I think it’s rather romantic.
Hawk’s love language is protection wrapped in profanity.
And body armor that fits perfectly is a more honest declaration of commitment than any ring.
I pull the tank top back over the vest. The fabric stretches to accommodate the additional layer, the ribbed cotton conforming to the vest’s profile without obvious distortion. Not invisible—someone looking closely would notice the slightly altered silhouette, the marginal stiffness across the torso—but adequate for the circumstances. The people outside my building aren’t coming to inspect my wardrobe.
The leather coat comes next.
Black. Heavy. My own—not Hawk’s, though his is hanging by the door downstairs where he left it after his last visit. Mine is cut shorter, fitted through the shoulders and waist, with interior pockets that were either original to the design or modified at some point by someone who understood that a coat in Savage Knot needs to carry more than warmth. The exterior is worn—the leather softened by years of use into something that moves with my body rather than against it, the surface scarred with marks that map a history of near-misses and direct contacts that the leather absorbed so my skin didn’t have to.
I load the pockets.
Cat treats in the upper left—a handful of the premium pieces that Ruby favors, sealed in a small bag to prevent scent leakage. Catnip in the upper right—a precautionary measure, because a calm kitten is a quiet kitten and a quiet kitten is a kitten who doesn’t announce your position to people who are trying to find you. The pockets close with a soft, magnetic clasp that makes no sound.
I scoop Ruby from the dresser.
“I know you can handle yourself.” My voice is still in the Ruby frequency—the low, soft register that the void permits because the void, for whatever reason, has never classified this particular creature as a threat to its operational integrity. “But it would hurt me if you got hurt. So please be comfortable for now.”
She mews.
The sound is happy—affirmative, content, the vocal output of a kitten who has been fed treats and is being placed in a warm, enclosed space that smells like the person she visits and the leather that person wears. I slip her into the coat’s bottom inner pocket—a deep, fleece-lined compartment that Hawk jokes was designed for exactly this purpose and that I maintain was designed for ammunition storage but has been permanently reassigned.
Ruby settles. A small, warm weight against my hip that I feel through the vest and the tank top and the coat’s interior lining. She curls once, twice, and goes still—the rapid transition from active to resting that cats execute with an efficiency I find aspirational.
Now the weapons.
Guns at my hips. Two handguns—compact, semi-automatic, worn in low-profile holsters that ride against my hip bones beneath the coat’s hemline. The weapons are not my primary combat tools—my primary combat tools are currently slidingonto my fingers with the familiar, cold-metal greeting of objects that know my hands as well as my hands know them.
Brass knuckles.
Both sets. Polished, maintained, fitted to the specific topography of my middle and index fingers with a precision that converts them from accessories into extensions of my skeletal structure. The metal is cold against my skin—another thermal insult that my body registers and my mind dismisses because cold is background noise and background noise doesn’t get processing priority when there are people outside my building who want me dead.
Blades strapped to my thighs. Two—slim, double-edged, secured in sheaths that are positioned for rapid draw from a standing position or a crouch. The straps tighten against the tights with the firm, distributed pressure of equipment that was fitted to this specific body and these specific legs.
Downstairs, the door slams open.
Not knocks. Not opens.Slams—the particular, concussive impact of a door being breached by force rather than invitation, the hinges protesting, the frame splintering, the sound traveling through the townhome’s narrow architecture with a clarity that tells me everything about the entry’s velocity and force and the number of bodies producing it.
Multiple.
Heavy.
Fast.
I don’t move toward the staircase.
Moving toward the staircase would put me at the top of a vertical channel—visible, cornered, the tactical equivalent of standing at the open end of a funnel and inviting whatever enters the narrow end to converge on my position. Instead, I move to the mirror.
The mirror is mounted on the wall beside the closet—full-length, slightly foxed at the edges, the glass carrying the particular patina of an object that has existed in this room longer than I have. I stand before it and look at the woman it shows me.
Dark blue hair, damp, falling past shoulders wrapped in black leather. Storm-gray eyes, flat, carrying the void’s signature blankness. Porcelain skin, pale, flushed only at the cheeks where the shower’s heat hasn’t fully faded. The leather coat hangs to mid-thigh, concealing the vest beneath, the weapons at the hips, the blades on the thighs. The brass knuckles catch the bedroom’s low light and convert it to cold points of reflection on my fingers.
Something’s missing.
I reach for the lipstick.
It’s on the dresser—positioned with the deliberate prominence of an object that occupies a category somewhere between cosmetic and ritual. Rouge 47. Limited edition. Red. The shade is specific—not the bright, performative red that demands attention but a deeper, darker variant that suggests attention has already been captured and is now being managed on the wearer’s terms.
