Vanessa Marianna was happy.

Not the type of daily happiness that she was used to, but a type of joy that shivered through her body, starting in her chest and radiating outward. This couldn't be love. It was too quick. She'd met Wilson Fisk less than a fortnight earlier, only slept with him last night, and yet she couldn't imagine being without him.

"You've got it bad," she said to her own reflection in the bathroom mirror. Wilson's shirt from last night was folded on the counter, and Vanessa decided to wear it. Her dress was hanging up, fresh from some overnight dry cleaners courtesy of his invisible staff, but getting dressed in it would mean that last night was officially over.

She didn't want it to be over. It had been too special. The fact that a man as powerful as Wilson still could be so in touch with his emotions and trusted her with them, it was intoxicating. Men, in her experience, hid their feelings from everyone including themselves.

Wilson wore his heart on his sleeve. That was intriguing enough to get her to go out with him the first time. What she realized, after seeing him in business mode, was that it was not his default state. He could be just as closed off as other men, but he allowed himself to be open for her.

Maybe it wasn't even a choice. Maybe she brought this out in him.

And wasn't that a tempting idea.

To be needed would be a nice change of pace. For so long she had been a footnote in the history of important men. The bastard daughter of a displaced royal heir. The woman who triggered a high profile divorce. She was a brilliant mistake, but never someone who was given a place at the table.

Maybe it would be different this time, she thought, even as the cynical part of her mind knew that expectations only led to disappointment.

When she walked out to find Wilson, and maybe offer to repay him for this morning, he was sitting at the now righted dining room table, and next to him was a plate for her.

No maybe - this time was different, and she couldn't hold herself back from hugging his neck from behind.

"This is delicious," she said after a forkful.

"I'm glad you like it. I wasn't sure what to make for you, so I just figured I'd make what I do every day."

Vanessa took another sip of the chicory coffee that tasted so fresh that she would have sworn that they were in the French Quarter.

"You cook?"

He looked away, "Mostly just breakfast. It is hard to make dinners for one."

"I don't even use my oven. I started storing books in it since I was running out of room. This is exceptional, Wilson."

He opened his mouth, but then closed it quickly. She smiled at him, giving him the confidence to say what was on his mind.

"Maybe you should have breakfast here more often," he whispered.