A Thin Line Between Hate (Adrian Chase x reader)

The Unspoken Invitation

The next forty-eight hours were a study in tense avoidance. Missions were assigned, briefings were held, and through it all, Adrian and I orbited each other like opposing magnets. He was back to his old self—sarcastic, competitive, a little unhinged. But the performance felt thin, a mask hastily glued over a crack. His jabs lacked their usual venom, and his eyes would skitter away from mine a second too quickly.

He was trying to rebuild the walls, brick by painful brick.

It was late again, past midnight, when a soft, almost hesitant tap came at my door. It wasn't the frantic pounding of before. This was different. A question.

My heart did a stupid, traitorous flip. I knew who it was before I even looked through the peephole.

He stood there, helmet under his arm, dressed in a simple black hoodie and jeans. He was staring at his own boots, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. In the dim hallway light, he looked exhausted.

I opened the door.

He flinched, his head snapping up. The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced. "Hey."

"Hey," I echoed, leaning against the doorframe. "Lose another fight with a woodchipper?"

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, there and gone in an instant. "No. Just... couldn't sleep." His gaze drifted past me, into the warm, lit interior of my apartment. It was a silent, yearning look. He was remembering the safety, the quiet, the coffee. He was remembering not being alone.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough. "I, uh... I was on patrol. In the neighborhood. Figured I'd... check. On the couch. Make sure I didn't get blood on it."

We both knew it was a lie. He hadn't been in the neighborhood. He'd come here. On purpose. With a clear head and a healed-enough body that had a choice in the matter.

He was choosing to come back.

The air between us was thick with the unspoken question. He was waiting, his body coiled with a nervous tension, braced for rejection. He'd laid down his arms, and now he was just standing there, waiting to see if I would raise mine.

I looked at him—at the stubborn set of his jaw, the vulnerability he was trying so hard to hide, the man who saved kids in cages and then had nowhere to go. The man who despised needing anyone, but had shown up on my doorstep twice.

I didn't say a word. I simply took a step back, pulling the door open wider in a clear, silent invitation.

The relief that washed over his face was so profound it was almost painful to witness. The rigid line of his shoulders slumped. He didn't thank me. He just gave a short, sharp nod, as if confirming something to himself, and walked past me into the apartment.

He went straight to the living room and stood by the couch, looking down at it like it was a life raft. He was waiting for permission.

"It's your spot," I said softly, closing the door and locking the world out.

He sat down, slowly, carefully, the springs groaning softly under his weight. He let out a long, slow breath, the sound of a man finally, finally letting his guard down. He didn't lie down. He just sat there, hands on his knees, staring at his own hands.

I moved into the kitchen. "Coffee?"

"Yeah," he said, his voice low. "Please."

As the machine gurgled to life, I looked over at him. He was still sitting upright, but his head was bowed. He looked less like the Vigilante and more like just a man. A tired, lonely man who, for reasons neither of us fully understood, had decided my couch was the only place in the world he could truly rest.

And the most terrifying part? I was starting to hope he never stopped coming back.