creamy soda

From the back seat of the first, you watched the estate emerge through the trees—gray stone, climbing ivy, and tall windows catching the last pale light of the afternoon.

It had always looked peaceful from a distance.

Today, it looked like the kind of place where families gathered to hear something they would never forget.

Harry hadn't let go of your hand since Ron received the call. His fingers remained tightly threaded through yours, his thumb brushing slowly over your engagement ring and across your knuckles in a steady rhythm that was probably meant to calm you.

It wasn't working.

Not when his jaw had been locked for the past forty minutes.

Harry had walked out of a meeting without his coat, picked you up before you'd even had time to change, and ordered the driver toward Rhinebeck without waiting for another explanation.

Across from you, Ron sat unusually still, his phone dark in his hand. He'd already called the house twice.

Both times, Eloise's nurse had given him the same answer.

Mrs. Castillo had suffered a difficult morning. She wanted the family in Rhinebeck immediately.

Nothing more.

"Did she sound frightened?" you asked again.

Ron looked up. "The nurse?"

"Yes."

"She sounded controlled."

"That wasn't my question."

Ron hesitated a fraction too long. Harry's grip tightened around your hand. You turned toward him. "Maybe we should've gone straight to the hospital."

"If she needed a hospital, her nurse would've sent her to one," Harry said evenly. "She knows what she's doing." His voice was calm. Deliberately calm.

It might've convinced anyone else.

Not you.

Harry was terrified. He was simply doing everything he could to keep that fear from reaching you. "Eloise is probably fine," he continued, his thumb brushing over your hand again. "It could be exhaustion. A medication adjustment. Anything."

"You don't believe that."

His gaze met yours. "I believe worrying before we know anything won't help you or the babies."

"I'm all right." You leaned closer, covering his hand with yours. "Hey. She's the strongest woman I know. She's going to be okay."

Harry held your gaze for a long moment, as though he wanted to borrow your certainty but wasn't sure how. "She'd better be," he said quietly.

He lifted your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles before lacing your fingers together once more.

Your free hand drifted instinctively to the gentle curve beneath your dress.

At five months, hiding the pregnancy was no longer possible—not with twins, and certainly not from a man who'd spent the past several weeks monitoring every meal, every yawn, and nearly every step you took.

Harry noticed immediately. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Was that a cramp?"

You smiled. "One of the babies."

"Which one?"

You waited until another tiny flutter danced beneath your palm. "The mischievous one."

Ron blinked. "You can already tell them apart?"

"Of course I can."

"They're identical twins."

"That doesn't mean they have identical personalities."

Another tiny kick answered for you.

You laughed softly. "This one waits until I'm trying to sleep. The other prefers interrupting my calls with Gerard."

Harry considered that. "The second one sounds strategic."

"Definitely a Castillo," Ron said with a smirk.

Harry slowly turned his head. Ron calmly redirected his attention to the window.

Before Harry could answer, the iron gates opened, and the car began its final climb toward the house.

A second car followed close behind.

Through the rear window, you caught a glimpse of your mother and Vivienne sitting side by side, both unnaturally rigid.

Lately, the two women had been spending an astonishing amount of time together.

Ever since you stopped speaking properly to Scarlet... and Harry had grown just as distant from Vivienne.

That, however, was another story.

Probably several.

A third black car turned through the gates.

You frowned. "That's Mikey's car."

Harry glanced over his shoulder.

Ron followed his gaze. "Michael was called as well."

"Of course he was," Harry muttered.

Ron's expression hinted there was more to say. He wisely chose continued employment instead.

The first car rolled to a stop beneath the portico.

Harry was out before the driver had fully opened the door. He rounded the car and offered you his hand. As you stepped out, his other hand instinctively rose above your head, shielding you from the doorframe.

You smiled. "I'm not quite big enough to need help getting out of a car."

"You're carrying our babies." His voice softened. "The least I can do is take care of my queen."

You slipped your hand into his. "You're supervising every limb I own."

Once both your feet were on the gravel, he rested an arm around your waist instead of letting go. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss beneath your ear. "I'm very attached to them," he murmured.

You laughed. "All of them?"

"Every single one."

Behind you, Scarlet and Vivienne climbed out of the second car.

Scarlet looked as though she'd abandoned her reading glasses somewhere along the drive. Vivienne, meanwhile, had lost every trace of color.

Your mother's eyes found yours first. Hope flickered across her face, fragile enough to disappear almost immediately.

She took the smallest step forward. At the same moment, Vivienne looked toward Harry with nearly the same uncertainty.

You felt Harry's arm tighten around your waist. Your fingers quietly found his hand.

No words were exchanged. None were needed. Together, the two of you turned toward the house. Scarlet stopped. Vivienne did too. Ron watched the mothers...

...then their children.

He let out the quietest sigh.

The third car pulled beneath the portico. Sienna stepped out first. Mikey emerged from the opposite side. For one suspended moment...

Neither of them moved. Sienna's hair was slightly less polished than usual. Mikey's tie was missing. The top two buttons of his shirt hung open beneath his coat. He looked exactly like a man who hadn't expected to arrive at his grandmother's estate with Harry Castillo's younger sister.

Harry noticed. Slowly... His attention shifted from Sienna...

...to Mikey.

Mikey straightened immediately. Sienna lifted her chin. Even Scarlet and Vivienne forgot their panic long enough to look between them.

"We ran into each other," Mikey said.

"At lunch," Sienna added a little too quickly.

"She needed a ride."

Vivienne frowned. "Weren't you supposed to be at the gallery all afternoon?"

"I was."

"Then how exactly did you run into Michael at lunch?"

Sienna opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Mikey rescued her. "Manhattan becomes a very small place when two people are hungry."

Scarlet's eyes drifted over his missing tie...

...his open collar...

...and finally the restaurant bag still hanging from his hand.

"Apparently."

Ron glanced toward the company sedan assigned exclusively to Mikey.

"A fortunate coincidence."

Harry remained silent. Which, somehow, was much worse. You felt the exact moment suspicion began arranging itself inside his head.

Questions were coming.

Before the first one could leave his mouth, you caught the front of his coat and gave it a gentle tug.

He looked down.

You held his eyes for a beat.

Not now.

His brows drew together. Somehow...He knew you knew something. He also knew this wasn't the place to ask.

You pulled your coat tighter. "Can we go inside? I'm freezing."

Mikey disappeared from Harry's mind instantly.

His arm settled around your shoulders. "Come on."

Together, you headed for the front entrance.

The interrogation disappeared.

For now.

The front doors were already open.

Two members of staff stood inside the foyer, their expressions solemn. The housekeeper held her hands clasped tightly at her waist, while a young footman stared fixedly at the marble floor.

Something about them felt wrong. Not grief.

Performance.

The realization flickered through you and vanished before you could fully grasp it. Perhaps they had simply been instructed not to say anything. Perhaps your fear was making everything seem strange.

“Where is she?” Harry asked.

“Upstairs, sir,” the housekeeper replied softly. “Her nurse is waiting.”

Scarlet moved first.

Her heels struck sharply against the marble as she crossed the foyer, Vivienne close beside her. Sienna and Mikey followed without looking at each other.

Harry kept one hand at your back as you climbed the stairs.

Too slowly for everyone else. Too quickly for him.

His arm tightened every time you reached another step.

“Harry, ” you warned beneath your breath.

“I’m not carrying you.”

“You were thinking about it.”

A reluctant smile touched his mouth.

You would have answered, but Eloise’s nurse appeared at the top of the staircase. Her face was composed. Almost suspiciously composed. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

Harry stopped in front of her. “What happened?”

Vivienne stepped beside him. “I was gone for two days. She was perfectly well when I left.”

“She’s resting.”

“That isn’t an answer,” Harry said.

“She asked me not to discuss anything until everyone was present.”

Vivienne looked around sharply. “We are present.”

The nurse’s gaze passed over the group, pausing briefly on Mikey and Sienna before returning to Vivienne.

“Yes,” she said. “You certainly are.”

She turned and led all of you down the corridor. The house had gone unnaturally quiet. No distant clatter from the kitchen. No music from one of the sitting rooms.

Only footsteps and the steady ticking of the old clock near the staircase.

At Eloise’s bedroom door, the nurse paused. “Please try not to upset her.”

Vivienne pressed one hand to her chest. “Oh, God.”

The nurse opened the door. The curtains had been drawn halfway, leaving the room washed in muted silver light. Eloise lay beneath a pale cashmere blanket, her head resting against a mountain of pillows.

Her eyes were closed.

For the first time since the call, Harry released your hand.

He crossed the room in three strides. “Abuela?”

Eloise did not respond.

Vivienne hurried to the other side of the bed. “Mama?”

The rest of you gathered near the footboard. Scarlet reached blindly for your hand, and despite everything that had passed between you, you let her take it.

Sienna stood stiffly beside her. Mikey’s usual restless energy had disappeared completely. Eloise’s nurse closed the door behind all of you.

A long moment passed.

Then Eloise took a faint breath. “Is everyone here?”

Her voice was weak enough to make Harry bend closer. “Yes,” he said immediately. “We’re all here.”

“Scarlet?”

“I’m here,” Scarlet whispered.

“Vivienne?”

“Here, Mama.”

“Sienna?”

“Yes, Abuela.”

“Mikey?”

Mikey blinked. “Uh… yes, ma’am.”

Eloise’s eyes remained closed. “Mi reina?”

You stepped closer, Harry’s hand finding yours again. “I’m here.”

From somewhere near the door, Ron cleared his throat. “For the record, I’m here as well.”

Eloise remained motionless. “Ah, Ronald,” she breathed. “I remembered you.”

Ron gave a small nod.

Eloise released a long, tired sigh. Then her eyes opened.

Clear. Sharp. Entirely alert.

“Bueno,” she said.

Before anyone could react, she pushed herself upright against the pillows with surprising ease, pulled the cashmere blanket neatly over her lap, and held out one hand.

Her nurse placed her reading glasses into it.

Eloise slipped them on and looked around the room, visibly pleased by the collection of pale, frightened faces before her. She clapped her hands together once, bright and decisive. “Everyone is here. Perfect. Then we will not waste Dr. Adler’s time.”

Silence.

The door to the adjoining sitting room opened.

A woman in a navy suit stepped through, carrying a leather notebook and wearing the professionally neutral expression of someone who had already been warned about the family waiting for her.

“Good evening,” she said. “I’m Dr. Vanessa Adler.”

No one moved.

Harry stared at his grandmother. “Abuela.”

Eloise adjusted her glasses. “What?”

“Did you fake a medical emergency?”

Her mouth fell open in theatrical offense. “Fake? Ay, por favor (please). I did no such thing.”

“Your nurse said you’d had a difficult morning.”

“I did. My eggs were cold, the coffee was weak, and none of you have answered a direct question in nearly a month. It was a terrible morning.”

Scarlet made an outraged sound. “We thought you were dying!”

“You frightened all of us,” you added. “We came here expecting the worst.”

“I left an entire boardroom without saying a word,” Harry said.

Sienna folded her arms. “That was cruel, Abuela.”

Mikey whined. “I abandoned my dessert.” Everyone looked at him. “What?” he said. “Grief affects people differently.”

Eloise waved one dismissive hand at all of you.

“Dios mío, look at these faces. At my age, death is always somewhere nearby. I never said it had entered the house.”

Vivienne turned toward the nurse. “You allowed us to believe something had happened to her.”

“I said Mrs. Castillo wished to see the family urgently,” the nurse replied calmly. “That was accurate.”

“You trapped us,” Sienna said.

Eloise looked at her over the rim of her glasses. “Had I said, ‘Come to Rhinebeck, niños, there is a therapist waiting to discuss your feelings,’ would you have come?” Sienna opened her mouth. Nothing emerged. “Exactly,” Eloise said. “Do not argue when you know I am right. It gives me a headache.”

Mikey looked between Eloise and Dr. Adler. “You used mortality as a scheduling tool.”

“And you arrived on time for the first time since I met you.”

Mikey considered that. “That’s incredibly manipulative.” Then a slow, appreciative grin appeared on his face. “I like it.”

You stepped closer to the bed. “Eloise, I’m five months pregnant with twins. You cannot summon me by implying that you may be dying. There are currently three heartbeats inside this body, and you frightened all of them.”

Eloise reached for your hand. “Come here, mi reina.”

You gave her a suspicious look but allowed her to take it.

She squeezed your fingers between both of hers, her expression softening. “I am sorry I frightened you, mi amor.”

“You don’t look very sorry.”

“No, because I am not sorry that it worked.”

“Eloise.”

“Ay, let me finish.” She patted your hand. “I would not have done any of this if all of you had not become completely impossible.”

A chorus of protests began.

Eloise lifted one finger. “¡Basta! (enough!)” The room fell silent. “At our last family dinner, Scarlet and mi reina spoke exclusively through the salt and pepper.”

You glanced toward your mother. Scarlet looked away with great dignity.

“Harry and Vivienne exchanged six words all evening,” Eloise continued. “Four of them concerned the rain.”

Vivienne folded her arms. Harry said nothing, which did very little to help his case.

“And now Vivienne is spending every free hour with Scarlet. Just like schoolgirls. Their son and daughter are sulking in separate corners, so naturally the mothers have abandoned them to whisper together.”

Scarlet’s expression became carefully blank.

Vivienne lifted her chin. “We are allowed to enjoy one another’s company.”

“Sí, of course.” Eloise looked between them over the rim of her glasses. “And I am supposed to believe the two of you have no secrets while you disappear for lunches, lower your voices when I enter a room, and suddenly stop speaking whenever one of your children appears.”

Neither woman answered.

Eloise gave a satisfied nod.

“You may fool your children. You may fool one another. But you will not fool this old woman. Whatever you are hiding, whatever ridiculous problem has driven you into one another’s arms, you will solve it.”

Scarlet’s expression remained perfectly composed.

Which, in your experience, generally meant Eloise was right. Sienna lowered her head, hiding a smile. Then Eloise turned toward her.

“And you.”

Sienna blinked. “What about me?”

Eloise narrowed her eyes. “You have been happy.”

Sienna stared at her. “I’m sorry?”

“Too happy,” Eloise said. “Smiling at your telephone. Disappearing for lunch. Wearing perfume in the afternoon.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Sí, sí. And I am a foolish old woman who has never seen a girl hide a man.”

Mikey coughed. Eloise’s head turned toward him immediately.

“And there he is.”

Mikey straightened. “Why am I suddenly involved?”

Eloise looked from him to Sienna and back again.

“I may be eighty-six, cariño, but when it comes to romance, deception, and badly concealed attraction, my mind is still sharper than most of yours.”

Sienna abruptly found the carpet fascinating. Mikey looked toward the window. “Come on, Eloise,” he said with an unconvincing laugh. “This is becoming wildly speculative.”

“Mm-hm.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly does that mean?”

Eloise waved one hand dismissively. “Nothing you need to worry about yet.”

“Abuela.”

“Do not ‘Abuela’ me. If there is something to know, I will know it before you do.”

From near the door, Ron murmured, “At least we now know where the Castillos inherited their observational skills.”

Eloise released your hand and settled back against her pillows, looking around at the family with the weary affection of a woman who had raised too many stubborn people and somehow acquired several more.

“So I have decided that all of you need therapy.”

“We do not all need therapy,” Vivienne said.

“Some people need boundaries,” you murmured.

Scarlet looked at you. “Some people need to communicate instead of freezing out their mothers.”

“Some people need to stop investigating other people’s private lives,” Vivienne added.

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Some people need better judgment regarding men.”

“Ay, Dios mío.” Eloise struck the mattress lightly with her palm. “Listen to yourselves. You sound like children arguing over one toy.” No one answered. “As the eldest person in this family, I am asking for one afternoon without secrets, sulking, investigators, secret lunches, mysterious interviews, and whatever else you are all doing behind closed doors.”

She pointed toward Dr. Adler.

“You will speak to this nice woman. You will tell her the truth. Not the elegant version, not the corporate version, and not the version where you are all innocent little angels. You will solve your problems, or at the very least, you will learn to argue more quietly. I would like to enjoy the rest of my life.”

Dr. Adler cleared her throat and stepped forward.

“My plan is to begin with a few brief private conversations. Afterward, we’ll meet together to discuss the patterns affecting the family as a whole.” She glanced around at the collection of reluctant faces.

“Shall we begin?”

The private sitting room was smaller than Eloise's bedroom, warmer too, with tall windows overlooking the gardens and a low fire crackling beneath the marble mantel. A carafe of water sat on the table beside a box of tissues with the quiet menace of something fully expecting to be needed.

Dr. Adler was already seated in one of the armchairs, her notebook resting open across her lap. She gestured toward the sofa opposite. "Please. Make yourself comfortable."

You lowered yourself carefully onto the cushions, one hand supporting the underside of your stomach. "Comfortable stopped being an available position about three weeks ago."

A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Would another cushion help?"

"If you bring me another cushion, Harry will somehow sense it through the wall and order six more." That earned a soft laugh. You adjusted your skirt and glanced toward the closed door. "I still can't believe Eloise actually did that."

"I'm observing that her method was effective," Dr. Adler replied. "Everyone she asked to come arrived."

"Because we thought she was dying."

"Which says something rather lovely about how much she means to all of you."

You narrowed your eyes. "That sounds suspiciously like therapeutic manipulation."

"It sounds like an observation."

"You're going to fit into this family beautifully."

She smiled, letting the joke pass. Instead, her attention drifted briefly—not intrusively—to the curve of your stomach. "Before we discuss your family… how are you feeling? Is everything going well with the pregnancy?"

You rested your palm over the place where one of the babies had been moving throughout the drive. "I'm about as well as anyone five months pregnant with twins can be."

"Tired?"

"Constantly."

"Any pain today?"

"No. Just pressure, backache, occasional insomnia… and two tiny people with very strong opinions about where my internal organs should be."

She nodded. "And emotionally?"

You looked at her. "That feels like a much more expensive question."

"It usually is."

A comfortable silence settled between you.

Then she asked, "Where would you like to begin?"

You gave her a knowing look. "You already know where Eloise wants us to begin."

"She gave me a broad outline."

"And?"

"I'd rather hear your version."

You sighed. "Of course she did." Another quiet pause. "If we're actually doing this…" You drew a slow breath. "Everything started after I moved into Harry's house."

At the time, you had been barely three months pregnant. The babies were still easy enough to hide beneath tailored coats and structured dresses. The nausea wasn't. Neither was the exhaustion. But Queen Financial had only just begun recovering, and the last thing you wanted was for anyone walking into a boardroom to mistake pregnancy for weakness. For weeks, you carried ginger tea in coffee cups and smiled through mornings when simply remaining upright felt like an act of corporate defiance.

"And your mother knew?"

"Everything."

"Was she supportive?"

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "I thought she was."

When you told Scarlet, she'd cried. She'd held your face, kissed your forehead, and told you that after everything you'd survived, you deserved something beautiful. Then, less than twenty-four hours later…

…the conversation became strategy.

"Her first concern wasn't my health. It was the company."

Dr. Adler remained silent.

"Queen Financial was still fragile. Investors were watching everything I did. And she believed a public pregnancy would overshadow the recovery. She thought it would become the only thing people saw."

Scarlet's voice still echoed in your memory.

You cannot announce this yet, darling. Not until the company is stronger.

At first, you'd agreed. It seemed reasonable. Temporary. You'd wait until refinancing was complete. Then the board transition. Then quarterly earnings. There was always another milestone. Another reason to wait.

"How did that make you feel?"

You looked down at your hands. "Like I wasn't carrying two babies. Like I was carrying a liability."

Dr. Adler let the silence sit. "And the wedding?"

You leaned back carefully. "That was worse."

Scarlet had been thrilled when you and Harry found your way back to one another. She'd told you pride wasn't a substitute for love. That you'd regret letting fear choose your future. But once the ring was on your finger…

…and the pregnancy could no longer be hidden…

Everything came with conditions.

You cannot marry him while you're visibly pregnant.

"I honestly thought I'd misheard her."

"What was her reasoning?"

"That Manhattan would turn it into a circus."

Another memory surfaced.

They'll say Harry rescued you, rescued your company, got you pregnant, and rushed you down the aisle before anyone could ask questions.

"None of that was true."

"No," Dr. Adler said quietly. "It wasn't."

You gave a faint smile. "But she wasn't wrong about the headlines."

The smile faded. "She wanted us to wait until after the girls were born."

Twenty minutes later, Scarlet occupied the same sofa.

Her posture was immaculate, one elegant leg crossed over the other. Even now, she looked more like a woman preparing for a board meeting than a therapy session. Dr. Adler closed her notebook from the previous conversation and opened it to a fresh page.

"Tell me what changed from your perspective."

Scarlet folded her hands neatly in her lap. "She finally looked happy."

Dr. Adler waited.

"I had watched my daughter spend years carrying responsibilities that should never have belonged to her. Then she found her way back to Harry. She was expecting twins. She had a future." A faint smile touched Scarlet's lips. "I wanted to protect it."

"And what did protecting it look like to you?"

"Managing the circumstances around it."

"You mean the company."

"Among other things."

Scarlet glanced toward the window before continuing. "Queen Financial had only just survived the worst crisis in its history. Investors were watching everything. I believed one public pregnancy would eclipse everything she had accomplished."

"And the wedding?"

Scarlet didn't hesitate. "I wanted that to belong to them."

Dr. Adler tilted her head slightly. "Ms. Queen remembers it differently."

"I'm aware."

Scarlet let out a slow breath. "I told her she wasn't a spectacle. My concern wasn't the marriage. It was how the world would rewrite it. I wanted her achievements to remain her own."

Silence lingered for a moment. Then Dr. Adler asked quietly, "And what do you think Queen heard?"

Scarlet's brow furrowed.

"I…"

She stopped.

Dr. Adler didn't rescue her. Instead, she simply waited. Scarlet's shoulders lowered almost imperceptibly. "…That I cared more about appearances than about her."

Another pause. "Was she wrong?"

Scarlet didn't answer immediately. Finally… "No." She looked toward the floor. "Not entirely."

Dr. Adler turned back to you. “What happened after that conversation?”

"I stopped telling her things."

Scarlet's response came without hesitation.

"She punished me."

"I set a boundary."

"She excluded me from the pregnancy."

"She knew the babies were healthy."

"She wouldn't let me attend the next scan."

"She tried to relocate my obstetrician to Rhinebeck."

"I suggested an alternative arrangement."

"She had an examination room prepared in the house."

"It was discreet."

"It had a chandelier."

"The chandelier was already there."

Dr. Adler paused.

"And the flowers?"

Scarlet's eyes narrowed slightly. "Medical rooms are unnecessarily bleak."

Back in your session, you looked toward the ceiling. "Do you see what I'm dealing with?"

"I'm beginning to," Dr. Adler admitted.

"The second baby had already been identified as a girl," you continued. "The other refused to cooperate."

Despite yourself, a smile appeared.

"A few days ago… we finally found out."

Dr. Adler smiled back.

"And?"

"Another girl."

The words still warmed something inside you.

Two daughters.

Two tiny heartbeats.

Two entirely different futures already unfolding.

"And you haven't told your mother."

"No."

"Why?"

You looked down at your engagement ring before answering.

"Because I wanted one thing to belong to Harry and me before it became a theme, a luncheon, a guest list… and twelve thousand flowers."

That earned the smallest laugh.

Then Dr. Adler grew thoughtful.

"So withholding that information became a boundary."

"It did."

"And it remained one?"

"For a while."

"And after that?"

You hesitated.

"…Maybe it stopped being only a boundary."

"A little?"

You sighed.

"Moderately."

One corner of Dr. Adler's mouth lifted.

"Elegantly punitive."

Despite yourself…

You laughed.

"So Harry wasn't exaggerating."

"Oh?"

"He told me your sense of humor usually appears about twenty minutes after your honesty."

You smiled despite yourself.

"He's annoyingly perceptive."

"I've noticed."

Dr. Adler closed the notebook.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Finally, she said,

"I'd like to ask you one last question."

You nodded.

"When Scarlet said she was protecting you…"

"…did any part of you believe her?"

Silence. A long one. Eventually…

"Yes."

"And yet?"

"I didn't need protecting."

"You needed trusting."

Your voice had become barely more than a whisper. "I needed her to trust that I could live my own life."

Dr. Adler nodded once. "I think that's a very important distinction."

She stood, gathering her notebook. "I won't ask you to forgive her today." You looked up. "I don't think either of you is ready for that. But I do think you're both grieving the same relationship."

You frowned. "The same relationship?"

"The one each of you thought you had. And that's usually where healing begins."

By the time Harry took your place on the sofa, Dr. Adler had already filled several pages. She turned to a fresh one and poised her pen above it. “Mr. Castillo. Tell me about your mother.”

Harry settled back, resting one ankle over his knee. “My mother is seeing a man.”

Twenty minutes later, Vivienne answered the same question with visible irritation. “I had dinner with a perfectly respectable gentleman.”

“Four dinners,” Harry said in his own session.

“Three dinners and one lunch.”

“Two lunches.”

Vivienne sighed and looked toward the ceiling. “My son apparently keeps a ledger.”

“There was also a weekend in Connecticut.”

“There were twelve bedrooms in that house,” Vivienne protested.

“That doesn’t make the weekend less concerning.”

“It makes it considerably less intimate.”

“He sent her roses.”

“He is French.”

Harry looked directly at Dr. Adler. “That is not a defense.”

Dr. Adler rested the tip of her pen against the page. “Mr. Castillo, your mother is an autonomous adult.”

“I’m aware.”

“You had the man investigated.”

“Autonomy does not eliminate due diligence.”

"And did your mother ask for your protection?"

"No."

"Then why did you decide she needed it? What are you afraid will happen?"

“He could take advantage of her.”

“Financially?”

“Financially, socially or emotionally. Those things often overlap.”

“And did your mother ask for your protection?”

“No.”

“Then why did you decide she needed it?”

Harry’s fingers moved once against the arm of the sofa. “People rarely ask before something goes wrong.”

“That sounds less like an answer about this man and more like an answer about someone else.”

His eyes lifted to hers. “My father left.”

The words were flat and controlled. Dr. Adler did not immediately begin writing again.

“Your parents divorced?”

“No.”

She paused. “Your mother is still legally married to him?”

“Yes.”

“And yet he has not been part of her life for years.”

“No.”

Harry looked toward the window. “My mother never received an ending. He simply left her with the consequences.”

“And your grandmother?”

Harry’s expression tightened. “She doesn’t remember him.”

“Her own son?”

“Not anymore. We don’t remind her. The last time her condition worsened, the doctors told us to avoid anything that could trigger another episode.”

Dr. Adler regarded him quietly. “So your father’s absence is something the entire family is required to live around, but never fully discuss.”

“That isn’t why we’re here.”

“Perhaps not. But it may explain why another man entering your mother’s life feels less simple to you than it does to her.”

When Dr. Adler later asked Vivienne about Harry’s behavior after Eduardo left, her irritation softened. “He became efficient.”

“That sounds like an unusual response to grief.”

“It was Harry’s response. He dealt with the lawyers, the accounts and every practical problem Eduardo left behind. Sienna was nineteen and furious. Harry called her constantly until she threatened to block him.”

“And you?”

“I was still married to a man who had chosen not to be my husband.”

Vivienne looked down at her hands.

“Harry decided that if Eduardo had abandoned his responsibilities, he would assume all of them.”

“Did you ask him to?”

“No. Harry has never waited to be asked.”

Back in his own session, Dr. Adler said, “Has this new man given you any reason to believe he intends to hurt her?”

“Not yet.”

“So you’re preparing for a betrayal that has not occurred.”

“I’m being cautious.”

Dr. Adler lowered her pen. “Your mother’s marriage never formally ended, your father’s absence cannot be openly discussed around your grandmother, and you have spent years managing the consequences. It makes sense that you want this new relationship verified before you allow yourself to trust it.”

“Allow myself?”

“Yes. Because this is not only about whether your mother trusts him.”

Harry said nothing.

“It’s also about whether you can tolerate her beginning a new life when the old one was never properly closed.”

In Vivienne’s session, Dr. Adler asked, “Does being legally married to Eduardo affect how you feel about seeing someone else?”

Vivienne was silent for a moment. “Sometimes.”

“Guilt?”

“Not toward Eduardo.” Her answer came sharply. “He surrendered any right to ask for loyalty when he left.”

“Then what?”

Vivienne exhaled. “The strangeness of it. Beginning something new when part of my life is still sitting unfinished in a locked room.”

“And Harry knows that.”

“Harry knows everything.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “That is both his best quality and his most exhausting one.”

Later, when Dr. Adler brought them into the room together, Harry sat at one end of the sofa and Vivienne chose the other.

“Harry,” Dr. Adler began, “your mother understands that your actions come from love.”

“And arrogance,” Vivienne added.

“And arrogance,” Dr. Adler allowed. “But she is not asking you to erase the risk. She is asking you to trust her to decide whether it is worth taking.”

Harry looked at his mother. “Does he know you’re still legally married?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know why?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know about Abuela?”

“Only what he needs to know.”

“Has he asked for money?”

“No.”

“Professional introductions?”

“No.”

“Access to the family?”

“No.”

“Has he—”

“Harry.”

He stopped.

Vivienne’s voice softened. “I’m not replacing your father. I’m trying to stop living as though the life he abandoned is the only one I’m allowed to have.”

That silenced him.

After a moment, Harry nodded once. “If something feels wrong, you’ll tell me.”

“Yes.”

“Immediately?”

“Within a reasonable period.”

“Define reasonable.”

Dr. Adler lifted one hand. “No negotiations.”

Harry looked dissatisfied but relented. “Fine.”

“And you will not investigate him further,” Vivienne said.

“I won’t authorize any new investigation.”

“That isn’t the same sentence.”

“It’s the sentence I’m offering.”

“Harry.”

He sighed. “I will not investigate him further.”

“Or ask Ron.”

His silence lasted half a second too long.

Dr. Adler looked at him.  “Or Ron,” he added.

Vivienne’s shoulders eased. She reached over and touched his cheek. “My poor baby boy.”

Harry leaned away. “Mama.”

“You’ve always been so devoted to me.”

“I am forty-six years old.”

“And still my baby.” Vivienne smiled. “When you stop treating me like a helpless abandoned wife, I’ll stop treating you like a worried little boy.”

Harry looked toward Dr. Adler. “Is this therapeutically appropriate?”

She made one final note. “It appears to be working.”

Vivienne patted his cheek again. “My baby boy.”

Harry closed his eyes. “This was a mistake.”

Dr. Adler turned to a fresh page.

Across from her, Mikey settled into the armchair as though he had been waiting his entire life for an audience legally required to listen to him.

"Before we start," he said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial smile, "everything we say in here stays in here, right? I can tell you anything?"

"Within the boundaries I explained earlier, yes."

She regarded him over the top of her notebook.

"Although I was under the impression we would be discussing your problem."

"I don't have a problem."

"Are you certain? You and Miss Castillo appear to be concealing something from your families."

His smile faltered.

"Did Eloise tell you that?"

"She shared several suspicions."

"That woman missed her calling."

"What was her calling?"

"International espionage." He leaned back with a sigh. "Fine. It was a problem. Mostly."

Dr. Adler waited.

"I realized I liked Sienna." Another pause. "I then tried several strategies that failed spectacularly." She waited again. "And eventually everything worked because of my little sister."

That finally earned a smile. "You asked your sister for advice?"

"I did."

He leaned forward again, lowering his voice. "My little sister is the smartest woman I know. Smarter than my mother. If that sentence leaves this room, I'll deny it under oath."

The corner of Dr. Adler’s mouth curved. “And you asked your sister for advice about Sienna?”

“I did. She told me to stop trying so hard and just be myself.” He leaned back, satisfied. “She was right.”

Twenty minutes later, Sienna occupied the same chair. She looked considerably less pleased by Queen's advice. "I'd never thought of Mikey that way before," she admitted.

"He was funny. Different." A small smile appeared. "But whatever this is… it only started last week."

"What changed?"

"He came to an auction I'd curated." A pause. "Everything went downhill after that."

One Week Earlier

The Belcourt Auction House, Manhattan

The auction room was exactly what wealthy New Yorkers liked to imagine culture looked like—polished wood, quiet lighting, priceless objects behind glass, and enough restrained elegance to justify spending absurd amounts of money.

Mikey wandered through it wearing a burgundy velvet jacket, cropped black trousers, martini-print cashmere socks, tinted glasses, and the cream trilby Sienna would later describe as a personal attack against art.

A numbered paddle rested in one hand.

An open packet of gummy bears occupied the other.

He stopped in front of an abstract painting made up of three black lines.

A member of staff approached.

"A striking piece, isn't it, sir?"

Mikey tilted his head.

"Is it finished?"

"…Yes, sir."

"Good for him."

Then he saw Sienna.

She stood near the front beside the auctioneer, dressed in a sharply tailored dark suit that somehow made everyone around her look underprepared.

His grin appeared before he could stop it.

He had come for her. Entirely for her. Mostly for her. He lifted the paddle and waved. Sienna noticed immediately.

Her expression passed through surprise…

…disbelief…

…suspicion…

…and something softer that disappeared almost as quickly as it arrived.

She gave him the smallest wave in return. Unfortunately… So did the auctioneer.

Genevieve Crane smiled from behind the podium.

Mikey, meanwhile, looked at her with absolutely no recognition. An unfortunate situation… considering she remembered him perfectly.

"Two hundred and eighty thousand from bidder seventy-four."

Mikey blinked.

"What?"

The auctioneer rested one hand beside the gavel.

"Two hundred and ninety thousand on the telephone."

Mikey frowned.

"No, I was waving to—"

"Three hundred thousand from bidder seventy-four."

A ripple spread through the room.

Across the aisle, Sienna's eyes widened.

She shook her head frantically.

Mikey pointed at her.

"No. Her. I was waving at her."

"Three hundred and twenty thousand."

"What? No."

The auctioneer's smile never wavered.

"Three hundred and forty?"

Mikey threw both hands into the air.

"Stop looking at my hands!"

"Three hundred and forty thousand from bidder seventy-four."

Sienna mouthed,

Put. The paddle. Down. You idiot.

Mikey stared at the paddle as though it had betrayed him personally.

He shoved it inside his jacket.

The auctioneer waited.

The room fell silent.

"Three hundred and forty thousand, once."

Mikey cautiously raised one finger.

"Can I ask a question?"

"Three hundred and sixty thousand."

"Oh, come on."

"Three hundred and sixty thousand, once."

Sienna covered her face.

"Twice."

Mikey looked at her helplessly.

The gavel struck.

"Sold."

Polite applause echoed through the room.

Mikey remained frozen. "What did I buy?"

The gentleman beside him closed his catalogue. "A seventeenth-century Venetian cristallo marriage goblet."

Mikey stared at the stage.

"Singular?"

"Yes."

"For three hundred and sixty thousand dollars?"

"Plus buyer's premium."

He closed his eyes.

"…I don't know what that means."

The moment the auction ended, Mikey headed straight for the auctioneer.

"Excuse me."

She looked up pleasantly.

"Yes?"

"There has been a terrible misunderstanding."

"Has there?"

"I was waving."

"You raised your paddle."

"To say hello."

"Several times."

"Because you kept selling me things."

"I sold you one thing."

"For the price of an apartment."

She smiled.

"You should probably familiarize yourself with auction procedure, Mr. Queen."

A beat.

"Although I suppose rules have never been your strength."

Mikey frowned.

"…Do we know each other?"

Sienna stopped walking. The auctioneer laughed once. "Typical Mikey."

Recognition finally dawned. "…Genevieve?"

Her smile vanished. "Oh. So you do remember."

"Fuck."

"Perhaps the rules of an auction slipped your mind…

the same way the woman you left alone in a hotel suite apparently did."

Sienna quietly turned away and began speaking to another member of staff.

"Hey."

Mikey hurried after her.

"That was six years ago."

"I was a different person."

She didn't even look at him.

Behind them…

Genevieve smiled.

Mikey slowly turned back toward her. "You vindictive witch."

"You just ruined everything."

Two attendants approached carrying the goblet on a velvet tray.

It was breathtaking. Centuries old. Delicate. Beautiful.

Mikey looked at it with absolutely no emotional attachment.

"Congratulations, Mr. Queen."

"Shall we process the purchase through the Queen Foundation account?"

Mikey closed his eyes. "…Of course it's the foundation account."

He looked at the goblet. "…Well. I bought it. So it's mine."

He reached into his coat… removed the packet of gummy bears… and tipped them directly into the three-hundred-year-old Venetian goblet.

Silence. Genevieve stared. "That object has survived three centuries."

"And now it has purpose."

The administrator held the tablet toward Mikey again. As he prepared to sign, Genevieve leaned closer.

“Try not to forget this one by morning, Mr. Queen. It cost considerably more than the women you leave behind.”

Mikey’s hand stopped above the screen.

He looked at her for a moment, then lowered the stylus. “One second.”

He took out his phone and started a video call. "You asked for it."

The screen rang twice before you appeared. You were seated somewhere bright in a silk blouse, one hand resting beneath the pronounced curve of your stomach. Yuliana stood beside you with a tray of tea.

“Mikey.”

“Hey, baby sister. You look beautiful. Radiant. Glowing.”

“What did you do?”

“That’s hurtful. You don’t even know why I’m calling.”

“You only call me ‘baby sister’ when money, police, or bodily injury are involved.”

“Technically, none of those.”

Dr. Adler interrupted the story. “You called Ms. Queen—your sister?”

Mikey nodded. “She was the only person who could get me out of it.”

“And she did?”

A proud grin spread across his face. “Without even setting foot in the building.”

Mikey turned the phone toward Genevieve. "Someone would like a word."

Genevieve took one look at the screen. "…Queen." Her face fell. "Shit."

Mikey held the phone closer anyway.

The change in your face was almost imperceptible. Your posture remained relaxed and your voice gentle, but every trace of warmth disappeared.

“Genevieve, darling. Listen carefully, because I am five months pregnant with identical twins, I slept for approximately three hours, one of them has mistaken my ribs for a rehearsal studio, and the other appears to be conducting experiments on my bladder. What little patience I have left is reserved for members of my immediate family.”

Yuliana nodded solemnly behind the phone.

Genevieve raised her chin. “Your brother placed a valid bid. He should know the rules.”

“My brother should know many things—auction procedure, women’s names, and when to stop wearing that hat among them. His intellectual limitations are not the matter presently under review.”

Mikey looked offended.

You continued without acknowledging him. “The auction was recorded. Your staff saw him attempting to correct the bid. Half the room watched you accelerate the increments while addressing a registered bidder with whom you have an undisclosed personal history.”

Genevieve’s expression faltered. “That has nothing to do with—”

“It has everything to do with professional conduct. Do not mistake my brother’s stupidity for an opportunity.”

“Hey, sister-” Mikey protested.

You ignored him.

“Michael may be an idiot, but he is our idiot. You used a charity auction to settle a six-year-old grievance with a man who did not even remember you well enough to understand that he was being punished.”

Genevieve’s face flushed.

You studied her for another second. “Also, whatever you’ve been earning by selling antiques to harmless fools appears to have been reinvested in self-tanner. That was an unfortunate decision. The shade is less Saint-Tropez and more decorative terracotta.” Yuliana tilted her head, considered Genevieve on the screen, and nodded again. “And is that Valentino from four seasons ago?” you continued. “Genevieve, honestly. If you intend to humiliate my family in public, at least don’t do it dressed like an archived press sample.”

Sienna’s eyebrows rose.

Mikey beamed at the phone as though you had complimented him personally.

“That is insulting,” Genevieve said.

“No. It is embarrassing. There is a difference.”

Your hand moved over your stomach as one of the babies shifted. “Here is what happens next. You void the sale, apologize to Mr. Queen for the misunderstanding, and return the goblet to its case before he attempts to serve breakfast cereal in it.”

Mikey glanced at the gummy bears. “I wouldn’t use milk.” You gave him a look. He closed his mouth.

Genevieve folded her arms. “And if Belcourt refuses?”

Your smile appeared—small, beautiful, and lethal. “Then the Queen Foundation will dispute the transaction, suspend its annual patronage, and request a formal ethics review into why a senior auctioneer accepted repeated accidental gestures as bids from a former sexual partner without disclosing the conflict.” Genevieve’s lips parted.

“I am currently carrying the future beneficiaries of both the Queen and Castillo families and, regrettably, I am one of the most discussed women in Manhattan. If I say this was personal retaliation disguised as a charitable transaction, by breakfast every board member, donor, and consignor attached to Belcourt will know exactly which phrase to repeat.”

Silence fell around the podium.

Mikey slowly selected another gummy bear.

You tilted your head. “Have I explained the available options clearly?”

Genevieve swallowed. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Ms. Queen.”

“Wonderful. I knew we would understand one another.” Your smile vanished as smoothly as it had appeared. “Yuliana, end the call before she mistakes any more of my attention for social relevance.”

“I love you, baby sister,” Mikey called quickly. “Take care of my nieces.”

“Try taking care of your own reputation for the rest of the day.”

The screen went dark.

Genevieve turned toward the administrator. “Void lot forty-seven.”

The attendants took the goblet from Mikey. Before surrendering it, he scooped the gummy bears out with one hand and dropped them into his mouth.

From across the room, Sienna laughed.

She finished her conversation and walked toward him, glancing once at Genevieve and the retreating attendants. “Let me guess. Queen fixed it?”

“Yes.” Mikey removed his tinted glasses. “Sienna, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.”

“For putting gummy bears in a three-hundred-year-old Venetian goblet?”

“No. Well, partially.” He glanced down at the paddle still protruding from his jacket. “I came to an auction you curated because I wanted to support you, and somehow I made the entire thing about me.”

“That does seem to happen around you.”

“I know.” His confidence disappeared for the first time that afternoon. “But I came because of you. I care about you. More than a little, actually. And when I’m around you, my hands apparently stop communicating with my brain, and then I forget what I meant to say, and—”

Sienna began to laugh again.

Mikey frowned. “This feels like a vulnerable moment.”

“You really are unlike anyone I’ve ever met, Mikey.” She shook her head. “I told you to put the paddle down, and instead you hid it inside your jacket and kept raising your fingers.”

“I panicked.”

“That was obvious.”

“Does the fact that you’re laughing mean you forgive me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What if I buy you dinner?”

Sienna looked at him for a moment. “One dinner.”

By the time everyone returned to the sitting room, the April light beyond the tall windows had begun to fade, softening the edges of Rhinebeck into shades of blue and gold.

Without anyone consciously deciding it, everyone drifted back to the same places.

You settled beside Harry. His hand found yours immediately, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. He didn't ask how your session had gone. Somehow, the gesture promised he would—later, when the answer belonged only to the two of you.

Across from you, Scarlet sat with the same composed posture she always carried into difficult conversations. This time, however, when your eyes met, neither of you looked away.

Beside her, Vivienne crossed one elegant leg over the other. She still looked faintly offended by several events of the afternoon, but no longer refused to acknowledge Harry's existence.

Harry gave her the smallest nod.

It wasn't quite an apology. It wasn't forgiveness. But it was a beginning.

Sienna chose the armchair nearest the fireplace.

Mikey sat on its broad arm without asking.

She looked up at him and, for the first time all day, didn't tell him to move.

Dr. Adler closed her notebook.

"I've heard four very different stories today," she began. "But they've all led me to the same conclusion."

The room grew quiet. "When this family is frightened, none of you asks for control." She looked around the room. "You simply take it." Harry lowered his eyes. Scarlet folded her hands. Vivienne's expression softened almost imperceptibly. Mikey suddenly found the pattern in the rug fascinating. "You investigate." She looked at Harry. "You plan." Scarlet. "You withhold." Your turn. "And sometimes…" her gaze shifted toward Mikey and Sienna, "…you attempt to solve problems before anyone has admitted they're problems."

Mikey slowly raised a finger.

"I feel mildly targeted."

"You should."

A ripple of laughter moved through the room. Even Harry smiled.

Dr. Adler waited until the laughter faded.

"Every one of you described those choices as protection."

She paused. "The person on the receiving end experienced them as control."

Silence settled once more. "I'd like each of you to try something different."

No one spoke. "The next time you're frightened for someone you love… ask them what they need before deciding for them."

Nobody argued.

For this family…

…that alone felt like remarkable progress.

The door opened.

Eloise stepped inside, carrying her cane less as a walking aid and more as a symbol of authority.

She surveyed the room carefully.

No one appeared to be crying.

No one appeared ready to disown anyone.

She gave a satisfied nod.

"Bueno." She tapped the floor once with her cane. "Enough emotional growth for one afternoon." A beat. "Dinner is ready."

"And if any of you start another family crisis before the soup…"

"…I'll schedule a second therapist."

Mikey stood immediately. "What kind of soup?"

"The kind you'll eat."

"That still doesn't narrow it down."

Sienna quietly caught the back of his jacket before he could continue and steered him toward the hallway.

Scarlet and Vivienne followed together, their conversation noticeably quieter than it had been only an hour earlier.

Harry rose beside you, offering his hand.

Once you were standing securely, his palm settled against the small of your back.

"Ready?"

You nodded. "Starving."

"Good."

"I intend to steal at least half your dessert."

"You always do."

"I know."

Together, you followed the others into the corridor. Within moments the sitting room fell silent. Almost.

Dr. Adler slipped her notebook into her leather bag and reached for her coat. A discreet knock interrupted her. The door opened just enough for Ron to step inside before quietly closing it again.

He remained standing. "May I ask you something?"

Dr. Adler smiled faintly. "Is this about the family?"

"No."

"Good."

She gestured toward the empty sofa. "Then it's probably about you."

"I'd prefer not to turn this into a session. If a man has never had a serious relationship but his current girlfriend wishes to get married and he doesn't believe he's ready…" He adjusted his cuff. "…there also happens to be a childhood friend."

Dr. Adler considered him for a moment. "Does your girlfriend know you're emotionally preoccupied with someone else?"

"No."

"Then you shouldn't agree to marry her."

"And the childhood friend?"

"Do you want a future with her or is she simply a safe possibility that allows you to postpone making a difficult decision?"

Ron frowned. "How does one determine that?"

"By telling both women the truth."

He looked genuinely disappointed. "That sounds unnecessarily human."

From somewhere down the corridor came Eloise's unmistakable voice.

"¡Ronald! Harry is already answering emails at the dinner table!"

Ron reached for the doorknob. "This conversation never happened." "¡Ronald!"

"I'm coming, Mrs. Castillo."

The door closed behind him.

April 23rd

A week after Rhinebeck, Queen Financial had settled into a rhythm that was not quite normal, but no longer felt like an emergency. Gerard called every morning with whatever developments he believed required your attention. Dana sent carefully filtered briefings twice a day, having apparently decided anything capable of raising your blood pressure required written authorization before reaching you. Emily and Chloe phoned almost daily, supposedly to discuss work and inevitably ending with questions about the twins, your appetite, and whether Harry had yet attempted to place you under medically supervised house arrest. He hadn't. Technically. By Friday evening, your final call with Gerard had lasted twelve minutes longer than promised. “The revised projections are in your inbox,” he said through the speaker. “You don’t need to look at them tonight.” “You sent them to me tonight.” “I sent them so you would know they exist.” “And now that I know they exist, you expect me not to open them?” “Yes.” “That’s an unreasonable understanding of my personality.” From the other end of the sofa, Harry calmly reached over and removed the phone from your hand. “We’re done,” he said. Gerard did not hesitate. “Thank you, Harry.” “You’re both becoming intolerable,” you informed them. “Monday morning,” Gerard replied. “Good night, Ms. Queen.” The call ended before you could object. Harry placed your phone facedown on the coffee table, well beyond your immediate reach. You looked at him. He looked back. “That was hostile.” “That was twelve minutes past your own deadline.” “I was receiving information about my company.” “You were reorganizing the executive committee from the sofa.” “They needed reorganizing.” “They’ll still need it on Monday.” You narrowed your eyes. Harry had already picked up the television remote. “No more work tonight.” “What are we doing instead?” “Watching a movie.” He moved closer and began scrolling. “No.” You glanced at the screen. “What’s wrong with that one?” “Home invasion.” “It’s listed as a romantic comedy.” “I checked the parents’ guide.” “You checked the parents’ guide?” “I’m being thorough.” You laughed. “Harry.” He ignored you and continued scrolling. Finally he stopped. “This one.” You looked at him suspiciously. “Have you already researched it?” “IMDb. Two reviews. Parents’ guide.” “…Of course you did.” The poster showed two people standing beneath strings of lights beside the sea. “A woman returns to the coastal town where she grew up,” Harry read. “She meets a man renovating an old hotel.” You considered it. Harry nodded once. “No violence. No blood. No psychological torment.” “Finally.” He pressed play. As the opening credits rolled, he stood. “Where are you going?” “Popcorn.” “With actual salt?” He gave you a look. “I’ll be right back.” You settled deeper into the cushions he had arranged behind your back. A minute later Harry returned carrying a large bowl of popcorn. He sat beside you, glanced at the curve of your stomach, and carefully balanced the bowl on top of it. You looked down. Then slowly back at him. “I’m carrying your children.” “I’m appreciating the engineering.” “You’re using me as furniture.” “You’re beautiful in every form, baby.” Before you could answer, he leaned over and kissed you, slow and gentle. You reached for the popcorn.

Your face fell almost immediately. “There’s a rumor of salt.” “We’re watching your sodium.” You sighed dramatically. “This family has become a dictatorship.” The film began exactly as promised. It was gentle, romantic, and occasionally funny without trying too hard. The heroine inherited a weathered seaside hotel. The hero knew how to repair everything except his own emotionally guarded heart. Harry disliked him immediately. “He should tell her why he left.” “It’s been twenty minutes.” “He has already created unnecessary confusion.” You smiled. “That’s how films work.” By the middle of the film, your head had settled against Harry’s shoulder while his fingers moved absentmindedly along your arm. Beneath the blanket, your stomach gave a sudden, unmistakable ripple. Harry looked down immediately. Another tiny movement answered beneath the fabric.

He smiled, leaned over, kissed your stomach, and rested his palm gently over it. “Easy, girls,” he murmured. “We’re trying to watch a movie with your mother.” Another kick answered beneath his hand. You considered it seriously. “I think they want pistachios.” “Five minutes ago they wanted popcorn.” “They changed their minds.” “They’re growing.” “…Fair enough.” He started to stand. You caught his hand. “The roasted ones.” “The roasted ones.” “And bring the whole bag.” Harry bent to kiss your forehead. “One full bag of roasted pistachios coming right up.” As he disappeared toward the kitchen, you settled deeper into the cushions, both hands curving around your stomach as though congratulating the girls on another successful negotiation. On the screen, the film drifted quietly toward its conclusion. The hotel had been restored.

Something tightened painfully behind your ribs. Before you understood why, your vision blurred. One tear escaped. Then another. Within seconds they were falling too quickly to hide. Harry turned immediately. “Hey.” You wiped beneath your eyes, only making the tears worse. “Hey, hey…” He set the popcorn aside at once, his hand instinctively finding your stomach. “What happened? Are you hurting?” You shook your head. “The babies?” “No.” “Then why are you crying, baby?” You pointed helplessly toward the television. “The movie.” Harry looked at the screen, then back at you. “The movie?” “They're just…” Your voice cracked. “They're just getting married.” He stayed quiet. “They're just doing it.” Another tear slipped free. “There isn't a wedding planner shouting into a headset. No ballroom booked two years in advance. No security outside checking guest lists.” You swallowed hard. “No board wondering whether the timing is strategically responsible. No journalists deciding what the wedding means for my company. No headlines about my dress, my body, or whether marrying you affects the markets on Monday.” Harry didn't interrupt. On the screen, the couple exchanged vows while the ocean rolled gently behind them. “They're just getting married,” you whispered again. “They get to live it before the rest of the world starts talking about it.” Harry reached up and gently brushed another tear from your cheek. “Oh, baby.” A shaky laugh escaped you. “I know. I'm crying over a fictional beach wedding.” “I don't think that's why you're crying.” You looked back at the television. The bride had slipped off her shoes. Her guests were laughing. The waves reached the edge of the aisle.

“I don't think I want all of it anymore.” “All of what?” “The spectacle.” The word hung quietly between you. “For years I thought that if I ever got married again, it had to be… perfect.” You gave a tiny, humorless smile. “Perfect enough to justify everything that came before it.” Harry remained silent, listening. “But watching this…” Your eyes drifted back to the screen. “It just looks… peaceful.” You leaned against him a little more. “I don't want our wedding to become public property before we've even lived it.” His hand tightened gently around yours. “I don't want to spend the day wondering which photograph they'll print first… or what the markets will do on Monday.” “You won't.” “We can't control that.” “No,” Harry said softly. “But we can control what we choose to give them.” You lifted your head to look at him. “I want one thing that's ours first.” A pause. “Before anyone turns it into a headline.” Harry studied you for several quiet seconds. “Do you want a beach?” Despite the tears, you smiled. “Maybe.” “Barefoot?” You looked back at the television. “Let's not become primitive.” A laugh escaped him. “Fair.” The newlyweds ran laughing toward the water while their friends chased after them. You watched them for another moment before speaking again. “Besides… Scarlet and Vivienne already decided we should wait until after the girls are born.” Harry listened. “That's still months away.” You looked down at your stomach. “And by then everyone will spend the entire wedding talking about the babies instead of us.” He brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You're the one who said you didn't want to be a bride with an enormous stomach.” “I know.” Your voice softened. “But if it were something like this…” You glanced back toward the beach on the screen. “Small. Quiet. Just family.” A tiny smile appeared. “I don't think I'd care.” You looked at him again. “Everything in my life has to happen in front of an audience simply because I'm a Queen.” Your hand drifted toward the small bowl on the coffee table. It was empty. You stared into it for a long second. “The pistachios are gone.” Your face crumpled all over again. Harry looked from the empty bowl to you just as another sob escaped. “Oh, no.” He cupped your cheek immediately. “Shh, baby. Don't cry.” “I wanted more.” “I'll order more.” “Two bags.” “Two bags.” “And the lemon sorbet.” He had already unlocked his phone. “And those thin crackers Dana brought last week.” His thumb moved across the screen. “Added.” “And strawberries.” He glanced up. “You said pistachios.” “The situation has developed.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Clearly.” “And chocolate-covered pretzels.” “Anything else?” You frowned thoughtfully, genuinely considering the question. “…The little tangerines.” Harry added them without another word before setting the phone aside. “Everything's coming. ” He drew you gently back against his chest. “Now breathe for me.” You nodded, still sniffling as you wiped beneath your eyes. “I’m fine.” A pause. “It’s just the hormones.” His lips brushed the top of your head. “Our wedding will be beautiful, baby.” You curled closer against him. “However we do it.” “Okay,” you whispered. The movie continued quietly in the background, but neither of you was really watching anymore.

Harry's fingers moved slowly through your hair until your breathing gradually steadied. Only then did his eyes drift back toward the television. The bride and groom were laughing barefoot beneath the driftwood arch. No ballroom. No photographers. No headlines. Just the people they loved. Harry watched in silence. His gaze lingered on the weathered wooden arch… the shoreline… the small gathering of family and friends. Then something almost imperceptible softened in his expression. A thought. Nothing more. He said nothing. He simply looked back down at you, asleep against his shoulder, one hand resting protectively over the gentle curve of your stomach. A faint smile appeared.

The Following Morning Chez Akiko

The restaurant had not yet opened for lunch, but the table nearest the kitchen was already occupied by six people who had been summoned with varying degrees of urgency and almost no useful explanation. Emily sat at the head of the table with coffee in front of her. Chloe had arrived carrying two garment bags and the conviction that every crisis could be improved with appropriate tailoring. Dana was answering emails beneath the table, while Ron had placed a leather folder beside his plate and appeared to be the only person who had anticipated an agenda. Mikey was eating something the kitchen had not officially served him. Harry remained standing. “We need to plan a wedding.” Everyone stopped. Mikey lowered the croissant in his hand. “Whose?” Harry looked at him. Mikey considered the question. “Right. Context clues.” Emily leaned back in her chair. “You and Queen are already getting married. After the babies are born.” “Scarlet and Vivienne have interviewed three event planners,” Chloe added. “One of them presented a forty-page proposal for the flowers alone.” Dana finally looked up from her phone. “The preliminary date is being held for late summer.” “And an entire team of professionals is supposed to organize it,” Emily said. “So why are we here?” Harry placed both hands against the back of the empty chair in front of him. “I’m not talking about that wedding.” The table went quiet again. Mikey slowly set down his croissant. “There are two weddings now?” “Technically, yes,” Harry said. Chloe narrowed her eyes. “What exactly are you planning?” “Something private. This weekend.” Six faces turned toward him. Even Ron blinked.

Emily slowly placed her coffee on the table. “Harry, it’s Thursday.” “I’m aware.” “You want us to arrange a wedding in two days?” “A small one.” “Rich people always say that,” Emily said, “before describing a small country.” “No ballroom, no hotel, no press. No guest list beyond the people in this room and immediate family.” Emily studied him. “What changed?” Harry looked down at the table. “We watched a movie last night. There was a wedding on a beach.” He paused, remembering the way your voice had broken when you said the couple had simply been allowed to marry. “She said she didn’t want ours to become public property before we’d had the chance to live it.” The room grew quieter. “No reporters,” he continued. “No analysts deciding what our marriage means for the companies. No photographs released before she chooses them.

She wants something that belongs to us.” “A private beach wedding,” Emily said softly. “Yes.” “Just friends and family.” “Yes.” “And Queen doesn’t know.” “No.” Mikey raised one finger. “Are you sure we’re talking about my sister? She used to plan her wedding while she was still in elementary school.” “I can confirm that,” Chloe said. “There were sketches.” “Sounds like her,” Emily agreed. Ron glanced down at his folder. “Ms. Queen being the only person unaware of her own wedding presents a significant degree of risk.” “Her hormones have made her more emotional lately,” Harry said. “She cried last night because the pistachios ran out.” Emily sighed. "Aw." “Oh, poor thing,” Chloe murmured. “My sister cried during a comedy when she was pregnant with my niece,” Dana added. “No one in the movie was even sad.” “Fine. Whatever she wants, we give her,” Emily said. Harry’s expression remained serious. “That doesn’t mean we decide for her. I’m not bringing her to a wedding and expecting her to perform because everyone is waiting. I’ll show her what I arranged and ask whether she wants to marry me that day. If she says no, the officiant leaves, we have dinner on the beach, and no one makes her feel guilty.” Emily nodded once. “If she says yes,” Harry continued, “everything needs to be ready.” Mikey looked at Harry. “Where exactly is this happening? And how are you telling our mothers? Because mine is not going to celebrate being excluded from wedding planning.” “Scarlet and my mother will be told last.” Ron opened the leather folder. “A sound security decision.” The planning moved quickly after that. Ron would secure a private beach, confidentiality agreements, transport and discreet security. Dana would clear your calendar without making the absence too obvious. Emily took charge of dinner, cake and a small reception, while Chloe handled the flowers and overall design. Then Chloe tapped her pen against the table. “We still have one significant problem.” Everyone looked at her. “The dress.” Harry’s attention sharpened. “What about it?” “She’s carrying twins. Her old measurements are useless, and her body is changing every week. I can’t fit a gown correctly by guessing.” Mikey added. “The dress is important, man. Those hormones can turn into rage when she looks at the photographs ten years from now. I’m warning you in advance.” Chloe pointed her pen at him. “For once, he’s right. We have very little time to make something beautiful and unforgettable.” “How quickly can you do it?” Emily asked.

“I can alter an existing gown if I have accurate measurements tonight. Soft structure, an empire waist, room around her stomach—nothing restrictive.” Chloe turned to Harry. “I need her shoulders, shoulder to floor, bust, underbust and the fullest point around her stomach.” Mikey sat back, delighted. “You’re going to measure a sleeping pregnant woman without telling her why. That may be the most dangerous plan I’ve heard today.” Harry stared at Chloe. “There’s no other way?” “You could tell her.” “No.” “Yuliana could possibly do it,” Ron suggested. Harry shook his head immediately. “No. I’ll do it.” Chloe tore a page from her notebook and slid it across the table. “These measurements. In inches. Don’t pull the tape tight.” Harry studied the instructions as though they described an unfamiliar explosive device. “I’ll handle it.” Ron closed his folder. “I recommend waiting until she’s asleep.” “Thank you, Ron."

That evening, Yuliana met Harry outside his study and lowered her voice as though reporting a delicate security matter. “She fell asleep upstairs.” “In bed?” “She said she was only going to rest for ten minutes.” A small smile touched Yuliana’s mouth. “She was listening to classical music.” Harry glanced toward the staircase, then at the flexible measuring tape concealed in his hand. Perfect. Or as close to perfect as this plan was likely to become. He opened the bedroom door carefully and stepped inside. The curtains had been drawn against the evening light, leaving the room dim and quiet except for the faint piano music escaping from one of the wireless earbuds in your ears. You were asleep on your side, one hand tucked beneath your cheek and the other curved protectively over your stomach. The second earbud had fallen onto the pillow beside you.

Your phone rested on the nightstand, still playing the same gentle piece on repeat. Harry stood beside the bed for several seconds, simply looking at you. Then he unfolded the list Chloe had sent him. This should have been easy. Harry had negotiated acquisitions involving several governments. He had once completed a merger while both legal teams threatened to walk away. He regularly managed people who considered compromise a moral failing. He could measure his sleeping fiancée. Carefully, he sat on the edge of the mattress and removed the remaining earbud from your ear. You made a quiet sound and shifted deeper into the pillow. Harry froze. Your breathing remained even. The first measurement was uncomplicated. He placed one end of the tape near your shoulder and extended it gently across your back, recording the number in his phone.

Shoulder to floor required an approximation from the side of the bed. Chloe had specifically written that an imperfect number was preferable to waking you, although Harry suspected she had not fully considered what would happen if you woke and found him standing over you with tailoring equipment. The underbust measurement was next. Harry stared at the instruction. Then at you. Then back at the instruction. The circumference of your stomach seemed safer. Harry lifted the edge of the blanket and passed the tape carefully around the fullest curve, reaching beneath your side to bring the ends together. Your eyes opened. Harry stopped breathing. You blinked down at the measuring tape wrapped around your stomach, then slowly raised your gaze to him. “Harry.” Your voice was rough with sleep. “What—what are you doing?” “Nothing.” You stared at him.

He was sitting beside you with a measuring tape in both hands. “Nothing?” “I can explain.” “Are you measuring my waist?” Your voice rose sharply as you pushed yourself upright, shock and hurt chasing the last traces of sleep from your face. “No—no, baby. Not like that.” You pulled the tape from his hands and looped it loosely around the back of his neck before he could react. “Harry Castillo, I will strangle you with this.” “Baby, wait.” “You measured me while I was asleep?” “It isn’t what you think.” “What do I think?” “That I was—” “Checking how much weight I’ve gained?” Harry’s expression changed immediately. “No. Absolutely not.” “How many inches was it?” Your eyes began to shine. “I’ve gotten huge, haven’t I?” “No.” “You hesitated.” “I didn’t hesitate.” “You looked terrified.” “Because you threatened to kill me.” “With a fabric tape. You would’ve survived.” The first tear slipped down your cheek. Another followed before you could wipe it away. “I knew I’d gained too much weight.” Your voice broke. “I look awful, don’t I? I’ve become enormous and ugly.” Harry gently removed the tape from around his neck and dropped it onto the carpet. “That is complete nonsense.” He moved closer and cupped your face between his hands. “You are the most beautiful woman in the world.” More tears spilled down your cheeks. Harry wiped them away with his thumbs, his voice softening further. “You’re carrying our daughters. Your body is changing because it’s making room for two people. There is nothing ugly about you. Not one thing.”

You sniffed and looked down at your stomach. “My face is puffy.” “You’re beautiful.” “My ankles are swollen.” “Still beautiful.” “None of my clothes fit.” “I’ll buy you new ones.” “That isn’t the point.” You opened your mouth to continue, but a sudden yawn interrupted you. Your shoulders sagged as quickly as your anger had risen. “I’m so tired.” The abrupt change left Harry staring at you. “I just want to sleep.” His expression softened with relief and guilt in equal measure. “Okay, baby. Sleep.” You lay down again, then caught his wrist before he could move away. “Stay.” “I’m here.” You pulled his arm against your chest and settled around it, resting your cheek near his shoulder. So many emotions had passed through you in the space of a few minutes—anger, humiliation, tears and exhaustion—that Harry could not stop himself from feeling responsible for every one of them. “Will you stroke my hair?” you asked sleepily. “Of course.” His fingers moved gently through your hair, smoothing it away from your face. Every few moments, he bent and pressed a quiet kiss to your temple. Your breathing gradually slowed. “Harry?” “I’m here, baby.” “Don’t measure me again.” “I won’t.” Harry looked down at you suspiciously, but a faint sleepy smile touched your mouth before disappearing. Within moments, your breathing deepened. Harry continued stroking your hair long after you had fallen asleep. At first, he intended to remain for only a minute. Then five. Your fingers stayed curled firmly around his wrist, and every attempt to move made you shift closer. Eventually, Harry lay down beside you fully dressed, one arm trapped beneath your head and the other resting over your stomach. One of the babies moved beneath his palm. A quiet smile crossed his face. “Easy,” he whispered. “Your mother has already threatened me once tonight.” Twenty minutes later, his trapped arm had gone completely numb. He endured another ten. Then a faint snore escaped you. Harry looked down. Your lips had parted slightly, your head angled back against his arm. The snoring had appeared with the pregnancy and grew louder whenever you were exhausted—something you denied with absolute conviction every morning. Another soft snore followed. Harry smiled. “You’d call me a liar if I told you.” He gently touched beneath your chin and turned your head slightly toward the pillow, just as he had on countless nights before. The sound stopped almost immediately. You murmured something indistinct. Harry froze. “Harry…” He bent and kissed your hair. “I’m right here.” Your fingers loosened around his wrist, and your breathing settled again. Moving slowly, Harry reached down for the tape. He passed it around your stomach once more, careful not to pull it tight. When the ends met, he secured the exact point beneath one finger and eased the tape away without losing the measurement. This time, you did not wake. Harry carefully freed his arm, replacing it with the pillow before sitting up. He opened his phone, added the final number to his notes, and sent the measurements to Chloe.

Harry: This is everything I could get. Her reply arrived almost immediately. Chloe: Did she wake up? Harry: Briefly. Chloe: Are you alive? His gaze returned to you. You were sleeping peacefully again, one hand spread across your stomach, your mouth beginning to fall open. Harry: Barely.

He set the phone on the nightstand and watched you for another moment, smiling despite himself.

Saturday Morning

When you opened your eyes, Harry’s side of the bed was empty.

The sheets still held the faint warmth of him, but the room had gone quiet in the particular way it did only when he had been awake for some time. The curtains were partially open, allowing the soft April sunlight to spill across the carpet.

You reached blindly toward his pillow. Nothing.

“Harry?”

No answer came from the bathroom.

You pushed yourself higher against the pillows, one hand automatically settling over the curve of your stomach. “Harry?”

Still nothing.

That was when you noticed the folded card resting against the lamp on his nightstand, placed beside the snow globe.

You reached for it.

Good morning, baby. I have something planned for you. Trust me for a few hours and let Yuliana help you. I’ll see you soon. I love you. H.

You read it twice, then narrowed your eyes at the empty room.

“Trust you with what?”

A soft knock sounded against the bedroom door. Before you could answer, Yuliana stepped inside carrying a tray of tea. Her usually restrained expression had been replaced by a smile she was making very little effort to hide.

You held up the card. “What is happening?”

“I was instructed not to say, Ms. Queen.”

You accepted the tea and took a cautious sip while studying her over the rim of the cup. “You understand that smiling like that only makes you look more suspicious.”

Yuliana glanced at her watch.

“You’re timing me?”

“Perhaps.”

She waited patiently until you finished, then placed the cup aside and offered her hands.

“We should get you up now, Ms. Queen.”

“Why?”

“Several people are waiting for you.”

The way she said it made you immediately suspicious. “Which people?”

Yuliana continued holding out her hands.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Very much.”

With a sigh, you let her help you sit up. One of the babies shifted as you moved, a slow rolling sensation beneath your ribs. You pressed your palm against it. “At least one person in this room should tell me what’s happening.”

“Trokhy terpinnya, Ms. Queen,” Yuliana said gently. “Just a little patience.”

She helped you into your robe, tied it securely around you, then waited while you slipped your feet into your house shoes.

The moment you stepped into the corridor, you heard several voices coming from the dressing room.

You stopped.

Emily appeared first. “Look who’s finally awake.”

“Our Queen has arrived,” Chloe added from behind her.

Emily came directly toward you, placing one hand gently against your stomach. “How are you feeling? And how are these two?”

“We’re confused,” you said. “What are all of you doing in my house?”

“First, breakfast,” Emily said. “There’s a full table waiting.”

“No. First, someone tells me what is happening.”

Chloe exchanged a glance with Emily. “Perhaps it would be easier to show you.”

She opened the dressing-room door.

The room had been transformed.

A small hair and makeup team stood near the windows beside neatly arranged cases and brushes. Fresh white flowers had been placed on the vanity, restrained enough not to resemble one of Scarlet’s productions. Dana stood near the wardrobe holding two phones—yours and her own—while appearing entirely untroubled by the fact that she had confiscated your professional life.

“Good morning, Ms. Queen,” the team greeted.

Your gaze moved from Emily to Dana, then Chloe.

Finally, it settled on the garment bag. “What is that?”

Dana’s smile became dangerously emotional. “Morning, Ms. Queen.”

“What is in the bag?”

The room fell silent.

Emily quietly moved a plate of toast closer to the nearest chair. Dana looked down at the phones.

Chloe reached for the zipper. “Why don’t you take a look?”

She opened the bag.

Soft ivory fabric appeared first, followed by delicate folds of silk, a gracefully structured bodice and a skirt designed to fall around the curve of your stomach without constricting it. There was no excessive beading, cathedral train or rigid corsetry. The fabric caught the morning light with a quiet sheen, elegant without demanding attention.

It looked effortless.

Which meant an extraordinary amount of work had gone into it.

Your breath caught. “Oh, my God. That... looks like—”

A wedding dress.

Not something inspired by one. A real wedding dress. Pinned carefully to the front was another folded card. Chloe removed it and held it toward you. Your fingers trembled slightly as you opened it.

Baby, Chloe and her mother made this for you. I hope it’s close to what you wanted. There’s a car waiting downstairs. At the end of the drive, you’ll find a beach, the people closest to us, and me. I made today possible. Whether we marry here or wait for the wedding they’ve been planning is your decision. I’ll be waiting. H.

You stared at the page until the words began to blur. Then your gaze dropped to the dress again, and understanding arrived all at once.

“Oh, my God, Harry.”

A tear struck the card.

You looked toward Chloe. “That’s why he was measuring me.”

Chloe pressed her lips together, already close to tears herself.

You laughed, covering your mouth as more tears followed. “Oh, that man.”

Emily stood immediately. “Hey.”

“I cannot believe him.”

She placed both hands gently on your arms. “Is that a good cannot believe him?”

You looked down at the note. “He listened to me.”

The words emerged so softly that everyone in the room went still.

Emily’s expression changed. “Yes. He did.”

“And then he made it happen in two days,” Chloe added quietly.

You touched the skirt with your fingertips.

It was beautiful, but not because it was expensive or perfectly made. It was beautiful because nothing about it felt designed for other people to admire.

Harry had remembered the beach, the quiet, the absence of reporters and boards and questions. The moment in the movie when you had cried because two people had been allowed to simply marry each other.

Your face crumpled again.

Chloe hurried toward you. “Oh. I think the crying spell has arrived.”

You nodded, tears already falling.

Emily handed you a tissue. “Get it all out before they start your makeup. This entire team is here to prepare you for today.”

“Then I should wash my face.”

“Yeah.” Emily slipped an arm gently around your waist. “Then you’re eating breakfast, and after that, we’ll get you ready.”

Chloe hesitated. “You do want this, don’t you? Because after five years apart and two babies on the way, I think you two have waited long enough.”

You looked at Chloe, then Dana, Yuliana, and the waiting hair and makeup team.

For one unsteady moment, the reality of it settled over you: a beach, no cameras, no audience, vows spoken before the rest of the world could claim them. Was this really what you wanted?

Then you pictured Harry waiting for you, and the question became almost embarrassingly simple.

Finally, your gaze returned to the dress.

“Yes,” you said. “I want this.”

Bridgehampton

The limousine turned through the gates of the Bridgehampton estate just after four. Beyond the windows, pale dunes gave way to flashes of blue water beneath the soft April sky. The ocean wind moved through the beach grass, bending it toward the private stretch of sand Harry had somehow secured in less than forty-eight hours. Chloe looked mournfully at the view. “The fact that I can’t put any of this on my story is cruel.” “Post one frame and every paparazzi in New York will be outside the gates before we reach the sand,” Emily warned, holding up the one phone Dana had authorized for photographs. “No one posts anything,” you added. “Turn off your location services too.” “They’re already off,” Dana assured you. “Good. Now move closer,” Emily said. Despite her warning, she was already recording, the phone safely on airplane mode. You, Chloe and Dana leaned together while she turned the camera toward you. Yuliana sat opposite, watching with quiet amusement. “Smile,” Emily instructed. “I am smiling,” you said with a laugh as another small movement rolled beneath your hand. “They’re the ones refusing to hold still for the picture.” You glanced at your reflection in the darkened window. “Do I look as nervous as I feel?” “No,” Emily said immediately. “You look radiant.” “Annoyingly beautiful,” Chloe added. Dana nodded. “Exactly as you should.” “Beautiful is insufficient,” Yuliana corrected, studying you with open admiration. “Vy prekrasna (you’re beautiful) Ms. Queen. Prosto neymovirna. (Simply incredible.)” And, inconveniently, they were right. The ivory silk dress fell cleanly from beneath your bust, following the curve of your stomach without trying to conceal it.

Its deep V neckline was softened by delicate embroidery that gathered just above the swell of your belly, while the long skirt moved fluidly around your legs. There was no veil, no heavy train and nothing that required you to become someone else to wear it. You smoothed both hands over your stomach. One of the girls moved beneath your palm. “Apparently they’re as excited as I am.” “They’re half Queen and half Castillo,” Dana said. “Of course they assume the entire event is being held in their honor.” The limousine slowed. Your heartbeat immediately quickened. Emily lowered the phone. “We’re here.”

Down on the beach, Harry checked his watch for what Ron estimated was the ninth time. “She crossed the gate three minutes ago,” Ron said. “She’s here,” Harry replied, and the words came out softer than he intended.

He stood near the small flowered arch in a black tuxedo, his attention fixed on the wooden walkway leading down from the house. Mikey waited beside Ron, while Captain Mateo Alvarez—Richard’s oldest friend and, thanks to Ron’s exhaustive planning, a legally registered officiant—stood nearby with the ceremony papers secured inside his jacket. Sienna adjusted one of the white flowers in her hands. “The florist reinforced the arch. It won’t collapse unless the wind develops personal hostility toward us.” Harry barely heard her. Vivienne approached and straightened his boutonniere, her expression warm with emotion. “Breathe, sweetheart.” “I am breathing.” “You’re waiting aggressively.” Her hand lingered briefly against his lapel. “You get to marry her again. Try to enjoy this part too.” A small smile finally broke through his nerves. Before he could answer, the limousine appeared beyond the dunes. Every conversation stopped. Scarlet immediately moved toward the end of the walkway with Richard beside her. He relied on his cane for balance, his steps slower than they once had been. Scarlet slipped her arm through his without drawing attention to the support she provided. The car came to a stop. Harry went completely still, though from where he stood, the vehicle concealed most of the drive. “They’re here,” Sienna said, already moving. “I’ll go make sure she has everything.” A member of the staff opened the door. Emily stepped out first, followed by Chloe and Dana. Then the attendant offered you his hand. You took it. Emily immediately gathered the skirt so it would not catch beneath your shoes as you carefully stepped onto the stone drive. The ocean breeze caught the silk, pressing it briefly against the curve of your stomach before letting it fall into its clean, graceful lines again. For one suspended moment, no one spoke. Scarlet’s eyes filled before you had taken three steps. “Oh, my baby,” she whispered. “You are so beautiful.” You approached her, and she caught both of your hands. “You too,” you said, looking over her pale blue silk dress, structured hat and entirely unnecessary pearl gloves. “Though you appear to have dressed for a royal garden party.” Scarlet lifted her chin. “I was given forty-eight hours and absolutely no authority. I had to express myself somehow.” Richard sighed beside her. “They’re doing this the way they want, Scarlet.” “I know,” she replied, never taking her eyes from you. “I’m adjusting with remarkable dignity.” You turned toward Richard. “Dad.” His face softened completely.

“My beautiful girl.” His gaze dropped affectionately to your stomach. “How are all three of you?” “Nervous, happy and extremely pregnant.” “That sounds about right.” You hugged him carefully, feeling one of his hands settle against your back. When you pulled away, your gaze dropped briefly to his cane before returning to his face. “You look very handsome.” “I had an important place to be.” Your throat tightened. Before the tears could begin, Mikey appeared and opened his arms. “Baby sister.” He attempted to hug you, only to discover that your stomach reached him first. He looked down between you. “I think your stomach arrived before the rest of you.” “Careful,” you warned. “You’re insulting three Queen women at once.” “I would never.” He bent and spoke toward your stomach. “Your mother has always been this threatening.” You pushed lightly at his shoulder. “Move.” Laughing, Mikey kissed your cheek and stepped aside. Sienna approached carrying a bouquet of white ranunculus, sweet peas and small ivory roses. She placed it gently in your hands before glancing toward the beach. Harry was visible at the other end of the walkway. He had not moved. Even from a distance, you could see the way he was looking at you—as though the rest of the beach had disappeared the moment you stepped from the car. Sienna smiled softly. “Whenever you’re ready.” You took a deep breath, then another, waving your hands to calm your emotions. “Oh, no.” Emily was instantly beside you. “What?” “The crying spell.” She opened her bag and produced a tissue with the speed of a trained emergency responder. Chloe pointed at you. “Do not rub your eyes. We used waterproof makeup, but I refuse to test its limits before the ceremony begins.” “I’m trying not to cry.” “You’re failing beautifully,” Dana said. A laugh escaped through your tears. Emily carefully dabbed beneath one eye. “There. Crisis contained.” Richard moved beside you and offered his arm. You looked at the wooden path stretching across the dunes, then toward Harry waiting at its end. “Are you sure?” you asked softly. Richard straightened, tightening his hand around the top of his cane. “I didn’t spend two months learning to walk across rooms again just to sit down for this part.” Your eyes filled all over again. “Chloe,” you warned. “Ugh, honey breathe,” Chloe said firmly. “We have reached the maximum permitted tears.” Richard smiled and held out his arm once more. “Ready?” You slipped your hand through it, supporting him as subtly as he supported you.

Your gaze returned to Harry. This time, there was no hesitation. “Yes,” you said. “I’m ready."

The first notes of the music drifted across the dunes as you and Richard stepped onto the wooden walkway. Everyone rose. Warm applause followed, unrestrained and familiar. Mikey brought two fingers to his mouth and whistled loudly before stepping directly into the aisle with his phone raised. “Mikey,” Sienna hissed, catching the back of his jacket and pulling him out of the way. “I’m documenting history.” “You’re blocking history.” Laughter moved through the small gathering as he allowed himself to be dragged back beside her, though he continued filming over her shoulder. There were no camera flashes, no reporters calling your name, no phones raised for an audience waiting somewhere beyond the beach. Emily and Chloe recorded from their places, but only so you and Harry could keep the moment. Near the second row, a single videographer followed your progress through a discreet lens, having been warned by Ron so thoroughly that he looked prepared to surrender the camera, memory card and all personal identification at the slightest provocation. Nothing was being broadcast. Nothing had to become public before it belonged to you. The aisle was not lined with investors, board members or distant relatives invited out of obligation. There were only two short rows of chairs, and every person standing beside them was someone whose face you knew well enough to read without effort. Scarlet was already crying behind the sunglasses she had apparently worn to prevent exactly that. Vivienne held one hand over her heart, her expression radiant. Ron remained beside Dana, who was wiping beneath one eye while pretending to inspect Emily’s recording. Lara stood near Scarlet, openly crying without attempting to disguise it, while Yuliana watched you with quiet pride. They were all family. Some had witnessed the first marriage and the way it had broken. Some had arrived later, carrying you through the strange, tender work of finding your way back to one another. But every person standing there had seen enough to understand what this moment meant. They had seen the love, the damage, the silence, the repair—and they had stayed. The realization settled warmly beneath your ribs. Your free hand moved instinctively over your stomach. One of the girls shifted beneath your palm, followed by the faintest answering movement from her sister. You smiled down at them. Richard glanced toward you. “All right?” “More than all right.” The boards of the narrow aisle beneath your low ivory heels were dusted with sand carried over them by the wind.

Beyond the gathering, the Atlantic stretched endlessly blue beneath the afternoon sky, its waves folding softly against the shore and filling the spaces between the music. Then you looked ahead. Harry stood on a low wooden platform beneath the simple arch of white flowers. For one dangerous second, you nearly missed a step. He wore a perfectly cut black tuxedo, the ocean breeze moving lightly through his hair. A white ranunculus and a small sprig of olive rested against his lapel, chosen to match your bouquet without surrounding you with the heavily scented flowers that always made your eyes water. But it was his expression that caught you. The tension he had carried while waiting disappeared the moment he saw you. His entire face softened into a wide, unguarded smile reserved only for you. Richard tightened his hold on your arm before your heel could slip from the edge of the board.

“Careful, darling.” Your eyes locked with Harry’s. Neither of you looked away. Five years apart seemed to compress themselves into those final steps—every wrong decision, every unfinished conversation and every night you had convinced yourself that losing him had been necessary. But the last six months had changed you both. There were no secrets left between you now, no assumptions allowed to grow in silence. You were not walking toward the marriage you had once lost. You were walking toward something you had rebuilt together, deliberately and without anyone else deciding what it should become. In a few moments, you would be husband and wife again. This time, you both understood exactly what choosing one another meant. By the time you reached him, your eyes were wet again. Richard stopped before the platform. Harry stepped down immediately, offering one hand to you before turning toward him. For a moment, neither man spoke. Richard placed your hand into Harry’s. “I gave her hand to you once before,” he said, his voice low with emotion. “But she was never mine to give away. She is my girl because she chose to let me love her like a father.” Your throat tightened. Richard looked from you to Harry. “So this time, I’m not giving her away. I’m asking you to stand beside her properly. Hold on to her. Listen to her. And when life gets loud, don’t let silence do the damage again.” Harry closed his fingers carefully around yours. “I won’t.” Richard studied him for another moment, then nodded. “Good.” You leaned forward and kissed Richard’s cheek. “Thank you, Dad.” His eyes shone as he stepped away. “Go on, sweetheart,” he said softly. “Go marry the man who finally learned how lucky he is.” Harry helped you onto the platform, one hand steady at your waist until you were safely beside him. Captain Mateo waited a few feet away, but Harry appeared temporarily unaware that anyone else existed. His gaze moved slowly over the dress, your hair and the curve of your stomach. “I knew the dress would be beautiful,” he said softly. “I wasn’t prepared for you in it.” The words nearly started the tears again. You looked over his tuxedo with exaggerated consideration. “You look very handsome yourself, Mr. Castillo.” His smile deepened. “More handsome than the first time?” “You’ve aged.” One eyebrow lifted. “Like an obscenely expensive wine,” you added. Harry’s gaze softened. “Then I must be keeping suitable company.” One of his hands settled gently over your stomach. A visible ripple moved beneath the ivory silk almost immediately.

Harry glanced down, smiling. “They look as excited as we are.” “No. They heard their father arranged an excellent wedding cake.” A quiet laugh escaped him. His thumb moved lightly over the embroidered fabric before you looked around at the flowers, the two rows of chairs and the long table waiting farther up the shore. “Harry,” you whispered. “What did you do?” For the first time that afternoon, uncertainty flickered across his face. “Too much?” “No.” You tightened your fingers around his. “It’s more beautiful than anything I imagined.” His expression softened. “Thank you,” you said. “For listening. For all of it.” Harry lifted your hand and pressed his lips to your knuckles. “I wish I had done more sooner.” “We had a great deal to survive first.” “We did.” His eyes remained on yours. “Then we shouldn’t give away any more time.” Captain Alvarez cleared his throat with deliberate patience. “I have married people on boats before,” he said, glancing toward the wooden platform that extended just over the water. “This is apparently the compromise Ron could manage in three days.” Soft laughter moved through the gathering. Ron adjusted his cuff. “A legally valid compromise.” “The best kind,” Captain Alvarez said, smiling before he turned back to you and Harry. “We are gathered here with the people who know and love Harry and Queen best—not to begin their story, because that began many years ago, but to witness the choice they are making today.” The ocean moved quietly behind him. “This ceremony is small by design. There are no strangers here, no audience beyond those invited and no expectation except honesty. Before we continue, I need to ask one simple question. ” His gaze moved first to Harry, then to you. “Have you both come here freely, intending to marry one another today?” Harry answered without hesitation. “Yes.” You looked at the man who had arranged an entire wedding only to ensure you could still refuse it. “Yes,” you said. “I have.” Captain Alvarez nodded. “Then you may speak the promises you’ve prepared.” Harry’s eyebrows lifted slightly. You stared at him. “You prepared something?” “Not a speech.” His fingers tightened around yours. “I don’t need one to tell you the truth.” The last trace of humor faded from his expression as he looked directly into your eyes. “The first time you chose me, I woke up the next morning and watched you sleep because I still couldn’t believe you were my wife.” His throat moved. “Then I lost you. And for five years, I learned exactly how much of my life had been built around loving you.” Your eyes filled. “Harry, don’t make me cry.” His thumb brushed beneath one of your eyes.

“Then you came back,” he said quietly. “And I felt like a prayer I had no right to make had been answered.” A quiet laugh escaped you through the tears. “You gave me a second life with you. You gave me our daughters." He paused, as though even he could not quite believe it. “I promise you this: you will never have to guess where I stand again. No silence, no pride, no misunderstanding will ever come before the truth.” His voice lowered. “I will choose you in every version of our life. I love you more than I did the first time. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful that you chose me twice.” For several seconds, you could only look at him. Around you, no one seemed to breathe properly. Scarlet pressed a tissue beneath her sunglasses. Vivienne’s mouth trembled. Dana looked down quickly, and even Ron appeared suspiciously interested in the horizon. “I loved you when I left,” you said finally, your voice unsteady. “That was the cruelest part. I loved you through every year I pretended I had moved on, and I love you now without fear, without secrets and without one foot near the door.” Harry’s eyes shone. “I choose you, Harry Castillo. I always have. And I always will.” You squeezed his hands. “This time, I intend to stay.” Neither of you moved. The silence stretched until Mikey called from behind you, “You can keep staring after you’re legally married.” Laughter broke through the emotion. Captain Alvarez gave him a patient look.

“It appears we have people here even more impatient than the bride and groom.” His eyes narrowed faintly with affection. “Mikey, you were always like this.” Mikey grinned. “Thanks, Captain.” Then he leaned toward Sienna and whispered, “He loves me.” Sienna covered her mouth to hide her laugh. Captain Alvarez turned back to Harry. “Harry Castillo, do you take this woman to be your wife—to love her, honour her and continue choosing her for the rest of your life?” Harry did not take his eyes from you. “I do.” “And Ms. Queen, do you take this man to be your husband—to love him, honour him and continue choosing him for the rest of your life?” “I do.” Ron stepped forward with the rings. Harry slid yours carefully onto your finger, his hand trembling just enough for you to notice. You placed his ring beside the one he had once worn before,

sealing a promise renewed rather than replaced. Captain Alvarez smiled. “By the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Mikey was already on his feet. “Kiss her!” Others joined him, laughing and applauding. “Kiss!” “Kiss!” “Kiss!” Harry’s arm curved carefully around your waist. He drew you as close as your stomach allowed, his other hand rising to cradle your face. Then he kissed you. Slowly at first, as though the two of you were alone. Then more deeply as the applause rose around you and the ocean wind carried Mikey’s triumphant whistle across the beach. When Harry finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. “Mrs. Castillo,” he whispered. You smiled through your tears. “You always did like calling me that.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “I missed it.”

Later, after champagne had been poured and the official photographs had been taken, Chloe insisted that the bouquet had one final responsibility. You turned your back to the small group gathered behind you and tossed it over your shoulder. The wind caught the flowers, shifted their course and dropped them directly into Vivienne’s arms. She stared down at the bouquet. Then she looked toward Marc, standing several feet away. Marc smiled. Vivienne’s cheeks turned pink as everyone began laughing and applauding. Beside you, Harry’s expression changed slowly. You looked up at him. “Don’t even start.” “I’m not saying anything.” “Your face is saying plenty.” He gave a small shrug. “I’m only wondering whether we can return the bouquet and try again.” You hit his shoulder lightly. “Shut up and dance with me.” The first notes of the music began.

Harry turned toward you and placed both hands at your waist. You slipped your arms around his neck, though the curve of your stomach prevented you from moving as close as either of you wanted. Harry glanced down at the space between you. “I had imagined holding my wife a little closer.” “Your daughters have other plans.” “They’ve been interfering all day.” “They’re making sure you behave.” Harry looked offended. “With my own wife?” “Especially with your own wife.” Harry laughed and lowered his forehead to yours, swaying with you as the music carried across the beach. A few feet away, Scarlet and Vivienne watched with matching tears in their eyes. “They deserved this happiness, didn’t they?” Vivienne whispered. Scarlet nodded. “More than anyone.” Vivienne dabbed at her cheek. “My eyes are leaking.” “So are mine.” Mikey appeared behind them.

“Should I call 911, or is this a shared maternal event?” Both women turned toward him. Sienna burst out laughing, and even Richard failed to hide his smile. You extended one hand toward the others. “Come on. Join us.” Scarlet joined Richard first, moving carefully around his cane. Ron drew Dana into his arms, while Sienna allowed Mikey to spin her with considerably more enthusiasm than skill. Vivienne hesitated only briefly before accepting Marc’s hand. Harry watched them, a trace of old protectiveness tightening his expression. You touched his cheek. “She looks happy.” His gaze returned to you. After a moment, he nodded and relaxed beneath your hand. “She does.” Near the edge of the dance floor, Emily, Chloe and Yuliana formed a loose circle, laughing as they danced together.

Lara clapped in time from her chair until Captain Alvarez offered his hand and persuaded her to join him for several careful steps. There was no ballroom, no orchestra and no audience waiting to judge what the day meant. Only the ocean, the music and every person you had chosen as family. Harry watched them for a moment—the people dancing barefoot or carefully around canes and hems, the laughter carried by the wind, the small, impossible life you had built out of everything that had nearly ended. Then his gaze returned to you. His arms tightened around your waist, and he rested his forehead against yours. “A little late,” he murmured, “but I think we made it.” You cupped his face in both hands. “We did. And we made it beautifully.” Your lips trembled. “Oh, no. I think it’s coming back.” Harry’s eyes softened with immediate alarm and amusement. “No. No crying, we just survived the ceremony. You can give the makeup ten more minutes.” You laughed, blinking quickly. “Okay. I’m not crying.” “Good.” “I’m almost not crying.” “That’s progress.” The wave passed slowly. You breathed in, steadied yourself, and looked up at him again. Harry’s smile faded into something quieter, deeper. “I love you so much,” he said. Your hands rested against his jaw as the music continued around you. “I love you too, Harry.” And while everyone you loved danced around you beneath the open sky, you let the moment stay exactly what it was. Yours.

Days turned into weeks. For a while, you and Harry stayed married only in the places that mattered. At home, in the quiet, his ring never left his finger. But every morning before a public meeting, a board dinner or anything involving cameras, he removed it with an apology he never seemed to grow tired of giving. “I hate it. I want everyone to know you’re my wife.” And every morning, you gave him the same answer. “They will. Wait until our girls are born.” The world still believed the real wedding was coming later—the grand one Scarlet and Vivienne were already designing with terrifying enthusiasm. When reporters asked how the preparations were going, you smiled, touched your stomach and said something harmless about family, timing and taking things slowly. Somehow, the rumors still began.

Did Harry Castillo and Ms. Queen Marry in Secret?

Private Beach Ceremony Reportedly Held in Bridgehampton. No Guests, No Press, No Confirmation: Inside Manhattan’s Most Talked-About Non-Wedding.

Some said Bridgehampton. Some said it had only been an engagement celebration. Some insisted there had been a wedding, but no one could produce a single photograph. You and Harry answered none of it. There were more important things to survive. Your stomach grew heavier by the week, until getting out of bed without assistance became less an act of independence and more an unnecessarily ambitious athletic event. Doctor’s appointments became nearly the only reason you left the house. Everyone else came to you. Emily arrived one afternoon claiming she had only stopped by to bring soup, then sat at the edge of your bed and confessed that she had started seeing the man her mother had hired as a waiter at the restaurant. He was Asian, apparently devastatingly handsome according to Emily’s increasingly unprofessional description, and “too polite in a way that felt dangerous.” Chloe gave her ex another chance and pretended she was being cautious about it, despite the fact that she blushed every time his name appeared on her phone. Scarlet and Richard came regularly under the excuse of checking on you, though Richard spent most of each visit asking the girls whether they intended to let their mother sleep. Lara moved in without ceremony, joining Yuliana in the practical, unspoken agreement that until the babies arrived, you were not to be left unattended for any length of time. Mikey and Sienna came sometimes together, sometimes separately, each visit explained with suspiciously unnecessary detail. Mikey brought stories from the office,most of them delivered with the confidence of a man who had survived another day in corporate warfare and deserved applause for it. Gerard still called when necessary, but even he had begun to respect the boundaries Dana enforced with frightening precision. For the last three weeks, he no longer patched you into meetings unless there was no alternative. Dana kept such careful notes that reading her briefings almost felt like being in the room. Almost. Queen Financial was not healed, not yet. But it was rising. The panic had passed. The structure was holding. The people who had expected you to disappear quietly were beginning to understand that you had only stepped back long enough to breathe. Harry had done the same in his own way. He met with Ron over laptop screens more often than in boardrooms now, choosing home whenever he could. Some afternoons, you would wake from a nap to find him at the foot of the bed, muted on a call, one hand resting absently over your ankle while he listened to Ron speak. By the time you entered your thirtieth week, your doctor stopped sounding politely cautious and began sounding direct. “You cannot be alone at home now,” she said. “Not for long periods. Not with this level of risk.” Harry’s hand tightened around yours. She reviewed the warning signs, the possibility of early labor, the need to avoid stress, overexertion and anything that might trigger contractions. “I’m also recommending pelvic rest from this point forward.” You glanced at Harry. He looked straight ahead.

The doctor continued, perfectly professional. “That means no intercourse, no penetration, and no sexual activity that results in orgasm. Uterine contractions after orgasm are usually harmless in low-risk pregnancies, but in your case, with twins and your current risk factors, we are not encouraging anything that could increase uterine activity.” Harry’s expression did not change, but his hand became very still around yours. You bit the inside of your cheek. He looked like a man receiving a sentence from a judge and refusing to appeal in public. In the car afterward, Harry remained silent for almost three minutes. “You’re being very mature,” you said. “I’m being tested.” You laughed and leaned your head against his shoulder. “It’s only temporary.” “I understand that.” “You look as if someone cancelled Christmas.” “I said I understand it. I didn’t say I enjoyed it.” But he was careful. More careful than you were, sometimes. When you curled into him at night, he kissed your forehead, your hair, your shoulder, then gently put space where space needed to be.

Sleeping became more difficult. Turning from one side to the other required planning, patience and, on particularly humiliating nights, Harry’s assistance. He surrounded you with pillows until the bed looked less like a bed and more like a medical nest designed by a luxury hotel. Still, the girls pressed against your ribs, your bladder, your lungs and every other part of you they apparently considered negotiable. Harry spoke to them every night. “Be kind to your mother,” he whispered, one hand spread over your stomach. “You’ll meet us soon enough.” A small kick answered him. “Not that soon,” he added sternly. You smiled into the pillow. Eight weeks, the doctor had said. Only eight weeks until you would meet your daughters.

Dinner was over when the call came. You were lowering yourself carefully onto the sofa, one hand braced against the armrest and the other resting over your stomach, when your phone began to ring on the coffee table. Unknown number. You frowned, reaching for it. “Who calls after dinner anymore?” Harry glanced up from where he was folding the throw blanket at the other end of the room. You answered before he could say anything. “Hello?” A woman’s voice spoke on the other end. Careful. Professional. “Ms. Queen? My name is Claire Walsh. I’m calling from a long-term care facility—” “A care facility?” you repeated, confused. Harry was beside you before the woman finished her next sentence. He took the phone gently but firmly from your hand. You stared at him. “Harry?” He ended the call. For a moment, neither of you spoke. “What was that?” “Nothing important.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You just took my phone from my hand. And hung up on a woman from a care facility.” “She shouldn’t have called you directly.” The sentence landed strangely. You pushed yourself higher against the cushions, studying him more closely. His face had gone pale, the controlled lines of it too still to be casual. “Harry,” you said slowly. “What is going on?” He looked away. That was enough. You knew every version of his silence. The business silence. The angry silence. The silence he used when he was trying to keep a room from collapsing around someone he loved. This was the last one. “How long have you been hiding calls from me?” His jaw tightened. Your breath caught. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? The last few days—your phone, Ron calling you outside the room, that woman—” “Baby.” “No.” Your voice sharpened. “Tell me. Please. What is going on?"

Harry stayed standing for another second. Then he exhaled, sat beside you and took both of your hands in his. “Last Friday, a woman came to the building,” he said carefully. “Security didn’t let her up. She said she needed to speak to you.” “About what?” “At first, I didn’t know.” Your fingers tightened around his. “And then?” “I saw her again the next day. Outside. I asked what she wanted.” Harry’s thumb moved slowly over your knuckles, as though he was trying to keep you anchored before he had even said the words. “She works at a long-term care facility,” he said. “Your biological father is there.” You swallowed. The room seemed to drop out from beneath you. For a second, you only stared at him. “My… what?” Harry’s face softened with worry. He reached up and brushed his fingers along your cheek. “Breathe for me."

You drew in a thin breath. One of the girls shifted beneath your ribs, and your hand moved instinctively to your stomach. “Continue,” you whispered. Harry nodded once. “She tried Scarlet first because he had been saying her name for weeks. Scarlet refused to speak to her. She tried to reach Mikey and couldn’t. Then she saw your name attached to mine in enough society articles to find the building.” Your mouth parted, but no sound came out. “Why is he there?” you asked finally. “Why is some woman calling me? Why now, after all these years?” Harry looked down at your joined hands. “The woman he left your mother for is gone. She took what remained of his money and disappeared when his illness became inconvenient.” His voice stayed low, measured. “He has Alzheimer’s. Advanced enough that some days he doesn’t know where he is. Some days he asks for Scarlet.

Some days he asks about the little boy.” “Mikey,” you breathed. Harry nodded. “And lately,” he said, softer now, “she said he keeps asking whether the baby was born.” The words moved through you like something cold. The baby. Harry did not answer immediately. Your eyes lifted to his. “Me?” His expression broke just enough to hurt. A tear slipped down your cheek. The daughter he had never met. The child he had left behind before she had even taken her first breath. Harry wiped the tear away with his thumb. “Baby, talk to me.” You stared past him, but all you could see was a man you had never known asking about a baby who had already grown up, married, divorced, survived him, and was now carrying two daughters of her own. “I need to see him.”

Harry’s brow drew together, that familiar deep crease forming between his eyes as his whole face tightened in immediate refusal. “No.” “Harry—” “No. Absolutely not.” “You don’t get to decide that.” “If we are talking about your health and our daughters’ safety, then I do get a say.” “A say, yes. Not the decision.” “You’re thirty weeks pregnant with twins. The doctor said no stress.” “I know what the doctor said.” “Then you know this is exactly the kind of thing she meant.” You pulled your hands back, not harshly, but enough to make him feel the distance. “I have to see him.” “You don’t owe him that.” “I know.” “He left you before you were born. He doesn’t deserve the chance to hurt you now.” “I know.” “Then why?” You pressed one hand to your stomach and swallowed hard. “Because if something happens and he dies, I will never know what was real.” Your voice broke. “I spent my whole life imagining him. When I was seven, I asked my mother about him, and after that I made up versions of him in my head. Younger. Better. Sorry.” You shook your head. “I don’t know if I want to see him. But I need to.” Harry looked at you for a long moment, the fight in his expression slowly giving way to something heavier. You reached for his hand again. “I don’t owe him anything,” you whispered. “But I think I owe something to the seven-year-old version of me who thought he might still come back if she was worth coming back to.” That did it. Harry’s face changed completely. The anger left him first, then the argument. What remained was something softer, almost wounded. “Oh, baby,” he murmured. He reached for you at once, his hand sliding gently over your hair as he drew you closer.

His eyes had gone bright, though he tried to blink it away before you could see. “She was always worth coming back to,” he said quietly. “He was the one who didn’t deserve to find his way back.” Your breath broke against his chest. Harry closed his eyes briefly and let out a slow breath. When he opened them again, his fear was still there. So was the decision. “We go together,” he said.

The facility smelled like lemon cleaner, old carpet and something medicinal underneath. You hated that your first thought was how small everything seemed. The woman from the phone met you near the entrance and spoke softly to Harry while you stood with both hands curved over your stomach. He kept one hand at your lower back the entire time, steady and warm through the thin fabric of your dress. When they brought you to the room, you stopped at the threshold. The man sitting by the window was not the man you had imagined at seven. He was not the famous director whose face you had cut from old entertainment magazines and hidden in the back of your drawer. Not the man smiling beside actresses at premieres, not the man whose interviews you had read in secret, searching for some trace of yourself in the shape of his mouth or the way his eyes held the camera. That man had belonged to glossy paper and childhood invention. This one was thinner than memory had any right to make him. Older than he should have been. His hair had gone almost completely white, his shoulders folded inward beneath a cardigan that looked too large for him. His hands rested in his lap, restless over the blanket. For a moment, you could not breathe. Harry leaned closer. “We can leave.” You shook your head. The man turned at the sound. His eyes moved over Harry first, then found you. He stared. Your body went cold. “Scarlet?” he whispered. Harry’s hand tightened at your back. You tried to speak, but nothing came. The man’s gaze drifted lower, to your stomach. Something in his face changed. Confusion. Wonder.

A grief too late to be useful. “The baby,” he said. Your breath caught. He looked up at you again, eyes wet and empty of recognition. “Our girl?” The room tilted. “No,” you whispered. But he did not understand. Or perhaps some ruined part of him did, because his mouth trembled as he reached toward you with a hand that shook. Harry stepped between you at once. The movement broke something in you. You took a step back before you could stop yourself, one hand rising to your mouth as you looked at the helpless, fragile old man in front of you. He did not look like the man who had destroyed your mother. He did not look like the man who had left behind a pregnant wife and a one-year-old son. He looked small. Lost. Almost pitiful. And somehow, that hurt worse. For years, you had imagined anger would be enough to hold you upright if this moment ever came. You had imagined questions.

Accusations. The clean satisfaction of finally saying what a child could not. But there was no one here to answer you. Only an old man who looked at you and saw your mother. Only a mind trapped in the year he had left. Only the baby he had never stayed to meet, standing in front of him with two babies of her own. You turned away because you could not look at him anymore. Behind you, he murmured something soft and broken. “Scarlet… don’t go.” Your eyes closed. Harry understood before you spoke. “That’s enough,” he said gently. The woman from the facility said something behind you, but you did not hear it. Harry guided you into the corridor, one arm firm around your waist. You made it three steps before the sob broke loose. Harry pulled you into him. “I thought he would be different,” you choked out. “I know that’s stupid. I know he was never good.

But when I was little, I imagined this so many times.” “I know.” “He was supposed to be healthy. Arrogant. Shameless.” Your voice broke harder. “He was supposed to be the man who betrayed my mother and left two children behind. I was supposed to be able to hate him. To ask him why. To make him look at me.” Harry held you tighter. “But he can’t even do that,” you sobbed. “He can’t answer me. He can’t apologize. He can’t even know me.” “Breathe, baby,” Harry murmured. “Please. For me.” “He was supposed to see me.” Your fingers twisted in his jacket. “He doesn’t even know me, Harry.” “I know.” His voice was rough now. “I’m sorry.” You clutched at him, crying too hard to stand without him. “I’m right here,” he said, his hand moving slowly over your back. “You’re not that baby anymore. You hear me? You’re here. You have me. You have Richard—the father who stayed. You have our girls. He doesn’t get to take that from you.” You tried to nod. Harry’s hand moved to your stomach. “Think of them. Just breathe. In and out.” It took several minutes before you could move again.

The woman from the facility followed you into the corridor, holding a worn black notebook against her chest. “I’m sorry,” she said carefully. “There is one more thing.” Harry’s arm tightened around your waist. “Not now.” But your gaze had already dropped to the notebook. “What is that?” The woman hesitated. “They found it among his things when he was moved here. He kept it for years.” Her eyes softened with something like pity. “He knew about you, Ms. Queen. About both of you. It’s only in the last year that the illness began taking names from him.” The words landed too slowly. He knew.

You should have said no. Instead, you reached for it. The cover was cracked at the corners, the pages swollen from age. When you opened it, the first thing you saw was Mikey’s face, cut from a society magazine years ago and pasted crookedly onto yellowing paper. MICHAEL QUEEN CAUSES SCENE AT CHARITY AUCTION A laughless breath caught in your throat. Mikey looked younger in the photograph, grinning at someone outside the frame as if he had absolutely no intention of learning from the incident. The next page was Scarlet. SCARLET QUEEN TO STAR OPPOSITE ROBERT DE NIRO She was impossibly young, impossibly beautiful, her smile bright enough to belong to a woman who had not yet learned how much grief could cost. Then another. QUEEN AND CASTILLO FAMILIES UNITE IN HIGH-SOCIETY WEDDING Your first wedding. Your face beside Harry’s, both of you caught on the church steps, younger and shining with a kind of happiness you had not known enough to protect. Your fingers trembled as you turned the page. MS. QUEEN RETURNS TO NEW YORK A photograph from one of your first major public appearances after joining Queen Financial. Then another. QUEEN FINANCIAL’S HEIRESS STEPS INTO POWER And another. MS. QUEEN SHINES AT ANNUAL GALA Page after page. Your face, collected in silence. Not loved properly. Not claimed. Not protected. Just watched from a distance. Harry looked over your shoulder and went very still. Between the clippings, there were folded letters in shaky handwriting. Scarlet, forgive me. Scarlet, I made a mistake. Scarlet, tell me about my kids. The words blurred. A sound left you before you could stop it. “He…” you whispered. “All those years…” Harry turned toward you at once. “Baby—” “He knew.” Your hand moved to your stomach.

For one second, everything inside you went too quiet. Then a hard tightening pulled low across your abdomen. You gasped. Harry’s face changed instantly. “Baby?” Another wave came before you could answer. Not sharp enough to name, but deep and wrong enough to steal your breath. The notebook slipped from your fingers and hit the floor. “H-Harry.” He caught you before your knees gave way. “No, no, no.” His voice dropped into panic before he forced it steady. “Baby, look at me.” Your fingers clutched at his jacket. “The babies—” Harry lifted you into his arms before you could finish. “I’ve got you.” His voice was calm in the way it became only when he was terrified. “Open the doors,” he called down the corridor. “Now.” The woman from the facility moved quickly, shouting for help as Harry carried you toward the exit. “Look at me,” he said, holding you carefully against his chest. “Breathe for me.” Then he felt it. The warmth soaking through the fabric beneath his arm. For half a second, his mind went brutally blank. Then everything the doctor had said came back at once: thirty weeks, twins, stress, warning signs, early labor, rupture, pressure, do not wait. His hold tightened. “No,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Not yet.” Another pressure rolled through you, harder this time. A broken cry slipped from your mouth. “Harry.” Your voice cracked with fear. “It’s too early. It’s too early. I can’t—They can’t come now.” “Yes, you can.” He pressed his mouth briefly to your hair as he moved faster, his heart beating violently against you. “Listen to me. You can. I’m taking you to the hospital. You and the girls are going to be okay.” “I’m scared.” “I know.” His voice roughened.

“I know, baby. I’ve got you.” The driver was already out of the car when Harry reached the entrance. “Mr. Castillo?” “Call the doctor,” Harry ordered as the doors opened ahead of him. “Now.” The driver grabbed his phone with shaking hands. Harry lowered you into the back seat, one arm still braced behind you, the other pressed protectively over your stomach. Another wave hit. You clutched his shirt, tears breaking free. “Harry…” He looked down at your face, all the color gone from his own. “Stay with me,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Please. Stay with me."

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“Number one rule of anal sex is ‘No rush’,” Mr Miller says to his son. The older man is sitting by your side, his hands gently kneading your naked asscheeks. You hold your breath when he spreads the globes of your flesh and exposes your pussy slit and butthole. Both entrances clench.

You’ve been going out with Jack Miller for almost a year and you know his dad Joel relatively well. He’s single, works as a contractor, loves spending his free time playing the guitar, woodworking, watching old action movies and going to the bar with his brother Tommy. What you haven’t known before tonight is how good his fingers feel when he pushes them into your asshole. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

It all started with an argument. Jack was getting on your nerves, begging you to have anal.

“C’mon, baby,” he said, clinging to you like an annoying lap dog. He had just fingered you as a foreplay so you were sweaty and sleepy, lying naked on his bed. As always it had taken him too long. He had trouble finding the right rhythm and the right angle like he’d never touched your pussy before. While he was fiddling with your lady parts, a slideshow of your favorite porno scenes was playing on a loop behind your tightly closed eyes until finally you reached an underwhelming orgasm.

Probably relying on endorphins clouding your judgement, Jack began his anal pitch. He was promising you heavenly pleasure and an unforgettable experience, mostly turning himself on - a pole was proudly tenting his sweatpants.

Despite the passion in his voice, you were adamant in your decision. You’d never done it with anyone before and doubted that Jack was experienced enough to show you a wonderful world of anal.

“It’s not that simple, Jack! Jerking off to anal porn is not enough! What if you hurt me! You need to educate yourself first. You need to know… stuff.” You pulled the cover over your naked breasts and crossed your arms.

“What stuff?” Jack frowned.

“Exactly!”

You stared at the ceiling, contemplating getting dressed and going home. You were sure he wouldn’t let it go. And he didn’t.

“I’ll be careful, I promise. Just a tip first, you won’t even feel it. I’ll be super slow and then bam! I’m inside.”

BAM! No one in the history of mankind wanted to hear Bam! and their ass in the same sentence. So you shook your head and gave Jack an alternative,

“Why don’t you fuck my pussy?”

Jack palmed his clothed boner with interest but then shook his head, doubling down.

“Baby, pleaseeeeee..”

Nothing extraordinary would have happened if Jack hadn’t kept nagging and whining, pleading you to give him your butt. You kept saying ‘no’, he kept begging. It got so annoying that you decided to leave but before you sat up there was a loud knock on the bedroom door.

“Dad,” Jack grumbled and got up. He adjusted his hard cock and you pulled the bed cover higher, covering your chest.

“What’s up, dad?” Jack said, annoyed by the interruption.

“Can I …?” Mr Miller stepped into the bedroom. You swallowed loudly. It was weird to be completely naked under the sheet in front of your boyfriend’s father.

“Sorry for intrudin’, sweetheart,” he said, turning to you and then to his son. “Jack, I can’t listen to it no more! Don’t you get what she’s sayin’?”

“Dad, what the hell?” Jack’s cheeks grew red, he was shifting on his bare feet, throwing nervous glances at you. And you definitely shared his confusion.

“I wasn’t eavesdroppin’ I swear. These fuckin walls are cardboard thin. You were whinin’ like a little bitch, son. Sorry, sweetheart,” Mr Miller apologized to you again and then said the words that you’d never expected to hear from your boyfriend’s dad.

“Let me teach you anal.”

Jack was shocked and embarrassed. He was gawking at his dad with widened eyes while the older man was standing by the bed, towering over his son, feet planted firmly on the ground. He kept saying that he only wanted to help, gesturing with his big hands. To your surprise you immediately pictured those hands on your naked body.

You wondered how Mr Miller would teach you. Maybe he’d watch Jack and you, guiding you both, giving advice, or maybe he’d take matters (your ass) into his own hands. Those huge veiny hands. The thought made your core pucker and while Jack was asking his dad to leave, saying that he lost his mind, you pressed your thighs together under the cover, trying to alleviate the ache in your pussy.

“I couldn’t hear the TV, Jack! Only your pathetic attempts to put it in her ass. Sorry, baby,” Mr Miller looked at you, his hands raised palms to you.

“Don’t call her that,” Jack grumbled. He looked and sounded like a boy who didn’t want to share his toy truck.

“‘K,” his father nodded and turned at you. “Jus’ wanna help.”

He dropped his hands by his sides, his sad puppy eyes moving from his son and to you and back. Your heart swelled. Your pussy throbbed.

“Ok,” you said, surprising your boyfriend and yourself. Jack gawked at you.

“What do you mean ‘ok’?!”

“You want to have anal, yeah? But you got no clue what to do, don’t even lie, Jack! Let your dad teach us.”

That’s how you ended up in a position you couldn’t imagine being in your wildest dreams — lying naked on your front, your legs spread, your boyfriend's dad playing with your butt.

“Help ‘er relax,” Mr Miller says to his son, his voice soft and soothing, his tone casual as if he’s teaching Jack how to fix a lawn mower. Your boyfriend is seated in a gaming chair a foot away from the bed, his arms crossed, eyes narrowed. When his gaze meets yours, you quickly look away. He doesn’t seem pleased, rather mortified. Whatever. You always thought that Mr Miller was hot, in a rugged and dilf-y way.

Once you had a dream about blowing him in their kitchen, your mouth full of his fat cock, his fingers tight in your hair, no Jack and his cuck gaming chair in sight.

“Draw ‘er a nice bath, give ‘er a massage, somethin’ like that,” Joel says as his calloused palm glides up and down the back of your thigh. You’re one big goosebump, his touch is electrifying.

“No harsh movements.” He carefully pushes on your inner thigh until you bend up your leg. Your hips open and slightly rise off the bed. “She needs to be pliant, ready to take you in her most vulnerable place.”

Jack swallows hard. Your cheek is resting on the pillow, your head turned away from Mr Miller, but you are seeing him perfectly in the wardrobe mirror that stands lengthwise the bed. He’s wearing his usual flannel, sleeves rolled up, and dark blue jeans. It’s not his home clothes and you wonder if he dressed like this for you.

Mr Miller’s salt and pepper locks curl up at the nape, he needs a haircut, but you like his hair longer. You imagine running your fingers through his curls, tugging on them while he’s plowing your wet needy …

“Are you comfortable, sweetie?” Joel interrupts your dirty daydream with a question, his voice soft and raspy. It could have lulled you to sleep if not for a finger that grazes your butthole, making you flinch.

“Uh-huh.” You don’t sound too sure.

“We’ll get there,” he says with a little smile and adds, “Together.”

While you’re slowly melting into the bedsheets from his gentle tone, Mr Miller turns to Jack.

“Another important thing is lubrication. You have some?”

It looks like Jack’s using all his energy to dissociate at the moment thus he misses the question.

“Huh?”

“Lube? You have it or I need to go get mine?”

You widen your eyes, picturing Mr Miller squirt lube on some lucky lady in his master bedroom. And to think you considered him almost celibate!

Your boyfriend blinks a few times, then gets up. You hear him rummaging through a mess in his nightstand drawer, mumbling the word ‘crazy’ before he throws a little bottle on the bed and returns to his chair.

“It should be warm,” Joel says, rolling it between his wide palms.

“May I?” His reflection points at your ass in the mirror and you nod with a quiet ‘yes’. Mr Miller opens the lid with teeth and moves your left asscheek to the side for better access.

“Oh!” You gasp when a slight cold glob of lube lands on your tight ring.

“Bit more.” Joel adds another squirt and then starts spreading the liquid around your ring with a tip of his finger.

“Ahhhh,” you whimper and bite your tongue immediately. Jack’s chair creaks.

“Feels good?” When Joel asks you the question you don’t see a point in lying so you say “yeah.” Wet arousal pools in your core, it’s a matter of minutes before it slides out of your hole and reveals how insanely horny Mr Miller is making you.

“We’re just startin’ and look at her response,” Joel says with pride in his velvet voice while his finger is slowly drawing circles over your asshole. “She’s enjoyin’ it. Even if we stop now she’ll remember the act as something pleasant.”

“Maybe we should,” Jack mutters but neither Joel nor you pay it any attention. Hot flames are licking at your core, the ache in your pussy growing so fast, you roll your hips against the bed, searching for friction.

Adding gasoline to your horny fire is the sight in the mirror in front of you — Joel’s sexy hand moving rhythmically over your ass, his plush lips slightly parted, his dark eyes focused on your puckered hole.

Mr Miller lowers his voice and asks, “Growin’ needy?”

Your eyes lock in the mirror. Fuck! A hot flash burns your lower belly when his black pupils meet yours. Sparks flying, gazes drawn to each other for a few long seconds, promising pleasure and trouble. The intense eye contact does something to you, drowns you in an ocean of lust, pulls you so deep you panic and hastily flick your eyes to your boyfriend who seems very pale.

“Sweetheart,” Joel calls you as if hating to share your attention with his son. You hum but don’t look at him.

“Do you give your permission for the next step? To open you up I need to eat your ass. Is that alright?”

“No!”

“Yes!”

Both you and Jack answer but you are the one calling the shots.

“Yes!” You repeat louder and raise your brows at Jack. Your boyfriend lets out a defeated sigh and drops his head.

“Good,” Joel says and gives your butt a light pat before cupping both asscheeks and spreading them apart. Cold air laps at your holes and you shiver. Joel smiles, probably noticing goosebumps on your skin.

“We’ll start slow.” In the mirror you watch him unhinge his jaw, stick his tongue out and lower his head.

You gasp when Mr Miller slowly licks your tight butthole. “Oh my God!”

Joel chuckles and repeats the depraved action. Soon he’s licking your asshole gingerly, his fingers digging into your flesh with passion. You’re softly moaning, your eyes are rolling to the back of your head. You’ve never had your ass eaten and the sensation is incredible. You wish he’d get lower and take care of your leaking pussy but fuckkk you can come just from Mr Miller’s tongue dancing over your little butthole. So when he parts from your ass, your needy whine rings in the room.

“I’ll be right back, sweetie.”

His wet lips are curled up at the corners, pride sparkling in his blown out eyes, Joel glances back at his son and announces,

“Now we gonna start openin’ her up with a tongue.” Your breathing hitches. You don’t see Jack’s expression because you can’t tear your eyes off Mr Miller in the mirror. “Gently push the tip inside her just so” — Joel leans down and his hot tongue prods at your ring, your mouth forms an O as you moan.

Joel mutters, “Slowly go in,” then his head begins moving up and down while his tongue slides into your ass deeper with every bop. He’s salivating onto your crack, the wetness dripping down to your pussy, covering your folds with the warm spit.

You are losing your mind over how amazing it feels, meanwhile Joel alternates between licking your ring and tongue-fucking it for what seems like hours or so you wish. His lewd slurping fills the room and mixes with your soft noises. You apply all your willpower to stop yourself from moaning like a whore out of respect for your boyfriend who is now sitting with his legs crossed, probably hard but too shocked to accept it.

“How you feelin’, baby?” Joel asks, licking his spit-covered lips.

“S—so good, Mr Miller,” you stutter, staring at him in the mirror with your half lidded eyes.

“See, she’s already gapin’ a little,” Joel says, showing your asshole to Jack.

“Hm-m,” Jack hums, his brows furrowed, his suspicious gaze trained on your ecstatic face.

“Now let’s add a finger.”

You squeak like a little mouse and your holes clench. Joel notices.

“Hey, don’t be scared, babygirl. You’re open nicely now. And I’m gonna be gentle, yeah?”

“Ok,” you reply and hold your breath.

“Nuh-uh. None of that. You should be breathin’, sweetheart.” He puts his warm heavy palm on your back, between your shoulder blades and rubs it up and down, giving you a rhythm.

“In— out—in— out.”

You follow his direction and soon your muscles relax, your eyes flutter close, your jaws unclench. It seems like your body is seeping into the mattress.

“I’m puttin’ one finger in.”

His voice is so quiet you barely register his words, barely notice his finger going inside your ass, miss a slight burn of the stretch, that’s how serene you are feeling.

When you finally open your eyes you see Mr Miller’s reflection thrusting his index finger in and out of your butthole, his eyes on your ring, his lip between his teeth.

“Wow,” you mutter, in awe of the hot sight and the new sensation. All your holes clench again and again, your pussy pushing your generous slick out and you catch yourself wanting Joel to fuck you.

"Another finger? Is that alright, sweetie?" With your heart pounding in your ears, Joel's raspy voice seems both close and far. You nod and mumble a shaky 'yes' before he inserts a second digit into your lubed up asshole. You moan, Joel growls, both at the same time. Your boyfriend curses under his breath.

"Hooooooly hell," you exhale against the pillow, clenching bedsheets with your clammy palms while Joel's scissoring your tight ring open. "This … it's amazing."

Joel pulls his fingers out of you and chuckles yet it comes out strained. You know it takes everything from him not to whip his cock out and fuck you right now. Jack seems to feel it, too.

"Dad, maybe that's enough?"

"No."

"No!"

Your yell drowns out Joel's reply. Your cheeks burning, lust clouding your mind and overtaking your body, you lift your head off the bed and glare at Jack.

"Mr Miller needs to... we need to learn what to do next. Right?"

Jack crosses his arms, his lower lip sticking out.

Completely disregarding his son's suggestion to stop, Joel nods at you and asks Jack as if it's some depraved sex ed class.

"She's nice and ready now. What's next?"

Jack blinks at his dad, a mixture of frustration and confusion plastered on his face. He shrugs. "I fuck her."

"Wrong!" Joel sits up straight and gives him a disappointed look. "Son, the most important thing about anal is consent."

You drop your head back on the pillow and nod with the 'obviously' expression meanwhile Joel continues.

"Even after you did all the necessary prep, you ask her again. And if she says 'no', you stop! Got it?"

You watch Joel in the mirror, his bushy brows furrowed, two obsidian eyes piercing Jack. He's not fucking around.

"Yeah."

"Huh?"

"Yes, sir," Jack mumbles. He looks so pitiful now you get scared of your pussy turning into the Sahara so you hastily move your eyes to the mirror with Joel's reflection in it.

You watch and feel your boyfriend's dad lean down to you. His hot breath fans your naked back, sending chills down your spine, as he asks,

"Can I fuck your ass now, baby?"

Your voice is wanton and needy, you're almost drooling onto the bed, as you reply,

"Yes, Mr Miller. But..?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Can I be on my back?”

Joel kisses your shoulder and coos,

“Sure thing.”

Your body buzzing with want, you slowly and awkwardly roll over. Your exposed tits jiggle as you get comfortable and Joel takes you in— your puffy pussy, your heaving belly, your nipples hard as diamonds, desire plastered on your face.

Jack nervously clears his throat and leaves his cuck chair.

“You ain’t really doing it, right?”

You’re not sure if he’s talking to you or his dad but Joel is the one who answers,

“I’m teachin’ you two. And this is the most crucial part. You wanna go in now and ruin all the progress?”

Jack closes and opens his mouth, but when you shake your head at his attempt to intervene, your boyfriend plops back in the chair, looking gobsmacked.

“This is insane,” he murmurs and you have to agree. You’re feeling insanely good.

With a nonchalant expression on his flushed face Joel grabs a pillow.

“Raise your hips for me, baby.”

You do what he asks and he quickly places it under your butt. When your hips are raised Joel hums in approval.

“Grab your knees for me, please.”

Like an obedient student you do it immediately.

“That’s it. Good girl.”

His praise, his scent - manly and dizzying, his warm smile, his obsidian eyes set between your thighs — all of it makes your blooming pussy contract and a drop of clear slick beads at your entrance.

Joel smirks, his dark gaze darts to yours and then back to your leaky hole. He opens his mouth but words die on his lips.

Instead he takes a sharp breath and climbs on the bed, grunting. With your body trembling in anticipation you watch Mr Miller kneel by your propped up butt, unzip his jeans, his back now to his son.

Just for your hungry eyes, he pulls his cock out. Big, veiny, hard as steel fuck machine. Hnggg!

You clench your jaws, killing a moan that rises in your throat from the sight of his manhood. You see a drop of precum on the slit and your mouth waters.

“Need more lube.” Joel squirts a generous amount on his hand and then strokes his cock spreading the liquid.

You squirm on the bed, fear and excitement coursing through your veins. He wants to stick that huge thing where?!

Joel seems to read the worry on your face. With one hand around the base of his stiff shaft, he brings the other to your knee and gives it a light squeeze.

“If you want me to stop I will.”

You don’t reply, just stare up at him, fear and desire playing tug-of-war in your heart.

“See?” Joel gets his son’s attention but doesn’t look away from you. “This sweet thing is unsure but she’s bein’ brave and doesn’t stop me.”

Jack sighs with relief from behind Joel’s broad body. He probably hopes that you’ve changed your mind.

Then the older man addresses you.

“You don’t have to be brave for me or anyone else, ok?” You hum while warmth spreads in your belly, reaches your clit and makes it throb. You open your mouth but words don’t come out. Joel gives you a knowing smile and offers,

“How ‘bout I open you up again with my fingers? Two steps forward, one step back.”

Jack’s chair creaks unhappily when you breathe out, “Yes, please.”

Joel gives you a curt nod and sits on his heels, his cock still hard and waiting. His strong hand circles around the back of your thigh as he keeps it steady for you.

Jack’s view is blocked by Joel so he doesn’t see when his dad traces your pussy hole with his fingers and brings the wetness down to your ring. His eyes dart up to yours just for a second, you see lust and mischief there.

“Alright, here we go,” he mumbles to himself, easing two lubed up fingers inside you. This time you take them easily, dull pain of the stretch is present but also welcomed. You moan.

Mr Miller closely watches your face twisting with pleasure while his fingers are fucking your butt. You watch him back, suddenly swept by a feeling so strong, you forget how to breathe for a second. There's no one else in the room, in the whole world, only you and this big older man, giving you an unforgettable experience, filling the hole that’s never been filled and you don’t want it to end, hate for him to stop. Stop giving, taking, watching you melt for him.

Ahhhh! A scorching heat floods your belly and hits you like a tsunami. Your core walls clench once, twice, your head digs into the pillow underneath, your eyes close and a loud moan slips out of your mouth. You’re shaking and crying ecstatic tears, your ass squeezing Joel’s thick digits, your pussy contracting around nothing.

“D— did you just come? Jack’s cold tone brings you back to reality as if a bucket of icy water was thrown over your head. Still jerking with climax you snap your eyes open, your breathing heavy, and see Joel’s lopsided smile in front of you.

Fuck! Your cheeks and neck burn and you cover your face with your hands, embarrassed by unraveling in front of your boyfriend’s dad. With his fingers in your ass.

Joel comes to your rescue. He gently rubs your thigh with his paddle of a hand and coos,

“She’s one of a kind, Jack. The anal stimulation isn’t as pleasurable for women as it is for men. In the right hands though… you did wonderful, sweetie.”

You bite your lip, hiding a grin that’s about to bloom on your face, and grip your knees tighter.

“We can stop now if…,” Joel starts.

“No!” You cut him off and push your knees to your chest. “I want to be ready. For the real thing.”

“I’ll give you the real thing,” Joel whispers so quietly it’s barely audible but you hear. Your eyes lock as he plants his palm on the bed by your side and hovers over your lower half.

“Ready, sweetheart?”

After you say ‘yes’ Mr Miller glances back in the direction of his son.

“Jus’ the tip at first. Maybe only. Depends on how she takes it.”

He looks down at you with that soft but feral gaze of his and talks to Jack.

“Watch her face closely when you push inside.”

Joel’s hot leaky cockhead kisses your pussy hole and you gasp, your entrance winking at his manhood, inviting it to come in. Joel whispers,

“Only teasin’.” You smile and shake your head at the man. He gives you a wink and drags his tip down along the delicate skin between your pussy and asshole and then nudges your tight ring.

“If she scrunches her pretty nose, stop. Means she’s hurtin’.”

Joel presses his crown against your asshole and applies pressure. Your mouth parts when he starts pushing it into your asshole, the stretch far bigger than with his fingers. You take a few deep breaths, not stopping him, craving to be fucked.

“Yeah, breathe for me, baby. In and out. Like I taught ya.”

In! in! in! your pussy screams and throbs with the rhythm of your heartbeat, your body desperate to be ruined by your boyfriend’s dad.

Mr Miller pauses and closes his eyes, his forearm muscles tense with restraint, the veins of his hand that’s wrapped around his shaft are bulging. He speaks, trying to keep his voice steady.

“The most difficult thing now—is to control yourself — all you wanna do — is shove your dick deep inside her— to the hilt—- she feels so fuckin’ good.”

His arousal and your desire merge together and form an electric cloud around you two, the scent of sex heavy in the air. Mr Miller moves another inch deeper and you whimper.

“But you musn’t,” he grunts to his son or to himself. “You should be in control— think of her first and your pleasure second —Yeahhh?”

The last word sounds like a moan and you smile dizzily, ecstatic to see how much bliss you’re giving him. Joel pushes in some more and then looks into your eyes. “Wanna see?”

You nod eagerly and place another pillow under your head, propping it up to get a better view.

The sight before your eyes takes your breath away. Joel’s big hand wrapped around his girthy cock, the veins on his shaft thumping, glistening with lube. But the best thing is your stretched asshole, hugging Joel’s tip buried inside.

“Wow,” you breathe out. Joel smirks, his smile lopsided and boyish. He drops his head to your butt and asks,

“Wanna stop here? Done so good already.”

You crane your neck and glance at Jack, expecting him to scream ‘Yes! Stop! Now!’ but he’s hunched over in his cuck chair with a blank stare, chewing on the nail of his thumb.

You bring your gaze back up at Joel and purr,

“I want all of it.”

Joel nods and thrusts in.

Mr Miller’s fucking your ass like it’s been made solemnly for this purpose. His hands are gripping your spread thighs, leaving marks on your soft skin, his hips snapping against your asscheeks, drowning the room in the lewd Slap slap slap! Sounds.

By now you’ve lost all the composure and your loud moans are flowing freely from your lips, mixing with Joel’s animalistic growls.

“Yeahhhh.. good girl…she’s a fast learner… takin’ me like a champ.”

“Thanks, Mr Miller,” you mewl with your eyes rolling to the back of your head when you feel a second orgasm building. Hungry for it you lick your fingers, reach for your throbbing clit and start rubbing it while Joel’s steel shaft is massaging your insides.

“Lemme… want some help?” Joel asks, consent king as always.

“Yes, please.”

Not minding his son watching you two from the back, Joel brings his calloused thumb to your puffy clit and starts drawing infinities over it.

You arch your back, losing your mind over how amazing it feels. Your ass is full of Joel’s cock, but your neglected pussy hole is crying desperately. You look for your boyfriend behind Joel’s broad back. He still looks shell shocked, his widened eyes lowered, and you realize that he’s watching his dads heavy balls slap against his girlfriend’s asscheeks.

Opps.

“Mr Miller,” you whisper, staring at the older man again, “Could you..?”

You lift your hand, stick two fingers out and move them up and down, fingering an invisible pussy.

Joel flashes you a knowing smile.

“Gotcha, sweetie.” He glances back at his son and raises his voice, talking to you,

“You strugglin’, baby? Ok if I help you relax?”

You consent loudly so Jack could hear and the next second Mr Miller changes hands and his dry index and middle fingers easily enter your sopping pussy.

Yeahhhh! You whimper, so full of his fat cock and digits, it feels like you’re going to come apart at the seams.

Joel’s massaging your g-spot with two fingers, his thumb working your clit, his cock relentlessly rutting into your ass. You’ve never been fucked this good and you try to hold off your second climax, hating for the sex to end.

But Joel’s too hot, too experienced and soon you come with a wail, arching your sweaty back off the bed and clamping Joel’s hips with your thighs. Blinding ecstasy is coursing through your body, your cunt pulsing around Joel’s fingers, your asshole choking his cock so hard he stills.

“Here— we g—goooHngggg….” he roars, retreats his fingers out of your pussy and covers you with his huge frame. He pushes his face into your sweaty neck but holds his weight over your thrashing body.

“Where?” He chokes, his chest rumbling with groans, and you wrap your arms around his broad back and press your naked tits to him, mumbling into his ear,

“Inside my ass, Mr Miller. Please.”

His whole body tenses up over you and he begins squirting his hot cum deep inside your butt. The warmth of his load fills you more and more, every erratic thrust of his cock pushes the sticky spent back into you and you hold him tight, wishing to be stuffed to the brim. It doesn’t take long with how much he comes and soon his jizz covers your asscheeks and his balls, sticking them together like glue. You feel filthy and sexy, with your boyfriend’s dad busting inside you, the former having a perfect view of your asshole sucking the older man’s cum in. Too abundant it rolls down your crack and onto Jack’s bed.

Both of you are panting when Joel carefully pulls his cock out of your asshole and falls on the bed next to you, still fully clothed except for the pulled down jeans and boxers.

“Dad, put your dick away,” Jack grumbles.

“Yeah yeah.” Joel tucks his cock back in, leaving his jeans open. He sounds exhausted. You cover yourself with a sheet suddenly remembering that you’re naked next to your boyfriend’s dad.

You turn your head to him resting next to you, his forearm covering his closed eyes, his chest rising and falling quickly, his leg dangling off the edge of the bed. He’s so handsome you want to bite him. The man had a full day of work and then rocked your world. You find it incredibly hot but also feel guilty for exhausting him even more.

You watch Mr Miller for a few moments, warmth spreading in your belly and chest, until he takes a deep breath, opens his eyes and turns his head to you.

“Dad?” Jack calls impatiently, hurrying the man to leave but Joel doesn’t spare him a glance and asks you,

“How you feelin’, baby?”

He nods down at your pussy but you know he’s asking about your butt.

“I’m ok.” You squirm on the bed, trying to access your state. “A little sore but good.”

“Good,” Joel repeats with a warm smile. You’re staring at each other silently, his gaze soft and warm, grinning like two fools. You want to kiss him but stop yourself. It’s inappropriate.

Then you remember where his cock was just a few minutes ago and giggle.

“What is it?” Joel asks, his eyes dart between yours and then slide to your lips.

You shake your head, silence thick and loaded between you two.

Jack rips it apart as he clears his throat.

“Thanks, dad. Fucking hell. You can go now.”

He gets up from the chair and crosses his arms, frowning at the two of you. You wonder if he’s going to break up with you after this. Whatever.

Joel sits up with a grunt and gets out of the bed. He sways a little and you smile proudly — you did it to him.

“Thank you, Mr Miller.” You sit up, holding the sheet over your body. He zips up his jeans and winks,

“Don’t mention it, baby.”

Jack scoffs. Joel heads to the door but as he passes his son he pauses.

“Get her a wet towel. And some water,” he commands. “So .. if she took my cock, she wouldn’t even notice yours. You’re welcome.”

With that he pats his son’s shoulder and leaves.

Who needs Jack, amirite? Maybe Joel can teach them something else?🤔 Thank you for reading! Please, leave a comment and reblog if you enjoyed the story💞

MASTERLIST

Story tag list: @hanahleah @iwas19 @thewitchflowcr @classybroad2 @elinaxxxxx @ivoryandflame @mysterialee @604to647 @reddrippysocks @madridisms @suburban-panic-smut @disco-fairy75 @ningaispunk @/time-for-my-weekly-spanking @littlepadika @max--phillips Milla @gutter-noise @hauntedinkk

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Most Romantic (or sweetest): Amor Meus Aeternus ➛ (Marcus Acacius x Ofc).

This will always be one of my favorite romantic moments. 🥹 After traveling through time, Marcus earns his own money and the first thing he does is buy Rosa flowers. It's such a small gesture, but it means everything to me. 🤍

As soon as you opened the door, you froze at the sight before you. Daisies. A bouquet of them was offered to you from a hand reaching out, and that’s when you spot Marcus. Seeing his smile made you place your hand on your chest and take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart. “I was thinking the flowers for Rosa should be roses again, but then I remembered you said you liked daisies,” he said, looking straight at you. He frowned at your expression. “Are you well?” Instead of taking the flowers, you reached out and hugged him tightly. “Marcus, you scared me! I thought you got lost or that something had happened to you.” He gently patted your back. “Don’t worry, I know my way home now. This is my city too, remember? I’ve made a mental map of the new city by recreating the buildings I remember from my time. I don’t think I’ll get lost easily.” Taking a step back, you observed him closely. “Really? That's quite clever. But you still need to have your phone with you, so make sure you answer when I call.”  “You're right, I will,” he replied.  You took the bouquet of daisies from his hand. “But how did you manage to buy these? You don’t have any euros.” "Enzo," he replied with a grin. "He mentioned that he owed me a payment from last time but couldn't give it to me directly, so he handed me some... um, how do you say it?"  "Cash?"  "Yes, that's it... cash," he said with a smile. Ah, that's right. Last time, Marcus had spent the night outside Enzo’s restaurant, stalking you. Enzo had mentioned that Marcus-dressed as a Roman general-drew in a lot of customers, like a living mascot for his shop. What a great guy. Even though Marcus hadn’t asked for anything, Enzo had gifted him some of the money he earned thanks to his charm. “Wow, you’ve got about 400 euros here,” you said while counting. “So you’ve made your first earnings and your first purchase. Congratulations.” You smiled and looked at the daisies. “And thank you.”

Your Angst-iest writing: The Ex Education ➛ (Ex Husband!Harry Castillo x Ex Wife!Reader)

I think this is the scene that made me cry the most while writing it. 😭 This fic will always have such a special place in my heart, and even now, rereading this scene makes my eyes well up. Harry and Queenwill forever be one of my favorite couples. I love them so, so much. 🤍

“My love… corazón mío,” he whispered, the Spanish falling from his lips like a prayer. “You’re so brave… so strong. I don’t understand how you survived all of that. I’m falling apart just hearing it… and you…” His voice cracked. “How did you endure? Even telling me… it must have been impossible.” You shrugged faintly. “I did what I do best.” He frowned, as if the weight of your words alone wasn’t enough. “Stubbornness,” you said, a faint twitch of a smile on your lips—not a full smile, not yet. “You know my stubborn streak, Castillo. That’s what kept me going. I couldn’t let a worthless man take my life from me. I couldn’t destroy myself. No one gets to do that to me. Because I’m… perfect.” For the first time, you truly smiled—fragile, real, tears still slipping down your cheeks. Harry’s eyes were wide, awe written all over his face. He leaned in, pressing his lips to your forehead, lingering, breathing you in. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, holding you as if he could never let go. “My baby,” he whispered. “My reason for existing. I hope one day you can forgive me… because I don’t know how I’ll ever forgive myself. I’m in so much pain.” You sniffed, pulling back just enough to look at him.  “Pull yourself together, Harry. I forgave you a long time ago. And you don’t get to suffer without my permission—I won’t allow it.” A weak smile flickered across his face, the pain still etched deep in his features. “Just tonight,” he said quietly, “just tonight, I need to grieve… for… for our baby. You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.” Your tears returned—but this time, lighter. Shared.

Your most humorous: Two Wrongs, One Right ➛ (Joel Miller x Immune F!Reader)

My first Joel fic, so this one will always be incredibly special to me. 🥹 I loved writing a reader who experiences love for the very first time and is completely clueless about it… while Joel is already hopelessly gone for her. 😭Their banter never fails to make me smile, and I genuinely think I could write them teasing each other forever. 🤍

Ellie smirks, leaning back in her chair. “Oh yeah. Don’t let him fool you. His big dream used to be being a singer.” You’re mid-sip when those words hit. The shock is so sudden you choke—and then spray juice forward. Joel jerks back in his chair, eyes wide as droplets hit his cheek and the front of his shirt. The three of you freeze. “Oh, shit—sorry!” You grab the nearest napkin and lean across the table, dabbing clumsily at his face and shirt. Joel scowls, “This,” he mutters, deadpan, “sure as hell ain’t the reaction I was expectin’." Ellie doubles over, nearly choking on her eggs. “Nah, it’s perfect. Best one yet.” Joel narrows his eyes at her then looks back at you. “You sure you don’t got some kinda connection to llamas darlin'? Spittin’ like one and all.” You roll your eyes, blotting the juice from his jawline. “Oh, ha ha ha, very funny... Hilarious. You know what?" You shove the napkin into his hand instead. "Do it yourself.” He smirks as he takes the napkin and wipes his face. Then Ellie’s eyes widen. “Shit—I’m late!” She shoves her chair back, and dashes out the door in a hurry. The house falls quiet, the air softer now. Joel sighs, looking down at his damp shirt, and pushes up from the table. “Gonna wash this off.” When he’s halfway down the hall, you call after him, teasing, “So… are you actually gonna sing for her tomorrow?” He stills for half a beat, then snorts. “Hell no. Last thing I need’s you spittin’ all over me again.” You gasp, mock-offended. “Don’t be an asshole!” Joel’s mouth twitches into a rare grin as he disappears into the bathroom.

Your sexiest: Peccatum Dulce ➛ (Marcus Acacius x F!Reader) ⚠️ Warning: Explicit Sexual Content (18+)

I think my hands were actually shaking while writing this scene. 😭 Dark Marcus completely took over my brain. The General has a grip on me that's only matched by Joel, and… hot damn. This man is sexy as HELL. 🫠❤️‍🔥

Your mind swirled, trying to grasp the meaning behind his words. Before you could decide, his hands grabbed at your waist, you glanced up at him and was met with him giving you a playful smile— right before slamming the rest of his length in with one vicious thrust.  “Oh GODS!” You cried as your whole world went white. Your mind exploded from intense pain, pleasure and fullness, crashing against your entire body. Your mouth agape in a choked cry, nothing coming out at that very moment.  A sharp, surprised grunt left him, taken aback by just how tight you were. Your grip on him was like a python’s, quivering and quaking all around. Were he a lesser man, he would have likely reached his climax almost immediately, all because of you beneath him. Not even the virgin courtesan from the lupanaria could match the level of tightness you were exuding. It was both impressive and intoxicating—you felt divine. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating, every fiber of him alive with sensation. He had never felt this way with any woman before—not even close.  For a heartbeat, the predator faltered, undone by the inevitability of your hold. Yet almost instantly, he recovered—lips curling into a dangerous, possessive smile, muscles taut with restrained hunger. Even as he regained his composure, the knowledge lingered: you had claimed him, and it thrilled him in ways no other had. His first thrust was sudden and merciless, sharp as a tearing bandage. You cried out at the shocking fullness, your body jolting into a haze of overwhelming, mind-numbing pleasure. “Ahhhh...oohhh...Gods!" His big hand wrapped around your throat, slapping your arse with the other, “Not your gods… you’ll scream my name,” He grunted as he began to move inside you, his grip on your throat not lessening for a second. The slaps on your arse and cunt kept coming, over and over, raw and relentless, as he fucked you too hard, too deep, with no intention of slowing down. Your screams weren’t enough to stop him—if anything, they only seemed to please him, driving him to thrust deeper and deeper until you felt his balls slamming against your arse cheeks.

Thinking about the first time you tried a dom/sub dynamic with Joel.

After a lot of talking and negotiations you ended up in his room and this was exactly what you wanted.

You dreamed of this for months since the first time you realized you had a crush on him.

Your friend’s dad.

You lived in this neighborhood all your childhood, left for college, went back to your parent’s house to help when your dad got diagnosed with cancer.

When your dad passed, you got stuck here to help your mom. You found a job in town, bought a house right in front of Joel’s, a few houses far from the one from your childhood.

Joel was gorgeous and caring and capable and your heart knew it all along. He’s the man for you.

You spent countless night drinking beer sitting on his porch, listening to him strumming on his guitar. You laughed and talked about yourself and life and the fact you were Sarah’s friend. And then you kissed under the moonlight on an summer evening, right in front of his garage.

He was helping you with your bike. And here and there, taking his hands covered in grease from the bike chain, his curls falling over his forehead and a surprised expression on his face, you have summoned all your courage and connected your lips with his and everything changed.

He was hesitant and insecure because of your age gap.

“Too old for you, babe. What’s a 30 years old woman like you doing with an old man like me?”

But you were firm on this. Who cares he’s 20 years older than you.

Your mom wouldn’t agree with you but you were tired of seeking her approval on the choices you made in your life.

Joel took you on a real date, payed for your dinner no matter how hard you protested, fucked you in his truck in the parking lot even before going back home.

You wanted him. You threw yourself at him, because you were pretty sure he would have been a safe bet.

And he was.

He is.

The day you started to hint at Joel what you would like he raised his eyebrow and looked at you like he wasn’t even sure of what he just heard.

“You want me to be your dom?”

You nodded and then began to explain and giving him example.

“You’re not happy now?”

“Yes, I am, Joel. It’s just something we could try, if you agree”

And damn, how he could have said “no” to you?

You seemed to be so sure and eager and excited about that.

He ordered to you to kneel on the floor.

He took a nice ribbon and tied your wrists.

His breath fanned over your cheeks while he tightened the knot and pulled you back on your feet.

“Good girl” he whispered. And you were happy, truly happy and proud.

He smiled. He loved to see your eyes shining bright and your body tingling for him.

You rubbed your tights together under his gaze, like you were trying to search for some relief.

He could clearly see your red panties soaked with your excitement.

He took your arms and manhandled you on his bed, he made you lay down on your stomach and pulled your underwear down.

Your ass was bare. He couldn’t help but admire the perfect curve of it, your soft hips slightly shaking right before his eyes, the way you moaned as soon as his big calloused hands touched your warm skin.

You were a goddess. All pliant and needy for him. Joel started to see your vision and he liked it.

The first spank made you giggle and bite your bottom lip.

He asked if you were right nonetheless and you replied yes. You asked for more.

He spanked you again and you moaned.

So he did it again and you squirmed, whining loudly in full pleasure.

He chuckled. Called you a little minx. And spanked you again.

Your skin started to look a little sore but when he asked you if you wanted to continue you said yes again.

So he did.

Again. And again.

He made you spread your legs and he could see your pussy glistening and crying for him.

He felt good. Really good about giving you what you wanted.

He spanked you harder and your moans bounced off the wall.

His cock was rock hard, throbbing and leaking from the tip under his boxers.

Another slap and you begged to be fucked.

You begged for his fingers, his cock, his tongue, whatever he liked to give you.

His hand landed on your ass cheek one more time.

“Not quite yet. Try again, babygirl. Beg me harder”

Another spank.

And then tears started flowing down your cheeks. All of a sudden. He saw your eyes go glassy and heard a sob in the back of your throat.

Your face changed. Your wrists were shaking, trying to get ridden of the ribbon.

He read your body.

It was tensed.

And you were crying.

You seemed uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry” you whispered “I don’t even know why this happened”

Joel froze.

He stopped what he was doing entirely and looked at you. He was worried. He was trying to understand.

You wanted this. And now you looked so mortified and sad. And he couldn’t bear to see you like that.

“I’m sorry” you said again.

He was about to say that everything was okay, that it was nothing, but in his heart he knew it wasn't enough. Because if he had stopped there, it would have been like an inconvenience to be left behind as quickly as possible. An accident to be ignored. Your discomfort and the way you felt as soon as he corrected you, asking for more, brushed away like it didn’t matter. It did matter to him, though.

So instead, he untied the knot that bound your wrists. And he took you in his arms, letting you cry.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated. “How stupid. I was the one who wanted this.”

“You don’t have to apologize. Your body reacted before your mind could keep up. And that’s okay. It happens sometimes.”

You raised your teary eyes and looked at him and he brushed your hair off your face.

“This is not you being too much”

He knew about your parents. How they raised you making you feel like you needed to be as quite as possible. How they always told you were too dramatic, how they made you feel in trouble everytime you tried to speak your mind, how they always treated you like your spiral was the real problem and not them trying to belittle you.

“You’re safe here” he told you, before kissing the crown of your head, stroking your arm, holding you like his most cherished treasure.

You lay down on the bed and Joel cuddled you until your breathing returned to normal. You were so beautiful in his arms, so warm and soft and pure. Joel would have given anything to keep you safe forever.

“Can we try again?” you whispered against his chest.

“Whenever you want, baby” he reassured you, kissing your lips right after.

You lingered in that kiss, finally calm.

“Thanks, Joel”

“No need to thank me, hun. We'll do things at your pace.”

And Joel really meant that.

“I love you, babe” he said, looking into your hazy eyes “I love you so much”

“I love you too, Joel” you replied, your voice still small and shaky but full of warmth and joy.

The voice rips through the gray Seattle afternoon between ragged breaths as two men shove past abandoned cars, shoulders slamming hard enough into dented metal to shake loose fragments of broken glass.

Another gunshot cracks across the street.

Not close. Far. Sharp enough to split the city open.

The bullet tears past the first man’s head so close he feels the heat of it scrape his ear before it punches into the rusted hood beside him—

CLANG.

Sparks burst violently off metal. “Fuck!” he gasps, stumbling sideways.

Another shot. The second man’s head snaps backward in an explosion of blood and bone.

Red sprays across the survivor’s face.

For half a second the body keeps running. Then collapses violently against the pavement with a sick crack. The remaining man chokes on a scream.

“Aah— Jesus fucking Christ!”

He runs harder.

Adrenaline floods his legs so violently they barely feel attached to him anymore. His boots slam through puddles as he forces himself forward between abandoned FEDRA trucks swallowed by vines and collapsed barricades overtaken by moss.

Another shot cuts through the rain-heavy air. This one hits. The bullet punches straight through his thigh.

“AHH— FUCK!”

He drops instantly, shoulder smashing against wet asphalt hard enough to tear skin through his jacket. Pain detonates through his leg while blood spills hot between trembling fingers clawing desperately at the wound.

He tries dragging himself toward the nearest overturned truck.

Breathing too hard. Too loud. Too terrified.

He glances back.

His friend’s body lies twisted in the middle of the flooded street twenty feet away, rainwater slowly carrying diluted ribbons of blood toward a clogged drain.

Then—

Nothing. Silence. No third shot. The man’s chest heaves violently.

Why didn’t she kill me?

Shaking hands fumble at his torn pant leg, yanking the soaked fabric high enough to reveal the bullet wound shredding through the side of his thigh.

Clean shot. Missed the artery. Deliberate.

Then—

Footsteps. Soft against wet grass nearby.

Slow. Controlled. A revolver cocks. The metallic click echoes louder than the gunfire. The man jerks for the pistol holstered at his hip instinctively—

BANG.

The bullet tears straight through his hand. He screams.

The gun flies uselessly across the pavement as he throws himself backward in panic, scrambling away on elbows slick with blood and rainwater.

“You fuckin’ psycho bitch!” he screams hysterically, clutching his ruined hand against his chest. “I told you everythin’! What the fuck else do you want?!”

The footsteps stop. A figure emerges slowly through the drifting rain. Black jacket darkened by water. Sniper rifle hanging loose against your back. Expression cold enough to freeze blood. You crouch slowly in front of him and press the revolver against the center of his forehead.

The man’s breathing turns ragged instantly.

“Listen— listen to me, okay?” Blood bubbles faintly at the corner of his mouth as panic makes him speak too fast. “I swear to God we ain’t WLF anymore! We left! We’re headin’ south, alright? Santa Barbara! We told you where the hospital is! I wasn’t lyin’!”

Your eyes narrow slightly. No sympathy. No hesitation.

“You shot my fuckin’ dog.”

BANG.

The back of his skull bursts against the pavement. Silence crashes back over the street. Rain taps softly against abandoned cars. Thunder rolls somewhere far beyond the skyline. The faint ringing left behind by gunfire hums inside your ears. Without another glance toward the corpse, you holster the revolver. At your boots lies an unfolded map stained dark with rainwater and blood.

Earlier, while you questioned them, one of the Wolves managed slipping free from the zip ties around his wrists and bolted.

Taxi lunged before you could stop him. The gunshot came immediately after. Too fast. Too close. The bullet only grazed his front leg.

Lucky.

You crouch beside the map beneath the weak glow of your flashlight and study the markings carefully.

Hospital.

A rough circle near a cluster of taller buildings farther north. Your jaw tightens slightly. “Thirty miles,” you mutter quietly.

The map folds neatly before disappearing into your back pocket. Behind you, Taxi lets out a low whine. Your head turns instantly.

“There you are.”

The shepherd limps toward you through wet grass, ears tilted back slightly in annoyance more than pain.

You kneel beside him immediately, gently lifting the injured leg into your lap. “Hey.”

Your voice softens despite yourself. “What did we talk about, huh?”

Taxi huffs.

“You don’t throw yourself in front of bullets.”

He barks once.

You snort quietly while wrapping fresh bandages around the graze wound.

“I had it handled.” Another bark. Then a softer whine. “Yeah, yeah.” You lean down and press a kiss against the top of his head. “Good boy.” Taxi leans briefly into your shoulder before you stand again, slinging the rifle back across your shoulder.

“C’mon,” you murmur. “Let’s find somewhere to sleep.”

Your eyes drift toward Seattle looming against the storm-dark horizon. Huge. Silent. Waiting. “We move again tomorrow.”

Taxi barks once. Together, you walk past the cooling corpse left behind in the rain. Your boots splash through shallow puddles. Taxi’s paws thud softly beside you. Neither of you looks back.

The café sits dark between two collapsed storefronts, half-hidden behind overgrown ivy and years of rain damage. The faded sign overhead swings lazily in the wind. You stop across the street first.

Always across the street.

Your eyes move slowly over shattered windows, rooftop lines, alley entrances. Listening before moving. Watching before breathing.

Seattle feels wrong at night. Too quiet one second. Too alive the next.

Taxi stands beside your leg, ears twitching toward the dark building. “You smell somethin’?” you murmur.

The shepherd huffs softly but doesn’t growl.

Good enough.

You cross the street carefully, boots splashing through shallow rainwater before stopping beneath the old café awning. Rain drums softly against rotten canvas overhead.

The front door doesn’t budge at first.

Swollen wood. You shove your shoulder into it harder. The hinges groan.

Then the door finally jerks inward with a burst of stale air carrying old coffee, mildew, and wet dust.

Your flashlight cuts through darkness slowly.

Tables overturned. Broken mugs. A mold-covered pastry display near the counter. Dead vines crawl across one wall where rainwater leaks through cracked ceiling tiles.

Taxi slips inside first, paws silent against warped hardwood.

You wait. Listen. Nothing.

No clicking. No breathing. No shifting somewhere deep in the dark.

Still, your hand stays close to Joel’s revolver at your hip.

You slip inside the café quietly and pull the door shut behind you before dragging a rusted metal chair beneath the handle.

Not enough to stop somebody determined. Enough to buy you a few seconds.

Habit.

Your backpack drops beside the counter with a tired thud while you crouch near the entrance, pulling thin wire and two empty cans from one of the side pouches.

Taxi watches silently from the doorway.

You glance toward him briefly while tying the wire low across the handle. “Better find more of these tomorrow,” you mutter. “We’re officially running outta food.”

Taxi blinks once. “Yeah, don’t look at me like that. You eat more than I do.”

One of his ears twitches.

The cans clink softly together while you secure them beside the wall. Crude. Fast.

Enough to wake you if infected—or worse—wander inside during the night.

Only after that do you finally move deeper into the café. The beam of your flashlight catches an old employee sign hanging crooked near the kitchen entrance.

MANAGER

The office door sits half-open beyond it. Small room. No windows except one narrow pane overlooking the rain-soaked street outside. Rain taps steadily against the cracked window overlooking the street outside, the sound muffled beneath distant thunder rolling somewhere deep over Seattle.

Taxi limps in after you, nails clicking softly against warped hardwood.

Your flashlight beam moves across the room slowly.

Peeling wallpaper curls away from damp walls. Water stains spread dark across the ceiling above. An old chandelier hangs crooked overhead, half its glass bulbs shattered, long dead electrical wires spilling downward like black vines tangled through hanging ivy creeping in from the broken corner of the ceiling.

The whole place feels abandoned in a tired sort of way. Not violent. Just forgotten.

Your eyes land on the couch against the far wall. Dark leather. Old. Still intact somehow. “Well,” you mutter under your breath. You walk over and drag your palm across the top cushion first. Dust coats your skin immediately. You grimace faintly before smacking your hands together a few times, watching gray powder drift through the flashlight beam. “Jesus.”

Taxi huffs softly behind you.

“At least somebody around here’s clean.”

The shepherd blinks at you without remorse. You drop your backpack beside the couch before finally sitting down. The leather creaks beneath your weight. Then your eyebrows lift slightly. “Hm.” You lean back deeper into the cushions. “Actually kinda comfortable.”

The room answers only with the soft groaning of old pipes somewhere inside the walls.

Your gaze drifts toward the desk near the window. A little metal plaque still sits crooked near the edge beneath layers of dust.

LEONARD MITCHELL - GENERAL MANAGER

You stare at it for a second. “Nice office, Leonard.”

Taxi circles twice before climbing carefully onto one of the smaller armchairs nearby, turning until he finds a comfortable position despite the bandaged leg. He lets out a tired grunt before finally curling into himself.

Your mouth twitches faintly at the sight.

Then silence settles over the room. Heavy.

A leather couch rests against the far wall beneath dusty shelves stacked with old paperwork and mold-swollen binders. The room smells old.

Thunder rolls softly somewhere far outside while rain streaks down the office window in silver lines. For a moment, neither of you moves. The city groans around you. Old pipes. Distant wind. Something metallic banging somewhere far down the street. Seattle never really sleeps. Neither do you.

You finish wrapping Taxi’s leg before leaning back against the couch with a tired exhale. Your rifle rests within arm’s reach. Revolver beside your thigh. Knife still strapped near your boot. Taxi stares toward the office door, ears twitching sharply. You both listen. Nothing. Just distant movement somewhere outside. Far enough away. The sound fades slowly back into the storm. Taxi lowers his head first. You follow a second later. Neither of you fully relaxes. You doubt either of you remembers how anymore.

You lean your head back against the couch and stare upward. The ceiling above is cracked open in places, tangled electrical wires hanging loose between patches of water damage and creeping ivy. Rain leaks steadily somewhere deeper inside the café.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

You close your eyes for a second. And immediately think of him.

Of course you do.

Your chest tightens before you can stop it. This office—cold, damp, rotting around the edges—is so far away from the warmth of Jackson it almost feels unreal. So far from his bed. From the heavy warmth of his body pressed against yours beneath thick blankets. From the way his arms wrapped around your waist in his sleep like some stubborn instinct he couldn’t turn off even unconscious. From the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back. From the rough scrape of his beard against your shoulder. Even the occasional snoring that always dragged a laugh out of you eventually.

The corner of your mouth lifts before you can stop it. Then the smile fades just as quickly. A deep breath leaves your lungs.

You reach for your backpack beside the couch, unzipping it slowly. Metal clicks softly together inside. Ammo. Knives. Canned food. Taxi lifts his head again immediately, watching you with quiet attention like he already knows exactly what you’re looking for. Your fingers eventually find the sketchbook buried beneath everything else.

You hesitate for a second before opening it.

Joel stares back at you almost immediately.

A rough pencil sketch from Jackson. Then another. And another. The lines change slightly between pages—different expressions, different angles—but it’s always him.

Two weeks. That’s all it’s been. And somehow you already miss him enough it physically aches.

Your throat tightens. You stare at the drawings longer than you mean to. Unable to stop yourself from wondering what happened after you left. You tried not to think about it on the road. Tried not to imagine the morning after. Joel waking up. The empty side of the bed. The drugs wearing off. That look on his face when he realized.

You swallow hard.

The thought hits like a punch straight to the ribs.

You’ve never worried about people before. Except William. You’ve feared losing him before. Feared ending up alone again. But Joel... is different. Joel makes your chest hurt in ways bullets never could. Makes you understand why people in old movies ruined themselves for love.

The idea of breaking his heart somehow feels worse than breaking your own.

Your eyes burn, your heart clenching.

God.

So this is what loving someone feels like. Not the happiness part. You already knew that part. It’s him laughing quietly against your neck in bed. It’s his hand finding yours without thinking. It’s the way your body relaxes the second he walks into a room.

No—

This part. The ache. The fear. The terrifying realization that someone else now has the power to break your heart just by existing somewhere you can’t reach. Your gaze drops back toward the sketchbook. Joel’s face follows you everywhere now. You barely recognize yourself anymore because of it. You have something to lose now. Someone.

If this goes wrong… If you fail…

You may never hear his voice again. Never feel his arms around you again. Never see that tired little smile he gets when he looks at you like you’re something dangerous he decided to keep anyway.

A bark suddenly cuts through the silence.

You blink hard. Only then noticing the tear that slipped free and landed against the page. “Shit,” you mutter softly, wiping it away quickly.

Taxi climbs down from the chair immediately, limping over toward the couch.

“I know,” you whisper quietly. “I miss him too.”

Taxi rests his head against your knee. Your fingers slide automatically through the fur behind his ears.

“But I have to do this.”

The shepherd lifts one paw slowly onto your leg. You stare at him for a second. His eyes look strangely human sometimes in the dark. “You think I broke his heart?”

Taxi whines softly. Your chest tightens harder. “I couldn’t let him come with me.” Your voice turns quieter now. “Ellie needs him. Jackson needs him.” You swallow thickly. “And… maybe I just showed up and fucked that old man’s life all up.”

Taxi barks once immediately.

You let out a small breath through your nose. “Yeah. I know.” Your fingers continue stroking slowly through his fur. “He meant what he said.” Your voice nearly cracks. “But that’s not the problem.”

You stare down at Joel’s sketch again.

“Being the daughter of someone like Clouser feels like carrying rot around inside your chest.” Your jaw tightens faintly. “As long as he’s alive, I’m never gonna stop feeling it.”

Rain rattles softly against the broken windows outside.

“I can’t build a future with Joel while all this still exists.” Your eyes lower slowly. “Not while I keep lookin’ at Tommy, Maria… Dina, Jesse, Benji, Ellie…” Your throat tightens. “They deserve to feel safe around me.”

Silence stretches for a moment.

Then quieter: “I think…” You blink slowly. “I think I finally know what having a family feels like.” The words hurt to admit out loud. “And I can’t let him take that away from me.”

Taxi lifts his head and licks the side of your jaw suddenly. A weak laugh escapes you before you grab his muzzle gently. “Hey.” You rub your thumb along the bridge of his nose. “When I go back…” Your voice softens almost into a whisper. “I want my head clear.” Your fingers move slowly through his fur again. “Maybe then I’ll know how to be someone better. A better girlfriend.”

The word feels strange but warm.

“Assumin’ he forgives me.”

Taxi presses closer immediately.

You finally set the sketchbook aside before sliding down fully against the couch cushions, pulling him close against your side.

His fur still smells faintly like rainwater, old forest, dirt, and gunpowder. For years, that smell alone meant safety more than any human being ever could.

But now—

Now there’s another scent your body misses more.

Worn leather. Gun oil. Damp flannel dried near a fire. Sawdust caught in rough hands after long afternoons working wood in Jackson.

Him.

Your eyes drift slowly toward the cracked office window overhead. Beyond fractured glass and tangled ivy, the night sky barely peeks through Seattle’s storm clouds. A few weak stars flicker faintly between them.

You stare at them quietly.

And for the first time in years—

You make a wish.

Just one.

To see him again. To hear his voice again. To come back alive long enough to fall asleep in his arms one more time.

Your fingers tighten gently in Taxi’s fur.

Then slowly—

Exhaustion finally pulls you under.

Horse hooves echo hollow against cracked highway.

Slow now. Careful.

Joel keeps one hand near the reins while his eyes scan the massive quarantine wall rising through the rain ahead.

Seattle.

Even from a distance, the city feels wrong.

Too big. Too quiet.

Fog crawls low between abandoned checkpoints and collapsed military barricades swallowed whole by ivy and moss. Old FEDRA fencing stretches along the road in rusted lines, parts of it torn open long ago by something stronger than time.

Rain taps steadily against Joel’s jacket. The horse shifts uneasily beneath him the closer they get. “Easy,” Joel mutters quietly, patting its neck once.

Ahead, the massive outer gate hangs crooked on broken hinges, chains swaying softly in the wind. Faded quarantine warnings still cling to metal signs eaten away by rust. Across the center of the gate, someone has painted a message in massive white letters now streaked by rain and time:

WLF TRESPASSERS KILLED ON SIGHT

The dripping paint almost looks like bone beneath the gray Seattle sky.

Joel squints upward toward the walls towering over him.

Dead guard towers stare down empty streets. Or at least they look empty. Seattle reminds him too much of places where people disappear. His jaw tightens.

The horse carries him slowly through the open gate. Immediately the city swallows sound whole.

No birds. No distant voices.

Just rainwater dripping from collapsed buildings and the faint creaking of old structures somewhere deeper inside the streets ahead. Joel’s eyes move constantly.

Cars. Windows. Rooflines. Habit.

Then—

Something catches his attention near the mud alongside the road. Fresh tire tracks.

Joel pulls the horse to a stop instantly.

The tracks cut sharply through rainwater and dirt before disappearing farther into the city.

Fresh. Very fresh.

Joel slides down from the saddle with a grunt, crouching low beside them. WLF vehicle. His fingers brush against wet mud before his gaze shifts farther ahead.

Then he sees it.

An abandoned pickup truck half-crashed against a storefront farther down the street. “Shit.”

Joel stands quickly and moves toward it, boots splashing through puddles. The closer he gets, the more obvious it becomes. Bullet holes shred the side panels. One tire blown out. The gas tank leaking slowly beneath the truck into rainwater mixed with oil and blood.

Joel’s eyes narrow immediately.

Not random.

Forced stop.

His hand brushes against the hood. Still faintly warm beneath cold rain. “Goddamn…”

Then he notices the steering column hanging open beneath the wheel. Wires ripped loose. Hotwired. A humorless breath escapes him through his nose. “Course she did.”

His eyes drift across the street automatically. Searching. Reading. Tracking. Then he sees blood. Not much. Drops leading toward a nearby alley.

Joel follows carefully.

One hand already resting near the revolver—your revolver—on his hip. The alley opens into another ruined street farther ahead—

And that’s where he finds the bodies.

Three WLF soldiers sprawled across wet pavement. One near an overturned patrol truck. Another collapsed against a wall. The third barely recognizable anymore.

Joel slows immediately.

His stomach tightens. Rain runs steadily down the corpses, washing blood into the gutters. Then he notices the bites. Deep tears through exposed throat. Another through the forearm. Jagged canine marks.

Taxi.

Joel exhales slowly through his nose. “Attaboy.”

He crouches beside the nearest body carefully. Then spots the spent casing laying near the corpse. Joel picks it up between rough fingers, rolling it once against his palm.

Sniper round. Your sniper round.

One clean shot. Two heads. Straight through the glass.

Precise. Efficient. Smooth. Exactly your kind of work.

“Goddamn it, Kat,” Joel mutters quietly. “You can’t take ’em all down at once.”

He rises slowly, eyes scanning the street again. Unease settles heavier in his chest with every passing second. He plants both hands briefly against his hips, jaw tightening hard.

Ten straight days riding from Jackson. Ten days barely sleeping. Ten days chasing your ghost across half the damn country—

And still he’s late.

The bodies tell him immediately. Spacing. Angles. Timing. Experience never lies.

You’re ahead of him. One day at least. Maybe more.

Joel’s back screams when he straightens fully, exhaustion dragging through every muscle in his body, but he ignores it automatically. Pain barely registers anymore. Rain continues falling steadily around him while Seattle groans somewhere deeper ahead.

Waiting. Watching.

Joel stares toward the dark streets disappearing farther into the city. “Can’t be late,” he mutters quietly. More to himself than anyone else. “Gotta find her before it’s too damn late.”

Then he turns back toward the horse. And rides deeper into Seattle.

Morning comes gray and wet.

Not bright. Not warm. Just a thin, colorless light spreading over Seattle like the city is too tired to wake up properly.

Rain still clings to everything. Broken windows. Rusted signs. The hoods of abandoned cars. The sagging awnings over dead storefronts. Every surface shines dull and cold beneath the low sky.

You move north with Taxi at your side.

The hospital doesn’t appear right away. Nothing in this city gives itself up that easy.

The map says it should be somewhere ahead, past a mess of flooded streets and half-collapsed buildings, but Seattle keeps folding in on itself. Roads blocked by wreckage. Alleys choked with vines. Military barriers left behind like broken teeth.

And people.

Too many people.

By noon, you’ve already run into more WLF deserters than you expected. Small groups. Two here. Three there. Scared. Armed. Dirty. Running from something behind them and terrified of whatever might be ahead.

The first few don’t tell you much before they die.

The next group gives you the name you're looking for.

After that, you stop killing first.

You start listening.

That is how you end up crouched on the second floor of a half-collapsed building, one hand resting against Taxi’s neck while voices drift up from below.

The ground floor beneath you is split open in places, the concrete caved inward toward a lower level thick with spores. Pale fungal growth climbs the walls down there in swollen veins, pulsing through the damp like something still alive. The air below looks yellow in the weak light, heavy and ruined.

You keep Taxi close. No way in hell you’re taking him through that.

Below, four WLF soldiers move through the street, unaware of you above them. “What the hell is goin’ on?” one of them mutters. “This is what, the sixth group?”

“Sixth if you count the ones from yesterday.”

“Jesus.”

“Isaac made an example outta the last ones. Had ’em executed in front of everybody. Thought that’d be enough.”

“Guess it wasn’t.”

“It’s that fuckin’ doctor.”

Your whole body stills.

The man beside him lowers his voice. “Clouser?”

“Yeah. People don’t wanna stay and die for Scars or for some bullshit vaccine that ain’t ever gonna work.”

“Wasn’t the whole point of taking FEDRA down to build a liberation front?”

A bitter laugh. “Does this sound like liberation to you?”

“You sound like you’re about to run too.”

“Hey. You hear what he’s been doing to pregnant women? Kids?”

The silence that follows feels heavier than the rain.

“Rumors.”

“You sure about that?”

“Fuck.” Another voice exhales shakily. “Isaac should’ve killed that old bastard when he had the chance.”

“He still sending his A-team to the hospital?”

“Yeah. The ones he trusts.”

Rain taps softly against broken concrete overhead. Then another voice lowers slightly. “Hey… you know Jordan?”

“The Firefly guy?”

“Yeah. Him.” A pause. “Heard that immune girl everyone’s looking for? Supposedly she’s Clouser’s daughter.”

Silence. “…Bullshit.”

“And apparently she was with the other immune girl for a while. Somewhere in Wyoming.”

Your stomach tightens instantly.

“Word is Isaac’s planning to send a group out there soon.” The man snorts quietly. “Abby might lead it.”

“No fuckin’ way Isaac lets Abby leave Seattle right now.”

“Why the hell would she even care?”

A longer silence follows.

Then quietly: “That smuggler from Salt Lake? The one who killed all those Fireflies in the hospital?”

Your pulse stutters.

“He’s supposedly in that town too.”

Silence crashes over the group immediately afterward. Even from above, you can feel the tension shift.

“…That’s too much coincidence for my taste.”

“Think that crazy doctor’s making half this shit up.”

“Or that Jordan guy.”

“Alright, enough gossip.” Boots scrape concrete. “Get back to your posts and keep your eyes open.”

That is enough. More than enough.

Your grip tightens around the rifle. Taxi’s ears twitch. You glance down at him and press two fingers to your lips.

Stay.

He understands. You’ve taught him this too many times to count.

Stay unless you whistle.

Stay unless you scream.

Stay unless he sees you bleeding too much.

That last part is always the problem.

Because Taxi listens until fear takes over. And fear makes him stupidly brave. You point toward a patch of tall weeds and vines growing through a broken section of wall. He lowers himself reluctantly, still watching you. “Good boy,” you mouth.

Then you move.

Silent across the cracked upper floor, stepping over broken tiles and rotted office chairs, rifle raised. The building groans softly beneath your weight.

You line up the first shot from above. The suppressor does its job, but barely. A soft, ugly pop.

One soldier drops. The others turn too late.

Second shot.

Third.

Fourth.

Each one clean.

Each one fast.

By the time the last body hits the pavement, the street is quiet again except for rainfall and Taxi’s low breathing behind you.

You stay crouched for a moment, listening.

No infected. No returning fire. No shouting.

Good.

You climb down carefully. The air grows colder near the broken ground floor. Spores drift lazily below through the collapsed opening, glowing faintly where thin daylight touches them. The fungal growth along the walls looks old and thick, spread in rootlike patterns beneath peeling paint.

You avoid the edge. You’ve seen enough basements like that. You search the bodies quickly.

Ammo. A dull knife. Nothing useful.

Your last suppressor is already ruined, and the one currently screwed onto your pistol is close to useless. The metal is hot from overuse, the sound less clean than it should be.

One left after this.

One.

You’ll need to save it for something that matters.

You’re about to move on when you find a photograph in one of their jacket pockets. Not an old one. A fresh one. Instant film.

You hold it between two fingers and wipe rain off the glossy surface with your thumb.

A group of people smile back at you. Young. Tired. Alive.

Behind them rises a massive structure, round and crowded, with stands and lights and lines of people moving in the background.

A stadium.

Not a checkpoint. Not a small base. A real settlement.

Crowded. Organized.

You don’t know any of their faces. You don’t care to.

But the place itself matters.

You unfold your map and compare it quickly, marking distance with your thumb and eye. The stadium sits too far west to be your target.

The hospital is north. Far enough away from the stadium to make sense. Far enough to hide things.

You crouch beside a cracked wall, using a rusted pipe as a flat edge while you sketch a rough route across the paper. Streets. Blocks. Waterlogged underpasses you’ll avoid. Higher ground where possible.

Ten miles, maybe. Two hours if the roads don’t fight you. They will.

A burst of static crackles from one of the dead men’s radios. Taxi lifts his head instantly. You freeze.

“Cooper, you copy?” The voice is rough, irritated. Static. “Cooper? Linda? Come in.”

You stare at the radio. Taxi gives one sharp bark. You raise your hand. “Shh.”

The radio crackles again.

“Cooper, listen up. We found a deserter group wiped out near your last checkpoint. Clean shots. Somebody hunted ’em. Doesn’t look like Scars.”

Your jaw tightens. Yesterday’s bodies.

“Answer me, Cooper. Goddamn it. We’re coming to your position.”

Taxi growls. Not the low warning he gives for people.

Different. Deeper.

Your eyes flick to him immediately. That growl means infected. But then you hear it too. Not infected. Footsteps. Multiple. Close.

You move to the broken window and look down through hanging ivy.

Five people. Armed.

WLF.

And a dog.

“Shit,” you whisper. The dog has its nose low, pulling against the leash. Taxi’s lip curls. “So that’s what you smelled.”

Your mind works fast. Two exits. One dangerous. One worse.

The patrol is already too close. The dog will catch your scent any second. You crouch in front of Taxi and grip the fur at the sides of his neck gently, forcing his eyes to yours. “You stay in the grass,” you whisper. “I’ll pull them away.”

Taxi whines.

“No.” Your voice hardens. “You can’t come with me. I don’t have a damn gas mask for you, understand?”

Below, the WLF dog barks.

“Hey, what is it, boy?” one of the soldiers calls. Too close.

You point sharply toward the weeds leading along the collapsed wall. Taxi hesitates. “Go.”

He goes, but he hates it. You can see that in every line of him.

You drop low and begin crawling along the upper ledge, aiming for the vines that spill down toward the lower level. If you can get to the other side, maybe you can circle out before—

A snarl erupts behind you.

You twist just as the WLF dog lunges out of nowhere.

Too fast.

You barely throw yourself sideways before its teeth snap where your arm was. Then Taxi hits it like a damn wolf.

The two dogs crash into the floor in a violent tangle of teeth and muscle. “Taxi!” you hiss.

Too late. The WLF dog yelps as Taxi’s jaws lock around its throat. Voices explode below.

“Trespasser here!”

“No—Jesus, that’s Lenny! He's dead!”

“There’s another dog!”

“Shoot it! Shoot it!”

Taxi shakes once. The WLF dog goes limp. “Stay there!” you snap at him. “Goddamn it, stay!”

Gunfire tears into the wall beside you.

You dive behind a broken concrete partition as bullets chew through plaster overhead. Your heart slams against your ribs. One soldier breaks off toward Taxi. Another moves to flank you from the rear. The man behind you rounds the broken wall too fast.

You move faster.

You catch his wrist, twist, slam him chest-first into the concrete, and drag him back against you with your revolver shoved beneath his jaw. The others freeze the second they see you.

“Drop it!” one of them shouts.

Your hostage spits blood. “Shoot her!”

“Shut the fuck up,” you growl against his ear. You shift backward, dragging him with you toward the collapsed edge. Behind you, the lower floor waits.

Dark. Yellow. Thick with spores.

The woman in front stiffens. “Ari—no!”

Good.

That matters. That means they won’t shoot through him. You press the barrel harder under his jaw. “Back up,” you shout. “Or I paint the floor with his head.”

“You got nowhere to go,” another soldier says, weapon trained on you.

You understand what he means.

The spores. The drop. The infected below. No mask. No escape.

For them.

Not for you.

You tighten your grip on Ari and take one more step back.

He realizes a second too late. “No—no, we’ll both die!”

“Maybe,” you say.

Then you throw your weight backward.

The fall is short but brutal.

Air rips out of your lungs as you hit broken concrete and roll hard, dragging the man down with you. Dust and spores explode upward around you in a sick yellow cloud.

Above, voices scream.

“Ari!”

“Fuck!”

“No, no, no—”

You roll behind a collapsed support beam just as bullets cut into the ground where you landed. “Leah, stop!” someone yells. “You’ll die too! We don’t have masks!”

“I’m gonna kill that bitch!”

“She’s already dead! Come on!”

“Isaac’s orders—nobody goes into spore zones. You saw what happened to Ramirez!”

“Fuck!”

Bootsteps retreat above. You stay still until the last one fades. The spores hang thick around you. You inhale once through your nose.

Damp. Earthy. Rotten.

It tickles faintly. Nothing more. Like mildew in an old basement.

Ari is somewhere in the dark, coughing violently. “God…” he chokes between ragged breaths. “Goddamn…”

You glance toward the sound instinctively.

Then freeze. The wall behind him moves.

No. Not the wall.

Cordyceps.

Pale fungal shelves bloom across concrete and brick in thick layered growths, veins spreading outward like diseased roots through the entire lower floor. Some of it is old and dry, cracked apart like dead bark.

Some of it still glistens wet beneath your flashlight. Fresh. Breathing.

Bodies cling half-swallowed inside the growth. Arms. Ribcages. Open mouths permanently fused into the fungus climbing over them.

The entire building smells damp and rotten enough to taste.

Then—

Click.

Click-click-click-click.

Your blood runs cold instantly. The sound echoes from deeper inside the dark.

Clickers.

The explosion upstairs must’ve drawn them down here.

And now Ari’s coughing is doing the rest.

Another clicking cry bursts through the building.

Closer.

Wet fungal chatter bouncing sharply through concrete halls while something shifts rapidly in the dark ahead.

Ari hears it too. “No…” His breathing turns panicked immediately. “No no no—”

CLICKCLICKCLICKCLICK.

Another answers somewhere nearby. Then another. The entire lower level suddenly feels alive. Movement everywhere.

You crouch lower immediately, barely breathing while Ari drags himself backward across the floor, one ruined leg useless behind him.

“Please—” he gasps. “Please help m—”

The first clicker lunges. Fast as hell. Ari’s scream cuts violently short beneath tearing flesh and wet crunching bone.

You look away instantly. Not because you feel bad. Because he’s already dead.

More clicking erupts nearby. The feeding sounds alone are enough to turn your stomach. You lower yourself silently and begin backing away through the darkness instead, keeping low beneath hanging cords of fungus spreading across the ceiling. Slow. Controlled. One careful step after another.

Then—

CLICKCLICKCLICK.

A clicker jerks its head upward somewhere behind you. You freeze instantly while it listens, twitching sharply toward the noise. Then Ari’s dying screams echo deeper in the room and the infected bolts away from you immediately.

You exhale slowly through your nose.

Lucky. Very fucking lucky.

Keeping your flashlight lowered, you slip silently between collapsed cubicles while wet ripping sounds echo behind you. Bones snapping. Flesh tearing. You don’t look back once.

The faint glow of daylight finally appears ahead through thick hanging vines near a collapsed loading exit. Fresh air. Rain. Freedom.

You push through the overgrowth and stumble outside into the cold Seattle evening just as another horrible shriek erupts somewhere deep inside the building behind you.

The city air never smelled so good.

You suck in a breath.

The street is empty. Too empty.

“Taxi,” you call softly.

Nothing.

Your heart climbs straight into your throat. You whistle once. Sharp. Low. Still nothing. “Taxi.”

This time it comes out rougher. Panic starts crawling up the back of your neck while you scan every broken window and dark doorway around you.

No.

No, no, no—

“Taxi!”

Then a bark echoes from above.

You spin just as Taxi comes barreling down from the broken upper level through a sagging stairwell, ears back, tail low, alive.

Alive.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe.

You drop immediately, grabbing his face between both hands while he whines and pushes into you. You check him fast. Neck. Chest. Legs. No blood. No new wounds.

You exhale so hard it almost hurts. “Okay. Okay.” You press your forehead briefly to his. “You’re okay.”

Taxi licks your chin and a broken laugh slips out of you.

“Yeah, we definitely need to make you a gas mask.”

He barks once like he agrees.

You stand slowly, wiping rain and sweat from your face. Through the gap between buildings, beyond a broken bridge and the skeletons of old towers, you finally see it.

A distant building rising above the gray. Hospital lettering barely visible through the rain.

Your chest tightens.

There. Finally.

You take a long drink from your canteen before letting Taxi drink from your cupped hand too. “You ready?” you ask quietly.

He looks toward the hospital. Then back at you.

You sling the rifle over your shoulder and fold the map away. “We’re close. Let’s go.”

Seattle, Day Two.

Dusk settles over the city in bruised shades of blue and gray by the time you reach the hospital district. The rain weakens into a thin mist drifting between buildings, but Seattle still feels soaked through to the bone. Somewhere far off, gunfire rattles across distant streets before fading back into silence again.

The hospital rises above everything else. Massive. Cold. Its upper floors disappear into fog while floodlamps burn pale through rain-streaked windows below. Even from here it dominates the skyline like something watching the entire city.

Close enough to see. Still too damn far away.

Between you and the hospital stretch blocks of ruined streets, flooded intersections, and whatever the hell WLF has waiting in between. Too many lights. Too many guards.

You crouch behind an overturned bus with Taxi pressed close beside you, eyes moving carefully across the perimeter. Watchtowers. Patrol routes. Barricades. Armed Wolves everywhere.

“Jesus,” you mutter under your breath.

Taxi’s ears twitch.

Then—

A whistle echoes somewhere nearby. Sharp. Seraphites.

Your head snaps toward the sound instantly. Another whistle answers deeper in the street before shouting erupts.

“CONTACT!”

Gunfire explodes seconds later. WLF soldiers sprint across the street ahead while arrows whistle through the rain. One Wolf jerks backward with an arrow through his throat. Another drops seconds later. Chaos spreads fast.

Exactly what you need. Not to win. To disappear.

Your eyes lock onto a WLF transport truck sitting crooked near the curb thirty feet away. Driver dead. Engine still running. Headlights cutting pale beams through the mist.

Perfect.

You glance toward Taxi. He already looks ready. “We need that truck,” you mutter. Then you’re moving. You sprint low across rain-slick pavement while bullets crack somewhere behind you. The city erupts into noise around you— Wolves shouting, whistles answering back, glass shattering somewhere farther down the block.

You wrench the truck door open and climb inside fast. Taxi launches in beside you just as you slam the gear forward. The truck lurches violently. “C’mon, c’mon—”

Tires screech across flooded streets. Then somebody notices. “HEY!”

Gunfire slams into the truck immediately. The windshield spiderwebs near your shoulder. “Shit!”

You duck instinctively while jerking the wheel sideways around abandoned cars. Taxi barks wildly beside you every time the truck fishtails through standing water.

“Taxi, get the fuck down!” you shout over the engine. “Down, boy!”

He finally ducks lower as another engine roars somewhere behind you through the rain. They’re following.

You glance into the side mirror briefly—

And your stomach drops.

It’s them. Ari’s squad. The woman from earlier leans halfway out the passenger window with a rifle in her hands.

“That’s her!”

Gunfire erupts again. Bullets punch through the truck bed beside Taxi.

“Fuck—!”

You slam the wheel hard around a collapsed ambulance while the hospital looms closer between buildings. So close. Almost there—

Then headlights catch something too late.

A collapsed barricade stretches across the flooded street ahead.

“Shit.”

You wrench the wheel sideways but the truck clips the barricade hard enough to launch metal screaming across pavement before smashing broadside into a storefront.

The world snaps sideways. Glass explodes. Pain detonates through your shoulder. For a second all you hear is ringing.

Then Taxi barks. Loud. Panicked.

“I’m okay,” you choke out immediately, forcing yourself upright. Smoke curls from beneath the crushed hood outside while voices already close in.

“MOVE!” “THEY CRASHED!”

You kick the warped truck door open and force yourself out. Taxi jumps down beside you instantly. You grab your rifle and run toward the nearest half-open building entrance beneath a flickering neon sign drowned in vines.

You and Taxi disappear inside just as bullets rip through the doorway behind you.

Darkness swallows you whole.

The air changes immediately. Wet. Rotten. Wrong.

Your flashlight snaps on. Broken shelves and collapsed walls stretch endlessly ahead inside what used to be some kind of office building. Too quiet.

Your stomach tightens instantly.

“…shit.”

Taxi growls low beside you.

Then something moves. Fast. A shape darts between walls ahead before disappearing again.

Stalker.

Of fucking course.

One of the Wolves swings his flashlight toward the hallway just in time to catch two clickers sprinting straight at them through the dark. “FUCK THIS!”

Gunfire erupts instantly.

Muzzle flashes strobe violently across fungal walls while the infected slam into the group. One Wolf screams as a clicker tackles him sideways into broken office furniture.

Another fires wildly while backing toward the exit. “Pull back!”

A stalker explodes out of the darkness behind them. The scream that follows cuts brutally short. The remaining Wolves don’t hesitate after that. “GO GO GO!”

Boots thunder back toward the entrance while infected shrieks and wet tearing sounds swallow the lower floor behind them.

Your flashlight catches movement sprinting low across the ceiling beams overhead.

“Taxi!”

The shepherd lunges before you finish the word. A stalker crashes into him midair with a shriek. The two slam across the floor together in a snapping mess of teeth and claws.

You raise your rifle—

Another infected explodes out of the darkness straight at you. You barely get your knife up in time. The stalker slams you backward into the floor hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. Its fungal face twitches inches from yours, jaw snapping wildly while rotten saliva drips onto your sleeve.

“Get the fuck off me—!”

You jam the knife upward.

Miss.

The creature shrieks directly into your face. Somewhere deeper inside the building, gunfire mixes with screaming.

Taxi snarls viciously nearby.

The stalker pins your wrist harder against the floor—

Then suddenly—

BANG.

The infected jerks violently. Warm blood sprays across your throat. The body collapses instantly on top of you.

Dead.

For one second you can only hear your own breathing.

Then boots step into view beside your head. Worn leather darkened by rainwater steps into view beside you. Jeans soaked dark at the hems. Holster strapped low against his thigh.

One large hand gripping a revolver steady at his side—

Your revolver.

Your pulse stumbles instantly. Then you see the watch. Cracked glass. Worn leather strap.

His broken watch.

The one that never leaves his wrist.

Your breath catches so sharply it hurts. No. No fucking way. Your eyes lock onto his hand again. Calloused fingers. Faint scars across rough knuckles. You know that hand.

God, you know it.

That hand held your face like something precious. Fixed your weapons at the kitchen table late at night. Curled warm against your waist in bed. Your chest tightens so hard it almost hurts.

The man crouches immediately beside you, grabbing the dead stalker by the shoulder and hauling it off your body with a grunt.

Then flashlight beam finally cuts upward across his face.

Rough beard. Wet curls. Dark exhausted eyes already locked on yours like they’ve been searching for you for days. For a second your brain genuinely refuses to process it.

You just stare at him. Breathing hard.

Rainwater still dripping from his jacket onto the floor.

He looks tired. Older somehow. Terrified. Relieved. All at once.

Still unfairly handsome.

“…Joel?”

Your voice comes out barely above a whisper.

Another stalker scream echoes somewhere nearby.

Neither of you looks away.

Joel’s jaw tightens hard enough you see the muscle jump beneath wet stubble The stalker crashes into Joel so fast.

One second he’s crouched in front of you, rough hands hauling the dead infected off your body while rainwater drips from his curls onto your jacket—

The next—

Movement explodes out of the dark behind him. Fast. Too fast.

“Joel—!”

He twists instantly, revolver already snapping upward on instinct. Nothing. Just a hollow click.

Empty.

For the first time since you’ve known him, you actually see it—

Pure panic.

Not fear for himself.

For you.

Because the creature is already on him.

Its mouth opens wide enough you see strings of rotten saliva stretching between fungal-split teeth. Its face barely even looks human anymore beneath the blooming cordyceps splitting through skin and jawbone.

Joel shoves against it hard, but the stalker slams him backward into the wall before he can reload.

“Fuck—!”

Its teeth snap inches from his throat.

Joel’s forearm jams against its neck violently, muscles straining beneath soaked flannel while the infected screeches directly into his face.

The sound is horrible. Wet. Not human.

Taxi lunges across the room barking viciously, claws scraping across concrete as he tries to reach Joel. Your body moves before your brain does. You throw yourself into them. The impact knocks all three of you sideways.

The stalker turns instantly. Its jaws slam down around your forearm, just as you planned. Pain detonates through your entire body. “AHH— FUCK!” The scream tears itself out of your throat raw and sharp as teeth sink deep through muscle. You feel them puncture skin. Feel the pressure of its jaw locking harder the more you fight.

Warm blood floods instantly down your wrist.

Joel freezes. Actually freezes. His face drains of color so fast it terrifies you more than the bite itself.

“No—”

The word barely leaves him. The stalker thrashes violently against your arm, snarling through flesh still trapped between its teeth.

You could pull away. But you don't. Instead, you force your arm deeper.

Joel’s eyes widen in horror. “Kat, NO!”

Pain burns white-hot through your entire arm as the infected tears harder into flesh, fungal teeth sinking deeper with every violent jerk of its head. Taxi loses his mind somewhere beside you, barking viciously.

Joel lunges forward—

Too late.

You wrench the revolver upward with your free hand and jam the barrel directly against the side of the stalker’s head. Then pull the trigger.

BANG.

The gunshot explodes through the room. The bullet punches straight through fungal plates and skull with a sick wet crunch.

The creature spasms violently.

Its jaw clamps one final time around your arm before the body suddenly goes limp and collapses heavily against you.

Dead.

For half a second nobody moves. You can actually hear blood hitting the floor from your arm. Taxi keeps barking hysterically beside you. Then Joel grabs the infected and literally rips it off you hard enough the corpse slams against the wall nearby.

“Jesus Christ— Jesus fucking Christ—”

His voice sounds wrong. Shaking. Panicked.

You’ve heard Joel angry. You’ve heard him violent. You’ve heard him terrified.

But this?

This sounds like a man watching the world end all over again.

His hands grab your arm immediately. Too fast. Too rough. Then suddenly gentle the second he sees the damage. The bite already looks ugly. Deep punctures torn into flesh. Blood running between his fingers while fungal saliva mixes with rainwater across your skin.

Joel stares at it like he can somehow undo it if he looks hard enough. He’s not even looking at your face anymore.

Only the wound. Only the blood. Only the teeth marks.

He knows you’re immune.

But it doesn’t matter. Because watching something bite you still breaks something inside him instantly.

“Hey.” Your free hand catches his wrist hard enough to force his eyes back to yours. “Joel.”

His gaze snaps upward finally.

And God—

You’ve never seen him look this terrified before. Not even close.

“It’s okay,” you whisper quickly. “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re fuckin’ not okay!”

The words crack out of him louder than intended. “You let it bite you,” he says, staring at you like he genuinely cannot understand what he just watched.

Your jaw tightens against another pulse of pain. “It was gonna get you.”

“So you let it tear into your goddamn arm?!”

“Yes!”

The word echoes harder than expected through the ruined building. Silence crashes down afterward except for both of your breathing.

Joel looks furious. Terrified. Completely shattered.

You swallow hard before quieter: “I knew it wouldn’t kill me.”

Joel’s expression twists instantly. “That ain’t the point. You think watchin’ that was supposed to be easier just because you can survive it?”

“I—”

More screeches erupt somewhere deeper inside the building.

Not one.

Several.

The sound bounces violently through dark hallways and collapsed floors, wet clicking mixed with the frantic shouts of WLF soldiers still trapped somewhere below. Joel’s head snaps toward the noise instantly. “Shit.”

Another scream echoes. Closer this time.

Taxi barks furiously beside you while the dead stalker’s blood continues dripping slowly from your bitten arm onto the floor. Joel grabs your wrist immediately. “We gotta move. Now.”

You stagger upright beside him, adrenaline barely drowning out the burning pulse ripping through your arm.

The building groans around all three of you.

Something crashes downstairs.

Then running. Fast running. Too many footsteps.

“Infected?” you ask breathlessly.

Joel reloads while already moving. “All of ‘em.”

That answers enough.

Taxi bolts ahead first as Joel shoves open a warped emergency door leading into another hallway thick with mold and water damage.

“Where are we going?!” you shout while running after him.

“My place ain’t far!”

You blink. “Your what?!”

“Keep runnin’!”

Another stalker bursts from a doorway ahead.

Joel fires before it fully reaches you.

BANG.

The infected folds violently against the wall. “Right!” Joel shouts. “Take the right!”

You skid around the corner hard enough your shoulder slams concrete.

The hallway opens toward a collapsed loading bay exposed to rain and fading evening light outside.

The sky has turned nearly black now.

Seattle after sunset feels less like a city and more like something alive waiting to swallow people whole. Taxi leaps through the broken opening first.

You follow immediately—

Then freeze.

A chain-link fence blocks most of the alley outside except for one narrow gap near the bottom where the metal has been bent upward. “Fuck.”

“Go!” Joel shouts behind you.

Gunfire erupts somewhere deeper inside the building. Then shrieking. Taxi squeezes through the gap first before spinning around barking wildly for you. You drop low and crawl after him just as Joel grabs the fence hard enough to yank the opening wider for you.

The metal tears loudly.

Your injured arm screams in protest while squeezing through. “Joel—!”

“I’m comin’, keep movin’!”

A runner crashes through the loading bay doorway behind him.

Then another.

Joel rips a molotov from his backpack, lights it without hesitation, and hurls it straight into the entrance.

Glass shatters. Fire erupts instantly.

The hallway behind him explodes into orange light and screaming infected. “GO!” he roars.

You don’t argue.

All three of you sprint through rain-dark alleyways while flames spread violently behind you, infected shrieks echoing through the burning building. Joel catches up fast despite the extra weight of his rifle and pack.

“Left!” he shouts over the rain. “Take the left!”

You follow him blindly through narrow streets flooded ankle-deep with rainwater. Taxi keeps pace beside you, breathing hard while distant gunfire and infected screams slowly fade farther behind.

Eventually—

Finally—

The noise dies. The city quiets again.

Joel slows near an old brick building squeezed between two collapsed storefronts. A faded neon saxophone still hangs crooked above the entrance.

JAZZ • LIVE MUSIC • COCKTAILS

Or at least that’s what’s left of the sign. Joel grabs the door handle first.

Locked.

He shoulders it once. Hard. The wood gives immediately. “Inside.”

You and Taxi slip in first while Joel slams the door shut behind all of you. Darkness swallows the room.

The beam of Joel’s flashlight cuts across overturned tables, dusty bottles behind the bar, ripped velvet booths, and a stage sitting abandoned beneath hanging lights coated in years of grime.

Then Joel immediately starts moving furniture.

Fast. Efficient. Like muscle memory.

He shoves a heavy cabinet against the door before dragging another beside it.

You bend forward, hands braced against your knees while trying to catch your breath. Rainwater drips steadily from your hair onto the floorboards below. Taxi pants nearby, ears still twitching toward distant sounds outside. You glance around the bar slowly.

“…I passed this place earlier,” you mutter between breaths. “Didn’t exactly scream safehouse.”

Joel grunts while forcing another chair beneath the door handle. “That’s ‘cause you think like a survivor.” He finally looks back at you briefly. “You gotta think like a smuggler.”

The corner of your mouth almost twitches despite everything.

Taxi finally relaxes enough to lie down beside one of the booths, though he still watches both of you carefully while licking rainwater from his fur.

Outside, thunder rolls softly over Seattle. Inside, everything suddenly feels too quiet.

You straighten slowly while pressing your palm against the bandage wrapped around your arm. The bite throbs beneath soaked fabric now. Hot. Sharp. “Joel,” you say quietly. “How did you find us?”

Taxi huffs softly at the sound of his name.

Joel completely ignores the question.

Instead, he walks straight toward you, grabs your uninjured arm gently but firmly, and guides you toward one of the old leather couches near the stage.

“Sit.”

“Joel—”

“Sit down.”

Something in his voice makes you listen.

You lower yourself onto the couch slowly while he drops his backpack onto the nearby table and kneels in front of you.

“Lemme see.”

The bite still bleeds slowly through the bandage. Joel pulls fresh gauze and alcohol from his pack with practiced hands.

Your eyes stay fixed on him while he works. The furrow between his brows deepens immediately the second he unwraps the blood-soaked cloth from your arm.

There it is. That line in his forehead. The one that only appears when he’s angry or worried enough it physically hurts him.

God.

You missed him. So fucking much. More than you allowed yourself to admit.

“This’ll hurt.” Joel pours alcohol over the wound.

“Wonderful.”

The second the liquid hits torn flesh, pain rips straight through your arm. “Ah— fuck—”

Your whole body tenses instantly while Joel grips your wrist tighter to steady you.

“Easy,” he mutters quietly.

You hiss through clenched teeth while he carefully cleans dried blood from around the bite marks. Your eyes drift across his face again. The concentration. The exhaustion beneath his eyes. The tension in his jaw. You wonder how many nights he hasn’t slept.

“You showed up at a pretty convenient time,” you breathe, still staring at him like he might disappear again. “How the hell did you even find us?”

Joel keeps wrapping the bandage.

Doesn’t answer.

There are a hundred other things you want to ask him too. How long has he been here? Did Ellie know? Was he hurt? Was he angry? Did he hate you for leaving? But after drugging him and disappearing in the middle of the night, asking those questions feels almost selfish somehow. So instead you ask the smallest one. The safest one.

“…Why are you here, Joel?”

This time he finally looks up. And the expression in his eyes makes your throat tighten instantly. Dark. Tired. Hurt.

“S’pose I’m the one oughta be askin’ questions.”

Silence stretches between you.

You glance away first. Joel doesn’t.

“How the hell do you hear every damn thing I tell you,” he says quietly, “and still leave anyway?”

Your jaw tightens. “Joel—”

“That stubbornness of yours real or you just enjoy makin’ me lose my goddamn mind?” His voice sharpens now. “You come here to kill yourself? Was that the plan?”

The words hit harder than expected. Because part of you knows he’s not completely wrong.

“I got close,” you argue quietly. “I’m almost done. Tomorrow I finish this.”

Joel lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Finish it how exactly?” He rises suddenly to his feet. “You see how many Wolves are out there? This ain’t a mission, darlin’, it’s a suicide note.”

“I’m not leaving without killing him.”

“Well you ain’t gettin’ the chance if you end up dead first!”

Taxi lifts his head immediately at the sharpness in Joel’s voice. You stand too fast. Pain flares through your arm but you ignore it. “What, you think I came all this way for nothing?!”

“Yes!” Joel explodes. “That’s exactly what I think!”

You stare at him in disbelief. Rain rattles softly against the windows behind him while the neon sign outside flickers weak blue light across his face. “You don’t understand.”

“No, YOU don’t understand!” Joel snaps back immediately. “If I hadn’t found you tonight you woulda died in there!”

“I saved you too!”

“That ain’t the damn point!”

His voice echoes through the empty jazz bar. Taxi whines softly from the couch. Joel runs one rough hand through soaked curls before pointing furiously toward your bandaged arm.

“You ain’t bulletproof, Kat! You ain’t immune to gettin’ your head blown off or blown apart or buried under some goddamn building!”

“I KNOW THAT!”

“Then why the hell are you actin’ like you got nothin’ left to lose?!”

Your breathing turns uneven instantly. “I always find a way.”

Joel stares at you for one long horrible second. Then suddenly he crosses the room and grabs both your arms hard enough to stop your pacing completely. “Goddamn it, Kat—” His voice breaks lower now. Rougher. Desperate. “Why don’t you get it?” His grip tightens. “Not everythin’ goes the way you planned.”

Your heartbeat stumbles.

“One mistake,” he whispers harshly. “One bad second and everythin’ falls apart. Why you runnin’ toward death like this, huh?” His jaw clenches hard. “You don’t think about yourself, fine. But do you ever think about what happens to me?”

Your lips part. Nothing comes out. So you look away instead.

“…Ellie needs you,” you whisper weakly. “If somethin’ happened to me, you’d still have—”

“Don’t.” His voice cuts straight through yours. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

You look back at him slowly. Joel’s eyes burn now. Actually burn.

“She ain’t you.”

The words hit like a punch. Joel breathes hard once through his nose before quieter now:

“You’re not Ellie to me.” He steps closer. So close you can feel warmth radiating from him despite the cold rain still clinging to his clothes. “You’re worse,” he mutters roughly. “So much goddamn worse.”

Your breath catches.

“Because I let myself love you.”

The confession lands heavy between both of you. Joel laughs once under his breath. Bitter. Broken.

“This stubborn old heart was finally startin’ to beat again and you just…” He shakes his head slightly. “You rip yourself outta my bed and disappear across the country like I’m supposed to survive that.”

Your throat tightens painfully. “I couldn’t let you get hurt.”

Joel stares at you like the words physically offend him.

“And what the hell you think happens to me if you die?”

Silence. Real silence this time.

Joel closes his eyes briefly before leaning forward until his forehead rests against yours. When he speaks again, his voice barely sounds steady anymore. “I told you about Sarah.” Your heart cracks quietly. “I told you exactly what losin’ somebody like that does to a man.” His nose brushes yours lightly when he exhales. “You’re there for me now.” The words melt something inside your chest instantly. “You understand?” he whispers. “Right fuckin' there.”

Your lips part softly.

Joel’s mouth hovers barely inches from yours now. Close enough that every breath mixes together. Close enough that thinking becomes impossible. You should keep arguing. You should push him away. Tell him to go back to Jackson. Tell him tomorrow changes nothing. But all you can think about is how badly you missed him. The smell of him. The warmth. The roughness in his voice. The way he says your name like it belongs to him. Your thighs tense unconsciously.

Joel notices immediately. Of course he does.

His eyes darken slightly while his hand slides from your arm to your waist slowly. Possessive. Careful.

Like he’s trying not to break under the weight of his own feelings.

“Listen to me,” he murmurs roughly. “I don’t give a damn about anybody or anything in this world the way I do you.” Your breath catches harder. “You hear me?” His fingers tighten slightly against your waist. “You got some kinda single-digit fuckin’ IQ or somethin’, huh? How many goddamn times do I gotta say it before it gets through that stubborn skull of yours?”

Your brows pull together immediately.

“Joel—”

“No.” His grip tightens when you try pulling back slightly. “No, you don’t get to pull that runaway bullshit and then stand there actin’ confused when I come after you.”

Heat flashes through your chest instantly.

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“Exactly!” Joel snaps. “That’s the damn problem!”

You turn your head away sharply, jaw tightening.

For half a second you almost step back.

Joel catches you immediately.

One rough hand locks around your waist and pulls you flush against him again before you can move an inch.

“You scare the livin’ shit outta me, Kat.”

The word comes out low. Dangerous. Desperate.

His forehead nearly touches yours now.

“You run into gunfights, infected, goddamn armies like your life don’t matter and it’s drivin’ me fuckin’ insane.”

Your pulse stumbles hard.

Joel’s jaw tightens once before he says the next part slower. Like he needs you to understand it this time. “You’re mine to lose sleep over now.”

Your breath catches sharply.

Joel’s eyes stay locked on yours.

Possessive. Furious. Completely wrecked by you. His hand slides tighter against your waist. “Mine to worry about. Mine to come look for. Mine to drag back alive if I gotta.”

Then he snaps. One hand grips your jaw. The other yanks you hard against him. And his mouth crashes into yours.

The kiss is brutal.

Desperate.

All teeth and heat and weeks of fear poured into one violent collision.

You gasp against his mouth immediately and Joel takes advantage instantly, kissing you deeper like he’s angry at you for making him miss you this badly.

Like he’s trying to punish himself and you at the same time.

His beard scrapes harsh against your skin while his fingers dig into your waist possessively enough to ache.

You clutch his soaked flannel automatically.

Joel groans low into your mouth the second you pull him closer.

The sound nearly destroys what little restraint you had left.

“Christ. Look what the hell you do to me,” he mutters against your lips before kissing you again harder somehow.

Raw. Messy. Needy.

Like neither of you fully believes the other is really here yet.

Joel kisses you like he’s trying to make up for every second you were gone. Like anger and relief and love have tangled together into something too big for him to hold quietly anymore.

Your back hits the edge of the old piano beside the stage with a dull thud.

Neither of you cares.

Rain fades into background noise beneath rough breathing, shifting clothes, and the scrape of calloused hands against soaked denim and flannel.

Joel’s fingers bury into your hair hard enough to tilt your head back while his mouth keeps finding yours again and again like he physically can’t stop once he starts.

You kiss him back just as desperately.

All the fear.

All the missing him.

All those nights alone in ruined buildings wishing he was there instead—

It all crashes out at once.

“Jesus…” Joel breathes against your lips, forehead pressing briefly to yours. “Missed you so goddamn much.”

The confession nearly breaks you.

Your fingers work shakily at the buttons of his flannel while he crowds closer between your legs.

“You weren’t supposed to come after me,” you whisper breathlessly, teasing despite yourself as you push the shirt from his shoulders.

Joel lets out a rough, humorless laugh against your mouth.

“Tough shit.”

His belt unfastens with a metallic clink.

Then he kisses you again before you can answer.

Harder this time.

Needier.

One large hand slides beneath your jacket, rough fingers spreading against the small of your back while the other grips your waist possessively enough to pull a soft sound from your throat.

Joel immediately catches it.

A dark smirk ghosts briefly across his face.

“Look at her now,” he mutters roughly against your mouth. “All needy.”

Heat rushes through your chest instantly.

“You keep makin’ sounds like that,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, “I’m gonna forget we’re supposed to be arguin’.” His thumb drags once along your cheek. “Real damn loud for somebody who left me.”

The words hit harder than they should.

Before you can answer, Joel’s hands find the zipper of your jacket instead.

He yanks it down impatiently.

Then your shirt follows, leaving you in nothing but your bra beneath the dim neon glow leaking through the rain-streaked windows.

Joel’s eyes drag over you slowly.

Hungry.

Overwhelmed.

Then his gaze catches on the fresh bandage around your arm. The softness disappears immediately. Joel leans down and presses a rough almost angry kiss against your forehead. “You scare the hell outta me,” he mutters. “Don’t pull that shit again.” Your hands slide over his bare chest, palms spreading across warm skin and tense muscle beneath your fingertips.

God.

You forgot how solid he feels. How warm. How safe. It almost hurts remembering it.

Joel exhales sharply the second you touch him. Then his hands are on you again. Touching like he physically can’t help it.

Your shirt snags briefly while he pulls it over your head one-handed before tossing it somewhere behind him without even looking.

His eyes move slowly across your skin afterward. “Christ,” he whispers quietly.

The way he says it sends heat straight through you.

Joel notices instantly.

That rough little smirk flickers again before something heavier replaces it.

His fingers brush lightly along your ribs before settling against your waist, thumbs hooking into your jeans and dragging them slowly down your legs. Cold air kisses exposed skin while rain taps softly against the windows outside.

“There she is,” Joel murmurs, voice low and wrecked as his hands settle against your thighs, holding you close. His kisses trailed to your neck and you gulped back a lustful sigh. He couldn’t know how much you were enjoying it. His fingers glided in between your folds, the vibrations already making you far too excited. He chuckled to himself, cupping you so your clit was between his fingers as he rubbed your heat. “She’s so fucking pretty and always ready for me,” he purred against your neck and you loved the excited rush his breath gave your skin. You yanked his hair pulling him back into another hungry kiss. His hands roamed your body, squeezing your soft spots, groping your ass, weaving his fingers through your hair, noting the places that made you squirm when he gave them attention. 

You started to retort but your knees dipped when he inserted a finger. His other hand reached around your back to hold you up and you moaned when he started to pump his fingers deep inside of you. Your hands slide up into his curls while his mouth moves against yours with enough care now to make your knees weaker than the violence of the first kiss ever could.

Taxi lifts his head from the couch nearby, ears twitching as he watches both of you pressed together beside the piano.

Joel notices immediately.

“C’mon, buddy,” he mutters roughly without taking his eyes and fingers off you. “Give us five goddamn minutes.”

Taxi huffs loudly from the couch. You grin softly against Joel’s mouth. “He’s protective,” you murmur, breathless. “Kinda reminds me of somebody.”

“Yeah? Smart dog then.”

“Smartest one around, actually. Shame he ended up with an idiot owner.”

Joel’s mouth twitches immediately. “Make that two idiots,” he murmurs.

Taxi barks once from the couch like he’s agreeing. You laugh softly. Joel points toward the dog without looking away from you. “Alright, smartass. Turn around.” Taxi lets out a dramatic huff before very pointedly turning his back to both of you and flopping back down onto the couch.

“How the hell do you just disappear on me,” he murmurs rough against your lips, his long finger curling inside you, “and take that pretty laugh with you too, huh?” You latch onto him, digging your nails into his arm, he exhales softly against your mouth. “Damn near forgot what it sounded like.” The vibrations shake through your core and curl low in your stomach, where a terrible and wonderful sensation begins to build, pulling a broken moan from your throat. “Yeah,” he mutters low against your lips. “Missed that too.”

With a grunt, he pulls his fingers out of you, still wet with your arousal, and presses them to his lips, sucking hungrily, almost angrily.

Then suddenly you’re in his arms.

Joel lifts you easily and lays you back against the old couch, one large hand settling against your waist as he leans over you. “‘M about two seconds away from losin’ what’s left of my damn self-control here.” One large hand slides up your thigh slowly before his dark eyes lock onto yours again. “So open wide for me, darlin’.”

You obey and spread your legs while he gets rid of his boxers and settles between your thighs. He leans down again and kisses you deeply. You wrap one hand around his dripping cock and squeeze softly, and simply feeling the way your grip trembles makes him weak. He can feel you smile against his mouth.

He drags his tongue across your lip and spreads your legs wider with his palm. He nibbles gently on your bottom lip, and you moan, arching against him.

He presses his swollen tip against your slick pussy and tries to still the swirling darkness inside him; he wants you, and he’s going to have you now and forever.

Even still, he feels anger clawing at the edges of his lust: anger that you left him like that, that you almost died, that you were so ready to sacrifice yourself for him and didn’t give a damn about dying so fearlessly.

Against all reason, he wants to punish you because you still don’t fully understand how much you mean to him, and because you’ve turned your immunity into an advantage, risking your life as if it were nothing. But he pushes those thoughts out of his mind.

He presses his fingers to your clit and teases you, and you moan against him, wrapping your legs around his hips, trying to urge him further. Exhaling quickly against your lips, he buries himself inside you in one smooth, severe stroke, and you cry out. You are so wet that the suddenness of it doesn’t sting, but the insistent burn and stretch inside you makes you shiver. He pulls back slightly to look into your eyes. From the way he looks down at you—like you are small and helpless and beloved, all for him—the realization makes his heart beat hard against his ribs and arouses him even further.

His next thrust is even harsher, and you dig your nails into his shoulders and writhe against him, wordlessly meeting his challenge. He grins darkly at you and fucks you in earnest, and the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the old jazz bar. He grunts with each thrust like he is exorcising something strange and wild, and you find yourself clutching at him with a ferocity that surprises you. You move against each other like animals desperate for release, but as your orgasm approaches, you realize he has no intention of finishing yet, even though he is struggling to hold back. When you grow insistent and press firmly against him each time he withdraws, he shakes his head at you like you are an insolent child. You whine and scratch his back, and he bites your shoulder where it meets your neck.

The couch shifts hard enough to bump against the wall, drawing a long suffering sigh from Taxi somewhere nearby.

Neither of you can help laughing softly at that. 

His gaze stops at your bra — the last piece still clinging to your body. He reaches with his large hand and unfastens it easily, grabbing your breasts possessively and burying his face between them.“Fuck, Joel, I’m—”

He crashes his mouth against yours before you can finish, swallowing the rest of your words as the kiss turns messy and desperate, teeth clashing briefly in the heat of it.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs roughly against your lips. “Jesus Christ… keep doin’ that and I ain’t gonna last.” He pulls back just enough to look at you before drawing you closer again, moving with a rhythm that grows rougher and more desperate the longer he kisses you. “Fuck… so goddamn tight, fuck, fuck. Feels too damn good.”

You scratch your nails down his back again as he finds that spot inside you once more. Joel sucks on your neck and uses the hand that isn’t holding yours to roughly pinch and twist your nipples.

“Right there,” you gasp softly, barely able to think anymore. “Joel… right there.”

He slams into you harder with every thrust, losing whatever control he had left the second he feels you falling apart beneath him.

Your moans break into desperate little sounds that only make him rougher, his forehead pressed against yours while he pushes his thick cock deep inside you. “That’s it,” he groans hoarsely. “Fuck, baby… just like that.” You cry out his name as pleasure crashes through you, your whole body trembling beneath him while your fingers clutch helplessly at his shoulders.

Joel watches you come apart with something almost feral in his expression, like the sight alone is enough to ruin him completely. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes shakily, gripping you tighter. “… gonna fuckin’ kill me one day.”

The way your walls squeeze him finally snaps the last thread holding him together, he grips the back of your head possessively and pulls you up into a searing kiss as he begins filling you up. His masculine groans are the sexiest sound you’ve ever heard—raw, rough, completely wrecked by you—and even if you hadn’t already been overwhelmed with pleasure, you know you’do anything just to hear them again.

By the time the both of you finally come down, exhaustion settles heavily into your bones. Your entire body still trembles from overstimulation, you feel him softening inside you, and without thinking, you cling closer to him — hooking one leg over his and wrapping an arm tightly around his waist while burying your face against his chest.

Joel lets out a tired breath and settles back against the couch with you tangled around him. One hand rests protectively over your arm while the other lazily twirls a strand of your hair around his finger. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, finally realizing how sweaty and completely spent both of you are. “Kat,” he murmurs quietly, fingertips tracing slow patterns against your skin. The softness in his voice makes you shiver more than anything else tonight. “Y’know I love you, right?”

Your eyes flutter half-shut as you look up at him. “I know,” you whisper back, voice rough and sleepy. Your fingers trace lazily across his chest. “Love you too, old man.”

A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth — soft enough that most people would miss it entirely. Then, reluctantly, Joel starts untangling himself from you.

“C’mon,” he mutters gently, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “Gotta clean you up before you pass out on me.”

Seattle, Day Three.

Joel wakes first. He doesn’t move right away. For a long moment he just lies there on the narrow couch with one arm wrapped tightly around your waist beneath the heavy wool blanket he’d found sometime during the night.

The thing had smelled like dust and old cedar when he shook it out upstairs near the storage room. Probably untouched for years. He remembers beating the hell out of it against the railing while muttering curses under his breath, trying to get enough dirt off it so you wouldn’t complain.

You still complained. Half asleep. Mumbling something about “old man nesting instincts.”

Joel almost smiles remembering it.

Now you sleep against his chest completely unaware, warm beneath the blanket, breathing slow and steady while Taxi snores softly nearby. Joel watches you quietly.

Your hair’s a mess. One cheek pressed against his shoulder. One leg tangled with his beneath the blanket. Peaceful. Too peaceful for somebody who spent the last several days fighting through Seattle like a damn one-woman apocalypse.

His fingers move carefully through your hair, brushing strands away from your face slowly enough not to wake you. Then his eyes drift downward.

And the softness in his expression changes immediately.

Bruises. Scratches. Old healing cuts layered beneath newer ones. Your shoulder carries a dark purple mark from rifle recoil, probably from firing that sniper nonstop for days. Your knuckles are split open in places. Another bruise blooms faintly along your ribs.

Joel’s jaw tightens quietly.

He’s seen bodies like this before. Survivors. People who lived too long outside walls. But seeing it on you feels different somehow. More personal. More infuriating.

His eyes stop at the bandage wrapped around your arm.

The bite.

Joel exhales slowly through his nose and looks back at your sleeping face. You were probably the strongest person he’d ever met. And that scared the hell out of him too.

He thinks about everything you survived before Jackson. Ten years outside. Fighting. Sleeping in ruins and abandoned cars and forests filled with infected. Your own father hunting you.

Your own father.

Joel still can’t wrap his mind around that part completely. His old man had been many things. Mean sometimes. Hard. But there had still been moments. A hand on the shoulder. A “good job, son.” Tiny things. Enough to know he’d been loved at least once growing up.

But you?

You learned young that love came with scalpels and cages and being hunted like an animal. And somehow you still came out capable of loving people anyway. Joel honestly doesn’t know how. Maybe he never will.

Taxi suddenly lets out a soft whine nearby. Joel glances over immediately. The shepherd lifts his head slightly from the floor, favoring his injured leg again.

“Hey,” Joel murmurs quietly. “Easy there.”

Carefully making sure not to wake you, Joel slips out from beneath the blanket and pulls his jeans back on before crouching beside Taxi.

“Lemme see it, boy.”

Taxi growls softly at first. Joel clicks his tongue.

“Shh. Relax, kiddo. Ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

Taxi grumbles dramatically anyway. Joel snorts quietly.

“Yeah, yeah. You sound just like her.”

The wound isn’t terrible. Bullet graze. Angry-looking but clean. Joel pulls out antiseptic and carefully spreads ointment across the injury. Taxi flinches once.

“There ya go.” Joel scratches behind his ears afterward. “You did good lookin’ after her.”

Taxi’s tail thumps once against the floorboards.

“Hell,” Joel mutters quietly, “somebody had to.”

Taxi barks once like he fully agrees.

Joel laughs softly under his breath. “Yeah, well. That stubbornness rubbed off on you too apparently.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

Your sleepy voice makes Joel glance over immediately. You’re sitting upright now near the couch, pulling your shirt back on while watching both of them.

“Yeah?” Joel turns slightly toward you. “Dog’s almost as hardheaded as you are.” One corner of his mouth twitches faintly. “Guess crazy attracts crazy.”

You snort softly while stepping closer.

“How’s your arm?”

You notice immediately he avoids saying bite. Like the word itself pisses him off.

You flex your fingers carefully beneath the bandage. “Sore. Little throbbing. I’ll live.”

That does absolutely nothing for the look on Joel’s face.

“Lemme see.”

You hold your arm out without arguing this time. Joel unwraps the bandage slowly. His fingers shake slightly. You notice. He notices you noticing. Neither of you says anything about it.

The bite still looks ugly. Deep crescent punctures surrounded by bruising where the stalker’s jaw clamped down. But otherwise—

“No infection,” he mutters quietly, thumb brushing carefully near the wound. “No spreadin’. Nothin’.”

The awe in his voice almost sounds uncomfortable, like he’s rediscovering your immunity all over again.

You reach automatically for the knife lying nearby on the table. The second you angle it toward the bite— Joel catches your wrist hard.

“What’re you doin’?”

“If the mark’s still fresh, I can cut over it. Make it look like something else.”

Joel stares at you like you just suggested sawing your own arm off before immediately taking the knife away from you.

“You always this eager to carve yourself up?”

“It makes sense.”

He tosses the knife aside with a sharp look. “The bite’s deep enough already. Last thing you need’s an actual infection.”

You open your mouth to argue. Joel gives you a look. You close it again.

Satisfied, he starts rewrapping the bandage carefully before reaching into his bag and pulling out two cans of food.

“Eat somethin’.”

Your stomach betrays you instantly with a quiet growl. Joel hears it. Of course he does. A smug little look flashes across his face while he hands you the can.

“Knew it.”

You roll your eyes softly. “Don’t get cocky.”

Taxi suddenly perks up at the smell of food. Joel grabs another can from his bag, pops it open with his knife, and dumps the contents carefully onto a folded paper plate near the floor. “Found dog food near Seattle’s big ‘Fuck FEDRA’ gate.”

Taxi immediately starts eating.

You blink. “I checked there.”

Joel smirks slightly. “Yeah, well. Smuggler rule number one.” He settles back against the booth beside you. “There’s always another stash.”

You shake your head while eating a spoonful from your can.

“So…” you mutter thoughtfully between bites, “Joel Miller rescues us, patches us up, finds us shelter, feeds us…” Your eyes flick toward him. “Anything you can’t do?”

Joel looks at you over the rim of his coffee tin. “Convince you to come back to Jackson.”

“There it is,” you murmur.

“Damn right there it is.”

You stare down at your food for a second before quietly: “I can’t leave before this is finished.”

Joel exhales slowly through his nose. “Alright.” He nods once. “Then tell me the plan.”

You stare at him for a second like you’re waiting for the argument to come back. Joel shrugs one shoulder lightly.

“Pretty sure I could live another hundred damn years and still not win against that stubborn streak of yours.”

A faint tired smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“So I figured the next best thing is stickin’ around long enough to stop you from gettin’ yourself killed.”

His eyes meet yours then— steady and serious beneath the exhaustion.

“And help you finish this.”

You set the can aside and reach quickly for your backpack.

“Okay so—”

Joel steals the rest of your food while you’re distracted.

You whip your head toward him in disbelief. “Seriously?”

“You were done.”

“I was thinking.”

“You think better fed.”

You glare at him while he takes another completely unapologetic bite. Joel looks deeply unbothered for exactly two seconds before your expression finally cracks into genuine annoyance.

Then, with a quiet sigh like he’s dealing with the world’s grumpiest stray cat, he reaches into his backpack again.

“Relax, darlin’.”

He pulls out another can and tosses it into your lap. “Got another one.”

You look down at the label and immediately snort softly.

It’s actually your favorite.

“Wow,” you tease while turning the can in your hands, “that’s, like… suspiciously boyfriend behavior from you, Joel Miller.”

Joel immediately stops eating. Slowly lowers the spoon. “Take it back.”

You grin instantly. “What? Boyfriend?”

He exhales hard through his nose, already looking irritated in that deeply familiar way that only makes this funnier.

The second you laugh, Joel grabs your wrist and suddenly pulls you toward him hard enough that you let out a surprised noise, the can nearly slipping from your hands as you end up sprawled across his lap.

“Joel—”

“Y’know,” he mutters while leaning closer, one arm locking securely around your waist before you can even think about escaping, “I still think tying your stubborn ass to the back of my horse and draggin’ you back to Jackson’s a solid plan.”

“Wow.” You shake your head, grinning. “There’s the romance.”

Joel shakes his head under his breath before leaning closer suddenly, brushing a quick kiss against the tip of your nose.

“Romance,” he murmurs low while pulling back just slightly, “comes after we get your stubborn ass back to Jackson alive.”

“Deal,” you whisper.

Joel studies your face for another second like he’s trying to memorize it all over again before finally letting you slide reluctantly off his lap.

You settle back beside him while Joel reaches over to open your canned food for you. You lean forward and dig through your backpack before pulling out the stolen WLF radio.

“Let’s see what Seattle’s assholes are up to today.”

Joel’s entire posture sharpens instantly the second he sees it in your hands.

You twist the dial slowly. Static crackles loudly through the jazz bar.

“…patrol…” hissssss “…copy…” More static. You adjust it again. “…doctor…” You turn the dial carefully. The signal clears. “…repeat, Doctor Clouser’s requested package has been transferred to the hospital facility.”

Your stomach tightens instantly. Joel’s eyes lock onto yours.

Another voice answers through static: “Copy that, Ed. Use Route Six on your return. Scar activity’s spreadin’ east— avoid conflict if possible. And keep the lower quarantine level sealed. Doctor says nobody enters without clearance after last night’s incident.”

You and Joel stare at each other.

Hospital.

Confirmed.

The streets around the hospital feel dead in the wrong way. You move beside Joel through flooded streets littered with shell casings, broken arrows, and bodies left where they fell. WLF soldiers. Seraphites. Some so torn apart by infected it’s impossible to tell which side they belonged to anymore. Taxi walks ahead quietly now, ears twitching at every distant sound. The city smells like wet concrete, blood, mold, and smoke. Joel keeps his rifle raised while both of you move through the remains of another firefight. A burned-out military truck still smolders near the curb, its doors covered in bullet holes and dried blood. One entire wall nearby is painted black with huge dripping letters: FEEL HER LOVE. The words stretch across the brick wall in massive white paint, dripping down the rain-soaked surface beneath crude Seraphite symbols carved deep into the concrete.

But someone answered it. Down near the corner of the wall, sprayed violently in black paint over dried blood splatter, another message cuts across the white letters: FEEL THIS, BITCH. Below it, bodies are piled carelessly against the wall. Seraphites. You recognize them instantly from the rough dark cloaks hanging from torn limbs and rain-soaked rope belts still tied around waists. Some still clutch hammers and crude blades in stiff dead hands. The blood beneath them hasn’t fully washed away yet. Fresh enough that the rain still carries thin red streams slowly down the curb nearby. Your stomach twists slightly. “Those whistling assholes,” you mutter quietly while stepping around shattered glass and blood pooling near the curb. “Saw ’em gutting Wolves yesterday. Creepy fuckers.” Joel studies the hanging bodies for another second, jaw tightening slightly. “Yeah,” he mutters darkly. “Spent twenty years thinkin’ I’d already seen every kinda fucked up thing this world could turn people into.” You glance back toward the wall covered in blood and hanging corpses. “Then Seattle said hold my beer.” Joel actually laughs under his breath at that. Low. Brief. Real.

Then his expression hardens again as he scans the street ahead. “Everyone’s killin’ everybody,” he mutters. “Wolves, Scars… whole damn city’s at war.” His grip tightens slightly around the rifle. “Means we keep our heads down if we wanna make it to that hospital alive.” You glance toward the massive building looming farther ahead between flooded streets and collapsed apartments. “Front entrance probably crawling with Wolves anyway.” “Yeah.” Joel immediately turns away from the open street. “Too exposed.” He gestures with the rifle toward a row of half-collapsed buildings running parallel to the hospital district. “We circle around. Stay off the main roads. Maintenance tunnels, supply docks, rooftops… there’s always another way in.” You nod once and pull your hood lower against the rain. Taxi falls quietly into step beside both of you as you disappear deeper into the ruined side streets surrounding the hospital.

The hospital finally comes fully into view between buildings ahead. Massive. Concrete gray against the dark sky. Floodlights glow faintly near the lower levels while fog drifts around upper floors. So close now. Your hand automatically drops to the revolver holstered at your side. Your thumb brushes the worn grip while you pull the cylinder open and reload quietly. “Joel.” “Hm?” You hesitate. Which already tells him this matters.

Rain drips softly from broken signs overhead while Taxi pauses ahead to sniff cautiously near abandoned cars. You finally look at Joel. “I know leavin’ was selfish.” Joel stills slightly but says nothing. You swallow once. “It wasn’t just for me.” His eyes lift fully now. “It was for us.” The words feel strange out loud. Too vulnerable. Too honest. You look back down at the revolver while continuing quietly: “You and me. Future Days and all that shit.” A weak breath escapes you. “Before Jackson I never even let myself imagine havin’ somethin’ like that. Then I met you and suddenly…” Joel’s mouth slowly curves into the faintest smug smile. “Suddenly what, darlin’?” You roll your eyes instantly. “Don’t--” Joel’s grin grows slightly. “C’mon now. Wanna hear this part.” You glare at him briefly. Then finally sigh. “…I fell in love with you, alright?” you mutter. “There. Happy?” Joel looks devastatingly pleased with himself. “Little bit.” You shake your head while fighting a smile. Then your expression softens again. “I just wanted peace for once.” Your thumb traces the revolver grip absently. “Wanted somethin’ that actually belonged to me.” Joel watches you quietly for a long moment. Then he lowers his rifle and steps closer. “C’mere.” Before you can react, one arm hooks around your waist and pulls you firmly against him. The revolver remains loosely in your hand while Joel wraps both arms around you tightly beneath your jacket. “I know,” he murmurs against your hair. Joel pulls back just enough to look down at you. “But Christ, baby…” His thumb brushes your cheek. “Wish you hadn’t disappeared after I told you I’d help.” Guilt flickers sharply through your stomach. “I know. When we get back,” you whisper softly, “I’ll fix your heart.” Joel snorts. “Baby, you got yourself one hell of a fixer-upper.” “Maybe you can teach me."

Joel raises an eyebrow slightly. “Teach you what?” “How to fix old things. Worked pretty well with the guitar.” “Yeah?” he murmurs low. “Guess you’re a fast learner.” "Fuck yeah, I am." Your chest hurts from loving him. And that realization terrifies you a little. Joel squeezes your waist once before both of you continue moving again toward the hospital. Closer now. Too close. The streets gradually grow quieter the farther you go. No patrols. No distant shouting. No gunfire. Nothing. Joel slows first. You feel it too. The wrongness. You glance toward him. “…You feel that?” Joel nods once slowly. “Too quiet.” His grip tightens slightly around the rifle. “Don’t like it.” Neither do you. According to the radio traffic earlier, the area around the hospital should’ve been crawling with Wolves. Instead the streets feel abandoned. “We keep goin’ straight, we’re too exposed."

His eyes move toward the buildings lining the side streets near the hospital perimeter. “We circle around back first. Figure out where they got people stationed before we get anywhere near that place.” You nod, but Taxi suddenly growls low. Joel immediately raises the rifle scope. “Runner.” He points slightly right. “Two of ‘em.” You spot movement on the left side too. "There’s more over there.” Taxi suddenly bolts forward. “No— Taxi, wait!” The shepherd ignores you completely and charges ahead. You immediately move after him. Joel grabs your arm hard. “Kat— stop!” “What—” “Trap.” Your eyes drop instantly. Thin wire stretches low across the street between two wrecked cars. Shit. A runner slams into it first. BOOM. The explosion detonates loud enough to shake nearby windows. Fire and smoke erupt across the street while the infected body tears apart midair. Taxi yelps painfully as the shockwave throws him sideways onto wet pavement. “Taxi!" You rip free from Joel immediately. “NO!” Joel curses sharply behind you. Gunfire erupts the second you move. Not one shot. Several. “NOW!” someone yells from somewhere above. Fuck. Bullets slam into the pavement around your feet. Too close. Too precise. Joel fires back instantly. “Kat, NO!” But you’re already sliding across the pavement toward Taxi. The dog whines sharply on the ground, dazed and limping. “I got you,” you breathe quickly while reaching for him. More gunfire cracks overhead. But then— You realize something. They aren’t aiming at you. Every bullet hits beside you. Near your boots. Not kill shots. Joel notices too immediately from behind cover. “What the fuck…” Taxi struggles weakly beneath your hands while you kneel exposed in the middle of the street. Then a voice cuts through the chaos. Your real name. The name almost nobody alive still knows. You freeze. Cold spreads through your chest instantly.

Only two people ever called you that anymore. Slowly— You turn. Figures emerge near the hospital barricades ahead beneath floodlights. Armed Wolves surrounding them. And there— Him. Even from this distance you’d know that face anywhere. The same calm eyes. The same awful smile. Your stomach drops violently. “we were expecting you." he said "we" like.. pointedly… The world narrows instantly. Then you see another figure beside him. Bruised. Restrained. Gun pressed against his head. William. Your breath leaves your lungs. “…William.” Joel’s expression changes immediately the second he understands. This wasn’t coincidence. This wasn’t random. They were waiting. “Drop your weapon!” another Wolf shouts. Clouser smiles wider. “You came all this way for him, didn’t you?” His hand tightens against William’s shoulder possessively. “See? Here he is.” William’s eyes meet yours from across the street.

And suddenly for one horrible second you feel like you were little girl again. “Come now, sweetheart,” Clouser calls smoothly. “Wouldn’t want him dying before your reunion.” Joel’s rifle rises instantly. “Kat,” he says sharply. “Get your ass back here. I’ll cover you.” But you barely hear him anymore. Your heartbeat pounds too loud. William. Alive. Your eyes flick toward Taxi lying injured beside you. Then toward Joel behind cover. Then back toward Clouser. One shot. That’s all it would take. You’ve made harder shots before. Much harder. Your hand slowly drifts toward the revolver at your back. Joel sees it instantly. His expression changes immediately. “No.” You barely hear him. The world tunnels. One target. One bullet. One chance. You draw the revolver in one impossibly fast motion and fire. BANG. The bullet tears straight through Clouser’s head— Or almost. The shot hits the side of his skull violently, ripping through his ear and grazing along his temple instead of killing him outright. Blood sprays. Clouser collapses sideways screaming. Chaos erupts instantly. You almost laugh from the sheer rush of seeing him finally bleed— Then another shot slams through your shoulder hard enough to spin you backward onto the pavement. Pain explodes white-hot across your body. Joel’s voice roars somewhere distant. Gunfire erupts everywhere now. Joel immediately returns fire from cover, dropping one Wolf before being forced back behind concrete barriers under heavy fire. But even through the pain he sees you move. Still alive. Still conscious. Thank God. Clouser screams furiously from the ground while Wolves scramble around him. “STOP SHOOTING, YOU FUCKING IDIOTS!” Blood pours down the side of his face while medics drag him partially upright. “WE NEED HER ALIVE!” Your revolver skids across wet pavement out of reach. You lunge for it— Too slow. Three Wolves hit you at once.

You slam one in the stomach with your elbow hard enough to fold him in half before kicking another directly off you. But there are too many. Hands grab your wrists. Your legs. One Wolf twists your injured shoulder hard enough to force a cry from your throat. Joel immediately rises again from cover. “GET THE FUCK OFF HER!” He drops another Wolf with a headshot before bullets force him back again. Taxi snarls viciously from the ground, dragging himself toward you despite the pain tearing through his injured leg. “Hold her down!”

A Wolf slams your arms painfully behind your back while another drives your knees hard into the pavement. Zip ties cinch brutally tight around your wrists. You fight anyway. Thrashing. Kicking. Spitting curses through gritted teeth while they struggle to pin you properly. One soldier catches your boot directly across the face with a sharp crack. “Fuck—!” “Hold her still!” “Watch her hands!” Too fast. You waited too long.Should’ve moved faster.Should’ve had a better plan. Then rough hands yank you violently upright. Your boots drag through rainwater while Wolves force you across the flooded street toward him. Clouser’s eyes finally shift toward you. A faint smile twists across his mouth. Blood runs down the side of his face while rainwater drips steadily from his ruined coat. “…There she is.” Your stomach turns violently. “All those years hiding,” he murmurs. His eyes drag slowly over your face. “Just to walk yourself right back where you belong." “Fuck you!” You lunge toward him instantly. The Wolves wrench you back hard enough pain tears through your shoulders. “Easy!” “Hold her!” Clouser barely reacts. “Take her inside.” “No!” You twist violently again, panic flashing hotter now the second you realize what that means. “Get the fuck off me!” Then your eyes snap past them. “Joel!” Clouser pauses. His expression shifts slightly at the name. Slowly, his eyes drift past you toward the gunfire beyond the barricades. Toward Joel. Joel sees only you. “Kat!” And something inside him snaps completely.

He rises from cover without hesitation and opens fire again. One Wolf drops instantly. Another barely ducks behind a barricade before bullets rip apart the concrete beside his head. But there are too many. Gunfire explodes from three directions at once, forcing him back behind the ruined ambulance near the curb. Taxi barks frantically through the chaos, still trying to crawl toward you. Joel tries again anyway. Of course he does. The second he breaks cover, two Wolves rush him from the side. One slams into his ribs hard enough to drive him sideways into the wall while another hooks his rifle away violently. Joel elbows the first man directly in the throat. The second gets his nose shattered against Joel’s forehead. Then another Wolf grabs him from behind— Joel throws him over his shoulder hard enough to crack concrete— But someone finally jams a rifle against the back of his knee. “DOWN!” The shot doesn’t fire.

Instead the force behind it kicks Joel’s leg out from under him and drives him heavily onto one knee. Three rifles snap toward his head instantly. One pressed directly against his temple. Joel’s chest heaves violently as rain pours down his face. Still fighting. Still trying to look past them toward you. “Taxi!” he shouts hoarsely. The shepherd answers with another desperate bark somewhere nearby. One Wolf glances toward the injured dog lying near the street. “You want me to kill it?” he asks coldly. Clouser presses a blood-soaked cloth tighter against the ruined side of his head while staggering closer through the rain. “Leave it,” he rasps. “Thing’s practically dead already.” Taxi growls weakly anyway. Joel’s entire body tenses violently at the words. Then Clouser finally stops in front of him. Really looks at him. Recognition flickers slowly across his face beneath the blood. “…Well.” Rain drips steadily from his chin while he studies Joel almost curiously. “You’re Joel Miller.” Joel says nothing. His jaw clenches hard enough to twitch. Clouser lets out a faint disbelieving laugh through the pain. “Hm.” He shakes his head slightly. “Funny.” His ruined ear leaves blood running down his neck. “All this way…” His eyes darken. “Just to walk into your own execution.” Joel barely even processes the words. Doesn’t care. The only thing he’s still looking for is you. One of the Wolves glances toward Clouser questioningly. Clouser gives a small nod.

“If you touch her, I swear to God I’ll—” The rifle butt slams violently into the side of Joel’s head. Pain explodes white behind his eyes. Darkness swallows the rest of the sentence whole.

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