Page 64 of All Superheroes Need Photo Ops

I turn on the heater, then take a seat on my finest outdoor sofa, a plush pink poof of a thing. He hands me a glass and pours me wine, then sets the bottle on the low table between us.

Instead of taking a seat on the sofa beside me, he drags a dark-red papasan chair over, making space for it between my petunias. They blossom bright purple and white behind him. Feels fitting. I must be making a face, because he makes one back at me and grunts, “You gotta stop smiling at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’mcute.”

“I’d tell you you are cute, but you already know that.”

“I don’t wanna be cute to you.”

“What do you want to be, then?” I ask genuinely. “My hero?”

He rubs his chin and shakes his head. “The villain you say yes to.”

“Yes?”

“What’d you do with the marriage license I gave you?”

I choke, wine literally spraying from my lips. He doesn’t so much as flinch. I cough to clear my throat as best I can and sputter, “That was a power play. You don’t ... actually want to be married. You want to control.” I set down my wine.

He lifts his. His serrated claws rattle the glass. “Maybe I want both.” He drains his glass and I drain mine. He pours us both some more.

I swallow hard. “Why did you ... why did you come for me today?”

“Because I wanted to. Why did you come with me?”

“Because I wanted to.” I smile softly.

He stares at me for another while. Another long while. The sunset has started its descent and bathes his skin in twilight. The blue appears plum in this light. It’s breathtaking. He’s breathtaking. Far more beautiful than he ever was as a human right now to me. Because that human was fake. And this version of him is starting to feel real.

“I’ve been thinking ...” He sits up and clears his throat.

“Thinking? Uh-oh. That sounds ominous.”

He rolls his eyes. “I didn’t like how we left our meeting.”

“I didn’t like anything about that meeting.”

“That’s a lie.” He cocks an eyebrow and an edge of his mouth.

I heat but refuse to dignify that with an answer.

He sets the bottle down on the wooden live-edge table positioned between us. He sits abruptly forward on the lip of the papasan chair, and I’m honestly surprised he doesn’t tip the whole thing over. “I won’t kill Mr. Singkham.”

“Oh, good. I’m glad.” I sound sarcastic, but I really am.

“And I won’t change your contract.” He rubs his chin.

“Good ...” I start—I should have waited for him to finish.

“I’m gonna annul it. I’m quitting the Champion shit.”

I spit my wine out again, and this time it splatters the table between us.

He glances down at it. “Am I gonna need to get you a bib?”

“For real?”