rach

You flexed them carefully, trying to look as unaffected as possible while the nurse unwrapped your improvised bandage. You weren't sure who she was. You'd heard about multiple doctors and nurses, but none of the descriptions seemed to fit her.

“Yeah.”

Unwrapping it hurts far more than the cut itself, anyway.

“Okay. Sit tight. We won't keep you waiting long.”

You nod, rewrapping your hand and pressing down again, just like he taught you. And when the door opens a moment later, you see him.

It's not cinematic. There's no slow motion, no dramatic swell of music, no sudden zoom-in. Your brain just takes half a second too long to catch up.

Robby is across the hall, near the nurses' station, hugging Noelle.

Not a quick hug, either. They're standing too close, fitting together in a way that's painfully familiar.

Your stomach drops and you look away immediately, as if you've touched a hot stove. As if looking any longer might make it real.

But you're not surprised.

Hurt? Absolutely. Surprised? Not really.

You knew about Noelle. Knew enough to pretend it didn't bother you when it probably should have.

Still. Eight days.

Only eight days -as far as you know- and he's already back with her. So much for the seven-week itch. Somehow he'd made it a few months with you. Looking at him now, you weren't sure whether that was supposed to make you feel better or worse.

You shake your head, determined not to have a breakdown in front of thirty strangers waiting to be treated.

So you step outside.

You spend a few minutes drafting a message to your boss, explaining that you might need half a day tomorrow -or at least a few hours- because you have no idea how long it'll take before a doctor finally sees you.

You hit send, and less than a minute later, you swear you hear your name.

When you look up, you try not to frown.

It's Jack.

Then again, this is the ambulance bay. Any doctor could be here.

Still, he's not wearing scrubs, and he's way too early for the handover.

“What the hell happened?”

“Hi to you too,” you say dryly, trying not to look affected.

You'd missed Jack. That was one of the less obvious downsides of the breakup. Somewhere along the way, he'd become one of your closest friends.

And seeing how worried he looks makes your throat tighten.

He steps closer, already reaching for your wrist.

“How long has it been bleeding?”

“Not that long.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“...Okay, like two hours,” you admit.

“Jesus Christ.”

“It wasn't that bad, I'm in triage. A really nice nurse already looked at it-”

“Not anymore.”

Or maybe that's what he says.

Before you can argue, he's steering you back toward the doors.

You barely register what happens next. As soon as you get past the triage, Jack says something to a nurse you vaguely recognize as Dana. She nods, glancing at a computer screen, and he asks her to page Langdon since he never clocked in for his shift.

You're not really listening. The image of Robby and Noelle is still haunting, replaying every time you blink. Their hug... the ease of it. The history in it. How easy it seemed to slip back into.

And for one awful second, you wonder if you've been looking at it all wrong.

Maybe you weren't the one who got replaced. Maybe, for a little while, you were the replacement. The pit stop. The distraction.

The room is too bright and everything is too loud. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting that harsh, clinical glow that always seems to make headaches worse. The exam table crackles beneath you when you shift, the thin paper sticking slightly to your skin. This is the last place you wanted to be.

Your hand is still wrapped, but the bandage is not doing much anymore. The gauze is damp, a dull red stain spreading through it while Jack stands nearby, arms crossed, glaring at it.

“You really waited?” he asks again, as if he still can't quite believe it.

“I didn't think it was-”

“That bad?” he cuts in.

You shrug.

“I handled it.”

“You were bleeding for two hours.”

“It sounds worse when you say it like that. It wasn't that dramatic.”

“You're in the ER.”

Before Jack can continue, Dr. Langdon steps in, already pulling on a pair of gloves. And honestly, you've never been more grateful for an interruption.

Because you know Jack... or at least, you think you do. He wouldn't let it go. He'd ask why you waited so long. Why you didn't call Robby. He'd keep pulling at the loose threads until he got to the truth, and right now you're not sure you can survive another person looking at you too closely. Or worse, with pity.

You know Jack never liked whatever was going on between Robby and Noelle. Maybe Robby kept the details to himself. Maybe Jack has no idea that the same girl who came before you apparently came after you, too.

Or maybe he knows.

“Alright,” Dr. Langdon says, flashing an easy smile.

Truth be told, he's even more charming than Robby described. There's something boyish about him, softened by confidence and experience. It's a dangerous combination.

And no wedding band. Interesting!

“Let's take a look at Abbot's VIP.”

So he knows who you are.

You immediately offer your hand, asking him to call you by your name.

You thank him, too. You know he must be busy. Hell, the whole department seems one bad shift away from complete chaos.

Langdon smiles and starts unwrapping the bandage, and as the cool air hits the cut, you hiss through your teeth.

Beside you, Jack leans forward despite himself, and Langdon shoots him a look.

Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.

“Okay,” Langdon says as he studies the wound for another second. “Yeah. That's deep.”

“Oh, I love hearing that,” you mutter playfully.

Langdon doesn't react, though. He just adjusts the overhead light, angling it directly over your hand. It makes everything look far more detailed than you'd like.

“Can you move your fingers for me?”

You don't hesitate, so you slowly curl them inward.

The skin pulls tight around the cut. It's an uncomfortable stretching sensation that makes your jaw clench, but everything moves the way it should.

“Again.”

You repeat the motion.

“Good. Now straighten them.”

You do.

“Any numbness?” Langdon asks.

“No.”

He takes a piece of gauze and lightly brushes it across your fingertips, then along the edges of the wound.

“Tell me if this feels the same.”

You nod.

“It does.”

Langdon glances at Jack.

“Alright.” A small nod towards Jack. “No nerve involvement.”

“Your last tetanus vaccine?” Jack asks without looking up.

"Three years ago.”

Another nod.

“You're fine.”

You smile nervously as Langdon reaches for a syringe.

“This part's going to sting.”

“Define sting.”

Jack glances at you as you eye the needle. "It's the worst part.”

“Great.”

Langdon doesn't wait, and the next thing you feel is the needle sliding into the skin beside the cut.

And.

It.

Fúcking.

Burns.

“Jesus-fúck, that hurts.” You suck in a sharp breath. “Sorry.”

That makes Langdon smile and shake his head. “That's a healthy reaction. No need to apologize.”

“Breathe,” Jack adds, arms crossed.

To your surprise, he actually looks concerned.

“I am breathing,” you say through clenched teeth. "It's not my fault this feels like hell."

Then it fades quite fast. Your palm starts to feel so heavy like it’s been inflated from the inside, so you instinctively try to flex your fingers. It's such a weird sensation.

“Take a deep breath.”

Another injection and another flare of that same burning pressure.

“You'll feel some pressure,” Jack says as Langdon trades the syringe for a larger one.

It's a good thing needles don't bother you much, because that one looks ridiculous.

Quickly, he positions it over the wound and presses, and you assume it's saline what shoots into the cut. And you flinch.

It doesn't exactly hurt, it's worse.

The sensation is deep and wrong, as if something is moving where nothing should be moving. You have to fight the urge to yank your hand away.

But you are a big girl. Instead, you watch how the fluid runs out pink at first, then gradually clears. It spills onto the blue pad beneath your hand, soaking into it.

Langdon repeats the process several times and despite yourself, your thoughts drift back to Robby.

How many times has he done this?

How many cases just like yours has he seen? Distracted people catching a knife with their palm while making dinner... How many wounds has he cleaned and stitched over the years? How many patients had come before you were even born?

“Why does that feel worse than I expected?” you ask, mostly to distract yourself. You don't even expect an answer; you just need something to focus on besides him.

“Because it's inside the wound,” Jack answers, still watching carefully.

You just know he's a good teacher.

He seems so patient and pulled together. And you're jealous.

You wish you could inspire that kind of confidence in people... make them feel safe.

“I hate this shit.”

Langdon chuckles and makes a few jokes as he blots the area dry, inspecting it more closely while gently parting the edges of the cut.

But you refuse to watch.

Instead, you stare at the ceiling, counting tiles, then the lights.

Anything except your own hand.

“Alright,” he says finally. “We’re good to close it.”

Once Jack gives an approving nod, Langdon opens a sterile suture kit.

You glance down.

Thread, needle, forceps.

Jack shifts his weight but doesn't leave.

“You don't have to wait for me,” you absently tell Jack. You're more than grateful, but you know he's busy. And so is Langdon "I'm sure you have actual patients to see. And if something urgent comes up, just let some newbie practice their stitching skills on-"

And maybe Robby doesn't have to be the center of every conversation.

“Shut up,” Jack cuts in, but there’s no bite to it. He is worried... he actually cares.

Maybe you can keep Jack.

You can watch tennis together, meet for coffee. Be friends.

Maybe he doesn't have to know how much it still hurts.

The first stitch is… weird.

You don't feel the needle break the skin, but you feel the movement afterward: the tug, the pull.

Like someone's threading something through your hand from the inside.

Your fingers twitch instinctively.

“Try to keep it still,” Langdon says, flashing you a smile that could probably solve half the hospital's complaints.

“I'm trying.” You shake your head. “How many?”

You've never needed stitches before. Well, you’ve also never caught a falling knife mid-air, so there’s that.

“Six or seven, probably.”

“Great, I’ll name them all. I saw that in a film.”

“My son did that once, too.” Langdon says immediately, and Jack huffs a quiet laugh.

“First one’s Jack,” you say, lips quirking into a smirk. You already know exactly how he’ll take it, and you're happy that the mood has changed.

“Absolutely not.”

“Too late.”

“Of course it is,” he mutters, shaking his head, but there’s no real anger in it. He is used to you being a pain in the ass.

Langdon snorts, smiling again. “I’d like to be excluded from this.”

They continue to talk about the shift after that, careful not to wander into anything confidential with you sitting right there.

“You’re definitely number two.”

“Why am I involved in this at all?” Langdon asks dramatically, and you wink.

And somehow, it doesn't even hurt anymore.

Then the door opens.

You flinch so hard your hand nearly jerks.

You've always been easy to startle... too aware of everything around you.

Robby used to think it was funny. He'd appear out of nowhere and say “boo” when you were least expecting it, just to watch you jump. Back when things were easy, of course.

“Hey, what do we have here?” a voice asks. “Abbot, since when do you have a VIP?”

Your stomach drops before you even turn around.

You know that voice far too well. Especially when it slips into that teasing tone... even if he isn't talking to you.

Your body goes still. You don’t even register Langdon’s needle anymore.

Jack catches it immediately, his gaze flicking from your face to the doorway as Robby steps inside.

He looks once. Then again. And only then does it register.

You. Sitting on the exam table. Hand open. Stitches halfway done.

When you finally manage to change your expression into something polite and distant, you catch the shift in his face. But you really don’t know how to read him anymore.

“What the fúck happened?”

He’s already moving toward you before the question is even finished.

You swallow, keeping your voice steady. “Kitchen accident.”

No detail, no explanation.

He stops beside the bed, eyes immediately dropping to your hand. And you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is.

Langdon keeps working, unfazed, though the room feels tighter now, like it has less air in it than before.

Robby’s jaw tightens.

“When?” he asks.

“Earlier.”

“When?”

You hesitate.

“Two hours ago. Probably more.”

You close your eyes for a second. “Thank you, Jack.”

“You waited two hours?" Robby says, sharper now, like he can’t quite believe it.

“I was fine. I handled it. The nurse-”

“That’s not okay,” he cuts in.

“I assume you checked for nerve damage," he adds, already shifting his attention toward Langdon and Jack, trying to take control of the situation.

“Can we not-"

“You should’ve called,” he says, colder now and you can’t tell who it’s meant for anymore.

Langdon clears his throat without looking up. “Almost done.”

But Robby barely reacts.

“Jack found me in triage. And, as you can see, I'm in great hands.”

Robby’s expression shifts again, while Jack raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. He looks like he’s been pulled into a game he didn’t know had rules.

“Does it hurt?” Robby finally asks after a long moment of awkward silence, as if the question is an afterthought.

But it isn’t. You know it, so it lands differently. Dangerous in a quiet way.

You glance down at your hand as Langdon finishes the last stitch.

“No,” you say. “Not really.”

It isn’t entirely clear what you’re answering.

“Alright. That’s it,” Langdon says with a small, professional smile.

He cuts the thread cleanly, leaving a neat row of stitches across your palm. Langdon presses gently along the edges of the wound, checking the closure, and in your peripheral vision you catch Robby nodding once, like he’s confirming something to himself.

A final wipe of antiseptic follows, then a non-stick pad, then gauze wrapped carefully around your hand until it no longer looks like your hand at all.

“Move your fingers for me,” you hear Robby gently ask you. And even though every single bone in your body wants to disobey him, you listen.

The movement works, but it feels strange... slightly delayed, as if your hand belongs to someone else for a moment. You wonder if this is exactly what Mary Shelley meant when she wrote Frankenstein’s monster. You almost laugh at your own thoughts.

“Again.”

You flex them once more.

“Good. Make a fist.”

You do.

Just in time to catch the small exhale Robby lets out. Relief, subtle but unmistakable... the kind only someone who knows him well would notice.

Unfortunately for you, though, you've spent enough time loving him to notice it.

“No numbness or tingling?” Langdon asks.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Good. No obvious nerve involvement. Tendons intact, sensation normal.” He pauses, then adds lightly, “Sense of humor intact too.”

“Obviously,” Jack mutters from his spot against the wall.

“Keep it dry for forty-eight hours,” Langdon continues, peeling off his gloves. “No heavy lifting, no gripping if you can avoid it. Change the dressing as instructed. I’ll leave notes, but I’m sure Jack will fill you in.”

Jack glances at you briefly, and something in your stomach twists -guilt, or something close to it-but you don’t know where to put it.

“And before you ask, no, you’re not magically healed because the stitches are in,” Robby adds under his breath.

“I wasn't-”

“You were absolutely going to ask.”

Jack snorts, and you choose not to defend yourself.

“Tetanus shot is up to date,” Langdon says, recapping for Robby as well. He doesn’t know exactly how close you two are, but it’s obvious there’s history there. “So no booster. Stitches out in ten to fourteen days.”

Then he tosses the gloves into the bin, and just like that, the procedure is over.

No more reason for anyone to be hovering around your bed, no more reason for you to still be in his ER.

And somehow, that’s worse. Because now there’s nothing left to distract from the fact that Robby is still standing there.

The adrenaline drains out of you slowly, leaving behind exhaustion, and a small tremor runs through your fingers before you can stop it.

Jesus, you will never try to use a knife again.

Robby notices the change immediately.

Of course he does.

His eyes drop to your hand, then lift back to your face. The concern is brief, but enough to make your chest tighten anyway. Fúck him.

“Should’ve come in sooner,” he says.

Not angry this time, just tired.

You let out a breath. Well, you're tired too.

“Noted.”

“I'm serious.”

“I know.”

“Take ibuprofen or acetaminophen once the anesthetic wears off. Dana will bring your discharge paperwork,” Langdon says, but Robby doesn't take his eyes off you as you gently thank your doctor before watching him go.

“You should’ve told me.”

You finally meet his eyes, finding his tone almost unbearably clinical. Like a lecture... like something to be corrected.

“You don’t get to be worried like that,” you say firmly.

You're tired of this conversation, of him, of pretending this doesn't hurt more than your hand does... of this whole day.

You just want to go home, order takeout, and not think about any of it.

So you hope it lands harder than if you'd raised your voice.

He blinks. “What-”

“You have no right,” you continue, just as quietly, and the room goes very still.

Beside you, Jack wisely says nothing as you adjust the bandage around your hand. You really hope the pain meds are going to be effective. You know this is going to hurt like a motherfúcker.

“I’m fine,” you add, playing it cool. “See? All patched up.”

For a second, Robby just stares at you like he’s trying to decide whether to argue.

But you step past him, with Jack following without uttering a word. Neither of you looks back immediately.

And when you finally do, just before the door swings shut, Robby is still standing exactly where you left him, staring at the empty space on the bed, jaw tight, something unsettled and unresolved sitting heavy in his chest.

Because you’re right.

And that’s the problem.

*

After they discharge you, Jack insists on walking you out. It's not like his shift has started yet anyway.

So you slow your pace, careful not to make it obvious that you're adjusting it for him. You don't know how uncomfortable it is to walk quickly with a prosthetic, and you don't want him to think you're pitying him.

“You okay?” he asks, and you flex your fingers slightly inside the bandage in response, which you end up regretting immediately as a dull, pulling ache shoots through your palm and up your arm.

“Yeah. Just... feels weird.”

“It will,” he says, still looking at your hand. “That's why you shouldn't use it.”

“Noted.”

It's only half a lie, at least. You're gonna slow down. But you can't stop using it completely. How are you supposed to just stop working? Nobody can replace you for two weeks.

By the time you reach the ambulance bay, everything feels different. Quieter.

“You got someone to take you home?”

You can't help but snort.

“I'm not dying, Jack. It's just a cut.”

“Didn't say you were.”

“I can manage by myself. I'm a big girl.”

He studies you for a second longer than necessary, and you know that look.

He's thinking about saying something... probably about Robby, or the disaster that is whatever exists between the two of you. And you're grateful when he decides against it. It's already been a long day: the knife accident, the ER, seeing Noelle, seeing Robby, talking to him.

You just want to go home.

“Yeah. I know you can.”

There's something in the words... Acknowledgment, maybe. Or acceptance or even pride. You're not sure, so you just smile.

“Thanks. Really.”

“For what?”

“For helping me. For not letting me bleed out to death.”

You add the last part just to make him smile. You know he loves drama as much as you do. Maybe even more.

And it works: a quiet laugh escapes him.

“Next time, come sooner.”

“Next time? Hell, I'm never cooking again.”

“Good plan.”

You nod, trying not to look back at the entrance. What did you expect? For Robby to drop everything and come find you? The thought is embarrassing the second it appears. It's ridiculous.

“I really hope I'll see you around. You're a great guy, Abbot.”

That earns you a crooked grin.

“I hope so. You're pretty fun to be around, even when you're bleeding.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it, and you lift your left hand in a wave.

“Have a good shift.”

“You too,” he says automatically. Then he shakes his head. “Actually, don't work at all.”

“Yeah. Don't.”

You freeze.

Of course.

Inhale, exhale.

Robby is standing a few steps behind Jack.

At some point, he'd come outside, and you hadn't heard the door open.

So for a second, all you can do is stare. He looks different out here.

The harsh fluorescent lights of the department make him look untouchable. Outside, beneath the natural sunlight, he looks less composed... less untouchable. Exhausted.

Like whatever walls he keeps so carefully in place inside didn't quite make it through the doors with him.

His scrubs are wrinkled and a bit dirty. His hair is slightly messed up from running his hands through it, you're sure. And there are shadows beneath his eyes you don't remember noticing earlier.

Or maybe you did, and you just weren't letting yourself look for real. You used to kiss this man every morning. You used to bite his arms, caress his cheeks, and touch his hair as many times as you could.

“You shouldn't be using it,” he adds, nodding toward the bandaged hand tucked against your chest.

You shift instinctively.

“I'm not. And I've already said I won't.”

The lie leaves your mouth before you can stop it. But he knows you better than that and he has more power over you than you'd like.

When Robby takes a step closer, the rest of the world seems to blur around the edges: the ambulance bay, the traffic... even Jack standing beside you. All of it fades into background noise.

And only later do you realize Jack is no longer there.

No goodbye, as if he'd taken one look at the two of you and quietly decided this conversation wasn't meant for him (once again).

He's not close enough to crowd you, but it's enough for you to smell the hospital soap and coffee.

Close enough to remember.

“You really waited two hours?” he asks again, quieter now as he brings his left hand to the back of his head, messing up his hair.

The disappointment in his voice catches you off guard, and you can't control the hollow feeling in your stomach. You've always wanted to be good for him. You never cared about what other people thought of you on the level that you cared about Robby's opinion. So your gaze slides past him toward the street.

“Yeah. I didn't feel like sitting in an ER.”

From the corner of your eye, you see his jaw tighten. His gaze lingers on your face, searching, questioning, but you don't give in. You keep your eyes forward. You won't let him know just how much power he still has over you.

“You should've called,” he says.

There it is. Again.

A laugh escapes you.

His audacity...

“Why?”

“Because I would've helped you.”

You almost laugh.

Of course he would've. He would've shown up and made sure you were okay.

And then he would've gone right back to not choosing you.

Because I have a hero complex and I'd help you even though I can't stand being with you.

“You don't get to help me anymore, Robby.”

His expression flickers, like something in your gaze cuts deeper than the words themselves.

“I know you can take care of yourself, but I-”

“I don't care,” you interrupt, keeping your voice as steady as possible despite the tightness in your throat and the pressure building behind your eyes. “You made it pretty clear you don't want me anymore. And I made it clear I'm not interested in being your friend. So no, I don't want your help.”

The sounds of the ambulance bay drift around you. Doors opening. Tires rolling over pavement. Life continuing.

But neither of you moves.

Robby exhales slowly and drags a hand through his hair while you keep your eyes fixed on the thick white bandage wrapped around your palm.

“Is it starting to hurt?” he asks, and the sudden change of subject is almost funny.

Almost.

The anesthetic is wearing off slowly, and so is the adrenaline, but you'll survive until you get home.

“Yeah.”

You see it immediately. The way his shoulders straighten... the way his attention narrows.

Like every part of him is wired to respond to that answer.

He takes a step closer before he seems to realize he's doing it.

“Alternate ibuprofen and Tylenol when it starts throbbing. You shouldn't need anything stronger.”

There he is. Not your Robby... Definitely not your Michael.

Dr. Robinavitch, the Chief of Emergency Medicine at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

Safe territory.

“I'll take something when I get home.”

His gaze lingers.

Not quite staring, but long enough that you're suddenly aware of everything: your posture, your messy hair, your tired eyes. The fact that you've probably got dried tears on your face.

He looks at you like he's trying to remember something.

He looks at you like he's trying to remember something, or maybe fix something... fix you.

Or both.

You're being ridiculous.

“You should keep it dry,” he says eventually. "At least a day. Two if you can.”

“Wow.”

His eyebrows lift slightly.

“Didn't Dr. Langdon just tell me that? It's like you work here or something.”

Usually, that would've earned at least a smirk. He used to love your bratty tone.

This time, it doesn't. His expression barely changes, and the silence that follows settles heavily between you.

Suddenly the joke doesn't feel funny anymore.

Because maybe he doesn't miss this... Maybe this isn't hard for him.

And maybe -just maybe- you were never what he wanted at all.

“Just be careful.”

The words come out softer.

Not doctor-soft.

Dangerous-soft. Boyfriend-soft. The kind of soft that makes your chest hurt. That belongs to a life you don't have anymore.

You feel a fresh wave of frustration rise in your throat.

You can't do this.

“I will.”

You look at him again, and a weird feeling hits you. For one stupid second, you think he's actually going to reach for you.

His hand shifts slightly at his side, then stills.

He doesn't.

You sigh, trying not to be disappointed. You hate yourself for even thinking about it.

What is wrong with you?

“Text me when you get home.”

The words slip out before he can stop them. Like they're instinctive.

You blink a couple of times before you can find the strength to open your mouth.

You need to get the hell out of here.

“No.”

The answer isn't cruel. That's not your intention. It even sounds less firm than you'd like, but it gets the point across.

And for a moment, something in his face falters.

“Right,” he says quietly, as if he's just remembered the nature of your relationship.

Or the lack of it.

You adjust your bag on your shoulder, and the movement feels awkward with only one good hand.

“I'll be fine.”

He nods.

“I know.”

You turn away before he can say anything else. Before you can say something stupid, or even worse, tear up because he looks like he saw a ghost, yet somehow still has time to flirt with his casual ex-flings.

So as you walk, you don't look back.

But somehow you know he's still standing there watching you, just like he watched you leave the first time.

*

By the time you get home, your hand is throbbing in a steady rhythm.

You close the door with your elbow, careful not to put any pressure on the bandaged hand, and lean against it for a moment before making your way to the kitchen.

Everything suddenly feels like too much: the lights are too bright, the apartment is too quiet, and the mess. God, the mess!

The cutting board is still sitting on the counter. Half-chopped vegetables have started to dry at the edges, left exactly where you dropped everything and ran to wash your hand.

For a moment, you just stand there and stare. Then your gaze drops to the thick white bandage wrapped around your palm.

“Fúcking ridiculous,” you mutter.

Whether you're talking about the injury or yourself, you're not entirely sure. You needed seven stitches because you were trying to make yourself dinner.

You make your way to the couch and sink into it carefully. The cushions dip beneath your weight, and that's when the quiet finally catches up with you.

No Jack or Langdon. No monitors beeping in the background.

Just you and the image of Robby standing in the ambulance bay... the look on his face when you told him no. The way he'd watched you leave.

And, despite everything, the memory that hurts the most: Robby's arm around Noelle.

You shift uncomfortably, as though you can physically move the thought away. But of course, it doesn't work.

Because it’s not even about Noelle. It’s about being replaced so quickly while you're still trying to remember how to breathe around the empty space he left behind.

Your fingers curl slightly and the pain shoots through your palm and up your arm immediately.

You hiss through your teeth and force your hand open again. “God, I'm a fúcking idiot!”

Like you were still someone he was allowed to be responsible for.

You knew he was emotionally unavailable, that he was an avoidant, that there was an age gap big enough for everyone to have an opinion about it. But you stayed. You fell in love... you trusted him.

You shake your head.

The worst part is how calm he was, how concerned he still looked.

Your eyes sting before you can stop it.

“No,” you say quietly.

Like that helps.

You pull your phone from your pocket and place it face down on the coffee table before you can do something stupid.

You could text him and tell him exactly what you think of him aka call him a coward and a fúcking asshole. You could say all the things you refused to say eight days ago when he ended it.

You could do a lot of things.

Instead you just sit there, your bandaged hand still aching as something ugly and honest rises up in your chest.

Not sadness, something sharper. Something that needs somewhere to go.

Eventually, you force yourself off the couch in search of ibuprofen, and halfway to the kitchen, a laugh escapes you.

Humorless and pathetic, really.

Because despite everything you miss him.

His stupid, sad smile, his voice, his nose. The way he always stole your fries and pretended he wasn't doing it.

Ten days before you're free.

*

Two days later, it’s worse in a different way.

Not the pain, which you got used to by now. It even became more manageable.

It's the tight, itchy pull under the skin that makes you want to do exactly what you're not supposed to do. To disobey him and prove to yourself you got the power.

You want to use your hand... to test it.

But you don't (except for a few hours when a project deadline leaves you no choice and you're back at your desk, using your hand far more than Langdon, Jack or Robby would've approved of).

You tell yourself it's necessary.

You always tell yourself a lot of things.

*

The message comes on the third day.

Robby: Come in tomorrow morning. Quick check.

No hello. No how are you. No are you available.

Just an instruction. So you stare at it for nearly a minute, then type:

I was told 10 days.

The typing bubble appears immediately.

Disappears.

Appears again.

You hate that your pulse picks up.

Then:

Robby: I know. Just come in when the morning shift starts.

You stare at the message... at the familiar bluntness of it and the complete lack of explanation.

Then you lock your phone and toss it onto the couch beside you as the podcast continues playing in the background.

You have absolutely no idea what they've been talking about for the last ten minutes.

*

You go anyway.

Partly because you're annoyed, and partly because refusing would mean admitting he's gotten under your skin.

The hospital smells exactly the same as it did three days ago: antiseptic and stale coffee.

Jack spots you before you've finished signing in.

“Back already?”

You glance up.

“Apparently I left such a strong impression the boss invited me back.”

His eyes drop to the bandage.

“Follow-up?”

“So I've been told.”

A smile flickers across his face, and you can't help but grin back. He has a kind of charm that disarms you.

“Try not to injure yourself on the way in. Or him. We can't run this hospital without the chief.”

“No promises.”

He walks with you toward the exam rooms, matching your pace without comment. The conversation stays comfortably superficial: the weather, his shift, and the last show you watched - which you're grateful for.

At the nurses' station, he slows. Dana is halfway through updating a chart when she looks up. You exchange a few pleasantries while Jack leans against the counter, listening with a half-smile.

Then Dana's gaze flicks past you toward one of the exam rooms.

Something passes silently between her and Jack, and he straightens immediately.

“Room six.”

“That's it? No dramatic goodbye?”

“I figured you'd had enough medical attention for one week.”

“Fair.”

“Good luck.”

Before you can ask what that's supposed to mean, he's already turning away.

The traitor!

The room is empty when you step inside, but you barely have time to feel relieved before the door opens again.

Robby walks in carrying a chart, and for a second neither of you says anything.

Without the chaos of the emergency department around him, he looks strangely out of place.

Or maybe that's you.

“You came.”

You set your bag down on the chair beside you, keeping your expression neutral as he pumps sanitizer into his palms.

You remember how many times you had to remind him to moisturize his hands, his skin always so dry it looked like it might split open.

“You summoned me via text.”

Something flickers across his face. Annoyance or maybe amusement. You can't tell anymore.

“Sit down.”

There's no point arguing, so you do.

The paper covering the exam table crackles beneath you as you climb up, the sound reminding you of the last time you were here.

Robby pulls on a pair of gloves.

“Let me see it.”

You offer your hand without comment, but for a moment, he doesn't take it.

His gaze drops to the bandage first, studying it like he's already looking for evidence of something worse.

Then his fingers close gently around your wrist as he starts unwrapping it.

The contact is professional, almost detached, but your stupid brain notices anyway.

Layer by layer, the dressing comes away, and he studies the wound in silence.

The stitches hold the edges together neatly now. The swelling has gone down, and the angry redness from the first day has faded into pink.

“Any increased pain?”

“No.”

“Drainage?”

“No.”

“Fever?”

You give him a look.

“No.”

His attention stays fixed on your palm, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

“You've been using it.”

You let out a short laugh.

“That's a bold accusation.”

When his gaze lifts to yours, you want to hit him. It's infuriating how quickly he sees through you.

“You've been working despite our medical advice.”

The certainty in his voice makes it clear it's not a guess.

You look away first.

“I had deadlines.”

“I know.”

Somehow those two words are more irritating than if he'd argued.

Because he does know.

He knows exactly how many hours you'll spend obsessing over a project. What a perfectionist you are. He knows you'll work through headaches, exhaustion, and apparently hand injuries if given the chance.

His thumb hovers near the base of your palm.

“The swelling's worse here.”

Damn it.

You say nothing, and Robby sighs softly- resigned, as though this outcome was entirely predictable.

“You need to leave it alone for a few more days.”

“You sound like a doctor.”

“I am your doctor.”

The silence that follows is familiar, and Robby looks down and resumes wrapping the fresh dressing around your hand, carefully. Methodically. Giving both of you something else to focus on.

When he's finished, he smooths the edge of the bandage into place and steps back.

“You're healing pretty well, despite the fact you haven't been listening.”

You nod, because it should feel reassuring.

Instead, it leaves a hollow ache somewhere beneath your ribs. Healing implies moving on, and you're not sure you've figured out that part yet.

“You'll come back in a week for removal.”

“Yes, doctor.”

His mouth almost curves.

Almost.

You stand quickly and reach for your bag, but neither of you moves for a couple of seconds.

Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn toward the door.

You don't look back.

Not because you don't want to. But because you already know he'll be watching.

*

You try to work.

You really do. The laptop is open on the coffee table, a half-finished design staring back at you from the screen.

But after several minutes of pretending you're accomplishing something, you let your head fall back against the couch and close the laptop.

“Great,” you mutter to the empty apartment. “I'm completely useless. Fantastic!”

Outside, a car passes. Somewhere upstairs, something heavy drops.

Life continues. Unfortunately, so does your brain.

The problem isn't that you keep replaying memories. It's that you keep replaying a sentence.

You can do better than me.

The same calm voice, the same careful expression. As though he'd handed you a gift instead of a goodbye.

Your jaw tightens.

“No, that's bullshit.”

You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when your injured hand protests. Pain flashes through your palm.

“Shit.”

You sink back into the cushions with a groan, but it's not your hand that's upsetting you.

It's the way he left, as though he was doing something responsible. Noble. As though loving you had been a mistake he was finally correcting.

Your phone lies face down beside you, and without thinking, you reach for it.

The screen lights up.

Nothing.

No messages except the family group chat.

No notifications, either.

You stare at it anyway, then open a message box.

I'm happy for you.

You stare at it for three seconds before deleting it.

I wish nothing-

Delete.

A frustrated laugh escapes you.

“God.”

The worst part is that neither statement is entirely false.

You do want him to be happy. You just wish you didn't have to witness it.

The music keeps playing in the background.

At some point, you stopped paying attention to the playlist.

Now it feels like the playlist is paying attention to you.

Alanis Morissette's voice fills the apartment: raw, messy, unapologetically angry.

An older version of me…

A bitter smile tugs at your mouth. Isn't that funny?

“Yeah.”

You rub your eyes.

“You really thought that sounded noble, didn't you?”

The memory of that conversation has somehow become more irritating with time.

Not less... because now you can hear everything he thought he was saying.

You are not a child, and he knows it. You could have handled him telling you he stopped loving you much better than what he actually said.

The song continues.

Did you forget about me, Mr. Duplicity?

That one almost makes you laugh.

“Fúcking hell.”

You shift forward, resting your elbows on your knees, careful of your hand.

Everything is careful now.

The music keeps going and your mind drifts somewhere you don't want it to.

Toward Noelle. Toward possibilities. Toward images you never invited into your head.

Maybe they want the same things... Maybe he wants a baby with her.

You never really considered having kids. You can't imagine yourself in that position, and Robby knows it. You were honest from the get-go.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Nope.”

Your finger points at nothing.

“We're not doing that.”

But your imagination ignores you completely.

Of course it does.

A familiar laugh, a familiar smile, a mini-version of Robby... life continuing without you.

Your stomach tightens.

Not jealousy exactly.

Something uglier.

Much uglier.

I'm sure she'd make a really excellent mother.

You've heard these a hundred times before, but now they feel like they were always about you.

And every time you speak her name

Does she know how you told me

You'd hold me until you died?

Is this what grieving a relationship feels like?

Because it's so humiliating it almost hurts more than the loss itself.

You don't want revenge or to see him miserable. You don't even want him back if being with you made him unhappy. If he truly thinks you're too young, too immature, too much of whatever it was that finally convinced him to walk away with no regrets.

You just want proof that you mattered. That he didn't walk away and immediately become -again- someone else's person. That somewhere beneath all that careful self-control and rational decision-making, there's still a place where you exist. A scar. A memory.

The thought settles heavily in your chest. Now you understand why you've been listening to this stupid song on repeat.

Beneath all that anger is a woman desperately trying to convince herself she wasn't forgettable. That she was loved.

It feels really pathetic.

You drag a hand over your face.

“God, I sound insane.”

But you reach for your phone anyway and hit replay.

*

The removal is simple and fast: clip, lift, pull.

There’s no real pain, just a faint tugging beneath the skin, more memory than sensation.

So you watch him work. Not your hand. Him.

Because this version of him is always like this: controlled, in command, careful in a way that feels effortless.

And it’s unfair how good he looks like this. Glasses on, focused, entirely elsewhere while still being right in front of you.

“You’ve been using it,” he says without looking up.

There had been no real conversation before this, just the quiet logistics of being here. He was waiting at the nurses’ station while Jack finished the handover, you assume.

When the last stitch is out, he doesn’t move immediately. Just checks the skin, thumb hovering near the edge as if confirming something only he can see.

Then he wraps it anyway.

Habit, maybe.

“You’re healed,” he says finally.

“I’m free.”

You don’t know what kind of freedom you mean.

A quiet exhale slips out of him... almost a laugh, before the silence settles again.

You flex your fingers once. Strange how quickly something that was broken can feel like it belongs to you again.

Like it never left at all.

Then you look at him, suddenly making up your mind. It feels like the last real chance to say what’s been sitting in your chest for days. You deserve better closure than silence... and better than what he gave you. You need to do this for your own peace.

“I want you to know something,” you say.

His attention shifts fully now as he waits for you to continue.

“I’m happy for you.”

The words land exactly the way you expect them to. Something in his expression tightens... not surprise, not relief. Recognition.

“I wish you and Noelle nothing but the best,” you add. “I guess she really made an impression on you. You ended up all cozy in the hospital barely a week after we broke up.”

You hope this makes him feel like shit. Because it isn’t really about Noelle.

He exhales through his nose, controlled, and you can't read his expression. His shoulders tense, his expression being unreadable in a way that only makes you more certain you’ve hit something real.

“What are you doing?”

No denial. That alone tells you enough.

You were right.

“I’m not quite as well,” you say, your tone so even it almost sounds detached, like you’re commenting on the weather instead of opening your chest and handing him your heart once again.

And the moment it leaves your mouth, you regret it.

Because it’s too honest and real, and it gives him something he doesn’t deserve anymore.

His jaw tightens.

“Don’t,” he says.

He drags a hand through his hair, and you notice it now: the smallest crack in his control. Not panic exactly, just something closer to discomfort. Or guilt.

You almost smile as pick up your bag.

Then stop. Because if you leave now, it becomes clean.

And this isn’t clean, so you turn back.

“I thought you should know you were wrong,” you say.

A beat.

“I didn’t need better than you.”

Your voice stays steady, but something underneath it fractures anyway. You just needed your Michael.

“I just needed you to stay. Or if you were going to leave, you should’ve said it properly. You should’ve told me there was someone else. Or that you didn’t love me anymore. Not… that.”

The words leave you all at once, sharp and unfiltered, like there’s nothing left to protect anymore. You have nothing more to lose.

For a moment, he doesn’t respond at all. He continues to stare at the wall, then the floor, then your shoes before he finally meets your eyes.

Then, very quietly:

“You should go.”

And something in you almost laughs at how predictable it is. How final. How cleanly he can end things when it suits him.

Your throat tightens. It becomes hard to breathe in a way you can’t fully hide. Your eyes sting, that familiar pressure building behind them until your vision blurs at the edges.

You swallow hard, but it doesn’t go away. It just sits there: heavy, humiliating, like your body is betraying you for still caring.

A short, broken sound slips out of you before you give him what he asked for.

“Well then,” you say, voice lower now, steadier in a different way. “Every time I scratch my nails down someone else’s back.” You pause, holding his gaze. “I hope you feel it.”

The silence after that is immediate. But it's far from empty... it's charged as his expression shifts. Something in him stills completely.

He exhales slowly, tension pulling through his neck and jaw, a faint flush rising there.

When he speaks, his voice is lower now, colder.

“We’re done here.”

*

The next evening settles in too easily and that bothers you.

Like nothing important happened at all.

You tried to focus on work all day, but you can barely get anything done between meetings. Even music doesn’t fill the space properly anymore.

Eventually, you stop pretending it isn’t eating at you, and the phone is already in your hand before you realize you reached for it.

Your thumb rests over the screen as you tell yourself you don’t care what happens next.

But you do.

You think about yesterday, not the words exactly, but the tone.

We’re done here.

Clean. Practiced. Efficient. Like you were just another patient he needed out of the room.

Did your relationship really mean nothing? Did you mean nothing?

The thought of Noelle slips in again, uninvited.

What did he see in her that he can't see in you? What is so special about her? What kind of power does he have to make you still think about him after everything?

Something shifts inside you subtly, almost quietly.

Permission.

He always said you were too kind.

Maybe today you are petty. Maybe you always were, just quieter about it before.

And maybe he deserves to feel all of it.

Your grip tightens around the phone.

“Fúcking asshole.”

Your fingers move before you can think about his feelings and stop yourself.

Sent.

'Cause I'm not old, but I am tired / I'm not strong, I'm very weak / I'm not old, but I am tired / I'm not here, I'm somewhere else / I'm one hundred ninety-six in dog years / I have seen enough / I've seen it all — Halsey, Dog Years.

You haven't lived in the Boston QZ for your entire life, but it certainly feels like it— Your parents came in when you were eight years old, about a year after Outbreak Day, when the Quarantine Zone was still fresh, with FEDRA just starting to take over the country and people still willing to trust their government to keep them safe. It is the only life you know and, while it is not perfect, it's certainly better than facing the dangers outside FEDRA's protection: You grew up hearing stories of raiders and slavers and how the infected outnumbered people at an alarming rate, how it was utterly impossible to survive without the watchful eye of FEDRA and its harsh laws.

Things are comfortable, even though they're not good, and that's more than most people have. You mother died just before your tenth birthday, an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire between FEDRA soldiers and the freedom fighters. Your father, a violent smuggler with a penchant for booze and pills, spends more time outside the QZ's walls than inside the tiny one-bedroom apartment the two of you share.

You're used to being alone by now, working triple shifts at the speakeasy and having to sneak your way back home just as the sun is starting to come up, risking your life for a couple of ration cards — more if you're in pigtails, even more if your shirt is low cut — that barely cover the amount you have to pay to keep a roof over both of your heads.

Everything changes when, for the first time since your mother died, your father is gone for longer than a couple of weeks. Usually his smuggle runs last a week or two at most before he comes home, drinks himself to a stupor over the weekend and then leaves again by Monday morning. This time, when the two weeks are up and he doesn't come back, there's a small part of you that is happy for it. The bruises he's given you are just starting to fade, the cut above your eyebrow finally closing up when the doubt creeps in and you begin to wonder whether or not this is the time your father will not come back home at all.

By the end of the first month he's gone, you know something happened. You're not sure if he simply left you behind or if he's dead or injured somewhere, but you know this isn't normal. So, one early morning, you make your way to the northern district of the QZ, where you know Abe lives— He's the only one with a long-distance radio and no affiliations to FEDRA or the Fireflies, the man your father once said he'd contact if he ever needs to speak to you while he's gone. In over a decade of smuggling your father hasn't tried to reach out to you once, but he also has never been late, and you figure maybe Abe would be able to give you a proper answer.

You stay in line for five and a half hours, a handful of ratios stuffed inside your bra, but your meeting with Abe only lasts a couple of minutes: He eyes you with suspicion, scowling the moment you say your father's name, and then tells that he would require ten ration cards to tell you if there's a message, and then another fifteen to read said message if it does exists— With no refund of the initial ten in case your father hasn't contacted you at all. You know extortion when you see it, has faced it plenty of times — Most men are always eager to take advantage of a young woman with no one to back her up —, and twenty-five ration cards is simply not something you can afford without going hungry or risking loosing your apartment.

For the first time in your life, you're truly alone. There's no one to run to, no one to help you or save you in this situation and that is somehow worse than all of the beatings and offensive words your father has thrown at you for the past two decades, the financial weight of having to provide for yourself in a world that is rigged against your survival brings you the sort of desperation you have never felt before.

It is that desperation that brings you to Joel Miller.

Joel has always been a constant in your life; he had worked alongside your father when you were little, always a solid shadow at the edge of your childhood memories, but they had a rough falling out after your father double crossed him sometime during your teenagehood and had, since then, become competitors inside the QZ. Now he is mostly a looming threat, some dark nefarious figure that might take away your father's livelihood at any moment.

He is not the sort of man you ever want to mess with, especially because you're not sure whether he's the vindictive type— He may as well hold your father's wrongdoings against you and refuse to help or worse: he could rat you out to FEDRA, use the opportunity to usurp the loyal clientele your father has or use his absence to wipe him out entirely. But you hear from Joan that hears from Elizabeth that hears from Eric that Joel Miller is friends with Abe and you figure that, maybe, Joel would be decent enough to bargain with the man for you. So, with an offering of bathtub moonshine you steal from work and tears in your eyes, Joel makes the deal; the bottle is probably worth a lot less than what he could've charged you but he doesn't bargain, instead choosing to grunt, take the bottle and slam his apartment's door in your face. He shows up at your place two days later, just as you start to panic thinking that maybe he's conned you out of some liquor, with a blank face and bad news: There has been no message, and although Joel promises to check in with the radio guy periodically, your father doesn't try to contact you at all in the days after that.

After that, Joel becomes a constant fixture in your life: He walks you home from the speakeasy after your shifts, and he fixes your shower or reinforces your front door or drops by with new shoes or food after a successful run. You find ration cards in your coat pockets or slipped under your door whenever you start working the triple shifts again, though he has never admitted to being the one putting them there: Every act of care comes with stony silence or a scowl, but Joel is always there, solid and within reach whenever you need him. So, you do the stupidest thing you could possibly do: You repay him with stolen alcohol. It starts with the small bottle that you use to bribe him that first time, but you become bolder and bolter as the months crawl on, swiping bigger and more expensive bottles whenever you can.

The owner, a mean-looking man named Bryan, catches you red-handed on a snow-heavy night in December. The beating itself isn't the worst you've ever gotten — someone robbed you when you were fourteen, taking a whole's week worth of rations and your father had always blamed you for that, his punishment even more painful than the shiner the thief had given you — but it's close enough and, as you stumble home through the snow-covered streets in the skimpy clothes you wear for better tips, all you can do is think that you got luck: Bryan could've cut off your fingers, or raped you or killed you or a thousand other horrible things that would wield a lot more damage than what he did and most people wouldn't have batted an eye; Hell, half the people you know probably would've thought you deserved it.

You're halfway home when panic truly sets in, outweighing the pain and the cold as you start to do the math— You're fresh out of a job, with rent looming within the next couple of days and you still don't have enough cards to cover it, let alone all of the other expenses you have; the pantry is almost empty, a single loaf of stale bread that you've been rationing for a few days while you waited for payday, and you still need to pay your neighbor for the winter socks she's knitted for you.

You're so terrified at the knowledge that you'll be homeless within the next week that you don't even notice Joel approach until it's too late, his cracked hands grabbing your shoulders and pushing you away from the main street just in time to miss the FEDRA soldier patrolling the area.

You shriek, your brain taking longer than it usually would to understand what is happening. Joel pins your back to his chest, one hand wrapped around your middle while the other slams over your mouth— The rough touch to your tender face has you whimpering, pain blossoming all over.

"It's me. Calm down." He whispers, holding the position for a moment longer while the soldier walks past the alleyway the two of you are in before he lets you go. You try to keep your head down so your hair fall over the bruises that are already forming but your face is so covered in blood that you can see the red liquid has stained Joel's palm. He looks at it for a second as if he can't comprehend what happened before he's crowding you against the wall, his surprisingly gentle hands tugging your chin towards him.

"I'm fine." You say in the silence that follows, though that's very much not true. Joel takes in a deep breath, his entire face scrunched.

"Who did this to you?"

"Joel, it's—"

"Who?"

You bring a hand up, your fingers wrapping around his wrist; the touch is meant to stop him, your intentions on fully pulling his hand away but you find it grounding instead, as if simply feeling Joel's rapidly beating pulse point beneath your fingertips is enough to melt the anguish away.

"Bryan." You relent, because you know he won't let go otherwise. "I had it coming."

"He'll pay. He ain't got no right to—"

"I stole from him." The admission is small, the words barely coming out of your lips; you didn't mean to tell him, the last thing you want is for him to connect the dots and realize you had been stealing for him. "I'm lucky he didn't do worse."

Joel goes entirely still, his hand still gripping your chin, his dark eyes staring you down so intensely it makes you squirm. A beat, and then another, and you watch in real time as realization washes over him.

Joel drops your chin like you've burned him. "Goddamn it, kid. Are you really that fuckin' stupid? Don't cha think that—"

"Joel, please." You whine, your eyes welling up with tears. "I don't need this right now. I'm cold, and everything hurts, and I'm out of a job. Just… Just don't lecture me right now, okay? I don't need it."

For a second, you think he'll ignore and go on his tirade— He looks like he wants to, but then his jaw locks and his nostrils flare and that's it. Joel swallows his emotions down in such an efficient manner it awes you and you barely have time to register the blankness of his face before he's wrapping his own jacket around you.

"Let's get you home and cleaned up."

Home, as it turns out, is Joel's place. You don't have the energy to argue despite the fact that the only thing you want to do is to crawl under your blanket and cry until you pass out, and you sit by the kitchen table as he cleans your face and neck with a wet rag. The apartment is cold even though Joel does his best to insulate the windows, and you shiver in your wet clothes— both from the remnants of snow that seem ingrained inside your bones and the heatwave that followed from Joel's touch, your body burning up from inside out at every careful touch of his hands. Once you seem clean enough, he brings you a chilled bottle out of the freezer, the clear liquid sloshing inside and you're sure it's probably either moonshine or vodka; Most likely moonshine, illegally made by some of the people brave enough to cook up such a thing within the city's walls.

"Put it over your eye, or it's goin' to swell shut."

You do as he says, but your heart races inside your chest as Joel kneels in front of you, carefully unlacing your boots.

"Joel, what—"

"Need to get'cha out of these wet clothes." He mumbles, not looking at you. Joel helps you out of your shoes and socks, and then turns his back at you and busies himself on the stove while you change from your work clothes to his— boxer shorts, wool socks and a thick sweatshirt that you're sure must've costed him a small fortune. You're still cold by the time Joel sets a steaming mug of tea on the table, but you're more comfortable than you've been in months.

Something changes between the two of you that night, tangled together in Joel's bed, his heartbeat steady under your cheek and his hand in your hair as you cry yourself to sleep. You go back to your apartment the next morning but just to pick up your personal belongings, Joel as a bodyguard as you collect what you can inside his backpack; you don't have much anyway, and you donate all of your father's belongings to the family two apartments down— More out of spite than anything else, you keep his favorite pair of boots as a gift to Joel. He takes the boots with an expression that seems to know exactly what you're doing, presses a kiss to the top of your head as if he's done it a million times, and clears out a drawer for you in his wardrobe.

Bryan goes missing three days after you move into Joel's place, and then they find his body five days after that, his face beaten almost beyond recognition, every single one of his fingers broken. His son takes over the speakeasy and invites you back, probably because he doesn't know what you did— Joel doesn't let you go back, claiming he doesn't trust the son and that you deserve better than being harassed by drunk men all night. You take odd jobs here and there, wanting to contribute with your share of rations but eventually Joel convinces you to quit altogether: Between the smuggling and the temporary jobs he takes from FEDRA he's certain he can provide enough for the two of you, and that you shouldn't be risking and exhausting yourself over nothing. You try to pull your weight around the house then, keeping it cleaner than he ever did, stitching up his socks and jackets and trying to make a meal out of the crappy food FEDRA distributes.

Housewife is the word that Tess uses for you. She says it with a sneer, scoffing whenever Joel tries to deny it; he says you're just a kid, that you're too young to be on your own and that you need him. She says that you're too old to need a daddy, and Joel slams his fist down on the table and they don't see each other for a few weeks. By the time Tess is back, it's as if nothing ever happened— She doesn't apologize and neither does he, or maybe they've exchanged apologies somewhere you weren't privy to, but Tess doesn't quit with the insults. Kept girl, plaything, pet— All names she uses whenever Joel isn't around, and then ignores you completely whenever he is.

Truth is, you find that you don't mind the nicknames. Joel calls you kid, kiddo, sweet girl— Also only when the two of you are alone, using your name whenever there is anyone listening and you've come to understand that there is a lot about Joel that he doesn't show to the world: He's feared inside the QZ, most people crossing the street whenever he's around, doing whatever they could to stay out of his way and only coming to him whenever they needed something no one else could bring but with you he's the sweetest man you've ever dealt with, quiet yet caring in a way that you haven't seen from anyone else.

The first time the two of you kiss, it feels like you've been doing it for all of your life; Joel had been gone for a couple of days, a pill run beyond the QZ's walls that made you sleepless. Tess hadn't gone with him this time around, which only made everything worse— For all the woman hated you, you knew she'd give her life to protect his. He comes home so late it's almost morning, his clothes soaked in blood that isn't his and his knuckles scraped raw.

You're not sure which one of you moves first: He's crowding you the second the door closes, and then his lips are pressing against yours, hungry and desperate. He kisses you until you the both of you are breathless, the still wet blood from his shirt soaking into yours: A bond that no soap or water can wash away even after the proof of your bodies mending together is discarded.

Joel tells you about Sarah in the middle of the night, when his nightmare wakes the both of you and he can't hide the tears. He doesn't tell you exactly how she died, just that it happened on Outbreak Day, and you request stories of happy memories to get his mind off of it. He tells you about the soccer practices and early Saturday matches, about the hikes they used to go on with Tommy and about the time she begged him to paint her room pink and then had him repaint it with purple a couple of weeks later, when she decided she hated pink. Joel talks more than you've ever seen him do, long fully formed sentences rather than the short words and grunts you're used to and it's like you're seeing yet a new side of him— Something soft and sacred that he's been hiding from the entire world, even from those closest to him.

"She would hate the man I became." He says eventually, after a short lull between tales of Sarah's first day in kindergarten. "The monster I became."

You're not certain how to deal with the self-loathing in his voice, especially because you know it's true— Joel's a terrible man, broken and violent and capable of unspeakable things, and you doubt the little girl from his memories would be proud of him for it. You press a kiss to the top of his head much like he seems to enjoy doing to you.

"There's always time." You whisper. "As long as you're alive, you still have time to make her proud."

He leaves before you wake the next morning but greets you with a kiss when he comes home in the evening, his breath smelling of whiskey and pupils dilated from the pills he swears he isn't taking anymore.

The afternoon you run into Robert's goons beating the ever living fuck out of Tess, there is a brief second in which you consider walking away— She's been nothing but horrible to you even when you were at your most vulnerable, and you doubt she'd intervene in your favor if it was the other way around. But your feet move before you can second guess yourself, plucking a large plank of wood from a rubbish pile close to you and hitting the bigger of the men as hard as you can in the back of the head: You miss a little, hitting him in the back of the neck but he falls like a sack of bricks anyway, his skull cracking against the pavement. Tess is on the smaller guy before he can jump you, her knee pressing to his neck until he stops thrashing.

Tess doesn't thank you, but you can tell she looks at you differently after that, staring you in silence for long periods of time. When she calls you by your name rather than an insulting nickname for the first time, you're so stunned that she scoffs and walks away in the few seconds it takes you to respond.

"You should leave him." She tells you once, her eyes glued to the radio as she waits for the message from Frank. Joel's nowhere to be found, but you still feel his presence in the cramped apartment anyway as if his very essence loomed over your shoulder. "This is not healthy for either you."

"I would die without him." You mean it literally, too— Joel is your saving grace, the only person to offer you a hand and keep you warm and fed in this horrifying world.

"That's exactly why you should go." She says. "No man should own your soul like that."

You wonder if she's speaking from experience, and you wonder if it has anything to do with Joel but How Can You Mend a Broken Heart by the Bee Gees starts playing on the radio and then Tess is shuffling through the song book like a madwoman.

"80s?" You ask, worrying your bottom lip. You have yet to meet Bill and Frank, but you know how much they mean to Joel— Even if he would rather die than admit to it.

Tess shakes her head in denial, and the relief in face is clear as day. "1971. They got new supplies coming in."

"Do you think they'll have any yarn? Joel needs new socks."

"You deserve better than this." Disappointment washes over her face. "Better than a man that is using you to replace his dead daughter."

She's wrong and you know it; Joel doesn't treat you like your father ever did, there's nothing paternal about his touches and there is no replacing Sarah. But you'd be lying if you said you never envied her for having Joel as a father, even if she is dead now; the guilt you feel must show on your face because Tess' nose wrinkles.

"Or maybe you do. Maybe the two of you deserve each other."

The tone she uses is somehow more offensive than any petname she's ever used before. But the idea of belonging so deeply to Joel that even Tess can see it warms your inside so comfortably you can't find it in yourself to be offended by the implications of her words.

The first and only time Joel comes inside of you, you've been living with him for well over a year. It's been five months since the two of you shared your first kiss, and while you've both been using your mouths and hands on each other ever since, Joel's been hesitant to be inside of you— Pulling out is risky, and condoms expired for over two decades are probably even worse, so he pushes the idea away, making you come three or four times with his mouth until you're so exhausted you stop begging him to fuck you properly.

You're already two orgasms in, sprawled nude and sweaty on the bed while Joel fucks you slowly with his fingers. He bites and sucks at your neck, a collection of bruises of varying degrees of healing peppered all over your skin. Joel pulls his fingers away from you, rubbing his cock against your cunt.

"I'm going to put just the tip." He says, his voice just a little stern as if he's scolding you before you can even misbehave.

"Yes, daddy." You nod and, although you want to beg him to just fuck you already, you're afraid he might change his mind if you seem too eager.

Joel pulls back, leaning on his haunches, pushing your knee to the side. Your legs fall open and you push yourself on your elbow, wanting to see just exactly what he's going to do— Joel is a sight to behold, his chest flush and his breathing deep, his heavy cock gripped tight in his hand. You'd been intimidated by it at first, long and impossibly thick, but Joel has fucked your mouth so many times by now that you are certain you'd be able to take him anywhere he wanted. He presses the head of his cock against your clit and you moan as it slides to the side, coated in your slick.

"She's always cryin' for her daddy." He chuckles and you clench around nothing, his rough voice hitting you deep inside. "Winkin' at me like that, begging for my cock."

"Just for you." You say, so wet you can feel it sliding down to your ass. "Want you so bad it hurts."

Joel brushes his cock against your entrance, teasing, not yet pushing inside. " 'S okay, babygirl. 'M gon' make the pain go away."

The first stretch as he pushes the fat head inside is almost too painful, your head falling back as you mewl but Joel doesn't let you go very far, the hand not holding himself steady flying to your hair, pulling you up just enough so you can see where he disappears inside of you.

"Look at ya." He commands, thighs shaking from the effort of staying still. "Stretchin' so pretty around daddy's cock."

Joel rolls his hips, pushing just another inch inside before he pulls out, a string of your slick connecting the tip of his cock to your entrance. You clench, fingers digging into the mattress to stop yourself from seeking his hips with yours. He's just as wrecked as you feel, breathing deeply before he pushes inside of you again, just a little bit further this time, but still not nearly enough. You keen and give in, planting your feet on the bed to rock against him— His cock slides halfway in before his hand pushes you back on the bed by the hip. The two of you groan in unison, both from the touch and then the abrupt lack of it. His hand comes down onto your clit, slapping it so hard you almost scream, eyes rolling to the back of its sockets.

"Oh, you like that, naughty girl?" Joel asks, and then he gives your cunt another slap. He hums when you wail, sounding almost curious about this new thing the both of you have just discovered. "If you try that again, we're done for tonight, y'hear me? You'll take what I give you or nothin' at all."

You nod, eager, wanting nothing more than for him to be inside of you again. Joel gives your clit yet another slap and the sting makes your skin warm all over.

"Yes, daddy. I'll be good." You say as he rubs soothing circles to your sensitive clit. Joel brings his cock back to you, sliding in much easier than before; he fucks you slowly, no more than just a couple of inches— Just enough to drive you crazy, your entire body set aflame at the touch that is oh-so-pleasurable but still not enough. You hold your body taut, biting down on your bottom lip to keep yourself from pushing back against him.

"Fuck, she's stranglin' me, babygirl. Never seen a pussy so tight—" Joel grunts, his body flushed red from his thick neck down to his navel, sweat dampening the hairs on his chest. "She's just suckin' me right in, isn't she?"

"She needs you." You bring a hand to your mouth, shoving two fingers between your lips and wetting them before you slide your spit-slicked fingers to your chest, rolling your nipples between them. Joel groans at the sight, loosing control of his hips just long enough to push a third of his cock inside of you. "Please daddy, it's not enough. I need to feel you deep inside of me."

You can see the moment his resolve cracks. He hikes your legs closer to his hips and then slams his entire length inside of you— It makes you wail, your mouth falling open and your back arching. Joel topples over your, pushing his index and middle finger inside of your open mouth much like you'd done just moments before. You wrap your lips around his thick fingers, humming as he shoves them as far as he can; you've learned how to control your gag reflex in the past couple of months, Joel's cock big enough to slide down your throat with a single thrust, but the way his fingers push down onto your tongue make your throat close tight.

"Suck on 'em." He orders, hips pulling back until his cock is almost entirely out before plunging back in. "I wanna see you choke on your daddy's fingers while his big cock fucks you open."

You do as he says, mainly because there isn't much else you can do other than take his commands, giving his digits the same treatment as you would his cock, licking and sucking and taking them as deep as you can. Joel's cock hits the same spot inside of you again and again and you can feel him everywhere; you moan around his fingers until he seems to take pity on you, pulling his hand away from your mouth. He shifts positions, kneeling in front of you and hiking your hips on his thighs; you only miss the weight of his body on top of yours for a second, because then Joel is pushing your knees up to your chest and the new position make you even tighter, the pressure making it seem as if his cock has doubled in size. Joel also changes the pace of his thrusts, going slower now and yet somehow even deeper, making you feel every inch of him.

"I'm gonna come." You say, the pressure building fast.

"No you won't." You blink at him, disoriented by his words. Joel pulls back, slapping your clit just as he plunges back inside. "You're goin' to be my good girl and you won't come until I let ya."

"I can't—" You say, the words cut off by the power of his thrusts. "I don't know how—"

"Yes you do." Joel hums, and he sounds almost mean as he slaps your cunt again. "Fuck, she chokes down my cock when I do that. Sweetest. Fuckin'. Pussy."

The last three words are punctuated by slap after slap, the moans falling out of your mouth becoming more and more desperate; you weren't lying, you don't know how to stop yourself from coming but you do the best you can, trying to focus on the mold spots on the ceiling or the chipped paint near the window or anything that isn't Joel's cock pushing time and time again against that perfect spot inside of you.

"Please let me come." You beg, tears pooling on the corner of your eyes and trickling down to your temples. "I can't hold it in, daddy, please. Please please please, I can't—"

Joel pinches your overstimulated clit and you gush around him, body locking up as you come against your will. It makes you black out for a second, black spots dancing in front of your eyes but Joel isn't done. He slaps your tit this time, the flesh jiggling both from the slap and the power of his thrusts.

"Such a bad girl." He grits out, slapping your breast again but he doesn't sound angry at all. "Should punish you for that. Ground you 'n' everythin'. Gotta learn to listen to your daddy."

"I'll take it." You say, gasping for air. You blink at him, the tears still blurring your eyesight. "Whatever it is, daddy, I'll take it. Anything for you."

"Maybe I'll fuck that pretty lil' ass of yours next." Joel threatens, and you clench around him. "Or maybe I'll spank you so raw you won't be able to sit. Use a belt to make sure your not comin' from my slappin' you. Naughty lil' thing, bet'cha like that, huh?"

Your heart jumps to your throat at the mention of the belt, a thousand different memories — bad, terrifying memories — of your own father and his leather belt jump to mind and your eyes well with real, uncontrollable tears.

"Anything for you." You parrot yourself, your eyes locking with the place where Joel clutched to your thighs as if you were his lifeline. "I'm yours, daddy. Anything you want, I'll take it. I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"

Joel's thrusts become more erratic, fast and deep and not calculated as they'd been before. He comes deep inside of you, toppling to moan against the crook of your neck, his thighs flush with your ass. It's never ending, his sloppy thrusts slowing down but not stopping as he comes and comes and comes until you feel so full to pushes into your bladder.

"Mine." He says, his voice full of wonder as his aquiline nose traces your jawline. "My precious lil' girl."

It's not an 'I love you', but you're fairly certain it's the closest you'll ever get to one.

You've been nauseated for about three weeks straight by the time Robert steals Joel and Tess' battery. Joel's been toying with the idea of leaving the QZ for good for several months now, quietly planning your escape in the late nights were sleep evades him, trading the pills and the alcohol for something ever more addictive: Hope.

You're sitting cross legged on the bed, a worn copy of a James Patterson book on your lap as Joel cleans the injuries on Tess' face. You'd been jealous of their relationship at first, unsure if they were just smuggling partners or something more but Joel never looked at Tess the way he did you, never touched her with the tenderness he did you. You forget all about the adventure Alex Cross is going through on the pages in front of you as you watch them plan their — your — escape route, the dangerous plan of going after Robert and taking back what is rightfully theirs.

"We'll be back before sundown." Joel tells you, and then he waits for Tess to leave the apartment before he leans in for a kiss. "Get our bags ready, we leave tonight."

You nod, already missing his touch by the time he crosses the threshold after his partner.

It's pouring rain outside by the time they come back, and you've spent most of the day pacing around the cramped apartment. Your backpacks are ready to go, everything of value stuffed inside of it, but you keep checking and rechecking all of the nooks and crannies of the apartment, making sure you've taken everything out of every secret compartment that Joel has hidden around the place. You had been scared the first time Joel brought up the idea of crossing the country after his brother, terrified really, but you'd rather face the monsters — both human and not — outside of the QZ than stay behind without him.

In the months after that, the idea has grown on you, and now you can't wait to see what it is outside; you've seen the top of skyscrapers from the roof of some of the taller buildings inside the walls, and you've heard all of the tales, but seeing it with your own eyes seems like the most exciting thing to ever happen in your sad life.

Joel looks exhausted by the time he comes back, wet from the rain with Tess and a young girl in tow. You frown at her, and she reciprocates the gesture.

"Who are you?" You ask.

"Who are you?" She retorts, dropping her sopping backpack on the ground.

"Joel's wife." You don't even hesitate, the words you've been mulling inside of your head for weeks now falling naturally from your lips. Out of the corner of your eye you see Joel freeze, and Tess' head snaps towards you so harshly you think she might break her neck.

The girl squints. "Aren't you a little yo—"

"We had a change of plans." Joel interrupts the girl, dropping down heavily onto the couch. "Robert fucked us over, his battery was no good. Tess and I are takin' the girl to the Fireflies, and then we'll come back to get you."

"You don't smuggle people." You say, your heart dropping down to your stomach. Joel's able to get in and out of the QZ with relative ease because of the goods he brings for the soldiers, but smuggling a person — a child — out of the zone isn't something the soldier will easily turn a blind eye to.

"We do now." Tess is the one that replies. She exchanges a heavy look with Joel before sneaking out of the apartment, the door slamming in her wake.

"Joel." You say, sitting next to him. You see the girl look at you wearily before she starts roaming around the room, her fingers touching every little thing she could. "This isn't right. What do the Fireflies want with a child?"

"She's some bigwig's daughter or somethin'. Marlene is desperate, she's givin' us all we need to get to Wyoming."

"What's in Wyoming?" The girl asks.

"None of your business." Joel grits out, though his face remains turned to you. "It's too dangerous to take you with me but if Marlene does good on her promise, we're set, baby."

"And if she doesn't?"

"Then I'll come back home and we'll try again." He promises. "The girl is just another cargo, this is the same run I always do. The payout's just a hundred times' better."

You bite the corner of your thumb. This feels too reminiscent of your father's last smuggle run, a goodbye that doesn't seem final but feels like it— Like there's more, like Joel isn't telling you everything or perhaps making things seem less dangerous than they are. You nod, eventually, stomach still in knots.

Joel looks like he wants to reach for you, but one look at the girl makes him retreat; she's not even pretending not to stare, curled on the reclining chair and looking intently at the two of you.

"I'll talk to Abe. He knows how to contact Tommy— If I'm not back in ten days you're goin' to head to Abe's and tell him I sent ya. Hey, kid— Listen to me, this is important."

You nod, trying to focus on what he's saying. He watches you for a moment, making sure he has all of your attention before continuing: "If I'm not back in ten days, you're going to send a message to Tommy and tell him to meet you in Lincoln."

"Joel, how the fuck am I supposed to get to Lincoln on my own?"

"You're goin' to play an 80s song on the radio, and then you'll leave it playin' as you leave. Bill is goin' to meet you halfway there but you need to get out of the city first." He pulls your chin towards him, holding your face so he can look you in the eyes. "You have to get out of the city as fast as you can, y'hear me? You're goin' to follow the path on the map I'ma leave with you, and you're goin' to meet up with Bill. He's gon' keep you until Tommy gets there."

"You've never walked me through a contingency plan like this before, Joel." You try to blink the tears away. "If this is just like any other run, then I don't need this."

"Well, you never called yourself m'wife before, now have you?" Despite the call out, Joel has a small grin on his lips. You feel your face heat up with embarrassment, and you shrug.

"Tess calls me your housewife all the time."

Joel drops his hand, his eyes darting towards the young girl in the room as if he's just recalled her presence. "This is all hypothetical. This run is more dangerous than others, but I've survived worst. I been meanin' to tell you all'a this for a while now. Ain't gon' leave you on your own like your dad did."

Joel leaves an annotated map on the kitchen table— The same one he's been doodling over ever since he heard Tommy was in Wyoming, with escape routes from Boston and the safest and quickest ways to get to Tommy, the margins filled with extensive notes about the unsafe routes and places to avoid in the city; things are numbered and signed and there's a whole paragraph of symbols and codes Joel's come up with, the sort of detailed attention that means he's been working on this for far longer than you've noticed.

"How do I sneak out of the QZ?" You ask, staring at the map as if it's a bomb.

"James."

"The Jesus freak?" You frown. James lives a few doors down from you, a creepy-looking blond man that often has a bible in his hands and a superiority complex that makes you want to barf.

"He's cheap, and he knows his way 'round the place. There are two guns underneath the fourth floorboard by the wardrobe, you'll trade him one and keep one to yourself."

"Hypothetically."

"Yes, darlin'. Hypothetically. Only if I don't come back."

"You'll be here in ten days, won't you?"

"I will. Maybe even sooner than that." Joel promises again, holding your gaze steady. Still, you don't believe him. "I'll be here with a truckload of supplies, and then we'll skip town together."

They leave not long after that, a few hours short of sun up by the time Tess comes back with her pack and a clear exit for the three of them. Joel doesn't give you a prolonged goodbye, simply squeezing your waist and kissing the top of your head like he always does, but the terrible gut feeling that this run is unlike the others doesn't leave with him— If anything, it only seems to worsen in the dark, empty apartment.

You cry yourself to sleep and, distracted by your own anguish and the loud sound of your sobbing, you don't hear the song coming from Tess' radio.

The ten days are an absolute nightmare. You're sick most of the time, sleeping when you're not puking and crying when you're not sleeping or puking— It is Amelia, the young woman that manages the food bank closes to your apartment that brings up the possibility of you being pregnant; she catches you retching one morning outside of her food stall after a particularly strong waft of freshly baked bread, connecting the dots even before you can properly explain your symptoms; you have no proper way of confirming her hypothesis, not unless you want to go to a FEDRA-appointed doctor and alert them to your condition, so Amelia takes you into the backroom of her stall and offers you two different options: A ginger root for morning sickness, or a mugwort and pennyroyal concoction to make your problem go away.

You take the ginger root with shaking fingers, and Amelia simply holds you in silence while you cry.

When the ten days come and go with no sign of Joel, the dread settles so heavy it keeps you awake all night, and not even the bone-deep tiredness you've been feeling can make you get a wink of sleep. You give him some wiggle room, however, deciding to wait just a little longer before you contact Tommy— Joel is coming home any day, you're certain of it, and you'd feel silly to make a fuss just for him to walk through the door safe and sound. So you cry, and you vomit and you don't sleep and you wait.

For all of the despair you felt when you father went missing, you discover now that you never worried much about his safety— You worried that if he wasn't safe you wouldn't be as well, but it takes Joel leaving for you to understand the difference between worrying about someone to worrying about what will happen to you now that they're gone. A thousand different scenarios play through your head, from raiders to slavers to infected hoards to the fact that, maybe, he had simply left you behind: You're not certain which one hurts more, the idea of him being dead somewhere or the idea of him being alive without you.

You hold out hope for as long as you can but, by the fifteenth day, you know you can't pretend nothing happened anymore. You go to Abe early one morning, when the line is just starting to form and tells him exactly as you were instructed to: That you are Joel Miller's wife — which raises eyebrows from everyone in the room — and that you need his help. You give the codeword for Bill and Frank's home, and your estimated arrival there and, by the time Abe is done scribbling all of it down, you feel a little better about yourself; it's scary, and dangerous, but you've lived through scary and dangerous your entire life— And perhaps you haven't faced the outside before, but you've lived in a free-for-all war zone ever since you were a kid.

James isn't an easy man to find, but eventually you manage to track him down to an old building that is being used as a chapel— It's an old coffee shop that's been cleared out at some point, a few mismatching chairs stacked neatly in small rows. James gives you a warm smile when you walk in, your backpack clutched tightly to your chest, but it's visible that he doesn't recognize you.

"Joel sent me." You tell him. "Miller."

The smile slides off of James' face, and he takes a moment to regain his bearings; and despite being used to bad reactions when it comes to dropping Joel's name, the clear dislike on the man's face only increases your worries. James takes you to a backroom behind the church that he's assembled into something that might pass for an office, arms crossed over his chest— He's tall and lanky, non-threatening for most people but there's something about him that keeps you on your toes.

"I need out of the QZ." You explain, plucking the handgun from your backpack before offering it to him. "Joel said you'd help me in exchange of this."

The man squints, but eventually takes the weapon from you, carefully examining it before he puts it on top of the worn Bible on his desk. "Where are you headed?"

"Wyoming." The word slips out, and you wince, unsure if you're supposed to tell him or not— Joel certainly wouldn't have shared anything more than strictly necessary. "That's none of your concern, though. I just need your help to get past the soldiers."

"I got family on the Wyoming border, I've been meaning to head there. What part of Wyoming are you going?"

"I don't have anything else to pay you for chaperoning me. I can get there on my own, I just—"

"I just said I'm headed there anyways." James smiles, his fingers interlaced in front of him. "Do you know how to shoot? It's a rough path, I could use someone to help me."

You hesitate for a long moment, but James doesn't seem to be in any rush. You don't trust him, not one bit, but your mind goes back to the life you might be carrying, to the fact that you had no guarantee that either Tommy or Bill would get your message or even believe you at all; you had someone else to think about now, the fragile little thing you had growing inside of you— You still had no proof you were pregnant, but you knew it to be true. Could feel it deep in your soul, as if your body had been warning you about it before your brain caught up to the possibility of it.

You pluck Joel's map from your backpack, pointing it to the general area Tommy is. "I need to go here. Somewhere."

James hums, and nods. "My community is in Colorado, but it's close enough to that area. A couple of weeks on foot, less if we can get a car."

"Why are you so far away from home?"

He taps two fingers on the Bible. "Spreading the Lord's words."

You have to bite your tongue to keep yourself from snorting. "I don't believe you when you say you don't want anything from me. Nobody does anything without payment."

"The Lord teaches us to be selfless, and help those in need. A young woman like you, crossing the country by yourself? You'll die before you cross state lines."

"Your community. Where is it?"

"Here." James points to the map. "It is close enough to the place you're going, Joel might even be at Silver Lake rather than Wyoming by this point. We're a very welcoming bunch."

You open your mouth to say you're not after Joel, but decide against it; James doesn't need to know why you're going and, maybe if he's scared enough of Joel, he might think twice before bringing you any sort of harm.

"Alright." You say, shoving the map back into your backpack. "Take me to Silver Lake, then."

The drive from Pittsburgh to Cleveland takes just over two hours. Two hours trapped in a car with Jack in awkward silence. The radio had murmured softly in the background, but the tension between you was almost palpable, thick enough to cut.

Neither of you talked. Neither of you hummed along when a good song came on. You both just stayed silent—your body angled toward the passenger window, where you were still able to catch glimpses of Jack's fingers tightening periodically around the steering wheel.

The only words he managed to squeeze out during the entire ride were when you bent back to grab your bag from the backseat.

"Don't."

You'd frozen mid-motion.

"Sit up straight—you're gonna hurt yourself." His eyes had flickered to yours in the rearview mirror briefly, and you'd been so flustered that you hadn't even argued that your ribs barely hurt anymore. And when he'd stopped at the next red light and reached back for it himself, you'd only muttered a soft "thanks".

That marked the extent of your exchanges—practical concerns that felt so distant they barely registered.

But you're fine now—mostly. Enough to have moved back to your own room after Robby dropped this on you. Enough that you’ve decided it’s time to set Jack free. After this conference wraps up, you plan to present him with the divorce papers sitting neatly on your desk, just waiting for his signature.

One pen stroke and then he'd be free. Free to stop pretending. Free from this cage you've trapped him in.

The parking lot is already bustling with people when you pull in. Jack is out of the car before you can get your seatbelt off, popping open the trunk and grabbing both of your bags with ease.

"I can carry—" you start to say.

"I've got it," he cuts in, already walking toward the entrance.

You press your lips together, then follow him.

The conference is held at a hotel, the kind with huge glass doors, marble floors and chandeliers swinging above. Just another reminder of how the administration pours money into superficial perks rather than addressing the hospitals' actual needs.

Jack jerks his head toward a cosy seating area near the entrance, where plush couches surround coffee tables stacked with books. "Sit."

You don’t get the chance to protest or even offer to take the bags before he strides off to reception, both bags shifted comfortably into one hand. You can’t help but admire the flex of his forearm before shaking yourself back to reality.

With a quiet sigh, you sink into one of the cushions. You'd expected this weekend to hurt, but seeing just how annoyed he is that he has to be here with you hurts worse than you thought. Flicking through one of the coffee table books, you try to distract yourself while Olivia’s words echo in your mind: You’re reading this all wrong. I promise, just tell him how you feel.

Promises feel meaningless when faced with cold, hard facts.

"Let's go." Jack stops in front of you, watchful as you rise. You try to hide the slight wince when you do, but judging by the way his brows furrow, he notices. His hand reaches out, but he draws it back immediately.

He trails behind you to the elevators, and you step in with a few other people. He pushes the button for your floor, and then the silence continues. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of his tensed shoulders and the rigidity in his jaw.

It's the longest elevator ride of your life.

Jack sets off the second the doors open, leading you to a door where he swipes the key card hard. He steps inside, placing it in the power slot and the light flickers on.

You linger hesitantly by the door, confused as to why he hasn’t handed you your bag or the key card. "Is this mine or yours?" you ask.

Jack sighs, his back turned to you. "It's...ours."

"Oh." You're glad he isn't looking at you, or he would have seen your face fall. Yet another way you've made this weekend hell for him.

Robby had said to just show up to the reception and tell them your names—that the hospital had taken care of it—but something must have gone wrong. You know better than anyone how their systems can't be trusted.

Jack exhales sharply, dropping your bags onto the desk before turning to face you. "We're still married in the system, so they must've auto-booked us together," he explains, his voice tight.

"Oh." That’s all you manage to say again as you step fully into the room, closing the door behind you and taking in the surroundings: a desk, a closet, a bathroom, and a single bed. Great.

"I tried changing it," he says quickly, "but they're fully booked."

You nod, trying not to show him just how much that hurts to hear. Of course, he tried to change it. Of course, he doesn’t want to share a room with you.

Two more days and he's free.

Your gaze drifts helplessly back to the bed.

"I can sleep on the floor," he offers, clearing his throat.

"What?"

He shrugs stiffly.

"You don’t have to sleep on the floor." You frown. Were another few nights really that horrible that he'd prefer sleeping there? You bite your lip, stepping into the bathroom pretending to inspect it, but mostly to not see his face as you say, "It's fine. What's two more nights?"

Jack's silent for a moment, and you almost don't hear his "okay" over the sound of your heart cracking.

The first day at the conference passes by faster than Jack expects. A good thing, even if it does feel slightly bittersweet. Time alone with you is all he's wanted for months, but now that he has it, he doesn't know what to do with it.

Not when you've made it clear this past week that you want nothing to do with him. You've moved back to your own bed, and the hospital had forced you right back into sharing again—just like it had forced you into this whole thing in the first place.

Jack knows the end is near, and he's trying to give you space. But he can't help being pulled in by you—watching as you listen carefully to demonstrations, his hands hovering near you to keep the crowd from jostling your ribs.

Normally, he’s not a fan of this part of the conferences: the chaos, the noise, the sales reps tripping over each other to pitch their latest gadgets.

Today, he leans into it. He lets himself get trapped in twenty-minute demonstrations he doesn't care about. He asks unnecessary questions, picks up brochures he knows he won’t read, and lingers at displays his hospital would never consider—anything to keep his mind occupied and avoid fixating on you. Your sweet perfume still wraps around him, your accidental brushes against him still make his skin flush, and his heart still races whenever you glance his way.

And despite this distance between you, you're still looking out for him. You still notice how he subtly shifts to put more weight on his good leg, and even when he'd told you he was fine, intending to soldier on, it had only taken a stern glare from you for him to relent.

The foolish part of his heart can't help but hope that it means something more—that the way you look at him means more than it probably does. He's probably just seeing the reflection of his own hurt in your eyes because he knows you've been searching for a way out—bringing up getting a divorce, looking at apartments and distancing yourself again.

The way you'd reacted when he told you that you had to share a bed again only solidified it. So, even if it's the last thing he wants to do, he does his best to keep his distance like you want him to.

By dinner, though, the distance is harder to maintain when walking into the stupid hotel restaurant feels dangerously close to a date. The lighting is low and warm, reflections dancing off polished glasses as the waiter leads you to a four-person table.

He's trying not to stare at you or the lipstick you'd put on before leaving, but he's failing. His gaze keeps drifting to the soft curve of your cupid's bow and the way you nibble on your lower lip. When he forces himself to look away, it's only to trace the marks you left on your glass.

You both attempt awkward small talk about the conference, which feels like the safest topic, and his heart lifts a little when you laugh at his reminder of the sales rep who actually fell over in his eagerness to speak with you.

You twirl the stem of your glass, and he traces condensation around the rim of his glass when silence falls over the table again. Now and then, your eyes meet before darting away again.

It hurts that this is what it's come to. Jack still remembers the first time you went to dinner, back when this whole thing had just begun, and how gorgeous you had looked that night. The way you had smiled when he'd brought your flowers, how you had teased him all night—how much fun the two of you had had.

This couldn't be farther from that.

Just as he’s about to say something—anything—to reach out to you again, a shadow falls over the table.

"Excuse me, sir? Ma’am?" The waiter stands there looking at you both apologetically. "I'm sorry to ask, but would you mind sharing your table? We're fully booked, and I was told you know each other—"

Jack is prepared to say no, doesn't want people he supposedly knows to witness this, or to ruin his attempt at salvaging it, but before he can speak, a bright and jarring voice cuts in.

"Jack!"

His stomach drops as he recognises the voice, and he has to stop himself from grimacing. "Dr. Warren," he responds with a forced smile.

"Oh, Jack won’t mind," she chimes in cheerfully to the waiter before he can protest. Then her tone turns sugary sweet as she looks at him again. "Right?"

She's set him up perfectly, making it impossible to refuse her without causing a scene. He glances over at you, noticing how you're staring down at your plate, and with a resigned shake of his head, he replies, "Of course not."

Warren breezes past the waiter and pulls out the chair next to Jack. "Sit down, Turner."

Jack hadn’t even noticed the man until now. He’s tall with dark hair, young, and looking vaguely uncomfortable as he flashes Jack an apologetic smile before taking a seat next to you.

"Sorry to intrude on your dinner. I'm Jeremy," Turner says. Jack watches as you look up to greet him and sees both of your faces shift from confusion to recognition. "Wait—"

"Jeremy?"

"Is that you, Sleepy?" His face breaks into a stupid grin. Jack hates him instantly—mostly for the nickname but also for the way he manages to make you smile.

"Oh my god, don't call me that!" you groan, covering your face briefly.

Warren leans back into her chair, watching the exchange with curious eyes. Meanwhile, Jack feels a wave of nausea wash over him.

Turner leans in, bumping his shoulder against yours, and Jack has to grip his glass tighter to prevent himself from commenting on it. Why is he sitting that close? Why are you letting him?

"Wow, you look exactly the same! How long has it been—five, six years?"

"Something like that," you nod, then huff softly. "But I think my eye bags have definitely worsened since then."

"Ah," Turner chuckles. "Still living up to your nickname then, I see."

You glare at him, and he only smiles wider. And Jack—

He wants this man dead. Not literally—or well, not mostly. But when was the last time you'd laughed like that with him? When was the last time you looked at him like that? He'd thought Warren was going to be the worst part of this dinner, but Turner is quickly taking first place.

"So, how have you been—" Warren starts, turning her body toward Jack, attempting to start a conversation between just the two of them.

But Jack doesn't care. He cuts her off, "You two know each other?" He tries to sound casual as he looks at you, but he can feel his jaw tense up.

Warren frowns as Jack speaks over her, but all he sees is Turner, glowing at you.

"Yeah, we met in med school."

"Oh, how fun!" Warren chimes in. She turns to Jack again. "Jeremy just started at Presby—he's our newest attending."

Jack still isn't looking at her, only seeing the way you smile warmly at Turner as you congratulate him.

"Did you manage to keep that attending offer at PTMC?" Warren asks you with a pointed smile, and Jack notices your brow furrow slightly before you answer.

"I did."

"She's doing amazing," Jack offers, finally looking at Warren. "Still the best-performing doctor we have."

"Oh wow!" Turner says, and Jack can see you flush, tucking a hair behind your ear.

You deftly steer the conversation into general hospital topics, easily falling back into a rhythm with Turner. You share stories from med school and let inside jokes slip, leaving Jack to simmer quietly.

And while that's going on, Warren keeps shifting her chair closer to him. Her knee brushes against his, her hands keep squeezing his arm as she tries to sequester him into a separate conversation. He's pushed his chair as far away as he can to try and avoid her touch.

"I never thought I'd see you at one of these things again," she says lightly, taking a bite of her salad.

"No," he replies, taking a sip of his wine.

Warren's silent for a second, watching him. She's definitely clocked the weirdness between you. "You're more than welcome to come to Presby anytime you want," she says, then adds, "I’d love to show you around." The implication is clear as daylight, and Jack is stunned by her audacity.

Even if she feels the weirdness, the fact that she feels it appropriate to come onto him in front of you—his wife—is astonishing. He notices your shoulders tense slightly, but he convinces himself he’s imagining it because you’re still laughing with Turner.

"Oh, I've already been there."

Warren just shrugs, spearing another piece of salad with her fork, smiling at him with a knowing look. "Things might have changed."

Evidently satisfied with that, she turns to Turner and you. "So, how close were you two back in med school?"

Jack stills, his attention honing in on you and the way your eyes widen slightly.

"Uh—"

"We dated," Turner says.

Jack's vision blurs and the noise of the restaurant dulls as blood rushes in his ears.

"Briefly," you add immediately, glancing over at Jack before dropping your gaze again. "For like two weeks."

"Still broke my heart," Turner says dramatically.

You roll your eyes. "You dated Tiffany literally less than a week after."

Turner shrugs with a grin, and Jack can't decide which is worse—knowing he once dated you, that he didn’t value you enough to keep you, or that he so easily replaced you.

You laugh, and it doesn't look like you care that much about it, but Jack can't help the ugly feeling that curls in his stomach.

"You still out there breaking hearts?" Turner asks.

"She's my wife." Jack doesn't hesitate, wanting to lay his claim even if he doesn't have the right to.

Turner's expression shifts to one of surprise, followed by a wide smile. "Oh wow. Congrats!"

He sounds genuine, which somehow only makes Jack hate him even more.

"You must be real special if Sleepy decided to settle down."

You offer a tight smile, taking a long sip of your drink as Jack follows suit. Unable to stop himself, he asks, "So, what's up with the nickname?"

Turner bursts into laughter, while you groan and point a finger at him, "Don't."

"She fell asleep in a lecture once," he says, clearly enjoying the moment.

Warren laughs loudly and mutters with a smile, "That's not very professional."

Your expression tightens, but Turner either didn't hear or just chose to ignore it, as he continues, "Our professor actually stopped class to call her out."

"I was exhausted," you defend yourself.

"You also used to fall asleep during study sessions."

"It's not my fault that you guys insisted on studying until like three in the morning," you retort.

"Good thing that's over then," Jack comments.

You look over at him, surprised. "...Yeah," you say softly.

For the first time all night, it feels like it's just the two of you again.

Until Warren smiles cloyingly at you. "A good doctor never stops studying."

"Of course," you smile, letting your gaze drop down to your plate again.

Later, after awkward goodbyes and forced smiles, you and Jack retreat back to your hotel room. There's a sharp bitterness settling in your mouth, your stomach churning after having to watch Warren flirt—blatantly, in your eyes—with Jack, and him not doing anything about it.

He could at least have some decency to wait until you're not there. You're not even going to comment on her and how disrespectful she was. All you can focus on is the anger that simmers under your skin as you brush your teeth. The rush of frustration drowns out everything else as you wash your face, your breath uneven as you change into your pyjamas.

The only thing that had gotten you through that dinner was seeing Jeremy again—he'd been the perfect distraction, keeping your attention on him with tales from med school. But you'd still noticed how Warren kept touching Jack and how pointed her comments were when she did speak to you.

When you step out of the bathroom again, after taking a few deep breaths, you find Jack sitting on the edge of the bed in sweats and a t-shirt, glasses low on his nose as he scrolls through his phone.

You look away before it can stir something in your chest. "I'm done," you tell him as you slip under the covers, turning your back on him.

By the time he comes back, you've dimmed the lights except for the lamp on his side. You listen as he removes his prosthetic, the soft sound of cream squishing as he gently massages his leg. Part of you wants to help him, but you hesitate, unsure if he would welcome it.

You stay still as he slides under the covers and turns off the lamp. You wonder what he's thinking of—if he's relieved the first day is over or if he wishes he were here with Lily instead.

A minute passes, then another, only the sounds of your breathing filling the room. Out in the hallway, you can hear muted footsteps, quiet laughter and then—

A loud sound tears through the wall. A moan, to be more specific. Long, dramatic and almost definitely fake.

Your eyes widen as another sound permeates the wall, somehow even louder the second time. It continues in a flurry of noises.

"Oh my god," you whisper.

Jack lets out a short laugh through his nose. A smile tugs at your lips at that sound. You haven't heard him laugh in forever when it was just the two of you. Without thinking, you ask, "Do you think he knows?"

Another moan echoes, and Jack snorts. "No."

You laugh quietly into your pillow. "Poor man."

Jack huffs another soft laugh. "Poor woman, more like."

You glance at him, turning around without really meaning to. "What?"

He shifts, too, his body turning toward you. "If she feels the need to fake it like that," he nods toward the wall, "then she clearly hasn't been with men who know how to make a woman feel good."

"Oh, and you do?" Your voice is light, teasing him like these past weeks haven't happened. You freeze the second you register it.

Jack stills next to you.

Heat floods your face immediately. "Oh my god, forget I said that." You turn around quickly, pulling the blanket up to your chin as if it can cool the flush that's travelling upwards. It sounded like you were challenging him, like you were asking him to—

You squeeze your eyes shut.

The mattress shifts slightly behind you as Jack exhales softly. "You know," he says after a moment, "I'd like to think I'd figure it out."

"You do not have to answer that," you squeak. "I shouldn't have—I'm sorry."

He chuckles quietly, and after a moment of silence, he replies, "Goodnight, Trouble."

He doesn't like you crossed a line or like you've annoyed him—he sounds...gentle. You pretend not to notice the way he puts pressure on your nickname.

"...Goodnight, Jack."

Nothing from the second day really sticks in your memory. You sit through lectures, take notes, nod at the appropriate moments, but your brain keeps snagging on the same thing—over and over again.

How you woke up wrapped in Jack's arms. How warm he was, the weight of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your neck, and—

God.

The feel of his cock against your ass. How, when you'd shifted, still half asleep, it had twitched against you.

You'd tried to ignore it all day. It wasn't on purpose—just biology—but your mind keeps trying to spin it. The cold shower you took was not enough to keep the flush away throughout the day.

Jack's acting like it didn't happen. Like he hadn't nearly jumped off the bed when he woke up and noticed it. That still hurts to think about.

The warm feeling immediately turns sour when you remember that—a feeling that only worsens when Warren and Jeremy run into you after the celebratory dinner is over and the room has been turned into a dance floor.

Warren barely even acknowledges you as she sidles up to Jack. You hate how she speaks to him, hate how you can't help noticing how she stands close to him, how she laughs when he jokes, how she keeps touching him.

Jack doesn't seem to mind, and it makes you wonder briefly if you've been wrong about Lily—that it wasn't necessarily her, it was just anyone but you.

Jeremy tries to keep a conversation going with you, but even he sees it. His eyes keep glancing from the way you glare down at your champagne flute to the way Warren is laughing. He places a gentle hand on your shoulder, offering a sympathetic smile that asks if you're okay. You nod your head and force a smile back. You don’t need him to intervene; if Jack wanted to, he would.

He doesn't.

A sudden squeal from the microphone interrupts the chatter. "If there are any couples here tonight—or anyone hoping to be in one—head to the dance floor!"

Laughter ripples through the room as soft music begins playing.

You press your lips together, staring down at your drink. You plan to stay where you are.

"Wanna go—" Warren begins, and your chest aches. You can't stay here if he dances with her.

But Jack stays still, too, only to then reach his outstretched hand into your field of vision. "May I?"

You look up at him, surprised, but then realise it's just for show. Married couples dance. He can't exactly go off with Warren when there are people here whom you know. One last time pretending can't hurt, so you place your hand in his.

He leads you out onto the crowded dance floor and places a hand at your waist. The two of you step awkwardly, but somewhere between the music and the closeness, it stops. Your body remembers the shape of him, the rhythm, the ease of existing near him.

Your arms wrap around his neck, and the two of you sway gently. For the first time during this trip, you actually look at him. The lighting catches the green flecks in his eyes, his gaze locked on yours.

Your mouth goes dry, and you nervously bite your lip, almost willing to swear that his gaze drops down to it. Heat rushes up your neck.

You lean in closer, and he mirrors your movement.

"Can I—" he begins, and for a foolish second, you think he might kiss you. Then the room erupts into loud claps as the song ends, and your eyes snap open. You take a quick step back.

"I—I'll be right back," you stammer.

Jack frowns. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you nod quickly. "Just need to...pee!" You rush off before he can say anything else.

The bathroom is too bright and too quiet, though you're thankful no one is here to watch your spiral. You grip the sink tightly, exhaling harshly.

You need to get your shit together. Remember that this doesn't mean anything. It's a performance—he doesn't want you. No matter how much you can't help but keep hoping, even after the hallway, that he does.

You stay in there longer than you should. Splash water on your wrists, fix your lipstick, and try not to feel like you're sixteen years old again—stupid and foolish when it comes to love.

When you finally head back, you're not sure what you expected, but it wasn't seeing Jack and Warren laughing together. Her hand on his bicep, her head tilted backwards. You watch as she leans in, whispering something to him before heading over to the bar.

The hurt turns into anger as humiliation washes over you. He really doesn't care about your reputation or the fact that you'll forever be known for him straying.

You stride over to him.

"There you are—" he begins with a relieved smile.

You don't let him finish, leaning in to murmur to him. "I'm gonna go."

Jack blinks at you. "Why? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," you huff, but he seems unconvinced, searching your face for answers.

He sets his glass down. "Okay, let's go."

Your brows knit together. "No, you stay." Your gaze shifts to Warren. "It looks like you're doing just fine without me anyway."

"What—"

You step back, sending him a forced smile that hurts. "Have fun." You begin to turn around, but then remember— "Oh, just text me if you need the room."

Before he can ask anything else, before you can embarrass yourself further and before he can notice the angry tears glistening in your eyes, you turn and walk away.

Jack stands frozen for several seconds after you leave, staring at the spot you just occupied, trying—yet failing—to wrap his head around what just happened. He’d been trying to shake off Warren ever since you went to the bathroom, and just when she finally decided to head to the bar, you appeared with that piercing glare.

It looks like you're doing fine without me anyway.

Your words replay in his head.

Text me if you need the room.

Said as if you expected him not to come back, or like you expected him to—

His stomach sinks. He pushes through the crowd, ignoring Warren’s calls, impatiently tapping his fingers against his arms as he waits for the elevator. When it finally reaches your floor, he rushes out, swiping his key card haphazardly.

As the door swings open, he immediately sees you pacing, making sharp turns from the bed to the desk and back again. Your heels are thrown off to the side carelessly.

He closes the door behind him softly. "What's going on?"

You stop at the desk, your back turned to him, and he notices your shoulders rising and falling with quick breaths. "Nothing. You can go back," you dismiss him with a wave of your hand. There's an anger in your tone he’s never heard before.

"Go back?" He doesn't understand why you think he would—you're clearly upset.

"To Warren. Or whoever."

"Why on earth would I do that?"

You huff a laugh, bitter and low. "Don't play dumb."

Jack takes a cautious step closer. "Tell me what's going on."

"I told you. Nothing."

"Well, it's clearly not nothing," he says, frustration creeping into his voice. He doesn't understand why you won't look at him or why you're pushing him away like this—like you can't stand him.

"Jack—" you sigh, glancing back for barely a second. It's enough for him to spot the frustration carved deep in your features.

"Sweetheart," he says softly. You remain silent, but he feels like he’s making progress. "Why did you say that? About the room?"

Whatever hope he had quickly dissipates as you rip your earrings out and fling them onto the desk. "You know."

"No," he says. "I really don't."

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, turning to face him, your eyes blazing with fury. "Oh, please." You cross your arms defiantly. "She was all over you. And you just let her."

Jack doesn't pretend not to know who you're talking about. It's clear that it's Warren. He wants to make it clear that he has no interest in her, but in his surprise, all he can manage to say is, "She knows we're married."

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Well...you're not. Not really. Not in the way that matters." Taking a step closer, you add, "And she clearly doesn’t care anyway, but if it matters to you, you can just tell her we’re in an open relationship."

Jack stares at you. "Is that what you want?"

Your expression twists instantly. "What?"

"Is that what you want?" he repeats, slower, taking a step forward, too.

Your laugh this time sounds bitter. "Who cares what I want? If you want this, go for it," you say, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. "Seriously. Have fun. I’ll leave."

Jack watches as you begin messily shoving things into your bag. Why is it that you keep saying things like this when you know what he feels for you? Are you just looking for a fight so you can leave?

Jack tightens his jaw. "And where exactly are you staying?"

You shrug.

"At Jeremy's?" he says, mocking the way you said it all evening. Soft and sweet and nauseating.

"Maybe...yeah," you snap, glaring at him. "He wouldn't flirt in front of the person he’s supposed to be married to."

Jack shakes his head in frustration. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why did you keep saying that?"

You throw a shirt down and spin toward him. "Because it's true and you know it." You step closer, and he mirrors your movement. "Just stop pretending."

You’re close enough now for him to see your hands shaking with anger.

"I know you regret this," you say, voice cracking as it rises in volume. "And it’s okay."

"What?"

"The least you can do," you continue, "is be honest about it."

"I don’t—" His pulse races, the blood rushing in his ears as he tries to catch up.

"Come on," you scoff. "You don’t have to pretend anymore."

"Pretend what?" He steps closer.

"That you didn't hate every second of this. That saying yes to me wasn’t the biggest mistake of your life."

"What are you talking about?"

"That you regret getting stuck in this marriage!"

"That's not true!"

You close your eyes briefly, looking utterly worn out. "Can we not do this? Please?"

There’s barely any space between you now. He can feel your uneven breaths, just as clearly as he can see them.

"I've got a viewing in a few days. If it looks good, then I'll be out of your hair soon." The words pummel into him, stealing his breath.

You continue like you haven't just broken his heart, "We can sign the divorce papers when we get back. It's been long enough now."

The pieces of his heart shatter into even finer shards. "What?"

You avoid his gaze. "You can finally be with the person you actually want to be with."

His brows pinch together. "Who?"

"Lily."

Jack stares at you, confused. "...Lily?"

You huff, anger bubbling back up. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Don't pretend you don’t know."

"I genuinely don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!"

"I've seen the way you talk about her," you tell him. "The way your face changes."

His brain feels like it’s malfunctioning. "You think I’m in love with Lily?"

"You seriously expect me to believe otherwise?"

"Yes, because that's insane."

"I’m not blind, Jack!" you snap, your voice cracking. "I love you, and you don't love me, and that's fine."

"You—" His voice comes out rough. "What?"

Your eyes widen, and you quickly look away. "...Let's just stop."

Jack's hand shoots out, grabbing hold of your wrist before you can turn away. "No." The word comes out fast. "That's not what I want."

His mind is spinning. You love him.

"Well, we can't always get what we want," you say quietly, sounding incredibly sad. You try to tug your wrist free, but he keeps his grip firm.

"Trouble—" Jack begins, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. "You love me?" he asks quietly.

You love him.

"Jack," you interject.

He takes a step closer. "I don't understand why you’re still pulling away. Not when you know—“

"That’s exactly why!" you cut him off.

His laugh comes out strained. "Is it that horrible to be with me? To let me love you?"

You stare at him with wide eyes, but then you shake your head. "You don't love me."

"What?" he asks. But you knew? Didn't you?

"No, you’re upset," you say quickly. "Or you feel guilty, or—or you're trying to fix this because I said something embarrassing."

"You think this is pity? After everything?"

"I think you're a good person," you say quietly. "And I think you're trying not to hurt me."

"No."

"Jack—"

"You really think I'd do that?" he asks quietly.

You hesitate.

His laugh comes out sharp. He turns away for a moment, pressing both hands against his mouth, as if trying to hold it together. Because somehow this feels more devastating than everything else: worse than thinking you didn’t want him, worse than the apartment viewings, worse than the divorce papers.

You think he pitied you. That every moment between you had been an obligation.

"You think I stayed because I felt bad for you?" he asks.

"I...yeah," you murmur, and the words nearly take him out at the knees.

"Sweetheart," he says softly, and there’s something wrecked in the word now. "I don’t know how I fucked this up so badly."

"You think I wanted out?" he asks. "All this time?" He shakes his head hard before you can answer. "I have spent months trying not to love you."

Your breath hitches in your throat.

"I tried," he admits helplessly. "I tried so hard. And I failed."

Doubt still flickers across your face.

"Sweetheart. Please. I don't know how else to tell you."

You look down. "I just don't want you to say something you'll regret tomorrow."

"Regret?" he repeats quietly. That damn word haunts him.

You shrug helplessly, eyes glassy. "When this all settles," you say softly, "I don't want you to wake up and feel trapped again."

"Oh sweetheart," he murmurs, "I have done a lot of stupid shit that I regret, but loving you has never been one of them."

You still look doubtful.

Jack feels something hot and frantic curl in his chest. He doesn't know what to say to make you believe him, so he does the next best thing. He closes the gap between you, his hand cradling your jaw as he tilts your head back and kisses you. It isn't a soft or careful kiss like he'd imagined you'd share after he'd told you that—no, this is angry, frustration bleeding into every part of it.

You shove weakly at his chest, and he's ready to step back, but then your fingers close into a fist, tugging at his shirt and pulling him closer.

His lips press against yours again, devouring you as he crowds you into the desk. He loses himself in the feeling, barely noticing how he's lifted you onto the desk, how your legs have parted around him or how he's grinding into you.

All he can focus on is the way you breathe his name softly, the sweet sounds you make as he trails kisses down your neck, and how your fingers claw at his hair, his shoulders, his arms, urging him to come closer.

You love him.

It's an euphoric feeling—he almost feels like he's floating outside his body. The thought keeps hitting him over and over again, dizzying and intoxicating.

Jack pulls back to look you in the eye. "I love you." His thumb brushes your jaw gently and across your kiss-swollen lips. You kiss it softly, leaning your face into his touch.

"Do you understand? Not Lily. Not anyone else." He searches your eyes, desperate for you to grasp the depth of his feelings. You’re the only one who’s ever mattered. "I love you."

Your eyes start glistening again, but you nod. Relief fills his chest. "I thought you didn't—" Before he can say anything to reassure you again, you move forward, capturing his lips in another heated kiss. The force of it nearly tilts him backwards, and the way you giggle against his lips sends his heart fluttering.

Your legs pull him closer, and he finally notices how your dress has bunched up around your waist. He curses at the sight of your underwear, the sweet little bow that starkly contradicts the naughty way you're moving against him and the wetness that's slowly soaking his slacks.

"Fuck me," he groans, his fingers gripping onto your waist, helping you move. He's never been this hard before. He moves slowly, trailing his fingers down to your thighs, watching you carefully.

His chest rumbles lowly when he finally feels just how wet you are. He can't count on one—or even two—hands how much he's thought about doing this and reality is so much better.

"You really love me?" he asks quietly, still not quite able to believe it.

"Yeah," you whisper. "I always have."

He leans his forehead against yours, pieces of his heart mending with each kiss. He pushes the fabric aside, brushes his fingers softly through your wetness, circling your clit and listening as you moan sweetly for him. He swears he could cum from just this.

You're so soft. So sweet. So tight around his fingers. "You're gorgeous," he breathes, and he feels you squeeze around him. He catches on to that quickly, leaning in close so he can whisper to you. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. You're so wet. So perfect." He pulls his fingers in and out, relishing in the sounds he manages to pull from both your cunt and your mouth.

"Ja-ack," you gasp, and he can tell you're close.

"Be a good girl and cum for me," he says, pressing his other hand against your clit. The combined stimulation and his words push you over the edge, your legs shaking against him, your nails pressing hard into his arms. He doesn't mind, welcoming it and staying close until you begin pulling back.

He's never seen anyone as stunning as you. He watches as the glazed look in your eyes slowly subsides, and you come back to earth.

He still can't believe this is real. His thumb brushes softly against your jaw. "Hi, sweetheart."

"Hi," you murmur, a shy smile on your face. "That was—that was incredible."

It's like you know he'll tease you because you pull his face close, kissing him again. He could do this all the time. He hopes you'll let him.

He's so caught up in your kisses and making you feel good that he's forgotten about himself. It's only when your hands travel down his chest to his slacks and begin to palm him that he remembers.

You grin into the kiss at the groans he makes.

"Stop teasing," he begs, but doesn't move to change anything. He stands still as you find the zipper and begin pulling his slacks and boxer briefs down. He lets you take the lead, won't force you to do anything you don't want to—even if he's aching to feel your heat around him.

You pull him out, and then you stare down at his cock with a wide-eyed look. He can't help but tease you. "Don't tell me you've never seen one of these before?"

"Ha," you huff, slapping his chest. "It's just...big."

"You flatter me," he says, pride rushing through him. He's about to make another silly comment, but it evaporates the second you twist your hand.

"Fuck," he gasps when you pull him close, letting the head swipe through your wetness.

"I don't—" It takes all his strength to think clearly. "I don't have a condom."

"It's okay." You continue grinding against him.

"You sure?"

"Yes," you confirm, looking him deeply in the eye. Then you position him against your entrance and pull at his hips. He pushes forward slowly. Fuck. You're so tight. So warm.

He watches you carefully, ready to stop at the slightest hint of discomfort.

"Move, Jack," you beg him once the full length of him is inside. "Please."

Who is he to deny you? His hips snap forward, setting a steady pace. "I won't last long," he warns you.

You kiss him again, pulling him closer. Your gasps and moans are more than enough to send him over the edge, but he gathers all the strength he has. He reaches a hand down and finds your clit and waits until your eyes begin to glaze over and your legs shake again.

Only then does he let go of all restraint. His hips snap into you in a furious pace before he pulls away with a loud groan, spilling onto your cunt. He watches it drip down your thighs, his chest rising unevenly as he comes down from his high.

"That was—" he breathes out, locking eyes with you again. You nod, equally speechless. The two of you share a moment of silence before Jack springs into action, grabbing a towel to wipe you down.

He sends you away to pee and slips out of his clothes, leaving only his underwear on. His prosthetic lands next to the bed as he crawls under the covers, a wave of nervousness washing over him.

What if you regretted it? What if you didn't feel like that anyway?

You emerge from the bathroom, barely meeting his gaze, and Jack's stomach drops at the sight. His t-shirt from yesterday hangs on the chair, and he watches breathlessly as you put it on along with a fresh pair of panties. Then you settle in beside him, leaning into the crook of his neck with a smile, and he finally feels himself relax.

You don't regret it.

"I'm sorry," he says softly after a moment of breathing in your calming scent.

"For what?"

"For not telling you sooner." He exhales, tracing gentle patterns on your skin with his fingers. "I thought you knew. I thought you were pulling away because of that."

You pause to process his words, your head shaking firmly. "I'm sorry, too. I should've asked you instead of just assuming." You take his hand, intertwining your fingers. "I overheard you saying you regretted this, and that sent me spiralling. It didn't help that I thought you loved Lily."

Jack frowns. "When did I say that?"

"In the hallway. With Robby..."

He thinks back and realises, "Oh, sweetheart. That's not what I meant—I said I regretted it because I fell in love with you during it, and I couldn't stop it from happening despite knowing you didn't want me like that."

"I do—"

"I know," he interrupts gently. "I know that now." He squeezes your fingers and leans down to plant a soft kiss on your head. "And just to be clear—if you need to hear it again—I don’t love Lily. I love you."

He can feel the smile spreading across your face. "I love you, too."

He's grateful you're not looking at him because he must look silly grinning this widely. You press a kiss to his neck and then sigh contentedly.

"Guess I should've trusted Olivia," you murmur after a moment.

He chuckles, making a mental note to send her a thank-you gift for having his back without him knowing. "Robby, too."

You groan. "They're gonna be insufferable once they find out they were right."

Jack hums, his fingers dancing along your back. "We don't have to tell them right away."

"No?" You lean back slightly to look at him.

"We can keep this between us for a little bit, don't you think?" he says, his gaze dropping down your lips.

"Yeah," you breathe, your eyes darkening as your fingers gently tug at the hair at the nape of his neck to bring him close. Jack kisses you again. And again. And again.

He isn't sure how long he kisses you for, not that it really matters. All he knows is that it won't ever get better than this. He finally has his girl.

The house was quiet in the way it only got after midnight.

Not peaceful, exactly.

Just quiet.

There was a difference.

Peaceful meant Andrew's boots by the door because he had kicked them off badly. Peaceful meant the bathroom light left on because he forgot it half the time and denied it the other half. Peaceful meant his weight on his side of the bed, one hand finding your hip in his sleep like even unconscious, he needed to know where you were.

This was just quiet.

The kind that hummed.

The kind that made the fridge downstairs sound too loud and the wind outside feel like someone moving through the hallway.

You lay on your side beneath the covers, phone balanced on the pillow beside your face, one hand curved over the round of your stomach.

Andrew's old T-shirt stretched over you now. Not dramatically. Not yet. But enough that the fabric pulled slightly at the middle, enough that you had started sleeping with one of his flannels tucked against your back like a poor substitute for the man himself.

It was pathetic.

You had decided it was allowed.

The baby shifted beneath your palm.

A slow roll.

You smiled in the dark.

"Yeah," you whispered. "I know."

The phone rang at 12:17.

You grabbed it on the first ring.

The automated voice came first.

It always did.

Flat. Mechanical. Rude.

You have a prepaid call from an inmate at—

You closed your eyes.

—Andrew Cody.

You pressed one before the recording had finished telling you how.

The line clicked.

Static.

A distant clatter.

Then his voice, low and rough around the edges.

"Hey."

Your whole body softened into the mattress.

"Hey."

"You asleep?"

"No."

"You should be."

"I was waiting for you."

He went quiet.

You could hear prison noise behind him. Not much. Muted at this hour, but still there. Voices farther away. A door closing. The occasional crackle of a guard's radio.

Then Andrew said, "You shouldn't wait up."

"You always say that."

"Because you shouldn't."

"And I always do."

A pause.

Then, softer, "Yeah."

You smiled and turned your face further into the pillow.

It was ridiculous how much a single word could do. How his voice could fill the room without changing anything in it. His side of the bed was still empty. His boots were still by the door. The green paint samples were still taped to the nursery wall down the hall, three shades of almost-right, one shade of absolute soup.

But he was here.

A little.

Enough for tonight.

"You okay?" he asked.

You laughed quietly.

"There it is."

"What?"

"Your opener."

"I waited this time."

"You waited fourteen seconds."

"That's better."

"It's really not."

"You okay?" he repeated.

You rolled your eyes, but your hand smoothed over your stomach. "Yes."

"The baby?"

"Also yes."

"She moving?"

"She was a second ago."

He went quiet again.

You could picture him standing at the prison phone, head slightly bowed, eyes narrowing in concentration like he could listen hard enough to hear through you.

"She's stubborn at night," you said.

"Like you."

"Like you."

"You're the one awake."

"You called me."

"You answered."

"You see how marriage works?"

His breath moved through the line, almost a laugh.

You loved the almost laughs.

You loved the full ones too, but the almost ones felt private. Like Andrew was handing you something before he had decided whether he was allowed to.

The baby shifted again.

You sucked in a soft breath.

Andrew heard it immediately.

"What?"

"She moved."

"Yeah?"

"Mm-hmm." You pressed your palm more firmly over your belly. "I think she knows it's you."

Andrew was silent for a second too long.

Your heart pinched.

"You still there?"

"Yeah."

"You okay?"

Another pause.

Then, quiet and honest, "I like when you say that."

"That she knows it's you?"

"Yeah."

You smiled into the dark.

"She does."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

"How?"

"Because I'm her mother and I have decided I know."

"That's not science."

"She's currently kicking me in the ribs. I'm allowed to claim authority."

"She kicking hard?"

"Not hard. Just enough to be rude."

Andrew huffed softly.

You let your eyes close.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

You could hear him breathing. He could probably hear yours. Between you, the line held static and distance and all the things you had learned to live around.

Then he said, "Did you get the list?"

Your eyes opened.

"What list?"

"The names."

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

Of course.

You had sent him a list two days earlier. Two pages of baby girl names written in your messy handwriting, copied twice so one could be cleared for him. Some names you loved. Some you liked. Some you had added just to make him react.

He had been weird about it when you told him you were sending it.

Not bad weird.

Andrew weird.

Too quiet. Too serious. Like names were not just names but doors into the future, and he needed to make sure he did not choose one that led somewhere wrong.

"They gave it to you?" you asked.

"Yeah."

"And?"

"And you put ridiculous names on it."

You grinned. "Which ones?"

"Juniper."

"That is not ridiculous."

"It is."

"It's sweet."

"It's a tree."

"It's also a name."

"It's a tree name."

"You picked green for her room. You don't get to be anti-tree now."

"That's different."

"How?"

"Walls don't have to introduce themselves."

You laughed into the pillow.

Andrew went quiet to listen to it.

You knew he was doing it. You could almost feel the way his attention settled.

"What else?" you asked.

"Clementine."

"That one was a joke."

"No, it wasn't."

"It mostly was."

"You wrote it with a heart beside it."

"I have a whimsical side."

"You have a dangerous side."

"A baby named Clementine Cody would be adorable."

"She'd sound like fruit."

You snorted.

Andrew's voice went slightly softer. "Don't laugh like that. You'll wake yourself up."

"That is not how laughing works."

"You're supposed to be sleeping."

"And yet here we are discussing fruit names."

"Because you wrote fruit names."

"One fruit name."

"Still."

You smiled and shifted carefully, adjusting the pillow beneath your belly.

Andrew heard the rustle.

"You uncomfortable?"

"A little."

"Need to move?"

"I just did."

"Need water?"

"I have water."

"Drink some."

"Bossy."

"Drink."

You reached for the bottle on the nightstand and took a sip. "There. Happy?"

"Yeah."

"You're very easy to please tonight."

"No."

"No?"

There was a pause.

Then he said, "I liked some."

Your smile softened.

"The names?"

"Yeah."

"Which ones?"

He did not answer immediately.

This was the part you had expected.

Andrew could argue about soup-green paint and fruit names just fine. But saying he liked something? Saying he wanted something? That was different.

Want was vulnerable.

Want could be used against you.

You gave him space.

The baby rolled lazily under your hand like she was waiting too.

Finally, Andrew said, "The short ones."

"Short ones?"

"Yeah."

"You'll have to be more specific, baby. There were a lot."

He went quiet at the pet name.

You smiled faintly.

Even now, after everything, sometimes calling him that still knocked him off balance.

"Mara," he said.

Your smile softened. "I like Mara."

"It's good."

"Good?"

"Strong."

"It is."

"Not too much."

"No."

He breathed out softly. "Nora too."

"You liked Nora?"

"Yeah."

"That surprises me."

"Why?"

"I don't know. It's sweet."

"I can like sweet things."

The words landed quieter than he probably meant them to.

You stared into the dark.

"Yes," you said gently. "You can."

Andrew didn't say anything.

You let him have that silence too.

Then, after a moment, you asked, "Any others?"

"Willa."

Your eyebrows lifted. "Really?"

"You don't like it?"

"I do. I love it actually. I just didn't know if you would."

"It sounds..." He stopped.

You waited.

"Safe," he said finally.

Your throat tightened.

"Yeah," you whispered. "It does."

Willa.

Safe.

You pictured it for a second. A little girl with soft green walls and yellow ducks and a father who would pretend not to know all the words to her bedtime books before memorizing them by the second week.

Then Andrew cleared his throat.

"But maybe not."

"Why?"

"Sounds like someone else's kid."

You laughed softly. "That is such a strange but weirdly useful review."

"It does."

"Okay. Willa is someone else's kid."

"Maybe."

You shifted again and winced slightly when the baby pressed against something low and uncomfortable.

Andrew's voice sharpened. "What?"

"Nothing. She's just rearranging furniture in there."

"She hurting you?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"She needs to stop."

You smiled despite yourself. "I'll pass that along."

"Put the phone there."

"What?"

"On your stomach."

"For what?"

"I'll tell her."

You laughed, but did as he asked, moving the phone from your ear to rest gently against your belly.

"Okay," you said, voice slightly raised. "Go on. Parent her."

Andrew was quiet for half a second.

Then, low and serious, he said, "Hey. Stop kicking your mom like that."

You pressed your lips together.

"She's trying to sleep."

The baby moved directly under the phone.

You gasped, then laughed.

You brought the phone back to your ear. "She kicked you."

Andrew went silent.

"She what?"

"She kicked right where the phone was."

His breathing changed.

You smiled at the ceiling.

"She's already ignoring you. Very advanced."

"She heard me."

"I think she did."

For a second, there was only static.

Then Andrew said, "Good."

One word.

Soft enough to hurt.

You swallowed around the lump in your throat.

"She likes your voice," you said.

"You think?"

"I know."

"That science too?"

"Yes. Mother science."

He huffed quietly.

You closed your eyes again.

The room felt warmer now.

Still empty on his side of the bed, yes.

Still missing him in every corner.

But warmer.

"Did you hate any names?" you asked.

"Yes."

You laughed. "That was fast."

"Paisley."

"You hated Paisley?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It sounds like a shirt."

You burst out laughing.

"It does not."

"It does."

"Paisley is a perfectly normal name."

"It's a pattern."

"You are so opinionated for someone who claimed he didn't know anything about names."

"I know I don't like shirt names."

"Oh my God."

"Also Pearl."

You blinked. "You hate Pearl?"

"No."

"But?"

"It sounds small."

"Pearls are literally small."

"Exactly."

You smiled. "Okay. No Pearl."

"Maybe as a middle."

Your smile softened.

"A middle name?"

"Yeah."

"You've been thinking about middle names?"

"No."

"Andrew."

"A little."

You grinned into the dark.

He sounded mildly defensive, which meant he had absolutely been thinking about it.

"What kind of middle name?" you asked.

"Don't know."

"You do."

"I don't."

"You paused."

"I'm allowed to pause."

"You pause when you're hiding something."

"I pause because you ask too many questions."

"I ask charming questions."

"You ask trap questions."

You smiled harder.

The baby shifted again, slower this time, settling under your palm.

"You want something simple?" you asked.

"Maybe."

"Pretty?"

"Not too pretty."

You laughed softly. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know."

"You absolutely do."

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, "Something that means something."

Your chest softened.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Not just because it sounds nice?"

"It can sound nice too."

"That helps."

He made a quiet sound.

You stared into the dark, hand resting over your daughter.

There were words you both had not said yet. Not properly. Words that had been near the conversation for weeks without either of you putting them down in the middle of the room.

Hope was one of them.

Not as a first name.

Not something you were ready to settle.

Just a word that belonged near your daughter somehow.

Near Andrew too.

Near the strange, stubborn brightness that had kept finding you in all the places it should not have been able to reach.

You didn't say it.

Neither did he.

Not yet.

Instead, Andrew asked, "What about Grace?"

You blinked.

"Grace?"

"Yeah."

"That's pretty."

"You like it?"

"I do."

"Too pretty?"

"A little," you admitted.

He huffed. "You're picky."

"You rejected Paisley because of shirts."

"It is a shirt."

"Pattern."

"Same thing."

You smiled.

"What about Mae?" you asked.

"Mae?"

"Simple. Pretty. Not too much."

He was quiet.

You could almost hear him testing it silently.

"Maybe," he said.

"That means you like it."

"It means maybe."

"You are impossible."

"You married me."

"I was clearly unwell."

His almost laugh came warm through the line.

You held onto it.

"What about Rose?" you asked.

"No."

You laughed. "Immediate."

"Too..." He stopped.

"Too what?"

"Everyone has Rose."

"Fair."

"And flowers die."

You paused.

Then made a face in the dark. "That's bleak, even for you."

"It's true."

"We are not putting that on a baby-name list."

"Good."

"What about Claire?"

"Maybe."

"You like Claire?"

"It's okay."

"That's not a ringing endorsement."

"It's not bad."

"Andrew Cody, poet of our time."

He ignored you. "What about Anna?"

Your hand stilled.

"Anna?"

"Yeah."

"That wasn't on the list."

"I know."

"You came up with that?"

"Maybe."

Your expression softened.

Anna.

Simple. Gentle. Classic.

Not the name.

But sweet.

"You like it?" you asked.

"It's okay."

"You brought it up."

"I said maybe."

"You're very committed to maybe."

"Maybe is safe."

That one landed quietly.

You looked toward the ceiling.

Maybe was safe.

Maybe did not ask too much. Maybe did not make promises. Maybe did not break your heart if the world changed again.

But maybe was also where Andrew lived most comfortably when things mattered.

Maybe meant he was thinking.

Maybe meant he was close.

Maybe meant he had not run.

"Anna is pretty," you said softly.

He was quiet.

Then, "Yeah."

"We can keep it on the list."

"Okay."

You smiled.

The call settled after that into a gentle rhythm.

Names offered.

Names rejected.

Names held for later.

Clara was "too clean," which made no sense until he explained that it sounded like someone who never spilled things, and then somehow it made perfect sense.

Sadie made him pause, but he said it sounded like someone who would steal his keys.

You liked that as an argument in its favour.

He did not.

June made both of you go quiet for a second, not because it was perfect, but because it sounded warm.

Like sunlight through curtains.

Like a baby sleeping against your chest.

Like a month when things might be softer.

You wrote it down on the notepad beside the bed.

Andrew heard the pen.

"You writing?"

"Mm-hmm."

"What?"

"The maybes."

"How many?"

"Four."

"Four?"

"We need options."

"We need one."

"Eventually."

He grunted softly.

You smiled.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"You smiled."

"How do you know?"

"You breathe smug."

"I do not breathe smug."

"You do."

"I am glowing with pregnancy and wisdom."

"You are lying in bed making lists after midnight."

"Also that."

The baby gave one firm kick.

You gasped, hand flying to your stomach.

Andrew's voice sharpened immediately. "What?"

"She kicked hard."

"You okay?"

"Yes." You laughed breathlessly. "She either loves June or hates it."

"Which one?"

"I don't speak fluent baby yet."

"You should learn."

"I'll add it to tomorrow's tasks."

He went quiet in that listening way again.

"Put me on," he said.

You moved the phone to your stomach without asking what he meant.

"Okay," you whispered.

Andrew's voice softened when he spoke.

"Hey, baby girl."

Your eyes closed.

"We're trying to pick your name."

The baby moved faintly beneath the phone.

"Your mom likes too many."

You smiled.

"I'm trying to help, but she put tree names and fruit names on the list."

You mouthed, rude, into the darkness.

Andrew continued, his voice low and careful.

"We'll find it. Okay? Something good. Something that sounds like you."

Your throat tightened.

He paused.

Then softer, "You don't have to kick so hard. She needs sleep."

The baby kicked again.

You laughed, pulling the phone back up. "She did it again."

Andrew was silent.

Then, very quietly, "She's trouble."

"She's your daughter."

"Exactly."

You grinned.

The call timer beeped faintly.

Your smile dimmed.

"How long?" you asked.

"Five."

You hated that sound.

Every time.

Even when the call was soft. Especially when it was soft.

Because soft made the end worse.

You looked down at the list beside the bed.

Mara.

Nora.

Willa.

Anna.

June.

A few others crossed out with tiny notes beside them.

Fruit, according to Andrew.

Shirt, according to Andrew.

Probably steals keys, according to Andrew.

You smiled despite the ache.

"We didn't decide anything," you said.

"No."

"Good."

"Good?"

"I don't want to decide while you're tired and I'm emotional."

"You're always emotional right now."

"I am carrying your daughter. Choose your next words carefully."

"I said right now."

"Still dangerous."

He made that almost-laugh sound again.

Then he said, "I like talking about it."

Your heart softened.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Names?"

"Her."

You closed your eyes.

"Oh."

"The room. The ducks. The way she kicks. The names." His voice lowered. "All of it."

You pressed your palm over your stomach.

"Me too."

"Makes her real."

"She is real."

"I know." He paused. "More real."

You understood.

You always did with him, even when the words came out sideways.

"She's very real over here," you said. "She's currently using my ribs as personal property."

"She gets that from you."

"My ribs?"

"Taking over."

You laughed softly.

"I love you," you said.

The words came out suddenly.

Too full.

Andrew went quiet.

Then, "I love you."

You blinked hard.

"And her," he added.

Your throat closed.

"Yeah," you whispered. "She knows."

"Tell her anyway."

"I will."

The timer beeped again.

"One minute," he said.

You curled slightly around the phone, like you could keep the call from ending by making yourself smaller around it.

"You need to sleep," he said.

"I will."

"Drink water."

"I did."

"Again."

"You're so bossy."

"You like it."

"Unfortunately."

Another tiny almost laugh.

Then silence.

Neither of you wanted to spend the last seconds on jokes.

You stared at his empty side of the bed.

"Andrew?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad she's yours."

He stopped breathing.

You heard it.

The sudden quiet.

The words had slipped out before you could soften them. Before you could make them easier for him to hold.

But you didn't take them back.

You meant them.

Every part of them.

When he spoke, his voice was rough.

"Baby."

"I am," you said. "I'm glad."

The line crackled.

For a second, you thought he might not answer.

Then he said, very quietly, "Me too."

The call clicked off.

No goodbye.

No soft ending.

Just silence.

You lay there for a moment with the phone still pressed to your ear.

Then you lowered it slowly.

The bedroom settled around you again.

The fridge hummed downstairs.

The wind moved against the windows.

His side of the bed stayed empty.

But your hand was warm where it rested over your daughter.

You picked up the notepad from the nightstand and looked at the maybes.

Some pretty.

Some sweet.

Some safe.

None of them certain.

Not yet.

You added one more line at the bottom.

Not a name.

Just a note.

Something good.

Then you set the pen down, tucked the phone beneath your pillow, and curled carefully around the shape of your daughter beneath your ribs.

The baby shifted once, slow and sleepy.

You smiled into the dark.

"Don't worry," you whispered. "We'll find you."

And somewhere far away, behind concrete and wire and locked doors, Andrew Cody went back to his bunk with a list of names folded into the pocket of his prison shirt.

Mara.

Nora.

Willa.

Anna.

June.

He lay awake longer than he should have, staring at the ceiling and mouthing each one silently.

Trying to imagine a little girl answering.

Trying to imagine a future where he got to call her in from the yard, buckle her into a car seat, tell her not to climb things the way her mother did.

None of the names fit perfectly.

Not yet.

But for once, that did not scare him.

For once, maybe felt less like uncertainty.

More like time.

More like the life waiting for him outside was still saving him a place.

Andrew turned onto his side and tucked the list beneath his pillow.

Before he closed his eyes, he thought about your voice in the dark.

I'm glad she's yours.

His throat tightened.

He put one hand over the folded paper beneath his pillow.

And for the first time all night, he let himself believe his daughter's name would find them when it was ready.

And so, you spent your days ignoring your phone, staring out the window, counting the snowflakes that landed on the windowsill and all the people that walked on the sidewalk across the street. Snow had finally started and under different circumstances, you would have found it incredibly romantic. You would have put on a lovely winter playlist and re-organized your closet and bought yourself flowers and asked Boba for walks in the park.

Instead all you got were messages from your parents (your mother), grocery deliveries (your father) and – when you still didn’t answer them – flowers. And although they were absolutely stunning, you made it a point to throw them away on principle. Maudii made the joke that “considering that they know where you live, they make very little effort of actually showing up” and you couldn’t agree more.

It was like the frustration you had suppressed for so long came back tenfold, turned into a rage that almost scared you. You wanted to scream and stab your pillow and throw mugs against the wall and then make a nest and cry yourself to sleep just to repeat it all over again the next day. You wanted to call your parents and tell them to never call you again, you wanted to call Boba and beg for forgiveness and volunteer to work somewhere completely else so maybe your father wouldn’t fire him when he found out.

But who even said Boba would take you back?

You were currently googling job opportunities up in Hoth, when a knock on your door sounded.

“Not in the mood, Maudii,” you grumbled, unmoving from where you were snuggled up in bed.

“It is not Maudii,” a strange voice said and your head snapped up, your phone falling to your chest.

There, standing in the doorway, was your mother. Dressed in her cream-coloured two-piece she looked so out of place in the room with peeling paint and printed photos taped to the walls. Of all the people, you had never expected her to show up.

She did not wait for you to greet her. “It’s your birthday, honey, so I think we should go out.”

“I don’t feel like going out.”

“Now don’t make such a fuss,” she sat on the very edge of your bed, “I got reservations for the best spot in town, just the two of us. That has to take your mind off whatever alpha you’re love sick over, hm?”

“I – what?”

Images flashed in your mind of Boba in the park, him smiling at you, winking when you handed him notes, the feeling of him kissing you. How could she have known? Did she know? Fuck, did you look caught? Was your face betraying you?

“Of course, I was worried when you suddenly disappeared from Coruscant to … here,” she wrinkled her nose like she still didn’t understand, “But when I came here and saw you cosy up with that coach, I realized that my baby moved for love. And isn’t that so romantic? I am sad to see that it did not work out.”

“You … what?”

“I am sad to see it didn’t work out,” and she did look genuinely hurt on your behalf. That didn’t lighten the bombshell she had just dropped on you.

“You knew … you knew about Boba?”

“Well, I had my suspicions,” she shrugged, “But before I could ask you about it, it seemed things already simmered out. At least according to how grumpy that man is. What happened?”

Shock gave way to confusion gave way to disbelief gave way to anger.

How could she say these words and not realize what had happened? How could she not look at you, look at your father and look at herself and realize that the only thing that had happened was –

“You,” you stood up, wiggling your toes, “You happened, mom. I – I can’t believe you sit here and tell me about it as if you and dad didn’t destroy my life!”

“Now, I don’t know what –“

“You had your suspicions that I was with Boba and you let dad say that to me,” you screamed, “You let – you let him say that he would fire Boba and – and –“

You paced around the room, too many thoughts wanting to spill out all at once. It was an avalanche and you were ripped with it.

“If you really love me, you have to let me go. I – Do you realize how unhappy I have been these last few years?” your voice rose and she flinched but you could not bring yourself in the moment, “I have done everything I could to make you proud but I am – it’s like I can’t breathe when you are around me. Living here, working for the team, it finally felt like I was building something for myself and you still couldn’t let me have it. If you ever want me to truly find myself, you need to leave me be.”

Tears pricked the corner of your eyes and you took a deep breath. Each word was a weight off your chest and you were ready to feel tons lighters. “Talk to dad,” you implored her, “Get him to sell the team or at least to stop meddling in my career. Stop sending me expensive champagne and flowers and that bread that I told you I don’t like. Let me live my life, let me get a job on my own. Let me – let me be with people who I want to be with. Coach – Boba,” your heart broke at saying his name out loud, “He did pursue me and he was right to. I – I love him, at least I think I do, and I can’t keep myself from being happy just out of fear of disappointing you.”

Your mother was quiet. Uncharacteristically quiet. For a woman who was so eloquent, she watched you silently for a long time. She didn’t look angry, at least, but you also weren’t sure if you cared if she was. All you felt now was pure exhaustion and relief. You had said your piece and if she still could not see what you meant, then … then you needed to think about how to get out of Mandalore for good.

“Vanilla.”

“What?”

“I thought you had a new room spray or something to cover that mildew smell,” she gestured to a corner on the ceiling where there had been water damage a few months ago, “But it’s you. You are getting your scent.”

Your heart stopped for just a moment as your world turned upside down before it started beating twice the speed.  Your scent (or lack thereof) was never something you tried to linger on but now that you focussed on it, there was the faint scent of vanilla in the air. Could that really be you? After years of not having one, you had kind of made peace with the fact that you would not be like other omegas in that regard.

But if even your mother noticed and you detected the same scent, there had to be something to it, right?

“I never wanted you to be unhappy,” your mother said softly, her hand stroking over your cheek in what reminded you when you had been five years old and scared of the monsters under your bed, “I foolishly thought that you were just like us. That life in Coruscant was meant for you and you just needed time to realize it. But maybe … maybe your happiness doesn’t depend on a place but a person.”

“My happiness is dependent on letting me be free,” you mumbled, cheeks blazing as you finally admitted, “I … I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“You could never disappoint me, my darling,” she pulled you in a for a hug, her voice cracking, “I am sorry that I did not see it sooner. That I was too blind to recognize you for the wonderful young woman you have become and trying to force you into something you didn’t want. But if you are willing, I – I would love to try again. To show you that we do love you and we want to be in your life, even if we have to learn how we can best do that.”

“I – I would like that, too,” you murmured, returning the hug, clinging to her shoulders.

“Okay, so how about this?” your mother gently let you go, “I will have a talk with your father about all this. And when …” – she winced – “If you are ready to maybe have a chat, you send me a message, okay?”

Damn it, why were there tears in your eyes again?

“Okay,” you nodded, wiping your nose on your forearm, “That sounds good. Thank you, mom.”

“No thank you, for giving us another chance,” she smiled, already halfway through the door before she frowned, “Now that I think about it, we didn’t send you any flowers.”

Managing a trembling smile, you watched her leave the apartment, taking a deep breath once the door fell close behind her.

That had been … different from what you had expected. Better, sure, but also somehow worse because the first and only thought that crossed your mind was how you should have had this conversation much sooner. Much, much sooner.

Like … years ago, maybe.

Because it definitely felt like years’ worth of tension were finally lifted from your chest, allowing you to breathe a little easier. You let yourself fall down to your bed, right into the pillows and blankets that you should probably wash at some point. Later. Now was the time to relish in the newfound freedom for just a moment. It calmed you down to know that it was up to you to initiate contact with your parents now. That there would be no more messages, no more groceries, no more flowers …

You sat up so fast, you were still feeling dizzy by the time you hurried through the kitchen, skidding across the tiles as you ripped open the lid to the trash can. The flowers your parents had sent today – they hadn’t sent them. Someone else had. And you needed to know who.

You didn’t care that you were discarding that old cereal box or the empty milk carton as you lifted them up, the beautiful petals looking worse for wear from when you had dropped the bouquet without another look at them. Now, though, you were looking through each bloom, frantically reaching for the cream coloured card that was nestled on top.

Happy birthday, princess. May you find the courage to achieve your dreams.

When Maudii came back from the grocery store, she didn’t ask why you were sitting next to the trash can, bawling your eyes out and clutching a card that barely smelled like coffee.

*

All he wanted to do was call you and ask you whether you liked the flowers.

*

You could only call in sick for so long before it became unbelievable and although you still very much felt like you were on the brink of a breakdown, you decided that it was time to go out and face the world.

You had faced your mother, so really, you had already put the worst behind you.

Still, the moment the cold sunny air touched your skin, the desire to crawl back into bed and hide from seeing anyone – and especially a certain someone – became more and more tempting with each step.

How could that be? It had been barely a few weeks that you had entertained the possibility of more with Boba Fett and your life and your career. Could that have been enough to irrevocably damage the good enough feeling you previously had strived for?

“You’re here, good,” Manuel, your supervisor, greeted you, “You okay, kid?”

The look of fatherly concern on his face almost made you cry but you managed a trembling smile and a nod and that was already a win for today.

“Tara managed your inbox for you, if you have any questions,” he explained, standing at the entrance of your cubicle while you unpacked your bag, “But better save them for later, we’ve got the big game meeting today.”

“The, uh, the game meeting?” you squeaked, “I didn’t think I would go today …”

“Of course, you will, your new question roster for the pre-game interviews will be introduced,” he announced with a grin, “That was your work and you should get the credit for it.”

The Big Meeting happened every few home games, or so, and was a giant cross-department meeting on the morning of a game. Not only did all eight coaches attend but so did the press department, the marketing division, the in-house gastronomical services and some people from higher up. Which meant that not only were you guaranteed to see Boba today, chances were high you would cross your father as well.

A bit much for the first day back maybe.

Sure, you may have hoped that – today being a game day – you would have the office to yourself because everybody was busy preparing for the chaos that would follow at night. But the universe had different plans for you. Maybe this was like taking off a band-aid – a day of anxiety would clear the rest of time from any uncertainty.

Also, it would be impossible to explain to Manuel that you couldn’t attend the meeting to be there for the introduction of your very own pre-game questions because you were scared of facing the alpha you were pining after and whom you had rejected because your parents had fucked with your head.

At least the universe seemed to take pity on you somewhat because as you entered the already packed room with your colleagues and your printed handouts, it seemed that your father would not join today’s meetings. You found a place to the side of the large conference table, close enough to have good view of the coaches, far away enough not to have to look at Boba the entire time.

Just as his name crossed your mind, he walked through the door. Your breath caught in your throat and you straightened up a little. But when his eyes landed on you there was … nothing. No cocky smirk, no wink, nothing to indicate that he was happy to see you. Exactly what you wanted. Exactly what you had asked of him when you told him you weren’t interested in him.

Why, then, did it feel like your heart was breaking into two?

“Morning everyone,” Boba rumbled and took a seat, “How are we doing?”

A jumble of goods and mornings echoed through the room and you sank further into your seat. Maudii sat across from you, shooting you an encouraging (if still concerned) look. You returned it with a smile of your own, feeling a bit more secure. You could do this. You were a grown woman. The fact that you could smell coffee even a few seats away from him did nothing to your insides at all.

“Nah, we gotta put Vizsla on the ice today,” Boba shook his head, replying to a comment you seemed to have missed, “That omega of his is visiting and we all know he plays better when she’s here.“

Everyone chuckled in agreement.

“Today is also the first run of our new pre-game questions,” Manuel cleared his throat, “Developed by one of our own to listen to more of the feedback we’re getting from fans.”

“One of our own ...?” another division leader asked.

“Ah yes,” your supervisor’s hand landed on your shoulder and you flinched, holding the papers a little tighter as he said your name, “She’s treated us to some good work and I am sure we will see more of her in the coming seasons.”

His praise was balm to your soul, especially after your long absence. You were proud of your work and you were sure that the new introductory questions might bring the fans more joy. You just wished you could convey this pride properly instead of focussing on the man at the head of the table.

“Can I have a copy of these new questions?” Boba asked, his gaze now solely fixed on you. His eyes were still the warm brown colour you couldn’t seem to forget and for the fraction of a second, you could convince yourself that they also held warmth for you.

“Uh yes,” you murmured, ducking between some colleagues to hand him one of the papers, “here.” His fingers brushed yours, grazing over your scent gland and now you could smell that hint of vanilla. Your skin burned and you snatched your head back, hoping he had not noticed. He didn’t turn to look at you. Why wouldn’t he look at you?

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” you mumbled, feeling the familiar burn behind your eyes. What was wrong with you? Your chest was aching in discomfort and you took a deep breath. Your nose filled with his scent and while it made your chest ache, it kept the tears at bay. You just needed to get through this meeting.

Boba didn’t say anything more, didn’t look at you anymore and you found yourself wishing that he would. It would still hurt but at least you could pretend at night that he had looked at you with love instead of cold indifference.

Once the meeting was over, you hurried to the bathroom. Locked in a stall, you sat on the lid and cried, sobbing into the crook of your arm. All you could do was ask yourself how you would survive the rest of your life like this?

*

He looked for you after the meeting but you must have snuck out with the mass of people from press.

His assistant coach noticed and nudged him with his elbow. “If you want me looking for that sweet omega, just say the word.”

“Fuck off, Brady.”

*

“Okay enough is enough.”

“Huh?”

You looked up from the romance movie re-run on the TV to where your friend had just posted herself right in your field of vision. The last time Maudii had looked this determined was when she tried to get the retro design fridge from the sidewalk up into your apartment.

“You need to get out,” she put her hands on her hips, “You are so focussed on being sad about losing him, you haven’t had a chance to be mad at your parents for betraying you like this.”

You opened your mouth to protest but she raised a single finger, stopping you in your tracks. ”No, I won’t hear it. I know your relationship with them is getting better, slowly, but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t lasting effects of what they have done with you. You’re so terrified of failure and rejection that you didn’t put yourself into positions where you can fail or be rejected. You’ve spent your entire life hearing from your parents that your dreams aren’t achievable and they won’t ever happen and I understand that you don’t want to put yourself in situations where you’re under their constant scrutiny. But are you aware that whenever Coach Fett is in a room, you just leave?”

Your eyes widened. You had never seen Maudii this angry before and you didn’t know whether you should be terrified or flattered that she was this angry with you.

“You’re terrified of him not loving you the way you do – and I know that you love him because that’s why you put yourself in this miserable position in the first place. But don’t you see that now he’s accepted that he doesn’t have a chance because he’s not like your parents where he would put himself over your wishes?”

Your first instinct was to deny everything. To send her out of your room, screaming that she just didn’t understand. You were trying to help Boba, you were trying to stick to your plan of doing as little damage to his life here as possible.

You were trying to … protect yourself.

The truth in her words made you hesitate and you found yourself mulling them over.

“I,” you started, your throat closing with emotion, “I really thought I was doing the right thing.”

Your best friend fell to the couch next to you. “Oh honey, I know.”

“I really fucked up,” you sniffled, wiping your nose on the sleeve of your sweater, “And I – I don’t know if I will make it worse by trying to … to talk to him and apologize or if I should just let him be and …” you swallowed back a sob, “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

“You most certainly should not let him be,” Maudii insisted, squeezing your hands in hers, “We are talking about the man who sent you flowers even when he thought you would never talk to him again.”

“Those were really nice flowers,” you nodded over a wave of fresh tears, “And I threw them all away!”

“Okay okay okay, deep breaths, honey. In and out. In …. And out, there we go,” you evened out your breathing, watching as your friend’s shoulders did the exaggerated movements to help you calm down, “Now, I want you to ask yourself: What would make you happy?”

Your answer came without hesitation, “Being with Boba. Making him … making him happy and smile and – and going out with him and getting that permanent position with the Minotaurs and then I could stay here and be with him.”

Maudii smiled at you in triumph. “See?” she asked you, “Now why would you leave him be when he is who you want? You deserve happiness and so does he. You two just need to get your act together.”

A rare spark of optimism settled in your chest. If you thought about how happy he had made you and how happy you seemed to have made him, maybe it wasn’t too much of a stretch to think that he would take you back. There was only one thing to consider now:

“What do I do now?”

“There is only one thing you can do.” Maudii pointed to the TV, “Major fucking gesture.”

*

“You sure you want to do this, kid?” Manuel asked you, still holding the clip board with today’s required players for the press, “Tom already volunteered.”

“No, it’s fine,” you smiled tightly at your boss, “I can do it. One last time this season, right?”

He laughed, handing the notes over to you and slapping your shoulder, “Right, let’s hope for the best, huh? I cannot believe we might actually win the Cup this season.”

The walk down had your heart racing and your hands trembling. You were excited and nervous and terrified and yet you knew this was exactly where you were supposed to go. Right down the stairs, through the locker rooms to the teasing calls of the players complimenting your shirt and straight to your alpha’s – into Boba’s office.

You didn’t knock because you knew if you just paused for one second, the fear would get to you. But now you were standing there, watching him read through some papers, too absorbed in them to notice that it was you standing in front of his desk and not one of your colleagues.

“Just leave the call sheet there,” he gestured to the corner of the desk without looking up, “Can’t promise anything today though, I need them in top shape.”

“Okay,” you said and his head whipped up so fast, you were feeling dizzy for him.

Boba looked … old. And not in the handsome way he teased you about when he asked you if you wanted to take his knot (a thought that made your thighs squeeze) but in the way that showed how tired he was. There were dark rings under his eyes, the shadow of his stubble looked more prominent and if you were anyone but you, you would be terrified of this alpha in front of you.

But all you felt was worry. Had you done this to him? How could you ever make it up to him?

“It’s you,” he said, his voice hoarse, “You are … here to give me the notes.”

“Yes,” you nodded, “I – There is a lot I want to say but this is the big game but I was hoping if, um, maybe we could talk after?”

He stood up, rounding the desk until he stood in front of you. “You want to talk?”

Maybe this was a bad idea after all. It was hours before the most important game of his career as a coach and you just walked in, announcing that you wanted to talk to him after effectively breaking him with him under the pretence that he was too old and just not the alpha for you. What kind of person, what kind of potential omega, did it make you now to stand in front of him and ask him for his time?

“You’re thinking too much again,” he murmured, his hand reaching out until it landed on your waist. It was the first time he had touched you in forever and warmth spread from there straight to your heart, “I – I will never lie to you, omega. I have spent the last few weeks debating how I could get you back and seeing you here makes me want to skip this game entirely so I can prove to you that I am the man for you. So, let’s talk about something else for now, okay?”

You already are the man for me.

Your heart filled with hope and you bit your lip, trying to keep yourself from smiling too widely. But the warm look in his eyes, his lingering touch on your waist, felt like coming home.

“Do you want to see my merch for today?” you asked him, playing with the hem of your shirt, “I – I got it specifically for today.”

“I was wondering when I’d see you in the team colours,” he joked, leaning back against the desk and making a twirling motion with his finger, “Spin around for me, little one, let me see.”

That was exactly what you had hoped and planned for. Turning around slowly, you revealed the little late-night amendment you had made to your wardrobe with the help of Maudii’s sewing machine. Because instead of the name of any of Minotaur player, the back of your shirt read Fett.

Boba was silent for a long time but you forced yourself to stay still, with your back turned to him. “Do, um, is it too much?”

His hand returned to your hip and moments later, the heat of his body pressed against your back. Melting into him was as easy as breathing and when both his hands landed on your hips, pulling you back against him, you were done for. All these weeks yearning for your alpha to touch you and now you had him right up behind you, his mouth so close to your neck, it made you feel all fuzzy.

You could feel him nosing at the back of your ear, his breath washing over your scent gland, sending shivers down your spine. “Do you know what it means to wear someone names on their back?”

“Yeah,” you smiled at him, for the first time smelling your own hint of vanilla mixed with his coffee scent, “I do.”

“Fucking hell, you’re gonna kill me,” he growled, his forehead resting on your shoulder, “Omega … The things I want to do to you.”

“I – I really want to stay, alpha, I do. But you have to win a game, Boba,” you reminded him, relishing in the feeling of him so close and already hating the fact that you had to be away from him.

“Believe me,” his hand squeezed your hip, his mouth brushing over your neck, “I will win this for you and then we will talk and then I will put my mating bite right here.”

Stars, the things this man did to you with just his words.

“Don’t – don’t you want to hear my apology first?” you asked, breathless as you tilted your head to the side, “I – I prepared a whole thing.”

His mouth opened against your throat in a kiss, his teeth scarping over your skin. “I will gladly hear anything you will ever want to say to me, ‘mega,” he growled, planting another kiss to the spot under your jaw, “But I hope you know I forgave you the moment you stepped through this door with my name on your back. Now go,” he palmed your ass and you giggled, “I have a game to win and an omega to claim.”

*

The Mandalorian Minotaurs were the champions for the first time in 13 years.

To say the city was ecstatic would be an understatement. To say you were ecstatic would be an understatement.

There were celebrations on the ice, there were celebrations on the stands, there were celebrations on every floor of the arena. Including the locker room where Boba had just finished giving his post-game interview.

The floor was sticky with spilled champagne und you got jostled by more than one rowdy hockey player on your way through the crowd. You didn’t mind though. Especially not when it brought you closer to Boba who was currently hugging Din Djarin’s husband, the biggest smile on his face that was only rivalled by the one on yours.

“Boba!” your voice barely carried through the noise, but he still turned his face to you, his smile growing wider.

Your father was somewhere in here, shaking hands. But you could only see Boba, the man whose name you had painstakingly sewed onto your shirt. Because of course you had. You were his. He was yours. It was the easiest thing in the world.

Arms were reaching out, hands slapping him on the shoulder, and Boba smiled and nodded at everyone. But he didn’t slow his way to you. And neither did you. Determination filled you. This was your chance to make things right. To say the things you had kept to yourself when you shouldn’t have. To make sure that this new start was exactly that: A new start.

The moment you two were face to face, tears gathered in your eyes. “Boba, I am so sorry. I did things I never should have and I got influenced by my parents when I really shouldn’t have been. My father –“

A finger on your mouth silenced you.

“Not a word, omega,” he murmured, roughened hands cupping your cheeks, warm from cheering and screaming, “I know. And I don’t care. He wouldn’t dare to fire me, not now. And even if he would, I just got a dozen new job opportunities on my hands.”

“You … know?”

“I suspected,” he confirmed, “And now let me kiss you, little one.”

And then he did.

He kissed you in front of everyone, the cheering growing louder. Your eyes slipped shut and you wrapped your arms around his neck, holding yourself close to him. His lips were warm and dry and familiar. Your entire body ached for him, wanting him this close forever.

“Do you know what it means to wear someone names on their back?” he asked, his hands on your hips. Even with the crowd shifting around you, he didn’t move, holding you steady against him. “It means you’re theirs,” his mouth brushed over your scent gland.

“Oh, really?” your played-up innocence sounded way more breathless than intended. But who could blame you when you had Boba Fett with rolled up sleeved pressing up against you?

“Nah, princess,” he shook his head, voice low and eyes dark, “You don’t get to talk yourself out of this one.”

His hand was on the side of your face, gently tilting your head to the side and you sighed. “So, what are you going to do to me, then?”

“I am going to make you mine, ‘mega.”

Your heart skipped a beat with the realization of what he was saying to you. For a moment you tensed, afraid what other people would think. Public mating bites weren’t exactly uncommon but they weren’t the run of the mill either. But with everybody busy celebrating the win of the season, they might not even look at you. Most importantly, you realized that whether you wanted him to mate you was not a question at all. And once that certainty settled in your mind, any other concerns simply drifted away.

“Right here?” you asked, glancing around. No one was paying attention to you. The cup was held somewhere in the far corner of the room, you could hear another pop of a bottle of champagne. You truly were just lost in the sea of people.

“Right here,” he confirmed, “I love you, omega, and I want to put my bite right here. Do you want that? Is that – Is that what you want?”

His thumb drew a firm circle on the sensitive patch of skin right under your jaw and you swore this was what paradise felt like. Your heart was lodged somewhere in your throat and all you could do was nod, your eyes zeroing in on the mirroring spot on his neck.

“It is,” you confirmed, “And I want – I want to mark you too, alpha.”

You could watch in real time as his eyes darkened. “Fuck yes,” he growled, pulling you even closer. His nose brushed over your throat and goose bumps raised on your skin. Cheers went up in the whole room, you could hear Joe leading a chant about some other player and then Boba’s teeth sank into your throat and that was it.

A gasp was all that left you but inside, your body was screaming as everything felt like it was pulled apart and rearranged. Just … better. Like everything suddenly fit into place and the world made sense all of a sudden.  Not knowing what to do with this sensation of pure euphoria, you lunged forward, your mouth opening against his neck and biting down.

Boba groaned against you, his tongue laving over the mark on your neck, his hand cupping the back of your head. “Go on, little one,” he breathed in your ear, his voice rough, “Mark me. Show everyone I belong to you.”

You wondered if it felt the same to him. If he could feel this bond between you two now or if his life would go on as normal. When you pulled away, your eyes glossy as you took in the unmistakable mark on his throat, you got your answer in the form of his hands on your hips.

“’m afraid you cannot leave my side for the rest of the day,” he murmured in your ear, “Or else my entire body will rebel against it.”

“That’s okay,” you smiled, kissing him again, “I plan to stay there for the rest our lives.”

And so, you spent your days ignoring your phone, staring out the window, counting the snowflakes that landed on the windowsill and all the people that walked on the sidewalk across the street. Snow had finally started and under different circumstances, you would have found it incredibly romantic. You would have put on a lovely winter playlist and re-organized your closet and bought yourself flowers and asked Boba for walks in the park.

Instead all you got were messages from your parents (your mother), grocery deliveries (your father) and – when you still didn’t answer them – flowers. And although they were absolutely stunning, you made it a point to throw them away on principle. Maudii made the joke that “considering that they know where you live, they make very little effort of actually showing up” and you couldn’t agree more.

It was like the frustration you had suppressed for so long came back tenfold, turned into a rage that almost scared you. You wanted to scream and stab your pillow and throw mugs against the wall and then make a nest and cry yourself to sleep just to repeat it all over again the next day. You wanted to call your parents and tell them to never call you again, you wanted to call Boba and beg for forgiveness and volunteer to work somewhere completely else so maybe your father wouldn’t fire him when he found out.

But who even said Boba would take you back?

You were currently googling job opportunities up in Hoth, when a knock on your door sounded.

“Not in the mood, Maudii,” you grumbled, unmoving from where you were snuggled up in bed.

“It is not Maudii,” a strange voice said and your head snapped up, your phone falling to your chest.

There, standing in the doorway, was your mother. Dressed in her cream-coloured two-piece she looked so out of place in the room with peeling paint and printed photos taped to the walls. Of all the people, you had never expected her to show up.

She did not wait for you to greet her. “It’s your birthday, honey, so I think we should go out.”

“I don’t feel like going out.”

“Now don’t make such a fuss,” she sat on the very edge of your bed, “I got reservations for the best spot in town, just the two of us. That has to take your mind off whatever alpha you’re love sick over, hm?”

“I – what?”

Images flashed in your mind of Boba in the park, him smiling at you, winking when you handed him notes, the feeling of him kissing you. How could she have known? Did she know? Fuck, did you look caught? Was your face betraying you?

“Of course, I was worried when you suddenly disappeared from Coruscant to … here,” she wrinkled her nose like she still didn’t understand, “But when I came here and saw you cosy up with that coach, I realized that my baby moved for love. And isn’t that so romantic? I am sad to see that it did not work out.”

“You … what?”

“I am sad to see it didn’t work out,” and she did look genuinely hurt on your behalf. That didn’t lighten the bombshell she had just dropped on you.

“You knew … you knew about Boba?”

“Well, I had my suspicions,” she shrugged, “But before I could ask you about it, it seemed things already simmered out. At least according to how grumpy that man is. What happened?”

Shock gave way to confusion gave way to disbelief gave way to anger.

How could she say these words and not realize what had happened? How could she not look at you, look at your father and look at herself and realize that the only thing that had happened was –

“You,” you stood up, wiggling your toes, “You happened, mom. I – I can’t believe you sit here and tell me about it as if you and dad didn’t destroy my life!”

“Now, I don’t know what –“

“You had your suspicions that I was with Boba and you let dad say that to me,” you screamed, “You let – you let him say that he would fire Boba and – and –“

You paced around the room, too many thoughts wanting to spill out all at once. It was an avalanche and you were ripped with it.

“If you really love me, you have to let me go. I – Do you realize how unhappy I have been these last few years?” your voice rose and she flinched but you could not bring yourself in the moment, “I have done everything I could to make you proud but I am – it’s like I can’t breathe when you are around me. Living here, working for the team, it finally felt like I was building something for myself and you still couldn’t let me have it. If you ever want me to truly find myself, you need to leave me be.”

Tears pricked the corner of your eyes and you took a deep breath. Each word was a weight off your chest and you were ready to feel tons lighters. “Talk to dad,” you implored her, “Get him to sell the team or at least to stop meddling in my career. Stop sending me expensive champagne and flowers and that bread that I told you I don’t like. Let me live my life, let me get a job on my own. Let me – let me be with people who I want to be with. Coach – Boba,” your heart broke at saying his name out loud, “He did pursue me and he was right to. I – I love him, at least I think I do, and I can’t keep myself from being happy just out of fear of disappointing you.”

Your mother was quiet. Uncharacteristically quiet. For a woman who was so eloquent, she watched you silently for a long time. She didn’t look angry, at least, but you also weren’t sure if you cared if she was. All you felt now was pure exhaustion and relief. You had said your piece and if she still could not see what you meant, then … then you needed to think about how to get out of Mandalore for good.

“Vanilla.”

“What?”

“I thought you had a new room spray or something to cover that mildew smell,” she gestured to a corner on the ceiling where there had been water damage a few months ago, “But it’s you. You are getting your scent.”

Your heart stopped for just a moment as your world turned upside down before it started beating twice the speed.  Your scent (or lack thereof) was never something you tried to linger on but now that you focussed on it, there was the faint scent of vanilla in the air. Could that really be you? After years of not having one, you had kind of made peace with the fact that you would not be like other omegas in that regard.

But if even your mother noticed and you detected the same scent, there had to be something to it, right?

“I never wanted you to be unhappy,” your mother said softly, her hand stroking over your cheek in what reminded you when you had been five years old and scared of the monsters under your bed, “I foolishly thought that you were just like us. That life in Coruscant was meant for you and you just needed time to realize it. But maybe … maybe your happiness doesn’t depend on a place but a person.”

“My happiness is dependent on letting me be free,” you mumbled, cheeks blazing as you finally admitted, “I … I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“You could never disappoint me, my darling,” she pulled you in a for a hug, her voice cracking, “I am sorry that I did not see it sooner. That I was too blind to recognize you for the wonderful young woman you have become and trying to force you into something you didn’t want. But if you are willing, I – I would love to try again. To show you that we do love you and we want to be in your life, even if we have to learn how we can best do that.”

“I – I would like that, too,” you murmured, returning the hug, clinging to her shoulders.

“Okay, so how about this?” your mother gently let you go, “I will have a talk with your father about all this. And when …” – she winced – “If you are ready to maybe have a chat, you send me a message, okay?”

Damn it, why were there tears in your eyes again?

“Okay,” you nodded, wiping your nose on your forearm, “That sounds good. Thank you, mom.”

“No thank you, for giving us another chance,” she smiled, already halfway through the door before she frowned, “Now that I think about it, we didn’t send you any flowers.”

Managing a trembling smile, you watched her leave the apartment, taking a deep breath once the door fell close behind her.

That had been … different from what you had expected. Better, sure, but also somehow worse because the first and only thought that crossed your mind was how you should have had this conversation much sooner. Much, much sooner.

Like … years ago, maybe.

Because it definitely felt like years’ worth of tension were finally lifted from your chest, allowing you to breathe a little easier. You let yourself fall down to your bed, right into the pillows and blankets that you should probably wash at some point. Later. Now was the time to relish in the newfound freedom for just a moment. It calmed you down to know that it was up to you to initiate contact with your parents now. That there would be no more messages, no more groceries, no more flowers …

You sat up so fast, you were still feeling dizzy by the time you hurried through the kitchen, skidding across the tiles as you ripped open the lid to the trash can. The flowers your parents had sent today – they hadn’t sent them. Someone else had. And you needed to know who.

You didn’t care that you were discarding that old cereal box or the empty milk carton as you lifted them up, the beautiful petals looking worse for wear from when you had dropped the bouquet without another look at them. Now, though, you were looking through each bloom, frantically reaching for the cream coloured card that was nestled on top.

Happy birthday, princess. May you find the courage to achieve your dreams.

When Maudii came back from the grocery store, she didn’t ask why you were sitting next to the trash can, bawling your eyes out and clutching a card that barely smelled like coffee.

*

All he wanted to do was call you and ask you whether you liked the flowers.

*

You could only call in sick for so long before it became unbelievable and although you still very much felt like you were on the brink of a breakdown, you decided that it was time to go out and face the world.

You had faced your mother, so really, you had already put the worst behind you.

Still, the moment the cold sunny air touched your skin, the desire to crawl back into bed and hide from seeing anyone – and especially a certain someone – became more and more tempting with each step.

How could that be? It had been barely a few weeks that you had entertained the possibility of more with Boba Fett and your life and your career. Could that have been enough to irrevocably damage the good enough feeling you previously had strived for?

“You’re here, good,” Manuel, your supervisor, greeted you, “You okay, kid?”

The look of fatherly concern on his face almost made you cry but you managed a trembling smile and a nod and that was already a win for today.

“Tara managed your inbox for you, if you have any questions,” he explained, standing at the entrance of your cubicle while you unpacked your bag, “But better save them for later, we’ve got the big game meeting today.”

“The, uh, the game meeting?” you squeaked, “I didn’t think I would go today …”

“Of course, you will, your new question roster for the pre-game interviews will be introduced,” he announced with a grin, “That was your work and you should get the credit for it.”

The Big Meeting happened every few home games, or so, and was a giant cross-department meeting on the morning of a game. Not only did all eight coaches attend but so did the press department, the marketing division, the in-house gastronomical services and some people from higher up. Which meant that not only were you guaranteed to see Boba today, chances were high you would cross your father as well.

A bit much for the first day back maybe.

Sure, you may have hoped that – today being a game day – you would have the office to yourself because everybody was busy preparing for the chaos that would follow at night. But the universe had different plans for you. Maybe this was like taking off a band-aid – a day of anxiety would clear the rest of time from any uncertainty.

Also, it would be impossible to explain to Manuel that you couldn’t attend the meeting to be there for the introduction of your very own pre-game questions because you were scared of facing the alpha you were pining after and whom you had rejected because your parents had fucked with your head.

At least the universe seemed to take pity on you somewhat because as you entered the already packed room with your colleagues and your printed handouts, it seemed that your father would not join today’s meetings. You found a place to the side of the large conference table, close enough to have good view of the coaches, far away enough not to have to look at Boba the entire time.

Just as his name crossed your mind, he walked through the door. Your breath caught in your throat and you straightened up a little. But when his eyes landed on you there was … nothing. No cocky smirk, no wink, nothing to indicate that he was happy to see you. Exactly what you wanted. Exactly what you had asked of him when you told him you weren’t interested in him.

Why, then, did it feel like your heart was breaking into two?

“Morning everyone,” Boba rumbled and took a seat, “How are we doing?”

A jumble of goods and mornings echoed through the room and you sank further into your seat. Maudii sat across from you, shooting you an encouraging (if still concerned) look. You returned it with a smile of your own, feeling a bit more secure. You could do this. You were a grown woman. The fact that you could smell coffee even a few seats away from him did nothing to your insides at all.

“Nah, we gotta put Vizsla on the ice today,” Boba shook his head, replying to a comment you seemed to have missed, “That omega of his is visiting and we all know he plays better when she’s here.“

Everyone chuckled in agreement.

“Today is also the first run of our new pre-game questions,” Manuel cleared his throat, “Developed by one of our own to listen to more of the feedback we’re getting from fans.”

“One of our own ...?” another division leader asked.

“Ah yes,” your supervisor’s hand landed on your shoulder and you flinched, holding the papers a little tighter as he said your name, “She’s treated us to some good work and I am sure we will see more of her in the coming seasons.”

His praise was balm to your soul, especially after your long absence. You were proud of your work and you were sure that the new introductory questions might bring the fans more joy. You just wished you could convey this pride properly instead of focussing on the man at the head of the table.

“Can I have a copy of these new questions?” Boba asked, his gaze now solely fixed on you. His eyes were still the warm brown colour you couldn’t seem to forget and for the fraction of a second, you could convince yourself that they also held warmth for you.

“Uh yes,” you murmured, ducking between some colleagues to hand him one of the papers, “here.” His fingers brushed yours, grazing over your scent gland and now you could smell that hint of vanilla. Your skin burned and you snatched your head back, hoping he had not noticed. He didn’t turn to look at you. Why wouldn’t he look at you?

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” you mumbled, feeling the familiar burn behind your eyes. What was wrong with you? Your chest was aching in discomfort and you took a deep breath. Your nose filled with his scent and while it made your chest ache, it kept the tears at bay. You just needed to get through this meeting.

Boba didn’t say anything more, didn’t look at you anymore and you found yourself wishing that he would. It would still hurt but at least you could pretend at night that he had looked at you with love instead of cold indifference.

Once the meeting was over, you hurried to the bathroom. Locked in a stall, you sat on the lid and cried, sobbing into the crook of your arm. All you could do was ask yourself how you would survive the rest of your life like this?

*

He looked for you after the meeting but you must have snuck out with the mass of people from press.

His assistant coach noticed and nudged him with his elbow. “If you want me looking for that sweet omega, just say the word.”

“Fuck off, Brady.”

*

“Okay enough is enough.”

“Huh?”

You looked up from the romance movie re-run on the TV to where your friend had just posted herself right in your field of vision. The last time Maudii had looked this determined was when she tried to get the retro design fridge from the sidewalk up into your apartment.

“You need to get out,” she put her hands on her hips, “You are so focussed on being sad about losing him, you haven’t had a chance to be mad at your parents for betraying you like this.”

You opened your mouth to protest but she raised a single finger, stopping you in your tracks. ”No, I won’t hear it. I know your relationship with them is getting better, slowly, but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t lasting effects of what they have done with you. You’re so terrified of failure and rejection that you didn’t put yourself into positions where you can fail or be rejected. You’ve spent your entire life hearing from your parents that your dreams aren’t achievable and they won’t ever happen and I understand that you don’t want to put yourself in situations where you’re under their constant scrutiny. But are you aware that whenever Coach Fett is in a room, you just leave?”

Your eyes widened. You had never seen Maudii this angry before and you didn’t know whether you should be terrified or flattered that she was this angry with you.

“You’re terrified of him not loving you the way you do – and I know that you love him because that’s why you put yourself in this miserable position in the first place. But don’t you see that now he’s accepted that he doesn’t have a chance because he’s not like your parents where he would put himself over your wishes?”

Your first instinct was to deny everything. To send her out of your room, screaming that she just didn’t understand. You were trying to help Boba, you were trying to stick to your plan of doing as little damage to his life here as possible.

You were trying to … protect yourself.

The truth in her words made you hesitate and you found yourself mulling them over.

“I,” you started, your throat closing with emotion, “I really thought I was doing the right thing.”

Your best friend fell to the couch next to you. “Oh honey, I know.”

“I really fucked up,” you sniffled, wiping your nose on the sleeve of your sweater, “And I – I don’t know if I will make it worse by trying to … to talk to him and apologize or if I should just let him be and …” you swallowed back a sob, “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

“You most certainly should not let him be,” Maudii insisted, squeezing your hands in hers, “We are talking about the man who sent you flowers even when he thought you would never talk to him again.”

“Those were really nice flowers,” you nodded over a wave of fresh tears, “And I threw them all away!”

“Okay okay okay, deep breaths, honey. In and out. In …. And out, there we go,” you evened out your breathing, watching as your friend’s shoulders did the exaggerated movements to help you calm down, “Now, I want you to ask yourself: What would make you happy?”

Your answer came without hesitation, “Being with Boba. Making him … making him happy and smile and – and going out with him and getting that permanent position with the Minotaurs and then I could stay here and be with him.”

Maudii smiled at you in triumph. “See?” she asked you, “Now why would you leave him be when he is who you want? You deserve happiness and so does he. You two just need to get your act together.”

A rare spark of optimism settled in your chest. If you thought about how happy he had made you and how happy you seemed to have made him, maybe it wasn’t too much of a stretch to think that he would take you back. There was only one thing to consider now:

“What do I do now?”

“There is only one thing you can do.” Maudii pointed to the TV, “Major fucking gesture.”

*

“You sure you want to do this, kid?” Manuel asked you, still holding the clip board with today’s required players for the press, “Tom already volunteered.”

“No, it’s fine,” you smiled tightly at your boss, “I can do it. One last time this season, right?”

He laughed, handing the notes over to you and slapping your shoulder, “Right, let’s hope for the best, huh? I cannot believe we might actually win the Cup this season.”

The walk down had your heart racing and your hands trembling. You were excited and nervous and terrified and yet you knew this was exactly where you were supposed to go. Right down the stairs, through the locker rooms to the teasing calls of the players complimenting your shirt and straight to your alpha’s – into Boba’s office.

You didn’t knock because you knew if you just paused for one second, the fear would get to you. But now you were standing there, watching him read through some papers, too absorbed in them to notice that it was you standing in front of his desk and not one of your colleagues.

“Just leave the call sheet there,” he gestured to the corner of the desk without looking up, “Can’t promise anything today though, I need them in top shape.”

“Okay,” you said and his head whipped up so fast, you were feeling dizzy for him.

Boba looked … old. And not in the handsome way he teased you about when he asked you if you wanted to take his knot (a thought that made your thighs squeeze) but in the way that showed how tired he was. There were dark rings under his eyes, the shadow of his stubble looked more prominent and if you were anyone but you, you would be terrified of this alpha in front of you.

But all you felt was worry. Had you done this to him? How could you ever make it up to him?

“It’s you,” he said, his voice hoarse, “You are … here to give me the notes.”

“Yes,” you nodded, “I – There is a lot I want to say but this is the big game but I was hoping if, um, maybe we could talk after?”

He stood up, rounding the desk until he stood in front of you. “You want to talk?”

Maybe this was a bad idea after all. It was hours before the most important game of his career as a coach and you just walked in, announcing that you wanted to talk to him after effectively breaking him with him under the pretence that he was too old and just not the alpha for you. What kind of person, what kind of potential omega, did it make you now to stand in front of him and ask him for his time?

“You’re thinking too much again,” he murmured, his hand reaching out until it landed on your waist. It was the first time he had touched you in forever and warmth spread from there straight to your heart, “I – I will never lie to you, omega. I have spent the last few weeks debating how I could get you back and seeing you here makes me want to skip this game entirely so I can prove to you that I am the man for you. So, let’s talk about something else for now, okay?”

You already are the man for me.

Your heart filled with hope and you bit your lip, trying to keep yourself from smiling too widely. But the warm look in his eyes, his lingering touch on your waist, felt like coming home.

“Do you want to see my merch for today?” you asked him, playing with the hem of your shirt, “I – I got it specifically for today.”

“I was wondering when I’d see you in the team colours,” he joked, leaning back against the desk and making a twirling motion with his finger, “Spin around for me, little one, let me see.”

That was exactly what you had hoped and planned for. Turning around slowly, you revealed the little late-night amendment you had made to your wardrobe with the help of Maudii’s sewing machine. Because instead of the name of any of Minotaur player, the back of your shirt read Fett.

Boba was silent for a long time but you forced yourself to stay still, with your back turned to him. “Do, um, is it too much?”

His hand returned to your hip and moments later, the heat of his body pressed against your back. Melting into him was as easy as breathing and when both his hands landed on your hips, pulling you back against him, you were done for. All these weeks yearning for your alpha to touch you and now you had him right up behind you, his mouth so close to your neck, it made you feel all fuzzy.

You could feel him nosing at the back of your ear, his breath washing over your scent gland, sending shivers down your spine. “Do you know what it means to wear someone names on their back?”

“Yeah,” you smiled at him, for the first time smelling your own hint of vanilla mixed with his coffee scent, “I do.”

“Fucking hell, you’re gonna kill me,” he growled, his forehead resting on your shoulder, “Omega … The things I want to do to you.”

“I – I really want to stay, alpha, I do. But you have to win a game, Boba,” you reminded him, relishing in the feeling of him so close and already hating the fact that you had to be away from him.

“Believe me,” his hand squeezed your hip, his mouth brushing over your neck, “I will win this for you and then we will talk and then I will put my mating bite right here.”

Stars, the things this man did to you with just his words.

“Don’t – don’t you want to hear my apology first?” you asked, breathless as you tilted your head to the side, “I – I prepared a whole thing.”

His mouth opened against your throat in a kiss, his teeth scarping over your skin. “I will gladly hear anything you will ever want to say to me, ‘mega,” he growled, planting another kiss to the spot under your jaw, “But I hope you know I forgave you the moment you stepped through this door with my name on your back. Now go,” he palmed your ass and you giggled, “I have a game to win and an omega to claim.”

*

The Mandalorian Minotaurs were the champions for the first time in 13 years.

To say the city was ecstatic would be an understatement. To say you were ecstatic would be an understatement.

There were celebrations on the ice, there were celebrations on the stands, there were celebrations on every floor of the arena. Including the locker room where Boba had just finished giving his post-game interview.

The floor was sticky with spilled champagne und you got jostled by more than one rowdy hockey player on your way through the crowd. You didn’t mind though. Especially not when it brought you closer to Boba who was currently hugging Din Djarin’s husband, the biggest smile on his face that was only rivalled by the one on yours.

“Boba!” your voice barely carried through the noise, but he still turned his face to you, his smile growing wider.

Your father was somewhere in here, shaking hands. But you could only see Boba, the man whose name you had painstakingly sewed onto your shirt. Because of course you had. You were his. He was yours. It was the easiest thing in the world.

Arms were reaching out, hands slapping him on the shoulder, and Boba smiled and nodded at everyone. But he didn’t slow his way to you. And neither did you. Determination filled you. This was your chance to make things right. To say the things you had kept to yourself when you shouldn’t have. To make sure that this new start was exactly that: A new start.

The moment you two were face to face, tears gathered in your eyes. “Boba, I am so sorry. I did things I never should have and I got influenced by my parents when I really shouldn’t have been. My father –“

A finger on your mouth silenced you.

“Not a word, omega,” he murmured, roughened hands cupping your cheeks, warm from cheering and screaming, “I know. And I don’t care. He wouldn’t dare to fire me, not now. And even if he would, I just got a dozen new job opportunities on my hands.”

“You … know?”

“I suspected,” he confirmed, “And now let me kiss you, little one.”

And then he did.

He kissed you in front of everyone, the cheering growing louder. Your eyes slipped shut and you wrapped your arms around his neck, holding yourself close to him. His lips were warm and dry and familiar. Your entire body ached for him, wanting him this close forever.

“Do you know what it means to wear someone names on their back?” he asked, his hands on your hips. Even with the crowd shifting around you, he didn’t move, holding you steady against him. “It means you’re theirs,” his mouth brushed over your scent gland.

“Oh, really?” your played-up innocence sounded way more breathless than intended. But who could blame you when you had Boba Fett with rolled up sleeved pressing up against you?

“Nah, princess,” he shook his head, voice low and eyes dark, “You don’t get to talk yourself out of this one.”

His hand was on the side of your face, gently tilting your head to the side and you sighed. “So, what are you going to do to me, then?”

“I am going to make you mine, ‘mega.”

Your heart skipped a beat with the realization of what he was saying to you. For a moment you tensed, afraid what other people would think. Public mating bites weren’t exactly uncommon but they weren’t the run of the mill either. But with everybody busy celebrating the win of the season, they might not even look at you. Most importantly, you realized that whether you wanted him to mate you was not a question at all. And once that certainty settled in your mind, any other concerns simply drifted away.

“Right here?” you asked, glancing around. No one was paying attention to you. The cup was held somewhere in the far corner of the room, you could hear another pop of a bottle of champagne. You truly were just lost in the sea of people.

“Right here,” he confirmed, “I love you, omega, and I want to put my bite right here. Do you want that? Is that – Is that what you want?”

His thumb drew a firm circle on the sensitive patch of skin right under your jaw and you swore this was what paradise felt like. Your heart was lodged somewhere in your throat and all you could do was nod, your eyes zeroing in on the mirroring spot on his neck.

“It is,” you confirmed, “And I want – I want to mark you too, alpha.”

You could watch in real time as his eyes darkened. “Fuck yes,” he growled, pulling you even closer. His nose brushed over your throat and goose bumps raised on your skin. Cheers went up in the whole room, you could hear Joe leading a chant about some other player and then Boba’s teeth sank into your throat and that was it.

A gasp was all that left you but inside, your body was screaming as everything felt like it was pulled apart and rearranged. Just … better. Like everything suddenly fit into place and the world made sense all of a sudden.  Not knowing what to do with this sensation of pure euphoria, you lunged forward, your mouth opening against his neck and biting down.

Boba groaned against you, his tongue laving over the mark on your neck, his hand cupping the back of your head. “Go on, little one,” he breathed in your ear, his voice rough, “Mark me. Show everyone I belong to you.”

You wondered if it felt the same to him. If he could feel this bond between you two now or if his life would go on as normal. When you pulled away, your eyes glossy as you took in the unmistakable mark on his throat, you got your answer in the form of his hands on your hips.

“’m afraid you cannot leave my side for the rest of the day,” he murmured in your ear, “Or else my entire body will rebel against it.”

“That’s okay,” you smiled, kissing him again, “I plan to stay there for the rest our lives.”

You’ve unpacked the entire duffel, taken stock of everything that Johnny grabbed from your apartment, turned the bag inside out, and you still can’t find it.

You swore, you swore, you had it with you when you left. You thought maybe you shoved it in one of the pockets when you got on the plane, but you honestly can’t remember.

You’ve been traveling for days, and everything is a bit fuzzy.

But you know you had it.

Which means…

You eye the bedroom door. You haven’t surfaced from this room, the one Johnny says is yours, all day. You’re somewhere between hiding and avoiding, unsure which one you’re leaning more towards.

It’s not like it’s a hardship. This is a nice place. The room you’re in is huge, and it has its own bathroom. Cream colored walls and gauzy floor to ceiling curtains, it’s stocked with linens, towels, toiletries, anything you would need. The king sized bed is lined with the softest pillows imaginable, and there’s every kind of blanket, from weighted to wool. It feels… homey.

The entire house does. It’s not rundown with peeling wallpaper and puke green bathroom tile like the first place. It’s not small, or decrepit, or heavily shuttered. It’s modern, bright, and warm. It feels less like a safe house, and more like a home.

“Do ye like it?” Johnny asked as he finished giving you the tour, and you had stared at him in confusion.

“I thought safe houses were supposed to be… sketchy.”

“Aye, they are. But this one is special. Better for a long term stay.”

He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t push, eager to create some distance, get away, try to clear the war zone that is now your mind. Two sides pushing and pulling, rationality and biology, instinct and anger, clashing again and again, trying to drown the other out. The omega inside of you is screaming, crying, desperate to claw her way out and drag you out the door and down the hall, put you right into their laps.

These men are dangerous, your relation to them might get you killed, yet your instinct only knows them as something holy, something safe. Protectors. Alphas. Mates.

It’s torture, being here.

And worse… you think it’s making you sicker.

Your suppressants and blockers are working overtime, overloading your system, trying to compensate for the distance between you and your mates, the one that has been so drastically shortened. There’s a new hollow feeling in your chest, one that aches, it’s emptiness like a wound that won’t heal. A scrape that won’t scab.

A craving that can never be satisfied.

It’s a complication you were hoping to google, with your phone.

That you can’t find.

You take a deep breath. You know you have to face them, see them, you know you can’t hide up here forever. You have to live, or at least try to, during this entire… situation.

And in order to do that-

you need your phone.

Simon is in the living room when you come down the stairs. He’s alone on the couch, looking down at his phone, and you try not to react to the way he’s sitting, thighs spread wide, sweatpants and sweatshirt clinging to his bulk. He looks relaxed, so at odds with the intensity you’re used to, the laser focus that never lets up.

It scrambles your brain for a moment. Basal need wins out and the room turns a little hazy, a little blurred on the edges, too colorful and loud, and you swallow against a rising tide of conflict, trying to keep your head above water, trying to maintain some sense.

You hear your name. He’s standing a pace away from you. So close his scent invades your senses, and you unconsciously breathe it in, trying to soak up the sea salt and leather just like a greedy omega would. “What is it?”

Stop.

What are you doing?

“Um, I…” You start breathing with your mouth to block him out. “I’m looking for my phone?” It’s not supposed to be a question. It’s supposed to be a demand, but it slips weakly from your tongue. You focus on a piece of lint in the middle of his chest, purposefully avoiding his eyes.

“I have it…” he says slowly, stepping back. He motions to the couch. “Sit.”

“No, I’m fine. I’m just…”

“Sit.” It’s not a bark, not quite. Just teetering on the edge, just enough for you to clench your jaw as you do what he says.

You practically sink into the couch. It’s oversized, overstuffed, too soft. It’s the kind of couch you could spend all day in when it’s rainy, reading or watching a movie. The entire living room is the same. There’s a large tv over the fireplace, and a smaller couch perpendicular to the one you’re on the now. It’s a big room, but somehow still cozy. It has that same homey, lived in feeling as the rest of the house.

“I have your phone.” He says, sitting a few cushions away from you, turned entirely in your direction. You feel warm under his attention, like you’re basking in the sun. It’s unbearable.

“Okay.” You wait, expecting more. Expecting him to say, I’ll go get it, or be right back.

He says none of those things.

“You’ll get it back once this is over and dealt with.” Your mouth drops open.

“What? No. I need my phone.” This feels very nonnegotiable to you. Very. But he only shakes his head.

“Your phone is not secure. It doesn’t take much for someone else to have complete access to it, see through the camera, know where you are. It’s a danger to you, to us, right now.” Your pulse pounds between your ears. “You can have it back as soon as we’ve sorted this mess and eliminated the threat.”

“B-but… my… I have to call work. And my friends, I have to tell my friends-”

“I already called the diner, and you can text, call, whatever you need to do from our phones.” You think of Sarah and Alex, the only two people you really have. You went no contact with your family years ago, and outside of a few casual friends from the diner, Sarah and Alex made up your entire social circle. Were they wondering where you were? Were they worried?

“No. No, you can’t just… you can’t just take my phone.” His jaw flexes, and some of that softness you noticed ebbs away.

“I can. I am. It’s for your safety.”

You hate him.

He abandoned you. He rejected you. He humiliated you.

You shoot to your feet. His scent spikes, worn leather turning sun kissed, soothing. You grit your teeth.

“I want it back.” You hiss, a wildfire of anger flooding you like molten lava.

“No.” He stands to face you. Relaxed. Open palmed. At ease while you’re practically vibrating with rage, the feeling so overwhelming that you can feel it in the tips of your fingers.

“Yes.”

“‘m not doin’ this with you.” You expect him to bark. To give you an order, but instead, he does something entirely different.

He moves.

It happens so fast, too fast for your brain to understand, too fast for the rational side of you to step out of the way.

Instead, his palm lands on the nape of your neck and it’s big, warm, secure.

Safe. Your instincts scream. Mate.

You lock up. Once you’re finally caught up, processed, you get caught between trying to take a step back and turning stiff as a board, frozen in his grip.

“Easy,” he rumbles, the tone of his voice turning into something a shade close to gentle, something you didn’t know existed. And just like that, just one simple word, blunts the sharp edge of your anger.

But it doesn’t stop there.

He makes a sound low in his chest, a warm, coaxing thrum that your omega knows before you do.

Subharmonics.

It almost brings you to your knees.

“Enough now,” he murmurs, guiding you in closer, “We’re not your enemy, dove.”

Alpha.

You’re slipping away, losing the fight to your hindbrain, to who you are underneath it all.

He moves backwards, taking you with him, one step at a time, guiding you, urging you to move with him without forcing it.

You put your hands up, hold them out like you mean to push him away.

No, that is what you mean.

You mean to push him away, tell him not to touch you, not to talk to you, not to… alpha you… but his body is warm under your palms and his subharmonic rumble is like a siren’s song, sinking into your bones and turning you to mush.

“Don’t.” You whisper. It’s more for yourself than it is for him.

Don’t do this, don’t be weak, don’t give in.

Your protest doesn’t stop him, doesn’t prevent him from pulling you inward, closer, close enough you’re overwhelmed by him, the blockers and suppressants doing nothing to drown him out, sea salt and tobacco, sun warmed leather invading your senses. Even holding your breath, he’s there,

“No.” You croak, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t acknowledge your protest. His arms are rebar as they come around you, force you into his chest.

“Settle,” the pressure increases, around your body, in your head, the careful construction of your resistance, your anger, starting to disintegrate right before your very eyes.

It’s not fair.

“You don’t need to fight us,” he continues, “we’re jus’ trying to protect you.”

“I don’t want this.” You choke out. “I don’t want to be here, I want to go home.” Home, home, home. You’re stuck on it, stuck on trying to get back to a shit hole apartment in a shit hole town.

“That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is keeping you safe.” Nothing about this is safe. Being trapped in a house with mates who rejected you isn’t safe, it’s hell.

Simon’s stopped trying to soothe you now, pheromones and subharmonics dialed down to a low hum, something still present, but not as strong.

The floorboards creak at your back and you stiffen in response, turning to find Johnny watching you and Simon from the edge of the room.

He doesn’t look upset, or jealous, or anything you’d expect. Only mildly concerned, brows barely creased in the middle.

“Everythin’ alright?” You shake your head, but Simon nods.

“She was gettin’ a bit worked up.” You stare at him, incredulous. Worked up? Like you’re some hysterical omega who can’t control herself.

“Ah. We cannae have that.” Simon’s grip slackens, and you take the opportunity to step away, trying to separate yourself.

“I wanted, I want my phone.” Johnny nods. It’s sympathetic, and understanding, and you hate it. Like you hate him. Like you hate them both.

“Sorry dove. It’s not s-”

“Safe.” You finish for him bitterly. “Yeah I heard.” You pull all your resolve together and turn away, aimed at the stairs, seeking your escape.

Neither of them stop you. There are no protests, not as you climb back up to the second floor and run down the hallway, and not as you slam your door like a petulant child.

It’s only once you’re curled up under a heap of blankets that you finally let go, and bury your face in a pillow with a sob.

It’s late when the knock comes.

“Dove?” It’s Johnny, his voice soft and smooth on the other side of your door, patiently waiting. It wakes you up, something inside you alerting to his presence, even in your sleep.

You don’t answer. He sighs.

“Ye didnae come down for dinner, an’ we dinnae want ye to be hungry.” You drag the covers up over your head, sitting in silence until he breaks it. “I brought ye some food, I’ll just leave it outside yer door. Try to eat somethin’, please.” There’s a pinch in your heart, a chord struck. Alphas are hardwired to care for their omegas. Ensuring you’re eating is not out of the ordinary, and you wonder if they hadn’t rejected you, hadn’t left you, it would be different, you would enjoy Johnny bringing you food.

But you can’t. Even though your hindbrain screams and tries to drag you towards the door to him, you dig in your heels and resist with all you have.

He knocks again.

You meet it with silence.

You smiled to yourself while typing. "Mine's worse now that I'm pregnant. Yesterday he tried to meal prep for me."

"Oh?" Santos asked from the next computer. "How'd that go?"

"He labeled every container by protein count."

"Sounds intense," Santos muttered.

"He is intense," you agreed easily. "But he means well."

Nobody thought much about it then. Because everybody in the ER about your husband.

Well, sort of. They knew he existed. They knew he packed your lunches sometimes. That he texted reminders for vitamins. That he apparently folded laundry with terrifying precision. That he hated when you worked overtime but still stayed awake until you got home anyway.

They knew he rubbed your swollen feet after shifts. They knew he was "ridiculously overprotective." They knew he called you "doctor" sarcastically whenever you forgot to take care of yourself.

They knew you adored him, but they didn't know his name.

And somehow, over months of working together, nobody ever asked. Or maybe they had once and gotten distracted by a trauma alert halfway through.

That was the thing about the ER. Conversations happened infragments.

So your husbands became this faceless mythical man everyone pieced together from tiny details.

And because you were basically sunshine in human form (You were the warmest, most patient, endlessly kind person), everyone imagined your husband accordingly.

Probably some sweet elementary school teacher. Or a soft-spoken accountant. Or maybe a stay-at-home husband who baked sourdough and wore cardigans.

Definitely not Brendon Park. Absolutely not him.

The first time most of the ER really met Brendon was during a motorcycle trauma.

The ortho pager had gone off twenty minutes earlier and everyone was already stressed. The patient had multiple fractures, a discolated shoulder, and enough road rash to make the interns pale.

Then he walked in. Tall, broad-shouldered. No greeting, no wasted movement, just immediate assessment,

"X-rays," his voice cut through the chaos.

Someone handed them over. Brendon studied them for maybe three seconds.

"We'll prep OR two. I want vascular on standby."

Ogilvie beside him started talking. "So we were thinking—"

"No," Brendon interrupted without even looking at him. "You were guessing."

Silence. Ogilvie visibly shrank.

"Comminuted tib-fib fracture with displacement. If you'd waited another hour, he'd lose perfusion."

The room went still. Not because he was wrong, but because he was terrifying.

Then his eyes shifted toward you. And the entire atmosphere changed so subtly that nobody noticed it except maybe Santos.

Your shoulders relaxed just slightly. Brendon's expression remained unreadable, but his gaze lingered on you for half a second too long.

"You've been here since morning," he said flatly.

"Hello to you too."

"Did you eat?"

The room paused.

You looked midly defensive. "Yes."

"You're lying."

"I had crackers."

"That's not food."

Ogilvie who'd just been verbally executed stared between you both in confusion. The Shark did not do conversation, yet here he was arguing with you about crackers.

You rolled your eyes. "I'm busy."

"You're pregnant."

"And?"

"And you require actual nutrition."

Santos coughed to hide a laugh. Brendon ignored everybody. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and placed a protein bar beside your keyboard without saying anything else.

Then he turned and walked away. No goodbye or no explaination. He just left.

The ER collectively stared at the protein bar. Then at you. Then back at the protein bar.

Santos finally broke the silence. "...What the hell was that?"

You unwrapped the bar casually. "He gets grumpy when I forget to eat."

"You know Park the Shark?" Santos asked slowly.

You looked confused. "Brendon?"

The entire station froze at the first-name basis.

"What do you mean, Brendon?" Santos asked.

"That's his name."

"No one calls him Brendon."

"Oh," you took a bite of the protein bar. "I do."

After that, people started noticing things. Little things.

Like how Brendon only ever lingered in the ER when you were there. How he answered everyone else with clipped professionalism but always gave you full sentences.

How you somehow never seemed intimidated by him. Everyone else treated Brendon like a shark circling bloody water, you treated him like an annoyed housecat.

One afternoon, during a particularly miserable shift, you were sitting at the station rubbing your lower back.

"God," you muttered. "My husband bought six different pregnancy pillows."

Dana laughed. "Six?"

"He said the first five didn't have the right feeling."

"What does that even mean?"

"I don't even want to know."

Then Santos frowned. "Wait. Wasn't Park carrying a giant package into the parking lot yesterday?"

You didn't look up from your charting. "Probably."

"And didn't he get irritated at at someone who bumped into him because it caused him to drop it all?"

"Oh, that was ours."

Silence.

You blinked up. "What?"

Santos stared at you carefully. "You and Park live in the same building?"

"Oh." You smiled absentmindedly. "Yeah."

Another silence. Santos looked deeply concerned now.

"You're... close with him?"

You laughed. "I mean, I would hope so."

Nobody knew what to say to that. Because there was no way. No way.

You were married, pregnant even. Completely in love with your husband, whoever he was.

And Brendon Park looked at most human interaction like it personally offended him.

Yet somehow he kept appearing around you like a shadow, like it was gravity.

The rumors exploded after an incident at the cafeteria. You had been off your shift for exactly eleven minutes when Brendon walked into the cafeteria still in his scrubs.

And everyone noticed that. Because Brendon never went to the cafeteria (He barely seemed to consume food). He scanned the room once and found you immediately. THen walked over carrying a tray.

Without asking, he switched your coffee with a different one.

"You can't have that much caffeine."

You looked offended. "It was half-caf."

"It was basically battery acid."

"You tasted it?"

"You left it on the counter this morning."

Brendon sat across from you naturally, like this happened every day.

You pointed at his tray. "You got fries?"

"You wanted fries."

"I mentioned fries once."

"You cried about it."

"I was emotional that time."

"You threatened divorce."

The tables surrounding you stared. The conversation sounded disgustingly domestic.

Brendon pushed the fries toward you first before touching his own food. You stole half of them and he didn't complain.

Actually, he watched you eat with this faintly distracted expression that nobody had ever seen on his face before. Like he was making sure you were really eating.

Then your phone buzzed. You checked it and groaned.

"The husband says I forgot my appointment tomorrow."

Brendon immediately said, "Ten-thirty."

You looked at him. "I know."

"You forgot."

"I remembered eventually."

"You remembered because I reminded you."

The silence at the table became defeaning, like somehow everyone was staring at you. Brendon glanced around once, clearly unimpressed by the collective lack of intelligence.

Then his pager went off. And before leaving, he reached down and adjusted you chair closer to the table because you'd been sitting awkwardly with your belly.

The movement was instinctive, like he'd done this a million times. And it was weirdly intimate.

The second he disappeared, Langdon sat on the seat that Brendon just occupied.

"Oh my God."

You frowned. "What?"

He leaned forward carefully. "Are you having an affair with Brendon Park?"

You nearly choked on a fry. "What?"

"That man practically tucked you in!"

"He's just—"

"You literally just talked about threatening him with divorce!"

"My husband!"

"Exactly!"

You stared at him in disbelief before realization dawned.

"Oh my god."

"So, you are!"

"No I'm not, Frank."

"Then why does The Shark know your OB schedule?"

"Because he made it."

Silence. "...Made it?" Langdon repeated weakly."

"He color-coded the whole calendar."

He didn't speak. Then you laughed, actually laughed. Because suddenly the misunderstanding was hysterical. But before you could explain, a trauma alert blared overhead and the conversation died instantly.

Unfortunately for you, the rumor did not.

Within a week, the entire ER thought you were secretly involved with Brendon.

Not openly. Nobody confronted you directly again because you seemed so genuinely confused by the accusation.

But people whispered. The evidence kept piling up. Brendon carrying your bag without asking, appearing whenever you mentioned cravings, glaring at anyone who stressed you out, standing suspiciously close during procedures if you looked tired.

And worst of all? The way he looked at you when you weren't paying attention.

That's what really convinced people. Because Brendon looked at everyone else like they personally wronged him. He looekd at you like you were something precious.

Then one night, the ER was hell. Every bed was full, three ambulanced inbound, a drunk patient screaming in triage.

You were exhausted, hormonal, and dangerously close to crying. Then one of the newer interns snapped at you.

"Can we get another attending to handle this? Dr. L/N clearly isn't keeping up."

The station went silent. Your exhaustion sharpened into humiliation. And before you could answer, a voice cut through the room.

"No."

Everyone turned. Brendon stood near the doors, having apparently arrived seconds earlier. The intern straighted nervously.

"Repeat what you said."

The poor intern paled. "I didn't mean—"

"You questioned an attending physician with ten years of emergency medicine experience while you can barely place an IV."

The room became deathly still. Brendon's voice never rose which somehow made it scarier.

"You will either assist competently or get out of her department."

Her department. The possessiveness in those words hit everybody like a truck.

The intern muttered an apology. Brendon didn't even look at him again. Instead, he turned to you.

"You're shaking."

"I'm fine."

Brendon's hand briefly touched the underside of your belly as he adjusted your position from the station edge.

It was gentle. So different from the cold surgeon everyone knew.

And suddenly Santos understood. Not the affair, but something else. Something much bigger.

"Oh my god," she whispered.

Dennis looked at her. "What?"

But she was staring at Brendon. At the wedding band hidden beneath his gloves as he reached for the chart. At the identical band you wore on a chain around your neck because pregnancy swelling made your fingers ache.

At the way you entire body relaxed when he was near. At the way he knew every tiny thing about you.

Not like a lover, like a husband.

"Oh my god," Santos repeated louder.

You looked up. Brendon looked annoyed already, like he sensed where this was going.

Santos pointed between the two of you. "You're married."

You blinked. "Yeah?"

Brendon closed his eyes briefly like this was exhausting.

You looked genuinely baffled. "Who else would we be married to?"

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

"You let us think she was cheating on her husband?!" Santos yelled at Brendon.

Brendon looked unimpressed. "That sounds like a you problem."

"You never said—"

"Well, nobody asked."

"You literally acted like you hated each other!"

You burst out laughing. "What? No we don't."

Brendon looked down at you. And for the first time ever, in front of the entire ER, his expression softened completely.

Not subtly or barely there, but fully. Warm eyes. Affection. Something that was gentle.

Park the Shark was apparently somebody's husband. Somebody's incredibly devoted husband. And somehow that was more shocking than if he'd announced he killed people.

And somehow, from that day on, things became infinitely worse. Because now everyone noticed everything.

The quiet touches. The instinctive teamwork. The fact that Brendon always knew where you were in the hospital. The way he softened only for you.

The way you could make the scariest surgeon in the building carry your snacks and hold your coffee and rub circles into your back between traumas.

And worst of all?

Now the ER knew that every horrifyingly domestic story you told about your husband had been all about Brendon Park all along.

Which completely destroyed their ability to fear him properly anymore. Especially after they heard him answer your phone one day with:

"Baby, why are you calling me from upstairs?"

Low, rough, they seep through the floorboards, down the hall to where you’re curled up in the back corner of a closet, tucked away with your back to the wall, covered in the blankets you stripped from the bed.

You slept here, you think, though the last twenty four hours are pretty hazy. You were in the SUV for a while, speeding down the highway as you desperately tried to keep track of the road signs, which way you were headed, trying to hold onto a sense of direction, only for it to slip through your fingers as night crept into day, and the highway turned into back roads.

“Where are we going? Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” You asked, again and again, and only Johnny answered, turned around in the front seat to face you, blue eyes piercing yours.

“We’re takin’ ye to a safe house, an’ we’ll explain everythin’ as soon as we get settled. Ye should try to get some sleep, it’s a long drive.”

They told you nothing after that and as hard as you tried to fight it, sleep took you. Your nervous system was shot, the car was unnecessarily warm, and their proximity, their scents… it was a battle you were never going to win.

Even after they pulled into the driveway of a very normal looking house in an unknown town, they said nothing. Only opened the child locked doors and watched as you uneasily stumbled out of the car, warily walking between them up the stairs to the front door, half asleep. Sick to your stomach.

You slept walked inside, following behind Johnny as he led you to a bedroom.

“We’ll stay here for the night.”

“For the night?” Nothing made sense in your brain. This was a bad dream, you decided. One you just needed to wake up from. He nodded. Some sort of sympathy shone in his eyes, but it was dark around the edges, clear blue waters turned caliginous.

“We’ll move again in the mornin’.”

You should have questioned him, pushed back, argued, but you didn’t have anything left in you. You were drained, and there was an inner desire growing inside you, one that was desperately trying to push you into the arms of your mates.

Mates, who wanted nothing to do with you.

Mates, who you wanted nothing to do with.

So instead, you turned your back. Dragged the blankets and pillows from the bed and curled up in the closet, hidden away from the world, from them, at least for the rest of the night.

Now, their voices are what rouse you. They grow louder, closer, reverberating down the hall until they stop, and a knock sounds in their place.

You instinctively press back against the wall.

It’s quiet, and then… your name.

It’s not the first time you’ve heard it from them, your memory is hazy but you remember Johnny, or Simon, saying it while the three of you were running. Though it sounds different now, in the light of day, less like a command.

More knocks, this time more insistent, and you hold your breath, waiting. Wondering.

It doesn’t take long. The door creaks open, boot steps echoing across the wooden floor, coming to a stop in front of the closet.

Maybe you should run now. Or fight. Launch yourself out of the closet like a wild cat and attack.

Where would you go? You don’t even know where you are.

You’re still holding your breath. You don’t want to smell them, don’t want the leather and tea to sink into your skin, don’t want it to rearrange your soul. You don’t want them.

The closet door swings open, and there he is.

Johnny.

He’s clean, showered looks like, wet hair at his nape, eyes shining and bright. His bond mark, the bite, peeks out over the collar of his jumper, and you can’t help but stare at it.

“Good mornin’.” His lips quirks to the side with an almost smile. “Did ye sleep in here?” You don’t answer. You can’t, everything is jumbled up in your head now, your demands, your confusion, your fear, all of it compounded by the pain that’s starting to ebb back into your bones. All you can manage is,

“I want to go home.” His almost smile turns almost sympathetic.

“There’s breakfast in the kitchen. An’ tea.” He shifts, opening up space between him and the closet. “Will ye come out? We can talk.” Breakfast, tea. Normal things. Like any of this is normal.

When you don’t move, he sighs.

“If ye dinnae come out on yer own, I’ll have to do it myself.” Your eyes go wide.

“What? And drag me out of here?” His mouth tightens.

“If I have to.” Your throat goes dry, panic swooping up your spine, hard and fast, and for a second all you can do is stare at him wordlessly. Map his face, his shoulders, his hands, the body of your alpha, your mate, a piece of fate that was supposed to make you feel safe. Make you feel loved.

“I don’t understand what’s happening.” Your voice is small, as small as you feel. Pathetic.

“I know.” He shifts, creates room between him and closet door, and jerks his head. “Let’s go down, get somethin’ to eat, and I’ll explain what’s happenin’, alright?” You stay frozen, and he sighs. “C’mon omega, ye must be hungry. An’ ye cannae take yer meds on an empty stomach.” The reminder of your meds sends scorching shame into your cheeks, and you look past him, through him, to the bedroom door, the hallway and kitchen and world waiting beyond, all of it unfamiliar and cold.

Yours instincts are at war. Part of you wants to burrow down into this makeshift nest and never leave, part of you wants to run screaming down the hall and through the front door, and part of you, the most foul, traitorous part, wants to bury your face in Johnny’s neck and breathe him in. Breathe him into your bones.

These aren’t options, and you don’t like Johnny’s either.

So you move.

The table is set for one. A plate of food, a fork and knife, a steaming mug of tea. You say nothing as you slide into a chair, Johnny doing the same across from you with a shadow over his shoulder.

Simon.

He’s not wearing the mask now. He towers over the table with a watchful expression, sweeping you from head to toe like he’s completing an inspection. If you pass, if you fail, you can’t tell. His face gives nothing away.

Your focus drifts past the plate of eggs and toast to the orange bottles in the middle of the table.

Your meds.

Instinct has you reaching for them, standing out of your seat, relief already settling in the pit of your stomach and calming the churning apprehension that’s been building, the dread of the misery you know is coming.

Simon beats you to it, swiping them up into a giant paw. “After you eat.”

“Are ye in pain?” Johnny asks softly, and you stare at a speck on the wall over his shoulder.

“I want to know what’s going on.” You can’t acknowledge the hurt, the suffering that they caused. It’s too much. Johnny’s jaw tics, but he doesn’t push.

“Alright.” He sighs. “Ye’re in danger.” Of course you realize this already, but to hearing it out loud feels so much worse. It hits you like a brick.

“Why?” You croak.

“Because of us.” Simon’s admission is rough and pointed like a serrated blade jammed up under your ribs. “Because of who you are, to us.”

“You mean… nothing?” You look away, look down at where your hands are twisted together in your lap. “That’s what I am to you, right?”  Johnny leans in, scent sharpening.

“We lied.” You knew it down to your bones, you knew fate when you smelled it, but to hear it after seven months of tossing and turning over it, after being sick over it, it makes your head swim. “An’ we’re sorry ye’re hurtin’-”

“You rejected me.” You whisper, gaze snapping up, flicking between their faces. Simon’s expression is a mask of neutrality, Johnny’s more focused. You wouldn’t say either are particularly kind, but maybe you don’t know how to read them, yet. “You humiliated me.”

“We had to. The bond will put you in danger.” Will. The omega in you purrs at the intent, and you push it down.

“Why?” Simon rubs his jaw, folds his arms across his chest.

“Who we are, what we do, it’s dangerous. And there are people out there who will use you to get to us.” Dread churns in your stomach.

“Who you are?” Johnny nods.

“We’re in a task force, a multi-national special operations unit that handles time sensitive… problems.” You blink. Everything slows down as you try to piece it together, make it make sense. “Problems governments contract us to fix.”

“So… that’s like… the military?”

“Kind of. Maybe, outside the military a bit.” Johnny looks like he’s diffusing a bomb, deciding which wire to cut, which to leave intact.

“A lot.” Simon grunts. “We’re not part of any specific country’s military.” Right, multinational.

“Oh.” The food in front of you has never looked more unappetizing, not in the face of the conclusions you’re drawing. “So… you’re dangerous.” Johnny kind of grimaces, but Simon nods.

“And you’ll be collateral damage. The people that are after you, they’ll kill you if they get their hands on you.” You can feel the blood draining from your face.

“Si.” Johnny gives him a look, but the bigger man only shrugs.

“Need to make sure there are no misunderstandings. She needs to understand how serious this is.” Misunderstandings.

“What kind of misunderstandings?” When they don’t answer right away, you crack under the weight of Simon’s heavy gaze, the only thing you want, the only thing you know, slipping free from beneath your tongue. “I want to go home. Can I go home?” You ask weakly. Something dark curls around the edges of Johnny’s irises, a wisp of black smoke and shadow that clears when he shakes his head.

“No.” One word, cut and dry, and your nose stings with the threat of tears.

“You can’t just keep me here.” You protest, trying to control your breathing, your rising emotions.

“We’re not,” Simon deadpans, “we’re movin’ today.” Johnny scoots in, scraps his chair across the floor until his knees are almost touching yours, leaning down into your line of sight.

“The things we said at the diner, they were lies. We were tryin’ to protect ye from all this.” His hand goes flat on the table, inching closer, close enough you could twitch a finger and touch him. The temptation being pushed by your instincts is so strong, it’s almost too hard to fight it. “We know this is frightenin’, but ye have to trust us for now. We’re the only one who can keep ye safe.”

“And if I refuse?” Simon moves, settles into a chair opposite Johnny, the wood and screws groaning under his massive weight. He pushes the plate of breakfast towards you.

“That’s not an option.” You open your mouth to argue, but he shakes his head. “Eat your breakfast, take your meds, get dressed. We’ve got a long drive to the airstrip.”

“An airstrip?!” You squeak, eyes wide. “Like, for planes? We’re getting in a plane? Where are we going?” Your heart rate kicks up, rattling in your ears.

“Somewhere safe.” Johnny soothes, his scent turning sweeter, calming. “Somewhere ye can stay put for a while, where ye willnae be found.”

“But when it’s all over… I can go home?” You can feel the tension in the air, the tightrope you’re walking snapping taut.

“Once we’ve eliminated who identified ye, we’ll take ye home. I swear.” A dark, foul thought threads through your mind. One that immediately makes jealousy turn white hot, an iron begging to be touched.

“What about your omega?” Simon cocks his head.

“You’re our omega.” Syrupy sweetness spreads through your veins, sweeping you up into a haze of contentment. He said it. He said you were theirs. You have to actively choose, intentionally fight to hold onto your sense. It’s wrong, he’s wrong. You’ve seen the bites.

“N-no your… your marks…”

“They’re ours.” Johnny says gently, his eyes softening. “We’re bonded to each another.” He reaches for your hand, and instead of pulling away like you know you should, you let him take it. Let him rub his calloused thumb over your palm, let the closeness of your alpha, your mate, wash over you without protest. “We didnae know about ye, we would have waited if we did.” It’s too easy to fall into the sentiment, and your instinct is to preen, purr for your alphas.

It’s all too much, too confusing, your head is pounding and your muscles are sore, stomach twisting. It’s this exhaustion, this ache that has you breaking down, your shoulders slumping.

“Okay, I... okay.” You’re not sure what it is you’re saying okay to. You don’t have a choice in this matter, Simon has made that explicitly clear, and you’re in danger. Someone wants to kill you. What can you do?

Johnny pulls the mug of tea into his hands, long fingers stretching around the circumference of the chipped porcelain, and then pushes it into yours.

“Let’s get some breakfast into ye, an’ we’ll get ready to leave. That alright?” His palm settles on your knee, warmth bleeding through your leggings, and the touch smoothes some of the jagged edges in your mind. You nod.