Voracious Reader

The winter dragged on for another few weeks for both thralls and free people after the return journey back to Ulvehi. Then the light began to return, slowly brightening the days and making the white snow shine almost painfully sharp on the mountains whenever you stepped outdoors.

But the days in the long house were slow, and you tried to fill your time preparing for what seemed like the inevitable journey across to England. You'd decided it should be easier to get Pero to come as your bodyguard if you seemed resigned to the idea of marrying again. If you protested too much, your father might send a greater number of men to escort you, and then escape would be much more difficult. So like a dutiful wife-to-be, you spent your time mending your clothes and making new ones for a wedding you had no intention of attending. But you also made preparations that would serve you on the journey; a new cloak with hidden pockets for a few valuable coins, skirts made for riding. There was also a new dagger and small axe that you'd taken from the smithy, and a sturdy belt to keep them hidden and secure under your cloak. You would not travel unarmed, not on this journey.

But you were also sewing something else, piecing together the blue of Ulvehi that you loved, and the dark, muted, red of Pero's old cloak. He'd told you it had been left behind in his house in England, and how he missed that thick cloak during the cold winters. The colour of your dress had reminded him of it, the rusty red from his homeland, and now you were patching together the blue and the red into a blanket. To someone watching, it might look like you were just using up valuable scraps of cloth to make a shawl, but to you it was much more important. A piece of you, and a piece of him, side by side, overlapping and making something new, a warm blanket to wrap someone precious in. Because if your counting was right, you would have a new family by the end of the year. You’d been cautious with Pero, but you'd never missed a single bleeding with Grim, and you thought it couldn't happen for you. So perhaps, on some occasions, you’d begged him to spill inside you, just to keep him as close as possible. But now, at one of your brief meetings with Pero, something must have changed inside you, and his seed had taken. 

It was still such early days, barely even a month, but something, maybe a deep female instinct, told you it would hold. Maybe there was nothing wrong with your body after all, no one knew for certain how it worked. You only knew that somehow, Pero's seed had taken root, and now your bleeding was late. You hadn't said anything to Pero yet though. You wanted to be really sure first, and to find the right time to tell him. But the shawl that you were making would hold a part of you, and a part of him, Ulvehi's blue, and Tovar's red.

Thorsten watched you work on the shawl, as he often did lately. His eyes followed you around the long house, lingering as you tried to avoid his eyes, giving him no reason to approach. His gaze was annoying, but your relationship with him had been cold as ice since he tried to force himself on you in the stable. You hadn't even told Pero about it, just tucked it away, and snapped at Thorsten whenever he got too close. Pero only knew that Thorsten was hoping to marry you, but that you had turned that idea down, and injured his pride in the process. It was best if Pero knew to be extra careful around Thorsten, but not enough to want to bash his head in. Although, the way the two men glared at each other, you didn’t think either one needed any other reason to pick a fight. You were certain Pero would love to face Thorsten on the battlefield, and show him what he could do when he wasn’t in chains. The whipping Thorsten had given Pero after his first attempt at escaping still stung, and you knew he hated Thorsten as much as he hated your father. 

And if the man still harboured thoughts about you marrying him, he'd soon find out that he was the last one you'd ever consider. And it gave you a small pleasure to know that Thorsten would probably find out eventually who you’d chosen over him. But now, in the long house, his presence was irksome, and you turned your back towards him, hiding your face from his staring. 

If Thorsten noticed your annoyance, he said nothing, he just sat back against the wall on one of the benches as usual, his legs stretched out in front. His hands were busy honing the blade of an axe that he'd had made recently. But his eyes often came back to you as you sat with your head bent over the trim of your new shawl. He knew you'd work for an hour or so in the morning while the light outside was still dim. Then you'd stand up and stretch your back and pack away your sewing. Then, without fail, you'd make your way to the stable, Ravn following close behind, the large black dog like your shadow now. Thorsten knew you'd spend at least two hours in the stable before returning for the midday meal, and sometimes he'd make an errand down to the stable too, enter quietly and find you in Aska's stall. But what he'd also find was the scar faced thrall, never far away from you in the stable. Never too close, but always nearby, in the stall next to Aska's, or working on some piece of equipment. He would raise his head as Thorsten came in and give him just a quick glance, just a brief moment, but always defiant. Thorsten could see the hatred that simmered beneath the surface in that one.

Thorsten detested him. Despite whipping his worthless hide within an inch of his life, the thrall had somehow survived, and Thorsten knew you'd been involved in it. You wouldn't let Thorsten, one of the Jarl's most trusted men, get close to you. But this stinking thrall you'd care for like he was a brave fallen warrior? And that was even before he'd supposedly saved your life from the wolf. Now the hawk nosed thrall seemed to always be in your presence whenever you left the long house, always hovering nearby in the stable or the kitchen gardens. Even being allowed to be your protector when you left Ulvehi. Thorsten seethed when he thought about it as he watched you pack up your sewing.

This early spring morning had passed quietly in the long house, many of the men outside with the ships, doing the final work needed before the summer season began. There had been a shift in the weather and even indoors, the dripping of melting snow could be heard. Give it another week and the ice would break up on the fjord, the shift in colour could already be seen, dirty yellow patches appearing in the porous sheets of ice, water starting to break through.

You had stood up and left for the stable, Ravn as your shadow as always, and Thorsten was just about to follow when his Jarl called for him.

"Thorsten," Asgeir said, waving him over, "We need you, come."

He followed Asgeir back to the Jarl's private room where he stood leaning over a large sheet of parchment. Thorsten recognised it as one of Ulvehi's most priced possessions, always safely stored behind lock and key; a map over the northern routes from Norway across to England, Scotland and beyond.

"Look at this, Thorsten," the Jarl said to him, pointing to the small island known as Iceland on the map, "men are coming back from Iceland saying there is rich land to the west of there. The journey is long and dangerous, few have dared it since Leif Eriksson, but the rewards could be tenfold to the risk if reports are to be trusted."

"The map is empty to the west of Greenland," Asgeir said, "But we spoke to Håkon and one of his men at Steinvikr. The man, that short redhead, Sten, he's been to Greenland, and the men there said that Eriksson came back from his journey west with tales of endless forests and lakes, filled with game and timber."

"I want to send ships and men to the west, and I want you to lead them, Thorsten," the Jarl said, looking up at the hirdman who nodded in agreement, "Take three of my strongest ships, resupply in Greenland, gather as much information as you can, and then sail west to this new land."

"Sten said the Greenlanders call it Vinland," Asgeir put in, "If it's as fertile as rumoured, it would be a good place to found a settlement for trade."

"And with our new connection to England, we'll have plenty of ports to trade in," the Jarl smiled, clearly happy with his plans, "You'll be rich too, Thorsten."

"I'm honoured, Jarl," Thorsten replied, looking at the map and large tracts of water that lay between Ulvehi and Greenland, "To go west from there would be a great adventure."

"It'll be an adventure for the sagas even," the Jarl said and Thorsten could only agree. This would give him not only wealth, but reputation. Enough to found his own family, even a clan, supported by the Ulvehi Jarl.

"I'll consider who to take with me, some of the young men without families, and a few of the strongest fighters. If we leave when the ice clears, we should be able to reach Greenland at the beginning of summer. And then, depending on what we find, we stay the winter in this Vinland, or come back to Greenland."

"Good, it's a solid plan," the Jarl said and looked up as there was a knock on the door and Amina stepped inside.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking at Asgeir and Thorsten, "I can come back later, but I wished to speak with you, Jarl."

He nodded in response and signalled for Asgeir and Thorsten to leave.

"Please, come in. What makes you look so concerned, child?"

The Jarl rolled up the precious map as Asgeir and Thorsten left, and gestured for Amina to come further in. She'd grown up at Ulvehi, the daughter of a beautiful thrall woman who'd Agnar could still remember capturing in one of the raids of his youth. She'd been irresistible, and if Agnar hadn't already been married, he would've considered taking her as his wife. Instead he took his right as Jarl and bedded her many times, before she married another one of the thralls. She'd been pregnant before long, and he still suspected Amina was his own daughter. And he suspected most of Ulvehi had also guessed this, but it did not stop him from being soft on her, treating her more like a daughter than a thrall.

"I…I don't know if it's my place to say anything…" Amina began, and the Jarl furrowed his brow, gently putting his hand on her arm and guiding her to sit down.

"Come, tell me. You know I will listen to any complaint you have. Is one of the men giving you trouble?"

"No, no, it's just…it involves your daughter I think, and that thrall, Hauknefr," Amina glanced over her shoulder towards the door as if to make sure no one else was in the room as she lowered her voice.

"What of him?" the Jarl asked, his look darkening, "He swore to protect her, is he trying to escape again?"

"I-I don't know for certain, but it's the way he looks at her, and...I think maybe he…he's attached to her, wants her, I mean," Amina wound her fingers together as she watched the Jarl's face shift into something more dangerous, "The other thralls whisper about them…"

"And her? What does my daughter think of this thrall throwing looks at her?"

"I think…I think maybe she does not mind, Jarl."

"Asgeir!" the Jarl roared, making Amina jump, "Thorsten!"

The two men thumped through the door, their faces looking as if they were expecting an attack with how loudly their lord had shouted for them.

"Amina has just told me that hawk nosed thrall who calls himself Tovar is lusting after my daughter," the Jarl growled, his fists clenched, "I want him brought to the docks and whipped, and this time he will bleed out."

Thorsten grinned, nodding his head, "I'll go at once, Jarl, I'm sure I'll find him at the stable with her as always."

"Jarl…" Asgeir said, holding up his hand to stop Thorsten who had already turned to the door, "A word of caution…If you flay him publicly without proof, rumours will begin about your daughter. They are sure to reach the English, and they will not want the alliance after she has been tainted. The Christians are much more…sensitive, about a woman's honour. They place an extraordinary importance on their virtue."

The Jarl growled, "What will you have me do then? Let him leer at my daughter? Let her have him? They've already started rumours."

"Take her to England as soon as possible, as soon as the fjord opens," Asgeir replied, "Then you can deal with the thrall as you see fit. And in the meantime, keep her occupied in the long house, have her involved in the women's tasks. Don't give him the opportunity to be near her."

The Jarl did not look happy, but he nodded, "Your counsel is always wise, Asgeir, old friend, although it will need to bite my horn to keep from flaying that dog's back to the bone."

Thorsten growled, still held back by Asgeir's hand, "I will make sure he does not come close to her again, Jarl."

"Amina, what does she still need to do before she leaves for England, something that will keep her in her room?" the Jarl asked, and Amina took a moment to think.

"She has not yet made a cloak with her new husband's sigil, that will take many hours to make."

"Good, I will instruct her to begin work on it at once, and you will oversee it. Be her helper, and I want you to let me know if she says anything of Hauknefr."

Amina nodded, and made to leave, but the Jarl held up his hand to stop her, "Thank you for bringing this to me, Amina. Your loyalty to me and the family will not go unnoticed, I promise."

Pero had learnt to see the early signs of the northern spring during his two years at Ulvehi, and this year he was watching for them even more closely than last. Stepping out this morning from the thrall house, he could hear birds singing for the first time in many months. They were always quiet during the winter, as intent on surviving as the humans, and the only sound he ever heard were the sorrowful cries of lonely ravens or crows. But now he could hear the bright trilling of small birds in the nearby bushes, a clear sign of spring. He knew that as soon as the ice broke up on the fjord, preparations would begin for you to leave for England, and he intended to be ready, and to make sure the Jarl remembered that he would go with you as your bodyguard.

The months had been slow though, the cold kept everyone indoors, and even when you came to the stable to see Aska, it was too risky. Pero had only been able to steal one moment alone with you in weeks, there always seemed to be someone else around, not least Thorsten who had become your shadow as much as Ravn in recent days. Pero hated him, not just for the whipping he'd given him, but for the way the blonde man hung around the stable, always finding some work to do and glancing over at you. Pero longed to have you to himself, not just to satiate his very basic lust, but to be in your presence, to talk to you freely without having to guard his words. And he wanted you to touch him, to be able to feel your soft hands on his skin or in his hair without worrying about someone seeing the way he turned to putty whenever your fingertips carefully traced across his scar. Thoughts of your hands kept him up at night, and invaded his dreams when he did fall asleep. But now he couldn't even find a moment to steal a kiss in the stable.

Not since sleeping next to his wife had a woman had such an effect on his mind, it made him feel incomplete when you weren't around, and it was a new sensation after all these years. But with the hold you had over him came a new worry. He hadn't been able to save his wife, but he had to save you this time, if only he could protect you from this Englishman you were meant to marry. He'd been granted the blessing of finding someone like you, in the most unlikely place, and he was determined to keep you safe. But staying away from you, not having you in his bed, or next to him at all times, it made him nervous and anxious. Every day felt like a potential risk of discovery, and he tried to keep his head down, keep his eyes off you, and not be tempted again to take risks.

The nights in his bed were long and cold, and only his dreams of you had kept him warm as the long Norse winter dragged on.

"I cannot believe how long this winter was, Pero," you mumbled, keeping your voice low behind the overgrown raspberry bushes. He was holding them up as you attempted to gather them with twine to support them. Grim's family in Sigtuna had cultivated the wild raspberries that grew around their town, and it had given you the idea to do the same at Ulvehi. Raspberries grew in abundance in the forest, and you'd had a few bushes dug up and replanted back when you thought you'd be staying at Ulvehi. You'd be leaving them behind soon though, the ice was drifting down the fjord and the ships were already in the water.

"I've missed you so much, even on the days I've seen you. I cannot wait to be away from here and in England with you."

"Lift it a bit higher on this side, my lady," Pero replied, looking over at the thralls digging up some of last year's turnips from the wet soil in another part of the field, "I've missed you too, amor," he whispered in reply, risking a glance down at you where you knelt by the raspberry roots, "Soon, and then we just have to keep apart on the journey over, and then we run."

"Being on the ship with you will be hard," you said, keeping your voice low too, looking up at him as you adjusted the branches higher up, "There won't be much room, and we can't raise any suspicions."

"I know, but it's just for a few days. With good winds it shouldn't take long. Soon, amor, soon."

You sighed and tied a strong knot in the string, someone else would have to harvest these bushes in summer. With the help of the gods you'd be far away and safe with Pero in England when these berries were ripe.

"Where in England should we settle?" you asked, moving over to the next bush and starting the process again as Pero followed. He gathered the wayward long branches into his gloved hands as you helped keep them out of his face, smiling as he winked at you, his back to the other thralls.

"I've thought about it," Pero replied, "and I have some ideas. Your people trade almost all across England these days, but the north east has very strong ties to both Norway and Denmark, so we can't stay there. The lord's people, and maybe your family, will be looking for us, and the risk is too high that someone recognises you. So we should go further south as soon as we can, and I think we need to leave the areas of England where your kinsmen have a lot of influence. Wessex, in the southwest, should be safe."

"Wessex, that's where king Alfred had his seat?" you asked, the name coming to you from an old story about one of the English kings before Cnut of Denmark became king of England too.

Pero nodded, "Wessex is still Anglo Saxon, there were no Norse people there when I was last through. And there is a big town, Exeter, where we can easily hide. Or if we go to one of the smaller towns further south in Somerset or Devon, we can hide away in some small village."

"I'll be happy wherever we're safe, Pero, but Wessex sounds like a good option," you said, tying another knot and sitting back on your heels, "There, the bushes are all done, maybe they'll have fruit in a few months, but we won't be here to see it."

Pero pulled off his gloves and straightened up, stretching out his back, giving you a glimpse of his flat belly. He'd shrunk since he came to Ulvehi, hard work and less food had made him lithe, but the tantalizing trail of soft hair that disappeared into his breeches was still there, and it took effort to pull your eyes from it as you stood up too and turned away from him, towards the other end of the field.

"Come, help me with the manure, I'll show you what I need you to spread on the roots of the raspberry bushes."

"My lady," he replied as you walked past the other thralls, "I can fetch the hand cart and fill that with manure."

You hated the way his tone changed when he spoke to you in front of other people, suddenly sullen, subservient, in both his voice and posture. He did it only to protect you both, of course, but to hear his beautiful warm voice change into something so sour, it hurt your heart.

You pushed down the urge to touch him, caress his cheek, chase away the scowl on his face, and just nodded.

"Fetch the hand cart and a shovel, and meet me by the dung heap."

He gave you a curt nod, and changed direction while you made your way to the back of the stables. But by the long house the door opened, and Thorsten stepped out, watching you disappear behind the stable, and Pero walking towards the hand cart. His mouth tightened as he watched you both, and clenched his fists.

It was back breaking work for the thralls working in the stable to muck out the stalls each day. You knew Pero filled the hand cart at least three times every day, more often in the winter, with what all of Ulvehi's horses left behind. Horses you'd have to leave behind soon, you realised, even your own Aska. She would not be able to come on the week long sea journey across to England. Ravn would come though, he'd fare better on the ship than your horse.

Pero pushed the hand cart around the corner and left it next to the large dung heap, sticking the shovel into the muck.

"You really are making me work today, princesa," he smiled, the scowl gone from his face now that it was just the two of you again.

"Pero, come here," you said, "let that wait, I need to tell you something."

Your counting was right, you were sure of it now, it had been too long since your last bleeding, and now you took his hand and rested it against your belly. It didn't show anything yet, it was far too early, but still, you wanted him to feel it. Pero's brow furrowed in confusion as his hand rested on your dress and you smiled at him, waiting for him to catch on.

"I've counted the days, Pero," you said, and the confusion deepened in his eyes as he looked down at his hand. You counted one moment, and another, and then realisation hit him, his eyes widening and you couldn't help laughing at his stunned face.

"A child?" he asked in a hushed whisper, taking a step closer so that he could wrap his other hand around your back, "Are you certain?"

"I think so, it's been another week since the moon shifted and there are some signs, but it's very early yet. But I wanted to tell you, I couldn't keep it a secret."

"A little one…" Pero breathed in a low voice, still stunned as he looked up at you. His mind was working as his face shifted from confusion to surprise and then suddenly into worry, "I should've been more careful, it's not safe for you to be with child now, not while we are still here."

"We'll be leaving within a week or two, by the time I'm showing, we'll be far away," you told him, cupping his cheeks to bring his eyes back to yours, "I'm happy, Pero. I didn't think the gods would let me have a child, I was never blessed with Grim. To have one with you, it's all I could've asked for."

Pero's face softened, leaning his forehead against yours, "Of course, amor, it makes me happy too. I just wish I had more to offer you and the child, it will be a hard life before we are safe and settled again."

"It will be fine, my love," you told him, "We'll be together at least, and I can get through the hard times as long as you're with me. And we have such a good life waiting for us when we reach Wessex."

"It'll still be hard," Pero said, cupping his hand around your cheek as you closed your eyes, breathing in his warm breath, feeling it against your skin, "But I promise, I'll keep you and our child safe. I'll always be with you, and keep you both safe."

His arm was tight around your middle, pressing you against him as his mouth found yours, forgetting where he was, lost in the thought of a new life growing inside you, a child he felt had already settled deep in his heart. His child, his and yours, and it brought a new purpose to his life.

"When we get to England, I'll marry you," he mumbled against your lips, "in front of your gods or mine, it doesn't matter. I want you to be my wife."

"Pero," you smiled, wrapping your fingers around long curls at his neck, "I'm already your wife."

"And I'm your husband, amor. But I want to do it properly, even though I have no ring to give to you. But I have a small gift I've been working on, I'll bring it tomorrow to the garden."

"Pero, you-"

But he cut you off, pressing his lips to yours again, imagining he could already feel a second heartbeat in you.

Behind them, the dry grass of last year crunched under Thorsten's foot as he glared at the scene in front of him. The knuckles of his hand went white, grabbing the corner of the stable wall, the wood creaking under his tight grip. There, standing by the dung heap, you and the thrall, just as he'd suspected when he saw Hauknefr push the hand cart around the corner, and it filled him with rage.

The sound of his fist hitting the wall made you both jump apart as he roared for the Jarl.

Chapter 15

“How many?”

“Two, maybe three.” Elias was right behind him now, speaking too fast, as if he could outrun the image of it if he kept feeding Joel facts. “Vehicle east side. The tracks cut toward the lower road. Clean pickup. They were waitin’ on the window.”

Tommy reached them in the hall just as Joel shoved the drawer shut hard enough to rattle the wood.

“Joel,” he said.

But Joel barely heard him.

Waiting on the window. Not random. Not sloppy. Not opportunity. Designed.

He turned on Elias so sharply Elias went still.

“One guard was missing from position,” Joel said. It wasn`t a question.

Elias’s jaw tightened. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” His answer came raw and immediate, and full of self-disgust. “I don’t know. He should’ve been there. I didn’t move him. I didn’t sign off on any—”

His voice caught, only for a second, but Joel heard it anyway. Elias was blaming himself already. He could see it in the set of his mouth, in the way his hands had curled into fists hard enough to whiten the knuckles. In the look in his eyes. Those were the first brutal stages of guilt digging in where reason had not yet had time to reach.

Joel wanted to tear the house apart with his bare hands. Wanted to go back ten minutes and walk the goddamn path himself. Wanted to drag time backward by the throat.

Instead he said, “Tracks?”

“They are fresh.” Elias dragged a hand across his mouth. “East side. The mud was cut deep. They loaded her fast.” His eyes flicked away for the first time. “She fought.”

Something in Joel’s chest lurched so hard it almost felt physical. He saw it instantly: her dragged through wet gravel, terrified, reaching for air, for the house, for anyone.

I have to find her.

The thought came back now as command. Nothing else mattered. Not the room. Not the people watching. Not the blood rising hot under his skin. Not the part of him already building the punishment.

Only this: I have to find her.

Tommy stepped directly into his line of sight before the fury could turn useless.

“Joel.”

Joel looked at him, and Tommy did not soften. That was why it worked. He was steady. 

“Look at me.” Tommy held his gaze for one beat, maybe two, long enough to force him into the present. “We will find her. We find her first - then we burn the rest.”

Joel drew one breath. Then another. The air hurt going in. He turned back to Elias. “Tell me again.”

Elias did. The empty post, the broken sightline. How Scout had raised alarm, then was gone in the chaos. How she was still screaming when Elias hit the hedge.

That last part he almost did not say. 

For one moment Joel`s vision went white around the edges. She had been close enough to the house to scream for help.

And he had not been there.

He closed his hand so hard around the grip of the gun it bit into his palm. “They got inside my perimeter,” he said.

No one in the hall moved. Because that was the truth of it. Bigger than the abduction, almost. They had not taken her on some road, or in transit, or during one of the ugly but expected vulnerabilities of business. They had come into his ground, had used his routine. They had pulled her through a seam in the protection he had built around her and taken her from the only place she had just begun to feel less afraid.

That violation settled in Joel like poison.

Tommy exhaled once through his nose. “This was planned.”

Joel looked at Elias. “Who knew the walk timing?”

Elias answered immediately. “Me. Gate detail. And anyone touching east-side overlap if the convoy sheets shifted.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed. Tommy was already there before he said it. “West Lake.”

Joel nodded once.

The word moved through the three of them like a live wire.

West Lake had not been random either. The staggered routes had been hit on the exact quiet windows only a handful of men should have known. Joel had felt the shape of a leak then, but he had not had proof. Now the same logic had been used here, against the house itself.

Same timing. Same precision. Same appetite for weak seams.

“Same pattern,” Joel said, more to himself than to either of them. His voice had gone so even it was almost unreadable. “Whoever hit us at West Lake knew our stagger. This is the same goddamn mind.”

Tommy’s face hardened. Elias looked sick.

“Could be a proxy crew,” Tommy said.

“Could be,” Joel answered.

But the answer was automatic. His mind was already moving ahead of it, stripping everything down to chain, timing, advantage, motive.

Who benefits if he fails? Who profits if he retaliates wrong? Who chips at the routes, then takes the woman under his roof?

Moretti.

The scent of it was already there. Money. Plausible deniability. A hand that did not need to be seen to be recognized.

“This has Moretti stink all over it,” he finally said.

Elias opened his mouth, maybe to caution, maybe to agree. Joel cut him off with a look.

“He doesn’t have to sign his name to it,” he said. “He only has to profit.”

Silence.

Then the house started moving again. Fast, not just the three of them. Men appeared almost at once, drawn from the back corridor, the yard entrance, the garage side of the house. One came at a run already reaching for the radio clipped to his belt. Another snatched keys off the sideboard. A third was halfway up the stairs before Tommy turned and snapped him back down with a hand signal sharp enough to cut glass. Boots started hitting hardwood from every direction now, the sound multiplying fast, the whole place shedding its domestic skin and becoming something else.

Tommy turned first, already barking for keys, for radios, for every man on the east road. 

“Pull every camera,” Tommy barked. “House, gates, drive, service road, anything on the perimeter and the lower access road. Last thirty minutes, now. I want every feed in the office.”

“I want every set of tracks, every gate change, every vehicle, every face that crossed this perimeter,” Joel added, his tone icy. “Leave nothing untouched.”

Elias reached for his phone with hands that were almost steady now, because action was the only mercy available to him. Then he stopped once, with his hand on the phone. “Joel—”

Joel looked at him. The guilt was there fully now, barely contained. “I should’ve been at the seam,” Elias said, voice low and wrecked. “I should’ve—”

Joel stepped into him before the sentence could finish.

“You can hate yourself later,” he said. “Find her now.”

Elias swallowed and nodded once.

That was all. Joel turned toward the front of the house. Behind him, the house had become pure machinery: phones, boots, weapons, engines, men moving at speed under one command and one purpose.

I have to find her. Get her back. Alive.

And this time there was nothing in him soft enough to be afraid of what he would have to do to make that happen.

Joel’s office had turned into a war room so completely that it no longer looked like his office at all. Route sheets covered the desk in layered stacks, corners curling under the weight of maps, manifests, call logs and patrol rosters. Someone had dragged in two more chairs and neither of them sat empty for long. Radios hissed from the side table. Camera feeds from the house, the gates, the drive, the service road, the lower east access route flickered across two small monitors hauled in from security, the images grainy and colorless in the low light.

Every time the footage looped back over the same stretch of empty path, Joel wanted to put his fist through the screen.

He didn’t. Instead he stood over the desk with his sleeves shoved up to his forearms, one hand braced flat against the wood, the other passing again and again through his hair until it no longer sat right. Elias had mud drying on his boots and the same look in his eyes he’d worn since the side entrance: sleepless, hunted and full of guilt.

Men came in and out with updates: Nothing yet. East road clear. No plate on the lower service camera. Tracks split near the river turnoff. No sign of the dog. Nothing yet.

Nothing yet. The words were beginning to rot in the room.

Joel had stopped asking where she might be in any emotional language because the answers his own mind supplied were unbearable. He pictured her anyway. Bound. Terrified. Mouth bloodied where someone had covered it too hard. Alone with men who had dragged her off his land like she was freight.

He shut the thought down every time it rose.

Alive, he told himself, over and over, not even knowing to whom the word was addressed. Alive. Keep moving. I have to find her.

Across the desk, Tommy dragged a hand over his mouth and looked down at the map again. “West Lake,” he said.

Joel lifted his head. Tommy tapped one route sheet with the back of his knuckles. “They hit the stagger there on a protected window. And now this.” Another tap, this time on the patrol sketch Elias had drawn from memory. “West path, service bend, seam opens for minutes and somehow they’re waitin’ on it.”

Joel’s jaw flexed.

“It’s the same logic,” Tommy said. “Not just the same kind of job. The same kind of mind.”

Joel already knew that. He had known it in the hall the second Elias said waiting on the window. But hearing Tommy say it gave it shape, it made it harder, made it real.

“This wasn’t a snatch,” Joel said. His voice had gone quiet again. “This was built.”

Elias stood near the filing cabinet with his arms crossed so tightly across his chest it looked like he was trying to hold himself together by force. “They knew the walk. They knew the seam. Knew when the west line would be thin if east-side overlap got touched.”

Joel’s eyes went to him. “Who can touch both?”

Tommy looked up first. “West Lake staggered routes,” he said, counting them off almost like he was trying to hear the shape of it out loud. “You, me, Elias. Alvarez on logistics.” He shifted to the next sheet. “House patrol patterns, gate overlap, east-side handoffs when convoy traffic backs up. Elias. Gate detail. Whoever signs route correction and overflow traffic.”

Joel said, “Alvarez.”

Elias rubbed a hand hard over his face, the heel of his palm catching at the edge of old stubble. “He handles route correction when the schedules stack wrong,” he said. “And he saw the updated house movement sheets this week because of the Riverside overlap.”

Tommy’s head came up sharply. “He saw her walk timing?”

“Not marked as her,” Elias said at once, as if the distinction mattered enough to save somebody. “But the reduced west-side detail during the overlap window? Yeah. He’d have seen that.”

Joel stared at the route sheet without seeing it. There were only a handful of names. Fewer than that, really, once you started cutting away everyone too far from the center.

Someone inside the chain had given up both the route knowledge and the weakness in the house.

He thought of her on the balcony, saying it had been nice in that careful, almost disbelieving voice of hers, as if she was trying the shape of the word out for the first time.

He thought of her in the pale blue silk dress.

His hand closed into a fist on the desk.

Tommy noticed. “Joel.”

Joel looked up, while Tommy held his gaze. Joel drew one slow breath through his nose. “Get me the east-side handoff sheet.”

“It’s here.” Elias was already moving. He crossed to the desk, shoved aside two call logs and a map of the river lots, and pulled a single page from the stack underneath. His finger landed halfway down. “Correction authorized here. Late afternoon.”

Tommy bent over it. “Signed by?”

Elias’s mouth tightened. “Alvarez.”

Silence moved through the room like a blade. Tommy straightened first. “That enough for you?”

Joel’s eyes stayed on the page.

Still, some final part of the brain that had not yet surrendered to fury demanded one more turn of the lock. One more fact. One more chance, however thin, for the thing not to be what it was becoming.

“Where is he?” Joel asked.

Elias was already reaching for his phone. “South yard office was last check-in.” He hit the call and lifted the phone to his ear.

One ring. Two. Three.

Voicemail.

No one moved. Elias hung up and tried again, his jaw tight enough to show the muscles working in it. “Come on,” he muttered, not even clear whether he was speaking to Alvarez or to whatever remained of the night.

Voicemail again.

Tommy looked away first, toward the window gone black with night, then back to Joel. “Could be he’s in the yard. Could be he tossed the phone.”

Elias lowered the phone slowly. The last scraps of hesitation in his face had burned off, leaving only anger and that quieter, meaner thing beneath it. The need to be allowed to repair what had happened under his watch.

“He was there for the East overlap this afternoon,” Elias said. “He signed the handoff. He knew the route stack, the seam.”

Tommy nodded slowly, “And now he’s not picking up.”

Joel pushed away from the desk. The chair behind him tipped and hit the floor. At the door, he stopped just long enough to look back at the two of them. Tommy with his sleeves rolled and the route sheet still clenched in one hand, Elias mud-streaked and haggard and ready to walk into hell if Joel pointed.

That was the shape of the answer, standing right there in front of him.

West Lake. The house. The east gate. The overlap. The one name sitting too close to all of it.

“Let`s get him,” Joel said.

Tommy was already moving. Elias shoved the phone into his pocket and reached for the gun on the side table like the motion had been waiting inside him for the order.

Somewhere in the yard beyond, engines were still idling, men still moving, radios still spitting fragments into the dark. The whole house had narrowed into one brutal purpose: find Alvarez, break the chain, and find her. And this time Joel did not have to force the fear down. It had already become something else.

Joel was down the front steps before the others fully cleared the office. The yard was already alive with movement. Headlights cut hard white through the damp dark, engines idled low and impatient. Men moved in quick, purposeful lines between the house and the trucks, checking weapons, radios, spare magazines, route sheets. 

Joel barely saw any of it. He crossed straight to the lead truck and yanked the passenger door open. Tommy was in behind the wheel a second later, Elias already circling to the back with two other men. Another truck fell in behind them, four more men packed inside, rifles angled low between their knees.

No one said much when the wheels started turning.

The gravel spat beneath the tires. The house dropped behind them in a wash of porch light and shadow, Maria and Martha no more than still shapes at one of the lower windows as they passed. The night beyond the gates swallowed them fast.

Tommy drove hard. Joel sat forward in the passenger seat, forearms braced on his knees, one hand locked so tight around the pistol at his thigh that the tendons in his wrist stood out pale beneath the skin. The road lights came and went over his face in broken passes. For long stretches he looked carved out of something colder than flesh.

In the back seat Elias said nothing at all. His breathing had gone quieter. The guilt in him had settled into something heavy and metallic, something he carried without comment because there was no room for anything else. Every now and then Joel could feel Elias’s gaze on the side of his head, like he was waiting for blame and grateful, maybe, that it had not come yet.

Tommy kept both hands on the wheel. The speedometer climbed. Mud spat from the rear tires when they took the corner too tight near the service lane.

“We check the yard office first,” he said at last, eyes still on the road. “If he’s there, we don’t lose time. If he’s not—”

“He won’t be there,” Joel said.

It was not intuition. It was certainty. Tommy flicked him one look, brief and unreadable, then pushed the truck faster.

The south yard office sat low and squat behind the service garage, one yellow security bulb burning over the side door. The first truck stopped hard enough to rock them forward in their seats. The second rolled in behind it a heartbeat later.

The men were out of the cars before the engines died. Joel hit the ground moving, Tommy on one side of him, Elias on the other. The office door gave under the first shove.

The office was empty.

The room still smelled of Alvarez, though. Of stale coffee, paper, cheap aftershave, and the heat trapped all day inside concrete walls. A chair was shoved back too far from the desk. One drawer was left half-open. A file box lay overturned on the floor, its contents spilling out in untidy stacks. On the desk itself lay a route sheet, a pen, and the kind of half-finished haste.

Tommy crossed to the desk first and pressed his palm flat to the scattered papers. “Still warm.”

Elias moved to the open drawer, checked it, then looked at Joel. “The phone charger’s gone.”

Joel’s jaw shifted. Not panic, then. Flight. Or attempted flight.

He was already turning for the door.

Alvarez lived fifteen minutes away in a narrow stucco house at the far edge of the south side, tucked into one of those half-respectable little streets where men with too much to hide tried to look ordinary. The porch light was on. One curtain was half drawn. A sedan in the drive was still ticking faintly from recent use.

The second truck rolled past and cut its lights. Two men moved around back. Another took the side gate. One stayed by the drive with his rifle low and his attention on the street.

Joel was already halfway up the path when Tommy caught his shoulder once, not to stop him, just to make him look. “We get the answer first.”

Joel said nothing. Elias stepped onto the porch ahead of them and tested the knob. It was locked.

Tommy knocked once. Hard. Inside, the movement stopped. A shadow crossed the hall. Then stillness.

Tommy knocked again. “Alvarez.”

No answer.

Joel looked through the glass and saw him then, frozen just beyond the archway between the sitting room and the kitchen. Shirt half-buttoned. One sock on, one off. Face gone the particular gray of a man who has just understood his life has narrowed to a single, terrible point.

Tommy said, louder now, “Open the door.”

Alvarez found his voice on the second try. “What the hell is this?”

Joel stepped forward and drove his shoulder through the lock. The door splintered inward against the wall.

Alvarez stumbled back two paces, one hand going up as if that might somehow hold all of them off. His eyes moved too fast across the room: Joel, then Tommy, then Elias coming in behind them with mud still on his boots and murder sitting barely disguised beneath his face.

The three of them entered. The other men stayed outside where they had been told, shadows at the windows and dark weight at the doors.

Alvarez swallowed hard and tried for something that looked like offense. “Jesus Christ, Joel—”

Joel crossed the room. He moved with the terrible calm of a man who had already passed through anger and come out somewhere colder on the other side.

Alvarez backed into the edge of the sofa. “I was just heading in. I left the yard office because—”

Joel hit him with one clean strike. Enough to throw him sideways over the arm of the couch and into the coffee table hard enough that the passport case hit the floor and slid beneath the chair.

The suitcase next to it tipped, clothes spilled out. Tommy shut the broken front door with one shove of his hand and stood there, blocking it.

Alvarez dragged himself upright, one hand pressed to his mouth. Blood already slicked between his fingers. “What the fuck?”

Joel stood over him. “Where?”

The word came out low. Quiet enough that Alvarez had to hear the shape of it rather than the volume. Alvarez blinked blood out of one eye. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Where is she?”

Alvarez’s breathing hitched once. He tried to gather himself into indignation and only managed fear. “I didn’t take anybody.”

Tommy spoke then, voice level and almost conversational, which somehow made the room feel smaller. “You signed the east-side handoff. You vanished from the yard office. You’re packin’ a bag.”

Alvarez looked at him like Tommy had personally betrayed him by remaining reasonable.

“I was leaving because this place is about to get ugly,” he snapped. “That doesn’t mean I know a damn thing about—”

Joel hit him again. Shorter this time, and meaner. A strike to the ribs that folded him over himself with a sound more animal than human. He dropped to one knee, coughing.

Still Joel did not raise his voice. “Where is she?”

Alvarez looked up with watering eyes and blood at the corner of his mouth. “I swear to God, I don’t know—”

Joel caught him by the front of the shirt, hauled him up, and slammed him into the wall beside the bookcase hard enough to rattle the shelves. Frames hit the floor. Glass cracked.

“Where!?”

“I don’t know!”

Tommy pushed off from the door at last and came one step closer. His face had gone hard in a different way than Joel’s. It was less cold, maybe, but no softer for it. “You want to be smart right now, Alvarez,” he said. “This is your one chance.”

“I only shifted one man for ten minutes,” Alvarez burst out. “That’s all I did—”

The room went very still. Elias’s head came up. Tommy exhaled once through his nose.

Joel did not change expression at all. But something in the air did, and Alvarez heard it too late.

“You just gave me more than I asked for.”

Alvarez tried to pull back, but there was nowhere to go. Joel drove him down over the dining table so hard the wood legs scraped across the tile. Alvarez caught himself with one arm, the other twisting wrong beneath him, and cried out when Joel wrenched it farther.

“Where,” Joel asked again, each word clean and separate, “is she?”

“I don’t know the exact place,” Alvarez gasped.

Joel bent the arm harder and Alvarez screamed. Tommy leaned in just enough to place the next fact like a blade. “You handled Riverside overflow this week. East-side storage, river lots, off-book layovers. Try again.”

Alvarez made a sound that was almost a sob. “I never touched her, Joel, I never—”

Joel twisted. Something in Alvarez’s shoulder gave with a wet, sick pop. The scream tore out of him raw and high. Joel let the pain breathe for exactly one second.

Then: “Where is she?”

Alvarez was crying openly now, face slick, voice breaking apart. “I don’t know.”

Joel shifted his grip until Alvarez choked. “I don’t know, I don’t know—”

“Not good enough,” Tommy said.

Joel hauled him upright just to throw him back against the wall. This time Alvarez slid all the way down and stayed there, clutching the ruined shoulder to his chest, sucking air in jagged, frantic pulls.

Joel crouched in front of him. His forearms rested loose over his knees. His face was unreadable.

“You want to tell me now?”

Alvarez shook his head wildly once, then realized what he was doing and scrambled to correct it. “No — I mean —”

Joel reached out, took him by the jaw, and forced his face up.

Their eyes met. Whatever Alvarez saw there was the end of him.

“You want the truth?” he finally choked. “Fine. It was Moretti money. I gave them the window. They said keep her alive. Riverside cold storage.”

Silence hit the room like metal dropped on concrete. For a heartbeat nobody moved.

Then Joel said, “Who’s holding her?”

Alvarez’s breath hitched. “Freelancers. I don’t know names, I swear — I never talked to him direct, I never—”

Joel let him go. The second the answer left his mouth, Alvarez ceased to matter in the room.

Tommy was already reaching for the folded map in his back pocket.

Elias stepped forward at once. “Old cold storage by the river turnoff. Three ways in if they haven’t chained the back.”

Joel was on his feet before Alvarez finished trying to save himself.

“It wasn’t supposed to go this far,” Alvarez said desperately, scrambling against the wall with one hand. “I only gave them the window—”

Joel stopped at the doorway and looked back.

There was nothing loud in his face. Nothing dramatic. Just a kind of extinguished certainty that made Alvarez go pale all over again.

Then Joel walked out.

Elias looked down at Alvarez — the blood, the ruined shoulder, the suitcase spilled open across the floor, the life that had just collapsed under the weight of its own choices — and whatever mercy might once have existed in his face had burned clean out of it.

When he opened the front door, the men waiting outside turned at once.

“Take him,” Elias said.

Two of them moved in immediately. Alvarez started talking before their hands even reached him, panic breaking open where pain had only cracked him.

“I told you where she is— I told you—”

One of the men hauled him upright by the good arm. He screamed.

Elias did not blink. “You’ll keep talking,” he said. “Just not to him.”

The men dragged Alvarez back from the wall and forced his hands behind him with zip ties at the wrists. One of them kicked the fallen passport case out of the way. Another took the phone from the floor and pocketed it without comment.

Tommy glanced back once from the porch. “Don’t let him pass out.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Elias said.

Outside, Joel and Tommy were already moving. Joel climbed into the lead vehicle without breaking stride.

Riverside cold storage.

She was alive.

For now. And every second between him and that warehouse had just become a thing he intended to kill.

First there was only dark, and the dark was kind. It asked nothing of you. It held the pain at a distance, blurred the edges of what had happened, let you drift somewhere just beyond the reach of memory. For one floating, merciful second you thought you might stay there.

Then light hit.

Thin, industrial, jaundiced light buzzing somewhere overhead. But after the dark it felt violent. It came down through your eyelids like needles. Your head throbbed in one sick, deep pulse behind your eyes, then another, then another. Every beat of your heart seemed to strike against something bruised and swollen at the back of your skull.

You made a sound. It hurt.

Your mouth tasted like copper. Your lip had split somewhere. Your cheek was cold against concrete, one side of your face numb from the floor, the other aching where blood had dried sticky at the corner of your mouth. Your stomach rolled hard enough to make the room tilt before you had even opened your eyes.

No. Not the room. The world.

You tried to move and pain lit up in separate places, disconnected at first, as though your body belonged to several different people and all of them had been hurt badly in slightly different ways. Your ribs. Your wrists. Your shoulder. One knee. The back of your head.

You opened your eyes.

The ceiling swam. A hanging industrial lamp buzzing weakly, its light cutting down through dust. For a moment none of it arranged itself into meaning. You watched the lamp swing just enough to make the shadows shift, and your mind, still half-submerged, reached stupidly for the thought that this could be a dream if you just kept still enough.

Then you tried to bring your hands up and found them bound.

The panic was immediate and so sharp it almost made you black out again.

There were plastic restraints at your wrists, pulled tight in front of you. Your ankles were tied close enough that your legs jerked awkwardly when you tried to kick. Something rough knotted behind your head and jammed into your mouth. A cloth, soaked through with the heat of your own breath.

You made another sound against it, uglier this time, and the room resolved around that noise whether you wanted it to or not.

You were at a warehouse. Concrete floor. Metal walls. Pallets stacked in one corner. The smell of rust and oil. Damp. Some old machine with one tire gone soft. There were no windows low enough to matter. No door open enough to promise anything. No Scout.

The thought landed and vanished again, swallowed by the nausea that rose so violently you squeezed your eyes shut and bent forward on instinct, gagging uselessly against the cloth. The back of your skull flared and the dark rushed in around the edges at once, quick and seductive.

Stay there, some part of you whispered. Stay there. If you stay there, it won’t hurt.

But then voices reached you. Male voices. And the dark stopped being refuge and became something you could be trapped inside while worse things happened.

So you forced your eyes open again.

A laugh came from somewhere to your left. “She’s comin’ round.”

Another voice, farther back. “Took long enough.”

Your breathing went shallow. The cloth over your mouth sucked inward and outward with each ragged inhale, damp and foul and inescapable. The room kept shifting in and out of focus. Faces would not stay faces for long. They slid at the edges, blurred by the throb at the base of your skull.

One man sat on an overturned crate near the loading bay, boots planted wide, cigarette ember glowing between his fingers. Another leaned against a steel post with his arms folded, restless in the shoulders. A third stood farther back, half in shadow, broad and still and watchful in a way that made him feel more dangerous than the others.

You tried to push yourself farther back and found the wall already there. The motion made your head split open all over again. White burst behind your eyes. You tasted bile.

The smoker exhaled toward the ceiling. 

“Alvarez call back yet?”

“No.”

“He was supposed to.”

The smoker flicked ash onto the concrete. “He got us the window. Maybe he decided that was enough.”

The other man muttered something under his breath. “East gate turned quicker than he said it would.”

“Yeah, well,” the smoker said. “We still got her, didn’t we?”

A pause. Then, lower: “You hear anything else from Moretti?”

“Not yet.”

“What’s the plan if he doesn’t call?”

The smoker shrugged one shoulder. “Then we wait.”

Window. East gate. Alvarez. Moretti.

The name punched through the fog.

Moretti.

For one blank second your mind refused it. Then the rest of the words came apart inside you like dropped glass.

The words struck and slid and left cuts on their way through. You could not hold them yet. Could barely hold yourself. But somewhere underneath the fear a colder understanding was beginning to form.

You pulled at the restraints once, hard enough to burn the skin at your wrists. Pain shot clean up both arms. Your shoulder gave a sharp, tearing protest that made you gasp against the gag.

The dark swelled at the edges again.

Please, your body thought, though it wasn’t clear whether it meant for the pain to stop, for the room to disappear, or for consciousness itself to leave you alone.

One of the men pushed off from the steel post and came closer.

Not the smoker. The other one. Younger, maybe. Or just meaner in a less patient way. His face only fully resolved when he stepped into the cone of light above you: rough stubble, narrow eyes, a mouth already bending wrong.

He crouched in front of you and looked at you too long.

“Well,” he said softly. “Such a pretty little thing.”

Your whole body locked.

The room had gone very quiet around that one sentence. Even the lamp seemed to buzz lower.

The smoker gave a small sound through his teeth. “Don’t.”

The crouching man ignored him. His gaze moved over you with the kind of lazy assessment that made your skin feel as though it no longer belonged to you. “Moretti didn’t say she was fragile,” he said. “Just said she has to be breathing. Shame to waste all that.”

You made a strangled sound against the cloth and tried to shrink back farther, but the wall was already hard against your spine. Your bound hands came up uselessly to your chest, fingers numb and clumsy.

The third man—the one in shadow—spoke for the first time.

His voice was flat. “You don’t touch her.”

It wasn't protective, or kind, just a command. The crouching man glanced back over his shoulder. “Didn’t say I was gonna break her.”

“The orders were clear.”

There was a pause. Then the crouching man smiled without humor. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean she’s made of glass.”

The smoker laughed once, low and ugly. “Permanent damage wasn’t in the plan.”

Something cold and ancient moved through you then, so deep it almost bypassed panic and became certainty. Not certainty about exactly what they would do. That would have been easier, in a way. Easier to survive than this shapeless, waiting cruelty, this sense of men testing the boundaries of an order to see how much of you fit inside it.

You shook your head once. Hard. 

No, no, no.

It hurt too much. Your vision doubled for a second. The crouching man’s face slipped out of focus and back again.

You thought wildly of the library.

Of firelight on bookshelves. Of Scout stretched heavy over your feet. Of Joel standing in the doorway.

The memory hurt so sharply it almost knocked the air from you. Because it was the last place you had felt remotely safe.

And because under the pain, under the nausea, under the humiliation of being bound and looked at and spoken over like freight, the need rose clean and terrible:

You wanted the safety of him. The steadiness. The impossible shelter of his hand at your back. 

You wanted to be where he was.

The thought was so desperate it shamed you. But it changed nothing.

The crouching man reached for the knot at the back of your head. Your body recoiled before you had time to think.

“Don’t,” the smoker said again, sharper now. “Boss said breathing.”

The man’s hand paused. Then, slowly, he dragged the cloth down anyway until it hung around your throat.

Air hit your mouth too fast and too cold. You sucked it in and immediately choked on it, coughing against the ache in your ribs until tears sprang uselessly into your eyes.

“There,” the man said, a cruel twist on his lips. “That’s friendlier.”

Your voice came back in pieces. Hoarse and small. Barely there. “Please.”

The man smiled. Your stomach dropped.

The third man stepped out of shadow at last. Bigger than the others. Older. Jacket zipped to the throat. The kind of face that had stopped caring whether anyone mistook cruelty for discipline.

He looked at the crouching man and said, “I said no.”

The crouching man straightened slowly, annoyed rather than chastened. “You said don’t leave damage.”

The older man’s eyes flicked to you once. Not at your face. At the blood at your lip, the strain in your wrists, the bruises already darkening at your knees.

Then back to his man. “I said no.”

The air in your lungs shook. The younger man spat to one side, but he stepped back. The older one moved closer instead and crouched where the younger man had been, though he did not touch you. His voice, when he spoke, was almost conversational.

“You stay quiet, this stays simple.”

Simple. It was a joke in a language too cruel to be funny.

Your throat worked. “Please,” you said again, because there was nothing else and because fear had already stripped too much from you to leave pride intact.

He stood without answering.

The men drifted back a pace or two, speaking low enough that some of the words blurred into static. But not all of them.

“Next call in twenty.”

“Alvarez check in yet?”

“No.”

A pause.

“He was supposed to.”

The smoker flicked ash onto the concrete. “If Miller was moving, we’d know.”

“You sure about that?”

“That’s what Alvarez was for.”

Another beat.

Then, with more irritation than alarm: “Until Moretti says otherwise, we stay put. We keep her here till we’re told different.”

“And if Miller starts tearin’ through half the city?”

Another pause. 

Then, with a shrug you could hear more than see: “Then that’s on him.”

The words landed somewhere cold. Another voice, lower now: “Whole point is he comes in loud.”

“Yeah,” the smoker said. “And when he does, everybody gets to say who broke the peace first.”

Your stomach turned. You were not simple leverage, b ut a trap.

That understanding struck with nauseating force. A body used to move another body. It was not revenge for its own sake. It was business. A strategy.

The younger man came back into your field of vision with irritation still on him like heat. “She’s lookin’ at the door.”

You hadn’t known you were. Every part of you was straining toward impossible exits, impossible rescue, impossible return.

He reached down too fast, fingers closing around your chin. Pain flared where his grip found bruised skin. You hissed through your teeth and turned your face away as much as he let you.

His thumb pressed harder. “You scream, I put the rag back.”

Your breath stuttered. You thought with sudden, crystal clarity: He is not going to stop because I ask him to. And because your fear had nowhere else left to go, your mind reached for Joel again. You wanted this safety now with the force of grief.

The younger man leaned closer.

Then something slammed outside. An impact. Metal against metal hard enough to shudder through the floor beneath you.

All three men froze. The younger one turned his head first. “What the hell was that?”

A second impact followed. Closer, heavier. Then the scream of some chain or lock forced past what it had been built to hold.

The older man swore and went for his weapon.

Your heartbeat went wild.

Then the night outside blew open.

Shouting. Boots. A shot close enough to crack the air in half. Another answering it. Men moving fast, too many of them, the whole warehouse jerking awake around the violence of entry.

The younger man grabbed for you reflexively.

And the look on his face changed when he realized, a half second too late, that whatever had just come through those doors was not here to bargain.

The door at the far end of the warehouse blew inward hard enough to slam against the interior wall.

Boots on concrete. A body hitting metal. The bark of a gunshot inside an enclosed space so sharp it made the whole room jump around it. Someone cursed. Another man yelled something that cut off too fast to finish. The smoker was already reaching for his weapon when a dark shape came through the loading-bay entrance and drove him backward into the crates hard enough to split wood and send splinters skidding across the floor.

The older man had his gun halfway up when Elias shot him.

One shot. No hesitation. The man jerked once and went down against the steel post with a sound that was all weight and no dignity.

The younger one by you swore and spun, dragging his gun free too late.

Tommy hit him from the side before he could level it, the force of it taking both of them into the forklift. Metal screamed against concrete. The gun went off wild into the ceiling. Dust rained down. Tommy’s forearm came across the man’s throat as he slammed him back, once, twice, brutal and economical, until the fight went out of him in pieces.

More men flooded in behind them. Two at the back exit. One sweeping left. Another already checking the raised platform. Gunlights cut white through the dimness in hard, moving bars. Commands snapped low and clipped across the space.

“Clear.”

“Left side clear.”

“Back’s chained.”

“Move.”

And in the middle of all of it, Joel.

You knew him before you properly saw him.

Something in you recognized the shape of him even through the pounding in your skull and the blur at the edges of your vision. The way he moved through the room with no wasted motion, no panic visible except in the absolute violence of his focus. He looked like every terrible thing in him had been honed to one single edge and pointed in only one direction.

Toward you.

The younger man by the forklift was still trying to breathe enough to fight again when Joel reached him.

Joel did not break stride. He took the man by the front of the jacket, drove him once into the side of the machine, and the crack that followed was ugly enough that you shut your eyes on reflex. When you opened them again, Tommy was already dragging the man backward by the collar to clear the floor, blood running from his mouth in a thin dark line.

Joel never looked at him again.

He was looking at you.

That was the first time anything in his face moved.

The impossible, terrible split-second in which he registered the ties, the gag hanging loose around your throat, the blood at your mouth, the way you were curled against the wall like your own body no longer knew how to occupy space without bracing for harm.

His breath caught. 

And then he was in front of you, dropping to one knee on the concrete so fast it looked like falling.

“Hey.”

The word came out rough. Your vision blurred all over again and relief hit almost as violently as fear had.

His hand came to your face, not quite touching at first, hovering for one second as if making sure you could bear it. Then his palm settled against your jaw, broad and warm and shaking only once before he got it under control.

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

You tried. His face swam, sharpened, swam again.

“It’s me,” he said, lower now. “I’ve got you.”

Some broken sound left you. You did not know if it was his name or just breath. You coughed, air scraping your throat raw, and he was already there to steady you through it, one hand at the back of your neck, the other braced at your shoulder.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Easy, baby. Breathe.”

You were trying. But the room would not stay still long enough to do it properly. His thumb brushed once, quickly, at the blood at the corner of your mouth.

Behind him, the warehouse was still full of motion with Joel`s men checking the corners. Elias was barking something toward the loading bay. Another set of footsteps moved over the concrete, fast and heavy and fully under control.

Joel did not look away from you. His gaze flicked once over your face, your ribs, your wrists, the angle of your shoulder.

“Can you tell me where it hurts?”, he asked gently.

You tried to answer and got no farther than a strangled breath.

“It’s okay.” His voice softened even more. “Don’t force it.”

His hand moved to the back of your head, fingers threading carefully through your hair until they found the swelling there. You flinched.

His mouth hardened. “Get the truck to the bay. Call Doc. Now,” he said over his shoulder to Tommy.

You were shaking. You had not realized how badly until Joel’s hands on you made the tremor visible, turned it from private terror into something he could feel outright.

“Hey.” He leaned closer, enough that the rest of the room dimmed at the edges and there was only his face, his voice, the pressure of his hand grounding the back of your neck. “Stay with me, sweetheart.”

Your eyes stung. The effort of keeping them open felt impossible.

“I’m here,” he said. “You hear me? I’m here.”

You made another broken sound, smaller this time.

Joel’s expression changed in a way you had never seen before. The fury had not gone anywhere. It still lived in the set of his jaw, the economy of his movements. But underneath it, for one raw and unguarded beat, there was something like fear.

For you.

And because you were concussed and hurting and too stripped down to defend yourself from the truth of your own mind, the sight of it almost undid you.

His knife flashed once through the ties at your wrists. The relief there was immediate and vicious, sensation crashing back through your hands in burning pins. You cried out before you could stop it.

“I know,” he tried to soothe you. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

Then he freed your ankles. He looked at the way you folded the moment the bindings were gone, the way your body pitched sideways under the pain in your ribs and shoulder.

“I’m gonna lift you now, okay?,” he asked, his voice still so very gentle.

One arm slid behind your back, careful of the injured shoulder. The other came beneath your knees. Even that gentleness hurt enough to tear a sound out of you.

Joel’s face tightened. “I know,” he said again, rougher this time. “I know, sweetheart. Just hold on.”

Then he lifted you. Pain flashed bright under your ribs. Your head spun so hard your vision went black at the edges for a second. Instinct threw your hands upward, and the only place they found was him. Your fist caught weakly in the front of his jacket, fingers twisting there as if that grip were the only thing left between you and falling.

Joel adjusted immediately, gathering you closer against his chest, taking more of your weight, angling your head into the hollow beneath his jaw where the motion hurt a fraction less.

“There you go,” he murmured. “That’s it,  sweetheart.”

You could hear his heartbeat. Too fast. Too hard.

You turned your face into him, drawn by warmth, by the smell of rain and leather and him under both, by the simple unbearable fact that he was solid and alive and here.

The warehouse lurched around you as he rose. Someone on the far side of the room groaned. One of Joel’s men snapped at him to stay down. Another called the back exit secure. Elias crossed into view, rifle still in hand, eyes sweeping the room one last time before landing on you.

His face changed with guilt. Relief.

“She good to move, boss?” he asked, meaning not good at all but alive enough to survive the next ten minutes.

Joel did not take his eyes off you. “Let`s get her home.”

He was taking you out.

Home.

Tommy suddenly appeared at Joel’s shoulder, blood on one knuckle and dust in his hair, already all business again because the room required it. “Truck’s at the bay. Doc’s on his way. We got two alive.”

Joel nodded once. He carried you through the warehouse without slowing. His men parted around him instinctively.

The cold night air hit your skin all at once when he stepped out through the loading bay. You flinched and he tightened his hold instantly.

“Almost there, sweetheart,” he murmured against your hair. “Stay with me.”

The truck was backed right up to the loading platform, the headlights throwing hard white into the damp dark. One of the rear doors already stood open. Another man had blankets while someone else was spreading one across the bench seat with hurried, careful hands.

Joel climbed in with you still in his arms. One of the men handed up another blanket. Joel took it from him and wrapped it around you, drawing it close beneath your chin with a care so controlled it almost hurt to feel. When that still didn’t stop the shaking, he pulled off his jacket and folded it over you too, broad and heavy and warm from his body.

“There,” he tried to soothe you, though his voice was rough. “I’ve got you.”

He looked down at you. At the swelling at your temple, the blood dried at your mouth. The bruises beginning under your skin. The way you could not stop shaking even now. His throat worked once. Then his forehead touched yours for the briefest second, so brief you might have thought the truck had jolted if not for the way his next breath came in uneven.

“You’re safe,” he whispered.

Your fingers tightened weakly against him.

The truck lurched into motion, and Joel held you through it. And when the dark rushed up again, you did not fight it quite so hard. Because he was there.

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The afternoon of the funeral came with heavy clouds that threatened snow, half obscuring the burial mounds when you stepped out from the long house. The icy chill had been replaced by a wet wind from the south, making the snow underfoot soggy and thick as you walked with Saga and Assar towards the ship that had been pulled up to the middle of the graves. A pyre had been built on it's deck, a tent erected over it, and inside was a soft bed made with pelts and rugs. Around the ship stood Styrbjörn's hirdmen in a final show of strength for their leader, waiting to carry him up to the deck of the ship and place him in his final resting place.

You'd never witnessed a funeral done the old way. The tradition had all but gone by the time you were old enough to attend, and you only had vague memories of a funeral pyre done on a much smaller ship. Burning the body on a pyre was still the way most did it, but the Christian way of burying someone unburnt and without any objects was becoming more common, even here. This, what you were about to witness, would probably never be done again, at least not in Norway.

Your grandmother Liv had told you and Saga what to expect, the fate of the thrall girl, and the great sacrifices that were to be made. It had made you uneasy, knowing a young woman would die as a sacrifice to the gods because of Styrbjörn insisting, even from beyond death, that the old ways were honoured. You still firmly believed in your gods, and the traditions that came with them, but you weren't sure that they required such bloody offerings. The long conversations you've had with Pero about the gods that your people worshipped had shifted your beliefs. And Pero's pragmatic view on his own religion made you doubt the more archaic rules of yours. He seemed to believe that, perhaps, there was a God somewhere, but he didn't rely on it, or that unknown deity. And he certainly didn't expect his god to look out for him, that was a trust he'd lost a long time ago.

You remembered how bitter his face had looked when he told you that; 'Even if I wasn't a thrall in this godforsaken place, I wouldn't trust any god to look out for someone like me.'

It had made you reach out and touch his face, running your fingertips across the scar over his eye.

"You're someone important to me, and I think some god at least made sure you came here for a reason."

You glanced around to see if you could spot him in the crowd. The family had gathered to one side, watching the tent where Styrbjörn's body still lay, watched over by the gyðjur, the old woman, and the young thrall woman who was about to lose her life. The thralls were standing further back, silently watching as the men went to the tent and prepared their last act of service. You saw Pero towards the back, standing to the side next to Nicholas, and you risked looking at him for a few moments longer. And as if he felt your eyes on him, he turned his head and looked over, meeting your eyes across the space between thralls and free people.

The corner of his mouth pulled up in the smallest of smiles, making his near permanent scowl disappear for a moment as you felt a flash of warmth on your skin. Then he looked away, the smile vanishing as fast as it had come, and you turned your head back towards the ship, hiding your own smile.

A loud call went up, the gyðjur raising her voice in a chant as the hirdmen stepped out of the tent, carrying the corpse on their shoulders. You saw that it was dressed in new, richly decorated clothes, but the skin had turned black in the cold of the past ten days. The gyðjur and the young woman followed behind, and stood beneath the ship and looked up as the hirdmen placed Styrbjörn's corpse inside the tent. You watched the young woman who was about to die, trying to see how she was facing the fate she'd chosen. But she looked haggard, dark rings under her eyes and a vacant stare into nothing, as if she wasn't present. You knew she'd been plied with strong mead for the past ten days and probably other potions by the two women who watched over her. She looked as if she was still intoxicated by the drink as she stared with empty eyes at the ship. Many of the men standing around you had slept with her at least once, as a way of honouring their fallen lord. Some truly believed it was final message to Styrbjörn, to give him a good life in Valhalla, others, even those who had supposedly converted to Christianity, just took the opportunity to fuck the boneless thrall girl. Even Assar had been to her at least once, you'd seen him enter the tent, and he'd shrugged when you asked him why.

"It's the way it's done, Styrbjörn wanted a funeral done in the old way."

You'd turned away in disgust, some traditions were meant to be left behind.

The ceremonies by the ship began, and the air filled with songs and chanting as the ritual sacrifices took place. Styrbjörn's most trusted hound, a big dog that looked more like a wolf, was brought out and slaughtered, the dark blood staining the snow crimson. When they brought out two of the horses, you looked away. Their screams made you want to plug your ears.

The animals were placed alongside Styrbjörn's body and first the gyðjur, and then the thrall woman were helped up onto the ship. From your position you could see onto the deck and into the new tent where Styrbjörn now lay on his soft bed. The young woman was given a potion to drink, and called out to her master after draining the horn, claiming she could see him in Valhalla, waiting for her. When the woman was urged into the tent, followed by six men, your father Agnar, Håkon and Assar among them, you looked away. Liv had told you what came next, and you didn't wish to see. The noise was hard enough to block out as it was, as ropes were tied around her arms and neck, the poor woman suddenly protesting as fear for her life overcame her drunken state. The hirdmen around the ship began to beat their spears on their shields, the noise almost drowning out the cries from the thrall as the gyðjur slid a long ornate dagger between her ribs.

At last it was over. The beating of the shields ended, and everyone left the ship as the gyðjur arranged the woman's body next to Styrbjörn's. She closed the drapes, hiding the scene from view, and was helped down too. Håkon, Stybjörn's son, remained on the ship and he faced his father, raising a torch. The scene was still for a few long moments, the fire flickering in the damp wind and all waited while Håkon said a last farewell. He lowered the torch to the wood, watching it catch as the wind caught it. Then he jumped down, landing with a thump on the snow covered ground as the smoke began to rise from the ship. The wood had been doused in oil, and soon the fire had engulfed the whole structure.

From behind you, you heard the horses in the stable whinny, made nervous by the smell of smoke and fire. Now that the ceremony was over, you could leave. The ship would burn for many hours yet, fed by more wood, until Styrbjörn's body and the body of the young woman were nothing but ash.

"I'm going to go check on Aska," you told Saga, "I'll see you in the long house in a bit."

She nodded, and you turned your back on the funeral pyre, walking up the hill towards the stable.

Pero stood next to Nicholas, among the other thralls, and watched you leave from the corner of his eye. Nicholas had explained the ceremony in whispers to him, and the smell of smoke, as he knew what burnt in it, was making him uneasy. As the other thralls began to leave, returning to their chores he decided he'd seen enough.

"I'm leaving, need to feed the horses," he told Nicholas, who nodded.

"I'm getting out of this damp, I'll see you later."

The horses were calmer by the time he was done with feeding them, bringing a few of them in from the field. The field was covered in snow, but the sturdier Norse bred horses were happiest out in the cold, their thick winter coats protecting them against the weather. A few of the Steinvikr thralls were doing their chores in the stable too, ignoring Pero as he went about his business and took care of the Ulvehi horses. He walked past the stall where you were grooming Aska, and filled up her manger.

"Thank you," you nodded to him, glancing up as he dumped a generous helping of dry hay into the box, "And bring her some more oats, she didn't get any this morning. The stable master forgot."

He nodded and did as you asked, taking his time filling up a bucket and cutting up some shrivelled apples too as a treat. He knew Aska liked them, and he had a feeling you wanted to spoil her extra today.

Aska smelled the oats before he'd even reached her stall, and he heard her whinny as he approached, her dark head appearing over the wall.

"Greedy lady," he chuckled as she dove nose first into his bucket, crunching at the oat kernels. You were smiling too, leaning with your arm over her rump and scratching at the top of her tail.

Pero held the bucket for Aska and glanced over at the door, the last of the Steinvikr thralls leaving for the evening meal that would soon be served. As the family feasted, so did the thralls this time, to honour the young woman who had sacrificed herself at the funeral.

When he was certain the last of them had left, Pero stepped into the stall and put the bucket on the ground.

"I brought Aska these," he said, pulling the apples from his pocket, "I thought you might want to spoil her a bit."

"I was told stories about this kind of funeral, but I never saw it," you replied, gratefully accepting Aska's treats. She'd finished with the oats, and now she smelled the apples, turning towards you. "We must seem like such barbarians to you and Nicholas," you said.

Pero took one of the apple wedges from you, and held out his hand to Aska's searching nose.

"I've seen many barbaric things on the battlefield, and I know what people are willing to do for their gods. The Norse are no worse than others."

You leaned your head on his shoulder as Aska took another piece of apple, "I miss you," you mumbled, "I miss being in the stable, just you and me."

Pero pulled you in closer, letting his chin rest on the top of your head, "I miss you too, amor."

His hands caressed your back, warming you, as you listened to his heart beat.

"I long for a quiet life," he said in a hushed tone after a few minutes, "I can work hard, and be happy with it, as long as it's for you and me only. I don't want to work for someone else anymore."

You buried your face into the rough fabric of his tunic, tears welling up as the weight of what felt like the very mountains around Stevinvikr pressed down on you. The difficult challenges that stood between you and Pero having that quiet life, all the things that could go wrong, and keep you apart.

Losing him.

Losing the hope of having children with him.

Pero felt your shoulders shake under his hands, and pulled away enough to look down at you, his hands cupping your face as he wiped at your tears.

"Don't cry, amor," he whispered, "We will get there, I promise. I will never stop fighting to get there, even if I have to cross the world again."

He pressed a soft kiss to your lips, tasting the salt of your tears, "Soon this will be in the past, we'll be in a bed that's our own. And this will only be a dark memory," he said, kissing your lips again, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. His surprised moan as you made him part his lips for your warm tongue made you smile, tears still clinging to your eyelashes.

"You give me hope, Pero," you mumbled against his mouth as his hands took hold of your hips and pushed you up against the wall of the stall.

The loud clap of the door of the stable closing made you jump, and Pero dropped you, stepping back into the corner by Aska. You hurried out of the stall, stepping into the aisle and nearly knocking over Saga. Her eyes were wide, and in an instance you knew she'd seen something.

You stared at each other for a few long moments, as fear turned your insides to liquid. She shook her head, a small movement, and turned around, going for the door again.

"The feast" she said, "It's beginning, I was sent to fetch you."

You glanced over at Pero, his eyebrows pulled tight. With a wave of his hand he urged you to follow Saga, and you hurried after her, without a backwards glance at him.

"Saga, wait," you called after her. She slowed down and let you catch up.

"How are the horses?" she asked, "The fire and smoke must've unsettled them?"

"They're calm now, the wind shifted I think."

You were watching her face closely, but she only smiled and continued walking towards the long house. Had she really seen something? And what had she seen? You wanted to ask, but couldn't without giving it all away. Your nails were digging into your palms, buried deep in the fold of your cloak, as you followed her inside.

The feast was long, songs and speeches, increasingly more slurred as the long winter evening passed. When the men became too rowdy, Saga took her children to bed, and after a while you felt her hand on your shoulder and looked up. She was holding a jug and two cups.

"Come on, let's leave the men to it. You know the rest of the night will be filled with piss and tall tales."

She wasn't wrong, but you had to laugh at the way she was describing the funeral feast. So rather than witness the descent into drunken stupor that was well under way, you followed her back to the room you shared. Her young daughter was sleeping in her cot, and a fire burned bright in the hearth.

Saga sat down on the bed, cross legged, while she filled the cups and passed you one.

"Did I see what I think I saw in the stable?" she asked without preamble, making you choke on the warm mead.

Coughing, you stalled for time, but Saga didn't have patience to wait for you to clear your throat.

"The thrall, I think I saw you kiss him, and he didn't seem to mind," she said, tilting her head to the side and studying you as panic filled your chest.

"Saga…" you began, but she shook her head.

"I think I know what I saw, and your look right now tells me I'm right," she said, pointing at you with her cup, a smile creeping up her face, "But is he there only to warm your bed, or will Agnar have a thrall as his son in law?"

"You cannot say anything to anyone, Saga," you hissed at her, your fingers making the cup in your hand creak as the smile slipped off her face.

"You know I won't" she huffed, "And I'm offended you'd even suggest it. But I want to hear about it, I thought you would not look at another man after Grim. But here you are, with a dark eyed thrall none the less. Why him? Ulvehi is full of hirdmen, why risk angering your father with a thrall?"

"He…"

You trailed off, you didn't know how to continue. How did you begin to explain the past year with Pero? The way he'd moved into your heart so slowly you hadn't even noticed it at first. And now it felt like you couldn't breathe when he looked at you, but equally, you craved his eyes on you always, the need to be near him so deep in your bones.

"He…"

You shook your head, tears welling up in your eyes as you inhaled a shaky breath. Saga promptly put down her cup and pulled you into her arms, letting your head rest on her shoulder.

"Don't cry," she whispered softly, "Tell me about him."

"I need him," you mumbled, "I need him. I'm going to get him away from Ulvehi, he's going to come to England with me when my father makes me leave, and then we're running away together."

It all came out in a rush as Saga stroked your hair and you felt her nod against your head.

"Then what I heard in the stable was right, it didn't sound like a simple fling to warm your bed."

"No," you shook your head, sitting up again, "No, not at all, it never was. I felt like I fought it every step of the way, and I know he did. But I have no choice now, I have to risk everything for him, or I won't survive. He's all I want."

"What is your father planning? To marry you off against your will again?"

"To some old lord in England, as soon as his current wife dies," you told her as her face turned sour.

"That is not our way," she grimaced, "He knows better. Styrbjörn was not happy after you were sent to Sigtuna, and he would have words about this if he was still alive."

"I'm not marrying anyone."

"Except the thrall?" Saga smirked and it made you smile too, "He seemed pretty keen on you too. You're certain he's not just using you to get his freedom?"

"Twice he had the chance to kill me, or let me die, and run to save himself. But the first time he left me alive, and the second time he saved my life from a wolf," you shook your head at her suggestion as she refilled your cup, "I know him, he is not a deceitful man, he just wants to return to his old life, and somehow the gods made our paths cross at the time when we most needed each other."

"Where does he come from?"

"He was captured in England when his village was raided, but he hasn't told me much about it. I think…" you paused as you thought back to what little Pero had told you about his life before Ulvehi. He hadn't avoided your question, but his answers had been short, and his look darker than usual.

"I think speaking of it is painful to him, or maybe difficult because he lost his freedom. He's such a strong man, so fierce and capable. To have no say in his own life, it's not easy for him."

"And you know what that's like," Saga said, "I see why there's a connection between you."

"He used to be a mercenary, Thorsten told me he killed several of Ulf Eriksson's men when he was captured. But you can see why a man like that, a warrior like our own brothers, would be like a caged wolf when he's forced to be a thrall?"

"It's not a life that suits everyone," Saga nodded, "You remember Knut, the dark skinned thrall who came back with Styrbjörn when we were young?"

"I remember when they found his body, he'd been in the fjord for weeks," you replied.

"He'd tried swimming down to Skiringssal, to escape. He was never mistreated here, but he just couldn't live as a thrall."

"Pero talked about it, he was trying to find a way out," you said, draining the last of your cup. You were starting to feel it's effects and you put it aside, shaking your head as Saga refilled hers.

"Ulvehi is even more protected, no thrall runs from there," she said, glancing over at her daughter's crib to make sure she was still sleeping soundly.

"And those who try, die," you nodded, "So you see, our hope is to leave together. After he saved my life from the wolf, father made him my body guard. He wants Pero to prove his loyalty over the winter, and when the spring comes, to join the hird. I'm going to insist on bringing him as my guard on the journey across to England. He speaks the language and knows the land after all."

"And then you run?"

"Then we run together."

Saga nodded, looking grim first, but then her face shifted into something more forlorn.

"I'll miss you, cousin. But I understand why you have to run from it, just let me know when you're safe. If you can, send a message to me."

"I think we'll try to stay as far away as possible form any trade routes to the north," you said, "But if I can, I'll try. And if not, we'll meet in Hel."

"Good, don't convert to that weak Christian god," she pulled a face that made you laugh, even though your heart stung at having to leave all your family behind just because your father was stubborn and determined to grow his wealth and power. At your expense at that!

The thought made your face turn grim again, "If only Håkon was Jarl, he would take my side and keep the family with the old way. I do not understand this eagerness to abandon the old gods my father has. I fear they will intervene and bring ill fortune to the family when the head of it changes his allegiance."

"His own daughter rebelling and running off with a foreign mercenary, a former thrall, is perhaps the gods doing," Saga said, "What else would bring a southern mercenary all the way to England, and then captured and brought here? They've brought you a strong fighter just as you needed it the most, a man who can protect you. And love you."

"I hadn't thought of it that way, but maybe you're right. Perhaps the Norns are pulling the strings of both our lives."

"In that case," Saga said, putting down her now empty cup and sticking her legs under the covers, "I feel calm, the Norns have a plan for you and for your mercenary. They wouldn't have brought him all the way here just to fail. Just let me know where you end up, and name one of your children after me."

You crawled into the bed too and smiled, "I'll give our children Norse names so that they'll always know their gods."

It took another day or two before everything was packed up for the journey back to Ulvehi, and with the thralls preparing for the journey, you didn't get a chance to speak to Pero alone again. But Assar, Saga's brother, found you the last morning and pulled you to one side, out of view behind the long house.

"Fraendi," he said, holding on to your arm, "cousin…don't be angry with Saga, but I made her tell me of your plans."

"What do you mean, Assar?" you asked, trying to keep your face neutral as fear crept into your limbs.

"I won't say anything to anyone," he replied, holding up his hands, "Don't worry, but the thrall with the scar, the dark one, he keeps looking at you like he'll fight anyone who gets too close, so I asked Saga if you'd said something about him. If he was a threat."

"He's not," you cut in, "he won't do anything."

"I know, and now I know what he is to you, and I just want to say that your father is wrong to force you to marry again and if I can help you and the thrall, I will."

"You can't, Assar, it'll split the family if you challenge my father. Håkon will have to take your side and my father will see that as a challenge to his position as Jarl. The king might even intervene and then what? We'll have a battle on our hands."

Assar nodded as you spoke, pulling you further in behind the house as your voice rose, "I know, but maybe I can request to sail to England with you, if it comes to fighting, you'll do better with me at your side too. And I can make sure Håkon and the Jarl knows a fight was inevitable to protect you, or that we were attacked by bandits. They won't question my word, and I'll make sure anyone who would, is dead in England."

"Assar…" you said, moved by the large man's willingness to risk so much to help you escape, "I don't know what to say…"

"It's not because of the thrall," Assar replied, shaking his head, "He is not one of us, you shouldn't marry a thrall. But you should marry a Norseman, not be shipped off to a Christian Englishman. It's not the way we do things and your father knows that, this is all about him gaining more power and it won't end well for this family. The king will force us all to convert and leave the old gods."

"So you'd rather help me run away and marry a foreign thrall than see me forced to marry a Christian?"

Assar nodded, then shook his head, "Yes, and no… I want you to marry someone of your own choosing, I want you to be happy. You're like my sister, and I would do the same for her if our father tried to force her into another marriage. But I'm not wild about you marrying a thrall, you kno-"

"So fucking them is fine, but falling is love is where you draw the line? You've fucked almost every one of the thrall girls at Stevinvikr, and I remember you being heart broken when Svala was sold."

"That was different…" Assar tried to protest, but you wouldn't have it.

"He is a warrior like you, he was born a free man, like you, and he's fought even more battles than you. The Norns brought him here so that I would have someone who would fight for me, and only me, when the Christian god has made my father lose his old faith. I was meant to fall in love with him, and he was meant to fall in love with me, so that we can do this together. He is not a thrall, and you're lucky you've never met him on the battlefield. Just ask Ulf Eriksson's men!"

"Calm, cousin, if you say he's worthy of you, then I believe you," Assar chuckled, he had to take a step back as you shook your finger under his nose, "I will help you if need it, just send word here when it's time to sail to England. I won't say anything to anyone, but your scar faced man will have a second sword at his side when it comes to taking down that English lord."

"Pero Tovar," you said, your anger simmering down at Assar's promise, "His name is Pero Tovar."

"These Christians and their strange names…." Assar shook his head and you slapped his arm, making him chuckle again, "Have a safe journey back to Ulvehi, and try not to kill your father. I will protect you in England."

Chapter 14

So when you opened your eyes that morning and remembered the date, your first feeling was not excitement. You lay still for a moment under the blankets, listening. Scout, sprawled half across the rug and half in the thin patch of light by the window, lifted his head when you moved. His tail gave one slow thump against the floor.

“Hi,” you murmured.

He stood, stretched long enough to shiver through his whole body, then crossed to the side of the bed and pressed his head against your hand until you scratched behind his ear. He felt warm and solid. 

You got up more slowly than usual, pulling on a sweater, smoothing a hand over your hair as though that might make you feel more assembled than you did. Scout stayed close as you left the room, trotting at your heel like he’d already decided your job for the day was not to be alone any longer than necessary.

The smell hit you halfway down the stairs. Coffee first. Then butter, then sugar and something deep and warm beneath it. When you reached the bottom of the stairs and turned toward the smaller dining room, you stopped short in the doorway.

For a second, you only stared. The table had been set for breakfast, but differently than usual. There were flowers sat in a low jar at the center, pale and fresh. A cake was there too, dark chocolate with candles already waiting, and everyone was looking up at you like they had been expecting this exact moment.

Surprise hit first. Not just at the table, or the flowers, or the fact that someone had made an actual birthday cake before breakfast. At the fact that they knew, that they had remembered.

“Oh, my God,” you muttered, half to Scout, who stood directly next to your leg as though prepared to shield you from song if necessary. “You knew?” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Maria smiled when she saw you, immediate and soft, already setting down whatever she had been doing at the buffet. “There she is,” she said, as if you were exactly who they had all been waiting for. Before you could say anything, she crossed the room and folded you into a quick hug, warm and easy, not tight enough to trap you in it. “Happy birthday, honey.”

Maria drew back just enough to look at you. “Of course we knew.”

“Thank you,” you managed, still a little stunned.

Tommy gave you an incredulous look, all easy warmth. “What, you really thought we wouldn’t remember your birthday?”. He leaned in just enough to press a quick kiss to your cheek, then drew back with that loose, easy expression of his. “Didn’t think we’d let you sneak past it, did you?”

A laugh caught in your throat. You glanced down, suddenly shy under all that kindness. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “Maybe.”

Then Benji, practically vibrating in his chair, blurted, “Happy birthday!” like he’d been holding it in under visible strain for the last ten minutes and had finally been released.

And Joel—

Joel stayed back for one beat and watched your face. He stood near the table with one hand resting on the back of a chair, his gaze on you, steady and quiet and careful. Then he met your eyes.

“Happy birthday,” he said in a low voice.

“Thank you,” you said, and meant more than the words could hold comfortably in front of everyone.

He pulled out the chair with one hand and tipped his head toward it. “Come sit down,” he said, easy, as if the only thing that mattered now was getting you settled. “The coffee’s hot.”

And before the silence could deepen into something unbearable, Benji blurted, “Can we do the cake now?”

“Before coffee?” you asked, looking from the cake to Martha as if she might be the final authority on such things.

“Especially before coffee,” Benji said.

The room exhaled. Martha, bringing a fresh pot of coffee, made a sound of theatrical disapproval, but she was already moving toward the sideboard. “Well, I suppose we can, since some people here have no patience.”

“It’s her birthday,” Benji said, scandalized. “That’s the whole point.”

Maria laughed while Tommy rubbed a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. Joel crossed the room to help Martha without being asked, reaching for the cake stand.

There were more candles than you expected. It wasn't a ridiculous number, not enough to be cruel. Just enough for the cake to glow when Martha set them in place and struck the match. It was a rich chocolate cake with dark frosting, a little uneven in a homemade way that made it better. The candles threw a soft gold across the table.

Then Maria started singing. Softly, and immediately laughing through the first line because she was clearly not built for solemnity. Benji joined in at once, several beats too enthusiastic. Tommy came in badly and late and completely off-key, which only made Benji laugh harder and Martha hide a smile. Joel’s voice was the last one you heard, lower than the others, almost folded beneath theirs.

Your face burned anyway. But it was gentle, that was the thing. You felt a little embarrassed, yes, but it wasn't a room full of people demanding a reaction, nor a spectacle constructed to see what you’d do under it. It was just a handful of people making it very clear this was your day and meaning it kindly.

By the end of the song, Benji was already leaning forward over the table, eyes bright.

“You have to blow them out,” he told you, as if this were a matter of law.

A laugh caught you by surprise. “I know.”

“No, like all of them,” he said, demonstrating with an exaggerated breath that made Maria reach to steady his shoulder before he blew ash into the frosting.

Tommy muttered, “Helpful.”

You bent toward the cake. “That’s how it works, isn’t it?” you asked, smiling despite yourself.

“No,” Benji said very seriously. “You have to make a wish first.”

“Benji,” Tommy said, mildly scolding, “now she’s under pressure.”

“I can manage,” you said, though your voice came out softer than you meant it to. And for one foolish second, looking at the candlelight trembling over the dark frosting, you let yourself want something. Just for this not to be taken away.

Then you bent and blew the candles out.

For one bright second, everyone cheered with light applause, a little laughter. Maria was smiling at you over the rim of her coffee cup. And before the attention could settle too hard on you, Joel reached for the knife.

“Alright,” he said easily. “Before Benji throws himself across the table.”

“I would not,” Benji said, deeply offended.

“You absolutely would,” Tommy said.

Joel cut the first slice and set it onto a plate. Then he turned and handed it to you. He set the plate in front of you with a quiet, “Here.”

“Thank you,” you said. 

Martha, arranging forks, said in an offhand tone that was not remotely offhand, “Mr. Miller asked what cake you might actually eat.”

You looked up, while Joel stopped mid-motion. You saw Tommy’s mouth twitch in your periphery while Maria looked down into her coffee like it had suddenly become fascinating. And Joel—God—actually looked flustered.

“It was just a question,” he quietly muttered.

Martha sniffed. “Mm.”

Your hand tightened lightly around your fork. He had asked. Not what looked best, not what should be served, but what you would actually eat. Useful information, maybe, if you were pretending not to notice what that really meant. You looked back down at your plate again before the warmth in your face could turn into anything worse. 

You took a bite of cake. It was rich and not too sweet and warm enough from the room that the frosting softened instantly on your tongue. You smiled before you could stop yourself.

Benji noticed first, because of course he did. “She likes it.”

Maria laughed softly. “I think she does.”

“It’s good,” you said, quieter than you meant to.

Martha looked smug. “Obviously.”

“I mean it,” you said, and Maria smiled into her coffee.

Joel didn’t say anything, but when you glanced up at him, his gaze was already on you, quietly relieved.

The rest of breakfast passed in a gentle blur. Tommy and Benji got into a debate about whether birthday rules extended to second cake slices before ten in the morning. Martha acted scandalized, which meant yes. Joel stayed mostly outside the center of it all, saying little. But every so often, when the conversation shifted, you felt his gaze on you.

Afterward, when the plates had been cleared and the kitchen noises took over in the next room, you excused yourself on instinct to the library. Scout followed, of course.

The fire had been laid there too, burning low and steady, taking the damp edge off the air. Your chair by the hearth waited where it always did, and over the back of it someone had draped the soft wool throw you’d been stealing from the sofa for days and never remembering to return.

You stood there for a second, hand on the chair, looking at it. Then you sat down and Scout came immediately to press himself against your legs, his warmth bracketed between your shins and the fire. The quiet settled around you.

They had made room for you without expecting anything. It was obvious that the morning had been shaped with your comfort in mind, and no one had used that tenderness to ask for anything in return. You sat there with your hands wrapped around your own wrists and felt, with a kind of dazed suspicion, welcomed. Seen.

The knock on the library door was light enough that Scout only lifted his head. You liftes yourr gaze. Joel stood in the doorway when you looked over. He didn’t come in right away.

“You busy?” he asked.

You glanced at the dog at your feet, the rain-dim windows. “Very.”

A smile flickered around his lips. “Maria mentioned maybe doing dinner tonight. Only if that sounds alright to you.”

You stared at him, feeling a little unsurer where this was headed. He went on, careful, as if each word had been sanded down first. “Martha said she can make anything you want. Or nothing special at all. Whatever feels easiest.”

There it was again, that unfamiliar thing. This request for terms. You looked away first.  “That’s not necessary.”

“It doesn’t have to be necessary.” The answer came quiet. 

Scout let out a long sigh at your feet. Joel shifted his weight, one hand braced lightly against the doorframe. “Could just be us. Family.” A beat. “No more candles, if you hate that sort of thing.”

Against your will, your mouth almost smiled again. He saw it. You knew he did, because something in his face eased as well, barely.

“Martha will be offended if you tell her no,” you said.

“That’s true.”

You dragged your thumb over the seam of the blanket pooled in your lap. “I’m not… good at this.”

“At what?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely toward the whole day, the house, the impossible gentleness of it. “Being—”

Celebrated, you almost said. Cared for. Noticed.

He spared you the word.

“You don’t have to be good at it.” His voice was very even. “Just tell us what feels alright.”

You swallowed. “Okay,” you said, a little too softly.

Joel nodded once, like he understood the size of what you were giving even if it was only that. “Okay.”

He started to step back, then paused. “You want anything in particular?”

You could have said no. Could have given him the easier answer, the smaller one.

Instead you looked down at Scout’s broad head resting over one paw and said, “Nothing too fancy.”

His expression changed in a way so quiet it might have been your imagination. “Nothing fancy,” he repeated. Then he left you to your fire and your dog and the strange ache of being asked.

The afternoon passed slowly after that. Rain came and went in soft fits against the windows, never quite returning to a storm, never quite clearing either. You stayed in the library longer than you meant to, Scout warm against your legs, the fire burning down by degrees while the house moved around you in distant sounds. Dors opening and shutting, Martha in the kitchen, Tommy’s voice carrying once down the hall before dropping again.

No one came to hurry you.

At some point Maria knocked lightly and leaned in just far enough to tell you dinner would be in an hour, and that Martha had threatened everyone with bodily harm if they tracked mud across the clean floor before it was served.

“Do I need to… dress for it?” you had asked, already half-weary at the thought.

Maria smiled. “Not unless you want to. Just don’t come down in your stockings.”

That earned a snort from you despite yourself, and she left looking pleased with it.

Upstairs, you changed more carefully than the evening strictly required. Not because the dinner was formal. It wasn’t. But because the whole day had acquired a strange, fragile shape, and you found yourself wanting, absurdly, not to jar it. You finally decided on a soft, light blue silk dress. One you hadn’t worn in a while. The color made your skin look warmer in the fading light. The silk skimmed you rather than clung. It was light against your body when you moved, elegant without trying too hard.

You pinned your hair back with more attention than usual, then loosened it again when it felt too deliberate, letting a few strands fall soft around your face. When you looked at yourself one last time, you still looked like yourself. Just… softer, maybe. 

By the time you were done, dusk had settled in earnest, the windows gone dark with it.

You should have gone straight downstairs. Instead, with Scout already rising from the rug as if he knew your habits better than you did, you found yourself drifting back toward the library for one last minute of quiet before dinner.

The room met you in amber light and the low hush of the fire. You sat in the chair by the hearth, smoothing your hands once over the fabric of your dress as though that might settle something in you.

Scout folded himself across your feet. Outside, rainwater dripped from the eaves in slow, patient taps. You were still sitting there when Joel appeared in the doorway.

He paused there first, out of respect for the fact that this room had become yours in small, unspoken ways. But when you looked up, he did not speak immediately. His gaze moved over you once, quickly enough that it might have been nothing, slowly enough that it wasn’t.

Something in his face stilled. “You look nice,” he said at last. Low and even, like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Heat rose faintly under your skin. You dropped your eyes for a second, smoothing an unnecessary hand over the silk at your knee.

Then he cleared his throat. “Can I?”

Your eyes lifted back to his face. “Of course—"

He crossed the room, but not too close, and stopped within reach of the chair, though not near enough to crowd you. For a second he just stood there, and only then did you notice that he was holding something.

A small parcel, wrapped simply in pale paper. It was nothing ornate. There was no ribbon showy enough to turn it into a performance. It was just his careful hands and a thing he had plainly spent more time thinking about than he wanted anyone to know.

Your eyes dropped to it, then lifted back to him. “Joel…”

He gave the smallest shrug, almost awkward. “It’s nothing extravagant.”

Which, somehow, only made it stranger. Joelwas not a man who had to announce when something was not extravagant unless he was suddenly worried it might matter too much.

His thumb moved once against the edge of the parcel, betraying a flicker of nerves he would probably have hated having noticed. “I just—” He stopped, jaw shifting. “I saw it and thought of you.”

That wasn’t true, not fully. You could hear the incompleteness of it. He hadn’t just seen it. He had gone looking. That was obvious even before you knew how far.

Your surprise must have shown, because some guardedness came into his expression then, like he was already bracing for the possibility that he’d misjudged the whole thing.

“You don’t have to open it now,” he said, a little too quickly.

“No,” you said at once, more softly. “I want to.”

Something eased in his face, though only a fraction. Then, when you held out your hands, he gave it to you. You took it carefully from him. The paper came away with a soft sound under your fingers. Scout shifted, watching with the solemn intensity he brought to anything involving hands and attention. Beneath the wrapping was a book.

It was old. The first thing you noticed was the jacket, worn at the edges, and the colors softened by time. It was a first edition.

Then you noticed the title.

Virginia Woolf — A Room of One’s Own.

For one blank second, you only stared. Then your head snapped up. “How did you find this?”

Joel’s gaze flicked away, then back. “I just asked around.”

You kept looking at him in disbelief, and the silence stretched. He shifted once, visibly regretting the answer.

“Three stores,” he admitted at last.

Something in your chest gave way with enough force to make you feel briefly unsteady. He had gone looking for a thing you had once named in passing on a dark night in the middle of a conversation you had half convinced yourself he hadn’t understood at all.

He had remembered not the shape of the moment, but the exact language of it. You thought, absurdly, that this should make you angry. Being seen so precisely. Being cared for in the one dialect loneliness had ever trusted. But the anger never quite arrived. What came instead was worse: bewilderment, and that strange birthday ache that rose when tenderness found some place in you that had been braced too long.

Joel watched your face and immediately seemed to regret making you feel anything at all.

“You said once,” he began, then stopped, his throat working before he tried again. “You said once that every woman ought to have a room of her own.”

His mouth shifted, and he licked his bottom lip a bit nervously.

“I know a book isn’t that.” He looked down at his hands for a second, empty now. “And I know I can’t undo…”

The sentence failed there.

“But I can make space for you here that belongs to you,” he continued. “If you want it.” The fire cracked softly. Joel swallowed once. “Please,” he said, lower now. “Always tell me what you’d actually enjoy. Not what you think you’re allowed to ask for.”

You looked down at the book in your lap because there was nowhere else to put the force of what that did to you.

Your thumb moved over the worn cloth beneath the jacket. Without thinking, you drew it closer, holding it briefly against your chest before you realized what you were doing.

You took a breath. Then another.

“Will you sit down?” you finall asked, the words coming out smaller than you meant them to.

For one second he just looked at you. Then he sat in the chair across from yours, slow enough not to startle the dog, his hands braced on his knees like he still didn’t quite trust the permission.

“Thank you,” you said.

He dipped his head once. “You’re welcome.”

Silence settled between you. You didn’t know how to answer the larger thing. The room. The honesty. The part of him asking, however carefully, to be told the truth of your preferences instead of the edited version you thought people could bear.

But after a long moment, staring down at the book in your hands, you heard yourself say, “I like lemon cake better than chocolate.”

When you looked up, his face had changed into something quiet and almost stunned, “Okay,” he said. His voice was gentle. “Lemon, then.”

Silence settled again after that, but not heavily. The fire shifted low in the grate. You kept your hand on the book. Joel looked at it once, then back at you, as if reassuring himself you were really keeping it.

At last he pushed a slow breath out through his nose and rose from the chair. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Dinner’s waiting.”

You nodded, though it took you a second to move. When you stood, the silk of your dress slipped softly against your knees. Joel’s gaze caught there for the briefest moment before he stepped back to give you room.

Scout got up first, stretching with an exaggerated groan. The corner of Joel’s mouth moved. Then he reached past you to open the library door wider, his hand stopping short of touching you as you passed.

You carried the book with you.

At the threshold to the dining room, you hesitated long enough for him to notice. Joel glanced at you. “You alright?”

You looked down once at the book in your hands, then back up. “Yes.”

He held your gaze for a second, as if deciding whether to believe you. Then he nodded and let you walk in first. Inside, the dining room was all low light and warmth. The fire was going, and the lamps were dimmed. The table was set simply with candles and fresh flowers.

Maria looked up first when you came in. Her face softened at once. “Oh, you look lovely.”

Tommy turned in his chair and grinned. “Look at that. Birthday girl cleaned up after all.”

Heat rose faintly into your face. You shook your head at him, but the teasing was easy, affectionate. Joel said nothing. But when you took your seat, he was already holding the chair for you.

It was a lovely dinner. There was plenty of warm bread, followed by a classic, mouthwatering roast beef with potatoes on the side and green beans slicked with butter. For dessert there was a chocolate cake again, because Martha had opinions, apparently, and believed in consistency if not accuracy.

Just before Martha began passing plates, Joel cleared his throat softly. You looked up.

“Happy birthday,” he said, his voice low and even in the candlelight. “We’re glad you’re here.”

It was nothing like a toast, nothing showy, but a quiet fact laid gently on the table. Maria smiled, and Tommy lifted his glass a fraction. Benji nodded, solemn with the importance of the occasion.

The conversation moved around you. Tommy started telling some story about a fence line and a mule and immediately made Benji laugh hard enough to choke on a bite of bread. Maria rolled her eyes in a way that suggested she’d heard the story before and would hear it ten thousand times more. Martha came and went with the easy authority of someone who had fed this family through every kind of weather.

And Joel noticed everything. When your glass ran low, he refilled it without asking, without interrupting whatever Tommy was saying. None of it seemed theatrical. It would have been easier, maybe, if it had been. At one point you looked up and found him already looking at you. You looked away first, because it didn’t hurt and that was almost worse than if it did.

You felt protected, you thought suddenly. The realization sat so cleanly in you it took your breath for a second.

By the time Martha disappeared toward the kitchen for dessert, the room had begun to feel a little too warm. The fire, the candles, the steady kindness of the evening all seemed to gather too closely under your skin. The laughter at the table carried on easily behind you as you stood, quiet enough not to interrupt anything, and murmured something about needing air.

The hallway beyond the dining room was dim. You crossed it on instinct and slipped out through the balcony door at the end, letting the cooler air meet you all at once. It smelled of wet stone and rain-damp earth.

The storm had passed hours ago, but the night still held its aftermath, water dripping slow and patient from the eaves, the dark shine of the balustrade, the sky low and cloud-streaked with only the faintest suggestion of stars behind it. The air touched your flushed face and the bare skin of your arms through the silk.

You stepped to the railing and laid your hands against the cool stone.

Behind you, the door opened again. You knew it was him before you turned.

Joel stepped out and let the door fall shut softly behind him.

He didn’t come too close. He didn’t ask if you were alright in the tone people used when what they really meant was „explain yourself to me“. He just came to stand beside you, not quite near enough to touch, and rested his forearms against the railing with his gaze fixed out into the wet dark below.

For a few seconds neither of you said anything.

Then, quietly, he asked, “Too much?”

You kept your eyes on the dark sweep of the grounds beyond the terrace. “A little.”

Beside you, he nodded once as if that made perfect sense. The wind lifted a strand of hair loose against your cheek. Somewhere below, water dripped steadily from a gutter into the gravel.

“It was…” You stopped, searching for a word that didn’t feel foolish. “Nice.”

Joel’s mouth moved faintly, something that was not quite a smile. “Yeah.”

You let out a breath that might have been a laugh if it had found more courage on the way out.

For a while you stood there like that, shoulder to shoulder in the cool dark, both looking outward. The distance between you was small enough to feel, large enough to remain deliberate.

“It’s strange,” you said at last, before you could stop yourself.

“What is?”

You traced your thumb once over the damp edge of the stone. “How easy everyone made it look.”

Joel was quiet for a beat.

Then, still facing forward, he said, “Maybe it was easy for them.”

That made you turn your head a little, not enough to look at him fully. “Was it easy for you?”

Only then did he glance over. “No,” he said.

You looked away first. The night beyond the balcony had gone blurry at the edges, rain-dark and silvered where the last light caught on wet branches. Your pulse had begun to beat too visibly in places it had no business making itself known.

“It should have been,” you said, trying for lightness and not quite finding it. “A cake. Dinner. Candles. That’s not exactly war.”

“No,” Joel said. “But it was you.”

There was the barest shift beside you, a fraction closer as he settled his weight more fully against the railing. Not enough to crowd, just enough that you became aware of the heat of him in the cool air.

You knew he was still looking at you before you actually turned. When you did, the force of it was already there.

His face was quieter out here. Less guarded somehow in the half-dark. The low light from inside caught one side of it, leaving the rest in shadow. His gaze held yours for one second, then another. Long enough that something in your chest tightened in warning.

This was the closest you had come to standing inside the same moment and not retreating from it.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said.

The words were low and simple. They landed harder than anything else he could have said.

You almost told him you hadn’t known what to do with any of it. That it had felt too good. That he made it hard not to want things.

Your throat worked around all of it. For one suspended instant, you almost answered honestly.

“I’m trying not to make too much of it,” you said instead.

The admission came out quieter than you meant it to. Something changed in his expression then. There was a recognition there, as if he understood perfectly well how much had gone unsaid and was choosing, deliberately, not to press his hand against the bruise of it.

His eyes dropped once, briefly, to your mouth before returning to yours. The movement was so small you might have imagined it if your whole body had not gone still in response.

“Why?” he asked.

Then the balcony door opened too hard behind you.

“There you—” Tommy stopped.

The moment broke cleanly, like glass.

You stepped back from the railing at the exact same second Joel straightened away from it. When you turned, Tommy was standing half in the doorway with one hand still on the knob and an expression that, for a split second, gave away exactly how much he had walked into.

“Oh,” he said.

Then, because he was Tommy and not cruel enough to make anyone live inside that for long, he recovered almost instantly. “We’re cutting the cake before Benji eats it himself.”

A sound escaped you that was half breath, half laugh. Joel’s hand scrubbed once over his jaw.

“Right,” he said.

Tommy stepped back to let you pass first, looking suddenly very interested in the hallway beyond the door. You moved toward it, still feeling the afterimage of the moment you had just stepped out of, the air inside warmer now than before.

And as you passed through the doorway, Joel’s hand found the small of your back. Only for a second. It might not even have been fully deliberate. You felt the broad warmth of his palm guiding you past the threshold, steadying without claiming, there and then gone again almost before your mind had caught up.

But your body did. Your body knew it instantly. And you did not pull away. That was the part that unsettled you, not the touch itself.

How natural it had felt. How easily your body had accepted it, as if some quiet part of you had already begun to understand the shape of his care before the rest of you was ready to admit it.

That shouldn’t have felt familiar.  His touch shouldn’t have felt right.

And yet, as you walked back toward the dining room with the warmth of his hand still ghosting against your spine, that was the word that came to you anyway.

Right.

Later, when Martha returned with dessert and set the second chocolate cake of the day on the table, your mouth almost twitched.

Across from you, Joel’s eyes met yours for half a second, with the quiet acknowledgment of a thing that now existed between the two of you and no one else at the table seemed to know.

Two days later

“Scout.”

He had already gone a few paces ahead, nose low, tail lifted, intent on something in the wet hedge line that you couldn’t yet see.

“Scout,” you called again, sharper this time.

One ear flicked back toward you, but it was only acknowledgment, not obedience. He kept moving, quick and purposeful, paws darkening with damp as he nosed along the edge of the path.

You followed at a slower pace, more out of habit than concern.

These walks had become routine now. Same stretch of gravel. Same time window in the late afternoon. Same measured circuit around the grounds with enough freedom in it to feel almost ordinary if you didn’t look too closely at the edges. Scout knew the path as well as you did. So did the men posted at a distance, visible often enough to reassure, far enough not to make you feel watched every second.

Maybe that was why the quiet inside you had changed.

Not the walk itself. Not Elias’s men keeping their distance. Not even the boundaries of it, which had once felt like another name for confinement.

It was the quiet inside your own head that had changed. Enough that you had started to notice the difference.

Enough that the house no longer seemed to press against you from every side. Enough that the library had begun, impossibly, to feel like somewhere you could breathe. Enough that once or twice, reaching for the book on your bedside table, you had found yourself thinking not only of the gift but of the way he had stood there holding it: careful with it, careful with you, almost uneasy beneath his own restraint.

And the balcony.

You had not let yourself think too directly about the balcony.

About the line itself. But it was you. About the look that had followed it. About his hand at the small of your back, gone almost before your mind had caught up, and the strange disloyalty of your own body in accepting it as if it already knew something you did not.

You had not let yourself think about any of it too long, only enough to know that pretending it meant nothing had become harder.

Scout trotted ahead through a shallow wash of light where the clouds had broken just enough to let the evening through. The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the grounds still held it in every surface. Wet leaves, darkened stone. A sheen over the gravel path. Beyond the hedge the trees stood black-green and dripping, their branches heavy with the last of it.

Behind you, somewhere back toward the house, a door shut. Farther off, a man’s voice carried and then dropped. One of the guards changing position, maybe. One of the drivers returning. 

Joel had been busy since your birthday.

He hadn't been absent, exactly. You had seen him. At breakfast the morning after, later in the hall with a phone to his ear, once crossing the foyer with Elias and two men you did not know while all three wore the same shut look that said work and trouble and things you were not meant to overhear. Twice he had eaten late. Once not at all, or not where anyone could see it. There had been more cars in the drive than usual. There  had been more men speaking in low voices outside his office door. More of that taut, efficient movement through the house that suggested logistics, decisions, pressure.

He had not been cold to you, just occupied. And that had felt almost worse, because it revealed too plainly how much of your own attention had begun to tilt toward his.  You hated that knowledge enough not to examine it closely.

Scout paused near the bend in the path and lifted his head, nose working. You followed his line of sight automatically—and frowned.

The guard who was usually stationed near the service gate was not there.

You slowed. For a second you stood listening. Nothing unusual reached you. Just the steady drip from the hedges and the faint scrape of Scout’s collar when he moved. Somewhere beyond the wall, the distant mutter of a road you could not see.

Maybe Elias had rotated the detail. Maybe someone had been called elsewhere. Maybe you had simply come out a little earlier than usual and the shift had not settled yet.

The thought should have been enough. It almost was.

“Scout,” you said softly.

His ears flicked, but whatever he had caught held him. He stood very still for one beat more, then suddenly bolted toward the hedge line.

“Scout—”

He was gone around the bend before you finished the word.

Your body moved after him on instinct, with quick, automatic steps taken without thinking. He had lunged after rabbits before. Barked at shadows. Nose-led his way into bushes after creatures too small to matter. The path dipped slightly around the bend near the old outbuilding and returned again within seconds. Nothing about it was far. Nothing about it had ever been dangerous.

You rounded the hedge.

And understood, all at once, that Scout was not in front of you.

A sound behind you.

Too close.

Not the rhythm of your own steps. Not the scratch of claws on gravel. Something heavier. Faster. Human.

You half turned.

A hand clamped over your mouth so hard your teeth cut into the inside of your lip. Another arm came around you, brutal and practiced, pinning your upper arms to your sides before the scream in your chest could become anything more than a choked, panicked sound trapped against a palm.

The world went narrow.

Wet gravel slipped under your shoes. Your shoulder slammed back into a hard body. The smell of rain-wet wool and sweat and something chemical filled your head all at once, so immediate it felt like drowning in it.

You tried to bite.

The hand only pressed harder.

Your heel skidded. One of your knees hit the ground with a bright, stupid burst of pain. The arm around you tightened and hauled you upright again before the impact had even fully registered, your breath snapping out of you in a sound you could not use.

Scout barked. But it wasn't his usual bark, not warning. Fury.

A blur of movement at the edge of your vision—black, low, lunging—and someone cursed sharply.

“Get the goddamn dog off—”

Another voice: “Leave it, move—move—”

You thrashed on pure animal panic then, the kind that lived below thought. Your nails found cloth, skin, something. Someone swore near your ear. A gloved hand caught your wrists and yanked them down so hard your shoulders burned.

Your mind had gone white around the edges.

This was happening.

This was happening.

For one impossible second you still could not fit the fact of it inside your body. The grounds. The house just there. Men nearby. Elias somewhere within shouting distance. The sheer obscenity of hands on you here, here of all places, where the routine had made everything feel survivable.

A voice ripped through the air behind the hedge.

Your name.

Distant, but not far enough. Elias.

The man holding you stiffened. The one at your wrists snapped, “Now.”

You drove your heel backward blindly and connected with a shin or knee. A grunt. The hand over your mouth shifted just enough for air to knife into you—and with it the scream you had been dragging upward finally broke loose.

It barely made it out.

A forearm crashed across your ribs and folded you into it. Another hand came hard over your mouth again. Your scream tore itself to pieces against skin and cloth and panic.

Boots pounded somewhere beyond the bend.

Scout was still barking. Wildly. Frantically. The sound of him drove itself straight through you.

“Easy,” someone hissed, not to you but to the others. “Don’t mark her, damn it—”

As if that mattered. As if the world had not already split open.

You dug your heels in. The wet gravel gave way under you. Your dress caught on something rough and pulled. One of the men swore again. The taste of fear had gone metallic at the back of your throat. Your vision pulsed in and out at the edges, narrowing to fragments: the black seam of a coat sleeve, hedge leaves shaking from the violence of the struggle, Scout’s body lunging and missing, the shine of mud on a boot, the strip of darkening sky overhead.

Then a shape loomed at your side—was it a vehicle? the shadow of the outbuilding? a door already open?

You did not understand. You only understood the movement toward enclosure, toward dark.

You kicked once more, harder, and pain flashed blindingly up your leg when your foot hit metal.

“Christ,” someone spat.

Elias’s voice again—closer now, shouting orders, another set of boots answering him, too many sounds all at once.

The arm around you tightened with vicious urgency.

Your body had gone cold.

Not numb. Worse. Hyperaware in useless ways. Every drag of fabric over skin. Every ragged inhale blocked halfway by the hand over your mouth. Every pulsebeat hammering against the bones of your wrists where someone held them too tight. Your mind was screaming in a language your body no longer seemed able to obey.

No. No. No.

A dark cloth dropped over your face.

The world vanished.

For one split second all you had was the smell of damp fabric and your own trapped breath ricocheting hot and frantic back against your skin. The panic that hit then was so total it felt almost clean. You bucked hard enough to throw everyone off balance. Someone cursed. Someone else caught the back of your head before it could strike metal.

And very close to your ear, a man’s voice said, low and irritated:

“Easy. Boss said breathing.”

Then everything slammed sideways into dark.

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You frowned a little, considering. Joel took the moment to memorize the light creasing of your forehead, the small line that formed between your sculpted brows. 

“Don’t think I have,” you said. “Should I?” 

He chuckled. 

“It would explain a lot. She helped straighten his ass out. She’s an attorney - on retainer for his company now - and he knew from the minute he met her that he was punching pretty damn far above his weight. That and having to look out for me…” 

His voice trailed off and you offered him a small, sad smile. For the first time, he didn’t need to say anything else. You knew now. 

Joel hadn’t anticipated the relief that came with telling you everything. He hadn’t even known that he’d wanted to until it was all spilling out of him, desperate to make you understand and not seeing a way to make you get it without telling you everything. 

I was a father.

It wasn’t until the words were out of his mouth that he realized the desperation was just an excuse, the last push he needed. He wanted you to know him, all of him, and that was impossible without knowing Sarah, too. 

He spoke about her rarely because it hurt too much. It was like picking at a cut that was trying to scab over but never really seemed to, the wound pulling and bleeding and not making anything better. It hadn’t taken long, after she died, to figure out that keeping her safely tucked away in his memory was the best thing to do. But telling you felt right, a relief in a way. Like you were supposed to know her and know him, he was just correcting a wrong he’d let go on too long. 

That was hours ago now. The two of you hadn’t gone far since coming to the little guest house. You were beside him in the bed, your bodies bare and aligned, your face so close to his that your nose brushed his sometimes when you laughed. 

At first, you’d just watched each other. His thumb traced your cheek, fingers feeling the flutter of your pulse at your neck and your eyes searched his face over and over again, like you weren’t quite believing what you were seeing which made no goddamn sense to him at all. He was just him, just a man, and you were you. You were more human and mortal to him now than you’d ever been before but you were still extraordinary in so many ways. Fuck if he knew why you’d be looking at him like he was some kind of miracle when you were the only miraculous part of this. 

He wasn’t entirely sure how the two of you started talking but once you did, he couldn’t seem to stop and neither could you. He told you things he’d never told anybody else, how he knew what it was like to just want your parent to love you only to feel like nothing you did could be enough, how it seemed like everything he did in his life was just short of what was needed of him, how he wasn’t sure what his daughter would think of him now, if she could see what he became without her there to guide him. 

“I think she’d understand,” you said softly, your fingers trailing a slow path through his hair. “I didn’t know her but if she was anything like you described, I think she’d understand. She’d understand and she’d love you.” 

He kissed you gently. 

“I hope you’re right.” 

You told him about Anna, about Elise, about how you didn’t even realize what you were missing from your own mother until you saw what they had up close. 

“It’s probably pathetic,” you said, playing with the tips of his fingers, watching the abstract patterns you were making with him instead of looking at his face but he was watching yours, the small frown on your lips and that little crease between your brows. “But I clung to them so hard once I pieced it together. That’s probably why Elise brought me around so much, I just kept hanging on to them both. I tried to get my mom to be like that with me and when I couldn’t I just…” 

“Not pathetic,” he said gently when your voice trailed off. Your eyes met his then, soft and open. “You deserved to have someone lookin’ out for you that way. You just knew what you needed, that’s all.” 

“Sometimes I think there’s something wrong with me,” you whispered, like a secret, and Joel supposed that it was. That, like what he’d said to you, you’d never said this to anyone else, either. “Like there’s something rotten inside me that I can’t see but everyone else can, once they get close enough. Like they know I’ll poison everything I touch if they don’t cut me out and I’m scared it’ll get Ellie, too. That just by being close to her and making her need me, she’ll get hurt.”

He took your face in his hand, making your gaze meet his. 

“Not a damn thing wrong with you,” he said. “Plenty wrong with the world and the people in it but none of it’s got a thing to do with you. Ellie needs you. She’s lucky to have you. Anyone who gets to have you is lucky.” 

You dozed off in his arms more than once through the night, eyes drifting closed and body relaxing. He didn’t try to stop you even though he couldn’t sleep himself. His mind was moving too quickly, trying to absorb as much as he could - the way your lashes fanned over your cheeks when your eyes were closed, the steady pattern of your sleeping breaths, the softness of your limbs that reached for him in dreams and the way your lips curved up ever so slightly when you found him there beside you - and trying to figure out what to do next. 

This could not be a repeat of what happened before. He would not lose you like that again, and it’s not like he could separate himself from you now if he tried. But he was still your bodyguard, still responsible for your safety and the safety of your niece. He couldn’t trust anyone else to look out for you and her the way he did. 

He was treading on new, dangerous ground. He’d never cared about anything the way he cared about you, never felt like this for a woman. Even before he’d lost Sarah he’d never felt like this but to have it now - so much vitality and fire and life in every inch of him now that his guard was down - after feeling nothing at all for so long was overwhelming. He couldn’t let you get hurt, let alone anything worse, but he wasn’t sure how to protect you like this, either. There was a reason this sort of thing wasn’t just frowned upon, it was down right forbidden. 

The sun started to break on the horizon, orange and red streams of light cracking over the mountains. Joel watched the dawn, cupping your head gently in his palm. He was strangely aware of himself, how his movements might effect you, how easily he could fuck up and hurt you. His thumb delicately stroked your temple and you smiled ever so slightly. 

“You’re warm,” you said quietly, eyes still closed. 

He laughed a little. 

“If you say so.” 

“I do,” you smiled a little wider. “What time is it?” 

“Not sure,” he said, his thumb keeping that path over your skin. “But should get back before we have to explain ourselves to that niece of yours. Love the kid but she’s too smart for her own good.” 

You opened your eyes then, meeting his so fast it almost surprised him, that anyone would be so aware of him and where he was. 

“You love her?” You asked, a hopeful lilt to your voice. 

Joel’s heart stuttered. He hadn’t meant to say it but that’s what it was, what it had been for a while, and it scared the shit out of him. 

But he was in it now, why pretend like it was anything but what it was? 

“Yeah,” he said. “Not sure she gave me much choice in the matter, but yeah, I do.” 

You laughed. 

“Yeah, she does that,” you said. “Had me wrapped around her finger since the day she was born. Before, that, really.” 

He smiled. 

“Can only imagine. But we should get back, she’s… observant.” 

“She is,” you agreed. “But she’s also a teenager who sleeps late.” 

You bit your lip, watching him closely. 

“Yeah,” he said, taking his thumb and gently tugging your plush flesh free of your teeth. “She does.” 

He kissed you then, soft and slow. It was almost oddly intimate, kissing you like this, the taste of sleep on your tongue and the delicate feeling of your skin after your body had been relaxed alongside his for so long. 

Joel would have been satisfied with that, just that, but you deepened the kiss, pressing yourself against him. He loved it at first, the feeling of you against him, the warmth of you. But something had shifted. He couldn’t even put his finger on what it was, exactly, but he felt it. It reminded him of when you were about to go perform or when you were doing an interview, a change in how you held yourself, like you weren’t really you anymore. 

He pulled back from you enough to look at you and you frowned, almost pouting. 

“Hey,” he said, taking your chin in his fingers so you couldn’t so easily look away from him. “You don’t gotta do that.” 

Your frown deepened. 

“Do what?” 

“That… thing you do,” he said, wishing he was better with words. “The thing where you’re not really you, you’re just acting like you think people want you to act. You don’t need to do that, not with me, and you really don’t need to do that when we’re like this.” 

You just blinked at him for a moment, watching him. 

“You noticed that?” You asked quietly. 

He nodded once. 

“If this ain’t what you want…” 

“It is,” you said quickly, your eyes searching his. 

“Then why are you doin’ this.” 

You looked at him for another long moment before taking a deep, shaky breath. 

“I just… I want to be what you want,” you said, tension in you that wasn’t there before. “I know it’s different, that I’m not like my characters or what I seem like out in the world. I’m kind of a let down in comparison, I know that, and I don’t…” 

“Hey,” he cut you off, holding your face a little firmer. “That’s not true.” 

You gave him a look, one that made him feel younger and dumber than he had in years, like he was harboring some naive view of the world that you’d known the truth of for so long. 

“Joel.” 

“I’m serious,” he said. “I’m not interested in some character you’ve been or some version of you that ain’t real. I want you and that’s the only way I want you. You gonna let me have you?” 

Your eyes searched his for a moment, like you thought he was going to change his mind somehow. Eventually, you nodded, and stretched to kiss him. 

It took some time, Joel just cradling your face, a hand on the small of your back just to touch you and not to push you. He felt you relax, like you were coming back into yourself. This time, when he kissed you deeper, you moved against him in a way that felt like you. 

Joel slipped a hand down over the curve of your ass, your thigh, to the hinge of your knee. He hitched your leg up and over his hip before tugging you closer to him, his cock - already aching and hard - pressed against the wet heat of your pussy. You groaned into his mouth, wanton and needy, and he rocked his hips against you, coating himself in your arousal. Your breaths grew more ragged and his heart was pounding as he notched himself at your entrance and pressed slowly, firmly into you. 

He had to give himself a moment to collect himself once he was inside you and he wondered - fleetingly - if he would ever get used to this. It was overwhelming, being this close to you, able to feel your heartbeat and your trembling breaths and your tight, wet heat. The rest of the world may as well not exist and everything that was worth a damn was somewhere inside of you, anyway. He just had to find a way to not lose himself to you too quickly, wanting to savor it and make it last instead of giving into the screaming drive to chase his orgasm because he knew just how fucking good it would feel to do it. 

So he made himself move slowly, surely, within you. He lingered where your breath hitched and held your gaze as he pressed his forehead to yours. Neither of you spoke but you didn’t need to, everything that needed to be said shared through your skin and eyes and breaths. 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he felt you tightening around him, like you were trying to pull him impossibly deeper and hold him there, your ragged pants becoming stronger and needier with every long drag of his cock. He pressed in deep, his head finding the soft, sensitive place inside and you cried out softly as you pulsed and fluttered around him. He didn’t let up, your wide eyes locked on his as your orgasm brought on his own and he came hard inside you. 

Both of you went limp and he kissed you, gentle but sure, as he cradled you against him, trying to stay in this place with you as long as he could. 

Eventually, he disentangled himself from you, kissing you as he slipped out of you because he needed to be connected to you in some way for a second longer, and the two of you silently got dressed before heading back to the main house. The blanket from the night before was wrapped tightly around your shoulders and Joel wished he’d thought to throw on a damn jacket the night before, if only so he could give it to you. 

“So,” you said eventually, breaking the silence that had fallen between you. “Justice obviously knows what’s going on.” 

Joel laughed a little. 

“Yeah, he does.” 

“But… I don’t think we can tell anyone else,” you said, eyes darting to him for a moment before looking ahead of you again. “I need to keep up the relationship with Justice in public, the whole point of that is making things stable for Ellie and…” 

“I know,” Joel cut you off. “And that’s OK because I don’t think we can tell anyone else, either.” 

You stopped walking and turned to face him. 

“You don’t?” 

“Can’t tell anyone,” he shook his head, stopping too. “Not while I’m protecting you. This… it ain’t allowed. It’s risky, for you and for me. I should tell Tommy, tell him to assign someone else but…” 

“I don’t want you protecting me,” you said and he frowned but you didn’t give him a chance to say anything. “I don’t like the idea of anyone getting hurt to protect me but I really don’t want you to, if something happens to you because of me…” 

“I should tell Tommy but I’m not going to,” he said, reaching out and taking your shoulders in his hands. “I can’t trust someone else to look out for you the way I do. Can’t let you get hurt because they hesitate. I know what I’d do to protect you, can’t trust them to do the same.” 

Your jaw quirked, like you were biting your tongue. 

“It’ll be OK. Haven’t died on an assignment yet,” he said after a moment, giving you a wry smile, and you scoffed. He didn’t bother to mention all the times he’d wished he had died or how now, for the first time since he lost his daughter, he was glad he hadn’t. “Need you to trust me, baby. I know we’re just figurin’ this out but I need you to let me take care of it. I know what I’m doing.” 

You sighed and looked toward the house for a moment, the haze of dawn still on the air and the golden light made it seem like you were glowing. When you looked back toward him, you had the smallest smile on your face, a glint in your eye that he hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. 

“Well as long as the great Big Miller knows what he’s doing…” 

“Jesus,” he shook his head, trying not to smile. 

You started back toward the house again. 

“Gonna have to keep giving you shit,” you said as he followed behind you. “Only way to make sure no one gets suspicious.” 

He scoffed. 

“Yeah, sure, that’s why you’re gonna do it…” 

“Seems like the safest thing.” 

“Uh huh. You’re just gonna find new ways to make me lose my damn mind, ain’t you?” 

You smiled, a little proudly. 

“Probably. Why, got a problem with that?” 

He just shook his head, giving in to his urge to smile. He wouldn’t have you any other way. 

***

“Mornin’.” 

Justice was sitting at a bar stool at the kitchen island when you came in, drinking a steaming mug of coffee with a shit eating grin on his face. 

Joel cleared his throat awkwardly. 

“Morning,” he said, his eyes darting from Justice to you and back again. 

Justice clicked tongue and gave his head a small shake before nodding to the coffee maker. 

“Help yourself to some caffeine, something tells me you two need it.” 

Joel’s jaw tightened for a moment before he went to get a mug and you went to lean against the counter beside your friend. 

“Proud of yourself?” You asked brows raised. 

“Dunno,” he smirked. “You have a good time?” 

“Sure seemed like she did,” Joel said before setting a mug of coffee in front of you. Justice barked a laugh and you looked aghast between them. 

“So he does have a sense of humor,” Justice said, shaking his head. “Good to know.” 

He polished off his coffee before setting his now empty mug on the counter and getting down to business. 

“Ain’t seen Ellie yet today but sure she’ll be up before too long. Already asked my ranch hands to get some horses ready for us in a few hours. Figure we could go for a trail ride after breakfast. Animals are good at helping people through their shit, thought it’d do us all some good.” 

You nodded slowly, the reminder of why you’d come here in the first place settling heavy inside you. It had been easy, in the cocoon of the guest house in Joel’s arms, to pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. You’d forgotten, for a while, that the only real mother you’d ever known was gone, that the person who mattered more to you than anything else was coping with a kind of pain and loneliness you were deeply familiar with and that made you ache for her all the more. You weren’t entirely sure what was happening with Joel, what was even possible with Joel, but you couldn’t let that distract you from what was important. You took a sip of coffee and only then realized that Joel had added the perfect amount of sweetener to it. You looked toward him but he didn’t seem to notice, focused on Justice, and you wondered just what parts of you he’d noticed over the past year. 

“I think that’s a good plan,” you said. “Ellie’s always loved animals, getting on a horse will help. I think just being out here, away from everything else, will help.” 

“That is the idea,” Justice smiled a little sadly and took your hand, giving it a squeeze. “A reset is good, for you and for her.” 

When he finished his coffee, Joel excused himself to get cleaned up for the day and he paused before he did, looking at you like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do before heading to his corner of the house. You watched him go until he was out of sight and instead focused on your remaining coffee, turning the mug slowly in your hands and watching the black of it ripple. 

“So,” Justice said conspiratorially after the two of you had been quietly alone for a minute. “Is Big Miller actually Big Miller or…” 

“Oh my God!” You shoved him lightly. 

“What!” He laughed. “He’s got that… what the fuck are the kids sayin’ now? Big Dick Energy?” 

“You’re the worst,” you rolled your eyes and he laughed. 

“I just want to make sure you’re taken care of, that’s all,” he teased and you rolled your eyes, laughing a little, too. But he shifted then, an earnest look in his eyes. “Being serious, though… You two talk? Figure some shit out?” 

You took a deep breath, nodding slowly.

“We talked. We haven’t figured out everything but we understand each other a lot better now.”  

“S’good,” Justice nodded slowly. “Mind if I ask when all this started?” 

“A while ago,” you said, looking back at your coffee cup again, cheeks getting hot. “It’s hard to exactly say… We didn’t seem to like each other much at first and I’m not sure when things really started to change… But I’m also not entirely sure they actually changed, not really. The first time I met him, he saved me, did I tell you that?” 

“No,” Justice said. “What happened?” 

“Someone must have seen me in the lobby of the hotel where Quinn was staying when she was meeting with Joel and Tommy, his brother who owns the security company,” you said. “Word got out, a bunch of people showed up and swarmed me. I thought I was going to be OK, it wasn’t anything that hasn’t happened before, but it got out of hand fast and some guy decided to feel me up… Anyway, Joel just jumped into the middle of it all. He wasn’t even working yet, he didn’t start until the next day, but he punched the asshole who decided to grope me and then got me out of there. He got my car from the valet, had them bring it around back, made sure no one followed me. I think we both resented the situation we were in - I didn’t want someone following me around, he didn’t want to be protecting some stupid actress for months on end - and we took it out on each other. But he was always taking care of me. I’m not sure what I did to deserve it but he was.” 

“You’re allowed to let people care about you, you know,” he said, watching you closely. “Know you got your own shit you’re dealin’ with but you’re a good person. You don’t gotta constantly be trying to prove that you’re worth giving a shit about, it’s OK to just let someone care.” 

You scoffed. 

“You sound like a therapist.” 

Justice laughed dryly. 

“Yeah, well, we could probably both use one of those, so.” 

You laughed, too. He was probably right. 

Justice made breakfast for everyone while you got dressed for the day - he’d always been good at cooking, something you’d always meant to ask him to teach you but never had - and Joel joined the two of you in the kitchen, neither of you really sure what to do or how to act around the other. 

It was merciful when Ellie eventually got up, shuffling into the kitchen in her pajamas like she’d been roused at the crack of dawn instead of rolling out of bed of her own accord at 11 a.m. Texas time. 

“Well aren’t you pretty!” You teased and Ellie gave you a grunt as she fell into a chair at the oversized table set into a bay window. She put her head down in her arms dramatically and you resisted the urge to laugh. 

“It’s bright outside,” she groaned and Justice chuckled. 

“Yeah, don’t gotta worry about sleeping in much on a ranch,” he said. “No blackout curtains here, kiddo. Hungry? Figure we’ll feed you and then take you out to meet some horses, sound good?” Her head shot up. 

“Horses?” 

“Horses,” Justice smiled before going and loading up a plate of pancakes and bacon for her. 

The motivation of riding horses had Ellie wolfing down breakfast and it wasn’t long before the four of you were walking toward the stables, picking your way through the tall grass with the mountains on the horizon and the sky wide and crystal blue overhead. 

You looked toward Joel, his tall, broad body looking at home working his way through the field and you were thankful that Ellie was ahead of you, walking alongside Justice as he told her about the mountains and the horses, so you could actually appreciate Joel for a moment. It’s not like you were unfamiliar with beautiful men. Hell, you’d fucked three of People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alives, you were surrounded by beautiful people all the time, but there was something about Joel that struck you. There was something honest about how he looked, rugged and real. It was oddly comforting, knowing that he wasn’t trying to sell himself in the way you and so many people you knew did. He caught you staring and you looked straight ahead again, fighting the urge to smile. 

The stables were busy when you got there, a few ranch hands grooming horses and mucking stalls, going about the daily work of running Justice’s ranch. 

“Mr. James,” one of the men gave him a nod and you could have sworn you saw a small smile pulling at his mouth. “Heard you wanted to go ridin’ this morning.” 

“Colten,” Justice nodded to him and smiled a little, too. “Got my best girls with me, figured we could all use a little equine therapy today.” 

“Well, why don’t we get your guests introduced to the horses,” he said. “Get ‘em saddled up. Think you can take it from there.” 

“Think I can,” Justice said, turning to Ellie. “Want to meet the one I picked for you?” 

“You picked a horse for me?” She asked, her brows rising so high they almost disappeared into her hair. 

“Sure did,” he smiled, jerking his head toward a stall. “Let’s see ‘er.” 

You followed him to a corner stall, a large, chestnut horse with a white blaze down its face watching you pensively. 

“This,” Justice said, leaning against the door to the stall. “Is Shimmer.” 

“Hi Shimmer,” Ellie said, her voice reverent, reaching for the horse. 

“Let ‘er get a whiff of you first,” Justice said. “So she’s nice and comfortable.” 

Ellie obeyed, holding her hand out toward the horse, who considered her for a moment before pressing her nose into her palm. Ellie beamed and Justice smiled. 

“Rescued her from a nasty breeding operation not long after I bought this place,” he said. “he was just a yearling back then but the first time I saw ‘er I knew she’d be your horse.” 

“My horse?” Ellie asked, gaping at him. “Like… she’s mine my horse?” 

Justice shrugged. 

“If you want ‘er,” he said. “Figure she can live here. Colten here takes real good care of her when I’m not around and we bring some kids out from the city once a month so they can experience nature and spend time with animals, she’s real good with ‘em. Given all that, wouldn’t be good to just send her to Texas with you but you can come see ‘er whenever you want, as long as your aunt says it’s OK.” 

Justice gave you a little wink as Ellie turned her attention back to Shimmer, giving her gentle strokes. 

“We’re going to be best friends,” she whispered to her. “Promise.” 

Justice pointed out the horses he’d selected for you and Joel to ride that day and asked Colten to help saddle them up while he showed Ellie the ropes of getting a horse ready to go riding. It wasn’t long before you were out in the open pasture, your heart racing a little at the idea of getting on something this big. 

It was almost strange, being nervous about something like this. For so long, you’d done reckless things just because you could. You’d gotten a reputation for doing your own stunts and it had started because it seemed like a win/win. If everything went right - which it usually did - you’d at least feel something for a moment. Even a simulated near death experience gave you that much. If something went wrong, there was a chance it would kill you. You didn’t dwell too much on the appeal of that because you knew that it wasn’t great to feel that way. If you spent too much time thinking about it you’d have to do something about it. Instead, you learned how to stunt drive cars and got thrown around sets because that tantalizing possibility was there and it required no examination. 

Things had changed when Ellie came along. The smoking stopped, the drugs, too. You still did stunts but there were nerves there that hadn’t been there when you’d started doing them. It changed more when Anna got sick and the fact that she wasn’t going to make it was obvious. Then, you knew you couldn’t risk it because you had to take care of Ellie. Life had purpose and that purpose was her. 

This was different, too, and you hadn’t expected it. 

For the first time that you could remember, you wanted to live for yourself. 

Justice helped Ellie up onto Shimmer and you stood there, looking at the mare that had been saddled up for you. 

“Need help there, Siren?” Joel said, a hint of a teasing edge to his voice. 

“No,” you resisted the urge to smile. “But if you’re offering…” 

“Well, can’t have you fallin’ and breaking your neck on my watch,” he said. 

He helped guide your foot into the stirrup and boost you into the saddle, his hand on your ass and you had to adjust yourself in your saddle to ease the ache in you once you were seated. 

“You ridden before?” he asked. 

“Nope,” you said, looking down at him from your perch high on the back of the horse. “But how hard can it be?” 

You looked to Justice, who was showing Ellie the basics. 

“Well don’t go tryin’ to do anything crazy,” Joel said, his hand going to your ankle. The callus of his fingertips trailed gently over your skin. “Keep your heel low in the stirrup. Squeeze your legs together to get ‘er to go forward and nudge her the direction you want her to go with your legs and by leaning your weight.” 

“Oh, so you’re an expert?” You asked, brows raised. 

“I’ve been on a damn horse,” he said before giving your thigh a pat. “Try not to give me a heart attack, alright?” 

“Now where’s the fun in that?” You called after him as he went to his own horse. “And who’s going to help you get on your horse, hm?” 

He didn’t respond. He just lifted his leg, put his foot squarely in the stirrup and pulled himself up smoothly into the saddle as you gaped at him. He guided the horse to yours, shit eating grin on his face. 

“Who said I needed help?” 

You glared at him. 

“Shut up.” 

He laughed and you got the hang of guiding your horse - who Justice said was named Justified - eventually letting her trot around the field, Ellie riding alongside once she got the hang of Shimmer. She beamed, looking prouder than you’d ever seen her as she guided the horse around. 

“Alright ladies,” Justice called eventually, grinning from the back of his own horse. “Wanna hit the trails?” 

“Hell yeah!” Ellie said, nudging Shimmer toward Justice and you smiled at him, feeling like she might actually be OK. 

*** 

Joel felt almost light headed. 

It was like the last five years of his life had been spent in a dark room and he was seeing the light for the first time. It was overwhelming, everything bright and intense and there was too much to focus on. 

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt like this before. Knowingly caring about someone couldn’t have always been like this, a knot of anxiety lodged deep in his chest right along side this almost perverse little bubble of warmth that was there because you and Ellie were smiling. 

Justice was leading the way down the trail, the sound of birds and the rustling of leaves everywhere, and it was easy to see how much you and Ellie needed this. You kept reaching your hand out to run your fingers over the leaves on trees as you passed, turning your face toward the canopy-hidden sun and closing your eyes and breathing deep, green light dappling over your skin and making you glow. Ellie kept asking Justice questions - about the horse, the ranch, the plants Shimmer pulled leaves off of and chewed like gum as she walked. 

It reminded him a little of when he’d first come to guard you, back before the threats weren’t concrete, when Ellie hadn’t found reasons to be pissed off and Elise was still alive and well. He hadn’t realized that he’d missed this version of you the last few months or how much he felt like he needed to protect you like this. Not just from would-be kidnappers or rabid fans but from anything that might hurt you, even some small wound because he knew you’d had too much of that in your life. He had to protect you from all of it. Even him. 

“Hey Joel!” Ellie called, twisting in her saddle to look around you and back at him. “What do you call a guy who buys a horse and has money left in the bank?”

You looked back toward him, too, lower lip between your teeth as you held back a grin. 

He sighed in contemplation. 

“Dunno, Trouble, what do you call ‘em?” 

She grinned, victorious. 

“Financially stable.” 

You laughed so hard you threw your head back, whole body shaking, and Joel groaned if only to make Ellie smile wider. 

“That’s terrible,” he said. “Worst one yet.”

“No it’s not!” She laughed. 

“It’s pretty bad,” Justice called back. “I’m with Big Miller on this one.” 

“Ignore them,” you said, still laughing. “They’re just boring.” 

“Thank you,” Ellie said, looking between Joel and Justice. “I knew Sissy was the cool one.” 

You looked back to Joel, proud little smile on your face, before facing forward again. 

After a while, the trail widened and forked in two directions, Justice pulling his horse to a stop, you, Ellie and Joel pulling up alongside him. 

“Alright,” Justice said. “Which way are we going, girls? Left is easier, path’s clearer, but right’s got the better pay off at the end.” 

“What do you think, kiddo?” You asked, looking to Ellie. 

She considered for a second, chewing the inside of her cheek. 

“Hard way’s worth it?” She asked, looking to Justice. 

He shrugged. 

“I sure think so.” 

She nodded, looking ahead again. 

“Hard way it is.” 

Justice took the lead, followed by Ellie with you behind her and Joel in back. Things were smooth at first, like they had been on the earlier parts of the trail, but things got trickier. The brush was thicker, trees had fallen, rocky areas that required more trust in your mounts that made Joel even more nervous than he already was. 

The four of you had been working your way through the more challenging path for what felt like a while when, suddenly, Ellie’s horse spooked. 

She started almost dancing on the trail, hooves stomping into the dirt, head tossing. Ellie lost control of the reins, yelping as she grabbed onto the saddle horn. 

“Ellie!” he yelled, pushing his horse faster, trying to force him up the path but you were closer to her, reaching for the reins and dropping your own in the process. 

It didn’t help. Your horse reared back and time slowed. Joel could see you trying to think, in a fraction of a second, what to do but you never had a chance. You were off balance from reaching for Ellie’s horse and you didn’t have a hand on your own reins or saddle when your horse panicked. You held on to the reins of Ellie’s horse until you couldn’t anymore and then you were falling, hitting the ground with a sickening thud. 

Joel jumped off his horse before he had a chance to really think about it, stumbling through the brush to get to you. His heart beat so fast that he could hear the blood in his ears and he fell to his knees beside you, looking you up and down, searching for some sign of injury but he didn’t see one. 

“Ow,” you said, flat on your back, staring up at the trees with wide eyes. He reached out slowly, delicately cupping your cheek and your eyes met his. His other hand found the base of your ribs, where he could feel your body move with your breaths and his thudding heart slowed. 

“Sissy!” Ellie yelled and Joel suddenly remembered that you weren’t alone. He looked to find Justice off his horse, the reins of yours and Ellie’s mounts in his hands and the animals’ feet on the ground as they anxiously tossed their heads. Ellie scrambled off Shimmer, almost falling as she slipped off the horse before running for you. She skidded to a stop, sending dirt and leaves flying, before dropping to her knees on the other side of you, panting for breath. “Are you OK?” 

“I’m fine,” you laughed a little before reaching up to stroke her hair. “Are you OK?” 

“Yeah,” she said, relaxing then and sitting on the ground next to you. “You scared the shit out of me!” 

“That goes both ways!” You said, going to sit up, but Joel held you in place. Your eyes darted to him for a second, giving him a quick frown before looking back to Ellie. “What happened? Did you get thrown?” 

“No clue but no, Justice calmed Shimmer down before things got too crazy,” she said. “Shit, that was nuts!” 

“Hey Ellie,” Justice called. “Need another set of hands, c’mere for a minute.” 

She rolled her eyes but obeyed and you watched her go before looking back to Joel. 

“Think you can let me up, cowboy?” You teased, brows raised. 

“You sure you’re OK?” he asked, looking you over again. “Did you hit your head?” 

You rolled your eyes in a way that was so like Ellie that Joel wondered if it was something that you’d picked up from her or if it was the other way around. 

“No, I’m fine,” you said. “Just going to have a nice bruise on my back tomorrow.” 

“Neck’s OK?” He asked, his hand slipping from your face down to your throat and then to the back of your neck, his fingers tracing the bones that seemed far too delicate to be doing a job that important. “Not gonna paralyze yourself if you move?” 

Your eyes softened and you smiled gently, reaching up to take his face in your hand. Your palm was soft and warm and he resisted the urge to press his lips to the place on your wrist where he knew he could feel your pulse. 

“Joel, I’m OK,” you said, thumb stroking his cheek. “It’s all going to be OK. I promise.” 

He nodded once, jaw clenched tight, and gently guided you to sitting upright. You adjusted yourself, tilting your head and rolling your shoulders back before picking dead leaves off your jacket. 

“Still feelin’ alright?” he asked, not able to bring himself to take his hands off your body yet. 

You looked at him for a moment, considering him. 

“I’m good. Really.” 

The two of you rejoined Ellie and Justice, the horses now calmed and eating apples out of Ellie’s hand. 

“What the hell happened?” Joel asked, trying to keep from sounding pissed off but he wasn’t sure how well that was really going. 

“This trail ain’t used as much,” Justice said, eyes on the horses. “More wildlife. Shimmer saw something, got spooked, scared Justified. We all OK?” 

“All good,” you said before Joel got a chance to speak.

“Maybe we should head back,” he said, looking you over one more time for good measure. 

“Aw, come on Big Miller!” Ellie said. “We’re so close to the end! Wait.” She looked to Justice. “We are close to the end, right?” 

He chuckled. 

“Only about another 10 minutes on horseback and then five on foot but yeah, we’re close.” 

“Joel,” you looked at him, barely hidden smile on your face. “Come on. We can’t let her down.” 

He sighed heavily, the tightness of fear in his chest warring with the fact that he knew he could give you something that would make you happy. 

“Fine,” he said after a moment. “We go the rest of the way. Assuming you don’t give me another damn heart attack.” 

Ellie squealed happily and Justice helped her back on her horse as Joel put you back on your own. 

“You sure you’re OK?” he asked, looking up at you once you were firmly seated in your saddle. You gave him a look. 

“Joel.” 

He sighed, just shaking his head and going to get on his own horse, hoping he wasn’t going to regret this. 

But the rest of the way up was easier, until the four of you came to a stop where the trail thinned and Joel could see brighter light beyond. 

“Alright,” Justice said, dismounting. “This trail is too narrow for the horses, gotta go ahead on foot. I’ll hang back, stay with the horses, you three go on ahead.” 

“You sure?” You frowned. 

He smiled a little and gave you a nod. 

“Go ahead, take your time,” Justice said. “Oh and there’s a pretty cool echo up there and next closest ranch is a few miles away so there’s no one around to hear. If… you know. You need to blow off some steam.”

Ellie led the way, picking her way through the brush with you close behind and Joel at your back. You kept looking over your shoulder to him, smiling gently when you did like you were happy to see that he was still there with you. 

“Woah,” Ellie said as the three of you broke through the tree line and he saw why. Justice was right, it really was beautiful. 

There were mountains and lakes and open land as far as he could see, the view full of nothing but things that were wild and free and ancient. 

He hung back as you and Ellie got closer to the edge, looking out over it all. Your arm went around her waist and Ellie’s head went to your shoulder. You rested your own head on hers and the two of you stood silent for a while. 

“Do you think Justice was right about the echo thing?” Ellie said after a few minutes. 

You smiled. 

“Only one way to know for sure.” 

Ellie pulled away from you, stepping one foot closer to the edge of the outlook and cupping her hands around her mouth before yelling. 

“Hello!” 

It echoed back to her and she laughed, waiting for the echo to die down. 

“Is anybody out there?” She yelled again and stayed silent as it all echoed back to her. 

No one responded and she let the quiet hang in the air for a moment and something shifted in that moment. Joel couldn’t put his finger on how he knew, he could just feel it, some desperate longing that was so thick he could practically taste it. 

She crept closer to the edge, so close that Joel went to reach for her but you held a hand out to him, going alongside her instead but not pulling her back. 

“We’re all alone!” Ellie yelled out into the abyss and her own voice yelled back alone, alone, alone. Just as the echo died she yelled again. “Everyone else is gone!” 

Gone. Gone. Gone. 

It was all but silent for a moment and then she just screamed, harsh and hurt and broken. She kept screaming, her hand groping for yours and you took it, lacing your fingers with hers before screaming, too. It was a gutting sound, so viscerally full of pain that it hurt to hear. All Joel wanted to do was take care of both of you enough that you never felt like you needed to make a sound like that again. 

That aching sound trailed off with a broken sob and Ellie all but collapsed into you. You put your arms around her, tears in your eyes, just holding onto her as long as she needed you to and Joel looked out from the clifftop, something too intimate about the two of you together to keep watching you. 

Eventually, she pulled away from you, her face wet and cheeks red, and you tugged your sleeves down over your thumbs, drying her tears with your jacket. 

“Ready to get started, kiddo?” You asked, smiling gently at her. 

“Yeah,” she sniffled, wiping her nose on the back of her wrist. “I’m ready.” 

After dinner that night, Justice built a bonfire in the pit out back and the four of you roasted marshmallows, Ellie tucked against your side, her head on your shoulder as you stroked her hair and held her close. Justice told a ghost story with with so much flourish Joel had to fight to not laugh and Ellie dozed off with her head on your lap, fire still burning bright, your breath rising in front of you like fog. You just watched her for a bit, running your fingers through her hair in a soothing pattern. 

“Here,” Justice said quietly when Ellie had been good and out for a while. “I’ll get her inside. Joel, you seem like the capable type. Can I trust you to make sure nothing burns down and everything’s taken care of out here?” 

“I’ll handle it,” Joel said. 

“I’m trustin’ you,” he said, tone heavy and serious, and Joel knew he wasn’t talking about the fire.

He considered him for a moment. 

“I know.” 

Justice gave him a nod and then went and slowly, carefully, lifted an unconscious Ellie from your lap and carried her inside, leaving you and Joel facing each other, the flames between you casting you in a crackling orange glow. 

“Turns out you didn’t need to worry about bears out here, it was the horses that got me,” you teased lightly, smiling a little at him.

He chuckled a little. 

“Leave it to you to find trouble in the middle of nowhere,” he said.  

“Need to keep you on your toes,” you said, watching him through the flames. “Are you alright?” 

“Me?” he asked, brows raised. “I’m fine, I’m not the one who got thrown off a damn horse.” 

“No,” you agreed. “But you seemed… I don’t know.”

He nodded slowly, trying to figure out how to put words to it all. 

“You and… and her,” he said slowly. “You scare me. After… after everything, think somethin’ in me just decided it was better to not care about anything at all. It was safer that way. Meant what I said last night, that if something happened to you… Didn’t think I’d have to look that in the face so quick, especially not out here. I’m not used to giving a shit anymore. Not used to wanting to live anymore. Still figuring out how to deal with that.” 

You nodded slowly, watching him for a moment before you got up and moved around the fire to sit beside him.

“It’s not the same,” you said slowly, looking at the fire instead of at him. “But I used to think I wouldn’t be around long enough to see my 30s.” 

He stiffened beside you, heart pounding, but didn’t say anything. 

“I’m not sure I really wanted to die, exactly,” you said, frowning a little, like you were trying to find the words. “It was more that I just didn’t want to live. I did a lot of stupid, risky shit and figured that, at the very least, I’d join the 27 club.” 

“The 27 club?” Joel frowned. 

You smiled just a little, looking at him. 

“You know, troubled celebrities who died when they were 27? Kurt Cobain, Amy Winehouse, Jim Morrison?” You laughed darkly. “Just… add me to the list.” 

Joel fought to stay still and not give into this foreign, amorphous terror that gripped him. Back when he first started protecting you, he wouldn’t have thought it was possible for you to have felt like that. It had seemed like everything in the world had conspired to give you everything a person could ever need, how could that have left you so wanting? How could someone like you ever understand what it was like to really, truly lose something. 

Now, he knew better and that knowledge came with pain. What if you’d been right and you were just gone, back when you would have been a headline and his daughter crying on his shoulder? What if he’d never met you, known you? Would he even have had any idea of what was missing from his life or would he have just moved hollowly through the world with this empty piece he didn’t even know existed?

You looked back toward the fire, your fingers gripping the rock you were sitting on. 

“I remember what it was like when Ellie changed that. I wanted to be around for her, to see her grow up and have a life, to be the cool aunt who she could actually depend on, not a bad influence who was just a story after she was gone. She changed everything for me.” 

You looked to Joel again, eyes searching his. 

“It’s different,” you said. “But… I get it. Or, I think I do, anyway.” 

Your hand covered his, grit from the stone embedded in your palm harsh in the contrast to the softness of your skin. 

“This doesn’t need to be anything you’re not ready for,” you said quietly. “We have time. We can figure it out but… I’d like to figure it out.” 

He twisted and took your face gently in his hand, tilting your head so he could kiss you, the peppery bite of red wine and the syrupy sweetness of the marshmallow mixing on your tongue. He pulled back enough to look in your eyes but stayed close, pressing his forehead to yours like it could somehow keep any version of you from meeting that imagined fate. Like as long as you were close, you’d be OK.

“I’d like that, too.” 

A/N: WOW this took a million, billion years. If you're still here, thank you. Work has been swallowing my creative energy whole the last two months and I'm taking a math class this semester of grad school so that's got me stressed tf out all the damn time.

That being said, it's not the AO3 author's curse (...yet) so I'll take what I can get.

I hope this was worth the wait! Thank you for spending your time here with these characters! It's interesting to explore them as they figure out this part of their relationship and are becoming more in tune with each other instead of the clashing that's been happening for the past *checks notes* 20 goddamn chapters or so.

Love you!!

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MASTER LIST

Part 6

Disclaimer: A different hospital incident version coming up. We are seriously trying to stop that ghastly thing that happened in Episode 2 Season 2 from happening.

Joel Miller didn’t come for his laundry the next day. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. Tommy said he got the door slammed in his face when he went to check on the two living across the street from him. Even Maria got a stonewalled. No one had seen Ellie for days. The unlikely father and daughter duo were not seen at the hall for their meals, Joel missed patrol and duties, Ellie didn’t show up to make coffee, much less go to school. Mrs Peterson told you she had gone to their place to give Ellie some work, only for Joel Miller to speak to her from behind the door, asking her to slip the work under the door, yesterdays work slipped right back out for her to grade.

Okay, at least they were alive.

Maria questioned Ellie’s friends, none of whom would speak, not even when threatened with the dreaded sanitation duties. Whatever happened, the punishment must have been a lot worse than emptying the septic tanks for fertilizer - the one punishment Jackson teens feared the most from their parents – grounding.

Being grounded in Jackson, you had heard, was no walk in the park. It meant sitting in an entertainment-less room – no TV, no radio, no books, no friends. Not even school. It was as if the population of Jackson parents had come to an agreement, and the schools had to agree. It wasn’t as if there were big exams to take, universities to attend. So missing a couple of weeks of school wasn’t as big of a deal as it was in the before. And that, it seemed, was the end of the world for these teens.

You didn’t tell Tommy and Maria what you’d heard – although they might have heard those pieces of information as well. One of the perks of being the antisocial laundry lady was that people felt at ease to gossip with you standing right there. And the group of ladies who had gathered in your laundromat that morning after Joel Miller was supposed to pick up his laundry were loudly whispering that Dr Richards was seen visiting the older Miller’s household the day before. When asked, he apparently cited a HIPAA code that he could not and would never violate.

The ladies were not happy with that answer, it seemed. “What HIPAA? It’s not like he will get his medical license revoked or anything. He’s training his daughter to take over. She won’t have a medical license. He’s keeping secrets and I don’t like it. What if it’s some sort of a contagious thing? Who quarantines like that and not warn people?”

There were many heads nodding, lips pursing and brows scrunched with worry that day.

The other group of ladies revealed that Dr Richards had been making daily visits, his trusty bag with him. But according to them, it was Joel Miller himself that required medical attention. An unsavoury result of his… lifestyle, apparently.

“That’s what you get for sleeping with a different woman every single day,” one lady had accused. When questioned, she defended her theory, “Look at the man, no man that good looking is celibate. He plays the quiet, brooding, grumpy single father well. He makes it seem like he’s not approachable, it’s no secret he doesn’t talk to anyone, but come on, have you seen the way the ladies look at him? Who can resist that? I wouldn’t be able to, if he comes to me and demands I strip for him, I would ask what I should take off first, Mr Miller?” she laughed, earning herself a gaggle of approving nods and swoons and self-fanning from her friends.

How you managed to keep a straight face, you had no idea. So as far as the town was concerned, the new Miller household was either keeping some mysterious pandemic at bay, or an STD, though how Ellie would be involved in the latter, you didn’t want to imagine.

“Please Elena,” Tommy begged for the fourth time since they ‘went missing’. “Go knock on their door. I’m really getting worried here. He didn’t even go get groceries. What the fuck have they been eating? It’s been four days Elena!”

“Can you relax? They’re fine. Doris said Ellie did her schoolwork, and she heard them moving around. I’m sure they haven’t starved.”

“Well, what if they’d killed each other?” Tommy shuffled his feet, looking worried. “They may not be related by blood but I swear that girl is more like Joel than Sarah was. Sarah was more… accommodating to Joel’s quirks. Joel hates her music? She put on headphones. Joel hates Ellie’s music? She blasts them! I’m telling you. Those two will kill each other.”

“Oh my God the drama Thomas Miller! If that had happened, you don’t think you’d smelled their rotting corpses in this heat? Sheesh! Whatever it is that kept them there they must have had a reason.” You flapped the hems of your hoodie, trying to get the air trapped underneath moving. You were roasting in that laundromat, particularly with the dryers both working overtime from the amount of laundry being sent in. It was a windless day, so even opening the doors and windows did nothing to lower the temperature. You really should get your fan in there from the warehouse.

“Elena, you need to stop torturing yourself like this. Aren’t you a tailor, sort of? You make and alter clothes for other people, make yourself something more comfy to wear for the summers. Something thinner. Something flowy. It kills me to see you suffering under that hood in this weather. And how many times have I told you? It’s me Elena. You don’t have to keep the hoodie on with me!”

You really wanted to retaliate. But you were so close to being cooked alive right then. So you reluctantly took the hoodie off, sighing in relief, wiping the sweat off your face and neck with the hoodie.

“There she is,” Tommy cooed, smiling as you finally looked up at him. He wasn’t staring at your scar. Like Maria, Joel Miller and Ellie, along with the few people you knew you could trust, he was looking you straight in the eyes.

You didn’t even have the time to smile back at him when Mr Andrews came in, hidden behind a giant basket of laundry. You ducked, scrambling to get your hoodie back on, Tommy immediately turning and star-fishing himself to hide you from sight, torn between going behind the counter and dealing with the extra ripe laundry Mr Andrews brought in, or remaining where was to hide you, not realizing the man couldn’t actually see you at all from behind his mountain of laundry.

He only moved when you pushed him aside, hoodie back on. The man stood there as you sorted out the particularly ripe load of laundry. Tommy looked as if he was going to hurl, so you asked him to get you a fresh bag of laundry detergent from the warehouse. You could’ve sworn his face was a deep shade of purple when he gladly ran out.

“I have no idea how you stay in here all day and not get sick,” he gasped when he returned, conveniently once Mr Andrews was gone, his laundry safely in the washer. You had loaded his basket immediately, yourself about to topple over from the smell. You couldn’t really blame the man, he allegedly fell into the pig pen at Old Jimmy’s farm a couple of miles away from Jackson. Instead of rinsing the clothes, he placed them in a bucket of water, supposedly to help you out with the stains, but you honestly wished he hadn’t left the clothes marinating in its own juices for weeks before sending them to you. Your eyes were seriously watering by the time you finished sorting his clothes. You washed your hands a good four or five times just to get rid of the imaginary slimy feeling you still felt on your hands.

“Imma go, but please, Elena, go check on Joel and Ellie, I’m begging you. Give yourself an excuse to go outside. This place reeks,” he said, hand over his nose, retching slightly.

He was right. You needed to leave. Being here was going to kill you, you were sure of it. You thought about going to the warehouse, but if the laundromat was hot, the warehouse would be doubly hot, what with the zinc roof and all.

Okay, yeah, you had to leave. Hopefully after half an hour or so the smell would have gone away. So you picked up Joel Miller’s basket and decided to deliver it to his place. Just drop it on his porch. Maybe you’ll visit your very pregnant friend if she was home. Have a cup of tea.

Yeah. That’s what you’ll do.

Joel Miller’s house was very quiet. So quiet it was almost eerie, not that you cared. But it did give you some insight to Tommy’s over dramatic worrying. Even your loft was never that quiet, you didn’t think, not in the broad daylight, at least.

You had planned on just leaving the basket of laundry along with the tote filled with coffee, milk, bread, eggs, sausages, jerky and jam on their doorstep and going straight to Maria and Tommy’s, but there was an unsettling in your heart and you couldn’t ignore it. You didn’t really want to knock, but evidently, your hesitated shuffling on the porch made enough noise for someone to notice your presence, the curtain noticeably moving from the corner of your eyes. Of course, when you looked, no one was there.

Instead, there was a lot of whisper-shouting happening behind the door. That, and a lot of hasty footsteps and shuffling, urgency all over the movements, heard even without the gift of sight.

“Joel! Joel!” you heard Ellie urgently whisper, though the term was debatable seeing as you could hear exactly what was said. “It’s Elena! She’s got our laundry!”

Heavy, fast footsteps approached the door, a small creaking, someone’s heavy body pressing the door from inside, “Shit! The house is a mess! Ellie, get your shit off the couch! Go!”

“Go change! You stink! And fix your hair! It looks like a bird’s nest! Have you even showered today? Or yesterday, for that matter?”

There was so much scrambling you contemplated just leaving, you were starting to feel like you were being an inconvenience.

“Joel! Hurry! She’s carrying a massive load. Help her!”

You were just about to place the stuff you were carrying down when the door opened, a red faced, slightly sweaty, obviously flustered Joel Miller greeting you. “Hi.”

“Hello. I was just leaving your laundry – figured you wouldn’t have many clothes to change into left. And Tommy was worried about you not having food, apparently you two hadn’t gone for meals in days?”

“Uh,” he grumbled, hurriedly taking the basket and tote from you and placing them inside, “Sorry you had to carry these all the way, uh… come in? Please?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to…”

“Elena, come in! Please!!!” Ellie’s voice piped up from behind the door, and you could just make her bright eye peeking from the crack among the hinges. “We miss you!, Right Joel?”

Joel Miller’s face turned a darker shade of red, a grim smile that made you think he was secretly planning on pushing Ellie’s face into the door gracing his lips. “Please, come in, there are… things to tell you.”

Okay, that’s weird. His own brother got shunned. Why were you invited in?

By chance, you turned around and met with Tommy’s eyes, the man standing in his own doorway with his hands on his hips, eyes disbelieving that his brother had opened his door for you. You gave him an apologetic look and decided to accept their invite, someone needed to know what was happening, right? Help his very worried brother and sister in law out?

You walked past Joel Miller, quietly thanking him, immediately knocked off your balance by an enthusiastic hug. Ellie immediately looked inside the tote, grabbing the jar of jerky, opening it and shoving her hand inside.

Her hand with a bandage on the forearm.

“Ellie, what happened to your arm?”

The teen stopped, eyeing her adoptive father who was now standing with a stern look on his very handsome face, his chiselled jaws clenching, his strong, veiny arms crossed on his very buff and solid looking chest.

No, no, just his face. His jaws. No descriptions. A stern look on his face, his jaws clenching. His strong, veiny arms were crossed on his very buff and solid looking chest.

His arms. Just arms. Crossed. On his chest. No adjectives.

What the fuck was that? Why was there a word form lesson in your head?

Focus. Ellie.

“Ellie?”

Ellie was still looking at Joel Miller, who simply cocked his head towards you, directing her to tell you what happened.

“I burned my arm with acid.”

“What? Why?”

She hesitated. “To cover up my scar.”

You were quiet for a beat, contemplating whether to act like you didn’t know about the scar and what it meant. You could feel the tension in the room, the two waiting for your reaction.

“What scar?”

Ellie looked at Joel Miller, who now had his very str… his hands on his sli… his hips, eyes boring into his adopted daughter.

“Well?” he asked.

“Ellie?”

“I uh,” she began, unravelling the bandage. “I have a bite mark on my arm.”

“A bite mark from…?”

“A clicker.”

She revealed her scar, now red raw, although starting to heal, a burn mark. You couldn’t discern any form of bite mark on it. Though that might be from the swelling.

You could feel their eyes on you, the room tense, as if they were waiting for your reaction.

Oh, right, you should act scared, right? You should pretend to worry that she might turn any second?

“Oh no!” you said, one hand on your mouth, the other held out in front of you, backing exactly one step away. “You cannot stay here! You’re putting everyone in danger!”

You paused, wondering if you should rush out for dramatic effect. Grab your hair? Panic? It’s been a while since you had watched a movie. What did they do in the movies when they panic? Do people still slap their faces on either side and scream the way that kid who got left behind at home did after he put aftershave on his face?

Shit, why didn’t you pay attention in Drama class?

“Tommy and Maria already told you, didn’t they?” Ellie asked, deadpan.

“Yes, they did. Well, Maria did. Baby asked her to, so it’s not really her fault,” you answered, nodding rigorously.

“Wow, she caved so fast!” Ellie remarked, looking at Joel Miller. The man huffed a small laugh and told you he was making coffee. Would you like a cup?

“Uh, it’s okay, I don’t really drink coffee.”

“See? Coffee, bad,” Ellie chided. Joel Miller rolled his eyes and went into the kitchen, the tote you brought in his hands. “Come on, sit!” she said, pulling your arm.

You obliged.

“So, you burnt your arm, that’s why Dr Richards has been visiting?”

She nodded, her lips pursed crookedly.

“So why are you and Joel sequestering yourselves?”

“I’m grounded. Not even allowed to listen to music. He won’t leave me alone because he doesn’t trust me to follow the rules! It’s hot, okay? I just want to roll my sleeves up, maybe wear a normal t-shirt!” she said, shouting the final few words towards the kitchen.

You could literally hear him rolling his eyes.

“It’s not even that big a deal. He wants me to wear long sleeves so people won’t see the bite mark, cause people would freak out, but when I found the perfect solution to hide it forever, he freaks out and grounds me. I can’t win!” she moaned.

“I didn’t freak out!” the man yelled from the kitchen.

“Yes you did! You over reacted!” she yelled back.

“Ellie,” you gently said.

“Oh come on… you’re gonna defend him, aren’t you? I thought you of all people would be on my side!” she groaned before mumbling quietly to herself, “Of course you would side with him. (mumbles) I knew there’s something going on between the two of you…”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing… I didn’t say anything,” she quickly backtracked.

“Ellie, I don’t think you fully understand why you’re grounded,” you warily said, trying to get her mumbling out of your head. “You think you’re grounded because you decided to permanently get rid of your bite mark, am I right?”

“Uh… yeah!!! I don’t see what the big deal is. You cover your scar. Why can’t I do it too?”

“Ellie!” Joel Miller had suddenly materialized on the couch across from you, coffee cup in his right hand, his left reaching out to slap her hand. She dodged it, coming to sit closer to you.

“Yeah, I wear a hoodie. At most I am in danger of overheating, Ellie. I didn’t burn myself with acid. You injured yourself, on purpose. That’s why you’re grounded, Ellie. You hurt yourself, willingly hurt yourself, scarred yourself further just so you could wear short sleeves. That’s not good, Ellie. That’s self-harm.”

“What’s the big deal? I don’t get it. I had a good reason for doing it!”

“Ellie, I know you don’t know the before, but back then, if someone self-harms the way you did, they are hospitalized, and not in the kind of hospital where people get stitches for their boo-boos.”

Ellie stared at you for a minute before looking at Joel Miller. He looked at her in a way you’d never seen him look at anyone before. There was love in his eyes. Care. Worry. Adoration.

“I just don’t want you to hurt yourself again kiddo. That’s not good. What are you going to do next? Cut your ears off because you don’t like how they look?” he questioned.

“I read the magazines, okay? I know people used to pay to do those things.”

“Yeah, at a hospital, Ellie. With proper care. Also, they used proper equipment to do these procedures. In a clean, sterile environment, with healthcare professionals overseeing them. They definitely did not use acid. And where the heck did you get acid from anyway?” you asked.

She mumbled something.

“What?” Joel Miller asked, leaning towards his adoptive daughter. You got the picture that he’d been trying find out, but so far to no avail.

“Cat got it for me. She cleans the workshop, they have acid for cleaning rust.”

“Oh my God Ellie! That thing could’ve burnt through your bones!” he moaned, rubbing his temples.

“Is that why your friends kept quiet? They didn’t want to get in trouble?” you asked, remembering what Maria told you.

Ellie nodded, still looking a bit stubborn, confused at what the big deal was, but there was definitely guilt mixed in now.

“Why would you do this, Ellie, we could have come up with some sort of solution together. I’m sure Dr Richards would have been able to come up with something…” Joel Miller asked, his voice gentle, his expression fatherly.

“I just don’t want what had happened so far to have been for nothing, okay?”

Joel Miller looked taken aback. “What do you mean?”

Ellie looked at you, a bit apprehensively, looked at her adopted father, who nodded.

“Look, ever since I got bitten, people have died because of me. Riley, Tess. And we nearly died a few times too, you know this, Joel,” she said, looking at him. He nodded, acknowledging her words, but still looking confused.

“After we left here, that first time, Joel got injured. Badly injured. He almost died. I almost got… assaulted. I killed someone. Brutally. I thought, we’d gone through all this, something good had to come out of it. So we went ahead, we got to the hospital, and my heart just felt… off. The place looked worse than the QZ. And from what I heard the Boston QZ was at least a great one compared to others. Marlene said so. Even Tess said so.”

You looked at Joel Miller, he nodded.

Well, you didn’t have any info to add to that. Your group avoided any active QZs when you left Boston.

“When I woke up after they attacked us,” she continued, still looking at Joel before turning to you, “They attacked us,” she explained, “Threw some sort of a smoke bomb, I woke up and Joel wasn’t there. I was in a very rundown room. The worst kind of smell in there, and we’d been in some pretty dodgy places. It smelled like something died in there, a lot of somethings. You can convince me to say the smell was what woke me up, and not the lack of sedative. I remember turning to the side to retch and there was another gurney next to mine. There was a boy my age lying there. The top of his head had been cut off. His brain was missing.”

You found Joel Miller listening just as attentively as you were. He didn’t know this bit, evidently. He wasn’t there with her.

“I didn’t even have the time to scream, I heard them coming for me. The nurses. But I couldn’t escape. So I pretended to be asleep. They came, got me, continued talking to each other. They were talking about the boy. One was questioning why they wanted to cut my brain out as well when all they did to the boy was cut his brain out and freeze it. It was clear they didn’t even know what to do with the brain. They were just collecting them just in case. Eventually the doctor came. They asked him about the boy’s brain. The doctor said they know the fungus settles in the brain stem, but they didn’t know how much they could learn from the brain at that point, they lacked equipment, and samples, apparently. We were the first two. He said, and I remember this, that he wished more people were immune, they wouldn’t learn much from just the two of us, that it took years and hundreds if not thousands of experimentations to create a vaccine in the before, and now with the lack of everything it might take a lot longer, a lot more samples, and so far, they found two. They were just gonna freeze our brains until they can learn more and hope the generator doesn’t die and rot the brains. They were talking about tossing the boy into the incinerator. And that’s where I’ll end up too.”

You could see Joel Miller’s well-chis… his jaws clench, his fisted knuckles white.

“I know what I kept telling you, Joel, that I needed to do that, I needed to make sure that my life had meaning, that I had a purpose. I would have done it, if I hadn’t seen what they did to the boy, if I hadn’t heard everything they said. But I couldn’t help myself from thinking about coming back here. I saw that we could have a life here. A much more stable one that we had on the road. We won’t have to worry about finding shelter, finding food, keeping warm, we’ll be okay here. I kept thinking, if all they were gonna do was freeze my brain for God knows how long, not knowing much after 20 years, what was the point of me sacrificing myself? I would have done it if I thought they were going to produce a cure, a vaccine, anything. But they just left that boy there like that, and they were going to do the same to me. I’m sorry. I got scared, I wanted to have a normal life for once. I’m sorry.”

Joel Miller hugged his adopted daughter, telling her not to worry, that he understood. That he was going to make sure she was okay, he was going to break her out of there anyway, he wasn’t going to let anything happen to her.

“I know, I heard you run amok throughout the hospital. I knew you would come, I heard the shots and I just knew it was you,” she sobbed, pulling away from him, looking at you. “He killed the entire hospital trying to get to me. I’ve never had anyone care for me like that. I wanted to leave. I wanted to have a normal life. I wanted him to have one too, here, with Tommy, maybe find a woman, get married, have babies. I want him to find someone to love again. I want to find someone to love again. So… I grabbed the scalpel when they were not looking and stabbed the doctor in the leg, the nurses too. I knew Joel was gonna kill him so I… I injected them with whatever they were going to inject me with and ran out. Joel got me out of there. He killed Marlene on our way out. She was trying to get him to surrender me in. I swear she would have just killed us if Joel didn’t pull the trigger first.”

“Marlene? That lady from the QZ? The Firefly chick?”

Joel Miller nodded, not meeting your eyes.

“I like it here, Joel. After everything we’ve been through, I want to live a normal life here. We deserve a normal life after all that. But it’s freaking hot right now, and I want to wear short sleeves without worrying that someone was going to see my bitemark. What’s the point of all that if I have to hide my arm forever?”

“You friends,” you pondered, “Did they see the mark?”

She shook her head, “No, I told them I wanted to get rid of a scar from a fight. They don’t know. I don’t trust them enough yet,” she said.

Okay, phew.

“Ellie,” you gently said, “I get what you wanted to do, but nothing justifies hurting yourself like that. That could have ended up so much worse. You get why Joel is punishing you, right? Please say yes. Please understand why he’s doing this.”

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, hugging Joel Miller once more. The man kissed her on the temple, coaxing her, “It’s okay, Baby Girl. It’s okay,” he kept saying. “Just promise me you’re not gonna hurt yourself again, okay?”

She nodded into his chest, still sobbing.

“I’ll leave you two alone. Lots to do,” you whispered, as the man mouthed a ‘thank you’ to you.

You closed the door gently behind you, crossing the road to go see your best friend.

“Elena…?” a simpering voice called out. Melissa sashayed her way to you, an excited smile on her lips. “Did you just come out of Joel Miller’s place?”

“I dropped off their laundry for them. I’m going to Maria’s.”

“So…? Are you two gonna go out on a date?”

You looked at her like she had just said the most absurd thing known to man. “No, I dropped off laundry!”

“Well they haven’t let anyone in their house except for Dr Richards, surely this means something? That they let you in? That he let you in?” she asked, looking gossipy and annoyed at the same time.

“I’m gonna go,” you said, not very interested in entertaining her at this point.

“No, Elena, you have to go out on a date with him!” she said, her hand on your arm.

“Why? What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” she said, but her grip on your arm tightened. “I’m just trying to do right by you here,” she said, “To make up for what I did to you.”

“You’re forgiven, I don’t want to go out on a date just so you could feel better.”

“Elena, please, I feel really bad about what I did, please do this for me. I will leave you alone after that, one date. That’s all I ask, please.”

You rolled your eyes, “Maybe I’ll join him and Ellie for a meal one of these days, I’m not promising anything else.”

“No,” she insisted, her grasp even stronger. “It has to be a date. You and him, the bison, drinks, just the two of you. It has to be a date. Not a meal with his daughter, not one with Tommy, just the two of you. A date. A proper date. He has to ask you out on a proper date, and you have to say yes. Dress nicely and everything. You have to do this, Elena.”

“Let go of my arm, Melissa.”

“Not until you agree to go out with Joel Miller!” she said through gritted teeth.

“Elena?” Maria’s voice called out, “Everything okay?”

Melissa’s grasp immediately softened before letting go entirely. “I’m not giving up,” she said, a tight smile on her lips, hugging you awkwardly. “You’re going on a date with that man, I will make sure of it.”

You hurried away from her and went into Maria’s house, quickly shutting her door. You took off your hoodie, and the two of you went to the window and watched the deranged woman walk her way to Joel Miller’s front door, peeking into his window, unable to see anything from the closed curtains. She knocked. And then knocked again. And again, and again. No one opened the door. She finally gave up after about 10 minutes, stomping away.

“What was that about?” Maria asked, asking you to lift her legs up to the footrest.

“No idea. She seems determined to get me and Joel to go out on a date. Funny, since she practically launched a war against me, blaming me for him not being interested in her. She said she turned a new leaf,” you rolled your eyes.

“Well,” she said as you went into her kitchen to make the two of you tea, “I don’t buy that for a second, but I do agree with her with one thing,” she hollered as you disappeared into the kitchen.

“What?”

“I do think you and Joel should go out on a date.”

“What?” you peeked your head out, “Your pregnant brain is funny, Maria.”

“I mean, the man hardly speaks to anyone, but he sought you out, speaks to you, even hung out with you, on purpose,” she listed. “And, let’s not forget, Tommy and I spent days, days, I tell you, trying to get him to open the door. You didn’t even knock, and voila, door opened. You even got invited inside! That’s right, I saw. I know all,” she said.

“So?”

“So, I think he likes you,” she said, and you swore you could hear the teasing smile in her voice. “I think he thinks you’re special. Methinks Joel Miller likes you. A lot!” she said, a sing song in her tone.

“Really, you’re delusional. You speaking gibberish right now,” you said, coming out with a tray.

“The man looks for you in crowds, Elena, he hasn’t opened that door to anyone but Dr Richards, but he opened it for you.” she teased. “A wedding happened, and instead of attending and making new friends, he got food for the two of you and hung out with you all night. He likes you. Is that so hard to believe?”

You gave her an all knowing look, eyebrow raised.

“What?” she asked, as if you were crazy.

“Maria, look at him. Look at Tommy. Good genes. Great ones, in fact. Now, look at me. Why the hell would he want me when he can have someone like Melissa. She’s a Barbie doll.”

She sighed, sitting up straight, taking your hand in hers. “Okay, I’ve had enough of this. Elena, look at me.”

You rolled your eyes and turned to face her, ready to be cynical about anything she was about to say.

“I know your stepmom gave you grief, hammered her own delusions into your head. But she’s blind if she thinks you’re ugly. Even with that scar, you are gorgeous, Elena. Why the hell do you think so many women in town are threatened by you? Why do you think Melissa, who by your own claims looks like the perfect woman, is jealous of you, so jealous she needed to bully you to put you down?”

You pretended to look interested in what she had to say for exactly two seconds before rolling your eyes again.

“Having said that all that,” Maria continued, squeezing your hands, “Joel Miller is not the type of man who would just be interested in looks, Elena. He sees beyond that. He won’t be tempted by Melissa, or any other women in town.”

“He’s a man,” you countered.

“He’s not an idiot,” she retaliated. “He sees you. He sees what we all see. A beautiful woman who is kind, who works hard, who survived. Who has seen the ugliness in this world and wants to make it beautiful again.”

“I just… I can’t help wonder if… never mind.”

“No, you tell me. You can’t help wonder about what?”

You took a few seconds, wondering if you wanted to tell her what was on your mind.

“Maria, if you hear something about me, you would tell me, right? You wouldn’t keep it from me, right?”

She looked scandalized. “Like, if people say things about you? Of course I would! Haven’t I always?”

“It’s just… Tina, she said something about a superstition, about me… I don’t know what it is, she didn’t get the chance to tell me. And Melissa, when she came to the laundromat that morning, she was drunk, and she said something about me not doing something for her? And the way people were staring when Joel, Tommy, Ellie and I were having breakfast… like they were expecting something to happen. I don’t know, Maria, it all just felt so… I don’t know.”

She pondered for a while. “No, I haven’t heard anything like that. Then again, people tend to keep things about you away from me, they know I will back you up.”

You raised your eyebrows. She had always backed you up. She was basically the reason you found out what people had been saying about you. But this one bit, it just felt… like it involves a super-secret… something. It’s very disconcerting.

And the fact that you might never know what the deal was made it even more so.

You were sweeping the laundromat a few mornings later when you heard something rolling down the street. You stopped, a bit confused at what the sound could be. That sound was usually followed by Hank, his rickety metal cart filled to the brim with vegetables from the greenhouse. But that usually takes place in the evenings. It’s 9 am.

“Knock, knock,” Joel Miller playfully said, coming inside with a cart made of wood. “I have something for you,” he said, showing you the cart. It’s not Hank’s. This looked brand new.

“What’s this?” you asked, as your palpitation issue began again.

“Made you a cart. Didn’t want you lugging heavy laundry baskets around town again. Can’t be good for your back,” he mumbled, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.

Oh, damn it Joel Miller. One more thing for the list, huh?

“Oh, and I’m wondering if you have scraps of cloth I can use? I need to wrap a bit of wood. They need to be able to cover the entirety of these,” he said, bending down to get nine uniformed wood planks, each with holes drilled into them, placing them on the counter.

“Huh, what for?”

“You’ll see. You have them?”

“Uh… sure. Come on, let’s check,” you said, getting the keys to the warehouse. He followed you, the planks in his hands. He waited patiently as you unlocked the door and followed you inside.

You took out the bin with the cloth scraps you had been collecting for the patchwork quilts, the bin immediately taken away from your hands by him. He carried them to the counter by the entrance and waited as you took some bits and pieces out, asking him if he minded them being different from one another.

“We have materials, of course, but I don’t think Maria would be happy if I give them to you for a board, they’re saved for clothes,” you explained.

“No, anything available would be good. So long as they cover these.”

“Why do you need to cover them?”

“You’ll see!”

“Oh come on!”

He remained resolute, shaking his head, a smile on his face.

Damn palpitations. Or was it gas this time?

“Patience, Elena, I’ll show you in a bit.”

Okay, those were goosebumps. But why?

You found nine scraps of cloths that would cover each of the planks nicely, none matching, each too small to make clothing from. After he put the bin away for you, he asked to borrow a pair of scissors, and the two of you crossed the road back to the laundromat, Joel Miller placing the planks and cloths on the counter, taking a bottle of glue from the cart.

He slathered glue on one side of a board before placing the cloth on in, smoothing it on the plank, turning it around and doing the same to the other side. He made sure the entire board was covered neatly before cutting away any stray pieces of cloth.

You picked up a plank and tried to help him, but he gently smacked your hand away, tutting at you for your audacity to try and help him.

“Just… stand there and look pretty,” he jested. “I’ve got this,” he winked.

At you. He winked at you.

Oh… what was this you were feeling now? You definitely needed to get going on making that thin-clothed hoodie. You were sure you were about to melt. Was this what heat-strokes felt like? Your head felt light. Your body felt like it was about to float. You felt dizzy. But in a good way. Like that time you tasted the ice cream Hank made as an experiment, the one with salt and caramel on top.

Great. First, gas, then palpitations, and now, whatever this was too.

Getting older sucks!

You waited patiently as Joel Miller worked, sitting down on a chair so you wouldn’t collapse. At least you had the sense to move the fan to the laundromat, so the dizziness wasn’t so bad once seated.

“Okay, done,” he finally said when the planks were all covered. He took a toolbox from the cart, taking a screwdriver out, and several hinges. He poked the material where the holes were with the screwdriver before screwing the hinges onto the planks, joining them together. It took him about 10 minutes, but when he was done, he tested it out, folding and unfolding the planks seeing if they worked.

“Now, these have to dry, but once they are, it should last you a long time, maybe we have to tighten the screws every now and again, but it should work,” he proudly said, looking elated.

Oh. Oh.

Oh…

He had just built you a more permanent, less destructible version of that cardboard thing you used to fold laundry.

Joel Miller had just built you two things you needed the most.

“Joel…”

“You like em? The cloths are so that the wood wouldn’t splinter and damage the laundry.” he explained, his eyes searching your face.

“I don’t know what to… Joel… you didn’t have to…”

“I want to. If they make things easier for you, I want to. I was at home, not doing much, so I built them for you.”

“Joel… I… thank you. So much. These are great, they’ll help. A lot.”

There was this strange feeling in your body. Like a surge. Like your body was trying to move without your say so. Like it wanted to propel itself towards him and wrap your arms around his very thic… his neck.

One more thing on your wellness checklist. Gas, palpitations, whatever the heck that was you felt just then, and now an unexplainable desire to hug random men.

And of course, you sighed, one more thing to add to the list of things you owed Joel Miller.

He smiled so widely when you thanked him, his hand flying up to rub the back of his neck, his feet shuffling on the floor.

“I’m glad you like them, I just… I needed to do something. To thank you. Ellie, she never told me what happened at the hospital. Glad to know. Been trying to get her to tell me the whole time since we left.”

“She’s been through a lot, huh?”

He nodded.

“She’s my second chance, you know? I lost my daughter, and I thought my world was over. Y… Someone… made me see that hope is not lost… that there’s a reason for everything… and maybe this is why I have survived all these years, you know? This, and whatever comes next?”

You nodded.

“So thank you, Elena, for being there for Ellie. Something about you… she likes you. She trusts you.”

You smiled, feeling all warm inside, glad you could help the teen.

“Well… well… well… what do we have here?” Melissa’s voice came floating in, she herself following, a smirk on her face. “Ooh! Whatchu got there, Elena?”

She took the cart by the handle and pushed it back and forth, “Sturdy,” she remarked. Her eyes flickered to the folding planks before settling on Joel Miller. “Did you make these yourself, Mr Miller?” she crooned.

Joel Miller didn’t answer, instead, he took the folding plank and brought it outside to dry in the sun.

“He’s building things for you,” Melissa cooed, but there was an edge to her tone. “He likes you, he really likes you,” she said, more to herself than you, straightening herself when he came back inside.

“You know, Mr Miller, I’ve heard you were quite the whizz and building things, but these are excellent! How lucky for Elena that you’re here to build these things for her,” she said, giving you a meaningful look. “You know, I’ve been needing a bedside table for the longest time, would you build me one?”

“Uh… you should ask Ike, he has a tonne of furniture in storage. I’m sure you could find one there.”

Her face snapped shut momentarily before readjusting.

“But it means a lot more when it comes from you, Mr Miller, I’m sure Elena really appreciates these things you’ve personally built for her. I mean, look at this place. You know why she has that big stove, Mr Miller? It’s because the place is drafty. It’s cold in here during winter. And she only has two chairs. That’s not enough. She sometimes has people queueing in here, and two chairs. Woman barely has a place to sit herself once customers come in,” she said. “Lucky for her, someone like you is around. You should fix the place for her. Build her a bench or something, so she can sit even with customers around.”

Joel Miller looked at you. “That true? The place is drafty?” he asked, picking up a piece of scrap cloth he cut off the planks and closing the doors. He stuck the piece of ribbon like material onto your broom and held it near the walls, moving it higher and higher, until the material moved by itself from wind coming in through the unseen holes in the seams of the walls. He kept going, telling you she was right, a lot of holes up there, near the seams between the wall and roof.

“I’ll come back tomorrow, mark the places that need fixing,” he told you. “You sleep here during winter?”

“I have a tent I put up, it’s fine,” you told him.

“That’s dangerous Elena. I don’t want you sleeping in the cold like that,” he said, taking out his measuring tape and began measuring a corner in the front of the laundromat, taking notes.

“What are you doing?”

“Measuring for a bench. Can’t be good for you not to have a place to sit.”

“Joel…”

“Let him, Elena,” Melissa whispered. She cleared her throat. “You clearly care about Elena, Mr Miller. You know, I can’t think of the last time I saw her at the Bison. She works so hard,” she said, turning to look at you, her eyes full of sympathy. “I’m sure she could use a drink after a hard day at work. Why don’t you take her? Tonight?”

“Melissa, stop it,” you gritted.

“Come on, Elena, loosen up a bit. How about it Mr Miller?” she asked, her eyes clearly eyeing the man’s fir… the man’s behinds as he bent over to measure the length of an imaginary bench on the floor.

Joel Miller finally got up, taking his note book and scribbling something on it. “I don’t know about other men, but I don’t make it a habit of forcing women to have drinks with me. She’s clearly uncomfortable with your suggestion, maybe leave her be?”

Melissa looked a bit hurt, “It was just a suggestion. You know, you two actually look…” she searched her mind for a while, “Very comfortable with each other. She only ever drinks with Maria, and now Maria’s pregnant, so Elena here hasn’t had a drinking buddy in a while. Just wanting to make sure she’s not lonely, is all.”

The dryer beeped, so you went to get the load out.

“So, you’re building a bench for her, right? What’s a nightstand to add to that list? Maybe you could come measure out the space after this? My place is really not that far,” she asked him.

“You should really talk to Ike. And we don’t need to measure the space for a nightstand.”

“I also have a leak in my kitchen. A few things that need fixing, really, it’ll take you one day at most,” she persisted.

“I’ll talk to Ike, have him go over.”

“Why Ike?” she asked, her voice a little strained. “Why not you?”

“I’m busy. Laundromat takes precedence. You were the one to suggest it, right?”

You returned just in time to see Melissa’s jaws clench. She smiled when she saw you emerge.

“Well, I’d best be off,” she said, before stepping closer to Joel Miller. “You hair is getting long, Mr Miller. Come to the salon. I’ll cut it for you for free. We can discuss the nightstand further,” she said, extending her hand to touch his gorge… his curls.

Joel Miller moved away, coming round the counter to show you a sketch of the bench he’d drawn. You saw Melissa freeze, her expression equally frozen.

“Well, if you need a haircut, just come over. And think about that drink, you two. It’ll do you good, Elena,” she smirked, finally leaving.

There was a small smile on your face when Joel Miller took a long, exaggerated breath of relief the moment she left.

“Joel, you don’t have to build me a bench. She’s exaggerating. I sit when I’m alone. I have enough chairs. I can always sit on the steps to the loft, people don’t hang out here that often, and if they do, they don’t stay long,” you protested when he showed you the drawing.

“Don’t get me started on that loft. I’m building you a better one. I don’t even dare go up there, as rickety as this thing is right now,” he said, taking the pole that held the loft up and shaking it. “Now, the bench,” he said, “I was thinking we put storage under it. You can open it and store blankets of firewood or something…”

“I can just go to Ike and ask for more chairs if I need them. He’ll give them to me.”

“Nope. You need something better,” he quietly said, his eyes soft, looking directly into yours.

You kept quiet while all your medical ailments started attacking all at once.

“Although, what she said about having drinks…” he said, packing up his tool box. “She has a point. Would you like to have a drink with me tonight, Elena?”

“Joel… I...”

“It doesn’t have to be a date,” he said, and you felt yet another symptom. Were you coming down with a fever now, too? You felt all… flushed. “Just a drink, I won’t try to feel you up of anything,” he joked, before realizing how inappropriate that was, and covering his face with his hand. “What I meant to say was,” he said, his neck getting redder by the second, “Come have a drink with me.”

You smiled, thanking him for the thought.

“I might be coming down with something, I really should rest today. Maybe another time?”

“But will there be another time, or will you dodge me every time I ask?” he asked, looking worried.

You looked at him. Really looked at him. He seemed sincere. There was no malice in his eyes. No deception. No tricks.

“Yes, there will be another time. Just… keep asking, okay?”

What? Who said that?

His smile was so wide your gas attack came barrelling back.

“Okay,” he said, his smile seemingly etched on his face. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, I’ll bring Tommy and Ike, take a look at the seams of your roof, see what we can do to fix it.”

“Okay,” you said. He started to walk away. “Oh, Joel?”

He turned on his heel, that smile still on his lips, “Thank you for the cart and the folding planks. I really appreciate it.”

He nodded, that smile getting impossibly bigger by the second.

You missed the part where he did a little jig just outside your door, his feet dancing to the tunes of his thunderous heart.

You were too busy concentrating on something else.

I.O.U

Joel Miller

Medicine for Eddie – figure out how to pay him back. Anything but that.

Fan – free load of laundry

Dinner – maybe clean his shoes?

Laundry Baskets – did the scone count?

Lunch – Damn it Joel Miller!

Folding laundry - ???

Cart

Folding plank

You stared at that list for a long while, worried about how you were going to pay him back, while Joel Miller walked to a new building site with his heart full of hope.

You aren’t sure exactly where; you’ve considered yourself “lost” for at least a day and a half now. You can’t remember how many days it’s been since you left the Colony. A week? Two weeks? 

The only thing you know is that you ran out of food three days ago, and it’s not like you’ll find anything to scavenge in this weather. You wish you hadn’t had to leave so quickly, leaving your cherished hunting rifle propped against the wall of the detached garage you had called home for the past year. If you had just taken the extra few minutes to run back and grab it, you would at least be able to bag a squirrel or two now. 

Stupid.

Snow whips around you as you trudge through the deepening snowdrifts. Occasionally, you grab handfuls to stuff in your mouth, but it does little to help the intense headache that’s set in from the exertion of walking through a blizzard. You thought your heaviest parka would be enough–and maybe it would be, if you weren’t so close to starvation–but the cold is beginning to overwhelm your body, and as the sky begins to darken, your footsteps have slowed considerably. 

When you see the little white farmhouse, it’s almost completely dark, but not so much that you can’t see the gentle plume of smoke rising out of the brick chimney. It’s not safe to approach a random settlement, you remind yourself. That’s like, Apocalypse 101. It’s the stupidest, most reckless thing you can do. You have no idea who’s inside. You have no idea what they will do to you. 

You should turn around and leave. You should go knock on the door. No, leave. With your mind so foggy with hunger and cold and unable to process your conflicting urges, you just… stand there. 

So… tired. 

It isn’t until the cold snow begins to trickle into the neck of your parka that you realize you’ve fallen to the ground. You stare blankly at the large barn that sits a few yards away from the farmhouse. Someone has painted the words ‘ART MUSEUM’ in big, black letters on the front of it. 

Weird. 

When you wake up, you’re warm and dry. 

Or maybe you’re dead. 

No–if you were dead, you wouldn’t be able to smell woodsmoke, or hear the crackle of a nearby fireplace. 

With a panicked inhale, you shoot upward, frantically trying to get your bearings and determining your best route of escape.

 “Easy, easy.”

Your head whips in the direction of the voice. A man stands across from you, as far as he can physically get from you and still be in the same room. He holds both hands up, spreading his fingers in a show of peace. His eyes are cautious, but gentle, and his brow is creased as though he were anxious. 

“Easy,” he repeats. “I found you out in the snow and brought you inside. I won’t hurt you.”

“Why?” you rasp.

The man seems confused by the question. “You were going to die,” he says with a shrug. “You don’t have any food in your pack. When was the last time you ate anything?”

Suspicion flares in your gut. “You looked through my stuff?”

He grimaces a little. “I can’t just bring someone into my house without knowing anything about them.”

“What were you looking for?”

He shrugs again. “Weapons. Drugs. I don’t know.”

“I don’t have any.”

“I know that, now.”

The two of you regard each other warily for a few moments, not speaking. Something about him makes you want to trust him, but trust is a hot commodity these days, for how scarce it seems to be. 

“You must be hungry,” he says, breaking the silence. “At this point in the season, I’ve got venison jerky and… more venison jerky, but in your condition I’m more worried about it making you sick.”

“I don’t care,” you say quickly, the prospect of anything edible making your hands shake with anticipation. 

“I’ll give you a little,” he decides, “and I think I have some cornmeal. I can make some poor man’s polenta.”

“Some… what?”

The man grins lopsidedly. “I mean, it’s just cornmeal and water. But it feels better to call it ‘polenta’ rather than ‘gruel.’”

You don’t respond, still watching him and trying to calculate whether this man is a threat. When he reaches into his coat pocket, you flinch, and he stops.

“I’ve got… I’m taking out some food for you. Okay?” He moves again, slower this time, and retrieves a small bundle of a handkerchief. “Venison, like I said.” He pauses, seemingly unsure of what to do next. “I could uh… throw it at you? If you don’t want me to come over there.”

“It’s fine,” you shake your head. “I mean, you… can. Come here, or… throw it, I don’t care,” you stammer out quickly. 

Keeping his eyes fixed on you, the man slowly approaches, one hand holding out the bundle, the other still held outstretched in front of his chest in a show of supplication. You swallow awkwardly as saliva pools in anticipation. He’s moving too slow. When he’s just a few feet away, you lunge forward and snatch it from his hands, making him back away slightly with wide eyes. 

You don’t care, not anymore. You rifle through the handkerchief and find a few precious morsels of jerky, stuffing them in your mouth all at once and swallowing almost without tasting.

The man huffs softly through his nose. “I’ve got more in the kitchen. And I’ll heat up some water for the uh, cornmeal.”

You nod, and he holds up both his hands again. “I’ll be right back. Just… stay there and get warm. I promise, you’re safe. I promise.”

The man vanishes, and in a couple of minutes, you can hear the metal clink of a pan being set down. You sit, staring at the place he vacated, willing yourself to stay alert and vigilant just in case, but the fire is so warm and your eyes are heavy and you really do feel safe for the first time in… well, you really don’t remember. 

The next time you wake, daylight is creeping in through the windows and the man is gone. Next to you, though, is a bowl of whatever it is he made with the cornmeal, and more jerky, both of which you eat with gusto. Just as you’re scooping out the last little bit of the bowl with one finger, a floorboard creaks behind you, and you whirl around to face the man again, with one cornmeal-covered finger halfway in your mouth. 

“You like it?” the man asks with a small, cautious smile.

“Mmhmm.” You awkwardly lick your finger clean and wipe it on the front of your coat. “It’s… sweet.”

“I still have a little bit of wildflower honey, I had forgotten.”

Honey? That he had forgotten about? Who IS this man?

“Honey.”

He shrugs. “Otherwise it really is more like gruel than polenta.”

“How…” you shake your head in confusion. “Where did you get honey?”

“I trade for it.”

“You trade.”

“Yes.”

The silence hangs awkwardly between you, and the man shifts uncomfortably from one foot to another. “I’m glad you’re up. I usually open the museum at dawn, and I’m running a little behind.”

“The… what?”

“The museum,” he repeats, as though that clarifies anything. “I need to feed the horses first, though. Do you drink coffee?”

You nod dumbly, unable to process the rapid-fire change in topics. 

He springs into motion, heading toward the doorway to what must be the kitchen. This time, you follow him. Cautiously, of course–always staying at least six feet away as you watch him pour water from a large cistern into a cast-iron kettle and place it onto a wood stove. Then, he rifles in a cabinet and withdraws a faded, stained tupperware full of dried meat. 

“More jerky?”

“You shouldn’t… you shouldn’t be sharing this much of your food with a stranger,” you say, frowning, but your hand still reaches toward the food.

“Good point. I’m Marcus. What’s your name?” He extends his free hand with an expectant look.

Your frown deepens. You don’t just… give out your name like that. Doesn’t this man know anything?

After another uncomfortable silence, the man… Marcus… withdraws his hand with a nod, and suddenly, you realize you feel incredibly guilty.

“S-Sorry–” you try, but he interrupts.

“No, it’s fine. I get it. Trust me.” 

You take a small piece of jerky and chew on it, mostly as an excuse not to have to continue speaking. When the kettle sings, you let out a quiet sigh of relief. Marcus pours the boiling water into a worn-looking french press, and you watch his hands as he presses the lid down, then pours the steaming liquid into two mismatched mugs. 

“I’d offer you cream and sugar, but I’m trying to cut back.” He looks at you, and when you don’t laugh, he huffs softly to himself anyway. “Kidding. But it sure was a struggle switching to black coffee when… well, you know.”

You know. 

That’s how most people your age talked about life now–two distinct periods of time: Before, and whatever this is. Now. You know. 

Marcus is still looking at you. You drop your gaze, and sip the coffee. It’s strong. Something about how the taste of coffee has been one of the few things that has always been the same calms you, and you feel just some of the tension leave your shoulders.

“I’ve gotta feed the horses before they revolt,” he suddenly announces, setting his mug down. “The weather is shit, and you’re still recovering your strength, so you should stay here, but…” He trails off, bashfully. “When you’re feeling up to it, you can come see the museum.”

Still not understanding what he means, you shrug and nod. “Yeah. Sure.”

Marcus beams, and that’s when you realize he’s really quite beautiful.

You nap a while longer while Marcus is outside feeding the horses, and whatever else he’s doing out there. He comes back covered in snow, brushing it off his shoulders by the front door and hanging his coat.

He rubs his hands together and breathes into them as he walks into the living room, making an exaggerated ‘brrrr’ sound. “Once this clears up I can go trade for some bread and butter, but for now, I’m afraid it’s venison jerky for lunch again,” he jokes. He grabs a handful for himself and extends another little bundle out for you. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks. “Up to a little walking around?”

“To see the… museum,” you deadpan. 

“Yes!”

It’s only when you leave the little farmhouse again that you remember the large barn you saw just before losing consciousness. On the front, large black letters read ‘ART MUSEUM’ just as they did in your fleeting memory. In the light of day–and without the delirium of hunger–you realize it used to be an airplane hangar.

As you approach, you notice the smaller sign near the door. It reads:

ADMISSION: Trade*

RULES: Be respectful of all visitors and occupants of the property

               Must ask before accessing Archives and Rare Books

*Can be physical item, trinket, information, story, etc. 

Thank you for your support of the arts

“It’s great, right?” Marcus is saying as he trudges toward the front door. “I stumbled upon this place through sheer providence, and I couldn’t believe my luck.” He unlocks a heavy padlock and opens the door with a flourish, gesturing for you to come inside. You stare at his hand, still not trusting him enough to enter an unfamiliar building before him. 

Marcus seems to get the hint, and steps through the door himself, leaving it open for you to inspect. You peek your head inside, and…

Well, you aren’t sure what you expected, but for some reason, you hadn’t taken ‘Museum’ literally–and yet, here you are, standing in an old airplane hangar whose walls are completely covered with artworks of every style and time period you can imagine. The large open space is filled with sculptures, vases, and other artifacts, and on the left side of the hangar is a large, overflowing bookshelf.

For the moment, you’re too stunned to speak, but as usual, Marcus does it for you.

“It’s not exactly climate-controlled, of course, but this is better than any of the situations they came from.”

“You… you did all of this?” you whisper, taking in the museum with a look of sheer bewilderment. 

“It’s been my life’s work–well, this life’s work, at least,” Marcus corrects himself. “Most of the major cities, I mean… you know how they are.”

You do. You have firsthand knowledge, although you don’t feel like sharing that information with the man.

“Sure, some museums were completely destroyed by the blasts, but some are still intact, just… inaccessible.”

You snort. That’s one way to describe it. Any portion of the cities that remain unburnt are treacherous, full of desperate people who can’t leave, and large syndicates of raiders and thieves who hoard what resources are left.

Marcus gestures at the walls. “When I started, I tried to keep them all organized, I really did. A wing for the Expressionists, a wing for Postmodernism, and so on, but things have gotten a little jumbled over the years.”

“You. You go to the cities. And you. Take the art.” you sputter, still focused on the insanity of it all. “And you bring it. Here.”

“It’s not stealing,” Marcus protests, his voice rising in pitch as he shuffles nervously on his feet. 

“That’s not what–” You laugh in disbelief. “How the fuck do you get safely through any of these cities?”

“...Carefully.”

“Why?!”

Marcus shrugs. “I guess… when I started, it was because I wanted to preserve our history, but it’s grown to be so much more than that, it’s–” he sighs. “I want the world to have something beautiful. To know that it’s still possible.”

You stare at him. “How… how have you survived this long?”

“How do you mean?”

“You give food away. Way too much of it. You spend your time sneaking into the most dangerous areas of the country and for what? To sit here by yourself in this… graveyard of humanity?”

Marcus looks affronted, and you try to force yourself not to feel bad for clearly hurting his feelings. “It’s not just for me,” he says indignantly. 

Pero would have to endure a lot more snow this winter, he realised this a few days later. A large party of family and thralls had set out from Ulvehi towards Steinvikr, and he'd been entrusted to ride Aska next to the sleigh that you sat in. From his vantage point up on horse back, he saw the first sleigh, drawn by two large geldings of a breed he didn't recognise, force a way through the thick snow on the fjord's ice. Heavy snow kept coming down, slowing the progress, and there was a biting cold crept in. As the hours dragged on, he began to understand how helpless he would be if he'd tried to run, and how life here was forced to adjust round the seasons in a way he'd never seen anywhere else.

You looked a lot more cosy, wrapped under thick furs so that only your eyes and nose were visible in the sleigh. He kept his gaze away from you as much as he could, but your eyes were also straying to his whenever he glanced over. He was glad for the hood he had pulled down over his head, and the thick cloak that covered most of his face, because amidst it all, the cold and the snow and the ink black sky above, he felt warm inside as he saw your eyes smile at him. He fought the smile that crept up his own face, hidden from sight. Despite the desperate situation, he still felt there was a meaning to it all, being here, riding next to you.

He tipped his head back and looked up at the sky instead. Northern lights were dancing above them, and although he'd seen them many times before by now, they still drew his gaze whenever they appeared. The colours shifted from green to pink and red, even a streak of yellow, and he wondered at what could cause such a thing, if not the northern gods that you believed in.

Underneath Aska's hoofs the snow whined and creaked with each step, and Pero could hear the ice sing as the cold crept further in. They'd been travelling since long before dawn, following the narrow ice covered fjord south, and then turning north up another branch. Aska's steps were heavy and tired now, and just as he thought he might have to get off and run next to her again, a shout went up from the hirdmen leading the party. In the distance bright flames could be seen, torches and braziers lightning up a port and outlining several buildings beyond, up in the valley, Steinvikr, Stone Bay.

You were stiff as you finally stepped out of the sleigh, shivering slightly as the cold night air crept in under the heavy cloak. From the corner of your eye, you saw Pero lead Aska away, following one of Steinvikr's thralls. You wouldn't be able to sneak away and see him while you were here, the large farm already full of your extended family, and you already felt the loss of him next to you. Winter was a harsh time to travel, but families came together when it was time to honour one of their own who had finally been called back home. And it meant you'd be packed into the long house with your cousins and their children and aunts and uncles and old friends, while Pero was kept with the other thralls, probably bunking down to sleep head to foot with the other men.

You were surrounded by calls of greeting and people embracing as you came up to the long house, the door wide open. Liv, your father's mother, was waving everyone inside, calling for the thralls to bring more fire wood and more mead. She clasped your face in her hands as you greeted her, peering at you with her bright blue eyes, undimmed by age.

"You look cold, child! Come inside and warm yourself, typical of Styrbjörn to die right in the middle of the coldest winter," she huffed, but her smile told you she was enjoying all the family coming together, even if her brother had died.

"It's been a cold journey, Liv, but it's good to see you all," you replied with a smile, and she ushered you inside, waving to one of your cousins.

"Saga! Come! Get her some mead and a fire!"

A tall woman of your own age hurried over, a large smile on her face too, and soon you were hugged tightly by Saga.

"You're here! Finally!" she exclaimed, and you had to laugh at her loud cries as you hugged her back. She was pulling you into the long house, making you shed your heavy cloak as she asked about the journey from Ulvehi, your father's health, your brother and the children, but not giving you any time to answer her questions. You laughed as she pushed you down onto a bench next to the roaring fire, and told you to stay put. She disappeared, but soon returned with two cups of hot mead.

"We'll feast properly tomorrow," she said, "drink, eat, and get warm, cousin!"

"Were we the last to arrive?" you asked as you gratefully accepted the cup, wrapping your cold hands around it.

Saga nodded and waved over her older brother Assar, "You're the last to arrive, we've been waiting and preparing for days! That storm was bad!"

"Cousin!" Assar grinned and gave you a big hug, lifting you off your feet. He towered over everyone, and was built like a bear, "It's been too long, I thought we'd never see you again once you left for Sigtuna. Has living with those Christians made you soft? Or can you still stick me with your little knife?"

He laughed as he put you back down on the bench, you were protesting loudly.

"I can still stick you, Assar," you huffed, "And it was an accident."

"So you've been telling me for twenty five years, but I still don't believe it," he replied, as Saga laughed. The story of how you'd bullied your uncle into joining the boys' training and then managed to jam your short blade knife through Assar's hand, was one he loved telling you whenever you met. Now he was holding up his limp hand as if it was still injured and unusable.

"What a warrior I would've been had my little cousin not ended my career early," he lamented dramatically while you rolled your eyes, but you still had to laugh at him. Assar was the fighting champion of not just your clan, but of most of Norway and Denmark. He seldom fought in raids now, but would go to war when called upon by the king. And when he did, on the battlefield, he was a fearsome opponent.

"You're just fishing for compliments," Saga scoffed, shoving her younger brother aside, "Make yourself useful and bring us food, if your poor crippled hand can handle a platter."

Assar winked at you, and did as his sister asked, soon returning with both food and mead and sitting down next to the both of you.

"We heard the unhappy news when you came back to Ulvehi," he said, his face turning serious for a moment, and Saga nodded on your other side, "Your brother said it was a good match with the man from Sigtuna. What was his name?"

"Grim," you replied, the all too familiar grief washing over you, would it ever truly leave? "He was a very good man, the best. Nothing like I thought he'd be. He was a Christian, but he wasn't soft, Assar. Even if he wasn't a warrior he was strong in a different way. He always knew what was right, and he was always good, he treated people right just because he knew it was the right thing to do, not because he thought he'd gain something from it like so many other men."

"I'm sorry," Saga said, giving your hand a squeeze as you wiped your eyes, smiling through the tears that had begun to fall against your will.

"I'm sorry, you've just lost your grandfather, and here I am weeping over Grim."

"Don't be sorry," Saga replied, "You grieve him deeply, that much is clear. It was a bad fortune that he was taken so young, you should've had a long life with him."

You nodded, as Assar awkwardly patted you on the back, his bear paw hand almost pushing you off the bench.

"And living with Christians didn't soften me either, Assar," you told him, and he grinned, shaking his head.

"I don't know, I've heard they worship a dead man on a cross, seems pretty soft to me," he said, picking up another fat rib, "And they don't eat meat, and only sleep with their wives on Sundays."

You couldn't help but laugh, as Saga sighed and rolled her eyes at her brother.

"You listen to too much gossip," she said, "They're not as bad as that."

The conversation was interrupted by a young boy suddenly appearing by Saga's elbow.

"Disa wet herself," he said with disgust, "And father said I should come find you."

Saga rolled her eyes again and got up, leaving you with Assar next to the fire, "If Christian men are better at taking care of their children, I might marry one the next time."

You waved at her as she left, and Assar drained her cup of mead, setting it down with a burp.

"No children for you?" he asked, and you shook your head in response.

"No, I was never pregnant."

"Maybe the gods didn't want you to have Christian children," he said, "You'd have to leave them in Sigtuna when you came home."

"I think if I'd had children, I'd still be in Sigtuna. His family weren't too keen on me staying after he died and there were no heirs."

Assar nodded as he chewed, looking out over the gathered family and friends.

"And now?" he asked after a long pause, "Are you staying at Ulvehi? I always thought you were too clever to just look after Agnar's household."

You gave a mirthless laugh in response, shaking your head as you poured more mead, "I would be happy just running the household, but my brother's wife does that more than well. And my father has other plans for me."

Assar looked down at you, "I'd say 'other plans' sounds exciting, but you don't sound excited?"

"He's arranging another marriage, Assar, to some English lord."

"Arranging it? But you're a widow? You can choose."

Assar, being part of Styrbjörn's family, still held true to the old ways, as his grandfather had. Widows in the family had always held the right to marry whomever they wanted, or not marry at all. Your own father's move away from the old ways had caused tension between the two families, and you knew that if Styrbjörn was still alive, you could've come to him for help.

"Tell that to the Jarl of Ulvehi who wants new connections and new trade," you scoffed, glancing over at your father, "He's already had an envoy from England and come spring, I'm being shipped off again. It's how the Christians do it."

Assar was quiet, drinking his mead in measured sips as you saw his brow furrow.

"It isn't right," he said eventually, "You're a widow, he can't tell you who to marry."

"He already has."

"I'll talk to him, make him see sense. His daughter's happiness has to be more important than more wealth."

"Assar…" you sighed, "thank you, but you can't. You know that with Styrbjörn gone, our fathers will argue over who shall be head of the family. If you try to change my father's mind in this too, he'll take that as an insult. Your family is much more true to the old ways, and my father will use that to argue that he should be head of the family, to stay close to the king, you know he's recently converted to Christianity."

"My father is the eldest son, he is the head of the family now," Assar put in, but you shook your head.

"But my father is a Jarl, and Ulvehi is wealthier than Steinvikr, you know he won't back down to Håkon that easily."

"It's not right," Assar muttered, "And if I wasn't already married, I'd marry you myself, and end this."

"You're assuming I'd want to marry you?" you said, poking Assar's side with a smile, "Thank you, I would probably accept. But only to get out of marrying that English lord."

Assar shoots you a smirk, "Good to know I'm appreciated."

"I have a plan though," you said, again glancing over at the Jarl where he sat by the long table next to Håkon and the rest of the family, "But don't tell my father. I have no intention of marrying again, unless I get to choose myself."

"How?" Assar asked, but you shook your head.

"I can't tell anyone yet, I don't know if it will work. And you can't help," you said, holding up your hand to interrupt Assar who had already opened his mouth, you knew what he'd say, "I can't start a feud over this, and involving anyone from Steinvikr would do just that."

Assar had no reply to that, and you sat in silence for a few moments, warming up by the fire as your large cousin drank his mead. Your cup sat untouched now, next to you on the bench.

"You've changed," Assar said after a few minutes, "The young girl I knew, back before you married the Christian, she accepted her father's decision and sailed away, leaving her whole family behind. Now there is a hardness to you, I don't recognise this in you."

You looked up at him to see if he was teasing you, but his face was serious as he met your eyes.

"You grew up," he said, "You're not the girl I knew back then."

"I had to," you replied, "I had no choice, I was made to leave Ulvehi with a man I didn't know. He was good to me, but I was a Norse girl among Christians, in a Christian town. Grim made me happy, but it wasn't easy to navigate that new life. And I won't do it again. At least not if it's not on my own terms."

"How do you plan to make your father change his mind?"

"I can't tell you," you shook your head, "But you'll know when I've done it."

Assar looked at you, seemingly trying to read your mind with how firmly he was keeping his eyes fixed on yours. After a long moment he nodded.

"May the gods keep you safe, freandir."

The rest of the long winter evening disappeared in a blur of greetings and stories re-told, it had been a long time since everyone had come together, and it felt more like a celebration than the preparation for a funeral. But as the night wound down, you saw the thralls begin to prepare for tomorrow's event; to send Styrbjörn Thorfinnsson to Odin in such a way that the valkyries had no choice but to bring him to Valhalla.

You shared a room with Saga and her youngest child, a three year old girl named Disa. Her son was old enough to sleep with his father and the other men, and you were glad to get some time alone with your other cousin. Growing up you'd spent time at Steinvikr, and she'd spent months at Ulvehi during the summers too. Sharing a bed with her felt like being a young girl again, giggling under the covers so that your mothers wouldn't hear that you were still awake, except now you kept your voices low to not wake up Saga's daughter. But the long journey took its toll on you, and you were soon asleep.

As you approached the stable the next morning after breakfast, you saw Pero step out of the large barn that served as the sleeping quarters for the visiting thralls. He threw a blank glance in your direction and then continued on his way to the cook house.

"Hauknefr!" you suddenly called to him, unable to stop yourself.

He stopped and turned around, and you gave him an impatient wave, as if you were calling him over to give an order. You knew what you really wanted to say, to do, but you had no idea how to convey that out in the open without risking everything. As he walked over, you noticed the slumped curve of his shoulders, as if he was hunched over, and he was keeping his eyes away from you.

"My lady," he said flatly in English as he came close, keeping his head down. A sudden flash of pain cut across your heart as you realised what he was doing, being the perfect, submissive, thrall standing before his mistress.

"Was…was Aska…very tired yesterday after the long ride?" you asked, flapping around in your head for an excuse to have called him over.

"She was tired, my lady," he replied, "I stabled her and gave her extra feed, she'll need a day or two to rest up."

"Where did you stable her?"

Pero nodded to the stable, the obvious answer, but you pretended you didn't know every building on this farm as well as you did Ulvehi.

"Show me."

You followed him, walking a few steps behind, as he led the way. The stable here was much larger than Ulvehi, Styrbjörn has bred horses, crossing sturdy Norse stallions with imported, fleet footed mares from Frankia. Some of those descendants now looked up as Pero stepped inside, and took you to Aska's stall. She'd been fed by someone, a generous heap of oats had been poured into the manger.

"I fed her this morning," Pero said as you stepped into the stall and stroked Aska's neck. She nudged your side briefly, but then returned to her breakfast.

"Clearly," you commented, glancing around the stable with a blank face, trying to see if there was anyone else around.

"Not here," Pero mumbled in a low voice and nodded towards the other end of the stable, "Tack room."

He dropped his head again and held out his arm, showing you the way, "I noticed a weakness in her bridle, I might be able to repair it," he said, his voice sullen.

"Let me see," you replied, "It needs to be done correctly, do you have the skill for that?"

Pero nodded, and led the way towards the back.

The Steinvikr tack room was a second building, added on to the stable, and another testament to how large the stable was. But it wasn't empty, a thrall was standing by the workbench in the middle, working on a stirrup.

Inwardly you sighed, as Pero went over to Aska's bridle, turning his back on the thrall.

"Here, the stitching is coming loose," he said in English, "and here too."

You glanced over your shoulder as the thrall at the table moved, he'd looked up at the two of you as Pero spoke, but you couldn't tell if he understood Pero or not.

"Do you have what you need here to mend it?" you asked, looking at the row of tools nearby.

"Yes, I can mend it so that it's as good as new, my lady."

"And what will you use to make it stronger than before?"

You were stalling for time, the thrall behind you was wiping down the leather on the stirrup, looking as if he was soon done, and Pero caught on. With slow, measured, movements he talked through how he would unpick the stitching, reinforce it and put it back together. By the time he reached for the first tool, the thrall gave you a curt nod, and left the tack room.

Watching him leave, you held your breath, the stable was quiet, and the man's footsteps were retreating.

"Princesa," Pero mumbled, his voice low again as he put the tool down, "We can't…"

You cut him off, pressing your lips to his, he huffed in surprise and stumbled a step back, grabbing hold of your hips so that you pressed up against him.

"Amor," he breathed into your mouth, temporarily giving in to your hurried advance. He knew it was a great risk, but he strained his ears to hear if someone was approaching, and tasted your need on his tongue.

He let a minute, maybe more, pass, and then he gently pushed you away.

"Amor, we can't, not here. It's too dangerous."

"I know, love," you whispered, still close to him, your head leaning against his shoulder, "Just a few more moments."

He let you rest there for a little while longer, his hands running in slow strokes over your back the way he knew calmed you. Then he made you stand up straight, and took a few steps away from you.

"Soon," he reassured you, "Soon, I promise."

You nodded, and he reached for the tool again. The bridle was fine, the stitching tight, but he wanted to have something in his hands, to look busy if someone walked in, so he began to clean the ornate groves in the leather. He could feel you watching him as you leaned against the door frame, glancing behind you. There was no one in the stable it seemed, at least not nearby, all seemed quiet, and he felt himself relax a little bit more.

You were so eager, and sometimes so reckless. He admired that side of you, but it also scared him, for both of you. He could be reckless and impatient, he knew that. But years of life as a mercenary had taught him to control it, at least for the most part. He knew when to pick a fight, and when to back down. You on the other hand…everyone had heard about your shouting matches with your father, and knew how you spat at Thorsten if he got close. There was fire in you that you'd never had to learn how to control, simply because it was never a matter of life or death for you. And when it came to him, it seemed that fire could put you both in danger. And he, like an idiot, often let his cock lead the way, an insatiable need to be closer to you.

"Did I tell you I spent many summers here growing up?" you asked him. You were leaning against the door post, one foot in the stable, one in the tack room as you looked over at him. There was a glint in your eyes that he'd come to recognise; mischief, and he couldn't help grinning back at you.

"No, you didn't," he smiled, "What trouble did you get yourself into here?"

"My cousin Saga lives here, and she's the same age as me," you said, running a hand down your skirt to smooth it out as you looked at your cloak, brushing away some dirt, "As I had no sisters at Ulvehi, she and I grew close when we were young. We used to play hide and seek here, in all the buildings around Steinvikr. Used to make the hirdmen so angry, always getting in their way and annoying them…" You glanced up at him with a teasing smile, "until we let them join."

"Oh…" Pero laughed, realising where you were heading with this story, "So this is where you found that hirdman you told me about."

"One of them," you grinned, "I never said there was only one."

Leaving your post at the door, you nodded at the work bench where Pero was standing, "I believe I was right where you are standing now," you smiled at him across the table, "But of course, I was on my knees, not standing."

Pero's grin grew, leaning forward on his hands as you teased him, "On your knees, señorita? Had you dropped something, maybe?"

"Saga had told me that men like it when it's wet and warm, and I wanted to see if she was right," you replied as Pero leaned closer, his eyes darkening at your words. You reached across the table and let your hand close around his chin, holding him steady as your thumb dragged over his plump bottom lip and he bit back a sudden groan. There was still a table between you, and he could feel his cock pressing uncomfortably against the edge.

"Mujer," he warned, his voice low, but he didn't pull back.

"I won't do anything," you reassured him with a smile, "Don't you want to hear about what we did?"

"Not if I can't do the same," he replied, your hand still holding his chin in a soft grip.

"But you can think about it tonight," you teased him, caressing his beard. He kept it thicker for the winter months, and you missed the sight of his dimple when he smiled.

"Did you like it?" he asked before he could stop himself, the image of you on your knees on the floor of the tack room came unbidden, and you seemed to see in his eyes where his mind had gone. With a chuckle you pulled away, letting your hand drop from his chin.

"Not at first, he tasted strange and was too rough. But then figured out how to control him, and that was fun. He was like clay in my hands even though I was kneeling for him, mouth open for him to use..."

You let the last words hang in the air between you, Pero's forehead knitted tight now, the bridle forgotten, as you rounded the table.

Pero felt his mouth open in warning, but nothing came out, his tongue was dry and he swallowed thickly, trying to find his voice. Your hand was already cupped around his cock, closing around the familiar weight and heft of him.

"Do you want me on my knees for you, Pero?" you asked in a low voice, looking up at him as he swallowed again.

"Mujer…" he protested weakly, but his body was racing ahead of his rational brain, and as you sank to the floor, your fingers deftly untying his trousers, he cursed under his breath. His cock was flushed red and weeping as you pulled it out, stroking it firmly a few times as a fat drop hung from it's tip. When your tongue dragged across the slit, he groaned like he was in anguish, exquisite pain washing through his limbs. The featherlight kiss you placed on the head tingled through his groins, and then you stood up.

"Later," you smiled at him, "Later I will swallow your cock and your spend and turn you to clay in my hands."

Pero gasped out a strangled laughter as his cock twitched violently, air rushing out of his lungs.

"Woman…you will pay for this," he promised with a crooked grin. You tried to dodge out of his reach and escape the room, but he was too fast, getting hold of your wrist and pulling you back to him as you bit back on a giggle. His large hand cupped the back of your head as he pressed you against the table this time, his mouth hot on yours as his free hand slipped up under your skirt. It took him no time to find your wet core, his fingers sliding through the folds, making you moan into his mouth.

"I'll have you on your knees," he mumbled, "and bent over this table, in the hay loft, and in my bed, riding my cock every way you want, mujer," he growled as his fingers pushed you open, sliding deep and curling back to caress your insides, "But right now, I'm leaving you wet and slick until I have time to fuck you properly."

He pressed his lips to yours again, firm for a few seconds, and then pulled back, leaving you breathless, and feeling empty as his fingers slipped out. He backed away from you, winking as he slipped out the door, leaving you to groan loudly in frustration in the empty room.

The short winter day had turned to darkness and the preparations had begun for the funeral rites by the time Pero was done with his chores. Nicholas was standing by the door of the sleeping quarters, watching the hirdmen roll barrels of mead into the long house.

"They'll be drunk for ten days," he told Pero as a way of greeting when he approached, "Have you seen the Norse bury one of their lords before?"

"No, it's very different from the Christian way?"

Nicholas laughed and shook his head, "Yes, this is not the Christian way, Tovar. They've got him in that tent over there while they prepare the clothes and weapons they're sending him to Valhalla with," he pointed to a large tent that had been erected in the snow, "And they'll pull that ship over to the burial mounds and build a pyre for him, and when all is set, they'll set fire to it and then build a new mound."

"They burn everything? What a waste."

"They believe it lets the dead get faster to Valhalla," Nicholas replied, and Pero shook his head as they watched the hirdmen line up the barrels and crack them open.

The Jarl and his cousin Håkon came out of the long house, followed by their families and the thralls. Pero could see you towards the back, standing behind your brother and father, your eyes sweeping across the gathering crowd. You were wearing a rich blue cloak against the cold, the hood pulled up over your head. In the dim light your eyes were all but shaded by the rim, but he could still see them, glinting in the dark when they found his, and he bit back the smile that always broke his scowl when he felt your eyes on him.

The sharp call of a great horn suddenly cut through the clear evening air, and you looked over at the tent and the woman who'd stepped up onto a barrel. Pero looked over too, and hastily crossed himself as he saw her face. He wasn't a very religious man, but the crone that gazed across the thralls looked like a witch, and he felt a shiver run down his spine as she seemed to fix every thrall in the yard with her pale blue eyes. Her stature was short, and her back curved, grey matted hair hanging down her back in thick plaits. The cloak that hung around her frame was richly decorated, embroidered and trimmed with fur, but underneath was a plain shift, dirty and torn, as if the woman had been draped in the rich cloak just for the occasion.

She stood on the barrel as the crowd fell silent, and Pero noticed that all the thralls stood at the front, the family and their friends at the back, by the long house door. Some of the younger thralls looked nervous, glancing around the crowd as if they were looking for someone.

One of the hirdmen rapped the barrel with the end of his spear, and the last whispers died away. Pero felt as if he should back away, move further away from the crone as she lifted her right hand, holding up her palm over the crowd. His back was already against the wall of the barn, and he glanced up at you, to see if you feared this woman too. But you were transfixed by what was happening, and didn't see him look at you. When crone began to speak, he felt his attention pulled back to her too.

"All-father, Odin, call your greatest warrior home. We will send him with such a flame that all of Valhalla is lit by the fire of his ship. Let the valkyries guide Stybjörn Thorfinnsson home!"

The old woman's voice was high and sharp, echoing around the farm. She raised her other arm, both palms held open, her pale eyes searching among the thralls.

"All-father, we will send him with willing companions. Those who have served him in this life, will serve him in Valhalla. Who among you will die with him?"

A tremble passed through the gathered thralls. Next to him, Pero heard Nicholas draw a sharp breath.

"The angel of death," he hissed, so low only Pero should be able to hear it. But the crone must have ears as sharp as her eyes, because she turned her head and looked at Nicholas, who seemed to shrink next to Pero as he crossed himself. Her eyes then turned to Pero, and again he crossed himself too as her eyes, as pale as the blue ice on the fjord, pinned him down.

An age seemed to pass, the crone staring at Pero who felt his heart beat loudly in his chest, and then someone called from the crowd;

"I!"

The angel of death turned away, looking for the young woman who had spoken.

"I will die with him!"

The thrall who had called out and sealed her fate was young, Pero spotted her in the crowd as it parted around her. She looked barely twenty, her round, pretty face unmarked by age. Blonde hair and blue eyes marked her as someone from the north, but she was still clearly a thrall, dressed in the same simple dress as the other thrall women.

"Come forward, servant. Drink, feast, and meet your master in Valhalla."

Two other thrall women, older, led the young woman to the crone as she was helped down from the barrel. One of the hirdmen gave her a drinking horn, and she passed it to the young thrall woman.

"Drink, and then begin your service."

The other thralls who had gathered were beginning to disperse, glancing back over their shoulders at the crone and the thrall, and the women of the Steinvikr family had gone back into the long house. Pero saw you slip inside too, he wished he could've followed, but instead he turned to go back into the sleeping quarters.

Nicholas grabbed his arm, "Wait, I want to see what happens, stay."

"How do you know she's the 'angel of death'?" Pero asked, turning to watch the crone urge the young woman to drink another cupful.

"I've heard of women like her, and of this ritual, but I've never seen it. It's the old way, I didn't think they still did it."

"Do what?" Pero asked, but Nicholas nodded towards the small group of thralls still gathered in front of the dead Norse lord's tent. The young thrall woman was already unsteady on her feet, nearly dropping the horn as she drained the last of the liquid. The two other thrall women took her by the shoulders and gently led her towards the tent, bringing her inside and letting the drapes fall closed.

The men of the family and leaders of the hirdmen were still outside the long house, drinking warm mead brought out by thralls, and now the Jarl from Ulvehi came forward, cheered on by the men. He grinned widely and pushed the drapes aside, stepping into the tent. At first there was only silence, and then Jarl could be heard grunting. It took Pero a few moments before he realised what was happening, and he glanced over at Nicholas, who nodded with a grim face.

"All the leaders will lie with her. They say it's out of love for their dead lord, to honour him. They will feast for ten days, while the old witch prepares her clothes and jewellery. The girl will be drunk and well fed until they are ready for the burial, and the men will have her many times. Then she will be sacrificed and sent to Valhalla with her master."

Pero felt his stomach turn, now he could hear the young woman's whimpers coming from the tent too, and he turned his back on it, pulling open the door to the barn that was their sleeping quarters.

"Enough," he scowled, and ducked his head, stepping inside, Nicholas following close behind, "This place really is forgotten by God. Sacrificing people? I heard stories about it, but I never thought they were real!"

"I was told about it in Ribe, in Denmark. Some merchants said some of the Rus far east still did it, but no one had heard of any such ceremony in our days," Nicholas replied and Pero could hear from his tone that he probably regretted seeing as much as they had.

Reaching their two beds, they sunk down onto the straw mattresses.

"The girl, they all have her?" Pero asked, "Why would she volunteer?"

"I imagine it's a way out," Nicholas replied, "To eat and drink like a noble woman for ten days, to not be hungry and cold, and then an end to life as a thrall."

"But what an end…" Pero shuddered, "And to be raped by all of the men before dying? I would rather just try to run across the mountains."

"Who knows what she's been brought up to believe? These old gods and old ways still have a strong hold on these people, maybe they see themselves as our Christian martyrs?"

"If I hadn't seen it, I wouldn't have believed it," Pero grumbled, pulling his cloak up over his ears, settling in for the night, "And that crone, her eyes will give me nightmares."

"You should think of another pair of eyes," Nicholas chuckled, and Pero smiled, suddenly remembering the scene in the tack room, the memory of your eyes looking up at him from your knees pushing all other thoughts from his mind.

"Maybe I will," he replied with a smile, "Sleep well, amigo."

The days at Steinvikr were easier than at Ulvehi for Pero and Nicholas, with so many thralls to do the work. Pero kept himself in the stable, hoping you'd come by if you could. But he seldom got more than a glimpse of you, it seemed all your time had to be spent with the family of the old lord. He saw you sometimes, walking across the farm with your cousin Saga and her daughter, but you were never able to do more than glance over at him.

While the celebrations went on, those who knew how to, prepared the funeral pyre. Pero and the other men from Ulvehi had to help pull one of the largest ships up onto land and then roll it over timbers to it's final resting place. It was a task that took several days, even though the distance wasn't that great. The ship was to burn next to the other burial mounds on the outskirts of the large farm, and the land there was already dotted with small and big earth mounds.

Next to the largest one there was space for Stybjörn Thorfinnsson's burial mound, and one of the Steinvikr thrall's told them that it would be bigger even than the one that sat at the centre of the other mounds. Pero had never seen a grave like it, and couldn't believe it was just for one person. He'd seen great tombs hewed in marble and decorated with all sorts of carvings, some like large houses, but mostly large caskets in crypts under the great cathedral in Rome. This was out in the open, a large snow covered mound, with a ring of stones around the base. A large wooden door was set into the side of the mound, and apparently it was opened on a special day in the summer when the sun would shine into the dark tomb beyond.

"And weapons and…things? In there?" Pero asked in his halting Norse, he couldn't imagine a place where weapons were left behind in the ground, such a waste!

"What doesn't burn in the pyre remains there," the other thrall nodded, "The lords bring it to Valhalla when they go, they will need it in the next life."

"There are wars in the next life?" Nicholas asked, "I thought death was meant to be peaceful, a final rest after a long life."

The thrall gave Nicholas a withering look and walked away as a nearby man laughed out loud.

"The Norse men fight because they like it, and they believe that in Valhalla they can't be killed, so they fight for fun in the after life," he said in English as he came over to where Pero and Nicholas was watching Steinvikr's thralls loading the ship with grave goods.

"Huh," Pero said, "That doesn't sound too bad."

"Typical mercenary," Nicholas chuckled, "Always looking for another fight."

"If I can't be killed, why not? Can you see me sitting around all day with a harp?"

"I'm with you, friend," the other man said with a smile, and held out his hand in greeting, "I'm Yusuf Hamadani."

"Pero Tovar, and this is Nicholas Maleinos."

The men shook hands and exchanged greetings with each other. Yusuf was a head shorter than Pero with dark skin and black hair that hung down his back in long curls and a lithe build that made Pero think he'd be a very fast moving opponent in a sword fight.

"No, mounted archery," Yusuf said when Pero asked, "I served as a mercenary too, signed up with a lord from Rome, and then Frankia and then with Styrbjörn. I have a year left of my contract, and then I'll head south again."

"You're not a thrall? And you came here voluntarily?" Pero asked in surprise, and Yusuf nodded.

"Yes, it's been two years since I signed on with Styrbjörn, he was raiding even then."

"Mierda…I never thought anyone would want to come this far north of free will."

Yusuf shrugged as if to say it wasn't that bad, "He pays a good fee, I haven't had reason to complain. But I see that you didn't choose to come here," he said and gestured at the clothes both Pero and Nicholas were wearing.

Pero scowled and Nicholas glanced at him, "No, we didn't. I came to Ribe many years ago and was caught in one of the wars and sold to Ulvehi. Tovar was taken in one of the raids on England last summer, he hasn't been a thrall for long."

Yusuf nodded in understanding, "I understand you, Tovar. It must be hard for a mercenary to be tied to one place. We are a wandering sort, never staying long with one master."

Pero bit his tongue, he wanted to say he wasn't planning on staying here much longer either, but held back. Instead he just nodded and picked up the shovel he'd been working with.

"I'd better bring this back or the gaffer will have my hide. Good meeting you, Yusuf."

Chapter 13

“For example?”

“Like everything picking up right where it left off before I left. I’m not counting on that.”

Lucille nodded. “Then what are you expecting? When you picture yourself going back to Austin, what does it look like?”

“Realistically?” He lifted his brows. “My family’ll be there, obviously. My friends too, though I’m not sure things’ll feel exactly the same. I mean… stuff can get complicated.”

“You mean Santiago?”

“Well, everything, really. I know they’ll all welcome me back, even Santi. We’ve been talking a lot these past few weeks. But… it’s been a while.”

“Still, this wouldn’t be the first time you’ve returned to Austin after being away. Why do you think the reception would be any different this time?”

He gave a crooked smile. “Just trying not to expect too much, that’s all.”

Lucille smiled back and nodded. She jotted something brief in her notebook, then looked up at him again. Today she wore a deep red shirt that made her eyes pop. She looked nice.

“Either way, you’ll have plenty to keep you busy those first few weeks,” she said. “I think it’s a good idea to spend that time settling back in. Whether it’s the house or your job, what matters is that you feel comfortable with the choices you’re making.”

“I’m actually really excited about the house. I didn’t realize how much that place was dragging me down, right? I mean, it’s a nice house,” he said, gesturing with his hands, “but it’s full of memories and … not the good kind.”

“So that’s a firm decision, then?”

Frankie nodded. “I’m not going back there.”

His house in Austin had been sitting shut for months, gathering dust. When he first left for Boston, he figured he’d be back before long, so there was no rush to decide what to do with it. Helena had stopped by during the first few weeks to make sure everything was in order, but after a while Frankie told her it wasn’t necessary. Not at all.

Since then, the place had stayed closed up and dark, it's furniture draped in covers, the rooms steeped in silence.

He was ready to come back, but a glitch in the plan stopped him cold. When he tried to picture home, those four walls just didn’t fit the frame anymore. Those same walls held too many painful memories; dark moments that left a permanent stain on every floorboard. That was where he’d hit rock bottom; where Mai had found him cold on the floor, where he almost lost everything. Sure, there were good times, mostly with you, but they were vastly outnumbered.

The solution? Sell it. It wouldn't sit on the market long; the neighborhood was good, the square footage was solid, and he’d kept the place pristine. Even the paint was flawless. It was a steal for the right buyer, and Frankie was ready to cash out.

In his head, he pictured something different. A house with big windows, wide and open, with enough room to fit his whole family if he wanted, and maybe even a future, if he had one. He liked the idea of a big yard, too. Plenty of green space for friends and family to gather, a pool for the summer… and the rest of the year, too. He’d want a massive set of shelves for his vinyl records, and room for the small things he’d collected over the years.

Was that too much to ask? Was it a reach? Hardly.

Financially, he was sitting pretty. He’d spent years stacking cash while living well below his means. The academy paid well, and since he wasn’t exactly high maintenance, his bank account was heavy and his expenses were light. He had a full wallet and nowhere to point it—until now.

But of course, it wasn’t like he actually had a job waiting for him. The academy had been patient, but at the end of the day, he hadn’t gone back to Austin. There was no guarantee the position would still be there when he returned. Even though his boss had been understanding and kind about it, Frankie knew he had to be ready to find something else if it came down to it. Which also meant he needed a plan b, and he needed to make sure he didn't sink his savings into a house he couldn't actually afford to keep. But Frankie was nothing if not resourceful; he’d figure it out.

The decision to move back to Austin hadn’t been his alone, either. Luna had been thinking about it too. She’d talked to Frankie about how much she wanted Jamie to grow up with his family nearby, how much she missed everyone herself and honestly, it made a lot of sense.

With the family already in Austin, the main things left were transferring her job there and finding a good school for Jamie. Not an impossible task, but a logistical puzzle nonetheless. If they wanted to beat the mid-August school bells and make the transition easy for the kid, the clock was officially ticking.

“Maybe next year would be better, don’t you think?” Luna asked him just last week, casually dropping the question while they were browsing the grocery aisles. “I don’t wanna overcomplicate this. Jamie’s already starting to say goodbye to his friends and we haven’t even confirmed anything yet.”

At that, Frankie laughed. “Well, if he’s that excited about leaving, maybe it means something. Maybe it’s the right call.”

Luna nodded, but Frankie could see the gears turning behind her eyes. He knew exactly why she was hesitating.

Boston was her home. This was where she’d built a life with Henry, and where Jamie had taken his first breath. Her days and routines belonged to this city; her friends were here, her favorite spots, and more important than any of that, her house. And it wasn't just a house, no; Henry had literally framed their lives there. He’d installed the specific windows she wanted, the doors she’d picked out, even the banisters and the exact shade of the walls. Every detail, down to the cabinet handles in the kitchen, was a choice they’d made together.

It was their home, created by the man she loved, filled with hundreds of beautiful memories tucked into every corner. She didn’t want to leave it, and that was only natural, Frankie figured. The house had earned a permanent spot in his heart, too, especially after everything they’d survived in those rooms over the last few months.

So, yeah; it was a special house. A home, one that had been his for a while, but not forever. No; that one was somewhere back in Austin.

“Well, it’s okay to look for a place where we actually feel comfortable, even if that means letting go of something as big as a house,” Lucille said, adjusting the sleeves of her blouse. “In fact, it might be one of the most important choices we make. Where we live, where we spend our days. That affects how we feel and how we face life. And not everyone gets the chance to change that, so I think you should take advantage of the opportunity. Whether it’s a house or the way we arrange our space, it all has an effect.”

Frankie nodded, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth as he scratched his temple.

“And you’re still sticking with me, right?”

“Of course. If that’s what you want.”

“Course it is. What would I do without you? You know I’m just now starting to get my footing, right?”

He caught the ghost of a smile she tried to bury behind a professional nod.

“You’ve been improving since the very first day, Francisco, and that’s your doing,” she said, setting her notebook on the small table beside her. “And it’s important that you keep moving forward, even if our sessions change a little. When you leave, if you’re comfortable with it, I’d like us to keep the same rhythm; two sessions a week, at least until you’re settled in Austin. And you have my permission to call me anytime if you need an emergency session.”

Frankie huffed a dry laugh. "I’ll probably take you up on that."

Lucille lifted her chin, signaling him to go on. Frankie almost felt silly about it; she probably already knew what he was about to say. She usually did. After months of verbal spillover in this office, he was fairly sure she could read him like the alphabet.

“So… it’s just a matter of time, right?” he went on.

“What expectations do you have about that?”

“None, really. I don’t expect her to ignore me, but I’m not counting on some big welcome either.”

“Have you been in touch since the last time?”

“No. Not at all.” He sighed. For a second he lifted a hand, about to rub his eyes, but the glasses got in the way. He was still getting used to them.

He’d only had them for two weeks, and he wasn’t really thrilled about it. The first few days he kept forgetting to put them on, or just avoided wearing them altogether. But that wasn’t something he could get away with for long; he couldn’t see a damn thing without them.

Traumatic astigmatism, that’s what they’d called it. Apparently one of the hardest hits he’d taken during the fight had landed right on his left eye, though Frankie couldn’t remember if it had been a punch or when he’d gone down face first on the curb. Either way, it had slightly warped the cornea, and now he was stuck wearing glasses for the foreseeable future, maybe forever. And contacts were a non starter; the mere thought of poking his own eyeball made his skin crawl.

He did have a little fun picking them out, though. Luna suggested a dozen different styles in front of him, but he’d settled on a basic acetate pair. Naturally, she immediately dubbed him Hipster Sponge Bob. Then, on the drive home, she pivoted to telling him he looked like that Simpsons episode where Bart has to wear glasses and orthopedic shoes. Frankie told her it wasn't funny, but he made sure to look out the window so she wouldn't see him grinning.

“I just think it’s fine,” he said now. “If nothing happens, that’s fine. I don’t expect her to want to talk to me, and I’ll respect whatever boundaries she wants to put between us. Even if that means she doesn’t want to see me ever again.”

“And do you think that’s the case?”

“I honestly have no idea.”

“And what if she does want to talk to you? It would be a very natural response. Just as it’s natural that you’d want to speak with her as well.”

“If she reaches out, I’m open to that. I’d accept it,” he said. “But I don’t think it’s realistic to expect anything more.”

Lucille nodded thoughtfully. “Well, you’re trying to manage your expectations, and that can be a healthy instinct. But I wonder if taking such a firm, immovable position might also be serving as a form of self-protection. Sometimes when we convince ourselves not to expect anything at all, it’s a way of shielding ourselves from the possibility of disappointment. Considering she contacted you not long ago, it’s entirely plausible that she may want to reconnect in some way. The question might not be whether it happens, but how open you allow yourself to be if it does.”

Frankie smiled faintly and let his gaze drift back to the window. “Right.”

“It can be easier to avoid getting hurt when we keep ourselves from fully engaging with what we’re feeling,” Lucille said gently. “Giving someone space and allowing them to choose how or whether they want to approach you can be very healthy. But it’s important to make sure that choice isn’t also functioning as a way to sidestep your own emotions.”

He sighed, more frustrated now. He knew Lucille was right. And he also knew that sooner or later he would see you again, and the thought stirred equal parts excitement and fear.

He didn’t even know how he’d react if you were standing in front of him right now. Most likely, he’d feel a deep, gnawing embarrassment. First, because of how immaturely he’d behaved and how badly he’d treated you. You hadn’t deserved any of it, not even close. And second, because of how different he looked now.

Frankie thought he looked worn down, even though Luna insisted that wasn’t true; big sister bias, probably. The scars on his face weren’t as pink anymore, but they were still there: one along his cheek, another more pronounced one cutting through his left eyebrow, and a smaller one across the bridge of his nose. He was paler now, too, and he’d lost some weight after the accident. His appetite hadn’t been great for a while, and he’d started riding his bike almost every day of the week.

Oh, and he probably needed a haircut. But he’d take care of that later this afternoon.

Now, Frankie stayed quiet for a moment, eyes still fixed on the window. Outside, a man drifted past with a coffee cup in hand, crossing the sidewalk with an effortless ease that made the day look so simple. And a sudden craving hit Frankie; he decided he really needed a coffee, and he needed it right now.

“I guess…” he began, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe I’m just a little nervous about it.”

Lucille didn’t interrupt.

“Time’s passed,” he went on. “A lot of it. And people change. Maybe I’m not… what she wants anymore. Or maybe I already had my shot and blew it.” He let out a quiet breath through his nose. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Lucille leaned back slightly in her chair. “That’s a very human fear, Francisco. But it’s also important to recognize something: whether or not she still wants a place for you in her life isn’t a decision you can predict, and it’s certainly not one you can control.”

He looked back at her.

“You’re trying to solve an outcome that doesn’t exist yet,” she continued. “And when we do that, we often fill in the blanks with our worst assumptions. But the reality is that her feelings, her decisions, and her boundaries belong to her. Your responsibility is not to anticipate them, it’s to approach the situation in a healthy and honest way.”

Frankie shifted in his seat.

“That means allowing the possibility that things may go well,” she added, “while also accepting that they might not. Those two things can exist at the same time.”

He rubbed his thumb along the seam of his jeans. “I’m just trying not to get my hopes up.”

“And that’s understandable,” Lucille said. “But being realistic is not the same thing as being pessimistic. Careful with that.”

He glanced up again.

“Realism leaves room for different outcomes,” she explained. “Pessimism closes the door before anything even has the chance to happen. What we’re looking for is balance. You don’t have to convince yourself everything will work out perfectly, but you also don’t need to assume that you’ve already lost your opportunity.”

Frankie let out a long breath through his nose. “That’s easier said than done.”

Lucille’s mouth curved into a small smile.

She nodded. “Well, most worthwhile things are.”

“And what if she rejects me? What if that’s it? What if she decides she doesn’t want me in her life anymore?” His fingers laced together, tightening. “What am I supposed to do then? How am I supposed to handle that?”

Lucille folded her hands loosely over her knee.

“Well,” she said gently, “first we would acknowledge that it would probably hurt.”

Frankie let out a short breath through his nose, almost amused. “Yeah. No kidding.”

“And that pain would be valid,” she continued. “Rejection, especially from someone we care deeply about, can feel like a loss. In many ways, it is one. But you need to allow yourself to experience that disappointment rather than trying to push it away or minimize it.”

Frankie leaned back a little in the chair, and stared at the floor for a moment.

“But experiencing it doesn’t mean it defines you,” she added. “And it wouldn’t erase the progress you’ve made, either.”

“So I just accept it? That’s it?” He felt angry.

“If that were her decision, yes,” Lucille said. “Acceptance doesn’t mean you agree with it or that you like it. It means you respect her autonomy while also caring for your own emotional well being.” She leaned forward slightly in her chair. “What you should not do is punish yourself indefinitely for it. You have to process the disappointment, talk about it, allow yourself time to grieve what you hoped for, and then continue moving forward with your life with the same intentions and values you’re working on now.”

Frankie stayed quiet.

“You’ve already done a tremendous amount of work these past months, Francisco” she added. “Your growth doesn’t disappear simply because someone might choose a different path than the one you hoped for.”

He nodded faintly.

“And,” Lucille said after a moment, “there’s another important piece here.”

Frankie looked up again.

“Rejection does not erase the meaning of what you feel for her,” she said. “Or the effort you’ve made to become a better version of yourself. Those things remain valuable regardless of the outcome.”

Frankie let out a long breath. He stayed quiet for a moment longer, then shifted in his seat again. His fingers laced together, then pulled apart. Suddenly, he felt so nervous; he could almost feel your presence next to him, like a ghost.

“And… what if she wants me back?” he asked, and immediately felt like a total dumbass for even letting the words out.

Lucille nodded slowly.

“Not even in a romantic way,” Frankie clarified quickly. “Just… in her life. As a friend.”

He glanced at the floor, trying to sort the thought out while speaking it.

“What if that’s all she wants?” he went on. “What if she’s moved on from all that, but she’s willing to let me back in… just not the way it used to be?”

Lucille tilted her head slightly. “How do you think you would feel about that?”

Frankie huffed a breath through his nose.

“Well, I don’t even know,” he admitted. “Part of me would take it in a second. Just being around her again, talking like normal people, like friends… that’d already be more than I deserve.” He rubbed his jaw. “But another part of me wonders if that’d be harder.”

Lucille nodded lightly, encouraging him to keep going.

“Because I know what I feel,” he said. “I love her. And I’m not sure that the past can just… disappear.” He paused. “I wouldn’t want to pretend it never happened either.”

“That’s a very honest concern,” Lucille said. “If she did want a friendship, that would also be a decision you would need to evaluate for yourself. It’s not only about what she’s comfortable with, it’s about whether that arrangement would be emotionally sustainable for you.”

He frowned slightly.

“In other words,” she said gently, “you don’t have to accept something simply because it’s the only version of the relationship available. You have the right to reflect on whether you could truly engage in that dynamic without hurting yourself.”

Frankie leaned back again, absorbing that.

“But it’s also possible,” she added, “that reconnecting, however it begins, might allow both of you to rebuild trust and understanding gradually. Relationships rarely reappear exactly as they were before. Sometimes they evolve, and that's okay.”

He nodded faintly.

“So the important thing is not deciding every possible outcome ahead of time. It’s allowing the conversation to happen when the moment comes, right? and then, responding honestly to what you feel.”

Frankie let out a breath, staring at the ceiling for a second.

“Yeah,” he muttered. Then, he looked back at her, with a crooked half smile tugging at his mouth. “You know, this would be a whole lot easier if you could just tell me what she’s thinking.”

Lucille finally smiled.

Wednesday, July 15th

After his session with Lucille ended, Frankie walked out of the office feeling cautiously hopeful. Normal thing for him, lately. He would definitely miss her.

As the elevator carried him down, he hitched his backpack higher on his shoulders and reminded himself, firmly, that getting carried away was dangerous territory. No daydreaming. No letting his traitorous imagination run wild.

Just keep your feet on the ground. Your fucking feet on the ground. He’d always been the type to fall hard and fast, to let himself get swept up in things. This time he needed to do the exact opposite.

His bike was parked in the lobby beside a massive plant whose oversized leaf smacked him in the face for the second time that week. Frankie pushed it aside with a hand, unlocked the bike, and waited while Dylan, the doorman, pulled open the glass door for him.

“Thanks, man, see you next week,” Frankie murmured as he rolled past him.

The moment he stepped outside and started down the sidewalk, the heat hit him unpleasant and mean. He should’ve worn a lighter jacket. Or not jacket at all.

Dr. Irving’s office was fresh enough that his current outfit did the job just fine. Out here, though, the temperature had turned really warm these past few days.

Frankie rode carefully, weaving his bike between parked cars while silently cursing the bright sun stabbing into his eyes. Another thing he had to get used to now: regular sunglasses were useless with his new glasses.

Sure, he could get prescription ones. But the mere fact that he needed them irritated him. He was already hoping to find some other solution to the problem. Laser, if it came to that. Even though the idea of letting someone point a laser at his eye made his stomach twist.

Caleb’s new apartment wasn’t far, just a couple blocks from downtown. And if Frankie had timed it right, he’d show up just in time to help finish unloading the moving truck. Hauling boxes, setting things down wherever he was told, making himself useful… it was a good way to keep his mind busy.

But when he turned onto Caleb’s street and rolled to a stop in front of the building, he immediately noticed something was off.

The moving truck was gone, and there wasn’t much sign of a crowd. No cluster of people on the sidewalk, no open truck doors, no stacks of furniture waiting to be hauled inside.

Frankie rested one foot on the pavement, scanning the place with a small frown. Then he heard a voice.

“Hey, stranger. Right on time,” Zoe called from the top of the stairs, a box balanced in her hands. “We were about to crack open some beers to celebrate.”

“Right on time? I’m late,” Frankie said, wearing a grin as he hopped off the bike.

He squinted up at her. Her hair was tied in a bun, and she was wearing a Black Sabbath T-shirt. Master of Reality.

Zoe smiled and a dimple appeared in her cheek. Caleb had the same one. Funny coincidence, Frankie thought. If he didn’t know them better, he’d assume they were siblings. But they were just friends; they’d met a couple of years ago at the newspaper where Caleb worked. Zoe was a staff writer there.

“Late to help, early to celebrate. C’mon,” she said, tilting her head toward the door.

Frankie followed behind her, carefully lifting his bike as he climbed the steps.

“Did all this take long?”

“Not really. Liam and Van left a little while ago, and the movers handled most of it anyway.”

Frankie stepped closer and took the box from her hands.

“And Caleb?”

“Went out to grab food. The fridge is empty.” She glanced back at him. “How’d therapy go?”

Frankie’s eyes moved around the apartment, taking in the place; where things had been set down, what had already found its place. It was a nice space, bright and open, with a wide living room that caught the daylight through nice windows. The big stuff was already in place. Everything else (decor, books, random small things) was still packed in boxes scattered across the wooden floor.

Frankie set the box down.

“Therapy’s therapy,” he said with a small shrug. “Went alright, I think.”

When he straightened and turned around, Zoe was standing right in front of him with her arms crossed.

“So,” she said, tilting her head slightly, “you’re really leaving? You decided?”

“I think it’s time.”

She tilted her head the other way. “I think that’s unfair. Just when I was starting to find you interesting, you’re leaving?”

Frankie rolled his eyes and let out a quiet huff of laughter, unsure what to say. His stomach growled.

“I’m not that interesting.”

“I disagree,” she said, stepping closer. “A retired pilot who runs off from his city for who-knows-what reason and spends his days hanging out with a guy he met while buying weed? Mm-hm. Sounds like there’s a story there for me to uncover,” she raised a brow. “You gonna tell me what you’re running from?”

“I’m not running from anything,” Frankie said, turning away as he slid the backpack off his shoulders. He dropped it onto the couch and sat down beside it. “If I were running from something, why would I be trying so hard to go back now?”

In one smooth motion, Zoe flopped down next to him.

“Maybe you don’t actually wanna go back.”

Frankie snorted and waved a hand at her. “Give me a break.”

“No, I’m serious,” she said, laughing. “Maybe you don’t wanna go back. Maybe what you really want is to stay in Boston with us. Ever think about that?” She nudged his arm. “Look at it this way, the past is the past for a reason, right? Sometimes it’s better to leave it there.”

At that, Frankie felt a tight ache in his chest, but he didn’t let it show.

Zoe had no idea what she was talking about. And sometimes the past was only the past if you actually let it go. Lately, Frankie had been wondering where exactly he stood on that line.

He leaned back into the couch and dragged a hand over his jaw.

“Well, sometimes,” he said after a moment,“leaving things behind doesn’t actually make them disappear. Sometimes you just end up carrying them around anyway,” he added with a small shrug. “Might as well face them at some point.”

She studied him for a second, maybe trying to read what sat underneath the words. Then, one corner of her mouth lifted.

“You know,” she said, “I still think Boston has a much better reputation than Austin.”

Frankie huffed. “Oh really?”

“Yeah,” she continued, turning a little toward him on the couch. “We’ve got better food, better music, better winters—okay, maybe not better winters,” she smiled. “But still. Pretty good city.”

Frankie shook his head faintly. “You trying to start a regional argument with a Texan?”

“I’m just saying,” she lifted one shoulder, “maybe you should reconsider the whole going back thing.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” she went on, her voice a little softer now, “there’s a reason you ended up here in the first place. Boston’s not such a bad place to stick around, and the company’s not terrible either.”

Frankie caught the implication easily. He wasn’t oblivious. But he only gave a quiet chuckle and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

“I think Austin will survive the comparison.”

Zoe smirked. “Not what I meant.”

“Yeah,” Frankie said, glancing at her briefly before looking back toward the floor. “I figured.”

He didn’t push it further. The moment just drifted there for a second before he rubbed his hands together and glanced toward the kitchen.

“So,” he said, “how long until Caleb gets back with that food? I’m starving. Where did he go?”

“Lu’s deli.”

“Alright,” Frankie said, pushing himself up from the couch.

He didn’t miss the way Zoe’s eyes followed him as he crossed the room and headed back toward the door.

“Need me to grab anything while I’m out?” he asked.

“Where are you going?”

“Cigarettes.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay. I’ve got some if you want.”

Frankie paused by the door and glanced back at her, a soft smile tugging at his mouth as he reached for the handle.

“Not the ones I smoke.”

Thursday, July 23rd

After leaning his bike against the door, Frankie wiped his feet on the mat and stepped inside.

“I'm home,” he called, trying to juggle what he was carrying; a brown paper bag and a bit of string looped around his index finger, keeping a delicate white pastry box from tipping. “Brought cake.”

Footsteps sounded upstairs almost immediately, and Frankie didn’t need to look toward the staircase to know who it was, but he did anyway.

Jamie was leaning over the railing, head tipped slightly to one side. His curls had grown long enough to spill across his forehead lately, mostly because he’d been refusing haircuts. But that wasn’t the first thing Frankie noticed, not even close. The first thing he saw was the dark, blooming bruise around the kid’s right eye.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Frankie hung his backpack on the rack and set the cake on the small table by the door. He’d stopped by the bakery after running into Caleb and his kid at the park and walked out with some ridiculous delicious chocolate thing: sponge, mousse, and who knew what else. The plan was: get home, kill some time with Bambi before dinner, then finish the last episodes of Malcolm in the Middle with Jamie and Luna. They’d started the show a couple weeks ago after running out of things to watch.

Well, technically they hadn’t run out. But Jamie had cried so much through the last Harry Potter movie, and Luna had asked Frankie, very firmly, not to put on anything even remotely sad again.

Jamie’s expression finally crumbled. He dragged his feet down the stairs, lower lip trembling, only to freeze a few steps from the bottom. He locked eyes with his uncle, looking smaller and more fragile than Frankie had ever seen him.

"I hit Brandon."

Frankie stepped closer, his hand coming to rest on the banister. "And he hit you back."

Jamie gave a heavy nod.

"Why? I thought you two were good friends."

"No," Jamie snapped, his sadness flashing into instant heat. "He’s not my friend. I hate him."

"Hey, look at me." Frankie reached out, gently tilting the boy's chin up.

The bruise spread across part of his cheek and the skin under his eye. His upper lid had gone a little purple and puffy too. Looked like it hurt, and yeah, Frankie knew that look.

"I hit him harder," Jamie muttered. "He actually cried."

Frankie thinned his lips and pulled his hand away. "Yeah, well, that’s not exactly a win, man."

"He deserved it."

"Why?"

A shadow crossed Jamie’s face, his eyes glazing over with a sudden, glassy sheen. He clearly wanted to keep it locked inside, but the words forced their way out anyway.

"Brandon and Eli are going out on the lake with their dads this weekend. And they didn't invite me. And when I asked why, Brandon said it was a father son thing and mine is dead."

Instantly, Frankie’s stomach dropped and his chest filled with anger, directed at ten year olds, of all people. If he had his way, he’d have gathered them both by their collars right then and there.

He cut his eyes to the side, taking a stabilizing breath.

"I told him to shut up," Jamie continued, his voice cracking. "He said no, because it was the truth. So I hit him."

Frankie shook his head and pulled the kid into him. At first Jamie stiffened, like he might push away, but within seconds he melted into the hug, his arms tightening around Frankie’s middle.

When Jamie’s breathing changed and his shoulders started to move, Frankie knew he was crying. And he had to use every ounce of restraint not to break right there with him. He had to hold it together, at least for now. No wavering, no cracks. Jamie needed a pillar, not a mirror. So Frankie just held him. That was it, just held him.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, rubbing a hand over the his back. “They’re just dumb kids. Don’t know what the hell they’re talking about, okay?”

A floorboard creaked above. Frankie glanced up to see Luna hovering at the top of the stairs. She looked pale, her expression frozen in concern as she watched them, her fingers white-knuckled around her phone.

Then, Jamie pulled away from Frankie a little. His whole face was red, cheeks burning and slick with tears.

He frowned hard. “No. I hate them. I hate everything here. I don’t wanna be here anymore.”

“Okay, listen—”

“No.” He stepped back, and his expression filled with sudden fury. “I don’t wanna hear it, shut up. I wanna leave.”

Frankie tried to reach for him. “Jamie—”

“Shut up!”

With a shove, Jamie pushed Frankie aside and finished rushing down the stairs. He ran for the door, yanked it open in one rough pull, and shot outside.

When Frankie turned to his right, Luna was already beside him. The two of them hurried after the boy immediately, following the direction he’d gone. And the moment Frankie stepped outside, he saw Jamie running toward the gate at the front of the house.

Frankie’s steps quickened. He broke into a run, trying to stop him before he could push through the gate and bolt for the street. But then, Jamie stopped short; his hands grabbed the handle and he wrestled with it, unable to get it open. He struggled and struggled, breath coming hard and uneven as he slammed his fist against the gate and kicked at it, the hard thuds echoing painfully in Frankie’s ears.

“Jamie, baby, stop,” Luna pleaded through tears, grabbing him by the shoulders. Jamie shook her off with a sharp movement. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“Hey, come on.” Frankie didn’t try to be gentle. He stepped in and grabbed him by the waist, pulling him away from the gate in one motion and setting him down in front of him.

Jamie tried to shove him away. He groaned, then hit Frankie in the stomach as hard as he could. Frankie didn’t complain or try to push him off, he just held on. He let the kid take it out on him, even as Luna tried to stop him, and took every angry aching blow.

He was so furious. So full of a kind of rage that nothing could quiet. Frankie knew that pain far too well, but Jamie was too young for it. It hurt to see his flushed swollen face, the twist of grief and hatred in it. There wasn’t a punch in the world strong enough to get rid of that feeling.

After a moment, Frankie caught both of Jamie’s wrists and held them still.

“Enough, Jamie. It’s okay. Stop,” he ordered, crouching down to lift the boy and pull him against his chest.

Jamie struggled for a moment, but Frankie’s arms kept him steady, tighter and steadier, until the fight slowly drained out of him and he simply let himself be held.

“Easy, easy. Bambi, stop,” Luna said, trying to calm the dog whining anxiously beside them.

Frankie ran a hand through Jamie’s curls, and then the boy just cried. He clung tightly to Frankie’s neck, sobbing, worn out and overwhelmed.

Luna stepped closer and laid her palm against Jamie’s back. She stroked it gently while Frankie caught the shine of tears in her eyes too. And then, when she looked at him, really looked at him, her eyes spoke to him without saying a word.

Frankie tightened his arms around him, one hand steady at the back of his head, fingers buried in his curls.

“Hey… hey, it’s alright,” he murmured softly. “Cry all you need.”

Jamie’s fingers twisted in the collar of Frankie’s shirt.

“They’re stupid,” Frankie went on quietly. “You hear me? Just a couple dumb kids running their mouths about things they don’t understand.”

Jamie sniffed hard, his face still pressed into Frankie’s shoulder.

“But it’s true,” he mumbled thickly. “My dad is dead.”

The words landed like a punch, and Frankie swallowed and closed his eyes for a second before answering. Holding back the tears became impossible.

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Yeah, I know.”

Jamie let out another broken sob.

“But listen to me,” Frankie continued, rubbing slow circles over his back. “That doesn’t mean you’re alone. Not even close.”

He leaned his cheek briefly against Jamie’s hair.

“You got your mom. You got Sofi, Grace, Mai and grandma Helena. You got Bambi, Bingley.” His voice softened even more. “And you got me, alright?”

Jamie’s grip on him tightened.

“I’m not going anywhere, alright?” Frankie said quietly. “You’re stuck with me now.”

The boy let out a shaky breath, and Frankie brushed a thumb over the back of his neck.

“Your dad loved you, he loved you so much,” he said softly. “That doesn’t stop just because he’s not here. That kind of thing… it sticks. Right here.” He tapped Jamie lightly between the shoulder blades. “You carry it with you.”

Jamie didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away either. So Frankie just kept holding him, rocking him gently where he stood in the yard, murmuring soft nonsense and quiet reassurances into his hair while the worst of the storm slowly began to pass.

Two hours later

“Look at me, baby. I don’t ever want you doing this again, alright?” Luna whispered, holding Jamie’s small hands while he sat on the kitchen island.

His knuckles were pink and swollen, and the ache had started to set in, an ache that Jamie was trying and failing to stoically ignore. Frankie wanted to take him to the doctor, but Jamie insisted he was fine, clearly feeling awful about making his mom cry. He’d begged and begged and begged not to go, so Frankie checked his hands himself, going over every finger with careful attention, making sure nothing was seriously hurt. Then, he made Jamie promise that if he woke up feeling worse tomorrow, they were going anyway. Jamie had agreed.

“You can be mad. You can cry. But you don’t get to hurt yourself again, you hear me?” Luna went on, cupping her son’s cheeks in her palms.

Jamie nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me, baby.” She kissed his cheek. “We’ll figure out how to feel better, okay?”

Behind them, Frankie listened in silence while he cooked. He’d been chopping vegetables for the past five minutes, and his stomach was a growling mess with fresh hunger now that the tension had finally left the house.

“Uh, alright. If nobody’s looking to start crying again, I suggest backing up a little,” he said, tipping his head back slightly. “I’m about to chop an onion so, you guys are warned.”

Luna laughed. “Okay. Jamie, c’mon.”

Frankie watched them drift away just far enough to give him space, though they stayed well within his orbit. Jamie dropped onto the floor next to Bingley, who was currently a boneless sprawling heap of fur. The boy ran a hand over the cat’s belly with tenderness, and even Bambi had de-escalated, though she remained tucked close to Jamie’s side, watching the interaction from her paws like a big furry bodyguard.

The evening moved along quickly, and dinner turned out great; spaghetti with sauce, a la Frankie-style. He’d been pretty proud of how much better his cooking had gotten lately. It had also become a surprisingly decent distraction. Luna and Jamie seemed to love everything he made, though he was fairly sure they sometimes piled on the compliments so he wouldn’t feel bad. A bit of a stretch, maybe, but the theory stuck around, fueled by his ever present impostor syndrome.

The cake disappeared quickly after dinner. Malcolm in the Middle turned out to be the perfect distraction for the three of them, and they watched the last three episodes together on the couch. Bingley stayed curled up in Jamie’s lap the entire time, and when it was finally his bedtime, the cat followed him all the way to his room.

Frankie took care of the dishes and tidied everything up, even though Luna insisted on doing it herself.

“Go relax. I got it,” he told her, leaving her very little room to argue.

And twenty minutes later, when Frankie was finishing up in the kitchen, she reappeared. Her hair was still damp from the shower and she was dressed in her pajamas. Leaning against the counter, she caught his eye.

“Wanna come out for a smoke with me?”

Frankie raised his brows. “You smoking again?”

"Oh, give me a break," she smiled, stepping closer to grab the lighter resting by the stove. "I need one, like, right this second."

He huffed a soft laugh and simply nodded, following her as she headed for the back door. No more questions asked.

The night was beautiful; quiet and wrapped in a dark, cloudless sky. The neighborhood was usually peaceful, but for some reason it felt even stiller tonight.

“How’s Jamie doing?”

“Better. Still a little sad, though. Says he feels bad for making us upset.”

Frankie looked at her in silence as she sank into the chair and slipped the cigarette between her lips. She lit it right away with the lighter. There was no wind to disturb the flame.

“Were we that self aware when we were kids?”

Luna lifted her brows and, after a moment, let the smoke drift from her mouth. “You were very self aware as a kid.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She nodded and passed the cigarette between her fingers to him. “You were always apologizing for what you did, what you said, or how you said it.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Well, you were little.”

Frankie took a drag and pressed his lips together as he let the smoke slip out through his nose. They fell quiet for a while, passing the cigarette back and forth between them. Bambi wandered around the yard too, pacing across the grass and rubbing her back against the ground to scratch an itch.

"I think I’m gonna start looking at schools for Jamie in Austin," she suddenly said.

Frankie shifted his gaze toward her, but kept his thoughts to himself for a moment.

"And a house, or an apartment, I don’t know," she sighed. "He doesn’t want to stay here. I don't think he'll make it through the school year. His friends… some of them are sweet kids, but others are..."

"Assholes?"

Luna huffed a laugh. "Yeah. And Brandon’s parents actually said the whole thing was Jamie’s fault, can you believe that?"

“You’re kidding.” He passed the cigarette back to her.

“No. They were furious, and apparently it’s Jamie’s fault, and mine, for letting him grow up to be a kid with ‘anger issues.’”

"That’s complete bullshit," Frankie said, shaking his head. "Who are this brat's parents, anyway?"

"Why? Are you gonna go have a word with them?" Luna arched an eyebrow. "There’s no point. They’re clearly the ones who failed to teach their son any manners or how to behave around death. Also, not his fault."

Frankie rolled his eyes and let out a frustrated breath. He pulled off his glasses for a second, rubbing his eyes with weary precision.

"So?" He looked at her again, sliding his glasses back into place. "You wanna head back to Austin?"

"I mean," Luna shrugged, her shoulders dropping. "Look at this. My son doesn't want to be here. He isn't comfortable, he isn't happy, you really think that’s gonna change with time?"

“Well, that’s possible. His dad only passed a few months ago, Lu, and he’s still very young.”

“I know. But I see what he sees, too. I know this house holds beautiful memories, but I also know this is where Henry suffered a lot. Jamie remembers that. The times he saw his dad hurt himself, fall, hit the floor. And now… that’s probably all he remembers.”

Frankie reached over and rested his hand on his sister’s. “Well, you don’t have to sell the house, do you?”

“And what am I supposed to do with it? Just leave it sitting here empty?”

“Can you afford to?”

She sighed. “Yeah. Henry made sure everything was taken care of. For me, for Jamie. Money isn’t the problem.”

“Alright, then don’t sell it. Keep it. Come back every now and then. Realistically, it probably won’t be that often, but you could visit in the summers or whenever you’ve got time off. I’m sure someday Jamie will like having this place. He might even want to live here.”

Luna smiled. “That would be nice.”

“Yeah. And who knows, maybe he ends up with a whole bunch of kids and you can come visit your grand babies and all that.”

“You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”

Frankie smiled to the side. “I’m just saying. You don’t have to get rid of it if you don’t want to. If you can afford it, keep it.”

“I should probably pay someone to keep it in good shape while we’re gone.”

“Then do that. Never thought you’d be the kind of person with someone looking after one house while you’re off living in another. Look at you,” he raised his brows.

Luna rolled her eyes and handed the cigarette back to him. “And you? What about you? Any plans when you get back to Austin?”

“Well, mostly finding a job.”

“Have you talked to Paul? Maybe you could go back to the academy.”

“I don’t know how likely that is. I left five months ago. I wouldn’t blame them for not wanting me back.”

“Mhm, sure. But Paul cares about you a lot.”

“I’m afraid that might not be enough.”

Frankie took another drag and passed the cigarette to her. He thought in silence for a moment, rubbing his temple before letting out a couple of tired sighs.

“Listen, if you wanna head back as soon as possible, you can stay at my place,” he said then, looking at her with eyes already heavy with sleep. “I won’t be there. It’s got two bedrooms and it’s not far from downtown.”

Luna went still.

“Jamie can start school, and you can figure everything else out in the meantime. And if you end up liking it, then stay. It’s yours.”

She smiled. “You can’t just give us a house.”

Frankie frowned. “Why not? It’s my house. I can do whatever I want with it. Besides, you gave me a house here in Boston, didn’t you? In the middle of all that chaos, you took care of me too.”

“And where are you gonna live?”

He lifted a shoulder. “I can stay with mom the first few weeks. Then… I don’t know. I’ll find another place.”

“You thinking of buying?”

“Well, I’ve considered it. But first I need a job.”

“Or sell your house.”

He nodded.

“And your savings? How’s your credit?”

Frankie laughed. “It’s all fine. But I’d rather have my feet under me before making a move like that. I mean, I’m a single guy, how much space could I possibly need?”

“Well, I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Maybe you’ve got expectations, that’d be perfectly normal.”

He shook his head and sighed. “I just need a comfortable place. Big, but not too big. Somewhere I can do my own thing.”

Luna nodded. She took one last drag from the cigarette and handed it to him to finish.

“Alright. So…” She glanced toward the yard, spotting Bambi lying on the grass in the distance. “I really need to get moving if I want Jamie to start school in Austin.”

“Take it easy. You talked to Mom? Maybe she can help get him into her old school, it’s a good one. I mean, Mom taught there, it has to be good.”

Luna smiled. “Yeah, that’s true. I’ve got some options… maybe I could focus on transferring myself, make Jamie’s transfer easier.”

“Maybe. But talk to Mom first, I’m sure she’s got contacts everywhere.”

She nodded and scratched her wrist. Frankie noticed her wedding ring sparkling in the light. And a moment later, when she looked up at him, he saw her eyes shining just as bright, maybe even brighter than the diamonds.

He brushed her hand gently, squeezing it. “Hey… it’s okay.”

She shook her head, lowering it so a tear slipped down her cheek.

“I’m fine. It’s just… I just miss Mom. And everyone,” she looked at him, “I miss them all.”

Frankie pressed his jaw and looked down.

“I know.”

“I just want this to be over already.”

“It’ll be fine. It’ll pass. Just don’t push yourself, okay?” he said softly, nodding. “I know leaving so soon wasn’t in the plans, but things are gonna work out. You’ll see, time flies.”

Saturday, August 29

August had always been a hard month.

Another anniversary since Nico died, another three hundred and sixty five days ticking by without him anywhere in the world.

The morning of August first, not long after he’d gotten out of bed, Frankie texted Gemma, Nico’s fiancée. He did it every year; just a short message to check in, make sure she was alright. She always answered the same way too: a small update about her life, and a few questions about his.

This year, she told him her first baby had been born two months ago. A boy, with a head full of thick hair, and big bright brown eyes. And his name? Nicolás.

He sent him to me from heaven, I’m sure of it, she wrote in the message, attaching a photo of the baby.

Frankie found himself smiling at the screen. It felt good to see her rebuilding something out of the wreckage. It hadn’t always been that way. In the years right after Nico died, Gemma had been swallowed by grief. There’d been a stretch where she was barely holding on, so fragile she ended up hospitalized for a couple of months after hitting rock bottom with her depression. But little by little, she found her footing again.

Two years ago she’d met Logan by pure chance during one of her daily walks through the woods near her house. August again, second day of the month, of all things. Gemma believed Nico had sent him to her, just like she believed Nico had sent her baby now. And honestly? Frankie believed her.

And sometimes he caught himself wondering whether, if he tried hard enough, Nico might send him a sign too. He’d take anything; a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, a shadow that looked a little like him crossing the street, a bird, a butterfly, something. His name showing up somewhere random. A stranger with the same build, the same walk.

Frankie wondered if a ghost could be summoned. If it was possible to ask one for help. Either way, in his head, he talked to him all the time.

That first of August, Frankie thought about you a lot too.

Exactly a year ago, he’d been driving to Dallas to pick you up. Exactly a year ago, it had all begun; the harmless lie, the quiet agreement to help each other by lying to far, far too many people.

If he could turn back time, he would.

At the beginning, he wouldn’t change a thing. He’d take your arguments, your harsh words, every last fight all over again if it meant ending up with you once more. And then, that’s where he’d do things differently. First of all, he wouldn’t lie. And he would’ve handled things with Rachel another way entirely. He knew things now he hadn’t known then, and looking back on it, he could hardly believe how blind (how stupid) he’d been.

Pretty immature, wasn’t it?

More than he’d realized at the time. Not that he believed he’d magically improved overnight, but he wasn’t the same man he’d been a year ago. Or even five months ago. No—after a broken heart, grief, an accident that nearly drowned him and almost left him blind, and more therapy sessions than he cared to count, he liked to think he’d come out the other side a different man.

The next days of August were hot and busy. Luna had been looking at schools for Jamie, and houses too, even though she’d accepted Frankie’s offer to stay at his place for the time being. Which, incidentally, he was already preparing to put on the market.

Getting everything transferred before the school year started was unlikely. But September wouldn’t be the end of the world. Jamie would just have to attend school in Boston for a little while, and then they could finally settle into his new one once everything was in place.

Back in Austin, Helena had taken charge of the early details of the sale. She started getting the house ready; tidying up, organizing, giving the place a proper clean. They took photos, and she passed Frankie the contact information for a real estate agent who happened to be married to one of her friends. Still, it wasn’t quite that simple, and Frankie knew he’d have to handle the rest himself once he got back to the city soon.

In the meantime, he found himself enjoying the process of house hunting with Luna, mostly because some of the places they came across were completely unhinged.

Not long ago, while browsing listings outside the city center, they’d stumbled onto a house with a bathroom entirely covered in red carpet. Floor, walls, everything. Hanging from the ceiling was some strange contraption with metal hooks that looked suspiciously like they were meant to hold… something. There was a massive bathtub in the middle and mirrors on every side.

“You should buy it,” Luna said, swiping through the photos one by one as the house somehow managed to get worse with each image. “Explore other areas of your life.”

Frankie laughed.

“It’s a carpeted bathroom,” he said. “I don’t even want to think about how many fluids that thing’s soaked up.”

“Ew, that’s gross!” she laughed, wrinkling her nose at him for a second.

“Though I do like the hot tub in the backyard.”

“And you really think there weren’t weird fluids in that thing?” she scoffed. “This place looks like a swingers house.”

“And if you look close,” he added, pointing at the photo, “the varnish on the wood deck around the tub is worn down pretty bad. Those people definitely made use of every corner of that house. Especially the hot tub.”

Luna tipped her head back and burst out laughing. And after several more minutes of cracking jokes about the bedroom, the kitchen, the basement, and pretty much every cursed corner of the property, they finally moved on to the next listing.

In the meantime, Frankie made sure to spend plenty of time with Jamie too.He tried to keep the kid from staying cooped up in the house all day.

Ever since the fight with Brandon, Jamie hadn’t even gone out to play with the kids who lived across the street. So Frankie took him out on bike rides around the neighborhood, sometimes wandering farther out; along the edges of the river or through nearby parks. If they went on foot, Bambi usually tagged along.

Jamie loved fishing, so Frankie made sure to take him for that too. The first couple of times they drove out to Castle Island, and later they went to Boston Harbor. A quick ferry ride got them there, and they spent almost the whole day out under the sun. Even with caps and sunscreen, they both came home with bright red noses.

“If I catch something, can we eat it today?” Jamie asked around noon, standing knee-deep near the water.

“If you want, sure.”

“And what if I don’t like it?”

“You like fish, don’t you?”

The boy stared out ahead, nose scrunched, both hands gripping the fishing rod with deep concentration.

“Sea fish?”

Frankie huffed a laugh.

“I like salmon,” Jamie muttered.

“Oh, I like salmon,” Frankie mocked, shrugging dramatically as he imitated him.

Jamie groaned, but a laugh slipped out anyway. He looked too damn cute standing there with his cap on and those cheeks flushed from the sun.

Lately Frankie had noticed he seemed calmer. The lingering anger was still there, of course (it wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon) but Jamie was excited about going to Austin. Truth was, he’d been talking about it for months now, listing all the things he wanted to do there. Mostly, flying with Frankie.

See, the thing about kids is you have to be careful with what you promise them. Never underestimate their memory or their determination. If you tell a kid you’ll take him flying when he comes to Austin, you’d better plan on it happening. Because no matter how much time passes, no matter what else happens in between, he’s going to remember, and he’s going to expect you to take him flying when he gets to damn Austin.

Frankie had seen it happen over and over again: people underestimating kids.

A few months back he’d overheard the school administrators talking to Luna. The way they spoke about childhood grief, about redirecting it, distracting it. The way they seemed convinced that, because Jamie was a child, he could simply be nudged and maneuvered into feeling better.

Kids aren’t stupid. They understand more than people give them credit for. They understand death, even if they can’t fully grasp why it happens, or why life works the way it does, or whether any of it is fair. They understand that people leave and that it hurts. And they pay attention to the adults around them. They notice the whispers, the sideways glances when people think they’re not looking. They notice when grown-ups step aside to talk about something delicate. And most of the time, they notice when they’re being lied to.

Just because Jamie was a kid, did that mean he didn’t deserve respect? Didn’t he deserve honesty?

Before Henry died, one of Jamie’s teachers had told him he didn’t need to feel sad about what was happening to his father, that it was all part of God’s plan, that everything would turn out the way it was meant to. Did that help? No. Not even a little.

Jamie came home upset because he couldn’t understand why God would plan something like that, why anyone’s plan would involve his dad getting sick, getting hurt, and the whole family suffering because of it. The worry got so bad he started praying in secret for two straight weeks. And one night, after Henry had a setback, Jamie got so stressed he broke down, convinced none of it was working.

He thought maybe it was his fault, that maybe he wasn’t praying enough, and Luna found him crying just before bed that very same night.

Oh, Frankie had been furious.

That week, when he picked Jamie up from school, he had to bite down hard to keep from confronting Miss Bell right there in the hallway. He held his tongue the entire time, though he made sure she caught the sharpest look he could give without saying a word. Luna had told him she’d handle it herself, and to this day he still didn’t know exactly what she’d said to the teacher.

But he knew perfectly well what he would’ve said if he’d been given the chance.

Listen, Miss Bell. I understand you were trying to comfort Jamie, but maybe keep your religious ideas out of a grieving child’s process. Or at the very least, think carefully before you say something like that. Do you even know what kind of beliefs a child’s family might have? Or do you just assume everyone believes in the same God you do?

It wasn’t like the Morales family wasn’t religious. Like plenty of latino families, God had always been part of the background growing up. But Frankie himself had stopped believing a long time ago, and he couldn’t stand people who tried to explain everything away with God’s plan.

Sometimes life was just awful. Sometimes it was unfair, and that was the end of it. Sometimes people suffered their entire lives and never found peace. Sometimes people died in wars, or at the hands of corrupt governments, and no justice ever came for them. Sometimes Frankie closed his eyes and still saw them.

The men he’d served with who never made it home. The innocent people caught in the path of conflict, lives torn apart without anyone stopping to look back. Was that part of God’s plan too?

Ten minutes after the salmon debate and a couple more of Frankie’s jokes, the two of them sat down to eat braised beef sandwiches. A tree gave them enough shade to keep the heat off, and they had a cooler with cut up fresh fruit waiting for later.

Jamie had been talking for a good five minutes about something funny Bambi had done that morning when, after taking a bite of his sandwich and going quiet for a moment, he said:

“One of the kids in my class, his dad died too.”

Frankie went still for a second before answering. “Yeah?”

Jamie nodded. “Yeah. But he didn’t really know him that well. He lived in another city.”

“Oh.”

“But Noah said he always sent him presents for his birthday and Christmas.”

“That’s nice.”

“He wasn’t sad.”

Frankie lifted his brows slightly and nodded, careful with his tone. Jamie wasn’t looking at him, he was focused on his sandwich, chewing through the bite he’d just taken.

“Well,” Frankie said gently, “people feel things in different ways. That happens all the time.”

Jamie looked up at him. “Were you sad when Grandpa died?”

Frankie swallowed before answering. Jamie had been very little back then. He didn’t know how much the boy remembered or what he might have overheard over the years. Still, he wasn’t about to lie to him.

“Yeah, very.” He took a moment to think before asking, “Do you remember him at all?”

Jamie pressed his lips together. “I think so.”

“Well, I look a lot like him,” Frankie said. “So imagine a man who looks pretty much like me, but with gray hair and wrinkles right here.” He pointed to the corners of his eyes and the sides of his mouth. “He loved you a lot, you know.”

The boy nodded. “Grandma always tells me that.”

“Because it’s true,” Frankie said with a small smile. “Did your mom ever tell you how he got to the hospital the day you were born?”

Jamie shook his head, though a curious little smile was already forming.

Frankie leaned back on his hands, settling in.

“Well,” he began, “your birth was supposed to be scheduled for Monday the twelfth, but you decided to show up early and were born on Saturday the tenth instead. Your grandparents used to have barbecues every weekend and that day they’d gone over to a neighbor’s place to eat, and out of nowhere your mom starts having contractions, your dad rushes her to the hospital, and he calls all of us, even grandpa and grandma, but neither of them pick up. They were supposed to travel the next day to be here, so suddenly all the plans got flipped upside down.”

Jamie took another bite of his sandwich, smiling with his eyes.

“I don’t remember exactly how it happened, maybe Aunt Mai went to find them or something,” Frankie went on, rubbing his chin while he tried to recall. “But once they found out, they left the barbecue, grabbed the first flight they could, and came straight over. Grandpa had been standing by the grill all afternoon and drinking wine, so when he got on the plane he reeked like burnt meat and was a little drunk,” he laughed.

“The whole flight we were trying to keep him calm because he kept telling everyone his grandson was about to be born and asking for champagne for the whole plane. Everything smelled like smoke, the entire trip, and he was still wearing his bermuda shorts and this old T-shirt with a hole right in the stomach.”

Jamie laughed, and Frankie couldn’t help laughing with him, the memory of that day coming back as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.

“We got there just in time,” Frankie said. “You were born two hours later, and grandpa walked in to meet you smelling like that after chugging two coffees from the hospital cafeteria. I’ve got a picture of it somewhere if you wanna see it. You can even see the hole in his shirt.”

“Do you have it now?”

Frankie laughed. “No, not right now. But I’ll find it so you can see it.”

“Oh, okay.” Jamie took another bite of his sandwich. “When we go to Austin I’ll get to see Grandma Helena too.”

“That’s right. And she’s really happy about that, you know.”

“Yeah. I heard her talking on the phone with my mom.”

“Oh yeah?” Frankie said, nudging the tip of Jamie’s shoe with his own. “And what were you doing eavesdropping on other people’s conversations, huh? Nosy kid.”

“I wasn’t eavesdropping! She was right next to me!”

Frankie rolled his eyes. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

“I heard them talking about your accident too.”

At that, Frankie’s brow pulled together slightly. “Oh yeah? What did you hear?”

“Nothing,” Jamie shrugged, looking at him. “Mom said you were better, and Grandma started crying.”

Frankie didn’t answer right away. Instead, a sudden wave of guilt washed over him. He didn’t know when that conversation had happened, maybe right after the accident, maybe weeks later. It didn’t really matter.

“That’s why you wear glasses now, right?” Jamie went on. “I heard you tell my mom—”

“Jamie,” Frankie cut in with a laugh, “you’re such a snoop.”

“I am not!”

Frankie shook his head. As he looked out at the water in front of them, the smile on his lips slowly softened, fading little by little until it disappeared entirely.

“You know what actually happened to me?” he asked then, making Jamie look back at him.

“Did you fall into the river?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, but… do you know why?”

“Mom said you tripped.”

Frankie sighed, thinking carefully about what he should say. Still, he was certain this moment called for honesty.

“Well, yeah, you could say I tripped, or something like that,” he said. “But… it happened because I got into a fight that night.”

Jamie’s eyes widened just a little, barely noticeable, but he went very still. Frankie could tell it had caught him off guard.

“You fought someone?”

“Yeah. And it wasn’t right. But that night I was angry. I wasn’t in a good place, and I let that get the best of me.” He shifted where he sat. “And listen, your mom didn’t tell you that because she didn’t want you worrying, alright? She was trying to protect you.”

“Okay.”

Frankie nodded, noticing the look on his nephew’s face. Suddenly the boy seemed a little confused.

“And you should never do that,” Frankie said, his tone firmer now.

“Do what?”

“Fight. Get yourself into trouble. No matter how angry you are, no matter how much someone pushes you, don’t get into fights.”

“But Brandon hit me too.”

Frankie frowned. “I know, I know. And if someone tries to hurt you, you defend yourself, always. But Brandon’s an idiot, and that’s exactly why he’s not worth the attention.” He opened his eyes a little wider as he spoke. “Listen, in this life you’ll probably run into dozens of people who try to provoke you. What matters is not letting yourself get dragged into it. Don’t be like me.” He pointed at his face. “Now I have to wear glasses because one of my eyes got messed up.”

“Did you get in a lot of fights?”

“Not a lot, but enough,” Frankie nodded. “And I can promise you, you don’t win anything from them. Well, actually you do win something; bruises and cuts, and those hurt. But you already know that, don’t you?”

Jamie’s shoulders dipped a little, suddenly shy. “Yeah.”

The sun beat down bright and warm over the water and everything left uncovered. Frankie watched the quiet of the place and felt the urge to lean back and doze off, just listening to the leaves rustling in the tree above them.

“Something happened to you, Jamie,” he said after a moment, his gaze dropping to his stretched-out feet. “And it’s normal to feel sad about it. Honestly, the fact that you feel this sad just shows how good your dad was. Not every kid gets to say that. Like your classmate Noah.”

Jamie lowered his eyes.

“And you have to feel it,” Frankie went on, looking at him now. “Process it. And I promise that as you grow up, you’ll see more and more how lucky you were to have him. I mean, yeah, this sucks like hell. It’s hard, and you’re gonna feel awful sometimes, and that’s normal. But never, ever put yourself in danger because of it. You’re a smart, strong kid, you hear me?”

“Mhm,” Jamie said quietly, looking down.

Frankie noticed the boy’s eyes had gone watery and reached over, resting a hand on his back.

“He loved you so much. And you have to remember that, always. No matter what some dumb kid says, that doesn’t change a thing. I mean, does it really matter what Brandon or any other kid says? They’re a bunch of dumb asses.”

Jamie huffed out a small laugh.

“Don’t give them that kind of power, alright? Take care of yourself. Take care of your mom. And I’m sure your dad would be really proud of you. Besides,” Frankie added, giving his shoulder a light pat, “you’ve got the rest of us too. Once you’re living in Austin, you’re gonna get sick of us.”

“That’s not true.”

“Well, it better not be,” Frankie said. “Because I’m planning to take you flying, and if you get tired of me, I won’t be able to do that.”

That made Jamie’s whole expression change. His eyes widened immediately.

“Really? You’ll take me flying?”

“Yeah,” Frankie said, tipping his head back. “I promised I would, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Jamie nodded. “But Mom said you didn’t have a job.”

Frankie clicked his tongue and reached over, ruffling the kid’s curls before giving him a gentle shove.

“Nosy!”

“I’m not!”

“Doesn’t matter,” Frankie said with a teasing grin. “Your uncle’s got plenty of connections. And I’ll make sure you get to fly, as long as you promise to stop snooping into everyone’s business.”

Jamie rolled his eyes and huffed, and Frankie shook his head, a smile pulling at his cheeks.

With every passing day, the idea of going home made him more excited. And somewhere between thinking about the house, his job, Jamie and Luna, somewhere in the middle of all that, he always found himself wondering where you were, too.

Friday, September 4th

Caleb’s apartment looked much better after he’d rearranged the furniture and painted the living room. It felt cozy now, warmer, and photos had begun appearing everywhere. Most of them were of Lucy; some just her, others of the two of them together.

After Frankie’s accident, Caleb had been there for him more than Frankie expected. He kept inviting him out of the house; walks, grabbing food, anything that might get him moving for a while. And he was deeply grateful that Frankie hadn’t gone to the police when, truthfully, he would’ve had every right to.

Caleb called it a wake up call. Frankie had come out of that fight badly hurt. He should’ve reported it, Caleb said. The fact that he hadn’t, and that he’d spared him the kind of trouble that might’ve complicated Lucy’s custody, meant more than he could properly put into words. He wasn’t going to risk something like that again, so he quit dealing drugs.

Convinced the money he’d saved could buy him some time, he decided to try to move forward, find a better place to live, make things more stable, give himself a real shot at keeping Lucy with him. He spent a month looking for work until he finally landed a job as a creative writer for a music magazine, thanks to Luna, who passed his contact along through a friend of Henry’s who worked there as an editor.

It went without saying that Caleb was incredibly grateful, both to Frankie and to his sister for helping him find a job. And knowing they’d soon be heading back to Austin, he didn’t waste the chance to spend as much time with them as he could.

Jamie was very sweet with Lucy too. Sometimes the four of them would go out for ice cream or wander through the park together, enjoying the easy quiet that came with the kids; the quiet comfort of knowing Lucy was with him and that there were good people around. They’d gone to the movies, taken Bambi out for walks, and even gone toy shopping for Lucy’s last birthday.

As a way of saying thank you, Caleb organized a dinner at his apartment to send his friend off. Frankie’s departure date had already been set: September 14th. But since Frankie had insisted over and over that he didn’t want any kind of farewell party, Caleb disguised the whole thing as the “apartment inauguration.”

Luna was invited too, along with Jamie. It was a relaxed dinner. Caleb had made a pesto bolognese lasagna after finding a recipe online and making sure it was kid-friendly, and Frankie had already warned everyone he’d be bringing wine and a couple of appetizers for beforehand. Van and Liam (friends of Caleb’s) were invited too, along with Zoe.

Dinner started early, and the apartment looked great with all the little lights they’d strung up and the decorations they’d put together. The table was set in the open dining area, plates and silverware laid out neatly and bottles of wine standing in the middle between bread baskets and folded napkins.

Jamie was in a good mood, acting like a little grown-up while he helped Lucy put together a puzzle. The two of them finished eating in less than twenty minutes and decided to go right back to their mission while the adults kept talking and eating. So they settled off to one side and stayed quietly occupied for the rest of the evening.

Jamie had always asked for a younger sibling; he used to tell his parents that all the time. He wanted a little brother or sister to play with and take care of, because he thought babies were adorable. But Luna had felt she was already too old to start over with a baby, and then… well, Henry died.

So Jamie took any chance he got to play with or look after younger kids. He slipped easily into the role of the older one, and Frankie could see how much he enjoyed feeling a little bigger and responsible.

“You’ll probably have a little cousin someday,” Frankie had told him once, before Henry passed, while they were hanging out on the swings in the backyard. “Aunt Mai will probably have kids. She’s always wanted babies.”

“But aunt Mai lives in Austin,” Jamie had complained.

Now, Frankie poured himself another glass of wine while the others kept chatting and the evening slowly darkened outside. His stomach was full, and suddenly, he started feeling a little bit melancholic.

Leaving Boston after so many months felt bittersweet. Frankie felt split in two, and both halves wanted to go home, but one of them had grown attached to this city and the people in it.

Here, he had learned how to loosen up a little, how to let things go. Here, he and Luna and Jamie had built a small refuge for the three of them, a comfort zone where they’d been able to break apart, fall down, and pick themselves up again, over and over.

Frankie figured maybe he could come back to visit Caleb now and then. Spend a week in the city, maybe. And who knew, maybe Caleb would visit Austin too. Frankie would miss their conversations, the way Caleb seemed to understand him without judging. He was always straightforward about what he said. No half-truths, no double meanings. He was a really good friend.

“I’m gonna take Jamie home,” Luna said now, resting a gentle hand on Frankie’s arm when she found him in the kitchen just off the dining area. “It’s getting late. You have your keys?”

“Yeah, got everything. Don’t worry.”

“Good.” She nodded. “I’ll say goodbye to everyone and head out. See you in a bit? Don’t stay too late, we’re starting to pack early tomorrow.”

“I know, don’t worry. I’ve already got all my stuff ready anyway.”

She lifted a finger at him. “Doesn’t matter. Be responsible.”

Frankie clicked his tongue and draped an arm around his sister’s shoulders, pulling her into a hug.

“See you in a moment. Love you. Text me when you get there. And Jamie?”

“He fell asleep on the couch,” she said with a smile, squeezing him back.

“Of course he did,” Frankie said. “Come on.”

Just like Luna had said, Jamie was completely asleep on the couch. His arms were stretched above his head, his mouth slightly open, utterly immune to the music and the voices that hadn’t stopped talking all evening.

Carefully, Frankie scooped him up while Luna said her goodbyes. He carried the boy outside and set him gently in the back seat of the car, buckling him in while Jamie hovered somewhere between asleep and barely awake. After pressing a kiss to his cheek, Frankie stepped back and closed the door.

Luna, standing behind him, pulled him into another hug.

“See you later,” she said.

Frankie watched her climb into the car and drive away, his eyes following the vehicle until it grew smaller and smaller in the distance.

And when he stepped back inside, he suddenly felt like he needed a cigarette. Lately he’d been trying to quit, but he figured it would be easier to stop completely once he got to Austin.

It was an excuse, really. But he figured he could afford to lie to himself a little before quitting for good. For now, at least, he’d been doing well with the alcohol. He barely drank anymore, and when he did he limited himself to two or three glasses. Generally speaking, he had a pretty high tolerance and had never really had a problem with it, but still, it felt smarter to keep things balanced.

He’d also turned down Lucille’s suggestion that he see a psychiatrist. The last thing Frankie wanted was to go back on antidepressants. They made his whole body feel foreign, his mind dulled and distant. Even his pupils looked different, wide and black, heavy like the rest of him.

No. He didn’t want any of that again. But a cigarette and a couple glasses of wine didn’t hurt anyone. Or not too much, at least.

Out on the balcony, Frankie lit up and took his first drag. His wine glass rested on the thick concrete railing beside his phone.

“Hey,” someone said behind him.

The curtain by the sliding glass door shifted, and Zoe stepped out onto the balcony. She’d been especially friendly tonight, spending a good while talking with Luna about the real estate market. Zoe had moved recently herself, and she had plenty to say about landlords and their particular brand of insanity.

“What are you doing out here?” she asked, slipping a cigarette between her lips just like he had. She was wearing a black T-shirt and tight black jeans, her hair loose over her shoulders. She lit it and took a drag.

“Same thing you are, looks like.”

She smiled and let the smoke drift out slowly. “Fair enough. Dumb question.”

Frankie smiled back and turned, leaning his lower back against the railing. And Zoe moved beside him, resting her elbows on the concrete ledge. For a moment they just stood there.

“So,” she said after a second, glancing at him, “how you feeling about going back to Austin?”

“I’m good,” he said. “A little excited. A little nervous too.”

“Yeah? Why nervous?”

He shrugged. “Been a while. Things change. But I miss my friends. I’m looking forward to seeing everyone again.”

Zoe nodded slowly, studying his face. “Are you gonna miss us?”

Frankie exhaled, the smoke curling upward as he thought about it.

He knew he’d miss Caleb. Liam and Van were good guys, but they hadn’t spent that much time together. And Zoe… well, he’d only known her a short while.

She laughed when he didn’t answer right away.

“You know you’re allowed to lie, right?”

He laughed too, shaking his head. “No, it’s not that. I mean, yeah, of course. I’ll miss it here. All of it, probably.”

“All of it?” she teased. “That’s very nice.”

He took another drag. “Alright, most of it.”

“Better,” she said, smiling. “What are you gonna miss the most?”

“Probably hanging out with Caleb,” Frankie admitted. “Minus the night we got punched in the face.”

Zoe winced. “Yeah, that part didn’t look fun.”

He chuckled. “No. Not my favorite memory.”

“What else?”

“Being at our house,” he said after a moment. “It’s huge. But somehow it never felt that big when it was just Luna, Jamie and me.”

Zoe’s expression softened a little as she leaned her hip lightly against the railing beside him.

“What did you guys do?”

“Uh… a lot of things,” he said. “But mostly we watched movies and ate.”

She laughed quietly.

“I’m serious,” Frankie said, huffing a small laugh himself. “I spent a ridiculous amount of time in that living room watching TV.”

“Sounds like a great lifestyle if you ask me.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged, “it worked.”

“So you’re a big movie guy?”

“Like most people, I guess. But I definitely started watching more while I was here. Had plenty of long nights with nothing better to do.”

“What kind of movies?”

“Depends. Old stuff sometimes. Action, dumb comedies. Whatever was on.”

“Dumb comedies are bad,” Zoe said.

“That’s debatable.”

“No, it’s not.”

Frankie smirked. “Alright, name a terrible one.”

She narrowed her eyes at him like it was a challenge. “Okay, first of all—”

He pointed a finger at her. “Careful. Your answer determines whether I respect your taste in movies.”

“Oh wow,” she laughed. “The pressure.”

“So?”

Zoe took another drag from her cigarette, thinking.

“Fine, they're okay,” she tilted her head. “What are you watching lately? Any recommendations?”

Frankie narrowed his eyes slightly and took another drag, studying Zoe for a moment before answering.

“Well… yeah,” he said after a pause. “I actually been watching a lot of romantic comedies. So—”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “What about you? You like them?”

Zoe let out a laugh. “Oh God, no. Can’t stand them.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Really? Not a single one?”

Zoe shook her head.

“My Best Friend’s Wedding? Bridget Jones’s Diary? Notting Hill?” Frankie listed them off, but she kept shaking her head after each one.

“Nope. None of them. And you can keep trying if you want.”

“When Harry Met Sally?”

She laughed again. “No, Frankie. None. They’re always about women being desperate for love or something like that. There’s more to life.”

“I don’t think that’s what they’re about at all,” he said, frowning slightly. “There are a lot of ways to show love and how complicated it is. When Harry Met Sally is a great movie.”

“You really think so?”

“Of course.”

“Well, look,” she said, turning more fully toward him. “I’m not saying it’s a bad movie. I just find it frustrating. It’s so cliché. She’s neurotic, he’s this pessimistic guy, and that whole speech about men and women or whatever, and in the end they basically prove him right, don’t they? That men and women can’t just be friends.”

Frankie watched her, amused.

“She starts out being the reasonable one,” Zoe went on, gesturing with her cigarette, “and then she falls in love with him anyway. And honestly? Neither of them are that likable. At no point was I rooting for them to end up together.”

Frankie huffed a laugh through his nose. “You’re harsh.”

“I’m honest.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “you’re missing the point.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. The whole thing is about how messy relationships are. They’re annoying with each other because real people are annoying with each other.”

“That’s a generous interpretation.”

“And it’s funny, which is kind of the point of a romantic comedy.” Frankie smiled faintly to one side. “That’s really all you got from the movie?”

Zoe looked at him in silence for a moment. Then she took another drag from her cigarette.

“Well,” she said, exhaling the smoke, “you clearly have a different take. Let’s hear it.”

Frankie sighed and folded his arms across his chest.

“Alright. I don’t think it’s cliché at all. Actually, it was pretty different compared to a lot of movies from that time. And that whole conversation about men and women? It’s still relevant today.” He shrugged lightly. “More importantly, it sets up Harry and Sally from the start, shows you how different they are. She’s rational, a little neurotic, sure. He’s pessimistic. But what’s wrong with that?”

Zoe laughed. “The problem is the movie doesn’t even stand by what it claims to prove.”

“But that’s the thing,” he gestured lightly with his hand. “The movie isn’t trying to prove anything. It’s just showing two people who are fundamentally different, with different ideas, who keep crossing paths over the years until they eventually realize something more is going on between them.”

He tilted his head slightly.

“And it takes them, what, twelve years of conversations and moments and life happening around them before they get there? That’s the point. You see exactly why they fall for each other. It’s a pretty good portrayal of what a deep friendship can look like and how sometimes it turns into something else.”

Zoe made a face.

“I still hate those kinds of movies. Like Love, Rosie. Have you seen that one?”

Frankie nodded.

At this point it was almost embarrassing how many romantic movies he’d watched over the past few months. At first he’d started with the ones you had recommended. Then he’d fallen down a rabbit hole of “must-watch love stories” lists on google and all that.

He’d watched them all.

“Well,” Zoe went on, “you’re telling me these people couldn’t work up the courage to confess their feelings for over a decade? It drives me insane watching that stuff. The whole time I was thinking my God, can these people just talk to each other for once? Does that actually happen in real life? Sounds like hell.”

Frankie smiled, amused, as he took his last drag and flicked the cigarette away.

“In real life?” he said. “Well, last time I checked, human relationships are just as complicated. And confessing how you feel isn’t always that easy, let me tell you.”

Zoe raised an eyebrow.

“Well, that sounded a little personal, didn’t it?”

Frankie shrugged, not planning to elaborate.

Personal? Sure, it was personal. But weren’t most movies, in one way or another?

Zoe watched him for a second longer. “Let me guess, is it as personal as the reason you’re going back to Austin?”

Frankie sighed softly, a faint smile appearing on his face.

“Is it about a woman?”

“It’s about a lot of things,” he said. “But yeah. A woman’s part of it too. Big part of it.”

“Oh,” Zoe tipped her head back, letting the smoke drift up from the drag she’d just taken. “I knew it.” She looked at him again, a crooked smile forming. “So what, did it take you ten years to confess, and that’s why you defend When Harry Met Sally so much?”

Frankie laughed.

“No,” he said. He glanced out toward the dark street for a second, then back at her. “It took me six years.”

“What happened?”

Frankie didn’t answer right away.

The city lights reflected faintly in his glass of wine. For a moment it looked like he might say something more, like the words were forming somewhere behind his teeth. Instead, he shrugged.

“I screwed it up.”

Zoe studied him quietly. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He lifted the glass and took a small sip, while she took another drag from her cigarette.

“Well… whoever she is,” Zoe said, “she must be something.”

You were.

Frankie glanced at her. “Why’s that?”

She shrugged, looking out toward the street instead of at him now.

“Well, you’re leaving a whole city behind with that look on your face.”

Frankie smiled a little at that, an awkward little smile, but he didn’t say anything.

Zoe noticed, and the smile on her face lingered for a moment longer, then softened. Faded, just a little.

She looked down at the cigarette between her fingers, turning it slowly.

“You know,” she said, “ever since I met you… I kind of figured you were a good guy, Frankie.”

He glanced at her, eyebrows lifting slightly.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” She let out a small breath through her nose. “You’re… I don’t know. You’re different from most of the guys I know.”

Frankie shifted his weight against the railing, watching her.

“Different how?”

Zoe shrugged, though it looked a little forced.

“I mean,” she said. “You’re honest, patient. You’re not trying to impress anyone.” She gave a small, crooked smile. “You’re really nice with everyone, and funny, even when it’s obvious there are things weighing on you. And you’re really good with kids.”

Frankie huffed a quiet laugh. “High praise.”

“I’m serious.”

He could tell she was.

She glanced at him again, then away, then back again, like she was trying to decide whether to keep going.

“And, uh…” she continued, rubbing her thumb against the cigarette filter. “I guess I just—”

She hesitated. And Frankie stayed quiet.

“I mean, I know you’re leaving,” she said quickly, suddenly sounding a little self-conscious. “And you’ve got this whole… six-years-in-love thing going on, which… good for you, honestly, that’s—” She stopped herself with a small laugh. “God, I’m explaining this terribly.”

Frankie tilted his head slightly. “Easy, explaining what?”

Zoe opened her mouth, closed it again. Her eyes flicked up to his face.

“Well, I just thought maybe—” she started, then shook her head. “You know what, never mind, that sounds—”

And before she could finish the thought, she stepped forward. Her hand came up lightly to the front of his shirt, and she leaned in and just… kissed him.

Frankie froze.

He remained completely still, his back pressed tight against the railing. One hand gripped his wine glass while the other hung uselessly at his side. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t lean in either. He was stuck in a panicked limbo: should he recoil? Push her back? Was there any move he could make that wouldn’t make him look like a total jerk?

For a heartbeat or two, Zoe kissed him softly, her own nerves slipping through the touch. Then, reality seemed to sink in.

She pulled back, her hand slipping from his shirt. And for a brief moment, she searched his face, taking in his stunned, motionless expression. Frankie didn’t know what to say or even what look to put on his face, but his eyes must have betrayed him. She scanned his gaze for a split second and the realization hit her.

“Oh,” she said quietly. A small embarrassed breath escaped her. “Right.”

“Zoe, I— I don’t—”

She raised a hand quickly, stopping him before he could finish.

“It’s okay,” she said, a little too fast. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Frankie frowned slightly. “Zoe—”

“I’m sorry,” she cut in again, shaking her head. “I know that was out of line. I just… got carried away for a second.” She let out a quiet awkward breath. “I’m really sorry.”

Frankie straightened a little from the railing, setting his glass down beside him.

“Hey, it’s alright. Don’t worry about it.”

But Zoe already looked mortified. She rubbed a hand over her face and let out a small laugh that carried a tank of embarrassment.

“No, it’s not.”

“It is,” Frankie insisted softly. “Really. Nothing happened.”

“Yeah, something did,” she said, shaking her head again. “I made things weird. That’s what happened.”

“Zoe—”

“It’s just… typical, you know?” she continued, glancing away toward the street. “I always end up liking people I probably shouldn’t.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“And you’re leaving,” she added with a small shrug. “You’re literally moving to another city.”

Frankie sighed quietly. “That doesn’t mean you should feel embarrassed.”

She looked at him again, disbelief flickering across her face.

“Frankie, I just kissed a guy who clearly didn’t kiss me back.”

He winced a little at that. “I didn’t want to—”

“I know,” she said quickly, cutting him off again. “That’s not your fault.”

She folded her arms loosely, shoulders drawing in a bit.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “Really.”

“...It’s alright.”

Zoe gave a small nod, though she didn’t quite look at him. The silence that followed stretched longer than either of them seemed to know how to handle. Inside, Caleb was laughing at something while Van’s voice spoke, sounding like he was halfway through a story. But Frankie couldn’t make out the details, anyway.

Finally, she cleared her throat. “I should probably go back inside.”

Frankie nodded once. “Yeah.”

She offered him a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes and then turned and slid the balcony door open. The curtain stirred as she stepped through, and a second later she vanished back into the apartment.

Frankie stayed where he was. He rested both hands on the railing, staring down at the dark street while a faint prickle of embarrassment crept up his neck. He rubbed the back of it and let out a long breath.

Shit.

That had been awkward. And he couldn’t help wondering if there had been a better way to handle it, though honestly, how exactly was a person supposed to react to something like that? He was fairly certain there wasn’t a version of this that landed clean.

Had he given her mixed signals?

Frankie frowned at the thought, replaying the last few weeks in his head; conversations, jokes. Maybe he’d been too easygoing. Maybe she’d been dropping hints he’d missed entirely, and she’d taken his friendliness as something more.

The idea settled heavily in his chest. He hated thinking he might’ve made her feel foolish.

After a few minutes, he pushed himself off the railing and picked up his glass. The wine had gone a little warm in his hand, but he didn’t care. He slid the door open and stepped back inside.

The apartment was still lively; Caleb, Van, and Liam were gathered around the table with a deck of cards spread out between them. Lucy was nowhere to be seen; Caleb had taken her to bed a while ago.

And Zoe wasn’t around.

“C’mon, man, join us for one last round,” Caleb said, shuffling the cards.

“What’re you playing?” Frankie asked, dropping into an empty chair.

“Blackjack.”

“Oh, I’m good at it.” Frankie cracked his knuckles. “I’ll play. On one condition, you all have to accept you’re about to lose.”

Van snorted. “Maybe we’ll let you win as a courtesy since you’re leaving soon.”

Frankie laughed. “That how you plan to convince yourselves it wasn’t a real loss?”

“We’ll see.”

“Hey,” Caleb said, frowning slightly, “did something happen with Zoe?”

Frankie shook his head. He might tell him later, but not here. “Why?”

“Don’t know. She left kinda quick. Said she was tired.”

Frankie pressed his lips together and cleared his throat. And for the first few minutes he felt a flicker of guilt sitting there with them, until the game picked up pace and his focus shifted to the cards.

And if they did let him win out of politeness… well. He’d take the victory anyway. Who was he to turn one down?

Saturday, September 12

When Frankie stepped into the house with Jamie, he drew in a deep breath and caught the scent of the place. It wasn’t easy to pin down, like any smell tied to home. The lemon air freshener they kept in every room, the sandalwood incense; floor wax, furniture polish, laundry rinse. Even Luna’s citrusy perfume, the one she always dabbed on before heading out. And now there was the warm sweetness of a cake fresh from the oven, the heat still lingering near the kitchen from Luna had just baked.

He was going to miss it. All of it. Living here, the routines: breakfast in the morning, everyone scattering to their own things, keeping an eye on Jamie, driving him to school these past few weeks. Cooking dinner at night; he’d miss the kitchen most of all. The stove, the oven, the way he’d scorch his fingers and arms on pots and baking trays because he grabbed them with a dish towel instead of the oven mitt like a stubborn idiot. Staying up to clean after dinner while soft music drifted through the house, a small glass of wine in hand. Yeah, all of it. Somewhere along the line, Frankie had turned into a proper househusband.

Back in Austin, he’d find a place of his own, which meant he wouldn’t see Jamie or Luna quite as often. Though he had no doubt he’d still be around plenty. He’d visit until they started threatening to lock the doors on him, and his own place would stay open for sleepovers whenever they felt like it. And if they didn’t feel like it, well, he’d drag them over anyway.

The move was right around the corner. Most of the house had already been packed up and stacked in boxes in the garage. Luna had decided to leave a few pieces of furniture behind so the place would still feel livable whenever they came back, something to keep it from looking too bare. But the bigger things (sofas, beds, tables, the rest) were already tagged and waiting for the movers.

Jamie and Frankie would go first. In two days they’d catch a flight to Austin and head straight to Helena’s house, while Luna stayed behind to oversee the movers and make sure everything landed where it was supposed to. Her flight left later that same day, late at night, which meant she’d arrive in Austin sometime in the early hours of the morning.

Once they were there, Frankie would get his place ready for Luna and Jamie to stay with him. Not that the house was in bad shape, quite the opposite. Helena and Mai had always kept it tidy, and since it had recently been getting prepped for sale, it was looking better than ever.

Frankie, meanwhile, would be bouncing all over the place. His room at his mom’s house was ready for him, but he knew he’d probably end up crashing at Luna’s more often than not. He’d also been browsing apartments and houses, both rentals and places to buy, and a couple had already caught his eye. Over the years he’d bought nearly everything on credit and kept his savings and debts in good standing, so landing a good place didn’t seem like it would be much of a problem. That part actually excited him.

A fresh start, something clean and free of trauma. A place with no bad memories, no stains of old sadness.

He hoped he’d find it soon.

“I’m gonna watch TV,” Jamie announced now, dropping his basket ball and backpack by the door before shooting straight toward the living room.

“Hey—hey, Jamie,” Frankie called, raising his voice.

The kid stopped and turned around right away.

“Where d’you think you’re going? Pick up your stuff and take it to your room,” Frankie told him. “And wash your hands while you’re at it.”

Frankie crouched, grabbed the backpack, and handed it over. Jamie sighed, slipping in a barely hidden look of annoyance as he took his things. He turned, dragging his feet a little as he headed for the stairs.

“And wash them properly,” Frankie added, frowning. “More than five seconds. With soap.”

“I know how to wash my hands!”

“We’ll see!”

Frankie watched him climb the stairs until he reached the landing and disappeared down the hallway toward his room. Only then did he turn and head for the kitchen, following the delicious smell drifting out of it.

Luna stood at the counter, carefully frosting a cake. She spread the pink icing with a spatula, smoothing it out until the surface was neat and perfect.

“Hey,” she greeted, glancing up at Frankie with a smile before returning her attention to the cake. “How are you? How’d it go? And Jamie?”

“All good.” He stepped closer, resting a hand on her shoulder as he passed, then moved to the sink and turned on the water to wash his hands. “Sent him upstairs to drop his stuff and wash up.”

Luna laughed. “With soap?”

“With soap.”

“How were Caleb and Lucy?”

“Real good. Apparently things are looking up. His lawyer thinks the custody process might not be as rough as he feared.”

“That’s good to hear. He seems like a good man, and Lucy is adorable. I hope it all works out for him. I like him.”

“Yeah? You do?” Frankie dried his hands with a dish towel and leaned his lower back against the counter, dropping the towel beside him when he was done.

“Yeah. Why?” Luna glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Obviously I wasn’t going to like him at first. He used to sell you drugs.”

Frankie sighed. “Well. Water under the bridge, as they say.”

“So what’d you guys do today?”

“Played some basket in the park, grabbed ice cream. We got the kids these fruit-topped cones…” Frankie chuckled. “They were bigger than we expected. Lucy’s cone was practically the size of her head. Look.” He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone a second later.

Frankie scrolled through his gallery and showed Luna the picture. In it, Caleb held the ice cream cone next to Lucy’s face while she sat on his lap. The little girl’s eyes were huge, and she was holding a piece of strawberry in her hand.

“Oh, poor thing. How much did she actually eat?”

“Not much. Caleb had to finish most of it before it melted.”

Luna smacked Frankie lightly on the shoulder. “That’s what the kids’ cones are for!” she laughed. “Why would you buy a regular cone for a five year old?”

“We didn’t think they’d be that big!”

“And Jamie?”

“Oh, Jamie demolished his.”

Luna shook her head and went back to decorating the cake. Sugar flowers and colorful sprinkles were scattered across the counter.

“What time’s everyone getting here?” Frankie asked, stealing a sprinkle and popping it into his mouth.

“Eight o' clock.”

“Need a hand with anything? Should I make a run to the store or something?”

“No, sweetheart, everything’s ready. Dinner’s in the oven, and Iris is bringing the drinks.”

Iris, Henry’s sister. She had flown into Boston yesterday and would be coming over tonight for dinner, ready to help with whatever she could. Her health wasn’t the best, but she’d refused to let Jamie and Luna leave without seeing them first. A few of Luna’s friends would be coming too. It would be a proper send-off, though not the last time they’d gather in this house.

“Maybe we can come spend Christmas here,” Frankie suggested later, while setting the table and waiting for the guests to arrive. “It’s always beautiful with the snow.”

He set down the plates and lined up the crystal glasses in front of each seat, doing his best to make everything look just right. He’d even placed candles in the holders.

“Oh, that would be perfect.” Luna leaned against the wall, arms crossed as she looked over the dining room. “We’ve had so many beautiful moments here. That’s all I want to remember.”

“And we’ll have plenty more, I promise.” Frankie adjusted a fork so it sat just right. “Actually, why don’t we start planning Christmas now? And New Year’s too. We can all come up if you want.”

She smiled, her eyes already glassy. “You really think that’s possible? Isn’t that… a bit much? The house will be half empty anyway. We’re taking most of the furniture to Austin.”

“That doesn’t matter. We can figure it out as we go.” Frankie knew he sounded a little idealistic, that things were far more complicated than just loading the whole family onto a plane and bringing them back to Boston, but he didn’t care. He knew Luna would love to come back. Jamie would too.

Silence settled between them, and Frankie went on adjusting the table, straightening things here and there.

Then, a quiet sniffle from his sister made him lift his head. He crossed the room without thinking and wrapped his arms around her.

“It’s okay, it’s okay—”

“It’s my home,” she whispered. “I don’t want to leave Henry behind.”

“You’re not… you’re not leaving him behind. He’s with you. Always. Wherever you go. I’m sure of that.”

“Then why do I feel so guilty?”

“Lu, leaving this place doesn’t mean you’re leaving him. I know, and everyone knows, how much you loved him. You showed him every day you were together. He knew that, he never doubted it. And wherever he is now, I’m sure he’d want what’s best for you. What’s best for you and Jamie. I know he would.”

Luna pressed her cheek harder against Frankie’s chest. “If we leave this place… it means the end of what we were here.”

Frankie kissed the crown of her head. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. We can stop everything right now. I’ll take care of it. You just have to say the word.”

Slowly, Luna pulled back and looked at him in silence for a moment. Her mouth tightened, and she gave a faint shake of her head.

“No. Jamie and I need our family. We both do. I just…” She glanced aside, eyes shining, her flushed cheeks damp. “I just need a little time to process it.”

“You need Mom,” Frankie said simply, with a soft smile forming on his lips.

Luna smiled back and carefully ran her fingers beneath her eyes, making sure not to smudge her makeup.

“Yeah. I need Mom.”

Frankie pulled her into another hug, tighter this time, and felt a quiet wave of melancholy settle over him too. But he couldn’t cry, no, he couldn’t.

But soon; another day, and they’d be going home. He’d be going home. And he’d get to start over. Stronger, better, healthier. He was counting on it.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Divider: @strangergraphics

AO3 | masterlist

“Are you sure this is going to help?” You pulled your scarf tighter around your neck as you shuffled through the snow-covered driveway that your husband still had not shoveled. It was a particularly cold day with temperatures dipping down into the single digits, and you were too flustered to chastise him about his one household chore that he still never seemed to complete.

Your husband balked at your question, yanking open the driver’s side door and dropping into the seat. He was hesitant himself and he nervously scratched at the back of his neck - a tell of his that drove you crazy. “I don’t know, I think so…Jeremy said that it worked for him and his wife. He said this guy is great.”

“That’s the other thing,” you commented, “Why does it have to be a man we’re seeing? That’s going to be so uncomfortable for me, don’t you think?” It was your husband’s idea to do this, and you’d nearly dropped the skillet full of scrambled eggs on the morning that he asked if you’d go to sex therapy with him. You’d practically begged your husband to go to therapy before, on his own. You’d had your own therapist for a couple years now, and found the space to be beyond helpful in processing your week-to-week stressors (most of which revolved around the man sitting beside you). Each time you brought it up to him, he waved his hand in dismissal, as though it didn’t even warrant consideration. But of course, once your sex life started dying, then therapy seemed like the greatest idea on the planet. Typical man, you’d thought to yourself. 

“Jeremy said his wife loves the guy. He said that she even started seeing him individually sometimes, too.” He came to a stop at a red light and moved his hand from the steering wheel to your knee, squeezing in support. “It’ll be fine, babe.” 

You had to fight to not roll your eyes. “Really?,” you asked, “Lisa likes him that much? I didn’t think couples counselors were supposed to see them individually though?” 

“Well, this guy’s not really a couples counselor. It’s sex therapy. That’s different, I guess.” He shrugged his shoulders and you immediately wondered why you’d rely on him for any information surrounding the ethics of therapy. 

“I guess,” you muttered, looking out the passenger window and letting your mind wander until the car pulled up in front of the counseling center. 

New Hope Counseling Center

There was a wooden oval sign out front painted a calming shade of green. Underneath the name of the center were the words: Joel Miller, LCSW, CST

You didn’t know what the hell the letters meant, but it made him sound knowledgeable. You took a deep breath after exiting the car, trying to calm your nerves and prepare for whatever the hell was about to happen inside that building.

“You ready?,” Dave asked, meeting you at the front of the car and then taking your hand. 

“As ready as I can be, I suppose,” you muttered, walking up the wooden porch steps and to the front door of the quaint building. 

Once you were inside, the smell of lavender helped to soothe you along with the sound of the waterfall wall in the lobby. It was made of stone, with dark wood along the top and bottom. A collection of stones sat at the base, with water trickling down the ridges of the stone wall and then in between the cracks of the rocks. A warm, yellow light glowed underneath the top piece of wood. You studied it while Dave signed the check-in sheet, coming to take a seat beside you when he was done. 

No one else was in the lobby, which you supposed made sense given that it seemed that Joel was the only therapist who worked here. Aside from the waterfall, there was another sound machine in the seating area, as well as one by the door leading back to what you assumed was his office. 

“I filled out the paperwork online,” Dave said offhandedly, studying one of the oceanic paintings on the wall. 

“Oh,” you said, slightly surprised that he would fill it out without you. “We weren’t supposed to do it together?”

He turned to look at you, a look of worry flashing across his eyes, “Oh shit. I didn’t even think about that.” He bounced his leg, another nervous tic of his that had turned into a pet peeve of yours. “I’m sure you would’ve said the same things I put down. We…we know what the issues are, yanno?” 

You just sighed, giving a single nod of your head and looking at the door. You had an inkling that you and Dave actually didn’t see it the same way, at least not entirely. The clock ticked behind you and you started chewing on the inside of your cheek. This hour could not be over quick enough.

Just as you felt you were about to crawl out of your skin, the door opened. A tall, broad man stepped through the doorway, keeping it open behind him as he made slow strides toward you and your husband. He was wearing a blueish gray button up with the arms rolled up, and a white t-shirt underneath, along with denim jeans. It was a more casual look than you had expected, but it put you at ease, and you wondered if it was intentional. 

He smiled, outstretching his hand toward you first, “Hi, I’m Joel. It’s nice to meet you.” There was a twinkle in his eye and you simultaneously found your shoulders relaxing and your stomach tensing. 

“Hi,” you returned with a smile and introduction. Your husband did the same and then the two of you followed him into his office. 

He stepped to the side as you entered, shutting the door softly and then motioning with his hand toward the couch. “Make yourselves comfortable.” He walked over to a small table on the opposite side of the room. There were assorted glasses and mugs, along with a pitcher of water and a keurig. “Would you like some water? Tea?” 

“Water would be great,” you and your husband both chimed at the same time, exchanging some nervous laughter. 

Joel smiled, studying the two of you for a moment before turning back toward the table and pouring two glasses of water. You noticed he already had a steaming mug beside his chair with a tea bag draped over the edge. 

“Today is more of an introduction,” he said as he carried over the glasses of water, setting them in front of you on a rectangular coffee table. “How far we get sort of depends on the two of you. You get to decide the pacing. I’m simply here to accompany you.” He was looking back and forth between you both, his eyes soft but clearly assessing. “Do you have any questions for me before we get started?”

Silence. 

“Okay then, I took a look at the paperwork you both filled out. Thank you for that, by the way.” His smile widened then softened again. He picked up a clipboard, flipping through some of the pages. “What was it like for the two of you t’fill this out?” 

“Uhh,” your husband swallowed nervously. “I sort of…filled it out on my own.”

“Oh.” Joel’s eyebrows raised and he looked from Dave to you. “Any…particular reason for that?” He looked back at Dave.

Dave exhaled, the air puffing through his lips as he shook his head side-to-side. “Not really, no…This uh, this whole thing was kinda my idea and…I didn’t know how much input she’d really wanna have.” 

You knew he was being honest, but his answer irked you, nonetheless. 

“Is that true?” Joel looked at you now. 

“Um…which part?,” you asked genuinely.

Joel shrugged one of his shoulders and tilted his head, “All of it. This was his idea and you don’t have any input?”

His questioning didn’t feel invasive. It felt genuine and you were surprised with how honest you wanted to be with him.

“Yes and no,” you responded. “I’ve suggested him going to therapy before, and I’m in therapy of my own. I guess I would’ve liked for him to have individual counseling before us doing any sort of therapy together, but…he has his priorities, I suppose. And I do have input. I would have liked for us to fill the paperwork out together.” 

Joel nodded, not speaking yet as he leaned back into the plush of his chair. He directed his vision to Dave who squirmed under his gaze, unease clearly creeping in. Joel’s look was not one of judgment, but of curiosity, clearly waiting to see how Dave was going to respond to what you had just said. 

“I, um,” he stammered as he scratched at his neck, “I should’ve at least shown you the paperwork…asked if you wanted to complete it together. I’m sorry.” He looked at you with genuine remorse in his eyes.

You gave a small, forgiving smile as you replied, “That’s okay. Thank you.” 

Joel allowed another moment of pause before he took a deep breath and sat forward in his chair. “Well, since you didn’t get a chance to see the forms yet…I’ll read you what Dave put down as the presenting concerns, and then you can tell me if you have anything to add. How does that sound?”

You nodded and said, “Okay.”

“Lack of intimacy, only having sex about once a month, difficulty finishing, lack of communication surrounding sex.” Joel looked up from the paper to you. You took a sip of water, your mouth suddenly feeling dry. “What’s your reaction to that? Anything to share or add?”

You cleared your throat, setting your water glass back onto the table. “Um, not really…that about covers it.”

“That about covers it?,” he asked without missing a beat.

You drew in a breath and said, “Well, I think there are also some miscommunication issues, and uh, general dissatisfaction…” The last word was practically whispered. 

Dave turned to you. “Dissatisfaction? Like…because you have trouble finishing?” 

You squirmed in your seat. It was very quickly becoming uncomfortable and you looked to Joel for help. 

Joel took your cue and leaned forward. “Why don’t we try something?”

You both looked at him expectantly, as though he had a magic wand he could wave that was somehow going to fix all of your problems, despite how absurd you knew that was. 

“This is a judgment-free space, okay? This exercise will help me assess what’s going on in the bedroom with you both, since obviously I don’t get to witness that myself.” Your mouth was suddenly dry again. “Dave, I’d like for you to write down all of the things you do for her during foreplay. And you,” he pivoted his body toward you, handing you a pad and pen like he had just handed your husband, “I want you to write down all of the ways in which you like to be touched during foreplay.”

You both sat there for a moment, neither of you writing anything. Dave was clicking the pen in his hand while bouncing his leg. In that moment, you became acutely aware of what the issue was with your sex life. You didn’t know what you liked, and Dave didn’t care.

It was only one minute, but it may as well have been ten. Joel decided to put you both out of your misery, reaching his hands out to retrieve the writing materials before setting them on the table and looking between the two of you with a calm expression. 

“That is the issue. You both are right. There are certainly issues surrounding communication…and probably everything else on that list, too. But furthermore…you need to know what you want with sex,” Joel looked at you, “and you need to be curious enough to want to know what your partner wants during sex.” He looked at Dave. 

You both nodded, and you didn’t need to look at Dave to know that he probably had heat rising to his cheeks. Joel spread his legs, leaning back in his chair, his elbow propped on the arm rest as he thoughtfully chewed on the tip of his pen. Your breath hitched when you saw him scan you up and down.

“How-” You nervously cleared your throat again. “How do I figure out what I want?”

Seeming to disregard your question, Joel gave one of his own, “When was the last time you climaxed?” 

You gave a nervous sideways glance at Dave before clarifying, “Um, on my own…or with Dave?”

“Wh-but I thought…What do you mean on your own? You tell me all the time that you’re not in the mood and have a low sex drive…” Joel intervened. 

“Dave, Dave…I know this can get confusing, and at times emotional, but this is about her right now, okay? I read everything you put in the paperwork, I’ve yet to hear about her experience. And I’d like to also mention that there is a distinct difference between desire for masturbation and desire for sexual intercourse. They are two separate processes, okay?” Joel’s voice was calm, steady, but also stern in a way that had you unknowingly clenching your thighs.

“Please,” Joel motioned to you gently with his hand, “continue.”

“I masturbated last week, and it took me a while…like a long while, but I was able to come.” Joel nodded, encouraging you to continue. “Um, with Dave…” You felt Dave shift on the couch, clearly uncomfortable, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. “Probably, um…” The longer it took you to answer, you saw Joel’s face drop. His expression softened and he leaned back with a sympathetic sigh. 

“Okay then,” he said softly. He set his pad and pen down on the table beside him then lifted up his mug to take a sip of his tea.

“What do you mean okay then?,” Dave asked. “She didn’t answer the question.”

Joel took in a breath, exhaling slowly as he replied, “She did.” He looked at you. “Didn’t you?”

You bit your lip and gave a small nod, finally glancing at Dave. He looked devastated. His eyes were wide, a defensive look on his face, but his body language said it all with his slumped shoulders and fidgeting hands. 

“You mean you…” He was clearly having difficulty getting the words out. “I’ve never made you come?”

Your eyes watered at the realization that you were crushing him, something you never intended to do but worried would happen when you came here. 

“I’m so sorry,” you muttered. 

Dave put his head in his hands and rested his elbows on his knees. “Don’t-you have nothing to be sorry for.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Jesus…I had no idea.”

There was a quiet, sad moment that Joel allowed to fill the room briefly before sitting up straighter and saying, “There’s a solution here.”

Dave picked his head up from his hands, looking at Joel. “There is?”

Joel nodded, “There is. Now…it might seem a little unorthodox at first. Couples are usually skeptical when I first mention it. But it has a one hundred percent success rate.” 

Both of you perked up, hope slowly sliding over the despair. Dave sat up straight on the couch, his hand came to rest on your knee and he gave it a reassuring squeeze as he said, “We’ll do anything.” You nodded in agreement. You loved Dave, you really did. Sure, he annoyed you. Sure, sometimes, well maybe a lot of the time, you thought he was an idiot. But, you knew he cared for you. He made sure you felt it every day. Just…not in the bedroom.

“Okay. This is…hands on. It’s sort of like a mixture of exposure therapy and psychoeducation. Dave, you’ll be learning, and…” he directed his eyes to you, “you’ll be experiencing.”

You and Dave exchanged nervous glances, his hand slipped off your knee as your jaw fell open.

—

You weren’t quite sure how it happened, but there you were, laying on your therapist’s couch with your pants and shoes off, as he sat beside you with your feet in his lap. Dave was sitting in Joel’s chair now, nervously bouncing his leg and continually scratching and rubbing at the back of his neck. 

“We’re not going to do anything you don’t want to, alright? I’m gonna be checking in with you a lot. You tell me the minute something doesn’t feel right, and I’ll stop, okay?” Joel’s hand rested on your ankle, a light but anchoring touch.

Nodding your head, you replied, “Yes, Joel.”

“The goal here is for you to start to figure out what touch feels good, and what kind of touch doesn’t feel good. I want you to rate it for me, okay? One means you don’t like it, two means that you like it a little bit, and three means that you love it. No safe word, you’re just gonna say ‘stop’ at any point that you need to. I’ll ask consent before everything that I do. Do you have any questions?” 

“No, just a little nervous.” 

“That’s understandable. If that nervousness persists throughout, you let me know, okay?” He gave a gentle squeeze to your ankle and you nodded with a smile. 

“Do you have any questions?” Joel was looking at Dave now, who simply shook his head no. His eyes were wide and watching you, trying to assess whether you were actually okay with this. 

“Let’s begin, then,” Joel said as his hand trailed up your leg, just his fingertips brushing your bare skin. “Is this okay?” You nodded. “Rating?”

“Two.”

He added his second hand, now skimming his fingers up and down both of your shins. The touch was light, not ticklish but clearly causing some sort of reaction as you could feel goosebumps erupt across your skin. 

“May I go higher?” His voice sounded present but detached at the same time, as though he was asking you if you wanted him to refill your water glass. 

When you gave permission, his fingertips brushed against the tops of your thighs, running up and down from the crease of your hips to your knees. It was slow, gentle, and sensual. 

“Rating?” 

“Two.”

“Is it alright if I lift your shirt, just right beneath your bra?” You’d expected him to touch you between your legs next, so you were somewhat surprised but gave him the affirmative.

He gently pushed up your shirt, stopping right at the underwire of your bra. The air was cold against your newly exposed skin and you inhaled, slowly releasing the breath and trying to relax yourself. 

“That’s it,” Joel encouraged. “Doin’ great for me.” 

His praise went straight to your cunt and you gulped as you felt yourself clench. Joel noticed immediately. 

“Do you like that?,” he asked, making eye contact. “The praise?”

“I-I guess so…” It was news to you.

He gave an encouraging smile then looked to Dave. “Did you hear that?”

“Yeah…” Dave sat up a little straighter, trying not to bounce his leg anymore. “So like…tell her what I like? Or how she’s doing a good job?”

Joel nodded and said, “Exactly. Other examples might be like: such a good girl, that’s my pretty girl, just like that, you feel so good, look at me and let me see those pretty eyes…You get the idea.” He spoke the words soullessly and yet, you felt yourself dripping against the fabric of your panties. 

He turned his attention back to you. “What’s your rating of that? The praise.”

There was a slight quiver to your breath as you said, “Three.”

Joel smiled, a sparkle spreading across his face. “Perfect.”

One of his hands spread across your stomach, he rubbed in circles, and then back and forth across the smooth skin with his whole hand. “Rating?” 

“Mm..one?” 

He nodded, removing his hand and then just using his fingertips to trace around your abdomen. “Rating?” 

“It’s not really doing anything for me…so, one again?” 

“Yep. That’s right.” He reached across your legs to pick up his tea from the coffee table. He took a sip, set the cup back, then looked at you again. “Would you mind turning around so that your head is in my lap?” 

“Okay,” you answered softly and sat up, pivoting on the couch and then laying down again. You were looking up at his face, and for the first time, really taking in all of his handsome features. 

“Just like that, good,” he spoke in a low voice. It had more timber to it than previously and you couldn’t help but wonder if this did anything for him, too. 

He cleared his throat, as if bringing himself back to reality. This close to him, you really felt the heat emanating from his body and could see the bob of his throat as he swallowed. He looked down at you and gave a reassuring smile. “Ready to continue?” 

His fingers were in your hair a moment later, firmly rubbing against your scalp. He moved from the front to the back, fingers massaging through your strands of hair. It felt euphoric and your eyes fluttered closed while you leaned in to the touch. 

“Like that?,” he rumbled from his chest.

“Mhhm,” was all you could manage to push out, enjoying the sensation too much to put coherent words together. 

“Rating, please,” he requested. Without much evidence for it, you got the feeling that he was holding back saying more. 

“Three,” you practically moaned, catching yourself and opening your eyes to look at Dave. 

Joel picked up on your cue. “How are you doing, Dave?” 

“Um, I’m fine.” He tried to give you a smile, but you could see the hesitancy in his expression. 

“And you?,” Joel asked. 

“I’m good.” You looked up at him and when your eyes met, something flashed across his expression but it was gone before you could even assess what it might be. 

“Can I touch your face?” His question caught you off guard for a moment. You’d forgotten that he wasn’t going to just explore your body on his own. 

After giving your permission, Joel’s hand ran down your jaw, his fingertips brushing against the bone before trailing to your chin, and then his thumb ran a line across your bottom lip. He repeated this on the other side before bringing both hands to your temples, massaging and then running down the sides of your face. “Rating?”

“Two,” you spoke softly, feeling a little sleepy from the soothing touch. 

His hands smoothed across your jaw again, then came to your earlobes, pinching them between his thumb and forefinger then massaging. Goosebumps once again rose across your body. “Rating?”

“Two,” you said even softer. 

“Are you okay with removing more clothes? It’s okay if not. We’re about to move on to the next part, if you want.” 

Dave chimed in before you could respond. “How many parts are there, exactly?” 

Joel looked at the clock. “Four, but given that we only have about thirty minutes left…we’d either need to extend our session today, which I can accommodate, or continue next week.” 

“We can extend.” The words left your mouth before you could think much of it. You shot a worried look to Dave as you added, “If you’re okay with that.”

Dave took a breath, hesitating for only a moment before he raised his hands and said, “Hey, if this is gonna help…I’m all in.” 

“That’s nice,” Joel commented, “I can tell the two of you really care about each other.” 

You and Dave exchanged looks of adoration, and then Joel brought you both back to the present situation. “If you want to move forward, you can go ahead and remove your shirt, whenever you’re ready. No pressure at all.”

Sitting up, Joel placed his hand on your lower back, helping to support you as you raised your arms above your head and slipped off your shirt. “Bra too?,” you asked, your cheeks turning a shade of pink.

“If you would like,” he responded kindly. 

You looked at Dave who nodded, then reached behind your back, unclasping your bra. When you laid back down on Joel’s lap, you saw him trying not to look down at your chest initially. 

“Is it alright if I touch your breasts?” 

“Yes.” It came out breathier than you had intended.

Joel’s warm hand landed on your chest, but his hand was so large that his fingers still ran onto the soft flesh of your breasts. He rubbed slow circles. Your eyes fluttered closed again, and then you felt his hand move down to your right breast, his arm stretched across your chest as he began to knead, his fingers slowly squeezing and releasing. His thumb moved across your nipple which was already perked up from the cold air. 

You let out an exhalation as he continued to strum his thumb across your nipple. His other hand now came to your other breast, kneading it as well before playing with your nipple. 

“Rating?” You felt movement underneath your head, and while you weren’t positive, you thought there was a good likelihood that it was his dick.

“Two…” He continued playing with your nipples and you squirmed on the couch. “Three.”

“Yeah?,” he confirmed, now pinching your nipples and tweaking them with his fingers. 

“Mmm,” a real moan escaped your mouth as your back arched. 

“Is it okay if I keep doing this?” 

You nodded quickly, enjoying the arousing sensation. 

“I suck on her nipples sometimes…” The voice on the other end of the room startled you. You looked over to see your husband watching with a nervous energy. “Don’t-don’t you like that?”

Joel answered for you, “Actually, that’s quite different from nipple flicking or tweaking. It’s a different kind of sensation. That’s why it’s helpful to try a variety.” Joel released your nipples from his grasp. “Can I show you?” He seemed to be asking both of you. 

He picked up a pillow from the end of the couch, gently placing it underneath your head and shoulders so that you were raised closer to him. “May I?” 

With your new permission, Joel lowered his mouth to your breast, sucking your nipple into his mouth. After a few seconds, he released it with a wet pop. “Rating?”

“One…maybe two.” 

Joel looked at your husband, as if to say I told you so, but what he really said was, “Now watch this.”

He lowered his mouth again, the warm, wet heat encapsulating as he sucked your nipple into his mouth and then began flicking it with his thumb, at the same time he brought one of his hands to your other breast, and began stimulating that nipple as well. 

Your pussy fluttered and you felt a gush of arousal seep out and onto your panties. You whimpered, arching and nearly bucking your hips. As Joel continued, your whimpers became more high-pitched, transitioning into moans and heavy panting as your mouth fell open. That band in your lower belly started to tighten, and you realized that if Joel continued, you were going to come right on his couch.

“I’m-I’m,” was all you could get out before the band snapped and your orgasm tore through you. Your body shook with the sensation and Joel released your nipple with his hand while his mouth continued sucking gently on your other nipple, helping you finish out your orgasm. 

“Holy shit,” Dave said in awe from across the room. “I didn’t even know that was possible. That was…babe, was that real?”

Joel sat up straighter, looking down at you. He couldn’t hide the proud smirk that swept across his face. “Well?”

You gulped then took a deep breath. Rubbing your fingers against your temple you finally answered, “Um…yeah…yeah, it was. I Didn’t-I didn’t know I could do that.”

“Most women don’t,” Joel reassured. “It’s certainly under-utilized and not explored enough. Where you are in your menstrual cycle can also affect how stimulated you feel by nipple play. Something to experiment with, maybe,” he said with a wink. 

That wink. It created butterflies in your stomach.

“How are you feeling? Want to end here for today? Continue? You tell me.” 

There was no way you were going to call it quits after just finding out that you could come from having your nipples played with. You were starting to wonder if this man was magic. Your eyes couldn’t help but drift to his hands - broad fingers, short, clean nails, dark knuckle hairs, and veins that ran rivers across the tops of his hands. You started to salivate.

“We can continue.” You practically had to push the words out. It felt like your head was getting fuzzier by the minute. 

Joel gave a reserved smile, trying to quell his own excitement as he leaned back into the couch. “For the next part, would you mind removing your underwear and then sitting right here?” He spread his legs, making room for you to sit in front of him as he gestured down toward the empty spot between his thighs. 

Nerves wracked you slightly as you stood and slipped off your panties, stepping out of them and giving another glance toward Dave, who appeared just as nervous as you were. Still, he wasn’t showing any indication of wanting you to stop. In fact, as your eyes lingered on him for just a moment, you noticed the bulge in the center of his pants.

You sat in between Joel’s spread legs, immediately feeling the heat emanating from his crotch. You tried to sit toward the end of the couch, being careful not to push against him or invade his personal space, despite how badly you wanted you to feel him all over you. 

“Perfect,” Joel commented, “do you mind leaning your back against my chest? It’ll make this easier.”

Well, so much for personal space, you thought. You leaned against him and you could feel his bulge pressed against your lower back. He called no attention to it, though, and you wondered if it was just a normal part of the job for him. Your mind started to wander to imagining how he might give himself relief at the end of the work day. Did he do it right here in his office? Waiting until the last client left for the day, then leaning back on his couch, pulling out his cock from his pants, rolling his shirt up and giving his dick a few firm tugs before he came all over his stomach? Or did he wait until he got home? Still hard as he drove down the road and pulled into his driveway…quickly going to his bedroom and undressing fully, maybe squirting some lube into the palm of his hand before he made quick work of himself, shooting his load onto his bedroom floor. 

“You okay?” His voice cut through your fantasy, bringing you back to reality as you blinked and replied, “Oh, yeah. Sorry…I didn’t hear you.”

“Not a problem. I asked if you could put your legs over my knees. Like this…” He tenderly looped one of his hands underneath your lower thigh, lifting it and dragging it to the side so that your leg draped over his. When you seemed okay with that, he did the same to your other leg, making you completely spread in front of Dave. 

Dave shifted in the chair, clearly becoming more uncomfortable with his growing erection. He scratched at the back of his neck again and you saw his throat bob as he swallowed. 

“Are you okay babe?,” you asked sincerely, despite how odd it was to ask him that question with your pussy on full display. 

Joel paused, allowing the two of you to have your brief discussion. 

“Yeah…I’m…fine.” He nervously swallowed again. “Are-are you?”

You gave a comforting smile and said, “I’m great, honey. Just wanna make sure you’re okay with all of this.” 

He nodded, looking down at his jeans then back at you. “I-yeah, I’m…actually pretty good with all of this.” 

Joel quickly picked up on the underlying meaning, and in a non-judgmental and warm tone said, “Dave, it’s okay if you would like to pleasure yourself while this is happening. You’re having a completely normal and valid reaction.”

“Really? Are you sure?” Dave looked taken aback.

“Absolutely. Happens all the time in here. I should have mentioned it earlier. I forget sometimes that this doesn’t always feel normal for everyone.” Joel gave a soft chuckle and then tapped your thigh. “Are you ready to continue?”

You watched Dave slowly unzip his pants, reaching his hand into his boxers to touch himself as you answered Joel, “Yes, I’m ready.”

Joel’s hands ran up and down your thighs. You leaned your head back onto his shoulder, relaxing into his touch. His fingers curved around to the inside of your thighs, slowly moving up and toward your center. You gave a soft gasp as his fingertips reached the crease of your thighs.

He then ran soft trails up and down the lips of your soaked cunt, stimulating you in ways you’d never felt before. He wasn’t going straight for that button that every other man tries to find right away. 

“Rating?” 

“Two,” you cooed, pressing further into him as he continued his ministrations.

“Can I continue?” 

“Mhhm…please.” Your voice was soft, and it seemed to go straight to his cock as you felt him throb against you.

Finally, with a feather-light touch, one of his fingers dusted across your folds, slipping down to hover over your entrance before sweeping back up and gently pushing against your clit. You bucked at the barely there touch. 

“Try and relax for me, okay?” His voice rumbled against your ear, sending a chill up your spin. 

You did, leaning back and enjoying the warmth of his broad chest. Turning your head, your nose brushed against his neck, and you smelled him. It was sweeter than you would have expected. There was no strong scent; he clearly wasn’t wearing cologne. It was just him - the subtle sweetness combined with coffee and earth.

His middle finger pressed against your clit, the perfect amount of pressure, as he drew slow circles. He alternated between rubbing around your clit and rubbing your clit directly. The back and forth was making your head spin. You felt like you were equal parts drifting away, as well as so unbelievably present. 

“Rating?” His voice cracked slightly, as though this was starting to wreck him, too.

“Three, ohmygod.” His pressure increased just slightly, enough to have you arching as your pussy clenched around nothing. 

Dave made a small grunting sound, his cock now pulled out and weeping as he pumped it. His eyes were zeroed in on your glistening cunt.

“Are you getting close?,” Joel rasped against your ear.

“Y-yes…” Your voice quivered.

“Come for me.” The low rumble rolled against the side of your face and Joel had to grab your thigh tighter to keep you from completely squirming away from him. He continued the pace of his fingers, stifling a groan as he felt you come against him.

Tears brimmed your lashes, the overstimulation of your second orgasm washing over you made you feel overwhelmed, but in a way that somehow had you craving more. 

Joel waited for you to start to come down. His cheek was pressed to the side of your head, his hands running soothing trails up and down your thighs. He unhooked your legs from his knees, allowing your body to become even more pliant and limp against him. 

“Rating?,” he asked with a playfulness to his voice. You could hear the smirk he must have been wearing. 

“Three,” you answered confidently. “But it felt…different from how I’m used to my orgasms feeling.”

“Mhhm, that’s normal. Especially if you’re not used to having more than one. Sometimes they feel weaker, sometimes stronger. What was that one like?” His breath fanned across your bare chest.

“Stronger…almost too much.”

“Mmm, some overstimulation, then. Did you like that? It feeling like too much?” 

“Um, I’m not sure. I think I’d need to feel it again to be sure.” You didn’t say the words as a challenge or a request, simply answering him honestly. But the way his cock throbbed against you showed just how he was interpreting your words. 

“Are you okay to try for another one?” There was something comforting in his use of the word try. It reminded you that this space truly was nonjudgmental and that he had no expectations for you or your body. 

You nodded and directed your gaze to Dave. His cock stood straight, and his hand was simply resting against it. He hadn’t come yet and his face was flushed. It almost looked like he needed it as much as you did.

You nodded your head. “Please.”

There was a long stretch of silence as Joel sat behind you. You weren’t sure if this was part of it - if he was letting you make sure you wanted more, or fully allowing you to come down from your high. Or, maybe this was for him. Maybe he needed a moment.

Just as the silence grew to be almost unbearable, Joel spoke, “Are you comfortable if I remove my clothes and we have intercourse?”

There was not a less sexy way that he could have said that, and yet, your pussy clenched at the thought alone. You’d never come two times in a row, let alone three. But in this moment, you felt like you were willing to try anything.

After another look for reassurance from Dave, you stood up from the couch, taking a seat on one end as you watched Joel get undressed. He was remarkably unhurried about it, seemingly taking his time as he draped his clothes over the other end of the couch. 

“Want to lay down?,” he asked as he pushed down his pants, left in only his black boxer briefs that clung to his package and thighs. 

You had to fight to not ogle his bulge that you knew was present. Sliding down onto the couch, your head rested on a small pillow as you brought your knees up, feet pressed against the cushion. 

Joel gave a polite smile and then stepped out of his underwear. Fuck, he was hung. Dave had an average size dick - it was fine to look at, but didn’t really do much for you on its own. You always needed his fingers, or his mouth, something else. But looking at Joel’s thick cock that jutted out, the red tip already looking swollen, you thought that you could come just from feeling him fill you. You watched as he rolled a condom onto his thick cock.

“I wanna make sure you’re okay with this,” he said as he climbed onto the couch, hovering above your body. This time you couldn’t help it. You looked down at his thick, long, angry cock. You’d never seen anything like it before, at least not in real life. It looked like the dicks you’d seen in pornos. 

“I’m okay with it,” you answered breathily, hoping to contain your excitement. 

“There’s, uh…,” he cleared his throat before continuing, “boundaries here, okay? I’m not going to kiss you, and I won’t call you any pet names. I can incorporate praise, if you’d like. Is that okay?” 

You felt yourself dripping onto his couch. The anticipation was nearly killing you. “Yes, yes…that’s alright.” 

You gave one more glance to Dave who still had his dripping cock in his hand. Then, Joel lined up with your entrance. His eyes were trained on you as he swiped the head of his cock up and down your slit, gathering your arousal on his tip. He gave a playful tap on your clit, pulling a small whimper from you, before lining up his cock once more and pushing into you slowly.

The stretch was immediate. You pushed your head back into the pillow, your body becoming taught. 

“Hey,” Joel spoke softly to you. His hand brushed some of the hair out of your face then lingering on your cheek. “Can you relax for me?”

You tried, taking a deep breath and allowing your body to sink against the couch. As you exhaled, Joel pushed in further. His cock had significantly more girth than Dave’s, and it took your body a bit to adjust. 

He pulled his cock out, easing it back in. With every slow thrust he moved further and further into your aching cunt. “Oh, there we go,” he said. His jaw was clenched. “Doin’ so good for me.”

Your pussy clenched around him and he smiled. “One more thing,” he said, “I’m not going to touch your clit…okay? You’re going to finish for me from just your g spot.” 

“I…I don’t think I can.” You felt tears coming to your eyes, but weren’t quite sure why. 

“Woah, hey now,” Joel paused inside of you. “What’s going on? Want me to pull out?”

He started to move his hips back, but your legs locked behind him, trapping him inside of you. “No, no please…stay inside. I just…I don’t know why I’m crying.”

Joel nodded, his firm cock still buried inside of you. “Don’t put pressure on yourself, okay? I have no expectations for you…You’re not going to disappoint me if you can’t finish.”

His words offered you comfort and reassurance, and you realized that was exactly what you were worried about. 

“All you have to do is try and relax and enjoy this, okay?” 

You nodded. Joel pulled out almost all the way then pushed into you, his cock stretching you and filling you until his head bumped against your cervix. A huff of air escaped him and he lowered his head briefly before lifting it to look at you. “This feel alright?” His voice was strained. 

You gasped out, “yes,” and Joel continued his slow thrusts. Once your body had fully acclimated to him, he pulled out all the way, leaving you with wide eyes, staring up at him. 

“Can you move onto your hands and knees for me, please?” He moved back to give you room to readjust your position. 

He placed his hands on your hips, slowly pushing in again. You whimpered from the fullness and the drag of his cock against your walls. “Okay,” he spoke, taking a deep breath, “now, arch your back a bit, and move onto your forearms.”

As soon as you moved in the way he had asked, you felt his cock nudge against a spot inside of you that had you moaning immediately. “Therrrre it is,” he cooed. His thumbs rubbed circles on your hips. “That feel good?”

“Oh my god, yes,” you moaned again, starting to move your body against him. 

He chuckled softly, pulling back and then pushing forward. You gasped, your hands clutching the pillow in front of you as your head dropped. Joel continued his thrusts, slowly picking up the pace, letting your ass bounce against him each time he pulled you towards him. 

“Rating?”

“Fuck, three,” you moaned loudly. 

He fucked into you faster. The head of his cock rubbed against your spongy spot again and again. You began to clench around him, feeling that familiar build-up once more. 

“Perfect,” Joel muttered. 

You looked over at Dave. His eyes were focused on where you and Joel were joined. He gripped his cock tight as he fucked his fist, his face red in concentration. 

“Oh, oh, oh!,” you exclaimed, pressing back into Joel with each thrust. Just as you felt your body tightening, preparing for release, it was gone in an instant. Instead of a mind-numbing orgasm, the sensation just seemed to fizzle out. 

You cried out, “I can’t, I can’t!” You had never been so desperate for a release before. 

Joel slowed his thrusts. “You might be too overstimulated. That’s okay, we can try-” 

“Please,” you begged. 

He took a deep breath, pulling out of you and sitting on the couch behind you. “C’mere.” 

You looked behind you, seeing him seated now. On wobbly legs, you moved over to him, straddling his hips as his hands came to your waist and helped you lower yourself onto him. 

“Tell me if you feel it like this, okay?” 

You knew what he meant. Your ass met his thighs as you sank all the way down. And then, as you tilted forward, there it was, that shocking sensation that had you gripping hard onto his shoulders. He let your nails dig into him as you worked to find your pleasure again. 

“Good job, you’re doing great.” He looked over at Dave. “Doggy-style or cowgirl are two of the best positions for g spot stimulation. You could also do a spooning position, if you’d like. And when you’re thrusting…” Joel’s hands gripped your sides, lifting you up slightly so that he could thrust up into you. He grunted as he said, “You don’t want to just do in-and-out thrusts like this.” He shoved up into you a couple times, up and down. “Instead, you want to do more of a ‘come hither’ motion, like this.” His hips rocked, rolling underneath you as he brushed against that sensitive spot. Your head fell to his shoulder and you whined. 

He lowered you down so you were fully seated against him once more, then continued rocking his hips. “Can you move against me, baby? Rock just like I am.” His eyes blew wide as he realized the mistake he’d just made. You didn’t say anything, secretly enjoying the slip of the pet name. 

You moaned, “mhhm,” as you started to grind against him, mimicking the pattern he had just shown you. You realized that you having more control now was helpful, you could change the pace and pressure as you needed, getting you closer and closer to your orgasm.

“Oh my god, I think I’m close…” you moaned, throwing your head back. 

“That’s it, continue, just like that…doing so good. So perfect, hm? Keep grinding…right there, do what you need to do. Come on, just like that…Don’t stop…Mhhm, good job…Take what you need…use it…use it…just like that…oh, fuck…just like that…come on, now…come on…take it…take it…” His words pushed you over the edge. You’d never had someone talk you through it like that, and before you knew it, your vision was whiting out and you moaned so loudly, so deeply, that you were worried someone in a nearby building would hear. Your head pressed against his shoulder, your lips on his neck, moaning warm air against his skin that had him bucking into you and stifling his owns moans.

Dave followed after you. You could hear his grunts across the room as he finished in his hand. And Joel…he gave one deep groan, releasing his load into the condom he was wearing as his body involuntarily released a couple thrusts, helping him finish deep inside of you. 

When both of you were fully sated, Joel lifted you off of him gently. Your mind was fuzzy, hardly able to focus as he and Dave helped clean you up and got you dressed. 

Before you knew it, you and Dave stood at the door of Joel’s office. He looked completely normal, no signs of him having just fucked you within an inch of your life. 

“It was a pleasure,” he said, reaching out to shake your hand and then Dave’s. “Let me know if you’d ever like to schedule another session.”

“We will,” Dave answered for both of you, placing his hand on your lower back as you walked through the door.

Passing through the lobby, you grabbed a business card on the end table on your way out.