The fighter, The Princess, and The Mercenary (DC x MaleReader)

If Only for One Night 🍋

Sorry for the late upload! I usually tend to write and edit going into the weekend because that's the only time I have an abundance of free hours. However, I spent the last weekend visiting my dad, so I didn't have as much time to write. Anyways, this is a chunky chapter, so please enjoy that, and there will be some lemon in here as well. Aside from the Oneshot book, this is my first time writing a lemon so bear with me lol.

On with the chapter!

=============================================

The tantalizing aroma of garlic bread mingled with the rich scent of pasta, creating a fragrance that filled every corner of Isaac's home. In the kitchen, Isaac stood with a casual air, a towel slung over his shoulder like an old companion. Each movement was deliberate yet relaxed as he added the final touches to a meal he knew by heart, a recipe passed down from his mother with a warmth that still lingered in every bite.

He glanced at his watch, "Five minutes till she's supposed to be here," he said to himself, the anticipation of Dinah's arrival sparking a sense of excitement within him. He pulled the bread, golden and perfect, from the oven; switched the pasta to warm, its sauce simmering softly; and began setting the table.

Then, from the pocket of his jeans, the familiar buzz of his phone cut through the quiet hum of his preparations. He read the text:

'Sorry! League business, will be there as soon as possible!'

Dinah's message was efficient, much like her, but it struck Isaac with a sense of deflation. He paused, his fingers lingering over the screen, feeling a slight pang of disappointment that tried to resurface wounds he often kept hidden. He sighed, a sound that was half exasperation, half acceptance. It was typical, he knew, that her commitment to the league often pulled her in directions that left little room for anything else.

He accepted this but that didn't mean he had to like it.

Isaac set the phone down on the counter, its silence now another presence in the room. He glanced over the carefully prepared scene—two plates with neatly folded napkins, candles waiting to be lit—and felt a mix of pride and foolishness. Despite winning their sparring match, Isaac eventually caved in to the demands of Dinah for a homemade meal. A meal he would have to eat alone it would seem.

He poured himself a glass of whiskey, its golden hue swirling like a reminder of conversations left unsaid. His steps were slow as he walked to the living room, where city lights flickered through partially closed blinds. Isaac sank into the sofa, considering turning on the TV for company, but hesitated.

Instead, he took a deep breath and let his thoughts drift. They moved quickly to Sarah, as they often did when moments went quiet. He wondered where she was tonight, if she was safe, if she thought about him as much as he thought about her. The ache was familiar, yet still all-consuming, when it struck.

Isaac leaned back, focusing on the soft clink of his glass against the table as he set it down. The tension in his shoulders eased only slightly as he let the quiet settle around him, a different kind of companion than what he'd planned for. He rubbed at his eyes, dragging his fingers through his hair as if trying to smooth away more than just its unruly mess.

Time stretched, a lazy thing looping its way around the room, and Isaac resigned himself to wait. He returned to the kitchen, unwilling to let the effort go to waste completely. He served himself a portion of pasta, looking at it with both satisfaction and resignation. Steam curled upwards like the last traces of hopefulness dissipating into thin air.

The first bite was a burst of memory and flavor, grounding him momentarily in something tangible and present. Yet even as he ate, forks of thought splintered off from him: should he have insisted on a different night? Had she been hesitant because she sensed this might happen? The questions were irritatingly insistent, and he dismissed them with the ease of someone who had long practiced setting aside disappointment.