Chapter 3
chapter
three
Juniper
The convention floor is everything I remembered and somehow more.
Banners hang three stories high. The sheer number of booths in this exhibition hall is staggering. Even if I skipped official events and only walked this giant room, I don’t think I could hit every booth.
Somewhere to my left, a drum line of cosplay Mandalorians is doing a surprisingly tight synchronized walk past a popcorn cart, and a kid in a half-finished Iron Man suit is shrieking with joy at the sight of them.
The air smells like fried food and new vinyl and that specific convention-center ozone smell that I swear only exists three days a year, exclusively for me.
I am, currently, Arwen Undómiel, and I feel every inch the elven princess.
The blue dress moves the way I dreamed it would when I was hand-stitching the underlayer at two in the morning. All that silk catching the overhead lights and throwing it back in slow, deliberate ripples makes it look as if the dress is partially made of water.
Two separate strangers have already asked for photos.
A little girl in a Galadriel costume looked at me like I’d personally hung the moon, and her mother had to physically stop her from hugging my skirts.
And the number of verbal compliments is astounding.
No one even seems to mind that I went with my naturally dirty blonde colored hair rather than the dark raven-like hair.
This is the best day of the year, every year. I refuse to let anything take that from me.
Which is, unfortunately, the exact moment I see him.
Eric.
At least I’m pretty damn sure that’s Eric.
He’s in full Klingon regalia, which is, frankly, a lot.
From this distance the forehead ridges look pretty great.
His brown hair is longer than it was last year, and it’s hard to tell because of his forehead ridges, but from the look of things, he might be rocking a mullet.
But the rest of the costume is doing a little too much.
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—”
“Did it work?”
His voice stops me mid-sentence. Low, a little rough, threaded with something that’s definitely amusement and not, as far as I can tell, outrage.
“What?”
He tips his head, just slightly, toward the artist alley. “The awful guy. Is he still looking for you?”
I follow his gaze. Eric has turned, scanning a different section of the crowd now.
With his shoulders set, he heads down one of the aisles, still on the hunt.
He hasn’t seen me. The kiss worked. The actual ambush—the dumbest, most reckless thing I have ever done in all of my years of being a generally cautious person—worked.
“He’s just walked down one of the aisles,” I say. “So. Yes. I think it worked.”
“Good.” He says it simply, like that settles something, and only then do I really look at him. Holy hobbits, he is beautiful.
First, he’s not wearing the Captain America half helmet that covers half his face. Instead he has black rimmed glasses on. His blue eyes are lit with amusement. The playful grin on his full lips do nothing to hide the strong ridge of his jawline. He has really pretty lips.
I cannot believe I just kissed him.
“I really am sorry,” I say again, because the first apology clearly didn’t land with the weight it deserved. “That is not a thing I do. I want that on record. I have never once in my life walked up to a stranger and—”
“I’m not complaining.”
“You should be. That’s assault.” I frown. “Technically. I think.”
“I kissed you back,” he points out. “Pretty enthusiastically, if we’re being honest. I’m not sure assault would hold up in court.”
A laugh surprises its way out of me before I can stop it. Something in his expression shifts when it happens, softens, like the laugh did something to him he wasn’t expecting.
“I’m Juniper,” I say, because apparently we’re doing introductions now, after the fact, which feels like exactly the kind of backward order this entire encounter deserves.
“Leo.”
“Leo,” I repeat. “Okay. Leo. I owe you an explanation, and possibly a coffee, and definitely a formal apology that doesn’t involve me babbling at you in the middle of exhibition hall.”
“You could start with the explanation,” he says. “I’m a little curious why I just got recruited into a covert op without my consent.” He takes a small step closer to me then lowers his voice. “It’s the costume, isn’t it? Captain America obviously is everyone’s first choice for a mission.”
Again, I laugh. “Obviously. So the explanation is kind of long and I find myself longing for a slightly quieter place to share it.”
“I don’t know about you, but I could use a snack.” He pats his costumed six-pack. “Rescuing damsels works up an appetite.”
“Then by all means, let us find you some sustenance.”
Leo takes my hand, threading our fingers together as he leads me out of the main hall into the large hall that encircles the building.
It’s lined with a variety of concession stands.
He sits me at a table by the windows, then a short argument over who is paying, leaves me there to go and place our order.
I take that moment to send a quick text to my sister.
Me: You are a horrible influence!
Clover: What did I do?
Me: I followed your dumb advice and kissed a stranger to hide from Eric.
Clover:
Clover:
Clover:
Clover: Details!
Me: Aren’t you paying attention?
Me: I kissed a stranger!
Me: I walked up to a man I did not know, put my hand on his body and my lips on his mouth.
Me: What is wrong with me?
Clover: Did it work?
Me: The kiss was short. But amazing.
Clover: Good to know.
Clover: But did it work in hiding you from the creep?
Me: It actually did.
Clover: Where are you now?
Me: Getting a snack with Leo.
Clover: Is Leo the kissing stranger’s name?
Me: It is. We moved out of the main hall so I could explain the situation.
Clover: Costume?
Me: Captain America.
Clover: Sad pleather variety?
Me: Oh, no. This one cost money. I’d wager it’s as good as the original movie ones.
Clover: Nice.
Clover: Is he hot?
Me: Gotta go, he’s heading back my way.
I shove my phone back into the pocket of my dress. Because yes, of course, I added pockets. They’re hidden enough to not take away from the authenticity.
After Leo gets settled next to me, placing our items on the small round table, he looks at me.
And I get lost looking at him. He is just really attractive. He has kind eyes. They soft and warm and evidently mesmerizing because I realize he’s said more than one thing to me since he sat down and I have missed everything.
I shake my head. “I promise I have actual manners. Truly, I do.”
He laughs. “I was just asking if you were sure you didn’t want any actual food?”
“No, I’m good. I had a protein bar earlier.”
He makes a face. “That is not real food, but we’ll worry about that later. Story time.”
“There’s a guy. Eric. We met at this con last year.
Our costumes matched up so went to some panels together.
We’ve been texting since, and it turns out he’s— ” I search for a word that captures it without making this stranger think I’m exaggerating for sympathy.
“Well, he’s a lot. In a bad way. He’s said some things that crossed a line, and I really did not want to run into him today, and you were just standing there, and my sister had this whole if he finds you, kiss a hot stranger plan that I genuinely never thought I’d use, and then I saw you and well, here we are. ”
“I’m the hot stranger in this scenario?”
“Correct.”
“Just check.” Leo’s expression shifts, his amusement settling into something quieter, more focused. “What kind of things has he said?”
“It’s not important.”
“It clearly matters. You went from zero to ambush-kissing a stranger over it.”
I consider, for a second, brushing it off the way I usually do—the easy laugh, the it’s fine, it’s nothing, this is just what cons are like sometimes—and then I look at his face, at the genuine concern etched into his handsome features. I decide I’m tired of doing that particular bit today.
“He implied I should be flattered that he was willing to overlook the fact that I’m not built like the women in his “preferred physique” as long as I made up for it in other ways,” I say. “It was about as charming as it sounds.”
Something hardens, briefly, in Leo’s jaw. “Was he specific about how you could make up for it?”
“By being his dirty bitch.” The words are easier to say this time. As if by repeating them, telling more people, they lose their power. This is on Eric, not me. I didn’t do anything to encourage or deserve the way he treated me.
“He’s an idiot,” Leo says. Simple. Final. Like it’s not even worth debating.
“Thank you.”
“I mean it. Categorically. An idiot.” He glances toward the doors that lead back into the exhibition hall. “He’s gone, for now. But here’s what I think we should do.”
“We?”
“I’m invested now. Plus,” he taps his chest, “Captain America,” motions to me, “damsel.”
I smile. “It’s not necessary. I promise.”
“Unless you’ve decided I’m a creep, then allow me to be your fake boyfriend this weekend.”
“I don’t think you’re a creep at all. But truly, I can handle things on my own. I don’t want to prevent you from meeting your friends or interrupt your plans.”
“I want to do this,” he says, and there’s nothing performative in the way he says it, nothing that reads as a guy angling for something.
Just simple and easy, like he’s offering to carry a bag.
“I don’t know anyone else here so no official plans.
And honestly,” his gaze drops to my mouth.
“That was the best kiss I’ve had in a long time. ”