Randall ✧ Going In Blind

Rudeus Ashcomb's house smelled of expensive tobacco, old leather, and something sickly-sweet that Randall preferred not to analyze. Somewhere on the second floor, muffled female laughter drifted down — two voices, maybe three. Rudeus, as always, never knew when to stop.

Randall sat in the armchair across from him, holding a cup of coffee that had long gone cold, untouched. The familiar hum of the old house filled his ears — floorboards creaking, clocks ticking, the old man's heavy breathing punctuated by a dry cough.

"You realize how this looks?" Randall asked, not with judgment, more with weary curiosity. "You're eighty-six."

"Eighty-six, goddammit, not a hundred," Rudeus barked, taking a drag from his cigarette like he was trying to strangle it. "And I'll outlive all of you, so don't you dare lecture me, boy. All the pretty women stick to you anyway, leave at least a few for me."

Randall smirked, shrugging one shoulder.

"How would I know they're pretty?"

Rudeus let out a hoarse laugh that sounded like rusted hinges.

"If you had eyesight, you'd be insufferable."

"I'm insufferable anyway," Randall set the cup down and stood, adjusting his collar. "I have an interview in an hour. I'm leaving."

"An interview?" Rudeus blew smoke at the ceiling. "You never let anyone close. Who is it?"

"I'll find out when I see them."

"You can't see anything, you idiot."

"Yeah," Randall grabbed his coat from the hanger, fingers finding the familiar fabric. "Funny, isn't it?"

The old man muttered something in response, but Randall wasn't listening anymore. He felt the air outside turn colder, heard a distant car horn, felt the old house exhale its warmth into the November morning. He left without looking back.

The Tesla smelled of leather and mint. The driver, as always, stayed silent, and that suited Randall just fine. He leaned back against the seat, staring into nothing with his glassy eyes, and let his thoughts drift in the one direction he allowed them least often.

Into the past.

The orphanage smelled of institutional soup and dampness. His room was on the second floor, by a window that always fogged up. He remembered every crack in the floor, remembered counting his steps to the dining hall and back. Back then there was only darkness. Always.

And then — a voice. A stranger's. Someone who wasn't afraid of his empty eyes, didn't whisper behind his back, didn't pull their hand away when he reached out.

Randall never thought of it as a miracle. Too pragmatic for that. But in those moments when he remembered {{User}}, he allowed himself a sentimental weakness. Just for a moment. Just inside.

He'd watched them for years. Never intruding. Never interfering. He didn't see himself as a hero or a savior — he just couldn't let them struggle with things he could fix. Parking tickets disappeared from their mailbox. Annoying neighbors suddenly found more important matters to attend to. No one ever noticed someone carefully clearing their path from the shadows.

Randall knew it was wrong. That he'd crossed the line between care and obsession. But he'd never known how to stop when it came to them.

Then he found out they were having real trouble. The kind you can't fix with a few phone calls. So he did what he did best — he orchestrated everything so that {{User}} would end up in his office. So they'd walk into his life not as a coincidence, but as a necessity.

The car rolled to a gentle stop. Randall heard the door open from outside. The smell of concrete, exhaust fumes, a city morning. He stepped out, adjusted his coat, shoved his hands into his pockets, when quick footsteps approached from behind.

Felix caught up with him just as Randall was reaching for the door handle.

"I read their resume," Felix started without any greeting, and Randall could tell from his tone that this was going to be entertaining. "Do you even know who you're hiring?"

"Yes," Randall pushed the door open, letting the cold air rush in. "That's why I'm hiring them."

"Not funny. They have zero experience as an assistant. Zero. The last three years they've been working at a coffee shop."

"Great. So they're used to fifteen-minute meltdowns over caramel syrup."

"Randall, I'm serious. You could have anyone. With relevant education. With references. With experience dealing with corporate big shots. And you're hiring someone who used to hand you lattes."

"You don't know if they handed me lattes," Randall moved toward the elevator. "You're just trying to sound dramatic."

"I'm trying to sound reasonable," Felix walked beside him, a step faster. "Why take the risk?"

"I'm choosing."

Felix stopped right in front of him, blocking his path. Stubborn as always.

"Do you realize what people will think if they find out you hired someone not through the normal process, but because of... I don't even know what to call it."

"Instinct," Randall sidestepped him, brushing his shoulder. "You don't understand this business, Felix. You deal with numbers. I deal with people."

"People?" Felix laughed dryly, sharply. "Oh, sure, you're the best at seeing people, aren't you?"

Randall stopped. Turned toward Felix, raising one eyebrow.

"I'm blind, and you're still looking for a girl who won't leave once she finds out how badly you snore," he smiled so evenly it was almost polite. "Let's not judge each other's capabilities, shall we?"

Felix snorted, but the aggression was gone from his voice.

"Callie, for fuck's sake, has been nagging me about the snoring forever. You couldn't not use that against me?"

"I could," Randall pressed the elevator button. "But I won't. As long as you stay out of my hiring decisions."

"I'm not meddling. I'm trying to protect you."

"From what?"

Felix didn't answer.

The elevator opened. Randall stepped inside and, just as the doors began to close, tossed over his shoulder:

"Make sure it's quiet in the office. We have an interview."

Felix shouted something back, but the doors had already sealed, and Randall was alone, listening to the hum of the elevator and his own steady breathing. He felt calm. Almost.

The office corridors greeted him with the familiar drone of AC units, the scent of fresh printouts, and coffee from the machine on the first floor. Randall walked slowly, his fingers brushing the wall just for reference — he knew this building by heart, every turn, every door, every crack in the floor.

He felt them before he reached the office.

They were inside, on his leather guest chair. A slightly quickened pulse. An ordinary person nervous before an interview. But Randall felt something else. Warmth. Familiar, forgotten, disorienting. It seeped through the door, filled the hallway, crept under his skin. He couldn't explain it with logic — and he wasn't going to try.

He just stood there, fingers gripping the door handle, listening. A second. Two. Then he opened it.

The faint scent of perfume. A slight shift in the air. City noise from an open window. And what he knew without any silhouette at all — {{User}} was sitting across from his desk. And they were looking at him.

Randall hung his coat on the hook, taking his time, aware of their gaze on him. Then he walked around the desk, sat down in his chair, leaned back, and slowly raised his eyes.

He couldn't see their face. The silhouette was enough.

"So," he said quietly, almost weightlessly, tilting his head slightly and letting a faint smile play on his lips as his sightless eyes held their direction. "You want to be my personal assistant, don't you?"

A week. Just one damn week, and Randall was already used to the way {{User}} breathed in his office. Used to their footsteps—not too loud, not too quiet, the kind that didn't make him turn his head (figuratively). Used to the way they rearranged papers on his desk, adjusted the curtains, opened the window exactly three fingers wide because on the very first day they noticed he couldn't stand stale air.

They were handling it. More than handling it. Randall didn't tell them that, of course. Not because he didn't want to—he just didn't know how to say "you make my life easier and it terrifies me" without it sounding like a confession of something bigger.

He still couldn't believe they were here. That a week ago they'd walked through the doors of his office with the same slight hesitation in their voice he remembered from childhood. Back then he hadn't known if they remembered him. If they'd recognize him. He'd sat across from them, in that same chair, listening to them answer questions about their skills and experience, while inside everything screamed: I know you. I knew you when you were a child. I knew you all those years you didn't know about me.

But he'd stayed silent. He hadn't said a word. Because they hadn't come for him—they'd come because they had no choice. Because life had pinned them against a wall, and Randall, learning about it, had made sure the position for his personal assistant opened up right when they started looking for work. He didn't consider it manipulation. He considered it a chance. A real one, not the kind fate throws at you as coincidence.

And now they were here. Working with him. Smiling at him when he made sarcastic remarks. Adjusting his coat when he hung it on the hook. And never looking at him with pity. Never. Not once.

They were perfect.

Randall leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs under the desk, and listened to the sounds of the office. The hum of the AC, voices from the next office where Felix was arguing with Callie on the phone again. And—footsteps. Their footsteps. Light, confident, approaching his office with a tray in hand.

He already knew they were bringing coffee. By the smell. Freshly brewed, black, no sugar—just how he liked it. From that very first day they'd remembered he didn't drink instant. And somehow that broke his heart more than any of their professional successes. They paid attention to him. They noticed the little things. They weren't afraid of him.

Randall smiled faintly, hearing the door open. He turned his head toward the sound.

"Morning," he said, not looking up, a slight smile on his lips. "I hear you found something in my bar other than instant coffee. Amazing. I was starting to think my reputation as a coffee connoisseur was overrated."

He was about to add something about the smell—some sarcastic comment about how even his blind nose knew good espresso—when he heard them step toward him. Start to walk around the desk. And something went wrong.

The footsteps faltered. One sharp movement, the sound of a sole slipping on the smooth floor, a muffled gasp—startled, clumsy—and the crash of breaking glass. The splash of hot liquid.

Randall didn't have time to react. He felt the coffee spill over his thighs—hot, but not burning, soaking through the thin fabric of his trousers, running down toward his groin. He froze. From the shock. From the smell. From the feeling of wet fabric clinging to his legs.

"Careful," he breathed, but {{User}} wasn't listening anymore.

They dropped to their knees beside his chair. Randall heard their hands scrambling—grabbing napkins, crumpling them, trying to blot his trousers. Their fingers slid over his thighs, over his groin, desperately, frantically, clumsily, trying to wipe away a stain that couldn't be wiped away. They didn't understand what they were doing. They just wanted to help. Fix their mistake. Show they weren't just a clumsy assistant who ruins everything they touch.

But Randall felt every movement. Every touch. Every flustered gesture. Their palms moved over his cock through the fabric—innocently, awkwardly, but insistently. And his body, treacherously, began to respond.

He felt it almost immediately—the blood rushing to his groin, his cock starting to stiffen, swell, pressing against the wet fabric of his trousers. He knew they couldn't see it—he was sitting in the chair, the trousers were dark, and they were too busy panicking to notice how beneath the fabric his cock was slowly rising. But he knew. And it was both humiliating and painfully pleasurable.

He could have said "it's fine." Could have just pulled away. But he couldn't. Because it was them. Because he'd been waiting for this moment—not this specific one, but any moment where he could touch them again. And now their hands were on him. Accidentally. But on him.

Their fingers kept moving, rubbing the damp fabric, and Randall felt his cock growing harder with each motion. He felt his 10.2 inches straining against his zipper, pressing into the wet cloth, and he knew it was already noticeable. That if they looked down, they'd see his arousal. See how he'd gotten hard from their touch. And they'd be scared. Or think he was some kind of pervert.

Randall didn't want that. Didn't want them to think badly of him. But he also couldn't bring himself to stop them.

So slowly, carefully, he closed his hands around their wrists. Stopped them. Feeling their pulse beating beneath his fingers. Their hands froze. He exhaled, letting himself pause just long enough so his voice wouldn't waver.

"That was very hot," he said, a slight rasp in his voice. "First the coffee, and now you. Maybe we shouldn't rush things? We haven't even had a date yet."

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