Disclaimer: I do not profit off of this /

A/N: Wrote this sometime in..uhhh 2021, and then suffered the wrtier woes of indecision, and uncertainty, found it gathering dust recently. so here it is. *pats fic*


Zoe sips at her glass of wine and relaxes the tightened edges of her smile.

Discreetly checking her phone for the time, she slips between clusters of people and subtly manoeuvres towards the door, striding towards the gate, outside which, her chauffer waits.

Wriggling her toes inside her pumps, she leans back against the car seat, pulls out her phone, and taps out a message - Are you up?

John's reply is surprisingly prompt, Should I come over?

It seems the Man in the Suit is free for the night.

I'll leave the door open

Be there in twenty, comes the reply and she lets her shoulders relax, choosing to stare out the window at the cityline.

The soles of her feet are sore, she takes in a deep breath and steps out of the car, avoiding a wobble.

The car speeds away.

The door to her apartment is still locked – John isn't here yet then.

She lets her bag slide onto the floor as she sinks onto the couch, letting her feet sink into the plush carpet.

Around five minutes later, her phone buzzes with a text -

Zoe?

Come in she sends, settling in more comfortably against her couch.

John steps in, his ever-vigilant eyes checking the room for threats before he loosens his stance, "Zoe" he greets calmly, giving her a once over with appreciative eyes.

She lets her eyes meander over him as he gently slips off the earpiece, and increases the volume of his phone.

"Dinner?" he asks, eyes straying to her kitchen

"Done." She yawns.

"What's it to be then?" he says softly, as she stifles another yawn.

It's their usual routine, sometimes they play cards, sometimes its sex, sometimes she says nothing and he keeps her company in silence.

"Talk" she murmurs, surprising even herself. A mild expression of surprise flits across his face.

She gives him a smile, which unsurprisingly turns into a yawn.

He huffs softly, and enters her room to come back with a blanket. She grabs, and snuggles into it, letting out a sigh

"Feet." He murmurs, after he dims the lights.

She puts her feet up on his lap and allows herself to relax like she hasn't all week, letting out a slight noise as he massages her soles getting the spots right where it hurts. He gives her a quick grin.

"Tell me something you care about John" she murmurs.

She isn't much of a talker – unless she needs to talk her way in, or out of something – but today, she's tired - more so than usual. It's been a constant week of attempts at information, bartering, flirtation, with not a single sincere motive, or face in sight.

Its taxing, as much as she enjoys it.

His hands on her feet don't pause as he gives her a slightly calculating look.

No doubt he's pondering and discarding possible answers in the silence that follows.

"Cooking" he says simply, and begins describing the recipe to eggs benedict, of all things.

Her lips stretch into a smile involuntarily, a real one, the muscles in her face feel stiff - it feels good.

His face is softly animated, and she finds herself blinking for longer as he continues massaging her legs with firm, warm hands.

He presses at a rather sore spot, and she stifles a groan.

"Fashion" she murmurs.

He pauses and makes a small hum.

She's always liked observing what outfit brings out a person's physical best, what shade of make-up accentuates their face just right, how the sleek cut of cloth fits – enhancing a curve here, an angle there.

John's warm hands hesitate a little – had she said some of that out loud?

"Tiny part of why I put care into my appearance," she mumbles, sleep tugging at her eyelids.

He makes a noise that sounds fond as he sets her feet down.

She attempts to stand.

Steady hands catch her as she trips over the blanket she's wrapped in.

She feels herself being lifted, carried, and placed gently on the bed and covered up with a blanket.

Pretty sure she's made a lot of embarrassing noises.

Snuggling in, she sighs, warmth spreading throughout her, unsure if she imagined the press of lips on her forehead or not.

She's not entirely surprised to find a plate of eggs benedict next morning along with a note: Not mine, maybe next time I'll make them for you?

A blatant invitation, maybe she'll consider it.

After all, it's good to have someone she can be herself with, even if it is for a short while, hung suspended in the night.


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