Snow ducked under the ropes, planting herself in front of him. Her small hands pressed hard against his chest. Her eyes, bright, fierce, locked on his. “Watchdog!” she shouted. “Look at me. It’s not them. It’s us. You’re safe. You’re home.”
She pressed herself against the doorframe, heart hammering, unable to look away.
It wasn’t a sparring match anymore. It was a storm. Watchdog’s face was raw, twisted in a way that spoke of a place far away from there. He fought like a man drowning, every strike a claw at the surface.
And then Snow, tiny, fierce Snow, pushing against him, speaking soft words Clara couldn’t make out now, but felt in the very air. Titan and Sebastian held him steady, Hurricane calm even under the assault, refusing to strike back.
It was chaos and care in the same breath. The team anchoring him, dragging him back, not with force but with love.
Clara’s throat burned. Her eyes stung.
When Watchdog finally sagged to his knees, hands trembling, the silence in the room was so thick it hurt. And then she heard it, their voices, soft and serious, reminding him they were all broken, all scarred. Snow speaking about her father. Sebastian admitting his guilt. Hurricane’s deep voice describing his near blindness and his wife’s attack.
It hit her like a blade between the ribs.
This wasn’t a group of monsters. This wasn’t a nest of villains. This was a family, fractured, battered, but bound tighter than blood.
Her chest ached as she stepped back, leaving them to their circle, feeling like a voyeur watching a private moment. She moved quickly through the corridors, her pulse still racing, until she reached her room.
The ritual of making tea steadied her: fill the kettle, wait for the click, pour the water over the bag. She measured the milk as if it mattered, poured carefully, stirred clockwise. Order in the small things when the big things were too much.
She carried the cup to the little table by the TV, which she hadn’t even bothered to switch on, sitting with her knees pulled up, steam curling against her face.
What she’d just seen replayed, frame by frame. Watchdog, fierce and unravelled. The team, holding him through it.
Oliver never would have stayed. If he’d seen her like that, broken, weak, drowning, he would have walked away. Worse, he would have judged her for it. Weakness, to him, was failure. Something to be hidden, or manipulated, not shared. Much like he had done with her parents’ troubles.
Watchdog was different. He had demons, yes. More than she could count. But instead of diminishing him, they made him…more. More human. More real. And for reasons she couldn’t explain, more compelling.
She pressed her fingertips to her temple, trying to will the heat out of her cheeks. Attraction made no sense here. He was the man who’d taken her. He was dangerous, secretive, carrying shadows that made him unpredictable.
And yet.
The image of his trembling hands, the look in his eyes when Snow pulled him back, wouldn’t leave her. Something inside herached, not just with want, but with the fierce, inexplicable desire to help him. To take some of that weight if she could.
She sipped her tea, letting the warmth spread through her chest, though it didn’t ease the turmoil.
Her world was shifting, and she knew it. Whatever else Oliver and her parents thought they had planned for her, one thing had become certain tonight: she could never see Watchdog as just her captor again.
Steam curledfrom her second cup when a knock sounded at the door. Not sharp, not demanding, just two quiet taps.
Her pulse jumped. She set the cup down carefully before answering.
Watchdog stood there, freshly showered, dark hair damp and curling slightly at the edges. A clean T-shirt stretched across his chest, plain but doing nothing to hide the strength beneath. He looked steadier than he had in the gym, but his eyes were shadowed, the kind of tired that ran bone deep.
“I wanted to check you were all right,” he said, voice low, roughened by exhaustion.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. Too quickly. She swallowed and stepped back. “Do you want tea?”
His brows lifted slightly, as though surprised by the offer. Then, after a pause, he nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
She busied herself with the kettle, grateful for the excuse to look away. The ritual calmed her again: pour, stir, add a splash of milk. She poured a second cup and handed it to him, fingers brushing his for a fraction of a second.
Electricity skittered over her skin, sharp and sweet.
He took the cup with a small nod, holding it with both hands as though absorbing its heat. “You do this a lot, don’t you? Tea. It’s a process.”
“It helps me think,” she admitted, settling into the chair opposite him. “Like…putting the world into order when it feels chaotic.”
