A Thin Line Between Hate (Adrian Chase x reader)

The Echo of a Lie

Sleep was a lost cause. I lay in the dark, staring at my ceiling, every sense hyper-tuned to the presence in my living room. I heard his breathing, a ragged, uneven rhythm that would occasionally hitch with a suppressed groan of pain. Every shift of fabric from the couch, every creak of the floorboards as I imagined him trying to get comfortable, echoed through the silent apartment.

My wrist still tingled where his fingers had gripped me. Don't go yet.

And that final, whispered confession, hanging in the dark like a challenge. I don't hate you.

The lie was so flimsy, so transparent, it felt like a truth he was desperately trying on for size. I didn't know what to do with it. With any of it. The Adrian Chase I knew-the one who mocked my techniques, who competed for every scrap of approval from the team, who looked at me like I was a bug he wanted to scrape off his boot-was a carefully constructed fortress. Tonight, I'd seen the walls crumble, and I had no idea what was left standing in the rubble.

Around 5 AM, I gave up on pretending to sleep. I pulled on a fresh t-shirt and sweatpants, my movements quiet as I padded out to the kitchen. The first grey light of dawn was filtering through the windows, painting the world in muted shades of blue and silver.

I started the coffee maker, the familiar gurgle and hiss a comforting sound in the tense quiet. As it brewed, I allowed myself a glance into the living room.

He was asleep. Finally. The blanket was pulled up to his chin, one arm flung over his eyes as if to block out the world even in unconsciousness. In the soft morning light, he looked younger, the harsh lines of pain and defiance smoothed away. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing deeper, more even now. The sight sent an unexpected, protective pang through me.

I turned away, my chest tight. This was dangerous. This was so, so dangerous.

I was pouring a second cup of coffee when a soft, pained sound came from the couch. I turned to see him trying to sit up, his face contorting as the movement pulled at his injury.

"Don't," I said, my voice cutting through the quiet. I walked over, holding out the mug. "Just stay put. Here."

He blinked up at me, disoriented, the ghost of his usual defensiveness flashing in his sleep-heavy eyes before it faded, replaced by a dazed acceptance. He took the mug carefully, our fingers not touching this time.

"Thanks," he rasped, his voice rough with sleep. He took a slow sip, his eyes closing for a moment in what looked like pure bliss. "God, that's good."

I sat in the armchair opposite him, cradling my own mug. We sat in a silence that wasn't quite comfortable, but wasn't hostile either. It was a truce, fragile and temporary, built on the shared aftermath of a long, bloody night.

He was the one to break it, staring into the dark depths of his coffee. "I meant it, you know."

I didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Which part?"

He finally looked at me, and the raw honesty in his gaze was almost too much to bear. "The part where I said I don't hate you." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I thought I did. I wanted to. It was... easier."

"Easier than what?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He just shook his head, a faint, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. "I don't know. But it doesn't matter now. It doesn't work anymore."

The confession hung between us, more intimate than any touch. The fortress was gone. He was sitting in my living room, unarmed, and he knew it.

The sharp buzz of his communicator from the pile of his discarded gear on the floor made us both jump. The moment shattered.

His eyes snapped toward the sound, the professional mask slamming back into place with an almost audible click. The vulnerability was gone, sealed away behind a wall of grim duty.

"That'll be Harcourt," he said, his voice all business again. He set the coffee mug down on the table with a definitive thud. "I have to go."

He moved to stand, slower and more carefully this time, but with a renewed purpose that left no room for argument. The Vigilante was back.

I just nodded, my heart a heavy, complicated weight in my chest. "Right."

He gathered his things, not looking at me as he carefully, painfully, pulled his blood-stained suit top back on. He left the helmet in his hand. At the door, he paused, his back to me.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

He glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. "The couch. It's... comfortable. Thanks."

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me alone with the echo of his lie, the ghost of his touch on my wrist, and the undeniable, terrifying knowledge that nothing between us would ever be simple again.