Kaz Brekker imagines

Fingers Intertwined

Kaz Brekker did not hold hands.

That much was a well known fact.

He did not wrap an arm around anyone's waist, did not let someone lean into his side as they walked. He did not allow softness in a place like Ketterdam, where softness got you killed. And yet—here he was, threading through the shadowed alleys with Y/N's fingers laced between his own, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn't that he disliked it—no, Kaz had long since come to terms with the fact that Y/N had a way of bypassing his usual aversions without even trying. A casual brush of her hand here, a fleeting touch there, and suddenly his body had started learning that her touch wasn't a threat. It was warmth. It was safety. It was simply her.

But the real problem was the looks.

He could feel the stares burning into him from the dim-lit streets, the way the few who recognized him faltered in their steps, eyes darting to where his gloved fingers curled so easily around hers, her diamond ring on display. He was Kaz Brekker, Dirtyhands, the Bastard of the Barrel. He was not the kind of man who strolled around holding hands with his wife.

And yet, here he was.

He should have seen it coming, really. The moment Y/N walked into his life, Kaz had known—deep in that part of him that he rarely acknowledged—that she was going to be trouble, stir the waters of his life. Not in the way most people were trouble for him. No, she was his kind of trouble.

She had slipped into Ketterdam like a whisper against the tide, moving through the Barrel with quiet confidence, always watching, always listening. She had been careful, at first, keeping her distance from him. But then she spoke. And that was the first crack.

She had a way of talking to him like he was just a man—not a myth, not a monster. She met his sharp edges with unwavering patience, never pushing, never prying. And yet, somehow, she had gotten past all his walls without even trying.

He hadn't realized how far he had fallen until it was too late. Until he caught himself watching her instead of his surroundings, until his hands started reaching for hers before his mind could catch up. Until she leaned close to him one evening, her breath barely ghosting against his jaw, and murmured, "You care for me, don't you?"

And Kaz—ruthless, cold, untouchable Kaz—had not been able to lie.

So he had married her. Because there was no one else in the world he trusted with his name, with his future, with the fragile, broken thing in his chest that still dared to beat.

"Are you aware," he murmured now, low enough for only her to hear, "that you do an awful lot of public displays of affection?"

Y/N barely glanced up at him, utterly unfazed as she adjusted her grip on his hand, squeezing gently. "Is that your way of telling me to stop?"

Kaz exhaled through his nose. "I didn't say that."

She turned her head toward him, a soft, amused smile tugging at her lips. "So you don't mind?"

He could have lied. Could have let his pride dictate his answer. But the thing was, if he truly minded, he wouldn't have let her do it in the first place. Afterall, he was still the Bastard of the Barrel

Kaz glanced down at their joined hands, then back up at her expectant face. "I mind the staring," he admitted. "But not this."

Her expression softened, and before he could react, she stopped walking, tugging him to a halt. Without hesitation, she lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to his gloved knuckles, completely ignoring the way a drunkard down the street sputtered at the sight.

Kaz sighed and rolled his eyes. "You're not making this any better."

Y/N grinned up at him and tilted her head in faux innocence, the dim alley light casting a glow over her features. "Better for who?"

He shook his head, exasperated, but didn't let go of her hand.

And when they started walking again, Kaz Brekker—the infamous Dirtyhands—kept holding on.