Page 11 of All In

A sash. Two separate knives that I sincerely hope are decorative. A bat’leth slung across his back that’s going to take out a vendor display the second he turns around too fast in this crowd.

He told me, twice, that he wanted his costume to be a surprise.

I genuinely don’t know what I expected. Something with armor, probably, given how often he brought up “embracing the warrior aesthetic” in our texts.

But there’s something almost funny about it now, looking at him from a safe distance—all that ridged latex and leather, the exaggerated scowl he’s clearly practiced in a mirror, the sheer commitment to looking intimidating in a building full of children eating funnel cake.

It would almost be charming, if I didn’t already know what’s underneath it.

As he draws closer, though, I can tell that the prosthetic ridges are actually not great. In fact, they look disturbingly like a foreskin. Surely, he didn’t do that on purpose. Maybe he bought it like that, or maybe it’s just how it fits on his head. I’m not sure and I’d rather not get close enough to examine it

Meanwhile, he’s closing the distance between us.

He hasn’t seen me yet. Not yet. I have—what, ten seconds? Fifteen?

He’s near the artist alley, head turning, scanning the crowd with the particular focus of someone looking for a person, not a panel or a particular booth.

My stomach drops straight through the convention center floor.

Ten seconds.

I think about his texts. The Harley Quinn comment. The thing he said about my Arwen costume not sounding sexy enough. The thing he said after that, the one I still haven’t told anyone except Clover, because saying it out loud again feels like touching a bruise.

As long as you’re still my dirty little bitch in private.

My whole body goes hot and then cold, fast, the kind of reaction that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with something more primal. I am not doing this. I am not having that conversation in the middle of artist alley in full view of Mandalorian children, orcs and every single person live-streaming their con coverage today.

Clover’s voice, from approximately fourteen hours ago, drops into my head with the unhelpful clarity of advice given in jest that is suddenly, urgently not a joke: if he comes anywhere near you, find the nearest hot guy and kiss him.

I told her I’d never actually do that. But that was before Eric showed up dressed like that. Missing some obvious Trekkie details as if he simply googled kinkiest Star Trek character.

I shudder.

Five seconds.

I am scanning the crowd before I finish the thought.

There—three feet to my left, half-turned away, looking at one of the printed maps of the exhibition hall—is a man in a Captain America costume.

Not a cheap one. The kind of costume that costs real money and real time, the molded chest plate catching light, a shield slung over one shoulder. He’s tall. Broad through the shoulders in that built-in-padding way these costumes always are, the kind of muscle that’s mostly foam and engineering.

He is, in short, exactly the kind of stranger Clover meant.

I don’t decide so much as I simply go.

Three steps. My skirt catches on something, and I nearly fall. Instead, I brace one hand on Captain’s chest plate, and I can’t help but notice that it’s far more solid than I expected, but adrenaline doesn’t leave room to fully examine his costume. So I push up onto my toes and I kiss him.

For one suspended, horrifying second, there’s absolutely nothing. A wall of a man, utterly still, like I’ve just kissed a very nicely costumed mannequin.

Then his hand comes up to my waist, and he kisses me back like he’s been waiting his whole life for someone to ambush him in a convention center.

The kiss is, against every law of physics and good sense. Better than good. Considering I came at him from an odd angle, nearly fell onto him and then kissed him like I had good sense, well, that’s saying something.

He tastes like coffee and something sweet, cinnamon maybe. His hand at my waist curls in, pulling me tighter to him. And his tongue finds mine. For an immeasurable amount of time I completely forget that Eric exists. Forget that I kissed this stranger for a specific reason. That this is supposed to be strategy and not … whatever this is.

I pull back first, because someone has to, and I am abruptly aware of every single thing about this situation. My face is on fire. My heart is doing something it has no business doing over a stranger in a foam chest plate.

“Oh my God,” I say, stepping back, hands coming up like I can physically retract the kiss from the air between us. “I am so sorry. Seriously, that was… I wasn’t.” I shake my head trying to remind my brain its their job to send the words to my mouth. “There’s this guy, and he’s awful, and you were just there, and I wanted to hide. I panicked, and I am genuinely so sorry, I should have asked, that was completely⁠—”