Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stelle has been working at Halovian Enterprises for two weeks, and she’s already making a name for herself—as a disaster.

She has been trying to get fired. Really, truly, actively trying. Not only is corporate life not for her, she thought if she messed up badly enough, her employer would simply cut her loose and she’d be free. After all, it would be the biggest Fuck you to Himeko and Welt, her former professors who have so kindly landed her a job in one of the biggest corporate empires in the continent after graduating, if she just quit on her own.

You might be thinking, isn't it more embarrassing if she gets fired? No, no it's not. At least not by Stelle's logic, anyway. Giving up and being forced to give up are two different things, and while Stelle's mother tried really hard to not raise a quitter, she might have failed miserably along the way somewhere. So, fired she will get. It should be easy, right?

Right.

Her first week goes as bad as anyone would expect from someone who's trying to get the boot, except, they're obviously not expecting that from her. What they expect is impeccable work, punctual arrival, and obedience to company rules. Her references are perfect, after all—Nobody here got hired without an interview, except for Stelle, and her senior manager is aware of the connections she has to the important people of the field. So, based on that, he is very, very patient with her, and Stelle wishes he wasn't. Really, all that does is make her life more difficult. 

Her tasks for the first week are not that difficult. Just the usual onboarding checklist: Attend orientation sessions, read company policies and sign off on them, set up her work email and internal communication accounts, watch a few pre-recorded videos on branding guidelines, and begin drafting simple posts for social media under supervision.

Simple, mundane, foolproof. The kind of things a first-year intern could handle with one hand tied behind their back. So, of course, Stelle finds a way to completely ruin them.

On her first day, she is given a company laptop. She stares at it with deep-seated loathing, as if it has personally wronged her. In a way, it has. She kind of wants to bang her head on it, before deciding against it. She's trying to get fired, not institutionalized. 

"Go ahead and set up your email," her senior manager, Dudley tells her–honestly, what kind of name is that? "It should already be linked. Just follow the instructions in the IT packet."

She does not do that. Instead, she somehow—somehow—misses every single instruction and locks herself out of the system by attempting the wrong password too many times. Then, when IT resets it for her, she promptly forgets to verify her account within the 24-hour window, so the whole thing gets deactivated.

By the end of the day, she has gone through three different passwords, two IT tickets, and an exasperated call from the head of IT, who sounds like he's seriously considering firing Stelle himself, if he had the authority to do so.

Mr. Dudley just sighs. "Alright. We'll try again tomorrow."

Stelle grins. Progress. She will be out of here in no time.

On her second day, onboarding requires her to read the company policies and sign an acknowledgment form. This would be easy, except Stelle refuses to read anything longer than a paragraph on principle. So, naturally, she scrolls to the bottom and clicks I agree without so much as glancing at a single guideline. This is all well and good—until she reaches the short comprehension test meant to ensure that new hires actually read the policies.

She doesn’t just fail. She bombs it. Spectacularly.

One of the questions asks, "What is the proper procedure for requesting leave?" Stelle answers: "Ask nicely."

Another question: "What is the company's policy on data privacy?" Stelle of course knows the proper answer—but she is not trying to be proper here, so, she simply types: "Don't be weird with it."

It takes approximately five minutes for Mr. Dudley to receive a flagged notification about her results.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "You…didn't even try, did you?"

She shrugs. "I skimmed."

"Did you?"

"No."

Another sigh. "Retake it. Now."

Surely, they will fire her tomorrow.

Except, they do not. She somehow, by some HR miracle, manages to make it to the end of her first week. And even after so many failures, she is given her first actual assignment: draft a simple social media post based on pre-approved messaging templates. She is literally just supposed to copy and paste, maybe change a few words for variety.

Instead, she decides to get creative.

The company’s branding is supposed to be professional, sleek, and polished. What Stelle turns in reads like a drunken tweet from someone who is moments away from getting one million call-out posts drafted on them by the time they wake up, and approximately a 7/15k retweet/quote ratio. In a sense, she is kind of rage-baiting in real life, isn't she? That's awesome, honestly. She's posting really well, and she's not even on Twitter. This should be a piece of cake.

The original template they give her is simple: "Experience innovation like never before. Our latest software update ensures seamless integration and top-tier performance. Upgrade today!"

Boring, ugly, bad. She smiles wickedly, and types in: "You ever feel like your software is just straight-up betraying you? We fixed that. Maybe. Update and find out."

When she is called to Mr. Dudley's office, and he reads it aloud, he makes a sound that is physically painful.

"Stelle."

"Yes, Mr. Dudley?"

"What is this?"

She tilts her head innocently. "Marketing."

He runs a hand over his face. "Stelle, we are a billion-dollar corporation."

"And I'm appealing to the relatable market."

"This isn’t a startup with five guys in a garage—this is a professional enterprise. You cannot imply that our software might not work."

"Why not? It’s honest."

His eye twitches. "Fix it."

She fixes nothing. The post disappears without a trace, though.

By the end of her second week, poor Mr. Dudley is visibly exhausted. She is not only causing issues with her tasks—she's practically destroying everything in the office; the machines, the order, the calm, no matter how suffocating it used to feel. The printer is jammed and oozing ink from parts Stelle didn't even know existed, the reports are misfiled so thoroughly that the accounting department nearly had a breakdown, her emails are somehow sent in the spam box every time, the coffee she made tasted like mud and a bunch of dirt, if Mr. Dudley's sour face was anything to go by.

He doesn't understand why HR hasn’t come knocking, or why she wasn’t personally dragged out of the building. But, strangely, despite every single blunder, she is still here. 

It's only a matter of time, she thinks, and bites into her sandwich in the lunchroom, along with a few coworkers that are also waiting for her to get fired, as well, if the looks they're giving her are anything to go by. Well, honestly, fair. She'll make it up to them, as soon as she gets what she wants.

When she's done with her food, she gets up to pour herself some coffee, and is midway through adding an excessive amount of creamer to it, because if she’s going to suffer through this job, she’s at least going to enjoy her sweet caffeine, when the email pings on her laptop screen she left open on the table.

It's from Sunday Oak himself, the subject is a meeting request—well, a meeting order, and it's in his personal office.

The break room goes silent.

Heads turn. Even Dudley, who has been keeping a close eye on her from the corner, stops mid-sip and visibly tenses. 

Sunday doesn’t request meetings. Not with new hires. Executives? Sure. Department heads? Occasionally. But a two-week-old employee from the marketing department? Never.

Stelle barely suppresses her grin. 

Finally. This has to be it. The moment she’s been waiting for. There’s no way in hell the CEO himself would be dealing with this if it weren’t about her termination. She sets her coffee down, straightens up with an almost theatrical stretch, and looks over at Mr. Dudley.

"If I don’t come back, assume I’m dead."

Mr. Dudley stares at her with the hollowed-out eyes of a man who has seen entirely too much. She almost winces at how exhausted he looks—He's been fixing her mistakes for the past two weeks, after all. Stelle will apologize to him, too. Soon. "If you don’t come back, I’ll assume you got exactly what you wanted."

Stelle grins. "Exactly."

Finally. Finally! It’s happening. The grand moment. The culmination of two weeks of absolute, utter nonsense. She all but skips to the top floor, grinning ear to ear.

She’s never been fired before. This is going to be so fun.

When she arrives, the office is as pristine as she imagined. Immaculate, elegant, not a single thing out of place. Sunlight filters through the massive windows, casting sharp lines across the floor. A minimalist royal blue, white and gold aesthetic dominates the space—cool, composed, and entirely impersonal.

Just like the man sitting behind the desk.

Sunday looks up when she steps inside, gaze sweeping over her with a kind of detached curiosity. He’s poised, neatly dressed in an overly detailed white suit, gloved hands folded over some papers that don’t look remotely related to her performance, and—are those cross cut-outs?

She stands there with an air of nonchalance that hasn't been seen since the invention of paper, and waits. But he doesn’t speak right away. He just…looks at her. That’s the first thing that throws her off.

She expected something cold, something scathing like—You’re a disgrace to this company, do you even know how to operate basic office equipment? I’ve never seen someone ruin so much in so little time—but instead, he just watches her. Sweeps his gaze over her like a spring wind. Calmly. Curiously. Like she’s some kind of puzzle piece he’s turning over in his mind, wondering which part will fit. Into where, she's not sure. Definitely not in this company, though.

"Have a seat, Miss Stelle," He says at last, voice smooth. Soothing. She didn't expect him to sound like that.

Stelle hesitates, but sits, placing her hands on her lap. She was so giddy just before coming here, why is she nervous all of a sudden?

As if to make it worse, he gives a long, deliberate pause, and leans back slightly, tilting his head. "How do you like it here?"

What? 

Stelle blinks, caught entirely off-guard. "What?" She echoes. 

"Your job," He says simply. "How do you find it?"

She was expecting termination, scolding, hell, maybe even getting blacklisted from the industry altogether, not small talk. Is there something wrong with him?

"It’s, uhh… fine," She says slowly, choosing her words with the same care someone might use when handling live explosives. Or baby spider eggs. Ah, why did she even think of that? She suppresses a shiver.

Oblivious to her inner thoughts ,his gaze sharpens. "Fine?"

"Yep. Totally fine."

Another pause. His fingers tap against the desk in a rhythm of four plus one. He doesn't leave it at just four. Weird. "Your work is subpar at best."

Okay, there it is. Stelle smirks. "Yeah?"

"You’ve missed deadlines, failed onboarding tests, and single-handedly disrupted three different departments in under two weeks."

She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. "And yet I’m still here. Weird, isn’t it?"

His lips curl just slightly, too slight to be a smirk, but very close to one. It unsettles her all the same. "It is."

She doesn't know what else to say. The air between them is thick with tension, and Stelle is starting to feel very nervous. Of the thread snapping and hitting her right in the face. Metaphorically, of course. There aren't even any threads here. Are you stupid, Stelle? Focus. She tilts her head to look at him.

Then as soon as their eyes meet, out of nowhere, Sunday asks, "Do you live alone?"

Stelle stares. Shifts in her seat. What? "Is that relevant?"

"Humor me."

"Yeah, I do. Why?"

Instead of answering, he asks again, "Do you cook?"

"What? No."

He hums. "That explains a few things."

Excuse me? "What the hell does that mean?"

Sunday doesn’t explain. He just watches her with that same unreadable expression, as if he’s slowly, meticulously piecing her together.

She suddenly feels very seen—not in the way people usually see her, all surface-level and shallow, but in a way that makes her feel like he’s already drawn conclusions about her before she’s even understood the question. Like there are layers to her that she isn't aware of the existence of, only the fact that he's peeling them. 

It’s unnerving.

She clears her throat. "Look, if this is about firing me, you can just—"

"I’m not firing you." 

Stelle blinks. "What?"

Sunday’s voice remains infuriatingly calm. "You’re not being fired."

"But—I—why not?"

Sunday leans forward slightly, elbows on the desk. His gaze is sharp, piercing, cutting straight through her. "That’s what I’m trying to figure out, Miss Stelle. Mr. Yang has vouched for you in a way I've never heard him talk about before. And he is a very important business partner to us. So," He smiles. "Where is that wonderful girl I've heard about? Surely, he was not mistaken?"

There’s something about the way he says it, the way he asks 'where is that wonderful girl' as if she's some unruly child, the way he looks at her, that makes her feel like she’s been pinned in place by her skin. Like she’s under a microscope. 

She shifts in her seat, irritated by how flustered she suddenly feels. 

Of course Professor Yang had only good things to say about her. I'm sorry, professor, she apologizes to the imaginary Welt Yang in her head, and takes a deep breath. "Well," she mutters, looking anywhere but at him. "Uh."

Sunday waits. She remains silent—what even is she supposed to say? She can't tell him the truth. Some more moments pass, and they are entirely too long.

"How eloquent," He sighs eventually. His voice is low and melodic, carrying a faint amusement that makes her stomach twist—like an instrument playing a note too deep for human ears. 

Sunday watches her once more in silence, fingers steepled beneath his chin. There’s a quality to his stillness that’s unsettling, like a wild animal waiting to see which way its prey will run. Except he’s not moving at all, and she’s not running, so why does it feel like she’s still being chased?

His long, silver-blue hair falls in sleek strands around his face, one that looks like it belongs in Renaissance oil paintings—high cheekbones, flawless, almost too-perfect skin, and sharp, neatly shaped brows that only make his golden eyes more piercing when they settle on her. Is this really the aura of a CEO? No, It can't be. Every CEO she's ever seen has been an ugly, terrible loser devoid of morals. Maybe that's where Sunday was nerfed, and she doesn't know yet. Maybe he's conservative. 

Well, no, he probably isn't. Don't they find wearing earrings too feminine? Her gaze falls on those upon the thought forming in her head. The soft flicker of sunlight catches on the delicate gold of his earring, small ornaments swaying faintly with his movements. It should look gaudy, but it really doesn’t. It suits him in the same way the pristine, almost holy white of his suit does, a contrast to the quiet, measured way he speaks.

"Would you like some water?" he asks suddenly, and the sheer mundanity of it nearly makes her glitch. And snaps her out of her thoughts. She was probably staring, wasn't she? Keep it together, Stelle.

"What?"

He inclines his head. "You seem uncomfortable."

"Yeah, because you're acting like a Bond villain."

Sunday exhales a quiet laugh, tilting his head slightly. The movement draws her attention to the sharp angle of his jaw, the way his long lashes dip over gold. "Oh? Am I?"

"Yes," She deadpans. "You dragged me up here, asked me the strangest questions, and now you're just...staring at me."

"You find it strange to be looked at?"

"By you? Yes."

His mouth curls, just a little. The subtle movement tugs at the softness of his lower lip, and Stelle catches herself staring before she violently pushes the thought away. No. No. She glares at him instead.

Sunday simply watches, looking entirely unbothered. And worse—amused. His mouth curls just slightly at that, and it's starting to piss her off how entertained he seems. But then, his gaze drops to the way she’s gripping the arms of her chair, knuckles taut against her skin, and something shifts. He looks at her as though she’s given something away, though she doesn’t know what.

He sits back, and for the first time, there’s a note of finality to it, like he’s reached a conclusion about her that she’s not privy to. "I’ll be watching your progress closely, Miss Stelle."

She narrows her eyes. "So you’re not firing me."

"I’ve already said as much."

"But I want to be fired."

"And yet," Sunday’s tone dips into something warm, almost teasing, "here you are."

Her stomach twists. There it is again—that feeling like she’s being caught in something, like he knows something she doesn’t.

"I don't like working here," She says, a last attempt at convincing him. What even is his problem?

His gaze flickers over her face. "No, I don't imagine you do." His desk is empty except for his interlaced fingers and an untouched cup of tea. Sunday leans forward, folding his hands neatly. “But I do wonder—What will you do next?”

She stares. "Huh?"

"You seem to be very creative," He continues, voice smooth, almost hypnotic. "Most employees who wish to be fired simply stop showing up. But you keep returning, finding new ways to fail." His smile widens just a hair too much. "You’re not lazy. You’re not incompetent. You’re…testing me."

What.

"I—no, I’m not," Stelle argues. "I really do suck at this. The work is boring. I don’t wanna do it."

Sunday tilts his head, eyes glinting. "Then why don't you quit?"

The office is too quiet. Her fingers curl on her lap. She has no answer.

Sunday chuckles, way too pleased with himself. "Let’s keep playing, then."

She swallows. The words settle between them, heavier than they should be. His presence in the room is so oppressive that Stelle feels his gaze oozing into her skin, invading her pores and her face twitches involuntarily, a reaction so small she almost convinces herself it didn’t happen, but Sunday is still watching her like he saw it anyway.

The silence stretches. Stelle stands up abruptly. "I’m leaving."

"You haven’t been dismissed."

"I don't care," She snaps, before spinning on her heel and marching for the door.

She feels his gaze on her the entire way out, and she hates that it lingers.

He wants to play? Fine. She will play.

Chapter Text

The days that follow are an exercise in patience.

For the first time in a long time, Stelle finds herself at a loss—not because she doesn’t know what to do, but because her usual antics aren’t getting her the reaction she wants. She screws up reports, ignores important emails, 'accidentally' sets the marketing budget to $500,000 instead of $50,000, and yet, no termination letter lands on her desk. No security escorting her out. Not even an angry email.

She gets a single message on a Sunday evening—how funny—sent from Mr. Dudley. Poor guy.

"Your new onboarding mentor is Mr. Sunday. Report to him at 10 AM."

Her stomach drops. What the hell. No, not poor guy. Traitor. Did he really drop her in the jaws of the lion, just like that? What the hell! No, no, no. 

She quickly texts him back: You're abandoning me...?

What she receives sounds so exhausted that Stelle almost kind of feels bad for the guy. Almost. 'My apologies, Miss Stelle. What Mr. Sunday says, goes. I wish you the best of luck. You will need it.'

Stelle frowns. Great. Now Dudley is scaring her too. 'At least this should make it easier to get fired, right?'

Text bubble that indicates he's typing appears, then disappears, repeating a few times. Stelle chews on her lip. Eventually, her phone dings again. 'Good luck, Miss Stelle. You will definitely need it.' 

Why the hell was he typing that he had to discard it and settle on wishing her extra luck? Sunday can't be that bad, right? Surely not.

She opens up her laptop, and gives her best friends a video call. Only they can soothe her, if at all.

When they pick up, the conversation goes as it always does—March tells them about her new modeling projects, goes on and on about things that don't really matter, but of course they matter to Stelle and Dan Heng and Dan Heng, well, he is still in university on the account of wanting a higher degree, so his life is not that novel, really, except for his scary ex that wants him dead for some reason. 

When it's her turn to update on her life, she promptly tells them everything about her first two weeks, and the text conversation she just had with her senior manager and trainer—former trainer. She's still mad at the traitor. Or...she would be, if she was five years old. She sighs to herself.

The moment she breaks the news of the CEO himself personally coming down to train her and complete her onboarding, March practically squeals. As if it's something to be excited about.

"You're kidding," She whispers, eyes wide with barely contained glee. "He's actually training you?"

Stelle slumps on her desk like she’s just been sentenced to life in prison. "Unfortunately."

Dan Heng, who has spent the past few of their calls studying at the same with an admirable level of dedication, looks up from his notes and at the camera. "Why would the CEO personally onboard you?"

"That’s what I said!" Stelle groans, burying her face in her arms. "Why me? Why this?"

"Stelle, what did you do?"

"I don’t know!" She throws her hands up, exasperated. "I don’t want this. Dan Heng, come and save me."

"You're on your own."

"I never liked you anyway," She sticks her tongue out to the camera, a completely juvenile action that she would only allow herself with these two, and addresses March next. "March, save me." Dan Heng rolls his eyes.

"Princess March, to the rescue!" March fists the air, the screen turning a bit grainy from the sudden action. Stelle smiles. So cute, her little March. 

Dan Heng sighs, going back to clicking away on his keyboard and analyzing his notes. Seriously, how can he talk and retain information? "So," He gets back on topic. "In other words, you played stupid games, and now you’re winning stupid prizes."

Stelle groans again at the reminder of her predicament, dropping her head back onto her desk with a thud. "You guys are supposed to comfort me. I'm leaving."

"Come on," March raises a hand in front of the camera. "He can't be that bad. Is he ugly?"

"Why does that matter?" Stelle asks, incredulous. Of course March would ask that.

"So he is not bad to look at," Dan Heng cuts in without looking at the camera.

Stelle's fault for even calling these two goofballs, really.

Dan Heng’s gaze finally meets the camera, his expression indifferent. "Your silence only confirms that you do not find him unattractive," He continues, his voice a little dry. "I’m guessing he’s at least decent-looking. CEOs don’t get to be ugly."

March giggles on the window next to his. "Dan Heng, every CEO we've ever seen is ugly. Do you live under a rock or what?"

"Just google Sunday Oak," Stelle sighs, stirring her overly sweet coffee next to her laptop.

March and Dan Heng do exactly that. And what follows is several moments of silence, which is enough to make Stelle shift in her seat.

March is the first to recover. "No way."

Dan Heng exhales sharply. "I see."

Stelle narrows her eyes. "What?"

March leans closer to the camera, practically vibrating with excitement. "You have to work under him?"

"Unfortunately."

March lets out a laugh. "Stelle," She drags out the syllables, eyes glinting with the thrill of gossip. Typical March. "He looks like he belongs in a luxury brand campaign. And he's training you? Personally?"

Stelle takes a slow sip of her coffee, unbothered. "And?"

"And? And?! Many girls would kill to have a man like that breathing down their neck while they worked!" March declares. "Dan Heng! You're gay, support me!"

Dan Heng shakes his head in quiet exasperation. "March."

"I'm just saying! If I was into guys, I'd definitely be elated," March waves a hand, grinning at the screen. "You're actually winning good prizes, Stelle. Why are you mad?"

Because it’s him, she thinks bitterly.

Because of the way he looks at her, like she’s something to be studied, something to be corrected. Because he never gets angry. Never raises his voice. Because no matter what she does, he does not react the way he’s supposed to. He is unpredictable in his stillness. Or whatever that means. She's sure she heard that somewhere before, maybe in some corny tumblr post years ago.

She slams her coffee down. "You guys are so unhelpful."

March only hums, smug. "I just think it’s interesting."

Dan Heng, who has been watching Stelle with mild amusement, finally sighs. "You should at least try to learn something."

Stelle scowls. "I am learning."

"Yeah? What?"

"How to get fired."

March dissolves into laughter, and Dan Heng shakes his head in exasperation.

Stelle promptly ends the call after grumbling about how horrible they are, but not without responding to March's farewell kiss and Dan Heng's good night wish.

Next morning, she basically drags herself out of her bad, as she's been doing for the past three weeks. She takes the train to her awful corporate job that her annoying boss probably comes to with his stupid luxury car, and she gets even more annoyed at the thought that he is more comfortable than she'll ever be. 

As soon as she settles on her desk, she feels a shadow looming over her like she is in some terrible multiplayer horror game remake and her camera sensitivity is fucked, her mic isn't working, and some rando is calling her slurs. That's what it feels like.

Sunday doesn’t summon her to his office. No, that would be too normal. Instead, he appears beside her desk like some eldritch abomination, entirely too composed, too immaculate, too him. His white suit is pristine, his expression unreadable, and his golden eyes settle on her with the weight of an unspoken verdict. All in all, his presence prickles her skin. 

"Come," He says, voice smooth, carrying that same unshakable authority from the other day. No hello, no good morning. Just a simple demand.

Stelle stares at him, then at her coworkers, then back at him. Does he think she's a dog? "What." She replies flatly.

"You have onboarding to complete."

Her coworkers are gaping. She hears someone out of her vision inhale sharply like they're witnessing a historical event. Can they stop listening and come save her?

"You—You're actually serious," Stelle says, half-horrified.

Sunday doesn’t respond. He merely turns on his heel and begins walking. And despite every bone in her body telling her not to, she finds herself following.

He doesn’t take her to his office. He takes her to hers, apparently? She gets an entire room? 

"Wow. Is this mine?" She looks around the pristine, seemingly unused office room.

Sunday stares at her from the door. "Very ambitious, Miss Stelle. But no. This is the only way I can supervise you alone. It was simply vacant," He gestures towards her chair. "Sit."

So it's not her own. Whatever. Stelle remains standing. "What did I do to deserve this?"

"You almost set the office on fire," Sunday says flatly.

"That was an accident."

"You approved a budget that could have bankrupted the department."

"Also an accident."

"You misspelled 'marketing' in an official company-wide email."

Stelle scowls. "Okay, that one was on purpose."

Sunday exhales through his nose, as if summoning patience from a divine source. "Sit, Miss Stelle."

Something in his voice makes her sit before she even realizes she’s obeyed. She curses under her breath. He really, really needs to stop using that tone with her. And she needs to get some self-respect, probably.

Predictably, to no one's surprise, the next hour is pure, distilled agony.

Sunday lingers behind her as she works, watching over her shoulder with an exasperation so tangible she can feel it pressing down on her like a hydraulic press. She promptly hopes he gets caught in one, and continues to work begrudgingly. Every time she makes a mistake—every single time—she hears the quietest sigh, the subtle tap of gloved fingers against the desk, the barely-audible hum of disapproval.

"You’re doing it wrong," He says.

"Thanks, I know."

He leans closer, and she catches the faintest scent of something clean and expensive. Subtle cologne, maybe. It's not that subtle when he's all up in her space like this, though. His voice lowers, just slightly. "Then why do you keep doing it?"

Stelle’s jaw clenches. She doesn’t answer.

Another sigh. "Open your inbox."

She does, albeit begrudgingly.

"Draft a response to the proposal from finance."

Stelle stares at the screen, then at the keyboard, then back at the screen. She types the first thing that comes to mind.

Sunday doesn’t even let her finish. "No."

She glares at him over her shoulder. "You didn’t even let me—"

Two nimble fingers settle on either side of her jaw, so unexpected that she blanks out for a few seconds. Then, he gently turns her face back to the screen, holding it in place, forcing her eyes on the blank e-mail draft.

"Stelle," He does away with the polite honorific, his voice quiet and commanding just above her ear. "Write the email. Properly."

Her throat goes dry. What the hell. What the hell! There’s something about the way he says it—low, final, like he’s done entertaining whatever game she’s been playing. Like this is the end of it, and for the first time, she feels something that might be real intimidation. Get up, Stelle. Get up. 

She doesn't. Slowly, she turns her attention to the screen. And with stiff, reluctant fingers, she types the email. Correctly. She's not even thinking about it, it's not really possible with him breathing down her neck like the god damn Count Dracula. Can she report this to HR? Probably not. What are they going to do? Fire the CEO?

The room is too quiet.

The only sounds are the soft clacking of her keyboard, the occasional tap of Sunday’s fingers against the desk, and the barely-there rustle of fabric as he shifts beside her. His presence lingers—too close, too still, like he’s studying her with the same clinical interest he might give to a faulty machine.

She hates it. She hates how, for once, she actually feels the pressure to do something right. She's forgetting her initial goal of getting fired, but what is her option? Sunday is not firing her, and honestly, it's not even about the fact that she can't quit. Not anymore. She hates that Sunday refuses her an exit, as if he knows her to the bone, that she won't quit on her own.

She sighs, types the last sentence, rereads it once, and then begrudgingly sends the email.

The moment she does, Sunday withdraws. He straightens, stepping back, and she finally feels like she can breathe again. But his voice follows, his warmth lingers. 

"So, you are capable of listening."

Stelle stiffens, rolling her shoulders as if she can shake off his words. "You were forcing me," She mutters.

Sunday tilts his head, his expression unreadable, but his lips curve, ever so slightly, into something just short of a smile. Condescending. "I was doing no such thing."

Stelle glares at him. "You had your hand on my face."

"A simple correction. You were distracted," He says smoothly, as if this is the most normal thing in the world. "And it worked, didn’t it?"

She crosses her arms. "If I put my hand on your face, would that be considered a simple correction too?"

Sunday’s gaze flickers over her, amused. "If you manage to, Miss Stelle, then I will commend you."

She scowls. "Don't you have a company to run?"

"Yes," He says. "And you’re currently the greatest risk to it." Sunday takes a step back, as if to signal the end of their little exchange. "I expect you to maintain this level of competency moving forward," He says, adjusting the cuff of his glove. "You can make mistakes, but they will not be intentional. Do we understand each other?"

Stelle's jaw tightens.

She knows what he wants her to say. Yes, Mr. Sunday. Understood, Mr. Sunday. I’ll be a good little employee, Mr. Sunday.

Her fingers twitch against the desk. Every instinct in her tells her to rebel—to say no just to see what he'll do, just to watch that calm mask crack, even for a second. But…she's backed herself into a corner, hasn't she? She’s the one who made all those deliberate mistakes in hopes of getting a termination, the one who practically forced his hand into this ridiculous situation, because he, for some reason, refuses to fire her and insists on wasting his time on an unwilling employee. If she says no, then what? He’ll keep her here anyway, maybe hover over her shoulder even more, maybe drag this out just to make a point.

It pisses her the hell off.

Her fingers drum against the desk once, twice. Then, with a heavy sigh, she relents.

"Yeah, whatever." She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. "Are we done?"

Sunday raises a brow. Then, with infuriating grace, he adjusts the sleeve of his glove, and flicks his wrist to check his watch. It’s an obviously expensive thing—custom-made, probably, she can tell from the way it matches his outfit perfectly. Everything about him is too put together, too...matching. Like an intricate machine with perfectly working cogs. Does anything ever phase this guy? Stelle wonders if he'd lose his cool if she put a few bugs in his coffee. She notes that in her mind for later.

After a beat, he glances back up at her, expression flat. "You still have five hours left of your shift, Miss Stelle. So, no. I do not believe we are done."

Stelle groans loudly and slumps against the desk, debating whether she should just bang her head against it for good measure.

Sunday, utterly unbothered by her theatrics, pulls out his phone. He presses a button, and the call rings for a few seconds before someone picks up.

"Miss Brina," He says lightly, tone professional. Steady. As if he didn't just spend an hour standing behind Stelle like some YouTube rabbit hole horror. "I need the latest engagement metrics from last quarter’s marketing campaign. Print them out and bring them to the fifth floor. Miss Stelle will be drafting an analysis report on them."

Stelle’s head snaps up. "What?"

"Yes, sir," The voice on the other end says, and the line goes dead.

Sunday pockets his phone and places one hand behind his lower back. "You will assess the effectiveness of our last campaign and propose improvements," He instructs. "I expect a thorough breakdown of audience engagement, conversion rates, and cost efficiency. You will take your time," a slight, faint smirk tugs at his lips, "You have five hours, after all."

"I'm not doing it." 

"Oh, yes, you are."

"I'm not."

A condescending hum.

Stelle's quietly fuming at this point. "You're not the boss of me." She declares with utmost confidence, and immediately regrets opening her mouth.

The words are barely out before the silence in the room becomes thick. So thick that she swears she can hear the distant sound of corporate gods laughing at her from the heavens above. Sunday doesn’t react at first. He just stares. Stares at her with such bland, unimpressed silence that the sheer weight of it feels like it's flattening her very soul. Her dignity. And then some.

The moment stretches.

Stelle feels an itch crawl up her spine.

Sunday remains still, completely, eerily still, like a machine processing an unexpected input. His golden eyes hold no amusement, no irritation, just the kind of flat, patient disappointment that only a man in charge of too many people and too many numbers can muster. It’s like she’s a spreadsheet that just threw out an error code, and he’s considering whether it’s worth debugging her or just closing the tab entirely.

Somewhere in the office, the hum of the air conditioner becomes deafening.

She shifts in her seat, crossing her arms. "I mean, like—technically, you are, but that’s not—" She stops, frowning at herself. Is she seriously trying to save herself from the embarrassment? It settled deep in her bones a minute ago anyway. God. She really is an idiot.

Sunday finally tilts his head, the motion slow, calculating. He blinks once. She immediately looks away. The silence continues.

"Okay, well," Stelle coughs into her hand. "Maybe I should rephrase—"

Sunday finally speaks, voice as dry as a desert. "Please do."

Stelle resists the urge to throw something at him. She clears her throat. "You're not my real boss."

A beat. Sunday’s brow twitches.

"You're just, you know, like. Legally my boss."

His eyes flutter shut, and he whispers something that she can only assume is a prayer for patience.

"You’re just technically my employer, by, um. Corporate law."

He exhales through his nose.

"You legally have authority over me in a workplace setting, but spiritually—"

"Miss Stelle."

Stelle immediately shuts her mouth.

Sunday pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes momentarily closing as if he’s debating whether to just walk out of this room and let her rot. Grumbles something about The things he does for Mr. Yang, and—hey, what's he got to do with all this?—and finally lowers his hand, his expression is back to mild exasperation, though there’s something almost imperceptibly dry about it.

"Spiritual matters aside," He sighs. "I am the boss of you. As you have so eloquently reasoned, legally, technically, and contractually."

Stelle clenches her jaw. Girl, whatever.

"Which means," He continues, voice even. "You will be doing this report. In fact, I will be personally ensuring that you complete it."

Despite all her protests, he takes her to his office. Mutters something about this room being too dusty and how it needs to be cleaned and organized. He must be a clean freak. It would explain a few things, and then some. Especially the stick up his ass.

His office is just as pristine and impersonal as before when they arrive—white, gold, and royal blue, utterly immaculate. Stelle stands there, arms crossed, watching as Sunday moves to his desk, his movements measured and deliberate.  

"Sit."

Stelle raises a brow. This guy is so used to ordering people around, it seems. "What if I don’t?"

Sunday lifts his gaze, slow and deliberate, like he’s weighing whether or not her disobedience is even worth acknowledging. “Then you’ll remain standing.”  

Her eye twitches. Against all odds, she is too tired to stand. She sits.  

Sunday leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. A pause. A long pause.  Sunday waits, silent, patient, expectant. When she doesn’t respond, he taps the desk once. "Sit up." 

Her eye twitches. "I am sitting up. What the hell do you want from me?"
  
"Do it properly."

With a dramatic sigh, she straightens. "Happy?" 

Sunday’s gaze flickers down to her posture, then back up. He hums. "Progress."

It’s so condescending that she nearly throws her phone at him. Then, without wasting any time, Sunday slides her the report Miss—what, Brina? Whoever it was—brought him on their way here, and simply says: "You have an hour before I finish reviewing and signing some papers. When you're done, you can leave."

Stelle stares at the report in front of her like it’s a wild animal that might bite if she moves too fast. She clicks her pen against the table, once, twice, then taps it against the paper in erratic little bursts. Her leg bounces. She sighs through her nose. The words blur together. Marketing strategies, outreach goals, budget allocations—words she knows but refuses to let settle in her brain. She scrawls half a sentence before scribbling it out again.

Another sigh. Then a groan. Then her head flops onto the desk with a dull thud.

Sunday doesn’t acknowledge any of this. He’s sitting at his own desk, cool and collected, pen moving smoothly across a contract. His silence makes her suffering worse.

Five more minutes of agonizing nothingness pass before she suddenly slaps the pen down and declares, "I need a smoke break."

Sunday doesn’t look up. He simply raises a brow, flipping a page. "Since when do you smoke?"

Stelle barely hesitates. "Since forever?"

Now that makes him look up. It’s a slow glance, flat and unimpressed, like he can see right through her.

"You don’t smoke," He says plainly.

"I totally do."

"No, you don’t."

"I totally do."

Sunday tilts his head, scrutinizing her. And then, out of nowhere, he declares blankly. "But you smell pleasant."

Stelle freezes mid-rebuttal. Her brain skips a step. Excuse me? She narrows her eyes. "Dude," She says, slow and accusatory. "Are you sniffing me?"

Sunday, who clearly didn’t think this interaction through, visibly stiffens. His fingers twitch around his pen. Then, unexpectedly, he looks away, gaze flickering to the side as if gathering his thoughts.

His voice is quieter when he says, "Well..." A beat of silence. Then, softer and quieter still: "You smell good."

Stelle just stares at him. Is he being serious? Is he screwing with her? Why did he say it like that? Her brain scrambles to process, but her mouth moves on instinct.

"Freak," She mutters, utterly bewildered.

Sunday doesn’t react or elaborate. Instead, he clears his throat, pointedly returns to his paperwork, and very deliberately ignores her.  

Stelle props her elbows on the table, staring at the report like it personally wronged her. The numbers blur together. Paragraphs merge into an incoherent mess. This is why she hates corporate work. Why she hates this job. Every sentence feels like wading through wet cement, every bullet point an insult to her time.

She drums her fingers against the desk, jaw tightening. The company didn’t even seem real when Professor Yang had reached out to her and told her he could be her reference, that he knew someone in the company—Stelle didn't think it would be the freaking CEO. It wasn’t like she wanted to be here. She was supposed to be somewhere else. Doing something else. She doesn't know what, though.

Somewhere along the way, her ambitions had turned into compromises. A series of slow, careful negotiations with reality. She had been hungry once. Eager. Now, she is here, wasting an hour of her life on a report she barely cared about, under the watchful eye of a man who refused to just fire her already.

Halfway through, the walls start pressing in. The office, the task, the stupidly perfect posture Sunday maintains, everything grates on her nerves. She needs a break. She doesn't ask this time, and Sunday doesn't say anything. Maybe he's pitying her.

Out on the unnecessarily big terrace of his office, she lights a cigarette with practiced ease. Inhales. Exhales. The first drag burns a little, but it’s familiar. A habit picked up in college, back when she and a few classmates would crowd onto the fire escape between classes, trading complaints and lighters. Dan Heng always hated it when she did it. March was indifferent with half-hearted words uttered here and there to deter her, but her protests died down each time Stelle took another drag in her presence, then it just became normal. It had been social, back in college. Now it’s just something to do when the weight of things gets too heavy.

She leans against the railing, watching the city below. A mess of traffic, blinking signs, people moving from one obligation to another. It’s strange, sometimes she wonders how much of herself is still the person who started all this. The girl who thought she’d have it figured out by now. Who thought she could outrun this feeling of stagnation, and her own self.

The cigarette burns down between her fingers, and Stelle flicks the ash into the wind, sighing. One more drag, then she stubs it out.

She lingers on the balcony, though, rolling the cigarette butt between her fingers before flicking it into the ashtray. The nicotine buzz dulls the edges of her thoughts, but it doesn’t do much for the restlessness clawing at her ribs.

She used to think she’d be doing something meaningful by now. Not stuck in a job she barely tolerates, not fighting the urge to set her own career on fire just to feel something.

Her first job out of college had been a disaster. A media firm, all fast deadlines and a faster burnout. She had thrown herself into it at first, thinking this is it, the start of something real. But the reality was soul-crushing. Long hours, thankless projects, a boss who treated employees like cogs in a machine. She lasted eight months before walking out in the middle of a meeting, deleting every contact in her phone related to that place.

Then came the freelancing phase. That had been fun for a while—working odd gigs, no one breathing down her neck. But the instability ate at her, the constant hunt for the next paycheck turning every day into a quiet panic. She needed something stable. Something normal.

That’s how she ended up calling Himeko again after her last instant ramen had run out and she had three dollars left to her name with unpaid rent looming over her. Himeko—the woman who had graciously saved her from a life of absolute nothing and molded her into the girl she is now, nervously asking if she knew anyone hiring. Her connections were vast, and she had directed her to another one of her guiding figures in life, Professor Yang. 

She exhales slowly, tilting her head back. The sky is dull, overcast, the kind of gray that makes it impossible to tell what time it is. The city hums below, indifferent to her, just as it always has been.

Maybe she should quit. Walk out, like she did before. Like she did with her own twin brother. Leave, and never look back.

But then what? Another job? Another cycle of the same thing, just in a different office? The thought alone is exhausting. She can't disappoint her teachers like that, either.

She presses her fingers to her temples, groaning under her breath. This is why she doesn’t let herself think too much. It never leads anywhere good.

With one last glance at the city, Stelle turns back toward the office. If she has to suffer through this job a little longer, she might as well get it over with. The office feels colder after being out on the balcony. Too sterile, too put-together. It makes her skin itch. She barely makes it three steps before Sunday speaks without looking up from his papers.

"Done sulking?"

Her eye twitches. "I was on a break."

He hums, turning a page with deliberate patience. "A break from writing one single sentence?"

From this entire job, from you, she wants to say, but instead, she sighs. "Whatever, man."

Her fingers twitch with the overwhelming urge to chuck something at his head. Instead, she grits her teeth and straightens up, picking up the pen again.

Minutes crawl by. Every word she writes feels like pulling teeth. She taps the pen against the page, rereads the same sentence five times, then sighs and rubs at her temple.

This is hell.

At some point, she glances up at Sunday, who's still reviewing his own stack of papers with infuriating ease. His focus never wavers, his handwriting is neat and precise, and it pisses her off.

"Do you ever get sick of this?" She blurts out.

Sunday doesn’t even pause. "No."

She squints at him. "Like, ever?"

"No."

"Not even a little bit?"

His pen glides across the page, smooth and effortless. "Work is fulfilling."

Stelle makes a face. "That is the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard."

He finally looks at her, brow raised. "Because I enjoy my job?"

"Because you enjoy this." She gestures vaguely at the report, the desk, everything. "It’s unnatural."

Sunday leans back slightly, eyeing her with quiet amusement. "And what exactly do you enjoy, Miss Stelle?"

The question catches her off guard. She opens her mouth, then shuts it, frowning.

What do I enjoy?

She used to know. Back when things were different. Before she started burning through jobs like cigarettes, before she ended up here, sitting across from a man who thought he could play with her strings like a puppet.

Her silence must amuse him, because Sunday hums, almost smug. "Let me know when you figure it out."

Her glare could burn a hole through his suit. She wants to get out of here, so like any normal human being, she rushes her report, slams it down on his desk a little too harshly, and turns around to leave.

"We will work on your presentation skills tomorrow, Miss Stelle. Don't be late."

Stelle slams the door close.

Chapter Text

Stelle drops her bag onto the floor the moment she steps into her apartment. The weight on her shoulders is unbearable, not just from exhaustion but from everything else: the bills, the rent, the creeping dread that she is barely keeping herself afloat and now her unbearable boss that treats her like a project.

She toes off her shoes and drags herself to the small kitchen, her stomach twisting painfully. The fridge hums when she opens it, revealing a nearly empty interior: half a bottle of soy sauce, a single egg that she’s been saving for no reason, and an unopened pack of cheese slices she bought on sale weeks ago.

She closes the fridge and leans against the counter, rubbing at her temples.

Her last paycheck from her previous gig had ran out paying two months’ rent and one month of the credit loan she took out four months ago just to pay rent, and now she’s down to scraps. She didn’t even have enough left to properly restock her groceries. The instant noodles she bought in bulk are already running low, and she’s been rationing them, too—half a pack in the morning, half a pack at night, stretching every meal as thin as possible. 

She’s lost weight. She can feel it in how her clothes fit looser, in the way her body tires out faster, how she gets lightheaded if she stands up too quickly. In every sense of the word, she cannot afford to lose this job, too, but she doesn't want to work here. At all. Especially not under Sunday Oak. She feels suffocated like she's never been before.

She sighs and slumps onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. She used to have a big appetite. Used to eat whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted when she was still living with Himeko. Used to not think about how much a meal cost because she had the luxury of ignoring it. Even when she was stealing just to get by with her brother, she ate better, she thinks. Or maybe she just misses him. Whatever. 

But that was all before she started drowning in debt, before she inevitably had to grow up and go to college, and her freelancing career crumbled under unstable paychecks and unreliable clients after graduation.

The landlord has been knocking on her door every other day, reminding her that she still owes for last month. She barely got him to back off by paying two months upfront, but next month will come fast. And she’s already feeling the panic creep in.

Her stomach growls again. 

She ignores it. She’s gotten good at that.

The next morning, Stelle walks into the office with the enthusiasm of a woman on death row. Not only is she expected to function as a human being, she also has to do it under the scrunity of the most insufferable man she's ever met since Sampo Koski. She makes a sour face. Even Sampo was probably faring better than her right now.

Stelle receives a call from March as she enters the office building, and her sounds on the other side of the line tell Stelle all she has to know. She's barely holding in her laughter. "So. How was your first day of personal mentorship with Mister CEO?"

"Good morning to you, too, March," Stelle slams her bag onto her desk. "I want to die. How are you?"

March cackles. "That bad?"

"That bad," Stelle sighs. March keeps giggling. "Stop laughing. Your best friend is in the lion's den and getting shredded to pieces and you're laughing."

"You could just quit." March suggests, as if she hasn't already thought of that.

"I can't, March. Anyway. He'll probably appear at my desk any minute now. I'll call you later. Bye."

March exhales on her microphone, amused. "Good luck, Stelle."

Right. She needs it, for sure. 

Stelle barely gets any time to collect herself before Sunday arrives. Just like yesterday, he appears without warning, standing beside her desk like some ominous specter of corporate oppression. 

"Miss Stelle," He addresses, and Stelle rolls her eyes before turning to him. "Come."

"Stop saying it like that," She mutters, but gets up anyway.

She falls into step behind him, and adjusts the collar of her shirt even though it doesn't need any adjusting. "Can you at least say good morning to me?"

Sunday doesn't even look back. "Good morning, Miss Stelle."

She huffs. Okay. That's what she wanted. But the way he says it, like handing a toy to a difficult child. Stelle hopes he trips, and follows Sunday into his office, already bracing for whatever fresh hell he’s about to throw her into. He doesntt slow his pace for her, expecting her to keep up, which she does. She can keep up with a lanky freak, thank you very much.

The moment they step inside, Sunday heads straight for his desk, not even bothering to sit down before flipping through the neatly stacked pile of documents waiting for him. His movements are precise, controlled, like he’s already compartmentalized his entire morning in his head before even arriving at work.

Stelle stands awkwardly near the door, arms crossed. She should be used to this by today from how much Sunday terrorized her yesterday but there's something particularly aggravating about being called in without explanation, only to be ignored.

Her stomach twists, partly from irritation, mostly from hunger.

She shoves her hands into her pockets. "Well? What's up today?"

Sunday doesn’t look up. Sits down with the grace of a prince from those Chinese BLs Stelle watches whenever she's bored. "First, we’re reviewing the report you wrote yesterday. I assume you have no objections?"

She does. Of course she does. She rushed the hell out of that report, and did not get a single thing right but she keeps her mouth shut and steps forward, plopping herself down into one of the chairs across from his desk.

"Good." Sunday finally looks at her, eyes scanning over her face with a sharp, assessing gaze. "You look tired."

Stelle blinks. "Gee, thanks. Some annoying dude is draining the soul out of me."

Sunday doesn’t smile, but there’s a glint of amusement in his expression. Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he reaches for his intercom. "Elaine," He calls, addressing his secretary. "Send someone to bring coffee, sweet tea and breakfast to my office."

Stelle stares at him.

He doesn’t look at her as he continues sorting through documents. "You’ll function better on a full stomach. The tea is for me."

She scowls. "I didn’t ask you to feed me."

"No," He replies lightly, flipping a page. “But we will test your presentation skills later today, and I want you energized for it."

Her jaw clenches. She wants to argue, but the reminder of her empty fridge and dwindling funds silences her. Whatever. He doesn't know, and doesn't need to know.

Sunday sets down the document and clasps his hands together. "Don't misunderstand. You will waste less of my time if you're sufficiently responsive to instruction."

Stelle clicks her tongue, leaning back in her chair with a scowl. "You wouldn't be wasting your time if you just gave me what I want."

Sunday doesn’t react, just observes her like he’s already anticipated every single way she could respond. She hates that. Hates how he speaks in a way that leaves no room for argument, as if he’s already boxed her in before she even had the chance to fight back.

"Be good, and you will have good things happen to you, Miss Stelle."

What the hell does that even mean? Stelle opens her mouth to react, but the door to his office is propmptly knocked and opened, and  a neatly arranged breakfast tray arrives—coffee for her, sweet tea for Sunday, a croissant, and a small plate of fruit. The sight of it almost makes her stomach cramp. She glances at Sunday, who is already flipping through her report without looking up.

Stelle eyes the food warily. "What, no steak and caviar?"

Sunday doesn’t look up. "Eat."

She huffs but grabs the croissant. The moment she takes a bite, her body betrays her—warm, flaky, buttery. She has to resist the urge to inhale the entire thing in seconds. She feels like a beast. God, this is so good. She almost wants to kiss it. Maybe she should. Neither good food nor a person has touched her lips in so long.

As she gulps it down despite her best efforts not to, Sunday finally glances at her, brows slightly raised, as if noting her pace. "Don't get crumbs on your clothes."

Stelle swallows, leveling him with a glare. Who does this guy think he is? "Can you quit it? I'll drench myself in butter if I want to."

His lips twitch up, almost imperceptibly. He doesn't say anything more. Good. Not even Kafka nagged her this much. She takes another bite, reaching for the coffee. It’s black, just the way she hates it, but the muddy taste might just be what she needs to keep her alert right now, so she squeezes her eyes shut, and chugs that thing down like beer.

She steals a glance at Sunday. He’s already gone back to her report, scanning through her rushed, half-assed writing with the scrutiny of a man reviewing a legal contract. His grey lashes dip over gold gracefully, his perfectly trimmed eyebrows knit together, and his cheeks are slightly fuller than what you'd expect from a man with his thin build. Cute, she almost thinks, before swallowing that thought down with her bite.

"Your report is…incompetent," Sunday says mildly, like he's commenting on the weather. 

Stelle doesn't bother wiping her mouth, letting the mess stay around the corners and the irritation push away whatever the hell that other feeling was. “I wrote that in under an hour with no context. What did you expect?”

"You misspelled 'invoice.'"

"It’s one letter, who cares?"  

"Your calculations are incorrect."  

"Math is stupid."  

"This entire report lacks professionalism."  

"Okay, but hear me out—I don’t care."  

Sunday exhales slowly, like he’s seriously considering murder.  

There’s a long silence. The kind that stretches thick between them, where Sunday just stares at her, completely unreadable, and Stelle stares right back, completely unfazed. He's clearly practicing patience. She takes another bite out of the croissant, deliberately chewing slower, like she’s savoring it out of spite.

Sunday leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the desk, sighing. "You’re remarkably difficult."

"And you’re remarkably annoying."

His lips twitch slightly again, but the amusement in his gaze is sharper this time, like he’s filing away every single one of her retorts for later use. He doesn’t respond immediately, just watches as she finishes her food.

She hates how much better she feels after eating. Her stomach doesn’t ache anymore, and the caffeine is kicking in, keeping her brain from slipping into exhaustion. Which means Sunday was right, which means she’s extra irritated now. So much for revitalizing her.

He sets her report aside, folding his hands neatly on top of his desk. "Since your competency is lacking, you’ll be presenting the corrected version in front of the team later."

Stelle nearly chokes on her last bite. "Excuse me?"

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"Yes, I do have a problem with that." She gestures vaguely at the papers in front of him. "I didn’t even do it right, and now you want me to present it?"

"Which is why you will correct it."

She grits her teeth. "This is cruel and unusual punishment."

"Cruel? Unusual?" Sunday tilts his head slightly, like he’s pretending to consider it. "It's almost like I'm trying to teach you."

"It's almost like I don't want to be taught."

He smiles, one of those unsettling ones where his eyes are a bit too blank. "I know."

"Whatever," Stelle drags a hand down her face, trying to collect herself. "When’s the meeting?"

"Three hours."

"Three—" She shuts her mouth, inhaling deeply through her nose. Okay. Fine. If this is his little game, she’ll play along. Begrudgingly. "Fine."

Sunday picks up a pen and taps it against the desk. "I expect a competent revision. If you require assistance, you may ask."

Stelle scoffs. She doesn't need his help. "I don’t need your help." She tells him aloud.

He nods, like he expected that answer. "Very well."

She stands up, grabbing the report and the coffee cup. "I’m gonna make this the worst presentation you’ve ever seen."

Sunday smiles—actually smiles, slow and knowing. "I look forward to it, Miss Stelle."

She storms out of his office before she can hear him say anything else.

Three hours pass.

By the time Stelle finishes wrangling her revised report into something resembling coherence, she’s already decided that Sunday Oak is the most insufferable bastard she’s ever met. Worse than Sampo. Worse than every egotistical director she’s had the displeasure of working with. Worse than Herta on her worst day.

She shoves the printed copy into a folder and checks the clock. Two minutes left. Great. She storms toward the conference room, clutching her papers like they're dirt in her hands. 

Inside, Sunday is already there, reclined in one of the sleek, expensive chairs at the head of the table. One arm draped lazily over the armrest, the other holding a cup of tea he stirs idly with a spoon. Tail of his long jacket spills from his sides gracefully, sleeves pushed up just enough to show a glimpse of his wrists from in between the sleeve and his white glove, and his legs are crossed like he has all the time in the world.

The room is empty.

Stelle stops in the doorway. Scans the room again. Blinks.

"Where’s the team?"

Sunday exhales softly, setting down his cup. "There is no team."

She stares at him. "Excuse me?"

Sunday gestures vaguely at the empty chairs. "You'll be presenting to me."

It takes a second for the words to register, and when they do, she wants to strangle him so, so badly. "You lied?'

“‘Lied’ is a strong word,” He muses, tilting his head. "I merely took a drastic measure to motivate you."

She clenches her jaw. "You’re kidding."

"Would you have corrected it properly otherwise?"

She doesn’t answer, and she doesn’t have to. They both know the answer. Of course she wouldn't have, but the fact that she was tricked, by this bastard no less, makes something burn in her stomach, and Sunday—Sunday watches her with that same detached amusement, like he’s observing an animal in a cage, waiting to see how it reacts. 

"You have fifteen minutes. Begin," He says, lounging in that damn chair like he has all the time in the world. She hopes it caves in and he gets stuck in it.

Her fingers twitch. "You do know I'm in marketing, right? I don't need to give presentations."  

"You need to know how to properly present yourself," Sunday corrects, tilting his head slightly after he's done with sipping his tea. She wants to poison it. His earrings glint under the cool artificial lighting. "Confidence, articulation, presence—all crucial aspects of persuasion."  

"I don't need to persuade anyone," She deadpans. "I just make the stupid graphics and write copy."  

Sunday blinks. "And do them terribly, yes. But let's not get distracted."  

She inhales sharply. I'm going to kill him one day. I'm going to jail for murder.

Still, there’s no getting out of this, so she reluctantly turns towards the empty screen, crossing her arms as she speaks. If he wants a presentation, he'll get one. "Alright, um—this is the... marketing strategy for our upcoming campaign. We—uh—" She stops, shifting uncomfortably. The words feel stupid coming out of her mouth.

Sunday sighs. "Uncross your arms." 

Stelle doesn't move. "What?"  

He gestures vaguely at her stance. "You look like you're about to fight someone. Relax your shoulders."  

She glares, but does it anyway. She doesn't relax, though. Not really.  She can't relax when she is filled with so much dread and annoyance, aimed particularly at the man in front of her.

"Stand up straight," He continues, and his tone is already turning exasperated.  

She rolls her eyes, trying to adjust herself without making it look like she’s following his orders.  

Sunday clicks his tongue. Suddenly, he’s rising from his chair, striding towards her with the kind of smooth, effortless movement that only makes her more nervous, which is unnerving in and on itself, because Stelle does not get nervous. She makes others nervous. Not the other way around. 

Before she can react, he’s behind her, hands suddenly on her shoulders.

The touch isn’t soft at all—it’s firm, instructive, like he’s adjusting some badly positioned mannequin. His gloved hands slide down the line of her shoulders, pressing gently to pull them back. Then, without a word, he places a hand against the middle of her back, pushing slightly to straighten her spine.  

"There," Sunday mutters, mostly to himself. "Less slouching."  

What the hell is happening right now.

His fingers skim the edge of her ribcage as he steps back into place, his presence still lingering behind her. It’s nothing. It’s completely nothing. But the heat that flares in her stomach is definitely something.

Stelle grips the edges of her tucked-in shirt, suddenly hyper-aware of the way her body is reacting. Her ears are hot. Her pulse is annoying. Her breath is slightly off rhythm. Honest, she's been grabbed before—by security, by Kafka, by people who meant to intimidate or control her—but Sunday's touch is neither forceful nor threatening. It’s just unnervingly steady. Like he knows exactly how to handle her, how much pressure to apply to get what he wants, like she is an instrument he is fine-tuning.

She swallows, forcing her thoughts into submission. "Are you done manhandling me?" She huffs, turning to glare at him.  

Sunday looks vaguely unimpressed. "If you had fixed your posture yourself, I wouldn’t have had to."  

Her eye twitches. She wants to argue. She wants to strangle him. But mostly, she just wants to understand why the hell she feels like she’s overheating.  

"I’m not doing this," She announces abruptly. "I'm quitting."  

Sunday raises a brow. Stares down at her flatly. "Are you."  

She remains silent. Of course she isn't. She can't. Isn't that why she's here in this mess in the first place?

In front of her, Sunday sighs, exasperated. He does that a lot. "Miss Stelle."  

"No."  

"Stelle," He says again, this time softer, like he’s scolding a particularly difficult child. "Just get it over with. If you complete it properly, you can go home for today. Okay?"

Stelle pauses, considering his words. "I can go after this?"

Sunday inclines his head. "If you do it properly, yes."

She exhales through her nose. Properly. Whatever that means to him. She doesn’t care enough to ask.

She turns back to the screen. "Marketing strategy. Digital outreach, influencer partnerships, ad targeting..." Her voice is flat, her delivery efficient. She goes through the key points without embellishment, cutting to the necessary details, presenting the information with the same tone she used in her previous acting career that she bombed, then stops.

A pause.

Sunday tilts his head slightly. "Better."

Stelle doesn’t react. She doesn’t scowl, doesn’t roll her eyes. She just blinks once, slow and unreadable. Then she tugs at her sleeve and asks, "That it?"

Sunday watches her for a second longer than necessary. "That’s it." He lifts a brow. "Would you prefer a gold star?"

She rolls her eyes. "I’d prefer an actual critique instead of whatever that was."

Sunday exhales, looking more amused than annoyed now. "You don't take kindly to feedback."

"Well, because I think you're annoyingly pretentious about it."

"That makes one of us," He remarks idly. "You're improving. You just need to work on your tone. Try not to sound like a robot every sentence."

She rolls her eyes, and wants to quip back with something along the lines of how she doesn't want to hear this from the workaholic maniac that operates like a robot himself, but she bites it back. She's tired enough for one day. "So. I can go now?"

Sunday leans back in his chair, considering her for a moment. Then, he nods. "You can go."

Stelle doesn’t wait for him to change his mind. She turns on her heel and strides toward the door, barely resisting the urge to slam it behind her in her frustration. Her heart is still beating too fast. Her skin still feels too warm. She needs a cigarette.

Ideally, she doesn't want to linger more than necessary within close proximity of the grand office building, but what can she do, really. She's away from Sunday anyway, so she lights one, takes a drag, and exhales. The weather is getting colder, and her mind goes to her electric bill. She doesn't have a choice between blanket fort and actual warmth. Not the kind she feels around Sunday. That one is suffocating—it burns her. 

Three weeks pass without her being mentally present for much of it.

In all honesty, Sunday’s mentorship feels like a joke. A punishment. A way to keep her under his thumb, just close enough that she can’t screw up without him noticing. He oversees everything—her emails, her reports, her presentations—and no matter how much she drags her feet, how many corners she cuts, he never loses his patience. Not really.  

He corrects her with that same infuriatingly calm tone. Stays behind her when she’s typing, watching as she fumbles through a simple task. Exhales softly when she makes the same mistake twice. When she doesn’t fix it, his voice sharpens, low and final. She always listens then, even when she doesn’t want to. 

The worst part is that it works.  

Just after three weeks, she’s sending out proper emails without much thought. Her reports, once riddled with careless errors, come back with fewer red marks from his pen. When she stands in the boardroom, going through a presentation, her voice doesn’t waver, even under his scrunity. 

Her initial goal of being fired becomes To Observe Sunday and Poke Him Here and There, and see where the cracks are, because she still cannot understand why he's spending so much time and effort on her. He skilfully changes the subject whenever she tries to ask.

Four weeks later, she's sat in the vacant office room he took her to when he first started his Torture Stelle Eternally Program, learning about negotiation, which, Sunday admittedly excels at. Much to her dismay. 

He sits across from her, hands folded neatly on his desk, voice even, steady, soothing even. "Negotiation is about leverage. People want to believe they’re getting something valuable, even if what they’re actually getting is worth significantly less than what they’re giving away."

Stelle slouches in her chair, twirling a pen between her fingers. "So…we scam them?"

He exhales through his nose, patient but unimpressed all the same. "No. You’re making an exchange. They just don’t need to know that you’re benefiting more."

She tilts her head. "And if they find out?"

"Then you didn’t do it properly."

Stelle snorts. "Alright, so what if I don’t have leverage?"

"Then you manufacture it," Sunday replies smoothly. "Information, confidence, the right phrasing—it’s all about perception. Even the smallest advantage can be exaggerated into something significant if you frame it correctly."

She hums, considering. "Can I use my feminine charms?"

Sunday, to his credit, doesn’t react right away. He only blinks once, then asks, completely deadpan: "What feminine charms?"

Stelle stares at him.

He stares back, expression blank.

"You know," She says, gesturing to herself awkwardly.

He simply lifts a brow.

After a beat, she sighs, unbuttons the top of her shirt, and just as awkwardly leans forward, propping her elbows on the desk. Her cleavage peeks through, subtle but noticeable. "Like this," She mutters, as if explaining something completely logical.

Sunday just looks utterly confused. Is he gay?

A slow blink. A shift of his gaze, as if trying to understand what exactly she’s trying to accomplish. Then, finally, he makes a face—somewhere between unimpressed and vaguely concerned. "Not unethical, per se," He allows. "But would you really?"

Stelle pauses. Clicks her tongue. Sighs. Then leans back in her chair, buttoning up her shirt like the whole thing was just a failed experiment. "I don’t know. If I’m dealing with a pervert, sure, why not."

Sunday regards her for a long moment, like he's processing something completely foreign to him. Then, finally, he raises a finger in the air. "If that’s the approach you’re taking, I suggest refining your execution."

Stelle raises a brow. "Excuse me?"

"Your delivery was unconvincing," He says, matter-of-fact. "If you plan to use seduction as a negotiation tool, you should at least commit to it."

She stares at him some more. "You’re critiquing my—what, my posture? My tone?"

"And your confidence," He continues. "If you’re going to lean into it, you should at least believe in what you’re selling."

There’s something about the way he says it—calm, detached, like this is just another business strategy and not completely ridiculous, and Stelle shifts in her seat, narrowing her eyes at him. "So what, you want me to try again?"

Sunday doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he tilts his head, studying her, fingers idly tapping against the desk in a four plus one rhythm. "Would you like feedback?"

"Absolutely not."

"Then don’t bring it up next time unless you intend to see it through."

She scoffs, folding her arms. "I was just making a point."

"And I'm simply making mine." He leans back, entirely at ease, like this conversation isn’t remotely unusual. "You can use charm in negotiation. But if you do it halfheartedly, it’ll backfire."

Stelle sighs, rubbing her temples. "I can’t believe you’re taking this seriously."

Sunday just shrugs. "You’re the one who asked."

She wants to argue, but something about his tone, the unwavering confidence, the way he’s completely unruffled—makes her pause. She glances at him again, searching for any trace of amusement or smugness or even embarrassment. There’s none. He’s genuinely treating this like a strategy session.

Which is, somehow, more infuriating than if he had laughed at her. He just took a peek at her tits, and he's sitting there, completely unaffected, not even the slightest hint of pink on his ch—No, Stelle, stop, she slaps herself internally. Why would she want that, anyway? Last thing she needs is for Sunday to see her as a piece of meat than whatever he sees her as right now.

But Stelle, of course, can't help herself.

"Teach me how to, then." She blurts, crossing one leg over the other.

Sunday regards her again for a moment, as if assessing whether she’s actually serious or just trying to trip him up. Then, with a quiet sigh, he folds his hands neatly on the desk. "Alright," He relents, utterly unbothered, and it bothers Stelle for some reason. "Seduction in negotiation is about control. If you can make someone want something: attention, validation, a sense of exclusivity—then you can make them lean in before they realize they’ve already lost ground."

Stelle raises a brow. "You sound experienced."

He doesn’t react to the implication. "I’m experienced in reading people," He corrects. "And people respond to confidence more than anything else. If you hesitate, they’ll notice."

Stelle purses her lips, absentmindedly twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "Alright, alright. So, what? Eye contact? A certain tone of voice?"

"Those help." Sunday watches her patiently. "But more importantly, certainty. Your previous attempt lacked conviction."

She frowns. "I wasn’t trying to actually seduce you."

"Exactly," He raises a finger again, as if it's a gotcha moment. "And that’s why it didn’t work."

There’s something infuriating about how easily he says that. Like he’s not just analyzing her but deconstructing the entire concept into a formula he already understands, and Stelle is still learning how to add two and two together.

She shifts in her chair, and gives him a skeptical look. "So what, if I just pretend I actually want something from someone, it’ll be convincing?"

"Not pretend," Sunday corrects again. "Convince yourself."

Stelle snorts. "That sounds like pretending with extra steps."

Sunday ignores her reply. "If you can convince yourself that your presence is valuable, that the other person wants something from you, they’ll respond accordingly." He taps his fingers idly against the desk again, like this is just another business strategy, no different from the negotiation lessons before. "It’s not about making them want you. It’s about making them believe that they already do."

Stelle stares at him, arms crossed. There’s something weirdly unsettling about the way he phrases it. Something too clinical, too precise. "And how exactly am I supposed to convince myself of that?"

Sunday finally leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk, gaze steady. "Figure that out," He says, "and you won’t need to ask me."

She hates that he always does this. Gives her just enough information to keep her thinking about it but never enough to actually figure it out, as if the conclusion is something only he is privy to. Like it's a party Stelle wasn't invited to but expected to know all the gossip about. It’s infuriating.

For a moment, Stelle just glares at him, tapping her fingers against her arm. She hates when he dangles answers just out of reach like she’s supposed to climb up and get them herself like a dog retrieving a piece of thrown bone.

But fine. Fine. She, for some reason, wants to see him affected. Just a little. 

"Alright," She exhales, shaking off the irritation and sitting up straighter. "Give me a scenario."

Sunday watches her for a beat, then inclines his head slightly. "You need to secure an important partnership. The client is interested but hesitant. You need them to believe that working with you is the best decision they could possibly make."

Stelle hums. "And I’m supposed to convince them using charm."

"If that's the route you want to take," Sunday replies, gesturing to her as if to say go on. "Then yes."

She clicks her tongue, thinking. She can’t half-ass it this time—not when she knows he’ll immediately call her out for it. So, instead of hesitating, she adjusts her posture, shifting forward slightly, propping her chin up with her hand, and letting her gaze soften just enough to look engaged but not overly eager.

Sunday watches her without expression. "Better," He praises, "but you’re still holding back."

She scoffs. "What, do you want me to start batting my lashes?"

"If it suits you," He answers, completely straight-faced.

Stelle huffs, but before she can respond, Sunday's hand reaches forward, the tips of his fingers barely grazing the collar of her shirt. He doesn’t undo any buttons yet, but he tugs it just slightly, loosening the fabric around her throat, shifting it open just enough to look careless. Then, as if unsatisfied with just that, his delicate eybrows furrow, and he pops a button open, reaches his other hand and adjusts it.

"Relaxed presentation sells better, you had the right idea the first time," He remarks, adjusting the fabric. His gaze doesn't linger. "Too stiff, and it looks forced."

Her breath catches, but she covers it by clearing her throat. Why doesn't he look? "Uh-huh."

Sunday doesn’t comment on her reaction. Instead, he reaches up, and she goes rigid, but all he does is tilt her chin up with a single knuckle. His touch is barely there, light enough that if she weren’t so hyper-aware of it, she might not have noticed at all.

"Chin up," He says simply. "You want to look self-assured, not hesitant."

His hand falls away, but Stelle still feels it, because she's apparently a pervert, because how else would she explain the thoughts that are running through her head? She promptly trips those thoughts and puts them down like a sick horse, and exhales, adjusting, settling into the new posture. He nods in approval but doesn’t say anything yet. Instead, his gaze flicks briefly to her hair, then, he pauses and reaches forward again.

This time, she doesn’t have time to react before he tucks a loose strand behind her ear, his gloved fingers brushing against the curve of her jaw as he does.

She doesn’t move, and she’s not even sure she could, even if she wanted to.

Sunday, for his part, seems entirely unaffected. Like this is just another part of the lesson. Like he’s just adjusting a presentation slide or straightening a misplaced document. But then his thumb brushes against her cheek, soft, fleeting, barely a touch at all, and she realizes he’s wiping away a smudge of eyeliner from beneath her eye.

"There," He murmurs, sitting back again, like he hadn’t just crossed about five different lines without a second thought. "Now try again."

Stelle stares at him.

Her heart is beating a little too fast, her skin a little too warm, but she refuses to let it show. Instead, she takes a slow breath, squares her shoulders, and meets his gaze head-on, because she's nothing if not a brave girl, and she is being very brave about not trying to run out of the room right now.

And then she opens her mouth. Closes it. Sighs, and slumps back in her seat. "I don't have it in me."

Sunday raises an eyebrow, leaning back in his own seat. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches her quietly, his golden eyes soft. The silence stretches between them, heavier than usual. It’s not judgmental, not exactly, it’s more like he’s waiting. Like he expects her to confront whatever’s holding her back.

"Just give it another try," He finally says, breaking the silence. "It's just me here.

It's just me here, he says, as if he hasn't been the object of every confusing and intense emotion she's felt for the past month. "Fine, I'm just..." Stelle mutters, pursing her lips. "I’m just not used to this."

"This?"

"You know." She waves a hand vaguely between them. "This whole...playing a role thing. Trying to sell myself. I’d rather just, I don’t know, fight someone or something."

Sunday’s lips twitch slightly in what might have been a suppressed smile. What the fuck is he smiling about? "Negotiation and conflict aren’t so different," He replies, tone light. "Both involve strategies, calculated risks, and knowing when to push and when to pull back."

"Yeah, but at least in a fight, you know what the stakes are," Stelle replies, exhaling slowly. "This just feels...weird. Like I'm pretending to be someone I’m not."

Sunday tilts his head slightly, studying her. "Pretending doesn’t have to mean lying. You can make use of traits you already have without compromising who you are."

She frowns, letting his words sink in. It makes sense, in a way, but that doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable. She knows he has a point, and that he's making them based on years of experience. She is trying too hard to be something she isn’t instead of leaning into what she already has. That, and she was bored out of her mind listening to him lecture, so this practical exercise is much more engaging than that. Nothing more.

"Fine," She concedes, shifting in her chair to sit up straighter. "Let’s say I’m not pretending. Let’s say I’m just presenting myself in a way that works. What even are my strengths?"

Sunday seems to ponder her question for a moment before answering, his voice calm and matter-of-fact, index and thumb under his chin. "You’re adaptable. You don’t back down easily, even when things become difficult. You have an assertive presence when you choose to."

She blinks, caught off guard by how easily he lists her traits like he’s been analyzing her from the start. Well, he probably has.

"Okay, but assertive presence doesn’t really scream charm, does it?" She quips, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up her neck.

"Charm comes in many forms," Sunday replies, with that all-knowing attitude. "Some people are drawn to confidence and directness. You don’t have to be coy or playful to be persuasive. It's not in you, anyway. Sometimes, all it takes is certainty in your words and actions."

Ouch. Okay. She knew that already. "Certainty..." She drums her fingers on the armrest. "And how do I project that without feeling like a total fraud?"

"You practice," He says simply. "The more you believe in yourself, the easier it becomes for others to believe in you."

"Great. So fake it until I make it."

"Precisely."

She sighs, rubbing her face. "You make it sound so easy."

"It’s not," He acknowledges. "But it’s how you do it."

Stelle lets his words hang in the air for a moment, her thoughts swirling. She hates to admit it, but he’s right. Again. He’s always right, and that’s what pisses her off the most. He doesn’t push too hard. He just knows exactly when and how to guide her without breaking her will.

Finally, she leans forward again, resting her arms on the desk. "Alright. One more try. But this time, you’re not allowed to judge me."

Sunday’s lips curl into a faint smile. "I’ll do my best."

He sits back, crossing his arms and watching her expectantly. The pressure returns, but she steels herself. No hesitation. No overthinking. Just a small, calm smile and steady eye contact as she starts again. She’s not trying to sell a fake image. She’s just here. In control.

Sunday watches her closely, but his gaze is not oppressive or condescending. It’s steady and calculated, yes, but curious too, as though he’s observing how she adapts under pressure.

She keeps her shoulders straight, her tone measured, though her pulse is still annoyingly quick. Her mind races, telling her that any moment she’ll slip and make a fool of herself, but she forces herself to focus. It’s not like he hasn’t seen her at her worst already. What’s one more attempt to impress him? And what if she makes a fool of herself, anyway? Maybe he'll finally get fed up this time.

Convince them that you have value. Make them lean in without realizing they’ve already lost ground. She takes a steady breath and locks eyes with him.

Her voice softens, a subtle but noticeable shift in tone, not overly sultry but warm, engaging, like she's inviting him into something he can't resist. "Imagine a partnership where you’re not just gaining a service, but a strategic edge. I understand hesitation, and it’s smart. But what’s smarter is knowing when an opportunity won’t come twice."

Sunday looks intrigued. He doesn’t say anything, just watches her with renewed interest, his expression neutral but his posture shifting ever so slightly. He leans forward just a fraction, enough for her to notice but subtle enough that it wouldn’t register to anyone else. She notes with an internal wince that she's become too attuned to him, and continues.

"You already know the benefits. I’m not here to list them like a desperate pitch. What I’m offering isn’t just a product or a promise. It’s a decision that speaks to your own priorities and ambitions."

It feels strange, slipping into this confident rhythm, but it’s not forced. She’s adapting, like he said she could.

When she finishes, there’s a long pause. Sunday doesn’t clap, doesn’t immediately praise her. Instead, he studies her as if he's weighing what to say next. Finally, he speaks, his tone almost impressed. Well. That's something.

"That was significantly better." He crosses one leg over the other, his gaze softening. "You controlled the narrative instead of being controlled by it."

The compliment lands differently than others she’s received from him. It’s not patronizing, not spoken like he’s awarding her a gold star. It feels genuine, like she’s earned it.

Stelle leans back, exhaling in relief. "Finally, something resembling approval."

Sunday chuckles softly, a rare thing. He gives her awkward, slightly freakish short breaths that sound like laughs all the time, but not a single one of them sound like that. "I told you that you were capable, and you’ve proven that you can adapt. I have no further complaints. For now."

"For now," She echoes, rolling her eyes. "That’s the closest thing to a compliment I’m going to get?"

Sunday’s lips quirk slightly in amusement. "I find that you perform best when not overly praised."

She waves a hand dismissively. "Whatever," She takes her phone out of her pocket, checks the time. 4.27PM. She's been sitting here with him for nearly two hours now. "My butt hurts from sitting." 

He laughs at that, light, airy and lovely. Flashes her an amused grin, and it's almost instinct the way she glances up at him through her lashes. "Let's wrap it up for today, then," He claps his hands once, and rises from his seat. "Would you like to accompany me to dinner? I believe you'll declare any second that I owe you compensation for making you sit here for too long, so."

Stelle freezes, blinking in surprise. Dinner? With him? That's...well, it's unexpected. They've never eaten together before—hell, he barely acknowledges anything outside of work unless it serves his carefully curated agenda.

She studies him warily. His face gives nothing away—just calm, polite expectancy. He’s not demanding, not pushing, just asking, like this is the most natural thing in the world. As if he hasn't been her personal tormentor for the past month.

Dinner with Sunday Oak. What does that even entail? Would he stay just as distant and clinical as he is in the office? Would he talk like he’s giving a lecture on corporate etiquette? Or maybe he’ll criticize the way she eats, like he does with everything else. Maybe she'll get crumbs on her face and he will once again reach over the table to fix her appearance—God, why even did her brain immediately go there? Bad Stelle. Stop it.

She feels her stomach twist, and it's not from hunger, though that’s been a persistent problem lately. It’s the tension. The strange, simmering feeling that has been creeping between them since he started his "mentorship" nonsense. She falls into step behind him, following him to the elevator, and he remains silent. Still expecting an answer. 

"Uh..." She hesitates, glancing at the elevator door in front of them. The mirrored surface reflects his tall, composed frame beside her, and for a moment, she wonders how she looks next to him—small, unsure, completely out of her depth.

She doesn't want to overthink this. It's probably nothing. He’s her boss, and maybe this is just his weird, calculated way of rewarding her for not screwing up too badly today. Still, the offer feels personal in a way that unsettles her. Or maybe it’s because she’s just so lonely lately that she’s forgotten what it’s like for someone to invite her anywhere for any reason other than work.

Finally, she forces herself to speak. "Sure," She says, aiming for nonchalance but falling just a little short. The elevator arrives with a quiet ding. "As long as you’re paying."

Sunday’s lips quirk upward in a rare, genuine smile. Not the cold, condescending kind she’s used to, but something softer and amused. He gracefully steps in after waiting for her to go in first. "Of course. I wouldn’t dream of making you cover it after such an exhausting day under my supervision."

She snorts lightly. "Exhausting is one word for it."

He chuckles softly, and she catches herself glancing at him again, watching the subtle shift in his expression. He hums something quietly to himself after pressing the button for the ground floor, and silence stretches between them. She glances at him through the corner of her eye again because she can't help herself, taking in his softened features, the subtle glint in his golden gaze, the way his hands are politely clasped in front of him. If he notices her staring, he doesn't give it away.

First dinner together. First time they’ve stepped outside their rigid roles.

"Just dinner," She mutters under her breath, barely audible.

"Hm?" Sunday hums in question, glancing down at her.

"Nothing," She quickly replies, shaking her head. Just dinner. Just food. Nothing more. Nothing less. "Are you choosing the place?"

Sunday smiles lightly. "Of course I am."

Stelle sighs. Well, that's probably better, anyway. Everywhere she knows is a street vendor tucked away in the vacant corners of the city. 

She steels herself one last time, and falls into step next to him as they step out the elevator.

Chapter Text

The restaurant is, admittedly, smaller than Stelle expected. She had steeled herself for one of those grand establishments with a five-page wine list and waiters in tuxedos and pretentious rich freaks scattered in every corner like they have nothing else to do with their time and money. Instead, it's a charming local bistro with warm lighting, with faint scent of herbs wafting through the air, a cozy, intimate place nestled at the corner of a quiet street. It's nice. Really, really nice. Stelle almost feels her exhaustion wash away the moment they stop in front of it.

Sunday, ever the gentleman, holds the door open for her, gesturing politely for her to enter. She gives him a suspicious look as she steps inside.

"I didn't think you'd lounge in a place like this," She comments off-handedly.

"I like it here quite a bit," Sunday replies nonchalantly. "It's modest. I come by often."

Thinking about it for more than a second, of course he does. If Stelle learned anything in the past few weeks, Sunday isn't really the type to flaunt or waste his money on extravagant dinners. 

The staff greet him like an old friend as they’re led to a corner booth, and they sit across from each other. Stelle's eyes dart around, taking in the cozy ambiance. It’s almost unsettling how casual Sunday seems, the overly calm, obviously practiced expression he wears softening into exhaustion and warmth. It’s the most relaxed she’s ever seen him in the past few weeks, and that throws her off more than anything else.

"Order whatever you'd like," He tells her while glancing over the menu, his voice soft—so much so that Stelle falters for a second. "They have good pasta here."

Stelle raises a brow. "Are you going to get a salad or something boring?"

"Not today. I think I'll get a wonton soup and a dessert." He turns the menu toward her, pointing out a section. "They have pudding tarts. They're surprisingly good."

"Pudding tarts," She repeats, amused. Not only does Sunday look excited, he's not even attempting to hide it. Cute. "You’re excited about your little dessert?"

"I am always excited about respecting the balance," He corrects with a faint smile. Stelle can think of someone who doesn't respect it, and makes a mental note to make Sunday watch that movie. "A good meal should end on a sweet note."

Stelle only huffs a quiet laugh in response. They order their meals, and she finds herself relaxing into the seat as the conversation shifts from work to lighter topics. Sunday, despite his usual polished demeanor, lets slip these small, surprisingly human quirks. He talks about his sister and how she used to mail him dessert whenever she was away from home for too long. She wonders why, but assumes it's business related, and doesn't pry. There's so much warmth and pride in his voice when he speaks about her, and he sometimes does ramble about her, but it's not anything Stelle has the heart to interrupt.

Partly because she finds it endearing, mostly because her thoughts drift to her own brother. She wonders if he talks about her often, or at all, wonders if he remembers her with contempt. Maybe he just pretends she never existed at all. The thought makes her nauseous, and she forces herself to focus on Sunday's rambling.

When the food arrives, Sunday starts eating his soup quietly, noticeably relaxing further as he eats. Stelle observes him in silent awe—this is barely the Sunday who looms over her at work. There's something almost boyish about the way he savors his meal, like he’s finally able to enjoy a moment of peace. 

She digs into her pasta herself. They eat in comfortable silence.

Then, the dessert arrives.

Sunday’s eyes brighten just a little as the small pudding tart plate is placed in front of him. Stelle doesn't expect it, but he looks almost giddy as he takes his pristine white gloves off, picks up a small tart and happily takes a bite. To her surprise, Sunday doesn't just eat it; he savors it. For someone so composed normally, he looks ridiculously pleased—she didn't see such a blissful expression on his face even after securing a multi-million dollar deal at work two weeks ago.

"You’re really into that pudding tart," Stelle remarks, unable to keep it in, hiding a smile behind her hand.

Sunday blinks, then glances at her as if realizing for the first time how he must look. Instead of retorting with usual banter, he smiles, soft and easy, like this is the most natural thing in the world. The slightest pink dusts his cheeks. It makes him look so much younger. "I told you it’s good."

"Yeah, I can see that," She mutters, still watching him as he takes another bite. There’s a faint glimmer of warmth in her chest—endearment, maybe. It’s almost criminal how approachable he seems right now. This devil of a man. How does he even manage it? His eyes close slightly with each bite, like he's savoring every little bit of flavor, and the contrast between this serene man and the authoritative, composed CEO she sees at the office is so jarring that it makes her want to laugh.

He's adorable, she thinks before she can stop herself. Like, actually, genuinely adorable.

He blinks up at her, suddenly, apparently very aware of her gaze. His expression turns quizzical, his sunset eyes wide and owlish. "Is there something on my face?" 

She can't help it. She smiles, propping her chin up on her palm. She wants to tease him a bit, for a change. "No. Not unless you count that cute expression you're making."

Sunday pauses, then, swallows. Frowns like she just insulted him. Bullseye. "Cute? Not exactly a word I'd associate with myself, but sure."

She laughs lightly. Her chest feels light, too. For some reason. "Are you offended?"

"No, I'm just...past the time I could be considered any rendition of 'cute'."

"Right, you're grown," Stelle feigns a sigh. "Thirty something and giddy over pudding tarts. My goat is washed."

Sunday tilts his head slowly, like he's trying to comprehend a foreign language. "Goat?" He repeats, his confusion so palpable it makes her laugh. "What goat?"

She stifles a giggle to answer. "I'm talking about you, genius."

His brows furrow. "But I'm not a goat? Also, what do you mean 'washed'? Does that mean clean?"

At that, Stelle groans, leaning back in her seat. This guy can probably talk his way out of being brutally murdered, but he doesn't know basic, popular internet slang? "God, have you never heard of the phrase? 'Washed' means past your prime. And 'goat' stands for 'greatest of all time.'"

Sunday stares at her in complete bafflement, his mouth slightly open like he's still buffering like a corrupted file. "I'm...washed? But also the greatest? That sounds contradictory."

"Welcome to slang, Mr. Sunday."

"I see." He taps the table thoughtfully, as if filing the information away, and shakes his head. "You young people and your peculiar language..."

"Young people?" She snorts. "You're only, what, eight years older than me, grandpa."

Stelle doesn't think he's capable of it, but for a second, she thinks he's pouting. Then, his face goes back to its neutrality in a split second. "I’m not the one making up cryptic animal metaphors, Miss Stelle."

"Hey, it’s not my fault you don’t know how to act your age. You could have just said 'thank you' for the compliment instead of grilling me about goats. Where's that CEO swagger?"

Sunday sighs dramatically and takes another bite of his tart. Takes his time swallowing it. "Thank you, Miss Stelle, for comparing me to a livestock animal. It’s truly the highest honor."

She laughs, shaking her head. "You're so hopeless sometimes. I should teach you slang."

Sunday makes a face, skeptical and resigned. "I don’t think I could keep up with it."

"Come on," Stelle waves a hand dismissively. "You’re the one always going on and on about confidence. You can do it. Let me teach you."

Sunday raises a brow but eventually sighs. "Alright, I suppose I can humor you—for now."

Stelle claps her hands together gleefully. Oh, this is going to be hilarious. If she is lucky, she will get at least a lifetime supply of ridiculing material if he plays along. "Great! Okay, repeat after me. 'That’s fire.'"

"That’s…fire?" He repeats slowly, his expression blank, as if he’s trying to figure out if the phrase is meant to be literal or not.

Stelle bites her lip to keep from laughing. "No, you have to say it like you mean it! You just ate that pudding tart. How was it?"

Sunday straightens slightly. "It was… fire." He repeats dumbly. 

It takes everything in Stelle to not snort. Her shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. "Okay, okay, not bad. Now try this one. 'This hits different.'"

"This hits…different?" He echoes once more, and then pauses, frowning as if he’s offended by how it sounds. "I don't quite understand. Are you going to explain any of it?"

"Nope. You just have to say them confidently."

He sighs again, and complies. It's her undoing. "This pudding tart was fire. It hits different."

Oh God, oh, Stelle can't help it—she bursts out laughing, clutching her stomach, so loud that she's sure they earned a few glances from the staff and customers. He looks so serious about it, like he’s reading out a report, and it’s too much. Sunday, on the other hand, just watches her with mild exasperation. For the most part. He's not mad, though, and that's a win, Stelle supposes.

"I feel like you’re just making fun of me," He finally mutters, giving her a flat look.

"How could you tell, genius?" She wipes a tear from her eye. "Do you have any idea how funny that was?"

"Miss Stelle, you are such a mean teacher," He says, shaking his head. "Do I ever make fun of you?"

"Aww…" She leans forward again, resting her chin on her hand. "Are your feelings hurt?"

Sunday huffs, crossing his arms in feigned offense. "I am merely pointing out the imbalance in our relationship dynamic."

"Imbalance? You mean me bullying you?" She grabs one of his tarts, and pops one in her mouth. "Sounds fair to me. You bully me all the time at work."

"Not at all," Sunday replies, as if the mere idea is ridiculous to him. "I do not bully you."

Stelle lifts both brows, notes the faint glow of his golden eyes. They match hers. "Oh, really? Micromanaging me until I want to pull my hair out isn’t bullying?"

Sunday gives her a pointed look. "That’s called mentorship. There’s a difference."

"Right. 'Mentorship.' Keep telling yourself that." She leans back in her seat, crossing her arms, mirroring him subconsciously. "You breathe down my neck every time I open an email. I swear, it's like you think I'll accidentally declare war on another company."

"I wouldn’t put it past you," Sunday quips, completely deadpan. Well, she would, but she's not patient enough to deal with the consequences. Neither is Sunday, she thinks, despite his God-given patience. 

Stelle gasps despite herself, dramatically clutching her chest wordlessly.

Sunday chuckles softly in response, shaking his head. "It’s called being thorough. I expect high standards from those I personally mentor. You’ve managed to meet them so far, despite your complaints."

"Gee, thanks. Ever since I was a little girl I knew I wanted to be a corporate slave," She rolls her eyes at him. A faint light flickers in her ribcage.

"You hardly do any work yourself, Miss Stelle..." Sunday sighs, but it doesn't seem to bother him in the slightest. Stelle can’t help the fond smile tugging at the corners of her lips, or the unexpected ease that creeps up on her, or the warmth that slinks down her spine. 

She really worried about nothing, didn't she? They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, both sipping their drinks. It's rare, she realizes, to see Sunday like this—relaxed, not entirely consumed by work, not ordering her around, not sighing in exasparation at her, his jaw not set rigidly. No condescending smile on his face. It's…nice. Maybe even pleasant, if she dares to entertain that thought. 

Her eyes wander to him again as he happily munches on the last of his tarts, one palm below his chin politely to keep the crumbs from falling on his clothes, and there’s something almost unfairly attractive about how composed and refined he looks even in such a casual state. It’s infuriating, really.

Stelle finds herself wanting to push, push, push until she sees that composure crack, those refined manners dissolving away and leaving her with a rattled Sunday. Would he curse? Would he yell? She doesn't suppose he ever would. She is aware that Sunday's slender fingers hold much more than her half-assed reports, manila folders and documents. They hold the threads that keep everything together, that keep him together, snug and tight around everything that concerns him. She wonders if it's suffocating, living like that.

She finds herself wanting to see him do something out of character. To test the waters. "Alright," She starts, drawling out the word. "New challenge. Say 'This shit slaps.'"

Sunday immediately frowns, his brows knitting together. "I’m not saying that."

Of course he isn't. But Stelle is nothing if not stubborn. "Oh, come on! It just means something’s really good, like music or food. Don’t be such a stick in the mud." She leans forward, plastering a grin on her face. "You’re always preaching confidence. Practice it a little."

"I’ll pass, thank you." He wipes the corner of his lip with a thumb, giving her an unimpressed look. "I don’t see the need to use crude language."

"Oh my God, you are such a prude," Stelle snickers, resting her chin in her palm. She pushes some more. "What, are you allergic to swear words?"

"I prefer a more refined vocabulary," He replies coolly. "I don’t need profanity to express myself."

"Refined vocabulary?" She echoes mockingly, raising an eyebrow. "Not even when you’re really angry? Like, never an angry ‘fuck this’ or ‘goddamn it’?"

"No."

"Wow. Not even when you stub your toe?" She asks, incredulous.

Sunday exhales softly, clearly getting tired of her insistence. "No, Miss Stelle. I express my frustrations without resorting to vulgarity."

Stelle presses. "Not even in bed?"

Sunday's eyes narrow ever so slightly, the corners of his lips twitching in something between amusement and disbelief. "In bed?" He repeats, his voice even, though there's a subtle shift in his tone, like he didn't expect her to say that of all things. Not quite a crack, but it's a start.

Stelle leans back in her chair, not backing down, because this has to fluster him, right? What better than an unsolicited suggestive implication to achieve her goal? "Yeah, like, do you just stay calm even when things get heated?"

Sunday doesn't immediately respond, his gaze settling on her, studying, maybe collecting his thoughts. Though Stelle's sure they're still intact. "Yes. Maintaining composure and control brings me comfort." He replies slowly, almost thoughtfully.

"Really?"

"Really, Miss Stelle. I can't exactly demonstrate, so you will have to believe me, no?"

Her mind flickers for a second, and some terrible, terrible urge envelops her, pushing her to ask more, poke and prod like she always does. But instead, she simply shrugs it off. It's clearly a losing battle. "I mean, yeah, sure, whatever works for you," She settles, her tone casual, though the weight of her thoughts lingers just a little longer than she will ever admit, to anyone, or herself. Demonstration. Yeah, as if.

Sunday doesn’t comment further, instead leaning back in his chair with his usual poise, clearly aware of the shift in tone but choosing not to acknowledge it directly. It feels like nothing’s changed, but beneath the surface, something’s subtly different. Stelle's attempt at rattling him failed spectacularly. Way to go, Stelle. Now you look like a major pervert. Bravo. 

Stelle finds her eyes lingering on him longer than she should, tracing the refined lines of his face, the smooth angles of his jaw, and the way his golden earrings hang from his ears. Even in the most mundane of moments, Sunday Oak remains infuriatingly unbothered, like some portrait of perfection carved out of discipline and control. His gray hair frames his face, not a single strand out of place, yet she wonders what it might look like slightly tousled, undone by sleep or frustration. His hands—steady, capable—rest lightly on either side of the empty dessert plate, long fingers that seem built for precision. For a moment, she lets herself imagine those hands out of control; shaking, gripping too tightly, fingers curling—and what the fuck is she thinking about, anyway? Get a grip, Stelle. 

"If you're quite done," Sunday says suddenly, catching her attention like a fly. He slips his gloves back on. Her gaze does not linger. "Shall we go, Miss Stelle?"

She's pulled out her daze immediately, but it's so damn embarrassing. "Done with what?"

"Trying to dissect me in your mind," Sunday smiles. "So? Shall we go?"

Stelle sighs. "Yeah, sure. Whatever. Thanks for the meal."

Sunday drives her home in comfortable silence. He insists, as expected, that dropping her off is "simply the proper thing to do." She doesn’t argue this time, too drained from her swirling thoughts to summon her usual sarcasm. Instead, she watches the city lights blur through the car window, trying to make sense of the tangled mess in her head. Don't think about it. 

When they finally reach her apartment building, he offers a polite nod, and she mumbles a quick thanks before stepping out of the car.

Sunday’s car pulls away, his presence vanishing into the night, and yet, he lingers. He’s in the air around her, in the echo of his voice in her ears, in the ghost of his hand that press against her waist as he passes her through a crowded office hallway even though it really is not that narrow, in the warmth that flickers in her stomach with every single thing he reveals—no, refuses to reveal about himself. She trudges up the stairs, fumbling with her keys, her thoughts racing in every direction. Her heartbeat hasn’t fully returned to normal since dinner, a low hum of tension and confusion thrumming beneath her skin, crawling up her spine. Don't think about it. 

Inside her apartment, Stelle kicks off her shoes and drags her feet to her bed, peeling her clothes off until she's left in a tank top and her underwear. She presses her palms to her face. Too hot. She feels feverish. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She wanted to throw him off balance, to break through that wall of calm he always carried. Instead, he turned the tables without even trying, leaving her rattled.

And now she can’t stop thinking about him. Don't think about him.

Stelle sighs and drapes an arm over her eyes. She thinks about him.

Her mind begins constructing something vivid and dangerous—something that sneaks up on her before she can stop it. Sunday, seated in some dimly lit room. His gaze is sharp, but there’s no harshness to it. He doesn’t need to yell or posture; his control is in his stillness. The thought presses in: Would he make someone kneel before him, their head bowed in reverence? Or would he simply gesture, guiding them gently downward like it's the most natural thing in the world for them to kneel for him, as if it's the gravity pulling them down to their place beneath him?

A shiver runs through her. Would he touch them once they were there? His delicate, gloved hands are steady in her mind, never rushing. Fingers skimming their jaw, tilting their chin upward so they meet his eyes—that would be enough, she thinks. He wouldn’t need to say a word.

She shifts uncomfortably under the blanket. Kicks it off. Her mind doesn’t stop.

Would he let them stay at a distance, observing his composed frame, or pull them closer? Would he guide them into his lap with deliberate grace, letting them sink against him? She imagines him there, trailing his fingertips along their back, his soft voice low and intimate, the kind that sends a tremor straight down your spine. Would he whisper reassurances in their ear?

Her breath catches. She turns her head into her pillow. No. He’s not that simple. He’d remind them of the miles between them, there would be no reassurance. But he would not be cruel. Would he bind them? Restrain them just enough to feel his presence in every fiber of their body? Maybe. He’d do it carefully, making sure the silk—or rope, or whatever—was perfect. No discomfort, no room for mistakes. That precision, that control—it’s his entire thing.

Would he be rough?

She closes her eyes. No. She knows the answer before the thought finishes. He wouldn’t shove, wouldn’t manhandle—he’d guide. Lead. Whisper in their ear with that calm cadence of his, coaxing them to trust him, to give in, to let go.

Would he be gentle, then?

Her mind spirals deeper into forbidden territory. Her lips part unconsciously as she pictures it. How Sunday’s mouth, no longer restrained by his constant propriety, would move over someone’s skin, unhurried and exact. He wouldn’t rush. Would he kneel on the bed, those slender arms locking around their thighs, holding them in place while he used his tongue, his lips? His breath warm against sensitive, pliant flesh as he carefully dismantled their self-control with one calculated touch at a time.

Stop, Stelle, stop. Her whole body feels warm now, an ache spreading through her lower belly. She clenches her legs together instinctively, her pulse racing. Her mind teases her with one more image of him keeping his perfectly pressed suit on the entire time as he peels their clothes one by one. 

She catches her hand just before it slips between her thighs. No, she is not doing that. She has done many, many questionable things in life—morally, physically, emotionally, legally, logically, whatever, but she is not about to touch herself to her boss. Even the thought is mortifying. 

Stelle groans softly, dragging her hand away from where it hovered dangerously close to crossing a line she had no intention of crossing. Not tonight. Not ever. What the hell is wrong with you? she scolds herself silently, burying her face deeper into the pillow. Her thoughts still refuse to quiet down, though, because her life just sucks like that.

She flips onto her back, glaring at the ceiling like it holds the answers to her spiraling thoughts. You’re just touch-starved or something. That’s all this is. Normal people don’t obsess over their boss like this. 

It’s not just lust, and that’s what makes it worse. It’s curiosity. Fascination. The quiet, terrible pull of wanting to know who Sunday Oak is beneath all that poise and restraint. She isn’t supposed to think about him like this—not about the way his voice would sound when unguarded, or how his hair might become tousled and unruly after a long, heated mo—Yeah, no. She needs help.

Dragging herself to the kitchen, she downs a glass of cold water, the chill shocking her system enough to settle her nerves. For now. With a sigh, she heads to her bedroom again, pulling the covers up over herself.

The morning after her long, sleepless night, Stelle doesn’t think much as she gets dressed. She claims to herself that it’s all subconscious, even a whim, really. The short black skirt with a thigh slit, the turquoise strap hugging her left thigh, the crisp white blouse tucked perfectly under a tailored black blazer. It's not deliberate. She’s not dressing for him, per se, but there’s an itch to see if he’ll notice.

Not that she wants him to.

Not that she’ll care if he doesn’t.

She sighs heavily, shaking off the thought as she heads to the office. The hours crawl by. Meetings, reports, endless emails—none of it distracts her the way she hoped it would. By the time lunch rolls around, she’s in no mood to socialize. She stays behind at her desk, the sound of office chatter fading as everyone filters out to the breakroom.

Finally. Peace.

Or so she thinks. Until she hears footsteps. Of course. Since when did she have a good day, anyway? She doesn’t need to see him to know it’s him. Of course it’s him. She sighs, tilting her head and turning slowly in her spinning chair to confirm her suspicion.

Sure enough, there he is: Sunday Oak, with that stupid expression on his face, striding toward her desk.

“Can I help you?” She asks, her exasperation slipping into her voice.

"Good afternoon," He greets, all business. "You can help me by listening to what I say, perhaps. I came to pick up the reports you forgot to deliver this morning."

Stelle’s brows lift in disbelief, but something deep and low settles in her belly. Right away? She asks herself. Really? This quick? "I'm not your assistant." She settles on instead, trying to dismiss him.

Sunday blinks, clearly unimpressed. “Miss Stelle, you are my employee. You answer to me. In case you forgot.”

The words hit her differently than they should, and her traitorous mind flashes back to the fantasy that had haunted her last night—him quietly reminding someone of the miles between them, just like he did now. Her face heats, and she quickly waves a hand. She needs him to leave, and she needs him to leave now.

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever," She mutters. "I just don’t like being told what to do."

Sunday hums softly, stepping closer. He leans his hip against her desk, crossing his arms, his eyes never leaving her face. "No, you don’t," He says thoughtfully. "And requesting kindly doesn’t seem to work on you, either. Perhaps I should implement a reward system for you."

Stelle blinks, thrown completely off guard. What? "Excuse me? I'm not a dog. Don't be weird."

"No, you're not," He agrees again, his expression doesn’t change, and he responds with a loud sigh, his voice light but tired, like he’s at the end of his rope with her. “You are impossibly disobedient. And defiant. At least dogs can be trained. You do not listen to a thing I say, even after weeks of me holding your hand through every task."

Stelle pauses, her mind grinding to a halt. Did he really just say that? No teasing smile, no smug inflection—he’s dead freaking serious, his voice dipped low to a level of exasperation she rarely hears from him. And yet, instead of snapping back like she normally would, her brain betrays her with an entirely different reaction, the skin of her lower stomach flexes instinctively, her thigh muscles tightening for some reason.

Wow. Not even her own perverted mind could come up with those lines. Perhaps she underestimated how weirder he could get, perhaps she should give her fantasies a patch update.

...Perhaps she should reset her brain. A lobotomy. Do they still do that? She needs one, she thinks, and shifts slightly in her chair, folding her arms tightly across her chest, as if that might physically shield her from her spiraling thoughts. Her gaze flickers to Sunday’s face—calm, unreadable as always. He doesn’t seem to realize how his words just shattered her composure. Or maybe he does, and this is just some weird experiment in breaking her sanity. Knowing him, it’s impossible to tell.

"Okay, first of all," She starts, her voice a bit too sharp, "Stop saying weird shit like that. You can’t just go around comparing people to dogs. That’s unhinged."

Sunday blinks slowly, as if contemplating her outburst. Then, he tilts his head slightly, his expression thoughtful, mulling over it. "Perhaps you’re right," He concedes, though he does not sound sorry at all. "That analogy may have been excessive. But the point remains—you have a habit of disregarding authority."

"Authority," She echoes, incredulous. "Seriously? You make it sound like I’m some kind of rebellious teenager."

His lips press into a thin line. "You certainly behave like one at times."

"Wow. Okay," She scoffs. Her irritation spikes, and thankfully thumps some of her fever down. "Remind me to schedule your personality transplant, because this one is unbearable."

"Is it?" He asks mildly, arching an eyebrow. "I assumed you’d appreciate honesty."

"Honesty?" She huffs. "You're blatantly insulting me over some report I forgot to deliver to you."

"Call it what you like," He replies evenly, his eyelids drooping to stare down at her. "But I wouldn’t have to resort to these conversations if you demonstrated even a modicum of compliance. My patience has its limits, Miss Stelle. I do not have the time to reign you in every time you defy."

The statement reverberates in her skull like a bell, setting off another string of wildly inappropriate thoughts. She pictures his hands again, restraining, guiding, pulling her down—Stop it, Stelle. Jesus.

"What the fuck," She mutters under her breath, shaking her head violently as if to shake the images loose. "Look, just...take your damn report and leave."

She shoves the file toward him, but Sunday doesn’t move to leave immediately. Instead, his gaze flicks down and lingers on her outfit. His brows furrow slightly, and for a moment, he looks lost. Like he’s trying to make sense of something. Perhaps confused? No, not confused—slightly irritated, like something about her outfit has personally wronged him.

Ah. He's noticed it.

Before Stelle can comment on the shift in his expression, he shifts his weight, planting one hand firmly on the edge of her desk, and his other hand moves, and before she fully registers what’s happening, his fingers are brushing against her left thigh.

Huh?

Her breath catches as his index finger trails along the turquoise strap wrapped snugly around her skin. His touch is light, but it burns like a brand. He doesn’t even spare her a glance, his focus entirely on the strap as though the leather offends him greatly. Like touching her isn't worth a second thought.

"Uh, what are you—" She starts to ask, but the words die on her tongue when his finger slips under the strap, curling slightly as he pulls it away from her thigh.

There’s a moment, a split second, where her mind goes completely blank. His face remains composed, unreadable, as if this is just another part of his routine inspection. The strap pulls taut, stretching just far enough to make her skin tingle. Then, without warning, he lets it go.

The sharp sound echoes in the quiet room, snapping back against her skin with a soft thwack, and she flinches slightly at the sting. It’s not painful—just surprising, just enough to send a jolt through her system, and perhaps pour gasoline on it and set it on fire, too. She stares at him, wide-eyed, her mouth slightly open. What the fuck?

"What...are you doing?" She finally manages to whisper, her voice barely steady.

Sunday straightens, pulling his hand away as if nothing unusual just happened. He casually picks up the report from the desk, his expression as calm as ever. "Dress code violation," He says smoothly, glancing at the strap one last time. "Take it off."

Stelle's mind scrambles to process his words. "Take it—? Are you serious right now?"

"Quite serious," He replies, flipping open the report and skimming the first few pages. "The dress code explicitly states that accessories of a non-professional nature are prohibited. That includes unconventional legwear."

"Unconventional legwear?" She echoes, still trying to catch up. Her brain is buffering. She's stuck on the loading screen, quite frankly. "It’s a thigh strap, not lingerie. And it's fashionable."

Sunday sighs softly, his gaze lifting to meet hers again. "Fashionable or not, it’s against company policy. You know the rules, Miss Stelle."

She stares at him some more with increased disbelief, still feeling the phantom sting of the strap snapping against her skin. "You literally just touched me, and now you're lecturing me about policy?"

"I merely inspected the violation," He replies nonchalantly, as if that makes it completely normal behavior. Can she report this to HR? She needs a witness. Do the cameras here work? What's she going to tell HR, anyway? Our boss is touching me and entertaining all my unwanted thoughts without even knowing, and it's bothering me? They'd probably tell her to get some self-respect and send her back to her desk. 

"Inspected?" She shakes her head in disbelief. "You snapped it against my leg!"

The corner of his lips twitch up, the closest thing to amusement she’s seen all day. "Yes. Inspection."

"Oh my God," She mutters, dragging a hand down her face. "Is there something wrong with you?"

"Nothing that I'm aware of," He replies dryly, turning back to the report. "Kindly remove the item by tomorrow. I’ll be lenient this once. Enjoy your afternoon."

With that, he walks out, leaving her alone once more. Stelle slumps back in her chair, heart pounding in her chest. She looks down at the thigh strap still snug around her leg and rubs the spot where it snapped against her skin.

What the hell just happened? 

Her first, very foremost thought is: maybe she really should just quit. It’s not like she’s actually productive here, and surely, Professor Yang would believe her over Sunday if she said he was giving her a hard time. She spends half her workday fighting the urge to throttle Sunday and the other half trying to keep herself together, anyway. She should quit.

Yeah, quit, and give him the satisfaction? No way. Does he want her to quit? Is that why he's being all weird, and saying things like that? My patience has its limits, he said—Isn't that just a roundabout way of saying he's tired of her? She should be happy if he is. That means it would take little effort to push his buttons more, and get that termination letter on her desk like she initially wanted. She would be free, then.

The thought of leaving doesn’t sit right with her. Not really. She leans back in her chair and stares at the ceiling, chewing over the idea. If she were being honest with herself, and she usually hates being honest with herself, because everytime she is, she has to come to terms with mortifying things, quitting wouldn’t feel like a win. It would feel like a loss. Like giving up. Not on the job, but on whatever it is that keeps her and Sunday tethered.

She should want to leave. She’d spent weeks testing Sunday’s patience, hoping he’d fire her so she wouldn’t have to deal with him or this frustrating job anymore. There’s an ache in her chest she doesn’t want to acknowledge. The thought of walking away, of leaving—it leaves her feeling hollow. She should want to leave because everyday is a mental tug-of-war with Sunday, and working under him is a constant test of her patience and sanity.

But she won't. She refuses. She just needs to get him off her back a bit, prove she can be capable without him pestering her over every single thing. Clear her head. Not be so close to him. Forget about his appearance, his presence, move to the mountains and milk a cow, maybe. Reinvent the calculator with sticks and stones and do addition on her own skull. Maybe that'd beat some sense into it.

She just needs to be away from him. Tell him off like a normal person next time they talk. Yeah. That should work.

It has to.

Chapter Text

Stelle's routine does not change. She wakes up, curses her life, gets dressed, goes to work. Plays Solitaire on company time, and only pretends to listen during debriefing meetings. She plays Minesweeper in her head while her senior manager fusses over her half-assed work. Comes home and falls asleep with the TV on like some retired old grandpa. The thigh strap stays.

There's no universe where Stelle is going to let Sunday win after pulling that weird inspection stunt. The absurdity of the situation has replayed in her mind as many times as she had to restart the Fire Temple in Ocarina of Time, the sound of him snapping the strap against her skin reverberating not in her ears but her flesh still. 

No, if anything, the strap stays because he told her to remove it.

But Sunday doesn't bring it up again. In fact, Sunday doesn't bring up much of anything at all.

She sees him only once on Tuesday. A rare sighting, like a rare mob spawn in a game. They're in the hallway, just after a meeting where he, of course, had been perfectly composed and all-knowing. She expects some kind of comment, another casual dismissal of her existence wrapped in professional formality, but when he meets her eyes, she's the one who speaks first.

"Nope. I don't wanna hear it. Leave me alone."

Sunday had blinked. Not in shock, not in confusion, it was really just a slow, neutral processing of her request, like a machine registering a command. Then he'd pursed his lips and said, "Very well."

And that was it.

And, oddly enough, he did leave her alone.

She hadn't expected an argument, per se, but she also hadn’t expected compliance. And that was what gnawed at her. Sunday never let her have the last word. Never backed off so easily. He always had something to say because he's an ass with a lesson to teach at all times and a way to turn the tables in a way that left her reeling. But this? This is weird. Off-putting. Strange. There are no calls to his office, no casual check-ins disguised as professional concern, no smug glances as she struggles through a report. He stops hovering. Stelle should be relieved, really.

It is a victory. After all, she finally cracked the code, the perfect combination of words to get Sunday Oak to fuck off. She should be proud. She should be gleeful, even. 

Instead, she's—Well. No. Never mind that. She's not finishing that thought.

For the rest of the week, Sunday is absent from her orbit, but not from the office. She still sees him, still hears his voice in meetings, still watches him move through the space like a carefully programmed NPC: predictable, poised, precise. He's just as stupidly composed as always. 

But something is off.

No one else notices, of course. They aren't as attuned to his patterns and him as a whole as she is. They don’t know the difference between Sunday Oak in full control and Sunday Oak making sure everyone thinks he is. All they see is a boss who is reassuring, efficient, untouchable. But Stelle, much to her dismay, sees the imperceptible shift.

The smiles come a second too soon, the reassurances a little too smooth. It's unnoticable. It would be unnoticable to Stelle too, if she hadn't spent a good chunk of her time in his presence almost every other day for the past few weeks. The small, insignificant signs that he's performing rather than simply being. The way his posture is too perfect, his attention spread just a little too evenly across everything. Like a script running in the background, designed to simulate stability.

It's not that Sunday's control is cracking. No, he's double-knotting the laces, tightening the screws, making sure the seams don't split, and Stelle isn't sure what bothers her more; that she can tell, or that she cares enough to notice. Either way, it's none of her business. Whatever is pressing down on him must be something significant if he's this affected. Stelle, for once, minds her business. Not because she doesn't care, but because she is afraid of what caring entails.

A full week and a half passes without a single passive aggressive critique, without a single drawn-out conversation where Sunday stares at her like she's an insolent child he's deciding whether to scold or amuse himself with. Her workdays are easy. Quiet. It's a routine: Come in, Solitaire and Minesweeper until she scrambles to answer emails, reports, meetings here and there, the earfuls she gets from Dudley still, and the mind-nunbingly boring lunch breaks where she pretends to give a fuck about office gossip. 

It's really easy. Quiet. Monotone. No one is annoying her anymore. She’s not bothered by his absence in her day. Why would she be? This is exactly what she wanted, isn't it? She can sit at her desk and work in peace. No more hovering, no more being singled out, no more feeling like some kind of personal side quest in his daily routine.

So why does she keep glancing at her phone like she's expecting a message? Why does she keep looking up from her screen whenever someone walks by, feeling a tiny flicker of annoyance when she realizes it's not him?

It's curiousity, she tells herself. That's all. He's acting weird—not weird enough for anyone else to notice, but weird enough for her to. She's just...wondering. That's all.

She's not worried, she is not lonely, most of all, most definitely not feeling untethered, like some kind of satellite uselessly floating in space. Not at all. 

She leans back in her chair, arms crossed, staring blankly at her computer screen. The ugly creature from Purble Palace stares back at her. She accidentally produced a heart cake instead of a regular one because she's distracted, and it grates on her last nerves. The office is busy around her, the usual hum of conversation and typing filling the space. 

It should've been a relief.

But it's not. 

She's being ridiculous. She's not missing his attention. She's not unsettled by the silence between them. Not everything is about her. She was just...used to the back and forth. That's all. She just lost entertainment, and she's bored out of her mind, and she's definitely not sitting here, debating whether to do something about it.

Against her better judgement, she decides to do something about it, because if she doesn't, it will keep eating at her. And she's bored. Yes, bored. So she grabs some coffee from the lunch room and hastily prints out some random report from her files, and heads up to the top floor.

The report in her other hand is redundant—it's one she had already sent earlier in the morning—but she needs a reason to be there. A reason that isn't because she's wondering where the hell Sunday's head is at.

She isn't worried, though. Just curious. She just notices things. That's all.

That's why she's standing outside his office now, staring at his door like it's some kind of enemy stronghold. She's felt less nervous after the morning of getting drunk out of her mind under Dan Heng's watch, and Dan Heng's scoldings are nothing short of scary. She thinks it's warranted right now. Sunday's absence feels like a bug in the system, a line of code refusing to run as it should.

So she's here to investigate.

Sunday doesn't even look up immediately when she enters. He’s hunched slightly over his desk, his hair pristine, his suit perfectly tailored, his posture as impeccable as ever. Too impeccable. Too still. Too polished.

He's been like this for over a week now. It isn't that he's been avoiding her in an obvious way, but his absence in her daily life has been impossible not to notice, and Sunday is not the type of man to suddenly ignore things without reason. His absence isn't avoidance; it's distraction. She's seen him stay in perfect control before, but this is different. This is rehearsed stability. It's a performance. Sunday isn't holding everything together—he's making sure everyone thinks he is.

And for some reason, it bothers her.

She sets the coffee down on his desk with a soft clink.

Sunday’s gaze rises up, his brow furrowing slightly as he takes in the cup, then her. His eyes look tired. It's the first crack that he lets show. He's not outwardly tired, no one else would notice. But Stelle does. Stelle knows what he looks like when he’s genuinely in control, and this isn't it.

His desk is a mess, and that's what sets her alarm bells off. His desk is never messy, and he never lets things get cluttered. Yet here it is—papers scattered, pens out of order, the usual meticulous organization disrupted.

She keeps her expression neutral. "Hi."

Sunday quirks an eyebrow. "Hello, Miss Stelle. I thought I told Elaine to not let anyone inside my office today."

"I told her it's urgent and important. Related to the current issue," She bluffs, seeing if he'll take the bait. In truth, she just made something up about forgetting the kettle in the lunch room turned on without water in it, causing Elaine to rush to it. "So she let me in."

"I see. Well, now that you've sated your curiousity," He flicks his gaze down to the report she just placed in front of him. If he noticed that it's a duplicate of the one she sent earlier, or if he realized she's lying, he doesn't comment on it. His fingers tap against the desk. "Is there anything else?"

"Well, yeah. What's going on?"

He doesn't even hesitate. "Nothing."

She narrows her eyes. Gestures to his desk. "Then what is this?"

Sunday, who hasn't even looked up from the report yet, lifts his gaze toward her before following it back to his desk. He blinks once. Then, with all the seriousness in the world, he simplys says: "Paperwork."

Stelle stares at him. "Right. And I'm the president."

He sighs, setting his pen down. "Did you come here for a reason, Miss Stelle?"

"Yup," she gestures vaguely to the crime scene that is his workspace. "What's going on?" She repeats. 

Sunday exhales slowly through his nose, visibly unimpressed. "I've been busy."

"Busy with?"

His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. "Things that you do not need to concern yourself with."

Stelle arches a brow, staring pointedly at the mess of papers and misplaced pens on his desk. "I'm not concerned. I have a right to know. Are you going bankrupt or what?"

Sunday doesn't so much as twitch. He clasps his hands atop the scattered papers on his desk, his voice smooth as glass. "Nothing is out of place, except for my desk, which I have regrettably failed to organize in my haste today."

Stelle makes a face, tilting her head at him. "Right. Just the desk. That's the only thing."

Sunday inclines his head slightly, the picture of calm professionalism, as if to say, 'Yes, obviously. Are we done here?'

She takes a step closer, flattening her hands against his desk, leaning in just enough to crowd his space. Not enough to be overtly challenging, but enough to make it clear she isn't buying a single word he's saying.

"See, I would believe you," She drawls, lifting a hand to tick off her fingers one by one, "If it weren’t for a few things,"

She extends her index finger. "One: You haven't hovered over me once this week. That alone is weird. You're always lurking like some kind of overbearing ghost."

Sunday's expression remains impassive. "I hardly think—"

She holds up a second finger, cutting him off. "Two: You actually left me alone when I told you to. Since when do you listen to me?"

"I wasn't aware that you required my attention this badly," He says, voice dry as sandpaper.

She scoffs. "You wish. Three—" She leans in just a fraction more, lowering her voice like she's letting him in on a secret. "You seem out of it. Like seriously." 

Sunday exhales slowly, the sound barely audible, but it's there, a quiet thread of tension beneath his usual polished demeanor. His fingers tap once against the desk before stilling entirely.

"And how, exactly, have you come to that conclusion?" He asks, tilting his head ever so slightly. His golden gaze narrows into slits. "What, in your expert opinion, suggests that I am anything other than in control?"

Stelle opens her mouth, ready to fire back something flippant, something dismissive, because obviously he's not as in control as he's pretending to be. But then she hesitates, because she knows, and she honestly hates that she knows.

It's not even one thing—it's everything. It's the way his patience has turned from indulgent to forced, the way his reassurances to others have become just a tad too convincing. The way his posture has been a fraction too rigid, his smiles too measured, his presence too deliberate. Like he's not just maintaining order—he's performing it.

Most people wouldn't see it. Hell, she thought she just pissed him off for real for a day or two, but with close attention, she could tell because at some point, somehow, she became attuned to him in ways she never meant to. When the hell did that happen, anyway? When did she start noticing these things? She quickly chalks it up to being bored, and presses on.

"You just…" She gestures vaguely at him, as if that explains anything. "You do this thing."

Sunday raises an eyebrow. "A thing."

"Yes, a thing," She says, a little more frustrated than she means to be. She shifts her weight. "Listen, I just see it, okay? I can't explain it." 

"And this is something you've just noticed?" He muses, tone so sarcastic Stelle almost walks out to leave him to his misery. "Despite never once showing an interest in my work?"

Stelle rolls her eyes. "Noticing things and caring about them are two very different things, genius."

Sunday falls silent for a long moment. So long of a pause that Stelle considers waving a hand in front of his face. Then, finally, he speaks, his voice quiet. "It would seem you've become rather perceptive, Miss Stelle."

She scoffs, rolling her eyes, trying to shake off the weight of his gaze pressing down on her. "Not really. You're just bad at pretending around me."

Sunday lifts an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

She looks away. Curses her big fucking mouth, and looks in his eyes again. "It is so. Look at you."

What is wrong with her? Why did she say that? That's not even true. Sunday is great at pretending, better than anyone else in this godforsaken office. It's just that she...notices. Watches, observes him carefully despite her insistent refusal to cooperate. Unfortunately. And now he's aware of such. Wonderful.

She forces a shrug, arms crossing over her chest. "Look, if you're gonna keep sitting there acting like nothing's wrong, that's fine. Just don't expect me to buy it."

Sunday lets out a breath, his fingers tapping against his desk in that familiar four plus one rhythm. "And what do you propose I do, then? Bare my soul to you?"

She grins. "I mean, that would be entertaining."

He shakes his head as if she said something utterly ridiculous, then, finally, he shifts. His golden gaze drops down to the mess of papers scattered across his desk, and he straightens one of them, smooths it out unnecessarily. "...There has been a data breach," He says finally. His voice is calm, even, but there's a sharpness to his words, a quiet frustration Stelle definitely catches. "Highly sensitive company information has been leaked to various competitors waiting for vulnerabilities in our structure."

Stelle stills.

Ah. So that's what's been eating at him. She narrows her eyes at him, taking in the over the sharp set of his shoulders, the rigid way he holds himself as he explains, like he's carrying the weight of it alone. Which, knowing him, he probably is.

"What kind of data?" She asks.

"That's confidential."

"I can go down to IT and find out myself."

"You cannot."

"I have the right to know as an employee."

"And I have the right to see you out of my office if necessary."

Oh, no he won't. She leans in close again, opening her eyes very, very wide. "Spill."

His delicate brows furrow, but he relents after a pause. "...Classified project developments. Internal reports. Supply chain vulnerabilities. Some financial forecasting. Nothing that would collapse the company immediately, but enough to cause considerable damage if used correctly." He gives another deliberate pause and levels her with a look. "And never use that tone with me again."

Stelle lets out a low sound. "Yikes," That earns her a judgemental glance, but she ignores that. She ignores his comment about her tone, too. Better not poke the bear at this time, she thinks. "So what are you doing about it? You're not handling this all on your own, right?"

Sunday just stares at her as if he's doing exactly that. It makes Stelle's stomach drop slightly. "…Right?"

He exhales, long and slow, before finally admitting: "Only the IT department is aware of the situation. For now."

She stares at him, mouth slightly agape. "Only IT? No one else? Not the executive directors? High-level management? Your boardroom?"

"They are uninformed."

"Why?"

His voice doesn't even waver. "Because I have deemed it unnecessary at this time."

She resists the urge to smack him. What is he even thinking? She's sure keeping this from employees is illegal, anyway. "Unnecessary? You do realize you have an entire network of highly-paid people who are supposed to help with things like this, right?"

Sunday just looks at her as if she's dumb or something. "And do you trust those highly-paid people to handle the situation discreetly?"

"Well, yes! That's what you pay them for, isn't it?!" She insists, incredulous. She doesn't even understand why they're having this conversation.

"There might be a mole."

Stelle opens her mouth. Stops. Okay, yeah. Fair point. But still. "So what, you're just going to deal with this alone? You're paying everyone in there for nothing?"

Sunday turns his gaze away finally, and props his chin up in his palm, looking out of the window to his right. "I'm in the process of deciding whether to seek external assistance."

"…Like a hacker?"

He gives her a look. "A cybersecurity consultant."

"Riiight..." She makes a sour face. Always so pretentious. "That. You probably have connections that can help us with all this, right?" She cringes as soon as the phrase 'help us' leaves her mouth, as if she has any stake in this company beyond her paycheck.

Sunday does not comment on her choice of words. His brow lifts slightly, just for a second—like he caught it, like he noticed, but he doesn't acknowledge it. Instead, he leans back in his chair. "I am in the process of assessing our options."

Stelle crosses her arms, trying to shake off the weird feeling crawling up her spine. Us. She really said us. As if she actually gives a shit about this company. As if she's invested in this at all. As if she isn’t just a glorified corporate gremlin who spends most of her time figuring out how to do the least amount of work possible while still getting paid.

She clears her throat. "And what about the rest of your workload? Y'know, the other soul-crushing responsibilities you signed up for?"

Sunday sighs, his patience thinning. "I am managing it."

"Yeah, I see that." She gestures to the absolute disaster of a desk in front of him. "And clearly, it's going great."

Sunday doesn't dignify her with a response—He just gives her a pointed look, the do you have a purpose here, or are you just here to waste my time? kind of look that he usually gives her whenever she's flying too close to the sun. His fingers tap against the armrest of his chair in a slow, methodical rhythm. 

"If you're done with your little interrogation," He finally sighs again. "Please see yourself out. I have work to do, as you can see."

Stelle hums thoughtfully, rocking back on her heels. Now, if she left, she would be very free person, she reckons. It's not like she wants to get caught up in whatever this is. But one part of her—and it's really small, mind you—wants to be of help in some way. She can't hack although she used to know someone who can, she can't do his job for him, but she can at the very least start by pulling him back together, because frankly, this Sunday is unsettling her more than his usual self. 

"I'm not leaving." She declares, and casually side steps his desk to stand next to him on his stupid crazy expensive-looking CEO chair. God, it looks so comfortable. She wants one of those for her own desk so bad.

Sunday turns to her, confused. "Miss Stelle?"

She ignores him. Instead, she moves. 

Without waiting for permission, she leans forward and her fingers skim over the cluttered surface, gathering the scattered papers into a neat pile. Then she reaches for his pens, carefully slotting them back into their proper color-coded order that she memorized after spending so much time staring at them and blanking out as he lectured her. It's mindless, really. Quick work. Sunday does not stop her. He doesn't even say a word. He just stares dumbly, like he is witnessing the creation of the universe, and it looks stupid—Why is he so shocked that she's a decent person, anyway? Well, with how she's been behaving, it's not surprising that he'd assume the worst of her. Ouch. Perhaps she ought to fix her image a bit.

By the time she's done, his desk is back to its usual pristine state. Stelle brushes her hands off, nodding to herself in satisfaction.

Sunday blinks. Slowly.

"...You didn't have to do that." He says finally, his voice so quiet it's barely audible.

She smirks, stuffing her hands into her blazer's pockets. "Yup. I wouldn't do it if I had to. You know how I am with mandatory tasks."

Sunday chuckles weakly in response. "Oh, yes, I do know." 

She laughs, louder than he has, and stretches her arms above her head. She needs to get him out of here for a bit. "Alright. Come on. Smoke break."

Sunday’s brows pull together slightly at that. Right, okay. Stelle expected some resitance. She can deal with that. "I do not smoke."

"Well, I do," She retorts. "And I want company. Help a lonely girl out, won't you?"

"You're not—"

"Yes, yes, whatever," She waves a hand, already moving toward the door of his office balcony. She still can't believe he has an entire terrace here. "Get up."

Sunday exhales, long-suffering, then, to her surprise, he actually gets up and follows her to outside.

The air outside is crisp, the kind that bites a little but is still bearable. Sunday's terrace is neither decorated nor dirty, a perfect, secluded spot for an impromptu smoke break. She wishes her department had something like this so she wouldn't have to go outside everytime she wanted one.

Stelle lights a cigarette, leans against the railing, exhaling a slow stream of smoke, watching as it curls and dissipates into the open sky. Sunday stands beside her, his posture as rigid as ever, hands neatly folded behind his back like he’s overseeing a damn board meeting instead of taking a break. He doesn't say anything at first, just stands there, staring out at the city skyline.

It's quiet. For once, it's not uncomfortable.

"You actually came," Stelle muses, rolling the cigarette between her fingers. "Kinda figured you'd turn back at the last second."

Sunday doesnt look at her. "You insisted."

"Yeah, well. You looked like you needed a minute."

Sunday hums in response, noncommittal. His gaze remains distant, thoughtful, but not in a way that suggests he's drowning in work thoughts. No, it feels different. More present.

She tilts her head, watching him for a beat before shaking her head with a sigh. "Y'know, you'd probably be less miserable if you actually let yourself relax."

Sunday finally glances at her, arching an eyebrow. "And you believe indulging in lung damage is the best method of relaxation?"

"Figured you'd say that. It works for me," She says, tapping the ash off the end of her cigarette. "Besides, you need to pick up some vices. You could use one, honestly."

Sunday exhales sharply through his nose in amusement. "I occasionally indulge in other things."

"Yeah, in what? Drafting documents in your free time? How exciting that must be for you."

Sunday shakes his head lightly but says nothing. His gaze falls down to the cigarette in her hand for a moment, and then, without hesitation, he plucks it from between her fingers.

Stelle blinks. "Hey—!"

Before she can finish the thought, Sunday brings it to his lips that are ridiculously soft looking, and takes a slow, measured drag, exhaling the smoke with practiced ease.

Stelle stares. She stares hard. What?

"…You liar," She accuses, narrowing her eyes at him. "You do smoke."

Sunday, completely unbothered, takes another drag, his face as composed as ever. "I do not."

The sheer audacity this guy has. It would be funny if she wasn't the recipient at all times. She gestures at him in response, incredulous. "You literally just—It's in your hand! It's in your mouth, right now!"

Sunday turns his head slightly towards her, exhaling the smoke with the kind of refined grace that should not belong to someone currently committing a blatant act of hypocrisy. "That is circumstantial."

Stelle gapes at him. "What does that even mean?!?"

Sunday meets her eyes, completely serious. "It means that I do not smoke." He scrunches his face for a second. And takes another drag. "It smells unpleasant."

Stelle lets out an exasperated laugh. Okay. This is clearly a can of worms that Sunday has no intention of opening, and she knows where to stick her nose and where to not. Sometimes, that is. Next to her, Sunday takes another slow drag of the cigarette, his exhale measured, controlled—just like everything else about him. But instead of handing it back, he flicks away the excess ash and keeps it between his fingers, holding it like it was his all along.

Stelle squints at him. "You're hogging my cigarette."

He doesn't even glance at her, the bastard. "You already relinquished ownership when you let me take it."

"That's not how that works," She sighs, but it's her fault for trying to make a CEO understand the concept of not stealing.

He exhales another slow, steady stream of smoke, utterly indifferent. "It is now."

Stelle glares at him before sighing and digging into her pocket for another cigarette. Fine. If he wants to be a thief, so be it. She'll just light another one. 

Her fingers brush the familiar shape of her lighter, her favourite one even though it was a gift from Sampo, and she pulls it out, flicking it open with practiced ease. She brings it to the tip of her cigarette, presses her thumb down on the wheel, and—the lighter slips from her fingers.

For a moment, she simply watches it fall.

It hits the railing, the bottom of it, bouncing off the concrete before plummeting five stories down. A faint clatter reaches her ears as it hits the pavement below.

She stares.

The silence stretches between them. Then, slowly, she turns to Sunday, eyes wide with pure devastation and unfiltered sorrow, a sadness so raw that it could move mountains, bring emperors to their knees, and reduce grown men to tears.

"…My lighter..." She whispers, voice hollow, utterly grief-stricken. 

Sunday doesn't respond immediately. He just watches her, his lips twitching, his eyes moving from her empty hand to the distant sidewalk below.

Then, he makes a quiet, strangled sound.

Stelle narrows her eyes. "Don't."

Sunday loses whatever internal battle Stelle had any hope of him fighting, and bursts into laughter. It leaves him in a a low, smooth giggle, spilling from his lips in a way that is entirely unrestrained. It’s not the quiet, composed laugh he usually allows himself—the polite, measured kind. No, this is different. It's real. Soft, fleeting, but real. His shoulders shake just a little, but his golden eyes glint with amusement, the corners of his mouth curving in a rare, genuine smile as it dies down.

As lovely as the sound is, Stelle has a dignity, and she loved that lighter, so she lightly smacks his shoulder. "Stop laughing. It's not funny."

"Apologies," He says, but he does not look sorry at all. Stelle has half a mind to glare at him. Her lighter is currently street decor, and now she's standing there, awkwardly holding the cigarette between her fingers, unlit. She probably looks stupid as hell.

His smile lingers for just a moment longer on his stupid face before he places the cigarette to his lips again and holds it up between them.

"Lean in," He murmurs.

She blinks, but her body reacts before her mind catches up. She leans forward, lips parting slightly around the unlit cigarette between them, her breath hitching as Sunday's lit end meets her dry one.

The ember kisses the tip of her cigarette, glowing faintly between them, heat passing from one to the other. It’s intimate in a way that it shouldn't be—close, warm, the shared breath between them thick with smoke. 

His golden eyes remain glued to the point where the tips of their cigarettes touch through the thin curl of smoke, unreadable, unwavering. He doesn't move back immediately. Neither does she.

Her cigarette catches flame.

Sunday pulls away at last, exhaling one final, lazy breath. "There," He says quietly, tapping his stolen cigarette down the railing. "No need to mourn."

Stelle ignores the way her heart thumps in her ribcage at the proximity, because she is not a teenager anymore, thank you very much, and grumbles out a quiet: "It was a gift."

Sunday hums at that, eyes still bright like the sun with amusement. "A gift?" He echoes. "From whom?"

Stelle lets out a breath, smoke curling around her face, and she looks back over the railing where her lighter met its untimely end. "From my terrible ex," She mutters, more to herself than to him.

Sunday stills. "Ah."

For once, he doesn't immediately respond, doesn't prod or push. But the pause between them is thick, expectant. He's waiting, and because Stelle has the worst habit of filling silence with things she probably shouldn't say, she sighs and whispers again, "His name was Sampo Koski..."

Sunday's head tilts just a little to the side, like a cat studying an insect. "That sounds familiar."

Stelle snorts, shaking her head. "I'd be surprised if it wasn't. He's got his fingers in, like, a million pies. Smuggling, business deals, gambling—he's always got some kind of scheme going on. I'm pretty sure he's been banned from at least three IPC events for swindling someone important."

Sunday chuckles, slow and measured. "Charming."

"You have no idea," Stelle replies bitterly. "Man could sell air and make a profit. He's got that kind of charisma, you know? The really annoying kind, where he could talk his way out of a crime scene with a stolen wallet in his pocket and still convince the victim he was returning it." She huffs, shaking her head as soon as his face flashes in her mind. "God, I was so stupid."

Sunday takes another slow drag of the cigarette, exhaling through his parted lips. "You must have had your reasons."

"Yeah," She deadpans. "I was young and dumb. That's about it."

Sunday's lips curl. "And now?"

"Now I'm just dumb."

Sunday breathes out a small, amused sound again.  He doesn't disagree with her, which is rude, but fair. The sound is still so lovely, and that is not fair. At all.

Stelle leans forward against the railing, staring up at the sky. "He wasn't all bad, though. Just...reckless. And insufferable. And really bad at commitment." She exhales, shaking her head. "But, you know, he was fun. He made things exciting. Always had some kind of wild plan or crazy idea. It was like dating a tornado with a really nice smile."

Sunday hums again, tapping ash off the cigarette. "Despite all his supposed charisma, you refer to him as your 'terrible ex'."

"Oh, because he is my terrible ex," She scoffs. "Fun and chaos are great until you realize you're always cleaning up the mess after. And that he's just gonna disappear whenever things get too real." She shakes her head, staring out at the skyline. "Last I heard, he's still up to his usual bullshit. Selling fake shit to gullible rich people, running scams, somehow never actually getting caught."

Sunday hums again, this time more commital, almost thoughtful, if Stelle dared to entertain that thought. "And yet, you still carried something from him."

Stelle glances at him, then back down at the empty space five stories down where her lighter is laying probably smashed. "I liked the lighter," She mutters. "That’s all."

He tilts his head slightly, inspecting her from the corner of his eye. "You still speak rather fondly of him for someone who calls him 'terrible'."

Stelle scoffs, rolling her eyes. She didn't mean to speak fondly of him. "Well, yeah. He was entertaining at least."

Sunday hums, putting the cigarette out, pressing it on the corner of a wall of the terrace. "You place a high value on entertainment."

"Duh," She leans against the railing, bending down a bit. If her skirt rides up, that's not her problem. "Boredom is the worst."

He considers that for a moment, rolling the cigarette butt between his fingers. "I'd assumed that you'd prefer stability over fleeting sentiments."

She snorts. Speaking as if you know me. "What gave you that idea?"

Sunday turns towards her fully, his expression neutral, but his voice shifts—so subtly, so carefully that she doesn't immediately catch the weight behind it. He leans his side against the railing. The evening sun makes his golden earrings glow. "If you only cared about entertainment, you would have followed him."

"Well," The words slip past her defenses before she can stop them. "He never asked me to."

Sunday's fingers still against the cigarette butt. His brows barely twitch, but it's the closest thing to a reaction she's seen from him in this entire conversation.

He never asked me to.

Of course he didn't. Someone like Sampo Koski doesn't ask. He moves, he weaves through life untethered, expecting the world to keep up or fall away behind him. She supposes she was just another type of entertainment for him. Just another thing to leave without looking back at it. Maybe Sunday is right. Didn't she leave her brother for the sake of stability after all?

Sunday watches her carefully, his golden eyes half-lidded, and Stelle feels very exposed all of a sudden. "Are all of your previous partners so awful?" He asks, his tone just dry enough to suggest that he already knows the answer. Great. Now he has something else to look down on her for.

Stelle shrugs, turning around to avoid the sun getting in her eyes, leaning back against the railing now. "Uh. Yeah, pretty much."

She takes one last drag of her cigarette, blows the smoke out, and puts it out. "Sampo wasn't that bad, all things considered. Just a piece of shit. But honestly? I actually dated someone worse."

Sunday's delicate brow lifts. "Worse?

She hums. "Yup. Sparkle."

Sunday blinks. For the first time in this entire conversation, he actually looks a little caught off guard. Way to go, Stelle. "..Sparkle...?"

Stelle snorts at his expression, nodding. "Oh, yeah. Don't even know if that's her actual name. Absolute menace of a woman. Made Sampo look like a saint. Honestly, I think I was her sidepiece. But it's hard to say, because I never actually knew what the hell was going on."

He just watches her, waiting for elaboration. So she gives it, her big fucking mouth moving better than her logic ever can.

"She was like... if you mixed a magician with a scam artist and gave her way too much confidence," Stelle continues. "Every time I thought I had a grasp on what we were, she'd just pull some wild shit and I'd realize I actually had no idea. It was like dating a walking sleight-of-hand trick. I was never sure if I was in a relationship or just part of some elaborate performance piece. I felt like I was on drugs the entire time. Maybe she was drugging me, I don't know."

Sunday makes a sour face. It's cute, and funny on him, considering he always keeps a good hold on his expressions. "That does sound worse."

"Oh, it was," Stelle groans, tilting her head back. "She had this thing where she'd just—disappear." She gestures vaguely, like that somehow explains the absurdity. "Like, one minute we're having dinner, and then I look away for two seconds and she's gone. Completely vanished. And then, like, three hours later, she'd text me some cryptic shit like, 'I had to fake my own death. I'll see you next week'."

Sunday closes his eyes for a brief moment. "I see."

"I didn't. Ever. That was the problem," Stelle says flatly. "She'd reappear at the most random times like nothing happened. No explanations. No apologies. Just poof, gone, then poof again, back with some dramatic flourish. And I was just expected to roll with it. Which, in my defense, I did. For way too long."

"How long?"

Stelle grimaces. "...Three months."

Sunday tilts his head. Some birds chirp in the distance. "Three months of that."

"Yup."

"You tolerated it for three months."

"I was twenty. And stupid." She waves a dismissive hand. "I didn't even break up with her, either. She just, like...never came back one day. And that was that."

Sunday hums, regarding her carefully. "So you were with someone who made a habit of vanishing at will and never giving you a straight answer."

"Uh-huh."

"And the one before that was a swindler with no real sense of responsibility."

"Correct."

Sunday nods once, and looks away. "I see..." There's a long pause, then he turns back to her, and with all the composure in the world, he says, “You have horrendous taste.”

Stelle groans. She knows that already. "I know, okay? You don't have to say it."

"I believe someone has to," Sunday muses, almost to himself. Great. As if March and Dan Heng wasn't enough. She doesn't need to hear it from her boss that might just be another horrible decision on her part. 

"Whatever," She plucks the cigarette butt from his hand, and throws it in the small trashcan by the corner along with hers, then beckons him inside. "Okay, come on. You got work to do, and I have a home to be at."

Once they step back inside his office, he sits down on his chair wordlessly, settling on it like it's an electric one and not his extremely comfy and crazy expensive spinny seat. He sighs too loudly to not be deliberate, and shoots a tired look at the pile Stelle tidied up for him earlier. The corners of his lips twitch down in a frown, his eyelids drooping in exhaustion. All in all, he looks seriously pitiful, and with that, Stelle realizes something horrifying: she doesn't really want to leave.

It's not like she cares about this company's wellbeing—God, no. But there's something about seeing Sunday like this, with his mind still a mess despite her half-hearted attempt to fix his desk, with his white coat off and his midnight blue vest under it unbuttoned, his usually pristine exterior just a bit frayed at the edges. It tugs at her heart, much to her dismay. It shouldn't. It really, really shouldn't.

But it does, so she lingers. Finds reasons to stick around.

At first, she just makes herself useful in small ways—tidying stray papers, stacking folders, making sarcastic remarks that earn her long, tired looks. He doesn't tell her to leave, though, which she takes as a silent go ahead.

After a while, she pulls up a chair and skims through some files, making absentminded suggestions just to fill the silence.

"You know, you could streamline this whole filing system," She mutters, flipping through a particularly messy stack. "Bet it'd save you hours."

"I usually do, but I don't have hours to spare on reorganization nowadays," Sunday replies, not looking up from his now open laptop screen.

She squints at the spreadsheet he's working on. "That's because you spend them suffering instead."

Sunday hums non-committally, rubbing at his temple with one hand while the other types something out.

Stelle almost doesn't register the movement, too preoccupied with the way the backlight of his screen makes his already exhausted expression somehow worse. But then she notices the way he pinches the bridge of his nose, the subtle way his shoulders tense, and she sighs.

"You're getting a headache, aren't you?"

"I am handling it," He croaks out, not even trying to control his tone anymore. 

She gets up from her chair, exhaling dramatically, and steps right in front of him, turning him to face her with a flick of her wrist on his chair. "Alright, move your hand."

He finally looks at her, eyes wide like a bug. This stupid idiot bug. "Why?"

"Because I'm handling it," She says flatly, and slaps his wrist lightly. "Come on. You'll be useless if your brain melts from stress."

Sunday stares at her for a long moment, like he's assessing whether or not she's serious—Why wouldn't she be, anyway? She'd hardly get up from her seat for a joke. Then, without a word, he closes his eyes briefly, sighs, and lets his hand drop from his temple.

Stelle scoots closer, cups his soft face in her palms, pressing her thumbs gently against his skin. He's tense—worse than she expected. His temples are taut with stress, the kind that's been building for far too long, but his cheeks are soft and warm in her palms. She resists the urge to pinch his cheeks instead. She reckons he wouldn't like that very much.

She continues to massage his forehead in slow, deliberate circles, the pads of her thumbs pressing just firmly enough to release some of the tension. Sunday hums, the sound barely there, but he leans into her touch slightly, his eyelids fluttering shut.

"Know your way around a headache?" He murmurs after a moment.

Stelle hums. "Yup." She replies into the serene silence, and doesn't elaborate. In truth, she used to give Blade a lot of massages just like this back when she lived with the Hunters. He was, admittedly, a troubled man, she could tell even as a child that there were things beyond her comprehension that weighed on him. Her fingers were much more smaller, then. She doesn't think her massages were even effective, but Blade maybe, just maybe, was fond of her enough to entertain her with the notion of thinking she was soothing in any way. She was happy to help. She loved Blade, as she did the rest of her family. 

She breathes a soft sigh, and his lips twitch, but he says nothing.

The room falls into a comfortable silence. The only sound is the distant hum of the city outside, the faint clicking of the analog clock on his wall. His breathing evens out slightly, and she almost thinks he's dozing off.

Then, before she can register what's happening, his hands, warm and steady, lift from where they were resting on the arms of his chair, and slide lightly around her waist. It's not intentional, not something calculated. It's the absentminded motion of someone too exhausted to think.

And then, he shifts forward, dipping his head down until his face is pressing into her stomach.

Huh? Huh!?

Sunday doesn't even seem to notice. His fingers rest lightly against the sides of her waist, his forehead nudging against the fabric of her blouse as he exhales slowly. Like he's finally allowing himself a moment to just be.

What. The. Hell.

Her hands, still hovering near his temples, twitch slightly, unable to reach his forehead now that it's resting firmly against her tummy. She has no idea what to do with her hands, or him, for that matter.

After a long moment of sheer, agonizing awkwardness, she lifts one hand, and hesitantly, like she's taming a wild animal, pats his head.

"Uh. Earth to Mr. Sunday."

Silence.

She pats his head again, a little more awkwardly. "You still awake in there?"

Sunday doesn't lift his head, but he hums low in his throat, a quiet, non-committal sound. His fingers twitch against her waist, like he's distantly aware of the situation but too tired to react properly.

Stelle's mind reels for an entire minute, and in the meantime, Sunday's breathing evens out, slow and measured. His head remains heavy against her stomach, his weight solid where he leans into her.

What the hell is she supposed to do with this?

Her fingers twitch against his scalp, debating whether to move, to push him off, to do something, but she hesitates. This isn't like him. Sunday Oak, the picture of precision, control, and untouchable professionalism, is currently clinging to her like a very exhausted, very expensive barnacle.

The warmth of his breath seeps through her blazer, and she can feel every silent inhale and exhale against her belly, and it's weird.

"Sunday?"

No response, no movement, no sound. Nothing. Great. Fantastic. This is exactly what she needed today.

She glances around the room, as if someone will miraculously appear and offer her a solution. But it's just them, and Sunday is still practically slumped against her. His breath, slow and deep, fans against the fabric of her blouse. Is he actually asleep?

She swallows hard. He can't be asleep. That would be ridiculous.

…Right?

The longer she waits, the more her muscles start to ache from standing so stiffly. There's no way she can just keep standing here while her boss uses her as a glorified pillow. The image alone is deranged.

Awkwardly, she shifts, trying to maneuver without disturbing him. But Sunday, as if sensing movement, presses against her just slightly, like some instinctual refusal to let go.

She almost groans. Oh, you've got to be kidding me.

Carefully, she takes a step to the side, turning his chair slowly to face the desk again, and leans back onto the edge of his desk, adjusting herself with slow, cautious movements. She carefully lifts herself up on the oak surface, sitting up with her legs dangling down, and carefully pushes his laptop to the side to not accidentally push it off or sit on it. This is fine. This is totally fine.

His head slips lower, his forehead brushing against her ribs before she manages to shift him, his cheek now resting awkwardly against her tummy. Her hands hover uselessly, trying to figure out where to place them as she maneuvers his weight, then she decides to thread them through the soft strands of his hair on instinct, guiding him until he settles with his head pillowed against her lap.

There. That's… better. Sort of.

No, it's worse, actually. What the hell is this situation?

She sits there, stiff as a board, staring down at Sunday sprawled against her like it's the most natural thing in the world. His face is relaxed in a way she's never seen before. The ever-present tension in his brows has smoothed out, his lips parted just slightly with the kind of exhaustion that comes from sheer mental overdrive.

Stelle swallows. He looks…different like this. Not composed, not sharp, just tired.

Her fingers twitch again before she forces herself to stop staring. This is not a problem for me. This is his problem. He fell asleep on me, not the other way around. I'm just helping him. I'm being such a good employee right now. That's all. Just letting him rest.

It’s not like she wants to be here. She could push him off. But the fact that she hasn’t is—well.

She looks at his face again.

Whatever.

With a quiet sigh, she lets her fingers move through his hair, slow and gentle, absentmindedly smoothing out any tangles. There are none, and his hair is ridiculously soft. Of course it is. He probably gets keratine treatments done however frequent required to keep his appearance impeccable.

This is fine. She tells herself. This is fine. 

Her mind reels still. This is not fine! 

Nearly thirty minutes pass, what with her busying herself with her phone and occasionally patting his head, and after mind-numbingly ridiculous long minutes, he finally, finally stirs slowly, his breath shifting against the fabric of her blouse as he wakes.

Stelle feels it before she sees it—the faintest twitch of movement, the way his fingers flex a tiny bit against her hip before settling again. Then, his head shifts, pressing more firmly into her lap as if seeking out warmth.

She tenses. Stiffens. Oh no. Oh, well. This might be how she gets fired, after all.

His breathing changes, slow and steady giving way to conscious breathing, and then, golden eyes blink open sluggishly, still hazy from sleep.

Stelle watches in real-time as his mind boots up. First, there's the simple processing of where he is. Then, the realization of what he's using as a pillow. His gaze lifts, landing on her face, and she sees it—the dawn of awareness, the faint crease of his brow as he finally registers the situation.

For a second, she thinks he might recoil in some kind of horrified dignity crisis, because that would be normal. That would be expected, because Sunday is a man that prides himself on his propreity and professionalism.

But instead...Instead, Sunday just sighs and lowers his head again, like a man making peace with the inevitable. His grip tightens slightly at her waist, and to her utter horror, he shifts even closer, pressing his face against her stomach like she's some kind of comfort object.

Sunday hums. This freak, he hums, soft, pleased, like this is the best decision he's made all week. Like her lap is the single most comfortable place on earth and he's fully intent on staying there indefinitely.

Stelle stares down at him, at the way his cheek presses into her stomach, at the ridiculous way he's just settling in, arms snug around her waist, completely unbothered by the fact that he's turned his employee into a goddamn body pillow.

Her fingers twitch uselessly in his hair, and she wants to grip and pull on it. This is not happening.

This is so happening.

She tries shifting again, tilting her hips slightly to see if he'll budge, but his grip only tightens fractionally in response. Like a reflex. Like he doesn’t even need to be fully awake to decide No, you stay right here.

Her eye twitches.

"Okay," She grits out. "You're awake, you're functioning, you've had your rest. Get off of me."

Another slow inhale from him, warm against her stomach. His chest rises, falls. His fingers pause deliberately against her waist before settling again.

"Mm," He murmurs. "No."

Stelle sucks in a breath through her nose, hands twitching, debating whether she has it in her to just shove him. Her hands twitch again, but they do not shove him. She is as much of a fool as he is.

"Sunday," She says, trying to keep her voice level, because she is so not giving him the satisfaction. "You cannot just use me as a pillow. This is not what I'm here for."

His lips part slightly against the fabric of her blouse, barely audible as he murmurs, "Why not?"

Stelle’s brain screeches to a halt.

She grabs a fistful of his unbuttoned vest and shakes him. "Because I said so, that's why!"

Sunday shakes a little, his shoulders moving, not from her force, but from something suspiciously close to silent laughter.

Oh. Oh, this asshole is enjoying this.

Her patience snaps, so, as any normal person would, she grabs his cheek and squishes it.

"That's it," She mutters, squeezing his face between her fingers. "You wanna look as dumb as you act? I'll help."

Sunday makes a muffled noise of protest, his eyes fluttering open in mild offense. She kneads at his cheek, tugging slightly, exaggerating the pout he already had from being rudely disturbed.

"Look at you," She coos mockingly, tilting his face slightly side to side. "So soft. So clingy."

He shoots her an unimpressed look, lips still forcibly smooshed together. "Hrrmmph."

Stelle grins, pushing further. "Not so scary now, are you, Mr. Sunday?"

His golden eyes narrow, and then, before she can react, his hands shift again. One leaves her waist, moving just enough to press firmly against the back of her thigh, dangerously close to the swell of her ass. His fingers flex and squeeze. 

Stelle's brain blue-screens.

The pads of his fingers stroke a slow, lazy circle against her thigh under her damn skirt, his touch deliberate, teasing. His grip doesn't tighten, doesn't restrain—it just hovers there, featherlight and making her so, so mad right now. He watches her reaction carefully, his smirk deepening when she shivers involuntarily.

"What’s wrong?" He asks lightly, feigning innocence, oh, this freak— "You seemed so eager to play just a moment ago."

Her face heats instantly, but she doesn't push him away. She can. She knows she can. "You bastard—"

"Hm?" His fingers press a little more insistently against her skin, travel downwards, then it moves up, his palm resting on top of her thigh now, just enough to make her squirm.

She flails. "Stop that!"

He hums, with all the audacity in the world. "Say please."

Her glare could level a city, and her mind is a mess of static. Her thoughts trip over themselves in a frantic attempt to reboot while her entire body fights against the immediate, visceral urge to throw him off of her.

What the hell is his problem?

More importantly, what the hell is her problem?

She should not be this affected. She should not be shivering at the gentle pressure of his fingers teasing at her thigh, at the slow drag of his palm against her skin like he has all the time in the world to ruin her. She should not be sitting here, completely frozen, watching him like some kind of mouse caught in the jaws of a mischievous cat. 

She smacks his arm. "Get the fuck off me."

Sunday sighs, like she's the unreasonable one here, like he's the victim in all this, but at least he listens. Slowly, languidly, he stretches his arms overhead, the shift of his body forcing him to finally release his hold on her. His rather tight top stretches with the movement, and he doesn't even have muscle to show, but Stelle stares nonetheless.

He rolls his shoulders, completely unbothered, as if he didn't just commit five million workplace misconducts in a row.

Stelle jabs a finger at him, hopping off his desk with a huff. "You just took advantage of my kindness."

Sunday, once again, looks at her pitifully. Oh, so, it was a tactic? This man. This horrible, horrible man. "You would deny a tired man his rest? I merely accepted your help..."

"You," She flicks his forehead. "are the worst. You better compensate me for this."

Sunday hums, tapping his chin like he’s actually considering it. "Very well," He says lightly. "Shall we discuss terms?"

Stelle lifts a brow, unimpressed. "Yeah. Let's."

Sunday doesn't miss a beat. "A raise, then?"

She narrows her eyes. "A real one? Or another one of your performance-based incentives?"

"A real one," He assures her, though his tone is deceptive. She knows that tone.

It's tempting, but she still squints at him, suspicious. "What’s the catch?"

He shrugs. "No catch. You are a capable employee when you choose to be. Consider it an encouragement to behave."

Her mouth opens—then closes. She almost falls for it before realizing this is how he gets her. "No deal. Next offer."

Sunday lifts a brow. "A private office, then?"

"Pfft. What, so you can isolate me even more?"

"Less distractions," He points out. "More space. No Dudley hovering over your shoulder."

Okay, that does sound good. But she refuses to let him win. "Next."

He exhales, tapping his fingers against his sleeve. "Flexible hours?"

Stelle considers it. She does hate waking up at the ass crack of dawn for this job. "Mmm... Maybe."

"Company car?"

"Absolutely not."

Sunday lifts an eyebrow. "I fail to see why not."

"Because then I'd owe you."

"Technically, I owe you."

"Still a no."

Sunday, ever the businessman, straightens up. "A trip to any location of your choosing—Maldives, Japan, Greece, Europe, Turkey—whichever suits your fancy?"

Stelle snorts. "Why does that sound like a kidnapping itinerary?"

Sunday ignores her. "If material compensation is not enough, I can acquire something sentimental." His voice dips, smooth as ever, like he's about to whisper something truly profound. "Something meaningful. Something personal."

Oh brother. Here we go.

Stelle stares, unimpressed. She knows this game. She sees the way he's watching her, waiting for a reaction, probably expecting her to fluster or fumble, but she's not some blushing, wide-eyed fool. Not as much as he thinks she is, anyway. He may think he has the upper hand here, but she's already decided—whatever weird power play he's attempting? She’s going to win. Especially after he just touched her up like some doll just a few minutes ago.

But just as she's about to call him out on his cryptic nonsense, he keeps going.

"If sentimentality is not to your liking…" Sunday continues, smiling like he's not attempting some truly heinous mind games, "Then, of course, there are other services I can provide."

For a second, it's silent. There's a thick, horrible pause.

A pause that Sunday doesn't even seem to recognize for what it is, because his face is still completely straight, like he just offered to proofread a document instead of...whatever the hell he's implying.

Stelle blinks. Oh, oh, this is too good.

This absolute freak probably has a thousand perverse little thoughts running through his head right now, not because he's actually planning to go through with it, but because he's only trying to fluster her, and he doesn't even realize he just handed her a live grenade. Sex jokes are in her turf. 

She feels the urge to play it cool, let him dig his grave deeper, but the sheer audacity of it all makes her lips twitch upward, mischief sparking in her veins.

"Oh?" She tilts her head, pretending to consider it. "Services, huh? Interesting. Alright. I accept."

Sunday blinks. Just once. Then twice. His lips part slightly before pressing together again.

"...Excuse me?"

Stelle shrugs, schooling her face into something casual. "You said you'd offer your services. Cool. I'll take them."

Sunday doesn't react outwardly, but she knows she’s thrown him off because his posture stiffens ever so slightly. This idiot.

"You accept?"

"Yup."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"And you understand what I am offering?"

"Mhm."

Sunday stares at her like a cow would at a train, as if choosing his words carefully. "I was under the impression that you would hesitate before accepting such an offer."

Stelle tilts her head. "What, you think I'd turn down free stuff? Pfft. Nope. You said 'intimate services,' right? Okay. That's what I want, then. I accept. Do your thing."

Sunday's brow furrows, and for the first time, he actually looks like he might not have thought this one through. He looks so troubled she almost bursts into laughter. Stelle barely resists the urge.

"Very well," Sunday murmurs. "If that is what you wish."

She leans back on his desk again, crossing her arms over her chest. "Yup. What happens now?"

Sunday holds her gaze for a long moment, as if assessing her sincerity. Then, his lips curl faintly. "I suppose that depends. Would you like me to begin immediately? Or would you prefer a more gradual approach?"

Oh, this is too easy.

She taps a finger against her chin, pretending to think it over. "Well...That depends. What does this 'service' entail, exactly?"

Sunday's expression doesn't change. "I suppose that depends on your preferences."

Stelle fights the laugh bubbling in her chest. "Oh? You take requests?"

"Naturally."

"And you'll do whatever I say?"

"Within reason."

Stelle hums, nodding slowly, watching as Sunday actually begins to think this through. She can't believe she's the one playing him like a fiddle this time. Although she's not sure if he's just playing dumb or not. 

Then, finally, she says, "Cool. Clean my apartment."

Sunday blinks. Then his head tilts. "...I beg your pardon?"

Stelle grins. "What? You said personal and intimate attention. My living space is personal and intimate. Therefore, cleaning my apartment is an intimate service. You agreed. I accept. Come over and clean. Tomorrow work for you?"

Sunday stares at her.

She stares back, victorious.

Finally, Sunday breathes through his nose, slow and troubled. "Miss Stelle."

"Mr. Sunday."

A pause. Then, his shoulders slump. It's a loss for the freak today. "You truly are unpredictable."

"Thank you." She smiles. 

She leaves work that day victorious with the last laugh, walks out of the office with a smug bounce in her step, the kind that comes with winning. It's rare, so rare that she actually gets the upper hand on Sunday Oak, so it was funny, hilarious even, but something about it still sits weirdly in her chest. Because there was a moment—just a moment—where she swore he meant it. Where the teasing lilt in his voice softened, where his eyes didn't just watch her to gauge her reaction but actually considered her.

And that? That's the part she's choosing to ignore. Because she walked away with the last laugh, and that's what matters. She didn't expect it to go this way, but what a great card Sunday handed her, after all.

What she also does not expect at all is the loud ringing of her doorbell next morning, and a smiling Sunday on her doorstep. 

Chapter Text

On a beautiful Saturday morning, Stelle's doorbell rings. 

She ignores it for the first three times, hoping whoever it is will go away before her sleep disperses from the noise, on the fourth time she slaps a pillow over her ears and curses their entire bloodline, and on the fifth, seeing as they have no intention of going away, she begrudgingly drags herself out of her room with great effort, grumbling as she makes it to the door.

She opens the door, expecting—she doesn't even know. The mailman, maybe. A neighbor. An axe murderer. Anything would be more reasonable than Sunday Oak standing at her doorstep at this ungodly hour.

She doesn't even know what to say. She just stares, blinking blearily at him like her brain needs to manually load the situation. Her sweater hangs loose over one shoulder, her hair is a mess, and she's half-dressed—just an oversized sweater and panties, which should be her first concern, but she's too confused to even process humiliation.

Sunday, standing there in just a white shirt and dress pants today and still a goddamn picture of poise, doesn't blink. Doesn’t even react to the fact that she looks like a sleep-deprived raccoon.

Instead, with that infuriatingly calm voice, he simply smiles and greets, "Good morning, Miss Stelle."

She squints.

He continues, polite as ever. "May I come in?"

Stelle stares harder, as if that will make Sunday vanish from her sight. Her sleep-deprived brain tries to process his presence, his words, his stupid calm face. She rubs her eyes, blinks. Maybe she's still dreaming.

"What," She croaks.

Sunday doesn't even flinch. "In your house," He clarifies, as if she's being stupid by being confused. "Can I come in?"

"What," She repeats.

Sunday finally blinks, shifting his grocery bags—oh, he has grocery bags—in his grip. "We made a deal yesterday."

Her stare is blank, absolutely void of intelligent thought. She's still waking up, still trying to string together any logical connection between last night and this very moment.

Finally, it registers.

Oh my god. He's serious. He actually—he actually came to clean her apartment.

Sunday, a man who probably pays people to breathe for him, is here to deep-clean her chaotic excuse of a living space because she played a joke on him.

"Sunday," She starts slowly, voice still rough from sleep. "I was joking."

Sunday tilts his head just slightly, his expression the very picture of mild confusion, of feigned innocence. He's playing dumb, and she knows he's playing dumb because it works on her. Because it always works on her.

He lets out a simple "Oh."

She groans, slapping a hand over her face. This idiot.

With deep, painful resignation, she steps aside and waves him in. "Fine. Whatever. Come in."

Sunday walks past her, completely unfazed by her clear lack of pants, and she immediately regrets even joking with this guy, because he will take anything to get the upper hand and throw her off.

Stelle won't even bother trying to deal with whatever this is. She has neither the brain power nor the patience required to make sense of whatever weird power play Sunday thinks he's pulling by showing up at her apartment, groceries in hand, before she's even had the chance to wash her face.

Instead, she just grumbles something incoherent, turns on her heel, and starts walking back to her bedroom.

Behind her, Sunday's voice follows. "Where are you going?"

"Back to sleep," She mutters, not even bothering to look over her shoulder. She lifts a lazy hand in a dismissive wave. "You showed up at an unreasonable hour. Deal with yourself."

"It's past ten."

"Like I said," She yawns, stepping into her room and pulling the door halfway shut, "unreasonable. It's Saturday."

There's a pause. Then, in that mock-considerate voice of his, he asks: "Shall I wake you in an hour?"

"No."

"Two?"

"Don't talk to me."

"Understood."

She closes her door shut.

For a second, she thinks she should probably be more concerned about the fact that she just left Sunday Oak unsupervised in her apartment. But honestly? That's a problem for Future Stelle. Present Stelle is far too exhausted to care.

She collapses onto her bed, curls up in her blanket, and knocks out almost instantly.

She is punished with vague dreams of an infinite procession of Sundays.

When she wakes up, it's well past noon, two in the afternoon, in fact.

Sunlight filters through her curtains at just the right angle to tell her she’s wasted half the day, but honestly, she doesn’t care. She needed that sleep. What she did not need, however, was to wake up to the overwhelming scent of disinfectant. For a moment, she just lays there, eyes half-lidded, brain catching up. Then, her memory returns.

Sunday. In her apartment. Cleaning. Her brain takes a second to reboot. She sniffs. Blinks. Then sits up.

The realization sinks in gradually: her apartment smells clean, which should not be the case.

Stelle squints at the air like it’s personally betrayed her, then swings her legs over the bed and stumbles out of her room. The moment she steps into the main living space, her brain stutters.

Her apartment is spotless. Immaculate.

The clutter that once decorated her counters? Gone. The dishes she definitely planned on doing later? Clean and put away. The floors? Shining like she’s in a Mr. Clean commercial, and it hurts to look at. 

This is wrong, and it's unnatural. Her apartment should look lived in. Not like some soulless showroom display. Her eye twitches. Not only did Sunday actually clean her apartment, he cleaned it thoroughly. Like some insane, detail-oriented neat freak.

Like he enjoyed it.

She scans the space again, trying to process how much has changed in just a few hours, but something stops her in her tracks. The air smells… good. Suspiciously good. Comforting, even. Like warm butter and garlic and something rich and creamy simmering on a stovetop that shouldn’t be in use because Sunday Oak should not be using her goddamn kitchen.

For a long moment, she just stands there, half-awake, blinking at the domestic horror unfolding before her.

Sunday, sleeves rolled up, two buttons of the white shirt he's wearing today unbuttoned, the most casual she has ever seen him, stands at the stove, calmly stirring something in a very unfamiliar wok pan, his posture so effortlessly relaxed it looks like he belongs there. The scene is so out of place in her disaster of an apartment that her brain briefly rejects reality.

He’s…humming.

Low, soft, pleased, like he’s so at ease with himself that he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

What the hell is happening.

Her eyes scan the countertops; her kitchen—her previously crime-scene-level chaotic kitchen—is spotless. Counters wiped down, dishes dried and stacked neatly in the rack, even the damn sink sparkles like it’s been blessed by the gods of hygiene.

Sunday Oak did not only deep-clean her kitchen, but he is also cooking and humming to himself in it like some kind of domestic deity while making himself at home in her kitchen. 

Wooden spoon in his hand, he glances over his shoulder. "Good afternoon, Miss Stelle. I was worried for a moment that I'd have to find a charming prince to wake you up." 

"Shut up." She immediately shoots down whatever psychological torture he was about to start and slowly turns, expression already grim, and pulls open the fridge to grab a snack or something to fill her stomach with before she has to cope with this simulation error.

Then, her stomach drops.

Gone are the sad half-empty takeout boxes, the expired carton of milk she kept forgetting to throw away, the random questionable condiments that she never actually uses but somehow multiply every month.

Instead, her fridge is restocked to the brim with expensive brands. Organic eggs, imported cheese, fresh herbs, an entire section dedicated to beautifully marbled steak—what the fuck.

She stares. Closes the fridge, rubs her eyes. Opens it again. Still stocked.

She turns back to Sunday, who is still completely unbothered, still humming, still stirring whatever forbidden dish of decadence he’s making in the mysterious wok pan.

"Sunday," She narrows her eyes. Her voice comes out slow. "Where did all of this come from."

Sunday, without looking up, replies. "Your kitchen was understocked."

"That doesn’t answer my question."

"I restocked it."

"With what money."

Sunday finally, finally glances at her again, expression mild, unfazed, like she’s asking the dumbest question in the world. "Mine?"

She stares at him. "Why."

Another effortless shrug. "You only had expired yogurt and milk, food that needed one hundred witnesses to call it food, and things of that nature. I assumed you were planning to starve."

"So what if I was?" She deadpans, still squinting, still processing, still trying to wrap her head around the fact that he just waltzed in and did all this without permission.

Sunday just smiles, that perfectly polite, infuriatingly knowing smile, before turning back to the stove. Which brings her back to the wok pan.

She looks at him, at the pan, then back at him, standing beside him in front of the stove. "Whose freaking pan is that."

Sunday, still stirring: "Yours."

"That’s not my pan."

"It is now. Consider it a house gift."

She rubs her temples. "You’re telling me," She says, voice flat, "that not only did you restock my entire fridge without my knowledge, but you also brought your own cookware just to flex on me in my own home?"

Sunday lets out a thoughtful hum, as if actually considering it. "I wouldn’t call it that."

"You’re making creamy chicken pasta in a wok. That is literally a flex."

He takes a slow breath, then lets it out as if he’s speaking to a particularly dense child. "It’s more efficient. The high sides allow for better sauce distribution."

She lifts a brow. "Better sauce distribution."

"Yes." He nods. "And it's called Fettucine Alfredo."

Stelle does not even want to dignify with a response, so she doesn't. She simply watches Sunday move through her kitchen like he belongs there. It’s deeply, fundamentally wrong in a way she can’t fully articulate, but she’s also too tired, too resigned to fight against the sheer absurdity of it.

She leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching as he stirs the creamy sauce with practiced ease, the rich scent of garlic and butter filling the air. His sleeves are still rolled up, exposing the lean lines of his forearms, and his usually pristine white shirt is slightly rumpled from all the work he’s done. It’s the most casual she has ever seen him. She doesn't think about how relaxed and at ease he seems. She doesn't.

After stuffing that observation in a tight box, her eyes narrow just a little. "How do you even know how to cook?"

Sunday simply continues stirring, turning the heat down to let the sauce thicken as he glances at her, mildly amused. "Is it so bizarre?"

"What do you think?"

"I think," He says smoothly, lowering the wooden spoon to scoop up a perfectly coated piece of sliced chicken, "that you need to stop making so many assumptions about me."

And before she can come up with something appropriately snarky, with utmost care and deliberate grace, he lifts the spoon toward her mouth, blows lightly on the still-hot chicken, and then offers it to her, and his other hand comes up steady, slipping just beneath her chin to prevent the sauce from dripping to the floor.

"Open," He says simply, tilting his head, as if he doesn't even consider the reality where Stelle shoves that spoon so far down his throat that he never has the audacity again.

She stares back at his expectant eyes, and her eye twitches where she stands. But there is no fight left in her. Not at this point.

She sighs, deeply, exasperatedly, like this is just another Tuesday, like this is fine, like she is so tired of resisting whatever psychological torment he is inflicting upon her. Then, rolling her eyes, she parts her lips and leans forward slightly, taking the bite.

She chews for a moment, then realizes with horror that she doesn't even have to because the chicken is tender, and so perfectly coated in the velvety, garlicky sauce that it practically melts in her mouth. She makes a pleased noise before she can stop herself. "Sunday, what the hell," She almost moans at how freaking good it is, and feels a drop of sauce lingering on the corner of her mouth as she swallows. "This is so...yummy..."

"Yummy?" He perks up, and she holds back a laugh because never in a million years would she think she'd hear that word coming out of his mouth. "Is it suitable to your tastes?"

Stelle glances up at him through her lashes, and the way he says it makes her pause—so hopeful, so innocent like he doesn't constantly exist in ways that upset her greatly, like his entire afternoon mood depends on whether she likes his stupid pasta or not. But she's not about to give him mercy that she never got from him herself. Especially not in the form of praise. 

"It's...edible," She settles, looking away from him to emphasize her disinterest. It's feigned, of course. She's currently in the process of not shoveling it in her mouth at an alarming speed.

"Edible?"

"It's not terrible."

"I see..."

He sets the spoon on the counter slowly, and looks at her like a kicked puppy, utterly defeated, shoulders slumped and all. Stelle doesn't even know how to react. "Is it not good?" He asks quietly, lips downturned in a frown as he returns his gaze to his stupid sauce and the chicken. He mutters to himself: "...Maybe it needs more salt. Ah, is it the consistency of the sauce? I can adjust it, if you'd like." He turns his head back to her. "Is it not seasoned enough?"

Huh?

Stelle, who has dedicated an embarrassing amount of time to finding ways to irritate this man, who has built her entire work dynamic around making his life slightly more insufferable, is at a complete and utter loss. Is he actually doubting himself? She has literally never seen this man doubt anything in his life, because Sunday exists in absolutes, in confidence so unwavering it holds up the weight of an entire corporate empire. He does not second-guess, he does not hesitate, he does not falter.

She watches as he keeps staring at her expectantly, as if bracing himself for utter disappointment, as if Stelle just took his lollipop and threw it in a lake, and something in her aches—because this is not the man who spends his days quietly tormenting her at work. This is not the Sunday Oak who makes her life a carefully curated hell just for his own amusement, not the businessman, the corporate tyrant, her walking headache with an insufferably charming smile.

This is just a guy who wants her to like his food.

"Stop looking at me like that," She mutters, voice softer than she intends, rubbing her thumb against the edge of the counter. She doesn’t know what to say. What do you even say to a guy who runs an empire, dominates entire industries, and yet is afraid of being judged for his cooking?

She pushes herself off the counter and walks over to the stove, determined to brush the strange sensation off. But when she glances back at him, the sight of him standing there, shoulders a little hunched, eyes still on her with quiet expectation—it hits her again.

What is this? Why does he care? Why doesn’t he know how good this is? The absurdity is overwhelming her so bad that she almost wants to throw up.

She huffs, moving to grab another fork from the drawer, deciding to settle it in a way that won’t completely destroy her sense of self-respect.

She pokes her fork in the already boiled pasta in the pot, then into the chicken and the sauce in the pan, and she lets herself chew for a second, really feeling the sauce coat her tongue.

It’s so damn good. She can’t even pretend it’s not. There’s something about the garlic and cream and—what the hell, he even seasoned the chicken just right—and the pasta itself? She didn’t even know noodles could be this good.

"You’re seriously an idiot," She mutters under her breath as she turns back toward him, trying to push the warmth crawling through her chest back down where it belongs.

"What?" Sunday asks, voice quiet, like he’s not sure he’s supposed to hear it. He’s still standing there, stiff but waiting, his gaze flicking between the spoon, the counter, and her.

She narrows her eyes, glaring just a little bit harder than necessary, but it’s mostly for show. God, she’s so tired of this game.

"You made this," She says, gesturing at the food. "And you’re actually looking for approval from me." She doesn’t even know why that bothers her this much, but it does, God, it makes something shift inside her, makes her think about everything he’s been to her—not just the infuriating, smug man who walks around like he owns the place, but the one who decided it was okay to care about something so unimportant.

Sunday watches her, silently, as though he’s waiting for her to finish, and she chews the last bit of pasta slowly. His eyes follow every move she makes.

Finally, she sighs, completely resigned, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. "God. Fine," She groans, setting the fork down. "It’s good. It’s great, okay? It's the best thing I ate in weeks. Stop looking like that now." 

"...You’re not just saying that?"

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

She groans, rubbing a hand down her face. "Sunday. It’s good. It’s really, really good, okay? I was just messing with you. Jesus. You’re acting like I just spat it on the floor."

Sunday blinks.

Then, expression begins to shift slowly. Fucking finally.

The uncertainty melts away, the furrow in his brow smooths out, the stiffness in his shoulders relaxes, and for a moment, she is almost convinced that he is back to normal. Then, he beams, smiling so much that the corner of his eyes crease and the sharpness of his features soften. 

"What the fuck," She says, voice low, exasperated, and she's genuinely beginning to worry that he drugged the food, and because she doesn't know how else to react to this. "You look like a kid who just got told his crayon drawing is going up on the fridge."

Sunday blinks at her. Pauses.

The, visibly, physically schools his expression into something more neutral, like she has caught him committing a crime and he is attempting to recover before she can call the police.

No fucking way. "Oh my god," She whispers, horrified. "You're not guilt-tripping me?" She breathes, feeling the weight of the moment and the sheer gravity of the fact that this is actually happening settle into her fragile, fragile bones. And heart. And everything else in the general proximity of it.

Sunday doesn't even reply. He closes his eyes for a moment, and Stelle is sure the prank cameras will roll out any minute now, but when he opens them back again, his expression returns to its normal state. "It is human nature for one to want to be appreciated for one's craft." 

Stelle reaches up to flick his forehead, as if that will pull him back to his senses. "So many words to say you want praise."

"Ow," He winces half-heartedly. "I do not care for praise. I simply didn't want these ingredients to go to waste if you didn't like it."

See, now, Stelle wants to believe that. In fact, that is the preferable reasoning, one that her brain can fit into the many categories of Sunday. It is preferable because she has no idea where to put the Sunday that just looked like a kicked puppy over being told his cooking was merely edible—It doesn't fit in anywhere in her mind palace. It's an anomaly. 

"Uh-huh," She lifts both of her brows. "I could have milked that for what it's worth, you know. But I'm not evil like you, so I'll forget it." 

"Forget what?" He asks idly, already putting his mask back in place. Whatever. She's not in the mood to deal with that right now. 

She raises a finger in front of his face, ignoring him. "On the condition that you are nice to me for the remainder of today." 

Sunday lifts a brow, not in offense or irritation, but in that particular way that makes her want to push him down a flight of stairs, just to see if he lands on his feet. 

"Nice to you?" He echoes, like the concept is foreign, like she has just asked him to give up one of his kidneys. 

Stelle levels him with a look, crossing her arms, leaning her weight against the counter, making it very clear that she is already running out of patience for whatever corporate nonsense he is about to spin this into. 

"Yes, Mister Sunday," She sighs, long-suffering, like she is already regretting this entire conversation. "Nice to me. For the rest of the day. That’s my condition. Take it or leave it." 

He exhales, as if this is a tremendous sacrifice. "As opposed to what?" He asks mildly, tilting his head in feigned curiosity, as if he genuinely has no idea what he could possibly be doing wrong on a daily basis. 

Stelle scoffs, outright scoffs. 

"As opposed to," She starts, ticking off each point on her fingers. "gaslighting me at work, sabotaging my lunch breaks, giving me absolutely unhinged amounts of paperwork just to test my patience, commenting on my ‘penchant for disorganization’ in the most passive-aggressive ways imaginable—" 

"Pointing out your penchant for disorganization is not an insult," Sunday interjects calmly. "It is merely an observable fact." 

"See?!" She exclaims, gesturing at him like he is a scientific anomaly. "This. This is what I mean. You don’t even realize you’re doing it." 

Sunday hums, thoughtful, unbothered, as if he is actually considering it. 

"Would you prefer I coddled you, Miss Stelle?" He asks, far too casual and polite for her liking, and oh, she can hear the trap he is trying to set. Not on her watch. This weirdo.

She scowls, pointing a warning finger at him. "Don’t turn this around on me, you insufferable freak. Just agree to be nice for once in your life." 

Sunday sighs, so dramatically, so audibly put upon, that Stelle genuinely considers stabbing him with a fork, but he eventually nods. "Very well," He concedes. "For the remainder of today, I will be...nice to you." 

She narrows her eyes, suspicious. "You promise?" 

Sunday, ever the picture of mock sincerity, lifts a gloved hand, places it over his chest, and calmly declares: "On my honor as a businessman." 

She stares at him. 

He stares back, completely unfazed, completely composed. 

She does not trust him for a single goddamn second, but she also doesn’t feel like pushing it, because frankly, she is exhausted, and if she can make it through one single day without dealing with his usual bullshit, then fine. 

"Good," She mutters, rubbing her temple as if he has already given her a headache. "Now finish your stupid pasta so we can eat."

They eat with a commendable amount of peace, at least compared to their usual interactions, and Stelle shoots him a 'Don't you dare say anything' look when she stands up to get seconds at some point and emphasizes her threat by holding a fork close to his face, reminding him that he promised to be nice.

He doesn't actually say anything, but smiles stupidly, knowingly—like he is so damn pleased with himself as if Stelle isn't being so merciful by not throwing him out of the window. Regardless of how much she wants to or threatens to, she is impossibly full and satisfied by the time she's done with her second plate that she simply doesn't even care anymore. Her stomach is too happy to make room for Sunday Stress. 

After they finish eating, Stelle slumps dramatically onto her couch like a ragdoll that has been aggressively used in a stress test. She doesn't even make it to a dignified position—she just collapses sideways, limbs splayed, utterly boneless, and lets out the longest, most exaggerated sigh known to man.

Sunday, of course, is not human enough to engage in the simple pleasures of being completely useless after eating too much. Instead, he takes his plate, stacks it neatly with his utensils aligned perfectly parallel, and stands to place it in the sink like he wasn't the one who ambushed her home with unsolicited domesticity in the first place.

Stelle, still face-down in her own existential crisis, lifts a hand weakly and waves it in his general direction. "No," She groans, voice muffled by the pillow she's currently inhaling. "No more weird servant behavior. Sit down. Be normal."

Sunday, pausing mid-step, turns his head slightly over his shoulder. "Are you requesting my presence, Miss Stelle?" His voice is high and pleased, like he’s genuinely delighted by the implication that she wants him here.

She does not want him here. She just doesn’t want him doing things. There is a difference.

"Yes," She says, because it's easier than arguing, and she is so, so tired. "Come suffer with me. That’s an order."

Sunday, miraculously, complies. He walks over after setting the dishes on the counter, like a normal person, and sits down beside her with the kind of careful, calculated composure that makes it seem like he is sitting on a throne instead of a secondhand couch in a messy apartment.

"You’re unusually agreeable," She mutters, narrowing her eyes at him. "It's making me uncomfortable."

He hums, as if he is soooo content. "You insisted that I be 'nice' for the remainder of the day. I am simply following instructions."

She knows what he’s doing. He’s being obedient in a way that is entirely meant to mess with her. He’s following the letter of the law, not the spirit.

"Don’t talk," She grumbles, tossing a throw pillow at him, which he catches effortlessly, because of course he does. "I don’t want to hear your stupid voice."

"How cruel," Sunday muses, completely at ease, as if she has not just declared him a public nuisance. "And here I was, generously bestowing upon you a domestic experience of the highest quality."

She scoffs. "Generously bestowing," She echoes, throwing her legs up onto the couch to prop them against the armrest. "Okay, landlord. You still owe me rent for stepping into my home."

Sunday turns his head to her, lifting a brow. His golden earrings move with him. "Would you prefer financial compensation for my presence?"

Stelle pauses. Narrows her eyes. "...You’re actually offering?"

He taps a gloved finger against his chin, as if considering. "If that is what it takes for you to perceive my company as a net positive, I am willing to entertain the possibility."

She stares at him for a long, silent moment. "Give me five thousand dollars."

Sunday lets out a slow, measured breath, his expression betraying nothing, his shoulders relaxed, his posture straight. "Miss Stelle," He addresses calmly. "Be reasonable."

She pouts. "You literally said you’d compensate me."

"I was offering a fair price, not extortion."

"You own a multi-million-dollar company. Five thousand dollars is not extortion. That’s like, a tip."

Sunday lifts a single, gloved finger. "First, I do not tip for services unrendered. Secondly, you have already received something of great monetary value."

Stelle frowns. "What are you talking about?"

"My cooking, of course."

She gapes at him, then immediately huffs out an incredulous laugh. "You’re charging me for a meal you literally forced me to eat?"

"Not charging. Simply placing a fair exchange in perspective. You received a meal, and in return, I have received the pleasure of your company."

"That’s not how that works," She argues, pushing herself up on her elbow. "You can’t just assign value to our time together like some stockbroker tallying up assets."

"Why not?" He retorts.

Oh, she knows what he’s doing—he’s baiting her.

He’s pulling her into one of his ridiculous, overly intellectual verbal traps, waiting for her to get tangled up in the logic so he can spin it back around on her. He does this at work, in meetings, and whenever she complains about the absurd amount of tasks he assigns to her with some passive-aggressive bullshit about ‘trusting her capabilities.’

She squints at him, deeply suspicious. "Are you actually trying to trick me into admitting I like spending time with you?"

"Are you admitting it?" He smiles, eyes sparkling. 

"Absolutely not." She replies firmly, and lays back down, signaling that this conversation is over.

Stelle picks her phone up and scrolls through social media, goes through her messages from their groupchat with Dan Heng and Stelle, checks if Sparkle's profile picture is back or if she really just died, all the while still watching him out of the corner of her eye. She is highly amused as he shifts, crosses his legs, uncrosses them, adjusts his sleeves, glances at the coffee table like it has personally offended him, then sighs in silent, unbearable suffering.

He is visibly struggling. Like some high-functioning workaholic who has been forced at gunpoint to take a vacation.

It takes all of her willpower not to comment on it immediately. Instead, she drapes herself further into the couch, stretching out like a cat, fully committing to the art of maximum relaxation, and she can absolutely tell that Sunday hates it. She can feel his internal crisis.

Finally, after two more minutes of tortured silence, he cracks. "You’re just…laying there?"

"Uh-huh."

Sunday's voice is tight as if the concept of sitting still is physically painful for him. "Doing nothing?"

She stretches, making a point to yawn obnoxiously. "It’s called relaxing, Sunday."

"I am aware," He sounds downright upset now, trying to physically restrain his need for productivity. "I simply don’t see the appeal."

"That’s because you have a disease."

She sees him make a face in her peripheral vision, deeply unimpressed. "And what disease would that be?"

"Capitalism Brainrot. The Grind Virus," She waves a lazy hand in his general direction. "Symptoms include an inability to sit still, an unhealthy obsession with efficiency, and a complete and utter failure to experience joy unless it’s listed as a bullet point in a quarterly report," She pauses, thinking. "And you probably have OCD too, if I'm being frank."

Sunday turns to her, offended. "I do not have OCD." 

"You're like a poster child for it."

"Simply because I have a penchant for order?"

Stelle rolls her eyes, locks her phone and drops it lazily on her chest to look at him. "First of all," She starts lazily. "you have an obsessive need for symmetry. Don’t even try to argue, I’ve seen you reorganize documents on a desk because they weren’t perfectly aligned like a thousand times.

Sunday does not deny this.

Stelle grins. "Oh? Nothing to say?"

Sunday hums, crossing his legs, entirely too casual. "I simply value order."

"Sure." She rolls her eyes. "Second, you have ritualistic behaviors that you probably don’t even realize. You tap your fingers in sets of four plus one when you’re thinking and never leave it at four because you probably believe that number four is unlucky myth, you put your gloves on in the same order every time—right first, left second, and take them off in the opposite order, and you always check your watch twice before leaving a room, like some business-themed cryptid."

Sunday furrows his brows, clearly intrigued and mildly shocked. "And you’ve been paying such close attention to my habits because…?"

Oh, the little shit. Stelle groans loudly, flinging a pillow at him. "Stop making this about me! We’re talking about your diseased brain."

Sunday catches the pillow effortlessly, placing it neatly beside him, because of course he does. "Continue, then," He muses, amused, entertained, like this is a podcast he’s mildly enjoying. Then he adjusts the pillow until it's aligned the way he wants it to be.

Then, with deep, pained resignation, she lifts a third finger. "Third," She continues, "you have intrusive thoughts, which I know for a fact, because you literally cannot handle things being slightly off without fixing them. Exhibit A, you just adjusted that goddamn pillow."

Sunday, completely expressionless, glances at the perfectly placed pillow beside him.

Then, without missing a beat, he turns away from her and focuses on the wall as if it contains some secret. "I am removing myself from this conversation." 

Stelle almost laughs at the ridiculous way he says it. "You can't do that."

"I can do anything."

Oh, for fuck's sake. "Fine. Be like that. I'm going to enjoy my afternoon while you grapple with your unmedicated disorders." 

"I do not have disorders."

She waves a hand at him, because she is not going to entertain him any further, either. She's too full, too lazy, too content for it. So she plops back down, and watches him suffer in real-time. 

He’s trying—she can see him trying—to sit still, to force himself into some form of unnatural peace, but it’s physically rejecting him. His hands keep twitching subtly, his breath keeps shifting, like his body is desperately searching for the next command. Sunday is a man who, despite his unnerving calm and carefully cultivated detachment—needs to be needed, needs to do, needs to contribute.

And right now? Right now, he is losing his goddamn mind. It’s almost funny. Almost, except she’s too full, too comfortable, too content to truly enjoy his torment the way she should.

She stretches slowly, savoring the way her limbs feel loose, heavy with warmth, her stomach full and pleased, the weight of her post-meal haze pressing into her with quiet indulgence. A lazy, pleasant fog has settled over her, the kind that makes everything feel just a little bit hazy, a little too soft, a little too slow.

God, fine. Fine! She can't watch this. Fine.

She huffs out a deep sigh, as if this decision is being forced upon her by the universe, and then adjusts herself, shifting her weight against the couch and stretching her legs out a little further, and then, with the slow, deliberate ease of a woman about to do something unreasonably stupid—She gives him a job.

"…Sunday."

Sunday, who has been locked in an internal battle of wills against the forces of relaxation, turns his head towards her expectantly "Hm?"

She hums, considering. Then, voice slow, careful, perfectly she asks: "Would you relax if you told me me what to do?"

Sunday stills. Actually, physically stills and blinks once, as if attempting to process whether she has just spoken in fluent Mandarin or lost her mind completely.

"...What?"

"You heard me," She mutters, shifting her head against the couch cushion to get even more comfortable, which, truly, should be impossible at this point. She waves a lazy hand in his direction. "You don't have to do something, you just need to be in charge of things, right?"

Sunday, who has spent the majority of his career enduring her endless defiance, who could say the sky is blue and would still get an argument out of her just for the principle of it, looks at her with deep, visceral confusion.

"Why," He says flatly, "would you ever listen to me?"

"I dunno," She shrugs, exhaling deeply as she sprawls out even further, every movement deliberate in its indulgence, its slowness, its I-am-too-content-to-fight-you energy. "I'm too full to argue with you so much today. You better take advantage of it before it wears off."

His brow twitches. "So this is a temporary phenomenon."

She hums. "A rare and fleeting gift."

Sunday's eyes narrow, because of course they would. His voice, when he finally speaks, is deeply suspicious. "And what, exactly, am I meant to order you to do?"

She shrugs again, lazy and completely surrendering to the weight of her own comfort. "Dunno. Something that helps you relax."

What follows is absolute, staggering silence. Sunday just stares at her, like she has just spoken in tongues, like she has proposed a hostile corporate merger with the very concept of reality itself.

She huffs, rolling her head against the back of the couch, deeply, profoundly unbothered. "Sunday. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for you. Take the win."

Sunday’s brows furrow slightly, like this doesn’t compute and that it is a trap, like he is deeply untrusting of a world where she just..listens.

"You expect me to believe," He says slowly, carefully, like he's examining a fine-print contract for hidden clauses, "that you are simply, what, offering me obedience?"

Stelle lazily waves a hand. "Think of it as charity."

Sunday laughs under his breath, low and disbelieving, the sound more felt than heard. His gaze drags over her slowly, deliberately, as if measuring the weight of her words, the depth of her surrender.

"You truly expect me to believe this is genuine?" He murmurs, voice just a little too smooth, a little too indulgent, like he’s entertaining the idea just to see where it leads.

She yawns, eyes half-lidded, entirely unbothered by the weight of his gaze. "Believe whatever you want. You’re wasting your time. You could be relaxing right now. Or I'll take a nap."

"Miss Stelle, I could say grass is green and you would make it your day's mission to argue that it is purple." 

"On a normal day," She raises a finger as a gotcha moment. "So?"

Sunday inhales deeply and closes his eyes, as if debating whether this is worth entertaining or not. His curiousity, albeit begrudgingly wins over, and he turns to her, posture straight. "Very well," then, in a commanding tone: "Sit up."

And because she did say she’d obey, Stelle—slowly, languidly, purposefully—does, only because she is not a coward.

She leans forward, arms resting against her thighs, spine loosely straightened, and watches as Sunday does that stupid face he makes when he is trying to hide his amusement. Okay, whatever. That was simple enough.

"Actually," He declares. "Lay back down."

Oh for fuck's sake— "Better?" She groans as she plops back down.

"Stretch out your legs properly," Sunday murmurs, his tone tight with barely held back laughter. Asshole.

Stelle huffs but obeys, lazily stretching her legs along the couch, toes flexing just a little, making herself even more comfortable.

"Hm," he hums, "Now turn onto your side."

"Why."

"Because I said so."

She groans but complies, rolling onto her side, just wanting to give him this stupid little win so he doesn't end up exploding on her couch, he says with a completely straight face: "Now pretend to be a shrimp."

Her eyes fly open. "What the fuck did you just say to me."

The bastard doesn't even blink. "Curl into a shrimp. Compact. Small. You know—like a shrimp."

Stelle just stares at him. "What's your problem?"

"You said you'd obey."

"I did not agree to become a crustacean."

Sunday tilts his head. "Are you going back on your word, Miss Stelle?"

Oh. Oh, he is evil. She scowls, deeply considering throwing a pillow at his smug, annoyingly perfect face, but—because pride is a terrible thing—she begrudgingly curls slightly inward, just enough to form a half-hearted shrimp shape, because Stelle is not a coward, thank you very much.

"Are you happy now," She grumbles.

Sunday examines her with the precision of a man analyzing a stock market report. "...Your form is sloppy."

She doesn't even know what to say, so she settles on: "...My what?"

"Commit to it."

"I will not be committing to this!"

Sunday sighs deeply, as if she is personally disappointing him on a moral level. "Then I suppose we’ll move on."

"Move on??" Stelle sits up so fast she nearly gives herself whiplash. "What the hell else do you have planned?"

Sunday leans back and lets out a genuine laugh out of nowhere, finally looking fully at ease, and that’s when Stelle realizes two very horrifying things: 1. He is having fun with this, and 2. he's fucking with her and has been since the start of this conversation. 

He leans forward this time before she can sputter out an insult or two, his expression so unbearably soft, so genuinely entertained, and with gentle amusement, he reaches out, placing the lightest touch against her forehead with two fingers, like he’s resetting her entire brain. 

"You can stop now," He says , his voice a warm, gentle lilt. "Lie back down and relax. This isn't how it works, anyway." 

"You were messing with me," She whispers with the sourest, most Shame On You face she can muster.

Sunday tilts his head, feigning innocence. "Only a little."

Stelle groans, collapsing back into the couch with a loud, dramatic huff, one arm thrown over her face like some tragic heroine on the verge of fainting. "You’re the worst," She grumbles, voice muffled against her sleeve. "I can’t believe I tried to help you. I hope you never relax again. I hope you stay tense forever."

Sunday hums, entirely at ease now, having successfully wormed his way into victory. "Unlikely," He says, as if he’s already cataloging this moment away in the secret vault of his personal triumphs. "You are simply bad at obedience."

Stelle grits her teeth. "I hate that you can say that sentence and have it sound completely normal."

He tilts his head, like he’s examining her for structural weaknesses. "You lasted longer than I expected, though. Perhaps there is hope for you yet."

"There’s no hope for me, Sunday," She sighs through her nose. "I’m already dead inside."

"Mm. Tragic," He comments idly, sinking into the couch comfortably now that his stupid brain is busy with the notion of bullying her and it's apparently amusing him so much to do so. "Would you like a eulogy?"

"You’re gonna be the one writing it, at this rate."

"Oh, I already have a draft prepared."

She levels a glare at him. "How."

"Your incompetence at work has given me ample material." He smiles, serene. "Would you like a preview?"

Stelle picks up a pillow, eyes locked on him. "I should strangle you a little."

"Ah, but I’m the only one who knows your preferred funeral arrangements. How unfortunate."

She blinks, then frowns. "I do not have preferred funeral arrangements."

Sunday tilts his head, a perfect picture of calm. "Don’t you?"

She opens her mouth, closes it, then narrows her eyes in deep suspicion. "You’re just making shit up again."

"Am I?" He taps a gloved finger against his chin, the picture of someone deep in intellectual consideration. "I distinctly recall a conversation in which you mentioned that you wish to be cremated and for your ashes to be thrown in the face of your least favorite coworker."

Stelle squints, trying to remember if she has, in fact, said such a thing. Well. It does sound like something she would say, yeah.

Sunday takes her silence as confirmation. "Of course, that was some time ago, and your opinions may have changed. Perhaps you would prefer something more poetic? A scattering at sea, perhaps? Or a tree burial? Something symbolic, full of meaning, allowing you to become one with nature in your eternal rest—"

"No, you were right the first time," She shuts down whatever tangent he was about to go on immediately. "I wanna be thrown directly into someone's face. Preferably at a company-wide meeting."

Sunday nods with a dumb smile. "Duly noted."

A moment of silence follows the funeral talk in a predictably solemn way, and Stelle stares at the ceiling, basking in the complete absurdity of the conversation they have just had.

Then, she casually tilts her head and murmurs, "What about you?"

Sunday doesn't look like he thought much about it, but Stelle notices a shift in his muscles, the way he goes just a little still, the way his fingers twitch once before smoothing back into stillness. He hums, as if considering, and then, finally, he simply replies, "Oh, I imagine I will be disposed of rather unceremoniously."

Stelle frowns again. "Disposed of? Jesus, Sunday, what are you, a war criminal?"

Sunday smiles some more, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. It doesn't most of the time. "Nothing so dramatic."

She watches him, something uneasy curling at the edges of her mind. There’s something about the way he says it—light, dismissive, like it isn’t important, like he’s already detached himself from the concept entirely. Like he has no expectations for what comes after.

Like he doesn’t see himself as someone worth mourning.

She shifts, stretching her arms above her head in an exaggerated motion, as if shaking off the weight of something unspoken. "Nope. I refuse to accept that answer. Try again."

Sunday's expression shifts again, one brow disappearing under his bangs. "You refuse?"

"Yep." She rolls onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow to look at him properly. "You don’t get to just not have an answer. If I have to suffer the existential horror of imagining my own funeral, then so do you."

Sunday lets out a soft huff of amusement. "And what, pray tell, would you like me to say?"

"I dunno." She shrugs. "Something real."

For a moment, he stares at her as if she has lost it, then with a quiet sigh, he leans back against the couch, gaze tilting toward the ceiling, features pulled in a forced neutrality. "If I must choose," He begins, voice softer now, like he’s speaking more to himself than to her, "then I suppose I would prefer something simple. No extravagant gestures, no unnecessary displays of grief. Just…something quiet. Perhaps a garden, if only for the irony of it."

Stelle blinks. "Irony?"

He lets out a breath of a laugh, faint amusement curling at the corner of his lips. "I do not seem like the type to be one with the nature, do I?"

She snorts. "Not even a little."

He hums. "Then consider it a contradiction. A final joke at my own expense. A man who spent his entire life in boardrooms and high-rises, only to end up somewhere green, somewhere still."

That kind of makes her pause. The way he says it—light, unbothered, like it’s just another matter-of-fact detail in a quarterly report—rubs her the wrong way. Not because he sounds morbid, necessarily, but because he sounds... settled. Like he’s already made peace with the idea that, in the end, there won’t be much fuss over him.

Like he doesn’t expect anyone to care.

"Alright," Stelle replies slowly after a moment. "Who’s gonna take care of it?"

His brows furrow, like she’s just asked an absurd question. "Someone hired to do so, presumably."

She makes a face. "So even in death, you’re outsourcing your emotional labor?"

"It is a service like any other."

"God, you’re exhausting." She groans, shifting against the couch. "What about your sister?"

"Robin has much more important things to do than tend to a garden in my name." He doesn't even hesitate, his voice quiet and absolute, as he calmly declares that he would not matter that much to his own sister.

Stelle frowns.

Because he doesn’t say it like it’s an excuse. He doesn’t say it like, Oh, she’d be too busy grieving, or She’d be too sad to look after something like that. He says it like it’s just the logical conclusion, like it wouldn’t even occur to him that she might want to.

Something uncomfortable presses against the back of her ribs, but she doesn’t let it show. Instead, she shifts again, rolling onto her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows.

"Okay. What about your aunt?" She asks, grasping for another name. "Miss Maeven, right?"

Sunday scoffs. "We are not on good terms."

"Oh." Stelle blinks. She hadn’t known that. It throws her off—she thought his family situation was distant, sure, but estranged? Miss Maeven visited him occasionally, she'd seen the way they talked to each other. 

She bites the inside of her cheek. "But she’s still family."

"Family ties alone does not create closeness, Miss Stelle."

The way he says it—matter-of-fact, uninterested, definitive—makes something settle uncomfortably in her chest. She presses on anyway. "Right, well. Then—"

And then she pauses, because she’s trying—really trying—to think of more names. More people in his life. But the list… just kind of ends. There’s no one else.

There isn't even a list. No extended network of family or friends. No close colleagues, no work friends, no confidants. No one she can immediately think of who would undoubtedly care enough to visit his grave, to keep his memory alive, to look after something as sentimental as a garden.

And Sunday—Sunday knows that too. 

Sure, he isn’t alone in the traditional sense; he interacts with people every day, exists in meetings, in business circles, in places where people know his name. But he doesn’t connect. He exists at a comfortable distance, like the world is something he is only tangentially a part of.

And she wonders—does he even notice? Does he ever sit in his quiet, perfectly symmetrical home and feel that ache in his ribs, or is he so used to it that it doesn’t even register anymore?

But she doesn’t say any of that to his face, of course, because she is not about to sit here and pity him, not when he clearly doesn’t want that, not when he probably wouldn’t even acknowledge it as something worth pitying.

So instead, she pokes his thigh. Digs her finger in it for good measure. "Man, you’re fucking terrible at networking."

Sunday lets out a quiet, amused hum, his muscles tighten instinctively. "Is that your diagnosis?"

"Yeah." She plays with the strap around his pants—oh, now he's wearing one after grilling her about it? Ugh. Whatever. "You need to branch out. Get some connections. Maybe a LinkedIn page."

"Mm. I do have a LinkedIn page."

"Of course you do."

"Should I add you?"

"Ew. No. I refuse to be associated with you professionally."

Sunday closea his eyes. "You are legally my employee."

"Whatever." She huffs, dropping her cheek on his left thigh casually as if this is a normal thing to do, and looks up at him with the most disinterested face she can muster. "and," a pause, "You have me, too."

Stelle watches in real time as his lips twitch, his sunset eyes meeting her pure golds, matching the color of his earrings and the price of this moment. Not that Stelle would ever admit that she would take Sunday looking so unguarded and resigned over stacks of gold bars if offered. She would not, because she is not a fool.

He smiles, and the warmth of it settles deep in her bones and the tips of her fingers. "Do I?"

"Duh," She looks away, because she is afraid of it settling on the back of her eyes, too. That's too close to her brain. "I'm literally right here, aren't I?"

Sunday doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. Just leans back against the couch and murmurs, "I suppose you are."

A comfortable silence settles between them, the kind that isn’t heavy, isn’t awkward, but simply is, and then, without thinking, without making a big deal out of it, Stelle reaches up and flicks his forehead, voice lazy. "Yeah, anyway. If you drop dead, I’ll make sure your garden doesn’t suck."

He only lets out a simple, "Thank you."

Then he hums, quiet and pleased, the sound curling at the edges of the dimly lit room like smoke from a candle recently snuffed out. His fingers drum absently against the couch’s armrest, slow and contemplative, as if committing the moment to memory in that particular way of his—archiving it somewhere, not necessarily because it’s important, but because it’s strange, unexpected, and because it doesn’t happen often.

Because someone—Stelle, of all people—just volunteered to be the keeper of something in his absence.

It’s ridiculous, really. A completely unserious statement, spoken in that lazy, offhanded way of hers, like it’s just another way to end a conversation. But something about it lingers, settling deep into his flesh, but he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he lets out an exaggerated sigh, the very picture of weary resignation. "I can already see the state of it. A disastrous mess of weeds and negligence. Unkempt. Unruly."

Stelle makes an affronted noise, lifting her head just enough to glare at him before promptly dropping it back down onto his thigh. "I’d take excellent care of it, asshole."

"Would you?" His fingers still, a single brow arching. "I cannot imagine you as a gardener."

"I can do it," She grumbles. "I can be responsible."

Sunday huffs out a soft laugh, resting his head against the back of the couch. "I am aware. It is simply a shame that you so often choose not to be."

She pokes his side again, sharp and petulant. "Screw you. I’d make it look cool as hell."

"Ah. So, an aesthetic garden," He murmurs, like she's a particularly imaginative child and he's graciously indulging her. "And what, pray tell, would that entail? A sculpture, perhaps? Some uniquely questionable landscaping choices?"

"You’re giving me ideas." She stretches lazily, one of her hands curling against the fabric of his sleeve like she’s going to use it as leverage to move—before she decides against it. "Maybe I should get a statue of you. A big, dumb-looking one. Give you a stupid pose, like a little corporate overlord perched on a throne."

Sunday chuckles, rich and amused, fingers tapping again. "How very fitting."

"Yeah, yeah." She waves a hand. "I’d make sure it’s got a smug little face, too. Just so people remember exactly how annoying you were."

"Mm. The ultimate act of defamation."

She snickers. "Exactly."

Sunday hums again, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, his eyes settling on the ceiling once more. The conversation should be over by now. It’s wrapped itself into something unserious, something manageable, something easy to set aside. But Stelle doesn’t pull away, and Sunday doesn’t make her.

And then, in a moment of uncharacteristic indulgence, he quietly asks, "Would you visit?"

It’s spoken so idly that Stelle nearly misses it. Nearly.

Her fingers twitch against his sleeve.

But, because she is as much a fool as he is, and utterly as soft as the flesh beneath her, she doesn’t joke, doesn’t roll her eyes, doesn’t immediately hit him with something irreverent and stupid. Instead, she tilts her head just so, shifting to look at him properly, watching the way his sunset eyes catch in the dim light.

"Yeah," She says, like it’s obvious. Like it was never even a question. "Of course I would. Someone has to bother you, right?"

Sunday makes a small noise in the back of his throat. Something barely there, similar to a phantom touch that you can't decide is really a bug crawling up on you or a trick of the mind, as if something invisible just settled in his chest, heavy and inevitable.

For all those weighty pauses, "Hm," is all he says.

Stelle watches him for a beat longer, then huffs. "You gonna cry about it?"

His lips twitch. "Would it amuse you if I did?"

"Kinda."

"How cruel."

"Deserved."

Sunday's fingers finally stop tapping, curling slightly against the fabric of the couch, and just like that, the conversation melts into nothingness—not an all encompassing void, but a warm, shallow body of water that neither of them know how to swim in. 

Stelle lets it be. 

When Sunday inevitably stands up and declares that he has business to attend after nearly 8PM, what comes out of her mouth is a relieved 'finally,' as she simply ushers him out. But her stomach aches, her head feels dizzy in a way she chalks up to laying down for so long on his stupid lap. 

"Thank you for today, Miss Stelle." He smiles down at her, and it's not a calculated one. He's simply had a good time, and that's that. 

"Bring some booze next time." Stelle replies casually, waving a hand, and elects to ignore the way he perks up, chooses to think it's at the prospect of alcohol and not at the possibility of a next time.

"Of course." 

As soon as the door clicks shut, she stands there. The realization creeps up on her slow, insidious, like a tide lapping at the edges of her mind before she even notices it’s there.

She isn’t losing to him.

She isn’t being worn down, isn’t having her walls chipped at or pried open with careful hands. No, that’s not what happened here.

Sunday let his guard down first.

She hadn’t even realized it at the time. Hadn’t thought much of it when he’d looked down at her and told her so lightly, so dismissively that he didn’t expect anyone to care what happened to him. Hadn’t really registered, until right now, how easily he had admitted to expecting nothing from the world.

She hadn’t pushed him to say that. She hadn’t manipulated him into being vulnerable, hadn’t worn him down with questions or needled at him for a reaction.

He had simply said it like it was a foregone conclusion, not because he wanted to, not because he planned it, but because he just did. Because that’s who he is—someone who exists so comfortably in his own self-control that the moments where it slips aren’t acts of weakness, but choices.

And that—that stupid, reckless willingness to be seen, to let her in without ever saying so, without ever making it a point is what makes her stand in the middle of her living room, hand still on the doorknob, standing there like an idiot.

On Monday, the office is a mess. Not in the physical sense—Sunday would never allow that—but in a way that matters, perhaps more than some physical mess. The air is tight with unspoken stress, conversations clipped, movements sharper than usual. The data breach is still ongoing, and no one knows how, no one knows why, no one knows who.

Stelle watches from her desk as another round of IT specialists shuffle in and out of the executive wing, looking progressively more exhausted with every visit. The momentary system failure earlier today had been the worst of it, grinding everything to a halt for a solid three minutes before blinking back to life like nothing had happened. But three minutes was a lifetime in a business like this. Three minutes could burn empires to the ground.

Sunday, in his usual terrifying efficiency, had made his decision by the end of the day.

"I'll be working from my home office this weekend," He had said, the words final, a storm, inevitable. "You are coming with me."

And that was it. No discussion, no room for protest. She was the only one who had access to the most sensitive information, and therefore, she would work where he worked.

It wasn't that she was scared, exactly. That would be stupid. But something about being in his space, surrounded by his world, where he held every ounce of control—it made something curl tight in her stomach.

So, she does the only logical thing. She opens her messages, and types, without preamble:

[STELLE]: march. dan heng. emergency.
[STELLE]: ur coming with me to sunday’s house this weekend

She waits.

[MARCH]: HUH?????
[DAN HENG]: ?
[STELLE]: no time to explain. just say yes

Another beat.

[DAN HENG]: No.
[MARCH]: YES!!!
[STELLE]: dan heng what the fuck
[DAN HENG]: Why would I do that?
[STELLE]: bc i said so??
[DAN HENG]: Not convincing.
[MARCH]: WAIT. ARE YOU NERVOUS TO BE ALONE WITH HIM???
[STELLE]: shut up shut up shut up
[DAN HENG]: Oh. I see.
[STELLE]: YOU SEE WHAT??
[DAN HENG]: I will be there.

Stelle sighs in relief. Good. At least she won’t be alone.

She prays to every God above to let her survive next weekend without a violation of workplace morals and also her self-respect.

Chapter Text

Sunday stands at the window, one gloved hand resting lightly against the small of his back, bent and poised, watching the driveway in silence. It had been a simple request—a demand, really, he did make her feel like she had no other choice but to follow. Not that she usually listened, but regardless, it was not a calculated move he had made, he didn't allow himself to think about, to rationalize it. He knew he would not have done so if he were the same man he was months ago. 

In truth, it had been one of the dangerous moments where he had allowed himself to want: her here, with him, in his space, within reach.

The moment the door opens, Stelle steps inside, and Sunday cannot help but find it endearing—the way she moves, slightly hesitant yet curious, her sharp eyes scanning his space with the keen awareness of someone who had never expected to see it.

Her gaze lingers on the high ceilings, the antique chandeliers, the deep navy and pristine white of the furniture, accented with gold trims. She is looking, memorizing, and Sunday lets her. It pleases him.

Let her be curious.

"Welcome to my humble abode, Miss Stelle." 

Sunday is not a man who enjoys sterility inside his own space. His home is a reflection of him—elegant, intentional, steeped in history. The bookshelves, filled with leather-bound editions, the antique clock on the mantle, the carefully curated displays of rare artifacts—all of it speaks to a man who values things that last. So he lets her wander without saying anything more.

Unlike him, Stelle is not trying to be polite. She lets out a quiet, thoughtful hum. "Didn’t expect this."

Of course, she didn't. Sunday, amused, simply lifts a brow. "Ah. And what, exactly, were you expecting?"

He knows what she was expecting already because he knows her, knows the way she thinks, the way she forms perceptions of people and places, the way she always assumes the worst in him and is proven wrong just often enough to keep her guessing and unsure.

She glances at him, then back at the decor. "Less personality, more...corporate overlord."

Bingo. A chuckle bubbles low in his throat. "Oh, you are surprised to find that I possess taste."

"I’m surprised you live in a house and not in a glass tower where you watch over the city like a Bond villain."

The smile that perches on his face is small, but it is genuine. That is what she had called him when they first met. A deep sense of nostalgia washes over him. "I do not care for glass towers," He breathes out a laugh. "Too transparent."

She rolls her eyes but does not disagree. Instead, she drifts further inside, toeing off her shoes without being asked, already letting herself wander further. Good. He wants her to be comfortable here. Wants her to linger, to settle in, to feel at ease. 

She's wearing a dark gray, off-shoulder sweater with a small, butterfly charm necklace to adorn her bare neck, and a simple pair of flared black jeans to pair with the sweater today. She doesn't sit down though, not yet, just stands in his living room with her bottom lip caught between her teeth, her captivating golds squinting at his own, and she surveys him like he's an opponent in a chess match, waiting to see what he'll do now that she has stepped into his domain. 

And then, she opens her mouth and ruins everything.

"By the way, I brought my friends."

Sunday’s polite, refined, well-mannered soul withers into dust.

He doesn't visibly flinch or blink or even betray the profound, overwhelming disappointment that grips him like an old, familiar ghost. He merely smiles, refined and composed, and tilts his head in mild inquiry.

"Your friends." He echoes, because surely, surely, he has misheard.

"Yeah," Stelle confirms. "Figured you wouldn't mind." 

Sunday does not sigh, though he very much wants to. Instead, he clasps his hands behind his back, his expression a picture of pleasant neutrality. A gentleman to the end, even in the face of such profound, unanticipated irritation.

Because of course, of course, Stelle would do this.

She must have known, must have understood on some level that his invitation had been meant for her and her alone. And yet, with that effortless, insufferable disregard for propriety that makes her who she is, she has decided to turn what was meant to be an intimate, carefully controlled environment into a social affair.

Of course, remote work had been the excuse he gave, but in truth, it was nothing more than a self-indulgence. The stolen data would not be recovered by her hands—Stelle worked in marketing, not IT. And yet, she was the only person he trusted with the knowledge of what had been taken in his moment of weakness in the office last week.

She is many things, but Sunday of all people knows that she is not an idiot. She knows damn well that she is not here for IT work, that she is not here because she is uniquely suited to solving this crisis. She is here because he wants her here. Because she is the only one he trusts. Because if the world crumbled overnight, if the empire he built came crashing down, she is the one he would place beside him in the wreckage.

And now her friends are here, their presence unraveling the delicate intimacy of his carefully laid plans, forcing him to host instead of simply having her to himself.

She is impossible.

Yet, here he stands, composed, smiling, the very picture of poise, because a man of his caliber cannot falter. Even if he has succumbed numerous times in her presence up to this point. No more will occur, Sunday tells himself, and pretends to believe it.

"Of course," He says evenly, not a single note betraying his inner turmoil. "I would never turn away guests."

It is not a lie, not technically. He would simply have preferred not to have them here in the first place.

Stelle seems satisfied enough with his answer, turns to the door and calls for her friends, allowing the doorway to fill with the unmistakable presence of them.

Sunday, despite everything, straightens with seamless grace, shifting into a more refined, composed host. His smile remains perfectly pleasant, and he clasps his hands lightly behind his back, the very image of practiced hostility.

Hospitality, he corrects himself.

They are not his enemies. They are her people. 

The door swings open wider, and in step two figures, both looking around with the wordless assumption that they are entering enemy territory.

The girl, who he assumes is March, in all her pastel-wrapped, saccharine confidence, is the first to make eye contact. She tilts her head, assessing Sunday with something that might be either suspicion or admiration or both, if he had to take a guess. The young man who Sunday assumes is...Dan Heng...?, as still and composed as metal left out in the cold during winter, follows closely behind, his gaze flicking once to Stelle, as if to confirm that she has not, in fact, been lured into some elaborate trap.

Sunday, for all his refined grace, does not falter, of course. He studies them as one might a pair of unfamiliar animals, cataloging their features, their mannerisms, the way they hold themselves. He had anticipated that if he were ever to meet the people in Stelle’s orbit, they would be like her—unpredictable, unafraid, wholly unimpressed by power and posturing.

So far, he has not been proven wrong.

March clears her throat, clasping her hands behind her back, and offers a polite, if somewhat forced, smile. "Hi. You must be Sunday." A beat, then she extends a hand, as if testing the waters. "I’m March. Nice place you’ve got."

Sunday takes the hand, his grip gentle around her small hand. "A pleasure, Miss March," He greets smoothly, inclining his head just so. "And thank you. I do try."

March’s lips twitch, as if she isn’t sure whether to be charmed or unnerved.

Dan Heng, on the other hand, does not offer his hand. He stands a half-step behind March, arms crossed loosely, his eyes cool and squinted as he regards Sunday. His silence is not out of shyness, Sunday notes, but out of deliberation—Dan Heng is watching, weighing. Calculating, the same way Sunday is.

Sunday allows himself a fraction of a smile. "And you must be Dan Heng."

Dan Heng nods. "Yes."

Nothing else. No pleasantries, no unnecessary words. A man of economy. Sunday respects that, even if he finds it somewhat irritating.

There is something fascinating about them—these two. They are close, that much is obvious, but they are nothing alike. March, bright-eyed and expressive, with a warmth that she does not bother to hide. Dan Heng, cool and controlled, a presence as steady as the tides. And yet, both of them, in their own ways, are protective of Stelle.

That alone makes them worth considering.

Sunday shifts his gaze to Stelle, who is watching the entire exchange with thinly veiled amusement, much to his dismay. Why is she so pleased that she just rained on his parade? Does she not want to be alone with him? Does she not trust him? The implication makes him frown momentarily. Surely she does? Why else would she allow him into her house last week, and leave him unsupervised there and sleep for hours knowing he was right there and she was vulnerable? 

Sunday has many questions to be asked, yet there is no appropriate way to word them without giving anything away. Instead, he allows his expression to smooth into a pleasant and welcoming one—an illusion so finely crafted it would be an insult to call it anything less than art.

"I must say, Stelle speaks of you both rather highly." This is not a lie. She does not praise often, not directly, but in the gaps between her complaints, in the spaces where she does not say something biting, there is a fondness that cannot be mistaken.

March perks up immediately. "Oh, really?" She throws her arms around Stelle casually. "We love you, Stellie."

"Mhm," Dan Heng adds eloquently.

Sunday merely chuckles, observing.

Stelle rolls her eyes, and ruffles March's hair, and Sunday watches as March just...takes it? "You look so cute today," Stelle declares, and smiles when March giggles.

Sunday’s own smile lingers, but only just. Such a casual display of affection. How adorable. How utterly unnecessary. 

It is foolish, this thing he is allowing to happen. Letting her world stretch into his, allowing her to bring these people into his space, his house. There is danger in it. Attachment is always dangerous.

But it is already too late for that, isn’t it?

He gestures toward the living room, the subtle invitation woven into the curve of his hand. "Shall we sit? I assume you did not come all this way merely to stand in my doorway."

March, delighted to be entertained, follows the gesture immediately, plopping down onto one of the pristine, navy-upholstered couches without an ounce of hesitation. Dan Heng moves more slowly, his gaze sweeping the room once before he settles on the other end of it.

Stelle, of course, remains standing for just a moment longer, watching Sunday with that sharp, knowing look that makes him want to wipe it clean from her face with a single well-placed word, but then she sits in the middle of them, leaning back, crossing her legs, looking like she owns the place, and his irritation crumbles in an instant. 

Sunday breathes out slowly through his nose and lowers himself into his own seat, folding one leg neatly over the other, one hand resting lightly against the armrest, the other against his knee.

"Now then," He starts, tilting his head. "Tell me. How exactly did you all come to know one another?"

From that point on, the conversation weaves itself into an unexpected ease that catches Sunday off guard. March enthusiastically recounts the tales of their friendship: how they met in freshman year of university, their academic pursuits, how Dan Heng and March lived together for a while before Stelle joined them and they moved in seperate apartments again in senior year, about how Stelle apparently took two gap years because of—well, because of something she quickly, deliberately brushed over without mentioning. Curious.

He learns that March, in all her stylish glory is a professional model, and Dan Heng, to his surprise, is pursuing a higher degree in marine biology. 

When he asks what Stelle had majored in, he gets a truly shocking revelation that she has a degree in criminal psychology, and a law school attendance that she dropped two years in. He had forgotten to read her file since she was hired without an interview. How embarrassing for him.

Sunday lets the revelation settle, slow and heavy, watching Stelle with a gaze that gives nothing away. Criminal psychology. Law.

How very...unexpected.

The pieces rearrange themselves in his mind, a puzzle shifting into a shape he hadn’t anticipated. He had always known she was sharp—too sharp for a place like this, for an office job that demanded little of the mind and even less of the soul. But this was too unexpected. Not because he doubts her abilities, but because she hates systems, and if there's anything she hates more than that, it's rules and obligations.

He leans back, fingers tapping once against the armrest, smiling despite himself. "Criminal psychology," He muses, "And law school, as well. That is quite the rigorous path."

"It was fine," Stelle says, dismissive, as if it were nothing more than a passing interest she picked up on a whim.

Sunday, of course, does not believe that for a second.

Next to Stelle, March stiffens. It’s subtle—the way her posture straightens slightly and her fingers tap against her knee like she is preparing to redirect the conversation at any given moment. Dan Heng, too, does not look surprised. Only quietly watchful, as if waiting to see where this will go.

They know. Or rather, they know not to ask.

Interesting.

"Fine?" Sunday continues, tilting his head, letting the curiosity slip into his voice just enough to be noticed. "Ihave to wonder why you are not in a courtroom, a consulting firm, or in law enforcement or anywhere even remotely related to your field of study?" He lets the question linger and the silence stretch just long enough to see if she will fill it.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she lifts a shoulder in a shrug, her gold eyes sharp. "Didn’t like it. Wasn’t for me."

Sunday knows that tactic—a careful answer. Not a lie, but not the full truth, either.

March leans forward suddenly, grinning too wide, too forced, an unmistakable deflection. "Yeah, can you imagine Stelle as a lawyer? She’d just bully people into submission instead of making arguments."

Stelle snorts. "I would've been great at it."

"Oh, absolutely," March agrees, latching onto the new topic with ease. "You’d scare judges into ruling in your favor. The jury would just surrender on day one."

Dan Heng, seemingly unbothered, sips his tea. "She did win every argument in electives we had together."

"Exactly," March says, waving a hand. "She’s a menace. And you know what, I bet she picked criminal psychology just so she could argue with people for fun."

Stelle hums, raising a brow. "You make it sound like I don’t do that already."

March makes an exaggerated sound of exasperation. "You do."

Sunday watches them with a slight smile, amused at their attempts to shift the topic, at the way they so seamlessly work together to shield her from any further questioning.

They don’t know why, then.

They suspect, perhaps, but they do not know.

That, more than anything, is what stands out to him. Stelle, who is so casual, so flippant about nearly everything in life, has never given them a real answer, and if she has never told them, why would she tell him?

His fingers tap lightly against his knee.

One day.

One day, he will reach her, peel back the layers she so carefully hides behind sharp words and easy shrugs, because he wants to, because there is no other explanation for this, for the way his mind wanders, for the way his pathetic, shameless craving for her attention drives him to such absurd lengths like allowing her everything he has allowed and wanting more than she has ever given him.

Anything—anything—to make her treat him with less aggression, to make her look at him without that perpetual edge, to have her gaze settle on him with a look that is not sharp, not defensive, not guarded. Anything to make her trust him and let him know what lies beneath the surface of her fire.

And so because he is shamefully, disgracefully, insufferably weak for the barest hint of approval and trust from her, because he is not immune to the creeping desperation that coils low in his chest and the unbearable urge to make himself useful to her in ways that she cannot dismiss or ignore, he takes his chances.

And what better way to do that than by making the lives of her friends easier?

March, for all her energy and her effortless social maneuvering, is still clawing her way up the industry. She has the talent, the presence, but the industry is brutal, connections are everything, and coincidence would have it that Sunday is a man of many connections.

And so, entirely casual, entirely unbothered, he allows himself the indulgence of offering.

"You have a fashion degree and you model professionally, yes?" He addresses March.

March, who had been midway through teasing Dan Heng about his tragic emotional attachment to an octopus (however that conversation happened in the span of half a minute) pauses, her attention switching to him. "Yeah?" She replies warily.

Sunday hums. "I happen to be well-acquainted with several influential figures in the industry."

March blinks, then narrows her eyes. "Are you about to network me?"

"Perhaps," Sunday says mildly. "You seem capable enough. If you would like to be brought up in the presence of those with influence, I would not find it difficult to arrange."

Stelle, who had been sipping from her drink, stills. Bingo. But Sunday doesn't look at her, and he doesn't need to. He can feel the shift in her attention, the way it sharpens, the way her focus lands on him in a way that is...considering.

Yes, a voice inside him cheers. 

How terribly embarrassing, another chimes in.

March, for her part, tilts her head, looking at him like he is an oddity to be studied. "And this isn’t, like, a sneaky business proposition? You don’t want me to model for some weird corporate campaign?"

Sunday shakes his head with exaggerated offense. "Miss March. You wound me."

"Yeah, yeah, you’re a saint," She says, waving a hand. "But seriously, you’re just offering this out of the goodness of your heart?"

"I have no interest in restricting talent," Sunday reassures her. "It is a waste to allow potential to stagnate. If I can provide a bridge between ambition and opportunity, I fail to see why I should not."

March watches him for a moment longer, then turns to Stelle, looking highly amused. "So when were you gonna tell us you tamed a rich benefactor?"

Stelle clicks her tongue, unimpressed. "He's not a benefactor. He’s a businessman."

Sunday smiles despite himself. "A distinction that matters."

"And businessmen always want something in return," Stelle murmurs.

"I am merely offering. Not everything is a business trade."

March, entirely oblivious to the undercurrent between them, stretches lazily, grinning. "Well, if you’re handing out industry connections, I’d be an idiot to say no. I’m down."

Sunday merely inclines his head, already giddy from the way Stelle's watching him with interest. "I will have something arranged."

Then, having secured March’s cautious approval and Stelle’s begrudging interest, he turns his attention to Dan Heng. The young man has been quiet, so Sunday studies him for a moment. Dark hair, sharp eyes, unreadable expression—an old soul trapped in the body of someone far too young to be this consistently unimpressed. A man of intellect, obviously, but also a man of restraint. A difficult one to buy, then.

All the more reason to try.

"And you, Mister Dan Heng," Sunday begins, "pursuing a degree in marine biology. A noble field, truly."

Dan Heng lifts a brow, so deeply unimpressed it almost deters Sunday. Almost. "Thank you."

Sunday smiles. "I happen to own a private island."

Dan Heng merely blinks in response. Maybe he should have soft launched that offer.

"You own a what?" Stelle asks, squinting at him like she just misheard something truly insane.

"A private island," Sunday repeats, as if this is a perfectly normal thing to say. "A modest one, of course. Nothing ostentatious."

"You’re literally such a villain," Stelle mutters under her breath.

Sunday pretends not to hear her.

Dan Heng makes a face. "And this concerns me because…?"

Sunday steeples his fingers. "It has a very rich, untouched marine ecosystem. Several rare species. A paradise for someone of your field, I imagine. I could arrange for you to conduct research there, unbothered by bureaucratic oversight."

Dan Heng just stares at him, setting his tea down. "So let me get this straight," He says slowly, voice dry. "You’re offering me a whole island just so I…what? Like you?"

Sunday smiles placidly. "That would be unbecoming of me. It is merely an opportunity that I'm trying to offer."

Despite his offer, Dan Heng’s expression remains flat. "Do you even know what kind of marine life exists there?"

"I know there are fish."

Dan Heng shuts his eyes briefly, as if summoning patience from the depths of his soul. "Fish," He echoes. "In the ocean. Incredible."

March is wheezing. Stelle has her face buried in her palm. Sunday continues, because he is nothing if not undeterred. "There are also coral reefs," He adds helpfully, as if that would make a difference. "Very colorful ones."

Dan Heng opens his eyes and looks at him like he’s debating whether or not this is all an elaborate joke. "That is the most uselessly vague description of marine biodiversity I have ever heard."

"Well, then," Sunday extends a hand out to his side in a polite gesture. "you must go and study it for yourself. A hands-on experience, free of charge."

Dan Heng stares at him some more. Why isn't he taking it? Sunday can hear March whispering Oh my god, take the island, you idiot under her breath.

And then, finally, the young man sighs. "If I say yes, will you stop trying to impress me?"

"I would never presume to impress you, Mister Dan Heng. I merely enjoy making myself useful."

"Then, no."

A very, very difficult one, Dan Heng is, but Sunday is nothing if not persistent.

He changes the position of his crossed leg, taking Dan Heng’s rejection with the grace of a man who is absolutely not wounded by it and absolutely not personally offended that he is refusing what is, objectively, an incredibly generous offer. He inclines his head. Surely, there is nothing money can't buy.

"Very well," He concedes. "Perhaps not that. But what about academic resources? Exclusive access to private marine reserves? A direct connection to the most prestigious research institutions in the world?"

Dan Heng sips his tea. "I’m fine."

Sunday so wants to outwardly deflate, and something inside him makes the pathetic sound of a balloon losing its last bouts of air. Why is he so difficult?

March, however, is not as composed as him, leaning slightly behind Stelle and very clearly nudging Dan Heng’s side with her elbow now. "Dude," She whispers—badly, because it’s still loud enough for everyone to hear. "Dude, just take it. When are you ever gonna get another billionaire fish-sugar-daddy offer again?"

Sunday blinks slowly. "I would greatly appreciate it if you refrained from using that specific phrasing."

"What? It’s a compliment."

"It is not."

Dan Heng remains entirely unmoved. "I do not require whatever it is that you just said."

Sunday doesn't pout, because he is a dignified man, and he is above the age where pouting would be considered cute and not extremely embarrassing. But. But. He does frown, and it takes an incredible amount of self-restraint to not react so childishly. "You are a difficult man to please, Mr. Dan Heng," He comments, voice dropping a fraction quieter.

Dan Heng shrugs. "I am not difficult. I just don’t need anything from you."

March dramatically slumps over Stelle, groaning into her shoulder. "Why do you hate nice things?"

"I do not require any of this."

Sunday, though still the image of grace, is starting to feel like he is the one being tested here. His fingers tap lightly against the armrest as he considers his next move. Fine. If academic resources and private islands are not enough, he will escalate.

"Perhaps something more personal, then," Sunday tries again, and Stelle, who has been watching this entire exchange and no doubt enjoying the hell out of it, raises a brow.

Dan Heng eyes him warily. "...Such as?"

"A custom-built aquarium. State-of-the-art. Climate-controlled," Sunday's lips curl. "Any species you desire, delivered directly to your residence."

Dan Heng simply stares at him. Will he finally say yes?

March vibrates behind Stelle. "A custom aquarium?" She positively squeals, grabbing Dan Heng’s arm, shaking him a tad too violently, if his face is anything to go by. "Take it. Take it right now."

Dan Heng closes his eyes for a second, as if he's dying under the weight of his own existence. "That would be an exorbitant waste of money," He finally says, and Sunday visibly wilts.

"It would be an investment in your passion," He corrects, refusing to stay a man denied.

"I don't want it," Dan Heng insists. "Stop it."

How sad. Sunday can barely open his mouth to respond before Stelle, ever the agent of controlled chaos, tilts her head and fixes Sunday with a look that spells trouble.

"Hey," She says, casually, deceptively. "How come you never offer me anything?"

Sunday's poor brain that's been getting smoothened out by the sheer absurdity of the past hour, short-circuits in several different ways, and his thoughts immediately spiral into something completely unhinged.

Anything. He thinks, and it's a knee jerk reaction, really. I would give you anything. Everything. The world, the stars, the deepest vaults of my wealth, my entire empire on a silver platter if I knew you would take it. My soul, if I had one worth offering.

"...Pardon?" He blinks once instead, tilting his head in that polite, refined manner that should disguise the fact that his entire dignity is on the floor in his head. He is not so base as to let any of those thoughts out, thank you very much. 

"You heard me," Stelle says, resting her chin on March's shoulder. "How come you’re throwing fish tanks and private jets at Dan Heng and career opportunities at March, but I get nothing?"

The fact that he has been trained all his life to not visibly panic, because he is very good at keeping his emotions under control, is his only saving grace at the moment. He merely considers the question, or rather, pretends to consider it, because the real answer is so catastrophically pathetic that if he said it aloud, he would personally have to grab the family heirloom custom made gun Mr. Gopherwood gave to him before he passed away, and use it for the first and last time on himself. Even if the thing wasn't really made for shooting and is too tacky to even hold up.

March, sensing blood in the water, immediately grins, practically jumping at the opportunity to stir the pot. Of course. "Ohhh, true! Why don’t you offer Stellie anything, huh?"

What Sunday doesn't expect is for Dan Heng of all people to join in. "You did say you don’t like to waste potential. And Stelle has a lot of potential." He shoots him a look that says: Really, Mr. Dan Heng? You too?

But he knows that. He knows how wonderful, how deserving Stelle is of everything good in the world. Instead, though, he replies calmly, as he should: "I did not think you would want anything from me."

"I mean, yeah, I don't," She says, then, after a beat, "But also, maybe I do."

He could say so much to that. He could say that he has already handed her his time, his patience, his attention, his carefully constructed composure. That she alone has been granted the privilege of being in his space, which is not something takes lightly. That she has been allowed into his world, into his thoughts, into his moments of weakness.

That if she so much as breathed a proper request, he would move mountains to make it so.

Sunday breathes in. Breathes out. His soul is withering into dust. "Very well," He acquiesces, like this is not the single most unpredictable conversation he has ever had to endure, and he owns a multi-million company. "What would you like?"

Stelle squints at him, like she’s trying to determine whether he’s messing with her, then she throws a dart at a board just to see where it lands, "I dunno. Buy me an island or something."

Sunday smiles, easy, unshaken. "Done."

"Huh?" buffers March. 

Stelle continues. "—With a yacht. A big one."

"Naturally."

"And a personal chef. I want gourmet meals every day."

"Consider it arranged."

She narrows her eyes, clearly pushing, testing, waiting to see where the line is. "Okay, what if I ask for a castle?"

Sunday barely blinks. "Do you have a preference for location?"

March just raises a brow. "Uhh, guys?"

He knows what she’s doing. She knows he knows, but she keeps going anyway, because she wants to hear him say it.

"I want a golden throne," She muses. "With jewels encrusted in it. The real deal. None of that knockoff stuff."

Sunday, to his shame, does not even hesitate. "I will see to it that only the finest materials are used."

Stelle clicks her tongue in response, shaking her head, like she can’t believe this—she’s trying to find any sort of hesitation in him and failing.

Dan Heng to Stelle's right, sips his tea like he’s watching a car crash in slow-motion.

"You’d really do it?"

Sunday, who would quite literally lay the world at her feet if she would simply take it, who would strip down his empire brick by brick if it meant placing the pieces in her hands, who would bend to her whims with nothing but a polite smile, merely inclines his head and replies,

"If that is what you desire."

But it is with great certainty and utmost confidence that he knows she would never take anything from him—not an island, not a castle, not even something as simple as a favor. She is not testing his generosity because she wants anything, she is testing him, seeing how far he will go, how much he will indulge her, how much she can push before he finally snaps and tells her no. But she doesn't understand that he would never deny her amusement.

"Hah," Stelle leans back on the couch, seemingly done with this back and forth. She stretches her arms above her head lazily. "Well, I want some water right now. Show me the kitchen."

"I can fetch some for you."

"No, I want to get it myself. Come with me."

He gets the cue immediately. Ah, she means to talk to him alone? With seamless elegance, he rises to his feet. "Very well," He gestures toward the hall. "Follow me."

As soon as they arrive to his spacious, impeccable kitchen, she grabs a glass and pours water for herself, then she casually declares: "They like you already."

Sunday blinks. "…Pardon?"

She looks at him as if he's stupid. "March and Dan Heng. I don't know why you're trying, but you don’t have to offer them anything to gain their favor."

Sunday narrows his eyes in confusion, then it dawns on him. "You brought me here to tell me that?"

"Well, obviously," She makes a face. "You’re trying way too hard to seem cool, and I’m not mean enough to tell you that in front of them."

His lips twitch. How adorable. "How considerate of you."

She grins, setting her glass down. "I know, right?" Then she waves a hand dismissively. "Just relax, okay? You have nothing to prove to them. They’re my friends."

A faint warmth blooms in his chest. Such a wonderful, amazing girl. How painfully, horrifically endearing of her.

Should he tell her the truth? The actual, humiliating truth that he couldn't care less about gaining March and Dan Heng’s favor, because he would offer them the most convenient luxuries not because he wants their approval, gratitude, or favor, but because it pleases her?

Because if March flourishes in her career, Stelle will be proud of her, and if Dan Heng finds fulfillment in his studies, Stelle will be happy for him. If they leave his home with the impression that he is useful to them, that he is someone worth keeping in their orbit, then Stelle will keep him in hers, too.

"You assume I care about their approval," He settles for a half-truth. "How bold of you."

Stelle snorts. "You wouldn’t have offered Dan Heng an aquarium if you didn’t."

Sunday sighs, exasperated. "It was a reasonable offer."

"A whole aquarium," She repeats, like she still can’t believe it.

"I was being considerate."

She hums, amused. "Uh-huh. So considerate."

He leans on his side against the counter, letting the warmth of her words settle in his pores, bones and his very being. She sees him. She knows him.

He wants to squeeze her in a hug, pull her close, tuck his chin over her head, and cling to her like some undignified, wretched thing—he wants her so badly that it's humiliating. But, of course, he is not an undignified, wretched thing. So instead, he settles for mild amusement. It's all he does these days.

"Very well," He replies, pushing himself off of the counter. "Since you have so generously provided this advice, shall I repay you in kind?"

Stelle smirks. "Oh? You got tips for me now?"

"Indeed. Would you like to hear them?"

"Go ahead. Enlighten me."

Sunday chuckles, and allows himself another almost-honest reply. "My first piece of advice: Do not invite your friends to a private work environment when I specifically told you we would be working."

Stelle gasps dramatically. "Oh no, did I ruin your evil villain plans?"

"Yes, actually," He deadpans. "Deeply upsetting. I'm hosting when we could be dealing with a very real threat hanging over our heads."

"Tragic. You’ll have to reschedule your protection ritual for another day. I don't know how to do IT work anyway."

"Such a burden. But we are still doing our work after they leave. I'm not expecting you to do IT work, but you will still be putting your analytical mind to good use," He reminds her, shaking his head. "Second piece of advice—do not mock the generosity of a man willing to purchase you a golden throne."

Stelle cackles, ignoring the work comment entirely. Does she think she can get away from it if she ignores it?  "Oh, no, I will never let that go."

"I'd rather you did."

"Nope."

"Come on, Miss Stelle."

He drags her back to the living room, and as soon as they make it back with a fresh second glass of water in Stelle's hands, March levels them both with a look. 

"So," She starts, tone far too casual. Here we go. "You two were gone a while."

Stelle, entirely unfazed, plops back down on the couch, to March's left this time instead of placing herself between them like shields. She's closer to Sunday this way. Curious. "Got water."

"Right, right," March nods. Gives a pause. "Water."

Dan Heng sighs. "March."

"What?" She asks, then turns to Sunday and Stelle. "Had a nice chat, did you?"

Stelle stretches her legs out, crossing them at the ankle. "Sure."

Sunday remains very still. Nope, nope. March. stop it, he begs in his mind. He's too tired to feign confusion for one day.

March leans in just slightly, because his karma is too high for the universe to take mercy on him. "Didn’t seem like just a chat."

What does that mean.

Stelle, to his relief, just turns to her calmly instead of looking disgusted with the implication. "Oh? What did it seem like?"

"You were gone just long enough for some other things."

Stelle finally lifts a brow. "Like what, March?"

March shrugs. "Oh, I don’t know. Just, you know. Some light making out, maybe."

Sunday blinks.

"Oh, shut up." She snorts, not bothered by the idea at all, apparently?

"You guys got up together, left together, were gone for just long enough for a suspiciously specific amount of time, and then came back looking... relaxed." She taps her chin, all fake thoughtfulness. "The math is mathing, guys."

Sunday feels like he will die if he does not intervene. "Miss March—"

March holds up a finger, interrupting him. "Shh. I’m thinking."

Sunday closes his mouth.

Stelle, amused and completely unaffected, tilts her head. "And what exactly is your conclusion, detective?"

March sits back with a victorious smile. "You were making out."

An ugly, horrifying, inescapable thought that he wishes they were, creeps in on him almost instantly. I wish we were, Miss March. You have no idea. None of you have any idea.

Instead, he remains perfectly composed. A fortress of composure. He hums, as if this accusation is of no consequence to him.

Stelle just flicks March on the forehead. "You’re delusional."

March rubs her forehead, pouting. "So you weren’t?"

"Of course not," Stelle snorts.

March leans a bit too far into Stelle's space. Can someone help him? "Okay, but if you were making out, would you tell me?"

"You would hear it, March. You know I'm loud."

Now, if his mind were a battlefield, he's sure that his sanity would be considered a casualty of war. Why does March know that? How is she privy to that information?

"I mean, yeah, but—"

"No buts," Stelle interrupts her, gently placing a hand over her mouth. "Shut up. We got water. Don't be annoying."

"Fine," March huffs, relenting, much to Sunday's relief. 

He ignores the new, catastrophic amount of distress he's just been put in, and directs the conversation elsewhere. He will not think about Stelle, or her bed habits, or the newly revealed fact that she is apparently very expressive, and her friends are privy to this information. No, no. He's normal. He will remain normal.

So, the conversation moves, eases into bearable topics, like embarrassing college memories, like the time March became viral for setting a trend on social media, and things like how Dan Heng apparently paid an embarrassing amount of money for a fish-identifying application only for it to identify every fish as salmon, and in his foolishness, almost forgets that the entire reason Stelle is here is for work.

Or, rather, that was the excuse he gave himself.

And yet, instead of an evening of careful strategy, conversation and delicate control over the situation as he had intended, he finds himself hosting her friends, entertaining them like some fool, as if this is normal, as if this is not an outrageous, completely deranged thing for her to have done.

Bringing her friends. To his home. When he had so clearly intended for this time to be spent with her and her alone.

Yet here he is, indulging them, humoring their insufferable antics, listening to March wheeze with laughter over Dan Heng’s fish-related misfortunes, watching Stelle grin, relaxed, entirely at ease in his space, in his home, and he is too ensnared by her presence that he has desperately been trying to justify it to himself.

He tells himself it is practical. That making her friends comfortable makes her more agreeable later on when they inevitably leave them alone, that he is merely mitigating the usual hostility she aims his way, coaxing her into something more cooperative.

But the truth, the shameful, unbearable truth, is far, far uglier, because he knows damn well that it is not simple cooperation he craves. It's something far more disgusting, deep in his chest, crawling up his ribs and settling beneath his sternum, tight and unforgiving.

This thing, this want, this ugly, unbearable ache.

He is not a fool—he knows what it is, knows it by name and the way it has been burning inside him for weeks, silent and patient and slowly, steadily growing. It is not just lust. He knows that, because that would be something he could satisfy and discard.

But this? This is so much worse.

Because it is not just her body he craves. It is her—her, vulnerable, stripped bare of her sharp edges and points, yielding, base.

Not in the way lesser men want it—not in the fumbling, possessive, insecure way of men who have never had control over anything in their lives, men who need to take to feel like they own, no. He does not wish to take. He would be a brute to do so.

He wants to be given, to be surrendered to, for her to let him make her something more, to press his hands into her edges and shape her, to take the sharpness and the fire and keep it intact but molded to fit against him perfectly, wants to be the only person in existence that she lets herself be soft for.

Not just in a moment of intimacy, not just for a night, not just in his bed, he wants it to bleed into everything.

He wants her to argue with everyone else but listen to him.

He wants her to fight the world but bend for him.

He wants her to bite at everyone else's hand but tilt her chin up for him—only him—always him.

And God help him, he wants her to want it too. He wants to cultivate it, to build it, to shape it into something so inextricably hers and his that it cannot be unraveled. He wants, wants, wants. Never takes. Never acts. He wants, but even that is shameful enough—What would become of him, if he allowed himself to do so?

He forcibly directs his focus back to the conversation, though the words feel distant, like he is underwater. His mind is sluggishly clawing its way back to reality when March suddenly turns to him, her voice far too casual.

"Hey, which bus do we need to take to get to the city center from here?"

It takes a second too long for Sunday’s brain to process the words.

He stares at her, momentarily bewildered before regaining his usual practiced ease. "A bus?" He repeats, because surely he has misheard.

March nods. "Yeah, you know, public transportation? The thing normal people use?"

Sunday blinks once, slowly. "I can call for a taxi and cover the expenses."

March waves a hand. "No, it’s fine, we can just take—"

"Ah, wait. You're leaving now?" Sunday cuts in, his voice slipping into something far too eager before he can reel it back.

"Uh, yeah?" March gives him a weird look. "We should leave you and Stelle to work. And Dan Heng has schoolwork to catch up on."

Oh, oh, the sheer joy, the relief, the overwhelming sense of victory that finally, finally, he will have Stelle to himself, even if only under the guise of work, oh, finally.

He forces down a smile because that would be too obvious, and doesn’t exhale in relief because that would be too transparent, and frankly, quite rude. Instead, he simply nods. "Very well," He says. "I will call for a ride."

Dan Heng watches him, and his gaze lingers for just a second longer than it should, as if weighing him, before he simply turns and heads for the door.

March stretches lazily before following after him, then turns back to Stelle with a very deliberate look before grinning. "Have fun, Stellie."

Stelle raises a brow. "With work?"

March just hums, looking far too amused, before disappearing out the door. 

Sunday’s office is a reflection of him—precise, controlled, methodical. Dark mahogany wood, deep navy accents, antique brass fixtures. Bookshelves lining the walls, filled not just with business manuals and economic theories, but with literature, philosophy, history. The space is curated for thought. For decision-making.

For control.

And Stelle, in all her impossible, chaotic existence, settles into his office like she belongs, which is, good. He wants her to.

She sits in the chair across from his desk, legs crossed, fingers drumming against the polished wood as she watches him with the wary skepticism of a cat being presented with something it does not trust.

"You brought me all the way here for this?" She deadpans, flipping through the document he has just handed her.

The document is a meticulous list of sensitive information, every detail stolen in the breach that had served as his pretext for bringing her here.

Sunday chooses not to flinch beneath her scrutiny. Instead, he folds his hands neatly over his desk, watching her with patience because he has already anticipated her complaints.

"Do you expect me to take this seriously?" She continues, eyes scanning down the page. "This is not my job."

"On the contrary," Sunday murmurs smoothly, "it is precisely your job."

She lifts a brow. "I work in marketing, Sunday."

"Yes."

"Yeah, and," she lifts the list, shaking it slightly, "This is an IT security issue."

"Yes."

"So, I don't want to do it."

"I'm paying you extra for this."

"So?" She stares at him.

He stares back. Sighs. "So, would you like me to explain your task, or are you planning to continue expressing your dissatisfaction?"

Stelle levels him with a look so flat it could be used as a construction tool. "Oh, please, do enlighten me. Because I am just dying to understand why you’ve assigned me, a marketing employee, to analyze a bunch of stolen data that I do not have the security clearance for. In your house, no less. I feel sooo special."

Sunday folds his hands, his gaze unwavering. Yes, you are so special, he doesn't say. "You, more than anyone, understand the value of information. Not just in terms of finances, but in perception. In leverage."

Stelle shifts curiously in her seat, but doesn't interrupt him.

"Marketing is about control," He continues. "About how data is framed. About what it means to those who receive it."

She groans. "You’re talking in circles."

He lifts a brow. "Am I?"

She glares at him, and he is patient enough to wait for her to stop throwing her little tantrum. And then after a second, she finally, begrudgingly, looks down at the list again.

Sunday doesn't miss the way her fingers tighten slightly around the page and the way her cute little brows furrow. She is not stupid. She knows why she is here. She does not ask. She doesn't say, Why me? Why do you trust me with this? Why did you bring me here, to your home, to your space, instead of assigning this to someone with actual cybersecurity knowledge?

She doesn't say it, because she already knows the answer. 

She is afraid of hearing it.

And Sunday does not mind. Because this distance—this space where she pretends not to see—it allows him to give without ever having to take. And that is enough, for now. It calms his spiraling mind, no matter how much more it craves.

So instead, she complains, she pivots, and Sunday allows it, because he has long since learned that her resistance is merely form rather than substance.

"This is a nightmare," Stelle groans, scanning the document with increasing despair. "Do you even realize how much of a headache this is going to be?"

"I do."

She sighs, deeply, dramatically, before rubbing her temple. "Fine. Whatever. Let’s actually look at this."

He hides his satisfaction behind a careful blink.

Stelle flips through the first page, scanning the list. "Okay, first of all—why the hell is this on here?"

Sunday follows her gaze.

"Market analytics for high-profile clients," He recites.

"So what? Worst case scenario, the IPC gets ahold of it and makes their ads slightly less shit?"

Sunday hums. "It is less about the information itself, and more about what it signals."

She tilts her head. So cute. "Elaborate."

"If data from our internal analytics department is compromised, it implies a vulnerability in our entire client security system."

She considers this. "So, basically, it’s a trust issue."

"In part."

She nods slowly, tapping the paper. "Alright. Fair point. But still, this is like—annoying, not catastrophic."

Sunday inclines his head. "There are far more pressing concerns."

She flips through a few more pages, and she actually starts analyzing the data, the scope of the issue, and offers practical solutions. He is, for his part, a little confused, and more than that, he is so pleased, because he had not expected Stelle to actually work.

He had anticipated complaints, resistance, dramatic suffering—all the things that typically accompany her distaste for responsibility. He had expected to spend most of this time managing her, keeping her engaged just enough to ensure that she completed her task without completely derailing the process.

Instead, she works.

Not only does she work—she works with him.

It is an unfamiliar thing, to share space with someone like this. To have another presence move in tandem with his, keeping pace, keeping up.

Sunday types away at his own work, fingers gliding over the keyboard with practiced efficiency, his focus never wavering—except, of course, when she interrupts.

Which is often. He feels giddy.

"Sunday."

His eyes flicker up, though they had never truly left her. "Yes?"

"This idea is good." She taps a pen against her lower lip, thinking. "It would take the heat off of us and redirect it elsewhere. But…"She frowns. "There’s a problem."

Sunday leans back, tilting his head in quiet encouragement. "Go on."

She sighs, displeased. "It only works if the media buys it. If they dig too deep, it’ll fall apart."

"Precisely."

She stares at him, clearly waiting for more. Sunday offers nothing. He wants her to arrive to her own conclusions. To keep her attention. How delightful this turn of events is.

She lets out a long breath, drumming her fingers against the desk, then goes back to her notes. "Okay. Okay, so what if—wait." She suddenly perks up. "What if we controlled the digging?"

Sunday lifts a brow. "Explain."

"If they’re going to dig, let them—but give them something else to find." She leans forward, tapping her pen against the paper. "Something that isn’t ours. A leak that leads somewhere completely unrelated, but juicy enough that they won’t question it."

A small flicker of satisfaction blooms in Sunday’s chest. Such a wonderful, bright girl.

He hums, considering. "That could work."

Stelle visibly brightens.

And then, because he cannot simply let her have an easy victory, he continues: "But it is still a gamble."

She deflates immediately. "What?" She groans. "Why?"

"If the alternative leak is not convincing enough, it may raise further questions rather than distract."

She scowls, dropping her pen onto the desk. "This is so annoying."

Sunday’s lips twitch. "Welcome to my life."

She glares. "You enjoy this."

“Immensely.”

She groans, but she does not stop.

She thinks, keeps turning the idea over, adjusting, reworking, speaking aloud to him as she shifts things in real-time, and Sunday—Sunday has never been so pleased.

She is brilliant, and she doesn't even realize it.

She loves this. He can tell. She loves this.

Not the work itself, necessarily. Not the corporate espionage, not the security breach, not the dull mechanics of crisis management.

She loves the puzzle.

She loves the mental stimulation. The act of taking something apart and piecing it back together into something better.

And Sunday—who has spent his entire career keeping things meticulously in order, controlling the inside of the box so that nothing spills over, knows with delight that Stelle does not care about the box at all. She thinks outside of it. She is not confined to the box like Sunday is.

That is why she is here.

She does not act like a strategist, does not present herself as someone who enjoys thinking this deeply, solving problems with this level of precision. She acts unbothered, apathetic, careless, but when presented with a challenge that actually stimulates her, she is flourishing.

Perhaps marketing is too boring a field for her. No wonder she chose criminal psychology and law. Those fields allow her to think more than the average person on the daily, any case she could've picked up would have kept her engaged. She should have been fulfilled in her career.

The pen in her hand taps against her lower lip, her other hand buried in her hair as she scowls at the problem in front of her.

She is so beautiful when she thinks.

Not in the way men write poetry about, not in the way flowers bloom under the weight of the sun, not in some soft, delicate sense of beauty that wilts when you press too hard.

No—her beauty is in motion. In sharp turns of thought, in quick pivots and sudden shifts.

She is listening to him, absorbing his direction, but she does not follow blindly. She tests. She probes. She pokes at his words like an architect assessing the weight of a foundation before deciding whether to build atop it.

"Miss Stelle," He drawls, tone laced with amusement. "Are you still with us?"

She looks up, a flicker of irritation flashing across her face. "I’m thinking."

Sunday tilts his head. "Ah. Is that what’s taking so long?"

She glares. "I hope you trip on a rug."

He allows himself a light laugh, and feels as juvenile as a middle school boy poking his crush for her attention. "I do apologize for the burden of asking you to think, truly."

"I am thinking," She mutters, her attention staying firmly on the notes in front of her.

Yes, you are. He thinks. You are thinking so well. You are so brilliant. You are— "But it seems you are taking your time," He muses, ever the thorn in her side.

She scowls, "Oh my god, shut up for two seconds."

Sunday leans back, fingers steepled, watching her with something that is very much not patience.

She is biting at the problem like a puzzle, circling around solutions that are almost right but still flawed. She is close.

"Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Stelle?" He asks, because he cannot help himself.

She doesn’t look up. "Yes. It's fun."

"Hmm."

She finally lifts her gaze, brows furrowed. "What?"

"You enjoy solving, then?"

She rolls her eyes. "No, I enjoy being tormented by my boss."

He smiles. He's sure there's some truth to that, but he values his life, so he doesn't voice that particular thought. "Of course."

She narrows her eyes at him, but doesn’t argue.

He waits, watching as she chews on the inside of her cheek, as she considers.

"It’s interesting," She finally mutters. "It makes me think."

Sunday hums. "More than your usual work?"

"You mean those awful social media reports you make me do?"

“I would not call them awful.”

She gives him a deadpan look. "Be honest."

 "They are tedious." He concedes.

She grins. "Exactly."

His fingers tap against his desk. "Then you would prefer something like this?"

Stelle still, then, immediately shakes her head. "Nope."

Sunday tilts his head. "No?"

"I like my job."

You do not. "You like coasting through your job."

"I like not having to deal with your terrifying, high-stakes bullshit."

"You seem to be handling it just fine."

She crosses her arms. "That’s not the point."

"You are capable," He murmurs. "And smart. Bright, even."

The corner of her lips twitch down in a frown, but it is not annoyed or angry. It's simply guarded. Hesitant.

And Sunday knows her well enough to realize he shouldn't push further. He lets her work.

By the time their work is done (or rather, he decides that Stelle has worked her wonderful brain enough and should stop for today), the evening has stretched to softness and warmth. The sharp edges of their discussion, the meticulous strategizing, the slow unfolding of solutions—all of it has settled into a comfortable quiet. Sunday had cooked, because of course he had—the thought of serving her anything less than something prepared with care was unbearable. He had, with the same precision that dictated the rest of his life, ensured that everything was perfect.

Now, much later, they find themselves in the kitchen again. The work has been put away, the remnants of dinner cleared. Stelle is perched on a stool at the kitchen counter, one leg tucked under her as she munches on a bag of honey butter chips—chips that he had specifically stocked in anticipation of her visit.

She hasn't commented on it besides letting out a delighted little laugh, which means she has noticed. She simply chooses not to acknowledge it.

Sunday sits across from her, resting his elbow against the counter, watching her with what he suspects is a deeply foolish expression. He should compose himself, should act with more restraint, but her presence, the casual way she exists in his space, makes it extremely difficult.

She glances up at him mid-bite, and he is immediately caught.

"…What?" She asks slowly, chewing.

Sunday blinks once. "Nothing."

She squints at him. "You're staring."

"Am I?"

"Yes." She crunches another chip, narrowing her eyes further. "What, did you poison these or something?"

He exhales a quiet laugh. "I simply find it amusing that you are more interested in those than the dinner I so meticulously prepared."

"Hey," She points a chip at him. "Your food was really good. This is just… post-dinner dessert."

"Post-dinner dessert," He repeats, like he's trying to understand the concept of something so absurd. "It's not even sweet."

She nods, completely serious. "It's a thing. Don't question it."

Sunday tilts his head, studying her, before finally conceding. "Very well."

Silence settle between them again, not uncomfortable.

Then, casually, she asks, "Do you have alcohol?"

Sunday’s lips curve slightly. "What would you like?"

Stelle hums, tapping her fingers against the chip bag. "Beer?"

"I have a selection of imported wine," He begins, smoothly, in an attempt to impress her. "High-quality whiskey, and a collection of premium tequila."

Stelle stares at him, waiting, and then she frowns. "Yeah," She mutters, defeated, "but no beer?"

Sunday almost laughs.

The sheer disappointment on her face, the way her expression falls like he has just informed her of some great personal loss—it is, quite frankly, adorable. He wants to squeeze her cheeks.

"No beer," He confirms, thoroughly enjoying her suffering. "I do not keep it in my home."

She sighs dramatically, slumping slightly against the counter. "Rich people are so useless."

"I beg your pardon?" He holds back a laugh.

"You hoard all this fancy, high-end shit, but you don’t keep a single beer in stock?"

"I was unaware it was a necessity."

"It is."

"I see." He feigns desperation, just to humor her. "Tragic, then."

Stelle doesn't dignify him with a response. He watches as she tosses the empty chip bag into the trash with unceremonious ease before stretching her arms over her head, limbs lazy and unbothered. Then, as if the thought has just occurred to her, she leans forward against the counter, resting her chin in her hand.

"Alright," She hums. "I’ll take some wine. And a few shots of tequila. And maybe a little whiskey, too."

Sunday’s brow arches in surprise. "Are you trying to drink yourself into a coma?"

"Oh, please," She rolls her eyes. "I have a high tolerance."

Not really a reassuring answer, frankly. He doesn't want to deal with the emotional rollercosster of a drunk Stelle, because he doesn't trust himself to not say stupidly sappy things if she gives him the opportunity to do so.

Before he can respond, she tilts her head, and a smirk creeps onto her lips. "Come on, just join me. When else am I ever going to be able to drink good alcohol in a rich guy’s mansion?"

Every day, his feeble heart supplies. Every day, if you would ever give me a chance.

He swallows the thought before it can take root. Instead, he simply sighs, stepping towards the bar cabinet. "Please exercise caution, Miss Stelle."

She snorts. "Caution from what? You’re here. I don’t need to."

He pauses. Turns slightly, looking at her with quiet intrigue. She does not seem to notice his reaction—does not seem to consider her own words as anything significant. She simply props her elbow on the counter, waiting for him to pour her drink, entirely unbothered.

Slowly, he steps back toward the counter, setting the bottle of wine down along with a glass. He is patient. He does not ask outright. He merely waits, watching her with expectant silence.

Stelle, always sharp, always quick to notice his games, lifts a brow. "What?"

Sunday hums lightly, tilting his head. "You said you do not need to exercise caution because I am here."

"Yeah? And?"

"I find that hard to believe."

"Why?" She yawns, stretching her legs out. "You’re here to be cautious for the both of us. Why would I need to exercise it?"

Sunday leans against the counter, watching her with quiet scrutiny. The bottle of wine remains unopened between them, his hands resting lightly on the edge of the marble surface, fingers drumming once, twice, before stilling.

"Stelle," He murmurs, quiet. "You brought your friends here because you did not want to be alone with me in my house. Am I to believe you trust me, despite that?"

"Doesn't mean I don't trust you." She huffs.

"Then why bring them?"

"Because I thought you’d do something weird."

He frowns. "I would never—"

"Not like that." She waves a hand lazily. "Not weird in a creepy way. Weird like...I don’t know. You’d be all formal and stiff and weirdly over-the-top. Or worse, you’d be nice."

Sunday blinks, momentarily thrown. "You find me being nice concerning?"

"Yes."

This woman will send him to an early grave. "That is the most absurd thing I have ever heard."

"That’s because you don’t think you’re nice," Stelle says, entirely too amused. "But you are. Sometimes. And I should hate it."

"Should you?"

"Yeah." She leans forward, resting her chin in her palm, eyes flickering up at him as if it pains her to say the words. "It makes me like you more."

Sunday stills, because she should not be saying that carelessly. Shouldn't be dropping that between them like an offhanded comment, like a casual observation, as if it doesn't make his heart rear its ugly head.

He watches her because he doesn't know what to say, waiting, breath caught somewhere between his ribs and the space between his skin and bones. He quietly pours a glass of wine.

But Stelle, entirely unbothered, picks up the glass, taking a slow sip. "And I probably shouldn't want to like you more."

Sunday watches her over the rim of his glass, fingers curling loosely around the delicate stem of it. The weight of her words settles, warm and slow, just like the first sip of wine coating the tongue. He swirls the glass absently, though his mind is far from absent.

"You say that," He murmurs, "but you haven't done anything to stop it."

Stelle huffs a quiet laugh, setting her glass down with a soft clink against the counter. "Wouldn't be here if I wanted to stop it."

A simple statement, but one that sends a slow, creeping satisfaction curling in his chest. It takes an unbearable amount of self-restraint not to react in full, not to let it show on his face. He schools his expression into neutrality, but he is certain she can feel the shift, the way the air thickens between them. Great. 

"Would you rather I not like you more?"

"You would rather not like me more?" He echoes back, because his answer is nothing short of a desperate No, please like me more. I want you to like me more.

Stelle hums, considering. "No, it's not that," She runs a thumb over the rim of her glass, slow and absent, as if she’s turning the thought over in her head, measuring it carefully before she gives it voice. "I think… I just don’t know what to do with it."

That, for some reason, is what makes Sunday’s heart clench—because he can handle opposition and resistance. He can handle being avoided, fought against, even resented. But this, this bare, unguarded admittance of 'I don’t know'—unravels him.

"You," He says softly. "could learn?"

"I suppose I could."

They lapse into silence. A comfortable one. She swirls the wine in her glass, watching the deep red liquid shift under the dim kitchen lights. Sunday watches her. The smooth curve of her wrist, the way the reflection of the glass casts faint shadows against her collarbone and the way the gold of her eyes overflow and dip into the rich red of the liquid.

"You’re staring again," She murmurs, not even looking at him this time.

"A bad habit, it seems."

"You should work on that."

He can't tear his eyes from her, even if he wanted to. Does she not realize nothing else holds his attention quite as effortlessly as she has? "I’ll consider it."

A ghost of a smirk tugs at her lips. Then, casually, "Do you think this is a bad idea?"

Sunday tilts his head. "This?"

"Drinking," She clarifies. "With you."

He takes a slow sip, swallowing the warmth of his words before they leave him unfiltered. "Do you?"

Stelle shrugs, nonchalant. "Not at all."

That catches him slightly off guard. He had expected teasing and evasion. But instead, she answers simply, directly. She’s honest tonight.

"Then it is not a bad idea," He replies, matching her pace.

She hums again, then leans forward, her elbow pressing against the counter as she rests her chin in her palm. Her eyes flick up at him, and the golds of her irises melt into his. "You never actually answered me."

Sunday chuckles through his nose, amused. "You assume I remember every question you ask?"

She gives him a look. "You remember everything."

He takes a sip. "Flattering."

"Avoiding."

He shakes his head, setting his glass down. "Then remind me."

She studies him for a moment, then—"Would you rather I not like you more?"

Ah, well. He had not expected her to throw it back at him. And he certainly had not expected her to do it so calmly. He bites his lip uncharacteristicslly, letting the words sit between them before he responds devstatingly honest: 

"My life would be a lot more easier if you liked me as much as I want you to."

Her face adorably twists in what Sunday assumes is confusion. He himself keeps his expression neutral, but his fingers tighten a fraction around the stem of his glass, betraying the barest hint of tension. He hadn't planned to say it. Hadn't meant to admit to something so unbearably pathetic. But it had slipped out before he could reel it back, like some awful, stray thought that had finally clawed its way to the surface.

It rings louder in the silence.

God. He might actually be more reckless when he's sober. What has she done to him?

"That so?" She finally murmurs after waiting for him to take it back.

Sunday lets out a quiet laugh, at his foolishness and his demise sitting in front of him, wrapped in wool and denim. He shakes his head as he swirls his glass. "Unfortunately."

"And what would be so easy about it?"

A trap. A test. He knows better than to answer thoughtlessly, but he's already dipped his feet into the sea. He's already bare, so what's one more? He'd peel his skin off if she only wished to see it. 

"I wouldn’t have to work so hard to earn your attention."

Her face softens, and it's unbearable the way his veins feel like thorns planted inside his ribs. "You think you have to earn it?"

Sunday lifts a brow. "Do I not?"

"No," She says, simple, easy, like it isn’t even a question worth asking. "You already have it."

What?

She takes another sip of wine, unbothered, then sets the glass down with an almost lazy tap against the counter. "You always have it. You have had it for a long time now. Don't be stupid."

How utterly unfair of her, how devastatingly cruel, to say it so plainly, so simply, as if it’s just fact. You always have it. Does he always have it? He supposes he does, just like everything he's had to work for his entire life to keep. Does she understand that what he wants is for her to allow him a reprieve from feeling like he constantly has to claw his way through it all?

He sets his glass down carefully.

"That is a rather unfortunate thing to say to me, Miss Stelle."

"Why’s that?"

Because it settles on my skin. Because it's embarrassing how much I want that to be true. How humiliatingly abundant your existence is in my life. He settles for another truth, not less terrifying. "Because now I want more."

She sighs in response, as if this conversation is a great burden for her, and whatever answer she was about to give seemingly gets stuck in her throat. Sunday doesn't blame her. He wouldn't know what to do with himself, either. He knows he is not easy to like. To want, and would never be so cruel as to ask such a thing from her, not in this lifetime. 

"I need a smoke," She declares, grey lashes fluttering as she looks around, as if a pack will appear for her out of thin air.

Sunday lets out a quiet laugh. "I am afraid I do not indulge in smoking."

"Boring."

"Healthy," He corrects.

"Ugh, whatever," She waves a hand dismissively. "My bag is all the way in the living room. I'm too lazy to get it."

He smiles. "Would you like me to fetch it for you?"

"Uhh..." She considers. "Not right now. I can do without it. Maybe in a bit."

"Very well. Let's play a game, then, to keep your mind off of your craving," He says, easing the conversation, repackaging it into an easier to digest version. "A simple one. A question for a question."

She eyes him, clearly debating whether or not she wants to humor him, then, with a lazy shrug, she takes another sip of her wine. How devastatingly dangerous, not for her, but for him. "Alright, fine. But if I don't like your question, I get to veto it."

"Agreed."

She exhales. "Alright. You start, then."

Sunday wastes no time asking, because he needs answers, and he hates uncertainty. "How did you come to like me more when all you did was huff and puff if I so much as said hello to you for the past months?"

Stelle blinks once, tapping against her glass. "We're really starting with that?"

"You agreed to play," He reminds her. "I am merely following the rules."

She rolls her eyes, but answers anyway. "I did huff and puff at first. But that's not all we have. You know that. Stop acting dumb and pretending like I have no agency over what I choose to do with you."

Oh, how ironic that is coming from her. He hums. "Interesting."

"My turn," She declares.

He gestures lightly. "Go on."

"Ever had a one-night stand?"

Ah. She's gauging the nature of his attraction, and she's not even subtle. Just barging in, banging the pots and pans together in the space between them, how utterly Stelle of her. Sunday doesn't even blink, and wishes what he felt was mere lust. "No. I don't like having things for just one night."

She lifts a brow. "Seriously?"

"Do I seem like the type?"

"No, but still. You’re rich and powerful. You could literally have anyone."

"Perhaps that is why I do not."

She pauses, then tilts her head. "Huh."

"Disappointed?" He muses.

She grins dumbly, cheeks flushed a tiny bit from the alcohol. "Nah. Just surprised."

"I see." He continues: "Have you ever wanted someone you knew you shouldn’t?"

"Yeah," She says, almost absentmindedly.

He takes another step towards the precipice, on the tight rope they are both delicately balancing on. It's only a matter of time, he thinks. Only a matter of time before they crash and fall. "And did you act on it?"

"That's two questions, but I'm feeling generous, so," She sighs. "Not yet."

He simply smiles, slow and knowing. He takes another step on the rope. "Your turn, Miss Stelle."

Stelle is reclining in her seat now, posture loose, shoulders relaxed, not at all bothered by the turn this conversation has taken. She is beautiful in the way dusk settles over a quiet city—effortless, natural, meant to be. Undeniable.

"Right." She taps her fingers against her glass, thinking. "What do you want most in the world?"

How delightfully obvious. She really is making sure they can't back out of this conversation unscathed. "At this moment?"

"Mhm."

"I think you know the answer to that." He whispers, and doesn't give her time to come up with a reply. "Have you ever considered crossing a line you swore you wouldn’t?"

With excruciating slowness, she smiles. "Maybe."

He leans forward on the counter, counting the lines of her brows. "But have you?"

"Ah, well, I'm kinda about to," She hums, stretching her arms above her head, "Ever tried a spit take?"

Sunday blinks, thrown slightly by the sudden shift. "A what?"

"A spit take." She grins, tilting her head. "It’s like—shotgunning alcohol. One person takes a sip, then another takes it from their mouth."

A spit take. She wants to shotgun alcohol like some reckless college kid at a house party, as if they're not standing in his kitchen, swirling expensive wine in crystal glasses, like civilized people? Like adults, two people who should not, under any circumstances, be pressing their mouths together with liquor as the excuse? 

His fingers tighten imperceptibly around the stem of his glass. God, he wants, he wants as a man starving would—but no.

"No," He says simply, with all the finality of a gavel meeting wood.

Stelle pouts. "Why not?"

Sunday sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes shutting briefly as if he can will away the absurdity of this conversation. "Because, Miss Stelle, you are inebriated, and I have enough of a moral compass to understand why that is a terrible idea."

She scoffs, rolling her eyes, is he is offending her. "First of all, barely. Second of all, are you seriously acting like I just asked you to rob a bank? It’s a sip of alcohol, not a felony."

Sunday opens his eyes, fixing her with a level stare. "It is a violation of my personal space."

She gasps, somehow looking even more offended. "What happened to I want more?"

Sunday presses his lips together. "More does not entail me drinking from your mouth like a barbarian."

"You really need to loosen up."

"I am loose."

She raises an eyebrow, smirk tilting. "Oh?"

"That is not what I meant." He sighs heavily.

She laughs, tipping her head back, entirely too pleased with herself. "Look, you said I want more. And now you’re hesitating over something as simple as this?"

"It is not simple." He glares at her, exasperated. He pauses, looking for the right words, something that will make her drop it and keep her from toying with him any further.

Unfortunately, he finds nothing. Because the issue is not simply her. The issue is him, because he knows that if he lets this happen, if he lets her press her lips to his with nothing but the flimsy excuse of alcohol between them, he will not be able to pretend it meant nothing.

And if there is one thing Sunday refuses to be, it is pathetic.

"This is ridiculous," He mutters.

"You are ridiculous." She leans forward on her elbow, watching him with knowing eyes, expression entirely serious. "I can’t believe I have to spell this out for you, but I am sober. And I know you know that, because if I was actually drunk, you would have already shut this conversation down. You’re just stalling."

He snaps his mouth shut, but of course, she has more to say. She always does.

"You’re acting like I’m drunk off my ass and trying to seduce you in a hotel hallway," She "But we’re just sitting here, drinking, playing a game. And if you’d stop having a moral crisis for two seconds, you’d realize I’m perfectly coherent."

"You are not perfectly coherent."

She tilts her head. "Define coherent."

He glares. "I am not debating semantics with you."

"Because you know I’m right."

Sunday presses his knuckles against his lips, as if physically holding back a groan. This is a losing battle. She is relentless. He cannot believe she is sitting there, swathed in the golden haze of alcohol and warm kitchen light, asking him to pass liquor from his mouth to hers like they are two reckless teenagers testing the limits of their rebellion.

"Still a no."

"Oh my God," She mutters, slumping back against the chair. "You're so dramatic. I hate that you're so decent sometimes."

Sunday glances at her, impassive, lets his hand fall from his mouth back on the counter. "You must think very lowly of me if you expected otherwise."

"I don’t think lowly of you," She groans. "I just thought—ugh—whatever. Never mind."

"Stelle."

"Forget it."

Oh.

That tone, that soft, clipped quiet, the slight downturn of her mouth. Not anger, not annoyance, not sharp-edged mockery, but clear, pointed disappointment.

He wants to sigh, because of course. Of course. He cannot, in good conscience, forego his integrity, but he also hates when she goes quiet like this, when the vibrant embers of her usual defiance dull into a silent withdrawal. He has made a choice, and it is the right one, and still...

He still feels like he forgot to read an important clause of a contract and is now crashing down, so he weighs his options, against his better judgement. Then, after a long, painful pause, he addresses her softly, voice gentle, as if pacifying a child on the verge of tears.

"A field test," He offers, slowly, "to ease my mind. Then we can do whatever you want."

Her eyes flick up, sharp with curiosity. "...A field test?"

He hums. "A simple assessment. To confirm your sobriety."

Stelle narrows her eyes at him. "You're messing with me."

"Not at all." He rests an elbow on the counter, fingers tapping lightly against the marble. "You have claimed your tolerance is high. I must verify such a claim before I agree to anything. First," He says, stepping around the counter, "balance test." He extends a hand, palm up. "Stand on one leg."

She snorts. "Seriously?"

"Unless you are afraid you’ll fail," He drawls, deliberately baiting her.

Her eyes flash. She rises from her seat in one smooth motion, planting both feet firmly on the ground before lifting one, balancing effortlessly on the other. Arms steady, posture unshaken. "There. Easy."

Sunday’s gaze flicks over her, searching for any telltale sways, any subtle instability.

None.

He hums, unimpressed. "Not bad."

Stelle grins. "Told you."

He waves a dismissive hand. "Do not celebrate yet. Next test."

She lowers her foot, rolling her shoulders. "Bring it on."

Sunday regards her for a moment, then he reaches into his pocket, retrieving his sleek black pen. He holds it up between them. "Follow this with your eyes. Do not move your head."

"Seriously?" She scoffs. "The world’s easiest sobriety test?"

"Then it should be no problem," He counters flatly.

She huffs but complies, keeping her head still as she tracks the movement of the pen with meticulous precision. Left. Right. Up. Down. A slow arc. A sharp flick. Not once does she falter.

When he lowers the pen, she lifts a brow at him, smug. "Well?"

Sunday studies her for a second longer than necessary. Then he sighs, slipping the pen back into his pocket.

"One last test," He murmurs.

Stelle groans. "Oh my God, how many do I have to pass before you—"

"Simple reflex test," He interjects, raising a hand. "Catch." he flicks his wrist, sending a wine cork toward her. 

With almost insulting ease, Stelle snatches it out of the air without even breaking eye contact. Show off.

She tosses the cork onto the counter. "Satisfied?"

His eyes flutter shut, summoning patience and everything God has to offer to a man like him to make this moment easier before he reopens them, pain no doubt etched into the lines of his face. "God help me," He mutters out loud, just for good measure, because he does not half-ass his prayers, if his late father taught him anything.

Stelle grins. "So that’s a yes?"

"Quiet now, please." He pleads, and sinks into the chair beside her with a slow breath, the weight of inevitability settling over his shoulders like the hush before a storm. 

He lifts his glass, rolling the wine over his tongue, letting it linger there—dark, velvety, rich with what he's about to do, headier than mere alcohol.

Stelle waits there eyes expectant and face hopeful, her breath a quiet, waiting thing, gold irises smoldering under the dim light. She is so, so breathtakingly beautiful. He sets his glass down—it's the hammer slamming down for a final verdict, then reaches forward, tipping her chin up between his fingers. The wine is blood against his molars and his breath barely crawls through the tubes of his throat.

And then, without ceremony, he leans in, tilting his head just so, and lets the wine spill from his mouth to hers. 

It slides between them, warm and decadent, pooling against the press of her parted lips before slipping past them, cascading over the edges in slow, crimson rivulets, spilling uncontrolled down the curve of her chin, trailing over the line of her throat like a promise too sweet to be contained.

Sunday had expected this to feel different. Had expected the slow, inevitable descent into indulgence to be marked by some grand revelation, some decisive and breathless moment where he realizes he’s crossed a line he cannot return from.

But there is no line. There never was.

What exists alone is the warmth of wine between them, the slow slip of it from his mouth to hers, the taste of a drink way too expensive and fancy spilling down and pooling on his kitchen floor fist, then low in his stomach, and the depth of his soul last.

It drips between them in slow, molten, more of it trailing down the curve of her chin, following the red path previously carved down the hollow of her throat. It is a waste of something rich and important—except not, because nothing has ever been more decadent than this, than her, than the way she tips her head back, accepting him without pause or hesitation, the way she swallows him down.

And then, like it is the most natural thing in the world, she reaches for him, presses forward, chases the heat still lingering on his lips and takes it for herself.

Against his better judgement, he sighs in relief against her mouth, sinking deeper before he can think better of it. He meets her halfway, tilting his head, parting his lips to let her taste more, letting the warmth of her breath tangle with his.

Her delicate hands find him—fingers curling at the nape of his neck, nails scraping just lightly at his scalp, sending sharp and electric currents down his spine.

A hum bubbles low in his throat, hands ghosting up her sides, thumbs pressing just barely into the dip of her waist, and her lips press and part against his, slow, languid, like this moment is tied to them by the neck, unable to go anywhere unless they want it to. There is no hunger behind it, no desperate pulling or frantic hands—It's simple claim, not in a way that a fire would claim wood, but in a way that the sea reclaims itself and folds in two before a tsunami.

With a delightful drag of his lower lip between her teeth, she leans into him, following his rhythm when he licks into her mouth, taking, taking, taking without restraint.

Yet, what ruins him is that she is unrushed in her wanting, as if this is something that deserves care and not the usual recklessness she operates on all the time. It is ruinous in every sense of the word. There's nothing he wants more than this, nowhere else he'd rather be even if the world crumbled beneath his feet. 

Time smudges at the edges, because apparently they are insatiable, even if they are unhurried. Seconds fold into one another, and for a fleeting, devastating moment, the world shrinks down to nothing but the wet heat of her mouth, the warmth of her palm pressed against his chest, the way she leans into him like she belongs there, in his space, under his palms.

Then, as abruptly as it began, she pulls back, wine-slicked lips curling upward, far too pleased with itself. 

Hand still cradling the back of her head, thumb resting just below her ear, Sunday dares to steal just another lazy kiss from her lips, and it's so unbearably adorable the way she blinks up at him, dazed, lips swollen and glistening maroon.

She licks her lips. "Again," 

"So impatient," He chides playfully, and kisses the corner of her mouth. He does not know what to do with himself other than keep kissing her.

Lazy and cute, she tilts her head, and pecks his lips in the same manner before replying in a low tone. "Yeah, and?"

"What do you say when you want something?"

Her lips twitch. "I say 'again'?"

"Not quite." He smooths a gloved hand over the curve of her jaw, tilting her chin just so, his voice softening to a gentle murmur. “Think again.”

"More?"

"No."

"Hmm..." Stelle’s lips press together for a moment—amber in her eyes and the stars in her hair, unbearably mischievously she whispers: "Please?"

He laughs softly at how easily she's indulging him, and plays along. "There's a sweet girl."

His lips descend upon hers once more, slow and unhurried, his movements measured, guiding her into the rhythm he sets. He kisses her the way the tide meets the shore—steady, inevitable, pressing in just enough to leave an imprint, retreating only to return with greater depth.

Enveloping her in the warmth of his breath, his mouth parts softly, coaxing hers to do the same. His cotton-clad fingers cradle the curve of her jaw, tilting her chin just so, ensuring that she follows where he leads. The taste of wine lingers between them, rich and velvety, coating the slide of their tongues, filling the space between their parted lips with a heady warmth.

She softens so easily.

Her body tilts, sinking into his, arms winding around his shoulders as she lets herself be taken— patient, serene, soothing in its certainty. Her hands are clumsy in contrast to his restraint, her fingers pressing into his skin through his shirt as if she can tether herself more fully to the moment, to him.

He smiles against her lips. How wonderfully beautiful.

"Sunday," She murmurs, lazily licking at the wine drying at the corner of his mouth, her voice lazy, the weight of her body pressing into his with impatience that tells him she is only moments away from climbing onto his lap if he does not move them soon.

"Hmm?" He steals another lazy kiss, a teasing gesture, one meant to remind her that he is in control of the pace, even when she burns for more.

"Take me to a bed," She mutters, blinking up at him, eyes heavy, burning gold in the dim kitchen light. "Before I start pouncing on you in your kitchen."

Sunday laughs, soft and fond, his thumb stroking against the hollow beneath her ear.

"You're that impatient?" His tone is light, teasing, even as he knows the answer.

"No," Stelle mutters, though the way she presses against him, fingers curling into his open collar, suggests otherwise. "Just desperate."

Sunday smiles fondly. "Oh? How tragic."

"So tragic." Her fingers tighten, her cheek pressing against his for a fleeting second before she pulls back, leveling him with a half-lidded stare. "Fix it."

Sunday hums, as if considering, as if he hasn’t already decided to give her whatever she asks for. He presses one last kiss to the corner of her lips before murmuring, "Very well." He reaches for her hand.

"Come."

Sunday walks her through the dim corridors of his home with a measured pace, his grip firm but unhurried, as if leading her anywhere but to the inevitability of what’s to come. The air between them is thick—not with hesitation, but with the weight of knowing.

Behind him, Stelle’s presence is warm, her fingers twitching impatiently in his grasp. He can feel it—the way she’s practically vibrating with anticipation, the way her breath stirs against his shoulder, the way her steps quicken every few moments before she catches herself, forcing patience she does not have.

Sunday, pleased beyond reason, refuses to rush.

It is a cruel thing, the way he keeps his steps even, the way his thumb strokes absently over the back of her hand, offering her nothing but the illusion of soothing her when in reality, he is drawing this out—watching her strain against her own desire, watching her ache for it, watching the tension coil tighter and tighter with each slow step.

He leads her through the dim corridors of his home with a measured pace, his grip firm on the softness of her hand, and the thickness in the air sinking down on him—not with hesitation, but with the weight of knowing what comes next.

So he takes his time, and Stelle, in her untameable spirit, is letting him. It pleases him to the point of giddiness.

When they make it through the threshold of his door, a stray thought worms its way into his head, one where she almost feels like a cog made perfectly to fit him as she molds herself to his pace, letting him press his lips wherever he pleases and map the shape of her with his hands, letting him undress her between lingering kisses, the slow drag of fabric slipping from her skin and pooling somewhere on the floor.

And now, she's perched on his lap, stripped down to nothing but her underwear, warm against him, skin bare beneath his hands, her breath shallow as he presses open-mouthed kisses to her collarbone.

Sunday, by contrast, is still wrapped up in his pretty package of clothes—his shirt unbuttoned at the top but still on, his slacks still fastened, neat, untouched. He likes it that way. Loves the contrast of it and the power it gives him, the way she leans into him, shivering with need, while he remains unrushed, unbothered, entirely in control.

His hands withdraw from her body to discard his gloves. When they settle back on her, he lets them wander, fingertips tracing slow patterns down her back, dipping along the curve of her spine, smoothing over the roundness of her hips.

Dipping his head down, he lets out a quiet whisper of "You are so beautiful," against her skin, lips trailing lower, lower, his breath warm over her sternum before he presses a kiss between the valley of her breasts.

"Mmhm," Stelle hums, her fingers tightening in his hair as her pulse flutters beneath her soft skin. "You're the type to run your mouth?"

Sunday laughs against her skin. How terribly endearing. "Yes," he confirms, pulling her down for a soft peck, because he can. Because she kisses him back. "Does it bother you?"

"No," she grins, lopsided and far too pleased. "It's cute."

Sunday smiles at her grin—she thinks she has won something—like she has any hope of keeping up with him when she’s already melting in his hands.

He doesn’t take offense to her casual little jab—quite the opposite. He thinks she’s cute.

He doesn’t say it, though. No, he keeps that thought tucked away somewhere, lets it sit on his tongue alongside far too many things he does not voice, lets it dissolve into the next kiss he presses to the soft skin of her collarbone, languid, warm, slow enough to make her sigh.

His hands wander in tandem, the pads of his fingers dragging, exploring, claiming—one hand smoothing up her spine, the other tracing the curve of her hip before dipping between her legs, fingertips brushing over the damp, heated fabric of her underwear.

Stelle inhales softly, her breath stuttering, her fingers tightening in his hair.

"Mm. Thought you said you liked to talk," She mutters, still trying to keep herself steady.

Sunday allows himself a condescending hum since she's too far gone already to chide him for it, his fingers stroking over the soaked material of her panties, pressing lightly, just enough to make her twitch.

"I do," He muses, calmly, letting her hips twitch. 

"Then why so—ah—quiet?" She blinks down at him, though it falters slightly when his thumb smooths slow circles over the sensitive bud of her clit over the cotton fabric.

Sunday lifts a brow, feigning mild curiosity, tilting his head as if he is wholly unbothered by the fact that she is trembling in his lap. He is entirely aware of how this conversation will end for her, they both do, and they love this little game of theirs.

Ever so gracious, ever generous, he presses a kiss just beneath her ear,"Very well," he says, trying to hide a smile against her skin, dipping his head down to bite lightly at the peak of her breast, his other hand finally curling around the waistband of her panties, easing the damp fabric down, dragging it over the soft curve of her ass, letting his fingers skim along her thighs as he helps her out of it.

"Spread your legs for me," He murmurs when she settles back on him, voice dipping lower, his fingers brushing lightly along the inside of her thighs. 

Her reaction is instant, her body reacting before she can argue, her thighs falling open across his lap, so he rewards her with another descent of his mouth around a nipple, dragging his fingers through her slick, his other hand curling around her waist, keeping her pressed firm against him as he spreads her open with two fingers, teasing.
 
"Let’s talk, then."

His lips curl against her skin, his mouth closing over the stiff peak of her nipple, tongue dragging slow, savoring the way she gasps, the way her spine arches, pressing more of herself into his mouth.

And, below, his fingers press into the heat of her, parting her, dragging through the wetness pooling there, smearing it against her inner thighs, his other hand curling around her waist, anchoring, keeping her exactly where he has decided.

She’s so warm, so slick, his fingers slipping easily through her folds before pressing a finger in, slow and thorough, his breath huffing warm against her breast as he feels her pulse around him.

"About what?" she finally breathes, a weak, unconvincing attempt at keeping up, her response so late it would be embarrassing if she were coherent.

"Mmm," he pretends to contemplate it, dragging his fingers out of her slowly, gathering the slick wetness clinging to her walls before pressing back in, deeper this time, stretching her wider, making her body jolt from the sudden shift.

"How do you like it here?"

"Here?" she breathes, blinking at him like she doesn’t understand the question, trying so hard to grasp it while his fingers are buried inside her, pressing just right, thumb dragging slow, devastatingly patient circles against the swollen, aching bundle of nerves between her thighs.

Sunday nods, graciously pretending not to notice her struggle, as if he isn’t actively causing it.

"My house," He clarifies, his voice warm, his movements smooth, unhurried—until they aren’t, pressing a little deeper, speeding up just enough to make her whimper. "Do you like it?"

Stelle struggles—truly, genuinely struggles to answer him. It's delightful.

Her fingers clench at his shoulder, her thighs tense, her body twitching in his lap as she tries to keep up and hold onto the conversation despite the way his fingers are now fucking into her with slow, devastating precision.

"Oh," She gasps, pressing her forehead against his shoulder, shuddering. "Mmmh...yes? It's, aah—nice?"

Sunday smiles.

"Nice?"  He muses, pressing a third finger inside her, stretching her further, the slide so obscenely smooth that he hums in approval.

"Oh, god—yeah," She chokes out, trying so hard to keep up, her legs trembling around him, her body twisting, her nails digging into his skin as he picks up his pace, faster now, steadier, his palm grinding against her clit with every movement.

"Good," He murmurs, so pleased, his voice dipping lower, watching her with amusement as she struggles to keep her eyes open and her focus on the conversation he is not actually listening to at all.

Her head tips back with a wanton cry, her spine arching, her body shaking as she clings to him, her legs twitching in his lap, and he watches her fall apart so effortlessly, so beautifully in his hands.

"Is that all?" he prompts, fingers driving into her with abandon.

"Oh my God—Sunday," she whimpers, her hands clutching at him, shaking, her breath breaking in her throat.

Sunday chuckles, tipping his head to press a kiss to her throat, to the racing pulse beneath her skin. "No, I don’t believe it was."

She whines in response and God, it’s so pretty, so sweet when her body curls in on itself, her thighs tightening around his waist as she shatters, her orgasm slamming into her, making her tremble and shake with the force of it. She presses into him, clutching at his shoulders like she’s falling apart completely.

Sunday soothes her through it, his fingers still moving, slowing only when her body starts to go limp, when she sags against him, still twitching, her walls fluttering weakly around his fingers.

"There we go,"  He murmurs, kissing her cheek, her temple as she curls into him, small and wrecked in his arms. "Good job, Stelle."

He lets her have that moment, lets her rest and come down, but then, predictably, she stirs, shifting against him, her fingers tugging at his shirt.

"Sunday," She murmurs, voice thick, drowsy but determined. "Wanna keep going."

Sunday huffs out a soft laugh, amused beyond words at her stubbornness— her body is barely holding itself up, her limbs are loose and exhausted, her thighs are still twitching around his lap—and she wants to exhaust herself further.

He trains a hand down her back, pressing warm, soothing circles into her skin. "You're tired."

"No, I’m not," she mutters, but she doesn’t sound convincing, at least not when her head is resting against his shoulder, not when her body is so pliant against him, so utterly spent.

Sunday tilts his head, amused, pressing his lips to the side of her mouth, chasing the way she sighs into it.

"Are you sure?" He teases, brushing his nose along her cheek.

"Mmh," she huffs, shifting again, attempting to straddle him properly, but her muscles betray her, her thighs shaking, and Sunday catches her easily, keeping her from fully sinking down. How utterly endearing.

"See?" His smile is almost audible on his lips, his arms steady around her. "You can barely hold yourself up."

She huffs, petulant. So cute. "I'd never get this tired from just a little fingering..."

He snorts, hopelessly fond. "Just a little? I take offense to that."

"Take whatever you want," She weakly rolls her hips above the straining bulge of his slacks. "Come on. Take this off."

He knows, with great certainty, that she will complain from being sore next morning if he keeps going where she wants. So, he comes up with a compromise. "If you insist on taking care of me, I do believe there’s a little agreement we can come to."

She blinks at him, still dazed, as if it takes a moment for her brain to catch up. "What?" she repeats, sluggish, but interested.

Sunday smiles, slow and wicked, pressing a soft, teasing kiss on her lips. "Lie back," he murmurs, guiding her gently, pressing her down against the mattress, and she follows, easily, her body still malleable under his hands.

He watches as she settles onto her back, her limbs loose, her breathing still shallow with lingering pleasure.

"Let's see..."  He whispers soothingly, pressing a kiss to her jaw, his fingers splaying on the back of her thighs, pressing them together, considering.

"You wanna fuck my thighs?" She mutters, and it's almost unbearable how sleepy she sounds— and so, so willing to let him do whatever he wants.

Sunday laughs, slow and warm, pressing his forehead against hers.

"Yes," he admits, shifting slightly, his breath heavy as he drinks in the way her legs press flush together, the perfect heat of them, the soft, wetness of her slick still coating her skin, making the thought of sliding between them almost too good to bear. "Is that alright?"

Her voice is so uncharacteristically garbled as she offers a quiet "I'd rather you just fuck me," as her fingers curl into the sheets, letting him arrange her however he pleases and take exactly what he needs from her.

Oh, he is almost impatient to do exactly that.

"Next time," He promises with a soft kiss on her plush cheek, and then he pulls away to position her carefully. He guides her thighs together, pressing them flush and tight, feeling the warm, slick heat of her skin still damp from her previous pleasure, feeling how soft she is beneath his hands, how easily she molds to his touch.

His own arousal aches, pulses, his cock straining against the confines of his still unbuttoned slacks. He finally frees himself with one hand, letting out a soft sigh as his length springs against her, twitching with the sheer, unbearable need coiling deep in his belly.

Without stalling further—because God knows he will spontaneously combust if he waits a fraction too long, he presses himself between her thighs slowly. The first slide of it makes his breath hitch, his fingers tightening around the soft flesh of her legs.

Of course, even in his desperation, he is no brute, would not fall so low as to seem impatient in front of her, no. 

The feeling is obscene, the heat of her wet, soft skin wrapping around him, so slick, the glide frictionless, her thighs squeezing just enough to mimic the tight, velvety grip of her insides, but not quite, not quite, and yet it still makes his vision blur at the edges, makes him ache with the force of holding himself back.

"Christ," he mutters, dragging his length through the tight, gliding heat of her, feeling the wetness smear along his shaft, making each roll of his hips smoother, lazier, too easy to fall into.

He can see it, too—the way his cock thrusts between the plush of her thighs, the way the swollen, glistening tip peeks out with each slow, thorough slide, and it’s almost unbearable. The way her skin clings to him, the way each thrust forces him to slide against her clit, making her twitch and whimper in overstimulated little gasps beneath him.

It's almost cruel how much he enjoys watching her head tilt back against the pillow and her fingers twitching in the sheets because she can’t hold onto him, her legs pressed together, blocking her from reaching for him, keeping her from gripping his shoulders or tugging his hair.

He likes it.

He likes that she’s helpless to do anything but take it, to just lay there beneath him, letting him fuck himself through the tight press of her thighs and drag his cock against her soaked skin, staring up at him with half-lidded eyes with her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

His pace picks up, hips rocking into her, each thrust forcing the head of his cock to graze against her clit, drawing out soft little noises from her throat that make his fingers tremble where they hold her down.

Voice soft and wrecked, she calls out to him, a small whisper of "Sunday," falls from her lips. Her golden eyes blink up at him, hazy and half-lidded. There is nothing more breath-taking in the world than her at this moment.

"I know, sweetheart," He breathes, soothing, his fingers stroking absently over her hip as he keeps moving, his pace steadier now, his breath shaking with the force of his own restraint. "Just a little more."

Her lips part, another quiet, wanton little sound slipping out, her body twitching as his cock rubs against her swollen bud of nerves with each thrust. "Feels good," she murmurs, and it’s barely a sound, but it destroys him.

"I know," Sunday mutters, voice tight, his hips snapping forward just a fraction harder, his control slipping by the second. "You’re so good for me, Stelle. Taking it so well."

She whimpers, her fingers curling weakly into the sheets, her body trembling, and he needs to finish, because he doesn’t think he can handle this much longer, not sure he can survive another second of her looking so pliant, so helpless beneath him.

"Just a little more," he repeats, a plea this time, his body tensing, his breath coming out shaky as the pleasure overtakes him, and the heat coils too tight, as his movements become uneven—

And then he groans, low and deep, his entire body shuddering as his orgasm hits, cock jerking between her thighs, the warmth of him spilling onto her soft, trembling stomach. His fingers tighten around her legs as he rides it out, letting the last pulses of pleasure drag through him in slow, shuddering waves.

A stillness where he catches his breath follows.

Then, he eases her thighs apart gently, and she is already a limp, melted thing beneath him, too boneless to protest. He presses a hand to the inside of one knee, urging it to relax, and she sighs, body languid, letting him spread her open with zero resistance.

He tucks himself away first—because, frankly, if he looks at her sticky, flushed state for too long, he might embarrass himself and start getting hard again. No, he needs to clean her up, get them both comfortable, before he does something truly unhinged like climbing back onto the bed and starting all over again.

His focus shifts back to her, the mess he’s left on her skin, stark against the flushed warmth of her stomach, trailing in glistening streaks toward her navel.

"Messy," She bites her lip, voice lazy, her fingers lifting off of the sheets, almost reaching down to touch it.

Sunday catches her hand before she can. "None of that," he chides, placing her hand back on her side.

Sunday exhales through his nose, steadying himself, fingers still curled loosely around Stelle’s wrist where he stopped her from touching the mess he left on her skin. The temptation to let her is strong, but he knows better—knows that if she starts playing with it, smearing it over her stomach with that lazy curiosity in her golden eyes, he’s going to be right back where he started.

Instead, he leans forward, reaching for the pack of wet wipes on the nightstand with one hand while his other remains warm against her thigh, absently stroking the flushed skin with slow, grounding motions. She doesn't resist, doesn’t move much at all beyond the slow rise and fall of her breath, her body still pliant from pleasure, still thrumming with the aftershocks of it.

"Stay still," he says anyway, voice softer now.

Something unbearably warm blooms in his chest as he watches the way her fingers twitch on the sheets before curling loosely into the fabric, as if reminding herself to obey. It is devastatingly endearing.

The first touch of the warm, damp tissue against her skin makes her twitch slightly, a small shiver running through her stomach as he wipes her clean, slow and methodical, his touch gentle. He takes his time, dragging the cloth over her skin in slow, sweeping motions, ensuring that no trace of his release is left behind.

"Well," she sighs, stretching like a cat. "I thought you’d be meaner."

Sunday pauses mid-wipe. His lips part, a soft, bemused huff slipping out before he shakes his head, pressing it into her stomach with a little extra force just to be petty.

"When have I ever been mean to you?" he says flatly, watching as she snickers, lazily swatting at his wrist.

"Dunno," she muses, lips curling into an obnoxiously pleased grin. "Thought you’d get all bossy. You know. All ‘take it, you insubordinate little employee’ or some shit."

He makes a face. "Please never say that again."

"Why not?" she grins, shifting as he finally tosses the used tissue aside and leans over her to grab a fresh one.

"Because I would sooner quit my career than allow those words to leave my mouth in bed."

"So you're a coward?," she teases, wiggling her hips a little as he finishes cleaning her up, her breath hitching slightly when his fingers graze too close to where she’s still achingly sensitive.

He lifts a brow at her.

"I can be mean next time," he offers, deceptively casual. "If that's what you prefer."

Stelle blinks, intrigued, his mischievous Stelle. "Yeah?" she muses, voice sleepy but still curious. "How?"

He shifts, settling back on the bed, tilting his head slightly, considering his words, drawing out the moment—just to watch her squirm.

"Next time," he muses, like he’s merely thinking aloud. "I won’t let you touch me. Won’t let you whine, won’t let you squirm away from me when it gets too much."

Stelle inhales, suddenly a little too awake. He would clutch at his heart, if he wasn't committed to getting a reaction out of her at the moment. Normally, he would never be so vulgar, but. He smiles.

"I’ll have you face down on my desk, cheek pressed against the wood while I do whatever I please with you," His fingers trail over her hip, absent, barely there, like the words alone aren’t enough to set her on fire. "And if you think you’ll get to run that pretty mouth of yours, you won’t. Because next time, I’ll have it occupied."

Stelle stares at him.

After what feels like an entire minute, she blinks."What the hell,"  she groans, tugging at his hair because apparently she doesn't know what else to do with her hands. "I want that."

Sunday laughs, low, pleased, brushing his knuckles over the curve of her hip, his touch mockingly gentle, telling her silently: not yet.

"Then behave," he advices, his lips curving as he watches her squirm. "And maybe next time, you'll have it."

Stelle grumbles into the pillow under her, fingers clenching in the sheets as she halfheartedly writhes in frustration. "Now," she mutters, muffled and petulant. "Do it now."

"I don’t think so," he murmurs, voice soft, but firm, like he’s humoring a spoiled request. 

"Why not?" she demands as he gets up off the bed to change into clean clothes, lifting her head just enough to glare at him, golden eyes hazy but sharp, determined despite the visible exhaustion weighing down her limbs.

Sunday smiles, slow and amused, brushing a hand through her messy hair after quickly discarding his shirt and pants to pull his sleeping clothes over his legs and body, his fingers lingering at the back of her head, keeping her close.

"Because," he says simply, pressing a mockingly gentle kiss to her forehead as he settles beside her. "You can barely keep your eyes open, and as much as I’d love to see you ruin yourself trying to prove me wrong, I’d rather wait until you can properly handle it."

Stelle scowls, shoving at his chest weakly.

"I can handle it," she insists, but the absolute weakness of her voice betrays her, her words slurring slightly at the edges, her body practically sinking into the mattress despite her attempts to seem defiant.

Sunday tilts his head as if he’s actually considering it, his fingers still casually stroking through her hair, mocking in how soothing it is.

"Sure, but still no," he muses, pressing another slow kiss to her shoulder, ignoring the way she growls in frustration and her nails digging into his bicep as if she’s actually trying to punish him for this.

"This is stupid," she grumbles. "You were so fucking nice five minutes ago."

Sunday laughs. "And now I’m being responsible," His lips trail lazily along her collarbone. "You should be grateful."

"Oh yeah, so grateful," she deadpans, but her voice is weak, heavy, her body already betraying her as she melts further into the mattress.

Watching her fail to keep up the act is horribly entertaining."Behave," he soothes, his voice low, warm, a lullaby meant to lull her under.

"I don't want to."

"But you will," Sunday counters, amused, because she is just so adorably petulant when she doesn’t get her way.

"You're so frustrating." she adds to her previous statement.

Sunday smiles, pressing another leisurely kiss to the curve of her jaw.

"And you," he murmurs, lips brushing over her pulse point, "are going to close those pretty little eyes and sleep like a good girl."

His voice wraps around the words, turning them into something that makes her want to listen before she grumbles, tilting her face toward his in silent protest, but her eyes are already drooping, and her body is already relaxing.

"Fine," she mutters, shifting closer, her forehead bumping against his collarbone. 

His head tilts. Huh. That was way too easy.

Normally, getting her to do anything at work takes no less than three follow-up emails, a very specific tone of voice, and a healthy dose of psychological warfare. He has seen her ignore so many notifications, pretend to not understand simple instructions, and bullshit her way through meetings with frankly audacious levels of confidence.

But now, here she is, sinking so easily into his arms, letting him press her closer, warmer, her breath soft against his throat, her body pliant, letting him tell her exactly what to do with minimal amount of resistance.

Sunday tilts his head, studying her, the way she’s already drifting, her limbs loose, her weight settling against him so naturally that it almost unnerves him.

No argument. No tantrum. No deliberate disobedience just to piss him off for fun.

She’s curled against him, face tucked into his collarbone, body settled, relaxed, her breathing already slowing—as if she actually intends to follow orders for once in her life.

He tilts his head down, his fingers brushing absently against her bare back, gaze flicking over her serene, content expression.

"…That was too easy," he murmurs, suspicious.

"What was?" she mumbles, voice sleepy, innocent.

Sunday narrows his eyes, even though he can’t see her face, he knows that she’s so obviously faking this little act of confusion.

"You’re listening," he accuses, his tone dry.

"Mm?" she hums, shifting slightly, nuzzling closer like she doesn’t understand the problem.

"Normally, getting you to follow instructions requires three separate reminders, a veiled threat, and a legal memo," He points out, fingers idly tracing along the dip of her spine.

Her lips curl against his chest. "That doesn’t sound right."

"No? Strange," He lifts a brow, voice flat. "I must have imagined all those times you conveniently forgot entire tasks, or how you once argued with me for forty-five minutes about why you should be allowed to swear in client emails."

"That was a productive discussion."

"What about the time I asked you to submit a client report and you responded by closing your laptop and announcing you were ‘going to lunch’ at nine in the morning?"

"That was one time," She mumbles, tucking her face deeper into his chest.

"It was last week."

"Time is a construct."

Sunday huffs, shaking his head.

"And the time I explicitly told you not to touch my desk while I was out, and you sent me a picture of your feet propped on top of my quarterly financial reports?"

"That was hilarious and you know it."

"It was infuriating."

"Your response text had three commas in one sentence, so I know you were losing your mind over it."

Sunday scoffs, incredulous, his hand absently smoothing over her lower back. "You are such a ridiculous woman."

"I'll make sure to use your desk for more fun activities next t—"

Sunday physically covers her mouth with his hand.

"Enough."

Stelle snorts, her shoulders shaking lightly against him in silent laughter.

He shakes his head again, exasperated beyond measure, before finally settling fully against the pillows, his free hand resting lightly on her back, feeling the way her breathing steadies, the way her body softens completely as she finally starts drifting off.

She’s warm against him, boneless, her legs tangled with his, her fingers tucked against his side, and he hates how much he likes it, how his heart flutters in his chest.

"Go to sleep, Stelle," he presses a soft kiss on the crown of her head.

"Mmm," she hums, barely conscious now, barely coherent, but still so smug as she nuzzles further into him. "Yes, sir."

He sighs in exasperation once more. His own eyes flutter shut, and just before drifting, he hopes that when he wakes up, she will still be in his arms next morning.

Chapter Text

Stelle wakes up feeling great.

Which is annoying, because she should be at least a little bit mortified, all things considered. The room smells much too like a certain someone and a type of cloth detergent she definitely doesn't use, and the ceiling that greets her isn't her own popcorn one. 

She stretches out luxuriously, feeling warm, pleased, and a slight breeze—oh, right. She's naked. In Sunday’s ridiculously comfortable bed, ridiculously expensive sheets, after a night of being thoroughly taken apart by none other than the man himself. Alright. Okay. Let's review that.

Well.

It was bound to happen, lowkey. ...Fine, highkey. Okay, she’s honestly surprised it took this long. Really, if anyone were to look at the historical evidence which is the months of unbearable tension, the back-and-forth games, the way he refused to fire her even after so many blunders (though Stelle has an inkling of what the real reason is, and it's unrelated to Sunday wanting her carnally or whatever), this was the natural conclusion.

And if she grins to herself while stretching out on the absurdly comfortable mattress and hugs one of his silk pillows close to her chest right after, then who’s going to stop her? Nobody, that's who.

Wait. Nobody? She rolls onto her side, blinks at the empty space on the bed.

Huh.

That’s weird. She’d kind of assumed he’d still be here, considering, you know, everything. But then again, this is Sunday—the man who would probably have a full board meeting while being actively held hostage. For a split second, she imagines him asking her about quarterly reports with a gun to his head, and snorts at the mental image. He looks so stupid. 

After a few more ridiculous sleepy, imaginary scenarios in her head, she sighs, stretching her arms over her head again before rolling out of bed, using mouthwash in his bedroom bath to at least rinse her mouth and pulling on one of his button-up shirts just to be an ass about it. He should’ve thought about that before leaving her alone. Seriously, who could bear to leave someone as alluring as her alone? Is he a monk? Did he have zero inclinations to at least wake her up with a kiss or a bit of fondling?

...Probably not. 

This is Sunday she's thinking about. The guy who made her take three different sobreity tests before kissing her. What a dork, seriously. 

Her expectations from him were much, much more different, considering his behaviour at the office. She'd thought for sure that he'd be much more meaner than he was last night, that he'd just hold her down and continue whatever weird power play they usually have going on. But nope. He was disgustingly gentle, didn't even fuck her properly, didn't take even when he was offered on a silver platter.

She groans. She will have to corrupt him a bit. All in due time. For now, she's hungry. 

She descends the stairs barefoot, dragging her hand lazily along the banister like a girl in a movie because when else is she going to have a dramatic moment like this? That's right. The shirt hangs off her loosely, sleeves drooping past her fingertips, collar slipping off one shoulder, which, it's meant to, alright? She doesn’t fix it because she looks scandalous, underfed, sleep-soft and sexy. It’s a look.

She pauses on the last step upon spotting him.

Of course Sunday would be sitting on the couch like a painting on a Sunday morning.

His legs are crossed as if he is a polite British lady having her evening tea, one leg propped neatly over his knee, trousers sharply pressed and socks black, pulled perfectly taut. His vest is buttoned, his white shirt pristine, and the sleeves are rolled just enough to look casual without looking unkempt. One hand holds his phone, thumb slowly scrolling, the other rests lightly on the arm of the couch, gloves black and leather this time, fingertips curled just-so around a steaming porcelain mug.

He looks divine. Her stomach twists, and not even from hunger.

Okay, maybe a little from hunger, but also—God. He looks good. He looks so good. The elegant poise, the slow exhale of steam rising from the coffee, the way his hair falls just slightly tousled in a way it isn't when he's out in public, it’s so freaking humiliating how much it affects her. She clenches, involuntarily, then glares at the floor. No. No. What the fuck. Even she is not that much of an animal. She has standards. She is—

She’s already skittering over to him.

Before she can question her dignity any further, she plops down sideways into his lap, feeling like she honestly will die if she doesn't put her hands on him. Which, frankly, she might. Jury’s still out.

"Oh," Sunday lets out a quiet breath, and sets his phone down on the couch. His arm winds around her waist automatically, like this happens all the time—like she happens all the time. 

"Good morning, Stelle," The greeting settles swiftly into a soft curve of his mouth. "Did you sleep well?"

A gloved hand lifts to her hair, brushing it gently, then smoothing it down as if she’s something fragile, or something dear.

"Yeah," Stelle huffs, because, how dare he soften her up before she even got the chance to open her mouth? 

She was going to say something heinous about how he left her alone in bed like an abandoned wife from a '90s sitcom, or how he didn’t have the decency to jump her again first thing in the morning—but now she can’t even look at him. Not when he looks at her like that, eyes soft and voice dipped into the gentlest she has ever heard him and when his fingers curl protectively at the dip of her spine.

He really, really is such a villain, Stelle has decided.

So instead she nestles deeper into his lap, squishing her cheek against the fabric of his vest. It’s annoyingly soft. Of course it is. Probably tailored from the hair of ethically combed vicuñas or something equally absurd.

She hates it here. How did she even score this guy, anyway? What exactly is his problem, tangled up with someone like Stelle?

"What’s the plan for today?" she asks, trying to sound casual. Her voice is thick with sleep and she feels so hormonal she might pass away. She shifts a little, then immediately regrets it when the motion reminds her, viscerally, that she is entirely naked under this shirt. Get it together, get it together, you are not a teenager. There’s nothing between her and his lap except a thin barrier of luxury cotton and whatever divine patience he’s currently practicing.

Her thighs press together. God, this is so embarrassing.

Sunday’s hand drifts lazily up and down her back, stopping at the hem of the shirt where it rests across the tops of her thighs. His fingers hover there for a second too long, then resume their path like nothing happened.

She wants to shake him. She wants to bite his neck like a rabid animal and crawl under his skin and make him react.

"Well," Sunday replies mildly. "I was thinking we could review the preliminary restructuring proposal for the security division. The IT head sent over some concerning reports about—"

"Sunday."

He pauses.

"I meant like, for today today. Not your sexy PowerPoint playdate with the firewall."

"Ah. I see." He tilts his head down to glance at her, all mock-thoughtfulness, this weirdo. "Well, I suppose that depends. Are you planning on leaving my shirt behind when you sneak off like a thief, or shall I be blessed with your continued presence?"

"I’m not sneaking off," She mutters, arms tightening around him. "I want breakfast."

"Of course you do." His fingers tap gently against her side, then slide up her back to stroke her nape softly. "It’s only fair I replenish your reserves."

"You sound like you’re feeding a horse."

"I have never met a horse that clings quite like you."

She narrows her eyes. "Do you talk to all your one-night stands like this?"

He lets out a soft laugh. "I told you already, I don't do things of such unrefined nature."

"So pretentious," she murmurs, lips brushing against the skin of his neck. "You think you're above fleeting pleasures?"

His hand curls gently into her hair, his thumb brushing the base of her skull with startling fondness. "I am not," he replies simply. "I just do not want you to be one of them."

She should be winning this. She would be winning this, under normal circumstances, but all she can think about is the distance between his hand and her thigh, the implications of that statement, the fact that his lap is right there, and the way her whole body feels like it’s buzzing.

"I want pancakes," She says abruptly, because she can’t be trusted with her own thoughts right now. "And juice. And a banana split. I saw your spray cream in the fridge yesterday. You owe me."

He raises a brow. "For what, exactly?"

"For not jumping you just now." She levels him with a look. "Because make no mistake, I’m this close to ruining your weird little domestic morning with something much, much more sinful."

"Oh my. Is that so?"

She lifts one hand and holds up her fingers, barely a hair's width apart. "This close," she repeats. "So if you want your coffee and your dignity intact, I suggest you start cooking."

Sunday sighs, deeply and dramatically, and tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear. "You are relentless."

"I’m naked under your shirt."

"I am so painfully aware."

"Then hurry up," she says sweetly. "Before I use your very nice couch for very unrefined purposes."

"...Fine," he mutters.

Sunday shifts beneath her a little, adjusting the way she’s curled in his lap, meaning to get up. His gloved hand lingers against her lower back though, and it's so warm through the shirt. His thumb draws slow, absentminded shapes. She can feel the rhythm of his breathing, the gentle tension in his chest as he watches her as if in a trance.

Then he slowly dips his head, his face soft and blank, his eyes downturned in that adorable way they do when he's not thinking.

It’s like he forgot he was supposed to restrain himself.

His face draws closer to hers, his mouth nearly brushing her own, and Stelle's heart flutters in the stupid, embarrassing way it always does whenever he looks at her like this—like she hung the stars in the sky. It's too much, too overwhelming.

And then, very abruptly, he pauses. 

His eyes flick downward, then upward. Then he straightens back up, posture correcting with military efficiency as though he’s just remembered he’s a man of great moral standing who does not, in fact, kiss women wearing nothing but his shirt before breakfast.

His hand pulls back from her hip.

"...Apologies," he panics a little, even though he's trying not to show it. "That was—"

Is he serious? Is this guy serious?!

"Oh my god," Stelle groans, flopping back against him like she’s physically in pain. "Sunday. Sunday, you had your dick rubbing all up against me less than twelve hours ago, you can just kiss me, you idiot."

Sunday blinks.

He exhales through his nose, eyes shutting momentarily like he’s praying for strength. 

"You make it sound so crude."

"Would you prefer I make a PowerPoint? I’ll include charts. ‘Reasons You’re Allowed to Kiss Me Now: A Presentation by the Cutest Girl in The Universe'. And it was crude," she says, tapping his chest with two fingers. "And wonderful. Honestly, if you don’t kiss me right now, I’m going to start licking you like a cat out of spite."

"Don't do that."

"Then make me stop."

He stares at her for a moment so long that she could've reconstructed the Hagia Sophia into its former glory during it.

Then he sighs dramatically as if this is a great burden, and his hand comes up to her jaw. His thumb brushes her cheek.

He kisses her, softly, thoughtfuly, and entirely unrushed. His thumb settles under her eye, gloved fingertips gently cradling her face as he simply angles it, and maybe that’s what startles her most. Not the kiss itself, but how calm he is about it. How warm, how unbearably tender.

He tilts his head slightly and kisses her again, and again, then again.

Each meeting of their lips is sweet in a way that is completely at odds with how precise and emotionally constipated he usually is. He’s not trying to seduce her or trying to stake a claim. He just keeps kissing her, over and over again like it quiets him. As if it’s doing something for him on a soul-deep level he doesn’t even have words for.

His hand slides around to the back of her neck, his thumb cradling under her ear now. He’s so relaxed she thinks he might actually be sleep-kissing her. He hums faintly, deep in his throat, a sound that vibrates against her lips.

Oh, she thinks distantly, dazed. He really likes this.

Stelle blinks slowly, barely breathing, her lips tingling with each press of his. Her brain, normally so obnoxiously loud and combative, feels like it’s buffering in real-time, stuck between why is he doing this and why does this feel like the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

She wants to fight it. She should fight it. He’s making her feel like a glass sculpture on a velvet pillow handled with the utmost care, as if she’s something sacred, and not someone who has always made everything so difficult for him. What the hell is wrong with him?

What the hell is wrong with her?

She could bite him. She wants to bite him. Sink her teeth into the curve of his jaw, mark him up, ruin him, it's in her nature. She is not tame—she wants to pull on his hair and push him back on the couch and do unspeakable things to that very dignified face of his until he forgets how to talk in full sentences. It’d serve him right.

But her body and brain both have sort of came to an agreement that she should just let it happen, so she lets him kiss her silly, turn her dumb and dazed from how delicately his skin meets hers at every point.

She blinks again, slowly, watching his lashes flutter as he leans in to kiss the corner of her mouth this time, like he’s afraid she might spook and vanish if he tries to take too much at once.

Sunday’s lips hover against hers for a second longer, just barely brushing. With one final press like a punctuation, he pulls back a little, eyes half-lidded and soft, the line of his mouth relaxed. 

"My apologies. I can't seem to help myself. How unbecoming." he confesses, as if it’s just a passing thought that's barely worth voicing. But it hits like a truck all the same. "Feel free to tell me to stop, Stelle. I don't wish to overwhelm you.".

"Overwhelm me?" She snorts. 

He just looks at her with that same insufferable softness, his thumb stroking under her jaw like she’s something he’s still not quite convinced he’s allowed to have. 

"God, you're so weird about this," she mutters, shifting on his lap again and instantly regretting it when the friction lights up her nerves like a Christmas tree. "You’re making me feel like some delicate forest nymph you rescued from a glass prison instead of, you know, me."

Sunday laughs lightly, and it's such a lovely, lovely sound. "You are not delicate."

"Exactly! So quit with the gentle treatment. Didn't you make promises to me for next time?"

"I didn't promise I would get started as soon as you woke up. It's still morning, Stelle."

"Ah, yes, mornings, famously known for being an unfit time for fun."

He lifts an eyebrow, but she’s already crawling further into his space, winding her arms around his neck and nosing into the side of his jaw, like a cat that’s decided now is Petting Time. "Stelle—"

"I wanna touch you," she whispers, slurring it on purpose for the dramatic effect. "Now."

"Stelle."

"Now now now."

"You're whining."

"I am, because you're being so mean to me right now and I need you," she says, full petulant pout mode engaged, pawing at his vest with increasingly criminal intent. "Come on. I’ve been so good. Look at me, I let you hold me and kiss me and didn’t even try to bite you once."

"I noticed," Sunday says dryly. "It was unnerving."

"Exactly. I deserve a reward."

"You deserve breakfast," he says, tucking her closer to him–as if she’s some unruly creature that needs swaddling. "And protein. And hydration. You can claw at me after you’ve eaten something."

"But I want it" she insists, nosing under his chin. "Now. Now now now, Sunday, Sunday, now,"

"No, Stelle—"

"Please," she whispers, dragging her palm across the flat of his stomach through his midnight-blue vest, eyes wide and guileless, "I want it. I need it. Please? Just a little?"

Sunday’s fingers tighten just slightly on the back of her neck, firm enough to remind her exactly who she’s dealing with, which is, an unchecked control freak.

His thumb rests calmly beneath her jaw, applying just enough pressure to still her fussing. It’s not harsh, but it's firm enough to tell her his patience is starting to fray, and it does something very specific, very dangerous to her. Oh. Oh, God. Okay. 

"Stelle," he repeats once more, his voice so velvety it sends heat prickling down her spine, pooling low and traitorous between her thighs. "You are behaving very badly right now."

Stelle blinks up at him, feigning wide-eyed innocence, lips plush and lashes batting sweetly. Heh, she loves when Sunday gets like this—voice low and soothing, posture still, discipline held in his spine in a coiled wire. She’s never scared, really, and she so adores the warning. "Am I?"

"You are, indeed," Sunday murmurs, stroking her jaw once, then he trails leather fingertips slowly down her neck. "What am I going to do with you?"

Stelle is just about to answer that, actually, but then his other hand slides slowly up her thigh beneath the hem of his own shirt, and the words immediately die in her mouth. The fabric brushes higher, exposing her plush, flushed skin, and her confidence is quickly eroding with lust. His thumb traces teasing circles along her hip, so, so close to her aching heat, and she squirms. She's throbbing already, and it's downright embarrassing.

"Sunday," she whimpers, breath hitching despite herself.

"Hmm?" he hums innocently, voice rich and syrupy as he shifts her gently, spreading her legs further apart with soft push. "What is it?"

"You're mean," she whispers, burying her face against his neck to hide how quickly she's surrendering already. Where the hell is her fire, her resistance? Get up, Stelle, get up.

She's just about to bite him to gain some sort of leverage back, but his slender fingers cup her jaw, forcing her face to meet his. "Am I, now?" 

She glares at him. "You—"

Without giving her a chance to speak, he dips in to kiss her again. 

His lips find hers needlepoint and precise, his tongue swipes against hers with an obscenely wet sound. The fingers cupping her jaw angle her head more comfortably as he kisses her deeper, more hungrily, teeth grazing her lower lip before he sucks it into his mouth and pulls a breathy gasp out of her. 

Every thought in her skull white-noises at once.

She's overwhelmed and nearly struggling to breathe when he slides his palm to the back of her thigh, pushes it up, then cups her ass with absolutely zero shame. He squeezes, spreads, kneads the soft flesh gently, entirely unexpected from the guy who just apologized for simply attempting to kiss her without asking. The leather bites cold on her skin, but it doesn't even matter because she is fucking overheating anyway.

"Sunday," she breathes again, into his mouth, heat blooming in her lower belly.

"Mm?" Red prickles her skin where his fingers dig. "Isn't this what you were whining for?"

She nods eagerly, because what good is shame at this point when he's touching her so nicely?—and he rewards her with another deep kiss that leaves her dizzy. His gloved hand shifts again to slide between her thighs, the heel of his palm pressing firmly against the throbbing ache there.

The action pulls a full-body jolt out of her. She clutches at his vest, breath shaky, pupils blown, dignity left somewhere on the kitchen floor last night and never picked back up.

"Please," she whines.

He breathes a quiet laugh against her lips when she squirms, features twisting in fondness as if he can't help but let it slip past his domineering mask. He pecks her lips once more, entirely too sweet. 

Stelle can't decide which Sunday she likes more: the mean one, or the one that cannot stay that way for more than a minute, because he is apparently too fond of her, and operates on such disarming gentleness that it's just instinct at this point.

(Little does she know, however.)

His digits slide through her slick folds with dizzying slowness, a teasing drag of leather that makes her toes curl and her spine arch. One gloved finger circles lazily, barely brushing over her clit like an afterthought, and she whimpers again, shuddering lightly on his lap.

"You're trembling," he remarks, lips brushing her temple, and she bites back an insult. "From just a little touching. I have barely done anything, mind you."

"Shut—" She gasps as he slides one finger in, then another, smooth and slow, pushing past the heat and tightness. "Don't speak—"

He chuckles softly. "Yes, ma'am." 

Keeping his palm flat against her back, he thrusts his digits deeper into her tight heat, crooks them just so, hits where it makes her nails dig into his vest. Her legs twitch and spread further shamelessly between his own.

She pants into his neck, high and soft, pleasure curls around her body like silk. 

He pumps his fingers in and out of her patiently, dragging along every sensitive inch with deliberate control. The pressure builds. It’s not enough. It’s perfect. She claws at him, chest heaving, body melting into his—she might dissolve. Her body is a live wire.

His lips press open kisses to her cheek, then her jaw, his gloved hand keeping a steady rhythm between her legs, thumb now circling lazily over her clit again in tandem.

Her head lolls, eyes fluttering shut. She can’t. She can’t. She’s going to come, she’s—

It stops all of a sudden.

His fingers slide out of her with a lewd sound. The sudden absence is so sharp she almost cries, and her hands flail weakly at his chest in hopes of restarting him like a machine.

"What—?" Her voice is high, confused, half a sob. Her body is buzzing, flushed, desperate, right there.

But Sunday, this villain, this awful, horrible—

With gloved fingers glistening, just pats her hip.

"That," he says softly, "was for not listening to me when you could have."

He gently adjusts the shirt back over her thighs like nothing happened, then lifts her effortlessly off his lap and sets her down on the couch.

"You're an actual villain," she croaks, still frozen in place, her voice hoarse and trembling from pure betrayal. "A sick, twisted, deranged psychopath."

He raises a brow, turning to her. "You did, in fact, say ‘just a little,’" Sunday remarks. He adjusts his cuffs, smooths his vest, takes his gloves off, as though he isn't the architect of her current hell. "I simply followed the instruction."

"You’re splitting hairs," she drags a cushion over her face. "You’re evil. And a sadist. You're going to hell."

In response, he leans in close, and with two fingers gently squishes her cheeks together until her lips pucker stupidly.

"Kheep your hands off me," she slurs through pinched cheeks, which only makes him smile—asshole. What is there to smile about? Her suffering?

"Stob id," she grumbles when he leans in to kiss both her cheeks one after the other, warm and affectionate and soft in a way that makes her want to sob and melt into the upholstery, and he really needs to stop that, because she can't be mad when her heart is doing somersaults in her ribcage.

"There, there," he soothes, brushing her hair back from her forehead. "Don't pout. I'll make you breakfast."

"Schtop it..."

His bare hand brushing her silver hair is a gentle, rhythmic affection that makes her nose scrunch and her eyes flutter close against her will. Her hands clench into the hem of his vest—she’s really doing her best to stay mad. But she’s not. Not really. She’s just sad.

He smooths her hair tenderly and lets her cheek go. "I'll be back. Make yourself comfortable."

Breakfast, as promised, is good. Annoyingly so.

Stelle eats like a starving stray, barely acknowledging Sunday’s amused glances as he places a plate of fluffy pancakes and sliced fruit in front of her, alongside a suspiciously perfect cup of oramge juice she didn’t even ask for. He eats slower than her, of course. Always so dignified, for no reason at all.

They don’t talk much—she’s still sulking, and he lets her. Occasionally, he refills her juice without comment and she stabs a pancake with a little too much force.

After breakfast, Sunday leans in to kiss her temple and murmurs something about showering and freshening up if she’d like—he’s already set things aside for her upstairs.

She drags herself back up the staircase grumbling as if she’s been tasked with climbing Everest. Everything about this house is too grand, too clean, and too him. But she obeys. Begrudgingly.

The water is hot, steaming, high-pressure—exactly how she likes it. Of course it is. This bastard probably had the plumbing customized to mimic rainforest springs or whatever pretentious nonsense rich people do when they have too much time and too many funds.

By the time she steps out, towel wrapped snug around her chest, she finds a fresh stack of neatly folded clothes sitting on the vanity. Button-down pajama top just her size, cashmere lounge pants. On top of it all, a brand-new set of plain black underwear still in its original packaging. Tags and all.

They're probably his sister's or something. Still, "Freak," she mutters, and puts them on anyway. 

His lotion smells expensive, clean and soft, honey and one-too-many zeros on a paycheck. She slathers it on shamelessly, lets it soak into her skin, then rummages through his cabinets until she finds the styling products. The hairdryer is fancy, too—lightweight, matte black, probably costs more than her couch back at home.

By the time she’s done, she looks casually radiant. Annoyingly radiant.

She pads back to the living room, feet bare, face clean, hair loosely styled and fluffy, wearing the comfortable clothes he left out for her.

And there he is.

Without a word, she walks over and slips into the space beside him, tucking herself neatly to his side. He lifts his arm automatically, letting it rest around her shoulders, fingers curling in her hair as though she belongs there.

"Whatcha doing?" she yawns, poking at the edge of his laptop screen. 

Sunday barely glances at her, though his arm immediately shifts to make her more comfortable. His hand strokes her scalp idly.

"Dealing with the breach," he says simply.

Stelle frowns, blinking blearily at the screen. "Still? Thought that was getting handled."

"It is," he sighs. "Poorly."

He flicks the trackpad, showing her a window filled with messages. Some are heavily encrypted. Others are a nightmare of acronyms and jargon. A few are in languages she swears aren’t even on Earth anymore.

"Are you talking to actual aliens?" she asks.

“No. Cybersecurity professionals. From... less conventional channels.”

Stelle squints at the screen. One of the messages has a profile picture of gold striped glasses on a red background.

"‘Professionals,’ huh?"

"They’re the best I could find on short notice," he replies dryly. "And they accept payment in both crypto and rare Yu-Gi-Oh cards, so."

She stares at him. "You’re kidding."

He remains silent. Oh my god, no way.

"You’re not kidding."

"They’re very talented."

She leans further into him, peering at a message titled “707_error: FTP dump success – found suspicious ping trail. U got a rat, bossman.”

"You got a rat, bossman," she reads aloud in a deadpan. "How reassuring."

"I believe that’s hacker vernacular for internal compromise."

"I’m sure it is. Very technical. Really inspires confidence."

"They traced the ping to a masked relay out of our own IT department. Most likely a mole."

"Huh." She exhales, warm against his chest, cheek still pressed to him softly.

Typing one-handed, Sunday's focus wavers slightly with the weight of her against him and the warmth of her skin under his palm. She’s tucked in so easily it’s like she was made to be part of this couch and a part of him.

The hacker chat pings again. Stelle tilts her head just enough to read the new message.

707_error: whoever it is, they’re rerouting through at least 4 ghost nodes. ur system’s been scraped on & off for weeks. u didn’t notice? lol

She snorts. "Wow. Even your shady hacker friends are roasting you."

Sunday’s mouth presses into a thin line. "…They are not my friends."

"They sound like your friends."

"They’re contractors." Sunday murmurs, still typing one-handed, though his focus wavers with the weight of her against him and the warmth of her skin under his palm.

707_error:
u wound me, mr. sunday. after all we’ve been through.
(2 hours of setting up a sandbox vpn counts as trauma bonding.)

Stelle bursts into laughter. "Okay, but he’s funny."

"I do not require funny," Sunday mutters.

"You require help, clearly. Let the funny man do his thing."

The chat pings again.

707_error:
thank you ma'am. anyway. back to business. ur internal team is solid. like really solid. firewalls w redundancy, 24/7 behavioral analytics, hardcoded obfuscation layers…anyone normal would’ve tripped an alarm on packet 3.

707_error:
but this one didn’t trip anything for weeks. not until they wanted to.

They wait a second.

707_error:
u ever consider the obvious signs are deliberate?

Stelle frowns. "You mean...?"

"They wanted me to notice," Sunday sighs softly, eyes fluttering with exhaustion. "These trail fragments—their IP ghosts—they’re too placed. Left like breadcrumbs."

Stelle shifts against him, her warmth forgotten for a moment. "But why? If they’re good enough to sneak past your elite nerds, why bother letting you catch on at all?"

"That," Sunday whispers, "is the question."

Because his team is elite. Some of the best cybersecurity minds in the country, handpicked, rigorously trained, armed with state-of-the-art tools and machine-learning watchdogs that scan everything from packet flow to digital behavioral ticks. This breach should not have gone undetected.

And yet, it had.

Not because the intruder wasn’t skilled—but because they were beyond skilled. Whoever it was, they danced through the network architecture with such silent precision that even his best-placed flags didn't blink.

Until three weeks ago.

Because they wanted to be seen.

707_error:
also. they paused. mid scrape. 3x.
same time every time. always around 3am.
personal theory? they like to watch you sweat.

Sunday’s jaw tightens.

"I see."

"Oh my God, you have a stalker," Stelle says, almost impressed. "Like an actual, textbook stalker. You’re being targeted by a cyber-creep."

"I’m being studied," Sunday murmurs, eyes scanning the logs. "They’re not just pulling data. They’re learning how I respond. How we adjust protocols. They’re testing us."

Stelle goes still beside him. The hacker pings again.

707_error:
whoever this is, they’re not just playing. they’re performing. they want a reaction.

The chat pings again. A new message from 707 appears on the screen—short, but laced with a tone even Sunday picks up as vaguely impressed.

707_error:
uhhhh. so. wait. just found this.

Below it, an image populates: Silver Wolf's signature in the script, placed carefully inside the logs like a nametag.

The world falls apart beneath her feet.

Her breath stills in her throat, caught before she even realizes why.

Because she knows what that is. She knows it, she was there when it was decided upon, she's seen the first usages of it.

It’s Silver Wolf’s. Or more specifically, the little signature she sometimes tagged during deep-net breaches—never overtly or more than once, but a calling card to the few elite enough to recognize it. A flare shot into the void that said: you weren’t supposed to catch me, but you did. Congrats. Try again next time.

Stelle’s entire body goes quiet.

But outwardly—she doesn’t react. Just rests a little heavier against Sunday, as if lulled by the soft rhythm of the scrolling screen.

He tilts his head, reading the message.

707_error:
you pissed Silver Wolf off??
damn. what did u even do

"…Who is that?" Sunday asks aloud, eyes narrowing at the screen. "Silver Wolf."

Stelle doesn’t speak. Her heart’s beating too loud in her ears.

The hacker, ever helpful, delivers the exposition in neat lines.

707_error:
ghost-tier hacker. never caught. allegedly cracked the core of the herta network in 12 minutes.
spends most of their time in sealed spaces running black ops for… idk. whoever can pay enough.
some say they're freelance. some say they only work for the same ghost group.
but if they left this for you? then congrats, you’re officially being toyed with by the closest thing we have to a digital deity.

Sunday’s fingers pause on the keyboard, nerves settling in his jaw.

Stelle doesn’t dare breathe, lest Sunday hears and thinks she's breathing a little too suspiciously.

Because why would Silver Wolf be targeting Sunday? Unless someone hired the Stellaron Hunters, for the very purpose of their existence: doing the dirty work of rich people, from underground.

She swallows. This is bad. This is so, so bad.

She keeps her face blank, her eyes only vaguely focused on the screen like none of this means anything to her. For all Sunday knows, she doesn’t know what that symbol means, she hasn’t seen it sketched into notepads, etched onto lockers, marked like a signature on some of the darkest corners of the old net.

She tucks herself closer to Sunday’s side. "Could anyone be impersonating her?" 

The screen goes quiet for a second.

707_error:
her…? lol.
you know SW personally orrrr?

Stelle nearly chokes.

Her spine locks up so fast it’s a miracle she doesn’t snap a rib. Sunday stills beside her, too, but doesn’t turn his head. She can feel his attention shift, though. The air stiffens along with the two of them.

She scrambles internally. Brain whirring like a cracked hard drive.

"No," she says, too quickly, then softens her tone with a small laugh. "I just… read a thread once. One of those conspiracy wikis. Said she talks in third person sometimes. Thought it was weird. Stuck with me."

It slips out smooth. Believable, calm. Thank you, Mr. Reca’s weird training regimen for newly rising stars.

On screen, the hacker seems to accept it.

707_error:
ahhh yeah. forgot about that.
she used to drop 'she's about to make u cry, that's what' mid PVP whenever someone was like 'what's sw doing?'. super dramatic. but like, funny.
we gamed a few times. she’s chill. really competitive. called me a data-snail once and then sent me a game skin as an apology.

The next ping comes with a slight pause.

707_error:
mr sunday, sir. can I ask: any reason why sw might be targeting u in particular?
aside from the obvious 'ur rich and annoying' thing?
like. u up to any dirty business? made enemies in ur elite boy club?

Sunday’s fingers pause on the keyboard. He thinks for a second.

"No," he says at last, cool and certain. His tone never wavers. "Aside from the IPC, I’ve maintained relatively neutral relations across the board. I have competitors, not enemies. If this is personal, then it isn’t personal on my side."

The cursor blinks.

Silence settles over them like dust in slow motion.

Sunday scrolls down through the last few lines, eyes sharpening, but his face stays eerily calm—he’s already filed this information into a mental drawer marked to eliminate later. His fingers twitch slightly against the keyboard, then relax.

On screen, 707 pings one last time.

707_error:
alrighty. gotta go compile all this into something readable. will send u the dump in an hour.
btw.
@miss shoulder-warmer:
u better have picked the correct answers, or u’ll get a bad end~☆
bye bye

The chat window closes with a soft ping.

Stelle stares at it, her stomach lurches to her throat. Who the hell is this guy? Did the Hunters replace her with another hacker? What was that insuniation?

Externally, she tilts her head, so painfully fake and casual. "He’s weird. But kinda fun."

Sunday, her poor, poor Sunday is still watching the screen, that faint crease between his brows back again. Thoughtful, and quiet, one gloved finger taps the edge of the keyboard. "I suppose we’ll know more when he sends the data dump."

"Right," she nods, feigning normalcy. "Looking forward to that riveting PDF."

Sunday finally looks at her then, scanning for anomalies in the code of her face. For the briefest moment, his expression softens, thank God, thank every deity above, it softens instead of sharpening.

"Are you alright?" he asks quietly.

"Me?" she blinks, innocently. "Yeah. Why?"

"You’re unusually quiet."

"I’m digesting. You fed me pancakes and a banana split. You expect coherent thoughts?"

His mouth twitches in a smile. "I suppose not."

And just like that, the thread breaks. The tension dissipates.

Stelle stays curled against him, brain buzzing like she’s wired to a live feed. Her body says she’s calm—relaxed, nestled under Sunday’s arm, fingers idly grazing the hem of his vest. But her mind is still moving in loops, and she can’t stop the question that crawls to the front of her thoughts.

"So… wait," She tilts her head just enough to glance up at him without looking too serious. "How does Silver Wolf tie into the mole theory?"

Sunday glances at her, then looks back to the laptop. He taps a few keys, pulls up a separate screen with the full breach map—colored node paths and data flow lines crisscrossing, a glowing nervous system.

"She doesn’t. Not directly. At least not based on what we’ve confirmed," he says. "But 707’s trace ran through our system. And it rerouted through a masked internal relay."

"Which means someone on the inside either let her in…" she trails off.

"Or," Sunday finishes for her, "she made it look like they did."

He magnifies one of the access logs. There’s a flash of an odd access timestamp rerouted three times, then cleaned perfectly at the terminal end. Seems used, but the imprint was rewritten.

"I’ve seen exactly two people capable of rewriting fingerprint data without tripping the backend logs," he explains. "One is the man I pay too much to monitor this system. The other…" His finger taps the corner of the screen, right over the signature 707 sent. "...is whoever Silver Wolf is."

Stelle swallows. "So either she’s covering someone’s tracks…"

"...or faking a mole to distract us," Sunday nods. "She’s creating noise. Enough to make me second guess my own people."

It clicks into place all at once—and the pieces make her stomach twist.

If there is a mole, it means someone in Halovian is feeding her access, opening doors and letting her dance through their defenses. But if there isn’t, then every single sign of sabotage has been planted. The timing, the data trails, the internal pings—they’re all stage cues in an elaborate performance.

And Sunday’s the audience.

"And you don’t know which it is yet," she says quietly.

"No," he replies. "But I will."

Her stomach churns at the idea that this entire game might have started because of her, but why? Why after all these years? She hasn't heard a single thing from them after Himeko took her in, at least not directly. Sometimes, Himeko would bring her trinkets and say they're from Kafka, but those ceased after she turned sixteen, and she hadn't dared to ask. She had thought that this history was behind her.

And now maybe Silver Wolf caught wind of her name and thought: wouldn’t that be fun.

"So…" she drawls softly, turning back toward the screen. "We’re either hunting a traitor…"

"Or being led by the nose," Sunday murmurs, "by someone who already knows what we’ll do next."

By this point, she can barely hear the hum of the laptop anymore. The guilt is crawling under her skin, spreading out in cold, prickling waves that leave her sick with dizzying nausea that no amount of denial can soothe.

This is your fault.

It keeps repeating in her head like a corrupted heartbeat.

This is your fault.

Because if Silver Wolf is involved… if that signature was real… if any of this ties back to the Stellaron Hunters, then Sunday is in the crossfire because of her. Because she showed up one day with no résumé, no paper trail, and a past full of people who knew exactly how to disappear from the map and take others down with them.

She swallows the rising bile, her arms curling tighter around herself without even realizing.

Maybe she could contact them. Not directly, obviously. But there were old channels, dead drops on the net that weren’t fully burned. Hidden spaces in ancient servers, code-language from the days she was still elbow-deep in it. She could try to reach out, see if she could reason with them.

But then her mind flashes back to Caelus.

What if they make him talk to her? What if they use him, dangle him, hurt him, just to keep her in check? She couldn't take it. Not after everything. Not after leaving him behind once.

She presses her face deeper into Sunday’s side, eyes burning.

She’s never hated her past more than in this moment—where Sunday sits tired and worn-thin beside her, still stroking her hair when she has poisoned his entire reality.

He gently brushes a few strands of hair away from her face, tucking them behind her ear.

"Hey," he murmurs, soothing. "Are you sleepy?"

She shakes her head mutely. She feels hollow. Words taste bitter in her mouth.

He watches her for a second longer, then smiles softly, one that should be reserved for precious things and not Stelle. "Are you worried?"

She gives him a wordless nod.

That makes him melt. His gaze downturns, softens, golden eyes easing into warm spring and honey. He closes the laptop without a sound, sets it to the side, then shifts again, guiding her gently into his lap. Her body moves without resistance, nearly limp against him, and he cups her cheek with his bare hand, warm skin to warmer poison.

"Don’t worry so much. These things happen when you run a company this size. It’s part of the landscape." His thumb strokes her cheek. "We'll resolve it. I always do."

What can she even say to him, what can she hope to do against such earnest, straightforward sincerity?

That he’s comforting her when he should be furious? That he’s calm while the ground beneath him is fraying, and it’s because she dragged ghosts to his doorstep without even realizing it?

She presses her forehead to his collarbone, breathing in the scent of his honeyed perfume, hoping it will somehow anchor her to this moment. Her chest aches.

Sunday pulls her closer, his hand warm against her cheek, thumb brushing gently along her jaw. He probably thinks she might crack if he lets go too soon. His other arm wraps fully around her, anchoring her in his lap, one palm spread across the small of her back with silent promise.

"I’ll keep you safe," he promises. "You don’t have to be afraid. No one will come near you."

Poor, sweet, clueless Sunday—it would be too cruel to correct him.

He thinks she’s scared for herself.

Thinks the way she’s curled into him, silent and limp, is about her own safety. That the fear in her eyes is fear for her life. That she’s the kind of girl who’s never brushed shoulders with the dangerous, the unclean, the people who don’t flinch before pulling a trigger, unaware that she knows how to hide a body, how to shoot back, to run when someone screams your name through a broken radio. She could navigate a warehouse full of enemies in pitch darkness and come out breathing, even if bleeding.

She’s not afraid for herself.

She could take a bullet from Kafka and it wouldn’t be a tragedy. Just something she'd deserved to have gotten long ago. She could vanish and no one except Dan Heng and March would actually cry for her. The world would move on, and someone else would fill her desk.

But Sunday—Sunday has everything to lose: A company, a future, a name that opens doors, a sister he loves more than anything in this world, a reputation, a legacy and people who consider him important, no matter how superficial.

She can’t let them take that from him.

So she buries her face against his shoulder and lets her worry show—but not how she’s worried. Not in a way that would give her away and unravel the carefully constructed lie of innocence she wears like armor.

And Sunday reads it all wrong.

He wraps her tighter, gently rocking her once like she’s a kitten startled by lightning. His voice stays low, soft in her ear, meant to be soothing, as his entire being is.

"I won’t let anyone hurt you, Stelle," he stresses it again. "Whatever’s coming, it won’t reach you. Not while I’m here."

She nods against him, because that’s the only thing she can do. His hand drifts to her hair again, fingers threading through the strands.

He must think she’s so fragile.

And maybe that’s for the best. Maybe letting him see her like this will keeping him from seeing everything else. Maybe it’s touching some part of his heart he keeps buried beneath three layers of pride and whatever walls he erects every day to keep himself safe.

She’s weaponizing her own grief, and it feels disgusting. But it’s the only way to keep him distracted, safe, for just a little longer.

A minute passes in silence.

Okay. Deep breath. Pull yourself together. She can’t let this be the tone of the entire day. He’ll never get any work done if she keeps melting into him like this, and she doesn’t want to see him bend over backward to soothe a version of her that doesn’t even exist. 

So pull herself together, she does.

The rest of the day unfolds like a loose thread.

Stelle drapes herself across various pieces of furniture much too similar to a housecat with no moral obligations, scrolling on her phone, half-watching some old documentary with terrible pacing and excellent accents. Sunday sits nearby—never quite sitting still, though. He’s flipping through data reports, typing terse responses to vaguely threatening emails, glowering at his laptop like it’s personally responsible for the betrayal of his firewalls.

She teases him a few times, and he just mutters something about ‘external interference vectors’ and ignores her in the way that means he’s listening to every word.

The sun dips, softening the entire room in gold. Around 8pm, Stelle stretches on the couch, arms over her head, a tiny little sigh escaping her mouth before she flops back dramatically.

"Do we have to go to work tomorrow?" she whines, seemingly out of nowhere. 

"Unfortunately, yes," Sunday replies without missing a beat. "Even tyrants must report to the system."

She groans. "Ugh. I should go home then..."

The sentence hangs in the air. She doesn’t really mean it. They both know she doesn’t mean it, because she doesn't want to leave, and she's shamefully hoping that he doesn't want to let her go.

Sunday, still staring at his screen, offers amicably, "It’s late now. Stay one more night."

"Okay," she accepts immediately. And it’s so  stupid how soft her voice comes out. How easy the answer is.

Way to go, Stelle. Would you jump if he told you to? Her dignity snaps in her head, and she scrunches her nose. Maybe if he asked gently enough, she thinks back, and immediately stops that line of thought.

God, she's so weird, and usually she's not embarrassed about it, but...ugh. She curls up smaller into the cushions, feeling heat rise to her cheeks, ashamed for how quickly she agreed. For how much she wanted to agree. How much she wants to stay and just to be near him. To sit by his side, to brush fingers, to lean in and feel the slow press of him against her again, even if it’s not much, even if it’s just his arm across her shoulder and his hand in her hair and it's so pathetic.

Dinner comes and goes, cozy, simple, and annoyingly tasty. Somehow, everything Sunday makes ends up tasting like it's blessed by culinary gods. Stelle briefly wonders if he secretly adds a generous dusting of cocaine to prepare a casual evening meal, but she remembers then that that's not how drugs work and wisely keeps that particular thought to herself.

An hour later finds Stelle draped lazily over the couch again, mindlessly playing Fire Emblem Sacred Stones on an old emulator she keeps on her phone. Sunday's still tapping away at his laptop, blue-light glasses perched delicately on his nose by this point—which, look unfairly attractive on him while doing something as mundane as answering emails, by the way. He only ever wears them when his eyes are way too tired.

She briefly contemplates flinging herself dramatically into his lap again just to see him fluster, but he's already shutting the laptop and carefully removing his glasses.

"Stelle," he begins quietly, turning his head towards her, tone gentle. "Would you like to join me for a bath?"

Stelle blinks at him, misplaces Neimi, and promptly loses her to an enemy.

"A bath?" she repeats dumbly.

He stares back, equally dumbly. "Yes?"

"Like..." she pauses, fighting down the sudden, traitorous surge of warmth climbing her spine, trying her absolute hardest to sound casual, "together?"

"Uh...That is what joining me implies, yes."

"Naked?"

Sunday tilts his head like a dumb dog, eyebrows drawing together with genuine confusion. "I...would hope so? It is—impractical to bathe clothed, no?"

Yeah, well. Teeny, tiny problem, Mr Sunday: Stelle still hasn't seen him naked. Even when he'd pinned her down and whispered filthy promises into her ear, she'd never gotten more than a glimpse of his bare collarbones and forearms. And his dick, but barely, so that doesn't count. It barely counts when she didn't get to touch! And now he's asking to just casually be naked together?

So, as any girl in her place would, she is short-circuiting. Kind of. A bath. With naked, unclothed Sunday. Naked Sunday in water. This man hasn’t even given her the courtesy of taking off his vest properly, and now he’s calmly proposing full nudity? Her mind is replaying every moment they've ever shared, trying to reconcile this absurdity with the memory of him quickly smoothing his clothes back up after thigh-fucking her like an ashamed priest.

Outside, though, she tries very, very hard to sound completely unbothered.

"Well," she drawls, squinting at him suspiciously, "this is new."

Sunday’s expression shifts from confusion to quiet puzzlement. "Is it?"

"Yes," she emphasizes, gesturing with her phone. "Considering last night, I wasn’t even sure you knew how to get naked."

Sunday blinks again, mouth opening, then closing silently. She can see him carefully replaying the previous night in his head. When it clicks, the faintest pink spreads slowly along his cheekbones.

"Oh," he murmurs quietly. "Ah. Right. I… was distracted. Clothes did seem somewhat irrelevant at the time."

"'Irrelevant'?" Stelle repeats flatly. "You were fully clothed. You looked like you were about to attend a gala."

Sunday briefly closes his eyes again. "Point taken. In hindsight, I see how that might’ve seemed odd."

"'Odd' doesn't even begin to cover it," she grumbles, but her lips curve in a way she can't quite suppress. "I’ve seen more skin in a church."

His mouth twitches. "I wasn’t aware my state of dress bothered you."

"It didn’t," she retorts, a bit too quickly. "Just thought it was part of your brand. Sophisticated villainy."

"I do bathe regularly, Stelle," he informs her gently, patiently, as if he’s explaining a basic concept to a child. "I also remove my clothes when doing so. Contrary to your beliefs, I don’t shower in three-piece suits."

She smirks, setting her phone aside. "Are you sure? Because that’s exactly how I've pictured your morning routine. Shower gel in one hand, briefcase in the other."

Sunday sighs quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I’m not that strange."

"You are," Stelle insists.

He gives her a look, fond and exasperated. "Do you want to join me or not?"

She pauses dramatically, tapping a finger to her chin. She’s trying very hard not to combust at the mere idea of him standing in front of her without a single stitch of clothing—but outwardly, she's making it look like she's considering a very casual offer to grab coffee instead.

"Fine," she eventually concedes.

He sighs, long and deep, but there's the tiniest smile curling the corner of his mouth. "Come along, then."

She stands, trailing after him toward the stairs, already mentally preparing herself for the possibility of spontaneously combusting the moment he sheds his shirt. But Sunday just calmly leads her upstairs, blissfully unaware of the internal havoc he's wreaking.

She follows him into the pristine marble-tiled bathroom, trying not to look overly impressed or overly anxious or overly anything. But she can't help the fluttering in her stomach as he starts running the water, carefully testing the temperature as if it's a lab experiment.

He's completely calm, entirely unselfconscious, focused solely on whether the bath is adequately heated, utterly oblivious to the way Stelle is currently waging a fierce battle against her own raging hormones.

When he finally stands straight and moves his hands to undo his vest buttons, she watches fixated. It's a bit embarrassing. 

His vest goes, then his shirt falls away from his body with a casual motion, and Stelle—who has faced death, betrayal, and thirty-hour unpaid work weeks with Madam Herta—very nearly meets her end.

Because oh.

He is, without exaggeration, perfect.

Not in the way men in magazines are perfect, all carved muscle and visible veins and ridiculous bulges. No. Sunday’s perfection is a different, almost unsettling breed: smooth, pristine skin, pale and fine like porcelain, not a scar or mark in sight. His shoulders are as broad as they appear under all those suits, and his chest is pleasantly flat, unburdened by any unnecessary muscle. He is so softly lined, a gentleness in his shape that looks almost unreal, as if someone had sculpted him without ever letting the world touch him afterward.

And he is—glowing? Somehow, his skin glows under the soft bathroom light, like he’s been kissed by the world's most flattering sunbeam. Looking like he’s not mortal at all, but some high-spec prototype of human grace still in beta-testing.

Stelle’s brain short-circuits so violently she almost drops her towel.

She tears her gaze away, pretending very hard to suddenly find the bath taps fascinating, the soap dispenser riveting. Anything to keep from launching herself across the room and ruining what is clearly supposed to be a relaxing, nonsexual experience for him.

Sunday, for his part, moves about calmly, reaching down to turn off the running water, then casually tugging off the rest of his clothes without even sparing her a glance, as if he hasn’t just shattered her entire sense of self-control like glass under a boot.

Okay. Okay. She can be normal. She can do this. She can be cool. She's a cool girl. She’s so cool she’s practically ice. She’s going to get into the bath like a normal person and sit there and not think about how easily she could pull him into her lap and—

Sunday steps in, graceful as always, and lowers himself into the water with a pleased sigh, sinking into the spacious bath.

She strips mechanically, tossing his borrowed pajamas onto a nearby stool, keeping her movements brisk and efficient the way she used to whenever she had to wear Reca's ridiculous set costumes tailored by whoever the fuck. Then she steps into the enormous bath, the hot water kissing her skin in an instant wave of relief, and settles quickly onto the opposite end, as far away from him as possible without physically exiting the tub.

Knees drawn close to her chest, arms curled lightly around them for protection, she positively looks like a loser, probably. The bath smells faintly of strawberry and things Stelle hasn't smelled in her entire life because of course Sunday wouldn’t use basic-ass soap like a normal person.

Sunday blinks across at her, sitting languid and comfortable against the other edge of the tub, hands folded under the water, his hair slightly mussed from the steam.

He frowns unexpectedly. "Why are you so far away?"

Stelle tightens her grip on her knees. "I'm, uh—" she casts around wildly for an excuse. "Keeping the heat balanced."

Sunday stares at her dumbly.

"...The heat," he repeats, very seriously, as if genuinely understand some scientific principle he's never encountered.

"Yeah," she says, nodding vigorously. "Surface tension and stuff. Thermal equilibrium. You wouldn't get it."

There’s a painful, pregnant pause.

Then, devastatingly, Sunday hums thoughtfully, shifting to a more comfortable position as he processes this information. 

"I see," he says at last, with a grave nod, as though she's just taught him a new and critical piece of engineering wisdom. "Very considerate of you."

Stelle almost sinks under the water and drowns herself out of pure secondhand embarrassment.

"You’re welcome," she says stiffly, chin lifting, like she just did him a grand favor and not just avoided throwing herself across the bath like a feral animal.

Sunday tilts his head in response, studying her posture—huddled, defensive, very much not the casual nakedness he probably expected—and then looks back at the still-steaming surface of the water between them.

"But," he prompts carefully, "this tub is designed for two people. The heat should distribute evenly across the volume."

She glares at him. "Are you implying your fancy bathtub isn’t broken in very specific scientific ways?"

He blinks slowly. "I... would never impugn your scientific acumen."

"Good."

Another pause. Sunday leans back a little further, gathering hot water in his hands to let it drip onto his shoulders, a completely innocent and idle gesture someone would do in a bath. The muscles of his forearms flex very slightly under the skin and Stelle has to physically look away to keep from doing something criminal.

"You seem tense," he observes mildly.

"I’m always tense," she snaps back, a little too quickly. "It’s my natural state. Like a possum in headlights."

Sunday smiles faintly, soft, indulgent. It makes her want to slap the water at him like a delinquent child. "I thought possums played dead, not tense."

"They tense first," she says firmly. "Then they die."

"Ah," Sunday raises a finger. "So this is the pre-death phase."

"Exactly," she mutters, looking away.

He regards her a moment longer, steam curling softly between them, and then, very gently, he offers, "You don’t have to stay so far away, you know."

"Yeah," her cheeks burn as she stares firmly at her own knees. "I know."

"You’re allowed to relax," he continues, still terribly earnest, still terribly well-intentioned. "I’m not going to pounce on you."

"I know," she snaps again, because of course she knows, because Sunday is too decent and polite and catastrophically restrained to do anything she actually wants him to do.

He falls quiet. He is quite content, apparently, to let her stew.

She hugs her knees tighter to her chest, peeking up at him through wet lashes.

He looks...perfect. Ridiculous. Luminous.
All sleek wet skin and long limbs, sunk comfortably into the hot water like some damn sea deity on vacation, and it’s so unfair how naturally he wears it. He isn’t even aware of what a goddamn vision he is.

She closes her eyes.

I am strong. I am composed. I am not going to jump him. I am a monk. I am—

She peeks again.

I am going to kill myself.

"Stelle," Sunday adresses softly, a note of amusement creeping into his voice now, because he has definitely noticed she keeps stealing glances like a guilty cat. "You're staring."

"Am not."

"You are."

"Prove it."

"You’ve looked at me no fewer than seven times in the last thirty seconds."

"Shut up."

Sunday does, but not without a suppressed laugh. Bastard. Does he even know? Stelle's trying so hard not to ruin his little intimate moment, and he laughs at her? The audacity of this man.

No matter. She'll be good. She will.

She'll sit here politely, like a civilized human being, and not think about the fact that this is possibly the most beautiful, ridiculous man on Earth and he invited her into a bath for no reason other than... he just wanted to share it with her. Nothing filthy. No ulterior motives. Just a bath.

Sunday closes his eyes again, letting the heat soak into his bones, and Stelle sinks a little deeper into the water.

A minute or two pass. But of course, peace never lasts with this dude around.

"Stelle," Sunday says very calmly into the silence, eyes still closed, voice so soft and smooth it barely ripples across the bathwater.

She croaks out a flat, defensive, "What," immediately.

"Come here," he murmurs, without so much as twitching a muscle.

She squints her eyes. "Why?"

Sunday exhales, long-suffering, and sure, she’s the one being difficult, but still. "Because you're all the way over there."

"I live over here now," she says immediately. "This is my new country. I've founded it. Population: me."

His mouth curls, but he doesn't open his eyes. "You're being ridiculous."

"And you're being suspicious!" she counters. "I'm not falling for it."

"Falling for what?"

"Your trap," she accuses, pointing a wet, dramatic finger at him. "I know how this goes. You act all calm and quiet and mysterious, and then bam—next thing I know, you're accusing me of being indecent and inappropriate and messing with me like you always do."

One of his eyes peeks open at that. "Are you serious?"

"You know what you are," she mutters.

Sunday chuckles, a ripple against her already unstable composure. "Come here," he says again, still so gentle and warm. 

"No," 

"Please?"

"No."

"I'll share my bath salts," he offers as some kind of sacred diplomatic bargaining chip.

She snorts. "Bribery. Shameless."

"Luxury-grade," he adds helpfully. "French-imported."

"I don't care if you smuggled them from Atlantis," she growls, stubborn.

Sunday finally opens both eyes, gazing at her with unholy patience. "Stelle. I am not plotting your untimely demise. Nor am I planning to compromise your virtue."

"I don't have virtue," she says immediately.

"Then you have nothing to fear."

Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "That’s not the point!"

"Then what is?" he asks, genuinely curious.

Stelle flounders, splashing a little as she tries to come up with something—anything—that sounds like a good reason not to slide across this damn tub and land directly in his waiting orbit. His chest is gleaming with little rivulets of water, every inch of him screaming come hither and die happy.

"It’s—it’s the principle," she comes up finally, grasping at straws.

Sunday raises a lazy eyebrow. "The principle of avoiding comfort and affection?"

"I don't trust you," she says bluntly. "I’ll stay over here. Where it’s safe."

"Stelle."

"What."

"You're being very dramatic."

"And you’re being very suspicious."

"I simply wish to hold you," he says, so soft and helpless that it makes her want to coo a little.

Stelle glares at him for another stubborn second longer—then, with a dramatic, suffering sigh, she gives up. Fine. Whatever. At least it's out of her hands now.

She slides across the steaming water, graceless and reluctant, very similar to a cat being dragged across a kitchen counter, until she’s within arm’s reach. And of course, Sunday, being the opportunistic villain he is, wastes no time. His hands settle on her waist, warm and firm, and he tugs her neatly against him, cradling her to himself.

She ends up tucked back against his chest, knees floating awkwardly for a second before she begrudgingly lets herself relax. His arms wrap easily around her middle: possessive, sheltering, unshakably sure, and the ridiculous part is that it feels so good she wants to bite something out of sheer self-defense, because she seriously doesn't even know what to do with herself. 

"Happy?" she grumbles, trying not to sink further into his embrace, because it's so embarrassing. 

"Very," Sunday breathes against the top of her head softly, and then, without even letting her relax first, he leans down, mouth brushing against the side of her neck.

Stelle should be and would be mad if it was filthy, but it's not. t’s not even greedy. It's just a soft, thoughtless, kiss, the kind you don’t even think to offer unless you’ve already decided, somewhere deep down, that this person is yours to kiss like that.

Stelle exhales a quiet little noise, and much to her dismay, doesn’t even think about doing anything except tipping her head faintly to the side to give him more room.

Soft lips meet her softer skin over and over in fleeting kisses, and her fingers, floating aimlessly in the water, tighten around the wrist he has braced across her stomach. She presses into him more fully, shoulder blades brushing his chest, letting the weight of her settle.

At some point, she relaxes so much that her fingers fall limp and then down from his wrist. Taking advantage of her pliant state, his fingers trace lazy patterns along her ribs under the water, drifting higher and then lower, featherlight, just idly mapping her out, claiming her like a cartographer sketching new territory. 

It’s distracting. It’s ridiculously comforting. But Stelle refuses to comment, refuses to dignify it or to admit to herself how good it feels to be touched so thoughtlessly, so affectionately.

Instead, she tilts her head back further until she can just barely glance up at him.

"So," she mutters, voice scratchy with sleepiness and residual attitude, "this is what high society people do for fun? Naked water loafing?"

Sunday snorts quietly against her damp hair. "Water loafing is a time-honored tradition," he says solemnly. "Especially among the aristocracy."

"Wow," she deadpans. "I’m living the dream. All I need now is a monocle and a scandalous affair."

"You’re already having one," Sunday smiles against her temple, his fingers tracing up along her side again.

Stelle scoffs. "Excuse me, I’m not scandalous. I’m very respectable."

"Of course you are," He hums, and it's so indulgent, so transparently humoring, that she twists her neck to squint at him. It cracks a bit. Ouch.

"You don't believe me."

"I believe you are technically an employee who slept with her boss," he remarks idly, brushing a thumb along the curve of her waist under the water. "That alone places you firmly in scandal territory."

"You seduced me," she counters immediately.

His mouth curves, shameless. "Did I?"

"You lured me with your evil CEO wiles."

"Ah," Sunday says, sounding very grave about this revelation. "That explains it."

"It does." She huffs, elbowing him lightly in the ribs. "You're, like, textbook corrupting influence. You’re practically a case study."

Sunday chuckles low in his chest, tightening his arms a little to tuck her in his arms more snugly, afraid she might drift away if he lets go for even a second. "Tell me more," he whispers near her ear, sounding devastatingly amused. "What else am I guilty of?"

She sighs and slumps back against him, glaring at his marble tiles. "Illegal levels of pretentiousness."

"Mm."

"Weaponized charm."

"A serious offense."

"Also," she continues, and wiggles slightly against his lap just to be a menace, "manslaughter."

Sunday blinks down at her, genuinely startled. "Manslaughter?"

"You kill my brain cells," she declares, pinching his arm lightly. "Every time you do that voice thing."

He lets out a helpless laugh against her hair. "That's not how manslaughter works."

"Tell it to the jury, Mr. Sunday," she sniffs, feeling him chuckle again, the vibrations rumbling pleasantly against her spine.

Sunday is too distracted by fondling and kneading her that he forgets to reply. This freak.

Stelle stretches her toes along the far side of the tub with a soft little groan, while Sunday’s hand trails down her arm to catch her wrist under the water, thumb stroking gently over her pulse.

"You know," she says after a moment, eyes still closed, "if you wanted an excuse to grope me, you could’ve just said so."

"I’m holding you," he says with great, fake dignity. "There’s a difference."

"Sure there is."

"There is," he insists sweetly, letting her wrist go and gliding his palm up to cup one of her breasts instead, spreading his fingers slow across her skin to squeeze. "This is nurturing. Wholesome."

"You’re a pervert."

"I'm nurturing," he repeats helpfully, as if that somehow cancels out the fact that he's doing whatever the hell with her body.

She laughs, low and delighted, tilting her head back even more against his shoulder, letting the steam and the weight of him press her further under whatever strange spell this whole thing has become.

"Gonna tuck me in with a bedtime story next?" she muses. 

"Why not? You do have a weird fixation on my voice."

"Not my fault. Have you heard yourself?"

He kisses just below her ear. "Runs in the family, I suppose.”

She snickers under her breath, feeling so stupidly safe she could cry, feeling so soft she could melt into the bathwater entirely and try to get absorbed through his skin just to be closer. Instead, she just shifts a bit in the warm liquid, letting him rearrange her without protest and hold her even though she’s a bad investment that will bring misfortune to him sooner or later.

After a while, she pads out of the bathroom first, towel haphazardly wrapped around her hair, skin still flushed and warm from the bath. Sunday follows after, patting the tips of his hair dry with an unnecessary amount of poise. He might as well be a water nymph. Freak. 

Stelle, who is now clad in a pair of comfortable, probably ridiculously expensive cotton underwear and one of Sunday’s oversized sweaters that smells sufficiently fresh and clean, flops face-first onto his king-sized bed. The stupid thing is so comfortable that she's sure it's been woven out of angel wings with the taxpayer money he's been exploiting his poor employees for. She sinks so deep she nearly disappears into the mattress, sprawling like a starfish, one leg kicked over a pillow in utter, undignified bliss.

She should be asleep.

Instead, she is lying there, limbs stretched across half the bed in a dying Victorian maiden way, simmering quietly in a deeply unfortunate cocktail of residual horniness and existential angst, and eventually, her frustration tips over.

She scowls into the ridiculous five-hundred-thread-count pillow.

"Sunday," she says flatly, voice muffled by the pillow.

From somewhere nearby, he hums softly. "Yes?"

"Am I unattractive to you?"

The sound of the towel stops entirely, and a deafening silence follows.

"...What?" Sunday blurts, so bewildered it’s almost funny.

Stelle pushes herself up onto her elbows, glaring over her shoulder at him. "I’m asking if you find me sexually appealing, Mr. CEO."

Sunday, hair damp and towel slung around his shoulders, is just standing there, holding the ends of it in both hands, blinking at her like she’s just asked him to explain quantum physics in Turkish or some equally complicated language.

"I—what?" he repeats helplessly. "Is—is that not obvious?"

She rolls onto her back, arms flopping out. "No it’s not," she says, very seriously. "You fingered me to near-orgasm this morning, and then did nothing afterward. And then in the bath you groped me for like half an hour and didn’t even bother to get a boner."

He makes such a helpless noise in his throat that she's scared he's choking for a second, but she's more frustrated than anything else at the moment.

"So," she continues mercilessly, "I have to ask. Am I hideous? Repulsive? A blight upon your otherwise meticulously curated existence?"

Sunday exhales loudly through his nose. "Stelle," he addresses patiently, "first of all, I stopped this morning because you needed breakfast. You hadn't eaten."

"I was fine," she insists, flopping her hand at him limply.

"You were not fine. You were trembling like a baby deer in my arms."

"I was trembling because you kissed me silly," she says petulantly.

"Alright, let's say you were," Sunday relents, so exasperated it loops back around to fondness. "And what was I supposed to do? Ravish you unconscious and then drag your limp body to brunch?"

She blinks at him, considering this. "That would've been fine."

Sunday drops his head forward with a long-suffering sigh. "God help me."

"And the bath?" she presses.

Sunday lifts his head again to look at her. "The bath," he says, very calmly, "was supposed to be relaxing. I was trying to avoid...complicating it."

"Complicating it how?"

"By," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose, "being respectful and giving you space instead of...jumping you like some depraved animal the second we got naked together."

"You could’ve at least gotten a little hard," she mutters under her breath.

Sunday makes a noise like a dying bird. "I can’t control that," he says, scandalized.

"Can’t you?" 

"Stelle," he croaks, voice tight with restraint, "I have been fighting for my life since you set foot in my bath. Do you understand? My life."

She finally grins at that. Good. If she's suffering, so should he. "Fighting what? Horny impulses?"

"You make it sound so crass," He sounds so despaired at this point. "But yes."

"And losing?" she prompts, delighted.

He glares at her. "You were huddled in the corner of the bath like an abused raccoon. I wasn’t going to...advance on you."

"I wasn’t that pathetic."

"You were," he says grimly. "You were curled up like a baby."

“Okay,” She huffs. "Whatever."

Then comes a sigh in a long breath from him, and he crosses the small distance between them in two slow, careful steps. He sits at the edge of the bed beside her, folding the towel in his hands in two and setting it on the bed absently before turning to her.

The way he cups her cheeks in his hands, tilting her face up toward him is so gentle she feels liquid. Knows she's not, but feels as if she’s something fragile, breakable, too precious to be handled with anything but the utmost care.

"Stelle," he rasps, "do you really think I want to just jump you?"

She frowns, more defensive than she wants to admit, the corners of her mouth pulling downward.

He thumbs over her cheekbones, so soft it’s dizzying. "Do you think I’m some beast who sees you and loses all reason?"

All she can do is just scowl up at him, stupidly vulnerable, stupidly embarrassed, because she knows he’s not like that. She knows. But the part of her that aches and hungers and wants him so desperately it feels like starvation—that part still thrashes and claws and howls inside her chest.

His palms ground her, and quiet the storm a little, achingly tender, a flame snuffed out in the palm of a soft hand.

"I want to take care of you," he whispers quietly. "I want to cherish you, not consume you. You are not a thing to be used up and cast aside."

His thumbs stroke over her cheeks again, lifting her face up a bit.

"My desire for you," he continues, slow and soothing, "doesn’t begin or end at your body."

Ow. Okay. It hurts, somehow, hearing him say it like that. Because now she feels like she’s more than just some brat he humors, something he treasures—all the while she’s been gnawing her own heart out trying to figure out how to ask for more without sounding desperate and disturbing his peace with her own indecent desire.

Stelle pouts, deeply, lower lip jutting out without her permission. She tries to glare at him but it’s wobbly, pathetic, and stupid, but still he just looks at her like she’s the most precious thing he's ever seen.

Now she feels bad. Really bad, horrifyingly, maddeningly bad.

"I just..." she mutters, voice catching awkwardly. "I just want you too, okay?"

His brows soften. "I know," he smiles, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, catching the edge of her trembling pout.

"I wanna—" she flushes, frustrated, she's not even sure how to say it without sounding insane. "I wanna merge. With you. Or something. Like a weird flesh amoeba."

“Oh, Stelle,” Sunday lets out a helpless sigh, his forehead dropping against hers. His hands still cradle her face like she’s made of spun glass. "I am so hopelessly taken with you." 

Before she can even react to that, he huffs another soft laugh against her lips, and kisses her.

Just a soft, testing press of his mouth against hers, barely there, honey-sweet and tender.

But then Stelle sighs quietly into him, melting immediately and quite helplessly, and that's all it takes for Sunday’s hands to slide down to her jawline, angling her face just right, and the kiss deepens—slow, sinking, devastating.

Their mouths fit together too well. Stelle fists her hands into the front of the soft fabric of his top, and pulls him down closer, wanting more, wanting everything and to dissolve into him, into the soft heat of his mouth and the steady strength of his body and the care that radiates from every pore of his skin and spills onto hers, leaving little burning trails everywhere he touches.

Trembling a little, because it's so easy to when he kisses her like that, she lets herself get lost in it—in him—in the feeling of finally, finally being wanted back, with desperation, hunger, softness and ache altogether.

Sunday smiles against her lips, the curve of it slow and fond, and kisses her again deep and lingering, gently pushing her back on the bed until there’s no space left between them at all.

Their mouths collide again, messy now, teeth knocking lightly in their eagerness. His hands slide greedily over her waist, her hips, utterly unable to decide where he wants to anchor her first. Every kiss deepens, lingers, leaves them both more breathless than the last.

Stelle breaks away for half a second to suck in air, her lips flushed and slick, and immediately giggles against his mouth, like she's sixteen again and kissing her crush in the back of the school building. "You are so weird about everything."

Sunday laughs breathlessly, a warm, rare laugh that rumbles against her chest where he’s pressing her down into the mattress. "You wound me," he breathes. "I am...very elegant, actually."

"Elegant?" she scoffs, tangling her fingers in his soft hair and tugging just to watch his eyes go half-lidded. "Okay, sure. But you'll ravish me now. Right? Right?"

"In an elegant way," Sunday corrects between kisses, biting down softly on her lower lip, the plush muscle caught between his teeth before he lets go. "Because I am refined."

"And insane," she huffs, tongue flicking over his bottom lip. "You're a crazy person. A lunatic."

"How mean," he rasps against her mouth. "As if you're any better."

She kicks a lazy leg around his waist, hauling him closer. "I'm—" a lazy kiss to below her ear, "—charming about it."

He pauses. "And I'm not?"

"Uh..." She tries to come up with a witty comeback, but his hands have already slipped under her sweater and that's her brain's cue to turn off. "Sure. Whatever. Shut up."

He laughs again as if any of this is funny. She'll show him funny, hilarious even, once he stops pressing his lips on the sensitive expanse of her thraot. His long fingers slide beneath the hem of the oversized sweater, the pads of them ghosting up her sides, learning her by heart. They trace her waist, her ribs, the underside of her breasts without ever touching the places she needs him to, and it’s driving her insane.

Sunday buries his face against the curve where her neck meets her shoulder and exhales slow and warm against her skin, making her whimper embarrassingly.

"Patience," he murmurs. "I want to do this properly."

"Go any slower and I'm going to combust," she hisses, nails dragging uselessly against his back.

"I would rather you not," He gives a light squeeze to her waist. "I am quite attached to you alive."

Attached, her mind repeats, brain hiccupping over the word. He said attached. She's doomed.

While she’s still struggling to form a single coherent thought, his mouth slides lower, warm and open against her chest, his tongue flickering wickedly at the top swell of her breasts, one of his hands drifts down, slipping under the band of her cotton underwear.

The second he brushes her with just the barest pressure, Stelle’s patience snaps like an overdrawn bowstring.

She catches his wrist in a vice grip so sudden he jolts, blinking up at her owlishly.

"If you tease me any more," she warns, voice shaking with fury and lust in equal measure, "I'm going to start crying."

Poor, poor Sunday—hand still trapped under her death grip, stares down at her completely stunned.

"No more hand stuff," she glares at him so hard it would probably scare off a wrathful minor god. "Fuck me properly, or I'm going to sleep and become the remains the police find in your house. And I am dead serious."

He looks so helpless she almost feels bad. His golden eyes blink down at her, a deer caught mid-sprint—heh, who's the deer now, asshole?—wide-eyed and startled, pinned by her unrelenting will.

His fingers flex faintly where she holds his wrist captive. "Okay," he relents hastily, voice a little too high and earnest. "Okay, noted, understood, but I—" he gestures vaguely at his captive limb. "I still need my hand."

She narrows her eyes, not loosening her grip. "For what."

He swallows like he’s facing a live bomb. His voice comes out so patient, so coaxing, it’s almost patronizing. "Stelle," he says gently, trying not to spook her into clawing his face off, "I’m not a duck. I can’t just," he continues carefully, "steer down there blindly and hope it finds you on its own."

She stares at him, utterly betrayed by the mental image of Sunday as a duck paddling desperately into uncharted waters.

"I need to use my hands," he tries again with painstaking patience.

There’s a long pause, the only sound between them the rasp of both their breathless panting and the faint rustle of the bedcovers as he remains utterly, painfully still under her hand.

She glowers at him, squinting hard enough to bore a hole through his forehead, debating whether to trust him or not.

Sunday leans down a little, the skin of his forehead warm against hers.

"Stelle, my dear. My lovely, lovely girl," he pleads, all velvet and no sharpness. At the moment, she’s basically a star and he’s begging for the privilege to orbit. "Please?"

Well, if he coos at her like that, how is she supposed to stay strong? Finally, with a dramatic huff, she releases his wrist, clutching the sheets in her fist like a petulant toddler.

"Sweet girl," the endearments slip so easily from his mouth and into the heat of her belly, the words so full of affection it physically hurts. "Thank you."

Pretending she’s still mad, she huffs again, but the way her thighs shift restlessly, the way her hands twitch toward him—she’s already betraying herself.

After that, their clothes peel away slow and clumsy. Sunday tugs the sweater over her head with aching care, unwrapping her as if she's a gift too precious to risk tearing, and she shimmies out of her underwear, leaving herself bare to the cool air and his golden, burning gaze.

He sheds his own clothes with far less fanfare, and when he settles back over her, the heat of his body pins her down deliciously, chest to chest, hips to hips, nothing left between them now but sheer, burning want.

Stelle, curious (and frankly overdue for it, since she was too far gone to get a look yesterday), peeks down between them, eyes catching on his cock where it presses heavy against her thigh.

Oh.

Oh, okay.

Thank God.

It’s—well, it’s nice.

Not a monster. Not comically tiny. Perfectly normal. Maybe even slightly longer than average, enough to make her stupid brain buzz with deeply inappropriate gratitude.

She thanks every god in the pantheon above—every forgotten, dusty deity she can mentally scramble up—that Sunday, for all his stupid, unfair perfection in every other aspect of his life, is also perfectly sculpted where it counts.

Of course he is. Of course he is. 

She scowls. Okay, now she's kind of irritated. Because how dare he.

How dare he be kind, brilliant, absurdly handsome, and also stupidly, idiotically ideal in the dick department. It’s obscene. Stelle has never seen anyone this...this out of the world in her life before, and she knows Herta, she has dated Sampo Koski and Sparkle herself, she has worked under Reca and took three classes from Veritas Ratio for four years straight.

Meanwhile, Sunday, blissfully unaware of the furious existential spiral happening in her brain, is busy palming her waist and ass in slow, greedy passes, mouthing at her breasts like he has nowhere else he needs to be at for the rest of his life.

Kneading the curve of one breast lazily, his tongue flicks out just to taste her, then hums against her skin, one hand digging into the soft flesh of her hip, and it’s good. It’s so good, to be touched like this, without restraint, to be fondled like she's nothing more than a slob of flesh for his hands and his alone.

But it’s not enough.

"Sunday," she whines, wriggling underneath him, voice breaking embarrassingly into a high, needy little sound. "Please just—put it in already."

He lifts his head, gaze lowered to half of its usual sunset glow. "So demanding," he chides, fingertips digging to the curve of her waist.

"Sunday," she drawls again, properly now, all breath and desperation, spine arching into him in a perfect curl, seeking, pleading, furious with need.

"Alright, impatient thing," he sighs fondly. "Anything you want."

His hips shift just enough to slot against hers. He gently unlatches her legs from around his waist and pushes them both up with one hand under her knees, catching himself at her entrance with the other, rubbing the leaking head of his cock against her soaked folds, smearing slick heat where she’s already dripping for him.

The smallest, most helpless noise breaks free from her mouth as he presses forward, finally, finally pushing forward—just thick enough to stretch, the glide obscene from how embarrassingly wet she is from minimal amount of foreplay and maximum amount of frustration. She feels herself split open around him, all the way until he bottoms out and there’s nowhere left inside her he hasn’t filled.

She lets out a winded breath, eyes fluttering shut for a second, nails digging firmly into the soft fabric of his sheets, overwhelmed already and all he did was push inside. 

Above her, Sunday lets out a broken sound and folds her nearly in half with both hands propped firmly on the back of her thighs, bending her so sharp and deep she feels practically mounted, helpless and bared completely to his weight, cock dragging through her pulsing walls.

Just like he is with everything, Sunday is apparently too above rushing and driving into her like an animal too, so it starts slow. He ruts into her several times, unhurried, just small rolls of his hips that make her feel more filled than fucked, the head of him grinding right against the sweet, tender spot inside that makes her mouth fall open in a soundless cry.

"Su–uh...God..." Her voice is too shaky to even be considered coherent. "Mmh...Told you to—ah...hurry..."

"Ssshh," he soothes, and that's all it takes for her mind to settle as he rocks into her with lewd, syrup-thick thrusts. "I know you did, but I know better, okay?"

Every roll of his hips punches out a desperate, broken little breath from her lungs, the bed creaking quietly under the heavy, steady weight of him stretching her open. 

It's not fair. Nothing about him is fair—how deep and slow he moves, how perfectly he fills her, steady and firm, dragging her pleasure out like spun sugar. She whimpers softly beneath him, fingers weakly twitching against the sheets as the fight slowly drains from her limbs, leaving her helpless and trembling under the relentless, gentle rhythm of his cock pulling out to the crown of it and easing back in with a lewd sound.

She feels herself going limp as Sunday holds her bent nearly double, driving deeper into her with patient rolls of his hips, her mind blanking out entirely—melting, unraveling, dissolving into nothing but soft mewls and faint shudders.

The flushed skin of her shoulder, the side of her neck—all greet his lips shyly, soothing nothings get murmured into her pores, voice breathy and sweet and cruelly patient as he grinds into her, slow enough to drive her mad, deep enough to make her sob softly against his shoulder.

"Sunday..." she manages to repeat, voice a fragile thread, his name the only word that flashes in her blank mind, unraveling faster with each careful press of his cock inside her.

"I'm here," he whispers, wet lips brushing the sensitive hollow below her ear. "I'm here, Stelle. What is it?"

His voice is so soft it doesn't even feel like it touches her skin—it sinks straight into her bloodstream, warm and heavy, thickening everything inside her until breathing feels like swimming through cotton, and all he's done is nearly nothing.

She opens her mouth to answer—really, she tries, but all that comes out is a shaky whimper, high and broken, her arms curling above her ribs protectively as if she can keep him from grinding so deep and good if she clenches her muscles hard enough. 

Words scatter from her brain like startled birds at his question, leaving nothing but hot, burning need and the molten ache pooling in her belly and drooling down her stretched hole.

"U—uhh...Ah—" she tries again, but it's useless, all the vowels slipping into each other, collapsing into a helpless, bitten-off moan as he grinds in. Her vision whites out.

"Can't even speak," he croons, too soothing for the way he's rocking into her. "Poor thing."

His hips roll again, faster this time, and Stelle squeals—raw, breathless, she can't bite it down fast enough.

She shamefully writhes underneath him, whining, thrashing weakly against the firm hands holding her bent open, but Sunday just shushes her again, kissing her throat, his grip tightening around her thighs.

"Easy," he breathes, right into her ear. "I've got you, Stelle. You're okay."

"Feels like I'll pass ouh–ht," She sobs, and it's true—her head's dizzy, her vision's blurring.

"Does it, now?" His eyes land on her half-lidded and hazy. "Good or bad?"

"Good," She rasps. " 's good..."

His lips curl in a small smile. "Good. You're being so, so good, Stelle."

The words melt right into the heat inside, and his pace picks up a little, the obscene sound of it filling the room alongside her broken sobs.

Her calves shake uncotrollably where they're propped up on his shoulders stretched wide and helpless, every muscle trembling with the strain of how much he’s working her open.

"So proud of you," he whispers, so patient, so sweet, even as he keeps fucking into her faster now, wrecking her from the inside out with every steady, brutal thrust. "So pliant when you want to be."

Heat coils in her gut while he keeps at it for a while, then the friction inside her, relentless and perfect, snaps abruptly when Sunday suddenly pulls out, leaving Stelle blinking dazedly at the ceiling, hips twitching helplessly with loss.

"W-what—" she croaks, brain scrambling to form a coherent protest, "Hey, asshole—"

"Patience," Sunday interrupts with an amused huff, gentle hands guiding her limp body onto her side, rearranging her until her back meets his chest, skin flush to skin, warm breath fanning her shoulder blade. "You needed a moment, and I wanted you closer."

"I was literally—" she pants, irritated, squirming indignantly as his fingers curl around her thigh and hitch it smoothly upward, spreading her open again, "—so close to coming."

"I'm aware," Sunday replies mildly, sounding entirely too composed. "I want to hold you properly when you do."

"You're a sick, sick person," Stelle mutters darkly, petulantly, her head tipping back against his shoulder, trying to glare but losing her focus entirely when his cock nudges insistently against her entrance again.

He chuckles against her hair, warm and irritating. "You'll thank me later."

"Doubt it," she snaps breathlessly—but her irritation dissolves instantly into a choked moan as he pushes back in, sliding deep and slow, sinking into her fully until she's stuffed so full once more.

Out of pure instinct, she clenches reflexively around him, her body trembling helplessly as he settles inside snugly, his chest warm against her back. One arm curls securely around her waist beneath her, fingertips skimming downward until they find the swollen heat of her clit, making her jerk violently.

"Fuck—oh-"

"Better?" Sunday asks warmly, nuzzling softly against her neck. His hand travels upward for a moment, flattens low over her belly, pressing down gently but firmly. "Feel me right here?"

"Oh my god—" A sharp whine finds its way out of her lips, arching into his touch, dizzy at the pressure. "You—ah!—absolute freak."

With all the audacity in the world, Sunday chuckles low in her ear, hips snapping forward, grinding deeper into her aching walls, making her thighs tremble. "Awfully rude to the person rearranging your insides so thoughtfully, aren’t you?"

She sputters out something unintelligible, half gasp, half whimper. "Sh-shut up," she manages weakly, squirming futilely against his chest. "You’re so—so full of yourself—"

"You’re the one who begged me to hurry," he points out, fingers sliding back to circle over her clit, each motion lighting fresh sparks of pleasure behind her eyelids. "I’m simply being accommodating."

"Sunday," she snarls, voice rough and ragged at the edges, pleasure crackling through her veins, setting her alight. "You—oh, fuck—are such an asshole."

His mouth finds the tender skin below her ear again, and she feels him smile against her. "And you love it."

"I don’t," she stubbornly clings to her bratty indignation even as it slips through her fingers like melting honey. "I really, really don’t."

"Oh?" His hips pick up a sharper, rougher pace, driving deep into her slick heat, wringing another broken moan from her chest. "I think you do, Stelle. I think you love it far too much, actually."

She opens her mouth to argue again, but all that spills out is a high, thin wail as he angles his hips just right, pressing so good and hot and perfect inside her that she sees stars.

Sunday finally takes pity on her. "Enough of that now," he soothes, voice dropping into a coaxing lilt. "Focus. Be good, now."

"I—I don’t have to—" Stelle tries weakly, bratting out one last time, but her defiance crumbles into another helpless, desperate sob as his fingers work quicker over her clit, relentless and perfect.

Still thrusting steadily into her, filling her up so thoroughly, driving the breath from her lungs, he scolds her fondly: "Hush, Stelle. My God. So mouthy." 

Chest pressed firm and hot against her spine, his hold on her tightens, hips driving forward with steady, purposeful rhythm, deeper and rougher with each thrust, making sure she feels every inch. It comes out so weak everytime her voice breaks into little whines, her fingers scrambling uselessly over the arm wrapped around her middle, nails scraping against his skin as he grinds deep and relentless, pushing her rapidly toward the edge. Her brain is melting out of her ears. Sunday is everywhere, all around, inside, over and under, wrapping around her very soul like silk.

She can't take it much more.

Her orgasm washes over her without mercy or warning—so intense, so overwelming it sears through her veins like molten sugar, white-hot pleasure cascading from her center outward until she's shaking violently against him, sobbing, clawing at him desperately as she clenches and pulses around him.

"A—ah, oh my god—" she cries, incoherent, her voice torn to ribbons by the force of it.

He breathes into her hair, hips snapping faster, harder, driving her straight into the aftershocks that ripple through her oversensitive body.

"There we go," he pants thickly, voice strained and hot, composure finally slipping into desperation. "One more?"

"What?" she gasps, voice broken by tears, shaking her head weakly against his shoulder even as he continues thrusting steadily into her spent, trembling body. "No—! I can't—"

The sensation is nearly unbearable, her entire frame shudders violently in his hold, every nerve lit up painfully bright.

But he doesn't stop—this asshole—he just holds her tighter, but at least his hand draws up to her ribs from between her thighs. Her whole body jolts with each merciless stroke of his hips. 

"One more," he murmurs roughly, fingers digging into the plush skin of her thigh. "You can do it, come on."

She can't, she really, really can't—her entire nervous system is frayed, none of her limbs feel like they belong to her, her tongue is foreign in her mouth. She shakes her head in frantic denial even as her hips jerk helplessly into his touch, betraying her completely. She’s nothing but raw sensation, overstimulated to tears, trapped between exquisite agony and unbearable bliss.

A loud mewl bubbles from her throat. "Sund–ah, too much, too much!"

"I know," he husks, lips brushing her ear. "I know it is. But you're doing so good. Come on now, just once more and it'll be over. I promise."

After that is a blur. She’s floating away somewhere out of her own body while he becomes ruthless in movement, chasing his own peak now, using her trembling, wrecked body for his own pleasure, whispering filthy praises and soft, soothing encouragements into her ear, as if it does anything to tether her brain back to her body.

She breaks once more as she's told, her second climax wrenching her apart, wracking through her in sharp, brutal pulses that make her cry out helplessly into the pillow, shaking hard against him that she gets dizzy-well, dizzier, with the force of it.

He follows immediately after her, thrusting deep one last time, spilling hot inside her with a shuddering groan, cock pulsing deep, flooding her with searing heat. Her body is crushed tightly against him. His lower body trembles as violently as hers, the sound of him finally losing his composure is so overwhelming that she might just die right there from it alone.

It's static for a minute. She's weightless, blank, limp as a glove.

They lie there locked together, his arms tight and protective around her as he pants into her hair, murmuring broken praises and sweet nonsense, holding her close as they both slowly, finally come down.

Sunday eventually slips from the bed gently, pressing a kiss to her temple before quietly padding to the adjoining bathroom. Stelle lies boneless and dazed on his plush mattress, her body still humming in the aftermath, limbs pleasantly heavy and tingling at the edges. 

She's barely conscious enough to track his movements, watching through half-lidded eyes as he returns a moment later, efficiently cleaned up and inexplicably wearing a fresh pair of boxers.

"Why are you so shy?" she mumbles, words slurred sleepily, head rolling lazily toward him on the pillow.

"I'm not shy," he settles next to her again, guiding her thighs apart to tend to the sticky mess between them. "I simply prefer not to parade around naked."

"It’s your room, dummy," she drawls weakly. Flinches a bit from oversensitivity as he cleans her carefully with a warm, damp cloth.

"That doesn’t mean I abandon basic dignity."

A sound similar to a laugh leaves her. Honestly too tired to protest further, she just lets him fuss over her a little, basking in the attention shamelessly. 

When he finishes, he presses a gentle kiss to the soft curve of her hipbone. "I'm sorry for finishing inside," he apologizes, golden eyes warm and concerned. "I promise to take care of any complications that might arise."

Stelle blinks slowly, brain catching up sluggishly to the implications. Her heart swells hopelessly at his earnest expression. "Take care of it?" she echoes, more amused than anything.

Sunday nods solemnly, smoothing a hand over her belly. Oh, so earnest, her poor Sunday. "Yes. I assure you, I have the means to access any type of medical assistance you might require."

Of course, she can't just let this opportunity pass her by.

"Medical assistance?" her lips twitch tiredly into a mischievous smile. "You're going to kill Monday...?"

Sunday’s brow furrows in confusion, and his hand stills on her stomach. "Who?"

"Monday," she repeats dreamily, yawning delicately. "Our baby."

He stares at her, utterly baffled now. Pfft. "We're not naming our hypothetical child Monday."

"Why not?" She nudges him softly with her knee. "We already have Sunday. I'll just birth the rest of the weekdays, then we'll have the whole calendar in our family."

He sighs exasperatedly. "I’m concerned for your mental state."

"Too late for that," she hums contentedly. "You love it, though."

The look he gives her is so impossibly fond that it makes her heart rattle against her ribcage. "Regrettably."

She promptly ignores that, and the silence lulls her into a drowsy state as Sunday carefully finishes cleaning up, drawing the blankets up to settle over their cooling bodies. She burrows deeper against him, sleepy beyond measure now. She's still curious about one thing, though. 

"Hey," she whispers into the warm space between them. "Why are you named Sunday anyway? Robin got a normal name."

Sunday smiles ruefully against her hair. "I'm named Sunday for much the same reason you're named Stelle. It wasn't exactly my choice."

"Well," Stelle mumbles into his chest, fingers idly tracing invisible patterns on his skin, "Stelle comes from my birth name, Xing. It means 'Star.'"

"Oh. I didn't realize."

She smiles sleepily against him, pleased with his reaction. Her voice is drowsy, a little slurred, but she presses on, half lost in the rhythm of his breathing.

"And you know how 'Sunday' is 'Xingqiri' in Chinese?" she continues, tilting her head up just enough to catch the softening of his gaze. "The first character, Xing—is the same character as mine. Star."

He blinks slowly, the realization sinking into the molten gold of his eyes. She doesn't even know why she's explaining this to him. She never put importance on things like fate and predetermined things. She carved her own path, decided where to go, chose the people she surrounded herself with. Everything she owns belongs to her, and her alone.

"So it's like..." she trails off despite herself, tucking her face closer into his chest. "Star... and day... and sun. Wrapped up together."

She yawns, bone-deep and sweet, but finishes anyway, because suddenly it feels important to say it out loud. "My name—it's stitched into the word for Sunday. Like a parasite. Isn't that nice."

"So you quite literally are my beginning," he muses, obviously an afterthought she's not meant to hear, that she wouldn't hear, under normal circumstances.

Her fingers twitch where they rest curled against his chest. Her heart follows. Because the thought of being that terrifies her in a way no threat, no failure, no bleeding wound ever has. Her thought process spirals without meaning to, crawling its way out of her mouth traitorously.

"Possibly your end, too," she mumbles, and the apology in her tone is meant for him to take, but only for her to hear. "The sun," she continues solemnly, "is also a star."

She doesn't really expect a response to that, perhaps maybe a mocking reply that will disperse the heaviness of her heart. But of course, Sunday is too earnest, too him to look at her baring her insides with the ugly and the bad and still see nothing wrong because he is the type to rip his skin off and offer it if she only asked nicely for something to cover them up.

Abover her head, he feigns an exasperated sigh, cradling her tightly against himself. "Not a bad way to go, I suppose," he says, all mock weariness and slow, warm hands smoothing over her spine. "Burned alive by the only star that matters."

Stelle huffs a laugh against his skin, but it comes out wet at the edges.

"You’re so dramatic," she mumbles, pressing her forehead into the center of his chest, hoping to hide from the sudden, awful tenderness pooling thick between them. But of course, the ground she stands on is far too slippery.

"And you’re not?" he noses at her hair affectionately. "You just compared yourself to the heat-death of the universe."

"Fair," she concedes, voice small. She feels very, very small, faced with the enormity of his sincerity. "But you're worse."

Sunday hums, fingertips tracing idle patterns across the planes of her back. "Maybe. But if it’s you—" He pauses, breathing her in again. 

"If it’s you," he says, softer this time, "then I don’t mind."

As if it's that easy. There are things in her blood, in her past, that could poison the air curling around them like a blanket. She's not good, not meant to be stable, not meant to stay. Like all other stars out there, she will eventually be snuffed out, fall and wither into the darkness of the universe. And it will be a fitting end. She'll more than deserve it for carrying trails of fire with her.

Oblivious to that very fire about to set him aflame too, Sunday whispers fondly, bravely into her hair: "My star."

She lifts her head sluggishly to squint up at him, her cheek squished lazily against his chest. "I never agreed to that," she mumbles, half-heartedly petulant.

Sunday exhales a long-suffering sigh, but there’s no heat behind it. It's simply fond.

"Well, then please agree to it," He buries his face in the soft grey of her locks. "Because I really, really want you for myself."

Stelle, completely wrecked by the intimacy of the moment but determined not to show it, scowls half-heartedly. "You're so greedy."

"Yes," he agrees immediately, bending to kiss the crown of her head. "Hopelessly."

"And selfish," she mumbles, nuzzling into him anyway like the world's worst liar.

"Absolutely."

"Not even pretending to be a good person, huh?"

"I don't see the point," Sunday replies, smiling against her temple. "You already know what you do to me."

"You're lucky I'm too tired to run away."

"I would chase you," he says without missing a beat, tucking her closer into his arms even though they're practically merged together. "And catch you. And bring you right back here."

"That would be really concerning coming from anyone else," she mumbles affectionately, feeling herself finally start to drift, the steady beat of his heart against her ear pulling her under like a lullaby.

"I'm not anyone else. Anyway. Agree to it," Sunday insists into her hair, the gentle persistence in his voice edging into pathetic. "Please."

Stelle makes a show of sighing deeply, despite the fact that she already fully intends to give in. She just enjoys watching his carefully crafted composure crumble and Sunday turning soft and entirely too stupid for her.

"Okay, this is coercion," she drawls dramatically. "I feel pressured."

Sunday exhales another quiet, long-suffering sigh, pulling her in even closer, his heartbeat quickening slightly beneath her cheek. "Stelle, my very life hangs on your decision right now."

"Oh my God. You’re awful. Such a tyrant."

"Perhaps," he concedes quietly, pressing another kiss to her cheek. "But please."

She tilts her chin up just enough to meet his eyes—golden, soft, and achingly sincere, and "Fine," she whispers begrudgingly, warmth blossoming traitorously in her chest. “I’ll be yours or whatever.”

Sunday’s answering sigh of relief sounds almost embarrassingly earnest. "Thank you," he murmurs, pressing his forehead gently against hers. "See, now you've agreed. Mine now."

Stelle rolls her eyes in amusement, shifting her head so her ear rests over his heart. She pauses, then grins wickedly, nudging his chest playfully. "Aw, your heart’s beating so fast. You got a crush on me or something?"

His body goes completely still. Incredulous. "Stelle," he begins slowly, disbelief evident in his tone. "I literally just asked you to commit to me. It's a little more serious than a crush."

She giggles softly, almost delirious with tiredness and happiness, curling herself tighter into his warmth.

After a few minutes of basking in the silence, she hums mischievously. "Well, then. Can I be excused from work tomorrow now that we're a thing? Can I have privileges?"

Sunday chuckles quietly, the sound vibrating against her cheek. "If you come with me," he starts, stroking a hand slowly up and down her spine, "I'll let you laze around the whole day."

She lifts her head to squint at him suspiciously, hair a wild mess over her face. "Okay, that was really easy. What's next? Can I get double pay too?"

Without a hint of hesitation, Sunday hums thoughtfully, then declares, entirely seriously, "Why bother? I can just give you a limitless credit card."

Stelle raises a brow. God. He is so stupid.

"I have more money than I know what to do with anyway," he adds casually, stroking her hair as if he didn’t just say something utterly deranged.

It really takes her everything to not peer at him like he's sprouted a second head. "Wow," she deadpans. "Okay. You really weren’t joking about the castle and throne thing yesterday."

"There are actually small castles in Europe available for sale if you’re serious about it."

Horrified, she stares at him for a beat.

"Okay, stop," she demands, slapping his chest lightly. "Stop being a freak."

He huffs a small laugh. "The offer stands," he says, gently capturing her wandering hand and threading their fingers together. "A castle. A throne. Anything you want."

"I want you to stop being insane for five minutes," she mutters, but she doesn’t pull away from him, their fingers laced together easily, fitting against each other seamlessly.

"I’m afraid that’s the only thing I can’t give you," Sunday says mildly.

She groans into his chest, but really, she’s smiling, stupidly, helplessly, as he kisses the top of her head, thumb stroking the top of her hand lazily.

And the worst part, Stelle thinks drowsily, already almost asleep, is that she kind of, horribly, loves him for it. 

Chapter Text

Stelle is malfunctioning.

It has, without delay, been seven days. 

Seven full days of whatever the hell this is. 

And she’s still smiling like a dumbass every time she sees him. She catches her reflection in the elevator panel that Monday morning and physically recoils at her own expression. Wide-eyed, slightly flushed, lips curled in a soft, dreamy smile, one she only used to don whenever she watched a particularly cute BL drama or whenever March kissed her drunkenly in freshman year of university.

It’s disgusting.

She’s supposed to be tough. Sharp. Unavailable, because she is untameable. But now? 

Now she gets one look at Sunday giving her that unbearably fond glance with a tilt to his head and she’s giggling. Giggling. She's morphing into a teen girl in a shoujo manga, and it's somehow worse than whatever it is that happened to Gregor Samsa. At least that bug didn't giggle after the morphing.

Sunday had asked if she slept well that morning, and she really wanted to reply, No, because you kept pulling me back whenever I tried to go pee, you human octopus, but all that came out was a strangled, "Mhm," followed by her folding like a lawn chair when he brushed her lower back on their way into the building.

She’s malding. Every single day this week has consisted of her micro-dosing on self-inflicted humiliation.

Tuesday, she let him spend an hour kissing her silly on his desk and send her into a meeting with her hair sticking out in five different places because he couldn't stop pulling on it.

Wednesday, she had tried to outpace him during a walk to the conference room. A power move, obviously. Because Sunday is always chronically five steps ahead, and she was very deliberately trying to avoid a hand to her lower back, but what did he do? He reached forward and hooked two fingers into her belt loop as if she was a wayward toddler about to wander into traffic. It wouldn't even be half as humiliating if she didn't actually stumble.

Thursday, she tries to avoid him completely at work, because as soon as they're within close proximity, her day turns into a movie that a perverted director puts too many unnecessary sex scenes into or whatever people on Twitter talk about all the time. 

It’s an ambitious goal, really, and like all things that involve not thinking about Sunday, it fails miserably within the first three hours.

He corners her in the break room.

Not literally, though—he’s far too composed for anything so vulgar. But when she walks in to grab her fourth cup of coffee in a desperate bid to claw back some dignity, she finds him already there, in a black suit, stirring a cup of something that probably costs more than her entire law school debt that she still has not paid.

"Miss Stelle," he greets her as if he wasn't all up in her face just yesterday evenig.

She narrows her eyes. "Mr. Sunday."

He gives her a small smile. "You're early today."

"I overslept."

That stumps him a little. "You’re...early because you overslept?"

"Don’t question me," she snaps, shoving past him to pour her coffee. She doesn’t miss the brief glance he gives her outfit—tight blouse, short skirt, the thigh strap that got her into trouble. 

He doesn’t say anything this time, of course, because now she has privileges. He just leans casually against the counter, mug in hand, looking at her like she hung the stars and brewed his tea. It’s awful.

"Would you like to have lunch in my office today?" he asks, a casual suggestion and definitely not a loaded invitation full of slow kisses and whispered endearments and the risk of being caught grinding against him like a cat in heat behind tinted glass.

Her answer is an immediate "No."

"Very well," he says, completely unbothered, and turns to leave.

And that should be it. That should be the end.

But instead of letting him walk away, she blurts out: "Wait."

He pauses. Glances over his shoulder. One brow raises, patient. Always so patient.

She glares at the floor. "...Twelve thirty?"

His voice softens, and it's unfair. "I'll have something prepared."

———

By the time they finish eating, they’re a mess of syrup and sins, honestly.

There are pancakes half-finished on his desk, parfait cups dangerously close to toppling over some poor intern’s monthly report, and Stelle is draped sideways across Sunday’s lap the same way a housecat would be. It's humiliating.

And his lips taste faintly of maple, which is profoundly annoying, because now she wants more of both—more syrup and more of him, and only one of those is currently inside her mouth.

Their mouths meet in that slow, melting way that makes time drip all syrupy, soft and lazy, as if they’ve got all the hours in the world and no interest in using them for anything productive. She doesn't, at least. 

Her back is arched, legs hanging off the side of his lap, and his hand is under her skirt, toying absently with the thigh strap that had once been a protest and now serves exclusively as his favorite fidget toy. He stretches it lazily, lets it snap back against her skin with a light flick, again and again, until she pulls back to chide him for it.

"Stop playing with that," she scolds against his mouth, barely even coherent. "You’re going to tear it."

His response is maddeningly serene, warm breath skating along her jaw as his lips drift lower. "I’ll buy you a new one."

She glares at him. "You can’t just throw money at problems, you capitalist hydra."

"I can and I will," he murmurs against the soft, still red skin of her throat. "That’s precisely how capitalism functions."

"Gross," she makes a face, but it comes out as more of a sigh than an insult because he’s hooking the strap again, stretching it just so and letting it snap back gently against her skin.

It shouldn't feel good. It absolutely shouldn't.

Yet.

"You’re such a menace," she grumbles, one hand pushing feebly at his chest. But really, it's like trying to move a marble statue that’s actively making out with you.

Sunday tilts his head, blinking at her with fake innocence. "You climbed onto my lap."

"Because I didn’t want to sit in your cold dictator chair."

"You mean the ergonomic throne I specifically selected to prevent spinal degradation?"

"It’s evil."

"I see," he hums, stretching the strap again, pads of his fingers digging into her plush skin. "You prefer me being a saint?"

"I prefer you to stop fondling my tactical accessories during work hours."

He smiles down at her all serene and saintly, but his hand doesn’t leave her thigh. If anything, he presses down, palm heavy and warm around the skin, fingers kneading. "You have no idea how many minutes I’ve lost to this thing."

She raises a brow. "You keep a mental clock?"

"I estimate it’s cost me roughly seventeen hours of productivity over the past three weeks."

She snorts. "That’s pathetic."

"Embarrassingly so," he agrees, and kisses her again before she can come up with a suitably scathing retort.

It’s a terrible fucking kiss. Lazy, open-mouthed, far too fond. Her brain folds like wet origami.

And just like that, she’s malfunctioning again.

If she were a robot, this would be the moment the lights in her eyes flicker and she starts making Windows XP shutdown noises.

Then, his hand slides further up her thigh.

Nope, nope, nope. She's not getting fingered and going back to her desk disheveled again. She only makes that mistake once. 

Twice.

Okay, maybe a few times. But it's not her fault, alright? She's not letting it get there this time at least, so she grabs his wrist in the middle of sliding up to swell of her ass, and it makes her feel like she's catching a thieving raccoon rifling through her garbage.

"No," she says firmly, intertwining their fingers togethrr. "Bad. Stop it."

Sunday chuckles amused and thoroughly unrepentant as he lets her guide his hand away from her butt because he’s apparently the world’s most well-mannered pervert. His other arm stays curled around her waist under her, drawing lazy shapes along her side as if he hadn’t just tried to commit a workplace misconduct with leather gloves.

Speaking of which.

She narrows her eyes, shifting in his lap to study the glove still caught in hers. "These used to be cotton, right?"

"Yes."

She stares at the sleek, black leather wrapped around his fingers, the golden accents resembling an eye now, the cross cutout nowhere to be seen. It gleams faintly under the overhead light, a far cry from the modest, breathable white texture she vaguely remembers from when they first met. "Do your hands not get sweaty?"

"No."

"Liar."

He swipes a thumb over the back of her hand. "They’re custom-made. With an internal lining. Thermoregulated."

"Of course," she mutters. "Of course they are. What was I expecting. Off-the-rack like a commoner? God forbid the proletariat ever touch your sacred palms."

"They also repel water," He tilts his head. "And blood. In case of emergencies."

She pauses. "That was definitely a joke."

"Was it?"

She eyes him suspiciously, getting a feeling that he might be keeping state secrets in his inner coat pocket. Which, statistically speaking, is a non-zero possibility. "But why," she asks, squinting, "did you abandon cotton? Weren't they more comfortable?

His gaze drops a little, grey lashes dipping as he answers, smiling serenely: "Leather glides better."

Her brain short-circuits.

"Through what," she asks flatly, before her mouth fully catches up with her suspicion.

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps smiling. Angelic. Cryptic. Entirely too pleased with himself.

It takes her a second. Two, actually.

Maybe three.

Okay. She's ignoring that. She's ignoring all of that. The leather glides better comment. His stupid smirk that could warrant arrest. The obscene implication currently echoing through her skull in a Gregorian chant composed entirely of filth.

Her eye twitches.

"Okay," she announces, very bravely. "I’m ignoring that. I’m choosing peace. What’s wrong with you?"

Sunday’s expression doesn’t change. That’s part of what makes it worse. The sheer consistency of his composure. “What do you mean?”

She glares at him. "What’s wrong with you? Like, fundamentally. At a baseline level. You were definitely normal once. I saw you. You were weird, but in like, a stick-up-your-butt way. Now you’re—" she gestures at his gloves, at his entire being sprawled beneath her. "—this."

"I’m not sure what you mean by this," he replies mildly. "I haven’t done anything inappropriate."

"You literally just said leather glides better and smiled!"

"I didn’t even say what it glides through. Why did your mind go there?"

She physically recoils, hitting him with the flat of her hand against his chest. "Don’t you dare try to reverse uno this on me."

It pisses her the hell off that he looks just so, so unbothered. 

Instead of looking even a bit apologetic, ashamed, or embarrassed, he cradles her a bit closer, hand resettling on her waist as he speaks with all the faux sympathy he can muster up. "My poor girl. You must be tired. You always get so defensive when you're sleep-deprived. Start imagining things. Hearing innuendo where there is none."

Her jaw drops. "Stop gaslighting me."

"I’m not," he coos.

"You are absolutely gaslighting me!"

He gently brushes a strand of hair from her face with the back of one gloved finger, looking at her as one would at a delirious asylum patient. "Shh. Rest now. It's okay."

"Oh my God." She actually contemplates violence. Just a little. Maybe a flick to the forehead. A calculated shoulder bite. Something to reassert dominance. "Get therapy. I'm serious."

"I have you," he replies simply, and that is her final straw.

"Disgusting," she declares, absolutely refusing to acknowledge the way her heart leaps a little. Stupid heart. Stupid attachment. Stupid therapist roleplay. "I’m docking your pay."

"I don’t work for you," he reminds her serenely.

"You do when I’m on your lap."

That actually gets him to blink. Then the corner of his mouth lifts lazy and slow. "I see. Should I submit an invoice?"

"Submit yourself to hell."

You can guess how their weekened went.

And now, it's Monday again.

And Stelle is, once again, losing her goddamn mind.

Not because Sunday is making her crazy—though he absolutely is, in all the good ways she can count—but because something is off. Wrong. A bug in the system. A glitched-out boot-up sound plays faintly in the back of her skull every single minute like her life got a Windows update she didn’t approve.

She spins absently in her office chair, one leg kicked over the armrest, sipping on a protein shake that tastes faintly of wet chalk and artificial strawberry. Sunday had insisted on it after she skipped breakfast again, muttering something about nutrients and her "self-destructive dietary habits." She hadn’t even argued. That’s how bad it is.

Because even she knows it’s not just nerves anymore.

The data breach is still ongoing, but at least they’ve stabilized. After hiring 707 full-time with a salary that nearly borders 2/10 of the entire company's income, Halovian’s systems are finally under something resembling control.

Sunday has been...calm. Suspiciously so. His stress levels, once sky-high and just barely hidden under his perfect posture and equally perfect migraine medication, have settled into an unnerving sort of ease. He even laughed during a meeting this morning. Laughed. An actual, audible laugh.

And that’s what makes it worse, really.

Because if Sunday isn’t on edge anymore, then why the hell is she still wound up tighter than ever?

She bites the straw a little too hard and mutters to herself, Because I’m a weirdo, apparently, and leans back hard enough to nearly topple the chair. She barely catches herself.

But still, her brain is doing laps. Her gut feels like it’s preemptively bracing for impact. And despite all her bravado, her instincts haven’t been wrong before. The math is there. She just doesn’t like the answer.

Silver Wolf had been the one who breached them. Silver Wolf.

And that’s not nothing.

She keeps turning it over in her head, a bad marble. Out of everyone they could’ve sent, why her? Why not Blade? Or even Kafka herself if things were really that urgent? Why the bratty, smug, cat-with-a-laser-pointer hacker sister who used to watch Stelle eat instant noodles in silence and then randomly decide to DDOS an international news site for fun?

Does she know?

Does she know about Sunday? About her and Sunday?

Was that what this was about—some strange act of revenge for "selling out"? 

She scoffs, shoving her empty carton to the side of the desk.

The Hunters she knew wouldn’t have cared. They were too busy with bigger fish. Kafka never mourned, Firefly understood, Blade didn’t even look her way. Caelus had told her to never show her face again. Nothing else mattered in the face of his anger that day.

Silver Wolf couldn't have taken it as badly as this, enough to come after her nearly ten years later, when she has not done anything to them at all. 

It feels personal no matter how she looks at it. Like a game being played from a distance, with Sunday as the pawn, and Stelle is caught somewhere between the lines, chewing through her lower lip and pretending to be not waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She rubs her temple.

She’s not scared.

She’s just... aware. Heightened. Perhaps similar to an animal sniffing smoke before the fire.

She knows the scent. Knows what it feels like when a storm’s about to break.

For better or worse, it’s coming.

17 years ago,  █████ City, ████████

They’re both seven. 

Maybe eight. Maybe younger. It’s hard to tell. They don’t keep track of time like normal kids. Not when every day is just a different streetlight, a different alley, a different trash can to root through.

It’s winter, or something close enough to it. 

Cold enough that their breath comes out in little clouds, but not so cold that their fingers stop working, thankfully. Stelle hates those days, because they can't run properly with frozen feet. 

They’re crouched behind a crooked utility pole across the street from a bakery, plastic bag between them with the spoils of the day: half a sandwich, one bruised apple, two sugar packets, and a single chocolate coin someone dropped and never picked back up.

Caelus is humming. He always hums when he’s trying to pretend he's not nauseous.

Next to him, she watches the window.

There’s a big bay window in the bakery next door, wide and fogged at the corners from the warmth inside. She can’t see much, but she catches enough in the glow of the overhead lights.

There’s a family at the corner table. A mom. A dad. A kid. The kid's holding a big cookie with both hands, mouthing something animated, probably a story or a joke. The mom’s laughing. The dad tousles the kid’s hair. She swats at him with her little arms. The mom laughs some more.

It’s boring. It’s so boring. Nothing happens.

But she can't stop staring.

"You’re making that face again," Caelus says, mouth full of bread crust, watching her instead of the cookie.

"What face?"

"The one where you look like your tummy's got a hole in it."

"It does have a hole in it."

He frowns. Offers her the apple. She doesn’t take it.

He squints at the window too. "Why’re you looking over there? Wanna steal the cookie?"

She shakes her head.

Because it’s not the cookie, she thinks. Sure, it looks yummy, and she really wants one. But she also wants the lamp above the table. It's the kind that casts the golden light down in a perfect circle. She can't stop staring at the way the mom rests her chin in her palm while the kid talks. Nobody is yelling. Nobody is shivering. Nobody is running.

She doesn’t have the words for it, she just knows something about it makes her throat feel funny.

"...D’you think they ever get scared?" she mumbles after a while, chin tucked into her knees.

"Huh?"

"People like that. With tables. And chairs. And cookies. Do they ever get scared?"

Caelus blinks. "Why would they?"

She shrugs. She doesn’t know, and that’s the problem.

She just knows that sometimes, when she sees things like this, her chest goes tight. 

"I think it’d be nice," she says after a while, into the quiet of the street. "To sit at a table and just…talk. Eat warm things. Not have to watch the door all the time. Or check our back."

Caelus tilts his head. "That’s it? That’s what you want?"

She shrugs again. "I guess."

"That’s boring."

"I know."

Stelle stares some more. They're just giving the kid the cookie. She doesn't even have to say please. No one grabs her arm and asks what she can do in return for scraps of food. There's nothing for her to be scared of.

Caelus chews the last of the crust next to her, then gets up and brushes his palms off on his pants. Offers her one, grinning. "C’mon. I found a vending machine with broken glass. Maybe we can get chips."

She takes his hand.

Doesn’t look back at the window.

But later, when they curl up behind the boiler pipes on the roof of a half-condemned tenement and try to sleep through the wind, Stelle keeps her eyes shut tight and tries to picture what it’d feel like to not be cold.

She doesn’t dream of castles or riches or revenge.

She dreams of the yellow light above that table.

11 years ago, ███ ████part██nt No:72 █████

She’s thirteen when she sits at a real table one evening. Has been since Kafka took them in at age eight.

It's unmistakeably a table. Not a curb, not a crate, most definitely not the ground, hunched in an alley with gravel digging into her knees. A table with four legs. Sturdy. Wiped down, clean, not oily.

It’s ugly, really—metal-framed and scratched with the initials of whoever used it last, the overhead bulb flickering every few seconds trying to stay alive. The chairs don’t match. There's a dent in the wall from where Blade slammed a boot in last week sparring with her. The heater buzzes on its last leg.

But it’s warm. The food’s real. Firefly made it.

Bread still steaming. A brothy liquid. A side of boiled greens. A red sauce she doesn’t know the name of, but she's seen it from the windows of restaurants she was never allowed to enter.

It’s not perfect. There’s blood on her elbow still drying, and her knees hurt from how hard she hit the pavement today. There’s still the dull ache in her ribs from being thrown against the wall by that guy during the mission. She doesn’t remember his face, just the weight of him, and the noise he made when she plunged the knife in his throat.

Firefly had crouched to bandage her after she got back to the base. She had hummed a soft melody and cleaned the gravel out of her skin with warm water. Called her cute with a flush on her cheeks even though she knew that Stelle came back from gutting a guy. She hadn’t known how to answer that.

She sits at a table with Firefly another evening, and Silver Wolf argues with Blade over something so insignificant, and the older man grunts in response while polishing his weapon. Kafka sits across from her with one elbow propped against the table, reading something on a tablet.

Caelus is laughing at something Kafka just muttered under her breath, leaning so close to her that he’s practically wrapped around her chair, on most days, Stelle thinks her presence is a sunbeam he’s desperate to stay in.

He used to laugh with Stelle like that.

But he’s changed, become happier. Softer in a way she can’t quite match. She doesn’t mind. She doesn’t blame him.

The food is warm. The room is full.

But she still has to earn her place here.

She’s only allowed to eat after the debrief. Only allowed to sit after she’s showered, changed, reported. There’s an order to things here. Even comfort comes in structured, rationed doses.

There’s no yelling. No streetlight shadows. No bruises that haven’t been explained. Kafka is so nice to her too. Firefly kisses her cheeks sometimes and holds her hand when she gets too scared from nightmares.

█Y█ ███sph█████ ████tre██t█

When she is fourteen, she walks into a bakery. She has money now. Clothes. A clean face. But the lights aren’t yellow anymore.

They’re white, flourescent, cold in hue. She doesn't like it.

Cookies aren’t like she imagined. Too sweet, too dry. They don’t melt in her mouth the way they looked like they would through the window when she was seven and stared through the glass, stomach a hollow drum.

She still buys them sometimes. Still eats them anyway, hoping maybe if the lights are golden enough, it will sweeten the cookie, too. And soften her heart, maybe. They never do.

Even now, full and warm and surrounded, she finds herself staring at the chipped table edge, fingers hovering over her spoon, unmoving. They have a table and chairs now, it's all she has ever wanted. She could always ask Kafka to change the lightbulb to a yellow. Make up some nonsense about how it's easier on her eyes.

She thinks, with debilitating grief, that she really doesn’t want to be a ghost in a warm place. Doesn’t want to be someone who only gets to rest when she’s bled enough for it.

But she doesn’t have words for any of that.

So she picks up the spoon, eats another bite, and keeps quiet.

She doesn’t dream of anything extravagant, still.

She just thinks about it all sometimes, and wonders if gold really ever felt as warm as it looked.

███c██ █me████ba███stand████ ███p███lea██

She’s fifteen when she leaves for the first time.

She's not a child anymore. Old enough to know what consequences mean and enough want something more than just survival. Old enough to see the cracks forming in everything they’ve built.

"You could come with me," Himeko had said to her, the woman that comes to visit and argues with Kafka sometimes. A wealthy entrepeneur, Kafka called her. "Both of you. I can give you a new name. A place to live. Real documents. You can go to school. I’ll handle the rest."

And Stelle had stared at her for a long time before whispering: "You’d really do that?"

Himeko had only nodded with a smile. "It’s not too late."

So she said yes.

She said yes before she could think too hard about it and her guilt could claw her back down. Before the weight of every memory—Firefly’s hands in her hair, Silver Wolf’s snark, Kafka’s humming, and the safety of Blade’s presence—could crush her resolve.

And then she told Caelus.

They’re standing in the stairwell of a half-empty building the Hunters had holed up in for the week, concrete chipped and moonlight leaking through the windows. Her duffel is packed. She hadn’t lied to him, hadn’t hidden anything. She’d just waited until she had to tell him—because deep down, she knew, somehow, that he would never come with her.

"Stelle, are you crazy?" Caelus’s voice comes out sharp and panicked. "We have everything we want here. What more do you want?"

She grips the strap of her bag tighter. Her fingers ache, and so does her heart. "But there’s a better life for us," she says. "She—Himeko—she told me there’s a way out of this. Don’t you want a chance to live without always looking over our shoulders?"

He stares at her in betrayal so deep she drowns in it. "No! It’s how we’ve lived, and how we’ll keep living. There’s nothing wrong with it! Why are you acting like this?"

"Because I’m tired, Caelus." Her voice cracks, years of grit finally showing. "We can’t keep living under the law like this. We’re going to get caught sooner or later, and I’d rather us avoid that."

His jaw sets. "And leave the others behind?"

Her throat closes. She hesitates.

"..."

"...Stelle?" His voice quiets, wounded.

She never had the heart to lie to him.

"If we have to."

He takes a step back like she’s struck him. "I can’t believe this," he whispers. "They gave us everything. And you’re just…?"

"It’s a chance," she pleads. "And maybe the others can come with us too, I just have to—"

"No." His voice sharpens, shutters slamming down behind his eyes. "No way. You… You’re so selfish. And I’m staying."

"Caelus…"

He looks at her and doesn’t recognize her anymore, face twisting as if she’s something rotten, foreign, something so unspeakably other. He turns away from her.

"Go away. And don’t come back."

"...The stars will be there," she says, "even when I’m not."

She squeezes her eyes shut, keeps her tears at bay. 

"Goodbye, brother."

She’s twenty-one when she graduates.

The ceremony is small. March and Dan Heng are with her every step of the way. She loves them more than anything this crooked world has given her. She doesn’t even wear the cap right—it’s tilted awkwardly in every photo, not that she takes many (March does though). The sash digs into her shoulder blades. Her name is called. She walks. She nods. The diploma is warm from the printer. Her shoes are scuffed.

Criminal Psychology.

Top percentile. Honors.

She holds the certificate in her hands and feels nothing but the soft, yawning ache of what now?

Law school starts in autumn.

Himeko helps her move into a downtown apartment with a narrow balcony and a fridge that hums with the sound of a dying engine. Stelle thanks her, promises she’ll take care of everything from now on. Himeko nods, graceful as always, makes no argument.

"I won’t stifle you," she says, handing over the last box. "But you can always come back, Xing."

Stelle just smiles. "I need to try."

Himeko leaves it at that.

The first six months go well.

Stelle thrives in lectures. She rips through casework with teeth bared, dismantles moral hypotheticals and puzzles meant for chewing. Her professors remember her. She's charming and confident enough to keep attention on herself, so when she does, the room gets quiet. They say her eyes are too sharp for a student.

Scholarships come in. Not enough, but they help her along.

She picks up a barista job at first. Then a delivery gig. Then clerical work at a shitty local firm. Then comes the weird acting job with a weirder director. All short-lived. She burns through them with the same focus she applies to her classes: efficient, unsentimental, exhausted.

The nights get longer, her meals colder. Her notebooks are covered in coffee stains and cheap pen ink. Her fingers are always smudged. Her apartment smells like instant ramen and late dreams.

By the second year, she stops attending classes with her laptop. Sells it for rent.

Then the heat shuts off.

Then the scholarships lapse—because perfect grades can’t outmatch unpaid fees.

Then there’s three dollars in her account.

And she hasn’t eaten in two days.

It takes her three tries to dial Himeko’s number.

She’s in the corner of a laundromat that smells like bleach and regret. It’s late. She has a hoodie pulled over her head and her last coins rattling in a jacket pocket she was told to keep, at a party last winter by some guy that really wanted to fuck her.

When Himeko picks up, she doesn’t greet her with guilt or reprimands, she has never been one to get angry, anyway. She's always been gentle. And just as distant.

"Stelle?"

"Hi," She curls into the bench hoping it would fold around her. "...Do you know anyone hiring?"

There’s a pause on the other end.

"I can send money."

"No."

"You can come back. It’s still your home."

"I want to build one of my own," she pleads. 

Another pause, then Himeko sighs. "...Alright."

Next day, she gets an email from Mr. Yang, her professor back in her psych major days, and a good friend of Himeko's. An uncle of some sorts for Stelle.

The email reads: I know someone who runs a company. He’s a bit eccentric. Demanding. Used to be my student. Not everyone lasts long with him. But I think you might be…ideal. I'll refer you. You do not need to send a resume. He'll listen to me.

Stelle thanks him and prepares herself.

Months after that, while sitting curled next to him with a blanket around her, Sunday holds out a cookie for her to bite into—her favorite kind. The ones he buys in bulk from that pretentious little artisan bakery two blocks from his penthouse, because she once said every other kind of it tastes wrong.

She bites into it, eyes half-lidded with the lazy comfort that creeps in only when the world outside has finally shut the hell up. It's soft in the middle. Still warm. Her mouth curls around it with a pleased hum and crumbs smear across her cheek, which Sunday reaches out to brush away with his thumb, so gentle it makes her blink.

"Messy," he murmurs fondly. 

He means messy as in something to be tended to and not messy as in bleeding or bruised. His eyes crinkle when he says it. They're warm and golden, like sand on a beach, candle flame behind glass, like... like something she's seen before.

Sunday probably thinks she’s about to tease him. Maybe call him a housewife or make a joke about how he’s turned her into a glorified housecat. He’s probably bracing for it. She knows him too well by now.

But nothing comes out of her mouth this time, because she’s busy looking at his eyes and remembering something.

She vividly recalls the light that spilled onto that bakery table when she was seven. The one she couldn’t stop staring at through the window, even while her stomach knotted and her hands ached from cold. She remembers it wrapping itself around a child with nothing but a cookie and two loving parents and making it look like they had everything.

The same warm yellow glows back at her now in the eyes of a man who buys her favorite cookies in bulk, and wipes crumbs from her mouth and kisses her forehead and lets her put her feet up on his desk no matter how much it makes his eye twitch.

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know, that he just might be holding the thing she’s been chasing all her life.

Stelle grins then, finally. Leans in, steals another bite from his hand just to keep from saying anything too embarrassing. 

His fingers twitch as if he wants to cup her cheek again but settles for flicking her forehead instead.

"There. Properly spoiled," he sighs fondly.

She tucks herself back into his side with a dumb, love-struck smile on her face and feels the gold of his eyes melt into the cracks inside her ribs.

It really is warm, she thinks, and I have everything now, too. 

When the past eventually catches up to her and attempts to dim that light, it's a Saturday, weeks after she managed to calm her stupid mind down. It starts like any other weekend, really. She wakes up with the dull hum of the world outside her window, a lazy reminder that it’s just another day to get through. 

She checks her phone. It's just before noon. No messages from Sunday.

She shrugs. He’s probably busy. 

He is always working on something. Maybe he’s holed up in his home office, wrapping up a project, or maybe he's taking the rare moment to finally rest. He does need it, after all. She can be a bit much sometimes, always texting him, always demanding his attention, probably exhausting him in ways work never does. 

Not in an insecure 'I'm annoying' way that bothers people when they feel it, but rather in a peaceful, resigned, 'I'm aware that I'm annoying and too much and it's understandable to want a break from me' way. She understands.

She doesn't mind, because she does get it. He needs his space. So, she doesn’t think too much of it.

Still, after an hour, she decides to send a quick message. Just a casual, nonchalant text, one that hides the worry behind it.

[i get if youre too busy but please let me know youre okay and not getting your organs stolen by the mafia. even a dot is fine.]

She taps her screen, staring at it for a moment. She has an inkling that the words don’t quite do the feeling justice but hopes they’ll be enough. 

Then, she sets her phone down on the kitchen counter and distracts herself with catching up to a manga she last read in freshman year of university, some shounen with the classic world literature authors as the characters. 

The main villain reminds her too much of Sunday with his Messiah complex and his stupid mind games that she loves entertaining despite acting otherwise. Then her thoughts derail and she starts imagining Sunday with a cute ushanka on his head halfway through, and her mind drifts right back to his strange absence again. 

Giving up on her manga, she picks up her phone to do some mindless browsing, and pretends that she isn’t waiting for him to respond.

Two hours pass.

Nothing.

She taps on her texting app again, brows furrowed this time. Maybe he’s really just exhausted. He’s been working nonstop lately, and when he’s focused on something, he can really be unreachable. He’s probably just ignoring his phone. But did he not think of her even once for the entire day? Is she that much of a bother? She didn't realize how tiring she must have been. 

She bites her lip, thinking of all the times he had mentioned the pressure of running the company, of handling all the responsibilities alone.

It’s fine. He’s fine. It’s just another one of those moments, where he gets caught up in his thoughts, where he’s too wrapped in work to respond.

At 3 PM, she finds herself composing a second text. 

[seriously though, just let me know youre good]
[or im gonna come bother you in your evil lair]

She leaves it, waiting for his reply. She tells herself she’ll leave him be for the rest of the afternoon. He’ll respond when he’s ready. She’s being ridiculous, she knows it. But she can’t stop the little pull in her stomach every time she checks her phone.

By 6 PM, something shifts in her brain, and her thoughts start to spiral. 

Maybe it’s because he’s always been responsive and diligent with her that it makes her concern fester. 

He'd always responded, even if it was just a flick of a text or an emoji to ease her worries, he checks up on her no matter how busy he is, sends her stupid pictures of animals and follows it up with things like 'This image is kind of beautiful to me.' 

And this silence has stretched too long for her to justify it with him being too busy, too tired, too annoyed, too anything, for whatever reason. 

She picks up the phone again. The tiny crack on the glass of her screen scrapes her thumb in her haste. She goes to her call history, eyes landing on Sunday’s name, thumb hovering over the dial button for a moment, and before she can stop herself, she hits it.

The phone rings. Once. Twice.

No answer.

She tries again. Three times. Four. Five.

At this point, she knows she’s bordering on obsessive, but she can’t stop herself. What if something happened? What if he’s hurt? Or worse?

Six. Seven. Eight rings.

She’s fully spiraling now, fingers trembling as she watches the number of missed calls pile up. Nine. Ten. The last ring on the tenth one is almost unbearable.

And then—finally.

"Sunday, you worried the shit out of m—"

"What could you possibly want to call him this much for? Worried about him?"

The voice on the other end isn’t his.

It’s a deep, mechanical rasp, sounds like a voice changer, robotic, cold, not his.

Her stomach lurches violently. No, no, no. This cannot be happening. 

"Who the hell is this?" she demands, throat closing in on itself, her voice tight with panic. "Where’s Sunday?"

The voice on the other end chuckles, and the sound is unnervingly hollow. "Who am I? Who do you think I am, hmm?"

Her phone is on its way to slipping from her grip with how much she's trembling. Her mind races, trying to make sense of the situation. She forces her breath to remain steady, but it’s an act. "I—" she stutters, voice quivering. "Where is he? What did you do to him?"

"What do you think I’ve done?" they taunt, amused. "Do you really think you could just have it all so easily?"

"Tell me where he is." she grits her teeth, panic turning into simmering rage behind them.

For a moment, silence envelops the space, and she can hear the faint clicking of keys. "If you’re really worried, come find him. He’s waiting."

A location flashes on the screen, an address that seems too out of place to be real.

The call ends with the distinct click of a disconnect sound.

Her hand shakes violently as she stares at the address, her mind racing, heart hammering in her chest. Every instinct tells her to go, to move, to act, her thoughts clash together, a storm of uncertainty and fear. 

She’s terrified. Not for herself, but for him, someone who has nothing to do with whatever ghost from her past caught up to her. She’s furious. She grits her teeth. 

After grabbing her jacket, she's already half out the door before she realizes it.

She texts Dan Heng because he’s the only one who has Chronic Do Not Disturb Mode On Syndrome, and won’t check his texts until it’s too late.

She provides no context, just the pinned address and a simple instruction:

[if i don't respond in a day call me and if i dont pick up after 5 times alert himeko immediately. tell her i got stellaron hunted. she'll get it]

She doesn’t wait for a reply, and predictably doesn't get one, either.

The taxi ride is quiet in the way that makes her want to tear her skin off. The driver hums along to a low-fi radio station, totally unaware that the girl in his passenger seat is very calmly losing her fucking mind. Her fingers twitch on her lap. Her leg bounces. The seatbelt feels like a noose. Her brain is a ping-pong match between 'he’s fine' and 'they’re going to mail his fingers to me in a little plastic bag.'

She tries not to go down that particular line of thought. Fails.

She doesn’t even know what she’d do if she saw him hurt in any way—beaten purple or bleeding out in some abandoned warehouse because she dared to want something for herself ten years ago. Because she left. Because she walked away and thought they’d let her go.

The city bleeds past the window in blurry streaks, metal, concrete, neon, and the location blinking on her phone’s GPS is in a part of town that even she would have trouble navigating without a pocket knife in her hand. It’s the sort of dead-end street where buildings lean and where alley cats get their faces disfigured from the dirt and parasites. She doesn’t recognize the name. That alone makes her chest tighten.

The taxi pulls up to the location eventually.

It’s...not what she expected.

A warehouse, sure, but not abandoned? It's not crumbling. Just nondescript. Quiet. At least this one cliche is out of the picture. Only a few million left to go through. The street lights flicker. There’s a garage door. No signage.

The driver turns to her. "This it?"

She nods—she's too numb to fake calm.

"You want me to wait?" he asks cautiously. Out of the goodness of his heart. Maybe it's curiousity. Maybe it’s the look on her face. Maybe it’s the silence.

"No," she says. "I'll be fine."

He doesn’t push, and she tips him extra for it.

As the car pulls away, the chill hits her. It’s watching, it knows her, and she knows the slums. It's her second home, the hell she was born into. A faint, amused dread hums under her skin. She's a wire hooked up to the wrong battery, always has been.

As soon as she gets close, the giant garage-style door lets out a groaning clang and begins to lift slowly, reminiscent of the opening act of a bad horror film. Cold air leaks out from the dark beyond it. The floor inside is concrete, scuffed with old tire marks. Beyond the threshold is nothing but black.

She stands there, squinting in the darkness, and sighs to herself.

I can’t believe this is my life, she thinks This is actually happening. This is real.

She steps inside.

The moment both her feet pass the threshold, the door slams shut behind her with a hydraulic clang that echoes through the cavernous interior. Pitch black swallows her whole. There’s a second where all she can hear is her own breath, her own heartbeat ticking like a bomb.

Then—floodlights. Blinding, harsh, fucking hurts. Christ.

She winces against the white wash of light.

When her eyes adjust, her eyes zero in on the guy she came here for—there he is.

Sunday.

Sitting on a chair at the center of the space, arms bound behind him with a thick rope, but otherwise unharmed. His legs are free, his coat missing, shirt still neatly tucked—because of course it is. Even in captivity, he refuses to be disheveled.

But his expression, for once, isn’t composed. He looks stunned, a little dazed. His gaze snaps to her the second she steps into view, and mamy things flicker behind his eyes. Relief and confusion, mostly, she reckons.

She exhales loudly, relief hitting her so fast it almost knocks her off balance.

"I’ll get you out," she says immediately, firmly, before she can think about anything else. "No matter what. Just sit tight."

He opens his mouth to say something, but she turns from him before he can.

Predictably, the people she hadn't seen in more than ten years are already here, and her past is no longer chasing her. 

The Hunters.

Spread out across the space; Kafka stands near the edge of the light, arms crossed, composed, poised in the way that makes her look more like a fashion editorial than a criminal. She's still wearing that old coat she stole from a target she was too young to know what they did to. 

Silver Wolf is perched on top of a crate, twirling a cable around her finger, chewing gum—a new habit, maybe—gaze fixed directly on Stelle with laser focus.

Blade leans against a far column, half-shrouded in shadow, face flat, arms folded. As always, looking bored as if he couldn’t care less if anyone here lived or died. He probably doesn't, to be honest.

Firefly is the only one who doesn’t feel like a threat and stands close, but she doesn’t exactly feel like an ally either.

Stelle clenches her fists. "So. This is what passes for a reunion now?"

Kafka smiles faintly, tilts her head. "Hello, little star."

"Don’t call me that," she snaps. Her voice cracks at the edges from the unbearable familiarity of it all. "You’re going to explain what the fuck this is, and you’re going to do it now. Or I swear to God, I’ll—"

"What?" Silver Wolf cuts in, chin on her palm. "You’ll what? Threaten us with your boring office job? Email us your resume?"

Oh? Is this what this is about?

She just stares Silver Wolf down. "What's your problem?"

"Nothing."

"Then why is he here? He has nothing to do with whatever you're pulling now."

"Oh, I think he does," Kafka says softly. "Whether he knows it or not."

"No he doesn't," Stelle steps forward. Just one step. Enough to make it clear she’s not here to play, and she learned all of her backhanded tricks from them, if they want to play. "Let him go."

"No," Silver Wolf says cheerfully.

"Then tell me what this is," she grits out. Then, the void in her heart grows twice in size, reminding her of its existence so sharply she almost topples over, and her eyes dart around the room helplessly. "Where's Caelus?"

Silver Wolf bursts into laughter at that, as if she just heard a joke. Her voice is so much older now, capable of being mean, of cutting into Stelle.

"Hah! You think you get to ask that now?" she sneers, tossing the cable over her shoulder boredly. "After everything?"

"Shut up," Stelle snaps, voice shaking with fury so deep it nearly chokes her. "Shut the hell up. Where is he? Did you do something to him?"

Silver Wolf’s expression flattens into mild amusement. "Relax. We wouldn’t do anything to hurt him. We’re not you. Family still means something to us, you know."

It scrapes her raw like road burn, like biting into glass.

But before Stelle can snarl back, Kafka’s voice cuts through the tension. "That’s enough, Silver Wolf."

The air thickens inside the rotten place. Much like her heart, rusted thick and dark with everything she let simmer inside it for the past ten years.

Quietly, Sunday tilts his head, the pieces finally clicking into place in his mind. He cranes his head to stare at the girl behind him.

"…You’re Silver Wolf?"

Silver Wolf glances at him. "The one and only."

Sunday’s gaze shifts back to Stelle. Puzzled, calculating. A new, unfamiliar uncertainty threads through his voice, right into her fragile heart. "Stelle…You know these people?"

A wave of nausea washes over her.

Before she can answer, Kafka steps forward, her heels echoing against the concrete floor.

"My, my. She really never talked about us, did she?" the woman muses aloud, her voice lilting, emanating affection that’s only ever meant to wound. "What an ungrateful girl I raised."

Stelle’s jaw tightens. "Don’t you dare act like I owe you anything."

Kafka only gives her a small, unnerving smile, eyes bright with something that isn’t joy. "Oh, darling. I’m merely upset."

"You’re insane," Stelle growls, "If you think I’m going to stand here and play your twisted family drama when you kidnapped someone I—" she stops, gulps, gestures at Sunday. Her hands are shaking. "Someone I love, and you’re using him to drag me back into the mess I already clawed my way out of!"

Upon hearing that declaration, his gaze fixes on her wholly as if nothing else in the room exists or matters, and the hardened pupils of his eyes fracture into softness.

"You love me?" he asks, so quiet she almost doesn't hear it.

Her heart stops.

"...Not the time," she mutters, heat rising to her face. "You're tied to a chair."

And still, Sunday's mouth twitches into a ghost of a smile. "Honestly. I would’ve been more surprised if it happened in a normal situation."

Silver Wolf makes a gagging noise.

Firefly chimes in softly. "I think it’s kind of sweet."

Okay, alright. Record scratch, one step back.

"Can we focus?" Stelle barks, face flaming. "This is a hostage situation!"

She whirls back to Kafka, jaw clenched, fists shaking. "Where is Caelus?" she repeats.

Kafka’s lashes lower. Her smile remains fixed in that serene curve, but she looks...tired, almost. Resigned, if Stelle knows anything about her tells still. "He’s not hurt," she says. "He’s adjusting."

Stelle’s stomach coils. "Adjusting to what?"

Kafka’s eyes flicker toward her, and in the warm spotlight, she looks theatrical, stage-ready. Beautiful as always. "We cut communications with him recently."

"...What?" The word barely leaves her mouth.

"He’s always been too attached to us. Too loyal, too hungry to belong. Even when you left, he chose to stay. Clung so tightly to the pieces we gave him, he couldn’t see how much they were cutting him."

She walks closer, heels tapping against the concrete. "So I made the decision for him. I forced him out. Gave him something new. A clean slate. Somewhere quiet and simple. Away from us. Away from you."

Her gaze softens, and she says it as if it’s a kindness. "I had assumed it would make you happy to hear it."

Stelle stares at her. Every breath she takes feels shallow and foreign, and every exhale burns on its way out.

"...You...abandoned him?"

Kafka completely closes the distance between them slowly, and her hand rises, gentle as she has always been. Twirls a lock of Stelle’s hair around one finger. "I ensured his safety." Her voice drops to a hush. "You abandoned him, my darling girl."

The entire world falls apart beneath her feet.

"Did you forget?" Kafka asks, brushing her knuckles along Stelle’s cheekbone. "You’re the one who left. You’re the one who walked out and didn’t look back. We didn’t stop you. But he... oh, he waited. Do you know how long he waited for you to come back?"

Inside her, her ribcage and its contents cracks down the middle.

How could she forget?

She has spent half her life with a gaping hole in her heart in the shape of Caelus. Spent years pretending it was just a scar and not an open wound, every night she dragged herself home from work, every holiday where she sat in Himeko’s penthouse sipping wine she couldn’t taste, every moment she stared into a mirror and saw her brother's face staring back at her, everything that came and went—nothing has ever not reminded her of him. How could she even hope to forget? She couldn't even begin to.

Before she can muster up any type of response that could justify her selfishness, Kafka cups her face between both palms.

Her hands are cold and gloved and achingly familiar.

"Look at you," Kafka whispers. Warm, saccharine. "You’ve grown so much. So beautiful. It must have been so hard, all alone. Did Himeko treat you well? I asked her to, you know. I told her to be gentle with you."

All that comes out of her is a hoarse. "Don't."

"Your face used to be so round," Kafka ignores her plea. "So small. You're still soft as cotton. Was it lonely?"

Stelle’s brain feels like it’s melting. She's faintly sure that the cotton comment does not refer to her skin.

As Kafka's cooing continues, the warehouse fades. The lights dim. The hard concrete under her feet dissolves into wet gravel and flickering neon signs from a lifetime ago. Her body is twenty-four, but in her chest, she’s eight again—knees scraped, arms too thin, clinging to Kafka’s coat because she didn’t know softness could exist outside of her brother’s reach. Her fingers twitch like they remember that grip. Her throat feels tight with dust she thought she’d buried.

"Don’t," she breathes. "Please. Don’t do this."

Kafka’s thumb drags across her cheek. "I just want to know," her voice softens. "Did she hold you when you cried? Or did she keep you in a luxurious room and called it love?"

The breath punches from her lungs. The warehouse goes hazy again, warps into stained windows and sharp elbows, the sound of Caelus arguing with Elio in the other room, the sting of Firefly’s disinfectant on her knuckles after a job gone wrong. Himeko never smelled like antiseptic. Himeko smelled like coffee and wine and gave her a house too large to know its own walls.

Himeko let her go wherever she wanted, but she has not held her.

Himeko never told her to stay.

"I don’t need to answer you," She croaks out.

Kafka’s hands fall away.

Stelle's knuckles ache from clenching too tightly. Her chest heaves, she wishes the ground would split open and swallow her whole—because even as the fury climbs her throat, shame clings to her ribs. She's let Sunday see this, hear this, she's bleeding out the poison that never left her veins and now he’s watching.

She can't even bear to look at him, so she squeezes her eyes shut to collect herself. Breathe in, breathe out. In, out, in, out. 

He was never meant to see the rot underneath her skin, yet still, in the heavy, scraping silence that follows her collapse, it's his voice that comes through, hesitant, careful not to trespass.

"If I may," Sunday says, each word folded neatly, "ask a question."

It’s such a Sunday thing to say, as if he's politely raising his hand in a boardroom and not tied to a chair in the middle of a hostage situation. She almost laughs. 

He bends his neck back again to look at Silver Wolf. "To you, I believe—Miss Silver Wolf, was it?"

Silver Wolf raises an eyebrow, still perched on her crate, arms draped over her knees. "What is this, a customer complaint?"

He ignores the jab. "You’re the one responsible for the data breach at Halovian, correct?"

She shrugs. "Yeah. So what? Got a problem with that?"

"I have several, though none seem especially relevant at this moment."

It takes Stelle a minute to realize what he's trying to do—he's giving her space. Making noise so she can breathe again without being the only sound in the room.

He shifts his attention back to Silver Wolf. "I’m merely wondering whether it truly was about sending her a message if this whole thing is anything to go by," he begins, "because the breach started roughly four weeks before Stelle and I ever became close. We had exchanged no personal messages. She’d shown no public ties to me, besides her onboarding I personally oversaw. Even internally, I had not informed my boardroom of the breach. Only my most senior IT analyst knew of it, and she quit midway through."

He tilts his head, curious. "So if the point was to rattle her, make a statement... she’d have had no way of knowing it was even happening."

Silver Wolf lets the silencr sit. Settle. Her gum clicks once. Twice. Slowly.

Kafka, too, is watching them. She seems more amused than anything.

"Was it really about her," Sunday continues, "or was it about something else entirely?"

Silver Wolf leans back, narrowing her eyes. "You think you’re so clever."

"Cease the thought," Sunday replies. "I'm simply a curious man."

Blade snorts, a dry puff of air from the shadows. Silver Wolf's jaw tightens around the edge of her chewing gum.

"You think I hacked your precious corporate servers for fun?"

Sunday blinks slowly. "Given the results, I would assume so. Or perhaps to make a point. Or perhaps to leak information to a third party that wasn’t us. It’s difficult to say. What was it for, if I may be so bold?"

"You may not."

"Humor me." He turns his head—he looks so uncomfortable, and only Stelle can tell. "Stelle wouldn’t have known then. Which makes me wonder if this whole charade was about her at all—or if that part came later."

Firefly stirs, ever the sweetheart. "It wasn’t originally."

Silver Wolf turns sharply to glare at the girl. "Firefly."

"She has a right to know."

"We are playing bad guys right now."

Sunday’s eyes flicker between them.

"So it wasn’t about me?" Stelle rasps.

"Tch," Silver Wolf clicks her tongue, frustrated as if this is some huge inconvenience for her. "No. It wasn't. The IPC contacted us three months ago."

"The IPC?" her face twists in disgust. "Since when do you guys play mercenary?"

"A lot changed, since you left." Firefly adds hesitantly.

Silver Wolf stands up after that, hopping down from the crate with a clatter of boots against concrete. "Anyway, they paid us to clean up a trail Sunday’s company found while snooping around during one of their little mergers last year. Sloppy shit on IPC’s end. And this guy," She points at Sunday with a flick of her thumb. "—kept extremely vulnerable data of IPC's dealings. Stuff like corporate espionage, bribery, falsified reports, and suppressed internal investigations, things that would cause severe damage if exposed. Could’ve been cleaned with half the cost if they'd gotten to it earlier."

Sunday’s brows lift at the accusation, but he stays quiet.

Silver Wolf continues. "I was halfway through a full sweep when—boom. Guess who I see on internal employee records? Name flagged, low-clearance access, regular hallway cam footage. Our little runaway."

Her eyes flick to Stelle.

"You weren’t even hard to find."

Stelle furrows her brows. "So what? You saw me and decided to ruin my life for fun?"

Silver Wolf shrugs. "You were part of the background at first. But you working there? That made things more interesting. I figured I'd poke around a bit. See why you went corporate. You always used to call people like him—" she nods toward Sunday "—'disgusting pigs’ Remember that?”

"Shut up."

"But then," Silver Wolf continues, undeterred, "I started noticing how often he hovered around you. Checking your reports. Started calling you in for meetings, a simple marketing employee. Pulling your badge logs. And then I thought... this could be fun."

"You turned IPC damage control into a personal project?" Sunday can't seem to conceal his bafflement. "Fascinating."

Silver Wolf snorts. "Don’t flatter yourself. It wasn’t about you. It was never about you."

Her gum clicks again, and she tosses it aside with exaggerated drama, apparently even chewing has gotten boring.

"It was about her. It was always about her once I saw her name. I mean, come on. Do you know how pathetic it was, finding you listed under low-clearance nonsense? No related degree, no glowing recommendations, no merit-based promotion path. Just... an office drone. In marketing."

Stelle opens her mouth to argue, but honestly? She has nothing. She really is in marketing. She does have low clearance. She did end up here with no resume. And Sunday was the one who hired her, a sight unseen, after Welt said three magic words on her behalf.

"I thought," Silver Wolf continues, slowly circling Sunday now, "that she was hiding. I thought she was doing her little runaway thing again. Reinventing herself. Playing domestic. I figured, sure—fine. Everyone needs their delusions. She did play house with Himeko, after all."

She stops behind him, gaze cutting to Stelle again. "But then you started showing up early to work and I realized maybe you weren’t just hiding anymore. You were trying to stay for once, maybe." Her voice dips bitterly, then. "And that’s when I got mad."

Ah, well. That’s the truth of it, isn’t it? She was trying to stay. Not in the company, she couldn’t care less about job security—but in the life she built with her own hands. A boring, manageable, coffee-stained existence where her biggest problem was which accessory Sunday would get distracted by next. 

It wasn’t much, but it was hers.

"And what?" Stelle spits. "You just decided I didn’t deserve peace?"

"Not quite," Kafka chimes in. "It's rather, that...You could have had more, Stelle."

"What do you mean by that."

"You left us for stability," She explains, "and apparently, you left that too. I know Himeko. She would’ve given you the easiest, most high-paying jobs. She promised me she would give you the world if I let her take you in." A pause. "And I let her. I let her take you."

Her voice is warm, and that's what shatters Stelle more than anything—she truly believes she handed Stelle over like a mother offering her child a better future and not like a ticking time bomb no one knew how to defuse.

"So why?" Kafka asks, stepping closer into the light once more, the space where she and Stelle exist alone. "Why did you leave that too? Why did you trade all of that for… this?"

She gestures vaguely toward Sunday, who lifts his brows, utterly unamused by being referred to as a downgrade.

"I mean no offense," she adds as an afterthought.

Sunday responds, deadpan: "None taken."

But the comment barely registers with Stelle, who stands frozen in the narrowing space between what she was and what she’s desperately trying to be. There’s no good answer to Kafka’s question, nothing that can be neatly wrapped and placed in a sentence, nothing that makes her sound rational, brave, or even sane.

Why did she leave?

Why did she throw away wealth, security, name recognition, and comfort?

Why is she here—still hungry, still haunted, still shaking in front of people she once would’ve died for?

"I just didn’t want to be owned," she says simply. "I didn’t want to be someone’s pet project. I didn’t want to be a promise kept. I didn’t want to live in a glass castle, knowing everything I had came from pity or guilt or some old deal sealed in a conversation I was barely a part of."

She clenches her jaw, her golden eyes meet Kafka's fushia.

"I studied criminals to make sense of the people I loved. And it didn’t make me feel better. It just made me scared of myself. I wanted to see if I could forsake the things handed to me on a silver platter and build anything on my own. If I could make a life that was mine, even if it was pathetic, even if it was small. I…" 

Her voice cracks, then steadies just as fast. 

"I refused to let Himeko pay my tuition for law school. I wanted to do it myself, but I couldn't with the jobs I couldn't keep. My academic downfall happened on my own terms and it was the only reason I was fine with that. I refused to deal with criminal psychology, because I knew it would remind me of you at every turn. I wanted something that would never take me back to the past."

"And you chose marketing?" Silver Wolf raises a brow.

"I chose freedom," Stelle snaps. "I chose something unimportant enough that I could burn down and walk away from if I needed to. I didn’t want influence. I didn’t want wealth. I didn’t want to be precious. I just wanted out of everything that tied me down."

"Did that save you?"

"Does it matter?" Sunday interjects, the most impolite he's ever been. 

All heads turn to him.

"Would it have changed anything," he continues mildly, "if Stelle had been someone important? If she’d had high clearance, wore a title you respected? If she’d been Miss Himeko’s successor? Would you have left her alone?"

Silver Wolf’s jaw ticks. "What are you implying?"

"I’m not implying," his eyes travel around the room, searching their faces. "I’m asking."

He leans forward. The ropes creak behind him. "Because I can’t help but wonder if this entire hostage spectacle is built on the assumption that her life has to be significant for her peace to be valid. And I think that says far more about you than it does about her."

It’s the silence that follows that makes the moment sting, really. It's a paper cut across their pride. The air in the warehouse crackles, static with the weight of Sunday's words. He’s still tied to a chair, bruised at the wrists, skin no doubt rope burned and raw from it, yet he still finds it in himself to shield Stelle from the ghosts of her past.

"That’s not—" Silver Wolf starts, then shuts her mouth.

Because there’s no argument, is there?

"You think I needed her to be small?" she bites out at last. "That I wouldn’t have touched her if she stood at the top?"

"But you didn’t touch her when she was at the bottom, did you?" he gives her a look. "You only touched her when she started to heal."

"You think I enjoyed hurting her?" she snaps.

Sunday’s gaze is so unwavering that it unnerves Stelle. "Seems to me like you enjoyed reminding her she’s not allowed to be free of you."

"I only wanted—" Silver Wolf starts, but whatever she was going to say dies halfway through.

You only wanted her back. You only wanted her to remember. You only wanted not to be the one left behind.

"She was ours," she ends up huffing out instead. Quiet, brutal, entirely childish. Juvenile enough to fit into a kindergarten conversation.

Sunday's response comes out flat. "And now she belongs to herself. Now what?"

Kafka lets the words sit for exactly three seconds.

Then, in the blink of an eye, without shifting her gaze or expression, she draws a gun from somewhere inside that long coat she’s worn forever, lifts it lazily, and points it directly at Sunday’s head.

"Enough of all that now. If you want to waste your life away, waste it where I can see you. Come back to us," she declares, fuschia eyes fixed unblinking on Stelle. "or I blow his brains out."

The air evacuates Stelle’s lungs so swiftly she thinks she might faint. Her heartbeat crashes into a wild crescendo. Kafka's words casually flick a switch, and the entire reality shifts into the unthinkable: everything she can't afford to lose, and a gun pointed at his head.

She staggers forward, desperation clawing through her chest. "Kafka—no."

Kafka presses on. "It’s just one man, Stelle. One unimportant job. One insignificant life. You can run from this one too. You'll forget in a year. You were never meant for peace, and you know it."

Stelle’s mouth opens, closes, words dying on her tongue. She shakes her head, eyes stinging with panic, breath too shallow. "Put that damn thing down. I'm serious."

Kafka’s finger shifts along the trigger guard, unhurried. "You’re made of spikes and sharp edges, little star. You always were. Let me sharpen you again, properly this time."

"I don’t want it!" Stelle cries out, voice cracking, raw and frayed as it leaves her mouth. Her knees threaten to buckle, but she fights to stay upright, eyes blurring with panic. "I don't want to be made of anything but flesh and bone. Kafka, please."

Kafka, to her credit, doesn’t flinch. Stelle doesn't understand why. She knows that she is not heartless. She is not merciless like this. 

Her next words address Sunday. "...You care for her," she muses. "You’ve made that much clear. But do you truly believe you can handle her?"

"Handle her?" he repeats flatly, as if the phrase itself is some kind of social offense. Then he gives her a sidelong glance, tired in his elegant, high-society way that is usually a signal for please don’t embarrass yourself in front of company.

Kafka, unfazed, inclines her head. "Tame her, then. Can you do that?"

Sunday makes a face as if she’s asked him whether he enjoys shoving glass into his own eyes for fun. "Good God," he mutters. "Is that meant to be a serious question?"

"Why not?" Her brow lifts, finger dances along the trigger. "You seem so very attached. Surely there’s part of you that wants to smooth her edges. You’re clearly the type who needs control to feel safe."

"You mistake taste for tyranny."

"So you don’t want to break her?"

He levels her with a look so flat, so bored, it could starch laundry. Is he not scared? Stelle's tongue feels heave in her mouth. "I don't know, Miss Kafka. Do I?" he replies, a barely concealed 'don't ever ask me that stupid question again'.

"Then what do you want from her?"

"I want her to stay with me." He says simply, and that’s all.

No soliloquy, no grand claims of love that echoes through time that are his usual brand of dramatic. Just a simple, short: I want her to stay beside me.

"But you’re not trying to change her?" Kafka asks one last time. The safety of the gun clicks off.

"Kafka—"

Sunday finally glances toward Stelle, golden eyes dragging over the strands of her hair, the bruised tightness in her shoulders, the anger and fear and exhaustion still leaking out of her in waves she cannot seem to calm.

"If I wanted someone meek, I could settle down with any one of the thirty-seven women in my social hemisphere my aunt has tried to set me up with." his head leans to the side a little. "I want her. Sharp edges and all."

The amusement in Kafka's tone irks Stelle endlessly. "You want a woman who fights you at every turn?"

"Miss Kafka, you underestimate the amount of things that already fight me on the daily. At least she’s less trouble than the United Nations," he responds mildly. "And considerably more attractive."

"Did you just compare me to the UN?"

"Favorably," he'd wave a hand if they weren't tied down, unbothered.

"She shows up late," he adds without Kafka prodding further. "Disrupts my meetings. Argues with me for sport. Laughs when I’m trying to be serious. Eats my lunch. Refuses to wear anything appropriate to work. Makes up imaginary HR problems. Steals my fountain pens and uses them to scribble soyjacks on my reports. Some days I think she was sent to assassinate me through psychological attrition."

Kafka gestures with the gun for him to continue.

"And?" she prompts.

"And I like having her around."

Again, no dramatics. Stelle's heart caves in on itself.

"She’s exhausting," he sighs quietly. "But she’s never boring."

Her organs shift inside her body. She's sure that is what's making her feel lightheaded.

He really means it, doesn't he? With a gun to his head, he is the most simple he has ever been.

"That’s it?" Kafka presses. "That’s what keeps you invested? Chaos?"

"No," Sunday shakes his head, lifting his chin. "It’s that she makes me work. I like that."

"You like being challenged?" she asks, a touch skeptical.

"I like earning things," he says. "She doesn’t hand herself over. She doesn’t fall in line. I have to understand her. Every day. Every moment. And I want to."

Stelle, who has chased, has been chased, desired, wanted, lusted after, hated, loved; Stelle who has gotten abandoned and abandoned others along with her dreams and half of her heart once and never once has been understood, bites the inside of her cheek so hard it bleeds. 

Stelle who has never been asked to stay or never been held whenever she tried to run, feels cradled in the safety and sureness of the casual declarations of this man. 

"I see," Kafka hums. Turns to Stelle. "So? What's your answer, Stelle?" 

Stelle, dumb, stupid, stupid Stelle, stands there, in the cold center of that warehouse, boots planted and body trembling from the unbearable pressure of choice and the fear that she might lose the one thing in the world that has ever anchored her. The seconds stretch thin, taut as wire, ready to snap.

And just like that, her world narrows down to him.

The walls of the warehouse dissolve, the Hunters fall out of focus, even the spotlight feels distant. All she can think about is what it was like waking up in his bed last Saturday. The sunlight coming in through the blinds never feeling as warm as the crook of his arm does. His hand slung around her waist. The faint sound of him humming under his breath in the kitchen as he brewed something ridiculous and herbal for her to drink.

She thinks about the way he leaves the radio on static because silence unnerves him. The way he collects antiques and keeps them tagged, catalogued, stacked with loving care. The way his fingers always move toward things gently, as though the world is made of paper and porcelain and he has to earn the right to touch what it has to offer.

She thinks about the times he always talks about his sister, how his whole body softens around her name, because he does not know how to stand tall in the presence of someone he would burn the world down for.

She thinks about how he has rules for everything because he falls apart without a moral code and a ritual to follow, because he tries so hard to remain good in a world that demands ruthlessness from him.

She thinks about how smug he gets when someone at work fails in precisely the way he predicted, how he tries not to smile but always does. How he claims it’s unbecoming but secretly delights in being right.

She thinks about that little girl who saw him at the park a while ago and asked if he was a prince, and how he blinked three times and didn’t know how to respond.

She thinks about the stray kitten on the office roof, the one she had been feeding scraps, the one Sunday had stared at for ten straight minutes with downturned eyes because he cannot touch things with fur without quietly freaking out about it.

She thinks about the ache in her chest when he was embarrassed of having such a disordered mind that kept him from this joy, about how he loves anyway, even when he can’t touch.

And then, she thinks about how he will lose all of it.

If she chooses herself, he will lose everything. His company, his reputation, his peace, his sister, his safety, his future, his life. The warm, stupid, boring little corporate life he’d been trying to build before her, brick by brick. And for what?

For her?

For someone who runs, claws—someone who only destroys everything she touches because she was meant for the slums of the city and not the high raise offices of it, and she spent her entire life trying to keep that destruction at bay by running from it. Foolish enough to think she could outrun it if she was fast enough, if she left quick enough before it would destroy others too. 

Someone who makes all the wrong choices but makes them anyway because she thinks she can bear destruction only if it happens on her own terms.

He deserves the kind of future I was never allowed to imagine for myself.

If the cost of it is his life, then freedom is not worth it.

So she straightens.

"...Fine." she croaks. "I’ll do whatever you want. Just—put it down. Let him go."

The silence that envelops the room is horrible, so quiet that she hears the blood in her ears. She will not be a free girl tomorrow. 

"No."

A voice resounds then, and pulls her out of her daze. Across the room, Sunday stares at her. His golden eyes have darkened into molten lava, fire under glass, burning, 

"No," He repeats. Steadies his voice. "Absolutely not."

"What do you mean 'no'? I'm not letting you die."

"You are trading your own life with mine to save me. I won't stand for that. What a horrible thing to do to me."

Her mouth opens. Closes back up. "…What?"

"I understa—understand perfectly," he steals a sidelong glance at Kafka when she presses the gun to his temple, and it makes his words stagger. "I understand that you’ve given up everything to choose a life for yourself. You chose this mundane, ridiculous existence. You chose badly-printed spreadsheets and overpriced lattes and me. You chose it, Stelle. And right now, in this moment, you have to choose it again."

Her vision swims. It's not that easy, she wants to say, it's never been that easy. The past will haunt me no matter where I go and no matter how simple my days are. He is so heartbreakingly trusting, that she can live the way she wants to.

"You can choose this again," he repeats firmly. "Choose it. I promise you—I'm choosing you right back."

"Sunday—"

"I've had enough of this spectacle," Kafka cuts her off, and lowers the gun, as though this whole ordeal is just another item clogging up her afternoon calendar, irritated in a way one would only be if they just realized they left the stove on at home.

"Silver Wolf," she gestures, without lifting her eyes, "get on with it."

Silver Wolf, who has been dangling off the crate for half the conversation, groans. "Ugh, finally." 

She hops down and retrieves a small, glinting knife from her pocket, flipping it open with a practiced flick of her wrist. The blade catches the light, it shines cruelly.

With just a sauntering gait, loose shoulders and knife held lazily at her side, she walks up behind Sunday.

All Stelle sees is the knife, and the person she loves, tied up and still too polite to panic, about to have a blade dragged across his neck or worse.

Her body acts faster than thought—an instinct older than the years she spent buried in coffee shops and contract work, the kind that blooms from bones once made for running, for fighting, for surviving.

She lunges forward.

In a blur of motion, the scrape of her boots across concrete bleed into her eardrums.

Blade moves before anyone else can blink.

He intercepts her mid-charge, All it takes is one step, one effortless twist of his wrist, and Stelle’s arm is blocked, her momentum redirected as her shoulder slams into his.

Pain shoots down her side. She hisses and shoves back, kicks out, but he’s already twisting and pivoting around her. It’s like fighting concrete—she always hated sparring with him, because Blade is a fucking brick wall that knows how to land a blow.

"Still weak," he mutters, sounding more inconvenienced than annoyed.

"Still ugly," she spits, and throws a punch straight at his face. "Get out of my way."

He dodges and she grabs the moment his foot lifts to sweep low and make him stumble a half-step back. He recovers instantly, this fucker—grabs her wrist, yanks her forward, and she uses the motion to slam her knee into his gut. It lands hard enough to make him grunt.

Blade elbows her across the jaw. Her ears ring. Blood blooms against her gums.

She spits on the floor and charges again, but she can tell that he’s still holding back. He’s not hitting as hard as he does on real missions, and the concept of Blade holding any sort of sentiment for her settles in her gut heavier than any punch he could land on her.

Ah, well. Being a sentimental fool is his mistake.

She clocks him in the face, straight across the nose, and the crunch is deeply satisfying.

His head jerks back, blood streaks down over his lips, and he actually looks surprised. "...Huh."

Then he retaliates.

A punch lands square in her gut, hard enough to knock the wind out of her, and she stumbles back, coughs blood. Uh oh. That's not good.

Not enough to make her stop, though.

Her body twists swiftly to drive her elbow into his side. He grunts. She tries for a follow-up, but he grabs her wrist mid-air and twists and kicks her legs out from under her.

She crashes to the ground.

Her breath leaves her all at once. Pain blossoms across her spine. She hopes her insurance covers bone damage.

"Enough!"

Blade lowers his hand. His bloodied nose drips. Stelle wheezes on the floor, arm curled around her ribs, hair wild and eyes blazing.

Kafka actually looks distressed for once in her life. "You brats," she chides, exasperated. "What are you doing?"

Stelle staggers to her feet, coughing again, blood trailing from the corner of her mouth. "You were going to cut him!"

"...Are you stupid?" Silver Wolf asks, still behind Sunday, knife frozen mid-air. "I was going to cut the ropes and set him free."

Stelle blinks.

"...Oh."

Leaning sideways to look past Sunday, she stares at Stelle, vaguely unimpressed. "You lunged at me because you thought I was going to murder your little boyfriend in front of everyone?"

"You were walking up behind him with a knife!"

"It’s a rope knife."

"It’s still a knife!"

"You’re such a drama queen."

She ignores her, and risks a glance at Sunday, now free and staring at her dumbly, probably in disbelief. Maybe disgust, if she's lucky enough for him to feel just that and not repulsed beyond saving. 

She's ashamed of how easily she fell back into violence, in front of a man who does not even say 'fuck' because it's too vulgar, refuses to raise his voice no matter how mad he is, exists only in calm cadences because he is too above things like fighting and punching and hitting.

She has never felt shame over her capabilities, but at this moment, the only thing they tell him is that she doesn't belong in his carefully crafted world.

"Sorry you had to see that," she mumbles, wiping her mouth on her sleeve as she steps forward with her head down. 

Sunday blinks once. Slowly. Then again, rebooting. "Uh—" he gulps. "It’s… not a problem."

She crouches down on her knee in front of him hesitantly, hands reaching to check the rope burns around his wrists. Takes them in her hands, thumb brushing over the red welts left behind. Her fingers are scraped, knuckles bruised, blood on her sleeve, but her touch is feather-light.

"You okay?" the question leaves her quietly. The words stick a little in her throat.

No answer comes from him besides a little nod, because he’s still looking at her. His brows are drawn, mouth parted just enough that it looks like he’s forgotten what to do with it.

God.

She recoils slightly. Drops her gaze. Her hand stills around his, but her grip loosens.

"...Please don’t look at me like that," she pleads. "I know I was—violent. I’m not… I’m not normal. You don’t have to pretend."

She hates this. Hates how quiet he’s being, how unreadable his silence is at this moment. He's usually all words—elegant ones, carefully selected, even when he's pretending not to care. He always has something to say. Something to comment on. Some dry little remark to keep things from falling apart. So why isn’t he saying anything now?

"I used to live in places where that was the normal, okay? But I'm not like that anymore. I haven’t been like that in years. I don’t even want to be like that."

She swipes her mouth with the back of her hand again, wishing it would wipe away the shame.

"Can you please just pretend you didn’t see that?" she mumbles. "Or make a sarcastic comment about it? I don't care. Just—say something. Anything. I hate this."

"...Why?" he finally asks, head tilting with disarming sincerity that only makes it worse.

"Because you’re looking at me like I just broke your worldview."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"Stelle."

"What."

"You just suplexed a grown man in front of me."

She stiffens. Braces herself for the 'uncouth' or the 'barbaric' or the 'unbecoming of a lady'—

"And it was," he continues, face scrunched up as he searches for an elegant word but then he fails and settles on the simple truth instead: "...the coolest thing I’ve ever witnessed."

Her eyes bore into his.

"...What?"

He sighs dreamily. "Yes. That’s the word. Cool."

"You… think that was cool?"

"You flipped a man twice your size onto concrete with nothing but brute force. You were radiant."

She blinks.

He nods, breathless. "Yes, utterly radiant. My god."

Stelle's mouth opens. Then shuts. Her entire brain stalls for a moment, rebooting in real-time. Her cheeks flush, from the sheer absurdity of hearing the word radiant come out of his mouth about that.

"Are you—being serious right now?"

"Hopelessly serious."

Then he lifts both hands, tenderly cradling Stelle’s face between gloved palms, warmth bleeding through supple leather, spreading slowly across her skin. Her eyes slip closed, savoring the quiet press of his thumbs along her cheekbones. She leans into him openly, soft sigh slipping through parted lips, and it sends a faint tremble down his fingertips.

A moment hangs suspended between their breaths.

"I see..." Unsure of what to say, her eyes flutter open to meet his gaze. "Hi?"

"Hello," he smiles.

"Come here often?"

Sunday chuckles, his silent laughter a balm over her frayed nerves, and he tips his head forward, shaking it once tenderly, his fingers slipping through her hair to gently tuck a loose strand behind her ear.

"No," he whispers warmly. "I'd hate to make my darling worry."

"Oh?" Stelle’s voice lilts. "You’ve got someone waiting on you, then?"

His thumbs brush slowly over the heated curve of her cheeks, his gaze drinking in every softening line of her face, every tremble of her lashes. "I do."

Her lashes flutter playfully, heart catching beneath her ribs, and she offers him a smile, eyes gleaming gently, hands coming up to cradle his wrists. "You should probably leave her," she offers. "I can treat you better."

Sunday considers her thoughtfully, golden eyes catching the gentle overhead glow, amusement gathering behind each steady breath. His lips purse to feign contemplation before he shakes his head once again, thumbs tracing featherlight circles on flushed skin.

"No," he breathes, leaning closer. "I’m afraid I can’t love anyone else."

Her breath shivers out, sweet laughter melting helplessly against his touch, face slipping free of his palms and dropping onto his knee as her shoulders shake with barely-contained giggles. Heat rushes beneath her cheeks, giddy warmth flooding her chest until it blooms vibrant in the hollows beneath her collarbones.

"You’re killing me," she murmurs breathlessly, fingers tightening around his wrists, laughter gently muffled against the fabric of his trousers. "But really, you should leave her, you know. I’ve seen her—absolute menace. Constant trouble. No redeeming qualities."

Sunday hums thoughtfully, fingertips scratching the back of her head. "Oh, she is troublesome," he agrees, tender velvet voice brushing sweetly over her ears, "but tragically captivating. Impossible to walk away from."

Stelle sighs dreamily, lips brushing his knee through fabric, affection threading thickly into every soft, shuddering breath. Her eyes close again, savoring the gentle hush of fingertips threading through her hair.

"Yeah?" she grins. "You think so?"

"Mhm. I believe so."

"How adorable," Kafka muses somewhere behind her and pops their little bubble. "I suppose that wraps this up."

"Are you done now?" Stelle asks without looking back, voice muffled against Sunday’s thigh, where she’s still curled half in his lap like a very tired guard dog and a very spoiled pet.

Kafka hums. It’s almost fond. Almost. "Yes. You’re clearly done running. That’s all I wanted to see."

Stelle groans and finally lifts her head. "You couldn’t have tested me with—I don’t know—an email? A phone call? A psych eval? You had to kidnap my boyfriend?"

"It wouldn’t have been authentic," Kafka glances at her nails as though the whole ordeal had been a tedious brunch. "Besides, I wanted to see how far you’d go to protect your new little… hobby."

Sunday, seated and still cradling Stelle, raises a brow. "...Excuse me?"

"Hush," Kafka waves him off. "You’re sweet, but not relevant to this part of the conversation."

"I think I’m quite relevant," he mutters.

"You are, don't listen to her," Stelle reassures him before sighing. "Why do you do this, Kafka?"

"Because someone has to." Her tone is unchanging. "You have always made it impossible to walk away from you cleanly. I had to make sure you really meant to stay gone. I was curious to see whether you were hiding from yourself again."

Stelle stares at her, but doesn’t acknowledge the loud part aloud.

A silence settles in for a moment, in the quiet space where Sunday's hand slides down to the nape of her neck to rest there and keep her grounded.

Stelle glances at Silver Wolf, who’s now swinging her legs off the crate again while chewing a new gum, then at Blade, who’s back to brooding in his preferred patch of dramatic shadow, blood still drying under his nose, then at Sunday, who’s still holding her precious.

Something is still missing. So she makes a final plea to them. "...I want to see Caelus."

"Not yet."

Stelle’s brows knit. "Why?"

"Because he’s still figuring out what he wants. He’s not like you. He didn’t cut ties. He’s trying to stand still for the first time in his life. We need to let him."

"...I could help."

"You’d only make it harder. He still looks for you every time we walk through a crowd, you know. He hasn’t let go. But he’s trying to learn how to stand on his own two feet. And when he can—" She points at her. "—we’ll let you know. You’ll see him. Just be patient, okay?"

Her hand curls a little tighter around Sunday’s sleeve.

"And we did that," Kafka adds with her usual gentleness. "so you two could be free from this life. Together. One day. That was the point."

"Okay," she replies, albeit begrudgingly. "I’ll wait."

Lifting herself up with great effort, she helps Sunday up from the chair as well. His arm immediately curls around her protectively, around the bruises Blade gave her earlier, and tries not to wince and make him feel bad.

Then, Silver Wolf slides off her crate with an exaggerated sigh and saunters over.

She stops just in front of Stelle and holds something out between two fingers.

It’s a card. Worn, glossy, slightly bent at the corner. The faded logo of an ancient arcade glows dimly in neon green against the black plastic.

"Here," Silver Wolf mutters, flicking it once before dropping it into Stelle’s palm. "It still works. Free tokens on Tuesdays or whatever."

Her fingers curl around it, brow cocked. "The hell is this?"

"A place. I go sometimes."

"You inviting me out?"

Silver Wolf scoffs, eyes rolling. "Don’t flatter yourself. It’s just an arcade. You can drop by if you want to play. Or don’t. Whatever."

She turns on her heel to leave.

Stelle wants to be mad, really. She should be mad. But it dies down somewhere inside, and all that reaches her lips is a smirk, teasing. "You wanna see me again that bad?"

Silver Wolf pauses—just one beat too long. Over her shoulder, without turning around, she calls back: "Maybe." A shrug. "Do you?"

Stelle's smile softens, tucks the card into her back pocket.

"...Yeah. I do."

Silver Wolf disappears back into the shadows after that, but the space she leaves behind lingers very warm and very strange.

The others begin to gather, their steps scattering in the warehouse, exiting the building from the backdoor. Blade trails after Kafka in silence, blood still streaking down from his nose, though he doesn’t look like he’s in pain, only vaguely amused—he probably finds the entire ordeal beneath him but entertaining nonetheless.

And then Firefly steps forward.

She’s the last to approach. Small and quiet as always, arms wrapped around herself sweetly. Her hair catches the light in soft strands, and her voice, when it comes, is so careful it barely ripples the air.

"Mr. Sunday."

Sunday lifts his head at once. He's ready for whatever fire-and-brimstone threat they might leave as a parting gift. But Firefly only dips her chin, afraid to meet his eyes but also too brave not to.

"I wanted to ask…" She hesitates, brushing her fingertips nervously against her wrist. "If it’s not too much trouble—could you please not…call the authorities? On Stelle, I mean."

Sunday blinks. "I had no intention of doing so."

Firefly looks immensely relieved—but still continues.

"It’s just… I think Silver Wolf already erased anything that could make her look bad. Security footage, camera feeds. If you tried, you’d probably just look silly. And I'm sure... you don't want to look silly."

Her gaze flickers to Stelle momentarily, the smallest smile tugging at her lips before she nods once more and begins to step back.

And with that, she’s gone too.

Once the last footsteps fade, the warehouse falls still. The cold settles again.

Sunday lets out a long, long breath, his brows pinched faintly as he looks her over. Bruises blooming dark beneath her collarbone. Red swelling along her jaw. The crack of blood still drying at the edge of her lip. She must look awful. 

"By the Gods," he mutters, voice tight with concern. "What a beast. Who in their right mind hits someone smaller than them this badly?"

He tuts under his breath, and cups her chin to tilt her face up for inspection, fretting over her as if he isn't the more fragile one out of the two. She winces, and he curses in Shakespearean beneath his breath.

"I’m calling a doctor in. Immediately. The moment we get home." He shifts, fishing through his coat pocket. "Don’t argue."

"I wasn’t going to," she says, a bit dazed from being fussed over, it feels nice, honestly. "You’re kind of hot when you’re bossy."

He pauses, blinks slowly—and then resumes digging his pocket without acknowledging her.

Eventually, his fingers close around his phone, where Silver Wolf had shoved it back into his coat. 

"Right," he says, already typing. "I’ll call Gallagher to pick us up."

Her eyes widen a bit, eyebrows lifting. "...You mean Gallagher Gallagher?"

"Yes."

"The head of your entire security division?"

"How many Gallaghers do we know?" Sunday asks dryly. "Yes. That Gallagher. Unfortunately, he is the only person I trust in that company aside from you."

She stares. "...I didn’t know you two were chill like that."

"We’re not."

He dials anyway, letting it ring. "He was close friends with my uncle. He treats me like his friend, too. It’s awful."

Stelle tries not to laugh. It hurts to breathe too hard.

"You hate it so much you’re trusting him with your life."

"I trust his competence," Sunday clarifies, as if wounded. "Not his personality."

"You’re so funny."

"And you are bleeding internally," he reminds her. "So do try to conserve your breath."

She grins anyway, eyes closing as she leans against him again, letting the warmth of his body and his absurd brand of concern seep into her bones.

"...I like you, you know," she says softly, voice sleep-rough.

"I would hope so," he kisses the crown of her head, phone still ringing. "You just assaulted a man for me."

"Hehe...I did."

He sighs again, but he sports a small, helpless smile to accompany it this time.

"Gallagher," he greets once the line finally picks up. "Yes. It’s me. No, we’re fine—mostly. I’ll send you coordinates. Bring the car. And the emergency med kit. No, I don’t want the medical staff. Just you. I don’t want witnesses."

He pauses.

"Yes, it’s a long story." Another sigh. "No, I don’t want to tell it."

He hangs up and pockets the phone again.

"You good?" Stelle murmurs, half-asleep already.

"Mhm."

The trusty, apparently reliable Gallagher, pulls up around fifteen minuted later.

Big car, black windows, and he steps out in his usual black button up and dress pants most definitely haphazardly thrown together in haste. They’ve probably inconvenienced his evening plans of drinking whiskey in silence.

"You two look like shit," he greets, propping his arm on the open door.

"Gallagher," Sunday looks overcome with relief. "Thanks for coming."

"You'd fire me otherwise."

Stelle snorts, but winces when the motion pulls a crack in her ribs. Gallagher gives her a once-over and raises an eyebrow.

"Hi, kiddo. Didn’t know you were the plus-one tonight."

"It wasn't a planned date." she mutters.

Gallagher lets out a low whistle and opens the back door for them. "Well, well. Color me surprised."

Sunday gently helps her inside, then gets on himself. He sinks into the seat with a soft groan, adjusting his coat over Stelle before she can even think of refusing. He tucks her into his side, muscle memory by now. 

The engine starts with a whirl.

"You bleeding internally, or is it just cosmetic?" Gallagher asks over his shoulder.

"I'm hoping she isn't," Sunday mutters.

"Cool. Just don’t die in my backseat. Blood’s hell to clean."

Stelle stifles a laugh against Sunday’s shoulder.

"You good, bossman?" Gallagher continues, glancing at the mirror. "This isn’t exactly your usual evening stroll."

Sunday leans his head back against the window, golden eyes flicking toward him. "Define good."

"You get jumped?"

"Technically, I was kidnapped."

"Damn," Gallagher huffs a laugh. "You gotta give me a raise, boss. This ain't in my job description."

"If you get us home quickly," Sunday mumbles, "and drive the family doctor over right after… I’ll give you a fortune."

Gallagher whistles again. "Damn, kiddo," he glances at Stelle through the mirror. "You hear that?"

Her lips lift up a little, still curled up against Sunday’s side. "Yeah. Isn't he cute."

"I'm not cu—Stelle."

"What?"

"Are you sleepy?" He pauses, nudges her with his palm against her forehead. "Hey. Don't fall asleep. No sleeping until you get checked."

But she is so, so tired, so sleepy. "I'll nap just a little...til we get home..."

"No," he repeats, shifting her to an upright position, much to her dismay. "Stay awake. I'm not asking."

She groans against him, letting her head loll back against the seat. Her limbs feel like lead, her eyelids like velvet curtains trying to fall. "You’re so mean..."

"I’m trying to keep you alive."

"Barely."

"Stelle," he warns, more weary than stern.

She shifts, scooting down in the seat again until she's pouting. "Fine, I’m awake," she mumbles, blinking slowly. "I’m sooo awake. Look at me. Wide-eyed." She opens her eyes exaggeratedly wide for a second, and then immediately starts to close them again.

"Nope," Sunday says, tapping her cheek with two fingers. "You’re fading. I can see it. Keep talking. Name five animals."

"What."

"Go. Five animals."

He might as well have just asked her to recite the constitution in Latin. "Cat, dog, raccoon, uh... eel?"

"That’s four. One more."

"...You."

He blinks. "Me?"

"Bird. Swan."

Despite himself, Sunday chuckles. "Alright. I’ll take that. You’re doing well."

She shifts again, clearly pleased by the praise, despite her pout. Her hand finds his wrist and curls around it, thumb brushing against the bare skin of his hand. "You better still be this nice when we get home."

"I’ll be nicer," he promises, pressing a kiss to her hair. "I’m going to get you patched up. Put you in silk pajamas. Feed you soup. And then you can sleep."

"Mmm. Good. I want chips, too."

"We’ll discuss junk food when you’re conscious."

Gallagher’s voice comes in from the front. "Y’know, I’m still here."

"Drive faster," Sunday replies without looking.

"Yes, Your Grace."

A snort leaves her despite the blooming pain after it, then she rests her head against his shoulder again, eyes fluttering open to look up at him. "I’m not gonna die or anything, you know."

His fingers thread through hers. "I know," he says quietly. "But I’m not taking chances."

For once, she doesn’t tease him for it.

With a squeeze around his hand, she breaths in, out, and stays awake.

For her sake, then his. 

Chapter Text

A few days after the incident, Stelle is officially, tragically, literally and metaphorically and in every sense of the damn word, bored out of her goddamn mind.

It wasn’t even a serious injury. Really. She’s had worse falling off a dumpster back in her street-rat days, but apparently, the concept of "rest" is sacred scripture to Sunday. So sacred that when she'd tried to slip out the door Monday morning, casually humming and pretending she wasn't technically on medical leave, Sunday had dragged her back inside with a look of abject horror as if she'd just suggested running him over with a train ten times over.

"You are not coming to work," he'd declared, frowning like a mother hen, "Absolutely not."

"You're being misogynistic," she'd accused, because why not make it fun if he's going to be nagging. "You're trying to keep me locked up for your docile little housewife fantasy."

He'd looked genuinely stunned, then baffled, then finally deeply offended, in a sort of offended-multistage-cycle only he could manage.

"Misogynistic—?" he'd echoed incredulously, as if she’d just accused him of clubbing baby seals. "Stelle. My heart. My darling. First—I respect you. I have no power over you. You know this."

Okay—she knew that. She'd opened her mouth to crack another joke about his seriousness and roll her eyes, but he'd raised a finger decisively, and that had shut her back up.

"Second, you are entirely free to do whatever your heart desires. Take a walk, visit your friends, go to that strange café you like
—Anything you want. Just no strenuous activity or work. Those were literally the doctor’s orders."

"I bet the doctor’s misogynistic too," she'd mumbled, just to be annoying.

"Stelle," he'd sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Please be reasonable."

"Don't wanna..."

He’d narrowed his eyes, pointing dramatically to the couch like he was commanding a troublesome cat. "Sit. Rest. Enjoy your mandated vacation. Please, darling."

And because she was a sucker for dramatics and his bossy little frown, she'd eventually complied.

But now, it's Friday morning, and Stelle has officially lost her will to live.

She sprawls miserably on the couch, hair piled in a haphazard mess atop her head, wearing one of Sunday's absurdly expensive pajama tops because, if she's being forced into house arrest, she'll at least be comfortable and stylish. Her phone dings, vibrating on the coffee table.

[ur alive right?] —March, of course.

[tragically. bored. suffering.] she texts back.

Another ding immediately follows.
[poor Stellie... u want company :3?]

She thinks for a second, then taps a reply:
[depends, r u bringing snacks?]

March’s reply is immediate, as expected:
[Anything for my girl!!!!]

[yayy >/////< Be quick though i miss u]

[miss u too♡♡♡ omw after this shoot ends]

Stelle reacts with a thumbs up emoji and tosses her phone aside.

Just as she contemplates sinking into the eternal abyss of her couch cushions again until March arrives, her door opens and in walks Sunday, fresh from the office, hair annoyingly perfect, suit obnoxiously wrinkle-free, holding a suspiciously large paper bag from that pretentious café she'd petulantly mentioned four days ago.

"I come bearing gifts," he announces dramatically, setting the bag onto the table. "To ease the pain of your luxurious captivity."

She squints suspiciously at the bag, then at him. "Are you bribing me?"

"Yes," he answers without hesitation, tugging off his gloves and placing them neatly beside her phone. "Now stop glaring and say thank you."

"Thank you for enabling my Stockholm syndrome," she replies flatly, eyes fixed pointedly on the paper bag.

Sunday sighs dramatically and sits beside her, gently nudging her feet aside before settling them into his lap. "I thought we agreed you'd stop accusing me of problematic crimes."

"Did we?"

"Well, I certainly thought so," he sighs again, while absently thumbing circles into her ankles. It feels disgustingly good, and she relaxes despite herself, letting out a contented hum.

"Keep doing that and I'll consider your charges dropped," she mumbles. 

His thumb presses a little deeper, hitting a particularly tender spot, and she can't help the embarrassing noise that leaves her. He chuckles softly.

"How generous."

"You love it."

"I do," he admits quietly, all fond.

She peeks an eye open to glare weakly at him. "I'll never get off this couch again. That's a threat."

He smiles one of those irritating, soft, deeply unfair ones that make her brain short-circuit. "If that's all it takes, I'll order a lifetime supply of pastries."

"Capitalist."

"Brat," he replies sweetly.

She huffs, closing her eyes again, utterly defeated by his stupid, gentle hands and his stupid, gentle smile.

"March is coming over," she announces, more to keep herself from melting completely into him than to actually inform him. "She's bringing snacks."

"Oh," he says, mock-wounded. "Am I being replaced already?"

"Absolutely. She enables my bad decisions, unlike someone."

"That's entirely untrue. I enable plenty of your bad decisions," he counters, stroking along her calf lazily. "I simply stop you from dying."

"You’re so romantic today," she sighs dreamily, tipping her head back. "I really hit the jackpot."

He huffs, pressing a kiss to her knee, warm breath grazing her skin and sending goosebumps racing up her spine. "I believe I am the lucky one," he murmurs, "But I will take it."

Her brain short-circuits for approximately four seconds after that knee kiss, which is honestly a record, considering she hasn’t gotten laid in more than two weeks. Not that she’s counting.

...Okay, maybe she is.

"God," she mutters under her breath, eyes flicking to the ceiling, kind of maybe searching for divine intervention. "You’re gonna give me a complex."

Sunday, who has started unwrapping a wax-paper pastry with surgeon-like precision, doesn’t even look up. "You already have several."

"Mm. Fair."

She shifts, still nestled against him, stretching her arms overhead until her spine cracks. The sound echoes through the room. Sunday makes a face.

“Was that your bones?”

"It's so hard being nearly twenty five," she laments. "My body is giving up on me. You're dating an old woman."

"I'm older than you."

"Even worse."

He sighs and sets down the package, regards her for a long moment, and then reaches over to grab her waist, then he lifts her with great effort and deposits her sideways across his lap again like a cat who was seconds before jumping off a balcony.

"There," he says, satisfied. "That’s more ergonomic."

"For who?"

"Me," he replies unapologetically, reaching for the package again.

She lets her head loll back over the armrest. "You’re kind of a freak, you know that?"

"Mm," Sunday hums, tearing off a clean bite of almond croissant. "You've called me a freak and its variations approximately a million times since we met. I feel like a glorified humanoid Radiohead song."

She bursts into laughter. God, he’s ridiculous. She loves it. She loves him so much.

"I fail to see the humor in this," He pops a bite in his mouth, and chews politely.

"I fail to see why you're chewing on my croissant right now," she retorts after her laughter dies down, nudging his thigh with her heel. "You're not gonna feed me?"

He pauses mid-chew. "You can’t feed yourself?"

"I’m on bed rest," she says gravely. "Any sudden movements might rupture my soul."

Sunday gives her a long, evaluating look. Then he tears another bite off the croissant and leans down with infuriating calm.

"Open."

She blinks. "Wait, really?"

"Yes, really. You’re very dramatic and very unwell. Open."

She does, mostly because arguing would take too much energy and also because she’s kind of thriving under the attention.

The pastry melts on her tongue—flaky, warm, a touch bitter, a touch sweet, and somehow so pretentious it kinda feels like it’s judging her palate even as she enjoys it. She chews slowly, contemplatively, because good pastries deserve respect. Also because she doesn't trust herself not to immediately start suckling on his fingers. Or something along those lines of degenerate.

She opts to nudging his stomach with her elbow. "Keep insulting me and I won’t share my snacks when March gets here."

"I’ll survive," he sighs dramatically. "Though my heart will break."

"And you call me dramatic," she says flatly, tilting her head back. "Do you ever hear yourself talk?"

"Regrettably often," he breaks off another bite and leans down again, dangling it tantalizingly just out of reach of her mouth. "It is a fate worse than death."

She cranes her neck upward, making grabby gestures with her teeth. "Stop being evil and give me carbs."

He pauses thoughtfully. "What do I get in return?"

"The pleasure of not having your fingers bitten off?"

He tilts his head, considering. "Mm. Acceptable."

She takes the bite, triumphantly smirking as she chews. Sunday leans back against the couch, watching her fondly, hand idly tracing circles on her thigh. The casual intimacy of it feels so domestic it makes her heart flutter embarrassingly fast. It's humiliating. She's so embarrassing.

"I’m going soft because of you."

"I assure you," he starts, fingertips skating lazily along her skin, "there is nothing soft about you."

"Oh?" she quirks an eyebrow. "Compliments will get you nowhere."

"That wasn’t a compliment," he replies mildly. "You scare me."

She pauses mid-chew, eyes narrowing. "I scare you?"

"Yes," he admits without missing a beat. "It’s delightful."

There follows a moment of silence where she just stares at him—this weirdo. Who says that? Who just says things like that?

"…Okay. So your grand plan," she points a lazy, accusatory finger at him, "is to fatten me up emotionally so I’ll stay soft and docile in your lap like this? I knew it—"

"Stelle." He exhales, lomg suffering.

"What."

"If God himself descended from the heavens and asked you politely to stay docile," he begins, tone already exasperated, "you would end up in the deepest parts of hell for disobeying instructions."

She opens her mouth, immediately ready to deny it.

Then she squints.

"…That does sound like me."

"Yes. And I am but a man," He gestures at himself wearily. "What hope do I have?"

She hums. “So you think I’m a divine punishment.”

"Of the highest kind," He lifts her hand, kisses her knuckles softly. "One I intend to treasure."

She tries very hard not to melt into the couch like microwaved butter. Fails spectacularly. Her neurons just start malfunctioning.

"I still think you’re plotting something," she mutters, mostly for the sake of argument. "No one feeds their girlfriend this much sugar unless they’re trying to spike her insulin and make her emotionally dependent."

He arches a brow, resting his cheek on his fist, looking as if he’s posing for a Renaissance painting. Honestly, he does have the face for it. Now that she thinks about it. "Is it working?"

"Maybe," she says suspiciously.

"Excellent." He picks up another piece of croissant and holds it up to her mouth. "Now. Say ‘ah.’"

"No," she says, crossing her arms.

"Stelle."

"No!"

"…It’s your favorite."

Her resolve crumbles in an instant because he's making The Face at her, and she is, much to her dismay, too taken with him to keep up the petulant act. 

She sighs in defeat. Opens her mouth. "Ahh..."

He beams, then places the piece inside her mouth. Waits until she swallows to speak again.

"And, pray tell, why do you keep accusing me of wanting to tame you? I thought I explained myself at literal gunpoint regarding this."

She blinks slowly, cheeks puffing out into a reluctant pout. That… is true, she supposes. Kafka had held a gun to his head, and Sunday, in his trademark Sunday way, had serenely and eloquently declared he wanted Stelle exactly as she was. Pointy edges and all.

And yet.

"I dunno…" She huffs, turning her head slightly into his palm, the pout only deepening. "You just always treat me like I'm fragile."

It's embarrassing to admit it aloud. Worse, it's embarrassing that it even bothers her in the first place. But there it is; sitting awkwardly between them, the elphant in the room.

Sunday stares at her, his expression softening. Then, after a beat, he reaches out and pinches her cheeks lightly, gently squishing her face between his fingers. She feels vaguely like a hamster being disciplined.

"Stelle," he sounds equal parts fond and exasperated, "you don't have to keep biting to prove your strength. I’m already deeply, intimately familiar with it."

She scowls, or tries to—hard to scowl properly when her cheeks are being mashed like dough. "Mmmph," she protests articulately. "’M not biting to prove anything. ’S just my default state."

He chuckles, releasing her cheeks. She immediately tries to glare, but her facial muscles are rebelling against her now, apparently too busy being smitten by the stupid warmth in his stupid eyes to cooperate.

"Precisely my point," he says, thumb smoothing apologetically over the curve of her jaw. "I know you're capable. I've witnessed firsthand your ability to fight trained criminals—"

"And I held up pretty good," she mutters sulkily, cheeks pinking because, fine, yes, now that he addressed her behaviour, maybe she does feel a little ridiculous.

"—Yes, and," Sunday continues mildly, ignoring her attempt at changing the subject, "I'd rather not see you injured, ever. Forgive me for preferring you whole and healthy. It's entirely selfish, I assure you."

She wrinkles her nose, gaze darting to the ceiling, mostly to avoid how tenderly he's looking at her. She’s weak to tenderness. It makes her squishy and stupid.

"You're speaking as if it's unreasonable to worry," he adds softly. "And I do worry, Stelle, because you're important to me. Not because you're weak. Quite the opposite."

Ugh. Her heart squeezes in her chest, warm and embarrassing. There should be laws against saying things like that—laws strictly enforced by cranky, cynical emotional guards who’d immediately lock him up for excessive affection. Or shoot her in the head, preferably.

He huffs quietly at her pouty expression, and trails gentle fingers through her hair. It feels disgustingly good, and she’s tempted to hiss at him just to prove a point—but maybe, just this once, she can allow herself to enjoy it.

She tilts her head back, blinking down at him. "Just don't treat me like I'll break, okay?"

He meets her eyes seriously, thumb pausing on her cheekbone. "I don't treat you like you'll break, my love," he murmurs, golden irises softening. "I treat you like you're precious," he bops her nose. "Because you are."

Oh.

Oh, she's doomed. Horribly, irrevocably doomed. Her poor little heart doesn't stand a chance against this kind of sincerity. She wants to roll around dramatically on the floor until the feeling goes away.

Instead, she hooks her fingers into the collar of his shirt, tugging until they're nose to nose. "Ugh. I love you, you know."

He leans down obediently, close enough that his breath ghosts over her lips, and smiles brightly. "And I love you. Terribly."

For exactly two seconds, she considers kissing him senseless just to wipe that smug expression off his stupid, beautiful face—but the doorbell interrupts with impeccable timing. 

Sunday pecks her lips anyway because he cannot help himself, then straightens up.

"Ah," he pats her hip, amused. "My replacement has arrived."

"Your reign of tyranny ends now," Stelle announces gravely, rolling off his lap with a kiss on his cheek that leaves him smiling like an idiot. Serves him right. 

She drags herself to the door, opens it, and finds March beaming on the other side, holding up multiple bags of snacks, some of which are see through and she can see her favourites in there.

"Stellie," March declares theatrically, sweeping inside, snacks held aloft, "I've brought provisions!"

"Bless," Stelle groans, practically collapsing into March’s waiting arms.

From the couch, Sunday sighs melodramatically. "Abandoned so easily."

"You knew this day would come."

"Ignore him," March whispers, pressing a noisy kiss to Stelle’s cheek. "He’s just jealous of me."

"Oh, profoundly so," Sunday drawls dry as paper, and rises elegantly from the couch. He adjusts his sleeves and glances between the two women with feigned misery. So dramatic. "Well, since my company is no longer desired, I suppose I'll head to my study to complete some work."

Stelle frowns, genuine disappointment tugging at her chest. "Wait, you're leaving?"

He pauses. "Unless you'd prefer I stay?"

Stelle carefully sets the bags of snacks down on the coffee table while he sulks. 

March immediately kicks off her shoes and announces, "I'm gonna wash my hands real quick! Gotta scrub away the outside world," before disappearing down the hall.

Sunday lingers by the couch, expression softly amused as he buttons his jacket, preparing for his tragically premature departure. Stelle narrows her eyes at him.

"You're really leaving?"

He arches a brow. "You have company. I'm gracefully exiting the stage."

"Your stage directions suck," she retorts, stepping into his space, hooking her fingers into his belt loops and tugging until he's forced to abandon his half-hearted attempt at escape. She cranes upward, kissing him properly this time, slow and noisy enough that she feels his breath hitch. Good. That's better.

When she finally pulls back, he looks appropriately dazed, blinking down at her through messy bangs. She smirks, pleased with herself. 

"March likes you. You can stay with us," she offers sincerely this time, thumb brushing affectionately against his bottom lip.

He smiles and presses a fleeting, gentle kiss to her lips once more. "Tempting as that is, my love, I genuinely do have work to finish. But I'll still be inside the house, so if you require attention or find yourself desperately bored again, you’re entirely welcome to barge in."

She wrinkles her nose. "So, all day then?"

He huffs a small laugh. "Most likely."

"You wouldn't mind?"

"No," he shakes his head. "In fact, disturb me frequently. I insist."

She grins. "Fine. If I have no choice."

"So merciful," he murmurs, fingers trailing down her arm before he glances toward the hall. "I'll prepare dinner after I'm done. What does Miss March like?"

Stelle thinks about that for a second. Shrugs "Honestly, she'd eat anything you put in front of her."

"Not helpful."

She shrugs. "You know how she is. She's a model—she lives in a constant state of hunger and hope."

"That's quite... upsetting."

"You have no idea."

He sighs, and brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Then I'll make sure to make something filling."

"I'm so lucky to have such a dutiful wife."

"Indeed you are." He chuckles under his breath then he disappears down the corridor, leaving her grinning stupidly after him. 

Moments later, March reappears, drying her hands on an unnecessarily fluffy towel, eyebrows raised.

"What are you smiling about?"

"Nothing," Stelle replies too quickly, immediately busying herself by tearing open the nearest snack bag.

"Liar," March sings, settling beside her and snatching up a handful of chips. "You look ridiculously pleased."

"Just happy to see you," Stelle insists, chewing obnoxiously to hide her smile.

March eyes her skeptically. "Uh-huh. Definitely has nothing to do with your hot boyfriend who vanished suspiciously."

"No idea what you're talking about," Stelle deadpans, shoving another chip into her mouth. "Now shut up and snack with me."

March giggles and bumps their shoulders together affectionately. "Whatever you say, 
Stellie."

A few days later, they’re lounging on his ridiculously plush bed (their bed at this piont), sprawled out lazily after brunch because she’s still on house arrest and he's still intent on spoiling her beyond redemption. Stelle’s busy tracing idle patterns into his palm when Sunday turns his head to the side, golden eyes half-lidded.

"Stelle," he begins gently, and he only uses that tone when what he's about to say precedes something either catastrophically mushy or catastrophically serious. "Do you even want to return to work?"

She pauses mid-swirl on his palm, glancing up suspiciously. "Huh?"

"I mean," he continues eyes softening, "the office. Your job. Your dreadfully mundane paperwork."

She squints. "Are you firing me?"

He laughs, rich and bright and warm, and turns fully toward her. "Hardly. If anything, I'd give you a promotion — though, I suspect you wouldn't appreciate the extra responsibility since you seem to thrive on strategically minimal effort."

"Strategically minimal," she echoes. "Fancy way of calling me lazy."

"You’re very efficient at being lazy," he says proudly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "It’s a skill, really."

She smirks. "If you're not firing me or promoting me, then what exactly are you doing?"

Sunday hums, thumb brushing her cheek affectionately. "I'm asking if you're truly content with office work. You were nearly done with law school once, Stelle. You could finish it —if you wished."

Ah, there it is. Catastrophically serious.

She shifts, rolling onto her back to stare at the ceiling because eye contact with his earnest, hopeful gaze will make her short-circuit. Again.

He continues softly, unbothered by her dramatic avoidance tactics. "Or criminal psychology, perhaps? I know people— well-placed ones. You'd make an exceptional consultant."

Stelle chews the inside of her cheek. Does she want to? "I don’t know. I thought you wanted me to be your luxurious stay-at-home girlfriend. You seemed pretty invested in keeping me captive here."

Sunday laughs quietly, gently patting her head. Condescendingly. "You know perfectly well you can do whatever your heart desires. If being professionally idle and pampered appeals to you, then I’ll gladly indulge you. But you’re brilliant, Stelle. You’re capable of extraordinary things."

"Wow," she murmurs playfully, glancing sideways. "You really would let me lounge on your couch forever?"

"Obviously," he brushes a thumb tenderly along her jawline. "I mean it. You don't need to waste your talent coasting through a life you find uninspiring. You deserve fulfillment, and that doesn't have to involve danger or violence."

A slow warmth unfurls in her chest; tender and a little embarrassing. She tugs gently at his sleeve, staring resolutely at the embroidered fabric instead of his painfully sincere expression. "I appreciate the TED talk. But…I don't know. I don’t really want to be part of the justice system of a government. It's all corrupt anyway. What am I going to do if I encounter people like me?"

People like me, who have committed so many crimes under the sun, just to survive, she doesn't say.

"That's fair," he concedes, getting the hint. "I’m not pressuring you to decide anything right away. Just think about it. Everything can remain exactly as it is, if that’s what you want. You could even quit entirely."

She blinks. "And do what?"

He smiles, teasing. "Live a scandalously idle life at my expense, of course. I’d take care of you without question."

"Gross," she mutters, though her heart stutters traitorously at the softness in his voice. "I could never mooch off your capitalist fortune."

"And why not?"

"Sunday. I ate instant noodles for weeks just because I didn't want to mooch off the person legally obligated to provide for me."

"Ah. Point taken," he presses a lingering kiss on her forehead. "Well, the offer stands, nonetheless." 

Then he sighs and gathers her closer to himself. "Just promise me you'll consider your options. And whatever you choose, you'll have my unconditional support. Alright?"

"I know..." Stelle huffs quietly, turning to bury her face against his neck, lips brushing feather-light against his pulse. She breathes in the familiar warmth of his skin, mumbles in a voice muffled by embarrassment.

"Why even offer so much to me...I don’t even do anything for you. I can't give you anything in return."

Sunday lets out an exhale at that, chest rising and falling beneath her cheek. His arms tighten around her waist, holding her steady as he settles deeper into the bed, shifting her effortlessly until she's lying comfortably atop him. He cups her face with such tenderness it almost hurts. His thumbs brush across her cheeks.

"Stelle," he whispers, all gold and earnest, "you do more than you realize. You make it all bearable."

He brows knit together. She doesn't understand. "How? I don’t even—"

"You don't have to do anything in particular," he interrupts, "It's how you're completely, unapologetically yourself. You live without reservation, without compromise, without pretending. You treat me like I'm human. That alone grounds me."

She stares down at him confusedly. "Isn't that normal, though? You’re human. You're allowed to be. It’s insane to expect otherwise, isn't it?"

That makes him smile wryly, and that alone tells her enough that this is Sensitive Territory and it normally takes a tooth and a nail to drag Sunday in there. What kind of life he has lived that simply being treated like a person undoes him to this degree?

"Maybe it should be normal," he agrees. Strokes the hair away from her forehead. "But it never was, for me. I've never been allowed to simply be—my whole life has been a series of performances and expectations. Every step calculated, every word weighed."

She watches as faint sadness flickers briefly across his eyes, and her chest tightens sharply in response. He continues before she can come up with a clever response or a word of comfort, softer still, "Whatever comfort you think I provide you, Stelle, cannot begin to compare to the comfort you give me simply by existing exactly as you are."

Stelle blinks rapidly in response. An unfamiliar ache blooms in her throat, warm and thick. If there's one thing she knows at the moment, it is that she wants to put him in her palm, get on top of a roof, and tell the entire world that Sunday Oak is every bit the fallible man he was taught he didn't have the luxury to be.  

What she settles on instead is a quiet "What the hell," because she doesn't know how to say all of that as well as he would, she has never been one for flowery words of comfort. But she can still offer them, in her muddy hands: "You know I love you, right? With everything and all."

He brightens immediately, gaze softening, smile blooming big on his beautiful face. "Yes," he whispers. "And I love you more, my darling sweetheart. You're so good to me."

Okay, too much. Too much. But she resists the urge to hide her face. She is grown. She is grown. She can handle a heart-to-heart, thank you very much.

"I mean it," she says seriously, poking his chest with her index finger. "No performances. If you ever give me anything other than your authentic, irritating, overly sincere self, I'll genuinely kill you."

He sighs dramatically and pretends to suffer beneath her as he strokes gentle fingers through her hair. "Don't worry. I actually find myself forgetting to perform entirely when you're around. You throw me off balance so frequently, I've nearly forgotten how to act."

She blinks, startled, before a wide, smug grin slowly spreads across her face. "Wait—seriously?"

He nods, eyes filled with amusement. "Seriously. It's terribly inconvenient. I've spent a lifetime perfecting my flawless persona, and then you stumble in—chaotic, messy, utterly uncontrollable—and suddenly I’m tripping over myself."

"Wow," she whistles, pleased beyond reason. "I'm amazing."

"Infuriatingly so."

Stelle relaxes fully against him, cheek pressed comfortably to his chest, where his heartbeat thrums steady and warm beneath her ear. "Good," she says firmly. "Keep forgetting how to pretend. I like you like this. More bearable than whatever mental torture you were putting me through with your CEO personality."

Sunday huffs at that. "I’ll have you know the CEO personality is carefully curated, ruthlessly refined, and internationally admired."

"It’s deeply repressed and emotionally constipated," Stelle mutters into his chest, entirely unimpressed. "You could bottle it and sell it as anxiety cologne."

He stares down at her with his offended face that just looks cute on him more than anything else. "I’ll have you know that cologne would be very expensive."

"Oh, I believe it," she grins into his shirt. "Limited edition. Catholic guilt scent. With undertones of moral superiority."

"Moral superiority is not a note, it's a base."

She cackles, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. 

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, bossman."

Later, when Sunday is lost to some tedious conference call in his study and the afternoon sun is spilling golden across their bedroom floor, Stelle finds herself staring holes through the ceiling. 

She’d never thought she’d reach a point where the question what do I actually want? would even be relevant. For most of her life, wanting anything had been a luxury she’d forcibly buried beneath necessity and survival.

But here she is, absurdly comfortable in a life that feels like someone else’s Pinterest board. A life where Sunday’s biggest complaint about her is that she won’t let him spoil her enough, and her biggest complaint about him is…well, literally nothing, aside from his smug face. He gives her freedom, space, unconditional support, and a level of autonomy that borders on reckless.

Now she can actually afford the risk of wondering what comes next.

Stelle runs through the possibilities, sorting through her options with more careful thought than she’d given to anything in years. 

Law school feels like an old sweater that no longer fits right —it used to make sense, back when she was desperate for structure and legitimacy. But it doesn’t spark anything now. And being a criminal psychologist would mean dealing with a system she fundamentally distrusts. No thanks.

She wants something else entirely. Something new, something fresh. 

She wants to taste life rather than simply survive it. She wants to see the world, experience things she’d never even imagined before. The idea of travel lights her chest bright. Maybe she can become one of those obnoxiously lucky people who get paid to see places others can only dream of.

Yet the thought quickly sobers her. 

Leaving means distance—distance from this warm bed, from Sunday’s gentle smiles, from the ridiculously good almond croissants she’ll never admit she loves, and from the soft way he looks at her as though she hung the stars. She doesn’t want to trade any of that away, even temporarily. And Sunday can’t just pack up and join her, either; he has obligations, a business, a legion of employees who rely on him.

And then there’s Caelus.

Her brother’s absence weighs on her more now that the possibility of seeing him again hangs above her head. 

Kafka’s words still echo in her mind. The Hunters promised they’d reach out when Caelus was ready, and she has no choice but to trust their frustratingly vague timeline.

So leaving right now is basically impossible. It feels selfish and reckless. She refuses to run off again before settling things properly with her brother, before knowing he’s safe, steady, and maybe (hopefully) ready to forgive her. 

And if he doesn't—well. She will at least know that he is safe, grown, capable and most of all, that he doesn't need her. Stelle could be fine with that, even if she would be devastated. She doesn't want to be needed, she wants to be wanted. 

She sighs quietly into the empty room and watches sunlight dance lazily across the ceiling.

Fine, then. 

She’ll coast through her meaningless job for a bit longer, savoring her comfortable monotony and soaking up the quiet moments of domestic bliss. Just bide her time until Caelus reappears in her life.

When that reunion finally comes, she’ll be ready not just to embrace him, but to figure out exactly who she wants to be next.

For now, though, she will let herself rest, and make the most of the mundane life she has worked tooth and nail for. 

Next Monday finds Stelle back in the office, sliding seamlessly into her comfortable, meaningless routine as if she'd never left. 

She spins idly in her chair, completes some minimal-effort paperwork, and dutifully pretends to look busy until lunchtime rolls around and she can sneak away into Sunday's office.

She settles onto the couch with her lunch, chewing slowly as she watches him across the room, utterly absorbed in whatever incredibly tedious document currently has his attention hostage.

Then, as all things go with her when he's within five feet of her, her thoughts just...go astray. 

It's strangely hypnotic, seeing him like this again. Fully focused, completely indifferent, as though the papers beneath his fingertips have personally offended him. She realizes suddenly that she'd almost forgotten how undeniably attractive he is outside her orbit. 

Of course, Sunday is always beautiful—that goes without saying. But hot? Cool? Horribly composed and devstatingly arrogant? She rarely sees that anymore, not when he’s busy giving her those gentle, puppy-ish looks, as if she personally crafted sunlight and oxygen.

She loves that, of course. He knows as much. She loves how much he visibly softens whenever she's around, how utterly devoted he is for reasons she can't even fathom sometimes. 

She has witnessed him in every embarrassing, humiliating scenario imaginable, seen firsthand how delicate and breakable he is beneath all his practiced polish.

She has seen the way he dissolves behind closed doors and how he keeps working when his hands are shaking. 

How he disappears for twenty minutes to take a migraine pill in silence and apologizes for every boundary of his that he can’t cross like she’s entitled to everything and he’s failed by not delivering.

She’s never met someone who works this hard in his tax bracket.

Never been with someone who puts her above all else. To him, her needs are basically gospel and his own are noise.

But right now, seeing him so stern, brows pinched together in disapproval, eyes narrowed at the offending document as if it’s barely worth his effort—

Stelle blinks rapidly.

What the fuck.

She swallows, nearly choking on a bite of sandwich as a blush creeps traitorously across her cheeks. She's officially lost it. Fantasizing about her own boyfriend like a starstruck teenager drooling over a celebrity crush? 

She takes another look. Stares shamelessly. If she's going to be a pervert, might as well commit and own up to it, right?

Unfortunately, Sunday chooses that exact moment to lean back in his chair, stretching his long limbs lightly as his attention drifts toward her. His expression melts instantly into a fond smile, all warmth and affection in his golden eyes as they meet her own.

"Nope," she blurts out instinctively, holding up a hand to stop him before he can speak. "Go back to whatever you were doing."

Sunday pauses mid-smile, confusion flickering across his features, head tilting like a puppy denied its favorite treat. "Pardon?"

"Your—" She gestures vaguely at his face. "Whatever stern, disappointed, cool CEO thing you were doing. Resume that, please."

His eyebrows rise slowly, a baffled yet delighted smile teasing the corners of his mouth. "Are you…asking me to ignore you?"

"Yes," she mutters, face flaming. "Immediately."

Sunday blinks, clearly not expecting that answer, and his gaze darts curiously toward her. "Why?"

"Because I'm objectifying you in my head right now." she replies flatly.

He pauses, confusion deepening as his mouth opens and his eyebrows knit. He looks so earnestly baffled. She almost feels bad for it. "You're… what?"

"Objectifying you. Fetishizing, sexualizing, things of that sort."

"You're what." he repeats.

"Please stop looking at me like that."

"I'm trying to understand..."

Ugh. Fine.

"You just... look really good while working, okay?" she defends herself, face heating painfully. "I don’t get to see you all stern and disapproving anymore. It's messing me up."

Sunday's eyes widen a fraction, and she can literally see the gears in his annoyingly handsome head turning as understanding dawns on his face. 

To her horror, of course, because fuck her big mouth and her apparently broken brain-to-mouth filter, his expression shifts in ripples—it goes from baffled to composed in a couple seconds, then it promptly settles on pure, unfiltered amusement. 

Great. 

"Alright," he declares, voice lower and somehow effortlessly commanding. "Come here."

Her heart stutters awkwardly in her chest. "What?"

He fixes her with a confident gaze and hooks two fingers in the air. "Come here, Stelle."

Her legs move automatically in a daze because her brain apparently has logged out entirely. Heat floods her cheeks as she crosses the room helplessly. Incredible. Who knew she could be reduced to a mindless drone by a single authoritative tone? She doesn't even do authority. She hates authority. 

As soon as she reaches him, he settles his hands comfortably around her waist and pats gently. The affectionate touch contradicts his smug (evil), knowing look. "Sweet thing," he coos. "Look at how well you listen."

 "What is your problem?" Stelle glares down at him.

"My problem?" Sunday asks mildly, "I'm not the one getting flustered over my partner doing paperwork."

She scowls, ears burning. "So what? I'm a healthy woman. It happens."

Because it does, alright? She doesn't need to justify lusting over her lover doing nothing. She's not falling for that inner moral police.

He only chuckles at her answer though, as if she's a cat that just nibbled on his arm with its tiny teeth. "You know, you could always just ask for this in bed. I'd be more than happy to play the part."

"You would?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he retorts, thumb drawing a slow circle on her hip. "You know very well that I like it when you listen to me. I always assume you're just tolerating me—that going further would turn you off."

She gapes at him. 

Blinks rapidly as the sheer audacity of his misunderstanding sinks in. Does he know? Does he even know the absolute cesspit of depravity that runns through her mind daily? Honestly, what made him think she wasn't just as much—if not significantly more—of a freak as him?

"You," she begins seriously, jabbing a finger at his forehead. "have no idea what you’re dealing with."

"Oh?" his brow lifts. "Perhaps you ought to enlighten me."

Stelle scowls. Folds her arms defensively across her chest. 

But he just tilts his head, regarding her with patronizing pity that has no business warming her face. "My poor girl," he sighs, sypmathetic and fake, "Look at you. You really do like it."

"I can't control it, okay?"

His smile turns openly smug. "Then I suppose I’ve trained you well."

"Do not phrase it like that," she protests weakly. Traitorously, her brain immediately replays every embarrassing fantasy she's ever had involving Sunday, his stern voice, and everything revolving around that.

"I'm merely indulging you," he tugs her closer, "Would you prefer if I scolded you instead?"

Stelle’s brain nearly shorts out on the spot. God, yes. Absolutely. Immediately. Wait, no—hold it together. Jesus. What happened to self-respect?

"…Maybe," she mutters petulantly. Internally, she prays for divine intervention or perhaps a conveniently placed lightning strike to end her suffering.

Sunday hums thoughtfully, and she can see how clearly delighted he is by this revelation. 

If he were a normal person, really, just like every other person Stelle has ever slept with, he'd probably gloat like some oversexed villain in a B-list drama. But since he is Sunday and is profoundly committed to being so utterly himseld, he just smiles at her. Gentle, pleased and mad with delight that she likes him enough to want him like this. 

That she’s flustered over something as simple as his stern face and a few lines of typed words. It's the kind of warm pride that makes her feel cherished and not a ridiculous lust-driven creature. Which is infinitely more damning for her heart and for every single nerve ending in her body that it sets on fire.

She can’t have that. Not right now. Not when she’s actively spiraling into morally questionable territory.

So she tries to salvage what little dignity she has left by casually sliding into his lap. She wraps her arms around his shoulders. Nuzzles under his jaw all cat-like. Then she presses her thighs around his hips and starts running her hands very deliberately down the lapels of his jacket.

Sunday blinks once. That’s it.

Alright. A soft target, then.

"Look. I’m misbehaving right now," she tells him primly, dragging her palms down to his chest, flattening her hands there as she leans forward. Her lips brush near his ear. "I'm being very bad."

"Mm," he hums, utterly unfazed. He lifts one hand to pat her head. Pat. Pat. "That’s nice, dear."

Stelle pauses. Pulls back slowly. Stares at him all betrayed. "I am groping you."

"You’re very cute when you’re desperate for attention," he replies serenely.

"Sunday," she hisses. "I’m literally climbing you like a jungle gym. Scold me."

"Why would I scold you for being affectionate?" he asks, lifting an eyebrow. "Isn't that a little counterproductive?"

Her eye twitches. "Because I’m not being affectionate. I’m being disruptive. I am seducing you on purpose during work hours."

"Oh," he says. His hand smooths down her spine. "You’re doing a lovely job, by the way."

"This isn’t a compliment campaign," she snaps. "This is an attempt at corruption."

"How cute of you, darling."

Stelle narrows her eyes. Time to escalate.

She slides one hand up under his blazer, over the crisp line of his shirt, thumb grazing the dip of his collarbone. Her fingers toy with the silk tie draped down his chest. It's very yankable. A really good tie. Expensive. Surely he won’t like that.

Except—he just sits there. Staring at her with such absurd, patronizing fondness.

"Sunday," she growls. "Look at me."

"I’m looking."

"I am being lewd."

"Yes, I noticed."

"Do something about it."

He smiles softly. "You’re rather pretty when you’re frustrated."

God. God. She’s seconds away from dragging his tie over his head and pinning him to the carpet. No idea why she isn't doing that. Probably because of the spells he clearly has her under.

"Come on. You’re supposed to get mad," she hisses. "Where’s the threatening tone?"

"Ah." Sunday brushes her hair behind her ear. "But if I threatened you, you might enjoy it."

"I would enjoy it!"

"Which is why I’m withholding it."

She makes a face. "You’re denying me to torture me?"

Sunday lifts a single brow innocently. "Are you accusing me of being emotionally manipulative? How rude."

Stelle shoots him an absolutely venomous glare, but the effect is ruined by the faint flush crawling up her neck. "You know exactly what you're doing," she accuses. "This is torture. You're torturing me."

"Hardly," His thumb traces her jaw. "If you were really being tortured, you'd have stormed out of here already. But you're still in my lap, aren't you?"

"That's beside the point," she grumbles. "The point is—" She swallows, frustrated at her own impatience. "Please?"

He finally gives in and chuckles softly, cupping her face gently between both hands to tilt her chin upward. "Well, if you insist. Who am I to deny you?"

But of course, before she can reply or celebrate her victory, Sunday effortlessly guides her off his lap and places her neatly on the polished surface of his desk. Papers rustle and slide beneath her. 

She looks up in confusion.

"Wait here," Sunday instructs casually, stepping back and reclaiming his chair. He picks up his pen again, perfectly poised, gaze already locked onto the document in front of him.

Stelle stares at him, mouth open in disbelief. "...What are you doing?"

"My job," he replies serenely.

"You—" she cuts herself off, flustered beyond belief. "You cannot seriously—"

Sunday glances up, and she would be totally tricked by how uninterested he looks if she didn't know him by heart. "Stelle," he warns, "good behavior requires patience. Sit still and be quiet."

Oh.

That shuts her up faster than she'd ever admit, even at gunpoint. 

Perched on his desk, she dangles her legs once and takes a peek at him from below her lashes.

He looks so...pretty, like this.

He sits there, pen moving in neat, decisive lines, the column of his throat visible above the immaculate knot of his tie, jaw shifting as he reads, and he looks nothing short of beautiful, in a way waterfalls are: intimidating and hauntingly gorgeous. 

Precise and graceful, he dismisses her entire existence without even looking at her, and somehow it’s worse (better) than if he’d ordered her out.

She stares at him like a lunatic, half-dazed, elbow braced on the desk beside her, legs dangling. Heat slides low in her stomach. He looks untouchable, reminiscent of the first time she met him in this very office and stormed out planning his untimely death. 

Funny how that worked out, she thinks. 

Her heel taps once against the side of his office-throne-chair.

"Be still," Sunday warns without glancing up.

Unfortunately for him, telling her to stay still might just be the equivalent of telling her to stop breathing or start building Arden in Genealogy. An impossible task that she has neither the motive nor the will to perform.

So, naturally, she chooses consequence over good behaviour. 

She's not here to be good. She's here to get touched all over by her Beauty and leave his office with one button of her blouse missing like The Beast as God intended.

She kicks her legs a few times.

Sunday clicks his tongue. The pen lands on the paper with a quiet clink. Then in one smooth, unhurried motion, he catches her by the wrist and tugs her down. 

She lands neatly against his chest, her back to him, his thigh slotted between hers. One arm loops around her waist, firm enough to keep her exactly where he wants her; the other returns to his work as though she’s not sitting here in the most compromising position imaginable.

Victory.

But, her breath stutters against the warm scent of his cologne all the same, no matter how much she expected this. "My lunch break ended five minutes ago, by the way," she reminds him, just to be annoying.

"I’ll handle it," Sunday replies without missing a beat, the pen scratching again. "You just sit pretty and be good."

Her brain promptly short-circuits. Sit pretty and be good. God. She could live here. Die here. Whatever. 

After two more pages, the ache between her legs wins out over composure, and she shifts, grinding down on the firm muscle of his thigh, searching for friction against the hard press of it.

It doesn't fly, of course. It never would in his presence—and thank fucking God it doesn't, because Sunday sighs exasperatedly and that's signal for 'I'm five seconds away from snapping'.

Her heart kicks in her ribs as the arm around her waist unlatches, and she thinks—finally—until his hand comes up into her peripheral vision, two fingers lifted. "Open," he orders.

She doesn't even think about it before her jaw falls slack.

The gloved fingers press past her lips, resting heavy on her tongue. "Don’t suck."

She stays still, but it’s impossible to manage for long. His fingers are long and unyielding, pinning her tongue down enough to make swallowing awkward, the leather dragging against the slick heat of her mouth every time she breathes. Saliva starts to pool around them after half a minute, gathering under her tongue and slipping free in slow, humiliating streams that slide down over his wrist.

It’s messy — obscenely so. She can feel her spit trailing down her chin in lazy rivulets, catching against the sharp edge of his glove seams before falling. Stelle has to close her eyes for a second just to keep from shivering.

Sunday watches her from the corner of his vision, expression perfectly composed as his pen scratches across the page. 

"If you don’t behave," He flips a page, "I’ll send you back to your desk with spit running down your chin for everyone to see."

The threat makes her stomach twist with heat.

"Surely you don’t want that?" His voice is so mild it might as well be about the weather, which only makes the pulse between her legs throb harder.

She tries to glare at him from the side, but with her mouth stretched and drool slicking her chin, it’s probably a pathetic look.

After a minute or two, she can't take it anymore. A whine slips out of her, muffled and frustrated against the stretch of his fingers. 

Her jaw aches, her tongue aches, but not nearly as badly as the sharp, gnawing want pooling low between her legs. The longer he ignores her, the hotter she burns, and the heat blooms into an almost unbearable pressure when she shifts again, trying to press down harder on his thigh for relief. 

The digits in her mouth push further at her disobedience and make her gag for a second. 

The bastard doesn't even twitch. His breathing stays even. She might as well be a decorative accessory for all the acknowledgment he’s giving her.

As a last resort she gives a louder pitiful little sob around his fingers. The wetness in her mouth spills faster with the motion, trickles thickly down her chin.

Only then does he finally look at her properly. 

"You can’t even make it through five minutes of discipline," his fingers curl inside her mouth, "Yet you ask me to be firm with you? Why are you asking for things you can’t handle?"

The glare she tries to give him earns her nothing but more pressure. 

His fingers push deeper, knuckles almost at her lips, leather pressing down on her tongue until her throat flinches and tightens in protest. She gags once more. 

Fuck. Tears gather at the corners of her eyes involuntarily at the pressure, and the forced stretch of her throat sends sparks down her spine.

Before she can think of clever thing to do in response, he finally pulls his hand away.

A glistening string stretches between his glove and her lips before breaking, and he wipes it absently down the front of her blouse, leaving a damp streak over the button placket. Then, like she’s nothing more than a pet he’s finished feeding, his palm settles on her stomach for a single, condescending pat.

"You have two options," Sunday offers calmly, "Behave until I finish, and you will feel good. Anything you want, you will get." His eyes drop to her thighs. "However, if you want touch right now, you only get my fingers, and you will not get to rest unless I deem fit. Understand?"

She nods so quickly it’s embarrassing. 

"So." His pen is already in his hand again, resting over the next line. "Which one do you want?"

If her brain wasn't useless right now, she would have loved to talk back as usual, but since it is, she only tilts her head, softens her tone, and says, "Whatever you think is best for me."

If she plays it right, maybe it’ll stroke his ego, get him to give her what she wants now. She’s not above tactical flattery when she’s this worked up.

But the only thing she gets for it is a hum and a disappointed look. "I believe you’re due for far worse," he says eventually. "But I’m being kind. So be a good girl and choose."

Well, that backfired spectacularly. 

Instead of looking pleased, he looks mildly disappointed because she’s tried to cheat her way out of the game. 

Her lip finds itself between her teeth, and she bites down hard to keep from whining more.

"Second," she blurts finally, pulse pounding in her ears. She can’t even pretend it’s reluctant—her voice gives her away instantly: it's thin and hungry.

After her answer his pen rolls back onto the desk with a soft clink, and in that same calm rhythm, he curls two fingers under the edge of her skirt.

"Off."

Pulse pounding, she immediately hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her underwear, sliding the damp fabric down over her thighs until they drop to the floor. By the time she straightens, his hand is on her hip, guiding her back onto his lap exactly where he wants her—back to his chest, her ass against the firm line of him, knees nudged apart by his own.

Her breath hitches when his palm settles low, thumb pressing lightly into the soft crease at the top of her thigh.

"Comfortable?" he asks.

"Not even a little."

"Good."

The heel of his hand anchors her pelvis while his fingers part her, the drag of leather against her drenched folds making her twitch. 

He doesn’t even push inside — just rubs slow and lazy up and down her slit, traces her wetness from the swollen nub of her clit to the slick entrance below, gathers it on his glove until she squirms.

Then he leans in close enough to graze her ear. "Look at you," he murmurs, "All this from nothing. I haven’t even touched you."

A shaky exhale slipps out of her before she hides her face in the warm crook of his neck. "Stop being mean," she mumbles against his collar.

"Mean?" His middle finger circles her clit in slow, careful strokes that make her toes curl in her heels. "I think you’re enjoying yourself."

She bites her lip hard to keep from whimpering when he presses lower, sliding two digits into slick heat of her in one smooth thrust. The stretch makes her thighs clamp briefly before his hand on her knee nudges them apart again.

"If I knew you’d like this so much," he says conversationally, curling his fingers to drag along her sensitive walls, "I would have done it a long time ago."

Her mind is already starting to melt, hips rocking instinctively into the steady rhythm he sets. "Please—ah—can we do this forever and ever from now on? Please?"

He laughs warmly against her ear. "Forever is a long time, Stelle. You think you could behave for that long?"

"I’ll try," she breathes, voice breaking into a desperate half-moan as his fingers quicken, the wet squelch of them working in and out of her filling the quiet of his office.

"You’ll try?" He sounds amused as the pads of his digits press up into her sensitive spot with precision before retreating to grind his palm against her clit.

She tries to answer, but it comes out garbled and slurred by the shudder running up her spine. She tries again, fails again when his fingers twist inside her and drag along her tightness just right.

"What was that?" Sunday asks, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

"Y-yes—yes, I’ll—fuck—" Her head falls back again. Every muscle in her thighs trembles, slick dripping down to coat his glove in a shine she can feel with every stroke.

Her brain steadily becomes soup after several slow pumps of his fingers inside.

The sharp, neat lines of thought she usually keeps—her banter, her bite, her ability to outpace him—dissolve entirely into molten static under the long, wet drag of his digits that she feels in every nerve ending of her lower body. 

Her world narrows to the steady press up against that spot inside, the obscene squelch of slick around him, the pulse of her clit against the leather of his glove.

"Feels—good…" she slurs, half into his neck. Her hips are moving without her permission now, shallow little rolls that try to meet him at just the right angle, but he keeps changing it, forcing her to chase.

His other hand leaves her thigh, slides up under her blouse. Cool leather meets the soft swell of her breast, and she gasps when his thumb rolls over her nipple through the lace of her bra. He cups her there firmly, squeezing, kneading, coaxing it into a stiff peak before he slips beneath the bra entirely to pinch and tease until she squirms.

His chin hooks over her shoulder. "Do you want to come?"

She nods frantically.

"Be polite," his fingers curl noisily. "Say please."

"Please—" Her voice cracks. So desperate she trips over herself. "Please, Sunday, please please—"

Her immediate compliance earns her a soft kiss on her jaw, entirely too tender. "So sweet," he praises, tone dripping with affection. "Good job."

His hand on her breast withdraws, and for a dizzy moment she mourns the loss—until he catches her own hand and brings it up to replace him, pressing her palm over the warm and sensitive flesh. 

It’s a clear, wordless order.

She obeys instantly, fingers clumsy at first, rolling and tugging at her nipple the way he had, because of course she’ll do it if it means he keeps going.

"Look at you," Sunday murmurs, each word threading through the haze in her head like silk. "Making yourself feel good for me. After you’ve interrupted my entire workflow, no less."

Her breath stutters, hips jerking forward against the slow and steady rhythm of his fingers. She can’t form a reply without it catching in her throat. 

"Are you proud of yourself?"

She shakes her head. 

"Good," he says, pressing the tips of his digits deep until her back arches hard against him. "Next time I won’t let you. The moment you start running your mouth, I’ll put a gag in it."

The thought hits her as another pulse of heat between her thighs. "God—yes," the agreement tears out of her before she can even pretend to have any dignity left.

"Is that so?" his free middle and index grind tight little circles against her throbbing clit. "How about a collar?"

The pads of her own fingers pinch the sensitive nub in between. "Yes," she pants.

"A leash?" He tests the limits just to see where she’ll falter.

Unfortunately for him (or fortunately, really), she nods small and sharp against his shoulder.

She can hear the smile in his tone when he asks: "Are you just going along because you want to please me?"

It's funny, how he still thinks himself the worse one when it comes to this. She forces her head to shake, even as her thighs tremble violently from how close she is.

His pace suddenly slows to a crawl, the pressure of his ministrations easing enough to make her whimper in protest.

"Answer me properly," his movements drag along her soaked walls to keep her teetering.

"Please—" she tries, but he clicks his tongue.

"Not ‘please.’ Answer my question."

Tears blur her vision as the ache coils tighter in her belly. "I want it all because—b-because you make everything feel so...so good for me—"

"Yes," he agrees. "That is true. Do you know why?"

She sniffles weakly through her tears. "Because I make it easy?"

"No." His right hand comes up to cup her jaw, tilting her head back so she has no choice but to feel the weight of his gaze. "Because you’re mine. Mine to please, spoil, and mine to cherish."

She clenches down so hard she gets scared that his hand will be trapped inside her forever. Then he smiles, all warm and soft, his love-struck self peeking from behind.

"I do take good care of my darling, don’t I?"

She sobs shamelessly at that, half from how wound-up she is, half from the heat that spreads through her chest at the way he says it. 

There’s drool drying tacky on her chin, her lashes clumped with wetness, her cheeks flushed deep, but she still manages to look down at him with the most pitiful, open expression she can muster. 

Because she knows that seeing her like this—beyond herself with pleasure, dumb from the overwhelming sensation—makes him unbearably pleased, and she wants him to feel as good as he makes her feel.

The approval in his eyes is molten, and then his mouth is on hers, swallowing every high, wrecked sob and needy whimper she makes as he drives her over the edge. It pulls at her until she’s gasping into him.

Her orgasm hits like it’s trying to split her in half. Her cunt clenches desperately around his fingers, gushing against his glove, soaking his wrist as her hips jerk uncontrollably. Slick spreads messily over his thigh, the lewd squelch of his fingers working her through it echoing obscenely in the office’s quiet.

She can barely breathe, let alone think, as wave after wave drags her under, her body shaking in his hold while he keeps kissing her stupid.

It leaves her limp in his lap. Chest heaving, the occasional aftershock rippling through her thighs, her body not yet caught up with the fact that he’s stopped moving. She’s so far gone she barely notices the slow withdrawal of his fingers until the messy drag of them leaves her empty.

There’s a soft snap of leather as he peels the gloves from his hands methodically and sets them aside on the desk. A rustle from the drawer, and then he’s producing the neat little stack of tissues and a pack of sensitive-skin wet wipes—ones he buys and keeps here for no other purpose than moments like this. He doesn’t rush it.

"Easy," One hand keeps her steady against him while the other wipes away the mess between her thighs. He cleans her slowly, checking over her in between every motion to make sure she's not uncomfortable.

Everything feels a little slow.

Hazy. Her mind’s syrup-thick frobm the high, and all she can do is watch him from under heavy lashes, barely following the sequence of motions. When he’s done, he smooths her skirt back into place and sets the wipes aside, his hand drifting up to her hip like it belongs there.

She nuzzles under his jaw and breaths in the faint trace of his sweet cologne, rests her cheek against the sharp line of it. "How do you want me?"

The way he huffs a quiet laugh makes her want to melt into him even more. "I want you resting," he says, cradling her closer into himself. His arm brackets her waist again. "Maybe going home after this and waiting pretty for me." He tips his head to look at her. "Does that sound agreeable?"

She hums low in her throat. "Will you fuck me after you get home?"

"Stelle," he sighs, "don’t be crass. I’ll do no such thing."

She rolls her eyes against his neck. "Okay. Will you make love to me, my little prince?"

"I might."

"Might," she repeats flatly.

"Might," he confirms, brushing his knuckles along her jaw as if to soften the blow. "But before that—" his voice shifts into that persuasive register he uses when he wants to tempt her into something, "—I was going to ask if you’d like to go out for dinner tonight. There’s a place I’ve been meaning to take you."

She tilts her head to the side to look at him. "Somewhere good?"

"Naturally." His mouth curves. "You know I wouldn’t settle for less."

"And if I say no?"

"Then I’ll bring dinner to you instead." His hand slides to her lower stomach and absently palms the plush skin there. "But I’d prefer to have you on my arm for the evening."

She considers that for a bit. She could use a night out, honestly. "Fine. But you’re buying dessert to go."

"Done," Sunday promises. "Now—up you get, darling. Before I’m tempted to undo all my careful work."

"Too late," she says, but rises anyway.

Stelle is balls deep into Breath of the Wild as soon as she's out of the shower, dressed in her finest post-shower couture: loose cotton shorts and a black tank top. 

Feet up on the coffee table, controller in hand, tongue poking at the corner of her mouth as she walks around the Great Plateau, halfway through killing a Guardian — she's kind of starting to regret upgrading her Master Sword to full strength, because those things die in two hits now. She's not even scared of the music anymore. 

What's the point now? she thinks to herself, then teleports to a Golden Lynel location just to feel something. 

Just as she's thinking of booting up her emulator instead, the front door opens.

Her brain barely registers it before instinct kicks in and she’s already tossing the controller aside (Link’s fate can wait) and hopping over the back of the couch to get to the door. Sunday’s home early? Great. She can throw herself at him like an overexcited cat.

Except—

It’s not Sunday. 

It’s someone that looks eerily familiar. Like...Like...a celebrity. A famous person. She knows who they look like.

They look like...Robin. 

The Robin. The international superstar whose songs she used to belt into a hairbrush at age fifteen while pretending her bedroom was Madison Square Garden. The Robin who sold out arenas and casually destroyed charts for an entire decade. 

Robin, who is currently standing in Sunday’s doorway, key in hand and luggage beside her, blinking at her like they’ve both stumbled into the wrong dimension.

For a second Stelle’s brain just… blue screens.

Surely, she's hallucinating. Maybe she inhaled too much shampoo. Maybe there's a gas leak in the house. 

She rubs her eyes wordlessly. Blinks hard. Nope—still there. Sparkly, radiant, casually drop-dead gorgeous in a way that makes Stelle want to start doing push-ups immediately.

"Uh… hello?" she says finally, voice suspiciously high.

Robin’s mouth curves into an amused little smile. "Hi… Who are you?"

"I’m—my name’s Stelle." She gestures vaguely at the air, like that explains anything. "Are you actually Robin or one of those insane impersonators?"

Robin laughs at that—an easy, melodic laugh that makes Stelle’s inner teenager want to collapse. "I’m actually Robin."

"Right." Stelle points at the key in her hand. "Why do you have a key? Are you Sunday’s ex or something?" She tries to be casual, because there's no way she's going to fangirl over someone who might have made out with her boyfriend.

Robin’s smile widens as she shakes her head. "Not quite."

"…Is he cheating on me with you?" Stelle blurts before her brain can grab the words and shove them back down her throat.

"No, he's—"
 
"Wait," she cuts her off—There's no way Robin of all people would be a side piece.  "Is he cheating on you with me?!"

Robin, to her surprise, only covers a pleasant laugh with a gloved hand. "I don’t think he’s capable of that."

Stelle stares. Her brain blanks out.

Robin just tilts her head, eyes sparkling. "Seems like I have competition for my brother’s love now?"

"Wait. Brother?"

And oh. Oh. Suddenly it all clicks—except no, it doesn’t, because Sunday has mentioned his sister a hundred times. Talks about her like she’s the second coming of perfection itself. But never, not once, has he mentioned that his sister happens to be the Robin. She thought she was some sweet, hard-working woman living overseas, maybe a humanitarian or an art curator. Not a pop icon who has her face on billboards.

As if she’s reading her thoughts, Robin asks gently, "Did he never mention me?" with a sadness she can't disguise.

"No, no," Stelle says quickly, hands up in surrender. "He talks about you all the time. He just… always goes on and on about how absolutely perfect his sister is and I… failed to connect the dots, I think. God. I’m so stupid."

That seems to brighten Robin instantly. Her expression softens with relief. "Ah. So he hasn’t been hiding me away."

"Hiding you?" Stelle scoffs. "No. I think if he could legally have your name trademarked for casual conversation, he would. I just didn’t realize the sister he was worshipping like a goddess was you."

Robin chuckles at that and glances around the foyer. "He usually has my posters all over the place. I wonder what happened to them?"

"Uh… he told me he got renovations done a while ago," Stelle says, trying very, very hard to be normal about the fact that she’s just learned Sunday decorates his home with shrine-level wall tributes to his sister. Why hasn't she seen them? "Maybe he never got around to putting them back up?"

"That might be the case." Robin hums softly, then gives her a warm smile. "Either way, it’s nice to meet you, Miss Stelle. I meant to surprise him before he got home. We haven’t seen each other in ages."

"Yeah, well," Stelle says, stepping back to wave her further inside, "you definitely surprised someone."

Robin laughs again and steps forward to set her suitcase aside. "Would you like to converse over tea while we wait for him to come home?"

"Tea with Robin," Stelle says under her breath, still trying to convince herself she’s not hallucinating. "Sure. Let me just, uh, not combust."

Robin grins. "No need to be nervous. I'm less awkward than my brother, I assure you."

That sounds believable. 

She trails behind Robin like a star-struck puppy as she makes it to the kitchen. Robin instructs her to sit, and what choice does Stelle have? 

She sits down on one of the chairs as Robin takes her gloves off and washes her hands, then starts making tea. 

Robin glances over her shoulder, catching Stelle staring dumbly. The air feels like she's losing a thousand aura points per second. 

"Black, green, or herbal?"

Stelle’s brain helpfully supplies Oh my god, she’s making me tea in Sunday’s kitchen, but her mouth says, "Uh—herbal? I don’t think I can handle caffeine right now or I’ll start vibrating through the wall."

Robin’s lips twitch like she’s trying not to laugh, but she nods, pulling down a small tin from the top shelf. "Herbal it is."

She moves around the kitchen with horrifying familiarity and ease, setting out mugs, fussing with the kettle, and humming a little under her breath. It’s surreal, watching one of the most famous voices in the world do perfectly ordinary kitchen things like rinse a teaspoon or pat her hands dry on the dish towel.

"So," Robin says as she spoons loose tea into the pot, "how is my brother doing? I get the basics from his messages, but you know how he is — his idea of an update is a two-sentence email about work and a weather report."

Stelle blinks. "He sends you weather reports?"

"Every week," Robin says with a little smile. "I think he worries I might forget to bring an umbrella."

That...tracks. God. That's such a Sunday thing to do. Stelle wants to bite his face. 

"He's doing—" Stelle folds her hands on the table, sitting up a little straighter. "He’s… good. Busy. Still, you know… very much himself."

"Still impossible about his coffee?"

"Terrible about it," Stelle agrees without hesitation. "I once made him one and forgot the sugar, and I swear I saw his soul leave his body for half a second. He acts like he couldn't care less, but he can't go a day without every food he puts in his mouth being overly sweet."

Robin smiles faintly. "He hides that, you know. Only I know about his sweet tooth. And Mr. Gallagher. You two must be close for him to crave sweets so openly."

"Huh," She furrows her brows. "That explains why he glared at me when I joked about it in front of his board..."

Robin turns her head again to give her a sly little smile. "He doesn’t like being…humanized in front of certain people. I imagine you’re the exception, then?"

"I mean, sure, but the man eats three pastries before lunch," Stelle says, picking at the seam on the chair cushion. "I feel like it’s my duty to alert the public to this hypocrisy."

Robin chuckles softly, pouring hot water into the pot. "If you feel it’s your duty, I suspect you already do it often."

"Oh, constantly." Stelle props her chin on her hand, watching Robin move with grace that clearly tells her I grew up in the same house as Sunday, but somehow turned out approachable. "I’ve threatened to fill his office drawers with jelly beans. He thinks I’m joking, but…"

"You’re not."

"Absolutely not," Stelle confirms solemnly.

Robin sets the pot to steep and takes a seat across from her, folding her hands loosely on the table. "So, how did you meet him?"

"Work. One of his old professors back in university is kind of like, my uncle? Not by blood. But yeah," she doesn't sugarcoat it, as much as she's not proud of it. "Mr Yang vouched for me. A nepo hire, basically. Just a simple marketing employee, though."

"Is that so?" Robin tilts her head. "Mr Yang...My brother is rather fond of him, from what I recall. What a small world."

"Very."

"And you've been together for...?"

"A few weeks." Stelle answers nervously.

Robin blinks. "And you're still just an employee?"

Stelle nods. "Is that weird?"

"I'd assume that he must have offered you better positions, given that you are together." Robin explains. "Did he not?"

"Oh," Stelle laughs lightly. "Oh, he did. I just...don't really want it. My paycheck right now is enough. I'm not cut out for the corporate responsibilities."

Robin’s brows lift at that, as though Stelle has just answered a question in a way no one in her brother’s orbit has ever dared.

"You don’t want more?" she asks. There's genuine curiosity in her voice rather than judgment.

Stelle shrugs, leaning back in her chair and fiddling with the hem of her shorts. "What would I do with more? I can already buy my groceries, pay my rent, impulse-order limited edition figurines I don’t need, split the bill just in case Sunday accepts my offer one of these days…anything else would just make me feel obligated to have, like, a ‘plan’ or something."

Robin hums. "So you’re saying you’ve mastered contentment?"

"More like I’ve mastered avoiding responsibility until it rots and falls off the vine," Stelle says. "This is supposed to be a temporary job for me anyway. I'm still...figuring out what I want to do. You know."

That earns her a soft smile. "That is very…not what I expected to hear from someone dating my brother."

"What did you expect?"

Robin tilts her head and thinks about it. "My brother is very...particular. He's hard to deal with and even harder to please if you aren't family," she begins, and Stelle catches onto the polite phrasing of 'if you're not me', "I thought he would be with someone more like himself."

Stelle snorts into her palm. "Yeah, no. My work laptop is about four system updates behind and the only reason I haven’t been fired is because I’m charming enough to make Dudley forget I haven’t emailed anyone back yet."

"Charming enough," Robin repeats with a knowing smile, "or protected enough?"

"Hey," Stelle points a finger across the table, mock-offended. "I do actual work. Sometimes. I just… strategically deploy my talents. Also, I spent my first month trying to get fired. Sunday refused to pull the trigger for some reason."

Robin laughs warmly. "I must ask him about that. He does not tolerate incompetence or insolence in any capacity. You must be charming, Miss Stelle." 

Blood rushes to her face at that. Calm down, inner fifteen year old Stelle. 

Just as she's about to smile bashfully (entirely out of character for her, mind you), the pot lets out a small hiss of its own, as if on cue. Thank God. 

Robin rises with effortless elegance to pour the tea. Stelle watches her move like Sunday does when he’s in his own kitchen—fluid, precise—but there’s an ease to her that he doesn’t have. Robin doesn’t look like she’s curating the moment the way he does; she just exists in it.

Robin cocks her head as she picks the pot up. "Does he… not talk about me much?"

"Are you kidding? Constantly," Stelle says. "I’ve heard so many glowing monologues about how beautiful and kind and perfect you are that I thought you were a saint who did charity work in a remote monastery somewhere. Pop stardom didn’t even make the shortlist of guesses."

Robin gives her a genuine, delighted laugh. "A saint?”

"Yeah, well, he conveniently left out the part where you’re the Robin. I only just connected the dots when you showed up holding a key."

Robin shakes her head, amused. "I suppose that’s just like him. To him, I’m his sister first. Everything else is background noise."

"Anyway," As she pours, she glances over her shoulder again. "So what’s he like with you at home? When no one else is looking?"

Stelle grins wickedly. "Soft. Clingy. Eats in bed sometimes."

Robin pauses mid-pour. "Eats in bed?"

"Pastries. Little tarts, those custard ones? I caught him once with powdered sugar all over his collar and he tried to tell me it was dust from paperwork."

Robin laughs full and open this time. "That sounds like him. He would die before admitting to something as undignified as eating in bed."

"Exactly," Stelle says, pleased to have made her laugh. "He is cute, in a way."

Robin sets the teapot down and brings the mugs over, sliding one toward her. "Ah, he would be sad if he heard me agree — he wishes so badly to be my cool big brother —" she waves her free hand. "But yes. He is very cute. Even childish sometimes. Has he let the floodgates open in front of you yet?"

Stelle freezes halfway through bringing the mug to her lips. 

"The whats?"

Robin’s smile turns so mischievous that Stelle feel like she’s about to change her life in one sentence. "I normally wouldn’t tell," she begins and curls her hands around her own tea, "but I can tell he’s comfortable enough with you already from the way you talk about him."

"Okay…" Stelle narrows her eyes suspiciously, wondering if Robin is about to drop some kind of horrifying Sunday fact she’ll never recover from.

"My poor brother," Robin continues, "is a huge crybaby."

The tea almost comes out of Stelle’s nose. "No way."

"Yes way." 

Stelle sets the mug down slowly, partly so she doesn’t spill it and partly because her brain is currently doing that Windows error noise on loop. Crybaby. Sunday. Those two words don’t even belong in the same hemisphere, let alone the same sentence.
"Hold on. Like… normal crying? Or is this a figure of speech for ‘sensitive soul’?"

Robin takes a sip of her tea. Savors the suspense. "Oh, normal crying. Real tears. Very emotional."

Stelle’s mind goes into overdrive, trying to reconcile the image. Sunday, all pressed shirts and measured words, breaking down like a toddler at a Pixar movie?

The closest she’s seen him to anything resembling tears is when she almost beat him at chess that one time, and even then she’s pretty sure that was just a stress twitch.

"You’re telling me Mr. ‘I’m Composure Itself’ actually…" She mimes exaggerated sobbing into her hands. "Like that?"

Robin’s eyes sparkle. "He tries to hide it, but it doesn’t take much. Sentimental commercials. Farewell speeches. Anything involving animals. Birds, especially."

"Animals..." Stelle repeats. "That one I can sort of believe. He gets this pitiful look whenever he watches me feed the kitten on the roof of the office building."

"I once showed him a video of a dog being reunited with its owner after a year apart," Robin smiles, too fond, "and he cried so hard I thought he would get a fever."

Stelle stares. She doesn’t know if she’s supposed to laugh, cry, or re-evaluate her entire relationship. "Are we talking… manly single tear down the cheek or, like, the works?"

"Oh, the works. But still very dignified about it. You know how he is."

Okay, nope. She’s picturing it now. Sunday, in his immaculate suit, eyes red, voice wobbling while he tries to pretend nothing’s wrong. It’s so wrong it loops back around to being right. She presses her palm to her mouth, grinning behind it like an idiot.

"This is amazing."

Robin laughs softly into her tea. "I’m glad you think so. Some women would be put off."

"Put off? This is gold." Stelle leans forward, elbows on the table. "Anything else?"

"Hmm..." Robin sets her mug down and taps her chin. "Well, he can sing as well as me." she grins, "When we were younger, he used to sing me to sleep. He still does, on occasion, when I’m stressed and visiting. I imagine he hasn’t offered that to you yet?"

"Oh no," Stelle feigns offense, "Never sung to me. Hummed, sure. But that’s usually because he’s smug about something and needs a soundtrack for his own satisfaction."

Robin picks her mug up again and chuckles into her tea. "If you catch him in the right mood, you should ask. He’s shy about it, but he’s good. Very good."

The mental image of Sunday, all warm and low-voiced, singing her to sleep worms its way into her mind, and it's enough to make her chest feel too tight. She’s not about to admit that out loud, so she shrugs and takes a big gulp of tea to chase the thought away.

Robin watches her with a knowing little smile anyway. "you’re thinking about it."

"Absolutely not," Stelle lies which is of course the least convincing thing she could possibly say.

"Mhm." Robin sips again, unbothered, and it’s unfair how much she radiates Sunday but approachable. "What else…" She taps a finger against the cup. "Ah. He’s a terrible patient when he’s sick."

"That I have seen," Stelle groans. "He tries to pretend nothing’s wrong until he’s practically falling over. Then when he finally admits it, he acts like he’s two hours from death. Once he told me he couldn’t possibly move because he was ‘grievously ill’—turns out he just had a mild fever."

Robin bursts out laughing. "That’s exactly how he’s been since we were children."

"Men," Stelle says sagely, lifting her mug. "They could be missing a limb and still say they’re fine until it’s time to milk it for sympathy."

They share a conspiratorial grin, and Stelle feels that little rush of unexpected kinship—the warm, fuzzy feeling of oh, I get why Sunday adores you so much.

Robin tilts her head toward the living room. "We have some time before he gets home. Would you like to hear some truly embarrassing childhood stories?"

Stelle’s eyes light up. "You have no idea how fast I’ll say yes to that."

Two hours later, Stelle is leaning against the kitchen counter, grinning like she’s known Robin her whole life.

They’ve covered everything (her career, Sunday’s quirks, the politics of hair dye, the secret to perfect stage eyeliner) and Stelle has even gotten away with some light fangirling without scaring Robin off. Turns out Robin is just as much fun to talk to as she is to listen to, and every now and then she laughs so sweetly and it makes Stelle understand exactly why Sunday talks about her with such unshakable pride.

The contrast is light and day, though. 

Robin talks about him in this grounded, easy way, nothing like the way Sunday talks about her. Stelle always had the sense that he puts her so high on a pedestal she might as well live on the moon, all untouchable grace and flawless virtue, but Robin speaks about him no doubt knowimg exactly where every crack in the marble is and still loves him more than anything in the world.

It’s…startling, actually, how deeply and plainly she loves him. There’s no fanfare to it, no godlike reverence. Just familiarity, intimacy, and pride threaded into her every word.

Which is why the sound of the front door clicking open sends a little thrill of mischief down Stelle’s spine. It's time to see a brand new Sunday she's never seen before.

"Stay here," she says, pointing at Robin. "Do not move. I’m gonna bring him to you with his eyes covered."

Robin simply nods with a sweet smile and straightens up.

She slips out into the hall just as Sunday steps inside, immaculate as always, loosens the cuff of one sleeve.

"Hello, darling," he greets, his voice softening the moment his eyes land on her. He leans down to press a warm kiss to her temple, thumb brushing the curve of her jaw. "I missed you."

She can’t help the little smile tugging at her mouth. "Missed you too."

"Have you eaten yet?"

"Not yet," she says, keeping her tone breezy.

"Good. I already made our reservation." His hand rests lightly at her waist. "The restaurant I promised to take you earlier—I hope you’re still in the mood for it."

"Yes, yes, don’t worry about that." She waves a hand dismissively. "Just come to the kitchen first. There’s a surprise."

His brows lift faintly. "Oh? And what is it?"

"You’ll see."

Before he can question it, she steps behind him and slips her hands over his eyes, grinning at the sound of his low chuckle.

"Alright," Sunday says, letting her steer him down the hall, his tone both amused and resigned. "Lead the way."

They turn into the kitchen, her palms still warm against his skin, and she catches Robin’s eye over his shoulder. 

Robin is already smiling, clearly ready for the reveal.

"Okay," Stelle says, tightening her hands over his eyes for one last moment, "don’t peek until I say so."

"Alright," she says and finally lifts her hands away.

Sunday blinks against the light, his focus shifting—then stopping dead. For a heartbeat, there’s nothing on his face but shock.

"…Robin," he breathes, and it’s the softest Stelle has ever heard his voice wrap itself around a name. It's almost boyish.

Robin’s smile blooms instantly. "Hello, brother."

He takes a single step forward before folding her up in his arms, pulling her in with care, head dipping toward her shoulder, his hand smoothing once down her back as if he’s checking that she’s really here and really solid.

"I can’t believe you’re here," he murmurs, the words muffled against her hair.

"I told you I’d surprise you one of these days," Robin teases gently, hugging him back without hesitation. "It’s been too long."

"It has," Sunday agrees, pulling back a little bit to look at her properly, his hands still resting lightly at her arms. His expression tells her the room around them has disappeared and nothing exists outside this moment. "You look well."

"So do you," she says warmly. "Tired, but well."

A faint huff of laughter escapes him. "I’ve been keeping busy."

"I can tell," Robin chastises. "Always working."

He just shakes his head. His smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. "You came all this way without telling me…"

"To see your face like this," she taps his cheek lightly. "Worth it."

Stelle leans against the counter, watching the whole exchange with fascination. 

She’s seen Sunday soft before—God knows he melts for her at the drop of a hat—but this is different. He’s all open affection, no trace of the composure he keeps with anyone outside their little orbit. His voice is tender, his touch instinctive.

Affection pours off him in small, unthinking gestures: the way he tucks a loose strand of her hair behind her ear without comment, the way his expression softens into one without angles or guardrails, the way his voice drops when he asks if she’s been well, if she’s eating properly, if her schedule is still as punishing as it was last year.

And Robin, for her part, meets all of it without hesitation: leaning into his touch, laughing when he teases her about the ’criminal amount of time’ she takes to reply to his messages, answering his questions with an honesty that clearly conveys she’s never had to worry about how much space she’s allowed to take up in his life.

It’s…warm, Stelle realizes.

Some knot inside her she didn’t realize she’d been carrying loosens as she stands there. 

So utterly delighted Stelle is that she's not the only person in his orbit who makes him melt like this. That if she were to vanish from it, he would still have someone who knows exactly where his thorns are and holds them without fear.

The sight of it steadies her — the two of them, side by side, bound by a love so obvious it doesn’t need explanation, puts her at ease more than anything he’s ever told her about himself.

She leans her hip against the counter, content to watch them a little longer, letting the sound of their voices fold into the gentle hum of the kitchen. An intimacy that feels both wholly theirs and, somehow, a gift she’s been allowed to witness.

By the time they get back from dinner, the house smells faintly of whatever candle Sunday lit before they left. 

All three of them drift toward their respective rooms to change, and when Stelle emerges from the hallway in her own pajamas (cotton shorts again, this time with a faded Pokemon print on the front) she finds Sunday already on the couch, sitting all prim and proper as always, a book resting face-down on the armrest. Robin’s perched in the opposite armchair, tucked up in a cozy flannel, cradling a mug of tea.

Stelle stands there for a second, hot chocolate in hand, unsure how to… enter this tableau without disrupting whatever sibling bubble they’ve got going. She clears her throat, then promptly regrets doing it when both of them look over at her in unison.

"Uh," she stammers, lifting her mug towards Sunday's general direction, "is it… okay if I sit next to you?"

Sunday’s brows pinch as if she’s just asked him if she’s allowed to breathe air in his house. "Of course, darling. Come here."

Well, that’s all the encouragement she needs. 

She happily crosses the room and slides into the spot beside him, curling into the crook of his arm. He shifts automatically to tuck her closer, and his palm rests warm on her stomach. She takes a long sip of her hot chocolate, mostly to hide the small, satisfied grin on her facr.

They talk for a bit about nothing—how good the food was, the ridiculous couple at the next table over who spent twenty minutes arguing about how to pronounce ’gnocchi’—until Sunday asks Robin: "How long will you be staying?"

"Around two weeks, give or take," Robin replies while drawing her legs up under her. "There’s a cover shooting I have to take care of here, and a few people I want to see."

Two weeks. Two entire weeks of poor Sunday trying to divide his attention between his beloved sister, dearly detested work and Stelle (who requires the most energy out of everything here), so Stelle does what any responsible mature adult would do, offers:

"I should probably stay at my own apartment for a while then. Wouldn’t want to intrude. Been meaning to catch up with my friends anyway."

To her surprise, Robin just shakes her head. "Don’t worry about that. I’ll be spending a few days with Aunt Maeven too, so I won’t be here the whole time."

"Oh," Stelle says aloud.

Oh, she says internally, but with about fifty question marks and a sound effect of a record scratch.

In her head, she opens every mental filing cabinet drawer marked Sunday: Personal History Files.

Everything in her folders say: Sunday is on bad terms with Miss Maeven. He's said so that one time he came to her apartment. 

He still speaks to her when she shows up at the office from time to time, but his jaw looks like it’s trying to crush diamonds the entire time. And now she’s hearing that Robin is close enough to this same woman to stay over at her place?

She wants to ask. She really, really wants to ask. But there’s a whole etiquette thing here, and she’s not about to start her relationship with Robin by prying into family drama out of nowhere.

So instead, she just hums and says, "That’s nice."

"Mhm." Robin tilts her head, watching her over the rim of her mug. "Why don’t you meet her too?"

I don't really want to... "I'd love to. Some day."

"I'll try to arrange it. Her schedule is usually busy, but I'm certain she will make time for her nephew," Robin smiles, tilting her head towards Sunday. "Right, brother?"

A quiet "Mhm," is the only thing Sunday replies with. Yup. Sensitive subject. She'll have to find out later.

Robin's face falls a little. Even if she's clearly sad about her brother's relationship with their aunt, she doesn't push. She turns to Stelle and changes the subject instead. "Has he met your family yet?"

Oh no.

Because the answer is yes, if we’re counting how her stupid (former) family of criminals kidnapped him and put a gun to his head in a warehouse—an evening that ended with Stelle being house-locked for days and the most complicated declarations of affection from all of the Hunters. 

Not to mention her missing twin brother, and a proud refusal to so much as text her adoptive mother. In other words: nope, this topic is a landmine.

So of course, her mouth betrays her. "He has."

The silence that envelops the room feels like the slow and menacing creak of a floorboard in a horror movie.

Robin blinks. "Oh?"

Sunday’s head tilts toward her at the same time, and she knows that look. It’s the one that says I would love to know what, exactly, you think you’re doing right now.

Her brain scrambles. "Yeah, uh…" she waves a hand vaguely, praying for divine inspiration strike right now. "You know. Briefly. It was a… quick meeting. Nothing formal."

"Very quick," Sunday echoes, smoothly backing her up despite the disbelief in his eyes. "Circumstances were…unorthodox."

"Right, yeah, unorthodox," Stelle says, forcing a laugh that sounds less like a laugh and more like she swallowed a cough. "We’ll, uh, do it properly one day."

Robin’s smile is warm but curious. "Well, I’d like to meet them too."

"Of course," Stelle says automatically. 

The next second has her mentally scheduling the exact moment she’s going to have to call Kafka and beg her to play ‘Mom’ in front of an actual international pop star.

"Tell me about them," she prompts casually, clearly meaning well.

"Her mother is quite accomplished," Sunday slides in effortlessly— bless his ability to make people believe absolutely anything that comes out of his mouth. "A…consultant."

Oh. That’s…vague. Vague is good.

"Yes," Stelle jumps in, nodding far too much. "A consultant. In…industries."

Industries. Industries?! She can feel Sunday’s eyes turn to her in slow motion. 

"What sort of industries?" Robin asks politely.

Stelle thinks very hard about normal jobs. Her brilliant mind lands on:

"Beekeeping," she blurts.

Robin blinks. "Beekeeping?"

"Yes. Very busy with the bees. Bee business. Buzz-ness." she adds awkwardly. "Haha."

Sunday's palm presses very hard on her side.

Robin smiles so diplomatically at that, and Stelle is painfully aware that she knows exactly what’s happening here. She's staring at them both with not a single ounce of belief and far too much amusement. 

"What about your father?" she asks, apparently polite enough to not point out the obvious charade but not enough to drop it because it's clearly funny to her. For some reason. 

"Oh, he’s—" Stelle starts, then panics. "—retired. Very retired."

"Very retired," Sunday repeats with a forced smile.

Robin tilts her head. "From…?"

"From…" Stelle tries desperately to think of a profession you can be very retired from. "Fencing."

"Sports or antiques?" Robin asks without missing a beat.

"Both," Stelle says.

Sunday tries once more to salvage it all. "We met during a work trip. We were passing through their area, and there was an opportunity to...briefly make introductions."

He glances down at her with a smile that conveys: I am saving your ass right now, try not to set it on fire.

"Right, yes," Stelle says quickly. "Very brief. Like, five minutes."

"Closer to ten," Sunday corrects without looking at her. "There was tea involved."

Tea? They definitely didn’t have tea. They had Blade attacking her with the might of a beast and Kafka standing there with a gun to his head. But sure, tea.

"Yep, tea," Stelle nods, eyes darting everywhere but Robin’s face. "It was very delicious."

She feels Sunday’s fingers give another squeeze to her side. If you can’t keep up with the lie, stop talking.

But she’s already halfway down the hill and there’s no brake on this sled.

"And biscuits," she adds.

Sunday’s jaw doesn’t move, but she can feel the glare he’s sending her in his peripheral vision. "No biscuits," he says gently, as if correcting a small child. "It was quite late in the evening."

"Right. No biscuits. Just tea. And… maybe… some fruit?"

Another pinch on her side, firmer.

"No fruit," Sunday says firmly. "They weren’t expecting us."

"Oh. Right, no fruit," Stelle parrots, heat creeping up her neck. "Just tea. In the dark."

Now he pauses. "Not in the dark."

"Wasn’t it dim?"

"No."

"Yellow light?" 

"White."

"Okay. Just tea. Yes." 

Robin’s lips press together with the effort of trying not to burst into laughter. Which, okay, fair. 

Sunday inhales, exhales and puts on the fakest most awkward smile ever.

"Why don’t we stop talking for a little while," he says at last, not even looking at her.

Stelle blinks up at him. "What, all of us? Or just me?"

He tilts his gaze down at her. His mouth twitches. "You, darling."

"Rude," she pouts, taking a very loud, slurpy sip of her hot chocolate.

Across from her, Robin is absolutely glowing with glee as she leans back in her armchair. "Oh no, don’t stop on my account. This is delightful."

"Delightful is one word for it," Sunday mutters.

Stelle blinks dumbly and tries her best again. "We could tell her about dessert instead. What did we have again?"

"We didn’t," Sunday says.

"Right. Just tea." She nods very seriously. "In the dark."

"I thought it was dim?" Robin takes a sip.

"Not dim," Sunday corrects automatically.

Stelle tilts her head. "Yellow light, though."

Sunday closes his eyes to summon patience. "White." 

"Warm white?"

"Cool white."

"Mm," Robin hums, swirling her tea. "Sounds cozy."

"It wasn’t," Sunday says.

"It was a little cozy," Stelle says at the exact same time, and she can feel the vein in his forehead begging her to shut up.

Robin laughs and sets her mug down. "You two must be exhausting to sit next to on a plane."

"She’s exhausting to sit next to anywhere," Sunday sighs, though his hand is still curved loosely against Stelle’s hip all warm.

"I’m the only reason you haven’t died of boredom yet." Stelle retorts.

Robin’s laugh is soft when it leaves her. "Alright, I think that’s my cue to let you two continue this without an audience."

Aw. She wanted her to stay up longer. "Leaving so soon?" 

"It’s nearly midnight," Robin says, rising from her chair. She crosses to Sunday first, leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek. "Goodnight, brother."

"Goodnight, Robin," Sunday murmurs, voice dipping low and fond again.

Then Robin turns to Stelle and takes her hand in both of hers, giving it a warm squeeze. "And goodnight to you, too. Thank you for the lovely conversation. I’ll sleep well after that performance."

Stelle beams. "Anytime."

When Robin disappears down the hall, Sunday is quiet for exactly three seconds and it's nearly enough for Stelle to think maybe he’s going to let the whole beekeeping-fencing-fruit-tea debacle slide.

Then his hand leaves her hip only to catch her cheek between two fingers in a sudden and merciless pinch.

"Ow—!" she yelps, swatting at his wrist. "What was that for?"

"For whatever it was you think you did back there," he replies dryly. "Have you not learned anything from me in the past few months?"

"I was improvising!" she protests, rubbing her cheek. "I kept the energy up. That’s important in theatre."

"This is not theatre," Sunday pinches her nose this time. "This is my life."

"So?"

Sunday studies her for a moment, thumb brushing over her cheek where he’d pinched her.

"Alright," he says at last. "To bed with you."

She snaps him a mock salute. "Yes, sir."

They stand, his hand steady at her back as they make their way to his bedroom. The en suite light spills golden across the carpet, and the mirror catches them side by side as they brush their teeth — she’s leaning against the counter, toothpaste foam at the corner of her mouth, watching him with open fondness.

By the time they finish, Stelle is the first to flop onto the bed. She stretches, then reaches for him with a lazy, open-handed beckon. He crosses the room, shaking his head like he’s humouring a spoiled cat, and settles beside her.

"You are being suspiciously cute," he murmurs when she immediately curls into him.

"Mm," she hums, nosing into his collar. "You smell so nice."

"Mm," he echoes, stroking her hair.

"I wanna crawl into your skin," she nuzzles.

"You wouldn’t fit," he replies evenly.

"Sure I would. I’m bendy."

"You’d make a mess of my insides."

She grins into his shirt. "That’s the point." Then she bites lightly at his shoulder, just to see his brow arch.

He sighs fondly. "Over-affectionate little thing."

"Feed me and let me bite you." She keeps nibbling, ignoring his halfhearted attempt to shoo her away, and he finally retaliates by rolling her onto her back. A lazy, warm weight, his body draped over hers while they wrestle for dominance neither of them actually cares to win.

She laughs into the pillow, hooking a leg around his waist to pull him closer. He catches her wrists and pins them above her head, grinning down at her like she’s the most pleasant trouble in the world.

"I should tire you out more during the day," he smiles.

"I’ll just nap and come back stronger," she counters, eyes glinting.

He bends to kiss her, slow and sweet, before tucking her firmly against his chest. They settle like that, her head under his chin, his hand rubbing idle circles along her spine.

Stelle presses her face to the steady beat of his heart, feeling his warmth seep into her bones. 

She loves him. Without reservation, without needing to say it. It’s in the way she molds herself to him, in the way he always makes room for her.

The night fades around them, their giggles quieting to soft breaths, until all that’s left is the steady hum of being exactly where they want to be.