His Inheritance

High Stakes

When you hadn't emerged from your room twenty-four hours after your confrontation with Steve, Dyson texted, he called. He even came to the door with your dinner, but you didn't answer, left whatever it was there.

No, it didn't sit well with you worrying the older man, but you were still riding on anger and pride. Trying to sleep with a growling stomach hadn't exactly been ideal. But considering that your ass still smarted, and you had to be careful with your movements, it certainly wasn't the biggest problem you had.

By lunchtime the second day, you were feeling that hunger and the water you drank wasn't cutting it as well. When your phone pinged, you almost didn't bother but curiosity had you checking to see who it was.

When you saw it was Natasha, you read the text.

NB: Hey, I just wanted to apologize to you for the situation with Steve. It means so much that you helped me but I'm sorry for the rest.

Your heart went out to Nat. You had no idea how Clint was doing but you hoped he'd be okay. You liked them both and to this point, they were allies. You needed that.

You had no regrets. You replied with that.

NB: Dyson won't tell me what went down and I'm sure whatever it was, Steve has it coming. But Dyson's worried about you.

Guilt bled on your campaign. None of it was Dyson's fault and he put up with a lot on your account. You didn't want him to worry about you.

NB: Just think about it.

Assuring her you would, you took a nap.

You actually woke up quite a while later. It was dark out. You had more texts from Dyson, a missed call. Blowing out an exhale, you went to grab a shower. Digging out your favorite pair of pink flannel pajamas, you pulled them on.

When you poured yourself another glass of water, you stopped to consider your situation. How long were you going to keep this up? For all you knew, Steve was busy with his business. With Katerina. For all you knew, he didn't even notice.

You'd just talked yourself into texting Dyson, seeing if he could maybe bring you some leftover or a simple sandwich when someone knocked pretty loudly on your door.

A deep voice called your name, and it wasn't Dyson. It was Luca.

You found yourself opening the door. There the portly man stood, his white shirt not exactly pristine. His apron was stained with what looked like tomato sauce and he was wiping his hands on the clean side of it.

"The boss is out for a while," he told you abruptly.

You didn't like the way your heart sank when you considered where he probably was.

"Us fellas have a poker game going downstairs. You want in?"

You must have just stared at the man. You? Play poker?

"I've never played," you admitted.

Luca shrugged. "Scott plays like he never has. You'll be okay."

You laughed at that.

Were you going to stay up there and mope? Steve wasn't here. You sure as hell didn't want to dwell on that.

"Why not?"

You followed him down the stairs, through the darkened living room and dining room.

The kitchen was all warm yellow light, warmth, and amazing smells. Dyson looked so relieved to see you and Scott's grin was infectious. Within five minutes, you sat at the simple wooden table with them there in the kitchen. You had a huge plate of spaghetti and meatballs in front of you. Scott opened a bottle of beer and placed it next to your plate.