Blue Boxer froze, heart jackhammering in his chest as the moonlight finally illuminated the mystery man’s face.
“Lumberjack?”
There he stood—six and a half feet of flannel, denim, and rugged jawline. His beard was perfectly disheveled, his axe slung casually over one shoulder, glinting in the pale rooftop light. The same axe that had split countless enemy weapons in half. The same man who’d once chopped down a whole villain hideout on his own while Boxer distracted the goons.
Lumberjack offered a sheepish smile, shifting his weight and running a calloused hand through his wild, chestnut hair.
“Didn’t expect you either,” he said. “Figured this app thing would match me with some caped crusader who recites monologues. Not… you.”
Boxer blinked. “You mean charming, devastatingly handsome, tactically gifted me?”
Lumberjack let out a soft chuckle, the tension cracking slightly. “Yeah, that you. Though, honestly, I always figured you were too busy punching ghosts to bother with dating.”
Boxer scratched the back of his neck, the leather of his glove creaking. “I mean… I was. But then this guy starts messaging me. Knows all the right things to say. Likes the same terrible movies. Says his ideal date is ‘chasing bad guys and splitting pizza on a rooftop.’ I couldn’t resist.”
They stood in silence for a beat, both men shifting awkwardly—two of the city’s most dangerous crime fighters, reduced to teenagers at a school dance.
“I guess,” Lumberjack said, looking down at his boots, “neither of us thought the other guy might be…”
“Into guys?” Boxer offered, finishing the thought.
“Into you,” Lumberjack clarified, glancing up. “I mean—yeah. That too.”
Blue Boxer gave a nervous laugh. “Honestly, I think I’ve been ignoring how often I thought about you. Like, ‘Why do I keep showing up at his stakeouts uninvited?’ or ‘Why do I pretend to hate it when he calls me ‘city slicker’ with that smug look?’”
Lumberjack smiled again, this time more genuinely. “I thought the same when I started sharpening my axe just in case you needed backup. Not for the mission. Just, y’know… you.”
They both laughed—gruff and awkward, but real.
Another moment passed. The wind picked up, tossing the edges of Lumberjack’s flannel and Boxer’s sleeveless shirt. Neither made a move, but both were looking at each other like they were seeing something new. Something possible.
“So,” Lumberjack said quietly, stepping a little closer, his voice softer now, “do we… do something about this?”
Boxer’s breath caught in his throat. He could feel the rooftop pulsing with tension now—not the kind that comes before a fight, but the kind that makes your heart leap into your throat.
He stepped closer too, barely a foot between them now.
“I don’t know,” he murmured, blue eyes locked with green. “You tell me, Lumberjack.”
Lumberjack lifted his hand, hesitating, as if afraid to bridge that final gap—