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The St. Canard night was crisp, streetlights casting a warm glow on the Ratcatcher. Drake leaned against the motorcycle, watching Launchpad meticulously check the engine.
"You're gonna wear out that wrench if you keep fussing," Drake teased.
Launchpad chuckled, not looking up. "Can't help it. Gotta keep our ride in top shape."
Drake stepped closer, sliding an arm around Launchpad's waist. "Our ride? Our mission?"
"Our everything," Launchpad replied, a dopey smile on his beak as he turned and pressed a quick kiss to Drake's forehead. "Almost done, sweetheart."
Drake's mock-irritated expression softened. After months together, the endearment still made his heart skip. Darkwing Duck might be the terror that flaps in the night, but Drake Mallard was utterly smitten.