Complete chaos.
Sneakers and high heels scattered across the entryway like landmines. Suitcases claimed most of the living room floor, stacked at odd angles, some still unzipped. The sofa had become a textile graveyard—wrinkled blouses, mismatched underwear, worn stockings draped over the armrest like sad little ghosts.
Jack could adapt to anything. New experiences were the whole point. But he did need somewhere to actually stand.
The smell hit somewhere between stale coffee, forgotten laundry, and the faint chemical sweetness of old nail polish.
Felicity's face went crimson.
She'd been panting from the stairs just moments ago. Now she shot past him, navigating the obstacle course with the practiced grace of someone who'd done this a thousand times, snatching up clothes and shoving them into piles. Her method was brutally simple: consolidate first, organize never.
Jack sighed and started helping.
"Don't put the worn stockings in there."
"Got any trash bags? Bring a few."
"Do you actually want this? No? Throw it out. Living room's a disaster—bedroom's probably worse. Go handle that."
He'd taken command without thinking about it. Felicity, too flustered to argue, just wanted the humiliation to end as quickly as possible. They divided the labor: living room for him, bedroom for her. An hour later, three bulging trash bags sat by the door, and the apartment finally resembled a place where a human being might live.
They collapsed onto the sofa, sprawled out with their heads tipped back, surveying the clean space.
I can't believe I let a stranger help me throw out my underwear. Felicity's cheeks still burned, but she couldn't deny the relief. "The living room looks… bigger."
"That's because there's less garbage," Jack said flatly.
"I just moved in," she protested. "I haven't had time to—"
"I'm hungry."
He turned to look at her. On cue, her stomach growled.
"Takeout?" she offered. "There's this Chinese place that's actually really good."
"Whatever."
Jack grabbed the remote and flicked on the TV.
Felicity placed the order, then glanced at her phone, then at the man lounging on her couch like he owned it.
She froze.
Wait.
If she remembered correctly, Jack Kadere was supposed to be holding her hostage. She was supposed to be looking for a chance to call the police. How had it turned into him helping her clean while she ordered dinner? When exactly had this bizarre, seamless shift occurred?
"How long?" Jack asked without looking away from the screen.
"About half an hour."
"Then shower first. I'll go after you. Food should be here by the time we're done."
"Oh."
Felicity rose mechanically, hesitated, then drifted toward the bathroom.
He hasn't actually done anything to hurt me, she thought, turning the handle. If he were really dangerous, he wouldn't have spent an hour sorting my trash. Maybe I shouldn't call the police yet. What if it's all just… a misunderstanding?
Water hissed against tile. Jack watched the local news with actual attention, piecing together the state of Starling City.
Two words: utterly boring.
Petty crimes, local scandals, nothing worth his time. A few segments covered Gotham—Bane dead, the city liberated. In one brief shot, he caught a glimpse of someone in black and yellow. Barbara Gordon, maybe. Batgirl.
The bathroom door opened.
Felicity emerged wrapped in a towel, steam trailing behind her, feet padding across the now-clean floor. Habit had overridden common sense. She was halfway to the living room before she remembered there was a strange man in her apartment.
Her face flared red. She spun toward the bedroom—and promptly tripped over her own feet.
Thud.
She hit the floor hard, scrambling to yank the towel back into place, cheeks burning. Through the curtain of damp hair falling over her eyes, she watched Jack walk past her without so much as a glance.
The bathroom door clicked shut.
He didn't even look.
She wasn't sure if that was reassuring or insulting.
Ten minutes later, Jack emerged shirtless, boxer briefs low on his hips, toweling off his hair. Water still clung to the lines of his shoulders. He dropped onto the sofa beside her.
Felicity sat bolt upright, spine rigid, eyes fixed on the TV she wasn't watching. Her skin prickled with awareness of how close he was, the heat still radiating off him, the faint smell of her own soap on someone else's skin.
The doorbell rang.
She practically vaulted off the couch.
Takeout. Right. Food.
She paid, brought the bags back, and sat down with the careful posture of a guest in someone else's home. Jack ate like he'd lived here for years—legs stretched out, carton balanced on his stomach, utterly relaxed.
Outside, the sun bled into the horizon. Night settled over Starling City.
Hours passed. The empty containers went into the trash. The TV droned on.
Eventually, it was time to sleep.
Felicity perched on the edge of her bed, phone clutched in both hands, when the bedroom door swung open. Jack walked in.
"What are you doing?" Her voice came out higher than intended.
"Sleeping." He said it like it was obvious.
"There's only one bed."
"And?" He smiled. "You expect me to sleep on the floor?"
Felicity exhaled. "The sofa, then. The floor would be uncomfortable."
"I'll try my best to restrain myself," Jack said, perfectly serious.
Felicity blinked at him.
Restrain himself? Restrain from what?