Trying To Live @severenightmarecupcake - Tumblr Blog

May 21

Guns That Glitter | Fezco O'Neill

Pairing: Fezco O'Neill x Dealer!Reader Summary: Fez is getting a delivery from a new supplier - you. You're not what he expected, but he's pleasantly surprised. Themes & Warnings: drugs, guns, reader is a dealer, reader is lowkey a gun toting princess, fem!reader who's super girly, mentions of death, blood, fluff, falling for each other, slight angst

Efficiency. It was what you preached and practiced.

Getting a job done and doing it well was your forte. You'd picked this hustle up from an old mentor - a man named Dante who'd found you at fifteen, all sharp elbows with a clever tongue. You were quiet, alone, and running nickel bags to college kids who underestimated you. He'd seen something in you instantly. Potential beyond how pretty you were.

He'd taught you everything. How to cut product without compromising its quality, how to spot a narc from a mile away, and even how to smile at men while palming a blade. With his help, you walked into rooms and owned them before anyone could even question your place there. He'd been a business man first, a criminal second, and had drilled it all into your young, impressionable skull.

Look the part, baby girl. Nobody suspects a little girl wearing pink.

Luckily, you didn't just look the part. You were that girl.

Even before, you'd always had painted nails, immaculately done hair, and clean shoes. Your mother had been absent in the ways that raised a proper girl, but she'd left you with one thing: understanding that looking put-together was the way to live. People treated you differently when you looked soft and expensive. They held doors. They underestimated your intelligence. They saw a pretty face and bright colors and assumed you were fragile.

You let them.

The femininity wasn't a costume you put on for the job. It was you. The acrylics, the gold hoops, the lip gloss that left sticky prints on coffee cups and cheeks alike, all of it was genuine. You just happened to have learned that it was also deeply, profoundly useful. Men saw pink and thought harmless. They saw a skirt and thought easy. They saw you smile and never once clocked the calculation behind it.

Dante had recognized the weapon you already carried. All he did was sharpen it.

He was gone now. Two years dead, buried in a plot you still visited on his birthday. His death had been a lesson all its own. Someone in the inner circle had gotten greedy. Someone had mistaken Dante's age for weakness. You'd corrected that assumption personally.

Afterward, there was no question of who would take over. The men who'd worked under Dante grumbled at first. A woman, barely twenty, with a closet full of pastels and a perfume collection that cost more than their cars. But you restructured the operation from the ground up. Streamlined supply lines. Cut dead weight. Within a year, your product was the cleanest on the East Coast, and your reputation was immaculate. You didn't start conflicts, but you ended them with surgical precision. Everyone who mattered knew: you were not to be fucked with.

Now you were expanding. East Highland was fresh territory: a quiet suburb full of bored kids with trust funds and insufficient supervision. A goldmine. Through the grapevine, you'd heard about a local dealer worth knowing. Fezco O'Neill. Quiet, professional, ran his business out of a convenience store with his younger brother. No turf disputes, no attention, no mess.

Your kind of people.

You'd arranged the first meeting through a mutual contact. Tuesday night. Behind the store. After closing. Samples for cash. Straightforward. Clean.

Fezco, however, had never heard of you. To be quite honest, he was suspicious. He was reluctant to even meet with you.

Your messages didn't come through with a name. They came through with initials, so he didn't even know who to expect. Whether you were a man or a woman, trouble like Mouse or harmless like Laurie.

The first text had come through three weeks ago.

Heard you're the man to talk to in East Highland. I've got product. Clean. Consistent. I'm looking to expand. - D.

No name. No number he recognized. Just a letter and a business proposition. Fez had stared at his phone for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen, before showing it to Ash.

"The fuck is 'D'?" Ash had asked, not looking up from his Playstation he was playing.

"That's what I'm tryna figure out."

"You text back?"

"Nah. Not yet."

He'd waited two days. Let the message sit. In his experience, people who pushed too fast were either desperate or dangerous, and he didn't have time for either. However, the follow-up never came. No double-text. No pressure. Just silence, patient and professional. That, more than anything, made him curious.

So he'd responded. Short. Careful.

Who put you on to me?

The reply came within the hour. Mutual friend. Used to run product through the East Coast. Said you were solid.

No name-dropping. No sloppiness. Just enough to let him know it wasn't a setup. Fez respected that.

Still. A new supplier was a risk. His last connect had flaked, leaving him scrambling to keep up with demand. He needed someone reliable, but need made you vulnerable. Need made you sloppy. And Fezco O'Neill did not do sloppy.

Over the following weeks, the messages stayed sparse. All business. You proposed a meeting, neutral ground, after hours, his territory so he'd feel comfortable. You offered to bring samples first, no commitment. When he mentioned he ran the operation with his brother, you didn't flinch or question it. Just acknowledged it and moved on.

Tuesday night came slow and heavy, the air thick with the kind of heat that made the asphalt shimmer even after dark. Fez had sent Ash to close up the store while he waited out back, leaning against the hood of the Cadillac. A blunt burned between his fingers, more for something to do than anything else. He wasn't nervous, exactly. Just... alert.

The text had said midnight. It was 11:57.

"You think they're gonna show?" Ash appeared at his elbow, quiet as always. The kid moved like a ghost when he wanted to.

"Three minutes early," Fez said, blowing out a stream of smoke. "Ain't late yet."

"Could still be a cop."

"Could be."

"You keep saying that."

"'Cause it's true."

Ash didn't respond. Just crossed his arms and stared out at the dark parking lot, his small face unreadable. Fez sometimes wondered what it must be like inside his brother's head. If he was scared. If he ever got tired. Ash never showed it. He just stood there, solid as a pit bull, ready to bite if things went sideways.

Headlights cut through the darkness.

Not a cop car - too old, too sleek. A Mustang. Cherry red. Vintage. It rolled into the lot with a low, throaty purr, chrome catching the flickering glow of the broken streetlight. Fez straightened slightly, dropping the cigarette and crushing it under his sneaker.

"Nice car," Ash muttered.

"Yeah."

The engine cut. Silence rushed back in. Through the tinted windshield, Fez could just make out a silhouette. Small. Waiting. After a long moment, the driver's side door opened.

And you stepped out.

The first thing he registered was the heels. Strappy. Pink. Six inches, easy. The kind of shoes that announced themselves before you did, clicking sharp against the asphalt like a countdown. His gaze traveled up, long legs, a white dress that skimmed your thighs, a coat the color of cotton candy cinched tight at the waist. Gold glittered at your ears and wrists. Your hair fell in soft waves past your shoulders, and even in the dim light he could see your nails, perfectly shaped and painted the same shade of pink as the coat.

You looked like a cupcake. Like a trap.

"What the fuck," Ash breathed.

Fez didn't answer. His brain was still buffering, trying to reconcile the professional, clipped messages with the woman walking toward them. You moved like you owned the parking lot, the night, the whole damn city. Chin up. Shoulders back. A small smile playing at the corners of your mouth, like you knew exactly what he was thinking.

You stopped a few feet away, close enough to talk but far enough to run. Smart.

"Fezco?" Your voice was sweeter than he'd imagined. Soft. Warm. Like honey poured over steel.

He realized he hadn't said anything yet. He cleared his throat.

"Yeah."

You extended your manicured hand, the small smile widening into a Cheshire grin. Lip gloss shimmered in the moonlight.

"I'm D." You tilted your head, waiting for him to shake.

He took your hand. Your grip was firmer than he'd expected, your palm warm against his. The acrylics pressed lightly into the back of his hand-not painful, just present. A reminder that the softness had edges.

"D," he repeated, letting go. "That your name?"

"D stands for something else." Your eyes glittered with amusement. "I'm Y/n. My old mentor was Dante. That's where the D comes from."

Fez filed that away. Dante. The name rang a faint bell, something from years back, whispers in the kind of circles that didn't make it to polite conversation. A businessman. A legend in certain circles.

"Dante," he said slowly. "Heard of him. Didn't know he had a.. princess."

"Most people didn't." Your smile flickered, just for a second, something softer and sadder bleeding through before you tucked it away. "He liked it that way. Kept me out of the spotlight until I was ready."

"And now?"

"Now I'm ready."

Ash shifted his weight behind Fez, a silent reminder that they were still standing in a dark parking lot. Fez cleared his throat and jerked his chin toward the back door.

"Come inside. We can talk."

You followed him, heels clicking steadily on the asphalt, completely unbothered by the dim lighting or the barred windows or the way Ash kept glaring at you like you might sprout fangs. Inside the store, you draped your pink coat over a dusty chair near the counter and turned to face them both, hands clasped loosely in front of you. Patient. Poised.

"So." You looked from Fez to Ash and back again. "You've been having supply issues. Your last connect flaked. You've been buying smaller, paying more, and stretching product thinner than you'd like. That about sum it up?"

Fez tensed. "You been asking around about me?"

You scoffed, like it was obvious. "Of course I have. Running this business, you gotta know your clients inside and out," you hummed, examining your nails. "If you're not doing that, that's probably why your people flake out. You're not choosing the right ones."

Fez opened his mouth. Closed it. Behind him, Ash made a sound that might've been a laugh. It was stifled quick, but Fez heard it anyway.

He didn't have a rebuttal. You weren't wrong. His last connect had been a recommendation from someone he'd trusted, and that trust had blown up in his face. He'd been so focused on keeping the day-to-day running that he'd let his vetting slip. It stung to hear it from a stranger in pink stilettos, but the sting meant it was true.

"Aight," he admitted, shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket. "Fair."

Your eyes flicked up from your nails, something like approval glinting in them. "At least you can take criticism. That's rare."

"It's rare 'cause most people don't like being told they're messing up."

"Most people stay messy, then." You shrugged. "Their loss."

You unclasped your tiny lipstick-shaped purse and pulled out a velvet pouch, sliding it across the counter toward him. The movement was casual, practiced, like you'd done it a thousand times.

"Sample. On the house. See what you're missing."

Fez nodded at Ash. The kid stepped forward, still watching you with those sharp, suspicious eyes, and took the pouch. He disappeared into the back room without a word.

Silence filled the room. Fez's blue eyes, missing nothing, analyzed you thoroughly. You stared back, crossing your arms. Without asking, you took a seat in the chair that held your jacket, waiting patiently.

"How old are you?" Fez asked.

You answered honestly. Honesty was important.

"Nineteen." You hummed.

Nineteen. Fez didn't know why that surprised him; maybe it was the way you carried yourself, the weight of someone who'd been doing this for decades instead of years. But no.

"Huh," he said.

"Huh?" You tilted your head, amused. "What's that mean?"

"Means you're younger than I thought."

"You're what, twenty? Don't act like you got years on me."

"Twenty-one." He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms to mirror you. "Just figured someone runnin' an operation like yours would be... older."

"Dante started teaching me at fifteen. I've been doing this for four years." You examined your cuticles, unbothered. "Age doesn't mean much in this line of work."

The back door creaked open. Ash reappeared, velvet pouch in hand. He caught Fez's eye and nodded once. Clean. Good quality. The tension in Fez's shoulders eased a fraction.

"Told you," you said, not smug, just satisfied.

"How much?"

You named your price. Fair. Better than fair.

"That includes delivery," you added. "I come to you. Every Tuesday. Same time, same place. No middlemen, no runners. Just me."

"Why?"

You blinked. "Why what?"

"Why you sellin' to me?" He gestured at the store, at you, at this whole situation. "You could sell anywhere. Why me?"

You shrugged, grinning.

"I liked what I heard about you. Reliable. Plus, no one raising a kid in this world could be some flaky pussy."

Ash snorted. Actually snorted. A sharp, surprised sound that he tried to cover with a cough. Fez just stared at you for a second, caught somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to laughter.

Then the corner of his mouth tugged up despite himself. "That your professional assessment?"

"It's served me well so far." You leaned back in the chair, crossing your legs with the casual elegance of someone who'd just commented on the weather. "You'd be amazed how many people in this business turn out to be flaky pussies. It's an epidemic."

"That so."

"Tragic, really." You examined your nails, the picture of mock solemnity. "All these big tough dealers, and the second things get hard, they fold. And short you and hope you won't notice." Your eyes flicked up to meet his. "You didn't strike me as that type. Was I wrong?"

Fez held your gaze. "No."

"Didn't think so." You stood, smoothing down your dress, and extended your hand. "So. We got a deal?"

He took your hand. Firm grip. Warm palm. Acrylics pressing lightly against his skin.

"Yeah," he said. "We got a deal."

The deal was simple. Easy to commit to, even easier to follow through with. Every Tuesday night, you'd bring him what you had to offer, and he'd pay for it. Sometimes, you'd grab a snack from out front of the store and chat to him while he counted shit out. Sometimes you'd tease and fuck with Ashtray, who'd gotten used to you finally a couple of weeks ago when he'd realized you weren't some sparkly narc. You became friends, almost close friends. Fez respected you, Ash admired you (even though he'd never say that shit), and you had come to like both of them. Very much.

Maybe Fez more than you'd let yourself admit.

On occasion, you sat in the living room with him until 3AM, sharing a blunt and telling stories. You'd hear him laugh - actually laugh, not just a stifled chuckle. He'd tell you about his shitty childhood, his badass grandma that you reminded him of. He'd tell you about how much he loved Ashtray and wanted to see him succeed.

You'd exchange eye contact. The type you tried to ignore, but simultaneously couldn't. Tension. Heaviness, but still soft. You always told him to be safe when you left, and he'd always say he'd try his best. It was a promise, though, hidden behind Fez's standoffishness.

Today, shit was weird. Shit was concerning. Because you, normally polished and up-beat, were bruised and bloody.

The Mustang pulled up at the usual time, but you didn't get out right away. Fez noticed that first. He was leaning against the back door, a fresh blunt between his fingers, and the seconds stretched long enough that he started to straighten up, a prickle of unease creeping down his spine.

The door opened, and you stepped out. You didn't wear heels tonight - flats, scuffed at the toes, but still clean. Your hair was in a high bun, messy ringlets falling into your face rather than your usual roller curls. Your coat was still pink, but a red stain tainted the front. You wore makeup, as usual, but it didn't fully hide the split in your lip or the dark bruise blooming along your cheekbone.

Fez went very still.

"Oh shit," Ash said.

You walked toward them like nothing was different, but your usual stride was off. Slightly stiff. Favoring your right side.

"I'm fine," you said before either of them could ask. Your voice was steady. Tired, but steady.

"You're bleedin'," Fez said. His voice came out flatter than he meant it to.

"It's not my blood." You held up a hand, and he saw now that your knuckles were split and raw, the pretty pink polish chipped in places. "Mostly."

He stared at you. You stared back.

"Inside," he said. "Now."

You rolled your eyes. "Fezco, I'm fine. I have product to-"

"Don't give a fuck," his voice was as calm as usual, chill, but it held a different vibe. A firm, uptight vibe. "Get inside, Y/n. Now."

Surprise flickered across your face. But you didn't argue. You'd never heard Fez talk like that. It may have had something to do with you being a lady or you being a distributor with such high status, but he'd never used any firm tones. For the first time since they'd met you, you didn't have a smart remark ready. You just followed them inside, Ash locking the door after them.

Fez didn't stop walking until he was in the back room, the one with the worn couch and the old TV and the stacks of inventory that lined the walls. He turned to face you, arms crossed, jaw tight.

"Sit."

You sat. Not because you were scared of him - you weren't scared of anyone - but because the way he was looking at you made something in your chest twist. Concern. Real, genuine concern. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at you like that.

Ash hovered near the doorway, arms crossed, face unreadable as always. But he wasn't glaring anymore. His eyes kept darting to the bruise on your cheek, the blood on your coat. He was analyzing the damage.

And he was a little snitch.

"She ain't even putting any pressure on her right." He said, acknowledging the way your body leaned to the left like you were afraid to let your right ribs feel any pressure. "Somethin's under the coat."

You shot Ash a look. A warning. He didn't flinch, the little traitor.

Fez's gaze dropped to your torso, to the way you were holding yourself. The stiff, careful posture. The arm tucked just slightly against your right side. He'd been so focused on your face, your hands, the blood, that he hadn't noticed. But Ash had. Ash noticed everything.

"Take off the coat," Fez said.

"It's fine."

Fez moved, reaching for the right side of your pink coat, but before he could lay his fingers on it, you moved in retaliation. Your fingers wrapped around the gun in your thigh holster, tearing it out and pointing it towards the man. A Glock 19, sleek and packed.

It was supposed to deter him. To get him away. You were afraid of the concern, afraid of the care. It had been so long since someone gave a shit.

The only catch was that Fezco wasn't deterred. Your finger wasn't even near the trigger. You were just waving it around. He knew a scare tactic when he saw one, and you weren't particularly scary to him. Last week, you had literally been playing Crash Bandicoot with Ash on his Playstation.

He rolled his eyes.

"Put that shit away. 'Fore I take it from you."

Your grip tightened on the Glock. "Back off, Fezco."

"No."

The word was simple. Flat. He didn't even blink. Just stood there, arms crossed, looking at you like you were a kitten hissing at a bear.

"I'll shoot your-"

With an impatient yet passive grunt, he plucked the gun from your hand, clicking the safety on and tossing it onto the table behind him. He worked his jaw in annoyance, annoyance you'd never even seen him wear.

"You ain't shootin' shit. Take the coat off. I don't wanna have to do it and have you kickin' and screamin' and shit at midnight."

You stared at him. No one had ever disarmed you that easily. No one had ever dared try. And he'd done it like you were a child waving around a toy.

"Fez-"

"Y/n." His voice was still calm, still low, but there was steel underneath. "You're bleedin' through your shirt. You can barely stand straight. You just pointed a gun at me, which, by the way, we gonna talk about later. Right now, I need you to let me help you. Can you do that?"

Ash snickered from the doorway. "She really tried to shoot you."

"She didn't try shit. Finger wasn't even on the trigger." Fez didn't look away from you. "She's just scared."

"I'm not scared," you said, but your voice came out smaller than you wanted it to.

Ash came forward. He sat on the couch next to you, his voice soft but still a bit raspy. His eyes were still locked onto you, but you couldn't meet them. The kid was too perceptive, just too smart.

"You are scared. We ain't gonna hurt you. But we don't want you bleedin' out in here."

His fingers inched forward. You looked up at the ceiling, purposefully trying to ignore what was happening. Trying to ignore that they were exploring your bleeding wounds, your vulnerabilities, and you had no idea what their intentions were. People always had intentions. They had since you were 15 - ulterior motives, reasons to do what they were doing. But you couldn't read theirs. And that was what scared you.

Ash slowly pulled the shoulder of your coat down. Complete silence fell upon the room.

Underneath, your white blouse was ruined. A dark red stain spread across the right side. The fabric was torn, and beneath the tear, wrapped haphazardly around your ribs, was a bandage. Amateur work. Uneven. Already soaking through. The tear in the fabric revealed the edge of the wound itself, jagged and still seeping.

Fez inhaled sharply through his nose. He didn't say anything. But his hands, still raised from taking your gun, curled into fists at his sides.

Ash was the one who broke the silence.

"That's a lot of blood," he said quietly. Not squeamish. Not scared. Just observing. Cataloging. Like he was memorizing every detail for later use.

"I know," you said. Your voice sounded far away, even to yourself.

Ash, gently working your arm out of the sleeve, let the coat fall. You were limp, accepting your fate.

"You were tryin' to do business with a stab wound. And it's not even bandaged right." Ash said. His tone was almost comical, a motherly lecture. But you honestly hurt too much to laugh. "Looks like shit. You're bleeding still. Bad."

"I was in a hurry," you muttered.

"A hurry to bleed out on our couch?"

"Didn't plan on bleeding out. Planned on dropping off product and going home."

Ash gave you a look. It was the kind of look a disappointed parent might give a child who'd done something particularly stupid. Coming from a fourteen-year-old with a teardrop tattoo, it was almost surreal.

"Dumbest shit I've ever heard," he said.

Fez still hadn't spoken. He was staring at the wound, at the soaked-through bandage, at the jagged edges of torn skin visible through the rip in your blouse. When he finally looked up at your face, his expression was unreadable.

"Ash," he said. "Get the suture kit. And clean towels."

Ash slid off the couch and disappeared down the hall. Fez moved closer, crouching in front of you again. He reached for the hem of your blouse, then paused, eyes meeting yours.

"Gotta take this off too," he said. "Can't fix you through the shirt."

You hesitated. It wasn't modesty - you'd lost that years ago, in and out of motel rooms and back-alley patch-ups. It was the vulnerability. The exposure. The fact that once the shirt came off, there was nothing left to hide behind.

But Fez was waiting. Patient. His hands hovering, not touching. Letting you decide.

"Okay," you said finally. "Just... do it."

He was careful. So careful it made your throat tight. He helped you lift your arms, the right one barely moving, the pain too sharp, and eased the ruined blouse over your head. His eyes stayed on the wound, clinical and focused, never wandering.

Underneath, the bandage was even worse than it had looked through the shirt. Wrapped too loose in some places, too tight in others. The blood had soaked through multiple layers. And the wound itself - when Fez gently peeled back the edge of the bandage - was ugly. Jagged. Still oozing.

"Who did this?" Fez asked. His voice was calm. Dangerously calm.

"Fez."

He sighed, looking up at you. His eyes held a message - no more bullshit.

"You gonna tell me who did this? Or do I gotta test out my detective skills 'n shit?"

"Why does it matter who did it?"

Silence for a moment.

"'Cuz I'm gonna kill his ass."

The words hung in the air. Flat. Certain. Like he was commenting on the weather.

You blinked. "You're not killing anyone."

"The hell I'm not."

"Fezco."

"Y/n." He said your name the same way you'd said his. A mirror. A challenge. "Somebody put a hole in your side. You think I'm just gonna let that slide?"

"It's handled."

"Handled means he's still breathin'."

"He's got two bullets in his leg and a broken nose. He's not breathing easy."

"Not good enough."

Ash hadn't moved from his spot on the couch. His eyes flicked between the two of you like he was watching a tennis match. "Nah, Y/n, that motherfucker is going in the ground. Wouldn't be right if not."

You turned your head to look at him, ignoring the spike of pain the movement caused. "Ash, you're fourteen."

"Age ain't got nothing to do with it." He shrugged, casual as anything. "Someone stabs you, they don't get to walk around after. That's just how it works."

"That's not-"

"You shot him twice and he's still breathing. That's a loose end." Ash's voice was flat, matter-of-fact, like he was explaining basic math to someone who wasn't getting it. "Loose ends get people killed. You know that. Fez knows that. I know that. Only person who don't seem to know that is the guy who stabbed you, and he's about to find out the hard way."

"You ain't comin'," Fez said without looking at his brother.

"I'm definitely coming."

"You're staying here with Y/n."

"She don't need a babysitter. She's got a gun."

"She just pointed that gun at me ten minutes ago. She's clearly not thinkin' straight."

"I'm right here," you said.

Both of them ignored you.

"If I stay here, who's gonna watch your back?" Ash crossed his arms. "You always say never go in alone. I heard you tell Rue that. I heard you tell Mouse that. Now you're gonna go after some guy who already stabbed one person tonight and you're gonna do it solo? That's stupid."

"He's got a point," you muttered.

"I said stay out of this."

"You're not my boss either," Ash shot back. "You're my brother. That means we do this together. Same as everything else."

The room went quiet. Fez stared at Ash. Ash stared back. Neither of them blinked.

Finally, Fez exhaled through his nose. "Fine. But you stay behind me the whole time. You don't move unless I say move. And if anything goes sideways, you run. You don't look back. You understand me?"

"Understood."

"I mean it, Ash. You run."

"I said understood." Ash stood, brushing off his jeans. "We going tonight?"

"Nah. Tomorrow. Let him sit with those bullets in his leg for a minute." Fez finally looked back at you. "You got an address?"

You should've said no. You should've told them to drop it, to let you handle your own mess. That was what you always did. What you'd been doing since you were fifteen.

But you looked at Fez, at the steady certainty in his eyes, the way his hands were still curled into fists, the way he'd stitched you up without hesitation and talked about killing for you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then you looked at Ash, at the fourteen-year-old who'd held your hand while you bled, who'd called you stupid with the affection of a brother, who was now calmly discussing a murder like it was a weekend errand.

"There's a warehouse on Fifth and Darrow," you said quietly. "Industrial district. Old meatpacking plant. He uses the basement level as a hideout."

Fez nodded, filing the information away. "Anyone with him?"

"The two guys who ran earlier might have circled back. Couldn't say for sure."

"We'll handle it."

You sighed.

"If you're going to do this, you do it clean. No mess. No attention. I meant what I said earlier, I don't need a murder investigation screwing up my supply chain."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "You worried about your supply chain? Right now?"

"Business doesn't stop just because I got stabbed."

Ash snorted. "She's got a point."

He reached for the suture kit again, threading the needle with steady hands. "Don't move. This is gonna sting." You let him work. The first stitch went in, sharp and burning, and your hand found Ash's again. He held on without complaint.

"You know," you said through gritted teeth, staring at the ceiling, "most business partners don't offer to kill people for each other."

"We ain't most business partners," Fez said.

"No. I guess we're not."

Another stitch. Another spike of pain. Ash's grip tightened around your fingers.

"When this is over," you said, "I'm buying you both dinner. Something nice. Not gas station snacks."

"We like gas station snacks."

"Something healthier than gas station snacks."

"That's ain't a high bar," Ash said.

"Shut up."

"You shut up. You're the one who got stabbed."

"I didn't get stabbed. I got cut with a broken bottle. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Absolutely. Stabbing implies precision. This was messy."

Fez tied off the last stitch and sat back on his heels, shaking his head. "You the only person I know who would argue while actively bleeding out."

"Not actively bleeding out anymore. You fixed it." You looked down at the fresh bandage, the neat row of stitches beneath.

He shrugged. "Don't mention it."

"I mean it. Both of you." You looked at Ash, then back at Fez. "I'm not good at this stuff. People doing things for me, actually giving a fuck." You stopped. Swallowed. "You didn't have to do any of this."

Ash let go of your hand and stood, stretching. "Can we stop with the emotional stuff? I'm tryna go to bed. We got a busy day tomorrow."

"Murder is a busy day," you said, shrugging.

"It's on the to-do list." He headed for the door, pausing at the threshold. "Night, Y/n. Don't bleed on the couch. It's ugly enough already."

"Night, Ash."

He disappeared down the hall. Fez lingered, gathering the bloody supplies, tossing them into a trash bag.

"You know he likes you," Fez said quietly. "He don't offer to kill people for just anyone."

You snorted, letting yourself lean back onto the couch. Your head lolled against the ugly floral pillows, watching Fez with somewhat relaxed eyes.

"Didn't think murder was a love language. This business teaches you a lot of things."

He sighed, sitting down next to you. Ignoring the blood smeared into the cushions. The silence, once heavy, was now comfortable. These nights, here in Fez's presence, were normally the most relaxed you got to be.

"Nah. It don't teach you nothing good." He admitted, his eyes finally moving over to you. The weight of his gaze was different now. Softer. He wasn't looking at the wound or the bruises or the blood on your ruined blouse. He was looking at you. Just you.

"Dante taught me a lot," you said quietly. "Some of it was good, some of it wasn't, but he taught me how to survive. I don't know if that's the same thing."

"Survival ain't living."

"You sound like a fortune cookie."

"I'm serious." He shifted on the couch, turning to face you. "You spend too much time survivin' and doin' nothing else. You push away all the real shit about you."

You didn't have an answer for that. You'd been running for so long, running Dante's operation, running from enemies, running from the grief of losing the only father figure you'd ever known, that you'd never stopped to think about what came after. What happened when the running was over.

"Maybe I forgot."

"Forgot what?"

"How to be a person." You swallowed. "Y/n. Whoever that is."

Fez didn't say anything. He just waited patiently and steadily. The way he always was, without being frantic or angry.

"Dante used to say I was born for this," you continued. "Said I had a gift, and I do, I think. I'm really good at this shit. But sometimes I wonder if I'm good at anything else. If there's anything else left."

"There is."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah, I do." He shifted closer, his knee brushing yours. "I seen it. When you're playin' Crash Bandicoot with Ash and you let him win 'cause you know his ego can't take another loss. And you bring those fancy snacks from the organic store even though you know I got a whole aisle of chips right here. You talk about Dante and your voice gets all sappy and shit, like you're still that fifteen-year-old girl he pulled off the street."

"I don't let Ash win. He's just better than me at Crash Bandicoot."

"Bullshit. You let him win every time. I ain't stupid. I notice everything," Fez said, as if reading your mind. "About you. Always have, even the sad shit."

The words hung in the air between you. Heavy. Meaningful. Your heart was beating faster than it should've been for someone who'd just lost a concerning amount of blood. You swallowed hard, feeling his blue eyes on your face. You couldn't ignore how your chest felt. Like when you were in 8th grade and you were meeting up with your crush for your first kiss.

You turned and met his eyes. You thought your heart would explode, but he was just too intoxicating.

"I notice you, too. At first, it was just business. Now it's.." You couldn't finish.

"Personal." He finished for you, his voice a low, solid sound.

Yeah." The word came out barely above a whisper. "Personal."

He didn't move. Didn't push. Just sat there, knee brushing yours, those blue eyes steady and patient. Waiting for you to decide what came next. You both knew what was being said. It was an exchange of unspoken words through the spoken ones. A language that only the two of you understood.

It was in the way he'd taken your gun without flinching. The way he'd stitched you up with hands steadier than any doctor's. The way he'd promised to kill a man for you and meant it. The way he was looking at you now, like you were something precious. Something worth protecting and waiting for, and a language written on a wall that he understood completely.

"Dante always told me there was nothing personal about business." You said quietly.

His lip quirked up a little, that lazy smile that he wore. Usually, when he was high. But there was no weed involved. He was high on something else.

"I don't think this is business no more, ma."

You exhaled, your eyes still on his face. The steadiness on it, the lack of panic. As if he hadn't just signed himself up to kill for you, and wasn't subtly admitting he wanted to be more than business partners. You fought the urge to shudder.

"I'm scared. To be honest." Your voice was small.

"Of what?"

"This," you chuckled breathlessly. "It's dangerous. It's wrong to feel this.. when you're dealing drugs and running around with people who could kill you. This will kill you quicker than any gun."

Fez cleared his throat.

"Like I said before.. Business got you so outta touch. You a real person, not just a distributor," he said, his hands shoved into his pockets, as if to resist touching.

You stared at him. At his hands, buried in his hoodie like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for you. At the tension in his jaw, the way he was fighting every instinct to close the distance between you.

"Dante-"

"Dante's dead." His voice was gentle, but firm. "I ain't tryna be disrespectful. I know he was like a father to you. I know he taught you everything. But he's gone, Y/n. And you're still here, runnin' his operation and killin' it. But you ain't livin'. You're just... survivin'."

"Survival kept me alive."

"Survival kept you alone." He pulled one hand from his pocket, gesturing at the room around them. "Look where you at. It's two in the morning. You got stabbed. You showed up at my store 'cause some part of you knew that this was the safest place you could be. Not a hospital. Not your own crib. Here. With me and Ash." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "That ain't survival. It's some shit you been fightin' 'cause you think it makes you weak."

"What is it, then?"

"Trust." He said it simply. Like it was obvious. "You trust us. You trust me. And that scares you 'cuz you think it's wrong."

You didn't answer. You couldn't. Because he was right. He was right about all of it.

"I ain't gonna lie and say this life ain't dangerous," he continued. "It is. People die, they go to prison. I know that's some scary ass business. But pushin' everyone away don't make you safer. It just makes you lonely. And you been lonely a long time."

"How do you know?"

"'Cause I was too. Before Ash and Rue. And before you." He pulled his other hand from his pocket and reached for you, slow, giving you time to pull away. "I ain't gonna let nothin' happen to you. And I ain't gonna let you push me away 'cause you think carin' about someone is wrong. It's the only thing that makes this shit worth it."

You looked at his outstretched hand. Scarred knuckles. Blunt nails. The hand that had taken your gun, stitched you up and held you steady.

"You're really not gonna let this go, are you?"

"Nope."

"And if I try to push you away?"

"I'mma push back."

"If I tell you it's too dangerous?"

"I'll tell you you're wrong."

"You're annoying," you whispered.

"Yeah. You've mentioned that before."

"I'm serious, Fez. This is-"

"Dangerous, whatever else. I heard you the first time." He still hadn't lowered his hand. "You done?"

"Done?"

"Done listin' reasons we shouldn't do this. 'Cause I got a whole list of reasons we should, and my list is longer."

You shook, but you finally lowered your fingers into his. You intertwined them through his calloused ones, feeling his warmth and feeling the certainty of all his words. His words were comforting, solid, and never panicked. His touch was exactly the same - the most sure thing you'd ever felt.

He looked down at your hand, brushing a small smudge of blood off the back of it. He smoothed a finger over your damaged knuckles.

"'S easy now, right?" He said softly. "Lettin' yourself feel shit instead of fightin'."

You stared at your joined hands, at his thumb tracing gentle circles over your bruised skin. At the way his palm dwarfed yours. At the scars on his hand.

You didn't respond. Instead, you started to cry.

You knew why the tears were gathering. Not because Fez had done something wrong. You were crying because of Dante, you were crying because you got stabbed, and you were crying because your favorite silky white blouse was completely ruined. You took a breath of air, looking up at the ceiling, refusing to let the tears drop from your eyes.

You were crying because you felt safe enough to do it.

"Fuck." You said, a watery, breathless laugh puffing from your lips.

Fez, his face developing a slight frown, gently turned you towards him a bit more.

"You hurtin'?" He was worried about the stab wound. Maybe the bottle had hit something more important than they'd thought.

You sniffled, pressing down on your eyes with the heels of your hands. You almost didn't want to answer. It was so embarrassing, you were worried he wouldn't understand. He wouldn't understand that beneath the distributor was still a girl who cared about her clothes.

"C'mon, ma. Talk to me."

You laughed again, though it was tearful.

"My blouse. It's ruined."

Silence. You couldn't look at him. Couldn't bear to see the confusion, the judgment, the reminder that you were supposed to be tougher than this. You were the boss. The distributor. The girl who'd shot a man twice and driven herself to a convenience store with a hole in her side. And here you were, crying over fabric.

The blouse, ripped and covered in blood, was at the other end of the couch, discarded.

Fez was still quiet, gears turning.

"We can get you a new one. Tomorrow." He said softly. Not judgmental. Not questioning or rude.

Another sniffle, then a sob.

"But that one.. It was designer."

Fez looked at the ruined blouse. Then back at you. His expression didn't change, still soft, still patient, but something flickered in his eyes. Understanding.

"Designer," he repeated. "Like, fancy designer? The kind with the names?"

"The kind with the names," you confirmed, your voice wobbling. "Vintage Dior. Fall 2004 collection. I found it at this little shop in SoHo. The owner didn't know what she had. I paid two hundred dollars for something worth ten times that."

Silence again.

Another string of sobs, embarrassed and full of mixed emotions, dribbled from your lips. Your face was officially wet. Then an arm, nudging you closer.

"Shh, c'mere."

You went. You didn't have the strength to resist, didn't have the walls left to keep him at arm's length. You let him pull you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you careful and warm, mindful of your bandaged ribs. Your face pressed into the soft fabric of his hoodie, and you cried. Really cried. The kind of crying you hadn't done since you were a kid, since before Dante, since before you learned that tears were a luxury you couldn't afford.

He didn't tell you it was okay or that it was just a blouse or that you were being silly. He just held you, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles on your back. His heartbeat was steady under your ear. Solid. Calm.

"I got you," he murmured. "Let it out. I got you."

"I'm sorry," you hiccuped into his chest. "I'm getting snot on your hoodie."

"I got other hoodies."

"It's a nice hoodie."

"It's from Target. Cost me twelve bucks. You can ruin ten of 'em if you want."

A watery laugh escaped you. "Target doesn't sell twelve-dollar hoodies."

"Okay, it was fifteen. You caught me." His hand smoothed over your hair.

You let yourself cry for the blouse and the broken bottle and the two years of loneliness. For Dante, who'd never see what you'd built. For the girl you'd been at fifteen. For every night you'd patched yourself up alone. And for the fact that you weren't alone anymore.

And through all of it, Fez held you. Steady. Patient. A solid anchor in the storm.

When the sobs finally faded into hiccups, you pulled back just enough to look up at him. His hoodie was damp. His eyes were soft. He reached up and wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

"Better?" he asked.

"A little." You sniffled. "My face is a mess."

"You look beautiful."

"I have mascara all over my cheeks."

"Yeah. Beautiful."

"You're lying."

"I ain't never lied to you." He said it simply. Like it was a fact. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Not once. Not gonna start now."

You stared at him. At the freckles. The scar. The steady blue eyes that had seen straight through every wall you'd ever built.

"What did I do to deserve you?" you whispered.

"Nah." He shook his head. "That's my line."

You turned slightly to wipe your face, smudging your mascara further.

"I should let you sleep. You and Ash have shit to do tomorrow."

Fez looked down at you, cradled in his arms like an injured bird. He looked over at the blood soaked blouse, and immediately, his mind was made.

"You ain't driving home tonight."

You scoffed, a small smirk forming on your face.

"This is a business partnership. You're not my boss." You asserted, although weakly.

Fez hummed, still rubbing soft circles into your back. "Told you it ain't business no more. And Ash swiped your car keys earlier, so you ain't leavin' anyway."

You pulled back just enough to stare at him, your mouth falling open. "He what?"

"Swiped your keys. When he sat down next to you. Kid's got quick hands. Learned from his grandma."

"That little-" You looked toward the hallway where Ash had disappeared, then back at Fez. The smirk on his face was infuriatingly calm. "You were never gonna let me leave."

"Guilty."

You rolled your eyes. "Why?"

"I want you to stay where I can see you." He said it without embarrassment, without hesitation. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. "You're hurtin', not as strong. Somebody's still out there who wants to hurt you more. If you're here, I know you're safe. That's all."

You looked at him. At the steady certainty in his eyes. At the way his arm was still wrapped around you, holding you close but not too tight. At the ugly plaid couch and the flickering TV and the stacks of inventory lining the walls. You softened.

"You have anywhere for me to sleep besides the bloody couch?" You said quietly, but not angrily, giving up on fighting.

He cleared his throat. "I can take it. You can have my room. 'Long as you don't mind guns. A lot of 'em."

"I'm not kicking you out of your bed."

"You ain't kickin' me out. I'm offerin'." He shifted, already moving to stand. "C'mon. I'll show you where it is. Got clean sheets and everything. Put 'em on last week."

You frowned. "You're really giving me your bed."

"Yeah."

"And you're gonna sleep on the couch."

"Yeah."

"On the bloody couch."

"I'll throw a towel over it. It'll be fine." He wiggled his fingers. "You gonna take my hand, or we gonna debate furniture all night?"

You took his hand. He pulled you up gently, careful of your ribs, steadying you when you swayed slightly on your feet.

"Easy," he murmured. "You lost a lot of blood. Don't need you passin' out on me."

"I'm not gonna pass out."

He led you down the hallway, past the bathroom and what you assumed was Ash's room, door closed, no light underneath, to the last door at the end. His room was simple. A bed with a plain navy comforter, a nightstand with a lamp and a book you couldn't quite make out in the dim light, a closet with the door slightly ajar. True to his word, there were guns. A shotgun propped in the corner. A handgun on the nightstand. A rifle mounted on the wall above the bed.

"Told you," he said, following your gaze. "Lot of 'em."

"I'm not intimidated by guns, Fez."

"I know you're not. Just warnin' you in case you rolled over and got a face full of barrel."

"Your pillow talk needs work."

He laughed, a warm sound you'd gotten used to. You didn't know it was only for you.

"Shit, I'll remember for next time."

The implication hung in the air. Next time. Like there would be a next time. Like this wasn't a one-off, an emergency, a favor he was doing for a business associate.

"You're very sure of yourself," you said quietly.

"'Bout some things. Yeah." He pulled back the comforter, revealing the clean sheets he'd promised. "Bathroom's the next door down. There's a clean shirt on the dresser if you want somethin' to sleep in. It's gonna be huge on you, but it's better than-" He gestured vaguely at your ruined blouse.

"Better than sleeping in a bloody Dior?"

"For sure."

You stood in the doorway, suddenly very aware that you were in his bedroom. His space. Surrounded by his things, his guns, his books, his clean sheets. You felt awful. This was his space, and you were taking it up.

You couldn't let him sleep on the dirty couch.

"Fez."

He turned back, one eyebrow raised. "Yeah?"

"You're not sleeping on the couch."

"It's fine. I've slept on worse. Slept in the back of the Cadillac once. Couch is luxury compared to that."

"There's blood on it. That's disgusting."

"I'mma throw a towel down. Told you that already, ma."

Silence for a moment. You stood there staring at each other.

"Fezco," you said, preparing yourself for the move you were about to make. "Sleep with me. Please? I.. I don't want to sleep alone."

The words hung in the air between you. Vulnerable. Raw. Nothing like the polished, put-together distributor who'd walked into his store months ago in six-inch heels and a pink trench coat. This was just you. Asking for what you needed. Terrified he might say no.

Fez's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. Softened. Deepened.

"You sure?"

"I wouldn't ask if I wasn't."

He held your gaze for a beat longer. Then he nodded, slow and steady.

"Aight." He pushed off the doorframe and walked back toward the bed. "Which side you want?"

"Don't care. Just want you to stay."

"I'm stayin'." He pulled back the comforter on the left side and climbed in, then held it open for you. "C'mon. Before you fall over. You're swayin' a little."

You were. The exhaustion and blood loss were catching up, making the edges of your vision blur. You slid into the right side of the bed, hyper-aware of the warmth of him inches away, the clean scent of his sheets, the gun on the nightstand glinting in the dim light.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You lay there side by side, staring at the ceiling, the silence stretching. Then, you turned towards him, shifting up. He did the same, face-to-face. His warmth spread closer to you.

You broke the silence.

"Your eyes are pretty."

He blinked. Then, slowly, that lazy smile spread across his face. The one you'd come to know. The one that made your chest feel too tight and too warm all at once.

"You hittin' on me, ma?"

"Maybe." You were too tired to deflect, too drained to put the walls back up. "Is it working?"

"Yeah." His voice was softer now. Lower. "It's workin'."

"Good."

The space between you felt electric. His face was inches from yours, close enough that you could count his freckles if you wanted to. Close enough that you could see the way his pupils had widened, the way his gaze kept dropping to your mouth and then back up to your eyes.

"You got pretty eyes too," he said quietly. "Always thought so. Since that first night. You stepped out the car and looked at me and I thought.." He paused.

"What?"

"I thought, 'Damn. That's gonna be a problem.'"

"A problem?"

"Mmhmm. 'Cause I knew right then. You were gonna mess up my whole life." His hand found yours under the covers again. "And I was right. You messed it all up. I was fine before you. Just business. Just me and Ash. And then you showed up with your pink heels, your glittery ass gun and your organic snacks and now I'm plannin' a murder, shoppin' for vintage blouses and sharin' my bed for the first time in-" He stopped and thought. "Ever, actually. Never shared my bed before."

"Never?"

"Never wanted to. Not 'til you."

You stared at him. This man who'd killed people. Who'd raised a child that wasn't his. Who'd built an empire in a convenience store and still found time to buy granola just in case you were hungry when you showed up. Who was looking at you like you were the most precious thing he'd ever held.

"I must be a really special girl." You said softly, cool breath fanning over his face.

"For real. You don't know how special, ma."

Your heart stuttered. The way he said it, not like a line, not like flattery. Like a fact. Like he was stating something obvious, something undeniable, something he'd known for a long time and was just now getting around to saying out loud. You couldn't even speak, your chest squeezed so hard you felt like your heart might explode.

"Y/n?" He saif, gruff voice gentle.

".. Yeah?" You managed.

"Gonna kiss you now. That okay?"

You didn't answer with words. You just nodded, a small, breathless movement, your eyes never leaving his.

He leaned in slow. Giving you time to change your mind. To pull back. To put the walls up one last time. But you didn't. You stayed exactly where you were, heart pounding, ribs aching, feeling more alive than you had in years.

His lips encased yours. There was no desperation, like you'd drunkenly had before with some random man outside of a bar. It was soft and deliberate, like worship and reverence. His hand came up to gently cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek and tilting your face to just slightly fit against his. He kissed you with no rush, like there was all the time in the world to do this. Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be. Because truthfully, there wasn't.

You shifted closer, a manicured hand pressing against his chest. His heart thumped against it, steady. He smelled like woody aftershave and clean laundry and gunpowder. He made a sound low in his throat, something between a sigh and a hum, and it was the best thing you'd ever heard.

He was gentle with your body, his hand avoiding your bandages. He rubbed your back, gripping the t-shirt hanging loosely off your body. When he finally pulled back, his forehead came to rest against yours. His eyes stayed closed for a moment, his breath warm against your lips.

"Gotta be careful with you," he said, his voice low. "You ain't healed up yet. Not even close."

You could still feel the ghost of his lips on yours, the gentle pressure of his hand on your back. Your heart was racing, your skin tingling everywhere he'd touched.

"I'm not made of glass, Fez."

"I know you ain't. You're a tough girl." He opened his eyes, pulling back just enough to look at you. "But you got stabbed tonight and lost a shit tonna blood. I ain't about to be the guy who hurts you more 'cause he couldn't keep his hands to himself."

"You weren't hurting me."

He chuckled. "Could never. Not a chance. That's why we had to stop for the night."

You whined, flopping back against the pillows. He found you under the covers, putting a warm hand back around your waist.

"You gonna be fine. You lived through worse." He shifted closer, his chest pressing against your shoulder. "You want me to feel bad for bein' responsible?"

"I want you to feel bad for being a tease."

"I ain't a tease. I'm a gentleman who ain't gonna rip your stitches back open."

"You're annoying."

"You mentioned that. Lotta times tonight."

"Because it's the truth. Hot, but annoying."

He laughed, low and warm, his breath fanning over your hair. "You know what I think?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"I think you're just mad 'cause for the first time in your life, somebody's takin' care of you instead of the other way around. And you don't know what to do with it."

You opened your mouth to argue. Closed it. He wasn't wrong. God, he wasn't wrong.

"Now go to sleep, mama. We got shit to handle tomorrow."

And for the first time in two years, you fell asleep without fear. Quickly, surrounded by warmth and certainty. You even slept through the night, without a single nightmare.

When the morning light began to filter through the curtains, you even slept through that. However, you didn't sleep through Ashtray walking in.

"Yo, Fez, where's the -- what the fuck?"

You pulled the blankets over your head, groaning.

"Ash, man." Fez's voice was thick with sleep, but still somehow calm. You felt him shift beside you, the mattress dipping. "The hell you doin' bargin' in here?"

You heard a loud snort.

"I fuckin' knew it. I knew you two were feelin' each other!"

"Lower your voice. She's sleepin'."

"She's clearly awake, she just pulled the blankets over her head like a turtle." Footsteps. Then Ash's voice, closer now, directed at the lump of blankets that was you. "Y/n. I know you're awake."

You, sensing your defeat, came out from under the blankets. Ash's eyes widened further.

"In his clothes, too. That's wild, the Wu-Tang shirt," he said, an amused grin forming on his face. "My brother is dating his whole ass supplier!"

"It's not-we're not-" You looked to Fez for help. He was absolutely no help. He was lying back against the pillows, one arm behind his head, watching the whole thing with a lazy smile.

"Ash," Fez said calmly, "you gonna stand there and roast us all morning, or you gonna let my girlfriend sleep?"

Girlfriend. The word hit you square in the chest. You turned to stare at him. He met your eyes, that smile still playing at his lips, and shrugged.

"What? Too soon?"

"No, I just.." You blinked. "We didn't exactly define anything last night. There was a lot of blood."

"Consider it defined, ma."

Ash snorted.

"No way out now, girl. I knew it like, a month ago. You were hella close on the couch, making goo-goo eyes at each other."

"We were not making goo-goo eyes," you protested weakly.

"You definitely were. Fez would pass you the blunt and your fingers would touch and you'd both just-" Ash made a face, half disgusted, half delighted. "Stare at each other for like five seconds. Every time. Rue noticed it too. We had a whole conversation about it."

"You and Rue talk about us?"

"Someone has to. You two clearly weren't talkin' about it yourselves." He crunched a chip, a purple bag in his hand. "You're welcome, by the way."

"For what?"

"For stealin' your keys last night. If I hadn't, you woulda driven home and bled out on your fancy apartment floor and none of this-" He gestured broadly at the bed, the two of you, the situation in general. "-woulda happened. So technically, I'm the reason you're together. You owe me."

"We owe you, bruh?" Fez raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah. Big time. I'm thinkin' a new PlayStation game. Or maybe a car when I turn sixteen."

"You're fourteen."

"Fifteen in March. Never too early to start plannin'."

"Ash." Fez's voice was firm, but there was no real heat behind it. "Get out, man. Start breakfast and we can make a deal later."

"Fine. But this ain't over." He pointed a Takis-stained finger at you. "Y/n, you're my favorite supplier. Don't break his heart or I'll have to kill you. And I don't wanna kill you 'cause you bring those fancy snacks."

"Noted."

"Cool. Welcome to the family." He turned and headed for the door, calling over his shoulder: "Pancakes in ten. Don't do anything gross while I'm gone. The walls are thin and I've already seen enough."

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

You'd never been happier.

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