aurora

You kept to yourself, quiet in your travels as expected of you as a foreigner, walking and lugging your things behind you. You took your time—you were not in a hurry, and you'd call a cab once you were out of the station to get to your hotel. Either that, or you would walk. It wouldn't be too far in the grand scheme of things, and you could use it—the train ride had been long, and while Japan was advanced in many aspects, trains were trains. Your legs ached. 

As you walked, you looked around, seeing a few posters on one wall, a map of the Hakodate Main Line and what you assumed was the Dōnan Isaribi Tesudō Line, but you couldn't quite tell—there were many different colors and labels, and you walked a bit too quickly to truly assess what they said. An inkling feeling that you were being watched traveled up your spine, settling under the tense muscles of your shoulders. 

You looked over your shoulder, quietly observing those around you. A few passersby looked at you curiously, a child pointed and a mother hushed them, but other than that, no one was staring. You pursed your lips. Even after looking, the feeling did not leave you. 

So you continued on. 

In the bustle of the station, a chill passed by a hefty chunk of passengers. Murmurs of complaint, the accusation of turning weather, the familiar cadence and a mutter of,"The wind is picking up again." It wasn't unusual for such a place so close to Russia to be difficult in the winter, but it was well into the summer. No matter where you were, people were inherently similar. The same complaints, the same biting chill making people chatter amongst one another. 

You hadn't felt it. Not until you made your way to the exit, the chill finding you deep within your bones. It was not a chilled wind as you assumed, but a kind of cold that seeped through your pores, settling in with the very marrow of your being. It was as if something had grabbed ahold of you, something otherworldly, and refused to let go. 

You tried to shake it off, a shiver rushing through you as you stepped out from the station. The chill remained until you crossed the threshold. Even after, it did not leave you immediately. 

You glanced over your shoulder as you waved down a taxi, trying to see if there was something there you had missed. Seeing nothing, you thought little more of it. The thought of walking had left you, seeing as it was much later in the afternoon than you had anticipated. 

Behind you, trailing the Hakodate Station, was a phantom of a world long since passed. A speechless, guilt-ridden phantom that clung to those walking past, attempting to make them stay, to make them see him, but forever falling through his spectral grasp. 

He deserved it, did he not? Living a life that he chose, believing he was meant for nothing more than what he gave himself—his guilt long since melting into the intangible matter which made him, becoming one in the same.

The cold chill often felt at the station does not come from the wind, or the cruel Russian winters that seemed to linger even when you least expected it. It was his chill—the frozen wasteland of a soul ridden with insecurity and doubt, guilt and deadly aim all balled into one. 

He did not know you. He did not know anyone who passed through. All he ever may have loved had long since died. All he ever knew was gone. Even the station, one he knew quite well as he walked the train tracks, walked the platforms, it had changed many times over. 

The unearthly being, so weathered as he was, refused to name himself. He refused to make himself properly known, other than the cold, cold air that often found people. If no one could see him, he did not deserve to be seen. He may want you, want others to witness his existence, but unless someone like Inkarmat came through, seeing the unseen, he would remain forever and completely alone. 

The chatter amongst the regular patrons continued on. No one was paying attention. No one of importance, anyway. 

He stepped closer, grabbing onto your wrist. "What the hell do you mean?" he asked, grip tightening ever-so-slightly. "You know I don't lie."

"Do I?" you snapped instantly, jerking your wrist away. "I thought I knew a lot about you, but even now, there are things you bring up that I've got no fucking clue what you even mean. How do I know you're not lying just by saying that?"

His hardened expression faltered. "Wait."

"No. I'm not going to sit here and listen to you bullshit me. It's not the first time and it's certainly not the last. I—"

"—wait," he repeated, grabbing your wrist once more. This time, it wasn't as rough. 

He eyed the lounge around you, tugging you toward the exit. He wouldn't have this conversation here. 

"No, you don't—"

"—shut the hell up," he said brusquely, attempting to quell his anger as he burst through the front doors, jerking you closer to him.

The two of you walked until you rounded an empty corner and he all but pushed you up against the grimy brickwork, looking down at you with indecipherable air to him. 

"First, you do not get to tell me what to do," he said, voice no louder than a growl. "Second. What the hell did I lie to you about?"

You looked away from him, frowning deeply. You did not speak.

"How am I supposed to figure things out if you won't fucking talk?" he grunted, taking your chin between his forefinger and thumb. "Tell me what I lied about."

The feeling of the accusation washed over him, quickly followed by the subtle bite of guilt he only felt when you looked at him like that—a brand of contriteness he only felt with you. 

He hated it.

"You said you hated me. Talked a big game in front of the Penguin like I had no business even being in the same room as you."

It was Victor's turn to pause. He blinked owlishly. "What?"

"Do you tell everyone that I'm not good enough for you?"

His dark brown eyes widened imperceptibly, but it was there. Your name left his lips in a whisper, but you shook your head.

"No. I heard enough. I don't want to—"

"—stop it," he interrupted.

"No! Stop doing that. Let me talk—"

"—stop it," he interrupted again. "Stop. I didn't mean it. Not like that."

"Then what the hell did you mean?"

Victor scrunched his nose and let go of your chin, letting his hands drop to his sides. He itched to grab something—you, his knife, a gun. He stayed still, staring you down.

"I..."

Speechless. You had rendered him speechless. 

"Victor, just l—"

"—you heard me wrong."

You frowned.

"I didn't say I hated you. I said I used to hate people like you. So... so good," he said, disgruntled that he was even confronting the truth. "I said that I would never be good enough for you, but I guess you have a tendency to only hear what you wanna hear, huh?"

It was your turn to stare at him, blinking owlishly in a way that Victor wished he would never see again. It made his insides crawl with a nervous energy he knew wasn't his own. 

...or was it? 

You brought things out of him that he didn't even know existed. 

"Why... why would you tell him that?"

"Who?"

"Cobblepot."

He groaned softly and rolled his head between his shoulders, a quick pop resounding through the street. 

"He was asking too many questions about you. I told him we weren't together because you are too good for me. Shit of luck that did, seeing as I dragged you out while he was watching everyone like a hawk."

You stared. Your heart hammered in your chest. It did not feel like protection—it did not feel like deflection, either. 

"So... so you were just being weird to your boss?"

He scoffed. "Sure."

"No, seriously. Who just says shit like that?"

"Jesus Christ, I'm going to wring your neck if you don't stop."

A burst of laughter escaped you as you looked up at him. "I probably would've let you earlier if you tried."

He narrowed his eyes as he watched you, the implication of choking you out hanging precariously on a tightrope stretched thin.

"Watch it."

You slowly grinned, crossing your arms over your chest. The anger you had felt, the sad little pieces of your reality had melted away, leaving behind a genuine interest in what was running through his mind. Now was not the time to ask, but you'd find out eventually. 

"Should we go back in then, since neither of us look like we just fought each other?"

Victor thought for a moment before he shook his head. "Nah. We're going home."

"What about—"

"—he can fuck himself for all I care," he said, grabbing your hand instead of your wrist this time. He tugged you forward, guiding you to where he always parked his sleek, black car. "Besides. We've got shit to do. Got to see if you really meant it."

"Meant what?"

"Choking."

Your attempt to hide your laughter failed miserably. "What?!"

But then he started looking around. He listened to ladies and their mamas and the constant droning on and on about how good of a wife so-and-so would be, how good of a husband his neighbor may have been if given the chance. 

When he claimed to know exactly who he would marry right in front of you at that damned ball he didn't even want to attend, he saw the way you bristled. He saw how you turned, listening in on the conversation even though you were not directly involved in any of it. 

The fear he felt was the kind that clergymen warned of and his mama often wished against for her children. 

The look in your eyes proved that he was far more out of his depth than he ever realized. 

As you turned away, prepared to leave and find solitude elsewhere, he called your name in front of the men he spoke to. You had no choice to acknowledge him, or else you would be the talk of the 'ton for ignoring Anthony so. 

"What do you seek in a partner?"

You blinked owlishly, turning to face him entirely. "I beg your pardon?"

The men he spoke with stood up a bit straighter, one excusing himself to the refreshments table for what was assuredly the fourth time just that night. The other two opted to talking amongst themselves, attempting to ignore the developing conversation. A friend of yours stood beside you, sipping at their champagne as they attempted to ignore the conversation as well—only you all knew it was to no avail. 

"What is it that you seek in a partner?" Anthony repeated himself. God, he felt so foolish! Asking you such a question. But his heart skipped in his chest, the urge to make a quick quip in your regard settling on his tongue. He could not expect you to answer such a question. Not now.

And so, soft blush finding his cheeks, he cleared his throat and held his hand out to you.

"Would you humor me and allow me to have the next dance?" 

A sharp inhale on your part was met with a racing heart. He was being earnest this time. You almost wanted to slap him, to wipe that blush off his cheeks, but you didn't. Not now. 

You hesitantly gave him your hand. "You... you seem to be rather on edge today, do you not?" 

"On edge?" he echoed, tightening his grasp just a bit on your hand as he led you to the fray. "I would not say I am."

You clenched your jaw. So he was choosing to be dense. You could do the same. 

For a moment, you wondered what this could all mean. Anthony Bridgerton was often an enigma, a man that should not be held with light regard. You knew this—so did your mama, and the 'ton, and all the people in this damned ball. 

The threat of marriage looming over your head made you queasy. The idea that you had to marry or face eternal suffering thanks to the dastardly requirements of the 'ton, you were often... well, less than receptive to it all. You hadn't a choice. It was either find someone to marry, or live with your mama knowing that you did not do everything you should have done. 

And yet, the man beside of you, tense and overbearing as he tended to be in your presence, made you pause. He was a friend, was he not? Or at least, he could have been a friend. Someone you could see yourself with to the end of your days. 

Oh. Oh, you did not like the look he was giving you. You did not appreciate the rather sullen song that started playing, the efforts of the orchestra leading you into a rather intimate dance with the man whom you knew would rather be on another planet than right there with you.

Or did you? Did he? 

He stood so close to you, hand on your hip, hand in hand, and for once, you began to question everything. If you could learn to truly be his friend, then how difficult would it be for you to say yes if he asked for your hand in marriage?

Never had the question jumped to your lips so quickly: "Why would you ask what I seek in a partner?"

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "I... am merely wondering. You were listening in to our conversation, were you not?"

"Not intentionally, no, Lord Bridgerton."

His eyes widened. The realization that you referred to him so—had you always done that? No, no you had not—there was a time when you referred to him by his first name, in ways that always made his heart race madly and his tongue feel far too big for his mouth. 

"Do not do that," he chided. "It is Anthony. It... has always been Anthony for you."

It was safe to say that while you were caught off guard, your expression remained the same. Was he earnest? 

When was he not, when it came to you?

Anthony Bridgerton had lived the past few years with the notion that marrying for love was a scam. That it only led to heartbreak and misery. And while he was still certain it was true, he began to wonder if there was more to it than just that. If it weren't for changing minds and changing hearts, where would he be?

Perhaps this was his father's way of reminding him that he had many chances in life—he need not squander them all. 

The music continued to play as he looked down at you, hand tightening around yours and its grip on your waist. 

"I think it would be wise for us to find a place to speak after our dance," he softly said. "There are a... few things I wish to discuss with you, without so many prying eyes."

"A solid plan," you said in return, unable to help yourself. 

And now, here you were. You had been here before, standing right in front of another soul, another hopeful heart—at least, someone you suspected had been hopeful and welcoming of you. In all of Oz, you swore you would never be here. Ever again. 

The look in his eyes, the way he made your insides flutter with anticipation (for what, you do not know). How were you to say no to him? To a man you considered to be a friend?

Fiyero Tigelaar. He was a decent man, well-liked by all, and especially by you. But you knew, you knew, you knew he was not meant for you. He was not meant to be near a soul so unsure of themselves, one who was terrified of feeling more than what they had grown so accustomed to. 

Just the sound of his voice was enough to strike you down, driving you into the very earth beneath your tired feet.

You shook your head, an attempt to dismiss his words coming through your trembling lips. You missed the way he looked at you, how he tried to catch your gaze, as you tried to focus your breathing. What was around you? Could you escape this mess?

What were you so afraid of? The question echoed in your mind. 

Being hurt, again? 

Perhaps.

Or maybe...

Hearing your name upon his lips nearly sent you spiraling. You looked to him, breath hitching in your throat as you took a step back. You shook your head, frowning. Numbness tingled your fingertips, lungs nearly aflame.

"Come, now, am I truly all that bad?" Fiyero asked, following your step. 

Again and again, you shook your head. You wished to explain, to make your thoughts known, but nothing left you. Hands clammy, you attempted to wipe them on your pants. Your momentary disregard cost the rest of your composure—Fiyero grabbed onto your wrist almost immediately. 

"We do not need to discuss this any further," he softly said. "Truly. But you must calm down. There is nothing here meant to harm you."

His eyes searched yours. Had he known what you were afraid of, perhaps he would not have been so close to you. Perhaps...

"You are safe," he said, releasing your wrist when he realized it was not helping. "Why don't I take you to your dorm?"

You shook your head at the offer.

He frowned, eyeing you warily. "Then what do you want to do?"

Your lips parted, shaking your head once more: "I'm fine."

"You are not fine," he indignantly said.

Jaw clenched, you looked away. You have been in this same place so many times before. In another life, in your dreams, in the not-so-recent past. How many times would you have to face this dastardly reality? How many times would you have to hide what you were so scared of? What you wished for?

Instead of pushing further, Fiyero simply sighed. "Fine. Should I go and fetch Galinda?"

You shot him a glare. "No." Your response was a bit too hasty, drawing a laugh from him.

"No? Then what of Elphaba? Perhaps that one boy that stays near Galinda?"

"Boq? Why would you even—"

"—so you are fine with talking to me when I threaten others to show?"

"No, Fiyero, that's not—oh, I do wish you would just stop talking!" A bite of your words was all you could offer. You could not give more than that—or, rather, you did not want to. All that you felt, all that you were, bubbled deep within, ever present and ever powerful. The urge to fear the world before you, the urge to fear the feelings Fiyero drew up in you... it was insatiable.

"What are you so scared of?" Fiyero asked, tilting his head as if he were a curious child, just trying to see what more he was missing. He did not know what he could do for you. He wanted to, truly—he hated to see those he cared for hurting, regardless of the cause. This time, he felt oddly responsible, though he was not quite sure why. You did not tell him why. He did not know.

He would not know. 

Regardless of how you felt deep within, he knew he'd always find his way to you in some odd manner or another. Your relentless disdain would not dissuade him. 

He was stubborn to a fault when it came to you.

With a purse of your lips, you took in a deep breath. The reality of your situation settled upon you with a fresh breeze. One panic melted away to a numbness so familiar to you, you wished it had a name. It had such a peculiar way of existing, finding you in the moments you needed it most.

A savior, of sort.

"Are you alright now?" Fiyero softly asked.

You gave a small nod. You did not fully trust your words, but to satiate his need, you spoke anyway.

"I am," you said. "I'm sorry. I don't know what all that was about."

Fiyero eyed you. He could see right through you—he could see how tense you were when he was near, how your breath hitched when you locked eyes with him. He had yet to make any mention of it—had yet to consider what it would mean for the two of you. How would it change things? How would it change you?

The clock tower chimed with the change of the hour. A soft frown formed on Fiyero's lips as he realized he needed to go, though the guilt he felt inside was a bit more than he wanted.

"Will you consider my offer?" Fiyero asked, pulling your attention back to the whole reason for your mini-panic attack.

Right, you reminded yourself, the Ozdust Ballroom. The two of you, together. Not just as friends. More than what you were, now. More than what you were prepared for.

"I... Fiyero, I don't..."

He gave a small smile. "It's okay if you say no," he said. "I just..."

"I will consider it," you quickly said, surprising both him and yourself. "I... I have class in half an hour. It should end by four. Come... come and find me, and you'll have my answer."

The prince eyed you warily for a moment before he nodded, giving you all he could muster in the same small smile—however, his gaze held much more than that. His gaze held the very breath of life, what made the world and more. His gaze, the soul within, that was so much more than you would ever anticipate.

"I will find you. Always."

You watched him as he left, the numbness returning front and center. You squeezed your eyes shut. He was so infuriating at times. Why had he affected you so? Your heart jumped to your throat when you realized exactly why. 

He was everything you were terrified of... and you felt yourself leaning in toward the danger, prepared to let yourself burn.

Despite everything constantly hammering him into the earth that was Tsurumi's world, he eventually let someone else in. He fought against it at first, attempting to push away the fear, the insecurity, the knowledge that he was nothing more than a pawn, but then, he decided to jump. 

What could be worse? I've already signed my soul away. Does he need my heart, too?

A translator. A translator roped into Tsurumi's arms, straight and narrow path leading to their ruin. Your ruin. 

Koito made little comments here and there, how he hoped that you weren't truly under Tsurumi's control, how he wondered what had you working for Tsurumi in the first place. And maybe at first, you truly were taken under Tsurumi's wing. He needed translators, after all. It's the reason Tsukishima knew Russian. But once he had his fill of you? Once it was obvious that you were merely there as a __ and not a fine-tuned instrument of Tsurumi's design? Things started to blur. The obvious was in a league of its own. The secret became untraversed soil that Tsukishima wanted to dig into, with or without a shovel—he'd use his hands if he had to, just to get to the bottom of things.

Perhaps that was what led to this. 

Tsukishima stood in front of you, body in tense attention as he examined the sight in front of him. Tsurumi had been a fool (which was nothing knew, mind you). You had put yourself in a terrible situation all thanks to Tsurumi's obtuse instruction, and now you rested in a hospital bed, bruised and bloody and utterly enervated. Had Tsukishima been there, wherever it was that Tsurumi had taken you, he would have killed someone. Killed everyone, Tsurumi possibly included. 

No. Tsurumi definitely included.

A heat within boiled to melting point, anger coursing through his veins. You looked so pitiful, so completely broken. The very light from your eyes had been diminished in only a moment, gone seemingly forever. You'd find it again, he knew it was so as he had seen it many times before, but that did not mean it hurt any less. 

He would never see that again. He would make sure of it. You would be out of Tsurumi's grasp, once and for all. 

Koito stood by the door, listening intently for anything just beyond the confines of the room. 

You looked at Tsukishima, the familiar furrow of your brows distracting him from what he wanted—no, needed—to say. 

"You look as if you've seen a ghost, Sergeant," you said, smiling faintly at him. The stretch of your lips hurt—bottom lip split, left eyebrow as well, bruises littering your body like a subpar golf course with too much time, too much space, too much everything. 

"I have," Tsukishima quietly said, unable to take his eyes away from you. Had he? The way you laid there, the subtle ounce of fear making its way through his bloodstream. A ghost, of sorts. A reminder that Tsurumi had taken so much from him, and he would continue to do so unless he got away, got away, got away. 

He'd talked to Koito. The young Second Lieutenant was prepared to help him, no matter the cost. Hell. He may even go along with it, if it meant he could get away from the death sentence awaiting him. His father was a deciding factor. If anything, when the time came to it, Tsukishima could rough him up a little bit to make it look like he was convinced to go along with things instead of being one of the main orchestrators.  

You forced yourself to sit up, leaning against the propped up pillows behind you. Abdomen screaming in pain, you squeezed your eyes shut and took in a wheezy breath. You had been in pain before, but the constant throbbing, the constant pain rippling through you was just as exhausting as listening to Tsurumi's rants, day in and day out. The man had a way with words. Regardless, he thought too highly of himself. He was, for lack of better words, completely and utterly demented.

"Do not hurt yourself," Tsukishima quickly said, an order with no true power. His face remained the same, but the tone of his voice made you question his intention. "You are injured enough."

You rolled your eyes. "I am fine, Tsukishima."

He narrowed his eyes, listening as Koito shuffled back at the door. The younger man kept a hand on his gunto sabre, prepared to use it if need be. Considering how slowly Tsukishima was taking things, he felt as if he may need to use it sooner rather than later. 

"What are you doing here?" you finally asked, pulling the blanket up a bit more to cover your aching body. "Don't you have things to do? Both of you?"

"Of course," Tsukishima said, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he watched you. "But you are more important."

The admission washed over the two of you, a chill following soon behind as you stared at him. It was not a confession, but it was close enough to one that made you disconcerted in the worst of ways. Your brows furrowed yet again, clearing your throat to address the silence.

"Sure, Sergeant," you said, words slow and deliberate. "Why don't you go? Tsurumi will be looking for you. Both of you."

Tsukishima grimaced. Were you this daft? Or was he just ambiguous enough that you could not see why he was here? Why he stood there, looking like a fool in front of the only people he considered true friends? Apprehension became him. Had he read it all wrong? Had his heart lied to him, following in the footsteps of his Lieutenant?

No. Surely not.

Tsukishima clenched his jaw, walking over and sitting on the edge of your bed. He locked eyes with you, not once looking away. He did not know what to do with his hands, so they balled into fists by his sides. Bottom lip wavering a moment too long. You noticed. You always noticed.

"Tsukishima?" Your voice was so soft, so gentle. Were you always that quiet? No. This was a fluke. A thing that he would make sure never happened again.

He shook his head. "I am going to ask you something, and I need you to be honest. I will not ask you again, but I will listen to whatever it is you say."

You blinked rapidly but nodded.

"You have spent so much time with Tsurumi, and it has only led to your destruction," he said, motioning to you with a fist. "So I ask you this. Do you wish to stay, or would you run away if given the option?"

"I beg your pardon?" you balked, wide eyed. Was he serious?

He stared at you, his silence keeping true to his earlier statement—I will not ask you again. You fluttered your eyelids, gaze moving from Koito to the stoic Sergeant sitting right in front of you, so close and yet a million miles away. Your heart jumped in your throat. 

Your honestly spilled from you in an instant, taking his silence to heart.

"I would run."

Tsukishima's shoulders seemed to relax a bit, eyes softening at the realization you were already where he wanted you to be. 

"You would run?" he echoed, just to be sure.

You nodded.

He looked over at Koito, expression hardening. "Grab their things. We will leave. Tonight."

"What? Tsukishima," you began, but the look he gave you shut you up instantly.

"If you are certain, if you will leave, I will follow you," he said.

"I'll follow you, too," Koito piped up from the door. 

You both shot him a look, the naïve Lieutenant merely forcing a smile. 

"Within reason," Koito continued. "I have my father and all to worry about."

"Koito," Tsukishima said, his words rubbing him the wrong way. 

Koito grimaced and moved away, grabbing your things as he was directed. 

Tsukishima returned his gaze to you, taking in the sight he'd already examined over and over again just in the last hour. 

"If we go, he will follow."

Your eyes searched his, mellowed and accepting of everything he had to say. You nodded, more or less bowed, your head in his direction. 

"That is a risk I am willing to take, if it means that you are with me," Tsukishima said, incriminating himself for all to see.

If it meant that you were safe, if you were going to be with someone who would protect you, he would do it all over again and then some. His heartened heart had long since opened up for you, and only you. He would curse the world if needed, curse his past, ignore Tsurumi, even if it chased him into the arms of a Russian winter. Even if it meant you would not fully be at rest until Tsurumi was six feet under and it was because of Tsukishima that Tsurumi was dead. He would do it, again and again. 

"Are we leaving now?" you softly asked, voice pulling him from his thoughts. "It's going to take me a minute to move."

"We will tell whoever passes that you are in need of fresh air," Tsukishima said. "If I am with you, they will believe it is so. Koito will meet us in a place we've already discussed. If you are ready, then we will go."

You did not truly know where to put yourself, wishing the earth would swallow you up right in the same instance. How he looked at you—how he seemed to truly care, even if he had yet to say three simple words that would solidify your assumption immediately. It was enough. It was always enough, when it came to him. 

He held his hand out to you. Scarred and large and so gentle, just for you. 

He did not think of his past in this moment. He only thought of you—his future, what the world was waiting for him to find, if he only were to bite the bullet and jump. 

When your hand slotted into his, he gave a gentle squeeze. 

That was that. His future was now, and he'd follow you to the ends of the earth if it meant you were safe—if it meant that you were his, and his alone. Had you said you wanted to stay, he would have. However, his gratitude for the former? Only time would show you just how grateful he was for your definitive decision. 

He turned to face you entirely, body rolling over until his stomach rested against the grass and his face was level with yours. 

You looked up at him in turn, a soft smile forming on your lips. 

How he would love to see that smile forever and always. It warmed him up from the inside out, reminding him of everything good in the world. Reminding him that despite his ultimate betrayal of societal standards, no matter what that betrayal may be, there was something out there meant for him; there was something out there that proved good still happened, and he was meant for it just as well as the next man.

"What are you doing?" you softly asked, raising a curious brow.

"Just looking at you," he hummed. He rested his cheek against his hand, elbow crooked and allowing him to lean over you just slightly. 

"Do I have something on my face?" 

"Oh, do you?" He smiled down at you. "Only my entire sun, moon, and stars."

You looked at him as if he'd said something downright ridiculous—that he did, but there was no need to say it aloud. He knew it well enough when the soft fluster found his cheeks.

"Ah, ignore that," he said. He dropped his hand, head following suit as it rested on the jacket underneath you. "You have nothing on your face."

You rolled your eyes and looked back up at the sky before you. There was so much left unsaid, far too little happiness shared amongst the two of you though you both knew you could share much more. What was right and what you wanted always tended to blend in with what society believed to be best. This alone was scandalous, regardless of your status as a married couple.

Benedict's teeth took a bit of his cheek in between, biting down just hard enough that he could have broke skin if he wasn't careful. 

He would make you happy if it was the last thing he ever managed to do. You deserved that. Deserved a life away from prying eyes, away from the reality the two of you faced, ever judged and ever watched for the moment when you do something wrong. 

He reached out and gently took your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. 

"Would you like to turn in for the night, darling?"

"Not yet," you softly replied. "I quite like the solitude of just you and the moon and stars."

He hummed once more, turning his head to look up at the sky again.

"Perhaps you are the sun," you said.

His silence led you to continuing. 

"When you said the sun, moon, and stars. Perhaps you are the sun, and I am the moon, and whatever we have between us are the stars."

Benedict let out a soft laugh. "I am the sun, you are the moon? Would that not mean we are chasing each other round and round, never once finding one another?"

"Fine, fine," you said, rolling your eyes. "Then you are the moon, and I am the stars."

"I believe it is the opposite."

"How so?"

"I am the stars, and you are the moon. I will surround you and admire you near, far, anywhere, for as long as you continue to shine your light on everything around you."

Your lips pursed, inching into a familiar smile that ran straight to his core. He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. 

"Alright, my moon," he said. "What is it that you are thinking, now?"

The smile only strengthened as you turned to face him, now laying on your side. You leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. 

"I am thinking that it is cold out here, and my underclothes are now wet. I am sure to get a cold if we do not return inside soon."

He laughed again and pushed himself to sit up, shivering at the effort. 

"Yes, you are right," he said. "It seems as if the temperature dropped an exuberant amount in just a half hour."

He began to stand, holding his hands out to you to help you up as well. As you stood, he swooped up the jacket and draped it over his free arm. He held out his other to you with a smile.

"Shall we?" he asked, waiting for you to take it. He made no effort to move away. Not yet.

"We shall," you said, hooking your arm with his and allowing him to take you back into your quiet home. Only when you gave him the go-ahead did he move a muscle.

"Fíli," you attempted to coax him with his name alone, hand reaching out and gently taking his. 

He ignored. He ignored, ignored, unable to stop the burning, unable to stop the trickling fear that he was dying right in front of you, back still pierced by Azog's weapon, body still precariously hanging before his brother, before his uncle. His body, falling to the ledge below, alive but barely hanging on. 

It was some miracle that he survived.

You squeezed his hand, your other coming forth and gently pressing against his temple. 

"Gods, you're burning up," you said, brows furrowing in concern. 

He survived, and yet he was sitting there acting as if he was dying. He wasn't. He was alive. 

"Fíli," you attempted once more, a hand reaching out to gently brush against his cheek. You guided his eyes to your own, eyebrows furrowed in that infuriatingly inquisitive way. "Come, now," you continued. "Let's get you back in bed. I will fetch some water. Do you think the kitchens would have ice left over?"

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. No complaints came from him as you pulled him to his feet, guiding him back to your shared bed. 

You leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "Give me a moment. I'll be back before you know it."

He hummed out his acknowledgement, fingers digging into the blankets on the bed. He leaned his back against the headboard, wood clattering against the stone walls. He squeezed his eyes shut, counting the things he knew were around him. The bed. Walls. Dresser. Sword by his bed. Dagger under the mattress. Long knife under the dresser. Plenty more weapons, everywhere. He would be able to defend himself in an instant, if the gods needed him to do so. 

The moment you returned, he could have sworn the gods blessed him that night, shining their holy light on the only person who ever seemed to make sense anymore save for his equally damaged brother. One instance had ruined so many things for the two of them—three, if you count Thorin. The meat and potatoes of their once brave persons deflated so easily anymore. But seeing you? It made a fragment of it all worth it.

You came to him with a cup of water and a bowl of ice. 

"I did not know if you'd want to have it in your water, or if you'd rather me just... oh, I don't know. Grab a cloth?"

"Water is fine," he said, voice gruff and exhausted, but he was talking now. 

You smiled softly at his words. "I should be thinking of ways to make it easier for you to come down from such warmth. Without the wizard here, I wonder how easy it would be for me to create a pack of some sort."

"A pack?"

"Yes! Like an ice pack."

He snorted softly at your words. "Hm. Keep your inventions to a minimum, for now. Come to me."

You sat down beside of him, dropping a few pieces of ice into the cup before handing it to him. He nursed the water, eyeing you warily. He did not flinch as you felt his forehead for what must have been the thousandth time just that month. 

"How's your scar?"

"Fine."

"And your dream?"

He frowned. He shifted where he sat, taking a big gulp to avoid talking to you. 

You placed a hand to his thigh, thumb brushing against the fabric of his sleep pants. "You came down from it far quicker than the last."

"Perhaps it is finally leaving me."

You gave him a once-over, the corners of your mouth turning down ever-so-slightly. He hated that face on you, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He knew you meant it, too. 

No words came from you, and for that he was grateful. The silence settled over the two of you as he finished off his water, teeth crunching on the final piece of ice. You took the cup from him, placing it and the bowl of slowly melting ice on the bedside table. 

He grabbed ahold of your wrist once you finished, pulling you into his side. 

"Sleep in my arms?"

He voiced it as a question. Even so, you knew it wasn't. It was a command, and one that you would never deny him. You settled onto the bed beside him, allowing him to pull you close. The heavy hammering of his heart had returned to its once calm rhythm, his breathing settling into a smooth cadence in which you listened to every note. He rested his head on the pillows above while you rested your head against his chest. 

The once tense room settled into a warm, commiserative place, soothing Fíli and his ever-racing mind. 

Thank the gods he was alive. Thank the gods for you. Were it not for the fact that he had you, he may have succumbed to the constant drone of the distressing grievances that appeared to be a part of him for the rest of his very long life. 

For all that he was, he was alive. You quieted his warring mind. You settled his aching heart. 

Oh, Steve loved you so, but the road ahead of him was no longer straight and narrow. It had distorted, twisting and turning and looping all around, going on and on forever as if he never even had a chance to breathe. 

How was it for you? How could you stand there, looking up at him with those sweet eyes of yours, wondering if he would actually take a moment to do anything more than regret staying? How would he learn to move past the fact that he came back for you instead of staying in the timeline where Peggy was young and alive? 

He couldn't. And it wasn't your fault. You did not ask for him to come back. He decided to do it, for the sake of everyone. He was not selfish, even to his last moments. 

Steve's jaw clenched, muscle jumping as he looked down at you. He released a soft sigh, unable to stop himself from doing so.

"Stop looking at me like that," he said.

"Like what?" you counter, disbelief still evident in the way your voice quivered.

"Like I'm going to disappear. I'm right in front of you, aren't I?"

You blinked owlishly. He was. But was he truly yours once more? His regret was palpable. You could taste it—feel it lingering in the air around you. 

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, the same sentiment echoing throughout your mind. 

He was lying. 

His body would stay, and so would he, but you lost him a long time ago. You lost him the moment that time travel became a thing. You lost him even before he came back.

You did not say a word, accepting what he was saying at face value. Steve leaned forward and pressed a soft, tentative kiss to your forehead. And then, he left you alone in the kitchen, not looking back.

The road you traveled was crumbling underneath your feet, and no one was there to save you.

Ukai Keishin: Probably because these boys are menaces. Ukai Keishin: Why? Need me? y/n: need someone to bring me food Ukai Keishin: Is that all I am? Ukai Keishin: Your personal uber driver? y/n: i didn't order an uber driver Ukai Keishin: I'm putting my phone up. y/n: WAIT y/n: it's fine  y/n: just thought we could get dinner or somethin Ukai Keishin: You'll have to wait. y/n: what if i just come to you Ukai Keishin: You want to come to the gym? y/n: wouldn't have said it if i didn't want to Ukai Keishin: They'll bother you. y/n: nah y/n: i can handle it y/n: you think i can't? Ukai Keishin: That's not what I said. y/n: bleh Ukai Keishin: Should I tell Takeda you're coming? y/n: yah Ukai Keishin: 👍🏼 y/n: loser Ukai Keishin: ?? y/n: you could at least send me something cute y/n: come on y/n: i know you've got it on your keyboard Ukai Keishin: [typing ...] Ukai Keishin: [typing ...] Ukai Keishin: [typing ...] Ukai Keishin: ദ്ദി ˉ꒳ˉ )✧ y/n: took u long enough Ukai Keishin: I am trying to do my job. y/n: should i bring drinks?

There's no answer after that. Most likely due to the fact he was doing his job, but you decided to get some anyway. Fifteen sports drinks later, you strolled into the Karasuno gym like you hadn't just badgered your boyfriend for ten minutes straight. You'd get him to go out to eat later—for now, though, you walk to the closest kid and hand him a bag. 

Hinata's eyes grow wide at the sight of the sports drinks. He quickly bowed in thanks as he took it, smiling up at you. 

"You're awesome!" he said, grabbing one of the fruit punch ones before he ran off with the bag to Kageyama and Tanaka. 

The other bag, you had off to Yamaguchi. He wasn't as receptive until he saw what they were, and then he quickly thanked you. 

You walked over to your boyfriend, hands on your hips as he instructed one of the boys on how to properly receive the ball without it slipping through their fingertips and hits them square in the face. The sight of you was a welcome change. 

Ukai's shoulders relaxed and he smiled in your direction. He was truly in his element.

There's a resounding murmur amongst the boys, some of them going to tell you thanks for the drinks, before your boyfriend eventually came to your side. He kissed your cheek, a fleeting moment that the boys pretended not to see. 

"You still hungry?" he asked.

"Starved."

"Wait half an hour and we can go. You think you can do that?"

You grinned up at him. "I think I can manage."

He returned your grin, turning to the team. "Alright! Let's have a quick six by six, yeah? Finish out practice strong!"

You find your place against the wall, arms crossed over your chest as you watched them practice, unable to tear your eyes from the ball for the most part. If you did, you looked at Ukai, the happy man catching your eye and smiling each time. 

Maybe you'd get something simple, go to a gas station and make ramen. But then again... Maybe a Korean BBQ place would be nice. Were there any even around? 

You whipped out your phone, dead set on finding something that you would both like. As you searched, a simple text message came through.

Ukai Keishin: I love you.

A smile formed on your lips. You could just tell him in person, but you didn't, opting to text him back instead.

Battle had never graced your innocent eyes. Not in the grand scale that he has seen it, the blood, the terror. Death had yet to kiss your lips, begging for you to follow.

You were one of the few who had yet to have any sort of romantic experience, and Sihtric had been one of the first to pull that out of you—ale had not been kind to you the evening of. A confession never came, though, and the admission of his crush continued to keep under wraps. Even with ale singing your name.

Sihtric didn't want you to know. Or at least, that was what he told himself.

You didn't want him to know, either.

You would much rather go off into another's battle, weaponless, than ever let him know exactly how you feel.

For why, you had no answer. The fear of Sihtric's untimely death, the fear that you would tell him and lose him in the same breath. Was it truly this fear you kept onto the reason you did not want him to know? 

It had only been a few weeks after your drunken state. Sihtric had taken you home that night and you did everything in your power to avoid the Dane. Embarrassment became you, rooting itself deep into the woven patterns in your clothing.

And yet today, you found yourself in the mix of Lord Uhtred's vagabonds, traveling to Coccham on a path unfamiliar to you. You kept away from Sihtric, only answering him with a smile if he looked your way. 

He made your heart beat, fast enough you were sure it would gain wings and fly away. 

If only you knew he felt the same.

It was as if the two of you played some grand game of hopscotch, carefully hopping over the thrown stones, coming close to crashing but staying upright just in time to win. Only, neither of you were winning this game.

He needed you to know, despite the fear that he held deep within. He wanted to shout it from the mountain tops, from the cliffs overhanging the vast oceans. The gods already knew. Now it was up to you. You would know, and soon. He was tired of waiting.

Sihtric led his horse over to yours, your name escaping him to catch your attention.

You glanced over at him, tense smile prepared as you gripped onto the reins, ready to go and lead your horse elsewhere.

"Don't go," he quickly said, stopping you from pulling away. His jaw clenched, brows furrowed as he watched you. His frustration was palpable. "You have avoided me for weeks now," he said, keeping a steady rhythm with your horse. "It is as if you have crossed me out of your life completely. For what reason?"

For what reason? You had no true reason. No reason that would sound... viable, if you said them aloud. 

Your silence spurred him on.

"Truly you must take me for some sort of miscreant to avoid me so," he said. 

Finan piped up from somewhere behind you: "Leave them be, Dane!"

His head shot in his direction. "I did not ask for your input, Finan."

He raised a defensive hand and guided his horse to move before yours, leaving the two of you behind the others and pretty much alone. 

His interjected did not stop Sihtric. "Did I do something? Have I offended you in some manner for you to go and pretend we do not know each other?"

"No," you began, but Sihtric was not finished.

He had an entire argument set up. "I do not know what it was that I did to you, but I promise you, I—"

He paused. You had said no. He blinked slowly, lips parting. He had been prepared for you to say yes, or something to that regard, and yet, you didn't. You...

"You didn't do anything," you reasoned, frowning at him. "It is my fault."

"You... your fault? No, no—"

"—I am scared," you blurted.

"Scared? Of who? Me?"

"No," you shook your head. "I do not want to get close to you."

His jaw clenched once more, hands tightening on the reins. "What?" His voice was tense, yet beneath it, if you truly went looking, you'd find the hurt he held onto more than anything. 

"No," you repeated. "If I get close to you, then I risk so much, Sihtric."

"You risk—" he sputtered indignantly. "What do you risk? Being friendly? Having someone look at you like you painted the flowers, hung the stars by yourself? Having someone look at you like the gods gifted you to this world?"

You eyed him warily. That was your concern. 

"And what happens when I let something like that into my life and somehow, it all goes wrong?"

"How would it go wrong?"

"You live and breathe for Lord Uhtred. Who is to say that you would not follow him to his death?"

Sihtric tensed at your words. He looked away, finding the back of Lord Uhtred's head many paces ahead of you. No one could hear your argument. 

"I would not," he said defensively.

"Yes you would," you countered, unable to help from rolling your eyes. "You would, and that is what scares me most."

Sihtric scoffed. "Scared of death? You have lived your life thus far without the comforts of a lover, and you are more scared of death than being alone forever?"

"I do not need a lover if it means I will mourn them in the end."

He blinked owlishly, heterochromatic eyes finding yours. "You would only mourn the love you shared. You would love until you couldn't, and then you would remember then the rest of your life. Why is that such a bad thing?"

"I do not want it for myself."

"You do not want it, or you do not know how to deal with it?"

Your silence was loud as you stared at him, stopping your horse entirely. He stopped a few paces ahead, horse turning to the side just so he could look at you properly. 

"Love does not have to be a battlefield," Sihtric said. "Neither does it need to be something you fear. It is... it is beautiful, and righteous, and everything that you deserve."

You mulled over his words. Love was something you already had—you just hadn't shared it with anyone else. Hadn't shared it with the man you knew you loved more than anything. 

"Sihtric..." you began.

"I love you," he said. "I am sorry that I am only telling you now. I—I wasn't going to. I was going to take it with me until the day I died. I know you are not as I am. You are pure, and perfect, and so innocent that I would ruin you. But I cannot sit here any longer without telling you, knowing that you are so scared of something so... so..."

"So human?"

His eyes blinked rapidly this time. "Yes. So human. The gods may have blessed me with my heart, but they do not know what it is that I feel when I look at you. I fear I will ruin you, but that fear is not as strong as the fear of you not knowing is."

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips and you averted your gaze.

He said your name, guiding his horse in your direction until the two of you were side by side, both horses facing opposite ways. He reached out a strong, calloused hand, taking yours in his own. 

"It is foolish, I know, but you must know that it is true. I have never lied to you, and I am not starting now."

Your brows furrowed, but you did not pull away. You went to speak again, but the sound of Uhtred's voice ringing out across the field stopped you.

"Come now, lovebirds! Coccham will not come to greet us if we stay here any longer!"

Sihtric cursed under his breath and let go of your hand, nudging his horse to move once more. 

You settled into a tense silence, shoulders scrunched together and eyes trained on Uhtred in front of you. The truth of Sihtric, the truth of you, sat on the tip of your tongue, waiting for you to take it in and devour it whole. You deserved it. Sihtric did, too. Even if it meant you would have to mourn him longer than you ever had to love him.

You bit your lip, glancing at Sihtric as he rode alongside you. He went the same speed as your horse, watching and waiting for something more to happen. 

When you said nothing, he remained silent. 

He looked so handsome there, dark hair and beautiful eyes finding the sunlight so perfectly. The gods above, his gods, must have took special care in creating such a beautiful man.

Battle may have never graced your eyes, and death had yet to truly kiss your lips, but if it meant that you could love a man such as Sihtric Kjartansson, then so be it. You would face death in stride, taking out those around you if it meant that you felt the love he was willing to give. 

He caught your eye, a small smile forming on his lips despite the tense nature of your conversation.

"I do mean it," he softly said. "Every word."

"I know," you answered, nodding your head without much give. You let out a soft sigh, averting your gaze. "It is the truth that scares me most."

"The truth," he echoed. "The truth is that I will be the best you have ever known."

A soft laugh finds its way through the clearing. "You would be the only man I have ever known in such a way."

He grinned. "So be it. I will be the only man you have ever known that way, and I will be the only one to ever know you that way. Once you let me in, you will never want for anyone more."

You rolled your eyes. "Sihtric, I am going to have a conniption."

His smile only widened. If he could speak to you this way, then surely that meant good news for him. 

"When we return to Coccham, would you do me the honor of allowing me to show you exactly what I mean? Whether it be just talking or something more."

Your eyes widened. Gods, he was ridiculous. You looked at him, feeling that familiar warmth of embarrassment settle between your heart and your ribcage. Your mind screamed at you to say no, but your heart begged you to say something far simpler, something far more dangerous. You let yourself breathe, and the answer came forth without hesitation:

No worries about friends, uninvolved family, the stupid holidays that stretch on far longer than they should that never seemed to leave you alone, the overwhelming intrusive thoughts that continued to urge you on. Said thoughts sent you closer to the edge than you ever thought possible.

You'd never have to worry about anything, ever again. You'd never have to wake up, wondering if you'd die that day. Gotham would cease its relentless havoc, allowing you to just... rest, if that's what truly happened once you passed.

But an inkling of something in the back of your mind seemed to make you pause. It wasn't quite your mind; at small intervals, you could have sworn it was him, scolding you for your insecurities, telling you to cut it out, knock it off.

Is all this truly what you wanted?

You wanted to die. To have your life stripped away in a matter of minutes.

Just behind you, thousands of people were preparing their gifts and making final additions to the holiday season. Many were lighting candles, fixing ornaments, or prepping their meals for a joyous feast. 

It wasn't enough. Nothing was enough.

Not your job, your boss, your dear friends. Zsasz.

You left him a letter in the middle of your dining room. He'd find it soon enough, and when he did, you would be long gone. You wouldn't have to face him, and that made things a little easier. If you had to look at him, if you had to face his disheartened features (because god knows you'd have to), you weren't sure if you could do it.

Who could say no to that cheesy, disco-loving assassin?

Could you really leave him with a note that confessed your love, instead of telling him in person? 

Yes. 

Yes, you could. You had to. You had it already prepared. This was it.

The murky depths of the water lay just beneath you. What a terrible way to go, huh? Drowning. But you knew it would work in a matter of seconds if you just... breathed it in. The cold around you would help to numb the side effects. 

But then... your feet wouldn't move. Your mind screamed at you, begging you to do something before some freak came out to the pier, looking for something to do—for someone to kill, or worse. 

You couldn't do it.

Tears rapidly formed in your eyes, your hands coming up to dig your fingers into the flesh of your cheeks as you tried to ground yourself. 

"Shit," you breathed out. "Shit, shit, shit."

It hadn't even been that loud, but your voice echoed across the dock. A sob escaped you and you buried your face in your trembling hands—your skin was ice cold. 

In your constant dolefulness, the sound of footsteps came from behind you. Your breath hitched in your throat. Fuck. Too late. Head jerking in the direction in which it came from, you sucked in a deep breath. Your eyes landed on the shoes of the culprit, and it only took a second for you to figure out who it was based on the shiny leather of his dress shoes. 

Zsasz.

Your eyes slowly trailed up, from the crumpled letter clutched in his trembling—yes, trembling—hand, to his disheveled clothing, and finally, to his face which showed far more emotion than you were used to. 

He scrunched his nose, taking yet another step forward.

"Are you insane?" he spat, disdain lacing his words.

"What?"

He scoffed, waving the ridiculous letter around. "You really leave something like this? You're even more stupid than I thought!" He was pissed—furious. You said you loved him in your letter. If you were leaving like this, was it even true? 

Death followed Victor Zsasz no matter where he went. A comforting friend that found pieces of memory etched into the scars on his skin. But your death? No. No, it couldn't happen. It wouldn't. You were going to live forever. He made sure of it.

"Victor," you began, but to no avail.

"No," he interrupted. "No, I'm not done," he said, jaw clenched. He stuffed the crumpled letter in his pocket, pulling out his trusted gun from its holster. 

He lifted it, pointing the thing directly at you.

The chill that had already found you was replaced by something knew—a freezing dread, seeing his gun pointed at you instead. What was he doing?

"Isn't this what you wanted? To die? Why so scared, now, hm?"

You said nothing, hands trembling by your sides.

"You'd just leave? Without a word? Leaving without telling me. That's a new low, even for you."

"I told you why—"

"—shut up! It's not your turn to talk," he snapped. "You don't get a chance to talk right now. Not when you go and do this bullshit!"

He stalked closer to you, barrel of his gun now at eye-level. He stared you down, never once wavering in his anger.

You ignored his order—his demand that washed over you like a cold shower, inching its way up your spine. 

"Are you going to kill me?" Your words were barely above a whisper. You had been prepared to die, but now... you didn't know if you could. Not when he stood in front of you.

"Do you want me to?" he asked, finger on the trigger. The safety was still on. He'd never moved to fix it. He wasn't about to tell you, either.

You slowly shook your head, hot tears forming in your eyes once more.

"Then why the fuck are you out here?" 

You averted your gaze, body trembling under his glare.

"I thought you loved me," Zsasz said, voice hard yet gaining that small, tell-tale quiver of fear. His anger wasn't alone. He was terrified of losing you to the one thing that comforted him most. He would find no comfort knowing you were six feet under. 

"I do," you blurted. "I do love you." You bit the inside of your cheek as you tried to keep yourself from crying.

"Then what the hell are you doing?" he repeated the same sentiment, though it seemed to do little to spur you on. 

You loved him. Love. You love him more than life itself. But was that enough? To keep going. To continue on, knowing that you tried to do this, even if you loved him. 

"I just—I can't do it anymore, Vic."

"Do what? Be with me?" he blurted, question heavily settling between the two of you. You weren't together, and yet, he couldn't help himself. "Live in Gotham?"

"No! No, I just—I just can't live anymore," you sobbed. "Every day is a waking nightmare in my mind! I can't escape it anymore. Can't, can't just like you can't escape the fucking Penguin. It's so—it's so—"

Victor dropped his gun, slipping it into his holster with practiced ease, finally closing up the distance. He wrapped his arms around your body, pulling you away from the edge of the pier as you broke down in his arms. 

You don't know how long you cried for, but your assassin crush held you the entire time. 

He knew.

He knew exactly how you felt. Hell, he felt it daily before you came into the picture. Hell, had he known—if he could have taken that pain away from you, he would have.

The big, bad Victor Zsasz held you close, his chin resting against the top of your head. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the way you eventually relaxed in his arms. 

"Let's get you home," he said, not waiting for you to reply. "Get you comfortable. Maybe get some takeout. How's that sound?"

You gave a small nod, but then shook your head. "Not—no, not my apartment. I can't—"

"—okay," he interrupted. "Mine, then."

You did not refuse this time, letting him lead you off of the pier and to his car, waiting for your return. You turned your head toward the pier, eyes flickering to the water.

"Look away," he snapped, and you immediately did as told. "Don't be looking at the water. You're never coming back here. Ever again."

Zsasz helped you into his car before he jumped into the driver's seat, staring at the dashboard for a minute too long. He turned to face you as you put your seatbelt on.

"I mean it when I say you're never coming back here. Even if it means I have my eyes on you at all times."

You frowned softly at him, not quite meeting his gaze.

He reached forward, fingers gently grasping your chin and forcing you to look at him. "I will keep you alive, even if it means you hate me."

Your eyes softened. "I... I could never hate you, Victor."