{Chapter: 197 Nightwear Negotiations}
Aiden blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. Slowly, he touched his lips and gave a slow, almost smug smile. "Cunning girl…"
He walked across the room and, with a flick of his hand, a shopping bag appeared in mid-air and hovered toward her on a dark green platform. Sarah blinked.
"You didn't—?"
"I got these earlier. Thought they might suit you," Aiden said nonchalantly. "You know, for... tonight."
Sarah peeked into the bag and instantly narrowed her eyes. "These are pajamas?"
"It's night," Aiden said, feigning innocence. "People wear pajamas at night, right?"
"These aren't pajamas," Sarah snapped. "They're sheer. Completely transparent. This top doesn't even qualify as fabric—and what is this? Stockings?"
"Oh those?" Aiden leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "They came with the set. I think they're cute. I'd like to see you in them."
Sarah scoffed. "You'd like to see anyone in them, pervert."
"Only if they're you," he shot back smoothly.
She gave him an exaggerated eye-roll and muttered something under her breath about "damn psychopaths with too much power," before disappearing into the bathroom with the clothes—minus the stockings.
---
"Are you really not going to wear it?" Aiden asked again, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his eyes lazily drifting toward the garment bag. His voice was playful, almost sing-song, but there was a subtle challenge buried beneath the tone. "You know, by refusing, you're committing fashion treason. Do you want to insult the designer? That dress cost thirty grand, Sarah. Thirty. Thousand. Dollars. If they found out you butchered the full ensemble by ignoring the stockings, they'd probably collapse from emotional damage."
Sarah narrowed her eyes, unamused. "Oh no. Emotional damage. Let me just send flowers and an apology letter for not showing my thighs to a total maniac."
Aiden gave a wounded gasp, clutching his chest like she'd struck him. "Maniac? That's harsh. I prefer the term enthusiastic connoisseur of beauty. There's a difference. One gets arrested, the other gets applauded."
She snorted, unable to hide the grin tugging at the corners of her lips. "The difference is usually just a credit score and powers."
The dress was beautiful, that much she had to admit. Silky, sheer fabric that shimmered faintly even in dim light, hugging every curve with maddening precision. She had slipped it on just to see how it felt—and it felt like sin wrapped in elegance. But the transparency? That was the dealbreaker. It clung in all the wrong right ways. It wasn't so much "sleepwear" as it was a secret weapon from a honeymoon collection.
And the stockings? Fishnet. Black. Thigh-high. Complete with little garters.
She wasn't born yesterday.
Though she refused to wear them, she couldn't bring herself to toss them aside either. She'd hidden them neatly in the bag, as if tucking away a temptation.
Aiden gave another theatrical sigh and flopped dramatically onto the couch, arms spread wide like he was reenacting a tragic Shakespearean death. "A soul without stockings is like jazz without saxophone. Technically complete, but spiritually empty."
Sarah emerged a few minutes later, wearing the nighty, but she'd tightly knotted a hotel robe around her waist to cut off his imagination before it could take flight. Her long blonde hair was now down and slightly damp, giving her a softer look that contrasted with her usual sharp, professional facade. She looked more like the college girl next door than the no-nonsense secretary who routinely barked orders at Fortune 500 CEOs.
Aiden whistled. "Elegant. But incomplete."
Sarah rolled her eyes and, without breaking stride, picked up a nearby pillow and hurled it at his face.
He caught it one-handed, grinning.
"I told you already. I'm not wearing those damn stockings!"
He gave a casual shrug. "Suit yourself. But I predict a future—near or distant—where you try them on, just to see. For science."
She smirked and leaned on the back of the couch. "You're relentless."
He lifted his glass. "And charming."
"In your dreams," she shot back.
"Coincidentally," he said, taking a sip, "that's exactly where I was hoping to see you in that dress."
Sarah rolled her eyes again, but her smirk deepened. "You never stop, do you?"
"Nope," Aiden said, lifting the glass toward her in a mock-toast. "And neither does the world. Not for us. Not for anyone."
There was a beat of silence. She glanced toward the suite's bedroom door, then at the plush couch she was standing beside. "So… are you sleeping in the room? Or out here?"
Aiden tilted his head, as though considering the offer more seriously than he should have. "I mean, it's my room. But I don't bite."
Sarah raised a brow. "You devoured a man's power earlier today."
"Okay, fair. Figuratively, I don't bite." He gestured toward the bed. "You're welcome to take it. I've slept on worse."
Sarah glanced at him, hesitated, then gave a small shake of her head. "Nah. I'll sleep out here."
Aiden gave her a nod. "Then sleep early."
She paused in the doorway, turning back to look at him with a sly, teasing glint in her eyes. "You're not angry?"
"Why would I be?" he replied smoothly.
"Because I didn't let you see what you really wanted to see?"
He chuckled, his voice dropping just slightly. "If you had let me see it, I wouldn't be able to sleep. So technically… you're protecting my health."
Her expression softened. Just a little. She looked down at the floor for a moment, the fire in her eyes replaced by something quieter. Then she looked back at him. "Thanks… for earlier. For saving me."
He met her eyes, and for a moment, his usual smirk was gone. "You're welcome."
She nodded, then turned away. As her hand reached for the doorknob to the hall, his voice floated softly through the air behind her.
"Sarah."
She stopped, glancing over her shoulder.
"You're not just a secretary," Aiden said, his voice unusually calm—almost too calm, as though the words cost him something to say.
She didn't answer. But her eyes lingered on him, searching his face as if to find meaning in what he'd said. Then, without a word, she stepped into the room and closed the door gently behind her.
Aiden leaned back on the couch, resting his head and staring up at the ceiling. A half-smile crept onto his face.
"This recovery period might not be so boring after all."
---
Later That Night
Time passed slowly, and after toying with his drink, teasing Sarah, and spending too long lying still, Aiden finally drifted into sleep.
He had pushed his abilities further than ever before, and though he masked it behind sarcasm and flirtation, his body was still adapting, still devouring and reorganizing the powers he'd taken. If he wasn't strong enough, even a sliver of a corrupted ability could spiral out of control. The line between evolution and self-destruction was razor-thin.
Somewhere in the early hours, he stirred again. The room was silent, the outside world cloaked in darkness. The sky beyond the window was still black, though just beginning to hint at a murky blue on the horizon.
He sat up, stretching.
He could feel it—deep in his bones.
Recovery.
His body hummed with low energy. Claire's near-unkillable regenerative ability was mending him on a cellular level combined with the Extremist's regeneration. The sensory precision of the Positioning ability had returned too—he could hear with absolute clarity. A heartbeat behind the room door. The quiet breath of someone sleeping on their side. The barely-audible rustle of fabric against sheets.
Aiden sat quietly on the edge of his bed, the room cloaked in darkness except for the faint silver light pouring through the blinds. His fingers pressed gently against his temples as he tried to steady the rush of new sensations.
"Is this… super hearing?" he murmured to himself, as he focused inward.
Even through the thick walls and closed door, he could hear it. The soft, rhythmic thump-thump… thump-thump of Sarah's heartbeat. It was strong, steady, almost comforting in an unexpected way. She seemed to be sleeping soundly, and yet to Aiden, it felt like he was lying right beside her, her heartbeat in sync with the pulse in his ears.
He grinned faintly. "Well, that's both useful… and potentially maddening."
The potential of this ability thrilled him—an intoxicating glimpse into a heightened world where nothing escaped his notice. But the exhilaration lasted mere seconds before reality crashed down.
It was agony.
Every sound exploded in his skull with razor-sharp clarity. The gentle hum of the air conditioner roared like a freight train. The tick of the wall clock stabbed at his ears like a drumbeat of war. He clutched his head as distant floorboards creaked under someone's weight two stories up, and a dog's bark from blocks away detonated like a point blank gunshot in his brain.
His breath hitched. His knees buckled. He staggered to the wall, pressing his back against it, sweat beading across his brow.
"I can't—" he hissed through clenched teeth, shutting his eyes tightly. "I can't live like this."
It felt like his brain was being torn apart from the inside, his senses hijacked by chaos. But deep down, under the panic and the pain, he knew this wasn't permanent. It was just unrefined. Wild. Untamed.
He dropped to his knees and forced himself to inhale, long and slow. Then again. Slower this time. He tried to imagine a control—a dial, something intuitive, something tactile. A volume knob etched into his mind, something he could grasp.
At first, it resisted. Every attempt to turn it down caused a recoil—like the noise itself was fighting back.
Focus. Control it, or it controls you.
Minutes passed. Then a half hour. He lay on the floor, drenched in sweat, muscles twitching, eyes closed in a trance-like stillness. Bit by bit, he gained ground. The auditory assault began to soften. The air conditioner was still there, but now it whispered instead of screamed. The clock still ticked, but it no longer jabbed at his nerves.
By the end of the hour, he was sitting upright again, breathing steadily.