Neon Dreams and Reckless Schemes, Dodging Drunks and Daddy Issues (Forty Feet Tall!), and When Your Uber Driver Has a Fashion Emergency.
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Author Note: Buckle up, buttercups! Our wild night just took a sharp turn into "Wait, that's your dad?!" territory. Turns out Maggie's got a secret ingredient in her family tree: high fashion and a whole lot of unspoken history. And Tod? Well, he's just along for the surprisingly stylish ride in Pentos.
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The city pulsed with a frenetic, almost manic energy—a living organism that refused to sleep. Despite the hour slipping well past midnight, the metropolis hummed like it was caught in the golden heat of midday. It wasn't just awake; it was alive. Wide streets spilled over with people, each a drop in the churning river of night. Groups drifted from club entrances and restaurant patios, their laughter sharp, voices loud, and movements erratic, as if the very air compelled them to keep moving.
Towering neon signs blinked and shimmered above, their garish colors slicing through the darkness with a surreal kind of beauty. Blues, reds, and electric greens bathed the sidewalks in an unnatural glow, bouncing off glass windows and glinting off chrome like fragments of some distorted dream. The sky above was a forgotten backdrop, swallowed by light pollution and city noise—an endless canvas for the synthetic stars of advertisement and nightlife.
The streets thrummed with the layered chaos of the urban soundtrack. Car horns honked in frustrated rhythms. Music—booming basslines and high-pitched treble—leaked from club doors flung open, only to be shut again with equal urgency. Every passing vehicle contributed to the low mechanical growl that underscored the city's every breath. Voices overlapped in a constant murmur, punctuated now and then by bursts of laughter or the wail of distant sirens. The city never truly quieted; it only changed tempo.
Inside a sleek, dark car gliding smoothly between the stuttering rhythm of red lights and brake lights, Tod sat behind the wheel, his posture relaxed yet deliberate. His hands rested with easy confidence on the steering wheel, fingers tapping slightly to the beat of music playing softly from the dashboard. There was a glint of thrill in his narrowed eyes, the kind of look that spoke of control even in chaos. Driving was second nature to him—part instinct, part muscle memory. And in this moment, the city didn't command him. He commanded it.
Beside him, Maggie was a blur of movement and emotion. Her hair, freed from the confines of structure or care, danced madly in the rush of air pouring through the open window. She had leaned out without a second thought, surrendering herself to the cool night and the exhilarating wind that stung her cheeks and tugged at her clothes. A sudden, uncontainable scream of delight burst from her lips—not fear, not panic, but pure joy. Her laughter followed it, bright and wild, a sound that turned heads on the sidewalk and made strangers smile without knowing why.
There was something almost childlike in her expression—eyes wide, heart pounding, the world reduced to nothing but speed, sound, and the way the wind kissed her skin. In that instant, she wasn't just alive—she was unburdened. Her laughter wasn't just a reaction; it was a release, a declaration of freedom she hadn't realized she'd been craving.
Tod glanced at her, a crooked grin forming as he took in her unrestrained joy. Her happiness was infectious. It filled the cabin of the car, pushing away everything heavy, everything real and looming. For the first time in a long while, he felt something shift inside him—a flicker of lightness, unexpected and welcome. And as the city raced past them in a blur of color and chaos, for one fleeting moment, it felt like they had outrun everything else.
They embarked on a reckless, exhilarating tour of the city's vibrant nightlife, their footsteps guided more by impulse than intention. There was something magnetic about the night—the way it shimmered with possibility and danger, like a spark forever teetering on the edge of becoming a flame. The city called to them, its rhythm seductive, its chaos oddly comforting. They followed it like moths drawn to a flickering flame, eager to be part of the madness rather than stand outside it.
Every corner seemed to promise something new, something thrilling. They ducked into bars tucked between graffiti-covered alleyways, where the scent of sweat and liquor hung thick in the air, and bass-heavy music pounded like a second heartbeat. They stumbled into upscale rooftop lounges with panoramic views of the glowing skyline, where strangers smiled too easily and cocktails shimmered like gemstones. Each place had its own tempo, its own pulse, and they moved through them as if trying to absorb every note of it.
They downed shots like they were chasing something that couldn't be caught—liquid courage, perhaps, or a sliver of that elusive human experience they rarely got to taste. The drinks came in all colors and flavors—sweet, bitter, burning—and they tossed them back without flinching, more out of ritual than need. For beings like them, individuals whose bodies pulsed with unnatural strength and speed, getting drunk was a near impossibility. Their enhanced physiologies burned through alcohol with cruel efficiency, leaving them soberer than they wanted to be, no matter how much they drank.
It was one of those strange ironies of power. While mortals could lose themselves in the fog of intoxication, they remained all too aware, their minds sharp, their reflexes annoyingly intact. The alcohol danced across their tongues, warmed their throats, and vanished into uselessness before it could ever wrap around their minds.
But the point wasn't to get drunk. Not really. It was about the ritual, the pretense—the chase. The shared laughter as they clinked glasses. The way the neon lights painted their skin. The loud music that made conversation impossible but made feeling everything easier. It was about giving in to the night and letting it swallow them whole. About pretending, just for a few hours, that they were normal. That they were just two people lost in a city that didn't care who or what they were.
In those fleeting, fragile moments—caught between drinks and music and half-shouted conversations—they weren't supernatural, powerful, or burdened by destinies they didn't ask for. They were simply there, alive, breathing the same thick air, dancing with strangers, laughing too hard, existing outside the rigid boundaries of who they were supposed to be.
And for them, that illusion of normalcy—no matter how temporary—was intoxicating enough.
For Maggie, this reckless plunge into the city's vibrant, chaotic underbelly felt like more than just a night out—it was a fragile, flickering attempt to reclaim a part of herself she thought she'd lost. A desperate yet thrilling effort to snatch back the wildness of youth, the kind that existed before the world became too complicated, before decisions bore consequences, before life demanded her to grow up too quickly.
She remembered being eighteen, sneaking out of her bedroom window with a pounding heart and borrowed lipstick, the air thick with the scent of summer rain and possibility. The nights had been loud and reckless, filled with pulsing music, whispered secrets behind closed doors, and that wild, untouchable feeling of immortality. Back then, the world had felt like a playground of chances—dangerous and glittering—and even the wrong choices seemed worth making if they led to stories worth telling.
Now, as she moved through the pulsing heat of unfamiliar nightclubs and down dim, graffiti-lined alleyways, the same thrill coursed through her veins—but it was different. It wasn't just teenage rebellion anymore. This was defiance. A quiet scream against the invisible walls of control that had boxed in her life for far too long. Against the expectations that had been placed on her shoulders, the careful plans laid out by others, the isolation that came with responsibility too heavy for someone her age to carry alone.
For once, she wanted to feel alive—not in the way that meant breathing and existing, but in the way that meant being free. Free to make mistakes. Free to laugh too loud, to dance with strangers, to forget the clock, and to lose herself in something that didn't have to make sense. Every drink, every laugh, every shared glance with Tod was a declaration: I am still here. I am more than what they see. I want more.
Yet, no matter how fast the music played or how brightly the city lights flared, there was a part of her—a small, tender part—that couldn't be silenced. In the quiet moments between the noise, in the seconds where her mind wasn't distracted by lights or laughter, she felt it: a homesick ache buried deep beneath the adrenaline. A longing for the familiar softness of her mother's voice, the warm scent of her skin, the way her arms had always made the world feel safe—even when it wasn't. She missed the quiet rituals of home, the unspoken love woven into every gesture, the knowledge that someone would always be there to catch her if she fell.
But Maggie had stepped off the ledge. She had chosen this. She had followed Tod into the fire, guided by instinct and emotion, not logic or caution. Maybe she had leaped too fast. Maybe she didn't even know what she was chasing. But something told her there was no going back—not to who she was, not to the life she left behind.
And for better or worse, she would walk this new path to wherever it led.
As Tod's car—a sleek, dark machine that seemed to absorb the city's neon light rather than reflect it—rolled to a sudden stop at a red traffic light that refused to budge, the sudden stillness made the moment stretch. The engine settled into a low, throaty purr beneath them, almost like a beast restrained, unwilling but forced to pause in the middle of its hunt. Around them, the city continued its sleepless ballet: horns blaring in the distance, tires hissing against wet asphalt, and glowing signs flickering erratically as if caught between wanting to rest and burning through the night.
Maggie's gaze drifted lazily, her breath catching slightly as something towering caught her eye. A billboard—massive, bold, and impossible to ignore—loomed ahead like a modern-day monument in the midst of the urban jungle. It spanned the breadth of the street, casting its luminous influence across the vehicles below, commanding attention with the audacity of something too expensive to be subtle.
"El' Vucci Fashion," the headline screamed in dazzling, opulent letters, each character outlined in bright gold that glistened beneath the relentless city lights. The name alone evoked worlds far removed from the cracked sidewalks and alleyways they had just driven past—worlds of glass runways, champagne-filled galas, and whispers in couture-filled corridors.
Beneath the name, the image that dominated the billboard was arresting in its confidence. A man stood front and center, his arms folded with casual authority across his well-built chest. Draped around his neck was a supple leather measuring tape, more like a necklace than a tool, the way it rested with practiced elegance. His expression was calm but knowing, a smirk that wasn't arrogant but assured—he knew who he was, and the world seemed to know it too. His eyes, even through the larger-than-life print, seemed to look directly at her.
Something shifted in Maggie.
It wasn't just admiration or curiosity. It was recognition. A soft, breathless punch to her chest, like memory and emotion had collided without warning. The pang came fast and without mercy, sharp and unwelcome. Her heart clenched around it, this sudden ache, this intimate sorrow disguised as nostalgia. The man's face, his posture, the tilt of his smile—it all tugged at something buried deep inside her, something she hadn't dared to touch in a long while.
Her breath hitched slightly as she stared, the rest of the world blurring into obscurity for a heartbeat too long. It was as if the city had fallen silent just for her, just for this moment of quiet, aching familiarity. Something in that face reminded her of what she had left behind—or perhaps what had been taken from her. And as the billboard glowed on, indifferent and magnificent, she found herself wondering about the stories behind that smile, the path that had led him there, and why the sight of him, frozen in glossy perfection, could make her feel like something in her was still unfinished.
She didn't say a word. Just watched. And felt.
In that instant—bathed in the unrelenting artificial glow of the city's neon heartbeat—Maggie felt her world lurch. Her breath caught, chest tightening in a way that felt almost physical, like a fist had curled suddenly around her heart. She knew that face. She had memorized it from grainy childhood photographs, magazine covers glimpsed over the years, and the occasional online profile someone else had pulled up while speaking his name with admiration or envy.
It was him.
Her father.
The recognition struck her with a force she hadn't anticipated, a visceral jolt that left her feeling as though the ground beneath the car had shifted, and for a second, she forgot to breathe. A storm of tangled, conflicting emotions erupted all at once—sharp shards of resentment from years of unanswered questions and quiet heartbreak, mingling with a fragile, enduring hope that had stubbornly refused to die. The kind of hope that clung to the corners of her heart like a child waiting by the door, watching for someone who never came home.
There he was—larger than life—on that glittering billboard, rendered in all the perfection high-end photography and professional branding could muster. The name El' Vucci gleamed like gold across the night sky, his empire. His image was polished, confident, styled to sell a dream. But even through the layers of perfection—beneath the tailored suit, behind the charismatic smile designed for public consumption—Maggie could see something else. Something real.
It was the eyes.
There was a faint weariness buried in their depths. Not fatigue from work, but a quiet, aching kind of tiredness. The kind you carried in your soul, not your bones. It reminded her of the stories her mother used to tell—of late nights in his design studio, fabric draped over mannequins, his fingers stained with pencil marks and ink, eyes alight with a different kind of hunger. Back then, before fame, before cameras and critics, he had lived for the craft, not the spotlight.
He hadn't wanted this. She could see it now. He didn't want to be an icon frozen on a billboard, his smile endlessly looped in the minds of strangers. He wanted to be creating, in the quiet, behind the scenes, where imagination still lived untouched by branding deals and photo ops. He had simply been too good, too inspired, too much of a genius for the world to ignore. And now, that brilliance had caged him in gold.
Her fingers twitched slightly in her lap. That image—the man on the billboard—was both hers and not hers. She recognized him, but not as the world did. And that knowledge split her down the middle.
"You a fan of El' Vucci, then?"
Tod's voice sliced through the reverie like a gentle, grounding tether. It pulled her back from the cliff's edge, from the overwhelming tide of feelings threatening to drown her in the silence between heartbeats. His voice was easy, smooth as always, but there was something behind the tone. A quiet awareness. He had noticed her reaction.
She blinked, once, then again, trying to clear the sudden fog of emotion clouding her vision. The glow from the billboard still danced across her face, catching the slight shimmer in her eyes.
She inhaled slowly, counting to three, and exhaled just as carefully. She couldn't afford to unravel. Not here. Not now.
With admirable effort, she forced her expression into something neutral, casual—almost bored.
"Oh, it's... it's nothing particularly significant," she said lightly, her voice carefully detached, even airy. "Just... that's my dad, actually."
The words floated out of her mouth like ash from a fire. Light on the surface, but scorched with meaning underneath.
And as soon as she said it, she regretted it.
Not because it wasn't true—but because saying it aloud made it feel real. Made the billboard, the man, the ache in her chest, real.
And she wasn't sure she was ready for that.
Not yet.
Tod nearly choked on his own laughter, caught completely off guard by the casual yet staggering weight of her revelation. The burst of sound escaped him involuntarily, sharp and surprised, like air sucked too quickly into his lungs. He blinked several times, and for once, the easy humor in his face gave way to something more raw—genuine astonishment.
His vibrant green eyes widened, reflecting the flashing lights of the city as they darted between her and the billboard like they were trying to reconcile the two. For a split second, his usual playful amusement was stripped away, replaced by pure disbelief.
"Wait, hold on a damn minute…" he said, leaning slightly forward as though proximity might help him understand better. "What did you just say? Your dad? As in… the El' Vucci?"
He paused, eyebrows raised high in emphasis. "You mean the actual guy—the legend—behind the whole Vucci fashion empire? That El' Vucci?"
He let out a low whistle, the sound laced with both admiration and stunned amusement. Then, as the reality began to settle in, a wide, almost incredulous grin spread across his face, and the teasing sparkle returned to his eyes with renewed force.
"Well, well, well, Maggie," he drawled, clearly savoring the unexpected twist. "Looks like we've got some undercover fashion royalty in our midst! And here I was thinking I was the most interesting person in this car. Who's the one with the surprising connections now?"
There was no malice in his words, only a light-hearted attempt to bridge the gap between shock and amusement. Still, under the banter, there was something else growing—curiosity, and maybe even a touch of respect. The kind that bloomed when someone realized the person sitting next to them carried more story than they first let on.
Maggie groaned under her breath, the sound more weary than annoyed. She leaned back in her seat, pressing her temple briefly to the cool glass of the window, as though hoping the city's chaos might drain some of the tension building behind her eyes.
"Oh, come on, Tod," she muttered, rolling her eyes in a half-hearted performance of exasperation. It was a weak defense—her theatrical annoyance was laced with something more vulnerable, something much harder to mask.
"It's not some big deal," she added, her voice dropping a little, quiet but brittle at the edges. "I haven't actually seen him in... in twelve years."
She exhaled slowly, trying to maintain her composure as she stared straight ahead, refusing to meet Tod's gaze. "It's not like we're close or anything. So, yeah… not that special."
The words were carefully chosen, spoken with an intentional casualness that she hoped would close the subject down before it could spiral any further. But they hung in the air like fragile glass, and the subtle tremor in her voice—barely perceptible but unmistakable—betrayed the storm raging just beneath her carefully constructed exterior.
Tod's grin faded, his expression softening into something more grounded. He didn't laugh this time. Instead, he looked at her with a new kind of focus—not amused, not entertained, but attentive. Thoughtful.
"Twelve years…" he repeated quietly, as if testing the weight of that number in his own mouth. He leaned back slightly, resting his arm on the door as his tone shifted into something far gentler. "That's a long time, Mags."
He glanced up at the billboard again, as if it suddenly held more meaning than glossy marketing and celebrity branding.
"And now he's here, in the city," he said softly. "Not just here, but everywhere. I mean, damn—his face is forty feet tall. That's gotta mess with your head."
She said nothing, but the silence between them spoke volumes.
Tod's voice lowered, slower now, stripped of his usual quips. "Look... if you ever wanted to... I could take you to him. We could try to find him."
He didn't say it like it was easy. He didn't even say it like it was a good idea.
He said it like someone who knew what it was like to wonder if a door long closed might still creak open.
Like someone offering a hand—not to fix things, but just to stand beside her if she ever decided to try.
Her stomach lurched with a sharp, queasy twist the moment Tod made the suggestion—so simple in delivery, yet so impossibly heavy in meaning. A tight knot began to coil in the pit of her belly, winding with anxious tension, and for a moment, she couldn't breathe past the sudden pressure blooming in her chest.
Nausea swept over her like a tide, pulling her under before she could brace for it. The lingering haze of alcohol from earlier didn't help; it clung to the back of her throat, thick and bitter, turning her mouth dry and her thoughts sluggish. She sank deeper into the plush leather seat of the car, the cool surface pressing against her back like a lifeline she didn't know she needed. Her palms felt damp. Her heartbeat drummed loudly in her ears, uneven and fast.
Twelve years.
The number echoed, hollow and relentless, like a bell tolling deep within her mind. Seeing him again—her father—after all that time? The very thought made her feel as though the air had been sucked out of the car. A phantom weight pressed down on her chest, making her shoulders cave inward as if to protect herself from a blow that hadn't yet landed.
It wasn't just fear. It was a tangled mess of longing and dread—hope that had been buried so long it had begun to rot, resurfacing in a moment she hadn't prepared for. And beneath it all, a smothering uncertainty that felt like standing at the edge of a cliff with no idea how far the drop was.
What would she even say to him?
How did you begin a conversation that had been stalled for over a decade? How could she explain her silence, her absence, the unorthodox path her life had taken—skirting the fringes of the supernatural world, running from shadows both real and emotional?
Her mind, desperate for something to hold onto, began to piece together a line—something simple, something that might open the door.
Hi, Dad. It's Maggie. Your daughter. The one you haven't seen in twelve long years. I… I ran away from Mom to try and find you.
The words echoed in her head, stark and hollow. They felt embarrassingly insufficient. Absurd, even. As though twelve years of pain, wandering, and hard choices could be reduced to a few flimsy sentences.
What if he didn't remember her?
What if he didn't want to remember?
The last time he saw her, she'd been a little girl with scabbed knees and messy pigtails, always clinging to his arm, always asking a thousand questions about fabrics and patterns and color swatches. That child was gone. That version of her had been shed like old skin, replaced by someone harder, quieter, shaped by years of surviving in the dark corners of a world no one spoke openly about.
Would he even see her in this woman she'd become?
Or would he only see a stranger looking back?
She closed her eyes, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead, trying to quiet the rising tide of emotion before it crashed completely over her. This wasn't just about facing him. It was about facing herself—and all the broken pieces she wasn't sure she was ready to lay bare.
"Hey, you okay there?"
Tod's voice broke through the storm in her head like a lifeline thrown into rough waters. It was calm, quiet, but threaded with a depth of concern that startled her. There was no teasing this time—just real worry, real care. He leaned a little closer, his hand reaching out instinctively, palm open, offering comfort without pressure. It wasn't just a touch—it was a quiet, human gesture. A bridge across the invisible space between them.
But Maggie flinched. It was small—barely more than a twitch—but it was unmistakable. She pulled back just enough for the gesture to fall short. Her breath caught in her throat as guilt bloomed immediately in her chest, hot and sour. It wasn't him she was shrinking from, not really. It was the weight of everything she didn't know how to explain.
Tod's brow furrowed. The crease between his eyebrows deepened with a mixture of confusion and quiet frustration.
"Why do you always do that, Maggie?" he asked, his tone soft but colored with something that cut a little deeper—concern laced with just a trace of hurt. "You let me in, and then you shut down like that. Like there's this wall that just slams down out of nowhere."
His voice didn't accuse, not exactly, but the tension in it was unmistakable. He wasn't just puzzled—he was tired. Not of her, but of the dance. The closeness, then the coldness.
She looked away, her jaw tightening. "Do what?" she asked, too quickly. Her voice had an edge now—defensive, clipped. A familiar shield snapping into place, automatic and precise.
He hesitated, then exhaled, his eyes scanning her face with an expression that was no longer playful. "Pull away like that. Like I'm some kind of monster. Like you expect me to hurt you the moment I get too close."
There was no humor left in his voice—only raw vulnerability. It wasn't about ego. It wasn't about being offended. He just… didn't understand. And maybe that made it worse.
"It's… it's nothing, Tod. Really. I'm just… tired," she said, forcing the words out, avoiding his gaze like it might burn her if she looked directly at him.
But Tod wasn't convinced. He shook his head slowly, his voice firmer now, the softness giving way to a controlled tension.
"No, Maggie. It's clearly not 'nothing'.'"
His hand dropped to his lap, fingers curling slightly, as if resisting the urge to reach for her again. "If you don't want me here, if being with me makes you this uncomfortable, then just say it. I won't force anything on you, okay? I need to know where I stand, because this… this silence, this wall—it's starting to feel like I don't."
She opened her mouth to respond, but the words wouldn't come. Not the right ones, not the honest ones. There was too much to say, and no clear way to say it.
So instead, she acted.
Before she could think, before she could second-guess herself, Maggie leaned in, her hands trembling as she cupped his face and brought her lips to his.
It wasn't graceful. It wasn't slow. It was messy and unplanned and desperate.
Her kiss landed like a collision—sudden and forceful, like someone jumping off a cliff with no parachute.
Tod froze for a split second, his eyes wide in shock, but then he moved—returning the kiss with a bewildered hunger that had no words. He didn't understand what was happening, not fully, but he met her there, in the space between confusion and need.
There was no careful rhythm, no romance. It wasn't about love, not yet. It was about escape.
About silencing the thoughts clawing at the inside of her skull.
About finding warmth in a world that had always felt cold.
Her arms wrapped around his neck, clutching like a drowning woman grabbing for air. She pulled him closer, needing him near, needing to lose herself in the only thing that didn't feel complicated in that moment.
But even as the kiss deepened, even as his hands moved to her waist, hesitant and unsure, a single truth pulsed quietly beneath the surface—this wasn't a solution.
It was a cry.
A silent, frantic scream masked in skin and breath and heat.
The blaring horn from the car behind them shattered the fragile cocoon of intimacy that had briefly wrapped itself around them.
The sound was sharp, insistent—an impatient reminder that the world outside their stolen moment hadn't paused for them. Reality came crashing back like cold water, jarring and immediate. The traffic light had long since turned green, and the cars behind were growing restless, their noise rising like a tide.
"Shit," Tod muttered, snapping back into the present with a sharp breath.
He pulled away from Maggie with a suddenness that almost stung, though the heat from the kiss still lingered between them like static in the air. His vibrant green eyes, which moments ago had been half-lidded with confusion and desire, now sparked with frustration. It wasn't just the honking—it was the intrusion, the way the outside world had elbowed its way into something raw and unfinished.
With a short growl of annoyance, he slammed his foot on the gas pedal. The car jolted forward, the tires squealing slightly against the pavement as they surged through the intersection.
The moment—the kiss, the closeness, the unspoken ache—was left behind, trailing in the rearview mirror like a dream dissolving at sunrise.
Maggie pressed herself back into the cool leather seat, trying to ground herself in the texture, the temperature, anything solid. Her skin still burned, her pulse thudded heavily in her ears, but it wasn't just from the speed of the car or Tod's erratic driving.
Her breath came in shallow bursts, each one catching slightly in her throat. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to curl in on herself or reach for him again.
But it wasn't Tod at the forefront of her mind anymore.
It was the billboard.
That enormous screen, high above the city, where her father's face had loomed larger than life. She hadn't expected to see him like that. Not first. Not that way. The image had been polished—his smile carefully measured, the suit perfect, the lighting flattering. But she had seen it.
That crack in the illusion.
The weariness in his eyes, subtle but haunting, like someone carrying a burden no one else could see.
Her father.
The man she hadn't seen in twelve years.
The same man she had once idolized, then hated, then longed for again in quiet moments she refused to speak of aloud.
And now he was back—sort of—staring down at her from an LED display like a ghost with perfect teeth.
A sick, tangled storm churned in her chest—grief, anger, guilt, curiosity… and fear.
She didn't even know what she wanted from him anymore.
Did she want answers? Closure? An apology?
Or did she just want proof that he had missed her too—that she wasn't the only one who'd spent years wondering what could have been?
The world outside became a blur of color as the car sped down the avenue. Neon lights smeared against the glass, streaks of blue, pink, and gold bleeding together in dizzying patterns. It looked like chaos. It looked like her heart.
She turned her head toward the window, her reflection faint and ghostlike against the glass.
She didn't recognize herself.
Not the woman she'd become—stronger in some ways, still broken in others.
And certainly not the girl who had once believed that running away would solve everything.
Maggie exhaled slowly, almost inaudibly, and let her hand rest on her lap, clenched tightly into a fist.
She wasn't ready to face him. Not yet.
But the city, the signs, the silence—it was all moving her closer.
Whether she wanted it to or not.
⁕
Tod and Maggie practically stumbled through the front door of her modest apartment, their fingers intertwined with such fervor it was as though letting go might break whatever invisible spell had been cast between them.
The moment felt surreal—heightened by the adrenaline still pulsing through their veins, the taste of the city still clinging to their skin, and the echo of everything unspoken hanging heavy between them.
The door slammed into the wall with a sharp, jarring thud, the noise ringing through the narrow entryway like a gunshot. But neither of them flinched. The world outside—its honking horns, glowing billboards, and suffocating chaos—felt miles away now, muted by the storm of emotion and electricity surging between them.
Tod's hand found her waist with practiced ease, fingers splaying out like he was anchoring himself to her. The touch was firm, possessive, yet strangely gentle, like he was trying to memorize the shape of her through his palms.
He pulled her closer until there was no space left between them, their bodies aligned in a perfect, trembling tension.
Maggie tilted her head back slightly, her breath catching as her own hands slid up his chest and curled into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Her touch was cautious but hungry—half a question, half a statement. She wasn't sure if she was holding on for balance or begging him not to step away.
Their lips collided in a kiss that felt inevitable, like gravity itself had finally given in to their reckless orbit. It wasn't delicate or choreographed. It was clumsy in the most human way—mouths hungry, breaths uneven, the kiss deepening with every passing second as restraint unraveled.
It wasn't just passion.
It was everything else too.
The weight of the night. The memory of that billboard. The ghosts of what they were both running from and the impossible hope that maybe, just maybe, they'd found something real in each other amid the mess.
"God, Tod," Maggie whispered against his mouth, her voice trembling slightly, both from desire and the overwhelming vulnerability suddenly surging up through her. "You're so… incredibly hot."
The words escaped in a breathy gasp, like she wasn't sure she meant to say them aloud until they were already floating in the air between them.
Tod didn't respond with words. He just kissed her harder, deeper—like her confession had lit something inside him.
It wasn't just lust now.
It was a collision of loneliness, tension, longing, and the need to feel something that made sense.
In that moment, the apartment disappeared around them.
There was no furniture. No city outside. No baggage.
Just two people trying to lose themselves in each other before the real world came crashing in again.
Without speaking a word, Tod's eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that stole the breath from her lungs. There was something in his gaze—an unspoken promise, fierce and unwavering, like he needed her to know this moment mattered more than either of them dared to admit.
Then, without hesitation, he swept her into his arms.
Maggie gasped—partly from the suddenness, partly from the unexpected strength in his arms.
The sound escaped her throat before she could stop it, tumbling into a breathless laugh, a sound too full of surprise and delight to feel real. Her arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, clinging tightly, not out of fear, but from something else. Something deeper.
She hadn't felt this way in years—unguarded, impulsive, warm in a way that didn't come from the heat of another person's body, but from being held like she meant something.
Her legs dangled in the air, toes brushing against the edges of the narrow stairwell as Tod began to ascend with purpose.
His steps were quick, yet careful—determined, yet oddly graceful. Every movement crackled with the same energy that had been building between them all evening. That quiet tension. That barely-contained fire.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
The silence between them had its own language now.
One built on glances, breaths, and the invisible thread that tugged them closer every time they tried to pull away.
The apartment around them blurred, details fading into irrelevance. The creak of old wood, the faint hum of a city settling into night, the distance between them and the rest of the world—it all vanished.
There was only this.
This connection neither of them had expected, a pull so strong it was both electrifying and terrifying.
At the top of the stairs, Tod paused just long enough to shift Maggie's weight slightly in his arms. Then, with a low grunt and a sharp movement, he kicked the bedroom door open.
The door slammed against the wall with a loud crack, jolting the quiet like a match struck in the dark.
The echo rang out through the small apartment, not just as a sound, but as a declaration—of want, of urgency, of everything they were too afraid to put into words.
He carried her to the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving hers.
Despite the roughness of the moment—the heat, the rush—there was gentleness in the way he lowered her onto the mattress.
His hands lingered at her waist as he set her down, fingers brushing against fabric and skin like he was committing the feel of her to memory. His expression, once full of raw desire, now softened just slightly. A flicker of something almost vulnerable passed through his eyes.
Maggie barely noticed.
She was too far gone.
Too full of everything she hadn't let herself feel in years.
Desire. Hunger. Safety.
The moment her back hit the sheets, her hands moved on instinct.
She gripped the front of his shirt tightly—like he was a lifeline, like she might drown if she didn't pull him down to her.
And he didn't resist.
He followed her lead willingly, collapsing into her arms like he'd been waiting for her to do it.
Their lips found each other again, but this time there was nothing hesitant about it.
It was a collision. A surrender. A release.
Everything that had been simmering between them now roared to life—no longer restrained, no longer polite.
Just real. Raw. Human.
They weren't just making out.
They were crashing into each other with the weight of too many emotions, too many questions, and the desperate, aching need to feel something that couldn't be explained or undone.
And in that moment, they didn't care where it led.
They only cared that it was finally, finally happening.
Her hands moved with a swift, almost impatient grace, driven by a mix of anticipation and unspoken longing. She reached for the hem of his t-shirt, her fingers slightly trembling—not from hesitation, but from the sheer weight of the moment.
With a slow, fluid motion, she slid the fabric up over his torso, revealing the toned muscles of his chest and shoulders. He helped her by lifting his arms, and she tugged it off completely, tossing the shirt aside without even glancing where it landed.
The bare skin of his chest was warm beneath the soft lighting, his body rising and falling with shallow breaths. There was something so human, so vulnerable, in the way he stood before her—powerful, yes, but also quietly unsure, like a man navigating something sacred.
Tod's hands, rough from work and yet careful now with intent, moved to the small of her back. He found the zipper of her dress—the one she'd borrowed on a whim earlier that day, never imagining it would end up like this. His fingers paused, brushing over the fabric, and for a heartbeat, time seemed to hold its breath.
She arched her back slightly, giving him access. It wasn't showy or rehearsed; it was natural, instinctive—a silent yes, filled with trust and openness.
With a slow and deliberate pull, the zipper gave way. The fabric slipped from her shoulders like it had been waiting for this moment too. The dress slid down her body, soft and quiet, pooling into a violet puddle on the floor.
Under the muted, golden glow filtering through the thin curtains, her skin looked almost otherworldly—warm and glowing, yet so real, so impossibly human.
Tod froze.
He pulled back, just slightly, enough to look at her fully.
His breath caught.
Not just because she was beautiful, though she was—but because of the way she looked at him, not trying to hide, not holding back.
Her dark hair spilled over the pillow like a halo of midnight silk, her lips parted from their last kiss, slightly swollen. Her chest rose and fell with quiet urgency, and her eyes—God, her eyes—held something he wasn't prepared for.
Not just desire.
Trust.
Raw, unshielded trust.
His throat tightened, his hand still resting against her side. He was breathing hard, like he'd just run a race with no finish line in sight. Something about the way she offered herself—emotionally as much as physically—shook something loose in him.
"Are you absolutely certain about this, Maggie?"
His voice was low, gravelly, the question dragging something raw out of him.
Not because he doubted her—not really. But because he needed to hear it, needed that final piece of certainty to quiet the voice in his own head that warned him he might hurt her, or worse, that she'd regret this.
For once in his life, he didn't want to be the one someone regretted.
Maggie's gaze didn't waver.
She searched his face, her expression softening—not with hesitation, but with understanding.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The room was still. The air, thick with tension and something far more delicate.
Then, with a small, breathless smile and a glint of mischief that had never quite left her since the first time they met, she whispered, "Just… shut up, Tod, and kiss me."
There was no space left for uncertainty.
Her fingers reached up, sliding into the hair at the back of his neck, anchoring him with quiet insistence.
She pulled him down again, and this time, their kiss wasn't rushed or frantic—it was deep, full, and aching.
Their mouths met like they had unfinished business. Like they were both terrified the moment would slip away if they didn't hold onto it with everything they had.
It wasn't just lust anymore.
It was something deeper.
Something born of silent understanding, of the long days that had led them here, of the silent battles they'd both fought and the invisible scars they carried.
It was the kind of kiss that said: I see you. I know you. I want all of it.
The bedroom sank into a hushed stillness.
Only their breathing filled the space now—uneven, desperate, intimate.
Clothing became an afterthought. The quiet rustle of fabric, the shift of bodies aligning, the cool brush of skin against skin—every motion felt charged, deliberate.
There was nothing hurried in their touch, nothing careless in the way they undressed each other.
Layer by layer, they let go—of doubt, of distance, of the personas they showed the world.
And for the first time in longer than either of them could remember, neither was trying to hide.
There were no masks here. No armor.
Just them.
Two people, tangled in each other's arms, choosing to be vulnerable, choosing to feel.
And in that quiet, sacred space, with the world locked away outside, they finally gave in to the one thing they had both been silently craving—connection.
Real. Honest. Unbreakable.
******
Notes:The Pentos Association of Emotionally Stunted Heiresses would like to remind all members that accidentally bumping into your estranged famous parent on a giant billboard is a valid reason for an existential crisis. Please allow yourself at least five minutes of silent staring before attempting casual denial in a dimly lit Pentos street.