who had survived too many wars to care about anyone else’s discomfort.
Adam looked at you again, and you were suddenly, painfully aware that every second spent standing there was another second the enemy ships had to keep firing at you.
Teela’s voice snapped through the cabin. “Adam, if you’re going to do something reckless, do it now.”
He gave her a look that suggested this was unfairly familiar.
Then, with one last glance at you, he said, “Stay here.”
You opened your mouth immediately. “That is not—”
But he was already moving.
The sky-cycle roared to life under him, the machine humming with sudden power as he kicked it free of the ship’s side bay and launched himself out into open air. Your heart jumped into your throat as he accelerated almost instantly, the cycle cutting cleanly through the sky while the enemy ships banked to intercept him.
“Adam!” you shouted before you could stop yourself.
He glanced back just once, the wind dragging at his hair, the sword flashing in his grip.
And somehow, even from that distance, he still managed to look delighted.
You watched him veer hard to the left, then swing around in a wide arc behind one of the hostile ships. The cycle’s engine screamed as he pushed it faster, and he somehow managed to look completely natural doing something so wildly unsafe that your brain temporarily refused to classify it.
Teela was still fighting the ship at the controls, trying to keep everyone from being blasted out of the sky, while you and Duncan both scrambled to help stabilize the vessel around her.
“Can you do that?” you asked, moving toward the console as another violent impact rattled the ship.
Duncan glanced at you with a look that said he was already tired of the evening. “I am regretting many choices right now, but yes, I can help.”
“That was not reassuring.”
“It was also not meant to be.”
You reached for the nearest control panel while Teela barked a sharp instruction at both of you and shoved the ship into a desperate bank to the right. One of the enemy vessels fired again, missing the hull by a hair, and the blast lit the cabin in a flash of white.
Outside, Adam cut close to the nearest enemy ship and struck with the Sword of Power in a sweeping arc that sent sparks flying through the dark air.
For one furious second, it looked like he might actually be winning.
Then another ship moved in behind him.
“Adam!” you shouted, still half-focused on the console and half on the impossible sight of him streaking through the sky like a very dangerous legend.
He ducked just in time.
Then he laughed.
He actually laughed.
The sound came faintly through the comms, and even over the noise of the battle it was unmistakable.
You turned toward the speaker in alarm. “Why are you laughing?”
There was a brief pause, then his voice came through, warm with exhilaration and entirely too pleased with himself.
“Because this is much more fun than sitting in the ship while you all tell me what to do.”
Duncan made a sound that suggested he hated this answer.
You, unfortunately, could not stop yourself from smiling.
Teela noticed, naturally.
She always noticed.
And because the universe seemed determined to make everything more complicated than necessary, the ship rocked again just as you turned back to the controls, throwing your balance enough that Duncan had to catch your shoulder before you toppled into the panel.
“Careful,” he muttered.
“Thanks,” you said breathlessly.
He grunted. “You’re welcome. Try not to die before we finish this.”
“No promises.”
That, somehow, earned the faintest flicker of amusement from him.
Above the engine hum, the battle continued.
Adam darted through the sky on the cycle, drawing the enemy ships away from the ship long enough for Teela to steady the flight path. You could see him now in quick flashes through the window, a blur of motion and light and impossible confidence, and every time one of the ships tried to close in on him, he somehow seemed to find a way out of it.
Teela’s hands tightened on the controls.
“Hold steady,” she ordered.
You and Duncan both moved at once, helping her keep the ship from spinning as another blast struck the rear quarter. The cabin rattled, alarms blared, and for one awful second the entire vessel dipped so sharply that your stomach lurched.
Then Adam’s voice broke through again.
“I have one of them.”
You looked out just in time to see him hook the sky-cycle around the flank of the nearest enemy ship, then cut upward in a sharp climb that forced it to wobble badly in his wake.
Teela’s eyes flicked to the monitor. “Good. Keep them there.”
“You say that like it’s easy,” he called back.
“It’s not,” she snapped. “That’s why I’m saying it.”
That actually made you laugh, despite the fact that you were still trying not to be thrown through the windshield by the next impact.
Adam heard it.
Of course he heard it.
His voice came back a second later, much closer now as he looped around and passed by the front of the ship’s viewport again.
“Are you laughing at me?”
You caught the window, looked out at him, and immediately had to look away again because it was becoming genuinely unfair how good he looked doing all of this.
“No,” you lied.
“You’re smiling.”
“That’s different.”
“It sounds the same.”
Duncan, from beside you, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “This is how wars begin.”
Teela, still focused, barked, “Less commentary, more piloting.”
You reached toward the panel again just as the ship shuddered under one last attack, and for a split second, all of you moved together in the same rhythm: Teela steering, Duncan bracing, you trying to keep the ship from rolling, and Adam out in the sky drawing the enemy fire away from everyone else.
It should have felt impossible.
Instead it felt, in a very strange way, almost like you belonged there. And outside the viewport, Adam’s sky-cycle flashed through the dark like a comet, carrying the Sword of Power straight into the middle of the fight.
The next strike came out of nowhere.
One moment you were bracing yourself against the ship’s controls, still trying to help Teela keep the vessel steady through the attack, and the next a blast ripped across the side of the ship with enough force to tear through one of the outer stabilizers. The entire structure lurched violently, lights flickering overhead as the cabin shuddered around you.
Teela swore sharply from the cockpit.
“No, no—hold on!”
But the damage was already done.
The ship dropped.
Fast.
Your stomach surged into your throat as everything tilted beneath you, your body thrown sideways with a force so sudden that your grip slipped before you could catch yourself. Duncan grabbed for the nearest rail. Teela fought the controls with both hands, trying to bring the ship back under her command, but the movement only made the drop feel worse.
You lost your balance completely.
“Y/N!”
The sound of Adam’s voice reached you a split second before you were falling.
The world turned upside down. Wind tore at your clothes, your heart slammed violently in your chest, and the ground below rushed up so quickly that your brain seemed to stop functioning altogether. All you could think was that this was it, that the falling had become too fast and too final and that you were not going to make it in time for your life to rearrange itself into something survivable.
You shut your eyes.
The impact came.
Except it was not the impact you expected.
Instead of stone, or metal, or the brutal certainty of hitting the ground, you collided with something broad and solid and warm. The force knocked the breath out of you anyway, but not in the way you had feared. There was a hard, steady surface beneath you, powerful arms wrapping around your back, and for one disorienting second everything went dark and then still.
You opened your eyes.
And realized, with a kind of stunned confusion, that you were pressed directly against Adam’s chest.
Not standing beside him.
Not halfway across a ship.
Not watching him from a safe, rational distance while trying not to think about how unfairly attractive he had become.
You were in his arms.
Fully.
Securely.
Suspended against his enormous armored chest like he had caught you out of the air without even needing to think about it.
For a moment, you could only stare.
His face was inches from yours.
His expression was tight with concern at first, every line in his body still holding the last edge of the fall, but the second he saw you actually looking back at him, that tension eased by degrees into something relieved and almost absurdly tender.
“You’re all right,” he said, though it sounded more like confirmation than a question.
You were still trying to remember how to breathe.
“I—” you started, then stopped because your voice had apparently abandoned you in favor of pure shock.
Adam’s brows drew together slightly. “Are you hurt?”
You looked up at him, then very slowly down at the fact that you were currently being held against him as if the laws of gravity were optional.
Then you looked back up again.
“No,” you said, which was not really an answer at all. “I mean—probably not.”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face, though it was still buried beneath concern. His arms remained steady around you, one braced behind your shoulders and the other supporting you beneath your back, keeping you secure while the ship continued to shake above and around you.
“You fell out of a crashing ship,” he said.
“That’s not a detail I need right now.”
“You do, actually.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
You stared at him in disbelief.
Then realized, with growing embarrassment, that his hand was still supporting you at the small of your back and that you had, at some point during the descent, grabbed fistfuls of his armor with both hands and had not yet let go.
That made your face go hot.
Terribly, unfairly hot.
Adam noticed.
Of course he noticed.
One corner of his mouth lifted, just enough to suggest that he was enjoying your reaction far more than the situation probably warranted.
You tried to make your expression recover some dignity.
It did not work.
“You caught me,” you said, a little breathlessly.
“I did.”
“That was very dramatic.”
“I thought you might appreciate it.”
“I’m not sure I had a choice in appreciating anything.”
He laughed then, a low sound that vibrated more than you expected against your hands where they were still braced on his chest. It made the situation worse somehow, because now you were acutely aware of every point of contact between you, every breath he took, every second that passed while he continued holding you as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Above you, somewhere in the sky, Teela’s ship groaned as it fought to recover from the hit.
Adam lifted his head just slightly, glancing upward and then over your shoulder.
“Teela!” he called.
“I heard that!” her voice snapped back, strained but alive. “Try not to flirt while I’m crashing!”
Your eyes widened.
Adam’s expression turned immediately pleased in that infuriating, very Adam way that made you want to laugh and hide at the same time.
“I wasn’t flirting,” he called back.
Teela made a noise that suggested she absolutely did not believe him.
You, meanwhile, felt as though your entire face had turned into a furnace.
“I was not—” you began, then stopped because even saying the words out loud seemed to make the whole thing too obvious.
Adam looked down at you.
His smile softened.
Not teasing now.
Just warm.
Very warm.
“I know,” he said quietly, and somehow that was worse.
Because now he was looking at you like he actually knew exactly what had just happened to both of you and had decided, for the moment, not to make it harder than it already was.
Your grip on his armor loosened a fraction.
Then, because apparently the universe had not embarrassed you enough yet, the realization hit that you were still being held entirely off the ground by a man who had transformed into a walking legend and caught you like you weighed nothing at all.
You swallowed.
Hard.
Adam’s gaze flicked briefly to your mouth, then back to your eyes, so quick you almost wondered whether you had imagined it.
“Can you stand?” he asked.
You blinked.
“Yes,” you said, though the word came out far less confident than you intended.
“Good.”
He adjusted his hold carefully, lowering you until your feet found the ground again. The moment you were upright, the absence of his arms around you felt strangely noticeable, and you had to focus very hard on not reacting to that fact.
Adam, for his part, looked entirely too composed for someone who had just rescued you mid-fall.
Which was irritating.
Mostly because you were the opposite.
The ship above gave another groan, and Teela’s voice returned, tighter this time.
“I have it stable,” she said. “Mostly.”
Duncan, somewhere nearby, muttered, “Mostly is not a word I enjoy hearing in this context.”
“Neither do I,” you said automatically.
Adam’s mouth twitched.
You looked up at him again, still standing far too close, and your brain inconveniently produced the memory of being pressed against his chest the moment before. The armor had been hard. His body had been warm. His arms had not let you fall.
Your stomach did a small, hopelessly stupid flip.
Adam, of course, saw that too.
He always saw too much.
“You’re staring again,” he said softly.
You immediately straightened. “I am not.”
“You are.”
“I’m checking to see if you’re injured.”
His expression changed in a way that made it immediately obvious he did not believe that explanation for one second.
“That sounds suspiciously like an excuse.”
“It is not.”
“It absolutely is.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, but the lack of distance between you now made the gesture feel less effective than it should have.
Then Teela’s ship shuddered overhead once more, and whatever momentum had started to build between you had no choice but to pause while the real threat of the moment continued to exist.
Adam looked toward the sky, then back down at you, his face resetting into that same focused expression he had worn through battle after battle.
“Stay close,” he said.
You glanced at the wrecked ship, the smoke, the enemy forces still circling somewhere above, and then back at him.
“I don’t think I have much of a choice.”
His smile returned, brief and quick.
“No,” he said. “I suppose you don’t.”
And with the sky still burning above you and the battle still raging behind you, Adam reached out once more, not to catch you this time, but to keep you close as the two of you fought your way toward whatever survival looked like next.
The ship groaned violently overhead, and for a second it seemed as though it might tear itself apart before it could reach safety. Then Teela forced the vessel down through the trees, the landing rough enough to throw everyone forward at once. The world lurched, the metal shell of the ship shuddered against the ground, and the noise of battle faded into a heavy, breathing silence.
When the hatch finally opened, what waited outside was not a battlefield or a city, but a strange stretch of glowing trees and mist-covered earth that looked almost unreal in the fading light. The forest shimmered softly around you, as though the ground itself had decided to keep secrets.
Teela stepped out first, scanning the horizon with the same focus she had carried through every fight, then turned back toward the rest of you with a look that made it clear she had already made her decision.
“We’re spending the night here,” she said, looking out over the strange stretch of glowing trees and mist-shrouded ground ahead of you. “Then, at first light, we move toward Skeletor’s stronghold.”
You frowned, still staring at the forest as if it might explain itself if you looked long enough. It was beautiful in the unsettling way magical places often were: the trunks of the trees gave off a faint inner light, the air shimmered with drifting particles that looked almost like fireflies, and somewhere deeper in the woods there was a low, haunting sound that could have been wind or could have been something alive.
It did not, in your opinion, look like a place where anyone should be making battle plans.
“That feels a little reckless,” you said carefully. “I mean, no offense, but going straight into the enemy’s lair because we all woke up in a magical forest does not sound like a strategy that ends well.”
Teela turned toward you, one brow lifting. Adam, still standing nearby with the Sword of Power in hand, looked between the two of you with the faintest trace of amusement, though he was trying very hard to pretend he was not.
“You have a better idea?” Teela asked.
“Yes,” you said immediately. “Several, actually. One of them involves everyone training before we storm the place where your mortal enemy lives.”
Teela considered that for a beat, then nodded once. “That’s not a bad idea.”
You brightened slightly, relieved that someone had finally agreed with you.
“I also think Adam should train more carefully before he goes charging into battle like a walking legend with a very concerning amount of confidence.”
Adam looked wounded in that way that always made you want to laugh and apologize at the same time. “I did not charge.”
“You absolutely charged.”
“I advanced with purpose.”
Teela folded her arms. “You did both.”
Adam opened his mouth, then seemed to decide he had no defense against that.
You had just enough time to feel smug about being right before Teela added, with full seriousness, “And as for you, Y/N, you should probably stay out of the fighting entirely.”
Your expression dropped immediately.
“What?”
Teela didn’t seem to notice or, if she did, didn’t care. “This isn’t your war. You don’t know how to fight the way we do, and I’m not putting you in the middle of a battlefield.”
A strange, hot feeling crawled up the back of your neck.
You looked at Adam instinctively, hoping at least he might say something in your favor.
He hesitated.
Then, very gently, “Teela may have a point.”
You stared at him.
Adam’s face changed at once, as if he had realized too late that that was not the answer you wanted. “I only mean that it might be safer if you—”
“For everyone except me?” you asked.
“That is not what I said.”
“It is very close to what you said.”
He looked vaguely pained. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”
“And I’m trying to be useful,” you shot back before you could stop yourself.
The words came out sharper than you intended, and for a moment the forest around you seemed to go very quiet.
You looked away first.
The truth, unfortunately, was sitting right in the center of the argument where you could not ignore it.
You did not belong here in the way they did. You did not have their training, their weapons, their history, or their sense of what the next move should be. You were standing in the middle of a magical forest with a prince from another world, a warrior who had known him for fifteen years, a man who could turn into a living myth, and a robot in an apron, and every single one of them looked like they had a place in this world except you.
Teela seemed to realize what had happened before anyone else did.
Her face softened just a fraction. “That isn’t what I meant.”
You gave a short laugh that was more defensive than amused. “It’s fine.”
“It is not,” Adam said quietly.
You looked at him, and the concern in his hazel eyes made the whole thing sting worse.
You hated that part of it. Hated that he was trying to be kind and it still made you feel smaller.
So you straightened your shoulders and let out a breath you hoped sounded lighter than you felt.
“Then I’ll do something useful,” you said, forcing a smile onto your face. “If everyone is so determined that I stay out of the fighting, I’ll go see if there’s anything in this magical forest that might actually help us survive the next twenty-four hours.”
Teela blinked. “You want to go scavenging?”
“Yes,” you said, a little too quickly. “Apparently, that’s the one kind of role you’re all willing to let me have.”
Adam started to protest, but you cut him off before he could.
“And before anyone says no, yes, I know it’s probably irrational, and yes, I am aware this forest may contain creatures with teeth the size of my face, but at this point I am taking whatever dignity I can get.”
The huge robot in the apron tilted its head.
“I can accompany you,” it said in the same dry, unsettling tone as always. “Statistical survival outcomes improve with an additional witness.”
You turned toward it immediately. “You volunteer?”
“Correct.”
You pointed at it. “You are the first person here who has offered me something useful without telling me to stand quietly in a corner.”
The robot made a tiny mechanical sound that might have been satisfaction. “I have been praised.”
Teela looked like she wanted to argue, but the truth was that she had already lost the battle for your patience. “Fine,” she said at last. “But don’t go far.”
You huffed softly. “Of course.”
Adam took a small step toward you before stopping himself, and the gesture was so hesitant it made your chest tighten all over again.
“Be careful,” he said.
You looked at him.
He looked almost apologetic now, as if he knew exactly what had just happened and regretted being one more person to make you feel useless.
You lifted your chin. “I’m always careful.”
That made Teela snort.
Adam’s mouth twitched.
You rolled your eyes and headed into the forest before anyone could say anything else that would make the situation more irritating.
The robot followed at once, its little feet making odd, soft sounds against the strange glowing ground. The deeper you went, the more the forest seemed to close around you, though not in a threatening way. The branches arched overhead like a tunnel of light. Strange blue moss clung to the roots. Every now and then, something small and silver darted through the leaves before disappearing again. It was the sort of place that looked enchanted enough to be beautiful and dangerous enough to ruin your life.
“Do you know what we’re looking for?” you asked after a while.
“No,” the robot said.
You glanced at it. “That’s encouraging.”
“It is not my primary function to encourage.”
“Obviously.”
You moved farther between the trees, keeping one eye on the ground for anything useful. There were strange vines, odd flowers, small glowing stones, and what looked suspiciously like a nest made entirely of crystal fragments. None of it seemed immediately practical.
“You could have told me this whole thing was a bad idea,” you muttered.
“The probability of success remains unclear,” the robot replied. “However, emotional transparency suggests you required space.”
You slowed.
That was… annoyingly perceptive.
You looked down at the glowing path beneath your feet, choosing your words carefully. “I did require space.”
“I observed.”
“Did you observe that I was also offended?”
“Yes.”
You sighed. “Great.”
The robot paused. “You are still offended.”
“Also yes.”
It tilted its head. “That was likely.”
For all its unsettling delivery, there was something almost comforting about how unbothered it was. It did not try to fix your feelings. It did not tell you to stop being dramatic. It simply walked beside you through the magical forest as if this were the most normal thing in the universe.
Which, somehow, made your throat tighten all over again.
You were not sure how long you wandered before you realized you were no longer alone.
It started with the feeling first.
That strange prickling awareness of being watched.
You slowed and glanced over your shoulder.
Nothing.
Only trees, glowing roots, and the faint shimmer of the forest behind you.
The robot noticed your stop. “What is occurring?”
“Nothing,” you said automatically, though the word came out less certain than you intended.
You took another step.
Then another.
And then you saw it.
A shape behind the trunk of a tree, broad enough to be unmistakable even in the dim glow of the forest.
You stopped so abruptly the robot nearly bumped into your leg.
“Adam,” you called, louder than you had meant to.
The shape froze.
Then disappeared.
Your pulse kicked up instantly.
You narrowed your eyes at the tree line. “I know that was you.”
A beat of silence.
Then Adam stepped out from behind the trunk, looking far less stealthy than he probably thought he had been.
He had the decency to look slightly guilty.
“Hello.”
You stared at him.
Then crossed your arms.
“Are you following me?”
He hesitated.
Then, with a faint shrug, “Watching you.”
“That is not better.”
“It sounded better in my head.”
The robot turned its head from you to Adam and back again. “Observation confirms suspicious behavior.”
Adam ignored it and looked directly at you. “You were upset.”
“I was not.”
“You were.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again, because arguing with him while he looked like that was dangerously close to impossible. Even now, even hidden in the glowing forest, he was still too distracting for his own good. His shoulders were broad, his expression soft in that careful way it only got when he was trying not to overwhelm you, and the fact that he had apparently come all the way out here just to make sure you were all right was not helping your ability to stay annoyed.
“I was fine,” you said instead.
Adam lifted one eyebrow. “You left in a dramatic fashion with a robot.”
“I left with purpose.”
“You called it scavenge therapy.”
You blinked. “I did not say therapy.”
“You implied it.”
You looked at him for a long moment, then let out a short, reluctant laugh.
Adam smiled immediately, as if the entire reason he had followed you was to hear that sound again.
The robot looked up at both of you. “This appears to be a private emotional exchange.”
“No,” you and Adam said at the same time.
The robot paused. “That response suggests otherwise.”
You groaned and looked away first, because the expression on Adam’s face had gone warm in a way that made it much harder to keep thinking straight.
“You really didn’t have to follow me,” you said more quietly.
Adam’s smile softened. “I know.”
“Then why did you?”
He did not answer immediately.
When he finally did, his voice was lower than before, less playful and more honest. “Because I did not like seeing you think you had no place with us.”
You went still.
The forest seemed to hold its breath around the two of you.
For once, there was nothing teasing in Adam’s expression. No joke, no easy deflection, no attempt to make the moment lighter than it was. Just sincerity. The kind that made it impossible to argue with him and equally impossible to look away.
You looked down first.
Then muttered, because it was easier than admitting the truth outright, “That was very sneaky.”
His mouth curved.
“I preferred to think of it as concerned.”
You huffed a quiet laugh despite yourself.
Adam took one step closer, then stopped, giving you the space to decide whether that was enough. “You belong here with us,” he said quietly. “Even if you do not fight like we do.”
That landed harder than you expected.
You swallowed and glanced at him again. “You say that now because you’re standing in a forest trying to be comforting.”
“I say that because it is true.”
The robot clicked softly beside you. “Probability of this becoming emotionally meaningful is increasing.”
You both turned to glare at it.
It was entirely unbothered.
Adam exhaled through his nose, a soft laugh escaping before he could stop it. “We should probably go back before Teela assumes you have vanished into the woods.”
You looked toward the path back to camp, then back at him.
“Are you still watching me?”
He nodded once, not even pretending otherwise.
“Absolutely.”
You shook your head, but the smile you tried to hide was already giving you away. And Adam, hidden in the magical glow of the forest, looked far too pleased to have found you.
Summary: You are a future university graduate who works to pay off your student loans at a bookstore that stays open late at night. With barely any time for anything beyond work and college, one evening you are surprised by a customer who turns out to be a famous person. You share a pleasant conversation, and you find yourself utterly captivated.
Author's note: Everyone, if you enjoy this fanfic, interact with it! I particularly want to know if I should continue it or if I should end it.
SIX
SEVEN
Days go by. You keep your phone switched off and throw yourself into work, trying very hard not to think about Jacob. At this point, it almost feels like your time with Mr. Elordi was just some fever dream your brain invented to keep you entertained.
There is no sign of him anywhere. According to the gossip floating around the bookstore, he is filming out of the country, which makes it feel as though even the universe has decided the two of you are meant to stay apart for now.
So, tonight, a bottle of wine and a Bridget Jones marathon are exactly what you need to stop your thoughts from spiraling.
By the time you head home, the streets are quiet, the kind of quiet that makes every small sound feel suspicious. You notice someone behind you, following the same route you are taking. Your pulse jumps immediately. Before you can let yourself panic, your hand is already digging into your bag for the taser you keep there, and you slow your steps just enough to prepare yourself.
When you spin around and lunge forward, ready to defend yourself, your heart nearly stops. The person in front of you is Jacob.
He is wearing a disguise that is apparently meant to make him look anonymous, which somehow makes him look even more unmistakably like Jacob Elordi. He is barely able to get a word out before you shock him, and he crumples to the ground with a sharp, breathless cry.
“Fuck!” Jacob gasps, collapsing onto the pavement and curling in on himself. “I think you literally just killed me.”
“Sorry,” you mutter, already reaching for him and helping him back to his feet.
Only then do you really notice the ugly-looking bruise on his face, the kind that makes your stomach twist with guilt all over again. “Does it hurt that bad?” you ask, your voice instantly softer now that the adrenaline is fading.
Jacob lets out a pained sound, one hand still pressed to his side, and gives you a look that is equal parts offended and dramatic. “Yeah,” he says, drawing out the word as if the pain itself is a personal insult. “It hurts quite a lot. Do you think you could help me do something about it?”
The guilt hits you hard enough that you do not even hesitate. You let him lean on you and guide him inside, steadying him carefully as you get him into your apartment. Then you rush to grab the first aid kit, your hands already moving on instinct as you clean the fake-looking wound and start to press a bandage over it.
That is when you realize it.
It is makeup.
You stop mid-motion and stare at him, disbelief spreading across your face. “You idiot,” you say, swatting his arm.
“Don’t call me that,” Jacob says at once, a little too quickly for someone who is supposedly the injured party. “I took advantage of a situation to get some comfort from my attacker, who also happens to be the woman who has been ignoring me for a week, even though I have been trying to reach you every single day and flew here on the very first plane I could get after filming ended.”
You look at him for a long second, your annoyance sharpening faster than the embarrassment in your chest.
“You should have been focusing on your co-star and the movie,” you say, crossing your arms as if that could keep your voice steady. “Not on me.”
The words come out harsher than you intend, but you are too frustrated to soften them. Too much had happened in the last few days, too many rumors, too much silence, too much of him appearing and disappearing from your life like a bad joke the universe kept repeating just to see how much you could take.
Jacob's expression falters. “You don't mean that.”
“And maybe you should leave,” you add, your throat tightening as soon as the sentence is out. “It would be better if we just forgot about each other.”
The room goes still.
Jacob looks at you like you have just asked him to do something impossible.
“I can’t forget you,” he says, his voice low and serious in a way that strips away every trace of the teasing attitude he had been hiding behind. “And it is not fair that one misunderstanding is supposed to ruin whatever this is between us.”
You blink, your heart already beginning to trip over itself.
“Whatever this is?” you repeat, because the words sound dangerous even before you finish saying them. “What relationship are you talking about?”
His expression changes then, becoming softer, more open, almost vulnerable in a way that makes your breath catch.
“You,” he says simply, as if the answer should have been obvious all along, “are the owner of my thoughts. And if that is not enough for you to call this something, then I would at least like to say that I belong to you more than I belong to myself.”
Your mouth parts slightly, but no sound comes out.
Before you can recover, he takes your hand and places it gently against the side of his chest, right over his heart. His skin is warm beneath your palm, and the steady thrum there feels suddenly too loud, too intimate, too impossible to ignore.
“Feel that?” he asks quietly, his eyes locked on yours. “That is what happens when I am near you.”
The air between you changes all at once, charged with the kind of tension that feels less like an argument and more like the exact moment before everything shifts forever.
“If you don't think that's something...”
His voice cracks slightly.
“If that doesn't mean anything to you...”
For the first time since you've known him, Jacob looks genuinely scared. Not of paparazzi. Not of headlines. Not of public scrutiny. Just of your answer. Then he gives a small, helpless smile.
“Because from where I'm standing, I belong more to you than I do to myself.”
Your hand remains against his chest for a moment longer. You can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. And that is the problem.
Because yours is doing exactly the same thing. Slowly, you lean forward until your forehead rests against his. The movement is so natural that neither of you seems to think about it. For a second, neither of you speaks. You simply stand there, breathing the same air.
"I thought about you too," you admit quietly. Jacob closes his eyes. The confession seems to hit him harder than he expected.
"You did?" A sad smile touches your lips.
"More than I wanted to." His fingers tighten slightly around yours.
Hope flickers across his face so quickly that it almost breaks your resolve. But only almost. You force yourself to continue.
"But I don't think this is fair." His expression immediately falls.
"What isn't?"
You swallow.
"Us."
The word feels wrong the moment it leaves your mouth.
"You have this entire life, Jacob. Cameras. Interviews. Rumors. People constantly watching you." Your voice trembles slightly. "And apparently all it took was one stupid article for me to completely fall apart."
His jaw tightens.
"That's not what happened."
"Isn't it?" you ask softly.
Your eyes meet his.
"If what we have is so fragile that a stupid gossip headline can make me question everything, then maybe we're setting ourselves up to fail."
The silence that follows is unbearable.
Jacob stares at you as though he is trying to find the exact place where things started slipping through his fingers.
Then he steps closer. Close enough that your noses almost brush.
"Is it really that easy?" he asks quietly.
The question hurts. Because you know he isn't talking about the rumors. He's talking about him. About giving up. About walking away.
You feel tears threatening behind your eyes.
"No."
Your voice cracks.
"No, it's not easy at all."
His expression softens immediately. You can see the hope returning. Which only makes what you have to do next even harder.
"It's actually a lot more painful than it looks."
The words hang between you. For a moment, Jacob doesn't say anything. Then he nods.
A small, sad nod. The kind people give when they're trying very hard not to break apart.
"I don't want to let you go."
His voice is barely above a whisper.
"But if that's what you've decided..."
He pauses.
"...I'll respect it."
The gentleness in his tone nearly destroys you. Because he means it. He isn't trying to convince you anymore. He isn't trying to fight. He's simply accepting your choice. And somehow that hurts worse.
You take a shaky breath.
Then another.
"Well..."
Your throat tightens.
"It was nice meeting you, Jacob."
For a second, he just looks at you.
As if he's memorizing your face. Every detail. Every expression. Like someone preparing to lose something precious. Then he gives you one final smile. Small. Heartbroken. And turns toward the door.
The sound of it closing behind him echoes through the apartment.
The silence afterward is immediate. Crushing. You stand there for several seconds. Maybe longer. You aren't entirely sure. All you know is that your chest feels hollow.
And suddenly breathing is much harder than it should be. A tear slips down your cheek. Then another. You wipe them away angrily. It doesn't help.
Because the truth crashes into you all at once. You don't feel relieved. You don't feel smarter. You don't feel protected. You just feel miserable. A strangled laugh escapes you through your tears.
"Oh, this is pathetic."
The words barely leave your mouth before you're moving. One second you're standing in your apartment. The next you're running.
You rush out the door, down the hallway, and into the street. Your heart pounds wildly as you look around. Then you spot him. Jacob has only made it halfway down the block.
"Jacob!"
He turns immediately. The second he sees you running toward him, his eyes widen. You stop in front of him, breathless. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
"I know you're going to break my heart someday."
The confession escapes before you can stop it. Jacob freezes. You laugh through your tears.
"I really do."
Your voice shakes.
"You're an actor. You're impossible. Your life is insane."
Another tear slips free.
"But I'd like the chance to say you were the one who did it."
The world seems to stop. Jacob just stares at you.
And the look on his face is so overwhelming that it nearly steals the rest of your words.
As if you are the only thing he can see. The only thing that matters. The only thing that exists. Then he's moving. Fast. His hands find your waist.
And before you can react, you're suddenly off the ground. A startled laugh escapes you as he lifts you effortlessly into the air. Then his mouth is on yours. The kiss is desperate. Relieved. Joyful.
The kind of kiss that feels like someone finding their way home after being lost for far too long.
You wrap your arms around his neck as he kisses you again and again, smiling against your lips between every breath.
When he finally pulls back, both of you are laughing. Neither of you can stop. His forehead falls against yours.
His hands remain firmly around your waist, as though he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.
"I'd rather you break mine," he says softly.
You stare at him. His thumb brushes your cheek.
"I mean it."
His eyes search yours.
"If somebody's going to destroy me, I'd much rather it be you."
A laugh escapes through your tears.
"That's not exactly romantic."
"It is to me."
You shake your head. He smiles. Then he kisses you again before you can argue. And this time, neither of you tries to pretend you're walking away.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
There is no dramatic declaration waiting to be made, no grand speech capable of fixing everything that happened over the last week.
Instead, the two of you simply stand there beneath the soft glow of a streetlamp, holding onto each other like you've spent days trying and failing to do exactly that.
Eventually, a shaky laugh escapes you.
"You know, most people bring flowers when they're trying to win someone back."
Jacob raises an eyebrow.
"Most people don't get tased before they make it to the front door."
A horrified groan leaves you immediately.
"Oh my God. Are you ever going to let that go?"
"Absolutely not."
The smug satisfaction in his voice makes you want to shove him.
"You assaulted an internationally recognized actor."
"You followed me home wearing a disguise."
"It was a hat."
"It was a terrible hat."
"It was a discreet hat."
"It looked like you were trying to evade the FBI."
Jacob laughs, and the sound instantly makes something inside your chest loosen. For the first time in days, everything feels easy again. Familiar.
His smile lingers for a moment before softening.
"You really turned your phone off?"
Your gaze immediately drops to the pavement. That tells him everything.
"A whole week?"
You nod.
"A whole week."
Jacob exhales heavily before resting his forehead against yours. The gesture is so gentle it almost hurts.
"Do you have any idea what that did to me?"
You swallow.
"Probably less than what the rumors did to me."
His expression changes instantly. The teasing vanishes.
"Hey."
One hand rises to cup your cheek.
"Look at me."
Slowly, you do. The concern in his eyes makes your stomach twist.
"I know this is going to happen again," he says quietly. "There are going to be rumors. Photos. Headlines. People making things up because that's what they do."
A small smile appears.
"Some of them will probably accuse me of dating three different women in the same week."
A reluctant laugh escapes you.
"Only three?"
"Good point."
The smile fades just as quickly.
"But none of that changes what's real."
His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching a tear you hadn't even realized was there.
"If something scares you, talk to me."
The simplicity of the words somehow makes them hit harder.
"Don't disappear."
The vulnerability in his voice catches you completely off guard.
"Don't decide for me what I can handle."
For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. Because he isn't talking about gossip anymore. He's talking about you shutting him out.
About making the decision for both of you. About not giving him the chance to stay.
Slowly, you nod.
"Okay."
Relief flashes across his face so quickly that it almost breaks your heart. Real relief. The kind that comes from someone who genuinely believed they might have lost you.
"Okay?" he asks again, just to be sure.
A small smile appears on your lips.
"Okay."
His answering grin is immediate. Bright. Unrestrained. The first completely carefree smile you've seen from him all night.
"There she is."
You roll your eyes.
"Don't get used to winning arguments."
"I wasn't trying to win."
His fingers slide between yours.
"I was trying to keep my girlfriend."
You nearly choke. Jacob's grin widens.
"Oh, that definitely got a reaction."
"Jacob."
"What?"
"You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?"
His expression is infuriatingly innocent.
"You ran down an entire city block to stop me from leaving. I think I've earned the right to be optimistic."
Heat rushes to your face.
"Don't."
"You literally chased me."
"Jacob."
"You sprinted."
A groan escapes you before you bury your face in his shoulder. His laughter rumbles through his chest beneath your cheek.
For a moment neither of you moves, content to remain exactly where you are. Then Jacob squeezes your hand and begins leading you back toward your apartment.
"Where are we going?" you ask.
"Inside."
"Why?"
He glances at you.
"Because I flew across the world for you."
Your heart does an embarrassing little flip.
Then he adds casually, "And because I think Bridget Jones is still waiting."
You stop walking.
"How do you know I was watching Bridget Jones?"
Jacob gives you a look.
"The bottle of wine in your grocery bag was basically a cry for help."
You gasp.
"Wow."
"I'm just saying."
"That is incredibly judgmental."
"It's observational."
"It's rude."
"It's accurate."
You shake your head, trying and failing to suppress your smile.
Jacob only laughs and pulls you a little closer as the two of you continue toward your apartment, neither of you willing to let go of the other's hand.
And for the first time in a week, neither of you is walking away. You're finally heading in the same direction.
Summary: You have no desire to marry, yet your family insists otherwise, pressuring you to believe that you should. Amidst it all, you find yourself drawn to Guy Thwarte, who proves to be rather good company.
Author's Note: My slight fixation on Matthew Broome led me to create this fanfic, but I can’t guarantee it will be good. So, dear reader, if you enjoy it, please interact and comment.]
four
FIVE
Upon arriving at Theo’s residence, the four of you are shown into the library, the door closing behind you with a weight that seems almost deliberate. You keep your distance from Guy, careful not to so much as brush against him, though his gaze lingers upon you throughout, inescapable and intent.
Theo turns the key in the lock and faces them both at once, his expression set, his restraint already wearing thin.
“For how long did you intend to make a mockery of me?” he demands, his voice sharp with controlled anger. You remain apart, watching as the confrontation unfolds.
“None of us take pleasure in deceiving you,” Guy replies, striving for composure. “What you witnessed was nothing more than a moment poorly judged.”
“A moment entirely unconsidered,” Nan adds, lifting her chin as though that alone might steady the situation.
You nearly let out a laugh at that, the boldness of calling such a thing unconsidered almost laughable, but you hold it back, choosing instead to observe. Theo’s gaze hardens.
“You would allow yourself such liberties in plain view,” he says, his voice tightening, “with my closest friend, no less. Do you understand what you risk? Not merely your own reputation, but mine, bound to yours by an engagement you seem all too willing to dishonour.”
Nan’s composure falters, if only slightly, though she does not step back.
“You mistake the situation,” she insists. “There was no intent to disgrace you.”
“No intent?” Theo echoes, incredulous now. “Then I must wonder what name you would give it, for I find myself at a loss.”
Guy exhales, his patience thinning.
“It was not meant to become what it did,” he says. “You were never meant to see it at all.”
The words land poorly, only sharpening Theo’s expression.
“So the offence lies not in the act itself, but in my having witnessed it?” Theo replies coldly. “How considerate.”
A tense silence follows, thick with everything left unsaid.
“You presume too much,” Nan says, though there is strain beneath her voice now. “You presume intention where there was none.”
“And you presume I am blind,” Theo returns, quieter, but no less cutting. “Or worse, a fool willing to be made one.”
No one speaks for a moment after that.
Theo lets out a slow breath, shaking his head, the disappointment settling more heavily than his anger.
“I would have expected better,” he says at last. “From you both.”
The words linger in the room, heavier than any accusation. And still, no denial comes that can undo what has already been seen.
“I believe I speak for Nan when I say we are terribly grieved to have placed you in such a situation,” Guy says, his words carrying little true sincerity. Beneath the seeming apology there lies a subtle reproach, almost imperceptible yet unmistakable.
“Do you truly think that the greater pain in this matter lies in my being humiliated, and not in the knowledge that two of those I hold in highest esteem would take me for a fool?” Theo asks, his gaze unwavering. The resentment in the Duke’s voice is sharp, edged with hurt.
“I cannot say. It seems to me that the tarnishing of your reputation presents the graver concern here,” Guy replies, his composure effortless, his tone almost teasing. You watch, astonished at the insolence he dares to carry.
Theo’s jaw tightens. “You speak with a confidence that would be admirable were it not so reckless,” he says, his voice low and measured, yet the words sting. “Do you not perceive the gravity of your actions?”
Guy inclines his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I perceive it well enough, and yet I wonder if your own pride does not colour your judgment,” he says, carefully threading defiance and charm in equal measure.
Theo steps closer, the air between them charged with tension. “I should have expected candour from you, yet this; this is insolence wrapped in civility. You would do well to consider what alliances you may imperil with such behaviour,” he warns, each word deliberate, heavy with consequence.
Nan shifts uneasily, but says nothing, leaving the confrontation between the two men to unfold in sharp, unyielding silence.
You sense the unspoken currents, the danger and allure all at once, and cannot help but feel the room tighten around you with the weight of what is at stake.
“I suppose that, though it may be prudent for you to air your grievances, we are all perhaps too swept away by the heat of emotion,” you finally say, stepping deliberately between them, your voice calm but firm, demanding a pause in the rising storm.
“The lady speaks truly,” Nan concedes, her voice carrying a note of relief. “We might conduct a far more profitable discourse should we first allow ourselves a moment to consider our words and deeds.”
He turns first to Nan, and then to Guy, each glance deliberate, each word struck with finality. “Henceforth, both our engagement is dissolved, and our friendship as well.”
A hush falls upon the library, the very air seeming to still in response. Guy’s expression hardens, a flicker of something between indignation and disbelief crossing his features, while Nan’s composure falters, her hands tightening at her sides. You feel the tension wrap itself around you like a physical weight, the room shrinking under the gravity of Theo’s declaration.
“You do not understand the consequences of your own actions,” Theo adds, his voice quiet now, but sharpened with an edge that makes every word land with precision. “One cannot undo what has been witnessed, nor can one unmake the impressions left upon those who have been wronged.”
Guy opens his mouth, as if to speak, but the words falter; he recognizes the immovable certainty in Theo’s eyes. Nan glances at him, a flicker of regret mingling with fear, and even you, standing apart, feel the sting of the moment, knowing that whatever comes next will not be easily reconciled.
“So be it, Your Grace, the Duke of Tintagel,” Guy says, the title falling from his lips with a stiffness that betrays his anger. Whether it is directed at Theo's decision or born from the frustration of being unable to speak plainly of whatever truly exists between him and Nan, you cannot tell.
“Theo, I beg you to think more carefully,” Nan says, her voice softening. “Do not cast aside two relationships that have long been dear to you on account of a single moment.”
For the first time, genuine desperation creeps into her expression. She takes a tentative step towards him. Theo immediately withdraws. The movement is slight, but it strikes with more force than any harsh word could have.
“I have thought carefully,” he replies. “Far more carefully, I suspect, than either of you.”
“Please—”
“No.”
The single word is calm. Calm enough to be alarming. Theo draws a slow breath before continuing.
“You ask me to reflect, yet I have done little else since leaving that garden. I have reflected upon my friendship. Upon my engagement. Upon the regard I bore you both.” His gaze settles on neither of them. “And I find that the more I reflect, the less reason I discover to preserve either.”
Nan's face pales. Guy squares his shoulders, his jaw tightening.
“You are being unreasonable,” he says.
“No, Guy. For once, I believe I am being exceedingly reasonable.”
The words hang heavily between them. Theo turns away then, directing his attention towards the tall windows overlooking the grounds. His hands are clasped behind his back with such force that his knuckles have nearly turned white.
“Leave my house,” he says quietly.
Neither of them moves.
“Leave my house,” he repeats. “And do not permit my eyes to fall upon either of you again.”
The silence that follows is unbearable. You had expected shouting. Anger. Accusations. Instead, Theo's composure makes the entire scene infinitely worse.
He does not rage. He does not plead. He simply sounds like a man mourning something that has already died.
Nan looks at him for a long moment, as though hoping he might turn around, soften, offer some sign that his decision is not final.
He does not. At last, her shoulders slump. Guy's expression darkens, but he says nothing further.
There is nothing left to say. As the reality of the moment settles over the room, an uncomfortable ache forms in your chest.
You know Theo has every right to be wounded. You know Nan and Guy have given him reason to feel betrayed.
And yet, watching him stand there alone, facing the window as though the sight of them has become unbearable, you cannot help but feel sorry for him.
The library suddenly feels far too large. Far too quiet. And somehow, despite there being four people in the room, Theo has never looked more alone.
“If you would go after Guy and settle whatever remains unresolved between you, now would be the proper moment,” Theo murmurs, watching you with a nervous sort of apprehension.
“And leave you alone?” you ask, and then step closer to him, resting your head lightly against his shoulder.
A breath is shared between you, soft and weary.
“Do you think I was too severe with them?” he asks at last, and there is something in his voice that suggests he is close to tears, though he struggles with every ounce of strength to keep himself from breaking apart.
“I think you acted as the pain in your heart commanded you to act,” you answer gently.
Theo says nothing at first. His silence is not empty, but heavy, burdened with all that has been wounded in so short a span of time.
For a moment, he only stands there with you beside him, the weight of the evening pressing down upon him in a manner far crueler than any sharp word could have done. When he finally speaks again, it is in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Then I fear my heart has become a most unkind master.”
You lift your head just enough to look at him, your expression softening.
“No,” you say quietly. “Only a wounded one.”
That seems to touch him more deeply than any argument could have. His eyes close for a brief moment, and when he opens them again, the strain in his face has not vanished, but it has shifted, becoming something more vulnerable and less guarded.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, almost as though he does not know how else to say it.
You remain at his side, neither of you in any haste to move, while the room around you still feels suspended in the aftermath of what has passed.
Before the darkness of night had fully claimed the sky, after comforting Theo, you returned by carriage to your residence. To your surprise, Guy was waiting for you.
“Mr. Thwarte, I do not know to what I owe the honour of your presence, but I am in no temper to receive you this evening,” you say the moment you descend from the carriage.
“I know you must be angry at what you witnessed,” he murmurs, trying to keep you from walking on.
“Stand aside, sir,” you say, attempting to put distance between you, but he takes your arm and draws you to a corner beyond the view of the house entrance.
“Pray, hear me, Y/N,” he says, his face drawn close to yours, unsettling your thoughts and leaving you badly distracted.
“Do not waste your breath on me, Guy,” you remark softly, meeting his gaze with marked severity. “You allowed yourself liberties with me while your heart was fixed upon another.” You press a finger to his chest in open accusation. “And beyond that, you stood by while your best friend came near to marrying the woman for whom you so plainly bear some feeling. There is nothing you can say that shall make your conduct appear justifiable.”
“I have committed an error. I became attached to a young lady who was, later, engaged to my best friend, yes, but I would never have disrespected him or you. What you saw between Nan and me was a mistake,” Guy answers, placing his hands about your face and drawing you nearer to him. “Look me in the eyes and tell me whether I seem to be in love with anyone besides you,” he murmurs.
“I do not know how to read eyes, Guy,” you reply, pushing him back with your hands. “But I do know how to read actions, and seeing you with Nan made me realize that whatever there was between us no longer exists.” Your voice is steady, though your heart hammers so violently in your chest that it feels fit to burst from your throat.
You begin to step away.
“Then let it be known that I shall be here,” Guy calls after you, his voice rising with urgency, “waiting for the day you understand that what I feel for you is far more than any mistake I have ever made.”
Summary: You are an anti-heroine, forged by corporate experiments and gifted with extraordinary abilities. Living outside the law in Metropolis, you steal from the powerful to serve your own sense of justice. When your path collides with Superman, a complicated bond forms, built on tension, attraction and a secret pact that ties you to the man who should be your greatest enemy.
Author's note: Reblog or like this fanfic if you want it to go on, and feel free to leave comments. If this chapter does well, the next one will come soon, so don’t forget to engage and leave a comment.
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
The whole world knows Clark is Superman now. You never pictured this day arriving, and yet here it is, crashing down with enough force to make everything feel unstable at once, like every wall holding your life together is finally starting to give.
“The reports about you being an extraterrestrial who helped multiple criminals escape on purpose are spreading everywhere,” Selina says with maddening calm, as if she is talking about weather instead of a worldwide disaster, while you and Clark prepare to head back to Metropolis.
Clark stands beside you in silence, stiffer than usual, the kind of stillness that comes when he is hearing far more than anyone else in the room. He adjusts his suit with careful, controlled movements, trying to hold himself together while the world outside tears his name apart.
You do not look away from Selina.
“You seem to be enjoying this,” you say, your voice low at first, then sharper as the words settle in. “The chaos you left behind, especially for Clark.”
Selina meets your stare without flinching. “Chaos is a very emotional word for information being released.”
That answer sets something off in you immediately.
You move toward her before you fully register it, the tension in your body shifting from restraint to impulse, and Bruce steps in fast, catching you before you can close the distance.
“Don’t,” Bruce murmurs near your ear, his voice low enough that only you can hear it, firm enough to pull you back before the moment explodes.
Selina watches the scene with calm amusement, like she expected exactly this.
Clark finally moves, his attention split between you, Selina, and the pressure of everything closing in around all of you. “This is not just about me anymore,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.
Bruce does not let you go right away, but the hold is not aggressive. It is control, measured and deliberate, the kind that keeps a situation from breaking apart entirely. “Not right now,” he repeats, still low, still close, as if he is anchoring you in place in the middle of a storm.
Selina shifts her weight and studies all of you like the picture has finally come into focus. “You’re still trying to decide who gets to control the narrative,” she says. “That part is already over.”
Clark closes his eyes for a brief second, drawing in a breath as if he is gathering every last piece of himself before speaking again. When he opens them, the decision is there.
“Then we stop trying to control it,” he says.
He looks at you, then at Bruce, then back toward the wreckage Selina left behind. “And start fixing it.”
“I have an idea to reverse the damage, but Clark cannot be involved,” you say, forcing yourself to keep going before doubt can shut you down.
Clark turns to you immediately, as if he already knows where this is headed. “Know that I won’t let you do anything that puts you at risk.”
You swallow hard, the weight of what you are about to suggest settling heavily in your chest. “We can use your technology to make the world believe someone with a real reason to hate Superman framed him, that all of this was a setup meant to destroy the public image of the hero they think they know.”
Bruce studies you carefully. “And who exactly do you intend to blame?”
You can feel every eye in the room on you now, the silence tightening around the answer before you even give it. “A villain with every reason in the world to screw over Superman, and one who is willing to admit it and go to prison for it.”
No one speaks.
The name does not even need to be said. The room understands it instantly.
Selina lets out a soft laugh, her expression somewhere between amused and impressed. “Giving yourself up for your beloved. That is quite the romantic declaration.”
Bruce’s face closes off the moment she says it, his jaw tightening as though he has already made the decision before the words fully land.
“Alfred,” he says, his tone clipped.
Alfred moves without hesitation, stepping toward Selina and guiding her out of the room with polite but unmistakable authority. She goes with a smirk still lingering on her mouth, clearly satisfied with the damage she has already caused.
Bruce remains where he is, his expression hardening into something unreadable as the door closes behind her.
“That’s insane,” Bruce says, his voice flat with disbelief. “You’re talking about giving yourself up to save Clark’s reputation.”
Clark answers almost at once, looking at you with clear disapproval. “I agree with him. You’d have to be out of your mind to think that is a solution.”
You draw in a slow breath, feeling the tension in the room sharpen as both of them react as if the decision has already been made for you.
“Neither of you gets to decide that,” you say, keeping your voice under control. “And that is not even the biggest problem here. There are still criminals out there, dangerous people moving freely. If the world starts seeing every hero as a threat, starting with Superman, what do you think happens the moment someone needs a city saved in real time?”
The silence that follows is not empty. It is calculation.
Bruce is the first to answer, lower and more measured now. “Public trust collapses. Cooperation between cities, response networks, everything becomes unstable.”
Clark drags a hand across his face, the frustration obvious now. “And while that happens, the same criminals stay free.”
You give a small nod, not breaking eye contact with either of them. “Exactly.”
Bruce studies you for a long moment, as though he is trying to separate strategy from emotion. “And your solution is to take responsibility for a story you did not create alone.”
“It is a story that is already out of control,” you reply. “The only thing left to choose is how it ends.”
Clark steps closer, his voice lower now, but edged with frustration he is trying not to let spill over. “And you really think the world will just accept that? That it will stop looking at me like a threat because someone else decided to take the fall?”
You hold his gaze without backing down. “I am not trying to make the world forgive you. I am trying to keep it from falling apart while the two of you argue over whether this is right.”
Bruce does not look away from you. “That does not solve the actual problem.”
“It buys time,” you answer immediately. “And time is the one thing we do not have right now.”
The room goes quiet again, the kind of silence that forces every possibility into the open. Nobody is ready to call it a plan, but none of them can ignore that it might be the only one left.
“I can use Wayne Enterprises’ systems to fabricate evidence that implicates you and clears the big guy,” Bruce says, his tone already shifting into planning mode, as if he has accepted this is happening whether he approves of it or not.
Clark looks at him immediately, tension tightening in his posture. “You’re talking about manufacturing a global narrative.”
“I’m talking about controlling damage,” Bruce corrects, already thinking in layers. “If this continues unchecked, the public perception collapse will be irreversible.”
You step forward slightly, cutting through the back-and-forth before it can spiral further. “Do what you have to do,” you say, your voice steady, final. “I’ll take responsibility for whatever comes after.”
Bruce’s eyes narrow slightly as he studies you. “You are aware that this makes you a primary target the moment it goes live.”
“I am,” you answer without hesitation.
Clark turns toward you fully now. “You don’t have to do this.”
You meet his gaze, unshaken. “Yes, I do.”
A beat of silence follows, heavier than the words themselves.
Bruce speaks again, lower now, more direct. “This isn’t reversible once it starts. If I do this, there is no clean exit for you.”
You don’t look away from him. “Are you going to do it or not?”
That lands exactly where it needs to. Bruce holds your stare for a moment longer than necessary, something unreadable passing behind his eyes before he exhales once, controlled.
“It will be ready before you reach Metropolis,” he says finally.
He turns without waiting for agreement, already moving into motion, the decision sealed in the way only he can seal things. The door closes behind him, leaving the weight of what just happened hanging in the room.
“I can’t let you do this,” Clark says, stepping closer, his voice lower now, strained in a way that makes the words feel heavier than an argument.
You look at him properly this time and see it clearly, the concern, the helplessness he rarely allows himself to show.
Without thinking too long about it, you step into him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him close with a force that leaves no space between you.
“I hate you, Kent,” you murmur against him, but your voice breaks slightly at the end, and the words lose their edge the moment they leave your mouth.
Clark holds you tighter instantly, like he’s trying to anchor you to something solid before everything shifts again. “Don’t do this,” he says quietly, almost pleading now. “Don’t sacrifice yourself for me.”
“You would do the same for me if you had the chance,” you reply, your voice softening, as if admitting it makes it harder to hold on.
That makes him go still for a second.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, then raises a hand to your face. The gesture is slow, deliberate, almost reverent as he brushes away what you didn’t even realize had started to fall.
He kisses you gently, not rushed, not uncertain. His lips touch your cheek first, then your other eye, your nose, each one carrying something unspoken before he finally settles on your mouth.
It is not a desperate kiss. It is not chaotic. It is final in a way neither of you want to name.
When he pulls back slightly, his forehead almost touching yours, his voice is barely above a whisper. “I’m going to save you.”
You let out a shaky breath, your eyes still closed for a second longer than necessary. “I hope so,” you answer quietly.
And neither of you moves to break it properly, because doing so would make it real in a way neither of you are ready to face.
“But before you save me, you’re going to take me in,” you say quietly, pressing your forehead against his. “That’s what will make it easier for the world to see you for who you are.”
Clark doesn’t pull away. His hands stay on you, steady, grounding, like he’s afraid that if he loosens his grip even slightly, the moment will fracture completely.
“The world that believes I would turn you in to the police doesn’t understand who I am,” he says, voice low but firm. “And I’m not going to become someone else just to fix their perception.”
You hold his gaze at that distance, so close you can feel every breath he takes.
“Come on, Kent,” you murmur, softer now, something almost like exhaustion bleeding into your tone. “You need to be the man who protects the world again.”
A beat passes between you, heavy with everything neither of you are willing to say out loud.
Then Clark exhales slowly, like he’s making a decision that costs him more than he’s willing to admit. He nods once. And together, you leave.
Metropolis comes into view not as a destination anymore, but as a turning point neither of you can step back from.
Metropolis doesn’t feel like arrival. It feels like the moment everything finally gives way.
The second you land, the response is immediate. Not panic, not confusion, but preparation. Officers are already in place with reinforced restraints and containment equipment meant for someone they have already decided is dangerous. You do not even get the chance to speak before they are closing in, and Clark is there, forced to stand back while cameras capture every angle of your arrest.
For one brief second, the noise around you dulls.
Clark steps closer anyway, just enough to make sure you can hear him through the chaos. His expression is tight, controlled, but there is something raw behind it that he refuses to let the world see.
“This is not the end of this,” he says quietly.
You let out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, though it comes out sharper than that. “You say that like you can stop this now.”
“I can,” he answers, and for once there is no hesitation in it. “Just not here.”
That lands harder than it should.
The officers move in again, and this time he does not interfere, not because he does not want to, but because he understands exactly how badly the world is watching. His jaw tightens as they take hold of you, and when you look back at him, he is already trying to think ten steps ahead.
You are not resisting. There is no point. The story is already being written over your head.
Still, before they drag you away, you turn your face toward him one last time.
“You need to stop looking at me like this is your fault,” you say.
Clark’s mouth parts slightly, like he wants to argue, but the words never come. His hands curl into fists at his sides.
“It's my fault,” he says instead, low enough that only you can hear it. “You don't deserve this.”
The transport doors close before you can answer.
By the time you are processed into the special cell beneath the Metropolis facility, the story has already gone global. Criminal. Fraud. Mastermind. The woman who helped forge the truth around Superman. Your name is dragged through every screen in the city, then beyond it, and the speed with which the world turns on you is almost impressive in its cruelty.
The cell is not ordinary. Reinforced walls, signal suppression, constant surveillance, a layout built for something they expect to be able to break out if left uncontained long enough. They are treating you like a threat with political value, not just a prisoner.
Hours pass. Then the door opens again.
Lex Luthor steps in like he was always meant to own the room.
He looks you over with open interest first, irritation second. “You are not the outcome I was expecting,” he says, voice calm, almost conversational. “But then, Superman has a talent for disappointing people who think they’ve planned properly.”
You stay where you are, watching him carefully. “If you came here to gloat, you wasted your time.”
Lex smiles faintly, as if that amuses him. “Gloating implies emotion. I prefer efficiency.” He takes a few measured steps, hands folded behind his back. “I wanted Superman contained. Instead, I got a public scandal, a city in denial, and you.”
You tilt your head slightly. “Congratulations to me.”
“I am not congratulating you,” he says, the calm beginning to thin at the edges. “I am telling you that you have become useful.”
That makes you laugh once, quietly, with no humor in it. “That’s a dangerous thing to say to someone standing in a cell.”
Lex’s gaze sharpens. “Danger is a matter of perspective. From where I stand, you are exactly where I need you to be.”
You meet his eyes without blinking. “And what exactly do you think you need me for?”
“Superman is strongest when he believes he is protecting people,” Lex says, circling just enough to make the point that he is assessing every angle. “Heroes like him are predictable in one critical way. They will always choose the person in front of them over the larger cost.”
You already do not like where this is going.
Lex notices the change in your expression and continues anyway, almost pleased now that he has your attention. “You are going to be very useful to me because you are not merely a prisoner. You are leverage. A weakness he cannot afford to ignore, especially now that the world is already turning on him.”
Your jaw tightens. “He won’t come for me.”
Lex lets out a quiet, almost amused breath. “No? Not if I make the right offer. Not if I make the right threat.”
He stops directly in front of the glass, looking at you like a scientist finally spotting the experiment’s most promising variable.
“You interfered with my plans,” he says, his voice lowering, each word sharper than the last. “You helped turn a controlled situation into a public disaster. Do you understand how much I dislike being delayed?”
You do not answer, and the silence only seems to encourage him.
“I will use you,” Lex says, expression gone cold now, the mask of civility slipping just enough to reveal the hostility underneath. “I will use the fact that Superman still cares. I will make him choose, and when he does, he will learn exactly what it costs to get in my way.”
You hold his stare, refusing to give him anything more than that.
Lex’s smile returns, but this time it has no trace of charm in it.
“And you,” he says, “will regret the moment you decided to interfere. By the time I’m finished, you will understand what it means to become useful to a man like me.”
You meet a man who claims to be a prince from another world, after a love life full of disappointments and failed connections. As his impossible story begins to prove disturbingly real, you find yourself drawn to him in ways you didn’t expect.
Author's Note: After watching Master of the Universe (2026) and seeing Nicholas Galitzine at his best as Adam, I decided to write a chapter of a fanfic or a one-shot. It depends on whether anyone likes it. This chapter, like others, contains spoilers for the movie's plot. However, there will be changes in several parts as well. The characters don't belong to me.
FOUR SIX
FIVE
Duncan made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a sigh, then shifted just enough on the cot to mutter, “You’re all interrupting my nap.”
His voice was thick and gravelly, the kind of exhausted slur that made him sound less like a commander and more like a man who had spent the last several hours trying very hard not to exist. Even half-lidded and barely coherent, he still managed to sound deeply annoyed by the concept of people needing him.
“Father.”
Duncan ignored her.
“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to sleep in a resistance hideout?”
“Apparently not difficult enough.”
“Teela, I raised you better than this.”
Adam straightened at once, almost instinctively falling into a more formal posture despite the obvious chaos of the situation.
“We can come back another time if you need to rest, sir,” he said quietly, with the kind of careful respect that made it obvious he had spent years learning how to speak to this man properly.
Teela made a sharp, exasperated noise beside him and crouched lower at her father’s side, shaking him once as though she intended to drag him fully into consciousness by force.
“Father, wake up,” she said, her voice tightening with disbelief. “We found Adam. And more importantly, we found the Sword of Power.”
That finally got Duncan to stir. Slowly, painfully, he rolled onto his side and blinked blearily in their direction, as though the effort of identifying his own daughter and the prince she was dragging into the room had become far more work than he had expected from his evening. His gaze landed first on Teela, then drifted toward Adam, and you watched some distant part of him attempt to assemble the significance of what he was seeing.
Then he squinted, clearly deciding the world had become too inconvenient to handle with dignity, and muttered, “Tell the prince he’s fifteen years late.”
Before anyone could react to that, he turned his face back toward the cot and made a vague effort to resume sleep as if the entire exchange had been a minor interruption to his evening rather than an emotional earthquake.
Teela made an angry little sound that suggested she had long since exhausted her patience with her father’s coping methods. “He has been like this for days,” she snapped, but there was worry under it too, and something much more fragile that neither you nor Adam had time to properly name.
Before either of them could say anything else, the room shook. The sound was so sudden and violent that it felt like the entire underground shelter had been struck from the outside.
Your blood ran cold. “Uh,” you started, already backing up a step, “I think this place is being—”
The rest of the sentence never made it out.
A deafening explosion ripped through the steel door at the far end of the room, blowing it inward with such force that you barely had time to register the flash of heat and light before a shape surged through the smoke. Something hit you hard around the middle and yanked you bodily off your feet, dragging you backward through the haze before you could even scream.
For one sickening instant, your feet left the ground completely.
Hands locked around your throat.
A body far too strong and far too unfamiliar held you aloft with brutal ease, and when the smoke cleared just enough for you to see the thing attacking you, every thought in your head seemed to vanish all at once.
The creature was hideous in the way nightmares were hideous: partly mechanical, partly flesh, with a face that looked as though someone had tried to build a person and then given up halfway through. Metal plates caught the light across its jaw and cheek, cables ran into a body that still looked disturbingly alive beneath all of it, and its eyes were cold and assessing as they locked onto you.
“Where is the Sword of Power?” it demanded, its voice rough and metallic as it tightened its grip around your throat.
You made a choking sound and grabbed at its wrist automatically, panic burning through you so fast it barely felt real.
Adam’s voice exploded through the room.
“Y/N!”
He moved at the same time Teela did, both of them lunging toward you in a flash of pure instinct, but the creature jerked you higher, using your body as a barrier to keep them back. You clawed at its arm, legs kicking uselessly in the air, your pulse hammering so hard you could hear it in your ears.
“Let her go!” Adam shouted.
The creature turned its head toward him slowly, the movement almost mocking. “The sword,” it repeated, ignoring him entirely. “Where is it?”
Adam froze for only a fraction of a second before his face hardened into something you had not yet seen from him in full. The fear was still there, yes, but now it was buried under a kind of furious clarity that made him look suddenly far more dangerous than he had in the parking lot, or the comic store, or anywhere else you had seen him before.
Teela tightened her grip on her spear. “You picked the wrong room.”
The creature gave a harsh, ugly laugh, then shook you once hard enough to rattle your teeth. “Then answer me.”
You tried to speak, but the hand around your throat left you with little more than a strangled gasp. Your eyes widened as spots began to creep at the edges of your vision, and for one horrifying second, you realized very clearly that this thing would kill you if it thought it had to.
Adam saw it too.
His expression changed.
“Teela,” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the panic in the room, “move.” She didn’t waste a second asking why.
The spear came up in her hands, and she launched herself toward the creature with the speed of someone who had spent her entire life becoming exactly the kind of person who could fight something like this. The monster reacted instantly, wrenching you sideways to keep them at bay, and the movement slammed your shoulder against its armored chest hard enough to make pain burst through your side.
The creature raised its free arm to strike, but Adam was already moving too fast for it to track cleanly. He slammed into its side with all the force he had left, knocking the thing just enough off balance that its grip on you loosened for a split second.
You dropped hard to the floor, landing on your knees and one hand with a harsh jolt of pain that shot up your arm.
“Y/N!” Adam was beside you immediately, half crouching, half reaching for you as if he had forgotten the creature existed for a second. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” you gasped automatically, which was a complete lie, but one you had every intention of defending on principle.
“You are not fine.”
“I’m not dead.”
“That is a very low standard.”
You coughed again, then looked up just in time to see the creature recovering from Adam’s hit with terrifying speed. Its attention shifted instantly back to the sword, to the room, to all of you at once, and you had the awful sense that it had not come here simply to ask questions. It had come to take. The creature lunged again.
Teela intercepted it with a furious strike of her spear, but the impact sent her skidding backward across the floor. Adam shoved himself to his feet despite the pain in his side, and before you could stop him, he had turned to place himself directly in front of you again.
It was immediate. Protective. So instinctive it almost hurt to watch.
“Adam—” you started.
“I’ve got you.” The creature snarled and advanced.
And then, just as it looked ready to bring its full weight down on the two of you, a new voice cracked through the room like a blade.
“Step away from them,” she said again, louder this time, and then she was moving.
The creature turned too late.
Her spear struck hard and true, forcing it back before it could recover its balance. The force of the blow sent it staggering sideways, and before it could lunge at you again, she was already there in its path, every movement precise and furious and terrifyingly controlled.
You had no idea who she was yet. But it was immediately obvious that she had just saved your life.
The creature recovered almost instantly, snarling as Teela forced it backward with a vicious strike of her spear. It staggered, hit the edge of a table hard enough to splinter the wood, and then wheeled around with a furious metallic shriek that made the whole room feel smaller.
You were still on your knees, one hand pressed to your throat, trying to breathe normally again when the creature lunged once more.
Teela intercepted it, but the impact sent her skidding across the floor with a sharp gasp. Her spear slipped in her grip as the creature twisted, caught the weapon with one clawed hand, and threw her sideways with enough force to make her collide hard with the wall.
For a second, everything inside you went cold.
“Teela!”
She tried to push herself back up, but the movement clearly hurt. Adam saw it too, and something in his face changed so sharply that it was almost frightening. The fear was still there, but now it was buried under outrage and a kind of desperate refusal that made him look very different from the man you had met in the restaurant.
The creature turned toward you again.
It smiled.
Or at least something close to a smile, warped and unnatural beneath all that metal.
Then it started walking forward as if it had already decided the room belonged to it.
Adam moved in front of you immediately.
Despite the blood on his shirt.
Despite the pain in his side.
Despite the fact that he should not have been able to stand, let alone fight.
He planted himself between you and the creature with the sort of instinctive protectiveness that made your chest ache in the middle of the panic.
“Adam,” you said, grabbing at his arm, “don’t—”
He didn’t even look back at you.
Instead, his eyes went to the sword.
The Sword of Power lay nearby, glinting faintly in the dust.
The creature noticed the shift in his attention and snapped its head toward the weapon as well.
“There it is,” it hissed. “Give it to me.”
Teela, still trying to recover, forced out a sharp laugh that had no humor in it at all. “You’re not taking anything.”
The creature ignored her.
Its gaze stayed locked on the sword.
On Adam.
Adam stepped forward once.
Then again.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
You stared at him, because suddenly he looked less like a man choosing to be brave and more like someone who had finally reached the point where fear had run out of room to matter.
He reached for the sword.
The creature lunged.
Teela shouted something you did not catch.
You barely had time to process Adam’s hand closing around the hilt before the room exploded in light.
For a split second, everything went white.
A surge of energy burst from the sword and blasted through the chamber with a force that shoved wind into your face and dust into the air. The creature was thrown backward in a screech of rage, and you threw an arm up to shield your eyes as the entire room vibrated around you.
Adam’s voice cut through it all.
“By the Power of Grayskull...”
The glow intensified.
The floor seemed to tremble beneath your knees.
Then he shouted, louder this time, with a force that made the words sound like they belonged to the room itself.
“I HAVE THE POWER!”
The energy swallowed him whole.
You stared through the brightness, breath caught in your throat, as the shape of him vanished inside a blaze of white and gold that made the entire chamber feel unreal.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the light collapsed inward.
Silence.
You lowered your arm. And forgot how to speak.
Adam was still there. Except now he was not just Adam.
He was taller. Broader. Absolutely enormous.
His hair had changed too, somehow even more ridiculous than before, flowing around his shoulders like it had been personally blessed by the universe. His armor was gone, replaced by a set of battle gear that looked like it had been carved for someone built out of legend instead of flesh. His boots were heavy. His bracers gleamed. And yes, there was absolutely a very dramatic skirt situation happening at his waist.
You blinked. Then blinked again. The creature made the mistake of moving first. It charged.
Adam caught it by the throat with one hand. One hand.
The thing flailed, metal screeching against metal as it tried to break free, but he didn’t even seem to notice the effort. He lifted it slightly off the ground, glancing down at it with the mild irritation of someone removing a bad smell from the room.
Then he punched it.
The impact sent the creature flying backward through a reinforced wall in a burst of stone, dust, and shattered machinery. The sound of it crashing somewhere far beyond the chamber echoed through the ruins outside.
Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Then, slowly, Adam turned back toward you.
And the terrifyingly powerful figure he had just become shifted instantly into the familiar, warm, slightly awkward expression you knew from the restaurant.
“Hi,” he said.
You stared at him. Then at the hole in the wall. Then back at him. He frowned slightly, because apparently that was the first thing he noticed.
“Are you all right?”
You pointed at him with a hand that was still slightly shaking.
“You’re enormous.”
Adam blinked. “That is your first comment?”
“You’re gigantic.”
“I just defeated a monster.”
“You have muscles where there should not be muscles.”
He looked down at himself, then back up with visible bewilderment. “That is not helpful.”
You took a step closer, still openly staring.
“Your shoulders are wider than the entire doorway.”
“That also seems unrelated.”
“It is very related.”
He exhaled through his nose, which might have been a laugh if he had not still been holding the Sword of Power in one hand like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“You did see me defeat the creature, yes?”
“I did.”
“Good.”
You squinted up at him, still trying to reconcile the very human Adam you had been flirting with and the impossibly large, shining warrior now standing in front of you.
“How did you get so much muscle in, like, three seconds?”
Adam frowned. “Magic.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is absolutely the answer.”
You stared harder, because that was somehow making it worse.
“And your hair.”
His face immediately changed.
“What about my hair?”
“It’s so soft-looking.”
Teela made a choking sound somewhere behind you and immediately had to turn away like she was trying not to laugh herself into another injury.
Adam looked horrified. “You can tell?”
“I can tell by looking at it.”
He gave you a look that was somewhere between offended and betrayed. “That is not fair.”
You pointed at him again, now fully committed to the inspection.
“And where did the skirt come from?”
The room went very still.
Even Teela stopped laughing.
Adam looked down.
Then back up at you.
“It is not a skirt.”
“It is absolutely a skirt.”
“It is battle armor.”
“It is battle skirt armor.”
“That is not a thing.”
“It moves when you walk.”
“That does not make it a skirt.”
“It makes it skirt-adjacent.”
Teela finally lost it and laughed so hard she had to grab her side.
Duncan, from his cot, cracked one eye open and muttered, “She has a point.”
Adam stared at both of them in open disbelief.
Then he turned back to you with the expression of a man who had just saved everyone in the room and somehow still lost the argument.
“I would like it noted,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the wrecked wall, “that I just saved all of your lives.”
You nodded solemnly.
“You did.”
“And yet somehow the clothing is the issue.”
“That is correct.”
He looked absolutely scandalized.
You took another step forward, still looking him up and down with unabashed fascination.
“Also, you’re basically a mountain now.”
“I am still Adam.”
“Adam, you are enormous.”
He closed his eyes for one second, like he was praying for patience.
When he opened them again, there was the faintest trace of amusement in his face despite everything.
“You are enjoying this far too much.”
“Probably.”
Teela, still laughing, managed to point at you both. “I can’t believe this is what she says after your dramatic transformation.”
You looked at Adam again and grinned despite yourself.
“I mean,” you said, gesturing at his entire body, “to be fair, you did become extremely hard to ignore.”
Adam stared at you for a second.
Then, very slowly, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Noted.”
And for the first time since the attack began, the room felt like it could breathe again.
“We’re going to have more company soon,” Teela said suddenly, her attention snapping toward the far end of the chamber.
You followed her gaze and immediately regretted it. A group of armed men was moving through the corridor beyond, their pace fast and their intent very obviously hostile. The sight of them sent a fresh wave of tension through the room, and whatever fragile sense of victory had formed around Adam’s transformation shattered at once.
Adam turned, took in the approaching threat, and his expression hardened.
“We can’t just leave while the people of Eternia are still struggling,” he said, the words coming out like a protest more than a plan. Even in his new form, there was still something stubbornly him about the way he said it, as if the idea of retreat itself felt wrong.
You swallowed, still trying very hard not to stare directly at him. It was becoming an increasingly difficult task, especially now that he looked like he had been carved out of myth and arrogance and very inconveniently good lighting.
“Maybe we should disappear for a minute and actually figure out how to beat Skeletor before we draw even more attention to ourselves while we’re still not entirely sure how this works,” you said, doing your best to sound practical and not at all affected by the fact that Adam now looked like he could crush a boulder with his bare hands. You kept your eyes pointedly anywhere except his face.
The little robot in the apron clicked its head from side to side and spoke in its dry, unsettling tone. “The Earth woman is correct. While we remain here, there is a 75.5 percent probability that we will be surrounded by hostile individuals intent on harming the people of Eternia.”
Adam blinked once.
Teela exhaled sharply through her nose, equal parts irritated and impressed. “I hate when the robot is right.”
At the edge of the room, Duncan shifted on his cot and made a low, raspy sound before using the robot as a support to lever himself up just enough to be seen. He looked like he had not fully committed to consciousness, but somehow that had not stopped him from deciding he had opinions.
“What’s the plan from my pupils and their mascot?” he asked hoarsely.
Adam frowned immediately. “Who is the mascot?”
Duncan turned his head slowly, then pointed vaguely in your direction without the slightest hint of shame. “The woman who does not belong to Eternia.”
You stared at him.
Teela turned so quickly you thought she might actually punch her own father out of principle. “Father, please stop speaking.”
He ignored her entirely.
You threw Adam a look that said very clearly this family was going to be your undoing.
Teela rolled her shoulders back, already moving into command mode. “We take my ship and get out of here.”
For a single glorious second, it sounded like a real plan.
Adam nodded immediately. “That sounds very good.”
“That’s because it is very good,” Teela snapped, already heading for the exit.
The three of you started moving at once, with you staying close enough to Adam to help if he needed it and far enough away not to keep tripping over the fact that he was now unfairly handsome in a way that made thought difficult. The robot came along too, because apparently it had decided all of this was its problem now.
You were almost to the corridor when the room shook again.
A new figure stepped into view at the far end of the passage, broad-shouldered and immovable, with one massive iron hand gleaming in the light. He looked like the sort of man who had never once in his life been surprised by a fight and had probably, at some point, won one by accident.
Adam’s eyes widened.
“Fisto,” he said, with unmistakable admiration.
Teela halted immediately, her entire posture tightening. “Fisto, what do you think you’re doing?”
The man folded his iron hand behind his back as if he had not just blocked all of your escape routes and instead were simply having a polite conversation in a hallway. “Teela,” he said, his tone firm, “where do you think you are going with the Sword of Power?”
She lifted her chin, unshaken. “I don’t have time to explain everything, but I promise it will make sense in the end.”
Fisto did not look moved by that in the slightest.
“Hand over the sword.”
Adam stepped forward before Teela could answer, the Sword of Power in his grip, his whole body radiating a kind of stubborn confidence that made him look even larger than he already was. “That is not going to happen, Fisto,” he said, and there was a grin in his voice now, as if he was half amused and half delighted to find himself in a fight this quickly. “I respect your ability to punch people with one hand, but the sword stays with me.”
Fisto’s expression darkened a fraction. “Then I’ll take it from you.”
He lunged.
Adam barely got his feet under him before the first hit came in. For a man with a giant iron hand, Fisto moved fast, and the impact of his first swing forced Adam back a step with a sharp grunt. The second strike came higher, and Adam ducked too late, catching the edge of it across his shoulder and staggering with a startled curse.
You flinched.
Teela did not move.
At least, not at first.
“I’m not interfering,” she said tightly when she saw you look at her. “I need to know what the sword can do under pressure.”
“That sounds like a terrible time to run an experiment,” you muttered, unable to stop yourself.
“It is the exact right time,” Teela replied.
Adam twisted, dodged, and tried to swing the sword in a way that looked just a little less elegant than he clearly wanted it to. Fisto pushed him backward with relentless strength, and for one alarming second Adam’s foot slipped on the uneven floor. He caught himself at the last moment, but the near-fall made your stomach jump into your throat.
Your hand moved halfway forward without your permission.
Teela saw it.
Duncan, still half propped against the robot, saw it too.
“Have faith in the boy,” Duncan said, his voice still rough but quieter now.
You turned to him in disbelief. “The boy?”
He blinked slowly at you, then closed his eyes like even answering you had exhausted him.
You looked back at Adam just in time to see Fisto press him hard enough against the wall to shake dust from the stone.
Adam grimaced, adjusted his grip, and then, with a sudden move that was half lucky and half brilliant, he used Fisto’s own momentum against him, twisting out of the press and slamming the hilt of the sword into the iron-handed warrior’s shoulder.
Fisto stumbled.
Adam took the opening.
It was not graceful.
It was, in fact, slightly ridiculous.
He tripped over his own feet, caught himself with a sharp gasp, then immediately recovered long enough to bring the sword across in a clean, forceful strike that sent Fisto stumbling backward several steps. The iron hand hit the wall with a metallic crash, and the whole room went tense again.
Fisto straightened slowly.
Then he looked at Adam with something bordering on respect.
Adam, breathing hard, looked back with equal parts triumph and embarrassment, as though he had just won a contest he had not fully meant to join.
Teela finally crossed her arms. “I’m still not interfering.”
You turned to her. “You say that like it helps.”
“It does help.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
She ignored you and glanced toward Adam again. “We need to know how far the sword’s power can go.”
“Apparently very far,” Duncan muttered.
Fisto charged again.
This time Adam was ready.
He met him head-on, the Sword of Power cutting through the air in bright arcs as he shifted from awkward defense to something far more instinctive, something that clearly belonged to him whether he had been on Earth or Eternia. Fisto landed a heavy strike to Adam’s side, and Adam lost his balance for a second, nearly going down.
Your breath caught.
Teela moved forward immediately.
Then Duncan, from behind her, said, “Faith, daughter.”
Teela froze.
So did you.
Adam, still struggling upright, looked up just in time to see Fisto coming in again. He braced, took the hit, and then, with a burst of raw determination, swung the sword in a brilliant sweeping motion that knocked Fisto off balance hard enough to send him crashing to one knee.
The room went very still.
Fisto looked up.
Adam stood over him, breathing hard, sword raised, and for the first time in the fight he looked less like a man trying to survive and more like someone who knew exactly what he was doing.
Then he lowered the sword.
“Are we done?” he asked.
Fisto stared at him for a long moment.
Then, with a grunt of approval, he stepped back and gave a single nod.
Teela released a breath she had clearly been holding.
You did too.
Adam exhaled, visibly relieved, and you realized only then how much of the fight had been his body held together by stubbornness, adrenaline, and whatever the sword had done to him.
“Okay,” Teela said briskly, already turning. “Now we leave.”
That was enough to get everyone moving again.
The path to the ship was louder this time, the tension in the air much sharper than before, but the guards who had once seemed ready to stop you now seemed more uncertain than anything else. Whether that was because of Adam’s transformation, the sword, or the fact that Fisto had just let you pass, you did not know. You were not complaining.
The ship came into view fast.
You were nearly there when you finally let out the breath you had been holding and looked up at Adam.
“Are you all right?”
He glanced down at you, still carrying the sword like it weighed nothing, and his expression shifted just enough to show that he had noticed the tension in your voice.
“I should ask you the same thing.”
You gave him a look. “I am not the one who just became a walking monument.”
That earned a surprised laugh from him, quick and warm despite everything. Then, as the ship’s ramp lowered and Teela began ushering you all inside, you realized how hard it had been to stop looking at him while he was fighting.
Too hard.
Far too hard.
And Adam, of course, noticed the second you hesitated.
His grin turned sly. “You know, I thought you were avoiding looking at me a few minutes ago.”
You immediately climbed the ramp with a little more force than necessary. “That was before you became absurdly distracting.”
He followed you inside, still smiling. “That is not an answer.”
“It is absolutely an answer.”
“It sounds like you’ve been thinking about me.”
You turned just enough to give him a flat look. “I have been trying to preserve what is left of my ability to make rational choices.”
Adam’s grin widened.
You pointed at him in warning. “Do not make that face.”
“What face?”
“That face.”
He leaned slightly closer, amused and entirely too pleased with himself. “What face am I making?”
“The one that makes it impossible to think.”
That got a beat of silence.
Then he laughed.
You very deliberately looked away from his face and toward the control panels instead.
Teela, already at the front of the ship, muttered something about needing to leave before you both became unbearable. Duncan, who had somehow made it into the ship despite looking like he should have been carried, gave an approving grunt that might have been amusement.
Once the hatch sealed behind you, the ship lurched into motion.
You grabbed the nearest support and looked out through the front window as the ground began to fall away beneath you. The underground chambers shrank behind the ship, then the ruined tunnels, then the hidden settlement, until Eternia opened out beneath you in all its broken, wounded, impossible vastness.
Beside you, Adam was still catching his breath from the fight.
You glanced at him, then immediately away again when you remembered just how good he looked now.
He noticed, of course.
He always noticed.
“Are you all right?” he asked, a little softer this time.
You let out a breath and stared very hard at the window. “I’m fine.”
“That was the same answer you gave after nearly being choked out.”
“I have standards.”
He smiled, and you could hear it in his voice. “Then why won’t you look at me?”
You closed your eyes for one second.
Then opened them again.
“Because,” you said, still refusing to face him directly, “you are currently too attractive for me to function properly, and I need to survive this trip.”
There was a moment of silence.
Then Adam laughed so hard he had to brace a hand on the seat in front of him.
You covered your face.
“Don’t.”
“That is the best answer you have given me all day.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Too attractive?”
“Yes.”
“You mean I am distracting.”
“Excruciatingly.”
He laughed again, quieter this time, and when you finally risked looking at him, his expression had softened into something so warm it nearly made you forget your entire complaint.
You immediately looked away again.
Adam, of course, looked delighted.
And the ship continued forward, carrying all of you away from the ruins and toward whatever came next.
Summary: You are moving into the Leister mansion after tragically losing your father in a plane crash. He worked for William Leister, who immediately offered to take you in. The problem? His son, Nick Leister, who is far from pleased about having a stranger living under his roof.
Author's Note: My slight fixation on Matthew Broome led me to create this fanfic, but I can’t guarantee it will be good. So, dear reader, if you enjoy it, please interact and comment. The fanfic will likely contain strong language, violence, and adult content. Minors should not engage with it.
five
SIX
Every curious eye in the room follows you and Nick the moment you step into the grand ballroom. The charity gala is already in full swing, the venue glowing beneath crystal chandeliers that cast warm light over polished marble floors and elegantly dressed guests. Conversations soften for a moment as heads turn in your direction. It is impossible not to notice the attention.
Flashes from photographers burst from the entrance, capturing every detail, the confident way Nick carries himself, and the unmistakable chemistry between the two of you. Whispers spread through the crowd of London's wealthy elite as guests subtly glance your way before pretending they are not staring.
Nick's hand remains firmly at the small of your back, a steady presence guiding you forward through the sea of people.
"Don't be nervous," he murmurs against your ear, his voice low enough that only you can hear it.
The warmth of his breath sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.
You glance around at the dozens of eyes fixed on you, some curious, some admiring, and some clearly eager for gossip.
"Everyone is looking at me," you reply quietly, forcing a smile as another camera flash lights up the room.
Your fingers tighten slightly around your clutch. Nick lets out a soft laugh beside you.
"Not just you," he says, leaning closer. "They're looking at both of us."
His confidence makes it sound effortless, as if walking into a room full of strangers eager to judge him is something he has done his entire life.
Maybe it is. But standing beside him, with his hand still resting against your back and his attention focused entirely on you, makes the overwhelming attention feel just a little easier to bear.
“Probably you’re used to being watched like that,” you say softly, taking a step back from him.
The moment you create a little distance, Nick catches your hand before you can get far.
“Hey,” he says, his grip firm but not rough, his voice low enough to stay between you. “Stay by my side and I can help you survive tonight.”
You glance up at him, unimpressed despite the way his fingers are still wrapped around yours. “And what do you get out of helping me?”
Nick’s mouth curves into a smile, and for a second you honestly do not understand what is so amusing.
“Your company,” he says, as if that should be enough to satisfy you. “And my father will be pleased to know I am looking after his newest ward.”
You roll your eyes.
"How noble of you."
"One of my best qualities."
Before you can respond, a blonde woman appears out of nowhere, moving straight toward the two of you with the kind of confidence that suggests she has never once been told no. She leans in and kisses the corner of Nick’s mouth right in front of you, catching both of you completely off guard.
Your stomach drops.
“Well, you were starting to look like you were never coming, darling,” the woman says in a smooth voice, her pale eyes flicking over the two of you with immediate, obvious possession.
“Anna,” Nick says sharply, his jaw tightening. “Do not make me humiliate you in front of everyone. We ended that a long time ago.”
You shift awkwardly, already wanting to disappear into the crowd.
Anna barely seems to notice you moving back. Instead, her gaze cuts toward you with open contempt.
“Better than the rumor that you are fucking your new adopted sister,” she says, the words loud enough to land like a slap.
Your face burns.
“I’m not his adopted sister,” you snap, anger rising fast enough to drown out your embarrassment.
Anna’s expression turns sly, cruel.
“Funny,” she replies, eyes dragging over you with deliberate disgust. “Because I’m pretty sure the rumor says you are spreading your legs for him.”
“And if I am?” you challenge, taking a step toward her with a look that is far more threatening than you had intended.
Anna’s expression flickers for the first time. The confidence in her face falters, just enough to reveal the fear underneath.
“You do not belong here,” she says, her voice sharpening again as if she can scare you back with words alone. “You should leave before you attack someone.”
Before the situation can escalate any further, Nick steps between the two of you, cutting through the tension with one firm movement. His body blocks hers from view, and the argument snaps into a dangerous silence.
“Anna,” he says coldly, “do not draw unnecessary attention if you do not want to be remembered as the hysterical ex who could not accept that it is over.”
For a moment, she looks like she might argue. Then the damage of being seen, of being put in her place in front of all these people, seems to hit her at once. Her jaw tightens.
Whatever she intended to say dies on her tongue. Without another word, you turn away from both of them before either can stop you.
The ballroom suddenly feels far too bright, far too loud, far too full of people pretending not to stare. You make your way to the bar at the edge of the hall, where the polished counter and rows of crystal glasses offer at least the illusion of escape.
You rest one hand on the bar and ask for a glass of champagne.
The bartender nods and reaches for a bottle.
Your pulse is still racing when you feel someone behind you.
Nick.
“You do not need to run from me,” he says, his voice quiet as he comes up beside you. A warm touch settles at your back, steadying but impossible to ignore.
You keep your gaze fixed forward, refusing to look at him for too long.
“I do need to,” you reply tightly. “Everyone is watching, and they are probably already gossiping about whatever is going on between us.”
You can feel the weight of the room pressing in from every direction, the eyes, the whispers, the speculation.
And beside you, Nick stays infuriatingly calm, as if being under a microscope is the most natural thing in the world.
After that, he gives you space for the rest of the night, and the two of you spend the party orbiting each other without ever really meeting. Every time you look up, he is somewhere else in the ballroom; laughing with guests he clearly does not care about, shaking hands, enduring introductions, wearing that infuriatingly calm expression as if the whole room does not seem to revolve around him.
And yet, even when he is out of sight, you still feel him. The worst part is that everyone else seems to notice it too.
By the time Mr. William Leister introduces you as his ward and a wonderful new friend to his son, the attention feels almost unbearable.
“This is the young woman I told you about,” William says with effortless ease, one hand resting lightly at the small of your back. “My ward, and, if Nick has been wise, a very dear new friend to him.”
A few polite smiles ripple through the crowd. You manage one of your own.
Nick, standing a few feet away, gives nothing away. But the look he shoots his father is sharp enough to cut glass.
Later, when the masquerade finally ends, you return home with William because Nick had left earlier. The ride is quiet, the city outside streaked with rain and golden reflections from the streetlights.
At the front door, William pauses and turns to you.
“I am not sleeping here tonight,” he says. “Feel free to make yourself at home. The house is yours as much as anyone’s.”
“Thank you,” you reply softly.
He nods once, then leaves you alone with the silence.
You head upstairs, finally relieved to escape the noise, the eyes, the whispered gossip. Your heels click softly against the floor as you make your way toward your room.
When you push the door open, you stop short. Nick is inside. For a second, neither of you speaks.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, your voice careful.
Nick leans back against the edge of your bed, like he has been waiting for this moment for far too long.
“I wanted to see you.”
You shut the door behind you a little too firmly. “You had all night.”
“I know.”
“Then why now?”
His eyes stay on yours. “Because every time I tried to talk to you, you walked away.”
“I was not walking away from you.”
A faint, skeptical smile appears on his face. “You were absolutely walking away from me.”
You cross your arms. “Maybe I was walking away from everyone.”
“No,” he says, quieter now. “Just me.”
The way he says it makes your throat tighten, but you refuse to let it show. You take a step forward, and then another.
“Why are you in my room, Nick?”
He pushes off the bed and straightens, suddenly too close, though he still keeps a careful distance between you.
“I wanted to be alone with you.”
The honesty in his voice catches you off guard.
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It probably is.”
“Then maybe that is a bad idea.”
Nick looks at you for a long moment, like he is deciding whether to tell the truth or keep teasing you. When he speaks again, his voice is lower.
“Everything about you feels like a bad idea.”
You stare at him, the words landing hard.
“That was supposed to make me feel better?”
“It was supposed to be honest.”
For a moment, neither of you moves. Then your gaze drifts to the back of your dress. You exhale sharply, suddenly aware of how tense and uncomfortable you feel after the whole night. Nick notices immediately.
“You are still stuck in that thing,” he says.
“Thank you for pointing out the obvious.”
His mouth twitches. “Turn around. I will help.”
You hesitate. “Are you always this confident?”
“Only when I have a good reason.”
“And what reason is that?”
His eyes flick briefly to yours. “You have been miserable in it all night.”
You should argue. Instead, you turn. The room becomes unbearably quiet behind you. Nick steps closer, but not too close. His voice is softer now, almost careful.
“Tell me to stop if you want me to.”
That alone makes your pulse stutter.
“I will.”
A beat passes.
Then you feel his fingers at the fastening of your dress, light and precise. The touch is brief, but it sends warmth racing through you anyway.
“This is ridiculous,” you mutter, because saying anything else feels impossible.
Nick gives a quiet laugh. “I know.”
“It is like you have never seen a zipper before.”
“I have,” he says. “Just not on you.”
The words hang in the air. You close your eyes for a second, annoyed at the way your breathing changes.
“Nick.”
“Mm?”
“Do not make this worse.”
“I am trying very hard not to.”
His voice is almost amused, but there is something else in it too, something restrained, something that makes the silence between you feel charged.
The zipper slides down. Then Nick freezes. You feel it instantly.
Not because his hands stop moving, but because his entire presence shifts behind you, like he has just realized exactly how close he is standing and what that means.
He clears his throat. “That should do it.”
You do not turn around right away. “You sound nervous.”
“I am not nervous.”
“Sure.”
He lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “You are enjoying this.”
“No, I am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
You finally glance over your shoulder. “You are very full of yourself.”
“And yet you are still talking to me.”
That one almost makes you smile. Almost. Then the mood shifts again, subtle but immediate. Nick’s gaze lowers for just a second before he looks away, as though he has caught himself staring too long.
The air between you tightens. You notice it. Of course you do.
“Nick,” you say, more quietly now.
He looks back at you.
You hold his gaze and ask the question that has been pressing at the back of your throat since the moment he walked into the room.
“Why are you really here?”
His jaw flexes.
For a second, he says nothing.
Then, finally, “Because I could not stop thinking about you all night.”
Your breath catches.
He watches your reaction, and something in his face changes—less confident now, less teasing.
“I tried to leave you alone,” he says. “I really did.”
“That does not sound like you.”
“No,” he admits. “It is not.”
You turn fully toward him now, the dress loosened but still on, your heart thudding too hard in your chest.
“Then why do it?”
Nick’s expression hardens just enough to look like he has made a decision.
“Because you were right.”
You blink. “About what?”
“The room. The gossip. The way everyone looks at us.” He takes a slow step back, putting distance between you in a way that feels sudden and deliberate. “You said people were talking. You said this would get complicated.”
Your stomach drops a little. “Nick—”
“No,” he says, shaking his head once, as if he is cutting himself off before he says something worse. “You are right. And I do not want to make this harder for you.”
That is not what you expected to hear.
He looks at you one last time, and now the restraint in his voice feels almost painful.
“If being alone with me makes you uncomfortable,” he says, “then I will go.”
You stare at him, startled by the seriousness in his tone.
“I did not say I was uncomfortable.”
Nick’s eyes search yours, cautious now. “You did not have to.”
You swallow. “I just said people are already gossiping.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you acting like you did something wrong?”
“Because maybe I did.”
The admission lands between you.
His voice drops even lower.
“I came here because I wanted one thing tonight that was not being watched, judged, or expected.” He pauses. “But if this is too much, I will leave.”
The silence stretches.
You hate how much you want him to stay.
You hate even more that he is giving you the choice.
When you finally speak, your voice is quieter than before.
“You can stay.”
Nick’s face barely changes, but you see it in his eyes—the brief flash of relief he tries to hide.
Then you add, more firmly, “But only if you stop looking at me like that.”
His mouth twitches. “Like what?”
“Like you are about to do something reckless.”
That gets a real laugh out of him, short and low.
“I will try.”
“You are terrible at trying.”
“And yet I am still here.”
For a moment, the tension softens just enough to feel dangerous in a different way. Nick glances toward the door, then back at you, as if reminding himself where the line is.
“I should let you change.”
You nod, though neither of you moves immediately.
“Nick?”
He pauses at the door. “Yeah?”
Your voice comes out softer than you meant it to.
“Thank you.”
For the first time all night, he looks genuinely undone.
Then he gives you a small, unreadable smile and steps out, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts and the strange, unbearable quiet he leaves behind.
Then it happens. Nick comes back.
You barely have time to register it before he is already in front of you, his presence cutting through whatever fragile distance you had just managed to rebuild. There is no teasing in his expression now. No sarcasm.
“Nick...” you start, but the word never finishes.
He reaches for you and pulls you in. The kiss is immediate. Not hesitant. Not uncertain. Like he has been holding himself back all night and finally decided he is done doing it.
Your breath catches in your throat as instinct takes over, your hands moving before your thoughts can catch up, gripping his jacket as if to anchor yourself. For a second, the entire world collapses into the space between you—heat, tension, the sudden sharp awareness of how close he is.
When he deepens the kiss, it is not rushed, but it is intense enough to make your balance falter slightly, forcing you to step back until the edge of the bed hits behind your knees.
Nick follows, but stops just short of pushing further than you are willing to go. When he finally pulls away, it is only enough to breathe. Your heart is pounding too loudly.
“What are you doing?” you ask, voice unsteady, more breath than sound.
Nick doesn’t look away from you. Not even for a second.
“Proving something,” he says simply.
You blink at him. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
His jaw tightens slightly, like he is choosing his words carefully for once.
“That if you wanted it,” he says, “I could be the guy who’s actually with you. Not just the one people gossip about when they look at us.”
Your voice comes out quieter now. “You do realize you’re making this more complicated.”
A faint, almost helpless smile appears at the corner of his mouth.
“I think it already was.”
Silence stretches between you again, but it is different now. Charged in a way that feels irreversible. Nick exhales slowly, like he is forcing himself back into control.
“Goodnight,” he murmurs.
You don’t respond fast enough. Or maybe you just don’t want to. He lingers for one more second, looking at you like he is memorizing something he knows he shouldn’t.
Then he steps back. Turns. And leaves the room. This time, he doesn’t come back.
You meet a man who claims to be a prince from another world, after a love life full of disappointments and failed connections. As his impossible story begins to prove disturbingly real, you find yourself drawn to him in ways you didn’t expect.
Author's Note: After watching Master of the Universe (2026) and seeing Nicholas Galitzine at his best as Adam, I decided to write a chapter of a fanfic or a one-shot. It depends on whether anyone likes it. This chapter, like others, contains spoilers for the movie's plot. However, there will be changes in several parts as well. The characters don't belong to me. Dear readers, I just wanted to let you know that the next chapter will be posted later today.
THREE FIVE
FOUR
Eternia came into view slowly, and the first thing you noticed was that it did not look anything like the world Adam had described.
It was beautiful, in a way. That was the most confusing part.
The land stretched out beneath the ship in broken, uneven shapes, the remnants of what must have once been great structures now scattered like fragments of a story that had been torn apart mid-sentence. Towers stood in pieces where they had collapsed, open stretches of stone were cracked and blackened, and what should have felt alive instead looked exhausted, as if the world itself had been fighting to stay standing for far too long.
And yet, somehow, it still felt familiar. Not to you, not really, but to Adam. You saw it the moment he looked out.
Whatever expression had been on his face before was gone. The pain from his wound seemed to fade into the background under the sheer shock of it, his hazel eyes widening as he stared at the ruins below as though his mind could not quite catch up to what he was seeing. The hand that had been resting near the sword tightened suddenly, and for a second he looked almost broken by the sight.
“What happened here?” he murmured.
The question was barely audible, and somehow that made it hurt more.
Teela, still focused on the controls, did not look at him right away. Her jaw tightened, her hands steady on the ship’s panel as she guided them lower over the devastated land.
“Skeletor didn’t spare any effort to strip away everything that once lived here,” she said, and her voice had gone flat with the kind of bitterness that only came after too much loss. “It seems destruction is all that’s left for us now.”
Adam said nothing for a moment. Neither did you.
The ship angled forward, passing over what had once looked like roads or courtyards, now half-swallowed by debris and shadow. The sight made the whole place feel haunted, not by ghosts, but by absence. By what used to be there. By what should still have been there.
Adam stared out through the viewport as if every ruined wall was pulling memory out of him by force.
“This is…” He stopped, swallowed once, then tried again. “This isn’t how it was supposed to be.”
Teela’s voice softened only slightly. “No.”
He looked at her then, and the pain in his face was no longer only from the wound. “The palace?”
“Still standing,” Teela said. “Barely.”
That helped and hurt at the same time, which somehow felt worse than either one alone.
The ship dipped lower, and you finally got a clearer view of the terrain ahead. The devastation was not total, but it was widespread enough to make the world feel hollowed out. You could imagine, in another life, this place buzzing with movement, light, soldiers, laughter, work, music, life. Now all of that was missing so completely that the silence seemed to press up against the glass.
Adam let out a shaky breath and pressed a hand briefly to his face before lowering it again.
“I should have been here.”
Teela glanced back at him then, and for the first time since she had found him, her expression lost some of its sharpness.
“You were taken,” she said.
“I still should have been here.”
“You did not choose this.”
He looked at her, and there was something raw in the way he did it, something tired and hurt and deeply ashamed all at once. “That doesn’t make it better.”
“No,” Teela admitted. “It doesn’t.”
You shifted closer without thinking, and Adam’s gaze flicked toward you for a second as if he had only just remembered you were there. The look he gave you was small, almost apologetic, like he was sorry that the truth of his home had turned into something so much heavier than the fantasy you had both been carrying.
You reached for his hand before you could overthink it.
He let you take it.
For a while, nobody spoke again. The ship continued its descent through the dim light, and the closer you got, the more you could see the damage written across the land. Whatever had happened here had not been a battle in the clean, cinematic sense people liked to imagine. It had been ugly. Repeated. Personal.
By the time Teela finally guided the ship toward a landing point, Adam looked as though he was trying to hold himself together by force alone.
The ship settled with a low mechanical thrum.
Teela powered down the controls and rose first, motioning for both of you to follow her. “We should move.”
Adam stood carefully, still favoring his side, and you immediately shifted to help him again. He was quiet now in a way he had not been on Earth, as though every step toward the outside was forcing him closer to a reality he had been too afraid to picture.
When the hatch opened, the air that rushed in felt different too.
Dryer.
Older.
Heavy with dust, heat, and something that reminded you faintly of stone left out under a sun that had burned too long.
Adam stepped down onto Eternia first, and you watched him look around again, this time with no barrier of glass between him and the ruins. The devastation hit him harder up close. You could see it in the way his shoulders pulled tight, in the slow turn of his head as he took in the broken landscape, in the quiet disbelief that settled across his features like a wound that had just been reopened.
He seemed to forget, for one terrible moment, that he was not alone.
Then he spoke again, and when he did, his voice was almost too quiet to hear.
“It’s real.”
Teela moved beside him. “Of course it is.”
He shook his head once, not denying her, only trying to understand the weight of it. “No, I mean—” He stopped, then looked out over the ruins again. “I remembered it. In pieces. But this…” His expression tightened. “This is real.”
You could not tell whether he was speaking about Eternia, or the years he had lost, or the fact that he had finally come home only to find it scarred almost beyond recognition.
Maybe all three.
Teela looked at him for a long second before turning slightly toward the path ahead. “Come on,” she said. “There’s someone who needs to see you.”
Adam went still.
“Who?”
Teela’s expression changed in a way you could not quite read, something between reluctance and grim anticipation.
“You’ll see.”
For the first time since the ship landed, Adam looked less like a man trying not to fall apart and more like someone standing at the edge of a memory he had never expected to reach again.
And when he finally started walking, you stayed close beside him, because it was very clear that whatever waited ahead in this ruined world, he was not going to face it alone.
The deeper you traveled beneath Eternia's surface, the harder it became to reconcile this place with the world Adam had described on Earth.
People were everywhere.
And yet, they looked forgotten.
Makeshift market stalls lined the tunnels and caverns that had been transformed into temporary streets. Merchants traded scavenged weapons, worn armor, mechanical parts, strange crystals, and objects you couldn't even begin to identify. Children darted between crowds carrying supplies. Elderly Eternians sat against stone walls watching the constant movement around them.
Nobody looked comfortable. Nobody looked secure. Everyone looked like they were surviving. Not living. Surviving. You noticed Adam looking at them too. Every face seemed to strike him like a physical blow.
"This wasn't how it was," he said quietly.
The words were mostly for himself. Teela slowed slightly as she guided both of you through the crowded underground settlement.
"Skeletor left us with very little," she explained. "Food, medicine, fuel, weapons. He targeted everything that could keep people independent." Her voice remained calm, but there was years of frustration beneath it.
"So we're hiding."
Adam's jaw tightened.
"Hiding?" he repeated.
"We're surviving," Teela corrected immediately. "Until we have enough strength to fight back."
Adam fell silent again. You could tell he was trying to process everything at once. The displaced people. The fact that fifteen years had passed without him. The weight of it all seemed almost unbearable. Then another thought surfaced. One far more personal.
"My parents."
The words came out quickly. Hope was still there. You heard it immediately. The desperate hope of someone who already feared the answer.
Teela's expression softened. For the first time since arriving, she hesitated before responding. "We don't know exactly where the King and Queen are being held."
Adam stopped walking. The entire tunnel seemed to disappear around him.
"What do you mean?"
Teela turned fully toward him.
"We know they're alive."
Adam's shoulders relaxed slightly. Only slightly.
"But?"
Teela sighed.
"But they're Skeletor's prisoners."
The hope in Adam's eyes dimmed. Not entirely. Just enough to hurt. You moved closer instinctively, your hand brushing his arm.
He didn't look at you. He was staring at the ground. Staring at nothing. For a moment he looked younger somehow. Less like a prince. Less like a hero. More like a son who had just learned his parents had spent fifteen years suffering while he was gone.
Teela noticed immediately. Without saying anything, she reached out and placed a hand gently on his shoulder.
It was a surprisingly tender gesture coming from someone who carried herself like a soldier.
"We're still looking for them."
Adam nodded once. He didn't trust himself to speak. Teela's expression softened further.
"And if it helps," she added carefully, "you're not the only person who never recovered from your disappearance."
That finally made him look up. Teela offered a faint smile.
"My father hasn't been the same since you vanished."
Adam blinked.
"Duncan?"
Teela nodded.
"He spent years trying to find you."
The sadness on Adam's face shifted. Not disappearing. Just becoming something more complicated.
"Duncan..." he murmured.
You remembered the way he had spoken about Duncan during your first dinner together. The warmth in his voice. The admiration. The love.
Whatever relationship they had shared clearly went far beyond teacher and student. Teela guided him forward again.
"Come on." Adam followed without protest this time. The tunnels became quieter the farther you went. The crowds thinned. The market disappeared.
Eventually the rough stone walls gave way to reinforced metal structures hidden beneath the city. The atmosphere changed immediately. Security checkpoints. Guard posts. Heavy doors. The kind of place built to keep something in.
Or keep something out. Teela approached the largest steel door yet. Adam's brow furrowed. She stepped toward a keypad mounted beside the entrance and entered a long sequence of numbers. Mechanical locks disengaged one after another.
"What is this?"
For the first time since arriving in Eternia, Teela looked genuinely uncomfortable. The door finished opening. Then she looked directly at him.
"The place where we've been keeping people we couldn't save." A terrible feeling settled in your chest. And judging by the expression on Adam's face, he had the exact same feeling.
Teela led you through the last corridor and into a room that felt even stranger than the rest of the hidden complex. It had the same improvised, half-medical, half-prison atmosphere as the rest of the underground shelter, but this one was quieter, dimmer, and somehow more personal, as though whoever had built it had tried very hard to make something brutal look almost gentle.
Near the center of the room, on a narrow cot that had been pushed against one wall, lay a man who looked so weak and so drained that for a moment you were not even sure he was fully awake. Teela moved toward him at once and crouched beside the bed, her expression tightening with something that looked far too close to relief to be only practical.
“Father,” she said, and there was a softness in her voice you had not heard from her yet, “I brought Adam to see you.”
The man made a faint, barely responsive sound, and before you could fully process what you were seeing, a strange little domestic robot in a plain apron turned toward the three of you and spoke in a voice that made you nearly jump out of your skin.
“He has been like this for days,” the robot said matter-of-factly. “It is difficult to determine whether he is alive.”
You actually gasped.
“Good lord!”
The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them, and in the next instant you had practically thrown yourself toward Teela, gripping her arm as if the tiny robot had personally threatened your life. Teela startled for half a second and then laughed, a sharp, surprised sound that cut through the heaviness of the room.
She looked down at you with clear amusement. “There are no robots like this on Earth?”
You stared at the little machine, still half-clinging to her. “There are not robots this size, this unsettling, or this committed to speaking like that,” you said, trying and failing to calm your heart. “Also, there is definitely no affordable version of this.”
Teela laughed again, shaking her head as if she had just learned something deeply disappointing about your planet.
When you finally forced yourself to loosen your grip and step back, you found Adam watching you with a strange expression that sat somewhere between bewilderment and wounded pride. You moved back toward him immediately, mostly because you had the uncomfortable feeling that he was about to make a comment.
He lowered his voice the moment you were close enough.
“Why did you throw yourself at Teela and not at me?”
You blinked at him, then glanced over your shoulder at the tiny robot, still standing there in its apron like a very judgmental housekeeper who had somehow been left in charge of a prison. Then you turned back to Adam, who was looking at you with exaggerated offense.
You sighed.
“I don’t want to break your heart,” you said, keeping your voice low, “but Teela looks like a warrior, and you...”
You let your eyes travel over him briefly, from the blood still on his shirt to the way he was standing despite the pain, to the impossible sincerity of his face.
“...you look like Adam.”
His brows shot up immediately.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“That you look like someone who would politely apologize while carrying a magical sword,” you answered, dead serious for exactly one second before the corner of your mouth twitched.
Adam stared at you.
Then stared harder, as if hoping that by sheer force of indignation you might revise your answer.
“I am not sure whether that was meant to be insulting or affectionate.”
“You can interpret it as both.”
His mouth opened, then closed again, and for a moment he looked so offended that it was almost impossible not to laugh. Teela, still kneeling beside her father, glanced up at the two of you with a look that suggested she had already decided this was going to be a very long reunion.
Meanwhile, the huge robot in the apron took one look at your face, then at Adam, and seemed to decide that none of this was remotely surprising enough to comment on.
Teela rose to her feet again and brushed a hand over her father’s shoulder, her expression changing from soft concern back into something more controlled. Then she looked at the three of you and exhaled slowly, as though gathering the patience required to survive all of this.
“If everyone is done being strange,” she said dryly, “we still need to figure out how to get my father awake, keep you from bleeding out, and decide whether this place is about to be attacked.”
Adam’s lips twitched despite everything. “That does sound like a full schedule.”
You looked between him and Teela, then back at the old man on the cot and the weird little robot standing nearby, and the absurdity of the entire situation hit you all at once.
You let out a shaky breath that was half laugh and half disbelief.
“Right,” you said. “So, just a normal reunion.”
Adam finally smiled at that, and the expression was so relieved, so warm, and so human that it made the room feel less grim for just a second. Teela noticed too, of course.
Summary: You are a writer struggling with creative block, sent to a cabin far from everything to work on your next bestseller. However, you find him, with whom you will develop a relationship that challenges everything you know.
Author’s Note: If you enjoy the fanfic and this chapter, leave a like (kudos) and a comment. Moreover, although it is inspired by Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein (2025), in the fanfic some events will differ from the film, according to how the author’s creativity flows. This is the last chapter, but depending on engagement there may be more chapters.
FINAL PART II
FINAL PART III
Returning to the cabin feels like walking through hell. The frustration of not being able to reclaim what you and Adam had left unfinished settles heavily in your chest, like something pressing down from the inside, making it hard to breathe.
A relentless rain begins to fall, sudden and unforgiving. Still, you walk slowly through it, not caring as the water soaks through your clothes, clings to your skin, and drips from your hair. Each step feels heavier than the last, your body exhausted, your arm aching, your mind replaying everything you had just lost all over again.
By the time you reach the cabin, you’re drenched. You step inside, closing the door behind you, and for a moment you simply stand there, listening to the rain pounding against the roof and windows. Then something pulls your attention outward. You move toward the window and look outside.
He’s there. Hidden among the trees, partially obscured by shadows and rain, but unmistakable. Adam stands at a distance, watching you. Waiting. His stillness is almost unnatural, as if he’s been there the entire time, guarding, observing, refusing to come closer.
Your eyes meet his. There’s disappointment in your gaze, sharp and unhidden. He doesn’t move. He just keeps looking at you, as though making sure you’re safe… while denying himself the right to be near you.
Your expression hardens. Without breaking eye contact, you reach for the window and shut it firmly in his face, cutting him off from you just as he had done in the cave. Then you turn away, refusing to give him anything more. Later, under the stream of a long, scalding shower, you try to wash away the cold, the tension, the ache but it clings to you just the same.
By the time you finally make it to bed, exhaustion drags at every part of you. You collapse against the mattress, your body heavy, your thoughts blurred. Sleep takes you quickly. And as it does, it feels as though a part of you has been torn away and left behind in that cave with him.
In the days that followed, you saw Adam from a carefully measured distance. He kept away from you, but never too far, as if he needed to prove to himself that he was avoiding you while still making sure you were safe. It was a strange, cruel kind of presence, one that kept him in your life without ever truly letting him back into it.
Then news came that your book was becoming a sales success, and that only made you think more seriously about leaving the cabin behind and returning to your life beyond the woods. After all, Adam would not let you come near him, would not let you see him properly, and not being able to touch him, breathe him in, or kiss him was beginning to drive you mad.
So, one last time, you crossed the forest in his direction, carrying the book in your hands, the one you had written with a dedication meant only for him.
He was there again, watching from the trees.
“Stop being a coward!” you cry out the moment you see him.
“What part of staying apart do you not understand?” Adam asks, his voice low, almost intimidating. The sound carries easily through the trees, deep enough to make the air itself seem heavier.
“I don’t understand any part of this,” you snap back. “Because I love you, and you keep treating me like I’m some kind of disease.”
The words echo through the forest.
Adam stands perfectly still for a moment. Rainwater drips from the leaves overhead, and a cold wind stirs the branches between you.
“I was not born to be loved,” he says at last, speaking as though he is reciting an undeniable truth. “I am a thing assembled from death, feared by all who behold me. What you feel cannot survive what I am.”
A disbelieving laugh escapes you. The absurdity of it all is almost enough to make you cry.
“But I do love you,” you say. “And there is nothing you can say that will change that.”
You take a step forward. Immediately, he takes one back. The movement hurts more than you expected.
Every time you reach for him, he retreats. Every time you try to close the distance, he widens it.
“If you love me,” he says quietly, “then do what is best for yourself and leave.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The forest seems to hold its breath. Then you tighten your grip on the book in your hands.
“Fine,” you say.
Something flickers across his face.
“Don’t worry. I’ll do exactly what you want.”
His expression falters. For the first time, uncertainty appears in his eyes. You take a slow breath and hold up the book.
“This was the last thing I wanted to give you.”
Adam's gaze falls to it.
“It’s the story of us,” you continue. “Or at least as much of us as I could put into words.”
Carefully, you place it on a nearby tree stump between you.
“I dedicated it to you.”
He doesn't move.
“I spent weeks trying to get back here. I fought through recovery because all I could think about was seeing you again. And every day since I arrived, you've treated me like loving you is some kind of mistake.”
Your voice cracks slightly.
“So congratulations, Adam. You finally convinced me.”
The words make him visibly tense. You step backward. Then another step. And another. His eyes follow every movement.
“You wanted me to leave,” you say softly. “So I'm leaving.”
The confidence in your voice hides the ache spreading through your chest.
“I can't keep begging someone to let me love them.”
For the first time since this conversation began, Adam looks genuinely afraid.
Not afraid for you. Afraid of losing you.
But he says nothing. The silence is answer enough.
You turn around and begin walking back toward the cabin, refusing to look over your shoulder.
Behind you, hidden among the trees, Adam remains frozen in place. And yet you can feel his gaze on you the entire way back. As though every step you take away from him is one he already regrets allowing you to make.
You start packing everything into boxes, moving through the cabin with a quiet, numb efficiency that barely keeps up with the ache in your chest. Each folded piece of clothing, each book, each object you touch feels like another reminder that you are leaving something behind that you do not actually want to lose.
Inside the dedication you left in the book, you tell Adam that the cabin is his if he wants it. You tell him he can use it as a home, that anything inside is his to keep, and that he does not need to fear anyone invading the place again, because the land now belongs to you. It is the closest thing to a promise you can give him without forcing yourself to turn back.
The car meant to take you home arrives a little before you finish sealing the last box. By then, there is almost nothing left for you to do except carry your belongings outside and load them in silence. It does not take long for your things to be placed in the trunk, one by one, as if your life is being folded into something smaller and easier to move.
When everything is finally ready, the driver glances at you through the rearview mirror and asks, “Are you sure you did not leave anything behind?”
You look once toward the cabin, then toward the trees beyond it, where Adam could be hiding somewhere in the distance.
“Only my heart,” you say.
The car starts down the road, and for a few minutes you let yourself believe you are truly leaving. The trees blur past the windows, the cabin shrinking behind you, the ache in your chest settling into something dull and familiar.
Then your mind catches on something important.
Something you left behind.
Your breath catches. You tell the driver to turn back immediately, and before you can second-guess yourself, the car is already taking you back toward the cabin. The whole ride feels unreal, like your thoughts are moving faster than your body can follow. When you finally get back, the silence around the house feels heavier than before.
You step inside and freeze.
Adam is there.
He is seated inside the cabin, the book open in his hands, his face bent over the pages as tears slip quietly down his cheeks. For a moment you cannot move. You had never seen him like that, so openly undone, as if every word you wrote had reached some place in him no one else ever had.
He looks up when he hears you enter.
“I came to get the item I left behind,” you say carefully, keeping your voice steady even though your heart is pounding. “And then I will leave you in peace.”
He does not speak right away. His eyes stay on the book, then lift back to your face.
“Did you really write this for me?” he asks, his voice rough and disbelieving.
You swallow, forcing yourself to keep your expression calm.
“Yes,” you answer. “Even if it does not change anything now.”
That seems to strike him harder than you expected. He looks down at the book again, as though needing to steady himself before speaking.
You move past him, retrieving the item you came for, and turn back toward the door. You do not allow yourself to linger. You do not allow yourself to hope. You make it all the way outside, get into the car again, and tell the driver to start driving.
The engine turns over.
Then, suddenly, the road is blocked.
Adam is standing in front of the car.
Your heart nearly stops. You lean forward in disbelief, staring at him through the windshield as the driver slams on the brakes.
“Have you lost your mind?” you ask the moment you step out, your voice sharp with shock.
He looks at you with an intensity that steals the breath from your lungs.
“I have lost my mind because of you,” he says.
The words hang between you, raw and impossible to ignore.
You take a step closer, frustration overtaking the fragile hope rising in your chest.
“You told me to go,” you say. “And now you are standing here confusing me all over again.”
Adam’s jaw tightens. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, but no less intense.
“I have never felt what I feel for you. I want you near me. I want you here, where I can see you and know you are safe.” His eyes shine in the dim light. “But I do not want to be the reason you cannot feel secure.”
The honesty in his voice lands like a blow.
He takes a slow breath, as if the next words cost him everything.
“I wanted to let you go because I thought it was the only way to protect you. But I cannot pretend I do not want you with me. I cannot pretend I did not feel your absence like a wound.”
The forest is silent around you, the cabin standing behind him like the last place in the world still holding your shared breath.
He looks at you, torn open by his own confession.
“I want you close,” he says. “I only fear what my closeness may bring you.”
“I’m not going to have a happy life without you, Adam,” you say, your voice trembling but certain. “And if the price of my happiness is risking getting hurt, then it is a price I am willing to pay.”
He looks at you as if the words have cut through him, his expression still damp with tears, his face softened by something raw and helpless that he has clearly spent too long trying to hide.
The driver, still waiting in the car, looks between the two of you and asks carefully what he is supposed to do.
Adam turns his head slightly, as though the answer has finally become simple.
“Put her things back in the cabin.”
You blink at him. “What does that mean?”
He takes a slow breath, his voice quieter now, but no less certain.
“It means that if you are willing to risk yourself for me, then I am willing to spend the rest of my life protecting you.”
The words settle over the clearing like something sacred. The rain has softened to a thin mist, clinging to the leaves and the air between you, the world holding its breath around the two of you.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
Then you do.
You step forward and reach for him, and this time he does not retreat. He opens himself to you with the kind of surrender that only comes from someone who has spent far too long being afraid of wanting anything at all.
You kiss him first, because you cannot bear another second of distance. The moment your lips meet, it feels like every painful day apart, every lonely night, every terrible fear and impossible hope folds into one aching, beautiful instant. Adam makes a quiet sound against your mouth, something between relief and disbelief, and then he kisses you back with a tenderness so deep it nearly undoes you.
One of his hands rises carefully to your face, as if he is afraid you might vanish if he holds too tightly. The other settles at your waist, steadying you, grounding you, making it clear without a single word that he is here now. Fully here.
When you finally part, neither of you is smiling yet, but your foreheads remain close, your breaths mingling in the damp air.
“You are certain?” he asks softly, the question carrying all the weight of everything he has ever feared.
You touch his face, your thumb brushing away the last trace of tears.
“I’m certain.”
His eyes search yours, searching for doubt, and finding none.
Then, slowly, as if he is learning a new kind of courage, he leans in and kisses you again. This one is gentler, warmer, fuller of promise than the first. It does not feel like an ending. It feels like a beginning you have both been waiting for without knowing how to name it.
Behind you, the driver clears his throat with polite awkwardness, but neither of you breaks apart.
Adam rests his forehead against yours once more.
“You came back,” he murmurs.
You smile through the emotion gathering in your throat.
“I was never really leaving.”
Something soft and almost disbelieving passes over his face, and then, for the first time, he looks entirely at peace. Not healed, not free of the world’s cruelty, but no longer alone inside it.
The cabin stands behind him, waiting. The forest surrounds you both in quiet witness. And now, finally, there is no distance left between the life you were forced into and the love you were always meant to keep.
He takes your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours as though it is the most natural thing in the world.
“Come home,” he says.
And this time, when you walk back toward the cabin together, neither of you is looking over your shoulder.
You meet a man who claims to be a prince from another world, after a love life full of disappointments and failed connections. As his impossible story begins to prove disturbingly real, you find yourself drawn to him in ways you didn’t expect.
Author's Note: After watching Master of the Universe (2026) and seeing Nicholas Galitzine at his best as Adam, I decided to write a chapter of a fanfic or a one-shot. It depends on whether anyone likes it. This chapter, like others, contains spoilers for the movie's plot. However, there will be changes in several parts as well. The characters don't belong to me.
TWO FOUR
THREE
A little while later, you and Adam were standing in the parking lot of the building where he lived, the night finally quiet around you after the chaos of the store. The whole drive over had passed in a blur of adrenaline, disbelief, and the strange, breathless feeling of having somehow gotten away with something impossible.
You had barely paid attention to the road.
Now, under the dim wash of the parking lot lights, Adam looked far less triumphant than he had a few minutes earlier. The sword was with him again, yes, but the hope he had carried into the store had dimmed into something uncertain, almost fragile.
He turned to you slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was softer than you had heard it all night.
“Every single day,” he admitted, “my only goal has been to find my way home.” The words seemed to cost him something. His mouth pulled into the faintest pout, and for one awful second he looked as though he might actually cry. You felt your heart twist.
“And if Eternia does not want me back?” he asked, meeting your eyes with a kind of honesty that made it impossible not to take him seriously. Without thinking too hard about it, you reached for your seat belt and unbuckled it, then stepped closer to him and lifted a hand to his face. Your touch was gentle, careful, as if he might break if you pressed too hard.
“Don’t think like that,” you told him quietly. “Maybe it just didn’t work because of the way everything happened. Maybe there was too much pressure. Maybe it needs time.”
Adam looked at you as though he was trying to decide whether he believed you, and the uncertainty in his face made the whole thing ache even more.
Then, in a voice so sincere it nearly undid you, he said, “You are one of the best people I have met here.”
The softness of his smile after that felt almost unfair. It was warm and genuine and so unexpectedly tender that you had to look away for a second just to collect yourself. When you looked back, he was still watching you.
Then, with a faint lift of his brows and the smallest trace of his usual humor returning, he asked, “What if we try again before the police come looking for us? I feel like a magical portal would be very useful right now.”
Despite everything, a laugh slipped out of you.
“You want to try again?”
“I would prefer not to be arrested before I have the chance.”
You shook your head, smiling now despite the nerves still buzzing under your skin. “Then let’s try again.”
Adam’s expression changed instantly, the worry giving way to something brighter, more alive. Even in the middle of a parking lot, even with the possibility of police showing up any second, he looked relieved just to have you beside him.
He adjusted his grip on the sword, drew in a steady breath, and this time there was no crowd, no mocking voices, no attendants, and no one to interrupt him.
Only you.
Only the quiet night air.
Only the man who had spent his whole life trying to find his way home.
Adam lifted the sword.
Your hand stayed lightly at his arm, as if you could somehow anchor him there with you while he did whatever came next.
Then he spoke the words again.Â
Nothing happened for a long moment.
The sword remained still in your hands, far heavier than you had expected, and Adam’s expression tightened as the silence stretched on between you. For the first time since you had met him, he looked genuinely afraid that hope might slip through his fingers again. Before that could happen, you straightened your grip as best you could and looked up at him.
“What if we try together?” you suggested.
Adam blinked, then let out a breath that was almost a laugh, though there was still strain in it.
“I suppose it can’t make things worse.”
“Comforting.” A brief smile flickered across his face. Then, very carefully, he shifted the sword toward you and let go enough for you to take some of the weight. The second it settled into your hands, you nearly staggered under it.
“Oh my God,” you gasped, struggling to keep it upright. “You did not mention it was this heavy.”
Adam gave a startled laugh at the sight of you nearly losing your balance.
“I didn’t think I needed to.”
“Adam, how are you holding this like it weighs nothing?”
Before you could properly adjust yourself, he moved in behind you with instinctive ease, one arm coming around your middle and the other guiding your hands back into position on the hilt. His body was close enough that you could feel the heat of him against your back, close enough that his breath brushed the side of your neck when he leaned in to speak.
“Like this,” he said, his voice quiet and close. “It’s about the position of your body.”
That explanation should not have sent a jolt straight through you, but it did. Immediately. Your heartbeat stumbled.
His hands settled over yours, steadying the sword, and the warmth of his body at your back made it increasingly difficult to focus on anything except the fact that he was standing far too close and somehow still speaking with complete, maddening calm.
The tension in your own body rose a little more when he shifted the sword just enough to show you how to hold it properly. His chest brushed lightly against your shoulder blade, his grip sure and gentle, and the whole thing felt too intimate for a moment that was supposed to be about magical escape and not the fact that you were suddenly acutely aware of every point of contact between you.
“We have to say the words now,” Adam murmured near your ear.
A shiver ran down your spine. He noticed. Of course he noticed.
Still, he didn’t tease you for it. He simply kept his hands over yours and waited, his voice lowering into something that sounded even steadier than before.
“Ready?”
You swallowed, trying very hard not to think about how close he was or how impossibly warm he felt or how the parking lot around you had gone so quiet that the entire world seemed to have narrowed down to the two of you and the sword.
Then you nodded. Adam’s mouth curved slightly, though you couldn’t see it so much as feel the change in the air around him.
“On three,” he said.
You took a breath.
“One.”
The sword hummed faintly in your hands.
“Two.”
Adam’s grip tightened just enough to steady you both.
“Three.”
Together, with your fingers wrapped around the hilt and his hands guiding yours, you spoke the words.
The reaction was immediate. Light burst from the blade in a blinding surge, sharp and brilliant enough to make you gasp. The air around you seemed to crack open all at once, a rush of energy rolling through the parking lot as the space in front of you tore apart into a shimmering, impossible gateway.
You stared. Adam went completely still behind you. For one stunned second, neither of you moved.
Then he let out a breath that sounded almost disbelieving.
“It worked.”
The words were barely out of his mouth before the portal brightened again, swirling with a glow so intense it painted both of you in streaks of gold and white. The force of it tugged at your clothes, your hair, the space around you, as though the world itself had decided to lean in and listen.
Adam’s hands were still on yours. His voice, when it came again, was softer now, full of wonder.
“It really worked.”
You turned your head just enough to look at him from the corner of your eye, and the expression on his face nearly made you forget the portal altogether. There was awe there, yes, but also relief so deep it looked almost painful, as if he had been holding his breath for far longer than you had realized.
Then the glow grew stronger. A wind rushed through the parking lot.
The open portal widened in front of you.
And Adam, still standing close enough that you could feel every breath he took, finally looked homeward with something like gratitude in his eyes.
The portal was still blazing open when the sound hit the parking lot.
At first it was only a low, vicious snarl, the kind that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up before your brain even had time to decide what was wrong. Then came the crash of something heavy slamming into the row of parked cars nearby, followed by the sickening screech of metal being bent under impossible weight.
You jerked your head toward the sound just in time to see a massive, fur-covered beast launch itself over the hood of a sedan, its body moving with a feral speed that looked wrong against something that large. It had the shape of a predator and the bulk of a nightmare, all claws, muscle, and snarling teeth, its eyes locked on the glowing portal as if it had somehow sensed exactly what you and Adam were trying to do.
For one stunned second, neither of you moved. Then the beast let out another roar and came straight for you.
“Holy shit,” you blurted, stumbling backward so fast you almost lost your footing.
Adam reacted instantly. “Move!”
You yanked yourself away from the portal, but in the split second it took for both of you to separate, you realized with horror that you had somehow come away with the sword still in your hands.
“Adam—” you started.
“I see it!” he snapped, already reaching for the hilt.
The beast hit the ground where the two of you had been standing only a heartbeat earlier, its claws scraping across the concrete so violently that sparks seemed to jump from the impact. It wheeled around at once, snarling when it realized you were no longer in front of it, and then it charged again, this time at full speed across the lot.
You and Adam split without thinking, both of you moving on instinct as the creature barreled between the parked cars. It climbed over one hood, landed on the roof of another, and kept coming, the whole parking lot suddenly turning into its hunting ground.
“Why is everything trying to kill us?” you shouted, clutching the sword with both hands.
Adam half laughed, half gasped as he skidded around the side of a dark SUV. “Because apparently I’m having a very enthusiastic homecoming.”
“That is not helpful!”
“It’s honest!”
The beast lunged again, and you barely had time to throw the sword back toward Adam before it crashed down where you had been standing.
“Catch!” you shouted.
Adam caught it midair without looking, spun, and immediately threw it back when the beast came at him from the side. You fumbled to grab it before it could hit the ground, nearly dropping it when the weight pulled your arms down hard.
“Again?” you yelled.
“It’s the only thing we have!”
“That is a terrible plan!”
“It’s still a plan!”
The beast roared and slammed both forepaws against the roof of a parked car, denting the metal with a sound that made you wince. People inside the building across the lot had started to notice by then, a few silhouettes turning toward the windows, but the parking lot itself was quickly becoming chaos. Car alarms wailed somewhere in the distance. The portal behind you flickered violently in the wind. Adam darted around the beast’s side and nearly reached you before it whipped around and charged again.
“Adam!” you shouted.
He turned, eyes widening. The creature was no longer interested in the sword. It was looking directly at you. You froze for half a second too long. Adam didn’t. He threw himself in front of you just as the beast struck. The impact was brutal.
You heard the gasp leave him before you saw it, heard the sharp, ugly sound of claws tearing across fabric and skin. Adam staggered backward, and for one terrible second you thought he was going to fall. The sword slipped from your hand and clattered hard against the concrete.
“Adam!”
He dropped to one knee, one hand pressing hard against his side, his face tightening with pain. Dark blood spread quickly beneath his fingers.
Everything else vanished. The portal. The parking lot. The creature. The fear. All of it dropped away at once. You were beside him immediately.
“Hey, hey, look at me,” you said, kneeling in front of him so fast your knees hit the pavement hard. Your hands hovered for a second, then settled carefully on his shoulders. “Stay with me.”
His breathing had gone uneven, but when he looked up at you, the expression in his hazel eyes was still unmistakably his, still there beneath the shock and pain.
“I’m fine,” he said automatically, which would have been ridiculous if he hadn’t looked so clearly not fine.
“You are absolutely not fine.”
The beast gave a guttural snarl behind you. Adam’s head lifted just enough for him to see it shift its weight, preparing to strike again.
His expression changed instantly.
“Y/N, move.”
“No.”
“Move.”
You shook your head, one hand already reaching for his. “I’m not leaving you.” The creature lunged.
Adam tried to rise anyway, though the movement clearly hurt him, and in that same moment you saw the sword lying a few feet away across the concrete. The beast was between you and it now, lowering its head, muscles tense, ready to finish what it had started.
Adam shoved himself in front of you again even though he could barely stand.
The gesture was so fast, so instinctive, that it made your chest ache. Then a voice cut through the parking lot like a blade.
“Back away from him.”
The beast hesitated. You turned.
A woman stood at the far end of the lot with a spear in one hand and an expression that made it immediately clear she had no intention of negotiating. Her stance was ready, balanced, and utterly unafraid, the kind of posture that told you she had spent her entire life learning how to kill things worse than this.
Adam’s face changed the instant he saw her.
“Teela?”
The parking lot was still ringing with the last echoes of the creature’s retreat when the voice cut through the darkness again.
“Adam.” The name landed like a strike.
“You’re alive,” she said, and the words came out rougher than she probably meant them to. “You’re actually alive.”
Adam looked stunned, almost as if he had expected to be imagined, or forgotten, or both. “I was beginning to think nobody from Eternia would ever find me.”
Teela gave a short, disbelieving laugh that sounded dangerously close to pain. “Fifteen years, Adam. Fifteen.”
The number seemed to hit him harder than the beast had.
You looked between them, your stomach tightening a little at the way Teela was staring at him, as if she had spent more than a decade trying not to picture this exact moment and had failed anyway.
“Fifteen years?” you repeated before you could stop yourself.
Teela’s attention snapped to you at once. Her expression sharpened, not hostile exactly, but alert in the way of someone who had spent too long surviving dangerous things. Her eyes moved quickly over your face, then down to the sword lying near your knee, then to Adam’s bloodied side.
“And you are?”
You straightened slightly, though you stayed close to Adam because there was no chance in hell you were moving away from him while he was bleeding in a parking lot. “Y/N.”
Teela’s gaze flicked back to Adam. “Y/N,” she repeated, as if deciding whether the name meant anything to her. “You know her?”
Adam, still clearly in pain, managed a weak breath that looked almost like a laugh. “I met her yesterday.”
Teela stared at him. Then at you. Then back at him.
“You met her yesterday,” she repeated flatly.
“Yes.”
“And somehow,” she said, gesturing toward the sword, the portal, the unconscious chaos that had very nearly become a dead body in the middle of a parking lot, “you have already managed to get yourself hurt and cause a disaster.”
Adam closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again with a pained expression. “That does sound like me.”
“It absolutely does.”
You pressed a hand more firmly to Adam’s arm when he tried to shift, and his breath caught slightly. That made your attention snap back to him immediately.
“Don’t move,” you told him, more sharply than you intended.
He looked up at you, surprised, then gave a faint, sheepish smile as if he had not realized how serious you were until that exact second. “I wasn’t trying to.”
“You were absolutely trying to do something,” you muttered. “I don’t know what, but I could tell.”
Teela watched the exchange with open confusion for a moment before her eyes narrowed slightly.
“You’re taking care of him?”
Your face warmed despite the situation. “Someone had to.”
Adam’s smile turned soft at that, which only made the whole thing more embarrassing.
Teela noticed too, apparently, because her expression shifted from suspicion to something much more complicated. Recognition, maybe. Or surprise. Or the beginning of both.
She looked at Adam again. “You really did find someone.”
Adam blinked. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Teela said, her voice tightening just enough to make the emotion beneath it obvious, “that after fifteen years of nothing, you show up in a human parking lot with a woman who is helping keep you alive, and somehow that is the part of this evening that surprises me the least.”
You blinked at that. “Fifteen years of nothing?”
Teela gave you a look, as if deciding how much of this was worth explaining before the police arrived, the beast came back, or both.
“Fifteen years since he vanished,” she said. “No word, no signal, no sign that he was still anywhere we could reach. Most of us thought the Sword had taken him too far for us to find him again.”
Adam’s face changed.
Not dramatically. But enough.
You saw it in the brief stillness in his eyes, in the way his mouth went a little softer at the edges. Whatever he had been expecting from Teela, it clearly had not been this.
“I tried,” he said quietly.
Teela’s expression hardened immediately, but not in anger this time. “I know.”
That answer seemed to steal the rest of the breath from him.
She stepped closer then, finally lowering the spear a little more, though she did not let her guard drop entirely. Not with a wounded Adam, a sword, and the lingering scent of whatever had chased you into this mess in the first place.
“Can you stand?” she asked him.
Adam drew in a breath and tried to push himself upright.
You caught his shoulder instinctively. “Careful.”
He gave you a quick look, almost amused despite the pain. “You really like telling me what to do.”
“I’m currently watching you bleed on a parking lot floor.”
“That feels relevant.”
“It is relevant.”
Teela looked at both of you, then huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh if the situation had been less disastrous. “I can see this is going to be difficult.”
You turned to her. “You two can have a reunion later. Right now, he needs help.”
Teela’s eyes flicked back to you, and this time there was no suspicion in them, only a sharper kind of attention. “You’re right.”
The fact that she said it so quickly made you trust her just a little more.
She knelt on Adam’s other side and, with the efficient certainty of someone who had spent years patching up reckless idiots, reached for the hand he had pressed against his side.
“Let me see.”
Adam let her guide his hand away without protest, though his jaw tightened when the movement pulled at the wound.
Teela’s expression darkened.
“Pretty bad?"
“Could be worse,” Adam said.
You and Teela both looked at him. He winced, then gave up. “All right, yes. It hurts.”
“Good,” Teela said, with the kind of bluntness that suggested she had missed him far too much to be gentle about it. “Maybe next time you’ll stop throwing yourself in front of giant monsters.”
Adam looked at her, genuinely affronted. “I was protecting her.”
Teela’s gaze flicked briefly to you. “I noticed.”
That made your chest warm in a way you did not have time to examine properly.
You glanced down at Adam’s side, where blood was still seeping through his shirt, and then back up at Teela. “Can you help him?”
Teela gave a short nod. “Yes. But we need to move. This lot isn’t safe, and if that thing comes back with friends, I’d rather not be standing around discussing feelings in the open.”
Adam almost smiled at that. “That sounds like you.”
“I know.”
You looked between them as Adam tried to brace himself more upright, and something in the way Teela was watching him made it clear this reunion was not finished. It was only being interrupted by the very inconvenient fact that one of them was injured and the other had spent fifteen years wondering whether he was dead.
“Do you two know each other really well?” you asked, mostly because the silence had become too heavy to leave alone.
Teela gave you a look. “He was my best friend.”
Adam, who had apparently not expected the answer to sound quite so immediate, looked at her with a mixture of surprise and something else that was much softer.
“And then he disappeared,” Teela added, eyes still on him. “So yes. I know him very well.”
Adam’s mouth parted slightly, then closed again.
You could practically feel the emotional weight of the moment pressing down around the three of you, and for a second it seemed possible that none of you would know what to say next.
Then Teela stood and offered Adam a hand.
“Come on,” she said. “You can tell me how you ended up in this situation later.”
Adam took her hand, then glanced at you before trying to rise. You moved immediately to support him on the other side.
He looked down at the two of you, one woman who had known him for fifteen years and another who had known him for less than two days, and for the first time since the beast appeared, he looked almost overwhelmed by the fact that both of you were still there.
And then, because apparently the universe was not finished humiliating any of you yet, a distant siren began to rise somewhere beyond the lot. Teela heard it first.
Her head snapped toward the sound, then back to the three of you. “That would be the police.”
She stared at you and Adam. “You’re kidding.”
Teela was already looking toward the dark edge of the parking lot, calculating when you said “I’m not.”
Adam, still between the two of you, let out a breath that was part groan and part laugh. “I really am having a very strange night.”
You looked at him. Then at Teela. Then back at him, despite the blood and the sirens and the fact that everything had just become even more impossible.
“Yes,” you said. “You are.”
The sound of the sirens grew louder behind you, cutting through the parking lot in a way that made the whole situation feel suddenly far more urgent than it had a moment before.
Teela heard them too. Her head turned toward the street, then back to the three of you, and whatever softness had begun to settle into the reunion was replaced at once by the kind of focused decisiveness that made it very clear she had survived far worse than a human police response.
“We’re leaving,” she said.
Adam let out a breath that was half laugh, half groan as he leaned more heavily into your side. “That sounds like a good idea.”
You glanced at him, then at the blood on his shirt, then back at Teela. “Can he actually move?”
“He can move,” Teela said, though the look she gave him suggested she was not especially impressed by the method. “He just won’t enjoy it.”
“Comforting,” you muttered.
Adam looked at you with a weak, almost apologetic smile. “You have been saying that a lot tonight.”
“You have made that very easy.”
Teela’s mouth twitched once, but she wasted no more time on it. She shifted her spear to one hand, reached for Adam’s shoulder with the other, and assessed the wound again with a glance that was all business now.
“Can you walk?” she asked him.
“I believe so.”
“That was not an answer.”
Adam frowned as if offended by the implication that his optimism was insufficient. “I can try.”
Teela gave him a look that would probably have sent most people into silence on the spot. “Then try.”
Between the two of you, Adam managed to steady himself enough to stand, though the movement clearly pulled at the injury and made his jaw tighten. You adjusted your grip automatically, one arm still braced around his back to help keep him upright.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, and the sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten despite everything that was happening around you.
The sirens were louder now. Closer.
Teela looked toward the lot entrance, then sharply toward the dark side of the building as if measuring the fastest path out. “My ship is close.”
Your head snapped toward her. “Your ship.”
Teela looked at you as if that was the least surprising part of the evening. “Yes. My ship.”
Adam, despite the blood and the pain, managed a faint smile. “You made it all the way here?”
Teela’s expression shifted, and for a second something old and sharp crossed her face. “I have been here for longer than you think.”
That answer caught Adam off guard, and the look he gave her changed immediately, moving from strain to a more careful kind of attention.
“You’ve been looking for me?”
Teela’s jaw tightened slightly. “Every possible way I could.”
There was too much in that sentence to unpack while standing beside a wounded Adam in a parking lot with police sirens approaching, but it was enough to make him go quiet for a second.
Then, because he had apparently never learned how to exist in a normal emotional moment without trying to soften it, he gave a short breath of a laugh and said, “That sounds like you.”
“It is me.”
You glanced between them and then toward the direction of the sirens. “We can have the reunion later. Right now, I think we should not be standing in plain sight when the police get here.”
Teela gave you a quick, approving look. “You learn fast.”
“I am learning under extreme pressure.”
“I noticed."
Adam shifted again, and you immediately tightened your hold on him. His weight against you felt far too real, far too warm, far too human for someone who had only hours ago seemed like a story that had somehow walked off the page and into your life.
“Can you keep him on his feet?” Teela asked you.
You looked at Adam’s face, at the sweat along his brow and the way he was trying very hard not to show how much pain he was in, and nodded. “Yes.”
Adam turned his head slightly toward you. “I can hear that you said that with confidence.”
“You should be grateful.”
“I am.”
Teela started moving first, leading you quickly across the lot with the kind of efficient certainty that suggested she had already chosen the best route out of here before you’d even finished deciding whether this was all real. She headed toward the far side of the building, where the light was dimmer and the shadows deeper, and the three of you moved as quickly as Adam’s injury would allow.
You were only a few steps in when you noticed the ship.
At first, it looked like nothing more than a dark, angular shape tucked behind the building and partially hidden by a line of delivery trucks and stacked shipping containers. But as you got closer, the sleek metallic surface caught the parking lot light in a way that made it impossible to mistake for anything ordinary. It looked like something built for speed and survival, all sharp lines and practical design, the kind of vessel that didn’t ask permission to exist.
You slowed without meaning to.
Teela noticed immediately. “Never seen one before?”
You stared at it. “I’ve never seen anything like that in my life.”
Adam, still leaning on you, gave a weak smile that somehow managed to look both proud and amused. “That is one of the more reasonable reactions you’ve had tonight.”
You looked at him sidelong. “That’s not a compliment.”
“No,” he said, then winced as the two of you took another step. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”
Teela reached the side of the ship first and pressed her hand against a panel near the entry seam. A section of the hull opened with a quiet hiss, revealing a lit interior beyond. Warm light spilled out into the cool night air, and the sight of it sent a strange flutter through your chest, something between relief and disbelief.
Adam straightened a little as soon as he saw it.
The shift was immediate.
You felt it in the way his posture changed, in the way his breathing altered, in the sudden brightness that came back to his face despite the injury.
“That’s your ship,” he said, the words quieter than before.
Teela glanced at him. “Of course it is.”
“You actually came.”
Her expression softened just slightly, though her voice remained matter-of-fact. "I just knew I would find you!"
Adam looked at her for a long moment, and for all his earlier confidence, he seemed suddenly unable to find the right words for that. So instead he gave a small, private smile and nodded once. You watched the exchange with a strange ache in your chest that you didn’t fully have time to think through.
Teela noticed the way you were looking at both of them and stepped aside enough to let you help Adam toward the ship. “Inside,” she said. “Before the sirens get close enough to make this everyone’s problem.”
You half-dragged, half-guided Adam into the ship, and the moment you crossed the threshold, the smell and sound of the outside world seemed to fall away. The interior was compact but clean, filled with glowing panels, unfamiliar controls, and a quiet mechanical hum that felt almost alive. It was not like the interiors of the spaceships you had seen in movies. It felt used. Lived in. Real.
Adam’s gaze moved over it with a kind of reverence that made it obvious this was not just a machine to him.
This was a path.
A chance.
A bridge.
He stopped once he was fully inside, his hand still braced against your shoulder for balance, and looked around as though he was afraid the whole thing might vanish if he blinked too long. For a moment, nobody said anything.
Then Teela broke the silence with a sharp look at him. “You have been gone fifteen years, and this is how you look when I finally find you?”
Adam huffed a short laugh that turned into a pained wince. “You say that like I planned the dramatic timing.”
“You did not plan any part of this?”
“If I had planned it,” he said, “I would have preferred a less bloody reunion.”
Teela glanced at his side again, and the brief softness that crossed her face was gone almost before it appeared. “Sit down.”
Adam opened his mouth, clearly prepared to argue on principle, then seemed to think better of it when you pressed him gently toward the nearest seat.
“You heard her,” you said.
He looked at you with a small, exasperated smile. “You are both very bossy.”
“And you are injured,” you replied.
“That does seem to be the problem.”
He lowered himself into the seat with obvious care, and the second he did, Teela turned toward a console near the front of the ship and began working without hesitation. You stood beside Adam for a second longer than necessary, then finally stepped back just enough to give him room.
He looked up at you as you moved, and for a moment there was something in his face that looked almost like relief that you were still there.
That look did something inconvenient to your stomach.
Teela glanced over her shoulder. “If you are both done looking at each other like the rest of the universe has stopped existing, I need a minute.”
You immediately looked away. Adam, to his credit, at least had the decency to look mildly embarrassed.
Teela did not seem interested in whether either of you was comfortable. She punched a sequence into the panel and a low hum deepened through the ship, the lights shifting slightly as if the vessel itself were waking up in response to her touch. Then she turned back to you.
“You,” she said, pointing briefly in your direction, “are going to tell me exactly how you ended up in this mess with him.”
Your mouth opened, then closed again. Adam, from the seat, gave a quiet laugh that made the wound in his side clearly unpleasant but did nothing to stop him from looking amused. “That is a very long story.”
Teela looked at him. “Then we will have time.”
You glanced from one to the other, your nerves starting to return now that the immediate danger had passed. The parking lot outside still existed. The police were still coming. The world was still normal in the way worlds tended to insist on being normal right before they stopped cooperating.
And yet here you were, on a ship with a wounded prince from another world and the warrior who had known him long before you had.
Teela finished whatever she was doing and returned to the center of the ship just as the engine gave a deeper, steadier hum. “The coordinates are set.”
Adam’s head lifted. “You can get us there?”
Teela’s expression turned unreadable in the way people’s faces often did when they were trying not to admit how much they felt. “I can get us close. The rest depends on whether the Sword behaves.”
Adam looked down at the weapon resting beside him, then back up again with something like fierce hope returning to his face.
You saw it. So did Teela. And when she looked at him, there was no mistaking the fact that she had spent far too long imagining this moment and had no intention of wasting it now.
“Hold on,” she said.
Then the ship shuddered beneath your feet, the lights dimmed for a second, and the view ahead of you changed as the vessel began to move.
You braced yourself instinctively, one hand finding the nearest support as the world outside the ship blurred into motion.
Adam looked up at you, then at Teela, and for the first time since the beast attacked, something in his face finally looked like it had begun to settle. Not fully. Not yet. But enough that when the ship angled toward the dark sky ahead, you knew you were no longer just running from something.
                         You were going to Eternia.
You meet a man who claims to be a prince from another world, after a love life full of disappointments and failed connections. As his impossible story begins to prove disturbingly real, you find yourself drawn to him in ways you didn’t expect.
Author's Note: After watching Master of the Universe (2026) and seeing Nicholas Galitzine at his best as Adam, I decided to write a chapter of a fanfic or a one-shot. It depends on whether anyone likes it. This chapter, like others, contains spoilers for the movie's plot. However, there will be changes in several parts as well. The characters don't belong to me.
ONE THREE
TWO
Time seemed to stretch painfully while you waited for Adam to arrive. Every minute that passed only made the whole situation feel more impossible, as if the sword inside the store might vanish if you looked away for too long. You stayed near the entrance, trying to act casual while your eyes kept drifting back to the window, and when Adam finally appeared, he looked exactly like someone who had sprinted across half the city to get there.
His breathing was uneven, his shirt was slightly disheveled, one side of his collar hanging open as though he had not stopped to fix it, and his hair looked like it had been windblown into complete disorder. He still managed to look unmistakably like Adam, though not nearly as composed as he had at dinner.
You frowned immediately. “What happened to you?”
Adam slowed as he reached you, and despite the state he was in, a bright smile spread across his face the second he saw you. “I think I may have just lost my job,” he said, almost cheerfully, as if the words belonged to someone else, “but other than that, this might be the best day I have had in a very long time.”
Before you could even reply, he stepped forward and pulled you into a quick, enthusiastic hug.
You stiffened for half a second out of sheer surprise, but the warmth of it was impossible to ignore, and more than that, Adam himself seemed so relieved to see you that you quickly decided not to make it awkward. If anything, he looked like he needed the reassurance more than you did.
When he finally let go, you were already shaking your head, a little breathless yourself. “We have to get your sword.”
Adam’s smile sharpened into something more focused. “Yes,” he said immediately, as if that had been the only possible answer. “We do.”
Without wasting another second, the two of you went inside.
Adam moved beside you with more caution now, the energy from the hug fading into something sharper and more intent. He looked around the store once, taking everything in with the kind of focused attention that made it very clear he was no longer pretending this was just a strange coincidence.
You lowered your voice. “Do you see it?”
“I do not yet,” he murmured, scanning the front of the store. “But I can feel that it is here.”
You glanced at him. “You can feel it.”
He gave you a quick look, as if that was the most obvious part of the entire conversation. “Yes.”
That should have worried you more than it did.
Instead, you found yourself smiling faintly as you both drifted farther into the store, pretending to browse while actually trying to move without looking like you were searching for an ancient magical weapon. Adam lingered by a display of fantasy figures and old game boxes, while you took the aisle beside him, your eyes moving between the shelves and the people milling around the front.
Then, from the other end of the store, you heard a pair of voices near the back counter.
One of the employees was speaking to someone out of view, and a familiar metallic glint caught your eye between two shelves.
You froze.
Adam noticed instantly and turned toward you. “What is it?”
You barely whispered the answer. “I found it.”
His whole posture changed at once. Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But enough for you.
Adam stepped closer, his voice still low. “Where?”
You nodded subtly toward the back of the store, where a display stand was being assembled near a stack of boxed merchandise. “There. They brought it farther in.”
Adam followed your gaze, and for a second the amusement from earlier was gone entirely. In its place was something steady and intent, the expression of someone who had been separated from something important and was now seeing it again at last.
Then he looked back at you, and the seriousness in his face softened just a little.
“Stay close,” he said.
You gave him a look. “I was planning on it.”
That earned the smallest smile.
The two of you moved deeper into the store together, careful and quiet, weaving between aisles while trying not to look suspicious. Adam passed a row of comic books and action displays as if he belonged there, though he still looked wildly out of place in the most charming way possible. You, meanwhile, were doing your best not to stare at the way his focus had sharpened or the way all trace of the earlier chaos seemed to have burned away the second he knew the sword was close.
At the back of the store, two workers were adjusting a large display while a third man, likely the store manager, stood nearby with a clipboard and a very concerned expression. Behind them, on a reinforced stand half-covered by packing material, sat the sword.
Even half-hidden, it was impossible to mistake.
The blade gleamed under the fluorescent lights, and the closer you got, the more you could see why Adam had reacted the way he did. It was not just oversized or decorative. It looked old in a way that made your skin prickle, as though it carried a history that did not belong in a comic shop at all.
Adam stopped beside you, and when he spoke, his voice was almost reverent.
“There it is.”
You turned to him. “That is the thing you almost lost your job over?”
He gave a breathless laugh, though his eyes never left the sword. “Apparently.”
You looked back at it too, the reality of the moment settling over you in slow, impossible layers.
You had called him. He had come. And now the sword from another world was sitting in a comic book store on Earth, like that was the most natural thing in the world.
Adam shifted slightly beside you, and when you glanced at him again, you noticed he was smiling despite the seriousness of the moment.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, almost like he meant more than just this one thing.
You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close he was standing. “Just get your sword before somebody asks questions we cannot answer.”
His smile deepened. “That sounds wise.”
Then, together, you both looked toward the display again, already planning your next move.
“Do the two of you need any help?”
The question came from a store attendant who had clearly noticed the two of you hovering too long in one place. You straightened at once, forcing your expression into something far more casual than you felt while Adam stood beside the display with his attention fixed so completely on the sword that he looked almost reverent.
“Actually,” you said, turning toward her with what you hoped was an innocent enough smile, “my friend here was wondering how much that sword costs.”
Adam’s hand hovered near the blade, his eyes bright with unmistakable awe as he looked at it, and the attendant followed your gesture before glancing between the two of you with immediate interest.
“Oh, your friend?” she said, her expression shifting into something faintly amused. “I thought you were a couple.”
You nearly choked.
Adam, who had been staring at the sword a second earlier, turned his head sharply in your direction as though he had heard that just as clearly as you had. The attendant, meanwhile, seemed far too entertained by the idea to care whether either of you was prepared to answer it.
Unfortunately, she recovered before either of you could say anything and gave a polite little smile. “I’m sorry, but that item isn’t for sale.”
You frowned, keeping your tone light even as your pulse kicked up. “It’s just a replica, though, right? Surely it has some kind of value if it’s being displayed here.”
Adam made a low, offended sound beside you and shot you a reproachful look that would have been more convincing if he had not already been reaching for the sword like a man who had found the last missing piece of his entire life.
“That is not a replica,” he said, his voice low but absolutely certain. “That is my sword. I can feel it.”
The attendant blinked.
Adam stepped closer to the display, looking almost overwhelmed now. When he spoke again, his tone had sharpened into something deeply serious. “Miss, that sword belongs to me, and I intend to take it.”
You immediately moved to recover from the damage, smiling brightly enough to suggest Adam was simply being enthusiastic in a deeply unhelpful way. “My friend doesn’t really know what he’s talking about,” you told the attendant quickly. “He just really wants this replica, and I’m sure we could work out a reasonable price.”
Adam turned toward you with a look of pure disbelief, then made a noise of outrage when you kept your smile fixed on the attendant and continued to bargain on his behalf as if he were not, at that exact moment, trying to wrench the sword free from the character stand it had been mounted on.
“I am telling the truth,” he said, dropping to one knee beside the display as though he had just entered battle with a particularly stubborn enemy. “This is my sword.”
One of the nearby customers glanced over. Then another. Then another.
You could feel the attention in the store slowly shifting toward the two of you, curiosity spreading with every second that passed.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to call management,” the attendant said, her tone still polite but now edged with the kind of firmness that meant the situation had stopped being amusing for her.
“There’s no need for that,” you said quickly, still trying to keep the moment under control. “We only need a minute of your patience.”
Adam, who had apparently stopped caring whether he was making a scene, finally managed to get the sword loose from the display. The moment it came free, he stood with it in both hands, his entire face lighting up with a sharp, almost disbelieving relief.
The reaction from the store was immediate. Several customers stared. The attendant looked horrified. And you, despite yourself, felt your own breath catch.
Adam lifted the sword as if he was certain the moment he did, everything would finally make sense.
“In two seconds,” he announced, looking far too alive for a man standing in a comic store with a stolen fantasy sword, “you are all going to see me return to Eternia in a burst of something almost cosmic.”
You stared at him. The attendant stared at him. The customers stared harder.
Then Adam raised the sword more fully and drew in a breath, his voice filling the store as he shouted, “By the power of Grayskull, I want to go home!”
The entire shop went completely still. And then everyone waited. You waited with them. So did the attendant. So did the customers.
Adam stood there with the sword raised, his expression transforming little by little from determination to confusion, then from confusion to dawning uncertainty, and finally to unmistakable disappointment as the seconds stretched on without so much as a flicker of light.
Nothing happened.
No flash.
No portal.
No cosmic burst.
Just silence.
The kind of silence that only made everything worse.
Adam lowered the sword slightly and looked at it as though it had personally betrayed him.
For a moment, his face was so openly crestfallen that your own frustration softened into concern. The poor man looked devastated, and not in the dramatic way he had probably expected, but in the quiet, stunned way of someone who had just realized the thing he had been waiting for might not be happening after all.
“Well,” the attendant said carefully, after the longest pause imaginable, “I think I definitely need to call management now.”
You winced, but Adam barely seemed to hear her. He was still staring at the sword, holding it too tightly, his shoulders gone rigid with disappointment.
And for the first time since you had seen him at the window, he looked unsure of what to do next.
“Maybe it’s broken.”
The comment came from somewhere in the growing crowd that had gathered around the display, followed by a few scattered laughs.
You immediately turned toward the voice.
“Thank you,” you said dryly. “Your contribution has been incredibly helpful.”
A few people laughed again, though this time it was at the person who had made the comment rather than at Adam. Adam seemed completely unaware of any of it.
He was still staring at the sword. Still holding it tightly. Still looking as though the ground beneath him had shifted.
You felt a pang of sadness in your heart when you saw the disappointment on his face.
Just minutes ago, he had been practically glowing with excitement. He looked so much happier than you had ever seen him, and it was just so lovely to see.
Now he looked a little lost.
"Look," you said, glancing toward the area where the attendant had disappeared, "I would really appreciate it if you could wait until we had left and then call the management."
Adam didn't react.
You looked a little sad and gently tapped his arm.
"Adam."
Nothing.
"Adam."
This time he blinked and finally looked at you.
"I don't understand," he said gently. The certainty was gone.
For the first time since meeting him, he sounded like a really open and vulnerable person.
"It was supposed to work," he speaks softly as he looks at you, as if he were desperate for a glimmer of hope. Your expression softened right away.
Around you, customers continued whispering amongst themselves, phones appearing here and there as people debated whether they were witnessing performance art, a publicity stunt, or an actual breakdown.
Adam didn't seem to notice any of it. His eyes remained fixed on the sword.
“I know it was,” you said gently.
"No, you don't understand." He shook his head. "I can feel it. This is the Sword of Power. It's the same sword. The same energy. The same..." He stopped, trying to explain something you weren't sure words could properly describe. "It's mine."
The way he said it made it obvious how important this was to him. Not because of what the sword could do. Because of what it represented.
Home. Family. Proof that he hadn't imagined any of it. Proof that he belonged somewhere.
“Hey.”
Adam looked at you again.
“Maybe nothing is wrong.”
His brow furrowed.
“What?”
You stepped a little closer, lowering your voice despite the fact that half the store seemed determined to listen in.
“Maybe you found it five minutes ago after spending who knows how long searching for it. Maybe you're surrounded by forty strangers staring at you. Maybe there's a very good chance the police are on their way.”
A faint smile almost appeared.
Almost.
“So?”
“So,” you continued patiently, “if I were a magical sword, I probably wouldn't perform under those conditions either.”
That finally earned the smallest laugh from him.
It wasn't much.
But it was enough.
“There he is,” you said.
Adam rolled his eyes.
“You're ridiculous.”
“I'm not the one waving ancient artifacts around comic book stores.”
“Fair.”
The smile faded, though not completely.
You hesitated before reaching out and placing your hand over his.
The one gripping the sword.
The moment your fingers touched his, Adam went still.
Not startled.
Just focused.
His gaze dropped briefly to where your hands rested together on the hilt.
“Maybe,” you said quietly, “you need less pressure and more time.”
For a second, neither of you moved.
The noise of the store seemed farther away somehow.
You weren't sure whether you believed in Eternia.
You weren't sure whether you believed in magical swords.
But you believed in him.
And apparently that was enough for you to be standing here holding the hand of a man who claimed to be a lost prince from another world.
Adam's shoulders loosened slightly.
He took a slow breath.
Then another.
His grip on the sword relaxed.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
The words carried more emotion than you expected.
Before you could answer, movement near the front of the store caught your eye.
Your stomach immediately dropped.
The attendant had returned.
And she wasn't alone.
A woman who looked very much like a manager was striding behind her with the determined expression of someone already preparing to deal with a problem.
Possibly several problems.
“Oh, that's bad.”
Adam followed your gaze.
“Who is that?”
“The reason we need to leave.”
The manager was already looking in your direction.
Unfortunately, she had also noticed the giant sword currently in Adam's possession.
“Adam.”
“Yes?”
“We have to go.”
His eyes widened slightly.
“Now?”
“Now.”
The manager pointed directly at the two of you.
“Oh, definitely now.”
Adam looked down at the sword, then back at you.
“You do realize this probably counts as stealing.”
You grabbed his wrist.
“You can explain the legal implications after we've escaped.”
“Escaped?”
“You're a prince from another world.”
You began pulling him toward the nearest exit.
“Act like it.”
Despite everything, despite the crowd, despite the manager rapidly approaching and the very real possibility that neither of you had any idea what you were doing anymore, Adam laughed.
And with the Sword of Power finally back in his hands, he followed you out of the store.
Summary: You are a future university graduate who works to pay off your student loans at a bookstore that stays open late at night. With barely any time for anything beyond work and college, one evening you are surprised by a customer who turns out to be a famous person. You share a pleasant conversation, and you find yourself utterly captivated.
Author's note: Everyone, if you enjoy this fanfic, interact with it! I particularly want to know if I should continue it or if I should end it.
FIVE SEVEN
SIX
Your shower lasts longer than it should have. Part of it is practical. You were cold, tense, still carrying the rain and the heaviness of the night clinging to your skin. But another part of it is avoidance. Jacob is downstairs, in your kitchen, cooking as if it were second nature, as if he belongs there more easily than he has any right to.
That thought unsettles you more than you want to admit. Hot water runs over your shoulders as you tilt your head back, trying to steady your breathing, but your mind refuses to quiet. It keeps returning to fragments of the night with an unwanted clarity. His hands guiding yours in the kitchen. His voice close enough that you still feel it. The way he looked at you right before you walked away as if something had shifted and neither of you had agreed to name it.
You close your eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly. This is dangerous, not because he has crossed any line, but because you are beginning to want something you have not allowed yourself to want.
You stay under the water until the mirror is completely fogged and your thoughts lose their sharpest edges. Even then, you take too long getting dressed, pulling on an oversized shirt and soft shorts, deliberately ignoring the fact that Jacob is only one floor below you.
When you finally step out of the bathroom, the house feels quieter in a different way. Warm. Lived in. The air carries the scent of garlic and simmering tomato sauce drifting up from the kitchen, and it makes everything feel more intimate than you are prepared for.
As you descend the stairs, you hear the faint clink of a plate being set down, followed by movement near the counter. When you reach the bottom, Jacob looks up. For a brief moment, neither of you speaks.
His gaze lands on you with quiet attention, not intrusive, but steady enough that it unsettles your balance anyway. His sleeves are still rolled up from cooking, his hair slightly damp and messier now, and the domesticity of it all feels almost disorienting in its simplicity.
“You took your time,” he says at last, his voice low but even.
Your fingers tighten briefly around the edge of the staircase before you let go. “I was avoiding you.”
A faint curve appears at the corner of his mouth. “At least you are honest.”
“Do not sound so pleased about it,” you reply, stepping fully into the kitchen.
“I am not,” he says, though the amusement does not leave his eyes. “Maybe only slightly relieved.”
You stop across the counter from him, keeping just enough distance to feel in control of it.
“And why is that?” you ask.
He leans back against the counter with unhurried ease, studying you for a moment before answering. “Because you came back downstairs.”
“Do not get too confident about yourself. I live here. It is not like I could avoid you,” you say, a faint smile forming as you use the teasing remark to steady yourself against the fact that Jacob is, in fact, cooking for you.
The kitchen feels warmer than before, or maybe it is just him occupying it so naturally that it changes the atmosphere. The sound of the sauce simmering fills the brief silence that follows your words.
Jacob does not seem bothered at all. If anything, there is a quiet ease in the way he moves. He reaches into the drawer for a spoon, as if it is something he has done in kitchens that are not his before, and scoops up a small portion of what he is preparing.
“Try this,” he says simply.
Before you can overthink it, he steps closer and lifts the spoon toward you. The moment the tomato sauce touches your lips, the warmth and depth of it catch you off guard. It is rich, balanced in a way that feels almost unfair coming from a kitchen that is not professionally set up for it. You take a second longer than necessary to register how good it is.
Jacob watches your reaction without saying anything immediately, his attention fixed on you in a way that makes it hard to separate the taste from the moment itself.
“I want to say it is delicious,” you admit after a beat, forcing a small, controlled breath, “but I am slightly afraid of making you even more unbearable about it.”
A faint smile tugs at his mouth as he lowers the spoon. “Too late for that,” he replies, calm, almost amused, as if he has already accepted the accusation.
You shake your head lightly, trying to ignore the warmth gathering in your chest from something as simple as him cooking for you. It should not feel this intimate. And yet standing there in your kitchen with rain still tapping softly against the windows, watching Jacob lean casually against the counter with that satisfied look in his eyes, it suddenly does.
“You are enjoying this far too much,” you murmur.
“Watching you admit I am right?” he asks. “A little.”
You let out a quiet laugh under your breath and move away from him before he can notice how much easier it has become to smile around him tonight. Reaching into the cabinet, you grab two glasses while Jacob turns back toward the stove to finish the pasta.
The domesticity of the moment settles strangely around you. The sound of plates clinking softly against the counter. The smell of tomato sauce and garlic filling the kitchen. Jacob moving through the space like he has already memorized it.
“You know,” you say while setting the glasses down on the island, “this whole thing is very unfair.”
Jacob glances over his shoulder. “What thing?”
“You cooking ridiculously good food in the middle of an emotionally confusing evening.”
His laugh is quieter this time, lower. “That is a very specific complaint.”
“It is a valid one.”
He hums as if considering it seriously before finally plating the pasta. “I could make it worse.”
Your eyebrows lift immediately. “How?”
“I could light candles.”
You stare at him for a second before a surprised laugh escapes you.
“Oh, you think you are smooth tonight.”
“I think you keep smiling at me despite yourself.”
Unfortunately, he is right again.
Jacob carries the plates toward the dining table, and you follow him with the glasses, trying not to focus on how natural this all feels. The dining room is dim except for the warm light hanging above the table, casting soft shadows across the walls while the storm outside turns the windows black.
For a moment, watching him pull out your chair for you with effortless ease, it feels less like an accidental late-night dinner and more like something dangerously close to routine.
You sit down before that thought can settle too deeply.
The first few minutes pass easily. Conversation slips between teasing comments and comfortable silences while the rain continues outside. Jacob watches you carefully every time you take another bite, entirely too entertained by how much you clearly like the food.
“You are looking at me like you expect a formal review,” you tell him eventually.
“I do.”
“Well, unfortunately for you, this is genuinely good.”
“Genuinely?” he repeats with mock offense. “That sounded painful for you to admit.”
“It was.”
His grin widens slightly before he takes a sip of wine, still watching you over the rim of the glass in a way that makes your stomach tighten unexpectedly.
The conversation gently flows, a bit more slowly now, with a softness that surrounds us. You learn things about each other that feel oddly personal despite their simplicity. Jacob shares that he used to act like he liked black coffee as a teenager because he thought it made him seem mysterious. You confess that you still sleep with a lamp on after watching horror movies.
"That explains so much," he says immediately, his voice warm and understanding.
"You are not allowed to judge me."
"Absolutely!"
"You're afraid of moths."
Jacob points his fork at you. "First of all, they move unpredictably. Second of all, that information was shared in confidence."
You laugh again, and this time it's even more joyful. The sound of your laughter captures his attention right away. His expression softens for a moment as he looks at you, and you can see that he's feeling a little playful.
The shift makes your pulse stumble, but you're in good hands.
To escape it, you take another sip of wine. "Okay, that's all right. Favorite color."
Jacob leans back slightly in his chair. "That's so random!"
"You started this."
He pauses for a moment, as if giving his thoughts a chance to settle, before responding. "Blue. Or it used to be."
You narrow your eyes. "Used to?"
His mouth curves slowly into the kind of smile that immediately warns you he is about to say something that might be a bit hard to hear.
"What about yours?" he asks instead, his voice warm and friendly.
"Red."
Jacob nods once, giving you a warm look under the warm dining room light.
"Yeah," he says gently. "That makes sense."
You laugh gently, your face lighting up with warmth. "Why does everyone say that like it means something?"
"Because it does."
"And what exactly does red say about me?"
He pauses for a moment, thinking about how to respond.
"That you walk into a room and somehow make everything else feel less important."
The comment catches you so off guard that you actually look down at your plate, suddenly aware of the heat rising into your face.
"Oh, that felt so smooth!", you whisper, grinning.
Jacob smiles into his glass. "Then it definitely worked."
A loud clap of thunder rolls through the apartment, sharp enough to make your skin prickle despite the warmth of the room. Before you can even pretend to ignore it, Jacob’s voice comes quietly from beside you.
“Afraid of lightning?”
You turn your head toward him, half startled, half annoyed, and nearly choke on your food when you notice him dragging his chair closer to yours with infuriating calm, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.
“Are you going to protect me?” you ask, trying and failing to sound unimpressed.
Jacob’s mouth curves slightly as he settles in beside you, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes yours.
“I only thought I should mention that human warmth can be useful in situations like this.”
That earns a laugh from you, sudden and helpless, because of course he would say something like that with complete seriousness in his voice and that aggravating little glint in his eyes.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he says, leaning back just enough to look at you properly, “you’re still smiling.”
The thunder fades, but the tension does not. If anything, it only settles more deeply between you, soft and electric in a way that has nothing to do with the storm outside.
Jacob had barely finished speaking before you realized something frustrating and undeniable.
You liked being this close to him.
Not in a vague, easy way that could be dismissed with a laugh later. You liked the warmth of his arm around your shoulders, the steady way he held you there without making a spectacle of it, as if comfort was simply something he offered the same way he handed you a glass of wine or pulled your chair out for you. It made the rain outside seem farther away, the thunder less sharp, and the whole apartment feel strangely safe.
Another low rumble rolled through the sky.
You did not jump this time, though your body still tensed on instinct.
Jacob noticed anyway. He always noticed, which was beginning to feel like its own kind of problem.
His hand slid from your shoulder to the back of the chair, fingers brushing lightly over your upper arm in a slow, absent motion that seemed more intimate than it had any right to be. He looked at you with that maddeningly calm expression of his, the one that always made it difficult to tell whether he was joking, flirting, or dangerously sincere.
“You are trying very hard to act unaffected,” he murmured.
You gave him a look that probably would have been more convincing if you were not still leaning into him.
“And you are trying very hard to be annoying.”
“That is not what I am doing.”
“Then what are you doing?”
The question was meant to come out sharp, maybe teasing if you were lucky, but it softened halfway through. Jacob’s eyes flicked to your mouth for the briefest second before returning to your face, and the answer he gave was quieter than you expected.
“Trying to make sure you are comfortable.”
The words landed between you with a weight that had nothing to do with the storm.
Your throat tightened. It was ridiculous, really, the way one simple sentence from him could make your chest feel too full, like something inside you had been waiting a long time to be seen. He did not look smug now. There was no trace of the usual playful confidence in his face. Just patience. Just warmth. Just him, close enough that the scent of him and the warmth of his skin were beginning to feel impossible to ignore.
“You are very bad at pretending that does not mean something,” you said softly.
A faint smile touched his mouth, but it did not reach his eyes in the way his usual grin did.
“Maybe it does mean something.”
That should have been enough to make you pull away. It should have. Instead, you looked at him for a long moment, the rain whispering against the windows, the candles on the counter flickering with every shift in air, and realized that the tension between you had changed somewhere along the way. It was no longer only teasing. It was not entirely uncertain, either.
It felt like standing on the edge of something both reckless and inevitable.
The air in the kitchen seemed to tighten.
Jacob’s hand moved again, this time not as a joke or a comfort that could be brushed off later, but slowly, carefully, until his fingers rested beneath your jaw. He did not push, did not rush, only held your gaze with a kind of restraint that made your pulse stutter.
“You can tell me to stop,” he said quietly.
The fact that he said it at all made something in your chest ache.
You did not answer right away. You did not need to.
Instead, you leaned in first.
The kiss was soft at the beginning, hesitant in the way first kisses rarely are only in movies and never in real life. Jacob froze for half a second, as if your decision had caught him by surprise, and then he kissed you back with the kind of careful warmth that made your breath catch. One hand settled against your waist, steady and sure, while the other still lingered at your face as though he was afraid that if he moved too fast, the moment might disappear.
It did not feel like a performance. It did not feel like a mistake. It felt like a truth the two of you had been circling for far too long.
When you finally pulled back, it was only because you needed air.
Jacob stayed close, his forehead almost touching yours, his expression unreadable for a beat that felt far too short and far too long at once.
Then, very quietly, he laughed under his breath.
Not because it was funny. Because he looked stunned.
You felt your own pulse everywhere.
“Well,” he said at last, voice lower than before, roughened by the moment. “That was not very fair.”
A breathless laugh escaped you, equal parts nerves and disbelief.
“You were being unbearable.”
“I was being nice.”
“You were being smug.”
“I was being present.”
“That is not a defense.”
His smile returned, slower now, softer at the edges. “It should be.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too, and the fact that you were smiling at all made the whole thing feel even more impossible to ignore. The storm outside had not let up. If anything, it seemed to have grown more violent, the windows shivering with each gust of wind. Yet the apartment no longer felt cold.
Not with Jacob this close.
Not with his thumb brushing once over your wrist as he stepped back just enough to let you breathe.
The two of you managed to finish dinner eventually, though neither of you could claim to be particularly graceful about it. Conversation kept faltering, restarting, then faltering again, both of you trying and failing to act normal after what had just happened. Jacob kept looking at you like he was still trying to make sense of the fact that you had kissed him, and every time your eyes met, the memory of it hovered between you with impossible clarity.
You could still feel it.
The pressure of his mouth against yours.
The warmth of his hand at your waist.
The exact moment his composure had cracked.
When the plates were finally empty and the wine was nearly gone, the silence between you changed again. It was softer now, heavier in a different way, laced with a kind of anticipation neither of you seemed eager to name. You stood together in the kitchen for a moment too long, the storm still moving outside like it had no intention of stopping, before you glanced toward the hallway and remembered the obvious next step.
The guest room.
“You know,” you said, trying for casual and only barely succeeding, “there is a guest room.”
Jacob looked at you, instantly cautious in the way men somehow become when they think they might have to read a situation correctly.
“Right.”
You folded your arms loosely, partly to keep yourself from reaching for him again and partly because the air between you had become much too charged.
“It is already made up.”
He nodded once. “That is good.”
You hesitated, and he noticed.
His expression shifted, just slightly. “You do not have to decide anything because of the weather.”
The sincerity in that made your chest tighten all over again.
You looked at him for a second, then let out a soft breath that was halfway between a laugh and a surrender.
“I was not deciding because of the weather.”
His eyes stayed on yours.
“Then because of what?”
You almost answered with something teasing. You almost made a joke. But the truth felt easier than pretending at that point, especially with him looking at you like he was genuinely willing to let the moment belong to you.
“Because it would be a waste to sleep in separate rooms after this.”
Jacob went very still.
Not in a bad way. In a way that made the silence feel suddenly important.
His gaze searched your face, careful and disbelieving in equal measure, as if he was giving you every chance to take the words back if you wanted to. When you did not, a slow smile began to appear, not the usual smug one this time, but something quieter and warmer and far more dangerous.
“You are suggesting,” he said, “that we ignore the guest room in favor of not freezing to death.”
You huffed a laugh. “Exactly.”
“Obviously for warmth.”
“Obviously.”
He gave a slow nod, as though he was treating this with all the seriousness of a legal contract.
“Then I suppose that is reasonable.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You are enjoying this again.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“You are impossible.”
“And yet,” he said, stepping a little closer, voice softening, “you keep making excellent decisions around me tonight.”
That made it very difficult to keep your expression composed.
You reached for the wine glass still sitting on the counter, mostly for something to do with your hands, and Jacob watched you with the kind of focus that made the entire room feel smaller than it was.
When you finally headed toward the bedroom, he followed without hesitation, though he stayed slightly behind you, giving you space in a way that somehow made his closeness even more noticeable. The storm kept rolling overhead while the house grew quieter around you, the hallway dim and warm and wrapped in shadows. By the time you reached the bedroom, the only light came from the lamp beside the bed, casting everything in a soft amber glow that made the room feel more intimate than it probably should have.
Jacob paused near the edge of the bed.
One hand rested in the back of his neck for a second, a gesture that looked almost shy on him.
You hated how much you liked that.
He looked at the bed, then at you, then gave a faint exhale that almost sounded like laughter.
“This is a very strange night.”
You could not help smiling. “You started it.”
“I did no such thing.”
“You cooked dinner in the middle of a thunderstorm.”
“That was generous.”
“You moved your chair next to mine.”
“That was strategic.”
You laughed softly, and the sound eased something in the room.
Jacob watched you for a beat, then crossed the remaining space with a quiet confidence that made your heartbeat jump again. He reached for you once he was close enough, this time not hesitant at all, and the way he pulled you gently against him made every lingering trace of uncertainty disappear.
The second kiss was slower.
Less surprised.
More certain.
It did not need to prove anything. It only needed to exist.
When you finally separated, both of you were smiling now, breath a little uneven, the kind of smile that appears when neither person wants to admit how much the moment matters.
“Still think this is a bad idea?” Jacob asked quietly.
You glanced toward the bed, then back at him.
“No.”
His expression softened.
You gave him one more look, then reached for the blanket and slid under it first, already feeling the cold of the room waiting beneath the covers. Jacob took off his watch, set it on the bedside table, and joined you a moment later, careful and unhurried. The mattress shifted as he lay down beside you, and when he drew you back against his chest, it felt so instinctive that neither of you said anything about it.
His arm settled around your waist.
Your back pressed against his front.
The rain kept falling.
The thunder came and went farther away now, less threatening than before, and the warmth of his body behind you made it easy to forget the rest of the world for a while. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the slow curve of his hand over your side, the quiet assurance in the way he held you like he had already decided this was exactly where you belonged.
You let your eyes close for a second.
Jacob’s voice came softly from behind you.
“Comfortable?”
You turned your head just enough to look at him over your shoulder, though in the low light all you could really make out was the outline of his face and the shape of his smile.
“Very.”
His arm tightened slightly around you, careful but possessive in the gentlest way.
“Good.”
Then, after a pause that felt more honest than any joke he had made all evening, he added, “I like you like this.”
Something warm and dangerously tender spread through your chest.
You did not ask him to explain.
You did not need to.
Instead, you settled deeper into him, one hand resting against his arm, and within minutes the room had gone quiet enough for sleep to start winning. The last thing you clearly felt before drifting off was Jacob pressing a soft kiss into your hair, like the easiest promise in the world.
And when morning came, neither of you would be able to pretend the night had meant nothing.
Except for the fact that you woke up alone. For a few sleepy seconds, you simply stared at the empty side of the bed, trying to gather your bearings. The pillow beside you was still dented, the sheets tangled and warm enough to prove that Jacob had been there not long ago.
He just wasn't there anymore. A quiet sigh escaped you as you rubbed a hand over your face and sat up.
It wasn't exactly unusual. Jacob was an actor. His life ran on early call times, last-minute schedule changes, interviews, fittings, meetings, flights, and a hundred other obligations that seemed to appear out of nowhere. On top of that, slipping out before sunrise was probably easier than risking someone spotting him entering or leaving your apartment.
Still, a small part of you wished you had gotten to wake up with him.
The thought lingered as you shifted against the mattress, reaching for your phone on the nightstand.
The screen lit up with a notification.
Without thinking much of it, you tapped it open.
You regretted it immediately. A photo filled the screen.
Jacob Elordi and his co-star spotted together again amid growing romance rumors.
You stared at the screen for several seconds.
Then you rolled your eyes.
It was ridiculous.
You knew exactly how this worked. Two attractive people happened to work on the same project, were photographed together more than once, and suddenly the entire internet became convinced they were secretly in love.
That was how celebrity culture operated. It didn't make it any less annoying.
Your gaze drifted back to the photo despite yourself.
She was smiling. He was smiling too. It looks like he's brushing her hair out of her face. And you know the rumors that they're a couple have been around for a while.Â
And although you knew better, although you knew exactly how many stories like this were manufactured every week, something uncomfortable settled in your stomach all the same.
Jealousy was an ugly thing. Especially when you knew it was irrational.
Your phone buzzed again. This time it was a text message.
Your heart gave a small, involuntary jump when his name appeared on the screen.
Jacob: You awake?
You stared at the message.
A second text appeared before you could respond.
Jacob: Before you say anything, I can explain the photo.
A reluctant smile tugged at your lips. A moment later, another message arrived.
Jacob: And no, I'm not secretly dating my co-star.
Despite yourself, you laughed. The sound echoed softly through the apartment.
You: That's a very specific thing to deny.
The typing indicator appeared almost instantly.
Jacob: That's because I know you.
Your smile softened.
There was something unfairly comforting about that answer.
The fact that he had seen the article, immediately guessed you would see it too, and had gone out of his way to text you before your thoughts could spiral said more than the message itself ever could.
Then another notification appeared.
Jacob: Also, I left because I had a 6 a.m. call time.
A second bubble followed.
Jacob: Not because I wanted to.
Your chest tightened in the best possible way.
You looked around the apartment again. The coffee table was still cluttered from the night before. His forgotten water bottle was sitting near the couch. Even the faint scent of his cologne seemed to linger in the air.
For the first time that morning, your house didn't feel quite so empty.
And for a brief moment, it was easy to forget that falling for someone like Jacob Elordi it's inevitably a waste of time. Different worlds aren't meant to collide with one another.Â
Your fingers moved quickly over the screen before you could overthink it.
You: You don’t need to explain yourself. Seriously.
You hesitated for half a second, then added nothing else, resisting the urge to soften it into something longer or more complicated. It already said what it needed to say.
You sent it.
For a moment, you just stared at the chat thread, watching the three little dots appear and disappear as if he might respond instantly. The anticipation felt absurdly loud in the quiet of your apartment.
Then, almost on instinct, you locked your phone. The screen went dark.
                TO BE CONTINUED...Â
You meet a man who claims to be a prince from another world, after a love life full of disappointments and failed connections. As his impossible story begins to prove disturbingly real, you find yourself drawn to him in ways you didn’t expect.
Author's Note: After watching Master of the Universe (2026) and seeing Nicholas Galitzine at his best as Adam, I decided to write a chapter of a fanfic or a one-shot. It depends on whether anyone likes it. This chapter, like others, contains spoilers for the movie's plot. However, there will be changes in several parts as well. The characters don't belong to me.
AO3 LINK TWO
ONE
The moment you spotted your ex-boyfriend walking through the restaurant doors, your entire evening went to hell.
You had been hoping, against all logic, that you might get through dinner without seeing him, without hearing his voice, and without having to relive every miserable argument that had followed the breakup. That hope lasted exactly until the second he stepped inside and began scanning the room with that familiar, irritating confidence of his, as if he still expected the world to make space for him.
Your stomach dropped. No. Absolutely not.
You turned your face slightly, pretending to focus on your drink while your mind scrambled for anything that might keep him from noticing you. Unfortunately, there was nowhere to hide, no convenient distraction, and no polite excuse large enough to make the problem disappear. Then your gaze landed on a blond man sitting alone near the window. There was an empty chair across from him, a half-finished drink on the table, and enough distance between him and your ex that, if you played this right, you might be able to buy yourself a few minutes of peace.
It was a terrible idea. So naturally, you did it anyway.
You crossed the room and sat down across from the stranger before you could change your mind. He looked up immediately, and when his hazel eyes met yours, the expression on his face was one of mild surprise rather than irritation, as though he was simply trying to understand why an unfamiliar woman had chosen his table as if it belonged to her.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his tone careful but not unkind.
You swallowed, already feeling ridiculous, and lowered your voice as you glanced over your shoulder. Your ex was still inside the restaurant, still moving in your direction, and the sight of him made your pulse climb.
“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, “I know this is strange, but my name is Y/N, and my ex-boyfriend just walked in.”
The blond man’s brows lifted slightly at that, and he looked over your shoulder once before returning his attention to you. “All right,” he said slowly, as though he was trying to decide whether he had just been recruited into a crime. “That does sound like a problem.”
“It is,” you admitted, keeping your voice low because panic was starting to creep into it. “A very specific and very unfortunate problem. I really do not want him to see me sitting here alone, because if he does, he will come over, and I will have to pretend I am in the mood to have a civil conversation with someone who ruined my week.”
Something in the man’s expression shifted then, not into pity, exactly, but into understanding. He glanced toward the entrance again, and this time he seemed to notice the shape of the situation more clearly: your rigid posture, the way your shoulders had tightened, the way your eyes kept darting toward the door.
Before he could answer, a voice cut across the table.
“There you are.”
You went rigid all over again.
Your ex stopped beside the table with a smile that was too satisfied to be accidental, his gaze moving from you to the blond man and then back again as if he had just stumbled onto something amusing. “I thought you said you weren’t one of those women who go out with a different man every day.”
Heat rushed to your face so fast it made your ears burn, and you opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. The words died before they had a chance to form.
Across from you, the blond man set his glass down with unhurried precision, then looked up at your ex with a calm that made the whole exchange feel even more lopsided than it already was. “That is an incredibly strange thing to say to someone you don’t know,” he said, his voice even and controlled.
Your ex gave a dry laugh, clearly annoyed that the blond stranger had responded at all. “And who exactly are you?”
The blond man didn’t look at you right away, but you could tell he had already understood enough. His gaze flicked to your face, caught the tension there, then returned to your ex with a coolness that was somehow much more effective than anger would have been.
He leaned back slightly in his chair and extended a hand with complete composure. “Adam,” he said. “My name is Adam.”
Your ex took the offered hand, though he did it reluctantly, as if he resented the basic courtesy. “Right. Adam.”
Adam nodded once, as though the introduction had been made under the most normal of circumstances, and then looked back at your ex with a mild, almost thoughtful expression. “Can I ask why you’re speaking to her like that?”
Your ex’s jaw tightened. “I’m speaking to her just fine.”
Adam’s gaze flicked briefly to you again, and the look he gave you was quick but clear enough to make it obvious he had already decided you were uncomfortable and that was all the reason he needed. “No,” he said, still calm, “you’re really not.”
You felt your throat tighten with a strange combination of embarrassment and relief. Adam wasn’t raising his voice, and he wasn’t trying to pick a fight, but the steadiness of his tone made him sound even more impossible to ignore.
Your ex looked between the two of you, clearly irritated by the fact that he was no longer in control of the conversation. “You don’t even know her.”
The answer seemed to surprise your ex more than it surprised you, because it gave him a brief, smug pause. Then Adam continued, his voice still level and unhurried. “But I know enough to see that she doesn't want you around her.”
The silence that followed was brief, but very satisfying.
Your ex frowned. “You really think you’re in a position to judge anything here?”
Adam tilted his head slightly, considering him. “I think I’m in a position to notice when someone makes another person uncomfortable and then acts surprised when the reaction is negative.”
You had to look down at the table to hide the small, involuntary smile that threatened to show on your face. Unfortunately, your ex noticed the movement, and it only seemed to make him more annoyed.
“So what,” he said, glancing between you and Adam with open suspicion, “you’re her boyfriend now?”
The question hung in the air for half a beat.
Adam answered it without hesitation.
“Yes.”
Your head snapped up so quickly it almost hurt.
Adam didn’t even look at you. He kept his eyes on your ex, his expression steady, his tone completely convincing, as though he had not just invented a relationship out of thin air in front of a stranger. You had known him for less than two minutes, and somehow he sounded more certain about the two of you than your ex had ever sounded about anything important in his life.
Your ex stared at him. Then at you. Then back at him again.
You stayed very still, because anything else would have ruined it, and because Adam had clearly decided to take control of the situation whether you were ready for it or not.
Adam rested one arm along the back of your chair and continued speaking with the same easy confidence, as though this were a perfectly ordinary conversation. “If it helps,” he said, “she spent most of her introduction explaining that she would rather be anywhere else than in your company.”
Your ex let out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re both insane.”
The ex exhaled sharply through his nose, already looking like he regretted approaching the table in the first place. “This is ridiculous.”
“Probably,” Adam said, and this time there was the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. “Although, to be fair, if I had my sword with me, this conversation would be over already.”
Your ex blinked. “Your sword?”
Adam nodded as if the subject were self-explanatory. “Yes.”
“You carry a sword?”
“Not usually to dinner.”
Your ex looked at him like he could not decide whether he was being mocked. “Why would you even have a sword?”
Adam’s expression remained perfectly serious. “Because it isn’t a simple sword.”
That made your ex pause.
Adam, apparently seeing no reason to stop, went on in the same calm, matter-of-fact tone. “It can transport me home.”
Your ex stared at him for a long moment, clearly waiting for the punchline that never came. When it did not arrive, he looked at you instead, as though expecting you to save him from whatever this was.
You did not.
Adam noticed your expression, then turned back to your ex and added, almost conversationally, “It opens a portal.”
The silence that followed was so complete it felt almost theatrical.
Your ex looked horrified now, not angry, but deeply unsettled, as if he had finally realized he was no longer dealing with a normal conversation and had somehow wandered into the wrong reality entirely. He glanced from Adam to you and back again, then shook his head in visible disbelief.
“You know what?” he said at last. “Forget it. I’m done.”
Adam gave him a small, polite nod. “Probably for the best.”
Your ex stared at both of you one final time, muttered something under his breath, and then walked away, leaving the table behind as quickly as dignity would allow.
Only after he disappeared into the crowd did you finally breathe again.
You leaned back in your chair and let out a long, stunned exhale. “Oh my God.”
Adam looked at you for a moment before the corner of his mouth lifted into a smile. “That went better than I expected.”
You turned slowly toward him. “You told him about a portal sword.”
“I did.”
“You said that like it was completely normal.”
“It is normal,” Adam replied, entirely sincere.
That made you laugh, though the sound came out breathier than you intended. “No, it absolutely is not.”
Adam’s eyes, hazel and amused, stayed on you as he leaned back in his chair. “You asked me to help.”
“I asked you to pretend I wasn’t alone.”
“And now you aren’t.”
You stared at him for a second, and then, despite the absurdity of the entire evening, you laughed again.
Adam smiled back, still looking far too pleased with himself for a man who had just rescued a stranger by pretending to be her boyfriend and casually insisting that his sword could open portals.
For a moment after your ex had disappeared into the crowd, neither of you said anything.
The restaurant seemed to settle back into itself around you, as though the strange little scene at your table had been nothing more than a brief inconvenience. A server passed by with a tray of drinks, cutlery clinked softly from somewhere near the bar, and the low hum of conversation slowly filled the space your ex had left behind.
You let out a breath and leaned back in your chair, still half-amused, half-exhausted by the entire exchange.
“Well,” you said, giving your head a small shake, “that was easily one of the most ridiculous things that has ever happened to me.”
Across from you, Adam looked entirely too pleased with himself for someone who had just claimed to be your boyfriend in order to scare off a man he had never met before.
“I thought it went rather well,” he replied, his tone calm and almost thoughtful, as if the whole thing had been a perfectly ordinary social interaction.
That made you laugh quietly under your breath. “Of course you did.”
His mouth curved, but before either of you could say anything else, your gaze drifted toward the empty chair across from him and the half-finished drink still sitting on the table. The realization came back to you all at once.
He had been here with someone.
You straightened slightly, the earlier tension giving way to a more awkward kind of curiosity.
“I should probably let you get back to your dinner,” you said, gesturing toward the empty seat. “You already did more than enough for a complete stranger.”
Adam followed your glance to the vacant chair, then looked back at you with a faintly puzzled expression.
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
You frowned. “Why not? You were clearly here with someone.”
A small, almost embarrassed look crossed his face, subtle enough that you might have missed it if you had not been watching him so closely.
“I was,” he admitted.
That alone was enough to make you narrow your eyes a little.
“And?”
Adam exhaled through his nose, as though deciding how much of the truth was worth sharing.
“And she left.”
You blinked. “She left?”
He nodded once. “About twenty minutes ago.”
You stared at him for a second before the meaning of that sank in. “Wait. So you’ve been sitting here alone this whole time?”
“Yes.”
“And she just… left?”
Adam looked down at the table with the faintest hint of resignation. “We started talking about my sword.”
That earned an immediate laugh from you. “You told your date about the sword?”
“I told her the truth.”
You gave him a look that was half disbelief, half amusement. “Adam.”
“What?” he asked, sounding genuinely confused.
“You can’t just casually tell people you have a sword that opens portals.”
He blinked once. “Why not?”
“Because most people would think you’re insane.”
His expression shifted, just slightly. “That is a very dramatic reaction to something that is true.”
You stared at him for a beat, then let out a small helpless laugh. “Okay, that was not the answer I was expecting.”
“It’s still the correct one.”
That should have sounded ridiculous. Instead, because Adam said it with complete sincerity, it almost made sense in the strangest possible way.
You rested your elbow on the table and studied him a little more carefully now, not because you thought he was lying, but because you were starting to suspect he wasn’t. The confidence in his voice had not changed once since you had met him, and there was something deeply unnerving about how natural he seemed when talking about impossible things.
“Fine,” you said slowly, “then explain it to me.”
Adam tilted his head. “Explain what?”
“Everything.”
He looked at you for a moment, and then his expression softened into something warmer, something less guarded. It was subtle, but it made his whole face feel different, more open somehow, as if he had decided you were worth taking seriously.
"Well," he said, folding his hands on the table, "I suppose it depends on where you want me to start."
"Start with the beginning," you replied instantly, because that was the part that had resonated with you the most.
"I'm starting with Eternia."
You shook your head. "Eternia?"
A faint smile touched his mouth, not mocking, just surprised in a quiet, almost amused way.
"Eternia is my home. It's where I was born, where I grew up, and where I'm supposed to be protecting people."
His tone changed as he spoke, becoming steadier and more personal. The playful absurdity that had initially characterized the conversation softened into something more sincere.
"My father is King Randor, and my mother is Queen Marlena. I grew up in the Royal Palace, spent most of my childhood getting into trouble, and learned fairly early that my life was a lot more complicated than it first appeared."
You watched him closely, trying to decide whether he was spinning a wild story or simply telling you a truth so unusual it sounded impossible.
The worst part was that he looked completely unbothered by the whole thing.
"So," you said, "you're telling me you're from another world."
Adam nodded. "Yes."
"And that your sword opens a portal between here and there."
"Yes."
"And you're not joking."
"No."
You blinked at him for a second, then looked down at the phone in his hand as if that would make the situation less strange.
"Can I see it?"
That seemed to surprise him, though only briefly. Then, he reached for his phone and turned the screen toward you.
The photo showed the sword he had been talking about, and even from the small image on the screen, it looked unlike anything you had ever seen before. It was enormous, sparkling, and ancient in a way that made it seem less like a weapon and more like something from a storybook.
You looked at the picture for a long moment, thinking, and then you looked back at him.
"Okay," you said, taking a moment to gather your thoughts. "Oh, that's definitely a sword."
Adam's mouth twitched. "Oh, it is."
"And a very dramatic one."
"I know, I've heard that before."
You looked at the image one more time, then let out a little frown. "Where was this taken?"
"Internet," he answered, as though that should have settled everything.
You gave him a pointed look. "I totally get it. It's what you've been saying over and over. I mean, where is it?"
He paused, as if the distinction hadn't occurred to him.
"Actually, I don't have a clue."
You let out a little laugh, exhaling through your nose. "Oh, honey, that's just not going to help your case at all."
Adam looked a little sheepish for the first time since you'd met him, and it made him all the more lovable. "Right. Sorry."
Then he put his phone down, folded his arms on the table, and started over in a calmer voice, as though realizing he needed to start from the beginning if he wanted you to follow.
"Eternia is a completely different world from Earth," Adam explained, a warm smile appearing as he spoke about it. His voice revealed an unmistakable fondness, as though merely mentioning his home was enough to bring back a hundred memories at once. "There are kingdoms, ancient cities, forests that stretch for miles, and more magic than most people on Earth would probably believe."
He paused briefly, glancing down at the table, then continued.
"When I was younger, before I understood the true meaning of the sword or its role in my life, I imagined myself as a hero who could protect everyone. I was Prince Adam, but I would've preferred something more dramatic."
You immediately narrowed your eyes. "Dramatic?"
A slightly embarrassed smile crossed his face. "He-Man."
The silence that followed lasted exactly two seconds. Then you laughed.
Adam groaned and leaned back in his chair.
"I knew that was going to happen."
"He-Man?" you repeated, amused. "That's the name?"
"In my defense, I was young."
"How young?"
"Young enough to think it sounded impressive."
"And now?"
Adam's expression revealed a clear sense of contemplation.
"I still think it sounds impressive."
That only made you laugh harder.
"Adam."
"What?"
"That is the least subtle hero name I've ever heard."
"The competition wasn't particularly strong."
For a moment, you both remained silent, each lost in your own thoughts.
Then you let out a slow breath, staring at him with a mix of disbelief and fascination that you were no longer even trying to hide.
"You really expected your date to believe that?"
Adam looked a little taken aback by the implication, but he quickly recovered. "I wasn't trying to make myself difficult to believe."
You laughed softly at that, because somehow that was exactly the problem. He said the impossible things with such honest certainty that it was almost easier to doubt the world than to doubt him.
He noticed your expression and smiled a little, more relaxed now that the conversation had moved away from your ex and into something strangely personal.
"I think," he said, leaning back again, "she simply found it hard to keep listening after I mentioned the portal."
You shook your head, a smile spreading across your face. "I can see why."
Adam's gaze remained fixed on you, unblinking and unwavering, as if he found your disbelief to be all the more amusing.
"And yet," he said, "you are still here."
"To be honest, I’m still here because, insane as this whole thing is, you’re more attractive and a lot more entertaining than my last relationship,” you admitted, letting your gaze linger on him for a moment before you added, with a tired little shrug, “and, frankly, I’m starving.”
Adam’s expression changed almost at once, the amusement in his face softening into something warmer as he lifted a hand to call the waiter over. He did it with the same easy confidence he seemed to bring to everything else, as though inviting you to stay was the most natural thing in the world.
When the waiter approached, Adam glanced briefly in your direction. “What would you like to eat?”
You gave him a look that was equal parts amused and relieved. “Are you always this quick to take charge?”
“Only when someone looks like they need food and a break from their ex-boyfriend.”
That earned him a smile you did not bother hiding.
You placed your order, Adam added his own, and once the waiter had taken the menus away and disappeared toward the kitchen, the two of you were left with the strange, increasingly comfortable quiet that had settled between you. The restaurant still buzzed around you, but it no longer felt like the center of the evening. Not when Adam was sitting across from you looking so impossibly calm, as if the entire thing had turned into something he had willingly stepped into rather than stumbled into by accident.
He folded his hands loosely on the table and studied you with a faint smile. “All right,” he said. “I propose a deal. I tell you more about Eternia, you tell me more about yourself, and we consider this an actual date.”
You blinked, then laughed softly. “You make that sound very official.”
“I’m trying to be serious.”
“Then you’re doing a terrible job.”
Adam’s mouth curved. “That is unfortunately possible.”
You tilted your head, suddenly much more interested in the subject than you had been a few minutes ago. “Fine. I have questions. A lot of them, actually. Is your sword like Thor’s hammer? If I were worthy, could I pick it up and get transported to Eternia? And who else lives there besides your parents?”
The way your eyes lit up as you asked each question made something in Adam’s expression shift into unmistakable delight. For the first time since you met him, he looked less like a man carefully managing a bizarre conversation and more like someone genuinely happy to talk about home.
He gave a small, amused laugh and leaned back in his chair. “No, not exactly like Thor’s hammer, although that does sound like a very dramatic comparison.” Then his expression turned thoughtful. “The sword carries the Power of Grayskull. It brought me here when I was young, but I don’t think it would take you to Eternia just because you were worthy. And, if I’m honest, I’m now very curious about who Thor is and why he appears to be part of your thinking.”
You gave him a flat look. “I am going to pretend I did not hear that question.”
Adam looked distinctly pleased with himself. “That’s usually how people react when I ask something they can’t easily explain.”
“Adam.”
He smiled, entirely unbothered. “What?”
You shook your head, but you were smiling now too, unable to help it. “Just keep talking before I change my mind about whether you’re charming or completely impossible.”
“Fair,” he said, and this time his voice had gone softer, more personal. “You asked who else lives in Eternia besides my parents. There are a great many people there, but a few of them mattered a great deal to me when I was younger.”
He paused there, as if deciding where to begin, and when he continued, his voice had taken on that warm, fond quality people used when speaking about the parts of life that had shaped them.
“Duncan was one of the first,” he said. “He trained me when I was a child. He was the captain of the Royal Guard, and he had a way of making even the most impossible lessons feel manageable, though I’m not sure he would agree with that description. Teela was another. She was my best friend growing up and, frankly, far better at just about everything than I was. Swordsmanship, strategy, sparring, getting out of trouble before anyone could catch us.”
You laughed quietly at that, and Adam’s smile widened a little as he watched you react.
“And then there was Cringer,” he added.
You immediately leaned forward. “Cringer?”
“The green tiger,” Adam said, with a patience that suggested he had already decided your reaction was inevitable. “My pet.”
That was enough to make you laugh properly, and the sound seemed to please him more than anything else he had said so far.
“A green tiger,” you repeated. “Of course you had a green tiger.”
“Yes,” Adam said, perfectly serious again. “He was very loyal.”
“I’m trying so hard not to picture this as the strangest possible childhood.”
“It was occasionally strange,” he admitted.
“Occasionally?”
He smiled, and for a moment the look on his face was so gentle it made your chest feel strangely light. “All right, often strange.”
You were still smiling when the waiter returned with your food. The interruption should have broken the mood, but instead it only made the evening feel more real, more settled. Plates were set down, drinks refreshed, and the two of you shifted naturally into the rhythm of a meal that had begun as a rescue and was turning into something else entirely.
At first you talked over the food, trading small comments and reactions as you ate. Adam proved, much to your amusement, to be surprisingly attentive: he noticed when you liked something, asked before taking the last bite of anything, and looked genuinely pleased every time you laughed at one of his stories. In return, you found yourself asking more and more about Eternia, about the palace, about the people he had mentioned, about what it had been like to grow up in a world that sounded at once impossible and deeply real when he described it.
At some point, without either of you formally agreeing to it, the conversation stopped feeling like an interrogation and started feeling like a shared secret.
Adam told you about the palace halls he had run through as a child, about training sessions that had ended in bruises and complaints, about Teela’s relentless competitiveness, and about Duncan’s habit of pretending he was annoyed even when he was clearly amused. You told him about your ex, this time with much less tension and much more honesty, and Adam listened with a seriousness that made it easy to keep talking.
By the time your plates were nearly empty and the restaurant had shifted into the softer quiet of late evening, you realized you had been smiling for far longer than you had been miserable.
Adam noticed it too.
He usually did.
And when his hazel eyes met yours across the table, there was something unmistakably bright in them now, something pleased and almost tender, as though he had come to the same conclusion you had: that the night had started as a disaster and somehow ended with the two of you laughing over dinner like this had been the plan all along.
The time the evening had wound down, Adam had insisted on driving you home.
You had tried to argue that you were perfectly capable of getting there on your own, but he had only given you that infuriatingly calm look of his and said he would feel better if you let him take you. After the kind of night you had both ended up having, it had been difficult to come up with a convincing reason to refuse.
Now you were sitting in the passenger seat of his car, watching the lights of the city blur past the window while the soft hum of the engine filled the silence between you. The drive had settled into something quieter and more intimate than the restaurant had ever felt, the sort of silence that did not ask to be filled immediately.
Adam had one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting loosely near the gear shift, his posture relaxed in a way that somehow made him look even more composed than he had at dinner. Every now and then, he glanced toward you for a moment before looking back at the road, as if making sure you were still there and still all right.
Then, after a while, he broke the silence.
“So,” he said, his tone light but curious, “was that the worst date you’ve ever had?”
You leaned your head back against the seat and let out a slow breath while you thought about it. The answer came to you almost immediately.
“No,” you said at last. “Not even close.”
Adam’s brows lifted slightly, and when he glanced at you this time, there was a hint of surprise in his expression. “Not close?”
You shook your head. “No. It was strange, sure, but not the worst. Just maybe the most confusing.”
That earned you a small smile from him. “Confusing is better than terrible, I suppose.”
“In some cases,” you murmured, turning your head toward the window again. The city lights reflected faintly in the glass, making the night look softer than it actually was. “It is a little bit insane, though.”
Adam waited, giving you the space to finish your thought without interrupting.
You inhaled slowly, then let the words out before you had time to think better of them.
“I mean, if you’re a lunatic who made all of this up, then this is probably the most creative lie anyone has ever told me. But if it’s real, like it seems to be, then it means that someday you’re going to find that sword and go back home, and I’m not going to see you again.” You laughed faintly, though there was something gentler underneath it now. “And that seems… sad.”
The car went quiet for a moment after that.
Not awkwardly.
Just carefully.
Adam’s expression softened in a way you had not seen from him all evening, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter than before.
“That would be sad.”
You turned to look at him.
He kept his eyes on the road, but there was no tension in him, no distance. Just honesty.
“I’m not going to pretend I know exactly what will happen,” he said after a beat. “I do know that the sword exists, and I do know that I’ll have to go back one day if it brings me the chance to. But that doesn’t make tonight less real.”
The words landed with a strange kind of warmth.
You felt your chest tighten a little, though not in a bad way.
Adam glanced toward you again, and this time the corners of his mouth lifted with the faintest trace of amusement.
“Besides,” he added, “you’re making it sound as though I’m already gone.”
You let out a small laugh. “Well, it would be inconvenient if you disappeared into another world after pretending to be my boyfriend, telling me about portal swords, and then making me laugh for most of the night.”
He smiled at that, the expression easy and sincere. “That does sound inconvenient.”
“Very.”
“Unfortunate, really.”
You looked at him for a second, then shook your head with a smile that you did not bother hiding.
“You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
The road curved gently ahead, and for a while the two of you let the quiet settle again. It felt different now, softer somehow, less like a pause and more like a choice. You found yourself watching him in the reflection of the window more than you meant to, noticing the way the dashboard light caught in his hazel eyes, the way his face looked more open now than it had in the restaurant, as if the drive had given him permission to stop performing confidence and simply be himself.
He noticed, of course.
Adam always seemed to notice.
“What?” he asked, glancing at you with an amused smile already forming.
You blinked. “Nothing.”
“That sounds suspiciously like a lie.”
“It’s not a lie.”
“Then what is it?”
You hesitated, then shrugged a little, feeling the warmth rise in your face.
“I was just thinking that you are either the strangest man I have ever met or one of the most impressive.”
Adam looked genuinely entertained by that. “That is not a small range.”
“It is the range you have earned.”
He laughed quietly at that, the sound low and warm in the dim car. Then, after a beat, he asked, “And which one do you think I am?”
You pretended to consider it seriously, though the answer was already there.
“Both.”
Adam’s smile widened, and for a moment the car seemed a little too small for the way the atmosphere between you had shifted. It was still playful, still easy, but there was something else threaded underneath it now, something tender enough to make the night feel like it was carrying you somewhere important even if the destination was only your front door.
When he finally pulled up outside your house, neither of you moved right away.
The engine idled softly.
Streetlights cast a pale glow across the windshield.
Adam kept one hand on the wheel, but his gaze had shifted to you fully now, and there was an expression on his face that looked almost thoughtful, as if he were trying to decide whether to say something and had not quite made up his mind.
You reached for the door handle, then stopped and looked back at him.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
His expression softened again.
“For the ride?” he asked.
“For tonight,” you replied, and the words were more honest than you had intended them to be.
Adam held your gaze for a moment before nodding once, slowly. “You’re welcome, Y/N.”
Hearing your name like that, said so carefully, made something in your stomach flutter in a way you did not want to think too hard about.
You gave him a small smile. “Good night, Adam.”
For a second, it looked as though he might say something else, something that would keep you there longer than you should have been. Instead, he only smiled back, soft and warm and far too charming for your own good.
“Good night,” he said. “And for what it’s worth, I am glad you sat at my table.”
That was somehow the most dangerous thing he could have said all evening.
You looked at him for one last second, then got out of the car before you could embarrass yourself further.
But even as you walked toward your front door, you could still feel the shape of his smile in the dark behind you.
The next morning felt strangely normal, almost offensively so.
You woke up, got dressed, went through the motions of your usual routine, and headed to work as though you had not spent the previous evening having dinner with a man who claimed to be from another world. By lunchtime, you had started to wonder whether the whole thing had been some elaborate fever dream brought on by exhaustion, bad luck, and the lingering aftermath of your disastrous love life.
And yet, every time you thought about the conversation, Adam still felt real.
The way his expression softened whenever he mentioned Eternia.
The warmth in his voice when he talked about Duncan and Teela.
The complete, unshaken sincerity with which he had spoken about things that any other person would have laughed off as nonsense.
You found yourself smiling more than once throughout the day, and by the afternoon your coworkers probably assumed you were texting someone. In a way, they would not have been entirely wrong.
You opened your conversation with Adam three separate times, stared at the screen each time, and then locked your phone again before you could actually send anything. The message sitting unsent in the chat was painfully simple.
"Did you find the sword yet?"
You stared at it for a long moment before closing the app.
No.
Absolutely not.
You were not going to be the first one to send a message after a first date, even if that date had technically begun as an emergency rescue operation from your ex-boyfriend.
That was the excuse you gave yourself as you walked home later that evening, still half arguing with your own indecision when everything abruptly changed.
You stopped so suddenly that the people behind you almost collided with you, and for a second your mind refused to process what your eyes were seeing.
A comic book and collectibles store stood on the corner ahead of you, its front windows crowded with posters, action figures, and displays from different franchises. A pair of delivery workers were carrying a large, unusual-looking installation through the entrance, maneuvering it carefully between the doorframe and the display shelves inside.
Except it was not an installation.
It was a sword. Your heart slammed hard against your ribs.
No. There was no way.
And yet the blade was enormous, far larger than anything practical, its surface catching the light in a way that made your skin prickle with recognition. You had seen it before. Not in a museum, not in a movie, not in some fantasy exhibit that might have explained it away, but in the photograph Adam had shown you the night before.
The same sword. The same impossible design. Even from across the street, it looked exactly right.
The delivery workers shifted it carefully past the entrance, beside a towering fantasy character display labeled TORAK, and disappeared inside with it.
You did not think. Your hand was already moving for your phone before your brain had fully caught up.
Adam answered before the second ring finished.
“Well,” he said, amusement already in his voice, “I see I didn’t scare you away.”
Despite the way your pulse was racing, you smiled. “Adam.”
Something in your tone must have changed, because the humor in his voice disappeared instantly.
“Y/N?”
You kept your eyes on the storefront. The sword had vanished deeper into the shop, and the knot in your stomach tightened as though your body had realized what your mind was only now accepting.
“I need you to come here,” you said quickly.
There was a brief pause. “What happened?”
“Your sword is in a comic store.”
Silence.
Not disbelief, exactly. Just silence.
You hurried across the street, still staring at the windows as if the sword might suddenly reappear if you looked hard enough.
“I’m serious,” you said. “I just saw it. They were carrying it inside. It’s exactly like the picture you showed me.”
Another beat passed on the other end of the line, and then Adam’s voice changed completely.
“You’re looking at the Sword of Power?”
The easy warmth from the night before was gone. In its place was something sharper, more focused, like all the air had gone still around him.
You swallowed. “I think so. Unless there are multiple giant magical swords from another world floating around this city.”
“I’m on my way.”
The answer came instantly, and it made you blink.
“That’s it?”
“What else would I say?”
“Maybe ask if I’m sure.”
“I know you’re sure.”
The certainty in his voice startled you more than the sword had. You glanced back toward the store, then pressed your free hand against the glass as if that would keep the sword from disappearing again.
“Stay where you are,” Adam said.
A strange flutter moved through your chest. “You trust me that much?”
“I trusted you the moment you sat at my table.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Adam’s tone shifted slightly, as though he was forcing himself to break the quiet before it became something else entirely.
“I’m about twenty minutes away.”
You looked into the store again. The sword was still out of sight, and the nervous knot in your stomach returned twice as strong.
“What if somebody buys it?”
“Nobody is buying the Sword of Power.”
“You sound very confident.”
“Y/N.”
“What?”
“If someone somehow manages to purchase an ancient magical artifact capable of transporting people between worlds before I get there, then we will deal with that problem together.”
Despite yourself, a laugh slipped out of you.
He sounded relieved by it.
“Good,” he said, and his voice softened again. “I was worried you might tell me this was a prank.”
You leaned against the storefront glass, still staring at the shop interior.
“I did consider it.”
“You considered it?”
“For about three seconds.”
“And?”
You looked at your reflection in the glass, then back toward the store, where the sword had vanished beyond sight.
“I decided I wanted it to be true.”
The silence on the other end lasted a little longer this time.
When Adam finally answered, his voice had gentled again.
“So did I.”
For reasons you could not have explained if you tried, that answer made your heart beat even faster than finding the sword had.
And then, almost at once, his voice returned with a practical edge.
“Do not go inside alone.”
You straightened immediately. “I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
A pause.
Then, just before he hung up, he added, “And Y/N?”
“Yes?”
There was a faint shift in his breathing, as though he had smiled at the sound of your name.
Summary: You are a future university graduate who works to pay off your student loans at a bookstore that stays open late at night. With barely any time for anything beyond work and college, one evening you are surprised by a customer who turns out to be a famous person. You share a pleasant conversation, and you find yourself utterly captivated.
Author's note: Everyone, if you enjoy this fanfic, interact with it! I particularly want to know if I should continue it or if I should end it.
FOUR SIX
FIVE
You unlock the door and push it open, stepping aside to let him in first. As he passes you, you can’t help but notice how soaked he still is, his clothes clinging slightly to his body and his hair damp, falling over his forehead in a way that makes him look far less put together than usual.
The moment the door closes behind him, your attention shifts to the apartment. It suddenly feels smaller, more exposed. The chair with clothes draped over it, the books left open, the small traces of your routine that you never thought to hide.
“Sorry about the mess,” you say, already moving, picking up a shirt and folding it halfway. “I really wasn’t expecting anyone, let alone you.”
You try to gather a few things, to make the space look less like your actual life, but before you can get far, he steps closer and gently takes your hand, stopping you.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says, his voice softer, steady.
The contact makes you pause. You look up at him, and for a moment everything else fades. Up close, he looks different. More real. His hair still damp, a few strands falling into his eyes, his expression attentive in a way that makes it hard to look away. You hold his gaze for a second too long before pulling your hand back, trying to recover some distance.
“Don’t feel too important,” you say, forcing a light tone. “I’d clean up for anyone.” He watches you closely, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.
“Anyone?” he repeats, tilting his head a little. “So that’s what I am to you?” You hesitate, just for a second.
“I didn’t say that,” you reply, a bit more defensive than you intended.
“But you implied it,” he says, taking a small step closer, not enough to overwhelm, just enough to be felt. “Do you really see me as just anyone?”
Your breath catches slightly at how directly he asks it. There’s no teasing in his voice now, only curiosity mixed with something more serious.
“It’s easier if I do,” you admit quietly, glancing away for a moment before looking back at him. “If I start thinking otherwise, this gets complicated.”
He studies your face, as if trying to understand exactly where that line is for you.
“It’s already complicated,” he says, just as quietly.
The words linger between you, heavier than before, and the space you tried to keep suddenly feels a lot smaller than it should.
“There’s a way to make this simple without anyone getting hurt,” you say softly, holding his gaze as if you could convince him, even though a part of you already knows you don’t want simple.
Jacob studies you for a second, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
“That sounds a little too practical,” he replies, voice low, almost amused. “And who actually likes what’s practical?”
You let out a quiet breath, shaking your head. “People who don’t want things to go wrong.”
“Things always go wrong,” he says, stepping a fraction closer, his tone calmer now, more certain. “The question is whether they’re worth it anyway.”
You cross your arms lightly, more to steady yourself than to create distance. “And you think this is?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” he answers without hesitation.
That directness makes your chest tighten.
“You barely know me,” you point out, trying to regain some ground.
“I know enough,” he replies, his eyes not leaving yours. “I know you showed up at my set before deciding to walk away. I know you kissed me and then tried to pretend it didn’t matter. And I know you’re still standing here instead of asking me to leave.”
You look away for a second, exhaling slowly. “That doesn’t mean this is a good idea“
“No,” he agrees. “It just means it’s real.”
The word settles between you, heavier than anything else, and suddenly the idea of “simple” feels a lot less convincing than it did a moment ago.
“Do you want me to leave?” he asks, his voice low as he steps closer, closing the space you had been trying to maintain.
Your body reacts before your mind can catch up, a small shiver running through you. You keep your gaze down, focusing on anything but him.
“What I want doesn’t matter here,” you reply, quieter than before.
“It matters to me,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in it.
His hand lifts to your face, warm against your skin, gently guiding your chin up until you’re forced to meet his eyes. The closeness makes it harder to think, harder to hold onto all the arguments you had rehearsed.
“Tell me if you want me here,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly along your cheek. “If you don’t, I’ll leave.”
For a moment, you just look at him. The certainty in his expression, the way he’s giving you the choice instead of taking it, makes everything feel heavier, more real.
Your breath slows.
“I want you here,” you admit finally, your voice soft but steady. “Even if I shouldn’t.”
Something in his expression softens, but it’s not relief alone. It’s something deeper, something that settles in the way his hand lingers against your face a second longer than necessary.
“Then I’m staying,” he says quietly.
His thumb brushes once more along your cheek before his hand slides down, slow and deliberate, until it rests at your waist. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t assume, just stays close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
You don’t step back.
That, more than anything, feels like an answer.
His gaze drops briefly to your lips, then returns to your eyes as if asking again without words. When you don’t pull away, he leans in, slower this time, giving you space to stop him. You don’t.
The kiss starts soft, almost careful, like he’s testing the line you just allowed him to cross. But when your hand lifts and rests against his chest, when your fingers curl slightly into his shirt, something shifts. The hesitation fades, replaced by something steadier, more certain.
His hand tightens slightly at your waist, drawing you closer until there’s no space left between you. The kiss deepens naturally, unforced, the kind that doesn’t feel like a decision anymore, just a continuation of everything that’s been building since the moment you let him into your life.
When he pulls back, it’s only enough to breathe.
“This is the part where you tell me we should stop,” he murmurs, his forehead resting lightly against yours.
You let out a quiet breath, your hand still pressed to his chest, feeling his heartbeat.
“I should,” you admit softly. A small pause.
“But I won’t.” That’s all it takes.
His lips find yours again, this time without hesitation, and whatever line you had been trying to hold onto disappears completely, replaced by something far more difficult to walk away from.
“You should park your car in my garage,” you murmur as you pull back from the kiss, your lips still close to his. “And maybe change out of those clothes before you get sick.”
He lets out a soft laugh, his forehead still nearly touching yours, his hands steady at your waist.
“Is that some kind of secret sexual code?” he teases, his voice low, amused. “Because it sounds like one.”
You shake your head slightly, though you don’t move away from him. “No,” you reply, a faint smile forming despite yourself. “It’s just me saying you can stay here tonight… if you want.”
He studies your face for a moment, as if making sure you mean it, the teasing expression fading into something more genuine.
“Are you sure?” he asks quietly, his thumb brushing lightly against your side.
You nod, holding his gaze this time. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”
A small, softer smile appears on his lips, less playful now, more real.
“Then I’ll move the car,” he says, though he doesn’t step away immediately, like he’s reluctant to break the moment.
His hand lingers at your waist for a second longer before he finally pulls back, giving you one last look before heading toward the door, leaving behind a warmth that doesn’t fade even when he’s gone for those few minutes.
You wait for him to leave before quickly moving around the living room, gathering the scattered things and putting them back in place. It’s rushed, imperfect, but enough to make you feel less exposed. Then you head to your bedroom, pulling a few clothes from under the bed, smoothing out the sheets, trying to make it look like you had at least some control over the space.
Somewhere between fixing the pillows and straightening the blanket, you get a little lost in it.
“Now I know you really are making an effort for me.”
His voice makes you freeze.
You close the closet door quickly and turn to look at him, your heart jumping.
“How did you get upstairs without making any noise?” you ask, watching as he slowly walks further into the room.
His gaze moves around, taking in the details, not critically, just curious.
“Sorry,” he says, a small smile forming. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I can wait downstairs if you’d rather.”
He takes another step closer, but slower this time, giving you space to decide.
You shake your head. “You can stay. I think… we’re both going to need a shower if we don’t want to get sick.”
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel.
“I can show you the bathroom,” you add, gesturing lightly toward the hallway before glancing back at the bed. “And the room where you’ll sleep.”
He follows your gesture, then looks back at you, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
“Am I really getting a separate room?” he asks, his tone light, but there’s something underneath it.
You cross your arms loosely, trying to hold your ground. “Don’t push your luck.”
A faint smile spreads across his face as he steps just a little closer again.
“I’m just clarifying the rules,” he replies.
“Good,” you say, holding his gaze. “Then follow them.”
For a moment, neither of you moves. The air feels heavier again, charged in that same quiet way as before.
Then he nods once. “Alright. Show me the bathroom.”
You nod slightly and step out of the room, gesturing for him to follow. He does, a step behind you, close enough that you’re aware of him without needing to look. The hallway suddenly feels narrower than usual.
“The bathroom is just here,” you say, pushing the door open and reaching inside to switch on the light.
It’s simple, a little cramped, but clean enough. You lean lightly against the doorframe, watching him as he steps in, his gaze moving over the space the same way it did in your bedroom, quietly observant.
“This works,” he says, turning slightly toward you.
“You can grab a towel from that cabinet,” you reply, pointing. “And there should be some spare clothes… somewhere. I’ll find something for you.”
He nods, but doesn’t move immediately. Instead, his attention shifts back to you, and there’s a small pause that stretches just a bit too long.
“You said we’d both need a shower,” he says, his tone casual, but the hint of something else is unmistakable. “Seems a bit inefficient to take two separate ones.”
You blink, caught off guard for a second.
“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” you ask, folding your arms loosely.
“I’m just thinking about water conservation,” he replies, a faint smile forming. “Very responsible of me.”
You let out a small breath that almost turns into a laugh, shaking your head.
“Right. Of course,” you murmur, but your voice softens as you look at him again. The tension between you hasn’t disappeared. If anything, it’s sharper now, contained in a smaller space.
You take a step back from the doorway, giving yourself a bit of distance.
“I want to go slow,” you say finally, more serious now. “This… whatever this is, it’s already a lot. It’s new, it’s unexpected, and we haven’t even figured out what to call it yet.”
He listens without interrupting, his expression shifting, less teasing now, more attentive.
“I’m not saying no to you,” you continue, holding his gaze. “I just don’t want to rush into something and pretend we know what we’re doing.”
A quiet moment passes.
He nods once, slowly. “That’s fair.”
There’s no pushback in his voice, no attempt to twist your words.
“I can go slow,” he adds, stepping a little closer but stopping before closing the distance completely. “As long as we’re still going somewhere.”
You exhale softly, some of the tension easing at that.
“We are,” you admit.
He studies your face for a second, then gives a small, almost reassuring smile.
“Then I guess I’ll survive one shower at a time,” he says lightly.
You shake your head, a faint smile breaking through despite everything.
“Good. Because that’s how it’s going to be.”
The air between you settles, not lighter, but steadier. Still charged, still uncertain, but no longer something you feel the need to run from.
You leave him upstairs to shower while you move through the house, trying to occupy your mind with small tasks. It doesn’t take long before you end up in the kitchen, opening the cabinets and deciding on something simple. Pasta.
You fill a pot with water and place it on the stove, turning the heat up and leaning slightly against the counter while you wait for it to boil. You move automatically after that, adding salt, grabbing a pan to prepare a quick sauce, something easy, something that doesn’t require too much thinking.
You’re focused enough that you don’t hear him coming down the stairs.
“What are you up to?”
You jump, stepping back instinctively, only to collide with him. Your back presses against his chest, and the contact makes your breath hitch.
“Jesus…” you exhale, bringing a hand to your chest. “Are you trying to kill me?”
A low laugh escapes him, close enough that you feel it more than hear it.
“Didn’t think I was that quiet,” he murmurs.
You turn your head slightly, catching a glimpse of him over your shoulder. His hair is still damp, pushed back loosely, and he smells faintly like your shampoo now, clean and familiar in a way that feels dangerous.
“I was trying to cook before a giant decided to sneak up on me again,” you reply, turning back toward the stove, though you don’t move away from him immediately.
“What are you making?” he asks, his voice softer now, closer.
“Pasta,” you say, stirring the sauce a little, trying to refocus. “It’s all I have that won’t turn into a disaster.”
“Seems safe,” he replies.
He doesn’t step away.
Instead, you feel him shift behind you, closer this time, his presence warm against your back. One of his hands comes to rest lightly on the counter beside you, and then his fingers brush, almost absentmindedly, along the side of your neck.
The touch is soft, barely there, but enough to make you freeze for a second.
“You seem tense,” he murmurs, his voice low near your ear.
You inhale slowly, trying to keep your hands steady as you stir. “You keep appearing out of nowhere. That might have something to do with it.”
A quiet hum leaves him, like he doesn’t quite believe you.
His fingers trace lightly again, slower this time, from just below your ear down to the side of your neck, and your grip on the spoon tightens.
“I think it’s something else,” he says. You don’t answer.
Instead, you focus on the pot, dropping the pasta into the boiling water, the sound giving you something to hold onto. But he’s still there, close, steady, not letting the moment slip away.
“Here,” he says softly, his hand moving from your neck to yours, guiding it slightly as you stir. “You’re going to burn it if you keep pretending you’re not distracted.”
You let out a small breath, almost a laugh, though it comes out quieter than intended.
“I was doing fine before you got here,” you murmur.
“Were you?” he asks, his hand still lightly over yours, helping you move the spoon in slow, steady circles.
The closeness shifts something. His chest just barely brushes your back now, his presence grounding and distracting at the same time.
You tilt your head slightly, just enough to create space between his fingers and your neck, though you don’t step away.
“Jacob…” you say softly, not quite a warning.
“I’m helping,” he replies, just as quietly.
But neither of you is really focused on the food anymore, even if your hands keep moving.
The pasta keeps boiling, the sauce thickening under his hand as he takes over with quiet ease. You step aside at first just to give him space, but you don’t move far. You stay there, close enough to watch, close enough to feel him without touching.
“I’ve got this,” he says, glancing at you briefly. “Just tell me if I mess it up.”
“You will,” you reply automatically, though there’s no bite in it.
He smiles faintly, stirring. “Good. At least you’ll have something to complain about.”
You lean back against the counter, arms folding loosely, but your eyes don’t leave him. It’s different now. He’s not trying to provoke you, not trying to corner you. He’s just… there. Comfortable. Like this doesn’t feel new to him at all.
That unsettles you more than anything he’s done so far.
“You’re very calm for someone cooking in a stranger’s house,” you say.
He pauses just slightly, then glances at you. “I don’t feel out of place,” he replies. The answer lands heavier than it should.
You watch the way he moves, the way his focus shifts between the pan and you, like he’s aware of both at the same time. It makes it harder to stay grounded, harder to pretend this is just about food.
“You’re getting used to this too quickly,” you murmur.
He glances at you then, something softer in his expression. “Or maybe you’re just not used to letting someone stay.”
You don’t answer. Because he’s not wrong.
The silence stretches, but it doesn’t feel empty. It feels… charged. The kind that builds quietly, without needing to be named.
He steps closer again, not enough to trap you, just enough that you feel it immediately. The space between you shrinks, and this time, neither of you pretends it didn’t happen.
“You keep stepping back,” he says, his voice lower now.
“I’m standing still,” you reply, though you’re not entirely sure that’s true.
“Not really.”
You swallow, your grip tightening slightly on the edge of the counter.
“You let me help,” he continues, quieter now. “That’s something.”
You let out a small breath, your eyes flicking to his for a second too long. “Don’t read into it.”
“I’m not,” he says, but the way he looks at you says otherwise.
Another step. Not touching. Close enough that it would be easy.
Your heartbeat picks up, faster now, louder in your ears. You can feel the shift happening again, the same one from before, but stronger this time because you’re not pushing it away as quickly.
“Jacob…” you say softly, not quite stopping him, not quite inviting him either.
He pauses there, like he’s giving you time to decide, like he’s not going to cross that line unless you let him. And that’s exactly what makes it harder. Because part of you wants to. You look away first.
“I’m going to take a shower,” you say, a little too quickly, already stepping back, breaking the space between you before it can close completely. He watches you, not moving, not trying to stop you.
“Okay,” he says quietly.
You nod, even though you’re not sure why, and turn toward the stairs. Your heart is still racing, your thoughts louder than they should be, and you know if you stay there any longer, you’ll lose whatever control you’ve been trying to hold onto.
“I’ll finish this,” he adds, more gently now.
“Don’t burn it,” you manage, not turning back.
“I won’t," he says while looking at you almost like he doesn't want to let you leave.
You finally let yourself walk away, heading upstairs faster than necessary, the tension still lingering under your skin.
And the worst part is, you’re not running from him. You’re running from how much you want to be with him.
Summary: You are an anti-heroine, forged by corporate experiments and gifted with extraordinary abilities. Living outside the law in Metropolis, you steal from the powerful to serve your own sense of justice. When your path collides with Superman, a complicated bond forms, built on tension, attraction and a secret pact that ties you to the man who should be your greatest enemy.
Author's note: Reblog or like this fanfic if you want it to go on, and feel free to leave comments. If this chapter does well, the next one will come soon, so don’t forget to engage and leave a comment.
ELEVEN THIRTEEN
TWELVE
You finish your shower in the hotel suite, the hot water still running over your skin as the last traces of tension slowly loosen from your muscles. The damage from Zod is still there, bruises and soreness marking your body in ways the mirror will not let you ignore, but at least you are upright, breathing, and no longer in immediate danger.
With Wayne Manor partially destroyed, everyone had been moved to the hotel. Alfred is currently with Clark and Bruce at a secure laboratory hidden within Wayne Enterprises, trying to stabilize what remains of Clark’s recovery and assess the damage from the kryptonite exposure. The city outside feels distant, as if everything important is contained within these temporary walls.
As the water continues to run down your shoulders, your thoughts drift back to Selina, to the way she manipulated information, to Bruce, to how easily trust becomes leverage in Gotham’s world.
“You’re thinking too loud,” a voice breaks through the silence.
A second later, Bruce steps into view near the bathroom doorway. He leans against the frame, suit slightly disheveled, a faint bruise visible along his jaw and exhaustion written into every line of his posture. He looks like he has been pulled through the same war the rest of you just survived, only without the luxury of fully stopping.
“A coin for your thoughts?” he asks quietly, watching you through the steam.
“You should be resting,” you reply, stepping out of the shower. Water drips down your skin as you reach for a towel, wrapping it around yourself without urgency. “You look like you were run over.”
“I’ve had worse,” he says, but his eyes don’t leave you. There’s something heavier in his expression than physical exhaustion.
You tighten the towel and turn toward him fully now. “I heard Alfred is keeping you and Clark alive in some underground lab.”
“He’s good at that,” Bruce replies. “Keeping impossible situations from becoming worse.”
Then his voice lowers slightly. “I missed you.”
The words land differently than everything else in the room. Not loud, not dramatic, just direct. Honest in a way Bruce rarely allows himself to be. You study him for a moment before stepping closer, your tone quieter but sharper.
“Is that why you sent Selina after Clark? So you’d have a reason to come and play hero?”
Bruce doesn’t react immediately. Not denial, not anger. Just that familiar stillness, like he’s weighing every possible version of the truth before choosing which one to offer you.
“I didn’t send her,” he finally says.
You tilt your head slightly. “But you kept her close enough that she knew exactly where to go.”
That lands. Not as a surprise, but as confirmation of something already understood. His gaze shifts, just briefly, away from yours. “Selina operates on her own terms. She always has.”
“So she just happened to know about an alien in your house,” you press, voice steady.
Bruce steps a little further into the room now, closer but not invading. “No,” he admits. “She got it from me. Not intentionally.”
Silence settles between you. Not defensive. Not defensive at all. Just Bruce Wayne, stripped down to something more complicated than either guilt or strategy.
“I didn’t send her,” he repeats more firmly. “But I didn’t stop her soon enough either.”
Your eyes hold his. And for the first time since everything began, the truth between you feels heavier than the war outside.
“You did it because you don’t trust me,” you say, stepping closer as the steam from the bathroom still clings to your skin, your voice steady but edged with something sharper than anger alone.
Bruce doesn’t move away. He stays leaning near the doorway, wet hair still slightly disheveled, suit jacket hanging open like he never properly finished putting himself back together after everything that happened. “I trust you,” he answers, immediate, controlled, but there’s a strain underneath it that gives him away more than he probably realizes.
“That wasn’t a question, Mr. Wayne,” you reply, your eyes locked on his. “So don’t answer like it was.”
His jaw tightens at that, a subtle shift in posture, like he’s trying to hold himself in place rather than retreat into silence. “I trust you, Y/N,” he repeats, slower this time, as if repetition might stabilize it.
“But not enough,” you cut in, your tone flattening, more dangerous now because it’s calm instead of loud.
Bruce exhales through his nose, eyes still fixed on you, reading you the way he always does, like he’s trying to solve something that refuses to stay consistent. “I trust you when I understand what’s going on in your head,” he says finally, carefully measured.
The words land wrong, and you feel it immediately.
“That’s not trust,” you answer without hesitation, taking another step toward him so there’s barely any space left between you and the bathroom counter behind him. “That’s control.”
Something in his expression tightens, not quite defensive, but constrained, like he’s holding back a response he already calculated and rejected.
“You brought Selina into this,” you continue, voice sharpening as you trace the line of the conversation back to its origin. “Or you let her operate with information you knew she shouldn’t have had access to.”
“I didn’t send her,” Bruce says, firm, but not denying the rest. “But I didn’t stop her fast enough.”
“Same result,” you reply immediately, watching him closely.
His gaze doesn’t break. “She works independently. You know that.”
“And yet she still knows exactly where to step,” you say, tone cutting in a quieter way now. “Exactly what to say. Exactly when to show up.”
That hits something closer to truth, and Bruce’s silence this time is more deliberate. Not denial. Not agreement. Just calculation that doesn’t fully resolve.
“It’s not about her,” he says after a moment, voice lower. “It’s about what I couldn’t afford to misread. Zod. Clark unconscious. You in the middle of it. One wrong assumption and people die.”
“So I’m the assumption,” you say, and even you can hear the shift in your tone now, less anger, more pressure building underneath it.
“You’re not an assumption,” Bruce replies immediately, sharper now. “You’re the part I can’t calculate properly when things spiral.”
That lands harder than intended, and the tension in the room changes with it. Steam still clings to the tiles, water dripping somewhere from the shower, but everything feels tighter, contained.
“You asked me to stay with you,” you say, voice quieter but firmer, “inside your life, your city, your world. And the moment something went out of your control, you didn’t talk to me. You worked around me.”
His eyes narrow slightly, not in anger, but in focus. “I couldn’t afford hesitation.”
“So you decided I was the hesitation.”
“No,” he answers, immediate. “I decided I couldn’t risk being wrong.” That sentence sits between you for a second too long.
Because it’s not about Selina anymore. It’s not even about Clark or Zod. It’s about how he processes risk, and where you sit inside that equation when things stop being predictable. You stay close enough to see every shift in his expression, every restraint he’s putting in place.
“So that’s what this is,” you say more quietly now, almost testing it. “You don’t trust me when I stop being easy to predict.”
Bruce doesn’t answer immediately, and in that absence there’s no avoidance, just uncomfortable truth refusing to simplify itself. And the space between you, still wet with heat and tension, feels like something neither of you is willing to step back from.
Bruce looks down at the ring resting in his palm, then back up at you, something sharper settling behind his eyes. “Our first real argument and you’re already walking away from everything?” he asks, disappointment threading through his voice, quieter than anger but heavier.
“It’s not just an argument,” you reply, stepping past him, the air between you shifting as you move out of the bathroom. “There’s no room for me and your distrust in the same space. That’s not something I’m going to compete with.”
You reach the bedroom area and pick up the clothes laid out for you, the fabric soft and unfamiliar compared to everything that just happened hours ago. You can still feel his presence behind you even without turning.
“But don’t worry,” you add, your tone sharpening just enough to carry the weight of what you’re implying. “I’m sure you’ll find comfort in Miss Kyle’s arms.”
There’s a pause behind you, not empty, but controlled. When he steps out of the bathroom, he’s already putting himself back together, posture straight, expression guarded again. His fingers close around the ring for a brief second before he slips it into his pocket.
“There’s a reservation at the hotel restaurant tonight,” he says, voice even, as if he’s choosing to stand on something stable instead of reacting to what you just said. “I’ll respect your time. But I’d still like you to join me.”
You turn to face him now, arms crossing lightly over your chest, more to hold yourself together than anything else. “You don’t get to plan a dinner like everything’s fine, Bruce,” you say, quieter this time but no less firm. “You don’t get to control the situation and then pretend we can sit across from each other like none of this matters.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “It matters,” he replies.
“Then act like it,” you push back, taking a small step closer. “Because right now it just feels like damage control.”
Something shifts in his expression at that, subtle but real. Not anger, not dismissal. Something closer to being called out in a way he can’t immediately deflect.
“It’s not damage control,” he says, lower now. “It’s me trying not to lose you over something that can still be fixed.”
You hold his gaze, searching for any sign that he fully understands what’s already cracked between you.
“Some things don’t break all at once,” you answer quietly. “They start like this.”
The words linger longer than either of you moves.
Bruce gives a small nod, almost imperceptible, like he’s accepting something without agreeing to it. “The reservation stands,” he says, not pushing further, not withdrawing it either.
You don’t answer. He watches you for another second, then turns and walks out of the suite, the door closing softly behind him, leaving the silence heavier than before.
You watch him leave, the door closing with a quiet finality that lingers longer than the sound itself. For a moment, the tension drains out of you and leaves something far less certain behind. Doubt creeps in where anger had been steady. You wonder if you pushed too hard, too fast, if you’re punishing him for something that, in his mind, was never meant to hurt you.
You exhale slowly, dragging a hand through your hair as you stand there alone in the suite, the silence pressing in. For a brief second, you consider going after him, saying something to undo the sharp edges of what just happened. But the thought doesn’t fully form. Not yet.
Instead, you move.
You get dressed in the clothes left out for you, adjusting them with practiced ease, then take a moment in front of the mirror to fix your hair. Your reflection looks composed, but your eyes give away just enough to remind you that you’re not as unaffected as you’d like to be.
Minutes later, you step into the elevator and descend to the restaurant level. The atmosphere there is controlled, elegant, almost detached from everything that’s happened. Soft lighting, low conversations, glasses clinking faintly in the background.
You head straight for the bar.
“Something strong,” you tell the bartender as you take a seat.
The glass arrives quickly. You don’t hesitate, taking a slow sip, letting the burn settle in your chest.
“Old habits die hard, I see.”
Clark’s voice comes from beside you before you even notice him sit down.
You don’t look at him immediately, just take another sip of your drink before answering. “Your habit of showing up uninvited seems just as permanent.”
He lets out a quiet breath that almost turns into a laugh, settling into the seat next to you. “I could say I missed that.”
You signal the bartender for another round without asking Clark what he wants.
“Careful,” he adds, glancing at your glass. “You don’t usually drink like that unless something’s wrong.”
You finally turn your head slightly to look at him. “And you don’t usually observe me this closely unless you’re about to say something I won’t like.”
Clark studies you for a moment, softer now, more careful. “I heard about what happened. Not just with Zod.”
You let out a quiet, humorless breath. “Of course you did.”
“I didn’t come here to make it worse,” he says. “Just… to make sure you’re okay.”
You lift your glass again, eyes drifting forward. “I’m standing, I’m breathing, and I didn’t die fighting a Kryptonian general. I’d say I’m doing great.”
Clark doesn’t push immediately, but he doesn’t back off either. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” you answer, softer now, but still guarded. There’s a pause, heavier than the noise around you.
Clark leans slightly forward, resting his forearms on the bar. “You don’t have to handle everything alone, you know.”
You glance at him again, a faint, tired smile pulling at your lips. “That’s ironic, coming from you.”
That earns a small, genuine smile from him this time.
“Fair,” he admits. “Still true.”
You take another sip of your drink, letting the silence settle between you, not entirely uncomfortable, but far from resolved.
“Do you think you’re ready to go back to Metropolis?” you ask, turning to look at him properly this time. The suit stands out on him, tailored, deliberate, an attempt to blend into a place that was never really made for someone like him.
Clark follows your gaze for a second before meeting your eyes again. “And you?” he asks, leaning slightly closer. “Are you going back?”
You turn the glass slowly between your fingers, watching the liquid move before taking another sip. “I’m not going back to Metropolis,” you say, calm but firm. “Even if that means leaving Gotham.”
That shifts something in him. His posture straightens just a fraction, attention sharpening. “Leaving Gotham,” he repeats, quieter. “That about Bruce?”
You don’t answer immediately. The silence is enough.
Clark exhales, but there’s no softness in it this time. “Figures.”
You glance at him. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” he says, though there’s an edge now that wasn’t there before. “I just think it’s interesting that the second things get complicated with him, you’re ready to walk away from the whole city.”
Your eyes narrow slightly. “You don’t get to frame it like that.”
“Then explain it to me,” Clark presses, not aggressive, but definitely not neutral. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like he pushed too far and now you’re done.”
“He didn’t push,” you reply, setting your glass down a little harder than intended. “He showed exactly how far his trust goes.”
Clark studies you, something more personal slipping into his expression now. “And that’s enough for you to leave?”
“It’s enough for me not to stay in something that makes me feel like I have to justify myself every time things get messy,” you answer.
Clark leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “You’ve never needed to justify yourself with me.”
That lands differently.
You look at him, really look this time. “That’s not entirely true.”
He holds your gaze, not backing down. “Maybe not. But I never tried to control you either.”
There’s tension in that statement, something unspoken threading through it.
You let out a quiet breath. “This isn’t about choosing sides, Clark.”
“Isn’t it?” he asks, softer now but more direct. “Because it sounds like you’re already making that choice.”
You shake your head slightly, frustration mixing with something harder to define. “I’m choosing myself.”
Clark’s expression shifts again, less sharp now, but still intense. “And where does that leave everything else?”
You don’t answer right away. You pick up your glass again, taking a slower sip this time, letting the burn settle before speaking.
“It leaves me not repeating the same mistakes.”
Clark watches you closely, then lets out a small breath, something between acceptance and disagreement. “You always did run when something started to matter too much.”
Your eyes flick back to him, sharper now. “Careful.”
A faint, almost apologetic smile pulls at his mouth. “Too far?”
“Not far enough to be wrong,” you admit, quieter now. That shifts the tone again, something more honest settling between you.
Clark studies you for another moment, then looks down at the bar before speaking again, voice lower. “You don’t have to leave Gotham to figure things out.”
You glance at him. “And stay in the middle of this?”
His eyes meet yours again. “You’ve never been afraid of being in the middle before.”
You hold his gaze, the noise of the bar fading just enough for the moment to feel more contained.
“Maybe I’m tired of always being there for everyone,” you say. Clark doesn’t answer immediately this time. He just watches you, like he’s trying to decide whether to push further or let you have the space you’re clearly claiming.
“Let’s be honest,” you say, your voice quieter now but heavier, the alcohol loosening something you’ve kept tightly contained. “I’m always in the middle of something, thinking I’m moving forward when I’m not getting anywhere. My time with you in Metropolis only showed me that I became weaker trying to fit into your world, and my time with Bruce just proved that no matter what I do, I’ll never be seen as reliable… or enough.”
The words settle between you, and for the first time that night, you feel a strange sense of relief after saying them out loud.
Clark turns toward you fully, his expression tightening in a way that makes it clear that hit deeper than anything else you said before. “You think I made you weak?” he asks, searching your face like he’s trying to understand how you got there.
You meet his gaze without hesitation. “I think you made me disposable,” you answer, just as steady. “You were the one who pushed me out of your life, and now somehow you’re the reason I’m walking away from my engagement too.”
That lands harder. Clark’s jaw tightens, something conflicted flashing through his eyes, but before he can respond, you signal the bartender and place the payment down, not giving the moment space to soften. You stand, ready to leave. His hand closes around your arm before you can take more than a step.
The contact is firm, not aggressive, but enough to stop you. He pulls you back just enough to face him again, closer now, the noise of the bar fading into the background.
“I never saw you as disposable,” he says, his voice lower, more raw than before, like the control he usually keeps in place is slipping just enough to let something real through.
His grip loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go completely, his eyes locked on yours. “Not then. Not now. Not ever.”
“I know it goes against everything you are to see people as disposable,” you say, your voice steady even as something tightens in your chest, “but you did. You saw me that way.”
Clark shakes his head immediately, his grip on your arm loosening but not disappearing. “No. I didn’t. Not for a second.”
“You don’t get to rewrite that,” you push back, your eyes not leaving his. “You made a choice, Clark. You decided I was something you could walk away from.”
His jaw tightens, but this time he doesn’t deflect. He steps closer instead, lowering his voice like the words matter too much to be said any other way. “I gave up someone I cared about more than anything to keep her safe,” he says, the control in his tone thinning just enough to reveal what’s underneath. “It may not look like it to you, but that was a sacrifice.”
You search his face, trying to measure the truth of it against everything you felt back then. “Why?” you ask, quieter now, even though part of you isn’t sure you want the answer. Clark doesn’t hesitate this time.
“Because I loved you,” he says, the words landing without hesitation, without retreat. “And wanting to protect you was stronger than anything else. Stronger than wanting you to stay. Stronger than wanting you to be mine.”
The noise of the bar fades into something distant.
For a moment, it’s just the two of you standing too close, everything that was left unsaid between you finally said out loud.
And it doesn’t fix anything. It just makes it harder to ignore.
“You don’t get to say that to me,” you manage, your voice tightening as you fight to keep it steady. “Not after everything I had to go through to move on from you.”
Your throat burns with the effort of holding it together, but you don’t look away.
Clark studies you, something unsettled creeping into his expression. “It didn’t seem that hard for you,” he says, quieter, but there’s an edge there now, something closer to frustration than he probably intended. That hits.
You inhale sharply, ready to answer, but the shift in the room reaches you before the words do. Heads turn subtly. The atmosphere changes. Selina walks in like she owns the place.
The black dress is deliberate, striking, elegant in a way that draws attention without asking for it. Every step is controlled, confident, her eyes already locked onto you and Clark as she approaches.
You straighten slightly. Clark’s posture shifts beside you, more alert now.
Selina stops just close enough to be part of the conversation without lowering her voice. “No need to sharpen your claws,” she says smoothly, glancing between the two of you. “I’m only here to enjoy the chaos up close.”
Clark frowns, clearly not following yet. “What are you talking about?”
Selina’s lips curve faintly. “Oh, dear alien, give it a few minutes. It’ll be everywhere. Headlines, screens, conversations.” Her gaze lingers on him for a second longer. “If I were you, I’d start thinking about where to hide.”
That’s enough. Your hands tighten at your sides, patience thinning fast. “What did you do, Selina?”
She doesn’t answer immediately, which is answer enough.
Before the tension can escalate further, another presence cuts into the space.
Bruce steps into view, adjusting the sleeve of his jacket with composed precision, like he’s walking into a boardroom instead of a situation already spiraling.
“With all of this,” he says calmly, his gaze moving briefly from Selina to you and then to Clark, “she means we have a serious problem coming our way.”
His tone is controlled, but there’s no mistaking the urgency underneath.
Selina glances at him, almost amused. “You always did know how to make an entrance.”
Bruce ignores the remark entirely, his focus already locked on what matters.
“Wayne systems intercepted the first wave minutes ago,” he continues, voice lower, more deliberate. “Coordinated leaks. Satellite feeds, security breaches, manipulated footage. Every major outlet is about to run with it.”
Clark’s expression hardens. “Run with what?”
Bruce holds his gaze this time, not softening the impact. “A narrative,” he says. “One that ties you to a series of high-level prison breaches, including the release of individuals the world already fears.” Clark’s jaw tightens.
Bruce takes a step closer, lowering his voice just enough to keep it contained between the four of you. “They’re not just exposing you. They’re positioning you as the center of it. The cause. The threat.”
The implication settles in the space between you.
Selina’s smile deepens slightly, watching the realization land. “People don’t need much to panic,” she murmurs. “Just the right story.”
Bruce’s eyes don’t leave Clark. “And this one’s already written.”
Selina watches all of you for a moment longer, then gives a small, almost satisfied smile. “Looks like your night just got interesting.”
Summary: In an alternate universe, Shauna Shipman is in college trying to find her footing. She tries to ground herself in sports, having earned a scholarship. She tries to be the best student, tries to be a good friend to Jackie, and tries not to mess anything up. But ever since she met you, everything has grown more complicated. You, who criticize the way she uses sports to justify the fury that exists within her; you, who end up competing with her for the highest grades; and you, who have become the reason she wonders if she has ever felt this drawn to anyone before. When the two of you become dorm roommates, everything seems to intensify.
Author’s Notes: The fanfic will contain violence, explicit language, adult content, and plenty of mayhem. As it takes place in an alternate universe, several changes will be made to the story, but I hope you enjoy it. Please interact with this chapter if you like it.
PREVIEW
ONE
"I can't believe Taissa didn’t warn me that you were the one who would be my roommate," you say, trying to break the tension that hangs between you and Shauna. “I told her not to mention it. You’d ruin everything with your need to play the moral superiority card, and you wouldn’t have come if you knew it was me,” Shauna replies. She steps closer, slow and deliberate, the towel wrapped around her body shifting slightly with each movement, as if she is fully aware of the effect it has on you.
"Why did you even accept me here? I mean, there are other possibilities for us," you reply, feeling confused as you take a step back, then another.
"Contrary to what you think, I don't mind your presence. In fact, it stimulates me intellectually," Shauna says, her gaze locking onto yours, those brown eyes more hypnotizing than anything you've ever seen. Her damp hair frames her face, darker from the water, small droplets still tracing slow paths down her collarbone before disappearing beneath the towel. You notice how relaxed she looks, as if being half-dressed in front of you is entirely intentional, another way of keeping the upper hand.
"You're telling me you let me into your room because you want me to entertain you?" you ask, impatience creeping into your voice. Instead of stepping further away, you move toward her, determined to challenge the space between you both.
Shauna remains still, her damp hair clinging to her shoulders, the towel sitting low on her hips, secured by nothing more than habit and confidence. “I don’t need entertainment,” she says softly. “But you do bring a certain energy with you. A challenge. I find it intriguing.”
You take a breath, trying to steady your nerves, but Shauna’s presence seems to make everything around you feel more intense. "So that’s it, then?" you challenge, stepping even closer now, your heart racing. "You invited me here just because I amuse you?"
Her lips curve into a restrained, almost mocking smile. “Not exactly. But I do enjoy watching you struggle against it.” You hesitate, unsure whether this is a game to her or something more dangerous. Then she steps closer, the heat of her body unmistakable, the edge of the towel brushing your arm as she moves.
"I’m not here to play games," you respond, trying to sound steady, but the way Shauna’s eyes fixate on you makes your words falter. "I’m just trying to get through today."
Shauna tilts her head slightly, studying you, as if considering your words carefully. "It’s too late for that," she says, her voice barely above a murmur, as her hand reaches out, brushing your arm lightly, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. "You’re already in it."
“I’m leaving,” you say suddenly, trying to reclaim control. You attempt to move past her, but her hand closes around your waist, firm and decisive. In one swift motion, she presses you back against the door, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Your backpack slips from your shoulder, forgotten.
“No, you’re not,” Shauna says, moving closer, her face stopping just inches from yours. Her voice is calm, certain, as if she has already decided the outcome.
“You’re staying with me.” She leans in, her nose brushing your neck as she inhales slowly. Her lips hover just shy of your skin, the warmth of her breath enough to make your knees weaken. The room seems to shrink, reduced to her presence and the relentless thud of your heartbeat.
“What makes you think I want to stay here with you?” you ask, your voice betraying the nervous edge creeping in. The closeness makes your pulse race, anxiety, and anticipation tangling together in a way you refuse to name.
Shauna does not answer right away. Instead, Shauna lifts her arms, bracing her hands against the door on either side of your head, the towel shifting but holding. She studies your face, patient and certain.
She tilts her head slightly, studying your face, as if gauging every reaction. The space between you is gone now, replaced by the quiet certainty of being cornered, not trapped, but contained. Your breath catches despite yourself, your nerves on fire as you realize she is waiting, confident that you will not move away.
“Your body is telling me exactly what you want. It has been telling me since earlier today, back at my practice,” Shauna replies. Her voice is steady, confident, as if she is stating a fact rather than provoking you. In one smooth motion, she closes the remaining space until her lips hover just in front of yours. One breath. One tilt of the head. That is all it would take. She stays there deliberately, suspended at the moment, letting the tension stretch. Her fingers tighten slightly against the door beside your head, knuckles whitening, as if she is restraining herself just as much as she is testing you.
“Shipman, stop lying to yourself,” you murmur, your entire body burning from the tension of having her so close.
Her eyes flick briefly to your mouth, then back to your gaze. She exhales slowly, her breath warms against your lips, testing your resolve without touching it. The way she holds herself makes it clear she is waiting, not forcing, certain that you will not pull away.
“You can walk out if you really want to,” Shauna says quietly, her tone almost gentle now. “But you won’t. You didn’t earlier, and you’re not going to now.”
Your heart pounds against your ribs, every rational thought drowned out by the awareness of her presence, the heat between you, the undeniable truth that she has already unraveled far more than you intended.
“Can I kiss you?” Shauna asks, her fingers already drawing your face closer to hers.
“You can do whatever you want with me,” you murmur, your voice barely holding together as the tension finally pulls you under. The truth settles in with startling clarity. You want her to take you, firmly, decisively.
Slowly, she presses her fingers against your lips, tracing them with deliberate care, her touch unhurried, almost reverent. Then she leans in and finally closes the distance, her mouth meeting yours. What is meant to be a brief kiss does not remain one for long. It deepens naturally, inevitably, her tongue taking control of yours, drawing you in, claiming your attention completely.
She kisses you as if she intends to consume every thought you have left, and it works. Her body presses into yours with possessive certainty as her hands slide to your waist, lifting you just enough for your legs to wrap around her. Your back collides softly with the door, the impact barely registering as her grip tightens at your hips, then lower, holding you steady. The towel presses firmly against you as she moves, warm and unmistakably real, the faint scent of soap clinging to her skin. It feels intimate in a way that makes your chest tighten, as if this closeness alone is already crossing a line you cannot retreat from.
Your mouths never part. Your hands move to her neck, then clutch at her shoulders, anchoring yourself to her as the world narrows to breath, heat, and the overwhelming certainty of her body against yours.
Before you know it, she's carrying you to bed, which you assume is hers. She lays you down, her lips still on yours. She begins to frantically remove your blouse from your body, almost tearing the fabric.Â
"Are you planning on ruining my clothes, Shipman?" you ask, making her laugh softly against your lips and look at you for a moment.Â
"I intend to ruin you," Shauna says, then runs her hands over your breasts, squeezing them. You bite your lip, holding back a moan from the sensation of Shauna touching your breasts.
When you realize it, you are kissing again, drawn back into her without even meaning to. This time, driven by a sharp need to reclaim some control after the way Shauna nearly tore your shirt earlier, you bite her lower lip in the middle of the kiss, just hard enough to make a point.
“You’re more ferocious than I imagined,” Shauna says, the words rough with approval rather than surprise.
Her hands slide from your chest, down over your stomach, and come to rest at your waist, steady and possessive. Slowly, deliberately, she begins to ease your shorts down, unhurried, as if she has nowhere else to be. At the same time, her mouth leaves yours to press open kisses along your abdomen, lingering against your skin, her focus narrowing entirely on you. The towel has loosened further now, barely secured at her waist, one of her hands absentmindedly keeping it in place as her attention remains fixed on you. The distraction feels almost dangerous, as though she has forgotten everything outside the room.
When her lips drift lower, intent unmistakable, a sudden knock breaks through the haze.
“Shauna, I need you.” You recognize Jackie Taylor’s voice immediately, clear and unavoidable. Shauna freezes. Her mouth leaves your skin as she lifts her head, her gaze locking with yours. The moment stretches, heavy and unresolved.
“I think I need to…” she starts, uncertainty threading through her voice. You bring your hands up to her face, holding her there, forcing her to meet your eyes. “Are you really going to leave me like this?” The question is serious, stripped of sarcasm. Right now, all you want is her mouth on you again, her attention fully yours, and it is painfully clear that she is already being pulled elsewhere.
“I’ll help Jackie,” Shauna says after a beat, her tone quieter now, conflicted. “And I’ll come back.” She leans in to give you one last kiss, brief but charged, as if promising more than she can guarantee.
“I’m coming, Jackie,” she calls out, louder now. She steps back and retightens the towel around herself, slower this time, as if grounding herself again. For a moment, she hesitates, then turns away from you and crosses the room to her dresser.
She pulls on a clean shirt, the fabric sliding over skin that minutes ago had been pressed against yours. Then come the shorts, buttoned and adjusted with care, each movement deliberate, controlled. When she ties her hair back, her reflection in the mirror looks composed, almost distant, as though she is rebuilding a version of herself that existed before you walked into the room. She turns to look at you once more, fully dressed now, her expression unreadable. The contrast makes the interruption feel sharper, heavier, as if something essential has been paused rather than ended.
You’re not sure what just happened or what you’re supposed to do next. Returning to your own dorm feels like a death sentence because Taissa would kill you without hesitation. Clinging to the little dignity you have left, you pull your shorts back on and adjust the blouse Shauna almost tore.
You curl up on the bed you assume belongs to Shauna, trying to find some comfort, but frustration coils tight in your chest. It would be a lie to say you didn’t hope she would come back even for a moment, yet eventually sleep claims you, dragging you away from thoughts you can’t quite organize.
